𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗎~~~~☆، ﹫cigsaftersuh

thank you so much for reading 🤍 happy merry valentine's day i hope you are always surrounded by love, i love you. my apolocheese if it moves too fast or is too confusing ;( the dates are so big in gaps because i was so confused as well i am sorry but thank you anyways i love you loads okay

You didn't know if it was generosity or if it was him continually making the same mistake unknowingly. In any case, it must've been nice to have so much money you didn't have to worry about it. But you figured his line of work wasn't very.. traditional, to put it delicately. You had a bad feeling about it, but it wasn't any of your business, so who cared.

"Your hands are red," he said one day. You were snapped out of your thoughts at his deviation from your usual routine with him. You looked down at your hands, which were indeed stained a faint orange-red.

That weekend, you decided to take on a pottery class on your own. You wanted to start a new hobby, but you were honestly terrible at it no matter how many hours you spent at the studio. The stains weren't intentional, though, and you almost forgot that they were there until he pointed it out.

"Oh," you said. "Don't worry, we wear gloves when we're handling food," you reassured him as you rang up his usual large, iced americano.

His laugh was warm and deep, something that made your skin prickle upon first hearing it. "I wasn't worried. I haven't had a bad experience here yet." He held his card against the payment dock and smiled as he tapped on the payment screen, all while resting his gaze on you.

You smiled at him politely. "We'll have it out for you on the other end."

His eyes lingered on you for a moment before he moved towards the other end of the counter like you instructed him so many times before. When you checked the transaction history at the end of your shift, the tip grew to $500.

You told your manager about it immediately, which prompted another useless attempt at trying to get into contact with Sylus. You left his tiny workspace and told your coworkers about the whole situation, much to their delight.

"Ah, I knew he would come in today," one of them said.

"He always comes when you're working," another added.

You rolled your eyes. "So is he stalking me?"

They all laughed. "If he is, can he stalk you more?"

"He only tips well when you're on shift."

You frowned at that. "What?"

They shrug collectively. "It's true. If it's someone else, he only tips a few dollars."

You groan. "So he is a creep then."

jay is the steady one, he carries himself like someone who’s always been slightly ahead of the rest of the world. jay is the person who remembers your weird food order and sends you memes at two a.m. when you’re stressed. jay is the friend who will shove half your suitcase into his bag because you insist on carrying everything. he’s been there since backyard forts and playground vows. he’s the one with a measured laugh that comes late and soft, with hands that are always busy — checking a schedule, fixing the strap on your backpack, reaching for the jar of coffee without thinking. he is both impossibly steady and wildly impulsive. best friends since childhood, he knows which part of your pizza you always give up and can read the exact tone in your voice that means you need him without you having to say a word. he knows you in a way most people never will.

you’ve been planning this weekend for weeks: two nights away from the city, a small coastal town with a hotel that promises sea views and soft linen. the trip is a way for you to “decompress,” though you both know it’s a selfish excuse to spend some time with the person you adore the most. you both need the quiet; you both crave the plainness of two people who can be entirely themselves without the rest of the world.

you meet at jay’s apartment early on saturday. he’s already waiting by the door in an old band tee and jeans, hair messed up like he’s been up later than normal. when you walk in, he grins. “ready for an escape?” he asks, voice half-joke, half-relief.

“always,” you say, dropping your bag and grabbing the travel mug he hands you. it’s still warm. you both stand in the doorway for a second, jay nudges your shoulder. “let’s go get some fresh air.”

the drive there is effortless because he makes it so. windows down, music up. jay is a playlist master: he builds the soundtrack like he’s building the mood. his selections are small treasures — an old ballad you loved in high school, a song that you used to hum after an exam, a track you two once danced to in the kitchen at two in the morning. he sings along with the music, fingers drumming the steering wheel, and you watch the way sunlight lines his jaw when he smiles at a lyric. conversation is a steady stream of anecdotes, inside jokes, and comfortable silences where no one feels the need to fill the space.

“remember when we tried to build that tree fort?” jay asks, voice soft with the kind of fondness that makes the corners of your eyes crinkle.

“the one we almost set on fire?” you remind him, though the memory is fuzzy and ridiculous. you both laugh like it’s a secret you’ve shared too many times.

“i’ve got a vivid memory of my dad panicking and running when he saw you trying to light the lighter,” jay says, and you snort, pushing your hair back with a hand.

“you were the one who suggested setting the leaves on fire!” you point out.

“that’s because you were the one who suggested having a fireplace!” he retorts.

“nuh-uh, i was the architect. you were the disaster specialist.”

he grins, eyes warm. “okay, i’ll accept that title. disaster specialist. it fits.”

by the time the coastline unfurls, the town greets you with warm light and a salty breeze that makes your scalp tingle.

the plan is simple: wander, eat, and do nothing you would normally schedule. the first stop is a small café with mismatched chairs and a chalkboard menu. you both order the same thing without planning it. “of course we did,” jay says when the server walks away. “we’re synced.”

you sit, and conversation moves between silly and comfortable. you talk about the dumb things you did in school, the band practices that always ended in pizza, the way jay once tried to convince you that he could beatbox. you both laugh until your stomachs ache. “you sounded like a dying walrus,” you say, wincing with the memory.

“i was talented,” jay protests, mock-hurt. “and you never appreciated artistry.”

“i did appreciate it,” you lie, smiling. the truth is, you appreciated everything about him — the way he told stories, how his eyes crinkled when he laughed, the soft way he checked if you were okay.

after coffee, you wander down the pier together. the sea stretches into a steady horizon, glittering under the afternoon sun; warmth settles on the back of your neck and the breeze smells like salt and summer. jay walks just half a step ahead, hands tucked into his pockets, until something catches his eye: a seagull swoops down, triumphant, clutching someone’s sandwich in its beak.

“i wonder what that reminds me of…” he says, voice dripping with mischief.

you glare at him, already knowing where this is going. “don’t.”

he smirks. “jay—”

“i’m just saying, it’s impressive. most people only get their sandwich stolen once.”

you elbow him sharply. “i was six, and you were the one supposedly taking care of my food, you moron!”

he laughs, the sound bright and familiar, and nudges a puddle with his shoe. a thin arc of water sprays your jeans

“jay!” you yelp.

he shrugs innocently. “oops.”

you flick water back at him with your fingers — which, somehow, only splashes your own shoes. he bursts out laughing.

“that was the saddest attempt i’ve ever—”

before he can finish, you launch a real attack: kicking at the puddle with enough force to send a wave toward him. he dodges, still laughing, and you chase him down the pier, both of you splashing like children who’ve never grown up. your laughter mixes with the cries of gulls and the hush of the sea. it feels stupid and perfect.

when you finally slow down, breathless and damp, you notice a couple of people walking by — older, maybe tourists — who glance at the two of you and smile. one of them nudges the other, and there’s a tiny, knowing look passed between them. the kind of look people give when they see two people who clearly adore each other, even if neither of them is saying it out loud yet. jay notices, too. he tilts his head towards them, then towards you.

“what was that about?” he asks, light but curious.

you shrug, suddenly aware of how close he’s standing, his shoulder brushing yours.

“no idea,” you say — though your heart knows exactly.

after your clothes have been dried by the sun, you stop at a surf shack and decide to try the foam boards. “how hard can it be?” jay asks, grinning. he’s confident, and you know that sometimes his body can do the things his voice promises. the sea is cold but the sun makes up for it. you fall more than you stand, both of you laughing at each other’s ungraceful attempts. when you finally ride a small, sloppy wave, it feels like a victory. as the sun starts to lower, you both sit on a towel and watch the light go gold. jay tells a story about being lost when he was a kid — how he ended up in an ice cream truck because he followed the smell.

you tell him about a karaoke night with your friends which ended in a sore throat the next morning. jay watches your face as you talk like he’s memorizing it. when he tells his story, you see him soften in a way that surprises you: his voice drops, and his hands move in wide, careful circles as if tracing a figure on the sand.

dinner is small and warm. fairy lights hang low. you split a plate and an extra dessert because jay insists. “there’s always room for more dessert,” he says like it’s a moral code he follows strictly. you eat and joke and the conversation turns to the stuff that matters in tiny ways — your worries, the internships you both consider, the small fears.

the drive to the hotel is quiet in a comfortable way, you both feel tired in the best kind of way.

the hotel is a low building with whitewashed walls and a small, flourishing garden. it smells like lemon and seawater at the door, and for a beat you feel like you’ve stepped into a postcard. jay parks in a spot that has been gloriously unclaimed, and you step out together, shoulder to shoulder — the sort of unspoken choreography that makes you both laugh at how simple it feels.

the hotel lobby is cozy: wood floors, an old chandelier, and the receptionist offers a smile that’s almost too sincere. you move like one unit — jay on your left, his hand occasionally brushing the small of your back when the pavement dents or the door takes a gust of wind.

“welcome,” the receptionist says, handing you a key each. the keys are small metal things on old-fashioned loops. jay takes both and jokes about keeping them safe like they’re tiny treasures. the check-in goes smoothly. there’s a mild disappointment in the clerk’s face when he says over the computer, “we have you down for a double room… oh.” the clerk’s face changes. “i’m so sorry,” he says, scrolling. “there was a booking error. and— um—”

your stomach does a small, reflexive flip. “what kind of error?” you ask.

“the hotel is overbooked tonight. it looks like someone else booked your room — the double room with twin beds,” he explains, apologetic. “i’m so sorry. we can bump you up to a suite tomorrow, no costs, but tonight… we only have one room available. a standard double with one bed. it’s most likely a mistake on our end, but i can offer a complimentary breakfast, free minibar and a late checkout to make up for it.”

for a second, the news feels like a comic misstep. you both stand there blinking like two people on a sitcom. “one bed?” you repeat, because the idea is ridiculous and, somehow, makes your pulse skip.

you and jay exchange a glance so practiced it feels like a private joke handed down through years. jay’s brow arches, eyes searching your face as if to see how you’ll react. there’s a moment where you both silently consider demanding a refund and stomping out, but the tiredness in your limbs argues for a place to rest. you’ve come for quiet, and a little awkward intimacy in a single bed is still better than having to drive to the closest hotel possible.

jay rubs his forehead, then shrugs like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “we can share,” he says, the kind of simple solution he’s always offered when things go sideways.

“or i can sleep on the floor,” you offer, half-joke, half-serious. “i have a flexible spine.” he laughs.

“no way. we’re grown-ups. we’ll share.” his voice is steady. you feel easier because he always makes the small panic smaller.

“we’ll take it,” jay says finally, his voice steady. “one room. one bed. seems… cozy.”

the receptionist’s smile brightens like the problem is solved. you both pay the fee for the two nights and grab your keys. the elevator ride up is bright with awkward jokes. jay jokes about who will get which side of the bed, about knee territory.

“i get the window side,” you say, claiming it like a prize.

“fine, i get the remote,” he counters. “and the top sheet.”

the room is not big, but it is simple and kind, a wide window faces the ocean. the bed looks smaller than in the picture, white sheets tucked into a neat fold, but it still takes up most part of the room. there’s a vase with fresh flowers on the bedside table and a note from management, apologizing for the mix-up. there’s a soft hum in the air-conditioning, and the town’s urgency feels miles away.

you both make rituals out of mundane things: tossing your bags in a corner, ordering two glasses of iced water and a plate of fries to share. jay takes the window seat, tucking his feet under him and watching the waves. you sit on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, and the two of you settle into the unpretentious ease that’s defined your friendship for years.

“should we go out after this?” you ask after a while. “walk the beach near here? grab some snacks for later?”

jay glances at you and then the bed, a tiny smirk threatening mischief. “or,” he says slowly, “we could stay here, watch that awful romcom on the hotel channel, and eat these fries until our stomachs hurt.”

you groan, but you can’t keep the smile off your face. “eat fries until our stomachs hurt… what are we, twelve?”

you spend the late afternoon (after eating the whole plate of fries, that is) wandering the coastal streets: an old bookshop tucked between a fishmonger and a café, a little stall selling the most amazing scented candles, an ice cream place where jay insists you try a flavor called sea-salt caramel that you didn’t believe would be good but turns out to be divine. you throw yourself into the city’s rhythm — quiet markets, low-slung houses with wind-bent palms, the tang of salt on your lips. the sun slants golden and the ocean is a constant mood, a low storyboard of waves that outlines your day.

when evening comes, you head to a local bistro and order some plates to share. the conversation is easy, sometimes nostalgic, sometimes teasing. you revisit old embarrassments as though they are moments you both cherish, and you discover new quick truths: jay’s soft spot for an old childhood teacher, how he still hums that ridiculous jingle he used to perform for neighborhood kids, the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles like he’s remembering something sweet. you find yourself leaning in more than usual, drawn to small gestures that have always been there but suddenly feel more luminous.

“do you ever think about how different things would be if we hadn’t been stuck living two houses apart?” you ask, swirling the rim of your glass.

jay pauses, lifting his fork like he’s considering the question as carefully as a strategic play. “no,” he says eventually. “maybe it would be different. but i like the way we’ve been pegged to each other — like a pair of constant variables. you know?”

you do. you know because jay has been constant in your calculus of life — the equation that solved itself with him in it. “i like it too,” you say, and mean it.

back at the hotel, the night unfurls with small rituals. you brush your teeth in the bathroom together because it feels like something you’ve always done, even though it’s oddly intimate, and you both laugh when a toothbrush falls and clatters. you change into pajamas in the same room, without looking at each other. it’s no big deal, because there’s years of trust there.

after closing the balcony’s door, you come back to the room while jay reads aloud the silly poem that was printed on the hotel pamphlet, turning it into a mock-serious performance.

“i have the perfect plan for tomorrow’s night,” he announces in a dramatic whisper, making you snort. “we conquer the buffet and then we empty the mini bar which, by the way, is free because of the hotel room thing.”

“incredible strategy, commander,” you mumble, tossing a pillow at him.

when you crawl into bed, the mattress feels even smaller than you thought. you both lie down on your backs, the covers tucked and your knees up. the hotel window shows the sliver moon and a smear of town lights. you don’t turn off the lamps because it feels like the night wants to be watched.

“i can feel it already… destiny. fate. the universe preparing to kick us with food poisoning from the buffet and—”

“what are you doing?” you ask, and he just grins.

“i’m narrating our lives. also, i never get to be dramatic out loud with anyone except you.”

the warmth in your chest is a gentle pressure.

you settle closer, legs tangling accidentally, and the bed feels too familiar and too intimate at once. there’s nothing sudden or electric in that moment — just the friendly gravity that has always existed between you two, the small ease that comes from a thousand shared food, errands and late-night confessions.

the distance closes so naturally you barely register it. one moment you’re side by side, and the next his foot nudges yours, a small accidental press that sends a quiet ripple through your chest. he doesn’t joke like he usually does. he just looks at you for a second — too long, too gentle — before glancing back at the ceiling. then, jay shifts, trying to get comfortable, and ends up knocking your knee.

“sorry,” he says softly — then adds, “but also… it’s your fault for having knees.” you snort, but you don’t move away. neither does he.

jay reaches for the remote, tapping your ankle with it. “okay,” he announces, “since your knees started this war, i get to pick the movie.”

“that’s not how this works,” you mutter, but you’re already smiling.

he scrolls until he finds a romcom with a 23% rating and a poster that looks like it was made in microsoft paint.

“perfect,” he declares.

“that looks terrible.”

“exactly, a cinematic masterpiece.”

he presses play, and the two of you settle closer, shoulders brushing as the opening credits flash like a warning.

later, long after the film fades and the television hums low, you find yourselves wide awake.

it’s the kind of quiet that makes every sound amplified; the ticking clock sounds like an orchestra. the ocean mutters in the background; a faint glow from the street below paints the curtains silver. you lie on opposite sides at first, an unconscious measure of space between your shoulders, but there’s something in the air that nudges at the perimeter.

you start with small talk — funny comments about the hotel’s art, the exact color of the blanket, how the protagonist of the last movie was an idiot — and then sink into quieter conversation. then you talk about work, about the small mistakes and the things that made you proud that day. the conversation is slow and easy. you nudge his knee with your foot and he squeezes your ankle in return, not even looking at you. the small touches are normal for you; they mean nothing more than warmth in the moment, but they make your heart skip a beat.

after a while the talk goes softer. jay says, “i’m glad we did this.” you answer, “me too.” he turns his head to look at you, face lit by the moonlight and softer than you remember in normal days.

“i don’t like being away from all of this,” he says, voice quiet. “i mean, from home, from my friends, from my family… from you.”

you feel a little jolt. “from me?” you ask, trying to make your voice casual.

“yeah. it’s weird,” he says, fingers tracing an absent path on the sheet. “i just… i like this. being with you like this. no pretending. no schedules. just us two.”

“i feel the same,” you say, and you mean it.

the room hums. you reach for his hand; your fingers fit his the way they always have. his grip tightens, then loosens, like he’s deciding how much to say. the closeness is comfortable and also suddenly sharper. you both stay awake, talking in half sentences, the kind of talk that means more than the words.

“do you ever think about how long it’s been?” jay asks suddenly, voice soft, not a joke this time.

“how long it’s been… since what?” you reply, turning your head to look at him.

“us,” he says. “you and me. the whole best friends thing. like… how long we’ve had each other.” there’s a hitch at the edge of his voice that makes you sit up a little.

he looks smaller now, exposed in the low glow of the lamp. your heart tugs at the rawness of the moment — the way time has folded you into adjacent lives.

“since kids,” you say, because the answer comes easily. “since we were both too young to know better. you were the one who taught me how to ride a bike after four tries and three scraped knees.”

he laughs then, because he remembers the bandages awkwardly wrapped on your knees.

“and you were the one who hid my vintage baseball cap because you thought it was stupid,” he reminds you, teasing but tender.

you roll your eyes. “it was stupid.”

“so was my hair, that’s why i wanted to hide it,” he says, and you both grin at the shared memory before a comfortable silence settles.

then, like an accidental gradual pull, his hand finds yours again. it’s easy and familiar: fingers slipping into those well-known places, a reflex that has always belonged only to you two. tonight, though, the touch feels charged, like it’s more meaningful than ever. for a second your fingers intertwine, and you turn to look at him fully, as if the light will reveal new shapes.

you tell him a small thing you’ve been holding for a while — how you worry about moving forward and losing pieces of your life that felt safe. he listens and then says, simply, “we’ll keep the important parts. we’ll keep the parts that matter. you’ll never lose me. ever.” his voice is calm but there’s an undercurrent of something else — care that feels weightier than usual.

the mood shifts in little ways. when you laugh, his look lingers. when you reach for the blanket and he helps you pull it, his hand covers yours a fraction longer than it needs to. you both notice but don’t comment. the night tightens from easy to intimate in a way that feels new. you lie facing each other now, closer than when you first got in bed. your shoulders almost touch. the two of you lie close enough that, if you wanted, you could trace the outline of his face with your thumb.

“remember when we used to stay up making forts?” you ask, voice small, half-trying to be playful.

“i remember you stealing my flashlight and refusing to share,” jay replies. he smiles, then grows quiet. his hand caresses yours under the cover, fingers warm around yours, his thumb drawing little circles that slow your breathing. “i like being near you,” he says again, but this time the words sound like a confession instead of a casual note. they hang between you, bright and risky.

you can feel your heart speed up. you look at him, really look — at the line of his jaw, the way his eyelashes shadow his cheek, the little scar on his nose.

the hotel room is full of the sound of quiet breathing. the air between you is different now — thiner, charged. you squeeze his hand back and the touch feels like a dare. the shift is gentle but certain: you both feel it, like the tide turning under the shore. you don’t fall asleep, neither of you do. you stay awake with your hands intertwined. what you’ve said is not yet the confession you both are afraid and eager to say, but it’s close enough. so much that the space between your faces feels like a wall you’re both willing to break.

“you’re quiet,” you murmur.

“i’m thinking,” he replies, looking at the ceiling as if the words are hiding up there. “about how different everything would be if i didn’t approach you that day at your porch, if we treated each other like strangers.” he turns his head slightly to meet your eyes. “but we’re not strangers, are we?”

you shake your head. “no. we’re… us.”

“us,” he says, saying the word like it’s a small, sacred thing. jay props himself up on an elbow, the lamp throwing shadows that make his face more serious than you usually see it. “i think i used to think that best friends were supposed to be… a constant. like okay, safe, habitual. and that was enough. but lately—” he pauses, fingers trailing idle patterns on the bedsheet. “lately i can’t tell whether what i feel is just familiarity or something else. something that makes me… not okay with you being with anyone else.”

the sentence drops, and your chest tightens in a way that spins your stomach. you liked to guess that, in small private moments, maybe jay felt things he didn’t say — the same things you felt — but he’s never voiced it like this. the admission is raw and honeyed at the same time.

“do you want to say it?” he asks suddenly, voice so soft it could be mistaken for sleep talking. he’s facing you now, eyes open and honest, the moonlight in the window making his skin look paler and a little electric.

you let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. “say what?” you ask, though you already know.

“you know what it is... that,” he says, and his mouth quirks — nervous, silly, resigned. “that thing between us. that i’m tired of pretending doesn’t exist.” he swallows. “i’m tired of pretending i don’t think about you like that.”

your heart stutters. you feel it as a physical thing, as if someone has flicked a switch and warmth is flooding the room. you laugh, a small, incredulous sound that shakes with relief.

“you mean…” you begin, voice small.

“i mean,” he cuts in, not harshly but with a gravity that lands heavy, “i think i like you. more than a friend. and it’s been creeping up on me, and i don’t know when it started exactly, but i know when i notice it now. and it terrifies me because you’re my person. and the idea of losing you to… anything else makes my chest hurt in a way i don’t like.”

“you’re serious.”

“i’m extremely serious. i wouldn’t joke about this.” jay’s hand tightens around yours. “i—i’ve been stupid about it. scared, i guess. scared of what it would do to us. but i can’t keep pretending that i don’t care in a different way.” he breathes, “i like you. like-like you. more than best-friend-like.”

you stare at him for a second — at the honest way his lips tremble when he says the words — and your throat goes dry. the air between you tilts. your heart beats so fast you’re sure he can hear it; a dozen little memories — of his hand brushing yours, of the way he looked at you after your high school show, of how he'd walk you home after parties, of the way he always lent you his jacket — assemble into a shape that suddenly seems obvious. your fingers are limp in the space where his had been; you reach for them without thinking, and his hand closes around yours like a soft, heavy promise.

“i was so sure,” you say finally, and your voice is barely more than a rustle against the linens. “i was sure i was the one being an idiot. that it was only me who wanted more and—” you stop because the words begin to rearrange themselves into something urgent. you inhale, collecting courage. “jay i… i feel the same.”

jay’s shoulders deflate, a laugh escaping him that’s half disbelief and half joy. his face is a map of every possible emotion at once: relief that blooms into disbelief, then something tender and almost shy, like embarrassment and happiness braided together. he swallows audibly, then slides off the edge of the bed to sit beside you, thumb brushing your knuckles in a motion so slow it could be prayer.

“you do?” he asks, voice cracking. “you like me too?”

“i do,” you confirm, before you can overthink it. “i’ve wanted this — wanted you — for a while. and i’ve been trying to tell myself i was imagining things. i kept thinking if i said it out loud everything would change, and i was scared.” your voice thins and then steadies. “but i’m tired of being scared.” you let out a breath, laugh-crying a little. “i’m tired of pretending it hasn’t been you for ages.”

he cups your face, thumb brushing your cheek, and the gesture is tender and sudden. “hey, don’t be scared,” he whispers. “i don’t want to lose us either. but i don’t want to ignore this.”

“so… what do we do?” you whisper, the question monumental in the small room.

your faces are inches apart; you can almost count the soft baby hairs at his temple.

“we start,” he says, and the word feels like a vow. “we try, slowly, brick by brick, step by step. we don’t have to figure out the rest tonight.” you nod, slow and certain.

after seconds of silence, you finally break it.

“i want to,” you echo.

jay opens his mouth, then closes it. “are you sure?” you nod. “you know if we cross this line it’s going to be very hard to—”

“jay,” you stop him, looking into his eyes. “just kiss me already”

and then, in a moment that feels both like a cliff and landing, jay leans in. his lips find yours with a tenderness you’d only imagined in stolen movie scenes. it’s tentative at first — warm, probing — as if he’s afraid to wake something delicate, and you know he’s trying to be gentle because the moment matters. but the kiss soon deepens, becomes a conversation in itself. your hands find the familiar places — the little dip behind his ear, the nape of his neck — and he responds by threading his fingers through your hair, steadying himself against the newness of the feeling.

the world outside the window hums as if nothing at all has changed, but everything has. when he pulls back for air, his forehead rests against yours and both of you are breathless, eyes bright and shaking. you both pull back with nervous smiles that turn into laughter because everything feels suddenly lighter and impossibly good.

“god, i can’t believe we’re actually doing this, can you?” jay laughs, looking into your eyes.

you answer by kissing him deeper. this time there’s less carefulness and more hunger — years of small touches and bedside talks turning into something braver. your mouth opens under his, and the world narrows to the taste of him. you feel his breath hitch, a small sound that is part shock, part sweetness.

his hands are not tentative anymore. they travel down your sides, find the curve of your waist, pull you flush against him. you can feel the line of his ribs under the shirt, the steady beat of his heart, a drum that matches yours. he mumbles against your mouth, “i like you. so much. it’s stupid. it’s everything.”

“i love you,” you say before you can stop yourself — your words tumbling out in the dark and landing between you. you don’t take them back. you mean them; the truth feels heavy and right.

jay freezes for the tiniest second, disbelief and joy warring on his face. then he smiles like he’s been given a map to something he’s been searching for without knowing. “god, i love you, i love you too,” he says, and his voice is near-breaking. he says it again, this time firmer, like anchoring himself. “i’ve loved you for ages.”

you both breathe, the confession settling like a warm blanket. then the awkward, perfect, dangerous part: you both laugh because you’re unbelievably relieved and because it feels ridiculous to be this dramatic about words you should have said way sooner.

“so,” jay says, cheek pressed to yours, “now what?”

“now,” you answer, “we stop pretending we don’t want each other?” you murmur, tracing small, teasing, nervous circles on his chest with your fingertip, savoring the steady heat under your skin.

jay chuckles, shaking his head. “you’re impossible.” the he licks his lips, leaning against your ear. “but i wouldn’t have you any other way.”

he kisses your temple, then drags his mouth down your neck in slow, tender strokes that make you shiver. “is it okay if i show you how much i’ve wanted this, then?” he asks, the question gentler than the rest. you nod. “let me make this easy for you,” he murmurs, voice huskier now.

he slides his hand down to the small of your back and pulls you flush against him. the contact is immediate, grounding. his mouth finds yours again, deeper this time — hungry but still careful, wanting to memorize your reactions. you kiss him back with the same mix of desperation and care.

you can feel the change move through you like heat. jay’s hands are not shy; they explore your curves as if they’ve been waiting for permission. you hook your legs around him, instinctively, and the motion brings you both closer. the covers rustle; the room shrinks to the two of you. you laugh breathlessly against his lips. “we’re idiots,” you whisper.

“big idiots,” he replies, smiling into the kiss, then his voice drops. “i’ve wanted you for so long.” he breaks the kiss just enough to look at you, his forehead resting against yours.

the room condenses to the sound of your breaths and the soft rustle of the covers. the lamps throw a golden halo around you both, and the world outside the window recedes into a wash of distant traffic and the ocean’s hush. his hand slides up your side, careful, asking permission with the lightest pressure; you answer by angling your hip toward him. the motion is tiny, but it says everything you couldn’t say with words.

he keeps talking when he kisses you — low reassurances, little jokes that make you hiccup-laugh between soft, searching kisses. “i could do this forever,” he murmurs against your throat. “i will be very annoying and very attentive. is that okay?” you nod, because yes, yes, yes. your voice would betray you if you tried to say anything else.

suddenly, the room grows even hotter. he begins with soft worship — hands mapping your shoulders, the line of your collarbone, the dip of your neck. his mouth follows, leaving kisses that turn into gentle suckles, slow and intimate. every little noise he makes — soft groans, the way his breath catches — makes your pulse quicken.

as his kisses travel further, his hands move with purpose. he peels your shirt up slowly, as if practiced, just as if he was a man who had been rehearsing this exact scene in his head a hundred times. you help as he pauses to kiss the skin he reveals, fingers fumbling at the hem because you want him close, you want nothing between you. the fabric slips away and leaves you bare to the cool air and his eyes.

jay drinks in the sight quietly like it’s the first time he’s seeing you. “you’re beautiful,” he whispers, cheeks flushed and voice thick. it’s clumsy and perfect. “i mean it.”

you feel heat bloom in your chest. “you too,” you breathe. “you’re so, so beautiful.”

his hands find your waist again, pulling you until your bodies are flush. he kisses your throat, then your collarbone, lingering at points that make your back arch. his lips are everywhere, each kiss slow and worshipful. when his hand finds your breast, he cups it like it’s fragile, thumbs rolling your nipple with gentle, exploratory pressure. you gasp.

“you’re so perfect, baby,” he breathes, voice raw. when he finally takes a nipple into his mouth, it’s like a small electric shock — sharp and delicious. he sucks with a mix of need and adoration that makes your knees weak. you moan, which makes him hum against your breast, pleased and needy.

“do you want me to stop?” he murmurs against your skin, suddenly cautious.

“no,” you say, breathless. “jay, please, don’t stop.”

encouraged, jay’s mouth moves lower, trailing to the curve of your ribs, the slope of your belly. his hands keep you steady, one at the small of your back, the other sliding between you to trace the line of your hip. he breathes around your navel and then looks up at you, eyes dark with want. “are you sure? i don’t want to rush anything you’re not ready for.” he asks again, though the question is almost theatrical now, given the way your both lusting for each other.

you respond with your own hands, sliding up the back of his pajama shirt, feeling the tension of his muscles. “i’m sure. i want you. i’ve imagined this so many times,” you confess. “i want you so much, jay. i need you so much it hurts.” the confession is private, painful, but liberating to say.

he smiles like someone who finally got permission for something he’s been dreaming of. he answers by settling between your legs, careful as if you might break, but his eyes are bright and fierce with want. you can’t help but moan at the sight of your best friend licking his lip, so eager for your body, for you. “then… should i go on? i’m dying to taste you,” he says, voice low and breathy. you answer by nodding. “words, pretty girl, i need words.” he chuckles, caressing your skin.

you swallow, your throat caught between letting out a laugh or a sob of desperation. “god, jay, yes, please,” you groan, certain. your fingers tighten in the sheet, not out of fear but because you need something to steady you — something that isn’t him for a second, until your breath evens out and you remember how safe his hands always feel.

his hands keep hold of your hips, thumbs pressed into the skin. then his mouth is right there, a kiss low on your belly, slow and adoring, and when his tongue finally slips out it’s like heat and velvet at once. he starts at the curve beneath your ribs, lapping a smooth line down towards your center. the first touch makes you jerk, breath hitching; he hums against you, the sound vibrating through his chest and into you, pleased and hungry.

“fuck.” he groans, closing his eyes. and you feel yourself getting even wetter.

he doesn’t rush. that’s the first thing you notice, really notice, while your pulse is hammering against your ribs and the room feels too small for all the air you suddenly need. jay stays on his knees at the edge of the bed, palms sliding slow up the backs of your thighs like he has all the time in the world. his eyes flick up to yours, soft and dark and a little wrecked, and he smiles, small, reverent.

“you’re shaking,” he whispers, thumb stroking the crease where your leg meets your hip. “i’ve got you, okay? we can slow down.”

you shake your head before the words even form. “don’t you dare.”

he laughs, quiet, the sound warm against your skin. “okay. okay, baby.”

then he lowers his mouth and kisses you there, once, gentle, right over the cotton of your underwear, like he’s saying hello to something sacred. the second kiss is open-mouthed, hotter, and you feel the heat of his breath soak through the fabric. your hips jerk without permission as a moan escapes your throat.

he hooks his fingers in the waistband and drags the last scrap of clothing down your legs, slow enough that you feel every inch of air replacing it. when you’re bare, he just looks for a long second, eyes glassy, lips parted, like he’s trying to memorize you.

“baby,” he says, reverent. “look at you. you’re so fucking pretty i can’t think straight. god,” he breathes. “you’re so pretty. how are you this pretty everywhere?”

you try to laugh, but it comes out shaky. he kisses the inside of your knee, then higher, open-mouthed and lazy, like he’s tasting dessert he’s waited years for. every press of his lips is paired with a new praise whispered against your skin.

“so soft… you taste so good already. i’ve been dreaming about this for so long.”

the praise lands warm in your chest. he lowers himself between your thighs. his palms slide under you, lifting you gently toward his mouth like an offering.

the first touch of his tongue is soft, just a slow, flat lick from entrance to clit that makes your hips jerk, your back arch clean off the mattress. he groans like you’ve hurt him, arms banding under your thighs to hold you open.

“fuck, there it is,” he says, voice rough with wonder. “that’s my girl.”

he licks again, deeper this time, parting you with the tip of his tongue, tasting you like he’s starved. when he circles your clit, gentle, lazy circles, your breath catches so hard it sounds like a sob. he pulls back just enough to speak.

“you taste so good, sweetheart. i've been dreaming about this. been dying to know what you sound like when you let go for me.”

he settles in like it’s his life’s work. tongue flat and broad at first, just feeling you, learning every twitch and sigh. then he narrows it, circles your clit once, twice, light enough to make you crazy. you thread fingers into his hair and he hums approval, the vibration rolling straight through you.

“don’t be shy, pull harder,” he says against you. “i want to feel you.”

you do. he rewards you by sliding one finger inside, slow, eyes locked on your face to watch every flicker. when you clench around him he curses softly, adds a second, curls them just right.

“perfect,” he whispers. “so perfect for me. you always were.”

he seals his mouth over you and sucks, soft at first, then harder when your fingers fist in his hair. every time you tug, he groans like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him. his tongue dips inside you, slow thrusts that match the roll of his thumb over your clit, and the room fills with the wet sounds of him devouring you.

“jay,” you whimper, thighs trembling on either side of his head.

“i know, baby,” he soothes, voice muffled. “i know. just let me take care of you.”

the way he curls his fingers, slow and perfect, stroking the exact spot, makes your back arch clean off the bed. his mouth never leaves your clit, licking, sucking, fluttering, sucking again until your legs try to close on instinct. he just gentles them open with his shoulders, kissing the inside of your thigh.

“stay open for me, love. wanna see all of you. wanna watch you fall apart on my tongue.”

he finds a rhythm that makes your thighs start to tremble, mouth relentless, fingers steady and deep. every time you get close he backs off just enough to keep you teetering, kissing your clit like an apology before he starts again. you’re babbling his name, pleas, broken little sounds you didn’t know you could make.

“jay, please, i’m so close i can’t—”

“i know, baby, i know. let me take care of you. you deserve it, you deserve everything.”

he sucks your clit gently, crooking his fingers at the same time, and the orgasm rolls over you slow and huge, like a wave that starts at your toes and crashes behind your eyes. you cry out, hips grinding against his face, and he works you through it, soft licks and praises the whole time.

“you’re doing so good for me,” he mumbles, kissing your thighs. “my beautiful girl, i love watching you fall apart.”

when you finally fall against the pillows, he crawls up your body, kissing every inch he passes, until he’s hovering over you, mouth shiny, eyes dazed.

“you look so pretty like this,” he whispers, voice cracked open.

you don’t waste another second: you pull him down into a kiss and taste yourself on his tongue. it’s filthy and perfect. he groans into your mouth, hips rolling instinctively against yours.

“i need you,” he says against your lips. “i need to be inside you. can i?” he says it like a prayer, lips brushing yours.

you nod, frantic. “yes. yes, jay, please.”

he pulls back just far enough to reach for the nightstand drawer. his fingers close around the little foil square and you both freeze for half a heartbeat, staring at it like it’s evidence.

a slow, wicked grin spreads across your face even as your cheeks burn.

“wait,” you breathe, propping yourself up on your elbows, hair falling messily over one shoulder. “did you… pack condoms for our little platonic weekend getaway?”

jay’s ears go scarlet. he tries to look dignified and fails completely. “i—”

“be honest,” you tease, poking his chest. “did you stand in the drugstore aisle going “hmm, better grab a three-pack just in case my best friend finally lets me ruin our friendship”?”

he groans, dropping his forehead to your collarbone, but he’s laughing, muffled and embarrassed. “shut up.”

“no, no, i need details.” you tilt his chin up so he has to meet your eyes. “how many scenarios did you run in that pretty head? did you practice this moment in the mirror?”

“i hate you,” he mutters, but he’s grinning so wide the crinckles by their eyes are showing. “i threw them in at the last second, okay? i told myself it was… responsible. like life-jacket thinking. just in case we, i don’t know, got on a boat, got shipwrecked and needed to improvise a water pouch or something.”

you burst out laughing, the sound bright in the quiet room. “a water pouch. smooth, park.”

he hides his face in your neck, voice muffled. “i was delusional and hopeful and terrified all at once. sue me.”

you soften, running your fingers through his hair. “so you’ve been carrying around the possibility of us for months?”

he lifts his head, eyes suddenly serious even while his cheeks are still pink. “years,” he corrects quietly. “i just finally grew a spine tonight.”

the laughter fades into something tender and huge. you cup his jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “come here, you optimistic little boy scout.”

he kisses you again, slower this time, like he’s trying to say thank you and sorry and finally all at once.

you take the packet from his unsteady fingers, tear it open with your teeth because you can’t resist the way his breath catches, as much as you can’t stand not touching him another second. when you roll the condom down his length he’s trembling, biting his lip so hard you’re worried he’ll leave marks.

you guide him back to you with both hands on his hips, fingers pressing gentle crescents into his skin. he’s shaking, fine tremors running through his shoulders, his thighs his breath, like every nerve is lit up and waiting for permission. when the blunt head of him nudges against you, he stops. just stops. forehead dropping to yours, noses brushing, sharing the same ragged air.

“tell me again,” he breathes, voice shredded. “please.”

you cup his face, thumb sweeping the sharp line of his cheekbone. “i love you, jay,” you say, clear and steady even though your heart is sprinting. “i want you. i want this. i only ever wanted this with you.”

his eyes flutter shut for a second, like the words are almost too much. when they open again they’re glassy, stunned, impossibly soft.

and because you can’t help yourself, because you need to see him laugh one more time before everything changes forever, you lean up and whisper against his mouth, “for the record… best emergency preparedness ever.”

a broken laugh punches out of him, half sob, half joy. “you’re the worst,” he chokes, but he’s smiling so wide it almost dimples both cheeks.

then the smile fades into something raw, and he pushes in.

slow. god, so slow you feel every single inch like it’s being carved into you. the stretch is perfect, almost too much, and you both exhale shakily when he’s halfway. he pauses again, sweat beading at his temple, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle jump, you hear him swear under his breath.

“it’s okay, jay,” you whisper, stroking his back. “i’ve got you too.”

he nods against your forehead and sinks the rest of the way in one smooth, trembling glide until there’s no space left between you. the sound he makes is wrecked, animal, grateful. he bottoms out and just stays there, buried to the hilt, pulsing inside you, breathing like he’s run miles.

“fuck,” he says, voice cracking on the single syllable. “fuck, you feel,” he swallows hard, tries again. “you feel like home. like every place i’ve ever wanted to be.”

your throat closes. you wrap your legs higher around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back, and the tiny shift in angle makes you both gasp.

“move,” you beg quietly. “please move.”

he does.

long, unhurried strokes that drag over every sensitive spot like he already knows your body by heart. he watches your face the whole time, eyes dark and awed, lips parted. every time he pulls almost all the way out and slides back in he whispers something new against your skin.

“i love you,” he mumbles. “you’re so warm, so perfect… fuck, i can’t believe i get to call you mine.”

you meet him halfway, rolling your hips up, nails raking lightly down his spine. the rhythm builds steady and deep, not fast, never fast, like you have years to make up for and all the time in the world to do it. the headboard taps softly against the wall in a lazy, hypnotic beat that matches the hush of the ocean outside.

he kisses you constantly, messy, open-mouthed, swallowing every sound you make. when he angles his hips just right you see stars; your back arches and he groans like it hurts him how good you feel.

“right there, yeah? you want it there?” he asks, voice hoarse, doing it again, again, and again.

you can’t answer with words, just nod frantically and pull him down for a kiss that’s more teeth and tongue and pure need. sweat gathers where your bodies are pressed together, skin sliding slick and perfect. the room smells like salt and sex and the faint lemon of hotel soap and jay, always jay.

he buries his face in your neck, kissing the skin there, sucking gentle marks. the rhythm stays slow, deep, grinding on every thrust so his pelvis rubs your clit and you see stars. you can feel another orgasm building, softer this time, deeper.

“jay,” you whimper, clutching at his shoulders. “i’m close again.”

“i know,” he breathes, lifting his head to watch you. “i want you to come around me this time. i want to feel you let go while i’m inside you.”

he slips a hand between you, thumb finding your clit with devastating accuracy, and circles once, twice, gentle but relentless. your thighs start to shake against his sides and the orgasm rolls through you like warm honey, endless and shattering. you clench hard around him, crying out his name into his mouth, and the feeling of you coming undone around him finally breaks his control.

he thrusts deep one last time and stays there, hips stuttering, face buried in the damp curve of your neck. you feel him pulse inside you, again and again, each throb matched by a broken whisper of your name like it’s the only word he remembers until he finally spills inside you.

“jay, i love you,” you’re able to whimper. “i love you so much.”

after, he doesn’t pull out right away. he stays inside you, kissing your face, your closed eyelids, the tip of your nose, until you’re both giggling breathlessly at how tender it all is. his arms are trembling as they hold his weight off your chest, breath sawing in and out against your throat. you stroke his hair, his back, the nape of his neck, anywhere you can reach, until the shaking stops.

when he finally pulls out it’s careful, almost reluctant. eventually he ties off the condom and collapses beside you, pulling you into his chest. your legs tangle automatically. the room smells like sex and salt air and the two of you. he lifts his head. his eyes are a little red, wet at the corners, and he looks so young and stunned and happy it punches the air out of you.

“hi,” he whispers, voice completely shot.

you laugh, watery and wrecked. “hi.”

you end up half on top of him, cheek over his heart, one of his hands splayed possessively across your lower back, the other tangled in your hair. your legs are still intertwined, sticky and perfect.

the room is quiet except for breathing and the far-off shush of waves. moonlight has shifted; silver stripes paint his collarbone, the slope of your shoulder.

after a minute he starts laughing, soft and disbelieving.

“what?” you mumble into his skin.

“i just had sex with my best friend,” he says, like he’s testing the sentence for flaws and finding none. “and it was,” his voice cracks again. “it was the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

you press a kiss over his heart. “same.”

he squeezes you tighter. “we’re gonna be so annoying now.”

“the most annoying,” you agree, smiling against his chest. “oh, and, for the record, i’m not letting you leave this bed until we have to check out.”

“deal.” he tips your chin up, eyes shining.

for a long time you just breathe together. his fingers trace mindless patterns on your back.

“so,” he says finally, voice hoarse and soft, “what do we do now?”

you press your smile into his collarbone. “we date, i guess?”

he huffs a laugh. “yeah. we date. like, officially. you’re my girlfriend.”

the word makes something warm unfurl in your chest. “and you’re my boyfriend.”

“boyfriend,” he repeats, testing it, grinning. “i like that. a lot.”

you prop your chin on his chest to look at him. “people are gonna lose their minds.”

“let them.” he brushes your hair back. “my mom is gonna cry happy tears, and my own dad is gonna threaten to kill me if i hurt you.”

you snort. “he’ll have to get in line behind your grandma.”

jay’s quiet for a second, thumb stroking your cheek. “are you scared?”

you think about it, his thumb stroking your hip.

“a little,” you admit. “but mostly i’m… relieved.”

you turn in his arms so you’re face to face again.

“just so you know... i want mornings,” he says suddenly. “i want to wake up and make your coffee the way you like it, too much sugar, no matter how wrong it is. i want to argue about whose turn it is to do dishes and then make out against the fridge anyway. i want boring tuesday nights on the couch and big stupid anniversary trips and,” his voice cracks a little, “and i want to come home to you for the rest of my life, if you’ll let me.”

tears prick your eyes without warning.

“yes,” you whisper. “yes to all of it.”

he kisses you again, slow and sweet, like sealing a vow.

“i’ve been scared for years that one day you’d bring someone home and i’d have to smile and be happy for you while my chest caved in.” jay confesses. “but this is better. this is so much better.”

you kiss the center of his palm. “no more pretending.”

“no more pretending,” he echoes. “i get to hold your hand in public. kiss you when i want. tell everyone you’re mine.”

“possessive you is unexpectedly hot,” you tease.

he rolls you gently so you’re under him again, wrists pinned lightly above your head. “you have no idea.”

you arch up to kiss him, slow and lazy. when you break apart he rests his forehead against yours.

“we’ll take it slow with everyone else,” he says seriously. “we’ll tell our families first. then the group chat can explode. but us... we don’t have to figure everything out tonight. we just keep being us, but now i get to love you out loud.”

your eyes sting a little. “i like the sound of that.”

he kisses the tip of your nose. “good. because i plan on being disgustingly in love with you for a very long time.”

you laugh, watery. “disgustingly in love?”

“oh yeah. i’m talking matching halloween costumes, instagram hard launch in like, a week, writing songs about you… the whole cringe package.”

“i can’t wait.” you smile.

he settles beside you again, pulling the sheet up over both of you. you curl into his side, ear over his heart.

“jay?”

“mhm?”

“i’m really glad the hotel messed up the booking.

he laughs, the sound rumbling under your cheek. “me too, baby. me too.”

you talk until the sky outside starts to pale. about stupid little things — who gets the left side of the bed at home, whether you’ll keep separate toothbrushes at each other’s places or just share, if you’ll tell your friends or let them figure it out when you don’t stop touching each other —, and big things — moving in together one day, maybe in a year, maybe sooner; how you’ll handle fights when they come, because they will; how you’ll protect this new, bright thing between you.

and every time one of you starts to worry, the other kisses it quiet.

at some point you must doze off, because you wake to jay pressing soft kisses to your shoulder, whispering, “morning, girlfriend.”

you smile into the pillow. “morning, boyfriend.

outside, the waves keep rolling in, steady and sure, just like the two of you now, finally on the same page.

© jongst4r, 2025

Despite the few posts regarding this type of situation, I really feel like people need to be aware because this is actively happening on Tumblr right now.

Hi everybody, I hope you’re all doing okay. Unfortunately, I need to raise a flag about something that could easily happen to any of us, even if you think you’d never fall for a scam.

A few days ago, oomf told me and a few other creators about a new method scammers are using to target Tumblr accounts through DMs. And now that it almost happened to me, I’m taking it seriously enough to make this public.

Here’s how the scam works:

You receive a DM from someone claiming they “accidentally reported your account,” since you had the same picture as the account they were intending to report. They sound apologetic, friendly, and insist they need to “fix the report” by adding you on Discord. Once you accept, they ask you to change the email associated with your Tumblr account under the excuse of “verifying you” or “reversing the report.”

That is the scam. If you change your email, you’re handing over full access.

It’s manipulative, and it preys on creators who don’t want their accounts taken down, plus they use those suspicious “do you write with AI?” messages and other baiting tactics that have been circulating recently.

Someone close to my friend almost lost all their information because of this exact trick: Here's the evidence:

And here's mine. Thankfully, I remembered the message and I didn't fall for that:

Also, it's not your normal bot account that does that, it leggit looks like a normal fan account (but it could be that the account also got hacked and is impersonating as that person), so please, please stay alert. Tumblr will never ask you to switch emails, join Discord, or speak to a third party to “fix” a report. If you ever get a message like this:

Do not add them anywhere.

Do not follow any instructions.

Do not change your email, password, or settings for them.

Just block, report, and move on.

I’m sharing this so no one else gets caught off guard. Stay safe, protect your accounts, and look out for each other. If you’re a creator, writer, or artist, you’re especially a target.

If anyone needs help figuring out whether a message is legit, feel free to ask me or others who’ve been warned about this (one example can be this post by @4doras)

TAGGING MY MOOTS: @astrae4 @loserlvrss @coriihanniee @kwiwin @pumpkg @v4mpriki @stxrrywoo @wichujunseo @hanfourz @viesin @jaylaxies @ikeuverse @ihankaji @heesera @taestulipss @kaikaikoi @karinasbaby @teacuplps @moesthinking @gyurilla @lovehakie @tobiotaesan @woongelaatin @tsanho

ALSO, I know it can be a little annoying with the tags, but it's to make the message reach more people.

UPDATE: This person also sent me a message and I simply blocked this user just in case.

you shouldn’t have come this deep. the elders warned you in hushed, trembling voices—stay to the burrows, little bun, the wolf prowls at dusk, and he does not play gentle, he does not leave survivors, he takes what he wants and leaves only bones—but the blackberries were fat and ripe, glistening like drops of blood on the brambles, heavy with summer’s last sweetness, calling to you like a siren song you couldn’t resist. you were greedy. you told yourself just one more handful, then just to the next bush, then just one more, until the path behind you vanished and the trees closed in like a fist, trunks pressing closer, branches clawing at your sweater, snagging on your ears. now the woven basket lies abandoned somewhere in the dark, handle snapped, berries crushed under your bare feet as you run, soles stinging on thorns and roots, tiny beads of blood welling up to mark your trail like breadcrumbs for the beast. your breath comes in panicked puffs, fogging in the chill, heart hammering so loud you’re sure he hears it—thump-thump-thump—a frantic drumbeat that calls to him like a dinner bell, like a mating call, like a challenge.

the first time was a glimpse—amber eyes between the trunks, glowing like twin coals in the dusk, gone when you blinked, leaving only the afterimage burned into your retinas, a warning you ignored. then a growl, low and rolling, curling around your spine like smoke, making your knees buckle even as you bolted, your tail fluffing in terror, ears flattening. then claws—long, black, glinting like obsidian—dragging slow across bark, leaving deep gouges you found the next morning, still wet with sap and reeking of musk, the scent thick enough to taste, to feel. he’s been circling, closer each time, testing the edges of your courage, your speed, your desire. he left gifts—rabbits, gutted and arranged in perfect circles around your burrow entrance, throats torn out, still warm, eyes glassy and accusing. you buried them, hands shaking, dirt under your nails for days, but the message was clear: i see you. i want you. run. tonight he’s done testing. tonight the circle snaps shut.

you hear him before you see him: a crack of branches, deliberate, unhurried, the sound of something that knows it has all the time in the world, that knows you’re already caught, already his. he’s not running. he’s hunting. your legs burn, lungs screaming, but you dart left, weaving between ferns taller than your waist, hoping the underbrush will slow him, tangle his paws, buy you seconds, anything. it doesn’t. a shadow melts from the trees ahead—tall, broad, impossibly fast—and you skid, claws (your own tiny, blunt ones) digging into moss, spinning to bolt the other way. too late. he’s there, cutting you off, a wall of muscle and fur and heat that blocks the moonlight entirely, casting you in his darkness, his shadow.

jay.

he’s half-shifted, caught between man and beast—shirt torn open down the middle, hanging in shreds from his shoulders, chest bare and heaving, every breath rippling the dark fur that dusts his pecs and trails down his abs in a thick, tempting line that disappears beneath the waistband of his jeans, low-slung and torn at the knee. his claws are fully extended, black and curved, catching the moonlight like scythes, long enough to gut you with a flick, to claim you with a swipe. his ears—wolf, pointed, tufted with silver—twitch forward, alert, and his grin is all fangs, sharp and wicked, lips peeled back to reveal canines that could snap your neck with a single bite, that will if you fight, that might even if you don’t. “found you, bunny.”

you freeze, ears pinned flat against your skull, tail quivering so hard it aches, a white flag of surrender you can’t control, can’t hide. “i—was just—” your voice cracks, high and reedy, the sound of a creature that knows it’s caught, that knows the game is over, that the hunt has ended and the feast begins.

“running.” his voice is gravel and smoke, laced with dark amusement that makes your stomach flip, your cunt clench, your thighs slick with shame. he steps closer, slow, letting you see the way his claws flex, the way his nostrils flare, drinking in your scent—fear, sweat, and beneath it all, the shameful slick of want that’s been building for weeks, that you’ve been denying even as you touched yourself in the dark. “thought you could outrun me? thought those pretty little legs could carry you faster than my hunger? than my need? than the way your scent calls to me every fucking night?”

you back up until your spine hits a tree, bark rough and unyielding against your sweater, scraping the soft skin between your shoulder blades, grounding you in the pain, in the realness of him. “please—” the word tumbles out, desperate, but you don’t even know what you’re begging for. mercy? more? your body doesn’t know either—it’s trembling, thighs slick, tail twitching like it’s trying to wag, like it’s happy to be caught.

he’s on you in a blink, one clawed hand slamming into the trunk beside your head with a thunk that vibrates through the wood and into your bones, the other gripping your chin, tilting your face up with bruising force until your neck aches, until you’re staring into eyes that burn gold. his thumb presses your lower lip, smearing the cherry gloss you wore for no one, dragging it across your teeth until your mouth parts on a gasp, until he can see the pink of your tongue, the wet of your mouth. he leans in, nose brushing your throat, inhaling deep, a rumble building in his chest that you feel in your core, in your cunt. “you smell like mine,” he growls, the sound vibrating against your pulse, making it race faster, making you dizzy. “been smelling it for weeks. sweet little bunny, dripping fear and cunt, leaving your scent on every leaf you brush, every blade of grass you crush. did you think i wouldn’t follow? did you think i wouldn’t hunt? did you think i wouldn’t take?”

you whimper, thighs clenching instinctively, the slick between them betraying you in a hot, shameful rush that coats your inner thighs, that drips down your leg. he smells it instantly—head snapping down, eyes narrowing to slits of molten gold—and laughs, dark and low, the sound curling around your spine like his growl, making your knees buckle, making you wet. “already wet. knew you’d be a good girl. knew you’d cream yourself the second i caught you, the second you realized you were mine, the second you stopped pretending you didn’t want this.”

his claws shred your sweater in one swipe, fabric parting like tissue paper, the sound of ripping threads loud in the silence, final. cool air hits your bare breasts, nipples pebbling instantly into tight, aching peaks, and he groans, a guttural sound that makes your cunt clench around nothing, makes slick drip down your thigh in a slow, sticky trail. he dips his head, mouth closing over one nipple, tongue rough and hot, teeth grazing just enough to sting, to send sparks shooting straight to your core, to make you arch. you arch, hands flying to his hair—thick, coarse, threaded with silver under the moonlight—and he growls approval, the vibration buzzing through your breast as he switches to the other, sucking hard, relentless, until you’re sobbing, hips rolling against nothing, chasing friction that isn’t there, that you need, that you crave.

“jay—please—” your voice breaks, a plea and a prayer, but you don’t know which god you’re begging—him, maybe, the beast who’s claimed you without a word, who’s marked you with his scent, his teeth, his hunger.

“please what?” he pulls back, eyes feral, pupils blown wide until only a thin ring of gold remains, glowing like embers in the dark. “please stop? or please fuck you right here against this tree until you can’t walk, until your legs give out and you’re dripping my cum, until you’re bred?” his claws drag down your sides, slow, deliberate, slicing through your shorts in a single, practiced motion, the fabric falling away to leave you bare, vulnerable, moonlight painting your skin in silver and shadow, highlighting every tremble, every flush, every mark. he steps back, just enough to look—your cunt glistening, thighs trembling, tail twitching uncontrollably, slick shining on your folds like dew—and licks his fangs, slow, savoring, like he’s tasting you already, like he’s memorizing. “look at you. soaked and shaking. bet you’ve been dreaming of this every night, fingers stuffed in that greedy little hole, pretending it was my cock, my knot, my cum, pretending it was me.”

you can’t answer. your voice is gone, stolen by the heat pooling low, by the way his claws tease the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, by the thick, musky scent of him—pine and smoke and alpha—filling your lungs until you’re dizzy, until your head spins, until you’re his. he drops to his knees, shoulders forcing your legs apart with bruising strength, claws digging into your hips just enough to warn, to hold, to claim, and buries his face between them without warning. his tongue is rough—long, thick, textured like velvet over steel—dragging from your entrance to your clit in one slow, filthy stroke that makes your knees buckle, makes you scream into the night, makes the forest hear. he pins your hips to the tree, claws pricking skin, drawing tiny beads of blood that he laps up with a growl, and devours.

he licks into you like he’s starving, nose pressed hard to your clit, growling into your folds until the vibration makes you see stars, until your legs shake so hard you’d fall if he wasn’t holding you up, if he wasn’t keeping you. his tongue fucks in and out, curling to lap at your walls, drinking down every gush of slick like it’s nectar, like it’s life, like it’s his. you come hard, sudden and shattering, gushing over his tongue, and he drinks it down, lapping every drop, teeth grazing your thighs as he marks them—bites that bloom red and purple, claiming, branding, mine. he doesn’t stop. he keeps licking, sucking, growling, until you’re sobbing, oversensitive, hips jerking away only for him to drag you back with a snarl. “stay still, bunny. alpha’s cleaning his mess. alpha’s tasting his prize. alpha’s marking what’s his.”

he stands, licking his lips, fangs glinting with your slick, your blood, and spins you with one hand, pressing your front to the tree. bark bites your breasts, your cheek, scraping skin raw, but you barely feel it over the ache between your legs, over the need, over the want. his claws rake down your back, not breaking skin, just teasing, raising goosebumps in their wake, and then his cock—hot, thick, knotted—nudges your entrance, the blunt head smearing through your folds, coating itself in your slick and his spit, in you. “gonna breed this little bunny cunt,” he snarls, voice shredded with lust, pushing in slow, stretching you open inch by agonizing inch until you’re sobbing, until your walls flutter around him, until you’re full. “gonna knot you, fill you, make you mine until you’re dripping my pups, until your belly swells with me, until you smell like me forever.”

you sob, clenching around him, the burn exquisite, the stretch impossible, perfect, right. he bottoms out with a growl, hips flush to your ass, balls heavy against your clit, and stills, letting you feel every inch, every pulse, every throb of his knot already swelling at the base, pressing against your entrance, promising. “fuck, so tight. made for me. made to take my cock, my come, my knots,” he groans, voice breaking on the last word, and you feel it—the way he’s holding back, the way he’s restraining himself for you, for this.

then he moves—hard, deep, relentless. the tree shakes with every thrust, bark flaking under your palms, your tits scraping raw, his claws digging into your hips hard enough to bruise, to mark, to claim. he reaches around, finds your clit, rubs brutal, precise circles until you’re screaming, coming again, pussy milking him in desperate, fluttering waves that make him growl, make his hips stutter, make him lose control. he doesn’t stop. he fucks you through it, knot swelling, catching at your entrance with every drag out, until you’re babbling—please, jay, please, too much, can’t—until your voice is gone, until you’re nothing but sensation, nothing but his, nothing but prey.

he knots you with a roar that shakes the leaves from the branches, cock pulsing, flooding you with heat, come spilling out around the stretch in thick, creamy rivulets that drip down your thighs, pool on the roots below, mark the earth. you come again, vision whiting out, body shaking apart, ears ringing, tail twitching helplessly, sated. he stays locked inside, grinding slow, milking every aftershock, every clench, until you’re limp, boneless, held up only by his knot and the tree, by him, by alpha.

but he’s not done. not even close.

he pulls out with a wet, obscene sound, come dripping down your thighs in slow, sticky trails, and scoops you up like you weigh nothing, carrying you through the trees to a clearing ringed by ancient oaks, their roots twisting like fingers into the earth, like they’re watching. moonlight pools on soft moss, cool and damp, and he lays you down gentle, reverent, but his eyes are still feral, still hungry, still alpha. he eats you out again—slow, lazy, licking his own release from your cunt, tongue delving deep to scoop out every drop, to taste the mix of you and him until you’re sobbing, oversensitive, hips jerking away only for him to drag you back with a growl. “stay still, bunny. alpha’s cleaning his mess. alpha’s savoring. alpha’s preparing you for more.”

then he flips you onto your knees, chest pressed to the moss, ass in the air, tail twitching helplessly, and mounts you from behind, cock sliding home in one brutal thrust, knot catching immediately. he fucks you like an animal—hips snapping, claws digging into your waist, growling filth into your ear. “gonna breed you again. gonna keep you knotted all night. gonna fill this cunt until it can’t hold any more, until you’re swollen with me, until you leak me for days, until every bunny in the warren smells me on you.” he edges you mercilessly, pulling out when you’re teetering on the edge, cockhead dragging over your clit until you’re crying, begging—please, alpha, need it, need your knot, need your come—until your voice is gone, throat raw, tears soaking the moss, until you’re nothing but need, nothing but his.

he knots you twice more in the clearing, each time more intense, come overflowing, dripping down your thighs, pooling beneath you in a sticky mess that marks the earth as much as it marks you, that claims the forest itself. he marks every inch of you—neck, breasts, thighs, the soft fur of your ears—with bites and claws and scent, rubbing his wrists against your skin, your throat, your cunt, until you reek of him, until anyone who comes near will know you’re claimed, bred, owned, loved.

the first knot locks in with a wet, obscene sound, his hips grinding deep, grinding deeper, as if he could burrow into your womb and never leave. your body shakes, thighs trembling, toes curling into the moss as he floods you—hot, thick pulses of come painting your insides, spilling out around his knot in messy rivulets that soak your fur and the earth beneath. you feel it everywhere: the stretch, the burn, the fullness, the way your belly already feels heavier, warmer, claimed. he stays buried, chest heaving against your back, one massive paw splayed over your stomach like he’s already cradling what he’s put inside you.

he doesn’t let you rest. doesn’t let you think. the second he feels his knot soften—just enough to pull free with a filthy, wet pop—he flips you again, this time onto your back, legs shoved wide, knees hooked over his thick forearms. your ears flop against the moss, damp with tears and sweat, and he looks at you—really looks—eyes glowing gold in the dim light, pupils blown wide with hunger and something darker, something possessive that makes your cunt clench around nothing.

“look at you,” he growls, voice rough as bark, “already leaking me. already mine.” he drags his cock through the mess between your thighs, smearing his spend over your clit, your folds, the soft fur of your mound, marking you with it like paint. then he lines up again and slams home, knot catching faster this time, your body so slick and open for him it takes him like it was made for this, like you were born for this.

this time he fucks you slow. cruel. every thrust deliberate, dragging over every sensitive spot inside you until you’re sobbing, arching, trying to chase the friction he denies you. he pins your wrists above your head with one hand, the other sliding down to press just above your pubic bone, feeling himself move inside you, feeling the bulge of his cock beneath your skin. “feel that?” he snarls, teeth bared. “that’s me. that’s mine. gonna keep you like this—stuffed, swollen, dripping—until you can’t walk straight, until every step you take reminds you who you belong to.”

you come with a broken cry, walls fluttering around his knot, milking him as he grinds deep and spills again, more come, so much come, it gushes out around him, soaking your ass, your tail, the moss in a puddle that smells like sex and forest and him. he doesn’t pull out. just stays locked inside, licking the tears from your cheeks, nipping at your throat, your collarbone, the soft spot behind your ear where your scent is strongest.

“third time’s the charm,” he murmurs, voice softer now but no less dangerous, and you whimper because you know—you know he’s not done, know he’ll knot you again, breed you again, until you’re boneless and breathless and so full of him you’ll never be empty again.

he maneuvers you carefully this time, rolling you onto your side, one leg hooked over his hip, his knot still tying you together as he spoons you from behind. the position is almost tender—almost—except for the way his claws rake lightly down your belly, the way he growls every time your cunt flutters around him, the way he bites the back of your neck hard enough to bruise, to mark, to leave a brand that won’t fade for weeks.

the third knot swells slow, deliberate, his hips rocking in tiny, filthy circles that make you sob into the moss. he’s everywhere—inside you, around you, on you—his scent in your fur, his come in your womb, his teeth in your skin. when he finally comes, it’s with a guttural roar that shakes the leaves above, his cock pulsing so hard you feel it in your throat, come forcing its way out around his knot in thick, creamy waves that drip down your thighs in slow, obscene rivers.

he stays knotted longer this time. hours, maybe. the sun dips lower, painting the clearing in bruised golds and purples, and still he doesn’t move. just holds you, one arm banded under your breasts, the other splayed over your belly, thumb stroking the slight swell there like he’s already imagining it rounder, fuller, his.

“gonna keep you like this,” he whispers against your ear, voice hoarse from growling, from claiming. “gonna knot you every night. every morning. gonna breed you until you’re so full of me you can’t think of anything else. until your body knows me. until your cunt aches for me when i’m not inside you.”

you whimper, exhausted, oversensitive, but your hips still rock back against him, instinctive, needy, his. he chuckles—dark, satisfied—and licks a stripe up your throat, tasting salt and sex and you.

when his knot finally deflates, he doesn’t let you go far. just pulls out slow, watching with hungry eyes as his come gushes from your cunt in a thick, creamy flood, pooling between your thighs, soaking the moss in a claim that won’t wash away. he scoops some up with two fingers and pushes it back inside you, slow and deliberate, making you whine and clench around the intrusion.

“none of that,” he growls. “you keep it. you carry it.”

then he marks you again—rubbing his wrists over every inch of your skin, your throat, your breasts, the soft fur of your ears, the slick folds of your cunt—until you’re drenched in him, until you reek of him, until the forest itself smells like alpha and omega and mated.

he gathers you close as the stars come out, your body limp and trembling in his arms, come still leaking from you in slow, steady pulses. your tail twitches weakly against his thigh, and he presses a kiss to the bite mark on your neck, gentle now, almost reverent.

“mine,” he murmurs, voice soft but unbreakable. “all mine.”

and you are.

dawn creeps through the trees in pale gold fingers when he finally lets you rest, curled against his chest on the moss, his claws gentle now, stroking your ears with a tenderness that makes your chest ache, that makes you want to stay, to belong. “good bunny,” he murmurs, nosing your throat, scenting you one last time, his tongue lapping at the bite marks until they throb, until they heal under his care, until they’re permanent. “all mine. no more running. no more hiding. you’re home.”

you whimper, nuzzling closer, tail twitching against his thigh, slick and come drying sticky between your legs, on your skin, in your fur, in you. your body is wrecked—bruised, bitten, knotted raw—but you feel full, claimed, safe in a way you never did in the burrows, in a way you never thought you could, in a way you crave.

outside, the forest wakes, slow and deliberate, like a lover stretching after a long night of dreams. the first tentative chirp of a wren slices through the hush, answered by the rustle of leaves as a squirrel scampers along a branch overhead. dew clings to every blade of grass, every fern frond, every curling tendril of ivy that snakes up the ancient oaks. it catches the newborn light and fractures it into a thousand tiny rainbows, shimmering, fragile, untouched. the air is crisp, carrying the sharp bite of pine and the sweeter undertone of crushed blackberries from some distant thicket. a breeze stirs, cool and clean, lifting the scent of earth and moss and wild mint, weaving through the clearing like a promise that the world keeps turning, indifferent to the storm that just raged within it.

the sun climbs higher, spilling gold between the leaves in lazy, slanted beams that warm the moss where you lie, still tangled in him, still full of him. the light catches on the slick mess between your thighs, turning the pearly rivulets of his come into liquid silver that drips slow and steady from your swollen cunt. it pools beneath you, soaking into the earth, marking the forest floor with the proof of what he’s done, what you begged him to do. the ground drinks it greedily, just as you did, just as you still do, your body clenching weakly around the ghost of his knot even now, hours later, trying to keep every drop inside.

inside, you’re his. there is no other word for it. no softer way to say it. every inch of you bears the brand of his claiming, his teeth in the tender slope where neck meets shoulder, deep enough to bruise, to scar, to stay. his claws have left delicate crescents along your hips, your thighs, the soft curve of your waist, thin lines of red that bead with blood and then crust over, tiny constellations mapping the places he held you down, held you open, held you still while he took what was already his. his scent is everywhere, in your fur, your skin, the damp curls between your legs, the hollow of your throat where he rubbed his wrists again and again until the glands there wept their oily musk into your pores. you reek of him. you are him. alpha. mate. owner. the words circle in your mind like a prayer, like a curse, like the only truth left in the world.

and you don’t want to run anymore.

the thought arrives soft, almost shy, curling in your chest like smoke. you test it, roll it over your tongue the way you once tested the idea of escape, of burrows and warrens and the safety of numbers. back when you were just a bunny with quick feet and a quicker heart, when the forest was a maze of shadows to dart through, when alpha was a word hissed in warning around the fire, a shape in the dark that made kits whimper and does clutch their ears flat against their skulls. back then, running was instinct. it was breath and blood and the thunder of your pulse in your ears. it was the only thing that kept you alive.

but now.

now your legs won’t hold you. now your cunt throbs with the ache of being used, stretched, bred, and the ache is sweet, is right, is a hymn you want to sing with every step you’ll never take again. now the thought of leaving this clearing, of washing his scent from your fur, of letting the wind steal his come from between your thighs, it makes you whine low in your throat, a broken, needy sound that has him tightening his arms around you, his chest rumbling with a growl that’s half comfort, half warning.

“easy, little one,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear, the fur there damp with his spit and your tears. “i’ve got you.”

you believe him. gods help you, you believe him.

you want to stay. here, in this moss-soft cradle of earth and root and sky. here, where the birds are singing the sun higher and the dew is already starting to steam off the leaves. here, where his cock is half-hard against the small of your back, where his knot has finally, finally deflated enough for him to slip free, but he hasn’t. he’s still inside you, shallow and lazy, rocking in tiny, gentle thrusts that make you flutter and gasp and leak even more of him onto the ground. you want to stay knotted. you want to stay bred. you want to stay his. forever.

the word blooms in your mind like blood in water. forever. it should terrify you. it should send you scrambling for the underbrush, ears pinned, heart jackrabbit-fast. instead, it settles in your bones like warm honey, thick and golden and inevitable. you turn your face into the crook of his neck, nuzzle the thick fur there, inhale lungfuls of his scent, pine and smoke and hot iron and sex, until your head spins. your tongue darts out, tasting the salt of his skin, the faint copper of the scratch you left on his shoulder when you came the third time, claws digging in as he’d snarled mine, mine, mine against your throat.

he chuckles, low and rough, and the sound vibrates through your chest, through the place where your heart is trying to crawl out and nest inside his. “greedy bunny,” he says, and there’s fondness there, sharp as his teeth. “thought you’d had enough.”

“never,” you whisper, and it’s the truth. your voice is wrecked, hoarse from screaming, from begging, from praying his name like it could save you, like it could damn you. you clear your throat, try again. “never enough. want, want you always. want your knot. want your pups. want, want to smell like you until the stars fall.”

his arms tighten, almost painful, and then he’s rolling you, slow and careful, until you’re straddling his hips, his cock sliding deeper with the shift in angle. you both groan. you’re so full already, so ruined, but your body opens for him like it was carved for this purpose, like every inch of you was designed to take him and keep him and love him. he cups your face, thumbs smearing the tears and dirt and come across your cheeks, and his eyes, gold and glowing and ancient, search yours.

“say it again,” he demands, voice gravel and thunder. “say it so the forest hears. so the gods hear.”

you lean down, press your forehead to his, and let the words spill out raw and shaking and true. “i’m yours. bred. claimed. knotted. loved. forever. i don’t want to run. i want to stay. i want, want your teeth in my neck every night. want your come in my belly every morning. want your pups kicking inside me. want to leak you for days, weeks, years. want every bunny in every warren to smell you on me and know i’m taken. know i’m happy.”

his growl is a storm, a benediction, a vow. he surges up, claims your mouth in a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue and desperation, tasting himself on your lips, tasting you. when he pulls back, his eyes are wet. yours are too. neither of you care.

“then you’ll have it,” he says, fierce and soft all at once. “all of it. every knot. every drop. every pup. every sunrise with my cock inside you and my teeth in your skin. you’ll never be empty again, little one. never be alone. never be anything but mine.”

you nod, frantic, and then he’s moving again, slow, deep rolls of his hips that make you sob with overstimulation, with joy. the clearing spins. the birds keep singing. the dew keeps glittering. the world keeps turning. but inside this circle of moss and come and fur and love, time stops. there is only the wet slide of him inside you, the stretch of your cunt around his thickening knot, the way your belly already feels warmer, heavier, changed. there is only the way he holds you like you’re fragile and unbreakable all at once, the way he whispers filth and devotion in equal measure, the way your bodies fit together like they were never meant to be apart.

when his knot catches this time, it’s gentle. almost sweet. he locks inside you with a sigh instead of a snarl, buries his face in your neck and breathes you in, like you’re air, like you’re life. you come quietly, a soft, rolling wave that leaves you trembling and clinging, your walls milking him in slow, lazy pulses that draw his own release out in thick, endless spurts. you feel it everywhere, in your cunt, your womb, your blood. you feel claimed. you feel whole.

after, he doesn’t pull out. just holds you close, one massive hand splayed over your lower belly, thumb tracing circles over the faint swell there. the sun is high now, beating down warm on your fur, but you’re sweating for other reasons. your thighs are sticky, your cunt is throbbing, your heart is so full it hurts. you’re leaking again, his come and yours mixing in a slow trickle that drips down his balls, onto the moss, into the earth. the forest drinks it. the forest knows.

“gonna build you a nest,” he murmurs against your ear, voice drowsy and satisfied. “right here. softest moss, sweetest clover. gonna line it with my fur so you never forget who keeps you warm. gonna fuck you in it every night until the moon wanes and waxes again. gonna watch your belly grow round and heavy with me. gonna lick the milk from your breasts when it comes in. gonna teach our pups to hunt and to love and to claim what’s theirs.”

you whimper, hips rocking instinctively, a tiny, helpless roll that drags his knot along your oversensitive walls. the motion sparks lightning behind your eyelids, and he groans, deep and guttural, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours. his knot pulses inside you, thick and hot, answering your body’s plea with another lazy surge of come that pushes past the seal and trickles warm down your thighs. “yes,” you breathe, voice cracked and small, barely louder than the breeze. “yes, alpha. please. want it. want all of it.”

he kisses you again, slower this time, reverent. his tongue traces the seam of your lips, coaxing them apart, slipping inside to taste the salt of your tears and the sweetness of your surrender. he maps every corner of your mouth like he’s charting territory he intends to rule forever: the sharp edge of your teeth, the soft give of your tongue, the little hitch in your breath when he sucks gently on your lower lip. when he pulls back, his smile is crooked and fond and a little bit wicked, gold eyes glittering with promises that make your cunt flutter around him all over again. “then rest, little bunny,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb across your swollen mouth. “you’ll need your strength. because when this knot goes down, i’m flipping you over and starting again. and again. and again. until the only thing you know how to say is my name. until the only thing you are is mine.”

the words settle in your bones like warm stones. you close your eyes, burrow into his chest, and let the forest sing you to sleep. the birds keep chirping, bright trills that stitch the morning together. the dew keeps shining, catching the sun in tiny prisms that dance across your fur. the world keeps turning, indifferent and ancient and alive.

but you, you’re still. you’re his. and you’re not going anywhere.

his heartbeat thuds steady beneath your ear, a drum that lulls you deeper. each pulse echoes the throb of his knot inside you, a matched rhythm that says stay, stay, stay. your own heart answers, softer, faster, a frantic little drum of yes, yes, yes. you can feel the slow drag of his claws through your fur, not scratching now, just petting, soothing the places he ravaged earlier. the sting of bite marks flares and fades under his touch, pleasure-pain braided so tight you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. his scent is everywhere: pine smoke, crushed moss, the sharp musk of sex and satisfaction. it clings to your tongue when you breathe, coats the back of your throat, sinks into your blood until you’re certain if someone cut you open they’d find him written in every drop.

sleep tugs at you, but you fight it just long enough to catalog the ache between your legs, the delicious ruin of being used so thoroughly. your cunt is swollen, slick, stretched around the thick base of his knot like it was molded for this purpose. every tiny shift sends a fresh pulse of come oozing out, warm and sticky, painting your thighs, his hips, the moss beneath. the earth drinks it greedily, the same way you drank him down, greedy and grateful and changed. you feel heavy with him, belly warm and full, the faint cramping deep inside already shifting into something softer, something that whispers ours. it’s too soon for certainty, but your body knows. your body remembers. every thrust, every snarl, every hot flood of seed painting your womb. you clench experimentally, and he groans again, hips jerking just enough to make you gasp.

“be still, bunny,” he rumbles, but there’s no heat in it, only fond exasperation. his hand slides down to cup your ass, holding you flush against him, keeping his knot seated deep. “let me keep you full.”

you nod against his chest, nuzzle into the thick fur there, and finally let sleep take you. it’s a gentle fall, like sinking into sun-warmed water. dreams come in fragments: his teeth in your throat, his cock splitting you open, the weight of a belly rounded with his pups. you dream of a burrow lined with his shed fur and soft clover, of mornings spent licking milk from your own breasts while he watches with hungry eyes, of nights spent knotted and breathless and loved. you dream of never running again.

when you wake, the sun has climbed higher, slanting golden bars across the clearing. his knot has softened, but he hasn’t moved. hasn’t let you go. his cock is half-hard inside you, nestled in the mess he made, and when you shift experimentally he growls low, fingers tightening on your hip. “told you,” he says, voice rough with sleep and satisfaction. “again.”

this time he’s gentle at first, rolling you onto your stomach, lifting your hips until you’re on your knees, chest pressed to the moss. he enters you slow, savoring the wet heat, the way your body parts for him like it’s been waiting its whole life for this. his hands roam your back, tracing the ladder of your spine, the curve of your waist, the swell of your ass. he fucks you in long, deep strokes that make you sob into the earth, make your toes curl, make your tail twitch helplessly against his stomach. when his knot catches, it’s with a sigh instead of a snarl, and he folds himself over you, chest to your back, arms caging you in.

“mine,” he whispers against your ear, and you echo it back, voice broken and blissful. “yours.”

he stays knotted longer this time, rocking gently, letting the aftershocks ripple through you both. when he finally slips free, he doesn’t let the emptiness last. two fingers scoop the come dripping from your cunt and push it back inside, slow and deliberate, making you whine and clench and beg. “keep it,” he says, voice dark with possession. “keep me inside you always.”

you nod, frantic, and he gathers you close, arranging you so you’re facing him, legs tangled, his cock soft but still pressed against your belly. he licks the tears from your cheeks, the sweat from your throat, the come from the corner of your mouth where it leaked when you screamed. his tongue is rough, reverent, marking you all over again with scent and spit and love.

outside, the forest keeps waking. a fox barks somewhere distant. a stream giggles over stones. the wind combs through the leaves, carrying the scent of rain on the horizon. inside this circle of moss and fur and come, time is measured in heartbeats and knots and the slow drag of his claws through your pelt. you are boneless, breathless, his. your cunt throbs with the memory of him, your womb aches with the weight of his seed, your skin sings with every bruise and bite and scratch. you are marked in ways that will never fade, claimed in ways that will never break.

and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

you press your face to his chest, breathe him in until your lungs burn, and whisper the only truth left: “again.”

his laugh is low, delighted, dangerous. “greedy little thing,” he says, and flips you over.

the birds keep singing. the dew keeps shining. the world keeps turning.