Tee's LaDs Page!

The first thing you noticed when you walked in from the grocery store and towards the kitchen was the multiple chocolate candy wrappers that laid about on the kitchen counters. You let out an exasperated sigh as you sat the bags down and began to pick up all the wrappers to dump them in the trash.

His head was topped with a headband that was red with golden lace design while the rest of the mid-thigh outfit was the same color scheme. The sheer red stockings that hugged his legs made you gulp, but you shook your head to clear out the thoughts that you tried hard not to think about.

"Valko!" You called out to your giant wolf boyfriend once you were finished. As Valko came running down the hall, his bare feet pounding against the floor. The second thing you noticed was that he was dressed in a maids outfit. A way too tight one at that. You were going to question him later about where did he get it from.

At the sight of you, his ears perked up and his fluffy red tail began to wag eagerly. "Hey, Luna! You're home early." He greeted you happily, his canines gleaming under the kitchen lights as he grinned happily. You raised a brow as you folded your arms over your chest. "Val, what did I tell you about eating all the chocolates, even though you know you're not supposed to have any?"

Valko felt his ears droop from your light scolding and he felt his cheeks heat up in embarrassment as he looked away shyly.

"I– yeah you're right. I'm sorry, moonlight. I just couldn't help myself, you know with my sweet tooth and everyth–"

"Follow me to the bedroom and I want you to lay on your back. I'm going to show you how disobeying my orders has consequences." You said sternly, groceries long forgotten as you started walking down the hallway to your bedroom.

Valko gulped nervously and timidly followed behind you, his hands folded in front of him as his tail drooped between his legs. Once you both were in the room, you turned to face your pouty faced boyfriend. You felt your heart soften from how apologetic he looked, but you needed to stand firm on your punishment.

Looking up at you and noticing your expectant gaze, Valko felt his cheeks burn more as he looked towards the bed and walked over to it before climbing onto it and laid down on his back like you instructed, his legs shyly staying closed.

You hummed in approval as you followed him onto the bed and stood on your knees as you placed your hands on the outside of his thighs and spread his legs open, baring his already sticky pussy to your eyes. Valko felt his face burn even hotter as his clit throbbed, your dilated eyes slowly drinking him in making his body respond before his mind could.

"Already this slick for me, Val? You must've known that I would catch you sneaking around while I was gone and the idea of me punishing you turned you on, didn't it?"

Taking your right hand, you slid your hand down his thigh towards his pussy, which was progressively getting wetter by the second. Your eyes zeroed in on the way his muscles clenched and unclenched and you couldn't help yourself from touching.

You placed two fingers onto his big, throbbing clit and rubbed at the swollen nerve softly, your eyes not once straying away as his pussy steadily leaked down onto the bed. Valko let out a gasp as his back arched, his thighs instantly trembling as pleasure shot up his spine like a wave of heat before spreading throughout his body.

"Fuck, puppy, you've been aching for this, haven't you? Well, let me fix that for you." You murmured as you leaned down to his pussy, still raised on your knees, and sucked his clit deep into your mouth, your tongue beginning to swirl and flick at the bud with measured, sensual strokes.

"L-Luna, ah!–wait I can't–! F-feels too good–" Valko whined as his hips started to roll against your mouth, his back arching as his hands gripped your bedsheets tightly in his fists. You huffed against him and reached up with both hands to grab hold of his hips and hold him still as you began to bob your head up and down on his clit like you were sucking off a small cock.

Taking one of your hands off of his hip, you tightened your lips around his clit and sucked on the nerve harder as your tongue quickly flicked side to side, practically vibrating the bud under your ministrations.

You let out a muffled hum as Valko cried out and you slipped your between his gushy folds, his copious amount of wetness being enough lube for you to easily slip three of your fingers inside of him and begin to curl them upwards in a fast pace, the loud, sticky macaroni noises filling your ears.

"Ohmygod– I'm cumming! Fuckfuckfuck I'm gonna cum!" Valko cried, his thighs trembling hard as he twisted his body to try and get away from your mouth and the heightened pleasure, but you weren't going to give him that grace of an orgasm just yet.

You pulled your mouth back and flicked your eyes up at him as slowed your fingers down to small grinds, purposefully avoiding his g-spot and denying his orgasm. Valko let out a shaky tearful whimper as he opened his eyes to look down at you between his legs. The second your eyes locked, his pussy spasmed and you smirked as you used your thumb from your other hand and pressed down onto his clit, beginning to rub the bud in tight circles, which made him whimper again.

"You don't get to cum until you apologize for not listening to me, Val." You murmured as you leaned back down and slid your tongue up his slit between your fingers, your moan vibrating against him as the sugary sweet taste of his drenched pussy hit your taste buds. "Taste so fucking sweet, babyboy. Sweeter than usual."

Valko gasped as he could feel the pressure in his abdomen grow higher and higher, the need to cum making his mind go hazy with desperation. His tail thumped and swished against the bed impatiently as his ears flattened back against his head as he let out another whimper.

"Please, Y/N, I'm sorry–I'm sorry for eating the chocolates when you told me not to. I won't do it again, I promise. May I cum, please? Please?" He pleaded as his thighs shook harder and his breaths came out shallow and broken, his pussy needily continuing to spasm around your fingers as he tried to hold his orgasm back.

You glanced down to see his pussy was a creamy, dripping mess and you groaned as you licked it up, the sweetness hitting your tongue again as you swallowed it down.

"Alright, baby, I'll let you cum. Thank you for being such a good boy for me and asking for permission." You cooed as you took your thumb away from his clit and sucked it deep back into your mouth again, your tongue swirling around it before you began to flick it up and down as you bobbed your head up and down again.

You pushed your fingers deeper inside of him and started to curl them upwards in a quick waving motion, your fingertips brushing over his spot on each upstroke as you kept eye contact and watching his pleasure filled facial expressions.

The sticky squelching of his pussy mixed with the loud sucking noises of your mouth on his clit and his loud broken moans made heat pool deep down in your stomach.

"Cumming–I-I'm cumming–oh fuck, oh god–I can't h-hold–" Valko started to babble as his body trembled, his thighs squeezing tight around your head as his fingers tangled in your hair, not to push you back, but to keep ahold as his back arched and he threw his head back.

With a few more strokes of your fingers against his spot and your teeth lightly nibbling on his clit before you soothed it with a swirl of your tongue, Valko was squirting hard against your face, your name falling from his lips in a loud cry.

"Such a good fucking boy for me. My sweet boy." You moaned against him as you dragged out his orgasm, slurping down the fluid like you were thirsting for it. You slowed your fingers down once his walls stopped fluttering around your fingers and he fell limply back against the bed, his breathing ragged as he came down from his high.

You pulled back from his pussy completely with a satisfied hum and you crawled up the bed before sitting on top of his stomach, your hands reaching down to cup his cheeks to tilt his head towards you. You giggled softly as Valko's tail started to thump against the bed again and he opened his eyes to look up at you, his smile playful yet content.

"Hi," You whispered with another giggle and leaned down to kiss him deeply, the both of you moaning as you shared the taste of himself. Valko held your waist softly with a gentle squeeze before he pulled back to look up at you again, his smile growing bigger. "Hi." He responded back with a soft laugh.

"Are you okay? Do you need anything?" You asked as you stroked his cheeks with your thumbs. Valko shook his head as he wrapped his arms around you to pull you even closer to him and buried his face in your neck, inhaling your scent with a low hum.

"Nah, I'm good for now, moonlight. Just wanna hold you for a bit, please." He murmured against your neck as he tightened his arms around you and his tail wrapped around your ankle. You smiled, your heart softening as you hugged him around his neck and placed a kiss on his head near his ear that twitched and flicked against your nose, making you laugh.

The silence between you both was comfortable and quiet as you both held each other in the afterglow of a heated evening. However, the question that you've been meaning to ask Valko has been nagging at you in the back of your mind, so you finally decided to let it spill out.

"Val?"

"Yes, luna?"

"Where did you get the maid outfit from?"

You felt it before your sex stupid brain could process it- this thick, swelling pressure at your already stuffed hole. Stretching you wider. Wider. Too wide-

His knot.

It shoved inside with a wet POP and you shrieked, back bowing clean off the mattress, nails carving bleeding trenches down his spine. The sudden fullness -that fat bulge locking him in, plugging you up, pressing against every sensitive nerve- had your vision whiting out again. Your cunt spasmed around him, another orgasm cresting before the last one even finished, milking his knot in desperate fluttering clenches.

“Huh? What happened?” Total confusion. His ears shot up, head tilting, “You alright babe? Did I do something?”

“Your- your fucking knot- fuckfuckfuck-“ you choked out.

“What?” He blinked down at you, all golden puppy eyes while his monster sized knot split you in half, “What's wrong with it?”

“Ser -seriously? Sh’too- It's s’too big-“

“It is?” As he smirks he shifts his weight and you damn near passed out, “seems fine to me?”

You laughed -or sobbed, hard to tell- and it broke into a moan when he rolled his hips experimentally. You grabbed his hand and shoved it down between your bodies, pressing it against the bulge in your lower belly. Obscene. Fucking obscene.

“Valko.”

He looked down. Blinked. His tail started wagging. Actually wagging!

“Oh wow.” Like he'd found something mildly interesting, “That's pretty crazy.”

“YEAH.”

“Does it actually hurt?” He pressed against the bulge with genuine curiosity and your eyes nearly rolled back into your skull. Tail still going.

“Do you- hahh- do you seriously not know- how huge-“

“Dunno, never measured?” He dropped a casual kiss on your forehead, sweet as anything, while his fat fucking knot throbbed like it was trying to reshape your insides. “Always been like this. Annnnd those noises don’t really convince me you’re in pain.”

You were gonna fucking murder him. Right after you finished losing your mind on his cock.

He ground down into you and you came so hard you forgot your own name, pussy clenching around him like a goddamn vice.

“Oh- shit- shit-“ Finally cracking, his voice going high and whiney, “Squeezing me so tight, you’re gonna make me-“

He buried his face in your neck and came with a broken whine, and you felt it- pulse after pulse of hot cum pumping into you, filling you up til your belly rounded out even more. His arms caged you in, tail thumping against the mattress as he bred you full.

“S'good,” he slurred against your throat…

“Valko,” you whimpered, brain leaking out your ears., “M'so full-“

“Mm?” He sounded so pleased with himself.

Still absolutely clueless.

Way later -who even knows how long- he was still on top of you, weight braced on his elbows so he didn't crush you. His knot pulsed lazy and another warm gush filled you up.

“Hey,” he mumbled into your hair, and you could hear the grin in his voice.

“Mm.”

“So...” His fingers walked playfully up your side, making you squirm- which only made you clench around his knot and whimper, “You think my knot's big, huh?”

“Shut up.”

“Nah but like-“ He propped himself up to look at you, smirking, tail swishing, “You were really loud about it. Pretty sure the neighbors know now.”

“I hate you.”

“Mmhm.” He rolled his hips just slightly -enough to make you gasp- and his grin widened. “That why you're still milking my cock right now?”

Your face burned, “I- I can't- it's involuntary-“

“Sure it is.” He pressed a kiss to your cheek, nuzzling, “S'okay baby. I think it's cute how much you love my huge knot.”

“I never said-“

“‘S'so fucking big Valko,'”he mimicked in a breathy voice, and you smacked his chest while he snickered. “'Your knot Valko, oh my god-“

“I do NOT sound like that.”

“You kinda do.” Another lazy grind. Another gush of cum. His eyes glittered. “Wanna hear what else you said? Got real creative toward the end there.”

You shoved at his shoulder uselessly. He didn't budge, just laughed and buried his face in your neck, pressing smiling kisses to your skin.

“M'just teasing, babe” His tail curled around your thigh, “youre cute when you're embarrassed.” He nuzzled the tippy top of your head.

“I'm gonna kill you when your knot finally goes down.”

“Mm, that's fair.” He snuggled closer, entirely unbothered, “Gives me like twenty more minutes to annoy you though.”

His hips shifted again, lazy and deliberate, and the noise you made was mortifying.

“I can’t!” This, by no means, is what you were picturing for Valko’s favorite position. 

Your head is nearly pushing through the pillow, spine curving upwards as your fingers dig deep into the roots of his hair. You’ve lost count of how many times he’s brought you over the edge with his tongue alone. “I can’t, Va-ah!” Another orgasm, nearly painful, ripples through your lower half and up your spine. 

Your thighs instinctively fight against his grip, attempting to snap shut around his head. As if it would somehow be enough to forcibly detach his mouth from your poor, overstimulated pussy. “Please, Val, I can’t take it!” Shoving hard, he finally eases up. Mouth parting from your cunt with a slick pop, a gingerly placed kiss following. 

“You asked me what my favorite position is.” Pushing up on his elbows, he stares down at the glistening mess he created between your thighs. “Was eating you out not an option?” His tongue licks across his fangs before darting out to poke at the reminisce of slick left on his lips. “N-no it wasn’t.” You manage to stutter, body finally melting into the mattress as the exertion of so many orgasms catch up to you. 

“You just taste so good, and your smell is so strong down here.” A wave of heat floods you for a whole different reason, legs immediately moving to snap shut but Valko stops you. “Your pheromones, your natural scent? I can smell your arousal, I love the way you smell when you’re turned on. It’s so strong right down here…”

He’s trailing off as his nose twitches, eyes lazily zeroing in on your puffy cunt again. “I could suck on this pretty pussy all night, y’know. Listen to you cry my name over and over, feel your body tremble while my tongue licks your clit, hmm?” 

“Valko, please…” A slight crack in your voice, embarrassment and arousal swirling deep in your gut as you realize how quickly you had lost your upper hand from earlier. “Eating me out is your favorite foreplay, what’s your favorite sex position?" Your body ached, not from exhaustion, but from the renewed need to feel him inside of you.   

“M’honestly not too sure…” The confession has you sitting up on wobbly arms. It’s your turn to look mildly incredulous. “You’re not sure?” The wolf between your legs finally settles on his stomach, folding one arm under him and using the other to balance his head on his fist. He looks like he’s genuinely pondering the answer to a serious hypothetical, with swollen lips and bed-head thanks to your iron grip. 

“I like when you’re on top… so maybe cowgirl?” 

You kept checking your phone anyway. Paranoid he'd said something to the others, let something slip in the group chat without thinking, like he sometimes did when he was caught up in his own head. Nothing so far. That was either reassuring or a bad sign and you couldn't tell which.

But today was Wednesday. Wednesday meant math tutoring. Wednesday meant Xavier.

He'd been helping you with your math classes because he never sighed when you asked him to explain something twice. Never made you feel stupid for losing the thread halfway through a formula you'd understood perfectly ten minutes ago. He'd just turn the notebook around and start from the beginning, patient in an unhurried way that was so him. You'd gotten used to his dorm, his desk, the way he organized his notes in colored tabs that he denied caring about.

What you hadn't gotten used to was the five days of silence sitting between you now. Or the fact that the last time you'd seen him, he'd been on his knees with his face between your thighs and his fingers inside of you.

You shook your head hard, like that was going to do anything.

The morning had been a whole exercise in damage control. You'd stood in front of your mirror for a long time, turning sideways, checking necklines, holding up three different tops before settling on a sweater. The marks Rafayel had left weren't subtle—he'd been thorough about that, almost pointedly so—and the last thing you needed was Xavier noticing something you'd have to explain. Comfortable sweater. Favorite jeans. Just enough makeup to look like you'd rolled out of bed this way, which had taken an embarrassing amount of effort to pull off. You'd looked at yourself in the mirror and thought, this is fine, then left before you could change your mind.

Campus was busy, it was mid afternoon and people were moving between buildings, someone's music was bleeding out of a cracked window on the second floor of the humanities block. You walked with your hands in your pockets and tried to think about literally anything else.

It didn't work. Your brain kept circling back to that night in Zayne's dorm.

You arrived at his building a few minutes early on purpose, not wanting to be standing awkward in the hallway when he showed up. The spare key he'd given you months ago—back when this was all still simple, back when tutoring was just tutoring—was already in your hand before you reached the door. You let yourself in, dropped your bag on the desk, and stood in the middle of the room for a moment just breathing. It smelled like him in here.

You pulled out your textbook. Pulled out your notebook. Uncapped a pen, stared at the blank page, and wrote the date at the top like that counted as being productive.

He'd be back from lecture any minute. You pressed the pen down harder on the page and stared at the date until the words stopped swimming.

----------

Xavier had been having a terrible day and was not going to pretend otherwise.

The past two days had been running on a loop he couldn't shut off. He'd seen Rafayel walking with you across campus. He knew that look on Rafayel's face. He knew it because he felt it himself every time you were within arm's reach.

Since Zayne's dorm, Xavier had been hiding a hunger that had nothing to do with food. He'd had his mouth on you. Had felt you cum on his tongue and he hadn't been able to stop thinking about it.

You hadn't texted back. Not once in five days, not even a heads up about today. He'd checked his phone every 30 minutes and by early afternoon he'd made his peace with the fact that you weren't going to show up and settled into a foul mood about it.

It was jealousy. He wasn't going to dress it up. He'd been crazy about you since day one and the idea of Rafayel getting there first while he sat in his dorm being patient and reasonable was the kind of thing that made a bad day significantly worse.

All he wanted to do was sleep. Maybe eat something. Sit in the quiet of his room and not think about any of it for a few hours.

He unlocked his door, pushed it open—

And stopped.

You were at his desk. Exactly where you always sat, textbook open, pen in hand, looking up at him the second you heard the door.

"Hey," you said softly, and smiled.

Xavier didn't move.

He stood in there with his keys in hand and just looked at you. The afternoon light from the window. The way you were watching him, trying to read him. The small smile that was starting to waver as you noticed something was off.

He dropped his keys on a small table and stepped inside, letting the door fall shut behind him.

"You look tired," you said carefully.

"I am."

"We can reschedule." Standing to give your back to him you started stacking things, moving with a nervous energy he'd learned to recognize over several months of Wednesday afternoons. " You should rest and we can figure out another—"

"I've been texting you for five days"

You went still. Your hand stayed flat on your notebook.

"I know,"

"And you've been what...Busy."

It wasn't a question and you both knew the answer. You looked at him and he watched you try to figure out what version of the truth to offer.

"I just needed some time," you said finally. "To think."

"About what happened?"

"Yes."

Xavier unslung his bag and let it drop to the floor. He crossed the room without rushing, footsteps silent on the rug, and came to stand directly behind you. He felt you register how close he was, the slight change in your breathing, your shoulders pulling in just slightly.

He didn't touch you yet.

"And?" he said, low, right behind your ear. "What did you decide?"

"Xavier—"

"I've been thinking about it too." His hand found your waist, fingers curling into the soft fabric of your sweater "Every single day."

You made a small sound, your knuckles had gone white around the notebook.

"I thought—" you started and then stopped.

"What?"

"I thought maybe it would be easier if we just... didn't talk about it."

He almost laughed. "How's that working for you?"

"Not great," you admitted, barely a whisper.

His lips found the skin just below your ear—barely, just the suggestion of a kiss, the warmth of his mouth hovering more than landing—and the breath you pulled in was loud enough for him to hear.

"You've been avoiding all of us"

"I haven't—"

"You are taking a different way to class now." Another barely there brush of his lips, this time along your jaw. "I've seen you."

Your knees buckled slightly.

"You're not going to say anything?" he asked softly.

"You're not giving me a lot of room to talk."

"You've had five days to talk."

"That's—" You let out a shaky breath. "That's not fair."

"You're right." His lips brushed along your jaw again, in no particular rush. "It's not."

Despite everything, something close to a laugh escaped you, breathless and reluctant. Your fingers were still around the notebook, the only thing keeping you grounded.

"You are genuinely terrible at math and you still show up every week. You're not scared of hard things."

You went very still.

"So stop running," he said. Simple.

Before you could find an answer to that, both his hands settled on your hips—grip firm—to turn you around and then lifted you onto the desk in one easy motion, papers scattering off the edge to the floor.

Neither of you looked at them.

Your arms went around his shoulders and you held on, fingers twisting into his shirt. He leaned in close and stopped just short of your mouth. His lips brushed yours so lightly it barely counted.

"Do you want me to stop?"

You shook your head.

"Words." His thumb pressed into soft skin under your sweater, "Bunny."

You looked at him and noticed the sleepy ease was completely gone. What replaced it was something dark and very, very hungry.

"Don't stop"

He stepped between your knees.

His mouth came down on yours and his hands gripped your thighs to hold you at the edge of the desk. He kissed you with the full weight of however long he'd been waiting to do exactly this. Months of Wednesday afternoons. Months of watching you chew the end of your pen, pretending he wasn't. His tongue slid into your mouth and you felt all of it at once, his patience and restraint and the end of both.

When he broke away his hands dropped straight to your waistband—button, zipper, no hesitation—head down, focused entirely on the task. You pulled your sweater over your head. He didn't look up. You got the sweater off and dropped it somewhere and sat there in your bra watching him work the denim down your legs.

The jeans hit the floor and his eyes moved up your body, you watched the shift happen. His focus didn't leave his face, it changed into something else. Something colder. You'd seen that expression exactly once before, at a party freshman year when a guy behind you had gotten too comfortable, and Xavier had gone very still across the room. He hadn't even needed to move. The guy saw him and took two steps back on instinct.

He was looking at your chest.

The bruises. Rafayel's bruises. Clear in the afternoon light. The silence in the room was excruciating.

"Was this—" He stopped and then started again, quieter. One thumb came up and traced the edge of the darkest mark with a touch so light it made your throat tighten, while his other hand found your hip and held it in a grip that was the opposite of light. "Rafayel."

He already knew the answer and was just giving you the chance to say it.

You nodded. Your voice wasn't available.

The sound he made was low. Short. A sound that meant something had cracked open and he was choosing not to let out all the way. He stood there for a second with his thumb still resting against the bruise and then he got his hands under the backs of your thighs, lifting you off the desk.

He carried you to his bed and set you down against the sheets, the light from the window was not on your side—it hit every mark with even more clarity, nothing softened, nothing hidden. Xavier stood over you and looked at them for long enough that you started to feel every single one.

"He paints like he does everything else," he said as he climbed over you, hands trailing down your sides. "Loud and fast. Like the point is for everyone to know he was there." His fingers traced the edge of each bruise, one after the other, "He wasn't thinking about you. He was thinking about what he wanted to leave behind."

"Xav—"

"I'm not angry at you." His eyes came up to yours briefly, clear about that. "I'm not."

He reached behind you and unhooked your bra with one hand, pulling it off and dropping it over the side of the bed. The breath he drew in through his nose when he saw more bruises all over your soft breasts was slow and controlled.

"He's known you two years," Xavier said, almost to himself, hands cupping you, thumbs moving in slow circles across your skin. "Two years and he still went at you like he was on a timer." His eyes flicked up. "Were you even ready?"

The question caught you completely off guard.

"I—yes."

"Did he ask?"

"He did"

His hands moved back to your waist, then the waistband of your panties—slow the whole way down, no sudden movements, making a point about the difference between his way and the alternative.

He pulled them off and sat back on his heels to look at you for a moment.

"I've known you for two years too," his hand ran up the inside of your calf, unhurried, no destination. "I know when you're stuck before you say anything. I know which problems make you want to give up and which ones just need more time." His palm reached your knee and stopped. "He doesn't know any of that. He doesn't know you."

His eyes came up to yours and held there, you knew he wasn't just talking about math problems anymore.

"I do," he said. Not a boast. Just a fact he'd been sitting on for a while.

His hand moved higher, and your breath caught, the afternoon light kept falling across both of you while the room got really warm, really fast.

His hand pressed flat against your pussy and you felt it everywhere, a warm steady pressure right where you'd been aching since he'd lifted you onto the desk. He held it there and then his body slid lower on the mattress and his mouth found the inside of your thigh.

"You're soaked" he murmured against your skin, and you could feel him almost smiling when he said it.

"Xavie—"

"I heard you." He pressed his lips to the other thigh, higher this time, dragging slow. " And no matter what you say, I'm not rushing."

Your hips lifted off the bed and his hands came down on them immediately, pinning you back to the mattress without looking up.

"I need you to—"

"I know what you need." His mouth moved higher. Still not close enough. "That's exactly why I'm taking my time."

You made a sound that was mostly frustration and he had the audacity to hum against your inner thigh like he was perfectly comfortable staying there all afternoon.

"Please..."

He looked up from between your thighs, chin resting against your skin, watching your face with that particular focus that had been driving you insane for months. "Tell me what you want."

"You know what I want."

"I want to hear you say it."

Your hands twisted into the sheets. "My pussy. I want your mouth on my pussy."

His next kiss landed directly beside where you needed him, deliberately off center, and you cursed loud enough that it surprised both of you.

"Say it again," he said, lips hovering close enough now that you could feel his warm breath.

"Xavier, I swear to god—"

"Again."

"I want you to eat my pussy." The words came out steadier than you expected.

That was what he'd been waiting for. Not the polite version of you that sat across from him every Wednesday with a highlighter and a textbook. He wanted the other one. The one underneath that. The one that had come apart in Zayne's dorm and hadn't fully put herself back together since.

His mouth found your clit.

Your hands flew to his hair before a moan finished leaving your throat, fingers twisting in, and your thighs tried to close around his head on reflex—too much, too direct—but his hands had your legs pinned wide.

"Don't," he said against you.

"I can't—it's too—"

"You can." He pressed a single open mouthed kiss to your entrance "Stay open for me."

Then his tongue moved again. Long, slow strokes from your entrance all the way up to your clit, learning you, tasting how long you'd been waiting for this to happen again. You stopped trying to be quiet. Stopped trying to be anything in particular. Your hips rocked against his mouth and your fingers pulled at his hair. He swallowed every bit of you and kept going.

Your hips rolled harder, chasing pressure, and Zayne's voice surfaced somewhere in the back of Xavier's head with terrible timing.

"Her body will tell you when she's ready to take control. Give it to her when she does. There needs to be trust, or she'll feel uncomfortable."

Xavier pulled his mouth off you.

The noise you made was indignant. "Don't you —"

"Come here." He was moving, shifting his body flat against the mattress, hands at your waist pulling you up with him. "Up."

"Fuck, I was literally about to—"

"I know." He looked up at you from where he was lying, mouth still wet "Come up here."

You stared at him. He waited. His hands were steady on your hips.

"You want me to—"

"Sit on my face." He said it the same way he explained math. Clear. Direct. No room for misunderstanding. "Put your weight down and let me finish what I started."

His words made your face go hot all over again. You shifted forward anyway, bringing your knees to either side of his head, hovering just above him.

"You're not sitting down," he observed.

"I'm aware."

"I'm not going to break."

"I know that."

"Then—"

"I'm just—" You exhaled. "Give me a second."

He gave you time. His hands stayed loose on your hips, not pulling, just present. Waiting. His eyes were on your face the whole time, just watching you work through whatever was keeping you hovering five inches above him.

"What if I'm too—"

"You're not."

"You don't know what I was going to say."

"You were going to say too heavy, or too much, or something like that." His thumbs moved against your hip bones. "You're not. I promise you're not."

Something in your chest went a little loose at that.

You let your weight down.

His hands pulled your hips flush against his face the second you did, tongue finding your clit immediately and the sound that came out of you echoed off every wall in the room. Your hands grabbed his shoulders and then his forearms, whatever you could reach, your whole body trembling with the effort of staying upright.

He was thorough, paying attention to every small reaction. Every time your breath snagged on a particular stroke he came back to it. Every time your thighs tensed he slowed down and built it back up from the beginning. Your fingers ended in his hair, pulling harder than you meant to, and he made a rough sound against you that meant he didn't mind.

"Xavie—" His name came out wrecked "Fuck, I'm gonna—please, I—"

His mouth lifted.

"Nononononono, I will fucking ki—"

"Ask me." his hands were holding you just above his lips with an iron grip. "Properly."

"I'm going to kill you."

"Ask me first."

You looked down at him—hair completely destroyed, mouth slick, looking up at you with those eyes and something short circuited in your brain.

"Please make me cum," you begged. "Please—"

"Dirtier."

Your face went crimson. His expression didn't change.

"Please," you said, the embarrassment burning through your whole body and dissolving into something else, "make my needy pussy cum on your mouth."

He groaned, the sound vibrating against the inside of your thigh as he pulled you down hard and put his mouth back on you, making every previous thing feel like a warm up.

He used his thumb and middle finger to spread your pussy open, forefinger lifting the little hood over your clit so there was nothing between the bundle of nerves and his tongue. He licked into you in heavy, soaking strokes, relentless and consuming, like he'd been waiting specifically for those words and was paying back every second of the wait.

You broke. Completely and loudly and without a single shred of composure.

Your hands twisted so hard into his hair you felt him grunt against you, thighs shaking around his head, his name and sounds that weren't words spilling out of you into the quiet of his dorm room while the light from the window fell across both of you steady and indifferent.

He didn't stop. Even after. Even when you were too sensitive to bear it and your hands were pushing weakly at his head instead of pulling, he kept his tongue moving through every aftershock, slow now, drawing out every last shiver, like stopping would mean missing something he wasn't willing to miss.

"Please stop, Xavie—"

"But you just said—" he started.

"Don't."

"—very clearly, very specifically—"

"Xavier."

"—that you wanted—"

"Don't say it"

"—you are being," he paused and smiled "remarkably shy. We've done this twice"

"I hate you."

"No you don't." His hands were still on your hips. "Sit down again. I'm not done"

Perm tag: @thealunari @i-idk-i-guess @hopelesslala @pearlescenthoney @stillseiims @xavisastrophil @thelastpolarbear @groovyravenagain @nanaminsmuse @darkairenkagamine @lunahaswings @ks-collection @calebunny @aweebs @crimsonrubie @lemurian-girl @aiycnlyme @grecianotes @yourlocalcatscammer @thicckage @goddesssevenseas @silvernight-m

Your living room was empty now. The throw blanket sat balled up at one end of the couch, still warm, still carrying that earthy scent that clung to him. You figured he'd finally given up trying to get comfortable and left for home.

Things had been tight between you two for weeks — not bad tight, just like the kind that builds when you're close to someone in every way but one. Curling up next to him on that couch last night, close enough to feel him breathing, had taken more out of you than you wanted to admit. You'd gone to your own bed after and tossed for hours, finally giving up and finishing yourself off against your pillow just to get some sleep.

You grabbed the folder off the counter, shoved it in your bag, turned toward the door already dreading the way back to work.

Your foot stopped.

Through the crack in your bedroom door came a sound — low, cut off at the edges like it hadn't meant to get out. A hitch of breath, rough with something needy.

You don't move. For a few long seconds you just stand there, blood rushing in your ears, telling yourself you imagined it. Then it comes again—louder, unmistakable. A deep, broken whine bleeding through the door, underneath it the slow, rhythmic creak of your mattress.

Something hot drops straight to your navel.

Your feet move before you decide to let them, carrying you to the gap where the door hinges open. You don't need to push it. You can see everything

Valko is on your bed, completely stripped of the restraint he usually carries around you.

On all fours, every muscle in his back straining with each roll of his hips. Both your pillows are underneath him. One is pinned between his thick, heavy thighs. The other is crushed against his chest like he's holding onto it for dear life.

The fat tip of his cock is already leaking clear precum, smearing wetly against the fabric with every thrust. The muscles of his ass bunch and flex rhythmically, his tail swishing low and frantic from side to side, brushing against his calves like he can't control it.

His nose is buried deep into one specific corner of the pillow, taking big lunges of air—sniffing the hell out of it. Strands of saliva string from his parted lips, his eyes are squeezed shut so tight his eyelashes tremble. He looks like he's desperately trying to engrave that scent into the deepest part of his memory.

The heat that floods your face is scorching and mortifying.

That's where you'd been last night. Grinding against that exact spot, face buried in your own sheets with his name stuck in your throat, thinking thoughts you'd never planned on anyone knowing about. He has his nose pressed right there. Breathing you in like it's the first clean air he's found in days.

The hallway feels like it's closing in. You can't move. The folder is shaking in your hand and you can't make yourself look away.

Valko moves his hips down again and the groan that tears out of him is nothing like his usual voice. It's scraped raw, stripped of every careful thing he usually puts between himself and the world.

"Fuck—" The word drags out of him slow and broken. His face presses deeper into the pillow, lips parting against the fabric, inhaling so hard it pulls into his mouth. "Smells so good. So fucking sweet"

Your stomach drops.

When he pulls back to thrust again you get an unobstructed view of him, and your mouth goes dry. He's huge, veins mapping his cock in thick ridges, the head flushed a deep red and slick with everything he's been leaking onto your pillow.

"There you go," he breathes, eyes still squeezed shut, hips rolling down in a slow, grinding push. He's talking to the pillow. He's talking to you—or the idea of you, the ghost of you he's got his hands on. "Take it just like that. Let me get all the way inside that pretty cunt, puppy."

He makes that sound again—a high, needy whine that has no business coming out of something so big—and his ears flatten tight against his skull. His rhythm stutters, slow grinds breaking into something harder and more desperate, the whole bed frame groaning with it.

"Such a good pup," he mutters, tail thrashing wild against the mattress, fingers curling into your pillow. His voice is getting rougher, darker, words spilling out like he can't stop them. "Gonna stretch you out so nice. Fill you up with everything I've been—" A sharp, punched out groan. "You'd take it, wouldn't you? Every single bit of it."

His thighs grip the pillow tightly, his whole body going rigid as he grinds down and holds it there. His knuckles are stark white, fingers curled past the point of grip, something closer to desperation made physical. You can see the effort it's taking him to hold back. Every thick vein along the back of his hands stands out in rigid relief, branching up his wrists, mapping the strain all the way to where his forearms flex with each movement.

With every snap of his hips the tension climbs higher. Up his biceps and across his broad shoulders, the whole architecture of him pulled tight. He is holding the pillow like letting go for even a second would mean losing the last thread of you he has access to.

Like if his grip slips, your scent goes with it.

His hands have never looked like this. You've seen them steady holding a weapon, calm giving an order, certain in every situation that called for certainty. Right now they're shaking slightly. Not from weakness.

But from the effort of not having the real thing.

The ache between your thighs is unbearable and the urge hits you like something physical, pressing into your sternum until your body stops listening to your brain entirely. You want to tell him yes. You want to walk into that room and pull those pillows out from under him and put yourself there instead.

Your foot moves forward one step.

That's all it takes. The tiny shift in air carries your scent right through the gap in the door—laced now with the edge of your arousal—and delivers it straight to him.

Valko goes completely still.

His ears snap upright, swiveling toward the door, and his head follows a half second later. Through the narrow crack his eyes find yours instantly, pupils blown so wide the gold of his irises is almost gone. The room sits heavy with the smell of sex and the sound of both of you breathing.

He doesn't cover himself and your eyes drop without your permission.

The sight of you watching him—your scent hitting him fresh and full—is what does it. You watch it happen. His cock swells further, skin pulled tight, a low growl tearing out of his chest and his hips give one last involuntary roll forward.

He cums with his eyes locked on yours the entire time.

He stares straight through the gap in the door, unblinking, holding your gaze with an intensity that makes your legs feel unreliable, as the first thick streak of white paints your pillow. Another spasm rolls through him, another rope of cum landing heavy over the exact spot your scent had soaked into the fabric last night. Over and over until the last bead clings to the tip and stretches thin before finally dropping.

His chest heaves and his tongue drags slowly across his lower lip and then his canines like he's tasting the air. His tail gives one long, heavy thump against the mattress.

He's still staring a hole right through you.

​You are completely fucked.

And while we're here @ekay-i .... PLEASE🙏🏻. Valko deserves a spot in the pillow humpers art. i am begging on my knees 🧎🏻‍♀️🫣

Still, his eyes were beautiful. Your hope flickered like a small stubborn flame in your chest that you wanted to guard against the blizzard. The marriage was simple. You showed up to the courthouse in a knee-length white dress, constantly adjusting at the pearls around your neck anxiously while he signed the papers. Once he was done, he’d simply slid it over to you, evidently avoiding your eyes. 

“Are you sure?” you’d asked meekly, as if speaking any louder than a whisper would shatter your heart. You weren’t sure if you were asking him or yourself. Not that it mattered, much.

He spared you a soft smile. Pity, maybe, with how his eyes remained empty, but you took it anyway. 

A starved man does not beg for more. The flame remained.

The only reason he married you was because MC had gotten married to another childhood friend of theirs. When he mentioned it, you thought nothing of it at first. But when the only photo he’d put up throughout your entire house was one of him and her as children, while your awkwardly situated courthouse picture sat beside it, you knew. He didn’t stop to stare at your photo, ever. Not any of the photos. Only hers.

The final blow to the puny flame remaining in your heart was when you’d finally initiated physical contact. To perform the marital duty, he’d hovered above you in just his pants while you stared up at him in your thin pajamas that did little to hide what was beneath it. There was no setting the mood. The air was cold, the room dull because only your half had any semblance of effort that had gone into decorating it. When he kissed you, it felt more like his lips were simply touching yours gently. Almost tapping it. 

It felt like nothing.

This was not romantic at all.

“Are you okay? Is this okay?” he asked, pulling back with a furrow in his brows—probably because you were lying lifelessly while holding your breath. You wondered how he could ask something so softly when his eyes remained so muted. Maybe not softly. Maybe just quiet.

“It’s okay.” You wanted to curl up and go to sleep, but he was the only semblance of warmth in the freezing room.

But when his hand slid up your shirt, resting atop of your stomach, you stopped breathing again. He stopped as well. Your gazes met silently, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop. A dull, slow stop. And then suddenly, he was off you, clambering to pull his shirt back on as you sat up in confusion, eyes wide.

“I can’t,” he muttered. “I’m sorry.”

The flame went out.

Were you really so distasteful? So disgusting that he didn’t want to lay his hands on his own wife? Or was it that you were just too different from her? Should you be offended? Are you even offended? Relieved? Hurt? 

Does it even matter?

Once you were sure he’s gone, you cried yourself to sleep.

The next few years are a blur that you wish had somehow gone even faster. The days are a bore. He’s away for weeks—maybe even months—at a time. In those periods of time, the house feels like a maze not meant for only one person. At the same time, maybe it’s better he’s away.

Caleb Xia is not a mean person. On paper, he’s a decent husband. He cleans, cooks, and never complains if you ask him to do something. He smiles, nods, and goes on his way. Yet, it feels more like a vaguely close roommate than a husband. The two of you eat in silence, watch TV in silence, and even go to bed in different rooms. You suppose you can’t complain—it’s not like you put in much effort to get to know him well anyway.

The only thing he does that even comes close to romance is bringing you flowers. You’d told him once that you wished the house had space for a garden to plant them, and he’d brought you a bouquet later that week. Since then, he brings them every few weeks routinely. They appear in the vase beside the couch as if they’ve just magically appeared. 

They’re pretty, you think.

Resentment builds, slowly but surely, probably on both ends as in most marriages. This kind of life is killing you inside. This lonely, aimless life in a house that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world, in a bed that feels too large. 

“I want to work,” you say one day, picking at your food blankly. “I have an interview tomorrow, so I won’t be here for most of the day from now on if I get it.”

A fork clatters from across the table. “What? Why?”

You don’t necessarily have to work given Caleb’s plentiful paycheck, but you want to anyway because you can’t stand being in that gigantic house all by yourself. But of course, how could you tell this to the man in front of you? The man you don’t even know the favorite color of?

“It’s a regular office job.”

“I didn’t ask what it was,” he blurts, eyes narrowing in concern. “I’m asking why? Do I not give you enough money? You know you have access to everything on the card, right?”

You shrug. “It’s not about the money…I just think I need something to do throughout the day.”

“What about picking up another hobby?”

“I’ve exhausted most of them.”

“Then traveling?”

“By myself?” you frown. “It’s not like you’re ever here.”

You’re not sure why the words slip through your teeth, but they do, and the disdain is apparent. He seems surprised at first, blinking, before his shoulder slump again and the corners of his lips twitch downward. For some reason, it makes you feel—good? Alive, more so. So you keep talking. “You’re always working. You even missed my friend’s wedding after I told her we’d be there.”

He shoots back immediately, brows tight. “That was a special case—it was an emergency.”

“That’s fine,” you chew slowly on your food. “But I don’t want to wait around all day for you to get back.”

“You shouldn’t work if you don’t have to. I make more than enough.”

“Again, not the point.”

His lips tighten, pursing. “What will your family think if they hear that I’m making you work after I told them that I’d take care of you?”

You snort. “Is this what you call ‘taking care of’?”

Immediately, you can tell that you’ve struck a nerve. And for some reason, it feels good again. Like you’re alive, again. Maybe you just like pissing him off. His expression shifts momentarily to something you can’t recognize before it settles disapprovingly and silence befalls the both of you. You like when he doesn’t have that stupid smile he always has. The fake, lifeless smile he’d given you when you first met. You’d rather he just be upset, just like this. He looks like he wants to say something, but then shuts his mouth, swallowing the lump in his throat. 

His phone rings, slicing the tension in the air like a knife. Caleb glances at the caller ID for a split second before he’s already on his feet, pacing to the sink to put his plates away in a hurry. “I’m sorry, I need to take this. Let me know how the interview goes..”

You stare at your plate, listening to his feet pad around in a hurry. “Is it MC?”

He whips his head around. “What?”

You stand from your seat to dump your food into the sink, ignoring the slight clench in your chest. He’s always been this way. Jumping at any opportunity to be useful to her, while he leaves everyone else in the dust. “Nevermind. Go.”

Once you hear the front door shut, you slump into the couch face first, hoping it swallows you whole before he comes back. This has to be some sort of humiliation ritual. Perhaps you committed a grave sin in your past life, because you’re not sure what you could’ve possibly done to warrant such a feeling. The sunset seeps through the window planes and hits half of your face, bathing you in a warmth that had been missing from the rest of the house. The heat makes you sleepy, and you soon find your eyelids drooping shut, gazing lazily at a photo of the two of you on the coffee table. You don’t remember when it was taken, but in it, you genuinely look like you’re almost enjoying yourself. You can’t tell with him, though. You can never really tell.

“Stupid Xia,” you mutter as you fall deep into slumber.

When you awake again, the sun has fully set. There’s a blanket draped over you and when you blink away the blots in your vision, you’re met face to face with a fresh vase of flowers on the coffee table. They smell nice.

Damn it. 

Sometimes, you wish he was just an asshole.

You learn about him through the photo albums he has stashed away in the attic. It’s not like you were looking for them. You’d only been cleaning when they managed to topple right into your hands, and since he always says whatever’s his is yours, you figure you might as well satisfy your curiosity. There’s less than you expected, unfortunately. Most photos are taken by him, but there’s a few in between where he’s the subject. Him at his birthday party, his graduation ceremony, him packing for college, and the day he left for the DAA. 

It’s odd. You forget he was a normal teenager at one point, and not a high ranking colonel.

The pictures are through his eyes. Before you can stop, you find yourself becoming engrossed in lacing the photos together into some semblance of a story in your head. You see his childhood home and the model planes he enjoys building. His outings with MC and his grandmother. His last minute halloween costumes. Him and his friends carrying out a prank on someone. His studies. His likes. His dislikes. 

Caleb Xia is a charming person. If you hadn’t met the way you did, you think you might’ve liked him a little more.

When you ask him a question regarding one of the photos at dinner, he nearly chokes on his food. You quirk a brow in response. “Was I not supposed to see them?”

“No, it’s fine if you look…” he mumbles, taking a sip of water to gather himself. You squint—are his ears pink? You didn’t know he was capable of doing something kinda adorable. “It’s just a little embarrassing.”

“Like the picture of your airplane swim trunks from when you were a kid–”

He coughs again, and you snicker.

You think he’s tolerable—just a bit.

Weeks pass. Life gets a little easier with your job and more to do—it might even be a bit fun. With your new friends at your workplace and a new sense of accomplishment, the less you stress about your loveless marriage and the more you appreciate what you have. Your interactions with Caleb become less forced. Not because you’ve somehow managed to miraculously understand how his brain functions, but because you put less weight on what you say. It’s hard to see someone as intimidating when you’ve seen a photo of them in a stupid halloween costume. He seems to notice the change too. 

[Caleb Xia]: I got us fried chicken for dinner. Don’t be too late so it doesn’t get cold :)

Your mouth waters. It’s nice, almost. Emphasis on the almost.

Outside, the evening chill hits your cheeks, sharp enough to wake you up and wrap your jacket tighter around yourself. The street is busy but not crowded, as the sun has just set. A couple laughs too loudly across the road. Somewhere, a bus exhales.

You start down your usual route.

At first, it’s nothing. Just footsteps. Not out of place. People exist. People walk. People go home.

But something’s off. Your gut insists on it, and it’s hard to ignore.

You slow slightly, just enough to be subtle. The footsteps slow too.

Your fingers tighten around your bag.

Coincidence, surely.

You don’t turn around, yet. Turning means you have to see something and acknowledge that it’s real. Instead, you adjust your pace again. Faster this time.

The footsteps quicken, dropping your heart to your stomach. 

Your eyes dart around you anxiously. It’s dark. Streetlamps are guiding your path home, and though the neighborhood is nice, it’s empty. Well, except for you and the footsteps that seemingly sound like they’re getting ever so closer every few seconds. You throat feels dry. 

Phone. You need to tell someone. Even if you’re wrong—even if it’s just a hunch.

[You]: Still there?

[Caleb Xia]: Yea. why?

[You]: I think there’s someone following me

Your message sends, and for a moment air doesn’t enter your lungs.

The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.

[Caleb Xia]: I’m coming.

You don’t know how he’s going to find you, but you don’t bother questioning it at the moment. You swallow, and your throat is dry enough that it hurts. The streetlamps cast long shadows across the pavement, and it’s hard to discern whether something is just a shadow or something else in the dark.

You don’t turn around.

Your legs carry you as fast as you can go without breaking into a sprint, and your grip tightens around your phone until your fingers ache. Hurry, you think. Hurry up, Caleb.

A car passes.

He’s closer now, whoever it is.

Your breath catches. Your shoulders tense, every instinct screaming at you to run, but your legs feel like they’ve forgotten how.

Suddenly, a car turns the corner too fast, tires kissing the curb before readjusting and you nearly jump out of your own skin. The tint on the car makes it too difficult to see inside, not that you’d be able to see much regardless due to the dark. It slows to a stop as it sees you, and you think if this isn’t who you’re expecting, it might actually be the end for you. 

The passenger door swings open.

“Get in.”

Relief floods your body when you hear his voice and you stumble to clamber in.

Relief?

This is Caleb Xia you’re talking about. Now that you think about it, you’re unsure why he was the first you contacted instead of the police. Your fingers had tapped on his profile faster than you could think. Was it just because he was at the top of your contacts? Was it because he was near? It must be, right? It had been instinctual. Your body had reacted—and it had somehow worked out. 

Regardless, you can’t possibly deny how relieved you feel right now.

You wonder if this is how MC always feels. It must be nice to know that someone so reliable is always at her beck and call, right? To come running at just a few words—maybe she wouldn’t have had to walk home in the first place. Maybe he would’ve driven her. You feel sick. This isn’t what you should be thinking about right now. Right now, you need to report it to the police and take a much needed nap. 

A part of you is envious of her.

“You should’ve called me earlier.”

The chicken doesn’t look as appetizing anymore even despite it sitting before you in all its crispy fried glory. The growling in your stomach from earlier is replaced by a slight pain, and it’s difficult to tell if you’ve only lost your appetite or if it’s a different kind of anxiousness. He watches you from across the table with a perplexed frown while you pick at the chicken aimlessly, nodding blankly.

“I’ll report it first thing in the morning,” Caleb sighs. “I should pick you up from work from now own. Or I’ll call you a taxi if I can’t.”

You nod again.

“Are you okay?”

Ah, he’s asking that again. You hate when he does.

You tilt your head. “I’m just sort of in shock, I think.”

“I know, but you should eat at least a bit. Here.” He holds a piece of chicken on a fork to your face and you scrunch your nose. He smirks. “Here comes the airplane?”

“I might vomit all over you.” A half lie.

He replies instantly. “Then I’ll clean it. Eat.”

For a reason that you just attribute to exhaustion, you don’t bother arguing. Instead, you pop it into your mouth, cheeks dusting pink at the intimacy of the act. He hums in approval and you try your best not to choke. Why was he feeding you—a grown woman? And why were you letting him? 

How bizarre. This whole day is bizarre.

At least you’re home—thanks to him.

“Thank you,” you mumble softly. “For getting there so fast.”

He looks almost offended, shaking his head. “Don’t thank me, it was a given. I’m just happy you thought to call me. I was worried you wouldn’t.”

Why did you call him? Well, you suppose he is your husband at the end of the day. One who has eyes for another, but your husband nonetheless. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He stops for a moment, as if in thought, and then smiles sheepishly. Not the annoying fake smile he puts on for show, but one that’s riddled with guilt. Shame. You want to know why. “Just assumed you wouldn’t.”

Strangely, the words make your chest tight.

Your eyes meet his usual striking violets, shoulders slumping as you look away once the eye contact feels too intense. “I’m glad I did.”

You barely catch the tips of his ears turning pink.

Caleb keeps his word for the months following the event. You never have reason to pass by that street again on foot, and although you continue to insist it’s not necessary, having him as your private driver of sorts does feel kind of nice. You think eventually, you’ve come to call him more than a stranger. He’s easier to talk to. Funnier than you thought, actually, when he’s not being annoying to tease you.

You’d never tell him that though, of course.

You blink warily, rubbing at your eyes with the back of your hand when a ray of sunlight escapes through the shades of your bedroom and hit your face. However, it’s not what awakes you. Rather, it’s the insistent buzzing of your phone on your bedside table, which you barely manage to snatch without falling off the edge of the bed. 

[Caleb (husband)]: morning sleepinghead, you awake?

[Caleb (husband)]: Come eat breakfast :> made apple juice too

[Caleb (husband)]: I better hear you shuffling around in your room in the next few minutes or i’ll have to come drag you out.. :)

Caleb Xia, you find, nags a lot.

“Sleep well?” he chuckles when you finally emerge, still half-awake despite being fully dressed. You scratch the back of your neck, yawning as you perch yourself on one of the chairs at the counter where he’s standing with an apron tied neatly behind him. If you were just a tad bit more awake, you’d have a field day making a snide comment about it.

“Mm.”

He laughs again, gently. Did he always sound so soft?

“You can always quit your job, y’know,” he shrugs, placing a plate of breakfast foods in front of you. It smells immaculate, as usual. “Offer’s always on the table.”

You shove a forkful of eggs into your mouth, squinting at him. “Why do you wanth me shoo be unemployed sho bad? My parentsh don’t care.”

“It’s not about your family…It just doesn’t seem necessary.”

“I like working. Just not waking up so early.”

“I only want you to avoid overextending yourself if you don’t have to,” he pops a tomato into his own mouth. “I make enough for you to get whatever you want, don’t I?”

“But I want my own money, too.”

“My money is your money. This is the least I can do.”

“Careful,” you snort. “You sound dangerously close to being romantic.”

He tilts his head. “Why wouldn’t I be romantic? I’m your husband.”

This time, you really choke on your food, coughing as he quickly hands you the apple juice. He’s been doing that lately—dropping lines like that out of nowhere, like they’re nothing. Somehow always when you’re least prepared for it, and always with a lopsided grin that tells you he’s either completely oblivious or knows exactly what he’s doing.

You’re willing to bet on the latter.

Caleb Xia, as you figure out in the time you spend with him in his car on the way to work, has terrible taste in films.

“That movie is awful. There’s no way that’s your favorite.”

He gasps dramatically and you don’t bother suppressing the urge to roll your eyes. “Hey, don’t judge before you try it.”

“I’d like it if I never had to try it, actually.”

The smile adorning your lips falls in an instant the car slows to a stop. You find yourself growing disappointed when you arrive at your workplace, because it means you’ll have to leave him. You want to scold yourself for thinking such preposterous thoughts. What are you? A teenager who’s hanging out with a boy for the first time?

You’re married, for god’s sake.

Then again, so what if his company isn’t so bad? What if you think he’s a bit more to you than tolerable? Isn’t that allowed? He’s your husband, after all. If it doesn’t feel so bad, maybe you could let yourself reprise and enjoy it while it lasts.

“Ah, right, I should tell you—I’ll be leaving this weekend for work.”

Ah, nevermind. Reality has a way of slapping you across the face when you least expect it.

“How long?”

“A few weeks at best,” he pauses, voice quieter. “Months, if I’m unlucky.”

You really despise the subtle aching in your chest.

You hate how easily it slips in. How, for a second, it makes the flame that’s gone out years ago flicker, as if these moments could mean more than they do. They don’t. You know they don’t. They aren’t yours to keep. None of it is.

The warmth, the ease, the way he looks at you like this—like you’re something he actually cares about—it’s all fake. Stolen. You’re just standing in the space where someone else is supposed to be.

You press your lips together, forcing the feeling down before it can spread any further. Get a grip.

His palm pats the top of your head, making your cheeks heat against your will. With a grin, he nods. But it’s stiff. The slight crinkle between his brows. Upset. Upset? “I’ll see you tonight.”

It’s like he knows what you’re thinking before you know yourself.

“Who said I want to?”

“You wound me.”

As soon as you enter the building, you feel your phone buzz in your pocket.

[Caleb (husband)]: I know you’re at work, but…

[Caleb (husband)]: Movie night tn ?? i can make us popcorn :D

[Caleb (husband)]: And yes we’re watching my fav so you can stop calling it bad :>

[Caleb (husband)]: Last hurrah before i leave

This is dangerous, you think. Really, really dangerous. 

You seriously hope you don’t fall for him, if it isn’t too late already.

A few hours later, the living room is dimly lit with soft lights, the low hum of something playing in the background as Caleb sets everything up. The bowl of popcorn ends up a little too full, a few pieces spilling onto the counter as he carries it over, muttering something under his breath as he munches on the ones that are about to spill over. You sink into the couch, watching him move around the room—adjusting the volume and flipping through options he’s already decided on. 

It’s strange, how easy it feels. How normal.

You don’t realize you’re staring until he glances over.

So you look away quickly, fixing your gaze on the screen. But a few seconds pass, and you can feel his attention still lingering.

You pretend not to notice.

What are you doing? What are either of you doing?

You don’t say anything, swallowing the question down into the pit in your stomach.

The movie stars a side character with a passionate devotion to his family, who reminds you of Caleb. Oddly enough, the resemblance is almost uncanny. You kind of want to root for him but also want him to lose terribly. You huff quietly. “He’s so intense.”

Caleb glances over, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “What? You wouldn’t want someone like that?”

You tilt your head, pretending to think. “I mean… he’s a bit much.”

A pause.

“…but it comes from a good place. I like him.”

He stills.

You pick at a piece of popcorn, rolling it between your fingers. “He reminds me of you a little.”

“Yeah?”

You shrug, still not quite looking at him. “Yeah.” A small breath escapes you before you can stop it. “MC is really lucky to have you.”

He goes quiet. When you glance over, he’s already looking at you.

“…Lucky,” he repeats, almost to himself.

You hesitate, then ruin it by saying more. "I mean, you're always there for her, you know? If she calls, you come running. Everyone wants someone like that."

It was supposed to come off lightheartedly, but it only digs the hole deeper.

Something in his expression shifts. His smile fades, his face losing its usual ease as it drops to something you’ve never seen on him before. It contorts in phases. Surprise, and then confusion, and finally into one you prefer the least.

Panic. Something is wrong.

You wish you’d just shut up. The long pause makes you wish you were just a fly on the wall right now.

“Is this why?” he blinks, and his eyes glisten with something you haven’t seen from him. Void of the usual emptiness but replaced with something fuller. Heavier. “Is this why you hate me so much? Because of MC?”

Huh?

“Fuck,” one hand pulls at the roots of his hair, his top teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he attempts to hide his face from you. “I’m a moron. I should’ve known.”

What? Despite your hands growing clammy, you feel cold. Like the blood is draining from your face.

“You must hate me so much.”

When did you ever hate him? You’ve loathed him, certainly, when he’d disappear for weeks on end leaving you all alone in this cold, lifeless house. You’ve wanted to punch your balled up fists into his chest, knowing that it wouldn’t phase him in the slightest simply to alleviate some of your own anger. You’ve wanted to run away a multitude of times. But hate? Have you ever hated Caleb? Can you hate Caleb?

“Caleb.”

“This is my fault. I should’ve been more aware. It’s so obvious now, I feel like an idiot.”

“Caleb.”

“I thought you just hated me because this isn’t a marriage you wanted,” his voice cracks, and he’s burying his face into his palms. “I thought staying away from you was what you wanted. Shit, I’m so stupid.”

“Caleb,” you say, more firmly this time, and he finally looks at you. There’s a watery film over his usually lifeless eyes, glistening against the light of the TV screen, and it makes the pit in your stomach grow deeper. You don’t like seeing him like this. You thought you would, but you don’t.

His voice is a mere whisper now. He looks like he wants to vomit out a million words at once, but there’s three specific ones that linger on his tongue. Is this what they call a woman's intuition? You’re not sure how, but in the moment, it feels like you’re in his head. For the first time in the 4 years you’ve been wed to Caleb Xia, you feel like you can understand him. 

A victory that doesn’t feel like one at all.

“Listen to me,” he grabs your hands in his, holding them in front of his chest. “I don’t love her—not as a woman. I haven’t in a long time. She and Zayne are like my family, and I’d be a terrible person not to be happy for them. I’m sorry I didn’t make it clear to you. I’m so sorry.”

Your heart doesn’t seem to be beating anymore.

The air is too thick. Like liquid entering your lungs.

Caleb opens his mouth and then shuts it again, his words stuck in the back of his throat. You’re not sure if you want to hear what he wants to say. The words hold too much value, too many years of hurt, and you don’t know how you’ll react. You don’t want to acknowledge any of this as real, because if it is, what was all of this for? What were the years you spent holed up in your room meant to achieve? Were you just being a fool? And in that case, would you even want to know?

No. You don’t.

So instead, you kiss him.

A wordless, messy kiss. Though he’s taken aback at first, he’s quick to slot his mouth against yours eagerly, hands flying to your waist to pull you closer as if a man starved. It’s desperate. Different from the kiss you shared with him at the courthouse, or for transactional purposes. His mouth feels hot against yours, and when his tongue swipes against your lip, you let him in. 

You climb onto his lap, straddling him as he presses you flush against him. The movie is long forgotten. His hair weeds through the crevices between your fingers and he deepens the kiss as if he’s trying to physically become one with you. His heart hammers against your own like a timer, warning you of what this could mean, but you don’t care.

“Put your arms around my neck,” he mumbles against you, and then you’re suddenly being lifted up to your room with his hands supporting your thighs around his waist. But even those few seconds aren’t worth staying apart for, because he’s kissing your neck, mouthing at spots that have you pursing your lips to avoid making any embarrassing sounds. He lets you down gently onto the middle of your bed and follows suit, pushing you onto your back.

You’re here again.

He’s looming over you, face flushed in a deep red this time. He’ll ask if you’re okay. If this is okay. And then he’ll take off his shirt and his hand will slide up yours. It’ll be better this time, because it’s not out of some twisted sense of duty. Desire pulses at your core, but you can’t help but shake off this curdling feeling in your chest, as if you want to hurl. You wait for what you expect, eyes never leaving his.

Instead, he breathes sharply. “I love you.”

The world stops. 

“You don’t have to say anything back that I don’t deserve. I just want you to know,” he whispers.

Can anyone love someone like you—much less, your husband? You start breathing again because you have to, staring up at him as if he’s gone insane. In fact, you think you’ve gone insane. Kissing him, lying beneath him, enjoying his presence, looking forward to his breakfasts, letting him drop you off at work, feeling disappointed that he’s leaving—you’ve most definitely died and come back as another person, because this is not you.

This is Caleb Xia. He is an unloving person. He cannot love. But what happens if he does? With tears stinging at his eyes, watching you with a mix of pure adoration and sorrow, he’s telling you he loves you. Love is a strong word, isn’t it? But he means it. He loves you. Caleb loves you. You want to call him a liar, but he’s not.

You want to cry into his chest and run away at the same time.

The flame flickers, and you panic. Not because you despise him, or because his confession is one you don’t want to accept, but because this flame is not one you welcome with open arms anymore. It’s too easy to hurt. Too easy to shrink, yet somehow impossible to destroy.

“I can’t,” you croak. “Not right now.”

Even Caleb can’t mask the hurt that deepens his frown, as if you’ve torn his heart straight from his chest. For a man with so much power, he’s never looked more powerless than he does now.

It feels too vulnerable. Open. As if you’re naked and he’s fully clothed, when it’s infact the exact opposite. You don’t want to open up to him again. You don’t want him to snuff out that small flame you have that never seems to go out no matter how much you douse it in water. Or maybe you do?

He forces a crooked smile, strained against his very will and nods before leaving the room. As the door slips shut, he doesn’t turn to look at you. “Sleep tight.”

You don’t get much sleep that night at all.

Morning comes anyway.

And then another.

And another.

His absence returns, but this time because you’re the one avoiding him. You leave earlier than usual, linger longer at work, find excuses in the smallest things—emails, errands, anything that keeps you just a little out of sync with him. When you do cross paths, it’s brief. Polite. A short good morning or a quick goodnight. It’s easier that way.

You tell yourself this is what you wanted—to put distance back where it belongs. Whatever that night was, whatever flame flickered between you, it will fade. It must fade.

He isn’t yours. Even if he says he is, there’s too much pain--too many years of resentment built up that you don’t know what to do with.

You catch yourself thinking about it at mundane times—standing in line, walking home, staring at your coworkers chatting amongst themselves. The apartment feels different already, like it’s preparing to be emptier. As cold as it was a few months ago, when he was still Caleb Xia, and not just Caleb.

You take the time away from him to reset. To think, but not too much. You find yourself flipping through his photo albums again, smiling when you flip to a particularly embarrassing one. You hear him shuffling outside your room, probably packing for his business trip. You’re aware of what he risks everytime he disappears for weeks at a time—not only his life, but the lives of his men—and you don’t know how he bears to leave home everytime he does. 

But he always comes back. He has to. 

You suppose it’s for the best for now. And when he returns, things will return to normal. The house won’t be as awkward as it is. The two of you will slip into your usual routine of a loveless marriage, and you’ll find other avenues in life to derive joy from. So will he.

The front door shuts faster than you anticipated. 

He’s gone.

This is fine.

This is what you wanted.

The house is empty again. You pace to the living room, and surprisingly, a fresh bouquet of flowers is propped inside their usual vase. You lift the vase into your hands, letting the scent of the flowers waft into your nose. They smell good. New. Sort of like the detergent he uses when doing the laundry.

You set the vase back down, nails pressing faint crescents into your skin.

His face when you last saw him keeps flickering in your mind. So much hurt. Raw with fear.

“I love you.”

You want to tell him he doesn’t. You want to remind yourself that this is your husband. Your heartless, cunning husband who kills people for a living—who doesn’t care about anyone but his family. 

But you’re his family, aren’t you?

You can still smell his cologne in the air.

You must’ve missed it from the glint of the sunlight in the glass coffee table—there’s a small shimmer of something sitting beside the vase. With a quirked brow, you pick it up. He usually never leaves trash lying around.

You nearly drop it.

His wedding band.

Your breath stutters, sharp and uneven, like your lungs have forgotten how to work. Your heart pounds as you realize that you're shaking, eyes wide as saucers as you stare at the object in your hands.

No.

He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t just leave it.

The ring sits in your palm like a brick that weighs your entire body down. This isn’t something you can pretend will reset when he comes back.

This means no more quiet dinners. No more stupid arguments over movies he insists are good. No more messages waiting for you when you’re at work. No more him, standing at the counter every morning with a pan in his hand. No more him.

And worst of all, no more chance to fix it. To tell him your side of the story.

Your body moves before your mind catches up.

You wrench the front door open, not bothering to lock it behind you as your feet hit the pavement with just your socks. The air burns your throat as you run, lungs screaming, heart still pounding like it’s trying to break through your ribcage.

He can’t leave.

The stinging beneath your feet go unregistered as you clutch the ring so tightly that it feels like it might dig into your flesh. 

Just forward, you hiss to yourself. Faster. You turn corner after corner, your body begging you to stop overexerting yourself, but you can’t bother to care. You don’t even register where you’re going, but you need to go somewhere. It feels like ages and seconds at the same time, as you beg nobody in particular for one more chance.

A chance for what, you're not sure.

Reconciliation? Love? Understanding?

Is any of that possible? And if not, why are you running like your very life depends on it?

The ring digs further into your skin, and you realize it doesn't matter as long as you find who it belongs to. Him. Caleb. The reason and bane of your existence, and apparently what has you running across the entire town in hopes of bringing him back.

Finally, you slam into something solid.

The impact knocks the breath out of you, your grip loosening as the ring nearly slips from your fingers. A hand catches your arms before you can stumble back too far, steadying you with a familiar scent that somehow lets you breathe again.

“Hey—watch it—oh.”

You freeze in place, breath hitching as you look up. Standing right in front of you, he appears slightly disheveled, one hand still gripping your arm while the other awkwardly balances a paper bag of groceries. Caleb blinks, his eyes immediately scanning over your frame before landing on your feet. “Why are you here? Are you okay? And where are your shoes, it’s dangerou—”

“Don’t go, Caleb,” you sniffle, tears already stinging at your eyes as your body finally has a chance to rest, though it doesn’t feel much better. “Please don’t go.”

He stares at you as if you've grown a third eye, nearly dropping his bag of groceries at your pleas. Even the tips of his ears turn red, flustered. "What are you--"

“Why did you leave the ring? Did you lie?” About loving me?

His expression falls, attention honing in on the ring gripped in your fist. Something seems to click in his head, and immediately, he shakes his head. “No, of course not, I was going to leave a note. I just went out to get groceries before I left—”

“So you were going to leave the ring?”

“Well, yes, but can we–”

“Do you not like me anymore?” you blurt, finger bunching at the fabric of his sleeve. “Is it because I ignored you for a week?”

He almost looks offended. “Of course I still like you.”

“Then why?”

His voice softens, as if speaking too loud will scare you away. Hesitantly, he sheepishly releases your arms. Instead, he slowly takes your hand in his, lips pursing as he sighs. His palm feels rough with calluses from the work he does, but light as feathers against your skin. His touch is gentle, as if you’re the most precious thing in the world. “I figured there was no reason for me to tie you to me anymore. I won’t force you to be with someone you can’t even stand to be around. Someone you hate. It’d be selfish.”

Your words tumble out before you can process them. “I don’t hate you.”

Finally, with your hand in his, the world feels okay again. This feeling tells you you’re screwed, but you don’t care.

“I’ve been mad at you, and I don’t know what to do with your feelings because they make no sense, but I don’t hate you,” you mutter. “You’re just too confusing.”

“...Confusing?”

“I just—I don’t know what to do, Caleb,” you wipe vigorously at your eyes with your free hand, head falling to avoid looking him at him. “I don’t know what to think about you. How to feel about you.”

His eyes ease, and you feel him squeeze your fingers. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No.”

“Do you love me?”

“I don’t know.”

Caleb has always been better at reading you than yourself. A flash of hurt ripples across his face, but his eyes maintain its soft glimmer—because he knows. Even if you say you don’t know, he knows. He also knows that you’re afraid of those words, and he doesn’t blame you for it.

So instead, he asks something else. “What am I to you?”

You want to call him a million things. The man who left you by yourself, the man who refused to touch you for so many years, the man who’d chosen to sleep in the guest bedroom just to avoid taking up space in yours. He’s felt awful, inconsiderate, and cold. But he’s also the man who’s gotten you flowers, the man who’d break four speeding laws to make you feel safe, the man who makes sure you’re never hungry, the man who folds your laundry neatly and organizes it color-coded in your closet. The man who you wish you could slap across the face and hold close to you at the same time. The man who’s made you feel alone yet so cared for all at once.

You like him, you think. In some strange way that’s never been covered in the romantic films you used to clutch onto like a life line, you like him. The ‘L’ word teeters on the tip of your tongue like a marble rolling around to decide what these emotions settling in your heart really are, but it doesn’t really matter. All you know is that you need him. You want him. You want him to hold your face and kiss you tenderly, like he did that night. You want him to do it again and again until you can’t breathe, and all you can feel is him. You want to eat dinner with him every night and wake up in the morning to his stupid apron. You want to go grocery shopping with him. You want to fall asleep watching a movie in his arms.

“What am I to you?”

Tears fall down your cheeks in fat globs and you try your hardest not to let your voice crack. “My husband.”

His eyes widen for a moment, and then his lips split into a wide grin that resembles the lovesick expression of a teenage boy who’s holding hands for the first time. Caleb drops his grocery bag to his feet and reaches either hands to the sides of your face, cradling you gingerly as he guides you closer. Before you’re even registering it, he brushes a strand of hair out of your forehead and presses a soft but firm kiss to your temple, where you can feel him smile against your skin.

“Who am I to say no my wife?”

Your marriage is a messy, complicated jumble of emotions. The confusion. The fear. The warmth. It’s not perfect. It never will be. And despite it all, you don’t want it any other way, because Caleb Xia is a loving person.