ɪ ʟᴜᴠ ɪᴛ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴜ ᴇᴀᴛ ɪᴛ

he slaps a hand over his eyes, leans back in his work chair, and groans at the memory of you falling into his lap like a fruit from a tree. stumbled and landed your plump ass right into bakugou’s hands. you’d been so terrified he was gonna report you for workplace misconduct, you begged him for forgiveness the entire day afterwards. he had waved you off, of course, but when you’d gone and returned to your work, all katsuki could do was sit at his desk, eyebrow twitching, and wonder if you mess with his head like this on purpose.

he’s had you pressed to his chest tight in a packed elevator on the way to a business meeting with another hero agency. had to turn his head to keep from leering at how your tits were spilling all over his chest. you’ve even accidentally flashed him—when katsuki said those fuckin’ skirts are too small for you, he meant it—the way your face twisted when you realized you’d fallen out of your chair so hard, your cute dynamight panties were poking out to say hello to dynamight himself?

“you didn’t see, did you?” you had practically begged, terrified and eyes filling with tears.

after clearing his throat, bakugou lied to your face, “see what, dumbass? get off the floor.”

(and then katsuki went home and fisted his cock so hard at the picture of his face all dewy and soaked against your clit, it was sore the next day.)

anyways, back to the present—you’re ruining his life. any chance he has at free time, his brain falls back to you. you, and your round cheeks, and the way you look like a chipmunk when trying to scold him when he messes up, and the way it feels like you’re so close, but just always slipping through his fingers right when he thinks he has you.

you’re just so skittish with him, like you’re always walking on egg shells. always calling him sir and boss—say his name, wouldja? maybe he would be more incentivized to work if you’d call him by those stupid fucking nicknames you call deku. that’s what pisses him off the most. you can be all buddy-buddy with that jack off—deku isn’t funny enough to make you giggle the way you do, and katsuki knows that—but you can’t look bakugou in the eyes when he’s talking to you?

fucking ridiculous.

he’s not… dangerous. not to you, at least. he doesn’t talk to his employees like their dogs. he’s a little rough sometimes, sure—but he’s not the absolute worst boss on the planet, right?

bakugou grits his teeth. he’ll just show you, he decides. he’ll break you out of that habit. no problem. you can’t be shy when your legs are folded to your ears and your cunt’s dripping down his cock. can’t cry for izuku when it’s katsuki’s cock making you feel good. it’ll be a good staff relations building exercise. he’ll grab those round cheeks of yours and make you look him in the eye. how about that?

the heat of the mid-noon always makes the wrapper stick to the cheap ice candy you’ve both bought from the corner store since you were kids. it’s a stupidly precise ritual—caleb rips the top off with his teeth, unfazed by the plastic cutting into his lip, and hands the half-melted orange block over to you before taking his own.

the walk back from granny’s nursing home is long enough for the initial heaviness of seeing her frail state to wear off, and it left just the familiar hum of the pavement and caleb’s shoulder occasionally brushing against yours.

“you're still wearing my grey hoodie,” caleb says, dropping his head back to blink up at the sun through the trees. “i almost got late to my class just looking for it.”

“wachu mean? it's mine now,” you take a bite of the ice candy, ignoring the brain freeze. “you left it on my bed months ago. soooo statute of limitations has passed.”

he snorts, shoving his free hand into his pocket. his stride is longer now, with a frame broader than it used to be when you first moved into the house, but the irritating tilt of his head is exactly the same. “that's not how the law works, kiddo. and for the record, it fits you like a fucking tent. it looks ridiculous.”

“it's comfortable.”

“it smells like you now, anyway. probably covered in whatever vanilla lotion you're obsessed with.” caleb stops mid-stride, turning his head to look down at you as a teasing smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth. “actually, did you shrink it? or did you just borrow it because you ran out of laundry day options again? also, right, i swear to god, if you're wearing my boxers as shorts around the house again, i’m putting a padlock on my dresser.”

you roll your eyes, but your heart does a small trip behind your ribs. “...it was one time. and they were clean! besides, they have a better drawstring than mine.”

“they're men's underwear, you absolute menace,” he laughs, an easy sound that vibrates in the space between you. “what is your future husband even going to say when he finds out you steal your brother's underwear?”

“you aren't my brother.” you make a popping sound on your ice candy.

“hmm, alright, baby sis.”

“and i'll tell my future hubby he has to share his clothes too, if he's half as dramatic as you, i'll just divorce him.”

“nah.” caleb leans in while still walking, his eyes gleaming with that familiar mischief. “whoever you marry is going to have to deal with me first. i’m going to be the worst brother-in-law in human history. i’ll show up at your house at two in the morning just to tell him all the embarrassing stories from when you were nine.”

“you wouldn't dare.”

“try me,” he suddenly reaches out and plants his thumb right against the corner of your lip, wiping away a stray drop of melting orange ice. his skin is warm, rougher than it used to be, and his thumb lingers for just a beat too long against your skin before he pulls it back. “you've got sticky stuff on your face, as usual.”

you blink, your throat suddenly feeling dry despite the ice candy. you look away first, focusing hard on the cracked pavement ahead. 

as you arrive back at home, the heavy front door clicks shut behind you, sealing out the heat and replacing it with the slightly hollow coolness of the house. without granny there, the air feels different—thicker, somehow, and much too big for just the two of you.

caleb dumps his keys on the entryway bowl with a loud clatter, already peeling off his sneakers with his feet without unlacing them. “god, i'm starving,” he walks straight toward the kitchen island, pulling a cutting board from the rack. “i'm making those wraps from the leftover chicken. you want one?”

”yeah,” you mutter, slumping against the kitchen counter, watching his broad back as he reaches into the fridge. he moves with the effortless familiarity of someone who owns every square inch of the space. he’s got his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the muscles in his forearms shifting as he grabs a knife and starts chopping lettuce like a husband material.

“hey, you watered the ferns by the window sill today, right? gran said they need a misting every morning or the leaves start turning yellow.” he says casually, not breaking his pace with the knife. 

silence...

your eyes darted toward the living room window where the row of clay pots sits under the harsh sunlight. the soil looks bone-dry. fuck, you completely forgot! again!

caleb pauses his chopping, “so you didn't.”

“i-i was going to!” you blurt out, immediately spinning on your heel to head toward the sink to grab the watering can. “i'm doing it right now, see? i just got distracted by the—”

“uh-uh. too late.” 

before your fingers can even touch the plastic handle of the watering can, a pair of heavy arms wraps around your waist from behind. caleb instantly lifts you clean off your feet! with a grunt of easy effort, he pivots, hoisting you over his shoulder like a literal sack of rice. the sudden rush of gravity sends your head rushing with your stomach pressing into his shoulder.

“you—?! caleb! put me down, you idiot!” 

“how many times do i have to tell you, pips? gran is literally going to haunt us from the nursing home if her pothos dies,” he grumbles, totally unfazed by your squirming as he marches into the living room. “this is the hundredth time this week. you have such a short-term memory.”

“i just forgot, okay?! let go!”

“nope. punishment.”

he dumps you unceremoniously onto the plush cushions of the couch. and before you can even scramble to sit up and escape, caleb instantly drops his weight over you, pinning your thighs down with his knees and digging his fingers straight into your ribs.

“caleb—no! stop! fuck, caleb, i'm sorry!” you shriek, throwing your head back into the pillows while your entire body convulses into a breathless laughter. you twist and writhe beneath him, but he’s too heavy, his hands finding every single ticklish spot along your waist.

“say you're sorry to the plants,” 

“i'm sorry! i'm sorry to them! i'll water them with my tears, just stop!” you gasp, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from laughing so hard. you try to push his chest, your hands sliding against the thin fabric of his t-shirt. but shit isn't he huge.

caleb just laughs, a breathlessly rough sound, and catches your wrists, pinning them over your head into the cushions. he traps you just to lean down so close you can smell the faint scent of the ice candy on his breath. it turns into a messy grunting wrestling match, your legs flailing against his hips as you try to dislodge him.

“aw, you're so weak,” he taunts, his chest rising and falling heavily against yours. “how are you gonna—”

but out of pure survival instinct, you wrench one leg free and drive your knee straight upward, landing a blunt kick into his stomach.

hiya!

“umf—!” a sharp intake of air cuts his laugh off, and his face contorts in genuine pain for a second, his grip tightening instinctively.

“oh my god, are you okay—?”

“you little brat,” out of sheer retaliation and to neutralize your defense, caleb reaches down and grabs your ankle in a vicelike grip. with a heavy shove of his forearm, he pushes your leg wide across the back cushion, effectively pinning your knees completely apart to lock you down.

what the fuck, wait.

the position is suddenly so intimate. 

you are open beneath him, legs spread wide and hips locked under his, and the sheer weight of his frame is utterly undeniable. it's annoying how your heart thumps violently against your ribs now—no, not from laughter, but it's from a dizzying wave of ...heat. 

but caleb is just blinking down at you, his chest still heaving from the exertion. his hand is still wrapped tightly around your ankle, fingers burning hot against your bare skin. he’s looking at your face with a slightly annoyed puff of air escaping his lips while he nurses his stomach with his other hand.

“you seriously fucking kick like a mule,” he mutters, ignoring—or totally oblivious to—the fact that he is holding you in a position that feels too inappropriate for two people who share a last name on an adoption certificate. but he doesn't let go. he just hovers there. “should i leave you like this till lunch is done?”

you force your voice not to tremble, swallowing down the dry lump of panic in your throat. “get the fuck off me, caleb. seriously. you’re being weird.”

caleb raises a brow, his head tilting to the side as he stares down at you. “weird? what's weird about this? the only thing weird here is that you just broke my ribs with your knee and you haven't even apologized.” he lets out a scolding click of his tongue, his hand tightening around your ankle just enough to remind you that you aren't going anywhere. “matter of fact, you need a punishment for that. you gotta learn your place, you little girl.”

“caleb, don't—”

before you can even finish the sentence, caleb leans down. without a hint of hesitation, he sinks his teeth straight into the soft flesh just below the hem of your shorts. 

your breath hitches sharply, the sudden sting of his teeth sending a jolt straight down your spine. and he bites down even harder! the pressure of his jaw leaving a deep, burning ache against your skin.

“okay! okay, fuck i'm sorry!” you whimper, hands clawing futilely at the couch cushions. “i'm sorry, caleb,”

he finally releases your skin, but the playful retort you're expecting doesn't come. 

he's strangely quiet. 

and for a second, it feels like there is something complicated inside his head. his eyes are unreadable as they track the red imprint of his teeth on your leg.

“caleb...?”

he leans in even closer, his shadow completely engulfing you. your eyes widen as he buries his face right into the crook of your neck while his nose brush against your collarbone.

what the hell is he doing? what is he pulling right now?

how can he be so comfortable doing this? how can he just occupy your space so ruthlessly while you're paralyzed like this beneath him?

you feel the warm puff of his breath against your bare skin as he takes an inhale. his nose slides lower, brushing past your jaw, trailing a path of goosebumps down to the heat of your chest before he takes another long sniff. you can feel the exact weight of his chest pressing into yours, the hard line of his thighs pinning you open.

but the sudden groan coming from him wakes you up. 

“knew it. you used my body wash again,” he finally pulls back, sitting up on his knees but still hovering over you. there's that familiar scowl returning to his face. “i knew i wasn't crazy. ugh you're really annoying, pipsss.”

ah. oh. alright.

that was it.

the suffocating knot in your chest uncoils, a wave of dizzying relief—and a bitter sting of disappointment—washing over you. it was just because of a body wash. not because he was looking at you differently. not because he felt the same pull that you did. it was just caleb being caleb.

“it smells better than mine,” you manage to choke out, forcing your voice back into its usual defensive cadence even as your heart refuses to slow down.

“buy your own.” he finally lets go of your ankle and pulls his weight off you. 

that was your life with caleb.

the house, once bursting at the seams with granny’s presence and the sweet smell of her liniment, suddenly feels too big for just the two of you. it's a stage built for a larger cast, yet only you and caleb remain to play house in the quiet.

every saturday morning is the same. you both pack her favorite soft biscuits into a tin container, ride the bumpy bus down to the bright walls of the nursing home, and sit by her bed. and then caleb would play the part of the dutiful grandson—smiling wide, kissing her paper-thin cheek, laughing at jokes she’s told a hundred times before. but then sunday night rolls around, and the silence settles back into the floorboards like dust.

then come the weekdays when college classes split your schedules into mismatched pieces. there are quiet mornings where you wake up to the smell of burnt toast and find a messy note scribbled on a napkin: leftover rice is mine, touch it and die. there are rainy afternoons where you sit alone in the living room, listening to the water hit the glass and wondering if his lecture ran late or if he’s simply loitering somewhere else.

then, your life with caleb became a collection of tiny petty wars fought in the shadows of granny’s absence. you steal his oversized socks because yours are all lost in the dryer. he retaliation-hides your favorite hair clips in the freezer. you scream at him for leaving his damp towel on the bathroom floor; he barks back at you for leaving the milk carton empty inside the fridge. it's the noisy camouflage you both wear so nobody looks too closely at the spaces where your skins accidentally linger, or the way his eyes track your movements when he thinks you aren't paying attention.

until the afternoon it breaks.

it happens on a tuesday, right in the crowded heat of the university's cafeteria hall. you're sitting across a guy from your major block, sharing a plate of fries and talking about a group project. it's entirely innocent, entirely mundane... but then a shadow falls over the plastic table, and you look up to find caleb standing there.

sliding into the seat right next to you, uninvited, he slung a heavy arm over the back of your chair and grinned a bright smile at your terrified classmate.

“so, who's the friend, (name)?” caleb had asked, and for the rest of the day, and all through the walk home, he had relentlessly poked at you. 

is he your boyfriend? 

does he know you still wet your bed? 

should i invite him over for tea so i can interrogate him?

he laughed and nudged your shoulder, eyes sparkling with mischief, but beneath the playful banter, there was... something else?

which brings you to friday night.

the old grandfather clock in the living room ticks with a rhythmic thud that echoes through the empty house. 

11:03 pm.

you're curled up on the edge of the sofa, the screen of your phone casting a blue glow across your face. you’ve already sent seven texts to him. you’ve called three times, each one going straight to voicemail, the robotic operator telling you what you already know: he isn't answering.

where the hell is he?

caleb never stays out this late without a word? he's the dependable one, the good boy who always sends a quick text to let you know if he's grabbing drinks with his friends or staying late at the library. but tonight, there is nothing. just the empty house and the sickeningly dark windows staring back at you. your chest feels tight, a heavy knot of anxiety twisting in your gut. is he with someone? did he finally decide to try his luck with one of the girls who always leave comments on his photos?

screech! 

you almost jumped out of your skin when the front gates sounded with a sudden noise, which means... caleb is finally home. 

seconds later, the main door unlocks with a clumsy, fumbling click. and when it swings open, caleb is standing in the threshold, the cool night air rolling in behind him. he looks like a complete mess with his varsity jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder, uniform shirt half-untucked, wrinkling out from beneath a dark hoodie.

you don’t even give him a chance to step fully inside before you cross the living room, your bare feet slapping angrily against the cold floorboards. “where the hell have you been? why didn't you text me back? i called you several times!”

caleb doesn't shoot back with his usual retort. instead, he just stands there, blinking down at you through slightly unfocused eyes. a slow, crooked smile creeps onto his face, looking incredibly stupid and entirely too relaxed. as he steps closer, the sweet-and-sour sting of alcohol hits your nose.

so he’s drunk.

“hey,” he mumbles, his voice thick and dropping an octave lower than usual. “you're still awake.”

“obviously i'm still awake! i was worried sick, you absolute—”

you couldn't even finish yourself before he suddenly tilts forward, his entire upper body collapsing right against your shoulder. your breath instantly gets knocked out of you as your arms instinctively fly up to catch him, fingers digging into the thick fabric of his hoodie. damn, he is heavy. the broad weight of his chest presses completely into yours, burying his face right into the crook of your neck as he lets out a long, hot sigh against your skin.

“did you drink? caleb, are you fucking serious?” you strain against his weight, your heart doing a panicked dance behind your ribs. “get off me! where did you even go?”

“just... a house party, some guys invited me. didn't check my phone.” he muttered into your shoulder. 

a sharp spike of jealousy and irritation then flares up in your gut. the thought of him surrounded by crowded rooms, flashing lights, and girls trying to get his attention makes you lose your temper. with a frustrated grunt, you plant both hands against his chest and shove him away with all the strength you have left, throwing him straight backward onto the couch cushions.

caleb hits the plush sofa with a heavy thud, his limbs sprawling out awkwardly. “fuck—!” he winces, a sharp groan slipping past his lips as he rubs his shoulder, glaring up at you through his messy hair. “what the hell? that actually hurt.”

“good! you deserve it!” you snap, crossing your arms tightly over your chest to stop your hands from shaking. “just because you’re in college and granny isn't here to monitor you doesn't mean you can just run around doing whatever you want! going to parties, drinking until you can barely walk... did you kiss someone? did you do something stupid? are you trying to get yourself kicked out?”

caleb just stares up at you from the cushions, his irritated expression suddenly melting away into an amused chortle. the sound rumbles deep in his throat, dark and dripping with that infuriatingly lazy charm.

“look at you,” he giggles, a breathlessly drunken sound as he throws his head back against the sofa. “you’re acting exactly like a mother. it’s hilarious.”

“i'm trying to look out for you, you idiot.”

“why do you even care so much?” caleb asks, his laughter suddenly cutting off. he rolls his head to the side, eyes locking onto yours. “it’s not like we're actually blood-related, pipsqueak. you don't have to keep tabs on me like i'm your real brother.”

the living room goes dead silent. 

the grandfather clock ticks loudly in the background, but the sound feels miles away. you freeze in place, your tongue suddenly turning to lead, your eyes wide as you blink down at him. not blood-related. well, it’s the absolute truth, the reality you both dance around every single day, yet hearing him say it out loud feels like a line has been... crossed. 

you swallow down the bitter taste of hurt and confusion, forcing your expression into a blank mask. “fine, do whatever you want. drink yourself to death for all i care.”

without waiting for a response, you spin on your heel and walk away. you march down the hallway, slip into your bedroom, and shut the door firmly behind you, clicking the lock into place before leaning your back against the wood. 

back in the living room, caleb stays exactly where you left him, staring up at the shadow-drenched ceiling.

the stupid smile completely vanishes from his face, replaced by a bitter twist of his lips. “ahah...” he runs a frustrated hand over his face, fingers dragging through his hair as he lets out a sharp exhale into the quiet house.

god, he hates it. he absolutely loathes the sibling label the two of you have used as a shield for the last ten years. he hates that the only way he can get you to look at him with that much intensity, the only way he can pull those reactions out of you, is by pretending to be the very thing he wishes he wasn't.

—

by the following week, the threads holding your carefully constructed reality together begin to fray and knot in ways you can't control. 

the afternoon sun is heavy and suffocating when you finally push the front gate of your house open after a brutal three-hour lecture block. your feet ache and your shoulders are stiff from carrying a backpack loaded with textbooks, and on top of that, your stomach is letting out an aggressive growl. the only thing keeping you moving up the driveway was the thought of caleb’s cooking. for all his agonizing flaws, the boy knew how to handle a kitchen and you were ready to swallow your pride if it meant getting a plate of his garlic rice.

you twist the doorknob, stepping into the familiar coolness of the entryway. “caleb, i'm starving, did you leave any—”

the words die in your throat.

the living room, usually your shared sanctuary of quiet television static and stolen snacks, is suddenly alive with noise. the tv screen flashes with the chaotic colors of a multiplayer racing game with the volume cranked up high. and there, sitting cross-legged right on the carpet across the floor, are two people.

caleb is leaning forward, jaw tight with mock seriousness as his thumbs fly across the controller, and right next to him... is hyeran.

you know exactly who she is. she’s in the same year and department as caleb’s, one of those effortlessly pretty girls who always seem to be at the center of caleb’s university friend group, laughing a little too loudly at his jokes by the campus benches. right now, she’s screaming in frustration, her shoulder bumping solidly into caleb’s as her car spins out on the screen. in response, caleb throws his head back, letting out a boisterous laugh that you rarely hear him share with anyone outside these walls.

the sudden clatter of your keys hitting the entryway bowl cuts through the noise like a knife.

caleb and hyeran pauses mid-game, turning their heads simultaneously to look at you standing there in your wrinkled uniform. 

shit. this is fucking awkward.

“oh! hey, pips!” caleb doesn't scramble up or look guilty; he just offers a lazy wave of his controller. “you're home early. lecture got cut short?”

“uh, yeah,” you force out, your throat feeling suddenly tight as you grip the straps of your backpack. you adjust your expression, plastering on a polite smile that feels completely hollow against your cheeks. “hi, hyeran.”

“hi, (name)! oh my gosh, sorry for the noise,” hyeran chimes in, offering a warm smile that makes your stomach do a bitter flip. she looks so perfectly at home sitting on your living room rug, her canvas bag spilled open near granny’s favorite armchair. “your big bro told me i could borrow his notes, and then trapped me into playing this stupid game.”

you blink.

he isn't my fucking big bro.

“don't lie, you wanted the rematch,” caleb jests, nudging her with his elbow. 

“i'm just going to... grab a snack.” you mutter, desperately needing a barrier between yourself and the display on the floor.

you walk past them, your eyes locked firmly ahead as you retreat behind the kitchen island counter. the kitchen layout is an open-concept, completely overseeing the living room, meaning there is nowhere to hide. you can see everything. to keep your hands busy and stop them from shaking, you pull a bowl of apples and a small paring knife toward you.

you begin peeling the fruit, the sharp blade slicing through the red skin in one continuous ribbon.

“caleb mentioned you're still a freshman, right?” hyeran asks, twisting her torso around to lean against the edge of the sofa, looking up at you over the counter with curiosity. “how is it? 'cause when i was in your shoes, i can baaaarely handle the workload.”

“it's fine. just a lot of memorization,” you cut a slice of the apple, popping it into your mouth and chewing. “you just have to manage your time. which some people in this house clearly don't know how to do.”

“hey, i heard that. (name) loves to pretend she's the responsible one, hyeran. don't let the uniform fool you. she literally forgot to water granny's plants thrice last week.” caleb interjects, not looking back as he unpauses the game.

“it was only once, you liar.” 

“whatever helps you sleep at night, sis.” 

hyeran giggles, turning back to the screen as the countdown for the next round starts. “you two really argue like real siblings, it's so cute. my brothers just ignore me.”

siblings. there it is again. that stupid, suffocating word.

you stand behind the counter, a half-peeled apple in one hand and the paring knife in the other, then you look at caleb. 

he’s doing this on purpose, is he? you know him too well not to see the edge beneath his playful demeanor. he’s showing you what life looks like when he plays by the rules you both set—the rules that say he is just a brother, and that he is perfectly free to bring other girls into the house you share.

caleb and hyeran continue to play the last few rounds of the game, their voices rising in cheerful bursts of laughter that fill the empty space where granny used to be. and you can only stand there, chewing on your tasteless fruit, staring at the back of caleb’s head with a sarcastic scowl.

this little bitch.

if this is the game, then you're going to be a better player.

if caleb wants to play a game of boundaries, you are going to show him exactly how it feels to have the board flipped. two can play the petty game of bringing people into a space where they don’t belong. if he can bring his shiny giggling friend into the living room, then you are going to give a certain someone else the time of day.

the very next morning, you seek out valko.

valko is the kind of blockmate who has spent the last semester treating your existence like a personal challenge. he’s loud, entirely too confident, and has spent months throwing flirty remarks your way—advances you’ve always shot down with a sharp roll of your eyes or a cold shoulder. so when you walk straight up to his desk before the morning lecture, leaning against the wood and offering a small smile, the confusion on his face was almost comical.

“you're... talking to me? no biting remarks? no telling me to get lost?” valko's eyebrows shot up as he stops shuffling through his tablet. 

“maybe i'm just tired of being mean,” you say smoothly, tilting your head in a way you know looks casual, though your pulse is racing for an entirely different reason. “can't a blockmate just be friendly?”

valko isn’t a fool, but he’s certainly not going to complain about a sudden miracle. by the time the final bell rings at four in the afternoon, he’s already dangling his car keys between his fingers, blocking your path out of the lecture hall with a triumphant grin. “hey, since we're being friendly now, (name), let me give you a ride home. the clouds look heavy anyway. don't want you catching a cold.”

you hesitate for a fraction of a second, thinking of the dusty pavement and the walk you usually take, but then you picture caleb’s stupidly smug face from yesterday. “sure!” you say clearly, loud enough for a few surrounding classmates to hear. “thanks, valko.”

the walk to the student parking lot earns you exactly what you wanted: stares. a lot of them. whispers ripple through the department cliques as you slide into the passenger seat of valko’s surprisingly clean sedan. word travels fast on campus, and you know for a fact that caleb’s friends hang around the same smoking area right outside the parking exit.

the drive to your house is filled with the low hum of the air conditioner and valko’s easy chatter. but as the car finally pulls up along the familiar front gates of your house, the atmosphere inside the vehicle turns... awkward. 

valko cuts the engine, his hands lingering on the steering wheel as he looks at the closed facade of the house. “so,” valko clears his throat, his eyes darting toward the front door. “your, uh... your big brother. caleb. is he home?”

you blink, “probably. why?”

valko lets out a short laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “nnnothing, it's just... that guy is terrifyingly annoying. i saw that hunk staring at me in the cafeteria last week like he wanted to fuckin' dissect me. i don’t really fancy getting my head bitten off just because i drove his little sister home.”

you let out a breathless chuckle, the word sister grating against your nerves like sandpaper. you reach for the door handle, turning back to look at valko. “you don't have to worry about him, valko. and for the record... caleb and i aren't real siblings. we're not blood-related at all. his granny just took me in.”

valko’s eyebrows twitch upward, a sudden glint of renewed interest lighting up his eyes. “oh. seriously? huh. i didn't know that.”

“yep! well. thanks for the ride,” you say, pushing the car door open and stepping out into the humid afternoon air.

but valko doesn't just let you leave. he rolls down the passenger side window immediately, leaning over the console to keep the thread of the conversation tightly pulled. “hey, (name), wait—so if he's not your actual brother, does that mean i don't need his permission to take you out for real next time?”

valko cheekily smiles.

you idle right outside his side of the window, your fingers gripping the strap of your bag, keeping your expression light and teasing even as your eyes instinctively drift toward the glass of the living room window. “maybe, haha, you'll just have to ask nicely...”

“pipsqueak!”

the familiar shout cuts through the air. you immediately turn your head toward the source, only to see caleb jogging down the sidewalk toward the driveway with a bright smile splitting his face. before you can even process what he's up to, he closes the distance, throws his heavy arms around your waist, and lifts you clean off the asphalt.

he spins you around in a breathlessly joyful circle, his laughter vibrating hard against your chest.

“caleb! what's up? put me down!” you frown in utter confusion, your hands gripping his shoulders for balance. inside the sedan, valko’s eyebrows knit together, his frown deepening by the second.

“you know what's up?” caleb sets you back down but doesn't let go. his large hands stay clamped firmly onto your upper arms, his eyes wide and gleaming with pure excitement. “we won, pips! our team won the interschool championship game!”

and because of that, the bitterness from the past week evaporates. your eyes light up, a wide smile breaking across your face. “oh my god, seriously? that’s amazing!”

“i know!” he laughs, pulling you back into an another tightly crushing hug. like he's using you as a lightning rod for all his manic energy, burying his face in your hair and all that. 

thwack!

the car door behind caleb suddenly flies open, the heavy edge of the metal panel smacking squarely into his lower back.

“ah—” caleb winces, a sharp groan escaping him as he stumbles forward, forced to break his hold on you. he wheels around, eyes instantly hardening into something cold when valko steps out of the sedan.

“oops, sorry about that, mate,” valko grins, pulling his lips into an awkward one. “i didn't see you standing right in the swing of the door. anyway-uh, i'm valko, (name)'s blockmate.”

caleb straightens up to his full height, his broad shoulders squaring as he looks at the guy. the warm, golden-boy smile he gives valko is entirely rigid. “right, valko. i've heard. what brings you to our driveway?”

“just driving (name) home from campus,” valko replies, matching caleb’s forced courtesy. “and making sure she got back safe. well... you must be the big brother she mentioned.”

“something like that,” 

“uhm, valko was just—” you stepped between them to clear up the mounting friction, but valko cuts you off completely.

he looks caleb straight in the eye, tilting his chin up. “actually, since you're here, i think it's only fair to tell you directly. i've decided i'm going to start courting (name).”

“cough, what?”

what?

both you and caleb widen your eyes, the world going dead silent.

“and honestly, man,” valko adds, crossing his arms and offering a smug tilt of his chin before either of you can even draw breath, “you probably shouldn't be hugging her too easily like that anymore. since, you know, i’m going to start dating her.”

you internally facepalm so hard your brain rattles. oh my god. what did you just get yourself into? valko had completely, catastrophically misread the entire situation. he thought he was playing the part of the chivalrous alpha suitor, oblivious to the fact that he was currently standing in a radioactive strike zone.

but then, a part of your brain clicks into gear. you wanted a reaction out of caleb, didn't you? you wanted to wipe that infuriatingly smug, "i-can-bring-girls-to-the-house" look off his face. maybe this trainwreck of a misunderstanding was exactly what you needed.

you let out a sigh, turning away from caleb to face valko with a perfectly practiced look. “it's fine, valko. caleb is just... a guy i grew up with. really. nothing else. just two kids who happened to live under the same roof.”

valko blinks, processing this, his chest puffing out a little more. “so... like childhood friends?”

“yeah!” you nod quickly, your tone a little too casual and a little too dismissive. “yeah, exactly. childhood friends. that's the perfect way to describe us.”

from the corner of your eye, you feel the exact moment caleb’s gaze burns into the side of your face. you glance up at him, and sure enough, he is staring down at you with a sarcastic scowl—the exact, burning, “this-little-bitch” look you had given him behind the kitchen counter yesterday. the silent, petty warfare is screaming between you two.

valko, blind to the silent daggers being thrown over his head, scoffs and shakes his head. “right. childhood friends. uh, honestly, i don't really buy that whole thing. there’s no way a guy and a girl can just be friends without something else going on. it’s usually just an excuse to keep someone within arm's reach.”

your heart does a nervous, jittery little skip. you quickly scramble to patch up the defense before valko digs too deep into the truth. “no, it's not like that at all! caleb is... he's like a brother to me. we're basically siblings.”

“but we... aren't siblings though.”

caleb’s voice cuts through your sentence like a blunt blade.

you freeze, your tongue going dry as you slowly pause and look up at him.

“i'm not your brother, (name).” 

what the actual hell is he talking about?

your hands go hot and sweaty against your side. this is the exact same guy who, just a few days ago while dead drunk, threw the “not blood-related” card in your face to push you away and tell you to mind your own business. he was the one reinforcing the stupid label, using it as a shield to bring other girls around—and now, right in front of the guy who just announced he wants to court you, he’s arguing the exact opposite?

you stand there completely wordless, the nervous jittery tension tight enough to snap. valko shifts his weight across caleb, looking suddenly confused by the sudden shift in the air, but caleb doesn't even glance back at him.

he keeps his eyes entirely on you.

valko clicks his tongue.

“right,” he blurted out, deliberately stepping sideways to cut off caleb’s line of sight and forcing his way back into your field of vision. “anyway! you look kind of... tight right now, (name), like your shoulders are up to your ears. there's that street-food stall down the block that sells those pork dumplings. why don't we go grab a plate? my treat. it'll help you unwind.”

your brain, currently fried from caleb, scrambles for a normal human response. “oh—uh, dumplings? i mean, i guess i could—i mean, sure, that sounds—”

“‘oh—uh, dumplings? i mean, i guess i could-’” caleb instantly parroted, his voice pitching into a ridiculous falsetto that sounded absolutely nothing like you. he slouched his shoulders, batting his eyelashes in a grotesque mimicry of modesty that made your fist twitch. “‘i guess i could eat a little dumpling, valko!’”

valko raised a brow.

“caleb, shut up!” 

“i'm just saying,” caleb hummed at you, casually sliding his hand into his pocket to pull out his phone. his thumb swiped across the screen with a smirk. “i should probably just dial up gran's unit real quick. let the nursing staff hold the receiver up to her ear so i can tell her that her precious adopted granddaughter is already out here in the driveway, ignoring her chores, just to eat cheap meat down the street with random guys from the university.”

he tilted his head, giving you a look of fabricated pity. 

“man, she’s going to get reeaaally upset, pips. you know how her blood pressure gets when she finds out you're being irresponsible.”

“you wouldn't dare!” you gasped, your lungs seizing up. granny loved you, but she was a traditional woman who would absolutely launch a long-distance lecture about decorum through the phone lines if caleb fed her some twisted version of reality. “give me that!”

you lunged forward, throwing your weight against his side as you reached wildly for the device. but caleb had been anticipating the movement since the moment you took a breath. with a delighted chuckle, he simply straightened his spine, extending his long arm straight up into the air. because he had grown nearly a foot taller than you over the last three years, the phone might as well have been on the roof of the house.

“come on, grab it, pipsqueak,” he was solid as a brick wall! his chest vibrating against your forehead as he laughed down at your frustration. “you’re too short it's embarrassing.”

“caleb, i swear to god, drop your arm right now or i will kick you again!”

“hey, (name).”

you paused, breathless and flushed, looking back over your shoulder. valko had stepped closer, his expression a mix of irritation at being ignored and a tryhard desire to look like the savior of the narrative. before you could scramble away from caleb's side, valko reached out and gently wrapped his fingers around your right wrist.

“don't worry about him,” valko said, giving your wrist a soft, encouraging tug toward the open street. “come on, let's just go get the food. ignore the noise.”

the physical touch sent a strange jolt of awkwardness through you, and you instinctively took a step forward, your shoes clicking against the pavement while valko started walking you down the street.

snap.

a second basket of heat clamped down around your left wrist.

you blinked in utter surprise, your head whipping back around so fast your neck cracked.

caleb had also... wrapped his fingers around your opposite wrist. your right arm was pulled toward valko; your left arm was locked tight by caleb. you were literally being pulled in two different directions like a wishbone.

you stared at caleb, your heart doing a series of unpredictable thuds against your ribs. “what is up with you today, caleb...?”

“what?” he murmured, giving your arm a tiny, playful yank back toward his chest. “i want to eat dumplings too.”

—

and then, there you were. 

the plastic stool beneath you wobbles every time someone passes the cramped table, but that's the least of your concerns. the air inside the tiny stall feels thick with the steam of boiling pork broth and the sting of chili oil. meanwhile, you're squeezed into the center of a very narrow wooden bench, a literal buffer zone between two opposite poles.

to your right is valko, leaning his elbow on the table and entirely absorbed in trying to keep your attention locked on him. then, to your left is caleb. he hasn't uttered a single syllable since you all sat down, choosing instead to stare ahead like a brooding gargoyle while a single plate of steaming dumplings sits between the three of you.

“no, seriously, (name),” valko shakes his head with a wide grin while he dips a dumpling into a small saucer of soy sauce. “professor actually looked me dead in the eye during the anatomy practical. i swear the man has a personal vendetta against me.”

you let out a breathless laugh. “maybe if you didn't sketch caricatures of him, he’d give you some grace.”

valko chuckles back, his shoulder nudging yours beneath the cramped table space. “hey, that was art. it showed appreciation for his eyebrows.”

slurrrrrp. smack. clack.

the sudden loud sound of chopsticks scraping against a plastic bowl cuts right through your shared laughter.

you blink, your head snapping toward the left side of the bench. caleb has his face nearly buried in his bowl as he takes a dripping piece of garlic-chili cabbage, shoves it into his mouth, and smacks his lips together with an obnoxious noise.

valko's grin falters slightly, his eyes darting over your head toward caleb. but caleb doesn't even look back. he just reaches across the small table, his long arm deliberately cutting off valko's view of you, and stabs another dumpling with such unnecessary force that the wrapper splits open with a wet pop.

“anyway,” you say quickly, your cheeks turning a frantic shade of pink as you try to steer the conversation back before caleb derails the establishment. “so... did you fail the practical or what?”

“uh, no, i managed a passing grade," valko says, clearing his throat and trying to ignore the absolute menace sitting next to you. “but after that, i had to spend two hours in the library just trying to—”

crunch. crunch. crunch.

caleb has now unearthed a bag of fried pork rinds from his pocket, snapping them between his teeth with a crunch. he leans back against the wooden bench, long legs splayed wide under the tiny table—his knee bumping solidly against yours with an insistence that makes you grind your teeth.

you glare at him, this little bitch is doing this on purpose.

caleb finally rolls his head over to look down at you. he takes another obnoxious bite of a pork rind, chewing it open-mouthed while raising a mocking eyebrow at you, like he was daring you to say something about it in front of your new suitor.

valko clears his throat, determined to plow through caleb's warfare like a true soldier of romance. he leans in a little closer, voice dropping into what he clearly thinks is an intimate tone. “so, anyway... since the weather's supposed to be nice this weekend, i was thinking maybe we could head down to that new cafe by the harbor? the one with the outdoor seating? we could—”

shrrrrrk!

caleb hooks his shoe around the bottom rung of your stool and, with one casual yank of his leg, slides your entire body a whole foot to the left. you instantly collide with his side, your shoulder smacking right against his solid bicep.

“what the...” you gasp, your hands flying out to grip the edge of the greasy table so you don't tip over.

but caleb doesn't even look up from his plate. he casually scoops up the last dumpling, pops it into his mouth, and speaks around it with unbothered calm. “hurry up and finish eating. we have to get back. we still have to feed our pet.“

you blink, your eyebrows nearly disappearing into your hairline. “since when do you care about the turtle?”

“i've always cared about him,” caleb turns his head to look down at you. “he's a vital member of the household.”

“i'm the only one who ever feeds him? you haven't touched his pellet container since 2024.”

“people change, sis. i've formed a bond with him over the last twenty-four hours,” caleb hums, a tiny smirk pulling at the corner of his lips as his knee bumps against yours under the table again. “and right now, he's starving. we're being bad parents. so eat.”

meanwhile, valko sits on the right side of the table, his mouth slightly open. he looks at your stool, which is now physically closer to caleb than it is to him, and lets out a long defeated breath through his nose. he clearly wants to argue, but trying to debate the nutritional schedule of a reptile with a guy who looks like he could bench-press the entire dumpling stall seems like a losing battle.

so the poor guy chooses to remain quiet. 

—

the very second the lock of the house clicked shut, your polite “public” face melted completely away, and you turned into a breathing volcano. “you are an actual child, caleb!” you started prattling instantly, tossing your heavy backpack onto the floor with a loud thud. your words tumbled out in a rush as you kicked off your shoes. “seriously, what was that? pulling my stool? making those obnoxious caveman noises? you were being a weirdo and an annoying prick for absolutely no reason. i feel so bad for...”

you spun around to give him a piece of your mind, but you paused.

there caleb was, leaning lazily against the doorway with his big arms crossed over his chest. he was staring down at you with a massive sarcastic scowl. ugh! he even had the nerve to look at you like youwere the one who had just ruined a perfectly good dumpling date over the turtle! 

you mirrored his posture, locking your arms tight and tilting your chin up. “don't look at me like that. what is your actual problem today?”

instead of snapping back, a slow little smirk began to crawl onto caleb's face. oh, he was loving this. this was his absolute favorite game in the world, and you had just walked right into his trap. wordlessly, he unclipped himself from the doorframe and took a deliberate step toward you. and then another.

you instinctively took a step back, but clack—your hips hit the hard edge of the open kitchen counter. 

you were cornered.

“my problem?“ now, caleb loomed over you, placing one palm on the counter right next to your waist to trap you in his shadow. “i don’t have a problem, pipsqueak. i was just being a protective big bro to you. isn’t that the label we chose?”

“protective? you looked like a lunatic!” you fired back, your face turning a furious shade of pink. “you were intentionally trying to ruin my conversation! for your information, you don't own me, caleb. if i want to go out and get dumplings with valko, i am allowed to.”

“with him?” caleb let out a chuckle, leaning down an inch closer until you could feel the warmth of his body. he was utterly enjoying how flustered and mad he was making you. “come on, the guy looks like he struggles with basic math. his hair looks like a bird nested in it. you seriously have zero taste.”

“huh, at least he doesn't bring random girls into our living room to scream at video games all afternoon! you had hyeran over here yesterday behaving like she owns the couch. if you can do stuff like that, why can't i?”

caleb’s smirk grew even wider, a quiet triumph gleaming in his eyes. ah, his face seemed to say, so that’s what this is really about.

“oh, so you were watching us from behind the counter,” he nudged his knee playfully against yours, anchoring you against the wood. “were you jealous, pips? is that why you let the car guy drive you home? because if you wanted to play video games with me that badly, all you had to do was ask nicely, you know?”

ah.

you had reached your absolute limit with caleb’s bottomless well of confidence. you were sick and tired of always being the one pressed against the woodwork, left all breathless and flushed while he got to stand there looking like the smartest boy in the whole wide world. you wanted the tables to turn so desperately that you could taste it, even if it meant playing a very dangerous game with your own silly little heart.

so, with a sudden narrowing of your eyes, you did something unpredictable.

yank!

your fingers reached out like little lightning bolts, wrapping tight around the fabric of caleb’s collar and pulling him downward with all your might.

oh, you should have seen his face. the teasing fool was caught off guard. his grand smirk evaporated into thin air, and a ragged little breath hitched right in the back of his throat. for the first time in a while, his polished exterior cracked into a million tiny pieces. 

you didn't dare break eye contact. you leaned in just a millimeter closer, your voice dropping into a mocking whisper. “what's the matter, caleb? not so talkative now? where did all that big, brave mouth go?”

poor caleb’s brain had gone into emergency mode. inside his broad chest, his heart was drumming a frantic—thump-thump, thump-thump—so loud and violent that you could practically feel the vibration through his shirt. his large hand, still planted on the kitchen counter beside your waist, gripped the polished wood so tightly that his knuckles turned so white, as if he were holding onto the edge of a cliff to stop himself from falling over—or worse, from reaching out and grabbing you back.

seeing your victory, you decided to push your luck just a little bit further. your hand slowly traveled up from his collar, your fingertips tracing an agonizing path up the side of his warm neck, before your thumb gently tapped the very edge of his earlobe.

“look at that. for someone who acts so cool, your ears are so bright red.”

caleb swallowed hard, his throat bobbing up and down as he gulped down the dry air. 

“you're such a hypocrite,” you mocked him one last time, giving his collar a playful shake. “always talking so much shit, but the second someone plays back, you freeze right up.”

and just as quickly as you had caught him, you planted both of your hands squarely against his hard chest and gave him a mighty shove.

whoosh!

caleb actually stumbled backward a couple of steps, his long legs flailing for a second before his feet caught the floorboards. he quickly cleared his throat—ahem, ahem—and rubbed the back of his neck.

“uh—wow,” he tries to forcefully laugh it off and turn the tension back into a silly joke. “okay, crazy lady. i- you nearly bit my nose off—”

“shut up and go jerk off to your notes, caleb.” you shot back over your shoulder.

caleb instantly went wide-eyed, letting out a dramatic cough—gack!—as he choked on his own saliva at the sheer obscenity of your remark.

you spun on your heel and marched happily down the hallway, slipping into your bedroom and clicking the lock shut with a very satisfied smile on your face, leaving the poor boy all alone in the quiet kitchen to figure out exactly what the hell had just happened to him.

serves him right.

—

and so, the great war officially began.

if you were going to be shameless about using valko as your personal human shield against your own confusing feelings, then caleb was going to be a thousand times more shameless about turning your life into a living cartoon. he became an absolute ghost in the machine, a walking disaster zone that magically appeared whenever valko so much as breathed in your direction.

on wednesday, you and valko were sitting on the low stone wall by the university quad, sharing a bag of salty chips. valko was leaning in close, his voice dropping into that tryhard smooth register again while he reached for a chip. thwack! out of absolutely nowhere, a round and suspiciously aerodynamic pebble shot through the leaves of the old oak tree, striking valko squarely in the middle of his forehead.

“ow! what the—” valko hissed, rubbing his brow as he looked around wildly.

far across the grass, standing by the sports locker rooms, caleb was casually tossing a basketball up and down in the air. he wasn't even looking at you. he was whistling a cheerful little tune, entirely innocent, though his vertical aim had been precise enough to deserve a gold medal.

on thursday, valko tried to walk you to your lab, proudly carrying your heavy medical dictionary like a true knight in shining armor. but as you rounded the corner of the science building, caleb suddenly materialized from the shadow of the vending machines. he didn't say a word to valko though. he just walked straight between the two of you like a giant solid wall, his broad shoulder subtly but violently checking valko to the side.

“oh, sorry, mate,” caleb hummed, reached down, and snagged the heavy book right out of valko’s hands before the guy could even blink. “my (name)'s got a weak spine, you know. family history. i always carry her books. thanks for holding it, though!” and just like that, he marched off, flipping through the pages of your textbook without a single care in the world.

it was a relentlessly ridiculous game of tag, a noisy circus meant to keep the terrifying gravity of that kitchen counter argument from swallowing you both whole. as long as caleb was throwing rocks and stealing books, he didn't have to think about his bright red ears, and you didn't have to think about his racing heartbeat.

until friday afternoon arrived, and the playful music finally... stopped.

the sky was the color of bruised slate when valko’s sedan pulled up along the front gates of your house. the engine let out an idling purr against the quiet pavement. you stepped out of the passenger side, but you didn't immediately walk toward the door. instead, you lingered by the open window, your shoulders slouched and your bottom lip tucked between your teeth in a rare display of genuine defeat.

today, you had failed the major quiz. 

you had studied until three in the morning, your eyes burning under the harsh blue light of your phone, only to see an ugly red circle at the top of your paper. the exhaustion and the disappointment were sitting heavy on your chest, and it felt so fucking awful. 

“hey,” valko seemed to catch on it, pushing his car door open and stepping out onto the asphalt beside you. he looked at your downcast face, his usual arrogant confidence softening into something genuinely concerned. “come on, (name). don't look like that. it's just one quiz. prof is a sadist anyway, everyone struggled.”

“i didn't just struggle, valko. i choked,” you muttered, staring down at the tips of your dirty shoes. “i'm supposed to be the responsible one. granny’s paying for these blocks, and i can’t even remember the difference between cellular necrosis and apoptosis when the timer's ticking.” 

saying that now, it kind of makes you laugh a bit.

but little did you know, behind the glass of the living room window, a pair of eyes was watching.

caleb stood in the shadows of the house, his arms hanging loose at his sides as he looked through the pane. he had been waiting for you. he had already cleared the kitchen counter, ready to cook whatever ridiculous comfort food you wanted to cheer yourself up after a long week. but now, he was frozen. he watched the way your lower lip trembled, the way your fingers nervously twisted the strap of your bag. he knew that exact look on your face. he knew the precise flavor of your sadness because he had been the one to hold your hand through every failed exam and scraped knee since you were seven years old. every protective instinct in his body screamed at him to open the front door, to run down the driveway, to scoop you up and carry you inside where it was safe.

but he didn't move, because he didn't have the right to.

“hey,” valko murmured again, stepping closer. “hey, look at me.”

and you looked up, your eyes wide and vulnerable. before your brain could even process the movement, valko reached out. his arms wrapped around your shoulders, pulling your smaller frame firmly against his chest in a sudden hug meant to chase the cold away.

your body went stiff as a board against his jacket, hands dangling awkwardly at your sides. you hadn't expected it, maybe because... you hadn't wanted him to do it.

inside the house, behind the glass, caleb saw it. of course he did.

the sight of another man's arms holding you—the sight of you standing perfectly still in the driveway while someone else tried to soothe your tears—rubbed bitterly against him.

it was one of those moments again, those moments when caleb couldn't summon a single sarcastic remark. couldn't pull out a smirk. couldn't even pretend to be angry. it was just a thick and suffocating wave of unadulterated possessiveness and grief washing over him.

his jaw tightened, throat bobbing heavily as he gulped down a painful breath. his hand, which had been resting lightly against the edge of the curtain, suddenly convulsed, his fingers tearing into the fabric. he couldn't look at it. he physically and mentally could not bear to see another second of you belonging to someone else, even for a fleeting moment of comfort.

with a jerk of his arm, caleb yanked the heavy curtains shut, sealing out the afternoon light and plunging the living room into darkness.

caleb blinked several times, trying to catch his breath, trying to keep himself calm, trying to stay where he's at and remove the ugly thoughts of doing something to that red-haired guy. 

the living room was supposed to be a hiding place, but the walls inside granny's house had grown far too narrow to hold himself. his chest heaved, and his feet simply refused to stay glued to the floorboards. and the rationality he always wore like a freshly ironed uniform eventually disintegrated, leaving nothing but an itch that dragged him back toward the door.

it swung open with a bang that cut right through the hum of valko’s idling engine.

immediately, your head whipped around at the noise, your eyes still wide and startled from the sudden weight of valko's arms around you. but before you could even draw enough breath to call his name, caleb was already down the concrete steps. 

with a sudden jerk of his forearm, caleb reached out and grabbed the shoulder of valko’s jacket, yanking the guy backward with enough force to break his hold on you. 

“did she say yes to you?” caleb asked, “are the two of you officially dating right now?”

valko blinked, thoroughly bewildered and rattled by this guy's audacity. “no, we aren't, but i'm—”

“then you don't have any right to touch her like that,” caleb cut him off, his voice flat and freezing cold. “you don’t get to wrap your arms around her if she hasn't given you permission to be there. it's rude. it’s completely out of line.”

valko let out an incredulous scoff, the sheer persistence of caleb’s interference finally pushing past him. he took a step forward, tilting his chin up until he was staring directly into caleb’s face. he finally found the courage to say what he’d been thinking for weeks. “are you serious right now? what is your actual problem, caleb? what are you even to her?”

you blinked and looked up at valko. 

“you’re always... hovering. you’re always throwing things, always splitting us up, always acting like you own the ground she walks on. you said you aren't her brother. she said you aren't siblings. so what exactly is your deal? what are you to her?” 

caleb’s mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. 

so valko saw the break in the armor, and he drove the blade right through the crack. “do you like her?” 

at that, your heart did a leap behind your ribs, the blood rushing to your ears so loudly it drowned out the noise of everything else. you desperately and subconsciously wanted to hear the syllables leave his lips, to know if the pull you’d been drowning in was something he was drowning in too. 

what is he going to say? why isn't he saying anything?

but caleb couldn't answer.

he knew you were staring at him. he could probably feel the exact weight of your eyes tracking the rigid line of his jaw and the frantic rise and fall of his chest. but for the first time in his life, he couldn't meet your gaze back. his eyes darted nervously across valko, his throat bobbing in a gulp as he tried to find a lie big enough to save him.

until finally, slowly, caleb’s head tilted downward. his hair fell forward over his brow, before he hesitantly rolled his gaze down until his eyes locked directly onto yours.

gulp.

that look in his eyes...

it was something you had always disliked since you were kids. everytime the either of you brought up the subject of parents, of having a mother and a father, he did that face. except now it isn't because of that.

now... 

“i'm her guardian.” 

caleb answered.

“what?” your head tilted to the side, that familiar sarcastic scowl crawling right back onto your face.

“i am her legal guardian,” caleb repeated, nodding with a completely straight face. “since  our gran is currently being held back at the nursing home facility for medical observation, the responsibility of maintaining the household and ensuring the safety of it falls entirely on me. i am the primary caretaker of this residence.”

this little bitch.

valko just stood there, his mouth hanging open so wide a family of birds could have moved in. “what?” 

before you or valko could even open your mouths to scream at him for being an absolute fool, caleb’s heavy hand snapped down around your wrist.

“anyway, it's getting very close to six o'clock, which is the official cutoff time for driveway visitations,” caleb said, his voice dripping with an agonizingly tryhard politeness as he began walking backward, dragging you along like a sack of potatoes. he offered valko a little wave with his free hand. “thank you so much for the transportation, valko! drive home safely! watch out for the speed bumps on the main avenue, they’re quite treacherous this season!”

“caleb, you fucking—” you lunged backward, but caleb’s grip was absolute. you were forced to do a clumsy little sideways shuffle up the concrete steps, your free arm flailing in the air as you tried to offer valko at least a goodbye. “bye, valko! sorry! i’ll text you about the anatomy slides!”

but valko didn't even wave back. he just stood by his open car door, probably wondering if this whole situation was secretly a psychological experiment.

slam! click-clack!

the wooden door finally shut.

the very second the threshold was secure, caleb dropped your wrist like it was a hot potato. the authoritative guardian persona vanished into thin air, and he turned into a quiet giant. without saying a single word, without even looking at you, he spun on his heel and marched straight toward the safety of the open-concept kitchen.

you stood alone in the center of the living room.

this little brat is seriously getting on my nerves!

one second he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing left in the world, and the next second he’s inventing fake household rules just to avoid answering a simple question!

but you were not going to let him see how much he had rattled you. oh, absolutely not. you needed to get the upper hand back, even if you had to fake it.

you let out a dramatic cough to clear your throat, smoothing down the front of your wrinkled shirt before you marched over to the kitchen island. instead of hiding in your room like a coward, you hopped right onto one of the tall barstools, planting your elbows on the counter so you could watch him like a hawk.

“you are insane, you know that? a guardian? seriously? that is the dumbest thing that has ever come out of your mouth.”

caleb didn't answer you. he was currently busy staring down at the kitchen counter with an expression of concentration. for a guy who was usually a wizard with a skillet, he looked lost. he had a carton of heavy cream in one hand, a bottle of soy sauce in the other, and a tub of margarine sitting between them like a puzzle he couldn't solve.

“you were being so aggressive out there! valko was just trying to be nice because i was having a bad day—hey i'm speaking to you!” you huffed, your eyes narrowing as you watched him confusedly pick up a bulb of garlic, stare at it like it was an alien spacecraft, and then drop it back onto the wood. “are you even listening to me, you brat?”

“what am i to you, then?” caleb finally spoke.

oh, now, do you feel that? the air in granny’s kitchen just became so thick you could probably slice it with the very paring knife you used for those apples last week. you thought you were safe sitting on that high barstool, tucked neatly behind the counter like a judge delivering a very righteous verdict. 

but you forgot one very important rule when it comes to your big bro: he always knows when you’re hiding behind a loud mouth.

you should have just gone to your room. you should have just locked the door, eaten a stale cracker, and minded your own business instead of sitting out here pretending to be brave.

but it was already too late to run.

caleb finally abandoned his study of the soy sauce bottle and turned around. and then, he took a few strides over to your side of the counter. before your brain could even coordinate a retreat—shrrrrk!—caleb reached down to hook his hands around the metal legs of your stool, and pulled you a whole foot closer to him.

the proximity was so sudden your cheeks erupted into a furiously bright blush, while he just stood towering right over you. 

“tell me, pipsqueak,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips for a second before lifting back to your eyes. “what is valko to you?”

“he's my... suitor?”

“and what am i to you?” 

“y-you're just—i mean, we've always been—”

with a slow lean, he brought his entire upper body down, planting his palms firmly on the seat of your stool right on either side of your thighs. 

“do you want me to stop playing the sibling part then? do you want me to become something else?” caleb tilted his head, his voice dropping into a soft whisper.

“what do you mean... something else?”

a faint little smile touched the corner of caleb’s lips. “you know, like... a guy. a guy to you.”

thump. thump. thump.

your heart was no longer just beating; it was a damn throbbing thing inside your chest. your hands went completely numb against the stool, your eyes wide and your mouth slightly ajar in a look of such ridiculous shock.

caleb tracked every single ounce of your panic. he saw the terror, the blush, the absolute deer-in-the-headlights look paralyzing your face.

and then, just as the tension reached the absolute breaking point... caleb suddenly let out a boisterous laugh.

phew!

he pulled his upper body back, releasing your stool from his cage. before you could even register the sudden rush of cool air between you, caleb reached out and playfully pinched the tip of your bright red nose, shaking your head gently from side to side.

“gotcha,” he chuckled and turned back to the kitchen counter. “man, you should see your face right now, you look like a terrified little bird. i'm obviously just teasing you.”

you couldn't even bring yourself to manufacture a witty comeback. you just sat there on that stool, staring blankly into the empty space between the salt shaker and the soy sauce bottle.

caleb, however, appeared to have moved on, back to being the domestic king of the kitchen, the heavy iron skillet letting out a cheerful sizzle-hiss while he tossed the chopped garlic into the oil.

“we need to head out early tomorrow to visit gran, by the way,” caleb hummed casually over the sound of the spitting grease. “like, seven in the morning early. so don't stay up late scrolling through your phone.”

the mention of your grandmother finally poked a hole through your daze. you blinked, shaking your head slightly to clear the cobwebs as you focused on the back of his neck. “...why so early? the nursing home visiting hours don't even get busy until noon.”

“i have to be back on campus by ten. coach called a basketball practice for the championship preparations, and i can't miss it.”

“ah.” you nodded to the back of his head.

you managed to survive the rest of the evening by acting like a very polite, very quiet ghost, eventually slipping into your bedroom to endure a night of toss-and-turn sleep where caleb's whispering voice kept echoing in your dreams.

until the next morning arrived and caleb decided that the boy from yesterday was officially dead and buried.

bang! bang! bang!

“wake up, monkey! rise and shine!”

your bedroom door then flew back against the wall with a violent clack as caleb marched inside like a fucking drill sergeant. before your sleep-deprived eyes could even adjust to the morning light, caleb reached the edge of your mattress.

whoosh!

with one yank of his hand, he ripped your cozy duvet clean off your body, leaving you curled up in a shivering little ball on your sheets.

“fuck, why are you so damn loud early in the fucking morning?” you shrieked.

“ten minutes, and if you're not in up, i'm leaving you behind and telling gran you love sleeping more than you love her!” 

minutes later, you successfully managed to wash the sleep from your eyes and throw on a decent pair of clothes, though the inner grump was still very much awake.

you stood at the kitchen island, furiously snapping the plastic lids onto a neat little tower of tupperware containers. caleb had actually outdone himself this time—the savory aroma of freshly stewed chicken broth and garlic rice was already locked tight inside the plastic, ready to be delivered to granny's bedside.

the downstairs bathroom door swung open, and out stepped the grand tormentor himself.

you instinctively lifted your head, only for your brain to immediately scream abort mission! abort mission! because caleb had a fluffy white towel draped lazily over his damp hair, but that was the only thing he was wearing from the waist up. his broad shoulders, the sharp line of his collarbones, and the ridiculous expanse of his chest were completely on display, glistening faintly with a few stray droplets of water.

you whipped your head back toward the tupperware so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash, your cheeks instantly sparking with a familiar warmth. 

“hey,” he stopped right on the other side of the counter, smelling faintly of mint and soap. “did we run out of the extra toothpaste? i can’t find the tubes under the sink.”

“cabinet. it's behind the extra bars of soap on the top shelf. go look there.”

“right. thanks,” he mumbled, turning on his heel and thankfully retreating back into the bathroom.

you let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding. honestly, the nerve of this guy.

not long after, caleb finally emerged looking like a civilized human being again, with his heavy sports duffel bag slung carelessly over one arm. 

“you ready to go?”

“yep,” you quickly gathered the paper bag full of food and stepped toward the front door. 

but as caleb walked past the living room window sill, his eyes narrowed at the row of small terracotta pots sitting in the morning sun. he stopped, casually extending one long finger and poking it straight into the dark soil.

he paused. 

he wiggled his finger, then, he turned his head to look at you, a knowing eyebrow crawling up his forehead. “brat. did you water the ferns today?”

you froze right with your hand on the doorknob, your lips twitching, and you turned around to offer him the most innocent cheeky smile you could possibly muster. 

caleb let out a roll of his eyes. 

“come here,” he pointed a finger at the floor in front of him.

“no.” you shook your head violently. “we have to leave early, remember? for gran, and your super important basketball practice!”

with a delighted laugh, caleb let his heavy sports duffel bag slide right off his shoulder, letting it hit the floorboards with a loud thud. and before you could even turn the doorknob to escape, he closed the distance between you in two strides.

“caleb, wait—ah!”

you shrieked when his large hands clamped firmly around your waist. with zero effort, he lifted your feet clean off the ground, turning you around while you flailed uselessly in the air. he marched two steps back into the living room and dropped you right against the plush cushions of the sofa.

“punishment time!” caleb laughed, instantly hovering over you and planting his knees on either side of your hips so you couldn't wiggle away.

“no, stop! caleb, i swear—!”

but your threats were instantly drowned out by your own hysterical laughter as his long fingers began mercilessly digging into your ribs. you squirmed and twisted beneath him, hands frantically trying to swat his wrists away, but he was too big, too heavy, and entirely too good at finding your most ticklish spots!

eventually, what started as a simple tickle punishment quickly spiraled into a full-blown war of the cushions.

the moment caleb’s fingers paused to let you catch your breath, your inner competitive spirit woke up. you weren't just going to sit there and take the defeat! with a heave, you planted your socks against the back of the sofa and launched your entire body forward, aiming a messy tackle straight at his broad chest.

“oh, so we're wrestling now?” caleb laughed, his deep voice booming right against your ear before he effortlessly caught you by the waist.

the rules of the house were completely thrown out the window as the two of you flipped, twisted, and rolled across the plush cushions, trying every single fake martial arts move you had ever seen on television. heck, you were pulling out all the stops—trying to hook your arm around his neck, aiming sharp elbows at his ribs, and trying to pull off a dramatic headlock.

you were starting to sweat, and you were putting 110% of your soul into making this giant human being tap out.

caleb, on the other hand? he was putting in absolutely zero effort. he was literally lying back against the pillows, letting out a loud, breathless laugh at every single one of your frantic maneuvers. to him, you probably felt like an angry flailing puppy. every time you thought you had a solid grip on his arm, he would casually just flex his bicep and pop right out of it. 

“come on, pipsqueak!” he taunted, easily batting your hands away as you tried to pin his shoulders. “is that all you got? my teammates hit harder than this during warmups!”

“shut up and die, caleb!” 

you threw your weight into one final grapple. but alas, pride can be a very dangerous thing when you're fighting a varsity athlete.

caleb decided the game had gone on long enough. and in one quick motion, he caught both of your wrists in a single hand, threw his heavy leg over your torso, and completely flipped you over.

oomph!

suddenly, you were now slammed chest-first against the back cushions of the sofa. caleb slid right up behind you, his body pressing heavily against your back to completely pin you down. he wrapped one massive arm securely around your upper chest like a seatbelt, while his other hand kept your wrists locked together near your chin.

you were utterly trapped in a textbook rear-naked choke hold.

“all right, game over,” he gave you a playful squeeze, anchoring you even tighter against him. “tap out and acknowledge me as your supreme ruler, and i'll let you go.”

“never! i will literally bite you before i tap out!”

“stubborn little girl.” caleb chuckled softly, his chest rumbling right against your back. “you can't move. just tap the couch and save your dignity.”

oh, he thought he had won because he was bigger and stronger? he forgot that you were smaller, faster, and willing to play dirty.

the competitive fog in your brain is a blinding thing, so heavy that your survival instincts completely take the wheel before your common sense can even map out anything else. you don't even know what possessed you. you aren't thinking about the dangerous lines you almost crossed together over the past few days; only thinking about the iron band of his arm across your chest, and the humiliating prospect of defeat.

so, you use the only lever you have left.

with a subtle shift of your weight, you arch your spine slightly and press back, slowly grinding your bum right against the heat of his crotch.

!

behind your back, caleb’s entire frame goes stiff as a stone wall. the boisterous laughter bubbling in his chest dies mid-breath, cutting off into nothing but a ragged hitch. it takes him three agonizing seconds to realize what tactic you’ve just deployed, and when it finally clicks...

“(name),” he groans, his voice no longer the cocky older brother but something rough, uncovered, and deeply rattled. “what... what are you doing?”

but instead of releasing you, his massive arm tightens around your upper torso, locking you so hard against his chest that you can feel the frantic hammering of his heart against your back. he tries to laugh it off, tries to maintain the upper hand, but the words come out strained and frayed at the edges. “nice try, though, pips. dirty tactics don't work on... nh... varsity players.”

the tiny stifled sound that slips from his throat was all the fuel you needed. it’s working. he sounds so tense, his breath coming in shallow puffs against the sensitive nape of your neck.

your own face is a burning mess of a tomato, but the taste of victory is too close. you want to remind him that he doesn't hold a monopoly on audacity in this house. you have it too.

you move again, harder this time, abandoning any pretense of subtlety. you press your ass firmly into his crotch, rolling your hips back against him in such an explicit way. 

“hey, stop, seriously—” caleb chokes out, a helpless moan breaking past his lips before he can catch it. his fingers, still holding your wrists, lose their grip, beginning to tremble against your skin.

subconsciously, his own hips begin to tilt forward, meeting your shameless grinding with a press of his own. “this... this isn't working, you should try something else. or just tap out. because i'm still not... ah... letting you go.” he swallows hard, his thumb twitching against your wrist, his long legs tangling with yours on the cushions as he tries to find an exit from the trap you both built. “so just... tap out and stop, yeah?”

“s-shouldn't you... shouldn't you be the one tapping out, huh?” your heart is doing frantic and erratic loops behind your ribs, but you push through the panic. “isn't it... isn't it weird that someone you see as a sister is doing such a thing to you? you're the older one, caleb... you should tap out. be the responsible one.”

to prove that you aren't the one who is going to break first under the weight of this, you roll your hips back against him again harder, dragging your bum across the expanse of his crotch. 

caleb doesn't answer you with words. he can't. all that leaves his throat is a series of thick, breathless moans—nh... ah—each one a helpless sound that shatters the last remaining illusion of the “sibling” shield you both spent years constructing. 

and then, slowly, you feel a very hard thing pressing solidly through the fabric of his bottoms. it felt heavy and hot enough to burn through your clothes. your movements instantly slow down, your entire body going rigid as a fresh wave of red flushes from your chest all the way to the tips of your ears. is that his...? no, no, no. you don't want to point it out. you don't want to say a single word. if you say it out loud, the universe will split wide open and there will be absolutely no going back to the way things were before.

but while you are trapped inside the spinning dizzyness of your own thoughts, you were too slow to realize that caleb's palms had snapped down around your wrists, separating them from your chin. with a surge of his upper body, he pins both of your arms flush against the cushions on either side of your head. 

and then, without a single shred of his usual teasing hesitation, caleb pulls his hips back—and drives them forward, dryhumping you roughly from behind.

“ah—!”

“don't move,” caleb humps you again, a rhythmic thrust that slides his heat perfectly between your thighs. “tap out now, (name).”

no, there is no way you're going to easily tap out like this. if you do, that's just going to show him how easily he can just go to his way with you. so without much of a choice, you bite your lip. 

“fuck, nh...” 

why is he moaning? does this feel good for him?

“just... tap out, pips,” he pants heavily, hips rolling into you in another rough stride that makes your toes curl inside your socks. “tap the couch and tell me to stop... otherwise, i'm just gonna keep going.”

“i-i hate you,” you tighten your fingers against the cushions beneath his palms, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “caleb, ngh—i swear to god, i...”

caleb lets out a chuckle, “yeah? how much?”

he doesn't let you answer and instead slides his hands down from your wrists to grip the very edges of your hip bones. with one forceful heave of his strong arms, he hoists your hips up high off the sofa cushions, tilting your pelvis back and locking you into a perfectly angled incline—before slamming his hips forward again, driving his hard erection deep into the curve of your ass. 

“not tapping out yet?” 

“i-i'm not tapping—!”

you cut yourself off when caleb's hips against your bum suddenly stutters. he drives into you one last time—hard and entirely too desperate—and then his entire body goes completely rigid.

“(name)—ah, fuck—!”

caleb lets out an unvarnished moan, his voice breaking into a breathless whine as his chest shudders violently against your back. he freezes, fingers digging bruisingly hard into your hip bones before a wave of heat blooms right through his shorts, dampening the fabric of your pants. 

your brain, despite having zero knowledge about how men's bodies work or what exactly happens when they hit their limit, registers the sudden wet warmth and his sudden loss of strength.

oh. he messed up.

“a-are you kidding me? did you just—”

“shut up,” caleb wheezes, his head dropping onto your shoulder. “don't... don't say it.”

“oh, i am absolutely saying it!”

being an opportunistic woman, you take advantage of his jelly-like limbs and twist your torso. caleb is usually a solid brick wall, but right now, his body is too sensitive. you wrench your hips out of his slack grip, plant your hands on his broad shoulders, and shove him backward with all your might.

thud!

caleb falls flat onto his back against the sofa cushions, and before he can even think about recovering, you launch yourself over his lap, straddling his thighs and planting your hands squarely on either side of his neck, pinning his arms down.

strangely, he doesn't even fight you. caleb is easily strong enough to bench-press you off him with one hand, but instead of resisting, he just lets out a pathetic grunt and lets his arms go limp beneath your palms. 

“look at the so-called supreme ruler now,” you mock him instantly, a breathless smirk breaking across your face. “what happened, caleb? you were talking so much shit about tapping out, and you couldn't even last three minutes? you came too fast that was pathetic!”

“(name), please,” caleb groans, his face turning a shade of pink as he tries to turn his head away from your gaze. “you don't even know what you're saying.”

“well, i know you're a loser.”

“you... you started it!” caleb defends himself weakly, his voice was an embarrassed whisper while his fingers nervously twitch against the couch cushion. he finally rolls his eyes back to meet yours. “what is wrong with your head? you were the one grinding your ass against me like a p-pervert... what did you think was going to happen?”

“i was trying to make you tap out!” you argue back, your face heating up again but your grip on his arms tightening.

“by making me cum...?“ caleb whines, his jaw clenching when he lets out a shaky breath. “that's a pretty lame strategy don't you think?”

“you're just making excuses because you lost,” you say, your voice trembling slightly despite the thick layer of bravado you're pouring over it. you look down at the front of his joggers where a distinct darkening patch of wetness is spreading against the fabric. “look at that. the great caleb, taken down by a simple strategy. i should take a picture and send it to your coach.”

“y-you brat, i swear to god, shut up,” caleb groans with a laugh. “you don't know what you're doing. just get off me.”

“no, i think this needs a proper inspection.” 

your brain is screaming at you to stop, telling you that you are sprinting across a line you can never cross back over, but the sheer adrenaline of having caleb completely at your mercy prevents you from backing down. if you stop now, if you get off him and let him look at you with that smug smirk again, the awkwardness will literally suffocate you. you have to finish this. you have to prove he's the loser.

with a suddenly decisive movement, you reach down and grab the waistband of his joggers.

“wait—(name), hold on—” caleb gasps, his eyes going wide with panic as you pull the fabric down. 

even through the cotton fabric of his dark grey boxers, his dick is thick, massive, and still remarkably heavy and hard despite having just come. it stretches the front of his underwear to its limit, a rigid outline that looks terrifying up close. holy shit. he's... he's huge.

your face is burning so hot you're pretty sure you're going to spontaneously combust. your hands are shaking, your ears ringing, but you force your fingers to move forward. you place your palm flat against the center of his boxers, wrapping your fingers directly around the pulsing length of his dick.

“ah—nh!” caleb's head flies back against the sofa cushions, fingers clawing into your waist so hard it almost hurts. “fuck, stop... i told you i'm too sensitive—”

“what's the matter?” you stammer, your voice cracking as you squeeze him slightly through the cotton, your thumb tracing the hard ridge of his shaft. “thought you said it didn't work? you're twitching so much under my hand, caleb. who's the weak one now?”

“you're... you're a psycho,” caleb pants, a strained chuckle breaking through his ruined voice. he looks up at you through his long eyelashes, jaw clenched and sweat beading at his hairline. “what about you? you're blushing like a tomato and your hands are shaking. you're terrified right now, aren't you?”

“i'm not terrified of a loser,” you lie through your teeth, sliding your hand up and down his length, the friction through his boxers causing another wet drop of pre-cum to seep through the fabric against your palm.

“fuck... ah, please,” he looks so devastatingly undone beneath you it's funny, his chest heaving while he whines against the cushions. “you're... you're cheating. this is a foul. i'm gonna tell gran you're being so...”

“granny would just laugh at you for being so weak,” 

the boy who used to help you look for snails in the backyard after a heavy rain—the same boy who once gave you a piggyback ride for three blocks because you scraped your knee on the pavement—was currently pinned beneath you on granny’s floral-print sofa, stripped down to his underwear and trembling like a leaf.

it was a sacrilegious image, because for ten whole years, caleb had been the towering fixture of your childhood, the annoying older-brother figure who stole your food and made fun of your haircuts. but now, the fabric of his boxers was the only thing standing between you and a completely different world.

“you’re still shaking.” your voice was a little breathy, though you kept your eyes locked on his face to hide how fast your own heart was knocking against your ribs. 

caleb let out a ragged laugh, his head tilting back against the cushions. “you aren't going to make me tap out if that's what you're planning, you silly.”

“oh, you think you're so smart?”

before he could even muster another cocky comeback, your fingers hooked directly into the elastic waistband of his boxers and dragged the fabric down past his hips.

and just like that, the angry length of caleb's dick sprang free, twitching madly in the warm morning light.

oh my god. 

he was fucking huge. the thick, veins-veined shaft was throbbing with a pulse, the heavy weight of it slapping against his lower belly when the fabric set it free. 

caleb’s eyes went wide as the cool air hit his bare skin, a genuine spike of panic breaking through his composure. “hey, wait, hold on, what are you planning to do?” 

you stared down at the very tip of him, where a shiny drop of clear pre-cum was slowly leaking out, glistening against the skin. the sight of it made a strange spark right in the pit of your stomach.

“i'm finishing the wrestling match,” you whispered, your hand moving forward until your fingers wrapped completely around his thick shaft.

“fuck—nnggh!“ caleb gasped out loud, his entire upper body arching off the sofa as your palm made direct contact with his heat. his knuckles turned white as he grabbed the edge of the armrest. “(name)... seriously, you don't know what you're doing, stop it.”

“shut up and take your punishment.”

“you don't know shit about—oh, fuck—please... i'm gonna come again, i swear to god...”

but you weren't done pushing his limits, you wanted to erase every single ounce of that cocky exterior until there was nothing left but the vulnerable boy beneath you.

leaning down until your chest was nearly brushing his lap, you let your hand slide away from his tip—and replaced it with your tongue.

you swiped your warm and wet tongue directly over the crown of his dick, licking up the excess pre-cum and the sticky remnants of his earlier climax from the sensitive skin.

“ah-!”

at that, caleb lets out an undignified shriek that was instantly swallowed by a deep groan. his hands flew to the sides of your head, fingers tangling frantically into your hair as his dick twitched against your lips, throbbing so hard it felt like a living thing. he was whining openly now, his chest heaving as he stared up at the ceiling with blown-out eyes.

you wrapped your lips around the very top of his shaft, sucking him gently. “(name)... i hate you... i hate you so much...”

“how much, caleb?” you mumbled against his hard skin, looking up at him through your eyelashes, your hand gripping the base of his giant length to keep him locked right where you wanted him.

“i'm not gonna last, (name). seriously, i'm gonna come in your mouth if you don't stop,”

but you don't stop. your tongue swipes over the sensitive ridge again, determined to drive the final nail into his coffin. truth be told, you have absolutely no idea what you're doing. your teeth graze his skin awkwardly, your suction is uneven, and your movements are incredibly clumsy, lacking any real rhythm. but caleb is just as clueless and inexperienced as you are, and to a boy whose body is already primed and hyper-sensitive from a first climax, the messy, wet warmth of your mouth feels like absolute heaven.

you keep going, your hand stroking his base while you lick the sticky tip. you just want to make him blow his top again. you need to see him completely break, just so you can hold it over his head for the rest of his life. 

...or is that really all it is? because your heart is hammering so loud it's practically echoing in your throat, and a strange heat is pooling deep in your stomach as you taste him.

“fuck... i'm coming, i'm literally—ah, nh...” caleb whines out loud, his head thrashing against the cushions, his entire lower body trembling while his hips lift off the sofa, twitching directly into your mouth.

you tighten your grip, getting ready for the final victory—and then, the world violently flips upside down.

whoosh!

caleb’s hands leave your hair and snap down around your armpits. your mouth slips off his dick with a wet pop when he completely sat up before he hoists your entire body into the air like you weigh absolutely nothing.

“ah! what do you think you're—!” 

and with one ruthless motion, caleb pivots your torso and bends you straight over the widely padded backrest of the sofa. your chest is pressed flat against the top cushion, your head dangling over the back of the couch toward the floor, while your hips are lifted high and trapped beneath his massive weight as he slides up behind you.

and then, you hear it. a breathless and absolutely insufferable chuckle bouncing right against your ears.

“you are such a gullible girl,” caleb pants heavily, his chest heaving against your shoulder blades as he lets out a triumphant laugh. he isn't coming at all. “did you really think i was gonna let you win that easily? you thought you could just suck me off and make me cry?”

“you literal piece of trash!” you yell, trying to push yourself up off the backrest and kicking your legs blindly behind you. “let me go, caleb, i swear to god—”

caleb's hips slide right back against your ass, his hard length pressing explicitly into your lower back to remind you who has the upper hand. he grips your waist with both hands, locking your pelvis into place so you can't wiggle an inch. “save all the shouting, okay?” he gives your hip a playful, firm squeeze. “we're right back where we started. you're pinned, you're cornered, and you're out of moves. so what's it gonna be, huh? are you finally gonna tap out or do i have to keep you bent over here all morning? 'cause i don't mind being late, you know.”

“shut up,” you choke out, your forehead digging hard into the plush fabric of the backrest. “i'm not... i'm not listening to a liar who fakes a climax just to cheat his way out of his loss.“

“it's called strategy, sweetheart. you should look it up sometime,” he chuckles, an arrogant little sound that rubs directly against your neck. “but you know... since you were so incredibly bold with me just now... since you decided you could just put your hands wherever you wanted... i think it's only fair that it's my turn now, right? that's how the game works.”

for all his cocky bravado, you feel a sudden tremor pass through his palms. his fingers twitch against your skin. he’s hesitating, isn't he? the heavy reality of what you've both done sinks into the quiet spaces of the room, but he doesn't pull back.

slowly, his fingertips hook into the waistband of your shorts. you let out a quiet whimper when he slides the fabric down over your thighs, exposing the bare expanse of your bum to the morning air.

and then, the teasing stops.

the living room goes dead silent, save for the uneven rhythm of caleb's breathing. he stares down at you, his throat bobbing in a gulp. even without turning around, you know exactly what he’s looking at. the thin fabric of your panties is kind of ruined and darkened, clinging, and utterly soaked through with a wetness from your own mounting frustration. 

“...you're wet, (name). what am i supposed to do with you like this?” caleb whispers, his voice suddenly stripped of its malice.

“don't look at it, you brat.” you whimper, trying to hide your face in the sofa. “caleb, don't—just let me up, please—”

“no way, you started this. you don't get to run away just because you're embarrassed?” caleb chuckled.

then wordlessly, his fingers hook the side of your underwear, pulling the fabric upward to stretch it tight against your skin, using the soaked material to press firmly up into your sensitive folds.

“ah—” 

“look at how you're reacting,” caleb murmurs, leaning his weight harder into you. “but you've been a really bad girl today, breaking all the rules... so i think you need to wait a little.”

he slowly lets go of the fabric, but his hand doesn't leave. instead, his long fingers begin to lightly trace the very edge of your soaked panties, feeling the slick heat of your wetness seeping through the cloth onto his fingertips. he hovers right over your center, brushing against you but not quite, giving you just enough phantom friction to make your toes curl, but entirely denying you the actual release you're starting to crave.

your body was now squirming helplessly beneath his palms as you try to force yourself against his hand to get more pressure, but he ruthlessly keeps his fingers just a millimeter away. “fuck you, either touch me or let me go, don't be a jerk—”

“oh i'm not being a jerk yet, (name).” caleb pants, another rough chuckle breaking through his serious expression while he watches you twist and writhe under his touch. his own erection is throbbing madly against your back, but he keeps his hips still. “will you admit defeat and tap out if i be a jerk to you, then?” he punctuates that sentence with a tentative press of his index finger into your hole through the panty. 

your fingers are practically tearing into the fabric of the sofa cushion already, the adrenaline from earlier turning into a suffocating dread that makes your throat dry. 

with a quiet tug, caleb’s fingers hook into the edge of your damp underwear, sliding the cotton fabric to the side.

“caleb...” your voice is a tiny squeak against the dark velvet of the couch. your hips instinctively try to lift, a sudden panic flaring in your chest. “what... what are you doing?”

but he doesn't stop. the cool air hits your bare folds for a fraction of a second before the tip of his finger presses directly against your entrance. you let out a ragged hitch of air as he slowly pushes past the tight ring of your muscles and sinking into your slick warmth.

“this... this doesn't count as anything, right?”

caleb’s broad chest is heaving violently against your shoulder blades, his entire frame shuddering as he buries his finger deeper inside you. “it’s just... it’s just a finger, (name). we're just playing the game. all of this... it's just about making each other tap out. it's not... whatever else it could be?”

you can feel the desperate lie he's spinning, his own mind scrambling to build a bridge back to sanity even while he’s stretching you open.

“it doesn't count,” he pants, his thumb pressing hard against your hypersensitive clit, making your toes curl inside your socks. “it doesn't count as long as i'm... as long as i'm not using my cock, right? we're still just us. we haven't crossed anything.”

you gulp, because a part of your brain screams at you to twist around and slap him, to scream what the actual fuck is wrong with you? but the guilt is a leaden weight sitting right on your chest. you were the one who started it. you were the one who put his dick in your mouth just to prove a point. you are just as dirty, just as guilty as he is.

“yeah,” you whisper, your voice thick with a dirty shame as you shut your eyes tight. “yeah... that makes sense. it's just... it's just a game.”

caleb then slides a second finger right alongside the first, the sudden invasion stretching your tight walls as he begins to slowly and deeply thrust inside you.

squelch. squelch.

the wet sounds of his fingers sliding through your excess moisture fills the quiet living room, explicit and loud enough to make your face burn a shade of red. 

“(name)...” caleb murmurs, and it's the exact same tone he uses when he's giving you advice on your chores or asking about your classes, but his fingers are currently buried inside your vagina, driving you insane. “have you ever put your own finger in it?”

your lips press together so hard they turn white. you want to lie, you want to bite your tongue, but the mind-numbing pleasure of his thrusts is making your defenses completely crumble. “y-yeah, a... a few times only. when you weren't home.”

caleb picks up the pace slightly, the wet squelching sound getting faster, deeper, his knuckles rubbing against your bare skin.

“did it... did it feel like this?” he asks quietly, his voice shy, almost innocent, like a boy asking for help with his homework, even as his hips heavy-press against your backside. “does it feel better when i do it?”

the duality of this guy is completely ridiculous. it’s terrifying. one second he's caging you like a predator, and the next he’s whispering sweet clumsy questions like he's still the boy from your childhood. you can't even answer him anymore; you're just a flushed panting mess.

pop.

but caleb hooks his fingers out of your heat, making an involuntary whine escape your throat before you can even think to choke it down. your hips instinctively jerk backward, chasing the feeling of his fingers, but your hands only find the empty velvet of the backrest. why the hell did he stop? 

behind you, the rustle of heavy fabric is loud. the weight on your lower back vanishes as caleb steps backward onto the wooden floorboards. “no need to tap out anymore, 'cause oh my goodness i'm going to be late,”

by the time you manage to push yourself up on your trembling elbows, your limbs feeling like melted wax, caleb is already completely upright. his joggers are pulled back up, the dark grey waistband of his boxers now neatly hidden away. 

he looks down at you, and an infuriatingly soft smile touches his lips—the exact look he gives you when he’s being the responsible one.

“we should really get going, pipsqueak,” caleb says softly, as if his fingers hadn't just been swirling over your pussy. he reaches down, casually picking up his heavy sports duffel bag from the floor and slinging it over his broad shoulder. “i'm going to be horribly late for practice if we don't move right now. go adjust your clothes.”

you just stare up at him from the sofa, your mouth slightly open. you looked dumbfounded, your brain becoming incapable of processing how a guy can go from driving two thick fingers into your soaking womanhood to checking his watch like a middle-aged accountant. 

—

the afternoon does not care about your identity crisis. 

you had ended up having to visit granny all by yourself in the halls of the nursing home. the very second the two of you had stepped out to the car, caleb’s phone had erupted into a series of vibrations—his coach's caller id flashing like a warning flare. the muffled shouting through the receiver about missing the championship preparations had left caleb looking genuinely stressed, his fingers tapping nervously against the steering wheel. he had dropped you off at the facility with an apologetic squeeze of your shoulder, leaving you to sit by granny’s bedside alone, nodding blankly while the old woman prattled on about the hospital soup and how caleb was such a good, responsible boy for taking care of you.

if only you knew, granny. if only you knew.

by the time you finally drag your feet onto the university campus for your late-day lectures, your mind is a useless swamp of static. you sit in the rows of the amphitheater, the professor's voice about cellular pathology washing right over your head like white noise. 

every time the professor speaks, all your brain can register is the memory of caleb's deep and ruined moans echoing against the walls of your shared home. your fingers keep absentmindedly tracing the edge of your desk, your lower body still feeling a ghostly throb from the wet squelch of caleb's fingers stretching you open. 

and by the time six o'clock arrives, the heavy tropical heat of the campus grounds is finally beginning to cool down.

usually, this is the hour where caleb’s long shadow appears beside yours at the main gates, his heavy arm slinging over your shoulder to drag you toward the terminal while he complains about how hungry he is. the habit of him is a deeply rooted thing in your bones. instead of turning right toward the exit to head straight home to an empty house, your feet lazily, almost sub-consciously, steer you left toward the concrete structure of the university gymnasium.

as you slip inside, taking a quiet seat on the very edge of the lowest wooden bleacher, the vast space is alive with a scattering of echoing noises. on the far brightly lit side of the court, a bunch of cheerleaders are practicing their stunts, and a few stray students are still lingering on the higher bleachers. 

but your eyes immediately drift to the opposite free side of the court.

there, sitting in a circle directly on the polished wood, is the university's basketball team. their coach is standing over them with a clipboard, his sharp whistle tucked between his lips as he gestures aggressively toward a diagram. and right in the center of the huddle, his long legs splayed out in front of him, is caleb. he’s wearing his dark blue practice jersey, broad shoulders glistening with a fresh coat of sweat, a giant water bottle gripped in his large hand as he listens intently to the lecture.

he looks so regular like that, so athletic. so completely like the golden boy the entire school admires. you pull your knees up to your chest, wondering how on earth you're supposed to walk home with him after what he did to you this morning.

caleb is nodding along, his hand idly spinning the basketball between his palms on the floor, looking every bit the disciplined athlete. then, his eyes wander. he’s just scanning the empty spaces of the court, a subconscious habit of checking his surroundings, when his gaze drifts up toward the lower bleachers.

and lands squarely on you.

for a long second, neither of you knew how to react. the teasing grin he usually flashes when he spots you in a crowd doesn't happen. he just takes you in, his fingers freezing against the leather of the basketball. you just stare at each other, the secret weight of the morning—the wet sounds, the moaning, the taste of his dick—crashing into the space between you like a physical wall.

caleb looks away quickly, his throat bobbing as he downs a huge gulp from his water bottle, his broad shoulders tensing up as he tries to focus back on the clipboard. 

five minutes later, the coach blows his whistle twice. “all right, pack it up! managers, get the training cones back in the locker. caleb, you're on equipment duty tonight since you were late this morning. secure the loose balls and the extra jerseys from the bench.”

“got it, coach,” caleb grunts, pushing himself up from the floor.

the team starts dispersing, heading toward the showers in an echoing wave of laughter and low chatter. caleb begins gathering the stray basketballs into a mesh sack, and as he nears the bleachers where you're sitting, he just stops a few feet away, slinging the heavy sack over his shoulder.

“hey,” caleb's shadow falls over your sneakers. “(name). stop being lazy and help me carry these jerseys to the storage room. coach wants a head count before the after-party tomorrow, and i'm not doing it alone.”

you blink. “can't your co-captain do it?”

“he's already in the showers,” caleb says, finally cutting his eyes toward you, a subtle, desperate intensity flickering in his gaze that makes your stomach flip. “come on. the quicker we finish, the quicker we go home. go grab the bin.”

you purse your lips, but you slide off the bleacher anyway. you grab the plastic bin filled with damp jerseys, your heart already starting to throb a frantic rhythm against your ribs as you follow his massive back toward the dark hallway at the rear of the gym.

the storage room door is heavy iron, creaking loudly as caleb pushes it open. the inside smells like old rubber, canvas bags, and dust, lit only by the faint orange glow of the twilight filtering through a barred window. you step inside, the plastic bin heavy in your arms.

“where do you want these—”

slam!

the door cuts your voice off completely as caleb shoves it shut behind you. within a snap, his large hands snap around your waist and lifts you off your feet, pinning your back directly against the solid wood of the door.

“caleb, what the—”

and your mouth is instantly smothered.

caleb drives his lips against yours with an aggressive hunger, his head tilting sharply to lock his mouth over yours. it’s a messy, bruising kiss, completely devoid of the hesitation he had this morning. he lets out a desperate whine against your lips—nhhh—his fingers digging like iron claws into your hips, pulling your lower body flush against his jersey.

“fuck,” caleb groans directly into your mouth, his tongue forcing its way past your lips. he tastes like the cool mint from earlier and the salty heat of his sweat, his jaw working against yours as if he's been starving for this for the last seven hours. “i couldn't... i couldn't even think during our practice, you know. coach wouldn't stop screaming at me but all i could see was you bent over the couch.”

“caleb—stop, someone's gonna—mmph—” you try to speak, your hands frantically coming up to push against his broad chest, but the sheer mass of him traps you. 

“let them hear,” his hips slam forward instinctively, driving his hard erection—already straining madly through his gym shorts—directly into your thigh. “i don't care. i don't care about it. you can't just... nh... fuck, you were all i could think about today—”

“you were the one who stopped,” you gasp out, your fingers subconsciously tangling into the damp hair at the back of his neck. “you acted like... like nothing happened, and then you left me alone... you idiot.”

“i was scared...” caleb cries out softly, his voice a ruined whisper before he brings his mouth back up to cover yours, thumbs tracing the bare skin of your waist beneath your shirt “i'm supposed to protect you, but all i want to do is rip these clothes off you right now and pound inside you until you can't even stand up.“ a guilty laugh slips past his lips. “shit, am i allowed to say that?...”

your heart is a wild thing, hammering so hard against your ribs it feels like it might burst through your skin. “caleb—”

the rest of your breath is completely stolen when his calloused hands hook into the waistband of your underwear. there is no gentle hesitation this time, no restraint left to save either of you. with one downward tug, the fabric is stripped away, bundling around your sneakers along with your shorts. 

he doesn't even take his jersey off. his dark blue varsity uniform is damp with sweat, the rough material scraping against your bare chest as he uses his body weight to pin you flat against the wood. with a trembling hand, caleb reaches down between your laps, his long fingers finding your soaking, swollen entrance. he doesn't need to prep you; you are already dripping, ruined from hours of thinking about his touch.

he aligns the angry head of his cock right against your opening. he is so incredibly huge—a terrifyingly solid length that makes your stomach drop in a mixture of fear and desperate longing.

“(name)... look at me. just look at me,” caleb whimpers, his voice completely cracked and ruined. “i can't... i can't hold back anymore. i'm going to cross this line now.”

before you can even utter a sound, caleb grips your hips like iron vices and drives his hips forward.

“ahhh!”

a high-pitched gasp is ripped from your lungs as the stretching length of his dick forces its way inside you in one thrust. it's a tight, bruising fit, your walls screaming at the sudden fullness of him while he buries himself all the way to his hilt, his lower belly slamming hard against your pelvis. 

caleb lets out a shattering groan that sounds like a sob, his head instantly dropping forward into the crook of your neck. his hot breath scalds your skin, and you can feel the wet smudge of tears mixing with the sweat on his face. he is crying into your shoulder, panting like a dying man, his entire broad frame shuddering violently against you.

“ffckk... nhhh... you're so tight, it's so hot,” caleb opens your thighs wider just so he can pound into you much, much faster. “i've... i've thought about this every single night.... every time you smiled at me... every time you fell asleep.... i've wanted to do this so fucking bad...”

caleb grips your thighs, hoisting your leg up until it was wrapped tightly around his broad waist, and begins to fuck you desperately against the iron door.

thud. thud. thud.

the heavy wood rattles on its hinges with every brutal stride of his lower body. caleb drives into you as if he is angry—furious at you for making him wait this long, furious at himself for breaking the rules, and desperate to mark every single inch of your inside. he doesn't give you time to adjust to his size; he just plunges deep, his thick shaft sliding through your tight squelching wetness.

“caleb—ah!—stop, it's too deep—nhhh!” you moan out loud, your head thrashing against the door behind you. your hands leave his shoulders and wrap around his damp hair, trying to pull him closer, trying to find some anchor as his massive cock relentlessly reorganizes your insides. you can't even think straight anymore, his dick is leaving you with nothing but the raw urge to take his size and beg for more.

“not stopping,” caleb grunts against your ear, it makes your thigh squeeze tighter around his waist. he tilts his head upward, jaw clenched so hard the tendons in his neck look like wires under his skin. his eyelashes flutter, his eyes half-closed and ghost-blinking as he loses himself entirely to the pleasure. “fuck, why didn't we d-do this sooner?”

he thrusts into you even deeper, his hips rolling with a newfound precision that hits a sensitive spot deep within your womb. 

“hnggh, caleb, deeper, deeper...!” 

“what was that, huh?” caleb suddenly pulls out, bringing your legs down. 

“what are you... a-are you going to leave me again?” 

he smirks, pressing a kiss against your forehead while you felt the wamrth of his hands grabbing your right leg to hoist it up high - up, up, and up - until you're now sideways, leg stretched open and high enough that your ankle was an inch away from caleb's face. “deeper, right?” in a second, he drives his cock back into your hole, this time making sure that every thrust he gave you was a slap on the womb. 

“ahngh, caleb!—”

the orange twilight through the barred window slowly deepens into a thick midnight blue, but the desperate rhythm inside the storage room doesn't stop.

for the next few hours, the university gymnasium becomes completely empty, the lights on the court turning off one by one until the only sound left in the entire concrete structure is the repetitive rattle of the iron storage door. caleb completely loses his composure, his body moving on pure instinct while he continues to drive his length into your soaking heat over and over again.

the dynamic between you never truly changes, even as the skin of your hips turns a deep, flushed pink from the iron grip of his palms. every time he tries to pull that annoying tone to tell you to take his size, his voice shatters into a pathetically high-pitched whine the second your tight walls squeeze him. you don't let him have the satisfaction of total victory either; even when your legs are trembling so hard you can barely keep them still, you still find the breath to mock his stuttering moans, driving your fingers into his damp hair to yank him down into bruising, messy kisses.

You’re jogging toward the trees now, throwing caution to the wind as you follow the sounds of his pain. Just before you cross into the forest, you finally spot your boyfriend’s massive figure, his wine red hair being the giveaway. He’s facing a pine tree, tail stiff and laid low, touching his head and wincing repeatedly.

As he registers your scent and whips around to face you, you understand why: at least 15 black-tipped, spindly death daggers sprout from his cheeks and nose. 

“Valko?” You cover your mouth in shock, and he stumbles closer, falling forward against you.

“Hurts,” he grunts. 

Like always, you struggle to support his large body. Even more so now that one wrong move could further impale him. “What happened?” 

“Porcupines are supposed to be nocturnal,” he says, voice grim and shaky. “This one wasn’t.” 

If you had an extra hand, you’d drag it down your forehead right now. 

Skunks, raccoons, exceptionally angry squirrels—those had all happened before. A porcupine, though? That was new. Almost impressive.

“You just get into all sorts of trouble, don’t you.” Taking a step back, you brace your hands on his chest to examine him. “Let me have a look at you.” 

The quills look like toothpicks dipped in black ink. And while a few of them seem to have barely penetrated his skin, the majority mark the porcupine’s decisive victory. 

“Can you take them out?” he asks, staring down at you pleadingly. “If we hurry, we can still make the movie on time. I know I’m super late. I’m sorry.”

Twenty of nature’s finest knives in his face, and he’s worried about the movies?

“You obviously had a reason,” you murmur, cupping his less-affected left cheek in your hand. “I don’t know if I should, Koko. The tomato bath was one thing, but this… If I do it wrong, I’ll just make it worse.” 

His response is simple: “I trust you.” 

Cute. But not what you need right now.

Blowing out a breath, you stand up on your tiptoes and reach for one of the looser quills. Your fingers barely brush the tip of it when renewed anxiety shoots through you. “No, no. I can’t! I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“You couldn’t if you tried.” He snorts, then winces at the pain. 

“Tell that to the porcupine.” You narrow your eyes. “I think it missed the memo.” 

His ears swivel in acknowledgment. He’s 0–2 in battles today. 

“All right, change of plans,” you announce, clapping your hands and turning on your heel. “We can go to the movies another day. Right now, we need to go to the vet.” 

“It’s not that serious,” he protests. “I’d do it myself if I just had a mirror. Let’s go back to the house, and—”

“I’ll get the car ready.” Your word is final. 

His ears droop atop his head. 

Ultimately, you had to ease him into the passenger’s seat so he didn’t accidentally nudge any of the quills. You debated just shoving him into the trunk so he’d have extra room, but figured extraction would be a difficult task in the clinic’s often-packed parking lot. 

In the waiting room, you try to shield him as best you can from quizzical looks and a particularly curious cat, but he’s without a doubt the largest patient in the room. Likewise, once he’s called to the back, his sheer size makes the exam room furniture look like dollhouse accessories. The central table is nearly the length of his tail alone, and it creaks under his every movement. But you stand dutifully at his side, making sure he’s as comfortable as can be, given the circumstances. 

The vet’s entrance is prompt as always—part of the reason why Valko prefers this clinic. The other is the giant fish tank in the waiting room that he gets to busy himself with. Today, he was in too much pain, but he typically holds intense staring contests with its oblivious inhabitants, bragging to you whenever he “wins.” 

“Well, I typically ask, ‘What seems to be the problem?’,” Dr. Song jokes as she shakes both of your hands. “But today, I don’t think that’s necessary.” 

Sighing, Valko scratches at his jeans. “I went out for a run, and I heard something grunting in a bush nearby. I thought it might’ve been a lost pup, so I went to check it out. Anyone would, right?” He looks to you for support. 

Smiling softly, you rub a hand down his back. “Right.” Not in most circumstances, no!

Nodding gratefully, he continues. “As soon as I crouched down and saw it, it whipped its tail at me. Next thing I knew, it had stabbed me a million times.” 

“Well.” Dr. Song sighs and pulls out a pair of tweezers. “You’re not the worst case I’ve seen. Sometimes, it’s the whole face—and neck.” She waves her hand forward, and Valko scoots toward her on the table. “Let’s get to work, shall we?” 

You take a step back to give her some space, but she quickly shakes her head. “Oh no, you stay standing next to him. I might need you to hold him down.” 

──────

Right when you wonder if Valko’s death grip will shatter every bone in your hand, Dr. Song holds up the final quill in triumph. “That’s nineteen quills total. Looks like Mr. Porcupine let you off easy.” 

Valko kicks the air in desolation. “Doesn’t feel like it.” 

“It will when you wake up tomorrow and you don’t have to wonder, ‘How did it even get my nostrils?’,” she retorts, heading to the door. “Now, let me just get your treatment, and you’ll be free to go.” 

The second she steps into the hall, Valko turns to you and whimpers. “It hurts.” 

Frowning in sympathy, you run your free hand through his hair. “How bad?”

“Really.” 

You start to shush him and scratch the backs of his ears how he likes, but approaching footsteps force him to regain his composure. Still, when Dr. Song re-enters the room, he holds your hand a little tighter. 

“All right,” she begins. “I’m going to disinfect and put ointment on the wounds, and…” She pulls out a familiar, conical object from behind her back. 

Valko freezes as soon as he sees it. Your own mouth parts in shock. 

Is that…? 

No way. 

“...to keep them from getting infected, either through scratching or contamination, I recommend you wear this recovery cone for a week. Just to be safe.” 

When she waves the transparent cone through the air, Valko sputters in consternation. “You want to put me in jail?”

“Of course not. You’ve done nothing wrong. But to prevent further irritation, it’s best that for the next seven days, you only remove this from your neck when absolutely necessary. Also, you should avoid certain skin-to-skin activities that may aggravate the entry spots.” 

You understand her implication, but Valko’s tail thrashes in unease. “What…what kind of activities?” 

The doctor smiles down at him. “The usual. Scenting, kissing, anything further than that. Now! Raise your head for me so I can clean the punctures.” 

Before he does, Valko gives you a look that needs no decoding: I think I’m gonna be sick. 

Day 1

Your keys clatter on the kitchen counter as Valko trails inside behind you. 

Knowing he’ll be glum about his current confinement, you try to get ahead of it, hoping you can offset the bad with so much good, he’ll forget about being in plastic prison.

“So, is there anything you want to do this evening? Watch a drama, make double chocolate chip cookies, play a video game? I could order in from your favorite steakhouse if you want. Or we could go for a walk?” 

Despite your efforts, his lips stay curved downward. His ears barely twitch at the mention of his favorite things. 

“Okay, what about—”

“I look dumb,” he mumbles suddenly, blinking at you through the cone. It surrounds his head like petals to a flower, stopping just above his nose. He looks like an upright bullhorn, or perhaps a frilled lizard, but you can’t tell him that. 

“You look safe,” you say instead. “That’s what matters, yeah?”

“Not when I look dumb, too.” With a huff, he reaches behind his head, eager to free himself of Conecatraz. But before he can undo the clasp, you’re crossing your arms and tapping your foot, giving him a withering glare. 

“You know you aren’t supposed to touch that. Put your hands down.”

“Make me.”

Oh, really? That’s how it is?

Scoffing, you cock your head at him, and the first signs of regret appear on his face. “‘Make’ you, huh? Should I call the vet and tell her what you’re up to? I’m sure she has advice for patients who break the rules. Like, maybe if you mess with your cone too much and stunt your healing progress, you’ll just have to wear it even longer to make up for it?” You start to turn, ready to stalk toward the house phone. 

“No, wait!” Lurching forward, he tries to bend down to snuggle you in apology—a favorite habit of his. But you sidestep him quickly, clicking your tongue in admonishment. 

As he loses his balance, he gives you a look of ultimate betrayal.

“Don’t pout at me. I'm doing this for you, okay? You heard the doctor. Where your face is concerned, skin-to-skin contact is off limits for now.”

As if he didn't hear you, he ducks toward you again, desperate to marry his cone to your shoulder. This time, you give his arm a healthy pinch, and he yelps in shock.

“No, Koko. It's for your own good.”

Frustration grows on his face, beginning to claw at your heart, too. He’s never had to limit contact with you like this. Even when you first met, he was stuck to you like a magnet. 

Sighing, you try to bring him some comfort. “Here. Get on your knees.” 

He follows the order without further prompting, sinking to his knees on the kitchen floor. Even like this, he’s still half your height. 

“Come here.” Reaching through the cone’s opening, you pet the top of his head, running your fingers through his soft strands with care. When he leans into your touch, you trace his ears with light strokes and smile when he shudders. Gradually, the deep frown on his face shrinks to a mild line of displeasure. 

He wraps his strong arms around your thighs in a stubborn thank-you, and you can't help but coo down at him. “You’re my big, strong wolf, aren’t you? It’ll be over before you know it. You can handle this, no problem.” 

Day 3

Valko could not handle it, and there were many problems. 

In fact, while he was bored out of his mind the night of Day 2, he pried open his laptop and drafted a list of complaints.

Eating has become an unpleasant experience. While he’s permitted to remove the cone at mealtimes, he must eat in a separate room so your scent doesn’t lure his unprotected self over. Worse, you will not enter the room until he’s refastened the cone around his neck. The humiliation of having to cone himself solely to win your presence is quickly becoming too much to bear. 

You won’t let him go on errands with you, lest he get into something he shouldn't and aggravate his wounds. This makes him incredibly restless—especially when you come home smelling like other people and things, and there’s nothing he can do about it. This causes significant anxiety and emotional distress. 

He usually sleeps with his tail curled around you and his face shoved deep into your skin. This earns him a constant stream of your scent. However, a wall of pillows now separates your sides of the bed. Even worse, he is not permitted to remove the cone for the night. This causes discomfort and loss of familiarity, which undermines the restorative purpose of sleep. He will be sending you any medical bills that arise due to his sleep deprivation. 

Last, but perhaps most important: the cone obstructs his view of you, which he depends on for energy throughout the day. (You’re quick to deem this one questionable, because the cone is fully see through???)

A document of his grievances was taped to your blanket, just over your heart, this morning. 

Clearly, he had a lot on his mind. 

Now, you lie on the sofa watching TV, trying to cuddle with him as best you can. Your fingers are intertwined, and he’s sprawled awkwardly across your lap, face up and eyes begging. You try to ignore the incessant nonverbal pleading, rubbing circles into his skin with your thumb. 

Sometimes, he turns his head into your belly—or maybe a little lower—and inhales as deeply as he can through the plastic. When you gasp and swat at him, suddenly scandalized, he only huffs and grumbles, bringing you closer. “Just let me have this.”

As the sun dips in the sky, he almost relaxes. He grows captivated by the nature show you’re watching, ears going into overdrive from all the birdsongs and animal calls. It’s the calmest he’s been in the last three days, you think—until the “woodland creatures” portion of the show begins.

His mortal enemy lies in wait within.

“It’s not as big as the one that did this to me,” he growls at the porcupine stumbling around on the screen. “He was a monster.”

“I’m sure he was,” you answer automatically. You’re used to this by now. “How else could he have taken you down?”

Valko grunts in agreement, then pauses the TV. “Can we do something else now?”

“Okay.” You squint at him warily. “Something like what?”

Slowly, as if you won’t be able to see him, he trails his hand down your side, gently squeezing at your hip.

“No,” you sigh, firmly returning his hand to him. 

Tuning out his protests, you unpause the show. At that moment, a closeup of the porcupine’s snout fills the screen.

“Can you at least change the channel, then?” he mumbles.

Day 5

Since you’ve known him, Valko has never been one to give up. Driven and scrupulous, he approaches life with an outlook that’s both endearing and exhausting: if not now, maybe later.

It’s no surprise, then, when his attempts to hold and claim you like normal escalate to new heights. 

One time, you catch him in the midst of the most primal desperation. 

It’s not even noon yet, but here he is: laid out nude in the middle of your bed, head propped on his set of pillows while he clutches one of yours to his cone. With his instincts compromised and your scent already flooding his nose, he can’t yet tell that you’ve entered the room. And boy. If you thought he was shameless in public, Valko in private is a whole different animal.

His hand is all but glued to the heavy bulk between his legs, pumping and twisting like he’ll die if he doesn’t. 

His thumb circles his tip as he works his rhythm, abs flexing with each ragged breath. Every soft, broken moan of your name is an axe to your resolve. 

Before you do something you’ll regret, you try to back out of the bedroom and leave. But as soon as one foot is out the door, your shoulder hits the wall with a quiet thump. 

You freeze instantly, your heart dropping to your feet.

There’s no point in hoping he didn’t hear. To Valko, no sound is ever quiet.

He jerks his head toward you immediately, steady pumps getting wilder the moment your eyes meet. “Fuck,” he pants, writhing desperately on the sheets. His massive thighs tremble with every movement, sending tiny shocks of heat to your core. “Fuck.”

“Valk—”

“Please help me. Please, it hurts so bad. I need you so bad, please, it’s been days.”

You bite your lip so hard, you think you’ll draw blood. “You know I can’t.”

“I don’t care what the vet said,” he growls, fist finally coming to a stop. “I care about you.” 

Clinging to resolve, you cross your arms and stay put. At that, he closes his eyes and breathes slow and deep through his nose.

“Just— Help me finish, please. You don’t have to touch anywhere near my face. That’s the rule, right?”

As that pleading stare pins you to the spot once more, you bite your lip in consideration. He’s flushed all over, and a thin sheen of sweat coats his whole body. He really does need your help, but can you risk it?

When his mask slips, letting the hungry glint in his eyes shine through, you know you can’t.

“I won’t touch you, Valko. But you can use this.” Swiftly, you tug your shirt over your head and toss it onto the bed. He catches it with ease, and behind the cone, his face contorts in bewilderment.

“Use it?”

“To finish,” you explain, folding your arms across your bra. “It’s the safest way I can help you right now.”

Gazing at you like you’re a deity reborn, he presses the fabric to his cone’s exterior, right outside his nose. As he inhales, a deep, guttural groan escapes him. “Thank you,” he pants. His hand returns to his reddened length, and he redoubles his earlier efforts. 

Leaking arousal glistens on his skin, and you can hear how much easier it makes things for him. Covered in his own desire, he slides his hand up and down with no friction, creating lewd, wet sounds that echo through the room. 

“Thank you, thank you— Fuck, thank you. I’ve done this like ten times already, and it’s taken me longer every go,” he admits shamelessly. “This is so much better. Not as good as you, but so much better. Thank you.” 

He bucks his hips into his giant fist, and for a moment, you fear your shared bed might collapse under his ferocity. Once he starts licking the cone’s wall, as if he’ll be able to taste your shirt through the plastic, you almost want to avert your eyes and leave the two of them alone together. 

You don’t have long to ponder it. Soon after, Valko comes quickly with a deep groan of your name, coating his skin in spills of white. As he convulses in pleasure, you approach his bedside to stroke his hair through the cone’s opening—just like you have for the last several days. Valko whines at your touch. 

“Shh, baby. It’s okay,” you whisper. “Just two more days, yeah?”

His response is halfway between a growl and a grunt. Chuckling, you bend to kiss his damp, darkened hair. “Just two more days.” 

Day 7

At 12 a.m., you wake to an empty bed. “Koko?”

There’s no response to your call. Groaning, you throw off the covers and stretch your tired limbs. Where did he run off to? It’s barely been two hours since you went to bed.

Hugging yourself to keep warm, you pad into the dark hallway. The home gym is clear, and he’s not in the kitchen sneaking chocolate. Where could he be?

It doesn’t take long to find out.

In the living room, Valko stands at the back door, gazing at the moon through the window. 

He’s clad only in loose grey sweats. More notably, he’s missing his cone. 

The only indication that he knows you’re there is a near imperceptible twitch of his ears. “It’s day seven, did you know that?” he rumbles. 

Suddenly nervous, you shift on your feet. “I did.” 

“So you also know what I’ve been missing the last seven days.” He turns to face you, eyes stormy and narrowed. “What I haven’t been able to stop thinking about. What I begged you to give me, but you refused. Acted like you were doing me a favor,” he spits out, lips curling into a snarl.

In the moonlight filtering through the window, his amber eyes are a new level of otherworldly. Pale, greyish-white slivers flicker across his chest, making his taut abs seem to ripple in front of you. 

After seven days, he looks very, very grumpy.

You get the sense that you’re in trouble. 

“Koko,” you start, stepping forward to placate him, “you know that’s not—”

“Don’t ‘Koko’ me,” he snaps. “That’s reserved for people I’m close with.”

Is he serious? “You know I’m closer to you than anyone.”

“Right now? After this week? I’m not so sure. But you will be.” His tail swishes behind him as he takes a menacing step toward you. “Come here,” he growls out. 

“We can talk about this, but I’m not going to—”

“Three.”

“Okay, are you seriously threatening me with a countdown?”

“Two.” 

“That’s my thing! You know, when you won’t let me get out of bed, or when you bite too hard, or—”

He doesn’t let you get to “one.”

When he bursts forward at superhuman speed, he doesn’t even give you the chance to run. 

You’re in his arms in an instant, thrashing wildly as he tries to pull you both to the floor. “You’re heavy as fuck!” you bark at him. “Let me go!”

“No.” He overpowers you easily, lowering you to the carpet and quickly pinning you there. He only takes a moment to revel in your submission—your high squeaks and whimpers and feeble attempts to swat him off. Evidently, he has bigger plans for you.

While you wriggle beneath him, he deftly kicks off his sweats and quickly deals with your clothes. You’re wearing only a nightshirt—his, you notice all too late—and completely vulnerable to his impatience.

He rips a line straight down the middle, clumsily shrugging the worn fabric off you. While you’re too busy gawking to register his actions, he slides down your body, coming to a halt at your traitorously wet heat. 

“Usually, at least a little bit of my scent lingers here,” he says, inhaling you deeply. “You’ve lost it after not taking me for so long. But we’ll fix it, won’t we?”

When you don’t respond, his eyes flash up at you. “Won’t we?”

“Y-Yeah,” you whisper, signing away your fate.

“Yeah, we will.” Surging forward, he places an open-mouthed kiss to your entrance, swirling his tongue into you without warning. His ensuing groan could start a national scandal. 

“I’m gonna let you go, all right?” He nips your inner thigh. “Don’t try to run from me. I’ll catch you.” 

He watches closely as he eases off of you, but there’s no need—you obey. 

“Good girl,” he mocks, and you break his gaze with a huff. 

Chuckling, he sweeps his hair back and lies down on the carpet, grabbing your arm and dragging you to him. “Sit on me.”

“…What?”

“My face. Sit on it.”

“…What?” 

“Oh, I get it. Is this a ‘make me’ kind of thing? Well, if you insis—”

“No!” You hold your hands out in defense, grimacing when he grins at you. “You know we’ve never…done that before.”

He shrugs. “First time for everything. Hop on.”

You stay put, shaking your head with vigor no matter how hard your center pulses. “What if you can’t breathe?”

“Don’t need to.”

“I think you do, but okay.” Playing with your fingers, you search for another excuse. “What if I’m too heavy?”

Valko’s smile slips, and his top lip curls as he looks at you flatly. “Now you’re just insulting me.” 

In retrospect, you should’ve known that one wouldn’t get you very far.

“Fine,” you concede shakily. Crawling toward him, you put your hands on either side of his massive body and sit down on him in a straddle. Gingerly, you scoot up, and up, and up, until your hips are right below his chin. His smirk widens all the way. 

“Last chance to back out,” you offer helplessly. How would grilled porcupine taste?

“In your dreams.” In an instant, his arm shoots out behind you and guides you forward. You cry out the second your sensitive flesh meets his skin, nearly cursing from the foreign sensation. 

For a moment, all he does is breathe you in. Lewd, deep inhales, trying to siphon the scent from your depths. “Missed this,” he murmurs, words slightly muffled. “Missed you. Fuck, you’re so good. You smell so good.”

You’re afraid to look down, but you don’t have to. You can hear his smile.

Instead, you look behind you, seeing that his thick, veiny length is flushed and leaking already. Your gulp echoes in your ears. 

A soft press of his lips to your throbbing clit pulls you back to your senses. With another kiss, he positions the bud over his nose and your entrance over his mouth, so he’s sure to catch all your desire.

When he squeezes your hip, you know he’s asking for more. Gently, timidly, you rock against his face to appease him. Valko, though, ever observant when you’re involved, knows you’re withholding your full weight. 

And he won’t have it. 

Simultaneously, he delivers a sharp slap to your backside and nips your clit in warning. When you squeal out into the cool air, he soothes the sting with a searing lash of his tongue. 

“I’m trying!” you cry. “Whenever we do this, I’m always the one on my back! I feel weird.”

Squeezing your hips, he lifts you up just enough to speak. “Tough.”

Then, he plops you right back down, the smack of skin on skin spreading a wildfire across your cheeks.

Eager to explore, he glides his tongue around your core, poking and prodding wherever he likes. When you arch away from the pleasure, too sensitive to stay still, he decides he’s had enough. 

His tight grip on your hips is his first act of defiance. But when he starts bouncing you on his face, alternating between his mouth and nose, you’re more than ready to throw in the towel. 

“Valko!” you whine. Up and down, down and up. Up and down again and again. How long has he wanted this?

A response would require a pause in his actions, so of course, he doesn’t provide one. Instead, he flattens his tongue against your clit and makes you grind your hips down onto him, like he’s nothing but an extension of you. “Valko!” you repeat, stars quickly clouding your vision.

All he offers is an unburdened grunt, clearly not planning on stopping anytime soon. And why would he, when there’s so much to lap up?

A mix of his saliva and your arousal pools between you, with sound effects previously unheard of filling the room. You’re so wet, at one point, you almost slide down his face to his forehead—but he hauls you back up with a laugh, the vibrations only exacerbating the issue. When you pull at his hair, shy and embarrassed, he merely sucks your clit into his mouth and releases it with a pop. 

Captive to his relentless touch, it isn’t long before your muscles contract and release, sending more and more wetness gushing toward his waiting mouth. 

Your mind is a haze as he licks you clean, making sure not to waste a single drop. You do register, though, how he inhales once again when he’s finished. “Smells like me again. That’s better.”

Thinking his wrath has exhausted itself, you feel your body deflate like a popped balloon. You’re more than ready to melt into the sheets and sleep off the worst of the aftermath. 

“We should seal the deal, though. Just to be sure.”

Valko has other plans.

Before you can blink, he flips you over with force, driving your hands and knees into the carpet. When you yelp, he squeezes your backside in apology, only to slip his fingers down to your open slit. Once he confirms that you’re ready for him, he braces his hands on your hips and slides into you with ease. 

Your startled gasp is his grand opportunity. As you cry out his name, he shoves his fingers into your open mouth, making you sputter and swallow around them. With his other hand, he clamps your jaw shut so you’re forced to bite him, your blunt teeth barely a threat against his skin. 

All the while, he’s moaning and laughing, hips stuttering from his rapid thrusts. Each time his base slaps your backside, you feel him grow larger and larger, until you’re being speared on something you’re not sure you can take. But as your muscles contract around him once more, squeezing him with all that they have, you don’t think that matters anymore.

In tune with your own release, hot spurts shoot deep into your channel, followed by a searing, swollen pressure you don’t know if you’ll ever get used to. It’s at this point that the last of your strength crumbles. But when you start to slump into the floor, you find you can’t move too far—not without bringing Valko with you. 

As you both catch your breath, locked together until the comedown, he slides his hand out of your mouth and slaps your cheek lightly, signaling for you to open your screwed-shut eyes. When you do, he sticks his drool-coated fingers into his own mouth, canines poking into his flesh as he swipes his tongue greedily. 

All you can do is whine.

You don’t know when your bodies will loosen up enough for you to separate. All you know is that he’s got you here, right where he wants you, for a long, long, agonizingly long time. 

──────

“Are you satisfied?” you deadpan as the beast finally tucks you into bed. 

“For now.” You can hear his smirk as he flicks off the lights. Doesn’t make much of a difference, though.

It’s dawn. 

“But you can check back with me in an hour. Maybe my answer will be different.”

“In an hour, I will be dead to the world and recovering from you,” you grumble. Suddenly, you purse your lips. “I’m gonna miss that cone, you know.”

Even in the dim morning light, you can see his brows furrow. “What?” 

“You looked cute in it. Like a little puppy.” Reaching out, you grab his face and squish his cheeks between your fingers. “So cute.”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, but his tail thumps the mattress. “Whatever. It did have its benefits, though. Tonight was so good, I wouldn’t mind a repeat.”

“You really think you can do that again? Seven whole days, no contact?”

“‘Course I do. It wasn’t that hard for me.”

Your eyes narrow into slits. “Not even you believe that.” 

“Yeah. This was fun, though,” he says through a yawn. “We should do it again sometime. Goodnight.”

As he rolls over and tucks his tail around you, blanketing you in half his body weight, a nagging thought won’t leave your head.

Should you switch vets? 

But lying beneath your panting, sweating husband as he ruts into you from behind doesn’t make even the least bit of your pussy twitch. While the foreplay started off good, it started during a moment where you were just chilling, reading a book, kind of hungry, and not in the mood for sex…but of course, your husband can’t read the room and is always thinking with his dick. 

So when he proceeds to speed up and repeat that “oh, yeah, oh, yeah” mantra that he does when he gets close, you lie there on your tummy and let it happen, just letting him enjoy it.

You feel like you owe him this. After all, you did take him away from his job and responsibilities as a businessman for a seven-day trip at a resort along the Caribbean sea. Maybe lackluster sex isn’t too bad. Not like other things in your marriage. 

And you are reminded of those things when you feel him pull out and spray his cum on your ass, stilling his hips and letting out a loud grunt as he grips your ass so tight that you wince with pain. When he finally lets out a sigh of relief, he stares down at you, a lazy smile on his face. “Did you cum?” he asks. You nod though you certainly didn’t. But you are the dutiful wife, moaning when you should and pumping up his ego. 

Satisfied, your hubby gives you a chaste kiss on the lips and rolls off of you, leaving you lying naked on the pristinely white sheets of your king-sized bed. You purposely ordered a suite for the two of you for this trip, complete with sofa bed, a vanity for your makeup, a mini-bar, and a balcony overlooking the beach. Perfect for a “baection” with your man to get your marriage back on track and spend time together…or so you thought. 

Once again, reality smacks you in the face when he moves to the edge of the bed naked, showing off his toned body. He truly is a beautiful specimen, but if any woman got him in the bedroom now, they would dumb his ass before he could bust a nut.

The sex while you were dating was quite good, but now? He barely takes the time to make you cum. One could argue that it’s because of his demanding career, but you always take the time to make him “arrive” when you are intimate. 

But him? Crickets. Not to mention no consideration for your pleasure, no care, and no spark. You can’t remember the last time he even attempted to make you cum!

And then…there is the worse part. You turn over on your side as he slides on his robe. “You’re not gonna cuddle?” you disappointedly ask. Your husband pulls a face like he doesn’t believe you’re serious. “You know I don’t cuddle after sex, Y/N. It’s nasty.” 

You scowl at him. He didn’t used to be like this at all. He used to snuggle with you afterwards. Now after sex he is more concerned about cumming and then cleaning up, barely regarding you as his wife. “And cumming on my ass isn’t?” you ask, your tone snipped. He pauses from tying his robe and grimaces. “Well, I was gonna ask if you wanted to join me, but not with that attitude.” 

You rise from your position and get under the covers, the cool sheets feeling like silk against your naked body. “I’m sorry, I just…we never cuddle anymore. I thought this trip would change that.”

Your husband only sighs as if you pouring your heart out to him is more of an inconvenience to his shower than not. “We can cuddle after my shower, Y/N. Don’t be so impatient.” 

And then he is gone, disappearing into the bathroom and leaving you alone to feel hurt. And then that hurt stews into irritation. When you hear the water running, it steams just as your anger does.

You start to wonder what you did any of this for. Stressing over the best resorts and just to appease a husband who could care less about the waning romance in your marriage? Four years together, one year married, and all of it hanging on a thin thread because he refuses counseling, therapy, or to talk about your issues. 

Your anger pushes you to rise from the prison of the bed, wipe your hubby’s spunk off your ass with some tissues, and get dressed in your brand new bikini. It is a vibrant yellow that makes your brown skin pop and makes your ass look absolutely delectable. It is among one of the pieces of sexy vacation outfits that you brought along for this vacation. After dressing, you begin packing your beach bag, barely turning around when you hear the shower shut off and footsteps approach. 

“Hey, where ya goin’?” your husband asks as if he didn’t just reject you. You don’t turn around as you toss sun tan oil and a romance book in your bag. “I’m going to the pool,” you snippily reply. “Alone.” 

Your husband is silent, watching you pack. “But I thought we were gonna cuddle.” You scoff, finally turning to face him dripping wet in his towel. “Well, we could’ve, but you wanted to shower first after fucking me when I told you about three times that I wasn’t in the mood.” 

You watch his face change from confusion to irritation. Yet another fight and you’ve only been on this ship for a day! “So now I’m the bad guy now?” he scoffs. “You always do this, Y/N. You always wanna twist shit around on me when you don’t get your way!” 

You tilt your head at him, glaring daggers. “When I don’t get my way?” you parrot, enraged.

You could smack him with the sunscreen you’re holding gripped in your hand. “All I did was ask for a fucking snuggle with my husband who only shows me affection when he’s got his dick in me.” 

“That isn’t true!” he barks. You scoffingly laugh. “Oh, it’s not? I had to beg you to come on this vacation just to try to re-spark our romance…and you didn’t even wanna do that!”

You had been planning your introduction to the idea for months, praying that he would agree. He only agreed when you mentioned that you would pay for it and all he had to do was take off for the week. Thank God for your high-paying job and you saving up money for this trip. 

Your husband stands before you now, fuming and fumbling for something to say. You continue to pack until completion and grab your wedges and key card before putting on your sunglasses. “I’ll be back up later,” you grumble. “Don’t wait up.” And you leave him standing in his towel, shutting the hotel door behind you before venturing off to the pool for a cool dip and a cool drink. 

Your pool time to decompress proves to be a good plan. Deciding that the pool is too crowded for your liking, you head to the adults-only area complete with two bars, hot tubs, and ocean views galore. You go to the bar to order yourself a pretty and strong cocktail to take the last ten minutes out of your head.

As you sip on your drink with its pineapple and orange wedges on the glass, your phone rings in your bag. You fish it out, grinning as your friend’s name flashes across the screen. Thank God for the wi-fi package. “Heeeey, babes!” she shouts when you answer. Hearing her voice makes you homesick instantly. “Hey, babes,” you greet. “God, am I happy to hear from you.” 

“I guess the plan isn’t going well,” she replies. “I was gonna ask how your trip is.” 

You cross your legs on the stool, showing off your legs and skin glowing with sun tan oil for all to see. “Oh, I’m loving it, but not being in the same room with a man who won’t even cuddle me after fucking me.” You have admitted some things to your friend about your romance issues in your marriage, but not this. 

“Daaamn, it’s like that?!” she gasps. “Girl, you should've been divorced that loser! I don’t know why you’re even bothering with this BS. You’ve only been married for a year!” 

She’s been telling you this since you got married, reluctantly becoming your maid of honor despite her clear disdain for your fiancé. “But we’ve been together for four,” you remind her. “I can’t just walk away from that. When things are tough in a long term relationship, you try to work ‘em out!” 

‘Until you can’t anymore,’ a little voice in your head remarks. ‘And maybe you’ve reached that limit.’ You wipe the thought away with another sip of your cocktail, your tastebuds exploding with the taste of rum and guava fruit. 

“Yes, but why bother if you’re not happy?” your friend asks. “I mean, are you doing any of this because of you or him?” 

You stop short, thinking about this. Is any of this for you anymore? What about your happiness? Your feelings? “This is for both of us,” you finally reply. “I can’t go on like this anymore. No touching, kissing, or romance…” 

Lately, it’s been happening more since your husband’s promotion as you expressed to your friend months before. The dates have been dwindling, the connection is fading, and the sex is less than enjoyable. You aren’t happy, but you aren’t willing to give up either. 

“How’s he been on the trip?” your friend asks. You use your straw to stir the ice around in your glass. “Just not paying much attention to me, drinking a lot…looking at other women.”

You wince as your friend begins to explode with rage. “EXCUSE ME?!” she bellows. “Oh, heeeell no! You’re gonna have to get even, girl. If he’s gonna do what he wants on this trip, so will you.” 

“What does that mean?” you ask, not entirely sure you want to know the answer. She is happy to elaborate regardless: “It means finding the hottest guy there and getting some vacay dick, no strings attached.” 

You nearly choke on the bit of pineapple wedge you bite into. “I can’t cheat on my husband!” you hiss into the phone. “What kinda girl do you think I am?!” 

Your friend huffs in response. “Fine, then just flirt. Y/N, this is about your enjoyment too! You’re there for another six days, so why not make the most of it with an international stud?” 

You can’t believe you're hearing this. You must have heatstroke. “You’re insane,” you scoff. “I can’t just pick some random guy and—“ You cut yourself off reaching across the bar for a napkin only for your hand to brush against someone else’s. 

“Oh, sorry!” you gasp. “I wasn’t paying any….” Your words immediately die when you catch a glimpse of the red-hot stud sitting next to you at the bar. Literally, his long hair is red-hot, cascading down to his broad shoulders and chest exposed through the few unbuttoned buttons to his Hawaiian top. He is a big guy, at least six-foot something and all muscle as he sits in the stool next to you, bigger than you even while sitting down.

Your eyes trail down to his red trunks hanging loosely from his muscular thighs and calves right down to his big feet in his open-toe slides. Your eyes lecherously slide back up to his beefy arms, one of them inked with a sleeve, and the sharp, toothy smile he gives you. 

“Don’t sweat it,” he replies, his crimson eyes kind, sparkling in the summer sun. “It’s my bad. I was actually gonna ask what drink that was.” You are so gobsmacked by this sexy stranger than you barely hear your friend screaming at you. “Y/N?!” she screeches. “Who is that?! Is he hot?!” 

“Gottagocallyoulaterloveyabye,” you say in a rush before hanging up. The red-hot stranger continues to smile, making you sweat more than the hot rays above. “U-Uh, it’s called a Sex On The Beach.” 

He laughs, the sound making your stomach curl. Even his laugh is sexy! “Interesting drink name,” he chuckles. “I heard they have a Cherry Popper and somethin’ called a Pink Pussy here too. Bakugou likes those.” 

“Bakugou?” you question. He tuts, smacking himself on the forehead with a sheepish smile. “Oh, sorry; my husband.” 

Your eyes glide down to the gold band on one of his thick ring fingers. Of course, he’s married. “Oh,” you sigh, wilting in disappointment…but why? You’re married! “I’ll have to try those ones. My husband ain’t a fan of cocktails like that; he calls them girly.” 

You may as well let the stranger know that you’re married too. It’s only right…right? “Girly or not, they’re still hella good!” he laughs. “I know me and my man don’t care. I’m Kirishima, by the way.” He sticks one of his big, calloused, scarred hands out for a shake. You ignore the way your pulse jumps as your palm connects with his. 

Kirishima? Where have you heard that name before? Suddenly, it clicks. “Wait, are you—“ 

“Red Riot?” he chuckles. “Just don’t blow my cover. I think the Hawaiian shirt is working.” You are shocked. You’ve never met a celebrity before, let alone a pro hero. You’re not used to seeing him without his gear either! 

“It’s a pleasure, Red Riot,” you whisper, once again shaking his hand. It’s really just an excuse to feel his calloused palm gripped in yours again. “So you guys are here on a much-needed vacation?” you ask, sipping on your drink.

“Emphasis on ‘much-needed’,” he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Plus it’s our fifth year wedding anniversary and we wanted to celebrate. We’ve been together since our UA days.” 

High school sweethearts?! You could melt right here on your stool. “That’s so sweet!” you coo, raising your glass to him. “Well, happy anniversary to the both of you.” The redheaded hunk smiles, blinding you. “Well, thank you…uh…” 

“Y/N,” you introduce. “L/N.” The pro’s raises his sexy, pierced brow in interest. “Full government?” he chuckles. “Ejirou Kirishima then. My friends call me—“ 

“Oi, shitty hair!” someone barks from the lounge chairs. “What’s the hold up?! You went to get drinks five minutes ago!” You turn your head to the rough n’ gruff-sounding voice, nearly dropping your drink at the sight of the platinum blonde stud standing before you. 

He is ALL man, just as his husband is: big, tall, all muscle, and all tattoos. In opposition to his husband, Dynamight has two sleeves plus a large dragon tattoo snaking around his left slave. Its tail trails up to his orange swim trunks that match the black skull tank top he wears. 

Despite the Raybans covering his eyes, you can tell his eyes are as intense as his handsome face etched in seriousness is. The sun glows against his blonde undercut and the piercings glinting in his ears. His plump bottom lip and brow are pierced as well, definitely exposing you for your fetish. 

The redhead turns to you with a smirk. “It’s Kiri, actually,” he whispers. He then rises to greet his husband, smiling extra big. “Sorry, babe; I got caught up talkin’ to my new friend here. Y/N, this is my husband Katsuki Bakugou.” 

When Bakugou finally stops in front of you, you have to use every ounce of energy to appear normal while sitting with the two mountain-sized pros while they stand over you. Bakugou takes his shades off, putting them on his forehead. Those vermillion eyes are like lasers, intensified by Bakugou’s brooding look your way. His stare is hotter than the damn sun and you lose your cool. 

“N-Nice to meet you,” you stammer. You stick your hand out for a shake. Bakugou stares at it for a brief moment before he takes it in his inked hand. “Likewise. You tryin’ to steal my husband from me?” His expression is so steely that you nearly miss the quirk at the corner of his mouth. 

“He’s joking,” Kiri chuckles, nudging Bakugou in the arm. “Don’t scare the poor lady! I was just telling Y/N here that we’re on our anniversary trip.” Bakugou rolls his eyes but his cheeks are flushed pink. “Ya might as well tell it to everybody on this fuckin’ island.” 

Kiri laughs, pressing a kiss to his husband’s cheek. “So are you here on your own anniversary trip?” the redhead curiously asks. You mentioned your hubby.” 

“Oh, uh…” You freeze, thinking of something to answer with. “Maybe with friends?” Kiri adds. “Family? Or a solo traveler? Which would be cool too!” 

“Jesus, shitty hair, what’s with the third degree?” Bakugou criticizes, glaring at his husband through his shades. The redhead goes red in the face, somehow making himself look sexier. “Sorry. I might’ve had too much before this.” 

“I’m here with my husband,” you finally answer. “Nothing too special.” You take a sip of your drink to cool yourself down and give yourself some liquid courage. Discussing your marriage woes with strangers isn’t ideal for a starter convo for you, yet here you are. The couple look confused and quite perturbed at your statement. “What does that mean?” Bakugou asks, raising a pierced brow at you. 

You shrug, feeling hot all over and the breeze from the ocean provides no comfort. You shouldn’t have talked. “Just that it’s not an anniversary trip or a honeymoon. It was my idea for a vacation.” You almost say that the entire trip came out of your pocket as well. “We’ve been together for four years, married for one.” 

“Well, that’s somethin’ to celebrate!” Kiri exclaims, obviously trying to lighten things up. “And if you’re thinkin’ up fun trips like this, he should feel lucky to have you.” The genuine nature of his tone and the kindness in his eyes nearly make you fold. “You wouldn’t be the first to think that,” you bashfully reply, “but thank you.” 

Kiri looks like he wants to say more but a tray of shot glasses wedged with lime and filled with clear liquid stops him short. “Shots on the house for the happy couple?” the bartender asks with a grin. When he motions to you with the tray, you realize with horror what he’s referring to. “O-Oh, we’re not—“ 

“Don’t be so coy, honey,” Kiri laughs, giving you a wink. “Thanks, sir! We’d love free shots!” He takes the tray from the bartender with no problem and gives him a thankful grin. You stare at him, wondering what in the world just happened and if you’re possibly hallucinating. Bakugou nudges your hip with his, smirking. “Don’t think nothin’ of it. You looked like you needed some tequila.” 

He passes you a shot, the strong aroma nearly singeing your nostril hairs. An open invitation. After all, how often do you find yourself drinking with celebrities? Let alone pro heroes? And it is a vacation. “I guess I do,” you giggle, taking the shot from his thick fingers. You ignore the way your stomach flip flops as your fingertips brush his. “Cheers then!” 

Bakugou’s eyes are full of mirth and interest. “To what?” he asks. You give him a secretive smile, placing a lime wedge in your mouth and sucking on it. You think the couple’s eyes flitting down to your mouth is just a trick of the sun. “To an unforgettable trip,” you respond. 

Clink! 

The three of you clink shots and down them in unison, laughing when Kiri coughs his lungs out. For the next fifteen minutes or so while Kiri orders cocktails for himself and Bakugou, you chat. 

You learn about Musutafu, their home in Japan, is riddled with even more pro heroes than in the U.S. 

You learn about Kiri’s love for spicy foods and Bakugou’s secret obsession with the manga series 

‘A Sign of Affection’ that you both gush over. You tell them about your job and daily life; your likes and dislikes; your relationship with your husband. 

You notice the way Kiri keeps a hand on Bakugou’s knee while sitting to stop him from bouncing it so much. Your eyes catch the way Bakugou’s fingers toy with the hair at the nape of Kiri’s neck. Little things like this make you envious. Not just of them, but of the fact that you can’t join in such PDA. Your husband would never hear of it. 

By the time the convo comes to an end, you feel that buzz and rush of warmth from your drink and three tequila shots. And that recklessness that causes you to eye the couple’s crotches too much.

You should lay down before you do something you’ll regret. “You two should probably head back to your seats,” you tell the couple. “That family with the five kids looks awfully desperate for a chair.” You nod at the stressed-looking couple hollering at their kids to pick up their beach towels and stop fighting. 

Bakugou grumbles something, already getting up to lay claim on their chairs. “Well, maybe we’ll see you around again,” Kiri says with a smile. “Me and Bakugou are thinkin’ of going to Club Paradise. You should bring your man along.” You blink in confusion before your brain, fuzzy from the tequila and the couples’ mixed cologne, realizes that he means the resort’s nightclub. 

“Or just bring yourself,” Bakugou cuts in, not even caring how this suggestion sounds. “Sounds like your man is a wet blanket…no offense.” He shrugs passively though he doesn’t look like he’s that apologetic.

You’re sure the tipsy details you provided to them about your hubby doesn’t help: he doesn’t dance, he hates going out, and he’s all about work. “It’s fine,” you chuckle. “He might be interested, but we’ll see. I’ll give it some thought.” 

“You should,” Kiri replies, unintentionally flexing as he stretches. You do your best to not stare. “A good drink and a dance always helps to…ease the tension.” Your ears perk at the way he says the last three words: seductive. Suggestive. A hot promise lying between the lines. If he meant it to come off this way, he succeeded because your body instantly responds. 

“Especially with good company, I’m sure,” you say, shocking yourself by flirting back. Even more so with the way you stare straight at Kiri and Bakugou while you say it, memorizing their eye color for later. The two look like they want to say more to you, but they are interrupted by two pineapples being shoved at them. 

“For Mr. Kirishima?” the bartender calls. Their drinks are done which means they are leaving now. You feel a pang of disappointment, but it ebbs somewhat when Kiri shoots you a smile. “See ya around, Y/N,” he says before walking off with his husband. As they leave, Bakugou turns back to look at you, his crimson eyes playing with you over the rim of his shades. 

When you turn around to order a cool drink of water (because you desperately need it), your bikini bottoms feel sticky and you’re bothered. Extremely bothered. Especially when you sense that the couple is still eyeing you down from the back. Your nipples tingle beneath your bikini top and everything feels too stimulating. You haven’t had any guy make you feel this horny in years, let alone your husband! 

Maybe you will take your friend’s advice tonight. There is no shame in flirting and having a little fun that doesn’t involve infidelity. Luckily for you, your husband has the same idea that the hot couple did: a night at Paradise.

When you go back upstairs for a shower and a nap, he peppers you in apologetic kisses. “I thought a lot about what you said earlier and I wanna make it up to you. Tonight will just be about you and me.” You believe him when he says this, trusting his word….until you actually get there. 

After a shower, a nap, and some dinner at the buffet, you dress in your vacation clubbing finest: a short, backless dress that ties at the neck and some strapped gold heels with your white toes out. You leave your braids down, spray some fruity body mist on your skin, slather your body in shimmery oil, and you feel delicious as you stare at yourself in the mirror. 

You wonder, briefly, if the sexy couple you met earlier will think so too. You’d be lying if you said you aren’t looking forward to seeing them tonight if they come. It’s the only thing worth staying for as you watch your drunk husband flirt with an Amazonian woman with the skin-tight dress, spray tan, and veneers right in your face. You can’t even enjoy the beautiful, tropical ambience or the music because of how irritated you are. 

First, your husband decided to pre-game by ordering a whiskey with dinner. Now he’s here barely spending time with you when you look like a whole snack and disrespecting you?! He wouldn’t even be here if you didn’t pay for the trip!

The woman gives a raucous laugh at something he says, her teeth reminding you of a camel’s. “I can’t believe you live so close to me! What’s it like there? Are the guys as handsome as you?” 

Your husband grins, sloppy and proud. You decide you’ve had enough and stroll up to them, putting a possessive hand on his shoulder. “Yes, they are,” you reply to the irritated woman. You whip your husband around to face you, fixing his collar. “Babe, why don’t we go get some drinks? There’s tons of cheap choices.” 

At the mention of more booze, he nods and goes into his shorts for his wallet. Then he pats himself down. Then he checks his phone. “Shit, I left my card in the room,” he huffs. “Why don’t you get the drinks, babe? You’ve got your money, right?” You stare at him, your anger boiling like hot soup. “You left your credit card upstairs?” you hiss. 

“But it was your idea to come here. Not mine.” Your husband begins to look around the room, concerned about other people but not you. “Listen, let’s not do this here, especially in public. Just get us some drinks and we can discuss this later.”

He gives you a look like he isn’t down with your “BS” tonight and you quickly storm off, heading to the bar. You could leave him standing here if you wanted to. Then he can be concerned with what other people think. 

You are so angry that you nearly miss someone calling your name from the end of the bar. You look and your heart flips at the sight of the sexy couple that have been invading your thoughts since your first meeting at the pool.

Both are wearing Hawaiian shirts in differing ways (Kiri’s is slightly unbuttoned at the chest while Bakugou keeps his open to expose his white wife beater underneath) and shorts that don’t drag your attention to their dicks at all. 

“Hey, you made it!” Kiri announces, looking overjoyed to see you. Bakugou sits on a stool, a smirk playing on his juicy-looking lips. “So she decided to show up. Where’s your husband at?” 

He looks around the club glowing with pink and purple lights shaped like palm leaves.

“Oh, chatting away with new friends,” you passively reply, so glad that you sprayed yourself with your favorite body mist. “So nice to see you two again.” Bakugou shrugs, his eyes flitting across your form. “Well, we did say we’d be here.” 

“Correction: I said we MIGHT show up,” Kiri states, earning an eye roll from his husband. “But now that you’re here, I’m glad we decided to come tonight. You look great.” His crimson eyes drink in your outfit and legs glowing with shimmery, gold oil, much to your satisfaction. “You two don’t look too bad yourselves,” you flirt, shooting them both a smile. “The Hawaiian print fits you.” 

“Bakugou hates it,” Kiri whispers, making you giggle. He raises a brow at you, curious. “So your man sent you to get drinks? Or are you just that independent?” 

You can tell he is trying to joke with you, but knows that your answer is the latter. “Both,” you sigh. “He’s a little occupied right now, but he wanted us to come here tonight. Something we could both do together.” 

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. What a crock of shit. “And where’s he at now?” Bakugou wonders aloud, still looking around the room. Why he wants to meet your spouse so badly is beyond you. “He should be right…”

You turn, pointing an acrylic nail behind you at the spot where your husband was before…but he is gone. Your stomach drops and you begin to look around the club at unfamiliar faces. He couldn’t have…he wouldn’t… 

Then you hear his ridiculous, drunk laugh and peer across the dance floor where he is sitting in a wicker chair with another woman with enough Botox in her face that her muscles don’t move. You feel your anger reach its breaking point. He left you. He left you.

“Hold my spot,” you growl to the couple, and then you’re storming off, titties and hair angrily bouncing as you do. Your eyes are set dead on your husband, ready to tear him a new one. 

When you finally stop in front of him, it takes him a while to even register your presence. In the time you were at the bar, he has gotten even drunker, his collar askew and his eyes glassy. “There you are!” he exclaims.

You place a hand on your hip, glaring down at him. “And here you are, abandoning me and talking to a chick who isn’t your wife.” 

The Botox woman’s face pales and she scowls at your man. “Your wife?” she scoffs. “You didn’t tell me you were married! Where’s your wedding band?!” Your eyes shoot down to his hand. Sure enough, it’s gone. He took it off. 

“That was just so I wouldn’t lose it!” your husband quickly protests. He stands and puts his hands up as if calming a crazed animal. “Relax, babe. She’s just interested in a possible investment in my company.” You cut your eyes to the woman sipping her martini, looking like a kid caught in the cookie jar. “Oh, I’m sure she is,” you mutter. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” 

You turn and begin to walk off, but you hear your husband sigh, “Oh, here we go”. That enrages you even further. You storm off to a secluded area in the club, arms crossed and fuming. Your husband follows, looking aloof to your rage. “What’d I do now, Mommy?” he drunkenly asks.

You shove him, earning a few looks of interest and alarm. “Don’t talk to me like that!” you hiss. “How could you just abandon me like that in a place I’m unfamiliar with and with people that I don’t know?!” 

Your husband glares at you, confused and irritated. “I didn’t abandon you! You were getting the drinks!” 

But you barely listen to this half-assed argument, firing off like a firecracker. “That’s the other thing; you wanted to come here tonight and you left the room without your money. So now your wife has to pay for everything while you get drunk off of my dime and flirt with other women.”

You flash your hand at him where your diamond ring glistens. “And I didn’t leave my ring either!” 

Your husband rolls his eyes, his face growing red. “I wasn’t flirting with—“ 

“Oh, save it!” you snap. “Or were you too trashed those other times too that you don’t even remember?” He pulls a face, looking at you as if you’re the crazy one. “What is this about, Y/N? Why are you being this way?”

You can feel tears pushing at your tear ducts, but you push them away; you refuse to cry in public. “I wanted to come on this trip for us to get closer,” you lament. “For us to build that romance again; that spark that we’re missing! And you’re not even trying even a little bit!” 

And instead of showing you compassion and understanding, your husband continues to neglect and invalidate your feelings. “Listen…I don’t know what you want me to fucking do,” he tiredly sighs. “I can’t be the perfect man that you’re looking for, Y/N. He doesn’t exist.” 

‘Clearly,’ you bitterly think. He has shown you that. 

“I do everything for you and this is how you repay me,” he scoffs, still scowling. “Well, fine, if you feel that way, I’ll just leave you be.” He takes a step back and then turns around, walking towards the exit. Your eyes widen at him, gobsmacked. “Wait, you’re leaving?” you gasp. “You can’t be serious. You’re gonna leave me here alone?” 

Then your husband turns around and you think he’s going to apologize; to tell you he is just joking…but then he motions his hands at you in a ‘shoo, shoo’ motion as if you are a mere, pesky fly. “Come upstairs when you’re done acting like a bitch to me,” he cooly says. And then he leaves you alone for good, standing in the club completely humiliated and heartbroken. 

Luckily, someone comes to your rescue to save you from your heartbreak. They tap you on the shoulder and you turn to see Kiri standing there with a gigawatt smile on his handsome face. “Excuse me, miss; me and my husband saw you across the bar and really dug your vibe. Can we buy you a drink?”

He gives you a wink that somehow masks the heartbreak you’re feeling. “Just make sure it’s strong,” you joke back. 

He begins to lead you back to the bar where Bakugou sits, sipping on a mai tai. “Did you find your husband?” Kiri asks, taking the mojito that Bakugou passes to him. “Where’s he at? I thought we were meeting him.”

You stare warily at the pros, biting back tears. “Uh…he wasn’t feeling too good and went upstairs,” you lie. 

Bakugou sees right through it like it’s glass. He takes a final sip of his drink, draining the glass, and nearly slams it on the bar. “Y’know, you’re just as bad as this one when you lie,” he roughly says, nudging Kiri in the arm. “Eyes goin’ off to the side, a little pause like you’re thinkin’ of somethin’ on the spot…you’re not slick.” 

You feel your body flush under the strobe lights. ‘Oh, no,’ you think, lamenting to yourself. ‘Now he’s gonna ask you why you lied, you dummy!’ 

But to your surprise, Bakugou leans one beefy, inked arm over the bar, waving down the bartender. “But if you’re truly hellbent on coverin’ your man’s back, we won’t push it. If anything, I respect it…can’t understand why the goofy left you here though.” He waves a hand again at the bartender, growing irritated at being ignored. 

“Yeah,” Kiri agrees, standing behind Bakugou’s stool and rubbing his shoulders to calm him. He is so tall that he towers over you, somehow making you feel more safe than intimidated by his sheer size. “It’s kinda weird he would just leave without you, unless he had food poisoning or somethin’.” 

Maybe it’s the hot wash of lights or the men accompanying you, but you feel the truth push at your throat. “He didn’t,” you admit. The couple immediately turn their attention to you. “I caught him talking to another woman, we had a fight, and then he left.” 

Kiri blinks his crimson eyes at you. “He left you alone?” he asks in disbelief. “Here?”

You slowly nod, biting your lower lip to keep from crying in front of these two strangers. “He told me to come upstairs when I stopped being a bitch,” you add, cracking a wry smile at the two. “Can you believe this is my marriage?” You laugh it off, but the couple can tell that it is fake and icy.

“Shit, I already thought the guy was a loser; now, it’s a fact for sure,” Bakugou grumbles. 

“Leaving your wife or girlfriend in the middle of a club is NOT manly,” Kiri growls, eyes flashing with anger. “Good thing we’re with you. We can keep you company as long as you’re here!”

Bakugou passes Kiri's mojito to you, coaxing you to sip. “And you can tell us more about this asshole you decided to marry.” He bangs on the bar, scaring a few people. “Yo, bartender! You’re about to lose your tip!” 

You take a tiny sip of the mojito, your tastebuds exploding with the taste of mint, lime, and rum. Kiri pats the empty stool beside Bakugou and you sit, crossing one leg over the other, your dress riding up slightly on your thighs. Kiri sits on your left, sandwiching you between himself and his husband. 

The bartender returns, sweating slightly and out of breath. “Apologies, Mr. Bakugou! Free rounds for the happy couple?” The couple turn to look at you, asking you in silence. “It’s free rounds, darlings,” you giggle, flipping your braids over one shoulder. “I’d be happy to share…and a rum punch too, please!”  

Two rum punches and three tequila shots later, you are spilling your guts to the couple. The three of you sit in a secluded lounge area overlooking the beach, the silver moon glowing off of the waves softly crashing on the shore.

Most people are on the dance floor or at the bar, so you have privacy with the two hunks who sit across from you in lounge chairs. You sit on a small hammock held between two fake palm trees, talking on and on about your husband’s neglect and bummy, crummy ways. 

Through it all, the couple stay quiet, paying close attention to you. You appreciate their listening ears, feeling better just getting it all out.

“So we packed up and came on this vacay in the hopes of rekindling our romance,” you explain, nursing a glass of water that Bakugou ordered for you. “It was my idea and he went along with it, but…now I’m thinking that this was a total waste of time.” You place a hand on your head, mostly because it is spinning but also because you feel so stupid. 

“For him?” Kiri says, sipping his second mojito. “I’d have to say yes; there is NO gettin’ through a guy like that, sweetheart. But a trip like this for yourself is never a waste! You come here to enjoy the pool, the excursions, and makin’ new friends like us.” 

You laugh, finding his words adorable. “We’re friends?” you giggle, not realizing how this sounds: like you want to be more. “Well, I guess only friends would buy me drinks and listen to me trauma dump.” 

Bakugou clucks his tongue, rolling his vermillion eyes. His eyes are so pretty…like rubies. “It’s not trauma dumping if we wanna hear it, silly girl.” Kiri nods, agreeing. “Bakugou’s right, sweetheart. We like you; plus, you’re the first girl we’ve met here that isn’t tryin’ to have a threesome with us.” 

He doesn’t know how wrong he is. And if he keeps calling you ‘sweetheart’, who knows what will happen next. “I like you guys too,” you admit, flushing bashfully. “You make a cute couple; I’m almost jealous!” 

Bakugou cracks a humored smile, sipping a piña colada now. “Well, don’t be. The bartenders already think we’re together.” His tongue glints with something–a piercing, you realize–as he toys with the straw in his glass. 

Suddenly, a thought pops into your head that you have no business saying aloud: “Wouldn’t it be funny if we acted as a couple this whole trip just for the hell of it? Two sexy husbands and their pretty wife?” You begin to laugh a little too much, your cheeks hurting and tears pricking at your lashes coated in mascara. 

When you stop, you realize that the couple aren’t laughing. They’re just staring dead at you. “Yeah,” Kiri deadpans. “Hilarious.” 

Suddenly, the air feels tense and the magic from the alcohol is fading. You don’t feel sexy or confident anymore; just awkward. You take a couple sips of the water and place it on the “W-Well, it’s getting late and my husband is probably wondering where I am.” 

“No, he’s not,” Bakugou argues. The finality in his tone stops you short, rendering you speechless. “Any dickhead who leaves his wife alone in a club isn’t thinkin’ ‘bout her well-being at all.” His gaze is intense and unwavering as he stares at you over his glass rim. “Sorry to break it to ya, babe.” 

Babe? Sweetheart? What the fuck is going on here? ….And why are you so okay with it? You’re so wrapped up in decoding this situation when suddenly, the couple leave their post and come to sit with you in the hammock. Gently, they both climb in and sandwich you between them, their tree-trunk legs dangling off of the side with you. 

“So why not spend the night with two guys who actually want your attention?” Bakugou asks, his lips just a little too close to your ear. You suddenly lose the ability to function like a human being. “W-What?” you stammer, turning to the blonde. “What do you–” 

“You know what I mean,” he interjects. “Can you really sit here and act like you don’t want us too?” One of his hands lays on your knee, making your skin tingle. 

“We’ve been watchin’ you for awhile now,” Kiri confesses, his hand brushing your fingertips. “It wasn’t our intention to ever do anything with another person on this trip, but when we saw you at the pool…” He pauses, taking a breath. “Shit, Y/N, our want for you was instant.” Your pussy gushes at his sinful confession, leaving your thighs trembling.  

“And when we found out your bitch ass husband left you alone here?” Bakugou’s lips stretch into a smile, his eyes mischievous. “It was a wrap.” You can’t believe what you’re hearing. Out of anyone else in here, these two happily married men want you tonight? 

“We don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with,” Kiri gently says, taking your silence for discomfort. “If intimacy isn’t on the table for you, we can just stay here, share some drinks, and dance…or if you really feel uncomfortable, just tell us and we’ll leave you be. Your comfort matters to us, Y/N.”

This man barely knows you and he is showing you more consideration than your husband has in months. Bakugou’s lips brush against your ear, the smell of mint and rum on his tongue. “Either way, we wanna make your husband regret ever leaving you here alone tonight,” he murmurs. “So what’s it gonna be, little one?”

Little one. How did he know that name makes you wet?

You have never been hornier than you are right now sitting between these two studs. The tequila and rum you’ve consumed over the hour helps too. It helps you make the first move by turning towards Kiri, cupping his face in his hands, and pressing your lips to his. He makes a small noise of surprise before he melts into your kiss, his soft lips moving against yours. “Mmm,” he hums against your lips, the sound seducing you. 

When you pull away, his crimson eyes are dazed and hooded. You then turn to Bakugou who watches with bated breath. “You get one too, Dynamight,” you giggle before your lips are crushed against his. Just like his hubby, Bakugou’s kiss causes sparks to ignite in the air and your arousal to switch to hyperdrive. The yearning you feel for these two is instantaneous and intense.

When you pull away, you take their hands in both of yours and interlace your fingers. “So I guess it’s your room then, boys?” you seductively ask, peering up at them through your lashes. 

Somehow, moments later, you find yourself in between the two married pros on a big bed, stark naked and their big, hard, throbbing, pretty cocks stiff in your hands as you stroke them up and down, up and down. You keep your dress on, but your straps were tugged off by Bakugou to expose your tits while Kiri stripped off your heels, blushing as he told you how pretty your feet were. 

You pay close attention to their luscious moans and responsive hums of pleasure as your hands, slick with your saliva, twist around the base as you scale them up to their bulbous tips dripping in pre all for you. You take a couple licks at the white pearls, smiling as their moans grow louder at the feeling of your tongue on them. They felt your tongue minutes before once they stripped, letting you indulge in every rippling muscle they had. 

When they finally took off their pants, you were amazed. While both big and veiny, they have their differences too: Bakugou is smooth and curves upward while Kiri is thick, has a happy trail, and has a dick piercing. You gaped at both of them while the two softly chuckled, finding your reaction endearing.

“I’m guessin’ your man is lackin’ in this department?” Bakugou asked, his hand curling in your braids. Staring at the cock in your face, you silently nodded. Severely, your husband was lacking.

Tap-tap.

Bakugou tapped his tip slightly against your lips, his hooded eyes exploding with lust. “Well? You just gonna stare or take care of ‘em?” Kiri bit his lip and watched, silently urging you to do as you wanted to his dick. 

You do just that, sliding Bakugou’s hard cock into your mouth while you continue to stroke Kiri, loving their eyes on you as you take the blonde deeper, hollowing your cheeks. You raise your eyes to him, watching his handsome face flush red as he watches you throat him, his hips slowly grinding to push himself deeper. “Ah, shit,” he sighs, his eyes sexily rolling back to show the whites and red tendrils of his eyeballs.  

Kiri toothily grins at his husband fucking your mouth, still slowly fucking your hand. “Feelin’ good, Kats?” he chuckles. “Me too. She’s bein’ such a good girl, isn’t she?” He sticks two fingers under your chin to catch the drool that has begun to drip down from your lips and sucks your saliva off of them, staring straight at you as he does. 

“Almost,” Bakugou replies, laughing to himself. “She needs to take this dick a little more.” So he speeds up, increasing his speed so the sounds of you gagging and your wet throat flexing around his cock are more intense and lively, causing him to groan.

“Open wide, baby,” he grunts. “Open that throat up for me.” You’re feeling good and used now as he begins to fuck your face, ruining your lip gloss and staining your cheeks with mascara. 

“God, yes, baby!” he groans. “Deeper. Take me deeper.”

You don’t know how much deeper he can go. Your eyes sting with tears as you feel your throat protest against being filled, causing you to gag more. But you push through, breathing through your nostrils and letting the pro fuck your jaw off of its hinges, your spit dripping down to your tits from your chin. 

“Don’t make her choke now, Kats,” Kiri says, though his cock throbs in your palm at the sight of you gagging on husband’s dick. “I still need my turn.” Bakugou huffs with irritation, but slides out, letting you suck in some air. “Fine; just don’t hog her. That’ll piss me off.” 

Then it’s Kiri’s turn. He is thicker than Bakugou so when he slides into your mouth, you feel it. The wet walls to your throat stretch around him as he slides in deeper, causing you to open your throat as if you are preparing to yawn to accommodate him.

The redhead tilts his head back and moans to the ceiling, his big hand gripping the back of your head. “Oh, fuck!” he moans, pumping his hips forward and back, fucking your throat as if it were a toy. 

You feel absolutely, positively used. You feel like the sluttiest woman who has ever walked the earth. And you love every second of it. Bakugou smiles sinfully as he watches you deepthroat Kiri, making his husband moan and whimper as your throat constricts and flexes around hum.

“I knew you’d be good at this, cutie,” he groans. He pulls you off of Kiri to look deep into his eyes. “You’re just our type too: pretty and eager.” 

His lips crash against yours and his tongue slips into your mouth, never mind that you just sucked two cocks. He kisses you passionately and eagerly, relishing and swallowing the muffled moans you make. And then he’s taking Kiri’s cock and sliding it back into your mouth for you, using his hand to push you down on his husband’s shaft. 

“And very small,” Kiri adds, chuckling through panted breath. “Small enough to pick up and put in any position you wanna get fucked in tonight.” He peers down at you through red slits for his eyes as you throat his cock, sucking and glucking as if it is your profession, spit and pre placing your lipgloss. 

“Would you like that, baby?” he murmurs. You peer up at him through your lashes, feeling heat pool between your thighs. “Mmm-hmm,” you hum around his cock. 

Bakugou snatches you away and replaces Kiri’s dick with his, fucking your mouth once more. Your eyes roll back as his cock slides against your throat, filling it, taking it for his own. “Oh, fuck, yes,” he groans, his fist full of your braids. “Take it, baby. You take it so fuckin’ good.”

His muscles tense as he pistons into your mouth as he would a fleshlight or Kiri’s ass, his balls full of cum and slapping slightly against your chin. 

You feel Kiri’s big palm on your ass, stroking it over your dress. “You’re still wearin’ too much,” he growls, squeezing a handful of your ass. Bakugou watches with interest, loving how you look arching your back as you suck him dry. “Not a bad view,” he hums. “‘Specially from this angle.” 

SMACK! 

Your body flinches and you moan around the cock in your mouth as you feel a sting from Bakugou’s assault on your asscheeks. Kiri’s thick fingers curl under your chin, forcing you to stare up at his handsome, flushed face. “Look up at me, cutie pie. Show me those pretty eyes while you suck my husband’s fat dick.” 

SMACK!

Bakugou smacks your ass hard again, definitely using some of his quirk because of the sharp zap you feel licking across your skin despite the fabric of your dress. “Arch that back a little more, babe,” he gently coos despite rudely fucking your throat. “I wanna see that pussy while you suck me off.” 

He pulls the hem of your dress up to reveal the thong settled between your asscheeks..and currently being eaten up by your pussy, wet pussy. Kiri practically drools at the sight, grabbing your ass at the same time Bakugou does.

“A thong?” he tuts. “What a slut we’ve got, Kats.” Bakugou growls in agreement, palming the soft globes of your butt. “Betcha wore this hopin’ you’d get fucked by another man tonight,” he growls. “Or maybe by us.” 

SMACK! 

“Am I right?” he asks. You feel your asscheeks recoil against his palm, the zap of electricity from his sweaty palm making your senses fire up.

“Y-Yes!” you whimper out. Despite the pain, there is pleasure mixed in the stinging sensation, causing your clit to throb against the slick, sticky fabric of your thong stuck against your pussy lips. 

SMACK! 

This time, Kiri does it and he hits very hard. You wouldn’t be shocked if he left a handprint. “Sorry, little one,” he chuckles. “I just couldn’t resist you anymore.”

He continues to spank your ass, lighting fire across your cheeks and possibly using his quirk too to make his hand a lot rougher. Bakugou slips his cock out and feeds you Kiri’s instead, his dick throbbing and twitching as his husband roughly fucks your mouth this time around. 

You feel his sneaky fingers wrap around the thin waistband of your thong, pulling it so it rubs against your needy slit. “Such a little minx,” he continues as he toys with your thong. “Wantin’ to get fucked by total strangers.” 

SNAP! 

He snaps the thin string back into place like a rubber band, making you jump from the slight sting as it hits your skin. “Shit, look at how wet she is!” Kiri groans. “It’s drippin’ all down these thighs.” He and Bakugou stare at the slick staining your inner thighs which you didn’t realize either. You’ve never been this wet before. 

“All of this just for a couple of spanks on that ass and dick in your mouth?” Bakugou chuckles, thoughtfully stroking your asscheeks. “Yeah, we’re definitely not lettin’ you go back to that dickhead now.” 

Kiri pulls his cock out of your wet mouth, causing a string of spit to connect from his tip to your bottom lip. “You’re stuck with us tonight, baby,” he says, his voice low and sultry. “And maybe for the next six days too.”

He lays you back on the bed, dangling your legs off of the edge as he and Bakugou kneel before you. Their eyes glint at you like twin moons, hot with lust. “Now let us show you what we do to pretty pussies like yours.” 

Somehow, you find yourself on your back with the entire room spinning and swirling as the married couple proceed to share your pussy like it is their last meal on their vacation. Sometimes they share, both of their tongues and soft lips sucking, slurping, licking, and caressing every inch of your sensitive, sopping wet cunt. They alternate between each other too, both of them individually eating you out too. 

Kiri is a whole munch, diving deep into the wet depths of your pussy, moaning about how good and sweet you taste. His crimson eyes lock dead on you, paying attention to the way you respond to his tongue flicks and swirls. Your husband has NEVER eaten you out like this: so eagerly and sloppily yet still considering your pleasure and what you need.

You writhe and squirm against Kiri’s mouth, gripping his red locks for dear life. “O-Oh, shit!” you moan. “Oh, fuck yes, yes, yes! That’s s-so, so good!” 

The redhead hums in amusement, tearing the lips on his face away from your wet, puffy ones below with a wet pop! “Such a squirmer,” he cackles, his big hands squeezing the flesh where your thighs meet your ass.

Bakugou, who has begun to fist his leaking, hard cock, has his sights set dead on your pussy. “Hold her down. She’s not gonna do shit when I’m tongue fuckin’ that pussy.” 

The blonde is a little rougher and more possessive than Kiri, but still eager to slurp up everything you give him. He holds one of your thighs, pressing one leg open while Kiri has the other, the both of them working together to ensure that you can’t move as Bakugou eats your pussy with abandon.

You cry and sob at his tongue lashings, the cold metal of his tongue piercing melting like ice cream against the soaking, hot walls of your pussy. 

You feel another tongue caressing the other hole you have down below, the wetness of his spit slipping down your asscrack. “Mmm, fuck, Kiri,” you whine. The redhead grins against your asscheeks, one hand massaging the globes while he wiggles his tongue against your asshole.

“Yeah?” he teases. “You like gettin’ this ass eaten too?” You whimper as Bakugou sucks on your clit at the same time Kiri presses an open-mouthed kiss to your asshole. “Little slut,” he whispers before his tongue is rimming the tight hole of your ass. 

Your eyes widen and your mouth falls slack. You have never had anyone eat your ass before, but this was something you discussed with the couple before coming in here. During the walk back to their room, you discussed all the things you want to try and enjoy in the bedroom, including the possibility of anal sex–something your husband wouldn’t dare to discuss. 

“Hey,” Bakugou suddenly growls, nipping at your inner thigh with his teeth. “Don’t neglect me. I’m the one puttin’ in work down here too.” 

SMACK! 

You shriek, damn near cumming as his palm comes down on your clit, a zap of electricity making your toes curl and your thighs buckle. “I-I’m sorry!” you sob. “I won’t do it again, Daddy, I promise!”

His vermillion eyes glare at you as he smirks, cocky and proud. “Damn right, you won’t; not if you wanna cum…and you do wanna cum, don’t you, little one?” he murmurs before taking your clit into his mouth and gently sucking on the nub. 

He and Kiri continue to slurp at your holes, their saliva dripping down your thighs and your asscrack, soaking you and making your holes even more lubricated. It helps for their tongues to dip in and fuck you, causing your moans to grow louder, so loud that you’re sure that the entire resort can hear you. You dig your hands in their hair and grip their scalps as you feel yourself peaking, your orgasm cresting so much that your back arches. 

“Oh, my God, I’m gonna cum!” you wail out. “I’m gonna…I’m gonna fucking…!”

The two men lick faster, their tongues and lips encouraging you to spill your cum all over them. In a split second, you do and you nearly scream to the heavens as the pleasure engulfs you, washing you away on a wave. The couple moan and growl in appreciation as you spill your cream all over their tongues; they lick away, cleaning up every inch of you. The cum that spills down your asscrack, Kiri catches, feral grunts escaping him. 

When you are finally twitching and whimpering, the two stop, their lips coated in your juices. You watch in awe as they begin to kiss in front of you, mashing their lips together in a sloppy kiss. You could cum again just by looking at them.

“Let’s give this hole a break now,” Kiri suggests, his smile mischievous and lustful. One finger rims your asshole, making you flinch at the sensitivity. “I think this one here needs some more playin’ with.”

He turns to Bakugou, puckering his lips at him. “Get the lube for us, won’t you, hubby?” he teases.

Minutes later, after Bakugou grabs a travel bottle of warming, edible lube from the nightstand, you are turned over and bent over the bed, your ass sticking in the air and gripping the sheets as one of Bakugou’s thick fingers gently probes your ass. “Oh!” you gasp, your eyes rolling behind your head. “Ah, fuck!” 

“Does it hurt?” Bakugou asks. You whimper, shaking your head into the bed, but he thoughtfully strokes your ass, envoking a response from you. “Answer me, little one. Gotta know you’re okay.” 

“N-No,” you squeak. “Just…a lot.” It is a foreign feeling that is different from Kiri’s tongue, but the lube and copious amounts of spit that Kiri provided earlier help a lot. Bakugou slips his finger in a little more, taking in the way your body talks to him. “Nice and slow, little one. Gotta make sure we don’t hurt you.” 

Hurt isn’t even a word in your vocab at this point. Your pussy is gushing like it hasn’t before, slipping down your thighs as Bakugou slowly fucks your ass with his finger, opening you up more and more. “Fuck, you’re so tight here,” he grunts. “I’ve been watchin’ this ass all night. Just wanna fuck you here.” 

SMACK! 

He gives your ass a playful slap that has you singing and crooning like a songbird into the sheets stained in your makeup. “Stretch you out the way you need to be,” he murmurs with want, his cock throbbing and pulsing with need between his thighs. Kiri wraps a hand around his husband’s cock and slowly begins stroking him while he brings his lips over to your pussy. 

“But don’t worry, cutie; we’ll fuck you here too. Can’t neglect her, now, can we?” He puckers his lips and spits on your pussy before slurping it back up, stimulating your kitty while Bakugou continues to fuck the puckered hole of your ass. “Fuck, look at you,” he rasps. “Little vixen is gettin’ wetter from this.”

Kiri hums in agreement, your cream and his spit sliding down his chin.

“All it takes is some fingers in your pretty little asshole, don’t it?” the blonde asks before he adds his tongue into the mix, licking around your hole as he continues to probe the tight hole with his finger. 

“Oh, fuck!” you whimper. “Please! More!” Bakugou laughs, taken aback. “More?” he parrots, grinning. “What, you want these dicks now? Is that it? Are these fingers and tongues not enough for some slutty holes like yours?” 

You can’t help it; his dirty words coax your body to move on its own and you toss yourself back into Bakugou’s finger, taking the digit fully in your ass. “That’s a good girl, little one,” Kiri murmurs, his tongue swirling around your clit. “Fuck yourself on Katsuki’s finger. Make yourself cum again.” 

And you do. The stimulation and the warming lube are too much, making every part of your body sensitive to the touch. “H-Ha, o-oh, m-m-my G-God!” you stutter, your hips bucking like a bull’s. “I-I’m gonna cum again!” 

“Oh, yeah?” Kiri laughs against your pussy. “Do it, cutie. Cum for us again. Make that pretty hole cum for us.” He and Bakugou continue to lick, grunting and moaning into your holes, pushing you further to the edge. 

But instead of that warmth in your core, you feel a tickle in your bladder and you realize with horror what is happening. “Wait, you guys!” you shout in a warning. “Wait, I don’t think…I’m gonna pee! Stop!”

But they don’t and unfortunately for you, liquid squirts and spills wildly from your pussy and into Kiri’s mouth. He sputters in shock though he doesn’t pull away, slurping up every ounce of you. 

“Shit, she squirted!” Bakugou gasps, laughing in disbelief at the scene. “I’m guessin’ her man never made her do that,” he cackles. He dives down and licks some up for himself, moaning in appreciation and satisfaction at your taste. “There’s plenty more where that came from.” 

You don’t even know what ‘more’ looks like for you. You think squirting when you’ve never before just about takes the cake, but as the two men climb up on the bed with you, you know that this is not the case for them. 

Kiri gently rubs your back, placing his palm at the middle of your spine as you huff and puff, exhausted. “Tuckered out, little baby?” he coos. Wordlessly, you shake your head. Despite your exhaustion, your need for their cocks is more. “No?” he chuckles. “Even after all that, you still want us?” 

“Oh, baby, we’re gonna have some fun with you,” Bakugou groans. He hikes you up with ease, sitting you down in his lap, his hard cock throbbing against your tummy. “Tell us you want us to fuck you,” he demands, his eyes drilling hard into yours. 

Your response is automatic, your want ignited. “I want you to fuck me,” you reply. “Want you both inside me. Need you both to fill me up and make each other cum.” You wrap a hand around both of them, earning wanton groans in response to your touch. “Please, Daddies?” you beg. 

That plea and your doe-like, brown eyes peering up at them lead to you straddling Kiri’s lap while his thick cock slides against your slit, nudging your clit and making you slippery enough to slide down his shaft. The big, beefy redhead leans back against the headboard, his big hands massaging your ass while you straddle his thighs, grinding your pussy against the shaft of his throbbing dick. “You feel so good, Kiri,” you moan, gripping his shoulders. 

The redhead jerkingly nods in agreement, biting his lip at the feeling. “You do too. Easy now, cutie. I’m bigger than your husband, so take all the time that you—“ 

Evidently, you already had enough time because you’re suddenly sliding your dripping pussy down on him. You both loudly moan at the explosive pleasure, your gummy walls tight and silky around his velvety, pulsing cock. “That was easy,” Bakugou chuckles. “Cock slut couldn’t wait to take you.” He is on his knees behind you, rutting his cock up against your asshole. 

You feel tears prick your eyes, making them glassy and wet as you bring yourself up and down on Kiri’s thick cock, whimpers and sobs leaving your sticky lips. “Oh, fuck, Kiri!” you sob. “You’re so fucking big! You’re stretching me out so good!”

You can feel it–everytime you come down, you somehow feel yourself stretching more. Despite your husband’s nice penis, he could never make you feel this needy. This desperate to take more. 

Bakugou presses a kiss to your shoulder, his pre-cum staining your asscheeks. “Slowly, baby. There’s no rush for this. I’m lettin’ you use my man, so be grateful.” 

You bite your trembling lip, doing your best to go slow. “I-I am,” you whimper. “Thank you!” The blonde groans at your sweetness, his tip nudging your asshole. 

Kiri watches your bouncing tits as you come up and down on his cock like a little bunny, his face flushed red and his eyes crimson slits. “Such a little sweetheart,” he groans. “And such a sweet little pussy too, f-f-fuck!” He grips your ass tighter, drawing you to him.

“Ride me, angel,” he begs, staring up at you. “Please bounce on my cock. Keep usin’ that dick like a toy, little one. Use me.” 

You do as you’re told and begin bouncing a little faster on him, creating an orgasmic rhythm that takes you both to paradise. You dig your nails into Kiri’s shoulders, damn near breaking skin, but he doesn’t care. Not when your cunt is this good.

“Guess you ain’t the only slut here,” Bakugou chuckles. “Does she feel good, Eji?” The redhead whimpers in reply, his fangs digging into his bottom lip. “Words,” the blonde growls. 

“Y-Yeah!” Kiri grunts out. “So good!” Bakugou hums in enjoyment and satisfaction, tucking his hand between you to rub Kiri’s heavy balls. “Then fuck her back. Don’t make her do all the work.” Kiri does as he is told, raising his hips to meet you as you come down, plunging his cock deeper inside of you. 

As he does this, Bakugou’s tip passes the threshold of your ass a bit, making you gasp. “I’m gonna go in now, baby,” he warns. “Just relax. You feel nice and loose now. It’s fuckin’ gapin’ for me.” You can feel it, the walls of your ass nice and stretched, the cool air making you shiver. 

“Fuck, that’s hot!” Kiri groans. “She’s stretched out here too.” And he’s right–you are so stretched open by his cock that he has no problem fucking you dumb, sliding you up and down, up and down, along his cock slick with your juices and his pre-cum. 

“You ready, baby girl?” Bakugou whispers, his lips toying with your ear. “Just tap my thigh if you need me to stop. That goes for shitty hair too.” It takes a moment to find your words, but you do despite your head dizzy with pleasure. You turn to hook an arm around his head, pulling him closer. “Yes, sir,” you mewl. 

“Just the tip,” he grunts before he slides the rest of the way in, pushing past the rim of your ass. He grunts in pleasure as a strange howl escapes you, making you feel like a totally different person. A stranger. A slut who likes getting fucked by two fat cocks in both of her holes. 

“Oh, my God!” you wail, your head falling against Kiri’s chest. Bakugou slides the tip out an inch and goes back in, repeating this action for a couple of minutes, allowing your hole to grow familiar with his cock. “Easy; just fuck me back slowly. Take your time. Gotta make sure you can take all this dick.” 

The two of them begin to fuck you in unison, Kiri slowing down to match Bakugou’s tempo and not overwhelm you. Their luscious moans and feral grunts fill the bedroom smelling of sex, lube, and mingled cologne and body mist, their sweet whispers of “you’re doin’ so good, little one” and “such a good fuckin’ slut for us” making your body tingle with need. 

At some point, the slow fucking flies out the window and Kiri begins to rut up into you, his hips slamming up against yours. Bakugou chuckles, still rolling his hips slow and easy as he fucks your asshole. “So much for nice and slow. You’re fucking her like you wanna nut, shitty hair.” 

“Can’t help it,” the redhead grunts. “She feels so perfect!” His balls, soaked in your juices, slap against your clit as he pounds up into you, grunting with each thrust. “Goddammit,” Bakugou hisses, “if you keep poundin’ her like that, you’ll make me wanna speed up too.” His balls stimulate you too, your needy button nearly exploding from the pleasure. 

“Go ahead,” you beg. “Fuck me faster! Please!” The couple stare at you in astonishment, slightly pausing to regard you in shock. “Faster?” they ask in unison.

You nod, pressing your face into Kiri’s shoulder. You don’t want them to see your face–you know you look a hot ass mess. Bakugou gives your ass a smack, chuckling as he does. “You’ve got it, little one. Just don’t run from us.” 

For the next blissful minutes–or hours?–, the couple fuck your holes in unison, their cocks frotting and rubbing against one another, making them moan, grunt, and whimper into your ear. You bounce pathetically on their dicks, forced to take all of it as you whimper and sob, tears threatening to drip down your cheeks stained with ruined mascara and foundation. You have never felt this good before. 

Brrring! Brrrring! 

Your eyes open, your vision blurry, and you look down at the nightstand where your purse is. “My phone!” you whine.

Kiri yanks your purse open and takes your phone out, looking at the caller ID. “Oh, it’s the man of the hour!” he jokes. He grins toothily at you, flashing you your phone screen. “Your husband’s calling, baby.” 

‘Oh, shit,’ you think. What time even is it? How long have you been here? He must think you’ve been kidnapped or something! 

“Answer it,” Bakugou grunts. “Put it on speaker.” 

“W-Wait!” you protest, but it’s too late. Kiri answers the phone and continues to fuck you as he stares, his breath coming out in short pants. “Helloooo? Bakugou residence.” 

You clap a hand over your mouth to muffle your pathetic, slutty moans as the two men fuck you stupid, Bakugou yanking on your braids while Kiri rubs your clit. “Who are you?” your husband demands. “Where’s Y/N? This is her number, isn’t it?” 

Kiri smirks at you. “Oh, it is, but Y/N can’t come to the phone right now. She’s too busy gettin’ her brains fucked out—something you can’t and won’t do.” 

Bakugou tears your hand off of your mouth, forcing those loud moans and whines to escape you, exposing the truth to your husband about his dirty little wife. “Y/N, answer me!” he shouts.

You do so, moaning Bakugou’s name as his cock fills your ass. Your husband grows enraged, screaming belligerently. “You bitch! How could you do this to me?! I’m your husband!” 

Bakugou snatches the phone from Kiri, giving your husband a piece of his mind now. “Then you should’ve thought about that before actin’ like a damn loser,” he growls. “Now shut the fuck up and stop ruinin’ my fun with your wife. It ain’t our fault you’re gettin’ cucked.” 

He then hangs up before your husband can reply and ruts into you faster alongside Kiri, their thrusts intense and merciful, making the bed shake beneath them. With their dick-alicious dicks and the saucy excitement of your husband hearing you get fucked, you can’t help but feel another orgasm coming on. “M’gonna cum again!” you whimper. “I’m so close!” 

“Cum with me,” Kiri demands, his dick jackhammering into you as you frantically rub your clit. “Cum on that dick, little one. It’s all fucking yours!” 

Bakugou is close too judging by how his cock pulses in your ass and his fingers dig into the flesh of your buttcheeks. “Thaaat’s it,” he coos through gritted teeth. “That’s my girl lettin’ me fuck that drippin’ little hole.” 

It doesn’t take long for all three of you to cum together, the couple’s thrusts stilling for a moment as they fill you to the brim with their spunk.

You moan loudly, so loud that it bounces off of the bedroom walls, as your holes clench around their cocks and your pussy spasms, spilling your honey all over Kiri’s thick, beautiful cock. Your eyelashes flutter and your muscles clench, your intense nut sending you through the stars and across the galaxy. 

When the high fades and you go limp, the couple gently pry you off of their cocks and lay you down on your back. Like a rag doll, your body is limp and loose, allowing Bakugou to hook your legs up to expose your ass. “Stay there,” he grunts. “Stay right fuckin’ there. I wanna cum all over that ass.” 

Kiri kneels over you, his semi-hard cock hanging in your face. “I’ve still got some for these pretty titties too. I want your bitch ass husband to smell us when you go back to your hotel room, cutie~” 

The two fuck their cocks with their hands, sending spurts of cum all over your tits and ass. You gasp at the warm droplets coating your skin, already drying. Then the couple pull you up onto your knees, holding their cocks out for you. They are coated in cum, slick and juicy. “Clean us off, naughty girl,” Bakugou gruffly demands. “You caused it, so it’s your responsibility.” 

You do as told, kitten-licking and slurping up the taste of your holes and their cum from their cocks, relishing the soft moans and hushed swears as you do. Once you finish, the two gently lay you on your back and lick you clean too, being extra gentle with your pussy and putting a soft pillow under your sore ass. Your entire body feels sore, but deliciously so. 

The pros then lay side by side with you between them, Bakugou on your right while Kiri takes your left. The redhead snuggles into your backside, his hair tickling your face.

“You were amazing, sweetheart. You definitely made this trip unforgettable, that’s for sure!” He wraps his big arms around you, encasing you in a warm, sweaty embrace. 

Exhaustion makes your brain foggy and you can barely focus on what he is saying to you. “Mmm-hmm,” you sleepily agree. 

Bakugou tsks, wrapping an arm around your neck, allowing his arm to be your pillow. “Such a baby,” he huffs. “Close your eyes. Don’t fight it if ya need to sleep.” 

In your blissed out, sleepy state, you ask the question, “So I can spend the night?” 

The blonde once again tsks, scowling down at you. “What kinda stupid question is that? Why else would we be cuddlin’ your ass?” He presses a kiss to the crown of your forehead, making your skin flush with warmth. 

Kiri chuckles behind you, becoming the big spoon as he squeezes you between himself and Bakugou, protecting you from the darkness and tomorrow. “That’s a yes. You could even stay the entire trip if you wanted to, cutie.” 

He too kisses you, pressing one softly against your cheek. “And Musutafu’s only a plane ride away,” he adds. “Anything’s possible, baby.” 

You sleepily smile into Bakugou’s chest, feeling his heart beat against your cheek. That all sounds so nice. The three of you? Together? They, your sexy boyfriends and you, their pretty little girlfriend? It sounds so perfect… 

Yet so unpredictable. Tomorrow is only a sunrise away and the future is uncertain. You know eventually, you will have to go back to your hotel room and face your husband. Face your problems. Face the inevitable crash and burn of your marriage. You know that you will have to return home soon and figure things out from there. 

Everything feels unsure right now, but one thing in your mind that remains as you fall off to sleep is for sure: you’re getting a divorce. 

THE END.

For two whole years, you remind yourself of these things. You sit through Sunday mass every week without fail, hands folds neatly in your lap, and you ask for forgiveness on your knees beside your bed each night when you realise your focus had drifted from the Lord to His messenger.

It felt much like a test you were failing, over and over and over.

His fingers.

His fingers, above all else, were your undoing.

The Communion procession shuffles forward slowly, drawing you towards your ultimate weekly test. Behold him who takes away the sins of the world. You repeat the words to yourself as the line carries you closer to him. Behold him who takes away the sins…

“Amen,” the elderly woman in front of you mutters under her breath.

And then it’s your turn.

His eyes are gentle and kind, fixed on you as soon as you step forward—unwavering—even as he reaches for the sacramental bread, a small perfectly circular wafer. This was the part that played over and over in your mind as you tossed and turned at night. This was what you asked forgiveness for, above all else. Your heart races in anticipation as his eyes flick to your lips.

You obey his silent request, parting your lips in preparation to accept his offering. He would place the delicate wafer on your tongue with practised ease, careful not to touch you. And then he’d hold the chalice of wine to your lips—helping you take a chaste sip. His eyes would never leave you, and your face would shamefully heat in response.

One small moment of intoxicating proximity.

Repeated, week after week; never changing.

His warm eyes fix on yours as the small wafer approaches your waiting tongue, and you savour the details of his face—surrendering to your habitual sinful indulgence.

Something is different.

You replayed this never-changing ritual in your mind for years. You knew all its minor details. You knew it intimately.

Something is different.

His bottom lip trembles slightly and then drops—falling away from his upper lip. And at the same moment you watch his mouth part, mirroring yours, something else new draws a tiny gasp from your lungs.

His warm finger touches your tongue.

Every week, for years, he repeated the motion of chastely placing the small disc on the tongues of the congregation.

Never before had he touched you. Not once.

“The body of Christ,” he says, hushed, like this was normal.

His parted lips, a touch of his fingertip to your wet tongue, and then, to finalise your torment, he brushes your bottom lip in his retreat.

It’s only the well-formed muscle memory that draws a quiet “Amen” from your lips.

That night, after kneeling and begging forgiveness, you crawl under your covers and desperately will sleep to take you—to free you from your spiralling, sinful remembrance. You toss and turn. You stare at your ceiling. Eventually, you open a window and sip from a glass of water as the cool night air soothes your heated cheeks. And it would be that small sip that finally unravelled you, drawing your mind back to the moment he pressed the lip of the chalice to your lips—the lips he’d touched.

Your cotton nightgown bunches up around your waist as you roll onto your stomach and slip your hand between your legs. It was the way he guided you—the look in his eyes—like he might reach out and wipe away any wine that spilled down your chin if you were too eager. It was the way his pretty fingers wrapped around the cup. It was knowing their warmth. The way they felt on your skin. On your tongue.

He would guide you so gently, if he were here with you now. You’d imagined it before: him watching over you as you traced your fingers through your slick. But never had you imagined him touching. Touching was forbidden. A step too far. He did not touch.

Until now.

A heavenly addition to your sensory experience of him.

It’s what draws the sinful noises from you now: shameful whimpers and gasps as you picture his finger in place of yours—dipping a little inside you.

How could this be such wicked depravity if his finger slipping past your lips could be part of a Holy Rite? Was there really such a difference between two parts of a body? What made the wet heat of your mouth so different from the wet heat between your legs?

It’s these spiralling thoughts, and the flood of tears that follow your cry of his name at your peak, that finally break you.

You were not a good girl.

You were damned.

And only confession could save you.

If you were brave, you wouldn’t hesitate. You’d march through the open church door at the first opportunity and take a place in the pews among a spattering of familiar faces, each waiting their turn to speak to him.

Instead, when weekly confessional hours do arrive, you sit on a small stone bench in the church graveyard and watch people filter in and out. You notice the little changes in them as they leave. Eyes that had been focused on the pavement instead look up into the trees. Their steps are lighter.

A mother who had first passed you hurriedly, tugging her small child behind her, leaves with him in her arms. She pauses and points out a little white rabbit at the edge of the churchyard, bouncing the toddler on her hip a little as she cherishes his reaction. And when the rabbit dips into the bushes, she continues her leisurely pace, engaging with the child’s chatter.

The weight of your burden seems to grow heavier the more you watch them all relieved of theirs. If you hadn’t hesitated at the sight of the open door and rerouted to the small stone bench, you could’ve avoided this. Instead of watching them, you could’ve been sitting in the pews watching him. He would’ve made the child laugh, settling him, so he could talk to his mother.

You loved watching the way they all reacted to him, adored him.

That’s what you should have done; what you should do now. But when you stand, instead of heading inside, you find yourself turning the way you came—scurrying from the church grounds, no braver than a little white rabbit.

When Sunday comes, for the first time in years, you don’t attend.

It’s all the hesitation your body allows before you are nearly sick with anxiety. Wanting it over, you take up position on that same stone bench during confession hours, again. And like the week before, you wait. You watch as a spattering of congregants seeking opportunity for repentance come and go. An hour passes, beyond the departure of his final visitor. Again, you’d let the official hours come and go.

The sky turns a golden yellow as the sun dips behind the trees, and you wrap your small cardigan around yourself as the temperature dips with it.

And then a familiar, warm voice calls your name.

He stands in the stone arch of the old church's entryway, looking out at you. “You must be cold,” he says in his gentle, patient way. “I thought you might be waiting to speak to me last. Some people prefer knowing there’s no one waiting their turn.”

You take a small step forward, arms around yourself in a self-soothing hug. “I was,” you confess. “I’m sorry, I–”

“It’s alright,” he says gently, mercifully cutting you off as a visible shiver takes hold of you. “Come inside, please.”

He stands in the entrance, turning his body to the side as you pass. Somehow, he feels larger—taller—when you’re alone with him. Much like the empty church makes you feel small when its empty of its congregation. He towers over you.

“It must be serious,” he says, his voice echoing slightly. The large wooden door closes as you linger in the aisle between pews. A closed door meant no more visitors. You were the last allowed entry. “Serious enough for you to prefer turning to ice rather than speak to me about it.” He’s slightly teasing as he approaches—clearly trying to ease the tension that has you still wrapped around yourself—cowering like a scared little lamb.

It’s a warm, comforting sort of teasing. Familiar. It’s his natural warmth that contributes to his busy visiting hours. You’d never heard a bad word spoken against him.

It makes your guilt so much worse.

Shame wracks you, suddenly faced with the reality of confessing your wickedness to a man so good and kind. A man so rare. You had been all alone for so long. No family to guide you with unconditional care. He was a little spark of genuine warmth and care, irresistible to someone starved of it.

You couldn’t imagine returning to Sunday mass every week after this, knowing that he might think back to this night every time his eyes landed on you in the pews.

Soft footfalls approach as you stare at the stone floor.

He speaks your name in a hushed, gentle command.He wants you to look at him. To face your shame.

And when you refuse, eyes stubbornly fixed to the floor, you must deal with the repercussions.

For the second time, he touches you.

His fingers rest under your chin as he lifts your head with a gentle pressure. He’s warm. Warmer than he’d been last time. At least, that’s how it seems as your chilled skin leaches the heat from his fingers. They linger, just for a moment, holding you in position as his eyes flick across your face.

Then they’re gone.

“Would the booth make it easier?” he asks, hushed enough to avoid the echo.

There was no shame in hiding, you tell yourself. It was the only way you’d ever manage it. How could you ever tell him the truth with his eyes warming your skin?

He sees the answer in your eyes. And you’re grateful when he takes the lead without further question, letting you trail behind him to the small confessional booth in the corner of the empty church.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen,” you begin. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It is… three months since my last confession.” Three months. The last time you’d convinced yourself to confess, only to find yourself listing off trivial everyday faults instead.

The sound of your breathing seems far too loud in the small wooden chamber. So much so that you take in shallower breaths in the silence that follows, self-conscious.

“Are you unwell?” he asks as the silence stretches, kind—like he truly cared. When you hesitate, confused by the unexpected question, he adds, “You were absent on Sunday. I assumed you might’ve been sick, but you look healthy. Nothing serious, then.” The last part isn’t a question. He says it like he’s reassuring himself, like he really, truly cared.

Always so caring, of everyone. It makes it worse.

Your gut flips, anxiety rushing through you. You remember why you’d listed of a few trivial things and escaped in your last attempt. It was unbearable.

You couldn’t do this again.

“It’s a kind of sickness,” you confess, relying on the echo of the box to carry your hushed words through the small hatched window in the divider between you.

He’s quiet, letting you elaborate in your own time.

“I’ve been distracted. I haven’t heard your sermons. Not really.” You dig your fingernails into your thighs. “Not because they aren’t interesting… or helpful. It’s me. I’m full of—” One of your knees starts to bounce automatically. “My head is full of… sickness. Sick thoughts. They won’t stop.”

You focus on his steady breathing in the lull between your confession and his answer, letting the even rhythm of it calm you until your leg stills.

“Has something happened?” he asks. “Something is bothering you.” A pause. “Someone?”

“Someone,” the word leaves you on an exhale.

His next question leaves him faster than any of his previous responses. You haven’t even managed to take in another breath. It’s a falter in the calm rhythm you are used to, catching you off guard.

“Who?”

“It… doesn’t matter.”

It did matter. You’d lied. One moment of impulse and you’d lied. If your distraction had been a man in the pews instead of the one standing at the pulpit, it would be a different matter entirely. You’d have asked Caleb for advice years earlier.

You’d have confessed your eyes had been drifting in the pews, distracted by temptation, instead of focused on him, as they should be. There’d be no confusing, twisted entanglement between his guidance and his unwilling involvement in your sin.

“Gideon,” he says, disrupting your spiralling thoughts. “He’s only been attending a few weeks. I haven’t seen him approach you. Was it after service?”

You’d never heard the name in your life. You hadn’t even noticed a new face in the congregation.

If only you had. If only it was that simple.

When you fail to answer, mind whirring, he continues, “Is that why you weren’t here Sunday?” The fabric of his pants brush across the wood in a way that signals his movement. His voice is a little clearer when he speaks next, closer. “Has he hurt you?”

“No,” you answer, quickly. “No, I—”

“You’ll be honest with me,” he interrupts. “Won’t you?” He sounds a little like a parent about to catch their child in a lie. Not quite stern, but the authority in his tone has you biting your lip.

“It’s not Gideon.”

“Who?”

“That’s what makes it so wicked, Father. I’ve been so afraid—” Movement again, through the divider. It breaks your momentum. You fall into silence.

Like his face, you know his voice. You’ve studied it intently, every week, for years. All the warm, gentle kindness is missing when he interrupts you, “Afraid?”

You pick at the skin at the edge of your nail.

“Of you,” you finish.

Silence follows, except from your breath.

His, for the first time, is inaudible.

You should continue. You should take the silence as opportunity to confess the depths of your depravity. Your lips part, ready—

“Communion.” His voice fills the box—fills your head.

He knew.

He must’ve seen it in your face. Of course he did. He was good and pure and righteous. He would have seen that lustful wickedness on your face each and every time.

Had he been waiting for you to confess it? Had he expected it from you each and every time you came to him, only to be disappointed when you failed to admit to your true sin?

Shame. Embarrassing, pitiful shame.

Your voice is shaky, emotion thinly veiled. “I’m sorry, I—”

“No.” He cuts you off quickly. “This is my weakness. I should be asking your forgiveness.” A bump against the wood. Maybe his elbow. Your eyes lift to the small window separating you for the first time as you turn his words over, confused. “I took advantage of your innocence. I didn’t think you’d notice. I was weak. If I knew you’d see—feel my…” he trails off, sucks in a breath, then, “I shouldn’t have touched you. Forgive me.”

Your heart races as you put together his meaning.

He was talking about his accidental touch of your tongue… and lip.

No, that wasn’t right. He was confessing it was… intentional.

He was confessing.

It’s like a sedative: the daze his words puts you in. Suddenly, instead of being hyper aware of your body, of your anxiety, you feel entirely outside of it—floating outside of yourself. “I don’t understand,” you mutter, disbelief stuttering your ability to process. He was good, and righteous, and loved, and kind, and virtu—

“You dont—,” he starts. “You don’t understand?”

He’d wanted to touch you? Why would he—

“Talk to me,” he adds with a hint of urgency. “You don’t understand?”

“It was on purpose?”

He’s quiet. Then, “You said you were afraid of me. If it’s not that—”

“You wanted to touch me?” you whisper, hardly hearing his questioning through your ongoing daze.

“Yes,” he answers quickly. “I succumbed to—” He sighs. “I gave in.”

He had... lusted. He’d lusted… for you. And even if it had been a one-off moment of weakness, unlike your own, his sin had reached out to brush yours…

Something releases inside of you. Confession rushes from your lips, unrestrained. “Father, bless me, for I have sinned. I’ve also given into lustful thoughts.”

Silence.

Then, “These are your… sick thoughts? The sickness distracting you from sermon?”

You nod. “For two years now.”

“Two—” he cuts himself off abruptly. “During mass.” He shifts. “And when else?”

The marks in your thighs capture your attention again. You scratch at them. “At night,” you confess, hushed. This… is where your sin diverged from his. Shame surrounds it still, heavy.

“Your indulgence…” he trails off.

“Yes, Father?”

A bump against wood. “Why were you absent this past Sunday?”

“I—” You tug the hem of your dress down over your knees. “I was afraid to see you.”

“Because of Communion? Because I—”

“No.” You shake your head, despite knowing he couldn’t see it. “I was ashamed.”

He’s quiet.

It stretches.

Finally, “We all have moments of weakness—”

“But it wasn’t a moment,” you interject. “There’s something wrong with me. Father, it’s—I can’t—My Sunday’s aren’t spent in worship of the Lord, they’re—” spent in worship of you.

You drop your head into your hands, incapable of speaking the words aloud. Then, so quiet you aren’t sure he can even hear you with your head bowed the way it is, “I’d never done it before you.”

When he doesn’t respond, you raise your head. “I’ve never thought about anyone but you. What is wrong with me? To lust for the first time—to lust only for a man of God?”

You focus on his breathing in the silence, hoping to let it calm you like it had before. But it’s different now. It’s uneven, heavier. It stirs your unease instead.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” he says, finally.

“But—”

“There is nothing wrong with you,” he insists, firm, without room for argument. “You are… perfection, sent to tempt me.” The wooden bench he sits on creaks with his movement.

“Tell me why you wore that dress,” he adds, gentler.

You look down at the plain dress, hem resting at your knees where you’d tugged it down. Did you have a reason? You hadn’t worn it in while, and the weather was just about to get too cold for you to wear it again for months. That was all.

At your hesitation, he continues, “You wore that the first day I gave in. Apple red.”

“…gave in?” you question, a little wobble in your voice. You know what he’s implying, deep down. But it’s all too much. One thing after the other, shattering all you thought you knew.

And then, unaware of your imminent collapse, he deals the final blow.

“The first time I wrapped my hand around myself and thought of the way looked up at me, all sweet and trusting. You look at me like—”

Your small sob cuts him off, and you press your hands over your mouth, desperately trying to stifle the sounds escaping you without permission.

He stands, draws his curtain back, and exits his half off the booth. Your hands are still pressed over your mouth when he pulls the curtain in your little part of the box aside.

You look up at him with watery eyes, a towering dark shadow. And when he slowly enters and kneels in front of you, his large body fills your little section of booth. “Are you afraid?” he whispers. “Did I scare you?”

You shake your head, hands still clasped across your mouth.

You aren’t breathing at all when he leans a little closer and gently guides your hands from your face into your lap instead. His thumbs brush over your knuckles in soothing caresses as he speaks again, “Why are you crying?”

Months and months of inner turmoil spill from you in shaky half-sobs that you fail to hold back. You look into his eyes—gentle, familiar, warm. He’s an angel filling your vision, dressed in black—sin and salvation. His skin is hot where he touches you. And your eyes flutter closed when his hand lifts to your cheek, ghosting over your damp skin—like he meant to wipe away your tears but wasn’t sure he should.

With a slight tilt towards him, you close the distance.

His knuckles brush your skin, gently wiping at your tears. “I’m so proud of you for coming to speak to me,” he says, voice still lowered. “You’re so good.”

You shake your head quickly, looking down.

He lifts your chin, guiding your focus back up to him. His eyes flick across your face. “Why are you crying?” he asks again.

You suck in a shaky breath, “I don’t know.”

“Overwhelmed?”

You nod, exhaling.

“Mm,” he hums, taking your hand in his. “That’s okay.”

Gently, he guides you from the box. He stands before you, closer than he stood in Communion—a wall of black fabric. You watch his chest rise and fall, rise and fall. Then you tilt your head back to look up at him.

“Deep breaths,” he soothes as your breathing evens out.

His thumb strokes across your knuckles again.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe into the space between you.

He shakes his head, and his palm lifts to your cheek—making proper contact this time. “Don’t. Didn’t I say you did good? I’m proud of you,” he whispers.

“But—”

“Would I lie to you?”

You look up at him with glassy eyes. At your priest. Loved and trusted by all. Gentle and kind and good.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “That’s how you look at me—how you’ve always looked at me.” His fingers slip behind your ear and eventually curl around the back of your neck, holding you steady. “Thought it was your love for the Lord. That I was a privileged conduit, sampling all that sweet love you carried around inside you.”

His fingers press into your skin. “…but it was for me,” he finishes, breathy.

You whimper, tears forming again.

“Shh,” he coos, breath tickling your lips as he lowers himself to meet you. His hands are all gentle again after that brief moment of pressure. One trails up your arm as the other cups the side of your head, thumb stroking across your temple. “Please don’t cry.”

“It was wicked,” you whisper. “I’ve been wicked.”

His hand comes to rest on your shoulder, rubbing back and forth—comforting. His eyes drop to watch the way your cardigan slips off, folding down to expose the thin shoulder strap of your red dress. “No, sweet girl,” he says, distracted. His eyes move across your upper chest before returning to meet your gaze. “You were worshipping the Lord through me.”

His hair looks darker than you’d ever seen it before. The sun is gone now. You’d never seen him by candlelight before. “I was?” you sniffle.

He drags your cardigan back up over your shoulder. “You’re a virgin?”

You nod. Another sniffle.

“And you’ve only touched yourself when you were thinking of me?”

He doesn’t let you drop your head when you try, so you nod—eyes darting to the side in shame.

“What could be more sacred?” he breathes.

His lips ghost over yours before landing on your cheek in a feather-light kiss. You close your eyes, savouring his touch as he leaves a leisurely trail of them across your face. Tender kisses anointing your skin in patient reverence.

“A sweet..” Kiss. “Innocent…” Kiss. “Little lamb.” Kiss. “Using her body to worship Him. You love Him through me. That’s all.” He returns to your mouth, holding your head steady as his warm lips slide across yours—your first kiss. “Through my body,” he finishes, warm breath mixing with yours.

That made sense, your hazy mind offers. It’s why it had consumed you all these years; why you’d never felt it for anyone but him.

Light, bubbly, warmth rises in your chest as the guilt lifts.

Caleb would not lie to you. It was an impossibility.

He watches the smile take over your face with a look you’ve never seen on him before. Then his head drops to your neck, and he’s lifting you into his arms. He doesn’t move. He just stands there, holding you to his body—breathing in the scent of you. He groans something into your neck, a word you can’t decipher. Then he withdraws.

“Would you let me guide you in worship?” he says, a little shaky with his uneven breathing.

“Mm,” you hum, nodding. Whatever that means. It didn’t matter. This was good. Everything was okay now. You’re practically limp in his arms, releasing yourself to his will.

He takes a few step backwards, and then lowers himself into a pew. You sit in his lap, knees at either side of his thighs—relaxed as his strong arms hold you against him. “I’ve resisted for so long,” he says, fingers tangling in your hair at the back of your head.

Then he drags you to his mouth, messy in his indulgence. He’s eager to please the Lord, your mind supplies, as his tongue dips between your lips to meet your own. You have no experience. You don’t know what you’re doing. So you let him take you. There’s a moment, when you are limp in his arms—eyes closed, chin wet with drool—that he dips his long fingers between your lips to play with your tongue. He takes it between his fingertips. Toys with it.

When your eyes flutter open, you find yourself transfixed by the expression on his face as he plays with you. His own lips are parted to accommodate his ragged breathing, and his eyes are hooded, locked on his fingers in your mouth.

Eventually, he lowers you onto your back across the pew and crawls over you. It’s only now you notice his black shirt untucked from his pants. Then his mouth is on yours again, devouring you with a low groan. The wood is cool against your back, contrasting with the heat of him above you—with the heat of his mouth. He tasted a little sweet, like the hard candies he kept at the entrance of the booth.

He’d sucked on one while listening to confessions.

He’d heard their sins, in all his virtuous kindness, and he’d let the sweet lolly melt in his hot mouth.

And now you were tasting it.

You were tasting your sweet priest.

His warm breath tickles your neck when he parts from you.

Then his fingers return. Slipping between your wet lips and into your mouth, he plays. In and out and around your tongue, he explores your mouth like it hid something he treasured. You take in as much of his face as the dim candlelit space allowed. Lost in worship, you hardly process his words when he finally speaks.

“Body of Christ,” he mumbles.

He holds your jaw, wet fingers against your cheek. And you lay limp beneath him, willing to receive, as he hovers over you and spits into your mouth.

You swallow without hesitation, indulging in the brand new expression painting his pretty face. Hunger and satisfaction combined.

He pets your hair with one long gentle stroke, adoration flooding his eyes as he gazes down upon you. It’s a look that has your heart fluttering in your chest as your mind drifts further and further outside of your body and into the space above you—light and free.

As his thumb brushes across your glistening lips, leaving a tingling sensation in its wake, a question flitters across your vacated mind. “Is this sex?” you mutter in a dreamy breathy sigh.

He stills.

You watch the muscles move in his face as his expression shifts. His brows tug together, then relax. His wet lips part, then close, then part again.

“It’s worship,” he answers. Your cardigan had fallen off both your shoulders at some point. He gently lifts the soft fabric back over your bare skin now, putting you back together. “When it’s with me, it’s worship.”

You release a shaky breath. “So I’ll still—I’ll still be a virgin? After?”

His fingers trace over your collarbone, then wrap around your neck lightly. His voice is as gentle and warm as always when he answers, “Only when it’s with me. No one else.”

“No one else,” you sigh, blissful under his exalted guidance.

He nods with an approving hum, fingers slipping from your throat down to your chest. He traces down your body, making little patterns over the fabric of your dress as he goes.

“When I fill you with my cock…”

He makes a pattern over your lower belly as he speaks.

“…and your untouched cunt clings to me…”

His fingers brush at your thigh, where your hem bunches up. “…I might say some terrible, vulgar, things. Perverted depravity—” His fingertips dig into your skin. “—is only natural as such perfect worship is filtered through our imperfect human bodies.”

His warm breath tickles your thighs as he lifts your dress, exposing your cotton panties to the cool air, and to his eyes. He looks up at you through the brown hair that falls over his face. “No matter what I say, remember this is worship. Okay?”

“Okay,” you sigh with a nod, entirely surrendered to him.

“Good girl,” he breathes, the warmth of it tickling you through the cotton. “Angel.”

His finger makes a single light stroke down the centre of the fabric, tickling your clit as he passes. Immediately, your body tenses as you attempt to curl in on yourself, overwhelmed by the newness of the feeling. You’d expected it to feel like it did when you’d slipped your hands between your legs yourself.

It didn’t.

He traps your thighs in the firm grip of his hands, preventing you from escaping him.

“It tickles,” you confess, embarrassed.

“Here?” He brushes over the fabric again, and it’s only his firm grip on one thigh that prevents you clamping him between your legs.

His hands slip just under the dip of your lower back, and he tugs you down the bench a little, towards his mouth. Then, as you look up at the vast vaulted ceiling, he kisses the cotton. It’s nothing more than a peck. And somehow, it feels closer to sin than anything prior. More than his tongue in your mouth, or his candy-flavoured spit.

But this wasn’t sin.

Another gentle kiss, directly over your clit.

This was worship.

“Father?”

“Mm?” he hums.

You can’t see him, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“Should I… kiss you too?” Your cardigan falls off one shoulder again. “I mean like you are. Worshipping your body is worshipping Him?”

He crawls up your body, filling your vision as he hovers over you again. His eyes fall to your exposed shoulder briefly. This time, he doesn’t fix it. “Where I kissed you?” he asks on a ragged breath.

Your eyes drop to his chest, and you fill in the rest of the path down to his belt in your mind. “Between your legs,” you whisper.

His thumb swipes across your lower lip, then he strums it a little—letting it bounce back as he watches its movement intently. “You want to kiss my cock?” he asks, a little rumble in his voice—dropping it lower than you’d heard it before.

Your eyes widen a little, still unused to his vulgar language.

“Remember what I told you,” he adds. “It’s natural, hm? To speak like this.”

You nod.

He lowers his face to your neck, and you look at the ceiling again and he inhales deeply, nose against your skin. Then, “Say it.” His lips tickle your neck as he speaks. “How do you want to worship m—Him?” His chest presses into yours. “Say it.”

The ceiling is a void of darkness. His body separates you from it, warm and safe. You turn your head and breathe in the scent of his soft hair. “I want to kiss you… kiss your cock.”

You jolt a little beneath him as his teeth sink into your skin without warning. “Good girl,” he groans. “So good. So proud of you.” A kiss where he’d bitten you… then another behind your ear… then your cheek… the corner of your mouth. “Just let me taste you a little first,” he whispers. “I’ve wanted to taste you for so long.”

You expect him to take your mouth again.

But he disappears, back down your body, to his position between your thighs.

You close your eyes rather than stare up into the darkness again, focusing on the warmth of him between your legs… on the delicate way he plays with the little strip of cotton covering you. His fingers lift the edges just a little as his breath fills the space he occupies—warming your thighs and cunt alike. “No one has seen it?” he asks as he toys with the fabric.

You shake your head and drop an arm across your head, over your closed eyes. “No, Father.”

“No one has touched it?”

“Just me,” you answer quietly, embarrassed, still.

His finger dips far enough under the fabric to sample the wetness beginning to leak from you. You should be ashamed, wracked with the guilt of sinful indulgence of the worst kind. Instead, a small high-pitched sound escapes you.

“And now me,” he says, low enough you almost miss it. “You’ll let me take these off, won’t you? You’ll let me see?”

“Mm,” you squeak with a nod.

His fingers hook into the waistband. You expect him to take them off quickly, like removing a band-aid.

“This is only for me,” he mutters as he lightly tugs at the fabric, inching the underwear down in a torturous lazy indulgence. “This is worship.”

You nod. “Anyone else would be sinful.”

“Mm. That’s right, angel. That’s good.”

Just before your twitching cunt is exposed to the room, he stops. You open your eyes and watch as he kneels beside the pew so he can guide your underwear down your legs and over your feet.

Then he stands.

He looks down at you.

And you watch as he brings the white cotton to his face and breathes in.

He turns and takes a few steps away. You watch him inhale again.

Then he shoves them into his pocket.

He stands there, with his back to you, lit by the candles at the entrance to the booth.

“Father?” you prompt after a long lingering silence.

His shoulders rise on a deep inhale, then he turns. He stands there, looking at you with his hands in his pockets, just far enough away that you can’t make out his expression in the darkness.

Even when you sit up, he doesn’t move.

You tug your dress down over your knees. “Did I—Did I do something wrong?”

He takes one step forward, the sole of his shoe squeaking over the stone tiles in his haste. But then he freezes again.

“No,” he answers simply.

You tilt your head, trying to make out his expression. The dark empty church seems bigger now. It’s dark corners seem darker. You resist turning around to check nothing is creeping from the dark while your back is turned. The cold starts to bite at you again. You miss him.

It’s only when you wrap your arms around yourself—much like you had when he’d found you on the bench—that he seems to break from whatever invisible string held him back. He surges towards you and drops to his knees at your feet. “Forgive me,” he pleads, wrapping his arms around you and pressing his forehead to your stomach.

Your red dress rides up to your thighs again. He takes the chance to invade the space between your thighs, gripping onto you like a lifeline.

“This is wrong,” he says, head still bowed, pressed against you. “Forgive me.” He grips the dress at your back in closed fists. “I gave in. You’re too sweet. I’ve never strayed before. Forgive—”

“I don’t understand.”

“—me. You’re—”

You shove at his shoulders.

It’s enough to halt his speech, but it does nothing to loosen his hold on you.

“Father?”

He looks up at you. Tortured. That’s how you’d describe the twist of his pretty features now. “I told myself I’d let myself have you once. That it’d be enough. That it’d fix it.” His fists flatten against your back. “But it won’t ever be enough,” he breathes. It leaves him like a confession. But instead of it making him lighter, he sags. His hands slide down to your hips, then a little further. He plays with the puddle of fabric where your dress bunches up at the top of your thighs. “I’m sick,” he mutters, sounding defeated.

“But it’s worship. It’s okay.”

He looks up at you from between your legs, through the hair that falls over his eyes—messier than you’ve ever seen it before. “Mm, it’s worship,” he says. “But it has nothing to do with God.”

You look over to the altar, then to the crucifix on the wall behind it.

Then, you look back at the man kneeling at your feet.

“It didn’t feel like sin.”

His eyes drop to your lips, and then his fingers wrap around your thighs, just below your hem. “No?” His hands warm your thighs where he touches you, squeezing and releasing you in a comforting rhythm. “It did for me, angel. So much I nearly lost myself to it. It was so easy. I’ve spent so long resisting you and all it took was a little confession, and I nearly had your—”

He swallows.

“I’m a bad man.”

You shake your head emphatically, quickly covering his hands with yours. “Don’t say that. Please.”

He looks down at your hands covering his own, lingering there, even when he speaks. “You should find a new church,” he says, entirely unmoving. “Or I’ll leave, if that makes it easier. I can leave.”

He sounds a little like he’s trying to convince himself at the end.

And when he shifts, attempting to pull himself to his feet, you panic. “No!” you cry, wrapping your arms around his neck and dragging him back into you. You wrap your calves around him for good measure. “Please don’t leave me. Please? I’ll be good. I won’t bother you again. I swear I won’t bother you.”

He breathes heavily as you cling to him, forcing his head against you again.

Then, when the tension leaves his body, and you’re sure he’s not about the leap to his feet, you loosen your hold on him enough that he can look up at you. His hand lifts to your cheek. “You are good,” he says. “You’ve always been so good, and you’ve never bothered me. Never.”

“But—”

“I’ll give in,” he interrupts. “I’ll give in eventually. I want you so—” he sighs. “I’ll give in.”

Your eyes flick to the altar again. Just briefly.

A door was opened now, one you’d kept locked and buried deep inside you. His tongue between your lips had been the key to unlock it, and the prospect of him pulling away—of losing him—had swung it wide open on its hinges.

Nothing mattered more to you.

No one. Not even God mattered more than—“Caleb,” you whisper.

His eyes dart to yours. It’s the first time you’ve called him by name. You hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

He looks at you in a way that makes it immediately clear that you’d never truly seen his gentleness more. Not really. You suppose you’d seen part of it. Maybe a little sliver. But the way he looks at you now fills you with a desperation unlike anything you’ve felt before. A desperation to cling to him. He looks at you like he could offer you everything.

You couldn’t part from him now.

Not ever.

“Have you really thought of me before? In sin?”

He doesn’t look away when he answers. “Many times.”

Even after having his spit dribbling down your chin, you struggle to comprehend the idea of him… touching himself. Especially thinking of you. Was the man before you now really the same pious one you’d idolised all these years?

“And you asked for forgiveness?” you ask softly. It was comforting to imagine someone like him kneeling beside his bed in prayer the same way you had.

His eyes drop now, shame crossing his face.

He grips the bench either side of you and slumps forward, until all you can see of him is the soft brown hair at the crown of his head. Then, “No, I haven’t. Not for this. Not from Him.”

His breath tickles your thighs as you battle your confusion. It’d been a self-soothing search for comfort, not a genuine question. You hadn’t considered he might say no.

“I’ve never strayed before,” he says, head still lowered before you. “Not before you.” His arms move to your back again. He takes hold of your dress and tugs you forward until his head rests on your stomach. “You are my greatest sin,” he confesses, sounded closer to distress than you’d ever heard him. “I don’t understand it. I’ve sat as a helpless passenger as it’s wrapped itself around me—inside me.” He looks up, glassy eyes meeting yours. “You’re inside me.”

Your lips are slightly parted in awe—in stupor.

You weren’t alone in this feeling.

The door—unlocked by his touch—falls off it’s hinges entirely. You could never close it again.

With his glassy eyes still on you, you gently nudge your cardigan from your shoulders and let the warm fabric fall into a pile around your hips.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his eyes widening slightly.

“I feel it too,” you answer, hushed. “I want to be wrapped around you. I want to feel you inside me.”

He shakes his head, and you feel his body tense, like he might try and escape again.

Quickly, you wrap your arms around his neck and fall forward, falling onto him. He keeps his balance for a moment, but gravity wins. He lands on his back, and you manage to cradle his head—preventing it making contact with the stone tile floor.

He’s entirely still.

“Caleb?” you whisper with a little tilt of your head, resting comfortably on top of him.

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “Please—” He swallows. “Please, sweetheart. You shouldn’t—we can’t do this.”

It only takes a little adjustment for you to brush you lips over his. “Why?” you whisper.

His lips tickles yours as he speaks. “I’m sick,” he breathes. His hand glides up your back as he says it, until his fingers wrap around the back of your neck. “You make me sick.” His grip is firm now, fingertips making little indentations in your skin. “I’m supposed to guide you, protect your sweet soul as you walk through this sick world, and instead, I look at you, and all I think about is plucking you and keeping you. Greed and depravity and lust and—”

A little whimper from you silences him.

His eyes flick across your face, studying, and then he takes your bottom lip between his teeth—tugging just a little, then releasing you again. “I realised it when I couldn’t find you in the pews—when Gideon was absent too: it’s not just lust,” he continues, keeping his hold on you. “It’s anger, and violence, and jealousy. I feel it all.”

“Father…” you breathe into his mouth. “I don’t want anyone else to see me, or touch me.” Gently, you cradle his warm cheek in your palm. “No one but you.”

His nostrils flare slightly.

Then his hand drops from the back of your neck, leaving you entirely.

His eyes flick down your bodies, to where your thighs cradle his stomach. Then he turns his head to the side and closes his eyes, shaking it a little, like he’s trying to erase whatever thought his mind had conjured.

You sit up, straddling him. His stomach is firm beneath your palms and you shimmy down a little more, until you’re resting just above his belt.

His brows draw together as you roll your hips, bare pussy separated from his skin only by the cotton of his dark dress shirt. The friction of it feels a lot like your pillow had on nights you’d writhed against it and thought of him.

But you can feel his warmth, seeping through the fabric.

He must feels yours too.

It was your warmest place, after all.

His eyes open, and for a moment, he stares out into the darkness. Then, slowly, he turns his head and looks directly at you—watching as you move against him. Watching as your lips part and you let a few little sounds of pleasure slip out.

His shirt nudges higher with your rhythmic movement.

He does nothing to fix it.

He doesn’t move. Except for his eyes.

They move between your face and the red fabric covering your shame.

He knows his shirt is nudging higher.

He doesn’t look away.

And when it finally creeps high enough to allow you to drag your slippery pussy over his warm stomach for the first time, his hands snap to your hips.

He holds you so tightly, you are forced to halt your movement entirely.

“Stop it,” he scolds, stern.

You tilt your head. He says it like he hadn’t been watching, waiting—as if he hadn’t been anticipating the feel of your messy cunt against him.

“But I need—”

He sits up suddenly, supporting you with a hand to your back as you slip into his lap. “What?” he demands. “What do you need? You came for confession. You needed to confess and be heard. That’s my purpose. That’s what I am to you.”

“Are you angry with me?”

He leans forward, holding you firmly against him. “Why is your little flower all messy? Hm?”His eyes drop between your eyes and your lips, over and over. “What kind of girl rubs her juicy little cunt all over the priest who was supposed to protect her perfect, pure, sweet soul—on the floor of His Holy Sanctuary?”

He bites at your lip before you can even process the lewdness of his words. “Your body is a temple of worship,” he continues, a hint of anger still darkening his voice in a way you’d never heard before. He presses you into him, forcing your breasts to compress against his chest.

You didn’t need to wear a bra with this dress. It wrapped around you so perfectly that it supported you fine all on it’s own.

“Please don’t be angry,” you whisper. “I—I—” Tears swell in your eyes as you stutter, quickly breaching your lower lids and streaking down your cheeks.

As your vision blurs, your world tilts. Your back meets the hard floor gently, and the shape of him hovers above you—obscured by your tears. It all happens in one smooth motion.

And then, without another word, the sound of tearing fabric fills the empty church.

He tears the red fabric from your skin, split from the neckline down the centre of you.

Your chest rises and falls heavily in the stillness that follows.

He’s a blurry figure above you. You haven’t had time to blink away your tears.

His breathing is uneven and heavy, to match your own.

Then, as your vision starts to clear, he falls forward and wraps his warm lips around one of your nipples. There’s no build-up. He starts in a frenzy—a chaotic tandem of his wet swirling tongue interspersed with desperate feral suckling. It fills the echoing darkness with vulgar symphony.

It drags desperate whimpers from your lips. And when one of them sounds like a high, broken cry of his name, he surges into you—wrapping his arms around your back and tugging you a little off the floor and further into his mouth. He hums something around you, the muffled words vibrating around your nipples.

Your eyes lock on the crucifix behind him as he ravages your breasts, animalistic in his intensity. It felt like all-consuming reverence, adoration… worship.

It was worship.

Worship was good.

He was good.

You aren’t even aware you are doing it when you start muttering. It’s only when he detaches from you with gasping breaths and looks up into your eyes that you realise it.

What had you been saying?

Your nipples, wet with his spit, pebble tight in the frigid air.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

That was it.

You had been thanking him.

He sucks in a long shaky breath. Then, with his eyes fixed on yours, his large, warm hand cups your breast—covering it entirely. “These were made to nurture new life,” he begins. He’s all gentle, guiding authority figure now. This was how you’d always known him. He has the same cadence he used in the booth when he was offering up the Lord’s teachings. “They’re His perfect design.” He palms your breast, massaging it without hesitation or restraint. “Don’t you think it’s right—” He takes your other breast in hand and leans back a little so he can watch as he gropes you almost painfully. “—that we honour and cherish His perfect creation?”

He swings a leg over you, never ceasing his rough kneading. “Take it off,” he instructs, rolling his hips towards you. “Undo the buckle.”

His belt is hidden under his loose shirt. You fumble a little with it, half-blind. He doesn’t stop to help you. He plays with your breasts instead, looking down at you from above.

“That’s it,” he coos in gentle encouragement as you slip the leather through the loops at his waistband.

It’s only then that he lifts his hands from you.

He sits above you, one leg on either side of your body—holding his weight off you. And you watch as he unbuttons his shirt. The collar goes first. He tosses the white strip aside without looking at it’s landing place.

His pretty fingers work at the buttons.

He makes it about half-way.

Then he grips the fabric and tears. Buttons pop off and scatter across the stone around you.

And then he’s bare.

Muscle sculpts him like a living, breathing work of art. He’s— “Beautiful.”

His chest rises and falls heavily as he gazes down at you, head tilting a little as the word slips from your lips involuntarily.

“Mm?” he hums, falling forward over you. “What was that?”

When you avoid his gaze, he grips your jaw in his palm. “Touch me,” he says, “as I touched you. Worship Him through me. We are created in His image.”

He takes your hand, falls back on his heels, and lift you to your feet as he stands.

You are bare, and he is half-bare. Somehow, he feels taller than he ever had before.

Then he places your palm on his chest, flat against his warm skin. “This is my body,” he says, dark hair falling over his eyes. “Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, which you have from God…” He quotes the passage as he guides your hands across his torso. “So we treasure it, and and honour Him through it.”

His stomach is firm under your palm, rising and falling shallowly as he guides you to the little trail of hair that disappearing down into his waistband. “Look at me,” he commands.

You obey, fingering brushing the hem of his underwear.

“I’m a bad man,” he says.

You shake your head, frowning. He was wrong. He wasn’t bad, he was everything good and safe and warm.

He catches your chin just as it dip downwards; as your attention is drawn to the movement at his hips. He keeps your eyes fixed on his as he undoes his fly with one hand. “I’m a bad man,” he repeats. “I want to fuck you,” he breathes, a little ragged now. “Pretty little virgin comes to her trusted priest asking for forgiveness and he lowers her to the cold floor, naked, and tells her he wants to shove his leaking cock deep inside her. Is that a bad man?”

You can’t respond. Not with the way he grips you.

“He tells her he wants her to kiss his throbbing cock. To worship him, like he was her god. He wants her to put him above all other gods, above her God. He’s a jealous man, without exception.” Fabric hits the floor, and slowly, he guides your hand into the elastic of his underwear. “He wants her on her knees, looking up at him with her sweet, devoted eyes, promising she’ll put no one else above him.” You gasp as he guides your fingers around him, hot and thick. “Is that a bad man?”

His other hand slides up your stomach to wrap around your breast, still wet from his spit.

“He wants to fill his pretty little angel with his hot cum, until she’s bred nice and full, and then when her pretty tits ache with sweet milk—” He squeezes at your breast as he speaks, over and over. “—he wants to suck at her until it dribbles down his chin. Is that a bad man?”

He leans down and places a gentle kiss to your lips. “He wants her to call him Father when he’s inside her,” he whispers. “He wants her to cry as she sucks at his cock with her naughty little cunt because she knows it’s bad.” He squeezes your hand around his erection. “You know it’s bad, don’t you, angel?”

One shaky breath. Two. Then you nod.

He lips curve into a little smile, proud. “Good girl,” he whispers. Then he steps away from you, separating you from him.

You take a small step to follow.

“No.”

You freeze, wobbling a little on your feet in your haste to obey.

“Go lay down on the steps and spread your legs.”

Your eyes flick to the stairs leading up the pulpit, then back to him.

You rock on your feet again, this time in hesitation.

The stone is cold on the soles of your feet. If you stood there long enough, they might go numb.

But the steps are covered in a dark, red carpet.

He takes a small step towards you. “Didn’t you come here to confess? Hm? Show me. I need to see the part of you that aches for me.”

His eyes heat your skin as you slip past him and climb the steps. There’s only a few.

He’s closer when you turn.

And he’s entirely bare.

He stands in the candlelight, just in front of the first pew, watching you—waiting for your obedience. And as you lower yourself onto the steps, leaning back to prop yourself up on your elbows, his hand wraps around himself.

You can still feel the heat of him in your palm.

“Spread your legs,” he commands.

“Mm,” you nod. “Yes, Father.” Then you drop your knees, exposing your messy centre to his hungry eyes and the cold air. He’s silent as your cunt clenches around nothing, wanting. He strokes over himself in gentle twists, base to tip—eyes locked on your offering.

“Are you going to ask me what I think?” He doesn't look up from between your legs as he speaks. “That’s what you came here for, isn’t? For help?”

You nod, readjusting yourself on your elbows a little.

He closes the distance between you and lowers himself onto his knees on the bottom step. “I can see it clenching,” he murmurs. “Greedy. Hm? Is it greedy, angel?”

Your lips quiver as you suck in a shaky breath.

“Mm,” he hums. “Tell me why you touch it. Help me understand.”

“I don’t know,” you mutter with a shake of your head.

“You’ll tell me the truth,” he orders. It’s not like earlier, in the booth—when he was still the man you’d thought you’d known these past two years. He’s all stern authority now. There’s no doubt. You will tell him the truth.

“Felt empty,” you confess in a little whine and roll of your hips. “I felt so empty.”

He leans closer. “Yeah? Poor little baby. A virgin with an achy little hole…” His fingers wrap around your ankle. “Empty,” he mutters. "So proud of you for coming to me,” he says as he strokes up your calf in a comforting caress. You struggle not to squeeze your thighs together, tortured by the lack of friction and the pulse of your cunt under his lingering gaze.

Then he lowers himself down between your legs. His finger strokes the skin just around where you want him most. “Sweetheart,” he breathes. “You need filling with the Holy Spirit. You’re all empty, yeah? You came to me because you knew I could fix it? Because I can fill you?”

He’s asking you a question, but he’s focused entirely on your twitching pussy as you flinch under this teasing touches. There is no logic to his questioning regardless. He’s consumed by the lust you share—slave to it.

“Who better to fill you than me?” he mutters as his fingertip dips into your hole. It’s barely a prod, easing back again as soon as your soft entrance offers a little resistance.

“Just for you…” you breathe.

“Hm?” He looks up. “What was that?”

“Only want you.”

He crawls over you slowly, forcing you to look into his eyes as he asks, “Me? Yeah? You came to your priest to fill your empty little pussy?”

“Forgive me,” you whisper.

He brushes his knuckles from your temple down to your chin. “I’ll help you, angel.” His lips brush over yours. “My angel…”

When he climbs off you and stands to his feet, a tiny part of your brain fires off in panic—afraid of him leaving you. But then his pretty fingers wrap around the thick length as it bobs above you. “It needs anointing,” he says with a gravely darkness in his voice.

He towers above you, skin glowing golden as the candlelight bounces off him. The same strong fingers that gripped the Holy Book high above his head each Sunday glide over the length of him as he looks down upon you.

He takes one step backward, down the steps. “On your knees,” he instructs. His aim becomes clear as he takes one step closer again, levelling himself at the perfect height for your mouth. “Tell me,” he prompts. “Where do you want to kiss me?”

On a shaky breath, you exhale, “Your cock, Father.”

You watch his closed fist stroke over his length, from the base to the tip. There’s a little shine there, at the end of it, leaking from the slit. “Alright, angel. Anoint my cock with your drool, hm?” He lets go of it, and you watching it bob a little—heavy. Looking up at him for reassurance, you level yourself with the head and touch your lips to him tentatively. One gentle kiss. “That’s it,” he coos. So you place another to his skin, right at the very tip. It bobs a little as he shifts his weight. Then you dip your tongue out, catching a little of the shine at the slit.

A bird calls in the night as it flies somewhere nearby.

His head drops back.

“This is what you needed,” he sighs. “This is what you came to me for. Isn’t it?”

You nod with a hum as you take the tip of him between your lips, tongue working in clumsy little swirling flicks—confidence building.

“Good girl,” he praises, looking down at you again. “Oh, my good girl. Just play with it. Just like that. Sweet little kisses for Father’s cock. Oh, Fuck. Oh God,” he groans.

He slips from your lips as you startle a little, looking up at him. The vulgarity had become your new normal. But this was new.

“What is it, baby?” he coos, stroking your hair. “I shouldn’t take the Lord’s name in vain. I’m sorry.” He takes his cock in hand as he apologises, standing on the steps of the pulpit, in the empty church where he gives his sermon each Sunday.

No one else would ever see him like this. He was too good. He was loved and trusted and righteous. And his cock was wet with your spit.

When you stand to your feet at his guidance, he still towers over you from the step down.

“Are you gonna put it inside me now?” you question with a little tilt of your head.

He takes one step down and runs his fingers through his hair. For a brief moment, it almost looks like he comes back to himself—to the version of him that almost left you—good and virtuous. It fights to take over.

So you take one step towards him.

He takes a step down again, in return, away from you.

“I’m so empty, Father,” you whine, slipping your fingers down between your legs. “Need you to fill me up again. Please.”

A further step down has him standing on the stone tiles.

So you lower yourself onto the steps again, leaning back and parting your thighs.

He stands there as you play with yourself, slipping your fingers through your slick until your clit is as sloppy as the fluttering entrance you leak from.

His heavy cock twitches as you watch each other. He doesn’t touch it.

“Please, Father,” you plead with a half-sob, on the edge of tears. “My pussy…”

He takes a small step towards you and pauses again.

“I know it’s bad,” you continue, somewhere between a sob and a whine. “It’s wicked. My naughty pussy wants to worship your cock, Father. Wanted it so long. I think about it during mass. I imagine you inside me. I come every week for you.” You dip your finger inside yourself, whimpering a little. “Don’t you want me?”

His chest rises and falls heavily as he approaches. He’s slow, like a predator stalking.

“So bad,” he mutters as he lowers himself onto the steps between your legs.

He watches as you play with yourself, messy and clumsy.

“Sent to tempt me,” he continues muttering as his fingers wrap around himself again. “That’s what you are, aren’t you? Are you from the Devil? Made to look like a perfect little angel? Is that it?” His hand strokes along his whole length, base to tip, over and over in a slight twisting action as he speaks. “You were made for me, weren’t you?”

It sounded right. Made for him. You’d never wanted anyone else.

He lowers himself over you before you can answer.

“I’ll never stop wanting you,” he warns. “It’ll get worse and worse. I can feel it. This obsession.”

His forehead drops to yours. And with your eyes closed and his warmth over you, the slick tip of him slides over you for the first time. You want to kiss him, but he doesn’t let you get close. Instead, he breathes into your mouth as his tip collects all the slick between your folds and spreads it in an obscene mess between your thighs. “This belongs to me. Only I get to fill your greedy little pussy, yeah?”

His lips brush yours.

“No one else touches it. No one else looks at it.” He prods at your virgin hole, indulging in the sweet spongy heat that presses back at him. “This is worship,” he breathes. “You’ll suck me inside your sweet cunt, all needy and sweet and looking at me like you do in Communion. You’ll worship me. Above all else.” A chaste kiss. “Then I’ll flood you with cum, so you’re nice and full, yeah? Does that sound nice?”

“Inside,” you plead as you squirm, trying to take him in as he slips over you again and again.

He breathes into your neck as he prods at you a little harder. “You gotta let me inside. Can feel you sucking at me. Take me inside, sweet girl. Come on.”

He kisses your neck as you try to take him, letting your muscles go slack under him as he eases inside you over and over. “There you go,” he mumbles. “Fuck, that’s it. Perfect fucking cunt. Mine.”

It’s just the tip of him. It fills the ache beyond anything you’d managed with your fingers. His breath, his voice, his warmth, and his thick hot cock stretching your walls open.

It’s enough to drag tears from you again.

He kisses them away as they wet your cheeks.

“You’re inside. Inside me.”

His brows draw together as you squeeze at him, clenching rhythmically.

“Thank you, Father,” you whisper.

He groans, and then he shifts, and impossibly, he fills you further—spearing apart your walls until it feels like you might look down and see the shape of him in your belly.

“We shouldn’t—” he mutters. “Forgive me.” His hips drag back, and then he’s pressing into you again. “Forgive me.” He bites at your earlobe. “Naughty pussy. Naughty girl. Desperate for her priest to fill her with cock. Fuck. Fuck, you feel so good.”

“This is sex,” you mewl.

He bites into you, feral, and the obscene slap of skin echoes from the pulpit steps as his hips slam into yours. “This is sex,” he answers, breathless. “This is what you wanted. You wanted to suck on my cock with your perfect little cunny. You wanted to be full of me, hm? This is what you wanted.”

“He’ll forgive us,” you whisper into his ear. “I’m made for you. He made me for you. How can it be wrong?”

“Yeah?” he rasps, looking a little frenzied when he lifts his head to find your eyes. “You made for me?”

“Can’t you feel it?” you ask with a roll of your hips.

You watch his eyes flutter shut.“Yeah. Yeah, sweetheart, I feel it. Wrap around me so perfect.” He grinds into you, indulging in the feeling of your walls rippling around him in desperate waves. “I’m keeping you. You’re mine now. My pretty girl. Mine to fuck, and kiss—” He licks at your jaw. “—and breed.” He drops his weight onto you, smothering you in his heat. “Gonna keep you safe and warm. All mine.”

“Do you think He’s watching?” you whisper in his ear.

He groans into your neck. “Tell me who you were thinking of,” he orders, low and gravelly. “When you looked up at me during Communion. Tell me.”

“You.”

He draws his hips back and begins fucking you just with his tip in shallow little rocking thrusts. “No one else before me, hm?” he prods as you clench rhythmically around him, attempting to draw him back in. “You worship me with this cunt. Only me.”

You nod desperately, emphatically. “Only you.”

Pleased, he sinks back inside you with a low groan.

All your life you’d believed your body was a temple of the Lord; that you were filled with His Spirit; that you carried Him inside you always.

But you’d been empty. You’d been so, so empty. Longing to fill the cold, hollowness inside you. You’d desperately returned to this church week after week, believing the man at the pulpit was merely a messenger between you and your heavenly God. Believing your fixation was your failure—that he was temptation, and only in submission to God could you be delivered from him.

But with his cum anointing your skin, and his large warm body sheltering you from the cold, you know the truth of it all: anything, or anyone, which worked to separate you from him, could be nothing but the greatest evil. He was your salvation. And nothing would come before him.

Your face is quickly wet with tears again as you roll against each other in the dark, empty church—indulging in your mutual worship. His mouth adorns your neck in messy kisses as you mutter in his ear: praising him, worshiping him. You can’t stop, desperate to release the intensity of your adoration upon him.

You don't want to think about him anymore. 

Not a single second. 

As you slam your door, you make an effort to lock it before getting into your bed. 

You hate the way your heart patters, the way your head keeps egging you to remember the harsh words you lashed onto your lover only seconds ago. You can admit to yourself now, that they were dramatic - of course you didn't hate Caleb - how could you? He was the only person that ever mattered to you.

Silence. 

You can’t hear him. Is he still standing there? Right where you said those awful words? Why wasn't he moving? 

Minutes pass. Then, an hour. 

Only then, do you hear the first knock on your door. Somehow, your anxiety reduced into a wash of relief.

You swallow the lump in your throat, anticipating another knock at your silence. You wanted to pretend you were asleep, but you know Caleb well, and he knows you even better. 

“I know you’re not asleep” he mumbles behind the door. 

He waits another moment before sighing. 

You watch as the door handle twists, but it doesn't budge. 

A deadly sound escapes Caleb's lips - a chuckle. 

You find yourself biting the bottom of your lip, gripping at the sheets - this was inevitable. You knew you’d tick him off by locking your door, especially after an argument. It was one of the rules Caleb has set for the both of you since your shared childhood together - no locked doors, especially after arguments. 

One loud bang, and he was inside; the small clinck of your now destroyed lock bounces on the floor as a reminder of your now disturbed peace.

As your eyes meet his, Caleb shakes his head in mock disappointment, “what did we say about locking doors, hm?”

You keep yourself composed; though, the sight of your shattered lock and partially broken door does not help, not one bit.

You watch as Caleb strides toward you, he doesn't look all that intimidating - usually, Caleb would have an almost predatory look on him after an argument like that. But tonight, he seemed all too expressionless. 

Something felt off. 

“So I'm getting the silent treatment too now, huh?” He suddenly speaks, the way he spoke was far too casual, it makes you wonder if he was ready to make up. Though you were stubborn, you certainly didn’t mind it if he did, so as long as he apologises first, of course.

You keep your eyes on his as he nears, expectant.

“It’s fine, I don't mind,” he sighs, before sitting at the edge of your bed, “I was just going to say goodnight anyways, that’s all.”

Your eye twitches involuntarily, and you find the words escaping before holding them back - so much for a silent treatment.  

“That’s all?”

Caleb smiles at the way you so easily gave up the act. He tilts his head to the side, his eyes shining softly, “And that I love you”

“I love you too” you say in a breath, wanting to be closer, wanting to pull him in. Suddenly, nothing truly mattered anymore. Nothing ever mattered, except for Caleb. 

But when you look into his eyes, you don’t see him anymore. It’s empty, his eyes. They usually light up when you say those words, but right now, Caleb wasn’t there.

Though he smiles at you once more, you feel your heart begin to race. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. And deep inside your heart, you know it’s all your fault. 

Before Caleb can turn to leave, you clutch onto the back of his shirt.

“Whats wrong?” Caleb questions, quirking a brow upward as he allows himself to settle back down on your bed with your eager attempt to pull him down.

“We’re not making up?” You say, meeker than you intend - Caleb notices this, of course, but he doesn’t seem to tease you for it.

“Hm? Why would we?”

You feel your stomach twist at the words, and you feel your breaths faint, “You've always said it's best to make up before falling asleep” you manage, feeling your throat clog up with the way he looks at you. As if you were a stranger of some sort, as if he saw right through you.

Where was he? Where was Caleb?

“Doesn't mean we should” he replies flatly, “you were about to sleep with your door locked, were you not? So you clearly didn't want to make up either”

Your shoulders slump even more, your voice a little too innocent for even Caleb to bear any longer, “You don't want to?”

He looks away, unable to face you, but he’s reeled back in when your palms cup onto his cheek, holding him there, right in front of you.

“Caleb-” 

“I’m tired pips, I need sleep too y'know" he mumbles, looking down to your lips before looking back up to your gaze, “plus, you’ve been bad enough to me today. I think I deserve a break”

“No” you say, stubborn and childish as you are, but it manages to break a chuckle from him.

“No?” He muses as you sit up straighter. 

He must already know you’re about to kiss him, since he moves an inch back when you lean in. Though you’re offended, you scrunch your eyebrows to scowl at him.

“I spoil you too much” he sighs, “you don’t get to kiss me after all of that”

As Caleb’s large hands wrap around yours, you begin to panic when he pulls your hold away from him.

“Please gege-”

Caleb seems to have some mercy for you when you plead like that, you understand that with the way he stills, the way his gaze softens just the slightest. He couldn't help it, and you knew it - when you addressed him like that, it felt like he could never say no.

His finger saunters across the bottom of your jaw, trailing a line over it before lingering against your lips. 

You don’t look away from him, you can’t. 

“Not this time, okay pips?”

When you feel his fingers press onto your bottom lip, you’re already commanded to take it in. It doesn’t matter anymore, this is a small luxury for what you did. You would take this, you would gladly take anything of what he gives to you. 

“So spoilt…” he chuckles softly, prodding his finger in deeper, “perhaps I should’ve left your lock on, after all”

You hum as his two digits push in back and forth, relishing the feeling of his fingers on your tongue; your core aches with a type of pleasure you know you won’t be getting a release from - but you still enjoy it. 

You hold onto his wrist when he tries to pull his fingers away, desperate for the small form of intimacy he’s given to stay beside him a little longer. But you know that you’ve already been far too greedy.

“That’s enough now, yeah?” He’s soft once more, easing you off. And though you’re dazed, you remember exactly what you needed to say before he leaves you tonight.

And since you’re already pathetic enough, you're no longer scared of voicing it out.

“What I said earlier-” you start, louder, ready to confront the situation you were avoiding. Caleb doesn’t move, and with the way he wasn’t looking at you anymore, you knew he knew exactly what you were talking about.

“It’s nothing i’m not aware of”

“What?”

The feeling again. 

Washing over your previous pleasure, it eats away at you. You know it for certain now. It was all your fault. That empty look in his eyes. It was all your doing. The anxiety inside you hurls into something dangerous but you try to keep your mind steady to let Caleb know the truth.

“I don't hate you. I promise- I was just- I was just upset and it came out” you sputter out as quickly as you can before regaining your breaths, “I say it when I'm angry, you know it’s not true, don’t you?”

Caleb’s silence breaks your heart into fragments, his eyes look down before shaking his head and meeting your eyes once more. A gentle smile forms on his lips before he leans in to pat your head.

“You should get some sleep, goodnight pips” 

You feel your hands shake as you reach out to him once more, but this time, you’re not fast enough. You find yourself clutching onto the mattress underneath in an attempt to find a warmth that isn’t his.

He’s already gone. 

You didn’t know Caleb had those thoughts in his head. How could you possibly know? You thought he knew how much you adored him. How the possibility of you hating him could never occur, not even in a million lifetimes. 

“Arent you a little too old to be creeping into my bed over nightmares?” Caleb sighs as he sits up from his bed, staring you down as you creep your way into his bed and under his sheets.

“Pips…” there was a hint of warning in his tone, but you don’t back down, “you have your own bed” 

“Are you going to kick me out?” You challenge, only to hear him sharply inhale as you wrap your arms around his waist, snuggling up to his chest.

Caleb manages to relax a little as he falls back into his pillow, you feel it with the way his breaths have finally steadied in your embrace, “Of course not. It’s your home, do as you please”

“I’m sorry” you start, closing your eyes to rest against his chest, finding comfort in his warmth and the gentle thumping of his heart, “I promise you, with every fibre of my being, I don’t hate you. I never did, I never will” 

“That’s reassuring” he replies, but you find yourself pushing up against his chest to take a better look at him. Caleb opens his eyes and raises his eyebrows at you, as if to question you, but you narrow your eyes onto him instead, 

“You don't believe me still” you say in a huff, Caleb sighs. 

“How can I” he mumbles softly, “you said it with such conviction… it just reinforced something I had already been feeling” 

You swallow down, thick. 

The guilt was washing over you like waves crashing onto you, over and over again, hard, heavy, painful.

Everything hurt. 

But what hurt more was the way Caleb stared right at you, nervous to say another word, that you may break if he did. 

Even when he was already the one who was broken.

“I love you Caleb, you know that, don’t you?” You say, softer - and though Caleb sits up to comfort you, you can’t help but feel like a monster when he doesn’t reply. 

He can’t reply.

“Caleb?” 

As your voice begins to shake and your eyes start to water, Caleb closes his eyes momentarily to let out a breath. 

“I’m not upset anymore pips” he shakes his head, “let's go back to sleep now, okay? ”

Again and again. He won’t answer you. He certainly believes it, that you hate him, that you don’t truly love him. It was all your fault. 

All your fault. 

Unknowingly, you break out into an ugly sob, shocking even Caleb who pulls you into his chest immediately. You hate how you can’t reach him. You hate how he doesn’t listen. You hate how he doesn’t understand that he’s the only person you care about.

“Please stop crying pips...” he groans, rocking you back and forth, just like he always did when you would cry in his arms, “I still love you, I’ll always love you”

“But you don't believe that I love you” your voice cracks again, pushing back to look at him once more - waiting, begging for an answer, but he doesn’t give you it. 

Wiping away at your tears, you instinctively lean in to kiss him before pulling back at the very last moment, remembering only moments ago that he didn't want to. You apologise softly and wipe away at your tears again, stabilising your breaths and sinking back down to the sheets. 

All the while, Caleb watches you, his fingers tangling in your hair as the other taps a familiar rhythm on your back.

He pulls you close, so close you feel his eyelashes on yours, even his nose brushes up against yours. You manage to scoot back to give him an appropriate amount of space, but you feel him pull you in instead. 

Out of nowhere, his lips are on yours; soft, tender - but the moment ends as quickly as it starts. You look to him, shocked and dazed, almost questioning why he gave you something he withheld only moments ago.

Though you should be happier having finally gotten a small token of his affection for the cruel words you’ve lashed onto him, you can’t help but feel even worse. 

“Happy?” Caleb gives you his best smile, charming, relaxed - but you know better. A small breath leaves his lips as he kisses the tip of your nose, then your forehead. You don't have any more fight in you to plead your case. So you settle beside him, pulling yourself close against his chest. 

“I’m sorry gege”

“I know, it’s okay"

chuu's note: I called this damage control bc he kissed mc as damage control hahaha. but then i realised they're both just doing damage control. I highkey want to make a pt2 where mc is being manipulative instead though cos I feel bad for making mc go through ts...

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likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated <3 lots of love, chuu!