#crescent.creates

So Satoru starts small.

Little excuses that he forgot to buy more condoms, getting handsy in public, and dragging you to an empty bathroom or to the backseat of his car. One of the many benefits of knowing everything about you is the way he easily chips away at your defenses; a pretty flutter of white lashes here and sultry whispers into your ear there, then it’s hook, line, and sinker, he’s got his cock buried raw inside velvety walls, the wail of his name on your swollen lips; a sweet slice of heaven.

And while Satoru can’t help but persuade you into letting him fuck you raw, he does at least pull out, spilling ivory seed over you, watching as it leaks from his tip and drips down your skin, streaks of pearly white and a claim on your body.

But with new experiences come new wants. It comes to Satoru’s great misfortune that he’s been dying to actually come inside you now. First, there was the condom, and now the little horny devil on his shoulder whispers for him to breed you, shoot his load deep enough until it takes over and over and over. But he loves you, and if you want him to pull out, he does. Yet, figments of his imagination run loose in the form of you, swollen with his child, waddling around his house with his shirt hung loosely on your gravid frame, beaming brightly with the glowing halo of pregnancy.

He wants it. Blessed by the heavens and earth, and all he wants is right in front of him, one load of cum away.

Unknowingly, thankfully, unbeknownst to himself, Satoru isn’t as slick as he thinks he is. You’re no fool to where his eyes linger or how his hips stutter inside you, a reluctant beg to stay inside and spurt ribbons of cream into your gummy walls. If you didn’t know Satoru’s little wish, you’d consider yourself a pretty unobservant lover.

So, for his birthday, you decide to grant his wish.

And hence, you find yourself laid on your back, fingers curled into snowy hair, Satoru’s name caught on your tongue as the very man eats up his birthday meal with starving devotion.

Large hands pin your thighs to cushion the sides of his head, tongue working with fervor as he drools and slicks his spit in your clenching hole, fucking you with his wet muscle as his perfect nose nudges at your sensitive clit. Lewd smacks of his dining resonating throughout the dim room, barely audible with your moans as he dips the tips of his fingers into you, breaching just barely, drawing out careful reactions with that steady, shit-eating grin that only a man like him could have.

“‘S good, baby.” Spitting obscenely onto your already drenched pussy. He sounds awed, like the sight isn’t one he sees every week. You, legs hooked over his shoulder, hands buried in his roots, sweet voice begging him to keep going. Then again, he never gets tired of admiring his perfect girl, “Pretty too. Just spoilin’ me today, huh?”

Smooth fingers piston in and out of your sopping hole, lips suctioned to your aching clit as he slobbers over the sensitive bud. He rolls your clit into his mouth, moaning like he’s the one under an onslaught of pleasure.

“Taste jus’ so good, pretty, better than cake. Best fuckin’ pussy ever. Come on, sweets,” he croons lovingly into the hood of your clit, pussy-drunk on your taste, his words muffled with the ‘slick slick’ of his fingers curling just right on your g-spot, “give it to me, yeah? Give it to your birthday boy?”

His words have you keening, plunging you under bursts of ecstasy that submerge over your trembling body. Your hands push, pull, tug, and grip at him, the hymn of his name falling past your kiss-bitten lips as you unravel into his willing mouth, unraveling both your orgasm and all thoughts as he services you eagerly.

“That’s itttt, good girl, my sweet girl.” He punctuates his words with kisses littered on your inner thigh, one final kiss to your buzzy clit as he shifts, hovering about you now with the smug grin of a man who knows he’s done a job well.

Tenderly, your hands find his nape, pulling him down until his lips meet yours. You taste yourself on his tongue, licking over the crevices of your teeth, the roof of your mouth, while your fingers tug his pants off.

In your proximity, you’ve come to learn that Satoru is always hard around you. This time is no different. From humping like a dog in heat into the mattress, he’s just as hard as you take him into your hands, relishing in the sharp hiss of breath. It makes you laugh. That, in turn, makes him pout. The cute jutting of his wet lips, pretty, pink, and kiss-bitten.

“Such a meani- fuck, baby…” Whatever retort the man tries to make fails to form as his head falls onto your shoulder, sighing in reverie as your fingers stroke him in a steady cadence, just the way you know he likes it. “Like that… yeah, jus’ like that…”

He dwells in the sensation of your hands pumping over the velvety skin of his shaft just a bit longer until the familiar knot in his gut forms and aches, and his fingers curl around your wrist, tearing it away with a raspy groan as he fits himself between your legs, a familiar space fit for him.

“Not-not yet, wanna cum with you.” His hair cascades like the first snowfall, masking the heady flush on his pale cheeks and endless sky of his eyes that’re trained, mesmerized, by the way his cock glides through the folds of your sopping cunt, slickening the girth, his tip catching on your clit every so often to relish in your small gasp.

Like this, you just look so pretty, so pliable, and it causes his mind to run amok, bringing with it the hazy fantasy of you, bred with his virile seed, with the prettiest ring on your finger. Again, like many nights, the image floods his wired brain.

Honestly, he could cum just from this. No penetration—just the slow drag of his hips, cock pressing against your pussy, the small twitch of your clit against the veins of his dick. It’s so wet, there’s no telling if it’s from your previous orgasm or the pre spilling from him. A mix of both lust and love on the day Satoru’s presence altered the universe’s balance.

But even with an existence so powerful to his name, a name that even the world found itself bending to, graced by his birth and mere conception, Satoru is always surprised by you.

“Raw, Toru.” You mutter out while your body moves on its own accord, hips pumping sloppily in time with his lazy ones. “Let’s go raw tonight, yeah?”

And if he wasn’t already trembling with excitement, barely holding back with the thinnest veil of restraint, he definitely was now. You, actually asking to go raw when he’s the one who’s been going berserk trying to get you to forget about condoms? Gone is the confident Satoru, replaced by a man who stares blankly at you with wide eyes and a shaky smile of pearly whites.

“You-you serious, baby? I mean, I was going to ask to go raw anyway, but since you brought it up…” Cheekiness tugs at the edges of his lips, glee filling his eyes. “How could I deny my precious girl? Whatever she wants, she gets.”

You don’t get a chance to answer before he breaches the ruddy tip past your tight ring, and your soft, warm walls hug him. The stretch is accompanied by the lewd squelch of flesh filling flesh, raw and deep. The quivering lips of your cunt stretched obscenely to accommodate his thick length, and your tummy divots with each hitched breath, thighs trembling where they're hooked around his hips when he pushes another inch into you.

And Satoru swears he sees white flickering at the edges of his vision, pulsing and quaking when he sinks in completely, his heavy balls resting against the curve of your ass. Immediately, he has a hand pushing your knee up towards your chest, his grip suddenly bruising as he slings your leg over his shoulder, snapping his hips into the back of your thighs, mushroomed tip rubbing perfectly against that gummy spot that has you seeing stars, balls tightening when you give a little whiny breath of his name.

“‘S pretty, baby. Look at how she’s cryin’ for the birthday boy.” He croons, smiling his familiar shit-eating grin as he swipes a thumb over your sensitive clit. “Impatient, aren’t ‘cha?”

You think you nod your head to his question, but was he asking a question? It’s hard to think straight when he sets a punishing pace, the carnal stretch working in inch by inch sends the syllables of his name to your tongue as the familiar feeling of thickness splits you open.

You feel every ridge, every spasming vein, and every aching throb of his cock as he pushes in, pulling out, moaning his name like a hymn, setting a steady ‘plap plap plap’ throughout the room. The stench of sweat and sex hangs heavy, and the noise of his hips smacking yours is prominent.

“Atta girl,” he coos, “takin’ it so well. Look at that, pretty pussy jus’ sucking up all this dick.” Gliding his thumb away from your raw clit, he presses it down into the soft bulge in your tummy, thriving in the small squeal of pleasure you let out, his name squeaking from your lips.

“To-Toru! More!” Your head is thrown back, neck exposed to his tongue that laves over the salty column of your neck, moaning at your taste.

“More? Yeah? You want more, sweetheart? I’ll give you more, baby, don’t worry.” His massive torso curves over you, lithe fingers digging divots into your hips to pull your pliable body down, meeting his rough, pistoning thrusts. You swear he tries to fuck a hole through you, carving out the deepest parts. All white knuckled desperation and broken groans.

And it’s his voice that barely registers in low decibels, thick through ragged breathing.

“Oh, fuck, ‘m close, baby… gotta-gotta pull out…” Even through his hoarse words, there’s an air of reluctance. It’s almost painful to pull out when he’s so close, teetering on a feather’s edge of release. Hips faltering, cock twitching, and balls throbbing with thick seed that aches to be shot into you.

Instead, he feels your legs curling around his waist to draw him closer, arms clasping his neck, pulling him flush to you as your lips devour in a messy, heated kiss. All teeth and tongue and spit, bringing you both closer to uncoiling the tight knot simmering deep in your gut.

“Ins-inside, Toru. Cum-cum inside me. Give it to me, p-please?” You blink up at him, spewing such filth with the cutest, sweetest expressions sprawled on your features.

“You-you serious? Fuck, you’re killing me, baby.” A whimper bubbles from his throat, a huff that almost sounds like a strained laugh. His hips stutter, dick twitching in your pulsing walls, eyes meeting yours, and you see yourself all flushed and breathless in cerulean irises. “I’ll give it to you, whatever you want, give you whatever you fucking want. You don’t know how bad I wanna cum inside you, sweets. Lemme give it to you, pleasepleaseplease, wanna give it to my pretty girl.”

His whimpers and endless babbles fall into your neck as he curls over you, large hands slipping from your hips to the globes of your ass, pulling you into the furnace of his chest. Deeper. Harder. Body to body, the barest stretch of space between sweaty claps of skin on skin.

“More, Satoru, more-” You’re crying out, barely audible through his strokes, “‘m gonna cum! Gonna cum when you fill me up!”

Hissing a mix of curses and your name underneath his breath, Satoru’s palm lands on your ass in a loud 'smack!' Your legs grow all numb, “Fuck fuck fuck- open those legs and take this fat fucking cock then. You’ve been so nice to me today, baby, so make sure you take allll of it, ‘kay? Make your birthday boy happy."

And you do.

Thick, hot torrents of his seed shoot from his cock and into your waiting womb, the slick tip of his dick kissing your cervix as it unloads globs after globs of cum into your milking walls, painting it into translucent white.

The warmth spreads throughout your body, and before you know it, you’re shaking in his arms and quivering out his name in a long, drawn-out moan as you shake from the earth-shattering climax he coaxes from you. But he doesn’t stop. Still pushing his hips repeatedly in and out, the slosh of his potent cum inside you seeps into your walls and milks out your orgasm, your voices a mixture of slurring babbles.

“S-so much, so full-” You’re whining, still cumming as your cunt gets stuffed full of him. You don’t think you’ve ever come this hard before. “'m so full, Toru-”

“I know, I know, baby.” Satoru coaches you through soothing praises, kissing at your cheeks, and his hips ease into slow, punctuating thrusts rather than a series of rapid desperation. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Feel me deep in you?”

You certainly can. Sticky cum clinging to your walls, oozing out every time he rolls his hips back in, filthy squelches resonating from the connection, resulting in mixed slick attaching his hips to yours in salacious webs.

“Best-” Thrust. “Birthday-” Thrust. “Ever.” Thrust.

With a winded and satisfied smile, Satoru peers down at your blissed expression, ocean eyes traveling down to the mess before your conjoined bodies. Pearls of white leak from your stuffed pussy, a creamy ring of ivory coating the base of his cock, a familiar sight in his fantasies made into reality.

What a gift, he just needs to make the most of it now.

Laughing softly, he taps your cheek lightly, humming at you fondly.

“Don’t tap out yet, baby. My birthday isn’t over.”

The two of you spent the day browsing and tasting local bakeries, wading in the crystalline waters with locked hands and sharing gentle kisses, taking plenty of pictures to show family and friends. You two even enjoyed a candlelit dinner together—private and alone—perfect.

And into the bated night, when the moon began to hang high in the starry sky, after taking a peaceful bath together, you find yourself wrapped in the warm and familiar presence of your new husband.

Nanami Kento, shirtless and still slightly wet from your shower, keeps you in his arms, muscled biceps caging you to his chest as his ringed hand finds yours.

He lets the metal on his hand kiss yours, the little ‘clink’ every time it touches. The glimmer of your diamond flitting radiantly in the dim ambiance is a reminder that you’re completely his now. Kento hasn’t always been a possessive man, but like many things in his life—he’s changed with you. And now, he is yours and you are his.

“Did you have fun today, husband?” He smiles at the pet name, one you’ve been unable to let go of since your vows were sworn. The past few hours have been adoringly full of, ‘Come here, my husband!’ And ‘I love you, husband!’ Kento wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Of course, my wife.” It’s your turn to laugh, cheeks warming at the pet name. “How could I not love every second with my beautiful love?” He swipes a finger across the damp strands of your hair, soft and gentle. “Did you have fun today? Have I fulfilled every one of my wife’s desires on our first day as a married couple?”

His question makes you smile slyly, shifting so your chests meet. The motion makes a skimpy strap of your satin nightgown slip dangerously, and his hazel eyes dip down to the appetizing cleavage, adam’s apple bobbing with a thick swallow while he trains his eyes on you again. You catch every movement carefully, your own gaze razing down his toned chest.

A finger follows your sharp eyes, nails lightly tracing the skin of his bulging muscles like a lazy feather along a blade’s cutting edge. The touch makes him shiver, his fingers curling around yours with a dangerous flash in his eyes, amusement and anticipation curling warmly in his gut. In the dim light, you register the faint pink creeping onto his body, and it makes your grin turn teasing, one he knows well—the same one that tells him you’re brewing up a witty response.

“I’m satisfied…” You hum, pushing yourself closer, lips just barely ghosting his, “But I think there’s something else we can do, no?”

“Is there?” He breathes softly against your lips, head tilting and tousled locks following the movement. “I think you should educate me, wife.” His eyes flicker with expectancy, large hands find your hips, tracing mindless shapes as he pulls you fully onto his lap now. “How should I fully satisfy my wife?”

Your answer comes in a deep kiss—unceremonious and lustful against him, accompanied by the nip of teeth along his lips.

It makes him groan, a deep sound erupting from the cavern of his chest. His lips move along yours, breath shallow as your mouths carve in familiar tandem. It’s desire that ignites in him when your fingers slide provocatively over his bare chest, teasing down to his pants. Even without spoken words, he knows what you want. And it’s the same thing he wants, too.

You always get like this—so open about your desire for him. It’s refreshing to be so unabashedly wanted. It makes him want you even more—in touch, in law, in name. Anything that you’ll give him.

You’re already grinding against the growing bulge in his pants, subconsciously chasing the pleasure he’s eager to provide as you lick into his mouth, zeal fueling every nerve in your body. This is what people must mean by lovesick newlyweds—wanting and avid for one another.

He grabs anything he can get at—your tits, hips, and thighs, feverishly rutting you along the thickness in his pants. He can’t remember if he used to be this desperate before he met you, like something’s awakened in him. Your warmth bleeds against him, fitting perfectly to his chest, letting his hands make quick work of your nightgown until it’s flung to the side, and you’re left in nothing but a lacy set.

“Have enough of an idea now, Kento?” You sigh out, a dreamy sound that rouses his cock even more. “Your wife would be very satisfied if we performed our marital duties.”

"Is that so?" Abruptly, you're pushed off his lap and set onto your back as he comes over you. His form, large and drool-worthy, covers you easily, never fails to make you feel small beneath him. "Then I'll do my best to satisfy my wife."

You know he will.

Your skin ignites under his lips when he kisses down the column of your neck, biting just enough to catch the gasp you make. A hot tongue laves and soothes the little indents, sharp eyes watching you closely, because Kento takes every chance to learn more about you. What makes you twitch and squirm prettily, and how to coax out every whine and stuttering breath.

A skillful hand stretches under you, deftly undoing your bra to throw it down. Kento takes a moment to look over your form. Even after all the times you’ve done this, he can’t ever get enough of you. Bewitched entirely. "Beautiful, you're so gorgeous." He breathes out, granting one perky bud the feel of his mouth. "So perfect—my wife, my perfect wife."

Kento always takes his time with you. Takes his time giving your sacred body the love and delicate touch it deserves while he’s in his right mind, before he’s lost in the throes of heat and flesh carving flesh. For now, he carefully lavishes attention to each sensitive nipple before he creeps downward once more.

His breath dances across your torso and stomach in invisible ribbons, but you feel it all the same. Warm against your skin even as he reaches right in between your thighs. He makes sure to mark them up, gently at first, then less so. Satisfied only when your inner thighs are painted in hues of lavender and ruby.

The ache of fresh bruises makes you gasp. He smiles in approval.

And then, through the lacy fabric of your panties, he laps a long stripe from your twitching hole to your throbbing clit, ruining the sad piece of article even more. You pulse at the feeling of wet muscle, a dribble of your arousal spilling through and onto his awaiting tongue. Your husband hums at the taste, hazel eyes fluttering shut like your cunt’s the best delicacy he’s had all day. As if he’s been starved of you since forever. He’s good at this, you think, good at making you feel wanted and desired.

“Who gave you these, sweetheart? It has quite the detailing.” He presses a thick finger to your clit, rubbing the pearly bundle of nerves that makes you shudder while he traces the patterns of lace like a critique of fashion and not a husband pleasing his wife.

You can only whine, fingers tugging at blonde strands to get him to do something, anything. “Sh-Shoko did.” You manage hoarsely, hooking your calves over his shoulders.

“Did she?” Another kiss pressed cordially to your clit that makes you tremble in anticipation. He kisses it like he’s asking for permission, welcoming himself into your space. “We’ll have to thank her properly once we get back then, but for now…” Fingers carefully pull at the sticky area of your underwear, the fabric clinging to your skin as he tugs it off you. And Kento smells you immediately, your sweet scent hitting him full-force. It makes him drool, tastebuds tingling with the desire to taste you. “We’ll put her gift to good use.”

You feel his lips immediately. Warm and wet tongue that sweeps over your soft and dripping folds before teasing your clit at the perfect angle that makes you arch. Your hands work at his hair, tugging insistently under the pleasure he gives you because Kento knows how to work your body perfectly.

And he's a man of action. Where his words fail, he makes up for it in his devoted gestures. Makes up for it with his tongue sliding between silken folds, scooping sweet slick while savoring the breathless moans of his name. Your husband makes sure to love you thoroughly through everything he does. You can tell how much he aches for you from the way his tongue pushes deep into your heat, perfect nose bunching at your clit.

He can tell the way you ache for him, too, when your hips arch into his mouth, squeezing him between your pillowy thighs. And Kento encourages it—always encourages your pleasure as he lets you buck against his face, covering his lower face in wetness where your slick and his saliva mix.

It’s carnal desire, the way Kento devours you. Carnal and devoted. Like many things in his life, he does it well—practiced and with his best effort put forth, sucking gently in the way he knows you like. He eats you like he knows your body better than you do. Honestly, you’re sure he does.

You tremble and leak beneath him. Eyes flutter shut as Nanami sucks up all your honeyed slick, in the way only a man who’s studied you so thoroughly could do. And while you’re still trembling, clit pulsing, and gummy walls clenching around his probing tongue, he gathers thin and sappy threads of arousal onto the pad of his thick fingers and pushes in.

“O-oh, Ken…” You keen at the fullness filling you up, simple pressure building in your gut that has your spine arching. Your straining legs bracket him in, heels digging into the line of his back, tugging closer as he adds another finger.

Nanami is good with his hands, you know this. He’s even better when it involves you soaking and opening up beautifully. It’s just embarrassing how soaked you are that it barely takes any time to sink three fingers knuckle deep into you, arching his digits right up against your g-spot.

With your slick arousal coating his hands, he pistons his fingers in lewd accuracy against the spongy spot within you. Thick strings of slick and spit thread along each drag of his digits as they move in and out, paired with the indecently loud sounds of your squelching pussy reverberating. It’s explicitly erotic, the sounds he’s capable of drawing from you.

It’s obscene. It’s hot. It’s Nanami who does his best to please you every time. And it’s a feeling you chase as you hump against his mouth, crying out his name like a mantra, hands tugging insistently as the familiar tightness in your stomach coils sorely sensitive.

“Close, sweetheart?” He murmurs knowingly against your clit, sucking it into his mouth one last time. It’s less of a question and more of a knowing statement. “Come on, let it go for me.”

Kento can feel you cum before you tell him. He feels it happen. The squeezing spasms of your muscles, the arch of your spine, the pitch of your voice, whining the syllables of his name in that breathless tone he simply adores. And he doesn’t stop, just continues working further into you and whispering praises onto your clit. It’s this part he enjoys the most, seeing you fall apart for him; it’s one of the few things he’s come to enjoy and knows so thoroughly. The only guarantee in his life is your love and the pleasure he knows how to bring you.

“Ken…” You whimper out, tugging his head away from the trembling ache of pleasure. Already, your body begs for more, something thicker and hotter than his mouth and fingers. Insatiable, he always seems to get this out of you. He gives it to you every time, too. You know this, and yet you can’t help but be impatient. “Come on.”

His answer comes as a lovesick smile and a kiss to your lips. Languid and soft. A smooth and familiar motion of his mouth on yours, sucking on your tongue, and drooling over the muscle so you can taste yourself on him. You taste desperation and pure, unadulterated want. But Nanami knows how to sate you even further with more kisses—a little way of telling you to be patient, reprimanding you in the way he does so well.

“Patience, my love.” He’s gentle when his soaked fingers pinch at your nipples, smearing your cum over the flesh before he dips down to lap it all up again. Your sweat and cum melt on his tongue, but his lips wrapped around your pert nipples do little to soothe you as you bury your fingers into the tendrils of his hair.

“Hurry…” You hook one leg around the narrow of his waist, already feeling the turgid head of his cock leaking against your inner thigh. How he can keep himself sane when he’s achingly hard is beyond you. Then again, Kento's self-control is one of the most attractive things about him. “You said you’d satisfy me, but you’re making me impatient.”

“Impatient?” Kento peers up at you from behind the curtain of his lashes, eyes flicking dangerously with a look that sends shivers down your spine. “Don’t I always give you what you want? Can’t you be good?”

‘Be good.’ He says it in a voice that makes you want to be good. For him. But on your wedding night, how can any wife be good when their husband is taking his sweet time?

“No. Want it now.” You huff out, stretching a leg between him and the mattress before the globe of your foot finds the wet heat of his cock.

“F-fuck–” Immediately, he hisses out your name, tensing as you run your foot over his shaft. Creamy beads of pre smear across his thick length as you work over his bulge, the wetness spreading on the mattress as he leaks and pants above you like a pretty painting.

You think your husband is prettiest like this—such a big, strong man reduced to nothing at your touch and a rose flush shrouding his cheeks. And while you know he could easily flip your positions, he won’t. Because Kento loves to please you—something about letting you do whatever you want with him—something about being at your mercy sends overwhelming lust through his body.

“Want it, Kento…” You whisper into his ear. “Gonna give it to me now? Please? Pretty, pretty please?” The sole of your foot slides smoothly from his tip and down to the base, pressing down with just enough pressure that has his eyes fluttering shut and head lolling into the sweaty crook of your neck.

It’s unfair how well you know him. How easy he is to already feel close when you grind your foot against him, it’s like a drug he can’t get enough of. Maybe he used to think it was shameless, this lust. But now, he loves it. You’re one thing he’ll never get enough of.

As always with you, he relents, gives you what you want. Your name falls from his lips in a dreamy sigh, his fingers circling your ankle, and pulling you away with a groan. “Alright, alright. Fine. Needy, aren’t you?” A small tease that only makes you roll your eyes. “I’ll satisfy my wife now.”

“You bett– oh…”

Your words trail into a husky sigh, escaping into the crook of his shoulder when his leaky tip notches into your entrance. It only takes him a few pumps to push the crown of his dick into you. A shared moan escaping your swollen lips. Just a few inches and you already tremble in his arms. No matter how many times you’ve taken him, there’s always a delicious stretch, pure pressure that floods you full, spreads your poor pussy open, and you can feel it as he sinks deeper still.

Kento mirrors the broken sound you make. Hot and sticky warmth swallowing the final inches of his thickness when he pushes himself all the way in, bleary eyes focusing on the little inflation in your belly, right where the length of his cock stops. And the sight makes him stutter, huffing slightly in pride. He lets the budding pleasure simmer, just savoring the feeling of being buried in you, pressed intimately full of him.

“K-Kento,” You stumble out, finally curling your arms around his neck to kiss him. “Please move. Please.”

Drawn out of his haze at your sweet voice, Nanami presses a tender kiss to your temple, wrapping his arms around your waist, bringing you impossibly closer. “As my wife wishes.”

The first roll of his hips is sensually slow, followed by a filthy squelch and shaky whispers. Steady and deep. It kisses the best spots inside you—that spongy area that makes you cry his name and drags carefully along every nook and cranny in your gummy walls. It’s enough to both ground you in pleasure and punch the air from your lungs in hot pants against his lips.

The second thrust, just as gentle and deep as the first, makes you dizzy from ecstasy, lightheaded from his firm body rocking against yours. And by the third and fourth, you’re wrapping your legs around his waist, pressing wet kisses to the column of his neck, voice lost in a quivering tremble when he begins to shallowly fuck you, barely pulling out before he plunges back in, flesh meeting in a sinful crack like a final sound of desire raging between you two. "H-ha—fuck… ‘s big…”

“Take it.” The words rip from his throat as he bucks his hips harder into yours. Sharper, meaner. “My wife can take it. Just be good and fucking take it.”

You can’t do much but nod. Nod with a mess of slurring words on your tongue and let him set the tempo he knows makes you come the quickest. Oblige because you know he’ll make you feel good anyway. He always does, and Nanami does it by angling you up, pushing your legs over his shoulders so you feel every curve, every spasming vein, and every aching throb of his cock as he fucks you mercilessly.

Groaning your name in broken syllables, stirring up your insides with every mind-numbing thrust, Kento seeks your hand out, lacing your fingers together like an anchor. Pleasure burns through his veins, but the cool metal against hot flesh brings him back to the moment, to you. You—his wife—fucked, and his in every way now.

This is the first step to building your future together. One day, he wishes to have a home with you. One full of warmth and safety, even a child, children—little ones that look like you. Who inherit your stubbornness and sense of humor that he knows he’ll come to love, just like their mother. He’s thought about it before—too much, really. Thought about you, round and full and absolutely glowing with his seed.

It’s a future that used to seem so far for him, even during the moments under shared nights and bodies on bodies. But now, with his ring on your name, sharing his last name, and claiming you so thoroughly—it can be real. And that thought, that dangerous and tempting idea that plants itself into his head, hurls him closer to his orgasm. His wife. Kento’s cock pulses so hard that it takes everything not to cum in you right then.

And yeah, it might be irresponsible, and maybe it’s an image that’s caused by the push of pleasure and warmth around him. But he wants it—so, so bad. You’re his wife now; this is a marital duty. You wanted him to satisfy you, and he knows this will. He knows pumping you full of his cum will satisfy you beyond anything else he can give you. After all, he only wants to give you everything he has.

“Lo-love, ah, sh-shit…” He gasps out, pressing a heated, messy kiss to your lips, hips faltering and stuttering until his rhythm falls into sloppy humps.

And as your husband knows your body so well, you know him just as intimately. The telltale signs of his impending climax—the twitch of his dick when it drags out from your greedy cunt, his eyes fluttering shut, brows clenching together like he’s trying to hold back, no matter how many times you’ve told him not to. You want him to lose himself in you—you like seeing your husband lose control.

It’s only you who can do this to him. Only you who makes him this needy and desperate.

You’re no better off than him. With the crown of his cock repeatedly smooching your g-spot and his hand snaking down to circle tight pressure on your clit, you feel the tension in your belly grow painfully close, back arching to meet his heavy thrusts.

“Ke-Kento–” You choke out, pulling him down into a crushing kiss.

The whiny name makes him lose it, mindlessly rutting into you now. The bed creaks and groans beneath your ravenous bodies, salacious and gooey strings of slick slinging from his hips to your puffy folds as if pure arousal can keep you two tied together forever, locked in the ambling haze of euphoria.

“Fu-fuck, I’m gonna cum.” He rasps, strangled against your skin, choked in his throat. “I’ll fill you up, get you round and pretty. Please, my love, please, p-please.”

“‘M c-close too. Wanna cum with you.” You moan against his lips. Your mind feels like it’s melting; whatever's left is his. You're his, and he is yours. It’s never been so clear—there’s no room for anything else. “Cu-cumming–”

Kento lets loose a choked groan, a low sound from his chest as you come for the second time that night. The heat you emit, the fluttering of your pussy that milks him, and again, the vision of you pregnant and glowing statics at the corners of his mind—it’s all an overwhelming indulgence of you that he can’t live without. And with a moan of your name on his lips, he pushes himself flush against you, heavy balls resting on your ass and cock twitching, spilling his warm seed into your waiting womb in viscous, white ribbons that paint your walls ivory.

Claimed. His.

Sticky, hot warmth leaks into and out of you, drooling onto the hotel sheets and into a puddle beneath you. Dripping more as his cum sloshes in your weeping cunt, still cumming despite little thrusts dissipating into gentle grinds, clammy pelvis rolling over your sensitive clit when he draws you into another kiss.

You’re not sure how long you kiss for, only how long you wish for it to last. You want this moment, under the bright moonlit stars and under your handsome husband, to last for an eternity.

“I love you.” You breathe out finally, pulling away. “I love you, husband.”

With one last kiss to your lips, he smiles, nuzzling his head against yours.

“I love you more, my wife.”

Gojo Satoru is a liar.

He’s a dirty, filthy, freaky liar who has you bent over the shower walls, hands pressed flat, cock-stuffed, and moaning his name as his hips slap against your ass with every cervix-kissing thrust. Each roll of his body has air snatched from your lungs into little, heated puffs onto the glass panes, fogging up before erased with the rivulets of the water cascading over your bodies.

You should’ve known better than to trust a sly-tongued man like him. Satoru and his pretty blue eyes, lush lashes that flutter in the way that makes you fold instantaneously. Satoru and his large, dexterous fingers that clasp tight around your waist to prevent you from falling, pressing down onto the slight bulge inflating in your lower belly every time he sinks in deep. Satoru, who moans your name in your ear in that lilting coo that makes you burn despite the cooling water.

“Now look at who’s being bad, pretty.”

“Shut up!” You bite through a broken moan, glaring at him over your shoulder. “You—fuck, right there—fuckin’ liar.”

Through the steaming shower and barrage of the water, you catch the damp, white strands that fall over striking azure irises, rosy hue coating his porcelain skin, fueled by the heat of the shower and the warmth of your cunt hugging him. But it’s that stupidly smug grin on his face that makes your legs weak; if he weren’t holding you, you’d be melted on the floor by now.

“Yeah? Want me to shut up?” As if it’ll soothe you, he presses a tender kiss to the slope of your shoulder, lifting you higher on your tippy toes, hands splayed on your lower abdomen and hips, drilling into you like he’s trying to fuck any negative thoughts out. “Didn’t want me to shower with you either, and now look, got this ass bouncing on me and you cryin.’”

“‘M not!” You cry out, folded into a filthy arch. Your fingers fly to bury in his hair, pulling at the silky strands, just enough to have him groaning into the crook of your neck. The cool glass rubbing along your nipples adds to the stumbling pleasure building in your veins, creasing over itself in your stomach under Satoru’s relentless pace.

Each heavy thrust sends you against the shower wall, brought back down when he slides you back onto his cock like a fleshlight, a little thing for him to use with how easily he manhandles you. It’s scarily accurate how the crown of his shaft kisses perfectly against the gooey target in your velvety walls; every teasing nudge against it dissolves your thoughts into a pool of euphoria.

“You might not be cryin’, but this pussy sure is.” On cue, your cunt flutters around him in betrayal, milking him like it has a mind of its own and actually understands what he’s saying. And Satoru, the bastard that he is, only laughs at your struggle. “See? Even she agrees, such a good girl, workin’ so hard, ain’t she?”

A whine is your only response, moans spewing where your mind fails to form words. The steaming bathroom fills with the cacophony of shower water raining down on you two, mingling into a symphony with erratic bodies smacking together in a shared chase of instinctual pleasure.

Your cunt’s slippery, weeping, and absolutely stretched. Everything is filthy, drenched—from the water or squelching arousal between you and him—you can’t tell. No matter how many times you’ve taken him before, it always feels like it’s the first. And Satoru always fucks you like it’ll be his last. His cock pumps in and out messily, the fat tip dragging across bullied walls, smooching your cervix with every stroke.

“Who’s the liar now, hm? Who’s cryin’ over this dick?” He lilts, bending his head down to look at the way your pussy sucks his cock greedily. “You gonna answer me or do I listen to this pussy?”

You try. Really. But you can barely breathe, let alone speak, as his hips snap into you. Your syllables die on your tongue, breath stuttering as hard as your furious pulse dancing in your body. And you can only respond with his name in slurred moans, rising even higher in pitch when the pads of his fingers find your clit, rubbing you in tight, quick circles.

Even without a coherent answer, Satoru takes your wanton answer in stride. He knows your body even better than yourself—teetering on a blade’s edge of unraveling on his cock. Fingers pressing hard on your clit, his other hand groping and fondling your tits, pinching one peaked nipple with an amused grin. To him, the only reaction he needs is the sweet sensation of your pussy clenching around him—adding to the trembling knot that curls taut in his gut.

“S-Satoru!” You cry, fisting his hair like it’ll steady the torrent of ecstasy ripping through you. “‘M gonna cum! C-can’t take it anymore!”

“M-mhm, baby.” His voice is breathless in your ear, a low tremble that’s barely above the roar of the shower, just enough to show that he’s as close as you are. “Gotta forgive me first. Forgive your ‘Toru and I’ll let you cum.”

Like a bastard with a devilish grin, Satoru slows his heavy thrust into little grinds, fizzling out the rapid pleasure that was pushing you over—ruining both you and him. It makes you whine, pushing helplessly onto him to gain the steady friction back, a move he stops easily with his fingers clasping around your waist.

“Nuh-uh, princess. Answer me.” Satoru bends over, blue eyes peering at your fucked-out expression fondly. “Forgive me?” He pouts.

“Yes, yes, fine!” You whine, hands tugging at his to return them to their previous position—one large hand perched on your tits and the other pushed incessantly between your thighs. “Please, I forgive you.”

He grins. Wide, pearly teeth biting down on his lips in glee.

Gojo Satoru knows how to make you forgive him.

Instantly, he moves again. Unbridled. Raw. Pumping you so full that you think he was holding back earlier. He groans into your skin, vibrations rumbling through you under the warm water. Calling your name through ragged breaths, Satoru turns you to him, capturing your lips in a kiss so fond and gentle, you’d forget that he’s fucking you mindlessly.

That is, if you weren’t cumming hard around him.

Your body bursts at the seams, succumbing to the cascade of euphoria that catches you into its web, sobbing out his name as white, hot bursts shoot through you. Your brain statics out into an infinite void, knees going weak, and your head lolls back onto his shoulder as you unravel completely.

But he doesn’t stop.

Just fucks you into his own orgasm. Hips stuttering in one, two, three more brutal thrusts before he’s spurting white, warm ropes of seed into your walls—filling you up completely and fully with a whine of your name on his tongue.

“Fu-fuck… ‘m cumming, s-so good… I love you—I fucking love you.” Head falling forward onto your shoulder, Satoru pants, brow furrowing as he rides your highs out together, strong arms locked tight around you comfortingly.

For a while, both of you remain in relaxed silence. The warm water sprays over you two as he pulls out, little sparks of pleasure and globs of his spend leaking out before the water washes it down the drain. He makes a silent reminder to get a another load into you before the morning.

But for now, “Forgive me?” Satoru asks, stamping a kiss to your soaked temple as he shuts the water off.

“A little too late for that, don’t you think?” You shake your head fondly, but his words make a laugh bubble from your mouth, arms wrapping around his neck to tug him closer. “I’ll forgive you only if you don’t lie about lotioning me after our shower.”

He blinks. Once. Twice. Before a familiar smile crosses flushed cheeks.

“I never lie about taking care of you.”

That thought is enough to encourage you to slip into your shared bed, pulling the silky covers up to your laced chest. You still in that position, shifting slightly in different positions while you listen intently to the sound of the shower. The rush of water extends to your ears and the brief image of your lover under the wet rivulets of water immediately causes your cheeks to heat with familiar warmth and a pool of heat to bubble in you.

A flush rises to your cheeks, burying your face into the inky sheets at the scene your mind has just conjured up. You can vividly imagine water droplets cascading down his toned body, streams of liquid running down his length, and even the way he looks under the lights that most certainly illuminate the sheen of water on his skin. The thought is intoxicating, as are the many other thoughts you’ve had of Sylus.

Amidst your flushed cheeks and wild images blaring through your creative mind, you fail to notice Sylus exit the bathroom. His toned torso is on full display, comfortable in your presence, and a little too comfortable with the way his skin is open, offering you a clear sight of the dipping V-line as his towel hangs dangerously low. His crimson eyes are quick to notice you on his bed, covered with his blanket and face buried into the sheets. It’s clear that you’re not sleeping, and from the tint of rose painting your ears, he easily deduces that you’re blushing. Yet, from what?

His lips quirk into a soft smirk, a low chuckle rumbling from his throat that finally draws your attention to him. “You’re blushing, sweetie.”

Upon hearing his gravelly chuckle, a familiar one that never fails to send waves of shivers down your spine, your head snaps up to him. And if your cheeks weren’t burning red before, seeing him in his half-nude state certainly has caused your cheeks to be coated in the prettiest shade of red — a perfect reflection of his eyes.

“Sylus! Uh…” A quiet laugh (if you could even call it that) escapes your lips, suddenly feeling exactly like a bundle of nerves once again. “I’m not, I was just…” Your words trail off, brain blanking out on what to say. What does one say in this scenario?

“Hm?” He hums amusedly, that smug smile tugging at the edges of his pink lips (and your heart) his eyes crinkling in mirth as he observes you intently. “Were you hiding instead? I’m sure I can find you much faster than when you were looking for that brooch.”

His teasing tone immediately causes you to scowl, narrowing your eyes at him. If Sylus had any say, he would compare you to a kitten with its ears flattened back, claws out, and ready to swat at him.

“I’m not hiding!” You defend yourself indignantly, yet unsure of how to approach the situation. Of course, you could be upright and just tell him that you want him to fuck you and mark you up like he does in all your fantasies. Tell him that you have obscene thoughts about him in your mind, ideas that plague your dreams, all about him. “I just… have another gift for you.”

“Oh?” The soft words that leave your lips cause him to raise a smooth brow, stepping a stride closer to the bed. Closer to where your tantalizing body is hidden beneath his covers. Closer to your pulsing heart and warm body. Closer to the place where you long to have him. “Give it here then.”

He gestures with an open hand, two fingers beckoning you towards him in a silent urge to offer your gift.

“We-well…” You stammer softly, eyes zeroing in on a bead of water that breaks free from the trap of his silvery strands of hair, sliding down the length of his body, disappearing into the waistband of the towel wrapped snug around his waist. Even the simple, most natural action of a glob of water has your throat going dry, fingers itching under the sheets to fling them off of you.

And you do, slowly.

Inch by inch, you tug the blanket down to reveal the expanse of your body, laced in crimson, to the gaze of Sylus who stands a mere few feet away. His room is chilly but with the flush of embarrassment sitting heavy in your cheeks and warmth surging through your body, you’ve never felt hotter.

Once finally bare to his eyes, you will yourself to look at him. He’s suddenly closer than before, eyes dark as he stares down at you. His large hands are clenched tight and from the close distance, you can see the way his chest heaves, a difference in his normal breaths.

A beat passes. One. Two. Three. Before you hesitantly open your mouth, concerned if you’ve miscalculated the moment. “Sy-”

“Is this your gift to me, sweetie?” The man steps closer, hands almost reaching out to ghost over you but he doesn’t. Instead, he keeps his clenched fists down at his sides.

With a small nod, you finally sit up on your knees. Your hands reach out, easily clasping his and pulling him closer. You move closer, bringing his large hand to rest on your cheek, nuzzling into the warm palm of his hand that seamlessly encases your face. Turning your head, a small kiss is pressed to his inner wrist, reverent in its creation.

“Only if… only if you want to.” A soft whisper. A plea for his approval. An acceptance of your gift and trust you’ve placed into his hands. It’s okay if he isn’t ready but you want him to know that you’re ready. You’re ready to be his completely and wholeheartedly, in every way, his.

From your close proximity, you can see the way his Adam’s apple throbs, saliva sliding down his throat, mouth watering at the delicious sight of you. Clad in a shade that mirrors his eyes, batting your pretty eyes up at him like a kitten — it’s all he’s ever wanted.

Sylus is a gentleman. Never overstepping his boundaries, never asking for too much, always allowing you to take the relationship at a pace that suited you. But this? A special gift for his birthday, to lose himself to you completely, to devote himself to you more than he already has declared? It's his declaration to the world, to show everyone that he finally belongs to you and you to him.

So, with a reverent sigh, he allows his thumb to brush along the familiar skin of your cheeks, smooth and soft. The touch is familiar, so gentle and divine. But with the air charged with unspoken tension and his heated gaze, it's more intimate than a simple touch on your cheeks. His vermillion eyes smolder as he roves over your kneeling form. Your heart picks up pace, thumping faster than it's meant to against the curved bones of your ribs that hide your heart — bared open for him.

An amused chuckle falls from his lips, gravelly and grisly. He leans in closer, watching as your lashes flutter shut in anticipation of a kiss. The sight only makes his mouth curl into a satisfied smile, body heating up in a flush when he hears your words. You want to if he wants to? He’s been wanting for a long time, no, he’s needed you for an eternity. He’s desired every part you’ve bared to him longer than he can remember.

“I want you, if you’ll have me.” His sweet words are punctuated with the sweetest kiss to your hot cheeks. A stark contrast to the hardening length hidden by the towel. It’s so easy for you to get him worked up, and you aren’t even aware of it. Not aware of the effect you have on him, not aware of what your proximity does, or how many nights he’s spent bucking his sticky cock into his wet hands while he thinks about how gorgeous you are.

“I want you.” You reaffirm gently, cupping his warm cheeks. He pulls you in by your hips, leaning in ever so slightly so that his warm breath brushes across your lips. “I want this with you, Sylus.”

He groans softly at your keening words, tilting his head, finally pressing his lips to yours in a kiss. He takes his time kissing you, slow and steady, and so very like him. Sylus is a man who enjoys the finer things in life, savoring the mulled taste of wine or lavish silks. And what could possibly be more exquisite than his beautiful lover dressed up on his special day? This closeness of your first time together, an experience you both haven’t had, shaping and exploring the contours and creases of your love.

So, he kisses you slow, savoring the intimacy of your lips locked together.

“Gorgeous. You’re gorgeous in this, sweetie.” The words come as a groan from Sylus who moves on top of you, towel slipping dangerously to expose the prominent lines of his Apollo’s belt. “So perfect, for me, no?”

You fall easily onto your back, feeling exposed with the absence of the blanket, but Sylus quickly comes to replace that weight. Your hands find purchase on his broad shoulders, pulling him closer towards you as soft lips continue to gently press along yours in smooth undulations, soft swipes of tongue and teeth.

“Sylus, I- let me,” Broken murmurs escape your lips through his worshipful kisses, pushing him away so he sits up.

The soft towel finally falls from his hips, pooling onto his black sheets. Of course, the towel isn’t what catches your attention — rather, what it was hiding. Your gaze drops to the main prize, standing big and hard against his torso. You’ve imagined him plenty of times, large and girthy, but not like… this. It’s pretty, like the rest of him, perfectly proportioned to his 6’2 frame, almost elegant in the way the pink head dribbles pearls of pre down the throbbing veins that dance along the underside.

And perhaps it was because you’re breath caught in your throat, cheeks hot and mouth dry, eyes trained onto the way it throbs with ache that he finally speaks up, a low grin heard in his syllables.

“You’re staring, kitten.” The words ring true, you are staring, quite unabashedly. But he too, doesn’t seem to care, rather, he doesn’t act shy or nervous. Even in moments like these, even if it’s your first, Sylus will be Sylus.

“It’s just… so pretty.” Your whisper, hands coming up to run along the smooth crevices of his collarbones, fingers dancing down to the creases of his chest and abs. Your actions earn a low groan and shiver out of your lover, white hair falling to his eyes as his head falls forward, crimson eyes fluttering shut. “Can I touch you, Sylus? Can I make you feel good, my love?”

The honeyed words and praises that fall from your lips almost has him folding, almost. If he were anyone else, perhaps he’d have given in, but his desire for you overpowers his want for pleasure. After all, who would he be if he didn’t take care of you first, especially since this is your shared firsts.

“Not yet, sweetie. Let me take care of you.” He rebukes you gently, veiny hands rising to wrap around your wrist. He pulls you away, raising your chin for a kiss to soothe your adorable pout.

“No, Sylus. Let me take care of you! It’s your birthday.” You pull away, pressing light kisses down the smooth column of his neck, lingering along scars and every perfect imperfection that makes him — him.

The only response from Sylus is a light chuckle before your world is tilted on its axis and you’ve fallen under him once again. Smoldering crimson eyes meet yours, filled with mirth and amusement while he pins you down underneath his broad body. His lithe fingers find yours, lacing your hands together in a sweet embrace and he hushes your protests with a flurry of kisses.

“This is my gift, no? I should unravel you properly, won’t you indulge the birthday boy?” Each of his teasing words are punctuated with a trail of kisses down your body that has your breath hitching. Before you even try to argue that it’s his birthday, and you should be lavishing him in your attention and care, he’s claimed the final word, lightly kissing down the length of your hot torso. “Besides, this is my first time too. Let me learn you, sweetie.”

Instantly, you melt at his words.

You've imagined this countless of times in the quiet of your room, filled with the sound of your sticky fingers pistoning into the messy channel of your squelching cunt. Countless of times you've imagined how he would kiss down your neck like he currently does, sucking his gentle claim into your flesh. You've imagined his lithe fingers deftly unhooking your lacy bra, trailing hot kisses down the valley of your breast. You've always imagined the experience of being utterly loved by him.

The next feeling you receive from him is the wetness of his warm mouth, wrapping gently around a single nipple, suckling softly on the sensitive tit. His vermillion eyes look up to meet your gaze, the great leader of Onychinus, alternating his attention on your heaving breasts. His silky hair is ruffled with your fingers buried in the silver strands. But the sensations are muted with the unfamiliar length that presses insistently against your sopping clothed core, a reminder that he desires you just as much as you do him in this moment.

"Sylus," you plea his name softly. Instantaneously, he looks up, pulling his mouth away from your chest. A part of you wishes he didn't do so. The action leaves a salacious strand of his warm saliva connected to the tip of your nipple, hardening with the onslaught of the cold air in his room.

"Hm?" He replies quietly, continuing to mark your skin. His hands slide down your sides reverently, admiring every crevice of you. Unwrapping you like a dutiful devotee. With every article of lace that slips from your body, he explores the new expanse of flesh, memorizing every mark, every scar, every millimeter shown. "Do you want me to stop, kitten?"

Instantly, you shake your head, a light whimper slipping from your lips.

Pleased, he finally kisses down to the supple flesh of your inner thighs, mouthing at the skin that exposes itself from the crimson lace. Your needy pleas and whines fill his ears, waves of pleased hums course through him, vibrating against your thighs. His experience is few and far between (zero) but he knows you and that’s already enough for him to understand you inside out.

“Patience, kitten.” He chuckles softly at your pleas, eager whines filling him with an unfathomable amount of pleasure. Large hands knead the flesh of your thigh. Your lacy red underwear outlined your sopping core, drenched in your arousal that he’s so close to. His warm breath ghosts over your damp cunt, shivering in excitement and slight embarrassment. No one has ever gotten this close, this intimate with you, only him. It will continue to be only him. And though he crooned to you to be patient, he could feel his own patience disintegrate when faced with you, all spread out and eager for him. “I want to take my time savoring you, unwrapping you.”

It pleased him that could leave as many marks as he wished; no one else got to see you like this. He could dance his lips across your skin, planting seeds that would blossom later, bloom into hues of ruby and violet, reminders for the next time undresses you. No one else would see them except you and him. A secret buried deep inside when the two of you would soon connect. You would be reminded of the sparks shivering through your body where his lips sucked, and he would remember the pleasure that rushed through him as he marked you for himself.

"Can I take these off?" He speaks low and soft, nuzzling his pink lips against the wet lace, clinging pitifully to your pussy.

At your eager nod, he mouths at your cunt. A low groan cuts through him at the taste of you, leaking through the article of lace. Leaking because of him. It pleases him to see that he has this effect on you, having you spread open with legs hooked over his shoulders and flushed so prettily.

Innately, your hands bury into the strands of his hair, tugging and whining for his touch. He grants it to you through the fabric, tongue flattening against the lace, dragging slowly up until he suckles on your throbbing clit. A sharp gasp is elicited from your kiss-bitten lips, mouth falling open in a silent moan.

"All this for me, sweetie? How kind, a sweet cunt for a sweet girl." Sylus chuckles slowly, the sound vibrating through his lips and through your cunt, an action that sends shocks of sharp pleasure shooting through you.

“Mhm… for you, Sy. All for you.” You pant, hips bucking impatiently into his mouth.

A veined hand runs up the garter that decorates your thighs, raising just higher to hook over the waistband of your red-laced panties, tugging down to reveal his present.

"So pretty, kitten. You smell so good, so sweet.” With your legs thrown over his shoulders, cunt glistening in the low light, he admires you quietly, almost divinely in your presence. Your pussy on full display, sensitive bud throbbing and hole clenching around nothing. Drool builds up in his mouth at the delicious sight, unable to tear his eyes away. Embarrassment flushes through you, crawling up your spine to settle on your already-flushed cheeks.

His large hands raise, thumbs parting your slick folds, opening you up to feast on you with his heavy gaze. Your lover leans in, mouth open, coming closer until his nose bumps your clit, tongue dragging through your silky folds, and relishing in the gasp and moans that fall heavenly from your lips. Hands tug at his hair, whines and sweet sounds come from above him, raising higher in pitch when his thumbs swipes at your sensitive clit, rubbing in tight circles. Infinitely better than any of the times you’ve ever touched yourself.

“Sy- fuck!” You throw your head back, thighs threatening to close around his head. He could die happy like this, drunk off of your taste and love. He would give you the world on a diamond platter, each bite filled with nothing but love and security, it’s the least he could possibly give you after you’ve allowed him to take a sacred part of you.

The way you moan and quiver around him is a gift in itself, a gift to him that he takes readily without hesitation. Anything from you is a gift. And anything from you, is more sacred than his life in whole.

For someone who has never been in bed with someone, it feels like Sylus knows your body like the back of his hand. Maybe it’s his close observation skills. His vermillion irises carefully watch each and every twitch your body makes in creation to his touch. From a certain way you shiver when his tongue swipes at your clit, to the moan that tumbles when he dips his wet muscle into your tight heat. He notices it all.

His tongue expertly slides along your folds, scooping copious amount of your sweet slick onto his tongue while savoring your pitchy moans. Your lover laps you up like a man starved, tongue slipping along your damped folds, no difference between your sweet taste nor his drool. He relishes everything you offer him. From the way, your fingers tug almost painfully at his scalp to the unbridled noises that resonate through his room.

“Sy-Sylus, ha… please, I wanna make you feel g-good too.” Through your messy haze of pleasure shooting through your spine, you manage to find words that aren’t the broken syllables of his moaning name.

“You are, sweetie. You're making me feel so good, letting me have you so nicely like this. So kind, so sweet, aren’t you? My sweet girl?” His praises are spoken through milliseconds away from your soft cunt, diving back in like a dragon greedily guarding its most precious gems. After all, what gem is more precious than the one he has in his grasp right now?

You don't find it in you to argue, mind succumbed to the pleasure he so readily offers you. Your plush thighs, decorated with lacy vermillion garters, clench around his head, threatening to shut with the quick rise of your impending orgasm. It climbs rapidly, settling into the pit of your stomach, bubbling into hot sparks.

"Can I put a finger in, kitten?" He murmurs softly. His thumb swipes at your sensitive bud, looking up at your pleading expression. He clearly doesn't need your words, actions and your lovestruck expression etched onto your face is enough, but he wants to hear you. He needs to hear your confirmation, to hear that this moment isn’t one of his many dreams he has of you. Another when he gets to hear the melody of your heavenly mewls and the feel of your thighs against both sides of his head. He needs to hear that you need him just as much as he needs to in this moment.

“Yes, please, please. Sy, I want you, I wanna be yours.” With eager hands, your fingers wrap around his wrist that squeezes at the plush of your thighs, bringing it closer to your achy hole. Not only does he need you in this moment, you need him. It’s an act of reassurance, love, and trust that you’ve so generously given to him.

“You do, hm?” His smile returns, lovestruck and full of adoration. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll make you mine.”

With that, he slides a calloused finger through your folds, slick with his saliva and your own arousal. He takes his time, savoring your flesh and the feel of being the first man down here, with you. Your face contorts into one of mild discomfit as he slides a finger in, easing it into your virgin walls. His eyes never leave your face though, watching every twitch of your muscles and flutter of your lashes as your mouth etched to create the syllables of his name in a whine.

“Do you want to stop, sweetie?” He murmurs against your aching clit, in hopes of alleviating the discomfort of his digit.

And it pleases him. The way you immediately shake your head, quickly protesting that idea. “No! I can take it, Sy. I wanna take it for you.”

So he continues to give you what you want. With your slick arousal coating his hands, he pumps his finger gently along your gummy walls, lewd sounds of your squelching pussy reverberating throughout his room. He continues suckling on your sensitive bud, flattening his tongue against the wetness, slurping you up. It’s obscene, the sounds behind the closed doors. His groans, lewd squelches, and your moans — it sends all the blood in his body rushing south, to his already aching cock.

Your hips sloppily humped against his mouth, a physical beg to have his fingers stroke deeper into you. You already felt so full with a single finger, insistently prodding at your gummy walls until your back arches beautifully for him. Your fingers pull at his silky hair, toes curling, and your head falls back into the black pillows as your stomach grows taut and rivulets of ecstasy shoot through every nerve.

“Fuckfuckfuck, ‘s so good—”

You cum so hard it feels like fireworks ignite behind your shut lids as you ground down onto Sylus’ face to chase the aftershocks of the high. His finger stills but your hips don’t, grinding onto his finger to catch the remaining effects of the hot sparks in your stomach.

"That's it, good girl. So good for me, sweetie, you came so beautifully." His praises are spoken through your quivering cunt, twitching at his smooth praise. "Good girl, it's okay, kitten."

He finally pulls away from your pussy, webs of his saliva stuck to your sweaty body. Sylus sits up on his heels, hand coming to wrap around the hard length of his cock, giving himself reprieve of slow pumps. Your eyes drop down to his shaft, angry and dribbling more pre from the turgid tip with every drag of his large hand. It looks heavier than earlier, even more delicious bucking in his fist.

His soft groans, twitching of his hips has a new wave of heat coursing through your body. You feel an indescribable urge to relieve him of the ache, to have him fill you up, and to love each other thoroughly once more. But before you can pull him on top of you, he speaks.

“We can stop he—”

“No.” Your response is quick, pulling him over you in a swift motion. You don’t want to stop. Rather, you want him inside you. You want to make him yours and you, his.

Your hand trails down his torso, fingers finding his hard cock that bobs eagerly when you gently brush along it. It’s hot and thick, sending waves of anticipating shivers down your spine at the prospect of having this part of him inside you.

But for now, you enjoy the way the leader of Onychinus shivers from your touch. His Adam’s apple bobs with the gulp of his saliva, low groans escaping him as you trail kisses along his neck. Your hands slide smoothly from his turgid crown and down to the base, giving him light squeezes that has his eyes fluttering shut and head lolling into the sweaty crook of your neck.

“Fuck, kitten. You feel so good…” His words escape as a breathy sigh, dwindling into low groans. He allows you this, just as he allows you into many things; his heart, mind, body, and soul. Whatever you wish for, he allows it.

“Yeah? I wanna make you feel good, Sy. Just wanna make you feel good.” Your response is whispered out, leaning up to lock your lips with his in a gentle kiss.

His hands, resting on your hips, drop down to your thighs to hook it over the curve of his waist. He sighs into the kiss, breaking gently with a long string of saliva connecting the two of you.

“Can I put it in then, kitten?” His hands capture your wrist, lacing your fingers gently together in an intimate embrace. The silvery strands of his hair fall onto your forehead as he leans down, pressing his temple to yours.

Your response is a nod, arms tightening around his neck when he lines himself to your quivering hole, already feeling himself shiver at the contact of your hot folds sliding along the length of his dick. You can feel the blood throbbing through the veins that run along the underside of his cock, warm and bobbing against you.

Gently, he finally pushes the tip in.

A sharp gasp is elicited from both of you. Your eyes instantly flutter shut, features contorting into a grimace at the large intrusion, pressing into the deepest parts of you. Sensing your pain, Sylus peppers kisses along your neck, fingers tightening on yours in a soothing hold, his free hand weaves between your flushed bodies to rub tight circles to your clit, alleviating your pain.

“Good girl, it’s okay. You’re doing so well, just breathe, just breathe.” His praises fall reverently, kissing away the pearls of tears that pool at the edges of your eyes, gentle and loving.

His praises continue as he finally bottoms out, filling your walls completely full of him. He pants against your lips, watching your expression form from one of discomfort to one of pleasure and love. He moves his lips down your body, sucking on your neglected tits to coax soft moans from you.

“Sylus… you can move, please.” Your soft plea has him folding immediately. Gentle, hoarse voice and a body that takes him in perfectly. You truly were made for him.

The first roll of his hips is meticulously steady in its movement, like he’s holding himself back, caging himself in. He barely pulls out, cool air meeting the slicked skin of his cock before he slides back in with a punctual sway. The simple movement makes you dizzy and numbed, oxygen flying from you, escaping in a soft blissed sigh, and mewls falling from your kiss-bitten lips. It feels euphoric to be split open by him and feel inches of his cock drag along your spongy walls, filled up by him. It’s like you’re ambling in a haze of heat, wandering through the fog of hot shocks of pleasure with his body securely locking you flush to him, and nothing but him in this moment, a satisfying overwhelming indulgence of his scent and touch.

“Oh,” you keen instantly when the tip of his dick delicately, repeatedly nudges that soft, spongy part of your walls. It has you raking your nails down his back, relishing in the presence of him, senses filled with nothing but him. “I love you, Sylus. I love you, s-so much.”

His swift thrust has your words getting caught in your throat, air knocked from your lungs from his punctual movements.

“Yeah? I love you too, I love you, I love you. Fuck— I love you. You were made for me, weren’t you? Made for me to love and cherish, made for me to have you like this?” The words are whispered out, barely heard over the obscene sound of flesh on flesh, wet and intimate.

You can only respond in babbles, murmuring mewls in a symphony of his name. Arms wrapped tightly around his neck and whimpering out your devotion. Heat simmers between your flushed bodies, the only space separating you two is the repetitive cadence of his rolling hips.

The two of you render speechless, allowing the harmony of bodies and reverberation of your shared noises to speak for itself. He pants softly into your ears, groaning sweet nothings at the feeling of your perfect walls hugging tight around his cock. It’s almost painful for him to pull out, instantly missing your sweet heat and that has him diving back in again and again and again, until he feels the aching knot bubbling in his stomach. A familiar and unwelcome feeling that has his cock twitching and pulsing. He doesn’t want to come yet, not without you. Not until you do first.

And as if sensing his dilemma, cock twitching inside your sensitive walls, your hands come up to cup his cheeks. Your lips raise, meeting his in a kiss full of tongue and teeth, messy in all its glory. He isn’t the only one close. Your nerves feel shot, ignited on every expanse of your glistening skin. You want him to cum, you want to come with him.

“Sylus,” you pant against his lips, “Can you— nngh come? I wanna feel you, Sy. Please come, I wanna fe-feel you.”

“Yeah?” He breathlessly chuckles through blissful, broken sighs of your name. “I’ll give it to you. Sh-shit, I’ll give it to you, kitten. I love you, fuck, I love you.”

Your words coax the knot in his stomach to unravel. And with a moan of your name on his lips, he buries himself deep inside you, spilling his warm seed into your fluttering walls. Your fingers card through his hair, gentle pressure guiding him to hide into the crook of your neck, which he eagerly does.

With his head buried in the crook of your neck, fingers rubbing light circles on your clit, and his hip rutting sloppily into your spent pussy, you quickly follow his lead. Your back arches into him, cumming with the sweetest cry of his name on your swollen lips.

Sylus doesn't stop.

Your lover continues to messily thrust up into you, hands gripping the soft flesh of your ass to keep you impossibly closer to his thumping heart. Even with your nails digging into his shoulders, even with your legs trembling around his waist, or the rapid pulsing walls that greedily milk his hot cum into your welcoming womb. Filled, and fucked back into you, over and over and over. He doesn’t stop.

Not until you’re sniffling his name and clinging onto him like it’s your life’s mission. Only then does he slow his pace, peppering kisses up your sweaty sternum until laying one to rest on your sweet lips.

Sylus stops to admire you, an act he performs every day with the utmost importance. His beautiful lover, dressed up for him, flushed the prettiest shade of red because of him, leaking his cum because of their passionate coupling.

“Sylus,” you whisper, the first to break the silence but not the touch.

“Hm?” His answer is soft, taking pleasure in your smell and flesh. The two of you are sweaty but it doesn’t bother him, never if it’s you.

“Happy birthday.” The words are spoken softly, mumbled against his flesh.

His response comes in the form of a soft ‘thank you, my love.’ Words that have your heart warming and cheeks flushing more than they already are. You press your palm to his cheek, cupping his face to pull him into a kiss that devotes your being to him.

He nuzzles into the crevices of your neck, panting softly in the intimate ambiance of his room, soothed by the beating of your heart — a remembrance that you’re here, with him.

It’s no secret that Sylus loves you. No secret that you’re his and he is yours. But in moments like these, just you and him, it feels so much more real, more intimate than anything he could have ever fathomed. Tonight is his day of birth, the first that he’s ever spent with anyone (not just anyone — you) It’s almost terrifying how quickly you’ve assimilated into his life, slotting yourself in because you belong with him — made for him in every way.

And he wouldn’t have it any other way, ruin him if you wish. It’s okay if it’s you.

This year, next year, and many lifetimes to come — he wants it all with you.

fake boyfriend! caleb who is just so charismatic and falls perfectly in place as a boyfriend, your boyfriend. It's almost like he's made for you (he is)

fake boyfriend! caleb who introduces you as his needy girlfriend, with an arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush to his warm, toned torso. The way he so easily takes on the role is absurd, the way he easily introduces you as his girlfriend sends your mind reeling but it feels so... right. It feels right in a way that causes your cheeks to burn and chest to tighten.

fake boyfriend! caleb who looks at you so fondly whenever you're interacting with one of his friends, telling them stories of how you and him 'met.' He feels his heart swell with so much love and he wants to kiss you until with lungs cripple and lips sore. It's even worse because you fill the role perfectly (you're made to be his) it only makes his pants tighter and the apples of his cheeks red.

fake boyfriend! caleb who keeps the act up even when his admirers die down and he isn't so bombarded with love letters and lunchboxes anymore. He keeps up the act long after you leave skyhaven, even carrying it over when he visits you in linkon, taking his precious girl out on dates and spending long nights at your apartment. You don’t even realize how cemented he is in your life, how your heart beats just a little faster when he nears you, placing a braised chicken wing on your plate or when he tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

fake boyfriend! caleb who starts to feel a little less like a fake boyfriend and more like a real one. It begins to feel so much more real when you catch your heart stuttering in your chest, when you catch him gazing fondly at you, when you sleep in the same bed because you’ve begun to feel bad for making him sleep on the couch. It’s so much more real when you realize how easily he slots himself in your life, how routine it is that you don’t even have to change anything because he’s always been there. He’s always been there for you.

fake boyfriend! caleb who, once again, spends another night at your apartment. He’s in your bed this time, lying next to you as you use his arm as a pillow. His soothing fingers pat down your hair, your own trailing down his chest before resting on the expanse of flesh where his collar meets his jaw. It’s then you become alarmingly aware of the proximity, the shared breaths, and the intoxicating space between your bodies. You’re so close that you can count every speck of stars in his violet hues.

fake boyfriend! caleb who lets silence marinate between you two, neither wanting to break the thin veil that masks your relationship, whatever it is or whatever you want it to be. But he's the first to turn away, breaking the hypnotizing eye contact with you. He turns his face to bury in the soft pillow, ears, and cheeks flushed the same shade as his favorite asiatic apples. His voice comes out in the muffled murmur, you’d be unable to hear if you two weren’t so close.

“It’s late. You should get some rest, pipsqueak.”

A light scoff leaves your lips and disappointment stirs in your heart. You aren’t sure what drives you to surge forward, fingers fisting into the blue cotton of his shirt, pulling him towards you, and mushing your lips together. It’s messy and forceful but you’ll swear it isn’t your fault — it’s all because of Caleb. Everything is because of him.

You seal your lips together, spurred by sudden want and need, heat surges through your veins, fogging all logic in your fuzzy mind. The kiss is longer than it should be, a minute, two, or three until all the air crawls away and leaves your lungs crippling and aching for air.

And then, you breathlessly pull away. Out of breath like you’ve climbed to the top of the highest mountain, you think it might be similar to how you’re feeling right now. A familiar heat pools in your lower stomach when you brave to see the state Caleb is in.

fake boyfriend! caleb who’s eyes are half-lidded, lips swollen, and a heavy blush settled onto his pale flesh. His lavender eyes hold swirls of yearning and want, mirroring your own. Shared breaths and heated air are stifled between you and the pilot before he pushes forward, connecting your lips again with a needy groan that's greedily swallowed.

fake boyfriend! caleb who hovers over you, violet eyes boring into your soul. His hot breath beats against your cheeks, a quiet groan escaping his pretty lips when he buries his face into the crook of your neck, and it takes everything in him not to mark you up, to claim you.

“Did you mean to do that? Did you mean to kiss me?” His voice is soaked in desperation and he’s completely and utterly entranced by you. The pretty, sweet, stubborn girl from his childhood. The girl he’s watched grow up into the woman under him, the woman who has clawed into his heart, making a home of him.

fake boyfriend! caleb who loses his mind once he sees you nod your pretty head, teeth biting down on the plush of your lower lip. His body feels numbingly hot, the air is stifling, and his pants are suddenly too tight. He isn’t close enough, he wants — needs — to be closer. He wants to settle into your body, carve himself into your heart, meld his soul with yours. He wants whatever bone you’re willing to throw his way.

fake boyfriend! caleb who strips the two of you out of your sleepwear and in an instant, his lips are on yours. The kiss is in no way tranquil or soft, it’s greedy and messy, and downright sinful, pushing his tongue in your mouth and completely disregarding the mixed saliva that drools down the side of your mouths. He takes in all of you as he feverishly kisses his way down your body, biting and suckling at any glimpse of skin he can reach.

fake boyfriend! caleb who lavishes wet kisses from your breast and down to the navel of your body, fingers curling at the edge of your panties, inching the fabric down once he settles between your thighs. An audible groan is ripped from his throat when he sees how soaked you are, the fabric sticks to your skin as it’s peeled off with strings of your wetness clinging to the thin fabric. A wave of embarrassment washes over you when he comes face to face with the most intimate part of you and it’s better than any fantasy he’s ever had.

“Fuck, pipsqueak… you’re so soaked.” His voice comes out as a raspy cadence of love, eagerly pressing his nose to the wet material of your panties, taking in your scent.

fake boyfriend! caleb who suckles sloppy, dark hickies into the plush fat of your inner thighs, working his way up to your core. Bruises bloom across the expanse of your skin, trailing wherever his lips find purchase on you. You’re aching now, desperate for him to devour you but helplessly watching him litter his love on your thighs. Your fingers thread into his dark locks, pulling him closer with a soft whine.

“Caleb, please…” You can hardly recognize your own voice, whiny and needy for his lavish attention. “Please don’t tease.”

fake boyfriend! caleb who chuckles softly and abides by your sweet pleas. His soft, wet tongue makes contact with your soft folds, laving the wet muscle over your throbbing clit, groaning like a starved man at your sweet taste. It's better than he could've ever imagined. Spurred by the delicate harmony of your moans, he devotes himself to pleasuring you, intently watching your expressions with great care. He wants to know everything— what colors you blush, what makes your toes curl, he wants your fingers pulling at his hair, and whining his name like a prayer.

fake boyfriend! caleb who makes you cum alarmingly quick when he pushes two fingers into your sopping hole, stretching out his pretty girl. He watches his fingers piston in and out of your squelching hole, enamored with the way your cunt sucks him in like a black hole. Your cunt spasms around his digits, velvety walls fluttering around his fingers as your orgasm washes over you.

"You're so cute, pipsqueak. So, so cute." He coos, pressing light kisses to your throbbing bundle of nerves before smearing his fingers, covered in your release, across your lips.

fake boyfriend! caleb who asks for consent (he would never want to make you uncomfortable) before pulling out his cock. Your jaw falls slack when you see his pulsing length. He's big and thick with one prominent vein running on the underside and pearly beads of pre-cum dribbling from his tip. For a moment you wonder what it would feel like if it pulsed on your tongue, how it would feel to have him shooting ropes of cum into your womb. 'I'm screwed,' you think to yourself but your body opposes and your core aches to be filled again.

fake boyfriend! caleb who thinks he's just ascended above skyhaven when his tip notches against your entrance.

"Oh, fuck—" His forehead falls onto your shoulder, a series of whines and pleas falls from his lips, feverishly pressing kisses onto your skin, anything to make him last a little longer as he pushes inch by inch into the velvety walls of your tight cunt.

fake boyfriend! caleb who watches your eyes roll back when he finally bottoms out, balls resting against the soft curve of your ass. He takes a moment to admire your pretty frame, the sweat glistening on your chest, heavy breaths that leave your tits heaving, and the dull pain of your nails leaving crescent shapes in the meat of his biceps. Caleb doesn't think he can ever let you go.

"I love you. Fuck, I love you." The words fall from his lips like a mantra as he fucks you, folding your knees onto his shoulder. His cock splits you open, pressing and abusing your g-spot every time his hips meet yours. The room quickly fills with the harmony of desperate whines and moans, littered with I love you's that're quickly engulfed in messy, hurried kisses.

fake boyfriend! caleb who cums with you when you whisper your confession into his ear, like a little secret between the two of you. His hips stutter and he's suddenly shooting hot, white ropes of cum into your fluttering pussy, milking him dry and filling you up.

fake boyfriend! caleb who collapses onto you, wrapping you up in his toned arms and pulling you close to his warm body, pressing soothing kisses to your temple, cheeks, nose, and finally onto your lips.

"I love you," he confesses. His words are hushed and speak of the longing and teetering of the line that the two of you hesitated to cross for years.

"I love you too," you reply, pressing a trail of gentle kisses along his jaw as your fingers intertwine with his. Your body feels sore and full, heart content, and so, so loved.

He presses his lips to yours once again, smiling gently before soothing you to sleep. He'll always be by your side, no matter what happens. He'll be right there.

lovesick! caleb who... loves you a little more than you realize.

first fic hehe

You could see why the professor went through the difficulty of obtaining him from rubble and fire, drawing him back from the talons of death.

"429 experiments to read his consciousness, resulting in failure? Interesting." You mumble, flipping through the file. The old professor beside you is less impressed, rather disgruntled.

“You’ll be assigned to him.” Lucius’s gaze turns from you to the man in the zero gravity chamber, currently undergoing the 23rd neural control experiment. A simple glass pane separates you from your newest patient. “It’s planned that he’ll be in the Farspace Fleet, assigned as the newest colonel, and he’ll take over the Tuum fleet in a few months. It’s time we move forward with our plans.”

His words tug a frown at your lips, a certain displeasure washing through you. As one of EVER’s doctors, it’s normal that you get assigned to different subjects, treating and diagnosing them after their experiments and trials with the researchers, but since Caleb will become the Farspace Fleet’s colonel, you assume that you’ll have to join the Fleet alongside him. And, well, joining the Fleet isn’t something you particularly wish to do.

“Isn’t it better to send someone else?” You nudge, gauging the finality of Lucius’s decision. “Carter informed us that he just made a breakthrough at Xander Sciences, we’ll be working on the next steps for that soon with the patients.”

Lucius only stares at you in response, and it’s enough for you to understand that he won’t back down. “You’ll be one of the Fleet’s doctors, tend to him as needed. Keep a close eye on Caleb and the other soldiers implanted with toring chips, it’s important to our goal. Once we have control of the Farspace Fleet, it’ll make things easier to move around.”

Of course, with the Fleet’s status and dealings, ruling even above the World Evol Government, it would be incredibly beneficial to have a pawn in high standing.

It’s clear that his choice is final, sending a heated glare your way at your disgruntled noises. Even in your position, as a doctor and not a researcher or subject, you can’t do much to deny. Control, you’ve come to learn, is something that EVER seeks insatiably, even that which they hold over you as well.

In the beginning, when you were recruited by Lucius, he didn’t say that you would be doing all… this. Going against every ethicality and violating practically every medical law you spent sleepless nights ramming into your brain. ‘Paving a pursuit for future generations, a worthy goal for valuable research as your own.’ He said back then. And before you even knew it, you were too entangled in EVER’s web to try and claw out. Within those few months, they held control over your life’s work and progression. What more can you do but follow?

“He has potential. But will he be a good fit as a colonel? It’ll be more than just inheriting the title, I’m sure the Fleet has their own politics to navigate, won’t that get in the way?” You question with a tilt of your head, turning your gaze towards the chamber that houses the man you speak of.

Even from behind the safety of your spectating glass, you witness the sharp, vivid crackles of electricity rippling through the air, dancing wildly around the shirtless form of Caleb as he groans, breathing heavily while neurons connect and fray, reattaching painfully within the modifications of his metallic arm. The mechanical crinkling of his hands clenching into fists mingles with the wounded noises that he attempts to bury, gritting out through a tensed and strained body. Beads of sweat roll down the muscular crevices of his spine, chest heaving as the lights thud on, illuminating the path in the chamber, and giving you a full view of your new patient.

Not only impressive and tall, but also handsome.

Beside you, Lucius shakes his head, turning towards the door.

“We went through a great deal to obtain him; this is just one of the tests he’ll deal with. If he’s useful, then he’s useful; if he isn’t, then he isn’t. There’s no need to be worried or attached when we can find replacements. He’ll have his uses as a weapon until he doesn’t. The Fountain of Atei is going well, so make sure you keep him in good shape.”

Professional words, as always. You don’t know why you expect anything else.

And as your newest patient is led out of the zero-gravity chamber, huffing and panting, you wonder if you can accomplish turning a blind eye to attachment—or intrigue.

— — —

Weeks after you initially see him, your perception of Caleb changes slightly when you actually meet.

Your meeting with him is alongside Lucius in the machine-like world that hovers over Linkon, in his new Fleet office. The first thing you notice when you arrive on-site is the frigid air, wrapping around you in an icy layer of second skin, thinly veiled with the mechanical whirring of the ships and the hum of energy that shudders brittlely in your bones.

The second thing you notice is that Caleb is dressed this time.

His modified arm is concealed in the synthetic wrap of skin that leaves a soul none the wiser of his implantation, covered with thick leather gloves. He’s robed in a dark military uniform that lines the scalpel-edges of his body, gold aiguillette suspended from his shoulder to sternum, the Fleet's insignia embroidered valiantly on his combination cap and chest, with an armband to emphasize his new status. Not earned, but given after an extensive recommendation and persuasion by Professor Lucius. Rather than the pain you saw him in weeks ago, he’s taken on a new role of discipline and precision; you no longer have any doubt that he’s fit for the role he’s been pawned into.

But even so, he’s still handsome and tall—even taller and even handsomer up close—but also cold and powerful and unyielding. Immediately, you sense that he's different from the other subjects who seem spun into Lucius's false fantasy of a family. Compared to the others, Caleb is… different.

You make a mental note of that for yourself, tucking it away in the corners of your mind.

The professor is the one to initiate your meeting, introducing you as one of EVER's best doctors, assigned to monitor Caleb's well-being and health while he integrates the Fleet.

Translated as: Don't fuck anything up, we have eyes on you.

You're sure Caleb gets the message as he nods stiffly, barely acknowledging your presence while he watches Lucius leave the room after explaining your purpose and his expectations. The simple speech makes the moment all the more heavy, the rigid air becoming headier as the professor leaves.

The door shuts behind Lucius with a soft ‘click,’ the single, soft sound reverberating through his office like a verdict—a blade that falls upon the moment, and it leaves only Caleb in the room with you.

Then his gaze meets yours from beneath the black peaked cap, casting a dark shadow across his face. Time stills. A myriad of tense emotions course through your rigid body, and it feels like he’s locked you in place, freezing the oxygen around you. You lose your stuttering breath, clutching the clipboard just a little tighter, feeling minuscule under the weight of his leer.

Slowly, his gloved fingers rap against his desk, cheek propped on his other hand as he assesses you, observing and analytical, letting not a single emotion slip into his steady features. Like he's the doctor examining a patient, and not the other way around.

Through the lump building in your throat, your voice cuts through the stillness in the atmosphere.

"The professor's already given me access to information on the Fleet's personnel, yours included. Your last examination was a few weeks ago during your neural control experiment; you won't be due for a while—I'll focus on monitoring the other soldiers for now."

You don't miss the sudden setting of his sharp jaw, the small pursing of his lips, the brief flickering of emotion in his eyes, blitzing through and then gone, you would’ve missed it if you had blinked. But it makes the lingering tension thicker in your throat.

Trials are a sore spot. Noted. The information is filed in your mind, just for future reference.

And if your words bothered Caleb, he doesn't voice it. You start to get the sense that he doesn't voice anything, really. His words are efficient and rough as he answers. "I'll tell Liam if I ever need you. In the meantime, notify him if you need anything."

While Caleb doesn't say it, he doesn't need to, but the implication cuts through the air: Don't bother me.

“Alright, but you and I will still need regular evaluations that don’t regard the Fleet.” Evaluations that regard EVER, you leave unsaid. You’re sure he understands.

With a silence resolute in its standing, you meet his gaze and ensure his nod before leaving, shoulders squared and tenser than when you were coming in.

Yeah, he definitely hates me. Just another thing for you to remember and work on. It’s difficult working with someone who seems to despise your entire existence at your first meeting. With the goal of trying to get to know Caleb just a little more, you leave his office.

It seems that it’ll be a long ride while you’re in the Farspace Fleet, stuck in what appears to be a rock and a hard place.

— — —

In the coming months, through little glimpses and minor actions, you learn that Caleb is a rather devoted man. To what or for what exactly, you do not know.

He is devoted to playing pawn in EVER’s scheme, though he knows his role is a simple cog in a masterpiece of strategy and ambition. Despite that, Caleb plays into the game like he is the timekeeper rather than a small mechanism. He faces it like a man torn between duty and faith—steadfast, carefully. Perhaps he knows that he is prized differently from Viper or any other subjects. Or perhaps it is his boldness and fervor that keeps a blaze lit within this game, a pawn who knows its worth.

You come to admire that about him.

Along with admiration, you also learn things about Caleb that he doesn’t show you. Though he holds steady on remaining an unread book, you begin to learn that Caleb throws his life around methodically, teasing death’s sovereignty with the tenderness of a man who has everything to lose, yet nothing at all.

You even discover little things about him, too. Like how he prefers sour over sweet, and that apples are his favorite fruit, and he barely goes home. You learn that Caleb is fond of the color orange and that he likes to downplay his injuries whenever he sees you. With that information, you chalk up the conclusion that Caleb endeavors to be seen as powerful and strong, both of which you believe he is. And you know enough to gather that Caleb hates feeling weak, which he is not.

You also learn that Caleb has no place in the world either. At least, he is not where he wants to be. That much, you are sure of.

Some nights, you catch him wandering the vast halls of the Farspace Fleet, dragging a gloved hand along the oppressive walls with that same contemplative expression on his features that you’ve come to know and recognize. And on some twilit nights, where he figures only the moon’s bright, white eye peers at him unblinkingly, you’re aware that he walks across the concrete fields where all the jets and spacecraft’s whirring hums are pressed silent and positioned, and he stares back at the pallid iris. Its silvery glow embedded within the bounds of amethyst hues.

Those nights, you think Caleb is like the moon. So distant and untouchable, the same side and mask are shown to the world. Always orbiting. And orbiting. And orbiting. And orbiting. Reflecting light back with undeniable control over gravitational force and the unrelenting frost that never seems to thaw, seemingly forgetting pieces of itself.

Caleb is much like the moon in all its glory of hollow light and haunting beauty.

In Skyhaven, so close to the cosmos that stretch thin and opaque stars bleeding pearly light through the infinite void, you imagine that Caleb makes a wish. What he wishes for, if he wishes at all, you do not know. You’re sure that you will never have the right to find out. But you like to think he utters his prayers to the great black hole that bites a wound in the web of endless space. You think that, maybe, he, like the other soldiers, is more human than not.

Maybe that’s why you bite your tongue and tell the professor half-truths when he inquires about Caleb’s progress.

On the great land that thrums with power and machinery and the promise of advancements, you figure Caleb out shard by shard, as best as you can.

But it halts there. Though you’ve spent months tending to him now, he doesn’t seem keen on opening up, and you can’t particularly blame him.

Despite working for EVER, you do admit their processes and experiments are unusual, yielding more failures than not in their journey of immortality. But such is the nature of medical and scientific pursuits; failures are fertilizer for progress. Ethically wrong, but with the promise of something far greater that rises dauntingly closer with every success like Caleb. In the end, even you can only bend to their whims, and that includes treating Caleb to the best of your ability and hoping that he sees it one day.

Unfortunately, that day does not seem to surface on the foreseeable horizon.

Because you’re quite confident the colonel hates you down to the very atoms of oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, and nitrogen that make up your body. That much is clear even if he has ever told you outright. His jaw tightens when you are near, muscles tensing under your steady hands, and the vast galaxies of his eyes strip you down to your barest form like a cell under a microscope. You would know, you’ve spent years studying them. To Caleb, you are EVER. A soul no purer than his.

Caleb doesn’t seem to like you, but like the tide to the moon, you’re drawn to him, too.

— — —

The first time Caleb caught a glimpse of you, he entertained the thought of you being different. You stood with the other doctors and researchers, each donning identical white coats and mirroring blue scrubs. You looked like them, but carried yourself with a grace that unsettled something deep within his chest.

Unlike the researchers he’s met with probing tools, gleeful eyes, and wicked smiles, who are proud to stand at the forefront of their “cutting edge” research, he always noticed that you stood quietly in the background. Safe behind a glass screen—untouched, pure—as if the sin of your work didn’t sink deep into your bones. Never filled with the distorted pride the researchers held or the awe of science that raptured them. Maybe it’s because you weren’t a researcher or a scientist who ran countless trials, but it didn’t explain the reason why you plagued his thoughts.

That was the first time you caught his attention.

The second time was when Viper spoke about you.

Normally, Caleb avoids coming into any sort of interaction with the serpentine idiot. He prefers their exchanges to be quick and efficient; anything that Viper spits out is a waste of time, and to Caleb, time has always slipped by too fast to be wasted on someone like Viper.

But that particular day, Viper spoke about you—the “pretty doctor with a nice voice”—and Caleb found himself listening absentmindedly, agreeing too. Along with your name, he learns a bit about you. You’re a doctor who graduated top of your class and got picked up by Professor Lucius for your research and advancements in neurological pathways, their connections to protocore energy fluctuations, and their influence on evols. In return for your contribution to EVER, you would be secured a job, education debts being paid in full, and the opportunity to continue your life’s research—the same research that helped develop the toring chip. A secure life is what you traded for this work.

With his mild curiosity sated, Caleb decided quickly that he did not particularly like you. After all, you worked under EVER, the very organization that took people to research on—him, included—implanted a chip into their bodies to regulate their emotions and boost physical capabilities far beyond what a human should be able to do, turning them into crystalline wanderers if the experiments did not work. And for the ones that did succeed, they could not even be called humans any longer.

He, who could not be called human, no longer. The emptiness in his heart feels cavernous, the void of his mangled soul full of fiendish filth.

But most of all, EVER, you, were after the dearest person in his heart—his sun, his summer.

Aiming to capture and ruin the gentle smile that constantly haunts the wisps of his hardy soul, a ghost of the past and angel of the future. Bright and beautiful eyes that peered into his, the woman who had made his heart keen with aching love and devotion since he was a child. The person behind every prayer he whispers to fate’s ear. Because of EVER’s arduous visions, he’s witnessed her death more times than anyone should, held her small hands in his when she resuscitated over and over, forgetting him time and time again. Because of EVER, he’s morphed into something unrecognizable.

He’s supposed to be Caleb—always by her side.

Instead, he’s rooted in Skyhaven, playing puppet to protect her from the claws of greed and power. A concaved husk of the human he used to be, hollow to touch, with a badge that weighs heavily on his heart and metal working through his body. Often, he wonders, if fate weaves their strings together, just once more, and they are to meet again, would she still recognize him? Could he hold her hand, curl his cold, unfeeling fingers around hers as he did in the beginning, and tell her, “I’m Caleb, I’ll always be by your side.” Would gravity allow him to find his way back home to her side?

And even if her answer was no, to reject his touch that can no longer feel her dear warmth, he would linger in her casted shadows—devoted, willing. If it meant she’d be safe, he would readily prime himself into EVER’s perfect weapon. No matter the technology that worms in his mind or the mechanical vacancy that invades his body.

Therefore, he would even cooperate with you.

It’s just unfortunate that he dislikes you. While he knows this all isn’t exactly your fault, it is a job you took on, and though you aren’t the worst person he’s ever dealt with, you just… irritate him.

But he sees you everywhere, sees you in everything. The sight of your sickening white, iron-pressed doctor’s coat, the Fleet’s insignia embroidered on the silky, folded lapel, has become a vision more familiar than his own house in Skyhaven. He catches the swirling loops and tight lines of handwriting, signing off on every single medical report that comes his way, and doesn’t have to look twice to know it was created by your hand. The fragments of you are littered through his troops, filling the space meant for another.

And it definitely does not help that your name is all he’s been hearing for the past few months that you’ve been on his Fleet now.

He hears about you when Liam informs him of daily schedule changes, meetings, and weekly recalibrations for his arm. He hears about you from his soldiers, the loud, the quiet, and even the ones who dare not speak in his presence. He hears the soldiers want to go to the infirmary to see only you. Your name falls from the lips of soulless pawns who are like him—implanted with the toring chip, stripped of emotions and individuality, and yet, they speak reverently of you.

They say you whisper words with compassion, that you’re completely different from the other doctors and nurses. You ask about their day and how they feel, what hurts, and what doesn’t. Your words and soothing syllables make them feel less soldier and more human. Less enigmatic monster than not. In the Farspace Fleet, where there are only soldiers and officers—you bring soul in the constant hive of monotonous continuity.

Kind, compassionate, empathetic or not, it does not change the influence of your operation. The sentiments you express do not purify you.

Yet, somehow, your presence has become gossamer-threaded into the inner workings of his mechanically efficient Fleet, thriving even under the oppressing gravity of his routine.

And perhaps that is partly because he knows the words are true.

From the treatments after dangerous missions, arm modifications, and regulated cybezin dosages he’s had with you, he will admit that you do seem in touch with your patients. Most of the Fleet doctors don’t care enough for the other soldiers; many are too intimidated to even look him in the eye, but you are no Fleet doctor, you are something far worse. And you are also far more gentle than any trial he’s had with scientists or researchers.

Your hands are calculated, touches practiced, your gaze burns. You hold yourself highly, chin unbowed but soft in ways that matter. You linger everywhere, on his ship and in his mind.

And Caleb hates that he notices. So he pushes the blame onto the only person he can—you, who invades his thoughts in the worst ways.

— — —

It’s almost a full year before Caleb contacts you first after a mission that went down horribly.

At the time, you were away, fulfilling another request by Professor Lucius regarding a patient at a hospital. Of course, whoever planned this against Caleb took your absence as an opportunity to strike at him. Imagine your surprise when you receive word that your most valuable patient had been hurt.

When you return, you hear from Liam that the mission didn’t go according to the expected plan. It was supposed to be a simple retrieval of an unmanned patrol craft that suspiciously broke down in the Deepspace Tunnel’s restricted zone, and Caleb was to recover it in the midst of increasing energy fluctuations that resulted in his own ship’s engine giving out. In the end, Caleb made it out by controlling the patrolcraft with his evol until reinforcements arrived, but he also sustained injuries to his right arm as well as lacerations on his torso. Liam also informs you that this serves as a blatant declaration against Caleb. And, in turn, EVER.

He’s in his private medical room when you rush to him, a place you have become familiarly acquainted with in the months you have lived on the Fleet. The monotonous beeping and rhythmic trilling of the machines fill your senses, and you find him on the dark bed. His sculpted back greets you under the dim lights of screens. Violet and vermillion hues paint across muscles rippling with every heavy heave of his lungs, expending under the gauze that hugs taut around his left shoulder, holding it in place against his collarbone.

Wires suspend from his mechanical limb, crimson and azure webs flow throughout the arm as it's being slowly repaired. Metal chips piece back into a whole like a puzzle, neurons seaming together in interconnected filaments of nervous tissue. The sensation sends sharp pain coursing into his body, racking him with sharp, spasming aches.

In the midst of groans, you announce your presence with a rap of your knuckles on the door, earning his cool distaste that comes with a hard glance.

“You’re late.” Injured, but he still has energy to talk back; it seems it’s not as threatening as you thought it’d be.

“How bad is it?” The question falls from your lips, simple but soft as you walk to his side to assess the full extent of his injuries.

The stitching underneath the swathe is neatly done by another doctor—thin and evenly woven into his flesh—folding the gashed meat back together, leaving only little beads of blood dribbling out that you wipe away. Scars, old and new, litter down his body, from mild scratches to the deeper lesions like his newly acquired one. Not too excessive, but it’ll certainly take some time to completely heal with regular changes of gauze and cleaning of his stitches along his clavicle.

It alleviates you with a relieved sigh.

“Luckily, your laceration isn’t fatally deep, but it’s along your collarbone, so try to avoid straining it too much. Most of the injuries you sustained will bruise, but they’ll heal with treatment.” Latex digits trace the area, pressing down lightly, probing around for soreness. “Tell me if it hurts.”

“Doesn’t hurt,” He grunts, tearing his eyes from you to the screen beside him that shows the material of his arm—metal and bone reflecting. As the final pieces merge, neurons meld together in a synthetic mimicry of latticework. He flexes his hand as a test, a low grunt erupting from the baser cavern of his chest. “This is all a move from the old guard anyway, no patrolcraft goes down like that so conveniently when you’re away. It’s best if you don’t get involved.”

And against his own indifference, despite the snap in his voice, amidst the proximity and your fingers dimpling his flesh, he notices the softness in your eyes that he hates. The tenderness that you absolutely don’t reserve the right to give to him is there—he feels it—and it feels wrong. The sensation of you on him burns, your warmth bleeds through the nylon barrier. It isn’t something he should pay attention to, that he even wants to pay attention to, but he does. He curses it.

You sigh at his words, giving a soft shake of your head as you wrap new gauze around the stitching. “It doesn’t matter what’s best or not; I’m already involved, whether we like it or not. If this person chose the moment when I was away from HQ to target you, then I’m clearly factored into their plans.”

“What do you think you can do?” He narrows his eyes at you, words hissed and sharp. “You can’t do anything, so just let me deal with this.”

“I also can’t be expected to stay away when this involves you. If you get hurt then—”

“Then you fix me.” He cuts. “That’s your job, isn’t it? You fix the weapon when it gets chipped, and when it breaks, you report back to the professor to get a new one.”

His words strike you. Quip and short but no less strong. Silence lingers between the thickening tension, and for a few seconds that feel like an eternity, you and Caleb share an intense look, one that speaks volumes in stillness. His challenging look provokes your response.

“I don’t… I don’t see you as a weapon. I don’t think you’re a weapon that can easily be replaced.” You state, shoulders squared as you look down at his sitting form. “You’re still human, you can still feel.”

It’s hypocritical, you know. You’re saying that he’s still human despite all the modifications, despite the chip that distorts his very emotions and mind, despite the fact that he’s been changed so deeply—you still think he’s human. It’s unfair what EVER does to them, and it’s not efficient, but it isn’t like you have much of a choice either. In the end, does it even make you better?

But it makes him scoff, turning his bitter gaze to his right arm. His fingers curl into a fist, and if he tried hard enough, dug his fingers into the metal palm, he could almost hurt himself. He can almost feel the ghost of warmth. Human, what a joke.

“You’re telling me that? Don’t make me laugh.” Caleb raises the bionic arm, watching how the lights flicker and shine off the metal like a foul taunt. “You say that, but you still work under EVER. It doesn’t make you any better than them, so don’t give me shit like that.”

“That’s not—” You try to defend yourself, but the syllables calcify in your throat. Instead, you find yourself looking down, shame creeping up your neck. You let the silence become a curtain to hide behind. It’s a new look that Caleb hasn’t seen on you. “I know it’s hypocritical, but I don’t have much of a choice in this either. I’m not a scientist or someone who experiments, and I know that doesn’t mean that I’m a good person, but I do want to help you. I’m still a doctor.

Caleb doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even react. He simply lets you pour your heart out, emotions unraveling onto him. Even if he understands, it doesn’t make the bitterness in his heart disappear right away. It doesn’t change the fact that you work under Lucius, who’s after the object of his devotion. It doesn’t change the fact that you irritate him with your kind words, pretty face, and sweet voice. It won’t change the one he yearns for.

Just thinking about her makes his head hurt, it makes his heart burn, and he vaguely registers the cadence of the heart monitor beeping faster in response. Again, like the many things that involve you, he blames this on your words. He internally damns you for stirring up cherished memories. He wants to recede into the little encrypted paradise in his mind, but your voice drowns it out, an anchor that both irritates and grounds him—a hazardous light through the cacophony of turbulent emotions pooling like a typhoon.

Caleb feels his body grow feverish at an alarming rate, vermillion blooming on his cheeks and crawling down his neck, eyes fluttering shut as if he can will away the buzzing of the chip, fighting back a reset that laps at his brain. Biology against technology. His willpower and emotions over the influence of EVER inside his own body.

The sudden surge in the heart monitor’s rhythm catches your attention, and your words trail off when the realization of Caleb’s situation dawns upon you. Increased heart rate and spiking temperatures—all telltale symptoms of the toring chip’s suppression. Immediately, you whirl towards him, ensuring the stability of his vitals before turning on your heels to the rack of medicine.

“I’ll administer a dose of cybezin—”

You’re barely two steps away from the bed before you feel cold wrap around your wrist, pulling you back.

“No.” Caleb rasps out, his iron grip tightening dangerously. “I’m not in the mood for side effects. You really think cybezin will be better for me right now?”

You look back at him, incredulous. “It doesn’t matter what you’re in the mood for. Do you see yourself right now? The toring chip will reset you if you don’t get control of yourself.”

“Damn it.” His jaw clicks, pursing his lips. For a few seconds, an ocean of quiet thickens with his contemplative expression before he suddenly yanks you closer until your faces are just a few breaths apart. Amethyst irises scour your surprised features, taking in the quiver of your lashes and trembling breath, flitting to your lips for a beat too long and back up. He can smell your scent; the deep, intoxicating fragrance that’s so distinctly you. It makes the heat in his stomach go hot, something he blames on the fragment of metal in his mind. But it helps divert his thoughts, enough to briefly forget the chip and push away its programming. “Distract me then. You’re my doctor, aren’t you? You said I’m human, so help me.”

“What?” You recoil slightly, voice wavering with shock. The insinuation isn’t lost on you, but it’s so ridiculous that you can’t wrap your mind around it. You, who Caleb so clearly despises, are being told to help him in a way that you definitely shouldn’t.

Caleb scoffs, a flickering of his eyes up and down your form. “You heard me. No cybezin, I already took a recent dose. You’re my doctor, so help me with this and finish what you triggered.”

A million thoughts sprint through your mind; this is wrong, it’s absurd, he’s not in his right mind, and you should not, in any way, shape, or form, be actually considering it. The weight of every sworn vow thunders in your brain. You may work under EVER, the organization that’s violated almost every ethical law in medicine, but sleeping with your patient?

It’s because of the chip, you rationalize. He’s being affected, and it’s your duty as his doctor to make him feel better. You know how the chip works. You know that it twirls into the neurons of his body, invading the limbic system, and intrudes to distort his amygdala without mercy. You know that it changes him. You call him human, but the chip makes him not. What kind of doctor would you be if you didn’t help?

It’s just helping him, you tell yourself.

His grip loosens ever so slightly, just enough for you to pull back if you wish. Quick enough for you to consider turning tail, running, and pretending this never happened.

“Nobody can ever know.”

Your words are enough incentive for Caleb to tug you closer.

In a swift pull, you suck in a breath as he brings you closer, pulling you onto the muscles of his thighs. One arm is smooth and cool as it slides up your sleeve, slow and taunting like Caleb is testing his own resolve, toeing the lines you two have just crossed. But the other is hot, warm against your skin when it pushes your white coat down, the other side following suit until it flutters to the floor, and leaves you in your button-up. The moment makes you dizzy, breathless.

He takes the sight of you, flushed and trembling, a far-fetched vision from your usual composed manner. Heat buzzes in his mind, maybe from the chip, maybe from arousal. As much as he doesn’t like you, you’re conventionally attractive and here, a distraction from what his brain fights against. Your body slots nicely against him, legs splayed around his hips, and his hands find the edge of your shirt—but he also thinks about her.

Her nice smile. Her nice voice. Her nice eyes. The way she used to hold his hand in hers and the soft syllables of his name on her tongue. He wants it to be her who sits pretty in his lap; instead, he has you.

“Fucking hell.” He caves.

With a low gnarl that simmers deep in his chest, he pushes forward to take your lips against his. His tongue pries open your lips, swallowing your gasp into his mouth. Strong arms slide around your torso, pulling you flush against his body. Beggars can’t be choosers in his conditions; there’s nothing he isn’t willing to do, so he swallows your sounds like a starved man with nothing to lose. What left does he hold but anger and hate? What does he have but his devotion that streams through his veins?

His tongue is warm, slimy in your mouth. It curves over the divots of your molars, drooling into the warmth of your gums. Briefly, you wonder if the chip has any effect on his bodily reactions, not on how his mind operates under its stressors, but if it increases touch, sensitivity, or dulls them all. Is he in there somewhere? Is this even working? Or will you keep crossing a line that can’t be redrawn, stepping into the area between right and wrong? Is there anything left keeping you from this with all you’ve already done to him?

But Caleb doesn’t let you dwell on it for long as his hands fidget with the buttons on your blouse, deftly undoing the flimsy fabric, trailing fingers down. Every button that comes undone seems to loosen a strand of your resolve, and against better judgment, you let yourself stumble into the abyss of his heat.

His body runs like a furnace, burning against yours. Hot breaths are panted against your mouth, escaping in short gasps of air. You can feel his arousal nudge insistently against the inside of your thigh, and the thick fabrics do nothing to hide the sheer warmth of it, bleeding fire through his pants and past your skirt. You swear you feel it twitch through all the layers—wanting, ready, aching—the only proof of his biology at war with the chip.

“Aren’t you supposed to be helping me?” He grumbles against your sweat-slicked skin, suckling deep red blotches into the flesh of your neck, grazing ivory canines over your furious pulse. The passing thought to sink his teeth into your jugular blinks through his mind. The cadence of your life in his mouth, throbbing over his tongue. Fingers dimple your torso, traveling down south until cold digits press against the molten heat between your thighs, a motion that has you gasping out his name in that broken, little voice he’s quickly coming acquainted with. The noise makes his cock stir in betrayal. “Why am I doin’ all the work, doctor?”

You stutter in response, blood rushing hot and embarrassed at his words. You’re supposed to be the doctor here, making him feel better, so why is it hard to even speak? Your words cement in your throat, rasped out in a voice unrecognizable to even yourself. “Wh-what do you want me to do?” You keen at the cold touch, hips shuddering when his thumb finds your clit over your soiled panties.

“What do I want you to do?” His voice is a low tremor, said in the same tone you always hear him address his soldiers in. Cold and unyielding. You don’t need to look at his face to see the sneer on his kiss-bitten lips. “You caused this, so just let me use you until this damn chip is out of my head.”

Before you can answer, your world tilts rapidly, and your back falls to meet the medical bed’s mattress, its metal creaking under your combined weights when he comes to hover over you. His scarred torso remains upright with the assistance of his left arm, the other gliding down to unzip your skirt, flinging it aside so swiftly that you barely register that you’re spread open in your undergarments. The half-lidded purple of his eyes sinks into your skin, trained on the slick pooling in your panties, and he smolders with more emotion in this single instance than you’ve seen in all the months you’ve known him.

In the time you’ve been acquainted with him, you never would have even conceived the idea that you’d be in bed with the very patient who has shown nothing but disdain and indifference to you. Then again, you never thought you would be soaking through your panties just by kissing said patient. Your patient, who is currently shirtless, sweaty, switched-up, and tugging his pants just enough so that his cock meets the humid air.

Like the rest of his body, Caleb’s cock is… well-built. Well above average, too. Throbbing veins run along the underside. A dusky pink and aching with translucent beads of pre that drip tantalizingly down the heavy girth. Thick and intimidating as the tip seeps clear beads of pre over your stomach. It catches you off guard, snatching the air from your lungs the longer you look at it.

“Done staring?” It’s Caleb’s voice that snaps you out of your entranced state, nebulae eyes glaring down at you. You meet his scorching irises, nodding with a small mumble of agreement.

“Hurry up then,” he takes your hand and guides it towards his swollen length. It’s hot. Heavy in your hand, precum sticking to your palm as he guides your hand up and down. The veins hammer along your fingers, matching his heady breaths of arousal. It does nothing to soothe your own ache.

He groans, a sound that rumbles deep from his chest when his grinds into your hands. “Unless you plan on taking this entire thing, I suggest prepping yourself. I don’t plan on doing it for you.”

Through the haze in your mind, his words click, eyes falling to the thick girth pistoning through your palm. You can barely get your hands around the entire girth, and definitely not into you without any preparation. Cursing yourself in your mind, you realize that you cannot, in fact, take him in like this. So with your other hand, you slip your fingers between your thighs, feeling the traitorous slick of lust smother your digits like a symbol of surrender.

"Hm," he coos, a lick of embarrassment shooting through you at the infinite condescension. "Already wet? Not very professional, looks like you’re not as pure as you seem, doc.” He relishes the way you squirm beneath him, eyes caught on the way your fingers gleam with the wetness of your cunt, stripped down to your barest form. It makes him forget the chip in his mind, his conscience a fort of security.

“It’s not…” You try to speak over the filth of sounds. His cock leaks in your hand, sliding into and out of your fist with ease, and your smaller fingers plunge into your pussy. “I never said I was, ngh, pure. This is just—fuck, biology, bodily reactions. This is just to help you.” Biology that sinks you in humiliation under his intensity.

“Doesn’t change the fact that you’re wet. Filthy.” He spits. Your walls flutter tighter at his crude words. Intently, he observes how your fingers roll over your clit, fucking into your hole with the kind of desperation that can’t be called clinical anymore, and the noises you let loose lance straight to his cock, impossibly harder in your hand as he bucks up, matching the erratic beat every time your fingers sink into that sloppy pussy.

Heat flies through your bones with every mean word he spews. It’s almost humiliating, feeling your velvety walls clench tight around your own fingers with every syllable spoken in condescension. You shouldn’t feel this way, shouldn’t be getting so lost in flames of euphoria. But the air is animalistic, instinct-fueled, the kind that resonates only from sweaty bodies and erases everything but vulgar desire from your mind. Still wrong, still overstepping. But so good. So, so achingly good.

The way he drenches your palm feels good. The way you fuck yourself with your fingers feels good. The atmosphere is delirious, crackling with the iniquity that slithers dangerously into the pit of your gut and leaves you wanting more.

It feels even better when his metal finger circles your clit, thumbing the swollen pearl of nerves, controlling your body with the same talent you’ve seen in his evol. You arch into his touch, a whine of his name slipping free. Caleb’s never seen you like this, never even played with the thought of seeing you sweaty, finger-fucked, slutty.

He doesn’t let himself breathe. Too focused on mirroring the strokes every time your fingers descend into yourself, biting back the coil in his gut, the heat in his spine, and the rabbiting of his mind like it’ll help him not shoot his load all over your hand that pumps him sloppy, irregular now. His eyes rake over you, swallowing a rough groan as he watches your fingers get swallowed greedily by such a wanton cunt where everything is wet and squelching. Your fingers are small, he notes through a hazed mind, barely enough to mimic the stretch of his cock when he inevitably sinks into you.

He’s not sure what fuels him to do it—maybe the chip, maybe the heat, maybe the pitched whine of his name off your lips. But he pushes your hand away, huffing—almost amused, almost irritated—at the oozing string of slick connecting your drenched fingers to your pussy, before replacing it with his right hand. You feel the metal pad of his thumb swirl harder against your clit, its contrast of human warmth shocking you into further pleasure, and two of his fingers glide into your sopping channel before you can process it.

His fingers are long, thicker than yours, stretching you further as he sinks his longest digits knuckle deep, fingertips curling so effortlessly against the spongy spot that makes you keen with a shuddery sob. Despite the scorching heat in the room, his fingers are brisk, metallic, and it only makes everything more sensitive as he fucks you open, scissoring and flicking your clit in a punishing pace—impatient, cruel, mean.

“Can’t even fuck yourself right. How do you expect to take me if you’re fingering yourself so pathetically? So much for helping me.” He mutters, voice laced with annoyance, like he’s forced to take care of you. Keen on making you feel small, insignificant, like another soldier in his fleet. “You really have to make me do everything for you, huh? Can’t even jerk me off right either.”

“Colonel—” The title falls seamlessly, mewled under his touch. But it makes him tense more. Just the three syllables remind him where he is, who he’s with. In an instant, rage simmers in his veins again. He doesn’t bother to control it.

“Quiet.” He snaps, unrelenting in where his fingers prod. “Just… let me fucking use you.”

This is okay, he tells himself; he can’t feel you like this. Metal in warmth that bleeds into synthetic neurons, because he doesn’t want to feel you. Not when you started this. Not when you continue it. There’s no need to feel, just touch. It’s enough to just hear your cunt cry for him, sucking his fingers in deep with a filthy squelch of need. It’s enough to use you and suture any lingering feelings away. It’s enough because he still hates you, still wishes you were someone else.

“You’re so wet,” he groans, flicking your other hand away from his pulsing cock, stroking himself now, “Do all of EVER’s doctors get this wet for their patients or are you just a slut, hm?”

You have no response. Such crude words spill so easily from his lips, serving nothing but pushing you further to the edge. Your hips buck up into his hand, your own kneading and pinching your tits as you writhe. “M’close… d-don’t stop.” You plead.

“Gonna come? You’re really gonna come on your patient’s fingers? On something inhuman? You’re dirtier than I thought.” He muses, curling his torso above yours and meeting your helpless gaze. You feel the warm ribbons of pre-cum drip onto your stomach, adding to the pool of sweat and musk. “Go on then, come on my fingers and then I’ll fuck this slutty cunt, too.”

“Sl-slow down—fuck!” A sob tumbles from your lips, breath stuttering as pleasure shoots through your body uncontrollably. Trembling thighs clench shut around his wrist, knees wobbling and clasping together as the intense euphoria fizzles into your emptied mind. Your body throbs immediately, pushing at his abdomen as you pant out, “Fuck—shit, wait… ‘s too much…”

You hear a smile in his words when he responds, “Don’t tell me how to use you when you just came all over my hand like a whore.” Before you can come to, large hands are flipping you over onto your stomach, and you’re suddenly pinned under his heavy weight. Chest against back, arms caging you in by your head. And then you feel him. “I already told you I was gonna fill this messy hole. Unlike you, I keep true to my word.”

The leaky, blunt head of his cock nudges and kisses at your sore clit like a looming threat, and instinct calls for you to writhe away. An action he doesn’t let you do, pulling you back by your hips, gliding the thick length along your wetness, coating him completely. You feel it twitch against you like it feeds off your reactions. “You said you were going to help,” he leans over your prone form, breath hot against your ear, “I was even so nice to prep you myself, so stay still and take it.”

Pinning you down with an iron grip, you feel the crown of his dick split you open first. Your cunt spreads wide beyond anything you’ve ever dared to put in, fluttering as it accommodates his intrusion, drooling around his cock as he sinks the first few inches in, taking your breath along with it. You feel… full, stuffed with just the tip. A few more inches brimming into you tears a synchronized moan from your lips, heated puffs of his breath beating against your nape as he jerks his hips forward, somehow shoving more until you feel his hips snug against your ass, buried fully in your warmth.

“So big…” you breath, trying to adjust to the sheer size of him in and on top of you. Your bodies are both feverish, slicked with sweat that makes it all easier for him to slide against your body, fucking you into the mattress like an animal in rut. “Can’t,” you gasp out, burying your face into the sheets. “S too much…”

His weight falls fully on your back now, strong arms wrapping around your waist as he responds with a brutal snap into you. He pounds into you, rough, cruel. Driven by desire and instinct, pure biology that overrides any remaining logic. The way your gummy walls pulse around his cock, milking his length, has him grunting, voice drawling with need, “You’ll take it, this is all you’re good for, really.”

At his degrading words, your pussy flutters traitorously in delight. And he laughs, not a light laugh of humor or good fun, but in a dark octave that rumbles deep in his chest, and you feel the vibrations through your back, billows of embarrassment flooding through you.

“God, you’re such a whore.” He rasps, hips smacking against your ass in loud, shameless slaps, “Dirty fuckin’ slut, aren’t you? Would you get this wet for any patient? You like being a filthy doctor who gets fucked like this?”

Humiliation seeps into you, shooting straight to your pussy that works harder to milk his cock, proving his words to be true. You feel small, a doll under him, whining into the pillow as Caleb draws back slowly—tip sheathed, just enough for the cold air to rush, kissing the slicked skin of his dick before ploughing back in with a hiss.

The impact as he thrust back in cracks loudly through the room. An obscene, sloppy smack that jolts your entire body, echoing with your moans into the sheets, and causes the mattress and you to cry as you fuck your hips feverishly into him.

“F-fuck, your h-hips,” He croaks, pressing a hand into the space between your shoulder blades, “God, you feel so fucking good, I hate it. I hate you. Sh-shit, ha, fuck.”

Brutal thrusts are drilled straight into your g-spot, his heavy body mounting you like a rabid beast. Caleb fucks you carnally, heavy balls slapping against your clit and skin sticking lewdly against your ass with every messy smack of flesh on flesh. It’s impatient, nasty, and mean. Everything that Caleb has ever shown you fitting into your sopping pussy. There’s a filthy squelch that mixes between your bodies—a wet, obscene one that burns you inside.

Your cunt winds everything out of him, and the familiar coil in his stomach rushes up again, movements stuttering, balls tightening with the need to cum. He almost hates it; the way you pulse and flutter around him. The fact that it’s you wrapped warm and milking him so fucking perfectly. It’s all the more he needs to come, pressing his lips hot against your ear with a ragged groan.

“What if,” he pants over the lewd symphony, “I come inside this dirty cunt, huh? Fill my doctor up with hot cum and let all the soldiers see you like this. Let everyone see their precious doctor fucked out, dripping, and begging. Maybe we’ll even send some pictures to EVER, think you’ll still be the professor’s favorite then, hm?”

Your pussy answers where your mouth only forms his name in broken syllables, gooey walls tightening in prospects of being painted white with his seed. A betrayal of body, too susceptible to pleasure coursing through you.

“This pussy’s tellin’ me yes.” His voice, a condescending croon, pressed hot to your neck. “Let me hear from this dirty mouth, though. Come on, you want your patient to cum into your messy cunt? You like gettin’ dicked down?”

As if to punctuate his words, his right arm slithers between your clit and the mattress, rolling tight circles into the bundles of nerves like it’ll wrench answers out from swollen lips. The only thing it does is hurl you towards the precipice of looming euphoria, rattling in your bones, and melting your brain. You couldn’t give answers even if you tried. Your tongue feels heavy, mouth shaped into an ‘o’ every time he bottoms out, hips to ass as your stomach furls over itself in pleasure.

“Answer me.” He growls, rubbing you harder. His other hand snakes around to your neck, pulling your face from the sheets into the open air so your moans flow freely, the column of your throat hooking into the crook of his arm with the lightest squeeze of his broad bicep. Your pulse beats furiously under thick muscle, rabbiting under the pit of his elbow with your pitchy breaths. “Be a good slut and answer me. You want me to flood this pussy, huh? Wanna leak with my seed?”

“Y-yes!” You whine out, though his question doesn’t even register in your mind, too busy grinding out on his palm and drooling over the cage of his arm. “Fuck–fuck, ‘m close, ‘m gonna cum!”

“Yeah? Sh-shit, I really will come in you. A slut like you, getting tighter around my cock when I choke you like this.” Warm breath and tongue lap over your neck. Hips falter, pulling you closer, arm tightening around your neck, locking you in as he rolls heavy thrusts and bullies his tip right into that sweet spot with a stammering groan. Caleb feels it immediately—a white-hot shock, nerve detonating after nerve, chaos fleshing throughout his body. “Fuck—damn it, feels so good—god, I hate you—”

He hates you. Hates you. Hates you. Hates you so much that he’s cumming in you.

It’s suddenly too much.

His words, his cock, his biting touch. All of it adds to the spool of heat boiling in your guts, winding tight and ready to erupt. But it’s him spilling thick, hot torrents into your spasming walls that unravels you completely. Your world stumbles to a halt, breath catching in your throat, lips falling open in a silent scream as you tremble and shake beneath him. It feels like a calamity of ecstasy, slamming full force into your body that surrenders futilely beneath its gravity.

“Ca-Caleb!” You gasp, chanting his name, unable to form anything else but the rush of climax. “Oh,” you breathe out, “fuck.”

“H-ha, creamin’ all over me…” His chest rumbles with a groan, pushing his body into you and fucking his load deeper. His cum floods out from where you’re connected, overflowing from your stuffed cunt with filthy squelches, reluctant to let him go. “Shit, look at that…”

His weight is lifted over you as he rides out the high of pleasure, catching his breath against the slope of your shoulder. And for long seconds, the silence is filled with heavy gulps of oxygen like a quiet agreement to let the stillness linger. That is, until you break it.

“How… do you feel now?” Even to you, your breath sounds staggered and voice hoarse, almost foreign. Your eyes turn over your shoulder, scanning his appearance. Sweat paints his skin, illuminating him in the soft hue of blue light that refracts off right metallic and mahogany strands of hair that stick to his temple. Other than that, he seems… stable, mentally and physically. Vitals are good, save for erratic heart rate and heavy breathing, but you fare no better in that regard.

“M fine.” He mumbles, swaying back to watch his cock slip from your spent pussy with a quiet ‘pop,’ cum spewing from swollen folds, making you squirm in slight discomfort.

It feels like too much to think right now. There’s an ache that settles in your bones, and though his weight no longer presses you down, you feel the ghost of his warmth kissing your back like a phantom of pleasure. So you don’t say anything else, there is nothing else to say.

Again, a quiet—almost awkward—lingers in the air. The kind that’s gutted open to flood like a hollow abyss, and it’s enough to tell you that he isn’t open to discussion about what just happened. Even after your coital session, he’s closed up once more, recessing away like nothing’s happened.

The bed creaks as he moves, picking up the discarded clothes, slipping his back on; it feels like a mask falls over his face with every article of clothing that covers him. Black leather against moonlight and the Fleet’s insignia like a mocking sneer. Once again, he’s transformed into the cold colonel you’ve come to know.

“It goes without saying that no one needs to know about this.” The cap casts a shadow over his galactic irises, eyes falling to your form. His voice is stripped of the heat from moments ago, replaced by stoic octaves of practicality and efficiency. “I’ll deal with the perpetrator behind the crash in the Deepspace Tunnel, just stay out of my way for now. If I need you again, maybe then… we’ll see where that leads us.”

Eyes trained on the ceiling, in a body that feels like a stranger to yourself now, you take note of the implication. The door shuts. His steady gait echoes down the hallway.

And you are left alone—watched by the moonlight, and the company of energy thrumming in bated air.

— — —

Months later, you would come to know what it is that Caleb is devoted to.

It is not an idea nor a goal, but rather, you think it is a woman.

(You think and do not know because Caleb is a puzzle that you will never fully understand, with what information he withholds from you. And that is the conclusion you have no choice but to accept.)

The Caleb you know—or think you know—is not protective.

He is cold and calculating. He knows when to cut his losses and weaves through the world like it is a game of strategy. He is as frigid as the temperatures in the Deepspace Tunnels, as quick as a bullet, with a tongue as quip as the sharpest blade—these you know, because you have been on the receiving end more than once. You’ve never seen him hold a hand out to anyone or give a second glance to anything that holds him back.

But this Caleb—the side he shows to this new Fleet officer, turned trusted adjutant—is different. He treats her differently than he does Liam and you. No matter how he tries to hide it, you catch the tenderness in his gaze when it falls onto her and the darkness that clouds his eyes when someone speaks to her with a tone too sharp for his liking. To him, she is not just a soldier in the Fleet.

You know that Caleb likes her. Why or how, you don’t know—you’re positive that you will never know. It is a sliver of the moon that is untouchable to you.

But in your own mind, it’s just proof that you are right. Even Caleb Xia, Colonel of the Farspace Fleet, is more human than weapon.

You stir slightly with the new presence and comforting heat, whispering the soft, sleepy syllables of his name that makes his heart keen in his chest. It pounds away at the cage of his ribs—alive—he’s sure you can feel it thundering in his chest with how little space remains between you two.

“It’s just me, my love.” He murmurs in a low tremor, pressing his nose against the curve of your neck, taking a deep inhale of your soothing scent accompanied by a gentle kiss to the skin. A silent show to tell your unconscious self that he’s here. He’s home.

Even in sleep, your body knows him. Every curve, every breath, every soft feel of skin on skin. So you relax immediately, shifting your hips slightly in the smallest grind, and oh—

Phainon’s breath catches in his throat. He feels it all at once. A falter in his heart where it trips over itself like a hormonal schoolboy, stuttering out to your subtle movements. And pulse in his boxers, a twitch against your plush ass that sits directly onto where he’s growing hard underneath you. How easy he is, going without you for days, and only to get achingly aroused for you while you slumber. Certainly, if you were conscious, he has no doubt that you’d tease him non-stop.

But he can’t help the low whimper that bubbles when you move again, furrowing yourself deeper into his warmth, harder against his bulge with a drowsy sigh—a sound of heaven that reaches his burning ears and shooting straight southward.

He shouldn’t, he knows. You’re tired, he’s tired, and you both have all day tomorrow to indulge in each other’s bodies. How can he disturb your rest when you tried your best to stay up for him? The kind thing to do is to allow you to sleep in peace and enjoy the calming rhythm of your breath that he’s missed for days.

But Phainon is tired of being strong. Right now, Phainon is weak. Your lover is too weak to the way you fill up his shirt that you went to sleep in, shared fragrances whittling down his restraint. He’s too susceptible to how your body fits against his, the hushed snores you emit, and even the cute way your cheek nuzzles against the pillow.

“I’m sorry, my love…” He utters quietly into the slope of your shoulder. “I just… I need you, so bad. I missed you so much.”

His hands find light purchase on the soft of your hips, pulling you closer to erase all margins between you. Like any spare room is simply unbearable. He can’t hide the groan at the slight friction, precum beginning to collect in his boxers, soaking through as he rolls his bulge into the curve of your clothed ass, breathing and kissing reverently along your neck’s arch, whispering low praises though you can’t hear it.

Perfect. You’re simply perfection in everything you do, whether conscious or not. Sleeping so soundly and prettily, it makes him almost feel bad. Almost.

But then he starts pushing the sensitive, leaking head of his cock into the crevice of your thighs, slicking up the warm mounds before sliding his length into the pillowy flesh, and all resolve seems to simmer away.

“Li-like this, my dear. I’ll take care of you t-tomorrow, I promise…” Mouthing little marks into your neck and rutting subtly, Phainon speaks in a low tone, unable to hide the rasping ache trembling through his voice. “Ha… feels ‘s good… ‘m sorry, sweetheart… just—fuck—I missed you, missed you s’much.”

He could cry from this. Your thighs are so warm. Warm and soft like your body welcomes him home after days and nights away, so willing and ready despite being in slumber. It’s moments like these when Phainon is intensely reminded of how much he adores you.

He’s dripping enough pre that his dick slips and glides easily through your thighs and you’re blissfully unaware of the way he carefully bucks into you. Cautious enough not to wake you, needy enough that he chases the curling heat in his gut. It’s a little messy, the same way it is when you’re awake, too. The sound of repetitive ‘shlicking’ echoes throughout the room, mingling in with your calming breathing and his huffs as he pumps into the slippery mess between your legs.

Using you like this like this, sprinting after his orgasm, makes Phainon feel desperate—but he is. Phainon is just always desperate for you. Phainon is just a man in love.

He thinks about what you’d do if you were awake to feel his love for you. Would you turn and kiss him, thread your gentle hands through his hair, tugging him close and whispering for him to take what he needs? Would you reach over between your thighs and guide his cock into your delicate entrance, letting him push thick inch after inch in, and swallow all your sweet staccatos? Just the imagination causes him to leak even more.

Your panties are surely soaked by now. He makes a note to take you shopping soon, spoil you in new sets to take them off again that same night so he can love you—properly this time. Shower you in love the way he should and not rolling delirious thrusts into the heated gap between your legs. It’s a date, he thinks. It can be a date when he’s not so drunk on your slippery thighs squeezing perfectly around his girth, when he isn’t pressing himself against you like he’s trying to merge your souls together, and rubbing his tip along the lips of your pussy through your panties.

The turgid head of his dick catches on your clit, just barely. Just enough that he hears a drowsy mumble of his name slip from your lips, dream-littered and quiet—the sound is agonizingly beautiful, flawless in drowsy pitch, perfect to his ears.

“Phai…” Your little mumble is barely audible in the midst of his sloppy rutting.

“Da-darling,” his hips stutter along with his voice, a whiny cry that’s muffled into your shoulder, “so pretty, so soft, so good… mmph, ‘m close… you’re gonna make me cum…”

Phainon litters loving kisses into the space where your shoulder meets your neck, skyward irises fluttering shut as he succumbs to the tightness curling achingly. The kind of tightness that itches at the heat in his body, hips rocking fervently, twitching between wet mounds of flesh until he’s spurting warm, gooey ropes of white onto your thighs.

“F-fuck—” Broken moans and whimpers of your name escape with quick breaths, hot against your skin as his hips finally slow to a tender roll through your warmth, letting the final billows of his high wash over him, bringing a sudden exhaustion along with it. “‘M sorry, my love, I’ll take care of you tomorrow…”

With a trembling hand, Phainon swipes the fallen strands of your hair away from your warm temple, leaning in to press an adoring kiss to your cheeks—still none the wiser to his seed coating your lower half now. He doesn’t bother to tuck himself back in, content with your bodies staying fitted like two poles drawn together. Still perfect, still his. Even caught in rest, you know exactly how to help him. Truly, how lucky he has gotten.

To hold the weight of your precious heart and have his accepted by you—it makes every long night worth a thousand dawns.

“Goodnight, my light.”

To others, he is the one who bears the weight of the world, the one who will bring forth the first gleam of a blazing light. But here—with you in his embrace and breaths falling in sync—he is Phainon. And he is yours.