#sleep token reader insert

𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐩!𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐥 who calls for you to "come here" instead of asking, and somehow it feels softer, not commanding. his hand rests at your waist like he knows you'll step in on your own -- and you do.

𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐩!𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐥 who is acutely aware of how easily he could overwhelm you -- not because you're incapable, but because he isn't careless. he notices the way your confidence flickers into something softer when he cages you in with his arms against the counter, the way your breath changes when his hand settles at the small of your back. he doesn't press further. he waits. gives you room to push him away if you want to. but you don't. instead your fingers curl into his shirt, tugging him closer with a quiet kind of insistence that makes his jaw tighten. he leans down slowly, slow enough that you can feel the decision happening, his nose brushing yours before his mouth ever does. it's deliberate. he likes that you choose him. he likes that you aren't intimidated. and when he finally kisses you, it's unhurried and deep, like he has all the time in the world -- and intends to use it.

𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐩!𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐥 who listens to you ramble about something trivial and smiles in that subtle, almost private way. not indulgent. not patronizing. just fond. like he enjoys the contrast between your quick energy and his slower one.

𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐩!𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐥 who feels the gap the most when you get bold. when you say something teasing under your breath, when your hand slides up his arm like you're testing the breadth of him, when you look at him like you already know he's trying very hard to behave. it makes him exhale slowly through his nose, like he's steadying something internal. he doesn't snap back with arrogance. he doesn't overpower. instead, he steps closer -- close enough that you have to tilt your head back -- and rests his hand at your hip, firm but not claiming. "careful," he murmurs, not as a warning, but as a promise. and the heat isn't in what he does next -- it's in what he doesn't. the way he makes you wait.

𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐩!𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐥 who tilts your chin up with two fingers when you get mouthy. not to silence you, of course -- just to see you better. "finish what you were saying," he murmurs, close enough that you forget how the sentence was supposed to end.

𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐩!𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐥 who makes the difference obvious without ever saying it out loud. being with him doesn't feel like chaos or competition like it has with others your age -- it feels intentional. steady. when you tease him, he doesn't rise to it defensively like someone your age might. he doesn't scramble to impress you or prove anything. he just watches you with that quiet, knowing gaze, like he's already three steps ahead and choosing not to rush. when he touches you, it isn't clumsy or overeager -- it's deliberate, slow enough that you feel considered instead of consumed. he listens when you speak instead of waiting for his turn. he doesn't play games with affection. and when he pulls you closer, hand firm at your waist, there's no uncertainty in it -- just a grounded kind of confidence that makes your stomach flip.

𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐩!𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐥 who keeps one hand at your hip in public, just in case. not ownership. not control. just a reminder. and the subtle squeeze when someone looks at you for too long? that's intentional.

𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐩!𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐥 who understands that intimacy isn't just physical -- it's psychological. he doesn't get flustered when you challenge him. doesn't crumble when you push boundaries playfully. instead, he meets you with a calm steadiness that makes your pulse spike harder than any reckless move ever could. when you try to take control just to see what happens, he lets you -- for a moment -- watches the spark in your eyes, the confidence blooming there. and then, gently, effortlessly, he shifts the balance back. not overpowering. not forceful. just a subtle repositioning of hands, a firmer grip at your hips, a look that says he's done this dance before. he doesn't need to prove dominance loudly. it's in the way he guides you, the way he keeps you anchored while still letting you feel bold. being with him isn't about losing yourself -- it's about discovering how steady you feel when someone stronger isn't trying to eclipse you...just hold you exactly where you need to be.

𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐩!𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐥 who shows up in small, domestic ways -- the way he automatically takes the heavier grocery bags without making it a thing, the way he rests his hand at the back of your neck when you're standing at the stove, thumb rubbing slow circles like absent-minded affection. it's not flashy. it's just steady.

𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐩!𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐥 who texts you "eat something" when he knows you've had a long day -- just a reminder from someone who's learned to look after people. and when you roll your eyes and send a picture of your snack as proof, he replies with a small "good." like he's quietly proud.

𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐩!𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐥 who doesn't make love feel rushed or urgent. evenings with him are slow -- shared tea, dim lights, your legs thrown over his lap while he scrolls absently. his hand resting warm against your thigh, fingers tracing idle patterns while you talk about nothing important at all.

𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐩!𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐥 who understands that reassurance isn't a one-time thing. he doesn't roll his eyes when you need it again. doesn't act exhausted by your vulnerability. if you ask "are we okay?" he answers like it's the first time you've ever needed to hear it -- patient, certain, unwavering.

Vessel:

- creature for creature coded

- 'you're the pet. Wrong. We are the pets'

- dog!you x cat!vessle

- man is absolutely allergic to clothing this is another excuse for him to be naked

- nonverble curled up on the couch time after a long stressful day of work

- pull on his tail (it's attached by a plug) just to tease him

- heavy petting/dry humping on the couch leads to more

- what better way to get rid of the days stresses than a little exertion

ii:

- Asolutely the stern handler type

- will make you kneel by the drum set as he practices

- will discipline you if you don't listen

- wanna whine, nudge and distract him while he's trying to practice?

- fucks your mouth because all you're good for is a hole

- cums down your throat and holds you there

- loves pulling you off afterwards and seeing your tear streaked cheeks

- soft praises and clean up afterwards

- he's stern not cruel, pets need love after all

iii:

- depending on the day I feel like he is either super indulgent or absolutely going to be putting you in situations

- soft fucking, lots of praise, cuddles, the works

- other days? Oh you're in for it

- a little mean about it

- "only good pets get treats. Are you a good pet? I don't think you are"

- will make you work for it

- "come on pet you can do better than that"

iv:

- really wants to hear you whimper and whine for him but never takes it too far

- service handler for sure

- praise kink indulger

- belly rubs? You got it. Head pats? Absolutely. Kisses? Consider it done

- playing with your hair as you're curled in his lap

- sweet pet gets whatever they want after a hard day

- king in the streets switch in the sheets

- fucking you until you're shaking on the verge of passing out or lets you fuck him until you're coming dry

- can't worry about the days burdens if you're several orgasms deep and unconscious

you're at dinner with him, nothing fancy. he's explaining something to the waiter -- calm, articulate, effortless -- and you're just watching him. the way he holds himself. the way he doesn't rush. the way he doesn't need to fill silence.

and the thought just slips in, uninvited.

he could have anyone.

it catches you off guard. you don't even know where it came from.

you smile. you nod. you reach for his hand under the table like nothing happened. and it passes.

but then it happens again.

you're in his apartment on a sunday morning, wearing one of his shirts, and he's making coffee like he's done it a thousand times. like he's built a life already. like he knows exactly who he is.

and you feel it again.

this fits him so naturally. do i?

you don't spiral. not yet. you just tuck it away.

meanwhile, he's doing the same thing in reverse.

you're telling him about a place you want to travel to. some wild plan. something impulsive and bright. your eyes light up when you talk about it. he loves that look. he really does.

but there's a small, quiet ache in his chest.

what if she realizes she wants more than this? more than me?

he doesn't say it either.

so it builds. slowly.

until one night you're both in bed. lights off. the room quiet except for the sound of his breathing. his arm draped over your waist, warm and familiar.

and the thought comes again.

only this time it doesn't pass.

it lingers.

you swallow.

"can i ask you something?" you say, barely above a whisper.

he hums. "yeah."

there's a long pause. long enough that you almost back out.

"do you ever think," you start, staring at the dark, "that you'd be better off with someone more...settled?"

the silence that follows isn't sharp. it's stunned.

his arm tightens slowly around you, grounding you against his steadiness.

he shifts, rolls onto his side so he can see your face even in the dim light.

"i was going to ask if you ever think you'll realize you want someone your own age," he says quietly.

and it hits you like cold water.

because the whole time you’ve been worrying you’re not enough yet —

he’s been worrying he’s already too much.

there’s no dramatic speech after that.

just you both lying there, a little exposed.

his thumb brushes slow circles against your hip.

“i’m not looking for more mature,” he murmurs. “i’m looking for you.”

and for the first time it doesn’t feel like reassurance for the sake of it.

He began to thread his fingers through your hair, slow, unhurried, like he was unraveling every knot that life had left behind in you. The strands clung wetly to his hands, slick with the oil and steam that smelled faintly of sandalwood and jasmine – your scent, though he had long since claimed it in his mind as yours together. He made no sound, but you felt the exhale against the nape of your neck, the soft graze of his lips that wasn’t quite a kiss but lingered there all the same. The rain on the windowpane turned heavier, rhythmic, a low percussion that grounded the moment. Every so often, he paused, combing the ends of your hair through his fingers, rubbing them gently between thumb and forefinger, as though memorizing even the smallest detail of you. You leaned back until your spine met his chest, and his breath caught faintly – a small, involuntary thing that carried too much meaning. In that breath, there was the entire history of your closeness: the long nights in hotel rooms when neither of you could sleep, the shared silence before stepping onstage, the countless times he had reached for you without needing to speak. The heat of the water, the rhythm of the rain, the weight of his hands moving through your hair – each thing blurred into the next until you couldn’t tell where one sensation ended and the other began.

He murmured something low against your temple – barely sound, more vibration than word – and his hand followed it down the length of your neck. His touch was slow, reverent, not quite exploratory but something close to worshipful, like he was tracing a map that only he could read. When his thumb brushed over the hollow just below your throat, you could feel the pulse there, quick and shallow beneath the pressure of his skin. He stayed there for a heartbeat, maybe two, before drawing his fingers down your sternum, following the bead of water that slipped between your breasts and disappeared into the warmth below. The steam made his skin slick where it met yours, and when he finally exhaled, it was with that faint, rough sound he made when he was lost somewhere between calm and hunger. He kissed your shoulder then, mouth open, breath wet against your skin, and you tilted your head to the side instinctively, wordless invitation. His lips followed the curve of your neck, slow and searching, tasting the heat that pooled there.

Every movement was drawn out to the point of aching. He wasn’t rushing toward anything – he never did – but there was a charge beneath the gentleness, an unspoken current in the way his hands slid lower, in the quiet rhythm of his breathing against your ear. The candles flickered in the humidity, throwing light across the bathwater that caught in your eyelashes when you opened your eyes. You saw your reflections distorted in the ripples – his chin resting on your shoulder, your hair darkened and clinging to both your bodies, your legs half-submerged and his just beneath yours. His fingertips skimmed your ribs, tracing down, down, until his palm rested against your stomach, the weight of it grounding and intimate. The water lapped quietly, whispering against porcelain as his thumb drew slow circles just above your navel. You could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your back, heavy and calm, like he was tethering you to the moment itself. Outside, the rain hadn’t stopped, but it had softened – turned to something like a lullaby that filled the room without breaking its silence.

He shifted closer, the sound of his movement barely more than the soft sigh of water displaced, and the heat of him pressed fully along your spine. His chest rose and fell against your back, slow but heavy, his breath mingling with the steam that blurred the edges of the world around you. His hands followed the shape of your hips underwater, palms gliding over skin that felt impossibly soft from the heat. Every stroke was languid, deliberate – he wasn’t searching for a reaction, only feeling, only being there with you in the kind of stillness that could make a person ache. When his fingers slid to the inside of your thigh, the touch was careful, a wordless question that had been asked a thousand times before and always answered in the same way: the quiet tilt of your body toward him, the small sound that caught in your throat. His mouth found the damp edge of your jaw, teeth grazing gently before he drew your earlobe between his lips, exhaling that low hum that always unraveled you.

You reached back without thinking, fingers threading through the wet tangle of his hair, tugging lightly until he groaned – a sound more felt than heard, deep in his chest where it met your back. He followed the motion, his hips shifting forward until the last space between you was gone, the water rising just slightly with the movement. His hand stayed on your thigh, thumb stroking slow arcs against your skin, and the rhythm of it synced unconsciously with the muted pulse of rain outside. You could smell him through the steam – salt, musk, and the faint trace of his cologne softened by the heat – and it anchored you as much as it aroused you, that scent that had lived in your clothes, your sheets, the hollows of memory. He whispered your name then, barely more than breath, and the sound of it dissolved into the water like it belonged there. His lips followed it down the curve of your neck again, slower this time, tasting the sweat that the steam had coaxed to the surface of your skin. Each kiss was heavier, wetter, more certain, until you weren’t sure if the shiver running through you came from his touch or the intimacy of the silence that wrapped around you both.

He leaned forward until his chest molded perfectly to your back, his mouth at your ear, his voice a whisper against your skin. You’ve got no idea how beautiful this is. The words weren’t meant to seduce—they were confession, reverence, a surrender of something he didn’t know how to say any other way. His fingers trailed upward, catching water on their way to your breast, cupping it carefully, his palm warm and sure. You could feel the small tremor in his hand, the quiet pulse of want that betrayed the restraint he held so tightly. You tilted your head until your cheek brushed his jaw, and he breathed you in, slow and heavy, before his thumb brushed your nipple in a motion so tender it ached. A soft sound escaped you—half sigh, half moan—and he caught it with his mouth at your throat, tasting the vibration of it as if it were something sacred. The rain deepened outside, the rhythm aligning with your breaths, with the small motions of his body against yours, until it was impossible to tell where his heartbeat ended and yours began.

He stayed there a moment longer, his hand wrapped around your breast like he was holding something precious, thumb still stroking in those delicate, reverent arcs that didn’t ask, didn’t urge—only gave. His breath shook when he pulled it in, nostrils flaring against your neck as though even the air was thick with you. “You don’t even know what you do to me,” he murmured, voice guttural now, like it had traveled through too much feeling just to reach your skin. Then both hands moved, one sliding back beneath the water to cradle your thigh again, the other pressed just beneath your ribs, grounding you as if afraid you'd float away. He pressed kisses along your shoulder like he was giving thanks—not for this moment, but for you, for being here at all, letting him do this. You could feel the tension rippling just beneath his skin, that bone-deep hunger he always tried to soften, now trembling at the edges of his control. When he rocked forward, letting the weight of his cock settle between your thighs, it wasn’t to claim—it was to offer. To show you how ruinous your softness was to him.

The head of him brushed against you, not pushing in yet, only resting there under the surface of the water like something sacred. He exhaled into your ear again, but it wasn’t smooth—it caught, faltered, like he was overwhelmed just by the feel of you. “Been thinking about this all day,” he whispered, voice rough and raw like he’d been holding it in too long. “Thinking about how you sounded the last time I made you come. How you melt for me when I touch you right here…” and his hand slid lower under the water, fingers parting you gently, reverently, so slow you didn’t even realize how ready you were until your hips twitched forward to meet him. He gasped like you’d shocked him, and you felt it—his entire body shivering with restraint behind you. He wasn’t trying to tease. He was trying to survive you. He rutted forward slightly, dragging his cock through your slickness once, twice, his mouth open against your neck, whispering things he probably didn’t even hear himself: god, baby, so warm, so soft, I can’t—how are you this perfect, how do you always feel like this, fuck. It wasn’t dirty talk. It was adoration cracked wide open, a man unraveling at the altar of the person he loved most.

He gripped your hip like a lifeline, not to control your movement but to keep himself grounded, like he might drift out of himself entirely if he didn’t anchor to your body. And then—slowly—he eased forward, the thick head of him slipping inside with the kind of care that bordered on reverence. The stretch was molten, full, and unhurried, and his reaction was immediate: a low, breathless groan that trembled against your skin, arms tightening around you like the sensation was too much to bear. “Ohhh, fuck,” he moaned, and it wasn’t sharp—it was worship, dragged out of him like confession, like prayer. His forehead pressed to the back of your neck, trembling lips brushing your spine as he sank deeper, inch by inch, holding you open with one arm and himself back with every shuddering breath. “You’re everything,” he whispered, brokenly, like it was the first and last truth he’d ever believed. “This body, this heat, the way you let me in—fuck, I can’t—” He stilled, fully buried now, and the moment bloomed quiet again, soaked in heat and rain and breathless awe.

He didn’t move yet. He couldn’t. Not with the way you clenched around him, tight and fluttering and too perfect to rush through. One hand slid to your belly, splayed wide over the place where he filled you, his palm pressed flat like he wanted to feel the echo of himself inside you. His other hand rose slowly from the water to cradle your jaw, tilting your head back toward his shoulder, and his mouth found your cheek—soft, dragging kisses that tasted more like devotion than lust. “You needed this, didn’t you?” he murmured, his voice gone hoarse and aching. “Let me give it to you. Let me make it better.” And then he started to move—barely, a slow rock of his hips that pressed deeper before pulling back in aching increments. His cock dragged slow through you, thick and deliberate, every motion more an offering than a thrust. The sound that left him was helpless—“ahhh, f-ffuck,”—and his grip trembled where he held you. Not because he was losing control, but because this—you—was his undoing. He wasn’t just fucking you. He was worshipping the bad day out of your bones.

He didn’t need to move fast—he needed to feel everything. And so he kept you there, pressed flush to him, buried to the hilt with his cock nestled deep inside the soft, clenching heat of you. His hips rocked forward just barely, a slow grind that made the water lap softly around you, but it was his hand on your lower belly that owned the moment—splayed wide, pressing gently, feeling. “Fuck, baby… right there,” he whispered, his voice low and reverent, awed like he’d just witnessed something holy. His palm rubbed slow circles just above your mound, his touch worshipful, trembling slightly with the realization of what he felt beneath it: himself. The outline of his cock, thick and hard and buried so deep in you, that his own touch met the shape of it through your body. “That’s me,” he breathed, lips dragging over your neck. “You’re so full of me, I can feel it—fuck, I can feel myself inside you.” He moaned the last part into your skin, like the pressure, the tightness, the depth of you was unraveling him in real time.

He rocked his hips again, a little deeper, and both of you felt it—his cock shifting inside, and the way your body responded, your cunt squeezing tight around him like it knew him, like it wanted to keep him there. His hand didn’t leave your belly—he pressed harder, not to hurt, but to witness it, to hold the truth of your connection in his palm. “You feel that?” he asked, breath hitching as his thrust dragged slower, thicker. “That little bulge, right here?” His fingers traced over the spot again, and he gasped with you when your hips arched. “That’s where I am, baby… so deep inside you it’s showing.” His voice broke into something fragile and hungry all at once, and his other arm tightened around you like he didn’t know how to bear it, how to survive the way you were taking him. “You don’t know what this does to me,” he whispered, forehead falling against your shoulder as he thrust again, the angle perfect, achingly slow, like he was carving his devotion into the very shape of your body.

He stayed there, buried and trembling, the motion of his hips reduced to a slow, grinding pulse that made every inch of him press deep against the tender spot inside you—the one that ached now in the best way, stretched and full and unrelenting. His breath hitched every time he felt it, that subtle give of your belly against his palm, the way his cock throbbed against your walls and made that slight bulge swell beneath his hand. He couldn’t stop touching it—circling his fingers over the shape of himself inside you, tracing the curve like it made the whole thing realer, hotter, deeper. “You’re taking me so fucking good,” he breathed, voice ragged with awe, every word soaked in the edge of desperation. “Look at you. Look what your body does for me… you were made for this.” His lips pressed frantically to your jaw, the corner of your mouth, your cheek, like he couldn’t decide where to worship first. “You were made to take me like this.”

The reverence in his tone made your skin flush hotter than the bathwater—not because it was vulgar, but because he meant it. Every word. He wasn’t teasing or playing some part; he was falling apart from how sacred it felt to be inside you, to see himself inside you. His thrusts grew just a little more deliberate—still slow, still thick, but with that trembling edge that said he was starting to lose his grip. The water sloshed again, louder now, slapping gently against the porcelain with each rolling push of his hips. And under his breath, he kept talking, kept offering: “You’re everything to me, d’you know that? No one—no one—has ever felt like this. Like I’d tear myself open just to stay inside you.” His hand still cradled your belly, his thumb stroking light circles around that swollen, tender place, and every time he touched it, he groaned—low, broken, like the pressure alone might make him cum. “I feel you holding me so tight, baby—fuck, you don’t even know. You don’t even know.”

He was unraveling in real time, not with frantic motion or mindless thrusting, but in the way his hands clutched at your body like he was drowning in it. The way he pressed deeper, not harder, hips rolling in that tight, aching rhythm that made you feel every vein, every twitch, every tremor of him inside. His breath shook against your neck, hot and uneven, and you could feel his lips move—open, parted, wet with whispered reverence. “You’re so fucking tight,” he groaned, the words stretched thin with wonder. “God, I can feel everything. Every flutter, every squeeze—fuck, you’re driving me crazy.” His palm stayed rooted on your lower belly, fingers trembling as they traced the shape of his cock inside you again, watching it push up with each thrust and flatten slightly as he rocked back. His hips stuttered when he saw it—“ahhh, shit, there it is again”—and he pressed his mouth to your shoulder with a helpless moan, trying to bury the sound but failing.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he rasped, words barely forming now, more breath than speech. “You let me touch you like this—fuck, you let me see this—and I swear to god I’ll never be the same.” He pulled you tighter against him, the slick of your bodies making every shift feel like slow-motion worship, like he was building something with every stroke and didn’t dare rush it. And then—his thumb dipped lower, just barely brushing where you were joined under the water, finding your clit in slow, reverent circles. He felt your whole body jolt, your walls clenching so hard around him he nearly lost it right there, his moan guttural and devastated. “Ohh, f-fuck—there, right there, baby, give it to me. Let me feel you.” His voice cracked as he kept rubbing, kept moving inside you with the same steady, drugging rhythm. “You’re everything I ever wanted,” he whispered, like a confession scraped raw from the deepest part of him, and then again, quieter: “Everything.”

His thumb kept circling in that slow, unbearable rhythm, barely more than a caress, but it lit you up like it always did—like he knew your nerves better than you did, like his fingers had spent lifetimes learning the language of your body. He was still moving inside you, deep and molten and thick, each thrust carving through you so deliberately that your breath caught on every pass. But it was the way he watched—his cheek pressed beside yours, eyes half-lidded, jaw slack, lips brushing your temple every time he gasped—that wrecked you. He looked wrecked himself, wild in that quiet way, eyes flicking down to where his hand still cupped your lower belly. “Look at this,” he breathed, voice shaking with awe. “Look how good you take me… you’re so full, baby, I can see it, I can feel it…” He let out a long, trembling sound—half-moan, half-fuck—and his hips jerked, slow but deeper now, like the sight of himself inside you had pushed him that much closer to the edge.

Your whole body responded—hips rocking back into him, thighs tensing, your cunt clenching so hard around him he shouted, just once, sharp and broken. “Ohhh—f-fuck, you’re gonna make me lose it—” he whimpered, desperate now, still holding back because he wanted to feel it all. Not just your orgasm, but the way your breath hitched before it, the way your body went tight, the way your sounds changed when you were about to fall apart. He wanted to witness it. His hand on your belly pressed firmer, grounding you, guiding you, while his other rubbed your clit in slow, aching circles, wet and perfect beneath the bathwater’s rippling surface. “Come for me,” he whispered, kissing your cheek again, his voice cracked and soaked in devotion. “Come while I’m inside you, baby, please—I need to feel it. I need to feel you fall apart on me.” And the way he said it—like it would save him—made something inside you snap, a white-hot twist that curled from your spine to your thighs and then detonated outward in waves.

You shattered for him—quiet at first, breath catching, body tightening in that full-body clench that made your toes curl and your thighs tremble. Then it came, your moan spilling out in broken pieces as your cunt pulsed around him, squeezing rhythmically, dragging him down with you. His whole body jerked when he felt it, a rough, wrecked groan tearing from his throat like it was torn out of his chest. “Yes, yes—fucking hell, that’s it, baby, that’s everything,” he gasped, pressing his palm tight to your belly, feeling the way you clenched, feeling the way he filled you through every wave of your orgasm. You didn’t just come—you wrapped around him, drew him deeper into you like you were trying to keep him there forever, and he felt it. “Ohhh my god—look at you,” he moaned, hips stuttering, cock twitching deep inside. “You’re still holding me, fuck, you’re milking me, you’re—Jesus.”

His control cracked in the aftermath of your release—beautifully, helplessly—and he gave in to it with the kind of surrender that only ever belonged to you. He fucked into you again, deeper, slower, desperate now not for his own end but to feel every second of yours. His voice was a broken string of curses and praise, gasped between each thrust—so good, so fucking good, I’ve never, you’re unreal, you’re mine. His body trembled against yours, his rhythm faltering as you continued to pulse around him, aftershocks still rippling through your core. He reached higher, fingers threading into yours over your chest, lacing them together like he needed to bind himself to you in the moment. “I’m gonna come,” he whispered, his voice wrecked, forehead pressed to the side of your head. “I’m gonna come inside you—please—please, let me—” as if you hadn’t already given him everything. And with one last deep, trembling thrust, he spilled into you with a sound that came straight from his soul, drawn-out, ruined—his whole body shuddering as he emptied himself in slow, staggering pulses.

He didn’t pull out—not right away, maybe not for a long time. He stayed pressed deep, arms wrapped tight around you, his breath shaking into the curve of your neck like he couldn’t believe he’d survived it. His cock twitched inside you with every afterpulse, thick and softening slowly, still held perfectly in place by the warm clutch of your body. He kissed the side of your face blindly—temple, cheek, jaw—each one wetter than the last, like his mouth couldn’t stop searching for places to say thank you. “I’ve never…” he murmured, too quietly, too hoarse. “Fuck, I’ve never come like that before.” His palm was still on your belly, fingers stroking over the swollen spot where he’d felt himself inside you, where you still held the last of him, full and perfect and his. You could feel it, too—that thick warmth deep in your core, the way it slipped slow and lazy between your thighs under the water’s surface. The mess of it made him groan again, softer now, indulgent. “That’s mine,” he whispered, almost to himself, kissing your shoulder like the words had settled somewhere deep in his bones.

He shifted only enough to bring you tighter against him, wrapping you up with every inch of his body like he could shield you from the whole damn world. His chest heaved behind you, not from exertion, but from something bigger, something that made his hands shake a little where they clutched at your skin. He brushed your hair back from your temple, fingertips slow and trembling. “You came so hard for me,” he breathed, like he was still stunned by it, by you. “You were perfect, baby—so, so perfect.” His lips found your ear, voice softer now, like reverence made breath. “You feel better now? Did I do it right?” It wasn’t teasing. It was hope, raw and real, the kind that came from watching you carry the weight of your day like armor, and finally—finally—getting to peel it off you with nothing but touch and devotion. He pressed one last kiss behind your ear, deeper this time, like a seal, a promise. “You let me take care of you,” he whispered. “God, I fucking love you for that.”

You nodded, or maybe you only breathed—he could feel it either way, the subtle shift of your spine against his chest, the way your hand curled over his without needing words. That was all he’d ever needed from you, wasn’t it? Just that quiet, permissioned softness. The way you let him in. He stayed still, not just because he didn’t want to leave the warmth of you, but because the moment felt like it might dissolve if he moved too quickly. His thumb kept stroking slow, lazy circles on your belly, right over that tender swell where he’d felt the shape of himself inside you, and every time he passed over it, he sighed. “You’re still holding me,” he whispered, voice low and reverent. “Even after all that… fuck, you don’t know what that does to me.” He pressed his nose into your hair, breathing you in like something he’d spent the whole day chasing and had finally, finally found. The candlelight glimmered over the water, soft and flickering, gilding the skin of your arms and shoulders where they lay draped over his. He traced slow, invisible lines along your arm, grounding you, grounding himself.

The apartment is quiet in that specific way it only gets past midnight, when the city outside has finally stopped pretending it ever sleeps and settled into something closer to a low, distant hum. The lamp in the corner is on -- the warm one, the one with the amber-toned bulb he picked out because the overhead light was too harsh, he'd said, too clinical for a space that was supposed to feel like somewhere you could breathe. You're on the couch. You've been on the couch for a while now, legs tucked underneath you, a blanket pulled up to your ribs that you don't really need because the room is warm enough, but having it there feels like something. Like a small, manageable weight. Your phone is face-down on the cushion beside you. You turned it over a while ago when the job listings started blurring together, when every opened tab started to feel less like possibility and more like a quiet indictment of everything you haven't figured out yet. Vessel is in the kitchen. You can hear him -- the soft clink of a mug being set down, the low sound of the kettle, the particular kind of unhurried movement that belongs entirely to him, like he has never once rushed through a room in his life.

You don't mean to spiral. You never mean to. It tends to happen in the quiet, in the spaces where there's nothing loud enough to pull your attention somewhere else, where your brain is left alone long enough to start turning things over. And tonight it's turning over everything. The email you got three days ago that you still haven't told him about -- the one that used words like restructuring and effectively immediately and sat in your inbox like something you could ignore if you just didn't open it again. The conversation you had with your mother when you were seventeen where she said you don't have the luxury of dreaming, you have to be practical and you nodded because what else were you supposed to do, because rent existed and groceries existed and survival had a way of making ambition feel like something that belonged to other people. People with safety nets. People with a clear idea of where they were headed. You think about all the times you've sat across from someone at a dinner or a gathering and they've asked so what do you do, what are you working toward, where do you see yourself and you've smiled and pivoted and changed the subject so smoothly that most people never even noticed. But you noticed. You always notice. And tonight, with the city humming outside and the lamp burning amber and Vessel doing something as simple and domestic as making tea in the next room, it hits differently. It hits like a question you've been outrunning for years and your legs have finally gotten tired.

You hear him before you see him -- the soft sound of socked feet on hardwood, unhurried, familiar. He rounds the corner with two mugs and he doesn't announce himself, doesn't say here or I made you tea like it's something that requires acknowledgement. He just sets one down on the small table beside the couch within easy reach of you, the way he always does, like taking care of you in the smallest ways is something that happens automatically, something that doesn't quite require thought or performance. He settles at the other end of the couch, close enough that you could reach him if you wanted to, and he pulls your feet into his lap without asking -- just lifts them gently, repositions, rests one warm hand across your ankles like that's simply where his hand belongs. He picks up his own mug. Takes a slow sip. Doesn't turn on the tv. Doesn't reach for his phone. Just sits there in the quiet with you like the quiet is enough, like he has nowhere else to be and no part of him is straining toward anything other than this exact moment, this exact couch, you. And that's almost what breaks you a little. Not in a sharp way. In a slow, pressurized way, like something behind your sternum has been wound too tight for too long and his simple, unbothered presence is the first thing all night that has felt like it could loosen it. You look at him. At the line of his jaw, the way the amber light catches the angle of his face, the faint evidence of years lived in the places he doesn't think about anymore but you notice -- you always notice. And you think, not for the first time, what are you doing here with me.

It starts as a thought, the way it always does. Small. Tucked into the back of your mind like something you can manage, something you can fold up and put away before it takes up too much space. But the problem with quiet rooms and warm light and someone sitting beside you who makes you feel so inexplicably safe is that your defenses come down whether you want them to or not. And when your defenses come down, the thoughts don't stay small. He has a career, you think. He has a trajectory, a body of work, a sense of purpose that he carries in his bones like something earned through years of figuring himself out. He knows what he loves. He knows what he's building. He wakes up in the morning with direction in a way that has always seemed to you like a language you were never taught to speak. And you -- you have a closed laptop on the kitchen table with seventeen tabs open that all lead nowhere, an inbox with an email you can't bring yourself to reread, and a history of spending so much energy on simply getting through each day that the concept of what do you actually want has always felt faintly laughable. Like a question designed for people who had the privilege of stillness. People who weren't too busy keeping their heads above water to look up and consider the horizon. You didn't get to have dreams at seventeen. You got to have rent. You got to have responsibility and survival and the particular exhaustion of being young and already worn down by the weight of a life that didn't leave much room for wondering. And now you're here. Older. Supposedly freer. And you still don't know what you want to be when you grow up, and sitting next to someone who has lived and built and become something makes that feel like a wound that never quite closed.

You don't say anything. You're good at that -- at keeping it behind your eyes, at arranging your expression into something neutral enough that most people never think to look closer. It's a skill you developed early, somewhere between learning that falling apart was a luxury and understanding that being the one who held it together was simply the role that had been assigned to you. So you don't say anything. You look down at your mug instead, wrap both hands around it, let the warmth seep into your palms and focus on that -- just that, the heat against your skin, just the small manageable reality of ceramic and chamomile and the sound of him breathing slowly beside you. It works, for a moment. And then he shifts. It's subtle -- just a small adjustment of weight, the hand resting across your ankles moving slightly, and you feel his gaze before you see it. That's another thing about him, something you noticed early and have never quite gotten used to. The way he looks at you isn't passive. It isn't the kind of looking that happens simply because you're in the room and his eyes need somewhere to land. It's attentive in a way that feels almost old-fashioned, deliberate, like you are something worth the full allocation of his attention and he has decided, quietly and without needing to announce it, to give it to you. You feel it on the side of your face like something with a temperature. Warm and steady and patient. And you know, even before he says a single word, that whatever you have been trying to keep folded up and out of sight tonight has already been seen.

"Hey." His voice is low, unhurried, shaped around your name in that specific way he has -- not sharp, not urgent, just quiet enough that it lands somewhere underneath your ribs instead of on the surface of your skin. You keep your eyes on your mug for a half second longer. A last small act of self-preservation. Then you look up, and you find him already watching you with that expression you have never quite been able to name -- not concern exactly, not worry, something more patient than either of those things. Something that looks like he has all the time in the world and he intends to spend as much of it as necessary right here, right now, one arm resting along the back of the couch, his body angled in a way that makes the space between you feel smaller and more deliberate. His mug is on the table now. He isn't distracted. He isn't half-present the way people sometimes are when they ask how you're doing and mean it as a formality rather than a question. His eyes move over your face slowly, reading something there that you thought you had kept hidden, and you watch him find it -- watch the moment his expression settles into something even more careful, even more gentle, in a way that makes your throat tighten almost immediately. "Where did you go just now?" He asks. Softly. No pressure in it. Just an open door, held wide, waiting to see if you'll walk through it.

𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐩!𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐥 who rarely raises his voice -- so when he drops it low and close to your ear, it hits differently. not loud. not sharp. steady. "stay," he murmurs when you try to move away too soon, his hand sliding back to your waist like he already knows you will.

𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐩!𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐥 who corrects you gently when you try to brush off something that hurt you. you laugh it off. say it's not a big deal. he studies you for a moment, then reaches over, thumb pressing lightly under your chin until you look at him. "it mattered," he says, calm and certain. unwilling to let you minimize yourself. and the steadiness in his tone makes your chest tighten in a way you weren't expecting.

𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐩!𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐥 who adjusts your coat for you when you're about to leave the house, fingers brushing over your shoulders, smoothing fabric that didn't really need fixing. "cold tonight," he murmurs, stepping in close to button the top himself. you look up at him, half-amused, half-aware of how intimate something so simple feels. his knuckles graze your collarbone. he doesn't rush. and when he's done, his hand lingers there for just a second too long before he leans down to press a slow kiss to your forehead. like he lingers in the act of taking care of you, if only to enjoy it longer.

𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐩!𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐥 who notices when you're trying to match his maturity instead of just being yourself. you're quieter than usual. more composed. he studies you for a moment, then tilts his head slightly. "you don't have to impress me," he says softly. his thumb hooks under your chin, grounding. "i like you loud." and the way he says it makes heat creep up your neck.

𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐩!𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐥 who wakes up before you and just watches for a minute. sunlight catching in your hair, your hand curled loosely in his shirt. he brushes a strand away from your face, thumb tracing the line of your cheek like he's memorizing it. not because he doubts this -- but because he's lived long enough to know moments like this are rare. when you stir, blinking up at him, he doesn't look embarrassed. he just murmurs, "morning," like this -- you, here -- is exactly where he wants to be.

𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐩!𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐥 who gets quiet one night after you tease him about "already having his life together." you say it lightly, admiringly -- but something in his expression shifts. later, when you're sitting on the couch with your legs across his lap, he runs his thumb absently over your ankle and says, almost thoughtful, "i didn't. not for a long time." he doesn't elaborate dramatically. just tells you about the years he felt lost. the mistakes. the things he wishes he'd done differently. and when you look at him like that doesn't make him smaller in your eyes -- like it makes him more real -- his hands tightens gently around your calf, but he doesn't say a word.

𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐩!𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐥 who admits, quietly, that sometimes he worries you'll outgrow him. not in insecurity about youth -- but in momentum. you're still discovering yourself, still expanding. and he's afraid one day you'll wake up and want something bigger, faster, louder than him. he doesn't say it accusingly. he says it like a confession, eyes steady but soft. a

𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐩!𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐥 who doesn't like talking about aging, but one day you catch him staring at himself in the mirror a little too long. not vanity -- reflection. you step behind him, wrap your arms around his waist, press your cheek to his back. "what?" you ask softly. he hesitates, then admits, "just thinking." and when you tilt his face toward you and kiss the faint lines at the corners of his eyes like they're something precious, he goes very still. like he didn't expect to be loved there.

𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐩!𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐥 who admits he thinks about time differently than you do. not in a morbid way -- just in a way that's aware. he's more conscious of years, of pacing, of how long things last. one evening he says, almost offhand, "i don't want to waste your twenties." and when you laugh softly and tell him you're exactly where you want to be, the relief in his eyes is subtle but unmistakable.

The aquarium smells faintly of salt and recycled air, the kind of cool, echoing place that makes voices soften without anyone meaning to, and Vessel seems to fall right into that quiet like he belongs there. He walks a half-step ahead of you at first, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, eyes already scanning the dim blue-lit corridors with an intensity that makes it obvious this was a mistake if you’d hoped for a calm, “normal” date. The moment you stop in front of the first massive tank – water glowing deep sapphire, schools of fish moving like a single thought – he freezes, breath catching, and then the words start spilling out of him like he’s been waiting his entire life for permission. 

“Okay – so – see how they’re schooling like that?” He murmurs, stepping closer to the glass, forgetting personal space as he leans in. “That’s not just instinct, it’s emergent behavior. Each fish is responding to the movement of the ones around it – no leader, just collective intelligence.” His hands lift unconsciously as he talks, fingers sketching shapes in the air, tracing invisible currents only he seems to see. You hum softly, nodding, and that’s all it takes – his shoulders relax, his voice warms, and suddenly he’s telling you about bioluminescence, about pressure gradients, about how deep-sea creatures evolved to survive in places light never touches. He points things out with quiet awe, pressing close to your side without realizing it, excitement bleeding into reverence as if every tank holds something sacred.

Meanwhile, you’re barely absorbing the facts – not because they’re boring, but because he is luminous like this, eyes bright, mouth curling into that soft smile whenever you ask a question, like he can’t believe you actually want to know more. He glances at you mid-ramble once, just to check if you’re still listening, and the look on his face when he sees you watching him – really watching him, fond and captivated – makes his voice stutter for half a second before he keeps going, gentler now. “Sorry,” He murmurs, not actually stopping. “I just think it’s…incredible.” And the thing is – you do too, though not for the reasons he thinks.

He doesn’t even notice when you slow your pace just to stay beside him, too absorbed in the quiet wonder unfolding behind the glass as you drift into a darker wing of the aquarium where the tanks glow like constellations against the walls. Vessel stops in front of a jellyfish exhibit, the room bathed in slow-pulsing blues and violets, and he goes very still for a moment – like the world has turned the volume down just for him. “These are moon jellies,” He says softly, almost reverently, voice dropping to a hush that matches the room. “They don’t really have a brain. Or a heart. They’re mostly just water, just…drifting.” His hand lifts, hovering near the glass without touching it, fingers following the languid bloom and collapse of their bodies as they float. “They’ve been around longer than dinosaurs. Longer than trees.”

There’s something tender in the way he says it, like the idea humbles him. He turns to you then, eyes reflecting the soft aquarium light, and for a second he looks almost shy, like he’s worried he’s gone too far again. But when you smile – when you lean in just a little closer, shoulder brushing his arm – his words come back, gentle and eager all at once. He starts telling you about evolutionary shortcuts, about how survival doesn’t always mean complexity, about how sometimes persistence is quieter than strength. As he talks, he unconsciously angles himself toward you, voice warming, excitement threading through every carefully chosen word. You ask a question – just one – and it opens the floodgates again, his face lighting up as he launches into another explanation, hands moving, laughter soft when he realizes he’s rambling.