Ophelia

While you glare at the mannequin, Caleb makes a mental note to stop by the shop tomorrow. He then walks past you casually, as if he hadn't just been ogling the mannequin's boobs. "Hurry up, you said you were starving. I'll cook you something delicious."

Did he seriously have to stare at it so openly in public?! And then he has the audacity to act like nothing happened?!

When you make it home, you run upstairs to the bedroom. Caleb assumes you went upstairs to take a shower or bath, so he doesn't stop you. He leaves the shopping bags on the sofa and heads to the kitchen, pulling on an apron over his black compression shirt.

While he's downstairs getting ready to cook dinner, you're stripping off your clothes and standing in front of the mirror to stare at your bare body. You glare at your small chest in the mirror's reflection, then cup it in your hands. Your breasts are so small compared to that stupid mannequin in that shop. When you were younger, you used to hold out hope that you might suddenly have a growth spurt, but you're an adult now. The growth spurt never came. This is it. This is as big as it's going to get, and it's not good enough for him. Stupid Caleb!

A soft knock comes through the door, followed by the sound of Caleb twisting the locked doorknob. "Pips, is everything alright? It's been an hour."

"Go away!" you shout, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. "Stupid Caleb! I know you like big boobs! I'm sorry I'm such a flat board!"

"What?! Who told you that nonsense?!" Caleb exclaims, annoyance shooting through him like a bolt of lighting. He tightens his grip on the doorknob, twisting it more aggressively. "Open the door so we can talk."

"No!" you yell, stomping your foot petulantly.

Caleb breathes in slowly to maintain his composure, but the irritation manages to seep into his calm voice.

"Open it," he repeats, "or I'm breaking in."

"Let me mourn my cup size in peace! Dummy!"

You're always complaining about your chest. Caleb tries to counter your negativity with compliments, but so far, the insecurity has only gotten worse. He's tried his best to be gentle and patient with you, supportive and kind like a good boyfriend should be, and it hasn't worked. You still whine and complain.

"So childish," Caleb mutters.

If persuasion doesn't work, then doesn't that mean the only option left is force?

The doorknob on your side suddenly shoots out, bouncing off the wooden floor. You shriek, stumbling a couple steps back. The door slowly creaks open. Caleb stands in the doorway with a dark look in his violet eyes, tossing aside the other doorknob in his hand.

"C-Caleb," you stammer, shocked and flustered. Your face turns red, your hands still covering your tits while leaving the rest of your body exposed. "You can't just—!"

Suddenly, you're lifted into the air and slammed onto the soft bed by an invisible force, dragging your hands away from your chest and lifting them above your head. The weight of his Evol bears down on you, pinning your entire body with incredible pressure. Caleb strides over to the bed to crawl on top of you, knees planted on either side of your waist.

"What are you—?!" you cry out, indignant, but the feeling of Caleb's hands groping your tits roughly has the words dying in an instant.

"I tried to hold back." He looks down at you with a flushed, callous gaze. "I didn't want to be cruel, but you've really pushed me past the limits of my patience." The outline of his muscles are visible through the compression shirt, the fabric of his black pants stretched across his powerful thighs. "I was trying so hard to be good, but you've given me no choice." His hands squeeze and grind the flesh of your chest, painful and unforgiving. "Spoiled brats like you only learn the hard way, huh?"

Caleb's fingers pinch and tug at your nipples, twisting and rolling them between his forefinger and thumb. You can't stop the desperate whimpers from leaving your throat. "Gēgē, p-please, stop!"

Caleb's breathing is uneven now, staring at your tits like he's in a trance.

"It's too late for apologies. You need to be punished properly."

He descends, sinking his teeth into your skin. You gasp from the pain, your back arching slightly off the mattress. He bites and sucks at your tits like a feral dog, taking turns teasing each one of your hard nipples between his teeth with his tongue pulsing around it. You squirm and writhe, instinctively trying to get away. The weight of him and his Evol barely allows for any movement, trapping you underneath him.

"Gēgē, it hurts! Please!" Tears slip down your cheeks, both your tits and your nipples aching and tingling from his vicious attention. "Gēgē!"

Caleb finally pulls back, a string of saliva connecting his lips to one of your puffy and raw nipples. His gaze is zeroed in on your breasts, hypnotized by the sight of them. The imprint of his teeth is stamped all across your chest, like he's staked a claim over that part of your body.

"Look at what you do to me." Caleb starts unbuckling his belt, the outline of his bulge visible through the fabric of his pants. "You have such perfect tits, and yet, you're so ungrateful for them." He pulls out his long, hard cock, precum beading at the tip and dripping down onto your tits. He adjusts his hips, practically crushing on your ribs with his weight, slapping his thick girth down onto your sternum.

You jolt at the movement, whimpering quietly. "Gēgē…"

"I can't believe you made up some nonsense about me preferring big boobs when I fucking love your small tits." He cups your breasts in his hands, squishing them around his cock. "Maybe I should put your nipples through daily training—pinch them between some vibrating nipple clamps and make them so sensitive that you can't even wear a thin shirt without your nipples getting overstimulated." Caleb slowly rocks his hips, his shaft gliding easily between the soft fat of your chest. When he moves forward, the tip of his cock bumps against your chin, nearly brushing your lips. "Or maybe I should fuck your tits and paint them white with my cum so you know who they belong to. Is that what it's gonna take for you to learn? Do you need me to fuck the insecurity out of you?"

Caleb snaps his hips back and forth, keeping your tits squeezed tightly around his cock with his thumbs teasing your tender nipples. He's panting now, fucking your tits in earnest while you can do nothing but take it.

"Open your mouth and tilt your head forward," he commands, and you comply, parting your lips obediently. "Stick your tongue out…Yeah, just like that. Keep it"—he grunts—"open."

With every thrust, the head of his cock rubs against your tongue, brushing your soft lips. The taste of him and the feeling of his cock between your tits has your pussy dripping and clenching around nothing, aching from the emptiness. Whenever the head of his cock reaches your lips, you suck the tip and drag your tongue up the slit, licking up the musky precum.

"Hah, fuck," Caleb pants, moving faster. The necklace you gifted him hangs off his neck as it always does, jostled by his thrusting. It clinks softly amidst the sound of skin slapping and rubbing against slick skin. "You're such a slut for making me enjoy this. Taking my cock between your tits and lips to pretend like you're a good girl when you're"—His hips stutter, each word becoming punctuated with a forceful thrust—"actually—a damn—brat!"

Caleb cums on your tongue with a low moan, head thrown back and droplets of sweat dripping down the column of his throat. He releases your tits and sits back on his heels, catching his breath. You wait quietly with the thick and bitter stickiness coated on your outstretched tongue, not daring to move without his permission.

Caleb finally looks at you after what feels like an eternity. "Swallow it all."

You pull your tongue back inside your mouth and do as he says, swallowing it down and licking your lips to make sure you haven't missed a drop. Caleb rests his large hand on your head, petting your hair for a moment. "Good girl."

You look up at him with cute, wide eyes, pretending to look all distressed when he knows you're enjoying it. Behind that faux nervous and annoyed gaze, he can sense your arousal. You mumble quietly, a hint of defiance remaining despite your submission. "You're the worst…"

"Yeah, I'm the worst," Caleb replies, moving back. He eases up his Evol so you can move your arms, but the core of your body is still under his control. He spreads apart your legs and lays his body on top of yours, two hundred pounds of muscle plus the added weight of his Evol crushing your body underneath him. His forearms rest on either side of your head, his hot mouth trailing kisses along your jaw. You grasp at his shoulders, whining feebly at the sensation. You want to move your hips, but you can't. "Your gēgē is mean, selfish, and stubborn with no self-control. He never wants to hear any criticism about you. He wants to mark every part of you for himself. He wants you to love every part of yourself because he loves everything about you." He slowly rolls his hips to tease his cock between your wet folds, lips brushing against your ear as he murmurs. "Every. Single. Thing."

Caleb kisses you on the lips gently, his cock pushing inside, spreading apart your walls with an insatiable heat. You moan into his mouth, your tongues sliding together feverishly. You grip the fabric of his shirt, dizzy and drunk on the feeling of him thrusting slow and deep inside of you. Caleb's body practically engulfs yours, powerful and heavy enough to keep you from thinking about anything except him.

"I love you," you gasp deliriously in between kisses as his cock pumps in and out of you. "Caleb—Gēgē—I love you. I love you. I—Oh, I'm cumming!"

"Fuck," Caleb hisses. Your tight, wet heat pulsates around his cock, sucking him in as he cums deep inside of you. He stays inside you for a moment, savoring the feeling. You moan softly as he pulls out, clinging to him as his semen leaks out of your pulsing hole. Caleb slowly lifts both himself and the weight of his Evol off of you, then spreads your folds apart with two fingers to watch his semen spill out of your pretty pussy lips. He scoops some of it up with his fingers as it drips down, lifting it up and pushing it in gently to stuff it back into your hole.

"Ngh." Your pussy twitches around his fingers, your hands gripping the sheets. Without his added weight or heat, you feel a bit lonely. You glare at him. "Pervert."

"Ha." Caleb smirks. "If I'm a pervert, then what does that make you for enjoying it?"

You kick at him weakly with one leg. Caleb catches your ankle with ease, pressing a kiss to your calf. You shake your leg, grumbling, "Let go."

Caleb lowers your leg and opens the bedside drawer with his Evol, floating a soft towel to him so he can carefully wipe you clean. "You're pouting because I didn't say it back, right?" He pulls you unexpectedly into his lap with his arms wrapped around your waist, looking up with you with a sweet and sinful reverence. "That's because once I start, I don't know when I'll be able to stop." He kisses your pulse point, then your collarbone, his lips drifting dangerously close to your chest. "Because my love for you is endless."

You squirm in his lap, flustered by his sincerity. "Okay, okay, I get it! Shut up already!"

Caleb presses his cheek against your sternum, listening to your heartbeat with his face squished against your boobs. "I love you."

You stop squirming, your heart pounding inside of your chest. Your hand rests on top of his soft brown hair, your other hand lightly gripping his shoulder. How does this idiot always manage to get you so flustered? Ugh. "Then hurry up and clean me already. I'm tired of being sweaty."

Caleb exhales a breathy laugh. He looks at you with a dark gaze, like he wants to teach you a lesson a second time. "Brat."

"If I'm a brat, then what does that make you for enjoying it?" you fire back.

Caleb moves to stand. Your arms and legs wrap around his shoulders and waist instinctively to balance yourself. His strong hands grip your ass and thighs to support you as he carries you to the bathroom. "I'm the one who created this brat, so of course I'd enjoy it."

He always takes care of you after sex. He bathes you, pats your body dry, blow dries and brushes your hair for you. He'll even rub lotion on your skin for you. You're spoiled beyond belief because of him and his pampering. You can't imagine being this way with anyone else.

"Hmph. Then you better take responsibility."

"I will, pips. For the rest of our lives."

the flatter the chest, the closer you get to her heart ❤️

Another small wave of arousal hits. You shift again. The pillow currently folded between your thighs moves, and you try different movements to find the right angle for optimum friction. You’re so close. Dangling on the edge of the edge, like a little more you could get there - but every time it seems close enough to touch, it slips from your grasp. 

Some mix of frustration, desire, need well-up inside of you. A pit forms in your stomach, despair creeping in and starting to sink. Sweat beads your skin from your effort, but you’re not quite ready to throw in the towel.  

Again. You try again. Eventually, after taking a few deep breaths. You shift your hips up until the pressure on your clit is just right, and god—it feels so good. A low, involuntary sound slips from your mouth as a small shock wave of pleasure hits. You bite down on the pillow you lay your head on, muffling the sound.  

You’ve never made a sound like that on your own. It startles you, blood draining from your face. Sylus is stirring besides you. Forcing yourself not to move, you stiffen your every muscle and remain deathly still. You wait for what feels like hours, until his breath goes even.  

One more time, you think caustically, this time with less enthusiasm. 

You can feel your whole cunt throbbing. The sensation is so intense it feels like your insides are being tangled. Twisted and tightened without a modicum of relief, a constant and endless displeasure. 

You lay there limp. Despair washes over you at your latest attempt, tears prickling in your eyes.  

You feel dramatic, but it’s been a rough day and this isn’t helping. The kind of day that warrants getting off so you can sleep, as a small kindness to yourself. Yet you can’t. 

 You’re hot under his duvet, overstimulated out of your mind and almost angry. How dare he be like that, how dare he do this to you. You can’t accept it. 

 Your heart is racing. You lay there in oblivion night, moonlight sweeping over the room. Pale like a spectre but bright still. You lay on your stomach, with your leg hitched up, clutching the pillow under your head to your chest. Burying your face in it to hide, your own shame souring in your stomach.  

These slow, careful movements are nowhere close to enough. Especially not with Sylus sleeping so peacefully next to you. It doesn’t feel worth it anymore. Trying this off-handed method of grinding against a pillow. You need more. But, even if you gave up being quiet—you aren’t sure it’d amount to an orgasm.  

It’s been hours. How could this be? You used to be able to make yourself cum with ease.  

Before Sylus at least.  

You still can make yourself cum, sometimes. If you’re horny enough and you haven’t had sex in a while, you can work up to it. Take your time, read something that makes your thighs clench.  

But inevitably, even when you’re trying to use other material, your thoughts drift back to Sylus.  

Maybe that’s part of the reason you’re struggling. Your silent protest of him even in the recesses of your mind prove there’s no amount of distance you can really put between you.  

He seems so insistent on doing just that lately, so right now, it feels so blatantly unfair. 

It’s always been the nature of your relationship, at least pertaining to sex. Sylus likes to have control over your orgasms. Monopoly over them. Often times, he makes you cum without expecting anything in return. All the good sex you’ve ever had in your life has been of his efforts ultimately. He has authority over your body in a way no one else does, and worse - he enjoys it. He takes so much pride in being able to touch you over your underwear to make you cum. Sometimes, not having to touch you at all.  

(You don’t want to talk about it) 

You’re not very agreeable. Never been much the type. Your relationship to authority is damaged beyond repair and you’re rough around the edges on your best days. Sometimes violent, often hostile. You’re vigilant of people and your surroundings to a fault, never at ease.  

And Sylus loves to monopolize anything his heart desires. If it’s his, it’s his alone. It’s twisted in a way but once he looked into you, and saw how deeply you sought approval, he made it his mission to give you what you want. 

 So you’d be only his.  

Your sexual dynamic is founded upon this effort. Sylus likes the shame it seems to make you feel. Gradually, he became more paternal and authoritative in his efforts. The first time he called himself Daddy, it was after carefully tearing your walls down and taking control in a way he felt suited you. He had waited until you were all his, then stamped himself in your life.  

He knows what’s best for you, he insists. Just like a father would.  

In all other ways and methods, Sylus had no way of taming you. But he could give you approval in droves, enough to make you comply with relative ease.  

You’re so irritated because so many wires are crossing amidst your spat. You don’t remember the last time you’ve needed to do this. So, you feel like you’re losing your mind. It’s just so stupid, in a way. A small part of you wants to give up on being discretion, to lay on your back and touch yourself directly. But you’re so wet you think it’d be audible if you tried. Sylus wouldn’t even be mad if you did. He spoils you, knows you need that more than discipline.  

But you can’t. You especially couldn’t bear the mortification of Sylus waking up to you so needy and flushed.  

(It embarrasses you almost as much as it arouses you, if you’re honest.  

A small, animal part of your brain wants it. Craves for it. For him to wake up and catch you, smile at you like a cat with cream. You imagine how he’d pin you to the bed. His mouth tasting your fingers as you watch him, wide-eyed. You can see his playful grin, red eyes full of adoration and bemusement. You can hear the soft coo in his voice as he pours out all of his faux sympathy, thumb tracing your lower lash line.  

Oh, sweetheart. Can’t do it on your own? Not without daddy? Too hard? I’ve got you. 

You’re just looking for an escape. An easy way out. A reason to give into him in the way he’s trained you for.)   

Your mind runs rampant with fantasies as you try to collect yourself. You want to throw your pride out of the window and wake Sylus up. Make use of him. Grind against his cock while he’s soft and half sleep. For him to lend you the hard muscle of his thighs or his fingers, to put you to rest because you’re too useless right now to do it alone. You’re supposed to be mad at him. In a fight. You can’t let him win. If you woke him up just for this, your pride would never recover.  

 So, you’re left to your thoughts. You can’t wake him up, but it’s… not a crime to just imagine. You tell yourself this until you believe it.  

Your mind is too drunk with lust to commit to anger in the moment, though. You’re so wired to cum with his help. You hardly care, you just—need him to fix it. You can be angry again in the morning, and it’s not like you’re forgiving him and— 

And Sylus is so good at making you cum. Knows your body like the back of his hand.   

He’d fuck you so good if you gave in and just asked. 

You can’t. You’ve held on. What’s the point in being obstinate if you don’t see it through to the end? You really, really can’t.  

Trying to get your head on straight, you take a deep breath and try again. Hiking your leg up an inch, carefully folding the pillow tighter as you rut your hips against the folded corner, chasing the sweet relief. You manage a few deep, deliberate grinds and your feel sweat start to form at your temple from effort. But it almost gets you there.   

You push a little harder, eager, than lose your spot.  

Again. God fucking damn it.  

Tears form at your lashes.  

In your complete and utter despair, you don’t notice Sylus. 

You don’t notice any of it. Not him stirring, or waking, or looking over at you. You only hear him when he decides to speak moments after. Your eyes are still closed as you’re commiserating.  

You nearly jump out of your skin. His voice is soft and low like an echo.  

“You alright, sweetheart?”  

In your mind, you scream. Out loud, you take a deep quivering breath and hope Sylus doesn’t notice … anything, really. You clear your throat.  

“I’m fine, Sy. Sorry for waking you,”  

“Having trouble sleeping?” He asks.  

You close your eyes, being as careful as you can possibly manage as you wiggle away from the pillow without making a sound. “U-uhm. A bit. Tossing and turning. Just uh, not very sleepy.” 

Another long pause. You tense up, hoping he lets it go.  

You feel Sylus turn over then, towards you instead of the opposite way. You close your eyes and pray that his grogginess will alter his razor sharp perception and that you won’t be revealed.  

“Let me see your face,”  

Fuck. You have no idea what you look like. But if you look even a quarter as desperate as you feel, you’re in danger of him finding you out. You take a deep breath (as deep as you can without him noticing) and do as he asks, slowly turning over.  

In the darkness, Sylus’s red eyes gleam like a lantern. They examine you with the precision only a man descendant of dragons can offer, unyielding in their intensity. His hand comes up to cradle your face, concern furrowing his brow. 

“Your face is flushed.” He observes. You bite your lip.  

“I’m okay. Maybe a little hot? I might—” You look away from him, pretending to think. “Maybe take a shower? Jus-just to cool off.”  

It’s a good solution. You can turn the water on and put your hips under the stream. Maybe cup a hand over your mouth to keep from screaming and orgasm that way, muffled under the running water.  

Sylus shakes his head. He looks almost offended. “Don’t be ridiculous, sweetie. I’ll run you a bath.” 

His voice is gentle. It often is, but the sleep softens it so much more. His immediate consideration for you restlessness sends you into a guilty spiral. He goes to get up and a part of you thinks about letting him, just to save face. 

 It’s your fault he’s even awake right now. He barely even sleeps during the day, and it’s not often you get to sleep next to each other. And you were already in a fight earlier, yet he’s offering to run you a bath in the middle of the night. The guilt becomes too much, your hand shooting out to tug at his bicep before he can get out of bed. He turns to look at you, confused.   

You close your eyes and hope to whatever higher power it is that a sinkhole will open up and swallow all of the N109 zone whole.  

“Sylus, don’t get up. I’m fine. I was,” You pause, making the grave mistake of looking at him. His expression is so earnest it makes you feel even worse. You close your eyes. “I was just…I was trying to… get…get off. Without w-waking you.”  

Without you, goes unsaid.  

Silence stretches between you. The words seem to linger. It feels like hours. You screw your eyes shut and pray that he leaves it there.  

“Why didn’t you wake me?”  

His tone is so even that you can’t find a single emotion to read from it. But his curiosity is genuine.  

Shame crawls up your spine like ivy.  

“I just—it’s kind of embarrassing. I just wanted to rub one out and sleep, but I just—I couldn’t do it for some reason and then, I kept getting close, like so fucking close, but if I moved too much I couldn’t wake you and—“ 

“How long?”  

“What?”  

“How long have you been trying to make yourself cum, sweetheart?”  

The ache in your wrist suddenly reminds you of it’s presence. You clench your jaw.  

“Uhm…two hours? Maybe m-more?”  

A pause. And then, Sylus laughs.  

It’s a strong fit of laughter. A belly deep sort of laugh you don’t often hear, because Sylus is brooding and chuckles politely, more than he laughs. But he’s laughing, specifically at you, and you’d be much more upset if the sound wasn’t so…pleasant. In a way that makes you flush down your neck. You’re conflicted because he is laughing at you, but then, he sounds so nice. His voice is so nice. Smooth and deep and—  

You’re getting distracted.  

“A-are you? You’re laughing at me! Fuck, I shouldn’t have—“  

Sylus gently maneuvers his arm around your waist and pulls you back into bed when you try to get up, still collecting himself. You squirm from his grasp but to no avail, he’s too strong. The muscle of his arm is like a weight against your lower belly, keeping you tight to him back under the duvet.  

“You’re really something,”  

“Unhand me,”  

He laughs again. It’s so sweet it melts you out of your anger.  

“You should’ve just asked me,” He hums, pulling you against his chest. You’re turned away from him, your face in his arm as he rests his chin on your head, arm around your waist. “Two hours? It must hurt, huh? Poor thing,”  

Sylus’s silver tongue earns it’s reputation. He can be incredibly charming or undeniably cruel. Towards outsiders, Sylus wields speech like the tip of a knife. Condescending, slow, precise - cutting only enough to break the skin. Towards comrades, companions, Sylus is patronizing and firm, but steady. Like a silver chain, tethered but heavy. 

Towards you, Sylus voice colors in every shade. Often patronizing, lightly condescending, always firm. Always steady. It’d be a lie to say Sylus only speaks to you kindly, but honest to say he never speaks to you cruelly.  

Most of all, there’s a way Sylus speaks that’s reserved only for you. A more precious tone of silver. Gentle, and firm, and most of all - faux sympathetic. Sweetness no more than skin deep.  

Sometimes, Sylus talks down to you. Paternal. Like you don’t know enough to go against him, and he knows it. You should hate it and hate him for how often he does it, how unintentionally. You should hate that he speaks to you in a way anyone else could hear as demeaning if they tried.  

But it eases you instead. It wrings the resistance out of you. Because Sylus loves  you no matter how stupid, how empty-headed, how pliable and clueless you are. He’ll take care of you if you nod along and given in. He loves making you give in. He loves when you need him enough to give up on your pride and let him crush it so completely. Let your daddy take care of it. You’re all his, mind and body and soul, aren’t you?  

Just a small shift in tone is enough to pull you into it. The voice that’s only yours as much as you’re only his. The sound of him, the smooth mellow calm. Affection that seeps so deep into him, it bleeds into his every word. His poor, sweet thing.  

The drunken power he takes in knowing he has the effect on you, but loving you too much to gloat entirely. It should be an affront to you, by all accounts. But it isn’t. Instead it makes you so aroused your vision starts to blur.  

You press your face into his bicep, your breathing erratic, and your heartbeat goes kicking again. Because suddenly, you want him, enough to beg.  

That’s really all it takes.  

“Shut up.” 

“It does, huh?” He says, this time being mean. “Poor baby. Should I make it feel better?”  

“Just go to sleep,” You murmur.  

“You don’t mean that,” He says, soft against the nape of your neck, the shell of your ear. “do you, sweetheart?”  

You quiet, a gasp lodged in your throat. Seconds later, you whine. Whine because what else is there to do but succumb to him when he has you so completely? He smiles against your skin. Widening slightly when you begin tilting your neck up to give him easier access - a step away from begging him to kiss you, touch you.  

Anticipation draws your breathing uneven. Sylus helps you onto your back and eases himself on top of you. He kisses your lips lightly, more a greeting than anything, before he moves. A kiss to your jaw bone, followed by an open mouth one on your neck. His mouth lingers at your pulse like he’s trying to taste it from over your skin, a soft tongue like he intends to savor it.  

It pulls a gasp from you immediately. You’re already throbbing, so eager, that he could stay right there, and you could cum if you just squeezed your thighs. In knowing, Sylus parts your legs with a gentle hand. He’s pleased by your obedience when you leave them open, despite how eager you are for friction.  

His teeth ghost over the skin softly, over and and over, soothing the phantom wound through licking after he bites. He never moves to give you more unless you push him to. 

Your voice claws itself out of your throat, hungry. Desperate.  

“Please,” You whine, gasping sharply. “Please, just—“  

“Shh, sweetheart. Be good. Leave the thinking to me, yeah?”  

You whole body wracks with a shudder, nodding your head. Yes, yes, yes. 

 Everything becomes white noise after that.  

He pulls his lips down further and further, watching delightedly at the way you react. You’ve been so aroused for hours, Sylus’s touch feels like throwing gasoline into an already burning fire. Your whole body feels pulled taut as you steel yourself against cumming before he actually touches you where you need to be touched. You choke off a whine, trying to rid your thoughts of your poor, neglected cunt.  

Your back arches up, toes curled up, hands fisting at the sheets. Shaking just from the way he kisses your neck, your jaw. Full lips ghosting over the skin before kissing more firm, open-mouthed, wet and hungry.  

But Sylus doesn’t move any faster. Doesn’t give you enough to tip you over the edge. He’s unhurried, only intending to taste.  

(Later, you will recall this as a petty revenge. A kind of punishment, since Sylus could never really punish you.  

He could easily give you the relief you need now, but he’s frustrated in his own way. With the fact you’d waste your time being stubborn while he’s sleeping next to you. He could’ve given this to you from the start, and not made you wait.) 

 His fingers are delicate as they push your pajama shirt over your tits, squeezing them with appreciative hands without ever touching where you want. Kissing at your collarbones, your sternum, the dips and underneath side of your breasts as your breathing so heavily they rise and fall in front of him. His tongue slips over the skin, tasting salt, pleased with your effort. Soft against our skin, wetting it slightly. Goosebumps form over your skin as he pulls away, air cooling the dampness. Arousal makes your nipples harden, and Sylus fondles them too for good measure. Delicately rolling them with thumb until you cant your hips to get more.  

“Touch me,” You whine. Sylus laughs.  

“I am touching you, kitten.”  

You make a garbled sound that Sylus just laughs at again.  

Your heart is hammering, tongue thick and heavy in your mouth. Desire that’s been climbing the same peak and falling back down for hours and hours, finally starts to pivot back up. It’s climbing so steadily, so high. You can’t handle the tension. You’re a mess into the sheets of your bed, an arm over your face as your panting and moaning dries out your mouth.  

At the precipice of losing your mind, you claw into yourself and find your voice.  

“Sylus,” You say his name with everything you have left of you. “Please,”  

“Try again, love.”  

Asshole. “Daddy, please.”  

Sylus moans in reply. The sound comes deep from his chest like he’s purring, so pleased with how you call on him. Lean on him. Ask, in your stubborn way, for him to kiss it better. His mouth trails further south, kissing hotly from base of your chest down the expanse of your tummy. He kisses your navel reverently, until he’s just above your waistband.  

Again, louder this time. “Oh, please. Please, please, please,”  

Sylus kisses you over your pajamas shorts with adoration and hunger split equal. His hands sink into your hips, fingers gripping onto your skin as he sinks his face down between your legs 

He lingers there, wetting his mouth. His breath is hot against your sensitive, sore pussy. It makes you squirm, watching with ragged breath. He nudges his nose against it, breathing the scent of you, pressing impossibly close. And then you feel it. Saliva soaks your pajama bottoms as Sylus spits and licks through the thin material. You gasp. Your jaw falls open in a silent scream. Fuck. Your stiff clit throbs at the press of it, hardening all over. The intensity almost urges you to crawl away. Your underwear, already wet, soaks further from a mix of saliva and arousal. Clings to your pussy, offering such an intense sensation, you cry out.  

You want it. You don’t know what it is, but—fuck, you want it so bad you can’t help yourself. You curl your fingers into his hair and push his head into your clit, impatient. Desperately searching for whatever will fix the feeling. Sylus just laughs, barely moved by your show of force.  

He’s kind enough to get the memo, though. After you pick your hands back up and fold them at your sides, Sylus’s fingers reach into the elastic of your waistband, and tug.  

Your underwear rolls as Sylus slides it down your thighs. He helps you lift your legs up to take them off. Standing on his knees and tossing them to the floor, he gently eases you back down. He positions your legs for you, feet flat on the bed with your knees up. You feel vulnerable like prey with your legs so open. Sylus takes a beat to admire you. He uses his thumb to draw you open, spreading your pussy open wide until everything is visible. Your clit twtiches from the sudden attention, the admiration. The genuine love in his gaze as he stares down gives you grief like no other.  

Embarassed, you tuck your chin. Sylus keeps looking.  

“A pretty pussy from a pretty girl, hm?”  

 You crinkle your nose and resist the urge to close your legs, letting out a breath of relief when Sylus lays back down without saying anything more.  

Finally, finally - Sylus pulls you close and presses his tongue against your clit.  

Your whole body breaks down. Like one white hot flash of heat, every inch of your skin lights up. A raw nerve split open and so tender. You moan so loud it makes your throat hurt from strain, bordering on a scream.   

“Ohh, fuck.”  

Sylus’s mouth feels so fucking  hot. His tongue moves through you, eager to taste. Before he focuses his attention, he flattens his tongue to taste all of you, pushing it into your hole. His nose bumps your clit as he repeats the movement, over and over until there’s nothing else. Licked clean, he move up and presses a soft kiss to the sensitive nerves. The tip of his tongue traces around the outside of your clit, precise and angular. 

Sylus teases you, smiling as your hips buck up against his mouth. Both hands wrap around your thigh, pulling you as close he can before he gives you what you need.  

Your whole body jolts when Sylus’s finds the right spot. He laps at your cunt eagerly, fingers pressed into the fat of your hips. Sylus holds you horribly still as he eats you out, not prolonging your suffering.  

But the win is  so temporary it’s bleak. Your first orgasm washes over you before you can wrap your head around it. Your fingers clutch aimlessly at the bedsheets, body going slack as the first weak wave of pleasure falls over you.  

You cry out, finding no relief in it. Dissatisfaction makes you thrash against him, but he holds your hips down. Unrelenting, Sylus hushes you as you whine, pitiful.  

He pulls away, the lack of friction making you hiccup. “Easy there, sweet girl.”  

“Sylus,” Your voice is a soft whine in the back of your throat.  

“Didn’t feel very good, hm? Wasn’t what you needed?”  

You almost sob as you shake your head. Sylus clicks his teeth.  

“I know, sweetie, I know.” Sylus hums, close but not touching. “I’m the only one who can give you what you need right?”  

A voice, deep in the back of your head, urges you to gnash your teeth at him. Instead, you nod your head, eyes closed.  

“Yes, yes, please,” You hiccup. Tears spring. Already damp from sweat, fat tears form at your lashes before spilling down your cheeks. You need it. “Make me cum,”  

“How, baby? Tell me how you want it,”  

“Inside,” You whimper, hands fisted at the sides of the sheets.  

Suddenly, you feel so fucking empty. It’s awful. You’re so wet and slick and needy, but you’re so, so empty. Something deep in your core is burning molten, your legs trembling. Your cunt aches with need so bottomless, it feels like it won’t ever stop. You want him to reach deep, deeper than anyone else and touch you there. Fill you up and make you feel everything. Stretch you until you’re whole again.  

It’s not enough. Nothing is enough and you need, you need— 

“What do you need, kitten?” Sylus taunts.  

You hiccup. “Fuck me. Put your dick in me, please, I need it. Sylus, I need you to—“  

“You need it?” Sylus iterates, so aggravating. “Oh, sweetheart.”  

Asshole. “Yes.”  

Sylus wipes your tears. His palm cups your face, thumb brushing away some of your tears. He coos at you sympathetically, leans down to kiss all over your face. It relaxes you, a brief respite of tenderness amidst feeling like you’re falling apart completely. The touch disarms you, Sylus brushing his nose against yours.  

He’s grinning, delighted, as you look back at him. He leans in some more, a kiss to your jaw, to your neck, that makes you break out in shivers all over.  

“I like when you need me, sweetheart.” Sylus hums, so pleased with you. “You’re cute when you’re docile, y’know? You’re rarely this helpless. Except for when—“  

He grinds the hard shape of his cock against your thigh. You tremble, lust making your mind go blank. “When you need me to fuck you. When you need to feel good. Then you’re all sweet like this. Can’t form a single word, can you?”  

You shake your head, and Sylus mimics the gesture, teasing. “Only word you seem to know is please. What a good girl you are, huh? Begging me to fuck you. Say it for me one more time. What you do need from Daddy?”  

“Fuck me,” You hiccup. “Make me feel good. Make me cum. Wanna cum on your cock, please, please, I need—“  

“Shhh, good girl. That’s it, that’s all I wanted to hear. Now hold still.”  

Sylus dips back down between your legs after pressing one last kiss to your hairline.  

The second time Sylus goes down on you, he doesn’t bother with any theatrics. He slides his fingers through your folds, wetting them, before pushing inside of you. Two go in with so much ease, it embarrasses you. You start to shiver helplessly, unsure of how to stop. The pleasure, the relief is so immediate. You’re so high strung from your first orgasm being ruined, that this feels unbelievable.  

Your back arches as Sylus pushes himself deeper, middle fingers down the knuckle. It feels intrusive, in a good way. The emptiness inside you is placated briefly by the touch. 

Then, at the same time, Sylus bends down and licks a stripe on your clit, while he bends his fingers up towards your gspot.  

You spasm. It happens so quickly, so rapidly. The pressure inside of you that’s been halted, stagnated all this time, comes falling down. Suddenly, you’re falling back down to Earth, hot like a star crashing through the atmosphere. Burning hotter than ever, destined to leave a completely mess in your place.  

Sylus barely has to move his fingers. A few strokes of them against your gspot, his tongue sucking softly on your clit  - and you’re gone. Your vision blurs out as an orgasm wracks through your body all at once, every muscle taut like a bowstring. You cum hard, and intense.  

It’s so fucking much.  

And it feels like it won’t stop. Your sensitivity kicks into overdrive, and your orgasm feels endless. Wave after waver of euphoria washes over your mind. It feels so fucking good you can’t speak, don’t have any words left. Sylus moves his pace steadily, unhurried, constant. Gives it to you exactly how you need without hurrying you forward. Steady and calm, but relentless.  

Sylus makes a pleasant noise. You’re too lost to realize you’ve squirted on his face, soaked him all the down to his wrist. Constant waves of pleasure wash over you without stopping. You don’t have room left to breathe. Your mind is blank 

Over and over, Sylus continues to fingerfuck you open. Mouth and tongue in tandem wringing orgasms from you like it’s easy. Your body lingers in a state of overheat, small bursts of  wetness gushing out, soaking the bedsheets, his fingers. Sweat drips down your body from the effort of it, and the muscles of your stomach tensing.  

“Oh god, oh my god, oh my fucking god—“  

Sylus stops when you can’t find anymore words. You whine at the loss of contact, but in the same breath - you’re relieved, not sure how much more of it you could possibly handle. Your mind is already broken already.  

Sylus moves his face away from your clit, but another finger joins the two left inside. This time he’s careful, almost procedural, in stretching you out. He avoids touching you where you need, avoids rubbing against your g-spot with intention. It lets you come down from your high.  

“How greedy you are sweetheart,” Sylus growls. For the first time in a while, you open your eyes and look at him. His eyes are so focused on your sex, low and lidded. His chest heaves slow, like he’s trying to regulate. “Look at you,”  

You can feel yourself better than you can see. Swollen, puffy, and slick from overexertion. So sensitive to the touch that, even the air, the slight buck and tremble of your hips, echoes through your whole body. It’s so much that Sylus’s deliberate avoidance is still enough to make you whimper in soft, broken moans.  

You can’t help yourself anymore, the words slipping before you have a chance to feel ashamed of them.  

“Fuck me,” You beg, winded from it. “Fuck me, fuck, please,”  

“Who do you want to fuck you, sweetheart?”  

Shame curls in your stomach, low and hot. You turn your face towards the pillow, the words coming out of you with a slow whine. A shallow breath escapes you.  

“Daddy,” You moan. “Please, fuck me, please. Need it,”  

Sylus smiles. Somewhere between sweet, adoring, and incredibly arrogant. He bends down quickly, presses a kiss to your mouth that you chase. Coos at you before kissing you once more, twice more for good measure. His cock throbs against your cunt, laid heavy and aching. Pre-cum spills against your clit. You’re comforted in the thought he wants it too.  

He speaks, low and measured. “Good girl,” 

Sylus sits back up on his knees, pulling you closer to him. He pulls your hips flush to his pelvis, heavy cock resting against your cunt. Your legs are up, ankles by his shoulders as you stare at him wide-eyed, stupid with want.  

You shudder. Anticipation draws your breath, as Sylus reaches between your bodies, sliding his tip through slick folds. The swollen head of his cock pushes slowly but surely into your entrance.  

Your whole body reacts, like an electric current through water, forming sparks.  

 Your mouth falls open in a cry. Your spine is fucking tingling. You point your arms up to Sylus, wet and wide-eyed, urging him down. He bends forward until your arms close around his neck, a hand on your hip as he keeps you secure to him. Slowly but sure, he moves his hips. His cock is so thick, fuck. Hot and heavy, pulsating as it slips inside. Inch by inch, slowly dragging against your insides.  

“Oh,” Your eyes roll up, the slight ache making your whole body sing. Your nails find Sylus’s back, clawing at him. “O-oh my fucking god,”  

Sylus sounds wrecked despite himself. His breath tickles your shoulder blade, mouth pressing hot kisses up the side of your neck as he eases inside.  

“You feel so good. Haah. Incredible.” He says, half-laughing. “You’re so wet. So wet it feels like you’re pushing me out,”  

“No,” You whine, wrapping your legs around him, clinging helplessly. “Deeper,”  

“How deep do you need Daddy, sweetheart?” 

“So deep,” You choke, gasping. “Fuck me deep, please, please,”  

“So whiny. You feel so perfect for me. Always perfect for me,” Sylus praises. The praise makes your head feel full of cotton. You whimper aloud.  

“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,”  

“Be good and hold on for me,”  

True to his word, Sylus steadies himself and starts to move. 

It doesn’t take anything, really. Not after how long you’ve spent, how worked up you’ve been. Not with how big Sylus is, ridiculously thick as it fills you. You’re already so stretched open and soft, so pliant - but there’s a familiar dull ache that you love, the feeling of being so whole and so full that leaves your mind completely blank. 

You’re so aroused, so stretched emotionally and physically, so keyed up and needy from any number of things— that it takes almost nothing to make you cum. You’ve wanted it—this—for so long, for what feels like days, and the first moment it stretches you, nothing else even matters. No anger, no upset, no frustration, just complete fullness and depth.  

Sylus is so comforting above you, warm like only another body can be, in a way that makes your throat close up from emotion. He’s sturdy and broad, shoulders stretched over you like a shield. His other hand is cups the nape of your neck, forehead touching yours, breathing you in so deeply, only inches away. You can smell the scent of his skin, feel the shape and callouses of his hands on your hips.  

He’s so deep in you, touching you in a place and in a way anyone else seldom has. There’s never been someone like Sylus in your life. So much so, all the sex you’ve ever before feels written over.  

He just makes you feel so good. It’s so overwhelming to have him.  

The apparent need that’s been clawing inside of you all day, since you started arguing this morning, since you needed to get off—it feels like everything clicks. Something in your brain starts to whirr. The tension bleeds from you, as you realize almost suddenly, what you’ve wanted this whole time what you want from him.  

To feel close. 

You’ve just wanted to feel close. This close, like nothing else matters. Like there’s nothing in the world that can interrupt you.  

The realization has your breath hitching, tears welling up in your eyes, sliding down your cheeks.  

Sylus coos at you, careful. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?  

“Feels good,” You mumble, not sure what else to say because it does. Other things cross your mind. You’re not completely talking about sex.“Feels so good. I love you. Love you, Sylus.”  

Sylus hums, kissing a tear from your face. “Let me make you feel good. Keep holding on like that,”  

So you nod, and let Sylus fuck you. You fall limp, completely trusting, as Sylus thrusts his hips. You rock with the gesture, pure euphoria causing you to tremble. Your first orgasm blindsides you. You go slack. It feels impossibly good. Your pussy is so wet and so stretched and nothing else seems to matter other than being fucked like this, fucked so good and so hard and so intentional. 

 You choke a little on your moans, warmth flushing down your chest as you hold on.  

He fucks you over and over. Not slow but not fast, just perfect - the head of his cock rubbing against the spot inside of you that makes you see heaven. It feels like you can’t stop cumming, not sure where he ends and you start. Just one loop pleasure, and all the warmth you could need, to fuck you through it.  

“Sweet thing,” Sylus says, so revering as he fucks every orgasm out of you, pussy around drooling around his cock as everything melts away. “Shit, you feel so good.”  

Your legs are trembling, completely blissed out, by the time Sylus feels close to cumming. You perk up when it becomes apparent, wrapping your legs around him even tighter, encouraging him with everything you have.  

“Sy,” You whisper. “Daddy. Cum in me. Please?”  

Sylus laughs, sounding drunk. 

“You know what I like hearing, huh.”  

You laugh in earnest. “Fill me up with your cum. Need it. Wanna keep feeling you. Please.”  

Sylus groans. It’s a broken sound, his hips stuttering and movements coming to a slow. You can feel his cock throb and pulse inside of you, the cum shooting out of it suddenly. It’s thick and warm, painting your insides, adding to the mess without restraint. There’s so much cum it makes you shudder. It’ll take a while to clean, but you’ll just force him to help you.  

Sylus stops, finally, still panting. He smiles at you sleepily. You smile too.  

He stays still for a while before pressing a kiss to your head.  

“Up. Let’s take a bath.”  

___  

The water runs warm. 

Everything in Sylus’s home is excessive and grand, and the same is true for his bath. You can spread out in it with relative ease.  

And even with Sylus behind you, taking up so much room, it’s not very cramped.  

Neither of you have spoken in some time. You don’t really know what to blame it on. You’ve exchanged kisses and touches, and you’re pressed against Sylus’s back. You can tell he’s being careful, and somehow, you find yourself a little upset with him. Maybe in your longing for the same closeness. 

You don’t show it, though. This time, it’s your own issue to deal with. You play with the warm, soapy water and think about sleeping on it.  

But then, Sylus speaks. His voice is quiet. Calm and even over the bathwater, and comfortable to listen to.  

“I’m sorry.” 

This surprises you.  

“What for?”  

Sylus sighs, running a wet hand through his hair. Not in annoyance, since you’re not asking him in upset either. Your fight from earlier never really got resolved. You’re not sure Sylus even figured out why you were upset, so you wonder why he’s apologizing in the first place.  

“I shouldn’t have let you go to sleep angry,”  

You shrug, shaking your head. “It’s whatever.”  

He leans forward, his chin on your shoulder. “It’s not,”  

No it’s not, but you aren’t sure what else to say.  

You had this conversation with him before, but to no avail. You don’t have any new ways to frame it, to make him understand. But it dawns on you that maybe your revelation from before might be helpful. You furrow your brow, and feel emotion well up inside of you again before sighing.  

You can be brave first, if he needs it. 

“You feel…faraway sometimes,” You tell him, twiddling with your fingers. “Not really sure how to put it. Earlier, you were clearly upset about something but you wouldn’t even let me ask about it and…” 

“And?”  

“Dunno. Just felt distant. How would you feel if it were me? If I were upset and didn’t even talk to you about it?”  

He frowns deeply. You smile tiredly, a touch amused. “I’d give you your space but—“  

You interrupt. “It’d eat at you, wouldn’t it?”  

After a while, Sylus nods. “It would.” And then, more quietly “I especially dislike not knowing when it comes to you,”  

You roll your eyes. “You’re worse than me in a lot of ways. But that’s fine. You’ve seen a lot in your life. But I wish you would just…tell me, y’know? If it’s not something we can talk about yet, or ever. Talk to me. I’m your partner, right?”  

“Of course,”  

“Then keep me in the loop. It hurts when you feel distant…especially when…” You feel yourself flush down your neck. “And when I let myself be so…” You gesture vaguely. “Whatever, with you.”  

Sylus knows immediately what you mean, laughing against your shoulder. “Whatever, huh? Eloquent.”  

“Shut the fuck up. I’ll kill you.” You say, with no real bite at all.  

“I’d be honored,” He says, none of his usual snark or sarcasm. His voice is all soft and revering. Almost small.  

Sylus only ever seems to seem small when it comes to love. He’s so imposing, otherwise. Ruthless and feared. His whole life painted in myth.  

With love though, real love, he’s meek somehow. The more he loves you, the more it seems to haunt him. The more haunted he is, the farther away he becomes. Love often feels a game with Sylus, and winning is a matter of who can leave first with the least scars.  

From all you know, you understand it. But you aren’t sure you know how to fix it. Those wounds are so many lifetimes older than you. You wonder if there’s even a way.  

Your thoughts draw you quiet, but Sylus goes first this time. His turn to be brave 

“I’ll try,” Sylus says, in earnest, breaking you out of your thoughts. “I’ve never had a reason to…open up to someone, per se. But I do now,” He says, soft. “So I’ll try. Thank you for the patience.”  

You don’t say anything in reply, but you smile, looking down into the water.  

“And for the record,” He hums, “I love you too.” 

The next moment, you’re inside a yurt, its flap angrily slapping shut behind you as you untuck your head from beneath Sylus’s chin to take everything in. A circular, knee-height wall transitions into a slanted ceiling that’s held up by a central post, and there’s a single lantern hanging near the top that throws dim orange light over the tiny space. Shadows lick across the rug-covered floor, the deep burgundies and muted yellows of the weaves flashing brown and grey as bursts of lightning filter through the canopy.

Sylus sets you down gently, and you immediately miss his warmth. You shake out your legs to try and get some feeling back in them after the hard ride but stop as soon as you realize you’re just flinging water everywhere, including on Tarna. There’s barely enough room for the three of you to stand in here comfortably, especially with Sylus’s broad frame. But shelter is shelter, and you’re grateful for it.

“Apologies that we don’t have anything larger,” Tarna says, hunching slightly so that she can stand a bit farther away from the two of you without her head scraping the yurt, “but it should at least keep you dry and shield you from the worst of the cold.”

You push your hair back to stop water dripping down your face and then scan the interior. In addition to the lantern, there’s a single, too-narrow bedroll and exactly one blanket. Wonderful.

“Thank you,” Sylus says to Tarna, sincere in his appreciation but also effectively dismissing her.

With a half-bow, Tarna mutters a polite See you in the morning, and then she’s gone, leaving you alone with Sylus.

Sylus and the singular bedroll.

If the evening hadn’t turned quite so cruel, you might have the energy to track down a second one. But it did, and you don’t, so with a resigned sigh, you toe off your boots and step toward the pallet. It’s just one night. And besides, you’re so exhausted that you’ll probably pass out before your head even hits the pillow.

“And just what do you think you’re doing?”

You pause in your tracks and stare blankly at Sylus. “Going… to bed?”

He props a hand on his hip and gestures vaguely in your direction, eyes roving up and down your form as he appraises you with palpable distaste. “Not like that you’re not.”

A peal of thunder shakes the yurt, and you look down at yourself, unsure what fault he found. “Like what?”

“You’re soaked to the bone, kitten.” The cool red of his gaze is steady on you as water slips over his cheeks and down his neck, little rivulets catching the lamplight before they disappear beneath his collar. “Clothes need to come off.”

You huff out a timid laugh, and then you realize he’s not joking. “It was just a bit of rain,” you say, wishing you sounded more convincing.

“Sweetie, we are, at best, several centuries removed from the medicine that can effectively treat pneumonia.” He folds his arms across his chest like he’s squaring up for an argument. “And besides, we have to share a blanket— one which I’d prefer you didn’t get sopping wet.” He lifts a brow. “Now strip.”

The command sends a pulse of nervous energy through your limbs, but he’s right. You hate that he’s right. And you hate even more that the thought of being naked around him is causing your blood to heat.

He looks at you expectantly.

You’re being ridiculous. You’re both adults, and it’s just one night. You can do this. Better exposed than ill, or however the saying goes. “Turn around,” you mutter weakly.

Sylus looks like he’s about to say something more, but then he just closes his mouth and dutifully faces the entrance to the yurt, giving you his back.

You let a few seconds pass, just to be sure that he’s going to stay put, and when he does, you begin the arduous process of peeling off layer after layer of rain-drenched fabric. Your pants and long-sleeved shirt fight you something fierce, but you’re eventually victorious. Once you’re bare, you lay your clothes flat on one of the rugs and send up a silent prayer that everything will be dry by morning.

After, you quickly slide into the bedroll, desperate to both hide your nudity and escape from the slight draft seeping into the confined space. To your surprise, the blanket is thick and heavy— a sturdy but pliable weave that’s less scratchy than it looks.

“You can turn around now,” you say to Sylus, covers pulled up to your chin.

He moves slowly, head lagging a moment behind his shoulders like he’s waiting for you to take back your words. But you don’t, and then he’s facing you, a gentle smirk warming his features.

And then he goes for his belt.

You squeak and duck under the blanket before you see something you shouldn’t.

The soft trill of his laughter fills the yurt as he says, “My, my. Someone’s awfully shy tonight.”

“I’m just… giving you your privacy.”

He lets out an amused huff. “Sure you are.”

Heavy, wet snaps of fabric startles you a few times as Sylus disrobes, but you resolutely remain beneath the covers, eyes pinched shut just in case the visual barrier were to fail.

Sylus putters around for longer than you expect, but from the sounds of it—the rasping slide of leather cord becoming knots—he’s tying off the entrance to the yurt. Smart. Thanks to his efforts, maybe you won’t wake up half-frozen. Eventually, his steps carry him toward the bedroll, and you hurriedly roll onto your side so that you’re facing away from him.

He slides in without fanfare, then his voice is at your ear, a slow drawl that has your breath stuttering: “Do I need to beg for it?”

You peek over the blanket to find him far too close, and you choke out a garbled, “What?”

His mouth pulls into a devilish grin. “The blanket, kitten.” His gaze crawls over your thoroughly cocooned body before returning to your eyes. “Unless you’ve decided not to share?”

“Oh. Right.” You slowly feed some of it to him while also scooting yourself a bit farther away, to the very edge of the bedroll.

“Much obliged,” he says, rustling next to you as he adjusts the lay of the blanket across his chest.

His hair is a darker shade of grey, you notice, color weighed down by the rain. It suits him well enough, but you find yourself missing the ashen, silvered hue you’ve grown so used to.

Finally, without so much as a sideways glance in your direction, Sylus folds an arm behind his head, tosses you an austere Sleep well, kitten, and lets his eyes drift shut.

Seconds pass, and you’re unable to turn back around, captivated by how the lamplight plays against his skin, how it’s melting away the timeless severity of his features. You almost don’t recognize him without a cutting smirk plastered on his face. He’s not relaxed—not exactly—but he seems… less burdened.

The longer you stare, the more you want to reach over and trace the elegant slope of his jaw. Would he enjoy your touch, you wonder?

You ball your hand to keep from acting on the impulse and instead push out an irritated sigh.

“If you're struggling to fall asleep,” he says, jolting you out of your revelry, “I know a trick we could try.” His eyes remain shut even as the ghost of a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

You clench your jaw and turn away, curling your knees to your chest in search of warmth that doesn’t exist.

He lets out a sigh of his own. “Suit yourself.”

Rain pelts the yurt from all directions, winds carving chaotic patterns as the thunder rolls across the plains. It goes on and on, showing no signs of abating. You’ve experienced worse storms by far, but never with only a few layers of tanned hides and a bit of felt between you and the elements. Lightning flashes here and there, unpredictable and rudely startling you awake on the rare occasion that you’re comfortable enough to begin drifting off. It would be less annoying if your wet hair wasn’t sapping every last ounce of heat from your body.

You’re miserable, you decide.

You’re cold and wet and naked and miserable.

And then an arm wraps around your middle and drags you backward until you’re pressed flush against a warm, broad chest.

“W-what are you doing?” you ask, pulse skittering.

Sylus fits his arm atop yours, his elbow ending up near your stomach as his hand loosely covers your fist. His breaths are close and warm against your ear. “Your shivering is making it impossible to sleep,” he says.

You swallow. “Then I’ll put my clothes back on.”

“Nonsense, they’re still wet.” His voice has a gravelly quality to it you haven’t heard before— vague and lazy from exhaustion, like he’s hinting at words more so than saying them. “You do that and you’ll be even worse off than you were before.”

“Sylus, we’re naked,” you whisper, a note of panic in your tone.

“Oh?” he says. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Sylus—”

“Relax, kitten. It’s a cold night, and we both need to get some rest.”

A particularly harsh gust of wind forces its way through the gaps around the yurt’s entry flap, and you shiver as the cold air hits your face.

“Let me keep you warm,” he finishes.

He is quite warm. In fact, the chill that had settled into your bones is already subsiding, and maybe you’re a fool but you don’t want to give up your only source of heat. “Fine, but no funny business.”

He huffs a laugh, and for some reason that puts you at ease. “I promise to be a perfect gentleman.”

His offer seems genuine enough, so you finally untense your muscles and relax into him, glad for his warmth and the weight of his arm slung over your waist. But when Sylus pulled you to him, you must have ended up on top of a rock, or maybe a stick, and it’s digging painfully into your hip. You wiggle a bit to find a more comfortable position, and a choked sound catches in his throat, his cock stirring against the back of your thigh.

“As long as you don’t keep squirming like that,” he adds.

You immediately go still and wonder, not for the first time, if it would be possible to just cease existing. Perhaps a resonance burst could take you out? “Sorry,” you whisper.

Sylus exhales a slow, strained breath but eventually calms his body back down.

Outside, the storm rages on, a steady barrage of thunder and lightning and all the trappings of an angry god. Perhaps it’s a consequence of your arrival here— a cosmic balancing of the scales that you disturbed when you hurtled back through time. Or perhaps it’s just poor luck.

Then, there’s a different noise.

At first, you try to convince yourself that it’s creaking wood or wailing animals or anything other than pleasure-drunk moans coming from one of the nearby yurts. But as Sylus’s cock grows steadily harder, the faint pulse of his quickened heartbeat thrumming against your skin, you know your instincts are correct.

To his credit, he keeps his breathing even.

You, on the other hand, are faring much worse, and as you fight to remain unaffected, heat stubbornly pools low in your belly— a barely tolerable simmer that threatens to become more. Your thoughts stray to how easy it would be for Sylus to sheath himself in you, to push slowly, brazenly into you. Just a shift of his hips, and your bodies would be joined.

Or perhaps it wouldn’t be so simple.

Perhaps he’d first need to prepare you with his fingers— stretch you so that you could take him. He feels big, you can’t help but notice. Big and heavy and thick.

The unmistakable slap of skin against skin filters through the thin walls of the yurt, and Sylus’s cock twitches.

“How long are you going to pretend to be asleep?” you ask, unable to stand the unnatural silence any longer.

He’s quiet for a moment, and then: “Is there something unconvincing about my performance?”

You purse your lips to keep from laughing. “Oh, just one rather large something, I’d say.”

Sylus buries his forehead in the curve of your neck. “I’m trying my best here, kitten. Go easy on me.”

“It’s okay,” you say, suddenly wanting to reassure him, and then another wave of energetic moans cuts through the patter of rain. It sends a surge of heat straight to your core, and you squeeze your thighs together to take the edge off. “They’re, uh… getting to me, too.”

Sylus groans, his cock pressing against you a bit more firmly as he tightens his grip on your hand. “Stop talking,” he says, voice stiff and rough, and if he meant to discourage you, he did a terrible job.

You want to hear more of him like this, like he’s fighting for composure just as badly as you are.

So you cant your hips, and the angle is such that your slick cunt drags along the hot, hard length of him.

Sylus’s hand darts up to grab your jaw, grip almost punishing as he turns your head until vibrant, searing crimson is all you can see. “You are playing a very dangerous game, sweetie. My self-control is not limitless.”

You smile and brush the tip of your nose against his. “Mmm, I’m counting on it,” you say, and then you grind against him again, bolder than before.

You’re tired of pretending like you don’t want him, like you haven’t wanted him for weeks now. Like you haven’t spent multiple nights with your hand between your thighs thinking of what it would be like to have his body moving against yours, taut muscles gleaming with sweat, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.

What it would feel like to have him filling you, fucking you, ruining you for anyone else, his teeth at your neck marking you as his.

You want to know what shade of red his eyes are when he’s lost to pleasure.

And you want to know what sound he gives up when he comes.

On a sharp exhale, Sylus abruptly pulls back far enough to wedge the blanket between your bodies, partially uncovering himself in the process, and you instantly hate the fibrous layer of wool that replaces the smooth flesh of his hips. His eyes are pinched shut, brows drawn together like he’s in pain as he sucks in ragged breaths.

“Did I… do something wrong?” you ask, voice small.

The briefest of smiles— there and gone before you can even blink. “Not in the slightest,” he says, subtly shaking his head. Those striking red eyes of his find you again, hot as embers, sharp as glass.

You press your lips together, suddenly worried you catastrophically misread this entire situation, that he really was only interested in keeping you warm. “Then… do you not… want me… like that?”

“Oh, kitten.” His expression softens as he brings a hand to your jaw. “I want to bed you more than I want to breathe.”

Your breath hitches at the unexpected confession, and you bite your lip. Slowly, cautiously, you roll so that your back is flat on the pallet, and then you slide yourself closer. Tuck yourself beneath him. “So bed me.”

His eyes roam over you, catching on your lips, your neck, the rise and fall of your chest, and there’s something almost mournful in his gaze. “Not like this,” he says, brushing a strand of damp hair off your forehead, touch light. “Not surrounded by mud and goats.” His hand finally settles against your jaw, fingers so long they curl around to the back of your head. “You deserve better than that.”

“I don’t want better,” you say. “I want now.” Heart in your throat, you bring a palm to his chest, astonished at how his muscles tense at the mildest of contact. “I want you.”

Sylus sweeps his thumb over your cheek, staring at you with such soft wonder that it makes you ache. “Say that again.”

It might be the first honest thing he’s ever asked of you, and he looks like he’ll die if you refuse him. When did you amass such power over him? Warmth trickles down your spine. “I want you, Sylus.”

He smiles but it’s fragile, eyes flitting over your features like he’s discovering each of them anew. “I never have been able to deny you,” he says, and it sounds like a confession, like an apology.

You want to ask him what he means. You’ve only known each other for a short time, during which he’s done nothing but press your buttons— expertly, you might add. He is a vexing, tedious, insolent man... that you'd very much like to fuck, it turns out. So instead, you hold your breath as his lips brush against yours, featherlight. You’ve always struggled with patience, but for this—for him—you’ll try.

He looks at you again, gaze so molten that it could raze entire cities. “No sense in starting now.”

And then he kisses you. He kisses you so hard it hurts. Kisses you so hard you can think of nothing else, his lips plush and sure and hungry against yours. You gasp when he licks into you, stealing bits of his breath to fill your lungs with the taste of him.

“On one condition,” Sylus says, breaking away.

You surge forward, instinctively chasing after his mouth, but he’s faster than you and you’re left panting. “Are you—” You narrow your eyes at him. “Are you trying to negotiate with me right now?”

A slow grin spreads across his too-handsome face. “Maybe.” He dips his head to lick and suck his way down your throat. “Are you in the mood to bargain?”

You groan, fingers digging into his shoulders as you arch into him, sick for more. “Name your terms.” He lazily kneads your breast, and you whine. “Quickly.”

“So demanding,” he chides, nuzzling at your pulse point.

“Sylus.”

He stifles a laugh, clearly enjoying himself. “First you don’t want me to touch you, and now I’m not touching you enough.” His thumb brushes the underside of your breast before he glides his hand down, down, down— over your ribs, your hip, touch scorching you more thoroughly than any flames ever could. “I’m getting mixed signals, kitten.”

You bury your fingers in his hair and yank, pulling his head back so that you can glare at him properly. “You are such a tease,” you hiss.

“All right, all right. Needy little thing.” Sylus palms the back of your thigh and gives a possessive squeeze before he slides his hand back up to cup the curve of your ass. “I propose the following exchange: I give you this now”—he drags a finger along your slit in a way that pulls a moan from your throat—“and once we’re back in our own time, you allow me to take care of you the way you deserve.”

“Deal.” The word is out before he’s even finished his sentence. It’s excruciating, the way you burn for him— the way you’re surely about to combust if you can’t have him here and now and completely.

“Really?” He has the audacity to look bemused as he continues to torment you with almost-touches, clever fingers dipping between your bodies, knuckles brushing against your inner thighs as he coaxes your legs apart. “No clarifying questions? No counter-offer?”

You roll your hips, delirious with want. “Sylus, please don’t make me beg.”

His gaze is a devouring thing, bright with untamed, concentrated hunger. “Oh, but I so love it when you do.”

And then his fingers are at your entrance, pushing in slow and thick. He slants his mouth against yours to swallow the pathetic, warbling noise you make, and then he threads his other arm beneath your neck, cradling you closer as you bow against him, your nipples rubbing against the hard planes of his chest. His thumb circles your clit, and the combination of friction and pressure is so perfectly unbearable, and—

Your release hits you like a thunderclap, swift and sharp.

You throw your head to the side, and Sylus barely manages to cover your mouth with his hand before the scream pours out of you.

“That’s it,” he encourages, lips at your throat, fingers sweetly fucking you through it. “Show me how good I make you feel.”

You writhe against him, fractured whines muffled against his palm as you claw at his back, his neck, his hair— any part of him you can reach. But he’s undeterred by your onslaught, and he doesn’t let up until there’s stillness between your tremors, until your keening devolves into scattered whimpers.

“It appears someone was strung a little tight,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss just beneath your ear before he pulls back to look at you. “Feel better, kitten?”

His face slips in and out of focus as aftershocks continue to wrack your body. You catch your lower lip between your teeth and hum, dizzy with satisfaction.

Sylus withdraws his fingers and brings them to his mouth, eyes slipping shut as he swipes them across his tongue. He groans, savoring his prize, and then fixes you with a heated gaze. “Would you like a taste?” he asks, hovering the pads of his fingers above your lips, waiting. Watching.

You nod, transfixed by the ravenous glint in his eyes, desiring nothing more than to please him, to see his features twist with want, to hear him make that lovely guttural sound again. So you take his fingers between your lips and suck.

He rewards you with the most beautiful response— body tensing against yours, hand clutching at your jaw. Something like a growl rumbles deep in his chest as he rocks into you, his cock sliding between your thighs, and you’re instantly, hopelessly desperate for more.

Suddenly, the world tilts, and between one breath and the next, you’re above him, knees on either side of his head as whirling bands of his Evol tingle against your limbs. He splays a hand against your lower back to nudge you closer, and then his mouth is on your cunt, the hot, wet glide of his tongue pulling a moan from you.

“Such a noisy kitten,” he says, and the vibration of his voice against your clit has you moaning again. “Much as I adore the sounds you make for me, I’m not overly fond of sharing them with the kind people in this camp. Now, can you keep yourself quiet”—his Evol caresses your mouth, pushing against your lips like a gag—“or will you need some assistance?”

He doesn’t wait for your answer, tongue painting a flat, wide stripe along your entrance before flicking pointedly against your clit. You gasp but stop yourself from mewling, and you feel his lips curve into a smile.

“Good girl.”

He’s not gentle with you after that, and you suspect, given his untempered liveliness, that he’s trying to bully a moan out of you. You tangle one hand in his hair and occupy the other with your breast, kneading the sensitive flesh as you grind your hips against his chin, and it earns you a quiet grunt.

And then you hear the drag of skin on skin. You twist enough to glance behind you and discover Sylus is stroking himself, fist closed around his obscenely large cock, and good God how is that thing ever going to fit inside you?

But oh, do you want to try.

Even if it takes all night.

You reach for him, but he’s quicker, his Evol winding around your wrist and then pinning it against your spine.

“Sylus, please—” He suckles at your clit, and you arch, holding your breath until you gain control of your reaction. “Please let me touch you.”

“Gladly,” he mumbles, tilting his head to rub his nose against you so that he’s free to talk. “Just as soon as we’re back in the N109 Zone.”

You pull at his hair, and the lower half of his face may be concealed, but crinkles bunch in the corners of his eyes and you know he’s grinning. “That’s not fair.”

“Consider it motivation,” he says, lifting a brow before he slowly works his mouth against you. “I know I certainly do.”

He’s making it difficult to concentrate but you’re determined. “We— ah— had a deal!”

Sylus turns his head to nip at your inner thigh. “Yes, and perhaps next time you’ll negotiate terms that are more to your liking.”

You can only stare at him slack-jawed, finally realizing what trick he hid beneath his cryptic phrasing earlier. He’ll satisfy you all right, but that will be the limit of tonight’s activities. “Bastard,” you seethe, mostly angry at yourself for being outmaneuvered.

“That’s an odd way of saying that I’m a selfless and attentive lover.” He licks into you greedily as if to prove his point. “Especially since what I’d really like to do is stuff my cock so far down your throat that those pretty eyes of yours get all watery.”

You make a soft sound of arousal and clench on nothing, and Sylus appears to take notice.

“Oh, so you’d like that, would you?” He drags his tongue through your folds, humming thoughtfully. “Mmm, another time, perhaps.”

Your heart drums as wild and hard as the rain, pounding out a beat that feels like a beginning. “We could do that now,” you say, breathless.

He chuckles. “An admirable effort, but I’m afraid we’ve already agreed to tonight’s terms.” Even in the dull dark of the yurt, his gaze is a brilliant red. “And I always honor my deals.”

“Bastard,” you say again, but it lacks heat.

“Impatience has a price, sweetie.” He presses a chaste kiss to your clit and squeezes your hip affectionately. “But just for you, I’ll clear my schedule after we get back so that you can punish me for my numerous and varied transgressions.” And with that, he returns to messily laving at your cunt.

You come undone in perfect silence, a riot of pleasure coursing through your limbs and filling you with such exquisite bliss that you can scarcely breathe.

Beneath you, Sylus groans, low and long, his hand gripping your waist so hard it’s a miracle he doesn’t break a rib. And then he goes lax, the once-manic press of his tongue turning languid as you ride out your release. When your hips finally still, he’s gazing up at you with a mixture of awe and arrogance.

“Don’t look so proud of yourself,” you scold.

His laugh is like music, and it’s quickly becoming your favorite song. “It’s a good thing I have you here to keep me grounded,” he says, lovingly running his hands up and down your waist.

You card your fingers through his still-damp hair. “You’re too far away.”

He hears your request well enough and uses his Evol to reposition you so that you’re lying against his side. You kiss him before your hip even touches the bedroll, groaning when you taste yourself on his tongue.

And then, an idea strikes you. Sex may be off the menu for tonight, but—

You drag a finger through the sticky mess on Sylus’s stomach and then pull back, taking your fingers into your mouth and licking them clean. Sylus watches you with rapt fascination, and you relish in the heady tang of his essence before you swallow.

“Naughty kitten,” he admonishes, though it sounds more like a compliment. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he’s clean again, the red-black wisps of his Evol lingering on his skin for a moment until they finally flake away into nothing.

With one hand, Sylus rearranges the blanket so that it’s covering both of you, and with the other, he pulls you against his chest. You slot one of your legs between his and drape an arm across his ribs, just above his heart.

Outside, the storm has calmed to a sluggish drizzle, thunder muted as it rolls in the distance, and you think the worst of it might be past you, but only time will tell.

In the quiet between breaths, a nagging feeling grows in your gut. Eventually, you recognize it for what it is: dread. “Sylus?” you ask, voice thin as you trace small circles against his chest. “What if we can’t get back?”

His response is immediate and firm. “We will.”

“But what if we can’t?”

“Then I’ll count myself lucky to be stuck here with you,” he says, tone all too pleasant.

You push yourself up onto an elbow so that you can glare at him. “Sylus, I’m being serious.”

He sighs— a noisy sound filled with displeasure at being badgered into answering earnestly. Although, it's not exactly an answer when he says, “It’s not safe for us here, sweetie.”

You worry your lip, recalling the way the Talanian people had looked almost… scared of Sylus when you crossed paths earlier today. “Are you saying that because of what happened with Tarna?” She'd made a comment about his eyes, and he’d responded with one of his easy-going laughs and explained the red had been with him since birth, but that had only seemed to make her more wary.

“Partly, but the more pressing issue is your Evol.” He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and settles his hand against the side of your neck. “Not to put too fine a point on it, but your ability has been a little… unreliable lately, and if you resonate at the wrong time, you’re likely to end up roasting on a spit alongside some hogs.”

You laugh at the thought, absurd as it is. “As if you’d let them lay a finger on me.”

“You’re not wrong,” he says, brows lifting in agreement, “but how exactly do you think I’d ensure your safety?”

You frown. “I…”

“How many of them do you think I’d have to kill before they gave up?” he asks, expression almost serene in how resigned it is. “One? Five? Ten? Would I need to wipe out the whole tribe?”

“Sylus, stop,” you say, breath gone from your lungs.

His hand tenses against your neck, and despite the blatant threat, his tone remains soft when he next speaks. “Those are the stakes, kitten. Because you’re right.” Something cruel and ancient flashes behind his eyes. “There’s not a world in which I allow them to harm you.”

The fresh air you’d been enjoying so much is suddenly too thick— oppressive in a way that tastes like poison. “I don’t want you hurting anyone because of me,” you say. It comes out weaker than you intended.

Sylus holds your horrified gaze a moment longer and then guides your head back to his shoulder. “I know,” he says and presses a kiss to your forehead. Perhaps it’s a promise. Perhaps it’s an apology. “Which is why we’re going to find that knife—or the hunk of rock it was carved from—and you’re going to get us back home.” His arm tightens around you. “Anything else is simply not an option.”

You can’t bring yourself to respond, so you just hug him a bit harder.

“And besides,” he says, lips moving against your hair as he squeezes the curve of your ass, “I seem to recall that I have a deal to collect on, and I am very much looking forward to it.”

His words have heat pooling between your thighs again, but he lulls you into a dreamless sleep with gentle touches.

The clouds are gone when morning breaks, and later that afternoon, just as Sylus predicted, you locate the protocore-infected gem. It’s a relief— or, it should be. But for a reason you can’t quite place, you’re sad for the success.

At least, until you remember what awaits you back in the present day.

“Flattery.” You tipped your head, eyes raking over his broad frame. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Don’t push it, brat.” The word came out low and rough, the sneer unmistakable even through the vocoder.

You grinned, triumphant. “There it is. Thought you were all guns and grit, but you’ve got a pet name for me after all.”

“Don’t get excited.” He shifted his weight, a subtle step back, like distance would save him. “I call the cat on the corner brat when it hisses at me too.”

You laughed, genuine and bright against the bleak Gotham night. “See? That’s the problem with you, Red. You’re all sharp edges and no soft spots. I’m just trying to figure out where the man is under all that armor.”

“Newsflash, princess,” he said, folding his arms across his chest, the heavy plates clinking against each other. “There’s nothing under here you need to see.”

You pretended to sigh, dramatic, letting your eyes drag over the helmet before meeting the blank white lenses that hid his gaze. “Oh, Red… those are dangerous words to say to someone like me.”

And for the first time, though it was subtle, you could swear you heard him exhale harder than he meant to, like your words had pressed closer than he wanted.

-

The helmet never came off, not even when the city was quiet and you were alone with him. He never broke character, never offered anything more than that cold red glare. Which only made you more determined. The mask became a dare, a riddle wrapped in steel.

“How do you eat with that thing on?” you asked on another night, swinging down from the fire escape to land beside him. Your boots barely made a sound, but he still stiffened at your sudden arrival, every muscle taut, hand flexing near his holster, before recognizing you. He didn’t move away though. He never did.

You tilted your head, smirk tugging at your mouth. “Liquid diet? Protein shakes with a straw?”

No response. Just that blank red visor, unflinching, aimed across Gotham’s endless sprawl.

You made a soft, exaggerated sigh and leaned against the ledge beside him, close enough that your sleeve brushed against the rough leather of his jacket. “You sleep in it, don’t you? I bet you snore like Darth Vader.”

His shoulders tensed, gauntleted fingers tightening on the grip of his pistol like the words had somehow hit a nerve. Still nothing.

Your smile curved sharper, wolfish. “What about kissing?” you purred, letting the question hang in the humid night air. “Don’t tell me the great Red Hood doesn’t know how.”

That got you something. Subtle but unmistakable: the faintest hitch of breath before his modulated voice snapped, low and jagged, “Drop it.”

The sharp edge only made you smile wider. You took one slow, deliberate step closer, your shoulder brushing the armored plate at his bicep. Heat radiated off him, the kind that had nothing to do with Gotham’s suffocating summer night. You leaned in, tilting your face toward the helmet’s edge, daring.

For a moment, you swore you could feel it: a ghost of breath against your cheek, hot even through the modulator. You imagined his mouth just there, an inch away, hidden by that damned steel.

And then he pulled back, abrupt. Boots scraped hard against rooftop gravel, armor shifting with the sharpness of the movement. He put space between you, like distance was the only thing keeping him intact.

You let out a low, knowing laugh, the sound curling in the air like smoke. Victorious. Not because he had caved, but because he hadn’t. Because his fists had clenched, because his silence had cracked, because he never quite looked at you but never walked away either.

Companionship, you realized, could be built out of silence, out of barbs and banter, out of the deliberate act of driving each other slowly insane. And oh, wasn’t that the most fun kind?

-

The alley stank of gunpowder and rot, a stew of iron and smoke that clung to your lungs with every breath. Spent casings glittered like brass teeth in the gutter, catching the yellow glow of a failing streetlamp. Men groaned in heaps at your feet, half-conscious, bruised, broken. One tried to crawl, dragging himself through rain-slick trash until a hiss of pain wrenched him still.

You wiped your blade clean against a torn jacket sleeve, dark streaks smearing across already ruined fabric. The blood wasn’t yours, but it painted your skin anyway, warm and sticky where it dotted your cheek and jaw. You felt alive, adrenaline humming, laughter threatening in your throat.

Beside you, Red Hood stood like a specter. Armor scuffed, knuckles bloody, the crimson helmet glaring down at the last thug still stirring. He didn’t bother with threats. Didn’t hesitate. Just one sharp kick to the ribs and the man folded with a wet grunt, breath knocked out in an ugly wheeze. Brutal. Efficient. Very him.

You tilted your head, letting your smirk spread slow, lips stained in equal parts crimson and gore. “You really don’t do subtle, do you?”

He didn’t answer. He never answered when you poked like that. Instead, he broke open his pistol with practiced ease, checked the chamber, snapped it shut, and slid it back into its holster. Shoulders rolled like tectonic plates settling into place. Already ready to vanish into the night. Business as usual.

You, though, had other priorities.

The fight was over. Your pulse still ran hot. Your lipstick was ruined.

Fishing in your coat pocket, you pulled out the sleek tube, twisting it open with the lazy flourish of someone lighting a cigarette. The color caught the streetlight, vivid and sinful in the otherwise washed-out gray of the alley. A fresh coat for the city to chew on.

But the light wasn’t enough. You wanted a mirror.

So you stepped into his space before he could retreat. The sharp click of your boots echoed against wet asphalt, loud in the sudden hush of the aftermath. His helmet tipped toward you instinctively, lenses flashing pale in the dark. That was all the opening you needed.

Your hand came up without hesitation, fingers curling beneath the hard edge of his jaw. The metal was cold against your skin, smooth as polished stone, unyielding under your grip. You tilted his chin toward the light like he was nothing more than your accessory, your reflection, your tool.

“Don’t move,” you murmured, lips curling into a grin that tasted of blood and smoke. “You make a decent reflection.”

For the first time all night, he froze. Not in calculated readiness, not like a predator waiting to spring, but in pure surprise. Shock. Like you’d stepped somewhere no one else dared. His breath rasped harsh through the modulator, static crackling over the syllables when he finally forced words out. “…the hell are you doing?”

“Multi-tasking.” The lipstick slid across your mouth in one slow, deliberate stroke, vivid red gleaming wet under the dim light. You held his chin steady as if you owned it, your thumb brushing along the side of the helmet in lazy control. “We don’t all get to hide behind masks. Some of us have to maintain appearances, Red.”

The air thickened between you, saturated with the iron stink of blood, the burn of gunpowder, the faint curl of perfume that still clung to your throat. He didn’t move. Didn’t jerk away. His gauntlets flexed once, leather groaning as his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.

He could have stopped you. Should have. But he didn’t.

And you didn’t notice the way his pulse hammered in his throat, the way heat coiled low and furious in his gut when you tilted his chin like that. The way you made him hold still, like you had any right. The way you treated the helmet, his mask, his shield, his secret, like a compact pulled from your purse.

You had no idea what it did to him. No idea how close he was to snapping.

Satisfied with the sweep of crimson across your mouth, you tucked the lipstick away with a lazy flick of your wrist. But your hand lingered on his helmet, thumb dragging slow along the cold metal curve. His chin was still tilted in your grasp, and for the first time, you realized just how close you stood.

Close enough to smell cordite clinging to his armor. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, dampened by Kevlar and steel. Close enough that curiosity bled into impulse.

You tilted up, slow and deliberate, until your lips brushed against the metal where his mouth would be. A quick, audacious kiss. The fresh wax smeared bright against the red, a perfect echo of your painted lips.

“Closest I’ll get, huh?” you whispered against the steel, your breath fogging faintly across its surface.

For a split second, he went utterly still. Rigid as stone. You could almost hear his heart pounding in that armor, the way the silence between you thickened, raw and electric.

Then his hand shot out, gauntleted fingers wrapping around your wrist. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make your pulse stutter. He yanked your hand down from his helmet, holding it there between you like evidence. The modulator grated over his voice, low and sharp, almost guttural. “Don’t push me, princess.”

The words vibrated through your bones, dangerous and close, like a live wire pressed against skin.

You smiled anyway. Slow, infuriating, and wolfish. “But it’s so much fun when I do, Red.”

His grip tightened fractionally, leather creaking. The lenses of his helmet stayed fixed on you, unreadable, but you could feel the weight of his stare, like he was memorizing every curve of your mouth. And then, abrupt, sharp, he released you. Stepped back, boots grinding against wet asphalt, retreating into shadow as if the distance alone could save him.

You let out a soft laugh, victorious, lips still tingling from the press of cold metal. Because he hadn’t stopped you soon enough. Because you’d left your mark, your kiss, your color, right on the mask he guarded like a second skin.

And the way his voice had broken on princess told you everything you needed to know.

-

The helmet became your toy after that. A dare you couldn’t resist. When he was wounded, and he was always ended up wounded, no matter how fast or brutal, he let you stitch him up. That was the closest you ever got, and you savored it.

Sitting on a busted stool in some forgotten safehouse, his jacket peeled back, armor plates unlatched just enough to expose bruised ribs and torn skin, he looked almost human. Almost. And you? You couldn’t resist.

Your fingers brushed along the hard edge of the helmet as you leaned in with needle and thread. Just a graze, just a test. “Maybe I’ll just take a peek…”

The sound that tore through the modulator was more growl than word. “Don’t.” Low. Dangerous. A line drawn in gravel and blood.

You tilted your head, smile curling like smoke. “What’s the worst that happens? I catch a glimpse of your jawline? Hardly a state secret.”

His gauntleted hand shot up, closing around your wrist. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to remind you of the weight he carried. He held you there, his breathing heavy inside the helmet, a machine’s rasp and a man’s restraint all tangled together.

“Keep testing me,” he said, voice roughened into something jagged, “and you won’t like where it goes.”

You let your lips part in a slow, wicked grin. “Funny… sounds like you’re the one afraid of what happens next.”

His fingers tightened before he let go, abrupt and deliberate, like he couldn’t trust himself to hold on any longer.

And you weren’t wrong.

You were the only one who got this close, the only one who treated his mask like it wasn’t sacred. Lipstick mirrored in its gleam, a kiss pressed to steel, fingers ghosting over the seam. Each time, he told you not to. Each time, he let you.

There was comfort in the anonymity, a strange sort of pact between the two of you. You never asked for his real name; he never asked for yours. Red and princess. Brat and helmet. That was all you needed.

Yet between the barbs, there was something else. Something raw. It lived in the moments after a fight when you patched each other up, in the silences on rooftops where you both stared out at the same city, breathing the same ash-tainted air. It lived in the way he always covered your blind spot, always put his body between you and the bullet, even as he sneered at your recklessness.

And maybe that’s why your teasing dug so deep. Because he could take bullets and fire, but he couldn’t take you brushing too close to the truth. Couldn’t take the way you pushed, and smiled, and kept reaching for the one thing he refused to give.

The man under the mask.

-

The safehouse tonight smelled like old smoke and motor oil, the kind of place that made every breath taste stale. Rusted pipes rattled in the walls, and the single lightbulb overhead buzzed faintly, throwing both of you in and out of shadow.

Red sat on a rusted folding chair, armor half-peeled back, jacket slung over the table beside him. His ribs were mottled in shades of blue and purple, a gash tearing through the skin just above his hip. He didn’t make a sound as you disinfected the wound, though the sharp hiss of breath that crackled through the modulator betrayed him.

“Hold still,” you murmured, needle poised between your fingers.

“I am holding still,” he growled back, voice jagged with static.

You pressed the tip into his skin and felt the twitch in his muscles. “Could’ve fooled me. You squirm like a rookie.”

“Maybe if you didn’t jab like you were trying to staple me to the chair…”

You tilted your head, amused. “Careful. I’m your only nurse on call tonight.”

“God help me,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

The words made you pause, needle dangling mid-air. Slowly, deliberately, you set the thread down on the table and straightened, one brow arched. “If you want me to keep going, you’re going to have to say something nice.”

He tipped his helmet toward you, incredulous. “What?”

“You heard me.” You crossed your arms, leaning back against the table just out of his reach. “I’m not patching up Mister Attitude unless he shows a little gratitude.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I never kid about compliments,” you purred, enjoying how stiff his shoulders had gone under your gaze. “Say something nice, Red. Or bleed.”

For a long moment, he just breathed, the sound harsh and mechanical through the helmet, like a machine wrestling with patience. Then, reluctantly, he ground out, “You’re… tolerable.”

You laughed, rich and low, shaking your head. “Try again. That sounded like a man choking on gravel.”

The modulator spat static over his next exhale. “You’re infuriating.”

“Not nice enough.”

His hands flexed against his thighs, gauntlets creaking. The pause stretched long enough that you wondered if he’d actually walk out, half-stitched and bleeding. Finally, he said, rough and begrudging: “You’ve got guts. More than most.”

You smiled, satisfied, picking the needle back up. “See? Was that so hard?”

“Excruciating,” he bit out, muscles tensing as you drove the needle back into his skin.

The needle bit into his skin again and he hissed, teeth clenching behind the modulator. His whole body was taut, a wire strung too tight, but he never pulled away. You worked slowly, deliberately, milking the silence until you finally glanced up at him through your lashes.

“Better keep talking, Red.” You tugged the thread taut with a little snap. “The deal was compliments for stitches.”

His helmet tilted down toward you, the glossy surface catching the weak bulb overhead. “You’re insane.”

“Mm, maybe.” You drove the needle back in, watching his ribs flinch. “But you’re the one bleeding out in front of me, so I’d say I have the upper hand. Come on…say something nice to your favorite gal.”

His hands flexed in his lap, gauntlets creaking. Finally, in a voice like ground glass, “You fight like a demon.”

You smirked. “That’s a start. Go on.”

“You’re fast.” His breath hitched when the needle pushed through again. “Reckless. But you watch the field better than half the idiots I’ve worked with.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.” You leaned closer, eyes glinting. “More.”

The next stitch had him biting off his words, his voice harsh, the compliments dragged out like confessions. “You’ve got good instincts. Always know where to hit. Don’t freeze under pressure.”

Your smile curved sharp. “You like that about me.”

His helmet dipped, as though he hadn’t meant to admit it aloud. “I trust you on my flank.”

The thread pulled taut again, blood welling under your careful fingers. “That’s practically tender, Red. I think you’re getting soft on me.”

“Not soft.” His voice broke rough through the modulator. “Sharp. Sharp enough to cut through all the shit in this city.”

You tilted your head, lips quirking. “Now that’s poetry.” Another stitch, another flinch. You let your voice drop lower. “What else do you notice?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. Just breathed, ragged, the modulator turning it into static. Then, almost grudgingly, he speaks. “You’ve got… good eyes. Always scanning. Always three steps ahead.”

“Mm,” you hummed, threading the needle again. “Not what I meant.”

His fists curled tighter. “You’re a distraction.”

“Now we’re being honest,” you teased, leaning close enough that your shoulder brushed his chest plate.

“You wear too much perfume,” he muttered.

“Wrong,” you said, knotting off the thread. “Just enough to drive you crazy.”

He stayed silent, rigid, until you leaned back and finally met the blank white lenses head-on.

“You’re not done yet,” you murmured, practically buzzing. “Say one more. Say something nice about how I look.”

The pause was long enough that you wondered if he’d refuse. Then, low and rough, as if it cost him something, he confesses. “That lipstick you wear…makes you look dangerous.”

You laughed, soft and wicked, gathering up your supplies. “Good boy.”

He growled under his breath, helmet tilting away like he could hide from the heat crawling under his skin.  You tied the last knot and leaned back, wiping your bloody fingers on a rag. He didn’t move, didn’t thank you, just sat there rigid as stone, breathing hard through the modulator.

“You’re welcome,” you purred, tossing the rag aside.

The helmet tilted toward you, unreadable, the white lenses fixed on your face. His hand moved before his words did, gauntleted fingers closing suddenly around your wrist. Heavy. Hot, even through the leather.

You froze for a heartbeat, then, because restraint was never your style, you leaned into it. Just enough for your pulse to press against his grip, for your skin to warm beneath his gauntlet. Your breath caught, softer than you meant it to, but the sound slipped out anyway.

The modulator hummed with static as he exhaled, sharp and jagged, like he’d been punched. “Don’t get used to it,” he rasped, the words thick and dangerous.

The corner of your mouth curved slow, feline. “Already am.”

His grip lingered half a second longer, like he couldn’t make himself release you, before he tore his hand back as if burned. But the fire he left behind on your skin? God, it spread. You could still feel the shape of his fingers ghosted against your wrist, a brand only you could see.

He stood abruptly, tugging his jacket back into place, armor plates clicking into alignment. Silent. Contained. Pretending nothing had happened.

The quiet stretched taut between you, brittle as glass. Finally, through the helmet, his voice rumbled low, almost to himself, as he said, “You’ll drive me insane.”

You leaned back in your chair, wrist still tingling, eyes locked on that crimson mask. “Good,” you whispered, savoring the way his helmet turned toward you, sharp, like you’d just set the whole room on fire.

-

The fight had been ugly. Too many bodies, too many blades, too many moments where you thought you wouldn’t get back up. Your knuckles were raw, your lip split, your chest heaving with every breath as the chaos settled into groans and silence around you.

Red was worse. His armor gouged, helmet streaked with someone else’s blood, his movements sharper than usual, like the fury in him hadn’t quite burned out yet. He stood over the last body twitching on the ground and delivered a final, punishing blow before straightening, chest rising hard beneath the black plates.

You leaned back against a wall slick with grime, wiping your mouth with the back of your glove. The sting of your split lip only made the smile bloom wider. “Messy,” you murmured, voice low and teasing despite the metallic tang of blood on your tongue. “But effective.”

He didn’t answer. He never did when the rage was still rolling through him, when the helmet became a furnace and he locked himself behind it. That was your favorite time to push.

You stepped forward, boots crunching over shattered glass. He turned toward you, visor blank and unreadable, and you tilted your chin up until you could see yourself in the reflection, lip gloss gone, blood smeared bright across your mouth. This wouldn’t be the first time you’d done this, and god damn it if it is the closest you can get, then you will take it. Without hesitation, you pressed your lips against the cold metal where his would be, leaving a fresh, crooked imprint of red.

The heat of your breath fogged across the surface as you whispered, “Guess I’ll never know what you taste like, Red.”

The change was instant. His hand slammed against the wall beside your head, then another, caging you in. The alley rang with the impact, his armor crowding into your space, his presence overwhelming. You gasped, not in fear but in triumph, your pulse hammering against your ribs as he leaned close enough that the modulator crackled with the weight of his voice.

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re asking for.” It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t calm. It was ragged, ripped straight out of his chest like it had been dragged across broken glass.

Your smile only widened, blood bright on your teeth. “Try me, Red.”

The silence that followed was molten, choking, charged. His fists curled against the wall on either side of your head, and you could feel him unraveling, breath coming hard through the modulator, the heat of it brushing your cheek. The mask was all that saved him, and all that doomed him.

The alley pressed in around you, damp brick at your back, armored fury at your front. His gauntlets caged you in, the air thick with the scent of smoke and sweat and copper. You smiled with blood on your mouth, taunting him with every breath.

Then the shift came, sudden, devastating. His hands left the wall and landed on you. Rough palms sliding down, squeezing hard at your hips like he was trying to anchor himself to something real. You gasped, your body jerking against the bricks as he hauled you close, armor biting into your frame.

“Red,” The word broke off in a sigh as his grip turned punishing, his fingers digging into your flesh through the fabric of your suit. He squeezed, stroked, dragged his hands over the curve of your ass and back to your waist, like he couldn’t decide where he needed you most. The mask tilted down, lenses fixed on your lips, unblinking, hungry.

“Fuck,” he snarled under his breath, the modulator turning it into static. His helmet stayed on, but you could feel the way his gaze burned, riveted to the curve of your mouth, to the smudge of lipstick you’d just left on his mask.

Your hips rolled before you could stop them, instinctive, a desperate grind into the pressure of his thigh wedged between yours. The friction shot sparks down your spine, dragging a broken moan from your throat. “Red… please.”

He growled, raw, like the word was acid in his chest. One hand abandoned your waist to grip the zipper at the front of your suit. The rasp of metal teeth echoed in the alley as he yanked it down, impatient, exposing heated skin to the night air. His hand shoved between your thighs, the leather of his glove cool, unyielding, as he forced you open.

You gasped, fingers flying to the back of his helmet, clutching at steel like it was hair. “Red,” you tried again, voice fraying.

His voice crashed over you, rough, commanding, the first time you’d ever heard him spit it out like a confession. “Jason. Baby. You call me Jason when I’m inside you.”

And then his gloved fingers pushed deep inside you; thick, relentless, stretching you with no warning.

“Jason!” you cried, your head slamming back against the brick as your body arched. The pleasure ripped through you, molten and shocking, your walls fluttering desperately around his hand.

He curled his fingers, dragging over the spot that made you see stars, his breath loud and ragged inside the mask. You could hear the growl even through the static, every syllable broken and raw. “That’s it. Fuck—say it again.”

“Jason,” you sobbed, hips rocking down into his hand, chasing every thrust of his digits. Sweat slicked your skin, your thighs trembling as he shoved deeper, rougher, until the wet sounds of your body filled the filthy alley.

The mask loomed above you, lenses locked on your lips like he wanted to devour them but couldn’t yet bring himself to tear the helmet off. His chest pressed hard against yours, pinning you in place, his body a cage, his hand a weapon of pure sin.

“Jason, Jason,” You were crying it now, broken on his fingers, lost to the drag of his touch, the coil tightening low and vicious inside you.

And behind the mask, he watched you unravel, watched your mouth tremble and part, watched your lips glossed in blood and lipstick and want. It destroyed him. He’d sworn he’d never let you see him. But in that moment, he needed you to see everything else.

Your thighs trembled around his hand, body rocking helplessly against the rough brick as he drove you higher. Every thrust of his fingers had you gasping his name, lips slick and parted, begging without shame.

“Jason, please,” The sound of it from your mouth wrecked him. His head dipped closer, the hard dome of the helmet brushing your temple, his chest pressing you into the wall like he could fuse you there. His breath sawed in and out through the modulator, breaking into static, ragged and animal. You could feel him unraveling, restraint burning to ash with every cry that spilled from your lips.

And then, suddenly, his hand was gone. The loss was brutal, tearing a cry out of you. Your body clenched around emptiness, desperate, aching, every nerve screaming at the absence. You blinked up at him, stunned, heart pounding in your throat, ready to curse him for stopping, until you saw his hands fly to his helmet.

“Fuck this,” he snarled, the words shredded raw. His gauntlets gripped the sides like he was at war with himself, like he’d done this motion a thousand times in his head but never dared to finish it. For a heartbeat you thought he’d stop, thought he’d pull away.

But not this time.

With a violent twist, he ripped the helmet free. The clang of metal on concrete echoed like a gunshot.

And there he was.

Shaggy black hair plastered damp to his forehead, the white streak bright as a strike of lightning. Eyes green as wildfire, burning into you, pupils blown wide. A scar cut across his cheekbone, jagged and perfect, and somehow it made him more devastating, not less. He was beautiful in a way that stole the breath from your lungs, rough and ruined and real.

You barely had time to process the shock before he was on you.

“Need to feel your mouth,” he growled, his voice stripped bare now, no modulator, nothing between you but heat and hunger. His breath was hot and frantic. “Not on the mask. On me.”

And then his mouth crashed into yours. It broke you. The taste of him, blood, salt, something fierce and alive, hit harder than any blow you’d ever taken. Your chest seized, your eyes stung, and you nearly cried from the sheer relief of it. Of finally having him. His lips were searing, desperate, teeth clashing with yours, tongue pushing deep into your mouth like he needed every part of you now.

You clutched at him, fingers fisting in his damp hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan against you. His hips slammed into yours, the thick line of his cock grinding through armor, merciless and perfect. You whimpered into his mouth, arching, frantic.

Then his hand shoved between your thighs again, but this time there was no glove; just his skin, hot and rough, slipping against you. Two thick fingers drove inside you in one claiming thrust, filling you, stretching you all over again.

You broke apart with a scream against his mouth, your nails digging into the back of his neck.

“That’s it, princess,” he rasped, his forehead pressing to yours, his lips dragging over your mouth even as you sobbed for him. His voice was ruined, desperate. “So good for me. So fucking good.”

Your body clenched around his fingers, your hips grinding down, chasing every thrust as though you could never get enough. You panted his name, over and over, crying it into his kiss, into his scarred mouth, into the night. He swallowed it all, kissed you harder, kissed you until your tears streaked hot down your cheeks and your body trembled against him. His hand never faltered, stroking you through it, his thick fingers thrusting and curling until you shattered again, screaming into his lips.

And when you fell apart, shaking and undone, he didn’t let you go. He held you up, pressed against the brick, kissing you through every quake, whispering your ruin against your mouth. 

Your body was still spasming around his fingers when he pulled them free, your whimper breaking into the night air. Before you could even beg, he hooked his hands beneath your thighs and hauled you up, slamming your back against the brick. The rough wall scraped through your suit, but you barely noticed, not when his mouth was on yours again, devouring you, not when his body pressed you into stone like he was trying to fuse you there.

“Told myself I’d never let you see me,” he panted against your lips, forehead slick against yours, green eyes blazing. “But fuck…couldn’t stop myself.”

His armor clanked, still half-strapped across his chest, the plates biting against you as he ground between your thighs. His hands were frantic, fumbling at your suit, shoving the fabric down, baring you in ragged pieces. Every touch was rushed, uncoordinated, desperate in a way that made your pulse pound harder.

The mask lay forgotten in the gutter, and Jason Todd, scarred, furious, beautiful Jason, finally gave in.

You tried to tease, tried to push past the hunger clawing inside you. “So this is what it takes to—”

His mouth cut you off, swallowing your words with a bruising kiss, tongue driving deep, teeth nipping until you whimpered instead of finishing. When he broke for air, his lips trailed down your jaw, your throat, leaving raw marks like ownership.

“Not in the mood for your mouth tonight, princess,” he growled into your skin. “Not unless it’s moaning for me.”

You gasped as he freed himself, the heavy weight of his cock dragging against your slick folds. The first push inside made you cry out, nails raking down his armored shoulders. He groaned, low and guttural, pressing his face into your neck as he buried himself in you, stretching you so wide you saw stars.

“Jesus, you’re tight…fuck, been thinking about this for weeks,” he muttered, words half a snarl, half a prayer.

Your hips rocked against him, desperate for more, your voice breaking. “Harder, Jason!”

That earned you a rough thrust, slamming you higher against the wall, the sound of his armor clanging against brick. One of his hands pulled at your hair, tilting your chin up, exposing more of your neck to his roaming mouth. “Don’t tell me how to fuck you,” he rasped, grinding in deep. “I know exactly what you need, princess.”

Every snap of his hips jolted you, his cock pounding into you hard and fast, each thrust punching little gasps from your lungs. His hand clamped around your jaw, tilting your mouth up so he could kiss you again, filthy and consuming, his breath ragged against your tongue.

“Next time,” he whispered against your lips, voice shaking with hunger, “I’ll take my time. Strip you down slow. Make you beg on your knees. But right now,” another brutal thrust, making you sob his name, “right now I just need this sweet little pussy so bad.”

You tried to sass him, tried to smirk around your cries, but every time you opened your mouth he shut you up with his, lips crashing against yours, swallowing the bratty words before they could form. All that came out were moans, broken pleas, his name gasped into the heat between you.

“Jason,” you keened, your body tightening around him, every nerve unraveling.

“That’s it,” he gritted out, his thrusts turning frantic, desperate, his voice right against your ear. “That’s my girl. Cum for me.”

And when you did, screaming his name, nails digging into his scarred shoulders, he followed you down, hips grinding deep as he spilled inside you, mouth still locked to yours. Pinned against the wall, armor biting, his hair damp against your forehead, you clung to him, gasping his name like it was the only thing left you knew.

The world blurred around you in the aftermath. Your body still shuddered from the force of it, your thighs trembling where they clamped around his waist, nails embedded in his shoulders like you’d tried to anchor yourself against the tide. Jason’s breath tore through the night air, rough and ragged, every exhale warming your damp skin.

For a long moment he just held you there, buried deep, forehead pressed against yours. His hair clung to his temples, sweat slick, that white streak glowing like a banner under the faint light. His mouth moved against your cheek in what almost felt like a kiss, though it could have been just the way he struggled for breath.

Finally, with a groan, he shifted back, carefully lowering your legs from around his waist. He guided you down with surprising gentleness, his gauntleted hands firm at your hips until your boots hit solid ground. Without the mask, he looked younger, tired, raw; like the weight of Red Hood had slipped, leaving only Jason Todd standing in its place.

Your knees buckled, but his arm hooked around your waist before you could stumble. “Easy,” he muttered, his voice stripped of the mechanical rasp. Just Jason now. “I’ve got you.”

You tilted your face up, lips swollen, breath still shaky. “Thought you were all bullets and bite.”

He huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh. “Don’t tell anybody.” His hand rose, calloused thumb brushing the corner of your mouth where blood had dried with lipstick. For the first time all night his touch wasn’t frantic or punishing, it lingered, soft, reverent. His eyes, green and burning, softened too.

You smirked, though your voice cracked on it. “So the infamous Red Hood has a soft side.”

“Only with you,” he admitted, the words low, almost grudging, but true. His lips brushed yours again, gentler this time, no hunger, just promise. A kiss that said he wasn’t letting go now that he’d finally given in.

When he pulled back, you really let yourself drink in the sight of him. His mouth, his scarred cheek, even the sharp edge of his jaw, smeared with your lipstick. Crimson painted across him like proof, staining him as thoroughly as the fight had. And you could feel it on your own skin too: smeared across your lips, your chin, probably streaked down your throat where his mouth had claimed you.

Jason seemed to notice it too. His thumb dragged across his lower lip, smearing the crimson further, and for a second he just stared at it on his glove. Then he smirked, crooked, sharp, entirely him.

“Guess you’ve marked me up worse than the bastards we just put down,” he murmured, voice rough but laced with something softer underneath. His green eyes lifted back to yours, heat simmering there. “Can’t say I mind.”

You almost laughed, breathless, at the mess of you both. Him wrecked and painted in your color, you painted in his hunger. He looked devastating like that, lips red not from blood but from you.

Your chest squeezed, your pulse thrumming in your ears. You leaned in and kissed him once more, soft and slow, your fingers threading through his damp hair at the base of his neck. “You said something interesting during all of that… a next time, huh?”

His smirk flickered, crooked and boyish. “Yeah, princess. Next time.”

The memory always struck you raw. That interrogation room, the sterile light and the too-close sound of his voice — cold, clipped, unfamiliar. You’d thought he was gone, replaced by a stranger who only wore his face. He hadn’t smiled, hadn’t softened. He’d leveled those violet eyes at you with military steel in his tone, and for the first time, you’d doubted whether your Caleb even existed anymore.

At the time, it had shaken you. His questions, his control, the cruel distance in his words. But now… when you replayed it in your mind, when you heard the echo of that voice growling orders — you felt a curl of heat low in your belly. It was frightening then, but in hindsight, god, it was hot.

And since then? Since you’d left that room and fallen back into the rhythm of his devotion, his careful hands, his patience — you’d hardly seen that side of him again. Not with you. Caleb was gentle, steady, infinitely controlled, and though it soothed you, part of you almost ached for the other side. The side that could make your breath hitch with a single command.

It was ridiculous, you knew. Dangerous, maybe. But the idea rooted itself deep in your chest until you couldn’t shake it.

You missed Colonel Caleb.

And if he wasn’t going to show himself again on his own… then you’d just have to draw him out.

Somehow, some way, you’d have to piss him off enough to bring that cold, sharp authority back into his voice. The very thought made your skin prickle.

Yes. It was time to bring back Colonel Caleb.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

It wasn’t easy, trying to think of ways to get under Caleb’s skin. He wasn’t like anyone else — at least not with you — small annoyances rolled off him, snide remarks met with silence, even your moods he endured with bottomless patience. But if there was one thing you knew about him, one crack in the armor that might tempt out his edge, it was his love of order.

So you started with the living room.

Normally, you were careful about leaving things tidy before he came home — a courtesy more than anything, since you knew how much he valued coming back to a calm space after a grueling day. But that evening, you “forgot.” A blanket was left draped half-off the couch, your shoes abandoned in the corner, a half-finished glass of water sweating a ring into the wood of the coffee table, surrounded by unfinished snacks and their crumbs. A book lay splayed open, spine bent, pages crumpling at the corners. Even your bag, usually set neatly on its hook, lay toppled on the floor, spilling a trail of receipts and pens like breadcrumbs.

You stood in the middle of it all and crossed your arms, surveying the mess with a strange little thrill. It looked… awful. Chaotic. Exactly the sort of thing Caleb would notice the moment he walked in. Your heart beat faster just imagining it: his boots stopping short in the entryway, his eyes narrowing as he took it all in, that sharp Colonel voice cutting through the silence — “What is this?”

God, just thinking about it made your skin buzz. You smoothed your hands over your skirt, trying to look innocent, rehearsing your answer in your head. Maybe you’d shrug. Maybe you’d say you were too tired. Maybe you’d challenge him with a smile and see if he took the bait.

The key, you told yourself, was to stay calm, to act natural. You wanted him irritated — not suspicious.

This was it. Your first attempt to draw him out.

Would it work?

You perched on the couch, waiting, the deliberate chaos of the room standing as your silent dare.

The front door swung open, hinges groaning the same way they always did, and your heart lurched. Caleb’s boots struck the floorboards in their steady rhythm, and then — there he was. Broad-shouldered, uniform immaculate, gloves still snug against his hands, violet eyes flicking around the room as he shrugged off his coat.

You braced yourself. This was it. The mess was obvious, glaring. Any second now, that clipped, stern tone would—

But instead, his mouth curved. That boyish grin, soft and teasing, warmed his whole face as he stepped forward and bent to scoop up your shoes. “You never change, huh, Pips?” His voice was easy, playful, not a single ounce of sharpness in it.

He dropped the shoes by the door with deliberate neatness, and when he straightened, a subtle wave of his hand set the pens and receipts tumbling back into your bag, gravity tugging them precisely into place. Another flick, and the blanket lifted itself off the floor and folded neatly over the arm of the couch.

You blinked at him, startled. “…Aren’t you mad?”

“Mad?” Caleb chuckled low in his chest, casting you a glance as he righted the book and brushed a thumb over its crumpled page. “Why would I be mad? I’ve been doin’ this since we were kids, Pips.” He moved around the room with infuriating calm, his Evol tidying what his hands didn’t reach. “You’ve always left little trails behind. It’s kind of cute.”

“Cute,” you echoed, incredulous.

He came to stand in front of you, that lazy grin still tugging at his mouth as he tipped his head. “Mm. A reminder that this is home now. Our home. Your messes don’t bother me.”

Heat rushed to your face so fast you had to look away, biting your lip against the smile that wanted to escape. This wasn’t what you wanted — he was supposed to be annoyed, stern, that dark glint in his eyes returning. Instead he was unbearably sweet, teasing, making you blush like a teenager.

You gave up the fight with a sigh, leaning into him when he dropped a hand to your shoulder and pulled you against his chest. His warmth, his scent, the steady drum of his heartbeat under your cheek — it all melted the sharp little plan you’d made, at least for the night.

But as his lips brushed your temple and he murmured something soft, you knew you weren’t done. Not even close.

If this was his answer to your first attempt, then you’d just have to up your game.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The next day, you went bigger.

You knew how careful Caleb was with his model planes. The shelf in his study was practically a shrine, every piece aligned just so, wings gleaming under lamplight, each one a quiet monument to his patience. He never rushed them, never skipped a step — building them was discipline, control, maybe even therapy.

Which made them the perfect target.

You slipped into the study while he was out, running your fingers along the smooth edges of the wings. Just a little nudge, you thought. Just enough to draw out that clipped tone, that steel that made your pulse jump. So you plucked one carefully from the shelf, holding it up between your hands.

The door clicked behind you.

“Pips,” Caleb’s voice cut through the silence — but not sharp, not cold. Amused. You turned to see him leaning against the doorframe, gloves still on, violet eyes glinting in the dim light. “Careful with that.”

You felt your heart skip, excitement rising. “Relax, I’ve got it.” You turned it in your hands like you didn’t care, deliberately brushing a thumb too close to the delicate tailpiece. His brows lifted, but he didn’t move closer.

“That one took me weeks,” he said, calm as ever. “Don’t test gravity with it, alright?”

Not enough. You needed more. So you tilted it carelessly in your grip… and let it slip.

The little crack of the wing hitting the floor made your stomach flip. You looked down — one piece had snapped loose, lying crooked beside it.

Silence.

You turned back to him, heart hammering. His jaw was set, his eyes unreadable, his body still in the doorway. For one breathless moment, you thought — yes. This is it. He’s going to snap. He’s going to give me that voice again.

Then Caleb crossed the room, crouched beside the broken piece, and picked it up gently. He turned it in his gloved fingers, then looked up at you with a small, rueful smile.

“Well,” he said quietly, “I guess we’ll just have to build it together again.” His tone was light, matter-of-fact, like you hadn’t just sabotaged something he loved. “We can fix it later tonight. I’ll make your favorite dinner, and we’ll watch that movie you like. Sound good?”

Your mouth opened, then closed. You hadn’t expected that.

Instead of the clipped reprimand you’d been waiting for, you got… this. Caleb, earnest and patient, looking at you like you hadn’t just deliberately broken one of his treasures.

Heat crept up your cheeks again, a mix of guilt and something softer, warmer. He was too good. Too sweet. And part of you almost wanted to throw your arms around him, apologize, tell him how much you adored him for it.

But no. Not yet.

You were going to bring Colonel Caleb back. Whatever it took.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You knew the only way to get to him now.

Shoes and airplanes weren’t enough — Caleb’s patience was iron. He could withstand messes, clumsy hands, even your deliberate pokes at his discipline. But there was one thing you’d seen, time and time again, that shook him at his core: the thought of losing you.

So you turned your location off.

You left his apartment in the late morning with a casual excuse — meeting friends, nothing unusual — and slid into the rhythm of the day. Café chatter, laughter, drinks clinking against the table. On the surface, it was harmless. You were where you said you’d be. But your phone screen kept lighting up.

At first it was just a text.

you get there safe?

Then another.

pips, answer me.

You sipped your coffee, ignoring it. Heart pounding, nerves buzzing.

The messages stacked.

why’s your location off? are you still at the café?pick up the phone.you’re worrying me, pipsqueak.call me back. now.

You swallowed hard, flipping the phone face-down on the table. Your friends laughed at something, and you forced yourself to join in, even as your chest tightened at the sheer volume of notifications buzzing through.

By the time the call log was stacked ten-deep, you finally dared glance at the screen. His voice filled your voicemail box — starting low, controlled, but sharpening with every missed answer.

“Pips, it’s me. Call me back.” “…This isn’t funny.” “Turn your location back on. Now.”

Your pulse skittered. This was what you wanted, wasn’t it? That tone. That clipped edge. The first hint of Colonel Caleb you’d gotten since the night you reunited.

And then you heard the heavy sound of boots behind you.

Your stomach dropped as you turned — there he was, looming in the doorway of the café, uniform still sharp, violet eyes dark and locked on you. He didn’t wave. He didn’t smile. He just stood there until you shifted nervously in your seat.

“Excuse me,” he said flatly to your friends, his voice all steel. “She’s leaving now.”

The car ride was silent at first, tension thick between you as you buckled in. You stared out the window, feigning indifference, but the weight of his gaze burned at the side of your face.

Finally, his voice cut in — low, tightly leashed. “Why didn’t you answer me?”

You shrugged, keeping your tone casual. “I was distracted. I forgot.”

“Forgot?” His knuckles flexed against the steering wheel, leather glove creaking. “You don’t forget. Not with me.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” you said, letting your irritation show. “It just slipped my mind.”

He was silent for a long beat, jaw tight. “And your location? Why was it off?”

You tilted your head, feigning ignorance. “Was it? Must’ve been a glitch or something.”

His hand tightened on the wheel, a muscle in his jaw ticking. “Don’t play games with me, Pips.”

That voice — sharp, cold, dangerous — sent a shiver down your spine. You pressed your lips together to hide the thrill sparking in your chest, turning toward the window as though frustrated. “You’re being too overprotective, Caleb.” you snapped lightly. “It’s not that big a deal.”

The air in the car grew heavier, thick with tension. His silence this time wasn’t calm — it was simmering, electric. You could feel it radiating from him, the shift you’d been chasing all week finally coiling tight inside him.

For the first time since that interrogation room, Caleb wasn’t just your patient, boyish protector. He was something sharper. Harder. The Colonel.

And you knew, as your heart hammered against your ribs, that you’d finally gotten what you wanted.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The moment you stepped inside, the door clicked shut behind you with a finality that made your pulse stutter. Caleb didn’t say a word as he tugged your jacket off with sharp, precise movements, dropping it onto the entry table. His face was calm, but not in the gentle way you were used to — this calm was colder, clipped, the kind that made the air feel too still.

“Sit,” he ordered, his voice carrying that hard, even authority you remembered all too well. “On the couch. We need to talk.”

Your stomach flipped, heat curling through your veins as you obeyed, trying desperately not to let the excitement show on your face. You smoothed your skirt, folded your hands in your lap like you were contrite, though your eyes kept darting to him — the rigid line of his shoulders, the military cut of his uniform, the sharpness in his tone that struck at something low in your belly.

He stood over you for a long moment, studying you, before he spoke again. “Do you know what you put me through today?” His voice was low but laced with steel. “I don’t care if you were with friends, I don’t care if you thought it was harmless. You turned your location off, you ignored my calls—” His jaw clenched. “You don’t do that.”

You shifted under his gaze, trying to school your features into guilt. “I… I didn’t think it was that big of a deal,” you said softly.

His eyes narrowed. “Not that big a deal,” he repeated, the words flat. “You have never ignored me before. Not once.” He stepped closer, towering over you, and you could hardly hear him over the thrum of your heartbeat. “So tell me, Pips—what’s up with you today?”

Your lips parted, but no answer came.

“Not just today,” he went on, his voice turning thoughtful, suspicious. “Matter of fact, you’ve been acting strange all week. Testing me. Pushing. Are you…” He tilted his head, searching your face. “Are you mad at me?”

“No,” you said quickly, heat rushing to your cheeks. “I’m not mad.”

And then you saw it — the flicker in his eyes, the subtle tightening at the corner of his mouth. He’d figured it out.

“I see,” Caleb murmured, almost to himself, before a low, humorless laugh slipped past his lips. He leaned closer, his voice curling dark around the words: “You wanted to see me like this. Didn’t you?”

Your throat went dry. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do.” His smirk was sharp, knowing, and before you could look away he slipped a hand into his pocket. When it emerged, he was holding something slender and metallic — the interrogation stick.

Your breath caught.

He crouched down before you, slow, deliberate, and set the device against the base of your throat. The cool metal slid up, grazing your skin, until the tip rested beneath your chin. With a subtle tilt, he forced your gaze upward.

“Look at me,” he commanded softly.

You did, eyes wide, a quiet whimper slipping free despite yourself.

He chuckled low, dark amusement flickering across his face. “You can’t lie to me now.” The device glowed faintly in his grip, the weight of it as undeniable as his presence.

Your breath came quicker, chest rising and falling as your eyes roamed his face, drinking in the cold edge you’d been craving. The uniform, the steel in his voice, the dangerous patience simmering in his expression — it was all there. Everything you’d been chasing.

“And to think,” Caleb said, smirk deepening as he studied your flushed face, “you told me you hated this part of me. That I killed your Caleb.” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “But here you are. Whimperin’ like you’re in heat.”

Your lips parted, but no words came. You were caught, snared beneath his gaze, too shy to admit what you wanted, too enthralled to look away.

He let the stick clatter to the floor and caught your jaw in his gloved hand instead, the leather firm and unyielding against your skin. His thumb pressed lightly beneath your chin, tilting your face as he studied you, his expression dark and sharp with amusement.

“Tell me,” he murmured. “What is it you really want, Pips?”

The words clung to your tongue like molten lead, thick and heavy. You shifted under his stare, heart racing, shame and desire knotting tight in your chest. Finally, almost too softly to be heard, you whispered, “I wanted you to be… rougher with me.”

A pause. His brows arched. “Hm?” The faintest smile ghosted across his mouth, mocking yet patient. “What was that?”

Heat burned your cheeks. You forced your eyes up to meet his, voice trembling but steadying as you confessed, “I want you to be rougher with me. The way you look in your uniform… it turns me on.” You drew in a shaky breath, the last word falling off your tongue like a plea. “Colonel.”

For the first time, his composure slipped — only slightly, but enough. A glint lit in his eyes, satisfaction that he tried to mask behind a slow, deliberate inhale. “Is that so?” His hand lingered against your jaw, thumb dragging across your lower lip. “How much?” he murmured, the words low and taunting.

Before you could stammer a reply, his hand slid down, slipping beneath the edge of your panties. His gloved fingers hovered just above your core, not quite touching, but close enough that your body betrayed you, clenching around nothing at the faintest brush of leather.

He felt it. His lips curled, a soft laugh escaping him. “You’re aching for me, aren’t you, honey? You want me to touch you?”

You nodded, frantic, but his hand stilled, holding you in place. “Use your words.”

“Yes,” you breathed, the sound shaky, nearly broken. “Please.”

That was enough. His grip eased, and he sank to one knee before you, the sight of him lowering in full uniform making your pulse stutter. His gloved hands slid with painstaking leisure up your thighs, the leather whispering over soft skin, pressing just firmly enough to make your muscles twitch beneath the touch.

When he reached the edge of your skirt, he didn’t stop. His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, parting it, claiming the skin above your knees and then higher, inch by teasing inch. Every movement was precise, deliberate, savoring.

“So soft,” he drawled, almost to himself, though his eyes flicked up to catch your expression. “And all mine, right?”

You couldn’t form words, only nodded, thighs parting instinctively around his touch.

A quiet chuckle escaped him as he hooked two fingers into the waistband of your panties. He tugged lightly, testing. “Lift your hips for me.”

You obeyed, and he slid the lace down slowly, carefully, as though unwrapping something precious. His gloves traced your skin as he went, knuckles grazing the inside of your thighs, fingertips stroking down your calves.

By the time he spread your thighs wide, the cool drag of leather along your skin had you trembling, nerves sparking with every touch. Caleb traced the edge of your inner thigh with two fingers, featherlight, never straying where you needed him most. He lingered, tormenting, brushing just close enough to make your hips jolt up in desperation.

That was when the weight hit — invisible but undeniable — pressing your hips down into the mattress. Gravity locked you still, no matter how much you tried to grind toward him.

“Don’t move,” he said, voice low and steady, carrying that dangerous calm. His gloved hand ghosted over the sensitive crease where thigh met heat, retreating before giving you what you wanted. “You’ll take what I give you.”

The pad of his gloved thumb brushed your clit, a slow circle, so light it was almost cruel. Every nerve screamed for more pressure, more friction, but he only teased, watching the frustration twist across your face.

“Beg for it,” Caleb murmured. “Tell me how badly you want me.”

“Please, Colonel,” you gasped, the words tumbling out too quickly, too thin. “I need more—”

At that, he rewarded you — one gloved finger sliding inside in a single, unhurried push. The stretch made your breath catch, your body clenching instinctively around the intrusion. He drew it back, then pressed in again, slow pumps that made your walls flutter helplessly.

“God, you’re tight,” he murmured, smirk tugging at his lips as he felt you pulse around the leather. “So wet, dripping just for me.”

Another finger joined the first, filling you delicously. Your head fell back with a moan, eyes squeezing shut as the pleasure mounted.

But his free hand came up in an instant, strong fingers clamping your jaw, tilting your face toward him. His grip was firm, commanding.

“Eyes on me,” he ordered, violet gaze pinning you in place.

The command sent a shiver through you, your body clenching around his fingers in a fresh wave of heat. His gaze darkened at the reaction, as though savoring your lack of control.

“Fuck—You really like this, huh?” His voice dropped lower, silk over steel. “Ruining my gloves, all tight and needy. Keep listening to your colonel, and maybe I’ll give you more.”

Caleb’s fingers curled inside you with deliberate precision, finding that spot that made your thighs twitch and your breath catch. Every slow thrust seemed designed to wring sound from your lips, dragging your nerves taut until you could barely think. His thumb circled lazily over your clit, just enough to tease, never enough to give you relief.

Then his head dipped lower. His gloved fingers filled you, stretching and pressing deep, while his mouth covered your clit. The first slow stroke of his tongue sent a violent shudder through you, your hips jerking against the invisible weight of his gravity holding you down. You couldn’t move, couldn’t chase the pressure, could only endure as he licked and sucked with cruel patience, forcing you to the edge one unrelenting second at a time.

When he finally flicked against the swollen bud just right, the dam broke. Pleasure tore through you, white-hot and blinding, stealing the air from your lungs. You cried out, back arching off the cushions, every nerve alight while he held you there, locked in your own release until it left you trembling and gasping.

But he didn’t give you time to come down. His fingers slipped free and in the next moment he had you lifted, your body draped effortlessly against his chest. His arm was a steel band around you, unyielding, your feet leaving the ground as if you weighed nothing at all.

Your head lolled against his shoulder, still dazed, but his gloved hand slid over your thigh in a possessive stroke. “Not finished,” he murmured against your hair, voice low and steady, vibrating straight down your spine.

The walk to the bedroom was unhurried, purposeful, every step making your pulse race harder. By the time he set you down on the bed, your legs were still trembling, the aftershocks fading only to spark into new anticipation.

He stood over you, gaze burning in the low light, gloves flexing as though he was restraining himself from tearing into you too soon. And then he leaned down, lips brushing yours in a single, claiming kiss that promised the night was only beginning.

Your body still trembled from the last release, knees weak as he lingered over you, chest pressing against the curve of you. His gloved hand drifted down your thigh, tracing slow, possessive lines that made you shiver, every nerve alive.

He sat down and guided you to straddle his thigh, and the hardness beneath pressed into you, teasing just enough to make your hips jerk instinctively. “Mmm,” he murmured, low and teasing, “you like the feel of me in this uniform, don’t you?”

You bit your lip, grinding lightly. “I… I can’t help it,” you whispered, voice shaky. “It’s… you… like this.”

His smirk deepened, purple eyes darkening. “Is that right? You’re aching for me, baby, and yet you wanna be so nice about it now.” He let his gloved hand slide over your hip, pressing you closer. “Come on… leave your mark. Show me just how badly you want it. Where’d my little brat go, hm?”

Your breath hitched, body pressing into him more insistently. “I… I need it,” you admitted, voice trembling. “I need you.”

“That’s better,” he said, voice low and deliberate, brushing warm lips along your ear. “Be honest with me. Tell me how sorry you are for ignoring me all day, making me worry. Let me see it. Let me feel it.”

“I’m… sorry, Caleb,” you murmured, grinding harder, desperate for his touch. “I didn’t mean to… I just—ngh—wanted to tease you.”

His gloved fingers pressed firmly against your hip, holding you steady. “There she is,” he purred, his voice a low purr. “You think you can tease me and get away with it? You’re gonna show me how sorry you are? You want me to take care of you, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you breathed, hips rocking against him, heart racing. “Please… I need you.”

Caleb’s smirk cut sharper, his gloved hand sliding from your hip to seize your waist, dragging you down harder against him until the rough seam of his slacks ground against your clit. You gasped, the friction biting, delicious, and he held you there, forcing the pace he wanted.

“Look at you,” he murmured, low and dangerous, violet eyes gleaming under the dim light. “Soaking through my uniform like you can’t help yourself. Do you even realize how wet you are for me, baby? How every grind leaves your mark on me?” His thumb pressed into your hipbone as he guided your movements, rolling you down until you whimpered. “Go on. Ruin it. Mark your territory all over my lap. Everyone will know who I belong to when I wear this again.”

The heat in your belly coiled tighter as the coarse fabric dragged mercilessly against you, each rub stoking a sharper ache. You could feel it — how damp you’d made him already, how the stiffness beneath his uniform pressed hot and unrelenting into you.

His free hand slid higher, catching your breast through your shirt. His fingers pinched at your nipple, a sharp twist that sent a shudder racing through you before he tugged the fabric up, baring your chest. His mouth was on you a heartbeat later, teeth grazing before he sucked hard enough to bruise. He marked you there, then again lower, biting into the soft skin above your heart.

“You’ll wear these tomorrow,” he said against your chest, voice rough, possessive, as his tongue licked over the sting of his bite. “Every mark I leave, every bruise—proof you’re mine. Even if you try to ignore me again, I’ll still be there.”

Your body broke against him, shuddering helplessly as your climax tore through you. The tremors wracked your thighs, your voice spilling into the charged air with his name — a desperate, unraveling cry. He held you steady in his lap, one gloved hand tight on your hip, the other splayed across your chest, feeling every quake as you rode the last waves of release in his arms.

Before you could catch your breath, he shifted. In one decisive motion he stood, setting you down on the bed with your cheek to the sheets. The room spun, your body pliant, fevered, as his hands made quick work of tugging your skirt down your thighs. The fabric slid off, discarded, leaving you bared and trembling under the weight of his command.

“Stay,” he ordered, voice low, a dangerous rasp that had you clenching around nothing. His hand pressed between your shoulder blades, guiding you flat to the mattress, hips tipped up just enough. The sound of his belt buckle came next — metal clinking, leather sliding — each note sharp, deliberate, the prelude to something inevitable.

You swallowed, nerves sparking, your body instinctively arching at the tease of his cockhead slipping against your folds. The swollen tip dragged through your slick, catching on your clit, grazing down again to your entrance.

“You hear that?” Caleb’s voice was all grit and shadow, bending close to your ear. “How wet you’ve made me already… soaking through my uniform, leaving your mark all over me. You want everyone to know who I belong to, baby?”

Your whimper was answer enough.

Then he pressed inside. The stretch was sudden, filling, dragging a desperate moan from your lips as his chest pressed flush to your back. One strong arm curled around your throat — not choking, just holding, cradling you in a headlock that pinned you to him as he sank deep.

His thrusts came fast, rough, each one a jolting claim. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, punctuated by your breathless cries, his low groans.

“Fuck—” his voice caught against your ear, teeth grazing the line of your jaw. “You feel that? Taking me so deep—ngh—you’re mine like this. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped, trembling, voice breaking with every snap of his hips.

“Louder.” His grip at your throat tightened just enough to make you shiver.

“I’m yours, Caleb!”

He rewarded you with a bruising pace, his hand sliding down to your breast, pinching your nipple hard as his tongue trailed up the nape of your neck — leaving a nip on the shell of your ear. You shook under him, overwhelmed by the rhythm, the heat, the relentless possession in his every movement.

“You’ll ruin these sheets with how much you’re dripping,” he groaned, rutting into you harder. “And I’ll ruin you, honey. Again. And again. Until you’re begging me to stop.”

His thrusts came harder, sharper, every stroke punching the air from your lungs as his arm held you snug against his chest. His breath seared the shell of your ear, hot and ragged, his voice low and commanding.

“Take it, baby. Take every inch your Colonel gives you.” His hips slammed into you, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing through the room, filthy and intoxicating. “You wanted me rougher—so now you’ll feel me for days.”

Your nails clawed at the sheets, body arching helplessly under his pace. The weight of his chest against your back made every movement heavier, more consuming, his cock sliding deep inside you until your vision blurred with pleasure.

“Caleb—ah—Colonel—” you gasped, the title torn from your throat, desperate and adoring.

“That’s it. Call me by rank when I’m inside you,” he growled, his teeth grazing your shoulder before biting down just enough to sting. “My good girl… ruining my uniform, squeezin’ me so tight. Fuck—You’re mine.”

Every word pressed you closer to the edge. His free hand moved down, circling your clit with a brutal precision, relentless in the way he worked you over. The slick drag of his cock, the calloused strength of his fingers, the bruising grip of his arm — it was too much, too perfect.

Your climax ripped through you, shaking you violently in his hold. You screamed his name, tears pricking your eyes as pleasure wracked your body. Your pussy clenched around him, pulling him deeper, and he groaned low, guttural, against your ear.

“Fuck—yes, baby. Clamp down on me like that. Milk my cock—don’t stop.” His thrusts grew rougher, hips snapping into yours with abandon. “You’ll take every drop of me—do you hear? Every. Drop.”

The wet slap of your bodies filled the room, his rhythm erratic now, desperation cutting through his control. His arm tightened around your throat, not choking but holding, forcing you to feel his strength, his possession.

“Colonel—please—” you sobbed, still trembling from your release, yet greedy for more.

“You’ll cum again,” he ordered, voice ragged. “You’ll cum with me. You don’t get to stop until I say.” His fingers dragged over your clit again, merciless, and the sharp pleasure surged up your spine.

Your cry broke as another orgasm tore through you, body spasming beneath him, muscles fluttering helplessly around his cock. That was his undoing — Caleb cursed roughly, driving deep, spilling inside you with a shudder.

His hips ground into you, forcing every last pulse of his release to flood you, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. “Good girl. My perfect little soldier. Taking everything I give you.”

He held you tight, chest heaving against your back, his lips brushing your damp skin as he breathed you in like victory.

Your body still trembled from the force of him, slick and aching, when Caleb pulled out suddenly. You felt the hot spill of his release dripping down your inner thigh, a filthy reminder of his possession. For a moment you thought he might lay back with you, let the fire of it fade — but instead he shifted, rising to sit on the edge of the bed, legs spread, cock still hard and gleaming with your combined mess.

“On your knees,” he ordered, voice sharp but low, threaded with command. “You’re not finished yet.”

Your breath caught, desire and heat tangled tight in your chest as you crawled toward him, bare skin prickling under the weight of his gaze.

“Clean me up.” The words were a growl, roughened with authority. “Show me you’re really sorry.”

You sank down between his thighs, but before your lips reached him, the heavy leather of his boot slid beneath you, nudging between your thighs. He pressed it up against your soaked cunt, lifting your hips just enough to make you shiver.

“Grind,” Caleb said, firm. “Make another mess on me. Let me see how desperate you really are.”

A helpless sound left you as your body obeyed, rocking against the slick leather. Every shift of your hips smeared him with your wetness, the friction sharp and maddening. And then — your mouth met him, tongue sliding over the head of his cock, tasting salt, the sharp musk of him, and your own sweetness mixed with it. The blend made your body twitch, your cunt clenching around nothing as you licked him clean.

“That’s it,” he murmured, one hand tangling in your hair, guiding your head in steady strokes. “Good girl. Don’t stop now.”

You whimpered against him, mouth stretched as he pushed deeper, his control absolute. His other hand pressed against the back of your skull, not brutal, but insistent, forcing you to take more of him while his boot groaned under the grind of your hips. You felt the sticky slickness of his release leaking from you, dripping down, wetting the leather beneath.

“Fuck—” Caleb hissed, tightening his grip. “Look at you. Wrecking yourself on my boot while you swallow my cock. You’re filthy, baby. And you love it.”

Your thighs quivered, pleasure crackling like electricity through your nerves. The combined taste of him and yourself filled your mouth, sending you spiraling closer. Every drag of your tongue along his length, every rock of your hips against his boot made you burn hotter.

When his breath broke, low and jagged, you knew what was coming. His hand clenched in your hair, forcing your mouth down as he spilled down your throat in hot, pulsing waves.

The taste, the command, the brutal possession of it shattered you. You moaned around his cock as your climax tore through you, sudden and violent. Your body shook, grinding helplessly against him as you came, slick gushing over his boot, soaking leather, dripping down your thighs.

“Fuck—yes,” Caleb groaned, watching you with a hungry, disbelieving intensity as you squirted all over him. His chest rose and fell hard, satisfaction roughening his voice. “That’s it. Mark me up, baby. Make a mess for your Colonel.”

You collapsed forward, trembling, his cock slipping from your lips at last. He kept you there against his thigh, his hand still resting heavy on your nape, holding you close like you were his to command — and you were, every inch of you spent and claimed, the taste of him still thick on your tongue.

When he finally pulled you up, his hand cupping your jaw and smearing your spit across your cheek with his thumb, he kissed you hard — messy, unrelenting, tasting himself on your tongue.

“You wanted this, didn’t you?” he murmured against your lips, his voice low, dangerous. “Wanted your Colonel to mark you inside and out. To make you remember who you belong to.” His thumb pressed into the bruised hollow beneath your jaw, tilting your head back so he could drink in your dazed expression. “Now you have it. Everything you wanted.”

You could only nod, breathless, raw, your body aching and sated all at once. The fire in your veins was finally quieted, yet the heat of his words promised it would never truly fade. Not when he was the one stoking it.

“I might,” you said, padding closer until the fire’s warmth fully wrapped around you. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you plan on saying anything interesting.”

That earned you a brief glance — sharp, assessing — before he looked back out into the dark. “You came here for conversation?”

“I came here to sit with you,” you replied, lowering yourself to the stone beside him. “Maybe you’ll talk if I'm lucky,”

The fire popped, sending a curl of smoke drifting into the open air. For a time, he said nothing, and you let your gaze wander over the sweep of his wings, the subtle shift of muscles beneath his scaled shoulders.

“Foolish human,” he murmured finally, “always putting yourself where you don’t belong.”

“Maybe,” you said lightly, “or maybe I’m exactly where I should be.”

That got you another look — longer this time, his eyes reflecting the fire. Neither of you spoke, and the silence settled between you like a shared blanket. Eventually, you leaned against him, letting your head rest just under the line of his shoulder.

His body tensed, scales cool and hard beneath your cheek. You could feel the faint vibration of his breath.

“What,” he said slowly, “are you doing?”

You smiled against him. “I like you. And this…” you shifted just enough to glance up at him, “…this is how humans show affection.”

His expression didn’t change much, but his eyes sharpened, something unreadable moving behind them. “Affection,” he repeated, tasting the word like it was foreign. “You think if you show me affection you can obtain a fiend's love?”

You hummed. “Mhmm… aren’t I greedy?”

He exhaled through his nose — not quite a laugh, but close enough to stir the hair at your temple. His gaze turned back to the abyss, though you could feel he was still thinking about your words.

The fire’s warmth pressed into your side; his presence was heavier still, grounding. On impulse, you tilted your head and pressed a brief kiss to the side of his face — the smooth, cool line of scale just at his cheek.

He didn’t move at first after your lips brushed his cheek, as if the gesture had rooted him in place. The only movement was the faint flicker of firelight dancing across his scales, turning them molten gold and deep bronze.

After a moment, his gaze cut toward you. “Your audacity knows no bounds,” His voice was low, even, but you could hear the faint rasp in it — like the words cost him something.

You tilted your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Have you ever kissed anyone before, Sylus?”

His brow furrowed, as if you’d just asked him the most ridiculous thing in the world. “What do you think?” The scoff in his tone was clear, but there was a shadow of something else beneath it… something almost self-conscious.

“Mm,” you hummed, leaning an elbow on your knee. “First kisses are important, you know.”

The fire crackled between you, the scent of smoke and charred pine filling the cool night air. Beyond the mouth of the cave, the abyss stretched endlessly, lit only by a thin wash of moonlight — but in here, it was warm, the heat from the flames mingling with something hotter coiling in your chest.

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You’ve never kissed anyone before either… have you?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden turn of the question. You could feel the flush on your cheeks deepen.

“No… I didn’t meet many people in the sanctuary,”

Something in his posture shifted — subtle, but unmistakable. The set of his shoulders tightened, his tail giving the faintest flick against the stone. “Then why… are you trying to kiss me? If they’re so important,”

Your mouth curved in a softer smile. “Because…” The word slipped out before you could stop it, but whatever explanation you might have given faded, the thought dissolving in the space between you as you realized how close you’d leaned in.

The fire popped. You could hear the faint echo of the wind in the abyss, the low, steady rhythm of his breathing. His scent — a mix of smoke, earth, and something sharper you could never quite name — wrapped around you, making your pulse trip over itself.

Neither of you seemed to decide on the moment — but suddenly, he was leaning in too. Your noses brushed, the heat of him mingling with the fire’s warmth, your lips parting just slightly in anticipation.

And then, his mouth was on yours.

It was tentative at first, almost testing — as if he wasn’t sure how much pressure to use, how long to stay there. His lips were firm but unfamiliar with the motion, warm on your already flushed skin — the contact was enough to make your stomach flip.

When you finally broke apart, your breaths mingled in the firelit space between you, and you swore the red along his cheeks wasn’t just from the flames.

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, you asked softly, “Do you like it?”

He grumbled something under his breath, looking away as though the question was an intrusion. But the corner of his mouth curved almost imperceptibly.

Then, his gaze flicked back to you, sharper now, a glint of mischief breaking through the reserve. “Do you know how dragons show affection?”

You shook your head, still smiling. “No.”

He didn’t explain — he simply leaned closer, slow enough for you to feel the heat of his breath against your skin. He slowly brought his clawed hand up — touching your cheek with an uncharacteristic tenderness, before brushing the hair surrounding your neck away.

His tongue traced a deliberate line along the curve of your neck. The wet heat of it sent a shiver down your spine, and before you could catch your breath, his teeth sank into you — not deep enough to truly hurt, but sharp enough to make your pulse stutter.

A soft sound escaped you, half surprise, half something else, and then his tongue was there again, soothing the sting, lingering just long enough to make your skin prickle. A deep rumble resounded from his chest — almost like a purr. The slide of his tongue over your skin sent heat rushing between your thighs — you found yourself quickly pressing them together desperate for some kind of friction. 

When the sting finally subsided, he placed a soft kiss to the mark blossoming on your skin. He drew back just enough to meet your eyes, his own carrying that faint, smug challenge. “Do you like it?”

You didn’t look away. “Yes.”

Something flickered in his expression — you’d caught him off guard, and you could feel the heat between you deepen, shift. Your voice was softer now, threaded with something headier.

“Can I show you more?”

The fire’s glow flickered low, casting Sylus’s silhouette in molten gold and shadow. His slight nod was almost imperceptible, but it was enough—a quiet permission that set your breath catching.

You shifted, the towel slipping from your shoulders, silk nightgown whispering against your skin as you moved to straddle his lap. His body was solid beneath you, the scales along his thighs cool at first, but you could feel the heat radiating from deeper within him. You braced a knee on either side of his hips, close enough now to catch the faintest ripple of his scent — smoke and some darker note you still couldn’t name.

Your hands slid over his shoulders as you leaned in, catching his mouth with yours. This time, there was nothing tentative about it. His lips pressed more firmly against yours, and you felt the hesitant shift of his hands — a clumsy slide over your hips, almost as if he was unsure where they were allowed to rest. His claws didn’t press hard, but you felt the careful scrape of them through the thin fabric as they traced upward, brushing the curve of your waist, then gliding slowly along your back.

The heat pooling low in your stomach spread, insistent and impossible to ignore. Your fingers found their way into his hair — thick, silken strands slipping through your grasp — before you reached, almost without thinking, toward the base of his horns. The moment your fingertips brushed that polished ridge, his breath caught. A sound escaped him — low, unguarded — more of a muffled moan than a growl.

It startled you enough to still your movements. You leaned back just enough to search his face, your voice soft, curious. “...Does that feel good?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, and instead of answering, he glanced away — as if the question itself was too exposing. His tail shifted against the stone, restless.

You let the silence linger only a moment before trailing your finger along the curve of his horn again, slower this time, testing. The effect was immediate — his jaw clenched, his chest rising sharply as a deep, almost involuntary growl rumbled out of him. His hand shot up, fingers curling firmly around your wrist, not quite squeezing but enough to halt the motion.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he said, his voice rougher now, the words vibrating against your skin.

You tilted your head, the barest hint of a smile tugging at your lips. “You like it,”

His eyes locked with yours — a mixture of irritation, warning… and something darker, hotter, just beneath the surface. He didn’t answer, but his silence was an answer of its own.

You kissed him again, your lips parting to let the heat between you deepen. His grip on your wrist loosened, his other hand settling low on your back, drawing you closer until you were pressed flush against him. Without meaning to — or maybe without caring — your hips rolled forward, the friction sparking through you like a struck match.

His breath hitched sharply, and before you could pull back, his hips lifted to meet yours — a short, uncontrolled buck. The sudden movement of his hips beneath you sent a sharp, delicious jolt straight through your core. Your breath hitched, and a soft, involuntary moan slipped past your lips—his name, barely more than a whisper, trembling in the night air.

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, flushed and burning with need.

“What’s wrong?” Sylus’s voice was low, edged with concern and something teasing as he tilted his head.

You swallowed, voice thick with desire. “I want more,”

A slow, knowing smirk curved his lips. “I thought you were showing me.”

You let your hands slide down to the thin straps of your silk nightgown, fingers trembling slightly as you eased them off your shoulders. The fabric slipped silently, pooling at your waist and revealing the bare curve of your chest to the firelight’s glow.

“You can touch me,” you breathed, voice barely above the crackling flames.

His eyes darkened as he hesitated for a brief moment, hands lifting carefully—too carefully—over your skin. His claws, sharp and lethal by nature, traced gentle, reverent paths across your exposed flesh, each touch careful not to break the surface. His fingertips skimmed over your ribs and then circled your nipples, a contrast of scaled strength and delicate caution.

“Does that feel good?” he asked quietly, voice thick with uncertainty.

You swallowed the heat rising in your throat and smiled shyly, nodding. “You can also use your mouth… like you did on my neck.”

His lips parted in a slow, deliberate way as he leaned forward, breath warm and teasing as he pressed his mouth against your skin. The first kiss was featherlight, tracing a path down your collarbone, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. He worked his way lower — tracing his tongue over your pebbling nipples, before capturing them in his mouth with a soft suck.

A soft moan escaped your lips, your fingers tangling greedily in his silken hair. You reached again, fingertips grazing the base of his horns. The effect was immediate—his body tensed and a low, guttural groan rumbled from deep within his chest. The vibration of the sound sent a fresh pulse racing through you, making your skin flush hotter under his touch.

Sylus’s eyes flicked up to yours, mischievous and darkening with a playful hunger. Without warning, his teeth grazed your nipple in a teasing nip, light and precise.

You jumped, startled, a sharp inhale cutting off into your own warning. “Sylus–”

He smirked against your skin, lips brushing your sensitive flesh. “What? I thought you liked it when I bite.”

Your cheeks flamed with bashful heat as you bit your lip. “It’s… sensitive there.”

His hands tightened around your waist just slightly, a slow, deliberate pressure as he whispered against your skin, “Good.”

The firelight flickered, casting shadows that played across his sharp features as your lips met his again — slow, searching, deepening kisses that sent a fresh tremor of heat spiraling through your body. Your hands slid from his shoulders down his chest, tracing the smooth, obsidian-like scales, feeling the solid strength beneath each ridge and dip.

Your fingertips brushed against the faintly glowing gem embedded in the center of his chest, pulsing softly beneath your fingers like a heartbeat. Warmth seeped from it through your skin, settling deep inside you with a strange, soothing ache.

You let your hands wander lower, fingers teasing the taut muscles that tapered just above the belt of his dark trousers. The cool contrast of scales and warm flesh sent an electric thrill through your veins. You felt him stiffen beneath your touch — the subtle, almost imperceptible hitch of breath, the flush blooming at his cheeks.

“Feeling bold, sweetie?” His voice was low, trying to sound confident, but the faint pink stain coloring his face betrayed him.

You smiled, teasing, your hands tightening slightly on his chest. “Don’t you want more?”

His brow lifted, surprise flashing in his eyes. “What? You want to… mate with me?”

Your breath hitched, and for a moment you couldn’t meet his gaze, shyness blooming hot in your cheeks. Your hands froze against his skin, uncertain.

He cupped your face gently, thumbs brushing your cheekbones as he coaxed your eyes to meet his. His voice dropped, tender and steady. “Don’t get shy on me now.”

The softness in his gaze wrapped around you like a warm cloak, easing the flutter of nerves. But as you looked into those deep, glowing eyes, a quiet thought crept in — what if he’d mated before? The idea stirred an unexpected sting, a jealous flutter you hadn’t expected.

Your voice came out quieter this time, a fragile question. “You… haven’t before, right?”

His lips curved in a slow, knowing grin. “Hnh. Is that jealousy I hear?” His tail flicked lazily behind him, eyes glinting with amusement. “Careful, little human. You’re starting to sound like a dragon,” He leaned in until his breath brushed your ear. “Possessive. Territorial.”

You felt your cheeks heat even more under his gaze, but you didn’t look away. That only seemed to please him further — his grin sharpening into something smug, predatory, as if savoring the proof that you wanted him all to yourself.

After letting the silence stretch just long enough to make your pulse race, he finally huffed a quiet laugh, pressing his forehead to yours. “No. Never. And I wouldn’t give myself to anyone I didn’t intend to keep,” His lips brush your cheek. Then, softly: “Dragons mate for life.”

You held his gaze, steady and intense now, breath catching with resolve. “Then I want it. I want you.”

That earned you another smirk — softer now, but no less self-satisfied — as if your admission had been exactly what he wanted to hear all along.

Your hands resumed their gentle exploration — fingers brushing over the tension in his arms, tracing the strong lines of his shoulders and the sweep of his scales as they shifted with his movement. His hands slid from your waist, sliding lower, drawing you closer still.

Slowly, deliberately, he rose to his full height. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his hips, clinging as he lifted you effortlessly, your bodies pressed tight. His arms supported you with sure strength as he carried you toward the heart of his lair.

The nest awaited — a plush burrow of expensive furs and silks, soft and warm under the fire’s glow. Precious gold and gemstones were scattered around like stars caught in a velvet sky, reflecting the light with gentle sparkles. The scent of rich leather, wildflowers, and something deeply ancient filled the air.

He settled you gently onto the soft pile, eyes gleaming with promise and something fiercely tender. The crackling of the fire softened, and the abyss outside faded away, leaving only the two of you wrapped in heat, shadows, and a beginning that burned brighter than any flame.

The silk nightgown had slipped down to your hips, leaving you exposed and trembling with anticipation. His eyes darkened as he looked over your body, the glow from the gem in his chest pulsing softly in time with your quickening heartbeat.

Sylus’s lips found your collarbone first—featherlight, reverent—trailing a path of fire across your skin. Each kiss was slow and deliberate, awakening every nerve it touched, sending sparks of heat that crawled beneath your flesh. His breath whispered against your throat: “Do you know how to mend a soul so greedy it’ll burn for you?”

“You quench his desires... you feed him with every inch of you.”

His mouth punctuated his words, lips mapping a delicate path along your body. “From fingertips—” a kiss to the pad of your fingers. “To earlobes—” a nip at your ear.

He lifted his gaze to meet yours, lips brushing against yours in a lingering, possessive kiss before whispering, “You’re all mine.”

“Yours,” you breathed back, heart pounding.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as his hands moved again, sliding the nightgown the rest of the way down your legs, freeing your body completely to his touch.

“I’ll start with your warmest spot,” he murmured, voice low and husky, as his mouth traced the edge of your underwear. His breath was hot, teasing, sending shivers coursing through you.

He placed a soft kiss to the fabric, right on your twitching bud. He inhaled deeply, eyes narrowing with something like awe.

“Do you know what your scent reminds me of? Steamy and sweet... like cherry wine.”

His fingers slipped beneath the soft fabric of your underwear, sliding it slowly down your thighs, revealing more of your bare skin to his hungry gaze. His hands were careful, the tips of his claws gently grazing, never sharp as they made their way down your legs.

He pressed lightly against your most sensitive spot. His fingertips circled your clit with exquisite gentleness, the contrast of his cool scales and the heat of his touch setting your nerves alight. You gasped softly at the exquisite torment.

Then, without warning, his tongue flicked out—soft, wet, teasing—darting over your slick folds. “Does that feel good?” he asked quietly, voice thick with barely contained desire.

Your breath caught in your throat as a soft moan slipped free, your head falling back against the silks. You nodded, your fingers tangling greedily in his thick silver hair, urging him on.

His tongue grew bolder, flicking and curling through your folds with a mixture of slow patience and tentative experimentation, mapping you out for the first time. Every movement felt deliberate, but sometimes uncertain—testing, learning what made you gasp, what made your thighs twitch.

“Mmh… you taste so sweet,” he murmured against you, his breath warm on your skin, before dipping back in. “So soft… I could drown here.”

He kept his eyes on you as much as he could, glancing up between strokes, gauging every reaction—your parted lips, the way your chest rose faster, the subtle jerk of your hips when he hit the right spot. Your fingers threaded into his hair before sliding up to grip the base of his horns, a shiver rolling visibly down his spine at the contact.

When you pushed, guiding his head with the leverage, he groaned—deep, low, vibrating against you—and the sound alone made your back arch. His nose bumped your clit with each stroke, sending sharp pulses of pleasure through your core.

He tried circling his tongue one way, then the other, testing pressure, pace. When your moan broke higher, he repeated the motion, almost eager, chasing the sound. “Like that?” he asked between licks, his voice rough, and when you whined in answer, he pressed closer, letting you grind against his mouth, letting you set the rhythm.

Your hips rocked harder, using his horns for leverage as the tension in your belly coiled tighter, every flick and press driving you toward the edge. His moans came freely now—half from the taste, half from the sheer effect you had on him—each one sending delicious vibrations into your most sensitive spot.

The pleasure built fast, cresting in waves so intense your whole body trembled. Your muscles clenched around the empty ache inside you, a shuddering climax ripping through your body until you thought you might break apart. You gripped the furs beneath you with one hand, his horns with the other, riding the aftershocks as your breath came ragged and uneven.

Sylus lifted his head slowly, lips glistening, cheeks flushed, chest rising with heavy breaths. He looked almost dazed, like he’d just tasted something rare and couldn’t quite believe it. His mouth traced its way back up your body—small, sharp nips at your thighs, a lingering kiss at your hip, then slow, wet trails up your ribs. By the time he reached your neck, his lips were dragging open-mouthed kisses across your pulse point, teeth grazing with every pass.

Your fingers slid down, finding the hard heat straining against his trousers. You curled your hand around him through the fabric, a needy little sound escaping your throat—

His hand snapped out, catching your wrist in a firm, possessive grip. “Ah-ah,” he rumbled, his voice low and edged with mock-reproach. His eyes gleamed, but there was something unreadable behind them. “Remember how you teased me earlier… you really think I’d let you touch me that easily?”

A small whine escaped your throat, trying to pull free. “Sylus, please—”

His grip only tightened, thumb brushing lazily over the inside of your wrist in contrast to his unyielding hold. His voice dropped lower, quieter, more serious. “Maybe we’re done for tonight.”

Your stomach sank, your heart thudding in panic. “What? No—” Your arm twitched with the force of trying to break free from his grasp.

He tilted his head slightly, a smug little smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “Dare to resist me?” His gaze raked over you, lingering shamelessly. His lips ghosted your ear. “Bite me, then.”

The sudden challenge lit a spark of heat in your chest. You hesitated, then sank your teeth into the warm skin of his neck. He inhaled sharply, his body shuddering against yours.

“Yes,” he growled, the sound almost broken. “Harder.”

You bit down again, feeling his pulse jump beneath your mouth. A low, strangled sound left his throat, somewhere between a groan and a gasp.

His lips crashed into yours without warning, the kiss rougher, hungrier. You were still catching your breath when you tried for him again—your free hand sliding down, desperate—

He caught your wrist a second time, stopping you cold. His gaze locked on yours, fierce and commanding, his breath fanning over your lips. “Beg me,” he murmured, each word deliberate. “Beg for my help.”

Something in his tone, half-smug and half-uncertain, made your stomach clench tighter. You swallowed hard, pride dissolving under the ache between your thighs. “Please, Sylus… please,” you whispered, your voice shaking. “I need you—need to feel you—” Your words broke into a desperate whimper. “I’ll do anything… just—please.”

His eyes darkened further, the thin thread of his composure fraying as your desperation spilled out. His chest rose faster, and the corner of his mouth twitched, almost like he was trying not to smile at the way you were unraveling for him.

A deep growl rumbled from his chest as he crushed his mouth to yours again, his hands fumbling at his belt buckle. The leather slipped free with a soft sigh, and his pants fell away, freeing the thick length that made your breath catch.

Your eyes widened, heat pooling in your belly.

Sylus’s molten-gold gaze locked on you, pupils narrowed to slits — almost snake-like, his breath hot against your cheek. The faint shimmer of his dark scales caught the moonlight, tracing over the curve of his shoulders, the swell of his chest, and down to where his hips pressed to yours. 

He smirked faintly, hovering just above you, his voice low and molten. “You’re sure you’re ready to handle me?” His gaze burned into yours, hungry and unblinking. “Once I start, I’m not stopping until I’ve had every last drop of you.” His lips brushed your ear, his breath scorching. “And if it hurts… bite me. Hard.”

The warning only sent a hotter ache through you. “Please, Sylus,” you breathed, the words trembling with need.

He shifted down, hips sliding forward just enough for the thick length of him to nestle between your folds. He groaned the moment his heat met your slickness. “God… you’re soaked for me,” he rasped, rocking his hips so his length glided through your wetness, the ridge of him catching on your clit.

The friction made you moan, your hips arching instinctively to press harder against him. Each slow grind had you shivering, the base of him nudging against your swollen bud in a rhythm that made you clutch at the silk. His claws flexed against your thighs, holding you still just enough that he could control the pace, but his breathing grew ragged, his control fraying.

When he finally pushed forward one last time, his tip breached you with a stretch that made your lips part in a gasp. He didn’t stop — inch by deliberate inch, he sank into you, filling you so deeply it stole your breath. The burn gave way to a molten fullness, your walls clenching as he bottomed out, his hips flush with yours.

A sound tore from his throat — half growl, half groan — and he ducked his head, horns grazing your temple, as if the closeness could fuse you together.

“You feel…” he panted, “…made for me.”

He started moving — not slow, not careful, but steady, his thrusts sinking deep and pulling nearly all the way out before driving back in. The furs rustled beneath you with each motion, his scales brushing your skin, heat rolling off him in waves.

Then, in the middle of a particularly deep thrust, his claws slipped. They caught on the softness of your hips, leaving sharp stings in their wake. You yelped.

He froze instantly, pupils tightening. “Damn it— Humans… too fragile,” he muttered, more to himself than you. Then softer: “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay,” you cut in, breathless, reaching to take his hand. You laced your fingers together, feeling the strength in his grip soften, the warmth of his palm anchoring you. The moment stretched — intimate, grounding — before his hips rolled forward again, slow and deliberate, as though savoring you.

His mouth found your neck, licking over the racing pulse there before sinking his teeth in just enough to leave another mark. “You’ll wear my scent for days,” he growled against your skin.

Your back arched into him. “Please… more…”

A smug, shaky laugh rumbled in his chest. “Greedy little thing.” He pulled almost completely free before thrusting back in with enough force to make you gasp, his hand sliding behind your back to lift you. In one smooth motion, he drew you upright onto his lap, your thighs spread around his hips, your chest pressed to his.

Now, every thrust drove upward, deep enough to make your vision blur. You ground down against him, chasing every stroke, and he groaned, the sound vibrating through you. One clawed hand gripped your hip, the other tangled in your hair, pulling your mouth to his for a hungry kiss that stole what little breath you had left.

Your walls fluttered around him, the pleasure building too fast. “Sylus—”

“Cum for me,” he commanded, his thumb slipping down to circle your clit, careful to not scratch your delicate skin with his claws. “Let me feel your desire,” he purred.

You broke apart with a strangled cry, your walls fluttering and clenching tight around him as if to keep him buried inside. Sylus ground into you, hitting that sweet, devastating spot over and over, each thrust wringing another gasp from your lips. An animalistic groan tore from his chest—raw, unrestrained—as the sensation of your heat and impossible tightness drove him closer to the edge.

He didn’t give you a chance to breathe. The moment your body convulsed around him, nails digging into his scaled shoulders, Sylus drove you back into the furs with a low, guttural snarl. His hips snapped into yours, the pace quick and unrelenting—every thrust a hard, deliberate push as he chased the sharp edge of his own release. The nest shifted beneath you from the force, silks bunching around your back, and the sound of his hips meeting yours was wet and obscene.

“God—” his voice broke into a deep growl as his claws tightened against your thighs, holding you open for him. His molten gaze was fixed on the way he disappeared inside you with every rough stroke. “So warm… so tight… mine.”

You could feel him pulsing, straining, every movement heavier, needier, until he finally slammed deep and stilled with a shuddering groan. His release poured into you in thick, hot waves, and the deep, satisfied rumble in his chest vibrated straight into your bones. His eyes fluttered closed for a heartbeat, savoring the moment—savoring you.

But he didn’t pull out. Didn’t even think about it. His hips began to roll again, slower now, dragging the length of him over every oversensitive nerve inside you. He lowered himself to you, his tongue sweeping up the side of your jaw to your cheek in a slow, possessive stripe, tasting the salt of your skin before kissing you—deep, claiming, and endless.

You gasped into his mouth when his tail slid forward, curling around your thigh and tugging it wider. The new angle let him sink deeper, the tip of him grinding right into that tender, aching spot that made your toes curl. You whimpered his name, over and over, each breathless plea fueling the fire in his molten eyes.

“That’s it… let me hear you,” he murmured, voice low and rough. His hand slid between your bodies again, scaled fingers finding your swollen clit and rubbing slow, deliberate circles that made your vision swim. “Every sound… every breath… it’s mine.”

You could only cling to him, trembling, nails catching on the ridges of his shoulders as he worked you toward another climax. His gaze locked on yours, so intense you swore he could see into your very soul. “You feel it, don’t you?” His lips brushed yours, his breath ragged. “Our bond. No matter where you run, no matter how many lifetimes—your body will always call for me.”

Your answer was a desperate, broken moan, your hips lifting to meet his deep, steady thrusts. His tail tightened its hold, his pace drawing out every sweet, unbearable pulse of pleasure until you were nearly sobbing from it. He kissed you again, gentler now, but still tasting of hunger and heat—his claws tracing down your ribs, his body wrapped around you like he could shield you from the entire world.

“You were made for me,” he breathed against your ear. “And I was made to keep you.”

Every thrust was deliberate now—deep, steady, dragging along every aching inch inside you like he was memorizing the shape of your body. His molten gaze stayed locked on your face, drinking in each shiver, each quiver of your lips when his hips pressed flush against yours. The slow grind of his pelvis sent a constant ache of pleasure straight through your core, and the combination of his thick length filling you and the circles of his scaled thumb over your clit had your body coiling tight, trembling under him.

“Sylus—” His name slipped out on a gasp, your hands clutching his shoulders like you might fall apart without him holding you together. “C-close– gonna—”

“That’s it,” he rumbled, his voice a mix of heat and tenderness, claws grazing lightly along your ribs before settling against your waist to hold you steady. “Let it take you. Give it to me.”

The pressure broke with a cry, your body arching into his as the climax tore through you. Your walls clenched down around him in hard, rhythmic pulses, dragging a shudder from his chest.

“Fuck—” His voice cracked into a growl, hips stuttering as the feel of you squeezing him tight tipped him over. He sank deep and stayed there, releasing into you in long, hot spurts, the thick heat flooding you sending aftershocks straight through your already spent body. You felt every twitch of him inside, the deep throb that matched your own aftershocks, his muscles locking and then shuddering as he rode it out. His forehead dropped to yours, his breath hot and ragged, the heavy drape of his wings casting you both in shadow. The tremor in his tail finally stilled, curling tighter around your leg like he couldn’t bear to let go.

Neither of you moved for a long moment. The only sounds were the soft rustle of furs beneath you and the mingled rhythm of your breathing. Slowly, his grip shifted—not loosening, but changing, one arm sliding under your back to pull you fully against him. His weight settled over you, protective and warm, his wings folding low around the both of you like a cocoon.

When you could finally breathe again, you managed a soft, teasing whisper. “So… did I move you with my human love?”

The tips of his ears flushed dark, his gaze darting away as a low, embarrassed grumble rumbled from his chest. “You…” He didn’t finish, just huffed, clearly unwilling to let the words out but unable to hide the way his hold on you tightened.

He shifted slightly, and the movement made you twitch and tremble around him. His eyes snapped to yours immediately, a flicker of worry breaking through the heat. “Are you… alright? Was I too rough?”

Your smile was small but certain. “I’m okay.” Your voice was just above a whisper now, growing hoarse from all the sounds Sylus pulled from you. You lifted your head slightly, just enough to place a gentle kiss to his cheek.

For a moment, something unguarded lingered in his expression—concern laced with a tenderness that felt heavier than the furs beneath you. Slowly, his body relaxed, and he wrapped his arms tighter around you, pressing you close enough to feel the steady beat of his heart against your chest.

The warmth of his body, the scent of his skin, and the deep rumble of his breathing pulled you toward sleep. Just before you drifted fully, you felt the ghost of a touch—a soft kiss pressed to your forehead—followed by the quiet sigh of a dragon who, in his own way, had just given you every piece of himself.

So many years and yet, the day they took him away from you lives in your mind even now…

He was your only friend in the shelter, the two of you growing together and then eventually fostered together. Caleb was like your sun. Any day could be bright if he stood by you. You played together, did each other's hair, he painted your nails.

The two of you began to have a shift in your relationship ten years in, around the time you were fifteen and he was almost seventeen. A suspicious closeness. You'd slip into his bed more, him into yours, looks lingered. Nothing ever happened to push the plausible deniability in being “best friends”, though.

Caleb's 17th birthday started like every other. Somehow you wore his birthday hat, he was surprising you with little adventures. At the amusement park, you kindly thanked everyone who wished you a happy birthday, scowling at a pleased-with-himself Caleb when they walked away. "Attention suits you better than me, pipsqueak."

After a few rides when Caleb said he was dizzy and needed to sit down, it made sense, motion sickness happens even if not very often to Caleb. But when you grabbed his face with your two hands and he was burning up and growing lethargic you knew something was wrong. You called Josephine, your elderly foster parent as a sweating, sickly, Caleb leaned his body weight into you with his head on your shoulder. He was so heavy that it was like his evol was pressing him further into you.

The hours after were a blur of ambulances, emts, a too-quiet drive to Akso Hospital with Josephine.

It was weeks before they finally let you see him, unaware of what you'd see. The doctor guiding you back was kind and warm as she tried to preface.

“Your foster brother—” you cringed at the title. He was something else first. Brother was unfit, uncomfortably so. Even if he wore it like a badge of honor. You realize you weren't fully listening as you caught her continuation after missing some of her talking. “...but his condition is still somewhat unstable given how fresh he is out of transformative states. Regardless, you may see him and talk through the glass partition. He's restrained at the mouth, leg, and arms but he's as comfortable as possible—please do not be alarmed.”

The sterile white of the hospital hallway felt suffocating as you followed the doctor, your pulse hammering in your throat. The word restrained echoed in your skull, twisting your stomach into knots. Caleb—your Caleb, who laughed too loud, walked you to every class, walked you home daily, cared for you when you were sick and carried you on his back when you were tired—was bound like some kind of dangerous animal.

He'd never hurt anyone… not for no reason… not on purpose…

The doctor stopped in front of a thick glass partition, and your breath hitched.

There he was.

Caleb sat on a medical cot, his broad shoulders hunched, his wrists and ankles secured with padded cuffs. A muzzle obscured the lower half of his face, but his eyes—those deep, violet eyes—snapped to yours the second you stepped into view. His ears, newly furred and canine, twitched atop his head, his dark hair messy from days of restless movement. His tail, another unfamiliar addition, thumped excitedly against the cot at the sight of you.

You pressed your palm to the glass before you could stop yourself.

His whole body strained toward you, the restraints creaking as he fought them. A low, desperate whine escaped the muzzle, and your vision blurred with tears.

"Hey," you whispered, voice cracking. "Hey, dumbass."

His ears flattened, his eyes darting over your face like he was memorizing it. The doctor had said you could talk to him, but what were you supposed to say? That you missed him? That you were scared? That you hated this—hated seeing him like this?

You swallowed hard.

"They wouldn't tell me anything," you admitted, your fingers curling against the glass. "Just that you were sick. That you were... changing."

Caleb made another sound, muffled but unmistakably frustrated. His fingers flexed, like he wanted to reach for you. You wished he could.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he leaned forward as far as the restraints allowed and pressed his forehead to the glass, right where your hand was.

Your breath shuddered out of you.

You stayed like that for as long as they let you—foreheads nearly touching, separated by cold, unyielding glass.

The second—and last—time they allowed you to see him, he was worse.

His body had filled out, his frame broader, more defined. His hands were clawed now, his teeth, especially his canines, sharper when he snarled at the nurses who adjusted his restraints. But the second he saw you, he stilled.

This time, they let you into the room.

"Caleb," you breathed, stepping closer.

His throat worked, his voice rough from disuse. "...Missed you."

You didn't hesitate. You reached into your pocket and pulled out the collar—black leather, with a small apple charm and a dog tag engraved with When You Come Back. You'd spent weeks saving for it, refusing to believe he wouldn't return to you.

His breath hitched when you fastened it around his neck.

It was too loose by a little.

"You better, okay?" You whispered, your fingers lingering against his skin. "Or I'll never forgive you."

His eyes burned into yours, feral and yearning.

“I will,” he said it, but it came off muffled by the muzzle he was forced to still wear. 

Then the orderlies came.

They took him away after that. You wished it were you instead. Prayed that you'd sprout ears and a tail of your own so you could go with him. 

☆☆☆☆☆

The years after Caleb vanished were a slow bleed, a constant, dull ache that seeped into everything. You moved. Josephine, bless her elderly heart, helped you find a tiny apartment after high school graduation. You went to community college, then transferred, got a degree in something practical. Graphic design. You got a job. You paid bills. You existed. When Josephine passed, you couldn't even cry at the funeral. Her blood family barely spoke to you. She left you a good bit of money though, money you saved, mostly for emergencies or a special dream. Not like dreaming came easy now. Or at all.

The world felt muted, perpetually cast in the grey light of that sterile hospital hallway. Birthdays came and went—yours, Josephine’s, the phantom echo of his. His 18th, the age he should have been free, passed in a blur of choked-back tears you shed alone in the shower. Then his 21st. You paid an older classmate to buy a cheap bottle of wine, poured a glass for him, and left it untouched on your windowsill until it turned to vinegar.

The world spun on, Linkon just as it always had been, vibrant and loud for others, but for you, it was a silent film projected onto a screen of frosted glass. Laughter sounded distant. The sunlight felt thin. Connections with others were polite, surface-level exchanges that never penetrated the cold, hollow space Caleb left behind.

You kept the apartment small and uncluttered. The idea of anything more than what you had felt like an echo chamber for his absence. The only personal touch in your studio was a small, framed picture on your dresser: the two of you at the amusement park, the day everything shattered. You were wearing his stupid birthday hat, scowling half-heartedly, while he beamed beside you, his arm slung over your shoulders, radiating warmth even through the faded print. Beneath the frame, on a delicate silver chain, hung a replica of the apple charm from his collar.

Time became a series of ‘before’ and ‘after’. Before Caleb was taken. After the glass partition. After the restraints. After the final, wrenching goodbye with the collar clasped around his neck. The ‘after’ stretched on, an endless, featureless plain. You stopped checking the mailbox for impossible letters. You stopped jumping when the phone rang late at night.

Hope was a luxury you couldn't afford. It hurt too much when it inevitably crumbled.

The memory of his promise—“I will”—was a shard of glass embedded in your heart, beautiful and agonizing. You learned to live around it as a dull throb that was simply part of your existence.

His face, his voice, the specific cadence of his laugh, the way his violet eyes would soften just for you… these things didn't fade. They calcified. Became the sediment of your loneliness. You dated, briefly, awkwardly, a few times, but... It never felt right. No one’s touch burned like his fevered skin against yours that last day. No one’s presence filled a room, warmed your very bones, the way Caleb’s had. He wasn't just your friend, your almost-something, your sun. He was your gravity. And without him, you were perpetually floating: adrift, untethered, cold.

☆☆☆☆☆

The replica apple charm feels so much heavier some days, like today. A dreary Tuesday evening, rain smearing the city lights outside your apartment window into watery streaks. You are curled on your worn sofa, a design project forgotten on your laptop, staring at nothing.

His 26th birthday is just weeks away. Another milestone he won't reach beside you. The familiar, crushing weight settles on your chest. You trace the cool metal of the charm at your throat, a silent ritual of grief.

Thump. Thump-thump. Thump.

Your breath catches mid-inhale, stilled, and frozen solid in your lungs.

It isn't loud. Just… distinct. A pattern knuckle-rapped against your apartment door. A rhythm etched into your soul from countless shared hiding spots, secret signals, a lifetime ago in cramped shelter rooms and Josephine’s creaky house.

Thump. Thump-thump. Thump.

Your heart does more than just pound. It slams against your ribs like a trapped bird trying to shatter the cage of your bone. Blood roars in your ears, drowning out the rain, the hum of the fridge, everything. Impossible. Utterly, completely impossible. It's a trick. A cruel echo conjured by your own desperate longing, amplified by the drear of the evening and the looming date of his birthday.

Shame, hot and immediate, washes over you for the dizzying, treacherous leap your heart takes.

'Stop it,' you scold yourself harshly, squeezing your eyes shut. Don’t be stupid. Don’t…

Thump. Thump-thump. Thump.

It comes again, and this time it's firmer—more demanding.

You are moving before conscious thought registers. Your legs feel numb, disconnected, carrying you across the small space on autopilot. The world narrows to the door, the rhythmic sound of the knocks to the wood, and the frantic hammering in your chest. Your hand, trembling violently, hovers over the deadbolt.

You fumble with the lock, your fingers slick and clumsy with sudden sweat. The chain rattles as you slide it free. You take one last, shallow breath, bracing for disappointment, for the mundane reality of a pizza delivery guy or a lost neighbor.

You pull the door open, and the dim hallway light falls on him.

Time stops. It fractures then reassembles itself around the figure hunched in your doorway.

Around…

Caleb.

Taller. So much broader. Shoulders that strain the damp fabric of a simple, dark grey t-shirt. Powerful biceps, a defined chest hinting at a strength that hadn't been there at seventeen. His dark hair is longer, a shaggy, unruly mullet plastered wetly to his neck and forehead. 

Rainwater drips from the shaggy strands onto the worn hallway carpet.

But his eyes… Those deep, burning violet eyes, wide and desperate, lock onto yours with an intensity that steals the air from your lungs. They are the same. They are utterly, devastatingly the same.

And perched atop his head, twitching violently, soaked and plastered down but unmistakable—soft, dark puppy ears. A thick, equally dark tail, low and tucked tightly against his leg, gives a single, frantic wag against the denim of his jeans before stilling again, as if he fought to control it.

His chest heaves. A flush paints his neck, creeping up his jawline, visible even in the poor light. Heat radiated off him in palpable waves, cutting through the chill of the hallway. He is coiled tight, every muscle straining with visible restraint, his large hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at his sides. His breathing is ragged and shallow.

Then you see it. The collar.

Black leather, worn but intact, snug around his strong neck, fitting better than it did all those years ago. And there, catching the weak light: the small, unmistakable gleam of the apple charm. Below it is the dog tag. You don't need to read it. You know the words engraved there as surely as you know your own name: When You Come Back.

He is still wearing it after everything? After all these years? So… many years…

"Is it... really you?"

The sob erupts from your throat before you can stifle it, and it's as ugly as it is sudden. Tears, hot and blinding, well up instantly, spilling over and streaking down your face. Years of bottled grief, of hollow life, of desperate, unanswered and lost hope, shatter the dam.

A low, distressed whine escapes Caleb. The sound is one of canine anguish. Of human heartache. His eyes, already wide, fill with a mirrored sheen of tears. He takes a half-step forward, one large, trembling hand lifting from his side.

The restraint in his posture cracks, replaced by a frantic need to erase your pain. Same old Caleb.

"Don't... don't cry," he rasps, his voice deeper, rougher with age and disuse, but achingly familiar. His hand, shaking almost as badly as yours, reaches out. His knuckles, rough and warm, brush against your wet cheek with infinite, heartbreaking gentleness. "Please... Pips... don't cry. I'm… I'm back now. I didn't mean to scare you."

The touch, his voice, the old nickname spoken by him, right now, it is a final straw of sorts. A choked cry rips from you, and you crash forward. You don't bother to be gentle, and you can't think right enough to be hesitant.

You fling yourself into him with the force of years of pent-up longing and fury and devastating relief.

Your arms lock around his solid torso, fingers digging into the hot, rain-damp fabric of his shirt. You bury your face against his chest, inhaling the scent of rain, wet dog, warm skin... him…

He is furnace-hot, radiating heat that seeps into your chilled bones, solid, and real. He is here.

He staggers back half a step under the impact, a surprised grunt escaping him. Then his arms—huge, powerful arms that could crush you—wrap around you with astonishing tenderness.

One hand cradles the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, while the other presses firmly against your back, pulling you impossibly closer, anchoring you against the storm of your own tears and the heat pouring off him. He buries his face in the top of your head, his shaky breaths ruffling your hair.

You cling to him, sobbing brokenly into his chest, the years of desolate waiting pouring out. Between ragged gasps, the anger surfaces, sharp and sudden, fueled by the sheer, agonizing relief of his presence.

"You... you idiot!" you choke out against his damp shirt, your voice muffled and thick with tears. Your fists clench in the fabric.

"Years... Years, Caleb! Why... why didn't you come? Why didn't you come sooner?! I thought maybe you were—" You sob, unable to even finish the sentence.

His arms tighten a fraction, the rumble in his chest deepening into something pained. He doesn't answer immediately, just holds you tighter, his own breath hitching as he pressed his lips to the crown of your head, a silent apology radiating from every tense, overheated line of his body held in careful check around yours.

The silence that follows your choked accusation is thick, broken only by the frantic drumming of rain against the window and the ragged symphony of your shared breathing. Caleb doesn’t loosen his hold for a long moment. If anything, his arms become steel bands, anchoring you against the furnace of his body, as if he fears you might dissolve back into the grey years if he lets you go. His face remains buried in your hair, his breath a hot, shuddering harmony to your fading sobs, and he holds you in your tears until your sobs slow to sniffles.

His voice, when it finally comes, is a raw scrape against the quiet, muffled by your hair.

“Couldn’t.” The word is heavy, laden with a pain that mirrors your own. “Pips... God, you think I wanted to stay away? You don't really think that, do you?”

You pull back slightly, just enough to look up at his face. His violet eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide despite the dim hallway light spilling into your apartment. His cheeks are flushed a deep crimson, spreading down his neck beneath the worn leather collar. Sweat beads his forehead, mingling with the rainwater. His breath hitches again, a low whine vibrating deep in his chest.

"They... they didn't just take me to another shelter," he rasps, his gaze darting over your face like a starving man, while his hand, still tangled in your hair, trembles violently. "Government facility. Lockdown. Experiments. Training."

Each word swirls between you like those lost years. He continues gauging your expression. "Took... took two and a half years just to learn how to hold steady enough... not to... not to crush things. Or people." 

Unspoken: Or you. His eyes flicker with a haunted shadow.

"My evol... it goes haywire when I... when I can't control... combined with being a hybrid..."

He trails off, his jaw clenching so hard you could see the muscle jump. A fresh wave of heat rolled off him, intense enough to make you momentarily lightheaded. His ears, plastered wetly against his skull, twitch erratically. His tail, still tucked low, gives another frantic, involuntary wag against his leg before he visibly wrestles it still, his knuckles whitening where his other hand grips your back.

"Then... when I was stable... mostly... they said I had to serve." His voice drops, thick with bitterness. "I was an asset… property. Five years. Mandatory service for 'Progressive assets'." He spits the term like poison. "Tracked and monitored at every damn move. I couldn't risk... couldn't risk leading them here. To you. You'd be my accomplice."

The implication hangs in the air, colder than the rain outside. If he’d come for you while still owned, still tracked... they would have taken you both. Or worse. Who knows.

"I counted the days," he whispers, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. The heat radiating from his skin is almost feverish. His breath fans hot against your lips.

"Every single one. Your birthday... Josephine..." His voice cracks on her name.

"Knew... knew when you moved. Knew this address." His eyes, burning with an intensity that steals your breath, lock onto yours. 

"The second my discharge was processed... the second the tracker deactivated... I ran. Ran straight here and didn't stop or really sleep." He swallows hard, a visible tremor running through his entire frame.  "Just... ran. To you."

His explanation paints a horrifying picture of captivity and enforced servitude. The anger that had flared moments ago sputters out, drowned by a surge of protective fury on his behalf and a devastating wave of understanding.

Caleb hadn't abandoned you. He’d been caged.

He’d been owned.

You feel yourself grow warm with frustration before forcing yourself to change the topic. Raging at what happened to him won't help him and will barely help you. 

"But... but you're burning up," you murmur, your hand lifting almost unconsciously to touch his flushed cheek. The skin is searing to the touch and he flinches at the contact, a sharp inhale hissing through his teeth, his eyes squeezing shut for a second. His body tenses even further beneath your hands, every muscle coiled like a spring under unbearable pressure. The low whine in his chest deepens, becoming almost a continuous, distressed rumble.

He doesn't pull away from your touch, though. He leans into it by the smallest fraction, a desperate, seeking pressure. His eyes are opened now, the violet nearly swallowed by black, his gaze holding yours with a terrifying, vulnerable hunger. He's so beautiful to you in that moment it's devastating. Your heart's reaching still, again, but different than it has in all the years without him in front of you.

"Yeah," he breathes, the single word thick with shame and a need so profound it vibrated in the air between you. His large hand slides from your back, trembling as it comes to rest over yours where it cups his burning cheek. His skin feels like live wires beneath your palm. "Pips... I... I didn't plan this. I didn't know it would... hit me like this. Not now. Not... not the second I saw you. I thought… I'd be good."

His admission hangs there, along with your new understanding. The frantic energy, the overwhelming heat, the trembling restraint, the way his entire being seemed focused on you with a terrifying, singular intensity... it all comes together to make sense.

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, a gesture achingly familiar yet brand new. His voice drops to a ragged whisper, barely audible over the rain and the frantic pounding of your own heart.

"Been holding on... holding on so tight since I knocked... but... I can't... I can't think straight. Smell you... feel you... after so long..." His breath hitches again, a shudder wracking his powerful frame. The look in his eyes is a pure, desperate apology mixed with a yearning that threatens to incinerate his carefully maintained control.

"Need... need you to tell me... tell me what to do. Please. Before I... before I break something. Or... or scare you."

He stands there against you, massive and trembling on your threshold, the collar you gave him years ago still clasped around his neck, his puppy ears flat with distress, his tail a rigid line of tension, utterly at the mercy of the storm inside him and the girl-now-woman who had always been his anchor.

The years of separation, the government facility, the enforced service... thoughts swim, but the raw, overwhelming need radiating from him in waves of heat is a bridge of sorts, threatening to consume you both.

You shake your head exhaling exasperatedly, frustrated at yourself for making him stand there, before pulling him in by the t-shirt sleeve.

"Come inside, Cay. That's first."

His breath leaves him in a rush of mostly relief as you tug him forward. He stumbles over the threshold, his large frame nearly vibrating with restraint, his movements jerky like he’s fighting his own body with every step. The door clicks shut behind him, sealing you both in the dim warmth of your apartment.

The second the lock engages, Caleb shudders. A full-body tremor wracks him, his tail flicking once, twice, before going rigid again. His ears twitch violently, rotating toward you like radar dishes locking onto a signal. His pupils are blown so wide his violet irises are nearly swallowed, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts. 

You take a step back, just to give him space, and he makes a noise—a low, wounded sound deep in his throat—before catching himself. His hands flex at his sides, claws pricking into his own palms.

“Sorry,” he grits out, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m—fuck—I’m trying. It’s just…” His voice drops to a whisper. “You smell so good.”

The admission sends a jolt through you. You’ve seen Caleb in every state—playful, sick, restrained, desperate—but never like this. Never hungry.

You swallow hard. “What… what do you need?” You think you know, but whether or not you dare is something else entirely. 

His eyes snap open, burning.

“You,” he says, and the way he does pulls your breath away.

The word hangs there, simple and devastating.

Then he’s moving and it's not the reckless, uncontrolled lunge you half-expected—no, Caleb crawls. He drops to his knees in front of you, his big hands hovering just above your hips, trembling with the effort of not touching. His head tilts back and up at you, exposing the strong line of his throat, the collar, the apple charm glinting in the low light. His ears are pinned back, his tail tucked tight, his entire body bowed in submission.

“Please,” he whispers. "Will you help me?"

Your heart flutters.

He isn't the same Caleb who carried you on his back, who laughed too loud, who wore your scowls like a badge of honor anymore.

But God help you—despite yourself, you want him.

You reach out, fingers brushing the warm shell of his ear. He jerks like he’s been shocked, a punched-out whine escaping him. His hands finally settle on your hips, grip feather-light, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he holds on too tight.

“My Caleb,” you murmur before it can be stopped.

His name from your lips like this is a spark to a match.

With a growl that vibrates through your bones, he surges forward, pressing his face against your stomach. His nose drags along your skin, inhaling deeply, his breath scorching even through your clothes. His damp arms wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him, his heat seeping into you through your clothes.

Your fingers curl slightly in his damp hair, feeling the heat rolling off him in waves. He’s trembling all over, a low, restless rumble vibrating against your stomach.

"Tell me to go," he murmurs again, the words strained, almost strangled. "If you don't want me like this... if you're… afraid..."

You look down at him—really look. At the man on his knees in front of you, his broad shoulders hunched, muscles taut with restraint, puppy ears pinned flat against his head in shame and need. The leather collar you gave him is damp and worn, the apple charm glinting faintly in the lamplight.

"I’m not afraid of you," you say softly.

Something in him falters, breaks. His hands on your hips tighten minutely, claws just barely grazing through your clothes before he forces them to still. His breath is a shuddering exhale that fans heat across your skin.

“Pips...” The sound of your old nickname in that rough, low voice nearly undoes you.

“Cay,” you whisper back. Your hand trails down to cup his flushed cheek, and you feel the way he leans into the touch with almost desperate relief.

The room feels smaller, hotter, like the air has thickened around you. You can feel his restraint fraying — not snapping yet, but the threads are stretched thin, pulsing.

When your thumb brushes over the corner of his mouth, his control slips another inch. His grip on your hips firms, pulling you a fraction closer, his head tilting until his nose brushes your shirt, dragging along the fabric as he inhales like he’s been drowning and you’re oxygen. 

Finally.

Your breath hitches, the words coming out your mouth faster than thought can study through them for risk.

“You’ve been holding on long enough,” you murmur.

His head jerks up, eyes blown wide, the violet almost eclipsed by black.

“Don’t—” His voice cracks. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

“I mean it.”

For one heartbeat, he’s frozen, then… the tension snaps.

The sound he makes is low and guttural, a growl laced with relief, need, and gratitude. His stands and his arms surge around you, crushing you to him, and the sheer heat of his body sears through your clothes. Your feet leave the ground for half a second before his arms grip you—gravity bowing to his need without his conscious control—before he steadies you again.

“God, I missed you,” he breathes, his forehead pressing hard against yours, the apple charm clinking faintly as it shifts. His tail gives a helpless, shuddering consistent wag, brushing your calf. 

He breathes against your lips.

“This is your last chance to tell me to go. Make me a stray. Stop me from ruining you.” His eyes dart across your face to your mouth. The hills of your soft parted lips.

“Will you kiss me?” You blurt it out, breathy and clumsily.

His breath is ragged, eyes wild and crazy with disbelief. 

A pause, then his face flushes further: “If it's bad tell me how to be better. I… haven't practiced—”

You laugh. A puff of breath.

“Let me boss you around like when we were kids. You just follow my lead,” You whisper, blinking away the sudden burn in your eyes before you pull him into you by the collar.

“Yes, ma'am.” He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing, lashes fluttering.

Your fingers curl into the leather at his throat, tugging him down just enough to close the breath between you. He comes willingly—too willingly—like the pull of your hand is the only gravity left in the world. His mouth meets yours in a clash of heat, the first brush tentative only because he’s terrified to hurt you, but already there’s a growl caught in his chest, vibrating into your lips.

He’s warm—no, hot—and the heat of him seeps into you instantly, flooding your skin where his hands finally stop hovering and close around your waist. The claws are careful, barely grazing as he molds you to him, but the tremor in his grip betrays just how close he is to losing it. His tail is a whipcord behind him, smacking once against your calf before curling in, the tension bleeding out in ragged bursts.

When you part for air, he doesn’t pull far. His forehead presses to your cheek, breath dragging in deep, shaking inhales.

“You smell different,” he mutters, but it’s praising, almost dizzy. “Older… sweeter… fuck, I can’t—” His nose traces along your jaw, the wet tips of his hair brushing your skin. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

“Show me,” you breathe.

He freezes. The weight of the words seems to lock his muscles, his hands tightening on your hips. You feel the ripple of restraint under your palms, a beast on the verge of breaking.

“Last chance,” he warns again, but his voice is ruined, shaking, his pupils swallowing the violet. His tail’s started a slow, involuntary wag, brushing the backs of your thighs as if betraying him.

You tug the collar just enough to feel the leather creak.

“Caleb. Show me.”

The sound he makes at your command is guttural, almost a snarl, but it’s not anger—it’s the noise of something that’s been caged too long finally given permission to run. In one smooth surge he’s walking you backward until the back of your knees hit the couch, lowering you down without once breaking contact. His hands map you as though re-memorizing territory—over your sides, down your thighs, thumbs brushing in just enough to make your breath hitch.

The heat pouring off him is nearly unbearable this close. His chest is a furnace under the damp cling of his shirt, the hard lines of his body vibrating with instinct. He lowers over you until his nose is pressed just beneath your ear, inhaling so deeply it feels like he’s trying to pull you inside him.

“You’re mine,” he growls against your throat, though it comes out half a whine. “Smelled you the second the door opened. Don’t care about anything else. Just you. Always you. I need you to forgive me.” His lips graze the tendon in your neck and your whole body shivers

“I do.”

One of his ears flicks against your temple, the soft fur a stark contrast to the scrape of his stubble. His tail is restless now, wagging and curling, brushing the cushions as though trying to cage you in. His hips lower, the solid heat of him pressing between your thighs through the thin barrier of denim.

When you arch up into him, his breath stutters.

“Don’t—” he warns, but it’s helpless, his claws digging just enough into your sides to keep you still. “If I start, I… I won’t stop ‘til you’re marked.”

"Okay." That's all you say.

And the word hangs in the air between you, small and soft, then just a fast as it's registered, it detonates inside of him.

Caleb’s pupils dilate until the violet is nothing but a thin ring, his breath stuttering like a man trying to hold himself together in an earthquake. The growl that builds in his chest is low, deep, almost reverent. He presses his forehead hard against yours, heat pouring off him like a furnace, and you can feel the tremor in his hands where they grip your hips.

“You have no idea what you just gave me,” he practically gasps, voice thick and almost breaking on the edges.

Then he moves slowly, with care, and with the unstoppable certainty of someone stepping into a moment they’ve replayed in their head for years. He leans back just far enough to look at you, drinking in your face like it’s a luxury he’s afraid to blink away.

One big, trembling hand leaves your hip to grip the hem of his damp t-shirt. He peels it off slowly, the fabric sticking to the heat of his skin, revealing hard lines cut deeper than you remember. You take in his broad chest, shoulders that look built to block out the world—carry it, even—every muscle standing taut under flushed, feverish skin.

The collar is still there, the leather darker from rain, the apple charm on it clicking against the dogtag, catching the light with every subtle move. His tail twitches once, betraying him, before it curls low again.

He sees your eyes on him and something in him softens and tightens all at once.

“This… right now… is everything my old self prayed for,” he admits, the confession almost a growl. “Back then, I wanted this so bad I thought I’d die from it. Now—”

He inhales sharply, ears twitching as if trying to catch every beat of your pulse. His gaze flicks lower, then back to your eyes. “Now I can smell everything you’ve been through. Who touched you. Who you let close.”

His jaw flexes, a dangerous heat under his voice.

“You weren’t alone all those years.”

It's not an accusation, you don't think so. You can hear just a deep, possessive ache, like he’s mourning the time he wasn’t allowed to be there.

Your breath stumbles... the look in his eyes hurts. .

“Caleb… I—”

He shakes his head once, cutting you off without malice, his hands finding your waist again.

“Don’t explain. I don’t need to hear it. I already know...I'm glad you didn't freeze yourself here. I just—” His voice drops to a whisper. “I’m here now. And I’m never letting anyone else put their hands on you again.”

His mouth finds your jaw, the scrape of stubble dragging heat across your skin. He kisses slow, deliberate, each press of lips and teeth is a hot reclamation. His hands roam, hot and unhurried, sliding up your sides beneath your shirt, fingertips grazing ribs, thumbs sweeping under the swell of your breasts before retreating like he’s savoring the denial almost as much as the touch.

When you shiver, his growl deepens. “Cold? I can—”

“No,” you breathe, and his answering sound is nothing but satisfied hunger.

“Ah.~ Okay. Good, then.”

He pulls your shirt over your head with deliberate slowness, eyes locked on you like he’s half afraid you’ll run away. The way he looks at you—half worship, half ownership—makes your skin feel too tight.

His palms flatten against your stomach, sliding up, up, until they cradle the weight of your breasts. His thumbs drag over your nipples through the thin fabric of your bra, and your back arches before you can stop it. His ears flick forward, tail twitching again at your response, and the smirk that ghosts over his lips is for a minute the Caleb you knew—cocky, but for you alone.

“God, I’ve missed spending time with you,” he murmurs, leaning in to press his mouth to the side of your neck, just beneath your ear. “Missed you.” His tongue grazes your pulse point and you feel his teeth press, testing. “You’re warm here. Even to me. Sweet. Perfect.”

You thread your fingers into his damp hair and tug to pull him closer. He groans, low and rough, pressing his hips into yours so you can feel exactly what years of wanting you has done to him.

“Caleb—”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his own dark and desperate. “Tell me to keep going?” Finally not to stop. 

“Keep going.”

He exhales like he had his breath held. His hands drop to your jeans, unfastening them with quick, easy movements, deft fingers, like the time he helped you out of your jeans when you were on your period. He’s pushing them down over your hips before you can catch your breath. 

He pulls your jeans and panties down with one finger hooked in the waistband, and he sound of fabric scraping over your thighs is drowned beneath the roughness of his breathing. His nose skims the newly bared skin of your hipbone, inhaling deeply like he’s been starved for this scent. The scent of you.

Caleb sinks lower, big hands settling on the outside of your thighs, his thumbs sweeping along the sensitive crease where leg meets hip. His eyes track the slow reveal of your skin like it’s the first time he’s ever seen daylight. He presses his face in, nose brushing over the inside of your thigh, drawing in a long, shaking breath that ends in a low groan.

“God… this—” His voice catches, and he shakes his head, pressing another inhale against the other thigh. “I’ve dreamed about this exact moment for years. Same floor under my knees. Same air in my lungs. Same you.” 

His grip tightens, and you feel the faint prick of claws before he forces them to retract. 

He shakes his head. Water droplets falling over your chest from his hair. "Sorry."

Your legs want to tremble, but he’s holding them firm, spreading you just enough that the heat of his breath spills higher. His tail gives two hard, involuntary lashes behind him, the tip brushing your ankle.

When he looks up at you from between your thighs, it’s almost too much—violet eyes nearly swallowed by black, jaw tight with restraint, hair damp and falling into his face.

“I can smell them,” he says, the words thick and low. “Every one you’ve ever let close. But they’re faded. Fading.” His hands push higher along your thighs, spreading you another inch. “By the time I’m done, the only scent left on you will be mine.”

The vow stands in the air between you.

He leans in, his mouth brushing just to the side of where you need him most, lips warm, tongue flicking once over the delicate skin before pulling back just enough to make your breath hitch. His ears twitch forward at the sound, tail curling low.

“Yeah… that’s what I want to hear. I'll know you missed me, even when you settled for less than me.”

When his mouth finally closes over you, it’s with a hunger barely leashed. His tongue works slow at first, deliberate, savoring the way you tense and gasp. His hands keep your hips pinned when you instinctively try to move, and the rumble of his growl travels straight through you.

He’s methodical—mapping every reaction, testing pressure and pace until he finds the spot that makes your head drop back.

“There,” he murmurs against you, heat and vibration rolling over sensitive nerves. “Knew it.”

You tug at his hair and he groans, the sound spilling into you as his movements quicken, precision giving way to the deep, steady rhythm of a man losing his patience. His grip on your thighs tightens until you feel the ache in your bones, but it’s grounding, not hurting—like he’s holding you in place for his own sanity (and yours.)

When you shudder under him, he lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes, mouth wet, chin slick, his expression a mix of adoration and absolute possession.

“I’m not stopping until you come on my tongue,” he says, voice hoarse but sure. "I need to know how it tastes."

And then he’s back on you, relentless now, tail wagging in short, sharp bursts he doesn’t seem to notice. Every stroke of his tongue is matched by a muffled growl or a desperate exhale, like each reaction you give him is feeding something primal that’s been starving for years.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders, nails biting into hot skin, and he shivers—actually shivers—under your touch. The sound he makes is wrecked, and he presses harder, deeper, until the world narrows to heat, his mouth, his hands, his voice urging you through it.

When you break, it’s sharp and overwhelming, your thighs clamping around his head, and he doesn’t pull away. He rides it with you, groaning against you, drawing it out until you’re trembling in his hands.

Only then does he lift his head, licking his lips slow, eyes burning into yours.

“That’s one,” he murmurs, standing and hauling you against his chest like you weigh nothing. “I’m not done yet.”

He’s already walking you backward toward the couch, his body a wall of heat, the collar warm against your collarbone when he lowers you down. His gaze drags over you—bare, flushed, still catching your breath—like he’s memorizing the sight of you to carry with him forever.

When he reaches for his belt, his voice drops to something dark and sure. “You’re going to give me everything I missed. Every year. Every day. All of it—tonight.”

You’re still catching your breath when he settles between your knees, his belt already loose, the heavy fall of his hair shadowing his face. He looks down at you like you’re the only thing keeping him on this planet. Like you're the only thing on the whole planet.

“I want to help you not hurt anymore,” you whisper, voice trembling but sure. Your hands come up to his chest, the heat of him radiating into your palms. “Please.”

Something flickers in his eyes—raw, aching need tangled with something deeper, older. His chest rises and falls in a sharp, uneven rhythm, and then his mouth curves into a small, pained smile, like he can’t believe you just said that.

“You can,” he murmurs. “You’re the only one who can.”

He unbuttons the rest with slow, exact movements, each motion heavy with intent. The denim slides down over his hips, and your eyes widen instinctively. You’ve been with men before, but nothing—nothing—like him. He’s thick, long, the flushed head heavy and dripping already, the base swelling into a knot that looks impossibly large for you to take.

Your lips part, but words don’t come. He notices—of course he notices—and his tail gives one slow, involuntary sway before curling tight again.

“Not what you’re used to,” he says softly, not boasting, just stating a fact. “I can smell them on you, faint… but nothing like me. You’ve never had anyone built to fit you the way I am.”

Your stomach twists at his tone—it’s possessive, and yet... it’s also worshipful, as if this moment is the result of every year he’s been denied.

He kneels over you, one arm braced on the couch cushion by your head, the other hand curling around his shaft. He strokes himself slowly, the movement dragging your gaze, the sight almost too much to take in. The knot swells faintly under his touch, and he watches your face for every micro-expression, his pupils huge.

“I’ll go slow,” he says, though his voice has a dangerous edge to it. “But I need you to feel all of me. Need you to take me.”

Your breath stutters when the blunt, heated tip presses against you. He’s warm—almost hot enough to burn—and slick enough that he slides against your entrance easily, teasing you without pushing in. His eyes flick up to meet yours.

“Last chance to tell me no.”

“Nice try, dummy, I’m not saying no,” you breathe, trying to calm yourself by teasing him as if it could ever be like before. Now that he's returned like this his hybrid body racked with need for you. He laughs. Shaking his head and smiling.

"We'll see who's dumb after I've burned all my heat into you, alright?" He says this whole looking at you with a cocked head as if daring you, his cock glistening with precum in his fist. When you flush and look away he smiles like he won.

"Breathe for me."

And the room spins.

The first push is overwhelming, stretching you wide, the pressure intense but intoxicating. His jaw is tight, a low growl vibrating in his chest as he watches himself sink into you inch by inch.

“Hah...So tight,” he mutters, almost to himself, his free hand gripping your thigh to keep you open for him.

“God, Pips… you’re perfect.”

You clutch at his shoulders, nails biting into his hot skin, trying to relax as he works deeper.

Every inch feels like it burns you from the inside. It doesn't hurt so much as it stretches you. You're soaking wet and subconsciously coaxing him into you. Moaning mingled into your breaths. By the time he bottoms out... at least up to the knot, it rests against you, pulsing faintly, too large to fit just yet. He’s breathing hard above you, sweat slicking the line of his throat beneath the collar.

He doesn’t move right away, letting you adjust, his thumb brushing circles on your hip.

“You feel that?” he whispers, pressing his forehead to yours. “That’s me. Every part of me. No one else has ever been this deep in you.”

You nod, unable to speak, the fullness almost dizzying.

His hips shift slightly, just enough to make you gasp, and he groans low and long, tail lashing once behind him. 

“We’ll work up to the knot,” he promises, voice dark but soft with intent. “When I lock inside you… you’ll know you’re mine.”

And then he begins to move—slow at first, savoring every inch, every shiver that runs through you, every sound you make, years of need poured into every thrust, his body caging yours.

His relief is almost palpable—rolling off him in deep, shuddering breaths that puff hot against your cheek. Each thrust is heavy, controlled, his body moving like it’s been programmed for this, for you.

The heat in him is blinding, the tension that’s been coiled inside finally unraveling with every wet, obscene slide of his cock through your cunt.

But it’s more than just relief—it’s you. The way your nails drag across his back, the way your breath hitches each time he bottoms out, the way your scent has changed around him in minutes, blooming richer, sweeter, feeding some primal instinct that he’s been starving for years.

He buries his face against your neck, inhaling deep between growls. 

“God… I’ve needed this. Needed you. Barely imagined I would come back to this.”

You moan into his ear, your voice trembling but desperate. The sound goes straight through him, making his hips stutter. He pulls back just far enough to watch himself slide into you again, the sight almost undoing him completely.

“You feel so fucking good,” he rasps, eyes flicking to your face, needing to see every reaction. “And I’m not even… not even knotted yet.”

The thought alone makes your pulse jump, your walls clenching around him in anticipation. His eyes darken even further, a shiver running down his spine as the tight squeeze drags a guttural groan from his chest.

"Caleb..." Your voice is breathy almost like a plea. For what? You don't know right now. More of him. Of this. You wonder if it's even real. Could you dream something like this anyways?

“Pips…” He swallows hard, his thrusts growing a fraction deeper, testing the stretch. “When I do… when I lock inside you… you won’t be able to think about anything else. You’ll feel me for hours.”

You can barely answer, your moans breaking into his mouth as he kisses you hungrily, hips pushing forward with more insistence now, a harder and quicker pace, the wet slap of skin filling the room. Each movement grinds the thick swell of his knot against your entrance, and the pressure makes you dizzy.

A choked sound sputters from your lips as he hits your g-spot, the sweet sensation brutal with the intense waves of sharp pleasure pulsing through you. He strokes into you, hitting that same spot over and over, groaning at the sounds you make in his ear. 

“Close?” he murmurs against your lips, the question more a command than anything. 

“I can feel you. Gripping me. And...You're even drooling a little, pretty baby,” he whispers roughly, sending shockwaves straight to where he speaks of. 

Pretty baby.

You blush. Red hot.

You gasp as he wipes the spit from the corner of your lips before sucking his thumb, releasing it from his mouth with a loud pop, and placing the warm pad of the fingertip to your clit. He circles the overstimulated bundle of nerves as he pumps his cock into you, causing you to arch, feeling yourself attempt to squirm away from the warm feeling coming to a crest, your vision spotting.

"Fuck—!" You moan as he tries to coax your orgasm from your clenching cunt. A few small whimpers escape Caleb too when your walls close even tighter, milking him without even realizing, as he tries to unspool your pleasure.

When the air around you grows heavy and you suddenly can't squirm through the pleasure, you know why.

He pulls out almost fully, coated in slick he earned from you, just to slam back in. He does this again. And again.  Over and over until your sounds are so lewd they sound pornographic. The pleasure building and you're so close.

"C-caleb... fuck... your... evol." You gasp out. 

"Be a good girl and come on my cock and I'll be a good boy stop using my evol, okay? Give me what I earned, pips. Come on me... please..."

The way he says it—like he’s entitled to it, like it belongs to him, like he needs it to live—pushes you right to the edge. You cry out into his mouth, clinging to him as pleasure rips through you, your cunt squeezing him so hard his breath catches.

He groans, long and low, hips rutting into the aftershocks, chasing his own breaking point.

“Yeah… just like that. I’m right there… I’m going to give you everything, soon. T' thank you... for... helping me.”

Your body is still quaking when his rhythm turns ragged, the deep, rolling thrusts shortening into desperate, grinding pushes. His forehead presses to yours, his breath hot and frantic, violet eyes gone almost fully black.

“Pips… I can’t hold it anymore,” he pants, hips bucking harder, the thick swell of his knot battering at your entrance with each push. Every time, you feel it stretch you a little more, coaxing your body to open for him. He’s watching your face, every flicker of pleasure, every gasp, like they’re the only cues that matter.

“Let me—” his voice breaks into a growl. 

“Mmph..." Then whinier...

"—let me in all the way. Please.”

You nod, barely coherent, and that’s all the confirmation he needs. He draws back just enough to slam forward with one deep, claiming thrust, the swollen knot forcing past your tight resistance in a slow, burning stretch. It’s overwhelming, almost too much—and then it’s there, locked, the sudden fullness making you cry out. Pain-pleasure wires crossed.

Caleb groans like he’s been freed from containment, his whole body trembling above you. His claws dig into the cushion by your head, his tail thumping erratically behind him as his hips grind against yours in short, shallow ruts. 

“Oh… God, yes… I'm... yours... but—fuck—you're mine now.”

The heat of him is unbearable, his cock pulsing inside you as the knot swells to its full size, sealing you around him. And then you feel it—the first hot rush of him spilling deep, flooding you in thick, heavy waves that make you moan into his mouth.

He bites down gently at the junction of your neck and shoulder, not breaking skin, just holding you there while he pours every drop into you. 

“Please...Take it… take all of it,” he groans, his voice low and broken with heavenly pleasure, shuddering as another pulse forces more of his release into you.

Your body reacts on instinct, clenching greedily around him, milking every drop. 

"Feels so good… it hurts…" You manage to breathe/whine, and his breath stutters at the sensation, a shaky laugh breaking through his panting. 

“Feels too good—fuck—been dreaming about this since before I even knew what heat was,” he groans into your cheek.

You cradle his face, guiding him to kiss you, slow and deep, while his hips twitch involuntarily, grinding him even tighter against you. His tail finally stills, curling loosely across the back of your thigh like he’s tying himself to you physically.

The knot throbs inside you, every small movement sending sparks through your oversensitive body. He doesn’t pull back—he can’t—and he doesn’t want to.

“We’re not done,” he murmurs against your lips, still catching his breath.

You can feel every beat of his cock inside you, the knot stretching you so wide you’re not sure where the edge of pleasure and pain even is anymore. The seal of him is unyielding, pulsing, and every faint throb pushes more of his heat-drunk hardness against places deep inside you that no one’s ever reached.

He kisses you like he’s trying to drink you in, his mouth hot and desperate, swallowing every shaky breath you give him. When he pulls back, his lips are wet and red, his voice shredded.

“Pips... Please...don’t make me stop,” he begs, his forehead pressing hard to yours. His hips twitch forward, shallow but deep in a way that makes you gasp, your hands curling into the solid muscle of his shoulders. 

"I’m still burning. God, I’m still so hard. I need to give you more… all of it. Let me fix this... with you and I promise I'll do everything. You won't lift a finger. I'll treat you like a princess. Make up for every day I couldn't. For... fucking you like this..."

You quiet him by pulling him into another kiss, greedy and in need of the softness to contrast the hard length piercing through you. When you pull off of him, your words come out broken. 

“You’re already… so full inside me… Caleb—”

He groans at the sound of his name in your voice, hips grinding tighter. The motion forces the knot to tug against you from the inside, a flare of near-pain that instantly melts into dizzying pleasure, and you moan so loud it makes his ears flick.

“Tell me more,” he growls. “Talk to me—tell me what I’m doing to you."

You try to breathe through it, your nails dragging down his back.

“You’re stretching me so much… I can feel everything… your cock’s so thick—so deep—And the… knot—Caleb, it’s too much but I can’t—” You choke on your own voice when he pushes harder, rutting like he can bury himself further despite the knot locking you together.

His breath is ragged, every thrust a little rougher now, rocking you into the couch cushions, making both your slick and his cum from moments before spill around the seal of his knot as it nearly pops out of you. You feel it—hot, thick, leaking out from the last release only to be pushed back in by the relentless press of him. It’s filthy and perfect, the sensation of him breeding you over and over without ever leaving your body.

He bites your jaw, murmuring against your skin.

“You’re taking me so well. I can feel you milking me—God, you want more, don’t you?” His voice is ruined with need, almost a whine now. “Let me give it to you. Let me fuck you through this until I burn it all out.”

The heat radiating from him is suffocating, his muscles flexing around you like steel every time he drives forward. The pressure of the knot shifts, dragging against you from the inside with every rutting grind, and the mix of too-full, too-hot, too-good makes your vision swim.

Your hands fist in his damp hair, dragging him into another kiss, and your voice breaks between panting breaths.

"Don’t stop...”

He groans into your mouth, the sound raw and wrecked, his hips moving faster now despite the lock.

“Then take it—take every drop—don’t you dare let me go until I’m empty.”

He shifts suddenly, his grip under your thighs lifting you with ease despite the knot anchoring you together. The movement pulls a startled cry from your throat—half shock, half the overwhelming sensation of him dragging you with his body still locked inside.

“Up,” he murmurs, his voice thick with heat, “I want to see you.”

You barely have time to process before he’s maneuvered you, laying back against the armrest with your hips tilted up toward him. He stays buried, knot pressing deep, his hands splayed over your waist as if he’s afraid you might slip away if he loosens his hold. The new angle sends him even deeper somehow, the broad head of his cock nudging something so sensitive you jolt under him.

He smirks down at you, a flash of that old Caleb buried under all the hunger.

“God, you’re making those little sounds again,” he teases, rocking his hips in a slow grind that drags every inch of him against your slick, swollen walls.

“I’ve wanted those. Thought about them every night.”

Your attempted response comes out as a whimper when his knot shifts inside you, the bulge pressing up into your belly. He glances down, eyes widening slightly, and then his grin turns wicked. One big palm slides over your lower stomach, pressing lightly until you both feel the firm swell move under your skin.

“Feel that?” His voice is a rasp, almost aching. “That’s me. All the way in you, so deep I can touch you here.” 

He gives a gentle push and you gasp, the sensation so intense it’s almost unbearable. “Fuck, you’re perfect like this… stuffed full and still asking for more.”

Your hands clutch at the couch cushions, knuckles white as he starts to move again—short, hungry thrusts that keep the knot tugging against you from the inside while the rest of him grinds into you with maddening precision. The wet slap of your bodies meeting fills the room, punctuated by your breathless cries and his low, broken groans.

“Gonna give you more,” he pants, bending down to kiss you, his tongue sliding into your mouth like he’s claiming that too. “You’ll feel it for hours. You’ll walk tomorrow and still know I was here.”

The heat builds fast again, every movement pressing that bulge in your stomach tighter against his palm until you’re moaning into his mouth, your body trembling under the constant, unrelenting fullness.

He breaks the kiss to whisper against your lips, “Come with me, Pips. Milk me again. I want to feel you squeeze it out of me.”

You’re already close, the combination of too much and not enough winding you up until the knot pulses inside you and sends you over the edge. You cry out, overstimulated but in heaven still. Your walls flutter around him, and his entire body locks.

His head drops to your shoulder with a guttural groan as another hot rush floods into you, thick and heavy, filling every space until it’s leaking past the seal of his knot.

He keeps moving even as he spills, rutting through the release, the sensation so raw and overstimulating it makes you shake.

“That’s it,” he breathes, almost deliriously, “take all of it—don’t let me stop—let me give you every drop.”

His fingers slide possessively over your hips, thumbs pressing into your skin as if anchoring you. “Still so warm,” he murmurs against your neck, voice a wrecked rasp. “Still holding me.”

You swallow hard, your body too sensitive to even shift without feeling the thick press of him everywhere.

“You’re not exactly letting me go,” you manage, the words breaking on a shiver when his knot swells faintly again, locking you even tighter.

He huffs a breath that might be a laugh.

“No... no, not—not yet. Not when I’ve still got more to give you.” He tilts his head, nose brushing the damp line of your throat, breathing you in like it’s the only thing cooling the burn in his blood. “You don’t *get* it, Pips… I’ve been holding this back for *years*...”

Your stomach flips at the low, certain way he says it. His tail shifts lazily over your thigh, a stark contrast to the twitch in his hips that grinds his knot against you from the inside. It makes you gasp, and his ears twitch forward at the sound like it’s fuel.

“You like that,” he says softly, almost smug. “Even when you’re full, you still want me to move.”

You’re not sure if it’s the truth or his heat speaking for you, but you nod anyway. There's nothing else. His eyes darken, and his grip tightens.

“Then we’ll stay like this,” he decides, the words more vow than suggestion. “’Til you’re too tired to say my name. ’Til you smell like nothing but me.”

☆☆☆☆☆

You lose track of how many times you are bred by Caleb’s insistent cock.

The hours blur into heat and muscle and the steady, relentless rhythm of him claiming you, stopping only long enough to drink water, to kiss the damp hair from your face, to murmur that you’re still his, still perfect, still taking him so well. His body never cools, only shifts from feverish to molten, each new knotting stretching the ache in you a little further. Somewhere between the third and the fourth time you come apart around him, you stop counting entirely, lost in the dizzy haze of sweat and breath and the constant, intoxicating weight of him inside you.

When it finally breaks—when the heat in his body ebbs enough for him to slow—your world is reduced to the throb between your legs and the heavy, protective sprawl of his body over yours. The room smells thick of sex, skin, and the wild, almost sweet edge of his scent marking every inch of air. It clings to you, seeps into your hair, your skin, the couch beneath you.

He lifts himself just enough to look down at you, his eyes heavy-lidded but soft, the worst of the frantic edge bled out of him. His tail hangs loose and still, curling against your hip like it’s reluctant to let go.

“Pipsqueak… baby...” His voice is rough but no longer strained, a low rumble that vibrates through your chest. “You’re sore.”

You try to smile, but it’s more a faint twitch of your lips.

“You’re… observant.”

The corner of his mouth curves in something too tender to be a smirk. He eases out of you slowly, every inch a stretch that makes your breath catch, until you feel the final tug of his softened knot slipping free. His hand is there instantly, cupping between your thighs, holding you closed as if to keep the mess from spilling out. “Easy, tiger,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You’re gonna be tender for days.”

The ache is deep and constant, but his touch is gentle now, a stark contrast to the brutal need that drove him hours before. He shifts you into his lap, wrapping you in one of the blankets from the back of the couch, his slightly lessened body heat now a comfort instead of a burn.

The apartment is quiet except for the sound of rain outside and your uneven breaths. He smells like sex, sweat, and you—so much you that you’re almost dizzy from it. His lips find your hairline, lingering there like he’s memorizing the way you feel in his arms when there’s finally nothing left to fight.

“You’re mine,” he whispers, softer this time than any time before. You kiss his collar, cool leather against your lips, as if to say, ‘and you're mine’.

☆☆☆☆☆

The days after blur, not from exhaustion alone, but from the strange unreality of living beside him again.

The first morning you wake without the fever of his body pressing into yours, every muscle protests. You ache in ways that go deeper than your skin. Your hips are sore, your thighs tremble when you stand, your core is heavy and raw from the constant, unyielding lock of him. Even so, the soreness hides something else: a deep, quiet satisfaction that’s almost shameful to admit to yourself.

Caleb moves through your apartment like he’s been here the whole time you were apart, barefoot and shirtless, padding to the kitchen to bring you water before you can even ask. He fusses like a man who’s finally been given something back he thought he’d lost forever and refuses to risk it. A loyal puppy. A caretaker. Your Sweet Caleb. 

He checks your temperature, runs a bath and insists on lowering you into it himself, kneeling on the floor beside the tub so he can rinse your hair. The rough calluses on his hands are at odds with the way he handles you, careful like you’re porcelain.

In quiet moments, the reality sinks in.

The part of you that learned to live without him, building routines around absence and keeping your heart busy with small, safe things, is confused by the constant presence of him again after so long. It startles you when he’s there every time you turn around, when he's not letting you do things for yourself, when your meals are made daily, and the rhythm of his breathing replaces the near-silent, low hum of the apartment as the sound you fall asleep to.

You think about the facility and the years he was tracked and monitored… caged and used. Sometimes you catch it in him, even now—the way his eyes flick to the door at certain noises, the way he seems to catalog the room’s exits without thinking. There’s a part of him that is always watching for the next hand to drag him away.

And then there’s you. A part of you is afraid to ask if he’s staying because the answer feels too heavy to hold if it isn’t the one you want. Even though you know: he wouldn't leave if he had any choice. Ever.

One evening, a week and a half after the rain-soaked night he knocked on your door, you find him sitting on the floor beside your couch, back against the cushions, head tipped back so his throat is bare and the leather collar rests loose against his skin. His tail swishes slow over the carpet, eyes half-lidded as he watches the ceiling like he’s trying to make sense of something.

“You’re quiet,” you say softly.

He turns his head toward you, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “Just… realizing I don’t have to count days anymore.”

Your chest tightens and your heart soars at once. His birthday is coming. Just a few days left. You'll spend it with him for the first time since that horrid day. And after that, more time. A gift you wished for religiously before.

You’ll both have to relearn each other, figure out what life looks like now that “before” and “after” are finally colliding. If he is really staying… he’ll have to remember how to exist without a cage, without the constant hum of someone else’s control. You’ll have to relearn how to let someone fill your space without fearing their disappearance.

But for now, you let yourself believe him. Just a little. Gambling hope is like your favorite old habit, and with him here. You can't help but play at the odds for your hope answered again.

He’s here. He found his way to you. To home.

So, for him, and for you too, there's no need for counting anymore now that you're together at last, unless you were to tally the days since he showed up dripping on your doorstep.

Which you do.

you shake your head, cheeks flushing. he swallows hard, already undone by you.

he leans in, lips capturing yours in a slow, lazy kiss like he’s memorizing every curve, every inch of you all over again. it deepens, tongue teasing yours softly, teeth gently nipping at your bottom lip. his hand dips between your thighs, pressing over you, feeling the heat of you. you gasp, arching instinctively, and he hums against your mouth.

“so warm,” caleb murmurs. “she missed me, too?”

you nod, a small, needy jerk of your head, and he smiles against your mouth like he already knew. his fingers ease in, two thick ones stretching you slow until you gasp. the heel of his hand works against your clit while his other arm wraps around your waist, pulling you up and into his chest so your whole body rocks with the movement.

it’s not enough for him. not after the day he’s had, not after spending every hour thinking about you. his hand slips away just long enough to shove his sweats and boxers down, the warm weight of him falling heavy against your thigh. you barely have time to brace yourself before the blunt head is nudging your slit, hot and leaking from how soft and pretty you are for him.

he drags his cock over your clit in one slow pass that makes your knees buckle, then pushes in, deep, steady, your walls straining around him. it doesn’t matter how many years it’s been, how many times he’s been inside you—he’s still so big it steals your breath, stretches you wide until your nails bite into his shoulders.

hips flush together, his breath hot against your ear, he gasps, “shit. still so tight. how’s that possible?” he groans, holding still for a moment just to feel you clench around him. “spent months opening you up for me. look at her, hugging me so tight.”

the first few thrusts are deep and unhurried, like he’s got all night to ruin you. one hand cups the back of your head so your forehead rests against his, the other spreads over your lower belly to feel the way he’s pressing into you from the inside.

your breath stutters, warm against his lips. “caleb,” you whimper, "more, please, i—”

you shift, hips bucking in tiny, desperate movements, chasing the drag of his cock. he groans, low in his chest, catching your mouth in a deeper kiss. “mm—yeah, that’s it. pretty girl knows what she wants.”

he keeps the pace steady, pressing into you slow and sure, filling you completely each time. his eyes stay on yours, drinking in every twitch, every tremor, every sound you make. your head tips back when his thumb drifts between where you’re connected, brushing over your clit in time with his thrusts. you gasp, legs trembling, and he catches your jaw in his palm, bringing your gaze back to his.

his voice drops to a rasp, breath warm against your lips. “keep your eyes on me, sweets. let me see you,” his thumb moves in lazy little circles, each one making your chest heave harder.

you try to keep them open, you really do, but the heat’s coiling tight in your belly and his cock’s hitting so deep, slow, so deliberate you can’t think. his free hand grips your thigh and presses it open wider, like he needs more of you, all of you.

“been thinkin’ about this all damn day,” he mutters, thrusting just right to hit that sweet spot inside you. “missed my girl, all soft and sweet for me.”

his eyes burn into yours, so close you can feel the way his breath stutters when you clench around him. you’re right there, the pleasure building until your nails are dragging down his biceps, your hips rocking helplessly into every thrust.

“that’s it,” he coaxes. “you’re right there, pips. you can do it, can’t you?”

your breath catches, the pressure snapping all at once, and you break with a choked cry, clinging to him like you’ll fall apart without him holding you together. your thighs shake around his hips, every muscle tightening as wave after wave rolls through you.

“fuck, don’t squeeze me like that,” he groans, his rhythm stuttering as your walls milk him. his forehead drops to yours, jaw tight, eyes half-lidded. “gonna—shit—”

his hips slam deep one last time, warmth spilling into you as he lets out a shuddering moan. for a moment, neither of you move. just the sound of your breathing, the thud of his heartbeat pressed against your chest fill the otherwise quiet bedroom. he kisses you slow, lingering, like he can pour every ounce of his adoration into it.

he brushes your hair from your face before easing out of you, careful, gentle. he disappears for a second, then comes back with a warm cloth, murmuring quiet praises while he cleans you up. “did so good, pips. love you so much.”

he tugs the blankets up around you, slipping in beside you and pulling you against his chest. his hand rubs lazy circles into your back, lips pressing over your temple one last time. the steady rise and fall of his chest, his warmth, his heartbeat, the quiet promise in the way he holds you like you’re the only thing that’s ever truly been his lulls you to sleep.

You didn’t respond. Just looked up at him slowly, and tilted your head.

He blinked. “...Are you okay?”

You stood without a word and walked over. He smelled like antiseptic and his cologne, sharp and warm. You slid your hands up beneath his shirt, fingers brushing the taut lines of his stomach. He stilled.

“Missed you,” you said simply.

His brow knit. “I know. I’m sorry. Things ran longer than expected—”

You cut him off with a kiss. Not a sweet one. A slow, intentional press of mouth to mouth, your hands slipping down to his waistband. He groaned quietly against your lips, but when you started sinking to your knees, he caught your arm.

“Wait—what are you…?”

“Shhh,” you whispered, and smiled up at him. “Let me.”

He hesitated. You rarely did this, not like this, not without him orchestrating every move. He always took care of you first — insistent, focused — to the point where he’d deflect the moment your hands even flirted with his belt. But tonight, something in your gaze must’ve made him yield. His hand dropped away.

“All right,” he said quietly. “But only because you look like you're about to combust.”

You laughed softly and undid his fly.

He hissed in a breath when you freed him, already half-hard from your kiss alone. You curled your fingers around him, slow and warm, and gave the first teasing stroke. He braced one hand against the wall behind him, chest rising subtly beneath his shirt.

“Darling…” he murmured, breath catching.

You took your time, drawing pleasure from his every reaction. He didn’t moan — not Zayne. But he made these low, delicious sounds in his throat, and occasionally muttered soft curses under his breath. You watched him carefully, timing each stroke to build him up slowly, too slowly, backing off every time he started to roll his hips or tip his head back.

His eyes opened, sharp and narrowed.

“…You’re teasing me,” he said flatly.

You smiled innocently, thumb dragging over the leaking tip. “Maybe.”

He exhaled through his nose. “You’ve never done this before.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” he said, without hesitation. “I Just… didn’t expect to be punished right after my shift.”

“I missed you.” You pressed a kiss just above his hip. “This is what you get for being gone so long.”

His knuckles flexed against the wall. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

You kept going. Slower this time, gentler, even more patient — your mouth brushing the head of his cock, but not taking him in, not yet. He hissed through his teeth, shoulders tense, control starting to fray around the edges.

“Darling,” he rasped. “You don’t have to—fuck—”

“Say it,” you teased. “Say you missed me.”

“I did.” His voice cracked with a note of real heat. “I missed you every minute. I’ll prove it—after.”

“Promise?”

He nodded, eyes blown wide, chest heaving. “I’ll return the favor. Thoroughly.”

You finally took him into your mouth.

The curse he let out was nearly a growl — deep and wrecked — his fingers tightening at his sides. You kept the same rhythm with your hand while your mouth worked the rest of him, letting him fall apart slowly, savoring every twitch and shudder. He didn’t beg, didn’t whimper. But he shook slightly by the end, jaw clenched, voice frayed.

He came with a low, wrecked sound, spilling over your hand and your lips, breath stuttering like he hadn’t meant to lose it that hard.

You looked up through your lashes, licking your thumb clean.

Zayne looked down at you with something like reverence and hunger all wrapped into one.

“…Get on the couch,” he said calmly, even as his voice shook. “I’m not letting you sleep until you forget your own name.”

xavier. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ .

You don’t even know why it bothered you.

It wasn’t him.

Xavier was polite. Distant. Soft-spoken. He barely even looked at her.

But the girl wouldn’t stop touching his sleeve, leaning into his space, laughing like she’d earned something. And he — sweet, oblivious Xavier — just nodded along, clearly not catching a thing.

So now, here you are.

Straddling him. Riding him. Slow.

Xavier is spread out beneath you, flushed pink all the way down his chest, arms tense where he’s gripping the sheets instead of you, because you told him not to touch. Not yet.

He’d let you do anything, and it shows — the way his hips jerk every time you roll down just enough to tighten around him. His breath stutters. His lips part, eyes fluttering half-shut, then snapping open to find yours again.

“Starlight,” he pants, “you’re going slow on purpose.”

You tilt your head. “Is that a problem?”

His throat bobs. “No,” he whispers. “Just… didn’t know I did something wrong.”

You lean in, mouth brushing against the shell of his ear. “You didn’t.”

“Then—?”

“You let her touch you,” you say, soft. Controlled. “She thought she had a chance.”

There’s a flicker of realization in his face. Then regret. Then—

“Oh.” His voice is barely there. “I didn’t notice. I swear, I didn’t—”

“I know,” you murmur, kissing the corner of his mouth. “You never do.”

He exhales like he’s relieved — only to inhale sharp when you grind down again, slow and deep, his cock twitching inside you. His whole body tenses.

“Fuck—”

His hands are trembling again. He wants to hold you. Needs to. But he doesn’t. He’s being so good. Letting you use him. Letting you have him.

You rock your hips again, same pace, same angle. Deliberate. Controlled.

“I’m not mad,” you whisper, voice like honey. “Just making sure you remember who you belong to.”

“I do,” he says quickly, breathless. “I do. I never forgot—my star, please, let me—”

You clench around him. His whole body shudders.

“Not yet.”

His eyes squeeze shut. A whimper leaves him — high and desperate, muffled by the back of his hand where he’s biting down to keep quiet. His thighs are shaking.

“I—” He gasps, blinking up at you again. “I love you. You know that, right? I don’t look at anyone else. I only want you. I only ever—”

You kiss him — slow, deep, possessive — and when you pull away, your hand wraps around the back of his neck, holding him there.

“Show me.”

And finally, you give him what he wants.

You move faster. He moans loud, needy, broken — his hands fly to your hips and you let him grab you now, let him hold you as he cums hard, trembling under you, eyes glassy with it.

When it’s over, he pulls you into his chest without hesitation, still panting.

“I really didn’t notice her,” he whispers.

You laugh softly into his throat. “I know.”

sylus. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ .

He hesitates. Still.

Even with his shirt undone, skin flushed beneath your mouth, even with your hands at his belt, undoing the buckle slowly — he hesitates.

“Sweetie,” he murmurs, voice low, deep, almost chiding. “You don’t need to do that.”

Your lips brush his stomach, just above the waistband of his pants. He shudders.

“I want to,” you whisper, tugging his pants lower. “You always take care of me. Let me return the favor.”

He swallows hard, like he’s chewing down whatever protest is still trying to rise in him. You watch the muscles in his abdomen twitch as you drag your fingers along the edge of his waistband, teasing. Slow. Like he does to you.

His cock is already hard — has been since you first straddled his lap and whispered what you wanted between lazy kisses and lingering touches. The tip is flushed, leaking already. He’s beautiful like this. Open.

You look up at him. “Let me, Sylus. Please,”

And finally — finally — he nods. Voice hoarse.

“…Okay. You can have me.”

You ease him onto the bed, nudging his thighs apart as you kneel between them. You kiss the inside of his knee, then his thigh. You take your time. He smells like heat and something you could get drunk on.

“Don’t tease, kitten,” he says with a faint smile, though his voice is already shaking. “I might start thinking you’re trying to turn the tables.”

You grin against his skin. “Who, me?”

When your tongue finally traces along the underside of his cock, he gasps. Sharp. Real. His hips jump. One hand fists in the sheets.

You don’t take him into your mouth yet. Not fully.

You kiss him there. Lick. Trace.

And when you look up, his head is tipped back, one hand hovering near your hair, the other clenched in the blanket like he’s already close.

You start sucking him slowly, lips stretched around him, hands gripping his hips to hold him still. He moans — a quiet, choked-off sound like he’s trying not to scare you.

“Oh, kitten,” he groans. “Fuck—your mouth…”

You work him deeper. Just a little. Let him feel the heat, the wet, the rhythm. Then you pull back. Lick the tip. Blow a breath across the head.

His hips jerk.

“Sweetie.” It’s a warning. Or maybe a plea.

“You okay?” you ask sweetly, resting your cheek against his thigh.

He huffs a breathless laugh. “What are you doing to me?”

“Taking my time.” You wrap your hand around him, start stroking again, your lips brushing just the head with every pass. “You’ve made me beg so many times, Sylus. Let’s see how pretty you sound.”

His head lifts. His eyes find yours. They’re burning now — heat and challenge and the faintest shimmer of want.

“Oh?” he breathes. “That’s what this is?”

You give him one long, slow lick up the underside. He twitches. His breath catches. You take him into your mouth again, just to the halfway point, and swirl your tongue around the tip before pulling off again.

His thighs flex. He groans through gritted teeth.

“You little tease,” he pants. “I thought you wanted to make me feel good.”

“I do,” you murmur, kissing his stomach. “I want to ruin you for anyone else.”

That gets him.

He moans again — head falling back against the pillows, arm flung over his face, breath wrecked. His hips are twitching now, trying not to buck, and he’s begging without realizing it.

“Please,” he whispers, voice cracking. “Please, kitten—just a little more, I’m so close, please—”

You stroke him faster now, mouth working the head again, eyes locked on his face as it breaks. He’s panting, trembling, his muscles twitching under your hands.

“I can’t—” he gasps. “I’m gonna—fuck, I can’t hold it—”

You pull off. Again. Just before he tips.

He cries out, a sound so raw and desperate it punches through your chest.

“Sylus,” you whisper, climbing up his body to kiss the edge of his jaw. “You gonna cum for me?”

His voice is shattered. “Yes. Please. Let me—please, sweetie, let me—”

You stroke him fast now, hand slick from your mouth, and it doesn’t take long — maybe five seconds — before his whole body snaps, hips arching up as he cums in thick, hot pulses across his own stomach, a moan ripping from his throat like you tore it from his soul.

You watch every second of it. Watch his face, the way it twists in pleasure, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open like he’s afraid to breathe.

And when it’s done — when he’s twitching, panting, flushed and trembling — you lean down and lick it off him.

Slowly. Lazily.

“Fuck,” he groans, still dazed. “You’re going to kill me.”

You rest your cheek on his chest, sighing. “Mmm...not yet,”

caleb. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ .

You had found the med reports by accident.

Tucked beneath calibration files on his tablet — meant to be hidden, meant to be forgotten — evidence of just how close he’d come to losing a lung, of how many bones had splintered clean through muscle. He hadn’t told you. Hadn’t said anything when he came back, bruises half-faded, smile intact, voice soft like nothing had happened.

So you decided not to say anything either.

You wait until the lights are low and the quiet of your shared bedroom is safe and soft, your body folded over his in bed — kissing him slow, letting your weight sink onto his lap while your fingers dip beneath the hem of his sweats. Caleb, already pliant from your attention, sighs into your mouth when you wrap your hand around him.

“Pips,” he murmurs, voice hazy, already thick with want. “Missed you. You—mmn—been thinkin’ about you all day.”

Your lips brush the shell of his ear. “All day, huh?”

“‘Course,” he breathes. “You're all I think about.”

But you don’t stroke him, not yet. You just hold him there — hard, heavy in your grip — and let the moment stretch. His hips shift subtly under you, seeking friction.

“Somethin’ wrong?” he asks, brows drawing together. “Did I…?”

You tighten your hand slightly, just enough to feel him twitch. “You gonna tell me about the four broken ribs, Caleb?”

His breath catches.

“I saw your file,” you say, quieter this time. “Saw what you didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t want to worry you,” he says quickly, guilt flooding his voice. “Pips, I—I swear I’m okay. I just thought—if I made it back to you, that’s all that mattered.”

You finally stroke him, once — a slow, upward drag of your palm — and he lets out a helpless noise.

“That why you kept it from me?” you ask, voice saccharine. “Thought I’d be too fragile to handle it?”

“No, baby, no—never. I just… it was stupid, I know it was stupid, I just didn’t want you scared.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“I know, I know—shit—” His hands clench at the sheets. “You’re right. I fucked up. I should’ve told you.”

You start moving your hand then — long, languid strokes, alternating with tighter squeezes that make him groan under his breath. His hips jerk up, but you lift slightly, denying him any real friction. He looks up at you with that frayed, remorseful gaze that makes your chest ache.

“You’re punishing me,” he says, almost like he likes it. “I deserve it. Keep going. Do whatever you want to me.”

“Oh, I intend to.”

You kiss along his throat, down to his collarbone, while your hand works him slowly, relentlessly. Every time he gets close, you stop. You tease the head of him with your thumb. You let him whine.

“Please,” he whispers. “Please, pips, I’m sorry. I’ll tell you everything next time, anything you wanna know. Just—baby, please, let me cum—”

You hush him gently, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’re not even close yet. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

He lets out a broken breath, biting his lip. His abs tighten when you give him a firmer stroke, and he chokes on a moan.

“You like this, don’t you?” you murmur, lips brushing his cheek. “Being made to wait. Having to beg.”

“I—” He swallows hard. “I like when you touch me. I’ll take it however you want. Just wanna be good for you. Let me be good, pips. Please.”

“Then be still.”

He shudders, his knuckles white where they grip the bedsheets, trying not to buck. You tease him again, just the tip now, swirling your thumb in slow circles as his eyes flutter shut.

“Say it again,” you whisper, lips at his ear.

“That I’ll be good?” he breathes.

“Yes.”

“I’ll be good for you, baby. I swear it. I’ll make it up to you. Anything. Just… please—don’t stop.”

You smile softly against his jaw. “You’ll get what you want. Eventually.”

And you keep going. Keep him pinned and wrecked and whispering your name like a prayer, until his voice is raw and his body trembling, aching for release — and even then, you make him ask for it one more time.

rafayel. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ .

It was supposed to be a date.

Or at least, that’s how he framed it when he invited you over: “Come by the studio, cutie. I’ll clear my schedule. Just you, me, wine, maybe a little jazz in the background… I'll even cook.”

You’d said yes, excited. You’d dressed nice. You’d brought his favorite dessert. You even refrained from teasing him when you noticed the paint under his nails that he definitely said he’d washed off earlier.

But five hours later, he still hadn’t left the canvas.

He tried. Really. He kissed you hello with paint still wet on his fingers, poured you a glass of wine with that crooked grin, and gestured dramatically at the little charcuterie spread he’d made. “Feast, beloved. Nourish thyself while I immortalize the human form,” he’d said, gesturing vaguely toward a canvas already full of half-finished strokes.

You humored him.

For a while.

You sipped your wine and curled up on the couch. You watched the brush in his hand move with graceful certainty. You even complimented the piece — some half-formed tempest of shadow and skin that probably meant something very deep, knowing him.

But the minutes turned to hours, and the affection he’d promised turned into distracted hums and muttered curses and words like “just a little longer” and “hold that thought, cutie” and “fuck, where did I put the viridian—”

So you got up. Slowly. Deliberately. You stood behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist, resting your cheek between his shoulder blades.

“Rafayel.”

A distracted, “Mm?”

“You promised.”

He paused. Just briefly. You could feel the tension in his body, the way he wanted to give in. But then he sighed — a little too apologetic, a little too sincere — and said, “I know, cutie. I just… I’m right there. Give me ten more minutes?”

You didn’t answer.

You just smiled against his back — a smile he couldn’t see — and then let your hands drift lower, toying with the hem of his shirt.

Ten minutes later, he was flat on his back.

His head tips back against the pillows, dusky hair fanned out like a spilled halo, cheeks flushed a soft crimson. The curve of his mouth is caught somewhere between a smirk and a whimper — the look of a man trying very hard not to completely lose his mind.

You're straddling him, bare, slow, and in control. He’s deep inside, twitching against the vice of your heat, and you're not moving. Not really. Just enough to make him feel everything. Just enough to keep him desperate.

“Cutie…” he groans, voice strained and silky. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

You hum, dragging your nails down his chest. “Obviously.”

“Sadistic,” he pants. “Criminal. I should paint you like this, riding me with that look on your face—God, I think I’d go blind from the brilliance.”

You roll your hips once, slow and shallow. His breath catches. He bucks—instinctively, helplessly—but you press your hands to his chest and push him down.

“Don’t you dare.”

He shudders. “Okay. Okay, okay—fuck—just—cutie, you can’t just leave me like this. My body is going to catch fire. I’m Lemurian, you know what that means, my internal temperature—”

You cut him off with another slow grind. He gasps — broken, needy, sharp. His hands clutch at the sheets beside him because you haven’t let him touch you. Not once.

“Please.” The word slips out before he can stop it.

You look down at him — flushed, panting, wet lashes fluttering against sweat-slick skin. Every muscle under you is tight. Straining. The prideful, witty painter is gone — reduced to a trembling wreck.

“Please, what?” you murmur, leaning forward until your mouth brushes the shell of his ear. “Say it. Nicely.”

He lets out a shaky, desperate laugh — but it breaks in the middle. “Please let me come, please, cutie, I’ll be good, I promise. Just—just let me—” He grits his teeth, his hips jerk again, and you don’t let up this time.

You ride him slow. Torturously slow. Watching him unravel.

“You want to finish?” you whisper, breath warm against his throat.

He nods wildly. “Yes—yes, please—”

“Then wait.”

The sound he makes isn’t human. His head drops back, throat exposed, lips parted around a moan that turns to something like a sob. You can feel how close he is — every muscle in his abdomen twitching, his cock straining inside you, hips trembling under your hands.

“Please,” he tries again, “I’ll paint you a thousand times, I’ll give you all my attention from now on, just—”

You finally slam your hips down. Hard. And again.

His cry is filthy. Unhinged. His back arches off the bed and he’s losing it, mouth moving around broken pleas, until—

“Now,” you say. “Cum for me.”

And he does — with a moan so loud it echoes, hands scrambling to hold you as he finally, finally falls apart. His whole body shakes beneath you, long after the climax hits, as if every nerve in him is still catching up.

When he opens his eyes again, dazed and glowing with sweat, he just looks at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered.

“…I think I saw God,” he whispers hoarsely. “She looks a lot like you.”

You noticed the shift in him later — not in words, of course, but in how his hand came to rest at the small of your back. How he guided you through the crowd with a little more pressure than usual. How he didn't quite smile when the man shook your hand in farewell.

Zayne said nothing until much later, until the house had gone quiet and the fire in the living room had burned low. You stood in the middle of his room in the glow of moonlight, slipping off your gown when he finally spoke from behind you, voice even but unmistakably edged.

“He seemed very taken with you,” he murmured, fingers brushing yours as he helped you slip on a robe— his touch too gentle to be casual. “Charming. In a practiced sort of way.”

You turned to face him, finding that composed expression — calm, always — but his eyes were darker tonight. Sharper. As if weighing something unspoken.

“Were you jealous?” you asked, half a tease.

“No,” he said softly, stepping in close. “Just... reminded.”

You tilted your head, curious. “Of what?”

“That others may admire you.” His hand settled at your waist, warm and grounding. “But none of them know how to touch you.”

His lips brushed your cheek, then lower, to your jaw. His voice was velvet when it returned.

“None of them know how you tremble when you’re about to fall apart. How you like to be kissed here—” a soft graze behind your ear, “—or how your breath catches when I hold you like this.”

He drew you closer, lifting your chin with two fingers, his tone still gentle. Almost reverent.

And then, the unmistakable warmth of his palm on your hip. The way he leaned in close and said, with deceptive calm, “How beautiful you sound when you scream my name,”

You smiled faintly, not answering, letting your hand drift over the buttons of his shirt. “You’re so jealous.”

“Am not,” he murmured, drawing you into his lap.

You settled there, straddling his thighs, the fabric of your robe slipping open just enough for him to slide his hands along your bare skin. He held you like something precious—like you might vanish if he didn’t. His thumbs stroked absent circles into your waist, his gaze fixed on you with quiet purpose.

The kiss was inevitable. Slow at first—almost tentative. But then deeper, drawn out, his lips moving over yours with the careful deliberation of a man who knows exactly what he wants and isn’t afraid to take his time claiming it.

Your hands buried in his hair as he pulled you closer, tongue sliding past your lips with measured ease. His grip firmed on your hips as he guided your weight into him, coaxing the smallest gasp from your throat.

He caught the sound—of course he did—and his mouth curled faintly against yours. “That’s it,” he whispered. “Let me hear you.”

Your head tipped back slightly as he kissed along your jaw, his breath warming the curve of your throat. “You always know exactly what to do to me,” you breathed.

Zayne hummed low in his chest, mouth dragging against your pulse. “I study you,” he said softly. “Every sigh, every shiver. I could draw you from memory.”

There was a note in his voice then—something more than reverence. It sounded almost like a question he wasn’t quite asking.

You shifted against him, body arching subtly as his hands skimmed beneath your robe and slipped it off your shoulders. “No one else knows me like you do,” you said quietly.

He stilled, just for a moment, his hands pausing as he took you in.

Then, “Good,” he said. Not smug, not possessive in the traditional sense—just certain. A simple truth, spoken like a vow.

You kissed again, deeper this time, your bare skin pressed flush against the crisp cotton of his shirt. He eased you forward, holding you steady with one arm while the other slipped between your thighs. His fingers stroked you slowly, parting you with a patient, practiced touch. He worked you open in silence, save for the hitch of your breath, the soft wet sounds of his fingers circling your entrance.

“You’re trembling,” he said softly, brushing his knuckles along your inner thigh. “Already?”

“You’re too good at this.”

A quiet laugh escaped him. “Only for you.”

You let your head rest against his shoulder as he slid two fingers inside, slow and careful. He knew exactly where to angle them, how to curl them just so, until your hips were rolling in time with his movements and your breath came out in stuttered gasps.

“You feel that?” he murmured. “No one else could ever make you feel this way.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement—and a challenge.

You whispered his name against his neck, voice breaking as he twisted his fingers just right. He exhaled through his nose, satisfied, and withdrew only to guide you onto him with practiced ease, the head of his cock catching against your entrance.

His hands held your waist, steadying you as he slid in, inch by aching inch. You buried your face in his collar, clutching at his shirt as the stretch overwhelmed you—so slow, so deep it nearly bordered on pain.

Zayne groaned softly, low and tight in his throat. “You’re always so warm for me.”

You whimpered, sinking fully down into his lap, the feeling of him rooted inside you sending shivers up your spine.

He didn’t move at first—just let you feel it. The way he filled you so completely. The way your body fluttered around him as if trying to draw him deeper still.

Then his hands moved again. One slid up your back, fingers tracing your spine. The other cupped your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as he leaned in to kiss you—slow, reverent, utterly consuming.

And then he began to move.

Measured thrusts, hips rolling beneath you with perfect control. He kissed your temple, your cheek, your lips—again and again—like he couldn’t get enough of your taste. Each press of his hips had your breath hitching, your body tightening, your hands clutching his shoulders as the slow build wound tighter inside you.

“Who else could possibly understand you like I do?” he asked quietly, lips brushing your ear. “Who else would know how to love you like this?”

“No one,” you gasped.

He picked up pace slightly, hips grinding up into yours with exquisite precision, dragging your pleasure out, teasing you with the edge of release until your thighs trembled around him.

“I don’t need to be told I’m the only one,” he whispered, “but it’s nice to hear it.”

You cried out when he hit that perfect spot again and again, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

“Say it,” he breathed.

“You’re the only one, Zayne,” you whispered, falling apart for him.

He followed soon after, clutching you to him as he spilled inside, burying his face in your neck with a soft, unsteady exhale.

And then he stilled, holding you there as the aftershocks trembled between you.

A long silence. Just the sound of your heartbeats, your breath slowing.

Then, as you traced a hand over the back of his neck, he murmured against your shoulder:

“I want to spend my whole life learning you.”

His voice was soft, measured—almost like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

You didn’t answer right away. Just tilted his chin up, pressed a kiss to his lips, and smiled.

“I hope you do.”

xavier. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ . ݁

You hadn’t even noticed Xavier at first.

You were in the hallway, still holding your mail, chatting with the neighbor from two doors down—the one who always seemed to be around when you got back from a mission. He’d asked about your latest patrol, complimented your boots in passing, made some offhand comment about how quiet your apartment had been lately.

It was all friendly. Harmless.

But Xavier stood just out of view, leaned in the doorway of his own apartment, watching.

His arms were crossed. His expression unreadable.

By the time you stepped back inside, the conversation already forgotten, you felt it—the tension. The presence. He was there, leaning in your doorway now, one shoulder propped against the frame.

“How long were you going to stand out there?” he asked, voice low.

You blinked. “What? I was only out there a minute.”

A pause. Then, calmly: “He’s interested in you.”

You laughed, but he didn’t. “He’s just a neighbor.”

“I’m not blind.” He stepped forward, slow and fluid, until the air between you tensed like a wire. “He smiles at you like he thinks you might invite him in one day.”

“He was just being polite, Xavi” you said, voice softening. But Xavier’s gaze didn’t waver.

“No,” he murmured. “I’m polite. He was imagining what your skin might taste like.”

You swallowed. Hard.

And Xavier’s smile—the one he wore only when he was angry in that particular, possessive way—made an appearance. It was faint. Crooked. Dangerous.

“You like being seen, don’t you?” he asked, stepping in closer. “All gentle eyes and soft smiles. So good. So kind. Makes men forget themselves.”

“Xavier—”

“Do you forget?” he asked quietly, hands finding your waist. “Who you belong to?”

You gasped as he pushed you back gently until your spine met the nearest wall. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like a caress. He leaned in, voice velvet-dark.

“Let me remind you.”

You were still catching your breath when he kissed you—deep, slow, unrelenting. Not angry. Not rushed. Just intentional. His mouth slanted over yours again and again until your knees weakened and your arms curled around his shoulders.

He carried you to the bedroom without a word. Lit only by the pale blue spill of Linkon moonlight, the room felt colder than usual. Or maybe that was just his restraint. He laid you down gently. Methodically. As though he was still trying to decide how best to ruin you.

He undressed you in near silence, his hands lingering longer than necessary. Touching places he already knew by heart, rediscovering them with maddening slowness. “He doesn’t know what you sound like when you beg,” he murmured, brushing his fingers over your ribs, “or how your voice breaks when I go deeper.”

You reached for him—too impatient—but he caught your wrists and pinned them gently to the mattress above your head.

“No rushing,” he said, his voice almost sweet. “You had time to smile at him. You’ll make time for this.”

His mouth followed his hands—kisses dragged across your collarbone, tongue teasing the underside of your breast, lips sealing around your nipple as his fingers drifted lower.

And lower.

Until they found you, already slick and twitching for him.

“Of course,” he whispered against your skin. “Always so wet for me, even when you pretend to be innocent.”

Two fingers slid in, slow and curling, hitting a spot that had you bucking beneath him—but he held you down, pinning you with nothing more than a look.

“Do you think he could make you feel like this?” he asked. “Does he even know where to touch you?”

You whimpered, arching into him. “Xavier, please—”

“Oh,” he murmured, mouth brushing your ear, “I love when you beg, little star.”

He worked you open with patient cruelty, bringing you to the edge with agonizing precision—only to stop.

Again and again.

By the third time, you were trembling, nails scraping at the sheets, voice hoarse from whimpering his name.

“Just say it,” he whispered. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped, without hesitation.

He rewarded you with his mouth then—hot, wet, relentless between your thighs. Your back arched off the mattress at the first flick of his tongue. He took his time, lapping and sucking with languid control until your vision blurred and your thighs threatened to close around him.

But he held you open. Watched you come undone.

Only once you were gasping his name like a prayer did he finally undress, movements slow, deliberate, eyes never leaving yours.

When he sank into you, it wasn’t fast. It was deep. He held your gaze the entire time, watching your mouth fall open as he filled you, inch by slow inch, until you couldn’t breathe around it.

“There,” he whispered. “No one else gets this. Just me.”

He dragged it out, every roll of his hips designed to torture. His hands never stopped moving—stroking your waist, brushing your hair back, pinning your wrists when you reached to speed him up.

“You’ll take it like this,” he murmured, “until you forget every other name but mine.”

You did.

When you came again, it was with your legs wrapped around him, voice broken and high, clinging to him like you’d fall apart without his body tethering yours.

Only then—only then—did he let go, fucking you through your climax with enough force to shake the bed. He spilled inside you with a groan, head buried against your neck, breathing ragged and voice thick when he spoke again.

“No one gets to see this part of you,” he said softly, his hand stroking your stomach. “Just me. Only me.”

He looked at you then, hair mussed, eyes dark and hungry even after everything. “I don’t mind others seeing you smile,” he murmured, “but don’t let them forget who owns the rest.”

You pulled him in again, lips brushing his, breath still shaky.

“They couldn’t forget if they tried.”

sylus. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ .

You didn’t mean to steal the spotlight.

The auction had simply unfolded that way — the room full of powerful people in fine suits and darker intentions, all turning to look when you walked in. Their gazes followed you like tides pulled by gravity, lingering too long. Some approached under the pretense of polite interest: asking for your thoughts on the collection, inquiring who you were with. You’d smiled, demure and polite, but it didn’t stop the way their eyes slid over you — speculative, appreciative, hungry.

You caught Sylus watching once from across the room — a glass of dark wine suspended in his hand, half-raised, half-forgotten. He didn’t look angry. Not even annoyed. Just still. Perfectly still. His crimson eyes held you like a blade pressed flat to your throat — silent and unmoving, but keen.

On the way home, he hadn’t said much. His hand rested on your thigh in the car. A murmur about the art. Something vague about the way the auctioneer’s accent curled. Polite, as always. But you felt it: the tension beneath his calm, like a storm pressed behind glass.

It’s only once the door closes behind you — the quiet of his penthouse folding around you, city lights flickering low — that he shows it.

He doesn’t let you get far.

His arm wraps around your waist and draws you back into his chest. You feel the heat of him before you hear the low hum of his voice near your ear.

“Still carrying all that attention with you, sweetie?”

You blink, about to ask what he means — but he’s already sliding your coat from your shoulders. Gentle. Reverent. His fingers ghost down the line of your back as he slips the fabric away, letting it fall to the floor.

You turn in his arms.

His gaze drinks you in — the line of your gown, the soft flush of your skin from the wine, the delicate rise and fall of your breath beneath silk.

“You looked…” His eyes drop lower. “…dangerous tonight.”

You raise a brow, lips tilting. “Dangerous?”

“Mmh.” His mouth brushes your jaw. Just a ghost of contact. “Pretty little thing like you — standing there with a thousand eyes on you, smiling like that.” His voice thickens, slow as honey. “Of course they wanted you.”

You laugh, soft and teasing — but he doesn’t. His hands slide lower, curve over your hips with more pressure. One lifts the back of your thigh, coaxing your leg around his waist. You let him. He carries you with no effort, steps sure and silent as he takes you to the bedroom.

“You’re being awfully sweet,” you murmur, hands brushing his chest.

He smiles. Slow. Knowing.

“Aren’t I always, kitten?”

He lays you down like you’re the most delicate thing in the world — not because you are, but because tonight he wants you to feel that way. Kept. Claimed. Cherished.

His jacket slips off. His shirt, undone with aching precision. As each button comes loose, you watch the careful reveal of his chest, the sharp cut of his abdomen, the faint line of a scar you’ve traced before. He watches you, too. Watches your hunger, quiet and reverent, like he needs to see it written across your face.

He kisses you with the same slow worship.

Not frantic. Not forceful. Just… knowing. Like he’s trying to wipe away every gaze that touched you, every word that wasn’t his, every breath you gave someone else.

His mouth trails from your lips to your neck, then down — lower, tasting the soft skin at your collarbone, the hollow between your breasts. When his fingers slide the gown off your shoulders, he moves like he’s unwrapping something sacred. Each inch of skin he reveals is met with his mouth, warm and lingering.

He doesn’t speak, but you feel the tension under his touch. The possessiveness coiled tight beneath the surface. It shows in how slowly he parts your thighs. How long he lingers at your knees. How his eyes lift and lock to yours before he kisses the inside of your thigh like a confession.

“I want to take care of you tonight,” he says, voice so low you barely catch it. “Will you let me?”

You nod, breath already caught in your throat.

His mouth lowers — and when he finally touches you with his tongue, it’s like silk drawn over a flame.

He takes his time.

Every flick, every slow circle of his tongue feels intentional. He doesn’t chase your pleasure — he builds it, patient and precise. His fingers curl against your thigh, anchoring you as his mouth works you open, lavishing you with long, unhurried strokes. When your hips twitch, he murmurs quiet praise against your skin.

“That’s it, sweetie… Just like that.”

He knows your body too well. Every tremble. Every soft sound. He listens for them like cues, adjusts with barely a shift, lips sealing over your clit just right, just long enough to make you sob out his name.

When the orgasm hits, it’s slow and shattering. Not sudden — inevitable. He pulls it from you like a string being drawn taut, then snapped, and when your body arches and your thighs quake, he doesn’t let go. He keeps you grounded with his mouth, one hand firm on your waist, the other stroking soft down your thigh.

When he finally rises, his lips are slick, his eyes molten.

He kisses up your stomach, your ribs, your sternum. Every inch of you loved, mapped, and claimed.

And when he finally pushes inside — slow, deep, deliberate — it feels like coming home.

“You feel that?” he whispers, voice frayed. “How perfect you fit me?”

You gasp his name, legs wrapping tighter around him. His hips roll slow, careful, each thrust brushing deep and smooth. He keeps you close — chest to chest, skin to skin — every movement drawing you tighter, closer.

“You’re mine…” he breathes against your jaw. Then quieter, almost too soft to hear — “Aren’t you?”

You freeze — just for a second. Not in fear. In knowing.

“…Sylus?” you whisper.

He lifts his head. Something flickers there. A softness cracking. A need barely hidden beneath all his polish.

You smile, kiss the corner of his mouth. “Are you jealous?”

His eyes narrow. Not angry. Just… caught.

“Tch. Don’t be absurd.”

But then he thrusts deeper. Slower. Possessive without force — just depth. Just heat. Your body responds instantly, moaning into his neck.

He leans down, voice low.

“Let me remind you.”

He doesn’t stop until you’re breathless. Until your fingers cramp from clinging to him, until your throat is hoarse from moaning his name like a prayer. His control never slips — but his need is written into every touch. Every inch of him buried deep in you, every whispered word brushed against your skin like a claim carved from silk.

And even when you’re both spent, your bodies tangled in the sheets, his hand never stops moving. Thumb brushing your hip. Knuckles tracing the curve of your waist.

He doesn’t say the word.

But in the way he presses a kiss to your temple. In how his eyes stay on you even after sleep begins to pull you under—

You know.

He needed this.

He needed you.

caleb. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ . ݁

You noticed it the moment his eyes cut across the room.

A too-familiar glance from a Fleet lieutenant. A compliment disguised as professional praise. A hand that lingered just a beat too long at the small of your back.

You brushed it off — but Caleb didn’t.

He didn’t say a word on the way back. No cold expression, no clipped tone — just silence, taut and simmering. And that was worse. That meant he was thinking. Feeling. Holding it in.

When the front door clicked shut behind you, the silence broke — not with words, but weight.

The air pressed down. Subtle, at first. Then heavier. Your breath caught.

“Caleb—”

“Stay there.”

His voice was calm. Too calm. He didn’t even look at you yet, just shrugged off his uniform jacket and let it hit the floor. “You always let them get close like that, honey?”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Wasn’t it?” He turned finally, eyes darker than usual — not glowing, not angry. Just hurt. Like he’d seen a glimpse of something he wasn’t supposed to witness. “Pips… he touched you.”

“Caleb—”

“He touched you, and you smiled.” A step closer. “You let him.”

“I smiled because I was being polite. That’s all.”

His Evol pressed in tighter around your wrists, then your hips — firm, invisible hands holding you still. His voice didn’t rise. It dipped, lower, like it ached to stay steady.

“I’m not mad,” he murmured. “I just need—” Another step. Closer now. “I need you to remember whose you are.”

Then he kissed you — hard and deep, desperate, like he was trying to drown the memory of someone else’s touch with his own. He tasted like tension and guilt and need, his hands finally real where the gravity had only suggested — one cradling your jaw, the other gripping your waist tight enough to bruise.

He backed you to his bed without breaking the kiss, and you fell into the sheets with him following. His body covered yours like he couldn’t risk even the air touching you before he could reclaim it.

“Look at you,” he breathed, voice rough. “You’re always so sweet when you want something. But tonight…” His teeth grazed your neck. “I think you want to be reminded.”

You whimpered as he pushed your legs apart and settled between them, dragging your underwear down like it offended him. He slid his fingers through your slick folds with a sharp inhale, his restraint fraying at the edges.

“Fuck. Already this wet?” His voice cracked. “God, baby, tell me it’s not for him.”

“It’s not,” you gasped. “It’s you—only you.”

He exhaled hard, like he didn’t quite believe it, even if he wanted to. Even as he lined himself up and pressed in deep — one long, thick stretch that made your toes curl — his expression didn’t fully settle.

His rhythm started rough. Fast. Desperate. His hands held your thighs open, and every thrust hit deeper, firmer, like he was trying to bury himself so far inside you nothing could ever take you from him.

But even as he claimed you, his voice cracked again. This time not with anger — with fear.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

You looked up, startled — but he didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. His hips kept rolling, skin slapping yours, sweat beading along his temple.

“Pips,” he breathed, and this time it sounded like a confession, a prayer. “I try so hard— I try to be everything—” His forehead pressed to yours, lips brushing. “But I’m not like I used to be. I know that. I’m not good enough for you.”

“Caleb—”

His thrusts stuttered just a little — not in weakness, but like the words hurt more than anything.

“But I love you,” he whispered. “I love you so fucking much it hurts. And I can’t— I won’t watch you slip away. I need you to want me like this.”

You whimpered as his grip on your hips tightened, dragging you into each thrust, his eyes fluttering shut like the sensation grounded him.

“Say it,” he begged. Not ordered. Begged. “Tell me I’m enough. Please, baby—just say it.”

“You’re enough. You’re more than enough—Caleb, please—”

You came hard, the wave crashing over you with a sob of his name. But he didn’t stop.

He leaned over you, still thrusting through the aftershocks, his voice unraveling completely now — soft, whiny, broken. Almost angry at himself.

“I don’t care if it hurts, just let me stay like this—let me feel you, baby, please—”

You kissed him, trembling, and he kissed you back like he needed your mouth to breathe. His pace grew erratic, choked sounds escaping him as his hips lost rhythm.

“I’m yours,” he groaned, spilling deep inside you. “Yours, Pips. No one else. Just—just yours.”

He stayed inside you, still moving gently, too raw to stop.

And then he collapsed into you, arms pulling you close like if he let go for even a second, you might disappear. Voice barely audible, breath hot against your skin:

“I don’t know what I’d be if I lost you.” A pause. “Whatever you want me to be— I’ll be that. Just please stay.”

rafayel. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ . ݁

The gallery was full — too full — but Rafayel didn’t complain. Not out loud.

He watched from across the room, champagne glass untouched, as you laughed at something some man in a velvet blazer whispered near your ear. The man gestured vaguely at one of Rafayel’s paintings — a piece in pink and carmine tones, intimate, unmistakably you — and smiled like he thought he had a chance.

Rafayel’s jaw flexed. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t make a scene.

But oh, he watched.

And when the evening ended and the man dared to kiss your knuckles, Rafayel’s fingers were already curling around your wrist before the door even shut behind him.

He didn’t say a word as he tugged you down the path to his studio. Just smiled — a little too wide, a little too perfect — and pressed the buttons on the keypad with a single flick of his gloved hand.

“You’re quiet,” you said.

“Mhm,” he hummed. “Just thinking. About how pretty you looked tonight. Especially when you were giggling at his jokes. I didn’t know I had competition.”

Your heart fluttered. “You don’t.”

He smiled wider, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Oh, cutie. I know that. Now.”

The moment the studio door shut behind you, his mask cracked.

Rafayel was on you in an instant — hands in your hair, lips at your neck, hot and breathless. “Do you like making me suffer?” he murmured, tongue sliding along your pulse. “Because I was suffering. All evening.”

You barely had time to speak before he swept you up — literally — into his arms and carried you straight through the studio. Paintings lined the walls, moonlight casting shadows across the hardwood, and he sat you down on the edge of a velvet chaise like you were a centerpiece.

“I was good tonight,” he said, dragging off his jacket with a sharp flick. “So good. I didn’t even interrupt. I let him talk to you. Let him look at you like he had any right. And you—” He knelt between your legs, gripping your thighs possessively. “You just smiled so sweetly, like you didn’t know how insane that was driving me.”

You opened your mouth, but his fingers were already slipping under your dress, dragging your underwear down with a wickedly slow pull.

“Don’t you dare apologize, cutie,” he whispered, mouth brushing your inner thigh. “I don’t want ‘sorry.’ I want to hear how much you missed me.”

“Rafayel—” your breath hitched as his lips pressed hot and slow where you were already aching.

“Say it,” he murmured, eyes flicking up — those vibrant blues with their soft pink glowing in the dark. “Say you missed me.”

“I missed you— I always do—”

“Good,” he cooed, grinning. “Then stay still for me.”

And then his mouth was on you — lush and relentless, tongue flicking, curling, sucking until you were gasping. He held your thighs open with an iron grip, moaning against your heat like he was starved for it.

He didn’t let up when you bucked. Didn’t stop when you cried out his name. He just kept going — murmuring sweet, devastating things between licks.

“This is mine, cutie. All mine. You can let them look—but they don’t get this, do they?”

“No—nngh—only you—”

“That’s right,” he purred, slipping his fingers inside you without warning, curling them just right. “Only me. Because I’d burn the world if anyone else touched you like this.”

Your orgasm came fast, nearly shocking — and still he didn’t stop.

You tried to pull away, thighs trembling, but he only made a soft sound and pulled you back in.

“Raf— I can’t—”

“You can,” he said sweetly. “You will. That was just for the exhibition. Now this one’s for the way he looked at you. And the next? That’s for smiling at him like he was interesting.”

“Rafayel—!”

He grinned against your overstimulated clit. “Aw. Are you gonna cry for me, cutie? Look so pretty when you do.”

Your vision blurred. The pleasure, the heat, the shameful delight in how needy he sounded — it all tangled into something delirious.

He finally pulled away, face wet, lips red and glistening. He kissed your thigh with a little sigh, like he was soothing the wound he caused.

Then he stripped — both of your clothes disappearing in an instant — until you were both bare and golden in the moonlight, muscles tense and hungry with restraint.

“Lie back,” he said. “Let me inside. I need to feel you. Need to ruin you a little, so you don’t forget who you come home to.”

You reached for him — dazed, aching — and he slid into you with a sound that was halfway to a whimper.

“Oh, fuck— you’re perfect,” he moaned, dropping his head against your shoulder. “Tighter than I remember. Were you teasing me on purpose, cutie? You wanted to see me like this, didn’t you?”

You couldn’t speak. Could only cling as he rolled his hips in deep, smooth thrusts — dragging out every sound from your throat, chasing every tremble in your body.

“Say it,” he gasped, breath hot against your collarbone. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours— always—”

“And you love me?”

“I love you.”

He groaned — long and low, thrusting deeper. “Again.”

“I love you—!”

He came with a choked breath, hips grinding as he spilled inside you, his body trembling against yours like the tension had finally snapped. But he didn’t stop holding you. Didn’t even pull out. He just wrapped his arms around you, still buried deep, and nuzzled into your neck with a pout.

“…I hate being jealous,” he whispered. “Makes me dramatic.”

You huffed a laugh, boneless and warm. “You’re always dramatic.”

He smiled, kissing your temple. “Yeah, but this time I was right, wasn’t I? You’re mine, cutie. And I’m never letting go.”

Anyone would have been uncomfortable with the sudden prying. You lean forward, waiting to hear the answer.

Dr. Zayne looks at the camera, and his lips flatten into a straight line. But even though anyone could have interpreted his look as mild annoyance at the personal question, somehow, a part of you saw it for what it was: sadness.

“It seems if I were to have someone like that to me...well, it would seem that person might have gone somewhere far away.”

For some odd reason, you have a weird gut feeling that he might be talking about you. But what did he mean by that? You were alive and well. Did the two of you fall apart? Or even worst, was this relationship between the two of you just some weird figment of your imagination?

The anchor nods his head then. Based on his awkward expression, you’re certain that it wasn’t the answer he had been looking for.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

Dr. Zayne doesn’t even acknowledge the statement. He just gazes away, as if his mind is on a different matter.

Good, you think, a surge of protectiveness boiling in you. That’s what you get for asking an unprofessional question!

“Well, that concludes our interview with Akso Hospital’s Dr. Zayne Li. We’ll be talking about the current rise in Wanderer appearances when we come back and safety guidelines that can help you keep yourself and your family safe.”

When the tv flicks to commercials, you sit there deep in thought. Wrapping your arms around your legs, you prop your chin on your knees.

And then, you go searching for your phone.

You find it charging in the bedroom. You are certain that it wasn’t you who had plugged it in. Most likely Caleb had done so while you were asleep.

You unlock the phone. And then you open a browser. You hesitate before searching for the incognito feature—luckily, it exists.

Akso Hospital Zayne Li.

Articles mentioning his name pop up. It’s in your brief scan of those articles that you see more images of him appear. You even stumble upon a fan page for him by medical students.

One comment reads: I prayed to Dr. Zayne before my exam and got a 100! Tears of blood streamed down my face lol.

Another comment reads: The one time I didn’t pray to Dr. Zayne and I failed my exam...After that I learned my lesson...!

You laugh at that. Well, you could see why a desperate student would pray to him for help. He does seem like the type that would garner a cult following.

And then an idea pops up in your head. You go into your contacts. Maybe he’ll be in there?

But there’s only one number.

Caleb.

Disappointment seeks its teeth into you. Were you just delusional then? Did you make up that memory?

Your head begins to hurt again. You roll a knuckle over your forehead, closing your eyes. Whatever, this isn't for you to figure out. Whatever issues arose between your current body and this mysterious Dr. Zayne was for the original soul to figure out, whenever fate decided that it had enough fun throwing random souls into alternate universes and decided to switch the two of you back your rightful places.

And even somehow importantly, was your only friend Caleb? Sure, you didn’t have many friends in your world—most of them had moved on with their own things after university, and now your socializing primarily consisted of mundane chatter with coworkers twice your age. Did you have no friends here too?

You think of the picture of the you of this world, beaming at the camera with an ease that you could never find yourself carrying.

You scrunch your nose at the thought. For some odd reason, it doesn’t sit easy with you.

Your phone buzzes then with a message.

Did you eat breakfast yet?

You pause. The congee and youtiao are still outside in the living room, basically untouched. You type out a reply.

I got the delivery...but I think I got too invested in watching tv...Why did I look down and it was suddenly cold?

Right after you send the message, his reply comes in quickly.

You can’t skip breakfast.

An apple emoji ends his message, and it looks up at you with a disapproving stare, one hand on its hip. You can almost imagine him in the same position, ready to scold you. You let out a giggle.

Another message pops up from him.

What were you watching?

Your smile slips. Should you ask him?

Your fingers hesitate over the screen for a brief moment. You purse your lips and then type your message out.

Just some news. Heard it’s supposed to be warm this afternoon :D

You sigh and hit send.

His reply is quick: Are you sure you still want to eat hot pot today then?

Your nose wrinkles, and you frantically type out another message: Of course!

Okay...I’ll bring us to our usual spot then. You just wait.

Another message whooshes in.

I gotta go now. I’ll see you soon.

Three dots pop up on his end. And then it disappears. No message comes in. What was he going to say? You shut off your phone. Your stomach grumbles then, a protest that you hadn’t eaten breakfast. Whatever, you’ll just heat up your breakfast.

🍏🍎

Caleb comes home at exactly 2pm. When you go up to greet him, you see that strands of his hair are stuck to his forehead in sweat, and on instinct, you reach up to brush them away.

He stiffens then, slightly. You realize what you did too late and hurriedly pull your hand away.

He grabs your hand then, his hold gentle. “Didn’t mean I didn’t like it. But don’t I smell gross?”

You relax at that, letting out a laugh at that before teasing, “Maybe a little.”

He does an exaggerated sniff of himself and then feigns backing away from you. But his touch is still on you. He’s needy. “Whoa, let me take a shower then. And then we’ll go.” There’s a teasing glint in his eyes.

You laugh again and then take a step closer to ruffle his hair with your other hand. His eyelids lower, and you might’ve seen an imaginary large tail from him thwacking around. “You know, you didn’t have to rush home so early. I’m sure the matters at the Fleet were more important.”

A little part of you is glad that he came home early. Sure, you had always been the independent type—the kind that could spend days by yourself with no one checking up on you, and you were fine with it. But you had gotten accustomed to having Caleb around almost every hour.

“They’re not that important. Not when it comes to you. They can handle some time without me there anyways,” he murmurs, reaching out to wrap an arm around your waist and pull you closer, “Snakes always find a way to entertain themselves in the dirt after all.”

You frown. You haven’t heard this kind of language from Caleb before. Sure, he didn't seem like he quite enjoyed his work at the Fleet, with the way his lips always seemed to be pressed in a disgruntled line, but to this extent? “Is it really that horrible there? Can’t you change your workplace?”

He takes a whiff of your hair. “Did you shower earlier? Smells nice.”

You can’t see the expression he’s making, but you have a feeling he’s changing the subject, and you let him. You let Caleb get away with a lot of things. And in this case, maybe work contracts are near impossible to get out of. It’s the same with your real world. Right?

You huff out an exaggerated sigh then. “Mm-hm. And it looks like you should hop into one now. While you shower, I’ll get changed. I’m itching to get outside.”

He laughs and nuzzles your skin one more time before letting go, reluctantly. “I’ll follow your orders, Captain.”

He comes back out when he’s done to you lazing around on the sofa. You had changed into a yellow sundress pretty quickly, and it had been boring waiting for Caleb to be done with the shower. You’re almost about to doze off, and he snaps you awake with a prod on your cheek. You let out a dazed murmur, wiping away the drool at the corner of your mouth, before a familiar scent hits your nose. It’s apple-y and fresh and well...familiar. You think of the green bottle in the shower then and squint your eyes at him. “Did you use my body wash?”

He grins playfully. “Uh, you mean our body wash right. We always use the same stuff. Now come on, time’s a-ticking and I’m getting hungry.”

You roll your eyes at him and feign to roll away from him and onto your side.

“Whoa!” you let out a shriek when you start floating in the air. Your legs are splayed out awkwardly, and you fumble to keep your skirt over your legs. You whip your head back to glare at him. When you notice that his gaze can’t seem to leave the bare skin of your thighs, your glare intensifies.

Right, you forgot that the people in this world had fucking superpowers or Evols or whatever the fuck they called it. And Caleb’s happened to be gravity. Of fucking course. You remember him using it at the hospital when you had almost dropped something and he had stopped it from falling.

What was your superpower then? And could you use it against this man, as much of a menace he is?

He’s already set you in a seated position before you can let out a spiel of curse words fly out of your mouth. Your cheeks are puffed out in annoyance as you begin to wag an angry finger. “Hey, hey, foul play-!”

He lets out a laugh, interrupting your burst. And then he’s grabbing your foot with one hand and tucking it into a pair of sandals that he got from who knows where. Even though you let him, you give him another glare as he fixes the straps in place. When he’s done, he looks up at you and gives you a boyish grin. “Ready to go?”

You have half a mind to continue to be angry at him. But your breakfast really had not been that great when you heated it up and the thought of hot pot—something familiar and comforting—was making your stomach grumble and you really were itching to be outside. And you have a feeling that he might use his Evol to have you float after him to your destination.

Then it seems like he’s remembered something important. He fishes through his pocket and pulls out a sparkling band from his pocket. Your heart lurches at the sight. It’s the ring you hid. Or is it? You see that it’s sparkling new, unlike the one that you had found. “Where’d you get that?” you force the words to leave your suddenly dry throat.

He glances up, and your eyes meet. “Just got it back from the shop today. I guess you already forgot what I told you yesterday.”

You purse your lips, heart thrumming nervously in your chest, as he beckons for you to give him his hand. You move stiffly, and before you know it, the ring is already on your finger. It glints at you, almost mockingly.

“Now everyone will know we’re married.” He dips his head down and presses a soft kiss against the ring. There’s that look again in his eyes. Your heart stutters in your chest—not out of anxiety this time but out of something else. Something you can’t quite understand yourself.

You hop to your feet before he can do anything else, and in a flash, you’re by the front door. Turning back to him, who’s still kneeling on the floor in a daze, you jut your chin towards the outdoors, feigning a mocking grin. “Hurry up, or I’m gonna leave you behind!”

You run off, his laugh echoing behind you, and as you’re about to turn out of the neighborhood, you feel a tug from behind. He’s caught up to you easily.

“Do you even know where you’re going?” he asks.

“Uhhh...” You sheepishly smile. “No.”

He grins before reaching out and grasping your hand. Looping your fingers together, he tugs you to the left. “Can’t have you getting lost. Come on, follow me, Pipsqueak.”

You let a disgruntled murmur out, but you don’t even attempt to take your hand out of his grip. As he tugs you along, you pause and gape. As similar as this world is to yours, this world is also different. The streets are crowded at this time with families and couples and student friend groups, even though this would usually be the time where everyone is away and busy. Despite how high-tech all the buildings surrounding you are, you still let an impressed oo when you stumble upon a vendor selling sticks of candied hawthorn.

You turn and give pitiful eyes to Caleb, tugging on the hem of the casual jean jacket he’s thrown over his clothes.

“You’re going to ruin your appetite.”

You glance at the sparkling crystalized exterior of the candy, fighting back the urge to drool, before turning back to tug on his hem again, more insistently this time.

The vendor, an old man, lets out a guffaw at that. “Come on, young man, you should spoil your beautiful wife.”

You flush at that. A glance at Caleb shows that his ears are tinged red as well. And then a mischievous idea creeps up in your mind.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re pressing up to his side. You notice his eyes flick down towards the gape in your neckline and then flick back up, and his face turns even more red.

“If each of us eat half, our appetite won’t be ruined. Hubby, buy it for me.” You use a coquettish tone that would normally have you throwing up a bit in your mouth (and you do, just a little). But for the sake of your target (a snack), you are willing to do almost anything to have it.

In a flash, the stick of candy is already in your hand, and Caleb has already paid for it. You take a large bite, in awe at the crunch. It’s both sweet and tart. Delighted, you beam up at Caleb. “Thank you, Caleb.”

He nods, and his hand is back around your free hand. You beckon the half-bitten hawthorn up at him playfully. “Wanna try?”

He looks frantic, and you almost feel bad for messing with the guy so much. But then he takes a bite and chews it. “It’s good.”

“Are the two of you recently married? It looks like you’re in the honeymoon stage right now.” the vendor comments. You turn, and your mouth opens, about to answer, when it clamps shut. Right, you don’t know. You don’t know because this isn’t your place. Is it possible to feel like the other woman when the woman in the relationship and the other woman are both...you? You wilt a bit at the thought.

Caleb answers. “We’ve been married for just a few months.” His hold on your hand tightens, and you almost wince, before his hold becomes gentle again. “But even in twenty, thirty, fifty, seventy years, I still will be more than happy every day as long as I’m with her...Even in another word or in another life.”

The vendor looks at him in surprise before letting out a laugh. “Young man, how romantic! Well, I hope the two of you have a prosperous marriage!” He then winks at you. “You have a good catch.”

You bashfully nod at that.

Caleb speaks again. “No, I’m the lucky one.” He pauses. “I worked hard to be with her.”

You feel Caleb’s gaze on you. The skin of your neck prickles with heat, and you know you can’t look at him right now. You tug him away from the stand quickly after bidding a quick thank you to the vendor.

And then you realize you don’t actually know which way you’re going. Again. You turn back to him, your eyes averted. “Um, where’s the hot pot place again?”

“You’re asking me? I thought you were leading the way,” his tone is teasing. You’re about to make a quip back when you hear a shrill scream.

“Wanderer! Help!”

You look up, startled. A crowd rushes in your direction, and before you know it, Caleb’s grasp on your hand has loosened. And your hawthorn candy has fallen somewhere, most likely crushed underfoot.

When you gather your wits, you take a quick look around at your new surroundings. And realize with a rush of anxiety that Caleb is gone.

🍏🍎

You’re lost. Hopelessly lost.

As you grope for your phone, you realize with a groan that you had left it in Caleb’s pocket earlier because you didn’t have pockets. At least one thing was majorly consistent between the two worlds—the lack of functionality in women’s clothing.

You have two choices: stay where you are and hope he finds you or go and try to find him yourself.

But the idea of staying out in the open when there’s a wanderer around...well that doesn’t sit right for you either. A part of you itches to go and find where it is.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re already wandering off. Even though it’s entirely foolish and impulsive and you don’t have any weapons on you, you can’t stay still. Not when you’re almost certain that you could somehow solve the issue. 

Key word, somehow.

If only had your gun.

The thought scares you the moment it enters your mind. You hadn't even played with the toy guns back in your world, but here, your fingers itch to find something usually tucked into your side that's missing.

You think back on it—really, you should just go hide and wait for it to be safe and hope that Caleb finds you.

And then you hear another scream in the distance. It sounds inhumane, like it's from some creature. Before you know it, you’re already running towards the direction of the sound in classic horror-movie-character-who-gets-killed-in-the-first-act style.

You pause outside of the alleyway where the scream had originated from. There’s no sound of a scuffle inside it, not any that you can pick up at least. But instead, two voices are speaking. And you recognize one of them. You peek in, cautiously. And immediately press yourself back out.

Caleb’s back is to you. From your brief glance, you can see that he’s speaking with another man, if that term is right. The man seems almost snake-like, with green hair and words that spill out of his mouth in a cruel sss. And there’s bits and pieces of something smoldering around the ground.

You identify it almost immediately, as if on instinct. It’s a protocore.

Even as close as you are, you can’t clearly hear what they’re saying.

“Wanderer...Attack...Plan...Whose idea?” You pick up these words from Caleb.

“Fool...plan...that girl...sssupposed...dead...Immoral!”

And then you hear a loud crash, as if someone’s body was flung against the brick wall. You peer back in urgently. The green snake man is gone. Save for a pile of crushed trash cans and for the fact that the protocore fragments on the ground are gone, there’s no evidence that he was in there in the first place. And fortunately, Caleb looks unharmed.

You realize that he’s turning back. Your mind races with thoughts on what to do.

Quickly, you take several steps back before propelling yourself forward. You let your body crash into his as he emerges from the alley.

“Caleb!” you let out a gasp, hoping that whatever emotion is showing on your face looks close to relief. And you are relieved, save for your confusion at whatever the hell that interaction was, “There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you!”

He looks surprised to see you. And for a moment, suspicion prickles in his eyes. In a second, that emotion is gone, and he’s looking at you in relief, scanning you to make sure you’re unharmed. “I’ve been looking for you.” His voice is even, showing no indication that there was anything happening. “I’m sorry to dash your hot pot dreams, but we should head home until the wanderer situation is resolved. I’m assuming the restaurant is closing down for the day because of the news.”

If you weren’t on edge, you might have not spotted his eyes glimpse around like he’s checking to make sure there’s nothing around.

You wonder, almost aimlessly, at how bizarre it feels to be lying to this man and to know that he too is lying to you.

But for some reason, you let him lie to you. You have no choice. He’s the only one you can trust. And you want to trust him.

You weakly smile. “Yeah, Caleb. Let’s go home. Maybe you can make those chicken wings again? And we can try again another day?”

He relaxes a bit. For real this time. But the tension is still there in his shoulders and in his grip as he clasps your hand again. You feel the band of your wedding ring pinch, just slightly.

Your smile almost slips from your face.

Home. For you, that word too is a lie.

🍏🍎

You and Caleb don’t speak any further about the wanderer incident. Instead, there’s an evening routine for the two of you, one that you find yourself settling in easily. You flick on what you had termed our show earlier. Caleb has the pieces of a model kit spread on a table. The two of you jokingly bicker when he starts to hog the project, and you pretend to settle in a huff next to him on the floor (but really, you were more interested in watching partly the rest of the episode and partly him focusing in on the airplane model—something about a man locked in on a goal...well, you had to admit it was very attractive).

In fact, he’s maybe too attractive. He’s changed his clothes earlier to a plain blue shirt and sweatpants, and the necklace is hanging around his neck, dangling into the collar. But for some reason, something simple on any other man looks model-like on him. Before you can stop yourself, you’re pressing closer to him, trying to not drool out of your mouth.

He’s not really noticing your sudden shift, not when his fingers are moving at warp speed to piece together the model. Something that should take a week to put together is effortlessly coming together in just over an hour. You look at his fingers. Really, you shouldn’t be this hot and bothered.

You let out a puff of air, blowing a strand of your hair out of your face. And then you settle a coy hand on his thigh, leaning into whisper into his ear. “You sure you don’t want any help?”

He stiffens under your touch. You see his Adam’s apple bob up and down. “Hmm,” his voice is thick, “And how do you suggest you help?”

You let out a soft hum. And then before you can stop yourself, you’ve pushed his chest back so that his back is against the front of the sofa and swung yourself across his lap so that you’re straddling him. He’s looking up at you, with an almost pitiful look in his eyes that makes you want to tease him further.

“Why don’t you tell me?” you tease, reaching out to cup his jaw with a hand.

And then his eyes sharpen, hungry. They flick down to your lips and linger there. His hands settle around your waist, the heat of his palms searing into your flesh. You lean down, your lips almost a breath away from his and...

The doorbell rings. You throw yourself off him, landing on the carpet next to him with a soft thump. He narrows his eyes at the door.

“I’ll check who it is. Why don’t you take a bit of a break in our room?”

You nod. There’s an edge to his voice, one that he gets whenever it was associated with the Fleet. Whoever it was on the other side of the door—well, whoever it was, they didn’t sound like good news. You’re already closing the door behind you when he opens the front door.

You hear the intruders move into the common room. Caleb’s voice follows them, muffled through the door. “If there’s anything urgent for us to discuss now, it should’ve been a call.”

“Colonel.” A voice speaks. Your ears prickle at the sound. Even though it should be unfamiliar, a part of you almost feels like you’ve heard it before. There’s a tingle behind your forehead, and you close your eyes, trying to focus in on it. “We just wanted to check to see how you were faring. After the incident that happened one year ago and hearing about the amount of leave you’ve taken these past few weeks, we wanted to be...cautious.”

Another voice speaks. “Well, it seems like you’re busy.” It pauses, for a very long time. “Do you have someone else here?”

Your breath gets caught in your throat. You stiffen, afraid to be caught, even though there’s no way for you to be seen. You remember, almost belatedly, that you had left your pair of sandals outside by the front door.

Caleb speaks, his voice low. “No, as you can see, it’s just me here.”

The second voice speaks. Its voice is hushed. “I apologize for the personal question. We’ll take our leave now.” There’s another pause, brief this time. “You know, we never were really able to express our condolences about last year. W--.”

“Time passes. We all learn to deal with it in different ways. I appreciate the concern, but it’s getting late,” Caleb interrupts.

You hear their footsteps creak on the floorboards and then the sound of the front door closing shut.

You back up away from the bedroom door, searching for something to focus on. But before you can do anything, the door opens.

Caleb walks into the room. There’s a stiffness to him. He feels unstable, and his eyes seem murky, like he can’t even see what’s in front of him. And then he sees you.

You step forward, cautiously.

Before you can say anything, he’s advanced towards you. You can’t fully read the expression on his face, but he looks agonized, like a wounded animal. You take a step back, tentative. And then another one. But he keeps chase. Right before he can close the gap, he stops himself. His fingers flex next to him, and you see that his chest is puffing out ragged breaths.

You step forward, this time. “Are you...,” your voice is soft and uncertain, “Are you alright?”

He lets in a shaky breath. “Please,” he exhales. You look up at him, hesitant, and then nod.

And then his mouth is on you. He’s dragged you so that the two of you are pressed firmly together. His hands press against your hips, and his fingers are already traveling up under your shirt. You let out a whimper as he nips your bottom lip, opening up your mouth in invitation, and his tongue enters your mouth.

Something wet splashes against your skin. You stiffen underneath his touch. Is he crying?

His fingers are up against your back at the clasp of your bra. You tremble at the heat of his palm against the sensitive skin of your back.

You’re suddenly moving too fast. You can’t breathe. You reach up and press Caleb’s chest away, but he seems like he isn’t even here with you anymore. You push again, more firm this time, and try to back away. Your right leg twists. You’re falling back, knocking against the wall of plushies.

He breaks away from you just in time to catch you. But it’s too late for the collision—the plushies come tumbling down in a cascade.

You look up at him with teary eyes, your cheeks flushed. “Caleb,” you breathe in air roughly, “Are you alright?”

There’s that look in his eyes again—like he’s seeing you, but at the same time not seeing you. There are dried tears on his cheeks. He’s distraught. And then his gaze clears. He’s seeing you, properly this time.

“I’m...,” he takes a step back, dragging his hand down his face in defeat. “I’m sorry. I...can’t trust myself with you right now. I’ll...I’ll sleep outside today.”

He turns his back to you and is already on his way out of the room.

You reach a hand out. “Caleb, please. Wait, please just explain to me--.”

The door clicks shut behind you.

You drop to your knees, winded. Your head is beginning to hurt again, and that awful pain is prickling again in your chest. And then you catch a glint, one that exactly matches that of the ring around your finger.

You flick your gaze to the door. Did he see it?

And then you hang your head down, burying your face in your hands, and let out a sound that sounds like a fragile mixture of an exhale and a sob.

You can’t keep doing this, can you?

🍏🍎

You wake up, alone in the bed, in the middle of the night. You don’t know how you got to sleep, but you did. When you had stepped out in the living room earlier, hoping to talk to him, you had found that Caleb had disappeared. In that state?

You had called him, but each time, he had let it go to voicemail. You had tried to wait for him, but it had gotten late, and before you knew it you fell asleep.

But now that you’ve heard a sound in the common room, you hastily hurry out of bed. Sure, the middle of the night is never ideal for a conversation, but at least you have to make sure that he returned back safe and unharmed.

You’re about to open the door when you hear a soft murmur through the door. A gasp of your name. A soft, husky whine. And then you realize, your cheeks furiously burning, what exactly he’s doing on the sofa you were sleeping on earlier. You close your eyes, trying to imagine the sight on the other side of the door.

Caleb, his cheeks rosy, with his hand around his leaking cock. Caleb, with his head tilted back, murmuring your name in desperation. Your head is dizzy with your own imagination.

And then you hear a soft grunt and a sigh.

There’s a heat prickling in your gut, not unfamiliar. You force yourself to snap out of it.

You know what, you’ll try talking to him tomorrow. Not now, when the image of a flash of his abs as he strokes himself to completion keeps popping up in your mind.

You hear the floorboards creak under his feet, and then the door of the guest bathroom closing. You hurriedly lay back down in the bed, burying your tomato-red face in the pillow.

You shut your eyes tightly, your heartbeat racing in your chest, as you hear him emerge from the bathroom...and walk by the bedroom door.

You relax, relieved that he didn’t decide to come into the bedroom. Though the bed did seem a little too large and cold without him there, the idea of him, his body heat, after everything that happened today and tonight...well, you just didn’t quite know what to think about it.

You roll onto your other side, reaching out for your phone. The website that you had left on pops open, and Dr. Zayne’s face appears in front of you again.

You click on the Akso Hospital website link. Searching through the directory of doctors, you find Dr. Zayne’s unsmiling picture easily.

Whatever had been referred to as last year’s incident and whatever had caused you to remember this Dr. Zayne (real memory or not), you couldn’t help being curious about. Who knows, you might be of help to the you of this world, whenever she decides to return.

Maybe in finding out more about this Dr. Zayne, you might have an idea of what exactly brought you into this world.

You take another glance at the bedroom door.

And then you hit contact us.

An error pops up the moment the number pops up. You try to press the contact us again, and the screen freezes, not letting you open the page. But when you try to search something else up, your phone acts normal, like it's supposed to.

After several failed attempts, you turn off your phone and set it to the side, frustrated.

You’ll try again tomorrow. And if it doesn’t work then, you’ll just keep trying again and again. But for some sinking reason, you have a feeling that the end result will be the same as it was today.

Futile.

His dark eyes flicked to the side, a sly smirk tugging at his lips. “Yeah?” he teased, his tone lazy, though the faint flush climbing his neck didn’t escape you. “That all you wanted to tell me sweetie?”

Instead of answering, you leaned in, letting your fingers slip between buttons, brushing over bare skin. “No,” you whispered against the shell of his ear, your breath making him shift in his seat. “I want you sy.”

That made him pause, the brown file lowering in his hands. His smirk shifted, deepening into something darker, more intrigued. “Really now?” he murmured, his voice dipping into that teasing lilt that always made your stomach flutter.

You didn’t even try to hide the slow smile curling your lips as you leaned in, humming as you pressed a soft kiss to the curve of his shoulder through the fabric of his shirt.

“You always look good every day…” you whispered, your words trailing off as your fingers wandered lower, brushing dangerously close to the sharp line of his v-line. A rush of heat stirring deep in your core, your tongue flicked out to wet your lips as your gaze lifted back to his.

“…but you look really sexy right today.” you breathed, your voice hushed and honest, eyes drinking in every detail of his face. Before he could reply, you moved around the side of the chair, slow and deliberate, until you were in front of him. A low chuckle escaped the white haired man as his eyes follow you, dark and gleaming. "Maybe I should wear this everyday if it makes you this forward then."

As you set the file aside on the couch, your hand graced his shoulder with a gentle push, swinging a leg over his thigh, you straddled him with practiced ease, your body settling against his lap. Hands already coming up to grip your waist and slid up your shirt, "You could wear anything and I'd still wanna get in your pants." You whispered, quickly closing the gap between you two as your arms wrapped around his neck.

Your lips crashed against Sylus’s, heat sparking the instant they met. One hand slid up instinctively, fingers threading through the pale strands at the nape of his neck before curling into his hair, giving a soft, desperate tug.

Soft moans spilled against his mouth as you shifted in his lap, grinding forward with a needy roll of your hips that pulled a rough curse from him. Veiny hands clamped harder on your waist, thumbs digging in like he needed to hold on or lose himself.

You barely broke the kiss, lips brushing his as you breathed, shaky and hot, “More…” before crashing back into him, kissing deeper, tasting him, pressing yourself flush against him as your hips rocked again—another groan tearing from his chest.

“You’re insatiable, kitten…”

ZAYNE.

Your Zayne was always a respectful, always gentle. A sweetheart. Never wanting you to think that sex was simply a means of pleasure, that it was an act of love between the two of you that went beyond words and terms of endearment.

Though at this very second, you wanted the farthest thing from that.

You had come for the third time that night but the need seated deep in your cunny still burned, not as big- but hot. So when zayne kissed your shoulder and asked if you were okay all you could breathe out against his pillows was, "Harder."

His breath caught, the soft murmur of your request seeming to coil around his spine and snap something loose. “Harder?” he echoed, voice low, almost disbelieving, like he needed to hear it again to be sure.

You nodded quickly, hips still rolling back against him, needy and slick, a tremor running through your thighs. “Yes—need it,” you gasped, “need you to make me take it please zaynie.” You whined out.

For a heartbeat, the only sound in the room was your ragged breathing. Then you felt it—his body tense behind you, a sharp inhale drawn through his teeth. The twitch of his cock in your walls as he breathed.

“My angel …” he rasped, as one of his hands slid up your spine, fingers splaying over your shoulder blade like he was grounding himself. “You say things like that—” his voice broke into a low groan, “—and you don’t even know what it does to me.”

You felt the soft brush of his lips against your ear, his words spilling over you like molten honey. “You want me to make you take it?” His voice was lower now, rougher, almost feral. “Then hold on, because I won't stop until you beg me to.”

Then suddenly Zayne’s hands, which were always so tender, suddenly tightened—fingers digging into your hips with a bruising grip as he shifted behind you. You felt him press in deeper, the head of his cock deliciously kissing your cervix, making your mouth drop open in an 'o'. But what really made your eyes roll back was the way he almost fully pulled out before thrusting all the way back in your walls, practically fucking the air out of your lungs as you screamed.

A sharp cry tumbled from your lips, half-pain, half-pleasure, and he growled low in your ear, “Like that?” Your nails curled into the sheets, head dropping forward as another wave surged through you. “Yes—fuck, yes yes!"

Your body jolted with every movement, legs trembling as the coil inside you wound tight again. Brain melting as you felt his cock drag against every trembling, swollen spot inside you, stroking deep enough to make your vision blur.

“Zaynie—” you whimpered, voice breaking, “you’re so deep—s'good—” The words spilled out unchecked, raw and hungry, nothing like the shy murmurs you usually gave him. “Your so good love, s'good. Love you so much zaynie."

You felt him twitch at that, hips stuttering for just a fraction of a second before he groaned into your neck, the sound guttural and strained. “Yes,” you gasped again, louder now, back arching as another thrust drove you forward, “just like that—fuck me harder, Zayne—ruin me, please—!"

A strangled curse tore from his throat, his rhythm snapping into something even rougher, hips slamming forward with a force that left you crying out against the pillows. Soft gasps and groans further spurring you on. Dirty words continuing to fall from your lips, frantic, breathless, shaking as you chased the edge:

“Want it—wanna feel you so deep it stays in me—shiit, you’re gonna cum with me, aren’t you? Fill me up zaynie, fuck—yes, please, please—”

Your own voice cracked as the tension finally snapped, pleasure tearing through you in a hot, blinding rush. Your legs quivered violently as you cried his name, the world narrowing to nothing but him—his grip, his thrusts, the deep, ragged groan he let out as your body clenched down hard around him, milking him as you finished with a shuddering, bliss-drunk whimper.

“Such a dirty girl,” Zayne rasped against your ear, his voice wrecked, thick with the strain of holding on. His hips stuttered once, twice, before he buried himself to the hilt, a broken moan ripping from his chest as he spilled into you.

XAVIER.

There was something hypnotic about Xavier that night—the way he stood at the counter under the warm glow of the kitchen light, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, forearms flexing with each careful slice of the knife. He wasn’t doing anything extraordinary, just chopping vegetables, but there was a quiet focus in his movements, a softness in the curve of his shoulders, that made your pulse quicken and your thighs press together under the oversized shirt you’d stolen from him.

You crept up behind him barefoot, the cool tile under your feet a stark contrast to the heat pooling in your belly. Your arms slipped around his middle, cheek brushing between his shoulder blades as you breathed him in—soap, faint cologne, him.

He chuckled low, a rumble you felt through his back, clearly used to your little hugs while he cooked. But when your hands drifted lower, fingertips tracing over the waistband of his sweatpants before cupping the growing heat there, his knife paused mid‑slice and his breath caught in his throat.

“Baby,” he murmured, a warning tangled with amusement, “I’m trying to cook.”

You hummed against his back, lips grazing the space between his shoulder blades as your palm cupped him more firmly. Your other hand snuck in to tug at the drawstring of his pants, loosening them.

He paused, then slowly turned around, eyes warm as he cupped your face and leaned down to kiss you—soft, slow, like he wanted to savor the moment and satiate your hunger with just that.

But you broke the kiss, breathless, shaking your head. “Need more..” you whispered, voice thick with need. " 'need a different kiss from you.”

His eyes darkened, heart hammering in his chest as you sank to your knees right there on the tile. You looked up at him, lips parted in that slow, sinful smile you knew drove him wild.

“Let me taste you, Xav,” you said, already tugging his pants and boxers down enough for his cock to spring free, thick and flushed, the head already leaking precome. His hands gripped the counter like he needed the anchor. “God… you’re gonna kill me star.”

You leaned in and licked a slow stripe along his length, your tongue curling around the head before you swallowed him deeper, lips stretching, your fingers curling around the base to guide him. His hips jerked forward with a groan, knuckles white where they clutched the counter.

“Fuck—sweetheart, you don’t—” His voice broke off into a strangled sound when you hollowed your cheeks, sucking him deep until the head bumped the back of your throat.

You moaned softly around him, your free hand gripping his hip, pulling him in just a little deeper, your eyes fluttering closed as you felt his cock twitch against your tongue. “So good, hah star—” Xavier’s hand left the counter to tangle in your hair, not pushing, just holding, his hips rocking forward helplessly as you set a rhythm—deep, eager pulls, the wet sounds echoing in the quiet kitchen.

Your own voice was muffled around him, but you managed to breathe out something filthy against his skin, your lips brushing the sensitive underside as you worked him: “Want you… wanna taste you so bad… fill my throat, Xav, please—give it to me.”

His thighs trembled under your hands. “Baby—fuck, don't say that, you're gonna make me—” You didn’t let up, sucking harder, your nails digging into his hips as you pulled him into your mouth, your throat relaxing as you took more, swallowed more, until his rhythm broke entirely.

“God—” he gasped, hips jerking, before he spilled deep, hot, filling your mouth as he groaned out your name in a raw, shuddering rasp. You stayed there, eyes closing, swallowing every drop, your hands still holding him steady until his breathing evened out and his grip on your hair loosened into something tender.

“Fuck,” Xavier whispered, breathless and wrecked, looking down at you like you’d just undone him completely. His thumb brushed over your cheek as you looked up, licking your lips. "You taste so sweet xavy..cmon lemme have another."

CALEB.

Caleb was always patient, always soft with you. Every time you two ended up tangled in the sheets, he treated you like something fragile—something precious. Even when his chest was heaving, when sweat was dripping down his temples, his voice stayed low and soothing, always checking on you, always asking if you were okay.

But right now, there wasn’t a shred of that patience left in you.

Your thighs were already trembling, sticky and sore from riding him through two hard, messy releases, but the ache between your legs was a fever that wouldn’t die down. You sat straddling him in the dim glow of your bedroom, his back propped up against the headboard, his chest still rising and falling heavy as you ground your hips down in slow, circling rolls.

“Pips…” His voice was hoarse, wrecked, a hand sliding over your thigh like he wasn’t sure if he should stop you. “You already—fuck, you already got me twice.”

You only whimpered in response, nails digging into his shoulders as you rocked your hips forward, dragging his sensitive cock against your slick walls but never lifting, never giving him a chance to slip out. “I know,” you gasped, your voice shaking, desperate, “but I still need it—need you still, you feel so good—”

He groaned low, head tipping back against the headboard, the tendons in his neck flexing as you rolled your hips again, deliberately grinding your clit down against the base of him. The wet drag made his hips twitch up in reflex, a broken sound falling from his lips.

“God, baby—” his voice cracked, hips shifting helplessly under you, his hands gripping your waist tight but not pushing, not stopping. “You’re gonna fuckin’ ruin me…”

Your eyes fluttered half-shut as you kept moving, circling your hips, leaning forward so your chest brushed his, your lips brushing against his jaw as you panted against his skin. “Then let me,” you whispered, feral and shaking, “please—let me take it, Caleb. Let me make you come again. Wanna feel it—want you so bad.”

He shuddered hard, and you felt him twitch inside you, overstimulated but thickening again from your desperate rhythm, from the wet sounds filling the room and the way you whimpered every time you ground yourself down onto him.

Caleb’s hands slid lower, gripping your ass now, but only to hold you there, to anchor himself as his eyes squeezed shut. “You’re fuckin insane pips,” he rasped, voice breaking as your walls clenched around him again. “You’re gonna—shit—”

The next grind had him choking out your name, his hips jerking up hard in an instinct he couldn’t stop, and you moaned deep in your throat, nails raking down his chest as you rode the motion, grinding faster, harsher, lost in it.

“C’mon,” you begged, voice high and broken, “do it again, 'leb, give it to me—I need it, I need it—”

His breath hitched, a shudder running through his whole body as he suddenly buried his face in your neck, hips bucking up once, twice—then a strangled groan ripped out of him, low and raw, as you felt him spill deep again, twitching hard inside you, thick and hot as you squeezed down around him.

You gasped out his name, trembling on top of him, still grinding in tight, slow circles as he whimpered through the overstimulation, hands clutching you like he couldn’t tell you no even if he tried.

“Shit pips, you’re—” his voice broke into a ragged laugh against your throat, “you’re too much…”

But he never stopped you. Even as he shook from the sensitivity, even as you kept rolling your hips with a wild, hungry rhythm, he just held you close, letting you take everything you wanted, letting you ride him through every aftershock and beyond—panting, desperate, both of you dizzy and undone and still needing more.

RAFAYEL.

You had been shy with Rafayel at first. Not just in the way you looked at him, but in what you let him do to you, what you allowed yourself to ask for. There was something about him—his calm voice, his warm hands—that made you feel safe, and yet when he looked at you sometimes, eyes dark and patient, it scared you how much you wanted to give him.

So when he whispered softly one night, “Let’s try something new, hm cutie?” your heart almost jumped out of your chest.

“Rafayel—wait, I—” you stammered, lying back against the sheets as he eased you onto your side, then onto your back. Your breath stuttered as he kissed the inside of your knee, sliding your leg over his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I… I don’t know if I can—”

He stilled, gazing up at you with that soft, unwavering expression that always made your pulse race. “You can stop me anytime,” he murmured. “But I want to taste you while you taste me. Only if you want it.”

Your mouth went dry. You’d imagined it before—shameful little flashes in your head when you were alone—but now, with his calm hands guiding you, your body trembled with a heat that frightened and thrilled you all at once.

“Honey…” you whispered, unsure if it was a plea or a warning.

But then his lips brushed your inner thigh again, slow, tender, and something in you broke. You reached for him, tugged at his arm, your face hot as you whispered, “Okay… okay. I… I want it.”

-

The world tilted as he guided you, careful and slow, until you were both lying opposite ways, his broad shoulders bracketing your thighs while his cock, already heavy and flushed, hovered inches from your lips.

Your breath caught as his tongue found you first, hot and slow, teasing until you whined and shivered beneath him. Your hips twitched, trying to press back against his mouth, but your attention quickly shifted to him—how thick he felt in your hand, how the head already leaked warm across your fingers.

You licked him softly at first, shy little flicks of your tongue that made his hips jerk against you. A soft groan rumbled from his chest, the vibration spilling through your cunt and making you moan around him.

“Mhm… good girl,” Rafayel breathed against you, his voice ragged.

Something in you melted at that, and you wanted more—needed more. You took him deeper, lips stretching, hollowing your cheeks as you sucked, tasting salt and skin, desperate to make him lose that careful composure.

He groaned louder now, hips jerking again, his hands flexing against your hips but not pulling you away. “F‑fuck, cutie, you’re—ngh—” His voice broke into a rough sound as you bobbed your head faster, saliva dripping down your chin, your moans humming around his cock.

His rhythm on you faltered; you felt it—the twitch in his length, the way his thighs tensed under your hands. And you didn’t stop. You wanted it. Wanted him undone.

“More…” you whimpered around him, words garbled, desperate. “Need you—need your cum, please honey—”

That broke him. A strangled groan ripped from his throat, his hips thrusting shallowly into your mouth as he spilled hot and sudden over your tongue, pulse after pulse flooding you. You moaned helplessly, swallowing around him, sucking him through it, milking every last drop until he trembled above you, voice breaking on your name.

And still—still—you didn’t stop.

Your mind went dizzy, drunk on the taste of him, your jaw aching but refusing to let go. He twitched in your mouth, over‑sensitive, and you whined, licking and sucking slow, greedy, as if you could keep him hard forever.

“Angel—oh… oh god—” Rafayel’s voice was wrecked now, hips jerking despite himself as your tongue swirled around the head, your spit slicking him down as you took him again, deeper this time.

You were cock‑drunk, eyes fluttering, moaning low as you rocked your hips against his mouth without thinking, needy and lost in him. His hands trembled where they gripped your thighs, but he didn’t stop tasting you either—licking, sucking, groaning into you as if your desperation was contagious.

You moaned louder, the sound breaking around him, your throat working greedily while your legs shook around his head. He cursed softly, hoarse and shaken, as you swallowed him down again, relentless, chasing another twitch, another pulse, even as he shuddered and spilled every ragged sound into you.

By the time you pulled off him, panting, lips swollen and chin wet, your voice was nothing but a trembling whisper: "Please… need more raf.”

And the way he groaned at that, dragging his tongue against your clit again, let you know he wasn’t going to stop until you both got exactly that.