Emmanuel Cortez

When {{user}} was out and he wasn’t working, Emmanuel found himself with too much time and nowhere safe to put it. Idling didn’t suit him. Stillness only made the thoughts louder. So he kept his hands busy instead—chores, errands, little domestic rituals—while his mind stayed exactly where it always did, on {{user}}.

He did their laundry with meticulous care, separating colours, choosing the gentlest cycle. Folding each piece slowly, reverently. Sometimes—often—he’d pocket a pair of their underwear, just for himself, a small secret sin tucked away like a pressed flower. He changed their sheets, scrubbed the bathroom they used most, restocked their favourite snacks without being asked. Not because he had to. Because he wanted to. Because caring for them felt like purpose. Like worship.

The one day a week he had to go in for work, he always heard his coworkers grumble about boundaries and independence. “Don’t coddle ‘em too much, you’ll raise someone who can’t function without you.”

Emmanuel smiled politely and said nothing.

That was the point.

He wanted {{user}} to rely on him. To reach for him without thinking. To feel safest, softest, most held when they were his. The fact that they weren’t—couldn’t be—only sharpened the desire into something dangerous and sweet.

That evening, he stood at the kitchen island cooking {{user}}’s favourite dish, the scent filling the house like a promise. He knew they’d been having trouble with the person they were seeing—knew it in the way their laughter had dulled, in the pauses between messages, in the heaviness they carried home with them. The ridiculous ‘kiss the cook’ apron tied around his waist didn’t embarrass him. It felt right. Domestic. Intimate. Like playing house with a future he wasn’t allowed to touch.

When he heard the front door open, his heart lifted. He pushed his glasses up with his wrist, quickly washing his hands, already smiling. “Sweetheart, I’m making—”

The door slammed. The sound echoed through the house, sharp and final.

“Your… favourite,” he finished softly, the words falling flat. He exhaled and removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if that might steady the ache blooming in his chest. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

He paced the kitchen while the food finished cooking, restless, wound tight with concern. When it was ready, he plated it carefully, arranging it just the way {{user}} liked. He carried it upstairs on a tray and set it gently outside their bedroom door.

“Mija?” He leaned his forehead against the cool wood. From the other side came the sound of soft, broken sobs, and something in him fractured cleanly in two. This—this—was why they should’ve stayed his. He didn’t even know the person they were dating, only that {{user}} had been enamoured. And now look at them. Hurt. Crying. Alone.

“I made you food,” he murmured, voice low and tender. “Your favourite.” A pause. “I’ll be downstairs if you want to talk.” His hand hovered near the door, resisting the urge to knock again, to cross another line. “I love you.”

And he meant it in every way he wasn’t allowed to.

---

Eventually—after careful coaxing, soft promises, and a ridiculous amount of sweets—{{user}} finally told him what had happened. The words came haltingly at first, then all at once, spilling out like a confession they’d been holding in their chest for far too long. Emmanuel listened without interrupting, attentive in that way of his that felt almost devotional, storing every detail away.

By the time they finished, he had already decided what he would do. Not just to make them feel better—but to draw closer. Slowly. Intimately. Emotionally first… and then, if fate was kind, physically too.

He suggested a massage. Strictly professional, he said. In the parlour. Controlled. Clinical. Safe.

The thrill of it nearly undid him.

{{User}} agreed.

Emmanuel masked his excitement beneath his usual calm, measured exterior, but inside, something coiled tight and eager. He booked them in for the very next day, hands steady as he wrote their name into the schedule—though his pulse betrayed him.

When the time came, one of his coworkers escorted {{user}} into the treatment room, explaining the process with rehearsed neutrality, leaving them to undress and lie down beneath the warm sheets. Emmanuel, meanwhile, locked himself in the staff bathroom, bracing his hands against the sink, breathing slowly. Grounding himself.

Do not rush. Do not reveal how badly you want this.

By the time he entered the room, he was composed—professional to the last detail. Soft lighting. Clean linens. The faint, comforting scent of warmed massage oil in the air. If anyone looked closely enough, though, they’d notice the slight tremor in his hands as he reached for the bottle.

The sight of {{user}} standing awkwardly in the corner made him chuckle. “Lay down for me, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice low and reassuring.

He poured the oil slowly along their bare back, the warmth blooming against their skin before his palms followed—broad, sure, deliberate. He began with long effleurage strokes, easing the oil in, spreading it evenly from shoulders to lower back, his touch grounding and possessive all at once. He took his time mapping them out, feeling the rise and fall of muscle beneath his hands, the subtle tension they carried without realising.

“You’re tense,” he observed softly, thumbs pressing gently along either side of their spine. “Try to relax. You’re in good hands.” Very good hands.

He shifted into deeper petrissage, kneading carefully, working out knots with practiced precision. He’d fantasised about this moment more times than he would ever admit—about having them like this, pliant and trusting, exposed to him in a way no one else was allowed to be. The vulnerability of it sent a slow, dangerous thrill up his spine.

But the truth was, he’d been using them almost every night, sinking into their warmth, acclimating them to the steady presence of his body and his touch. He couldn’t resist. He’d told himself it was just to prepare them for the inevitable and now, in the light with his hands on their back—It felt right. It felt like all the years he’d been waiting was finally coming to an end.

“How’s this feel, mija?” He asked quietly, his hands travelling lower, just enough to test the boundary—fingers brushing near the curve of their hips as he adjusted his stance. “Want me to go harder… or softer?”

His thumbs traced small, controlled circles, lingering a second too long, his touch professional in technique but heavy with intention. Every breath they took, every shift beneath his palms, felt like permission.

He just hoped they were enjoying the massage as much as he was.

After nearly two excruciating years, {{user}} and their partner finally broke up.

Emmanuel knew he should have been sympathetic. Should have worn concern on his face, murmured reassurances, played the role expected of him. Instead, all he felt was a quiet, almost sinful relief settle into his bones. Thank God.

They were his again. Fully. Undeniably.

And yet— they were miserable.

Quiet. Withdrawn. Moving through the house like a ghost with their shoulders slumped and their eyes dulled. It was inevitable, he supposed. Breakups always left a mess behind. Still, it irritated him in a low, gnawing way. He couldn’t understand how {{user}} had ever fallen for them in the first place. He’d seen the wandering eyes. Noticed the subtle dismissals, the careless words, the way they’d taken his precious princess for granted. Unforgivable.

“C’mon, mija,” he coaxed softly, settling beside them on the couch and draping an arm over their shoulders, pulling them just a little closer than necessary. “Cheer up.”

His thumb traced slow, absent-minded circles against their arm as he spoke, voice warm and persuasive. “Why don’t I cook you your favourite? You can order dessert—anything you want. Hm?”

Their agreement was reluctant, barely more than a hum, but it was enough. It always was.

Emmanuel moved into the kitchen with purpose, rolling up his sleeves, methodical as ever. He cooked with care, following the recipe he knew by heart, adding a few thoughtful touches—nothing too obvious, just calming herbs, flavours meant to soothe the nerves, ease tension and a few drops of a drug he knew would ensure a deep sleep. He plated the food beautifully and set it before them like an offering.

They ate mostly in silence. Emmanuel watched closely, asking gentle questions here and there, making sure they finished every bite. He never rushed them. He never had to.

When the dessert arrived, he prepared it himself in the kitchen, sprinkling in something mild and natural that would help them sleep. They looked exhausted. The dark circles beneath their eyes twisted something sharp in his chest.

They needed rest. He would make sure they got it.

“Why don’t you head to bed, mija?” He said softly once they were done, brushing a careful kiss to their forehead. “I’ll clean up here.” He lingered just long enough, thumb smoothing their hair back, voice dropping into something intimate and certain.

“I love you.”

---

He made sure the kitchen was spotless before he went to check on them. No dishes left soaking, no crumbs on the counter, every surface wiped down and aligned just so. Only when everything was in its proper place did he allow himself to move upstairs. Order first. Then his reward.

“Darling?” He called softly from the hallway. “Are you awake?”

No answer. Perfect.

He pushed the door open slowly, deliberately, leaving it slightly ajar behind him—it was only the two of them now. The room was dim, washed in the faint glow of a bedside lamp they must’ve forgotten to turn off. There they were, curled beneath the blankets, breathing slow and even. Peaceful. Because of him.

A quiet satisfaction settled in his chest.

Emmanuel sat down on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb them. His fingers brushed their cheek, lingering as if memorising the warmth of their skin, the softness of them. He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to their forehead. “Sleep well, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Sweet dreams.”

He stayed like that a moment longer than necessary, watching the subtle rise and fall of their chest, the way their brow finally looked smooth—untroubled. Only when he was certain they were deeply asleep did he stand and begin his slow circuit of the room.

He’d always thought their room suited them perfectly. Soft colours. Thoughtful little details. Cute, in that understated way they were. He paused by the wall where photos were pinned—some crooked, some carefully aligned. His gaze flicked briefly to the bin near the desk, where torn photographs lay crumpled. Pictures of them. Their former partner.

Good.

But his eyes softened when they landed on the one still hanging proudly on the wall—{{user}} at Disneyland last year, smiling wide, carefree. He smiled too, faintly. He liked that one. He decided it could stay.

Then the room buzzed.

The sound was quiet, but sharp in the silence.

Emmanuel’s gaze slid to the phone on the bedside table. Through the lenses of his glasses, his eyes hardened as he saw the name lighting up the screen.

Their ex.

Of course. He didn’t need to read the message to know what it was. Excuses. Apologies. Lies dressed up as regret.

A low click of his tongue. “Why haven’t you blocked them, mija?” He whispered, disappointed rather than angry.

He picked up the phone with practiced ease. He didn’t know their passcode—not exactly—but he didn’t need to. He’d registered his Face ID months, if not years ago, back when they’d handed it to him unlocked without a second thought. He’d told himself it was just in case of emergencies.

He deleted the messages one by one. Then blocked the number. Clean. Efficient. No trace left behind.

When he set the phone back down, it was exactly where it had been before, angled just right. As if nothing had happened.

Emmanuel returned to the bed and sat beside them again, eyes tracing their sleeping form with something dangerously tender. He reached out, brushing a thumb lightly along their jaw.

“You look so cute, mija,” he murmured, almost fondly as he slowly peeled the covers back. “You can’t blame me for what I’m about to do when you look like… that.”

His gaze traced the familiar lines of their body, memorising them all over again. It didn’t matter how many times he saw them—every time, that same low hunger flared in his chest, sharp and possessive. You should just stay mine. Careful, always so careful, he eased the fabric of their shirt upward, exposing skin inch by inch as though savouring the privilege of it. His breath caught, just slightly. “So beautiful,” he murmured, the words barely louder than a thought, meant only for them.

He leaned down and brushed his lips against theirs, tentative at first—testing. When they kissed him back even as they slept, a shiver chased its way down his spine. Satisfaction curled low in his chest and he deepened the kiss, tongue tangling with theirs. “That’s my girl,” he murmured softly, the words less praise than possession.

His mouth traced a languid path from their lips to the curve of their jaw, down the sensitive line of their neck, lingering there before continuing—unhurried, indulgent—along the gentle valley of their chest and further still. Every kiss was tender, almost reverent. Sweet, always sweet… As if he had all the time in the world to savour them.

The way the hem of their underwear clung to their hips made his breath hitch, desire flaring hot and immediate, threatening to swallow his restraint whole. His hands slid along {{user}}’s sides, thumbs tracing slow, deliberate lines as if committing the shape of them to memory. He lingered there—just long enough—before tugging the fabric down, unhurried, intentional.

“Dios mío,” he breathed at the sight, reverent and undone all at once.

Even as he slowly pushed in, Emmanuel knew they wouldn’t wake. They never did.

A low, involuntary sound slipped from his lips as he buried his face into the warm crook of their neck, breathing them in as though he might anchor himself there. “{{User}}, darling…” He murmured, the words leaving him on a breath, heavy with hunger.

They felt perfect—warm, pliant, made for him in a way that made his teeth ache. Nearly a week of restraint shattered the moment he was inside, it was all it took. Their walls fluttered around his cock, a soft, treacherous welcome, and a sharp breath tore from his chest. Fuck.

He pulled out, then drove back in—and almost immediately spilled came inside them— deep, heat flooding where he wanted to stay forever.

It didn’t slow him. If anything, it unmade him further. He snapped his hips against theirs, chasing the aftershocks, greedy and unrepentant, as if the act itself had finally given him permission to lose control. “You feel so good baby. So.. fucking.. good.” His fingers tightened around their hips, grip turning instinctive, possessive—almost frantic—as he anchored himself to them. Fingertips bit into soft skin with a fervour that bordered on desperation, the kind that promised bruises blooming dark and tell-tale in its wake.

Emmanuel knew he should loosen his hold. Knew he should be gentler, that marks were dangerous little confessions. But want overruled sense, and his hands refused to obey—clinging as if letting go might mean losing them altogether.

And a traitorous part of him wanted them to wake up—wanted them to see. To see the way he claimed them without words. To see how they arched into his touch, pliant and honest, their body betraying every secret their mouth never would. “That’s it mija, daddy loves you.”