fuckingstartingagain

He’s mid sentence, his gaze fixed intensely on the data stream, when the shift happens. He doesn't turn around immediately, he's far too disciplined for a sudden jerk of the head, but his brow furrows. A slight tension ripples through his broad shoulders. There's a scent in the air that shouldn't be there. Not the sterilized ozone of the Skyhaven tech, but you. Warmth, skin, and that unmistakable essence that haunts his every waking thought.

Then, he hears it. Or perhaps he simply feels the displacement of air as you move.

As you close the distance, Caleb’s eyes drift downward from the hologram. For a split second, his composure holds, until reality hits him like a kinetic blast.

His voice falters. It’s a tiny crack, almost imperceptible to anyone else, but to someone who knows him, it's a landslide. "...and finally, regarding the fuel reserves... "

He stops dead.

The sight of you completely naked, vulnerable yet devastatingly confident, walking towards him with a smirk shatters the carefully constructed walls of the Farspace Colonel. His eyes widen, the golden flecks within them igniting as they sweep over the curve of your hips, the expanse of your stomach, the rise and fall of your chest.

For a few seconds he forgets he's on a live feed. He forgets the dozen high ranking officials staring at his frozen visage. All he sees is you. His you. Naked and defiant in his office.

Heat floods his veins, warring violently with his ingrained discipline. His grip tightens on the edge of his desk, his knuckles turning a stark white against the dark wood. He looks like a man trying to hold back an avalanche with nothing but willpower.

"Sir?" a voice crackles through the comms, sounding confused. "Colonel? Is everything alright?"

Caleb swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. He forces his gaze upward, back to the glowing screens, but his pupils are blown wide, dark and predatory. A single bead of sweat tracks down his temple. He needs to end this. Now. Before his hunger becomes so loud it screams through the speakers.

"...Yes," he rasps "My apologies. An... unexpected variable has entered the room."

He doesn't wait for their nods. He cuts the transmission with a sharp flick of his wrist, the holograms vanishing instantly, plunging the room into a sudden silence.

Shit. Was this a good idea? Probably not. In fact, looking at the way his nostrils flare, you start to suspect it might have been a massive mistake.

He stands and moves toward you, closing the gap until you’re forced to tilt your head back just to keep him in view.

When his gloved hand slides under your chin, the sensation is jarring. The leather feels soft, but the strength behind it is undeniable. His thumb drags across your bottom lip, tracing the shape of your mouth as if he’s memorizing it for the thousandth time.

"Trying to get yourself into trouble, it seems," he says, and there’s a dark, melodic quality to his voice that makes your toes curl against the rug. "And succeeding beautifully, as always."

Your pulse is thrumming in your throat. "Caleb, it's just a prank... I..." You try to stammer out an excuse but he’s already ahead of you.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you it's rude to interrupt someone during a meeting?" He tilts his head, a playful smirk on those full lips, but his eyes don't look playful at all. They look ravenous.

Panic, delicious and frantic, surges through you and without thinking, you bolt.

Behind you, you can hear the heavy thud of his boots. He isn't rushing, he knows you can't outrun him forever. It's worse that way. It’s taunting.

"Oh, you're in for it now"

You lunge for the door, wrenching it open and stumbling out into the corridor. The sudden rush of chilled air against your skin makes you gasp, a shiver racing from your shoulders to your thighs.

You’re fast, but he’s a soldier. He's effortlessly eating up the territory you fight so hard to gain and every step sounds like a countdown.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Panic and adrenaline are doing a dizzying dance in your chest. You glance back over your shoulder for a split second, seeing his tall, imposing frame rounding the corner. In the dim lighting of the hall, he looks less like the man who cooks for you and more like the formidable Colonel of the Farspace Fleet.

"Don't you dare run from me, pipsqueak!" he calls out, his voice echoing off the walls. There's a tease in there, sure, but underneath it lies a familiar, possessive edge that usually means you're about to lose all your autonomy for the next couple of hours.

You’re so close to the bedroom, maybe you'll have enough time to hide or grab a robe to cover up.

The air suddenly shifts. The atmospheric pressure in the hallway spikes, getting heavy and dense, making it harder to draw a clean breath. You realize with a sinking sensation in your gut that he's stopped walking.

He's done chasing. He's started pulling.

You feel an invisible force catch you, a localized surge of gravity that tugs at your waist. He’s using his Evol. He’s playing with you.

One minute you’re bolting through the halls like a startled deer, and the next, you’re being hauled up against his solid chest. He moves with effortless grace, his arms wrapped around you tightly, making your struggles feel almost adorable, almost futile.

When you hit the mattress, the impact is soft, but the air rushes out of your lungs in a breathless oof, leaving you dazed amidst the expensive linens. You barely have time to gasp before he’s there, a mountain of solid muscle and overwhelming intent, looming over you.

"Did you really think you could run from me?"

He pins your wrists above your head with a single large hand, his grip firm but careful, as if he’s terrified he might actually bruise you even while he’s punishing you.

"I think I'll just have to find a better way to... keep you occupied," he murmurs, and the way he says it, gravelly, utterly certain makes you clench around nothing.

The world tilts, his evol flipping you effortlessly onto your hands and knees, palms pressing into the duvet, ass arched helplessly in the air. The coolness of the room vanishes, replaced instantly by the radiating heat of his body hovering just inches behind you.

The silence of the room is punctured by the metallic rasp of his zipper being lowered. The sound is deafening in your ears. Shaky, you twist your torso, glancing back over your shoulder, and the sight nearly makes your heart stop entirely.

He looks feral. His eyes have bled into a darkness so profound they look like twin voids. His gaze is anchored to the junction of your thighs, where the pulsing length of him is already nudging against your slick pussy.

"I bet you thought you could tease me and just run off, didn't you?" he breathes and there’s no mercy in his tone or in the way he rocks his hips forward.

You let out a strangled whimper as the thick head of his cock begins to slide between your folds, stretching you inch by inch.

"Well, you're not going anywhere now," his words vibrate directly into your spine. "Not until I've fucked the neediness out of you."

His gloved hand dives into your hair, fisting the strands, and yanks your head back.

"I love watching you run, pips," the nickname sounds less like a term of endearment and more like a hunter praising his prey. He keeps the tension on your hair, forcing your spine to arch painfully sweet. The rhythm he sets is bruising and unapologetically primal.

"Cay..." you manage to choke out, your voice a fractured wreck of its usual self. You’re drowning in him, lost in a wave of pleasure and the suffocating weight of his obsession.

In response, his free hand descends. 

Smack.

The sting of his palm hitting your ass feels electric, the warmth spreading where he marked you, a stinging brand that mirrors the heat of his cock sliding in and out of you.

"Because..." he huffs, his breath ragged and uneven as he leans down, his chest crushing against your back, "...because it gives me time to think about what I'll do to you when I finally catch you."

The floorboards had other plans for your little prank.

You were trying to be quiet, creeping into his studio on your tip-toes, but a soft creak echoed through the room and just like that, the silence was dead. Rafayel’s head snapped in your direction. He froze, paintbrush mid air, and then his eyes went wide. Not because you were there, but because you were there completely naked.

"Cutie, what on earth are you doing?" He let out a huff of a laugh, setting his brush down on the stool with a clatter as he stood up. He didn't look away, his gaze wandered, tracing the lines of your body in a way that made the air in the room feel suddenly much heavier. "Walking around like that... you're gonna catch a cold" he teased, that familiar glint dancing in his eyes as he started closing the distance between you.

You let out a small giggle—part nerves, part adrenaline—and started backing away while your heart was doing a little tap dance against your ribs.

Then, out of nowhere, he lunged.

It was all a blur of movement. You let out an undignified yelp, spinning around to make a break for it. But luck wasn't on your side today. Your foot caught on a loose plank and suddenly the world tilted. Everything went into slow motion. Your arms were flailing, you were losing the battle with gravity, and you were definitely going down.

Rafayel scrambled to catch you, his face shifting from playful to panicked in a heartbeat, but he wasn't exactly on solid ground himself. He’d stepped right into a patch of spilled, slick paint—probably from his own messy workspace—and his feet went out from under him.

It was a disaster.

There was a loud, chaotic crash as you both went flying toward the work table. Brushes, half-empty paint tubes, and canvases all went tumbling in a messy heap, clattering across the floor. But then, the chaos softened. Rafayel landed with a heavy, muffled grunt, his body acting like a human cushion to take the brunt of the impact. He wrapped his arms around you tight, pulling you into his chest, shielding you from the wreckage as if he were protecting the most fragile thing in the world.

"Gotcha!"

You were squirming, laughing, trying to find a way out of his embrace but he was like a warm vice, completely unyielding. The spilled paint felt cold and slick against your skin, dripping lazily down your thighs and stomach.

You made a half hearted attempt to wiggle free mostly just for the drama of it but he wasn't having any of it. He let out a rich, dark chuckle that you felt more in your chest than heard.

"Not so fast, my little troublemaker," he teased "You can't just barge in here completely naked and walk away without paying the consequences for such reckless behavior, you know."

His eyes moved over the chaos of the studio before settling back on you. "Just look at the mess you've made," he murmured, fingers tracing the colorful, wet streaks of pigment that now adorned your skin.

Then, his expression shifted. The playfulness didn't vanish, but it deepened into something much more him. A slow smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. "And now, look at the mess I'm going to make of you."

The intent in his eyes made your breath hitch. Before you could even process the heat rising in your cheeks, his hand began to move.

"Raf, wait..." your words were supposed to be a warning, a way to catch your breath, but they came out as a shaky whisper that sounded more like an invitation. Your body arched instinctively toward him, seeking out the very heat you were supposed to be wary of.

His hands, slick and stained with every color of the rainbow, began a slow ascent up the curve of your stomach. He wasn't just touching you, he was painting you. Every stroke of his fingers left a colorful trail against your skin, a messy masterpiece of his own making.

When his hands finally reached the swell of your breasts, he paused. He was an artist staring at a canvas he wasn't quite ready to ruin yet, just admiring the way the blues and reds looked against the natural glow of your skin. Then, with a grin that was pure Rafayel, he cupped you. His thumbs began to graze your nipples in a teasing, rhythmic motion, and that was it. Your back arched off the floor, a soft gasp escaping you as the world narrowed down to nothing but the feeling of his hands and the burning, beautiful need for more.

"Beautiful," there was a reverent weight to his voice, the kind of tone a man uses when he's looking at something sacred but the raw hunger in his eyes told a much more human story.

Your nipples peaked, aching with a sharp need that made you feel almost dizzy. It was like he could read the very pulse of your desire because the moment you reacted, he was there.

"Such a stunning masterpiece," he whispered before he leaned down and replaced the friction of his fingers with the wet heat of his mouth. One nipple was caught in the soft pull of his lips, his tongue flicking and suckling while his hand stayed busy, massaging your other breast with a possessive grip.

"Raf... please..."

"Please, what?" He murmured against your skin, his voice muffled by the swell of your breast.

He pulled back just an inch, hovering there, his eyes searching yours. "Please, stop?" he asked, his voice dripping with a fake, wide eyed innocence that was so transparent it was almost insulting. "Or... please, don't stop?"

You couldn't help but notice his lips were now stained a ridiculous shade of cerulean.

"Look, you're the one who barged in here, after all," he pointed out, his tone shifting into that signature, sarcastic charm that always made you want to both kiss him and shove him. "If you want something specific, cutie, you're going to have to be a little more... descriptive. Don't leave the artist guessing, will you?"

"Please fuck me"

With a rough, impatient tug, he stripped his pants and underwear down, freeing himself. He was already impossibly hard, the tip of him glistening and leaking as he lined the head of his cock with your entrance. The heat of him was enough to make your head tilt back, breath hitching in your chest.

"Oh my god, Raf..."

He let out a low growl, a sound that was half animal and all arrogance.

"That's right, the only god you're going to be calling right now..."

With one sharp thrust of his hips, he drove himself home.

A loud, unbidden moan tore from your throat, your body reacting instinctively as you clamped down tight around him.

He stayed there for a heartbeat, buried deep, his chest heaving as he looked at your wrecked expression. When his eyes locked onto yours all you saw was a devotional kind of hunger.

"...is me." he finished, the words a breathless groan against your lips.

You are standing in the middle of the room, stripped of everything but your nerve. The air in the safehouse is biting, sending a shiver through you that makes your nipples pebble painfully against the chill. You try to convince your racing heart that this isn't entirely insane. Well, is completely mental but then again, Sylus has never once been a man to bite the hand that feeds him... especially when that hand belongs to you.

He doesn't even flinch. He stays hunched over the desk, his focus locked on his handgun, his movements methodical and precise as he cleans the metal.

"Lose something, kitten?" His voice is a low, casual drawl, slicing through the quiet without him even bothering to lift his head. There’s a definite lilt of amusement there. "Because unless you forgot your clothes back at home, I don't quite remember asking you to parade around like that."

Of course. Of course he knew. You almost want to roll your eyes at his composure.

The clink of metal hits the table. He sets the gun aside and settles back into the leather of his chair, finally lifting his crimson eyes to meet yours. For a split second, just a heartbeat, his gaze falters. His eyes widen, sweeping over the curves of your body before that familiar smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth.

"Most people actually bother knocking," he muses "Or, heaven forbid, they grab a robe before deciding to invade a man's privacy so... aggressively."

He reaches out then, his fingertip tracing a slow, agonizing line down the center of your stomach.

"Well?" he prompts, his tone dropping into a low, challenging register. "Don't let me interrupt your little performance. Surely there's a grand purpose behind this sudden bout of nudity."

You offer a nonchalant shrug, leaning into the mischief of it all as a grin tugs at your lips. "Honestly, Sy? It was just a prank. Saw it in some stupid video online and figured... why not test you out?"

The way he moves, slow, like a predator savoring the hunt has your breath catching as he unfolds to his full height. He looms over you, close enough that the heat of his body seeps into yours, his chest nearly grazing yours with every shallow inhale.

"You should be more careful with your pranks, sweetie." His crimson gaze rakes over you, possessive and dark. "A girl could get hurt, walking around like a piece of meat."

His lips brush the shell of your ear "Or worse..." A pause. A tease. "She could get eaten."

You try to run. You really do. But before you can tense his evol snaps into existence, black and red mist erupting from the shadows like living ropes. They coil around your wrists, your ankles, binding you in place with eerie precision. The energy is cool, almost silken, against your skin and the message is clear, you’re not going anywhere.

"Running off so soon?" His chuckle is dark, amused, as he circles you like a wolf inspecting its prey. His fingers trail along your bound arms, testing the give of the energy, the way your breath hitches when he touches one of your nipples. "We were just getting to the good part."

He sinks back into his chair and the tendrils of his Evol tighten around your thighs before lifting you, suspending you in the air for a heartbeat before you find yourself face down over his lap. Your bare skin presses against the hard muscle of his thighs, the position obscene in its vulnerability.

His hand comes to rest on the small of your back, fingers splayed possessively. "Now, let’s see how long you can take it."

The sensation is immediate and impossible to ignore. The thick ridge of his cock pressing firm and insistent against your belly. Even through the layers of his expensive fabric, the heat radiating from him is staggering, sending a wave of shameful heat rolling through your gut. You're pinned and entirely at his whim.

CRACK!

The sound of his palm connecting with the soft swell of your backside echoes sharply against the walls. Before the sting can even settle, he strikes again.

"Ah!" The sound escapes you unbidden, a startled, breathless gasp as your entire face turns a bright shade of red. The embarrassment is prickling and the pleasure overwhelming.

He doesn't let go. Instead, his large, veiny hands clamp down on your asscheeks, fingers digging in deeply as he kneads the tender flesh with bruising pressure.

"Consider this a courtesy," he mutters, his thumb tracing the edge of a fresh welt. "A little warning for the next time you decide to stage a production, getting me worked up like this with absolutely no intention of seeing it through."

SMACK!

Another heavy blow jolts your entire body, the impact jarring you directly against the hardness of his erection.

"Because let's be clear, sweetie..." his knuckles turn white against your skin. "...if you keep playing games with things you aren't prepared to handle, gentleness goes out the window." He delivers one final, stinging slap that makes your toes curl. "You play with fire, you're bound to get burned."

Between your thighs, everything is turning liquid. There's a pulsing heat pooling deep inside you, and your clit is throbbing in perfect sync with the hammer of your heart. If you shifted just a fraction he’d see exactly how much damage this little "prank" has done to your composure.

You can't help yourself. You're a glutton for chaos after all.

You shift just an inch, parting your legs just enough to expose the truth.

The moment his eyes catch the glimmer of moisture coating your inner thighs, a knowing chuckle vibrates in his chest. Without a word, his Evol reacts to his mood, shadowy, crimson edged tendrils surge upward, hoisting you higher and tilting your hips until you’re straddling him perfectly, your soaking heat hovering right above the straining bulge in his trousers.

Sylus doesn't wait. He works his belt loose and slides his zipper down with a decisive metallic rasp. When his cock snaps free, your breath catches in your throat. It’s long, thick, and the swollen head is already weeping with anticipation. Seeing it triggers a fresh rush of wetness that floods your core.

"Look at you," he whispers, his voice sounding wrecked and appreciative. He doesn't thrust in yet, instead, he teases you, dragging the sensitive tip of his dick along your slit in a torturous, shallow glide. "So incredibly wet. Clenching at empty air... literally aching to be filled."

"If... if I'm going to ride you, Sy," you manage to pant, "does that mean I get to be in charge?"

He throws his head back, letting out a rich, incredulous laugh at your naivety. It’s the most beautiful, arrogant sound you’ve ever heard. Then, in one fluid motion he thrusts his hips upward with startling force.

The world vanishes and your vision swims "Fuuuuuck!" the word breaks from your lips, unplanned and raw. Your back arches instinctively, your muscles stretching and yielding to the fullness that’s currently splitting you open.

He grips your hips, his thumbs digging into your skin to anchor you as he watches the pleasure wash over your face. "Don't get it twisted, doll," he grunts, his eyes burning like embers. "I can fuck you just as well from the bottom as I can from the top."

Your heart hammers at how needy he is. “If you want it so bad, you kiss me.” 

Without an ounce of hesitation Caleb crushes his lips to yours, tongue pushing past your opening in desperation as if he was starving for you. It is a clash of teeth and mixing of saliva as he suffocates himself against your lips, taking as much as he can get. He finally pulls away to get air, whimpering as he mouths pathetically at your bottom lip, mind too fuzzy to kiss you properly. 

The brush of your tongue against his has him panting, drool connecting the both of you as he sloppily mouths at your parted lips without thought. You smile slightly, leaning in to lock against him once more. 

Caleb’s eyes are blown wide, hazy and unfocused as he tries desperately to kiss you back, clumsily pressing his lips against yours in an attempt to keep up with you. 

Streams of whimpers and whines leave his mouth, his chest heaving as he attempts to even his breathing. “Hnng, I… pip-squeak—”

You decide to give him a break and trail your kisses down his neck to pay special attention to his bobbing Adam’s apple, smiling slyly as he tilts his head up. Shaky breaths brush your ear as he struggles to keep his composure. “Pips…I can’t…mmph…! I can’t f-focus…when you…ah!” 

Mouthing gently at his Adam’s apple, you feel Caleb’s hips buck up against you in shock. You groan, sending vibrations though his body that makes him shudder weakly. 

You’ve broken and reduced this man into a stuttering mess, but he looks like he’s exactly where he wants to be, eyes teary and head foggy as his eyes zero in on your lips. Hm… cute. 

“Wanna take me to the bedroom?”

“I…uhhh…huh?”

“Bedroom, Caleb.” 

The implication has him scrambling. “Yes…!”

This time is even more precious though. There’s more of him you’re discovering. Of course, there’s the usual: his warmth, his softness but now there’s hints of roughness. Roughness that you should be discovering anywhere but here.

When he sighs into your mouth, you forget about your worries.

It was meant to be a late night at the Association for you. You’d planned to finish your report and hand it in today, even if it meant being the last one out of the office. You were almost there, there was just a few more pages left to fill in, but then another chair rolled up next to you and soon you were coaxed into taking a well-needed break.

Somehow, this break meant sitting in your boyfriend’s lap and kissing him like you’d never have the chance to again. At your workplace. His one too. The one where you share the same colleagues and report to similar higher ups and have to look at one another with a straight face after this.

It’s quiet in the office, it’s far too dark and there’s only the glow of a few hologram displays nearby that illuminate your knitted figures. Beyond the doors there’s voices, there’s meetings, and here you both are. 

Shivers run down your spine when his fingers skim over it, and heat plummets in you when you consider how close he is to you. This is all too much for your first time kissing him like this, but your hands thread through his soft locks anyway and his other hand grips onto your thigh for support when you tug.

And he’s— God, you can feel how much he loves this. It makes your head spin when you realise how far you’ve gone now, but Xavier’s there to keep you grounded. His fingers press into your back, his palm brushes up your thigh, finds the curve of your silhouette, and you whimper when his tongue meets yours.

It takes your absolute full strength to pull yourself away, your body begs to stay in his embrace, but you know you’re pushing it now. You clear your throat, eyes adjusting to the dark when you whisper, “Xavier, we— I’m not sure if—”

But the words are stuck in your throat when you gaze down at him. Serene blue eyes pierce through despite how heavy-lidded they are, you see the way his lips are coated in a mixture of you and him and his heartbeat can be heard over the cars and civilians bustling just outside.

It’s fast, it’s so unbelievably fast, and that’s all because of you.

Xavier’s chest is heaving, and alongside his heartbeat comes the sound of hushed pants pushing past slicked lips. You've got one arm braced on his shoulder, and he leans into your forearm, seeking your touch. He’s quiet for a moment, just to catch his breath, and finally his voice comes into focus.

“We can stop. I’ll follow your lead.” It comes out in a broken whisper, struggles to find its footing between a steady tone and sweet quietness, and that also sends heat pooling between your thighs. 

You see the eager shine in his eyes, the silent plea that restrains him, and God he’s too pretty. You don’t want to stop— you can’t. You lean back in, and he’s there. His hand stays firm on your back, your thighs keep him in place beneath you and only the sounds of strained whimpers, reverent sighs and chair squeaking float from your cubicle.

You’d started it, really. Xavier had simply stopped by to check in on you, give your mind a rest from battle jargon. He’d slipped you a small kiss, a promise of seeing you soon, but something took over you. You kissed back, a little harder, and he’d been more than keen to reciprocate. 

Tomorrow you’ll blame it on the atmosphere and the thrill of being caught.

No one could blame you though. Xavier had been so sweet and gentle with you thus far, but you knew you were approaching your breaking point. His presence was always too close for you to be able to ignore him - he was on your mind more often than not. Being left alone with thoughts of Xavier meant wondering about the sides of him you hadn’t seen yet.

When he bites on the plush of your lip, you’re grateful that today’s the day you finally get to learn so much more. When you whimper from the delirious sting, his palm kneads into the softness of your ass and coaxes another whimper out of you.

You’re about to whine, to ask him for more - you’re not even quite sure what that may be yet - but the sound of footsteps draw close and soon the door to the office is being opened.

Light breaks through and tears apart the harmonious blacks and blues previously streaked across the room. Heat dissipates from you, your head spins, but you’re alone in your chair now. Xavier’s neatly arranged you back onto your chair, spun you round the right way and hidden himself somewhere.

You make eye contact with the colleague who’s just walked in and give a quaint smile, trying to appear as though your heart rate was completely normal.

You think Xavier’s teleported, but when you roll your chair closer to your desk a hand places itself on your thigh. You jolt at the feeling, and thank the stars above that your colleague is busy at their own desk.

His touch kicks in some sort of survival instinct; you try to subtly re-arrange yourself. You pat down your clothes, glance at the reflection in the monitor and tame stray hairs. It’s probably too late for that, but anything is better than thinking about Xavier’s hand that is… far too close for you to be normal about.

A quick peer under your desk shows you a sight you’re not prepared for.

He’s not even looking at you. He’s not trying to. His eyes are fixated on his hand, the one that rests higher up than it has before. His cheeks are flushed, his ears burn red, and his chest rises and falls in quick succession. He’s beautifully dishevelled and the definition of bliss.

It takes him a moment to realise you’re watching him, and Xavier slowly glances up. There’s a flicker of surprise, like you’d stumbled across a private moment, but it morphs into the sweetest of smiles. One that speaks of innocence and carries a hint of guilt.

When you shut your legs in realisation, he flops his forehead against your knee. Your body jolts, and he places a small kiss in apology.

ଳ⋆˚࿔ rafayel

“You know, I really think it’s unnecessary for you to buy a new outfit everytime you get paint on your clothes.”

“What do you have in mind then, cutie?”

“I don’t know… Maybe try a washing machine, or hand washing them. Or having a set only for when you paint so it doesn’t matter if it gets a bit messy. Maybe even—“

There’s a zipping sound just past the curtain, accompanied by a flurry of movements. “In order to paint, I need to be just like my canvas. Completely clear, brand new, ready to be washed in colours. Besides, I think a certain someone enjoys these little shopping trips, wouldn’t you agree?”

You scoff and cross your arms, scrutinising the figure behind the curtain. Like always, Rafayel had dirtied another pristine white set of his and begged you to accompany him shopping. He should have been perfectly aware you’d be against the trip - it’s not like you bought a new uniform every time you fought a wanderer - but he’d only taunted you and said he’d happily buy you one each time if you asked.

You’d gone round and round in circles, never learning to not make eye contact with a pretty shirt or tailored pants hung on display. He’d always somehow catch on and immediately be adding the piece onto the forever growing pile of clothes in your arms. 

“Why is it that when we go shopping for you, I’m the one who has to carry stuff?” you’d asked.

“I’m too weak to carry them. I’m tired. Isn’t my bodyguard supposed to do this?” He’d replied, not without a flick to his forehead. 

He’s lucky he’s cute.

You have to press your lips into a thin line when you think about his infuriatingly teasing expression - you can’t reinforce this behaviour. It’s not been very long since you started dating, but you think Rafayel already knows his charms work too easily on you. 

“Prepared to be blown away, cutie?”

“Show me what you got.”

In all honesty, you’re not really prepared. He’s styled in a silky white blouse and crisp black trousers, and whilst it’s a colour scheme you’ve seen him in before you’re still getting used to how pretty he can be. The lavender hues of his hair are striking in contrast, the blues and pinks in his eyes beam at you - only ever for you - and blush lips spread into a stupid smirk.

He’s going to be the death of you, and he knows it.

Your eyes drift and catch onto the detailed embroidery neatly displayed on the blouse. A motif of seashells and foam trail over his shoulder, down his chest and wrap around his waist. You don’t remember picking this one, and you’re intrigued. 

“That’s… actually really nice on you.”

Rafayel shakes his head, and pouts at you. “Are you surprised?”

You can’t think clearly, too focused on the intricacies, so you step forward and your hands begin to trace over the embroidery. You skim over the bold print, and learn the neat stitches story. From top to bottom, you admire the little details in it. There’s tiny crabs that scuttle over, specks of fish that waft through and coral that dance beneath your fingertips.

A hand catches your wrist. When you look up from the embroidery, a blushing Rafayel fills your view. He’s looking away, another pout pressing into his lips, and your breath catches. You’re about to apologise, you didn’t realise just how in his space you were. It dawns on you then that you’d been touching him too, the thinness of the blouse hadn’t concerned you in the slightest, oh—

It happens quickly, and you’re disorientated for a second. He’s pulled you into the changing room with him, a small space made for one really. The curtain is drawn behind you, and Rafayel moves from gripping your wrist to lacing his fingers through yours.

His voice is hushed when he says, “If you wanted a feel, cutie, you could’ve just asked.”

You’re floundering through apologies, and he’s quick to shush you. There’s not much room for you here, and he knows it. He takes one—two steps towards you, and you naturally scuffle backwards. Soon your back is pressed against the wall, and Rafayel has you where he wants. His eyes flit between your eyes to your lips.

For the first time since you got here, it’s silent. There’s the bumbling of customers just outside the cubicle, and you can’t help but gulp at the intensity of his eyes. He’s watching you keenly, and you feel hot under his gaze. You’re about to open your mouth, another apology ready to be said, but he disrupts you.

It’s eerily gentle, the way in which he finally speaks. A soft whisper of “Please, can I?” is all it takes for you to abandon any concerns about his feelings. He’s more than fine, you realise.

His pink cheeks speak of want, his eyes sparkle with desire and you’re more than happy to apologise for invading his space with a soft kiss.

It’s wouldn’t be the first time, of course. You’ve kissed him plenty of times before, but something has you questioning if gentleness is all he wants today. You think it’s the lack of room, the way he’s hazily watching you, his open clavicle you’re suddenly too aware of.

The sound of conversation nearby reminds you that you’re in public - what if a worker walked in and questioned the two pairs of shoes peaking from under the curtain?

Still. You can’t deny him because you don’t want to. He’s asked so nicely too; it was rare for him to be polite. That’s the kind of behaviour you should be rewarding.

You respond with a chaste kiss, delicate and sweet as always. It dawns on you, though, that this was the wrong move. Your earlier intuition was right, because soon Rafayel’s hand is pinning your wrist low against the wall. His other hand latches onto your cheek, softly pressed into your skin, and you’re drowning in him. 

It takes a moment for your brain to reboot, but when you’re finally there it’s a quiet match filled with pleasurable sighs and hushed whimpers. He takes the lead and flourishes you in harsh kisses, and your hand struggles to not scrunch into his pretty blouse. 

When his tongue slides into yours, your brain short-circuits and you’re tugging him closer, harder, into you. You can feel him smirk into the kiss, and it sends a wave of lightheadedness floating through.

With each kiss, each pang of dizziness, comes the steady collection of slick between your legs, you gasp. It’s too soon to be feeling like this, yes this was a lot more of a passionate kiss than usual, but it was embarrassing nonetheless. You just hope he hasn’t caught on, because you’re more than aware that you’ll be endlessly teased by him.

He pulls away from you, and a string of saliva connects his lips to yours. He’s panting, and your knees buckle from the heavy look he gives you. You see how quickly Rafayel’s eyes flash with realisation, and he’s caught between a laugh and moan - a ragged sound that has you shuddering. You stare at him helplessly, borderline needy, and he’s nodding and catching you once more.

When he closes in on you again, he purrs into your ear, “I’ve got you, pretty baby.” Any sound you could make from the new name is muffled by his lips reaching yours again. His knee slots perfectly between your thighs, and a quiet moan manages to escape from you at the sudden pressure.

He kisses you again, and again, before pulling away once more.

“Is this okay?” Rafayel asks, and you want to laugh. Instead, you clumsily nod, and his thumb caresses your cheek. His voice is wrecked, his skin hot on yours, and the way he’s still watching you drives you crazy. You can’t help but buck against his knee, the undivided attention overwhelmingly delightful to you, and that…

Rafayel’s eyes flutter watching you. He can’t stay away anymore, and soon he’s back on you. He kisses your mouth, your jaw, your neck, and commits each sound you make to his mind.

He’s definitely buying this shirt.

₊°｡❆ zayne

“Thanks for inviting me out, Zayne. Even if your taste in fusion cuisine is skewed, I had fun.”

“I feel like you’re teasing me. As I recall, someone was perfectly happy trying out my meal. I distinctly remember a few bites missing from my own plate each time I looked away.”

You squint your eyes at him. “Well. It sounds to me like someone doesn’t want a kiss goodbye.”

Zayne laughs, but you're stoic and refuse to break character. You look away and twist your body away from him too. There’s only so much space in the passenger seat though, so this is the most brutal move you can pull as he drives you home.

He calls your name a few times, and you still refuse to speak. It's only when his hand shifts from the gearstick to your thigh that you acknowledge him.

“I’m sorry. It seems I mistook you for a little mouse,” he says, mirthful eyes focused on your figure after pulling up to a traffic light.

You huff and nod earnestly. “That’s right. I would never take your food without asking. Especially not for something so… sweet.”

He smiles softly and moves his hand back onto the gearstick, driving off and closer to your home. It returns back to your thigh, and your hand clasps over it.

That is, until you hear a quiet, “And yet, everything on your plate was clear.”

When you pull his hand off your thigh and softly throw it elsewhere, he apologises endlessly as you refuse to engage.

It’s a quick drive, and you hate it. Even though he can be so mean, you want to spend every second with Zayne regardless. You miss him the moment you’re apart, and you’re not ready to feel that.

The universe clearly doesn’t care though, because the sight of your apartment building sends your heart dropping. You think he feels it too. The air chills ever so slightly, and there’s a lingering silence as the car finally stops. You turn to face him, heart panging when you catch his mournful expression.

“Thank you,” is all that comes from your mouth. If you say goodbye, then you have to leave, and you’re really not ready yet.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but then Zayne’s leaning over the console towards you. His voice is full of quiet and wrapped in silk when he murmurs, “It doesn’t have to be a kiss-goodbye.”

“No? What should it be then.”

“…A kiss see-you-later.”

You laugh and he smiles with you, a little meek and pink. Your hands come up and cradle his cheeks, squishing them as your move his head side to side. He doesn’t resist, letting you coo and squeeze him as you please.

“You’re such a romantic. Fine, let’s have a ‘kiss see-you-later’ then.” Your eyes flutter shut as Zayne leans closer. His lips move against yours softly, and one hand come to rest at your nape.

The kiss is sweet, as it usually is. You’ve only ever known tenderness with him. It’s always been that way with Zayne though - his love is quiet but firm. His presence has always been soothing; he’s never been a problem in all the time you’ve known him, only a solution.

Perhaps that’s why tonight you want more.

You’re tentative at first, your hand rising and hesitating before finally settling on his tie. It wraps around the cloth as you feel Zayne about to move away. You know he’s about to ask what’s wrong, but courage takes over and you’re tugging him closer.

You hear surprise as he’s dragged into you. A sudden “mmph” breaks between the sound of slick lips moving together, and that… It’s a sound you’ll remember for the rest of your life. You’re not sure how you’ve ever been able to live without it before.

You want to hear so much more.

Your curiosity about the soft doctor wins, and encourages you to kiss harder, faster, rougher. And Zayne— he only struggles for a second. The change isn’t too much for him, not when he’s spent years fantasising about having you like this.

He’s beyond grateful that you’ve reached this point of comfort with him. After all, there’s nothing more that Zayne wants than to learn everything you like, and help you with whatever you need. Judging by the way your hand tightens against his tie, the quiet whimpers that escape when his tongue slips into your mouth, he understands that you’ve needed this for a while.

—At least he thinks he understands, because any sort of confidence Zayne had in taking the lead from you is banished when you suckle on his tongue, savouring honey and sage as you go. Your lungs burn for air, but you keep a steady pace at licking out any whimper or gasp you can from him.

You’re impressed with how he keeps up with you, he never once tries to pull away from your touch. Your hand comes up to cradle the back of his head and you giggle when you feel the hot tip of his ear sear against your palm as you move past. Zayne simply squeezes his eyes shut, humiliation rolling in waves.

When you disconnect for some air, you finally get to see his flushed pink ears, the slack jaw that shallowly takes in each breath. His shirt’s crumpled from each drag of his tie, pulled taut from your desperation to melt into him, and yet he’s never looked so much like himself. Like Zayne was made to be used as you please.

He slowly gulps, eyebrows twitching as he tries to compose himself. “I—“ He inhales deeply, eyes flitting from your hand that still clutches onto his tie and back to your face. “…That—“

You groan as you slump back onto your seat, and it’s a mixture of pent-up energy and laughter. Zayne eyes you curiously, heart still racing and on edge as he anticipates - hopes for - your next pounce.

Your hand stays fiddling with the end of his tie.

“You’re so cute Dr. Zayne, did you know that?” There’s no earnest teasing or wide-eyed compliment that follows. Instead you watch him carefully, letting each syllable hit hard as they lazily drag past your lips.

You can’t help feeling smug when you see how baffled he is, all twitchy and red in the face.

After a moment of silence, he finally sighs and shakes his head. “You’re… relentless.”

“You’re just realising that?”

You lurch towards him, lips immediately finding his, and It feels deliriously good to be close to him again. For a brief moment, you’re mourning leaving the car - you’re not prepared to return to a life where Zayne isn’t kissing you rough and fast, just like this, but he moans when another whimper leaves you, and your brain short-circuits entirely.

Holy shit.

It’s what makes you jolt forward, your hips fighting against the rigidness of leather beneath you and eager for Zayne to be there instead. Your hand frantically skims on the underside of his tie, reaching the knot. It takes a little fiddling, but your fingers are soon digging in and prying the knot loose.

Everything shifts; your mixed pants grow heavier, needier, and even Zayne’s hands begin to lift and seek a place to clutch. The car’s windows fog, condensed entirely from keen whines and aching groans. Finally, fuck finally , your hands smooth over his burning skin beneath and—

Honk!

You jump away from one another as the sound blares from the car. Your eyes jump from Zayne to the car horn, and when you see his elbow hovering near it you can’t help bursting out laughing.

And Zayne… He’s entirely mortified. He feels the way his skin flushes, the sensation of blood rushing and pooling into his cheeks and ears - but watching you laugh in front of him helps. Perhaps that’s why he laughs with you too.

It takes a while for you both to calm down, the nerves of harsh kisses and loud horns still coursing adrenaline through your beings. Soon, a comforting ambiance of softened pants takes over.

Between shallow breaths, Zayne tries to calmly say, “That was— one way of having a kiss see-you-later.”

There’s a teasing lilt to his voice that tries to reason with you, and perhaps coyness should have visited you then, but the sight of the usually collected man before you panting and blushing with his clothes roughed by your very hands was enough to keep it away.

Instead your shoulders shake with laughter, and you shake your head.

“You really are too cute, Dr. Zayne,” you hum, and his ears somehow redden further. “Should I be worried though? Does that mean you didn’t enjoy it?

“On the contrary, I loved it.”

And you’re not sure, but from the look in his eye you have more than enough reason to spend the rest of your night overthinking that statement.

.ִֶָ ♱ ་༘࿐ sylus

You feel a tap against the back of your hand, the one that was busy scrounging into the fabric of your jeans as you rambled, and you look up.

His voice is drips with sweetness, like it always does, when he says, “Take your time, sweetie. Try again.”

You turn your hands over, catching his fingers in your grasp and giving them a squeeze. You’re all too aware that your palm feels sweaty, but Sylus doesn’t pull away and you know he doesn’t care. He just wants to listen, like he always does.

“I—” One breath in, one breath out. “—kept dreaming of these, and you were always there in those dreams. I think it’s because I’ve seen a few of them when we’re out at night. It’s funny, the meaning of them isn’t exactly great but still, I thought you’d like them. I’ve actually been growing and tending them myself. For you.”

You lift his hand to your lips, pressing a soft kiss to the smooth knuckles there before swapping your hand out for the bouquet of dark flowers. The veins of his hands pop against the pink silk bow tying the bunch together, and you squirm trying to gauge his reaction.

Sylus doesn’t seem to notice, though. He’s focused on the flowers, and the adoration you’d seen him enter the room with is enhanced tenfold. There’s a sweet glow in the vermillion of his eyes, but the muscles beneath tense ever so slightly.

Perhaps they were too girlish? You cringe upon reflection, gaze fleeing towards the fireplace the two of you are sat before as you ponder. The big boss man who lords over the N109 Zone being gifted pretty flowers was maybe a little too ridiculous.

You rush to save the moment. “They’re called daturas. Apparently they symbolise power, caution and spiritual transformation. Obviously, the power and caution speak for themselves— I swear I didn’t just grow them because I thought they just looked nice. Mm, I guess the spiritual transformation doesn’t quite fit, but—“

His gruff laugh silences you, and the worries you had dissipate right before you. He’s smiling in his arrogant way once more, and you can’t find the stiffness previously etched in his muscles.

Perhaps you were simply in your head about it.

“My soul found yours and I finally felt peace. I’d say that’s rather fitting, wouldn’t you agree? In any case, I like cute things too. If I didn’t, there wouldn’t be a sweet kitten staying at the Onychinus base.”

You can only blink at him with parted lips as his words wash over you. Trust Sylus to take your romantic moment and make it his own.

“So you like them?”

“I do. It’d be rude of me to dislike this bunch when my balcony is already overflowing with all the flowers you’ve brought over.” He tilts his head just behind, but it’s an unnecessary movement. The trails of flowers and the petals that can’t help but detach have been flowing in and out of the room the entire time you’ve been here.

You certainly have left your mark here.

Sylus’s gaze sweeps from you to the daturas still in his hand. He gently whispers, “After all, these ones were specifically tended to just for me,” before pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

When you look up, you’re shrouded in him. You’re not sure when the two of you had moved closer together, but the enamoured look on his face has you leaning in for a kiss. You feel shy asking like this, no words exchanged, but he’s always telling you to go for what you want.

You hear him gently lay the flowers beside him before he scoops you onto his lap.

You shriek at the sudden movement, eyes jolting open, but Sylus pays no mind. His hand trails the dip of your waist, and your eyebrows scrunch together ever so slightly at the sudden confidence. You flit between either of his rouge eyes, noting the half-lidded expression, and your heart stutters.

The flames from his fireplace crinkle behind the two of you, and your knees dig into the plush of his rug as your body steadily settles on his lap.

His voiced is hushed, “Did you notice anything when you were caring for the daturas?” His breath fans over your skin, reaches past your neck and tickles the ends of your hairs. You’re on high alert, still adjusting to the sight of Sylus so close to you, and you jolt from the feeling.

His grip on your waist tightens ever so slightly - a warning that falls on deaf ears, much like the futile question itself.

Each word was muffled in the haze of the warmth you now share, your mind too busy scrambling and desperately trying to find footing in this shift between the two of you.

Sylus watches you far too intensely the entire time.

Did anything happen? You knew they were toxic so you did your best to wear the necessary protection needed to tend to them. You were thorough in washing your hands after too. Sure, there were times you were somewhat dizzy and had to sit down, but that was all.

Honest.

When you still don’t respond, he continues, “They’re known to be hallucinogens.” His hand engulfs one of yours, dragging it to the curve of his cheek. Sylus presses his cheek into the soft of your palm, eyes fixated on you. “Even the smallest amount of pollen can have an effect. You mentioned dreams of them, and even said I was there.”

His head tilts, and the brush of his lips against sensitive skin tickles ever so slightly. There’s an edge of mirth in his voice when he whispers against your palm, “What were they like, sweetie?”

Ah.

It seems he may know a lot more about daturas than you did.

Residue from the petals you’d been caressing before his arrival sweep over his skin, melting between the point of contact between the two of you.

Your head spins.

On one hand, you’re glad that your keen eye meant you’d stumbled upon Sylus’s favourite flower. A part of you swells with pride at getting that right - they truly were a good gift then. On the other hand, you’re both stepping over a line that has only ever been treaded along. You know exactly what he’s asking, but the teasing tone in his voice tells you you can end this new game now if you’d like.

You’re… not sure if you want to.

A gust of wind billows from the balcony, and the once energetic fire is tamed. With the wind comes the scent of daturas that flutter around your figures. Your body reacts before your mind catches on, and you’re biting his lip between yours and drawing blood.

He groans into your mouth, and only then does a singular thought cut through - this is rougher than how you usually kiss him. You can’t quite remember what usually kissing Sylus means though, because roughly kissing him feels like it’s always been second nature.

Your mind fuzzes and swirls with notes of Sylus’ cologne and sour pollen. The heat of his lips never fades - he’s so warm and close and entirely yours if you’d like.

He meets your pace now, matches the brutality of your lips, and the room echoes of whimpers and groans. You pull on the softness of his hair, your other hand having snuck its way to the nape of his hair. He groans and grips tightly onto your waist, which only makes you gasp and jut forward.

You hear him grit his teeth, restraint oozes out of every fibre in his body, and that only makes you moan. Each brush of his lips and caress of his tongue drives you mad, like there’s a never-ending ache that can’t be satiated even with his touch. Not tonight, at least.

When you reluctantly pull away for air, Sylus huffs a laugh seeing the blooming crimson on your lips. It’s a scratchier sound than usual; his pupils are dilated beyond belief and the creeping realisation that you are the sole reason for his flushed skin sends your mind reeling.

You’re lost in the heat of your desire for him, you don’t think for a second, and suddenly you’re pushing him down. He admires you above him, memorises the way the light is consumed by your dark figure, and merely smirks.

Sat atop him, you snake one hand over his chest. You feel the thrum of his heart beneath your palm. When you slide your hand further up the curve of his neck, you feel the intense spike of his pulse. It dawns on you right then that his arrogance is all for show.

He’s just as lost in you.

Your plant your hands on either side of his head, the marble cool against your palms. You duck down and catch his bottom lip between your teeth once more, and Sylus works to keep up with you. You’re relentless, taking everything he can give you and more.

With each gasp and heavy breath comes the quick inhalation of daturas, and you fall into a never-ending cycle of consuming one another.

. ݁ ❦ ˖ caleb

You try not to sigh as Caleb keeps talking, it’s like he doesn’t even care about being somewhat alert tomorrow. For someone who loves to mention his position as Colonel, often as a meaningless scare-tactic to keep you from snooping where he thinks you shouldn’t, he really didn’t seem to care about actually maintaining the role.

“—And then there was that time you would not stop crying until your dear Caleb came back to you. You were so clingy, though I guess you still are, huh?”

You don’t bother tilting your chin up from the comfy spot you’ve found on his chest. There’s no point responding or making eye contact when he’ll just continue prattling about the old days - and trust, you liked reminiscing just as much as him! - but it’s 1am and you just want to sleep.

“Caleb.”

“Yeah, pips?”

“Go to sleep.”

He shuffles beneath you, jostling your leg that had been perfectly slung over his own thigh. You grumble as you mould yourself back into his side, trying to find the perfect angle in this cuddle pile you’d created.

Perhaps sleepovers in Skyhaven should be off the table until Caleb learns some etiquette.

You hear him tut, an offending sound that resonates in the crisp of his bedroom. You try not to roll your eyes, because you’re pretty sure you’ll hear a lecture about that if he so much as hears it.

If the tut wasn’t enough, he makes sure to heavily lay on the (fake) hurt when he mentions, “There was a time when you listened to my every word, you know. What happened to that?”

Your eyes roll anyway, and the dredge of sleep crawls back over you. “I genuinely have no idea where you’ve got that from.”

“Pips, I literally just told you about those times. Weren’t you listening?” Caleb says, and you can literally hear the pout in his voice. He shuffles again, and you grumble in response. “Okay, from the top! So, back then—“

Your head whips up and catches sight of an overly awake Caleb whose eyes dreamily stare at the ceiling. He’s happily chirping away, like the minutes on the alarm clock next to him mean fuck all.

You’re too grouchy for this.

There’s only a small bite to your words when you groan, “Oh my God, Caleb! Shut up!” Any hurt he could experience is immediately soothed over, because you’re dragging yourself upwards and planting your elbows on either side of him.

Your hands cradle his face as you press your lips against one cheek, then the other, his forehead, his nose and finally a sweet peck on his lips. You’re more than relieved when you pull back and see he’s been stunned into silence.

You put on your best stern expression, and squish his cheeks together. One pat, then another, and you think he’s finally gotten the hint, so you slither down to your cosy spot on his chest and rest your eyes.

…It’s a bit difficult to actually settle though when the person below you won’t shut the fuck up!

“Caleb.”

“Yeah, pips?”

And God, he’s actually smug— he’s not even trying to hide it. You grit your teeth when you realise he probably thinks he’s the smartest man in the world; annoy his girlfriend enough and she’ll kiss him quiet, that’ll do it.

You sigh deeply as the realisation strikes you.

Apparently the dog tag wasn’t enough to satisfy his overeager, puppy-like behaviour clearly. It’s become very obvious to you now that Caleb may need some actual training.

So you push yourself up, rubbing the sleep out your eyes. There’s a bleary smirk wiped across his features, the dumbest, dopiest look ever that you can so easily distinguish in the dark of his room, and something simmers within you.

You don’t say anything as you move closer, you’re gentle with your movements and Caleb waits patiently. You settle your entire weight on him, pressing your torso flush against his, and his hands hesitate before naturally come to rest on your back.

You don’t react despite how intimate the position is. You’re too tired to feel embarrassed.

Sure, you’ve cuddled with Caleb plenty before, but this version is entirely different. Your hips are spread, legs parted and pressing into his side. You’re practically folded on top of him like this, and you recognise one shift could change the entire trajectory of your night.

It’s comfortable though, the stretch is more than pleasant and you moan a little from the sensation. You feel Caleb tense beneath you, and you feel triumphant.

He relaxes once you’re settled, no doubt revelling in the intimacy of the cuddle. He has no reason to question your motives when you dig your chin into his collarbone, sweetly resting your face in the crook of his neck. Instead, he softly laughs.

“I’m not sure if you realise, but my voice is only gonna seem louder if you’re higher up like this,” he teases.

You merely shake your head, keeping your voice light as you murmur, “I know. That’s okay, because you aren’t gonna talk anymore.”

“Is that so?” He juts his chin away, trying to get a look at you. “Why’s that?”

You raise your head, fluidly connecting your lips with his. You feel him smile into the kiss, no doubt feeling beyond loved with how soft and warm this all felt. He was so clever, of course he’d somehow outsmarted you and gotten what he wanted.

Right?

It’s abrupt the way in which you lunge; you tug at the bottom of his lip and take advantage of the gasp that escapes. He’s barely found a second to place a hand on your face when you’re immediately licking into his mouth, savouring mint and hot wetness as you slide your tongue along his.

Finally, his hands tremble on the nape of your neck, and you press yourself infinitely closer. The feel of warm, slick muscle and hushed breaths has you both moaning into one another - your head spins as you realise there are prettier sounds that can come from Caleb.

Before you can balance yourself to launch your next attack, Caleb takes the lead and suckles gently on your tongue. He’s confident suddenly; his once shaky hand resting comfortably and pulling you closer to him, an act you didn’t even think was possible at this point.

You squeeze your eyes shut at the feeling, unable to keep your whines at bay.

It’s filthy, the sounds of squelching and whimpering that resound has you scrambling to keep up. You refuse to let this become his moment - this was meant to be your punishment after all.

You clench onto the fabric of his shirt, a frantic move accompanied by your groans and his sighs. His hands stay infuriatingly polite, simply resting on the barest slither of skin available to him - but you know he wants more. You can practically feel his hands itching to at least press the pads of his fingers deeply into your skin.

To trace you, to breathe you in and consume you entirely is all Caleb wants. You’re more than aware of that - with memories of the old days comes the recognition of knowing you’d felt the same way too even back then. He’s always wanted you, and you him.

You hike your leg higher up in an attempt to stabilise yourself. Your knee drags against his waist and you feel him jerk from the change.

It’s a singular move that causes a sudden spiral because your heat rests against him entirely and— oh God, he was so big, wait—

“Pips– I—“ One kiss, another, you grip his hair and he moans into your mouth. “We should— Hah, we should— stop.” And really, it comes out weakly, a slurred command that has no precedent over when you decide this ends.

Could he feel your clit throbbing against his cock? Was he desperately trying to stop himself from rutting into you?

You rock gently, just once and ever so subtly between every flick of your tongue against his, and try not to grin when you feel the air knocked out of his lungs.

Poor Caleb, he must be losing his mind trying to restrain himself.

For a moment you pity him, but then his voice hums between kisses and logic suddenly kicks in. You can practically hear all the excuses he’d use to explain getting this far - it’s always you being too innocent, or not understanding what you’re doing.

The thought enrages you, and it’s enough to remind you why you’d started this in the first place.

There’s an itch inside of you that begs to continue, to ignore your dignity and use him as you please - you could prove him wrong, show him just how pissed off you are and satisfy your needs at the same time.

You really do want to do that.

Hm.

Caleb whispers your name, a sound that sends you into a realm beyond here with him.

And yet, somehow, you crawl right back.

You chirp a quick goodnight and scramble under the covers, turning away as you nestle into your side of the bed. You’ve barely caught your breath, but feeling the tenseness of Caleb beside you has you giggling and catching it back all at once.

“Night Colonel! See you after work.”

craving more from the peachieverse? select your next unique experience and let your heart rush with him.

His smile drops off his lips as you intertwine your fingers with his. “I hate them,” you mutter, bringing his hand towards your lips. You hold him there, a breath away, knowing he can’t feel the warmth of your breath against his skin.

He’d held your own hands like this just the day before, warming them with his hot breath and shoving them into his pockets before they could turn to ice again.

He’s reminded of the same thing; he’s having the same thought. You see it in his eyes as he pulls your intertwined hands towards his own lips now. “I won’t always be able to tell if your hands are cold,” he says. “Not unless you always walk on my left… unless you hold my left hand.” He pauses, eyes moving from your joined hands to look back at you. “Will you do that for me, Pips?” He asks. “So I know when you’re cold?” 

“I can just tell you.” 

He smiles again, squeezing your hand a little. “Can I trust you to tell me?” 

You frown slightly. 

He laughs. 

“On my left, then,” he says, decision made.

It’s a familiar end. His decisions were hard to shift once he’d made them. He was hard to steer. Still, you would always try.

You readjust your position on his lap, knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his thighs. 

“Would you tell me if you were cold?” you ask.

He tilts his head, his hair falling across his forehead. 

You know the answer before you’d asked. But it wasn’t about getting an answer. You were attempting to make a point: the same point you’d been trying to make for months now – since he’d come back.

You tug your hand from his and place your hands on his chest, pressing him back into the pillows propped up against the headboard. Answer me, you threaten silently.

“Why would I?” he asks as his right hand settles on your hip, like you might need help just to stay perched in his lap – like you could fall and he needed to be ready to catch you.

“So I can help you, like you would help me,” you answer.

His lips part, then close. He looks to the side, out into the snowy night, then back at you. “I’m never cold.”

In the past, you might’ve huffed and crawled off him – left him there to stew in his own stubborn refusal to admit to a completely human weakness. Instead, you cup his cheek with your palm, gentle, “Don’t tell childish lies. We’re adults now, you know.” 

He smiles softly – a slight curve of his lips that seems to soften his eyes, too.

“I can warm you when you’re cold,” you whisper, quiet, unwilling to risk scaring the softness away.

He blinks. His eyes drop to the hand at your hip. He’s quiet.

You wait.

Then, “What if I can’t feel your warmth?” he asks, so quiet you almost can’t make out the words.

You take a shallow breath, and then you lean forward into him, pressing your chest up against his. Your face rests comfortably against his shoulder — warm breath ghosting over his neck. “You can feel me everywhere else,” you remind him. Everywhere but his right arm.

His fingers press into your hip, and then his hand drops away. 

Retreating.

You turn your head a little and press your lips to his skin, just in the crook of his neck.

He freezes.

Retreat paused.

“Right?” you prod, lips brushing against his warm skin as you speak. “You can feel it here?”

He takes in a shaky breath, and you’re sure he’s about to lift you off him, say something to lighten to mood, distract you like he always does: retreat again.

You part your lips and exhale against his skin, “It’s warm, yeah?” you ask, determined.

You swear, just for a second, that you feel the brush of his hand at your back, but it’s gone before you can be sure of it. He’s still, apart from that, until, finally, “Yeah,” he breathes.

Victory.

You know it, just in that little word. He wasn’t backing away; retreating.

He was giving in.

You take in a few shallow breaths, shaken by the prospect of him finally surrendering. Then, gently, you press your lips to his neck in a kiss. “You’ll tell me then?” you ask. “You’ll tell me when you're cold?”

His hand presses to your lower back, you’re sure this time. It’s heavy and unwavering. “So you can warm me?” he asks in return, his voice far less steady than his hand at your back.

“Mm,” you hum, moving your head side to side a little so your lips graze his skin in the spot you kissed him. 

“All right,” he breathes.

“Promise?”

He’s silent, unmoving.

You hook your finger into the collar of his t-shirt and pull it down slightly, enough that you can press your lips to his collarbone. “Promise,” you prod, never moving far enough away that your lips aren’t touching him. Always touching. “Promise me you’ll tell me when you’re cold.” 

His head moves a little, chin dipping. Then, like an afterthought, he speaks, “Yes. Yeah. I’ll tell you. Promise.” 

Then his hand presses into you harder, like he’s trying to close the little gap between your bodies. 

You resist for a moment, then give in, letting him press you up against him. 

You’re forced to lift your head from his neck as you readjust; forced to meet his eyes. 

His pupils nearly engulf his purple irises entirely, darkness swarming and mixing with the softness that still hasn’t left. That’s how he was these days, you ponder as he looks back at you: soft and comfort and all those things that made him so familiar, but also, dark – cold, unpredictable, different – someone capable of igniting fear in a crowd of uniformed men. 

“It makes me feel greedy,” he says, pulling you from the swirling in his eyes.

You blink, “Greedy?” 

“Just thinking about it,” he clarifies. “You’re so warm that I…” His eyes dip to your lips as he speaks, short little glances that wouldn’t be so noticeable if they weren’t so frequent – if he didn’t linger there the more he looked, like the act of looking away was wearing him down. “I might… take it all. I might never stop. I might want it all and never ever stop.” 

You squirm a little, just slightly, an involuntary almost roll of your hips. “That’s okay. You’ve been cold for a long time, yeah? You need lots and lots of … of warming up.” 

He nods, but it looks a little uncontrolled, like he wasn’t thinking much about answering you at all. It’s a lazy kind of nod; distracted.

Lazy. Kind of like the way you begin to roll your hips.

He doesn’t look away as you roll against him, transfixed there as your breathing slowly shifts into deeper, unsteady, puffs of air between parted lips.

You can feel his hesitation, like breaking himself from his frozen trance might make it all stop – as if he were in a dream. 

“Am I warm here?” you ask on a shaky exhale, rolling your hips with a little force this time – pressing your heated centre into him.

Then you’re still, captured by the invisible force you’ve always known as his evol. It holds you there as his hand snakes up your back, a firm warmth that shifts the fabric of your shirt a little with it as it goes. It only stops when he reaches the back of your head. There he holds you, fingers tangled in your hair. You blink. His gravity releases you, and he falls forward – his forehead pressing against your own. 

His breath mixes with your own as he holds you there, waiting on his response. 

“That’s where you’re warmest,” he says, finally. “There,” he closes the gaps between your lips a little more. It almost tickles, the ghost of him – so close. “And here.” 

Then he’s on you, delving into your mouth in a way that leaves no room for escape. His hand holds you to him as he takes and takes and takes, tongue’s dancing and spit making a mess down to your chin.

Your hips move on their own.

You grind into him as you consume each other, assisted a little when his other hand presses into your lower back. 

Warm.

It’s all you’re thinking.

You’re so warm. He’s so warm. His warm hands holding you close; his warm chest pressed to yours; his warm thighs underneath you; his hot tongue, slick against yours. 

An embarrassing sound slips from your throat. You pull away, gasping in much-needed air as his eyes flick across your face.

His fingers twitch against your back. 

You shiver.

His hand, at the back of your head, drifts down to cradle your cheek. 

It’s his left hand.

His thumb brushes against your skin in gentle strokes.

“I’m cold,” he says.

You shiver again. It’s not from the temperature. The truth is, it’s not cold at all. His apartment might even be a little warmer than most people would find comfortable. He kept it that way for you, especially on winter nights like this: the ones you felt a little harsher than he ever did.

“You are?” you question, bringing your hand up to his cheek, mirroring him. 

Warm. His cheek is soft and radiating heat to match the red flush of his skin.

He nods, looking suddenly a little like a wounded puppy. You could almost swear his lower lip, wet from your kisses, was protruding a little… almost like a pout.

You press against him, chest to chest, as if there was any space left to close between you. “Even after…” you pause. “But I thought that was my warmest part?” you question, reaching up to touch your lips with your fingers.

His eyes drop and linger there, watching where you touch your mouth. Then, “Yeah, it is. You’re so warm there. So, so warm,” he says, distracted.

You wrap your arms around his neck. His arms fall to your waist, wrapping around you tight. 

“But you’re still cold?” you ask.

His eyes flutter closed. One shaky breath. Two. They open again. “Greedy,” he breathes. “I told you, yeah?”

Your cunt pulses between your legs, hot and sensitive. “Maybe…” you drift off, distracted by the increasingly desperate urge to shift a little to the side and press down directly onto his firm thigh. “Maybe you need to use both.” Your voice is breathy. It might be embarrassing if you weren’t so distracted.

“Both?” 

Your lashes flutter as you fight closing your eyes and giving into temptation. “Both my warmest places,” you whisper.

His fingers press into your waist, and then, he’s pulling you down, firm, into his lap. “I need to use both?” he asks, breathy. 

You nod. “I’m warm there, I promise.” 

He looks between your eyes and his head drops back a little, eyes closing, before he catches himself. He rocks forward again, keeping you close. “Yeah?” he breathes.

“So warm,” you say with another nod, your voice taking on a desperate, pleading, sort of tone. “Hot. It’s hot. I’ll warm you up, Caleb. I promise. I’ll keep you warm.” 

His lips nearly brush yours when he speaks, “Yeah, baby? I might need to stay inside, though. You might have to keep me in there so I can stay nice and warm, yeah? Is that okay?” 

You nod. It’s a little frantic, as desperate as your pleading.

When his lips press to yours again, you’re vaguely aware of movement elsewhere, of him using a combination of his evol and his hands to lift you just enough to shove his pants down his legs a little and resettle you in his lap, one less layer between you.

You nibble at his lower lip as his warm fingers play with your flimsy shorts, slowly, lazily, snaking their way into one of the legs. You gasp into his mouth, jolting at the tickle of his fingers as they brush over your underwear, over your throbbing cunt.

“I can feel it,” he says as he sucks in shallow breaths. “I can feel how warm you are.” 

You blink at him, incapable of saying anything at all – focused instead on catching your breath. 

He continues, warm fingers brushing lightly back and forth against the cotton between your legs, “Right here,” he breathes. “Hm? Right here, yeah?” 

Your lips part, and close, and part again. Then, you nod.

Your world tips. He lifts you and lowers you onto the pillows before tugging you backwards against his chest – flush against his body, each of you lying on your sides. His breath is warm on your neck when he speaks, “I should check,” he says. “Just to be sure.”

It’s easier to speak like this, with your eyes on the snow falling though the window, instead of looking at him. “How?” you ask, a little crack in your voice.

His palm moves to your lower stomach, settles there a moment, then presses, forcing you right back against him. “You’ve gotta be close,” he says, his voice taking on the tone he’s always used when he was helping you study, gentle, patient – listen closely, it says, I’ll help you. “Just like this,” he continues. His hand leaves your stomach. He shifts a little. Then, his finger sneaks back through the leg of your flimsy pyjama shorts, forcing them to rise up right around the tops of your thighs until they’re basically a second layer of underwear. “We’ll leave these on for now, okay?” 

You nod, nonverbal.

He tugs your underwear a little. You have no idea what for, distracted by the pulsing between your legs. 

Then, heat, soft. His cock slips beneath your underwear, and in one smooth motion, slips along your sensitive cunt, skin to skin. 

You whimper, twist towards him, and grip his bicep – stunned by the sudden reality of feeling him like this, pressed hotly against you. You’re sharply aware of the wetness he finds there; of the way you’ve been leaking for him.

His hand moves back to your stomach, holding you steady. “Just like this,” he breathes. You can’t see his eyes like this, twisted back towards him just enough that he can take your lips in his. 

You whimper into his mouth again, unable to stop your hips from rocking back and forth.  You take him with you as you rock – his cock trapped in your underwear. 

You can’t get enough friction. He’s hot, and he’s hard, and you desperately want to reach down and press him against your cunt harder, so you can grind against the length of him like you did to a pillow when you were younger. As it was, you were pushing closer and closer to something almost painful.

You whimper and whine against his lips as he laps at you, making his own sounds – each one triggering a tightening of your walls, empty and desperate. Empty. 

Empty.

Empty.

It’s an internal mantra that eventually seeps out of you in a pathetic, murmured, incomprehensible whine.

He separates from you enough to mutter, “What?” 

You squeeze your eyes shut, suddenly overwhelmed without the distraction of his lips.

“What was that?” he asks again.

Your eyes flutter open, “I’m so empty.” It’s a pathetic sort of sound, the way those words slip out of you. But it was hard to be embarrassed when his pretty brows were twisting up and his lips were falling open and – “Fuck,” he breathes. 

His hips roll into you, a satisfying pressure that has you gasping and gripping onto the arm that holds your waist. 

“Say that again,” he groans into your neck. “Tell me how it feels inside.” 

“So empty,” you answer, pressing back into him – bodies aligned perfectly now you’re twisted back to face the window. “All empty inside.” 

“Yeah?” His cock slips against your slick hole, soft and warm. “Here?” he asks. He rocks against you as he mumbles into your neck, breath hot against your skin. “You all empty, pretty girl? Just here? Just for me?” 

He could be saying anything. You nod, hardly hearing his words, just rocking back to meet the roll of his hips. “For you… for you,” you mutter breathlessly.

His hand slips beneath your shirt, pressing to your lower stomach. His breath ghosts behind your ear, and then he whispers as close to your ear as he can get, “Here?” His hand presses firm, right where that emptiness hurts most.

The sound that leaves you could be a cry. It’s a squeaky, broken sound. 

The weight of his evol settles over you, a comforting weight that holds you still, preventing you from rocking against him. Then he’s rolling his hips back a little, just enough that his leaking tip prods at your swollen entrance. He plays with you like that, rocking in tiny movements – prodding over and over and over. 

“Your hot little mouth isn’t your warmest spot, baby,” he says, still holding you still. “It’s right here,” he breathes, stilling prodding at your twitching hole, “Right between your soft thighs. Where I can’t see. Where no one can see.” His hot breath hits your neck as he speaks; as you hopelessly fight the weight preventing you from pushing back into him. “You’ll let me see, won’t you?” he continues, wrapping his arms around you fully. 

“Caleb,” you whine, desperate.

“Mm? What’s wrong, baby?”

“Let me go. Please. Let me–”

“Why? Will you be a good girl? Or are you going to try and take me inside? Hm? You being greedy?” 

“Inside,” you answer without thought, too desperate to do anything but say exactly what your mind is screaming. “Inside.” 

“Mm,” he hums, nibbling at your earlobe. “That’s what I thought. Naughty girl.” 

He shifts his hips back a little, taking away the only thing keeping you sane. “No,” you whimper.

Caleb kisses at your neck, wet, lazy kisses that feel a lot like how he was kissing your lips earlier, but then he sucks. It comes with noises. Wet, messy noises. 

“Let me go,” you cry. “Let me–”

The weight lifts. He lets you go. You shift backwards, forcing his length along your cunt, over and over – an uncontrolled type of movement resulting from the build up of desperate need. 

Then you catch the tip of him. You can’t reach down between your legs with the way he’s wrapped around you. You’re forced to roll your hips and try and guide him inside. His hand drop to your hip, preventing you, just as you get close.  It’s too much. You’re at the end. And just when you’re about to break, he rolls you over onto your belly, his body covering you completely. He seems bigger like this – so big the world seems to disappear. 

“Okay, okay,” he says in that way that so often makes you want to stamp your foot or punch him in the gut – a tone of voice that usually makes you feel like a baby having a tantrum. Not now, though. Now, it’s sweet relief. 

His big hands reach down and drag your shorts down your legs, then your messy underwear, soaked through.

Then, his leaking tip finds you again, right where you’re desperate to take him inside. He prods a little, feeling the way you attempt to suck him inside, slick and warm. “You can be greedy now,” he whispers, letting his tip nestle at your twitching cunt as you grind back against him, trying to push onto him. “You can be greedy with me, baby.” 

He sinks inside, letting you suck and clench around him with a pathetic sort of broken cry. 

It’s not without suffering all of his own. You feel the vibration of the sound he makes into your neck. It sounds like he’s in pain – like maybe it’s too much. 

You’re suffering together as you pulse around his heavy cock, twitching where it’s buried deep inside. 

“Warm,” he mumbles, lips pressed to your neck. “Oh, fuck.” 

You clench around him. 

He whimpers.

“Warming you up,” you mutter, feeling very much out of your mind – like maybe you’ve forgotten how to string words together to make a sentence.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “That’s right. Keeping me warm. Pretty little pussy. So warm.” 

Your responding hum sounds more like a squeak. 

His arms tighten around you, warming you in his own way – his body heavy all over you.

“Gonna keep you like this,” he mutters, hips starting to grind a little, hardly pulling out at all, just pressing you into the mattress over and over. “Can I keep you like this? Hm? Keep you under me, fucked full, fucked… so full.” His palm shifts to your belly, right where he’s buried. “Here,” he groans, then bites at your neck, teeth grazing your skin. “Right where you’re warmest, yeah?”

“Mm,” you hum, gripping the sheets in your hands, desperate for something to hold onto.

It’s not until he’s pulling out and dropping his hips back into you that you speak again, overwhelmed by the feeling of his hips smacking against you loudly with each drop – shoving you into the mattress. “Don’t leave,” you sob. “Ple-please, don’t stop.” 

His harm loops around your front, draped across your collarbones, holding you firmly beneath him. “Greedy girl,” he says, breathless. It sounds like praise. “It’s okay,” he says with a soft kiss to your neck. “Need to stay inside. Gotta stay warm. We’ll get you nice and full, yeah? Full of hot cum? Hm?” 

“Okay,” you agree with a sob.

His responding, “Okay,” sounds like a sigh. “Yeah, nice and full. And we’ve gotta keep it there. Gotta stay inside.” His hips snap against you a little faster, a little less time pressed heavy and still at the end of each drop. “Until I’m hard again,” he continues between shallow breaths. “Until I can fuck you with it.” He sucks at your throat. “That okay? Can I breed my pretty girl? Hm? Get you all messy?” 

You’re not sure you’ve ever been capable of speech in your life. It’s gone. Your lips part and you can’t make anything come out apart from a tiny, broken, call of his name.

“You can do it,” he coos. “Say it for me, baby. Tell me I can fill your little belly with cum. Tell me I can make you nice and warm inside.” 

One of his hands finds your jaw, then his finger is pressing between your lips, like he’s trying to help you get the words out. 

“Yes, please,” you manage. It’s small and pathetic and a little muffled by his finger in your mouth.

You watch him work on slotting the two parts together, his large, vascular hands manipulating the delicate plastic with a gentleness that reminded you of yourself––of the restraint he showed when holding you.

He was bigger, after all. So much bigger. All of him.

"There," he says, holding out the expertly joined pieces for you to take. "They fit."

"You forced them."

He looks at the pieces, then to you. "Nah, they fit perfectly. See?" He gestures for you to take them––to see for yourself.

You refuse, unmoving.

He tilts his head. "What's wrong?"

"You're stronger than me."

His lips twitch a little in one corner. "Only a little."

You shake your head, frowning.

"Alright," he says, "Much stronger. Happy?" He asks, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

"And bigger."

His eyes drop, analysing, like he hasn't noticed before. Then, a little smile. "Only a little."

You crawl a little closer. Settling on your knees in front of him. "Much bigger."

"Is that right?" he questions, amused.

"Look," you say, holding your palm up for him to meet with his own. His eyes make a slight flick away from your face to your joined hands—to the way his fingers curl over yours comfortably.

"Maybe I just have very… very, large hands," he says as his fingers make a path down your palm to wrap around your wrist. His eyes flick across your face. Then, "Should we check the rest of me, too? Check how much bigger I am?"

He was teasing. Playing. Testing. You could turn around and return to your model, and he'd continue on just as he had before: a calm, warm presence.

Instead, you untuck your legs from beneath you, and keeping your eyes on his, you lower yourself onto your back––hair splayed out across the carpet. He’s pulled a little towards you as he refuses to release your wrist, angling down over you.

A pause.

"Alright," he says finally, much like he had when you'd passed him your two difficult plane parts. "Let gege see."

He lifts himself to his knees and shuffles even closer. Then he lifts your legs and arranges them around his waist and hips, slotting himself up against you.

"Hm," he hums, looming over you, blocking out the sun through the window behind him. "You do look very small like this." His hand snakes up your thigh. A smile pulls at his lips. "You'll stay still for me while I check, won't you? You can be good for gege and stay nice and still.”

Despite your nod––a silent promise to obey, to be good––he keeps his grip on your ankle as he works to undo the button at his waistband. Control. You didn’t mind it at all. Control was safe.

And when he shoves his pants down just below his ass, he closes the gap between you again, pressing himself between your thighs.

His movements are slow, precise, like they’d been as he manipulated the tiny little plastic pieces. A hand snaking its way up your calf. His warm palm wrapping around your thigh as his heavy cock, confined in dark briefs, rests against your white cotton underwear.

“See?” you squeak as he rocks his hips once against you. “All of you is bigger. We wouldn’t fit.”

“Wouldn’t fit?” he questions, mocking.

Then, without warning, he hooks his thumb into the waistband of his briefs and tugs them down to free himself. Hard, and a little pink at the tip, it adds to his looming presence over you.

Using one hand to hold your hips slightly off the ground, up against him nice and close, he uses the other to press his cock down against your belly.

His head tilts a little.

“I could make it fit,” he announces, sounding a little distracted, eyes fixed where he measures himself against you. “Would stretch your pretty little hole open,” he says. “Might hurt a little… But you could bite my hand, yeah? You can take it out on gege.”

You shift a little, starting to squirm.