Moonchild

“It-it’s not ice cream, Xav—ahh… seriously—mnn…!” You jolt, your fingers digging violently into the messy sheets as his tongue finds your sweetest, most sensitive spot. “Stop teasin—over there…!”

He knows exactly what he’s doing. Xavier could spend hours like this, completely lose himself just drinking from you, and tonight is no exception. He licks your slit agonizingly slow, teasing the sensitive folds, knowing precisely where to nip and where to swirl his tongue to push all your buttons. Even if he let go of his bruising grip on your hips, you couldn’t run. Your mind is taken away, your body entirely at his mercy. But as good as it feels, a deeper ache is building inside you. You want something bi and hard to fill you completely, and it’s definitely not just his tongue.

“You like it, Shtar?” he mumbles, the vibration of his voice sending a jolt straight to your core. “When my tongue enter you like thish?”

“C’mon, Xav, stop speaking into my cunt… fuckk…!” You arch your back in pure pleasure, the grip he has on you tight enough to leave marks. “Hah… no, stop… I want your cock instead…”

His eyes widen and he freezes. Usually you’re patient, letting him take his time and worship you until he's satisfied. He stares up at you, noticing the flushed crimson across your cheeks. You’re drunk, too, based on how bold and unfiltered the words that escape your pretty lips. A faint, knowing smile blooms on his lips before he buries his face right back between your thighs, licking you far more vigorously than before.

“Xavi… stop it—” You squirm, trying to twist away, but he holds you perfectly in place. You yank at his hair, but he doesn’t budge, completely unbothered by the pain as he drives you over the edge. “I’m gonna cum! Please, I want your cock, fuckk…!!”

You climax violently, your walls trembling as his tongue thrusts inside one last time, pressing hard against your sweet spot. He holds you through the waves, drinking down every drop of your sweetness as you come.

“You bully! hah, uh… Naughty bunny!” You pant, weakly slapping the hand that’s still gripping your thigh. “Told you I want your cock…!”

He chuckles, flashing the same melting smile that always makes you give in. Xavier pulls himself up, shifting his weight until he's hovering directly over you. The head of his cock, already slick with a bead of precum, brushes demandingly against your aching slit.

He leans down, his breath hot against your ear as he whispers, “Now, now, Star... I never said no. We’re just getting started.”

You turn it over between your fingers. The candlelight catches on its edges, casting small flickering shadows across the sheets you have kicked into a tangled mess at the foot of the bed.

You cannot sleep.

This is not unusual. Sleep has never come easily in this palace, in this room that is yours only in the way a gilded cage belongs to the bird inside it. But tonight the restlessness is different. Tonight it has a shape, a name you keep pressing your tongue against the roof of your mouth to keep from whispering aloud.

Rafayel.

You close your eyes and your chest tightens like something is cinching around your ribs, like the air in the room has gone thin and hot and you are breathing through it too fast. The fishtail beacon pulses against your palm. You set it down on the table near your bed. Pick it up again. Set it down. Your hand hovers over it, fingers curling and uncurling, and your pulse thuds dully in your wrists and the base of your throat.

He gave it to you three weeks ago. Pressed it into your hand on the rooftop overlooking the dunes, his gloved fingers lingering against yours for two seconds longer than necessary, his eyes unreadable above the dark line of his mask. “This’ll connect me to you,” he told you, and the laziness in his voice didn’t match the intention of his hands, the way he folded your fingers over it one by one. “No matter where you are. You squeeze that, I’ll know to come to you.”

You asked him why. He tilted his head, and even with half his face hidden you could see the smirk pulling at the corner of his eyes. “Maybe I just get bored easily, princess.”

That is the thing you learned about Rafayel. Everything is a deflection. Every sincere gesture wrapped in three layers of teasing, every vulnerability dressed up as indifference, every act of devotion disguised as convenience. He showed up on your balcony the night you nearly drowned in the canal during your ninety-ninth escape attempt, pulled you out of the water by the back of your dress with one hand while the other held a blade still wet with someone else’s blood, and when you gasped up at him, choking and shivering, he looked down at you like you were an inconvenience he had not budgeted for.

“You got a death wish or something?” he drawled, and the mask muffled the lower half of his voice into something dark and velvet. “Cause if you’re gonna keep throwing yourself into rivers I’m gonna need a heads up.”

You called him Abysswalker because he would not give you his name. The way his eyes flickered, sharp and startled, before the indifference slid back into place. You did not understand then why the name struck him like that. You still do not fully understand now. But you remember the way his jaw tightened behind the mask, the way he exhaled slowly through his nose, and the way he finally, reluctantly, gave you his real name just to make you stop.

That was weeks ago. He has been a constant since.

Not constant in the way of something reliable or predictable, nothing about Rafayel is predictable, but constant in the way of something you cannot stop being aware of. He appears on your balcony at odd hours, never announced, always with an excuse. He sprawls across your furniture like the concept of personal space is a quaint human custom he has chosen not to observe. He picks up your things, examines them with exaggerated curiosity, puts them back in the wrong places. He calls you ‘Your Highness’ with enough irony to fill a cathedral, and sometimes, when he forgets to perform, he calls you ‘Princess’ in a voice so quiet it barely clears the space between you, and the word sounds like something else entirely.

You have memorized him in pieces without meaning to. The way the candlelight catches on the row of silver piercings climbing his ear when his hood falls back. The sharp line of his jaw above the mask, the only inch of his face he allows you. His hands, always gloved, leather worn soft at the knuckles, and the way they move when he talks, lazy and expressive, mapping the air between you with confidence that could dip into arrogance. 

You know the sound of his breathing when he is amused. The slower cadence of it when he is thinking. The way it hitches, just barely, when you catch him off guard with something honest, and the fraction of a second it takes him to recover before the smirk slides back into place.

You know he is hiding something. There’s something like a mark on his chest, the one you have only glimpsed twice. He adjusts his clothes whenever he catches you looking. He changes the subject. He deflects.

And you know, with the kind of certainty that sits in your bones like something you were born with, that he is not here by accident. That whatever brought him to your city, whatever mission lives behind those unreadable eyes, it involves you. Your heart. The heart that is not really yours, the one that belongs to Philos and its people and whatever divine purpose decided before your birth that your chest would house something too valuable for you to claim as your own.

Everyone wants your heart. You have known this since you were old enough to understand why they kept you locked in this palace, why they dressed you in silk and called you princess and never once asked what you wanted. Your heart sustains the planet. Your heart grants immortality. Your heart, your heart, your heart.

Not you. Never you.

And Rafayel... you do not know what Rafayel wants. That is what keeps you awake at three in the morning turning the fishtail beacon over and over in your hands like a rosary, your pulse hammering against the skin of your wrist, your mind replaying the same scene on a merciless loop.

The ruins. Four nights ago.

He had taken you to the sand dunes beyond the city, the ones that stretch endlessly under a sky so vast and dark you could feel the weight of it pressing down on your shoulders. The ruins of something ancient jutted from the sand like the bones of a creature too massive to comprehend, and he walked through them with the familiarity of someone who has walked through them a thousand times, his coat trailing behind him, his hand loose at his side.

You stumbled on a crumbled stairway, your foot catching on stone that shifted beneath you, and he moved faster than you could process, his arm around your waist, your back flush against his chest, and the world stilled.

His hand spread wide across your stomach, fingers pressing gently through the fabric of your dress. His breath was warm against the shell of your ear, filtering through the mask, and you could feel his chest expand against your spine with each slow inhale. You were not in danger. The stairway was three steps high. You would have scraped your knee at most.

He did not let go.

“Be careful, Your Highness.” he murmured, and his voice was so close you felt it vibrate through the bones of your skull more than you heard it with your ears.

You stood there, his arm locked around you, the heat of his body seeping into every point of contact, and something inside your chest cracked open like a door you had been leaning against for weeks finally giving way. Your fingers drifted upward, almost involuntarily, reaching toward the edge of his mask where it met the line of his jaw, and his free hand caught your wrist.

Not roughly. His thumb rested against your pulse point and his grip was gentle and his hand was shaking.

The silence lasted three seconds. Maybe four. Long enough for you to feel the thunder of his heartbeat against your shoulder blade, fast and hard and completely at odds with the steadiness of his hands. Long enough for the heat between your bodies to become something you could taste at the back of your throat, sweet and metallic and dizzying.

Then a sound in the distance, the scrape of sand shifting, an animal or the wind or nothing at all, and he released you. Stepped back. Adjusted his mask. Shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat.

“Watch your step next time,” he offered, and his voice was perfectly, infuriatingly casual.

You did not speak about it. You walked back to the palace in silence and he left through the balcony and you pressed your forehead against the cool stone of the wall and breathed and breathed and breathed until the trembling in your hands subsided.

It did not subside.

It has not subsided since.

You pick up the fishtail beacon again, restless. The heat of it seeps into your palm, travels up through your wrist, settles in the center of your chest where that cursed heart of yours beats too fast for a girl who is supposed to be sleeping. You think of his hand across your stomach. The vibration of his voice against your ear. The shaking of his fingers around your wrist and the way his pulse betrayed every lie his voice tried to tell.

You squeeze the beacon.

Not by accident. Not impulsively. You look at it, you feel the warmth of it, and you close your fist around it with the full and terrifying knowledge of what you are doing. You are calling him. At three in the morning, in a thin nightdress, with your hair loose and your chamber a mess and no excuse prepared and nothing to offer him except the truth that you could not bear another night of pretending you do not want him here.

The beacon flares warm, then cool, then warm again, like a heartbeat answering yours.

You wait.

The balcony doors are open. The desert air drifts in carrying the dry scent of sand and the faint sweetness of night-blooming flowers that climbs the palace walls, and you are sitting on the edge of your bed with your fingers twisted in the fabric of your nightdress, your heart hammering in your ears so loudly you almost miss the sound of his landing.

Almost.

The soft scrape of boots on stone. The whisper of fabric settling. And then he is there, a silhouette framed in the balcony archway, the moonlight catching on the silver chains at his chest and the piercings in his ear, his hood pushed back, his coat open, his mask still on.

His eyes find yours across the dark room and something moves behind them, quick and unguarded before the familiar laziness slides into place like a curtain being drawn.

“You called for me, Princess?” he steps inside, and his voice carries that drawl, that slowness that makes every word sound like he is doing you a favor just by speaking.

Your mouth opens and closes a few times. Throat drier than the desert sand. “I... couldn’t sleep.”

He tilts his head. One eyebrow lifts above the line of his mask. He does not believe you. You can see it in the way his gaze drops from your face to the beacon in your hand and back again, slow and knowing, and the corner of his eyes creases with a smirk you cannot see but can feel like a physical touch across your delicate skin.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he echoes, stepping further into the room, his gloved hand trailing along the edge of your vanity, fingers tipping over a small glass bottle of perfume with exaggerated carelessness. “So you summoned the Abysswalker into your chambers in the middle of the night.”

“I didn’t summon you.” you try to lie, but it’s pointless.

“You squeezed the beacon,” he picks up one of the ribbons from your vanity, winds it around his index finger, lets it unravel. “That’s kinda what it’s for, Your Highness.”

The heat climbs up the sides of your neck. You tuck your chin, averting your gaze toward the window where the sand dunes shimmer faintly under the moon, and you feel rather than see him move closer, even if his steps are dead silent. The room is not large. Four steps and he would be at the edge of your bed.

He takes three.

“You didn’t have to come,” you manage, and your voice comes out thinner than you intended.

He is quiet for a few moments. His hand drops the ribbon. When he speaks again, the teasing has thinned just slightly, like a layer of paint wearing through to something rawer underneath.

“Yeah, well.” he shifts his weight, and his gaze slides sideways, and for a moment he looks almost uncertain. “We both know that’s not true.”

The silence stretches. You can hear the palace guards’ distant footsteps in the corridor beyond your door, the soft murmur of Natasha speaking to someone down the hall. The world outside this room, the world of duty and hearts and gilded cages, presses against the walls like water against a dam.

“Raf.” your voice is as soft as the ribbon previously swirled around his finger.

His eyes snap back to you. You have never called him that before, even though he gave you his name, you never dared call him something more intimate than it. The truncation of his name sits between you like a lit match.

You stand up from the soft mattress. The nightdress moves around your thighs, thin silk that you chose for the heat, not for him, though the way his gaze drops for a fraction of a second before jerking back up to your face makes your skin prickle with awareness and shyness. 

You want to see his face, gauge what his emotions truly convey in his expression. You cross the space between you in two steps and your hand rises slowly, your fingers reaching for the hem of his mask.

His gloved hand catches your wrist before you can fully touch it. His grip is loose, barely there, his thumb resting exactly where your pulse hammers against the thin skin.

“Your Highness.” he coos, the teasing lilt curls around the title like smoke. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“You always wear it.” your voice is soft. Steady, somehow, despite the heat rushing through your veins. “Why? Are we not close enough for you to drop it, or do you simply not want me to see your face?”

His eyes search yours. For a long moment they are completely unreadable, deep and still like water that is darker than it looks, and then something shifts in them, something that is not quite amusement and not quite pain but lives in the space between.

“Maybe I’m just ugly under here,” he deflects, but the usual sharpness is missing from his voice. “Ever think about that?”

“Show me, then.”

“Why?” he tilts his head, as his thumb traces a slow circle over your pulse point that makes your breath stutter in your chest. “What’s so important about seeing my face, Princess?”

“I want to see you when you speak to me.” you hold his gaze. Your fingers hover at the edge of the dark fabric, close enough that your knuckles brush his jaw. “I want to see all of you, not only what you allow me to.”

Something flickers across his expression. A crack, hairline thin, there and gone. He exhales through his nose slowly. “You’ve seen glimpses of it before,” he murmurs. 

“Glimpses are not enough.”

The words land between you and his grip on your wrist loosens, finger by finger, until his hand falls away entirely. He doesn’t move or speak again. Just watches you with those impossible to read eyes, blue-pink ombres in the candlelight, and the silence is permission.

You hook your fingers under the fabric and draw it down.

It slides past the bridge of his nose, past the sharp cut of his cheekbones, and the fullness of his face unfolds beneath your hands like something sacred being unwrapped. The line of his mouth, fuller than you imagined, the lower lip bitten faintly pink. The small beauty marks scattered across his skin like constellations you want to map with your fingertips. The jaw, sharp enough to cut, and the way it tightens when your thumb grazes the corner of his mouth.

He is beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful. In the way a fire is. In the way that something dangerous becomes holy when you hold it close enough to burn.

“There,” he breathes, and his voice is stripped bare now, no mask to muffle it, every vibration of it reaching you unfiltered. “Happy now?”

You don’t answer him, too busy committing him to your memory, just how beautiful he truly is. Your thumb is still resting at the corner of his mouth and his lips part just barely under the pressure of it. His breath is warm against the pad of your finger. His eyes are locked on yours and they are not unreadable anymore. They are saying everything his voice refuses to, and you are still unsure of what to make of whatever you find there.

“The ruins,” you whisper. “Four nights ago, when you caught me...”

His jaw flexes under your hand. “You tripped. It would be careless of me to let the Princess fall.”

“You didn’t let go after.”

Silence. His chest rises and falls. You can see the column of his throat work as he swallows.

“Rafayel.” your voice drops to barely a breath because the guards are outside and Natasha is down the hall and this room is the only safe place left in a palace full of eyes and ears. “Why didn’t you let go of me?”

He closes his eyes. When he opens them again, the laziness and the teasing, all of it has burned away like fog in direct sun. What is left underneath is raw and exposed and so full of longing it makes the air between you feel too thick to breathe.

“You know why, Your Highness,” his gloved hand comes up to cover yours where it rests against his face, pressing your palm flat against his cheek, and the tremor in his fingers is the same one you felt in the ruins, the same one he tried to hide. “I can’t seem to be able to stop... Wanting to be close to you.” 

His words wash over you like cold water in a suffocating desert. Your throat works slowly, tasting your words on the tip of your tongue before you actually decide to let him hear them. It was a simple gesture, catching you so you wouldn’t fall. He could just as easily say so, if it truly meant nothing to him. But nothing is ever accidental with Rafayel, you know this.

A simple touch, a simple embrace under the guise of protecting you to not fall was like opening a door between you, one previously closed, partly on his end. A simple gesture of proximity, one he leaned into before he could have stopped himself. One you didn’t mind, but rather wanted more of.

“Be close to me, then.” your eyes lift up to his, thumb stroking gently over his warm face, “I want you close to me, too.” The words land like a bird’s feather, too soft and barely audible, but enough to reach his ears in the closeness of your bodies.

“Words carry meaning, Your Highness,” his voice drops lower. His thumb traces along your knuckles, slow and gentle. “Actions do, too. So be honest with me… Why did you summon me tonight?”

The words hit your sternum like a fist. Your breath leaves you in a rush and your hand fists gently against his cheek and his eyes darken, his pupils swallowing the color, and the distance between you collapses. There’s no room for pretense anymore, not that you really want to anymore, not that you can.

You kiss him.

It is not quite gentle. It is the culmination of weeks of almost and not quite and what if, and your mouth finds his with a desperation that startles you, that feels like falling except you have been falling for weeks and only now hit the surface of whatever waits below. His response is immediate, his hands gripping your waist, fingers pressing into the silk of your nightdress, pulling you flush against him until you can feel the chains and buckles of his coat pressing into your chest, the warmth of him bleeding through every layer of clothing that separates you.

He kisses you back like drowning, like burning, his mouth hot and insistent and tasting faintly of salt, and your hands are in his hair, the strands impossibly soft between your fingers, strands you ached desperately to touch and feel, and now you’re finally permitted to do so. The sound he makes against your lips, low and raw and wrecked, vibrates through your entire body. 

He breaks the kiss first, his forehead dropping against yours, his breathing ragged. His hands haven’t moved from your waist, and his intention of not withdrawing doesn’t miss you even as your thoughts scramble to dust trying to come to terms with the fact that you just kissed him in your chambers in the middle of the night.

“You got no sense of danger whatsoever, Your Highness,” he murmurs against your mouth. The teasing lilt you’re so familiar with is back but it’s thin now, translucent, stretched over something that trembles. “Summoning an Assassin to your room in the middle of the night. Kissing him, too.”

“You kissed me back.”

“Didn’t say I was the smart one either.”

Your laugh is barely a breath before his mouth catches it, kissing the sound from your lips before it fully forms. Then he is turning you, his hands guiding you by the waist until your back meets his chest in an echo of the ruins that makes your skin sing. His arms wrap around you from behind, his chin settling against the curve of your shoulder, and you feel his breath fan hot across the side of your neck, making you shudder from how good it feels, trickling down your feverish body.

“This dress,” he coos, and his gloved fingers splay across your stomach, wide and warm, the leather soft against silk. “This thin little thing...” his thumb traces a slow line from your navel to the base of your ribs and the sensation shivers through you in a wave that you feel in your scalp and between your legs. “You called me here dressed like this? Shameless.” his lips brush the shell of your ear and you can hear the grin in his voice. “Not very princess-like behavior if you ask me, Your Highness.”

Your cheeks burn in both embarrassment and something akin to pleasure, because he’s suddenly switched on you from raw and honest to this version of him you are familiar with yet not at all, at the same time. Your hands come up to rest over his, pressing them closer against your stomach, and you feel the sharp intake of his breath against your damp neck.

“I was not expecting company when I prepared for bed,” you manage, though your voice is embarrassingly breathy.

“Does the Princess know she doesn’t lie very well?” he mouths the word against the hinge of your jaw, and then his lips trail lower, down the column of your neck in a line of barely there kisses that leave heat blooming in their wake like brushstrokes of fire. “You squeezed the fishtail beacon in your hands and thought of me, knowing exactly what you were inviting into your chambers by doing so.”

You tilt your head to give him access and you feel his mouth curve into a smile against your throat before he presses a kiss to the pulse point there, lingering to feel the frantic rhythm of your heart against his lips. His hands map your body with agonizing slowness, the leather of his gloves dragging over the silk in a friction that makes your nerve endings light up, tracing the curve of your waist, the curve of your hips, the dip of your lower back, and your whole body is shivering, leaning back into him, your weight settling against his chest.

“Cold?” he taunts softly, his mouth at the junction of your shoulder and neck now, open and warm.

“You know I’m not cold.” your voice cracks on the last word because his thumb has found your collarbone and is tracing the bone of it so slowly and maddening, that feels like he is drawing you with intentions alone, his finger as featherlight as a paintbrush on canvas.

You reach behind you, your fingers finding the fabric of his hood where it gathers at his shoulders, and you push it back and off, while your hands slide up into his hair, an action that makes him groan against your neck. A low vibration that you feel in your spine. Your fingers tighten and his hips press forward against you involuntarily. The sensation sends heat pooling low in your belly, your legs almost giving out at what you feel pressed against your lower back.

You turn in his arms, a bit impatient. Your hands go to his chest, palms flat against the fabric of his tunic, and beneath your right hand you feel it. A wave of warmth, sharp and sudden, and when you look down you see it through the thin fabric, a red and pulsing glow. The mark on his chest burning to life under your touch like something answering a call.

His whole body goes rigid at your touch, even as a slight shiver runs through him.

“Don’t...” he starts, but his voice fractures on the syllable. Despite his sudden withdrawal, his hands are still on your waist and he is not pulling away. 

“What is this?” you press your palm harder against the glow and his breath stutters out of him in a sound that is almost a whimper, his head tipping back, his throat exposed, his eyes squeezing shut. The image in front of you makes your lips part in surprise and wonder, because yes, you are curious about the mark and have been for a while. But seeing his reaction to your unprompted touch, how he reacts as if you struck him in either pain or pleasure...

“It’s... complicated, Your Highness.” he forces the words out through gritted teeth. “What you have to know it’s that it’s old. It’s... ours.”

Ours.

The word detonates in your chest, and your brain scrambles for meaning, for logic, but finds none. You don’t need to know, not now, at least. You’ll have plenty of opportunities to interrogate him about it another time, but for now, your fingers curl into the fabric of his tunic and you pull him forward. His mouth finds yours again and this time the kiss is slower, deeper, his tongue sliding against yours and his gloved hand coming up to cradle the back of your skull, tilting your head to deepen the angle. You moan against his lips and feel his fingers tighten in your hair.

You walk him backward. It takes effort, he’s taller and solid and his arms are locked around you, but he goes almost willingly, his mouth still on yours, his boot catching on the edge of the rug as he walks. When the backs of his knees hit the mattress of your bed, he sits and you climb into his lap with a gracelessness that burns your ears red.

He pulls back just enough to look at you through heavy, half-lidded ombre eyes. You are straddling his thighs, your nightdress rucked up around your hips, your hands braced on his shoulders, your face flushed and your breathing ragged. The feeling of him under your body, pressed so close you feel his warmth, his solid muscles, and the state you turned him in... all of it sets your whole body alight and your brain is too far gone to really grasp what you just did. But his is not.

The slowest, most devastating grin spreads across his face.

“So bold, Your Highness.” his hands settle on your bare thighs where the silk has ridden up, his thumbs tracing small circles against your skin. The contrast of leather against bare flesh makes you dizzy. His gaze drops to the tangled sheets beneath him, the pillows thrown sideways, the blankets kicked to the floor. “The sheets are a mess. You really couldn’t sleep tonight, could you?”

You were a fool to think he wouldn’t call you out on it, but the way his words drawl, slow and teasing and maddeningly sexy makes you come to the conclusion that you don’t mind a little bit of his teasing, even if it turns your rosy cheeks two shades darker. You press your forehead against his, your fingers knotting in the chain at his collar. “D-Don’t speak like that.”

“Did something trouble the Princess’ mind?” he leans back on one hand, casual and a tad insufferable, even as his other hand slides higher up your thigh with a slowness that makes your muscles clench at how good it feels, the feeling of his cold glove on your bare skin. “Was it a certain Assassin she boldly called in the middle of the night to come put her to sleep?”

“I will throw you off this balcony.” You avert your eyes, suddenly too shy at his words but too stubborn to let him see the full effect his words have on you.

“Promises, promises.” he catches your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your face so the candlelight catches your eyes. The smugness softens, melts into something that makes your throat ache. “You’re blushing so hard, Princess. Your ears are red.”

You bury your face against his shoulder and feel the rumble of his laughter vibrate through his chest against your palms.

“Hey,” his voice gentles, his hand coming up to the back of your neck, fingers threading into the hair at your nape to guide your gaze back to his. “C’mere. Won’t you look at me?”

You lift your head, albeit a little hesitant. Your eyes are wide, you know, bright and pleading, the want in them so naked it terrifies you. You know he sees it, too, by the way his throat bobs slowly, by the way the playfulness drains from his expression like water from cupped hands and what is left is hunger, raw and deep and shaking and it startles you but also makes your body shiver in delight once more. 

He kisses you again, and this time it is not a question nor a hesitation. His slick, soft lips find your trembling ones while his hand slides to the strap of your nightdress. His fingers pause there for a moment. A question in the hesitation, and you answer it by reaching up and sliding the strap off your own shoulder.

“Inviting me into your bed,” he whispers sweetly against the corner of your mouth, his fingers trailing down your arm as the silk falls. “What happens if the guards outside the door hear something and come find the princess in such an... unfit position?”

“Then you’ll have to keep me quiet,” you breathe, swallowing when his eyes go black. Your spine feels like lightning bolted down from the nape of your neck and down to your lower back and then down still, right between where your thighs are bracketing his lap, in the place now moist and throbbing and needing friction you’re still not bold enough to seek.

His mouth descends on your neck, open and hot. His teeth graze the sensitive skin below your ear, making you gasp while his gloved hand comes up to cover your mouth, gentle but firm, muffling the sound against leather.

“Shhh,” he whispers against your throat, and you can feel the smile there. “That’s more like it.”

His hands undress you in pieces, peeling the silk away with a slowness that is both exhilarating and torturous, pressing his mouth to every inch of skin he reveals, your collarbones, the dip between them, the curve of your ribs. His lips trace the shape of you like he is committing your naked body to memory, like he is painting you with his mouth, and every point of contact sends sparks cascading down your spine until you are trembling in his lap, your fingers tangled in his hair, your head tipped back in pleasure while soft sounds escape between your parted lips.

You tug at his coat impatiently and that makes him laugh, low and breathless, shrugging out of it without detaching his mouth from your sternum. His tunic follows, making the red mark on his chest visible where it blazes in the low light, pulsing in time with his heartbeat, so so beautiful. You press your lips to it and he hisses, his hands fisting in the sheets, his hips rolling up against yours.

“F-Fuck,” he breathes, the word sounds punched out of him, unplanned, raw. It does unspeakable things to your own body, shooting precisely between your legs, like an arrow hitting bullseye.

His mouth finds yours again, more hungry now, and his hands are gloveless now. You barely registered when he took them off, but they map the skin of your chest with such gentleness that makes your eyes sting, thumbs tracing and circling your peaked nipples until your back arches and a sound escapes you that you did not know you could make. You guide his hands upper, your fingers wrapped around his wrists, pulling him closer, pressing his palms flat against your breast. He groans into your mouth and you swallow the sound.

“I might be the Assassin, but you are the lethal one here, Princess,” he whispers against your lips before his hand slides lower, down the plane of your stomach, slow and purposeful. In no time, his fingers find the hem of the silk still bunched at your waist and slip beneath it.

Your hands grip his shoulders so hard your knuckles go white. He watches your face with those devastating bicolored eyes, heavy lidded and swallowed by lust, reading every flicker of sensation that crosses your features. His forehead presses against yours and his free hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone in such a tender gesture despite the lust consuming his soul. When his fingers, gentle and knowing and unbearably precise, find how wet you are, the sound you let out is somewhere between a sob and a plea for more of it.

“There she is,” he murmurs, his voice low and thick and dripping with something that sounds like awe disguised as arrogance, probably already knowing the effect it has on you when he weaponizes his honeyed voice as such. “My beautiful Princess.”

He moves his hand in slow, maddening strokes, building a rhythm that tightens every muscle in your body, and when the sounds you make grow too loud his mouth covers yours, absorbing every gasp and whimper against his lips. His other hand presses flat against the small of your back, holding you against him, steady and sure while the rest of you falls apart.

“That’s it, Your Highness,” he whispers against the corner of your mouth, and his voice has gone rough, wrecked and raspy. “Cling to me. I’ve got you, let yourself fall.”

You shatter in his arms with your face buried against his throat, your teeth sinking into your own lip to keep from crying out, your body bowing into his like a wave breaking against shore. He holds you through it, his lips pressing against your temple, your forehead, the damp curl of hair at your ear, murmuring soft nonsense that sounds like your title and his heartbeat and something in a language you don’t recognize, older than either of you, oceanic and aching.

When your breathing steadies, when the tremors slow to aftershocks and you lift your head to look at him, he is wrecked and unrecognizable. His cheeks are flushed dark, the color bleeding into the tips of his ears. His lips swollen and bitten red, and his chest is heaving and the mark on it pulses like a second heart.

He doesn’t rush to the next part, doesn’t even assume there will be more than what he gave you just now. He just gazes down at you, savoring how you look as the highs of pleasure wash over your body in subsiding waves. You just gave a part of yourself to him, one you can never take back but you don’t want to. It is his now. It was his to take so it is his to keep, now and forever. And you want to give him more parts of yourself, feel like he’s the only one who’ll keep you safe and not feeling like a trapped bird.

This was yours to give, and yours to decide how and when to give it. You want to give him so many more parts, no matter what it is he wants to take. A few pieces, more like this one. Your heart, which is already in his possession, even if he is unaware of it. You’ll give him your fleshed heart too, if only he asked.

Yours to have, yours to give. And you choose him to take it.

You cradle his face in your hands. Your thumbs trace the beauty mark beneath his eyes, and your voice, when it comes, is barely a whisper, raspy but full of unspoken feelings. He awaits an answer to a question he doesn’t voice or even attempt to form, but you choose to speak it anyway.

“I’ve made a selfish decision by summoning you here, but I... I want this. I chose this.” your forehead presses against his and your breath mingles warm between your parted lips. “You are my freedom, Rafayel. I choose you to have me and my body... my heart.”

His eyes search yours, and the vulnerability in them is staggering. The kind of openness that looks like it costs him everything. His hands come up to cover yours where they rest against his face, his fingers lacing through yours, trembling.

“How sure are you of this, my beloved Princess?” his voice is barely above a breath. All the teasing turned to something so naked it makes your chest ache, something painful and raw. “Is it truly what you want from me?” his thumb traces the line of your jaw and his gaze drops to your mouth and back to your eyes. “Giving yourself to someone like me... a reckless thing for a Princess to do. Do you truly want me?”

You kiss him slowly, certain of your decision, wanting to make him understand it, too. Your hands slide into his hair, your body pressing flush against his, and when you pull back your lips brush his as you speak.

“There will never be anyone else I want.”

The sound he makes when he registers your soft whisper is something deep, something that starts in his chest where the mark burns red between you and travels through his entire body in a shudder that you feel everywhere your skin touches his. His arms lock around you and he pulls you against him. His mouth finds yours with a ferocity that steals whatever breath you had left, if you even had any.

He lays you back against the tangled sheets with a gentleness that contradicts the desperation in his kiss, settling over you, the weight of him warm and solid and everywhere. The mark on his chest glows between your bodies like something forged in a furnace, the red of it casting your skin in shades of amber and flame.

“Gotta continue to keep quiet for me, Princess,” he breathes against the hollow of your throat, cooing the words in a teasing lilt, but his voice is shaking now, barely held together. “Unless you want the whole palace knowing who you chose to give yourself to tonight.”

You pull him closer by the back of his neck and his hips press forward with the move. It’s what you both want and crave, if the sounds you both make are any indication. Your shared moans are greedily swallowed by each other’s mouths. His hand finds yours on the pillow, fingers interlacing, squeezing tight.

The world narrows to the space between your bodies. To the rhythm of him moving with you, against you, inside you... To the flex of his jaw when he bites back a groan as you squeeze tightly around him. To the way your name sounds when he whispers it against your collarbone like a confession he has been holding in his mouth for lifetimes. 

Your back arches off the mattress when he hits a certain spot, somewhere deep where it’s tender and untouched, and feeling him press there makes your eyes roll back into your head. His arm hooks beneath you, pulling you against him, his forehead pressed to yours, his breathing fractured and raw.

“Fuck, Your Highness...” his voice breaks on the words, his hips stuttering as they thrust inside your warmth. His bare hand presses firm and warm over your mouth when you cry out in pleasure, and the look he gives you is equal parts desperation and lust. “Keep quiet... the guards...”

You can’t. You pull his hand away and replace it with his mouth, kissing him hard, making him groan against your lips. The sound vibrates through your whole body and the sheets are twisted beneath you and his hand is gripping your thigh and pulling you impossibly closer, and you don’t want this moment to stop. You never want to be away from him after tonight, not ever.

“My beautiful Princess,” he gasps against the corner of your mouth when his rhythm falters for a moment, then quickens, his whole body trembling above you. It’s a beautiful tell you recognize as him losing himself inside you, and you assume he is as close to feeling this closeness between you as you are, this shared pleasure. “Your body doesn’t lie... clings to me so tight...”

Your nails drag down his back and he hisses at the sensation, the feeling of them marking his bare skin makes his hips snap forward and makes the bond mark on his chest blazes so bright you see it through your closed eyelids, red and fierce and consuming. You break apart at the same time, or close enough, his face buried against your neck as he spills so much warmth inside you. Your fingers knotted in his hair from how good it feels. The sound he lets out against your skin, muffled and shattered and utterly broken, is the most honest thing you have ever heard him say.

He stays after that.

The candlelight has burned low by the time the trembling stops, by the time your breathing evens out into something resembling relaxation and his heartbeat slows against your back where he has curled around you, his chest warm and bare against your shoulder blades, his arm draped over your waist, his fingers tracing absent patterns on the inside of your wrist. The bond mark still glows faintly, a soft red pulse that matches the cadence of his breathing.

“Stop thinking so loudly,” he mumbles against your hair, and the drawl is back but soft now, heavy with sleep, the consonants blurred. It makes you smile and move closer in his embrace, “M’trying to enjoy this before you kick me out of your bed.”

It’s a jest, you recognize it as such. Yet even as he jokes, your chest feels heavy where his words settle, scraping against your heart like little knives.

“I’m not going to kick you out.”

“Promise?”

There is something in his voice. Something small and young and achingly uncertain, something that lives under all the smirking and carelessness, and it cracks the last wall inside your chest like a fist through thin ice.

You turn in his arms and press your palm flat against the mark on his chest, the red glow warm beneath your hand. You look him in the eyes with a gaze so raw and honest and blurred by the moist of unshed tears, and you tell him.

“I promise.”

His expression does something complicated, and for a moment his mask wavers so completely that you see everything in his eyes. The relief, the ache, the love so vast and old it seems to spill beyond the borders of this single life. Then he blinks and the smirk ghosts back across his lips, smaller now, gentler, like a muscle memory he can’t quite shake.

“Good,” he whispers, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, his lips warm and impossibly soft. “‘Cause I wasn’t gonna leave anyway.”

His eyes close and his breathing slows. His arm tightens around you in his sleep, an involuntary , instinctive thing, as though even unconscious his body refuses to let go of something it has waited too long to hold.

You lie in the dark with his heartbeat against your palm and the fading glow of the mark beneath your fingers and for the first time in your life, you feel like something that belongs to you.

Outside the window, the desert stretches to the horizon. The dunes roll in smooth, undulating waves under the moonlight, pale gold and endless.

If you look long enough, they almost look like the sea.

© zaynessbeloved 2026. please don’t copy, repost or translate my works. thank you!

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The sun had you soft, heavy-limbed, skin slick with heat when a shadow fell across your body. You blinked up through half-lidded eyes and found him standing there– dripping, shoulders glittering with salt, gaze sharp as glass yet deep as tidewater.

“Stay,” he said, and the sound threaded into you like a hook. Not a command, not really– more like your body had always been waiting to hear it.

Then softer, closer: “Rafayel. Remember it when your body begs mine to stay inside you.”

You meant to sit up, to adjust your towel, but his voice slid lower, honey-dark. “I’ve been searching for someone built like you. Sun-warmed. Open. The kind of body that takes and keeps.”

The words sank straight down your spine, bypassing thought, pooling between your legs. Your nipples tightened hard against your bikini top, aching for friction, and your thighs shifted restlessly, betraying you.

He crouched closer, eyes fixed on your belly, your hips, like they were sacred. “A womb like yours remembers. Holds what it’s given. Made to be filled until it stays.”

The word– womb– landed heavy, shocking, but your body shivered with recognition. Heat flushed low in your gut, sharp and needy, and you realized your knees had parted on their own.

“You’re forward,” you tried to say, but it came out breathy, not a rebuke at all.

“I’m sure,” he corrected, voice velvet and salt. “Sure of you. Of what you were built for.” His hand hovered just above your skin, not quite touching, as if waiting for your yes. “You’ll let me worship you. You’ll let me show you how perfect you are for me.”

Your chest heaved, sunglasses slipping down your nose. It should’ve been laughable, obscene– but your pulse beat hard at your clit, a steady throb that answered for you.

“Say yes,” he murmured, leaning close, lips nearly brushing yours. “Say it and I’ll start slow. Kisses. Praise. Your tits in my mouth while I tell them what they’re for. Until you’re soft and ready for my seed.”

The daze was thick, your body buzzing with want, but you managed the word. “Yes.”

The smile that curved his mouth was wicked and admiring all at once. “Good girl. You don’t know how perfect that is to hear.”

The praise landed like a pulse between your thighs, and you whimpered, already burning for his mouth.

He didn’t make you wait. The heat of his breath hovered, teasing, and your body arched up to chase it before you realized you were moving.

His mouth found yours before you even realized you’d tilted your head up to meet him. The kiss was salt-bright, sun-sweet, and you moaned into it without meaning to, lips parting like they’d been waiting for this exact taste. The sound you made only seemed to deepen the ache pooling lower, the molten throb that pulsed between your thighs.

When his tongue swept against yours, a shiver bolted down your spine, straight to your nipples. They tightened hard, straining against thin fabric, begging for friction. The heat there was unbearable, every brush of air making them sting. You gasped when he dragged his mouth down, slow kisses spilled across your jaw, your throat, until he latched over one peaked bud.

The tug of his lips, the flick of his tongue– your back arched instantly, helpless. Pleasure spiked sharp, bright, and you clutched at his hair, pulling him closer, whining when he sucked harder. The praise came between suckling pulls, murmured into your skin: perfect tits…made to feed, to worship…look at how they beg for me.

The words burned as much as the suction, turning your skin fever-hot. Every time his teeth grazed lightly, your womb fluttered. It shouldn’t have made sense, but your body believed him, every cell agreeing you were built to hold, to nurture, to keep.

When he moved to your other breast, sloppy with hunger, saliva wetting your skin, you cried out, the sound edged with desperation. He didn’t need to say more– you felt it in the pull, the pressure, the way your body responded like it was already primed for his seed. Your hips ground against the towel, chasing friction, every nerve screaming more.

He kissed lower, leaving a trail of heat across your stomach. Each press of his mouth dragged your nerves tighter until you could barely breathe. When he paused just above your navel, your whole body stilled, trembling with anticipation.

His lips hovered there, just over the soft curve of your lower belly, and he exhaled like a man in prayer. You felt it– hot, reverent– like your womb itself was an altar he’d come to worship. His voice, when it spilled against your skin, was ragged silk: “This is where it belongs. Every drop. You’ll hold it for me. You’ll keep it.”

The words pulsed through you like an incantation. Your insides clenched, aching to be filled, and you couldn’t stop the needy roll of your hips against empty air.

Then his mouth dragged lower, tongue tasting the edge of your bikini bottoms before his hands peeled them aside. The first stroke of his tongue over your clit made you cry out, sharp and raw. He groaned at the sound, greedy, and went back in harder, wetter.

It wasn’t delicate. Rafayel devoured you like he’d been starving, lips and tongue sloppy, open-mouthed, sucking until your clit throbbed swollen against him. He spit against you just to lap it back up, saliva mixing with your slick, dripping down your thighs.

You writhed, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging, but he didn’t stop– if anything, the rougher you pulled, the deeper he buried his tongue, pressing inside, twisting, fucking you with it while his nose ground mercilessly against your clit.

Every time you gasped, he praised you between licks, voice muffled against your cunt: “Perfect… made for this… taste like you were built to be bred.”

Your thighs shook around his head, the world narrowing to nothing but his mouth and the relentless, sloppy worship. The orgasm ripped through you before you realized it was coming, your cry carried out across the beach, broken and feral.

And still, he didn’t stop.

You were still shuddering from his mouth when he slid up your body, his skin damp with sweat and saltwater. The blunt head of his cock pressed against your entrance, already slick from how wet he’d left you. The stretch was slow, deep, every inch sinking in until your walls clenched desperately around him.

Your gasp turned into a moan, head tipping back, and he caught your jaw in one wet palm, making you look at him as he bottomed out. “There,” he murmured, hips flush to yours, voice trembling with awe. “Perfect little womb. Taking me so well already.”

He rocked gently, dragging himself out just enough before sliding back in, each thrust unhurried, deliberate. He wanted you to feel it– wanted your body to memorize his shape. Every push brushed your walls just right, and the steady pressure against your cervix had your toes curling into the towel beneath you.

The words kept spilling, smooth and unrelenting, as if they were part of the rhythm. “Made to hold me. To keep every drop. Gonna fill you again and again until it spills down your thighs. You’ll still be full, even then.”

Your body clenched hard around him, answering to his voice more than his thrusts, and he groaned, burying his face against your throat. “Yes…clench for me like that. Your body knows. Knows it belongs full.”

He kissed you there, open-mouthed and messy, before pulling back enough to look into your eyes. “I’ll fuck it into you slow, make it stick. You’ll feel me dripping inside for days.”

The deliberate drag of his cock inside you, paired with that low, silky voice, had your mind swimming. Each thrust was a promise, each word a tether binding you to the inevitable– that he would fill you, keep you, breed you until your body was nothing but proof of him.

He had you stretched and dripping, every thrust slow and deliberate, every word tying you tighter to his rhythm. You were floating on it– heat, fullness, the low chant of his praise– until a strange pressure nudged at your other entrance.

Your daze cracked, just slightly. Awareness sharpened, your body tensing. That’s–

“Shhh,” he crooned, lips brushing your ear, breath thick with salt and heat. “Don’t fight it. I told you– you’re made for this. All of you.”

You tried to look down, to make sense of what you were feeling, but his hips rocked again, drawing your focus back to the steady glide inside your cunt. And still, that second blunt head pressed insistently lower, circling, teasing.

Your voice was a shaky gasp. “There’s… more?”

He laughed, soft and ruined. “Two cocks for the perfect vessel. You’ll take both– you can, I promise you can. Think of how full you’ll be, how I’ll stuff you until there’s no room left to doubt.”

The daze nearly broke– you almost said no– but then the second head slipped past the tight resistance, just a little, and the shock of it made you cry out. Pleasure tore through you, overwhelming, dizzying. The haze slammed back down, heavier than before, every nerve screaming for more.

He held you down, body shaking as he pushed deeper, both cocks stretching you impossibly. “Yes… that’s it. Every hole, every inch of you mine. Look at you– so perfect, split for me, stuffed for me. A real womb needs both ends fed.”

The pace was nothing like before– rough, relentless, the kind of thrusts that jolted you against the towel and left your voice ragged. Both shafts hammered into you, slick and obscene, each stroke dripping filth and praise. “Overflowing… you’ll never be empty again… gonna keep you plugged, leaking, bred from both ends until your body learns it can’t exist without me inside.”

Your moans broke into cries, toes curling, nails clawing at his back as your body spasmed around him, unable to process the flood of sensation. And when he came, it was a torrent– hot and heavy in both holes, your body overwhelmed, stuffed until you swore you could feel him spilling into your stomach, your throat, your bones.

He held you through it, trembling, breathless, whispering against your skin. “See? Perfect. My womb, my beloved vessel. You were made to be full of me.”

You collapsed into the towel, boneless, every nerve buzzing. Your thighs were still twitching, stretched wide and trembling from the impossible fullness. He stayed buried in you, both cocks pulsing, his body heavy and damp against yours.

For the first time, he was quiet– no chants, no coaxing– just breath ragged in your ear. His hands gentled, stroking your hair back, his mouth finding your temple. “You took it all,” he murmured, voice hoarse, almost venerating. “You were perfect for me.”

Your chest heaved, trying to catch air, but the praise made your heart lurch. His thumbs stroked soothing circles over your ribs, grounding you while you felt the slow leak of his spend, thick and warm, sliding down your thighs. He groaned when he felt it, hand instinctively pressing low on your belly as though he could keep it in.

“Don’t waste it,” he whispered, kissing your jaw. “Not a drop. Stay full for me.”

You thought that was it– gentle words, his weight heavy but comforting. But then he shifted, hips grinding just a little, and both shafts twitched inside you. The jolt wrung a helpless moan from your throat, your body arching despite itself.

He laughed softly, broken, desperate. “Still hungry,” he admitted, lips brushing your ear. “Look at you– clenching already. Your body wants more, doesn’t it? More seed, more filling. You’ll take it again.”

The daze washed over you fresh, thick and inevitable, as he drew back and pushed in deeper, both cocks stretching you raw all over again. His words turned hot, unspooling in rhythm with his thrusts. “Round two, my vessel. I’ll stuff you until the tide takes us both. You’ll never know emptiness again.”

And as your legs locked around him, pulling him deeper, you realized you didn’t want to.

Thanks for reading <3

✦ STRWBRRY'S BULLETS

Instinctively, Zayne's hand shot to the corner of his lips, thinking that he had crumbs from the pastry he'd indulged in earlier. "Do I have chocolate on my face?" he asked, grabbing the wipe from your outstretched hand.

"Just wipe your whole face"

He complied, and when he was done, he looked at the spotless wipe and saw that there were no chocolate stains. He looked back up at you with suspicion in his eyes.

"Thank you, Z," you chirped, taking the wipe from him and tossing it into the bin beneath his desk. ""I just wanted to make sure my seat was spotless for later."

The grin on his face was instantaneous, the moment you tried to slip away, giggling, he grabbed your wrist to pull you back onto his lap.

"It's clean now, Y/N," he said with a chuckle, his arms wrapping around your waist to keep you in place. "No need to waste that wipe, now is there?"

Sitting beside him on the sofa in his office, you started to copy his meticulous cleaning. As he focused intently on disassembling and wiping each part of his gun you began to wipe his face.

He glanced up just for a second when he felt you wiping across his forehead, then his eyebrows, before trailing down to his cheeks. "Do I have something on my face, sweetie? I showered not too long ago" he asked, not pausing his task.

You just smirked and shook your head. "Mhhhm, not really" you replied, wiping his chin and around his lips.

"Then why are you wiping my face?" he inquired, finally setting down the gun to look at you quizzically.

You giggled, fighting back a loud laugh "Hold on, Sy," you teased, now focusing on the bridge of his nose. "This is a very important spot. Don't move."

"Kitten..." he warned, but you could hear the amusement in his voice.

"Almost done," you assured, giving his lips a quick peck once you finished your grooming session. "There. Thank you for letting me clean my seat for later" you quipped with a wink.

Your laughter rang out as you made a run for the bedroom, thinking you had caught him off guard. However, you only made it halfway there before you felt his evol wrap around your body. "Not so fast, kitten. Come and sit down."

"Hey, I'm not sure about this stuff, cutie. I have my own skincare routine, ya know? Can't just mess around with random products"

"We gotta hurry, Raf. I already set aside some time for the exhibition today and... oh, for gods sake, will you hold still? I'm trying to spread this cream evenly on your face!"

Rafayel huffed, but let you finish, checking his watch impatiently. "We're so going to be late for the exhibition" His eyes kept darting back to you, he knew that look on your face, you were up to something.

You just laughed off his complaints, wiping the last of the cream from your fingers. "All done" you said with a grin. "I just had to make sure my seat was EXTRA clean for tonight."

No reaction, just a deep flush on his ears as the words sank in, then he pulls out his phone and dials Thomas's number.

"Rafayel don't tell me you..."

"I'm gonna be late, but I'll be there" he says before the other man can say anything else and hangs up, tossing the phone onto the bed. Then he's on you, strong hands gripping your hips as he lifts you effortlessly.

"Why are we...wait, Raf, put me down!"

"No, cutie. Your seat is already EXTRAAA clean, use it"

You felt bad. You always did before pulling a prank on him, but his grunts and sweat reminded you of the previous night. Unable to resist teasing him, you grabbed your face wipes and approached him while he was doing his push-ups.

"Hey pips, I'm almost..." Caleb started to say before you started wiping his face "What are you doing?" he asked, never losing rhythm, even as you began wiping away the beads of sweat.

"I'm wiping your face, dummy," you explained with a playful grin, enjoying the way his muscles flexed with each pushup.

Caleb, slightly out of breath managed a teasing smile in return. "No need, I'm almost done, baby. I'm going to take a shower anyway" he pointed out logically.

"Oh, I know that," you whispered leaning in closer "I just want to make sure my seat is clean for when you're done."

The moment the words left your lips, Caleb's left hand slipped on the floor, causing him to crash face first into the ground with a sharp grunt. The suddenness of it made your eyes widen in concern, your laughter dying in your throat.

"Oh my god, Cay! Are you okay?" you gasped out, quickly moving to kneel beside him, your hand reaching out to check for injuries.

Caleb pushed himself up to sit, wincing before flashing you a roguish grin "Yeah, I'm fine. Hand me a wipe, would you?" he asked, holding out his hand

You grabbed a wipe and pressed it into his palm, expecting him to clean the small trickle of blood that had begun to dribble from his nose. But to your utter shock, Caleb's hand drifted lower, hooking his fingers into the waistband of his shorts.

"What are you doing?" you asked, watching as he slowly tug down his waistband, revealing the growing bulge of his half hard cock straining against his underwear.

"I'm wiping your other seat too, dummy"

"CALEB!"

You're sitting cross legged beside him, hands fiddling with the hem of his shirt, the shirt you wore to bed last night and decided to keep on this morning. He takes in the sight of you, the way the fabric stretches across your thighs, before his eyes drift back up to your face.

"Nope, wipe your whole face not just your cheeks, Xavie," you say, voice already bright and chipper despite the early hour. He raises a brow at that, but allows you to take the wipe from his hand and start cleaning his face "Here, I'll help"

He stays still, letting you wipe his forehead, chin and around his lips. "Are we going somewhere?" he asks, voice still rough from sleep.

You just smile at him, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Nah, I just want to make sure my seat is clean, baby" He blinks at you, slowly coming to and trying to make sense of your words.

Finally, he seems to put the pieces together. His eyes widen just a fraction before he takes the wipe from your hands and starts scrubbing his face with it, mimicking your earlier actions with a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. You watch him, laughing and holding your stomach as he cleans every part of his face.

"It's all clean now, take a seat," he reaches for the pillow behind his head and tosses it to the foot of the bed before laying back flat, settling into the mattress.

"Baby I was just joking..." you start to say, but he cuts you off. Quick as a flash, he grabs you around the waist and hauls you up until he's got your thighs straddling his head, hands gripping your hips to keep you in place.

"Be a good girl and sit, bunny," he commands, pulling your hips down, burying his face between your thighs. His breath feels hot against your bare pussy as he inhales deeply, taking in your scent. "Don't hold back"

Thank you for reading! Take an elote as a gift! 🩷

he has one hand wrapped around your throat, forcing your gaze toward the mirror as he fucks into you from behind. and god, the reflection staring back at you is obscene—your flushed face, his broad chest pressed to your back, the way your bodies move together like they were carved to fit. his other hand slides down, spreading over your stomach, pressing firmly so you can feel just how deep his cock is inside you. the pressure rips broken, garbled moans from your throat.

his calloused fingers trail lower, finding your overstimulated clit and rubbing it with slow, devastating precision. it takes every shred of strength not to scream—because you both know you can’t be caught in this room he dragged you into, not with the party still buzzing right outside the door.

“s-sy…lus!” you gasp as his cock continues to pummel in and out of you ruthlessly. “we’ll be cau—ah, fuck!”

“don’t you worry about that, my wife.” he murmurs, lips pressed to your ear as he stares at you through the reflection of the mirror. “tell me, beloved. did playing as my wife make you this wet? or was it something else?”

your eyes roll back, breaking contact with him, but he won’t allow it. his hand gently squeezes at your throat while his other palm digs into your abdomen. “look at me, sweetheart.” he says softly but there’s an edge of darkness that demands you to comply.

you use the last bit of your power to crack your eyes open and meet his—those dark, glowing crimson eyes staring you down like he’s devouring every inch of you.

“good girl,” he coos, voice soft enough to melt you, but the praise makes you clench around him so hard he groans. “now tell me—do you like being my wife?”

sylus tilts his hips and then drives into you so sharply you have to clamp onto his forearms just to keep from keeling over.

“oh—!” your mouth drops open in a broken moan as he pounds against your cervix again and again, each thrust knocking the breath from your lungs. “yes! i lo-love being your wife—‘m your wife, ‘m your wife!”

he groans throatily at the declaration, his entire body shudders, cock twitching inside of you. “i-if you’re my wife—hah, shit—then what am i to you, hmm?”

“m-my husband—you’re, fuck, you’re my husband!” you cry out, the words tumbling from your throat as your orgasm coils tight and vicious inside you. sylus’s fingers speed up, circling your clit with ruthless precision, and it’s all it takes for you to be thrown over the edge. your vision blurs, your body locks up around him as you fall headfirst into your climax.

and sylus… sylus isn’t far behind. the second he hears you call him “husband,” his whole body jolts like you’ve shocked him. his cock swells, pulses, and then he buries himself as deep as he physically can, spilling hot, heavy ropes of cum inside you. his moans are low and raw and broken as they vibrate against your skin, each ribbon of cum—each moan that comes out of his throat warms you all the way to your core.

he holds you close to him as the both of you ride out your orgasms. when your breathing finally slows, he leans in, presses his lips to your burning ear, and whispers something meant only for you.

“i’m going to make you my wife.”

kit says… i wrote this while in heat after watching sylus’s myth event story which is why it’s loosely based off that teehee. thank u j ( @thewrldx ) for reading this over <3

“mommy just wants to make you feel good,” you whisper with a smile that can be heard in your voice. “can you tell mommy how good she’s fucking you, baby?”

and…maybe you shouldn’t have teased him. maybe you shouldn’t have taken a mile when he offered you an inch. and maybe—just maybe—you should’ve fucked him exactly the way you’d planned and ended it there. because rafayel isn’t blushing from the pleasure anymore. not even close.

rafayel was just pissed.

his hands come back to your waist, gripping you so hard that you’re cut off mid sentence by your own yelp of surprise. he flips you onto your back with ease, pinning both your wrists above your head with a single hand while his other hand wraps loosely around your throat. 

“tch, mommy? really?” he deadpans, leaning in so close you can see his black pupils swallowing the blue and pink color of his eyes in real time. his cock is still pressed inside your pulsing, wet cunt—the very cunt that grips onto him for dear life. “you really want me to call you mommy…? fine.”

your eyes widen and pulse quickens at his sudden change of demeanor. one second he’s on his back whining and whimpering for you to go faster and the next? he’s got a hand around your throat and he looks like he’s about to devour you.

then he moves, pulling out of you and slamming into you like he has a point to prove. your back arches and a lewd moan pours out of you and it’s music to rafayel’s ears. then he does it again… and again… and again till he’s reached a quick, steady rhythm with his cock pistoning in and out of you. 

all you can do is moan and cry, fresh tears springing to your eyes with every bump against your cervix. 

“does that feel good, mommy? huh?” rafayel spits condescendingly. “am i being a good boy for you?”

and you clamp around him, eyes rolling back at the way his voice hits the name—low, smug, deliberate. rafayel catches every second of your reaction, of course he does, and the man actually snorts.

“hah. what’s the matter, mommy?” he drawls, tilting his head like he’s watching something pathetic. “cat got your tongue? or did i just fuck the words right out of you?”

it’s too much. his tone, his words, his cock—they’re all working in tandem to drive you crazy. had you known you would’ve gotten a reaction like this, you wouldn’t have teased him so much… except with the way your stomach flutters and your pussy tightens like it’s getting ready to gush all over him, you’re glad you did. 

your breaths quicken and you still feel like you’re not getting enough air. “f-fuh–fuck! raf…‘m gonna cum!” 

he laughs airily, the sound light but dripping with ridicule. “already? you’re so pathetic, mommy… i was just warming up.” his smirk widens as he watches you struggle to hold yourself together. “but fine. go on—make a mess all over your good boy’s cock, yeah?”

all it takes is for a few more sharp thrust to completely throw you over the edge. your body jolts and shakes as you cum on a mewl, curses and whimpered versions of his name fill the air all while he smirks, fucking you through your mind boggling orgasm. 

when you finally come down from your high, you’re limp and utterly wrecked—hair a mess, breath stuttering, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth while your eyes stay dazed and unfocused. and even then, even with you trembling and used up beneath him, his hips don’t stop. he keeps grinding into you like your orgasm was nothing but an appetizer. 

he offers the most wicked smile you’ve ever seen plastered on his gorgeous face. 

“gooood job, mommy, you did sooo well.” he taunts, his voice dripping with condescension. “you made such a mess, hmm… did your good boy make you feel good?”

the hand wrapped around your throat glides upward, his fingers pressing into your cheeks until your lips pout and your head moves exactly the way he wants—forced into a little nod.

“good,” he murmurs, eyes glinting. “then you won’t mind if i take my reward for being such a good boy… right?”

kit says… panties went on holiday while writing this ngl. if this doesn’t make sense, u can blame rafayel for being sexy!!! it’s not my fault!!!

She's threading through the crowd near the turnstiles, that slight frame dwarfed by backpacks and briefcases, the pleated skirt of her uniform swishing against her thighs with each step. The white blouse is too big for her—probably hand-me-downs or thrift store finds, she's careful with money—and it gapes slightly at the collar where she's missed a button. Caleb's jaw tightens. He wonders if she knows. He wonders if she walked through the chill with that patch of skin exposed, if any of the boys on the platform noticed, if any of them dared to look for as long as he is looking now.

She boards two cars down. 

Caleb moves without urgency, sliding through the press of bodies with the ease of a man who has spent decades navigating tight spaces. The train lurches forward with a metallic screech, and he times his approach to the sway of the car, letting the momentum carry him closer to her. 

She's found a spot near the connecting door to the next car, pressed against the wall by the sheer volume of passengers, her delicate hands gripping the vertical pole with white-knuckled intensity.

Perfect. He waits until the train rounds the curve, until the car tilts and everyone stumbles. In that moment of chaos, he inserts himself into the gap. He doesn't ask. He doesn't apologise. Caleb simply becomes the wall at her back, his chest pressing against her shoulder blades, his thighs bracketing hers. She stiffens, but doesn't turn around—she can't, not with him filling the space behind her, not with the crowd pressing in on all sides. He lets his head drop slightly, his nose nearly brushing the shell of her ear, and he inhales deeply. 

Apple shampoo. Cheap drugstore brand. He bought her the expensive kind last month, left it in her locker with no note, and she must have thrown it away. 

The thought makes him smile against her hair.

"Easy," he murmurs, his voice pitched low enough that only she can hear it beneath the rumble of the tracks. "Just getting my balance, darling. Nothing to worry about."

She doesn't relax. Smart girl. She knows his voice now—he's made sure of that, calling out to her in hallways, leaving voicemails she never returns, coming too often at the diner where she works weekend shifts. She's known him for six months, ever since the charity gala where she served rubber chicken to donors twice her age, and he's been a constant presence since, a shadow that lengthens each day.

The train accelerates out of the station, and Caleb lets the momentum press him closer. 

He's wearing his overcoat, unbuttoned, and beneath it his body is furnace-hot despite the chill. He can feel the tremor running through her, the rabbit-fast beat of her heart where his chest meets her back. She's so small. Even in heels—which she only wears for school, sensible black shoes with 2-inch heels and worn-down soles—she barely reaches his shoulder. He could lift her onto his hips and carry her for miles without tiring.

He could do anything he wants, really; the realisation never fails to make him hard.

Caleb shifts his weight, letting his pelvis brush against her skirt. The wool is thin, cheap, and he can feel the heat of her through the fabric, the cleft of her ass settling against the growing ridge of his cock. She makes a sound—small and startled—and tries to step forward, but can't, not when she's already been caught, caged. 

His.

"Quiet," Caleb breathes against her ear, a heavy hand settling on her hip. His thumb presses into the soft flesh of her stomach, pinky resting at the curve where her thigh meets her pelvis. "Don't squirm, sweetheart. You'll draw attention."

She does squirm, though. She twists her hips, trying to dislodge his grip, and the friction makes him groan softly against her hair instead. He tightens his fingers, digging in just enough to leave marks she'll find later, bruises blooming in the shape of his ownership. His other hand joins the first, both palms spanning her waist.

"N-No, stop," she whispers, but her voice cracks on the word, and Caleb knows desperation when he hears it. 

She's not telling him to stop because she wants him to stop. She's telling him because she thinks she should, because some part of her still believes in the fiction that she doesn't want this, that she hasn't been dreaming about it, that she doesn't touch herself at night thinking about the way he looks at her across crowded rooms. She's telling him because she thinks that it's the right thing, what good girls should do, what normal girls should do when they're being touched by a not-so-stranger in a crowded train.

"I can't hear you," he lies, and slides his right hand down, down, over the pleats of her skirt. The fabric bunches under his palm as he gathers it, inch by inch, his movements hidden by the bulk of his coat, by the fact that no one on this train is paying attention to anything but their own exhaustion early in the morning. 

"Speak up, baby. Use your big girl words."

Her breath hitches. Caleb feels it in the trembling of her ribs against his forearm, the way she goes still as his fingers find the hem of her skirt and slip beneath it. Her thighs are bare—she's wearing knee-high socks, white with a navy stripe at the top, but no tights, never tights, she can't afford the good kind—and her skin is soft, slightly chilled from the walk to the station. 

"Please," she breathes out, and that word sends a jolt of heat straight to his cock. He's fully hard now, straining against his trousers, the head pressing insistently against the wool of her skirt. She must feel it. She must know what she's doing to him.

"Hm? What was that, sweet girl?" Caleb asks, his voice is a rumble that she feels more than hears. He trails his fingers up the inside of her thigh, watching the way her knuckles whiten on the pole, the way her head drops forward so her forehead nearly touches the metal. She's trying to make herself small, trying to disappear into the wall, but he won't let her. He crowds closer, his chest a solid weight against her back, his chin hooking over her shoulder. "Should I stop? Or is that you asking for more?"

She doesn't answer. 

The train screams into the tunnel under the river, and the lights flicker, plunging them into darkness for three full seconds. In that darkness, Caleb moves his hand higher, finds the edge of her underwear—cotton, practical, the kind bought in packs of five—and hooks his thumb beneath the elastic. When the lights stutter back on, he's already inside, his fingers sliding through heat and wetness that makes his vision blur at the edges.

"Oh," he says, soft and wondering, like he's found something precious and secret. "Oh, look at you. Look how ready you are. Have you been thinking about this, sweetheart? Have you been walking around all morning with this pretty little cunny wet and waiting for me?"

She makes a sound—denial maybe, or despair—and tries to close her legs, but his thigh is already there, his knee wedged between hers, holding her open. 

The angle is awkward, his wrist bent at an uncomfortable degree, but Caleb has spent thirty years manipulating controls in cramped cockpits. He knows how to make his hands do what he wants them to do, regardless of space or gravity or the fact that they're currently surrounded by two hundred commuters who would scream if they knew what was happening mere inches from their elbows.

He doesn't give one flying fuck; not when he finds her clit with unerring precision, the pad of his middle finger circling the swollen bud with a pressure that makes her jerk against him. 

She's so responsive, so raw—everything he knew she would be, everything he's been imagining during long nights in his empty loft. He can feel her pulse against his fingertip, the blood rushing to the surface, the bundle of nerves hardening as he strokes it. She tries to stifle a moan and ends up making a high, wounded noise that gets lost in the screech of brakes as the train slows for the next station.

"Quiet," Caleb reminds her, his free hand coming up to cover her mouth. His palm is broad enough to seal her lips completely, his fingers curling around her jaw to hold her still. "Hush now. Good girls don't make noise. Good girls take what they're given and say thank you."

He feels her lips move against his skin, maybe forming words, maybe just gasping for air. He doesn't care. He increases the pressure on her clit, rubbing tight, relentless circles that make her thighs tremble against his. She's so close already—he can tell by the way her hips start to roll, seeking friction despite herself, despite the public place and the danger and the hand clamped over her mouth. All his watching, all his waiting, all his careful cultivation of her dependence on him—it's been building to this. She's been his for years already. She just didn't know it until now.

"That's it," he croons against her ear, his voice barely audible over the announcement for the next stop. "That's my good girl. Let me feel you. Let me feel how much you want this."

He slides his middle finger lower, finds her entrance slick and fluttering, and pushes inside. She's tight—god, she's tight, the muscles of her pussy clamping down on him like a vice, resisting the intrusion even as her wetness eases his way. 

Caleb groans, the sound vibrating against her shoulder, and works his finger deeper, curling it to find the rough patch of tissue on her anterior wall. He knows he finds it when she bucks against him, her spine arching, her head falling back against his shoulder. "There?" he asks, unnecessary, because he can feel her response in the way her inner walls flutter around his finger, the way her breath comes in short, desperate pants against his palm. "Right there, baby? Is that your spot? Is that where you need me?"

He doesn't wait for an answer. He sets a rhythm, fucking her with his finger in slow, deep thrusts, his palm grinding against her clit with each inward stroke. 

The train lurches to a stop, and the doors open, letting in a gust of cold air and a fresh wave of passengers. Caleb uses the chaos to adjust his position, wedging himself more firmly against her, his cock nestled in the cleft of her ass, his finger working her with mechanical precision.

She's fighting him still, he realizes—not to get away, but to stay silent. Her whole body is rigid with the effort of suppression, her muscles locked against the pleasure he's forcing on her. He can feel the sweat gathering at her hairline, the damp heat of her skin through the cotton of her blouse. She wants to cry out. She wants to scream. She's eighteen and overwhelmed and he's fifty-two and relentless, and the disparity between them is the most erotic thing he's ever experienced.

"Let go, honey," he whispers against her ear, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt on her skin. "Stop fighting it. You're only making it worse. You're only making me want to hurt you more."

He adds a second finger, stretching her, feeling the burn as her body tries to accommodate the intrusion. She whimpers against his palm, and he shushes her again, his hand pressing harder, his fingers digging into her cheek. The train starts moving with a jerk, and he uses the momentum to thrust deeper, crooking his fingers inside her, massaging that spot with relentless focus.

"Feel that?" he asks, his voice guttural with his own need. "Feel how full you are? That's just two of my fingers, darling. Imagine if it was my cock. Imagine if I bent you over right here and fucked you until you couldn't walk straight. Would you like that? Would you like everyone to see what a little slut you are for me?"

She shakes her head, but her hips are moving now, grinding down on his hand, seeking more pressure, more friction, more of the building sensation that's making her shake apart in his arms. 

Caleb smiles against her hair and rewards her with his thumb, pressing hard on her clit while his fingers pump inside her, the wet squelch of it lost in the ambient noise of the train.

"Liar," he breathes. "You're soaked. You're dripping down my hand. You're going to make a mess of your pretty skirt, aren't you? You're going to walk into school with cum on your thighs and everyone's going to know how dirty you are, haha, my dirty little girl."

The words seem to break something in her. She goes rigid, her back bowing, her cunt clamping down on his fingers with rhythmic spasms that tell him she's cumming, hard and silent against his hand. Caleb holds her through it, his arm banded around her waist to keep her upright, his fingers still working her, drawing out the orgasm until she's twitching, oversensitive, trying to squirm away from the contact.

He doesn't let her. He keeps his fingers inside her, feeling the aftershocks ripple through her muscles, the way she goes limp, trusting him to hold her weight. He can see their reflection in the glass—him tall and dark and imposing, her small and dishevelled and utterly claimed.

"Good girl," he murmurs, finally withdrawing his hand from beneath her skirt. His fingers are shiny with her arousal, and he brings them to his mouth deliberately, sucking them clean while she watches in the window's reflection, her eyes wide and dazed. "Such a good girl for me. Look how well you did. Look how pretty you are when you cum for me."

She sways on her feet, and Caleb catches her, turning her around with careful hands. Her face is flushed, her lips parted, her eyes glassy with the aftermath of pleasure. He fixes her skirt with methodical precision, smoothing the pleats, adjusting the waistband, his touch impersonal now that he's had what he wanted. When he's satisfied, he cups her face in both hands, his thumbs brushing over her cheekbones, and begins to press kisses to her forehead, her temples, the tip of her nose.

"There's my sweet love," he croons, his voice soft as velvet, completely at odds with the filth he was whispering minutes ago. "There's my good girl. You did so well. I'm so proud of you."

She blinks up at him, still dazed, still floating on the endorphins he's given her. Caleb smiles down at her, all tender affection and dark promise, and brushes a strand of hair from her forehead.

"Listen carefully," he says, his tone shifting to something more commanding, though his hands remain gentle on her face. "When we get to the next stop, you're going to get off the train. You're going to walk to the first bathroom on the left. You're going to keep the door unlocked. You're going to lift your skirt and spread your legs and sit on the sink, and you're going to wait for me."

Caleb watches her process the instructions, sees the flicker of understanding in her eyes, the lingering haze of pleasure making her pliant and obedient.

"I have to give you your cummies before you get to school, don't I?" he continues, his thumb tracing her lower lip. "Can't send you off like this, all worked up and nowhere to go. That would be cruel. And I'm not cruel, am I, baby? I'm good to you, so good to you. I take good care of you."

She nods her head slowly, and Caleb rewards her with a kiss to her forehead, lingering there, breathing in the scent of her shampoo.

"That's right. I'm good to you. So you'll wait for me. You'll keep your legs spread and your baby cunny ready, and when I get there, I'm going to fuck you properly. I'm going to fill you up until you're dripping, until you can feel me inside you all day, until every step you take reminds you who you belong to. Does that sound nice?"

The train is slowing for the station. Caleb feels the deceleration in his knees, the familiar shift of weight as passengers prepare to disembark. He holds her face a moment longer, his eyes searching hers, making sure she understands, making sure she knows this isn't a request.

"Yeah," he murmurs, answering for her, his voice thick with satisfaction. "That's a good girl. That's my perfect little thing. Now go. Don't make me wait."

He releases her with a final pat to her cheek, a proprietary touch that lingers too long to be casual. She stumbles slightly as she turns, catching herself on the pole, and Caleb watches her go with hungry eyes, watching the sway of her skirt, the uncertainty in her step, the way she glances back at him just once before the doors open and the crowd carries her onto the platform.

He gives her a thirty-second head start, counting down in his head. His cock is still hard, aching, demanding attention, but he ignores it. Good things come to those who wait. Good things come to those who plan, who watch, who take what they want when the moment is right.

Caleb has been waiting for this for six months. He can wait another thirty seconds.

But only just.

The bathroom is exactly where he remembers it, tucked behind a concrete pillar near the elevators. The door is unlocked when he tries the handle, and Caleb smiles to himself, a slow, predatory expression that doesn't reach his eyes. 

She's already inside; she's already his good girl.

He knocks once, a soft tap of his knuckles against the metal. "It's me, darling. Let me in."

The lock clicks, and the handle turns. Caleb pushes inside and closes the door behind him, engaging the deadbolt with a decisive snap that seems loud in the small, tiled space.

She's exactly where he told her to be, perched on the edge of the sink with her skirt bunched around her waist, her legs spread wide and her feet dangling in the air. The position makes her look even smaller than she is, a doll arranged for his pleasure, her white cotton panties discarded on the tile. Her hands grip the edge of the sink beside her, knuckles white, and her chest heaves with quick, shallow breaths that make the front of her blouse flutter.

Caleb takes a moment to look at her, really look, cataloguing the details he has committed to memory over months of observation. 

"Good girl," he murmurs, and watches her shiver at the praise. He shrugs out of his overcoat, folding it with deliberate care and hanging it on the hook behind the door. His jacket follows, then his tie, until he's standing in only his shirt, the muscles of his forearms visible as he rolls them to his elbows. "You waited for me. You kept your legs spread just like I asked. That's very good. That's exactly what I wanted, honey."

He steps closer, closing the distance between them until his thighs brush against her knees. 

She's trembling, he notices, a fine vibration running through her entire body, and he reaches out to cup her face in one hand, his thumb stroking her cheekbone with tender possessiveness. "Nervous, baby? Don't be. I'm going to take such good care of you. I'm going to make you feel so good you'll forget your own name."

He drops his hand to her knee, and squeezes. Her skin is cold from the tile room, gooseflesh raised along her thighs, and he warms her with his palm, sliding upward slowly, inch by inch, watching her face for every reaction. When he reaches the apex of her thighs, he doesn't touch her where she wants it—where he can see she wants it, her hips tilting subconsciously toward his hand. Instead, he traces the crease where thigh meets pelvis, the sensitive skin there, feeling her muscles jump beneath his touch.

"P-Please," she whispers, and the word goes straight to his cock, making him harder, hungrier.

"Did you say something?" he asks, his voice mild, conversational, as if they're discussing the weather rather than her spread legs and his straining erection. "Use your words, sweetheart. I can't read your mind. Tell me what you need."

She bites her lip, her eyes dropping to where his hand rests so close to her core, and Caleb waits. He has infinite patience for this, for the breaking down of her defences, for the moment when her pride finally loses to need. He has been waiting for months. He can wait for a few seconds more.

"Touch me," she finally breathes, the admission costing her something, he can tell. "Please, I-I need—you were touching me before, on the train, and then you stopped, a-and I need—"

"Shh," Caleb interrupts, his free hand coming up to press a finger to her lips. "Hush now. Don't beg. I'll give you what you need because I want to give it to you, not because you asked nicely. Understand?"

He doesn't wait for an answer. He drops to his knees on the tile floor, the position putting his face level with her spread thighs, and hooks his hands behind her knees, pulling her forward until her hips are at the very edge of the sink. She gasps at the movement, at the sudden vulnerability of being open to him completely, and tries to close her legs, but his shoulders are there, broad and immovable, keeping her spread.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, and he means it—she's glistening, swollen, her arousal evident in the slick heat he can feel radiating against his chin. He leans in and inhales, groaning at the scent of her, musky and sweet and entirely hers. "Look at you. Look how wet you are. Is this all for me, baby? Did I do this to you?"

He doesn't expect an answer, and he doesn't get one. He uses his thumbs to part her folds, revealing the small, hardened bud of her clit, the fluttering entrance to her cunt, every intimate detail that belongs to him now. He studies her for a moment, memorizing the architecture of her pleasure, and then he leans in and licks.

The sound she makes is exquisite—a high, broken cry that she immediately tries to stifle, her hand flying to her mouth. Caleb reaches up and pulls it away, pinning her wrist to her thigh with his free hand. 

"No, little girl," he says against her flesh, his breath hot against her most sensitive skin. "No covering your mouth. I want to hear you. I want to hear every sound you make while I eat this pretty little cunny." He goes back to work with renewed focus, lapping at her in long, broad strokes of his tongue, gathering her taste, learning her responses. She's sensitive, he discovers, incredibly so—every touch of his tongue makes her jerk against him, her hips trying to squirm away even as her hands fist in his hair to hold him closer. The contradiction delights him. He tightens his grip on her wrist and uses his other hand to spread her wider, opening her completely to his mouth.

Caleb finds her clit with his lips and sucks, drawing the swollen bud and flicking it with the tip of his tongue, rapid, relentless movements that make her thighs tremble against his shoulders. She's making noises now, unable to help herself, small whimpering sounds that echo off the bathroom tiles. He hums against her, the vibration making her arch her back, and slides his tongue lower, pressing against her entrance, tasting the source of her wetness.

"So good," he murmurs, pulling back just enough to pant, his chin shiny with her slick. "You taste like honey, baby. Like something I could spend all day eating. Would you like that? Would you like me to keep you here for hours, just licking and sucking until you can't think straight?"

He doesn't wait for an answer. He returns to her clit, latching on with his lips and tongue, and slides two fingers into her cunt in one smooth thrust. She's tight still, gripping him immediately despite how he stretched her earlier in the train, her muscles fluttering around the intrusion. Caleb groans at the sensation, at the wet heat of her, and begins to move his fingers in a steady rhythm, curling them to find the spot inside her that makes her cry out, that makes her heels drum against the cabinet below the sink.

"That's it," he encourages, his voice muffled against her flesh. "That's my good girl. Let me feel you. Let me feel how much you want this."

He sets a punishing pace, his fingers pumping in and out, his mouth working her clit with single-minded focus. He can feel her closing to the edge, her thighs tensing, her breath coming in sharp gasps, and he doesn't let up, doesn't slow, driving her higher and higher until she's sobbing, her head thrown back, her free hand holding on for dear life on the edge of the sink. She cums with a scream that she tries to bite back, her body convulsing, her cunt clamping down on his fingers in rhythmic spasms that he feels right against his tongue. 

Caleb keeps working her, gentling his touch but not stopping, drawing out her orgasm until she's twitching, oversensitive, trying to push his head away with the hand he isn't holding.

"Too much," she gasps, her voice raw. "Please, it's too much, I can't—"

"Yes, you can," Caleb interrupts, looking up at her and smiling with his eyes, the expression is almost boyish. His fingers are still inside her, moving slowly now, feeling the aftershocks ripple through her muscles. "You can take more. You will take more. I'm not done with you yet, baby. I'm nowhere near done."

He pulls his fingers free and replaces them with his tongue, thrusting deep, tasting her from the inside, feeling her jerk against him at the sudden intimacy of it. She's so sensitive now that every touch makes her whimper, her body trying to curl in on itself to escape the sensation, but he holds her open, his hands gripping her thighs, his shoulders keeping her knees apart. He fucks her with his tongue, rapid, shallow thrusts that make her gasp and writhe, and then he moves back to her clit, sucking hard, flicking the tip of his tongue against the overstimulated bud until she's crying in earnest, tears streaming down her face, her body shaking with the effort of processing pleasure that has become too intense to bear.

"N-No, stop," she sobs, her voice breaking. "P-Please, I can't, it's too much, please stop—"

Caleb pauses, just barely, his lips still pressed against her swollen flesh. "Do you want me to stop?" he asks, his voice soft, dangerous. "Really? Or do you just think you should want me to stop?"

He looks up at her, meeting her eyes across the expanse of her trembling body, and sees the truth there—the hunger that outweighs the fear, the need that pushes past the discomfort. She shakes her head, minutely, and he smiles against her thigh, sharp and satisfied.

"That's what I thought," he murmurs, and goes back to work.

He brings her to the edge again and again, using his fingers and his tongue in combinations that make her scream, that make her beg, that reduce her to a sobbing, incoherent mess of sensation. She loses track of her orgasms—he can tell by the way she stops counting, stops distinguishing between each one, her body simply riding wave after wave of pleasure that he orchestrates with clinical precision. 

She's drooling, he notices, her mouth open and wet, her eyes glassy and unfocused. Perfect. Exactly as he wanted her. Empty of everything but the feeling of his mouth on her, his fingers inside her, his will overriding hers completely.

When he finally pulls back, she's limp against the sink, her legs splayed obscenely, her cunt swollen and red and dripping with his saliva and her own arousal. Caleb wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, savouring the taste of her, and stands, his knees popping slightly from kneeling too long on the hard floor. He towers over her, his shadow falling across her flushed, tear-streaked face, and he reaches down to cup her jaw, his thumb tracing her lower lip.

"Look at you," he says, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Look what I've done to you. Can't even speak, can you? Can't even think. Just a pretty little doll now, all empty and wet and ready for whatever I want to give you next."

He keeps his hand on her face, his other hand sliding into her hair, gripping the strands at the crown of her head. "Slide down," he commands, tugging gently to guide her. "On your knees, baby. There's something else I want you to do for me."

She obeys, her movements sluggish and uncoordinated, her body still floating on the pleasure he's flooded her with. She slides off the sink, her feet finding the floor unsteadily, and he helps her, his hand in her hair controlling her descent until she's kneeling before him, her face level with the straining bulge in his trousers. 

Caleb keeps his grip on her hair, tight enough to make her eyes water, and uses his other hand to unbuckle his belt, to unbutton his fly, to draw himself out into the cool bathroom air.

He's massive, flushed dark with blood, the head slick with precum that beads at the slit and drips slowly down the shaft. He watches her eyes track the movement, watches her pupils dilate, and he smiles, cruel and fond. "See what you do to me, darling?" he asks, giving himself a slow stroke, spreading the wetness over his heated skin. "See how hard I am for you? All because you're such a good little slut for me. Such a desperate little thing, letting an old man eat your cunt in a train station bathroom."

He slaps her cheek with his cock, the heavy weight of it landing against her skin with a wet sound that makes her flinch. He does it again, on the other side enjoying the way she tries to turn her face away only to have him tighten his grip in her hair and hold her still. 

"Don't look away," Caleb warns. "You did this. You take responsibility. Open your mouth."

She obeys, her lips parting tremulously, and he doesn't give her time to prepare. He thrusts forward, pushing past her lips, her teeth, lodging himself deep in her throat in one smooth movement. She gags immediately, her body convulsing, her hands flying up to push against his thighs. He ignores her, gripping her hair with both hands now, holding her head immobile as he begins to move.

"That's it," he groans, his hips setting a brutal rhythm, fucking her face with deep, punishing thrusts. "Take it. Take my cock, baby. You can do it. You're doing so well."

She chokes around him, her throat constricting in rhythmic spasms that feel like heaven, her eyes streaming tears that run down her face and drip onto her blouse. The fabric is already ruined—wrinkled from the train, damp with sweat, stained with a mixture of her drool and his precum. Caleb doesn't care. He likes the visual of her in disarray, her uniform defiled, the outward sign of her proper schoolgirl existence corrupted by what he's doing to her.

He looks down at her, at the way her lips are stretched wide around his girth, at the desperate, overwhelmed expression in her eyes, and he smiles.

"Good girl," he pants, his thrusts becoming erratic as his own pleasure builds. "Such a good little cocksucker. Look at you. Look how desperate you are for it. You love this, don't you? You love being used like this, treated like a little fucktoy. Tell me you love it."

Caleb pulls back slightly, giving her just enough room to gasp for air, to form words. She stares up at him, her face wrecked, her throat working, and rasps, "I l-love it."

The admission breaks something in him, some last restraint. Caleb snarls and thrusts deep, burying himself to the root, feeling her nose press against his abdomen, her throat convulsing around him as she struggles to breathe. He holds there, suspended in perfect agony, and then he's coming, pulsing thick ropes of cum directly into her throat, flooding her, marking her from the inside out. She swallows convulsively, her body trying to clear her airway, and he watches her take everything he gives her, and it's the hottest fucking thing he's ever seen. 

He keeps thrusting through his orgasm, milking himself against her tongue, her palate, the tight constriction of her throat, until he's empty, until he's sensitive, until he has to pull back with a gasp that sounds like pain.

She collapses forward when he releases her hair, catching herself on her hands, gasping for air, coughing, her face streaked with tears and saliva and the remnants of his release. Caleb looks down at her, at the picture she makes—slumped on a dingy bathroom floor, ruined, his—and feels a surge of possessive satisfaction so intense it makes him dizzy.

But he's not done. He's been planning this for too long, imagining it for too many sleepless nights, to stop now. He reaches down and grips her arm, hauling her to her feet with an ease that speaks to their size difference, to his strength, to her complete lack of resistance. She stumbles against him, her legs unsteady, and he catches her, turning her around with rough hands until she's facing the sink, her palms flat on the porcelain, her back to him.

"Look at you," he murmurs against her ear, his hands sliding down her sides to grip her hips. "Still so needy. Still so empty. Don't worry, baby. I'm going to fill you up. I'm going to give you what you really need."

He kicks her feet apart, spreading her legs, and pushes her forward until she's bent over the sink, her cheek pressed against the cool mirror, her eyes barely meeting his in the reflection. She's dazed, barely mentally present, her pupils blown wide, her mouth swollen and red from his cock. Caleb meets her gaze and holds it as he positions himself behind her, as he guides his still-hard cock to her entrance, as he pushes inside in one long, relentless thrust.

She sobs, her back arching, her fingers scrabbling for purchase on the slick porcelain. She's tight, impossibly tight, her cunt gripping him like a vice even though she's soaked, even though he prepared her with his mouth for what feels like hours. 

Caleb groans, his forehead dropping to her shoulder, his hands tightening on her hips hard enough to bruise. "Fuck," he breathes, the word reverent. "Fuck, you're perfect. You're so tight, baby. So hot. Feel how you fit me? Feel how you were made for this?"

He doesn't give her time to adjust. He pulls back and thrusts again, deeper, harder, setting a rhythm that shakes the sink on its bolts. The mirror fogs with their breath, with the heat of their bodies, and Caleb watches their reflection as he fucks her—watches the way his hips slam against her ass, the way her breasts bounce with each impact, the way her eyes roll back when he hits a certain angle inside her.

He shifts his grip, sliding one hand around her waist to find her clit, still sensitive, still swollen, and he rubs it in time with his thrusts, driving her back toward the edge he's already pushed her over so many times. She sobs his name—Caleb, Caleb, Caleb—and he rewards her with a particularly deep thrust, angling his hips to grind against that spot inside her that makes her wail.

"That's it," he pants, his own pleasure building again, coiling tight at the base of his spine. "That's my good girl. Take it. Take my cock. You're doing so well, pretty girl. So well for me."

Caleb can feel her tightening around him, her body preparing for another orgasm, and he wants it—wants to feel her cum on his cock. But more than that, he wants to claim her completely. He wants to mark her in the most primitive way possible, to fill her with his seed and know that she'll carry him inside her for hours, for days, forever.

He releases her clit and grips her hips with both hands, pulling her back onto him with each thrust, changing the angle so he's hitting her deeper, harder, his pelvis grinding against her ass with every impact. 

"Going to fill you up," he warns, his voice guttural, barely human. "Going to put my cum so deep inside you, baby. Going to breed this pretty little cunt. You want that? You want me to make you mine?"

She squeals when she comes, her body convulsing, her cunt clamping down on him in rhythmic spasms that trigger his own orgasm. Caleb groans, his head falling back, his hips jerking uncontrollably as he pulses inside her, flooding her, painting her womb with thick ropes of his release. He keeps thrusting through it, milking himself dry, making sure every drop ends up exactly where it belongs.

When he finally stills, they're both panting, sweating, their bodies stuck together with fluids and exertion. Caleb stays inside her for a long moment, enjoying the aftershocks that ripple through her muscles, the way she twitches when he shifts his hips. 

Then, slowly, he pulls out, watching with dark satisfaction as his cum begins to leak from her, dripping down her thighs, marking her as thoroughly on the outside as he has on the inside. But he's not satisfied. He wants more. He wants her to carry him with her all day, to feel him with every step, to be reminded constantly of what he's done to her.

He reaches down and picks up her discarded panties from the floor, the white cotton still warm from her body. He holds them in one hand and grips his cock in the other, pumping himself slowly, coaxing the last thick drops of his release from the slit. He aims carefully, watching his seed spill into the gusset of her underwear, soaking the fabric until it's heavy with his claim.

When he's finished, he tucks himself back into his trousers with one hand and uses the other to guide her upright, turning her to face him. She's barely standing, her legs shaking like a newborn fawn, her eyes glazed and unfocused. 

Caleb smiles at her, tender and cruel, and begins to dress her like he didn't just fuck her raw.

He buttons her blouse, smoothing the wrinkles as best he can. He straightens her skirt, adjusting the pleats, his fingers lingering on the fabric that covers what he's done to her. Then, he kneels and holds out her panties, the gusset dark and heavy with his cum.

"Step in," he commands, his voice soft.

She obeys, lifting one foot and then the other, letting him guide the soaked fabric up her legs, over her knees, settling it against her most intimate flesh. He adjusts them carefully, making sure the wettest part presses directly against her entrance, and just to make sure, he slaps the gusset sharply, making her gasp and jerk against him.

"There," he says, standing and cupping her face in both hands. He presses kisses to her forehead, her temples, the tip of her nose, each touch gentle and proprietary. "Now you're perfect. Now you're carrying me with you. Can you feel it, baby? Can you feel how wet you are? How full?"

He pulls back slightly, looking into her eyes, making sure she's listening, that she understands. "I'll pick you up after class," he tells her, his thumb tracing her lower lip. "I'll be waiting at the corner, in the black car with a plate number of 0613. You come straight to me, understand? No detours. No talking to anyone. And when I get you home, I'm going to check this pretty little cunny and see if you're still sticky with my cummies."

He smiles, sharp and predatory, and pats her between her legs, feeling the damp heat even through the fabric. "You better keep my baby cunny warm for me," he murmurs against her ear. "Keep it ready. Keep it wet. Because I'm not done with you yet, darling. I'm nowhere near done."

He releases her and steps back, dressing quickly, efficiently, while she sways on her feet, trying to process what he's done to her, what he's made her into. When he's finished, he looks like any other businessman—polished, professional, respectable. 

No one would guess what he's just spent the last hour doing to a high school senior in a public bathroom.

Caleb opens the door and checks the platform—still empty. He turns back to her, standing small and dishevelled in the centre of the room, and holds out his hand. "Honey, come here," he says, and she goes to him easily, placing her small hand in his large one, letting him lead her out into the light.

The walk to the stairs is short. At the top, he releases her hand and steps back, putting distance between them that feels like a physical wound.

"Go to school," he tells her, his voice carrying the weight of command. "Pay attention in class. Be a good girl. And remember—I'll know if you touch yourself. I'll know if you try to clean up before I see you. Don't disappoint me."

He watches her climb down, her steps unsteady, her skirt swishing around thighs that are still slick with him. He watches until she disappears around the corner, until he's alone on the platform with the distant sound of approaching passengers and the taste of her still on his tongue.

Then he smiles, slow and satisfied, and checks his watch. Ten hours until school ends. Ten hours until he can claim her again.

Caleb can wait, he's been waiting his whole life for her.

SAINT'S NOTES ! if you guys saw my drafts for this ... it was a fucking mess, like an actual mess; i wrote this in february, and i was literally going crazy by that point—this is the product of my brainrot. here's to hoping that i'll get to my dadleb anthology before march ends.

He couldn't focus on training nor work. Everything reminded him of you and hotting the anticipation up for today's call. What are you going to wear? How are you going to smile when you see his projection? Will you be exhausted from work, half-undressed from your uniform, and speaking with that soft voice, yearning for his arms to soothe you? Will you be tipsy after meeting with colleagues, your cheeks warm and eyes beaming with mischief? Or maybe lazy and melancholic? Or coy and squeamish, like the few first times he'd pressed you to the mattress in your childhood bedroom, begging and whispering how wrong it had been to have his cock rubbing between your thighs?

It's been but a torture; painful and sweet in equal amount, and tasting copper from his bottom lip breaking between his teeth. He's been struggling in fever, floating on the surface only thanks to the promise of having you tonight. Still, he had to excuse himself from his duties earlier and pretend he didn't see any of the suspecting looks. Neither of them could know what really happens behind the door of his private quarters; no one could breach the means of secutity he used to protect you from unfit eyes.

You're his.

You answer after the fourth ring, Caleb's heart fluttering on the edge of attack through all this time. You're fresh out of shower, your hair still tucked under a shower cap as you're rubbing cream into your cheeks. You're wearing only panties and one of the worn, loose t-shirts; his cock throbs at the sight and Caleb has to hide a pathetic whimper behind his palm. You don't notice, happy to see him and trying to open chocolate milk with one hand.

"Hi, Pipsqueak," he mutters under breath. God, you're so fucking beautiful.

"Hi," you purr back, the timbre of your voice having his head spin with lust. "How is my favorite brother doing?"

"I missed you," he admits straight away. He missed you in every position he could imagine. He missed you with the sound of every moan he'd ever caused with his hands and tongue. He missed you with a painful throbbing of his hardening cock.

He missed so much that all day long he's been toying with the control panel connected to the microchip hidden in your brain. A few micrometers of the sweetest betrayal you're carrying unawares.

"How was your day?" Instead of pressing the right buttons, Caleb wants to hear your voice. He stares at your lips as you chirp about the latest investigation and how the gym you've been dying to try is not worth the hype. Whenever you turn away, he palms his bulge; it should have been your soft ass rubbing against it, you in his lap, your head in the crook of his neck, your breathing breaking into whimpers—the delicious moment right before you're begging to be filled.

You take a break to drink the rest of your milk. Your throat bobs a little; Caleb pretends it's the outline of his cock deep down it and thick loads of his cum soon after. This time, he has to unzip his pants; his briefs are sticky and nearly translucid from his precum. He rubs himself through the soaked fabric and moans under breath.

The sound catches your attention; you say nothing but Caleb knows your body like a favorite childhood story. He doesn't need to peek at the panel to read the tiniest twitch of your muscles. And he smirks when you try to ignore it—you lick your lips, wiping the nonexistent droplets of chocolate milk, and suck a breath in, as if fresh air could chase away the foretaste of thoughts.

"You have one of those faces again," you want to laugh it off, you always do, until it's too late to pretend you're just siblings who are a little too close. It's cute and it has Caleb craving nothing else than to ruin you. Right now, he would grab you by hair, force you to kneel down and mouth his cock through the briefs, until your eyes are full of tears and he's spilling mess right into his underwear.

Fuck, he has to control himself. He almost came just at a thought—

"You make it sound like I scare you, Pips." Caleb forces himself to chuckle, ignoring another bead of precum. As discreetly as he can when you're staring right at his projection, he frees himself from the wet fabric.

At this point you've had to connect the dots. It's not the first time you two are doing this, anyway.

It wouldn't hurt to turn up the heat, though. Caleb taps the control panel—an impulse runs from your brain straight to your core. Your eyes widen, surprised, and you clench the empty bottle a little too hard. It's gentle and short enough to pass as a natural reaction; you brush it aside for now, exactly like he wants, but when you trash the bottle, you don't turn around and bend, like you otherwise would.

You get wet so easily; there's probably a little spot already appearing on your panties, and their color won't help you to keep it a secret. Caleb suspects his presence and voice alone can make you feel uneasy—aroused but disgusted with yourself. Good little sisters don't rub their thighs together when they lean against their big brother when they play Mario Kart. They don't masturbate in his bedroom either, their cute panties pulled aside as they try to shove two fingers in their still too tight holes. They don't sniff his used t-shirts, they don't rub against him whenever they pass by, they don't forget to wear bras when they're home alone with him, and they surely don't ignore his boner when they cry nuzzled up to his chest because they caught him groping his girlfriend in the living room.

Good big brothers shouldn't allow that. And they don't break up with their girlfriends right away, to run after their upset sister and take her virginity in her cute, girly bedroom a moment later.

"I really missed you." Caleb sighs after muttering your name. He likes how it tastes on his tongue but he savors it. He prefers the little pout and the roll of your eyes when he uses teasing pet names instead—after all, he has the tiniest ping of shame in him as well. Somehow, it feels thousand times more wrong when he uses it, even more than straight up calling you his little sister.

He doesn't care anymore for being caught right away; he strokes his cock and brushes the screen. There's a clear reaction this time; you inhale sharply and straighten your back. Your nipples harden so quickly; however loose, your shirt is too thin to hide the perky nubs. Caleb dreams of licking and sucking them—just like that, through the fabric, trying to catch the faint scent of your skin under the layer of chemical flowers.

You sigh his name and sway forward, instinctively looking for friction. The edge of the kitchen table would be perfect for that but the angle makes it hard for him to see. And Caleb is having none of that.

"Hey, why are you hiding from me?" Another impulse is stronger. He smirks with satisfaction when you obediently take a step back and lean against the counter, your legs trembling. "I thought you like it when I watch."

"I—" You don't have it in you to disagree. "Caleb, we shouldn't—"

"No one can catch us." He knows it's not what bothers you. And, as always, he plays dumb. "We've done it before, it was all fine."

It would be easy to take over, too easy for his liking. He needs to break you first. He needs to see you fight against it and squirm before you give in. A little motivation is all he needs.

The stream of impulses is steady but gentle. Your chest is heaving; you tear the cap off your head and shudder when it brushes your neck. It's a sensitive spot Caleb likes to mark; a secret known only to him, a secret he will guard with his last breath, even if it means to kill and maim the potential competition.

"Touch yourself." Precum drips down his hand; he squeezes himself tighter, until it teeters on pain. "I don't mind."

"We shouldn't—" You sob but your hands are already groping your chest. You play with both of your nipples, then reach down with one hand, along your tum and the hem of your panties. Caleb's microchip is working well; droplets of arousal trickle down your thighs even before you touch yourself through the underwear.

Sweat pearls on Caleb's forehead; he daren't to wipe it off. He doesn't want to lose the view of you even if for a second. You're struggling between shame and arousal, maybe finding out it's too strong to be natural, but the threshold have been crossed and you have no choice but to follow the call.

You pull the panties aside and sink your fingers in your bush. Your kitchen and his quarters are filled with your sweet whimpers.

"I want to see," Caleb reprimands you.

Balancing on one leg, you lift the other and spread your labia for him. Your juices are flowing; you're just playing with your clit and you're already gushing, obscene, wet sounds almost as loud as your voice. You look away, embarassed, and leak even more, as if you wet yourself.

Caleb has to turn his eyes away, too. It's been too close—he doesn't want to finish yet.

"I can't—" You choke on words. Whether you mean shame, the taboo, or your legs trembling, Caleb can't guess if only for surge of lust addling him.

"You can, sweet girl." He coos and groans when you cave in and slide fingers in your pussy.

The data on control panel and his eyes can't lie—you're close.

It hurts him to intervene but Caleb hasn't had his fill yet. He's been suffering all day for this. It'd be only fair if you suffered, too, like a good little sister you are. You're not leaving him alone with his pain; if he can't have you with his cock, he'll at least hold on the connection between your souls—and minds, with a little help from his little friend sunk in your brain.

You don't understand what's happening—the high you've had right in your hands is suddenly yanked away. You look at him with complaint, the same eyes you were giving him when he didn't let you walk back from school with the boys or refused to let you suck his cock when grandma was watching tv downstairs. The little pout breaks his heart into tiny pieces; Caleb bites on hand to hold down his own orgasm. He should be staining those pretty lips with his seed, watch you kiss the tip right before you open your mouth and sip the last spurt. You would complain on taste and he would laugh and kiss you, and disagree because there's no sweeter taste than his cum mixed with your saliva. You would throw a little tantrum right after, and he would press you to the closest surface to taste the only flavor that could match it—your sweet pussy fluttering around his tongue.

With your weight pressed to his face, from behind, with your thighs clenched tight around his head—he would lick you in all positions until he'd be hard again and ready to have you whimpering in protest. You shouldn't, it's wrong, he's too big, you're breaking, he can't cum inside, please, please, please.

Caleb growls, like a wild beast.

"C'mon, be a big girl." He could fry your brain with how hard he presses on the control panel. "You can do it, Pips. Do it for your big brother."

He watches how your pouty lips open wide, how you scream and almost drop to your knees. Only the overwhelming need to be filled keeps you in place; you shove three fingers in and cry his name. It's not what Caleb wants to hear now but he can't bring himself to punish you. He yanks it out of your hands just a little this time, not to tease but to match his own pace.

He wants to reach it together. That's as much he can get with light years of distance between you.

"Fuck—" He tries to say your name, it dies squeezed in his throat. "Fuck. Fuck— I wanna— I need you—"

He's a second faster but you're following without his help, as if there was another invisible connection between you. Caleb fights to keep his eyes open; he catches a glimpse of your face in ecstasy before his high takes fully over and blurries his vision.

He leaves mess all over his hand and pants. The things he would do to be able to do it on your thighs instead… He throws head back with a groan, suddenly spent and burning in shame.

What has he done?

He sees you falling to you knees, with something that sounds dangerously close to a sob. He needs to hold you close, to kiss your hair and apologize, to promise it won't happen ever again and that tomorrow you will be just a brother and sister again. As if he hadn't promised it before, every time he'd wiped his cum off your slit and your juices off his face.

As if he hadn't apologized over your unconscious body right after installing the microchip in your brain. As if he hadn't promised he would never use it for anything else than your safety.

He should burn in hell.

Just when you thought you couldn't take anymore, he denied you again, leaving you empty and aching. A broken sob escaped your lips as he dragged his cock along your soaked slit. He smirked down at your desperation, clearly enjoying the power he held over you.

That smirk. That goddamn smirk was the last thing you saw before your hand moved on pure instinct. The crack of your palm against his cheek echoed through the room, startling you both. But if you thought it would stop him, you were dead wrong.

His smirk only grew bigger, eyes darkening with a new intensity. A chill ran down your spine as he grabbed your wrist, pinning it above your head.

"Did you just slap me, pet?"

He yanks you towards him, your legs straddling his hips as the world becomes a haze of heat and moans. His hand fists in your hair, guiding your movements while he takes control. The other hand grips you possessively, claiming every inch of you as his.

His breath, hot against your ear, whispers words of dark promise and filthy praise "You really want to cum don't you, sweet girl?"

You're beyond words, beyond thought. All you can do is sob with need, your body moving on instinct when he lets you ride him. You take him deep, so deep you hiss every time his tip kisses your cervix.

But then he's gripping your hips, holding you down, stopping your movements. You whimper, desperate, aching need tearing from your throat. "Fuck, I love your messy pussy, the way you take my cock like" thrust "such" thrust "a good" thrust "fucking girl..."

His muscles start contracting, abs flexing. You can feel the way his cock jumps inside you. His balls draw up, tight and heavy, ready to empty their load.

And then it happens. He comes undone, his cock starts to pulse, pumping its seed soooo deep inside you. The feeling of him, the drag of your clit against his pelvis, the pulsing heat flooding your core... it's all it takes. You shatter, body convulsing, back arching, as you clench down around him, milking him, taking everything he has to give you.

Without warning, his hand comes down hard on your ass, a sharp crack of skin on skin "My turn"

His mouth hovers over yours, lips parted, breath mingling with yours, but no kiss comes. Instead, he's leaving a trail of hot, open mouthed kisses along your jaw, your neck, your collarbone.

"Who do you belong to? Who owns this pretty cunt, hmm?" The same questions over and over again.

Your hands fist in the sheets as you struggle to hold onto your composure, to give him the answer he wants. Your voice cracks on a moan as you choke out for the th time "You...I belong to you, Xavie."

But tonight his jealousy burns hotter.

He praises you with a low groan, hips starting to move faster, but it's still not enough, not nearly enough. 

"Who makes you feel this way, bunny? Who fucks you so good that you forget your own name?"

You're shaking now, your body wound tight. Your skin is flushed and damp, breath coming in desperate little pants as you try to hold yourself back from the edge he's pushing you towards.

"Xavier" you cry out, desperation coloring your tone. "Please!"

His fingers brush against your clit and you moan, loud and long, back arching off the bed when he pulls away.

"Answer me, wh..."

Your hand moves on its own, cracking against his cheek. The slap echoes in the room and the sting radiates through your fingers, matching the throb of your pussy.

He stills above you, eyes widening in surprise at the sudden sting. For a moment, time seems to freeze, the only sound your ragged breathing and the pounding of your heart. Then, slow as a shark circling its prey, he turns his head to face you.

"I'm...I'm sorry Xavie...I didn't mean to..." you start to stammer out, cheeks burning with shame and embarrassment. But the words die on your lips as he surges forward, burying himself to the hilt inside your weeping cunt.

Then, he's moving again. Really moving. No more teasing, no more slow burn. He's pounding into you, hard and fast, just the way you like it, his hips slapping against yours with each thrust. You're screaming, your nails raking down his back, legs locking around his waist to pull him closer, to take him deeper.

Each thrust punches out the air from your lungs and replaces it with the hot, musky scent of his skin. His pelvis grinds against yours, the coarse hair at the base of his cock scratching deliciously against your clit.

Teeth, lips and tongue ravage the vulnerable skin of your throat, sucking dark blooms into the surface, painting you with the vivid hues of his lust.

"Mine," he moans against your skin, the word rumbling through his chest and vibrating in your bones. "You're mine. This cunt, this body, this heart, it's all mine."

He fucks you like a man who would die if he stopped, who would wither away to nothing if he couldn't have you.

And you take it, you take every thrust and every brutal kiss, your body arching to meet his. You take it all and beg for more, your voice raw and ragged but still pleading, still crying out for him.

His fingers pump in and out of your mouth, fucking your face with the same rhythm his cock is pounding into your sopping cunt. Drool coats your chin and the sound of your slurping and gagging fills the room. But he shows no mercy, keeping a pace that has your eyes rolling back and your toes curling.

Your cunt is a mess, gushing and squelching, painting his abs and the sheets beneath you with your slick. The room reeks of sex and sin, the air heavy with your mingled musk.

He leans down, lips brushing your ear" Say yes, move in with me and I'll fill this pussy up every day. Be mine, completely. I'll give you everything, kitten. Everything you could ever want."

His words are tempting, so sinfully sweet. The promise of having this every day it's almost enough to make you say yes. Almost enough to throw away everything you've worked for.

Don't do it, a tiny voice in the back of your head screams. Don't give in to him. You have a duty, a calling...

But Sylus's hands on your body, his lips on your skin, his cock, it's all so overwhelming. So perfect. So hard to resist.

You can feel your will crumbling, your resistance wearing thin. Each thrust chips away at your resolve, each kiss etches away at the last of your inhibitions. And as Sylus looms over you can feel yourself on the cusp of giving in completely.

Through the haze of another orgasm, you see Sylus's mouth open, ready to utter words that would surely seal your fate, and likely your surrender. In a moment of desperate, instinctive self preservation, your hand comes up to silence him with a sharp slap across his face.

His eyes widen in surprise and for a moment you stare at each other, chests heaving and hearts pounding.

Then, just as quickly, the surprise in Sylus's gaze melts into something darker. He catches your wrist in his hand, holding your slapping palm against his cheek as he leans into the sting.

"Feisty, I almost forgot"

He takes advantage of your vulnerability, his free hand sliding down to find your puffy clit, rubbing slow circles around it. "Slap me all you want, sweetie, It won't change the fact that you belong to me. That you'll be my wife, bound to me and Onychinus for life."

He feels your body react to his words, your gummy walls clenching around him. You're so close, he knows it. Close to surrendering everything for things only he can give you.

"You can have your little adventures, chase your thrills as a Hunter. But you'll always come back to me, back to this. Back to being mine."

Fuck, he's relentless.

You can barely catch your breath before he's pounding into you again, hips slamming against yours with brutal force. He's not holding back, far from it.

Your body is a livewire, raw nerves sparking with every thrust. The pleasure is too much, overwhelming and all consuming. You've lost count of your orgasms, your vision hazy, lungs burning. He's ruined you, used you, fucked you so thoroughly you can barely remember your name.

But he's not done with you yet.

So when your hand moves on its own, lashing out to strike his cheek, it's almost a surprise. The sharp crack of skin on skin makes him pause for just a second, the smirk on his face only grows. If anything, he looks amused.

"'S'too much Raf...please"

"Tsk, cutie. You know better than to hold back with me," He catches your wrist, pinning it above your head "I thought we had an agreement. A safe word for moments like these."

He leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear, warm breath fanning over your skin. "Use it, if you need to. I want to hear you say it."

You don't use it.

He flips you onto your stomach like you weigh nothing at all, breasts pressing into the mattress, ass lifted. Before you can catch your breath, he's inside you again, splitting you open.

Your pussy is dripping, soaked, absolutely flooding around his dick. The wetness splatters his thighs, his balls, the sheets beneath you. It's filthy, it's messy, and you can't get enough.

He leans over you, weight pressing you down, pinning you in place. His fingers find your hair, fisting and yanking your head back. The sting of pain blends deliciously with pleasure, spine curving into the shape of his body. And then his mouth is on yours, hot and hungry. He spits into your open mouth, the sweet taste of him exploding on your tongue, and you swallow it down greedily.

Your moans turn to whimpers, your whimpers to sobs, until finally, blessedly, you shatter again. Your cunt clamps down on him, milking his cock. You're ruined, destroyed, fucked into sweet, sweet oblivion.

Even as you collapse beneath him, trembling and gasping, he stays buried inside you. His cock pulses, throbbing, painting your insides with his heat. He grinds against your abused cervix, marking you.

You feel his lips curve into a smile against your neck, hear his dark chuckle rumbling through his chest. "Slap me again, cutie," he murmurs "I fucking dare you. I'll just fuck you harder."

He craves your reactions, feeding off each gasp and moan that spills from your lips. His hips meeting yours thrust for thrust, as if he could somehow merge your bodies into one. Every sound you make, every arch of your back, only fuels his hunger. Your body is his to claim, and he takes great pleasure in breaking you apart piece by piece.

He keeps talking, keeps reminding you of the reasons behind the choices he's made. Having you followed for safety. Choices that have led you here, skin sliding against his as he drives into you again and again.

"You need to understand, baby," he grunts "I did this for your own good. I can't have you getting yourself hurt. Not when I'm not there to protect you." His hand grips your hip hard, pulling you down to meet his brutal thrusts.

But you're not listening. You can't hear anything over the pounding of your own heart, the rush of blood in your ears. All you can focus on is the way he fills you. So when his hand cracks across your ass, you barely register the sharp sting. Instead, it blends into the tapestry of sensation, another thread in the web he's spinning around you.

Until suddenly, it's not. Until your hand is moving on its own, striking out at the smug smile playing across his lips. The crack of skin against skin echoes through the room, startling even him. He stills, his body going rigid, but you don't. You can't. The anger, the frustration, the sheer need that has been building inside you won't let you stop. You ride him faster, taking him deeper, harder, as if you could somehow punish him with the force of your desire.

He recovers quickly and changes his angle, driving into you at a new spot that has you seeing stars. The smirk on his face turns deadly when he feels your walls clench around him "You want it rough? I can do rough too, princess" 

He hammers into you harder, each thrust shaking the bed frame. "This is what you need, isn't it?"

"Fuck you Cay"

He bites down on your earlobe, soothing the sting with his tongue a second later. You're so close, teetering on the edge of a mind blowing orgasm. Every muscle in your body pulled taut, your fingers digging into his shoulders, nails scoring his skin. He can feel your desperation, your hunger, and it only spurs him on. 

"Take it all, baby. Fucking take it. You know you need this, need me. I've ruined you for anyone else, haven't I? No one else will ever make you feel this good, this fucking perfect."

He leans down, his lips brushing against your neck feeling your pulse race beneath your skin. He licks a stripe up to your jawline before nipping at the sensitive flesh. "You can hit me all you want, sweetheart. It won't change a damn thing. You'll always be mine, no matter how hard you try to run from it. I've made you perfect. My good girl."