CEO Of Being Thirsty For 2D Men

“i didn’t realize you were into amateur adult films, sweetie.” he drawls nonchalantly, like his cock isn’t aching for your touch. but you can sense an edge that isn’t typically there. 

you stammer on an excuse, feeling your face burn in mortification at having been caught retweeting porn on your alt account. “i—it’s… well, i-it’s not what it looks like.”

“yeah? because it looks like you want to use me… just like this.” he stalks towards you and waves the phone in your face, a small smile pulling at his lips. “is that true? you want to tie me to a chair, blindfold me and have your way with me?”

you pull your lip between your teeth, gnawing at the flesh anxiously. you avert your eyes, staring at your sock clad feet before you feel his fingers tip your chin up and force you to look him in the eye. 

“c’mon, sweetheart. you’ll tell me, won’t you?” he murmurs, thumb pulling your bottom lip from your teeth. 

“yes,” you respond, throat dry and voice wavering in lack of confidence. “i want to have my way with you.”

he gives you a wolfish grin and all he says is, “okay then.”

—

you never thought you’d see sylus like this. in a chair with rope wrapped around his torso and one of his silk ties covering his eyes. there’s a permanent smirk plastered on his face and it makes you buzz with excitement. 

“don’t make me wait for so long, kitten.” he drawls, his cock bobbing up and down in dire need of attention. 

you grab his neck, tipping his face up and pressing your lips against his for a sloppy kiss. you push your tongue into his mouth, savoring the deep groan that rumbles in his throat. the kiss doesn’t last long—you pull away just as he starts to get needy, watching how he chases your lips with a growl.

your hand trails down his chest, squeezing at his peck before turning around, back facing him, and grabbing his cock. a small gasp of surprise fills the room right before it’s replaced with the sound of your paired moans as you sink onto his cock. 

“shit,” he curses, the word coming out breathless. his hands itch to grab you and they could if he really wanted to. he could break free from the lousy restraints, but he knows how much you want this and he wouldn’t dare rob you of this experience. 

and you take him like you were made from it, bouncing on his cock, your ass clapping with every thrust. you whine for him, testing his patience. “does it feel good, sy?”

another deep growl fills your ears and shoots straight to your core. “you know it does, sweetheart. what about you, hmm? does, hah fuck, does using my cock like this satisfy you?”

you choke out a sob, sitting on him completely and grinding your hips against him with vigor. “mmhm, you’re such a good boy, baby,” you moan out, feeling his cock throb at the praise. “b-but you know what would make me feel even better?” you ask, voice cracking. 

he tries to thrust into you, but you don’t give him a chance. he’s stuck in this chair with you on top of him so all he can do is pant out a strained, “what?”

“if you—mmm, if you came inside of me,” you whimper. “fuck, sy, please? please fill me up with your cum. want you to shoot it so deep inside of me, please please please?”

your pleas are so desperate, almost as if you aren’t already taking everything you want. as if you aren’t already making his cock twitch and his stomach tighten. as if you aren’t already milking him dry while he lets out a drawn out groan. 

a happy moan rips from your throat when you feel his cum spray inside you, filling you so deep just how you wanted. you let him empty himself, waiting till every drop of cum is spilled into you before pulling off his cock, grabbing a fistfull of his hair and bringing his face to your messy, filled cunt. 

his surprised moan is muffled by your pussy. you figured he’d rip through the rope and push you away, but he happily laps and sucks at your hole, licking up every bit of your mixed arousal that leaks out of you. 

you whine, heat flooding your body as you grind your ass against his face. “y-yeah, eat your cum out of me, just like that, sy,” 

“dirty girl,” he murmurs against your cunt before devouring you whole, the sounds of smacking and slurping and groaning resuming. 

your knees nearly give out, the only thing holding you up is the death grip you have on his silver locks. you jolt and tremble before him and he doesn’t need to see to know you’re close. 

all it takes is a raspy, “cum on my face, sweet girl,” for you to completely unravel, legs shaking uncontrollably as you paint his face in syrupy arousal. you’re reduced to whines and whimpers of his name and sylus just wishes he could see you. 

and his wish is granted mere seconds later when you’re weakly tugging the blindfold off of him, taking his gleaming face in your hand and pressing your lips to his to taste the two of you on him. 

he groans, passing the release into your mouth while pulling on the restraints in a need to grab you. 

“you did so well for me, sy.”

“mmm, thank you, sweetie. and,” his voice drops to a whisper. “next time you want to recreate something… just tell me.”

ᯓ 黎深 ⟢ ZAYNE ˖᯽ ݁˖ — meanie!bf makes you ask for permission to cum #spanking

zayne never uses social media. especially not twitter. but you convinced him to download it so you could send him funny tweets and cute cat videos. he shook his head and downloaded the app just to get you to shut up, but he never actually opened it. 

one rare and quiet day, with nothing on his schedule and you stuck at work, curiosity finally got the better of him. he made an account on a whim, and that’s when he saw it: suggested accounts. yours, right at the top, labeled as someone he “may know.” a small, fond smile curved his lips as he tapped on your profile, warmth blooming in his chest at the sight of your cute icon staring back at him.

but that smile fell just as quick as it came when he scrolled a bit too far and found a quote retweet captioned, “does anyone wish their bf would do this to them too??? :((( being spanked then doted on… sigh.” 

he watched the video with a dry throat and widened eyes. the first thought that came to mind was that you posted this on your public profile—but then he noticed you only had 15 followers. still, he’ll have to remind you of your digital footprint. 

once the initial shock wore off… he watched the video again. is this what you wanted? to be ruthlessly fucked from the back and spanked… by him?

zayne closes the app, clears his throat and throws his head back against the couch he’s sitting on. he pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a shaky exhale. 

if that’s what you want… then that’s what you’ll get. 

—

he waits patiently for you to trudge past the door, trying to keep himself busy with god knows what till he hears it. the sound of your keychains rattling and the click of the door as you unlock it and walk in. 

“hi, zaynie,” you breathe, skipping towards him and pressing a wet kiss to his cheek. one whiff of you and all he can think about is doing all the naughty things you’ve been secretly wanting. his cock aches. his blood thrums. he needs it now. 

“are you okay?” you pull back, concerned by his silence and even more deterred when you see his hardened face. 

when he speaks, it’s low and stern. a voice you’ve only heard a handful of times. “bedroom. now, please.”

you let out a confused chuckle. “what for?”

when he raises an eyebrow at you, you cower, nodding your head and scurrying to the bedroom like he asked. 

it’s nothing like what you expected. you didn’t expect zayne to walk in and strip you bare without a word, didn’t expect him to bend you over the bed and press himself into your tight, waiting warmth. and you definitely didn’t expect his hand to come down hard on your ass—the sharp, thunderous crack filling the room, followed instantly by your startled squeak.

“this is what you wanted, is it not?” he pants, fucking into you with vigor melting at the sound of your sweet, surprised moans. “this is what you were talking about on your twitter, right?” 

your voice comes watery, confused. “wh-what?” you ask, hands fisting at the sheets, your body jolting with every sharp, rough thrust. 

his hand comes down, your other cheek meeting the same fate and it has another desperate moan crawling out of you. “you wanted to, what was it? get spanked and doted on, huh?” 

and then it hits you suddenly—vividly. you remember the video. it was a faceless man taking a faceless girl from behind, ruthless, almost cruel in the way he fucked her. you remember the sharp smack of his hand against her skin, how badly you’d wished it were you and zayne instead. but what turned you on the most—what lodged itself deep inside your core—was the contrast of it all. the way the stranger’s rough, unyielding actions clashed with the softness of his words. the concept of being fucked like a slut while being praised like a good girl. it made you spin. 

it only made you think of zayne. zayne and his large, calloused hands. zayne and his sweet voice. zayne and his cock that stretched and fucked you so good that it makes you cry. 

and you’d be lying if you said the thought of him realizing this… realizing it’s what you’d wanted all along… didn’t make heat pool low in your stomach all over again.

you clench tightly around him, turning your heated face into the pillow that smelled just like him. this only makes him laugh, humorlessly. 

“yeah, you’re remembering now, aren’t you, my darling girl?” his throaty voice only turns you on further. you arch your back and wiggle your ass as an invitation. an invitation for him to give you more. to go hard. “that’s it. good girl.”

you shudder at the praise. “f-fuck,” the curse is whimpered against the silk fabric of his pillow. “fuck, zayne, it’s s-so—god! so deep. feels so good!” you feel him everywhere, but especially in your tightening stomach. you’re already at the precipice of an orgasm and it only makes zayne want to fuck you right to the finish line. 

zayne hums, spanking you again just to hear a giggly moan and it makes his heart want to beat out of his chest. “you’re so precious,” he whispers before his hand laces in your hair and pulls your face away from the pillow. “did you want me to find that tweet, sweetheart? so i could spank you and pull at your hair? so i could fuck you stupid on my cock?”

you don’t bother hiding it. you wanted this more than anything. you craved this more than anything. “yes, yes, yes! please!” 

“gooood girl,” he murmurs softly. it’s a perfect contradiction to the way his cock drives into you, the tip just barely brushing your cervix. it’s too much. you’re wound tight as hell, a dam on the brink of bursting, and zayne feels it instantly.

“you wanna cum?”

you can barely form the words, desperation breaking your voice as you beg, “can i…? please?”

“yes, baby. cum for me,” he grunts, fist tightening in your hair, pulling you into a deeper arch. “come on. cum all over me.”

you shatter almost instantly. your body trembles as you come apart on his cock, a needy, broken moan slipping free while the tight knot in your stomach unravels and you soak him completely.

he doesn’t stop—he only fucks you through it, steady and relentless, before pressing a gentle kiss to your spine. 

“you did so well,” you feel his lips curve into a smile as he murmurs against your slick, overheated skin, “he but we’re not done yet.”

ᯓ 夏以昼 ⟢ CALEB ˖᯽ ݁˖ — bf lets you sit on his pretty face #facesitting 

it was no secret that caleb kept tabs on you. he was very open about it—he has all your post notifications on, he knows where you are at all times, and he always knows what you’re up to. it didn’t bother you in the slightest, he’s always been protective of you—watching over you like it was his life’s purpose. 

but there’s one secret that you keep from caleb. and it’s nothing major, truly! it’s just… an alt twitter account you use to retweet your soft porn. while there’s no reason to keep this from your boyfriend, you don’t have the heart to show it to him. it’s the home of all your fantasies, more than anything, it’s embarrassing. 

even so, the last thing you want is for caleb to know. you’ve done everything in your power to keep this secret. you used an obscure email to create the account, a password with a series of random numbers and letters that he’d never be able to guess and an alias. it was practically impossible for him to trace it back to you. 

one day, you were scrolling on said account, thighs pressed together as you came across a video of a girl sitting on a guy's face, tugging at his hair while she glided across his mouth and nose. all you could think about is caleb—how good it would feel to fuck his face like you were in heat.

it was something you thought about often. you’ve had caleb eat you out before, yes, but you’ve never asked to try this in fear that you’d either A. suffocate him or B. he’d be turned off. 

so you do what you always do, quote retweeting it with a caption that read: “wanna sit on my bf’s pretty face just like this :,(” 

you shut out the app and flop back onto your bed, trying—failing—to chase the thoughts of him away. especially the image of him stretched out against these very pillows and you hovering over him while your arousal drenches his face. you lose yourself in the fantasy, hands sliding down your body in need.

but then your phone starts to blow up—message after message lighting the screen, all from your boyfriend:

caleb ♥︎: baby, are you serious?

caleb ♥︎: is that really what you want? 

caleb ♥︎: you wanna sit on my face?

caleb ♥︎: forget it, I’ll be there in an hour. we’ll talk about this when I see you.

your breath hitches and brows knit in confusion—then it clicks. your tweet. maybe you should’ve been more careful before hitting send. maybe the app glitched. either way, when you open the app again, dread crashes over you as you confirm that you’ve posted it from the wrong account—the account where caleb has your notifications on. meaning he saw it immediately. 

you delete it in a panic, humiliated, praying none of your other mutuals caught it in time. there’s nothing you can say or do to stop caleb from coming over. so you stand, pace, draw in a shaky breath and wait. 

—

caleb lets himself in, shuts the door, and locks it behind him. the talk he mentioned in his text never comes. no greeting. no anger. instead, he strips down to his boxers and climbs into your bed like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

you’re frozen where you stand, lip caught between your teeth, thighs pressed tightly together. when he settles against the pillows, he lifts his gaze to you so calm that it almost scares. he looks at you expectantly.

“well?” he starts. “what are you waiting for? i’m here. you wanted to sit on your boyfriend’s pretty face, did you not?”

you exhale a sharp, nervous laugh, “c-caleb, we don’t have to…” you let shyness take over. “i’ll—i’ll suffocate you. it probably won’t feel good for you either…”

he scoffs incredulously. “come sit on my face before i make you. you do remember my evol, don’t you?”

you barely have time to process it before you feel weightless, a surprised yelp slipping out as he drags you toward him with nothing more than a flick of his hand.

you give in instantly, nodding as you stumble, “okay okay!”

he lets go and watches with hungry, unblinking eyes as you push your shorts and panties down, letting them pool at your feet. you climb onto the bed and crawl toward him slowly until you’re hovering just above his throat, suspended in the tension and your own personal fear.

“caleb, are you sure i won’t be too heavy?” you whisper. 

“i’m sure, baby.” he says reassuringly, his hands grabbing your hips and lifting you till your cunt is just inches away from his face. “come on, sit. lemme taste you.”

you let out a shaky breath and start to lower yourself before you can talk yourself out of it, but his arms hook beneath your thighs and force you all the way down, drawing a satisfied moan from him and a startled gasp from you. your hands fly to his hair, fingers threading through the silky strands as you cling to him, grounding yourself before your strength gives out entirely.

you bite your lip, desperate to keep your moans quiet, but the drag of his nose against your clit paired with the warm suction of his mouth has your resolve shattering. it feels even better than you ever imagined. and when his hands come up to palm at your breasts? his fingers tweaking your nipples? you’re a goner.

“fuck,” you whimper, fingers tugging at his roots hard enough to draw a pained groan from him, though it barely registers. all you can focus on is the way he devours you like he’s starving, the vibration of his moans coursing through your body and lighting your nerves on fire, the relentless grind against your swollen, sensitive clit.

“caleb,” you cry, breathlessly, “ah! feels so good.”

“keep fuckin’ my face, pretty girl,” he moans, the words muffling into your cunt. “wanna taste you cummin’ all over me. you can do it.”

he pulls you onto him harder. like he wants to run out of oxygen. 

and you obey—even if you wanted to stop, you couldn’t. not when you’re this close—not when caleb wants this just as bad as you do. you hump his face desperately, like a woman depraved, chasing your orgasm. you let your moans out freely, high pitched and needy, letting them join the sounds of slurping and smacking.

your body trembles violently, fingers fisting in caleb’s hair as you shatter, a mix of arousal and slick cum painting his face while you squeal his name like a broken record. “caleb, caleb, caleb—” his name is all that exists—all you can cling to at the moment.

he groans into you, relentless, licking and sucking every last trace, his hips lifting off the bed with desperate urgency. his cock throbs in his boxers, twitching with need for a taste of your cunt. 

a sob tears from your chest when he doesn’t slow. “w-wait!” you gasp, legs shaking, body on the verge of giving out. “i’m s-sensitive, ca-caleb!”

“no, baby, please,” he whimpers, raw and earnest. “please let me keep going. you don’t know how bad i’ve wanted this.”

“w-what?” you breathe, dazed.

“for so long, pips,” he admits softly. “just sit there… let me do all the work. please?”

ᯓ 祁煜 ⟢ RAFAYEL ˖᯽ ݁˖ — crazy bf fucks you while you pretend to be asleep #somno

despite his bubbly, sassy exterior, rafayel carried his demons quietly. the kind that kept him watching you—both in real life and through the glow of a screen. the thought of losing you makes something dark twist in his chest. you’re his cutie, his heart, his muse, his entire world wrapped into one person.

he knows it’s wrong to have all your passwords. knows it crosses a line. so he tells himself he’s careful—only checks when he has to, when the ache gets too loud to ignore.

it’s been a while since he last logged into your account, but it’s also been days since he’s seen you. that has to count for something, right? just a quick look. just to scroll through what you’ve seen, what you’ve liked. just enough to feel close to you again.

a smile touches his lips when he sees all the silly tweets you’ve liked. 

but then he sees it. a tweet that looks so out of place in the midst of cute cat videos and senseless jokes. a tweet that reads “gf who pretends to be asleep x bf who was gonna fuck her either way,” along with a video of just that. the smile falls immediately, his lips pressing into a thin line while his brows furrow. 

his darkened gaze catches on the yellow bookmark, curiosity winning out before he can stop himself. the moment he opens your bookmarks aka the little trove of soft porn, his cock hardens. it’s all amateur and intimate, but worse, there’s a pattern. a theme. every two minute video was a girl getting fucked while she slept. fucked. bred. all while she laid pliant, eyes closed. 

rafayel’s eyes drag over the captions again and again, each one making his thoughts spin faster. he loses track of time, an entire hour slipping by as he clicks through every video, cock aching and heart racing, torn between guilt and the thrill curling tight in his chest.

he pictured you like that—lying awake at night, thoughts circling him…his cock… until you finally drifted asleep. he imagined the wetness that pooled in your panties when you drifted off, the way desire followed you even into your dreams. it made something deep in him ache.

how long had you wanted this? with the sheer number of tweets tucked away in your bookmarks, he can’t help but think this fantasy has lived with you for a long time now, growing quietly… patiently.

but why not make your fantasy a reality?

—

rafayel asked you to spend the night, and of course you said yes please. you’d been missing your boyfriend like crazy, and with work constantly getting in the way, time together had become frustratingly scarce.

when you arrived, he’d planned something sweet—movies, cuddling, takeout you both loved. an innocent night in. except you wanted more. every subtle advance you made was met with a gentle deflection. he ignored them all, letting the tension build until you were needy with it. you were wound tight, and he still refused to touch you the way you ached for.

by the end of the night, you felt coiled and restless, yet too perverted to voice what you wanted aloud, especially after being brushed off. so you climbed into his bed with a sulky “goodnight,” a pout tugging at your lips, and tried to will yourself to sleep.

it didn’t come easily. all you could think about was him. your eyes squeezed shut, brows knitting together as the ache lingered, basically impossible to ignore. you were wet beyond belief. and only after you felt slumber slowly pulling at you, you felt your boyfriend press against you.

you felt his hard cock through his pants as he slowly, subtly rocked himself against you with barely steady breaths. your heart raced, holding in the little gasp that’s threatening to spill out of you.

“i saw all the videos you’ve been watching on twitter, princess,” he whispers, rutting against you a little harder, the words hitting just as deep as the motion. “all those videos of girls getting fucked while they sleep… is that what you want?”

both your heart and your thoughts stutter at once. for a split second you think you’re dreaming—but you can feel him, and you can differentiate fantasy and reality. the truth finally settles in as his hand slides beneath your sleep shorts, drifting lower, touching you in a way that leaves no doubt at all. this is real. 

he hums when his fingers are immediately met with your slick arousal. “the idea of getting fucked while you’re unconciouis gets you this wet?”

you swallow the whimper trying to break free and let your deepest fantasy unfold. you force yourself to relax, to go pliant in the way you’ve always imagined this—but the moment rafayel circles your clit, your body betrays you, tensing on instinct.

“this slutty pussy wants me to fuck her, doesn’t she, baby? your body’s practically begging for me…” he groans into your ear, grinding deeper into you. “it would be so bad for me to fuck you while you sleep, though. i’d be such a bad boyfriend…”

you want to scream when he slows down. when he starts to retract his hand like it’s some bad idea. 

“i shouldn’t touch you while you’re trying to sleep.” he murmurs, a hint of amusement threading through his words. 

his hand nearly slips away from your shorts when a frayed plea falls from your lips. “please,” you whimper—and that’s really all the confirmation rafayel needs. he flips you onto your stomach and presses over you like a man starved.

your shorts are barely tugged down and his sweats are pushed just low enough for him to free himself. his hot, thick cock slaps against your bare skin and the contact makes you squeak. he pushes into you, filling you in one deep motion. gasps and moans spill from both of you in tandem, but he doesn’t give either of you time to settle. his hands grip your ass, fingers digging in as your flesh spills through the gaps all while he drives into you relentlessly.

“i knew you were pretending to sleep,” he grunts and it’s barely loud enough to be heard over the sounds of his skin slapping against yours.

you’re breathless when you manage to answer. “h-how?” the question breaks on a whine as his cock drives deeper with every hard thrust.

“i could hear how fast your heart was beating,” he chuckles darkly, never slowing, his pace mean. ruthless. “the way your breathing changed the second you felt me behind you.” his grip tightens as he leans in. “you were just waiting for me to take your clothes off and fuck you, weren’t you?”

you whimper, utterly exposed. “yes…”

“naughty, naughty girl.” he laughs. “should’ve told me you wanted to get fucked while you slept.”

you moan, clamping tightly around him and taking the painful stretch in stride. your back arches for more. like your body needs his cock or you’ll die. the knot in your stomach has been winding tighter all night, waiting for this exact moment, and you’re already embarrassingly close.

“no need to hold back,” he whispers. “soak my fucking cock like the slut you are.”

his sharp words tear a mewl from you, your walls clenching around his cock so tight it steals the breath from his lungs. you break as he drives into you without mercy. you fall apart around him with a beg, “please, please, please—” the word dissolving into a wrecked sob that fills the room.

“good girl,” he breathes. “now go back to sleep and let me have my fun, yeah?”

ᯓ 沈星回 ⟢ XAVIER ˖᯽ ݁˖ — dom!bf lets you edge him and begs you to cum #edging

tara is your best friend in the entire world. the kind of best friend who knows every corner of your life, including the private parts you don’t share with anyone else. especially when it comes to you and xavier.

at first, her curiosity overwhelmed you. her questions were invasive, relentless, sometimes overly embarrassing. but over time, you got used to it. more than that—you started to look forward to it. your weekly dates where you can rant about work at the association and the gory details of your relationship with xavier. 

telling tara everything became its own kind of thrill. the late night giggles when she’d come over, the hushed voices so he couldn’t hear anything while he lived in the apartment above you, the way she’d squeal or gasp at every insane detail. it felt good to have someone who wanted to hear it all.

you’d even told her about wanting to try something new with him—something you were pretty sure he’d never agree to. you wanted xavier to be the one begging you for once. he was always so dominant in bed that the idea of flipping the script… of him giving in and taking everything you had to offer, felt almost absurd… which was exactly why you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

you remember when you saw the video of your ideal fantasy on twitter. a video of a guy being dominated by a girl. she made him beg for permission while she rode him and all you could think about was him. how cute he’d be with his blushy cheeks and the yearning look in his eyes. how pretty he’d sound whimpering out pleas and begs to cum inside of you. it shook you to your core. you saved the video to your bookmarks immediately and came back to it from time to time just to fantasize. 

the night after you told tara about said fantasy, you decided to send her a visual, just so she knew exactly what you wanted. it’s not like you wanted to tie him up, you just wanted to watch him break underneath you. 

@/starringmc: this is exactly what i want to do to xavier!!! 

you hadn’t heard anything from tara for a while. you half expected her to open your dm immediately. she’s basically chronically online whenever she’s not on a mission or training, but there was nothing. 

a knock at your door pulls you from your scrolling, brows knitting as you get up to answer it. when you swing the door open, your breath catches. xavier stands there, cheeks flushed, posture oddly sheepish.

“xavier? come in.” you step aside automatically, shutting the door behind him before turning back, confusion etched across your face. “what are you doing here? did we have plans?” worry slips into your voice.

he doesn’t answer right away. instead, he lifts his phone and turns the screen toward you—the twitter dm meant for tara, unmistakable.

your throat runs dry. heat rushes through you, mortification blooming in your chest, your face, the tips of your ears.

“i-i can…” you start, words tangling as his gaze pins you in place. “i can explain?”

he cocks his head to the side and asks. “so you don’t want to do this to me?”

“no! i mean—y-yes, but i… i just didn’t mean… i didn’t mean to send that to you.” you splutter. “this is not how i envisioned telling you that i wanted to try something like this. i’m sorry.”

“let’s do it.” he says, tossing his phone on your couch. “let’s recreate it—i want to.”

—

xavier sensed you were nervous. it took you a minute to fully get into it—the headspace, the dominance, but you eventually got there and he believes it’s the sexiest you’ve ever been. 

you sat on his cock, slowly grinding against him like you were trying to tease him. your hands gripped at his pecs, palming and squeezing them in a way that made him breathless. 

it was a struggle… to let his guard down, to let you dominate him. his hands were on your hips and he urged you to move faster. he wanted you to bounce on his cock till he came, but you said no. 

“beg for it.” you whisper. “i won’t move the way you want me to unless you beg.” 

he whimpers, the beg slipping past his lips all mumbly and cute—just the way you imagined they would. “please. please, go faster. i want you to go faster.”

you hum, delighted, your walls hugging him nice and tight as his words shoot straight to your core. you kindly oblige, lifting your hips and dropping them to which xavier lets out a blissed out moan. his brows knit in the utmost pleasure and his eyes flutter close. 

his hands slide up to your waist, gripping you tight and holding you in place while his cock rams in and out of you. you let out little squeaks with every thrust and it only makes his cock throb intensely, loud whimpers following your sounds in suit.

he tries to hold back. to not get so close, but he can’t help it. you look so pretty riding him with your tits bouncing in his face and your pussy tightening around him like a vice. it makes him twitch frantically. 

and you can feel it. the way he jerks and shakes—you know he’s close. you find it oddly endearing…how he’s been reduced to this, but you bite back the smile and school your features into something firm instead. “don’t cum,” you warn quietly. “you can’t cum… not yet.”

his hands still you, keeping you grounded and speared on his length as he begs for permission. “fuck, please—please let me cum.” he pleads, voice broken. 

“no, not yet.” and the sound it pulls from him makes your chest ache—the choked, desperate sob torn from his throat at the denial, raw enough to make your heart constrict. “keep fucking me, xavie.”

he shakes his head incessantly, “i c-can’t, baby—fuck, i’ll–i’ll cum!”

“you can hold it.” you say, breathlessly, resuming your wicked motions. “be good ‘n fuck me faster.” 

he clenches his teeth, pounding into you just the way you want. his hips snap against you with vigor while his cock helplessly throbs. he wants nothing more than to press deep inside and spill his load into you. 

“i wanna cum, please, please, please. baby, please—i’ll do anything.”

you can’t resist him… his pretty face, his sweet voice. you offer a saccharine smile, lean in so your lips ghost over his and whisper. “cum inside of me, xavie.” 

a loud, relieved groan slips out of him, his hands grip on you bruising as he pounds into you before he stills. his tip kisses your cervix before he’s pouring his hot, long awaited release into your cunt. 

he crashes his mouth against yours, allowing you to swallow his moans as his arms wrap tight around you. he pulls you flush to his chest before he rolls you beneath him, hard cock still pressed inside of you. you squeal into the kiss, breathless and startled as the world tilts.

when he finally pulls back, you’re both breathless, foreheads pressed against one another. you catch the darkness in his eyes, the heat flushing his cheeks, the way restraint is barely holding.

“can i make you beg now?” he whispers, voice low. then, softer… much more vulnerable, “please?”

“It’s a Djinn, not a pack of werewolves,” you point out. “I can handle one Djinn.”

“You can handle one Djinn when you’re not walking into blind corners in a building with structural damage and fifteen different ways for something to drop on your head,” Xavier says. His voice is calm, measured. Reasonable. It makes you want to do something unreasonable just to spite him.

“I’ve been hunting for six years,” you remind him. “I know how to clear a room.”

“I’m aware.” He steps closer. He’s been up for almost thirty-six hours, same as you, but he still looks like he could walk into this abandoned building and clear it without breaking a sweat. It’s infuriating. “I’m also aware that you have a habit of prioritizing speed over caution.”

“I prioritize efficiency.”

“You prioritize proving you don’t need backup.”

The words land harder than you expect. You’ve had this argument before—different words, same problem. It started about eight months into your partnership, right after a hunt went sideways and you’d insisted on going back in alone to finish the job. He’d followed you anyway, and you’d both made it out alive, but the lecture afterward had lasted the entire drive back to the motel.

You’d told him then that you didn’t need a babysitter. He’d looked at you with those narrowed blue eyes and said, “I’m not babysitting. I’m making sure my partner doesn’t get killed doing something I could have helped with.”

It had sounded logical. Practical. It also sounded like he gave a damn whether you lived or died, and you hadn’t known what to do with that at the time.

You still don’t.

“Fine,” you sigh, turning back toward the main corridor. “We’ll stick together. But if this takes twice as long because you want to check every corner like we’re defusing a bomb—”

“Then it takes twice as long,” Xavier says. He’s right behind you now, close enough that you can hear the quiet exhale he makes. “I’d rather be thorough than fast.”

You bite down on the urge to argue, mostly because you know he’s right and you hate that you know he’s right. The Djinn could be anywhere in this place. Splitting up would be faster, but it would also be a great way to end up poisoned and hallucinating while your brain slowly liquefies.

Still, there’s a part of you that wants to push back just to see what happens. To see if you can crack that perfect composure, make him admit that this isn’t just about tactics and efficiency. That maybe, possibly, he’s worried about you specifically and not just the general concept of his hunting partner getting hurt.

But you don’t. Instead, you start walking, your boots echoing on the concrete, and try to ignore the fact that you’re hyperaware of exactly how close he is behind you. That you can feel the space between you like a physical thing, six inches of air that somehow feels more conscious than any touch.

“There’s a basement access down here,” you say, nodding toward a rusted metal door half-hidden behind a stack of broken pallets. “If I were a Djinn, that’s where I’d set up. Dark space, enclosed, easy to defend.”

“Agreed,” Xavier says. He moves past you to examine the door, testing the handle carefully before pulling it open. The hinges scream, and the smell that wafts up from below is somehow worse than the rest of the cannery—stale air and old blood and something chemical that burns your sinuses.

“Ladies first,” you say, gesturing toward the stairs.

Xavier gives you a look that might be amusement or might be exasperation. With him, it’s hard to tell. “I’ll go first. You cover”

“Because I’m so delicate and in need of protecting?”

“Because if something comes up those stairs, I’d rather be the one in its way.”

He says it like it’s obvious. Like of course he’d put himself between you and danger, like it’s not something that makes your chest feel too tight and your pulse kick up in a way that has nothing to do with the usual nerves of hunting.

You want to argue. You want to tell him that you don’t need him playing hero, that you can take care of yourself, that this whole protective thing he does is unnecessary and borderline patronizing.

Instead, you say, “Your funeral,” and follow him down into the dark.

The basement is a maze of industrial vats and rusted catwalks, the kind of space that was probably dangerous even when the cannery was operational. Now it’s a death trap—metal groaning overhead, pools of stagnant water reflecting your flashlight beam, pipes dripping condensation that could be water or could be something worse you don’t want to think about.

Xavier moves through it like he’s reading a map only he can see, his light sweeping methodically across each junction before he commits to a direction. You follow, trying not to think about how many places something could be hiding. How many shadows deep enough to conceal a body.

“We should split up here,” you say when you reach a fork in the path. The left corridor is narrow, barely wide enough for one person. The right opens into what looks like a larger processing area, vats rising like monuments in the dark. “You take the big room, I’ll clear the corridor.”

“No,” Xavier says.

“It’s faster—”

“It’s reckless.” He turns to look at you, and there’s an sharpness in his voice you don’t hear often. “We stay together.”

“Xavier—”

“That’s not a suggestion.”

You should listen to him. You know you should. Xavier’s been hunting longer than you have, and his instincts are good—better than good, if you’re being honest with yourself. But there’s a part of you that bristles at being told what to do, that wants to prove you don’t need constant supervision.

“Fine,” you say. “You take the big room. I’ll be right behind you.”

You wait until he’s three steps ahead, his attention on the vats, and then you turn left into the corridor.

It’s a stupid move. You know it’s a stupid move even as you’re making it. But you’ve cleared a hundred spaces like this, and you’re not about to start second-guessing yourself just because Xavier has a bad feeling.

The corridor is tight, your shoulders nearly brushing the walls on either side. Your flashlight catches on old machinery, pipes that snake along the ceiling, a door at the far end that’s hanging half off its hinges. You move carefully, knife in your free hand, every sense straining for movement.

You’re halfway down when you hear a wet, sliding sound above you, like something heavy is dragging itself across metal.

Your training kicks in before conscious thought does. You drop into a crouch, flashlight swinging up, and that’s when the Djinn drops from the ceiling.

It’s fast—faster than anything that size should be. You get a glimpse of blue-gray skin, glowing tattoos that pulse with sickly light, and then it’s on you. You roll left, the knife coming up in a defensive arc, and feel the blade catch flesh. The Djinn hisses, a sound like steam escaping under pressure, and lunges again.

You’re good with a knife. You’ve had to be. But the Djinn is better, and it has the advantage of reach and speed and the fact that you’re fighting in a space barely wide enough to move. You manage to land another cut, this one across its ribs, but it costs you—the creature’s clawed hand rakes across your shoulder, tearing through your jacket and the shirt beneath.

The pain is sharp and immediate, but you’ve had worse. You pivot, trying to get your back against the wall so it can’t circle you, and that’s when the Djinn changes tactics.

It stops trying to kill you and starts trying to touch you.

You realize what it’s doing half a second too late. The Djinn’s hand shoots out, impossibly fast, and its fingers brush the side of your neck just below your jaw.

The effect is instant. The poison burns through your skin like acid, a white-hot line of agony that spreads from the point of contact down into your chest. You gasp, stumbling back, and the Djinn lunges forward to press its advantage.

You slash wildly, more instinct than strategy, and feel the blade sink deep into its shoulder. The Djinn reels back with another hiss, and you use the opening to put distance between you—three steps, four, until your back hits the wall and you can’t go any further.

The poison is spreading. You can feel it moving through your bloodstream, a cold fire that makes your vision blur at the corners. Your legs feel weak, your grip on the knife uncertain.

The Djinn is watching you now, its head tilted in a way that’s almost curious. Waiting for the poison to do its work.

You try to call for Xavier, but your throat feels tight, the words coming out as barely more than a whisper. You try again, forcing air through your lungs, and this time you manage something louder.

“Xavier—”

The Djinn moves again before you got a chance to finish the word. You see it coming, see the way it coils to spring, and you know you’re not fast enough to stop it. The knife feels heavy in your hand, your arm sluggish when you try to raise it.

The creature’s hand reaches for your face, claws extended, and you do the only thing you can think of.

You scream.

It’s not a word, not a call for help—just raw sound, terror and fury and the desperate need to not die alone in the dark. It tears out of your throat with enough force to hurt, echoing off the metal walls, and somewhere in the back of your fading consciousness you think, He’ll hear that. He has to hear that.

The Djinn’s hand closes around your throat.

The poison floods your system like ice water in your veins, and everything goes white. Not the beautiful white of snow or paper. This white is painful and jarring, every nerve firing at once until there’s no distinction between pain and light and sound. You can’t feel the ground beneath you anymore, can’t feel your own body. There’s just the whiteness, and the cold, and the distant awareness that you’re falling to the ground.

You think you hear Xavier’s voice, rough and urgent, shouting your name.

You think you hear the sound of a blade meeting flesh, the Djinn’s death-rattle hiss.

But you can’t be sure, because the whiteness is swallowing everything, pulling you down into a place where sound doesn’t reach and your body is just a distant memory.

Your last coherent thought, before the darkness takes you, is that you should have stayed with him.

Then there’s nothing at all.

—

You wake to sunlight.

That’s the first wrong thing. Sunlight doesn’t exist in the cannery basement. Sunlight doesn’t filter through windows in soft golden bars, doesn’t warm the sheets tangled around your legs, doesn’t make dust motes drift lazy and slow through air that smells like coffee and something floral you can’t place.

You blink. The ceiling above you is cream-colored, unmarked by water damage or mold. There’s a ceiling fan turning in slow rotations, blades clean and white. The bed beneath you is soft—actually comfortable, the kind of mattress that costs more than your car.

Your body moves before your brain catches up. You sit up, and your shoulder—

Your shoulder doesn’t hurt.

You look down. You’re wearing a t-shirt you don’t recognize, soft cotton that smells clean. There’s no blood whatsoever. No torn fabric. No bandages. Your skin is unmarked where the Djinn’s claws should have torn through.

The bedroom door opens.

Xavier walks in carrying two mugs, and the wrongness of it hits you like a physical blow. He’s shirtless, wearing only loose gray sweatpants that sit low on his hips, and his hair is slightly messed like he’s been running his hands through it. He looks at you, and he smiles.

That’s the second wrong thing.

Xavier doesn’t smile like that. He does the small half-curve that means he’s amused, the barely-there quirk that shows up when you say something that surprises him. But this—this is an open smile. Unguarded. The kind of smile that reaches his eyes and makes the blue there look warmer, softer, like something you could fall into and never find your way out of.

“You’re awake,” he says. His voice is rough in a way that makes you think he hasn’t been sleeping. “I was starting to worry.”

You stare at him. Your mouth is dry, your thoughts moving too slow, like they’re wading through something thick. “Where—”

“Safe,” Xavier says. He crosses the room and sets both mugs on the nightstand, then sits on the edge of the bed. Close. Close enough that you can see the faint shadows under his eyes, the tension in his shoulders that he’s trying to hide. “You’ve been out for almost twelve hours. How do you feel?”

“Like I got poisoned by a Djinn,” you wince. Your voice comes out hoarse. “What happened?”

“You went off alone,” Xavier says. There’s no anger in his voice, no I-told-you-so, but you can hear the edge underneath—the thing he’s not saying. “The Djinn got you. I heard you scream in pain.”

You remember that part. The white and hot burning sensation of the poison, the way your legs gave out, the certainty that you were going to die in that corridor, all by yourself at the hands of a very annoying, and very ugly creature.

“You killed it,” you say.

“Yes.”

“And brought me here.”

“Yes.”

You look around the room again, trying to make sense of it. The sunlight. The clean sheets. The smell of coffee and flowers. It’s too nice. Too comfortable. Too much like the kind of place you’d want to wake up in, which means—

“This isn’t real,” you say.

Xavier’s expression changes ever so slightly. The softness doesn’t disappear, not quite, but something else moves underneath it—something that reads almost like pain, if you didn’t knew better. “What makes you think that?”

“Because you’re—” You gesture at him, at the room, at everything. “This doesn’t happen. We never get to have this nice of a room and… We don’t—you don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Xavier asks.

“Like you’re glad I’m alive,” you say. The words come out sharper than you mean them to. “Like you give a damn whether I wake up or not.”

The silence that follows is heavy.

Things between you are complicated. Or rather, they are complicated on your part. You try as much as possible not to feed your own delusions, not to dwell on how Xavier looks at you at times, over the long drives in the Impala, over shared greasy hamburgers in diners. You mask your own consuming attraction toward him with playful jabs, and stubborn defiance because if you actually admitted your feelings, and he rejected you, it would ruin the only good thing in your life.

Xavier sets his mug down. He doesn’t look away from you, and there’s something in his eyes now that you can’t name—something that makes you want to run, except you’re already in bed and there’s nowhere to go.

“I thought I lost you,” he says. His voice has gone quiet. “When I heard you scream, I thought—” He stops. Swallows. Starts again. “I’ve done this for a long time. I’ve lost people. But the idea of losing you—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. You’re staring at him, your heart doing that complicated thing again, and you don’t know what to do with this. With him sitting on the edge of the bed looking at you like you’re something breakable, something worth protecting. It’s so far off the way he usually looks at you, and you don’t what you could even say to that.

“Xavier—”

“I care about you,” he continues. “More than I should. More than is smart, or safe, or—” He exhales, and it sounds shaky. “I’ve been trying not to. For three years, I’ve been trying to keep it professional, to keep my distance, because I know how this ends. I know what happens when you care about someone in this life. But then you let out that painful scream, and I thought I was too late, and I realized I’d wasted three years pretending I didn’t feel this about you.”

Your breath catches, voice shaky. “Feel what?”

Xavier’s eyes search yours. “Do I really need to say it?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

He leans in gently, giving you every chance to pull away. His hand comes up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing against your cheek.

“I’m in love with you,” Xavier says.

And then he kisses you.

It’s soft. Tender. Everything you’ve never let yourself imagine because imagining it would make the reality of not having it unbearable. His mouth moves against yours like he’s memorizing the shape of your lips, your taste, like he has all the time in the world and he’s going to use every second of it on learning you.

You know, objectively, that this is the Djinn feeding on your life force, siphoning the marrow from your bones while pacifying your brain with a perfect little hallucination. You know that if you give in, you are going to die on a filthy concrete floor covered in rat shit.

But god, his mouth is so soft.

You kiss him back. Your hands come up to his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steady thrum of his heartbeat under your palms. He tastes like coffee and something addictive, and you can’t get enough of it. It’s a complete and utter surrender. The second you kiss him back, Xavier’s hands slide from your knees up the bare skin of your thighs, gripping your hips that sends a violent jolt straight down between your legs.

He pulls you forward, and you go willingly, shifting your weight until you are the one now fully straddling his lap. The oversized shirt rides up, but you couldn’t care less. In fact, you tangle your fingers into his messy silver hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss until the taste of him completely rewrites every little thought in your brain.

He groans into your mouth, a rumbling sound of approval that vibrates against your chest as he kisses you eagerly.

Just five minutes. Let me have this for five minutes, and then I’ll wake up and stab that blue freak.

But five minutes is a dangerous bargain when the illusion is this potent. Xavier’s hands are mapping the curve of your waist, his thumbs pressing firmly into your hip bones. The hard ridge of his bulge presses up against the juncture of your thighs through the thin fabric of his sweatpants, and you want to grind on it, already turned on. The realization hits you like a shot of pure adrenaline.

You tilt your hips, grinding down against him with a slow roll of your hips. Xavier breaks the kiss with a sharp intake of breath, his head falling back slightly to expose the long line of his throat. His grip on your hips tightens to the point of bruising, his thumbs dragging down to ghost over your upper thighs.

“Feels so good with you on top of me...” he murmurs, voice thick, chest heaving under your palms.

You chase his lips again, peppering hot, open-mouthed kisses along his jawline, completely lost in the friction, the heat of him under you where you imagined so many times and then chastised yourself for it. 

You rock your hips down again, harder this time, chasing the ache between your legs. You want to drag those sweatpants off him. You want to feel him press you back into this ridiculously soft mattress and ruin you for any other man on earth. Your lips melt together, shared soft moans the only sound you’re aware of in this dizzy state.

When he finally pulls back, you’re both breathing hard. His forehead rests against yours, and his eyes are closed.

“This is real,” he says. “You’re awake. I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

You want to believe him. You want it so badly it hurts.

But the sunlight is too perfect. The room is too clean. And Xavier has never, in three years, looked at you like this.

“I don’t think it is,” you say quietly.

Xavier opens his eyes. “What?”

“Real,” you say. “I don’t think this is real. I think I’m still—”

The room flickers. It’s subtle. Just a momentary distortion, like static on a television screen. The sunlight wavers. The walls blur at the edges.

Xavier’s hand tightens on your jaw. “No,” he says. “No, don’t—”

The room flickers again, harder this time, and you feel the pull. Something dragging you back, away from the sunlight and the soft bed and Xavier’s hands on your skin.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“Don’t apologize,” Xavier says. His voice is rough, desperate. “Just stay. Please stay.”

But you can’t. The pull is too strong, and the room is dissolving around you, the sunlight fading to gray, and Xavier’s face is the last thing you see before—

You wake to darkness and the smell of rust.

Your body comes back to you in pieces. First the cold concrete beneath you, seeping through your clothes. Then the pain in your shoulder screaming, your throat raw, every muscle aching like you’ve been hit by a truck. Then the sound of dripping water from the pipes, and breathing that isn’t yours.

You open your eyes.

You’re still in the cannery basement. Still in the corridor where the Djinn attacked you. The creature’s body is a few feet away, its blue-gray skin already starting to decompose, the glow of its tattoos fading to nothing.

And Xavier is kneeling beside you, his hand on your wrist, checking your pulse.

He looks up when you move. His face is streaked with blood—some of it his, most of it the Djinn’s—and his expression is—

He’s furious.

“You’re awake,” he says. His voice is flat, controlled in a way that makes your stomach drop. “Good. Can you stand?”

You try. Your legs shake, and Xavier’s hand shoots out to steady you, gripping your uninjured arm hard enough that you’ll feel it tomorrow.

“Careful,” he reminds you. Careful seems to not be in your vocabulary tonight.

You get your feet under you. The world tilts, and you have to lean against the wall to keep from falling. Xavier doesn’t let go of your arm.

“I’m fine,” you try to reassure him.

“You’re not fine,” Xavier scoffs. “You were poisoned. You’ve been unconscious for twenty minutes. And you—” He stops. His jaw tightens. “You went off alone.”

“I know.”

“After I told you not to.”

“I know.”

“You could have died,” Xavier states. His voice is still flat, but the words are clipped and devoid of any warmth. “If I hadn’t heard you scream, if I’d been thirty seconds slower, you would be dead right now.”

You don’t have an answer for that. He’s right. You know he’s right.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

Xavier’s hand tightens on your arm. “Sorry doesn’t fix this.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Xavier asks. He steps closer, and you’re suddenly very aware of how much bigger he is than you, how the space between you has shrunk to nothing. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you have a death wish.”

“I don’t—”

“You do,” Xavier insists. “You throw yourself into danger like it doesn’t matter. Like you don’t matter. And I’m tired of watching you do it.”

His voice cracks on the last word, and that’s when you realize he’s not just angry. He’s terrified.

“Xavier—”

“I thought you were dead,” His hand moves from your arm to the wall beside your head, caging you in. “I heard you scream, and I thought I was too late. And the entire time I was killing that thing, all I could think was that I should have followed you. That I should have stopped you. That if you died because I let you go off alone, I would never forgive myself.”

You’re staring at him. His face is inches from yours, and you can see the way his chest is heaving, the way his pupils are blown wide, the faint tremor in his hand where it’s pressed against the wall.

“I’m sorry,” you say again. It’s inadequate, but it’s all you have.

Xavier’s eyes drop to your mouth. “You keep saying that.”

“Because I mean it.”

“Do you?” Xavier asks. His voice has gone quiet, and he’s so close now that you can feel the heat of him, smell the blood on his skin and clothes and the faint scent of his soap underneath. “Or are you just saying what you think I want to hear?”

“I mean it,” you whisper it, as convincing as you can muster.

Xavier’s hand moves from the wall to your jaw, tilting your face up. His thumb brushes against your bottom lip, and the touch sends a jolt of heat straight through you.

“Prove it,” he says.

You don’t think. You just move, closing the distance between you and kissing him.

It’s nothing like the dream, and so much better all the same. There’s no softness here, no tenderness. This is desperate and rough and three years of wanting compressed into the press of his mouth against yours. Xavier makes a low sound in his throat, and his hand slides from your jaw into your hair, gripping hard enough to sting.

You kiss him back just as hard, if not even harder. Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer like you want to merge yourself to him. He responds by pressing you back against the wall roughly. The concrete is cold against your spine, but Xavier is warm—burning, actually, like he’s running a fever—and you can’t get enough of it.

When he finally pulls back, you’re both breathing hard. His forehead rests against yours, and his eyes are closed.

“We need to go," he whispers.

“Okay,” you say.

“I’m still angry at you,” Xavier still sounds mad, and you can’t blame him for it.

“I know.”

“And we’re going to talk about this,” His breath fawns over your wet lips. You want to kiss him again. “About you going off alone. About you not listening. About—” He stops. Opens his eyes to meet yours. “About all of it.”

“Okay,” you say again, nodding.

Xavier’s hand is still in your hair. He looks at you for a long moment, and then he steps back, letting you go.

“Can you walk?” he asks, looking you over.

“Yes.”

“Then let’s get out of here,” Xavier says.

The walk back to the car is silent. Xavier moves ahead of you, his flashlight cutting through the dark, and you follow. Your legs are shaky, and your shoulder is screaming in pain, but you don’t complain. You don’t have the right to complain, not after what you just put him through.

The Impala is parked where you left it, and Xavier unlocks it without a word. You climb into the passenger seat, and he gets behind the wheel.

He doesn’t start the car. You sit in the silence, waiting for him to say something. To yell at you, to lecture you, to do anything other than just sit there with his hands on the steering wheel and his jaw tight.

“Xavier—”

“Not now,” he says.

You close your mouth. Xavier starts the car. The engine rumbles to life, and he pulls out of the parking lot without looking at you.

The drive to the motel is silent. You watch the streetlights blur past, your thoughts a tangled mess of the dream and the kiss and the way Xavier looked at you in the basement. Like he wanted to strangle you and kiss you at the same time.

You’re still thinking about it when you realize you’re wet.

It’s not even subtle. You can feel the slickness between your thighs, the way your underwear is damp and uncomfortable. Your body is responding to the adrenaline, to the fear, to the memory of Xavier’s hand in your hair and his mouth on yours.

You shift in your seat, trying to ignore it, but the movement just makes it worse. You’re acutely aware of every bump in the road, every shift of your hips, the way your jeans are pressing against you in a way that’s both uncomfortable and maddeningly not enough.

You glance at Xavier. He’s staring straight ahead, his expression unreadable, and you wonder if he knows. If he can tell.

You hope he can’t.

The motel comes into view, and Xavier pulls into the parking lot. He cuts the engine and sits there for a moment, his hands still on the wheel.

“We need to get you cleaned up,” he says finally. “And I need to check your shoulder.”

“Okay,” you sigh, not wanting to argue any longer. You know he won’t calm down until he makes sure your wounds aren’t going to get infected at least.

Xavier gets out of the car. You follow, your legs still shaky, and he unlocks the motel room door without looking at you. The room is small and dingy, the kind of place that rents by the hour and doesn’t ask questions. There’s one bed, a bathroom that’s seen better days, and a TV that probably hasn’t worked since the nineties.

Xavier drops his bag on the bed and turns to look at you. “Sit,” he says, nodding toward the edge of the mattress.

You sit. Xavier disappears into the bathroom, and you hear the sound of running water. He comes back a moment later with a first aid kit and a damp washcloth.

“Let me see your shoulder,” he gestures toward the wounded area. You peel off your jacket, wincing as the fabric pulls at the wound. Your shirt is torn and blood-soaked, and Xavier’s jaw tightens when he sees it.

“This needs stitches,” he says. You can’t distinguish if he is angry or pained, or both. But his voice is cold, and you know he doesn’t like how it looks.

“I know,” you sigh, defeated.

“And you need a shower,” Xavier points out. “You’re covered in blood.”

“So are you,” you point out back, narrowing your eyes.

Xavier ignores that. He sets the first aid kit on the bed and reaches for the hem of your shirt. “This is going to hurt.”

“I can do it myself—”

“Let me,” His voice is quiet, but there’s an air to it that makes you stop arguing.

You let him pull your shirt over your head. The fabric sticks to the wound, and you hiss when it tears free. Xavier’s hands are gentle as he examines the damage, his fingers tracing the claw marks.

“It’s deep,” His eyes furrow. “But clean. The Djinn didn’t get any poison in the wound itself.”

“Lucky me,” you try to joke, but it doesn’t land. You swallow, throat dry.

Xavier doesn’t smile. He picks up the washcloth and starts cleaning the blood away, his touch careful and methodical. You watch his face as he works, the way his brow furrows in concentration, the way his mouth is pressed into a thin line.

“I’m sorry,” you say again. Your chest hurts, and you don’t know if it’s from what you went through tonight or just because you made Xavier mad. You don’t like either options.

Xavier’s hand stills. “Stop apologizing.”

“I can’t,” you say. “Not when you’re—”

“When I’m what?” Xavier looks up at you, and there’s something in his eyes that makes your thoughts scatter off.

“Angry at me,” you continue at last, voice too small.

“I’m not angry at you,” Xavier says, tearing his eyes off your face and checking the wound.

“You said you were.”

“I lied,” Xavier goes back to cleaning your shoulder, his touch still gentle. “I’m not angry. I’m—” He takes a small breath in. “I don’t know what I am.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You bite your lip and sit in silence while he finishes cleaning the wound, and then he picks up the needle and thread.

“This is going to hurt,” he warns again, locking eyes with you.

“I know.”

Xavier’s hand settles on your uninjured shoulder, steadying you. “Try not to move.”

The first stitch burns, and you bite down on your lip to keep from making a sound. Xavier works quickly, his hands steady, and you focus on his face instead of the pain. On the way his jaw is still tight, the way his eyes are focused on the task at hand.

When he’s done, he ties off the thread and cuts it. “There,” he says. “That should hold.”

“Thank you.”

Xavier doesn’t respond. He picks up the first aid kit and carries it back to the bathroom, and you hear the sound of running water again.

You sit on the edge of the bed, your shoulder throbbing, and try to figure out what the hell just happened. The kiss in the basement. The silence in the car. The way Xavier is acting now—distant and controlled, like he’s trying to put as much space between you as possible.

You don’t know what it means. You don’t know if you want to know.

Xavier comes back out of the bathroom after a few minuts. “You should shower. I’ll go after you.”

You nod and stand up. Your legs are still shaky, and you have to grip the edge of the bed to keep from falling.

Xavier’s hand shoots out to steady you. “Be careful.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Xavier scoffs. “You were poisoned. You need to rest.”

“I will,” you say. “After I shower.”

Xavier lets go of your arm. “Don’t take too long. And don’t get the stitches wet.”

“I won’t,” you reassure him.

You grab your bag and head into the bathroom, closing the door behind you. The room is small and cramped, the mirror cracked and the tiles stained. You turn on the shower and wait for the water to heat up, then strip off the rest of your clothes.

Your reflection in the mirror is a mess. Blood-streaked skin, dark circles under your eyes, and the fresh stitches on your shoulder standing out stark and red. You look like you’ve been through a war.

You step into the shower and let the hot water wash over you. It stings where it hits the wound, but you don’t care. You just stand there, letting the water run over you, and try to make sense of everything that happened tonight.

Your hand drifts down between your legs almost without thinking. You’re still wet, still aching, and the memory of Xavier’s mouth on yours is enough to make you gasp.

You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t. But you can’t help it. Your fingers find your clit, and you start to move, chasing the release you need.

It doesn’t work.

You try for a few minutes, your breath coming faster, but the angle is wrong and your shoulder hurts and you can’t stop thinking about Xavier on the other side of the door. About the way he kissed you. About the way he looked at you like he wanted to devour you.

You give up with a frustrated sound and finish washing quickly. When you step out of the shower, you feel worse than when you went in—still aching, still wanting, and now frustrated on top of it.

You dry off and pull on clean clothes, then open the bathroom door.

Xavier is sitting on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. He looks up when you come out, and his eyes track over you—your damp hair, your clean clothes, the bandage on your shoulder.

“Your turn,” you say.

Xavier stands up. He grabs his bag and heads into the bathroom without a word, and you hear the shower start a moment later.

You sit on the edge of the bed and try not to think about him in there. About the water running over his skin, about the way he looked at you in that basement after your near-death experience. How he kissed you…

You fail spectacularly.

The shower runs for a long time. When Xavier finally comes out, he’s wearing a towel around his waist and nothing else. His hair is damp, and there are droplets of water still clinging to his chest. You have to force yourself to look away.

He grabs his bag, pulling out a t-shirt and sweatpants. You watch as he drops the towel and pulls on the clothes. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t acknowledge the way your eyes track over his body, and when he’s dressed he sits back down on the bed.

On the opposite side from you. The distance feels intentional, and you can’t read into it. You don’t know what to approach him, how to open the difficult conversation you need to have. So you just apologize for the tenth time tonight.

“I really am sorry, Xavier.”

Xavier’s jaw tightens. “You need to stop apologizing.”

“I don’t know what else to say,” you admit.

“Then don’t say anything,” Xavier says. He lies down on his side of the bed, his back to you, and pulls the blanket over himself.

You sit there for a moment, staring at his back, and then you lie down too. On your side of the bed. With a careful foot of space between you.

The silence is heavy. You can hear Xavier breathing, slow and controlled, and you wonder if he’s actually going to sleep or if he’s just pretending.

You close your eyes and try to do the same.

You can't sleep.

The heating unit rattles in the corner like it has for the last three nights in this same chain motel, and every passing car on the highway sends thin blades of light across the ceiling. Your body feels wrung out from the poison and the fight, but your mind keeps circling back to the basement. The way Xavier had pressed you against that damp wall, fingers twisted in your hair, mouth rough and certain like three years of swallowed words had finally broken loose.

What had he meant by any of it? The anger, the raw fear underneath, the kiss that still burns on your lips hours later?

Three years of this. Three years of learning exactly how he takes his honey milk tea, of watching him methodically clean blood from his blade while you ramble through newspaper clippings in the middle of the night. Of pretending that you don’t care about him more than you should. You've buried it under sharp jokes and stubbornness because admitting it could shatter the only steady thing you have left in this life.

Partners. Nothing more.

Until tonight.

You sigh before you can stop yourself.

“You're still awake,” he says, startling you from your thoughts.

The words come quiet from the other side of the bed. You flinch anyway. Xavier usually drops off the second his head hits the pillow. You've always envied that about him, the way he can shut everything down while you lie here turning mistakes over like stones in your hands.

“So are you,” you answer, keeping your back to him. Your eyes stay fixed on the neon blinking through the cheap curtains.

The mattress shifts. “You sighed. You only sigh like that when you're turning something over too many times.”

He knows you too well. Three years of shared rooms and shared scars will do that.

“I'm not turning anything over,” you lie. “I'm trying to sleep. Which would be easier if you'd stop talking.”

There’s a heavy silence stretching between you, only the passing cars outside can be heard. His voice comes softer, closer than before. “I'm sorry.”

You go still. An apology from Xavier is rare enough that it lands like a thrown knife.

“For what?” you ask.

“For how I spoke to you tonight. In the basement, after you woke up.” His tone stays even, but you hear the crack in it. “I was harsher than I needed to be.”

You swallow. “You were scared. I scared you. I get it.”

The bed dips again as he moves nearer. “I was.”

The admission sits between you, simple and heavy. You should let it end there. Accept it, roll over, and pretend tomorrow will take things back to how they were before. But you've never been good at leaving things alone.

“The kiss,” you say, throat tight. “Are you sorry for that too?”

The quiet that follows feels endless. You keep your eyes on the wall, too afraid to turn.

“No,” he murmurs after what feels like forever.

His hand settles on your shoulder, warm through the thin cotton of your shirt, and he eases you onto your back. You let him. When you finally face him, he's propped on one elbow. The neon from the sign outside paints faint red across his silver hair and his cheekbone. His eyes hold yours without flinching.

“No,” he says again, softer. “I'm not sorry for that.”

“Then why have you been acting like it didn’t happened?” you whisper.

His expression flickers with something you can’t make out in the dark. “Because I don't know how to have this conversation with you. Three years of keeping things professional between us. Of telling myself it was enough to be your partner, to stitch you up after hunts like tonight, to know your tells better than my own. And then I crossed that line. I don't know what it means for us now.”

The words sting, but the way his thumb brushes your collarbone takes some of the edge off.

“I didn't say I regret it,” he adds. “I don't.”

“Xavier...”

“Tell me what the Djinn showed you.”

You knew this was coming. He'd heard you in that corridor, the sounds you'd made while the poison pulled you under. Still, the question makes your stomach drop.

“Nothing important,” you say, defensive. “Some beach house. Winning the lottery. Nothing worth remembering.”

“You're lying to me.” He says it gently, because he knows you, and you’ve never succeeded in getting a lie past Xavier before. Why would this time be any different?

His thumb keeps moving in slow circles against your skin. “The Djinn gives its victims exactly what they want most. It makes them stop fighting. You stopped fighting for nearly three minutes after I injected you. You made sounds like you were somewhere else completely. Somewhere good.”

Heat floods your face. You close your eyes, deciding there’s no point in running away from this. “It showed me you.”

The silence feels alive now. His fingers stay steady on your jaw when you try to turn away.

“What was I doing?” he asks, voice rough in a way you've never heard from him before.

“We were in a house. Our house, I guess. You brought me coffee and said we had the week off. You smiled at me, a beautiful and easy smile you almost never show.”

You swallow, averting your eyes. You consider if you should tell him everything. You might as well throw it all out there. “You told me you loved me. Then you kissed me. I knew it wasn't real. I knew it was killing me. But I told myself just five more minutes. Let me have this for five more minutes before I wake up and fight.”

His breath draws in sharp. “Five minutes. You were ready to let it drain you dry for five more minutes of a dream with me.”

You close your eyes, wincing slightly. “Don't say it like that, Xavier. It sounds pathetic when you put it that way.”

“It sounds like you've been carrying this as long as I have.”

Your eyes open. He's a lot closer now, silver hair falling across his forehead, expression stripped of its usual calm expression. Maybe he is just as affected as you.

“Three years,” you whisper. “I've felt this for three years. But you're Xavier, my partner. You're always so steady, so certain. I thought I was the only one who felt it. That we were just partners who keep each other alive, who share bad coffee and worse motels and never talk about the rest.”

He lets out a low sound, almost pained. “Just partners. You think I learned how you tap your fingers on the wheel when you're worried, or how you always check the salt lines twice, or how you looked at me after that wendigo hunt in Colorado because we're just partners? You think I sat up with you after hunts like tonight because it was my job?”

The memory hits you hard. Two years ago, him pressing gauze to your side in the back of the Impala, voice quiet while you shook from adrenaline and blood loss. The way he'd stayed until you fell asleep even though he was bleeding too.

“I didn't know you felt that way,” you whisper.

“I've been in love with you since our first year hunting together,” he says. The words come out raw, like they've been waiting too long to come out. “Every time you ignored my orders and still came back breathing. Every time you made me laugh without even trying. I kept telling myself the line had to stay clear. Partners don't do this. But when I heard you scream in that basement, none of those reasons mattered. I couldn't lose you without you knowing how I felt.”

“Xavier,” you breathe, his name the only thing left to say.

He shifts over you in one smooth motion, braced on his forearms so his face fills your world. His hair brushes your forehead. His warmth sinks into your skin.

“This,” he murmurs against your mouth. “This is what I want all along.”

The kiss starts gentle, a careful question after years of careful distance. His lips move against yours a bit uncertain still, but it’s slow, and you’re sigh into his lips. You surge up to meet him, fingers sliding into his hair that’s still damp from the shower, pulling him closer. A soft moan slips from you the moment his mouth opens to greet you.

He chuckles into your mouth, makes a low sound of approval that vibrates through your chest, pleased and warm. The kiss deepens. His teeth catch your lower lip, tugging gently, then harder, until you gasp and arch beneath him.

His mouth trails down from your lips, pressing hot, slick kisses along your jaw and down the side of your neck until he finds that sensitive spot just below your ear. He scrapes his teeth against it, knowing damn well what he does because you shake against him. You moan louder, fingers tightening in his silver hair, yanking hard enough that a low groan vibrates through his chest.

He hums against your throat, tongue tracing the flutter of your pulse. “Pull harder. I like it.”

You obey instantly, twisting your grip until his head tips back. The sound he makes is deeper this time, raw approval that settles hot between your legs. He rewards you by sinking his teeth into the junction of your neck and shoulder, sucking hard enough to bruise. You already know it will bloom dark by morning, a mark you’ll feel every time your jacket shifts during the next hunt.

“Good girl,” he murmurs against your skin, voice soft and taunting in that same measured tone he uses when he’s telling you to stop being reckless. His hands slide down your sides, gripping your waist, thumbs pressing into the softness of your hips like he’s memorizing the shape of you after three years of only allowing himself stolen glances at your body. “Now tell me. Do you want the soft Xavier from your dream?”

His mouth moves lower, kissing along your collarbone, tongue dipping into the hollow of your throat. You shudder under him, words failing.

“The one who would have made sweet love to you?” he continues, calm even as his hands knead and massage your waist. “Took hours mapping every curve I’ve thought about during those long drives back from hunts, when you’d fall asleep against the window and I’d steal glances instead of watching the road? The one who brought coffee in your dream and said he loved you in that soft voice?” he continues, calm and measured even now. “The one who would have taken all night mapping every inch of you because he finally had the chance?”

He kisses the swell of your breast through your thin sleep shirt. “That version exists. He would worship you for hours. Make you feel like the only thing that matters after hunts like the one in Montana where you nearly got your throat torn out and I realized I couldn't keep pretending we were only partners.”

He looks up at you through silver lashes, blue eyes dark with three years of carefully banked hunger, and your cunt clenches hard around nothing.

“He would spend all night between your thighs if you let him. He would make you feel precious.” he says softly.

You swallow, breath coming out fast. His hands keep shifting between gentle strokes and bruising grips, keeping you off balance exactly the way he does when he overrides your reckless calls in the field.

Then he smirks, the expression so rare and sharp it sends heat flooding straight to your core. His hand slips under the hem of your sleep shirt, palm flat against your bare stomach, sliding up with agonizing slowness until his fingers find your hardened nipple.

“But that Xavier is for tomorrow. When the sun is up and I have time to do it right.”

He pinches the sensitive peak between thumb and forefinger, rolling it with deliberate pressure. Your back arches clean off the mattress, pressing harder into his hand as a broken sound tears from your throat.

“This version of me,” he rasps, watching every twitch of your face, “is not going to be soft tonight. Not after I heard you scream in that basement. Not after I thought I was too late again.”

He pinches harder, twisting just enough to send sparks racing down your spine. You cry out, hips bucking uselessly into empty air.

“This Xavier is going to mark you all over.” He leans down and claims your mouth in a bruising kiss, swallowing your whimper. “With kisses.” Another sharp pinch to your nipple. “With teeth.” His tongue slides against yours, demanding. “With bites left as reminders that you don't get to run off alone anymore.”

He pulls back, smirk deepening at the wrecked expression he finds.

“I’m going to eat you out until you’re shaking,” he tells you, fingers still working your nipple in tight, ruthless circles. “Lick every drop of how wet you are for me and make those pretty lips sing my name. Then I’m going to fill you up, bunny. Make you mine in every way that dream never could.”

You grab his wrist and drag his hand down, pressing his palm between your legs where your underwear is soaked through. “You—” you gasp as he makes contact with your needy pussy. “This version of you. The real one. Help me, Xavier. Please.”

He presses against the damp cotton, exploring the heat there. “Ah,” he says, maddeningly calm. “That little session in the shower didn’t do much for you after all.”

Heat floods your face. Of course he heard every frustrated gasp through the paper-thin walls. The same man who once tracked you across three counties after you went off alone now knows exactly how desperate you sounded trying to come to the memory of his mouth.

“I...” you start, but his fingers drag roughly down your slit, pressing the soaked cotton against your clit, and the words melt into a moan.

“You tried to handle it yourself,” he says, voice warm with something that sounds almost like affection. “After I kissed you against that wall. Kissing me got you this needy, bunny? You’re almost too sweet.”

His fingers keep dragging along your slit through the fabric, enjoying how you jerk under his merciless touch. Then his other hand pushes your shirt up, exposing your breasts. His mouth follows, closing around your nipple while his fingers rub circles over your clit through the underwear.

“Don’t be embarrassed, bunny.” His smirk widens as he rubs tight circles over your clit, enjoying how your eyes cross then roll in pleasure. “I enjoyed every second. Stood in there stroking my cock to the sound of you failing to come because you needed me instead.”

You moan brokenly, hands flying back to his hair, hips grinding against his palm. His tongue swirls around the stiff peak, teeth grazing then biting down hard enough to make your cunt throb. You’re mush under his pleasurable assaults, you can barely form thoughts.

“So responsive,” he hums against your skin, the vibration shooting straight to your clit. “You like when I’m mean, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasp, tugging his hair harder. “Fuck, Xavier, yes—don’t stop...”

He groans at the sharp pull, biting your nipple hard enough that the sting blooms into sharp pleasure, almost close to pain. His hand between your legs slaps down against your soaked panties, the wet smack and sudden sting making you jolt and cry out.

“Fu—ck,” you sob, hips jerking uncontrolably. “Xavier, oh fuck, so mean... need you b-badly...”

“Mean?” He pulls back to look at you, eyes glittering with dark amusement. “I haven’t even started being mean yet, bunny.”

You moan and grind up against his hand. “I'm so wet,” you slurr. “It's embarrassing. Won't you help your partner out, Xavier? You always have my back, right? A-ahh... hah...” you plead with your eyes, half-lidded and hazy.

He groans at the nickname, biting down on your nipple until you cry out. His hand between your legs keeps slapping lightly over your puffy cunt, the sting making your hips jerk because you need so much more.

His fingers finally slip beneath the waistband of your underwear, dragging through your dripping folds. The first touch of skin on your soaked cunt makes you cry out, back arching clean off the bed. He spreads your wetness from your entrance up to your swollen clit and back down, coating his fingers until they glide slick and easy.

He repeats the motion a few times before dipping down to tease your entrance again. “Always,” he rasps, voice gone rough. “I’ve always got you, partner.”

Then he slides down your body, broad shoulders pushing your shaky thighs apart, and you almost push his head down, impatient. He doesn’t pull your underwear aside. Instead he presses his mouth directly over the drenched cotton, tongue dragging a long, slow stripe up your slit through the fabric.

You almost cum then and there.

The wet heat of his mouth combined with the feeling of cotton against your swollen clit makes your eyes roll back, pushing his head unbashfully until his face is all up in your cunt. He moans at the taste of you soaking through, licking again and again, sucking the fabric between his lips like he can’t get enough of how desperate you are for him.

You have three years of swallowed want and one ruined hallucination to make up for, and Xavier is finally showing you exactly how hungry he’s been the whole time.

You moan brokenly and buck up against his face, chasing the maddening friction of his hot tongue bullying your sensitive nub. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider and wider until your hips ache, and when he looks up at you his blue eyes are dark with three years of held-back hunger.

“Such a desperate partner I have,” he murmurs against you before his tongue presses harder into your hole, pushing the sticky cotton inside. You whine and thrash unde him as he laughs. “Can't even wait for me to take these off.”

Your hips roll shamelessly against his mouth. He chuckles, clearly amused you’re this desperate. This sound you’ve only heard a handful of times across motel rooms and long drives in the Impala, and you never thought you’d hear it from between your thighs. Your hips jerk toward the sound.

“Already fucking my tongue through your panties,” he taunts, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes when you dare a glance down at him. His chin glistens with your arousal, lips swollen. His eyes are like two black holes, nothing but lust and desire lingering in them. “Is that what you are, starlight? A desperate girl who wants to fuck my mouth and come on it?”

“Yes,” you sob, fingers clawing at the sheets. The confession spills out raw after years of biting your tongue every time he handed you coffee or stitched your shoulder after hunts like the rugaru incident in Montana. You wanted to confess so many times. You’re done holding back. “Yes, please, Xavier, I need—”

“Need what?” His thumb keeps bullying your clit with rapid flicks of his thumb. He laughs delightedly when you shake and thrash under his touch. “Use your words. Tell me exactly what you need.”

The words tangle in your throat. All that escapes is a broken moan as your head thrashes against the pillow. He keeps the slow, taunting circles going, thumb dragging the drenched cotton over your swollen clit again and again until it’s almost painful. You’ve been so close to your orgasm all this time, but Xavier seems to want to play cat and mouse first.

“Cat got your tongue?” he chuckles, voice soft and playful in that measured way that always makes you want to both kiss him and argue with him. “You’re already this fucked out from just my mouth on you? After everything we’ve been through together—three years of you defying me on hunts and me still following you anyway—you can’t even tell me you want my tongue inside your cunt?”

“P-Please,” you manage, voice cracking. “Need your m-mouth, your tongue inside me... No more teasing, Xavier. Please? I can’t—h-hah, can’t cum like this…”

“I heard you.”

He yanks your underwear roughly to the side. Before you can draw breath his tongue plunges into you, hot and thick and relentless in its assualt. The sound that rips from your throat is raw, nothing but static flooding your mind. Your hands fly to his silver hair, yanking hard as you start fucking his face. His tongue curls inside your cunt every time your hips roll, stroking that spot that makes your thighs shake while his thumb works your clit in tight, fast circles.

“M-More,” you gasp, pulling his hair harder. “Faster, Xavier—h-harder—ohfuck…”

He groans against your dripping pussy, a sound of pure approval at how you use his face without mercy. The same quiet satisfaction he shows when you finally listen to him out on a hunt, except now it’s filthy and possessive. His tongue fucks into you deeper while his thumb flicks fast over your clit.

The slurping sounds of his mouth devouring you fill the dingy motel room.

“That’s it,” he rasps against your cunt, breath hot on your oversensitive flesh. “Fuck my face. Use me, bunny. Take what you need after all those nights I lay awake listening to you breathe and wondering how you’d sound with my tongue inside you.”

You obey without shame, grinding down on his mouth, riding his tongue as the coil in your belly winds tighter, making you shake without control. His hand slides up your body, finds your nipple, and pinches hard. The sharp spark of pain shoves you over the edge.

You come with his name tearing from your throat, thighs clamping around his head, fingers twisted tight in his hair. Your cunt pulses around his tongue, flooding his mouth and face as he keeps working you through every wave, licking and sucking like he’s been starving for you since that first year you started hunting together. He doesn’t stop until you’re trembling and gasping, hips twitching away from his face with aftershocks.

When he finally pulls back, his chin is slick with your release, lips red and shiny. He licks them slowly, holding your gaze while he savors every drop. Your gasps fill the room as you try to come back from the mind shattering orgasm your partner pulled from you. You never came so hard in your life.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a biting kiss to the inside of your thigh. He sucks hard, leaving a dark mark you’ll feel for days beneath your hunting jeans. “You taste much better than I imagined all those nights sharing beds and pretending I wasn’t hard as steel just from the sound of you breathing.”

He sits back on his heels. Your eyes drop immediately to the thick outline of his cock straining against his sleep pants, the material hiding almost nothing. A wet spot darkened the fabric where he’s leaking. He palms himself slowly, hips rolling into his own hand, and the sight makes your cunt clench again.

You need to feel that cock inside you.

Mewling, you reach for him. He catches your wrist before you make contact, dark smile curling his lips.

“Eager little bunny,” he says, amused. “Can’t help yourself, can you?”

He guides your hand to his clothed cock, wrapping your fingers around his thick length through the fabric and covering your hand with his own. He’s burning hot, impressively thick, and you feel him throb against your palm as you squeeze.

“Feel that?” he whispers, almost conversational even as his hips push into your grip, needy for your touch. “We’ve shared so many motel beds before this. Would it be bad for me to admit you got me like this so many nights? Hard and leaking on the other side of the same mattress after watching you nearly die in that cannery, or after stitching up your shoulder like I did tonight, knowing exactly how reckless you are and still wanting you anyway.”

“Xavier,” you breathe, tightening your grip and stroking him slowly. The wet spot grows under your palm. “I want to taste you. Let me—”

He chuckles and gently removes your hand from his cock. “Patience, bunny. I have other plans for you first.”

Before you can protest he flips you onto your stomach, one large hand pressing between your shoulder blades to keep your chest pinned to the mattress. His other hand grips your hip, lifting until your ass is high in the air, knees spread, face down in the cheap pillow.

“Play with yourself,” he instructs, calm and commanding in that same tone he uses when he tells you to stay behind him on the field. He can be so commanding at times, but you can’t say you dislike it right now. You’re hot all over. “Show me how you touch that pretty cunt when you think about me.”

You whimper into the pillow. Your hand slides between your legs almost on its own, fingers finding your swollen, dripping hole. The first circle makes you moan.

“Good girl.” Warm approval fills his voice. “Now spread yourself open for me. Let me see exactly what’s mine.”

You obey, trembling fingers parting your folds, exposing your dirpping, puffy cunt to his gaze. You can feel your own wetness coating your fingers, can feel it dripping down your thighs as he stares, the cool air of the motel room brushing over your most sensitive places while Xavier drinks in the sight of you displayed for him.

His voice drifts over you, low and amused. Taunting. So fucking sexy. “You’re spreading yourself for me, bunny?” He sounds almost conversational, the same calm tone he uses when he’s mapping out a hunt. “Such a good girl. Look at you leaking all over your fingers. Do you feel how wet you are for me?”

“Mmm, y-yeah,” you gasp. Your fingers slip through the mess dripping from your cunt, the slick sounds loud in the quiet motel room as you finger yourself slowly.

“Was it the same in the dream?” He shifts closer. You feel the heat of his body behind you, the mattress dipping under his weight. “Did that soft version of me make you spread yourself open like this? Or was he too busy bringing you coffee and whispering sweet things to ever bend you over and take what he wanted?”

You glance back over your shoulder. The sight steals whatever words you had left. He has shoved his sleep pants down, only just, cock standing thick and flushed in his fist. He strokes himself slowly while he watches you, thumb spreading the steady bead of precum over the mushroomy head. He is bigger than the dream let you feel, heavy in his fish. Veined, with the purple tip already glistening.

Your cunt clenches hard around your fingers. It’s so embarrassing, your face must be in flames, but you need him. You want him inside you, make you forget everything else.

He catches you staring and smirks, hand still moving in that lazy rhythm. “Like what you see, starlight?”

“Xavier…” The name comes out shaky. Your eyes stay locked on the way his cock twitches in his grip, another drop of precum rolling down the shaft.

His hand covers yours between your legs. You gasp as he pushes two of his fingers inside alongside your own. Four fingers stretch you open at once, the burn sharp and perfect as he scissors them and stretches you open. He curls them slowly, stroking that spot inside you that makes your thighs shake and your vision spark white, making sure you’re as wet as you can be to receive him.

“You bargained with the Djinn for five more minutes of that dream,” he murmurs, chest pressed to your back, lips brushing your ear. His fingers pump deeper, stretching you wider with every thrust. “Was this what you really wanted? My fingers in your cunt while I tell you how many nights I lay awake in the Impala after patching you up from hunts, hard and fucking my own fist because I couldn’t fuck you just yet?”

“Yes—ohgod, y-yes, Xavie,” you sob, pushing back onto your joined hands. The stretch burns so good it makes your eyes water. “Wanted t-this… You should’ve taken me, I-I would’ve let you—haahh, oh fuck…”

“My good, sweet partner.” His voice stays soft against your ear even as his fingers curl harder and pump even faster into your squelching hole. “How about you bargain with me instead? Tell me how long you’ll last before I even get inside this tight cunt. Five minutes? Less?”

“Xavier, p-please,” you gasp, free hand clawing at the sheets. “J-Just push inside me. Can’t wait anymore, I-I’ll cum before you g-get a chance to fuck me...mmmhm, please—”

He chuckles against your ear, the sound warm and dark. He pulls your fingers free along with his own, leaving you empty and clenching. The blunt head of his cock nudges your entrance, hot and slick with precum, rubbing through your folds in teasing strokes.

“So impatient, like always.” he murmurs. “My desperate little partner.”

You pant, reaching back blindly until your fingers dig into his hip, nails biting skin. He smacks your ass, sharp and stinging to get you to take your hand back. The sudden heat blooming across your skin makes you cry out, hips jerking onto his cock. He uses the moment to push forward.

He sinks in with one long thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The stretch is blinding. Your scream muffles into the pillow as your walls flutter and clamp around his thick cock, too big for you even wet as you are, so it stings. He groans behind you, voice tight.

“You really are so damn tight,” he rasps. “Relax for me, bunny. I can feel you squeezing every inch. If you keep that up, I won’t fit all the way.”

He is leaking inside you already, hot pulses of precum mixing with your own wetness as he rocks forward, working another inch deeper. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, the same steady grip he uses when he hauls you out of danger.

You remember the wendigo hunt in Colorado, how those hands had pressed gauze to your side while his voice stayed calm even though his eyes had been wild. You wanted those firm hands to do so many inappropriate things to you, haul you in whatever position he wanted. Now those same hands hold you open while his cock stretches you wider than you thought possible.

“B-Big,” you slurr into the pillow, drool wetting the fabric. “So big, Xavier, f-fuck, can’t relax, you feel t-too good—”

He smacks your ass again, harder. The sting makes you gasp and unclench just enough for him to slide the last inch home. The head of his cock kisses something deep that makes your toes curl and your cunt flutter wildly around him.

“There you go,” he praises, voice rough but warm as he soothes the skin of your ass when the slap landed. “That’s it. Who would’ve thought you’re turning so pliant and obedient bent over for your partner’s cock, hm?”

“Want you to fuck me,” you sob, pushing your hips back until his balls press against your clit. “Fuck me, baby…”

You barely realize the pet name slipping out your mouth and slurring against the pillow. But Xavier catches it either way. He fists a hand in your hair and pulls your head back, arching you beautifully. His hips snap forward, burying himself to the hilt again, rocking his thick cock in and out of your squeezing warmth. The new angle makes him drag over that spongy spot with every thrust.

“Good girl,” he rasps. “Now arch your back. Ass up higher. Let me get even deeper.”

You obey instantly, spine curving, hips tilted so he can drive in at the perfect angle. He moans at the sight, slow deep thrusts turning into something faster, wet skin slapping against wet skin.

“So beautiful,” he breathes. “I can see my cock sliding in and out of your pretty puffy cunt. You’re dripping down my balls, bunny. Does it feel that good?”

“S-sooo good…” you sob, voice breaking on every thrust. “Yes, so good, fuck—”

“Then let me hear you.” His pace picks up, hips slamming into your ass with every stroke, cock dragging mercilessly over that spot inside you. Your toes curl. “Sing for me, starlight. Let the whole motel know how good your partner makes you feel.”

You let go. Every moan, every broken cry, every desperate plea pours out of you as he rails you exactly the way you needed after three years of swallowed want and fingering yourself in showers or under the duvet, searching something you never found. His hand stays tight in your hair, the other gripping your hip, hauling you back onto his cock like he never plans to let you go again.

“That’s it,” he groans, his rhythm growing more punishing. “Fuck, you feel incredible. So wet and tight around me. You were made for my cock, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasp, barely coherent. “Yes, yours, only yours...”

“Good girl. My good girl.”

He adjusts his grip, one hand kept fisting your hair while the other slides around to find your clit. His fingers press down hard, rubbing tight circles in time with his thrusts. The pressure building again, tighter and tighter, fast and vicious.

“Xavier,” you gasp, your vision starting to blur. “Ohfuck, ohfuck—fuck, ’m gonna cum, ’m gonna...”

“Already?” His voice is rough, his rhythm faltering slightly before picking back up even harder. “Fuck, me too. Shit, I’m so close, I’ll cum inside you...”

“K-kiss me?” you beg, craning your neck back toward him. "Want to feel you while I..."

He complies instantly, twisting your head to capture your mouth in a desperate, messy kiss. His tongue slides against yours, teeth catching your lower lip as his hips keep their brutal pace. The angle lets him grind deeper, cock throbbing heavy inside your clenching cunt.

“Beautiful girl,” he rasps against your lips, fingers flicking faster on your clit. “I’m so deep, aren’t I? Feel me all the way inside you.”

“Yes,” you sob, squeezing around his cock. “So deep, Xavier, so full...”

“Going to cum around my cock for me, are you?” He bites your neck, sucking more marks on the sweaty skin. “Do it, starlight.”

His hips snap forward one final time, burying himself to the hilt as his fingers pinch your clit.

“If you cum for me,” he groans against your throat, “I’ll pump you full right after. Deal? Come on, my stubborn partner, let go.” His cock throbs inside you, and you can tell he’s right on the edge. “I’ll fill you to the brim. You’ll be so full of me for days. Begging for more than just five minutes.”

You shatter.

The orgasm crashes through you harder than anything you’ve ever felt, your entire body seizing up as you scream his name. Your walls clamp down around his cock in rhythmic pulses, milking him, soaking his length and balls while your thighs shake uncontrollably. He follows as he said he would.

With a broken groan, his hips continue grinding as thick ropes of cum flood your spasming cunt, filling you up until it starts to leak out around him, dripping down your thighs in messy white trails. He holds you through it, his hips grinding against your ass, pumping every last drop into your hole.

For several long breaths neither of you moves. You stay collapsed face-down into the mattress, trembling, his weight warm and heavy along your back. His cock stays buried inside you, softening slowly while his release leaks steadily around him, warm and sticky on your skin.

Then, impossibly, he laughs.

It slips out soft and breathless, more exhale than sound, but it blooms something warm and bright in your chest. He presses a gentle kiss to the nape of your neck, then your shoulder, then the curve of your spine where sweat has gathered.

“Okay?” he murmurs against your skin, and his voice is soft again, tender. It’s almost like the Xavier in the dream.

“More than okay,” you manage, voice hoarse. “I think you broke my brain.”

He laughs again, real this time, warm and a little embarrassed. But he doesn’t pull out. Instead his hips roll forward in a slow, possessive thrust, stirring his cum inside you with a wet sound that makes you whine.

“Xavier,” you gasp, oversensitive and full.

“Mmm.” He kisses your shoulder again, hips rolling once more, keeping himself nestled deep inside. “I like this. Feeling you around me. Feeling how full you are with me.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you groan, but the words come out fond, cracked with leftover pleasure.

He hums in agreement, face buried in your hair, hand sliding up your side to cup your breast, his thumb brushing lazily over your nipple. His hips thrust forward again, and you can’t help but whimper at the sensation of his cock stirring inside you, hardening again.

“I may have been overly optimistic about my own self-control after I kissed you tonight Three years of watching you walk into danger and pulling you back out, I thought I will handle kissing you a lot better.”

“And how did that work out for you?”

“Poorly,” he admits, smile clear in his voice. “But I regret nothing.”

He eases out slowly. You both hiss at the loss, at the rush of his cum that follows, leaking down your thighs in thick, warm trails. Before you can complain about the mess he rolls you onto your back, pulls you into his arms, and tucks you against his chest.

“Tomorrow,” he whispers against your forehead, pressing a gentle kiss there, “I will make you coffee the way you like it. I will check your stitches. I will be soft and sweet like the version you saw in that hallucination.”

He tilts your chin up, kissing you slow and tender, the same careful way he first kissed you in the dream.

“But tonight,” he murmurs against your lips, hands already sliding down your body again, “I’m not done with you yet.”

His fingers slip between your legs, gathering the mess of his cum and pushing it back inside your sensitive cunt. You shiver, already aching for more, and realize you don’t mind this version of Xavier at all.

After all, it’s the one you fell in love with.

The one you’ll always love, no matter the other many sides of himself he’ll show you in the future.

They’re all your Xavier. Your partner.

© zaynessbeloved 2025. please don’t copy, repost or translate my works. thank you!

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He didn't cry like a soldier. Not like a Duke. Not like the Commander of Crown's Guard forces. He cried like a man who had waited too long. Like someone who thought he still had time. Like someone who believed happy endings could just be postponed until the war was over.

His hands fisted in the grass. His breath hitched until it turned into sobs that sounded like someone dragging a blade across something already bleeding.

"I thought..." He choked, voice shattering mid word. "I thought it would be alright. That you'd be here." That you'd be waiting. Just like before. He pressed his forehead to the stone, chest heaving. "I was going to come back. I did. I fought, I ended the damn war-"

But the war had already taken you. Quietly. Without a blade. While he'd been spilling blood across foreign soil, you'd been fading. Alone.

"I should've come sooner" His voice broke again. "I should've never left." He cried. "I shouldn't have made that damn arrangement..." He didn't know how long he knelt there. He didn't know how long he cried there.

The moon had risen fully by the time the sobs quieted into a hollow silence, tears drying on his cheeks as he stared at the ground. The grave. The place where the only person he ever truly loved now slept, beyond reach.

The village lights were dim in the distance. And even though no one came near, he knew they heard him. He knew the way grief sounded when it wasn't polite anymore. When it tore out of you, loud, raw and humiliating. When it made you into something that no longer resembled a man. And they heard it.

But they shut their windows. Turned their faces away. Because no one wants to witness the man who once commanded armies. Who was said to be carved from stone, beg the dead for forgiveness.

The wind picked up, brushing through the leaves above like a lullaby too late. He stayed. Until the sky began to pale. Until the world reminded him it still turned. Even if his had stopped.

And when he finally rose, unsteady and broken. The only thing he took with him was a single dried bloom that had sprouted at the base of the stone. He held it in shaking fingers, cradled it like it was your heartbeat. And walked home to the son you left behind.

-

The scent of eggs and toasted bread clung to the quiet.

A pan sizzled lowly on the stovetop, and the kettle gave a faint hiss as it cooled beside him. Caleb stood at the stove, sleeves rolled past his forearms, hands steady even though he had barely slept. He moved with practiced familiarity, not from habit but memory.

The memory of you, in this same kitchen, moving between the cabinets barefoot and humming some half forgotten song. He tried not to look at the empty chair by the hearth. The one that still leaned a little to the left.

Instead, he focused on the task at hand. Cooking. Something simple, something warm. Something that might look like the life he was supposed to have if only for a few hours.

The soft patter of feet across the wooden floor pulled him gently from his thoughts. Ash stood at the threshold of the kitchen, his dark brown hair tousled from sleep, cheeks still creased with the shape of his pillow. There was no greeting. No yawn. No bright eyed curiosity. Just the still, unsettling stare of a child who had seen too much and said too little.

Caleb straightened slightly, brushing a hand down his apron like it mattered. "Morning." He offered, voice low, careful. "You hungry?" The boy said nothing, only moved slowly to the table and climbed into one of the chairs.

Caleb placed a plate in front of him, then one for himself. Eggs, lightly salted. Toast browned just a little too much. A small dish of berries. The ones Ash had picked with his friends in the grove just last week. Caleb had learned that from the headwoman. She doesn't want to tell him anything at first. But grief softened even the hardest lines.

He sat across from his son, watching as the boy stared at the food. "You don't have to eat it." Caleb murmured, trying not to sound nervous. "But I made it the way your mother used to." Ash blinked, then slowly reached for his fork. Still, no words. Just silence. Heavy and pulsing like a second heartbeat between them.

Caleb tried to eat. He managed two bites before the food began to taste like ash. He set the fork down carefully, fingers twitching in his lap. Then he cleared his throat, bracing himself against the chair's edge.

"I was thinking." He said, voice as even as he could make it. "That maybe… you might want to come with me. Back to the duchy." The fork paused halfway to Ash's mouth.

He looked up. Slow, unreadable and stared straight at Caleb with his eyes. "What if I say no?" Caleb met his gaze, trying not to flinch. "Then… I won't force you." He said. "But I wanted you to know the door's open." He added. "I'll stay here with-" Ash leaned back, chewing slowly. Then, quietly. "I'll go."

A rush of something. Relief? Hope? bloomed and then withered just as quickly in Caleb's chest. "But I have a condition." Caleb stilled. "Of course." "I won't call the princess my mother." Ash said flatly. "And I won't treat her like one. My mother is dead. She'll always be my mother."

The words hit like a blade. Caleb swallowed around the sudden tightness in his throat. "You won't have to." He said softly. "She's not- she never was. We were never married. It was a political arrangement. Nothing more." Ash didn't move. Didn't nod. His gaze was cool, distant.

"That's not what everyone else said." "I know." Caleb's voice dropped. "But the truth is... The only person I ever wanted to marry was your mother." There it was again, the flicker of disbelief in Ash's face. Not overt. Just a tightening of the jaw. A downward twitch in his brows.

You used to do that too, when you didn't believe something but were too tired to argue.

"I know it doesn't mean much now." Caleb continued, quieter. "But it's the truth. I never stopped loving her."

Ash didn't reply. He went back to his plate, taking a few more bites in silence. The weight of it. Of not being believed has settled in Caleb's chest like sand. He pushed back from the table after a while. Clearing some of the plates with a mumbled excuse. "I'll just- clean up."

But instead of heading to the kitchen, he headed to the small bathroom at the end of the hall. He shut the door behind him quietly, like if he made a sound, it would crack the fragile truce between them. And then he broke.

Silently, violently, with his back pressed against the door and his hand clenched over his mouth to stifle the sobs. His whole body shook with it.

Not just for the boy outside the door or the wife he never got to call that or the years lost to silence and war. But for the awful question that haunted him now.

Did you believe it? Did you spend your final days thinking he had chosen honor over you? Duty over love? Did you die thinking he let you go willingly?

His knees buckled and he sank to the floor, trembling. "I came back." He whispered, voice raw. "I swear I did. I just... I didn't know how much time I'd lost." He pressed his hand over his mouth again, trying to breathe.

In the other room, his son cleared the table quietly. And Caleb stayed where he was. Not just because he couldn't face him yet. But because he didn't know if he could survive the answer written in Ash's eyes.

-

Caleb didn't ask to join him. He just followed.

Ash didn't say much, didn’t offer directions. But he didn't tell him to go away either and that, in itself, felt like something. So Caleb walked three steps behind his son through the quiet village letting the boy's smaller boots set the rhythm of their day.

They stopped by the well first. Ash helped the older woman who always came too early and left too late, steadying her bucket without being asked. Caleb recognized her vaguely from years ago. She gave him a long, pointed stare but said nothing. The water sloshed once and Ash kept walking.

Next, they passed the small chapel at the edge of the hill. The priest sweeping the steps looked up sharply, paused mid motion and Caleb nodded politely.

Then came the bakery. A boy around Ash's age ran out and handed him a small bag. Ash muttered something too low to hear. Pressed a few coins into his friend's hand and kept walking, tearing off a piece of bread to share and only handing half to Caleb without a word. He accepted it with a quiet. "Thank you." And tried not to let the silence feel like punishment.

They continued down the lane. Caleb couldn't help but feel the stares. Villagers paused in their chores to glance over their shoulders. Conversations softened when he passed. He heard his name whispered once. Not Duke Xia, not the Commander. Just Caleb. The familiarity stung more than the suspicion.

He couldn't blame them. They had known you in ways he hadn't in seasons he had missed. They had watched you walk with swollen ankles and unspoken worry, raise a child with gentle hands and a quiet laugh, all while waiting. While hoping. And he hadn't come.

So now, they looked at him not with fear, or awe, but with something colder. You're too late. Ash didn't seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn't react.

He led Caleb to the riverside where the wildflowers grew. Sat cross legged beneath the tree. Caleb sat beside him, not too close. Just enough to be near. They didn't speak for a while. Just sat in the breeze and watched the water move.

It was peaceful, almost. Or it could have been, if not for the tension lingering in Caleb's chest. The weight of unsaid things, the dread that Ash might never truly forgive him and the deeper, quieter fear that maybe he shouldn't.

But Ash spoke first. "When are we leaving?" Caleb blinked. "Soon." He said. "I sent word to my army days ago. They should be near. Once they arrive and rest, we'll head out." Ash only nodded.

The sun was dipping low when the sound of hooves reached them. The unmistakable beat of trained horses, fast but disciplined. Caleb stood, instinct sharp, eyes scanning the road as familiar banners crested over the hill.

The army had arrived. And at their head rode a man Caleb trusted more than most, his first lieutenant, Sir Ryns, whose armor caught the dying light in silver glints. His expression shifted when he saw Caleb waiting by the road.

"My Lord." Ryns dismounted quickly, bowing once before speaking in a low voice. "We've arrived as ordered. The men are camped near the eastern ridge. We came straight when we received your last raven-" Then his gaze drifted past Caleb.

To the boy standing a little behind him, quiet and watchful. Ryns frowned. His eyes narrowed faintly, curious. "My Lord." He asked cautiously. "Is that…?" Caleb turned slightly. "Yes." He said without hesitation. "This is my son. Ash Xia."

There was a beat of silence. Many of the soldiers exchanged glances. Caleb saw confusion flicker in Ryns' eyes. Ash stood still, his hands in his coat pockets, his face blank but guarded. He looked like he expected the questions, maybe even the judgment.

One of the younger knights finally spoke, hesitant. "My Lord… Forgive me, but... We were told you came to this village to... See her. Is she-?" He didn't finish. The assumption hung in the air. You're alive, aren't you? Caleb's jaw clenched.

Ash looked up at the man and answered before his father could speak. "She's dead."

Silence fell. It wasn't a dramatic thing. There was no gasp, no collective outcry. Just a sharp shift like the wind had suddenly turned too cold. The soldiers' expressions changed. One by one, Caleb saw their eyes fall to him registering the tightness in his shoulders, the hollow in his face.

Only then did they truly see him. Not the Duke. Not the Commander. Just the man who had lost something he'd come too late to claim.

Caleb gave no explanation. There was nothing left to explain. He simply turned to Ryns. "We leave at dawn. Have a carriage prepared, one comfortable for a child. And make sure the escort is discreet. I don't want attention drawn on the road back." Ryns nodded, his voice quieter now. "Yes, my Lord."

The soldiers began to disperse, respectful in their silence. No one dared ask more. Caleb looked down at Ash, who still hadn't moved. For a brief second, their eyes met. Neither of them said a word.

But Caleb saw it. The question buried behind the boy's quiet stare. Why now. And though he couldn't answer it yet, he would spend every day trying to.

-

The carriage rocked gently over the dirt road. Its wheels cutting through the morning hush like a lullaby too tired to sing.

Outside, the house of Xia's banner trailed behind the lead riders. Catching what little breeze the early day allowed. The army rode in disciplined silence. A formation tight enough to shield but respectful enough to keep their distance. No one said anything. No one dared to intrude.

Inside the carriage, Caleb sat across from his son. He hadn't wanted to impose. Had considered assigning Ash a separate space. A smaller, lighter carriage fitted for comfort. But the thought of being even a stone's throw away from his boy made something inside him twist too tightly. So he stayed. And hoped it didn't make things worse.

Ash didn't complain. He didn't talk much either. He sat with his knees tucked close, arms loosely folded, gaze fixed on the passing trees. The morning sun painted his profile in soft gold. His silence wasn't hostile, not exactly. Just… Practiced. Like he'd learned to speak only when the world gave him a reason to.

Caleb watched him in the quiet. Noticed how his shoulders didn't quite relax. How his fingers picked absently at a loose thread in his sleeve. A nervous habit. One Caleb had once had himself.

Halfway through the ride, Ash finally spoke. "What are you going to do when we get there?" Caleb blinked. "To the duchy?" Ash gave a small nod. "Well." Caleb started slowly, choosing his words with care. "The first thing I'm going to do... Is declare you as my son."

Ash's brows lifted a fraction. Not in shock. More like he had expected it eventually, but hadn't thought Caleb would say it so plainly. "And then?" The boy asked, voice quiet. "Then." Caleb exhaled softly. "You'll live your life. However you want to. You'll have a room, a library, land if you want it. But mostly, I just want you to be a child. To grow up safe."

Ash tilted his head. "Don't I need lessons? Or etiquette stuff? Nobility things?" Caleb shook his head gently. "You'll have tutors, yes. But only the basics. No one is going to shove the whole court on your shoulders. I won't let them." He paused. "You've carried enough already."

Ash looked down at his lap. His fingers stilled. "… So I can just live?" "Yes." Caleb said firmly. "That's all I want for you." That's what you'll want for him too.

There was another stretch of silence, broken only by the soft clatter of the carriage wheels. Then Caleb smiled faintly and murmured. "Ash…" But the boy looked up. "Mavius." He corrected, tone neutral. "My name is Mavius Caelum Asher."

Caleb froze. The air left his lungs. He hadn't heard that such familiarity in years. Not since- He blinked once, twice, and looked at the boy more closely. Mavius. Caelum. Asher. "… You named him after her." Caleb whispered.

Ash didn't meet his eyes, just turned to look out the window again. "Yeah." He said, voice distant. "Mama said she named me after someone important. Someone you lost."

Caleb felt his throat tighten. He remembered now. MC, his little sister. Bright eyed, fever sick, too young to go. The necklace he had given you once had belonged to her. You had kept it, even then. Even when things were falling apart. You remembered. Of course you did.

He pressed a hand over his mouth. Told himself no. Not here. Not in front of the boy. But the tears came anyway. Slow and silent. He turned his face to the side, away from Ash, eyes shut tight against the sting.

He had told himself he had no tears left to shed. That he'd mourned enough for a lifetime. But then his son, your son, said that name. The name that came after hers. The grief returned like it had been waiting all along, patient and sharp.

Across from him, Ash said nothing. He didn't reach out. Didn't offer comfort.

He just stared out the window, his profile still and unreadable, as the Duke, the Commander of the Army, the man called a legend in five kingdoms quietly broke beside him.

Outside, the army rode in perfect formation. Inside, a father wept for the love he had lost... And the family he was only now learning how to hold.

-

They stopped in a modest trading town just near the duchy's border. One of the outer territories under Caleb's name, tucked between sloping hills and terraced farmlands. It was quiet but prosperous, the kind of place where news came late but pride came early.

Caleb thought it best to ease the transition here. To soften the sharp edges of what was coming. So he took Ash shopping.

It wasn't extravagant, not in Caleb's eyes. Just enough to ensure Ash had clothing suitable for court, for winter, for meals that didn't happen on wooden benches. But Ash moved through the shops with the same quiet expression he wore on the road. Unbothered, unexcited, composed in a way no child should’ve had to learn so early.

He let the tailor measure him. Nodded when shown fabrics. Said nothing when asked preferences. Caleb finally broke the silence. "I'm sorry." He said, standing beside Ash as a shopkeeper carefully adjusted a collar near the boy's shoulder. "About the suddenness. The change. I know it's a lot."

Ash didn't look at him, but his voice came out flat. "I'm used to change." Caleb's mouth went dry. He tried again. "I used to come here with your mother." He said quietly. "Before the war. Before… before the agreement. It was one of the few places we could go without anyone recognizing me." Ash blinked. Finally turned his head a little, just enough for Caleb to see him.

"She liked the old bookshop two streets down." Caleb added. "Used to complain that they never dusted the top shelves, then spend hours there anyway. I once had to drag her out with her hands and a whole bag of books she swore she'd return." He gave a soft, nostalgic chuckle. "She didn't."

Ash looked at him now, fully, and though his expression remained guarded, he asked. "Did she laugh a lot?" Caleb's breath caught. "She did." He said. "Gods, she did." And so he kept talking.

As they moved through the square and stopped by the cobbler and then a modest jeweler, Caleb told him stories. About the time you nearly got kicked out of a tavern for arguing with a chess hustler. About how you once braided a red ribbon into his hair and threatened to tell the barracks it was tradition if he took it out. About the stolen apples from a merchant's cart, the nights spent beneath a shared blanket, counting stars and whispering names for constellations that never existed.

Ash didn't speak much. But he listened. And for once, Caleb didn't mind the silence. Not when it felt like this, like remembering.

By the time the carriage rolled toward the duchy gates, the sun was beginning to dip behind the tall white towers that stood in the distance. The roads widened. The banners came into view.

And the people. They were waiting. The crowds lined the outer walls, nobles and commoners alike. Some carried flowers, others waved embroidered flags. There were children on shoulders, elders holding lanterns, merchants standing still in the middle of their trade stalls just to catch a glimpse.

Because the hero had returned. Their Duke, their Commander. The man who had come victorious at the war. The man who gain everything, power, status, honour. But he was also the same man who lost everything he had.

Caleb looked straight ahead but he could feel Ash watching him. He didn't wear armor today, but the weight of expectation wrapped tighter than steel ever could. He wondered, faintly, how long it would take before Ash felt it too.

The carriage slowed. Trumpets began to sound. Ash leaned toward the window, just slightly. "… They're here for you." He said, voice unreadable. Caleb looked at him. "No." He replied softly. "They're here for us." Ash didn't answer. But he didn't look away either.

And as the gates opened wide, letting them pass beneath stone arches and golden banners, Caleb let his hand rest. Briefly, gently on his son's shoulder. It wasn't much. But it was a start.

-

The duchy castle was colder than Ash expected.

Grand, yes. Its marble floors and soaring ceilings soaked in light, with chandeliers like frozen stars and banners heavy with heraldry. Every inch of it whispered of history, of victories won by men with unbending spines and names carved into stone. But still, it felt cold.

Caleb, however, moved through it like a man who had shed his armor but not his discipline. He walked with his hand resting lightly on Ash's shoulder, guiding him gently toward the entrance hall before leaving him with Sir Ryns, his most trusted aide.

"I'll be away for a few hours." Caleb murmured to his son. "There's something I need to settle. You'll be safe with him."

Ash didn't argue. He simply nodded and watched him go. Tall, cloaked in command, disappearing into the echoing halls where power liked to gather. Sir Ryns gave a respectful nod. "Shall we?" Ash followed.

In the court council chamber, the temperature was different.

Not the air. The mood. Stiff collars and older men, faces lined not by time but by caution. A place where no voice raised unless it had weight behind it.

Caleb stood at the head of the long table, straight backed, unshaken, in the same travel worn coat he arrived in. He didn't need titles or emblems today. He was the title.

"Mavius Caelum Asher Xia" He said, voice steady. "Is my son. By blood. By name. By will." He didn't smile when he said it. There was no softness in the way he spoke of it, only certainty.

It didn't take long for the murmurs to begin. "My Lord Duke." One of the elder vassals said, clearing his throat like it might buy him courage. "Surely such a proclamation should be delayed until-" "No."

Caleb's eyes didn't waver. "It will be announced before the week ends. The court will bear witness. The documentation will be sealed in my name." "But the boy." Another tried. "He's not been raised in noble society. He may not be-" "He's my son." Caleb said again, this time like it was a weapon.

There was a pause, brief and sharp. "And the mother?" A third man asked, cautious. "Will she be named? Brought forward?" Caleb's jaw tensed. "She died. Years ago." The silence thickened. "Your Grace." Someone dared again. "This decision... May unsettle the houses who've pledged their banners-" "Then let them be unsettled."

The words dropped like stone into still water. "I've served this duchy for years. Given it my youth, my loyalty, my blood. And I have buried every dream I once had for the sake of peace. But not this. I will not bury my son."

He leaned forward slightly, hands braced on the table. "Let me make this simple. I am not here to ask for your approval. I am informing you. As Duke, as Commander, as father, that Mavius Caelum Asher Xia is my heir. You will recognize him. You will show him the respect his name demands. Or you may leave your posts before sundown."

No one spoke after that. There was nothing left to say.

Meanwhile, Ash followed Sir Ryns down a quieter wing of the castle.

"This part of the keep isn't shown to most visitors." The aide said mildly. "But your father asked that you be given access. These halls are his private wing." Ash barely nodded.

He walked slower now, fingertips grazing the stone as if memorizing the shape of it. The rugs here were more worn. The windows opened onto smaller courtyards. It didn't feel like a palace. It felt like someone's home.

They rounded a final corner. And that's when he saw it. At the end of the hallway, tucked quietly across from the Duke's chamber door, hung a portrait. It wasn't regal. It wasn't formal.

You were painted sitting beneath a great blooming tree, one hand resting over your lap, a gentle smile dancing at the corners of your mouth. The sky behind you was warm with color.

Ash stopped. Sir Ryns paused behind him, then gave a small bow. "I'll give you a moment." He stepped away. And Ash stared.

You looked... Alive. Not like the worn memories, not like the soft dreams that blurred at the edges. This was clearer, sharper. He could almost imagine you laughing just out of frame.

And the way the painting was placed, nnot in a public gallery, not in the halls meant to impress but here. Here, where only Caleb would see it every time he passed his chamber.

Ash took one step closer. Then two. And just like that, something broke inside him.

Because all this time, despite everything you told him. Everything you left behind, some small, childish part of him had wondered if it was just a story. If his father had loved you less than duty. Less than legacy.

But this? This was not a thing done out of guilt. This was devotion. Frozen in oil and light.

And just for a moment, he let himself imagine what might've been. You, laughing down these halls. Your hand in his father, watching over him. The warmth of something that wasn't stolen by silence or time.

But it was only a painting now. And Ash? He turned away before the ache could swell too wide.

-

The garden had always been yours.

Even when the rest of the duchy bore the mark of lineage and strategy, marble and bloodline. This garden remained untouched by politics. It was a space you claimed not with words but by presence. By laughter echoing against the ivy. By your barefoot steps on wet grass at dawn. By the scent of jasmine clinging to the folds of your dress when you came in from the evening mist.

Now? It had grown wild in your absence.

The path was nearly swallowed by moss and wandering weeds. The lavender stalks bent heavy from months without pruning. The peonies, once carefully coaxed into bloom by your touch, were wilted. Their heads drooping as though even they were mourning.

Caleb stood beneath the worn stone archway, the sky already softening into late dusk. A breeze passed through, stirring the overgrown hedges, sending petals drifting onto the stones.

He didn't step forward just yet. Because there, between the tangled hedges and forgotten rosebushes, was Ash.

The boy moved slowly, quietly, his small hands brushing against leaf and bloom with an odd reverence. As if, instinctively, he knew this garden had once meant something. As if he could sense that someone, you, had once walked here every morning, humming softly to yourself, hands filled with shears, ribbon and soft flower threads you tucked into your hair.

Caleb swallowed hard. He couldn't bring himself to speak. He just watched, hand tightening around the edge of the pillar beside him, eyes following every movement like they were watching a ghost retrace your steps.

Ash crouched down near the base of the old stone bench. The very one where you had once curled beside Caleb with a worn book in hand. You always fell asleep midway through your stories, cheek pressed to his shoulder, your words slurring into nothing, warm breath fogging the pages.

It hurt. Gods, it hurt.

Caleb's throat ached from how tightly he clenched it. He hadn't stepped foot in this garden since the war began. It had been years. He had ridden out with armor and banners and men at his back, chasing glory that never filled the hollow parts of him. He never came back. Not until now. Not until everything else had already been lost.

How many things had he missed?

His son's first cry. His first steps. The first time he scraped his knee. The way he might have tugged at your sleeve and asked about the stars. The way you might have lit a lantern when he had nightmares, pulled him into your arms and told him stories about a man named Caleb, far away, fighting for peace.

Did you tell him you loved him for the both of you? Did you tell him he was worth all the waiting?

The wind stirred again. Ash turned his face toward the breeze and closed his eyes. The exact same way you once did. Caleb's heart broke in a quiet, restrained kind of way. No dramatics. Just pressure. Like something cracked deep in his chest and kept splintering.

He stepped forward. Ash opened his eyes at the sound of boots brushing against gravel but didn't turn. Just kept staring out over the garden. Caleb stopped beside him. "I used to come here with your mother." He said, voice low, almost too rough. "She always said this garden looked better wild."

Ash tilted his head. "She came here a lot?" Caleb nodded. "Every day. Before everything. She would talk to the plants. She hated when the gardeners trimmed too much. Said flowers should be allowed to reach for whatever they wanted."

Ash didn't respond. Just reached down and picked up a fallen peony petal, curling it between his fingers. The boy didn't speak for a long time. Then, softly. "Mother told me you were a hero." Caleb swallowed.

"Mother told me stories about you." Ash continued, fingers tracing a small blooming flower. "Said you were brave. That you were fighting for everyone, not just us. But some nights… I think she cried when she thought I was asleep." Caleb closed his eyes. "I'm sorry." He said. "For not being there. For not coming home sooner. For… Everything."

Ash looked down at the petal in his palm. Caleb crouched down beside him, fingers trembling as he rested a hand over Ash's shoulder, tentative, unsure. "I don't deserve forgiveness." He whispered. "But I want to try. For you. For her."

Ash finally looked at him. And for the first time, there was something softer in his eyes. A recognition. Maybe even… A beginning.

They stayed like that for a while, father and son, in a garden left wild by grief and time. And near them, the first bloom of the flower unfolded. Quiet, patient and unafraid to reach.

-

The halls of the duchy were quiet that night, save for the faint sound of torches flickering against the stone walls. The air held a kind of stillness that only came before something irreversible. Not quite dread, not quite anticipation. Just the soft weight of change, gathering like fog on the edge of dawn.

Caleb stood just outside Ash's door, hand hovering over the latch. He told himself to walk away. Let the boy sleep. Let him have the only peace he could offer before the court tried to take it away. But his hand moved anyway.

The room was dimly lit. A candle flickered low on the desk, half melted wax trailing down its base. The boy was curled on his side beneath a heavy quilt, not asleep. Just staring toward the window, as if the stars outside had something more comforting to say than Caleb ever could.

Caleb stepped in and closed the door behind him. "Can't sleep?" He asked softly. Ash didn't turn but his small voice broke the silence. "Too much noise in my head." Caleb pulled a chair close to the bed and sat with a quiet exhale. "I know the feeling."

They sat in silence for a while, just the two of them, the gap between their pasts too wide to be bridged with words. But Caleb was learning that closeness sometimes started like this, not with conversation but with presence. With showing up and staying put.

Ash shifted slightly under the covers. "I don't know how to do any of this." He murmured. "You don't have to." Caleb replied. "Not yet. You just have to be yourself." Ash's brow furrowed. "That's not what everyone else expects, is it?" Caleb smiled faintly. "I stopped caring what they expect a long time ago."

Ash didn't respond to that. Instead, after a beat, he asked. "Do you think mother be proud of me?" Caleb's heart clenched. He reached over, gently brushing a bit of hair from Ash's forehead. "She'd be proud of you for waking up in the morning. For breathing. For surviving." His voice faltered. "She'd be proud of how brave you've been."

Ash looked at him then, eyes shinier than before and with some hesitation. "Are you proud of me?" "I've only known you for a short while." Caleb said, voice rough. "But yes. Every single day, I'm proud of you. And I wish I could've been there sooner to say it."

The boy blinked and turned his face away. But not before Caleb saw the wetness in his eyes. "You're not alone anymore." Caleb added gently. "I'm here. I'll always be here." And for once, Ash didn't pull away when Caleb tucked the blanket tighter around him.

The next morning came with ceremony.

The great hall was transformed into something out of legend. Tall banners unfurled from the rafters, tapestries lined the walls with the crest of House Xia. Black and purple, the colors of night and their eyes. Every noble family of note stood waiting, their formalwear glittering, their expressions carefully controlled.

Caleb stood at the head of it all. The Duke, Commander, war hero returned from the frontlines after uniting the warring kingdoms, take back some throne for the right ruler to lead. All for the sake of peace. And beside him stood Ash.

He wore a suit cut to fit, his brown dark hair brushed neatly though his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. Caleb placed a steady hand on his shoulder. And stepped forward.

"My people." He began, voice resonant through the hall. "I have led you through war. I have fought beside you, bled for your families, and returned peace to this land not through conquest, but through righteousness." Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

"But I come before you not as a hero." He continued, eyes sweeping across the nobility. "I come as a father." The air shifted, tense, expectant. "I stand here today to name my son. The heir of House Xia. The rightful child of my blood." Gasps whispered down the aisle, hushed disbelief tugging at curious glances.

"He was raised far from the court." Caleb said, lifting his chin. "But not from love. His mother, though not of noble birth, bore the heart of a saint. She raised him with strength, compassion and grace. His name is Mavius Caelum Asher Xia, my son and my legacy."

There was silence. Then applause. Hesitant at first, then thunderous. But even as they clapped, the nobles whispered behind fans and under breath. A commoner. Was he conceived before the war? How could the Duke hide such a thing? Who was the mother? Was it that village woman from the old rumors? Caleb heard it. He always did.

"My Lord." One older vassal began. He must have missed the first meeting. "We mean no disrespect. But surely the title of heir must pass through... Clearer channels. The duchy-"

"Will be inherited by my son." Caleb interrupted. His voice cut cleanly through the chamber. "Not because of his blood, but because of what he represents. He is my future. That is not up for debate."

Another tried. "But his mother-" "Will not be spoken of with anything less than honor." Caleb said, tone sharper now. "She gave her life raising him. She gave me a reason to come back. If you cannot speak of her with respect, then you do not deserve to speak at all." That silenced them.

And in the shadow of his words, no one dared challenge him again.

That night, Caleb sat in his chambers. The old box you left him still untouched on the bedside table.

Ash had long since gone to bed. But Caleb sat quietly, the moonlight pooling across the desk, and whispered your name like a prayer.

"I'm doing my best." He murmured. "I don't know if it's enough. But he's here. He's safe. And I won't let him face this world alone."

The box remained closed. Not yet. He wasn't ready to open the past. Not until he could face it with something steadier in his chest than grief.

-

The duchy was never silent, not even in the early hours.

There was always movement. The shuffle of boots on stone, the hum of court gossip, the rustle of silks as nobility drifted through the corridors like ghosts dressed in gold.

But within one particular wing of the castle, one newly opened after years of being shut. There was a kind of hush that wasn't born of reverence, but of adjustment.

Ash sat stiffly at the edge of the chair, back too straight as though posture alone could hold him upright through this.

The tailor buzzed around him, muttering about hem lengths and shoulder seams, fussing over measurements like his thread held the fabric of the kingdom.

Caleb stood near the door, arms crossed loosely, a patient look on his face. Ash caught him watching. "I can do this alone." He muttered. Caleb only shrugged. "I know." "Then why are you still here?" A soft smile makes its way on Caleb's lips. "Because I want to be."

Ash didn't answer, just looked down as the tailor moved to adjust a sleeve. It was like that most days. Stiff, clipped responses. Ash kept his emotions guarded. His trust locked behind layers of survival. But Caleb didn't push. He stayed.

He was there in the mornings, walking Ash through the halls and introducing him to the staff. He was there at meals, quietly explaining noble etiquette while pretending not to notice when Ash refused to use the proper cutlery out of spite.

He was there during riding lessons. Though Ash already knew how to ride. You had taught him, after all. But Caleb still showed up, still walked beside the horse, still held the reins steady when the stallion bucked just slightly.

Ash never said thank you. But he didn't push him away either. That was enough.

At night, they played chess by the fire.

Caleb let Ash win the first few games. After that, he didn't need to. "You're holding back." Ash said during one match, brow furrowed. Caleb smirked. "Am I?"

"I'm not a child." "No." Caleb said, moving a rook. "You're my son." Ash stared at the board. "You don't know me." "I'm trying to." Caleb replied gently.

For a moment, Ash didn't move. Then he said, quietly. "You missed a lot." Caleb nodded. "I did." Ash made his move. "Why didn't you come sooner?" The words were like flint, soft but capable of sparking every buried grief between them.

Caleb met his gaze. "Because I thought I'd have time." Ash didn't look away. "You didn't." "No." Caleb's voice was barely above a whisper. "I didn't."

Ash stared at him a moment longer. Then, finally, looked back down at the board. "Your move."

-

It was small things, after that.

Ash asking him to join for tea in the afternoons. Caleb fixing the saddle on Ash's horse without being asked. Ash staying just a little longer at the dining table instead of retreating to his room. Caleb brushing his hand over Ash's shoulder when they passed in the hall, the way fathers do without thinking.

They didn't speak of love. Not yet. But it was there, beneath the silences. The kind that didn't need words, only time.

-

The snow had fallen without mercy that night.

Pale and soundless, it coated the roofs of the duchy and swept down the narrow roads like a silken veil. It blurred the horizon until the world outside the windows looked like something imagined. Soft, distant, dreamless.

But inside the west wing, there was no dream. Only fever. And the ragged breathing of a child calling out for someone who would never come.

Ash had not been well for days.

What began as a stubborn cold had twisted into a high, searing fever that clung to him like a curse. The court physicians had done all they could. Steam, broths, tinctures too bitter to keep down. But Ash fought them. Resisted, pushed away hands trying to help.

He was crying again. "Mama..." The boy whimpered, thrashing under the heavy blankets, eyes glassy and faraway. "Where's Mama…?" And then. "I want to go home..."

The servants wept quietly in the hallway. They didn't know which home the young lord meant. Be it the one made of wood and warmth tucked at the edge of the forest or the one now buried beneath the tree near the river side. Either way, neither could be returned to.

The physician knelt helplessly beside the bed. "He won't take the medicine." He muttered. "He won't-"

The door slammed open. Boot steps thundered against the stone floor. The Duke had returned.

Caleb didn't say a word as he stormed into the room, frost clinging to the edges of his cloak. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. His hands were still red from the reins, his shoulders dusted with snow. But none of it mattered.

Because his son was screaming for someone who couldn't answer.

"Mama-!" Caleb's heart twisted so violently he thought it might finally split in half. "I'm here." He breathed, crossing the room in a heartbeat. "Ash. I'm here."

But Ash didn't see him or if he did, he didn't recognize him. He was somewhere else. Somewhere safer. Somewhere warmer, where your arms still waited and your voice still sang.

The boy's body shook with sobs. "Please- I want Mama- I want- her-" Caleb sat on the bed and pulled Ash into his arms. The boy didn't resist. He clung. Like drowning. And Caleb, for once, didn't know what to do.

He held him tighter, rocking him gently as the boy cried and gasped and called for the one person neither of them could return to.

The physician hesitated. "Your Grace, the medi-" Caleb reached out, took the cup, and held it to his son's lips. Ash turned his head away violently, a sound breaking in his throat like a wounded animal. He trembled, gasped, cried. "No- no- no-"

So Caleb pressed his forehead to Ash's temple. "You want her." He whispered, voice cracking. "I know. I know." His eyes stung. He bit back the tears, but they came anyway, hot, silent and furious. "I want her too."

The boy hiccupped still half in delirium. "I miss her so much." Caleb whispered. "Every day. Every breath. You might not remember it, but I know she used to hum when you couldn't sleep. I know she'll kissed your forehead when you had bad dreams. I know she carry you when you wouldn't stop crying. I know she loved you more than the stars, Ash. She would've fought the gods themselves for you."

Caleb paused. Swallowed. "But I'm here now. And I won't let you go. Please- Let me stay. Let me take care of you. For her. For you. For us."

Ash whimpered. Then slowly like something inside him recognized the grief in that voice, he opened his lips. Caleb raised the cup. Ash drank. Not all of it. Not without difficulty. But enough.

The boy collapsed against him after, exhausted. And Caleb held him through it, through the shallow breaths and the sweat and the half conscious murmurs that still whispered for you.

He brushed the damp hair back from Ash's forehead. Kissed his brow. Wiped away the tears neither of them knew how to stop.

Outside, the snow kept falling. Inside, time stood still.

Later that night, long after Ash had fallen into a fevered sleep, Caleb remained by the bed, hunched forward with elbows on his knees, your son's small hand still wrapped tightly around his finger.

He stared into the fire, eyes hollow. "I should’ve come sooner." He whispered to no one. To you. To the silence. "I should've given it all up. Just for one more year. Just to hold him like this, while you were still here."

The flames didn't answer. But your presence was everywhere. In the scarf folded on the nightstand, the lullaby Ash had murmured before sleep, the faint scent of lilies that lingered on the Ash's blanket.

You were gone. But you were in everything. He looked at the sleeping boy. Pale. Fragile. He was all that remained of you. And he was everything.

-

The fever had passed.

Ash was on the mend, stronger with each passing day, the heat of illness gone from his skin, the distant haze fading from his eyes. But the space between him and Caleb remained quiet, still slightly tense. Not cold. Just… Uncertain.

Ash didn't avoid him anymore. He no longer pulled away when Caleb adjusted his blanket or sat beside him during meals. But neither did he reach out. Not yet. There were no arguments. But no real conversations, either. Not about the things that mattered. Not about her.

He didn't hate his father. He kept telling himself that. But sometimes, when the shadows settled in just right, he remembered the years spent wondering why the door never opened. Why the man in his mother's stories never arrived.

It was easier to pretend he didn't care. Harder to accept that he did.

So one afternoon, while the palace was caught in the lull between meetings and duties and Caleb was tucked somewhere in council, Ash wandered.

Down the halls echoing with memories he wasn't part of. Past portraits he didn't recognize. Through rooms filled with polished furniture and untouched heirlooms. Until he found the door. It wasn't locked.

Not his father's main office, no. This was smaller. Tucked away behind a quiet hallway near the west tower. A study, maybe. Or something older. He hesitated, hand on the latch. Then pushed it open.

The room smelled of aged parchment and cedar wood, soft and worn. Bookshelves lined the walls, dustier than they should be. A map of the old provinces lay unfurled on a desk, corners curled from time. And on the far wall. A painting. He froze.

You, his mother and Caleb. Young. Laughing. Radiant. Your hands in his. His arm around your shoulders, a look on his face that Ash didn't think he'd ever seen in person. You were smiling at him in that painting. And Caleb. His father wasn't looking at the artist at all. He was only looking at you.

Ash stepped closer. His heart beat too fast. Beneath the painting, there were boxes. Not marked. Not sealed. He knelt, fingers trembling slightly, and opened the first one. Letters.

His breath caught. Dozens of them. Some torn at the edges. Some ink-smudged. Some wrinkled as if they'd been carried in the rain. He unfolded the top one.

At the same time. The west wing was quiet. Quieter than the rest of the castle.

Even the wind seemed to hush as it pressed against the high windows, like it, too, knew not to disturb what lay behind that half opened door.

Caleb hadn't been in that room for years. Not since before the war. Not since before everything unraveled and was never stitched back together again. It was a personal room, not the Duke's office, not the public study. It was a room only he had reason to enter.

And now, the door was open. And the silence inside was not the silence of emptiness. It was a silence full of grief. He pushed it open slowly.

Ash sat on the wooden floor, legs tucked beneath him, small fingers curled around a sheet of yellowing paper. Around him lay scattered envelopes, some torn open, some still sealed. The box that once held them had tipped onto its side.

The boy didn't look up. Not even when Caleb stepped fully into the room. Ash's voice was small when he finally spoke.

"You wrote her." Caleb's chest tightened. "I didn't know you ever did." Ash's eyes were red, but dry now. His throat worked as he swallowed. He glanced down again and began reading aloud voice trembling, fragile.

I still see you in my sleep. I wake up thinking I'm back at the old tree, and you're lying beside me with grass in your hair. I reach out, and you're never there. That's how I start my mornings now.

Ash picked up another.

They tell me to forget. They tell me duty matters more than anything. But if they saw you, just once, they'd know why I couldn't.

Caleb froze in place, unable to move, unable to speak. Ash kept going.

I heard rumors you had gone south. I spent a week riding with no name, no insignia. I searched every village. Every market. Nothing. No trace of you. I started to think you were a ghost, sent to haunt me just long enough to remember what love felt like.

Another.

I'm sorry I left you behind. But I would make it right. After the war I'll find a way back to you. I know we had more time ahead of us.

Ash's voice cracked. He reached for another. And paused. This one had your name on the front. Just your name, in Caleb's slanted, uneven script like he had written it in a moment of weakness and haste. He opened it, carefully. His voice dropped. Ash's hands trembled.

I know I wasn't enough. I couldn't protect you. I couldn't choose you. But gods, if I could turn back time, if I could see you one last time… I would give away this title, this honour just to hear you laugh again. To hold you. To say goodbye properly.

The letter slipped from Ash's fingers. And when he finally looked up, his eyes were brimming.

"You didn't know about me." He whispered. "You didn't know I exist." Caleb finally found his voice. "No." He said softly. "I didn't." Ash nodded slowly.

Then like the dam finally cracked, the tears spilled over, full and messy and childlike.

"But why didn't you try harder?! Why didn’t you come sooner?!" He shouted suddenly, voice breaking. "She waited for you! She told me you'll come back! Every year she said it, every year! And then she got sick! And you weren't there! She said you were a good man! She said you'd come back! But you never did! You never came!"

Caleb stepped forward, kneeling down, hands open. "I didn't know-" "You should've!" Ash cried. "She believed in you! And I did too! And you weren't there when she died! She died! She died before you came! And I was alone! I was- I didn't know what to do-!"

He hit him then, small fists pounding against his father's chest. Caleb didn't stop him. "She said you loved us." Ash sobbed. "She said you loved her! And I kept waiting and you never came!" "I'm sorry." Caleb said, voice hoarse. "I'm so sorry."

Ash's fists slowed. His little body trembled with the weight of grief he shouldn't have had to carry alone. Caleb wrapped his arms around him gently. "Everyone told me stories - stories about you- about how you married someone else- that you forgot us- and I didn't know what to believe-! I hated you- I hated you so much-"

Ash finally crumpled against him, the fight falling out of him all at once. "She always said you'd come back." He hiccupped. "I kept believing. I waited. I really… I really did." "I'm sorry." He whispered into his son's hair. "I'm so, so sorry."

"I wrote to her because I didn't know where to go." He whispered. "Every letter was a prayer. Every day I thought I could find her, I thought- gods, I thought I had time. I thought once the war ended-" He couldn't finish.

"I missed your whole life." He choked. "I missed everything." Ash hiccupped against his chest. "She always told me stories about you." Ash whispered. "She said you'd come back. That you were brave. That you had a good heart. But sometimes... I didn't believe her. I thought she was lying. I thought you'd left us."

"I didn't know I had a son." Caleb whispered. "But I knew I had a reason to live. I just didn't know it was you." Ash pulled back slightly, looking at him. "Do you still love her?" "I always will." Caleb said.

Ash hesitated. Then, in a tiny voice, asked. "Can I call you Dad?" Caleb's breath caught. He nodded, one slow, shaking nod. "Yes." He whispered. "Yes. Please." And Ash, still sniffling, wrapped his arms around his father.

"I don't hate you anymore." Ash said. "And I forgive you." He said quietly. "But you have to promise to stay this time." "I will." Caleb said burying his face in his son's hair. "I swear. I won't lose you too."

-

Time had softened the ache, but never erased it.

Years passed, as they do in places built from stone and silence. The Xia Duchy become prosperous from war given the fact that they played a big role taking the princess side who was now the queen of her own kingdom. It was rebuilt beneath its people's pride and their Duke's stern discipline.

And through it all, Caleb ruled with the quiet steadiness he had always been known for. Colder now, more distant perhaps, but respected without question. And beside him, his son.

Mavius Caelum Asher Xia, now older, sharper, taller than before. He had moved through the estate like someone born to its halls yet always with a piece of himself withheld. He was polite in court. Composed in lessons. Exceptionally bright in every diplomatic event or noble function Caleb took him to.

But he smiled less than most boys his age. And he trusted even fewer. His heart, after all, had already broken once. And while it had learned to beat again, it remembered. Always.

Caleb tried not to think about how many nights he had missed. How many birthdays, how many mornings, how many firsts. But in the years since he had brought Ash home, he had never spent another one away. He did not plan to.

Ash had become his world now and every day Caleb tried to become the kind of father you would have wanted him to be.

But grief did not stop time. And time did not stop society.

It started with a letter. Then a visit. Then three more. Ladies, noble blooded, marriageable, politically useful arriving with simpering smiles and folded hands, trailing daughters as carefully dressed as they were clearly rehearsed. They came with tea and embroidery, cloaks lined with lace and intention.

Each one mentioned Ash with practiced warmth, with concern, with a motherly tone none of them had earned.

And Caleb? Caleb refused them before they finished speaking. "I am not looking for a wife." He said coldly, every time. "But my daughter-" "Is not her." He cut in once. And that was the end of that conversation.

But then came the bold ones. The ones who sought out Ash. In the garden. In the stables. Near the training fields. With carefully measured smiles and low voices.

Once, a lady bent to place a hand on Ash’s shoulder and said softly. "You must be so lonely without a woman's care. A boy needs a mother to-" "I had one." Ash said flatly, stepping away. "She died. I don't need a replacement." And he walked off, back straight, face unreadable.

Another tried to invite him for tea. Brought a cake she claimed to have made herself. Ash took one look at it, smiled politely and handed it to the kitchen staff without taking a bite. "Looks heavy." He said. "Just like your expectations." The staff nearly choked on their breath.

By the time he was thirteen, word had gotten around the court. Mavius Caelum Asher Xia, the heir of the Duke was not a boy easily charmed. And if you approached him with pity, manipulation or anything less than honesty, you were going to walk away very embarrassed.

Once, someone tried it in front of Caleb. A highborn woman, twice widowed, always circling. Had the nerve to say. "Ash is such a thoughtful child. I've always dreamed of being a mother to a boy like that." Ash glanced up from his book. "You dream too much."

The silence was palpable. Caleb didn't hide his smirk. Didn't wven try to hide his chuckle.

Later that evening, in the privacy of the Duke's study, Caleb leaned back in his chair and looked over at Ash, who sat curled up in one of the armchairs reading. "You know." Caleb said mildly. "There are more diplomatic ways to discourage suitors."

Ash didn't look up. "You want me to stop?" "No." Caleb said. "Just wondering if you took more after me or your mother." Ash shrugged. "I take after her." "Clearly." There was a beat. Then Caleb added, quieter. "She would've liked that."

Ash looked up. For a long moment, they just looked at each other. Then Ash said softly. "Do you miss her even now?" "Every day." Ash set his book down, carefully.

"I don't want another mother." He said. "No one could be her." "I know." "Some of them think they can just… smile their way in. Like she didn't matter. Like they can take her place." "They can't." Caleb said. "And I won't let them."

Ash tilted his head. "Even if it helps the court? Even if people say it would be good for your image?" "I've never cared much for appearances." Caleb said, smiling faintly. "I let them say what they want."

"Even if it hurts your reputation?" "Even then." Caleb said. "Because you're my son, our son and has more sense than the entire court combined."

Ash blinked, not used to compliments. He looked away, pretending to read again. But Caleb could see the smallest twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. That was enough.

And that night, as they passed each other in the hallway. Ash heading to his room, Caleb to his study and the boy, his boy paused, turned slightly, and mumbled. "I think she would've liked you now." Then he disappeared behind the door before Caleb could say a word.

-

The halls of the duchy were once again filled with light.

Banners fluttered from balconies and carved archways, catching the late spring breeze that danced through stone colonnades and across the open courtyard.

Servants moved briskly. Nobles arrived in their finest. And in the grand ballroom where years ago Caleb had once stood beneath a crown of duty, the people now stood for a different Duke. A younger one. One born of quiet strength and hidden roots. Of love, not arrangement.

Ash stood at the center of it all. Tall, sure footed, his features a blend of both memory and legacy. Dressed in a deep indigo regalia stitched with silver thread, he wore the weight of his title like it had always belonged to him.

But today was not just about ascension. It was also about love.

Because standing beside Ash, hands clasped in his, was a young woman in a simple cream gown. No crown, no courtly title, only a soft look in her eyes that said she saw him not for his name but for the boy who once cried for his mother in fevered dreams.

She was from the duchy. Not noble, not titled. Just kind. Clever. A girl with ink stained hands and warm laughter who had met Ash under an apricot tree, the one Caleb planted all those years ago, with you. And argued with him over books, not bloodlines. And somehow, she became his future.

From a distance, hidden in the far end of the courtyard, away from the clamor. Caleb watched it unfold. He stood in shadow, still in his formal clothing but without the heavy cape. Age had crept into his bones more fully now, silver threading through his dark brown hair like early frost. His posture remained dignified, but there was a weight in his gaze.

The quiet ache of a man who had spent his life carrying the consequence of choices.

But in his eyes… There was peace. Because Ash had done it. He had broken the cycle. He had chosen love. And Caleb, though it cost him years and memories and the warmth of you beside him was here to see it.

When the crowd erupted in cheers and the lovers were announced, Ash looked up. Searched the courtyard. And found him. Their eyes met. Ash smiled. So did Caleb.

Later, after the festivities had dimmed and guests wandered off into courtyards and wine drunk laughter, Ash found his father standing beneath the veranda near the old marble fountain. The air smelled of roses and old stone. His footsteps were soft.

"You're not staying the night." Ash said gently, already knowing the answer. Caleb smiled faintly, not turning. "No." "You really are going back to the village, father?" "That's always been the plan." Caleb said, looking out at the stars. "I kept a promise, once. That I'd live simply. Return to the roots where it all began. It's time I kept it."

Ash looked at him, expression unreadable. "And you're fine with that? Leaving all this?" "All this." Caleb echoed, gesturing around. "Was never mine to keep. It was only ever a placeholder for something I lost. Now… Now, it belongs to someone who still believes in it."

Ash was quiet. Then, quietly. "Will you be lonely?" Caleb turned, finally. "Not if you come visit once in a while." Ash's face softened. "I will." Caleb reached forward and fixed the clasp on Ash's cloak. The way you used to do for him. He stepped back. Nodded.

"You look just like her when you smile." Caleb murmured. "But you live better than I ever did. I'm proud of you." Ash swallowed hard. "She would've been too." They stood in silence a moment longer.

Then as Ash was called back to the celebration, he gave his father one final look, half smile breaking the serious line of his jaw. "Don't forget to water the tree." He said dryly. Caleb chuckled. "Brat." "Old man."

They parted with quiet hearts and full ones. And as Caleb left the duchy that night, cloak fluttering behind him in the wind, he felt for the first time in years. Like he was going home.

-

The house stood at the edge of the forest, just beyond where the village road curved and gave way to thickets of pine and soft grass. It hadn't changed much.

Still weather worn, still crooked in the corners, but sturdier now. As though someone had seen the cracks and mended them with care. The roof no longer sagged. The fireplace, though cold, was clean. The porch steps creaked less than they used to.

Caleb stood at the doorway for a long time, hand on the wooden frame, just... Stare. He had brought little with him. A trunk of clothes. A satchel of books. A few mementos he never quite had the strength to throw away. But most importantly, he brought the box, that box. Still sealed, still untouched after all these years.

He didn't open it yet. He didn't feel ready. He set it on the table where you once used to leave wildflowers in a chipped vase. For now, that was enough.

The village welcomed him quietly. They nodded, offered faint smiles, and went on with their lives. They knew who he was. What he had lost. What he was trying, quietly, to remember.

Caleb spent most mornings walking. Sometimes to the baker, who remembered still sell the kind of bread that you like. Sometimes to the tailor, who once helped stitch Ash's baby clothes. He didn't speak much but his presence was never unwelcome.

In the afternoons, he wandered down the path to the river, the same way you used to. The tree was still there, that same old tree, roots like fingers pressed into the dirt, still standing guard over the world the two of you had tried to build.

He would sit beneath it, right next to your tombstone as if siting right next to you for hours. Watching the way the sun reflected on the water. Listening to the breeze as it rustled the leaves. It was quiet, peaceful. The kind of quiet he used to hate when he was younger.

Now, he craved it. Because in that stillness, you lived again. He saw you in the way the river curved around the stones. In the way the light filtered through the canopy, golden and soft.

In the echo of children laughing in the distance. The same way Ash once did, toddling across these fields before either of them knew his name.

Sometimes, he would hum. A tune only you would remember. The one you used to sing when you were cleaning or when you danced barefoot by the firelight, coaxing him to join you even when he said he couldn't dance.

Caleb never responded to those memories with words. He just closed his eyes. Let them hurt. Let them stay.

Each night, he would return to the house, make tea the way you used to and sit by the window and write. Not letters, he had written too many. It was just thoughts now. Notes. Fragments. Pieces of love, tucked between lines of grief.

He wasn't waiting anymore. He wasn't chasing anything. But every now and then, he'd glance at the box on the table. The one filled with your handwriting. Your last truths.

And he would wonder if maybe, tomorrow, he would be brave enough to open it. Just not tonight.

Tonight, he would light the lamp. Pour another cup. Sit by the fire. And remember you as you were. Laughing, brilliant, alive in the only place you ever truly belonged.

Home. With him.

-

The fire had dimmed to embers.

Caleb Xia sat in the worn wooden chair by the window. The same one you used to claim on restless nights, knees tucked to your chest, voice soft with laughter. The air was still, the kind of stillness that only comes when life has slowed into memory. Even the wind outside hushed for him, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath.

He had lived many lives in one. Soldier. Commander. Duke. But none of them had ever felt as heavy, or as holy, as being yours. And then, being a father.

The box sat beside him now. Old, weatherworn, the latch loose from travel and time. He had carried it for years, across courts, across time, through years of frostbitten regret. A box he dared not open because some part of him was afraid that once he did, the last thread tethering you to this world would snap.

But now, he was ready. And the lid creaked open.

Your handwriting was the first thing that struck him. Still familiar, still you, the loops and softness of your letters holding time like pressed petals between pages. He read.

Caleb,

If this letter reaches you, maybe I'm gone. Maybe you're back. Maybe you're sitting under our tree again, pretending not to cry. You never did cry easily. Always so composed. Always carrying everything alone.

But I hope you let yourself cry this time.

He smiled faintly, tears already slipping past his lashes. Another letter.

Ash took his first step today. It was clumsy. Beautiful. He fell straight into the garden soil, laughed, and held his hands up to me like he'd just conquered the world.

He looks like you. But when he sleeps, he curls into himself the way I do.

I tell him stories about you. I call you his brave father. The hero who fights so no other child has to lose their home.

And sometimes, when I'm tired and the house is too quiet, I let myself imagine you're just late coming home.

He bowed his head, fingers clutching the edge of the parchment. His shoulders trembled. The words blurred.

Letter after letter, unfolding like spring after too long a winter. Telling stories of scraped knees and lullabies. Of hopes you never voiced out loud. Of a love you never regretted, not even once.

I never blamed you. You must know that. I chose this. I chose to keep him safe. I chose to stay hidden, to keep you from the shame and blood of scandal.

You always said love was dangerous. But I think ours bloomed because of that. It bloomed in the cracks between duty and longing.

It bloomed in silence.

His hand moved to the pendant at his throat. The one that used to be yours. The one he'd found around Ash's neck that day in this village. The moment that changed everything.

If you ever come back here... Tell him I'm sorry. For everything I couldn't be. For every night he cried and I couldn't stop missing you enough to smile.

But remind him, our son, that I loved him. And remind him you loved him too, even before you knew he existed.

I see you in him, Caleb. Every time he looks at me. Every time he stares off like the sky is whispering something only he can hear.

You don't have to carry guilt. Just love. That's what we leave behind, isn't it? What was left to bloom.

Caleb exhaled, long and slow, like his heart had finally been given permission to rest.

What was left to bloom. Yes. That had been Ash. A child born from love that never got to finish saying everything it wanted to. A child raised with stories, not presence. But still full of roots and meaning.

He placed the last letter back in the box. Closed the lid gently.

His eyes drifted toward the window. Beyond it, the tree stood tall. Your tree. Their tree. Our tree. Blossoms just beginning to peek out from its tired branches, defiant against the last bite of cold.

Caleb's breath came slower now. He leaned back in the chair, fingers curled around the box. And there, in the final quiet of early spring, with sunlight pooling at his feet like an old friend, Caleb closed his eyes and let go.

-

Ash arrived just before dawn.

He'd brought fresh bread. He was planning to convince his father to come into the village square for tea. Maybe watch the river again. Maybe talk, like they'd been doing more lately.

But when he stepped inside and saw his father still and peaceful in the chair, the box of letters on his lap, the quiet smile on his face. He knew.

He said nothing at first. Just knelt beside him. Held his hand. Then whispered. "She waited." His voice broke. "And you found her."

-

Outside, the river moved slow and sure. The breeze brushed past the blooming tree with a hush, as if the world itself was bowing.

And in the years to come, when Ash would walk through those woods with his own children, he would point to that house, that tree, and say. "This is where love once bloomed. And this is what came after."

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

Caleb had grown accustomed to your daily visits to the meat shop. Though the space was always a level above freezing, the second you stepped in with your bright smile and rosy cheeks, a warmth would wash over him.

The scent of sweet pea that clung to your skin trailed behind you in an invisible trail, covering the smell of blood, bleach, and cold meat. You would order whatever cut of meat you would be cooking for dinner along with either bacon or sausages that you would use for your breakfast the next day.

Caleb made sure to give you only the freshest bits. He would deliberately wake up early in the morning before the shop opened in order to keep a constant influx of finely sliced bacon and tenderized meats. He couldn’t care less if Mrs. Smith received a pork-chop that was a day away from expiring or if Mister Xander from down the road picked a particularly slimy, brown steak.

No, he could never give you anything other than the best. You lived alone, someone needed to ensure you were eating and reaching the recommended dose of daily nutrients. You were far too delicate for the messiness that came with skinning and prepping your food. He would take care of everything.

When it was around the time you would pop into the shop, Caleb perked up at the familiar sound of the golden bell above the door. He could hear Gideon say his typical greeting he gave to everyone who came in.

Caleb finished packaging the thinly sliced pieces of ham before rinsing his hands with cold water and soap, using a clean towel to wipe his face. When he rounded the corner, his smile fell when he was met with another frequent flyer, Mister Raymond Xander.

“What’s with the long face, son? You don’t have that look when you’re talking with that pretty little dame who lives on Linkon street.”

Caleb grumbled under his breath, reaching for a meat cleaver and whatever piece of meat he could get his hand on. The older man paid no mind to Caleb’s annoyed, monotoned timber.

“Always a pleasure, sir. What can we help you with today? Steak for a third day in a row?”

“Was telling Gideon here that I’m in a particularly good mood, so a nice prime rib will do.”

Gideon could tell that his friend was no longer in a good mood. Your lack of presence and Xander’s comment had the same effect as rubbing salt in a wound. He took over in packaging the cut being requested, conversing with the man on the other side of the counter.

“Did the deal you were talking about last week go through? Can’t imagine what else could’ve put you in such a chipper mood, sir.”

“Bumped into Caleb’s girl on my way here. Literally.”

The cleaver cutting through the air faltered for a second before meeting the piece of lamb. Old man was walking a very fine line.

Caleb had seen how he looked at you, his eyes lingering on the swell of your ass when you leaned over to point at what you wanted. He wasn’t as sneaky as he thought he was. The butcher had caught him multiple times leaning into your personal space, sniffing at your hair with a pleased expression on his swollen face.

The bitter aura radiating off of Caleb wasn’t missed by Gideon. He kept side-eyeing his friend as the old man kept babbling on and on. You weren’t Caleb’s girl, but Gideon knew he had feelings for you. He needed to make sure he paid and left sooner than later otherwise Xander might find himself on the chopping block.

“Shoulda heard the sound she made when I copped a feel of that cute ass.” The old man had the gall to adjust himself over his slacks, a small dent there showing his excitement. He resembled a teenage boy seeing his first pair of boobs. “Wonder what sounds she makes as she’s getting fuc-”

The cleaver Caleb was using met the cutting board with a pronounced thunk, a clean cut left in the wood. Poor lamb chop resembled ground beef by the time he was done with it. Not even the bone could stop the force behind the butcher’s hand. He couldn’t help that he was imagining it was a certain body part of Xander he was chopping up.

Gideon cleared his throat, signaling for the older man to follow him over to the cash register.

The rest of the day was spent with Caleb angrily preparing the customers' orders, the tenderizing mallet used more than usual. He was disappointed when you didn’t show up, but he had a feeling he knew what was the cause of that. That damn pervert had ruined the one thing he looked forward to. The job wasn’t particularly taxing, but getting to see a pretty thing while on the job helped energize him.

Wrapping up a couple slices of bacon in butcher paper, Caleb flipped the open sign that hung on the door to show that they were closed for the day before locking the door behind him. He quickly made his way over to the road that led to your house, the street lamps lighting his way. Your home wasn’t far, but the large acre it took up kept you a bit secluded from everyone else.

When your house was within sight, his steps quickened. Your porch light was on, yet your curtains were already drawn which was odd as you tended to close them right before going to bed. He knocked on the front door, leaning his ear against the spring door to hear the familiar patter of feet.

There was no response, yet a muffled voice yelled from somewhere in the back of the house. Caleb felt his stomach drop as he made his way to your backyard. There he was able to hear your irritated voice.

“I said I’m not interested!”

Caleb remained hidden, only peeking around the corner to find you by the back door, pointing a pistol at Mister Xander who stood with one leg on the first step leading to the back porch. The shakiness of your hand let the butcher know you had never used that thing a day in your life. You most likely only had it as a form of protection, a way to deter someone who had bad intentions.

“Is it cause I’m not that damn butcher that you won’t give me a chance, babygirl? Bet you’d have no issue with him touching those pretty tits, right? Only mad cause it wasn’t him slipping a hand under your dress.”

When you clicked the safety trigger out of place, only then did Xander step away with his hands out before him.

“Have a good night, baby girl. I’ll be seeing you.”

You stayed rooted in place until you could no longer see the old man. Once he was gone, you cried out, locking the door behind you.

Caleb could feel the tips of his ears burning in anger. He had heard rumors surrounding Raymond Xander, but he couldn’t say he believed them as he never thought him capable of chasing after young girls until now. It’s too bad Xander set his eyes on you. You were far out of his league. Too sweet to be tainted by his perverted hands.

Raymond Xander better learn his place or he’ll find himself meeting the Butcher of Skyhaven.

It was impossible to go into town and not look over your shoulder every few minutes. Unfortunately, you’d find Raymond Xander trailing behind you at times, a leering look in his eye and a billow of cigarette smoke coming from his wrinkled lips.

You did the best you could to pretend that everything was normal and that his existence on the streets didn’t bother you. Too bad you’ve always had a hard time hiding your emotions.

“It’s been a few days since you last came to see me, sweetie. What’s got you looking so down?”

Yvonne, the flower shop owner commented as she arranged the flowers you selected for your bouquet meant for your coffee table. Your place had been looking a little gloomy and it was having a bigger effect on your mood than you had first realized.

“Oh-uh, just feeling a little under the weather. I think it must have something to do with the change in weather.”

“Uh-huh, I’m sure.” Yvonne snickered as she aggressively cut the stems of a few roses. “Bet it has something to do with Rascal Raymond. Don’t think he hasn’t been making unnecessary comments around town. The damn pervert’s been saying he’s gonna marry you.”

The wicker basket in your hand creaked under the weight of your fingers as your palm flexed. The old man couldn’t take a hint.

“I doubt you believe anything that comes from his mouth.” You mumbled, avoiding her sympathetic gaze.

“Of course I don’t. I’m just worried about you since you’ve stayed holed up at your place. You’re a bit secluded from other homes and to be honest, I worry for your safety. Maybe…maybe it’s time you find yourself a man or get a guard dog I don’t know.”

You gave an awkward laugh, taking the bouquet being handed to you.

“I don’t think I have the strength to stop an attacking Doberman. God forbid it goes after an innocent person.”

“True.” Looking past the glass windows and onto the busy streets, Yvonne gave an inquisitive hum. “Well, seems like the only choice you have is to find yourself a man slash bodyguard since killing Raymond isn’t a legal option. Could always give that butcher a chance. He’s like a puppy dog when it comes to you.”

Your heart fluttered at the thought of Caleb.

He sure was handsome and…large. Xander would be a fool to try anything with the Butcher of Skyhaven around. To be fair, Caleb has never done anything that earned him that nickname. In your eyes, he was a sweet guy who helped old ladies cross the street or carried a struggling mother’s groceries for her as she wrangled her kids into her car.

“I’ll think about it, but I doubt a guy that cute isn’t seeing someone.”

“Well, for the sake of that girl, I hope not cause I’d hate to have a boyfriend who’s making googly eyes at another.”

You said your goodbyes before making your way over to the meat shop. Sneaking a peek, you found Gideon along with a few other workers servicing the customers, but no Caleb. Maybe you should take it as a sign.

“What’s that pout for, baby girl? Sad your little boyfriend ain’t around?”

At the familiar voice, your skin crawled. You ignored him and took off across the street without looking at the incoming traffic. Looks like you’d be having your pasta without chicken tonight.

“That girl is too young for you, Ray. Not to mention, inexperienced with the things you prefer in bed.” The man who accompanied said as he sympathetically watched you scurry away. “You’d be better off finding someone who’s older and knows what she’s doing.”

“That’s what makes it more fun. Can break her in and teach her how to do things the way I like them. She seems like she’s a fast learner. I think I’ll pay her a visit tonight.”

A familiar gruff cadence caught their attention as a figure snuck up behind them with surprising ease for a man his size.

“Gentlemen, you coming in or are you gonna keep harassing an innocent girl?”

The older men turned to find Caleb who carried what looked like a newly packaged meat cleaver along with other sawing tools. The pinch between his brow expressed utter annoyance. Raymond wouldn’t admit it, but his stomach dropped as he realized the butcher may have heard what he had said. Yet he tried to appear unfazed. Who was he to stop him from visiting you?

Raymond’s companion gave a shaky smile, looking up at the younger man.

“Caleb! Not use to seeing you outside of the shop, son.”

“Mister Gregory got a shipment of tools and I needed some new ones. The old instruments were getting too worn down. One swing wasn’t enough to behead the poor chickens. Should’ve heard them.”

The color in the face of the older men drained as Caleb rambled on, describing the way he prepped the poultry they feasted on daily. If one of them only knew that the butcher was explaining what he would be doing to Raymond Xander once he got his hands on him.

“Ah, anyway, I should get inside. Have a pig I have to deal with later on, so I’m closing the shop a little earlier than usual. Why don’t the two of you come on it? Give you a good deal on the steak since I’m in a good mood.”

Though Caleb’s voice didn’t sound cheery at all, Xander pulled his friend along with him as he wasn’t one to pass on a golden opportunity. Tonight, he would have his fill of steak and beer like an inmate on death row before meeting his executioner.

The butcher made sure to give him a fresh T-bone steak. He wanted nothing more than to rub it along the sole of his combat boot, but refrained from doing so as he would enact his revenge before the old man took his final breath.

Raymond kept glancing over his shoulder has he sneaked onto your property. He could feel a sharp gaze watching his every move, but there was no one around. The multiple trees that formed the woods were completely still. There was a lack of breeze and yet a shiver ran up his spine.

Closing in on your home, he peeked through the window that offered an insight into your living room. Though the sheer curtains were pulled shut, he was still able to see the light that filled the room and hear the noise coming from the television.

At what sounded like a pair of feet walking through grass, Raymond looked around. His movements were jittery, almost squirrel-like like with how fast his head turned from side to side. There was no one in sight. Gathering his bearings, he wiped the palms of his hands on his pants before trying to open the window.

It made a loud thunk sound, which made your unconscious body that was lying on the couch jolt slightly in your sleep, but not enough to wake you. The lack of sleep over the last few nights had finally caught up to you.

Figuring the lock on the window was in place, he walked along the side of the house until he reached the back door. Before he could even try turning the knob, a huge gloved hand covered his mouth and nose.

The hand pressed down hard to the point that Raymond’s screams were drowned out in the night, covered by the sound of crickets. His nose was fractured under the amount of pressure which aided in limiting his amount of air. He tried to scream which only created an awful squealing sound as he bucked in the stranger’s hold.

He tried to free himself, but the hold on him refused to budge. Whoever had managed to catch him off guard must be part animal as they easily wrangled him into submission. His vision was blurring. He could feel how his blood pounded in his ears and a burning sensation erupted in his chest, spreading to his throat.

“I told you I had a pig to deal with, didn’t I?”

Raymond’s eyes widened at the gruff voice. Though he couldn’t see him, he knew it was Caleb. It was the damn Butcher of Skyhaven.

When an arm wrapped around his neck and pressed against his throat, Raymond stilled. All the fight he had in him was gone. Tears burned his eyes.

“Should’ve listened when I said to stop harassing an innocent girl.”

Caleb’s movements were quick. With an insane amount of force, he pulled Raymond’s neck out of place, a nasty crack reaching his ears.

At the dead weight, Caleb allowed Raymond’s body to hit the ground. Hidden behind your home, he was able to take his time ensuring the man was dead. No one had seen what had just occurred and the butcher couldn’t be more thrilled.

Settling the limp body across his shoulders, Caleb made his way into the woods and down the hidden path that kept him from being spotted. Living on the opposite side of the forest had its perks.

He worked quickly, using the worn-out tools from the shop he had brought home over the years.

The clothes Raymond wore were thrown into the fireplace Caleb had left lit ahead of time. He was grateful the old man wasn’t carrying any personal items such as his wallet, having left them behind in his home. With no spilled blood and no signs of a struggle, the best they could do was claim Raymond went missing as his belongings at home would indicate he hadn’t skipped town.

Though he wasn’t particularly religious, Caleb remembers his grandmother always mentioning that if the body of someone who has passed isn’t buried completely intact, their souls would linger and never find peace. With the thought in mind, he kept a piece of Raymond as he quickly dismembered him.

It was surprisingly easy for him to dispose of the old man. Mixing pieces that once formed a human being with spare pieces of beef, he was able to create a perfectly normal looking meal for the pigs that belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Everett a few roads over.

With a few hours left until morning, he cleaned up the shack behind his home that had been used. The blood of the older man was lost amongst the faded stains left by the various animals Caleb worked with in the past as well as the cleaning supplies used to disinfect.

A ziplock bag crinkled in his hand as he made his way down to the cellar. In a large icebox, he hid the baggie under the array of packaged meat he kept for his meals.

As he showered, he scrubbed at his skin until it was a soft pink and raw. He scrubbed away at the blood that had slipped under his nails and into the cracks of his skin, replacing the metal tang that clung to him with the scent of his body wash. He would visit you in the morning and he needed to make sure he didn’t look like he went to hell and back. Your sensitive stomach and tender soul would never be able to handle the horror that had occurred in the shack.

With a huge sigh of relief, Caleb settled into his cushiony mattress. Looking at the empty pillow beside his, he pictured waking to the sight of your sleeping face. Your scent would permeate his blankets, soothing him to sleep as he wrapped his arms around you. While he would forget, you’d be oblivious to the organ of the man who had kept you on edge stored in the cellar.

He would play the part he always had when it came to you; the charming love-struck puppy. He would pretend nothing had happened the night before, using the excuse of dropping off slices of bacon you would use for your breakfast.

The knock on the front door startled you as you stood at the stove making your breakfast. Lowering the level of the flame so that you wouldn't return to scorch food, you quickly made your way over to the door. It didn’t sound like one of Raymond’s knocks, but you could never be too careful.

Peeking through the edge of a curtain, your body relaxed as you saw a familiar muscular body. Letting the curtain fall back into place, you hastily tried to smooth out your flyaways and brushed any imaginary dust off of your dress. As another knock echoed out, you pinched your cheeks to achieve a “normal” flush.

Clearing your throat and rubbing your hand over your racing heart, you opened the door, smiling at the sight of Caleb.

“C-Caleb…Hi!” You wanted to face palm at your overly cheery tone, your nerves evident. “What-uh-What brings you here?”

“You haven’t stopped by the shop in a few days so, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t worried about you.” Wrapped in butcher paper and tied with twine, he handed you a package of thinly sliced bacon, just the way you liked it. “Figured you would need some for your breakfast.”

“Oh! Uh…Thank you!”

Taking the pack from his, you could feel your cheeks heat up as your fingers brushed along his.

“W-Would you like to-to join me for breakfast? Unless you’re needed at the shop?”

You were able to see how his purple-colored eyes sparkled as he smiled down at you, accepting your request. He trailed behind you, shutting the two of you away from everyone else in the world.

When it came to you, he saw the world through rose-colored glasses. You looked like a perfect little housewife, fluttering about throughout the kitchen. The simple breakfast you were going to make was metaphorically thrown out the window. Now replaced with a hefty one that would fill the belly of the man in your kitchen; maple and vanilla flavored pancakes were placed neatly onto two plates along with scrambled eggs and crispy bacon.

Caleb could get used to this. He could already picture you barefoot in his kitchen with your belly swollen with his seed.

He was pulled from his thoughts as you gestured for him to follow you to the kitchen table. You giggled at the sight of the six-foot something male settling into the wooden chair, the poor thing squeaking under his weight. For the first time in a long time, you ate your breakfast with gusto. It was nice having someone to chat with as you ate. Before you knew it, your plates were empty, Caleb surprising you by eating the leftovers without flinching.

He was on his second cup of coffee when another knock was heard at the door. It didn’t slip past him as you tensed, your hand shakily placing your cup on the table. He watched as you checked who was there before opening the door.

“Hello?”

It was more of a question, your confusion at the presence of the detectives was evident. Feeling Caleb come up behind you, the anxiety running through your veins settled as he placed his hand on your lower back.

“Can we help you with anything?” Caleb asked.

“This man has been reported missing and we were told he’s been a bit of a nuisance to you, so we wanted to see if you know anything.”

At the photo of Raymond, your brows furrowed. The man hadn’t even crossed your mind.

“Last I saw him, he was with a friend on the streets, b-but he made an unwanted comment so I took off.”

The detectives shared a glance as they nodded. The younger one motioned to Caleb with he jut of his chin.

“What about you?”

“I bumped into him and his friend on my way from Mister Gregory’s, but that’s about it.”

To the detectives, the two of you resembled a couple who had spent the night together. Unbeknown to you, you had played the part of the perfect alibi for the butcher. Any suspicion that would be placed on either of you would be put aside. Taking a few notes on a small notebook, the detectives apologized for intruding before bidding you goodbye.

Softly shutting the door, you took in a breath you didn’t know you had been holding. Your teeth nibbled on your bottom lip, a thousand thoughts running through your mind per minute. Turning around, your watery eyes looked up at Caleb.

“Is-Is it…D-does it make me a ba-bad person if I don’t f-feel sorry for h-him?”

You were already small when compared to the butcher, but the way you shrank as you wrapped your arms around yourself fueled the primal part in his brain. Second-guessing himself for a moment, he placed a hand on the back of your head before tugging you towards him.

Tucking yourself along his warm body, you found the comfort you had been lacking for a while now. Your arms went around his torso and you absent-mindedly nuzzled your face against his broad chest.

“I know he had the habit of tormenting you. Heard a few of the things he had said to you, so I wouldn’t blame you for not pitying him.”

From then on, you found yourself spending a lot of your time with the butcher. He became a metaphorical security blanket, his presence allowing you to feel as though nothing could harm you. After a few months, he officially asked you to be his girlfriend one night as the two of you had dinner at his place. You would never forget the red that stained his cheeks and how he shyly rubbed the back of his neck.

You had caught him off guard when you threw yourself into his embrace, landing a fat kiss on his lips. With you straddling him and the skirt of your dress bunched around your waist, he could feel the warmth that emanated from between your legs. Sweet, shy kisses turned into something fierce. Before you knew it, his hand had slipped under your dress and fingers spread your soaked lips to find your tight, quivering hole.

By the time you came to, the sun had set and the moon was shining brightly in the sky. You had expected to feel a stickiness between your thighs, instead, you found that your body had been wiped clean. Touching the arm wrapped around your middle, you turned to find Caleb fast asleep. His breathing was soft, chest brushing your back with each breath he took.

For someone who was known as the Butcher of Skyhaven, he sure did look awfully gentle. Though he was awkward at times and was unable to properly describe his feelings for you, he had no problem showing his love through his actions.

Damn the people of the town who unfairly judged him.

Feeling a dryness in your throat, you could only blame the man behind you who had spent the night breaking in your body, creating an imprint of his size in the apex of your legs. He pulled sounds from you that you didn’t know you were capable of making. Your cheeks burned at the memory of you calling his name as you spilled around his cock. Henceforth, your body would never know the flesh of another man, Caleb had seen to that.

Despite his size and reputation, he had been gentle.

Without waking him, you slipped out from beneath his arm and dressed in the flannel that lay on the ottoman at the foot of the bed. Besides the creaking floorboards, the house was eerily silent as you made your way towards the kitchen.

Grabbing a glass, you filled it with cold water and took small sips. Though you had disassociated, staring blankly at the apple-patterned curtain, you didn’t miss the humming sound coming from behind the door leading to the cellar. The air slipping through the crack in the bottom was especially cool. When the breeze caressed your skin, goosebumps erupted in its wake.

Maybe it was because you hadn’t been in Caleb’s home in the middle of the night before, but the thrumming sound coming from below had caught your attention.

No longer thirsty, you set the cup down onto the counter and pressed your ear against the door. You took a glance behind you, met with nothing but the dimly lit kitchen, and Caleb fast asleep on the floor above.

A part of you knew it was wrong to snoop, but having taken your relationship a step further, you assumed there was no harm in exploring the house you would be frequenting more often. Right?

The metal bolt was loud as you slid it out of place, the scraping sound similar to the one you heard when Caleb sharpened his knives. When you were met with complete darkness, only the first few steps were visible, your fingers fumbled as you looked for the light switch.

The small amount of light it offered was better than nothing, illuminating your way as you proceeded down the stairs. You cringed with every squeak, a sigh of relief escaping you as you finally touched the concrete floor.

Most of the space remained hidden by the shadows, but the humming was louder than ever.

A large rectangular freezer took up most of the space. It was surprisingly clean as it was the only thing not covered in a layer of dust. Opening the lid, you saw finely cut pieces of meat, different types having their own section. Due to his profession, you weren’t surprised by the amount he had stored. If anything, it was rather convenient.

Remembering that there was no bacon or ham in the fridge upstairs, you wandered over to check if he had any stored in the freezer. If so, it would be best to have it thaw while you slept so that you could cook it in the morning for a hearty breakfast. Lord knows Caleb’s stomach was a bottomless pit.

You rummaged through the packaged meat. Pork chops, ribs, venison, and so much more. It wasn’t until you looked through one of the back corners that you found something that stopped you dead in your tracks.

There was no way to muffle the gasp escaping your lips. You couldn’t tell if your hands were shaking from the freezing temperature coming from the icebox or because of the sight of a frosted-over heart encased in a plastic baggie.

Your curiosity got the better of you. The plastic crinkled loudly when you pulled the bag out, wanting a closer look at the piece of meat. You couldn’t ignore the strange feeling that bloomed from within the pit of your stomach. It was almost as if you shouldn’t be seeing the organ face-to-face. You were only meant to see it illustrated in medical diagrams.

It was too big to belong to a bunny or fox, but too little to belong to a deer.

Turning the bag around, you found something written, covered with a layer of frost and condensation. Wiping a damp hand on the flannel shirt you wore, you rubbed away the melting ice. Making out the letters, your stomach dropped.

RAYMOND XANDER

His name was followed by a date, consistent with the day of his disappearance.

Just as you connected the dots, the cellar door slammed shut and the light went out.

Whether frozen from fear or from the cold, you couldn’t move. Though you couldn’t see it, the plastic bag was still in your hand, the grip you had on it being the only thing grounding you to where you stood. The stairs creaked under the weight of the figure waltzing over to you, causing your eyes to be squeezed shut and your lashes to brush the apple of your cheeks from the force.

The other person in the room’s presence could be felt from the moment their bare feet met the cellar ground.

Though you knew screaming would do you no good, you couldn’t hold back the tears that slipped out. You could feel how your lips pursed as you refrained from sobbing, that awful burning lump in your throat begging for release.

A pitiful cry came from deep within your chest when a pair of hands settled onto your waist. They fisted the material of the shirt you wore, a nose nuzzling the back of your head in a twisted caress.

Caleb took in a deep breath, savoring the mixture of you and him lingering on your skin. His eyes rolled to the back of his head as he savored your lingering taste on his tongue. Even though he was irritated with he fact that you ignored his request to stay out of the cellar, it wasn’t enough to stop the yearning he had for you, nor the bulge pressed up against your ass.

“Don’t be scared, honey. I could never hurt you.”

His voice was uncannily calm, but you knew better for you could picture the blank expression he wore when irritated. You had to swallow the lump in your throat to speak up, yet you were only able to form one simple word.

“Why?”

As he chuckled, you could feel how his chest vibrated against your back.

“His torment wouldn't let you rest.” He spoke directly into your ear, his breath causing a shiver to run up the length of your spine. “So I killed him and buried him in an unmarked grave, but not before taking his heart. That way, even in death, he’ll never find peace.”

“That’s the last one,” Caleb mumbled, kicking his heel out to prop his dorm door open for you. You nodded curtly at his gesture, holding your breath while you carried in the last box of his belongings. You let out a soft pant, setting down the heavy bin of God knows what.

“It’s no problem! Really,” you insisted, your gaze shifting up to meet his soft lavender eyes.

🍎

The day before your mother had pulled you aside after dinner, scolding you for being a bad friend and not keeping in touch with Caleb.

“I mean, how do you not realize the boy you’ve grown up with is attending the same college as you?” She chided, aggressively scrubbing the dishes that had piled up in your kitchen sink.

“I don’t know, Mom,” you groaned, propping yourself up against the kitchen counter. “Don’t get me wrong, Caleb and I are friendly with one another, but I guess the topic of college never came up?” You cringed your shoulders. Sure, you and Caleb exchanged a few pleasantries here and there, but there was never too much the two of you had to talk about; not like there was any unsettled business or sour feelings.

“Well, you're lucky his mother and I keep in frequent contact hm?” Your mom hummed, the ceramic clinking of plates filling the air as she shut the now-filled dishwasher. “You should help him move into the dorms tomorrow, his poor mother has knee problems and you’re young and spry.”

You slumped over, your shoulders hanging heavy in the air. The last thing you wanted to do was wake up early and be on campus before school even started, but your mom seemed pretty insistent that you help the poor boy and spare his mother’s aching joints.

“Okay, okay. I’ll find my way over there and see what I can do, alright?” You let out a sigh as your mom shoots you a grateful smile.

🍎

“So,” you feign a cough to break the silence. “Did you want help unpacking?” You found yourself leaning against the bare metal bed frame, scanning the room around you. Somehow, this man had managed to score a single – and a pretty spacious one at that. Although the room was bare now, knowing Caleb it’d probably be properly unpacked and prim in a few hours.

“You don’t have to do all that, pipsqueak. I can handle it,” He assured with a smile, his eyes crinkled into small half-mooned crescents. He was knelt down beside a bin, popping the lid open and beginning the search for his packed bedding. He stood up with a simple gray sheet in his hand, turning toward your direction.

“Are you sure? I really don’t mind helping,” you reached a hand outward, grabbing onto the sheet and beginning to spread it along the expanse of the oh-so-small twin bed. Neatly tucking the sheet beneath the corner of the mattress, you snuck a glance at Caleb. You could tell he was a bit surprised at your forwardness but nonetheless appreciated it and followed suit in your movements.

The two of you spent the next few hours unpacking and organizing his dorm – from making the bed to helping him hang his clothes.

“Wait (Y/N), don’t open that one –” too late. Your hands had already opened the box and there they were: neatly stacked and folded and in all of their glory were several pairs of boxers. Ranging from plain colors to some mixed plaids and finally on top – a pair of them with little apples scattered across the fabric.

“Oh,” was all you could muster out. You shut the lid promptly, scooting it out of the way and going to grab a different one. You peeked at him through your lashes. A hand covered half his face, and his eyes were screwed shut, a light pink color flushed against his cheeks.

“I’ll have to go through that one later,” He mused, his hand moving to rest against the back of his neck. The rest of the unpacking, much to your surprise, went smoothly. By the time you finished, his room looked as if he’d lived there the whole time.

“Thank you, (Y/N), really, I don’t think I would’ve been able to move in so quickly without your help,” he rested his weight against the edge of his now-made bed. “Can I maybe treat you to dinner?” His lips drew themselves into a thin line, his eyes meeting yours – almost as if praying to the universe that you’d accept his offer. You blinked, unsure if you had heard him right.

“Dinner?” you repeated, trying—and failing—to mask the surprise in your voice. Your gaze dropped to his hands, which were absentmindedly fiddling with a corner of the bed sheet you'd just tucked in. Caleb had always been polite, maybe even a little old-school in how he treated people. But this felt like... something else. It didn’t feel the same as that once-innocent younger boy you grew up with.

“If you want,” he clarified quickly at the end of his statement, brushing imaginary lint off his jeans and avoiding eye contact. “I just thought it’d be nice since you helped me out, and I haven’t really had a chance to thank you properly or catch up with you. There’s this little sushi place down on Main Street—I heard it’s good?”

Your lips curled slightly into a smile. “You remembered I like sushi?”

Caleb looked up at you then, the corner of his mouth twitching. “(Y/N), you used to talk about getting sushi and miso soup all the time. That’s not something I could easily forget.”

The tension cracked a bit between you both, just enough for you to exhale a laugh. “Fine, I’ll let you treat me.”

“Done.”

🍎

Main Street was just starting to buzz with the early evening crowd when the two of you made it there. The walk from campus was short but filled with odd spurts of conversation—mostly about upcoming classes, shared childhood memories, and how you’d managed to not know you were going to the same university until your mothers brought it up.

“I still can’t believe you didn’t know,” Caleb said, nudging your elbow as you stepped into the cozy restaurant. “I mean, we literally follow each other on Instagram.”

You gave him a deadpan look. “Yeah, and you only post pictures of planes and clouds. Not exactly a location update.”

He chuckled, brushing a hand through his thick layered hair.

“Fair enough.”

After many sushi rolls were consumed, something shifted. Maybe it was the home-y comfort food or the nostalgic laughter, but you started to feel less like acquaintances and more like... (Y/N) and Caleb again. The way you’d been before high school and moving vans and awkward teenage silences.

“So, graphic design, huh?” Caleb asked as he leaned back in his seat. “That tracks. You used to doodle all over your homework.”

You shrugged, twirling a straw in your drink. “Yeah, well... what can I say. I have a passion for creating, I love the nature of art.”

He grinned. “I think it suits you. You’ve always had an eye for stuff like that. Colors, symmetry.”

“And you?” you raised a brow. “Aerospace engineering? Trying to fly away from all your responsibilities?”

“Obviously,” he deadpanned. “But mostly, I just want to build something that ends up out there.” He motioned toward the sky, as if you could see the stars from the restaurant booth. “It’s... grounding, in a weird way.”

The table fell quiet for a moment. You were watching him now, not just the boy you used to ride bikes with, but the person he’d become. Grounded and lofty all at once.

🍎

The weeks that followed passed in a blur of syllabi, campus events, and more run-ins with Caleb than you could count. Which was odd, considering he practically made a home for himself in the campus library.

He texted you after class the next day. [CALEB]: Can I borrow your notes from Design Theory? I think I slept through half of it with my eyes open.

You replied with a smirking emoji and a PDF of your notes.

[(Y/N)]: don’t thank me too much :p

Later that week, you knocked lightly on his dorm door, a physics textbook hugged to your chest. “I know this is your thing sooo,” you said, wincing slightly as you walked through his doorway. “If I have to look at one more vector diagram without understanding it, I might combust.”

“Come in,” he grinned, stepping aside. “Let’s trade. Physics help for some sketching practice and coaching?”

Before long, helping each other became second nature—him hunched over your Laptop, poking at your Illustrator file, while you scribbled equations on a whiteboard in his room. You teased him for his weirdly good eye for visual hierarchy; he claimed your physics doodles were actually better than some of the diagrams in his textbook.

And somewhere in the midst of study sessions and late-night diner runs, you realized you didn’t dread waking up for early campus mornings anymore. Especially if they meant seeing Caleb—your not-so-new, not-so-distant friend.

🍎

The hum of the fluorescent lights in the academic building were steady, almost comforting as you sat hunched over a large spread of design theory notes. You’d tucked yourself into one of the small study pods, surrounded by empty tables and soft chatter from other students who passed by in a hurry.

The walls were lined with modern art—colorful abstract pieces and intricate geometric designs—and, despite the chill in the air, the room had a familiar warmth to it. It was a place where you could focus. A place where you could get lost in your work and forget the looming deadlines of projects and exams.

But even in this quiet corner, you found it hard to concentrate. Your mind kept drifting back to the conversation you’d had with Caleb the night before. He’d called to ask for a quick study session for his upcoming art examination, which had caught you a bit off guard. It wasn’t that he wasn’t a hard worker, but you hadn’t expected him to reach out for something like that.

Your phone buzzed, snapping you out of your thoughts. You glanced down at the screen, half-expecting a random notification, but no—there it was. A text from Caleb.

[CALEB]: Be there in 5. Save me a seat :)

A soft smile pulled at the corner of your lips, and you quickly rearranged your things to make room for him. It was almost second nature how he could slide back into your life without much effort at all.

🍎

Five minutes passed, then ten. You were just beginning to wonder if maybe something had come up when you finally saw him.

Caleb’s unmistakable figure appeared at the entrance, his tall frame easily cutting through the crowd of students. As he stepped into the study space, his eyes scanned the room, and then, as if he had a built-in radar for where you were sitting, they found yours.

He smiled that familiar little smile, the one that always made you feel like you were home. He began walking toward you, his steps light, but just as he was about to reach the table, a girl approached him.

She was holding a stack of papers, her hair pulled back into a high ponytail. Her eyes were wide, too wide, almost as if she had been waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Caleb stopped in his tracks, his hand still halfway to his back pocket.

“Hey,” the girl said, flashing a bright, slightly nervous smile. “Are you Caleb? I’m in your thermodynamics class, and—um, I was wondering if you could maybe give me your number? I’m trying to form a study group and... I thought it’d be great to have you be a part of it – I mean, you’re like the smartest guy in class.”

You watched the exchange with a raised eyebrow. Caleb was silent for a moment, his posture stiffening slightly as if he wasn’t sure how to handle the situation. But when his gaze flickered back toward you, the tension in his shoulders eased, and his lips curled into a soft, almost apologetic smile toward the girl.

“Sorry,” Caleb said, his tone polite but firm. “I don’t think I’m the best person to study with right now. I’m actually going to study with my girlfriend right now.”

The girl seemed momentarily taken aback but didn’t push further. She forced a smile, awkwardly nodded, and then turned on her heel, leaving Caleb free to make his way over to you.

You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped as he finally sat down across from you, his expression a mixture of bemusement and relief.

“Girlfriend, huh?” you teased, folding your arms over your chest.

He grinned, shaking his head as he unpacked his own materials. “I figured it was a pretty good excuse to get out of whatever she was trying to rope me into,” he admitted with a small smile.

You raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh, and what’s wrong with her wanting your number?”

Caleb shot you a sheepish glance. “Well, I’m just not interested in giving my number to people who ask.”

Your gaze softened, and you met his eyes. For a moment, there was a quiet understanding between you two. Caleb had always been popular amongst his peers, or so you heard from your mother. He never had a girlfriend, though, ever. could tell it wasn’t just about the number. It was about his priorities—about what mattered to him right now.

“Alright,” you said, tapping your pencil on the table. “So... about that study session?”

He nodded, settling into his chair and pulling out a notebook from his bag. “Right. I’m actually kind of freaking out about this art exam. I know it’s not physics or anything, but I just... I don’t know. I guess I haven’t done a ton of art since high school, and now it feels like I’m starting from scratch.”

You tilted your head, considering his words. “You’ve always had an eye for it, Caleb. You’ve just... gotta remember how to channel it. Let me see what you’ve got so far.”

He hesitated for a second but then slid his sketchbook over to you. The pages were filled with rough sketches—abstract patterns, geometric designs, and some minimalist ideas that had potential. As you flipped through, you could tell there was talent there, but it needed focus. Toward the last page, however, you lingered. There had been a few rough sketches scattered across the parchment of…. Your face?

Caleb cleared his throat, reaching a hand over the page and quickly snatching the book out of your grasp. When you looked up at him, he shot you a sheepish grin, tucking the book away.

“Okay,” you rolled your eyes, jotting down a few notes in your own notebook. “Let’s start with these basic shapes. You’ve got the right idea, but you need to play with the proportions and scale a bit more. Add some layers. Make it breathe.”

Caleb nodded, leaning forward as you helped walk him through how to refine his sketches. The two of you got into a rhythm, bouncing ideas back and forth, and by the time the sun was beginning to set, you’d worked through most of the exam material.

As you closed the last notebook, Caleb sat back and stretched. “Thanks, (Y/N),” he said, his voice a little more relaxed. “I think I actually feel ready for this now. Seriously, I don’t think I would’ve been able to do this without your help.”

You smiled at him, but before you could respond, Caleb’s tone shifted slightly. He glanced at his watch and then at you, his eyes brightening.

“So, I know we’ve been working hard... but how about a little reward?” he said, his voice low enough to almost sound like a secret. “How about you come over to my place tonight? I’ve got a surprise for you.”

“A surprise?” You asked, intrigued but also cautious. “What kind of surprise?”

“Trust me,” Caleb said with a mischievous grin, “I’m sure you’ll like where it’s going.”

You raised an eyebrow but couldn’t help feeling curious. “Alright, I’m intrigued. I’ll meet you there after dinner.”

Caleb smiled and gave you a nod. “It’s a deal. Later, pipsqueak.”

As he packed up his things and left, you found yourself trying to push away the small flutter in your stomach. A surprise? What could it be?

But whatever it was, you knew Caleb wouldn’t let you down.

🍎

“Caleb?” Your knuckles rapped against his dorm door, awaiting his presence. A muffled voice interrupts your train of thought.

“Coming, coming.” You hear a few sounds of rustling before footsteps, and an open door greets you. “You’re early, pipsqueak.” His hand reaches up to ruffle your hair, soon after traveling down to your lower back, where he ushers you inside his room.

“I couldn’t keep my best friend waiting, could I?” You found yourself kicking off your shoes, hopping onto his made bed, and propping yourself up amongst his pillows.

Caleb shut the door behind you, giving you a look you couldn’t quite read—something between amused and nervous.

“So…” you began, stretching your legs across his mattress, “what’s this big surprise? You’re not secretly making me tutor you for another hour, are you?”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “No, no physics tonight. I swear.”

Your eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Then what?”

He walked over to his desk, where a neatly folded outfit—a casual button-down and his nicer jeans—lay waiting. “We’re going out.”

You blinked. “Out? Like... out out?”

“To the frat party,” he said, shooting you a grin. “It’s supposed to be huge tonight. And,” he added quickly, “I figured you deserved a night off for basically saving my academic life.”

You stared at him, momentarily stunned. “You want to go to a frat party?”

“Okay, I know, I’m not exactly the party guy,” Caleb admitted with a smirk. “But hey—first semester of college, right? Why not make a few fun memories?”

You narrowed your eyes at him but couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at your lips. “You better not make me regret this.”

Caleb raised his hand in mock solemnity. “I would never.”

🍎

The Delt party was exactly what you expected—loud, chaotic, pulsing with music, and crowded with students dressed just a little too nicely for a night of spilled drinks and uncoordinated dancing. The backyard was strung with fairy lights, a small fire crackling in the distance, the scent of cheap beer and woodsmoke clinging to the air.

You stuck close to Caleb’s side as you navigated through the crowd. He handed you a drink, his fingers brushing yours for a split second longer than necessary. You tried not to read too much into it.

“Alright,” he said over the music, raising his cup. “To passing art exams and not dying in physics.”

You clinked your cup to his. “I’ll drink to that.”

As the night wore on, Caleb grew a little... different. Not bad—just looser. His words started to slur slightly, and his usual guarded posture gave way to easier smiles and more frequent touches. A hand on your shoulder here, a lingering glance there.

“You know, (Y/N),” he said, leaning in close as you both sat near the fire, the flickering light dancing in his eyes. “You’re kind of amazing.”

You blinked, surprised by the sudden sincerity in his tone. “You’re drunk.”

He laughed, nudging you with his shoulder. “A little. But I still mean it.”

You looked at him, unsure how to respond. You’d never seen Caleb like this before—unguarded, open. A little vulnerable.

“You’ve always been this... bright thing in my life, (Y/N). Even when we weren’t talking much in high school. I always remembered stuff about you. Like how you hate pencils that are too sharp. Or how you hum when you draw, even if you don’t realize it. I noticed.”

You stared at him, lips slightly parted.

“I didn’t forget you,” he continued, voice quieter now, eyes fully on you. “Not once. Not ever. You never left my mind.”

The world around you blurred—the music, the laughter, the distant cheer of someone winning a drinking game—and all you could hear was your heartbeat and Caleb’s words.

“Caleb I –,” You shook your head in disbelief. “You’re drunk, we should get you back to your room.” Your hand latched onto his wrist, attempting to flee the scene of the party but his arm pulled taught; he didn’t budge.

“Caleb? Come on,” You yanked against his arm again, only to be tugged inward toward his chest. His movement was sloppy, tucking his arm to his side to bring you back in his vicinity.

“I’m being serious (Y/N),” he leaned down over you, his breath tickling your face; he reeked of alcohol.

You could feel your pulse flutter in your throat. The smell of cheap beer clung to him, the flush in his cheeks stark under the dim party lights. This wasn’t the version of him you were used to—the composed, quiet Caleb from your childhood. This one was raw, unfiltered, and very, very honest.

But drunk. Way too drunk.

“You’re not thinking straight,” you whispered, pushing gently against his chest. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

He didn’t fight it this time. Just let you guide him out the door, his body swaying as he leaned into you more than necessary, like your presence alone was grounding him. A couple of times, you felt his chin bump into the back of your head. He had been leaning over you, drinking in your scent as you walked him back to his dorm.

The cold night air hit hard, sobering your thoughts if not his. You kept a firm grip on his wrist as you led him across campus, trying not to focus on how his fingers crept up and subtly intertwined with yours.

By the time you reached his dorm, Caleb was quiet—too quiet. You helped him fumble with the keycard and finally shoved his dorm door open.

“Sit down,” you instructed, guiding him to the bed. “I’ll get you water.”

But the moment you turned toward the tiny dorm fridge, a hand reached out and caught your forearm.

“Why do you think I’m lying?” his words were slower now, but clear. “Why does everyone think drunk people can’t tell the truth?”

You met his gaze over your shoulder. He was sitting at the edge of the bed, one elbow on his knee, head tilted up to look at you with those sharp lilac eyes.

“It’s not about lying, Caleb,” you said softly. “It’s just… this might not be something you feel tomorrow. And I don’t want to be a mistake you regret.”

He stood then, slowly, like he was trying to keep his balance in more ways than one. “You think I wouldn’t remember wanting you?”

Your breath caught.

He gently pulled you closer to where he sat, carefully, almost reverently. His hand released your arm and crept up toward your face, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “I’ve wanted you since high school, (Y/N). Ever since we met and bonded over that stupid Pokémon game.”

You tried to laugh. Failed. Your heart caught in your throat.

“Caleb…”

“I’m not trying to push you,” he said, though the way his hand lingered against your cheek made it hard to believe – his thumb swiping gentle strokes across your skin. “But if I don’t do this now, I’m scared I’ll never do it.”

Before you could respond, his lips were on yours.

It was soft, surprisingly gentle. A question, not a demand.

His mouth tasted of that sour alcohol aftertaste and desperation, but there was something else under it: warmth, sincerity.

It would’ve been easy to give in.

But you pulled back, your heart practically pounding out of your ribcage. “Caleb, you’re drunk,” you reminded him, more to yourself than him.

His forehead leaned against yours. “I know,” he whispered. “But I’m not wrong. And I’m not a liar.”

You stood there in the quiet hum of the dorm room, the distance between you barely inches, your brain mush.

“Please, (Y/N)?” His head still tilted upward to meet your gaze, his eyes pleading; full of desperation and raw need.

“Caleb I –,” you leaned into his touch, your eyes fluttering closed for just a moment of frustration. “You’re drunk – like what if you don’t actually want this? What if you regret something?”

He cut you off, gently taking your chin between his fingers and tilting your face back to his. “(Y/N),” he paused, a beat passed as his eyes bore into yours. “If you would just believe me, and allow me, I could be fucking you on this bed right now.” His voice was low and rough with desire, his gaze never once leaving yours as he spoke.

“And if you think this is just a drunk man talking, then fuck,” He reached his other arm out to cup both your cheeks, leaning up toward you to get impossibly closer. “Id fuck you ten times harder tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day after that.” His voice was barely above a whisper, his lips grazing yours for just a second.

You swallowed hard, bottom lip twitching as you held yourself back from the urge to leap into his grasp right then and there. “Caleb,” you sighed into his grasp, your hand brushing against the back of his. You could feel your resolve practically crumbling at his gestures and sweet words. Maybe, he really did mean it?

“Are you positive?” You pulled away, your eyes pierced him with a sudden seriousness as if there was a shift in the atmosphere.

“(Y/N),” His eyes searched your face for your expression, his breathing stalled for a moment before he took a deep breath in. “I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.” Before you could get your bearings, he sat up straighter, leaning up and crashing his lips against yours. His lips were soft and plush, gently molding along yours with tenderness. Behind the sweet kiss, however, was a hunger in the way his hands slowly raked down your body. From your face, down to tracing over your shoulders and finally where his hands found purchase at the top of your hips. His fingers dug into your skin greedily, pulling you closer and between his legs that hung off the twin bed. You felt his tongue swipe across your bottom lip, his teeth sinking into your skin. You blinked in surprise, eyes quickly screwing shut and melding into his touch. Your lips parted, allowing him to slip past your teeth and into your mouth. His tongue swirled along yours and you felt him melt, a soft groan escaping from him as he furthered his motions. You inevitably pulled away to take in a breath, a thin string of saliva connecting the two of you. His hands gripped your waist tighter, pulling you firmly onto his lap - your legs straddled his hips. He exhaled sharply, pulling you down harder against him. You could practically feel his hardening length growing - pressing against your inner thigh.

“Caleb-” Your statement was cut short, feeling his hands slide up from your hips, his finger tips inching under the hem of your shirt until his hands lay flush against your skin. His eyes trailed up your body, eventually settling on yours steadily as his fingers crept higher and higher. He held the stare, his eyes filled with longing; with absolute need. 

“Please,” Caleb’s voice sounded shaky, his breathing turned ragged. His fingers stopped just beneath the wire of your bra, tracing along the curve of your breast. “Can I?” He spoke softly, almost as if you’d shatter if he raised his voice any louder. His hand had wrapped around your back, the tips of his fingers running along the clasp of the undergarment. 

When you gave him a silent nod of understanding, he wasted no time pinching at the metal clasps, unhooking each one skillfully. The piece of clothing slumped off your shoulders, settling loosely at the bottom of your waist. His hands drifted down your spine, his fingers fiddling with the back of your shirt. His thumbs hooked under your garment, beginning to push the fabric up and over your head. Once your shirt was completely off, he wasted no time tossing it somewhere across his room without a second thought. His gaze darkened, drinking in the sight of your bare chest. His eyes dragged across your skin, to your lips, back to your half-lidded eyes. 

“You’re beautiful, (Y/N).” He breathed, a hand cradling the side of your face and pulling you into another kiss. Unlike the first time, this felt different. His lips were hungry; biting and sucking at your lips as if trying to consume you on the spot. As he cradled your face close, his other hand had crept up from your hips, cupping your breast between his fingers. His index finger met his thumb, pinching and rolling your now hardened nipple. You let out a gasp, mouth slightly agape as he continued his ministrations. His lips eventually left yours, moving along your jawline and sucking softly on the skin just below your ear. He hummed against your skin, the soft peppering of kisses turned to more aggressive and needy biting, surely leaving marks of pleasure in his wake. You felt yourself turn to putty in his hands, your eyes fluttering shut. 

He seemed to be growing impatient, a guttural groan escaping his throat. His hands left you for a moment, before suddenly gripping your thighs that hugged him. You opened your mouth to comment, and found yourself mid-air before being set back down onto his mattress. 

“What are you-?” You felt Caleb shove you down onto the expanse of his bed, your back falling into the plush of his blankets. He crawled between your legs, his fingers dragging down your navel to the band of your pants. “Shut up and just… let me,” He mumbled, his hands tugging down the fabric of your bottoms hastily. He gripped your thighs roughly, spreading them as he bent himself forward, nestling his face between your legs. “I need you, (Y/N). Right fucking now.” He breathed, his breath fanning over your inner thighs. He pressed kisses along your thigh and over your clothed core, hovering just a moment longer over the wet spot that had begun to grow on your panties. You could feel him take a deep breath before his fingers hooked into the sides of the flimsy fabric, tearing it down your thighs roughly. 

“Fuck Caleb,” you exhaled, looking down at the boy nuzzled up between your now naked bottom half. His jaw was tight as he looked back up at you through his dark lashes, his hands spreading your thighs wider. He repositioned himself slightly, a visible tent in his pants making it quite obvious of his desire. He realized he had never seen you in such a position before - so vulnerable, bare, delicate. He, of course, had imagined this scenario countless times in his head but the reality of the situation was so much sweeter than he could’ve ever dreamt of. 

“(Y/N),” he breathed, inching his face closer to your arousal. His fingers danced closer to your inner thighs, tracing small patterns along the sensitive skin. “Are you…” The pad of his thumb brushed against your wet folds for just a brief moment, making you shiver. “Are you absolutely sure you want this? ‘Cause once I start,” he paused, his voice dropping into a low and husky tone. “Once I taste you, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop myself.” 

You shuddered at his words, the growing need between your thighs growing hotter with each passing moment. “Caleb, I need you.” You reached down to tangle your fingers into Caleb’s head of hair. Your words edged him on, and you felt as if a switch had flicked on inside his mind. He leaned forward without another word, pressing a soft kiss to your center before opening you up with his thumbs. He dragged his tongue up your folds, a groan eliciting out of him and rumbling against you. His tongue flicked up and down before pulling away briefly to take a breath.

“Fuck (Y/N)…” He drawled, his tongue swiping across his bottom lip and lapping up any juices that had remained on his mouth. You looked down briefly, your eyes meeting his for a second. “You taste divine,” he mumbled before diving back between your legs, his tongue beginning a reckless assault on your core. You twitched, feeling his tongue swipe over your most intimate parts. You let out a strained gasp when you felt him tease a finger over your hole. He hummed in response - you could feel his lips curve into a smile as they vibrated against your delicate skin. He pressed the pad of his index finger to your clit, rubbing small circles to the sensitive bud. “Look at my pretty girl, so wet.” He muses before dipping his finger down and into your sopping cunt. His finger pumps in and out of you with precision, as if he had known exactly what your body needed. 

“Caleb,” you let out a muffled cry, feeling yourself clench around his single digit. His lips press kisses to your pussy before his tongue finds itself attached to your clit - his lips engulfing you whole as lewd sounds of slurping filled his dorm room. 

“I love it when you say my name, baby. Say it again.” You could barely understand the sentence that left his mouth, his lips too focused on tasting you. His one hand gripped onto your thigh tightly, his nails digging into your skin, surely to leave crescent indents. His dominant hand, however, was ever so busy curling his finger into you. You felt him nudge a second finger toward your entrance, quickly adding it between pumps. He scissored and stretched out your hole, his tongue gliding down to kitten lick your walls. When he pushed his fat, wet muscle into you, you swore you could see stars. 

“Fuck Caleb-,” you swore silently. His ever-so-soft tongue slid in and out with ease, pushing itself along your insides and feasting upon you as if you were his last meal. He loved how responsive you were to his touch: he could feel every little twitch, every shiver, every moan you fought to hold back. He spread you wider with his fingers, trying to shove his tongue impossibly deeper into you. 

“You’re so sensitive, baby. You’re doing so good for me.” He said between long licks, his breath tickling your lower half as he spoke. 

Your face felt hot. As if you were drunk on the sight of Caleb. How perfectly he seemed to know your body, how well he took care of you. You would be lying to yourself if you said you’d never imagined having sex with Caleb before, but never did you imagine he would feel this good. 

You were snapped back to reality when Caleb pressed a harsh kiss to your pussy, his fingers now pumping in and out of you desperately. His lips suctioned around your clit once more, his tongue running swirls over the sensitive nub as he fingered you. 

You let out a shaky exhale, “Caleb.” You warned, feeling yourself clench around his fingers, and that familiar feeling of a coil waiting to snap was building in your stomach. 

“Yeah, baby? Are you gonna be a good girl?” His fingers did a delicious twist inside of you, making you clench your thighs around his head. You felt your body arch into his touch, wanting to feel his fingers deeper within. You panted, your hands gripping the blanket beneath you as you felt him reach knuckle deep into your walls. Your breathing became more and more ragged with each thrust of his fingers, his tongue working deep circles into your clit - it was all so much at once. You could feel him saying something, the deep vibrations from his voice shaking you to your core, but the thoughts in your head had turned off; hearing nothing but white noise as he mercilessly pumped his fingers in and out of you at a ruthless pace. 

“You’re mine, (Y/N).” He breathed, feeling your body begin to tremble under his touch. “Say it. Say you’re mine,” He urged, his tongue messily swiping along your folds.

“I’m yours, - God Caleb, please.” Your hand gripped his hair, fingers digging into his scalp desperately. Your thighs clamped around his face, your head lying backward into the pillows as you stared up at the ceiling with a half-lidded gaze. You were getting so close, and he could tell. 

“You’re taking my fingers so well baby, won’t you cum around my fingers? Please?” His pleading words are music to your ears, lulling you into your high. You feel your legs begin to violently shake; Caleb’s hand pinning your thigh down as he ate you through your climax, groaning in his own enjoyment. Eventually, after you’ve ridden out your high he tilts his head up, his chin slick with your juices. He wipes the wetness off himself with his thumb, popping his fingers into his mouth and sucking them clean. 

“Look at you, my pretty girl.” He sits himself up between your legs, his eyes traveling up your body. 

“Caleb I-,” you propped yourself up onto your elbows, your hand reaching greedily past his face and down to his belt. “I need you,” you said in a hushed tone, your chest rising and falling with each word.

A darkness filled his eyes as a smile graced his lips, the corners eagerly twitching up into a cocked smirk. “As you wish,” His fingers fiddled with the buttons of his jeans, pushing them down in one fluid motion, taking his boxers with them as well. When you looked down you saw his thick cock poke out from the confines of his pants. His hand wrapped around the root of his cock, giving himself slow pumps as his eyes met yours from above. Something had shifted in him, his expression more hungry. Animalistic. You feel him lean over you, his free hand resting beside your head and caging you in his grasp. You feel the tip of his cock press against your soaked folds, sliding up and down your slit in a slow teasing manner. 

“Caleb,” you whined, scooting yourself down toward him to try and relieve the pressure building between your legs. “Don’t,” he warned, his hand moving from himself to grip your hip, pressing you against the mattress firmly. He took his time teasing himself against you before nudging himself inside of you, bottoming out with a muffled groan. You inhaled sharply, feeling him stretch you out all at once.

“Fuck (Y/N), you feel so good,” He panted above you, both his arms now pressed against the mattress on either side of you. He stilled for a moment, letting you adjust to his size. His body betrayed him, as he felt his hips begin to move on their own. He pulled back slightly before snapping his hips forward, the loud sound of skin on skin rang out in the air. You let out a surprised yelp, feeling him re-enter your swollen tunnel. You pressed a hand over your mouth, trying to contain the noises that threatened to spill from your lips. 

“Oh no no no,” Caleb’s hand wrapped around yours, pulling your hand off your face and pressing it above your head. “I wanna hear you say my name. Over and over and over again.” He rolled his hips into you, leaning his head down to press a kiss to your jaw. His lips parted, beginning to suck on the tender skin. 

“Caleb, fuck-.” You breathed heavily, exhaling as he pleased you in all the right places.

“That's it, baby, say it again.” He urges you, his hips rolling into yours faster, picking up his pace. He began pistoning in and out of you, small pants and moans as his hips smacked into yours. You reached up around his neck, pulling him back into you for a fervent kiss. Your lips melded together, tongues roaming into each other's mouths as he pounded into you. Your nails clawed into him as he rammed into you, hitting that sweet spot over and over again. You felt his pace become faster and more erratic the more you clenched around his length. He knew you were getting close. He broke the kiss for a second, his head dropping down in earshot.

“You’re being such a good girl (Y/N),” he exhaled, his breath hot and tickling against the shell of your ear. “Tell me, who do you belong to?” His thrusts slowed into a tantalizing pace, the force behind each motion growing. 

You gripped the sheets beneath you, whining as he slowly ruined you. “You, Caleb,” you paused, a choked noise escaping your throat as he bottomed out in you. “Caleb I’m yours- Fuck,” you moaned, your lower half arching into his cock. 

“Yeah?” Caleb picked up his pace slightly, his hand reaching down to caress your face. He cupped your cheek before his fingertips trailed down to the valley between your breasts. “Should I fill you up with my seed? Make you full with my kids?” His hips began mercilessly slamming into you, both your moans drowned out by the overwhelming sound of skin on skin. His brows furrowed as he threw his head back, feeling you engulf him completely. His hands both found your waist, gripping onto your soft flesh for stability as he chased his high. The more you clenched around him, approaching your own climax, the faster his hips snapped into yours. 

“Caleb I’m gonna-,” Your voice cracked, the coil snapping in your stomach as you came hard around his cock.

“Fuck (Y/N), I’m gonna- fill you up so good. Gonna make you pregnant with my children.” His thrusts became sloppy and desperate, his body tensing as you gripped him impossibly tighter. With a final thrust, he came undone, spilling his fluids inside of you; pumping you full of himself. You could feel his cock twitch with every rope of cum he shot inside of you, you’d never felt so full before. He was breathless for a moment, his eyes bore into yours with a deep flash of desire and something more primal, more possessive. When he eventually separated himself from you, he let out a small exhale of satisfaction. You twitched at his exit, feeling his fluid begin to leak out of your sensitive hole. 

“Don’t let it go to waste now, hm?” Calebs fingers ghosted along your folds, swiping up any escaping cum and stuffing it back into your pussy. You shuddered and let out a soft whine, feeling his fingers penetrate you briefly. “So sensitive,” he mused, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Are you okay, pipsqueak?” His hand moved up to settle on your thigh, pulling you close to him.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” you reached up to cup his face in your hands, pressing a peck to his lips.

“Let me go grab you some water, alright? Just give me a second.” He slowly sat up and out of bed, reaching over you to pull his bed cover over your bare body. He fussed with your hair like he always did, and grabbed his pants from the foot of the bed. Once he was fully dressed and made presentable, he grabbed his water bottle off his desk and headed outside his dorm. He paused in the door frame, leaving it open a crack. “It’s right down the hall, I won’t be long.” He gave you a soft smile before disappearing down the hallway, his door slowly closing shut with a soft click.