glitter pink

Truthfully, you are equally at fault.

A debutante turned degenerate, you're the furthest thing from pure or lotus-like. Your true nature has stayed hidden from good jujutsu society only through your father's willful blindness—and even now, thoroughly scandalized, you can still do no wrong in his eyes. Nor in Choso's, your annoyingly overprotective half-cursed cousin.

As far as they were concerned, you'd been “corrupted against your will”.

So the blame landed squarely on Toji. And with his less than stellar reputation—to put it generously—no one dared argue otherwise.

Not that it stopped his snark every time he was scolded for it: "That garden had already been ransacked—I merely pitched a tent."

So despite being little more than glorified fuck buddies, both clans scrambled to save face. A shotgun wedding was arranged overnight. Heavens forbid a disgraced black sheep and a thot-daughter spark a war between two of the most powerful families.

The result: you and your squalling little parasite are now Zenin property.

But that alone wouldn't have landed Naoya in this mess.

No—this situation is special.

Seeing as the union only granted you and your daughter entrance to the family—not Toji.

Not that he'd return even if given the chance. He only agreed to marry you for your sake, and your daughter's. Nothing beyond that. So without any real tie to an actual Zenin, you're little more than a ward who took on the name.

Yet Toji thought enough of you not to throw you to the wolves entirely. Before leaving to do gods-know-what as an assassin, Toji asked Naoya personally to watch over you both.

Naoya scoffed at first. Playing babysitter to some woman and her infant? Technically his father Naobito's responsibility—nothing he'd have to bother with until he assumed the role of heir.

Still—Naoya wasn't about to deny a request from Toji, who made it a point never to ask his family for a fucking thing (and who could also destroy them all on a whim.)

Toji-kun said he trusted Naoya alone with the task.

And to Naoya, that acknowledgment was everything.

Fine.

However, that just means seeing to your proper treatment—it didn't mean Naoya signed up to be sleep-deprived. 

Fuck—and if even a hint of a dark shadow appeared on his flawless complexion by morning?

There. Will. Be. Bl—

The final straw arrives before Naoya even finishes the thought. 

A possessed banshee, 7th ring of hell, kind of screech—that even rivals some curses he's previously exorcised—rings out so loud his right ear pops.

That’s fucking it!

Naoya is out of bed, his room and down the corridor in only four strides. 

You had to be awake. 

Not even the dead could sleep through this.

So, why the hell hadn’t you handled it already?

How hard is it of all things to get a baby to shut the fuck up? 

You’re its mother aren’t you?!

Reaching your quarters, Naoya yanks the shoji door open.

And immediately freezes.

As he expects, you’re wide awake. 

Yet nothing could've prepared him for your silk robe to be wide open and resting at your elbows—leaving your breasts completely exposed.

Seated in the midst of tangled blankets and sunken pillows, you shift restlessly to find a position that comforts your baby girl enough to latch while she stubbornly thrashes in your arms.

You give up with a weary sigh, returning to the rocking. Her cries have lessened to frustrated whimpers now that she's moving, but they haven't stopped.

From the doorway, Naoya gives you a measured once-over.

You look like shit. Hair frizzy and damp at your temples, tired eyes, a slight tremor of exhaustion in your hands as you reposition your daughter. 

That said, somehow, infuriatingly, you still manage to look appealing.

The moonlight spilling through the slatted window ensures it as it traces your plush curves, highlighting the faint sheen of exertion on your skin catching the light like a glow.

Gaze dropping, Naoya’s jaw ticks at the sight of your swollen, milk-heavy tits—nipples taut and glistening with pearlescent drops, coaxed free by your baby's cries. 

A creamy bead falls, dotting your daughter's cheek and you gently wipe it away. 

You haven’t noticed Naoya yet, too wrapped up in cooing out the same soft mantras of comfort that have proven useless all night.

Leaning against the doorway now with his arms folded, Naoya narrows his eyes, not used to being ignored. Even if unintentionally. However, his scathing reprimands die on his tongue, something about the scene turning his mouth desert-dry.

Every second drags like an hour, and Naoya with no patience remaining, sharply clears his throat, announcing his presence. 

Your head lulls over to him without startling nor making any move to cover yourself. You just give him a drowsy, crooked smile that practically screams finally, someone capable of rational thought and basic impulse control.

"Tch. Pathetic reflexes. A curse would've killed you both by now."

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. 

Technically, many would consider Naoya’s very presence to be a curse all of its own.

However, in your defense, your own senses have been greatly off kilter since your pregnancy and childbirth. Not to mention, the sheer exhaustion a newborn brings to a first time mother—you’re too concerned with your daughter, Tomie, to notice anything else. 

Of course, you don’t expect Naoya of all people to realize that though.

“See, Tomie?” you whisper preciously to your daughter as you continue rocking her, “You woke up your cousin with all that fuss. Now Nao-chan’s just as grumpypuss as you, my love.”

Nao-chan?!

The nickname lands like a slap and Naoya flinches, no longer reclined on the door.

You weren’t even that much older than him—so what gives you the right to reduce his name to something so…ugh, cutesy?

It makes him sound soft. 

Like some harmless stuffy to be cooed at alongside the child in your arms. Nevertheless, a small flush creeps up Naoya’s neck all the same.

Tutting, you shift Tomie upright so she can get a proper look at her cousin, still rooted in the doorway like he's being personally affronted.

She stills at the sight of Naoya, matching his energy.

Appraising him with tiny copies of Toji's stark emerald eyes, Tomie holds that same unsettling scrutiny packaged in a cute face that carries you both unmistakably.

Not to be outdone, Naoya sharpens his gaze, his lips set in a thin line.

You snort under your breath at the scene. 

Looks like the infamous Zenin scowl curses another generation—and Naoya, the pompous heir himself, doesn't look remotely inclined to lose a staring contest to someone who can't even burp unassisted.

Growing bored, ultimately Tomie gives first as she blinks, babbling baby talk. A chubby arm wriggling free and batting clumsily toward him, breaking the stalemate.

"Oh?" you simper, eyes flicking from Naoya, who looks smug to have bested an infant, to your daughter. 

"Not you being the mature one, my girl."

Your giggles make Naoya bristle, his mouth opens to speak—but you're already talking over him.

“C’mere, she wants a truce.” you beckon sweetly, inviting him in. 

Frankly, you’re thrilled something has caught your baby girl’s attention long enough to distract her from crying—even if it is her obnoxious ass cousin.

Naoya, for his part, fully intended to reject the invitation. 

To snap at you to—shut that thing the fuck up and put those saddlebag tiddies away while you're at it—to be done with the whole debacle so he could sleep. But his scathing reply dies somewhere between your airy laughter and the light sheen of milk saturating your areolas. 

Conceding like he’s being called by some unknown force, Naoya crosses your threshold. He reasons that if a quick greeting would quiet the petite goblin for the night, he could comply just this once for his own sake.

Approaching your futon, Naoya sits beside you, back straight, on his knees. His posture is cautious, as if through mere proximity alone either your baby girl or your milk heavy tits could explode at any moment.

Which brings him to the point that you still haven't moved a muscle towards covering yourself for some fucking reason that eludes him entirely.

However, Naoya isn’t about to let a mere pair of tits shake him. If you don’t care, neither does he. At least that’s what he tells himself as he forces himself to keep his eyes level with yours. 

Noaya, steady with all the focused determination expected from the leader of the Hei and Zenin heir—eyes shoot to your tits again the moment you glance at your daughter.

Fuck.

Swallowing heavily, Naoya doesn’t even understand why he’s so enthralled with them. He’s seen plenty of boobs, ones that look way better than yours too. From this close, Naoya can make out the strain of them, skin stretching thin and the small veins showing from underneath. Not the delicate sight of a lady’s chest, no, yours are so obscenely engorged—not to mention leaking—more like fattened cow udders.  

So huge, in fact, that they look heavy and feverish. 

Or…maybe, that was just him. 

The room is getting kinda stuffy.

Shit. Naoya just can't seem to look away from your ginormous mommy milkers. Unable to decide if he's repulsed or utterly entranced. And he's so busy wrestling with that internal crisis that he doesn't stop you from doing something completely fucking unhinged—

—like handing him Tomie.

Realization hitting, for the briefest, teeniest micro-second, Naoya nearly yeets her. 

Not even to be an asshole. Just pure reflexes.

Naoya genuinely abhors children. He’s never held anyone’s child and he sure as hell hadn't expected you to dump yours into his arms out of fucking nowhere.

Thankfully—as that very well would have been his ass once Toji found out—Naoya’s a well skilled sorcerer. His own self-preservation instincts reduce the action to a mere undetectable twitch of muscle.

Even so, he looks far more petrified than he realizes and that you do pick up on. 

It doesn't register to him how ridiculous he looks until you're practically shaking with suppressed laughter at his statue-like posture. 

“She’s not made of glass, you know,” you chuckle at Naoya clearly being so majorly out of his depth. “Just relax, yeah? Rock Tomie a little—she likes you for some reason. You can manage that can’t you?”

Naoya looks at you like you've sprouted two heads. 

He doesn’t want to rock a fucking baby—even if it is Toji-kun’s offspring. 

Who the fuck do you think he is? 

Besides, relaxing wasn't really an option considering how close he'd come to his own death sentence moments ago. But even stranger, he realizes, he hasn't said anything cutting in a minute to remind you of your place, which is frankly weirding him out more than holding the baby is.

However…

You’re simply trusting Naoya to hold her at the moment, easy as that. 

He’s the Zenin heir—of course that’s fucking something ‘he can manage.’

To Naoya’s surprise, Tomie has actually settled—tension gone from her tiny body, that very Zenin furrow smoothing from her brow as though to say finally, another Zenin graces her prescenes. 

She gurgles up at him, blows a bubble and pats his chest with a proprietary little hand.

Naoya frowns. Why does this feel less like soothing a child and more like being evaluated?

"There—" you yawn unceremoniously, a flicker of life returning to your voice as you treasure the break. "See? She's just bored of mommy. Probably wondering where that deadbeat daddy of hers is."

Your slanderous, yet entirely accurate, remark about Toji is what finally has the venom returning to Naoya’s tongue. 

You of all people should consider yourself lucky to be married to him and birth his child.

Eyes flaring, Naoya turns to you and—

Big mistake.

You're in the middle of a stretch. Arms overhead, back bowed, the sheer weight of your tits pulling at your spine until something cracks between your shoulder blades. Milk beads at your nipples from the motion—then scatters. Futon. Blankets. Your lap.

A single drop landing square on Naoya's robe.

He braces for disgust. For his throat to tighten at the sheer audacity of your bodily fluids landing on him.

But the feeling never comes.

Just an overwhelming chemical need to lick the creamy droplet from his sleeve before it soaks in.

“Aha!” you whisper excitedly, attention still on your baby girl in his arms. “My little angel is finally asleep.”

You lean into Naoya, shoulder resting against his, your nipple grazing his arm—and a dribble of milk trails down his sleeve. The drops bleed through the fabric, faint but undeniable.

He doesn't want to notice.

But he does, along with its scent—something like warm mochi and milk buns and pure want to taste it surges so hard this time he bites his cheek.

"Aww, how sweet..." Seemingly oblivious, you dare to poke his cheek, cooing. “Tomi-chan loves her cousin Nao-Nao~!"

Nao-Nao?!

Hairs up on end, Naoya wants to hiss at you.

But your tone is too pure, too genuine.  

You’re just… like this. 

A gentle aura surrounding you while next to your newborn causes you to mother everything in your surrounding area.

And that makes it all the worse.

Naoya doesn’t need mothering. He never did, not even as a child himself.

Yet those thoughts contrast the awkward and unfamiliar warmth Naoya is so insistently trying to keep out of his chest.

Truly, he’d rather be put out of his misery than suffer it a moment longer. 

As a Zenin, Naoya had been trained to treat any affection as weakness—and weakness as a Zenin was the worst sin one could commit.

There’s an unspoken understanding in the clan: No scared cows. 

No one member valued more than the strength of the whole.

And now, as a Zenin, you'd be no exception either. Even at the risk of Toji’s or the Kamo clan's displeasure. 

The Zenin are well practiced at making consequences look like natural outcomes—be it accidental or personal failures. 

Watching you smile so tenderly at your child, Naoya tells himself what he feels isn't guilt.

It's obligation.

Toji left you and Tomie in his care. Therefore it falls to him to set you straight if you both are to survive.

That's all.

"You're Toji-kun's wife and my ward.” Naoya growls—albeit low, careful not to trigger Tomie into another hellish chorus.

“You will henceforth address me, the future head of this clan, as ‘Naoya-sama’." 

His words are cutting and to the point.

“And fuckssake, you will cover yourself when in front of men. You are not a Kamo any longer, you’re a Zenin. You will act accordingly or you will be handled.”

You retract immediately, smile dropping, wetting your lips into a pretty little pout that might have worked on a lesser man.

Naoya considers, for a moment, that he almost feels bad for you. Your lack of discip—

Then you dissolve into hushed giggles and he regrets it entirely.

"Oh my gawwwd, you're actually deadass right now, aren't you!?" Hand over your mouth, tears of amusement prick your eyes as you try to keep your voice contained.

“..or you will be handled”, you mimic, trying to sound as pompous as Naoya, although you don’t imagine anyone ever could.

Noaya growls but you pay him no mind through your amusement, so he is almost startled when you suddenly stop and crowd his space once more.

“Handled, huh?”

Naoya keeps his eyes on yours through sheer force of will—refusing to acknowledge your tits swaying in his peripheral.

“And just who is going to handle me…” You challenge, batting your eyes with a sensual pull of your lips, “...you, lil Nao-chan?”

Naoya grits his teeth, his eyes flashing. 

Here he was trying to warn you and you’re making a mockery of him?! 

If you weren’t Toji’s wife he’d teach you a lesson, he’d—

"Awe, c'mon, Nao-Nao," you purr, caressing his arm which he quickly snatches away. "I thought you'd be the fun one! Ya know…Toji said you were the only half-decent guy in the family."

He stiffens. 

"Toji-k-kun…” Naoya clears his throat.  “...he said that?"

“Mm-hmm.” You hum. Not missing how Naoya’s golden eyes catch light at his older cousins' praise of him. “Told me you were the only one here Tomie and I could count on.”

The light blush on Naoya’s ears creeps down his neck and just like that Naoya begins rocking Tomie as you initially suggested. Carefully, too—as if in this very moment he's made it his life’s mission to earnestly exceed all of Toji-kun's expectations for him.

Chest puffed and prideful, Naoya insists that, as future clan leader, it's ‘only natural’ Toji-kun would say such a thing about him.

You on the other hand have to perse your lips to keep from bursting into actual hysterics this time.

Why’s that?

Because you just lied through your goddamn teeth.

The only thing Toji told you was that Naoya was an easy mark.

And he is. 

Almost painfully so. 

The way his ego swells. The way his whole aura brightens just from hearing his cousin's name. 

It’s all too adorable, honestly.

Naoya is too easily charmed and you're no stranger to charming all kinds of men. Hell, that's how you got knocked up in the first place.

But this type of emotionally stunted man? 

Oh, you could definitely have some fun with him. 

With Tomie finally asleep, you feel the familiar pull of mischief tug at you. 

“Besides, Naoya-sama~~”

Your voice is all velvety compliance causing Naoya to completely miss the sarcasm underneath. He's also too distracted by your head on his shoulder and your boobs molding into his arm as you reach across him to fix Tomie’s swaddling.

"I think I'm decent enough, no?" Your lips curl deviously. "Seeing as I don't exactly count you as a man."

Naoya’s cursed energy spikes, fury bleeding through his veins—but your Tomie shifts in his arms and Naoya has to choke it back, holding his fury. 

You just cock your head, all innocence, like you haven't said something utterly slanderous.

"You shameless fucking slut—" The chill in Naoya voice drops to frostbite temps, “I know you of all peo—”

“Aye!” 

The whiplash is instantaneous—Naoya doesn’t finish the sentence before you have two fingers pinching his cheek, twisting with the particular ferocity of a momma bear who's been awake for thirty-six hours and has simply stopped tolerating bullshit.

"Watch your fucking potty mouth around my damn kid, asshole."

Naoya seethes. He wants to tear into you—the thot-daughter of the Kamo clan, standing on absolutely zero moral grounds—he really, genuinely does. But the twist on his cheek tightens and this time he doesn't even need his survival instincts to do the math for him.

Naoya doesn't know your grade but you aren’t a weakling.

Half his cheek isn’t worth it—especially if it woke the little hellhound in the process.

"...Whatever."

Satisfied at him backing down, you release him, smirking at the red blooming across his face. 

Naoya resists rubbing it. Instead he huffs, hoisting your Tomie up onto his shoulder and bouncing her there in pointed silence. She'd stirred more from your outburst than anything he'd done all night.

This is all fucking ridiculous.

Naoya thinks and the second she settles once more he thrusts her toward you.

"Here. Take her. You're welcome, by the way—since clearly it takes a real Zenin to do what her own mother couldn't manage all night."

Rolling your eyes, you stop just short of slapping the shit out of Naoya. 

The facts remain: that even as a newlywed, your ass might as well be a single mother. Your exhaustion is near biblical and your nerves are near shot and Tomie—the perceptive little thing she is—has likely picked up on every ounce of it, your nerves feeding hers in one miserable feedback loop tonight.

Yet, thanks to Naoya of all people, that loop is finally broken.

Shaking your head, you reach for your daughter—and then your body seizes. The pain hits your chest like a vice, jolting you back hard enough to steal your breath. Your hands fly to cup your breasts on instinct, fingers sinking into the weight of them.

"OH, shiiii—owwww!" You wince.

“What the hell now?” Naoya still holds the baby out to you expectantly, brow arching as you curl into yourself.

"What the hell do you think, Naoya?" You grimace, biting back at him. 

Face crunched in pain, eyes shut, you’re careful to take measured sips of air.

“She cried all night and didn't eat. My tits are fucking killing me."

Realizing this meant he’d have to hold your baby girl even longer, Naoya makes an exasperated sound as he brings her fully into his arms again.  

“You know this is your archaic ass family’s fault, right?” 

You crack an eye open at his diva-like attitude.

“I asked for a pump and the old battleaxe of a caretaker said no. ‘All Zenins are fed from the source’, you mimic in a nasally voice. “Like be so fucking for real—what damn century is this again?!”

Naoya snorts. 

You've never had house rules imposed on you—your father let you run the streets without consequence. So really, you're in no position to complain about the Zenin clinging to their traditions, insufferable as they may be, at least they had them.

"You know—Zenin wives are typically chosen for their training and poise. To think that the Kam—" Naoya stops. 

Mid-sentence, mid-thought, mid-everything—his mouth open, agape like a fish. 

Robe now pooled around your hips, you begin working one of your swollen breasts in both hands. Clinical in the way only fatigue makes a person, no couth left in you at this hour. Your thumbs knead carefully, pressing firmly into tender tissue, heel of your palm dragging across a tight knot to stimulate the stagnant flow of your milk glands.

A deep moan slips from your lips in tandem with a hard squirt spraying from your breasts as a reward for your efforts.

Another escapes, then another. 

Your oversensitive nipple is drawn taunt with the prickly pain of relief as a thin stream begins to run along the curve of your tits, painting your skin in shiny rivulets all the way to your bellybutton. 

Through it all Naoya has not even blinked, nor taken a breath for that matter. 

Oblivious to his own staring—and your haughty smile. 

"Really now, Nao-chan? You're salty I don't consider you a man—" you muse, hands still diligently working out small drops of milk, "—but how can I? When you’re drooling over my tits like a thirsty newborn."

Shaken, Naoya’s eyes lock on with yours. The flush that had been camping at his neck floods his face all at once, searing his cheeks.

“I...”

You hush him.

Two fingers find your sternum, unhurried—drifting down your chest, down your belly, tracing the streaks of milk all the way down to your navel, gathering in the soft pudge of your mommy tummy.

Fingers thoroughly soaked, you gradually lift them to his lips. You hover them patiently, like you would a treat to a dog. 

“Open.”

Not used to taking orders, Naoya hesitates—then parts his lips anyway. Your fingers slide in and the taste hits him, rich and creamy with a faint savory edge he wasn't expecting.

It's good. Dangerously good.

His brain short-circuiting, Naoya doesn't stop even when the taste fades, lapping at your fingers and sucking the remnants from your nails with an eagerness he'll hate himself for later. A low croon threatens to escape his throat—the kind of sound he'd never make consciously—and he forces it down along with the last traces of your milk.

More—he wants more.

One look in Naoya’s eyes tells you that. Dark, hooded, their usual sharp calculation completely gone—replaced by something unguarded and hungry. He's still tonguing your fingers like there might be something left to find. The needy, restless flick of his tongue stroking heat into your core.

"Good," you murmur, retracting your fingers. "Now, go put Tomie down on her futon."

Naoya doesn't move.

But this stillness is different. Every muscle is coiled, feral cursed energy strumming hot through his veins. A wire crossed. His restraint is less like surrender and more like the moment preceding a strike.

"Go on," you simper, "...and I'll let you sample from the source... you know the proper way to feed a Zenin."

Naoya says nothing. His aura speaks for him as he rises smoothly, crosses to the tiny futon, and sets your daughter down.

You simper in approval—he's not half bad at this—but you couldn't tell him that now. Not with the tension this thick.

Returning, Naoya lingers at the edge of your futon. The particular stillness of someone who's already decided how this ends—he’s just letting you go first.

"Well, c'mere—don't go shy on me, Nao-Nao."

You crook a manicured finger at him, giggling.

Poor thing doesn’t realize he’s playing right into your hands.

"I'm not shy."

He's not. But you're Toji's wife, and he's well aware of that. Somehow though, it only makes whatever this is more forbidden.

More worth taking.

"No?" Your voice dips playfully, baiting.

"Just a virgin then?"

Naoya sucks his teeth. He's never met a woman as infuriating as you he decides.

"I'm no virgin, whore."

No real bite to Naoya’s voice this time though, not as he drops to his knees in front of you like a good dog. His own annoyance betrayed only by the whitening of his knuckles in his lap.

"Gotta be mommy issues then," you murmur, closing the remaining distance with a crawl—one last barb delivered right as you sink into his lap, forcing him cross-legged beneath you.

His contained fury is the most endearing thing you've seen all night to be sure.

"Shut u-up," he grits, voice scraping thin.

You rest your arms on his shoulders, holding deliberate space between your bodies. Tilt your head and take stock—he's handsome, you'll give him that. Good bone structure, pretty mouth. 

Shame he ever has to open it.

Your fingers drift to the piercings at his earlobe, toying lazily—while your other hand works the short hairs at his nape, featherlight scratches that make him shiver.

Naoya steels himself, an unwelcome and unexplained feeling blooming in his chest as he wills himself to stay focused.

"I'll shut up once you help me." Your hand leaves his ears to find his wrist, guiding it to your body. "Please, Nao-chan. It hurts."

The need etching in your voice worms its way under his skin like a tick and Naoya is finding his ability to keep control greatly diminished from all the blood flowing into his cock.

"Massage from the base," you breathe, giving him instructions to stimulate the milk flow. "Pressure out, not in."

Naoya's palm flattens flush against your breast and whatever plans he had for control slip away on contact.

The heat hits first—it's swollen, much heavier than he expected. Then the give of it, firm but yielding as his fingers curl to sink deeper. Naoya can feel the subtle shift of milk tracking beneath your skin, your breath hitching when he finds the right pressure, your nipple drawing tight against his palm.

"Just like that," you sigh when his rhythm smooths out. "You're a natural."

He adjusts without being told, reading your body's responses, and soon adds his second hand—finding the knot easily, pressing with both thumbs.

Surprise flickers across his face when milk spurts over his knuckles.

He nearly stops breathing.

You don't. 

Your shaky exhale of relief punches straight through him and his cock throbs against his robes like a second heartbeat. 

Naoya shifts, trying to adjust himself without you noticing.

You do however, gaze dropping, at the motion. He's so much larger than you'd have guessed for a man with such a fragile ego.

"Hmm. Certain parts of you are definitely enjoying this, Nao-chan."

Naoya clicks his tongue but doesn't deny it. He's too fucking hard to deny it.

His hands move again—one on each breast now, thumbs circling, palms compressing—drawing a deep moan past your lips. He watches with something close to reverence as milk wells up with each careful stroke.

The less your chest aches, the lower heat travels, melting into your core. You’re pulsing at the thought of his thumbs sweeping the same circles across your clit.

Breath heavy, biting your lip, you grasp at the robe on his shoulders to brace yourself. A  momentary loss of your own control which Naoya is in no position to take advantage of.

Not when his attention is fully captured by a fat, opalescent drop welling on your nipple, shiny even in the dim light.

Eyes wild with need, Naoya’s tongue nearly pokes through the inside of his cheek.

"You wanna taste."

It’s not a question. 

"I already said you could—or would you rather lick it up again, like a dog?"

But you’re just as desperate to be drained as he is to drain you. Naoya notices, you can tell. But his jaw is clenched so tight his molars might crack, eyes still glued to your nipples, and you almost tell him to relax before he breaks something and really does require nursing.

Your tits ache too badly to wait on his pride all night.

This time Naoya doesn't flinch when you cup his cheek. You guide him forward with unhurried gentleness—the same patience you show your daughter—and something about that tenderness dissolves whatever protests he had left.

His mouth closes over your nipple and he sucks, greedy and unguarded. Your fingers card into his hair immediately, drawing him in as the first pull sends an achy relief flooding through your breasts.

Naoya moans around you, shameless. Gluttonous. All pompous pretense abandoned.

"There it is," you murmur, smiling as you stroke him affectionately.

Your touch only makes him hungrier though—his tongue flickering, writhing for more even as your milk flows steady now. You jolt when his hands grip your hips without warning.

Naoya braces himself but he's nowhere near steady. Nothing about him is. Breath ragged against your skin, his whole body carries a tremor he probably doesn't realize is visible.

"It's okay, I'm not going anywhere…" you whisper, honeyed coos finally reaching him. "You’re a good boy."

Naoya freezes.

He unlatches with a wet gasp—glossy white ring around his lips, golden-brown eyes blown wide and wild. Something just cracked open in him that he wasn't prepared to feel.

"Don't—"

Croaking on his own spit.

"Don't what? Praise you?" Your hands keep working through his hair, lightly scratching his scalp, lulling him toward a surrender he's still trying to fight. "For doing so well?"

"I'm not a child."

But his voice wavers, unconvincing even to his own ears. 

You're teasing him, yes—but there's no cruelty underneath it. No disdain he can pinpoint as an excuse to push you away and escape from whatever this is.

"No?"

Bending forward, your lips ghost against his temple as you whisper:

"You don't want to be my good boy, Naoya?"

His nostrils flare—anger, need, humiliation—all of it written plain across his face. 

Like an animal he’s cornered, unsure of his next move.

A moment passes. 

Then Naoya’s gaze flicks sharply to your other breast he’s yet to sample.

You raise a brow, but Naoya has just enough pride left to not dignify your question with an answer. Can't anyway—his mouth is already latching onto the next target—the conversation over.

Need won. Clearly.

Naoya feeds more ravenously this time—tongue rolling around your sensitive flesh, teeth scraping in a way you'd smack him for if it didn't feel so fucking good.

He's messy about it too. Milk running down his chin, neck and spilling into his collar.

Fuck—this little shithead can really work his tongue.

Your head lulls, arching into him, melting against his mouth as you let him take his fill. 

Your own lust is dampening your thighs now.

Damn. This wasn't the plan. 

You'd meant to tease him a bit—let him suck on your fingers, string him along and then duck him. Peel his pride back layer by layer, slowly, to keep yourself amused living amongst such a stuffy clan.

You had no idea how affection-starved Naoya was. 

Let alone how much seeing him like this would turn you on.

Your pussy is screaming at you, becoming impossible to ignore. You haven't seen Toji in weeks—relief is overdue in more ways than one.

"N-Naoya…?"

You call him, but he doesn't answer.

His thoughts are in disarray—walls crumbling around something long abandoned inside him.

What this is—what he’s feeling?  It’s deeper than anything he's charted. And it has nothing to do with your tits, your supple skin, or the way your milk dissolves on his tongue.

Naoya rarely finds himself lacking. 

An upbringing in the Zenin estate hones you for perfection built from very specific arithmetic—cursed technique, tradition and hierarchy. Assembled inside those walls you learn quickly that anything useless you cut out—or someone else cuts it out for you.

But now?

Your gentle words. 

You warm embrace.

Your hand moving through his hair like—like he's something worth tending to. 

Like his worth was never something he had to earn.

It's driving him mad.

Worse—he doesn't want you to stop.

“Hello? Earth to Nao-chan.” You lit, snapping him out of his daze. “Not you milk drunk already, baby?”

Pouty and petulant, Naoya’s arms snake around your waist to drag you closer until his face is buried between your tits, ignoring you.

Your hand slides between your bodies and finds him—thick and straining through his robes, the rigid shape of his cock unmistakable even through the layers. You lazily trace the outline of his long length with your palm.

Naoya's hips jerk up, gracelessly bucking into your touch.

You won’t let him go soft on you at the moment. Figuratively or literally.

"Aw, Nao-Nao," you coo mischievously. "What would Toji-kun think if he saw you like this?"

That finally gets you a reaction. 

Naoya looks up at you scowling—though not to much effect as your nipple stays lodged in his mouth like a binky, spit-slick against his bottom lip. 

He doesn't pull off—can't, maybe.

Because as much as he worships his older cousin, the realization is settling in like rot: Toji-kun, for all his monstrous strength—enough to tear apart the entire Zenin legacy—wasn't strong enough to resist you. 

Hell, could anyone? Naoya considers the strongest he knows but—pshhh—he’s seen how Gojo is around women, too—he wouldn’t stand a fucking chance against you either.

It makes him feel slightly less pathetic, if only barely.

"He'd not have any room to talk," Naoya growls against your skin as he continues to fuck himself against your palm, grinding his cock against your hand through the fabric in urgent thrusts.

You’re feeding him and unraveling him at the same damn time. Leaving him chasing release and something else he can't articulate.

“Shit—let me fuck you before I completely lose it.”

Naoya’s hands shoot to your ass, fingers digging into your flesh, gripping hard enough to bruise.

You blink, a part of you shocked he's even asking—even if it is half-demanding and half-begging.

"Oh? So now you want to be in charge?" 

Your hand withdraws and you let him roll your hips forward against his—it’s more leisurely than the pace Naoya wants though, especially as your robes spread around your thighs and your bare pussy slides against his clothed cock. 

You're so soaked, and he can feel your juices flooding through the silk, your wet heat branding him through the fabric.

Naoya grits, caught somewhere between rage and ruin. 

God, how he wants to slip his cock inside you—inside your mouth, your tits—and definitely that haughty lil cunt of yours.

See what was so good it even stopped Toji-kun from pulling out.

"You think you're fucking me, Nao-Nao?"

Cradling his head, you swipe at your own cream still lingering at the corner of his lips.

“You still have my milk around your mouth, baby.”

Naoya groans, barely controlled, like he's trying to rut through the layers of fabric. 

He doesn't even realize how undignified he looks. The sounds he makes suckling at your tit are sloppy and needy—and you know he'd be mortified if he could hear himself over the squelching of your pussy rubbing against his silk robe.

Tightening your grip in his hair, you wrench his head back, forcing him to release your nipple with a wet pop.

A string of milk stretches from your bud to his lip—then snaps.

Naoya gasps. 

Lips trembling, chin sopping, eyes unfocused. Poor thing. He looks completely ruined and you've barely started.

Naoya’s fists the fabric of your robe, already working at the tie. His gasps puff against your throat, mouth grazing up to your chin as he nibbles harder—threatening meaner bites.

"L-Let me fuck y-you." 

Naoya is begging now, not even trying to mask his need.

You tilt your head, considering, pondering on it like Naoya wasn’t on his last thread of sanity, driven to insanity by the treacley taste of your creamy milk.

"Mm. No."

"I need—"

Cutting him off, you push Naoya onto the futon in one smooth motion. 

"Haven’t you realized I know what you need, Nao-Nao?" Your voice is syrupy as you straddle him, hovering.

"I-I—Fuck—" The word scrapes out of him, guttural, clutching the sheets and throwing his head back onto the futon as his hips buck up into nothing.

You stay perfectly still. Not letting him take a single thing.

"Look at you." You coo, skimming a finger along his milk-stained collar. "Reduced to humping the air? Imagine, a Zenin heir with so little self-composure."

"S-Shut the fuck up, s-slut." 

But his insults don’t stop his hips, microthrusts wanting to chase the feeling of your messy pussy sliding over his cock again.

"Why?" You swivel your hips—one deep agonizing grind that lets him feel your cunt clench against his cock through the ruined fabric. He's dripping now too, precum mixing with yours. 

"I think you like it when I make you beg. You want to, don't you? So beg me."

Naoya's cheeks burn. He could easily flip you, pin you, and have his way.

He won't though.

Even through your teasing there's a care to your touch he's never let himself experience—and resisting it has his nails biting crescents into his palms, hard enough to bleed.

"I bet you'd cum just like this…" 

Your plush lips ghosting his Adam's apple, smirking as he squirms under you. 

"...without ever getting inside. Soiling your own robe like a needy, prideful little boy who couldn't simply ask nicely."

The moan that rips from Naoya's throat is feral with need and thick with humiliation. His hips shoving upward, wanton for contact.

You don't give it, suspended just above him, your drooling cunt barely grazing his cock, watching him fall apart with all the patience in the world.

"Naoya, baby" Your hand slides up to cup his cheek, tenderly. "Tell Mommy what you want."

Naoya’s eyes go wide. 

Every muscle taut. Cheeks flushed dark. 

The Zenin composure he was built from crumbling, reducing him to this. 

On the brink, never has Naoya waited this long for something. Never has he been this turned on—and as much as he’s fucking furious about it, he’s also way past giving a fuck.

His eyes rake your body and snag on the trail of milk—smeared on your tits, your belly, all the way to your cunt where it glistens in the dim light.

His mouth waters. Whatever resolve he had left shatters.

"Please..." Naoya whimpers, tears dusting the edges of his eyes, too wound up to realize he's handing you everything. "...fuck me."

You raise a brow, waiting. 

Oh, he’s so close.

He knows it too. He knows what you want. 

Naoya can see it on your face but there's no coming back from it once he says it. But what choice does he have? He’d die if you sent him away like this.

"Please, fuck me—"Naoya’s voice cracks clean in half, a single tear running down his cheek. "—Mommy."

You push his bangs up fondly, planting a chaste kiss right on his forehead. 

"That’s my Good boy."

Naoya watches you with tears burning his eyes, chest heaving, too far gone to resist you any longer.

You tug the ties loose on his robe until the fabric falls away. His cock springs free—angry, leaking and bobbing with every shaky breath he takes.

You have to admit it's pretty. His flushed red, cockhead peeked through its foreskin. You can feel his whole body shiver as you peel it back more. 

Your mouth is watering for a taste yourself and god, if Naoya wasn’t such a fucking tool you’d gladly suck him off. 

That could come later though—you’d make him earn that too. Subservience looks good on him afterall. 

You'd be tempted to deny him longer if you weren't so hard up for it yourself, your gooey walls vibrating at the thought of a cock inside, at long last. 

Toji's been gone for weeks and you need a stress release, bad.

You position your cunt just above the swollen head of his cock—close enough for your juices to drip salaciously onto his tip, dribbling down his shaft.

Naoya squirms beneath you, and you drink it in.

"Craving to wet your cock inside Toji-kun's wife, hm?"

He can't answer—not when you sweep his cockhead through your folds, letting him glide through the mess of your wetness and the milk still coating your thighs. You're soaked enough to take him whole right now, no prep needed, and the thought makes your cunt clench around nothing.

Naoya moans, hips snapping up, trying to piston into you—and you shove him back down by the hip, pinning him to the futon.

"Behave."

"I'm—" He swallows, voice wrecked. "I'm trying."

You smile, wiping the sweat off his brow with something close to care in your touch.

"Try harder for Mommy then, yeah, Nao-baby?"

You don't wait for his response.

You sink down, pussy swallowing him whole in one brutal stroke.

The stretch punches the breath out of you—wet as you are, he's still thick enough to make your walls spasm, to make your spine bow as he splits you open. You hate how good his cock feels dragging over every ridge inside you, the fat head kissing your cervix hard enough to make your thighs tremble.

Naoya gasps like you've knocked the wind out of him. You watch his mind go blank.

Hands flexing useless at his sides. Mouth falling open, slack and dumb. Eyes rolling until you can only see the whites, lashes fluttering against his cheeks.

"Y-You're f-fuckin’ tight," he rasps, too loud. "F-Fuck—you're tight, y-you're so—"

Clamping your hand over his mouth, palm pressed to his lips, your nails curl into his cheek. You feel him arch off the futon beneath you, a muffled whine vibrating against your skin.

"Shh." You hush. "You'll wake the baby."

Naoya nods furiously, chest heaving. You smile once he settles.

"Atta boy."

Naoya whines as you start to move—hand still clamped over his mouth, bracing yourself as you ride him. A calculated wind at first, controlling the roll of your hips as you get a feel for him. The way he stretches you. The way a meaty vein throbs against your g-spot as you move. 

Shit—Not bad.

Naoya trembles beneath you, hands fisted white-knuckled in the sheets, whole body wracked with the effort of staying still. Of not fucking up into you like a desperate, rutting animal.

"Mmmm," you murmur, rotating your hips in a lazy figure-eights. "Just like that, let it all go. Let me ride you. Let Mommy take care of you."

Naoya’s whimpers bubble under your palm—pathetic, needy. He knows he’s being used. He’s maintained zero control of the situation. 

And yet? 

He can’t deny a he’s a fucking fiend for it.

Not when your cunt grips him like a fist. Not when he can feel how wet you are— slick saturating his balls, staining the futon beneath you both. Your gooey pussy squeezes him so tight he can barely breathe, silky and warm, milking his cock like she was made to ruin him.

Then you feel it—his balls twitching underneath your ass, drawing up tight. He's close. 

Fuck, already?!

“C-Cumming that fast?” you pant out. “ T-That fast? From your cousin’s wife’s tits and cunt? Do I feel that good?”

Naoya is groaning as his eyes squeeze shut, biting his inner cheek and fisting the sheets.

"Nuh-uh." You tsk, stilling completely. "Bad boy. Not allowed."

Naoya's eyes fly open as yours begin to glow—red and ancient, blood-dark lines blooming beneath your lashes. He feels it. Your cursed energy pouring into him, flooding every vein, every capillary, settling hot and heavy in his balls.

The Kamo inherited technique—blood manipulation—seizes complete control.

Instantly, he veins in his balls bulge obscenely, his cock swelling even harder inside you. But he can't cum. You won't let him.

Naoya cries out, breaking into a sweat, pleasure flaring through him to excruciating levels as every one of his nerve endings lights up.

"I may be a Zenin by name," you breathe, leaning in until your tits smush into his chest and your lips brush his ear, "but I'll always be a Kamo by blood."

You bite down on the tender tissue, feeling him shudder beneath you, cock throbbing helplessly inside your cunt.

"Don't worry." You sit up, savoring his broken whine from the loss. "I'll let you cum, Nao-baby. I'm going to milk you dry—just like you milked me—after I get my nut."

You lift up just enough to meet his wild, glassy eyes.

"Nod if you understand."

Naoya nods. He understands perfectly now—understands exactly how you wound up pregnant by Toji. Understands why a man like that couldn't stay away.

He sobs beneath your hold, tears spilling hot over your fingers, breath hitching against your palm. You clench, a methodical squeeze—and his whole body jerks violently, a broken "nnngh—!" muffled against your hand.

You ride him in earnest now. Harder. Faster. Greedy for it. Your tits bounce wild, milk spilling with every slam of your hips—they’re sore but you don't care, chasing your pleasure like nothing else matters. You're soaked, the sound of it obscene—wet squelching filling the room, your arousal and milk splashing filthy with his pre where your bodies meet.

Naoya’s cock hits that gushy, spongy spot inside you over and over and your rhythm starts to falter.

"F-Fuck—"

You're getting sloppy. Losing focus. Your thighs burn from exertion but you can't stop, can't slow down, bouncing on his cock like you'll die yourself if you don't cum on it. Your pussy greedily convulsing around him—shit, you could easily fuck your own self stupid if you aren’t careful. 

You learned well enough not to underestimate Zenin dick fucking around with Toji.

Thankfully, however, Naoya is ruined. Flushed crimson from chest to ears beneath you, his tears streaming and his cock so engorged inside you that he looks like it must hurt. His hips spasm with aborted thrusts, toes curling as he is fighting his body's urge to rut even now.

He’s still trying so hard to be a ‘good boy’ for you and that thought alone almost makes you cum.

You consider, through the haze of your own pleasure, appraising his pathetic form beneath you, that you might accidentally give him a brain aneurysm if you keep this up much longer.

“P-Puulease—Mommy” he gasps out when you lift your hand from his lips.

"Wait your turn," you moan, brows furrowing as you try to concentrate.  

You're close. So fucking close. You use him like a toy now, hips rolling carnally, chasing the tingling friction. building white-hot at the base of your spine. Your nails dig into his abs as you tilt, angling yourself so his girth scrapes against your g-spot with every bounce. 

Quiet sobs tumble over your lips as you tense, fucking yourself on him until—

"O-oh—oh fuckfuckfuck—"

You shatter, orgasm ripping through you, pussy fluttering wild around his length and gushing to coat his balls as you ride it out. Vision edges white, as your thighs quake, your hips rotating in stuttering circles as the waves crash through you.

Chest heaving, when you regain your senses again, Naoya is barely there himself, sanity hanging by a thread with eyes blown—watching you cum so erotically on his cock like a man witnessing something holy.

You bring your face centimeters away from his, your lips ghosting his own as you release your technique.

"Cum."

And he does.

With a broken moan Naoya busts inside you—cock pulsing thick and hot, spurts of cum flooding your cunt white as his hips stutter up helplessly. You let him pull you down, let him clutch you like you're the only thing keeping him tethered to earth as your lips smash together.

You seal your mouth over his, devouring every ragged cry. Your tongue sweeps sweetly against his trembling one as you steady his face in your hands, thumbs brushing his tear-damp cheeks, kissing him quiet.

All the while his cock continues to pump you full—and you’ve kept your promise. 

This is the most Naoya’s ever cum in his entire life.

When he comes down enough, Naoya rolls onto his side, taking you with him as he curls into you—face buried in your chest, sucking in breaths, completely undone and still twitching inside you. 

A bit overspent yourself, not having activated your ability since Toji got you pregnant in the first place, you don't move yet. You keep him buried inside of you, pulsing with the aftershocks of what he just let himself become.

His arms wind tight around your waist like he's afraid you'll disappear. You cradle the back of his head, stroking softly.

He doesn't speak and you don't rush him. Not eager to test for any remaining snark you failed to fuck out of him.

It feels good just being needed like this, you are a mother afterall.

Eventually the heat between your thighs starts to cool, and you shift—peeling him off slowly, feeling the thick spill of his cum leak out of you. He shudders at the loss, an inaudible sound catching in his throat.

You ease him onto his back, robes rumpled beneath him, face still ruddy. He watches you through heavy-lidded eyes—quiet, stunned, like he doesn't recognize himself.

And then—

A single, involuntary whimper escapes him when his gaze catches on your breasts again. 

Still heavy and still leaking—milk beading at your nipples.

You smile.

"Still hungry?"

He turns his face into the pillow, ears burning.

You laugh—not mocking this time. Your voice is warm, almost fond.

"Poor Nao-chan," you murmur, settling beside him as you reach for a baby wipe nearby. "Your first time letting someone take care of you, and now you don't know what to do with yourself."

"I didn't say I wanted—"

You wipe his chest clean of milk, sweat—all of it with a tenderness that makes him forget what he was saying. Naoya’s throat bobs as he goes silent.

Unhurried, you wipe yourself off next. Then once satisfied, looking over to confirm that Tomie is still sleeping peacefully, you secure the discarded blanket over you both, effectively tucking him in, before gathering him in your arms.

"You don't have to say it," you whisper against his hair. "Mommies always know."

Sure, you certainly aren't his mother.

Yet something in your heart still aches for the broken little boy inside Naoya all the same. His cruel upbringing was hardly his fault, although it's been everyone else’s problem since. 

Plus, you're fairly certain you just did more for his mommy issues in one night than years of therapy could ever achieve—even if someone managed to drag Naoya there, against his will.

Sigmund Freud couldn't have even accomplished this. Someone should really give you a nobel peace prize.

You hum a low lullaby against his temple as Naoya’s eyes close. He doesn't fight it. Between your soothing song, warmth and the exhaustion your technique left behind, he doesn't have the strength to fight you—nor does he want to.

Naoya’s lips are at your nipple again. He's not sucking this time—just holding you on his tongue, lavishing slow and kitten-soft licks, nursing you like a pacifier.

"You did well, Naoya."

It's the last thing he hears as sleep pulls him under.

⟡

Hours later, Naoya wakes to the sound of your voice.

His eyes squint against the harsh morning light pouring into the room. As they adjust, he makes out your shape—sitting on the edge of the futon, knees tucked beneath you, fully dressed, bouncing Tomie in one arm while you chat on the phone.

A dizziness hits him all at once. Naoya finds himself sluggish, bodily functions recalibrating as the effects of your technique linger. 

He feels like he got hit by a goddamn truck. 

A truck that happened to also fuck him stupid and then tucked him in after.

Grumpy, the loss of your warmth pulls a low growl from him.

Naoya hauls himself across the futon and plants his head in your lap, nuzzling into you like you owe him now.

You try to ignore him, continuing your conversation, but Naoya is persistent. His nose keeps traveling higher—nudging toward the apex of your thighs and burying his face into your mound. The lingering musk of sex is still strong through your kimono and Naoya's cock stirs, already half-hard at the thought of tasting how well his seed has marinated inside you.

Naoya hums petulantly into your pussy, clearly territorial of whoever has your attention.

You roll your eyes at the display. 

Give men an inch and they will always take a mile. 

You threw him a crumb of affection and now he's acting starved for it.

Shifting your daughter to one arm and wedging the phone between your shoulder and cheek, you card your fingers through Naoya's hair. It's enough to soothe him—for now. He sighs against your thigh, using your plush lap as a pillow, and drifts back toward sleep.

"Huh? Say that again—" You grit, more irritated now at the man on the other line than the one in your lap. "Ugh, fine. I'll spot you this time, Toji."

Even half asleep, Naoya goes deathly still.

You smirk, feeling him tense in your lap as you continue to speak.

"But that’s only on the condition you visit Tomie this weekend, you oaf. She'll forget your face if you keep this up, ya know."

A pause. Then snort.

"Hm? Oh yeah. Yup, uh-huh.” You smirk amused by whatever Toji's saying on the other line. "Yeah, yeah, Ji. I'll let him know—and jeez, I got it, okay…I'll do the transfer now. GOODBYE."

You hang up with a huff, mildly annoyed—until you glance down and see your daughter happily cooing, her tiny hand patting Naoya's head alongside yours as you reluctantly transfer Toji the money he asked for.

Naoya, mortified, had been holding his breath this entire time—just in case Toji could sense it over the phone—sighs in relief.

"Shit... that was close," he mumbles, wincing as your daughter's pats turn into enthusiastic slaps against his temple. 

Toji-kun told him to take care of you, sure. 

He's fairly certain this wasn't what he meant.

"Huh? Oh, you mean Toji?" You blink down at Naoya. "I already told him."

Naoya shoots upright like you just announced a curse had just blown up half of Tokyo.

"Relax, Naoya, my god." You wave a hand, dismissing him. "Toji's cool about it. We were never exclusive or anything, ya know."

Naoya exhales, exasperated, and flops onto the futon, on his back, his hand over his face as you rise shuffling elsewhere in the room.

He knows his cousin—this won't be the end of it. Toji will definitely expect something in return.

But Naoya can't think about that now. His head is throbbing, it's early as hell, and he's gotten maybe two good hours of sleep.

He knows he should return to his own sleeping quarters—but this is his wing after all and he honestly can't be arsed to move for anything right now.

"However," you add lightly, when you see Naoya's body bracing for blow, "he did say you have to bankroll a parlay for him every time you fuck his wife."

And there it is.

Naoya doesn't even lift the hand over his face, just grunts.

"Sure."

"Anddddd, he's charging you by the ounce for—and I quote—'sucking up all his tiddy milk like a pansy lil b-i-t-c-h.'"

You spell out the word in lieu of saying it now that Tomie is awake.

Naoya groans, wishing he'd woken up earlier. He's not sure what kind of narrative you fed Toji, but he's too exhausted to argue about it now. 

"...Fine." Naoya replies, wincing at your giggles prickling his skull.

Toji's money schemes don't matter much to him anyway—he's rich, he can afford whatever bullshit ‘tiddy milk tax’ this is.

Naoya just needs you to shut up about it now.

Every chuckle out of your mouth drives another rusty nail into his skull.

"Oh, one last thing," you call over your shoulder, smirking as you scoop Tomie's diaper bag and head towards the bathroom to change her.

"Toji says if you get me knocked-up, you’re raising that one too."

You laugh hardly, leaving the room with Tomie happily cooing in your arms.

Whatever.

Naoya sighs, smashing two pillows over his face. 

He'd just pull out next time.

Simple. Problem solved. 

It's a small price to pay for your soft creamy tits and that sweet, gooey mommy puss—

...

Hold on.

What the fuck did Toji-kun mean by 'too'?

𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚍. 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚜. 𝚋𝚕𝚔𝚔𝚒𝚣𝚣𝚊𝚝 © 𝟸𝟶𝟸𝟹-𝟸𝟶𝟸𝟼

♡ hope u enjoyed! i hope to see a lot more recruits in the naoya army after this fic lol! also i loved writing in tomie here. i didn't name toji's and your's baby in the previous one but i really like this name so i decided to use it. shes so sassy shes def gonna give noaya hell. hsjdfbvjshdbfvhsd. read my other naoya fic here

Status updates: Caracal!sukuna p4 (20% done), invisible man!gojo (35%), stepdaddy!nanami (60% done), nerd!geto p2 (45%), 69 choso fic (30%) [y'all remember caracal sukuna won the poll so freddy!sukuna and elevator will have to wait!] stepdaddy!nanami next

Fuck, this is what I get for applying for this position, you curse internally, gritting your teeth. Some shady military op that’s apparently trying to conquer an alien planet and put scientists like you, who were just trying to understand alien life, in danger.

Oxygen leaks out of your mask with a steady hiss. Your breaths grow shallower, chest tightening. You need that mask. Even if it risks giving up your hiding spot.

Slowly, you crawl out into the open, tufts of plush grass tickling your palms. You keep glancing surreptitiously towards the base, half expecting a screeching Na’vi to pounce at you at any second.

The mask is ten feet away. Now five. You’re about to make the final stretch. But first, you feel it: a little tingle on your skin, a dark inkling that something is wrong.

Then, you see it.

Two dark eyes are pinned on you, peeking through the thick foliage. A zap of terror shoots through you. Instead of recoiling back, you freeze, chest tightening in a way that has nothing to do with your lack of oxygen.

Time stands still.

Move, you snap at yourself internally, but you can only stay petrified, mouth agape, on your hands and knees, arm still reaching for the mask like an idiot.

Would moving even make a difference? The other part of your brain laments. It’s not like I could compete with a Na’vi’s speed.

Then, the branches part. The being reveals himself, all long, blue limbs toned with muscle. A male, you realize, unable to do much but stare right back at him. A bow is slung over his back.

Your heart pounds, fully anticipating him to just whip out an arrow and shoot you right there. But his gaze isn’t predatory or malicious, no— it’s sharp with curiosity, almost wide with surprise at seeing a human in these forests. He’s not one of those hostiles, then?

Even through his messy, brown hair, you can see that he dawns markings that don’t correlate with any tribes you’ve seen. With your experience in studying the Na’vi, you quickly catalogue potential identities. A lone hunter? A nomad?

He steps closer, and closer yet, until he’s just a foot away. Brilliant bright eyes— violet, you realize— drop from you, to the sought-after mask, before shooting back up to you.

Then, with all the grace and elegance of a cat, he crouches down and plucks the mask from the ground.

Desperation rising, you blurt, “No!”

He was merely turning the object in his large palms, inspecting it, but at your outburst he pauses, head slowly raising to stare at you. You resist the urge to clasp a hand over your mouth.

What were you thinking, yelling at this lethal alien? But he hasn’t killed me yet, when Na’vi are known for ending their victims relatively quickly, you ration. So maybe I have a chance?

Your oxygen mask beeps in warning, drawing his endlessly fascinated gaze. You need that mask.

“I mean,” you try again, this time in the basic Na’vi you picked up while studying, “that’s mine.”

The Na’vi tilts his head. Then his lips twitch, sharp eyebrows lowering, as if pleased by hearing you speak to him.

The one-sided conversation is interrupted by a loud crash from the base.

Both of your heads snap in the direction of the base. There’s another crash, accompanied by the screeching of approaching Na’vi that gets louder by the second. The takeover hasn’t stopped. It’d been just moving throughout the base, and now it’s moving towards you.

Finally, you scramble up, forget about that stupid mask, and run.

You don’t know where exactly you’re going. You just push through thick branches and foliage, hoping the vegetation will shield you from the hostiles’ eyes. But then you realize there’s a second set of footsteps behind you.

You shriek as a long arm binds around your waist, tugging you flush against a firm chest. A large blue hand grabs both of your flailing arms easily, and you’re hauled over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

At first, you want to kick and fight some more, but when you look back at the wrecked base, distance from it growing with each of the Na’vi’s long strides, you see the building shake with a low boom, and arrows whiz past the interior. He’s saving you. And though you have no idea where you’re going, as long as it’s away from the mass slaughter taking place in there—

You can only tuck your face against the Na’vi’s neck and pray.

You feel him mount you on something, and you peek just a bit and see that he’s ushered you on an screeching ikran. “Wait,” you panic, squirming to look up at him, but he only glances down airily, before shoving your face into his broad chest with a large palm.

You suppose you should be grateful for the way your view is hindered as the ikran rocks and takes off shakily, as you’re positive you would’ve vomited everywhere if you were forced to see the treetops far below. You still squeal though, clutching at the Na’vi’s torso like it’s a lifeline, eyes squeezed shut. You swear you feel his chest rumbling with laughter against your cheek.

It’s been minutes when world tilts again, air rushing past your ears. You can feel yourself soaring up, steeper, before suddenly the ikran lands with surprising grace, and you’re on stable ground again.

The Na’vi wastes no time in dismounting and taking you up in his arms again. Finally, you open your eyes. The area is lush with vegetation, but it’s clearly distinct from where the base was. Jagged rocks jut out against hills, creating interconnected networks of caves that extend outwards in different openings.

He takes you to one of them. You assume it’s his longtime home, as it’s entrance is veiled by a net woven with beads and wooden vines. He lifts the veil, revealing a spacious interior that glows with bioluminescent fauna that glows dimly even midday. As he sets you down, you can only marvel at the space, curiously taking in a Na’vi den you’ve only studied on computer screens— yet this one seemed decisively different. Most Na’vi homes were villages, clusters of netting and treehouses that were interconnected, built alongside nature, but never the nature itself, like this cave you’re in. There were some similarities, such as the woven net covering the cave that extends slightly to create a hammock-like structure, before dipping to cover the cold stony floor, that suggested he’d settled here for long enough. He must not be a nomad then. But there’s no village in sight— so what is he?

Your thoughts are cut off when you’re lightly shoved onto the hammock without any warning.

You twist, only to see the Na’vi kneeling over you. “What— hey!”

Your words are in English, but he still seems to sense your distress. “Calm down,” his voice is surprisingly soothing even when he’s speaking an alien language. “I just need to fix you up.”

He gestures to a shallow gash on your shin that you didn’t even know was there. Huh.

“But first…” he delicately hands you the oxygen mask. You take it eagerly, discarding your old one. The Na’vi watches, fascinated by the sight of your face without a barrier, but you’re quick to clasp on the new mask, eyes averted.

You sigh in relief, the tightness in your lungs fading with just a few breaths of the recycled air. Yet, you tense up again when lithe fingers grip your shin.

Now it’s your turn to watch in fascination as the Na’vi brings out what looks like a giant pestle bowl and grind up some sort of herbs, the plants bleeding an alarmingly neon green color that honestly looks poisonous— but it’s not like you’re in any position to complain, so you just let him work. You shift your feet a little, feeling ridiculously out of place. He’s quiet, probably concentrated on his work, but your human mannerisms and curiosity urge you to fill the silence with conversation.

“So…” you clear your throat, straining your tongue to wrap around the foreign vowels of Na’vi to tell him your name, before adding, “what’s your name?”

“Ca’leb,” he answers simply.

“Caleb…” you probably mess up an accent or two, but that’s the least of your worries. Mindfully, as not to be rude to your host, you ask, “why did you save me?”

“Well, you were in danger,” Caleb hums simply, and you jerk when his long fingers apply the cool herbal salve along the stinging cut. As his grip shifts to unnecessarily cup your calf in a gentle caress, his violet gaze shimmers in the glowing fauna, intense yet almost shy. “Besides, I’ve never seen a human up close before. I just had to take you.”

Ooookay, you flush, refusing to meet his insistent gaze, I might be stuck with this weird loner Na’vi for a while. At least he’s healing me?

“Alright,” you clear your throat, “thank you. It was…awful back there.”

Caleb shifts closer, slender tail flicking behind him excitedly as he practically lounges on the hammock with you, sturdy netting barely dipping under his weight. “You’re welcome. In fact, I’m surprised you even got away. Humans seem very fragile…can I?”

You don’t even have a chance to reply before he’s practically feeling you up, large hands lifting and turning over your smaller limbs, eyes wide with intrigue. He pokes and prods at your ribs and thighs, drawing quiet noises of shock from you. His hands go up, pushing up the fabric of your shirt, exposing your stomach and almost—

You shove his hands away urgently, letting out a snap. “Don’t you even try going there! Please,” you add quickly, anxious about angering him.

Instead, Caleb looks sad, eyes widening and lip jutting, tail curling backwards dejectedly.

Huh. Strange equating this lethal creature to a puppy, but here we are.

To his credit, he gets over it relatively quick, a pleasant expression making its way back on his face. He tugs his hands away, as if just now realizing that personal space would be nice, especially after the frightful event you just experienced.

More alert now, he stands to his towering height and tucks some furs around you. “Get some rest,” he orders, heading towards the entrance of the cave, where he perches, bow by his side. “I’ll keep watch and make sure no hostile tribes followed us here.” You blink, watching him leave rather abruptly.

You’d think falling asleep in such an unfamiliar place is hard, especially when said place is the wilderness of an alien planet. Yet, with the soft elastic material beneath you and a hide pulled up to your chin, it’s not long before you’re in a land of dreams.

When you wake, the sun hangs low in the sky. Sitting up, you notice Caleb’s steady form is gone from the opening. Apprehensive mingles through you: you didn’t exactly want your only source of protection gone when you were out here in the wilderness.

Meekly, you stand— ignoring your stinging shin— and creep out of the shelter, lifting the netting to step out onto the grass. Glancing around doesn’t give you any more insight on where you are as you’d hoped. Well, it’s another forest, you think dryly, blinking up at the towering trees around you.

“What are you doing outside?”

You turn at the sound of his voice. Gone is the innocent exterior he held; Caleb’s glaring, sharp brows lowered and jaw clenched. Slung over his shoulder is a bloody carcass of some sort of creature, and despite his softness earlier, you find the violence comes eerily natural to him. You swallow thickly.

“I woke up and was just wondering where you went,” you stammer, and his expression slowly relaxes. He really can switch up, huh? You wonder. Are all Na’vi like this?

“Alright,” with a hand on the small of your back, you’re ushered back inside. “Right on time for dinner. Just don’t walk on your injury, yeah?”

You nod, perching back on the hammock. You watch him bring the animal just outside the cave, where he sparks up a small flame. You choose to look away as he hacks at the meat with a knife into tiny cuts— you’ve been on this planet for a while, but as a scientist, your exposure to the wilderness and camping has been limited to cooking smores back on Earth. Eventually, though, Caleb returns with a steaming plate of roasted meat, with a side of what looks like grain and herbs. It’s not any human food, but just the smell of it is enough to make you salivate.

“Thank you,” you eagerly reach for the bowl, but Caleb merely pulls it back an inch, shaking his head with a smile.

“Let me feed you. You should save your energy,” and he’s perching right next to you on the hammock, scooping some food onto a spoon.

“Oh, no, I’m alright—”

He’s already holding out a spoonful. “Say ahh!”

Reluctant, you lift your oxygen mask, leaning forward to take a bite. Caleb watches your expression, enraptured, as you chew and swallow. You give him a strained smile— the food is amazing, but having him be so attentive is a bit embarrassing.

“Delicious,” you comment as you slip the mask on for a second to steal some breaths of oxygen. Caleb lights up at the praise, lips splitting with a smile, big eyes glimmering.

“Good. Eat it all, then. You need strength, yawntutsyìp,” you have no idea what that nickname means, but you continue letting him feed you.

“You should eat too.”

“I will, later.”

“Alright,” eating and rushing a few breaths of oxygen doesn’t exactly leave any room for speaking, but your curiosity really knows no bounds. “What animal is this?”

“It’s a syìl*,”*** Caleb seems eager to hold a conversation, so he doesn’t mind when you eat slower to rush out some questions. “Herds of them are plentiful around these forests, especially less than a mile north.”

“Oh,” you’ve heard of those deer-like creatures in your research. Knowing that you’re tasting one makes you feel an absurd amount of giddiness. “You seem very knowledgeable about these parts.”

“I am. I’ve lived here for quite a while.”

“But I don’t think there are any tribes or villages nearby,” you are careful to tread lightly. As familial bonds are deeply sacred to the Na’vi, and his isolation is not only deeply baffling and rare, the subject may be a sensitive one. “Do you live here alone?”

But Caleb looks unfettered and merely nods. “Yes.”

You press your lips together in thought, but you have to quickly part them again to take the spoon in your mouth again when he insistently waves it around. It seems like this is all you’re getting out of him today, because by the time your bowl is empty, he’s pushing you to lie back into the hammock.

“Sìltsan,” he coos, brushing a palm over your head as you lay down, “good, good job. Now just go to sleep, yeah? You’ve had a long day.”

You’re too tired to even bristle at his doting— does he seriously think humans are a kind of pet or something?— dozing off under his persistent, gentle pats. You sleep deep enough that you don’t stir when he curls up beside you later.

You learn a few things about Caleb in the next days that pass.

One, being that he’s alarmingly attentive.

You’ve woken up at least 3 times with Caleb’s bright eyes pinned on you in the dark of the night. You at first wondered if he was irritated— did you take too much of the pelt, leaving him chilly? Or were you hogging too much space? You attempted to resolve this by shifting away from him one night, ensuring you don’t brush against him. He didn’t take too much of a liking to that, tugging you close again with his long limbs and nuzzling into your hair. You had squeaked, offput, but said nothing. Perhaps you should’ve, because now these nightly cuddles have become a habit. But you don’t want to complain to your ever-accommodating and considerate host. Maybe he’s just lonely, you think, wide awake in the dark cave as Caleb’s breath brushes your hair, arms heavy around you. And really does see you as some sort of pet. Or comfort object.

And that’s another thing: he’s very much completely alone.

Sure, Na’vi travelling alone for some time isn’t absolutely unheard of, but they always return back to their villages. From what you’ve heard from Caleb, he’s never spoken of any relatives or past tribes. And he speaks a lot.

Not that you’re complaining. Most of it is about any fauna or wildlife he brings back to the cave. You’re always quick to stop him before he can cook everything, inquiring about each thing incessantly. He mirrors your enthusiasm, happily rambling out information like they’re not the greatest gems of knowledge for a scientist like yourself. Sometimes, he loves talking about his flying practices in particular, how he maneuvers his ikran and soars over the clouds. You wish you had a notebook to write these stories down sometimes, so you can show them to…

To who? You huff at yourself. The corpses of those scientists back at the base?

You grimace at your own gruesome thoughts. There’s no telling if anyone survived back there, but there had to be more human bases around, right? Though being a cuddle-buddy to an alien out in the wilderness isn’t the worst fate, you have every intention of exploring the possibility of reuniting with other humans later.

You two manage to develop some semblance of a normal routine over the next few days. By the time you wake, Caleb is back with some early-morning catch, and you sometimes help cook it into breakfast, before loitering around all day trying to chase boredom, through the various efforts Caleb endorses. Escaping from civilization for a bit is fun at first.

The first few days you’re taken with the idea of weaving, spending hours trying to loop some vine around a stick. “It’s kinda like crochet,” you realize, slowly going through the motions that Caleb had previously guided you through— “Upwards, then around, then through,” he had instructed, larger hands cradling yours with a delicacy that made you flush.

Caleb just tilts his head. “What is crochet?”

You tell him, and he listens with endless fascination. That’s another thing about Caleb; he loves listening to you speak, however basic your Na’vi, about human life. You tell him about the plants on Earth, the things you used to eat, hobbies, even the boring stuff like jobs and work and traffic. But he just listens, head propped up in his hand, staring so intently you wonder if he’s even listening or if he’s just staring because he wants to.

But eventually, talking about civilization makes you miss it with each word you blurt. And by the— tenth? or eleventh—day, you’re completely over this little vacation.

“Caleb,” you say, in the middle of him braiding back your hair for bed— you’ve long since given up trying to protest this. “Do you think it’s about time I went back out and explore for other humans? I’ve been here a while.”

His fingers pause against your scalp. “Why?”

You blink. “Well, because…I can’t exactly stay here forever. I’m human.”

His fingers continue their strokes, and his tone is more playful than curt this time. “And why not, huh?”

You’re surprised how much the question catches you off guard. Caleb is harmless, that much is sure, even if the large creatures he drags back after each successful hunt is a bit alarming. And it’s not like you have anyone you’re missing back on base or even on Earth— that’s why you signed up for this job, anyways.

“Because,” you huff stubbornly, ducking your head. “That’s just how it is.”

He finishes your braid without another response. But you still haven’t gotten a clear answer from him.

“So, I’ll probably go back out and search tomorrow.”

“No.”

You frown, twisting back to glance at him over your shoulder. “…no?”

His brows are furrowed, azure cheekbones taut with barely-concealed irritation. “No. There’s no telling how many hostiles are still out there. You could be attacked immediately.”

“But how much longer am I supposed to wait? Have you seen any signs of danger nearby?”

Caleb’s eyes widen, before he quickly averts them, almost guiltily. “Signs, yeah. Footprints and such.”

“Right,” you sigh, disbelieving. “So I should just sit here forever then.”

His face softens, and he reaches out to pinch at your cheek. “Don’t be upset,” he croons. “You’re a fragile human*.* There are many creatures waiting in the wilderness to catch you. I wouldn’t want my yawntutsyìp to be in danger, would I?”

“No,” you respond leniently, and he beams, pleased, tail swishing behind him. “No, you wouldn’t.”

But when Caleb curls up beside you that night, steady pats bewitching you into slumber, you form a plan.

You know his schedule by now; every morning, right before the sun has risen, Caleb gets up to hunt.

You remember it because you stir awake every time you feel the hammock shift beneath you, the loss of his body heat. You usually end up turning over and get right back to dozing off.

But today, you don’t let yourself drift off when you feel Caleb sit up. To fake being asleep, you continue inhaling and exhaling deeply, breaths hissing out of your oxygen mask.

A palm brushes over your head, and then a quiet sniff against your hair. Woah, is this part of his normal morning routine too? It takes everything in you to not flush and turn away. Finally, after a bit more nuzzling than needed, you feel his presence depart.

You wait a few more minutes to just make sure he’s really gone, breath held, body tense, before your eyes slide open. Sure enough, the cave is empty, the dim fluorescent fauna illuminating all crevices and corners and confirming that you’re alone.

As you rise and exit the cave, looking over the darkened forest, you rethink your decisions just a little bit. What exactly was the plan after this? You suppose you should at least get to a high place and see if you can spot any structures down below, or even if some humans can spot you and extract you. You’d explore for a few hours, you decide, until the sun rises. And if you don’t return before Caleb gets back, then you’ll just apologize.

I don’t owe him anything anyways, you think as you weave past trees., trying to feel less guilty. Sure, he saved me and all, but I’ve only known him for a week. It’s not like I’m obligated to stay with him.

The actual outcome is not as easy as you hoped.

Sure, finding and traversing an inclined hill was easy enough— aside from how you end up with raw marks on your skin from sharp thorns, leaves and branches in your hair. Your struggles are for nothing.

Because when you look over the edge, you don’t see any buildings or structures amidst the treetops. No, you only see mist, tinged pink from the sunrise.

It takes you a moment to realize that it’s not mist. It’s clouds. He took you to one of those floating sky islands.

Your stomach tilts with unease. Just how far up are you? How far away did he take you from any other living, sapient being?

You’ll never be able to get back down to civilization without his willingness to help, will you?

Your revelation is broken off by a crack of a branch below you. You whip your head down so fast you’re surprised you don’t roll over.

His chiseled torso is smeared with blood. You know better than to think it’s his own. A carcass is already hiked up over his back.

Caleb. He’s standing there, meters below you, looming on the forest floor, gleaming eyes pinned on you even from this distance. And he looks livid.

Long dark hair frames the sharp edge of his tense jaw, falls just over his furrowed brow. It’s a look you’ve never seen on him. Unhinged, feral.

He just stares. You stare back. You don’t know why you feel the urge to run. This is Caleb. He’s cared for you, saved you. Logically, there’s nowhere you can go. But a more primitive part screams at you to get away.

But this is Caleb. He’d never hurt you.

You run.

There’s nowhere run except down, so you make a mad dash down the hill, the swoop of gravity boosting your speed and sparking a rush of exhilaration in your chest. Those branches are clawing at you, tugging at your clothes as if the planet itself was against you, but you push through, breaking into a clearing. You pause for a moment, turning and looking at all possible directions. Before you can decide where to go, you hear the padding of large footsteps on the muddy ground.

It seems you may have become his next hunt.

You panic, turning just in time to try and spring the other direction. But, like the skilled hunter he is, he’s already directly behind you. A hand clasps around your arm, tugging you so that you’re flush against his large body. You wail in discomfort as the glass of your mask is forced against his blood-stained abs, before he’s hauling you off the ground. You shriek, limbs thrashing until he traps them between your bodies, subduing your struggles entirely, and easily begins walking.

“C-Caleb,” you cry, his arms crushed too tight around you, like a deadly snake. “Caleb!”

He shushes you sharply, arms tightening possessively around you. You let out a strained sound in protest.

His feet stop abruptly, and you startle at the sound of another voice.

“What do we have here?”

Caleb physically tenses against you. You wish you could twist around, see who has appeared behind you, but the apprehensiveness radiating off Caleb keeps you obediently still.

Maybe Caleb was just using a very basic dialect of Na’vi with you, because when he speaks to this unknown stranger, you find you can barely understand a full sentence. As they exchange words, you only understand a few phrases; “live nearby” and “friendly” and “mate.”

Mate?

The stranger’s tone darkens, deepening into one that almost seems like he’s lecturing or berating Caleb for something. You make a quiet sound of fear, half expecting to hear the sound of a bow being drawn in your direction— the clamor of the attack on your base still wracks in your head like warning bells.

The conversation quiets at your noise, as if both Na’vi are observing you. Then the stranger barks out a final order, “get going then.”

You feel Caleb continue walking, this time with more urgency.

You’re silent on the way back. When he sets you down on that damn hammock again, you want nothing more than to bury your face somewhere, stomach in knots.

He’s silent, too, uncharacteristically so, as he sets his bow and hunt away and kneels down in front of you. He keeps his gaze fixed stubbornly to your scraped knees, rubbing salve on every tiny nick.

You don’t think you can take the carefully neutral look on his face, the way his eyes avoid yours. “Caleb,” your voice cracks on the syllables. He doesn’t regard you, staying intent on his work.

You tear off the oxygen mask with a hiss, freeing your sight of the murky glass, and swallow painfully. “Caleb. I-I’m sorry, okay? I just thought I’d be able to get rescued by some humans— Caleb,” you cry when he dips his lead lower, brown strands shielding his face. His incredibly tall body, now shriveled up, hunched over till he’s short enough to avoid your eye.

“You know what that Na’vi wanted back there?” he grits out, and you freeze at the sound of his voice. You’ve never heard it this dark; it’s worrying. “He saw you and questioned your presence. He wasn’t part of those hostiles, but the Na’vi know. They all know the intent of most humans who come here, so they assume the worst of every one of them. If he found you before I did…”

His cadence dips. His back shudders as he heaves a shaky breath, blue skin rippling with muscle. Your body reacts before your brain can think, and you’re brushing his hair away from his face, reaching down to cup his face.

“I know, I’m sorry, okay?”

He melts. Violet hues finally raise, wide and shiny. When they flit around and land on yours, his pupils slowly expand, swallowing the irises like a black hole.

“Why did you leave?”

“Because…I have to go back to civilization. It’s not like I can live in the wilderness forever.”

“Why do you want to go back?” Caleb shakes his head, lips trembling. “You’re not like those humans, who just want to conquer and destroy. You can’t truly be happy there. It’s selfish of me, but…” a large palm cups your cheek, stroking your bare skin reverently. “I want you by my side.”

Your lips part in surprise at his declaration. Your heart squeezes— because you know it’s the truth. Just coming to terms on what the company you had worked for was doing, and witnessing the sheer massacre they were willing to provoke from the natives, the countless employees they sacrificed for a greedy and entitled cause was hard enough, but Caleb laid it all out for you. Living with a Na’vi in just this short amount of time showed you what could have been lost because of a human conquest— the tradition and livelihood, sure, but the smaller things, like breakfasts, homemade salves, woven hammocks. What are your options if you return to civilization? It’s either on an overpopulated, dying Earth, or supporting a cause that will destroy the things you’ll come to love.

You feel lightheaded, not just from the heavy, foreign air, but from your heavy thoughts as well. But you don’t slip on the mask if it means it’ll ruin how his skin brushes yours.

Thankfully, Caleb doesn’t seem to expect a response right away just yet, standing to perch beside you. You steal some breaths of oxygen but ultimately keep the mask off, refusing to put any barriers between you two again. He stays close, tail flicking anxiously behind him.

“Did I…scare you back there? Why’d you run?”

“A little, I mean, I guess the sight of you angry and covered in blood was a bit off-putting.” You admit sheepishly.

Caleb laughs, hanging his head, pretty smile softening his features. You can’t help but laugh with him.

“I’m sorry. I just sensed another Na’vi nearby and knew I had to get to you. You’re not hurt anywhere else, right?”

You shake your head, but he frowns, leaning in closer. “But wait, your face…”

“Oh,” you realize, reaching up to feel a few small nicks. “Just some branches scratched me up a bit. No big deal.”

But he leans even closer, until you’re gasping, quickly leaning back so your noses don’t brush. “You need to be more careful,” he breathes, brows still drawn together. He cups your face with both hands, an expression of fretfulness flashing across his features that was so intense it was almost comical— though you held your laugh, not wanting to make fun of his concern.

“Poor thing, your face is all cut up,” Caleb practically whines, thumbs darting to brush every mark. Your cheeks heat under his touch.

“Please, it’s not that bad—”

“Shh,” his nose brushes yours, and he simply caresses your face for a few moments, as if his touch alone could heal you.

“Caleb,” you murmur, muffled by the way he smushes your cheeks slightly.

“Hmm?”

“What all did that man say back there?”

“Oh,” his eyes lowered, a purplish hue staining his cheekbones— is he blushing? “Like I said, he’s a head of a tribe nearby and was just patrolling around their territory. When he saw me with a human…well, he was naturally just appalled. But it’s okay! I just let him know that you were friendly to Na’vi, harmless, and my mate.”

“What?’

“Not that you are,” Caleb blurts, backtracking. “Or that you aren’t. Well, I mean, I had to defend you somehow. But he was obviously taken aback, saying how it’s against Eywa. But…I’ve never been too firm of a believer in that, have I?”

His tone dips to a more sultry one that makes your heart pound. “He says it’s against nature. That something interspecies wouldn’t benefit Awaang. But…” his hand slides down your arm sensually, sending goosebumps in his wake, “I haven’t been much for following the norm, or what’s seen as right.”

Caleb’s lips are a breath away. Your heart pounds. “I’ve never desired anything as much as I’ve desired you,” he pants raggedly, before crushing his lips to yours.

You melt immediately, hands tangling in his long locks and tugging, and he whines against your lips, suckling and biting. Caleb’s kisses aren’t gentle or perfect; they’re eager and sloppy. He licks into your mouth and pushes you onto your back, hulking body enveloping you entirely, shielding your arching and squirming body from the world.

“I’ve never asked for anything, except for you,” he rasps, before sealing the words with a rough kiss,“Eywa couldn’t possibly deny my only request, right?

You squeak against his mouth as he ravages your lips, struggling to keep up with his hunger with your own meek kisses. He finally breaks away with a last wet smooch, glossy lips parting, drool smudged down the corner of them.

“Caleb,” you wheeze quietly, and he’s scrambling to press the oxygen mask to your face, concern bleeding past his arousal.

“I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, can you breath?” Caleb rushes, biting his swollen lip as you take deep, hissing breaths. “I’m so sorry, I did it for too long, I’m sorry,” he gasps again, leaning back off of you to give you some space. You’re not having any of that.

Once you’ve taken a few deep breaths, you’re tossing the mask aside and kissing him again.

Caleb whimpers like he’s in heaven, sagging back over you, pecking and licking at the seam of your lips. He’s gentle at first, as if still concerned about your respiration, but he quickly loses himself, his hunger growing by the second. It seems like he’s taken advantage of the opportunity to pick up exploring your anatomy again from that first day he met you, hands eagerly bunching up your shirt just past your ribs, slipping under to squeeze your tits until you arch and mewl. His other hand wastes no time in sliding down, slipping under your pants to caress your bare thigh, claws tantalizingly close to nicking your soft skin.

When he takes your bottom lips between his sharp teeth and sucks, you can’t repress a quiet moan. The sound makes him harden against you—you can feel the press of it from where it presses against your thigh, and it feels huge.

When Caleb breaks apart again, a string of saliva pulls taught until it snaps, and he wipes it away with a swipe of his thumb. Gently, he rubs the glass of the oxygen mask clean, before securing it back over your face.

His calm actions are at odds with the pained look on his face; you twitch needily at the expression of longing, in his furrowed brow and parted lips.

“Fuck, yawne,” he pants, sitting up to reach for the loincloth around his waist. “Please, need you so bad, please please—”

“Yes,” you gasp, pushing off your already-strewn clothes—first, you kick off your pants and panties, before lifting your shirt and bra off and tossing it aside. Caleb watches the unfamiliar clothing with enrapturement, glowing eyes particularly caught on your discarded panties. His long fingers grasp the cloth, brushing it reverently.

He’s shoving off his loincloth with the other hand, and you are not prepared for the sight of his cock; it bobs up immediately, smacking against his blue abdomen, and it is large. The size of your forearm, almost? Your thighs clench with arousal at the thought.

Caleb groans, brushing the head of his leaky tip with his thumb, before beginning to jerk himself off right in front of you. His bright eyes are pinned to you, raving over your human anatomy, and his abs clench deliciously as he tries not to cum immediately.

Your face heats, and you squirm underneath his heady stare, pussy clenching around nothing. “Please, pretty,” he begs sweetly, scooting a bit closer. “Just need to get myself ready for you, I’m so hard. Need your spit.”

You stare blankly, quietly shocked at his lewd words. “Your spit, hahh,” he clarifies, head rolling back in pleasure, till he’s staring through half-lidded eyes. “Please spit on me.”

You snap out of your daze, leaning your face forward towards his cock. It twitches, a zap of pleasure shooting through it just from your attention alone. You purse your lips and let a wad of pearly saliva land right on his leaky tip and slide down his shaft, highlighting every thick vein in it’s wake.

“Nghh, fuck,” he almost sobs, quiet schlicks from his cock as he begins to pump it with your spit as lube. “Thank you, thank you.”

You’ve never been more soaked in your life. “Caleb,” you wail, shifting your thighs apart eagerly to reveal your swollen pussy, throbbing with need. He gapes at the sight of it, awe and thirst settling on his face now. “Please just put it in. Need you.”

You know he can’t resist. He melts almost immediately, throbbing cock forgotten, settling his massive form between your thighs. He presses his face between them, hesitantly kissing the glossy folds like he’s worshipping at an altar.

You twitch, letting out a keening sound. “I know,” he cooes, brow scrunched as he nuzzles his nose against your thigh. “I just don’t know if I’ll fit, yawntutsyìp. Don’t wanna hurt you.”

“Just put it in, fuck, need it—”

Caleb is nothing if not attentive to you.

Pulling back, he lines himself up, tip just nestled against your hole. He pushes in slowly, making your pussy squelch, walls fluttering so hard immediately it almost pushes him back out. Caleb’s jaw tenses as he tries to go slow, hips twitching eagerly and making his tip slipping in with a pop.

“Ngh, ohmygod,” you squeak, tight ring of muscle burning deliciously at the stretch. You buck your hips for more involuntarily, to which Caleb pins them down firmly with a single hand to your stomach—which only serves to press down against his tip bulging inside you, the pressure making your feet kick out in pleasure.

“I’m sorry,” Caleb rushes, but he doesn’t move his hand, ears pinned back and flushed. He only pushes his hips forward, feeding you inches and inches of his long cock until it presses deep past your gooey walls, poking directly into a bundle of nerves in you. His palm can feel his hard dick in you through your stomach, and just the thought has him spurting precum in you.

“Don’t you dare stop,” you pant before he can start apologizing again, chest heaving as you try to accommodate his size. Caleb’s eyes drop from your face to your alluring tits at that, and he’s dazedly leaning down before he even knows what he’s doing, taking a bud into his mouth eagerly.

“Cay,” you mewl, hands pushing and smacking at his abs, begging him to start moving and relieve you of the pressure. Finally, he blinks away the fog of arousal, maw unhinged against your breast, drooling on your tit as he begins thrusting.

He pumps slow and deep, tip ramming steadily against your g-spot. “You feel so good, can’t believe you can take me so well—” he rambles against your chest, ragged breathes brushing your hardening nipples.

Your cunt sucks him in greedily, clicking with each thrust and leaking all the way down his shaft, until it’s slathered in a creamy mess. Caleb finally lifts his head to look down at the sight, where blue meets brown, Na’vi meets human, where two worlds collide into lewd, forbidden pleasure.

His hips quicken at the sight, until he’s pounding into you, desperately chasing that pleasure again and again. You mewl with every thrust, cunt spasming around his shaft, wringing a pained groan out of him. Your thighs quiver, jerking every time his pelvis smacks against them wetly, the skin pinkened and raw.

“Fuck, fuck, I’m yours, don’t ever leave me,” Caleb blurts, and he feels your stomach spasm underneath his palm in pleasure. You nod drunkenly, lips parted.

“Hahh, yes Caleb, need you so bad!” You hiccup, not exactly aware of what you’re affirming, but his tail swings happily behind him all the same at the agreement.

“Ah, nghh,” his jaw drops again when you clench around his shaft; you swear he’s sheathed in so deep that he’s pressing up against your guts. It’s so full, combined with how his large palm presses your tummy down firmly. “That’s it, my perfect mate,” he grits out, eyes feral and wide with the need to fill you up.

You whine out when he shoves himself a fraction deeper, his leaky tip kissing into your cervix, brute size bruising your walls up. His cock presses up against every nerve ending, making you tense up with pleasure, thighs locked and toes curled.

“I’m gonna cum,” you squeal out, fists curling against his large pecs. “Please—please!”

Caleb doesn’t stop, hips pumping with an exactness that has you seeing starts. “Yeahh, cum all over my cock,” he begs, expression crumbling prettily as he nears his own release. “Let Ca’leb fill you up, please—”

You gush around his shaft with a squeal, pussy clenching down hard when you cum, your smaller feet kicking and curling against the hammock as shocks of pleasure rack through you. Caleb cums immediately at the sensation, and like the rest of him, his load is huge— it doesn’t all fit in your tiny stomach, leaking steadily out of your messy cunt.

Caleb doesn’t even pull out when he collapses on top of you, careful not to crush your body. You don’t complain, heartbeat pounding in your ears as the rush fades, leaving you satiated and sleepy.

You both lay there exhausted for who knows how long, before Caleb suddenly lifts his head from your chest, blinking at you.

“I forgot to make and feed you breakfast. You must be hungry.”

“Mmm, no, Caleb. Not hungry.”

“But you can’t sleep if I haven’t braided your hair,” he complains quietly, frowning. “Then I won’t be taking care of you properly.”

“Trust me, you’ve taken care of enough,” you huff, turning over to nestle your face into his chest.

Better times... Perhaps not for your life as a whole, but for a relationship long left in the dust of your adolescence.

“Skye- leave your sister alone,” you scold from the front, tone motherly but firm. With a hint of exasperation, perhaps, but being on the road for three hours unbroken, with young children in the back, will do that to anyone.

“But Summer, be more patient, okay?” You add with a honeyed drawl.

She moans, practically withering in her tiny, elevated booster seat, “I want the Ipaaaad!” A no-go, because you already let the pair have too much screen time today and you won’t budge now, especially when you’re in the home stretch.

“Are we almost there?!” She whines before you can let her down easy. Such a smart thing she is, that she can spot your lecture to come and nip it in the bud.

A faint smile tugs at your lips. You hum. “Yes, baby, just hold on a little bit longer for mommy, okay? Once we get there,” you start, and God only knows the reason for your hesitance, why it takes an extra second or two to settle on the title, darting your tongue out to soothe where you’ve been nibbling on your lip, but it does.

“Uncle Caleb will have a nice, fancy dinner for us... You remember his house still, don’t you?”

You risk a loving glance in the mirror once more, quietly hoping it’ll encourage some patience on her side. They can be so high maintenance at times, and you pray this isn’t one of them.

You love your children and wouldn’t trade them for the world, don’t get that wrong, but caring for them- managing their each individual needs while also assuring you don’t coddle them too much- is taxing at best.

It’s why having some help- your attentive, considerate brother’s help- will do you good this New Years.

Should everything go well, anyway. And… And it will.

Why wouldn’t it?

The past is the past.

That’s what you tell yourself, anyway, but the mantra, for as short as it is, is somehow not sticking. Truth be told, the better piece of you is incredibly thrilled to see your older brother again (foster, brother, something in a recess of your brain clarifies)- 25 or not, you don’t think you’ll ever quite retire from that girlish excitement.

But another piece is, with all its might, resisting. Saying to turn back and go home.

And home— that place you made far from him. A deliberate decision made with both rue and determination.

The distance from your family was as heart wrenching as it was necessary. You wouldn’t have done it otherwise.

Summer perks up, and that thing that’s been gnawing at your insides like a chewtoy is temporarily quelled, even if only for the next few moments.

She laughs, her brother kicking his dangling feet with innocent delight as memories of their last visit- a thrilling escapade to their amazing Uncle Caleb’s place- flood in.

“Yes, yes!” She beams, her little sibling joining in with hollers of his own, and you can’t help but laugh along as their joy fills the den of the car.

She turns to Skye, giggling as she peers into his wide eyes, “We’re gonna see Uncle Caleb’s big big house again! And his new puppy!”

“A pup-py!”

What wouldn’t you do to see them happy?

✦

The puppy is too young to be on guard.

Coming in through the front door, he yips at your feet- but only out of the desire to be held.

Summer immediately coos at it. It’s a little Samoyed with a red collar, barely more than a ball of white floof as his tail slices the air behind him, but as you lower Skye from your arms, your eyes remain fixated on the man before you.

In that moment, seeing him again, there’s no distractions to be had, adorable pet begging for your attention or not.

At first, there’s no words. Just… silence, almost to the point of being awkward.

The brunet processes you, cataloguing everything he sees while scouring your face in a breath.

All the while, you do the same.

His shoulders are just as broad, if not a little tense. His brown hair is neatly swept to the side. You briefly wonder if he actually took advantage of that gel you’d always kept under the sink- back at Gran’s, anyway- and you resist the urge to ask him what’s so special the occasion. Maybe a piece of you already knows.

Violet eyes, warm as ever, ripple as they drink you in.

You: a little windswept, with flakes of snow in your lashes, melting at their leisure and blurring the sight of him. Not enough to miss the kilowatt grin that lights up his face, though.

How long has it been, again?

Whatever the answer might be, it doesn’t matter.

Your world narrows down to him, the way he’s looking at you.

You’ve no time to wonder if the joy is mutual, because as soon as he closes the door behind you and your limbs are no longer otherwise occupied by a small child, he pulls you into a hug.

It’s just as you remember it, with his telltale scent of fresh laundry and cinnamon (in a word, comforting). His strong, lean arms. You think there’s an extra bit of bulk to his triceps, but the weight is healthy.

He noses into your hair, breathing you in like it’s not been a year since he’s seen you but rather an eon.

“Fuck,” he whispers, and you’re glad it’s muffled into your temple because the kids are still at your leg, doting on the puppy. You scold him for it anyway, thankful for the excuse to apply some distance as you pull back and laugh.

“No cussing, Caleb,” you murmur just loud enough for him to hear.

In lieu of a real response- or a playful jab back- he answers you in the same, hushed tone, brushing away an unruly lock with a tenderness that makes your heart wallop in your chest.

“I missed you,” he dazedly says.

In the wake of his earnest confession, butterflies draw their wings within your belly.

And recognizing them, quietly knowing that shouldn’t be the reaction your foster brother elicits from you, doesn’t stop it from happening anyway.

“Missed you, too,” you recover- and then he’s wrapping you up again.

While he’s stooped over and embracing you like his life depends on it, you feel the tension in his built shoulders, the stiff muscles. Burrowing your head to his chest, you listen to where his heart lies hammering.

He’s warm.

Even more so now that you’re spared the February cold outside, the howling winds no more than an afterthought.

“How was your trip?” He suddenly asks overhead, probably realizing the standard platitudes are in order. As they roll in, he means them. “Nothin’ went wrong?”

One hand cradles the back of your head while the other rests around your middle, lassoing you impossibly closer. With a soft, wry huff, you prepare to endure one of his lectures. “Nothing went wrong,” you reassure, choosing the more patient route (because you know how he can get) as you give his back a small, soothing rub.

“Don’t worry. The trip was nice. The kids got a little fussy towards the end, but… it wasn’t anything their IPad couldn’t handle.” He leans back an inch, just enough to stare at you and raise a playful, questioning brow, grinning ear to ear and helpless to control it.

“Ah,” he drawls curiously, “I see… So you’re one of those parents, huh?”

“Oh, be quiet. When you have kids one day, you’ll realize how difficult it can be, too. Besides,” you add on, carefully averting your gaze as his becomes a despondent thing that makes you feel terribly uncertain for the split second it’s there.

“It’s not like I just leave them to a device for hours unattended,” you continue. He looks to you again. “I only let them have a little bit of screen time- and I let them watch movies in the car only because I didn’t want them to die of boredom. It’s not an easy trip, you know.”

He pats your head, humming. The onset of a whine is cut short when you realize he’s not ruffling your hair per usual- like he did way back then- but rather fixing the melted clumps in it.

“Suuuure,” he smiles like it’s the easiest thing ever. And maybe it is, maybe he’s willed himself into forgetting, too, “Save the excuses for later, Pipsqueak, kay? Let’s get you inside for now. You can take a shower and wear my PJs, just for tonight. I’ll get the rest of your suitcases first thing in the morning, yeah?”

The parroted ‘yeah’ on the tip of your tongue shrivels as soon as Summer barrels by, knocking into you and Caleb and hollering for his attention now that her introduction to his pet has been complete.

“Uncle Caweb!”

Flailing his arms, Skye follows suit, waddling in with grabby hands and a shriek.

Caleb lets out a warm chuckle, happy to oblige.

“Well, well, well, look who it is... Finally payin’ your Uncle Caleb some attention, huh? You squirts have grown pret-ty big since the last time I saw you,” he muses, “Guess your mama just needs to drop by more.”

He lifts them both in one fell swoop to their sheer delights. And maybe it’s just accidental, something done out of lack of thought or the mere fact that it’s late and your tired from travel, but your eyes rake over him as he cheerfully twirls them around.

The two of them erupt with laughter, clinging to him and pinching his face- booping his nose- and God should smite you as your mind falls to the gutter in a moment of solitude.

You blink, and all those summer nights you’d spent with him in his bedroom, his limbs tangled with yours as he lazily kissed you, murmuring your name to the sound of the whirring, cheap fan on the floor, pour in with a vengeance— unbidden and so, so vivid.

“I love you, always. So much.”

“But Caleb- I still just… What about Gran?”

A furrow of his brow. The tranquility on his face shattered by a mention. “What about her? I told you, you don’t have to worry about her- about anyone. It’s just me and you. I’ll… figure it out for us, kay? But you and me? We will always,” he emphasizes, long, slim fingers roving over your cheek, mapping it out meticulously.

“Belong to each other.”

You wring your hands at your front, as if that could will them all away.

A shaky sigh slips past your lips. You turn away, toeing off your boots, mentally chiding yourself even if the thoughts were intrusive, beyond your control and nothing more.

While he’s swept up with the reunion with the kids, genuinely just as thrilled to see them (something your ex-husband could never quite nail the act for), you flit over towards the living room and unravel the scarf from your neck, lowering your personal bag.

The bare necessities are in there: your and the kids’ toothbrushes, a charger and your phone and the like, but everything else, the bulk of your luggage, is in the trunk. A job reserved for Caleb, apparently.

The home is large, even more so considering its one inhabitant. You’re proud of him, though, really. He’s done well for himself.

As the moment of peace presents itself, after such a hectic day, you’re happy to take it, allowing yourself to simply… come down.

Something delightful wafts in from another corridor, and it’s right then that you realize just how hungry you are. Sun setting or not- you’re happy to pretend it’s still time for dinner.

Your window of peace (or reprieve after the chaos that is traveling with small children) isn’t here to stay, though- because as Caleb trails you in, a callous hand isn’t long from settling on your waist.

The little quaver in your voice is because of fatigue. Nothing more.

“A-Already tired of your niece and nephew?”

Caleb chuckles, “Never,” Tugging you toward his chest once more. You don’t fight him off. Frankly, you’re too exhausted to even think of doing so.

“Where are they anyway?” He silences your ask with a peck to the crown of your forehead, and it’s only a smidgen difficult to pretend the thing stirring in your gut isn’t romantic in nature as he rocks you on his heels.

No, no- you’re both… Fine like this. It’s fine.

That was a long time ago, after all. Things have, across your respective timelines, fortunately come into play and intervened, meaning that whatever juvenile thing you shared long ago holds no further revelance. None.

You’d went one way, and although there was a bit of resistance at first- oh, plenty- he ultimately went the other. I mean, last you heard, Gideon was introducing him to a nice girl. If that’s not proof of progress, what is?

“Relax, Pipsqueak. Turn off your mother hen instincts for the week. You’ve got me here to lend a hand now, and I intend to do just that,” he whispers, a stroke against the shell of your ear. You swallow, nodding.

You lean away again- for as much as he’ll allow, anyway. “And what about that welcome meal you promised?”

He smiles, rubbing your back thoughtlessly, “Mhm, already on it. Don’t you smell it? Tempting, right?”

“Yeah, I do. Will it be finished by the time I’m done showering?”

If you didn’t know any better, Caleb has something he wants to say on that subject, but he apparently thinks better of it. His violet, glittering eyes flit down and away, his thumb caressing your shoulder as he huffs to himself.

“Something funny?” A wrinkle appears between your brow.

“Nope,” he says, matching your stare with unrivaled joy, making something in your heart flip in the process. Why your old partner could never look at you with such love and adoration, you never quite figured it out, but there’s no point in dwelling on the past.

None at all.

“It depends, though…” he answers, kind of snarky, kind of light. It makes you hold your breath. Does he hang on your every word too? you briefly wonder before nudging the silly thought aside.

“Will it be a long one where you steal all the hot water? ‘Cause if so, I bet the food will be cold by then. I might even have to eat it for you.”

A small, humoring nod, and a smile as the placator. “I’ll be quick, I promise.”

A beat of silence comes, and then with his lashes fluttering down at you, watching what he sees with barely concealed wonder, it goes.

Rather than using words, Caleb regards you for a few seconds more before extending a pinky, awaiting with a hope that’s boyish.

“I’ll watch the kids while you’re gone, don’t worry.”

Then, you’re laughing breathlessly and lacing his pinky in your own. When his forehead presses to yours, though, your smile dies where it spreads. His name escapes you in a wary breath.

“C-Caleb.”

A warning; or a plead to not cross the proverbial line drawn in the sand.

He shushes you, murmuring, “I know. I’m just… glad to see you.”

Whatever’s taken ahold of him, he shortly snaps out of, breaking away from you with quickness.

Not bothering to hear a response, or perhaps just afraid of one, he’s thumping up the stairs in a blink, helpfully throwing over his shoulder, “I left a towel in the bathroom for ya- you know where it is. I’ll head to the room and check on the kids... See how they’re gettin’ along with Apple.”

You’re left with the bag at your feet and the fluffy scarf still hanging pitifully from your fingers. The mess he’s left of your drumming heart.

Every part of you tingles in his absence, your skin crawling beneath your wooly jacket and jeans… though not it in a wholly unpleasant way.

Smothering a yawn in the back of your hand, you decide to push whatever just transpired to the metaphorical backburner, walking towards the hall.

On your pass around the kitchen, you pretend not to see the thick, red envelope lying on the counter for you; the handsome wad of cash surely tucked inside.

A soft, defeated sigh. Then following it, a slow, deliberate smile that lifts your cheeks.

Ever the cosseter, your older brother.

✦

Gideon’s glass clinks with yours.

With Caleb putting the kids down for bed, it’s his childhood bestfriend that keeps you company in the kitchen after dinner.

Despite your insistence to make yourself useful, the brunet nonetheless refused each of your offers to do the dishes, reminding you of your guest title. So instead, you prop yourself against the counter and hold conversation over a flute of wine.

It’s been a while since you’ve seen your brother, yes, but even longer still since you’ve seen Gideon, yet he’s as unexpectedly charming as you remember him.

A little rough around the edges, with his sharp, square jaw and dark cropped hair, but you think his real allure lies in his gauche sort of sincerity. It’s easy to like him, even easier to call him handsome— both of which your teenage self did enthusiastically in pages of your diary.

You can distinctly recall the moment when Caleb first discovered the object of all those callow, lovesome poems, the flash of his eyes and then the anger settling. Finding out your crush was his veritable best friend might as well have been the same as finding out there had been a death in the family, but it was envy more than anything else that clung to his voice after the glance of betrayal had passed.

“You like Gideon?” A disbelieving scoff, and a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes to pair with it. The last thing you wanted after getting home from school was to be put through yet another lecture, by your brother no less.

“Sis: I told you about guys my age, didn’t I? They’re not a good influence-“

“Then why d’you hang out with him all the time?”

“Don’t,” he henpecks, lifting the tacky journal when you make an attempt for it again, “Change the subject, little missy. It doesn’t matter if we hang out or not. He’s still a man, sis, okay? And you remember what Gran said, right? About the birds and the bees-“

“Caleb- gross!”

“Yeah, exactly, gross,” he agrees, light but pointed. “But that’s all they want.”

At the time, you’d been a flustered mess and furious he’d took the liberty upon himself to snoop; being exposed for your crush was the worst thing that could’ve happened during your sophomore year. But it’s hard to do anything but laugh thinking back on it now.

“I heard you’re seeing the drone show?”

You hum, lowering your glass with a smile. “Yeah. Caleb’s gonna take me and the kids for New Years,” you add solely out of curiosity, “You coming too?”

The reaction he gives you, one of faint fluster as a shade of pink dusts his hewn cheekbones, isn’t expected.

You sort of marvel at it, raising a curious brow as he rubs his neck and chuckles. “Um, I don’t think so… I’d hate to intrude, you know? But otherwise, I would’ve been down.”

Ah. It seems his gift of being funny without trying hasn’t faded with time. “Why would you be intruding? You’re practically family to us, Gideon. You wouldn’t be intruding on anything. Besides,” you stick on with a harmless giggle, “I’m sure Summer and Skye would like it if both their cool uncles tagged along.”

If it’s possible, his blush deepens.

He hides his dreamy sigh with a cough, averting his gaze elsewhere. His career path has always been something he’s took great pride in; you’re sure soaring the skies all day long is only made better by the fact that he gets to do it with his childhood buddy.

“Ah, well honestly? I’d really like to, it’s just-”

As if on cue, another figure walks in right when you’re about to get to the bottom of it, his voice trailing off with what you think might be guilt as a new one chimes in.

“It’s just…?”

Warmth invades your senses. A cloud of cinnamon enveloping you.

An arm slings across your shoulder, tucking you to his side. Before you can so much as register what’s happening, Caleb reaches for the drink dangling in your hand and knocks half of it back with an exaggerated sound of refreshment.

“You-!”

“Mission ‘get the kids to bed’ is complete,” he informs blithely, and you take what’s left of your wine back with a somewhat amused glance at him.

Swallowing down an objection to his offense, or moreover the hand that dips to rest at the small of your back, you thank him for the accomplishment. “It’s always a hassle to get them to lay down.”

“Oh, no need to thank me,” he chimes, turning his head to regard you with a rather vainglorious smirk. “That’s what I’m here for. You’re my guest for the week, Pipsqueak. I’d be a pretty lame host if I made you do all the work.”

Sure, they’re his niece and nephew, but ultimately, although you’re sure he’d jump at the offer, they’re not his to care for…: Something you don’t voice, preferring to bite the reminder down as he pries his gaze from you to Gideon. You follow in suit.

Those wide, dark eyes trend over you both, watching with an excessive amount of interest.

When you catch him, he glances away, chugging the beverage in hand with renewed thirst.

You clench your jaw and look down, idly thumbing at your glass as you casually extricate yourself from the brunet’s side. If Caleb is upset about the space, he doesn’t comment on it, but the final glimpse you catch of him reveals a slightly kicked expression.

He recovers from it with a cock of his head, lilting, “Now, where were we again?”

“Gideon wants to come to the show with us,” you immediately regret saying because Gideon appears almost betrayed when you shoot him a confused glance, like you’ve thrown him under the bus rather than invite him to the city event that’ll mark the celebration of the new year.

Somewhere at your side, Caleb muses, “Oh, really now? Funny… What made ya change your mind from the last time we talked about it?”

“Just-“ Gideon fumbles out between sips, motioning with his hands to no particular thing, “You know, man. I wanna see the lights. It might be cool.”

“I’m pretty sure you can watch the drone show from your window. Orrrr… anywhere else.”

Your guest’s behavior was a little suspicious, yes, but now the pieces fall into perfect place.

You throw an elbow to your brother’s arm, snipping. “Caleb, what’s wrong with you? Why can’t he go?”

A strained laugh, and then Gideon’s moving forward to grab the neck of the bottle off the island, pouring another out. During so, he tries to assure you all is well, but as you glare at the brunet with equal parts confusion and disappointment- maybe embarrassment on his behalf for being so damn rude- you’re not convinced.

“It’s fine, really. I’ll probably be invited by somebody else before then, so…”

You frown. “But it’s in two days… Don’t you think you’d have been invited by now?”

A delicate rose flushes his handsome face, burning the tips of his big ears. Caleb snorts at your right, stepping out to refill his own glass but listening intently.

“W-Well—“

A holler cuts through the otherwise relaxed atmosphere. The kids are fighting, if Summer’s annoyance was the least bit clear- and in a heartbeat you’re foregoing your drink, the conversation, padding up the steps.

Seamlessly, Caleb turns to raise a thick eyebrow, tone almost longanimous in your absence.

“You’re not going, got it? You’re watchin’ the pup for us.”

Gideon deflates. The tension lifts on the spot.

“Yeah. I figured.”

✦

With all the traffic, it’s a hike to get to City Square.

Once you do arrive, the plaza is packed, spilling into the outskirts of town, handheld lights speckling the crowd.

You’re immersed in a sea of star-like flashes, and as Caleb hefts Skye over his broad shoulders to sit, your daughter’s fingers keeping an iron grasp around yours as you navigate as close to the front as possible, you can’t help but laugh.

By a small miracle, although perhaps helped by the fact your brother is so tall and quietly commands respect wherever he goes, his Colonel rank or whatever, you make it to the front.

A lake looms before you, its flat, icy surface a mirror for the clear, dark skies overhead. Beyond it, the workings of the show are being prepared on the grassy patch across.

Bundled up in your winter wear, you grab the rail and wait for the show to begin.

Excited chatter bounces between the kids in those intervening moments, loud enough to hear despite the horde of people around you.

Caleb humors their endless stream of questions relating to fireworks and aircrafts- his life as a pilot- putting into layman’s terms what his job entails while also omitting the bits too elaborate for a six and four year old to handle.

He’s always been good with them. That’s true, definitely.

Always treated them like his own.

But he’s different now— you’re different now— And then again, you find yourself thinking God should smite you as those flashes of debauchery trickle back into the forefront of your brain, eager to meddle with your night of peace.

“My turn: You wanna know what I think? You’re worryin’ for nothing, Pipsqueak. Since… we’re not related by blood, it wouldn’t affect them. Gran only took us both in, remember? So me n’ you can do anything we want-“

“There. Can you see where they’re settin’ it up now, buddy? Pretty cool, right? You’re so high it’s like you’re flyin’.”

“And… you know…” he whispers seductively, a stirring of warmth at your neck. His long fingers skim the smooth pouch of your belly, tracing there appreciatively. Or meditating, maybe.

“That includes…”

A chilly breeze swoops low, over the lake. And you should be glad for the mittens that warm your hands and the scarf meticulously looped around your neck- a knot you could never do- but as a layer of sweat forms on your palms, it’s hard to feel anything but uncomfortable.

“Hey, don’t worry- I gotcha. Uncle Caleb’s not gonna let you fall on his watch. Just watch your head up there, kay? Lots of activity tonight… Don’t let go of your mama, Summer, stay just like that.”

“Settling down. Havin’ kids of our own one day- our own big family- isn’t out of the equation,” he flicks your forehead far too light to even hurt, “So don’t go gettin’ all existential on me.”

The sound of your name being called pulls you from your unbidden reverie with a start.

“Y-Yeah?”

A smile greets you, warm and gentle. Just inches from your face as a thick arm curls around your midriff, his other steadying the small boy atop his shoulders. A mite amused by the lack of general awareness you’re exhibiting.

“Show’s startin’. Eyes up, babe.”

Babe.

The petname, said so casually, rolls off the tip of his tongue and might as well scald you as soon as it registers. Yet if Caleb realizes his error, or even cares for it, he doesn’t express it with any sign of remorse; when your eyes widen at him, he’s not the picture of scandalized or even mildly shocked, no, he’s just beaming that stupid, mellow smile at you and then-

As the drones lift, a million colors dotting the vast sky, rotating into depictions of ancient tales and creatures- coiling dragons and intricate faces- Caleb leans in.

And with your little boy propped on his shoulders while Summer tugs at the hem of your sweater, the pair of them far too absorbed in the spectacle to so much as glance at you, he captures your lips with his.

What kills you the most, though, isn’t his mouth pressed against yours or even the murmured “Happy New Year, sis”- no.

It’s the fact that you can’t say you didn’t see it coming.

✦

White knuckles clench the sink.

The mirror, squeaky clean, ripples before you. Blurs through your tears- the ones you refuse to let go of.

Bedtime is in a few minutes. No mother wants her children to see her cry.

The plan was to visit for the week, celebrate the new year with your brother: a fun, seemingly harmless plan despite all the red flags being there in retrospect. Maybe you’d be lying to say a piece of you, deep down and having long been buried, didn’t know what would happen.

In your head, quietly staring at your reflection and feeling nothing but the raw sting of disappointment and disgust with a healthy side of self loathing- you compare Caleb to a wound reopened.

And whatever the two of you had before is what you have now. Bleeding for the umpteenth time, dragging you down with it.

First thing tomorrow, you’ll leave.

Two days earlier than originally intended, sure… but you already spent the last 24 hours since he kissed you fighting tooth and nail to pretend he didn’t- a test of sheer endurance if you’ve ever experienced one- and this isn’t an act you want to keep up for long.

Let alone in front of the kids.

Any more and you might do something you regret.

Like slap him across the stupid, handsome fucking face for ruining six years of staying sober from each other. Or perhaps the greatest fear you have is that you’ll end up kissing it back instead.

Long, slender digits twine with yours.

You’d be hard pressed to find a place in the airport that isn’t flooded with chatter and passersby; most are too absorbed in the haze of travel to notice you, but still, it feels… wrong when Caleb pulls you closer in a melting pot of people and presses his forehead to yours.

All the more when your husband is here accompanying you, and there’s no telling when he’ll get back from the food stall with Summer.

The look on his face if he ever found out- the utter devastation and then abhorrence- would kill you.

“Caleb-“

Your yelp of startle, or fear, perhaps, is truncated by the look you’re met with. Tender, though clearly not far off from being emotionally derailed. So much he reminds you of that boy you once knew, two grades ahead of you and protective as a mama bear, never far away.

And God- he knows you have everything to lose, what with your spouse and the recent addition of a little one; that once distant dream of eloping with some dashing, princely man is quite literally right in front of you. Not to mention, Caleb is doing alright for himself too, climbing the ranks of his workplace at breakneck speed.

You’re both doing well for yourselves. More than that, even. You finally have the chance to put the past- put Caleb- behind you, and move on with your respective lives.

For good, this time.

So you wish he’d show some enthusiasm about it, even if it grudges you to admit it’s a little bittersweet on your end, too.

“Caleb,” you go to say again, but it’s useless. A large palm slips between your bodies, hidden by the cluster of bags he’d been so kind to carry off his shoulder. It settles over the soft, nearly imperceptible swell of your belly.

Not even your husband has noticed yet.

Mere inches from your head as you bow it, he thinly murmurs.

“It… should’ve been mine.”

So strange, right then, how the tone of his voice sounds both like heartfelt regret and a promise to come.

With a shaky breath, you dot at the unshed tears clinging to your eyes and flick off the bathroom light.

The hallway one will follow suit- just as soon as you tuck the kids in and crack their door. You’re not afraid of them exploring at night, wandering off on their lonesomes in their Uncle’s super duper big house: with the puppy around now, he keeps a partition by the steps, and it keeps more than just the pet from going up and down the steep staircase.

Besides, you bet they’ll be out like a light tonight. You suppose a day’s worth of running around town, scampering from shop to shop as their Uncle spoils them rotten will tire out even the most spritely of six and four year olds.

Pausing by the open door, you’re met with the vision of the brunet bidding the kids goodnight.

Knelt down, Skye tries to curl up on his knee while his sister enthusiastically shows off the beloved stuffie she managed to slip under your radar while you packed the essentials.

A soft, tormented exhale. You allow yourself the moment to lean against the door and fold your arms, observing the admittedly endearing sight without making yourself known, but it’s not fondness that coasts through your chest— or heartache as you picture all but abandoning him again. It’s definitely not.

That’s… what he called it once, anyway. Abandonment.

The accusation slipped out in the heat of the moment, but even those award-winning puppy dog eyes of his couldn’t quite mend the wounded look you’d given him in turn.

He can play a cruel game, you know that well by now. Manipulative to a fault and wildly possessive. But he’ll be slow to admit his devotion to you often lands less on romantic and more on…

Frightening.

Granted, a hard trait to assign to him when he stands up- six foot something of lean mass- and laughs when your youngest clings to his leg and refuses to let go.

Neither of the kids have noticed your hovering yet, and you don’t think Caleb has, either, but right when you’re about to force down your unease and finally step in, the whimpering pleas of your children stop you short.

“Pweaaase Uncle Caweb? Convince our mommy to stay!”

Skye firmly parrots, “Stay! Stay!” And it’d be nothing but untrue to say the sweet sounds don’t tug on your insides.

Your brother huffs through his nose. It’s hard to decide whether it’s out of amusement for their antics, or exasperation at the mention of your leaving tomorrow. Very well could be both.

Yet there seems to be a sense of sadness to his voice when he ruffles their hair each and announces, decidedly resolved,

“Uncle Caleb will see what he can do, kay?”

✦

Funny that.

See what he can do.

You hadn’t given him much of a chance to convince you, though, hurriedly skittering away before he could catch so much as a glimpse as you made a beeline for the lower floor, so maybe you’re afraid he’ll suceed.

Even so. You’re smart enough to anticipate that surrender- that final offering of yourself to him in whole- and have acted accordingly to stop it.

Turning your back and scurrying down the stairs before he could get a word in might be the trademark of a coward- but when it comes to transgressions, that childhood ledger you used to carry around holds no shortage of ammo against him, and Caleb is far from better.

Very far.

And you’re a saint, right? A self-critical voice offers somewhere in the back of your head, and yeah it makes you a little bitter. With another sigh, you lift on your tippy toes to grab the cup from the cabinet, and then fill it at the fridge.

Maybe you’re no good, either, but the truth is that you tried. Tried to change. Tried to improve. Tried-

To quit him.

That plan went smoothly for all of a whopping six years before the backbone of it collapsed. Since then, things haven’t gone exactly… swimmingly. But you kept the distance between you and Caleb, and that effort, no matter how cruel a measure it seemed taken against family, meant something.

Up until a couple days ago. When he kissed you, and single-handedly undid everything you’d ever worked towards.

A scoff. You angrily set down your cup and look towards the clock above the oven, its numbers glowing. It’s very, very late, and you should be asleep, but rest didn’t come easy to you- not when you were half expecting your foster brother to barge in unannounced to serenade you with some bullshit apology.

Some bullshit apology, yes- because you don’t want to imagine the alternative.

You’d managed a couple hours of sleep before something or another woke you up- your inner torment, probably- and then decided you were thirsty. That, and restless. Rolling out of the comfy, foam bed didn’t seem all too convenient, not when it felt like entering the rest of the house was akin to stepping over enemy lines, but there was no way you’d spend the rest of the night tossing and turning, and your throat was begging for water.

Everything is packed up. The kids’ clothes and the plushies they dragged along, the toiletries.

Your own personal bag sits at the foot of the guest bed, zipped. All that’s left to do is sling it over your shoulder and go.

Getting all of the luggage crammed in the trunk is another matter entirely, and how you’ll combat Caleb’s attempts to help with it this time, you don’t know. But you refuse to let him.

He’ll be fucking lucky if he even gets to say goodbye to the kids. Let alone you.

Because this is unfair. He can’t just- kiss you and turn your world upside down and then act like you’re the bad guy for ducking him in return.

Receiving that initial text from him, organizing the trip and then physically making the drive, it was all so… believable. You really began to feel hopeful that the distance was paying off in leaps and bounds.

Caleb made a convincing act.

So did you.

Wincing at your own internal struggle, you swipe a hand over your face and take the moment while it presents itself to just… be.

A million emotions whirl inside you at once with an intensity you’re neither awake enough nor mentally there enough to quell.

Frustration, however, is the one that compels you to mutter “Dummy” underneath your breath, sighing over no one thing in particular.

Indignation sears through the stronghold of your heart, bitter to the point of flooding your tear ducts, and then guilt ravages whatever’s left. Reaching again for your near depleted drink, you’re far from prepared when a droll voice rings behind you.

“Dummy, huh?” He comments. “And who are you callin’ that, Pipsqueak?”

You startle. Spinning around so quick that the water splashes up and wets the front of your gown. You hiss under your breath, searching for the dish towel immediately, blotting the fabric with your back to him because you refuse to let him see you fluster.

“What do you want?” You announce. Civil or not, you don’t care. He lost the privilege of your manners, and you can’t be bothered to be nice to him right now.

Galactic eyes sweep over you incredulously, if not a little possessive. “Didn’t I teach you about respectin’ your elders?” He says after a pause, pursing his lips. Still, you’re not so deluded to miss the spark of amusement there.

…Yeah, you’re just a little embarrassed he caught you like this… You can try as you might to act unfazed by his appearance, but evidently- what with the stain cooling on the front of your negligee- he has an effect on you.

You scoff, throwing his words right back at him. “Elders? Wake up Caleb, we are the elders. And if anything- I’m more of one than you,” you snip, spinning around now to cross your arms over your chest and glare at him to the best of your ability. Unwarranted or not, childish or not, the cruel accusations are spilling out. This whole situation has been simmering to a point for years now, and it’s finally boiling over.

“Twenty-eight and still no kids. N-No wife.”

You don’t expect him to snap back, really, you don’t- not with any true heat, anyway. You’ve only spent all your formative childhood years with him: more than enough to know he’s slow to anger albeit quick to participate in banter. Per usual, he’ll take your jabs against him like water off a duck’s back, and then return them with a casual but direct hit against you. Friendly fire.

Caleb’s face darkens.

Whatever playful, cheerful brother you knew growing up disappears in a cloud of smoke.

Indigo eyes, ever bright as they stare at you, fall into a heavy look, then, as he takes his hand off his hip. His handsome features betraying what you understand to be real, raw frustration.

Although, that word doesn’t quite do it justice... He looks…

Wounded.

Guilt churns inside you— and regret, undeniable regret. But it’s too late to take back your reckless statement. There’s something terribly offensive in what you just said and it compels Caleb to stride forward and- much too quick for you to react- snatch your wrist.

His long fingers loop around your skin, not hard enough to leave bruises but just enough to let you know who holds the reins here.

There was always a certain hierarchy in the house, your non-acknowledgment of it as a little girl irrelevant. Gran was at the top, of course, your guardian when all was said and done, the one who supplied a roof over your head and paid the bills. But as you grew older, oddly enough, you quietly realized that it was your older brother who resembled a parental figure the most.

For a good while, up until you split ways, tied the knot with your now ex-husband and moved out of the family home, Caleb was the man of your house.

Right now, you’re quietly convinced he always will be.

Deceiving yourself for all this time was such a sweet, devastating game to play. But the present leaves you with no other choice but to own up to your mistakes- your sheer fucking stupidity- and face him head-on as he looms over you and puts a match to your heart.

“And that’s my fault?” He retorts, purple hues holding a challenge, “Do you honestly think I wanted this, Y/n?” A harsh laugh, a shake of his head.

“For all this time I’ve had to sit back and watch you fool around with a guy who couldn’t care less about you,” shame burns your cheeks, but he continues on, knowing all the right places to apply his blade and cut, “And you’ve spat in my face for every attempt I made to pull you out of it. What other choice did I have but to be alone?”

Anger floods to the surface, prickling under your skin and burning. You have every reason to be upset with him, to want to grab him by his stupid broad shoulders and shake, but you’re thrown the curve ball of intense, sudden sadness.

For lack of better response, you laugh along, too. “Oh, so it all falls back on me, huh? Your fucking misery-?”

“And so what if it does?” He whispers. Your glare wavers when he leans in closer, the tip of his nose no more than an inch from yours. Whatever outburst you’d prepared to unleash on him dies in your throat.

This is your brother, yes, but the boy you once knew has long been put in a coffin and lowered into the dirt. What you’re staring at now- what you’re brainlessly challenging without the faintest idea of the consequences to be reaped from it- is no more than a man, deprived of what he’s always wanted most, might you add.

Deprived for a very, long time.

Caleb practically snarls, “Everything was fine until you-“

A hot flash of panic grips you, raw and dizzying, and then-

Releases in an instant.

Knuckles caress the slope of your cheek, the other hand loosening from your wrist though not falling away entirely, and the look of ill intent, or hurt, vanishes from the brunet’s face. It’s an overwhelming softness that mellows out his expression, and you watch on with wide eyes as he exhales sharply. He’s the picture of reverence, of adoration.

But not of repentance.

Thick lashes brush over his cheekbone, his fingertips like butterfly wings against your own as he maps out your stunned look.

Compared to just seconds ago, his voice is an unrecognizable, tender thing, “We were perfect, sis. Don’t you remember our promise we made to each other?”

Oh, you remember many. But you were kids. Stupid and naive and unprepared- you most of all.

A full breath gusts out of you in a sigh. Quickly looking down, you shake your head and make a pathetic little sound. That’s more than enough to tell Caleb you don’t want to have this conversation during the wee hours of morning, let alone when tomorrow is an early day for travel- but he takes your visible conflict as a cue to rest his hand over your lower back and pull you in like it’s instinct.

And you can’t blame him, because it is. He’s used to protecting, to being your shield. There’s many times where Caleb’s been at fault: locking you in the attic as kids and stealing the leftovers with your name on it just a couple to name, but to be honest, you kind of pity him when he gets like this… even if he’s still just as bad.

To anyone else, the outsiders looking in, he’s nothing more than possessive. A dog hoarding a bone. But you can recognize your foster brother for what he really is.

Afraid.

Terribly, wretchedly afraid.

And God, you love him, you do, there’s no amount of time spent apart from him that can undo that, but your bond was never meant to be what he wanted it to be and you just-

“I can’t do this, Caleb,” you croak out. It’s a weak, juvenile protest at best, but you press your palm against his front and refuse to look at him, even when he props a gentle, yet no less firm hand under your chin and draws it up with need.

“Why not?” He breathes. When you finally muster enough courage to open your eyes, a knot has appeared between Caleb’s thick brows, and he looks just a few mean words away from crying- those manipulative tendencies on full display.

Jerk. Your fingers twirl the fabric of his sleep shirt; futile retaliation.

You go to respond but he stops you, lips grazing against yours and your whole body locks up. “You’re right. We’re… not kids anymore,” he pits your own words against you, but it’s done in a voice too sweet to warrant anger, “Nobody can tell us what we can and can’t do. So… stop hiding from this, yeah? Haven’t I always taken care of you?”

You wince, voiceless. “You’re my brother.” The closest thing you’ll ever have to one, anyway.

A syrupy hum. He twines his fingers in your hair and painlessly tugs you in by the handful until your foreheads touch. “N’ I always will be. It’s my job to always be at your side.”

“N-Not like this.” You want to shrink, silently praying that the floor opens up a hole that can swallow you on the spot- but you’re not so fortunate.

Slightly chapped lips brush over your tightly closed eyes, then, and the hand he has on your lower back trails even lower to cup your ass through your night gown.

“You never complained before though, hm?” He mumbles, as comforting as he is malicious. “When we fooled around back then. You… liked it, didn’t you?”

He gives a little squeeze to your pert ass as if to test his point, measuring your reaction, but then before he gets it, he hefts you up by your legs and sets you on the marble counter.

“Caleb-“

Hot breath fans at the shell of your ear, weakening whatever it touches, the nerve endings beneath his lips lighting. They dive along your neck in a slow, sensual assault, the wet column of his tongue melting the dregs of your composure, striping under your jaw.

There’s no warning. You feel him all over, everywhere, carving a hole from the inside out.

“When I touched you like this,” he adds, grabbing you by the hips now and slamming your core to his abdomen. The bulge lying beneath his thin sleep wear comes as a small shock to you, but though it’s unfamiliar, it’s not completely foreign. Semi-hard, but fast to fatten up as he thoughtlessly begins to rut himself against you, palms groping soft skin, mouth suckling on your neck all the while.

The hickies will last. So will your guilt once the sun pops up tomorrow and you’ve actually agreed to let this happen, but it’s progressively hard to say no.

“When I put my fingers inside you…”

His touch moves to the apex of your thighs (trembling, though you willfully ignore that), easily accessing the lacy seat of your panties with an effortless push of your gown. He slips the cotton down until it hooks off your ankles, but contrary to his promising words, doesn’t force his digits in.

No, instead he fully pries your legs open with a desperate, ragged moan-

“When I got on my knees and ate this sweet, little pussy.”

-and sinks to the kitchen tile to bury his head between your thighs and feast.

You cry out immediately, stilting your arms to pull at his ash-brown hair— that which he rewards with a breathy grunt.

Without any preamble, his tongue delves between your folds, washing over your clit to suck, and although it’s been years since he last took you this way and you’re far from in your right mind, you wonder if he’s gotten better, because fuck it feels that way.

He heaves, “I know I liked it.”

That doesn’t come as a big surprise to you. Despite your best efforts to convince yourself whatever fling you shared was long gone, lost in the dust you kicked behind you, deep in your heart, you knew the painful, dirty truth.

Your brother was never ready to let you go. He wasn’t then, and he sure as hell isn’t now.

Distantly, you realize that while you might’ve been able to wriggle out of his hold before, you were younger then, more immature but given a sort of grace period because of that- and though he was far from reasonable, he still had some sense to know pursuing you when you ran wasn’t possible.

That was before.

The option to right your wrongs is no longer available to you in the present, though. And Caleb, you know, as much as it grudges you to admit, is right.

Free from prying eyes, he can do whatever the hell he pleases.

Expert hands, knowing you best, rend you apart. Your taste is divine and your skin is so hot it’s practically melting the callous span of his palms, but it’s the delicate little whine of his name you can’t help from falling in time that makes the thinning thread of his composure snap completely.

“Fuck,” he snarls. The sound stirs a fresh wave of arousal in your belly- maybe fear, too.

Without any warning he climbs to his feet and pushes you by your collarbone, your back meeting the cool countertop with ease. The haze clears ever so slightly now that your pussy has reprieve from his lips, but that fog isn’t altogether gone. You’re still only half aware of what’s happening, and even less sure of whether you can afford to say yes to him or not.

Because no, this isn’t like before. Two reckless teenagers with the safety-net excuse of ‘young and dumb’ to bounce back into should you regret your actions. No, you’re adults now, with an established foothold in the real world and if you mess up, if you go through with this, there’s no fresh start.

For fuck’s sake— This. This was meant to be the fresh start.

Pulsing in your chest, thudding like steel-toed boots over solid ground, your heart throbs.

With labored breaths, you shakily lift yourself up by an elbow, watching with misty eyes as the brunet fumbles with his pants- reaching over only to nudge you back into submission.

Not a hard task. The truth of the matter is that the fiercest of your resistance is gone, abandoned in the wake of his obsession, his own twisted form of love.

Your foster brother is many things. Just as bound and determined as he is tender and considerate- and so as your last ditch effort, you appeal to that side.

“Please,” tears well up in your eyes, but they don’t fall, and even if they did, you’re not sure if they’re from the emotional trainwreck you’re experiencing or just the sheer overwhelm he’s causing your body.

Violet, nebulous eyes flick up at that, though, regarding you with a cool sort of clarity, and as they flash with… something like uncertainty, you wonder if it’s worked.

In the next moment, whatever you thought you saw is gone.

“Don’t worry. I’m here.”

His broad hands find purchase on the fat of your hips, and then with a slam of his mouth against yours to hush your disoriented cry, he’s driving himself home.

It’s a cocktail of momentary pain and then searing pleasure- his thick cock barreling inside with a choked moan of your name. The ceiling spins. The dimmed light of the kitchen fuzzing away. And fuck it’s like you can almost swear you feel the very veins on his shaft, pulsating within your soaked walls, the long absence of him only highlighting just how good it feels to have him this way again.

In that moment, you remember him. You remember everything like you’d never forgotten.

“Shh,” he murmurs, fingers reverently trailing up your arm before tangling with your own, but you’re only half cognizant of what he’s saying.

“I’ll fuck you nice and good, sis. Give you what I- nghh- know you need... It’s this, right?” He husks, looking all too satisfied with himself and the effect he has on you, “You just needed me back inside you, right? Filling you to the brim…”

A gasp. You tremble, arching into him despite yourself. And God, with whatever’s left of your rationale, you pray the kids won’t wake, that Apple won’t start yipping in his cage or Gran won’t barge into the room this very instant and uncover the nakedness of the ones she brought up with her own hand.

For the millionth time, you remind yourself that this was the second chance; your only real shot at contributing to a functioning society as a normal human being, and you’ve blown it.

All your efforts—

Ruined.

And you’re so screwed for it, especially tomorrow when this slaps you in the face like a bag of bricks, but Caleb makes it feel sweet. Rewarding.

“This pussy is mine. Not that asshole’s… Not Gideon’s… Not anyone else’s but mine. Say yes. Be a good girl and- fuck- say yes.”

“Y-Yes,” you bluster out, clinging to his shirt like it’s your lifeline, burying your face in his shoulder where you’re safe from the world, silently hoping it’s a place that God’s judgement too can’t reach.

Caleb lets out a ragged, delighted groan. The shudder that racks through him is palpable and erotic. Assured, he sets out anew with the goal in mind to pleasure you, bringing his other hand down toy with your clit- rubbing the puffy, wet bud with sloppy tilts of his wrist.

“Ngh... I waited for so long to have you like this again. You’ve been runnin’ away from me, sis. So you can’t blame me for wantin’ to make up for lost time, yeah? Besides…”

For dirty talk, his words sure sound ominous, but you choose to overlook them- on top of the fact that he never bothered to so much as mention a condom, and this is very, very dangerous.

Caleb draws away some from the dip of your neck to stare at you unabashed, and the glint in his eye, then, can only be described as tenacious. So much to the point that you distantly hear a few alarm bells sound- but the idea that warnings alone are enough to save you is foolish.

He’s a dog with a bone and sometimes you wonder if he’d rather bury you than let anyone else get their hands on what’s his.

Knuckles dote on the side of your cheek, feather-light like you’re something to be worshipped. But that adoring touch belies the quickness in which he pulls the rug from underneath your feet when those fingertips drop, meeting your smooth belly a second later.

For the moment, devoid of life.

“I’ve got some other things to make up for too, huh?”

✦

In the morning, the kids greet you with breakfast in bed- delivered to you on a wooden tray with sides far too fancy to be comfortable with, and a kiss to your cheek as greeting.

“Thank you mommy!” They squeal, but you just rub your eyes and sigh, mustering up the weakest of smiles.

He must’ve told them already.

Honest to God you don’t remember much of last night in your exhausted state- and you’re fine with it staying that way. Yeah sure you were… persuaded into staying a couple more days, but you plan to spend the rest of this one forgetting what happened last night, and you don’t have much of an appetite right now, as delicious as his cooking is.

So you accept the gift with a peck to their foreheads and send them off, the puppy scrambling after them on their way out, and then set the plate on the nightstand at your side.

It’s fine to sleep in just a little bit more. I mean, the kids will be occupied, and-

There’s no knock to signal his appearance, not even a hello. Caleb steps in like he owns the place (and you grumpily suppose he does), and leans over to press a chaste kiss to the crown of your head. You willfully ignore the bare skin beneath the words painted onto his corny apron, the hard planes of muscle you were so acquainted with last night, gleaming with the sweat of his labor.

“Mornin’, honey. My bed’s waaay comfier than the guest room’s, don’tcha think?” A rascal’s grin etches into his cheeks. You softly groan.

“I’m sleeping, Caleb.”

You grab the nearest pillow and, though you seriously consider throwing it at him, pile it over your head and burrow into the sheets.

That earns a smooth chuckle; a gentle rub against your back. “Yeah, yeah, Pipsqueak, I hear ya. I’ll leave you alone for now, just because I’m still busy in the kitchen. But you can’t hide in here forever. Kay?”

Whatever he has to say next is apparently important, because it’s enough to warrant his immediate presence at your side and a dip of the mattress as he flattens himself over you and removes the pillow to access your toasty face.

He whispers against your temple with a playful, languid drawl, “Wouldn’t wanna leave our kids alone for too long, right?”

You know your daddy ain’t the best of men. A liar and a cheat. Hell, he’s nearly shot every boy who’s dared to step on your doorstep ever since you turned eighteen. Not because he’s not eager to get rid of you, it’s because he doesn’t intend to give another man access to the gold on his land, nor to anything else he owns. 

You wonder if that gold is what drew the visitors in last night. 

You weren’t meant to be awake. The hour was late, moon hangin’ high and pale, its light strained thin through cottoned windows. Still, you sat perched at the top of the stairwell, bare feet tucked beneath your pale nightdress, listening in as two well-dressed gentlemen occupied the parlor across from your daddy. 

You couldn’t see their faces from where you were - only fragments. One had the silkiest hair you’d ever laid eyes on, gathered low at the nape of his neck with a ribbon of worn leather. Fresh-ink dark. His voice slid out, smooth and indulgent, a sinner’s purr that had your heart thumpin’ in your chest. He had a broader frame than the two, shoulders stretching the fabric of his dark as night shirt taut, the cloth shifting with each movement. A practiced man. A smooth talker. You’d never seen your daddy so rapt and willing to listen. 

The other man was leaner, sharp in a way that made your skin prickle, hair white as a winter’s frost, posture lax, legs sprawled wide like his ma never taught him an ounce of manners. You wonder if they existed at all in his eyes. 

You shifted carefully, nudging your nightdress out of the way so you wouldn’t stumble when you stood. The floorboard, damn thing, needed a fixin’, betrayed you away. The sound was hardly more than a sigh - but it was enough for someone with the hearing of a hawk. You caught the gleam in the white-haired man's eyes. No one else seemed to notice. Your daddy didn’t pause, and the dark-haired man never broke the rhythm of his speech. Just a tap on his knee. It would’ve been easy to blame the noise on the house itself - old bones settling, or that wicked wind woryin’ in the eaves. 

But the white-haired man had seen you. 

You watched his mouth tilt, just barely forming into a knowing smile before his gaze slid away, attention folding back into the conversation as if nothin’ had happened at all. You finally released a breath, you never realized you were holdin’. 

They felt familiar, the pair of them. Not in a neighborly way, but in the sense of somethin’ you’d seen once before, like some movie poster or something from a newspaper. Not some outlaws that the folk in town had been whisperin’ about. Yet, no decent man ever smiled like that when they thought no one was watching. 

You decided not to test your luck too much, easing yourself back to your bedroom, careful of those old rickety floorboards. You thought that’d be the last of them, a one-time investment of some sort. 

Yet that one-time visit quickly became weekly visits, visits that got the town talkin’ because your daddy had been awfully sweatin’ this past month. Stressed beyond sin. Drinkin’ and smokin’ more and more before the two gentlemen’s visits. 

You weren’t sure why, but they always came with gifts. Flowers for your mother’s table. Suguru - the dark-haired one- always insisted on bringing you a new thing to wear. A broach for church, a new ribbon, sometimes a piece of jewelry. One time, you almost asked him where he got it from, such an expensive piece of rubies and silver, but the lead on your tongue was telling you not to ask such a thing. Not when his smile seemed so pure, but that gun on his hip said otherwise. Anytime he gave you a new necklace or two, you’d have this feeling to wash the piece because who knows maybe red rubies are actually white diamonds stained with something sinister. You found yourself prayin’ before bed a little harder that night. 

Satoru - the white-haired tease - seemed to favor sweets. 

Anytime he visited, he’d whistle for you, passing along a little bag of candy: sometimes taffy, sometimes a caramel or two, or if you’re lucky, a rare hard candy you’d never had the luxury of gettin’ your hands on before. Always with a note tucked inside: for my little sneak. 

He’d whistle the second he stepped onto the porch. 

“C’mon now, sugarplum,” he’d croon, loungin’ back like he owned your ma’s parlor, one boot - splattered dark along the white leather - propped right atop the nice coffee table your daddy paid a pretty penny for, bought from a man from foreign lands. “You been hidin’ from me all mornin’? Heat gettin’ to ya?”

You’d frown, your gaze settling on the stains along the side of his boot. Could be animal blood, you suppose. You’d heard a gunshot earlier that morning - folks said the coyotes got into the sheep again last night. Still, the teasin’ only deepened your scowl. 

“I ain’t hidin’,” you muttered. “Just don’t like bein’ whistled at like I’m some dog.”

“Couldn’t be no dog,” Satoru murmured, his eyes tracking every inch of you, teeth worrying at his lower lip when he noticed your fists bunch tight in the frill of your dress. “Dogs bark. You darlin’? You’re the purrin’ type. Takes a while to coax you out - more like a cat.”

Suguru only laughed softly, lifting his teacup for a slow sip. Always warm - he never bothered with ice. His fingers toyed with a strip of wood and a knife, carving something careful and precise. Your eyes could never settle on him; he was always too pretty. Yet it seems wherever he was, he was always focused on you, too. Like a wolf stalkin’ prey. 

“Be nice, Toru,” he cooed, his voice gentle in a way that reminded you painfully of your mother’s, back when you’d cry yourself into hysterics, “We’re guests, remember?”

“Ah. You’re right.”

Satoru’s grin stretched wider as he leaned forward, catching a loose strand of your hair between two slender fingers as you sat beside him. His crystalline gaze locked onto yours, voice drawlin’ low. “Forgive me, sugar. It’s just hard to behave when you’re sittin’ there lookin’ like temptation. Almost makes a man wanna settle down in the next town over.” 

When you sat with him in the parlor that late afternoon with the bugs buzzin’ in the fields, you tried not to look at the blood on his boots resting carelessly on your ma’s nice table. A man with no manners whatsoever. 

And your daddy - for all the beast he could be - never once told you to stay away from them. Perhaps he couldn’t because of things you’d never be able to understand. 

You noticed, though. Every time your daddy’s eyes landed on you talkin’ with them, or when Suguru leaned close to tuck a wildflower into your hair, your daddy’s gaze would dart straight to his boot tips, as if the snake embellish was far more interesting than your conversation. His hands would fidget, restless and unsure, fingers flexin’ like he wanted to reach for a gun that wouldn’t do him a lick of good. 

Your ma was no use either. It seemed the moment those men started comin’ around, the doctor began prescribin’ her a tonic - to ease her nerves, your daddy said. All of it started after you heard glass breakin’ between the two of them one night when you should’ve been on your knees prayin’ before bed. 

Now, she just lingers in her rocking chair on the porch, the slow creak of the wood the only sound she makes anymore. Her embroidery lies untouched in her lap, thread gone slack between her fingers. Her eyes were glassy, dulled over, like she was lookin’ clean through the world instead of at it and its wonders of what’s to come. 

You found yourself curlin’ up beside her more and more, the way a child would. Layin’ with your head in her lap, guidin’ her hand back into your hair whenever it slipped away. Sometimes she’d stroke it absentmindedly, fingers movin’ on muscle memory alone. 

After a long while, she speaks. 

“Used to be my daddy’s land,” she murmured, voice thin and distant, like she was talkin’ to someone long gone. “Mama’s before him, too. Every fence post, acre, tree… I know it all by heart.” 

Her fingers stilled in your hair. 

“Funny how easy it is for somethin’ to stop bein’ yours,” she added softly. “All it takes is the right kind of man.” 

You didn’t know if she meant your daddy - or the men who’d come after. 

✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧

A few months pass, winter comin’, and your daddy grows more hysterical than usual - frayed thin, like a rope used too long.  

He keeps himself cooped up in his office now, pacing restless grooves into the floorboards and grinding his boots into the rugs you scrubbed clean on a warm Saturday afternoon. All that careful work ruined, fibers darkened and worn. His guns - polished to a dull, obsessive shine - hang heavy on his hips even inside the supposed safety of the house. He checks them often, fingers lingering too long on the grips, like cold steel might make up for everything that’s already slipped out through his hands. 

He doesn’t come to supper anymore. No matter how hard you try. Not even now, when you’re the one cookin’, stretchin’ meals thin since he fired the maids in one sharp, liquor-soaked rage. He’d muttered then about money bleedin’ out, about gold vanishing like smoke, somethin’ about trust bein’ a fool’s currency.

Plate sittin’ cold on the table, untouched. You eat alone more often than not, with the house echoing hollow around you. Once filled with life, now with none other than you and that beast of a man.

You haven’t seen much of your two wolves lately, either, not that you minded. Though the company would be nice. 

Their visits had grown scarce, then vanished altogether. No whistle cuttin’ through the porch air. No flowers laid gentle on the table with rose thorns already trimmed - not even your mother’s grave tucked quietly and unmarked on the edge of the property. Your daddy never put up a headstone, nor a cross. Said stone was expensive and nobody ain’t got the time to carve wood. Said names didn’t matter once the dirt had settled. Only God needed to know where she lay. 

No sweets slipped into your palm. Not even a careless grin. No folded note you’d later feed to the fire watchin’ the ink curl and blacken into nothin’. 

You tell yourself it must mean they’ve finished the work they were hired for. That the land is secure now. That whatever bargain your daddy struck - however crooked it may have been - has been settled and closed. 

But late at night, when the house creaks and sighs like it’s rememberin’ better days, you hear him mutterin’ behind his office door. Words whispered sharp and brittle - owed, soon, can’t - each one cracking under the weight of panic. 

And still the house feels watched. 

Like somethin’ patient is lingerin’ just beyond the fence line, breath slow and steady, waitin’ for a man to realize he’s out of gold and only got flesh left to offer. 

✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧

The bank came by in the early spring, when the ground was still soft, and the air smelled like thawed earth and old promises. That if you survive the winter, you can somehow pay off your debts before the law gets you. The man spoke politely, but firmly, his hat held tight in his hands as he explained your daddy was overdue on his credit. Said papers had been filed. Said a sheriff from the next town over would be stoppin’ by soon enough to collect what was owed - one way or another. 

You tried talkin’ to your daddy after. 

You pressed your forehead to the office door, the wood warm from the fire with the sound of pacing on the other side, and you whispered like it were prayer. “Daddy.. What’s goin’ on?” 

What came back wasn’t an answer. More like a bark from a dog. “Get.” 

The word cracked through and straight to your chest. You didn’t ask again. 

You stopped showin’ your face at church after that. You weren’t goin’ to walk there either after Daddy sold the horses. You knew - even with the tough hide you’d grown over the past year - you wouldn’t survive the looks, the murmured scripture, the quiet cruelty sharpened behind their tight smiles and frilly fans. You could already hear their words, feel them like welts before they landed. 

They’d say your daddy bled himself dry. That he hired unlawful men and mistook wolves for guards. Let them drain the land down to bone and dust. 

They’d whisper that your daddy was the reason your ma lay in the ground without a stone. Whatever broke her started long before that tonic ever touched her lips. 

And maybe, alone in the quiet, with nothin’ but the creak of the house and your own breath for company, you wondered if they were right. 

They didn’t come like wolves that night. 

They came like men collectin’ a debt long overdue. 

Suguru stood easy in the lamplight, posture relaxed, hands folded loose as if this were a cordial visit instead of a reckoning. His voice carried smooth and measured, silk-soft but edged sharp beneath the polish. “Now, now,” he murmured, tone mild as warm tea. “There’s no need for all that noise. We’re only here to settle things.” 

Your daddy stalked the length of the room, boots grinding against the scuffed floorboards, breath coming hard and uneven. His fingers twitched near the holsters at his hips, knuckles pale, eyes wild and bloodshot. 

“You think I don’t know what you are?” he snapped, spittle flying. “You ain’t law. Ain’t got no badge. Ain’t got no right to be standin’ in my house -” 

Suguru hummed thoughtfully, tilting his head just so, dark hair slipping loose over his shoulder. A fox considering a trap already sprung. 

“Law’s a funny thing,” he said softly. “It listens closely to money. Guns do some persuadin’, sure - but money…” His smile curved, slow and knowing. Already winning the game. “Money does most of the biddin’ around here.” 

His gaze drifted then, unhurried and thorough. Over the stripped shelves. The overturned drawers. The safe yawning open, empty as a mouth with teeth pulled clean. 

Something like sympathy flickered across his serene face. As if practiced. 

“Looks like you’re in a bit of trouble,” Suguru added gently, almost kindly.

✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧

You awoke - just like the first night they came - just this time to shouts and hollers tearing through the house. 

“You ain’t no sheriff!” Your daddy screeched, glass shattering on the floor, the sharp crash echoing loud enough to rattle the walls. You figured it was the last of his liquor, flung empty and desperate. 

You stayed in bed, frozen beneath the quilt, breath trapped in your chest as your hands fumbled for the letter opener tucked inside your bedside drawer. Anything for a lick of protection. You held still like a child waitin’ for a storm to pass.

Another voice slipped through the walls - far too calm and amused for anything good to come of it. 

“Oh, but I am now,” came the lazy drawl. Satoru’s voice, thick with smugness, a grin folded right into the syllables. “Sheriff of that sweet little town downriver. Ain’t it funny how quick folks’ll hand you a badge when you clear out a few problems for ‘em?”

You could hear him move then.

The sound of his boots - always light on his feet - crossing broken glass. Unhurried. Confident.

“They even asked kindly to help out this shithole of a town,” he went on lightly. “Seems there’s been a bit of an issue between you and the bank.”

A pause, you could hear the teasin’ lilt behind his voice, that cocky grin of his burned into your mind. Somethin’ you think a little too often, sometimes unholy things. 

“’Course, they didn’t ask too many questions about how we went about fixin’ things,” he added lightly. “Guess givin’ the people peace over a mongrel like you is reason enough to want you dead.”

“I’ll give you anything you want,” your daddy choked out.

You heard him scrambling, boots skiddin’ uselessly across spilled liquor and broken glass, breath hitchin’ sharp and wet like he couldn’t quite pull enough air into his lungs. A gun clicked, loud and naked in the space, the sound trembling with the same panic that cracked his voice.

“My daughter,” he blurted, tryin’ to save his skin. “Yeah? You took an interest, didn’t you? You both did?”

That was when you slid from your bed. Almost like a cue that things are about to get bad. If your daddy was savin’ his skin. You should be, too. 

Bare feet met the cold floor, slow and careful, every step calculated as you crept toward the door. Your fingers clenched tight around the letter opener, its thin blade biting into your palm, useless but comforting all the same. The house groaned softly around you, old wood complaining under the weight of what was about to happen.

A low whistle cut through the hall.

Not playful like Satoru’s. A sharper sound. You knew without seeing him that it belonged to Suguru.

“Sellin’ off your daughter?” Suguru said softly, voice smooth as oil, touched with something almost like amusement. “When you haven’t even paid us for all that work we did for ya?”

You pressed closer to the door, heart batterin’ your ribs like an untamed stallion, fingers clenched white around the letter opener. The house felt too small, walls closing in, the air thick with the coppery tang of fear.

“We slaughtered every man in those mines,” Suguru went on calmly, like he was recitin’ figures from a ledger. “You think that’s easy on the mind?”

A beat passed. You wonder if your daddy was a stammerin’ mess and you just couldn’t hear it. Beggin’ and pleadin’ like a sinner in church. 

The only thing that broke the silence was Satoru with a long and dramatic sigh, like a bored child denied a treat from the general store down the road.

“Aw, c’mon,” he whined lightly, voice sing-song and wrong in the middle of all that panic. “Can’t we just kill him already?” You could hear him shift his weight, boots scraping lazy circles through broken glass. “We were gonna take the girl anyway.”

Your stomach dropped at the sound of that. There was a wet, choking sound from your daddy, something between a sob and a prayer gone unanswered.

Suguru didn’t answer right away.

You imagined him standing there in the lamplight, considering it, head tilted, expression thoughtful, as if Satoru had just asked a reasonable question instead of sealin’ a man’s fate to be hung.

“…Toru,” Suguru murmured at last, gentle but firm. “Don’t be rude.”

The pause stretched. Suffocating.

“But,” he added smoothly, “you’re not wrong.”

The words settled heavy in the air, pressin’ down on your chest until your breath came thin and sharp, each inhale scraped raw against your ribs.

You had choices. Not real ones, only the kind that are ugly and desperate when the world has already made up its mind for your fate. 

You could run.

Bare feet slapping against warped floorboards, the skirt of your nightgown gathered tight in shaking fists as you bolted into the night. The spring air would bite cruel and wet, the last of the frost still meaning business, stiffenin’ your joints and burnin’ your lungs as you fled toward town. You could pray your legs were faster than theirs. Pray the dark loved you enough to hide you.

You could stay quiet. Melt back into the house’s narrow bones, wedge yourself into some forgotten corner and hope the men who’d stalked mines and slaughtered towns somehow overlooked a trembling girl and her ragged breath.

You could beg. Fall to your knees and offer tears where gold had failed. Hope mercy lived somewhere behind sharp smiles and even sharper eyes.

You could even fight - rush them with the letter opener clenched white-knuckled in your fist, blade flashing, desperate and small. Save your daddy. But the thought soured before it could settle.

You knew, deep and certain, that he’d sell you again in a heartbeat if it bought him one more breath. One more chance to crawl free.

The house groaned softly around you, old wood sighing as it had already accepted what was coming.

So you ran.

You didn’t care that you were still in your nightdress, thin cotton clingin’ uselessly to your skin as it snagged and tore against brush and fence wire. You didn’t care that the cold bit straight through you, numbin’ your legs even as they burned, muscles screaming with every frantic step.

You didn’t care about the gunshot that cracked the night wide open behind you - too loud, too close - nor the sound that followed it: bright, childlike laughter, sharp and delighted, chasin’ after you through the dark. Boots struck the dirt hard and sure behind you, unhurried, like they knew you’d tire long before they would.

Tears streamed down your face, hot and blinding, streakin’ your vision until the world smeared into shadows and silver moonlight. Your breath tore ragged from your chest, each inhale shallow and panicked, throat achin’ like it might close up entirely. You stumbled more than once, heart a hammerin’ so violently you swore they’d hear the wretched sound poundin’ in your ears.

You didn’t care if wolves or coyotes were out tonight, teeth gleaming somewhere beyond the fence line, hunger sharp enough to rip you apart. You’d grown up on stories - whispered warnings about girls who were alone with no protection, about what happened when they were caught by men worse than beasts.

You weren’t goin’ to be another one of those stories. Not to be another cautionary tale at church. Not another girl laid in the dirt without a marker to say she’d ever been here at all.

You ran and ran until your foot caught on a fallen branch, and you hit the ground hard, cheek scraping against bark, blood already trickling warm down your knee. You scrambled, breath hiccupping in your chest, draggin’ yourself through leaves and rot until you found it: a hollowed-out tree, just wide enough to crawl into.

You curled tight, knees pressed to your chest, the letter opener shaking uselessly in your hand. Blood streaked across the white of your nightdress. An unforgivin’ color. Adrenaline spiked too high for you to even consider the pain. Your feet throbbed. Frost crept up your spine like ghost fingers from those stories you’d share at the bonfire. 

And still, you heard them coming. Satoru’s voice rang out first = sing-song, giddy, off.

“Just like a cat, Sugu!” he cackled. “Dogs’ll come runnin’ to a whistle, but this one? She’s got claws.” A pause, boots crunching closer. “We’ll have to get her a bell.”

You clapped a hand over your mouth, chest heaving, hot tears streaming past your fingers. Every breath you took was laced with pine and blood and terror.

Suguru didn’t laugh at that. You could picture him hummin’ at the thought. Like he could pick you out a nice ribbon in town just for a soft bell to lay against your throat. You only heard his soft whistle, a tune of sorts. A lullaby for prey. Not hunting. Just waitin’ to see if his trap worked.

“Play nice, Toru,” Suguru’s voice slipped through the trees, unhurried, almost affectionate. “She just lost her daddy. She’s gonna need a couple of strong men to take care of her now, hm?”

You shoved yourself deeper into the hollow, splinters biting into your back. Your hand slipped in blood. Your lungs ached. Tears wouldn’t stop streamin’.

“Boo!”

Satoru exploded into view like a firework, crouched just inches from your face, his grin feral, unhinged, too wide for his face. Eyes glitterin’ with wild delight, pupils blown wide, frosty hair disheveled from the run, cheeks flushed with exhilaration.

“There you are,” he panted, breath hot in the cold air, fog curling from his lips. “God, you run so cute. Sugar, sugar, sugar - look at you! All scratched up and sobbin’. Good thing we’re here to patch ya up!”

He reached for you, fingers blood-slick and shakin’ from all the excitement. You’d never seen a man so joyful until he grabbed your ruined knee. You cried out, sharp and pained, as he dug his blunt nails into the open wound, thumb pressing into torn skin like he meant to keep you there by the bone.

“Oh, sugarplum,” he cooed, and that grin didn’t waver. “Don’t cry like that. You’ll make me worse.”

His other hand slid up, knuckles brushing your face, smearing a tear across your cheek. His eyes didn’t blink - just drank you in, tremblin’ with the high of having found you.

“You look so pretty when you’re scared.”

Satoru dragged you from your hiding place like it was nothing, hauling you out into the cold dirt and pinning you there beneath him. He loomed over you, all long limbs and feverish energy, his knee wedged firm between your thighs to keep you still. His sky‑blue eyes drank you in, bright and blown wide, alight with the manic thrill of finally having you right where he wanted.

Suguru’s voice followed, low and indulgent, drifting in like a cruel comfort.

“Sorry about him,” he cooed gently, “He’s been waitin’. And waitin’. Took a long time to get here to you.”

Bile burned up the back of your throat.

Suguru’s presence settled closer, not touching, not needing to. His shadow stretched long and deliberate over you, causing you to fold into yourself more. Like prey. 

All you could shake out between hiccupin’ sobs was a string of, “Please let me go,” and “I won’t say nothin’.”

“You ought to think about what comes after,” he said gently, voice low and patient, like how your ma would be when you were throwin’ an awful tantrum. “A young woman found alone. Nightdress torn. No father left to speak for her.” His violet eyes traced the ruined hem of cotton, the scraped skin, the trembling in your hands. “Two men with her.”

Men carried weight. Finality.

“Towns don’t care for truth,” Suguru continued softly. “They care for stories. And stories rot quicker than bodies.” A pause, almost tender, you watched his silky hair in the night shake with his head as he pondered what could come of you if they let you go. “No dowry. No family. No man lining up to marry what folks already believe has been spoiled.”

The forest felt closer then, branches crowding, shadows thickening, the air gone damp and cold as if the night itself were closing ranks.

“Best case,” he went on, mild as a sermon, “you’d be passed from place to place on pity alone. Worst case…” He let the silence finish it. “There are houses for girls who don’t belong anywhere else. Places you’ll have to pay without money. Awful places.”

Your breath shook, whether it be from the cold or the way Satoru straddled you, sittin’ right on your torso, barely putting his weight down but enough for you to struggle. 

Satoru shifted above you, restless energy finally finding its shap. Hands searching, finding place on your cheek or under your nightdress. Thumbs brushing over your hardened buds in awe, you could see the drool on his soft pink lips as he drew himself to you. He really was a man with no manners. His touch wasn’t hurried. It was hungry. Lovesick. As if he’d waited his whole life to feel you breathe beneath his palms.

“That’s why I fixed it,” Satoru added on quickly, almost breathless. “Took care of the law part. Nobody gets to decide things about you anymore.” His voice wobbled with something like relief, eyes shining too bright in the dark. “I couldn’t stand the thought of them touchin’ you. Talkin’ about you like you were already gone.”

He leaned closer, forehead nearly brushing yours, devotion cracking through his grin. All you could stare at was how his blue eyes seemed to have matched the moonlight glow tonight. “We’re keepin’ you safe,” he insisted softly. “That’s what sheriffs do. That’s what I do.Suguru will handle the church, and I’ll handle the law.”

Suguru smiled then, his hand moving to pet your hair like your mother would, blunt nails against the scalp, slow movements like calming a frightened animal.

 “We’re the only ones who love you enough to stay,” he murmured. “The world isn’t kind to girls left alone.”

The woods stood silent around you. No lantern light. No roads. No witnesses. Just dark trees, damp earth, and the distant, lonely sound of something howling far off.

Satoru’s mouth brushed close to your ear, his voice dropping sweet and thrilled into the quiet.

“It’s okay to holler,” he whispered. “Nothin’ but us and the wolves out here. We’ll make sure you’re still honorable for your weddin’ day.”

Could you even tell the difference anymore? Between the man and the beasts outside? 

Leavin' you prayin' while Satoru’s mouth sucked against your neck and something hard pressed against your bare thigh. The sound of an unbuckle near your head where Suguru sat. Dread lay thick in your stomach. Nothin' but hope that this was all just a dreadful dream. That you were still in the summer heat, curled next to your ma. 

Would've been better to be eaten by the wolves.

✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧

the only light in the room is a flickering lightbulb hanging from the ceiling over your head. even then, it’s weak. all that it allows you to see clearly are his hands as he pushes himself closer to you. he’s wearing those rubber dishwashing gloves, and even then, you can barely glimpse their original yellow through all of the red. 

you’re completely still for the excruciating amount of time it takes the man to get to you. even if you wanted to, you can’t move; you’re tied down to one of those folding chairs, the sort you might find in a waiting room. it’s fitting, in a way. 

“y-you’re really here, angel. finally…” 

time seems to stretch on indefinitely, as you’re forced to listen to the sound of his laboured breathing in the silence of the room, and for a split second, you almost laugh at the absurdity of the scene; it really does feel like you’re waiting for the inevitable. 

“do you know how long i waited for this? just kidding, haha. you obviously wouldn't. i forgot that, well, there’s no reason for you to.” helpless, you can only watch on as the stranger painfully drags himself closer, chest rapidly rising and falling. his arms are shaking when he stops, finally, right by your feet. “my sweet angel. i don’t blame you for that, it’s okay.”

he sounds like he’s on the verge of tears. you hear him take a shaky breath. “haah. still, i-i knew this part was going to make me a little sad, y’know. for obvious reasons. but, still… you… this is kind-of-sort-of-really crazy because, like, you don’t even know who i am. you don’t know me… yet, i guess. but wow, yeah, you really don’t know me, now that i think about it. i mean, hah, definitely not like i know you—”

his head is bowed. but you can clearly make out is his size. he’s lanky, but taller than you. you consider if you would be able to knock him out and run for it until he reaches for your feet, with quivering fingers. 

“—but, my sweet darling angel, you will soon.”

it’s only when his hand wraps around your ankle that you abandon the idea. he’s shaking, but he’s strong. stronger than you. his hold on you feels like an anchor. like he’s keeping you in place, holding you down.

what the fuck.

although your limbs are bound by rope, you still jerk away from him, wincing as the rope chafes against you. the man flinches at your sudden movement, hands flying off your skin as if scorched. 

“oh.” he breathes.

for a moment, neither of you move, regarding each other with a mutual appraisal. you silently pray that your resistance hasn’t set him off. you’re not sure if you’re strong enough to stay still and let him touch you how he wants. you hear him swallow, before he reaches for the end of his gloves. with great care, he peels the bloodied rubber off. you try not to look at them, try not to acknowledge how they’re completely drenched in red. 

“p-please… please don’t be scared. um, i-i’m sorry. i get it—i’m sorry, my darling angel. i just k-keep getting ahead of myself and i know i should be more patient and slow and i really do promise that i’m trying.” even though you know he’s frustrated, the words come out more whiny than anything else.

he takes a shaky breath, “i’m trying to be very good for you and as patient as i can be but i need to—i need to just feel you. i need to know you’re real. like, you’re really here and i can just hold on to you. i, well, i need to know i’m not just dreaming. because, i mean… d-don’t laugh but… i used to, y’know.” strangely slow, he flexes his hands in his lap, giving them a curious once over before he finally, finally, lets himself look up at you. and now, beneath the little light buzzing above you, you see him. “because i used to, angel— i used to dream of you. haha, you probably think i’m really weird, don’t you..?”

his face is covered in a sheen of sweat. his adam’s apple bobs nervously as your eyes are drawn to the small, pale patches on his otherwise tawny skin, which are flushed an incriminating red. his bangs are overgrown, shifting with every other blink as he looks up at you from behind the thick black frames of his glasses. his eyelashes are long, causing the overhead light to cast shadows down his gaunt face. but that’s not what catches your attention. it’s when you follow the dark lines under his eyes, and meet his stare—

“for the longest time… that’s all you were to me. a dream.” he laughs, but it falls flat. he’s looking at you when he says it, but he’s not really there. “i would sleep, just to see you again.” he confesses. his eyes are eerily dull, even his words seem to slow down. “when i woke up, every day, i just wanted to die. i hated my life enough to consider it… but then i would go to bed, and every night, again and again… you would be there.” 

his gaze sharpens then suddenly, as he snaps out of it. once more staring at you with unnerving lucidity, as he returns to his bashful self. “except now it’s different! now you’re really here… you’re like my saviour. like the light of my life. no, no. more like the— more like the love of my life. ah, it really was always going to be you, angel. nobody else could ever be enough.”

oh my god. he’s crazy.

the man’s pupils are unnervingly dilated. from where you sit, it looks like his eyes are almost completely black. he turns to the side, averting his gaze almost shyly as you continue to stare at him, still in shock.

“...please don’t look at me like that. it’s…” his voice turns strangled, awfully low. “it, erm, it overwhelms me.” it sounds like he’s forcing the words out. his expression is so pained, you would think he was as upset at this as you if it weren’t for the way he keeps readjusting his pants, and attempting to angle himself away from you. 

“i-i mean that in a good way. obviously. or, erm, even not obviously,” he winces. “like, i can see how that could be misconstrued. but i just mean it in. like, a ‘you drive me crazy way’ i promise! i’m not, like, a creep or anything! haha. obviously not, but fuck… when you look at me that way… i…” he shudders. 

it’s upsetting how apologetic he seems, even when his fingers shamelessly reach for your bare foot again. you’re not wearing any shoes. in fact, you aren’t wearing much at all. there’s a gap in your memory between going to bed last night and waking up… here. 

you’re guessing he took that opportunity to dress you for the occasion, since your new outfit’s all blushing teddy bears and smiling love hearts, the sort of ostentatious thing you’d see on the clearance rack after valentine’s because nobody actually wears shit like this. except, apparently, they do—because he’s wearing the exact same pants. risque matching couple’s pyjamas for your death day.

he’s insane.

you try pushing away from him again, except this time, he holds on to you with more force. you jerk your knees away from him and he falters momentarily, before his fingers curl around your ankle even tighter, his other hand’s palm sliding up your shin almost reverently. “please don’t struggle. it’ll just tire you out and, erm, the rope will dig into your skin and i really don’t want you to get hurt, angel. you should try and, well, enjoy it. haha, i know i will. sorry, that was kinda lame. what i’m trying to say is that i just, um— i just can’t really stop myself. sorry.” he sheepishly grins up at you. 

it’s hard to object when he starts peppering kisses along your leg. they start off relatively tame, before eventually becoming sloppier, and increasingly shameless until he’s practically sucking at the skin. it’s mortifying, the way he keeps his eyes trained on you, as his mouth moves down towards your feet. he licks your heel with a strangled whine, and you wince at the wet sensation of his tongue slowly running up the underside of your foot. 

all you can do is close your eyes; it’s hard to say anything at all because of the duct tape. 

he’s clearly enjoying himself. you try to ignore the sounds he makes. which is why you notice his silence before you realise he’s stopped. he’s not touching you anymore, you can feel that much, but you’re not sure you want to open your eyes. this is it, you think miserably. he’s already gotten bored of me.

“angel?” he sounds unsure. “c-could you look at me? sorry, i meant— um, please.” he amends. “could you please look at me? angel? it’s just that, well, i-i don’t like when you look away. sorry, you think i–i’m stupid, i know but this is the first time that you’re, well, noticing me, i guess. it’s the first time i can look at you looking at me, and it would mean so much if you could just, erm, open your eyes, pretty please?”

not willing to find out what happens when you don’t listen, you open your eyes just as the man stands, straightening to his full height. he looks down at you, eyebrows furrowed and lips downturned. he gnaws on his lip absently. he looks like he’s thinking about something. all that you can focus on is the fact that even with you tied to the chair, he’s double your height like this. 

and that really scares you. 

he’s finally going to kill me, you think. you’re about to die on valentine’s day in some delusional creep’s decrepit basement, and there’s nothing you can do about it. i’ve already seen his face, there’s no way he’ll let me go now. 

you burst into tears.

you can't speak coherently but you can cry, even though your incoherent sobs are muffled by the duct tape plastered over your mouth. the stranger immediately panics, his eyes wide and alarmed as he hastily wipes away your tears with shaking fingers. “no, no, no! don’t— don’t cry! please. i-i can’t bear seeing you sad,” even his voice trembles as he nervously flitters around you. “was it me? was it something i said? i-i’m so sorry, my love,” his voice breaks. “just— don’t cry, please. i’m sorry. cross my heart, i’m so so so very very sorry, darling angel. i promise i didn’t mean to make you sad, i really really do want you to be happy.” 

he’s anxiously biting on his nails, stopping abruptly only when he sees how scared you look. forcing his hands to his sides, involuntarily flexing out his fingers with what you think is the effort not to chew on the raw, peeling skin. but despite his best efforts to calm you down, the tears keep coming. 

“okay, okay, erm, let’s see— how about— how about, uh—” your whole body shakes from the sobs, growing more sore as you repeatedly shift against the abrasive ropes. it hurts, you think sadly. it really, really hurts. the man gnaws on his lip, still trying to console you. “how about i make you a promise. what do you think, darling? doesn’t that sound nice, angel? if you stop crying i’ll, um, i’ll leave..?”

just let me go.

you immediately quieten, biting the inside of your cheek to stop the sobs. you calm down enough for the tears to only be accompanied by an occasional hiccup. he visibly withers at your efforts to get rid of him, though his lopsided smile doesn’t waver. if anything, he looks extremely relieved once you finally settle down. except now, neither of you are sure what to really do. he shuffles his feet, awkwardly fidgeting with his hands. you look up at the man expectantly, and though you can’t speak in your current predicament, you’re sure he understands what you’re trying to say.

let me go.

he hovers over you, unsure, and clearly not wanting to leave. “o-of course, i’m not leaving forever ‘cause, like, i can’t leave you down here all alone— and neither do i want to, obviously.” he rushes to clarify. “just for a little. and then after that, maybe you can talk to me... i-i really want to hear your voice. i want you to talk to me. i want to have a… well… i want to have a real conversation with you,” he confesses quietly. “we’ve–we’ve never done that before, you know. i’ve only ever seen you speak to other people.”  

“anyways,” he sighs. “i do think i, erm, owe you a bit of an apology for… y’know.” in an attempt to further comfort you, his hand moves to your hair. “i’m sorry, my darling. i-i think i got a little, uhh, overexcited earlier. a little ahead of myself, maybe.” he hesitates to freely touch you, so his movement is disjointed as he awkwardly pats your head. it’s incredibly nerve-wracking, not only because of his trepidation, but also because of how hot and sweaty his clammy palms really are. “but please don’t worry.” 

it feels like he’s copying something he’s seen someone else do but never actually tried himself. at some point, it feels less like a pat and more like he’s… petting you. “i would never actually, like, hurt you. no, no, i’d kill myself first before i ever do that to you. it’s just that— well, i just— i want to love you.” he looks sad. “because i— i really think that nobody has taken care of you in the way that you deserve. nobody’s been as gentle as they should have. isn’t that why you're lonely? why you were going to spend today alone?”

he’s just crazy, you tell yourself. he’s insane.

“a-and there’s also the fact that i, erm, want you to… also… love me… back...” he blushes furiously, chewing on his lip hesitantly. “and, uh, i know you’re sort of anxious right now. i should have told you all of this as soon as you woke up but, well, you just looked so… well. y’know. haha. sorry, i get kind of crazy about you and it’s like i lose my head and, like— ah, shit. see? wow, i guess i’m really not doing a good job of this whole… thing. i’m sorry again, my sweet angel.” he laughs weakly. 

“you just do that to me, y’know? it’s like i lose a little more of myself everytime you’re near me. and now that i have you— a-all to myself, i mean. i can… i can touch you. i can talk to you, and this time, you can actually say something back. i don’t have to sleep to see you…” he collects himself, closes his eyes momentarily as if reigning in his frustration. “i already said that, didn’t i? fuck.” 

he looks visibly upset by this point. you can tell by the way his eyebrows furrow as he considers you. he takes a steadying breath. withdraws his hands back to his sides, before kneeling in front of you. 

he looks up at you with those big, doe eyes of his, and you can’t help but think about how earnest he seems in this moment. so hopelessly devoted to you, staring down at him in abject horror as he sits before you, sweet and hopeful. 

“what i’m trying to say, my angel,” he says very carefully, mindful not to ramble, “is that i took you because i love you. i love you because you’re you, i love you because i’m me. i love you because i love you.”

you feel like crying all over again.

he continues, “our house is all ready for you. i’m all ready for you. there’s a beautiful life waiting for you here... with me.” he smiles, and this time you can tell it comes to him easier, a rare thing he is so sure of that he doesn’t need to trip over his words as he confesses it to you. “and, well, you just have to be ready for it in return.”

he looks bashful then, rubbing his neck awkwardly. 

“and, well, i also sort-of-kind-of-maybe took you today ‘cause it’s valentine’s day. and…” he swallows, “i’m obviously your valentine. and you’re obviously my valentine. and i thought that today would make for the perfect anniversary of our new life together. the day of love, y’know?” a flash of hurt crosses his face, and his voice wavers momentarily. “yeah… i know. i know it’s probably really stupid to you, but…” his gaze drops to your lips. “to me, it means everything.”

he looks so genuine. he sounds so heartachingly sincere. in other circumstances, you might have even felt sorry for him. because although you’re aware that you can’t speak or scream or beg, that doesn’t stop you from putting on a show of it. the hope is that he’ll feel bad for you, seeing you try to talk against the duct tape, wincing at the pain. your pleas sound incomprehensible, even to your own ears, muffled and ultimately silenced. 

but not unheard.

“i’m so, so sorry, my angel.” he mutters apologetically. “i can’t take that off because, y’know... you’ll scream. i mean, not that anybody will hear you… but i still don’t want you making too much noise. well, that’s actually not entirely true, haha.” he immediately looks embarrassed, rushing to shake his head. “n-not that we have to do anything you don’t want to, obviously! i-i want you to like it just as much and, well—i want you to, erm, want me… too.”

he drags his hands over his face, in a futile attempt to hide the warmth that deepens the colour of the pale patches on his face to a flushed pink. “can i, uh… can i kiss you?” he asks, peeking at you through the gaps of his fingers, wincing at each word he says out loud. bracing for rejection, already. you almost laugh. 

it’s not like you could say no, even if you wanted to.

so you don’t.

instead, you nod, desperate to get the duct tape off. the man falters, visibly surprised. his eyes widen and his mouth trembles, as if he’s about to speak, but he never manages to get there. if the cost of your freedom is just one kiss— if you could just call for help—

it could be enough. for an escape.

it could be worth it.

silently, with trembling fingers, one hand turns your face towards his, palm against your cheek, still damp from your tears. you close your eyes in anticipation, bracing for the pain of having the duct tape finally peeled away, only for the pull to never come. in its place, a tentative pressure. soft, unsure at first. then, growing sloppier in its excitement; messy, amateur movements. his nose, bumping against yours. a nervous giggle.

he kisses you over the duct tape. 

the tape crinkles between you, catching on the scratchy stubble along his sweaty upper lip. he exhales against it, warm and uneven, and the sound is awful. the sound of your name, between his awkward movements, is even worse. 

and then you feel his tongue.

it’s grotesque. something wet against the shape of your mouth beneath the tape, a hesitant swipe, slow and searching; his tongue drags across the smooth grey surface, and again, you get the feeling that he’s mimicking something he’s only ever seen before. his nose knocks clumsily against yours again, as he smiles against you. “so cute…” he shakily breathes, “angel— my angel. i love you.”

“i love you.” the adhesive tugs at the corners of your mouth when he presses harder into you. “i-i love you.” he deepens the kiss, chasing a fantasy; uncaring that you stay deathly still beneath his lips, as they move once more to plaster open-mouthed kisses all over your chin, slick with his saliva. he says your name after each and every one of them, with such reverence, it sounds like prayer.

to him, you think, it may as well be.

“i love you...”

when he pulls away to catch his breath, there’s an obscene sheen to his chapped lips. even in the dim, flickering light, you know it’s his own saliva. you know it’s also plastered all over the tape on your mouth, can feel it smeared across your face, along your jaw, the shell of your ears. the man pants, his glasses fogged up so that you can’t make out his eyes. he takes them off, wiping them against his shirt, the speckles of blood you’d glimpsed on it earlier now dried. it makes no difference to him. he doesn’t care.

his attention remains transfixed on you. yours, on him.

you wonder why he’s so unusually quiet. and then, after he puts his glasses back on, you watch him rise to his feet, and realise what the reason for his silence is. “s-sorry, darling. erm,” he peers up at you through his lashes, gnawing on his lips. “i-i have to take care of… something.” though it’s a small consolation considering your circumstances, he at least has the shame to cover the patch darkening the front of his pants, as he presses the heel of his hand against himself. he ducks his head, giving you a sheepish grin. “i’ll, um, i’ll leave you alone for a bit, then.”

and then he stares at you. 

and you don’t know what he’s looking at.

you don’t know what he sees.

what you know is that before he leaves, he gently brushes away your tears. 

you hadn’t even realised you were crying. 

“my sweet angel. i know… that you’re not very happy with me right now, but…” he looks a little sad as he looks down at you, something impossibly gentle in his gaze. the way he looks at you is almost reverent. “you could be. we— we could be. everything is already waiting for you.” he smiles, “you just have to be ready to accept it in return, my darling.”

you close your eyes. i— i really think that nobody has taken care of you in the way that you deserve. nobody’s been as gentle as they should have. isn’t that why you are so alone?

and then, he finally, finally leaves. you hear a door open, then close. you hear a lock click, the echo of his steps on stairs that go somewhere far beyond your reach. the light above you flickers, humming in the silence, suddenly unbearably loud. you wonder whose blood had been on him earlier, you wonder why you’re really here—i took you because i love you.

i love you because you are you, he had said earlier. i love you because i love you.

you wonder what that means. 

and you’re all alone. threading through the grass and flowers, nearing the edge of the familiar woods, on your way to see your grandmother. it’s a force of habit, from the basket hanging off your arm to the pep in your step, a feeling like that of a page being turned. this story is your home. you live within its walls. you know your lines, you always have— you know how it begins, how it ends, what it feels like to be swallowed whole— you know your steps will lead you right into the belly of the beast.

you know this story.

(you should know this story.)

only this time, it is not a wolf that awaits you by the entrance to the woods. it’s a hunter.

it’s a man, of tall stature, a shotgun slung over his broad shoulder and secured by a thin leather strap. poignant— a threat and a reassurance all in one, barrel pointing at the sky like a maw wanting to open wide. it’s the first thing you notice. his hair is tied up, charcoal strands tousled by the morning breeze, bangs swaying almost hypnotizingly under the hunter’s hat he’s wearing. your eyes drink him in, from head to toe. a dark-furred vest, engulfed by a coat that does nothing to hide the outline of his meaty biceps. his boots are stained with mud. 

it’s nothing new.

but he isn’t supposed to be here.

before you can look around, make sure you didn’t take a wrong turn, leave your mother’s cabin on the wrong clock-tick— the hunter turns to look at you. eyes like the bark of a tree, smudged at the corners with flecks of rusted gold, their warmth beckoning you forward. only then do you spot a splotch of red cradled in his calloused hands.

it’s not blood. it’s a young, crimson-flecked poppy. he’s caressing the petals with the tips of his fingers, and he’s smiling.

like he knew you’d be here.

molten, rainy clouds stick together in the sky, allowing no flicker of sunshine to seep through the gaps. once you step inside the woods, the mist will only thicken. a ceiling made of tree-leaves to obscure the world around you. it’s straight ahead, the main road that leads into their depths; the one you’re meant to follow. from where you’re standing you can spot bugs on the mossy rocks, shimmering beetles, hear the buzzing of a lonely bee busying itself with a honeyed tree trunk. shadows upon shadows. you’re right at the edge of the second act, but there is no wolf to be seen. no monster to fall into. 

only a man, parting his lips.

”and where are you headed, little one?”

his voice is deep. steady, sturdy, seeps into your spine. tailored with silk all the same; a pleasantly raspy undertone. he’s speaking softly, and your heartbeat slows down, grows quiet as a mouse.

it’s only him, after all. the ever-reliable hunter.

”… to my grandmother,” you answer, hands gripping onto the handle of your basket, a smile gracing your features. still confused, but polite, even sweet. he’s weak to it, you’re well aware. ”she’s sick, you see…”

he nods along, smile never changing shape— hand only briefly reaching down to his waist, slipping the poppy into his pocket. you wonder why he doesn’t just throw it away, but there’s no time to ponder on the smaller things; he speaks before you can try.

”i see,” he hums, buzzing low and heavy in the back of his throat. ”and on such a lovely morning…”

the irony in his tone is evident, ripe like a peach. smiling along, you let out what could almost be considered a chuckle— it’s a little out of breath, your lungs constricting in wake of the mist-ridden air. 

”mm… it’s alright. i don’t mind.”

that makes him pause, for a moment. ”how kind of you.” it’s praise, sweetened by a roll of his tongue — the hunter tilts his head, honeyed eyes ripe for plucking. ”i’m sure your grandmother will be thrilled.”

”… i hope so,” you hum, blinking through the dew. ”it’s the least i could do, really…”

golden eyes seep through the gaps between his lower lashes, gazing down at you. a piercing stare. you wonder if he can tell you’re lying. a moment passes, and then he’s speaking again, with a click of his tongue— that same pleasing lull to his voice.

”and where does your grandmother live, hm? not too far off, i’d hope…”

”it’s… still a bit to walk,” you chuckle, adjusting your hood, picking at a piece of lint dangling off the fabric. ”her house is just under the three large oak-trees, with the nut-trees below… you surely must know it?”

”… that i do.” for a moment, his smiles laces itself with sticky nostalgia; something warm.

then, suddenly, he’s taking a step forward. boots crunching against the ground, clicking against the gravel underneath his feet. like he’s walking on a frosted lake. aside from the low buzzing of tired bugs, and solemn whooshing of the morning breeze, it’s all you can hear. when he gets close enough for you to see the mole just below his jaw, he’s towering above you — shielding you from the wind, broad shoulders obscuring your view of anything but him. his eyes, his smile, the shotgun over his shoulder.

and he parts his pretty lips.

”would you do me a favour, little dear?”

a tug at your heartstrings. your eyes gaze up at his, wide with curiosity, rising up like bubbling foam in the sea of your iris. a request, something to do; it’s hard for you to ignore its call. always has been. 

so you speak before you think.

”sure.”

a pleased hum. ”… i’m on the hunt for wolves, you see.” his eyelids flutter, but you don’t think he misses the way your smile evens out, your grip on the basket growing tighter. ”i know your grandmother needs you… but would you let me treat you to a cup of tea?” 

”… tea?”

your baffled inquiry pulls a soft bout of laughter from the depths of his throat.

”tea,” he nods. ”any kind you’d like. i couldn’t sleep at night, knowing i’d left you all alone here with those beasts roaming around… and my home is close by.”

a pause. you inhale the earthy air, taste it on your tongue. a sense of delirious foreboding settles into your veins, a call from deep within your gut. 

your mother told you not to let anything distract you.

(… then again, when have you ever been the type to do as you’re told?)

”i don’t know… i’m not really supposed to,” you try to convince yourself, fidgeting with the strings of your cape. you can feel the hunter’s gaze, heavy in a comforting sense; like a mother wolf gazing at her cub, making sure no harm befalls it. intimidating in the sense that you don’t know what he’s thinking.

”… how very well-behaved,” is all he says, adjusting the strap of his shotgun. he sounds like he wants to say something else, but he takes a moment too long to speak. then; ”you seem a little out of breath.”

and you are. your breathing is all out of sorts, your throat shivering under the force of your chilly inhales. it’s cold, and your legs feel sore. the fabric of your cape is too thin to shield you from the chilly autumn breeze, and your bones yearn for some respite. 

your mind, however, yearns for something different. something new. a different story, another chapter.

(… you shouldn’t, but…)

”it was awfully reckless of your mother to send you off alone,” he mutters, a low click of his tongue, voice slipping down an octave— something rough gnawing at his vocal chords. ”a little thing like you…”

(… he shouldn’t be here at all.)

”i’d like to rectify that.”

there’s a stability to his words, something self-assured. he personifies a security you’ve never had, an absent smile that warms your numbed-out hands; there’s a warmth to it you couldn’t find in the woods, in the dark and gritty path carved out before you. it makes you think a cup of tea wouldn’t be so bad. 

(maybe two wrongs do make a right.)

you stop to think, for a moment.

you could walk into the woods, down the main road, like you supposed to. one step after the other, right until you reach your grandmother — or a hungry wolf. you could wait by the flower meadow, and pick poppies until your hands grow weary, until you have enough to bring home to your mother. alternatively, just until the beast remembers his curtain call.

… or, you could follow the hunter. follow him, like a pliant lamb, until you reach his cabin.

(ultimately, only one of the choices entices you.)

”… alright, then,” your breath turns into white smoke. ”i’d be glad to. sorry for the trouble, though…”

his eyes gleam, suddenly; a honeyed whisper on his tongue. a sense of contentment in the sigh that slips past his lips, the sway of his bangs when he shakes his head. ”believe me — it’s no trouble at all.”

two sparrows take off from a branch ahead of you. 

a breeze brushes past your cheek. he holds his arm out, ever the gentleman; waiting for your fingers to curl around his bicep, cling to it for stability. and you do, if only just to please him, because you know the hunter needs to be needed in the same way your grandmother needs pie and wine. the same way the wolf needs something soft to sink his teeth into.

his eyes crinkle, like autumn leaves on golden trees. pats your arm, once, then twice, and says;

”let’s get you warmed up, hm?”

and you follow his lead.

you know this man. that’s why you aren’t afraid. why you can’t help but match his step, as he guides you away from the road you’re meant to take, slowing down his strides just so you can keep up. the sun is still obscured, a slob of amber in the middle of the sky, engulfed by sticky clouds. the woods sway in a solemn waltz, bugs scatter away like ravens from the moss-ridden rocks, and when you pass the bushes on your far left you swear you catch a whiff of iron. 

before you know it, he’s led you away from the woods — across a field of poppies, beyond the bridge of a river, down to a cabin with a freshly-painted fence.

his home is as warm as his smile.

the moment you step over the threshold, a scent of sandalwood invades your lungs — thick like you just fell into a bag of sawdust. it seeps into your nostrils and burrows itself deep inside your chest, curls up and sleeps there. rich, earthy, firewood and basil from the living room and kitchen, liquid comfort in your veins. warmth, peace; even with the butterflies pinned to the walls, gleaming behind glass. a deer mount watches you from across the hall, its antlers curled up proudly, eyes dumb and dead and animal. 

all you can think is respite. rubbing your chilly, frostbitten hands together, blowing hot air on the interior of your palms. the hunter leads you inside, hangs his coat and puts away his shotgun, takes off his hat and steps out of his heavy boots — waits for you to do the same. you leave your crimson coat as is. gently, he takes hold of your basket, gives your shoulder a break. it comes to him naturally, this sense of service; a perpetual motion machine.

you think him a dog, finely trained. it puts your heart at ease. 

”make yourself at home,” he smiles. 

an absent nod. you’re still busy glancing around, following behind him as he moves towards the living room. it looks cozy. knitted blankets thrown over chairs, books gathering dust on the shelves, a lit candle by the windowsill. there are carnations in vases, all smelling of spring, the same colour as the eager fire crackling by the chimney — sparks of ember against freshly cut wood, fireworks for only you to see. an axe catches their angry flicker of light with its dull edge where it lays against a pile of logs, leather sheath coiled around it, like a serpent protecting its pile of dead mice.

already, your eyes have strayed too long. he doesn’t seem to mind— when you raise your head he’s looking at you kindly, standing by the threshold to the kitchen, lips curled into a soft smile.

a flicker of amusement passes through his low-lidded eyes. then he’s turning on his heel.

you follow him. 

”take a seat,” he hums, dragging out a wooden chair for you to sit on. you do so without putting up a fuss, absently scanning the walls and shelves; jars of honey and jam and spices, cloves of garlic hanging in a happy row. a kettle rests idly on the stove, white petals soaking in a bowl of sweetened water right next to it. it reminds you of a bleeding bride. the kitchen table is small, just big enough for two.

”thank you, mister hunter.” you offer him a smile.

”— suguru.” he pushes the chair forward again, makes sure you’re all sorted, and then steps away. ”just suguru is fine. no need to be formal, little red…”

his voice comes out as something like a purr, interwoven with a morning residue of smoke, fatigue. underneath it, a hint of something tender. he faces the stove, lifts his large hands to open the cupboards above him, sporting a vast assortment of tea bags; dried yellow leaves, petals and butchered stalks, silken bags and paper wrappings, an earthy scent that pervades the air. cuts into it, forces its way through the thin gap. you inhale, deeply, and feel it take root in your kidneys — no exhale makes the feeling go away. chamomile, rooibos, earl gray…

a cacophony of remedies pulsing in your ribs.

as he busies himself with boiled water and strainers, you gaze out through the window to your left. all you’re privy to seeing is a field, speckled with ghostly pale flowers; barely visible under the shadow of a sky yet to be broken through. in the distance is your destination, the murky woods, tall pinewood trees and willows and clusters of dried up leaves. you wonder if your grandmother will worry if you linger here for too long, if your mother will be disappointed. if they’ll even notice. the basket of goodies you brought rests on the kitchen counter, unassuming. 

”here you are,” suguru hums, setting down a mug for you. pure white ceramic. he slips in a teaspoon’s worth of honey, and fills it up with water from the kettle, piping hot, orange in colour, tiny calendula buds like drowning fireflies. ”drink up, little one,” he croons. ”we don’t want you catching a cold.”

when you reach out to touch the rim of the cup, you’re stung by the warmth. it sparks against the tips of your fingers, spreads throughout your veins. gives way to a soft smile. ”thank you, suguru.”

his eyes gleam under dim lights. 

”have a sip,” he encourages. ”tell me how it is.”

and you do. you bring the mug to your lips, feel the warmth of the tea seep through the ceramic, steam rising from it and tickling your skin. when you drink it’s an assault on your senses, like the flowers snuck inside your throat and bloomed along your windpipe. rich and sweet and hot enough to burn your tongue.

a sigh leaves your lips. delightfully content.

”it’s delicious,” you compliment, still feeling the sting on the tip of your tongue. putting the cup back on the table, just to hear the clink against wood.

a warm smile.

”i’m glad.” seamlessly, casually, he leans forward; curling his fingers around the handle, bringing it to his own lips. you watch, owlishly, as he blows on the tea — quick to slide it back towards you. ”… there.”

he must notice your bewilderment, at his familiarity. but he only exhales a soft breath; grazing the surface of a chuckle. resting his jaw on the heel of his palm.

”… go on. have as much as you’d like.”

he doesn’t pour himself a cup until you’ve finished your first. watching you, from across the table, eyes melted into something fond, glimmering faintly.

enamored.

(in every version of this story, the hunter is in love with you.)

that’s why you aren’t worried. that’s why you can’t help but tune out everything except the faint glow of his kitchen, the budding warmth of his home, the tea he keeps on pouring you, cup after cup. the feeling of something deliriously new. listening to the purr of his voice, allowing time to slip you by — sinking into a state of dizzying comfort, slick with safety.

before you know it, he’s shown you around the house, told you all about the lilac-coloured flowers growing in his backyard, coaxed you into warming yourself by the fireplace — he insists. it’s already well past the time you would have made it back home after your outing. your grandmother’s basket is still resting on the counter, untouched, wine and pie and peeled apricots that have probably begun to grow stale. she won’t tell the difference, but you will.

with decision, you rise from the armchair you’re seated on, closing the book he lent you. feeling the stir of a pep in your step, like the kick of a rabbit.

a shallow breath. duty calls.

(perhaps it’s for the best; you were beginning to bore of the silence, anyhow.)

suguru makes a low noise, in the back of his throat, seated on the armchair to your right. sleeves rolled up; a light patch of dark hair running from his wrist to his elbow, muscles embraced by the flame-slicked shadows of the fireplace. he gazes at you, silently.

”thank you for letting me stay,” you smile, picture perfect, easy and polite; curling your fingers together as if praying. ”but i really should get going, now.”

the wind whooshes, sharpens its claws against the windows behind you. the sky still dark, rain drizzling down, nothing a cluster of trees can’t shelter you from. the hunter stands up, to his full height.

”… i don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

a twitch of his brow. covered up by a smile. for the first time since meeting him this morning — you catch a flicker of distaste dance inside his pupils. 

you aren’t sure what to say.

it doesn’t matter, either way. he parts his lips to speak. ”it’s dangerous… and it’s already getting late. surely, your grandmother can wait until tomorrow?”

”i’m… not sure i should,” you try, fingers idly slipping into the pockets of your red coat. mustering a cheery voice. ”besides, i wouldn’t want to trouble you!”

”i insist.”

…

crackle, crackle, wood splintering into ash. the silence is deafening, thick like a slab of butter on bread. it makes a lump form in your throat, hard to swallow, though you aren’t sure why.

”… tomorrow,” he continues. smile a little stale. ”wolves roam around in the evening. it’s not safe.”

something in his tone tells you he’s already made up his mind. something staggeringly aware — like he’s stating a fact, something unquestionable. 

it’s not safe out there. 

(he’s right, of course, but…

when he opens his mouth, you swear his teeth look just a little sharper than they should.)

a kick to your heart makes you cough up a response, a string of jumbled words. it comes to you almost like an instinct, your voice unsteady. ”if it’s really okay…”

he perks up, at that. 

”of course,” he smiles, a little wider. ”of course it is.”

a warm voice, and a warm home, the crackling of a warm fire behind you. it should feel peaceful — yet you can’t help but gaze out the windows, nervously, watching the faraway trees sway. if you squint you could almost make out those golden, piercing eyes, the black fur of a beast in a bush; unease settles in the base of your gut and gnaws at your flesh. 

just until tomorrow, you think.

his cabin is a safe zone, of sorts. you’re well aware of that. nothing can get to you, as long as you’re here, with his shotgun close by. suguru is tall, reliable, the only one you can trust — at least he should be. even if he isn’t where he should be at the moment.

it’s in his nature. he looks out for you.

he loves you.

(it’ll be fine.)

”it’s about time for dinner, isn’t it?” he breaks the shaky silence, stretching his arms out, craning his neck with a quiet crack. his gaze is kind, attentive. ”time flies… let me make something for you. what would you like?”

”… anything is fine.”

”anything…” a low chuckle. ”what would you say to some warm stew, then? is that alright?”

it is. after a nod, and a moment’s pause, you sit back down; just to feel the soft fabric sink beneath your weight. suguru hums, pleased, makes his way over to the kitchen. the axe gleams under the glow of the fire, and the deer on the wall watches your every move. the butterflies, too. wings for eyes.

(just for the night, you repeat to yourself.)

a hearty dinner, a warm bed to sleep in, and tea with honey in the morning — it doesn’t sound so bad at all. your mother probably won’t be worried, and your grandmother probably won’t die. no repercussions, the script already broke. staying one more day is fine.

… except he doesn’t let you leave, the morning after.

it starts out small. it always does. 

(creeps up on you like a bug in a carcass.)

“it’s too early.”

“it’s too cold, you’ll get sick.”

“don’t you want to stay for dinner?”

a warm smile, a smooth voice, a face with sharp lines and soft skin; tailor-made to put you at ease. suguru is beautiful, familiar, eerie in a sense that only makes you feel at home. he’s always been stubborn, you recall. some part of your body remembers.

but never like this. never, ever like this. 

never as suffocating.

“you’re too small to know what’s good for you.”

— that bite. it sneaks up on him, gradually, makes a place between his gums. he pats your head, with a calloused hand, and you relent. still gnawing at your bottom lip, jutted out into a frown you hope won’t rouse his anger. you’re still not sure he can even get angry, but he’s scary enough when he makes these choices for you— makes you think you have control over your own actions, all the while stealing it from underneath your feet.

(soon, he’s outright denying you.)

“i— i really need to leave,” you try, almost pleading, on the third night. your lungs are constricting, from the heavy scent of peppermint in the kitchen air, and he’s watching you like you’re nothing but a child demanding candy before bed. “please.”

a sigh, and a shake of his head.

“you aren’t listening, little one.” he turns around, clinks a teaspoon against the edge of a porcelain cup. “it’s safer here. your grandmother can wait.” 

nails paint crescents on your inner palms.

“… she’s waited long enough.”

frustration sneaks into your tone. bubbles up into your words like venomous pores. you think he must notice, because his smile is especially gentle when he turns to face you again, all lips and no teeth, still as composed as ever. he steps forward, curls an arm around your waist; he’s starting to lose all pretense of caring about your personal space, of not appearing too familiar. pulling you close. steady, steady, steady.

so much stronger than you. 

even when you stir, he doesn’t budge an inch. only lets out another mellow sigh, that fans against the side of your face. you think it sounds a bit amused.

“she’ll be okay,” is all he says. “she doesn’t need you.”

…

“she needs you to be safe.” he must have noticed the crestfallen look on your face. “as do i. you’re staying here, for the time being — it’s no trouble at all.”

he gives you a smile, to ease your nerves, honey-slicked and sweet; but something rotten settles in your gut. bile bubbling up at the base of your throat. it feels constricting, to be held so close, to be forced to inhale the scent of oakwood and musk on his skin. he’s warm. squeezing you, firmly, and you’re sure it’s meant as a comforting gesture but all you can think is burly arms, solid muscles, the crack of a bone.

all you can think is that you’re well and truly powerless.

”believe me.”

when he lets you go, lets you scamper upstairs, it feels as though you can finally breathe again. leaning against the door to the guest room, gazing out through the window at the end of the hall, finding comfort in the swaying of the jade-dyed curtains.

something is very, very wrong. wrong with the hunter, the story, wrong with the home you’re in.

(you think you’re beginning to realize what.)

the hunter’s name is suguru. he appeared right by the edge of the woods, seven pages too early — or four, depending on the edition, give or take. he hasn’t let you leave his home, despite his initial offer to shelter you for no more than an evening. his voice is deep and smooth, gravelly in the mornings or late at night, like an axe dragged through rugged grounds; or the bark of a tree yet to be cut in half. the pieces dig a grave inside your brain, start to reek of decay.

the hunter is trustworthy.

in the story you call home, this is code of law; a black-and-white truth.

but hunters don’t smell like wolves.

hunters don’t watch your every move, or keep you locked against their chests, or make you sneak out in the middle of the night when everything is silent. hunters don’t will you to run away.

but on the fifth night, that’s exactly what you do.

once you’re almost certain he’s asleep in his own room, just two doors down from across the hall— you crack your eyes open and slip out from underneath the covers. shivering, shielded only by the flimsy nightgown suguru lent you to sleep in, sheltering you from the cold seeping in through the windowpane. it’s big on you. every step you take is slow and calculated, soft enough not to make any noise; you hold your breath as you crouch down to pick up your coat, lying in a pile on the floor, stretching your arms out through the gaps and pulling it over your head. then you walk to the door, the window behind you leaking in the faintest strings of moonlight. 

the sky is dark, the room you’re in cocooned by its shadow. you can barely even see your own hands when you reach for the doorknob and twist.

no noise. no creak.

a soft sigh slips from your lips, just under your breath. your fingers pull it open, and you step out into the hall— not bothering to close the door behind you. paintings line the walls on the second floor, all depicting landscapes, fields of poppies, sheep in circles, a house on top of a windy hill. watercolour on canvas. you wonder if he painted them by hand.

out of the corner of your eye, you gaze at his bedroom door — you can’t help it. under the light of the moon, it gleams like an omen. sealed shut.

your heart strings together a tale of worry.

(it’ll be fine, you tell yourself. he’s asleep.)

and so you venture down the stairs. placing one foot in front of the other, gripping onto the handrail with all your might, trying not to put too much weight into your steps. heart stuck in your throat. one steps, two steps. you can see the fireplace from here, though the flames have long been stifled. pieces of coal gleam under the light streaming in through the windows, blue flickers that disappear when clouds devour the moon. red carnations painted indigo.

eight steps. nine steps.

when your foot meets the rug on the living room floor, soft under your bare soles, a pang of relief squeezes your veins; a moment where you allow yourself to simply breathe. inhale, exhale, because the hardest part is over. almost there, almost free.

your next couple steps are hungry. burning with delight, moving towards the front door, still careful not to stumble over or into anything — but really, all you can think is that the crispy midnight air is just beyond your grasp. it’s all you can think when you fumble for your shoes in the dark, glance up towards the top of the staircase every other second. anxious, despite your excitement. it all bleeds together.

it’s all you think when you pull up the rug by the front door, grab the key you knew would lie beneath it. all you think as you stick it into the keyhole and twist.

freedom. that’s what the air smells like, as it floods your starving veins — as you move your feet to cross the threshold. floods your lungs, as you gaze up at the moon, smiling in the sky like nothing’s wrong. welcoming you back to the stage-lights. the wind feels cold on your cheeks, streaming into his house when you push the door open, wild and untethered; swaying the field of flowers just beyond his fence. 

freedom. freedom. freedom.

you take a decisive step, leaving the boundary of his home — 

and the door slams shut behind you.

(a betrayal of the wind.)

it rings in your ears. you stay frozen in place.

the light flickers on, behind the window right above you. casts a glow on the frosted landscape, on your figure— and you know he’s watching. you feel it.

so you run.

it’s sudden, the spike of pure adrenaline rushing through your veins, completely flooding your senses and numbing your legs— you do not feel the cold of the air, barely see the way your breaths turn into mist as you inhale and exhale. you only think to leap towards the fence, fumbling with the lock, your shaky fingers pushing and pulling until you finally decide to simply climb over— placing the sole of your shoe on the picket and tearing your nightgown on the way down, tripping over your own feet and landing on your palms, scrambling to get back up again. the bruising doesn’t ache, the drag of your skin against gravel. you don’t even hear the tear of fabric. you only hear the pounding of your own heartbeat, feel it crawling up your throat like a snake suffocating on the rabbit it just swallowed whole. 

it pitters and patters, against your windpipe, and you run. sprint. everything in front of you is dark, mist thick enough to drown in, clouds devouring the moon again— you don’t really know which way you’re going, only that it’s away from here. 

your lungs feel on fire, the air gasoline.

and you hear the door slam shut behind you. 

(— the hunter begins his chase.)

tall grass melts around your ankles, ice-cold drops of dew and frosted flowers whipping your bare skin, but you don’t feel it, only feel the fear in your heartbeat as it threatens to make your ribcage burst. fear, fear, the primal kind. everything ahead of you is dark but it doesn’t matter, you’re only focused on running as far as your legs can take you — you’ve never felt a rush like this before. never felt so much like an animal being pursued. the wind tugs your hood away.

distant woods beckon you closer, closer still, swaying and waltzing on a moonlit night. you think yourself mad, to follow that shimmer, but you’ve never been quite right in the head, never really. frost, mist, harsh nips at your skin. the sky above is wide and vast, and everything is silent. everything except for you — a litany of frightened whines tugging at your tongue. 

you don’t need to look to know he’s after you. yet you still cast a glance over your shoulder, shuddering suddenly, a gasp pushing past your lips —

he’s stares back at you. 

golden eyes, sharpened in the night.

you’re knocked off your feet. thrown forward, with an almost brutal lunge, your body hitting the ground of the flowered field beneath you — it knocks the air from out your lungs, and for a moment you can’t breathe, can only feel the wet earth under your cheek and the sickening weight upon you. he’s pressing you down, with all his body mass, and he’s panting into your ear. holding your wrist so tightly you’re scared it’ll break. the fight doesn’t leave you. the rush is still there. but it has nowhere to go, with your legs stuck, it’s just wasted blood sugar. 

you can do nothing but wriggle like a worm. his hair tickles your neck, hot breaths leaving goosebumps across your skin. you want to cry, the fear is coursing through every narrow of your bones and you’re completely out of breath. you trash and trash, a sparrow with broken wings, but it’s futile. 

(he caught you. he caught you. he caught you.)

”i caught you,” he finally pants, like a wounded dog, collapsed on top of you. but you hear his smile, that sickening sound of relief. ”silly, silly little thing.”

it hurts. he’s heavy. your knee is pressing into the soil, uncomfortably, you feel the moisture seeping through the fabric of your nightgown, his pulsing heartbeat against your spine. now the adrenaline is leaving you, sinking out of your body, leaving you boneless. like an animal about to be devoured. 

resigned. surrender.

suguru presses a kiss against the side of your neck, teeth just barely grazing your pulsepoint— and the fear inside you spikes like the snap of a mousetrap.

”what were you thinking, hm?”

he doesn’t sound upset, only gently reprimanding. fondly exasperated. somehow, that scares you even more — the shift, the dichotomy, his voice a soothing thunderstorm as he keeps you pinned against the flowerbed. his overwhelming strength, in contrast to how relaxed he sounds. like this is nothing but the natural consequence of your actions.

”… you never change.”

the vice grip on your wrist begins to loosen, as he lifts himself up, no longer crushing you. it’s easier to breathe, but you’re still too rattled to try. still playing dead at your instinct’s demand, eyes pried open as you stare into the eyes of bugs above your nose. you can’t do anything but go limp, as he scoops you up, holds you against his chest, stands up straight. one heavy hand on your head and the other on your back. 

when he turns around, and begins to walk back to his house, your stomach fills with dread.

”n-no…” is all you can muster, too exhausted to make anything other than a quiet whimper, a weak weep of a protest. but he hears you, and he croons.

“shhh,” he soothes, as you whine into his neck, panting softly. rubbing your back. as if shushing a child that just had a temper tantrum. “you’re okay. i wouldn’t hurt you, little one, you know that.”

but you don’t.

(you don’t know anything anymore.)

”you’re my baby,” he continues, another sickening coo, and it sounds like a death sentence. giddy. he leans down to kiss your throat and you can only think of his teeth. ”only mine. my silly thing.”

a final glance at the sky, before he’s closing the door behind you. you see darkness, only darkness, a page being sewn shut. worms crawling out of the moon. 

your skin itches from the burning cold. 

suguru wastes no time in seating you by the fireplace, cocooning you with knitted blankets, murmuring something else about how you worried him sick, doing something so reckless. you barely hear him, there’s still blood on your palms and bruising static in your ears, everything stings and you’re still shaking from the rough fall.

he apologizes for that, too.

”i’m sorry i scared you,” he smiles, cupping your chilled skin, the slightest tufts of hair running down the tops of his fingers. ”but you needed the lesson.”

maybe you did.

he can hurt you. he’s capable of it.

you’re sure of that, now, no matter how much he’d insists he wouldn’t — no matter what he says. he’s fractured any dream of a cohesive narrative.

the tea he brings you smells of cinnamon, hot and sweet, but you make no move to drink it. just kind of sit there, as he tries to comfort you, rub salve into your bruised skin, assure you that he isn’t mad. you vacantly stare at the butterflies pinned to the wall, until he says something that catches your attention.

“once i’ve found the wolf, you can leave.” he promises, rubbing your shoulders, your already aching muscles. as if it’ll soothe you, as if telling the truth. “it’ll be okay… just let me handle everything.”

you raise your head to look at him, to meet the river of gold inside his eyes, weaving webs of silk. holy grails are always hoaxes, that’s how the stories go.

”… do you mean it?”

his lips curl up, just a bit, at the sound of your raspy voice, at the sight of you taking shaky sips from the cup. and he nods, silky, only slightly tousled hair swaying tenderly with the lull of his voice. ”i do.”

when he kills the wolf, you can leave.

if only it were that easy.

this is what you know; the hunter’s name is suguru. he appeared right by the edge of the woods, seven pages too early — or four, depending on the edition, give or take. he won’t let you leave his home, never runs out of tea to pour you, his voice turns raspy when it’s late and his arms are hairier than they were yesterday. this past week, you haven’t heard a howl echo from the woods at night even once.

it always starts small. small, decaying pieces, molding together and creating something bigger, more rotten. more than just a carcass.

it’s a corpse.

(and he’s inside it. playing hide-and-seek.)

he’s still smiling at you, making his hands useful, throwing wood into the fireplace when the angry flicker begins to sputter out. you recall your mother’s words, her many warnings. wolves are dangerous. wolves only want to do you harm. wolves don’t know how to love, they only ever show it with their teeth. always the same old stories, the same monsters at the end of every book. wolves, wolves, wolves.

always a wolf, never a man.

when you glance up at the hunter, his ever so softly parted lips, his keen eyes — you think to yourself that you can scarcely tell the difference. that even if you could, it wouldn’t matter. rot is rot, it still decays. you’re still at the mercy of it, of him.

(you’re beginning to think that’s all there is to it.)

you make no move to protest, when suguru pulls you into his lap. holds you close and kisses your wounds until you’re all warmed up, his honeycombed eyes never leaving your face, lit like a slowly sinking sunset. like a man who finally has what he wants. 

by the end of the first week, a pit has opened up inside your gut. it smells of a freshly doused fire.

the more time passes, the worse he gets. 

the more comfortable. 

(he must have taken your resignation as an invitation.)

every morning, when you walk into the kitchen, he pulls you in for a kiss — always just his lips, no tongue, as if he’s afraid of what he’d do to you if he parted them. his big hands squeeze your hips and even if you struggle, try to push him away, he brings you back in, keeps your wrists locked in a steady grip if you’re really putting up a fuss. purse your lips and he’ll pry them open, as simple as peeling an orange.

he’s sweet, about it. gentle.

”let me say hi, little one.”

all you can do is turn limp. just give in, let him take what he wants — which usually isn’t a lot. a kiss, and he’s satisfied, a kiss and he beams like nothing about this is wrong even in the slightest. a kiss, and then he’ll make you tea, and then he’ll watch you drink it.

it’s been just shy of a month since he lured you into his home. you know what he expects of you, by now, you’ve settled into some semblance of routine; one that mostly consists of you being doted on, coddled. suffocated by his presence. he makes you tea every morning, every night, homemade meals of chestnuts and berries and meat. right now, he’s making lemon tea; slicing them with the blade of his knife, dipping them in honey, coating them in sticky-sweet residue. it does nothing to get rid of the sour essence, bitter on your tongue — only makes it bearable.

there’s a gentle smile on his face when he fills a tiny cup and hands it to you, watches you gaze into it. watches as you put your lips against the porcelain and sip, sip, sip. he doesn’t look away until there’s nothing left, his stare like a dagger to your throat.

it’s rare that he lets you out of his sight.

during the day, you’re free to do as you please — anything that doesn’t involve leaving his home, which isn’t a lot. you spend most of your time reading through the books on his shelves, tracing their spines, writing stories on the walls with sharp marker, painting animals and forests on the canvases he lends you. there’s joy to be found in captivity; you think of the rabbits your mother used to own when you were little. anyone can find comfort in a cage.

and it’s not like he never lets you push the bars a little. you may not be allowed to step anywhere near the woods, or outside his field of vision, but he’s taken to letting you play in his garden when he deems the moment right. just to give you some fresh air, as much sunlight as this time of year offers. of course, even then, he has his eyes on you — watching from the window, cutting wood just beyond the fence, each swing of the axe ringing in your ears like the drop of a guillotine. steady hands, toned muscles and arms, broad shoulders and those sharp eyes, sharp like his teeth when he smiles too wide on accident. you can always feel his gaze, and it keeps you from running away, even though the animal inside your chest screams at you to do it already.

but you’re sure you’d fail again. 

and were he to catch you — you’re sure he’d no longer be able to resist. the temptation would be too much for him to bear. you were lucky, last time.

(lucky that he still hasn’t realized what he is.)

you’re stuck here, for now. forever. stuck with a man who seems convinced that what he feels for you is love, and not possession, something to hang up on his wall. love like hunters have for headless deer. 

or a wolf for a stack of bones.

anyone can find comfort in a cage. it’s true, it’s true, you repeat it to yourself every night, try to find the silver lining in the home he’s made you. he does make it comfortable for you — a soft bed and fluffy pillows, warm food that settles nicely in your stomach, arts and craft to keep you happy. silken bags that never seem to run out. there are always more dried petals to pour into boiling water, a flavour you haven’t yet tried. he always expects you to drink it all. then, when the moon hangs itself in the air, and you’ve tired yourself out — he tucks you into bed. gentle, doting, his voice like a lullaby when he drags the covers up and sits by your bedside, or curls up beside you and reads you bedtime stories until you’re fast asleep. like you’re his grandchild. it’s never easy to relax with his hands on you, but the stories help. 

that’s typically when it happens. when you’re lying in bed, when he’s unguarded, his own mind beginning to drift into slumber. he flips through the pages of a dusty fable, smooths your hair down with a steady hand, and his voice loses an octave; a noise that curls around the base of his throat, rumbles through his chest. deep, raspy, gravelly. just shy of a growl. it comes suddenly, reverberates through you, makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.

suguru clears his throat, and you pretend not to have noticed it. he rewards you with another page or two.

that’s how he is, you’re well aware. what he does best. he tells you things without opening his mouth, shows you his teeth without letting you see them. he knows you know they’re there, and he rewards you for pretending otherwise. keeping him content is in your best interest — he hasn’t hurt you, doesn’t seem like he wants to, but you know that he will. 

no one can fight against their nature, and he has one set of teeth too many.

for now, playing into the part he’s made for you is your safest bet. the fire inside your eyes has dwindled, he’s suffocated it, and the rabbit in your chest is pretending to be dead. every morning, you drink the tea he makes you, go pliant as he kisses you, and every night you let him lull you to sleep. 

a comfortable cage is exactly right. 

(but the temptation to rebel never truly leaves you.)

it’s already been a month. a whole moonspin. that thirst for freedom is lingering, festering, pushing up against the walls of your throat. makes you nauseous, makes the thin thread of your patience tear at the edges. you yearn for the woods, the flower meadows, the squirrels and bugs of the forest grounds. willows and chestnuts and silky splotches of sunshine, fumbling fawns. your grandmother’s sickly stench, your mother’s striking hand. anything but this stasis. 

you miss feeling alive. 

(you’d cut your skin open to feel it again.)

you know running blindly would prove futile, but that doesn’t halt the desire. you’re trapped, one foot in a bearclaw, and you want out. he’s stronger than you, faster— and he’s always, always watching. you can’t outrun him, he’s always making sure you’re near.

the only advantage you have is this:

suguru believes himself to love you. 

maybe, if you just beg enough — beg again, when the moment is right… he’ll let you go. maybe he’ll take pity on the pitiful, defenseless baby he caught.

(maybe if you hide your contempt, but show your desperation— you can win.)

the pot boils over with the stench of rotten apricots.

they’re still in the basket you brought with you, under the knitted tablecloth, discarded in a storage room linked to the kitchen. you just wanted a quiet place to read, but now you feel too sick. sick with the stench of rotting fruit-flesh. you can smell it even without removing the cloth, and you know what you’ll see if you do — a bottle of wine, molded slices of cake, and sticky, sickly-sweet decay. dirt-brown in colour.

you’re reminded of the day you came. reminded of how long it’s been, who these apricots were for.

and suddenly, you can’t take it anymore.

(no one can fight against their nature. that includes you, too.)

with a start, you stand up straight, and leave the rotting basket behind you; opening the door of the storage and making your way to the living room. a wreath of bluebells is hung above the fireplace, crackling and sputtering, snowflakes falling softly from the skies beyond the windowpane. suguru is right where you knew he’d be, seated on an armchair and knitting a sweater, looping two needles through thick thread. his hair is down, and his eyes are closed in pure contentment; formed into thin crescents. 

the air smells of chestnuts and incense.

you inhale it, walk up to him with a plea on your tongue — your voice a desperate push of air.

”please let me leave.”

his smile falls. before he even has a chance to open up his eyes, caramel spilling out through slits, before he can usher you into his lap and knead his hands into your body, ’warm you up’ the way he likes.

it’s rare, to see him without it. it makes him look naked.

(it makes him look unsettling.)

but he’s still gentle, when he breathes out a sigh, places the needles on the wooden table to his left. 

”… this, again?” he clicks his tongue, sounding disappointed in a way you don’t like, a quiet lull. ”and i here i thought you’d finally decided to behave.”

his tone makes you shiver. something about it feels final, like you’ve pushed too far, reached some kind of dead end he’d been keeping concealed until now. there’s a barely noticeable crease between his brows, and his jaw is tense, lips formed into a tight line. not rough enough to be truly reprimanding, but it’s close. you’re suddenly aware of how small you feel, like this.

how powerless you are against him.

but you push through.

”… i just —” you try, gnawing at your bottom lip even though he’s told you not to bruise it. ”i’m just tired. i don’t want this, i — i’m not happy.”

a slip of your tongue, and a twitch of his jaw.

(his lips curl into a scowl.)

”you are,” he exhales, strained, like you just struck a narrow nerve. ”you’re happy. i take care of you.”

a shuddering breath. you inhale, shallow, trying to stay your ground, trying not to falter after snapping on the twig of his patience. you know what sleeps inside him, and you’re afraid of it. terrified. the hunter is one thing, the wolf is another. but there’s a line between the two, and you can tread it through — 

tread it through and through and through. 

”… you take care of me,” you concede, watching as the muscle of his jaw slacks, softens, ever so slightly. ”but i’m still not… i’m not happy. i want to leave.”

the fire crackles behind you, logs of wood splintering and snapping, budding heat easing the tension in your bones. silence settles over the scene, stretches out and lays itself to rest there like a wounded animal. suguru just watches you, with smothering eyes, like he knows something you don’t; gaze focused, expression set in stone. knitting your features into his mind with a broken needle.

and then a grating sigh. 

”… how many times have we repeated this, little red?” he asks, his voice thick with anger, though you’re unsure as to who it’s aimed at. his eyes burn with something devastating, something that smells of a forest fire and wails like a bleeding dog. ”how many times will you make me go through this?”

suddenly, he’s standing up from his armchair. rising to his full height, towering over you, lifting a hand up to caress the apple of your cheek. it makes you flinch, and his lip twitches, and suddenly his fingers are trailing down to the very base of your throat. as gentle as if he were handling one of the butterflies on his wall. you’re worried he’s going to squeeze down, but he never does, just keeps a hand there like all he wants is to feel the rapid thumping of your pulse.

and his eyes burn you to cinders. 

”how many times have i had to watch you be swallowed down… by someone other than myself?”

the question hangs in the air like a noose. grates your ears, heavy with an anguish you couldn’t hope to understand. a skip of your heartbeat — except it feels more like a crash. his fingers never move and your body turns to ice, accepts the hand that feeds it, if only because he looks like he could swallow you whole and still not feel satisfied.

”… far too many,” he seethes. palm finally moving from your throat to cup your cheek, and you exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding. ”you’re too frail, too — naive. i can’t trust you to be good.”

a gasp pushes past your lip, when his other arm curls around your waist and tugs you closer, keeps a possessive hold on your hip. his body heat is suffocating, it only makes your heartbeat sputter. 

”… you can’t keep me here forever,” you murmur, the words laced with fear. spoken carelessly.

(and this time, you can practically hear the snap.)

a dangerous flicker, through his earthen eyes. it’s there and then it’s gone, and it’s enough of a warning on its own, a spark of fury that has you biting your tongue, squirming where you’re held against his steady frame. his grip around your waist morphs into something almost painful, just a pinch away, not quite enough for you to get away with pulling back.

you hear the words before he says them. they rattle against the back of your teeth.

”i can.”

spoken in a whisper, through gritted teeth, an echo from deep within his stomach— he practically spits them out, eyes burning into yours, an overwhelming density in how he carries himself. the words are heavy like lead, and you can tell he believes them. 

he can keep you here. 

(forever, and ever, and ever.)

a shiver claws against your spine, drags its nails down your back, and you think he can tell, that he feels you shudder against him. like a frightened fawn in front of a headlight. it’s enough to have his pupils dilating, his fingers loosening their grip, a breath of shaky air escaping his lips— like he’s finding it hard to keep his composure. to be tender and merciful. 

once the silence has stretched on for a beat too long, and your breathing still hasn’t mellowed— he speaks. 

”don’t you think it hurts me?” he asks, just above a tender whisper, brushing a thumb against your cheekbone. just barely grazing your lower lashline, streaks of black hair framing his burdened eyes. ”watching you be deceived, again and again…”

suguru exhales a bated breath, chest moving in tandem, pressed flush against your own. for a moment, you think he looks rather sad.

”… i’m tired,” he admits. ”i’m tired of having to cut you out of his stomach. you did this to yourself.”

…

when you empty your thoughts, you can still feel it. the warm embrace of succulent flesh.

(you never asked to be devoured.)

”you can’t protect yourself,” he tells you, with the same tone that he always has, the tone that tells you he knows best. ”so i will do it for you.”

a twitch of his fingertips. you feel it, as his hand slides down the expanse of your face, tips your head up with a finger underneath your chin. you’ve gone pliant, again. he leans in, until you can’t tell who the breaths you’re exhaling are coming from.

”do you understand?”

every bone in your body wants to move, pull away, but you’re worried his nails will sink into your skin if you dare to try. he’s positively suffocating, like this. demanding a response. you want to flee, you want to fight, you want to grab the axe behind you and drive it into his skull. you’re terrified of him. you loved him, once. the hands that are keeping you locked away are the same that dug through blood and guts to drag you out of your grave. he’s never letting you go.

never again. 

no matter how much you beg. 

you can see it in his eyes, the trail of ash they leave behind when he blinks. the carnal desperation in his voice. there is no ’leaving’ him — the fire that burns in him is brighter than yours, far more damning. 

so there’s no point.

his lips are inches away from your own. golden eyes peeled open, palm covering the expanse of your jaw, arm like a bear trap around your waist — snapped shut. suguru awaits your response, and you give it to him with a voice that barely sounds like your own.

”… i understand.”

(obedience and ignorance, you echo inside your mind. obedience and ignorance is all he asks.)

a moment passes, and his muscles finally go lax, eyes softening like melted snow; a sigh slipping past his lips. closing in, claiming your own. you can taste what he’s feeling, but it’s too much to bear. 

”… good,” he smiles, against your lips. ”good baby.”

the praise does nothing to soothe the pit inside your stomach, but it doesn’t matter. he’s not angry, anymore, and that’s as good as anything. you let him kiss you and it doesn’t even make you want to vomit.

it doesn’t make you feel a thing. 

”if you just stay here, you’ll be fine,” he continues, breathing you in and out again. ”you’ll be safer.”

safer tucked between his ribs, or lodged inside his throat. so much safer playing dead all year.

(you think of rotten apricots, and bile rises in your throat.)

a moment’s hesitance. you find the will to speak. ”just… my grandma,” you murmur, pulling away from the kiss by a hair, not that he’d let you go if you tried. you look up into his eyes with a pleading gaze, voice a little broken. ”can you at least… give her the wine?”

suguru pauses. 

then sighs, a rock from out his heavy chest. pulling back and giving you space to breathe, cradling a lock of your hair with greedy fingers. ”you don’t have to worry about her, anymore,” is all he says. ”believe me.” he’s smiling, just barely, voice meant to soothe you out of making a fuss. but there’s really no need. 

you’re well aware of what he means.

(and that’s the end of that.)

”… okay,” you answer, the words pulled out of your throat by an invisible string. ”i won’t, then.”

the smile you muster is strained at best, but suguru glows in its light. looks proud, eyes crinkled at the edges, burning pages of paper on an open fire.

a coo on his tongue that he wants to let out.

”sweet thing,” he purrs, sweltering. ”you were just feeling a little cranky, hm…? must be hungry.”

his hand caresses your stomach, rubbing the skin just beneath your navel, and you feel the beginnings of nausea swell up in the very back of your throat. but you stifle it, lean into it, you have no choice.

you nod, and he smiles.

”i was meaning to use that wine for something, anyway…” he lets out a hum, thinking for a moment. ”coq a vin, perhaps? would you like that, little dear?”

”… mhm.”

he seems content, with that response. 

the snow outside the window mocks you with its shimmer.

time continues to pass. the cycle repeats, the same as always.

you think you’re finally starting to get used to it.

suguru grows more wolfish by the day. there’s more hair on his arms and chest, his teeth are longer, when he kisses you he sometimes starts to drool. his voice is deep, his meals taste about the same, he still never runs out of lullabies or bags of tea. wolfsbane, lupine, ipomoea alba — he tastes them on your tongue, drinks them from out your mouth. you’re beginning to forget who you were before him. every day, he tells you that he loves you. you think you could believe it if you tried. maybe, you could even love him back.

if only you didn’t know the truth.

it’s more than a suspicion, now. no longer an if, but a when, a question you don’t dare ask — but there’s no need to. when the hunter falls asleep, the wolf makes tea in the kitchen. you live with them both. they’re a duo, a pair of lovers; never one without the other. 

(one of these days, you’re sure they’ll eat you.)

the book you’re reading feels weighty in your hands. you’ve already read it before; you’ve read nearly all of them, fingers far too familiar with the dusty shelves. suguru promised to go get more, though you have no idea from where. you’re not sure knowing would do you any good. he’s upstairs, in your room, scrubbing at the walls to get rid of all your scribbles. it’s bound to take a while — if you dashed out the door now, maybe he wouldn’t notice. but the key is in his pocket, and he’d hear the crack of window glass.

it’s nothing more than a temporary comfort. something to indulge in, roll around and around in your head until you realize how silly you’re being.

you’re broken down, plain and simple, and winter is gnawing itself into the world. ice-cold teeth sinking into the ground beneath your feet, and eating the baby hares buried there. suguru chops wood for the fireplace every single day, just to keep you warm, made a sweater for you that smells too much like him. you sneak a glance out the window, admiring the heavy blanket of pure-white snow draped around the woods; a red fox scurries across your vision, yipping joyeously, skeletal trees shimmering faintly in the distance. a whole world just without you.

it’s comforting, all the same. the air smells slightly toasted and your feet are warm, clad in fuzzy socks. you haven’t been outside in some time; suguru’s been reluctant since you sprained your ankle on a sheet of ice in the backyard. you wish you’d hit your head instead. 

(you miss the cold sting of the wind.)

each turn of a new page drags you deeper into your own subconscious, sinking into a fragile illusion of peace. paper-thin, falling upon your thumb, your eyes scanning the inked letters tiredly. stories aren’t worth reading more than once, you think, the magic fades away eventually. you can barely taste the citrus the protagonist eats, fingers dipping between the ridges, teeth sinking into the tender flesh. rinse and repeat. boring, boring, you want something new — a thriller, a romance, even something like —

a noise, echoing from the hallway.

rap, tap, tap. 

(knuckles against wood.)

it rings in your ears. rattles down your spine. two seconds, eight, ten — all thoughts disappear from your brain and leave only misty foam behind them. a blank slate. rap tap tap, curling inside your ear canal. 

when you come to, your heart is pulsing.

a moment of silence.

the house is quiet, so very quiet, you’re afraid suguru will hear your breathing from the second floor. everything feels frozen solid and suddenly you want to hurl, get the sickness out of your gut — watch it spill out all over the floor. but you remain planted in front of the fireplace, watching flames lick a stripe from coal to wood, waiting for something to happen. 

(how silly, when it already has.)

another knock.

this time, you shoot up to your feet — like your mind just realized it wasn’t an auditory hallucination, another mass of hysteria seething in your frontal lobe — your hands clammy as they try to find solace in the fabric of your clothing. gripping onto the wool.

on shaky legs, you move forward, making your way towards the hall. slow and steady, soles against soft flooring. eyes blown wide, skittishly peeking around, out the windows and towards the stairs. suguru. you picture him on his knees, tail wagging behind him, dragging wet cloth against faded tapestry, salvaging his walls so you can ruin them again. you picture him hearing the knock, rushing down, pinning you against the floor until your knees ache. 

you picture him none the wiser, and inhale the air like you haven’t in days — gathering courage, dragging your feet towards the source of the noise. 

(ba-dump. ba-dump.)

your heart throbs inside your chest, flexes its legs until it knocks against your ribs, makes you jolt — your lungs holding onto every breath you take with shaky fingers. the deer mount on the wall gazes at you, antlers pointing towards the front door, and when your eyes land on the handle you swear you can feel it. the presence of a living, breathing thing.

just behind the door.

and you can do nothing but stare. unblinking, heart still crammed at the base of your throat, scraping at the walls like a squirming bug. you feel like a deer trapped in headlights. your mind crackles, halts, comes to life again, the pages coming undone from their bindings and spilling out over the floor — smudged with ink, a seven-letter word.

freedom. freedom. freedom?

(hope.)

a third knock, more curt. it sends a tingle down your spine, down your bones, makes your hand twitch, as if eager to twist the doorknob. finally, someone is here. someone came to get you. no one forgot. 

no one forgot about you. 

you move your leg, and — 

”keep still.”

… a breath brushes against your neck.

only stillness. only silence, strangling you. there’s someone behind you and you didn’t even notice, there’s a hand on your hip to keep you in place, another latching itself onto your mouth to keep you from making any noise. your heartbeat spikes, collapses in on itself, but he is there to catch you.

he’s always there to catch you.

suguru has you enveloped, his scent like a heavy pelt tossed over your shoulders, familiar tones of earth and musk polluting your senses. you’re wrapped up in it. you feel so small, small enough to disappear into the dip between his chest and stomach, right between his ribs. he’s keeping you so still you barely remember to breathe, can only pant shallowly against his big hand and pray he isn’t angry at you.

too frightened to do anything else, you gaze at him out of the corner of your eye.

and ah, there it is. black hair, golden eyes, a silent quiver of his jaw; like he’s trying not to snap it, trying not to bare his teeth. they’re sharp. when he kissed you this morning you felt them nip at your skin.

(you think he was trying to control himself.)

his pupils are sharpened, eyes blown open, staring straight ahead. he’s making no noise, no sound, only the most subtle of breathing patterns — like a hunter in waiting, like he’s got one finger on the trigger. 

yet another knock, impatient, and his grip around your waist grows tighter. a barely audible growl rumbles in his throat, you feel it against the back of your head, let out an involuntary whimper that has something growing hard behind you but you refuse to acknowledge it, refuse to think about it, you’d rather die. he’s immobile and you’re just as paralyzed, only able to watch the door, watch your salvation slip away. again. again and again and again.

one, two, six, nine. the seconds tick on in time with your mismatched heartbeats, and nothing happens. 

then, the sound of boots against gravel. 

moving farther, and farther away. 

(they’re leaving, they’re leaving, they’re leaving.)

”… there,” he rasps, finally, lethally deep, as if culling a calm to your nerves. it doesn’t work, only makes your heartbeat pick up in speed, another tiny whimper muffled against his hairy palm— 

you swallow down a sniffle.

and he loosens his grip. sharp eyes melting into liquored honey. a coo, as he spots the beginnings of tears at your lashline, glistening like morning dew. 

(you can’t take this, anymore.)

”… my poor baby,” comes a croon, a voice thick with fondness; shushing you softly, brushing a stray tear away with his thumb. ”poor little thing.”

you’re still pressed against him, chest to back, he’s warm and suffocating and you’re reliant on his thrumming heartbeat just to find your own breathing. he’s cradling you like a mother to her child, and it makes you feel anything but safe— makes you feel like a bird in the maw of a rottweiler, like your clothes are soggy and dragging you underwater. your chest is caving in, hot tears burning at your eyes, and god, you’re just so fucking tired.

you’re tired of this. tired of him, tired of the story you’re in. tired of having to hope again and again.

(no one’s coming to rescue you. no one at all.)

”must have been so scary,” he continues, rubbing his cheek against your head, leaning down to smear a kiss against the side of your neck, ”’m sorry. i’ll handle everything, you hear me? don’t be afraid.”

another sniffle, you can’t help it. you bite down on your lip to stop it but all it does is make you taste iron, hot and heavy, a burning sting. your voice feels wobbly, forcing it into shape feels like trying to turn water into ice with your bare fingers; yet you try.

it comes out pitiful. 

a broken, battered whisper:

”… i wanna go home…”

more of a whimper than a sentence, it pulls a sigh from out his lips. ”you are home,” he tells you, softly.

you struggle to withhold a bubbling sob, one you know will have you stuck in his arms for the rest of the night. your limbs feel limp but you still dig your teeth into your bottom lip and wipe at your eyes with frustrated humiliation, refusing to let him see you crumble. suguru stays still, just watching, waiting for the ripe moment to pluck your tears and comfort you, but he won’t get it. you won’t give it to him.

when he noses at your pulsepoint, something like an animal whine rips from your throat, scratchy and dry. you squirm, scratch at his forearms where they’re wrapped around you — panicked, feral — and he lets go. he lets you glare at him, through eyes wet with freshly spilled tears, only gives you a look you know means he’s feeling sorry for you. something like a silent oh, look how you’re trembling, look how much you need me, poor thing. it’s demeaning, but all you care about is pushing him away, storming up to your room. for once, he lets you. must think it’s best you deal with your little tantrum on your own for now.

you’re sure he’ll come knocking when it’s time for your bedtime story, but for now you’re alone. free to close the door behind you and collapse against it.

a weak, gurgling sob.

home. this is home.

(if you accepted that — would it hurt any less?)

all you can muster is the strength to smush your snotty face against your elbows, knees against your chest, curling in on yourself. choking out hitched little breaths, all broken and bruised and wrecked into bits. a marble bashed against concrete, over and over and over again, there’s nothing there but glass-splatter. you’re glad he isn’t here to see it. glad he can’t force you to seek out his body warmth, his steadying heartbeat, that you won’t have to hear him coo out reminders that you aren’t needed out there. 

nobody out there needs you. not your mother, or your grandmother, not the story you’re in.

(you’re a lousy protagonist. better off in the ground.)

if only you could bring yourself to believe it. if only you were capable of swallowing down hope without spitting it back out again, if only that wasn’t your very nature. if only you had known better than to trust a wolf, or a hunter, or anyone at all. 

if only you weren’t you — 

maybe this wouldn’t have happened. 

broken, broken, a crack in the middle of your heart.

suguru comes knocking at your door, eventually. there is no lock, you have to let him in, but by then you’re fast asleep. faded into a dreamless slumber.

(you won’t feel it, won’t see it, won’t have to kiss him back. he’ll tuck you into bed without waking you.)

it happens, at last. a long overdue curtain call.

but not to you.

the smell of rot sticks to the walls, bleeds out against the carpet and wails like a dog. the stench of flesh, suffocating ever narrow of your cells, the marrow of your bones. he probably thought you’d be asleep. he probably doesn’t know how thin the walls are.

you stand by the threshold to the kitchen, and peek in through the gap left by the storage room’s open door.

pale moonlight spills in through the window, casts a dim-lit blue across the floorboards and shatters on suguru’s back. illuminates him, where he lays, hunched over like a dog. eating something.

someone.

(a man with a shotgun over his shoulder.)

you can barely make it out, seeing only shadows and shapes. hell on earth, hell permeating the world and forcing it down your throat. you can’t see his face, only his ears, his tail, beautiful blood pooled underneath his knees and glistening in the light. can only hear the noises of him chewing, the sickening crack of a bone being split, gnarls and growls like he’s having trouble fitting it all into his mouth, taking too-big bites all at once. they make you nauseous, make your stomach twist with panic and disgust. desperate to quell your terror-struck breaths, you keep a hand clasped over your mouth— willing your guts to stay unspilled. you’d rather not have him clean it up; rather not owe him any favours at all.

rather not interrupt him in the middle of his meal. 

the stench is excruciating. iron and molding meat, damp clothes and patches of wet fur. thick enough to make tears sting behind your eyelids, burn at your lashline, your entire body shaking, skeleton rattling under your skin— panic wailing in your shuddering veins.

it’s happening. it’s happening, but not to you.

(and isn’t that a blessing? to play the role he always has. always just watching everything go wrong.

maybe you’ve always hated him. maybe you just couldn’t tell.)

it takes effort to keep yourself upright, to force your knees not to buckle. you’re scared, you’re scared, whatever rabbit made a nest inside your heart is trying to gnaw its way out and it hurts. you’re cold and hot all at once. you think you might pass out, like this; clutching onto the wall with unsteady fingers. 

suguru seems to be enjoying himself, feasting on god knows who, tearing through veins and muscle tissue, carving a path that reeks of rotten fruit and guts. it’s horror incarnate. you pray it’s all a dream, a nightmare. you pray you’ll wake up soon. but you’re still frozen when you squeeze your eyes shut, and he’s still hunched over in the storage room when you open them. shallow breaths scrape against your throat, and you swallow down the bile building up at its base. taking a wobbly, wobbly step back.

you thank your lucky stars he does not peek over his shoulder. tip-toeing towards the stairs, leaving the blood and the grit behind before he spots you. you are gone by the time he’s finished, gone by the time he licks the entrails from between his teeth and cranes his head to look behind him.

golden eyes violating the dark.

when you crawl back into bed, fruitlessly trying to gain control over your trembling limbs, wipe the sight from your mind — you are sure of only one thing.

this is the tipping point. this is where the cup runs over. it has to, or it’ll break into pieces, bleed open. you’re never going to forget this; the buzzing of fleas, the smell of rotten apricots. the smell of death, hot and heavy, iron seeping into the back of your tongue and tearing out your teeth. warm, hot blood. gurgling up at the base of your throat with steady thumps.

(your story wasn’t supposed to be like this, a voice echoes in your head. not like this.)

terror. terror. desperation, a silent crack in the night. something in your gut settles, right when you feel so faint you’re sure you’ll pass out — a cold calm.

suddenly, you know what you have to do. you know exactly what the story is about to demand.

(keep that fire burning. even if you burst aflame.)

you stare at the ceiling until dusk turns to day.

a tentative sip.

you hold onto the rim of the cup with steady fingers, warm skin against cold porcelain, and drink slowly; one gulp after another. it tastes good. mellow and vibrant, makes a home on the roof of your mouth, sticks to the back of your teeth. there’s a nutty aftertaste that you can’t help but savour.

he’s trying out something new, today; a bundle of golden leaves, simmering in the liquor-like water, a trail of sweet-smelling steam wafting up into the air. beautiful, if nothing else. flickering softly.

it’s a wonder you still haven’t grown tired of tea. a wonder he keeps finding new ones for you to try.

(he’s fond of flowers, you’re well aware. fond of plucking them by hand, while they’re young and pretty, robbing them from the ground, putting them in hot water and vases and paintings on the wall.)

(yesterday, he asked if he could do your portrait.)

it’s time for your bedtime story. you’re curled up in bed, on freshly washed silken sheets, buried under a fluffy blanket with suguru to your right, sitting on a wooden chair with a fable in his lap. paintings of rabbits and foxes, girls and goats. they’ve grown more childlike, over time, the books he reads to you aloud; the ones he keeps on his shelves. he doesn’t like it when you indulge in anything too graphic.

a nightlight keeps you company, shines a light on the pages in the dark of your room. a small comfort.

in tandem with his words, the curtains sway, tender as the lull of his tongue— window barricaded just behind them. he’s wearing a blouse, with puffy sleeves that barely reach down to his elbows anymore. he’s gotten bigger. there’s a rasp in his throat when he speaks but the softness is still present, the silent turning of another page, he holds them in between his fingers before letting them fall. looks at peace. it’s raining outside, a quiet drizzle, warming up the earth from the frost and snow — a gentle pitter patter against the windowpane. you can almost smell the damp earth, the moss and worms, content to imagine it as tea trickles down your throat, pumps its way into your heartbeat.

content to watch your captor playing house.

(soon, this’ll all be over.)

(soon.)

”… your arms are hairy, suguru.”

your words cut into the silence, shatters the illusion of peace and quiet, spill into the open air. the wolf by your bedside looks surprised, for a moment; a silent series of blinks, raven lashes taking flight. usually, you’d be nothing but silent during this routine. 

”do you not like it?” he asks, letting the page flutter shut, fall over his thumb. ”i can shave.”

you pay no mind to his response. only push yourself up on your elbows, sluggishly, reach your fingers out to curl around his roughed up knuckles.

”and your hands are big…”

a flicker, in his ashen eyes. he lets you trace along his hands, dip your fingertips down the valleys and across the bumps, the callouses and scars. 

(and oh, he knows what you’re doing now.)

so he plays along.

”… the better to hold you with,” he whispers, low and sweet — bringing your hand to his lips, smearing a kiss against the inside of your palm. you feel the curve of his smile cut into your skin.

a beat. your hand slips away from his touch, travels down to his jaw, tips it up with a thumb beneath his chin. suguru eyes you. hungrily, your instincts tell you. he’s pliant, though, a domesticated thing — doesn’t bat an eye when your fingers tug at his upper lip and expose a row of bone-white teeth. pink gums, red flesh.

a silent intake of breath.

”… and your teeth are sharp.”

silence. you can see your own reflection in the gleam of his canines, watch it waver like great tides in the sea. you look nothing like you remember.

and suguru looks conflicted.

”the better to…” he whispers, latches onto your wrist and cups your palm— keeps it in place as he nuzzles against it, closing his mouth. ”protect you with.”

something in your chest tightens and coils, at that. he smiles, almost sheepish, and you want to kill him, want to drag his own axe through his stomach, hear the clanking of metal against the bone of a rib.

a voice like no other rings in your ears.

(at least have the gall to say it out loud.)

the fwhip of a book being shut. his thumb slips out from between the pages, comes to rest against the spine, and you know it’s time for bed. you feel a tentative lick, against the skin of your palm, before he’s letting go of your wrist. it makes you shudder, and his eyes crinkle like you just did something cute. 

(it’s nearly over. it’s nearly over.)

you feel as if you might throw up.

”… goodnight, sweet thing.”

his voice curls into your mind, around your neck, wriggles like a worm inside your ear. you don’t say it back. you stay silent, as he pulls away. 

the nightlight flickers off.

once upon a time, you’re sure your story had an ending.

it’s a distant memory, at this point. a bundle of blurry memories, a sense of knowledge about what goes where. but you can still recall the catharsis.

at its core, little red riding hood is a tale about foolishness. a tale about girls who stay snug in the bellies of beasts, curl up close to their intestines and wait patiently to be rescued. this is no surprise to you. you’ve been devoured thousands of times, it’s in your nature, what you were born to do— there is no version of the story where you aren’t tangled up in meat thread or being swallowed whole. no version where you aren’t a victim, born to wait your turn.

you’re well beyond accepting that.

all children must exit the womb, and all little reds must escape the wolf’s stomach. neither cage was meant to keep you, even if he’d disagree.

but now you really are trapped.

(trapped in the cage he made you, a bookmark glued to paper-skin.)

you sit in his armchair, and gaze into the fireplace. waiting for a cue. suguru is in the kitchen, as always, the sound of a whistling kettle seeping through the air, chattering with steam. gusts of wind claw against the windows, wail and whine against the glass. the woods sway in the distance, mocking shades of green shimmering faintly; beckoning you closer, closer still, into their depths. winter is about to end. 

the sun is stuck in vitro.

the deer mount on the wall looks at you with dead, glazed-over eyes. dead like the pinned-up butterflies, dead like every single thing in his home. dead tea leaves, dead men in storage rooms, dead little reds.

the axe glimmers by the fireplace. 

an inhale, inflating your lungs. it has to end. the story hungers for it — there has to be some way to reach it.

(everything’s already broken, anyway.)

crackling, splintering, wood on fire. ash gathers at the bottom of the hearth, tears itself into pieces and crumbles into a lifeless heap. your eyes watch the flames lick into each other’s mouths, make a home there. they’re consuming each other. getting their fill. you think of his tongue, his teeth, his voice— you think of the shotgun over his shoulder and the glint in his eye, his greedy hands squeezing at your midriff. you think of the axe, just resting there, leather sheath snug around the steel. waiting, waiting, waiting.

”the tea is ready, honey.”

— and you stand up.

his voice carries across the living room, a jumbled growl of syllables — you scarcely hear them, eyes fixated on the gleaming steel in front of you. fingers hungry for contact, eager to rip the sheath right off. 

it’s time to choose an ending. 

you could live in his belly, if you wanted, just like this. forevermore. could tuck yourself between his teeth and grow comfortable there. that, or you could cut your way out — stain the last page red yourself, before he gets the chance to. lick the excess off your wrist and tear the binding in half. it’s all or nothing, this or that; an axe in his stomach, his teeth in your neck. your choice, yes, but it’s time to make it.

you know which one you want.

(”and little red riding hood reached for the axe.”)

— it feels right, in your hand. feels right to hold, have it weigh you down, become part of your skeletal structure. everything finally feels just right.

an inhale. your breathing turns more shallow, quiet breaths seeping from out your throat, lips parting silently. a flicker, your gaze darting in the direction of the kitchen, zeroing in on the shadow cast across the threshold. heart, liver, lungs. you can feel them all, count them all. they’re all clambering up your esophagus. worms in your throat, under rocks.

(now. now. do it now.)

hunger. hunger. hunger.

you don’t care what the consequences are, anymore.

a moment of silence. you hear not the whooshing of the wind, the whistling of the kettle, or the sound of tea being poured into cups. you hear neither his voice nor your own footsteps — only the steady beating of your own heart, a bunny about to break into sprint. one step forward. two. his back is visible, the hair at his nape, he’s pouring tea into porcelain cups. he’ll never know what hit him, what he brought into his home. ba-dump. ba-dump. the floorboards split apart, and the binding comes undone.

his guts will spill out just the same.

[ … AND ▇▇ ▇NE DID ▇▇▇ING T▇ HARM H▇▇, ▇▇▇ AGAIN. ]

you creep up behind him, stealthy as a fox —