glitter pink

PAIRING | Yandere Step-Brother!Gojo Satoru x Fem!Reader (slightly older)

GENRE | Taboo Romance, Dark Romance (Yandere), Romance, College AU, Non-Curse/Sorcerer AU

RATING | 18+ / MATURE

WC | 5.8k

a/n | something extremely light that i started on company time, please b kind to me

CONTENT WARNINGS stepcest/psuedo-incest, taboo relationship, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, unhealthy/toxic/protective/obsessive behavior, sexual assault, non-consensual kisses, non-consensual touching, slight nerdjo but not too much, he's honestly just a brat in this

You think your new step-brother is adorable.

When you had first met him he was unapproachable - a little more than 'slightly intimidating' as his mother, your new step-mom, put it.

The day he moved in you were practically ignored as you introduced yourself. Sure, he was looking down at you from his towering height, holding your gaze and huffing a small greeting in response, but you could tell he wanted nothing more than to brush past you in silence and start unpacking in his new room.

And you understood that. It sucks having to move - especially moving in with people you don't know.

You and your father had moved twice between two different states before settling down in your current house. The environment shift is jarring to say the least; having to make new friends, constantly looking up directions, and experiencing culture shocks.

You wanted to prove that you were harmless and respectful towards him - it only made sense as you would be his older sister now. He was two years younger than you, starting his second semester of his freshman year in university - while you considered yourself nothing more than a part-time employed freeloader with little ambition under your dad's house.

Unfortunately, your dad is either too nice to tell his own daughter to start planning for the future, or he just loves your presence in general - it didn't hurt less when your new step-mom asked what you were wanting to do in the future during the first dinner with everyone seated together. Your face paled slightly, your heart hammering in embarrassment against your ribs, as you basically admitted you had nothing planned, just 'feeling out options'.

It did make you feel slightly better when Satoru told his mom that he'd do the same if she didn't basically threaten him to go to college. His voice was apprehensive as he spoke, as if he was unsure how to speak in front of you and your dad, but it still had a teasing lilt to it that made his mother visibly roll her eyes. Both of them bickering back and forth as if they were siblings themselves.

You weren't sure if he was saying that to lighten the mood, but it made the dinner more comfortable afterwards.

You decided to give Satoru space to acclimate to his new house.

Your coworkers said that you were practically acting as if you were the one who had just moved in after you explained your internally devised plan.

You disagreed, of course.

You made sure to not be too active in his personal life. You figured that once he was comfortable enough he'd tell you on his own. You didn't want to trap him into conversations he didn't want to be part of, but would have to be as it's polite.

You totally get that having to force yourself to talk to someone new isn't exactly pleasant.

You kept your questions or answers curt and direct, as if you were responding to someone higher in command.

'Where's my mom?' He asked one night, you heard him drop his backpack onto the hardwood floor with a heavy thud. He must've just returned from classes.

'Not sure,' you hummed, 'probably out with my dad.'

Silence sat between you both save for the television chiming with a random advertisement.

'Gotcha,' he finally huffs out, somewhat apprehensive in his tone.

You hear rustling behind you from the connected kitchen, but you don't turn around - you don't want him to think you were watching his every move.

'Where do you guys keep your silverware again?' You hear the wooden-plastic creak of drawers sliding in and out.

'Right of the fridge, first drawer,' you responded.

'Oh.' Another drawer is pulled with the rattle and clink of steel against steel before a final roll following with the deep thud of a drawer being shut. 'Thanks.'

You only hummed in response, clicking through the channels on the television until it landed on one that was halfway through a movie that you enjoyed.

You can hear more noises behind you from the kitchen before footsteps lead and stop right behind you. The familiar sound of a spoon scraping against molars and teeth crunching on cereal is heard behind you.

You could feel his presence looming over you as he spoke through the food crunching in his mouth.

'Do you like this movie?' he had asked. You could hear him take another bite.

'Yeah.'

Silence filled the room once more. The heavy and dramatic sounds from the TV filled it in.

'Gotcha,' he'd said, another bite right after. 'You're not working today?'

'Nope.' You had gently emphasized the 'p' with the pop of your lips.

'Gotcha.'

The conversation ended swiftly after that. He had mentioned something about a project being due this week before he made his escape to his room.

You made sure not to impose too much onto his personal space - which was a struggle considering your rooms were right across from each other, both of you sharing one bathroom. But your irregular hours from your part-time job coupled with him having days where his classes would stretch into the late afternoon made it a lot easier than you expected. Your opposing schedules meant you rarely crossed paths, and the bathroom was almost always vacant. You'd even intentionally stay in your room when he was leaving, just to avoid those awkward hallway moments.

There were moments when curiosity gnawed at you - small windows into his life that you deliberately chose not to pry open. You'd overhear him on the phone with someone, his voice dropping into something softer, more animated than his usual monotone, and you'd wonder who it was. A friend? Someone more? You never asked. You'd notice him coming home some days with his shoulders tense, his jaw set tight, clearly stressed about something academic or otherwise, and the urge to ask 'rough day?' would sit on your tongue. But you'd swallow it down.

There were the little things too - the way he'd linger in the living room on certain evenings, or how he'd disappear into his room for hours on end, or the occasional laugh you'd hear through the walls that made you curious about what could possibly be funny enough to crack through that carefully maintained exterior. You could have asked about his classes, his friends, whether he was seeing anyone. The questions felt natural, the kind of thing a sibling might ask. But you held back, understanding that asking was a form of imposing when he'd already been forced into enough - a new house, a new family, a new routine.

So instead, you let him come to you. You made space for him to share without pressure, without the weight of expectation. It was part of your larger strategy, you realized - this careful dance of presence without intrusion.

You'd be lying if you didn't pat yourself on the back for your patience.

You'd hope one day he actually did see you as his sister.

And you think that, maybe, now - almost his third month living with you - you had achieved it. Albeit, a little too well.

You assumed that he'd warm up to you by this time as well.

You could tell by how the conversations would flow naturally and consistently, sometimes even prolonging to the point where you'd thought the conversation had ended seven different times before Satoru has another related or unrelated question spilling from his mouth. He'd go off on tangents about whatever documentary he watched that week, or some obscure fact about game theory he learned in class, his hands gesturing wildly as he explained concepts you only half-understood. You'd nod along and he'd keep going, clearly just happy to have someone listening.

He'd often go out with you if he saw that you were pulling your shoes on for something other than your job. The words 'where 'ya headed' were so common to hear that even his mother began to chide him. Telling him that 'she doesn't need a bodyguard everywhere she goes'.

He would get frustrated especially when his mother would butt in. His face flushing with a deep red as he's trying to either justify himself coming with or convincing you to stay home.

It was adoring to say the least, but excruciatingly painful at times when you needed to go out alone to meet up with friends he didn't know or shopping for items you'd rather he not be present for. You think you're just too weak to him and his antics, constantly employing some form of psychological torture on you whenever you told him he couldn't come.

'What? Who're you meeting with? I'm fine with meeting new people.'

'You don't wanna' hang out with me?'

'Are you going to meet up with a drug dealer or somethin'? Because I can come for that too, I guess.'

'I wanted to go with you though.'

'You haven't ate, right? Let's get lunch. I'm literally starving and you can't let me starve.'

'I had a shit-day at school. Can I just come with? Please?'

'You don't have to go, right? Like it's not urgent?'

'Wow. Leaving me to die, I guess.'

'If I don't come you hate me and want me to die.'

'You don't have an issue with me coming. Right?

'So then I can come.'

Your heartstrings are too thin, nearly weightless, and much too easy to pull whenever the playful and pearly-like smile from his face drops, the glint in his blue eyes dulling by a fraction. Sometimes his face contorting into a questioning look, an eyebrow raising behind his glasses, as if you were caught sneaking out of the house at twelve in the afternoon. It's as if he especially knew you were weak when he'd pout, his tone either begging or prickling with kid-like annoyance as he spoke with a hurt expression that often ranged from acceptable to overly dramatic.

You can't help it when you finally relent on most days you didn't want him to come along. Cursing yourself internally as your car hums to life with the turn of your key. He's happily sliding into the passenger seat with a hum, already reaching for your phone to play a song. You don't even question the fact that he knows your password as you've probably done it in front of him or just told him in passing.

It was just harder to explain to your friends that this tall, lanky boy with sharply defined features, naturally platinum-white hair, and bright blue eyes was your brother - always having to clarify he was your step-brother. That he just happened to be tagging along for today, and perhaps the next few hangouts after that if he'd catch you.

Your friends, obviously awe-struck with seeing a natural beauty that's your brother, do tell you it's slightly odd that he's always glued to your side. Always talking to you as if he was the happiest man alive. Always physically attached to you, hands dancing near your hips and waist, palms rubbing circles into your back, his entire body pressed into your side or from behind you.

You agree. It is a little weird.

You do think that he warmed up to you a little too fast. However, you always explain to them that perhaps he's unsure of how to treat a sibling as he's never had one before. That with time he will slowly realign himself as he realizes how weird his own behavior is.

You're just not sure when it'll happen, because you're far too afraid to scold him for his behavior. What if it ruins your relationship with him? What if it makes living in the same house awkward until either you or him move out first? What if he tells his mother and she begins to hate you?

You're not even sure if your father or his mother are aware of how present he is in your life and your space.

Your literal physical space.

As he is currently splayed out on your bed, an arm folded behind his head onto the pillow as he lays there in complete silence, his free hand holding his phone upright on his chest as he scrolls lazily.

You're sitting upright next to him with a blanket pulled around you, scrolling with the same half-interest he's exuding, eyeing him with caution every once in a while when he shifts.

As if going through phases, he'd choose to scroll through his phone before deciding his phone isn't interesting enough and will tuck his head into the back of your seated position, his long arms coming to drape themselves around your hip. Then, as if getting bored, he'd go right back to his phone, sometimes his phone chiming with a notification here and there.

You didn't mind as much. Ever since a certain point he would just naturally seat himself flushed against you.

It had begun at the dinner table, you'd noticed he was scooting his chair closer into your side until your elbows would be battling for the space. Then, he'd drop himself down right next to you onto the couch if you were in the living room, often falling asleep on you or his head in your lap, some days not a word would be said as he would do so.

Now, he recently discovered your room - or more of the fact that you allow him to come in.

You think it's cute. Cute in the way a cat is. Like, he wants attention or someone near him, but he won't be completely direct with it.

You think you're doing really well to solidify the image of his older sister.

"I thought you wanted to check my computer," you finally spoke into the white noise emitting from the AC in your room, you absently scroll through posts on your feed, tune after tune being cut-off as you scroll.

"I did," he replies effortlessly, his hands moving with ease along his phone's screen, before he's pushing his glasses back up his nose with an awkward arm gesture.

You hum. "What for? Like, school - or games? Because I think I have some games." You try to remember some of the titles you have downloaded.

"Dunno'," he says, his eyes shift over to your simple computer set-up. "You have games on there?"

"Yeah, but you probably won't like my type of games."

"I mean, I actually don't mind those cooking simulators or whatever." He adjusts his glasses again. "They help prepare you for the future, y'know - heavy on the 'you' part."

You shoot him a look that barely borders on mean. You pinch his skin through his shirt and his hands shoot out to grab you with a laugh teasing at his lips.

"Okay, okay - joke," he says breathlessly when he finally manages to hold your hand away from pinching him, his phone discarded somewhere around him on your bed. "Mostly joking."

You roll your eyes, your mouth opens to tell him to check whatever he needs on your computer so you can have the entirety of your bed to yourself again, but your phone sings a familiar tune that Satoru slightly perks up to. Especially, when your mouth closes as you read the message.

"Who is it? Mom?" He questions lightly, his body is turned into you with his face pressed into your back once more. When he speaks you can feel him speaking into your skin through your shirt.

You barely register his words as you read the message over and over, red heat and excitement beginning to bubble under your skin.

A coworker you had a slight interest in asked if you wanted to come hang out with some other of your coworkers.

"Uh - no," you finally say. Your fingers immediately moving across the screen, and then deleting the typed words. "Just check my computer for whatever you need - don't download viruses."

"I'm not an idiot," he bites back with a playful tone. However, when he moves away from you to look at his phone once more, he must've noticed your expression as he's quickly sitting up to look at your phone too. "What's wrong? Is it your dad?"

You turn away from him, phone angled out of his view immediately. Not wanting him to see how much you were failing to coolly respond to your coworker, and the fact that Satoru might bully you. It took him a week or two in the past to stop bringing up how ugly your ex-boyfriend was. Even at the dinner table.

He raises an eyebrow, his lips pressing into a thin line. His finger goes up to push up his glasses by the corner of the frames.

"Alright," he says, you try not to note the edge to his tone. "Who the fuck is it? You trading government secrets that I can't see? Because that's illegal. And also boring."

You finally manage to respond despite how close Satoru is pushing closer to you.

You hope that your coworker wasn't actively watching your typing bubble agonize over your own response.

"It's no one," you huff out. "Hurry up and do whatever you need on my computer so I can actually use my own bed."

"Not my fault your bed is small," he quips. "If it's no one then lemme see."

He shifts closer near you, the side of his body flushed against your side to get a look at your phone. You immediately swipe out of message history and turn your phone off.

"No."

"So, it's a someone then."

"No. Well - yes - maybe," you relent. "But I don't want you to read the text messages between me and him."

Satoru goes completely still against you. You can feel the exact moment his entire body tenses.

"Him," he repeats flatly. Not a question. A statement. A very pointed statement.

"Yes, him," you say, biting back a smile. "A person. Of the male variety."

"Cool. Cool, cool, cool." He's not looking at you anymore, instead staring straight ahead at your darkened phone screen like it personally offended him. His jaw works for a second before he speaks again. "So like - is this someone I know?"

"No."

"Oh." He shifts, and you can practically feel the gears turning. "So it's like... a random person? Someone just hit you up out of nowhere?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"That's actually weird though," he says, and there's genuine concern threading through his voice now. "Like, that's a whole situation. Random guys don't just message people. That's sketchy. You don't know what he wants or like - what his deal is."

"Oh my god, are you serious right now?"

"I'm being serious! What if you go over to his house and he's like, got people tied up in his basement then he tells you you're next. It happens more than you think - I saw this whole documentary about it."

"Oh my god, Satoru," you groan with the roll of your eyes. "It's a guy from work, not on the FBI watchlist."

He goes quiet for a moment, and you watch his fingers drum against his thigh - another tell that he's working through something. "Oh. From work. Well, workplace relationships statistically crash and burn. It's like - proven data. Bad combo."

You raise your eyebrow. "Based on what data?"

"Reality. Realistic data called common sense." He pushes his glasses up again, more aggressively this time. "And like, basic probability."

"Not every workplace relationship is going to 'crash and burn'."

"Okay, but like - ninety percent of them do. I saw it on a documentary." He's talking faster now, his hands gesturing wildly in that way he does when he's getting worked up about something. "And then you have to see them every day after it implodes and it's awkward and someone always ends up crying in the supply closet. Do you want to be the supply closet crier? Because that's how you become the supply closet crier."

"There is no supply closet at my job."

"Then the bathroom. The parking lot. Wherever you people cry at your work - that'll be you." He's leaning closer now, his shoulder pressing into yours with more insistence.

You have to physically bite your tongue to keep from laughing.

He shifts his weight, and you feel him crane his neck slightly - not obvious, but obvious enough that you notice. His glasses slip down a bit and he pushes them back up with an irritated huff.

"Is he like - older than you? Because if he's significantly older that's a whole different red flag situation and I'm just saying that as someone who cares about your general wellbeing and safety. Age gaps have like, documented power imbalances."

"He's around my age," you offer, watching as his jaw clenches.

"Around. So not exactly your age."

"Satoru."

"What? I'm just - is he like, taking advantage of you or something?" His voice drops, and there's genuine concern threading through, but it's wrapped in that slightly dorky earnestness that's so distinctly him. "Because you can tell me. Like, as a trusted adult. I'm serious."

You stare at him. "You're the last person I'd consider a trusted adult."

"I - okay, that's fair, but - "

"You literally tried to convince me that my coworker had people in his basement five minutes ago."

He shifts closer, pressing his shoulder against yours with more force now. "That's different. That's just like, healthy skepticism based on actual crime statistics. This is - if something's wrong, you should tell me. I'm here for that."

There's a beat of silence before he continues, quieter. "I mean, how long have you been talking to this dude?"

"Not really talking," you sigh. "I mean, I work with him, but we recently started texting a few weeks ago."

"A few weeks and you didn't mention it," he says quietly. There's something almost hurt underneath the casual tone, and when you glance at him his ears are turning red. "That's cool. That's - yeah, that's fine."

"Alright, didn't know I suddenly had a second dad," you tease.

"I'm not - that's not what I'm doing," he says immediately, too quickly, his ears flushing deeper. "I'm just like, looking out for you. That's different. I don't even know who this guy is, so he could be a total loser for all I know. Probably is, actually."

"You don't know anything about him."

"Exactly. Which is why you should tell me so I can like, properly assess whether he's worth your time." He finally glances at you, and there's something swimming in his blue eyes behind his glasses - something intense that doesn't quite match the casual tone he's forcing. "I'm a trusted person to you - a trusted step-brother." The way he says it, there's something bitter underneath, a slight edge to those last two words that you don't quite catch.

You're definitely smiling now, and you can feel him notice because his ears are turning redder.

"It's fine." You draw out your words. "It's not like me and him are even anything, he basically just asked me to hangout with some other coworkers."

"So, I can come with then is what I'm hearing."

"I said coworkers."

"Tell them I'm a former employee."

"Coworkers."

He lets out a guttural groan, throwing himself back against your bed that makes the cushioned fabric ripple under you, you don't miss the way he's eyeing your phone like it personally wronged him. His hand comes up to drag down his face in frustration.

You'll have to carefully plan how you'll leave the house that day to avoid him pressuring you into tagging along.

"For weeks," he speaks aloud, his voice slightly muffled behind his hand. "And not a single word about this guy."

"Considering you don't talk about anyone you're talking to, I think that's fair."

"Because I'm not," he says flatly, dropping his hand to look at you.

"Sure, sure. Whatever you say," you dismiss with a gentle hand wave.

"No - I'm not though." He sits up, his voice getting that sharp edge to it, the one that comes out when he's genuinely frustrated. "You can even check my phone if you want. I'm serious. Go ahead."

"Satoru, I don't care - "

"You clearly do, or you wouldn't be - " He stops himself, jaw clenching. His fingers drum against his thigh again, faster this time. "I'm not talking to anyone. I don't want to talk to anyone."

"It's really fine, it's okay."

"I'm talking to you."

"Well, yes, right now you are," you hum. "But I mean like, y'know, a girlfriend or a boyfriend - like romantically."

"I don't see how it's any different." He's looking at you now, direct and unwavering in a way that makes something uncomfortable shift in your chest.

"I'm your sister," you say flatly.

He scoffs in a way that feels mean, adjusting his glasses with more force than necessary. "Not by blood."

His words begin to settle deep into your skin, fogging up your thoughts until you're at a standstill. You try not to register what he's implying, because surely he couldn't be implying what you think he is. Your eyebrows furrow into each other, lines of skin forming as your confusion settles over.

"Yes, not by blood," you agree haphazardly. "But - we're still family - well, I mean, I consider us family. I hope you finally - "

The words die in your mouth - or rather, they're muffled under the sheer force of his own lips on yours.

It happens so fast you don't even process it at first. One second you're mid-sentence, the next his mouth is pressed against yours - not gentle, not tentative, but hard. Demanding. Your eyes fly open in shock and you try to jerk back, but his hand is already at the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, gripping tight to hold you in place. The sound that comes from his throat is desperate, needy - a whimper that vibrates against your lips.

"Satoru - " you try to say against his mouth, but it comes out muffled. You push at his chest hard, palms flat, shoving with everything you've got, but he's leaning into you - his weight forcing you backward until your spine hits your mattress. You twist your head to the side, gasping, trying to break the kiss, but he follows, his hand gripping tighter in your hair.

What the fuck is going on?

He's so much bigger than you and the angle is all wrong and you can't breathe properly. The frames of his glasses dig into the bridge of your nose, cold metal and hard plastic pressing uncomfortably as he kisses you harder. There's nothing romantic about it - it's aggressive, almost violent. He's making those sounds again, whimpering like he's in pain, like he can't help himself.

"Stop - Satoru, stop - " Your voice comes out panicked, higher than normal. You're clawing at his shoulders, trying to create any kind of distance, but he's got you pinned. His hand slides under your shirt and you flinch hard, your whole body going rigid.

He pulls back just enough to breathe, his chest heaving against yours. His eyes behind his glasses - pupils blown wide, barely any blue left. Then he's diving back in, kissing you with desperate hunger. "You're - god, you're so pretty," he gasps between kisses, his voice raw and shaking but still distinctly him, still carrying that edge of confidence underneath. "You're really pretty and I - " He cuts himself off, pressing his forehead against yours before going back in, kissing you like he's been holding back for months and finally snapped.

"Please don't hate me," he whimpers against your lips, going in for another kiss, deeper this time. His hand tightens in your hair. "I'll be really good to you, I swear - just don't hate me for this."

His palm slides higher under your shirt, massaging exposed skin. The touch makes you flinch - his fingers are warm, almost hot, and they're moving possessively. You try to twist away but his other hand is still in your hair, keeping your head still, and his body is a solid weight pinning you down. You can feel him grinding against your hip with every desperate breath he takes.

"Get off - " you manage to choke out, and you open your eyes.

He's staring directly at you. Those blown-wide pupils, barely any blue left - but the look in them is calculated. Aware. He knows exactly what he's doing. He pulls back slightly, his breathing ragged, and lets out another whimper that sounds almost pained, but there's something else there too - satisfaction.

He goes in for another kiss, softer for just a moment - almost tender - before it deepens again. "I thought I could wait just a bit longer," he breathes against your lips, his voice cracking but still carrying that thread of control underneath.

Tears are already burning at the corners of your eyes.

His hand slides higher. You can feel the tips of his fingers graze the bottom wiring of your bra, his touch demanding.

"You can touch me too," he says, and there's an edge to it - not quite a question, more like a demand wrapped in something almost playful despite the desperation.

His hands find yours, trying to guide them down his chest, but you're already pulling back, fingers curling into fists. You wrench your hands away, twisting your wrists hard, but he's stronger - he's so much stronger - and he's got them pinned against his body with purpose.

"No - don't - " you gasp out, struggling, but he keeps pulling with an iron grip, forcing your resistance downward until your hands are pressed against the front of his sweats.

The shape of him is obvious through the fabric - hard and straining. He grinds into your touch with intention, a low sound escaping his throat that's somewhere between a groan and a laugh, slightly manic but controlled.

"This is wrong, Satoru," you manage to say, voice weak and bordering on a sob. You're trying to pull your hands away, clenching your fists tight, but he's got them pinned there, forcing you to feel him through the sweats as he rocks against your palms with deliberate pressure.

"I know - I know it's wrong," he breathes out, but there's no remorse in his voice - just acknowledgment, like he's stating a fact that doesn't matter. Like he's thought this through and decided it's worth it anyway.

Before you can say anything else, he crashes his mouth against yours again.

This kiss is even more aggressive. His teeth catch your bottom lip hard enough that you taste copper, and when you gasp he takes the opportunity to deepen it, tongue pushing past your lips with bruising intensity. One hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back at an angle that makes your neck strain, while the other keeps your palm pressed firmly against his erection.

You twist your head sharply, trying to break away, but he follows - relentless. Your hands are still trapped and you're pulling, really pulling, fingers curling into fists as you try to wrench free.

It's useless. He's so much stronger and he knows it.

You're pushing against his chest with your shoulder, your whole body rigid, but he just leans into you harder, pinning you deeper into the mattress. Your legs kick slightly, instinctive, panicked - trying to shift your weight, to get leverage, anything.

He's panting into your mouth, making these desperate little sounds that vibrate through your chest, but underneath it all there's still that thread of awareness, of control.

"I know," he repeats between kisses, the words hot and wet against your lips. "I know, but I don't care - can't care - " Another kiss, this one so forceful it makes your head spin.

You turn your face away again, gasping for air, your neck straining against his grip in your hair. This time you note the soft click of his tongue when his lips leave yours once more from your abrupt movement.

A knock at the door breaks through the moment.

"Hey kids, dinner's ready!" Your dad's voice, muffled through the wood. Cheerful and oblivious. "Is Satoru in there too?"

You open your mouth but nothing comes out. Your throat has closed up entirely.

Your eyes dart to him. He's still on top of you, still holding you down, and there's something in his expression that makes your stomach drop. Like he's curious what you'll do. Like he wants you to try.

The fear is suffocating. Worse than his weight, worse than the ache in your wrists. You can't think, can't do anything but lie there with tears spilling over.

Satoru pulls back just enough to look at the door when the silence prolongs from your side. His hand is still under your shirt, and he gives one last, deliberate press of his cock against your leg before stilling completely. You can see him thinking, calculating.

"Yeah!" he calls out, and his voice is so normal it makes your skin crawl. Confident. Calm. Just slightly breathless like he'd been laughing at something funny. "We'll be down in a second!"

"Alright, don't take too long - we're waiting on you guys!"

Footsteps retreating down the hall.

Satoru looks back at you, his glasses hanging low off his nose at this point with the deep heaves of his chest. A grin begins to settle onto his expression despite the red that blooms tirelessly along the cheeks of his face.

He’d been a pervert for you since the day he figured out what his dick was for. Peeking through the crack in your bedroom door when you changed, “accidentally” brushing against your chest when you hugged him goodnight, timing his showers so he could barge in on yours and catch glimpses through the steam. Every girl his age looked boring, small, forgettable next to you—your curves, your voice, the way your tits filled out every shirt, the sway of your hips when you walked past him in the hallway.

He didn’t want them. He wanted the one person he wasn’t supposed to want.

And it made him miserable in the best, most twisted way.

He’d lie in bed at night, hand wrapped around that huge cock everyone envied, stroking himself raw to the thought of you. Imagining your tits in his mouth, your thighs spread for him, your voice calling him “caleb~” while he buried himself inside you. He’d cum so hard he saw stars, then hate himself for it, then do it again the next night.

Virgin. Loser. Obsessed.

All because the only pussy he craved was the one he grew up calling jiejie.

The perfect, handsome guy everyone thought was a player was, in reality, a desperate, untouched pervert who belonged—body, cock, and soul—to his strict, beautiful jiejie.

—

—

Caleb’s room at night is always the same ritual.

Door locked, lights off, phone hidden under the pillow in case Gran knocks. He pulls open the bottom drawer of his dresser—the one with the false back he built himself—and takes out the small bundle he’s stashed there— three pairs of your panties, carefully rotated so none stay missing too long. The softest ones, the ones you wear most often. He knows because he’s watched you fold laundry enough times to memorize which you reach for first.

Tonight it’s the pale pink cotton pair with the little bow at the front. He presses them to his face immediately, inhaling deep, eyes fluttering shut. Your scent is still there—warm skin, faint laundry detergent, and that unmistakable trace of you that makes his cock throb painfully against his thigh. He’s already leaking, a wet spot forming on his boxers before he even touches himself.

He strips fast, kicking everything off until he’s naked on his bed, knees drawn up, panties clutched in one hand. The other wraps around his huge cock—too thick for his fingers to meet, veins standing out from how hard he is just from smelling you.

“Jiejie…” he whispers into the dark, voice cracking as he starts stroking slow. He drags the panties down his face, over his lips, tongue darting out to taste the crotch where you’ve been all day. The fabric is soft from countless washes, but he swears he can still feel your warmth in it. “Fuck… you smell so good… always so good…”

He pictures you the way he’s seen you a thousand times—bending over to pick something up, tank top dipping low; stepping out of the bathroom in just a towel, hair wet; lying on the couch with your legs tucked under you, tits heavy and soft under thin fabric. Every stolen glimpse he’s hoarded for years plays on loop behind his closed eyes.

His strokes speed up, hips rocking into his fist. He presses the panties harder against his nose, breathing you in like oxygen. “Please… jiejie… miss you so much…” The words come out muffled, broken. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes because it hurts—his chest aches with how much he needs you, how wrong it is, how he can’t stop.

He remembers when you used to tuck him in as a kid, kiss his forehead, call him “didi~” in that soft voice. You raised him more than anyone, bandaged his scraped knees, helped with homework, held him when he had nightmares. You’re supposed to be sacred. Untouchable.

But he’s filthy for you.

Pre-cum slicks his palm, making the slide easier, faster. He bites the pillow to muffle the sob that rips out of him when he imagines you catching him like this—walking in, seeing him humping his hand with your panties against his face. Would you be disgusted? Angry? Or would you… touch him? Call him sweet even while he’s being depraved?

That thought sends him over.

He cums with your name muffled against the fabric, thick ropes spilling over his fist, stomach, dripping down his balls. His whole body shakes with it, hips jerking helplessly as wave after wave hits. Tears slip free now, hot on his cheeks, because even the release doesn’t ease the ache. It just makes him miss you more.

When it’s over he stays curled on his side, panting, still clutching your panties. He wipes himself clean with them—slow, deliberate—then folds them carefully and tucks them under his pillow for tomorrow night.

He falls asleep like that, face buried in the soft cotton that smells like you, whispering “I’m sorry, jiejie… I love you… I’m so sorry…” into the dark until exhaustion takes him.

Virgin. Pathetic. Completely, hopelessly yours.

And nobody—not his friends, not the girls who chase him, not even God—will ever understand how deep it goes.

But the thing is, Caleb is unraveling.

He tells himself he’s doing the right thing. That if he can just cut the cord—stop peeking, stop stealing your panties, stop jerking off to the sound of your voice through the wall—maybe the ache will finally dull. Maybe he’ll stop being the pathetic virgin loser who’s in love with his big sister figure.

It starts the day he sees you getting ready for a date.

You’re in the bathroom, door half-open like always, curling your hair, wearing that tight little dress that hugs your tits and makes your ass look unreal. You’re humming, smiling at yourself in the mirror, excited. He catches a glimpse from the hallway and feels his stomach drop.

Another guy. Again.

He’s hated every single one of your boyfriends with a venom that scared even him. They were never good enough—too handsy, too smug, too eager to touch what should’ve been… No. He can’t think like that anymore.

So he decides to stop.

He stops answering your texts. When you send “dinner’s ready, come down” or “can you grab milk on your way home?” he leaves you on read. He stops coming out of his room when you’re in the living room. Stops saying good morning. Stops everything.

At first you think he’s just moody. You knock on his door, soft voice through the wood: “Caleb? Everything okay, baby?”

He presses his forehead to the door, hand clenched around his phone, and doesn’t answer. Because if he opens it he’ll break—he’ll fall to his knees and beg you not to go out with that guy, beg you to let him touch you instead.

He starts staying out later—basketball practice, “hanging with the guys,” anything to avoid being home when you come back from dates. He hears you sometimes, late at night, laughing quietly on the phone in your room, voice all soft and sweet for someone else. Each giggle is a knife.

He hates himself for the relief he felt when your last relationship ended. You’d been quiet for weeks, curled up on the couch in his hoodies, eyes red from crying. He’d brought you tea without being asked, sat close but not too close, let you lean on his shoulder while you watched sad movies. For a little while, you were just his again.

Now you’re glowing. Texting someone new. Going out. Coming home with that flushed, happy look he’s never been the one to put on your face.

He can’t stand it.

So he locks himself in his room and tries to purge you from his system. Deletes the hidden folder of candid photos he’s taken of you over the years. Throws out the panties he’s kept—then digs them out of the trash at 3 a.m. because he’s weak. Tries to jerk off thinking about anyone else—literally anyone—and can’t even stay hard unless he lets himself imagine your tits, your scent, your voice moaning his name.

Every night he ends up the same way—face buried in his pillow, sobbing quietly as he fucks his fist, whispering “jiejie… please… I love you… I’m sorry…” while he cums harder than ever. Then hates himself more than ever.

He ignores your calls. Your “are you mad at me?” texts. The worried notes you start leaving on his door.

He tells himself it’s for the best. That if he can just stay away, maybe you’ll never know what a sick fuck he is. Maybe he’ll learn to live with the fact that you’ll never be his.

But every time he hears you leave for another date, makeup perfect, perfume lingering in the hallway, something inside him breaks a little more.

He’s not okay.

He’s drowning.

And the worst part—the part that makes him feel truly pathetic—is that even now, even while he’s ignoring you, he’s still waiting.Still hoping, somewhere deep and stupid and hopeless, that one day you’ll choose him.

So oneday when he's drunk as fuck, he decides if he'll sleep with someone else, maybe he'll forget you.

The party is a blur of pounding music and colored lights that make Caleb’s head spin even harder. He’s drunk—way past his limit—because tonight he is supposed to fix himself. Tonight he is supposed to prove he could want someone else.

Two girls have been on him all night: one blonde with eager hands sliding under his shirt, the other brunette pressing red-lipstick kisses along his jaw, whispering things he doesn’t even hear. They dragged him to a dark corner of the couch, mouths on his neck, fingers tugging at his belt. Everyone else is too wasted to care.

He tries. God, he tries.

He lets them touch him, lets their hands roam, lets one straddle his lap while the other bites his earlobe. He tells himself this is normal. This is what guys his age do. This will burn you out of his system, jiejie. This will make the ache stop.

But nothing happens.

His body stays soft, lifeless, no matter how they grind against him or how many times they giggle about how “big” he must be. Panic creeps in first, then something darker—like the air is thickening, turning to tar in his lungs. Their hands feel wrong, foreign, invasive. Their mouths burn like acid on his skin. The room tilts, the lights smear, and suddenly he’s drowning in deep water, unseen fingers ripping at him, tearing him apart from the inside. He's drowning even more, everything around him is pitch black, light doesn't hit here, he tries to reach for something, anything but nothing falls in his grasp.

He can’t breathe.

He moves his limbs like a dying fish—maybe because he's dying. He's struggling, trying to pull him up, hold something to anchor himself.

There's hands of people he doesn't know, doesn't want holds him back, pulling him deeper into the infinite darkness. He feels his skin tearing apart, his heart so heavy it might fall out of his chest— he feels violated. He doesn't want this.

A strangled sound tears out of his throat—half-sob, half-scream—and he thrashes, shoving them off with more force than he means to. The girls reel back, confused, then angry.

“What the fuck, Caleb?”

“Seriously? Can’t even get it up?”

Someone nearby snickers. “Guess the rumors were bullshit.”

He doesn’t hear the rest. He’s already stumbling through the crowd, shoving people aside, bursting out the front door into the freezing night air. It slices into his lungs, sharp and clean, but it doesn’t help. His skin is crawling where they touched him—neck, chest, mouth—like their hands left bruises that go straight to bone.

He runs.

Barely feels the cold pavement under his sneakers, barely notices the tears freezing on his cheeks. He just runs until his legs burn and his chest feels like it’s going to explode.

“Caleb?”

Your voice cuts through the static in his head like a lifeline.

He stops so abruptly he almost falls. You’re standing on the sidewalk in your coat, phone in hand—you must’ve been looking for him after he didn’t answer any texts. The streetlight catches your face, worried and soft, and something inside him shatters completely.

You step closer, hesitant. “Caleb, what—”

He drops.

Knees hitting the concrete hard enough to bruise, arms wrapping around your waist like you’re the only solid thing in the world. His face presses into your stomach, and the sobs rip out of him—ugly, broken, uncontrollable.

“Jiejie…” It’s barely a word, more a wet, drunken wail. “I’m—I’m so fucked up… I tried… I tried to… I couldn’t… they touched me and it hurt… it hurt so bad… I can’t… I can’t do it…”

His whole body is shaking, fingers clutching the fabric of your coat like he’ll float away if he lets go.

You freeze for only a second, heart twisting at the sight of him—your cocky, bratty little brother reduced to this raw, trembling mess on the ground. Then your arms are around him, pulling him closer, one hand cradling the back of his head, fingers threading gently through his damp hair.

“Shh, baby, it’s okay… I’ve got you,” you murmur, voice steady even though your chest aches. “You’re okay. I’m here.”

He’s hiccupping now, face buried against you, smearing tears and snot and leftover lipstick onto your coat. “Hic… not feeling good… plz jiejie… hold me… love me… don’t let go… please…”

You glance at the red stains on his neck, the smudged lipstick around his mouth, and sigh softly—not angry, just heartbroken. You’ve never seen him like this. Not once. The mischievous pervert who lived to annoy you is gone, and in his place is someone small and terrified and desperately needing his jiejie.

“I’m not letting go,” you whisper, tightening your arms around him. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

You help him stand—he’s too tall for you to carry, but he leans heavily on you the whole walk back, head on your shoulder, still crying quietly. Every few steps he mumbles something incoherent, your name over and over like a prayer.

You get him inside the house with his arm slung heavy over your shoulders, his tall frame leaning almost all its weight on you. He smells like cheap vodka, sweat, and something sharp—tears, maybe. The door clicks shut behind you, and the sudden quiet of the living room feels too loud after the chaos outside.

You don’t ask questions yet. You just hold him, guide him to the couch, wrap him in the big blanket you both used to fight over as kids. He curls into you immediately, face pressed to your chest, arms locked around your waist.

And for the first time in weeks, he doesn’t pull away.

He just breathes you in, shaky and wrecked, and lets you hold him together.

Caleb doesn’t let go.

His fingers dig into your hips through your coat, anchoring himself like he’s scared the floor will open up and swallow him if he loosens his grip even a little. His face is pressed to the side of your neck, hot breaths coming in shaky pants against your skin. Every exhale is a whimper, a broken little sound that twists something deep in your chest.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, over and over, lips brushing your jaw with every word. “I’m sorry, jiejie… sorry… sorry…”

You try to guide him toward his room, but his hold tightens, pulling you closer instead. “Caleb—” you start, voice soft but firm, meaning to tell him to sit, to breathe, to calm down.

He doesn’t let you finish.

His mouth finds your jaw, clumsy and desperate, pressing open-mouthed kisses that are more drool than anything else. Down to your neck, your cheek, wherever he can reach. He’s shaking, glassy eyes unfocused, tears still leaking steadily down his flushed face. He looks completely undone—your bratty, cocky Caleb reduced to this raw, trembling mess.

“I love you so much…” he sobs, voice cracking on every word. “Hic—I love you so much… jiejie…”

Your heart stutters. You’ve heard him say it a thousand times growing up—sleepy mumbles when he was little, casual throwaways when he wanted something—but never like this. Never with this kind of weight.

You take a slow breath through your nose, hand coming up to cradle the back of his head. “I know, Caleb,” you murmur, fingers threading gently through his messy hair. “I love you too—”

“NO!”

The word rips out of him, half-scream, half-sob. Before you can react, he’s moving—hands gripping your waist, pushing you down onto the couch with surprising strength for someone so drunk. You let out a startled squeak as your back hits the cushions, coat falling open. He follows immediately, hovering over you, knees bracketing your hips, tears dripping from his cheeks onto your face and collarbone.

He’s crying harder now, shoulders shaking, but his eyes are fixed on yours—pleading, terrified, like he’s finally saying the thing that’s been killing him for years.

“Not like that…” he whispers, voice hoarse and trembling. “Not like how you expect me to… hic… not like a brother should…”

He lowers himself slowly, carefully, until his head rests between your breasts. His cheek presses to the soft skin just above your neckline, chin nestled in the valley, arms sliding under your back to hold you closer. He nuzzles in like he’s trying to burrow inside you, like your warmth is the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.

“I love you nasty, jiejie…” The confession spills out against your skin, raw and devastating. “I love you in a way that’s wrong… against everything… hic… I love you so bad it makes me wanna ruin myself. Ruin you. Ruin everything…”

A broken little laugh escapes him, wet and self-loathing. He presses a soft, reverent kiss to the swell of your chest, right over your heartbeat.

“I learned what love was from you,” he whispers, voice barely audible now, thick with tears. “You raised me… you were always there… and somehow I ended up loving you like this instead. Like a fucking idiot. Hopelessly… completely… in love with my own jiejie.”

The words hang in the air between you.

Your mouth falls open, breath catching in your throat. You stare down at him—his tear-streaked face half-buried in your chest, eyes squeezed shut, body trembling against yours—and feel something shift inside you, something huge and irreversible.

He’s drunk, yes.

But he’s also never been more honest.

And the truth he just poured out at your feet is one you’ve felt brushing against the edges of your awareness for years—the lingering touches, the way his eyes followed you, the tension that’s been building like a storm.

He loves you.

Not like a brother.

Like a man who’s been drowning in you his whole life.

You stay frozen for a long moment, heart pounding so hard you’re sure he can feel it against his cheek. Then, slowly, your hand moves—fingers sliding into his hair again, cradling him closer instead of pushing him away.

He whimpers at the touch, clinging tighter, like he’s terrified you’ll reject him now that it’s out.

But you don’t.

You just hold him, letting the weight of his confession settle over both of you in the quiet living room, the beginning of something neither of you can take back.

You pull him closer without thinking, arms wrapping around his broad shoulders to steady him—to steady yourself. His face is still buried in your chest, hot tears soaking through your shirt, but the moment your fingers tighten in his hair, something shifts.

He lifts his head just enough to start kissing your skin—messy, desperate, open-mouthed presses that leave wet trails along your neck. His lips drag sloppily down to your collarbone, then lower, dipping into the soft valley of your cleavage as he nuzzles deeper. Each kiss is uncoordinated, drunk and needy, but the heat of his mouth makes you gasp despite yourself.

“Caleb,” you say, voice shaky, trying to warn him, trying to stop this before it goes too far. “Caleb, wait—”

But in his fuzzy, alcohol-soaked brain, your voice saying his name over and over sounds like encouragement. Sounds like yes.

He groans low in his throat, hands sliding down your sides until his fingers grip your plush thighs. He pushes them apart with surprising strength, slotting himself between them on the couch, his weight pressing you deeper into the cushions.

“Caleb—” It comes out louder this time, half-groan, half-plea, as his clumsy fingers fumble under your dress. He hooks your panties with trembling hands, yanking them down your legs in one impatient tug. The fabric catches on your ankle before he tosses it aside. His knuckles bump against your clit as he spreads you open, accidental but electric, and a whimper escapes you before you can stop it.

“Caleb!”

His glassy eyes snap up to meet yours—red-rimmed, wet, full of raw desperation. For a second he just stares, breathing hard, like he’s waiting for you to shove him away.

Then he dips his head and tries to kiss you.

The first attempt lands on the tip of your nose, sloppy and off-center. He pauses, breath hitching, but you don’t pull back. Instead, you tilt your face up, meeting him halfway. Your hands grip his shoulders as your lips finally connect.

The kiss is messy, inexperienced on his end—teeth clacking at first, too much tongue, too much urgency—but so full of everything he’s never said out loud that it steals your breath. You kiss him back just as hard, fingers digging into the muscle of his arms, tasting vodka and salt from his tears.

He moans into your mouth, low and broken, hips starting to move on instinct. You feel it immediately—his cock, thick and burning hot even through his jeans, rutting against your bare pussy in slow, desperate grinds. Each drag of his clothed length over your slick folds makes you both shudder.

Reality slams into you.

You break the kiss with a gasp, hand flying to his chest. “Wait—wait, Caleb… what… what are you—”

He freezes, looking down at the obscene tent in his pants like he’s only just noticing it. Then, without hesitation, he yanks his jeans and boxers down in one frantic motion. His cock springs free—heavy, flushed, bigger than you ever imagined—and you let out a startled squeak, eyes wide.

He looks back at you, tears still clinging to his lashes, expression crumbling into something heartbreakingly vulnerable. Like a kicked puppy left out in the rain.

“What do you think, jiejie?” he whispers, voice small and slurred, hiccupping through the tears. “Am I… am I good enough… hic… for your love?”

The question hangs in the air, raw and devastating.

Your mind is spinning—wrong, this is wrong, he’s drunk, he’s your so-called-brother—but your heart is pounding so hard it drowns everything else out. You see it all in his face: years of hiding, of hurting, of loving you in silence until it nearly destroyed him.

You swallow hard, lips trembling.

“Yes,” you whisper finally, voice barely audible but steady. You reach up, cupping his wet cheek. “You’re worthy of my love, Caleb. My everything.”

His breath catches on a sob—relief, disbelief, gratitude all at once. Fresh tears spill over as he drops his forehead to yours, body shaking.

“Jiejie…” he chokes out, like a prayer.

In that moment, with his confession still echoing between you and his bare cock throbbing against your thigh, you know there’s no going back.

Not for either of you.

One second he’s hovering over you on the couch, forehead pressed to yours, tears dripping onto your skin as he whispers how hopelessly in love he is. The next, the weight of it all seems to crash into him—relief, terror, pure desperate need—and he surges forward.

He hauls you up off the couch with shaky arms, stumbling toward your bedroom door. Your back hits the wood with a soft thud as he pins you there, mouth crashing back onto yours in a messy, frantic kiss. His body presses flush against you, hips rolling instinctively, and you feel it immediately—his bare cock, thick and burning hot, grinding against your slick, exposed pussy.

He’s sobbing into the kiss, hips jerking clumsily, the swollen head of his cock bumping over your clit again and again. Every accidental slide sends sparks shooting up your spine, makes you both gasp into each other’s mouths.

“Can’t… can’t put it in…” he whimpers against your lips, voice breaking with frustration and tears. “Sorry… sorry, jiejie… I’m too drunk… fuck…”

He keeps trying anyway, rutting helplessly, pre-cum mixing with your wetness, turning every drag into torturous pleasure. His length slides through your folds, nudging your entrance but never quite catching, teasing you both until you’re trembling against the door.

You shouldn’t.

You really, really shouldn’t.

But watching him fall apart—your proud, beautiful Caleb reduced to this sobbing, desperate mess trying to get inside you—breaks whatever restraint you have left.

Your hand slips between your bodies, fingers wrapping around his cock.

Oh god.

He’s so thick your fingers barely meet, velvet-soft skin over steel, throbbing so hard you can feel his heartbeat in your palm. A shiver races down your spine at how heavy he is, how perfectly he fills your grip.

Caleb lets out a broken moan at the first touch, hips stuttering forward into your hand.

You guide him gently, lining the flushed head with your dripping entrance, coating him in your slick. Then you lean in, lips brushing his ear, voice soft and sweet like you’re soothing a frightened child.

“Now try to thrust, baby~”

The words hit him like a match to gasoline.

He whimpers—high, wrecked—and snaps his hips forward.

One hard, clumsy thrust and he’s inside you, stretching you wide, filling you so suddenly you both cry out. Your head thumps back against the door as he bottoms out, thick length buried to the hilt.

Then he loses it.

He starts moving immediately—wild, off-rhythm thrusts that slam into you too hard, too fast, knocking the air from your lungs with every snap of his hips.

“Caleb—Caleb!” you gasp, smacking his shoulder weakly. “Slow down! Slowly!”

He groans like it physically hurts to obey, but he forces himself to slow, breaths coming in ragged sobs. His hands grip your thighs, lifting one leg to hook over his arm, spreading you wider. Then he’s walking you backward toward the bed, still buried deep, until your knees hit the mattress and you fall onto it.

Clothes scatter everywhere in the frenzy—your dress shoved up and bunched under your breasts, his cheap t-shirt hanging open off his shoulders, jeans kicked off somewhere on the floor. He stays standing at the edge of the bed, your leg thrown over his shoulder, fucking you sideways in deep, deliberate strokes now.

Sweat glistens on his chest, abs flexing with every roll of his hips. His cock drags slow and heavy inside you, veins pulsing against your walls, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing louder than your moans.

You grip the sheets until your knuckles go white, head thrown back, lost in the overwhelming feeling of him finally inside you—your sweet, broken Caleb claiming you the only way he knows how.

And neither of you is thinking about stopping anymore.

The night blurs into a haze of sweat-slicked skin and desperate need after that first frantic coupling on the bed. Caleb's drunken haze doesn't dull his stamina—it amplifies it, turning him into an insatiable force, thrusting through round after round until neither of you can keep track. Clothes are long gone, scattered like forgotten memories across the floor; you're both fully naked now, bodies pressed together in a tangle of limbs and heat.

He hauls you up from the bed mid-thrust, strong arms lifting you like you weigh nothing. Your back slams against the bedroom wall with a thud that rattles the pictures, your legs wrapping instinctively around his hips. He's still buried deep inside you, cock throbbing from his first release, cum already leaking down your thighs as he pins you there.

"Jiejie... fuck, you're so tight... so perfect..." he babbles, voice slurred and whimpering, hips snapping forward in a brutal rhythm. His hands grip your ass, fingers digging into the plush flesh, spreading you wider as he pounds into you. The wall digs into your back, but the pain only heightens the pleasure—every thrust drives him impossibly deep, his thick length stretching you to your limits.

You gasp, nails raking down his sweat-glistened back. "Caleb—oh god, yes—harder..."

He obeys with a broken moan, slamming in with reckless abandon. His greedy hands roam everywhere—squeezing your thighs, groping your hips, sliding up to palm your bouncing tits roughly. "Love these... love you... hic... can't stop... gonna cum again—fuck, jiejie, I'm gonna fill you up more..."

And he does. His thrusts stutter, a high-pitched whimper tearing from his throat as he unloads another thick load deep inside you. You feel it—hot, endless ropes pulsing against your walls, overflowing your pussy until it drips down his balls and onto the floor. "So much... ahh... take it all, please... love filling you..."

You clench around him, moaning at how full you feel, his cum already seeping out with every shallow thrust. You've never had anyone cum like this—almost too much, like his body won't stop producing it, flooding you until you're stuffed and slick. "Caleb... you're cumming so much... it's so deep..."

He doesn't pull out. Instead, he carries you back to the bed, cock still hard and twitching inside you, and flips you both so you're straddling him. His hands grab your hips immediately, guiding you up and down his length as you start bouncing.

"Ride me... please, jiejie... need to see you..." he whimpers, eyes glassy and locked on your tits as they bounce wildly with every drop of your hips. He leans up, mouth latching onto one nipple with a desperate suck, tongue swirling clumsily but eagerly. His free hand gropes the other breast, pinching and rolling the nipple until you're arching into him.

"Fuck—your tits... so soft... hic... taste so good..." he mumbles around the swollen bud, teeth grazing it lightly before he switches sides, sucking harder, leaving wet trails of saliva across your chest. His hands are everywhere—sliding down to squeeze your ass, pulling you down harder onto his cock, then back up to knead your breasts like he can't decide where to touch first.

You grind down faster, feeling him hit that spot deep inside with every bounce. "Just like that... oh god, Caleb, you're so big... filling me up again..."

He thrusts up to meet you, whimpering into your skin. "Can't... can't hold it... jiejie, you're making me cum... again... ahh—!" His body tenses, another massive load erupting inside you, overflowing instantly, cum squelching out around his base as you keep riding through it. You feel it everywhere—deep in your core, spilling down your thighs, making everything slick and messy.

"Too much... but feels so good..." you moan, surprised at how his releases seem endless, each one thicker than the last, coating your walls until you're dripping with him.

He doesn't stop. Round after round blends together—him flipping you onto your back to pound into you missionary-style, hands groping your thighs as he babbles, "Love you... love this pussy... hic... mine... all mine..."; you on top again, his mouth back on your nipples, sucking like he's starving while his cum leaks out with every bounce; against the wall once more, your legs around his hips as he ruts wildly, whimpering apologies for cumming too fast but never slowing down.

By the time exhaustion finally claims you both—too many rounds to count, bodies spent and sticky—you're a tangled mess on the bed, his cock still half-hard inside you, cum pooled between your thighs. He's curled into you, face nuzzled against your chest, murmuring soft, drunken "I love you"s as sleep takes him.

And in the quiet aftermath, you realize this is only the beginning.

The morning light slices through the half-open curtains like a knife, stabbing straight into Caleb’s skull. He groans low in his throat, rolling onto his back, one arm flung over his eyes.

“Fuck… too much drink…” he mutters, voice gravel-rough. His whole body aches in a way that feels deeper than just a hangover—muscles sore, skin hypersensitive, a dull throb between his legs.

Fragments of memory flash behind his closed lids: your voice saying yes, the heat of your body, the way you felt around him. He drags a palm down his face, cheeks burning even through the headache.

“What a crazy dream… felt too real…”

His hand flops to the side, searching for his pillow—and lands on something warm, soft, impossibly plush. He freezes. Squeezes once. Then again, curious. So soft.

His eyes snap open.

This isn’t his room.

The sheets are your color. The scent in the air is your shampoo. And his hand—his hand is cupping your bare breast, fingers sunk into the heavy weight like it belongs there.

You’re asleep beside him, naked under the thin sheet, lips slightly parted, hair fanned across the pillow.

Caleb gasps so loudly it’s almost a yelp. He yanks his hand away and tries to bolt upright, but his legs tangle in the sheets and he crashes off the bed with a thunderous thud, bare ass hitting the hardwood.

The impact jars him from head to toe. He groans, rubbing his tailbone, then looks down in horror—completely naked, morning wood hanging heavy and half-hard between his thighs.

“Shit—shit—”

He scrambles for something to cover himself, but there’s nothing within reach. Panic floods him as your eyes flutter open.

You sit up fast, the sheet off your chest, worry etched across your face. “Caleb? Are you okay—”

He’s already trying to flee, palms cupped desperately over his cock, stumbling toward the door on shaky legs.

“Caleb!”

Your voice cracks like a whip—strict, big-sister sharp—and he freezes mid-step, back to you, whole body flushed crimson from the tips of his ears to his chest.

His heart is hammering so hard he’s sure you can hear it. The memories are flooding back now, vivid and undeniable: you under him, around him, the way he came inside you again and again, your moans, your hands in his hair.

He slept with you.

He lost his virginity to his jiejie.

“Get back here,” you say, softer but still firm.

He walks backward slowly, awkwardly, until the backs of his knees hit the bed. He slips under the sheet, yanking it up to his waist to hide the evidence of what’s already stirring again. He can’t look at you.

“Jiejie… your…” he stammers, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

You huff, cheeks pink, pulling the sheet higher over your own chest. “Yeah. I noticed.”

“I—I’m… I’m sorry, I—”

You shift closer, sliding an arm around his. He finally turns his head, wide-eyed and trembling, and you lean in until your foreheads almost touch.

“Jiejie… I—”

You press a finger to his lips, gentle but unyielding.

“Last night you were honest,” you say quietly. “Why are you running from the truth now? Trying to ignore me again? That’s not very nice, Caleb.”

He shivers, blush deepening impossibly. His fingers twist in the sheet. “I just… yeah, I… I love you, okay? And it’s wrong. Whatever we did was wrong. And you were dating that guy—”

“I said no to him yesterday.”

His eyes snap to yours, wide and stunned.

You keep going, voice steady even as your own cheeks warm. “Seeing you ignore me so hard made me think about a lot of things. Made me wonder if I was doing something wrong, upsetting you somehow. I don’t want you upset with me, Caleb. I turned him down because I realized… what I actually wanted has been right here with me all this time.”

You smile—soft, bright, a little shy—and Caleb’s eyes fill with tears instantly.

He sobs once, broken and relieved, and lunges forward to hug you tightly, arms locking around your waist, face buried in your neck.

“Jiejie… I love you so much… I love you so fucking much…”

You wrap your arms around him, fingers stroking through his messy hair. “I love you too, you big idiot. Next time you’re confused about your feelings, come to me. Not to random girls.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, face blotchy and guilty. “I… I thought if I slept with someone else I could forget you. But I couldn’t even get hard.” He groans, hiding his face against your shoulder. “I felt sick the second they touched me.”

Then he peeks up, pouting. “But… what about you? You had boyfriends…”

You sigh, tracing idle patterns on his palm. “Yeah. Unfortunately. And none of them were any good.” You rest your head on his shoulder. “Did you ever notice they all kind of… looked like you?”

He shivers hard against you.

You smile softly, voice dropping. “I was never really attached. The relationships fell apart fast because I wouldn’t get intimate. The only time I almost did… it stopped before anything happened because I moaned the wrong name.”

You hide your face against his neck, whispering, “I moaned your name, Caleb.”

His mouth falls open. He stares at you, stunned, tears spilling over again—but this time there’s joy in them, bright and disbelieving.

He laughs through the tears, shaky and wet, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. One hand slides to your hip, fingers sinking into the soft flesh; the other cups your face.

“Guess we’re both desperate, huh?” he whispers, voice thick.

You yelp softly as he tugs your leg over his lap. His cock—already fully hard again—presses hot and heavy against your stomach. He looks so happy, eyes shining, lips inches from yours.

“It can’t be helped then,” he says, voice low and steady for the first time this morning. “Knowing I’m not the only sinner here… we’re stuck together. And God help me, I never want anything else.”

He leans in until your lips brush.

“So love me loud, jiejie,” he breathes. “I’ll love you back even louder.”

You close the distance, kissing him slow and deliberate—no alcohol, no excuses, just the two of you finally choosing each other—the morning light feels a lot less harsh.

—

—

The next day at campus, Caleb is practically floating.

He walks through the halls with this stupid, unstoppable grin plastered on his face, shoulders relaxed, eyes bright—like the weight he’s carried for years finally lifted. People notice. Girls glance twice in the hallway, whispering. Guys nod at him with raised eyebrows. Even teachers pause mid-sentence when he answers a question with actual enthusiasm instead of his usual half-assed sarcasm.

He’s glowing. The happiest anyone has ever seen him.

In the locker room before P.E., his friends crowd around him like usual, slapping his back, joking about weekend plans. But the second Caleb peels off his shirt, the room goes dead quiet.

Then the gasps hit.

His neck is a map of hickeys—dark purple and red blooming across his throat, disappearing under his collarbone. His chest and abs are littered with scratches, faint bite marks, more kisses sucked into his skin like someone couldn’t get enough. And when he drops his jeans to change into gym shorts, someone whistles low.

There’s a perfect, unmistakable lipstick-shaped mark just inches from the base of his cock, right on the sharp V of his hip.

The silence breaks into chaos.

“Jesus, dude—”

“Who the hell did you murder last night?”

“Bro had a CRAZY weekend!”

Laughter erupts, elbows digging into his ribs, eyebrows waggling. One guy claps him on the back, grinning. “Wow, man. Looks like you had one hell of a night.”

Caleb doesn’t even try to hide it. He smirks wider, proud and unashamed, pulling on his gym shirt like he’s wearing medals.

“Best one ever,” he says simply, voice warm with something deeper than bragging.

Another friend leans in, smirking. “Yo, was the chick hot—”

Caleb’s smile vanishes in an instant. His eyes sharpen, voice dropping low and dangerously calm.

“Don’t say shit about her.”

The room stills again. Everyone exchanges glances—half amused, half wary. This isn’t the usual locker-room banter. This is something else.

One of his closer friends slings an arm around his shoulders, breaking the tension with a knowing grin. “Okay, okay… seems like she’s someone special, huh?”

Caleb’s expression softens immediately. The charming, radiant smile comes back—bigger, brighter, like he’s thinking about you and can’t help it.

He adjusts his shorts, grabs his water bottle, and heads for the door.

“My closest person,” he says over his shoulder, voice full of quiet pride. And walks out into the gym like the luckiest guy in the world. Because he finally is.

Whenever everyone gathers outside in the evenings, you deliberately sit beside other guys—the neighbor's son, an old friend from school, anyone. You laugh at their stupid jokes, all while stealing glances at Ryomen from the corner of your eye.

His expression never changes.

Cold. Blank. He nurses a beer or lights another cigarette, looking almost bored, but his eyes never leave you.

They find you through the crowd, studying every movement you make. Every laugh. Every smile. Every accidental brush of someone else's hand against your shoulder, as though committing it all to memory.

The longer this twisted game drags on, the more terrified you become.

You can feel the tension winding tighter beneath your skin.

And when it finally snaps...

You know you're going to be the one left in pieces.

You forgot one thing.

Sukuna doesn't tolerate outsiders.

A steady hum of voices drifts in through the back door, mixed with laughter and the shrill screams of children. Half the neighborhood seems to have shown up.

Someone brought meat for the barbecue, someone else showed up with salads, and others dragged folding chairs beneath the old oak just to claim a patch of shade.

You step onto the porch, and the scorching air crashes into you like a wave from an open oven. The midday sun hangs directly overhead, bleaching the grass into a dull yellow. Heat shimmers above the asphalt.

"Hey! Over here!"

Yuji stands waist-deep in the pool, dark wet hair plastered to his forehead, his usual bright grin stretching across his face. He waves both arms to get your attention.

You make your way down the stone path, the sun-heated gravel biting into your bare feet. The moment you reach the edge of the pool, Yuji flashes a mischievous smile and splashes you.

Cold water smacks against your stomach.

You gasp, flinch back, then laugh as you curse at him.

"Come on! Get in!" he calls, sunlight glistening across his shoulders. "The water's perfect!"

You peel off your shorts, letting them fall into the grass before climbing onto the metal ladder. The steps burn your feet, but the second the water reaches your waist, the oppressive heat melts away.

The water smells of sharp, clean chlorine and the sun-heated plastic of the pool edge. You dive beneath the surface, letting the cool water wash away the sweat. You surface, gasping, only for Yuji to splash you again, and suddenly you are wrestling like kids, the water spraying everywhere, a brief, fleeting escape from the dread.

Yuji lunges for your waist, but you twist away, slipping toward the deep end before resurfacing behind him.

"That's cheating!" he laughs, spinning around.

"Oh, quit whining."

He catches you the next time, wrapping both arms around your waist and lifting you effortlessly off the pool floor.

You squeal, grabbing at his sides.

His body isn't the same as it used to be.

His hands are rough now, strong, all lean muscle beneath warm skin.

With a laugh, he tosses you into the water.

For one blissful second, everything goes silent. Only bubbles drift past your face.

You surface, coughing and laughing at the same time, then shove him in the chest with all your strength.

He barely moves.

Just stands there, entirely too pleased with himself.

"You're such an asshole," you mutter between breaths.

Water trickles down your collarbones, collecting at the ties of your swimsuit.

Yuji laughs, but the smile fades almost immediately.

"Uh... I've gotta get back to the grill." He rubs the back of his neck. "If Sukuna catches me slacking off..."

Your smile disappears.

"He's... coming?"

Your voice comes out quieter than you intended.

"Yeah." Yuji nods. "He and Toji went to grab more beer."

He notices the look on your face and lowers his voice.

"Sorry. I know you two don't exactly get along. But... maybe things have changed over the past year?" He shrugs. "Honestly, he barely ever talks about you."

You force yourself to nod.

If only Yuji knew.

If only this kind, oblivious boy had even the slightest idea what had happened two nights ago in the backseat of his brother's Mustang.

The way Sukuna had wrapped your hair around his fist.

The way he'd forced your face down between his knees.

The way you'd stared into those wild crimson eyes while he ruined your throat.

Your fingers drift unconsciously to your neck. It still feels as though his grip has never really left your skin.

"I should head inside," you mumble, already climbing out of the pool. "I need to dry off."

"What? We literally just got in!" Yuji calls after you.

But you're already walking away, not listening anymore.

You’re basically sprinting. The wet fabric clings to your body, highlighting every curve. The concrete is slick; you almost slip.

You frantically scan the tables for his silhouette, praying to slip by unnoticed.

You’re one foot onto the porch steps when a heavy palm slams onto your shoulder. Fingers dig into the muscle, jerking you backward.

You gasp, and your back slams into a rough wooden pillar.

The wood is scorching hot beneath the relentless sun, searing against your shoulder blades almost as fiercely as his grip.

He looms over you, a mountain of heat and shadow that swallows the light, cutting you off from the rest of the world.

Heat pours off him. He smells like sweat, sharp cologne, and bitter cigarette smoke.

The white t-shirt clinging to his chest is damp at the collar. A crumpled pack of cigarettes juts from his chest pocket. The tattoos on his face look like ink-stained scars, and his eyes hold nothing but cruel amusement.

"Where are you running off to, brat?" His voice is a gravelly, guttural growl. "Saw me and decided to bolt?"

"Let go, Sukuna," you hiss, pressing your palms to his chest. Under your fingers, his muscles are hard and boiling hot. "Let go, someone’s gonna come out!"

"And what are they gonna do?"

He leans in, pinning you against the pillar with his weight. Your wet swimsuit leaves a darkening, spreading blotch on his shirt. He drops his gaze to your chest, slowly licking his parched lips.

"Those tits look insane. Wear that on purpose? Knew I was coming, didn't you, little bitch?"

"Fuck off," you exhale.

He thrusts a hip, forcing your head to smack against the wood again. His calloused hand, smelling of engine oil, unceremoniously rests on your waist, his fingers digging in.

"Decided to get a piece of the brat while you're at it?" he whispers right into your lips. "I saw you fawning over him in the pool. Have fun?"

"We were just playing! Yuji is my friend, you hear me? He's normal, unlike you!"

"Friend," Sukuna spits out venomously. "That pup follows you around like a lost dog. And you love it, don't you?"

His hand slides lower, roughly grazing your thigh, his fingers shoving under the wet fabric of your bikini bottoms. Without a shred of foreplay, he shoves a finger inside.

You freeze, breath hitched.

"Sukuna... don't... please..."

"I don't give a damn," he smirks.

His finger moves deeper, working you.

"My dad... my dad's gonna come out and see!" you’re almost begging.

Not now.

Please, not here.

"And what’s your old man gonna do?" Sukuna sneers. "Beat me up? Brat, your daddy worships me."

His thumb grinds down hard on your most sensitive spot. A suffocating, sticky heat floods your lower belly. You hate yourself for how fast your body starts pulsing under his touch.

"I can hear you breathing," Ryomen whispers, biting your earlobe until it draws blood. "You want me to tear this piece of trash off right here and fuck you? Say 'no,' and I'll pull my hand out. Well? Say it."

You open your mouth, trying to choke out that damn "no," but instead, a dirty, drawn-out moan escapes your lips.

"Slut," Sukuna growls.

He jerks his hand away, grabbing your wrist and dragging you toward the kitchen door.

"Get inside. Now." He gives your wrist another rough tug. "Running away, huh?"

You knew he was crazy. A hot-headed, dangerous beast. Once you’re in the dim hallway, he turns, his face inches from yours. His eyes burn with something wild, something deeply wrong.

You never should have gotten close to Sukuna.

You never should have made that deal.

"You get what’s gonna happen if your saint of a father finds out how his little girl sucks dick in parking lots?" he spits.

"It... it wasn't like that..." you sob, tears blinding you.

"Oh yeah? Then what was it? You just naturally learned how to swallow my cock to the hilt? Just swallowed my cum while you were dripping like a bitch?"

You cover your face, choking on a sob. Sukuna waits. Then his grip on your wrist lightens. He lets out a heavy, dirty sigh.

"Go upstairs." His voice is quieter now, but there's still steel beneath it.

He gives you a slight shove toward the stairs.

Your heart pounds in your temples. Your mouth has gone dry. You want to scream, call for Yuji, run back to the people outside—but your feet move anyway.

You run. Faster than if he were dragging you himself. Because the fear and panic inside you are tangled so tightly with the forbidden arousal pulling you under that you can no longer tell where one ends and the other begins.

You’d be lying if you said you didn't want this.

You'd be lying if you said the adrenaline wasn't pulling you toward him.

You rush into your room.

Run.

Move.

Why aren't you moving?

Sukuna follows close behind.

The lock clicks with a dry, terrifying snap.

You stand in the center of the room, gasping.

The window is left slightly ajar, and the boisterous, drunken laughter of your father echoes up from the backyard, mocking your silence. The sunset floods the room in a sickly, golden light.

Sukuna leans his back against the door.

Anyone outside who looks up will see you through the glass. The sheer, reckless audacity of it makes your mind reel with vertigo.

Sukuna takes a step. Then another. He is huge, a dangerous predator filling the space of your clean, quiet bedroom. You back away until your knees hit the mattress.

"Sit," he orders.

You don't move.

Ryomen is enormous, filthy, smelling of the summer heat, beer, and the street. He fills every inch of your quiet bedroom.

"I said, sit."

You drop to the edge, your wet swimsuit leaving a dark, damp stain on the pristine white sheet. He steps in, forcing your knees apart with his legs until you are completely trapped between them.

"So nervous…" A slow grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. "You have no idea how much that turns me on."

Sukuna looms over you, his shadow swallowing you whole. He doesn't hesitate; he reaches out, slapping your cheek with a casual, stinging disregard before grabbing your chin, forcing your face up to meet his dark, predatory stare.

"Don't be scared, little one," he rasps, his eyes glinting with a savage hunger. "I don't bite. Unless you start begging for it."

His hand moves to the nape of your neck, fingers twisting into your damp hair and pulling hard, forcing your cheek against the denim of his crotch. You can feel the heavy, pulsing heat of him—huge and rigid—pressing against your face through the thick fabric.

"I missed you," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear.

"Sukuna... my dad... he'll come up..." you whimper, your voice breaking.

"Fuck," he growls, his patience fraying. "Quit whining."

His free hand dives under the hem of your top, and with one sharp, violent motion, he yanks the fabric up. Your nipples harden instantly in the cold air.

You instinctively try to cover yourself, but he catches your wrists and pins them firmly to your sides.

He grabs your wrists, pinning them wide, and his fingers squeeze your breast with such punishing intensity that a sharp cry escapes your lips.

He only smirks, reaching behind your neck to jerk the ties of your bikini top free. It falls away, leaving you completely bare before him.

"Come on, brat," he breathes, his eyes darkening to black. "Jerk me off with your tits. Show me you remember how."

His hand tangles into your hair, yanking your head back so you have to look him in the eyes.

"You understand me? Or do I need to knock it into your head?"

Your shaking fingers grab his belt. You hook your fingers into the waistband of his underwear and pull it down. His cock falls out heavy, the wet tip glistening in the sunset.

"Don't be shy," he sneers. "Remember how you used to lick it. How deep you’d take it."

You swallow, licking your parched lips. Sukuna snorts mockingly.

"Just do it, I'm tired of waiting."

You cup your breasts in your hands, pressing his shaft firmly between them. The skin is slippery from sweat and leftover pool water; the cock moves easily, with a wet, sliding sound. You speed up the pace, squeezing your palms tighter. Under your hands, he becomes even more tense and aroused.

"Yeah... that’s it, slut... Squeeze harder."

He starts moving his hips to meet you, practically fucking your chest with short, sharp, mechanical thrusts. The belt buckle clinks against the button with every movement, and he pushes deeper, faster.

Downstairs, Yuji’s laughter rings out, oblivious, while inside you, everything is melting into a puddle of shame and hunger. You part your lips, sucking the head on every forward thrust.

"Damn... fuck..." Sukuna rasps. "Yeah, like that... More... I’m gonna..."

He cums just as you take the head into your mouth again. Hot, thick spurts splash across your chest, your neck, coating your chin. He stays there for a long time, his whole body shuddering with every release.

Sukuna finally steps back, breathing heavily. He zips up and looks down at you—disheveled, covered in his essence, and trembling.

"Good job," he huffs, a look of satiated, animal triumph in his eyes. "Obedient little slut."

A large drop of his seed falls onto your navel. Your hand, acting on its own, drops down, your fingers pressing through the soaked fabric of your panties. You are aching with a hunger that doesn't end. He sees it, and his smirk widens.

"What, did you like it when I was rough?"

"No, I...—"

"What 'please'?" He leans in, grabbing your hair, forcing you to look him in the eyes. "Say it. Out loud."

"I want you to fuck me!"

"I thought so."

He throws you onto your back. The mattress squeaks piteously as he bears down on you, pinning you to the bed with his massive body.

"Lie still and don't you dare twitch."

He takes your hands, puts them over your head, and pins them to the pillow with one of his massive palms, stripping you of the slightest chance to defend yourself. You’re completely open and left to his mercy. He tears your panties aside.

His fingers jam inside, relentless, hitting you at full reach. The sound—the wet, rhythmic squelching as you move on your own, grinding against his hand—is enough to snap whatever thin leash he had on his restraint.

"Slut... what a fucking slut you are," he growls through his teeth. He grinds his crotch against your side, his hard, throbbing length pressing through the denim, punishing your bare, wet skin.

"Look at me, fuck," he orders, his free hand clamping around your throat. "Open your eyes, slut, and see who’s fucking you."

He dips his head, his teeth sinking into your skin right over your pulse—a sharp, sudden bite that makes you gasp. He instantly licks the sting with his scorching tongue, sending a violent shiver down your spine.

"Feel how much I want you?" he rasps into your ear. "I want to bury myself in you. But first, you’re gonna come from my fingers. You’re gonna come for me, hear me?"

His movements turn frantic. His thumb hammers against your clitoris with no mercy. You arch into him, your fingers tearing at his shirt. Everything inside you pulls tight, like a wire strung to the breaking point. The tension becomes unbearable, and you explode. A loud scream is drowned in his shoulder, your body goes into convulsions, your inner muscles squeezing his fingers in a death grip.

Sukuna doesn't stop, continuing to move his fingers, wringing the last of the orgasm out of you until you go completely limp, turning into a ragdoll.

He finally pulls his hand out with a wet, heavy sound.

He brings his stained fingers to his lips, watching you with those dark, predatory eyes, and slowly licks them clean.

Sukuna stands up. As his weight leaves the mattress, the room suddenly feels empty. He fastens his belt, the sharp click of the buckle sounding like a death sentence.

"So, how are we supposed to go back downstairs after that?" He sounds lazy, but his eyes burn with triumph. "You smell like me and sex from a mile away, brat."

"Why are you doing this, Sukuna?" Your voice trembles. "Was that night not enough for you?"

He pauses, leaning in so close that the smoke from his cigarette burns your eyes.

"Enough? Brat, it'll never be enough. You brought this on yourself. Remember this: stay the hell away from my brother. You so much as look at him again, and I'll fuck you on his own bed. I don't give a damn who's outside the door."

He strolls to the dresser, lights another cigarette, and exhales a stream of smoke. "What? Not even a 'thank you'?"

You give the smallest nod, a tear slipping down your cheek. "I understand."

"Good girl."

He turns toward the door. It clicks shut behind him, and his footsteps fade. You are left alone, and your gaze drifts to the nightstand. Two crumpled twenty-dollar bills lie there.

Payment. That's all it is.

Nausea crawls up your throat, but the worst part—the part that makes you want to tear yourself apart—is the faint, pulse-like satisfaction still buried deep inside you. Your body has betrayed you.

You grab a wet wipe and, frantically, until your skin is raw and purple, you wipe the semen from your chest and neck, desperately trying to wash away the smell of his tobacco and skin. With trembling fingers, you somehow pull on your wet swimsuit and head down to the backyard.

Suddenly, right by your ear, making your whole body flinch, his low, mocking voice rings out:

"Sweetheart, you forgot to wipe the traces off your chin."

You spin around abruptly. Sukuna is standing a step away from you, demons dancing in his eyes, and on his lips—that same crooked, triumphant smirk. Toji is standing behind him, lazily sipping beer and giving you a sharp, sly once-over from head to toe. He’s clearly in on your "secret."

You jerk your hand up in fear, frantically scrubbing your chin... but your fingers are dry.

There’s nothing there.

He lied.

Just to mock you.

To show that you are completely in his power.

Your face flushes a deep, burning crimson. Sukuna lets out a ringing, mocking laugh. He turns and heads toward the table, his broad back flickering among the guests like a predator returning to his pack.

You watch him walk away, feeling a slow-acting poison spreading through your veins. You feel used, trampled, and dirty. But as you watch him effortlessly take charge, a horrifying thought creeps into your mind: the sun will set, the guests will leave, and somewhere in the parking lot beside the Mustang, a lighter will click again.

And you'll find your way back to him. Because the poison beneath your skin craves only him—and you don't want it to stop.

"Of course. I love her. She chose to be with me and she's happy with me—"

"Oh is she now?"

Sukuna's massive arm snakes around your neck from behind, the inked tattoos stretching across his ridiculously meaty biceps as he pushes you back into his hard chest, right infront of your gawking boyfriend in his chair.

You don't even need to see Sukuna's cock to to know it's a big fat handfull from the way his chubby tip jabs insistently at your ass cheek, his sweats and your pants pool at the floor while smearing sticky pre over your skin.

His free hand claws at your fleshy thigh to pry them apart further, then hooks two digits into the crotch of your panties only to let the fabric go to smack against your drooling lips in a loud whap!

"She this wet for you too, loser?"

Whap! Whap! Whap!

"Owwww!"

His hips stutter against your ass, grinding that fat cock between your cheeks, scoffing at your squirming while his biceps flexes around your neck, crimson eyes boring into Satoru slouched in his chair at the study desk, " 'f course not."

Once the torturous snaps of your panties finally stop, he replaces them with dull taps of his tip against your clothed clit, skimming over the fabric of your panties.

You gasp sharply, hands clawing desperately at his forearm, nails scraping over the bulging veins, mewling as his tip pushes at your hole through the fabric, your greedy pussy sucking some of the delicate lace inside, his mean cockhead pressing against the flimsy barrier.

"Yer' slutty pussy 's been starving for a real pounding from big bad Sukuna, hasn't she? Beggin' to get sum by a cock that actually stretches her right."

"Y-you said you'll stop nagging toru if we do this, right?" you whine, voice cracking as his tip catches on your clit, sending jolts of pleasure up your spine.

Oh how he hates when you use that teeth-rotting nickname for that fucking nerd.

Satoru doesn't miss the way Sukuna's red orb dramatically roll, letting out an exaggerated sigh. He can feel his heart sinking right down his... wait— maybe it's something else?

"Yeah, yeah."

"Promise?"

His biceps flexes and mushes your cheeks and you barely manage to catch the snarky grin spread across his inked face, smacking your thigh in warning, "Yer' pushin it now."

You let out a shriek, his rutts getting more desperate, so much so that his hips make your body jolt forward, the fat of your tits jumping with each push, Satorus eyes oggling through his glasses as they jiggle up down up down—

"Fuckkk."

He lets out something similar to a whimper, white tuff of hair hang low as his glasses damn near threaten to fall of his nose. And once his eyes lift to meet your face, smushed between the muscles of the pink-haired brute, your teeth sinking into your lower lip, trying so desperatly to stifle the filthy moan bubbling up from your throat as Sukuna's pre mixes with your gushing wetness.

And when those glossy eyes of yours finally meet his, he notices the quick flicker of guilt and something worse beneath it.

Pity.

Just then Satoru can feel his blood pumping straight to his cock, tip visibly twitching against his now oh-so-tight sweats, hands not so subtle to smooth over his growing cock.

God, you're gorgeous.

Trying to swallow those cute moans between hiccups, thighs jerking every time Sukuna's tip brushes teasingly against your entrance.

And the worst part of it all, the reason why your boyfriend's so pathetically meeting your gaze is because this is getting him off more than anything else.

The way you're trying sooo hard to keep quiet for him. It has him snaking past the waistband of his boxers to grip his base tight because he's so close to cum right into his pants from the sight alone.

"Yeah, nerd. I'll fuckkk her, aight."

Satoru lets out a sharp scoff because, naturally, that bastard catches the curse muttered under his breath. The grin thrown his way is a smug way to claim his victory. Great.

Fuck it. Might aswell enjoy the view, right?

As sweet as your boyfriend is, he bites back a remark, hooking his thumbs into his waistband instead as he shoves his sweats down in one swift motion, leaking cock springing free and slapping wetly against his stomach, a thick string of pre splattering across his abs.

Sukuna's mocking snicker fills the room as his red orbs squint in amusement, not slowing his teasing grinds against your lace-covered slit as he glares your poor boyfriend down. "Nawww, look at him. Jerking off while I'm about to fuck his girl right under his own roof."

Satoru is caring and maybe even a little selfless, but if anything, he's not dumb.

He knows this 'agreement' to shut Sukuna up about the constant bullying won't end clean. That honey-sweet pussy of yours is addictive as hell, and once this inked monster gets a deep taste, he'll never let it go.

Peace? Yeah, right.

And Sukuna too knows exactly what kind of taste is waiting for him.

"Gotta give him a good show now, right peach?"

RIIIIP!

Just like that, your panties fly to the floor, and just as they hit it, your boyfriends fist tightens around his cock, white tuff of hair sticking to his sweaty forehead.

"Been dreamin' about how this pussy feels like," he grins, breath hot against your ear before placing a fat and wet smooch to your squished cheek, already bullying half his massive girth inside you as his arm flexes around your neck.

"So fuckin' tight and wet, just beggin' for sum' real dick," And he's so mean, robbing whine after whine out of you, his fat cock hitting your sweet spot with ease as tears sting your lashline, "Been growing tired of watchin' you hang off this loser's arm all this time."

Wet, obscene squelches of your pussy fills the room, blue orbs fixated on the frothing mess at the base of his bully's cock, stroking his painfully hard cock in time with Sukuna's thrusts.

"Would'cha look at that, brat," Sukuna rasps, grabbing a fistful of your hair and yanking your head hanging toward Satoru, "Yer' sweet boy's still going strong, huh?"

And god, you hate how right that filthy mouth of his is, because with each ram of his cock and each fat smooch his cockhead places to your womb, you grow more cockdrunk by the second, drool dripping right onto his flexing biceps.

"Tell him how much better my dick feels, pretty," he muses, red orbs watching your boyfriend with a tint of amusement behind them, "Tell him how m' rearranging yer' guts."

You protest by shaking your head and pushing your lips shut, but it's no use when damn near half of your oxygen's cut off from those muscles of his and your pussy gushing right onto the culprits cock like a damn fountain.

The sudden whimper of your boyfriend brings you back to your senses just barely, mouth hanging open as his hand blurrs on his dick, pre-cum dripping over his knuckles.

"Does it feel good, baby?" he mutters in that sweet voice of his, degrading himself further, eyes still locked on the creamy mess between your legs.

"'S so big, fuckin' me soooo good, toru!"

Your muffled words shouldn't drive him on to squeeze at his senstive tip, already feeling his cum threatening to shoot up from his base, but they do.

Shame? Humiliation? Those words don't ring a bell in that smart head of his anymore.

"Yeah?"

You don't know whether you want to rip his tongue out of his mouth or feel it licking at your pulse again. Probably the latter.

"Gonna breed this pretty pussy, yeah?", he murmurs against your ear, teasingly nibbling at your earlobe, already feeling your cute cunt clenching down hard at the offer, "Have your fuckass nerd lick it right outta ya' later?"

"M-mhm!"

Hm. Those are terms Satoru can live with.

And as long as his sweet girl's happy with it, he'll keep watching.

At least for now.

©︎𝙎𝘼𝙏𝙍𝙎 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝.

The following morning, you feel awful. And you blame it all on Namjoon. 

Had he not brought you to this fuckass island, you wouldn't have sat on a beach for a picnic. Had you not sat for a picnic on the beach, you wouldn't have been coerced into trying scallops. Had you not been forced into tasting scallops, you wouldn't have known how much you loved them, and you wouldn't have discovered how horribly allergic you were to (certain) shellfish (yet another thing you can’t have, no matter how much you crave it.) 

During the dinner by the ocean, you began feeling lightheaded. You thought it was because of all the alcohol you'd consumed (after that mixology session.) Then you threw up bitter stomach acid in the sand, which Yoongi did flag as a tad concerning but nothing a good night’s sleep couldn’t fix.

However, while walking back to the resort, you suddenly collapsed. 

You were told Jungkook was the one who first sprung into action and carried you all the way into the doctor's chambers. 

You make a mental note to ask Namjoon for more details.

Since the resort was pretty secluded on a little island, they had a little clinic and a full-time medical staff for emergencies like yours. For more serious cases, they had the facilities to have patients airlifted to a hospital. Luckily, you weren’t in that much trouble.

Kinda sucks that you were unconscious when you were (physically) closest to Jungkook though. You can't believe you missed this good of an opportunity to feel him up. 

You know he's got abs, you saw during dinner when Hyewon flashed everyone with them. 

Sigh.

Soon, you think.

Namjoon spent the night by your side in a private hospital room, sleeping on an uncomfortable couch. 

He felt guilty. Even though he couldn't have possibly prevented this, he felt responsible for you. 

He also had to convince your brother to not fly to the island overnight.

Although you'd been told your allergic reaction was severe, it could've been a lot worse. 

You don't seem to have realised how dangerous this could've potentially been because you're currently asking the resident doctor what a safe amount (of scallops) would be to consume. 

The doctor only came up with vegan alternatives. Now, you've lost interest in her professional opinions. 

After the doctor explains your antihistamine schedule to Joon, she leaves to attend to some kid’s jellyfish sting. 

And then you playfully glower at your friend. 

“Oh, you owe me biiiig for this.” You sing-song at Namjoon. 

He doesn't really, you're just bored. 

Namjoon grunts, “Yeah, yeah, I'll nurse you back to health. Need help washing up?” 

You coyly flutter your eyes at him. You consider it because you really do need a good wash. 

The ocean air has frizzed up your once silky hair. And your mouth felt disgusting. You’ve been fed a lot of water and other liquids so you don’t get dehydrated but the meds have left a strange aftertaste on your tongue.

A nurse comes in to take your IV out. 

Namjoon winces as he watches the needle retract from your skin. What a baby.

“What?” You scoff at him, “Never done drip therapy before?” 

He shakes his head. “I’d rather digest all the nutrients I need.” Then thoughtfully, he adds, “But I do enjoy acupuncture.” 

“Oh, I never got the concept of that.” Your mom was big on this stuff though. Chinese medicine, ayurveda, herbs and stuff. Maybe that’s why you don’t care for it. 

“I’ll take you to my guy, you might like it.” Namjoon suggests. 

You think for a second as the nurse finishes cleaning you up. Then you settle, “Mm, nah, I’m not too keen on micro needles in me. If I don’t see the results right away, it’s not going to work for me.” You extend your foot towards him, indirectly asking for a massage. 

As the nurse leaves, you catch her checking Namjoon out. But your friend was too focused on you. 

Sucker. 

“Where’s Yoongi… and stuff?” You wonder out loud. 

Subtle, you think.

Namjoon eyes you suspiciously. “I think they’re at brunch.” - “Why aren’t you with them?” 

“Because I’m here with you. Should I call Yoongi and stuff here instead?” He pulls on your toes. 

“Ow. No.” 

You thought they’d have flown out already. It’s like… half past eleven. 

Hopefully, you’re about to be discharged soon. 

The doctor wanted to monitor you for at least another hour. Then finally, you can head back to the mainland. 

Ugh. 

You really didn’t want to think about flying back though. If the meds don’t make you puke your guts out, flying in that crazy tin machine would definitely do the trick. 

You turn over for a cat nap, patting the empty space behind for Joon to get in with you.

An hour later, when you’re finally out of the hospital room and back in your suite, you make Namjoon recount the events of last night. You know, for your general physician back home and your records and such. 

“You know this doesn’t mean shit, right? He’s just better at navigating emergencies. This could’ve been any one of us and he’d react the same way.” 

“Lalalalala.” You cover your ears with your fingers, refusing to accept it.

“You can’t be serious…” You hear Namjoon mutter something to himself. 

Namjoon sighs to himself. “Fine. This is the last time though.”

Yay! 

“Ok, once again, my knees buckled and I fell on my side and then?” You stare at Joon with big eyes, waiting for him to repeat his account of whatever went down for the- checks notes- fifth time.

“Then Jungkook ran over to you and wasted no time in rushing you to the doctor’s room.” Namjoon purposely skips over what you want to hear.

“No, no---” You whine and nudge him, “Tell me the part about the- you know!” 

Namjoon throws his head back in frustration. “One last time and I’m out. I need to pack-” He takes a look around your messy room, “As do you.” 

You wave a hand dismissively. 

Robotically, he recites, “He crouched down, elevated your head on his knee, moved your hair out of your face, then cradled you supporting your head and neck and lifted you in his arms. And he almost ran to the lobby. He then reprimanded the receptionist later because she had panicked and failed to react as fast as one should’ve. Hopefully he hasn’t gone all Karen on her ass and gotten the managers involved.”  

You bite your finger. Namjoon was a good narrator. He should totally do audiobooks. 

Then frown at your misfortune.

Pfft. But Hyewon’s fucking lucky. Screw her. You still don’t understand how she managed to bag Jeon Jungkook. 

You’re sure Hyewon might’ve had a lot of suitors. But what made Jeon Jungkook pick her? 

You don’t know either of them all that well but you’re leaning to believe that Hyewon must have some God pussy for Jungkook to date her for as long as he has. 

Or maybe he has a micro-penis… 

Even if it is so, you want to find out through primary research. With your own two eyes.

They just don’t look right together. 

This is a new feeling for you. Mild jealousy. No, that’s not right. 

Specifically, mild jealousy over a man. 

Yes.

Well, you've never tried to make a move on someone else’s partner before. Nor have you been even remotely this fixated on any man before. 

This whole issue was uncharted territory for you.

You never had any opinions on women who did go for people’s boyfriends either. It’s on those men to hold their own. Like how in Christian mythology, in the garden of Eden, Eve was tempted by the serpent and then punished for eating the forbidden fruit.

Jungkook = Eve. 

You = The forbidden fruit, hopefully. The serpent.

And Hyewon… You don’t particularly consider her anything. She means nothing to you. If anything, she’s like an annoying gnat. You don’t like or dislike her. 

Or so you say. 

Her presence bothers you. There’s nothing much to it. 

“_____, we’re cutting too close to-” - “Ok, you can go.” You push Namjoon out the door. 

You’re officially relieving him from _____ duty. He had done more than enough for you. 

You hear faint warnings from behind the door about a time constraint till you have to check out. 

You sigh. Right. 

You’ve only just showered and you need to track down all your belongings so you could finally get the hell out of here. 

Also! To your surprise (and delight,) Namjoon informed you that they managed to book a yacht. And instead of a 20-30 minute journey, it’d be a 2-3 hour thing. But at least you wouldn't be flying. 

Honestly, you’d even pick a jetski over a helicopter. 

He kept alluding that Jeon Jungkook did it for you. ‘Someone just had to go that extra mile. Someone just had to please you.’ You don’t know if he was serious or just teasing you. Either way, you apparently owed Jungkook a ‘thank you’--- for kinda saving your life and booking a yacht instead of a chopper even though it’d take way longer. 

You don’t have the energy to dress up like you usually would, sticking to some thick compression socks, slippers, a tank top and some sweatpants instead. These are your sick clothes. Super cute and very comfortable.

You keep a change of clothes in your handbag just in case you somehow soil the getup.

Yoongi arrives at your door to pick you up a little over an hour later. You’re still in the process of scanning every corner of your room, making sure you have all your belongings. 

Half the time, you zone out. You definitely felt a lot better than the night before though. 

“Hey. Ready to go yet?” His eyes don’t leave his phone. 

Yoongi’s been pretty occupied with work all day. 

You feel a tiny bit guilty for delaying everyone’s week. But it’s not your fault you got sick.

Plus, it’s not like they had to stay. You could’ve arranged your own way back home.

You do one final sweep of the suite before stepping out. 

Yoongi power walks to the lobby while you struggle to keep up, dragging your suitcases behind you. 

>:(

Couldn’t you have waited for a bellboy to help? Why did he come to get you again?

ʚ𖹭ɞ

At the lobby, you reunite with your friend. Jungkook and Hyewon were there too. 

Hyewon smiled at you, leaning in for a hug. “Hi! Are you feeling better?” 

“I am, yeah. Thanks.” Your hands were still gripping your luggage but you reciprocate her display of affection and lean into her a little, not wanting to seem rude.

“Good! You looked like death last night. We were so worried.” 

Oh! 

Well. That’s good to hear.

Yoongi snickered but sported a poker face when you glared at him.

“I’m fine. It was just an allergic reaction...” You mumble, sneaking a peek at Jungkook, who was already watching you. He was back in his work attire. He’s so lucky to look this hot on a random Monday.

You almost felt shy.

Was your hair out of place? Did you still ‘look like death?’ 

More importantly, should you greet him? Thank him? In front of everyone? 

Your cheeks feel warm.

Why’s it kinda hot in here? You blink rapidly, trying to disperse all the goosebumps and daydreams. 

Hyewon offers to grab one of your bags. You don’t object as she helps you to the golf cart with your bigger suitcase. 

Jungkook had both his and hers so… 

You glance at him once again. 

This time, he raises a brow at you. You respond with a slow cat-like blink. 

You should talk to him sooner rather than later. You know, to thank him. Maybe send a gift basket later.

You inquire about Namjoon’s whereabouts and learn he was already on the yacht and trying to catch up on some sleep (all thanks to you) before work. 

Yikes. 

Yet another person whom you owe a gift basket.  

While you waited for Jungkook to finish whatever paperwork for the rental, the chef from last night came out to personally check on you after hearing about the incident. It wasn’t anyone’s fault but you still got a whole tray of tiramisu as an apology. 

You felt awkward accepting it but you assumed it’d be rude not to.

ʚ𖹭ɞ

Even though the trip ended on a weird note, you would very much miss the beach. You’re sad you didn’t go into the water. 

Surprisingly, you hadn’t been on too many island trips. You’re strictly a city girl who prefers bar/club hopping and shopping over… goat puppy yoga classes or whatever Hyewon tried to do with you. 

It wouldn’t hurt to connect with nature once in a while though. You could probably drag Logan someplace. Lately, you've been thinking about fold mountains. You’d like to drive high up to the peak and picture everything underwater. It scares the shit out of you but you can already imagine the crisp, mountain air filling your lungs. The sedimentary rock formations call out to you.

Today, you notice things you missed when you arrived as you’re driven to the dock. 

To be fair, it was nighttime then. 

You see a little flea market sorta set up. Aw, you frown. You wanted to go.

“We went there today!” Hyewon spoke excitedly, “Jungkook bought me this.” She flashes you her wrist which was adorned with the most gorgeous seashells charm bracelet. 

Your eyes lit up at the sight, “That is so pretty.” You whisper earnestly. 

“It’s one of a kind too.” Hyewon squeezes her boyfriend’s thigh as a little ‘thank you.’ Jungkook’s bashful when he covers her hand with his in response. 

Eugh. You cross yoru legs hastily. 

On any other day, you’d have stopped the cart and shopped around the market for an hour or so. You caught a glimpse of so many things you’d potentially be into, seashell adorned jute bags, wedge sandals, hats, candles, different kinds of jewelry, and all of it looked handmade. You’re a sucker for art. 

But you already felt like you were at fault for delaying the group’s departure from this island with your sickness. 

So… No flea market for ya.

ʚ𖹭ɞ

Honestly, you wouldn’t mind being driven around in a golf cart everywhere permanently. What is the reason for these not being available to go on the highway? Safety issues? 

Perhaps you could settle on a sexy little cabriolet. 

The cart comes to a halt a few feet away from the dock. You hear seagulls screeching all over the place. They didn’t sound this crazy near the resort. 

You thank the driver and make your way down to the boat.

You wait for your bags to be loaded onto the vessel before being helped on. You’re the last passenger to get on. Jungkook extends his hand to you despite the captain of the ship offering you the same (help.) You hand off your handbag to Jungkook and accept the other man’s hand to pivot yourself aboard. “Thanks!” 

You give your tiramisu away to the kitchen staff to serve everyone aboard. Yes, they had a kitchen staff. And two bedrooms, one of which was probably occupied by Joon. Maybe you can hide out there with him for two hours. It seemed doable.

Pre-departure, the captain, who introduced himself as Jamal, conducted a mini safety briefing, informing you about the yacht’s layout and what areas you could and couldn’t be in, emergency floaties and so on. 

Six minutes into the briefing, you lose focus. You wanted to pay attention but your body was distracted. If you’d have heard Jamal, you’d have informed him of this funny feeling you’re getting in your tummy. 

Luckily for you, Jeon Jungkook was keeping track of everything.

.

.

“I’m so tired of being sick!” You cry.   

There’s no way Jeon Jungkook would fuck you after this. It just isn’t in the books for you. Or him. You are not in his books. 

And if at all you were (in his books) this morning, you sure as hell aren’t anymore. 

Because you’ve found yourself in yet another unfortunate situation. 

From the way you’ve been throwing up (loudly, might I add) on the side of the yacht from the past twenty minutes, you might as well fling yourself off of it. 

This was beyond humiliating. 

God, why would he ever want to fuck you now that he associates you with VOMIT. 

Urghgrrhh. Your ego is taking a big hit. (citrustan giggles)

Yeah, yeah, it’s natural and you can’t help it and it’s not your fault but it still grosses you out.

You wouldn’t wish this on your worst enemy.

Someone tied your hair back and secured it in a bun with a claw clip as you emptied your stomach for the third time since you got on.

Of course, you’re now battling seasickness. 

Something none of you had considered. 

Why would you? You’d never been seasick before. But the movement of the vessel is making your head spin and tummy hurt.

Actually, you aren’t even sure what triggered your digestive system first: the very faint, fishy smell of freshly prepared seafood that included raw sea urchins, oysters and caviar (which aren’t easy on the eyes either,) or the motion of the boat. Or maybe it was a combination of both. 

Jungkook had been observing you closely from the moment you boarded the boat. Intentional or not, he doesn’t know. But he noticed the shift in your microexpressions the moment you laid your eyes on the little buffet Jamal had personally arranged for. Had he known the details of it, he’d have requested a change. Because only someone like Jeon Jungkook would be prepared enough for literally any circumstance.

It’s as if the man had a seventh sense when it came to you. He offered you his sipper water bottle before anything even started. You even made a quip about a grown man having a sipper bottle: ‘What are you? 12? What man in his 30s needs a sippy cup?’ 

(Uh, hypocritical much? All 15 of your abandoned Stanleys are collectively shaking their heads at you.)

Either way, the joke’s on you because that sippy cup is saving your life a little right now. 

You dragged yourself back to the chairs once you’d calmed down a bit. 

Swallowing little sips of water was soothing your throat. And consuming liquids was easier with Jungkook’s adult sippy bottle. Paper straws just don’t do it for you. Or anyone else, you assume.

Namjoon was still asleep in one of the rooms since he was up most of the night and Yoongi was AWOL because he had to make a few work calls. Both men were lucky enough to not have witnessed any of the mess. 

This left you with Hyewon and Jungkook constantly ‘watching over you’ as you laid on one of the pool chairs on the deck, fanning yourself with a folded newspaper with one hand and sipping water from Jungkook’s adult sippy cup in the other, sweaty and vomit-y. 

Couldn’t Hyewon at least offer to fan you? You may or may not decline but you’d think she’d have the thoughtfulness to at least ask. 

What was she doing here anyway? 

And as if Hyewon’s presence wasn’t reason enough for your annoyance, one of the crewmembers had the audacity to present you with a fucking bucket to throw up in. As if! 

Why would you want to have a bucket of vomit sitting around marinating in the sun?

Plus you only threw up on the side of the boat because you couldn’t hold it in till you reached your room. And now, Mr. Jeon-know-it-all won’t let you retreat into your room because he doesn’t think it’s ventilated enough and thinks you might- no, will throw up in your sleep and choke to death. 

At this point, you’d pick that option over whatever the hell this was. 

You couldn’t even place a hat on your face like you usually would when you lie on a lounge chair to sunbathe any other time, because for some reason, it’s making you feel even more nauseated. 

So now you’re stuck and uneasy with all the close attention you’re getting from the couple.

You notice movement in your peripheral and sneak a peek, believing one of the two might be walking away for a bit. But noooo. PDA. 

Hyewon is on her boyfriend’s lap. Really? Now? 

PDA next to a person on their literal deathbed. 

Ick.

Ugh. 

Here you go again. You swear it wasn’t on purpose. You can’t help it. 

You hastily swing your legs over the chair and stumble off to the side of the boat and begin dry heaving, making the worst sounds to ever have come from a human. Again. 

Not even a hangover had rendered you this ill before. 

Sucks that the couple’s makeout sesh is interrupted though. ;( :( :)

You hear heavy, urgent footsteps in pursuit but pay no heed. 

You were busy getting wrung, sorry. 

A hand rubs your back and another one… your head? 

Why was your head being caressed right now? You smack the one by your head away with a little grumble: ‘Don’t touch me there.’ 

“Ow!” 

I’ll give you a second to guess whose hand you just slapped away. Just go with your gut. 

.

. 

.

You got it.

Now, you don’t know whether it was smart or stupid of Hyewon to pull a move this ridiculous because honestly, you can accept both excuses. 

If she displays a kind of weaponised incompetence that she did by rubbing your head while your entire body was being turned inside out and hung to dry, you’re naturally bound to show your annoyance (as you did by smacking her bony hand away,) which would then give her a reason- or excuse to get away from you without feeling guilty or judged by the overseers. OR she’s just that stupid. 

And you know for a fact that the woman wasn’t an idiot. She might be a little oblivious or even a tad delusional, but she’s def not a total idiot. You think.

The hand, which you now confirm as Jungkook’s, travels down your spine to massage it. You’d been bent over the railing quite a few times, your body was sore. (And not in the way you’d have liked. :/ )

You’ve been such a cunt to Jungkook, you don’t know how you could possibly thank him for all this.  

A small, unreasonable and stubborn part of you still blamed him for booking a yacht when you could’ve just flown for 20 minutes instead. 

But then again, throwing up in a helicopter with no way for anyone to escape without dying would’ve been a lot worse. But also, you wouldn’t be seasick in a chopper.

Jungkook paused his hand for a moment, feeling two, tiny parallelly placed, circular objects on your lower back. 

Fuck. He scrunches his brows. 

Innocently, he runs his fingers over the two little bumps a few more times to make sure he isn’t mistaken. Luckily for him (but sadly for you,) you don’t notice.

Did you have dermal piercings on your back? 

Jeon Jungkook’s trying really hard not to picture you naked back at this moment. Trying really hard not to acknowledge the fact that those were his favourite kind of body accessory. 

Of fucking course, you’d have those. Lower back dermals are so… you.

For fuck’s sake, you were literally sick. And what kind of man would he be if he lost his shit over two innocent little piercings? At the base of your back, no less. They feel like rhinestones too. Not unusual but he wouldn't expect anything less from the princess™. 

… 

Would it be too forward to ask about them? 

A loud retching sound brings his attention back. 

The staff were hosing the side of the ship down simultaneously.

The audio-visuals were making him a tad queasy but he was committed to taking care of you until the captain (who also happened to be a doctor) could attend to you. You know, out of respect for his hyungs who were currently preoccupied, of course. Nothing else.

Jungkook gently tucks the loose strands of your hair behind your ears as the salty breeze hits you, messing your hair up in the process. 

“Let it out, let it all out.” He chants while patting your back. 

When Jungkook notices you’ve been fairly still and silent, he leads you back into the inner deck by your shoulders. 

You’re a zombie at this point. He would walk you off the deck, straight into the water and you’d follow.

Whining, you cry to nobody in particular, “Put a muzzle on me, I can’t do this anymore…” 

“That can be arranged for later-” Jungkook entertains you, “You can count on me.” 

You glare at him and he returns it. Though his gaze is more… intense. His lips curved into the faintest smirk. You could almost see the mischief swimming in his irises. 

Normally, you wouldn’t back down from a staring contest but this man was making you blush endlessly. You almost cower under his eye.

You yank yourself away from his grip as hard as you could in your condition and take a seat on one of the couches. 

You clean yourself with wet wipes and clean, hot towels.

Jungkook folds his cuffs back. You eye his sleek grey trousers and his white shirt, tucked in and everything. 

When was this man ever not in business casuals? It wasn’t really casual but you can’t remember the term- oh, formals. 

“Why are you always dressed like that?” You don’t mean to sound as accusatory as you do. 

“Like what?” You hear him scoff. 

You tilt your head, “You’re always suited up.” Hm. Thinks. “It’s hot but I wonder what you look like without ‘em.” Smiling innocently, you lean back. 

Hyewon’s ears perk up.

Jungkook’s mouth almost drops open. He says nothing. Doesn’t get the opportunity to respond before his girlfriend returns.

You’re fucking bold. 

“He’s hotter without them. I can vouch for it!” 

You discreetly roll your eyes but cover it up with a smile, “Cute.” 

It doesn’t go unnoticed by Jungkook, although he doesn’t acknowledge it. Once again. 

Simply smirking at Hyewon, he asks her if she wants a drink.

You tune them out and try to concentrate on not regurgitating anything else. 

Jungkook makes his way to the bar to request a few drinks. Along with that, he asks the crew to give you space.

“Do you want to try to take a nap?” Hyewon asks carefully. 

You rest your head in your hands, “Ugh, I wish. But Jungkook’s right, I don’t want to risk suffocation.” 

“Why don’t you try? It always helps me to sleep it off. Jungkook’s just being anal about it.” 

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think she was asking you to go die in a corner. 

Huh. 

Well. 

Two can play this game, you think.

Right then, Mr. Jeon returns with two teacups and places it on the coffee table in front of you. “I got you ginger and chamomile teas. Hopefully, they’ll settle your stomach and your nerves. Can you drink that for me?” 

For him…

You bit the corner of your lip, contemplating all the other things you’d do for him.

“_____.” - Hm. - “_____, while it’s warm, please.” 

You lift your arm to reach one of the ceramic cups and catch Hyewon’s eye. 

:) 

Suddenly frowning, you weakly rub your wrist. “Ow…” 

Oh, no. :( Your wrist is weak and sore. :( Oh, what will you ever do? :( 

“You okay there?” You hear Jungkook closing in. 

“I don’t know… I can’t-” You pout, cutting yourself off, “I’ll drink it in a bit, my arm’s a little…” You trail off.

You sigh, peeking at Jungkook through your peripheral. 

Jungkook settles beside you, teacup now in his hand. 

"Your arm hurts?" He finishes. 

You pout and nod miserably. “Mhm.”

Jungkook parrots you, "The same arm you were using to lift that large handbag of yours just now?" 

…

Rude.

You frown, “Uh, yeah, that’s what I said, genius.” 

Jungkook sighed and glanced at his girlfriend. It wasn’t a fond sigh. It was a kind of sigh you let out before enabling bad behaviour. 

Hyewon watched the two of you cautiously. 

I mean, she understood you were ill and her boyfriend was sort of a natural caretaker, but she was pissed as hell that they weren’t making out on the top deck right now. 

This was probably the first time ever that she earnestly showed her dislike towards you. In front of you. (Albeit in her mind but even then, at least she’s facing those feelings honestly and not gaslighting herself.) 

It’s probably irrational or perhaps even an exaggeration, but she feels you’re almost playing your sickness up just to be coddled by everyone. 

Hyewon thinks she should pitch in and help her boyfriend but she’s sort of unhappy with his choice of making himself this available to you in the first place. 

Hyewon ignores the sting she feels in her chest as she watches her boyfriend cradle the back of your head and guide the teacup to your mouth. And she certainly ignores that hint of something unexplainable in his eyes as he watches you sip the liquid from the cup.

Jungkook’s fingers gently massage your nape, shooting goosebumps all through your body. It’s so sensual. Yet he does it so casually. 

If things were different, you think you’d have kissed him right there. It’d have been a picture perfect moment. Your thought process rarely heads in this direction. 

You like feeling good. You enjoy attention and validation from people you like. You even crave romance once in a while. And you think a kiss would’ve made this random afternoon quite romantic. That is, if things were different. 

Out of nowhere, Hyewon abruptly walks off. Jungkook’s eyes are instantly glued to her figure. 

You drop the act and wordlessly grab the little teacup from his hand. Your cold fingers send a little shiver down his spine. 

Gee, this thing was weightless. 

He doesn’t even look at you before following Hyewon into the dining area. 

Well, there goes your chance at romance? 

A weird sadistic part of you was pleased to have potentially caused a wedge in between the lovebirds. 

Don’t get it wrong, you totally want to hop on Jeon Jungkook, but you hadn’t really given any thought to the aftermath of it if it were to happen.

You guess you just caught a glimpse? Scarily enough, it does not bother you as much as it should. 

Leaning back on the couch, you choose to nurse yourself with the remainder of the chamomile tea. 

Jungkook spots Hyewon seated at the medium sized dining table. 

It was decorated with a beautiful red, white and purple floral centerpiece and thick, unlit white candles, clearly prepared for five guests. 

She’s looking down at her phone, not acknowledging Jungkook when he pulls up a seat next to her.

Then Hyewon glances over and smiles a little. “Hey. Whatcha doing here?” 

Jungkook stares at her. “You tell me.” 

“What do you mean?” - “Won…” Jungkook probed, leaning closer, “What’s going on?” 

“Huh? Nothing.” Hyewon laughs. Nothing was funny. She was just buying herself time to delay this interrogation.

“You practically stormed off, babe.” Jungkook challenges her. 

Hyewon almost got upset all over again. Did he really just throw that in her face? 

“I did not ‘storm off,’ I was hungry.” She couldn’t just stop there. “Watching you feed _____ that tea made me think about food.” 

Right…

Jungkook looked down with a hint of embarrassment flooding him. 

Thankfully, Hyewon kept talking so Jungkook didn’t really get the opportunity to explain himself right then. 

“I guess I was just irritated by how much time you were spending together. I know it’s irrational because it’s not like you were having fun or anything. She was sick and you were just,” Hyewon pauses to find the right words, “-being a good person. I don’t know?”

Wow. Jeon Jungkook was the worst boyfriend in the world. 

He almost felt defensive and called out but stopped himself from verbalizing it. 

And then he understood Hyewon. 

Why wouldn’t she be pissed about him practically playing house with you, sick or not. 

“We spent all weekend together, Won. I’m just trying to hold the fort down till Jamal can assist _____. He’s a doctor as well.”

Hyewon wanted to bring up the part where you smacked her arm and Jungkook didn’t defend her but she decided it was too silly of a reason to be upset. Considering your physical state and all.

“Hold on, let me text Jamal and find out if he’ll be able to come out now.” Jungkook springs into action and ends up calling the ship’s captain to ask for medication. 

Jungkook walks to the edge of the vessel as he speaks to Jamal. He assumed the crew must’ve updated Jamal about your health already and they had indeed. But since Jamal thought Jungkook had it under control, he didn’t interfere. 

The crew had been informed of your allergic reaction from the night before, so they had assumed your sickness was shellfish related and left it up to Jungkook, thinking he’d know more. 

Jamal also mistook you for Jungkook’s girlfriend for some reason. Jungkook’s taking this error to the grave. 

Had they called for a doctor earlier, you would’ve been medicated sooner. 

Huh. 

Why hadn’t Jungkook thought of doing that immediately? 

Hyewon’s back at the table, secretly rolling her eyes.

She knew it was totally idiotic of her to be jealous of the attention her boyfriend was giving you. But she couldn’t help it. 

I mean. Even when his own girlfriend’s upset, Jungkook prioritises you. 

And she knows it’s only because you’re ill. Yet that does very little to settle her emotions. 

Jungkook rejoins her, “Alright. Jamal’s gonna check on _____. I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

Hyewon simply stares at her boyfriend before sighing. She was ready to change the topic.

“Babe, what?” Jungkook asks dumbfounded in reference to the huge sigh she just let out. 

“Nothing! It’s the same thing, your attention is still on _____. She seems to be doing better.”

What? 

No. 

He did this for Hyewon. Jungkook made sure you were taken care of so he could spend time with his girlfriend instead of nursing you. 

“I’m here with you, Won. I just made sure she gets medical attention. We can do whatever you want now. I’m here, okay?” He was assertive. It made Hyewon feel secure enough to move forward with what she had originally planned to do with her boyfriend. 

Hyewon smiled satisfactorily. “Okay… I was thinking we could maybe get some dessert and watch an episode of… Orange?” She kisses his neck. Jungkook instantly caves, giggling. 

The pair then sneak off into the vacant room.

You expected Jungkook to return in less than five. Not because you want him to or are waiting for him or anything but because he’d been orbiting around you this entire time. He was refilling your water, checking you for fever, checking your pulse, just whatever, stuff.

You pout and look around the mostly empty deck, swinging your legs and swaying with the yacht. 

Wow, there must be a hell of a fight if he’s taking this long. 

Maybe you could try to read a book to pass time before he comes back. You reach into your giant bag to fish out whatever bullshit book Namjoon made you read. 

“Hey, _____. How are we doing here?” The voice literally comes out of nowhere, startling you.

“Oh! God. Wow. Hey, Jamal. Who’s um steering the boat and stuff?” You’re genuinely concerned. Your question elicits a bright smile from him, “My partner. Ivy. You know her from the chopper.” 

Oh! Wow. 

“Aw, I like Ivy. Also, I’m doing much better,” You giggle, “Thanks to ginger and chamomile.” 

“Ah. Well, good. But I’d still like to take a look at ya. Is that okay?” 

You simply nod. Only then do you notice the little first aid kit thingy Jamal carried with him.

He checks your body temperature, blood pressure, heart rate, blood sugar, and hands you a pill to help control your nausea. 

You can’t help but peek at the path leading to the dining room every few seconds, you know, to see if anyone’s gonna show up anytime soon. 

After Jamal leaves to put his doctor’s kit back where it belonged, you walk up to the railing to watch the water. It looked glittery under the sun’s rays. 

You catch a glimpse of a mama sting ray with her baby and excitedly turn to announce it to literally anyone but only spot two girls from the crew. 

Wow, this is pathetic. 

Where the hell is everyone?

You wave the two women over anyway, in hopes of showing them what you spotted. 

Although, they’ve probably seen a lot more since they’re on yachts, like, multiple hours every day. 

ʚ𖹭ɞ

The girls, Delaney and Adora, turn out to be great company. They were just as excited to see the sting rays. You learn about each other’s jobs and interests. 

And oh, this was probably the first time you didn’t have to dodge the job question. It felt strangely cathartic.  

The girls shared your interests in the Real Housewives franchise and fashion. You have an intense discussion to decide who the ultimate housewife was. There was no single conclusion. You've even promised to connect Delaney to a casting agent in New York because you believe she’d make an excellent runway model.  

They tell you stories about all the annoying passengers they’ve had aboard to pass time. 

Hint: You don’t even make it to their top 100. So yay!

The ones that really stuck with you involved an emotional support peacock and a billionaire’s son who tipped everyone in cryptocurrency. 

The yacht rocked ever so gently. You watch the ocean stretch endlessly in almost every direction. Jamal had lowered the speed so you could spot dolphins. 

Adora and Delaney offered you some fish to use as bait to attract the mammals but you denied. You don’t think you’d be able to stomach the scent. And you think the dolphins are much too smart to be baited by a can of anchovies anyway.

ʚ𖹭ɞ

Time passes surprisingly fast when you’re having fun. 

Namjoon and Yoongi join you in conversation somewhere along the way. 

For a split second, you almost consider asking about Jungkook and Hyewon but stop yourself. They’re probably off doing some boring shit you don’t want to hear about like making each other’s portraits or whatever. 

By the time the city comes into view, you're perched on Yoongi’s lap on a lounge chair, chatting away animatedly as though you hadn't spent the past few hours vomiting with biblical enthusiasm. 

Jungkook and Hyewon finally emerge from their hiding spots. 

When they come into view, you give them a small smile and carry on with your conversation with the girls. 

Despite the couple choosing to sit right beside you, you don’t naturally interact with them. 

It’s totally not because you're feeling strangely abandoned after a certain lawyer vanished for the better part of an hour and never came back. 

Hyewon watches you as she always does. She’s curious. Trying to figure something out. You were so chatty. She watches you freely interact with the two crew members, having an amazing time. You can practically see the moment she realizes you've spent the better part of an hour chatting happily with two strangers while barely sparing a thought for her the entire trip.

She almost scoffs.

What was she doing wrong? Why can’t you be just as pleasant with her? 

Hyewon puts her head on her boyfriend’s shoulder.

Speaking of the boyfriend; as always, like a moth to a flame, Jungkook’s already subconsciously fixated on you.

Unlike Hyewon, he’s noticing the way you’ve grown so close with Yoongi, you feel comfortable enough to sit on his lap and touch his face and hair, which is something he hates having touched.

He knew you were absolutely Yoongi’s type. 

Why did that kinda irritate him? 

His gaze is locked on Yoongi’s large hands caressing your thigh while also playing with your pretty, long hair.

Jungkook also notes how you haven’t looked at him or talked to him this whole time. But he gets it, he did just leave without a word. 

Yeah. 

He knows damn well why you’re giving him the cold shoulder.

ʚ𖹭ɞ

Deboarding a yacht takes a lot longer than you’d guess. 

You could literally see Logan waiting by the car but you had to wait for all the protocols to pass. 

Once you hop off, you sincerely thank the crew for taking care of you and then sincerely apologise for the inconveniences you’d caused them. Then you enlist Yoongi and Namjoon’s help and make them tip the whole crew big bucks because they refused to accept yours.  

Logan loads up your bags in the back seat while you bid your goodbyes. 

Before leaving, you meekly approach Hyewon and Jungkook and mutter a little ‘thank you’ for ‘doing as much as you could.’  

It evoked a truly emotional ‘aw, of course’ from Hyewon. 

But Jungkook just smirked at your sassiness. You were so infuriating. Such a big baby. It makes him want you even more. 

Two days later, you're sitting cross-legged on the floor of your TV room, surrounded by a bunch of stuff, three luxury department store catalogues, random fruit, a bonsai, a Yoshitomo Nara coffee table book and a chilled glass of diet Coke. 

Curating gift baskets should not be this difficult. It usually isn’t! This was your most favourite thing to do, yet you were struggling. Consumerism is beating your ass. 

Namjoon’s was easy, you’re giving him a gorgeous little flowering bonsai, exotic fruit and some coffee table books you know he’d love. 

Hyewon is where you’ve hit a bump.

You’ve settled with fruit and a floral arrangement for her. But was that too little? Probably. Maybe if you threw in a bottle of your favourite rosé? And a few liquor chocolates? You’d be satisfied if you got this basket. 

Well, those are finalised.

Jungkook’s was the hardest to arrange. 

You don’t know what to do. You’ve hit a wall. 

What the hell did he like? Skincare? Food? You noticed he was pretty knowledgeable about food. Maybe you could bake for- yeah, no you can’t even finish that thought, you’d probably kill him. 

You stretch your toes. 

Jeon Jungkook. 

You know he uses pens. He wears suits and ties and glasses. Piercings. Tattoos. Okay, now you’re just picturing him in your mind. 

Shoes?

You can never go wrong with shoes. You’re a slut for shoes. 

But you don’t want to come off as too… eager. 

You hate that you do gift baskets. But they were your brand. You can’t ignore Jungkook’s help. 

ʚ𖹭ɞ

A few hours later, you’ve finally made up your mind about Jungkook’s basket. You’re keeping it super casual and putting together some vibrant dragonfruit along with chamomile and ginger tea leaves (and the free brewer that came with it.)

This was personalised enough.

next: killah (jjk) [10]

note: this was way shorter than i intended. i'd have liked this one and the next chapter to be one big chapter buuut tbh it's better this way!

i also want to remind everyone that oc is ultimately the main character and i like to write her as the center of everyone's universe :p indulge me

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?”