Chapter Text
A toilet.
There was no nice way to say it. No poetic phrasing, no grand metaphor that could disguise the truth. You’d tried, honestly. Oh, how you’d tried. Wrapped it in flowery language, careful euphemisms, half-meant compliments. A vessel of porcelain and pride. White as moonlight, smooth as silence. A body shaped with care, curves echoing sculpture, dressed in bravado and gold…
No. Who are you trying to fool? The truth was painfully simple. Jean Loo Pissoir was a toilet. No, not as a metaphor. Not symbolically. Not figuratively. Just… a toilet. Simple as that. And people… well. We all know what people do with toilets.
And tonight?
You were looking for yours.
The party was alive in your house. Drinks flowed freely, sloshing into glasses and spilling over like reckless promises. Laughter erupted in wild bursts, filling every corner of the house with a buzz that felt electric. Alive. Beverly was the whirlwind at the centre of it all, her ginger curls bouncing as she darted between groups, topping off drinks with effortless charm. Her laughter was like champagne bubbles, bubbly, light, impossible to ignore.
It was your first party in your own house in what felt like forever... well, first ever, really. Your space, your chaos, your rules. The music throbbed through the walls, a pulse that matched your heartbeat as you moved through the crowd, surrounded by friendly faces and warm smiles that felt like sunlight after a long, cold winter.
You’d had drinks, a little too many drinks, and made a mental note to never do a chugging competition with the Hanks again. But it was okay. It was all more than okay. You were smiling widely, genuinely happy, like you’d forgotten how good it could feel to be this alive. For the first time in a long, long time, you weren’t just surviving. You were living.
You’d just excused yourself from the living room, stumbling out in the hallway. Johnny Splash had been twirling you around the makeshift dancefloor. But when he started getting far too excited about karaoke, you had to escape.
And that’s when you heard it.
The unmistakable rhythm of music, or rather, rapping, coming from the bathroom. Your fingers hovered over the door, and honestly, you nearly laughed. The absurdity of it. Knocking on your own bloody bathroom door like some polite intruder needing permission to enter.
You’d been used to being alone. Always alone, in your house.
But then… all that changed.
The Dateivators. Sunglasses that gleamed like polished secrets, and when you put them on, ordinary household objects became… not quite human, but close enough. Humanised. Animated. A little too alive for comfort. They changed everything. Let you interact. Talk. Flirt. Touch. Your life had taken a weird little detour… One you definitely didn’t see coming. And it was about to get a hell of a lot weirder. Hope you’re ready, my dear little reader.
Before you could even knock, the door swung open.
Out swept a very tall, very annoyed figure in a cloud of silver shimmer and wounded pride. He brushed past you without a word or maybe with too many words still boiling on his tongue. The soft clack of a heeled boot echoed down the hallway. He was dressed head to toe in glimmering silver, see-through in just enough places to make you blink twice and then pretend you didn’t. Tanned skin glowed beneath the fabric, and confidence rolled off him like expensive cologne.
“Latrine-born bastard!” he snapped, not quite roaring, no, Amir was far too refined for roaring. It was more of a poet’s tantrum, all sharp vowels and eloquent fury. “Even the mould on your rim has more grace than you.”
He made a dramatic half-gesture toward slamming the bathroom door… then caught himself. No. Slamming doors was beneath him. Messy. Undignified. So instead, he pressed the door closed with the controlled irritation of someone who was deeply wronged and still trying to look unbothered about it. Under his breath, he muttered soft, spiky curses in a language you couldn’t place. Not because you didn’t recognise it, but because it sounded like it was meant to be beautiful and insulting at the same time.
Amir stormed out of the bathroom, still seething, words from whatever argument he’d had with Jean Loo clinging to him like smoke. He didn’t see you at first, too caught up in the heat of it, jaw tight, eyes dark with fury. But then he did. His steps faltered. Just for a beat. His face flickered, something like guilt, or embarrassment, or just surprise. He looked away, shook his head, the motion sending a loose wave of black hair tumbling over his brow, and when he looked at you again, it was with that smile. The smile he wears like a shield. Easy. Charming. Like nothing had ever happened.
“Azizam” Amir’s voice was warm, syrupy with sudden affection as he took your hand, lifting it gently to his lips. He kissed it, slow, soft, like the moment hadn’t been scorched by his anger seconds before.
Then he drew you in, not too close. Just enough to be… friendly. But the touch was a little too familiar for friendship.
“Ah, you must excuse me,” he murmured, eyes crinkling with a smile that didn’t quite reach the tension in his jaw. “Had I known you were here, I would not have…” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head with dramatic exasperation. “Tch. Jean Loo.” He swore like the name was a curse. “He is… how you say? A pain in my ass.”
He let your hand slip from his grasp, thumb grazing over your knuckles as he did, gaze lingering, far too long to be innocent this time.
You and Amir were friends, of sorts. The kind of friends you have with your own reflection. Familiar, sometimes comforting, but always a little unsettling. Like staring into a mirror that knows every secret you’d rather keep hidden, every cracked smile and tired eye. You could almost call it companionship… If companionship meant sparring with your own shadow, trading barbs and silence in equal measure. He was the echo of your moods, the sharpened edge to your softness, the constant reminder that sometimes the person closest to you is also the one who sees you most clearly and never quite lets you forget it.
“What has he done now?” you laughed, shaking your head as if you already knew the answer.
“The usual. Jean Loo being Jean Loo.” Amir sighed, running a hand through his hair, and for a moment, your eyes drifted, caught by the soft curve of his neck as it stretched beneath the dark strands. The way the light caught the delicate hollow just below his jaw made it impossibly hard to look away. Of course, he noticed. He caught you staring, that slow, knowing smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “His talent for being insufferable is truly unmatched ”
Jean Loo and Amir weren’t exactly friends… not in any simple sense. Their relationship was a tangled mess of sharp words and sharper looks, a constant clash that barely masked a deep undercurrent of something far more complicated. They fought with a fierce resentment, each argument a spark in a slow-burning fire between them, a pull that made their rivalry feel less like hatred and more like a twisted kind of dependence. You could see it in the way Amir’s eyes lingered on Jean a moment too long, the flicker of something vulnerable quickly hidden behind a mask of indifference. And Jean, ever the provocateur, would meet that gaze with a smirk that was both a challenge and an invitation.
You weren’t trying to stare, not really. It just always seemed to happen when you were near him. Your eyes caught Amir’s sharp gaze, the way it flickered with mischief and something unreadable beneath the surface. You traced the confident set of his jaw, the slight lift of one brow, the way he carried himself like he knew exactly how much attention you were giving him. And he noticed. Oh, he noticed. He liked it. Liked being watched by you. Liked knowing you admired him.
Without really thinking, he reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against your wrist. The contact was brief but electric, sending a subtle thrill that wasn’t lost on either of you. He held your gaze, that glint in his eyes turning softer, more deliberate.
“You know,” he said lowly, voice roughening just a touch, “if you’re going to keep staring like that, at least let me make it worth your while.”
“I’m not staring,” you snapped, eyes darting away.
The music hammered around you, but you couldn’t stop stealing glances at Amir. He caught you every time, and smiled like he knew exactly what you were doing.
“Having fun tonight?” he asked, swirling the wine in his glass like it was nothing,
You smiled, looking up from the floor at him. You were having fun, even if you’d had a few too many drinks already. But, that wasn’t your fault, you were sure of it. Tonight had been Beverly’s idea: bring the whole house together for a party. And who were you to say no when your own liquor cabinet was practically begging to be of use? So the night went on, and you’d spun around and around. You’d laughed, loudly and apologetically, as you let yourself have fun. Real fun. The kind you hadn’t let yourself feel in a long, long time.
"I am,” you said, laughing. “I was just… heading to the toilet.”
Amir tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing in that way that wasn’t hostile but definitely watching. Thinking. Calculating. He licked his teeth, slow and contemplative, like he had something to say. But instead, he only raised his now-empty wine glass, the motion lazy and half-mocking.
“Well then. Enjoy,” he said, voice all silk and spite. “I’m off to fetch another drink. You might want to do the same… Especially if you’re planning to deal with him.”
That fuck-ass toilet. That smug, horrible excuse for porcelain. Jean Loo Pissoir was standing, yes, standing, on top of the toilet. His own toilet. The weight of him made the ceramic creak ominously beneath his boots. You blinked once. Twice. Stepped into the bathroom. But the image didn’t change. There he was, every inch of that gleaming, filthy ego, balanced atop the very seat you’d sit on in the morning, again after lunch, and sometimes late at night when your shame tasted like takeout and regret. The logistics, frankly, were beyond comprehension. If he was the toilet… how the fuck could he be on the toilet?
You didn’t know. You no longer asked. You’d surrendered yourself to the chaos weeks ago… The moment you found yourself genuinely flustered by the curve of a cistern… That’s just life now. This is who you are. Someone who gets turned on by a toilet. You tried to fight the madness. Truly. But romance had long since stopped belonging to roses and candlelight. No, now it came in cracked porcelain, cocky rhymes, and the slow, seductive hiss of a flushing mechanism. You’d stopped trying to rationalise anything.
You simply tilted your head, crossed your arms, and muttered, “You’re standing on yourself, you absolute lunatic.”
Jean Loo just smirked, his gold-plated chain clinking against his lid. Balanced on the rim of the toilet, not sitting, not crouching, standing, like a prophet mid-miracle. His white porcelain-textured tracksuit gleams under the flickering bathroom light, catching every drip and glint like a holy relic. His boots, adorned with golden toilet seats, clang dramatically as he stomps down a beat, commanding attention from tile to ceiling vent.
”Ooh là là, chérie, tu veux la pression?
One twist ‘round my knob and we lose discretion.
His bowl’s so wide, his aim so true,
Flush once, ma douce, Jean Loo remember you.
Un coup de piston, and he purr like wine
You bring the mess, he make it divine.”
You sighed as you looked at him. His blue-frosted hair flicked as he tilted his head, a sneer curling those piercing baby-blue eyes. Eyes that seemed to weigh you, measuring something you weren’t sure you wanted revealed. A single freckled cheek dimpled when he smirked, his mouth barely brushing the mic, Ballcock, dangling like a decadent relic from the heavy chain around his neck. The flush valve pendant caught the light, gleaming sharp and threatening. The roll of toilet paper wrapped tight around his wrist fluttered softly, like a tragic little corsage from a prom long forgotten.
”He the throne with the most, call me roi du cul,
Ze way you sit pretty… oof, ça me rend fou.
Got his tank full, it’s dripping with need,
Stroke ze handle, he beg and plead.
Jean Loo pipes, ma chérie, they twist and moan
Say "s'il te plaît," and he take you home”
Jean Loo jumped down from the toilet and spun around you with sharp, confident moves. Before you could even react, he shoved you down onto the seat, like you were his captive audience and this dingy bathroom was his grand stage.
"You came to see Jean Loo perform, non?" he laughed, full of that unbearable charm he always seemed to think was irresistible. "Jean Loo understands. Ah… everyone loves Jean Loo."
You shook your head, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing you were here for him. Slowly, you crossed your legs, and his eyes flicked down, just for a second, before he pulled himself back together, that smug little grin never leaving his face.
Most of the others in the house called him arrogant, and that was them being nice. A latrine-born bastard, if we’re quoting Amir. And they weren’t wrong. You hadn’t liked him much when you first met either. But somewhere along the line, whether you'd started seeing something beneath all that bravado, or he’d just worn you down through sheer persistence, something had changed.
You’d grown rather fond of the idiot, poor you.
Jean Loo had, well, something, if you looked past the utterly ridiculous outfit. Something you didn’t notice at first. It wasn’t obvious. God no. It wasn’t even immediate. But the longer you looked… the more it hit you. He was beautiful. Not in a traditional sense. No, it was more like something you had to tune into. Like your eyes needed adjusting before you could fully see him.
The soft curve of his nose. The delicate slope of his collarbone, just visible beneath his obnoxiously oversized chain. A faint line of freckles, so light you’d almost miss them, trailing down the side of his neck like some secret constellation only you had noticed. And then those lips. Plush. Slightly parted. Just enough to suggest breath. Just enough to imagine them moving, speaking, maybe even… You stopped yourself. You actually had to look away. Like you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t, even though no one was watching. Heat bloomed at the back of your neck. Embarrassing, really. You had to bite down the urge, the stupid, impulsive urge, to reach out and trace your finger along his mouth, to see if he felt as soft as he looked.
"You do not 'ave to be jealous, ma chérie," Jean Loo continued, still mid-monologue, not even noticing you staring, too busy admiring his own reflection in the mirror. "It is only natural. Everyone… everyone loves the star..” His voice caught, just barely, the tiniest fracture beneath all that bravado. But he powered through, chin tilted up like it might hold the whole façade together. ”Lil Crapper 'as no time for groupies. For fakes or—"
“Can I touch your lips?” You asked without thinking.
“Quoi?” His voice cracked so delicately it was almost sweet. “You—”
Everything shifted. The overblown confidence, the practiced swagger… gone. He wasn’t performing anymore. Just standing there, blinking, lips parted slightly, exposed. For once, no script to hide behind.
You immediately questioned whether you’d made a mistake. But maybe you hadn’t. You weren’t sure. What you did know was that you meant it. Every word. You wanted to touch those lips. To see if they were as soft as they looked. To find out if that ridiculous mouth ever quieted beneath gentle fingers.
He still didn’t move. You watched the gears turn behind his eyes, the flashy, over-rehearsed persona scrambling to reassert itself, like a star who’d suddenly forgotten his next line. Then, slowly, and clearly against his own better judgment, he stepped toward you.
“Jean Loo understands,” he said, voice suddenly too loud, too performative. A desperate attempt to fill the space before you could call his bluff. “It is only natural. Jean Loo is… irrésistible.”
The words spilled out like a reflex, automatic, muscle memory. But the usual edge was missing. No smugness, no signature smirk… Only a quiet tremble beneath the syllables, like he was telling himself the lie more than you. His hand twitched, like he meant to reclaim the moment with some grand gesture, to spin back into performance mode. But it stalled midair, fingers frozen, uncertain. He tried to sound confident, but the words tangled on his tongue. His thick accent heavier than ever, each syllable soaked in nerves he couldn’t quite mask. His whole body felt caught. Every part itching to pose, to flourish, to deliver a punchline… yet something quieter, more fragile, had taken over.
And then he leaned in.
Careful. Cautious.
No grand movements. No crapper theatrics for once. Just the slow tilt of his tall frame as he came closer, and closer, until you could feel his breath, warm and unsteady, ghosting over your cheek. His eyes searched yours, and there it was: a flicker of something raw, almost too quick to catch. Vulnerability. Panic, maybe. Or something even rarer: trust.
His lashes lowered, then closed completely, slow and hesitant, like he was bracing for impact — a shield finally dropping, if only for a moment.
“Jean Loo permits it,” he whispered. And for the first time, his voice shook.
Not because he was weak, but because with you, he didn’t always have to be all sharp edges and smoke and mirrors. With you, he could be something more. Something softer. Something real. And that disgusted him more than anything, which was rather ironic, because Jean Loo never got disgusted. Being a toilet, after all, tends to make someone pretty immune to that sort of thing.
Your hand drifted up with the gentlest hesitation, fingertips barely grazing his lips. So soft, so impossibly tender it felt almost absurd, like touching something too fragile to be real. Jean Loo leaned into it, just a whisper of movement, uncertain, as if afraid this softness might shatter the world around him. His lashes fluttered open slowly, eyes locking with yours, wide and vulnerable, as if stunned by the quietness of the moment, so delicate it felt almost like a secret no one else could ever understand.
He had never let anyone touch him like that. Never in his whole life. Jean Loo wasn’t a soft, not really. He wore arrogance like armour, sharp edges and loud words to keep the world at bay. But now, beneath your fingers, he felt something new. Your fingertip lingered, then traced the curve of his lower lip and at your touch, his mouth parted just slightly, not in invitation, but in awe. His breath hitched, quiet and shallow, as if he didn’t want to break whatever spell had settled between you.
His eyes met yours. Wide. Still. Searching. And for a second, everything went still with them. You weren't sure who was trembling, you or him. Jean Loo, who filled every room with noise and bravado, who barked out rhymes like they were weapons, was now just watching you.
Jean Loo didn’t like letting anyone in. For a lot of reasons. Feelings were messy and not the sort of messy he liked. Not spills or noise or chaos you could turn into a punchline. No, this was unclear messy. Complicated messy. The kind you couldn’t rhyme your way out of. So when feelings got involved, he shut it off. Shut himself off. Better to feel nothing at all than risk, even for a second, admitting there was something real underneath it all. Because if he let himself believe, even briefly, even just for a flicker of a moment, then the most dangerous thing might happen:
He might start to hope.
And hope? Hope led to want. And want led to delusion. Not delusion of grandeur. That was fine, that was manageable. That was the mask he wore best, gold-plated and bulletproof. No, the other kind. The softer one. The delusion that maybe, just maybe, there was more waiting for him. Something gentle. Something true.
But that was the thing about masks. You wear them long enough, and eventually, you forget where the porcelain ends and your skin begins. And Jean Loo? He would do anything to stop that mask from cracking. Because if it ever did, if it ever broke… He was terrified of what might be underneath.
What if there was nothing at all? What if the performance wasn’t covering anything, but was everything? He’d shut it down so long ago, whatever was inside, whatever once had been soft or breakable or real… Maybe it was long gone. Maybe it never existed in the first place. And that thought, that he might not have feelings? That he might just be a shell, hollowed out and filled with ego and glitter and rhyme? That was the most frightening thing of all. Because it’s easy. Far too easy. To become that. To be nothing but the sparkle. Nothing but the mask. Nothing but the flush and the swagger and the joke. It’s easier than thinking. Easier than feeling. Easier than hope.
You gave his cheek a soft little pat, clumsy and affectionate, the kind of gesture that meant nothing and everything when drunk. Then you laughed, head tipping back against the toilet seat lid.
Jean Loo flinched. Just slightly. Like a blink you weren’t supposed to catch. But it was enough. The moment cracked, and whatever softness had flickered in him, that strange, dangerous glimmer of being wanted in a way that wasn’t performance, collapsed under the weight of your laugh. He turned his head sharply, as if the air had suddenly grown offensive. Stood a little straighter. He smoothed a hand over his trouser leg that didn’t need smoothing, adjusted a sleeve that didn’t exist, as if performing normalcy might stitch his pride back together.
”You—” he said dryly, like he was brushing something off his shoulder. Like he hadn’t just leaned into your touch like it was the only real thing in the room. Like his heart wasn’t still beating too loudly in his ears. ”You are very weird”
Before the Dateviators. Before the persona. Before the name. Before Jean Loo became Jean Loo — Lil Crapper, rap sensation — there was just porcelain. White. Cold. Unquestioned. A normal toilet, in a normal house, on a normal street, in a normal town. Nothing special, nothing big or important. A place where time meant nothing and the lights always buzzed. He existed only as a function. A hinge. A flush. An afterthought.
But he would listen. Always listen.
To the house's inhabitants, before you. People would speak around him, above him, to him… but never like he was there. Confessions. Drunken sobs. Illicit whispers. The slurred sweetness between secret lovers. A girl crying because someone ghosted her. A man muttering numbers to himself, over and over.
It all sank into him. Into the bowl. Into the bones. He absorbed it. All of it. Like the grime in the corners no one ever cleaned properly. Words soaked into the silence between flushes. And somewhere, something began to form.
Not a soul. Not yet.
But an awareness.
A wanting.
Not to be used. Not to be revered. Just… seen. Just once. To be looked at like something more than ceramic and pipework. To be spoken to, not through. And when that spark came, whenever it happened, whether it was magic or curse or divine mistake, it wasn’t glorious. It wasn’t loud. It was terrifying.
One moment, stillness. The next, a thought. Why me? And then another: What am I? He didn’t have a name for the longest of time. No history. No shape to his thoughts yet, just questions. Just feelings he didn’t understand. And he hated it. Because once you start feeling? You can’t stop. And when all you’ve ever known is silence and sewage and strangers who never look you in the eye… What the hell do you do with loneliness?
So, when the Dateviators arrived, when you came, when you offered him a name, a body, a voice, a place in the world?
He took it.
And he ran.
He built himself into something untouchable, covered the shame in slang, hid the fear behind confidence, twisted the ache into rhythm and rhyme and rhyming slang and piss-poetry until Jean Loo Pissoir was born: crapper, rapper, King of the Underground, monarch of the unwanted. But even now, sometimes, when the beat drops and the noise dies and he's alone again in a cold, tiled room, something old stirs in the silence… The echo of what he used to be, porcelain and passive, listening to the world pass over him like steam on a mirror.
But he remembers. That silence. That fear. And that aching question still echoes deep in the pipes: “Am I anything, if no one’s looking?”
Not that he’d ever admit it… not to you, and especially not to himself. No, he'd rather play the fool. Rather, you laugh at his rhymes, snort at the toilet jokes, roll your eyes at the plunger stuck on his head. He'd rather be your punchline than your pity. Let you ridicule him for being a walking bathroom gag, a porcelain jester in gold chains. Anything but admit that he wants to be more. That he feels more. That behind the slang and swagger and piss-poetry, there's still a part of him wondering if he’s ever been seen at all.
“Anyway.” Jean Loo leaned back with a little flourish, a sly half-smile curling on his lips, performative, dismissive… Almost convincing. His eyes flicked up to yours, just for a second too long, like he knew what you almost saw. “Don’t get used to… zat,” he said, voice low, the accent thickening like a shield. “Jean Loo does not offer ze luxury of touch often. Ah, but of course, everyone wants him. Zey always do.” He laughed and waved a hand like brushing away something shameful. “But Jean Loo? He only breaks hearts, ma chérie. So don’t come too close.”
You giggled loudly, leaning forward a little, tipsy and perched on the toilet seat, hands resting on your knees as you looked up at him.
”You gonna break my heart, Jean Loo?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, with a quick, almost imperceptible sigh, he turned to the mirror and started beatboxing. The rhythm was sharp, precise, effortless. A mask snapping into place. It was almost scary, how easily he slipped into that persona, how effortlessly he could pretend nothing ever got under his skin. Like the burn of your gaze didn’t make him flinch, like the tremor still lingering in his lips where you’d dared to touch him wasn’t real. The swagger returned with every beat, burying the fragile truth deeper beneath the noise, as if silence was the enemy and rhythm the only shield he had left.
”Twist the handle, baby, catch the flow,
Pressure’s risin’, but Jean Loo is nice and slow.
Secret pipes hum when you’re down below,
Whisperin’ things only we could know.Not just a throne, you’re my midnight game,
Flushin’ through shadows, callin’ your name.
Maybe he's playin’, maybe it’s true,
Ma chérie, every flush brings him closer to you. ”
Appearing silently from the back, Amir slipped in without a sound. You hadn’t even noticed the door open, your attention glued to Jean Loo’s chaotic performance. Amir moved like a shadow, but something was off, less polished, less composed. He clutched a half-empty wine bottle, drinking straight from it with a careless tilt of his head. The usual crisp lines of his outfit looked rumpled, and his hair looked like he’d run frustrated hands through it. Several times. Maybe during a rant. Maybe about toilets. His eyes held that gleam of tipsy mischief you hadn’t seen before.
“I don’t even know why you bother with that one, azizam” Amir muttered, voice low and dripping with disgust as his eyes locked on Jean Loo. He looked at him not as a person, but as something far beneath notice. Like the dirt stuck to the sole of his shoe, something to be wiped off, scorned, and forgotten. There was a flicker of something sharper, maybe resentment, but mostly just pure, unfiltered disdain. ”He’s like a cracked pipe. Loud and leaking nonsense”.
“Oh, mais putain, fuck you,” Jean Loo snapped, voice low and dripping with venom. But that smile curling on his lips was pure provocation, daring Amir to lose his cool.
You looked between them, shifting slightly on the closed toilet lid, the porcelain cold beneath your thighs. The movement made the thin fabric of your dress ride up even more, carelessly so. It gathered at the tops of your thighs, baring more leg than you meant to, the hem creeping higher with every subtle shift. A sliver of skin flashed at your waist where the fabric bunched.
Jean Loo and Amir stood side by side, but their eyes locked in a fierce, silent battle, each glare sharper than a blade. The tension was so thick you almost expected them to snap. Ready to erupt into a fight right there in the cramped bathroom, with you caught awkwardly in the middle. But just as the tension between them threatened to snap, Amir’s fierce glare at Jean Loo softened abruptly. His eyes slid away, catching yours instead, and a slow, almost mischievous smile curled at the corners of his mouth. His gaze lingered on your bare legs for a moment longer than necessary, making your fingers fidget nervously at the hem of your dress, as if you suddenly needed to cover up what had been revealed.
“Hmm…” Amir murmured, never breaking his gaze from your legs. ”I think we should put that filthy mouth of Jean Loo to better use, no?”
The party raged outside, music thumping through the bathroom door. The bass throbbed like a heartbeat, muffled shouts bounced off walls, and laughter collided with the clatter of glass and the occasional crash of someone knocking over a drink or a stack of cups. There was the unmistakable chaos of a house packed too tight: the scent of spilled beer mixing with cheap perfume, a faint hint of cigarette smoke sneaking in through a cracked window, and the sharp tang of sweat and desperation hanging in the air. Somewhere down the hall, a voice yelled something about lost keys or a missing charger, and a chorus of groans followed.
But inside the tiny bathroom?
Silence.
Thick, pressing silence, the kind that settles right under your skin. The overhead light flickers once, buzzes. The air smells like citrus soap and something cheap and floral, masked just barely by Amir’s cologne and Jean Loo’s ever-present faint whiff of peppermint mouthwash.
Even Jean Loo was quiet. Now, that didn’t happen often. His mouth hung open slightly, not in confusion, but anticipation. His eyes flicked to you, then to Amir, then back again. You could see it in his face: he wasn’t sure if he was being challenged or hunted. And maybe, in this particular arrangement, it didn’t matter. You could almost see the gears turning as he tried to figure out what Amir was playing at… but you did not doubt that whatever it was, Jean Loo would never back down from a challenge. Especially not one from Amir.
Your eyes bounce between them. Amir: arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes dragging over you like a hand that won’t touch but still feels. You can’t tell if he’s trying to pull you in or push you back. Maybe both. Jean Loo: quiet now, unnervingly so, like even he knows this moment ain’t about him anymore. He looks at Amir, then at you, then down, like something’s ticking. No one moves. The silence sticks like humidity.
And then—
Click.
The bathroom door locks. No warning. No flourish. Just Amir’s hand, smooth and deliberate, sliding the lock into place with a finality that tightens every muscle in your spine. The room suddenly shrinks. The walls pull closer. The quiet gets, if it’s even possible, quieter.
“Now, where were we?” Amir murmured, his voice thick and slightly slurring as he lifted the bottle to his lips again. His eyes didn’t leave yours—dark, unblinking, daring you to interrupt him. Then, with a slow, crooked smile curling one corner of his mouth, he lowered the bottle and said, “Ah, yes… the best part. Just getting started.” He paused, then glanced sidelong at Jean Loo with mock cheer, lifting the bottle slightly in a lazy salute. “We’re all friends here, no?”
Amir’s hand came up suddenly but without hurry, sliding beneath your chin with the kind of careful gentleness that made your breath catch. His fingers were warm, tracing slow, featherlight patterns along your jawline. Soft enough to feel like a whispered promise, heavy enough to remind you that this was his control.
He didn’t yank or pull; instead, he lifted you up from the toilet seat, with a deliberate ease, his palm cradling the curve of your cheek as if you were something fragile, something precious that might shatter without his steady touch. His thumb brushed lightly along the edge of your lips, an almost reverent caress, and you could feel the faint tremble in your own pulse matching the rhythm of his fingers.
His voice dropped to a hush, barely more than a breath against your skin, but there was no mistaking the command wrapped inside it.
”Don’t swallow, azizam” Amir murmured against your ear, his voice soft. ”I want you to hold it.”
Your mouth parted on command, soft and tentative, breath hitching like a fragile thread about to snap. Amir’s fingers lingered against your jaw, tracing the curve with a tenderness that contradicted the sharpness in his eyes.
He lifted the bottle of wine slowly, deliberately, the deep red liquid catching the flickering light. Tilting his head back, Amir swallowed a long, measured swig, his throat flexing under the dim glow. Then, without warning, a flick of his tongue, and the warm liquid spilled from his mouth, sliding like silk and fire into your open lips. It was thick and sharp, tasting of dark fruit and raw power, flooding your mouth in a rush that was both intoxicating and disarming.
You froze, the wine lingering on your tongue as your cheeks tightened involuntarily, holding it with careful precision. The taste spread slowly, sweet and bitter, burning just beneath the surface, while Amir’s gaze bore into yours, unblinking and intense, daring you to falter, to lose control. But you listened. You didn’t swallow. You held it, exactly as he commanded.
“Jean” Amir’s voice was low and flat, almost bored, as he spoke without even glancing at Jean Loo. “Take it. Swallow.”
Jean Loo’s lips twitched in defiance. “Putain, non! What is this? Non, non.”
Amir’s hand shot out, the kind of grip that promised no mercy. His fingers clenched around Jean Loo’s collar, digging into the fabric with sharp intent, not gentle like with you. With a sudden, brutal pull, he yanked Jean Loo forward, slamming him hard against the cold bathroom sink. Jean’s breath hitched as he stumbled, but he wasn’t done. For a brief, furious moment, his eyes blazed with defiance, a curse in French slipping from his lips again—rough, angry, and raw. He shoved back against Amir’s grip, chin lifted high as if daring Amir to push harder, to break him.
“Open. Now.” Amir leaned in close, a hard whisper of command against Jean Loo lips.
For a beat, Jean Loo didn’t move. His breath came shallow, lips slightly parted, eyes locked not on Amir now, but on you. His jaw worked once, tension flickering along the muscle like a held-back curse. And then he leaned in, mouth hovering open just barely, a breath away from yours. His lashes lowered as if this were something sacred, obscene, or both. You could see the flick of his tongue against his teeth. An anticipatory twitch, like he couldn’t help it.
Your jaw ached slightly from the tension, from holding so still, from the sharp tang of the wine still ghosting across your tongue. It had gone warm and sour in your mouth—Amir’s wine, Amir’s spit, Amir’s command curdling between your teeth.
And then—
You leaned in.
You obeyed.
Amir’s hand curled into your hair before you even moved, like he’d known you would. His fingers dug in just enough to burn. Not yanking. No, guiding. Holding you still, holding you open. A quiet claim, right there at your nape. You weren’t allowed to look away.
Your lips hovered just over Jean Loo’s, barely touching, a thread of breath between you. And with one slow, deliberate tilt of your chin, you let it fall. The wine dripped, no, spilled, from your mouth to his. Not neat, not polite. It sloshed down like sin, trailing down his waiting tongue, coating it in the dark flush of bitterness. A line of it slipped from the corner of his lip, dribbling down his chin, pooling like blood on white marble at the dip of his collarbone.
Jean Loo didn’t flinch. He swallowed it down greedily, eyes never once leaving yours, not even when the mess smeared across both your mouths. His tongue chased the last of it like it was something divine, like your mouth was a chalice and he’d been parched for days. Jean Loo was smiling. Not just any smile. He smiled like this was everything he ever wanted, like this was exactly where he belonged. Smiling like he didn’t just accept the shame, the embarrassment, the degradation of swallowing that filth… He loved it. Like he was born for this moment, made to revel in it.
“Tch, such filth,” Amir said, eyes narrowing with disgust at Jean Loo. Then, slowly, he turned his gaze to you, his hand sliding from the nape of your neck to cup your chin gently, thumb tracing over your lips “But you, my love... You are a rare beauty.”
Amir was a mirror. A perfect reflection of everything you were, everything you wanted to be, everything you might one day become. He held up your deepest, darkest desires, the ones you never dared admit to anyone… not even yourself. He knew every hidden corner, every secret part of you. But he never judged. No, Amir didn’t judge. He simply reflected it all… And he loved it. Loved being the outlet for your most forbidden cravings, the one who made you live them out.
And Jean Loo... Well, Jean Loo was a toilet, built to swallow every filthy thing you gave him.
Before you could speak, just as the sharpest edges of your most forbidden urges started to prick at the surface—Amir’s hand found yours. Slow, deliberate, fingers curling around your wrist like silk wrapped around steel. Without a word, he guided your hand up, over the thin fabric of Jean Loo’s shirt, until your fingertips brushed against the bare skin at his collarbone, soft, warm, and trembling with something unspoken.
Jean Loo’s eyes flicked down to where your hand lingered for a heartbeat too long, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his lips, daring you to do more. Amir’s other hand slid along your hip, pressing lightly, holding you in place like a tether.
“Don’t stop, azizam,” Amir murmured, voice low, almost a growl. “Touch him.”
Jean Loo scoffed—a sharp, breathless noise that didn’t match the way his body arched into your palm. “Merde,” he drawled “You hear zis? Amir barkin’ commands like Jean Loo is some... jouet to be passed back and forth.” But he didn’t move away. No, he melted under your hand, chest rising like he needed your touch to breathe. His smirk twitched at the corners, unravelling even as he clung to the performance.”Touch him” he repeated, mockingly, tongue pressing behind his teeth “Tch. Chérie, Jean Loo would let you do far worse than touch.” He leaned in closer, voice lowering to a purr. “So go ahead. Play nice... or play rough. Jean Loo? He don’t mind either way.”
You hesitated—just for a breath—but the heat pouring off him was magnetic, and when your eyes flicked up through your lashes, Jean Loo met them with a look that commanded rather than invited. A small nod. Permission, indulgent and dripping with ego.
You couldn’t help but to smile.
Jean Loo trembled beneath your hand. His chest rose to meet your touch like a moth to flame, even as he tried to play it cool. You started light. Fingertips brushing the fabric of his shirt, tracing a line up the centre of his chest to the sharp jut of his collarbone. He swallowed. Didn’t move. Just watched you, lips parted, breath shallow.
You dragged your touch down again, this time slower, fingers fanning out as you skimmed the contours beneath cotton, the suggestion of muscle, barely-there tension. He leaned into it, like your touch had gravity. Jean Loo let out a sound, something between a breath and a curse, bitten off like he couldn’t risk giving you the satisfaction. His cocky grin flickered, lips twitching like he couldn’t decide whether to sneer or bite back a moan.
Amir chuckled darkly, watching Jean Loo squirm beneath your hands, the power shifting between them thick enough to choke on, You’d never seen Amir like this. Never like this. He was usually kind. Quiet. The one who remembered your favourite biscuits and offered them wordlessly. The one who kissed your fingers like you were holy, who smiled like he was grateful just to look at you. A romantic, through and through. Soft-spoken, careful, the type to pull you back when you got too close to the edge.
But not now.
Now he was staring Jean Loo down with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, something cruel and knowing curling in the corner of his mouth. And his hand, firm, patient, was guiding yours beneath Jean Loo’s shirt.
Jean Loo’s skin burned beneath your fingertips. You traced up slowly, your nails dragging just enough to make him twitch, to make him breathe like it hurt to be touched. Over his stomach, tight, tense, your fingers wandered, brushing along faint ridges of muscle, over the warm dip of his waist. He flinched and shifted, and your palm slid up over his ribs, feeling the way he stifled a sound, something half-growl, half-whimper.
Jean Loo’s head dropped back against the mirror as he leaned back, breath shaky, teeth clenched like he was trying not to beg. But still, he desperately leaned into your touch. His hips shifted like he couldn’t help it, chasing more friction, more warmth, more you. A wicked smile curled on Amir’s lips, all mockery and malice, like he liked watching Jean Loo unravel beneath your touch.
And you—
You followed Amir. You let him move you. Let your fingers trace the taut muscle under your palm. Let your breath hitch as you felt Jean Loo twitch beneath you.
You’d always imagined the devil to be obvious. Sharp teeth. Cloven hooves. Fire and brimstone.
A monster carved from nightmares. You thought you’d smell the sulphur before he ever got close. But then you looked at Amir— smiling like that, coaxing you to sin with the same voice he used to read you poetry you realised something:
The devil has soft hands.
He wears silver as if it were sewn from moonlight.
He smells of jasmine and warm skin.
He touches your face like it’s scripture.
The devil calls you beautiful, like it’s the only truth that ever mattered.
He says please, thank you, and stay.
And the worst part?
You liked it. You liked the heat of the devil’s palm at your back. You liked the way hell opened beneath your feet and how sweet it felt to fall. The devil smiled. And you smiled back. Ready to follow him down.
“You feel that?” Amir’s lips barely moved against your ear. ”He likes being touched like this. Pathetic.”
“Jean Loo is not—”
Jean Loo doesn’t finish the sentence. Can’t. Not when your hand slides low, lower, and his breath catches like a fault line cracking straight through him. His voice, cocky and composed just seconds ago, breaks into a grunt he doesn’t have time to smother. The muscles in his stomach jump, taut and trembling, as you palm him through his trousers, slow and heavy and deliberate. You’re not even trying to be merciful.
Because Jean Loo doesn't deserve mercy. Not here. Not like this.
“Liar” Amir says. Soft. Cruel. He taps your hip, directing you lower. “Do that again.” Amir’s grip tightened ever so slightly on your wrist as he guided your hand down Jean Loo’s pants, an iron leash disguised as silk.
You hook your fingers into his waistband and slide down. Skin. Heat. He’s hard, painfully so. Slow and deliberate, you pull him free. Thick and throbbing, pressing heavy against his own stomach, slick at the tip like his body’s been leaking for you long before his mouth even dared to open. Flushed deep and swollen, pulsing and twitching like it’s begging for your hands, for your mouth, for whatever filthy mercy you might grant. You can’t look away. You've never seen, well, all of him before, and this… This was better than your wildest expectations. Your mouth waters, saliva pooling hot and thick as you imagine how he’ll stretch you, fill you, and how exquisitely, painfully good that will hurt.
Jean Loo, who’s never the one to blush, suddenly looks almost embarrassed. His eyes flicker to you, sharp and hungry, but there’s something new there, too. A flicker of surprise. Vulnerability. Like he’s caught off guard by just how openly you're staring, devouring him with your eyes.
“Ah, ze way you drool over Jean Loo... embarrassing, non?” he purrs, his accent thick, mocking. “But who can blame you?” His smirk grows, teeth flashing. “Jean Loo... he is magnifique.” His hand slides down, fingers curling around himself, stroking with obscene slowness. Each movement slick with precum, deliberate and cruel, like he’s punishing you with the sight.
Your eyes are locked, jaw tight, breath hitched. He knows. God, he knows exactly what he’s doing. You’re so far gone you don’t even realise your thighs are pressed together, trying to create friction where there’s none. The smallest moan escapes before you can stop it, and you bite your lip hard enough to bruise.
“Oh my” Amir chuckles behind you, breath warm against your ear. His hands settle firmly on your waist “Look at you. Drooling like a mess already.” You don’t get a chance to answer before his voice drops deeper, wicked and slow. “You want him that bad, don’t you? So desperate you can’t even pretend to hide it.”
It was unbearable, how much you wanted him. The heat between your legs was maddening—clenching around nothing, slick and aching. You squeezed your thighs together, chasing any friction, any relief, but it only made it worse. You were staring. Shameless, flushed, mouth slightly open like a idiot. All you wanted was to drop to your knees. To gag on him. To let him use your throat until tears streamed down your face and your jaw ached from the stretch.
But you couldn’t. Not when was Amir holding you still from behind. Fingers digging in like a warning, breath warm at your neck like he knew exactly what you were thinking.
“Mon Dieu, look at you. You like this, hein?” Jean Loo chuckles darkly, still pumping himself in slow, indulgent strokes. ”Watching Jean Loo touch himself… is that what gets you off?” He leans back on one arm, cock twitching in his grip, eyes fixed on the way your body jerks at nothing but his voice “You’ll come just by watching Jean Loo, won’t you?”
And the worst part? You might.
It’s filthy, and you know it. If anyone walked in right now, if anyone heard even a whisper from this bathroom, you’d be ruined. The small space is thick with stifling heat, sweat clinging to your skin, the mirror fogged over like the air itself is trying to hide what you’re about to lose control over. You’re still way too dressed, too in control, but your body? Fuck it. It’s betraying you, shaking with a desperate hunger you can’t choke down.
Amir’s teeth dig into your shoulder, sharp and claiming, and your hand shoots back, fingers clawing at the fabric of his shirt like it’s the only thing holding you upright. You want to push away, to pull yourself back from the edge, but you can’t. Every nerve fires at once, every inch of you aching and shamed.
In front of you, Jean Loo’s lost in his own filthy bliss. Pants hitched around his ankles, fingers slow and cruel, eyes barely open like he’s chasing some private madness. You’re watching him, even though you shouldn’t, even though your heart’s pounding like a scream inside your chest. You’re caught between humiliation and want, a mess of aching thighs and clenched fists, and the cruel truth is you’d sell your soul for just one touch.
If anyone saw you now, you wouldn’t have a word to explain how much you’ve already lost.
Amir’s hands clamp around your waist, pulling you tight so you can feel the hard line of him pressing into your back. His voice is low, razor-sharp.
“Spit on it,” he commands. “Show us just how good you can be.”
Your heart hammers in your chest, but your body moves before your mind can catch up. You hesitate, a flicker of shame flashing through your thoughts, but it’s like you’re watching yourself from somewhere else, detached, obeying without choice. You bend slowly, breath hitching, hovering just above Jean Loo’s aching cock. Your tongue flicks nervously at your lips, tasting salt and nerves, before a thick, warm bead of spit slips free, slick and slow, gliding over the swollen shaft. It trickles down, mixing with the slick sheen already there, betraying you with every drop.
Amir chuckles, low and dark, right by your ear. “Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with amusement and something sharper. “So eager, so quick to obey.”
Behind you, Amir presses closer, his body practically trembling with need. That hard, swollen bulge in his trousers grinds sharply against your ass, demanding friction, begging for relief. His hips jerk forward in ragged, desperate bursts. Not gentle, not patient, but raw and hungry, like he’s fighting to hold himself together. The growl deep in his throat is almost animalistic, a raw sound that rattles your bones and makes your skin crawl with heat.
“You think you’re in charge, huh? The big bad Jean Loo?” Amir sneers at Jean Loo, voice low and venomous. “You’re nothing but a fucking joke.”
For a flicker of a moment, Jean Loo’s eyes soften, a crack in the armour, but instead of the usual snapping back, he leans in toward you. Your hand moves on its own, fingers threading through his damp hair, soothing, gentle against the slick heat of his skin.
His breath hitches, ragged and wet, mixing with the desperate, sloppy sounds that fill the tight bathroom. Wet smacks, low moans, the slick slide of skin against skin. Jean Loo trembles, his body twitching with every slow, deliberate stroke, each movement begging for release yet denied.
But Amir doesn’t relent. His voice is a cruel whisper, a knife slicing through the haze.
“You are disgusting.”
Jean Loo shudders at the words, but there’s a twisted fire in his gaze. Dirty hunger wrapped in shame, tangled tight and raw. Your fingers tighten in his hair, steadying him even as he loses himself. He picks up the pace, harder, faster. Wet, desperate noises spill out with each stroke, urgency building until it’s almost unbearable. Every sound, every shudder, a twisted symphony of need and control playing out beneath Amir’s cold, mocking gaze.
Jean Loo trembles against you. He is close now. So fucking close. You can feel every ripple through his body pressed tight to yours. His breath is ragged, desperate, barely held back. You lean down, lips brushing the damp strands at his temple. You murmur sweet nonsense — soft praise, filthy encouragement — telling him how good he is, how pretty he is in your arms.
His body twitches, and instinctively, he turns his head, lips parting with a desperate, silent plea. Hungry for a kiss he won’t get. His eyes search yours, raw and needy, but you pull away before anything can touch.
Just as he’s about to break, to fall over the edge, Amir’s hand slams against his chest, pushing him hard away from you.
Amir’s mouth crashes onto yours with brutal urgency. It’s sloppy, and you can taste the alcohol on his tongue as your lips part without hesitation, a moan slipping free as you lose yourself completely in the searing heat of it. Tongues collide and tangle, breath mingling, messy and desperate. You grind against him, the hard press of his knee sliding firmly between your legs. Your hips roll, dragging every ragged breath from your throat, every gasp soaked with want. His knee presses harder, perfectly placed to drive you wild, and you lean into it.
Every slick, bruising press of your cunt against his thigh sends jolts through your body, and you can’t stop the ragged, trembling moans slipping from your lips. Your hands clutch at Amir’s shirt, gripping and digging in like a lifeline, and you feel so utterly lost in that grinding, like his thigh is the only thing keeping you tethered to the world. You want to be filled — fucked — hard and deep, but for now, all you can do is ride that fucking thigh, helpless and desperate, a mess of raw need and craving, humping like your life depends on it.
Jean Loo stands frozen, eyes wide and burning as he watches you lose yourself on Amir. His hand, once desperate and demanding, now hangs limp at his side — forgotten, useless. He’s forced to stay still, to only watch as you ride Amir’s knee, your body grinding slow and needy against him. Every ragged breath you moan into Amir’s mouth slices through the thick bathroom air, and Jean Loo’s chest tightens with a mix of frustration and something darker. Envy, lust, humiliation. Jean Loo’s lips part, almost begging, but no words come. Just a shudder when he locks eyes with Amir. The cruel curve of Amir’s smile as his gaze meets Jean Loo’s is a wordless command: watch. You get nothing but this.
The kiss breaks, messy, spit-slick, and your eyes flutter open, unfocused but gleaming. Your hand reaches out without even turning fully to Jean Loo, like it’s instinct, like he’s nothing more than an afterthought. You wrap your fingers around the shaft you’ve denied him all night, lazily, like a bored mercy.
The noise he makes when your fingers wrap around him properly, bare and wanting, is something desperate and utterly fucked. He jolts like he’s being held under, all his bravado flushed out through his skin, hot and pink and begging. You stroke him with slow, lazy cruelty, not enough, never enough, your palm barely moving, just dragging along the underside as if you’re testing how much he can take before he breaks completely.
Behind you, Amir chuckles, indulgent like he’s letting you play with your favourite toy while he watches over your shoulder.
“Go on, my love” he murmurs, smug and slow, eyes still locked on Jean Loo. “He is yours to play with.”
You had craved this, God, how you’d craved it, tried to choke it down, tie it in ribbons, call it something cleaner, something that didn’t make your thighs press together in the dark, but sin was always there, whispering beneath your skin like a filthy secret. And now, with Amir’s breath curling at your neck, his voice in your ear sweet as sin itself, you let it rise. You didn’t fight it. You fed it. Let yourself be pulled into it, dragged under, led by the hand into something obscene. And it was good. It was so fucking good.
Jean Loo’s breath hitched, a sound so indecent it felt like a prayer turned inside out, and you drank it in, slow and greedy. Every twitch beneath your fingers, every stifled grunt, every broken sound he made filled you like communion wine gone sour. Sin wasn’t just a choice. It was a hunger, a hunger alive and burning inside you. And oh, how delicious it was to feed finally.
“Oh merde… c’est trop… j’peux plus…”
Jean Loo can’t decide if he wants to pull away or rut into your hand like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. His head drops forward, forehead pressed to your shoulder, his whole body twitching in rhythm with your touch. You stroke him slow. Cruel. Just enough friction to keep him spiralling, not enough to let him fall. Not yet.
The air between you thickens, heavy with something unspoken. Something darker than desire, sharper than lust. It coils around your ribs, a whispered promise of ruin dressed in silk and shadow. You can feel it pressing against your skin, the devil’s breath trailing along your collarbone, the soft weight of sin settling like a second skin you never asked for but can’t escape. Every nerve hums, alive with the taste of forbidden things, a slow burn that licks at your thoughts and steals your breath.
Amir’s hand slides up the back of your neck, tipping your chin so you’re forced to look at him, and only him. His thumb brushes your jaw. Gentle. Possessive.
“You spoil him, azizam” Amir murmurs. “He hasn’t earned this.”
You don’t even look at Jean Loo as you touch him, just fingers curling around his cock like it’s nothing. Your grip is loose, half-hearted, slow enough to drive him mad. He gasps, bucking into your palm, chasing it like a starving dog, but you don’t give him more. You just laugh under your breath, distracted. Because Amir’s is kissing your shoulder, your neck, his hands sliding down your body like you’re something precious. Jean Loo whines, actually whines, and Amir only smiles against your skin, brushing your hair back like he’s so proud of you. Like you’re doing him a favour by jerking Jean off this slow.
“P—putain—Jean Loo… Jean Loo tient plus…”
Amir presses a kiss just behind your ear. One hand rests over yours, loosely guiding the rhythm, not to help Jean, but just to stay close to you. Like it’s about you. Like Jean’s nothing but a toy to keep your hand warm.
His fingers curl in your hair. “Do it harder” Amir whispers. “Make him beg.”
You obey.
Jean Loo moaned. A ruined sound, wrecked and unguarded. His hips stutter helplessly forward, chasing your grip like it hurts to be touched and hurts more not to be. His thighs are shaking. His knees damn near buckle. He’s half-fucking your fist now, mouth open, moaning like something feral, humiliated and starved all at once. His hand flies out, grabbing your wrist. Maybe to stop you, maybe to keep you from ever stopping.
“You’re going to—Jean Lo is gonna—”
“Do you want to let him finish?” Amir asks, like he’s asking if you want dessert.
Your hand stills just enough to leave Jean Loo dangling, trembling on the edge. You laugh softly, a wicked little sound, and lean in close. Not to whisper in his ear. Not to soothe. You sink your teeth gently into the crook of his neck, and he yelps. His whole body jolts, a full-body tremor like you’ve just pulled a trigger he didn’t know he had.
You didn’t mean to leave a mark. Truly. But then he moans, this broken, breathless sound, and you can’t help it. You suck harder, lips bruising his throat, tongue dragging slow over the flushed skin. His hands fly to your back like he doesn’t know whether to pull you closer or shove you away, and it only makes you smile against him.
That’s his weak spot. You feel it. Hear it. Every time your teeth graze that spot again, he whines, crumbles, melts in your arms like wax too close to the flame.
Jean Loo’s breath hitched, his lips parting in a curse you couldn’t quite catch, something sharp and French that rolled off his tongue like fire. His eyes flicked between Amir and you, a wild mix of defiance and desperate need burning in their depths.
“Oh, look at you,” Amir sneered, though it wasn’t anger behind it, not really. It was delight, delicious and cruel, laced with something sickly fond as his hand rose to Jean Loo’s throat. His grip was firm, teasing, fingers pressing just hard enough to make Jean suck in a shaky breath, his lashes fluttering like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to cry or come. “You like this, don’t you? Pathetic.” A slap to his cheek, not hard, more a taunt than a punishment. Jean Loo whimpered, body jerking under the attention, grinding into your palm, chasing your touch like he is starving.
“Putain—merde—” The curse burst from him, half-growl, half-plea, as he arched into your hand again. His voice cracked open like something feral, something tamed only by the collar of Amir’s fingers at his throat.
You leaned in, lips skimming the curve of his jaw, teeth grazing just beneath his ear where his pulse pounded and Jean Loo shuddered. Not bitten. Just the threat of it. Amir watched you, eyes flicking between the mirror and the mess of Jean trembling infront of you.
“You feel that?” he murmured against your ear. “How much he loves it. How much he loves—.” His thumb stroked slow, calculated circles on Jean’s throat, and he laughed, revealing a little too much. “You love being touched by them, don’t you?” he cooed to Jean Loo, voice thick with disdain and something else, admiration, maybe, cloaked in cruelty.
Jean Loo only nodded, dizzy in the haze of it all. And Amir reluctantly let him go.
Poor Jean Loo.
Poor Jean Loo indeed.
Poor, lucky, utterly ruined Jean Loo.
Jean Loo looked at you like he’s waiting for something, like he’s waited for too long already. His mouth parted, breath catching, and when you leaned in, he didn’t dare move. His eyes flicked to your lips. You hover there for a second. Close enough to feel the tremble in his breath. Your nose brushes his. Your mouth ghosts over his… just barely not touching. Behind you, Amir holds you closer. You feel his palm settle low on your back. Warm, grounding, and a little too steady. Like he’s letting you know he’s there, that this is a shared game.
For a second, you think you might kiss Jean Loo. You think he thinks so, too. He tilts his head just slightly, expectant, open, like something inside him is cracking along a fault line he never meant to show. You feel Amir's fingers curl at your side, not gripping, not pulling, just present. There. Like permission. Or pressure.
But instead, you whisper, soft as a secret:
“Open”
A hitch caught in his throat, a breath held just a heartbeat too long. His lips parted again, slow, willing, aching with a quiet need. You tilted your head, the world narrowing to the warmth between you. Tenderly, you let your saliva mingle with his, like the slow release of water through a valve, smooth but inevitable. He swallowed it down, taking in every drop like a drain accepting the filth it was meant to handle. His throat pulsed, a pump working overtime, desperate and obedient, his body the vessel made to swallow and purge, craving the mess you offered. His eyes fluttered closed, surrendering like a valve loosening its grip, letting the flow take over.
“Fuck” Amir swears like it’s a compliment. Like he is proud.
Maybe later, you think, you finally press your lips to Jean Loo’s.
Maybe later you turn and claim Amir again instead.
Or, maybe… you make them fight for you, let them kiss while you watch.
Yes, in your fantasy, it would be brutal and desperate. Their mouths would crash together, teeth scraping and tongues clashing like a fight for survival. Jean Loo would grip Amir’s hair, yanking him close, forcing his mouth open wide, and Amir wouldn’t resist; he would let him, just long enough to bite down hard, tasting blood. No softness, no mercy. Just pure, hungry violence. You would be watching, fingers slick and restless, barely holding yourself back, eyes locked on every savage touch and gasp. They would be tearing each other apart, raw and ragged, and you’re the fuel in their fire. “Don’t stop on my account” you’d murmur, voice low and thick with promise. “I’ll let the loser watch”
It would be dirty. Shamelessly disgusting. The kind of filthy that would make Puritans clutch their pearls and your conscience squirm. But pleasure? That’s never guilty. No, dear reader, pleasure isn’t guilty. It’s what we all chase: some sweet sin, some messy bliss, in whatever form it takes when the lights go down and the rules don’t matter.
Want it however you like. Sloppy, strange, shameful. It still isn’t wrong. Pleasure is what makes life worth living — the thing that keeps your blood pumping when everything else feels dull. It’s the quick drag of a smoke, the sharp bite of whiskey, the quiet sound of a lover’s moan in the dark. It’s raw. It’s messy. It’s beautifully honest. Pleasure is what makes you feel alive. Not just existing, but alive. And that? That’s always worth chasing, because pleasure is never guilty.
But just as you’re about to let it all spill over—
“Oi! Cut the crap in there, yeah?” Dorian’s voice, sharp as shattered glass on tile, cut through the bathroom door. ” I don’t want any funny business behind this door. You think I’m here to babysit? Knock it the fuck off. Now.”
A low, wet chuckle escaped Jean Loo, lazy and knowing. You yanked your hands away like you’d touched a live wire, the scent of sweat, cheap vanilla air freshener, and something far less polite lingering in the cracked bathroom tiles. His hair was tousled, wild, and a dark bruise was already blooming on his neck. He wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand and pulled his pants up. Still, the desperate hardness pressing against the fabric was painfully obvious.
Then, just like that, he acted like nothing had happened—as if the heat crackling between you hadn’t scorched the air. He leaned in. Close. Closer. Not quite close enough. His lips barely brushed yours, no kiss, just a teasing ghost of one—yet somehow they belonged there. His breath flickered over your lips, and even after he pulled away, you could still feel the burn long after.
“Dorian,” he murmured, like he was tasting the name and finding it bland. “Always wit’ the cockblock, hein?” A beat. Then lower, filthier, lips barely grazing as if he hadn’t been trembling seconds ago, “Smile, ma chérie. It’s a fuckin’ party.”
And then—Jean Loo Pissoir was gone. He spun on his heel with a grin that belonged on a wanted poster, flicked the lock open with an elegant click, and swung the door wide. Dorian’s tired eyes caught the hickey on Jean Loo’s neck and the blatant tent in his pants. He sighed, rubbed the back of his neck like he’d just aged ten years in a single breath, and muttered under his breath, “Jesus, you lot…” as he watched Jean Loo leave, laughter trailing behind him like cologne
Amir’s hands were gone before you even noticed, like they’d never been there at all. He pressed a quick, quiet kiss to your forehead. Punctuation on a thought he’d never speak aloud. As he stepped back, Amir’s fingers grazed the front of his trousers, subtly adjusting the stubborn bulge pressing hard against the fabric. Then he was gone too, brushing past Dorian with a muttered, “Didn’t mean to take long.”
Dorian stood in the doorway, unmoving. Arms folded, like he’d stumbled onto a crime scene but wasn’t volunteering for cleanup duty. His gaze swept the room—the fogged mirror, the open bottle on the sink, your flushed cheeks, swollen lips—before settling back on you.
“It’s not…” You laughed, a little breathless, voice cracking just enough to give you away. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“Oh, right. It’s not what it looks like?” Dorian stared, blinking slowly. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks exactly like what it looks like.” You opened your mouth, pointless, he was already shaking his head. “Right. No. Of course. You didn’t shag the toilet. In the toilet.”
You let out a quiet laugh, short and breathy, and looked away. You couldn’t exactly meet Dorian’s eyes, not with the state of you. Your gaze drifted to the open doorway, trailing after where both Jean Loo and Amir had slipped off to.
“I didn’t” you said, leaning in toward Dorian. Your fingers tapped lightly against his chest in a half-hearted sort of slap as you brushed past him, close enough to make it personal, intentional. Then, just before you slipped through the doorframe, you leaned back in “Not yet, that is.”
He let out the deepest, most exhausted exhale you’d ever heard, like someone who’d just been told the pub was out of Guinness and the train strike had been extended indefinitely. His eyes briefly closed in a kind of private prayer to whatever higher power might grant him peace. Then you were gone, leaving the bathroom, and Dorian, behind, stuck standing in the doorway with the expression of a man, or well, a door, who’d witnessed far too much. Again.
“You having fun tonight, Dorian?” Skyler asked as she walked passed him, way too chirpy for his mood.
Dorian let out a long, tired sigh. “No.”
Pleasure and sin, dear reader, now that’s an old story, told too many times to count. The pleasure of giving in to your deepest wants, your quietest urges, no matter how sinful they might seem. There’s a certain freedom in pleasure, a kind of liberation that comes from choosing desire over denial.
And Jean Loo Pissoir? He was no stranger to any of it. Sinning. Pleasure. He welcomed both, arms open, mouth parted, like they were old friends he never stopped craving… and he liked to share them with you, if you’d let him. If you’d have him. But feelings? Feelings were different. Tenderness was where his confidence faltered. Wanting was easy. Wanting didn’t ask anything of you. But letting yourself be seen, be held, be changed. Letting pleasure bleed into care, into meaning…
That scared him.
You scared him.
Not because he was afraid of you, no. But because, for the first time, he thought he might want more.
This isn’t a love story, or at least, not just love. Love lingers near pleasure, and even closer to sin. This is about all of it: want, shame, ecstasy, tenderness. The raw, filthy, beautiful things that make life worth living, not just surviving.
And yes, this is also about a toilet.