Kunipoka

his sisters swarmed him instantly, their hands soft and curious as they touched his blushy face, his chubby arms and legs, plucking him from the birthing waters of the spring and twirling him up in the air.

“he is so beautiful.” one whispered, her voice like the haste of rivers over stones. “his hair is like wild irises.” another chimed in, caressing his short strands of hair with admiration.

the nymphs raised him in a world of unrestrained adoration.

when he was just a toddler, stumbling on plump legs, his sisters would clap and cheer, their laughter like tinkling stream stones. they’d place wildflowers in his silken purple hair, kissing at his round cheeks with joy each time he took a step unattended.

“raffy, our cutie nymph!”

his sisters cherished him. they would sit him by the water’s edge, their laps full of flowers picked from the banks. the oldest nymph would take a wood-carved comb and gently untangle his long hair, her fingers gentle yet sure against his amethyst locks.

“you are special, rafayel.” she whisper-sung, her breath cool against his temple. “the spring has never made a male before.”

another sister would adorn his hair with a flower crown — he could wear it comfortably now that he was older — weaving white water lilies and blue bells into it. “you are our precious little brother.” she said, her eyes shining with love.

“the prince of the spring.”

as a child, he would actively participate in his sisters’ activities. rafayel’s slender fingers, tipped with a faint pearlescence, would move with a mesmerizing grace. he’d weave stems together, his touch causing the buds to unfurl obediently, their colours deepening.

“a crown for you, my dear sister.” he would sing-song, his voice the sound of water slipping over smooth pebbles, still soft and delicate. he’d place a circlet of dove-grey hellebores upon one head.

“and for you too, tara.” this one of violets so deep they were nearly black.

he saved the most vibrant for last, crowning his own twilight hair with a riot of primrose and celandine, mirroring the sun he truly loved and adored.

in his adolescence, the spring was his canvas.

with a laugh that rippled the surface, he’d splash at his sisters, the droplets hanging in the air like scattered diamonds before falling. he would press his palm flat against the water and draw it upwards in a shimmering, impossible arc, a liquid sculpture that held its shape for a breathless moment before collapsing with a sigh.

he’d trace spirals and lazy, intertwining patterns on the surface, symbols that glowed with a faint bioluminescence before fading, as if the water itself was fainting at his command.

life itself came to him.

ducklings, a fuzzy, cheeping convoy, would paddle fearlessly between his legs, quacking at him to join the waters. he’d submerge himself until only his strange pink eyes were visible, watching them round around the spring with their tiny, webbed feet, following behind in low strides.

swans, those haughty monarchs, would bend their necks for him to stroke. sometimes he’d even challenge them, disturbing their peace with one of his games. he’d surge from the water, scattering light, and race them across the water-meadow, his feet leaving no imprint on the tender grass, his laughter mingling with their harsh, musical cries.

he was faster, a streak of lilac and pearl blooming in his wake, but he always let them believe they could win.

just so they would return to play with him.

•••

as he grew, so did his beauty. his hair fell like a waterfall of mauve down to his torso, shimmering in the dappled sunlight. his eyes, the color of blushing roses, contrasted strangely against his now piercing masculine features.

as he grew, so did his manly body.

he had no longer a soft and squishy flesh, like his sisters, but a hardness and sharpness unfit for the gentleness of the spring. his height tripled, his shoulders broaden; his chest and hips never widened, but something else beneath his loins disrupted the order.

he loved his sisters and the spring, the welcoming flowers and the occasional animal companions stumbling into their part of the forest.

but sometimes, in the quiet of evening, loneliness crept in like mist.

why did the spring birth a male nymph like himself?

why did his reflection look less and less like his sisters’ as the seasons passed?

why did he feel… unfit for the world he adored?

the water did not answer. it only held him, shimmering, silent.

•••

his body began to change drastically at around the same time the first blood-blossoms of a cherry tree burst from its bark. rafayel, now what the forest would have called an adult, felt a strange tightness in his lower belly, a throbbing heaviness beneath the leaves and water lilies that covered his hips.

he had worn them since birth, as all nymphs did — not as clothing, but as a part of themselves, a living crown of foliage that wrapped around his body on its own accord.

one afternoon, while basking on a sun-warmed rock at the spring’s edge, he ran his hands over his stomach and pressed.

“a-ah.”

the tightness in his tummy was worse: it felt like a knot of rope, hard and hot. he pushed the leaves around his crotch aside, curious about his uneasiness.

beneath, his body had transformed. where there had been only soft, flaccid flesh before, now there was a rigid, swollen length of pale flesh, stiff and unyielding. it was heavy. it was wet at the tip, a gleaming pearl of slick moisture beading there and drooping along the underside veins.

he touched it, and a jolt — electric, painful and pleasurable — shot through him. he jerked his hand away, breath hitching.

“what is this?” he whispered to the empty air.

he touched it again, more lightly this time, and the jolt returned, a warm feeling spreading up his spine. he decided to stroke it, up and down, up and down, trying to get out the strange sticky substance.

perhaps he has been poisoned.

but the warmth in his belly intensified. his thighs, too, tensed the more his hand moved on it, jutting the shaft up into his fist with vigour.

“oh-ooh–”

he felt his heart beating in his ears, as more and more creamy liquid seeped out of his mushroomy tip. the painful pull in his groin became a pressure, a craving he had no name for.

he needed to investigate further.

•••

that night, he slipped away from his slumbering sisters, drifting to a hidden nook of the spring, shielded by willow trees. the moon was a sliver of pearl overhead, mirroring the beads of precum still pumping out of his slit.

as he sat in the shallows, water lapping at his thighs, he took his swollen, throbbing flesh in his hand once more.

“ah…”

he tugged, tentative at first. then harder. the pleasure-pain flared, and his breath hitched.

he pumped his hand, fisting the hard, aching length in a rhythm he instinctively craved. his whole body bunched tight, muscles flexing. the tightness in his groin built to a peak, a torrent of heat and need. he felt on the brink of something — some release — so he kept fisting, harder, faster, until his knuckles ached and the skin of his cock turned raw.

he panted, eyes squeezed shut, as ropes of that sticky substance finally splashed away into the rushing waters.

“w-why?” he groaned, letting go abruptly, his softening member dropping heavily against his thigh. “what is wrong with me?”

his question was to receive an answer sooner than he’d have expected.

•••

it was his sister tara, the one who twisted lily crowns for his hair. she was taken by a man — a human hunter who stumbled upon the spring one rainy twilight.

“she has been… enchanted.” his oldest sister said, her voice careful as she recounted the incident. “the man loved her beauty, so she has gone with him.”

“enchanted?” rafayel asked, the word strange on his tongue.

humans possessed such magical abilities?

“a tie that binds. a wanting that is not adoration, but… lust.” her eyes filled with sadness and shame, as if the topic itself make something inside her twist in pain; she knew she’d never see tara again. that’s how it usually goes.

“he wants her to be his alone.”

a hole tore itself open in rafayel’s chest at his sister’s sorrow, understanding the heaviness of the situation as she hugged her own stomach unconsciously. that enchantment she was speaking of must have a connection with the weird coil his own body was fostering in his belly.

poor sister tara.

but beneath the grief, something else sprouted inside rafayel — a hunger, thick and hot.

that night, in his hidden spot, his hand on his cock, he didn’t jerk off to relieve the pain. he pumped his fist, his eyes closed, and imagined.

he imagined a human woman. he had never seen one, but his mind built her after the few men he’s observed, focusing on the soft, warm flesh. you would stumble into his spring, your skin pearled with sweat and sunlight, seeking fresh water for your journey.

then you would see him and not look away.

you too would be enchanted.

he pictured your blown-out eyes gazing at him, hand reaching out, touching his hair, his face. “take me!” you would plea so beautifully, your human voice contrasting with the sound of the spring.

“you are mine.” he whispered back to the fantasy, his hand flying along his dripping length with hurried moves as he pictured himself dragging you down into the waters. “you came here for me.”

the pleasure that night was intense, primal. he groaned, his head thrown back against the willow’s trunk as he thought of you more. he imagined you arched beneath him, his body between your thighs, your heartbeat matching his.

rafayel imagined you begging him to release the ache in your own tummy. he imagined filling you, overflowing you, marking you with his seed.

“inside.” he hissed, hips jerking into his fist faster, biting his lips at the delicious image in his head. “inside you.”

his release burst in a white, hot stream that spattered on his stomach and the surface of the humming water.

once more, his cum was wasted.

but now, with an actual goal in mind… that was to change.

•••

after that epiphany, his whispers to the spring were no longer for flowers or playful ducks. he passed the meadow where his sisters would sit, and he would ask the sunlit water about you.

“when? when will she come?”

he watched the tree line, where the world of the spring met the mortal pathway.

he saw more and more humans — always men. soldiers in battered mail, their boots heavy with mud. hunters with bows, their eyes hard and scanning the trees for game. merchants, their voices gruff and filled with practicality. they traveled in groups, singly, or in pairs.

but never, not once, did he see a woman.

“why?” he asked his sister one evening, his voice thin with a longing he laid bare. “i see them. the men. but the women — they do not come.”

was his wish just–

“are there no human women?”

fingers paused in his hair, where his sister was weaving sprigs of crocus.

“there are.” she said, her tone gentle but unyielding. “but they do not travel the land like men, rafayel. their fate is different. they are kept, in their homes, in their villages. the world outside is for male feet.”

he recoiled at that, eyes full of bewilderment. “kept? like caged birds?”

“they call it protection.” she sighed, her eyes gloomy with disdain. “it is their way.”

the words should have cured him of this nonsensical desire. but instead, they fed the hunger bubbling deep down. if human women were so closely guarded, so rarely seen… then any woman who did stray near his spring would be more than rare.

you would be unique. just like him. the spring’s special offering.

he grew more... persistent. his jerk-off sessions, always in that same hidden spot, became rituals. he would close his eyes, take his aching cock in hand, and pray to the spring.

let her be lost.

let her fall in.

let her come to me.

his hand moved faster and faster, his release rippling through him like a peak of thunder. he spilled his cum into the spring every night, watching it spread like a perfect, ephemeral lily.

“come to me.” he breathed, his fantasy a painting bright in his mind. “stay with me. be enchanted by me. forever. be mine, and mine alone.”

the spring offered no answer, as usual. but the water seemed to hold his seed, to swallow it into its depths as if making a promise. rafayel smiled at that, his heart pounding with excitement — the spring did miracles like himself, so it will not ignore his pleas for a woman.

he would wait. he had all the time in the world. and when you do finally come, he would never let you go.

“come, my stunning human.”

his sisters would never understand. but you would. you would be his first, his only, his true treasure.

and the spring, and rafayel, would keep you for eternity.

•••

a few nights passed and something finally happened.

“go clean yourself!”

when the men’s voices carried over the hills, spiky with laughter and the smell of campfire, all the nymphs but one fled. they burst into a storm of echoing splashes and flashes of pale body, dissolving into the springs and trees, leaving no trace behind.

afraid to follow tara’s footsteps.

only rafayel remained embodied. he sank deeper into the spring, his purple hair floating above him like a weed beneath the surface, his pink eyes peering through the rippling curtain of water.

“go, the nymphs won’t mind a woman.”

woman?

rafayel first heard your footsteps as you approached, sensed your fatigue, your tension, the coppery tang of blood still drying on your skin.

and then you stripped right at the edge of the spring.

your loose shirt, bespoke with the smell of sweat and dust, slipped off your shoulders. your dagger, placed on a nearby rock. your hands — strong, scarred, yet undeniably feminine — moved to undo the bonds of your trousers, to let them fall to the damp moss. then your underthings, flimsy and functional, followed.

woman.

he watched, his eyes unblinking. he saw your bare back, the curve of your spine, the shadowy nipples and the soft curve of your breasts as you turned, scanning the tree line. he saw your legs, strong and cut with human muscles, and a new scar crackled across your thigh, a fresh red line of violence.

his woman.

your body was not like his sisters’. it was not a dream of pale silk and woven flowers. it was real. real and warm, flesh and sweat, dust and blood. your skin bore the stories of a life lived on the road — wind-chapped knuckles, a bruise blooming like a rose on your ribcage.

you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

he sank lower still as you stepped into the spring, water lapping at your ankles, then your calves, then your knees. you gasped, a sharp, brief sound that was picked up by his pointy ears.

the water was cold, and it made your nipples perk and your skin prickle with bumps.

so beautiful.

“oh, so relaxing.”

you sighed, letting the chill wash over you, and slunk deeper, until the water cleansed the dried blood from your ribcage, leaving it clean and smooth in the moonlight.

your arms moved over your skin, scrubbing away the dirt and grime of a week on the road. your eyes closed, a pleasured smile touching your lips as the water’s coolness began to soothe your aches. then you washed your hair, tilting your head back, your throat bare, your breasts breaking the surface of the spring.

offering him the image of a goddess.

so fucking beautiful.

rafayel watched, and his cock, hidden beneath the foliage at his loins, stirred. it swelled, hardened, became heavy and aching in the cold water. the tightness in his stomach returned; that hot, throbbing need called for you.

you were here.

you were real.

and he would have you.

he swayed in the water, his hair floating like a mantle of living vines. he began to move forth, sliding soundlessly through the deeper channels, gliding toward you. the water parted the flora for him, its undulation responding to his will.

his pinkish eyes were fixated on your captivating form.

you were standing waist-deep in the spring, your arms stretched towards your back, scrubbing at a stubborn spot, when a shiver ran down your spine. you stilled, your sharp eyes opening to scan your surroundings.

you stared at the water around you, then down, into the darkness.

you saw nothing but your own reflection, the sky above, the dark bottom.

“hello?” your voice came out soft, uncertain, testing for danger.  

it was probably a curious nymph, nothing too alarming… yet you turned, slowly, your hands raising to your sides, prepared to equip your dagger. it was probably a curious nymph, but you didn’t know their intentions towards you.

he ruptured through the surface a few feet away, his hair pouring down his back like a waterfall of purple and silver. the moonlight glinted off his skin, off the foliage around his hips, off the slender plane of his chest.

you stumbled back at his appearance, sloshing the water, your dagger clumsily slipping from the rock straight into the waters. your eyes wide, your mouth opening to let out a breathy curse.

“fuck.”

there goes your protection.

you were bracing for impact, hands drawn to your chest, fighting stance ready. but then you saw his hair, his face — a strange, exquisite beauty, soft and yet sharp.

oh, what a fascinating nymph.

…you thought he was a woman. so your fear melted slowly, replaced by innocent interest, even a touch of awe. you’ve never encountered nymphs, especially not this up close.

“so mesmerizing.”

he smiled at your compliment, a small, gentle quirk of his rosy lips. he tilted his head, showing you the expanse of his neck, the fine bones of his collarbones. making himself look harmless and naïve by showing you his vital points.

he floated closer, the water moving with him, swirling in lazy, hypnotic circles.

“hello…” he said, his voice the melodious sound of a stream cascading over smooth stones. it was a sound that captivated, that soothed, that wrapped around your mind.

it did wrap around yours.

you did not run, you did not fight. you stayed, your heart beating fast with uneasiness, but your body deciding to trust. your hands dropped without a second thought, letting your arms hang at your sides, combat long forgotten.

“who… who are you?”

he was close now, so close you could see the fine droplets of water on his eyelashes, the pale pink of his lips. the way sharper teeth poked from beneath.

he reached out, his webbed hand trembling slightly.

not in fear, but in excitement.

he touched your cheek, his webbed fingertips as cool as the spring water, yet underneath them you felt a hidden heat. you shuddered, not because of the cold, but from something else. your skin prickled, your nipples tightening again. even your breath hitched at the contact of his soft skin with your warm face.

why was your body reacting like that?

“i am rafayel.” he cooed, caressing your cheek with his thumb. “i am of the spring. and you are mine.”

your eyes widened at the last part, the threat-like affirmation making your pulse spike. you tried to step back, but the water beneath you suddenly felt thick, like molasses. it held you in place, sweetly, cruelly.

“w-what?” your voice was but a gasp, trembling as you tried to free yourself from the clutches of the spring.

nuh huh, he won’t allow that.

he moved closer, his body gliding against yours underwater. the proximity made you suddenly hyperaware of this strange nymph… he was taller than you, his shoulders broader. you felt his chest against your nipples, noting the contrast of his flat, sturdy muscles against your soft, swelling flesh.

your nipples rubbed against him, and a sharp jolt of pleasure shot through you.

wait, flat? could she– he…?

rafayel smirked, his mischievous pink eyes gleaming in the moonlight. he slid his hand down your arm, then up again, over your shoulder, to the nape of your neck. he tilted your head back, exposing your throat.

“do not be afraid.” he murmured, his breath a cool mist against your pulse point. “i will not hurt you. i have been waiting for you.”

“waiting?” your voice came out as a whisper, terror washing your expression with every word of his. “how?”

“the spring knows.” he said, his lips brushing your jaw now. “the spring wanted you here. with me.”

and with that, he kissed you.

it was not a gentle, tentative kiss. it was deep, possessive, wet with the taste of the waters and something sweeter. your mouth opened under his ministration, and he took advantage, his long tongue exploring you, tasting you.

feeding you his saccharin saliva and making you dizzy with want.

you felt yourself melting into the kiss, your knees growing weak against his rigid body as your tongue was wrapped in his longer wet muscle.

as more of his saliva was pushed down your throat.

mine, mine, mine.

your hands raised from your sides at last, but not to push him away, but to grasp his neck, your fingers digging into his bare skin and pulling him in.

“you’re mine.”

rafayel moaned against your nectar-coated lips, the sound low and rough. that fragile voice from before was replaced by a deeper tune, reverberating masculine and powerful. he pulled back just a smidge, his eyes half-lidded, studying your enchanted state. you were slowly but surely losing yourself, succumbing to pleasure and his otherworldly charm.

“…mine?”

you repeated, the word feeble and distant in your own ears. your mind was beginning to fog, the edges of reason blurring like a stream’s bank under rising water. his voice filled that space, sweet and irresistible — drawing you in and drowning you.

“you came to my waters.” he tutted, his mouth inches from your ear. “you stripped for me. you are mine now.”

he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you flush to his body. the allure in his voice became a physical thing, a heaviness in your limbs, a surrender in your soul. you didn’t resist as his other hand came up to cup your right breast.

“ahh.” your sharp intake of breath fanned across his own exposed skin, making it flush with arousal.

“just like that.”

he hummed, a low, vibrating sound that made your skin break out in another wave of bumpy awareness. his thumb swirled over your nipple, rolling the taut, hardened bud between his fingertips.

a jarring, familiar pleasure shot directly to your core, forcing that well-known coil of arousal to tighten just a bit.

“so sensitive.” he murmured, his eyes flicking down to watch his own touch. “so real. your heart is pounding like a flock of frightened birds.”

he dipped his head, and his mouth swiftly replaced his thumb. the wet, hot swirl of his monstruous tongue over your nipple made you cry out, a short, sharp sound that echoed in the silent grove. your hands, of their own accord, ran into his wet hair, the mauve strands coiling around your fingers.

“r-raf–”

he sucked, gently at first, then with increasing pressure, the scratch of his pointy teeth pinching at your skin and making you arch beautifully into him. your knees weakened with every tug of his lips on your chest, legs turning to putty beneath the spring.

the water suddenly moved, a slick current wrapping around your legs, holding you up when your own strength failed.

“that’s it.” he cooed, his mouth leaving your nipple with a soft pop, choosing to lay wet, open-mouthed kisses along your sternum. “let me support you. let me take care of you.”

his hand left your waist and dipped below the spring’s surface. the water beneath his palm calmed down, creating a perfect, clear medium that allowed you to see his webbed hand sliding flat across your lower belly.

“a-ahh.” you gasped, your abdomen clenching already in anticipation.

he hushed you with a shushing sound, then spread his palm, pressing down against your heated skin — right where he himself felt that knotty desire bubble.

“hush… you are so tense, my human. so filled with violence and vigil.” his hand slid down further, the water again obeying him, creating no waves or crease in his wake.

his fingertips skimmed the soft, puffy lips of your cunt, tracing from your swollen clit down to your gaping hole. you shook as if struck by lightning, the feeling of his touch too intense beneath the waters.

you wished to say something, but another sharp gasp emerged, this one cut short as he pressed two fingers inside you.

“so warm…” he breathed, his pupils dilating with something hungry and primal as the digits got swallowed so easily by your ravenous pussy. knuckles deep, he curled his fingers, the pads rubbing against a spot that sent another jolt of delirious fire through you. “and so tight.”

“f-fuckk…” your head rolled back at his intrusion, your mouth open in a silent scream.

the hum of the spring became louder, a roar in your ears that wasn’t just sound but sensation. your pulse thundered everywhere, singing together with the waters.

singing together with rafayel.

“look at me.” he commanded, his voice losing its sing-song quality for a moment. it was darker, deeper, imposing. your eyes snapped to his, glazed over with that honey-like colour of his nectar. and he smiled, a blessed, innocent twist of his lips that denied the predatory desire in his gaze.

“good, keep it like that.”

he stilled his hand abruptly, and then withdrew his fingers completely from your pussy. with a gentle pull, he dragged you closer, until your soft belly flushed against his own. you felt it then — the hard, hot length of his cock, partially hidden by the foliage, pressing steadily against your navel.

“you’re… a male nymph…” you whispered through the haze, the shocking statement slipping out more like a fact. you might have tried to flee the spring had you know from the start such a creature haunted it, but now it was too late.

your eyes, which should’ve been filled with terror, were chambers to carnal lust.

“i am.” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “i am the only one. just as you are the only one.” he nudged the tip of his cock against you, pushing against your belly button, the beady precum staining your skin. “we are special.”

“mhm...”

“and i will have you.” he said, not a promise, but a fact. “in my waters. on my land.”

he dropped under the water without further notice, a smooth disappearance that left you panting for more of his touch. you stood alone in the spring for what felt like ages; the curse fully upon you, your body trembling with want you never allowed yourself before.

then, fingertips — cool, wet, slightly rough — spread you apart.

“wha–” you started, looking down at your parted thighs. he was kneeling in the water, his long hair spread around him like a shimmering mantle. his pink eyes looked up at you, unwavering in their focus.

and, with a cheeky smirk, his mouth closed the gap with your cunt.

his long tongue first laid over your swollen clit, lazily, like he was tasting a rare fruit. your hands flew back to his hair, tangling themselves at the roots, holding on to keep him between your thighs.

“oh god.” you whimpered, the words strangled, mixing with the cascading water.

he hummed against your bundle of nerves, the vibration against your flesh driving you insane. then he prodded deeper, the tip of his tongue sliding inside you. you bucked, your thighs quivering shut, but the water wrapped around them — a slippery restraint that kept you open.

he kissed, licked, and sucked, building the pressure inside you with ruthless efficiency, as he was thrusting his tongue inside your gummy walls.

he was taking you apart, piece by piece, with his mouth alone.

your vision spotted. your breathing turned to ragged sobs. the tightness in your lower stomach stretched, coiled, wound too tight; your fingers mirrored it all, tugging at his hair harshly, pushing his mouth deeper into you.

and then…

“ra-af, noo–”

he pulled away.

you cried out in protest, a cruel, whimpering noise that sounded like music to his ears. he shook his head lightly, water spraying, and began to rise from beneath the spring. but he didn’t leave you hanging for long.

instead, he wrapped his arms around your thighs and lifted your body from the spring. the water helped him, pushing you up and forward, laying you down nicely for him. you were now out of the pool, sprawled on your back on the cool, damp grass bank.

the moonlight filled your vision.

“better.” he murmured, his body now towering over you, pinning your thighs apart with his strong arms. “i can feel you better now. all of you.”

he lowered his mouth back to your cunt, and this time, there was no water barrier. he sank his tongue inside you with a teasing thrust, pushing as much of his monstruous muscle in, then moved back to sucking hard on your clit. flicking his tongue, laying it flat, rolling it into strange patters only known to him.

his fingers returned his ministration against your tight walls, now scissoring your weeping hole and making your arousal drip down your thighs and onto the meadow.

“ah-aa-hh.”

it was too much.

the pleasure, foreign and brutal, pounded through you, like a horse galloping relentlessly on a beaten path. you began to toss your head, the grass and flowers crushing beneath your pleasure and pain.

“st-stop… please…”

he didn’t.

he sped up, the movements of his mouth and hands losing all pretense of rhythm, becoming a raw, predatory feast. your hands grabbed the plants from the earth, uprooting them in your violent climax. your legs, pathetically dangling from rafayel’s shoulder, dug into his body, clamping around his head and burying him deeper into your cunt.

“i’m gonna–” you sobbed, the warning unheard by the nymph.

he only grunted, the sound vibrating against your sickly convulsing flesh, as he replaced his mouth with his thumb. pressing down on your clit as he’d rather bit down, just softly, on your inner thigh.

“ff-uuck.”

that was it.

the coil snapped.

the orgasm ripped through you, stopping your heart and your breath in the same instant. you stared up at the moon, mouth agape, no sound escaping. it was relentless, a tornado of sensation that stripped you of every thought, every memory, every time you had ever been anything but a bundle of nerves being milked by a nymph.

he waited, his mouth nuzzling into your pussy, slowly lapping at the spasms that wrenched you. he only pulled back when you slumped, when the fire had consumed your fuel.

when tears, damp and hot, tracked down your temples, mixing with the spring and the sweat. your sobs began in earnest, wrenching, shaky things that come only after an unbearable pain.

he waited until they subsided into a still, drained silence. then he crawled up next to your body, like a light being raised from beneath the water, and gathered you into his arms. he held you, his face nestled in the wet spot where your neck met your shoulder.

trying to prepare you with sweet words for what was about to come.

“shh.” he said, his voice pure and sweet again. “we’re almost done, my human. you’re almost mine.”

the calm did not last.

the nectar in his spit, that potent aphrodisiac, began to fade from your veins like a receding tide. the haze of pleasure and compulsion lifted, revealing the raw, horrified clarity beneath. you lay in his arms on the damp grass, and your body began to tremble.

not with afterglow, but with a primal, rising dread.

he felt it. he felt your heart begin to race with a different rhythm — fear, not desire. he stirred, his chin lifting from your shoulder. his pink eyes, a moment ago soft and lidded, sharpened.

“ugh–”

you made your move.

a jerking, desperate twist of your hips, and you rolled away from him. the cool moss slammed against your back. you crawled. your legs, jelly-like and trembling, dragged underneath you. the memory of your dagger, lost in the pool, was a phantom pain in your palm.

“h-he–” your voice was a ruined thing, rasped from screams. only one word escaped it. “–lp!”

you got to your knees, your nakedness exposed under the moon. the camp. you needed to get to the camp. to your peers. to your fellow mercenaries, their blades and practical decencies.

“he–”

you stumbled forward, chaotic, one hand grasping at the air as if for a weapon.

behind you, there was no sound.

then, a low, inhuman sigh. it wasn’t anger. it was immense and scalpel-sharp disappointment.

“you are leaving?”

his voice was a cloud of mist from the spring, chill and dense. the charm was gone from it. it was pure, leftover power. you froze, but only for a second. you didn’t look back. you began to crawl faster, your bare feet slapping against the cold earth. the tree line, the campfire coals — it was only a few yards.

“you are leaving me.”

this time, the words were closer. right behind you. a rush of air, and then a hand — cool, wet, iron-strong — clamped around your ankle.

you screamed. a short, guttural sound of pure panic. you kicked back, your heel connecting with his mythical flesh.

…it felt like kicking a boulder.

he didn’t let go. he yanked. the ground felt away from your knees, and you fell, your chin plowing a short channel in the mud, your jaw locking forcefully. and before you could gather another breath, he was on you.

his weight pinned you, his body long and lithe but immovably heavy. his hands — one wrapped around your wrists, pinning them above your head — felt like water-smoothed rock.

the other hand went to your throat.

not to strangle. not yet.

“you would run from me?” he hissed, his face inches from yours, long hair falling around you like curtains. the exquisite, androgynous beauty was gone, erased by a snarl that bared his teeth. a bit too long, a bit too sharp. “you would leave the only thing in this forest that cares for you?”

“get off!” you spat, trying to buck, to knee him. the grass and moss were slippery with dew and your previous sweat. “you’re a monster! you touched me! you–”

he clamped his hand harder on your throat, not cutting off your air. but… silencing you. his thumb pressed into the dipping hollow at the base of your throat, making your eyes bulge.

“i cared for you.” he bit back, his breath fanning the tip of your nose. “i cleansed your wounds. i gave you pleasure you could never fantasize. i welcomed you.”

“you–”

he brought his mouth down suddenly, forcefully. it wasn’t a kiss. it was a seal. an act of ownership so violent it tilted towards punishment.

his lips were cold and unyielding as he forced them against yours, prizing your jaw open with his own. you resisted, clenching your teeth, shaking your head. he growled, a deep, dark sound that made your gut clench, and then bit down on your lower lip.

“ah!”

the pain was sharp, a perforation of coppery blood flooding your mouth. you gasped, and he took advantage of it.

his tongue shoved inside, not teasing, not tasting, but conquering. it was larger than a human tongue, slightly rough as it passed your teeth and scraped the roof of your mouth. he spat within you, a flood of that same sweet, spiced nectar. it was hot this time, burning a little as it sluiced down your throat.

you coughed, choking, but he swallowed it for you, his throat moving against yours, forcing you to process the liquid.

the effect was near instantaneous: a drunken, heavy warmth spread from your stomach outwards. your limbs, tense with panic, began to go limp in his hands. your jaw slackened, allowing him deeper access down your throat.

and oh, he knew. he relished this new state of yours.

he drank your surrender from your mouth with vigour.

when he finally pulled back to admire you, a silver string of his nectar and your saliva connected your lips for a moment before breaking. your eyes were glazed, your breathing hitched and shallow, barely registering the man straddling you.

“there.” he whispered, his rage cooling into a scary, triumphant calm.

he released your wrists, but your arms didn’t move. they lay back in the grass as he had placed them, obeying his will. he trailed his fingertips down your arm, across your collarbone, over your marked breasts.

your nipple peaked under his touch, not with chill nor pleasure, but with a drugged, involuntary arousal. he leaned down and lavished a hot, wet kiss on the tip, earning a whine from your docile lips.

“so pliant again.” he murmured. “so perfect for me.”

he adjusted his position, his knees pressing your thighs further apart. you felt his erection — heavy, throbbing, the tip brushing against your clit. then down to the entrance of your sopping, trembling cunt.

the foliage that was previously there dispersed completely, choosing to tangle along his torso and legs.

“i would fuck you right here.” he breathed, his voice rich with possessive lust and restlessness. “in the grass. where any of the forest could see. and i would. but…”

he looked down at you, at your half-lidded eyes, the tears tracking through the dirt on your cheeks and chin. “you might make a sound. your peers… they might come.”

he frowned, a childish, sulky dip on his brow. “i don’t want to share.”

with that, he shifted. he kept his weight on you, but pushed away with his arms. he propped himself between your thighs, his cock pressed against your sticky folds.

using one hand to guide himself, while freeing the other to clamp over your mouth.

“don’t.” he ordered, his eyes narrowing. “not a sound.”

then he pushed in.

there was no further preparation, no care for your tenderness. the nectar had relaxed you, made you slippery, but the sheer size of his inhuman cock made you choke — it was like being rammed open by a tree root.

you arched your back, a silent scream slashing your soul. your nails scraped at the earth, digging tiny graves in the soil.

he sank in one swift motion, up to the hilt, then paused. his eyes were closed, his breathing uneven. he was savoring the feel of you, the tight, hot clench of your warm human body around his.

finally…

“mine.” he breathed, and then began to move.

his thrusts were not the graceful glides of a lover. they were possessive ruts, deep and measured, each one aimed to mark you from the inside. he used his whole body, leveraging his weight to drive himself as deep as possible.

the sound was a wet, slapping cadence that tore through the night.

“see?” he hissed, leaning down to nip at your ear. “see how we fit? you were made for me.”

you couldn’t answer — from pain and pleasure. your eyes rolled back, washed over by tears, fixed on the branches above. the world tilted more and more towards an otherworldly reality.

“f-fuck.”

he grabbed your twitching legs, his hands slippery against your skin, and hoisted them up. he folded you as he pleased, pushing your knees up towards your chest. your ass lifted from the grass, and this angle — deep, made for breeding — made his penetration feel even more profound, more punishing.

he lost his rhythm completely, his thrusts becoming a series of brutal, tumbling drives as your hungry pussy devoured every inch of his cock.

“you’re mine.” he growled with each push, a mantra of irrational possessiveness spoken into your flesh. “mine. mine. forever. i will keep you here. in my spring. in my embrace. you will never leave.”

his pace became punishingly fast, a piston-drive of carnal lust. the pleasure, relentless and bred from pain, began to coil again inside you, thumping into your lower tummy. your body, soaked in his nectar-like saliva, started to clench around him harsher, drawing him deeper.

milking him of everything he got.

he moaned, a high, sorrowful sound. “i’m close… i’m… no, not yet…”

but his body overruled him. he drove into you one last, teeth-clattering thrust, his chest collapsing against your folded legs.

spilling inside you.

it wasn’t a climax as mortals knew it. it was an overflow. a river of him, hot and copious, flooding your insides. it kept coming and coming, each pulse laying another claim on your hot mortal flesh. you felt it filling you, washing against your cervix, pressure building inside your abdomen.

“ah-ah…”

when he finally stilled, his body heavy and limp on yours, your lower belly was swollen, bloated outwards in a soft, impossible way. he slid a hand down between your bodies, parting your pliant legs, and pressed a palm down on your stomach.

you moaned, a low, guttural sound of satiation. of fullness.

“yes.” he whispered, rubbing his webbed hand over the slight bulge. “yes. imprinted. filled with me.”

he slowly, carefully withdrew from you, and the only thing keeping his cum from cascading out of you was the plump, heavy weight of it in your belly.

he lay next to you, propped on an elbow, and watched you.

he watched as his cum leaked out of your ravaged hole, a pale, pearlescent stream on the grass. he watched as the plants of the forest, drawn by his own essence, began to grow. tendrils of ivy, fragrant jasmine, and delicate, creeping black roses sprouted from the earth beneath your body. they coiled around your limbs, fine vines wrapping your ankles, blossoms blooming in the hollow of your collarbone.

they too were marking you, blending you with the forest, making you part of his territory.

“you see?” he said, his voice soft and enchanting once more. he plucked a blossom of moonflower and twirled it between his fingers. “the forest already claims you. in one week, you will forget them. in a month, you will forget there is anywhere else. your world will be this grove. your skin will smell of my moss, your hair of my rain. your womb…”

he trailed his hand down to your belly again. “your womb will always keep a trace of me.”

he leaned down and kissed your bloodied lips, tongue prodding at your heavy-lidded eyes to gather the salty tears of your demise. it was gentle, almost apologetic — at least on the surface.

“sleep now, my mortal love.” he murmured. “your life has yet to start.”

he gathered you in his arms, cradling you like a precious trinket, and he disappeared with you into the darkened shadows of the grove. the only sign that remained of the encounter was a patch of crushed, blooming grass, the pearlescent pool of his essence seeping into the soil.

oh, and the distant, growing light of a mercenary campfire — a light that would never guide you home again.

©pearlescenthoney 2025. do not copy, translate, or claim any of my writings or works as your own.

There are few things you hate most in this world.

Wasps and hornets. Certain shades of orange — specifically, aggressively, fluorescent orange. Injustice. The texture of velvet against your fingertips. Overcooked pasta. People who don’t use turn signals. The sound of styrofoam.

But nothing, nothing takes the cake more than two very specific things.

Weddings.

And Sylus Qin.

You didn’t always hate weddings. That was important to clarify, at least to yourself, in the privacy of your own head where no one could call you bitter. There was a time when you thought they were lovely — the flowers, the vows, the particular kind of joy that seemed to exist only in the space between I do and the first dance. You had cried at your cousin’s wedding when you were eleven. Happy tears. Genuine ones.

Then you got older, and weddings became something else entirely.

They became the place where distant relatives asked why you weren’t next with a smile that didn’t quite reach their eyes. They became seating charts that put you next to someone’s recently divorced uncle who wanted to talk about cryptocurrency. They became the slow, creeping awareness that you were always attending, never — and you were fine with this, mostly, on regular Tuesdays — participating.

And then there was the plus one problem.

Weddings required plus ones the way sentences required punctuation. Without one, you were grammatically incorrect. A fragment. Something to be corrected with a sympathetic tilt of the head and a “oh, you came alone?” that landed like a paper cut every single time.

So no, you didn’t hate weddings in theory. You hated what they did to you in practice.

Which brought you, with the kind of narrative inevitability you’d recognize in any manuscript you were reading, to the current situation.

Six months ago, you’d received a voice note from Luna — your best friend since you were both seven years old and equally terrible at cartwheels in her parents’ backyard — that had started with screaming. Good screaming. The kind that made you pull your phone away from your ear before she’d even gotten to words.

We set the date! June twenty-seventh! You’re coming and you’re bringing someone fabulous and I won’t hear otherwise!

June twenty-seventh. A Saturday. Plenty of time.

That was what you’d told yourself in March.

And in April.

And, with slightly less conviction, in May.

It was now June third. The wedding was twenty-four days away. And you had, in your defense, accomplished one very important thing — you’d found the most beautiful pink floral dress you’d ever seen, fitted perfectly, paired with heels that made you feel like a person who had their life together. The dress was hanging on your wardrobe door right now, doing its job beautifully.

The plus one situation, however, remained. Unresolved. Aggressively, mockingly unresolved.

And don’t even get you started on Sylus Qin.

On paper, he was your colleague. A fellow writer at the same publication, which was the most flattering possible framing and the one you used exclusively in professional settings. In reality he was your opponent. Your adversary. The single most infuriating person you had encountered in three years of sharing an industry, an office building, and — on one particularly cursed occasion — a table at the National Press Awards.

He was annoying. He was ruthless in the quiet, unbothered way that was somehow worse than obvious ruthlessness. He never missed a chance to take a story from right underneath your nose, or to mention, with that maddening almost-smile, that your editor had loved his latest piece. He was an asshole. He was, by every available account, a heartbreaker — the kind of person people fell for despite knowing better, sometimes because they knew better, and that said something deeply unflattering about human nature that you preferred not to examine too closely.

He was everything you disliked wrapped in one disgustingly handsome face.

And the suit situation. God, the suit situation. The man wore fitted suits to an office where half the staff worked in hoodies, and he did it without apparent irony or self-consciousness, and they fit him in ways that should have been subject to some kind of professional regulation. You had complained about this to your friend Leah once and she had looked at you for a long moment before saying, very gently, that sounds like a you problem. Which it wasn’t. It was a him problem. He was the one choosing to show up like that.

Anyway.

You were staring at a list.

It lived in your nicest notebook — a soft green one you’d bought with the intention of using for story ideas, which said something about how seriously you’d taken the plus one problem at the time of writing. Fourteen names. Fourteen perfectly reasonable, theoretically available people you had catalogued in January with the confidence of someone who had options.

The confidence had not survived contact with reality.

You sat at your kitchen table in the early morning light of June third, coffee going cold beside the notebook, and looked at the damage.

Rafayel — crossed out. Pottery class girlfriend. Genuinely happy. Devastating.

Xavier — crossed out. Vancouver. Good for her.

Caleb — crossed out. The gala incident. Unspoken. Permanent.

The list continued in this vein for ten more names, each one a small closed door, until you reached the bottom.

One name. Uncrossed.

You had written it yourself, in your own handwriting, which meant you had at some point considered it a viable option. You didn’t remember the specific moment. You must have been tired. Or perhaps you’d been approaching the list with a completionist’s mindset, a cover all bases philosophy, a this is hypothetical anyway energy that had allowed you to write it without fully processing what you were writing.

Sylus Qin.

You stared at it.

It stared back.

Outside, the June morning was doing something deeply unfair with the light — golden and warm and full of the kind of romantic possibility that felt personally targeted given your circumstances.

You turned the notebook face-down.

You picked up your coffee.

You turned the notebook back over.

Fourteen names. Thirteen crossed out. Twenty-four days until Luna’s wedding and you’d promised her someone fabulous.

You picked up your phone before the reasonable part of your brain could lodge a formal objection.

It rang twice.

“Well… kitten,” said Sylus Qin, and even in eight letters his voice managed to be infuriating — low and unhurried, threaded through with amusement, like he’d already identified the punchline. “This is unexpected.”

“Don’t make it weird,” you said immediately.

A pause. “I haven’t said anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was going to say good morning.”

You pressed your lips together. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, sweetie.” The smile in it was audible. Insufferable. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

You had prepared for this. Mentally rehearsed a version that was breezy and casual, maybe even magnanimous — I thought of you, actually, figured it could be fun — a version where you held all the power and he was the one caught off guard for once.

That version did not survive the first syllable.

“I need a plus one,” you said. “To a wedding. June twenty-seventh. And before you say anything — I want you to know that you are not my first choice.”

Silence.

Then, very carefully: “I see.”

“Or my second. Or my fifth or my eighth.”You were aware, distantly, that this was not going well. “You are my last choice. You are the name at the bottom of a list that has been significantly reduced through circumstances largely outside my control, and I am calling you because the wedding is in twenty-four days and I told Luna I would have a plus one and I am a person who keeps her word.” A breath. “So. I need a plus one.”

A longer silence this time.

You braced yourself. Something arch and knowing was coming. Something you could hang up on cleanly.

“What’s the dress code?” said Sylus.

You blinked. “...What?”

“The wedding. Dress code.”

“Garden formal,” you said slowly. “Why?”

“Because if it’s black tie I’ll need to check if the suit’s been cleaned.” A beat. “Garden formal is fine. When should I pick you up?”

You stood very still.

“You’re — you’re saying yes?”

“You called me,” he said, with the patience of a man who had nowhere better to be and knew it was annoying you. “I assumed that was the hope.”

“I — yes, but I also called you last,” you said, as though this might change something. “On a list. Of fourteen people.”

“I’m aware of what last means.”

“This is purely logistical,” you said, pivoting, because if he wasn’t going to have the decency to make this difficult you were going to establish parameters immediately. “I want that on record.”

“Noted.”

“You’re doing me a favor and that’s all this is.”

“Of course.”

“And this has nothing to do with our — our professional situation—”

“The ongoing rivalry?”

“I was going to say dynamic, but fine, yes, the rivalry, this has absolutely nothing to do with that, we are simply two people who are—”

“Going to a wedding together,” Sylus supplied. “In the countryside.”

“For a weekend.”

“Mm.” Not quite agreement. Not quite anything. “Text me the details.”

He hung up.

You set the phone down next to the notebook. Next to the list of fourteen names, thirteen of which were crossed out, the last of which had answered on the second ring and asked about the dress code before you’d finished explaining why he was a last resort.

The pink floral dress hung on your wardrobe door in the next room. Beautiful. Perfect. Ready.

You were so entirely, catastrophically unprepared for the next twenty-four days.

You drank your cold coffee anyway. You were going to need to build a tolerance for deeply unpleasant things.

Starting now.

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

read the rest on ao3 <3

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

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

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

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

Virgin. Loser. Obsessed.

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

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

—

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he’s filthy for you.

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

That thought sends him over.

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

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

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

Virgin. Pathetic. Completely, hopelessly yours.

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

But the thing is, Caleb is unraveling.

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

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

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

Another guy. Again.

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

So he decides to stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He can’t stand it.

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

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

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

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

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

He’s not okay.

He’s drowning.

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

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

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

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

He tries. God, he tries.

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

But nothing happens.

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

He can’t breathe.

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

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

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

“What the fuck, Caleb?”

“Seriously? Can’t even get it up?”

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

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

He runs.

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

“Caleb?”

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

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

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

He drops.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Caleb doesn’t let go.

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

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

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

He doesn’t let you finish.

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

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

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

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

“NO!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The words hang in the air between you.

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

He’s drunk, yes.

But he’s also never been more honest.

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

He loves you.

Not like a brother.

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

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

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

But you don’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Caleb!”

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

Then he dips his head and tries to kiss you.

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

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

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

Reality slams into you.

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

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

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

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

The question hangs in the air, raw and devastating.

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

You swallow hard, lips trembling.

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

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

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

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

Not for either of you.

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

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

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

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

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

You shouldn’t.

You really, really shouldn’t.

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

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

Oh god.

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

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

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

“Now try to thrust, baby~”

The words hit him like a match to gasoline.

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

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

Then he loses it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And neither of you is thinking about stopping anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What a crazy dream… felt too real…”

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

His eyes snap open.

This isn’t his room.

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

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

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

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

“Shit—shit—”

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

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

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

“Caleb!”

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

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

He slept with you.

He lost his virginity to his jiejie.

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

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

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

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

“I—I’m… I’m sorry, I—”

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

“Jiejie… I—”

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

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

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

“I said no to him yesterday.”

His eyes snap to yours, wide and stunned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shivers hard against you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He leans in until your lips brush.

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

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

—

—

The next day at campus, Caleb is practically floating.

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

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

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

Then the gasps hit.

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

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

The silence breaks into chaos.

“Jesus, dude—”

“Who the hell did you murder last night?”

“Bro had a CRAZY weekend!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t say shit about her.”

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

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

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

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

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

°˖✧~*♡*~✧˖°

Caleb was going to fucking kill Gideon.

“I want you to meet some friends of mine,” he’d said. “We’re just going out to eat,” he’d said.

And now here Caleb was, stuck on a double date that he had no wish to take part in.

When his eyes had landed on the two girls sitting at a candle-lit booth in the corner of the upscale restaurant, he’d realized immediately why Gideon had been so evasive about their plans earlier. Caleb would’ve never agreed to coming along if he had known this was anything more than a casual hang with friends, and Gideon knew it.

Gideon was quick to notice his friend’s stiffening spine, the downward tilt of Caleb’s dark brows pointing towards his worsening mood. Gideon threw his arm around Caleb’s shoulders in a gesture that might’ve looked friendly, but was really a forced attempt at keeping his friend from turning around and storming out of the restaurant.

“Just… play nice, okay?” Gideon hissed in Caleb’s ear as he guided him to the booth. “You know I’ve wanted to take this girl out for a while. She was about to say no after I finally worked up the nerve to ask—who knows why, you know I’m quite the catch—but her friend cut in before she could turn me down. Her friend said she’d seen you and me hanging out before and would love to make a double date out of it. My girl caved for her sake, so I have this one chance to get her to like me, alright? All you have to do is sit there and be cute for your girl while I win mine over.”

Caleb let out a sound somewhere between a grunt and a growl, his gut churning at the thought of this random girl being his. Gideon visibly paled at the sound—Caleb’s bad moods were nothing to play with—but he quickly replaced his shaken expression with a bright smile as they joined the two girls at the table.

Gideon slid into the booth first so he could sit across from his date, spouting some corny line that was a sad attempt at being charming.

Caleb, on the other hand, didn’t sit down right away. He still had half a mind to turn around and leave without a word. Caleb’s heart belonged to someone else, and to act as if there was any potential at all with this random girl from the Aerospace Academy was an affront to that loyalty—even though you two weren’t even together (Yet, he added. Not together yet.)

Gideon cocked an eyebrow, prompting Caleb to sit. “They don’t bite, man, take a seat.”

Caleb’s eyes flickered to the young woman who would be his ‘date’ for the night. The problem was that she was nice. Caleb knew her—he had seen her around school—and she was nothing but cordial with everyone. There was no reason to hate her, no reason to even dislike her. She was smart, polite, attentive to others’ needs. Anyone else surely would’ve been thrilled to take her out. 

And here she was, eyes glimmering with some amount of hope at the prospect of dining with Caleb.

Caleb, being the gentleman that he was, didn’t have the heart to ruin her evening by walking away like he wished to.

Suppressing the world’s heaviest sigh that had the force to bring all of Skyhaven crashing down to earth, Caleb sat down.

He could sit through one date. He’d be kind to her, make conversation, ensure things went nicely. Not for Gideon’s sake, no—Caleb wanted to kick his ass from here to the N109 Zone as soon as they were alone—but for the sake of not hurting this poor girl’s feelings after Gideon had so obviously led her astray.

And then Caleb would politely turn her down when it was appropriate to do so.

It was your face that flashed through his mind then, and a churning wave of guilt-laced nausea washed over him as he remembered the time that he had promised you that he would never get a girlfriend.

She doesn’t have to find out, Caleb thought, even those words making him flinch from how dirty and disloyal they felt. One date doesn’t make this girl my girlfriend. This date means nothing, Y/N won’t find out, and I’ll move on as if nothing happened.

If only things would happen that way.

°✧♡✧°

You were on your way to surprise Caleb, a smile already creeping across your face at the thought of his reaction.

Usually, Caleb was the one to visit you. And on the rare occasion that you came to Skyhaven to visit him, he insisted on knowing exactly when you arrived at the train station so he could pick you up; he was protective of you, over-protective even, and didn’t want you travelling alone any farther than necessary.

But you were an adult now—you were training to be a Hunter, for fuck’s sake—and you thought that he could use a reminder that you were able to make your own decisions now without his overbearing brotherly attitude interfering with every little thing. 

And what better way to do that than by surprising him with an unannounced visit?

He might be annoyed at first that you traveled all the way there without letting him pick you up, but it would (hopefully) be overshadowed by his joy at seeing you. Your heart skipped a beat thinking about what his somewhat-annoyed smile might look like. That damn smile. Even just the thought of it was enough to make your cheeks warm and your stomach flutter.

Unfortunately, all of that budding excitement quickly withered when it was one of Caleb’s dormmates who opened the door to his room and not Caleb himself.

“Oh… hey, is Caleb around?” you asked as you struggled to pick up the shattered pieces of the enthusiastic smile you’d worn just moments before.

“No, he, uh…” the doormate lifted one arm, scratching the back of his head. “He’s out with Gideon.”

“Oh. Well. Could you tell me where they went?”

“Yeah, I think they’re out at that new restaurant that just opened up. It’s not an emergency, is it? I can call him—”

“No, no, don’t worry about it, I have his number,” you said, dismissing him with a wave of your hand. “I’ll just head that way and meet him there. Thanks!”

“Um, well, maybe you should wait for him here, he’s actually—”

But you didn’t hear the rest of what he said. You were already placing your headphones back in your ears to search for directions to the restaurant.

°✧♡✧°

How long are dates supposed to last? We all finished our meals like twenty minutes ago. Can I leave now? Will it be seen as rude? Am I expected to stay for dessert, too?

Caleb’s thoughts were anywhere but on the conversation happening around him. Gideon had seemingly failed to charm the girl he was after—most of her laughter seemed to be aimed at him and not his jokes—but the girl who had expressed an interest in Caleb had clearly not lost it yet. Even when Caleb’s answers to her questions were clipped and cold, even when his own questions were cliché and half-hearted, she still managed to fill the gaps of the conversation with unusual grace. His attempts at being boring were failing, and it was driving him up the wall.

She really was a nice girl. It didn’t change anything for Caleb, though. His focus was still on you and the guilt flooding his lungs. His irritation only worsened with his ‘date’ ordering apple rose puffs for dessert, effectively extending their time together by another half hour, with a glaring reminder of where he’d rather be no less.

His eyes had been wandering towards the door every ten minutes since he got here. He was ready to leave. He wanted to call you—the sheer disinterest he was experiencing on this date was leaving him hungry for real conversation, for the real connection he felt with you. He’d already rehearsed the lines he would say at the end of this outing to let the girl down gently, to let her know that he had another friend that he thought would be perfect for her, and he was getting anxious to see it through already.

The front door of the restaurant opened, letting in an icy blast of wind. He breathed in that arctic air in an attempt to freeze that never-ending flood of guilt and soothe his anxieties.

When his gaze once again trailed over to the door, though, his guilt did not freeze.

It boiled.

He had to do a double-take. Because surely… surely, his anxiety-addled brain had just conjured images of you since you were all he could think about…

You looked dreamlike; you always did, at least to Caleb. You were an angel, face backlit by the golden rays of the setting sun, the clouds soaked in their light rimming your head like a halo as you stood in the restaurant’s doorway.

The pleasant image ended there, though. Your lips were pulling down into a frown… and then your bottom lip began to quiver. Your brows, the ones that Caleb loved to make tilt with an angle of laughter and mirth, were pulling in the opposite direction. They marked the stages of confusion, of understanding, of hurt as you took in exactly what Caleb was doing.

Of course, Gideon, oblivious as always, took that moment to say something astonishingly stupid. It sent both of the girls sitting across from them tittering into a fit of giggles—not at his joke, but rather at how clownish Gideon could be.

Caleb could only imagine how this scene looked from afar, though.

And that was clearly the breaking point.

At the sound of their laughter, you turned on your heels, fleeing the restaurant before Caleb had a chance to call your name.

Fuck.

Caleb stood up, tripping over his own feet to get out of the booth.

His not-date called his name in confusion, and Gideon yelled something about leaving him with the bill, but it all went unheard. Caleb’s blood was pumping too profoundly in his veins, the rush of it impeding all sound from hitting his eardrums.

After slamming open the front door of the restaurant, Caleb’s head turned in every direction like a predator on the prowl until he spotted your form hurrying down the street towards the main Coelum Express station.

How were you so fast?

You were already over a block away, the crowds of Skyhaven’s busiest district in the evening doing little to slow you down, even while the same crowds somehow managed to block Caleb’s every step as he chased you.

His attempts at yelling in your direction went unheard… or even worse, you were ignoring him. You had one arm lifted, and Caleb couldn’t tell if it was to elbow your way through the crowds or if you were wiping something off your cheeks.

Fuck.

Up ahead, the bustling station came into view, where one of the trains had just pulled in.

Caleb increased his own pace, not bothering to stop and apologize as he ploughed through groups of friends. Becoming a fighter pilot involved the most rigorous exercise, and he was putting it to good use now—well, he would’ve if there weren't so many damn people in his way. 

He needed to get to you, to get you to stop, to get you to listen to him. 

Your form disappeared between the doors of the train just as Caleb made it underneath the arches of the station. The bells began to chime, announcing its imminent departure, and he was so damn close—

But the doors to the train closed five feet in front of his face. 

He spotted you through the windows nearby as you moved to find a seat. He rushed after you along the platform, fists banging on the glass to get your attention, but it was clear that you really were ignoring him now. Your eyes—puffy and red—were averted, refusing to look outside as the train began to move.

Behind him, the station officials yelled at him to stop pounding on the glass, but he did not hear.

“Y/N!” he called, banging again and again until his fists were bruised, almost tripping over himself to keep up with the train. “Y/N!” 

You didn’t lift your head, didn’t even look in his direction.

Once the train reached the end of the platform to take off from Skyhaven and descend towards the earth below, Caleb fell to his knees, bruising those, too.

He didn’t blink as you pulled out of his reach, feeling like his heart was taken with you.

°✧♡✧°

Almost a week had passed since you’d fled Skyhaven unbalanced and disoriented.

It was one of your news girl friends who’d taken you in like a lost stray when you landed back in Linkon. You’d gone straight to her, not wanting to be in your own apartment that was too full of reminders of Caleb. She’d been your savior this week—making sure you ate and took care of yourself, distracting you as much as she possibly could, lending you clothes so you didn’t have to go home yet. Thank Astra school was on break right now, because focusing on studying would’ve been impossible. 

You hadn’t opened up fully about why you were so upset, just vaguely said “Caleb and I had a disagreement”, but that was enough for her. She knew how close you two were and was smart enough to read between the lines of your relationship. You didn’t doubt that she could sense what went unspoken.

On impulse, you’d blocked Caleb’s phone number and social media shortly after getting on the train. Not permanently, you just… needed time to process. It felt petty, especially since you would have to face him at some point, but you weren’t ready for that yet.

He’d tried getting a hold of you through other phone numbers. You could see glimpses of the texts as the notification popped up—demanding that you unblock him, urging you to tell him where you went and why you weren’t home… but you didn’t actually open the full texts, and you never replied. You blocked each new number that he contacted you from, one after another, hoping that he got the message that you wanted to be left alone for now.

Even your Grandma had checked in, surely at Caleb’s urging. You’d answered her call long enough to let her know you were safe, but that you and Caleb weren’t on speaking terms right now. You could hear him in the background, demanding that she give him the phone, but your Grandma had always been a strong-willed spirit. She’d respected your wishes and hung up the call without giving Caleb a chance to speak.

You needed time to process on your own, and he was being too… distracting.

Over the course of the past several days at your friend’s place, you ran every possible scenario through your head.

One of the first scenarios you considered was that maybe you had read the signs wrong all this time. Maybe your emotional reaction was all your fault, and you would eventually owe Caleb an apology for sending him chasing after you like this.

What if you had just been imagining all those flirtatious moments leading up to now? Those moments where your connection felt like it might be something more than friendship? Those times when you caught him looking at you when he thought you wouldn’t notice? Those times when his fingers would brush yours as you walked side-by-side, like he was itching to take your hand in his?

What if you’d assigned too much meaning to his routine of sending good morning and good night texts like clockwork, even on his most stressful exam days that should’ve had his mind on other things? What if the way his gaze lingered a little too long when you wore your pretty dresses was just an empty look? What if the times when Caleb placed himself in the line of sight of other boys who stared too long were just coincidences?

Did all those years growing up together just boil down to friendship, and nothing more? 

He’d had his wallpaper set to photos of you since you could remember. When you still lived together, he would sneak out with you whenever you had nightmares so you could go stargaze together, telling you silly little facts about the Deepspace Tunnel just to distract you. He bought you flowers for your birthday, for holidays, sometimes for no reason at all. When he got drunk with his friends, he always left the party early to call you and slur out how much he missed you.

Was that just friendship? Just adoptive siblings looking out for each other?

The image of Caleb seated across from that giggling girl at the romantic, candle-lit restaurant flashed through your mind for the hundredth time that night, perhaps for the thousandth time that week.

No matter what had been going on between you two all these years, that girl wasn’t just a friend.

Caleb had found someone else.

You were brushing your hair furiously in front of your friend’s vanity, the confusion of the situation beginning to transform into anger that you were taking out on yourself. You had to pause your styling for a moment just to calm down. You had to remind yourself that your hair wasn’t your feelings for Caleb; there was no use trying to yank it out.

You were going out to a house party tonight, and you wanted to look nice, not like a love-crazed girl in the middle of a meltdown.

Deep breaths, Y/N, you told yourself. Think happy thoughts.

But it was the dead of winter for happy thoughts, and nothing joyful could bloom in your mind. Every little attempt at distracting yourself circled back to the same never-ending loop of self-destructive thoughts.

Surely, you hadn’t imagined the signs, the flirting, the tension, the chemistry between you two.

No, there was just no way.

The closest you two had gotten to speaking about the subject of your feelings had been during a conversation just before Caleb left for Skyhaven. You weren’t used to being separated… and you’d been crying, nonstop. You’d confessed that you were worried he would no longer have time for you between school, friends, parties, and (worst of all) dates and girlfriends.

Caleb’s response had been to promise he wouldn’t get a girlfriend while he was off at the DAA. His sunset eyes hadn’t even blinked as he made that promise. You’d tried to look away, embarrassed by the admission, and Caleb had immediately lifted your chin with his hand to claim your eye contact once more.

It was that moment that made you certain there was something more than friendship between you two. Friends didn’t make vows like that for each other.

But apparently, Caleb’s vows meant nothing.

Maybe he was planning on playing you for a fool all along… maybe he’d made you feel like the most important girl in his life all this time just so he could keep you on the sidelines waiting for him like a loyal dog. A backup option. A last resort.

Maybe that was why he was always so insistent on knowing your every move. Not to be protective like you’d always thought, but so that he could carefully arrange things in a way that would keep you in the dark while he ran around doing Astra knows what.

That was what popular, attractive guys like him did anyway, right? You’d seen your friends’ hearts get broken before, and as certain as you had been that Caleb would never do the same to you, those same friends had felt the same about their own love interests.

You’d just been naive all this time, naive like every other young woman in love.

Boys could be terribly, terribly good liars, and even better heartbreakers.

But two could play at that game.

“Y/N, are you almost ready?” your friend called out from the other room.

“Yes, almost done!” you called back, feigning a chipper voice. “Just give me five more minutes.”

Your makeup was done, your hair styled, your outfit carefully curated… but you still had one last step to take care of.

It was time to unblock Caleb.

Not because you were ready to talk to him—but because you wanted him to see that you wouldn’t be left wallowing in heartbreak over him. You would document tonight’s adventures, and you would document them well.

Let him witness just how easily you could move on.

Even if it was all a show, you could still make it believable.

°✧♡✧°

The solo cup in your hand full of cheap vodka and soda was untouched, but you made sure it didn’t look that way in your posts.

The captions read “Girls night with the bestie!! :D” and your stumbling party girl poses said “I’ve had one too many and I shouldn’t have another,” but your mind was clear and sober. You weren’t really a big fan of drinking, at least not when you were sad—maybe for some people, it took their mind off of things, but it only made you sadder. So, the drink was a prop and nothing more. No need to turn into a blubbering mess when tonight was all about proving a point.

Moments after posting the photo, you felt your phone buzz. There was no doubt in your mind that it was Caleb, messaging you now that he’d seen he was unblocked and that you were online.

You switched your phone to silent mode.

The music was loud and not your favorite, but you made sure to dance anyway. It made your skin-tight dress ride up on your legs, and you were intentional about not pulling the hemline back down. Running your hands through your hair, swinging your hips, giggling and laughing the whole time, you made sure to put on quite the show… for more than one reason.

Not only did it make the posts you filmed look rowdy and debauched—the vibe you were going for, thinking it would pack the meanest punch if he cared at all—it was also starting to attract the attention of the other boys at the party.

And those boys would also make for great props, if only you could lure them a little closer.

You flashed the boy closest to you a sly smile mid-dance, the one whose gaze had been lingering a little longer than the others.

Caleb wasn’t here to block the boy’s line of sight this time.

You didn’t know his name, and he wasn’t really your type (you’d only ever had one, very specific type after all), but that didn’t matter.

He took his cue and walked right up to you, matching your sultry smile with one of his own.

The boy's hands started at your waist as he joined you on the dance floor. You could feel his hands were uncomfortably sweaty through your clothes, and his grip was all wrong—the feeling of his body on yours could only be described as nails on a chalkboard—but you didn’t show the discomfort that you felt.

No, instead, you grabbed your phone and turned the camera on under the guise of taking a selfie.

You made sure to document how he danced behind you, the camera following his hands as they drifted lower, lower, eventually grabbing your hips. Pressing in on the flesh of your thighs, pulling you closer so that your backside pressed all the way to his front. It made you want to crawl out of your skin, but at least it made for great footage. You swayed your hips more now, exaggerating every movement, singing along to the provocative music with pursed lips and your tongue sticking out tauntingly in between verses.

And then… post.

You held your phone up high to make sure you got a good signal.

You wouldn’t want to interrupt this personal show you were putting on for Caleb.

He was the first to view the story post, of course. 

Y/N, tell me where you are right now, or there will be hell to pay—

You quickly dismissed the notification, but it was too late to unread the beginning of what Caleb had said.

And as much as you wished it didn’t make you sick to your stomach… it did.

Hell to pay?

°✧♡✧°

Caleb didn’t exactly regret teaching you to take internet security seriously—that would be the wrong thing to say.

But in this particular instance, he was a little… irritated that his lessons had been so successful. With all the posts and stories you’d uploaded that night, not a single one of them included your location. And while that was usually the smart thing to do, right now, it was driving him up the fucking wall.

If only you’d taken his other lessons to heart, including not going out drinking with random college boys.

It was pretty fucking obvious what you were doing. You were just trying to bait him, to piss him off, to get back at him for what you had seen the other night. You were never the type to go party, not like this, and the timing of it all made it all too clear what your plan was.

Admittedly, your plan to piss him off was working. It was working far too well. Ignoring him was one thing, but having to see another boy’s hands on your body on your social media just about sent him into a blind rage. It made his heart fucking hurt.

He might’ve punched several holes through the walls already if he wasn't currently in your apartment waiting for you—he was all too willing to destroy his own property in frustration, but not yours. Never yours.

(Minus the lock on your front door, of course, because he had to break into your place somehow… but he swore he would replace it by the end of the week.)

But even though your plan to piss him off was working, he refused to believe that your actions were genuine.

He could see the grimace behind the smile. He could see the way you were practically pulling away from those boys in the videos, even as you danced with them. He could see that over the course of an hour, the amount of liquid in your cup remained the same, and there were no lipstick marks on the rim that matched the color on your mouth.

No, it was all a facade, and he wouldn’t fall for it.

He switched from your profile back over to your friend’s, intent on keeping an eye on you in every way he possibly could.

She had just shared a new post of you two—a group photo with those same boys that Caleb couldn’t wait to put in their place—but it wasn’t the contents of the photo itself that were important.

Ah… finally.

You might’ve taken his internet security lessons to heart, but your friend had not.

°✧♡✧°

Caleb hadn’t viewed the last few posts you’d made, and it had been fifteen minutes now.

Why the fuck were you letting all these dudes touch you, dance with you, whisper in your ear? Had you been subjecting yourself to their bad breath and unrestrained cologne use for nothing?

Maybe he was out on a date with that girl again.

You wanted to throw your phone through the window in defeat.

“What’s wrong, babe?” one of the dudes said in your ear, probably in what he thought was a seductive tone, but it couldn’t have been any less appealing. He had been getting a little too brave, a little too handsy, and you were about ready to pour your untouched drink on him.

“Nothing,” you responded, picking his hand off of your waist like a dirty rag so that you could step away. “I just need some air.”

“Me, too,” he said, following in your footsteps. “Let me come with you, I think we could use a bit of privacy, yeah?”

You rolled your eyes—hard—and turned to give him a smile that you hoped looked as poisonous as it felt.

“Don’t bother yourself, I need to make a call, actually,” you said, and continued on your way to the front door of the house.

The dude’s hands returned to your waist as you stepped outside onto the front porch.

“A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be outside in the dark all alone, though,” he argued, voice dripping more with alcohol than seduction. “I’ll look after—”

“She doesn’t need a babysitter. She has me.”

The sharp, cold words were icier than the blast of night air.

You wobbled in your heels, regardless of the fact that you hadn’t actually sipped any of the booze that night.

Caleb tended to have that effect on you.

And he clearly had a domineering effect on the guy you had been dancing with, too—the random boy was quick to flee the scene and go back inside the minute he spotted Caleb, whose face spelled out murder. He looked like a boyfriend who’d caught his girlfriend in the act with someone else.

That thought prickled you incessantly—Caleb sure as fuck wasn’t your boyfriend, he’d made sure of that. He had no claim over you. What right did he have to chase off your own potential partners?

Coming to your senses, you tried to spin on your heels and head back inside, infuriated by the implication that he was your babysitter, but quickly found that you could not move. Your heels were weighed down with the mass of the sun itself, his evol as heavy as the stress you’d been carrying this week. You let out a growling, tantrum-laden sound, trying to slip out of the heels, but the evol only crawled further up your legs to keep you rooted in place.

Fucking Caleb.

He towered over you, angled eyebrows sharper than swords, the sunny shade in his evening-colored eyes long since set. They were dark, cutting, and furious.

“You and I need to have a chat, Y/N,” he said, and reached out to wrap his long fingers around your wrist in an unyielding hold.

“No, we don’t,” you spat back, trying to rip your hand from his grip (uselessly, of course). “I’m busy, Caleb. Don’t you have some other girl to entertain?”

Caleb flinched—actually flinched—which made your heart ache, but it didn’t matter. The ache was just a side effect of having been attached to him for too long, and you’d learn how to clean that ache out eventually, like an infection from a wound.

His jaw clenched, that muscle under his cheekbone flexing like he was chewing on something sharp. “That’s exactly why we have to talk. Come on, you’re coming home with me.”

“No, I’m not.” You didn’t move a muscle.

“I wasn’t asking,” Caleb said back, too slowly and too calmly. His words were accompanied by a tug on your wrist strong enough to pull you forward. You might’ve tripped in your heels if it wasn’t for his evol still keeping you afloat, an inescapable grip now encasing your entire lower half. Your feet moved of their own accord—of Caleb’s own accord—and you let out another frustrated sound of refusal.

“Caleb, let me go. I don’t want to hear about your perfect new girlfriend. I saw with my own two eyes, remember? Conversation done, I’m over it, we’re moving on. You don’t get to interrupt my night out to rub it in my face.”

He halted in his tracks, turning to face you with one raised eyebrow. His mouth opened, but no words came out. He simply shook his head and turned his back on you once more, resuming his steps as his evol pulled you along.

“I said let me go, you asshole!”

He didn’t turn to look at you again.

So, he was being stubborn tonight…

You let out an angry growl, wishing he were within punching distance. You muttered out a defeated, “Ugh, I fucking hate you.” You hoped it would hurt his feelings, but knew your outburst usually did little to phase him.

Down on the street, a car was waiting with its hazards blinking. Caleb used his evol to open the passenger door with barely a flick of his wrist.

You raised your own eyebrow at it. “Wow, a new car, new girlfriend, what else is new with you, Caleb?” you asked with all of the faux awe you could muster. “Have you been living an entirely new life without me knowing?”

“It’s a rental,” Caleb said simply. Part of you mourned the teasing lilt that Caleb was usually so fond of, as it was nowhere to be found, but the other part of you was glad to know he was in as poor spirits as you. “I had to get one when my errant sister decided to run around town without letting her family know where she was.”

It was your turn to flinch.

I’m just his errant sister.

And he’s just my babysitter.

The words were worse than a slap in the face. They were a cruel, laughable reminder that whatever you thought had been going on between you two was nothing more than an impossible dream.

He never saw you the way that you thought, the way that you hoped.

You were just an errant child with a crush that he was burdened with keeping track of.

Your shoulders slumped, and you swore you could feel tears prickling behind your eyes.

No, no, no! A squeaking voice stomped its little feet in your mind. This was NOT how tonight was supposed to go!

But what was the point in trying to make him jealous if he didn’t even care? 

When you made no effort to get inside the car, Caleb once again used his evol to pack you into the passenger seat himself. And this time, you didn’t fight back; you simply went limp, allowing your body to be manipulated however he pleased.

He shut the door a little too hard—flinch—and made his way around to the driver’s seat, where he shut the door even harder—another flinch. When you were both locked inside the car, he looked over at you, eyes running down your body to take in your outfit.

Your dress was still riding up high on your thighs, so high that you could peek at the color of your underwear from the right angle.

His lips curled in disgust, and you’d never wanted to crawl into the shadows to hide more than you did in that moment.

“It’s the middle of winter,” he said slowly, his eyes ripping away like he would rather look at anything else, “and that’s what you decide to wear? Not even a coat?”

The condescending tone and previous implications that you were just an ill-behaved child were starting to boil within you, sadness and hurt heating into a rage. “Don’t worry about me, Caleb. I had plenty of guys keeping me warm tonight,” you retorted.

Caleb’s fingers flexed around the steering wheel, knuckles whitening.

He didn’t say another word the rest of the car ride home.

You weren’t too far from your apartment, so thankfully, it wasn’t a terribly long ride, but the uneasy silence between you two made everything stretch on for far too long. Even the clicking sound of the turn signal in the car thundered in your ears like running footsteps down a tunnel—a tunnel you wished you could escape down. You swore that Caleb could hear the flexing of your throat muscles as you held back your sobs of angry frustration.

When the car finally pulled in front of your apartment building, you were quick to push open the car door and step out onto the street. 

“Well, Caleb,” you began, trying to muster back that biting tone. “Thanks for the ride, even though I didn’t fucking want one. Next time, you can go ahead and save both of our time by not bothering. I am not a child anymore. Good night!” 

But to your horror, he did not stay in the car. He turned the engine off and followed after you, locking the rental behind him without a backwards glance as he maintained eye contact with you. “You must’ve mistaken my silence for the conversation being over, pipsqueak. We’re not done talking yet. I just had to gather my thoughts.”

The childhood nickname normally left you giddy, but it only left you insulted right then. It was just another reminder of your place in his life, the place of his bratty adoptive sister. 

Your hands balled into fists. “Who said you were allowed in my apartment?”

“I’ve been in your apartment all week.”

Your jaw flopped open, and it was your turn to be left speechless. Had you… given him a spare key and forgotten about it? Had you left the door unlocked?

Caleb had the fucking audacity to smile then—a wide one. But it was all teeth and no warmth. It was a mocking smile, the one of a predator.

It made the rhythm of your heart falter in your chest.

Not wanting to reveal how badly that smile affected you, you spun on your heels and stomped your way into the apartment’s lobby, not bothering to hold the door open for him. Not that it mattered—his control of gravity allowed him to hold the door open with ease anyway, moving ever so gracefully even as you threw your tantrum.

Caleb coolly followed after you, making you feel silly for storming in so fast since you both ended up waiting for the same elevator anyway.

The silence was growing louder, screaming in your ears, but you were already so humiliated at being escorted home that you prayed Caleb would save whatever lecture he was going to give for the privacy of your home. Well… not so private anymore, considering Caleb had somehow weaseled his way in, even while keeping you out of the truth of his own life.

It was all just so fucking unfair.

You stood as far away from him in the elevator as you could. Your distance didn’t go unnoticed. Caleb looked over at you, his eyebrows pulled tightly together, before stepping towards you.

One step.

Two steps.

With his long legs, that was all it took to tower over you, inches from your face.

“You don’t run from me, Y/N,” he uttered, voice whisper-soft but somehow still laced with threat. “Never again.”

You could barely even breathe with him looking at you like that. He was a blackhole, sucking up all the oxygen in the elevator. There was nothing that wasn’t him.

When the doors finally opened, you bolted out, fishing through your purse for your keys as you desperately tried to catch your breath.

As you approached your apartment door, you realized something was off. It was slightly ajar, and the handle… why was it hanging that way—

All it took was a gentle push to open the door. No key necessary, not even a twist of the handle. Aghast, you stepped inside, looking back at the broken lock in shock. “Caleb, did you break into my fucking apartment?!”

Now that you were alone, though, in a place where no one else could bother you, Caleb let all pretense of his calm fall away. 

Within fractions of a second, he had the broken door slammed shut behind him with his evol, pushing your side table up against the frame to keep it from swinging open again. In the same moment, he had you caged up against the wall of your entryway—but that he didn’t use his evol for. He used both of his own hands, skin-to-skin, wrapped around your wrists, pinning them up on either side of your head.

That smile was back—that predatory smile that offered no comfort.

“I sure did, pips, and I would do a whole helluva lot worse if it meant keeping you safe,” he spoke in a low voice close enough to your face that you could feel it vibrate over your skin like thunder, goosebumps trailing in its wake. “I said it in the elevator, but let me say it again since you didn’t acknowledge it the first time. You don’t run from me. Not ever. You don’t run, you don’t hide, and you certainly don’t ignore me. Understand?”

You stood in a cowering silence, unable to respond, feeling a torrent of adrenaline cascading down every blood vessel in your body. You were so distracted by his proximity that it took a long moment to process what he said. No, his words would have to wait… first, you had to process the shackling grip of his hands on your wrists, the wave of passionate anger pulsing off of him like the heat of a summer day, the muscled thigh pressed between your own legs to keep you from moving… 

When his words finally registered, it was your initial instinct to nod; to say yes, you understood. It was the same instinct that had been instilled since childhood, the instinct that believed he was the only person who would truly protect you on this earth. You’d always listened to Caleb, at least when it came to important things, and this right here? You could tell this was important. 

But now, you fought that instinct off. This time, you wouldn’t listen.

You raised your chin up, looking down your nose at him even as he towered above you. “I’ll do whatever I want. I don’t belong to you, Caleb. You already gave that privilege to someone else.”

Caleb’s fingers only gripped tighter, defying your words, as if he could claim you with his hands alone. He shook his head slowly from side to side, features hardened. “I can’t tell if I’m heartbroken or insulted that you could think that, Y/N. Probably a mix of both.” His gaze, full of exasperation and frustration, trailed down to your lips, pausing there momentarily before continuing its perusal down the rest of your body. You weren’t sure if his gaze felt feather-light or blade-sharp; either way, you shivered in fear. “You stubborn, silly girl. Maybe I haven’t done my job well enough.”

“I don’t know what you think your job has been up until now, but consider yourself relieved of your duties as of now.” You wanted the words to come out biting and bitter, but they only sounded heavy, downtrodden. “I’m sure your new girlfriend wouldn’t appreciate me taking up so much of your time.”

Caleb’s fingers fell from your wrist and leaned back to give you space, but a new force kept your hands still in place against the wall—his evol, unfaltering as ever. His lips twitched into something like a snarl before flattening again. “You’d cast me off so quickly, then? All it takes is one misunderstanding, and you’d be done with me?”

“What is there to misunderstand?” Something about having his skin directly on yours had stopped you from fighting back earlier, but now that his fingers had unlaced themselves from your wrist, you were back to fighting against his evol—uselessly, of course. No matter how much you pulled, your hands would not budge. “I saw everything perfectly clearly. Maybe I’ve just been…” Fuck. The tears couldn’t be held back any longer, not now. They came hot and fast, flooding your eyes and blurring your vision. “Maybe I’ve just been an idiot for thinking there was something more between us all this time. Maybe I misread some signs. Maybe that was my mistake. But that doesn’t give you the right to come storming in and steal me away from the guys I might actually have a chance with someday! To act like you have any claim over me when you already threw me away!”

Caleb was quiet for so long that you feared he’d forgotten how to speak, or maybe your words were so laden with choked sobs that he couldn’t understand you. He was tracking the tears running down your cheeks, observing as they fell down to caress your neck, watching as they pooled against your collarbones and disappeared into the cleavage of your dress. 

“Your only mistake,” Caleb eventually murmured, tone husky and edged in velvet, “was thinking that you didn’t already belong to someone.”

The air was too heavy to breathe. It felt like Caleb was using his evol on your lungs now, and they couldn’t inflate on their own—he wasn’t, of course, but that didn’t stop your heartache from leaving you dysfunctional.

“That isn’t fucking fair, Caleb,” you managed to squeeze out, shaking your head at him. You tried to turn away, but he only grabbed your chin and forced you to look at him again, the same way he always had, the same way he always would. “You can’t just go collecting hearts like you have room for more than one. I only want to belong to one person.”

“Did you not read a single text I sent you over this past week?” Caleb asked, disbelief leaking at the edges.

You stilled in your struggles, biting your lower lip. No, you hadn’t… you’d seen glimpses, read a few words, but you’d deleted each and every one before you could read the whole thing.

And with the way Caleb was looking at you now, you didn’t want to admit it.

He lifted one hand to roughly comb through his hair before rubbing at his jaw. It must have been aching from how hard he was clenching his teeth. When he finally made eye contact again, he looked on the verge of falling apart.

“If you hadn’t run away from me to begin with, I could’ve explained this to you the same night it happened,” he said, voice trembling. “That girl is not my girlfriend. Never has been, never will be, never wanted her to be. I was only there that night because Gideon lied to her and lied to me, Y/N.”

Your eyes widened in shock. A flutter of something like hope took off in your heart, and though part of you desperately wanted to squash it before it could take flight, you kept quiet to listen to the rest of what Caleb had to say.

“And I wanted to leave, trust me, I wanted to, I just… didn’t want to be an asshole. You might hate her, but she’s actually a nice girl. She didn’t deserve to be stood up just because Gideon was being a douchebag. I was only going to have the one dinner, and then let down gently.” Caleb paused, swallowing hard. “But if I had known the reaction you would have to this, I would have left in a fucking heartbeat, Y/N. Her feelings mean nothing to me compared to yours.”

Something like guilt began to bleed out from the shards of your earlier rage. “Caleb—”

He lifted one finger, shushing you. “I’m not done. Do me a favor for the first time this week and just listen.”

It was not a request, and you did not argue with him. That instinct to do as he said had taken over once more. 

“That girl means nothing to me. Nothing. I shouldn’t have been there, fuck, I shouldn’t have been there, and I am so deeply sorry for that. I fucked up. I am even more sorry for how you found out. I can’t imagine how hurt you have been this week…” You could hear the sincerity of his words, could sense the truth in them. “...but while I was trying to figure out how to apologize to you, let’s talk about what you were doing.”

It was those final words that started to pick up a new tone.

Something colder. 

Something scary.

He leaned forward again, placing his arms on the wall on either side of your head, the thick ridge of his biceps blocking your vision from looking at anything but him. His knee pressed harder between your legs until it was causing your dress to ride up again—until his thigh was pressing up against your core, grinding against your most sensitive spot.

You let out a quiet gasp, but he was not deterred.

“Blocking my number? Blocking all my accounts? Running away to your friend’s house?” His eyes were flickering back and forth between your own, like they could find the answer they were looking for there. “Why would you do that, Y/N? And then…”

One hand lowered to move a lock of your hair behind your ear, tracing the edge of your jaw. 

The touch was gentle and loving, a stark contrast to the cold, brutal slash of his next words.

“And then doing all that on your social media accounts… letting those guys dance with you. Letting them touch you. Letting the rest of the world see them touch you, letting them think you ever belonged to anyone but me. Before you could even give me a chance to talk to you.” His lips curled up in a snarl again. “Hand me your phone.”

“Caleb, I’m sorry—” Whatever fight you’d had in you was fading now, alchemising into regret.

“I said hand me your phone.”

So you complied. His evol dissipated, allowing your hands to reach for your phone from the purse slung across your shoulder. You didn’t hesitate before handing it over.

He knew the password to unlock your phone already—it was his birthday, after all.

It was then that you noticed your friend had been calling you nonstop for the past ten minutes. You were too wrapped up in Caleb’s presence to notice them. Caleb himself was unfazed by the missed call notifications and declined the next call as soon as it came in. 

He even dared to block your friend’s number. You were only able to squeak out one little sound of opposition before he lifted his free hand to shush you again.

“Not a word, pips. You don’t get to talk to her until after I have a nice, long chat with her about hiding my little sister from me.”

There was that damn word again… but it didn’t make you flinch this time. With the way he had his thigh pressed between yours, grinding up against you in such an inappropriate way, you knew he didn’t really mean it. Big brothers didn’t do this to their little sisters.

He was just trying to bully you, to get a rise out of you, payback for what you had put him through this week.

And maybe you deserved it.

You watched as he methodically deleted the photos from your story. Just seeing the glimpses of the videos made your gut churn with disgust and shame.

It churned even more when you saw how hard Caleb gripped your phone, his knuckles sharply sticking out from beneath his skin as he deleted each video.

“Caleb…” his name fell from your mouth like a plea, voice cracking. “Caleb, I’m sorry, I didn’t like doing it, it felt…”

“Wrong?” he cut in, eyes lifting to you with a sharp jut of his chin. “Disloyal?” He scoffed. “I know. Your act wasn’t very convincing, pipsqueak.”

The way he said the nickname so condescendingly made your nerves prickle. There was something off about the glint in his eyes, like he was moments away from snapping.

He swallowed hard, and when he finally finished clearing out your social media accounts of the evidence of your misguided attempts at getting back at him, he leaned in close to you once more. “I know exactly how dirty you felt, pips. You wanna know why?” His voice had fallen back to that husky pitch again, silk laced with razors. “Because I felt the exact same way just sitting across from that girl. I’ve never felt so damn wrong in my life. And I didn’t even touch her.”

Caleb’s hand lifted up, and you expected him to return that punishing grip to somewhere on your body; pinning your wrists, grabbing your chin, anything, but his fingers did not touch you. Instead, you caught a glimpse of something in his hand—your phone. 

His lips were millimeters away from yours. “You’re going to have to do something for me, pips. You’re going to have to make up for your behavior tonight.” Every word caused his lips to brush against your own, and the heat of his summery-sweet breath had your blood racing. “Can you do that for me?”

He didn’t wait for you to answer.

The next thing you knew, his lips were crushing into yours, hard and hot and fierce in their claiming.

He gave you no room to deny him or move away. His control over gravity changed direction; no longer was it pinning your hands to the wall, but instead pulling them to him, pressing your fingers against his chest, bringing your core down harder against his leg. One of his hands caressed your jaw again, tracing the path of your earlier tears, down, down, his fingers sliding the strap of your dress out of the way so he could press against the curve of your breast.

You couldn’t tell which feeling was more overwhelming: his lips on yours, the firm curve of his pectorals beneath your fingertips, his thigh between your legs, the little sounds he made into your mouth when his lips parted to kiss you deeper, the trail his fingers were making until he pinched your nipple hard, eliciting a gasp from you… It was all too much.

Too good.

Just as you began to kiss him back—to explore the plane of his chest willingly, to grind your hips down onto his thigh—something flashed bright enough to reach you behind your eyelids. It startled you into pulling away.

You opened your eyes in time to catch Caleb’s lips pulled up in a smirk, still wet with your spit. His eyes weren’t trained on you, though.

They were on your phone.

On the picture he had just taken of you. Of him.

“Caleb, what are you—”

He pulled the phone out of reach before you could grab it; you watched as he hit ‘post’ on the debauched image, making it public for all of your followers to see.

“Setting the record straight about who you really belong to,” Caleb said, eyebrow raised. “Don’t tell me I’m not good enough for your account. Are you embarrassed by me or something, pips?”

“No, Caleb, of course not…” you muttered, blushing. You weren’t embarrassed by him—just plain embarrassed. 

But clearly, that was his goal. 

“Mmm,” he hummed, seemingly deep in thought as he cocked his head to the side. “Do you not want me, then?”

“No!” you exclaimed, bringing a mocking smile to his lips. “I mean, yes, Caleb, I do want you.”

He got close again, brushing his lips tauntingly against yours once more. “I don’t believe you.”

Your lips parted, partially in a gasp, and partially because they wanted to taste Caleb again. “Huh?”

“I said I don’t believe you, pips. You’re going to have to prove how much you want me.” 

That was when his evol dissipated completely, and he stepped back quickly from where you were pinned against the wall. The sudden loss of support caused you to stumble forward, making his lips pull up in another smirk. Fucking Caleb. You only barely managed to stop yourself from stumbling to your knees.

“Caleb, I don’t know what I’m—”

“Oh, come on, pips. You had so many creative ideas on how to get me jealous earlier when you were posting those little videos. Don’t tell me you can’t come up with a single thing to show how much you want me?” he chuckled, and when you still stood frozen, mouth agape and cheeks blazing, he scoffed.

With a disapproving shake of his head, he turned towards your bedroom and beckoned you with his finger.

“Hurry up, Y/N. If you’re going to be lazy and make your big brother help you with another assignment, the least you can do is follow me when I say so.”

The blush in your cheeks burned hotter and brighter… but you did as he said and scurried after him. He kept his eyes trained on you, gaze slowly moving downward to take in your dishevelled state as he closed the bedroom door behind you. His violet eyes seemed to burn like candles in the low light; the faintest hint of city glow slipping through the curtains was all it took to set his amethyst irises aflame.

He jutted his chin towards the edge of your bed. “Get on all fours, face towards the headboard.”

And again, you found yourself freezing in place. This was all happening so fast. Just earlier today, you were sure you would have to get over him, to forget your feelings for him, and now…

“Did you hear me, pipsqueak? Or do I need to use my evol and help you do that, too?”

Chastised by his words, you quickly crawled onto the bed, immediately all too aware of how fucking short this dress was. Your ass was almost entirely exposed. It didn’t help that you wore the world’s tiniest thong, either. You could feel the cool night air against your center… your very wet center. The wetness was spilling out of the sides of the thong and smearing on your inner thighs, coaxed out by Caleb’s thigh moments earlier.

The groan that Caleb let out then made it very clear how aware he was of the state of your core. You bit down on your lip, fighting the urge to hide underneath the covers. Caleb’s earlier words echoed in your head, though—you don’t run from me.

So you stayed there, on your trembling hands and knees, ass and cunt presented right in the middle of your bed just for him.

“Aw, my pretty little meimei. Are you already wet for me? Maybe you really do want me, after all. I’ve hardly even touched you.” But then he made another humming sound. “But… I’m still not convinced yet. You were bragging earlier about how those other boys were keeping you warm. This isn’t for them, is it?”

“No!” The word came out urgent and pleading. Fuck, your earlier words were coming back to bite you in the ass. “No, gege, I swear.”

“You swear what?”

“I swear it’s just for you.”

You hear the sound of a zipper being undone.

“What’s just for me, baby? Use your words, complete sentences. I need details.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, feeling on the verge of tears. This was so fucking humiliating.

But it only made your core weep harder.

“My pussy, gege. My pussy is just for you. It’s soaking wet for you, it wants you, I want you.” Your voice was shaking, beseeching. When he didn’t say anything, didn’t respond, didn’t come closer, you knew he still wasn’t satisfied. You groaned loudly and wiggled your ass, a beggar pleading for alms. “Caleb, please. I’m sorry. They didn’t mean anything. I didn’t want their hands on me. It was gross. It made me sick. They aren’t you; they could never be you. I’ve only ever wanted you. I’ve only ever gotten wet for you. Will you please forgive me?”

Finally, you heard his footsteps as he came closer. You shivered as he placed the tip of one finger at the top of your spine, dragging it down slowly until goosebumps raced over every inch of your body. The dress you were wearing was backless, so he was able to keep going lower, lower, lower, tracing your spine until it stopped just about the fabric that hardly covered your ass.

“That’s better. I’m almost convinced,” he said mostly sweetly, but still with a hint of something sour, something mocking. “If you really want to convince me all the way, though…”

“What, gege? I’ll do anything.”

That finger on your spine went lower, tracing the valley of your ass before dipping beneath the thong and pulling it to the side. “You’re going to take this cock like a good girl and show me how much you like it.”

And just like his earlier kiss, he didn’t give you time to deny him before sliding the fat head of his dick between your soaking wet lower lips.

You cried out. Loudly. Fuck, you’d played with yourself before, but it wasn’t like this. Nothing had ever been like this. Even with how wet you were, the stretch burned fiercely, and the sheer shock of the feeling had you scrambling forward across the bed to escape the intense feeling.

Well, you tried to, at least.

Caleb’s evol was back at work, distorting your vision as it pinned you in place. There would be no running from him. You were stretched on the hot, fat head of his cock—just an inch or so, but it was enough for your breathing to come out stuttered and your heart to pound at the back of your breasts.

Caleb leaned down over you, aiming his mouth near your ear as he tauntingly hummed at you. “I thought you said you’d do anything, baby? Do you take it back?”

“No, Caleb, I want it,” you panted out. “I want it. I want all of you. Just… mmmm. Give me a minute. Please? It’s so much.”

“I’ve barely given you anything, though, Y/N. You’ve got a long way to go if you really want all of me,” he chuckled darkly, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. “But I’ll go slow with you. Anything for my sweet meimei.”

And ever so gently, he began to rock into you, just fractions of an inch at a time.

It was such a tight fucking fit. The push and pull of his cockhead was all-consuming; the thought of it barely being a fraction of his full length almost sent you into a panic. Every millimeter of movement he gave you had you moaning out, burying your face into the sheets, horrified by the sounds you were making. They were sounds you didn’t even know you were capable of making.

Caleb didn’t like your attempts at muffling your voice, though. He threaded his fingers through your hair and gently pulled back, guiding you to look over your shoulder at him.

“No running,” he reminded you. “I told you I want you to show me how much you like it. That means I need to hear you, too.”

And so you listened to his order, moaning even louder at the sight of him dipping between your ass cheeks out of the corner of your eye. It was so vulgar… better than anything you’d ever dreamed of. You wanted to memorize the way the city’s neon lights cast purple-toned shadows beneath every vein and curve of his dick, how your slick shimmered in the same hues across his flesh.

He took his time fucking you with just his tip, but you could feel him shaking now, his grunts coming out almost pained… it was clear that he needed more.

When Caleb shifted ever so slightly from where he stood behind you, his cockhead hit a certain spot in you that had you gasping and clenching around him—and it involuntarily caused him to push another inch into you, stretching you out even more.

“Ah—” he whimpered, using both of his hands to clutch your hips in an attempt to stop himself from sinking any further. “Fuck, baby, you’re squeezing me… I’m not going to be able to stop myself from going deeper if you do that again.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you whined, the stretching burn starting to feel less aching and more electrifying. You wiggled your ass on the blade of his cock. “It was your fault, gege, you feel too good…”

The movement made him whimper again, and he squeezed the flesh of your ass. “Oh yeah, baby? You like gege’s cock? Do you think you can take more now?” He gave a few half-thrusts into you, testing your limits. He listened closely to the little sounds he was drawing from you, trying to sense if there was any reason he needed to stop.

Every sound was one of pleasure; he didn’t stop.

“I’ll take whatever you give me, Caleb.”

His movements faltered. Again, he leaned close, the warmth of his breath tickling the nape of your neck.

“Are you sure about that?”

You mewled, pushing back to take another half inch of his cock in response. The more of his swollen flesh that pushed into you, the less you were able to communicate in words. You could only hope the wetness pooling out of you, down his shaft, trickling down his balls, and soaking your silk sheets was enough to speak on your behalf. 

“Then gege’s gonna fuck you now,” he murmured, running a hand lovingly down your back.

You bucked back onto him one more inch, a taunt and an invitation that elicited another choked, broken moan. He even laughed a little, a breathy chuckle that felt like sunshine on your skin.

But what happened next was beyond giggles and taunts.

He thrust all his remaining inches into you, making you scream out, your face falling back into the bedsheets below you. This time, he let you muffle the sound—it was so loud it probably would’ve woken the neighbors without it. He kept himself seated inside you, letting you adjust to the massive length. You could feel the hard ridges of his abs pressed against your ass cheeks.

You weren’t the only one making sounds; your pussy was pulsing around him, throbbing, welcoming him in, making Caleb whine out puppy-like sounds in his attempt to maintain composure.

And just when you thought you were in control, he made you lose it once more by beginning to move.

He didn’t go slow this time. He pulled back his cock in a sharp movement before bucking it all the way back in. Over and over, punishing thrusts, the kind that had your entire body tensing just to keep from being fucked directly into the mattress. It was sloppy, fierce, and intense; more intense than you ever thought Caleb would be with you. In your fantasies, he’d been gentle, warm… but this was devouring, absolute.

You didn’t dislike it.

Language was completely out the door. For you, at least—Caleb only seemed to get more chatty now that he had fully unleashed himself.

“Look at you, taking me so good,” he cooed breathily. “I should’ve never doubted how bad you wanted me. You’re gushing, baby. Look at the fucking mess you’re making.” Another needy little whimper slipped from his lips. “All this mess just for me. Hah, you dirty fucking girl, I should’ve known. I should’ve known you would be like this. Gege’s little fuck toy. You were made for me. You hear me, Y/N? Made for me. Don’t you ever fucking forget it again.”

Your moans were punctuated by the jutting of his hips, like his cock was clogging up your throat every time he bottomed out inside of you. It sure fucking felt like he was going that deep in you—you didn’t even know you could fit so much inside.

And then it stopped all at once with no warning; he pulled his cock out, leaving you bereft and calling out wordlessly at the sudden emptiness.

“Flip over, baby. I want to see you.”

But the momentary loss of dick wasn’t enough to clear your mind from your fucked-out haze. You were too slow to comprehend his orders, and Caleb was clearly not a patient man when it came to these things. He’d waited so long for this already that he refused to suffer a second longer; he took matters into his own hands, using his evol to flip you over, plopping you onto your back so that you were face to face.

“Wanna see you,” he panted, his lips parted, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling in the dim light as he stood over your body at the end of the bed. “Wanna see how you look with gege’s cock fucking you.”

Caleb clawed at your dress, bunching and tearing at it to get the damn thing off your body. Your instinct was to cover yourself, to cover your tits, unused to being so laid out and exposed, but he grunted in refusal.

“Give me your tits, baby. They’re already mine.” He adjusted the gravity to pin your arms down again so that you were laid bare before him, ripping the thong fully off of your body now, too. “You’re not hiding from me this time. Not hiding ever again.”

He took off his own shirt, using it to wipe off some of the sweat accumulating at his hairline and temples before tossing it into a corner of the room, forgotten. He slipped his pants fully off, too. It was the first time you’d gotten a full, unimpeded view of his bobbing cock, thick and proud and slick with your juice; fuck, it was so big and mouthwatering.

Caleb was observing you just as intently, his gaze travelling down to your core. “Look at your clit, baby, all swollen and puffy for me. So pretty.” He reached down, swiping two fingers across it before gathering some of the mess spilling between your thighs. The teasing touch elicited a mewl from you, making him smirk. He brought the slick liquid up to his lips, taking a long, languorous lick, his eyes squeezing shut with pleasure. The sound he made was that of a man starved. “So sweet. Fuck.” When his eyes opened again, something devious sparked there—even more devious than he’d been earlier. “I think you need to taste how sweet you are, too, baby.”

He crawled onto the bed, over your body, stopping when each of his knees was positioned on either side of your upper arms. Looking up at him from this angle felt like standing beneath the statue of a god, every chiselled angle of his body carved from marble. You gaped at his dick hanging heavy above you, some of your wetness from earlier sliding down the tip and threatening to fall on your face.

“Say ahhhh, meimei. Open up for your big brother.”

Has Caleb always been like this? You thought maybe you should’ve been ashamed at how much it was turning you on, his taunting words and teasing nicknames, taboo and filthy and wrong. But it still felt so right. Your core clenched around nothing, missing him already.

You did as he said, parting your lips and saying ahhhh in a cutesy little voice that had Caleb huffing out a laugh. He leaned down, resting on his forearms above you while his throbbing length lowered to your face. It slipped between your lips and slid down across your tongue.

The taste of your slick mixed with the hot drops of his precum, flooding your mouth and making you salivate. He could barely fit the top of half—no, top third of his cock in your mouth before he was hitting the back of your throat, and it took up so much space that your spit started spilling out the sides of your mouth in rivulets of drool. You moaned at the intrusion, causing his hips to buck in pleasure from the vibration of your throat around his flesh. It made you gag just a little from how deep it went before you found your composure again.

“You taste yourself, baby? You taste how sweet your mess is?” he asked, thrusting across your tongue as he fucked your head into the mattress. “Fuck, you look so good choking on me. Your lips are so much prettier wrapped around my cock than when they’re telling me to let you go, telling me how much you hate me…”

His reminder of your earlier tantrum made you whimper, a sound a little like pleading for mercy. He chuckled at that, pleased by your fear.

“You didn’t mean it, right, baby? Tell me you didn’t mean it,” he cooed, pushing his dick further down your throat in a dominating claim of the space.

You mewled out a denial in response, the sound muffled by his length. It throbbed again from the vibration; you could see Caleb’s thighs start to shake on either side of your body.

“Fuck, you’re going to make me cum, your cute little mouth is too tight, sweetheart…” he pulled back then, drool still connecting the tip to your lips as he backed away from you. “Don’t wanna come in your throat this time, though. I’ll save that for the next time you’re being a brat and I need to shut you up.” He chuckled as he returned to standing at the edge of the bed, his thighs still quivering. “You’ve taken my cock well enough to earn my cum in your pussy, I think. Does that sound good, baby?”

Your eyes widened—it did sound good, the thought of his hot, sticky cum filling you up, but you weren’t on birth control, and he wasn’t using a condom. The fear of what could happen must have flashed through your eyes because Caleb’s head tilted to the side.

“Aw, don’t tell me you’re scared of me breeding you, meimei.” His voice was mocking as he scooped his arms underneath the bend of your legs and pulled you to the edge of the bed. Your lower half was suspended in the air just by his strength. “You said you’d do anything for me, right, sweetheart? Won’t you take your gege’s cum, then? Let me knock you up. You’d look so pretty swollen with my baby.”

He let out a huff of laughter at the look on your face, the way your mouth fell open in shock at his words. He gave a thoughtful hum.

“Hmmm, I guess it can wait, sweetheart… I don’t exactly relish the thought of splitting your attention with anyone else for the foreseeable future, anyway. Still going to cum in you, though. That part is non-negotiable. I’ll get you Plan B, baby, don’t worry.”

And with another claiming he thrust, he reinserted his cock into your wet, throbbing hole. 

The stretch still burned a little, but this time it was less painful, more pleasurable. You moaned long and low, your mouth parting open wider from the feeling of fullness. Using his arms to control the angle of your hips, he continued the earlier pace of his punishing fucking. His eyes were glued to the place where your body connected with us, unblinking. The crude sound of his wet balls slapping against your ass gave an audible rhythm to your joining, and you knew the sound would resonate with you for weeks to come.

Caleb’s evol took over the job of holding up the weight of one of your legs. He used his free hand to lean down and run his thumb over your lower lip. He dipped the digit into your mouth to run it across your tongue, too. “So pretty. So pretty for me.” He smiled before grabbing your cheeks, squeezing enough to make your lips purse. “Love seeing your makeup so messy. Love fucking your makeup off of you. Your mascara’s all over your face, baby. Is gege’s cock so good that you’re crying?”

You nodded, another few tears spilling over at the corners of your eyes as he stretched you out and ruined you for anyone else. He leaned close to your face, licking them up like dessert.

“Tell me, meimei. Tell me how good.”

“Gege… gege, your cock is soooo good,” you mewled back, going crosseyed from how deep he was, how fast and hard he was driving into you. “So hard. Pl-please… gege, it hurts so good, I need it, I need it. Mmmm!”

The brutal pace did not slow down at your cries of how good it hurt. If anything, he picked the pace up further. He was mesmerized by the way your tits bounced in answer to his bucking hips; it seemed to spur him on, to make him fuck you harder and harder just to see how your body reacted.

When he found that spot inside of you again, the one that made you tense up and your whines go high and thready, his eyes seemed to light up.

“Right there, Y/N? Is that where you need it?”

You nodded more vigorously. Oh, that feeling…

You’d come before. Fuck, you had come before, so many times at your own hand while thinking about Caleb, but now…

The feeling building low in your core now was unlike anything you’d ever felt before. It felt like you were going to shatter.

And Caleb wasn’t a patient man. He was keen on breaking you.

Once he knew where you needed him, he did not relent. He pounded into that special spot, using the head of his cock to build your climax so quickly that you didn’t have time to even catch your breath or prepare for the incoming storm. It was like a chemical reaction, your body coming to a fierce boil beneath him, about to spill over.

“Come for me, sweetheart, I know you want to, come on, I wanna feel you on me, can’t you do that f’me? Please, baby, I’ve needed you so bad, you’ve put me through hell this week, I just need to feel my meimei come on me… do it for me? Come for your big brother?”

The next thing you knew, your vision was whiting out.

Your senses crossed over and got mixed up with each other; you were tasting his moans, hearing the throbbing of his cock, feeling the taste of him on every inch of your body. Your cunt clenched so damn hard on him that he didn’t stand a chance at lasting any longer, either. He collapsed on top of you, giving you a sloppy open-mouthed kiss so that he could breathe your used air as he came. 

For someone who had been so dominant, so controlling and absolute, the moans he let out then were absolutely pathetic, and the vibration of those sounds resonated directly into the membrane of your lungs.

The pulsing waves of summer heat and euphoria coursed through your pussy and echoed in a tide through every inch of your body, the flood of his hot cum filling you up from the inside out, making the orgasm go on and on and on, wet and sloppy and slice and sticky…

He pulled back just enough to utter more words into your mouth.

“Baby, you—hng—you’re milking me, ah, fuck—my perfect little girl…”

You swallowed each word hungrily in between messy kisses. The feeling of your hot tongues sliding against each other was just as silky as his pulsating cock massaging his cum into your inner walls, and it had you bowing off the bed, your body unable to withstand even an inch of separation.

When the intensity of the orgasm began to fade, Caleb didn’t pull his cock out, didn’t stop kissing you, didn’t disentangle his hands from your body, didn’t let go of his evol. No, he wanted you right there, right where you belonged; subdued and limp, still impaled on his half-hard cock, whimpering from the aftershocks of his still-twitching cock inside of you.

The only movement he made was to adjust you enough so that you could both lie on the bed, with you pulled tightly on top of him in the crook of his arm, both of your legs tangled together.

The rushing waves of exhilaration were quickly fading into a gentle ebb and flow of exhaustion, a feeling you welcomed greatly after the longest, most sleepless nights you’d ever had in your life this week.

“Caleb, gege, will you stay here w’me?” you mumbled into his chest, nuzzling into his sweat-soaked skin.

“I wouldn’t leave even if you begged me to, pipsqueak.”

You let out a sleepy giggle, and Caleb began to stroke your hair as you started to drift off.

On the edge of consciousness, you heard him add softly, “It wasn’t a joke, baby. I’ll always be here.”

°˖✧~*♡*~✧˖°

It was an amusing browse that lasted for an hour, and you thought that's all it would be—an hour of entertainment you wouldn't think about ever again.

But now you're staring into the violet eyes of the most handsome man android you've ever seen, with eyes somehow reflecting so much life and charm, drawing you in the longer you stare. He looks less like the typical androids you normally see and that has you intrigued.

Meet Caleb (model no. X-02), EVER’s latest android companion, tailor made to be your perfect partner! He's the boy next door, an attentive lover, and the adrenaline junkie that will take you on the ride of your life.

You scan through his bio that lists characteristics, even habits, that seem to bring him to life. He loves building model airplanes, hates cilantro, dreams of becoming a pilot, etc.

It reads less like a sales pitch and more like a dating profile. And somehow, he's checking off all your boxes. He really does seem tailor made for you. It's almost creepy.

This Caleb companion is not fit for additional installations or modifications.

So, you can't pay for extra stamina and a twelve inch dick? What a shame. You could really use that right now.

It doesn't help that there’s a shirtless photo of Caleb in bed with his thumb hooking around the band of his sweat pants, gazing up at the camera with a seductive smirk.

The ache between your legs returns annoyingly and you groan, scrolling away before you find your hands down your pants for another useless session.

Price mark down! 80% off! Get him today for the low, low price of $4,999.99!

You whistle, “that's pretty cheap.”

Considering the average, high quality android these days costs $30k and up, you're looking at a bargain—or at least, that's what your tipsy and horny addled mind tells you. But there's no way an android from EVER, a top selling android competitor, is selling a new model this low. There has to be a catch.

You try reading the finer details, but the tiny words just blend together. Somehow the only details you manage to catch are ‘passionate lover', ‘extra stamina pack included’, and ‘six vibrating arm modes’. You're extra intrigued by that last detail.

The add to cart button is clicked without a second thought. Purchasing is a simple, familiar process. Inputting your name, card information, address is muscle memory at this point.

You only realize what you just did when the EVER logo pops up on your screen with a purchase confirmation number.

Buyers remorse kicks in as you stare at the screen. This is probably one of the most embarrassing purchases you've ever made, solely driven by the fact that you're unbearably sexually frustrated and horny for some super hot, discount android.

Before you can figure out how to cancel your order, you notice an audio message attached to the thank you message.

“Thanks for choosin’ me. I can't wait to meet you.” A voice, presumably Caleb’s, says. Even his voice is hot. There's a sweet charm to it, playful and alluring all at once. “Fill out the questionnaire below to help me learn how I can please you.”

The questions range from basic tasks you'd like help with to how frequent you want him to initiate sex. You answer with complete honesty, thanks to the alcohol.

“For the love of God,” you mutter, sitting up on your bed. “Couldn’t he at least, move his bed away from the shared wall? Or schedule the symphonies for…” you glance at the red-glowing digits on your nightstand. 1:00am. “…hours that aren’t to sleep.”

Your pillow is already half off the bed as you bury your face in it to muffle the sounds. Sex couldn’t be thatgood, you think, as another thump reverberates like a strange, patient earthquake.

You clamp the pillow over your ears harder—but it’s no use. You can still hear a rhythm, distant but steady, and beneath it, the tiny, infuriating detail: Caleb’s laughter, bright and boyish, cutting through. 

That sound snaps whatever polite restraint you’d been patching together into sharp little pieces.

You fling the pillow aside. Tights twisting, heart pounding, you march out of your room and aim straight to his. 

You don’t hesitate, you raise your fist and knock so hard the cheap wood answers back with a hollow thud. “Do you know what time it is, for fuck’s sake?!” you bark, voice raw and flat with fury. 

No answers come.

The only thing that tells you you’ve been heard is the groan of the mattress like an old ship settling. And for a ridiculous, furious second you consider that this could be your victory. 

You already picture yourself trudging back to your bed, collapsing, sleep swooping—

The door swings open before you can celebrate. 

Caleb stands there in the doorway, half-naked and annoyingly unbothered, a pillow strategically pressed to hide whatever decency remains. 

“What the—” escapes you, but it dies in your chest when your eyes sweep his room: clothes in a chaotic spill, a lamp askew, and a girl sprawled over his bed. Your eyes almost pop out of their sockets when you notice several used condoms on the floor.

Heat stabs your face—not from embarrassment but from acute, stupid fury. And maybe… arousal.

Caleb tilts his head, amused. He doesn’t look remotely embarrassed too—even though, he should be. He smirks, that infuriating, cocky half-smile that says he knows exactly what he’s doing and doesn’t care.

“Wanna join?” he says, the words sliding out with casual malice

You feel your jaw tighten until it hurts. “Are you kidding me?” you snap. “It’s one in the morning, you inconsiderate—” your voice drops venomous. You step forward until you’re a breath from him. “Do you even own a clock? Decency??”

He laughs, leaning into the doorway to be a smug silhouette and hiding the girl’s quivering thighs. “Relax, you’re dramatic tonight. Go back to bed and stop being so uptight.”

Uptight.

Up.tight.

The word skitters off him like oil and echoes in your head. Your hands ball into fists at your sides. “Uptight, huh?” you spit. “You think I’m dramatic? You’re the one playing percussion with our shared wall like it’s the rehearsal for a porno.”

He blinks, still smiling. “We’re adults,” he says, as if it settles everything. “We do adult things.”

“Adults don’t keep other adults awake,” your eyes narrow at the sweat dripping down the side of his neck. “They respect shared spaces, Caleb. They respect roommates.”

“Noted,” he shrugs, dragging the word out, deliciously insincere. “But, maybe, next time you can join the fun instead of policing it.”

Your blood rushes. For a dizzy second you imagine saying the worst thing you can think of… and for another dizzy second you find yourself wondering if sex could really be that good, again. But this time with Caleb’s broad frame over you and—

You shake your head, biting your nails into your palm, trying as much as you can to tether yourself to earth. “You moved your bed against the wall on purpose,” you tell him, meeting his bright purple gaze. “Move it back. Or I’ll file a noise complaint and won’t be nice about it.”

He shrugs again, the pillow still pressed under his lower body. “I’ll think about it,” he takes a step back, and before turning away he tosses: “Thanks for the midnight visit. You always bring such energy, pipsqueak.”

Then, as if punctuation were unnecessary, he flashes you his round ass and doesn’t even bother to close the door.

“Talk of delirious conversation.” You talk through your teeth, returning to your room fluming harder than when you left. 

──────ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

Next morning you’re gone before the sun even bothers to rise fully, slipping out of the apartment with your bag slung over your shoulder. No breakfast, no coffee, no ‘good morning.’ You don’t even give yourself the chance to hear if he’s snoring or not. You’re absolutely not in the mood to look at his deranged face after last night. 

And Caleb? Oh, Caleb is disappointed. His eyes flutter open to an empty living room and the sound of your bedroom door firmly shut. No playful banter, no glaring, not even a muttered insult for him to feed off.

“That’s cold he mumbles into his pillow, rolling over with a groan. But then his expression shifts… “Well, at least this gives me plenty of time for my favorite hobby.”

He stretches like a cat, drags himself out of bed stark naked, and announces to absolutely no one, “PANTIES TOUUUUUUR!!” His voice booms through the apartment with an enthusiasm that belongs more to a game show host than a man living with another human being.

He marches to the laundry basket. Going to your cleaned clothes wasn’t an option—he wanted something freshly worn by you. He digs through it with the reverence of an archaeologist on the brink of discovery, lifting each piece of clothing one by one. A sock? Tossed aside. A hoodie? Boring. 

His grin widens, boyish and filthy as he plucks up a delicate scrap of fabric.

“Ohhhhh, my sweet little roommate,” he croons, holding your laced little panties up in the air. He presses them to his face, inhaling, eyes rolling back. “Ah, smells like pure divinity,” he sighs.

He parades around the apartment with his prize, his bare feet slapping lazily against the floor. The pillows he’d used last night, and the crumpled sheets are already tumbling in the machine, sacrificed to the illusion of cleanliness, but this little trophy? This, he’s not letting go of.

He hums tunelessly as he twirls the fabric on his finger, the way someone else might spin car keys. When he flops onto the ouch, he does it with a dramatic groan, one arm thrown over his forehead, the panties clutched to his chest. 

“Why’d you leave so early, huh?” he says out loud, talking to the ceiling. “You know I need my morning fix. A glare, a curse, a shove into the fridge door… anything!” he shifts suddenly upright, shaking the panties in accusation. “Don’t you get it, pipsqueak? I need you.” 

His voice dips, carrying the filth that feeds his disturbed mind. “Even if it’s just to scream at me while I do this—”

muffling the sound directly against your panties. He presses his mouth hard to the fabric, kissing them. His lips drag along the lace, open-mouthed and hungry, leaving damp heat behind. He bites the edge gently, then sucks it between his teeth as it was your tongue.

 His tongue was slow at first, but it quickly became rougher—obscene and sweet in his own way of savoring. He licks up the seam, hips twitching faintly as if his body can’t help responding.

His mouth isn’t moving with careful curiosity. 

It’s confident.

The confidence of a man who’s done it before. Many times. Every motion has that practiced filthiness—the greedy inhale against the pantie, the way he turns it in his hands so he can mouth at the gusset more deeply, dragging his lips over it again and again. 

His breath turns ragged the longer he goes. His free hand slips down without hesitation, wrapping around his cock and dragging it out hard and heavy, flushed to a painful red. The obscene sound of his pre-cum lubing him up fills the quiet apartment as he fists himself with desperate speed, sloppy—just raw need. 

“Fuuuck—” he gasps against them. “That’s it… that’s so fucking good…” His tongue pushes through the lace again, lapping at the damp seam like he could taste you on it if he worked hard enough. He drools onto the fabric without shame, saliva soaking in and smearing across his face, making it stick wetly against his skin. He laughs — cracked and manic — his hips bucking into his own fist, precum spilling over his knuckles and dripping down his shaft.

He shuts his eyes tight, grinding the panties harder into his face, biting the fabric like he wants to eat it whole. His voice is broken as it pours out between clenched teeth: “Fuck—fuck, give it to me… give me that smell… oh god, I fucking need it.”

He strokes faster—the wet slap of his cock in his hand, the snuffling sorts against the lace, the breathless whines breaking out of his throat is a filthy mixture echoing around the apartment.

It’s disgusting.

The kind of feral, degrading ritual of a man who’s done this way too many times, who’s ruined too many pairs of your underwear in exactly this way.

When he finally spills, it’s violent. No less. Hot cum is spilling over his red hand, his naked stomach, his pants. He jerks and bucks until it streaks across the couch cushion beneath him too, the mess soaking into the fabric. His moan rips out of him raw and guttural, teeth sinking into the gusset, smearing it with spit.

And when he collapses back, chest heaving, he’s grinning—completely satisfied. He drags the panties down from his face, strings of spit clinging, then presses one last sloppy kiss right to the soaked crotch. 

And as if it couldn’t get any filthier, Caleb puts the pantie on his own mess, cleaning himself the best he could before bringing back the fabric to his tongue. 

He moans, savoring the sour-salty taste of his own mess mingled with the faint ghost of your scent.

“Perfect,” he pants. “So perfect, you have no idea…”

He lays there in the wreckage, cum cooling on his skin, panties balled in his fist. 

──────ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

It’s late when you finally make it home. The hallway is quiet, the kind that makes you hope Caleb’s already asleep. You unlock the door slowly, bracing yourself, praying you won’t see him sprawled on the couch, smirking.

Or worse.

The second you step inside, you heart it. The worse.

A laugh, his laugh, floating from his bedroom. And then another sound follows: the high-pitched giggle of a girl. Thin walls don’t lie.

You stop in the entryway, keys clutched too tight in your hand. Already your stomach is knots. Of course he has someone in there. Just like every single night in the last two weeks. And of course, he’s doing this at the exact same time you come home. 

You’re starting to think he’s doing this on purpose. 

And right on cue, as if summoned, his voice carries through the drywall. It’s loud and exaggerated, dripping with smugness. “Ohh, fuck, yeah. Just like that. Open your mouth wider. . . Yeahhh, gooood.”

A wet, gagging sound follows, timed so well it makes you flinch. You move stiffly past his door, jaw clenched, refusing to give him the satisfaction. But the second you drop your bag beside your bed with a heavy thud, you freeze.

“Careful, princess,” Caleb calls, voice playful now. “My roommate’s home. She’s probably listening right now.”

Your whole body jolts with heat—fury, embarrassment, something sharper. You bite your lip hard until you taste copper.

The sounds keep going. Sloppy sucking, choked moans, his voice praising filthily between chuckles. And the damn headboard thudding at what seems an animalistic rhythm.

“That’s it, baby… take it… take it all.” He groans so loud it rattles in your teeth. “Mmm, fuck, my roommate’s probably red as a tomato right now. Cute little thing.”

You slap your hands over your ears, pulse hammering, face burning. You can’t tell what’s worse—that he’s doing it to taunt you, or that some ugly, humiliating part of you is reacting at all.

Your thighs rub together in frantic little shifts, desperate friction against nothing. Your chest rises and falls too fast, nails biting into your sheets. You hate it—hate that your body is betraying you while his voice keeps bleeding through the wall, gravelly and hot, every word landing right between your legs. 

“Just like that,” he growls out loud. And you swear it’s for you to hear. Not even for the girl he seems to fuck senseless. “You’re such a good slut.”

Your stomach drops. Your throat burns. But something in you snaps.

Your hand slips between your thighs before you can stop it. Shaky fingers drag over your underwear, already embarrassingly damp. The shame is instant, but the relief of pressure makes you whimper before you can choke it back. You circle your clit in tiny, frantic movements, shallow and light, terrified of making noise. 

Your breath stutters against your pillow, sharp little gasps swallowed into cotton. 

It’s just stress. Just so I can sleep, you lie to yourself.

You bite down on the sheet the second your fingers slip under the fabric and graze your clit directly. Your whole body seizes. He can’t know. He can’t.

You clamp your thighs tighter, slick and messy as your fingers move faster, louder, the obscene sound wetting the air. Shame curls molten in your belly, burning through you, and still, you can’t stop.

And unfortunately, it’s not enough. You’re too wound up, too far gone—too fucked out on his voice. You reach under the bed blindly, tugging out the vibrator you swore you’d never need because of him.

But here you are.

The hum fills the room, loud to your ears, and you panic—you shove a pillow over it and grind the toy against your sensitive part anyway. The pleasure hits hard, back arching at the electric shock. It rips through you so fast you moan before you can stop yourself. 

Mortification shreds through you. You clap a hand over your mouth, tears pricking your eyes, but your hips are rolling against the vibrator like they have a mind of their own. Your fingers slide inside you, messy and needy, fucking yourself in time with the rhythm of skin slapping on the other side of the wall. 

His rhythm. 

His game.

The thought makes you burn. 

You’re writhing above the sheets, a soaked, pathetic mess, shame and want tangled until you can’t tell one from the other. Every wet squelch of your fingers, every buzzing grind of the toy is louder than your heartbeat.

“That’s it,” Caleb’s voice cut through everything. It’s husky and curling right into your ear, halting your frantic movements. “Be louder for me, pipsqueak.”

Your heart slam in against your ribcage. Mortification chokes you, but it only fuels the need clawing under your skin. You grind down against the toy, your slick fingers working yourself open, sobs catching in your chest as shame pools hot in your gut. Tears sting your eyes, blurring your vision, soaking your pillow. 

You’re so lost in everything; your mind doesn’t wonder why he’s calling after you instead of the girl he’s supposedly fucking. 

Because right now, it feels like he’s inside your room. Inside your head. Inside you.

The headboard on his side slams again, so hard your wall rattles, perfectly in rhythm with the frantic buzzing between your legs. His voice comes again, ragged this time, like he’s getting off just from hearing you break. “Mmm, I can hear it, you know. The way you’re dripping all over your sheets. Filthy little roommate can’t even help herself.”

A strangled cry tears from your throat—you shove your face into the pillow, body arching, thighs shaking around the vibrator. The pressure building inside you is unbearable, so sharp it borders on pain. 

Your fingers curl deep, your wrist aching, the toy grinding ruthless against your clit, and you realize in some distant, horrified corner of your mind that not only you’re timing yourself with the endless slam of his bed but also his voice.

Every word he spits through the wall makes you go faster, harder. 

“God, you sound so pretty when you fall apart,” he groans, and this time it feels real. Not a performance nor a show. It feels it’s just for you and only you. “Cum for me. Right now.”

Heat detonates inside you, violent and overwhelming, your orgasm ripping through you with a force that makes your vision go white. You convulse against your bed, sticky and soaked, your thighs squeezing the toy so tight it squeals against your skin. Slick gushes down your hand, coating your fingers, the sound of it obscene in the room. 

It doesn’t stop.

Wave after wave, it keeps crashing into you.

And through it all, you recall little pants following with a single broken growl.

And just as you think you can breathe again, his voice drifts through, soft and poisonous, curling into the rawest part of you: “Sweet dreams, pipsqueak.”

──────ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

The shower runs longer than it should. Scalding water, steam filling the bathroom, your hands scrubbing your skin raw as if you can erase what happened last night. As if shame washes off as easily as sweat. 

When you step out, your body is red from the heat, hair dripping, towel wrapped tight around you. You breathe deep, trying to calm the hammering in your chest. 

You open the door—

“Well, well,” Caleb leans against the hallway wall, one shoulder propped, mug dangling in his hand, purple eyes cutting to you the instant you appear. His gaze sweeps down slow taking on your dripping hair, bare shoulders, towel clutched too tight against your damp skin, the thin strip of thigh peeking when you shift. “Morning really is good, huh?”

Your throat tightens. You grip the towel harder. “Move.”

His head tilts slightly, gaze lingering far too long where the terrycloth curves over your chest. “You always come out looking like this?” his voice drips, curling filth and amusement together. 

Heat flares up your neck, traitorous and hot. You force your eyes anywhere but him—at the mug, the floor, anywhere. “Caleb,” you bite out, “I’m not doing this right now.”

“Mmm.” He steps closer. The air crackles, your pulse jumping, his grin widening. “Funny, ‘cause last night you were doing a lot.”

Your stomach plummets. The words hit like a punch, shame flooding hot in your chest. You want to scream, shove him. But instead, you choose to play his games. If you were going to feel shame, being humiliated… you wouldn’t be the only one.

You lift your chin, meeting his stare head-on. “And what about you?” your voice comes sharp. “Jacking yourself off like some creep in your room? Using some poor audio to make me think a girl was with you? Pfff, pathetic.”

Caleb freezes for the briefest flicker of a second, smile twitching at the edges—before he darts out his tongue, licking his bottom lip. 

The tension spikes. His gaze doesn’t move from yours, but you feel it everywhere, crawling over your towel, tugging heat low in your stomach against your will.

Your fingers tighten around the fabric. You take a step forward at the same he does—your chests almost colliding, the air suddenly electric you find it hard to breathe. “You’re disgusting, Caleb. And if you think I’d ever let you touch me—” you let your eyes flick down to his mug, then back up, a sharp smirk of your own breaking through. “I’d rather pour that coffee over my crotch.”

For a moment, you expect another sly grin, another jab… but not seeing his arrogance draining from his voice and speaking with a voice that doesn’t sound like him anymore.

“You’re not really thinking that.” he says with such a petite voice… fragile. 

It throws you off balance. Your smirk falters. “…What?”

He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. His purple eyes dart down your towel, then snap back up to your face with a desperation so naked it almost looks like panic. “Don’t say that…” he whispers. “Don’t—don’t say you’d never let me touch you.”

The heat in your stomach twists into something else. The sudden crack in him makes your grip on the towel tremble.

“You’re not serious,” you try, forcing sharpness into your tone, but it comes out thinner than you want.

But he shakes his head so hard his fluffy hair shifts, and the mug in his hand clatters against the wall when he sets it down too fast. He steps in closer, eyes wide and glassy.

“The fuck is happening,” you murmur to yourself, taking a step back.

“You think I’m teasing but… I need you.” the last words are almost screamed at your face. “I swear, you don’t get it, do you? I can’t—fuck—I can’t stand it when you look at me like you hate me, because I know—” his hand lifts halfway, then stop, trembling in the air as if touching you would be blasphemy. “—I know I’d ruin everything just to feel you once.”

 Your throat dries. Your knees nearly lock. The sheer naked want pouring out of him knocks you back harder than any of his smirks ever could.

And then, before you can form a response, Caleb does something you never thought you’d see: he drops.

Straight down. His knees hit the hardwood with a dull thud, his head bowed for one second before snapping back up, eyes locked on you from below. The hallway light carves shadows into his face, but nothing can hide the wreck of him. His hands fist at his thighs, shaking with the effort of not grabbing your towel, not clutching your skin.

“Don’t tell me never,” he begs, voice breaking in a way you’ve never heard from him. “Say anything else, call me every name you want to, scream at me, hit me—fuck, pour the coffee if you have to. But don’t say I’ll never get to touch you.” his breath is ragged, almost delirious, his words tumbling too fast. He shakes his head, tears pricking up at the corner of his eyes. “Please, I’m just—I’m already half insane just imagining it.”

The towel feels unbearably heavy on your body now, every inch of exposed skin prickling under his stare. 

Your fingers clutch tighter at the terrycloth, knuckles pale. Your mind screams to step back, to slam the bathroom door and lock him out forever. But your body? Your body leans forward.

And maybe he feels it—because his hands twitch, fists pressed to his thighs as if holding himself down. His breath is sharp, uneven, every inhale rattling like he’s starved of air.

“Caleb,” you whisper, half a warning, half a question.

He looks up at you with eyes that no longer gleam smug purple—they burn, wild and frantic. His jaw clenches, unclenches. He looks like he wants to crawl inside your skin just to be closer.

“You don’t… you don’t understand,” he rasps. “Every time you walk past me in that tiny shirt, every time you glare, every time you slam your door—I’m losing my mind. I jerk off just hearing you breathe in your room. I fuck my fist like I’m drowning, imagining what you’d sound like if I had you under me. I don’t even care if you hate me. I just want—” His voice cracks, his head dips against your stomach, forehead brushing the towel. “—I just want to touch you.”

“That’s lame.” you say down at him, but your voice isn’t steady.

He shudders and you catch the twitch under his short. It makes you all more confused. He is fucking turned on by you degrading him.

His hands lift, shaking, hovering close to your hips but no daring to land. His lips part, teeth grazing his bottom lip. “Call me whatever you want, truly.”

Your hand finds its way on his soft hair. You let your nails graze his scalp, tugging his head backward. “And what if I like watching you crawl?”

His laugh is wrecked, breathless. “Then I’ll crawl until my knees bleed if that’s what it takes.” He drags a ragged breath, eyes devouring you. “Don’t shut me out.”

The words hang heavy. You feel dizzy. Alive. Cornered.

Every single emotions fight in you, your thighs press together under the towel, and his gaze darts down instantly, catching the subtle motion.

His breath quickens. His hands finally land—barely, fingertips brushing against the towel’s edge like he’s asking permission without saying the words. He doesn’t pull. He just waits.

And it’s unbearable. The silence, his kneeling frame, your own pulse thrashing. You hear yourself speak before you mean to: “You’re disgusting.”

“Then let me be disgusting,” he begs instantly, no shame, voice cracking at the edges.

Your mouth dries. And that’s when his lips curl again, trembling this time with much less confidence than usual. 

“Didn’t you enjoy last night?” his words drip into you, hitting the deepest part of you. “Just from me talking? From imagining me fucking you? Did you even imagine me fucking you?” His breath hitches, his voice breaking with need. “Tell me truth.”

Your jaw locks, your chest heaves—but the truth burns its way out of you anyway.

“…Yes.”

The word lands like a gunshot. His pupils blow wide, his chole body jolting as he’s been electrocuted. And then he’s closer, kneeling forward until his forehead pressed into your thighs.

“Then let me show you…” his hands clutch at the towel now, knuckles white. “Please, pipsqueak. Let me show you how much better it could be if you let me. I swear I’ll make you forget everything but me… fuck… just give me one chance.”

Your lungs tighten. You can feel the heat rolling off him, his mouth so close to your thigh that steam still clinging to your skin feels cold in comparison.

He leans in until his mouth is a breath from your thigh, inhaling the clean scent of your damp skin like it’s intoxicating him. “You don’t even know what you do to me,” he whispers, his forehead pressing lightly against your leg. “I’m on my knees for you, pipsqueak. I’ve been holding this back for months—” His thumb strokes an inch higher, over the edge of the towel, slow enough for you to feel the tremor in his hand.

“Are you… clean?”

He nods hard. “Yeah... I mean yes. I take tests every couple of weeks. I swear, I even have the papers with me. I—” he starts to lift himself from the ground but your other hand clamp tight around his shoulder the other still buried on his hair.

“That’s okay. I believe you.” your breath stumbles. Your thighs spread just wide enough before you say: “Go ahead.”

He surges forward. His lips crash against your inner thigh in a fevered kiss, hot and wet, the sound of it obscene in the quiet hallway.

His big hands slip higher, finally peeling at the knot of your towel, tugging it loose to let it slide down your body. It crumples uselessly to the floor, and Caleb groans like he’s been handed salvation.

“Fuck,” he hisses against your skin, kissing higher, higher, his teeth scraping lightly. “Been dreaming about this—” another kiss, wetter this time, “—about tasting you—” his tongue drags along the sensitive skin, “—losing my mind between your thighs.”

Your knees nearly buckle, but his grip steadies you, pinning your hips to the wall. He noses shamelessly against your heat. He inhales you, taking on your raw scent and it’s damn better than your panties.

“Gonna ruin me, pipsqueak,” he rasps, lips brushing right where you throb most. “And I’m gonna love every second of it.”

His nose nudges your pubic bones as he kisses your clit delicately. Just his hot lips grazing your sensitive part in such a loving way your heart stumbles even more. He opens his mouth slowly, wrapping around your soft lips, creating a sloppy succession until you whimper above him. His hands slide further back, palms rough against the backs of your thighs, dragging you closer to his mouth until you’re trapped between him and the wall.

He moans into you, vibrating against your flesh. His tongue flicks out, trembling as if he’s holding himself back, but the tremor only makes the stroke more uneven and hungrier. He drags it up one side of your folds, down the other, then circles your clit, open-mouthed.

“Fuck, yes…” he mumbles into your skin, the words a hot breath you feel more than hear. “This is what I wanted. This is all I thought about. You… you taste better than I dreamed—”

He breaks off, groaning low, hands sliding up to cup your ass, kneading roughly. He pulls you impossibly closer, flattening his tongue, lapping long and slow, then sealing his mouth around your twitching nub. Your vision blurs in instant, your fingers gripping harder his hair.

He pulls back, chin already shining with your essence, the pretty shade of violet almost drowned under the hungry black of his pupils. “Should we—should we take this further? Up to your room?” his grip is bruising on your thighs.

“Yes, Caleb.” Your breath comes ragged, syncing with his. 

In one motion, Caleb rises on his feet, strong arms scooping you up. Your legs hook around his waist on instinct, your cheek finding its place against his shoulder as he carries you down the short hallway. His heartbeat drums against your chest, quick and uneven. 

He lowers you slowly onto the sheets, bracing himself on either side of your head, his necklace swinging loose, threatening to tangle in his shirt. His voice comes rough but quiet, trembling at the edges. “Might I kiss you? Please?” His breath is hot against your flushed skin, eyes flicking between your lips and your gaze. 

And you’re so tired of him always asking—of hesitation, of the restraint. You grab the back of his neck and crash your lips against his. The sound he makes is something lower, rawer, unnamable—a noise that shakes straight through you both.

Your tongue slides along his bottom lip, tasting yourself on him, salt and heat all over taste buds. His hands slide up your sides, fingertips tracing fire wherever they go.

He nudges your legs apart, slotting himself between your thighs, the press of him thick through his clothes. His left hand slides up, cupping your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheekbones as his tongue parts your lips and claims the kiss fully.

“Caleb,” you break the kiss, panting onto his mouth, a string of spit linking you both. “Don’t be soft. I don’t want that.”

He snaps his eyes to you, searching your face. “…What—”

“Be yourself, want you whole.” You whisper, grinding shamelessly on his bulge.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.” His hands trace a slow path along your skin, leaving behind sparks that make it hard to breathe. His breath skims your collarbone; his words are a ghost against your pulse. “But as the lady wishes.”

He gets on his knees between you, getting rid of all his clothes—except his boxer. You twitch from anticipation.

His large hands roam your body, playing with your tits. He pinches them and turn them on his thumbs before his teeth close around it, tongue swirling and mouth clamping. While the other plays with the softness of the untouched one.

He leaves it with spit and glistening, he smirks—proud of him. He fumbles at his underwear, palming his hardened length, hot breaths contrasting with his cold necklace on your burning skin. 

He removes the only remaining thing keeping you on edge, and your eyes instantly widen. His cock is flushed and wet at the tip—pre-cum already drippling down his shaft. A long vein is lustfully pronounced from the base of his cock to the underside of his mushroom tip. 

Your mouth waters at the thought of him filling you completely—that delicious curve of him hitting your spots.

Leaning closer, he presses against you, letting you feel every rough contour. The tension between you stretches taut, the room silent except for your ragged, shared pants.

Your eyes drop, tracing the thick, throbbing length before you—stopping just beneath your bellybutton. It’s impossibly large, and the sight makes your hips buck instinctively, your clit brushing against the coarse pubic hair at its base.

“One little, greedy thing we have here,” he mocks, but the flush in his cheeks betrays him. “You will take all this, just fine, right?”

You answer without words, grinding harder against him, the friction sending sparks through both of you. Pre-cum slicks your lower stomach, and you coat his balls in a warm, wet sheen.

Caleb wraps his hand around himself, slapping his cock roughly against your sensitive bundle of nerves. Your thighs tremble, your back arches, and your cunt clenches around nothing—it’s already enough to make you shiver.

But not for too long. 

He lines his cock up at your entrance, pushing in sloooowly. Letting you feel every thick ridge, every vein pulsing along your hot walls. You find support on his strong back, nails digging crescents moon, your eyes rolling back from the stretch alone.

“That’s riiiight,” he pants into your ear, tongue darting out to lick your earlobe. “Let this pretty pussy take me all. You’re doing sooo good.” And Caleb might just as well be delirious now. Your cunt is spasming endlessly around him. The more he pushes, the more your cream coats him, dripping down onto his balls. 

Once he bottoms out, he’s on the verge of cumming hot ropes in your womb. The sensation is exquisite. His cock, beautifully and incredibly, wrapped in your warm, soft walls sponging him like in a dream.

His biceps are bulging, veins tracing down his forearms as lifts himself above you. He presses your thighs up to your chest, forcing his dick impossibly deeper in your heaven. 

The chain of his necklace brushes your face. Your eyelids feel heavy but you fight to keep them open, too gone on the full stretch he’s giving you, fuckin’ thick veins grazing your sweetest spots.

“C-caleb,” you whimper, voice ragged as you speak. “M-move—that’s so good and—mghn… not enough—” tears are sliding down your cheeks, feeling his cock hardening even more inside you.

“Pipsqueak,” he growls, his rough palms circle the back of your thighs, taking leverage as he slides out. The sudden release of stretch makes you cry out, hips chasing him unconsciously. “You’re insane…”

And in a strong, sharp thrust he’s back deep inside you, pushing the air out of your lungs. The cold necklace hitting your chin on the way.

“Fuck—!” your voices harmonizing. 

“S-such a fuckin’ tight pussy,” he pants, sweat glinting along his temple. You can’t hold back—your tongue darts out, licking him clean, desperate to taste every inch.

That’s when Caleb loses all restraint. Every ounce of control shatters as he rams into you brutally, the bed creaking beneath the force. You moan, loud and unrestrained, drowning in the pleasure he drives into you.

He angles his hips so each time he pulls out, he swollen tip of him drags along your G-spot, making your walls clamp down harder. An obscene white creamy ring circles his cock already, slick all over his happy trail and thighs.

And he’s so drowned in this obscene scene playing before him. With your mouth falling onto a prefect O, your nails likely to leave red marks on his back, your cunt greedily sucking him in. Caleb couldn’t help but animalistically rut into you, dragging more and more sounds from deep in your chest. 

“Stick out your tongue,” he orders.

Fuzzy-headed, desperate, you obey instantly, letting your tongue slide out to him. He gathers a generous drop of spit and lets it fall onto your eager mouth. “Swallow it. Like a good girl,” he commands.

You obey, lips closing, eyes squeezed shut, swallowing the hot, sticky liquid.

He folds you harder in half, until your knees are touching your ears. His balls slap and slap against your ass, stimulating you and driving you deeper in the abyss of pleasure. Your vision blurs, white on the edge as the perfect curve of his cock hits the deepest part of you. 

His palm travels down your belly, right where he’s bulging hard in your tummy. He presses heavily on the filthy mark he’s leaving. 

You feel helpless under his strong frame, mindlessly twitching and moaning under his rough assault. All you’re good at now, is taking his cock just the way he wants you to.

“I’m allll the way up here,” he says darkly, pressing his palm with the right amount to have you squirming. “You’re going to cum, ain’t you?” he teases, but he’s not better. His cock swells hard in your tight walls, bullets of pre-cum filling you. His teeth grit, arms bulging as he holds you down. 

“You’re squeezin’ me sooo good,” he bites his bottom lip, his happy trail brushing against your neglected clit, sending sparks through your already fried nerves. He licks a filthy, possessive path from the base of your throat to your lips—muscles taut, sweat coating his brow, the sound of your pornographic moans feeding the fire in him.

“Oh—Oh! Fuck, like that—jus’, fuuuuck!” you try to finish your sentence but it’s no use. Your brain short-circuited from the relentless pounding. Every nerve, every thought, every ounce of control melted away long ago. There’s only you, being fucked raw by his monstruous cock and stamina.

“Y-yeah… got you. Cum for me,” he says love-sick. He stiffens, whimpering as his own climax builds.

Your body spasms violently, cunt clenching. Your walls milk him for all he got, white-hot waves of pleasure crashing through you. Heat, wetness, and the smell of him fill your senses, every nerve ending alive, every inch of you surrendered.

He fucks you harder, plunging deeper. The bed shakes, the air vibrates with your cries and his guttural noises, both of you locked in a rhythm of feral pleasure. His arms tremble, his chest heaving, as he finally tips over the edge—spilling into you.

Even as he comes, he doesn’t pull back. He keeps thrusting, keeping you suspended on the edge of raw, animalistic bliss. 

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he dodges the move and continues to smirk at you. “maybe not to you. but it’s pretty funny from up here. pretty cute too,” he teases.

you scowl, squirming some more. in your younger years, you’d always been able to fight back a little. you’d lose in the end, sure, but victory had been in reach a few times. now, caleb is stronger. he’s bigger, and he doesn’t fight like a scrappy high school kid but rather someone with training. you’re starting to realize you have no chance now, and part of you wonders if you ever did. or maybe he’d been going easy on you.

as if to taunt you, he slides your arms up above your head and grabs both your wrists with one hand. even with his other one free, he keeps you pinned with the same amount of force. it’s fucking humiliating. you feel your cheeks starting to heat up as he drags the back of his fingers along your jaw, cooing at you.

“you always used to get so angry like this too. so frustrated. you’d think you would’ve learned not to start fights you can’t win,” he mocks.

his thumb comes to sweep along your cheekbone, back in forth in slow strokes. he stares into your eyes while he does, almost studying you. it gets you heated for a whole other reason you don’t even want to acknowledge.

“get off of me,” you squeak, your voice much less aggressive now.

“maybe i will if you beg enough,” he taunts, “if you use your manners and say please like a good girl, i’ll consider it.”

“shut up!” you say. you kick a few more times and buck your hips to try and get loose.

in response, he grabs your hip with his free hand and slams it back to the ground. you let out a little growl, assuming you’ll have to restrategize. but then he pushes his pelvis down on top of yours.

you gasp. all the fight leaves you in a harsh blow because now, unlike any of the other times you play fought with him, you feel a solid bulge pressing between your legs.

your eyes widen, and you sputter. you’re sure you look totally stupid right now. but you don’t know what else to do. there’s no question about it. he’s got a boner, and he’s rubbing it right up against you.

“i told you. you’re not gonna win. might as well surrender,” he says. he speaks in a completely even tone, as if nothing is different.

“c-caleb. what are you doing?” you start, “don’t be weird.”

“i’m not being weird,” he defends with feigned innocence, “we always used to mess around like this. what’s got you all shy now?”

you know why he’s asking. because he knows you won’t say it. the answer is so easy, yet you can’t bring the words to leave your lips.

“you know what,” you whine softly.

he chuckles and leans in even closer to your face. “maybe i do. but i don’t think that it’s weird. we’re not kids anymore. you can’t whine and wriggle around like that and expect me not to react,” he murmurs.

your heart beats harder in your chest. you can feel every thump. before you can say anything in return, he grinds his hips again, rolling his hardened length right up against you. and this time, it feels good.

“i- caleb- we can’t,” you whimper, biting your lip.

“we can’t? we can’t what? we’re not doing anything,” he says before grinning at you, “it doesn’t count if it’s over the clothes.”

you want to smack him, but both your arms are still immobile.

“it’s still weird. we’ve never- i don’t see you like this,” you insist, though the last statement is a complete lie.

he tsks and shakes his head before pushing his erection between your legs for another time. this one draws a whine out of you. his hips jump forward at the sound, but he doesn’t let his face show that burst of desire.

“what do you see me like then?” he whispers.

silence fills the air between the two of you as you fail to answer. you know what you see him as. you know your crush on him goes back years. you know what fantasies fill your head at night when you’re alone.

but you also know how you want to see him. what you’re supposed to see him as. what you’ve tried to limit his role to for so long.

“it’s ok,” he finally says, “i won’t make you say it if it’s that hard. but i know you like this. i know you, remember?”

he grinds against you again, but this time it’s not only once. now he sets himself into a rhythm, consistent swings of his hips against your center.

“i know when you’re happy, when you’re sad, when you’re ashamed,” he says, “i know when you want something, but you’re too scared to ask.”

ducking in, he kisses your neck. you moan in response, putting no effort into suppressing the noise now.

“that’s right, princess. your big brother knows you better than anyone, doesn’t he?” he coos mockingly.

“caleb!” you whine. you internally cringe at both titles, but outwardly, your face still contorts with pleasure.

“what?” he laughs, “that’s what you were gonna say before, wasn’t it?”

“but i didn’t,” you whimper.

“but you thought it, and it’s all the same to me,” he teases.

he refocuses his mouth on your neck again. his lips move over the column of your throat while his cock continues pressing right on your pussy. it feels better by the second. maybe it’s because he’s kissing your neck too, you’re not really sure. all you know is the hot, sparkling feeling in your stomach is building.

nipping at your pulse point, he then sucks on the skin like he wants to leave a mark. his tongue laves at it for a few moments before he pulls off.

“i’m gonna let go of your arms. you’re gonna behave, ok?” he mumbles against your skin.

“mhm,” you whimper and nod. the overt submission feels pathetic, but losing the feeling of him would be even worse.

“good girl,” he praises.

he keeps his word and releases his hold on your wrists. the air feels cool on your skin that’s all warmed up from his hands. now with his other arm in use, he can snake one around your ass and boost your hips. the new angle allows him to thrust against you harder.

“fuck, baby,” he grunts. you feel his lashes brush your neck as his eyes flutter.

your arms loop over his shoulders, pulling him impossibly closer. more little mewls spill from your lips. you can feel his stiff length sliding right up against your folds through your clothes. every swipe brings a blissful burst of friction to your poor throbbing clit.

“there you go. i got you. big brother’s got you,” he mumbles mindlessly. he chokes out a moan into your shoulder as his hips move like they have a mind of their own.

your body starts to squirm more. that hot feeling inside is reaching a boiling point. you clutch at his shirt, your nails digging in so hard they threaten to tear the fabric. the constant push and pull of his lower half is nearly hypnotic. it seems like you’ll be under him forever while also on the brink of letting go.

after a few moments more, he pulls back to look at you. his eyelids hang low, heavy with his desire for you.

“god, you’re so pretty. so fuckin’ beautiful now,” he says and presses his forehead to yours. his eyes shut while your breaths mingle. “i knew you wanted this too. just look at you. almost falling apart, and i haven’t even really touched you. i knew no one else could do this better.”

all you can do is whimper softly and cling to him harder. you pull on him as if trying to pull him into your body, to meld your two beings into one. the pressure down below feels dull and muted, but it’s blooming nonetheless.

“yeah… you’re gonna cum all over your pretty panties,” he mutters, “get ‘em all nice and wet so i can have some fun with ‘em later.”

“caleb…” you whine, useful words falling out of your grasp in this moment. one of your hands flies up and laces in his hair. your fingers clench into a fist, giving the strands a sharp tug.

he groans and bucks his hips extra hard. “c’mon. cum for me, baby. let me make my sweet little angel cum,” he murmurs.

it really doesn’t take much to get you there. the friction burn he’s rutting you both into works, and you feel yourself hit the high. euphoria rushes through you. a little breathy whine erupts from your lips. your back arches off the floor, but he keeps you cradled against him securely.

the whole time you’re cumming, he’s still humping you like his life depends on it. it’s when you start to come down, that he finally explodes. he buries his face in your neck, letting out the loudest moan you’ve heard so far. his arms tighten up around your frame as his fingers dig into your malleable flesh.

his hips jolt forward in random twitches now, chasing the last remnants of release while he spills inside his pants.

when he’s done, his breaths are harsh and labored. he nuzzles the crook of your neck before kissing your cheek and receding off your body. his palm runs over his face lazily.

“fuck, i gotta change now,” he says, not bothering to look down at the dark patch at the front of his pants.

without even really thinking about it, you reach forward for the waistline. you’re already craving more of him. but before your hand can get there, he takes your wrist.

You scramble to push yourself backward, heels scraping against the concrete, but there’s nowhere to go. You're boxed in. Your breath is shallow, chest rising and falling too fast as your thoughts race, searching for an escape, a weapon, anything.

The skinny one crouches slightly, trying to meet your eyes. "You don’t have to run. We noticed you earlier...figured you might like some company. You looked lonely."

Your mouth is dry, panic sticking your tongue to the roof. You shake your head slightly, hoping they’ll take the hint and back off. They don’t.

Not even close.

Wasn't your first run-in with creeps from the N109 Zone. Hopefully this would be your last...and not in the demise kind of way. You’d seen enough horror stories unfold around here to know how fast things could go south. But tonight, it felt like your number had finally come up.

"I have an incurable disease. I wouldn't touch me," you say, voice strained and wavering despite your best effort to sound confident. It was a long shot, a gamble born from panic, but maybe, just maybe, it would give them pause.

The two men chuckle in unison. The fat one sneers wider, eyes flashing, and lunges toward you without warning. His arms wrap around you with crushing force, lifting you off the ground like a ragdoll. You scream, loud and raw, your bag tumbling from your shoulder and hitting the pavement with a thud.

He spins you around effortlessly and traps you in a brutal bear hug, pinning your arms to your sides, holding you fast in front of the skinny one, who now steps in with the air of someone approaching a prize.

"Wouldn't doubt it," the fat one murmurs into your ear, breath hot and reeking of beer and decay. "A girl as cute as you is no doubt a whore. Good thing I brought condoms."

Your stomach lurches. The word "whore" hits like a slap, but the real fear twists in your gut when you realize how calm and practiced they both are. This wasn't a spontaneous act. These two had been prowling for someone exactly like you.

You jerk your head back, teeth bared, aiming to sink them into any piece of flesh you can reach. But the fat one squeezes tighter, cutting off your air, forcing a sharp, agonized wheeze from your throat. Your ribs scream, your lungs burn, and your vision starts to spark at the edges.

"Hold fucking still," the skinny one says, voice low and trembling with excitement. He slips a knife from his coat—small, sharp, and chillingly clean. The blade glints under what little light leaks from the busted streetlamps. You writhe, but your body isn’t responding fast enough. He kneels, eyes locked on you, and presses the blade to your shirt.

He starts slicing.

The cold metal kisses your soaked uniform, dragging down the fabric slowly, deliberately. You can hear every fiber snap under the blade, feel the chill rush of night air against newly exposed skin. He’s savoring it, the sick bastard. Every second stretches long and heavy with dread.

The fat one chuckles again, a low rumble that vibrates through his chest and into your spine. "Look, she's she's shaking" he snickers. "Can't wait to see that pretty red blood drip down your tits when we're done with you."

Panic claws at your throat. Your mind races.

You're not getting out of this alive.

Had your life truly been destined to be so terrible that it had to end the same way too? Shitty parents, born in a shitty city, working shitty jobs to make ends meet all your shitty life. No breaks, no safety nets...just a constant grind with nothing to show for it but bruises and exhaustion. Every step forward had been a crawl. Every chance you'd hoped for had slipped through your fingers like water.

You tried so damn hard. You kept your head down, followed the rules, did everything the world told you to do. And still, here you were—in some dark alley in the N109 Zone, freezing, humiliated, and helpless. Your chest ached, not just from fear, but from the deep, gnawing sense of betrayal. Like the universe had always had it out for you.

You shut your eyes as you feel the cold air hit your chest. Your bra is exposed now, fabric damp and clinging, offering no warmth or comfort. You bite your lip to keep it from trembling. Well. This was it then? The end? Not even a warning, no last moment of dignity. Just this.

Your fingers twitch at your sides. You don't know what you're reaching for—hope, courage, a miracle—but anything would do. Anything to stop this. Anything to change the ending.

You suck in a shaky breath and prepare for whatever comes next. The pain, the cold, the end.

"Gentlemen, fancy seeing you two here. I was actually just looking for you both. Seems you didn't get the memo on our meeting earlier today," a voice says from behind you.

All three of you freeze.

The air shifts. Like a thunderstorm about to break loose right above your heads. You feel it roll over your skin, the tension clamping around your lungs.

The two men whip their heads around, eyes wide, searching for the source. Their confidence drains from their faces like blood down a sink.

"Shit, don't tell me that's—" the skinny man starts, voice cracking like glass.

But he doesn’t finish.

In a blink, his body is ripped backward like a ragdoll, hurled through the air by a force you can’t see. He slams into the side of a building with a loud, sickening crunch that echoes down the alleyway. Brick cracks from the impact, and he crumples to the ground in a heap, groaning once before going eerily still. The knife he was holding clatters to the ground next to him.

The fat man’s grip loosens instantly. Shock paralyzes him for a heartbeat. Then two. He releases you without a word, hands trembling as they fall to his sides. You drop to the ground like dead weight, landing hard on your ribs. Pain jolts through your body, but it's nothing compared to the relief crashing over you.

You groan and look up, blinking through tears and grime, just in time to see it—

Red mist.

Thick, pulsing, and alive. It weaves through the air like smoke with purpose, coiling around the fat man’s legs first, snaking its way up his body in slow, suffocating loops. He stares down in horror, hands clawing at the red haze like he could somehow peel it off.

You watch, frozen, as his feet lift from the ground. He rises—arms flailing, mouth wide open in a silent scream—as the mist tightens, dragging him up like a puppet.

Then he’s thrown.

He rockets backward with impossible force, crashing into the wall opposite his partner. The impact is brutal—louder, deeper, cracking the stone like thunder. Dust explodes around him, raining down in gritty sheets as the building seems to shudder in protest.

Silence follows. Long and oppressive.

The street goes still. Not even the buzz of broken streetlights.

You sit there, gasping, heart racing, and stare through the lingering red mist.

And then—

Shoes. Slow, deliberate footsteps echo against the concrete. Heavy. Calm. Unbothered.

You stop breathing as a man appears out of the shadows. Tall, broad-shouldered, moving with a slow, confident gait. His hair is white-greyish, short, and groomed neatly as if untouched by the chaos around him. He wears a dark collared shirt, sharp and clean despite the filth of the N109 Zone, and a heavy jacket draped casually across his shoulders like a cape. But the most piercing feature about him? His eyes.

Crimson red.

They glow faintly under the broken streetlights, inhuman and unreadable, like fire simmering behind glass. He glances at you—just for a moment. You can’t read the expression. Indifference? Curiosity? Whatever it is, it sends a chill through your bones.

Without a word to you, he turns and stalks toward the two men groaning on the ground.

"Seems you were too busy harassing women to remember to bring me what I’m rightfully owed," the man snarled, voice low and sharp like broken glass. "No matter. I warned you I'd get it back in blood."

The fat one scrambles, shielding his face with his arms, whimpering. "Sylus! Please! We can sti—"

His begging is cut off by a choked, wet gurgle. His throat clenches under invisible pressure, red mist coiling tighter and tighter around his neck. His eyes bulge. Feet kick. Hands claw at nothing.

The skinny one tries to run. He scrambles up, limping, almost making it two steps before something grabs his ankle. The mist again—faster this time. It twists, tightens, and then—

SNAP.

A sickening crack splits the air, sharp and final. His ankle bends the wrong way, bone giving way with a sound that makes bile rise in your throat. He collapses, screaming in agony.

You can’t take it anymore.

You shut your eyes and cover your ears, curling into yourself as tightly as you can. The screams, the choking, the crunch of bone—it all keeps going, echoing in your skull even through your hands.

You just want it to stop.

A few moments of muffled chokes and screams...and then silence.

Not the kind of silence that feels peaceful, but the thick, eerie kind that makes your skin crawl. Your ears ring faintly, and your breath stutters in your chest as if your body refuses to believe it’s over.

You breathe heavily, chest heaving as you try to calm the shaking in your limbs. The cold from the ground seeps through your soaked clothes, but you barely register it. Your hands are still pressed over your ears, your fingers curled so tightly they’re starting to ache. It takes every ounce of courage to peel them away and crack your eyes open.

You're surprised—no, stunned—not to see the gruesome aftermath you expected. No blood. No bodies. No twisted limbs or broken faces. In fact, there's zero trace of the men who had once stood there, like the earth had swallowed them whole and wiped away the evidence.

You blink rapidly, trying to make sense of the empty space in front of you. Adrenaline is still racing through your veins, making your vision blur slightly around the edges. The only sound now is the soft crunch of gravel beneath a shoe—measured, unhurried.

Your eyes dart toward the movement. You watch as Sylus bends down slowly, like he has all the time in the world, and picks up something small and shiny. At first, it looks like a shard of glass, almost invisible in the dim light. But it catches a flicker from the nearest working lamp—almost clear, glinting faintly with an internal glow that pulses like a heartbeat.

"That's..." you whisper, barely able to hear your own voice. Your eyes widen as the pieces click into place.

A protocore?? You had never seen one so close up before.

They were supposed to be rare. Expensive. Illegal to possess without license, let alone harvest. The kind of stuff people killed over.

You barely get the thought out before he pockets it in one smooth motion. Then he turns toward you.

Those red eyes lock onto yours like he’s been waiting for this moment all night. They burn with a strange intensity, unreadable and terrifying and impossible to look away from. He takes a step closer, and you flinch before you can stop yourself.

But he doesn't speak. He just studies you. Eyes roaming all over you.

And in that instant, you realize something unsettling: he’s not trying to intimidate you. He’s evaluating you. Like he’s sizing you up for something you don’t yet understand.

Your breath hitches, throat dry, mind racing. Who was this man? What had you just witnessed?

You squeeze your eyes shut as he suddenly walks toward you. Shit. You were probably next.

You just watched a man commit murder, two murders no less. Of course you were next as the witness. Your pulse hammers against your ribcage as panic floods you. Why didn’t you run when you had the chance? Why the hell did you freeze?

You brace yourself for the worst, chest tightening as your breath stalls in your throat. Every step he takes echoes louder than the last, like the final countdown to something irreversible. The air around you feels charged, heavy with power and blood.

But instead of pain or a final breath, you feel something else.

A soft, warm weight settles across your shoulders.

Fabric. A jacket.

You flinch at first, confused, until the warmth begins to seep into your frozen skin. The cold on your back evaporates slightly, replaced by the comforting weight of thick, dry fabric. Your eyes flutter open, hesitation making your lashes tremble as you lift your gaze.

He's standing just inches away, crouched down, eyes unreadable in the dim light. No expression.

"For your...situation," the man says evenly, voice low but firm, eyes briefly flicking to your torn shirt and the state of your exposed chest.

Your bra is wet, see-through, and clinging to your skin. You gasp in embarrassment, face flushing hot, and immediately rush to close the jacket over yourself, clutching the lapels with both hands. Your fingers shake, knuckles paling from gripping so tight.

"S-sorry..." you whisper, voice small and shaken. You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for...your appearance, your weakness, your existence? But the word slips out anyway.

He simply sighs, standing up and running his fingers through his hair. The motion is slow, tired—like he’s dragging the weight of something heavier than tonight’s encounter. His fingers rake back through the white-grey strands, revealing the sharp edges of his face, shadowed under the streetlights. His posture eases, but not from comfort—more like indifference. The threat is gone, and so is his interest. But his eyes...they remain hard. Crimson still burns faintly beneath his lashes, like coals left smoldering.

"Do you always apologize for things that aren't your fault?"

The question lands like a blade, too casual to be comforting. Cold. Rhetorical. He doesn’t give you a chance to answer. Doesn’t seem like he wants one.

Without waiting for a response, he turns his back to you.

"I assume you know how to keep your mouth shut. Have a good night."

Your pulse spikes.

His name...his name was Sylus. That was what that man had called him.

It hits you like a gunshot.

That name. You’ve heard it before—in whispers, in rumors passed through alleyway trades and late-night conversations that always ended in warning. There was talk of a syndicate that lived in the bones of the city. Powerful. Untraceable. It didn’t operate within the law. It was the law, in places like this. Onychinus. And at the top of it all, one name. Ruthless. A demon with red eyes they say.

Sylus.

But it was rumored no one had actually seen him. Or not lived long enough to give details.

Could this really be him?

Your breath quickens as your heartbeat stutters in your chest. Slowly, shakily, you get to your feet. The alley feels impossibly long, the lights dimmer than they were before. Your legs tremble beneath you, unstable, the weight of everything finally catching up to your body. The jacket around your shoulders slips slightly, reminding you it's still there. Heavy. Warm. His.

You reach out.

Not because you’ve planned it. But because some part of you needs to.

Instinct. Desperation. A pull you can’t name.

Your fingers brush against his arm and clutch tightly.

"Please wait! Sylus!" you cry, louder than you expect, voice cracking under the strain of exhaustion, fear, and something raw you hadn’t felt in a long time—hope.

He stops mid-step.

The world halts with him.

The buzz of lights, the distant city hum—it all dies. The only thing you hear now is the frantic pounding of your heart.

This is crazy. Absolutely insane. You must have a death wish. What the hell were you thinking, grabbing him like that? Demanding the attention of someone who could crush people without a thought? Your stomach churns with fear, twisting itself into knots, but something inside you refuses to shrink away.

You’re still standing. That has to mean something, right?

If he wanted to kill you—he would’ve already.

And besides, even if he wasn’t Sylus—even if this was all some massive coincidence—he was clearly someone powerful enough to make people vanish into mist. Someone important enough to be feared in this city. And feared men didn’t worry about rent. Feared men had power. And power meant money. And money...

Money meant stability.

A steady job. A real paycheck. Enough to cover groceries without counting every coin. It meant the possibility of fixing your old laptop, maybe even affording a new pair of shoes without soles worn thin. A chance at reclaiming some control, some pride without begging or risking your life.

Sylus doesn’t turn fully. Just tilts his head slightly—enough to glance at you from over his shoulder. It’s a subtle motion, but the weight behind it still makes your breath catch.

The look in his eyes pins you in place. It’s not anger. It’s colder. Calculating. Like he’s measuring you for something. Or deciding if you’re worth the air you’re still breathing.

"Not many are so bold to call me by my name so fiercely on the first meeting," he says. His tone is unreadable, smooth and dry, like stone scraped across silk.

You can’t tell if he's amused. Annoyed. Or seconds away from deciding you’re a loose end that needs cutting.

Then, without a hint of emotion, he adds, "Speak. I have things to attend to."

Your heart skips. Panic swells again in your chest, but it’s different now—warmer, messier. Your fingers tremble as you release his arm. The courage you had seconds ago is unraveling fast under the weight of his presence.

"Sy—I mean, sir..." you stammer, bowing your head quickly, instinctively, as if submission might protect you. "Thank you. For saving me...I just wanted to ask—"

You pause, breath shaky, gathering whatever's left of your pride and resolve. This is insane. This could end so, so badly. But your options ran out a long time ago.

You suck in a breath, chest tightening.

"Please give me a job..."

The words hang there, small but thunderous in the stillness. You know how it sounds. Pathetic. Desperate.

He turns now, slowly, and for the first time you see his full expression. His face twists in slight confusion, one brow raised. "You want...a job? You want me to give you a job?" he repeats, frowning as if the concept itself is absurd. Like you're speaking a language he's never bothered to learn.

Shit. Say something. Make it convincing. Say anything.

You bow your head in shame, your voice wobbling. "I'm sorry, I know it’s sudden! I just...I just got fired and I don’t have many options. I’ll lose my apartment soon if I can’t pay..." Your voice cracks, and you start to sniffle, humiliation burning hot in your chest. You wrap his jacket tighter around yourself like it’s armor, like it can hide how much you're unraveling.

Sylus hums in acknowledgment. It’s not agreement, not exactly—just a sound to let you know he’s still listening. Still watching. Then his voice comes again, even colder this time.

"I'm not a charity. I don't take on the weak."

The words hit like a slap—sharp, final. Your stomach drops, but your mind races.

You scramble for something—anything that’ll keep him from walking away.

"I’m very useful, actually!" you blurt, lifting your head so fast it makes your vision swim. The words come out fast, breathless, desperate. "I can clean, cook, fix things, run errands, I learn fast—I don’t complain, and I don’t need much! Please, I’ll do whatever you need. Just give me a chance. I don’t have anyone else."

Your voice is trembling now, but you keep talking, like if you stop, you’ll shatter. "I’ve worked double shifts on no sleep, I’ve handled angry customers, cleaned up all kinds of fluids from bathroom stalls, learned how to stretch a bag of rice for a week—I’m not weak, I’ve just never been given a shot by someone who matters."

The alley is silent again, dense and waiting. A breeze slips past, carrying the scent of rust and smoke. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails and fades.

You’re still staring at him, heart pounding so loud it drowns out your thoughts. Hands clenched into tight fists at your sides. You can feel your knees threatening to buckle, but you stay upright. You won’t beg. If he says no again you'll accept your fate.

At least you'll have tried.

Sylus doesn't seem moved by your emotional outburst, but something shifts behind his eyes. He’s not dismissive—he’s pondering. Cold logic at work, turning your words over in his mind with clinical precision.

"Cleaning, huh..." he scoffs softly, the sound low and rough, like gravel underfoot. There's a flicker of something—amusement? Skepticism?—as a small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. He slips his hands into his coat pockets, the gesture fluid and deliberate. Nothing about him is rushed. He’s the kind of man who never speaks or moves without intent.

"If I had a nickel for every time someone I saved begged to work for me right after...well, I’d have 3 nickels technically." He let out a low chuckle. "This was surely unexpected."

You blink, trying to read his expression. Your heart is hammering in your chest, your breath caught somewhere in your throat. What does that even mean? Three nickels?? What was he talking about?

"So...does that mean—?" you start to ask, your voice cracking under the weight of hesitant hope.

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turns his head, gaze drifting toward the skyline like he’s already moved on. His silhouette is framed by the hazy orange glow of a streetlamp, the red mist still curling faintly at his feet. When he speaks again, the words cut through the silence like a blade.

"I'll entertain this 'job' for you. But you have to live up to the standard you've set for yourself. Otherwise, you'll be gone faster than you can even breathe."

His tone is flat. Not cruel, but not kind either. It’s a warning—sharp, unflinching, final.

You don’t move. For a moment, you forget how. The alley seems to pause with you, the air thick with something unspoken. And then it hits—

Your heart swells. Joy floods your chest in a violent, overwhelming surge. It feels like your ribs might split from the pressure of it. You almost can’t believe you heard him right.

"Yes! Of course! I won’t let you down!" you blurt out, too fast, too eager, but there’s no stopping the emotion rushing out of you. You bow your head deeply, again, again—grateful, desperate, stunned.

Sylus sighs, long and drawn-out, the sound edged with the kind of exasperation that says you’re already a handful. He rolls his eyes with a quiet mutter—something you can’t make out—and turns on his heel.

He begins walking away without another word.

Panic flares in your chest.

"W-wait... where do I go? When do I start?" you call after him, stumbling a few steps forward. The weight of his jacket is still warm on your shoulders, grounding you in the surreal moment.

He doesn’t break stride. Doesn’t turn. But his voice drifts back to you, clear and crisp as ever.

"I’ll be back in three days. Tallest building in the city. You’ve seen it. Eleven PM. Don’t be late."

And just like that—he’s gone.

His body dissolves into a swirl of red mist that coils around him and bursts outward, vanishing into the night like smoke drawn into a vacuum. It’s silent again. No footsteps. No echoes. As if he’d never been there at all.

You stand frozen, jacket clutched tightly in your fists, staring at the empty space he left behind. The chill of the night wraps around you, but your skin burns from adrenaline.

Three days.

Tallest building in the city.

You whisper the words like a vow, repeating them to yourself again and again, willing them to anchor you to this reality. Your breath is shaky, your pulse pounding, but for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you feel alive.

You weren’t dreaming.

You actually got a job.

Why so late at night, though? Maybe he didn’t want you seen. Maybe it was a test—or maybe the day just wasn’t a place people like you belonged in his world. Then again, in the N109 Zone, there wasn’t much of a day to begin with. The sky was always dark, the sun just a rumor behind a layer of industrial haze. But still...even under dim lights and darker skies, this felt like something new.

A clean slate.

Sylus wasn’t sure what he was doing.

Hiring a random woman he saved to be his housekeeper? It was reckless. It was unnecessary. And it was completely unlike him. Even now, as he sat alone in his office, the question churned at the back of his mind like a splinter he couldn’t remove.

Unbeknownst to you, Onychinus had already had housecleaning staff. A full team, trained and vetted, all handpicked to maintain control and order of the base. But the moment he returned—barely hours after dragging two bodies into the shadows and watching you fall apart in front of him—he’d given a simple, final order: dismiss the entire cleaning unit. No explanation.

He hadn’t cared about anything but the image still seared into his mind: a dirt-covered girl shivering in his coat. His coat.

It had been easier to lie to himself at first. You needed help. That’s all it was. A brief act of pity. A one-time gesture. Something to balance the scales after taking two lives without hesitation. Maybe even a little entertainment to break the monotony.

But something about you unsettled him.

The way you’d looked up at him from the ground—mud streaked across your cheek, clothes soaked and cut, lips trembling, chest exposed but your eyes…There was fear, yes, but beneath it, a defiant glimmer. Something that sparked against the cold stone he called his conscience.

He’d felt it. A pang in his chest. It had no business being there. Unfamiliar and unwanted.

So he did what he always did when something unimportant peeked his interest. Ignore it. He even tried to end the conversation before it even started.

But then you’d grabbed him.

That tiny, trembling hand curling around his arm like he was a lifeline. Not to manipulate. Not to seduce. Just to hold on. And asked him for a job of all things. You had no other options. You were recently fired. About to lose your apartment. The perfect excuse to have his new interest near him.

That had done something to him.

Something violent and strange. Something possessive. A pulse beneath the surface that refused to quiet.

And in that instant, Sylus had stopped making excuses.

Now, he stood in his office, watching you on the security feed. You moved through the suite like a ghost trying to prove you still belonged among the living—scrubbing at already clean surfaces, adjusting already perfect details. Your back was straight, shoulders tense, every movement painfully precise.

You were trying so hard. It had been weeks since then and you were still trying to fit in.

Trying not to be a burden. Trying not to mess up. Trying to earn a place no one had offered you.

It was adorable.

It was raw, honest—and it stirred something far more possessive than he liked to admit. You didn’t know how to rest. You only knew how to survive. Every over-polished surface, every obsessively straightened object reeked of someone begging—not for praise, but for permission to exist. It wasn't just endearing. It was maddeningly cute. You were trying so hard, and you didn't even realize who you were trying to impress. Him. All of it was for him.

And he couldn’t look away.

There was something feral in the way you moved, a quiet desperation dressed up in duty. Like a cat that hadn’t been given safety in so long, it wouldn’t know what to do with peace if it had it. That kind of survival wasn’t just familiar, it was intimate.

And you didn’t yet understand that the moment you reached for him in that alley, you stopped being a stray kitten.

You became his.

And you didn’t yet realize that he hadn’t brought you here to mop floors.

He told himself he was still in control. That this was still about curiosity, about amusement. That he was just studying you. Surely, he'd get bored. Fire you, and move on.

But even he didn’t believe that anymore. Not after seeing you a second time when you arrived on your first day. That same feeling had returned—sharper now, more insistent, like something gnawing at the base of his spine. You were under his roof, moving quietly through his space, wearing the weight of his attention like it might crush you. And still you kept going. Still you tried. Even brought him back his jacket. It was infuriating. It was addictive.

What was it about you that made him feel like he couldn’t stop watching? What exactly had ignited this itch under his skin, this tightening in his chest? You weren’t extraordinary—at least not by normal standards. But maybe that was the point. You were quiet. Unassuming. But beneath all of that, he could sense something uncut and wild. Something no one else had tried to reach.

And now it was his.

He needed to know more. He needed to peel back every layer until he understood what, exactly, had hooked him so deep he’d broken his own rules.

Because Sylus never did anything without purpose.

And he hadn’t fired an entire staff, hired only you, and rewired a dozen camera angles…just to be charitable.

He had done it to keep you where he could see you.

Your reaction when he walked out half naked, dripping from the shower a few days ago had been amusing, though he didn’t show it. He'd done it on purpose to see your reaction. The way your face flushed, the way your gaze darted anywhere but at him—it had been a moment he savored quietly, filed away for later. You really thought you could hide it. How flustered you were. How small you felt in his presence.

That habit of apologizing for everything, though—now that grated. Like nails on glass. He’d have to break that out of you eventually. No one in his world got away with empty words, and he didn’t tolerate the kind of weakness that came from guilt without conviction. He often wondered what kind of pain and trauma turned someone into that—into a person who apologized just for breathing.

However…he didn’t completely mind if you were a bit weak.

Weak people were easy to keep an eye on. Easy to understand. Easy to protect.

He watched the screen again, eyes narrowing slightly as you pulled a stool across the polished floor to reach a high shelf. He saw it immediately. You hadn’t pulled one of the legs out all the way.

It would collapse under you.

He exhaled, annoyed but composed, and in a blink—his form dissolved in a swirl of red mist—he was gone from the office. A breath later, he was standing in the kitchen.

You didn’t even notice him behind you, too busy reaching to rearrange items on the top shelf, lips pursed in focus. You were murmuring something under your breath—maybe a list, maybe just the words you used to fill silence, but it didn’t matter. Your voice was soft, distracted, and it did nothing to prepare you for the presence behind you.

Sylus stood silently in the doorway, arms folded, posture impossibly still. His eyes tracked every movement you made with the precision of a predator, narrowed with cold intensity as he studied your choice of outfit.

A skirt again. Of all things. To clean in.

It shouldn’t have surprised him, but it did. It clashed so violently with the rest of you—your quiet demeanor, your constant apologies, your hesitant glances like you were afraid of taking up space. He’d pegged you as cautious. Careful. Maybe even prudish. But a skirt like that? That was either reckless...or intentional.

There was no middle ground.

His gaze moved downward, slow and deliberate, and he didn’t even try to stop it. Your legs were bare, shifting with each tentative movement, the muscles in your calves flexing delicately as you struggled for balance. They looked too smooth, too soft for someone who lived in the N109 Zone. You weren’t made for this place. Not really. And yet, here you were, stretching and tiptoeing as if you had something to prove.

The hem of your skirt lifted slightly as you reached higher, just enough to tease. Just enough to show the dip where your thigh met your hip, the subtle curve of your ass beneath the thin, clinging fabric. He stared, jaw flexing, something animal and possessive threading through his blood like poison.

Quite the choice indeed.

You didn’t know what you were inviting.

And maybe that’s what made it worse.

He inhaled slowly through his nose, his irritation mounting—not at you, not exactly. At the way he responded. At the way his body reacted, heat flooding low in his gut just from watching you stretch in that stupid skirt. You had no idea what you were doing to him, what kind of restraint it took not to close the distance, not to press his hand flat against the small of your back and bend you over the marble counter just to make a point.

Then his attention flicked to the stool.

He noticed it instantly: the leg, barely extended, shaky. A disaster waiting to happen. And you, too distracted to realize it. Too busy trying to impress. Too busy trying to earn your place.

He could’ve called out.

He didn’t.

He watched.

Three seconds passed.

Two.

One.

The stool gave out beneath you, the sharp crack of metal folding breaking the moment like glass.

You yelped, arms flailing, and your body dropped fast, too fast.

But the floor never came.

In one fluid movement, before your breath could even finish escaping your throat, he was there.

His arms snapped around you, catching you mid-fall with unflinching strength—one arm anchoring your waist, the other locked across your back like steel. The force of the motion sent your body into his, chest against chest, your breath stolen not by impact, but by proximity.

You collided not with cold tile—but with him.

With warmth.

You gasped, hands curling instinctively into the front of his shirt. His muscles shifted under your fingers—hard, tense, unwavering.

His face hovered inches from yours. Red eyes locked onto your expression, studying every flicker of panic, every rapid breath you took.

You started flailing in his arms, clearly panicking, eyes wide with embarrassment and confusion. The contact—too sudden, too close—had scrambled your senses. You didn’t know what to do with yourself, writhing slightly in his grip as if you could squirm away from the electricity between you. Your breath hitched, hands pressing feebly against his chest, but he held you like he had no intention of letting go until he was ready.

Inwardly, Sylus chuckled, dark amusement curling behind his otherwise unreadable eyes. You were flustered beyond reason, struggling in his hold like a bird that had flown into the jaws of a predator. It was almost sweet. Ridiculous, really, how easy it would be to keep you. A word, a gesture, a little pressure—and you'd fold like paper.

"I'm so sorry! I didn't realize you were there!" you panted, cheeks burning as you tried harder to escape his grasp. Your voice cracked slightly, high and breathless, and your fingers gripped at his shirt like you weren’t sure whether to push him away or hold on.

Reluctantly, he let you go. His arms unwrapped from around you with a slowness that betrayed how much he didn’t want to. Every inch of lost contact felt like something stolen. He could still feel the impression of your body against his—your warmth, your weight, the exact curve of your waist where his fingers had fit so perfectly.

He’d much rather have you pinned underneath him on the cold marble floor, your wrists above your head, that flushed face staring up at him in breathless silence. The image wasn’t just tempting, it was consuming.

Instead, he straightened calmly. He smoothed his shirt with a deliberate hand, as if nothing had happened, as if his blood wasn’t simmering just beneath the surface. His expression slipped back into its usual cold neutrality, though his eyes lingered.

"What did I say about apologizing for nothing?" he said sternly, his voice cutting through the air like the crack of a whip.

You froze. The sound of his voice triggered a visible change. Your expression fell into sorrow, your shoulders curling inward like a scolded child, your hands falling limp at your sides. You avoided his gaze, eyes cast downward as if you expected punishment.

"I—yeah. Right. I'll work on it," you murmured, voice small and brittle.

He watched the way your lips trembled. The way your posture folded in on itself. You thought apologizing would save you. That submission would earn mercy.

You were far too weak and innocent for your own good.

And he wanted to be the one to destroy it.

Touch by touch, until your shame melted into heat, until your gasps became moans, and the floor beneath you was scattered with torn, forgotten clothing. He’d peel away your innocence like silk, savoring each layer, each tremble, each moment of surrender.

Ignoring the growing hardness in his pants, Sylus turned his attention to his watch, feigning indifference as the tension coiled like a vice in his abdomen. Every nerve in his body felt wound tight, a hum beneath his skin he was trying very hard not to show.

"Aren’t you supposed to be heading home anyway?" he asked, voice cool and measured, each syllable sharp with veiled command. His gaze flicked to you and then lingered, unwilling to fully detach. You never noticed how much he watched you.

You bit your lip before dragging your tongue across it nervously, a subconscious gesture, but one he immediately clocked. That innocent, uncertain movement stirred something primal in him. It was the kind of unintentional tease that made his jaw tighten. That made him want to reach out and tilt your chin up just to see if you'd tremble under the weight of his full attention.

"Yeah...I was just doing some extra work," you replied, voice quiet, almost hesitant. You fidgeted with the hem of your skirt as if trying to distract yourself from his stare. "Hoping it would warm up a little if I waited. It’s freezing today. I'm not looking forward to walking honestly."

He followed your gaze to the wide expanse of floor-to-ceiling windows. Frost clung to the edges of the glass like white scars. The world outside looked like it had been locked in ice. It was the kind of cold that stole the breath from your lungs, bit into skin, made the city feel even more hollow and harsh.

And yet, you'd chosen that outfit.

His eyes dropped again, deliberately this time. The skirt. Thin, flimsy. Just enough fabric to cover you, but not enough to shield you. No tights. No layers. No intention of warmth. Your legs were bare. The skin flushed from chill and movement.

Why?

You weren’t actually this stupid were you? You were cautious. Quiet. Observant. Which meant this wasn’t accidental. Not a miscalculation.

No, this had to be deliberate. Maybe you weren't as innocent as he had previously assumed?

"Ah...I knocked some stuff down when I fell," you muttered, crouching low to gather the scattered cans, trying to appear unfazed, as if your body hadn’t just been caught by his in a moment of pure vulnerability. Your voice was soft, flustered but casual, an obvious cover. You didn’t want him to see the way your hands trembled slightly, or how your breath still hadn’t quite steadied. But to Sylus, nothing about the moment was casual. He remained frozen where he stood, posture straight and calculated, his eyes locked onto you with a focus that felt less like curiosity and more like predation. He was studying. Dissecting. Memorizing.

He waited for the phrase he’d heard so many times from your lips. That anxious, habitual little “I’m sorry” that you wore like a second skin. Your default reaction. But it never came. Instead, you stayed silent, concentrating on your task. Your lips pressed into a thin line.

That flicker of growth—it struck him harder than it should have.

You were learning. Adapting. Sharpening under pressure like a blade honing itself on stone. And it didn’t ignite pride in him. No, pride was far too tame. What he felt clawing its way through his chest was something darker. Possession. The need to mark what was his before anyone else could lay claim. He was already changing you in subtle ways.

His eyes traveled down, following the subtle tension in your limbs as you reached forward. The way the fabric of your skirt tightened over the swell of your hips made his jaw clench. The hem hit just right. Creased around your thighs. Teasing. Just enough to suggest, not enough to reveal. Until you shifted just a bit further, and the lace revealed itself.

Not much. Just a whisper. A delicate edge of pale fabric tracing along your skin.

Lace underwear. Definitely not silk—he knew better. The thread count and finish marked it as something affordable, not luxury. But that didn’t matter. That wasn’t what caught his attention.

It was the fact that you had worn it at all.

Worn something pretty. Something intimate. Something entirely hidden from the world.

Why?

You didn’t strike him as someone who put thought into seduction. You didn’t wear your body with confidence—you shrank into it, hid behind it. And yet…that lace told a different story. Whether it was for comfort, confidence, or something more unspoken, it was a secret softness tucked under the armor of your survival.

Something no one else was meant to see.

And yet here he was, seeing it. Claiming it in his mind. Making it his.

He didn’t realize he’d stopped breathing until his chest ached. The image of you crouched low, vulnerable and unaware, your body wrapped in fabric he now felt a savage urge to tear off seared itself into the hollow of his mind.

The urge to touch you rose inside him like a tidal wave. He imagined gripping you by the waist, hauling you up effortlessly into him. Pin you against the counter just to hear the sound you’d make. The feel of your weight against him. He could already envision the way you’d look pinned against him, breath stuttering, lips parted, eyes wide and unsure—begging without knowing what for.

He ground his teeth. The thoughts were consuming. And entirely uninvited.

No. Not uninvited. Just…unacted upon.

He drew in a breath, a quiet exhale through his nose as he forced the heat back down into the pit of his spine, burying it beneath layers of discipline and ice.

Then, he spoke—voice low, the edges smoothed by control but still thick with gravity.

"How about I take you home today?"

The shift in your expression was immediate. You snapped upright, startled, your eyes wide and flickering with something he didn’t expect.

Hope.

It landed like a blow. Your face opened up, lips parting slightly, shoulders lifting in surprise. For a moment, it looked like you might even smile. But you caught yourself. Reeled it back in like a secret.

Still, the damage was done. He’d seen it.

You looked at him like he was safe. Like his offer meant salvation instead of danger. And the strangest part of it all? That look made something in his chest ache.

You were so damn cute. So reactive.

So completely unguarded.

It made him want to cradle you in his hands. And then use those same hands to crush you with desire.

He envisioned you again...only this time, you were in his bed. That same skirt hiked up around your waist, the lace shredded by his fingers, your thighs parted, eyes glazed and trembling as you whispered his name like a confession.

"I'd really appreciate that...I live a little far. Um... you might not like my neighborhood. It's...old," you said hesitantly, brushing your skirt down as you rose to your feet. Your voice wavered just slightly, betraying the anxiety buried beneath your words. There was something in the way you said it—apologetic, like you were ashamed of this part of your life but knew better than to hide it. You tried to make yourself look more put-together, smoothing the fabric over your thighs as if that alone could shift the image in his mind.

Sylus’s eyes followed your every movement, taking in more than just your body language. He was reading you—dissecting the tone of your voice, the pace of your words, the tight way you held your breath between sentences. The word "old" wasn’t about age. It was a coded confession. He knew exactly what it meant. He’d heard it before from people who came from nothing, who had learned how to make do with what little the world threw them.

It meant you had lived with less for too long.

His jaw ticked slightly as the image built in his mind. He imagined your space, trying to piece it together from the clues you hadn’t meant to give him. He could see the threadbare couch you probably slept on when your bed got too cold. The one lamp with the flickering bulb. The box fan in the window struggling against the summer heat. He imagined you curled up in the corner with a secondhand blanket, your knees drawn up, trying to stay warm while the outside world threatened to bleed in.

He pictured your kitchen. Cramped. One chair missing a leg. A fridge that rattled when it kicked on. Dishes stacked on the counter because the sink wouldn’t drain properly. He imagined you cooking something cheap but warm, something you stretched over a few days, all while wearing that same skirt that had ridden up earlier. That lace underwear hidden underneath. That softness, that sweetness, surrounded by decay.

And it did something to him.

You didn’t belong in a place like that. That life—the struggle, the worry, the scarcity...it didn’t fit someone like you. Not with the way your lips parted when you were flustered, not with the way you bit the inside of your cheek when you were nervous. You weren’t hardened. Not yet. And the idea that the city would only further sink its teeth into you made something sharp twist in his chest.

It didn’t suit you. None of it did.

No, you were meant for softness. For warmth. For luxury. He could see it—clear as day—you draped across one of his penthouse chaise lounges, wearing something silk he bought you. Maybe you’d still be shy at first, still fidget with the hem of your skirt, but it would be different. You’d glow. Comfortable. Fed. Protected. His.

His mind fed on the thought, deeper and darker. He imagined you standing barefoot in his kitchen, reaching for a glass in one of his cabinets, his oversized shirt hanging off your shoulders, lace peeking through. You’d look over your shoulder when he walked in, eyes soft, lips parted just for him.

And he’d take care of you.

You’d never have to beg a landlord for hot water again. You’d never worry about bills or broken locks or freezing nights. You’d live where you belonged, someplace warm. Safe and lavish.

He watched you brush imaginary dust from your skirt, still trying to preserve a scrap of dignity, and the thought struck him again with more weight than before.

You didn’t even know what you deserved.

But he was trying not to get ahead of himself. Not when his thoughts had already begun to spiral too far into territory he’d sworn to avoid. He knew better. He always had. He was a man carved from violence and control, a life defined by taking, by silence, by blood. Someone like him wasn’t good for you.

Someone like him would ruin you. Corrupt you. Strip away that softness he’d started to crave.

And no matter how badly he wanted it—how deeply the image of you in his bed, in his life, had begun to root itself—he wasn’t sure how you’d handle him.

So he kept his expression unreadable, the desire clawing beneath his skin tucked away with practiced precision. Without another word, he simply turned and gestured for you to follow him. His movements were precise, clipped, careful not to betray the storm in his chest.

You hesitated for only a second, then fell into step behind him. Your footsteps were light but uncertain, the rhythm of your shoes against the polished floor betraying your nervousness. You trailed behind like a shadow—obedient, unsure—but still close enough that he could feel your presence pressing faintly at his back.

As you made your way toward the private elevator that led to his parking garage, Sylus kept his eyes forward, jaw tight, every muscle in his body straining not to look at you. Not to reach. Not to touch.

Because if he did...

He might not stop.

The car ride was quiet and long, the kind of stretch that gave Sylus too much time to think. Not that he let it show. His hands remained steady on the wheel, gaze fixed on the road as the city slipped by in shadows and glimmers of neon. You sat beside him in silence, arms tucked tightly against yourself, trying not to fidget, though your body language betrayed you. Five minutes in, he noticed the way you subtly curled inward, trying to conserve warmth. Your shoulders trembled ever so slightly.

Without a word, he reached down and adjusted the temperature. The heater clicked on with a low hum, warmth slowly spilling into the cabin. He didn’t say anything, didn’t look at you. He simply did it. He’d never used it before—not once. He never needed to. He hadn’t even realized it worked. But for you? He made it work.

A few minutes later, you gave him your address, voice low and mumbled, already thick with exhaustion. He barely acknowledged it, just nodded slightly and continued driving. Not because he needed the directions.

He already knew exactly where you lived.

Of course he did.

He’d had Mephisto tail you every night since that first encounter. Every step you took home, every street you crossed, every time you looked over your shoulder or hugged your arms tighter when the wind picked up—he knew it all. He’d seen the route. Studied the pattern. Memorized the way your silhouette moved beneath the flickering street lamps.

He hadn’t told you.

You’d never asked.

While he hadn’t yet stepped foot inside your apartment, he’d seen enough to picture it. The building—old, cracked, unwelcoming—told him more than words ever could. The peeling paint around the doorframe. The stairwell that looked like it might collapse with one wrong step. The busted callbox out front.

And it made something settle heavy in his gut.

But beside him, you had fallen asleep. Head tilted toward the window, lashes soft against your cheek, lips parted just slightly. Completely unaware.

When he finally pulled into the shadowed lot outside your apartment building, Sylus didn’t move to wake you right away. He simply shifted the car into park and turned slightly in his seat, his eyes tracing the soft lines of your sleeping face in the dim glow of the dashboard. There was a rare stillness to you now—your body slack, your breathing deep and steady, lips parted slightly with each quiet exhale. It was a version of you he rarely got to see: unguarded, untouched by the weight of the day, vulnerable in a way that pulled something tight and possessive in his chest.

He studied your expression, searching it like a map for answers he didn’t know he wanted. You looked so docile like this. So soft. Your hair slightly mussed from the ride, lashes casting shadows on your cheeks, arms curled loosely around your midsection. How could someone who had been through so much still sleep like this—still carry a hint of innocence when everything else around you had tried to beat it out?

His thoughts drifted to the checks. The ones he started giving you after your first week. They weren’t modest by any stretch. The amount was enough to make you freeze when he handed you the envelope the first time, your fingers trembling, eyes welling with tears you had tried to blink away. You had thanked him far too many times, voice barely steady.

But since then, he’d noticed something.

No new clothes. No styled hair. No flashy purchases or even a change in your worn-out shoes. You were still the same girl—practical, quiet, unassuming. And that only deepened the mystery. What were you spending it on? Rent, obviously. Maybe food. But beyond that…? Debt perhaps?

You hadn’t changed a thing about your appearance. Not even for vanity’s sake.

His fingers tapped slowly on the steering wheel, restless with curiosity.

You looked so peaceful. Like nothing in the world could touch you in that moment. The sight of it made his throat tighten.

He wondered when he would get to see you like this again.

You're awoken by a gentle shaking at your shoulder. Disoriented, your eyes blink open slowly, only to meet the cool interior of Sylus’s car and the low hum of the engine winding down. The warmth of the heater still lingers on your cheeks, and you sit up, blinking the sleep from your eyes.

Sylus is watching you, his face unreadable, but there’s something oddly soft in the way he looks at you—like he’s memorizing the exact shape of your sleepy expression.

"Ah, thank you. Goodnight," you murmur, still dazed, rubbing your eyes and reaching for the door handle.

"Goodnight," he responds evenly, reaching forward to unlock the passenger side with a click. The sound startles you a little, only now realizing the lock had been engaged from his side the entire time. Your hand lingers on the handle for a second longer, your thoughts slow, muddled. You almost ask about the child safety lock—why it was on in the first place—but you’re too tired to form the question.

Instead, you step out into the cold. The temperature hits you instantly, sharp and biting, and you hug your coat tighter around your shoulders. The street is dark, quiet, the usual chill of the N109 Zone sinking into your bones. You fumble with your pocket, fingers searching for the familiar jingle of your keys.

Keys...keys...

Your heart skips.

Where are your keys?

You pat your coat, your skirt, even dig into your bag, your movements growing frantic.

Nothing.

Panic starts to bloom in your chest as you realize—they’re not on you.

Shit.

Your stomach sinks. There's no avoiding it…you’ll have to ask Sylus. You must have left your keys back at Onychinus’s base during your frantic cleaning and recovery from that near fall. You’d been too flustered. Too distracted.

Defeated, your shoulders slumping, you turn around and hurry back to the car, your footsteps crunching against the gravel with each rushed step. The wind bites at your face as you approach. Sylus, thankfully, hasn’t driven off. He’s still parked in the same spot, one hand on the wheel, the other idly scrolling through something on his phone, bathed in the dim glow of the dashboard lights.

You tap nervously on the passenger window, hugging your arms to your chest. Almost immediately, his gaze flicks up and he rolls it down with a smooth whirr, red eyes pinning you in place.

"My keys...I think I left them back at Onychinus," you say quickly, cheeks already burning with embarrassment. "This might be a stupid question, but...do you know how to pick a lock?"

So...that’s how Sylus, without a single word of instruction, plucked a bobby pin from your hair with deft fingers and picked your lock like it was second nature. It took him less than a minute. You stood by stunned, arms crossed against the cold, watching the door click open like it was nothing.

You were amazed, partly by his skill, but mostly by the way he never hesitated. Like helping you break into your own home was just another item on his to-do list. You felt a strange, pressing urge to thank him. He didn’t have to do any of this. You were just an employee. A cleaner. One he had only met just a few weeks ago.

So it felt right to do something.

You nervously glanced at him, then gestured toward the open door. "Would you like to come in? Just for a minute. I—I'd like to give you something. A treat. For helping."

He nodded kindly, and followed you in.

The inside of your apartment was exactly what you'd feared he might judge: dingy, too small, and colder than it should’ve been. There were cracks in the paint and the floor creaked when you stepped inside. But Sylus didn’t comment. The only thing that gave away his discomfort was the way he had to crouch slightly to pass through the doorway, tall enough that the frame brushed his shoulders.

You hurried to the small kitchen, pulling out a container from the fridge and placing it carefully in the microwave.

"This is my mom’s recipe," you said over your shoulder, fumbling with the buttons. "She gave it to me before she...left."

The quiet stretch between you filled with something unspoken as the microwave hummed.

He didn’t press for details. But you could feel his attention lingering. Not just on your words, but on you—your hands, your nervous movements, the way your voice faltered at the mention of your mother.

Then, softly, he spoke. "You talk about her like she’s still alive. Like maybe there’s still a part of you waiting for her to come back."

You froze, startled—not by the words themselves, but by how gently he said them. Like he saw past what you said and into the truth underneath.

"She left without a word," you murmured. "But I guess...yeah. I still cook this like she's coming home."

You really did not want to talk about this anymore, and Sylus seemed to pick up on that instantly. His eyes flicked to the microwave, then back to you, his expression unreadable as always. Without missing a beat, he changed the subject, his voice shifting into something lighter.

"How does it feel to have your boss step foot inside your own home?"

The question caught you off guard, and you let out a nervous little laugh, rubbing the back of your neck. "I don’t normally have guests... much less my employer, but it’s been a lot less nerve-wracking than I thought it’d be."

You avoided his gaze, pretending to busy yourself with the food as the microwave dinged softly behind you. Your hands moved on autopilot, but your mind stayed tangled in the oddness of the moment. Sylus—here, in your crumbling kitchen, ducking under your doorframe, accepting a homemade dish with quiet interest. There was something surreal about it. Like the roles between you had been suspended, just for a night.

And stranger still, you didn’t hate it.

“Good. I’d hate to find out I’m the most intimidating thing in a room with a flickering lightbulb and a sink from the last century.”

This made you laugh. A real, unfiltered laugh—the kind that caught in your chest and spilled out before you could stop it. It was sharp and sudden, and a little louder than you meant it to be, but you didn’t care. It felt good. You hadn’t done that in a while.

You wiped your eyes, cheeks warm, the sound still lingering in the air as your gaze drifted to Sylus. He was staring. Not blankly. Not like he was studying you. But almost...softly. Like your laugh had surprised him.

Suddenly self-conscious, you tucked your hair behind your ear and looked away. "Ah...it wasn’t that funny, I guess. I’m—"

"Sorry?" he finished for you, his tone edged with irony but his eyes still locked on your face.

You sucked in a breath, caught red-handed, but it melted quickly into another quiet laugh. "Yeah, yeah…I know."

A beat of silence passes, and then he speaks again, but his voice is lower.

"Don't apologize for that. I like when I hear those kinds of sounds from you. They're pretty."

You aren't sure if you heard him right. Your face heats up instantly, the words echoing in your ears like they’ve carved their way in. "Huh?" you ask, voice quieter than you mean it to be, gaze darting anywhere but his.

The air in the room feels heavier now—charged. The warmth from the microwave, the hum of the light overhead, even the distant sound of the city outside—all of it fades into background noise.

He chuckles under his breath, low and unhurried. "Don't pretend you didn't hear me, sweetie."

You stiffen slightly as he moves, rising from the chair he’d been leaning on with effortless grace. He crosses the small space between you, the closeness making your breath catch. You tilt your head up just enough to see his face in the dim, amber lighting—his eyes sharp, but glittering with something unreadable.

"In fact," he murmurs, voice dropping just enough to graze against your spine, "I'm wondering what other sounds come out of that pretty mouth of yours."

The distance between you vanishes with every word, and you feel it—not just in your chest, but everywhere.

A slow burn, threatening to catch fire.

"Sylus..." you breathe, your voice barely audible. His expression has shifted—serious, intense, like he’s bracing himself against something dangerous that’s already clawing its way to the surface. It makes your stomach twist with nerves, your pulse fluttering beneath your skin like a trapped bird.

He lowers himself suddenly, dropping to one knee in front of you, bringing his face level with yours. The motion is fluid, almost graceful, but the way his gaze locks with yours—sharp, possessive, hungry—makes your breath stutter. It’s like he’s trying to memorize you. Or maybe unravel you.

"I knew it was a mistake coming in here," he mutters, his voice taut, eyes unblinking. "Now I have to ask. How much?"

Your brows furrow, confusion flickering in your expression. "F-for...?"

"A taste," he says flatly. The word lands like a spark in dry brush—no hesitation, no shame, only a simmering edge of something dark and consuming.

You freeze in place. The air feels electric, like it's grown too thick to breathe.

"Do...you mean—"

"Yes." His voice was low, but certain, as if the question itself had been gnawing at him long before you asked it aloud. "To taste you."

Your lips part, but no words come out. Your breath catches in your throat, heart lurching. Was he serious? The look in his eyes was anything but playful. This wasn’t a joke, it couldn’t be. His expression was molten intensity, carved from restraint, as if he’d spent weeks biting it back until now.

You blink, stunned. You’ve never been looked at like this. Not with hunger, not with reverence, not with the trembling edge of control threatening to unravel.

Everything in your body screams to move, to react, but you're locked in place, caught in the gravity of something you can't name but feel all the way to your bones.

"Do you want your paycheck early?" he asks, voice softer now, almost coaxing, though there’s a rawness behind it. It sounds like he’s bargaining more with himself than with you.

You shake your head, words tumbling out. "N-no, it’s fine, I—"

"Fuck it," he cuts in sharply, the words punched out of him like he can’t hold them back anymore. He’s breathing harder now, chest rising and falling with restraint that looks like it’s about to shatter. "Do you want three times your paycheck? Just a taste. I promise."

The room feels like it’s spinning. Tension coils so tightly in your chest you feel like it might snap your ribs apart. The look in his eyes is unrelenting—dark, desperate, determined. And still, somehow, controlled. Just barely.

Before you can even find your voice, he reaches into the inner pocket of his coat and pulls out an envelope, thick and heavy, and tosses it onto your nightstand with a quiet but deafening thud.

You stare at it.

Cash. Stacked high, crisp, bound with a strip of paper.

Three thousand dollars.

Enough to pay off everything.

Your rent, your utilities, the credit card bills you’ve been dodging, the mounting stack of final notices tucked inside your kitchen drawer. The broken heater you’ve been hoping would last just a little longer. Even groceries for the rest of the month—maybe two. Gone. All of it, gone. Just like that.

Three thousand dollars was more than relief—it was oxygen. It was the first exhale after being held underwater too long. It was a full night of sleep. It was a moment of silence after endless noise.

And yet, it sat there on the nightstand like a loaded weapon, wrapped in clean paper and cold temptation. A gleaming symbol of power—and surrender.

And all for a taste.

Your heart is racing now, thudding so loud in your chest you can barely think over it. Your mouth feels dry. Your limbs are frozen. You’re not sure what terrifies you more—the offer, or how much you want to take it.

He hasn’t moved.

He’s just watching you, waiting, like a wolf crouched at the edge of a line you didn't know you were drawing.

"It'll feel good. I won't hurt you," he says, his voice dropping to something low and coaxing—soothing like warm velvet, but beneath it, a thrumming urgency that vibrates in the stillness between you. There’s a tremor in his restraint, a sharp tension in the way his fingers flex and release at his sides, like he’s physically holding himself back from reaching for you.

You swallow hard, your breath stuttering in your throat as the atmosphere in the room thickens. The heat in his gaze scorches, pressing against your skin like a physical touch. Your pulse skitters against your ribs, every nerve raw and acutely aware of how close he is.

"I don't know..."

"I know I’m coming off strong," he says again, a note of frustration edging his voice—but it’s not aimed at you. It’s aimed at himself. His eyes don’t waver, locked on you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the ground. "Every second. I see you and I can’t breathe. If I do it now, if I can just touch you, just once, maybe I can finally get it out of my head."

You don't say anything for a bit. Your lips part, but the words are stuck—thick and tangled in your throat. Your heart is hammering, each beat echoing against your ribs like it’s trying to shake loose the answer you can’t seem to give. It’s not that you don’t want to speak—it’s that you’re overwhelmed. The offer. The money. The tension so tight between your bodies it feels like it could snap. The way he looks at you, like he’s barely holding himself back. Like he’s one breath away from devouring you.

Finally, you manage to whisper, "I don’t believe you…three thousand for a...taste? Why not ask to go all the way...?"

Sylus exhales through his nose, slow and measured, but there’s a weight in that breath. "Because I know you can’t handle that," he says, his voice low but firm. There’s no smugness in it. And yet, beneath the calm surface, there’s a tremble—barely perceptible but unmistakable. He’s not unaffected by this. Not even close.

"It would hurt you," he continues, eyes narrowing slightly, his jaw tight. "I don’t want that. You think I haven’t thought about it? That I haven’t imagined it in every possible way? I have. Every day. But I’m trying to be better than that."

He pauses, and the room stretches out around his silence, dense and vibrating. His eyes stay locked on yours, unblinking. "This...this is my compromise with myself. To not be greedy and just take you."

You’re frozen, your skin hot, your pulse crashing through your veins. The intensity of his words, the weight of his restraint—it’s almost more intimate than if he’d touched you. There’s something terrifying in how controlled he’s being. How much he's holding back.

You swallow, throat tight, and glance back at the envelope on the nightstand.

The money is still there. Staring back at you like a second pair of eyes in the room. It’s more than just a bundle of cash, it’s a symbol. Of his temptation. Of your need. Of the space where control and desire blur.

It’s real. Heavy. Life-altering.

Your head is spinning. You know in your heart this is a terrible idea—you should say no, shouldn't be entertaining any of this. Every moral fiber in your body is screaming to get up, walk away, salvage whatever shred of dignity you have left. But your brain, more practical, more battered by life, is screaming even louder: you'd be stupid to say no.

You stare down at the floor, the stained edges of your cheap rug blurring in your vision. You can’t make sense of it. Why would someone like him want to do this? To you? Of all people? You weren’t glamorous, weren't the kind of girl who got attention from men like him. So why was he here, offering money, lowering himself to his knees, saying he wanted to...bury his head between your legs?

Your heart hammers as the silence thickens, every second a pressure cooker of conflicting thoughts and desperate what-ifs.

"Is the amount the issue? I can give more. It’s no issue," he suddenly interrupts, his voice firm but almost...breathless. The words slice through your spiraling thoughts like a blade, yanking you back to reality. Back to the weight of the moment—and the intensity in his gaze that hasn't faltered once.

"No...I just don't do things like this," you whine, covering your face in shame. Your voice trembles, not just from embarrassment, but from the sheer weight of the moment pressing down on you. Is this really what it had come to? Trading your body for cash? For survival? The idea claws at your insides, a slow burn of humiliation rising in your chest. And worse still, the fear gnaws louder—if you said no, would he fire you? Would he rescind the only lifeline you’ve been given in weeks? This strange, fragile opportunity he’d extended might vanish, and with it, the fragile thread holding your life together.

You weren't sure what to think, and that scared you most of all. Because a part of you, a small, shaky part you didn’t want to acknowledge, wasn’t completely horrified. Not at him.

"I can tell," he says quietly, his voice low and steady. He reaches out and gently moves your fingers away from your face, his touch feather-light, surprisingly careful. It’s not the grasp of someone impatient or predatory—it’s...something else. Something worse, maybe. His eyes meet yours, searching with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. You can’t read him.

"You don’t have to do anything. Just lay there," he murmurs.

His words are soft, almost comforting, but the promise woven into them is anything but. You feel that pressure behind every syllable he speaks, like the tension that’s been building between you has finally reached its breaking point.

He suddenly moves much closer to you, and instinctively, your body reacts—you back away, your breath hitching in your throat. The room feels smaller now, his presence taking up all the space like a storm cloud pressing in. You manage to slip past him, heart racing, but your escape is short-lived. The backs of your legs bump against the edge of your bed, halting your retreat with a jolt.

"Are you scared, kitten?" Sylus asks, his voice velvet-soft but unmistakably firm. He steps forward with unsettling calm, each stride deliberate, controlled, like a predator circling prey that it already knows won’t run far. You stumble backward and fall onto the mattress, your palms bracing behind you, eyes wide.

He's over you in an instant—towering, his body blocking out the low light in the room. His hands brace on either side of your waist, caging you in without touching you. You can feel his warmth, the restrained energy radiating from his skin. Your breath quickens as you look up at him, throat tight, heart hammering a wild rhythm against your ribs.

"Do you think I'm going to hurt you?" he asks, his gaze locked onto yours with unnerving intensity. His voice holds no menace, only quiet certainty, like he’s stating a fact he already knows the answer to.

You shake your head, voice barely a whisper. "N-no, but...are you going to...force me?"

A low chuckle escapes his lips, dark, amused, and disturbingly composed. "If I wanted to force you," he murmurs, his tone like a blade wrapped in silk, "you wouldn't be asking that question. It would be obvious."

One of his hands slides down your side slowly, deliberately, before gliding up your leg. His fingers graze bare skin, teasingly light as they slip beneath your skirt. The contact sends a jolt through you, your muscles tensing—not entirely from fear, but from something hotter, more primal, curling in your stomach.

His touch lingers just long enough to test your reaction, to feel the tremble in your thighs. He’s watching you like he’s memorizing every micro-expression, every hitched breath, every second of hesitation.

"But you would be a fool to turn down my offer," he says, voice lower now, more dangerous. The calmness in him is unsettling, like he’s already decided how this ends and is simply waiting for you to catch up. "And we both know this."

The way he says it—so certain, so assured—doesn’t feel like a question. It feels like inevitability. Like a fuse already lit, burning closer and closer to whatever explosion he’s been holding back.

You can barely think past the rush of blood in your ears, past the heat that’s rising to your cheeks, to your chest. Your thoughts spiral, second-guessing every feeling that bubbles up inside you. It’s too much. Too fast. Too intense.

He's right...right? This is your best chance to pay off your debt. And he's not even asking for more than a taste. Just a taste. You should just...say yes...right? You try to convince yourself it’s nothing—but deep down, you know that’s a lie. Nothing about this is simple. Nothing about Sylus has ever been.

Your mind is a whirlwind of panic and pressure, too tangled to form a coherent answer. Thoughts crash into each other—fear, doubt, curiosity, need. Before you can gather your thoughts, your breath catches—"I-I...ah!"

Sylus lowers his head and begins kissing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. The contact sends a jolt through your body like white-hot electricity, sparking every nerve as it travels down your spine. Your entire body tenses at the sensation, and then melts a second later. Your stomach tightens, breath stuttering as a sharp, unfamiliar heat coils low in your belly, twisting into a knot of want and confusion.

He doesn’t rush. No, he’s slow, achingly slow. He savors every inch of skin, every flinch and tremble, as though he’s memorizing the map of your reactions. Each kiss is soft, but deliberate, searing a path into you that lingers long after his lips have moved on. It’s excruciating in the most maddening way, the kind of teasing that blurs the line between pleasure and torture.

You let out a breathy, broken whine, your fingers clenching in the bedsheets like they’re the only thing grounding you. He continues, lips trailing with devotion, worship, obsession. His control is terrifying—and thrilling. It’s as if he owns you already, and he’s just now getting to unwrap his prize.

"You sound beautiful, sweetie" Sylus murmurs, voice low, rough, vibrating with restrained hunger. It sends another shock of heat through you. He sounds almost pained, like holding himself back is costing him something.

He pauses just long enough to lift his gaze to yours, locking eyes with you in the low light. His mouth still hovers against your skin, warm breath tickling. "Just let me make you feel good."

The words hit like a drug, warm and dizzying, wrapping around your spine and sinking into your thoughts, your bones. His voice pulls you deeper, makes it harder to hold onto doubt. Harder to breathe. You still don't know if you should say yes. You don’t even know what you want anymore.

Sylus's fingers slide up under your skirt further, his touch firm and insistent as they wrap over the hem of your panties. "Ah! Wait—" you start to protest, but his grip tightens, cutting you off. His eyes are filled with a primal hunger, a look that sends a shiver down your spine.

"I'll make it six times your paycheck," he growls, his voice low and commanding. "Lay back and keep still." You can feel the urgency in his tone, the barely restrained desire that threatens to consume him. The cold air hits your now exposed cunt as he roughly pulls off your panties, leaving you vulnerable and at his mercy.

He can't wait for a clear answer anymore. His darkened gaze drinks in the sight of your glistening arousal.

You gasped, a soft "A-ah! Sylus...okay..." escaping your lips as your body reacted instinctively—your thighs tensing, a flush spreading across your cheeks, and a warm ache building deep inside.

You cover your face in heated shame as Sylus pries your thighs apart, his strength leaving no room for resistance. You gasp as he leaves a sudden, hot wet streak of saliva trailing up your inner folds with his tongue, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure mixed with embarrassment through your body. Your lower half feels like it's on fire, every nerve ending alight with anticipation.

"S-stop...!"

You struggle in his grip, trying to back away from the wet sensation, but his hold on you is unyielding. He drags you back into position, lowering his head between your pussy once more. His warm breath teases your sensitive flesh as he begins intricate circles around your swollen bud, his tongue a masterful instrument of pleasure. "Mghn..." you moan, your hands gripping his hair subconsciously, torn between the urge to push him away and the desire to pull him closer, to deepen the exquisite torture of his touch.

"You taste even better than I imagined," Sylus coos, his voice a low, throaty murmur that vibrates against your most sensitive spots. He gives your throbbing clit a break, instead pushing his tongue deeper inside your cunt, exploring your depths with a skill that leaves you breathless. "Ahh!" You nearly arch off the bed, the intensity of the sensation overwhelming.

Only Sylus's steady and strong hands keep you in place, grounding you as waves of pleasure crash over you. You've never felt anything like this before, the vibrations of his voice adding to the aching pleasure that builds with each tortuous stroke of his tongue pushing in and out of your walls. "Don't...talk like that. Just hurry...mghn!" you manage to gasp out, your voice a mix of desperation and shame, urging him to bring you to the edge and over. Sylus truly had no shame with with how blunt he often came across. You had often admired that about him.

In this situation though? It was mortifying.

A deep chuckle rumbles in Sylus's chest, a sound that vibrates through you, sending shivers down your spine. He pauses, looking up briefly to gaze into your eyes, studying your distraught and shameful expression with a mix of amusement and hunger. "As you wish, kitten," he murmurs, his voice laced with a promise of pleasure. He moves his tongue back to circle your clit, his touch both teasing and demanding.

As he begins to suck lightly, you let out a sound so primal and filthy that it surprises even you. Your whole body tenses, your core building with a tense pressure that threatens to explode. The sensation is overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and vulnerability that leaves you gasping and clutching the sheets, desperate for release.

"Hah...hah...hah..."

Your breath comes in ragged gasps, your skin glistening with a fine sheen of sweat as Sylus licks and devours your pussy with an insatiable hunger. He switches between sucking your clit and licking in between your folds, his tongue relentless in its movements. Each stroke, each suck, builds the tension inside you, pushing you closer to the edge. You can feel the pressure coiling tighter, your body trembling with anticipation. The room fills with the sounds of your desperate pants and his wet, hungry licks, a symphony of raw, unfiltered desire.

You manage to crack open your eyes, catching a glimpse of Sylus's flushed and heated face, his expression one of pure, unadulterated pleasure. He's clearly enjoying himself, his eyes dark with desire and his breath coming in ragged gasps. When you try to quiet your moans by biting down on your lip, he only sucks on your clit harder, drawing out the pleasure until you're practically screaming.

Your legs lock around his head, but he doesn't seem to mind, his focus entirely on the task at hand. Suddenly, he looks up, his eyes narrowed and intense as he locks his gaze with yours. You're a moaning, writhing mess, your body trembling on the edge of release. The last thing you need is to cum with him looking at you like that, his gaze searing into your soul. But it's clear he has no intention of looking away, his stare unyielding and demanding, as if he's determined to watch you unravel completely.

"Fuck! Sylus!" The words tear from your throat, a desperate cry that echoes through the room. But it's too late, the pressure has built to a crescendo, and with one final, powerful suck, it explodes. Your whole body tenses and shivers as a crash of aching pleasure overfills your lower half, waves of ecstasy washing over you, leaving you breathless and trembling.

Your face tears up and you gasp for breath as you ride out the intense orgasm. Sylus watches, his eyes locked on yours, as you unravel on his tongue. He laps up your juices, his movements slow and deliberate, savoring every drop. You twitch and jerk on his mouth, your body convulsing with aftershocks of pleasure, each one sending new waves of sensation coursing through you. He doesn't let up, his tongue continuing to tease and explore, drawing out the feeling until you're a quivering, spent mess, completely at his mercy.

Eventually, the sensations of Sylus's tongue continuing to lick your oversensitive bud become too much, the pleasure bordering on pain. You plead with him to stop, your voice breaking as you burst into tears, overwhelmed by the intensity of the experience. Sylus pauses, his tongue stilling as he licks his mouth, his face softening with a mix of satisfaction and tenderness. He's breathless, his chest heaving as he leans closer to your face. Through your tears and sobs, you can barely see him, but you feel him lean in, his lips capturing yours in a firm, passionate kiss. It's strong and demanding, leaving you helpless to do anything except lean into it. He pries open your mouth with his tongue, exploring and claiming. He pauses between each breath to speak.

"Everything you do...is so damn cute. Even when you're crying... God...what am I supposed to do with you?"

He doesn’t ask; he takes, yet not without a strange reverence, like he’s claiming something that was always his to begin with. Your body responds before your mind can catch up. Instinct, surrender, exhaustion, maybe all three. You lean into the kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue, powerless against the storm he’s become.

Everything becomes a blur after that. Your senses dull, body limp from exhaustion, nerves frayed to the point of collapse. Your eyes begin to feel unbearably heavy, each blink slower than the last. You vaguely register movement—his hands, still careful despite the storm that had just passed, adjusting your position on the bed, guiding your head to the pillow.

You think you hear him murmur something near your ear. It’s low, almost regretful. “I think I’ve just made things worse for myself.” Or maybe you imagined it. You can’t be sure.

There’s the faint rustle of fabric, the cool sensation of a cloth against your skin. You open your eyes just enough to catch the shape of him cleaning you with surprising gentleness. Another flutter of vision: a fresh pair of underwear, slipped back into place with care. Then, a sudden weight is placed on the bed beside you. A second envelope of cash.

And then…nothing. He’s gone. The room is quiet again.

Your eyes finally close, this time for good.

When you wake up the next morning, for a split second, you almost believe you dreamed the whole thing. A strange haze clings to your thoughts, like your mind is desperately trying to rewrite reality into something softer. But the two thick envelopes of cash sitting ominously on your nightstand and bed say otherwise.

You sit up slowly, the ache in your body making it clear last night wasn’t just a vivid fantasy. Shame floods your chest as the memories return in jagged pieces. You grip your hair, curling forward on the bed.

"Shit, shit, shit…" you whisper harshly to yourself, your stomach twisting into knots. How were you supposed to go back to work and face him after that? Could you even look him in the eye? Should you even bother showing up again? Or was it better to disappear, let this whole thing vanish behind you like a nightmare?

You try to steady your breathing, to ground yourself, but your thoughts are a chaotic mess. As you sit there, overwhelmed, something shifts in your periphery. You glance toward your front door.

Boxes.

Taped, sealed boxes. You blink, confused. You hadn’t ordered anything. You hadn’t expected anything. Yet there they were—stacked neatly by the door like they belonged.

A strange chill rolls down your spine.

What the hell is this?

The first was a box of winter clothes. Not just any clothes—thick, soft-lined wool leggings, a heavy coat with a fur-lined hood, warm gloves that fit your fingers perfectly, thermal socks, and a sturdy pair of boots that looked brand new. The fabric was clearly expensive, designed for someone who actually had to walk in freezing weather. All of it in muted, neutral tones—deep gray, soft beige, dark burgundy, as if selected not just for practicality, but to suit you.

The second box held a phone.

Your breath hitched. A brand new, high-end smartphone. Sleek, lightweight, and already powered on. The screen displayed nothing but a single message: a contact preloaded into the device. Just one name.

Sylus.

You swallowed hard. You had only mentioned in passing that you didn’t own a phone, something about saving up for one eventually, tossed out in conversation and barely remembered. But he had remembered. Not only that, he had acted on it. Gone out of his way to give you something you hadn’t even asked for. He'd even noticed you didn't have proper winter clothes.

Your heart pounded, warmth blooming in your chest so abruptly it startled you. Was this guilt? Remorse for how things had gone last night? Did he feel bad for pushing you past your limits? Or…was this something else?

You didn’t know. But whatever the reason, gratitude surged through your veins like a wave.

You had to thank him. But you were too nervous to text him.

The idea of crafting a message was too much. So instead, you threw yourself into getting ready, tugging on the new winter clothes he’d sent. The coat fit like it was tailored for you, hugging your body in a way that made you feel both secure and...oddly seen. The boots were warm and sturdy. Even the gloves made your hands feel less forgotten by the cold.

You rushed to work without checking the time. Your heart beat like a drum in your chest the entire way, thoughts looping back to last night. That moment—those moments—had unraveled something deep in you. Something that had never been touched before. Even now, thinking about it made your cheeks burn. The heat crawled up your neck as flashes of memory danced behind your eyes.

It had felt good. Too good. Even if it had been unexpected and confusing, the way he’d touched you, spoken to you, looked at you—it all stayed with you. And now...your debts were gone. Cleared. Just like that.

Because of him.

You owed him more than money could ever measure. Even if the circumstances had been a little strange. You had to say something. Anything. You felt awful for blacking out on him so suddenly, for never even thanking him properly.

As you stepped into the elevator, thoughts still tangled and storming inside you, the soft chime of the top floor arriving pulled you from your haze. The doors slid open.

You entered the suite, heart pounding, nerves buzzing, a mixture of anticipation and unease swirling in your chest like a storm barely held at bay. Your palms were clammy inside your gloves, your breath caught somewhere between hope and dread. But the moment you stepped inside and spotted Sylus, your face instinctively lit up, a flicker of relief sparking in your chest.

He had his back to you, seated with an almost lazy confidence on one of the sleek leather couches that made the massive living room feel even more expansive. You took a breath, readying yourself, rehearsing the words you'd been building up the courage to say.

"Sylus...I just wanted to say I—"

And then you stopped cold.

A voice—low, smooth, unmistakably feminine—slipped through the air like smoke.

Your eyes shifted. Next to him on the couch sat a woman. A vision. Slender and poised, legs elegantly crossed, a cigarette balanced with casual grace between long, painted fingers. Her dark hair fell in effortless waves, and her eyes, smoky, lined to perfection, scanned the room like she owned it. She looked like she stepped out of a magazine spread or a high-society gala. Everything about her screamed power, ease, control.

And Sylus…

He wasn’t the man you usually saw—sharp, unreadable, and cold. No, this version of him was relaxed. Too relaxed. His posture loose, one arm slung along the back of the couch, the other resting on her thigh like it belonged there. They laughed together, the sound low and intimate. It was a touch that spoke of familiarity, not formality. Not business. Personal.

The air thickened around you.

They both turned as the door clicked shut behind you.

And you froze in place.

All the breath you’d been holding escaped you in a shallow, silent gasp.

Your fingers gripped the sleeves of your coat tightly, a useless attempt to hold onto something solid as the ground beneath your feet shifted. For a single, endless heartbeat, all you could hear was the blood rushing past your ears.

"Oh? Who's this, Sylus?" the woman asked, her tone light and teasing, yet unmistakably edged with curiosity. She tilted her head, dark lashes framing her amused eyes as she took another slow drag of her cigarette. Smoke curled around her like perfume, adding a haze to the air as she studied you from across the room, her gaze settling on you like a cat watching a cornered mouse.

Sylus didn’t even spare you a glance. His voice, when he spoke, was flat, indifferent, practically clinical. "Just the housekeeper. We got a new supply of rags for you, since the others were torn or bleached. The kitchen floor needs scrubbing today, alright?"

Just the housekeeper.

The phrase echoed in your head, each syllable heavier than the last. You stood there, frozen, trying to pretend those words hadn’t hit you like a slap to the face. Trying to pretend the tight knot in your chest was anything but what it was.

He turned back to the woman without pause, without a flicker of acknowledgment that you might have had something to say. His fingers remained lazily draped on her thigh, his posture relaxed, comfortable in a way you’d never seen before. He chuckled at something she whispered in his ear, his lips curling in a way that made your stomach twist with something sharp and bitter.

Your heart dropped, heavy and cold, like it had been cut loose and left to sink. Your arms felt numb. Your breath felt caught in your throat.

You didn’t even fully understand why it stung this much. Maybe it was the sudden switch from last night’s intensity to this cold dismissal. Maybe it was the look in his eyes when he’d touched you, compared to the easy comfort he now gave so freely to someone else.

You had just gotten the stark reminder that you were nothing but the help. A background character in his real life.

You managed to speak without choking. "Oh...yeah. I’ll get right on that," you mumbled, your voice tight and fragile, like it might crack if pushed any further. You turned away before either of them could see your expression.

The hallway felt darker as you walked away, the soft echo of their laughter following you like a ghost. It clung to you, taunting, curling around your shoulders like smoke.

Just the housekeeper, huh?

All of that—every touch, every look, every whispered word—had just been for his own amusement. For him to get off. A way to toy with you, distract himself, maybe pass some time. Nothing more. The money, the clothes, the phone—it had all been out of pity. A rich man’s guilt dressed up as generosity.

Of course. He was the leader of Onychinus. A man of unshakable power and influence. What had you honestly expected? That someone like him would look at someone like you and see something worth wanting? That he had good intentions with you? Of course it had meant nothing. He got what he wanted and you got the money.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

You were stupid to overthink it otherwise.

You were nothing but a desperate girl from the N109 Zone—barely scraping by, barely surviving. You weren’t beautiful like that woman on the couch. You weren’t polished, or confident, or powerful. You were a speck in his world. A faceless, voiceless shadow.

Stupid. So, so stupid. You felt utter shame now. Felt used.

The self-loathing came in waves, sharp and consuming as you scrubbed at the kitchen floor, harder than you needed to. Each movement was angry, bitter, punishing. Scrub, rinse, repeat. The pain in your knees didn’t matter. The sting in your fingers didn’t matter. The tears threatening to fall, those didn’t matter either.

Because this was your place.

Not in his lap. Not in his bed. Not in his thoughts.

Here. On your hands and knees. Scrubbing. Silent. Invisible.

You were a nobody. Lowlife scum. Best to remember that.

Best to know your place.

As the minutes tick by, you become increasingly aware of Sylus's absence. He had been by your side when you first arrived, a possessive hand resting on the small of your back as he steered you through the crowded room. But now, as you laugh at one of Elias's jokes, you realize you haven't seen him in quite some time.

You glance around the room, scanning the faces of the guests, but there's no sign of Sylus.

Elias leans in closer, his voice lowering to a whisper. "You know, I have a feeling you and I have much more in common than just a love of art. You think that maybe... I can get your number?

"Do you value your ability to breathe without a tube down your throat?"

Your heart leaps in your throat at the sound of that voice. You recognize it instantly.

Elias's eyes widen and he takes a small step back from you, hands raised in a gesture of surrender.

"Easy there, Sylus," Elias says, his charming smile fading into a strained grin. "No need for threats. I was just being friendly."

Sylus steps into view, his dark silhouette looming behind you. His broad shoulders straining against the fabric of his tailored suit jacket. His eyes are fixed on Elias, a dangerous glint in their depths.

"Friendly?" Sylus repeats, a note of amusement in his voice. "Is that what you call it?" His gaze flickers to you for a moment, his expression softening almost imperceptibly before hardening once more as he turns back to Elias. "I've seen how friendly you can get"

Sylus takes another step forward, closing the distance between them. Elias swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. He glances at you, then back at Sylus, and you can see the calculation in his eyes as he weighs his options.

"Look, I didn't mean any disrespect..."

"You're not worthy of so much as a single digit of her phone number. I suggest you forget you ever met her, and move along before I lose my patience entirely."

Elías clears his throat awkwardly and takes a step back "Well, it was... nice chatting with you," he says lamely, before turning and melting into the crowd, leaving you alone with Sylus.

"Was that really necessary? I was just about to say no Sy"

His thumb brushes across your lower lip, the gesture almost tender if not for the harsh set of his mouth. "Let's get out of here. I have far better plans for us tonight."

With that, he takes your hand, his grip unyielding as he begins to steer you towards the exit. His anger is palpable, but there's something else you can't quite name.

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As you walk to your room Sylus can't help but notice the shift in your mood. The lively sparkle in your eyes from earlier has been replaced by a troubled look. He watches as you walk ahead of him, your shoulders slightly slumped, your steps hesitant.

Closing the door behind you Sylus sets his jacket down on a nearby chair before turning to face you. He crosses his arms over his broad chest, his brow furrowed as he studies your face with an intensity that makes you squirm slightly.

"Talk to me," he says finally, his voice cutting through the heavy silence of the room. "What's bothering you?"

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself before you speak. "Sylus, I need you to listen to me for a moment. There was no need for you to behave like that back at the auction. You embarrassed Elias in front of everyone."

You shake your head, a flicker of disappointment in your eyes. "An arrogant display like that, threatening him just for talking to me? It was completely uncalled for."

Putting your hands on your hips, you level your gaze at Sylus, your voice firm but calm. "I understand that you want to protect me. But you can't go around intimidating people who cross an imaginary line in your head."

He takes a step closer, invading your personal space. He towers over you, his broad shoulders blocking out the light. His voice is low and tight with barely contained anger when he speaks.

"I've known Elias for years, sweetie. He's a womanizer, plain and simple. I've seen that predatory look in his eyes before, the one he gets when he sets his sights on a new conquest. And tonight, he had it directed at you."

His eyes burn into yours, the red irises seeming to glow with the force of his possessiveness "He knew you were with me. I made sure of that when I introduced you earlier. But he didn't care, did he? No, he just saw a beautiful woman and decided he wanted to add you to his list of fucks."

You plant your palms firmly against his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath his shirt. You push back against him, your voice steady and unwavering as you meet his intense gaze head on.

"I appreciate your concern, I really do. But I am more than capable of taking care of myself. I've been doing it for years before I even met you."

Your eyes flash with a spark of determination and a hint of annoyance. "I'm a Deepspace Hunter, Sylus. I've faced down Wanderers, I've battled for my life and the lives of others. I think I can handle a little flirtation from a guy like that"

A sly smile tugs at the corner of your mouth as you tilt your head. "Or, and hear me out on this...maybe you were just jealous. Green as the hills, if you will."

You lean in closer, your lips nearly brushing against his as you whisper teasingly, "Is that what this is really about? You couldn't stand the thought of Elias looking at me like that because you want to be the only one with the right to crave me like that?"

Your fingertips walk playfully up his chest, tracing the line of his collarbone. "You know, it's okay to admit it. Jealousy doesn't make you weak, it makes you...human. It means you care, deeply and intensely and maybe just a little bit possessively."

You nip lightly at his bottom lip, your voice a low purr. "So go on, Sylus...admit it. Because I think that's exactly what happened back there. And you know what? It's okay. I can handle a little jealousy, as long as it comes from the right man."

"Lie down" he orders

You don't move, still processing his words, but you see his hands undo his pants then push them down his hips.

"Kitten, lay down on that fucking bed right now."

As you settle against the silk sheets, he finishes removing the last of his clothing, his shirt and underwear dropping to the floor. His erection springs free, long, hard and already leaking at the tip.

Your whispered "Oh god" reaches his ears. Sylus grins, stalking towards the bed until he looms over you. He leans down, one hand braced on either side of your head as he settles between your thighs.

"You sure you want to feed my ego like that? You already think I'm an arrogant asshole and the way you are staring at my cock is about to make me insufferable"

He rolls his hips slowly, his hard length brushing against your thigh through the thin fabric of your dress. The friction makes him groan softly, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

You sit up and his eyes darken as he watches you strip, his gaze roaming greedily over every inch of skin you reveal. When you reach for the lace tops of your stockings, he stops you "Keep those on."I want to see you in nothing but those. Want to feel the lace against your soft skin as I fuck you."

His large hands grip your hips tightly, flipping you over onto your hands and knees with a sudden, dominant move. Before you can react, he's running his palms over the curves of your ass, squeezing and kneading the supple flesh.

"Fuck, your ass is perfect," he growls, his fingers digging into your skin as he spreads your cheeks apart

He leans down, his lips brushing against your ear as he speaks "I want to see you arch your back for me. Want to watch this ass lift up and beg for my cock as I take you from behind."

One hand slides around to the front of your body, his fingers pushing your panties aside to stroke through your folds and then without warning, he grips the fabric and yanks hard, the material tearing away easily in his strong grasp. The cool air hits your now bare sex as you feel the rough lace scrape against your skin for a brief moment before it's ripped away completely.

"Sylus!" you cry out in surprise and a hint of pain. Your hips jerk forward instinctively and red marks bloom on your hipbones.

"Ass up, kitten," he commands, before you can react, he's pushing your upper body down against the mattress, leaving your back arched and your ass high in the air.

You feel the thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and then with one hard thrust, he's burying himself inside you to the hilt. Your gasp of surprise mixes with his low groan of pleasure.

"Fuck, you feel incredible," Sylus grunts, his fingers digging into the flesh of your ass as he starts to move, pulling out slowly before slamming back in.

"You're so fucking big Sy"

"But you take it all like a good girl, don't you?"

You feel him set a hard, fast pace, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. He leans over your back, his chest pressed against you as he fucks into you relentlessly.

"Fuck, can you feel me deep inside your hot little cunt? Gonna fill you up until I run down those pretty stockings."

He feels your walls clench tight around his cock when he rubs your swollen clit. "Fuck, that's it. You're getting close, aren't you?"

He leans down to whisper in your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. "Come on my cock, kitten."

But that's not your plan.

He growls in frustration as you slip his cock out of your dripping pussy, tight walls clenching around nothing. He grabs you roughly by the waist, dragging your pleasure drunk body back against his chest. "No, no, get that sweet cunt back on my dick," he demands.

But you ignore his command, instead dragging your hand down to plunge your fingers deep inside your aching, empty core. You pump them in and out, fucking yourself with wild abandon, chasing the release that Sylus's relentless pounding brought you to the brink of.

"Fuck, Y/N I swear to god..."

Sylus watches in awe and disbelief as your body jerks and writhes against him, your back arching as you bring yourself to a shattering climax. He can feel your moan in his stomach, your pussy clenching and fluttering around your fingers as you cum hard.

" Are you kidding me?"

You laugh, pat his cheek, peck his lips and move away when he tries to kiss you deeply.

"Thank you, that was so good Sy"

He watches as you stand and stretch languidly. He licks his lips, practically drooling at the delicious image you make.

"Oh, so we're playing now, are we kitten?" He chuckles, he grips his thick shaft and pumps it slowly, teasingly. "You wanna watch me touch myself?

He spreads his legs wider, giving you an unobstructed view of his muscled body and the way his hand works over his huge, throbbing erection. "I could watch you watch me all day, sweetie."

Sylus's tongue darts out to lick his lips, his gaze never leaving yours as he pleasures himself. "You want to help, don't you kitten? Wanna wrap your lips around the head and suck me deep?"

He climbs off the bed and tosses a pillow at your feet as he stalks towards you. "For your knees, it's a hard floor"

The musky scent of his arousal fills your nostrils as you kneel before him on the pillow, your eyes level with his throbbing erection. He positions his painfully engorged cock in front of your face, the swollen head glistening with a bead of precum.

Fisting his cock he aims it at your lips and asks "May I?"

You hear him groan deeply when you nod and open your mouth, your pink tongue out and ready.

He pushes forward, the swollen head of his dick slipping past your lips and settling on your outstretched tongue. "Ungh, yes..." He throws his head back with a guttural moan as he hilts inside you, your nose pressing against his pelvis. 

"I could live inside your mouth, buried deep in your throat. Be a good girl and make me cum"

He hisses in pleasure as you gurgle and moan around him. Tears stream down your face as he fucks your throat raw, his thick cock pounding in and out, stretching your lips around his girth. You taste the salty tang of his skin, feel the hot, hard flesh throbbing against your tongue.

"I'm cumming!" Sylus grunts, his voice tight with strain as his hips stutter and still. He tries to pull back, but your hands grasp his ass, holding him deep inside as you feel his cock pulse and jerk.

The sensation of your teeth accidentally scraping his sensitive flesh sends Sylus over the edge. His hot, thick cum shooting down your throat in spurts. You swallow, gulping down every drop of his release, feeling it coat your throat and slide into your belly.

As the last weak spurts of cum dribble from his spent cock, you pull back, gasping for air. Sylus's thumb traces up the column of your throat, feeling the way it works as you swallow the remnants of his load.

"Greedy, feisty kitten," he praises with smirk, his chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath.

His strong arms scoop under your elbows, easily lifting you up from your kneeling position. He holds you close, your naked body pressing against his. "Now, how about you let me cum inside you this time, kitten?"

"I think that one is the best tonight" a deep, smooth voice startled you from behind. 

You were admiring Rafayel's breathtaking artwork adorning the gallery walls, you've seen them, but somehow they looked different here.

Slightly caught off guard, you turned to face the man, taking in his handsome features and the way his eyes, as blue as the ocean on a clear day, seemed to sparkle with enthusiasm as he spoke about Rafayel's paintings.

The man introduced himself as Liam, an art critic with an impressive resume and an even more impressive knowledge of the art world.

As the conversation flowed, you couldn't help but feel a sense of pride and admiration for Rafayel. His gift was truly remarkable, and it was clear that others recognized and appreciated his talent as much as you did. Liam talked to you about Rafayel's rise to fame, his groundbreaking exhibitions, and his ability to command astronomical prices for his one of a kind pieces.

As you spoke, you couldn't help but notice the way his eyes lingered on you.

" I see you've met my wife"

You see Liam's eyes go wide as he flashes a smile "Oh wow, I... I didn't know you two were married"

You look over your shoulder to Rafayel with a scowl before returning to Liam "We are not, he is kidding, we are just friends"

"Like hell we are, that's not what you were saying last night when my tongue was in your..."

Rafayel's smirk only grew wider as your hand clamped over his mouth, muffling his words. He let you drag him away, stumbling slightly as you pulled him down a long, dimly lit hallway of the art gallery.

"You're such a tease, you know that?" he mutters against your hand, his hot breath tickling your skin.

His hand finds yours, fingers interlocking as he allows you to lead him deeper into the gallery, away from prying eyes and ears.

As you walk, his gaze rakes over you, hungry and intense. You can feel the heat of his stare, the way it lingers on the curve of your hip, the sway of your ass. It's a tangible thing, a physical caress that makes your skin prickle with goosebumps.

You walk into a small office and close the door behind you, the air is thick with the scent of oil paints, turpentine, and something else, something musky and masculine. Rafayel's scent, you realize, your heart pounding in your chest as he backs you up against a wall, his hands coming to rest on either side of your head.

"Friends, huh?" he murmurs "Is that really what you want people to think?"

"Thomas is gonna be looking for you"

"Fuck Thomas. Fuck the gallery. Fuck everything else."

His hands slide down the wall to your hips, gripping them possessively as he pulls your body flush against his.

One hand moves from your hip to your thigh, his fingers dance along the sensitive skin. He teases, he taunts, drawing out the anticipation until you're squirming against him, desperate for more.

Then, without warning, his hand is under your dress, his fingers seeking out your most intimate place. They find your core, slick, swollen and aching for his touch.

"Do you drip down your thighs for all your friends?" He pinches your clit, rolling the sensitive nub between his fingers. Pleasure explodes through you, making your back arch and your toes curl in your shoes. Your eyes flutter shut, your head falling back against the wall as a broken moan escapes your lips.

"I don't think you do," Rafayel murmurs, his breath hot against your neck. "Because this mess, it's all for me cutie.

He pushes two fingers deep inside you, pumping them in and out, fucking you with his hand. "Does it feel like I'm your friend," he rasps, "when I bury my face between these thighs and eat this sweet pussy like it's my fucking job?" His fingers pump faster, harder, the sound of your arousal filling the small office.

"Or maybe," he continues, his other hand sliding up your body to roughly palm your breast, tweaking your nipple through the thin fabric of your dress, "when you're bouncing on my cock, taking every thick inch like you were made for it, screaming my name as you cum harder than you ever have in your life..."

He leans in close, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his hot breath making you shiver. "Is that friendship bonding?"

"Fuck" he growls, his hips rocking forward to grind the rigid length of his cock against your thigh. "You squeeze my fingers just like you squeeze my cock when I'm buried deep inside you"

He moves his fingers faster, harder, his thumb presses down hard on your clit, rubbing merciless circles on the sensitive bundle of nerves.

"You're so fucking wet, cutie," Rafayel pants "I can feel it coating my hand, dripping down my wrist. Is that for me, y/n?

He leans down, lips latching onto the side of your neck, sucking and biting at the tender flesh.

He wastes no time, his desperation palpable as he yanks you towards the desk. The room spins briefly as he spins you around and bends you over the edge, your stomach pressing against the cool, smooth surface. Your skirt is flipped up and over in one swift motion.

He yanks down his zipper, freeing his fat cock. It springs out, slapping against your inner thigh, leaving a smear of precum on your skin.

His hands grip your hips as he positions himself. His chest presses against your back, his breath hot and ragged against your neck as he leans down to murmur in your ear.

"Can I fuck you?" he asks "Can I fuck you properly, cutie?

Your hands reach for the edge of the desk, gripping it tightly as you nod. Your body trembling with need, your core clenching and fluttering around nothing, aching to be filled by him.

"Please," you breathe out, arching your back to push your ass firmly against his hips.

Rafayel pulls your panties to the side and hilts himself inside you with one thrust, burying his thick cock to the base of your needy cunt. He stands still for a moment, his hips flush against your ass, allowing you to feel every throbbing inch of him pulsing deep within your core.

As he remains motionless, your hips start to move on their own accord, rocking back against him, desperate for friction, for stimulation, for more. The desk creaks beneath you with the force of your movements, the sound mingling with the ragged pants and moans spilling from your lips.

"Please Raf..." you whimper. Your walls clench around his shaft, trying to keep him deep inside you.

Rafayel chuckles "Please what, cutie?" he teases, his hips still unmoving, his cock throbbing but unmoving inside you. "What are you begging for? You're the one fucking me."

His hips start to move, pulling out until just the tip remains inside you, before slamming back in, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust.

"When I'm pounding this tight cunt, claiming this pussy as mine, it's not friendly fucking," he growls, punctuating his words with sharp snaps of his hips. "This is me showing you who you belong to. This is me reminding you that..."

He reaches around, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing the sensitive nub. "It's all fucking mine. You're mine Y/N. This is me taking what's already mine."

The office door handle jiggles and Rafayel's eyes flash with a thrill of danger. He grins at the interruption, not slowing his relentless pace for a second.

"Maybe it's that hot shot critic, maybe he heard you. That would make things clear for him"

Your body jerks forward from the force of his thrusts, a desperate moan tearing from your throat. "So let them hear, let the whole fucking world know"

Rafayel feels your body tense and then shudder violently as his words and the relentless pounding of his cock finally push you over the edge. Your walls clamp down on him, rippling and fluttering as you come undone.

Rafayel looks down, his eyes dark and wild with lust as he watches your clench around his cock.

Then, he sees it. The creamy ring forming at the base of his shaft where your tight cunt is stretched around his thick girth. It's too much, too fucking perfect. With that Rafayel loses control, slamming into you one last time as his cock jerks and pulses inside you.

He grinds his pelvis against your ass, making sure to push every last drop deep inside you.

He slowly pulls out of you, a low groan rumbling in his chest at the sensation of your walls clinging to his softening cock. As he takes a step back, he looks down at your trembling body bent over the desk, your thighs glistening with the combined essence of your mutual pleasure.

A smirk tugs at his lips as he leans down, trailing a finger through the creamy trails dripping down your skin.

"Such a perfect piece of art," he murmurs, his voice low and awed. "Look at you, cutie. Look at the fucking masterpiece we've created."

He brings his finger to his lips, sampling the tangy flavor of your joining, his eyes never leaving your body. "Maybe I should put you out there, just like this, as my magnum opus, a live exhibit," he continues, his thumb brushing over your lower lip, smearing a dollop of his release there.

His hand cups your chin and tilts your face up to meet his eyes. "Wouldn't that be a sight, cutie?

Your heart clenches as you stare at the paused video on your phone screen, the beautiful woman's smiling face frozen beside Caleb's. An unfamiliar, bitter taste coats your tongue, jealousy, you realize with a start. You swallow hard, trying to dislodge the uncomfortable feeling lodged in your throat.

Caleb's laughter echoes in your mind. That laughter, that beautiful, rare sound, belonged to you. Only you. And seeing it, hearing it, directed at someone else... it feels like a betrayal.

You know you shouldn't feel this way. Caleb is your partner in every sense but one. You've shared everything together since childhood ,laughter, tears, secrets, dreams. But this... this hollow ache in your chest, this burning in your throat... it's new. Terrifying.

Still, as you sit there, gripping your phone like a lifeline, you can't help but wonder... what if Caleb sees her as more than just a friend? What if she sees him the same way you... the way you... can't stop yourself from seeing him?

Your heart sinks as you refresh the page again and again, desperation clawing at your throat. Gone. Vanished like a ghost. The video, your proof, your reason to feel this way... erased without a trace.

A hollow emptiness settles in the pit of your stomach as you toss your phone aside, no longer caring when it clatters onto the cold hardwood floor. It's fitting, really. Just like everything else that matters to you, it's slipping away.

Your mind replays the fleeting images from the video on an endless loop. Caleb's smile, her smile, their laughter. The way she leaned in close to whisper in his ear. The way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed. The way your heart shattered into a million jagged pieces.

A single tear slips down your cheek, followed by another. And another. Until they're falling in earnest, silent cries of a soul in agony. A soul that yearns for a love it can never have. A love that's slipping away, like grains of sand through an hourglass.

🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎

You wake to the familiar buzz of your phone on the nightstand, your heart leaping with a foolish hope before you remember. Last night, Gideon's video, the hollow ache in your chest... it all comes rushing back like a bitter tide. He didn't text you last night. Not a single word, not even the usual goodnight message that you've come to expect and secretly crave.

You roll over and grab your phone, staring at the screen as it blinks with an incoming message.

A new message from Caleb. Just like every other morning. Just like clockwork.

Good morning, pipsqueak. Did you eat breakfast already?

You stare at the message and you answer, you always do.

Just waking up now. You know I'm not a morning person.

You hit send before you can overthink it, before the bitter taste of jealousy can creep back into your mouth.

You busy yourself with the mundane tasks of getting ready, trying to push away the lingering ache in your chest. You choose an outfit on autopilot, not really caring what you wear. A simple t-shirt and jeans will have to do.

You get another message and you glance at your phone, expecting to see Caleb's name flashing on the screen. But instead, you find a message from Tara. You hesitate, your thumb hovering over the notification. Going out isn't really your thing, not with everything that's been weighing on your mind lately.

Hey girl! Wanna hit up that new club downtown tonight? I heard it's lit af. ;) What do you say, bestie?

You stare at the message, reading it over and over again. Normally, you'd decline. Make up some excuse about being tired or having too much work to do. But tonight... tonight you need a distraction. Anything to get your mind off things.

Before you can overthink it, you type out a reply, your fingers moving on their own accord.

Sure, why not. Count me in. ;) Pick me up at 7?

🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎

You step back from the full length mirror, your eyes traveling the length of the dress Tara lent you. It's a shimmering midnight blue number, the fabric clinging to your curves in all the right places. But it's the length, or lack of that has you second guessing this entire idea.

The hemline sits dangerously high on your thighs, barely grazing the tops of your legs. It's a far cry from your usual casual attire of jeans and t-shirts. You're not used to showing so much skin, to feeling so exposed.

As if sensing your hesitation, Tara appears behind you in the reflection, a mischievous grin playing on her lips. She places her hands on your shoulders, squeezing gently.

"You look smoking hot! Why the long face?" she asks, her brow furrowing in concern.

You bite your lower lip, worrying it between your teeth. "I don't know, Tara. I just...I'm not used to wearing something so...revealing.

Just tonight y/n," Tara reassures you "You deserve to let loose a little after all the hard work you've been putting in. A night out with the girls will do you good."

You know she's right. It has been a while since you last went out and had some real fun. Work has consumed most of your waking hours, and the rest has been spent...thinking about him. Him and her. Him and his laugh that wasn't meant for you.

Lost in thought, you hardly register the short walk to Tara's car. Before you know it, you're sliding into the passenger seat, the leather cool against your bare thighs.

As Tara pulls out onto the main road, you suddenly remember something. Or rather, forget something. You reach for your phone instinctively before remembering that you left it on Tara's dresser.

"Crap, I forgot my phone," you groan.

Tara glances at you, one eyebrow arched. "Do you want to go back and get it?" she asks, already slowing down to pull over to the side of the road.

You hesitate for a moment, weighing the pros and cons. In the end, you shake your head. "No, it's okay. I think I'm good without it for one night"

You settle back into the leather seat, watching the city lights blur past the window as Tara speeds towards the new club downtown.

As the night goes on, you find yourself getting lost in the music, the pulsing beats vibrating through your body as you dance with your friends. The alcohol buzzes warmly in your veins and for a few hours, you allow yourself to forget. To forget the jealousy and heartache that's been consuming you.

You're sandwiched between Tara and another friend, the three of you bouncing and swaying in sync to the pounding beat. Suddenly, a cute guy with a charming smile appears in front of you.

"Hey there," he shouts over the music, leaning in close so you can hear him. "I'm Jason. Wanna dance?"

He extends a hand, his smile widening. Normally, you might have been hesitant, or even said no. But tonight, with the alcohol coursing through your veins and the music pumping you up, you find yourself nodding.

"Sure," you reply, taking his hand and letting him pull you closer.

As the two of you begin to dance, you feel a flicker of excitement. It's nice, being desired. Being wanted. Even if it's not by...him. You push the thought away, refusing to let it ruin this moment.

Jason is a good dancer, his movements confident. He spins you around, pulling you back in close, his hands resting on your hips. You find yourself laughing, the music and the moment overwhelming you in the best way possible.

For a brief instant, you allow yourself to imagine that this could be more than just a dance. That this cute guy could be someone you could see yourself with. But then reality sets in, and you remember the truth:

Your heart belongs to someone else. Someone you can never have. No matter how hard you try to forget, how much you drink, or how many cute guys you dance with.

The room spins as you feel Jason kiss you, his lips foreign and unfamiliar against your own. Your eyes flutter closed, trying to lose yourself in the sensation, desperate to forget the man who truly owns your heart. But as you press your mouth harder against his, you realize that this kiss...it's all wrong.

His lips are too thin, not soft and plush like...like Caleb's. The shape is different, the feel of them unfamiliar. And his breath...it doesn't smell like sweet apples.

A pang of disappointment shoots through you as the realization hits this isn't the kiss you've been dreaming of. This isn't the man you've been longing for. This is just a cruel imitation, a poor substitute for the real thing.

You pull back, breaking the kiss abruptly. Jason looks startled for a moment before a confused frown crosses his face. You open your mouth to say something, to apologize or explain, but no words come out.

Instead, you feel a wave of nausea roll over you, the alcohol you've consumed churning uncomfortably in your stomach. You stumble back from Jason, pressing a hand to your mouth as you try to hold back the urge to vomit.

"Excuse me," you mutter, not meeting his eyes as you turn and push your way through the crowd on the dance floor.

You make it to the bathroom just in time, collapsing in front of the toilet and retching violently. Tears stream down your face as you empty the contents of your stomach, the bitter taste of regret and self loathing coating your tongue.

You splash some cold water on your face, staring at your reflection in the mirror, eyes red and puffy, your makeup smeared from crying and the heat of the club. But looking back at you is the face of a girl who's in love with someone she can never have. A girl who's trying desperately to forget, but failing miserably.

You stumble out of the bathroom, still feeling shaky and off balance.The last person you expect to see tonight is standing right there in front of you, his tall frame unmistakable even in the low light.

Caleb.

He's dressed in button down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and dark jeans that hug his muscular thighs. His hair is slightly tousled, like he's been running his fingers through it in agitation. And his eyes...his eyes are fixed on you, a stormy violet that betrays his emotions.

Your eyes widen in shock as Caleb strides towards you, his long legs eating up the distance between you in just a few quick steps. Before you can react, he's upon you, his large hands gripping your waist. In one almost effortless motion, he hoists you up and over his shoulder, leaving your head dangling down his back.

"Caleb!" you yelp, instinctively grabbing onto his shirt to steady yourself. "What are you doing? Put me down!"

But he ignores your protests, his grip on your thighs tightening as he turns to stalk out of the club. Tara watches in stunned silence, her mouth hanging open.

"Oh, hey Caleb," she starts to say, but he cuts her off before she can finish.

"Do you have a way to get home safely?" he asks, his voice low and gruff.

"Yes," Tara replies, her eyes flicking to you in confusion and a hint of concern.

Without waiting for her to finish, Caleb starts walking, carrying you through the crowded club. You bounce and jostle with each step, your dress riding up dangerously high on your thighs. You can feel the cool air on your exposed skin, the fabric of his shirt rough against your cheek.

"Caleb, stop!" you cry, pounding your fist against his back. "You can't just take me like this! I can walk on my own."

But he remains silent, his jaw clenched tight as he pushes through the crowd. You catch glimpses of the curious stares and whispers as he passes.

Soon, the loud music fades behind you as Caleb bursts out of the club and into the cool night air. The sudden change in temperature makes you shiver, and you instinctively press closer to the warmth of his body.

He doesn't stop until he reaches a sleek, black car parked at the curb. With a grunt, he yanks open the passenger door and unceremoniously dumps you onto the leather seat. You land with a thud, the breath knocked out of your lungs temporarily.

Before you can scramble away, he's sliding into the driver's seat beside you, slamming the door shut. The sound of it clicking closed makes you jump, and you shrink back against the far window, eyeing him warily.

"What the hell, Caleb?" you demand, your voice shaking slightly from the cold and the shock of being so abruptly kidnapped. "Why did you just do that? I can't believe you!"

He doesn't respond right away, his grip tightening on the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. The engine hums loudly in the tense silence between you as he starts driving.

Finally, he slams on the brakes, the car jerking to a halt. He turns to face you, his eyes blazing with an emotion you can't quite place anger, jealousy, pain?

"Did you enjoy it?" he asks, his voice low and rough. "Did you enjoy what you were doing back there with him?"

You glare back at Caleb, your eyes flashing with anger and defiance. "I was enjoying every second of it," you retort, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "In fact, I'm thinking of going back again. Maybe I'll let him kiss me again, maybe I'll let him do even more than that"

You feel a surge of anger rising up inside you, your cheeks flushing hot with both fury and humiliation. How dare he accuse you like this, demand answers to questions he has no right to ask? He had no right to drag you out of there like some kind of caveman!

"Did you enjoy his attention?"

"Did you enjoy hers?" 

"So this is what all of this is about?"

"Did you?"

"I hated every second of it"

You grip the edge of your seat as he speeds off, the car lurching forward and the rest of the way home is silent.

Once you get home you step out of the car, not waiting for him to open your door. You walk ahead of him, your heels clicking loudly against the pavement as you cross the parking lot to your apartment building. The cool night air nips at your bare legs, but you barely feel it. You're too focused on the man following close behind you

You can feel his gaze burning into your back, hot and intense. It makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

As you approach your front door, you hesitate, your hand hovering over the handle. You know you should say something, should try to diffuse the tension that's building between you. But what can you say?

You turn to face him, your heart pounding in your chest. He's standing close, too close, his broad shoulders taking up almost the entire doorway. He's looking down at you, his eyes dark and stormy, his jaw clenched so tightly you think he might break his teeth.

"Caleb..." you start, but the words die in your throat. 

His hand comes up, his fingers brushing against your cheek. You lean into the touch instinctively, your eyes fluttering closed for a moment. When you open them again, he's looking at you with a mix of anger, jealousy, and something else... something softer.

"Just... go inside," he says quietly. "Before I do something we'll both regret."

You barely make it inside before the nausea hits you again and you run to the bathroom. Once again falling to your knees in front of the toilet, you retch, your stomach churning as you empty its contents. Tears stream down your face, mingling with the drool and sweat as sobs wrack your body.

Behind you, you hear the click of the bathroom door closing, and then the sound of Caleb's footsteps on the tile floor. He doesn't say a word, but you feel his presence looming over you, as solid and comforting as it always was when you were a kid.

His hands gather your hair, pulling it back from your face and holding it out of the way as you continue to heave and retch. Just like he used to do when you were little and got sick after eating too much ice cream.

The memory makes you cry even harder, great gulping sobs that hurt your chest and burn your throat. You're suddenly transported back to those simpler times, when all you needed was Caleb to make everything better. When he was your rock, your protector, your best friend in the whole wide world.

Why did things have to get so complicated? Why did falling in love with him have to ruin everything? You were happier before, when you could just be with him without all this fear and longing and heartache.

You're dimly aware of Caleb shifting behind you, his arm wrapping around your waist to hold you up as the last of the sickness leaves your body. He rubs your back in soothing circles, just like he used to, crooning soft words of comfort into your ear.

"Shh, I've got you," he murmurs, his voice low and deep and so achingly familiar. "I'm here, pipsqueak. I'm not going anywhere."

You let Caleb help you brush your teeth, rinsing the bitter taste of sickness from your mouth. He hands you a glass of water and a couple of pills, no doubt for the headache that's starting to throb behind your eyes.

Without a word, you take them, swallowing them down with a few gulps of the cool water. Caleb watches you silently, his expression unreadable.

When you're finished, he takes your hand and leads you back out to the bedroom. The room spins slightly as you walk, and you have to lean against him for support. He steadies you easily, his arm wrapping around your waist.

At the bed, he pauses, letting you sit down on the edge of the mattress. You watch as he pulls back the covers, the sheets smooth and cool and inviting. He helps you lie down, tucking the blanket around your shoulders like you're a child.

You settle back against the pillows, suddenly exhausted by the events of the night. Caleb stands over you, looking down at your face. In the moonlight filtering through the window, his expression is soft, almost tender.

He reaches out, brushing a strand of hair off your forehead. His fingers linger, tracing the curve of your cheek, the line of your jaw. You lean into his touch, your eyes fluttering closed.

"Sleep now," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'll be here when you wake up."

You believe him, because you've always believed him. Because he's always kept his promises, no matter what. Even when the world felt like it was falling apart around you, Caleb was your constant, your safe haven, your home.

With a sigh, you let yourself sink into the mattress, the exhaustion pulling you down into a deep sleep. The last thing you hear before everything fades to black is the soft click of the bedroom door as Caleb steps out, giving you privacy and space, just like he always does. Just like he's always done. Even in sleep, you reach for him, your hand searching for the warmth and solidity of his body. But that side its empty, the sheets cool and smooth and untouched.

You wake with a start, your heart pounding in your chest. The sheets beneath you are damp with sweat, tangled around your legs. For a moment, you're disoriented, unsure of where you are or how you got here.

Memories of the night before come rushing back, the club, Caleb's fury, the sickening nausea that left you weak and shaking. You shiver as a chill runs through you, the cold sweat on your skin making you feel clammy and unclean.

Slowly, you sit up, pushing the damp hair out of your face. Your mouth feels dry, your tongue thick and furry. 

You swing your legs over the side of the bed, standing up gingerly as a wave of dizziness washes over you. You grab onto the edge of the bed, waiting for it to pass before taking a tentative step forward.

As you creep towards the door, you suddenly remember Caleb's parting words. He said he'd be here when you woke up. You hadn't been sure what to make of that at the time, too tired and miserable to think it through. But now, a flicker of worry ignites in your chest.

You slip out the bedroom door and into the darkened living room. At first, you don't see him. The room is small and cramped, filled with the detritus of your life. Clothes are strewn over the back of the couch, empty cups and plates litter the coffee table. It's a mess, a reflection of the chaos inside your head.

But then you see him. He's stretched out on the tiny sofa, his long legs dangling off the edge, his broad shoulders hunched to fit the too small space.

You step closer, your heart starting to pound for a different reason now. Caleb looks so peaceful when he's asleep, his face relaxed, his dark lashes fanning out against his cheeks. He's even more beautiful like this, without the anger and pain that usually clouds his eyes.

As you tiptoe back towards the bathroom, you pause for a moment, glancing back at Caleb's sleeping form. He's shifted slightly, one arm falling off the couch to hang down to the floor.

A pang of guilt spears through you as you remember the anger in his eyes last night. The jealousy. The pain. All because of you and your stupid, impulsive actions.

Shaking your head, you quickly look away, hurrying into the bathroom. You turn on the shower, waiting for the water to heat up. As steam starts to fill the small room, you strip off your clothes, letting them drop to the floor. You step into the shower, sighing as the hot water hits your cool skin.

You scrub yourself thoroughly, washing away the grime and sweat of the night before. But no matter how hard you scrub, you can't seem to wash away the shame and guilt that clings to you like a second skin.

With a heavy sigh, you turn off the water, stepping out of the shower. You wrap a towel around your body, tucking it in at the top.

You walk out of the bathroom, still wrapped in your towel, steam curling around your legs.

As you step into the bedroom, you freeze, your heart leaping into your throat.

There, sitting on the edge of your bed, is Caleb. He looks big and imposing in your small bedroom, taking up more space than he should.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The silence stretches between you, thick and heavy with unspoken words and lingering anger.

Then Caleb breaks the silence, his voice low and rough from sleep. "Hey," he says simply, his gaze never leaving yours.

You swallow hard, suddenly feeling very aware of your state of undress. You clutch the towel tighter around your body, as if it could somehow shield you from the intensity of his stare.

Hey," you reply softly, not trusting yourself to speak any louder.

He stands up then, moving towards you with slow, deliberate steps. He stops when he's standing right in front of you. You have to tilt your head back to look up at him, your heart pounding wildly in your chest.

"You really don't get it, do you?"

His thumb presses against your lower lip, tracing the soft curve. He leans in closer, his breath mingling with yours. You can smell the faint scent of apples, the lingering aroma of his cologne. It's the same scent that always lingers on your skin after he holds you close.

"I saw the way those men looked at you last night," he grits out, a flicker of anger sparking in his eyes. "I saw them staring at what's mine. And it made me want to... to..."

"Yours?"

"Yes, mine" he confirms "You've been mine for years. Long before you even realized it."

He takes a shuddering breath, his chest expanding and when he speaks again, his words are raw and unguarded, laid bare by the weight of his emotions.

"I can't hold back anymore. I can't pretend that I don't want you, that I don't need you like air in my lungs. I've wanted you for so long, and seeing you with him last night... it made me realize that I can't keep pretending anymore."

"I would never touch another woman, not when you're all I can think about. Not when you've consumed my every thought, my every dream, for as long as I can remember. You're the one constant in my life. My everything."

Caleb's eyes widen for a split second in surprise before they flutter shut as your lips meet his in a clash of long denied passion. He makes an approving sound in the back of his throat, his arms wrapping around you to crush you against his muscular body.

It's like a dam bursting open, a flood of pent up emotion and desire pouring out of him as he kisses you with a hunger that steals your breath away. His lips move demandingly over yours, his tongue delving into your mouth to claim and possess.

You feel the same desperate hunger rising up inside you, a starving ache that can only be sated by him. Your fingers clutch at his shirt, fisting the fabric as you press yourself even closer, needing to feel every inch of him against every inch of you.

His hands roam your body with a sense of urgency, mapping out the curves he's always craved to touch. He tugs impatiently at the towel, and it falls away, baring your naked flesh to his eyes. He breaks the kiss just long enough to drink in the sight of you.

He leans down to capture one of your nipples in his mouth, his tongue swirling around the hardened peak before he suckles hard. Pleasure jolts through you, and you arch into him, your fingers tangling in his hair to hold him close.

His hand slides down your stomach, his fingers leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He parts your thighs, and you feel the cool air on your overheated skin before his fingers find your center.

He groans against your breast, his fingers sliding through your folds, teasing your clit with a skill that has you seeing stars. "So fucking wet," he murmurs, lifting his head to look at you with eyes that blaze with lust. "All for me, Pip? 

He walks you backwards until your legs hit the edge of the bed. His hands grip your thighs, squeezing the soft flesh as he lifts you up effortlessly. You wrap your legs around his waist instinctively.

He lays you down on the bed, his body covering yours, pinning you to the mattress. He kisses you again, his hips nestling between your spread thighs.

Pulling back, he looks down at you with eyes darkened by desire, his chest heaving. "Tell me where you want me, baby"

He strokes the soft skin of your inner thighs, his thumbs brushing maddeningly close to the apex of your legs.

"Here?" he murmurs, his fingers grazing your sex, "or maybe... here? Show me"

"Caleb..."

"Show me, Y/N"

Slowly you spread your legs apart, feet flat on the mattress and you point a finger in between your thighs "Here"

"Dip one finger in"

You obey his command. He inhales sharply when your finger parts your glistening folds. His eyes follow the path of your finger as it trails over your sensitive clit, and a low groan escapes his lips at the sight of your touch.

"Stop" his voice makes you pause, your finger hovering just above your needy sex as you blink up at him.

"Not there," he says, "Dip just the tip of your finger straight into your tight little cunt. Let me see you open yourself up for me."

The tip of your finger disappears inside of you. He licks his lips, his eyes fixated on the way your walls clench around it, as if begging for something more.

"That's enough, I want a taste. Feed it to me"

You withdraw your finger from your dripping pussy and bring your finger to Caleb's parted lips, watching as he takes it into his mouth without hesitation. His tongue swirls around the tip, lapping up your essence, his lips sealing around the digit as he suckles firmly. An approving moan vibrates around your finger, the sound sending shivers of pleasure racing through your body.

"Mmm, fuck," he murmurs, releasing your finger from his mouth. "You taste even better than I imagined. Believe me when I say that I'm going to lick this sweet little cunt until you're screaming my name and cumming on my tongue over and over again. But right now, I need to be inside you"

With that declaration, he sits back on his heels and reaches for the hem of his shirt, he pulls it over his head and tosses it aside. His muscles ripple and flex as he moves, a testament to the strength and power that lies beneath his skin.

Next, he unbuckles his belt. He stands briefly to shimmy out of his jeans, letting them drop to the floor and leaving him in nothing but a pair of tight, black boxer briefs that do little to hide the thick outline of his arousal.

He crawls back over you, settling between your spread thighs, his hips nestling against yours. He leans down to capture your lips in a kiss, his tongue delving deep to taste you again. You can feel the heat of his skin, the hard length of him pressing insistently against your core.

Breaking the kiss, he reaches down to push his boxers out of the way, freeing his cock. It springs up thick and hard, the swollen head already glistening with precum. He takes himself in hand, stroking himself slowly as he looks down at you.

Caleb groans and throws his head back as your small hand wraps around him. "Princess," he grunts, his hips bucking slightly into your touch. He can feel your hesitation, your innocence, and it makes him want to take his time with you.

When you push him back onto the bed and settle between his spread thighs, his chest heaves with anticipation. He can only watch as you lean down and extend your little pink tongue to lick a slow, teasing path along the underside of his cock.

"Oh, fuck," he gasps, his fingers tangling in your hair, gripping the soft strands tightly.

"Teach me how to do it, I want to make you feel good"

"Fuck, Pip," he rasps, his hips twitching with the effort of holding still and letting you take the lead. "You're killing me here. Your mouth feels so fucking good."

He guides your head with a gentle pressure, encouraging you to take more of him into your mouth. "Start by just licking along the shaft," he instructs, his voice strained. "Use the flat of your tongue, from the base up to the tip."

As you follow his directions, he shudders and lets out a low moan. "That's it, just like that. You're doing so good, princess. Your mouth is perfect."

"Now," he continues, his breathing growing heavier, "try wrapping your lips around the head. Just the tip, okay? And suck gently, like you would with a lollipop. Use your lips and your tongue toge...Ungh...Fuck, just like that," Caleb groans, his fingers tightening in your hair as he feels your soft lips wrap around the swollen head of his cock.

He guides your head down a little further, inch by inch, letting you take more of his thick length into your mouth. "Remember to breathe through your nose, and don't worry about taking it all at once. Just focus on the head for now."

As you suck gently, your tongue swirling around the tip, Caleb's thighs tremble beneath your hands. "Shit...fuck. Now, try bobbing your head a little. Just an inch at a time, letting your lips slide along my shaft. Find a rhythm that feels good for you."

He looks down at you, his eyes dark and intense, filled with a mix of lust and affection. "You're doing amazing. I've never felt anything like this before. Your mouth is pure magic."

He watches, enraptured, as your head rises and falls, your lips wrapped snugly around him. The sight of your pretty mouth stretched around him, the feeling of your warm, wet mouth enveloping him, its too much for Caleb to take.

Caleb's body tenses, his grip on your hair tightening as he feels his release fast approaching. With a low groan, he suddenly moves, sliding his throbbing shaft from the warm haven of your mouth.

Before you can miss the loss, he's moving, flipping your body over and settling between your thighs once more. His hands grip your hips, squeezing the soft flesh as he positions himself at your entrance.

"Not yet, baby," he rasps, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "I can't cum like that, not before I feel you wrapped around me. I want to be inside you when you let go."

The head of his cock nudges against your wet folds, parting them, teasing your entrance. His breath comes in short, sharp gasps as he fights the urge to surge forward, to bury himself to the hilt in one thrust.

"Can I?"

"Please Caleb"

"Biiiig stretch," Caleb grunts, his voice strained as he thrusts forward. He buries himself to the hilt slowly, his heavy balls coming to rest against your skin.

Your gasp of surprise and the way your back arches off the bed, pressing your breasts against his chest, spurs him on.

He pauses for a moment, letting you adjust to the size of him, the stretch of your untouched walls around his shaft. His heart pounds wildly in his chest, a mix of exertion and exhilaration. The heat of your core is incredible, the wetness coating his length allowing him to slide in and out of you.

He pulls back slowly, until just the tip of his cock remains inside you, before thrusting forward again, burying himself deep. He sets a steady rhythm, his hips rocking against yours as he fucks you with long, deep strokes.

He lifts your leg, hooking it over his shoulder as he angles his hips and thrusts deep, striking a spot inside you that makes your back arch off the bed.

"Do that again," you gasp, your nails digging into his back, urging him on. Your words inflame him, spurring him to do exactly as you asked. He pulls back and slams forward again, his thick cock pummeling that sensitive spot deep inside your core.

"That's it, it's there!" you cry out, your head thrown back, your throat bared to his hungry gaze.

He leans down, capturing your nipple his teeth grazing the sensitive peak. He suckles and nips at the hardened bud. His hand slides between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing the swollen nub in tight, quick circles.

Your screams of pleasure fill the room, a symphony of ecstasy that makes Caleb's heart soar. He can feel your body trembling beneath him, your walls fluttering and clenching around him. The pleasure is overwhelming, unlike anything you've ever experienced on your own. It leaves you dizzy and breathless, your mind hazing with the intensity of it all.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," Caleb grunts, his voice strained as he pounds into you with wild abandon. Sweat beads on his brow, his muscles flexing and rippling with each thrust. He's lost in the sensation of your tight cunt, in the way your body molds to his perfectly.

But then, he feels it. The way your hips start to rock up to meet his, your body instinctively seeking more pleasure. Your legs wrap around his waist, your heels digging into his backside as you urge him deeper, harder, faster.

"Don't fucking stop," you manage to gasp out between ragged breaths and wanton moans. "Don't ever stop, Caleb. Please."

He reaches down, gripping your thigh and hiking your leg even higher, until your knee is nearly pressed to your chest. The new angle allows him to drive even deeper into your core, his cock head kissing your cervix with each savage thrust. The bed creaks beneath you, the headboard slamming against the wall.

Your body tenses, back arching sharply as the coil of pleasure inside you snaps. A scream tears from your throat, raw and primal, as your climax crashes over you. Your walls clamp down around him like a vice, gripping his length with a force that steals his breath. The sensation is too much, too intense, too perfect.

His hips stutter, his rhythm faltering as your cunt milks his cock, demanding his own climax.

His cock pulses and throbs as he finds his own release, thick ropes of hot seed erupting from the swollen head to paint your insides white.

"I can't... I can't believe it," he gasps, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. "I thought I could last longer, but you just... god, Pip, you just felt too fucking good."

He's not sure if he was too rough, too demanding in his desire to claim you, to make you his. The thought that he might have hurt you leaves him feeling guilty and protective.

"Are you okay?" he asks softly. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing gently over your skin. "Did I hurt you, baby? I didn't mean to be so rough..."

He searches your face intently, looking for any sign of discomfort or pain. But all he sees is a reflection of his own satisfaction, his own lingering pleasure.

You shake your head, a small smile playing at the corners of your mouth. "No, I'm not hurt," you assure him

"Wanna go again?" he asks teasingly. He rocks his hips slightly, his softening cock still nestled deep inside your sensitive core.

"You're secretly a dirty dog, Caleb," you accuse playfully, a giggle escaping your lips. You nip at his jaw, your teeth grazing the stubble that's begun to grow there. "A big, bad, horny dog."

Caleb's only response is a low, rumbling "Woof," his lips curling into a wolfish grin.