a/n: sorry i had to make caleb suffer. he's also still kinda stupid, so read at ur own risk!! i kinda made myself sad so i'm gonna start working on fluff/smut.
pairing: non-MC!reader x caleb
content: self-indulgent, angst, emotional neglect, quiet breakup, fem!reader, avoidant!reader, i had to make caleb ooc, he's a basketball player, college au, hurt/no comfort, lots of caleb just spiraling and rotting in his own guilt
p.s this one isn't as bad.
——
Caleb didn't know.
You never yelled at him, never really told him what was wrong. You just shut down, then pretended everything was fine again. And when he pushed, you deflected.
He never meant to hurt you, he was just careless in a way he didn't understand. He saw it now.
It was too late, but he saw it.
He kept checking his phone. Kept biting the inside of his cheek and bouncing his leg every time he was met with an empty screen.
"She's not gonna text you."
Caleb glanced up at his teammate, shame creeping up his throat.
"I know."
It'd been a week since the breakup. But he kept checking his phone for new text messages. Kept staring at it in the morning, waiting for a good morning text that never came.
It was dumb.
The way he was always looking for you—in every crowd, in every coffee shop, in every library.
The past week had felt like a month. A month of torture—of replaying every interaction he ever had with you and finding his fault in every one.
"You gonna be good for the game next week?"
Caleb's eyes hardened just a fraction. "Why wouldn't I be?"
His friend stared at him, a little too knowingly. They both knew what he wanted to say. 'Because your girlfriend broke up with you, duh!' but his teammate just pressed his lips into a thin line and shrugged.
"You.. I dunno—You just haven't been that focused lately."
Caleb sighed, tearing his eyes away and tossing his phone in his bag. He wasn't even supposed to have it out; if his coach saw, he'd be running lines.
"I'll be fine," Caleb insisted, shuffling back onto the court as if that might give him some peace, but his teammate just followed him.
"Look, if you ever wanna talk—"
"I'm fine," Caleb bit out. "I'll—I'll be fine, alright?"
Silence. Then finally, his teammate sighed and shrugged.
"Alright."
But Caleb wasn't fine.
He was anything but.
At night, he'd lie in bed, his eyes burning from how long he stared at your guys' last texts. In the morning, with his eyes all red and puff from the night before, he'd rummage through his drawer to find something to wear and pause the Hello Kitty pajamas he'd bought for you two.
He'd stare at it too long—enough to feel his stomach curl and his chest tighten—then he'd stuff it to the back of his drawer. It always found its way back up when he looked through it the next day though.
The morning of his game, he found them again. Held it for a little too long. Rubbed his thumb over the fabric as he remembered the last time he wore them on a comfy night in with you.
Maybe that's why he missed the first shot. And the second. And the third.
Maybe that's why he kept looking in the crowd like he might find you there, in that little corner you loved so much. He always said it was hard to see you up there and you always said you got a better view of the game. Of him.
He'd smiled then. Never complained about it again, because how could he when your eyes were all soft like that?
"Caleb! What the hell?"
Caleb stumbled as his teammate nudged his arm. It was meant to be a light push, but he was caught off guard.
"What?" Caleb breathed out, but he knew. He didn't have to look at his teammate or even listen.
He was fucking up.
He was losing them the game. Like he lost you. Like he—
"What the hell are you doing? You said you'd be fine."
"I am," Caleb insisted, even as his eyes flicked to the stands again.
Fuck. Stop it.
They quickly darted back, but his teammate had already caught the look. Everyone knew what this was about.
His teammate looked like he was about to say something else before the whistle blew. Their heads snapped toward the bench where their coach was gesturing them over.
The minute Caleb got close enough, his coach immediately grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him onto the chair.
"Coach—"
"Are you kidding me?"
Caleb flinched. His tone stung more than he wanted to admit. Normally, he didn't care about things like this, but he was raw and exposed. And when Caleb met his eyes and saw the anger and disappointment, he couldn't bear to look anymore.
Shame.
That was all he felt.
Shame, shame, shame.
Shame for missing those shots. Shame for forcing his coach call a time out. Shame for not realizing he was losing you. Everything came back to you.
"How the hell are you missing those shots, Caleb? We need you and you think now is the best time to start half-assing..."
His voice trailed off. Or rather, Caleb wasn't listening anymore. He couldn't. Everything around him grew muffled. Fuzzy. Distant. It was just him and his thoughts.
He kept messing up.
He should've known. He should've seen when you were upset—he did—but you never told him what was wrong. You always brushed him off, why didn't you just—
No. It was his fault. He should've known. He should've—
"Sit the rest of the game out."
Caleb blinked, finally looking up. "What? No, I'm—"
"Hey, you, you're in."
Caleb's chest stung. But he didn't argue. Instead, he sat back, the chair creaking under his weight as he watched someone take his spot.
He was losing it.
Basketball used to make sense. It used to be his. Now he couldn't think straight. Couldn't find it in him to make the shots he was always valued for.
He watched the rest of the game in silence. Didn't cheer. Didn't speak. Not even in the huddles when his coach was glaring at him like the look alone might force some encouraging words out of him. He gave nothing.
He was too tired.
After the game, when MC approached him, he barely said a word—just followed her out the gym to walk her to her dorm. Usually, he would've been with you—his sweaty arm draped over your shoulder, you giggling softly when he ranted about his favorite plays or how nice you looked up there.
"That was..." MC thought for a second, then bluntly ended with, "bad."
Caleb scoffed. "Yeah. Pretty bad."
A beat of silence.
"You kept looking at the stands."
Caleb's jaw tensed, his grip on his duffel bag tightening. It was a reflex. He was used to finding you there.
"She's not there, Caleb."
Hoarsely, it came out, "I know." Even if he didn't act like it. Even if he still checked his phone or looked up at the stands, he knew.
"You miss her."
"..Yeah."
"So what happened?"
Caleb sighed. "Don't."
MC ignored him. "Why did you push her away?"
"I didn't—" Caleb bit back his exasperation. "I didn't mean to. I never meant to."
He swallowed hard. He could feel MC looking at him, waiting for some sort of explanation he wasn't sure he was ready to give because what the hell did he say besides, 'I fucked up'?
"I just—She was quiet. She got hurt, never talked to me about it, then pretended it never happened."
"So you're blaming it on her?"
Caleb's head snapped toward her, guilt burning in his veins. "No! That's not what I'm saying! I'm saying I didn't know."
He took a small breath, his voice softening. "I didn't know how much she was hurting."
Another quiet breath.
"I didn't mean to hurt her."
"But you did."
Caleb's throat tightened. "What are you doing?" he asked, his steps slowing to a halt. "Do you think I don't feel bad? That I don't know?"
MC stopped beside him, her eyes softening at the telltale tick in his jaw. "You know I love you, Caleb, but you were shitty."
He felt sick.
"I know that," he murmured.
"You treated her like a second thought."
Caleb felt a lump forming in his throat now. He could defend himself. Say he didn't mean to treat you like that, but at the end of the day, he did. So, he kept his mouth shut and let her continue.
"You know how embarrassing that is for a girl?"
Caleb let out a shaky breath. "MC—"
"People don't get this."
He blinked. "What?"
"They don't get our friendship. They don't understand that when you pat my head or grab my waist, it doesn't mean anything."
Caleb couldn't speak. He was too embarrassed.
He never thought it could look like flirting. With anyone else, sure, it would've been flirting. But with MC? It meant nothing. She was like a sister to him.
But you thought he—God, he was horrible.
"You mean well. I know you do, but you hurt her." A beat. Then, "So stop looking for her."
Caleb didn't say anything. He just stared, his throat a little too tight and his eyes a little too glassy to see right.
MC sighed, wrapping her arms around him in a quick hug. "I'm sorry. Goodnight, Caleb."
"..Night."
-
Caleb tried to stop looking for you. Maybe it would be better that way. For both you and him.
And that day, he really did. He kept his eyes down, fought the urge to whip his head the other way when he thought he saw someone who had your hair.
But then he actually saw you. It wasn't a figment of his imagination—no, you were there, walking down the sidewalk with a friend right in front of him.
He wanted to apologize. Blurt out whatever sad little story came out the second he got close enough.
But he didn't.
He didn't deserve that.
So he clutched his bag tighter and tensed his jaw to keep his mouth shut.
You wore a hoodie (not his, he noted), and your hair was pulled up in that hairstyle you did when you were too lazy to do it in the morning.
You looked pretty.
Too pretty.
And looking completely content as you laughed at something your friend said.
Then your eyes met his as you walked past, and it wrecked whatever illusion of composure he had left.
Because your smile didn't drop instantly. It was more of a natural stop, like the moment of laughter was over. Not because his presence did anything to you. No, like you just... didn't care.
Like he wasn't someone you shared a bed with or went on dates with. Like he wasn't the boy you told everything to at one point.
You looked at him as if he were a complete stranger, and finally, it hit him.
Really hit him.
He didn't lose you when you broke up. He'd lost you way before then. He was just too blind to see it.
Caleb had no right to feel hurt. No right at all, but it didn't stop the burn. The ache. If anything, it intensified it.
-
That night he stayed up until 2 a.m., drafting a text message to you. He wasn't even sure if he'd been blocked or not. He tried not to think about it too much.
Caleb reread it to himself over and over again, his finger hovering over the send button multiple times, but he couldn't do it.
He could hear MC now. "You cared too late."
It made his chest ache and his eyes sting.
He could hear you, too, crying on the phone with him that night, murmuring that quiet, "I'm tired."
God, he remembered too much.
The flashing lights, the crowd pressing in, the bass vibrating in his chest.
You, standing near the drink table, twisting the hem of your shirt. He thought you looked bored. He didn’t realize you were overwhelmed.
He should’ve known when you stopped reaching for his hand.
He tried. Even when everyone was joking and playing a shitty game of beer pong, he glanced over at you, tried deciphering whatever messages you were or weren't sending him.
He was stupid.
They were all right there.
Caleb had managed to slip away from the crowd and sit down beside you, carefully, as if you were some spooked animal.
"Hey.. You okay?"
You nodded, but you wouldn't quite meet his eyes. "I'm fine," you told him over the music, but your voice barely reached his ears.
He leaned in again, about to ask something else when his teammate grabbed him by his arm and started pulling him toward the beer pong, claiming it was his turn to play.
"Wait—Y/N is—"
"She'll be fine! Just one quick game!"
Caleb glanced over at you one last time. Even if he stayed, would you have told him what was wrong? His stomach curled. No, probably not, which is why he gave in with a grudging, "Just one game."
And when he came to check in later, he said, "Hey, you wanna get out of here?"
You'd smiled and said no.
Now, looking back, that smile felt rehearsed.
He should’ve known it was your way of saying please don’t make me spell this out for you.
He should’ve tried harder.
Fuck.
And then you left.
After that group picture—that was the last time he saw you. Caleb didn't notice it then, but he did now, and he felt it—the way you slipped away from him. Quick. A little too quick. Like you couldn't stand to be near him.
He looked around. He thought he spotted the top of your head as you nudged the crowd, but he didn't get a chance to go after you because his friends were fussing about how bad the picture was.
About how they needed another one.
Caleb swallowed hard. "Y/N isn't here—"
Flash!
Caleb blinked. He barely had time to speak again before his friends were nudging him.
"Dude! Smile!"
So he did. And when the picture was done with, he looked for you. But he couldn't find you. You weren't by the drinks. You weren't by the couch. You weren't in the bathroom. You weren't in any goddamn room he checked.
But maybe he just kept missing you.
So he texted you and started asking people about you.
No one knew where you were.
And when he checked his messages, he was left on read. Fucking read.
Dread filled his chest, like no matter how hard he tried to deny it, something was incredibly wrong.
But he kept texting you. He had to make sure you were okay, at least.
That's when you went on do not disturb.
It stung.
It made him wonder if you were okay (physically at least). If you were you still at the party. Because you wouldn't try and go home, right? He was your ride.
So, for hours, he spiraled.
He even texted Tara, your dormmate who also wouldn't answer.
Then everything else happened—
You finally responded and he—
You left.
Caleb clenched his jaw, fighting back the lump that crawled up his throat.
He stared at his texts, the letters glaring back at him. It almost felt like they were taunting him, laughing in his face for being so oblivious.
His finger trembled over the send button again.
He missed you. He missed you so much.
He reread his text one last time, trying to look for any typos through the blur of tears he'd fought so hard and failed to keep down.
'I know I was careless. I didn’t mean to make you feel small or forgotten. I don’t deserve another chance, but I wish I could take it all back. You meant more to me than I showed. I'm sorry.'
Caleb took a shaky breath, finally tapping the send with his thumb, and all at once, everything came crumbling down. His throat closed, his stomach tensed, his chest burned.
Not delivered.
He blinked rapidly, trying desperately to keep his everything down.
Maybe the wifi was acting up again.
He waited a second, refreshed his messages, turned his wifi on and off. Still not delivered.
No.
No, you—you didn't.
With a shaky finger, he pressed the call button.
He waited for the usual ring.
But it never came.
Instead, he got: 'The person you are trying to reach is not available.'
Warnings: wrote this with beefy dilf!Caleb in mind (yummy), mean!Caleb, filthy!Caleb, dacryphilia, possible strength/positions that are only possible in fanfics, reader is described as having pubic hair (bush lover Caleb lives on), pnv, squirting, size kink, cervix fucking, belly bulge, piss kink?, nicknames (honey, pipsqueak, baby, little girl), overstimulation, lemme know if I missed anything!
Sylus' version
The part of Caleb's brain influenced by pure primal instinct went into overload as your difference in size was on display in the mirror before you. Had someone walked into your room, they wouldn’t have been able to see you behind his form, too broad and thick compared to yours. Even your height was the complete opposite, as the man had you on the tips of your toes, effortlessly lifting you with his cock as he slid into your warm cunt.
With your back perfectly arched allowing your plush ass to be pressed up against him, one hand settled by the cleft of his elbow and the other stretched out behind you to rest on his hip, his eyes seemed to almost sparkle with absolute mischief and obvious adoration as he watched your fragile figure jerk from the force of his hips. Your nails dug into the soft flesh. The hand on his hip couldn’t hold him back, the need to spill his seed inside of you was far too strong.
“You like that, honey? Like the way my cock just slips in and stuffs you full?” His jaw flexed as he groaned through clenched teeth. “Fucking hell, she sucks me in and doesn’t w-want to let go.”
You were breathless, struggling to form a proper sentence as your mind was clouded and dazed. Your words came out as a babble, chest heaving with every breath.
“C-Caleb…you’re…deep…so-so deep and big. You’re-you f-fuck so good.”
He couldn’t see your face as it was too busy resting against a broad shoulder of his. Your tits however were on display, his spare arm wrapped around your torso and under them, gave them a perky look. He had made sure to lavish them with just as much attention as he had with your lovely cunt.
The soft, fatty flesh bounced to the rhythm set by his hips. Your flesh, though marred by freshly bloomed bruises and raw bite marks, contained evidence of his loving. They’d eventually fade, and Caleb would happily take up the opportunity to mark you once more.
“So fucking pretty, baby. Your pussy’s so greedy-ngh fuck-she doesn't wanna let m-me go.” He had to catch his breath after his words had your walls clamping down around him, sucking him further in, if that were even possible. The gasps falling from his parted lips brushed against your temple, every little whine he made amplified as it went directly into your ear. “She’s greedy and filthy…just like my little girl.”
The swollen head of his dick had no problem reaching deep inside of you as it continued to brutally meet your spongy cervix, the wind knocked out of you every time they met.
Eventually, something would catch his eye enough for the arm wrapped beneath your tits to wander. It would start with his fingers stretching down to your pelvis, the tips brushing against the bulge that formed as he bottomed out. You were too lost in the utter bliss you were experiencing to notice the protrusion coming from beneath the skin of your belly. The pressure growing deep inside of you multiplied tenfold when his palm pressed down on your tummy.
You cried as you felt as though you were about to pee yourself.
“D-don’t. Don’t do that.”
“Oh?” Caleb’s ministrations stopped as you caught him by surprise. “And who are you to tell me what to do, huh? Think all this fucking has knocked a few screws loose. Let’s try that again.”
You giving Caleb orders never went well. His annoyance manifested in the weight he applied to your belly and the brute force behind his bucking hips.
You became frantic, afraid of making a mess and the humiliation that would follow.
The sinew muscles that made up Caleb’s forearms which flexed with the slightest movement he made, protected him from your manicured nails that you dug into him as a way to ground yourself. Not even your sharp little teeth could cause him to flinch as you bit down on him to quiet your cries. He was made to endure anything when it came to you, your attempts too feeble for a man like him.
“What’s the matter, pipsqueak? Scared of making a mess like an untrained pup?” He teased, only this time, the weight he applied wasn’t letting up. “I don’t mind. As long as you feel good, I don’t mind my girl drenching my cock in her juices. I’ll lick it off the floor and your skin if I have to.”
His nose nuzzled against your damp locks. With only the top half of your face visible behind his forearm, he watched as your brows pinched together, eyes fluttering shut.
That just wouldn’t do.
He needed to have an unobscured view of your face as you came.
Unwrapping the arm that held you by the neck to him, he sneaked that hand down to where the two of you were connected, his fingers brushing past the patch of curls on your mound until he found your tender clit. His chest was pressed against your sweaty back, your weight no longer held up by his arm, resulting in your arms reaching behind you and wrapping them around his neck to hold yourself up.
You clung to him as your life depended on it. On your tippy toes, you’d lose your footing every so often, your legs kicking out and twisting as you felt yourself nearing the edge.
“Caleb…please d-don’t. Don’t wanna-don’t wanna m-make a mess. S’embarrasing.”
Your whines fell on deaf ears as the man was only focused on building up the inevitable mess you would be leaving in a couple of seconds. With his fingers circling your bundle of nerves, he applied just the right amount of pressure that finally pushed you over the edge.
Arching tight like the string of a bow, his name fell from your lips as you came with a cry. Your tender walls spasmed uncontrollably before clenching down, refusing to let him slip out of your hole. At the sound of your slick spilling onto the floor, you grimaced, crying from shame and humiliation. You felt your tears escape your tightly shut eyes, cooling the flushed skin of your cheeks as they did.
Since you refused to meet Caleb’s eyes, you failed to notice the sick grin on his face as he watched your juice drop down his fat shaft and onto his thick thighs.
“God, you're so fucking hot. My baby’s the prettiest girl in the world. You’ve no idea h-how…” He groaned, words trailing off as his abs flexed and his jaw clenched, his seed covered your walls in a sticky white mess. “Ah, shit…take it, honey…you did-did so good for me.”
Caleb returned to holding you up and licked away your tears, waiting until your breathing returned to normal and your body went lax in his arms before picking you up and heading over to the connected bathroom.
He easily moved around, carrying you with one arm as he turned on the water, adjusting it to the temperature he knew you liked.
“Since you're so worried about leaving a mess, surely you wouldn't have a problem repeating what we just did in the shower, yes?”
You were too exhausted to even put up a fight. You should've known seeing you squirt just once wasn't going to be enough for him.
The damn brute was just getting started and your cunt would be sore by the time he was through with you.
childhood bestfriends caleb and nonMC!reader, who he's secretly in love with while she thinks he likes someone else
warnings. angst, fluff, rejection, she fell first he fell harder, caleb is down bad, groveling, miscommunication, caleb sucks at feelings, slow burn, childhood friends to lovers, he gives her a nickname adjacent to pipsqueak
preview. "I love you," he says, pressing his forehead against yours. You want to tell him that it's not fair to treat you the way he does and expect you not to fall for him. That holding your hair when you vomit, falling asleep at your bedside when you're sick, and his eyes closing in on you in any room is not fair. "Then prove it to me."
wc. 8.4k (she's hefty...)
You proposed to Caleb for the first time when you were nine years old, with a flower ring.
The winter air had nipped at your flushed cheeks as you stepped into ice, holding it out to him. Your breath had puffed into the air like a dragon, and you nuzzled your chin further into the wool of your scarf to keep warm. It had been the only flower left after fall had faded away, yet its white petals stood brilliantly in between your fingertips, weathering against the cold.
The child in front of you was closed off. Eyes narrowed, fists balled inside his pockets, and usually adorning a solemn look on his face. Though, it had certainly gotten better since you first met him as one of Grandma Josephine’s adoptive children. Back then, he hadn’t even spoken much—only keeping MC tight at his side, as if she might disappear if he didn’t. He wasn’t rude by any means…just, cautious. Too aware for a child of his age.
But without a doubt in your mind, he was the most handsome boy you’d ever seen.
He’d raised his brows. “You just met me last week.”
“It’s love at first sight.”
He rejected you, naturally, but it did little to make a dent in your childish heart. Not when his purple hues gazed into your own, with a softness that didn’t seem intent on hurting you.
The next two decades becomes a perpetual cycle of this encounter—in which you learn that Caleb is a very caring person.
In that time, you learn a lot about him, aside from his gorgeous face. You find that he’s fond of nicknames. Pipsqueak for MC. Splints for you, when you launched yourself off a swing and broke your wrist trying to impress him. Safe to say, it didn’t impress anyone but your doctor, who was baffled you managed to fly so high into the air with your 11-year-old legs. Caleb held your other hand tight in the emergency room as you wailed helplessly, waiting for the doctor to ease the pain. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t cry just a tad longer to keep your hand in his.
“This thing is so ugly,” you whine, picking at your cast as he walks you back home. “Do you think I’m gross now, Caleb?”
“It’s not ugly. You need it to get better.”
“I thought you’d fall in love with me if I went high enough,” you sniffle fake tears, which he reads in an instant. “I did go pretty high up, though. So maybe you like me at least.”
He laughs, and you scowl, insisting that you aren’t joking. So instead, he smiles and holds your free hand in his again. Your heart skips a beat. A childish, but innocent love fluttering in your chest. “Come on, splints. Let’s go watch TV, and I can sign your cast.”
The broken wrist is so worth it.
With MC being two grades lower than the two of you and thus having a different schedule, it doesn’t take long before you’re doing practically everything with Caleb. He’s your seatmate in class, the two of you walk to and from school, and there doesn’t seem to be a moment where you aren’t glued at the hip. Throughout all of this, you make sure you shoot your shot whenever the chance arises—even when it doesn’t arise at all.
“You get any chocolates for Valentine’s?” you ask as you plop down in your seat with your lunch, not-so-conspicuously eyeing his desk as his friends begin to crowd around the two of you. It didn’t take long for Caleb to adjust to ordinary school life. After his initial bumpy introduction where he seemed hesitant to get close to anyone his grandma would introduce him to, he was quick to adjust to a level of charisma even you haven’t gotten to.
By now, he’s charisma personified. You, yourself, have no idea how quickly he adapts to things. Though, you do recall that after an exam measuring his intelligence, he was told he couldn’t lower his grade by two years to be with MC. So you suppose he’s rather bright—almost as much as his face.
“Too many,” one of his friends groan, dragging his hand down the side of his face. “Life’s so not fair, dude.”
“Just a few,” Caleb laughs, turning to feel me stare at him expectantly. “Most of them are obligatory. I just helped a couple people out during gym.”
You glance at his friends. “How many is a few?”
“At least five,” another one grins. He wiggles his eyebrows at you, and his friend snickers at his shoulder. “You jealous?”
It’s not like your crush on Caleb is new news. In fact, it’s practically common knowledge at your school, given how open you are with your affection with him. Asking him out with a giant poster on orientation day, sending him notes with hearts littered everywhere during class, and refusing to be subtle when you’re discussing it with your friends…it tends to add up. Most people believe your relationship to be strange, but those who matter thought of it as the norm, so it doesn’t really matter.
“Jealous? I don’t think so, why?”
“Most girls would be if their boyfriend got a bunch of chocolates,” he responds, to which Caleb immediately reminds him that you’re not dating. Then his friend sighs. “It’s cute when girls get jealous, isn’t it?”
At this, your ears perk.
“Should I be jealous?” you ask Caleb, making his friends erupt into snickers. “Do you think it’s cute too?”
He rolls his eyes and flicks your forehead softly. “Do you ever ask normal questions, splints?”
Throughout your childhood together, everything involves him. Family dinners, graduation, holidays, all of it. Of course, this means that MC is there for all of it too. You’re helplessly in love, but you’re not stupid. You know what love looks like from the movies their grandma would play on their TV. He cares for her with a different look in his eyes. He protects her with a lovingness in his voice that he doesn’t spare for you.
The same fingers that flick your forehead touch her arm gingerly, like she could crack in half if he holds too hard. He doesn’t touch her very easily either, whereas he often falls asleep with his head fully leaning against your shoulder on the bus ride home. He wakes up at the crack of dawn to make her lunch, while the two of you munch on sandwiches from the school cafeteria during lunch breaks. He scolds you when your clothes are tossed on the ground while he folds hers without her having to ask. He never enters her room to protect her privacy while he lounges in yours like he owns the place.
Your Caleb, you have found, is different from MC’s Caleb.
MC’s Caleb is easy to depend on. Trustworthy, perfect, and never makes a mistake for the life of him. He never loses his cool in front of her, never has a hair out of place, lets her win at all the board games, and always has this clear but dazed look in his pretty purple eyes. Your Caleb has none of that. Your Caleb teases you mercilessly when you lose the card game for the fifth time in a row. Your Caleb passes out on his desk while studying for an exam, essentially drooling on his notebook to lie to MC that he’s naturally talented at math. Your Caleb sends you stupid videos about plane models and forces you to sit through a thirty-minute explanation about it.
You know he likes her. He knows you know he likes her. She doesn’t know anything at all. All jumbled up, like a wordless pact ready to crumble at any moment.
Of course, this means that he prioritizes her over you at times. All the time. It’s to be expected. She’s family, you’re not. You’ve grown used to it, and so has he.
MC doesn’t notice though, because she doesn’t have to. Because to her, Caleb is just a slightly nagging but cool adoptive brother. Nothing more, nothing less. And you’re one of her childhood friends, and Caleb’s best friend. Nothing more, nothing less.
The first year after you graduate high school is a dramatic shift from your cozy hometown. You somehow manage to get into the same college as Caleb–and you attribute his tutoring to be the main culprit—though in different majors. It’s a lot to convince him to go so far from home given that MC is still at home, but after a lot of reluctant discussion, he agrees.
“Take off your shoes at the door,” he reminds you as you barge into his dorm room after a particularly difficult exam for one of your classes. You do as he asks, grumbling about how he has no mercy for the fallen, tossing them haphazardly beside the door and prancing past him. He takes the time to tidy them up, as if he’s expecting it. “How was your exam?”
“Awful. I went through war.”
Caleb grins as he sits down at the coffee table beside you, watching as you bury your face into your arms. “And whose fault is it that they didn’t want to study?”
“Yours.”
“Funny,” he snorts, and you feel his large hand ruffling the top of your head. “It’s alright, splints. I can tutor you a bit earlier on the next one.”
“Even you can’t save me for this class.”
“Is that a challenge?”
He ends up cooking up something quick in his makeshift kitchen (essentially just a rice cooker), while you laze around on his bed, scrolling aimlessly on your phone. Once he’s finished, you scarf down his food like a man starved, lips stretching widely. At times like these, you’re oddly grateful for his hopeless love toward MC. How else would he have learned to cook such good food? “You should honestly be a chef, Caleb. Actually, no, that would mean other people would eat your food. I guess you can just be my personal chef when we’re married.”
Caleb remains completely unaffected, wordlessly cleaning the plate in front of you. “I didn’t realize I was engaged.”
“Well, now you know. Not sure if you remember, but I had fireworks for you and everything when I proposed. Plus an orchestra.”
He hums, looking up as if he’s in thought, and then nods. “Now that you mention it, that does sound familiar, splints. How could I forget?”
You shrug. “You tell me.”
His face falls as you pace to the door and begin to put your shoes back on. “Where are you going? Aren’t you done with class?”
“Going out. I deserve it after that exam.”
“With your friends?”
“No, with four guys,” you joke, but he doesn’t seem to find it very funny. “I’m just going to a club. I won’t be back too late.”
He’s already grabbing his jacket. “I can come.”
You push him back with your finger by the nose, and he blinks in surprise, making you laugh. “No need. You have exams too, y’know.”
“I’m done studying.”
“Liar.”
Though it takes some convincing, you eventually have him sit at his desk once more. He manages to nag a whole lot as you leave, reminding you to call him once you’re done so he can pick you up, but you just wave him off as you leave out the door. You take your time getting ready–dolling yourself up to hide the dark circles beneath your eyes. As you get ready, you video call MC, where she asks how you and Caleb have been doing in her absence. She rants about her days with her grandma, complaining about how quiet the house is when Caleb isn’t home, though she indulged in the beginning. She asks you to show her your outfit once you’re done, and she beams brightly in your screen, squealing about how you’d likely get a boyfriend soon that you can tell her all about.
You just smile, because you don’t know how to tell her that the only boy you want is wrapped around her unknowing hand.
The club is loud. Where the music rumbles through your feet to the tips of your fingertips, and the lights are flashing in a dimly lit room. Your friends flock to a table and order drinks while you let yourself feel the music and crack a joke or two once in a while.
A group of guys approaches you with easy smiles and louder voices than necessary—confidence sharpened by cheap cologne. One of them leans against your table like he’s done it a hundred times before, asking your name, where you’re from, if you come here often. The usual.
You answer, choking out a laugh to humor his unfunny jokes alongside your friends, while the swigs you take from your drink become deeper and deeper.
He’s not bad at flirting, you think. Subtle, and not too glaring about it. But you don’t particularly enjoy humoring it, and it becomes gradually more apparent as your eyes keep drifting elsewhere and you keep having to ask him to repeat himself. You’re growing bored. Irritated.
Because he’s not Caleb.
It hits you in strange, inconvenient flashes. The way this guy stands just a little too far away. The way his voice doesn’t quite reach you over the music, even when he’s close. The way you don’t feel that familiar, grounding presence like an anchor holding you to the ground.
You find yourself glancing past his shoulder. Half-wishing to see Caleb there. Watching. Hovering.
But there’s only strangers. Blurred faces and flashing lights.
“You okay?” the guy asks, tilting his head.
“Yeah,” you say too quickly. “Long week.”
He grins, like that’s an invitation. Says something else—something about getting you another drink, maybe dancing, maybe getting out of here.
You nod again. Smile again.
Across the room, your friends are already disappearing into the crowd, dragged toward the dance floor by laughter and hands you don’t recognize. One of them glances back at you, gives you a look that asks ‘you’re good, right?’ before she’s gone.
You sit back down at the table when the guy steps away. Maybe to grab drinks, maybe because he senses your attention drifting. You don’t really care which.
The music swells in your chest. The lights flicker. You wish you could enjoy yourself, but it’s particularly hard today.
You take another sip. Then another. Your phone rests face-down on the table, but you flip it over anyway.
No messages.
Of course not. He cares, but not like that. Not in the way that he would spam MC’s phone whenever he didn’t know where she was or how she was doing. No, not like that at all.
Another sip. The glass is nearly empty now.
And suddenly, you’re pressing send before you can even register what’s happening.
[you]: hi
The answer comes immediately, the grey bubbles popping up on his end of the screen.
[futre hubs <333]: do you need me to come pick you up?
[futre hubs <333]: i can
You’re not sure why you feel like shit, but you hate it. In moments like these—moments where the alcohol lets you lower your walls and truly think—it hits you like a truck, like a deeply sinking feeling in your chest. The years of rejection after rejection that the two of you frame like a bit—as if your feelings have become so miniscule that it no longer even phases him.
It hurts, a bit. More than you let yourself feel.
You’re not sure how much time passes. Maybe minutes or maybe an hour. There’s buzzing throughout your body. The grip on your waist belonging to the man you’ve been half-heartedly entertaining suddenly becomes harsher, snapping you out of your trance. It feels unlike Caleb, but you let it sit anyway. However, the hand moves to your wrist, and you’re being pulled out of the crowd towards the wall.
Too touchy. He’s saying something into your ear, and you feel his breath against your skin. You don’t like it. Too close. The buzzing feeling feels more like an alarm now.
The words either go unheard due to the music or don’t deter him. You want to go back. Back to Caleb. In the moment, you begin to think—almost as if the world is in slow motion. Perhaps the drinks, you think. You wonder if Caleb will leave you. You wonder if he’ll leave to go be with MC. You wonder if the years you’ve spent expressing your love to him meant as much to him as it did to you, or if he just found it plain annoying. You wonder if now that you’re in college, he’d want to explore other people, and he’ll finally find an outlet to get rid of you for good.
But you know he wouldn’t. Because he cares for you. Just not as much as he cares for her.
You wonder if he’s ever looked at you with the same softness he does with MC.
Someone pulls you away from the man and into their chest, and the worries dissipate in an instant. His scent. His warmth. You knew he’d come. He always does. It only takes a warning glare from Caleb before the man disappears into the crowd again, and you feel the grip on your wrist loosen. Caleb stares down at you, your back still to his chest as you blink wearily, almost in slow motion, and he sighs. He doesn’t give you the same smile he gives to MC when she’s in trouble.
A part of you wishes he wasn’t always there for you—not when it’s so different from how he’s there for her.
You sit idly in front of a convenience store parking lot while Caleb fetches you some water and ice cream. You have your knees to your chest, arms pulling them close as you shiver against the cold autumn breeze. You should’ve brought a jacket. The buzzing, hot feeling of the alcohol is subsiding too quickly.
“Drink.” You feel a water bottle press against your cheek from behind, and Caleb plops down beside you with a plastic bag. He notices how you’re holding yourself together and frowns. “Are you cold?”
“No.”
“I told you to grab a jacket.”
“You nag too much.”
He snickers and twists open the cap of the water bottle for you to drink, which you sip carefully. He strips his jacket off and drapes it over your shoulders, and you immediately bury yourself in it. It smells like him.
“What kind of woman do you like, Caleb?”
“You and your questions.”
“I want to know.”
He shifts to face you, motioning for you to lift your arms. He grabs either side of his jacket and pulls it shut, fumbling with the zipper until he manages to zip it to your chin. You can barely claw your hands out of his sleeves—the fabric almost engulfs you—but he just laughs. “My type? A woman who brings jackets when it’s cold.”
You scowl, making his laugh echo louder. “Other than that.”
“A woman who goes to class in the morning.”
“...Other than that.”
“A woman who doesn’t leave her clothes all over my floor when she feels like sleeping over.”
“Something else.”
“A woman who eats healthy, balanced meals. A woman who doesn’t steal all my pens and then still ends up asking me for more. Maybe someone who doesn’t pass out drooling on my pillow. Or someone who doesn’t let half the world know that they like someone—hell, maybe even the entire world.”
Caleb glances at you, chuckling to himself, but stops the moment he sees that you’re not laughing with him. Your head hangs low, your feet shuffling anxiously. His face twists, and suddenly the air thickens. “Splints?”
You pick at your sleeves. “So just not me?”
“I was just kidding around.”
“Jokes have some truth to them.”
“Not all of them. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay, Caleb,” you finally meet his eyes again, and shrug. “I know you like someone else. I’m not an idiot.”
Silence commences, like a bell dropping on your head.
Caleb shifts his weight, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. It’s a nervous habit you’ve seen a hundred times—usually followed by some half-joke, something to smooth things over.
But nothing comes.
The space between you suddenly feels too small and too big all at once. You try to act normal. You really do.
You fiddle with your sleeve again, smoothing it down, then pulling at it, then smoothing it again. Anything to give your hands something to do, so they don’t reach for him out of instinct.
Caleb glances at you. Then away.
Then back again, like he’s trying to solve something written across your face but can’t quite make out the words.
“Hey,” he starts, softer this time.
You hum in response, not trusting your voice yet.
Another pause. God, it’s awkward.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters again, quieter now. Not defensive. Unsure. “You know I think you’re amazing.”
Just not enough.
“I am pretty great,” but it comes out too soft.
Neither of you knows what to do with another stretch of silence. So you opt to drink some more water instead.
“Why do you like me so much?” He eventually mutters out as he bites his bottom lip, eyes falling to the ground like he can’t bear to watch your expression. “You could do a lot better.”
You smile, but it’s half-hearted. “How could I not?”
He pauses, as if choosing his words carefully before his voice comes out in a soft whisper. “You mean so much to me. You’re smart, beautiful, and everything good in between—whoever gets to call you theirs is the luckiest person I know. And you know I’d do anything for you.”
Despite their sweetness, his words feel like judgement wrapping around your heart in vines, squeezing just before it’s about to pop. You wish you could block your ears out for what comes next.
“But it can’t be me.” Caleb’s lips purse, brows furrowing as he looks away. “I can’t give you what you want.”
The rejection hurts more than you realized it would. You want to tell him that it’s not fair to treat you the way he does and expect you not to fall for him. That holding your hair when you vomit, falling asleep at your bedside when you’re sick, and his eyes closing in on you in any room that you’re in is not fair.
Instead, you nod. And you swear to yourself that you’ll swallow this sickening lump in your throat that makes you want to hurl and sob at the same time. That you’ll bury it deep in a graveyard within you that even the closest person to you would never know of. Especially him.
“I don’t want it, either,” you snort back, immediately perking up to slap his back in what results in a jolt. His shoulders tense as he blinks wide at you, unsure of the sudden shift in atmosphere. “I don’t want feelings that belong to someone else, dumbass.”
Once it sinks in that you mean it, a smile finds its way onto his face, though something flickers beneath it, like a flash of something you don’t want to look too far into.
Not because you still had hope, but because whatever existed between you had never been something as simple as a crush. It had roots—tangled deep into your souls and impossible to pull free without tearing something open. You wanted to keep what was left. Even if it lingered just a little longer, and even if you pretended not to see the splintering strands in the string tying you together.
So you let it settle. Let it rot somewhere you couldn’t feel it.
The two of you fall into the kind of closeness that you’ve always had, and time passes as if it was always meant to be this way. It’s easier this way. For a while, it does work, but nothing ever really stays under wraps. Despite your incessant protests in telling yourself it’s fading, the scars he’s inflicted on you are just that. Scars. Unmoving yet subtle.
The thinning thread finally snaps a few years later, when MC develops feelings for a coworker in the Hunter’s Association. The day the cracks in the glass bridge holding you together shatter beneath your feet into a million different pieces.
“When’s the last time you’ve slept?”
He’s sprawled shirtless on the couch of his apartment in Skyhaven, freshly out of the shower after you arrived to visit him for the first time in months—only to see that he’s nearly overworking himself to death. Despite him going off to the DAA after college, you’d kept close contact, the connection between the two of you never wavering regardless of your restricted time. It only changed after news of MC broke out. Worried, you’d rushed to Skyhaven to make sure he was doing okay, which you’re clearly glad you did now. You’d practically had to drag him to the shower to keep him from passing out next to the front door in his gear.
Caleb, clearly, is off. You suppose you don’t blame him. The woman he loves is yearning for another. Almost poetic, really, but you don’t like seeing him this way. Especially when you know what it feels like yourself, even if you’ve gotten used to it. Gotten over it. He looks like a kicked puppy. Hurt, like a dog who’s just been scratched by its owner.
“I dunno.”
You peer into the empty abyss that is his fridge and frown. There’s a few measly apples sitting inside, and a half-eaten protein bar that’s been there for god knows how long. “What the hell have you been eating?”
He responds with a grunt, letting his head fall back against the sofa. You decide to make do with the instant noodles he has stashed in one of the cupboards and bring it over to him once it seems mostly done. With a fork, you stick out a few noodles to his face, urging him. “Eat.”
“Not hungry,” he mutters.
“Don’t care. Sit up.”
He opens one of his eyes to peek at you, which somehow urges him forward. There’s darkness beneath his eyes—even stubble littering his chin from a few days worth of not shaving. You want to reach out and poke fun at him, but the state he’s in deters you. Instead, you silently feed him, watching him chew his food while staring at your hands. It makes you wish you put on a fresh set of polish before you came.
You twirl another small forkful and hold it out. He leans forward this time without being told, taking it quietly. His shoulder brushes yours as he settles back against the couch, and you can feel his skin through your shirt.
“Thanks,” he mutters, voice rough from disuse more than anything. “For coming.”
“Yeah,” you say, quieter now. “Someone had to make sure you didn’t rot in here.”
He huffs a faint laugh, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Probably would’ve. Dramatic way to go out, huh?”
You nudge his knee with yours. “Starving to death in your own apartment? Real heroic.”
A ghost of a smile flickers across his face. It makes your heart flutter. Stupid feelings.
“…thanks for coming, splints,” he says.
Your chest tightens—sharp and sudden. It feels like it’s threatening to feel something that’s not yours to feel. So instead, you look down at the bowl, pretending to focus on separating another bite. You twirl your fork, more carefully this time. “I had to. You weren’t responding, so I thought you died, or something. Open.”
He rolls his eyes, but obeys anyway. “Bossy.”
“Learned from the best.”
His lids flutter shut, voice dropping to a lower hum. “I missed this.”
Your hand stills. “What?”
He shrugs, eyes still closed. “You being here.”
His hair is sticking to his forehead, still damp from the shower. Before you realize what you’re doing, you brush a stray strand of hair off his forehead. You speak quietly. “You look like shit.”
“Wow,” he mutters. “You have a way with words.”
You frown, and without thinking, your hand lingers at his temple for just a second longer than it should. His skin is warm, still hot from the shower.
“Idiot,” you whisper.
He catches your wrist. Not tight, not stopping you. Simply holding it there for a moment that feels too long and not long enough at once. Your eyes meet for a fleeting moment, and then you’re looking away, setting the mostly finished bowl of noodles onto the coffee table to pull away.
“Don’t make this a habit. I’m not flying out here every time you forget to eat.”
“Could,” he murmurs. “You would.”
You don’t respond to that, because he’s not wrong.
“…Is she okay?”
It slips out of him like instinct. Like breathing. And just like that, everything shifts. You don’t answer right away—instead, your fingers tighten slightly around the fork.
“She’s fine,” you say eventually. Leave it, you plead in your head.
“Did she say anything?” he asks, sitting up a little more now. There’s something in his eyes, like he’s searching. “When you talked to her.”
You shrug, trying to keep your tone even. “Just normal stuff.” Stop, you think. Please stop talking.
“Like what?”
“Like her job. Her grandma. Nothing serious.” Shit.
He frowns slightly. “She didn’t mention him?”
There it is. It’s always about her.
You know he’s in a vulnerable spot right now, but it does nothing to ease the sudden flame roaring in your chest. Whether it’s from years of repressed hurt or shame, all it amounts to is a relentless ball of rage inside of you that leaves your nails digging crescents into the palms of your hands. You stare at him, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you inch away from him.
“Does it matter?”
Caleb’s face relaxes. “What?”
“Why does it matter what she thinks about him? She likes him, end of story, no?”
“I just want to know if he’s a decent guy.”
Your ass. “That’s not really your business, Caleb, but sure. He’s a great guy. Amazing, honestly. He’s really gentlemanly and checks every single box. He lives above her apartment, so they’re right next to each other. He treats her gently, too. I’d bet every girl would jump at a chance to date a guy like that.”
You’re not sure where the words are tumbling out of, but it’s too late to go back. Neither do you want to.
“I wonder if he has a brother. Maybe MC could set me up or something.”
“Oh. Is he…” Caleb’s back straightens, and you notice his fingers digging into his thighs. “...handsome?”
“Didn’t you hear me? I’m telling you, he’s perfect. His face could pay for the Linkon rent by itself.”
He suddenly stands, and you glare up at him through your eyebrows. “Why are you talking like that?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you scoff.
He narrows his eyes. It’s something you haven’t seen in a while, since Caleb rarely gets upset at you. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, splints.”
“Can you just spit it out? What am I saying differently?”
“You’re angry.”
You stand, following suit. He looms over you to have his shadow essentially engulf you, and you wish you could kick his ankle so he falls to the ground. “Maybe if you weren’t so irritating, I wouldn’t feel so annoyed right now.”
“What?”
“It’s hard to watch, Caleb,” you hiss out in exasperation, throwing your hands into the air. “It’s always pipsqueak this, pipsqueak that, pipsqueak what. Seriously, we’re not kids anymore, you need to get over it!”
You’re not sure if you’re talking to him or yourself anymore.
“Can we calm down and talk? If I’ve been talking too much about it, I can stop, so—”
“We haven’t seen each other in months, Caleb! And all you want to ask me about is how she’s been? Why don’t you ask her yourself, if you’re so curious? Oh, but you can’t, because you always have to be perfect in front of her. So instead, you dump all of this on me. Your goods and bads, all of it, just for me to get kicked to the curb like I’m some dispensable object.”
“What?” his balks. “Dispensible? Are you serious? As if I haven’t gotten you out of every little thing you’ve gotten yourself into the past decade of our lives? As if I haven’t picked you up every weekend from your friends’ places at three in the morning? Like I haven’t called you every single week—”
“Well, I want you to stop that!” your words spit at him like weak knives, growing louder by the second.
“You didn’t seem very against it the last forty times.”
“I am now.”
“What has gotten into you, splints?”
“Don’t call me that right now,” you glower, and you try to ignore the hurt flashing across his expression. “I’m just sick of seeing you follow her around like some wet dog. She doesn’t see you like that, can’t you see that?”
Your breathing begins to stutter, and you suck in a deep breath through your nose. Your chest stings, and you pray that you don’t lose composure so the tears threatening to bubble at the corners of your eyes remain hidden.
“You told me that you couldn’t give me what I wanted. Well, she can’t either,” you bore holes into his chest, too afraid of what you might see if you look up. “If I can get over my stupid feelings, so can you.”
But you’re not over it. Not at all.
He opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. For the first time in a while, you’ve rendered him speechless, and it feels even worse than what it felt to be rejected years ago. You’re not sure how your nails haven’t drawn blood at this point. You’d rather that they do, so you have some excuse to use the restroom.
“It’s not fair what you do, Caleb,” you try to will your tears to stay at bay, but you can’t help them. They sting, blurring your vision as you drop your head in some pathetic hope that he won’t face them head on. “How you treat me when you don’t like me like that is not fair. At least MC doesn’t know, but you—you know, and yet you—”
The rational part of you says that it’s not entirely his fault. Sure, you insisted on staying by his side. Sure, you insisted that you could push down your feelings. Sure, you’ve promised a lot of things, but it’s his fault too, for being the way he is—so kind, so thoughtful, just so him.
You wipe desperately at your tears. It was a lost cause from the start.
“Please don’t cry.” His face drains of color, apparent even against the dim lighting in his apartment. He steps towards you, and you take a step back. “Please don’t cry, splints, just not that.”
But when your tears refuse to cease dripping down your cheeks, your face flushing in humiliation, you feel both his hands cupping either side of it. He tilts your gaze up, and you realize that he’s only inches away from you, so much so that you can feel his breath against your skin. It’s moments like these that you lose yourself in his beauty. The deepness of his eyes that seem to peer into your very soul is one of the first features that you fell in love with as a child, and it hasn’t changed since. Damn him. You blink, eyes wide while his own flicker to your lips.
“Be as mad as you want. Hit me, hate me even,” he whispers, his nose almost touching yours now. His thumb pad smooths your tears away. “But don’t waste your tears on someone like me.”
You think you might be imagining things. Because with the tension that nearly suffocates you and his lashes almost fluttering against your skin, you think he might be about to kiss you.
A sharp pain jabs you in the chest. Is it pity? A consolation prize dressed up as something softer? Is it to smooth things over, to make this moment easier for him to leave behind? Or is it rebellion? Something reckless from the fact that he can’t have her? Your tears have dried up, but the rest of your body seems to weep, as no excitement, no butterflies course through your veins.
Why is it always something else? Why is it never you? It only hurts—because even now, you’re just the place he empties everything he feels for her.
Instinctively, you press your palm into his lips to push him away, and it feels like the air itself has stilled.
His breath lingers against your skin. Yours stutters like it’s forgotten how to exist in the same space as him. The air is so thick you could slice it with a knife.
Eventually, he pulls away. Caleb stares at you with an expression you haven’t seen before, though you don’t look long enough to analyze it. Wordlessly, you gather your things, stuffing your jacket into your bag and stumble over to the door—all while he stays locked in a petrified state, like he’s processing what he just did. Your gaze remains fixated on the wooden panels of the floor while you pack, refusing to look any higher in case you might see anything other than his feet.
“Don’t follow me,” you tell him as you leave.
You don’t wait to see if he hears you.
The journey home feels like there’s a gaping hole in your chest, and all you can do is stare out the window as you feel the vibrations of the train through your fingertips. Outside, the world blurs past in streaks of dim lights and shadowed shapes, and you wish that your feelings were as fleeting as the buildings blurring by.
You try to count the number of trees you see. Not on the warmth of his breath against your palm. Not on how close he’d been. Not on the fact that, for a second, you almost let him.
If you hadn’t pushed him away, would it have meant anything? Or would you have just been a mistake he’d regret in the morning?
Your phone buzzes frantically in your pocket, and you pull it out to see his name in big bold letters. He’s texting you simultaneously, apologizing in so many different ways that they all start to blend into one message you don’t plan on reading. You refuse to give into what your heart wants. It’s hurt you too much in the past. So instead, your thumb hovers above the ‘mute’ button.
You press it and shut your eyes.
Even if it’s difficult to adjust the first few weeks without him, you can’t bear to face him either. He shows up at your door. Nearly every day for some time, knocking softly and asking if you’d be willing to talk. When you simply plug in your earbuds and bury yourself into your bed, he apologizes through the door and leaves you something to eat. You tend to throw it out at first, but after a while, you figure it’s just a waste. Just like that, a month goes by. And then another. Then another. Until you can’t count them on one hand anymore. He comes by once every two weeks or so now, likely busy with his work.
Despite how much your body seems to miss his presence, you wonder if you should distance Caleb permanently. It’s a daunting idea. One that you never would’ve thought just a few years ago, but the embarrassment runs deeper than you want to admit. The feelings you’ve tried so hard to hide clearly aren’t hidden. Is this sustainable?
Regardless of what you think, he comes around like clockwork.
“Are you in there?” He knocks gently on your door, voice soft. He probably knows you are.
“No.”
He chuckles from the other end. “Right. Happy birthday, splints.”
You glance at your phone calendar. He’s right.
As usual, he begins to talk about random events in his life that he hasn’t had the opportunity to tell you, and while you usually muffle it out, you decide to quietly shuffle over to the door today. To tell him, maybe, that you don’t want to keep doing this. Or maybe just to hear his voice, you don’t know. Either way, you slide your back down the door where he’s on the other side, pulling your knees into your chest.
“I don’t know if you’ve read my text, but–”
“I don’t read them.”
Caleb stops, and you can almost hear his breath hitch. You usually don’t give him more than a few words, much less a full sentence, so it seems to have taken him aback. After the brief remission, you hear him clear your throat. “Splints, can you open the door? I want to talk—apologize to you.”
Silence.
“Or I can do it out here. That’s fine,” he sighs. “I want you to know that it’s okay if you want to hate me forever after this. I won’t keep clinging to you if you at listen to what I have to say, but I really just—I need to say that this is my fault.”
You half-heartedly hear his words drone on, his confidence wavering every so often while you pull up his chats on your phone. You have no idea how you hadn’t folded and read his chats until now, though it might’ve been more so for your own peace than anything. There’s too many to scroll up to, so you read the most recent messages, squinting in the dark against the light of your phone.
[1:41PM]
[caleb]: are you eating well?
[caleb]: i made this today
[caleb]: [image attached]
[caleb]: your favorite dishes :) i’ll drop them off at your place later
[caleb]: i hope you’re not just throwing them out…wouldn’t blame you tho
[caleb]: at least take care of yourself :)
[8:13AM]
[caleb]: hi splints :)
[caleb]: you probably watched it already but that movie you wanted to see came out a week ago. I went to go see it
[caleb]: i still think it’s kind of bad…but it was entertaining
[caleb]: unless you wanna argue about it ?? :3
[5:32PM]
[caleb]: ranked first today
[caleb]: i was excited to celebrate it with you and then remembered :/
[caleb]: it doesn’t feel as good when i can’t tell you lol
[caleb]: hope you’re okay
[11:23PM]
[caleb]: i wish i hadn’t been so stupid
[caleb]: i didn’t deserve you back then
[caleb]: i still don’t
[caleb]: i shouldn’t have lost my cool when you were over here. didn’t like hearing you talk about that guy like that
[caleb]: im sure he’s a good looking guy, and i know you’re particularly weak to good looking guys…
[caleb]: i was being childish and i wish i could’ve explained it to you then
[caleb]: i know you don’t owe me anything and you don’t have to listen to what i have to say
[caleb]: but i never wanted to make you feel used, and i never did. if that even sounds believable lol
[caleb]: it was never about her
[caleb]: there’s so much more i want to say but i’ll say it in person
[caleb]: miss you a lot
[caleb]: sleep tight
You wish the tightness in your chest would go away. You wish you didn’t feel his sorrow through him. And you wish you didn’t care about your own feelings for him.
“I love you, splints,” he murmurs, and your attention tears away from the chats, your phone nearly clattering onto the floor. Your eyes widen, suddenly regretting that you missed the first half of his speech.
“Not in the way you say it to your friends, or the way you say it to family. You’re my life, and you’ve been my life since the day you gave me that ring. I care for MC, but what I feel for you is different. It’s always been different. I realized that years ago, but I was afraid that it wouldn’t be fair for you. I thought you deserved someone better than someone who doesn’t know how to understand their own feelings.” Your throat dries. “I thought it wasn’t fair because I’d already put you through so much.”
“At the same time, I’m a selfish guy, you know? I couldn’t let you go either, because I couldn’t bear to see you with someone else. I wanted it to be us, and the only way I could think of existing without feeling like I was ruining you was to stay how we were. Stagnant, I guess,” he chuckles, but it feels sad. Weak. “I’m an idiot when it comes to you, you know.”
You don’t respond.
Not because you don’t have anything to say—if anything, there’s too much. It crowds your throat, every word scraping against the next until none of them can make it out. Your fingers hover uselessly over your phone, screen still lit with a conversation you can’t even remember reading.
‘I love you.’
The words echo, but they don’t land the way you once dreamed they would. They don’t bloom or soften or fix anything. They just sit. Too heavy. Too late.
Your chest tightens, aching outward like it’s trying to break free. Because you’ve wanted this—God, you’ve wanted this—for so long that you stopped letting yourself imagine it could ever actually happen. It should feel like relief. Instead, it feels real, but fragile.
Because you remember too much. The almosts. The waiting. The way you learned how to swallow your emotions when he built a wall between the two of you—and that doesn’t disappear just because he finally found the words.
Your hand curls slightly against the door, fingers brushing the cool surface.
Even with all that, you still miss the warmth of his skin. How his hair felt through a towel as you dried it. How he’d flick your forehead when you’d get a question wrong during one of his tutoring sessions. How he’d tease you about your grades or interests, and learn more about them anyway. How he’d message you throughout the day about random endeavors. How he’d always be there. How with just a call of his name, he would’ve crossed the continents for you. His eyes. His lips. His face. His painfully handsome face.
You remember him in all parts of your life—and not a single moment you’ve spared has gone without him. You remember how he held your hand when you’d broken your arm, and the way he’d lifted you into the air and embraced you when you were accepted into the same college as him. You remember how he’d pet your hair as you complained about him going too far for the DAA, promising he’d visit often. And he did. He always kept his promises.
Your body moves on its own, as if this was how it was always meant to be. The door slowly creaks open.
“…We’re a mess.”
A faint, tired smile is all you can give him. Still, when he sees you, the world seems to stop for just the two of you, and it takes him a moment to fully register that you’re really there. That you’re not just a figment of his imagination, and he hasn’t truly lost you forever as he’d feared. “This doesn’t mean you’re completely out of the woods. I’m still mad.”
“You should be,” he whispers out, nearly breathless.
Hesitantly, you step towards him. He reaches his arm out, brows furrowed cautiously like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to even blink right now. The tips of his fingers twitch towards you. You raise a brow, and he swallows the lump in his throat, retracting back until you nod.
Realizing you don’t have shoes, you step onto the fronts of his shoes one foot at a time, taking his hand until you’re flush against him and he’s already engulfing you into a crushing embrace. His arms wrap around you, strong and warm. He smells good. Though you can’t confidently say the same for yourself given the state you’re in, he drops his chin into the crook of your neck and inhales deeply, like a man starved.
“Note to self,” you mumble. “Don’t propose to any handsome guy you see.”
Caleb laughs, airy this time, and you feel it against your collarbone. “I thought you were going to leave your husband out here to die in the cold.”
“I should divorce you. We’re not even married yet.”
He grins, lopsided. “You should.”
“I won’t.”
“I know.
You bury your face into his chest, fingers digging into the fabric on his back. “I don’t want a version of my life without you, Caleb. As annoying as you are.”
He pulls away for a brief moment and places a kiss on your cheek, his own dusting red. Flowers feel like they’re blooming on the spot he pecked, but somehow, it feels natural. You’ve always been close to him physically throughout your upbringing, even if it never involved lips–that was new territory. You cross your arms, relying on his hands around your waist to keep you upright. “Tell me more.”
“You nag too much.”
He kisses your nose. “Hm?”
“You’re emotionally repressed.”
“Ouch.” He kisses your temple.
“You’re too good at things you don’t try at.”
Your jawline.
“You’re unstable. You’re too protective. You’re stupid.”
“I love you,” he says, pressing his forehead against yours. His lips hover above your own, just centimeters away.
Your lashes flutter against his. “Then prove it to me.”
“I will,” he whispers, just as his mouth slots against yours, and a warmth blooms throughout your chest. You melt into him, like you always have and you always will. “I’ll prove it to you for the rest of my life.”
synopsis. maybe the problem isn't the stalker, maybe it's the one being stalked.
tags. nsfw, modern college au, strong yandere themes, dead dove, dubcon, obsession, stalking, killing, violence, manipulation, slowburn, plot-based, sexual tension, a bit of one-sided pining, somnophilia, depraved!caleb, yearning!caleb, detached!reader, m!masturbating, heavy make outs, fingering, p in v, reverse cowgirl, backshots, rough sex, strictly 18+
a/n. this is incredibly long and perhaps a lot to take in, i got carried away and did too much effort on this ^^; i suggest reading this when you're fully free ;D ps. image isn't mine. ctto.
wc. 18k (help me)
you never knew how it felt to be stalked by a guy long enough for your entire connections to be known, never knew how it felt to be obsessed over quite enough for the people close to you to disappear.
most of all, you never knew, would it had come from the guy most people refer to as a golden boy.
caleb knows you a bit too well. he knows the time you tend to feel most restless, the days you skip meals without noticing, the precise expression you make when something irritates you—not enough to complain, just enough to remember.
he knows because he’s watched, because he’s listened, because he’s arranged himself around the negative space of your life until the outline became clear.
you never call it attraction.
you just tell yourself, caleb would know, when a choice presents itself.
and every time you do, he gets close enough to see how little room you leave for anyone else.
you’re seated at the long oak table by the east windows at the school's library, the one that catches light only in the afternoon. and caleb knows this because he has noticed the pattern. he adjusts his steps to arrive when you’re already settled, coat folded on the chair beside you, book open but untouched for the last several minutes.
you don’t look up when he stops at the edge of the table.
“hey,”
you glance up then, and your eyes pass over him with the same neutral recognition you give the shelves, the lamps, the exit signs.
“hi,” you say.
caleb smiles anyway, he always does as a golden boy. it’s a good tool. it opens space.
“studying?” he asks, already knowing the answer. the textbook’s spine is creased in the same place it always is. page 214. you never dog-ear; you use a receipt as a bookmark. today it’s from a café two blocks away. he clocks the date without thinking.
“trying, it’s quieter here.”
it is. the library smells faintly of dust and pages. he likes places that cooperate. “mind if i sit?” he asks, even as his hand is already on the chair across from you.
you shrug. “go ahead.”
permission granted without weight. it settles in his chest, warm and sure. he sits, careful not to scrape the floor. he places his bag down precisely, knees aligned with the table leg.
you return to your book, as your attention moves away from him so completely it’s almost surgical. caleb watches the way your fingers rest against the margin.
“i ran into your friend earlier,” he says casually. “he asked about you.”
your page turns. “yea?”
“yeah, said he hadn’t heard from you in a while.”
you hum, noncommittal. “i’ve been busy.”
caleb nods like this explains everything. it does, in its way. busy is useful. busy thins things out. busy creates gaps. “if you need help with anything, you know. notes, rides, food runs.”
you finally look at him again. “i know.”
that’s all. no gratitude, no warmth. the words land and stop. caleb feels a small, private satisfaction anyway. knowing is enough. awareness precedes dependence.
as you read, his attention drifts—not away from you, never that, but inward, where his thoughts arrange themselves neatly. he imagines this table without the extra chair. imagines you alone, every day, because there’s no one else left to ask. imagines your routines tightening until they circle him naturally, like a well-designed system.
he wonders, idly, how long it would take before you stopped noticing his presence entirely, before he became part of the architecture.
“what are you working on?”
you tilt the book so he can see the title. “research methods.”
“fun,” he says, dry. “want help?”
“nope.”
caleb’s smile doesn’t flicker. he likes your no’s. they make everything else feel earned. “okay, i’ll just… be here.” he doesn’t need to say why, he's already bringing out a book he will pretend to work on infront of you.
your sleeve slips down as you adjust your posture. he notices the line of skin at your wrist, the faint indentation where your watch usually sits. today it’s missing. he doesn’t linger on it the way a lover would. he catalogs it, the way one notes a missing screw in a machine that otherwise runs perfectly.
you shift again, crossing your legs.
he thinks about your home, sparsely furnished and everything placed for efficiency. he’s been there enough times to know where the spare key is hidden, though he’s never used it. no need. patience sharpens the edges of things.
“you eating later?” he pretends to bury his eyes onto the book.
“probably, haven’t decided.”
“i can bring something by,” he offers. “save you the trouble.”
you consider this for half a second. not him—just the logistics. “sure, that’d help.”
help. the word warms him more than affection ever could.
“text me what you want,” he smiles.
you nod, already gone again, mind back in the book. caleb watches your breathing slow into a steady rhythm. he imagines it continuing like this, uninterrupted, because he removes anything that might disturb it; noise and mess and people who take up space they don’t deserve.
someone just laughs too loudly at a table across the room and caleb’s jaw already tightens almost imperceptibly. he releases it just as quickly though, because not now. this place is orderly. it will correct itself.
he stands after a while, smooth and unhurried. “i’ll let you work,”
“okay,” you reply, without looking up.
he pauses, just long enough to be seen if you were paying attention. you aren’t. that’s fine. he leaves with a smile anyway.
~
you text him at 6:17 p.m.
[name]:
burger’s fine the one from elm street ! get one for yourself too, i’ll pay you when you get here. :)
caleb reads it once, then again.
elm street is six blocks out of the way, but the rain has already started, loud and impatient against the pavement, the kind that turns the city into a smear of motion and noise. he checks the forecast anyway, out of habit, as if it might surprise him.
as expected, heavy rain, gusts, and limited visibility.
“okay,” he types back. “be there soon.”
he doesn’t hesitate. hesitation would imply negotiation, and there isn’t one. you asked. that’s the beginning and the end of it.
he leaves the school building with his jacket buttoned wrong, and he notices only after he’s already halfway down the steps. the umbrella he grabs from his bagpack is the flimsy one, the one that bends inward when the wind gets merciless. it doesn’t matter.
the city looks different when it’s wet. surfaces shine, edges blur. caleb likes it. it simplifies people.
as he walks, he thinks about the way you phrased it. "get one for yourself too." not an invitation, but an instruction that saves you the trouble of refusing later. considerate in the way you’re always considerate, without sentiment.
he imagines arriving back at the library, rain-soaked, bag held carefully away from his body so the paperwrapper won’t soften. imagines you looking up from your books with that neutral expression, eyes flicking briefly to the bag before moving back to his face. you’ll say “thanks!” you always do and say it like that.
the rain thickens, as his shoes darken at the seams. water slips down the back of his collar, cold and precise. he adjusts his grip on the umbrella, angling it forward, though the wind keeps catching it, tugging like a spoiled child.
halfway across the main road, a bus roars past too close. caleb registers it in parts: the sound, the pressure, the sudden arc of brown water lifting off the curb.
suddenly, mud splashes up his side, violent and abrupt, streaking across the white of his uniform. it blooms like a bruise.
he looks down at it. "ah..."
there’s a moment—small, contained—where he considers turning back to change and arrive clean. the thought dissolves almost immediately though.
you didn’t ask for clean.
so he continues walking.
at the burger place, the line is too long. people drip onto the tile floor, smelling like wet fabric and impatience. caleb stands still, posture perfect despite the water gathering at the hem of his sleeves and dripping down his hair locks. he doesn’t shake it off.
when it’s his turn, he orders without looking at the menu. “i'll have two double cheese burgers please,” he smiles, remniscient of a wet golden retriever. “no onions on one.”
the cashier nods, bored. caleb pays without thinking, you’ll reimburse him later. or you won’t. either way, the exchange has already served its purpose.
he waits, hands folded loosely in front of him. his reflection in the stainless steel is distorted—mud-streaked, hair darkened by rain, lilac eyes steady. he looks like someone who has been through something minor and inconvenient. he likes that too.
the bag is warm when he takes it. he adjusts his hold, cradling it instinctively to keep the heat in. the rain greets him again with renewed enthusiasm. but the umbrella finally gives a sharp, pathetic bend, one of its ribs snapping inward.
caleb doesn’t curse, he simply angles it differently and keeps going.
he imagines you eating, he imagines watching from across the table, tail wagging, saying nothing.
by the time he reaches the school gates, the rain has soaked through everything. his uniform clings uncomfortably and mud has dried in uneven streaks. he looks down at the bag once more, checks for leaks. it’s intact.
he’s adjusting his grip on the paper bag—still warm—when he sees you.
you’re coming down the steps, backpack slung over one shoulder, posture loose in that way that means you’re done for the day. beside you is a man caleb recognizes only vaguely: a face he’s seen in passing, a name he’s heard once or twice and didn’t bother to keep. not important enough to catalog. not until now.
who is he?
the man laughs at something you say. caleb doesn’t hear it, but he can see it in the shape of your mouth, the small tilt of your head. then, with an almost rehearsed politeness, the man lifts his umbrella and angles it over you.
you hesitate just for a beat. caleb feels it like a skipped stair as his pace slows.
then you step closer and accept. “thanks,”
you start walking, not toward him, but away.
caleb stops.
it’s not dramatic, his feet simply don’t take the next step. he watches the two of you merge into the flow of pedestrians, his eyes following the pattern of your strides, and even the umbrella tilting slightly to keep rain off your shoulder.
and then, his phone vibrates.
he already knows what it will say.
[name]:
sorry, caleb. i’m heading home with a friend you can cancel the burger.
he reads it once, then again.
the bag is still warm in his hand, grease has begun to soften the paper at the corners. he thinks, briefly and absurdly, that he should eat it while it’s still hot. food shouldn’t be wasted.
his eyes lift again, finding you easily. the umbrella dips as you step off the curb, the man adjusting it clumsily. caleb notes the poor angle, the way rain still hits your sleeve. amateur.
his thumbs move.
[caleb] okay :)
the smiley face feels right...
he doesn’t feel angry. anger would require surprise, and this doesn’t have that quality. this is just information. a variable briefly introduced, nothing more.
but caleb tries his best to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest.
he tucks his phone away and starts walking again, pace unhurried. he doesn’t follow too closely. that would be rude. he stays far enough back that he could be anyone—another student, another figure moving through rain with somewhere to be.
he watches the way you lean slightly inward under the umbrella. the way the man angles himself protectively without quite knowing how. caleb almost smiles. it’s clumsy.
he thinks, not unkindly, that you’ll be damp by the time you get home. the man’s umbrella is too small for two. you’ll probably forget to hang your jacket to dry.
he crosses the street when you do, but not at the same light. he stays on the opposite sidewalk, reflection fractured in shop windows.
for a fleeting moment, something almost playful stirs in him. a faint amusement at how neat it all is, how unaware you are of the shape forming around you.
you think the burger is canceled.
you think the evening has simply rearranged itself.
caleb adjusts his pace, keeping you in sight as the street bends.
he has time.
the man beside you laughs again. that stupid, easy smile. almost cute.
it makes caleb’s jaw tighten just enough to feel pleasure. almost, he thinks, but not quite. caleb lets the rain slick street guide his steps, following quietly, calculating.
and by the time the two of you reach your porch, by the time you finally went inside to leave your little friend alone, when he turns to an alleyway that cuts through to a side street, caleb is ready. the timing is precise—he lunges the instant the man is slightly ahead, stepping into the narrow corridor as if it belongs only to him.
the man doesn’t understand immediately, feeling caleb’s strong hands find his throat without warning. strength measured and restraint practiced. the alley swallows his sounds, struggling against the ground, coughing and gasping.
“what—what the hell—?” your friend chokes out, wide-eyed.
caleb says nothing, he just watches the movement of the man’s chest, watches the panic flare. he imagines your terrified face if you were here. it steels him.
the man fights back, strong enough to shove him off for a moment. "what's wrong with you–?" a punch lands, catching caleb's mouth. a quick, sharp pain. he tastes a bit of blood but doesn’t falter.
instead, he pivots, countering immediately. the punches become a rhythm, measured but a bit out of place. he doesn’t lose himself in anger; every movement designed to correct, to remove obstacles.
finally, he finds what he needs: a large, irregular stone at the edge of the alley. it’s heavy.
he swings.
the sharp edge of the form slams against the man's hard temple, and instantly he falls against the concrete once more. "fuck you—!" and he's cut off by caleb's yet another swing.
again, "ghh!" and again, and again, blood starts to paint caleb's cheek, and again, "augh!" each time imagining only the one whose presence justifies the act. the man's face is already pooled with nothing but red, eyes unalive, unblinking.
at last, unconsciousness. caleb pants, chest and shoulders rising. he drops the stone, and the alley is now silent except for the pattering rain.
he looks down.
the man isn’t moving now. caleb doesn’t crouch immediately. he knows better than to rush the end of things. stillness has a texture to it; he waits until it’s certain. until the body has decided what it is.
only then does he kneel.
your name drifts through his mind, more like a constant hum. and his mouth aches faintly, he tastes it with his tongue and tastes copper. how inconvenient. caleb exhales once, steadying himself, and reaches for the man’s collar.
“sorry,” he pulls the shirt up and over the man’s head with careful efficiency. fabric tears a little at the seam. he folds the cloth and uses it to wipe his mouth, his knuckles, then the edge of his jaw. he presses firmly but not roughly. there’s no reason to bruise himself further.
he works methodically, cleaning until his skin looks like his again. the shirt darkens with use, absorbing what shouldn’t be seen. when he’s done, he wraps it around the man’s hands, then his face—gentle, almost considerate. modesty should still be a habit...
he checks his reflection in a darkened window at the end of the alley.
a little pale, eyes bright, face bruised from your friend's punch, with a few of his damp fringes sticking to his forehead.
as for the rest—he’s already thought it through. the alley opens into a service road, there’s a construction site two blocks down, poorly fenced and poorly lit.
he grips the man beneath the arms and drags him a short distance, adjusting when necessary. it’s heavier than he’d like, but manageable.
all the while, he imagines you at home. maybe you’re already inside, shoes kicked off neatly by the door. maybe you’ve forgotten about the burger entirely. you tend to do that—release things once they’re no longer relevant.
he likes that about you.
caleb checks the time on his phone.
too late, by most standards. late enough that reasonable people would call it a night, late enough that the rain—still falling, thin and persistent—has driven everyone sensible indoors. the screen glows briefly against his damp palm before he slips the phone away.
he buys the burger again, because he accidentally stepped on the one he bought earlier while he was disposing the remnants of an added body count. the cashier doesn’t recognize him; caleb looks different now, hair still wet, backpack sagging and misshapen from rain and weight. his umbrella is gone somewhere behind him in the city, forgotten and surrendered.
the paper bag is warm when he steps back outside. he walks the rest of the way without shelter, rain darkening his clothes further, water threading down his neck, soaking the strap of his backpack until it clings unpleasantly to his shoulder.
he doesn’t rush.
by the time he reaches your house, he looks like he’s been through a disaster, with shoes leaving faint, damp prints on your porch.
he rings the doorbell once. he's known your address because of your recent study session with your blockmates together, or did he really?
inside, he hears movement. and then the door opens.
you freeze, just slightly.
your eyes take him in without asking permission: the state of him, the wet hair pushed back from his forehead, the way rain has sharpened the lines of his face instead of softening them. he looks worn-down and absurdly composed all at once. still… him.
“caleb?” you say, incredibly confused. “what—”
he lifts the bag gently between you, like an offering. “you wanted a burger,” he smiles, voice low. “figured you might still be hungry.”
you stare at the bag, then at him. “i—didn't you read my text?”
“mm, i know.”
that only confuses you more...
rain drips from his sleeve onto your doorstep. you don’t move out of the way. you’re still processing—his presence, the timing, the contradiction. he watches it all with quiet attentiveness, cataloging the way your expression shifts, the way your hand lifts halfway and stops.
“you’re very soaked,” you say finally. there’s a faint edge of distress now, practical in nature. “why are you—”
he doesn’t answer. he steps closer instead, just enough that the warmth from inside your home brushes against his skin. his knees feel suddenly unreliable, like they’ve been holding a line longer than intended.
you reach for the bag, fingers closing around the warm paper. “caleb, this is—”
that’s when he lets go.
not dramatically, not all at once. his weight simply tips forward, the last of his restraint slipping quietly away. his head brushes past your cheek, and then he’s there—collapsed against you, shoulder to shoulder, heavier than you expected.
“caleb—?” you gasp, startled, instinctively catching him. “what’s wrong?”
his head rests briefly against your shoulder, damp hair brushing your collarbone. for a second—just one—he allows himself to feel the simple fact of you holding him up.
“sorry,” he murmurs, faint and sincere. “guess i pushed it a bit, pip.”
your arms tense, unsure where to go, what to do. you’re not thinking about his feelings. you’re thinking about the mess he’s tracking in instead, the absurdity of a burger pressed between you.
“you’re… you’re bleeding?” you say, noticing his mouth, the faint mark he didn’t quite erase.
“it’s... nothing,” he answers, already closing his eyes, before completely fainting.
~
consciousness returns to caleb slowly, like a tide that doesn’t announce itself.
first, there’s softness beneath him. but it's not the rigid give of a couch or the utilitarian flatness of a mattress he knows.
he blinks.
the ceiling comes into focus—plain, faintly shadowed by light from the street filtering through curtains. his eyes drift, cataloging before understanding. the faint scent in the room isn’t detergent or rain. it’s you. something he’s only ever encountered in fragments before.
he exhales.
his body registers itself next. same clothes are still on. damp, but not against fabric—there’s a towel beneath him, folded carefully, placed with intention so the bed wouldn’t absorb what he brought in from outside.
he turns his head.
you’re sitting beside the bed in a simple chair with a small basin on the floor near your feet. you’re wringing out a towel between your hands, it’s much tinier than the one beneath him.
for him.
you don’t look at him immediately. “you’re finally awake,”
“hello,” his voice is rougher than he expects. he swallows.
you stand and step closer, bringing the towel with you. he watches the way you fold it once before lifting it to his face. gentle pressure at the corner of his mouth, cool against the bruise.
“what happened?” you ask. “did you get into a fight?”
caleb considers the truth—not the whole of it, just the outline. he measures how much weight the word can carry without collapsing the structure you’re both standing on. “…yeah, i did.”
it’s enough.
you frown slightly. not in disappointment—more like concern redirected inward, calculating what that means. whether it needs follow-up, whether it explains the state you found him in. “you should be more careful,” you say, absently, as you dab at his lip again.
“i'm sorry,” he murmurs, because that’s what fits there.
your focus doesn’t waver as you clean the edge of the bruise, fingers brushing his skin with unthinking precision.
he feels it everywhere. his body reacts before his mind can smooth it over. heat creeps up his neck, and his ears feel too warm. he’s acutely aware of the way he’s lying in your bed, the way you’re standing so close, the way your attention is fixed on him without reverence or fear.
you’re not tending to him because you care about his inner life. you’re doing it because it’s necessary, that’s what makes it unbearable.
his fingers twitch once against the sheets, then still. he doesn’t want to move. movement might fracture this moment, and he wants it intact.
“does it hurt?” you finally look at him properly.
“no, not really, pips.”
you hum softly, accepting the answer without probing. you finish with the towel and step back, setting it aside. he immediately feels the distance.
his chest feels light and jittery, alive in a way that’s almost inconvenient. he’s exactly where he wants to be.
you come back with a shirt folded over your arm.
it’s yours—oversized even on you. you hold it out to him, eyes already drifting toward the door as if the exchange is finished the moment it begins. “this should fit, you should change. your clothes are still damp.”
caleb pushes himself up on his elbows, the movement slower than necessary. he takes the shirt, fingers brushing the fabric, “okay,”
you turn, already halfway out of the room, when his hand closes around your wrist. the contact alone is enough to stop you, unexpected weight anchoring you in place.
you look back at him.
caleb’s expression is... careful and faintly apologetic, vulnerable in a way that’s been curated rather than stumbled into. his grip remains gentle, almost tentative, as if he’s waiting to see whether you’ll pull away.
“hey,” he says softly. “can you—wait a second?”
your brow furrows. “what?”
he exhales, a small sound, and shifts just enough to wince, deliberately. “i think i pulled something,” he frowns at himself. “my torso feels… really sore. 's hard to move.”
you glance at him, unconvinced. your eyes flick—not to his face, but to his arms. his biceps, still defined even slack.
“you?” you tilt your head. “with those arms? you’ll survive.”
caleb huffs a quiet laugh, corner of his mouth lifting. “big guys feel pain too, you know.”
it’s almost playful. but you frown, unimpressed.
he looks up at you then, properly, lashes lowered, expression softening into something deliberately pitiful. a practiced helplessness, remniscient of a puppy. the kind that works on people who want to believe in it.
you don’t.
your wrist remains in his hand, and you sigh.
“fine,” you reach for the edge of his jacket. “don’t be dramatic.”
caleb’s breath catches—not visibly, not enough that you’d comment on it—but he feels it all the same. you undo the buttons with brisk efficiency, tug the fabric free from his shoulders. the jacket slips off and lands folded on the chair.
next is the polo. your fingers brush his side as you lift it over his head. the contact is brief, incidental, but it lights something sharp and electric under his skin. he keeps his eyes on the wall behind you, jaw tight, as if looking at you directly might undo him.
the undershirt comes last.
you pause, just barely. “arms up,” and he does.
fabric slides upward, peeling away inch by inch. his torso is bare now, marked only by faint tension and the shallow rise and fall of his breathing. caleb feels it then—the space between you narrowing, the quiet thickening. he wonders, absurdly, if you feel it too.
you do.
you just don’t let it show.
your gaze flicks down despite yourself, a glance you probably didn’t intend to give, catching on the lines of his abdomen, his abs, before snapping back up.
he gulps.
you clear your throat and step back, folding the damp clothes with unnecessary firmness. “there, you’re fine. next time, don’t overdo it.”
he doesn’t answer. he just looks at you with a softened, open expression that hovers somewhere between need and embarrassment, like he’s been caught wanting something he knows better than to ask for.
you notice. “…what?” you say, exasperated. “don’t tell me you need help putting the shirt on too?”
his head shakes immediately. “no—no, i’m good,” he says, voice a little too quick. “just—uh. sore. i can manage.”
he reaches for the shirt you brought, grateful for the barrier, and pulls it over his head. it hangs loose on him, fabric skimming his torso instead of clinging. yours, unmistakably. caleb smooths it down, grounding himself in the feel of it.
you watch for a moment, “do you need to change your bottoms too? i can look for something.”
“it’s okay, i’m fine.”
you accept that easily. too easily. you nod once, already halfway turned away when he says your name.
you stop and look back at him again, one brow lifting in mild question. patient, but faintly expectant—like you’re bracing for something inconvenient.
caleb swallows. “hey,” he rubs the back of his neck, shoulders slightly hunched now that the moment has caught up to him. “thank you, for taking care 'f me. and for the shirt. and—” he gestures vaguely, encompassing the room. “for everything.”
his smile comes easy, the familiar one. boyish and a little cheeky.
you look at him for a beat. then your mouth curves, just a little. “you’re welcome, try not to get into fights every time it rains.”
caleb laughs, a soft huff of a sound. “no promises.”
something in his chest loosens—then tightens again, because the smile you gave him wasn’t deep, it was real. you didn’t owe it to him, and that’s exactly why it lands.
he feels it settle in his bones.
for one reckless, vivid second, he wants to close the distance between you. to grab you, lift you, press his mouth to yours and feel the thought stop being hypothetical.
the image flashes bright and dangerous, so immediate it nearly makes him dizzy.
he doesn’t move. instead, he looks at you.
really looks—letting the feeling burn quietly behind his eyes while his face stays harmless. the boy-next-door facade fits him well. people trust it. you trust it.
the words "i like you" hover at the back of his throat. they feel insufficient, premature, and clumsy. saying them now would be like knocking on a door that isn’t meant to be opened yet.
so he doesn’t say anything at all.
~
two weeks pass.
caleb measures them anyway. he starts to show up more. when you leave class, when you’re deciding where to eat, when you’re reaching for something you didn’t realize you needed help with until he’s already offering it.
his timing is always impeccable. too impeccable, if anyone were paying attention.
you don’t comment on it.
you remain as you always are: calm, receptive in a practical way. you accept what’s useful. you decline what isn’t.
and caleb watches for a change that never comes— there's no softening, no emotional echoes. and still, he persists.
“isn't this the place you like?” he says one afternoon, when he insisted on walking you home, gesturing toward a small café you’ve never mentioned aloud. “they don’t over-sweeten their drinks.”
you blink at him. “yeah, how’d you know?”
he smiles, “guess.”
it keeps happening. the music he puts on when you’re in the car—songs you never said you liked, only listened to once when you thought you were alone. the way he orders food exactly how you prefer it, down to exclusions you’ve never bothered correcting in other people. the books he recommends, always landing a little too close to your taste.
“we’re quite similar,” he answers once, when you raise an eyebrow at yet another coincidence.
“i guess,” you reply, unconcerned.
and then, one friday night, the house is already overflowing when caleb arrives at the party he's been invited into.
people call his name the moment he steps inside, bunch of hands clap his shoulders. someone presses a drink into his palm without asking, and a girl he barely remembers leans in, laughing too close, eyes bright with expectation. "you've finally arrived!"
he grins, of course he does.
it’s the right response. it keeps things easy.
but he doesn’t move far from the wall near the living room, where the shadows soften the edges of things. he plants himself there, with eyes drifting instinctively toward the front door every few seconds.
he heard you were coming.
one of the seniors mentioned it casually—oh, yeah, she said she might drop by later—and that alone had tipped the scale. caleb hadn’t planned on staying long tonight, but you give shape to things.
so he waits.
the music grows louder with the bass vibrating through the floor, through his ribs. people dance, shout, spill drinks. a girl brushes his arm and smiles like it means something. he smiles back automatically, then looks past her head.
not you.
his brow tightens, just a little.
where are you?
he checks the time on his phone with just a glance. it's still early. you’re not late yet. you’re just… not here.
caleb tells himself this is fine. you don’t owe the night anything. you don’t owe him anything.
still, he keeps watching the door.
laughter erupts somewhere behind him. one of his friends grabs his wrist, tries to pull him into the center of the room. “come on,” they shout over the music. “don’t be boring.”
caleb laughs, lets himself be tugged a step forward, then gently disentangles.
“in a bit,” he winks. “i’m good here.”
he returns to the corner like it’s gravity, like the space is meant to hold him. from here, he can see everything. the staircase. the kitchen. the front door. he catalogs faces as they come and go, dismissing them almost instantly.
not you.
not you.
not you.
the longer it goes on, the harder it is to keep the smile in place. his frown deepens without him noticing, an expression out of sync with the rest of the room. around him, people are laughing, carefree, loud with borrowed joy.
caleb feels oddly detached from it all.
he imagines you arriving later—quietly, maybe, scanning the room once before committing. he imagines spotting you immediately, the way he always does. imagines the subtle recalibration of the night the moment you’re present.
suddenly, someone hooks an arm around his neck and laughs straight into his ear. “do it,” his friend yells, already half-dancing. “come on. you always do it.”
caleb exhales through a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “no,” he shakes his head. “i’m not in the mood.”
“you’re never ‘in the mood,’” another voice cuts in. “that’s why it’s funny.”
hands push at his back, nudging him forward. the music surges, bass heavy enough to feel like a second pulse. caleb resists for a moment longer out of habit, it’s easier to give in than to explain why he’s been standing still for nearly an hour, eyes fixed on the front door like he’s waiting for something to break.
“fine,” he lifts both hands in mock surrender. “one minute, alright?”
and they cheer like they’ve won something, so he lets himself be pulled into the center of the room, where the lights are brighter and the air is warmer, thick with sweat and perfume and noise.
someone presses a bottle into his hand—water, thankfully—and before he can think better of it, the crowd starts chanting his name.
caleb laughs, genuinely this time. it bubbles up despite himself, because distraction is useful. he moves with the rhythm easily, and he tips the bottle over his head and lets the water spill freely, soaking his hair, streaking down his face and neck, plastering his white shirt to his torso.
the reaction is immediate. the scene causes screams to cut through the music, the attention is loud and uncomplicated and flattering in the most shallow way.
caleb grins, spins once, lifts the bottle again and spills the last of it down his chest.
for a brief, reckless stretch of seconds, it’s fun. genuinely. the kind of fun that asks nothing of him beyond being seen.
and then—
he sees you.
you’re standing just off to the side, near the edge of the room where the lights dim and the crowd thins, watching.
your eyes meet his.
and then, everything else falls away.
the music dulls like it’s been wrapped in cloth. the shouting fades to a low, distant roar. caleb’s smile falters, muscles forgetting what they were doing. his heart even stutters, then pounds so hard it makes him lightheaded.
you’re wearing a dress.
it shouldn’t matter but it does. it falls against you effortlessly, like it was always meant to.
you were watching him and the realization burns. he feels suddenly exposed, absurdly aware of his wet shirt, his damp hair, the heat still radiating off him from movement and attention. the contrast between the spectacle he’s making and the quiet way you’re seeing him makes his chest tighten painfully.
his body stops moving entirely.
then you look away.
just like that.
you turn, slipping through the bodies with the same unhurried ease you always have, as if nothing significant has occurred. as if you haven’t just rearranged him from the inside out. you don’t even glance back.
caleb almost jolts.
his breath comes shallow, his hand tightening reflexively around the empty bottle before he drops it to the floor.
someone calls his name again, laughing, reaching for him.
but he pulls free.
“hey, where’re you going?”
he doesn’t answer.
he pushes through the crowd, eyes scanning desperately for the curve of your shoulder, the fall of your hair.
the room feels wrong now—it's too loud, too bright, and too crowded. his heart won’t slow down. his thoughts fracture, scattering around a single, urgent point.
don’t leave yet.
he moves faster, following the path you took, letting instinct override everything else.
he has to see you again.
the crowd thins as he moves toward the back of the house, the noise loosening its grip the closer he gets to the open doors. and there you are, seated near the pool, slightly apart from the chaos.
people are clustered around you—laughing loudly, perhaps tipsy with limbs slung carelessly over deck chairs. someone jumps into the water fully clothed. another spills a drink and doesn’t care. you sit at the edge of it all, cup in hand, smiling.
caleb slows.
are you drinking?
the question hits him harder than it should. he watches the way you lift the cup, the way your fingers curl around it.
your expression doesn’t give anything away. you don’t look loose, or dulled, or different. you look exactly like yourself.
good.
then someone notices him.
“oh shit,” a girl laughs, nudging the person beside her. “it’s caleb.”
heads turn, and the circle opens.
“get over here,” someone calls, waving him closer. “why’re you hiding?”
you look up then.
and your eyes meet his again, briefly. no surprise this time, just recognition. like spotting a familiar object in a room you already understand.
caleb steps forward, heart steadying as he joins the group. his shirt is still damp, clinging in places, loose in others. he feels the cool night air against his skin in a way that makes him acutely aware of his body.
one of them whistles. “damn. the wet look works on you.”
“yeah,” another voice adds. “he really was overdoing it back there... don't do that unless you want them to keep fawning over you.”
caleb laughs, soft and easy, lifting his shoulders in a small shrug. “i'll keep that in mind.”
the conversation shifts quickly—school gossip, someone’s messy breakup, a professor everyone hates, and rumors about who hooked up with who. caleb listens just enough to respond when expected, nodding, smiling, reacting at the right moments.
but his attention keeps drifting.
of course to you.
he steals glances when he thinks no one’s watching. the way your smile flickers when someone says something amusing. the way you tilt your head as you listen, engaged—but not invested.
you speak occasionally, concise and measured, then fall quiet again.
you never look at him.
it’s not avoidance, it’s indifference, pure and unadorned.
you don’t glance his way. you don’t seek him out. you don’t acknowledge the way he’s angled slightly toward you, attention bent in your direction like a compass needle that refuses to behave.
he smiles at a joke someone makes, laughs when it’s appropriate, but all the while his eyes keep betraying him—slipping back to you, again and again.
someone laughs too loudly and says, “okay, but seriously—let's talk about crushes.”
a chorus of groans and cheers follows. couples are named, denied, and confirmed. someone admits to texting their ex. someone else pretends not to care.
then the attention tilts toward you. “what about you?” a guy asks, leaning back on his hands. “you seeing anyone?”
you shake your head lightly. “no.”
“but do you want to? like—are you planning to get into a relationship anytime soon?”
caleb’s spine straightens without him realizing it. the noise around him fades just enough for your answer to matter too much.
you hum, thoughtful. “i don’t know.. maybe.”
“that’s not an answer,” someone teases.
“okay, then—do you have a crush?”
there’s a beat.
you say, “perhaps i do.”
caleb’s heart stutters. it’s not cinematic. it’s the quiet, visceral sensation of something missing a step and never quite landing where it should. his breath catches. his fingers curl slightly at his side.
you have a crush...?
his mind races ahead of itself, cataloging faces, voices, hands that might have lingered too close to you. anyone who has laughed with you too easily. anyone who has walked you home. anyone who has dared to—
“who?” someone asks immediately. “spill it!”
you smile to yourself first.
then you lift your gaze.
to him.
you just look at caleb, eyes unreadable, holding his for a second too long to be accidental.
his system short-circuits, eyes widening a fraction before he can stop them.
the world sharpens and blurs at the same time. he forgets how to sit like a normal person, how to smile on cue, how to breathe without effort.
you look away, and then you sway.
it happens too fast.
your shoulders dip as your hand comes up to your head like you’re trying to catch it before it falls. your cup tilts, liquid spilling a bit darkly down the front of your clothes, splashing onto the concrete.
“whoa—hey—”
“are you okay?”
caleb registers the number only distantly—someone muttering, half-impressed, half-alarmed, “she’s had like… nine shots, right?”—as if it’s trivia, not explanation.
you’re drunk, more than he thought, more than you should be.
your cup slips from your fingers entirely this time, clattering uselessly as you press your palm to your temple, frowning faintly like the sensation is inconvenient rather than alarming.
“she’s fine,” someone says, uncertain.
caleb is the one who speaks next.
“hey,” he lifts his hands in a calming gesture. “let’s not make it a whole thing. she just needs to lie down for a bit. don’t kill the vibe.” it sounds generous, almost thoughtful.
no one argues right away.
caleb steps closer, and his arm slides behind your back, steadying you before anyone else can decide to do it. “i’ve got her,” he adds, already committing to the role.
someone snorts. “look at you.”
“didn’t know you were like that, caleb.”
he laughs, soft and unbothered, and bends without ceremony. one arm under your knees, the other at your back. you make a small, incoherent sound as he lifts you, surprised by the sudden absence of the ground.
you’re lighter than he imagined.
your body settles against his chest instinctively, head tipping toward his shoulder. your fingers clutch weakly at his damp shirt, more reflex than intention.
the group watches and a few eyes narrow, a few smiles turn teasing instead of amused.
“taking her upstairs already? bold.”
caleb glances over his shoulder, grin easy and boyish. “just gonna let her sleep it off, it's best to bring her back when she’s not about to pass out.”
it’s said with such natural confidence that it closes the subject. the attention drifts back to the pool, the drinks, the noise. suspicion dissolves into disinterest.
good, he thinks.
he turns toward the stairs, indulging in the quiet thrill of it—the way your weight presses into him, warm and unresisting. your head bumps lightly against his collarbone as he climbs, words slipping out of you in fragments.
“hey,” he murmurs, amused. “easy.”
you don’t answer. your eyes are half-lidded, unfocused, lashes dark against your cheeks. each step creaks underfoot. the party noise fades behind him, replaced by the dull hush of the upper floor.
“you really overdid it, you know that?” he says lightly, as if you can still comprehend him. “nine shots... impressive, irresponsible, i’m a little proud.”
your head tilts toward his voice. he imagines you listening, he imagines you understanding. “don’t worry though,” he adds, adjusting his grip, “i’ve got you.”
he carries you down the hall, savoring the simplicity of it—the way the night has finally narrowed to just the two of you. and he doesn’t hurry at all.
he fumbles for the door with his shoulder, nudging it open inch by inch while keeping his hold on you steady.
then he steps inside and eases the door shut behind him, the click sounds louder than it should.
“okay, here we are.”
the bed creaks softly as he lowers you onto it, careful, impossibly careful, like you might bruise from the wrong kind of attention. he adjusts you so your head meets the pillow, one hand lingering at your side longer than necessary before he pulls back.
for a second, you’re still.
then you stir.
your eyes flutter open, brows knitting together in faint protest. you push yourself up on your elbows, unsteady but stubborn. “i’m okay,” you mumble, words slurring into each other. “i’m fine. i can—”
“nope. lie down. you’re not fine—you’re drunk.” caleb presses his palm to your shoulder, just enough pressure to guide you back down. "you took care of me last time, now it's my turn."
you let out a small sound of complaint as you sink back into the mattress. your head rolls to the side, hair spilling messily across the pillow.
god.
he exhales slowly through his nose, grounding himself. you look unreal like this—softened by exhaustion with defenses dulled, mouth parted slightly as if mid-thought you forgot to finish. it would be so easy.
he doesn’t move closer.
he won’t.
“you really went all in tonight,” he says lightly, trying to keep the warmth in his voice from tipping into something else. “overachiever.”
you respond with a string of quiet nonsense, syllables bumping into each other without direction. something about the music. something about being tired. something that might be his name—or might not.
he smiles despite himself. “yeah,” he murmurs, indulging you. “i know. totally makes sense.”
he reaches out, fingers hovering for a heartbeat before he lets himself touch you at all. just your hair. just that. he tucks a loose strand back from your face, knuckles grazing your temple by accident.
you sigh, content, eyes slipping shut again.
that sound hits him low and dangerous.
“there you go,” he whispers, almost absurdly gentle. “just sleep, okay? i’ve got you.”
you mumble again, softer this time, words dissolving before they can mean anything. he answers anyway, nodding, “mmhmm. yeah. i know.”
his hand lingers at the edge of your hair, then withdraws, curling into a fist at his side as if to physically hold himself in place. his chest feels too full, too tight, emotion pressing up against restraint until it almost trembles.
he loves you in a way that feels unmanageable.
suddenly, a knock sounded.
three quick raps against the door, cutting straight through the quiet he’d carved out for the two of you.
caleb’s expression changes instantly.
the softness drains from his face, replaced by something colder—an irritation that settles deep and heavy in his chest. his jaw tightens. how dare anyone interrupt this. how dare they intrude on a moment that finally feels contained.
he exhales through his nose and stands.
“one second,”
when he opens the door, there’s a guy standing there—someone from the party, flushed and curious, holding a red cup like an excuse. “oh,” the guy says, blinking. “caleb?”
“what,” caleb replies, already halfway to a glare.
the guy hesitates. glances past him, tries—and fails—to see into the room. “uh, nothing. never mind.” he shrugs, backs away with a sheepish laugh, and disappears down the hall.
caleb doesn’t watch him go. he shuts the door immediately and turns the lock with a firm, deliberate twist. the sound of it clicking into place settles something in him.
only then does he turn back around.
you’re still on the bed, exactly where he left you. sometime in the last minute, you must’ve shifted—your dress has ridden up slightly, fabric caught higher on your thighs than before.
it’s nothing.
caleb inhales through his mouth, slow and careful, like he’s bracing against a wave.
his gaze fixes for a second too long before he forces it away, muscles in his arms flexing as he resists the instinct to reach, to adjust, to touch.
not like this.
he swallows, grounding himself with the simple facts: you’re drunk. you trusted him. you’re asleep because you feel safe, and that matters more than anything else.
still, his restraint creaks under the weight of how close he is, how easy it would be to blur lines he’s spent so long perfecting. “get it together,” his eyes return to your face instead, but the yearning doesn’t leave. it never does.
sighing, he runs a hand through his messy hair, his eyes refocusing on your sleeping form once more. you really do look cute like that…
at that moment, you shift in your sleep—the covers around you sliding down your torso as you flip to your other side. immediately, caleb's gaze focuses in on your squished-together cleavage, and his cheeks redden. how could you wear such a dress like that? shouldn't you be weary in a party?
his eyes begin to rake over your soft skin—settling on the curve of your neck, as he imagines how pretty you’d look covered in his hickies. a dull ache settles in his gut, and while he knows he should stop, he continues to let his mind wander.
he imagines your breasts in his hands, and the quiet little sounds you’d make as he touched you—unable to help yourself. he’s sure your skin is very soft, and he wants to caress every inch of it, until he knows of each mole, scar, or otherwise.
shit, he thinks to himself, hand moving down to palm at his crotch. he’s hard thanks to his roaming imagination, but as much as he wants to touch you, that would be really wrong... right?
caleb swallows harshly, and despite himself, his hand reaches down to grab the edge of your covers. slowly, he peels them down your sleeping form—not too surprised that you don’t awake. one of your friends had joked about your sleeping habits—one being that once you got to sleep, it was very hard to wake you during the first few hours.
he hates that he gets aroused at the idea of touching you while you’re unaware. but…it would be so easy. so easy to just slip your tank top down your shoulders…listening to you quietly moan while he sucks on your tits—his fingers finding their way beneath your shorts…
before he can think twice, he finds himself lowering onto the bed beside you. gently, he grips your shoulder and rolls you onto your back, releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding when you don’t stir.
surely, he'd be going to hell for this...
reaching out, he cups your breast though your shirt—the flesh squishing beneath his fingertips. he feels your nipple harden—pressing up against the flat of his palm—and a quiet chuckle sneaks past his lips. even in your sleep, your body can’t deny its desires, huh?
gaining a little courage, caleb slips the straps of your dress off of your shoulders—additional inches of skin becoming exposed to his hungry eyes. and despite wanting to rip it off of you—he works slowly—peeling the fabric down inch by inch until finally, your breasts are fully accessible.
abruptly, he leans over—flattening his tongue against one of your nipples and giving an experimental lick. at the sensation, your breathing hitches slightly, but you don’t awaken. it makes him grin, hand reaching out to claim the other mound as his mouth continues working at the present one.
despite being asleep, it’s clear that your body has sensed a change. quiet whines begin to build in your throat—eyebrows furrowing on your forehead. however, the sounds only urge caleb to proceed.
his tongue continues swirling around your taut nipple—teeth gently nipping at the bud on occasion, and the whines that leave you in response has his cock straining against his underwear. without ceasing, his eyes drag down your torso, pausing at the crotch of your shorts. he can see your thighs clenching ever so slightly.
“pipsqueak....” he mumbles to himself, his hot breath fanning against you. “do you want something to happen between us? that the reason why you're wearing this dress?”
caleb sucks your tit into his mouth a bit more harder, and you mewl beneath him. you stir slightly, your limbs stretching against the sheets, but caleb is too distracted to care. if you wake up, then you wake up. however, until then, he has no intention of stopping.
his chest fills with a warmth so complete it almost hurts. this—this—is how it was always supposed to be.
then—
the fantasy fractures.
caleb blinks, sharply, like waking from a dream.
he’s still there, standing near the door.
the bed is still between you, and the light hasn’t changed, and the door is still locked. you’re still asleep, unaware of him in every way that matters. his hands are empty, hanging stiffly at his sides.
nothing happened.
the absence is... jarring. his mouth feels wrong, like it’s remembering pressure that was never there. his heart pounds too fast, as if it’s been fooled into thinking something has already been claimed.
he exhales, dragging a hand down his face. “jesus,”
he straightens, forcing his weight back onto his heels, reestablishing distance like it’s a rule he has to keep reminding himself of. “you’re unbelievable,”
the thought that he could be cruel—that cruel—settles heavy in his chest. not because he fears crossing the line, but because he knows how badly he wants to pretend it’s already gone.
it settles low and insistent, a pressure that makes his stomach knot and his breath go shallow. caleb stays where he is for a moment too long, staring at the line of your body beneath borrowed sheets, at the quiet trust written into the way you sleep.
he turns away abruptly, like the sight of you has burned him. his steps are quiet as he crosses the room, the bathroom door is right there, just across the bed. close enough to feel like an escape route he’s been pretending not to see.
and in there he goes to work on himself.
one hand braces against the porcelain, tendons standing out stark beneath his skin. the other reaches down, his long fingers wrapping around the thick, throbbing length of his cock. he could feel every vein, every ridge, every sensitive nerve ending crying out for stimulation. and slowly, torturously, he began to stroke himself, his fingers gliding up and down his aching flesh with a sensual rhythm.
he leans forward slightly, forehead almost touching the mirror, shoulders rising and falling. "ah, fuck,"
the chain around his neck swings faintly. and without thinking, he lifts it and bites down on the dog tag, metal cold against his teeth. the familiar weight gives him something to clench around, something to muffle the sounds that threatens to break loose from his chest.
caleb's breath began to come faster, his chest heaving with the exertion of his strokes as he tried to lose himself in the fantasy, in the imagined scenario of you unwittingly inspiring his lust. his grip tightened, fist pumping faster along his thick shaft.
"fuck, fuck, fuck," he chanted dazedly, his hips starting to rock into his touch. wonder what you'd do if you knew it was you he was thinking about, you he was imagining as he touched himself like this? would you be shocked? aroused? disgusted?
he swallowed back the groan that threatened to spill from his lips, biting down hard on the metal of his dog tag instead.
his strokes grew even more urgent, more desperate, his fist a blur as it flew over his cock. "nmnnghh...!" he could feel the pressure building, the need coiling tighter and tighter in his core.
"i'm.. so...close," his eyes squeezed shut, his other hand gripping hard around the sink's edge until the pleasure bordered on pain, and finally, finally, he came with a silent, shuddering groan that wracked his frame.
thick ropes of cum erupted from his cock, splattering across his hand and dripping down onto the floor. his body jerked and spasmed, his hips bucking wildly as he rode out the waves of his intense release. and still, he bit back the sounds of his rapture, his face contorted in a silent scream of ecstasy.
he rests his back against the cool tile, letting the wall take his weight.
his head tips back just enough to expose his throat, breath shuddering as he tries—again—to find its rhythm. in through the nose. out through parted lips. slow it down. contain it.
his jaw loosens, and the dog tag slips free from between his teeth and falls back against his chest.
caleb closes his eyes.
for a moment, all he can feel is the aftermath—his hand slides up to press flat against the door beside him, steadying himself as if the room might tilt.
if he's this lost in just masturbating to the thought of you, what more if he finally gets to be inside you?
god.
it unsettles him how easy it is, how effortlessly you undo him without ever touching him, without even knowing.
just the thought of you reduces him to this quiet wreck trying to remember how to breathe like a normal person. he lets out a soft, humorless laugh under his breath.
“you have no idea,”
he opens his eyes and stares at nothing, replaying you with surgical clarity: the curve of your mouth when you smile without thinking. the way your voice stays even, never bending toward him the way his bends toward you every time.
the simple fact of your presence, enough to tip him off balance...
~
you wake up with your head split clean down the middle, light pressing too hard against your eyes, your mouth feels really dry and sour with regret. the room is unfamiliar—stripped of the party’s noise like it never existed. the bed beneath you isn’t yours, either.
your phone is on the nightstand, charged, and your shoes are lined up by the door.
someone sure took care of you.
the memory comes back in pieces.
caleb...
you sit up slowly, head throbbing, and scan the room. he isn’t here. no messages or anything like that - just the quiet evidence of his presence, already cleaned away. you don’t feel panicked. you don’t feel grateful either. mostly, you feel mildly inconvenienced by the gap in your memory.
monday morning arrives then.
by the time you make it to campus, the social hall hums with weekday life—voices layered over each other, chairs scraping, the smell of coffee and crowd. you sit with your friends at one of the long tables, hands wrapped around a paper cup, listening as they dissect friday night like it’s a shared dream.
“i don’t remember half of it,” someone laughs.
“you disappeared,” another points out, looking at you. “we thought you left.”
“maybe i did,” you say, rubbing your temple. across you, a table away, someone is asleep.
hood pulled low, arms crossed on the table, head turned away just enough that you can’t make out his face. his posture is unbothered, like he belongs anywhere he decides to stay. something about the shape of him tugs at your attention—familiar, but not urgent enough to investigate.
your friend keeps talking.
“hey,” she says suddenly, lowering her voice. “have you seen jaden lately?”
you blink. “no, i haven't,”
“he hasn’t been around,” another adds. “like—at all. hasn’t replied to anyone. it’s been, what, almost three weeks?”
three weeks?
you frown faintly, thinking. jaden’s name slides through your head and bumps into the memory of rain soaking through your clothes as you’d laughed under a borrowed umbrella, him walking you home, and the wet pavements.
that was the last time, wasn’t it?
“maybe he’s busy,” you say, because it’s the easiest explanation. “or sick.”
someone shrugs. the conversation drifts on, attention pulled elsewhere, already bored of absence.
you take another sip of coffee and glance, without really meaning to, at the sleeping figure across your table.
the hoodie shifts slightly, and his hand moves, just enough to suggest awareness.
you look away.
“maybe we should check on jaden,” you say, stirring your drink absently. “like… go to his apartment later or something. just to make sure he’s alive.”
a few people nod. someone says, “yeah, do that. i'm starting to get worried of him.”
then someone laughs, sharp and sudden. “oh my god, wait—speaking of friday.”
you hum in response, distracted.
“the crush thing,” she continues. “by the pool.”
“you remember that?” another voice chimes in, grinning at you. “when we asked who your crush was?”
you pause.
“you totally looked at someone, like very obviously.”
“yeah,” someone else adds. “you looked right at—”
you cut in. “it wasn’t obvious.” your tone is flat, mildly corrective.
“come on,” they insist. “who was it?”
there’s a stretch of silence that feels longer than it is.
“i don’t really talk about that stuff,” you say.
they groan and continue to push.
“okay, but hypothetically.”
“just say it.”
“we already know.”
you sigh. and finally, you give them what they want. “what about it if i like caleb?”
the words land without flourish. there's no smile, no nervous laugh. your voice stays even, almost bored with the confession. you continue, as if clarifying a logistical detail. “he’s my type.”
that’s it.
“oh my god,” someone laughs, leaning closer. “you know what people say about caleb, right?”
you hum noncommittally, already half-detached as the teasing starts to pile up. “apparently he lives at the gym.”
“yeah, have you seen his back?”
“you should check his socials,” another adds, grinning. “it’s honestly unfair.”
you roll your eyes, slow and deliberate. “i’m not doing homework on a guy,” you mildly scoff. “if i wanted to look, i would.”
that earns a chorus of groans and mock disappointment. someone nudges your shoulder, someone else mutters that you’re impossible. you let it wash over you, because rumors don’t interest you and bodies don’t impress you enough to warrant effort. caleb remains, in your mind, exactly what he’s always been.
the bell rings.
chairs scrape back, conversations fracture mid-sentence, and people scatter toward their respective buildings. you stand, sling your bag over your shoulder, and follow the flow without looking back.
you don’t see the way the figure at the other table stirs the moment your footsteps fade. the slow lift of his head. the way his body uncoils like he’s been awake far longer than anyone suspects.
caleb slides the hoodie back from his hair.
his face is faintly flushed, color blooming high along his cheekbones. his eyes—a little too wide—track the empty space you left behind. a hand comes up, absentminded, to rake through his hair, leaving it artfully disheveled in a way that looks unintentional and isn’t.
for a second, he just sits there. then he exhales, something breathless and disbelieving, mouth curving into a smile that’s soft and stunned all at once.
you like him.
caleb slowly stands, shoulders rolling back as he slips fully into himself again. by the time he moves to join the current of students, he’s wide awake now.
~
after class, the sky has settled into that dull, undecided gray that makes everything feel suspended.
jaden’s building is older than the rest nearby—three floors, narrow stairwell, paint chipped thin from years of use. you climb to the third floor with a growing sense of unease, phone already in your hand.
you stop in front of his door to knock.
nothing.
you dial his number as you wait, pressing the phone to your ear, listening to it ring unanswered. you knock again, louder this time. still nothing.
minutes bleed together. ten. twenty. almost thirty.
you’re just starting to consider calling someone—anyone—when you hear footsteps behind you.
“hey,” a voice says, familiar enough to make you turn immediately. “you.”
you look over your shoulder.
and it’s... caleb?
he’s dressed down—black compression shirt clinging cleanly to his torso, sleeves hugging muscle without effort. a black cap shadows his eyes, brim low and casual. he’s carrying two grocery bags, one in each hand.
he pauses when he sees you, eyebrows lifting just a little.
“what are you doing here?” you ask, the concern in your voice overriding any social preamble.
he tilts his head, then nods toward the door you’ve been knocking on. “i was gonna ask you the same thing.”
you glance back at jaden’s door, then at caleb. “i’m checking on a friend. he hasn’t answered anyone in weeks.”
caleb follows your gaze, his expression shifts into a thoughtful one. “oh, well, i live here.”
you blink. “here?”
he gestures vaguely down the hall, then back toward the door beside you. “yeah, third floor.”
the words settle slowly.
“…wait, you and jaden—”
“are neighbors,” caleb finishes easily.
the hallway feels smaller all of a sudden, quieter, like the air has been rearranged around the information.
you didn’t know that.
you didn’t know a lot of things, apparently.
caleb shifts the grocery bags in his hands, plastic rustling softly. “he’s not answering?”
“no... i’ve been here for a while.”
he hums, considering, eyes flicking once more to the door. “that’s weird,” he says calmly. and somehow, the way he says it makes you feel like it isn’t.
he glances at your phone, then at the door again, as if checking the same conclusion you already reached. “have you eaten?” he asks, casual, like it just occurred to him.
you shake your head. “not really.”
there’s a brief pause—barely there—before he nods once. “then while we wait,” he says, shifting the grocery bags in his hands, “you can come to my place, was about to make dinner anyway.”
you hesitate.
it’s instinctive, the kind of pause you don’t consciously justify. this wasn’t part of the plan. you were supposed to knock, worry, maybe leave a message taped to a door. not follow someone into their apartment.
caleb doesn’t rush you. he just waits, patient, like he already knows how this will go.
“…okay,”
his place is a few doors away.
inside, the apartment closes around you with a quiet thud. the interior is stark in a way that feels intentional: concrete tones, sharp lines, furniture chosen for function rather than comfort. it’s quite clean, but not welcoming.
gloomy, you think, without quite meaning it as a criticism.
caleb sets the grocery bags down on the counter and reaches up to pull off his cap. he ruffles his hair once, resetting himself now that you’re here. then he looks at you.
“i’ll cook steak, how's that?”
you blink, processing, then nod. “sure.”
you move toward the kitchen island and take a seat on one of the tall chairs, legs dangling slightly as you settle in. the surface is cool beneath your palms. from here, you can see everything—his movements, the quiet efficiency with which he unpacks the groceries.
he moves like this is normal.
like this is planned.
he knows you’re watching.
not because you’re obvious about it—you aren’t—but because caleb has always been painfully attuned to the way your attention moves.
his back faces you as he cooks. the pan hisses softly, oil blooming into heat. he rolls his shoulders once, sleeves of the compression shirt hugging muscle like it was designed to be admired. he doesn’t turn around. he lets you look.
then you stop.
you reach for your phone instead. caleb catches the faint shift in your posture in the reflection of the blackened microwave door.
he's a bit sad you've stopped looking at him. nonetheless, he salts the steak with care, flips it, listens.
your friend’s voice echoes in your head—check his social media—and you do.
caleb doesn’t post. you already knew that. there's no grid, no carefully curated persona. just a profile picture and silence.
except—there's a story posted an hour ago.
your thumb taps before you can reconsider.
it’s a mirror shot with gym lighting, and his back to the glass, shirt pulled just enough to expose the clean, brutal lines of muscle and spine, skin sheened with sweat. the kind of photo that isn’t trying to be sexy—and is, because of it.
you feel heat rush up your neck.
caleb smiles to himself.
he turns then, quiet as a thought, and you don’t hear him approach. you’re still staring at your phone when his shadow falls over you, close enough that you can smell him.
“you were really drunk last friday,” he says mildly.
you jolt.
“i—” you lock your phone, flustered and mortified. “i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to—”
your words tangle, and caleb watches them fall apart with fond patience. “did i…,” you hesitate, cheeks warm now for a different reason. “did i say anything weird? or did anything inappropriate?”
that gets him.
he stills. the pan sizzles behind him, forgotten for half a beat too long. his gaze drops to your face—almost tender in how carefully he studies your worry.
inappropriate.
the word is almost funny.
he thinks of your weight against him, your breath, the way you trusted him without ever saying so.
caleb pauses just long enough to make the silence mean something. then he smiles. slowly.
he reaches out before you can interpret it, taps your cheek twice with his palm, light as a promise. “what if,” he murmurs, “i’m the one who did something inappropriate?”
he straightens before you can respond, turns back to the stove like he hasn’t just tipped the room off its axis.
but his ears are burning.
you stay quiet.
he exhales first. “i’m kidding, you didn’t do anything inappropriate. nothing happened.” he doesn’t look at you when he says it. he turns back to the stove, gives the steak one last glance, lets the heat kiss it just right. control, caleb reminds himself.
restraint looks good on him. it always has.
when he plates the food, he does it neatly, he sets it down in front of you with a soft clink, the meat resting perfectly with juices glistening. he watches your eyes widen despite yourself.
you dig in almost immediately, hunger winning over caution. caleb leans against the counter, digging in as well, arms folding loosely as he watches you eat like it matters. like you trust what he’s given you.
“this is really good,” you say around a bite, unguarded.
his smile comes easy at that. “thank you, sweetheart.”
then you pause.
he notices before you do.
your gaze flicks to his mouth, brows knitting just slightly. caleb tilts his head curiously—and that’s when you reach out.
your finger brushes his lip. just once, absent-minded, intimate in a way that isn’t trying to be. “you’ve got something,”
caleb stills.
his heart slams so hard it almost hurts.
for half a second, the world narrows to the press of your fingertip, the faint heat of you, the obscene tenderness of the gesture. he doesn’t move. doesn’t breathe. doesn’t dare.
then he laughs—under his breath—as if that might save him. “careful,” he says, eyes dropping to his plate. “you act like that with guys, you’re gonna get yourself a boyfriend real fast.”
you scoff immediately. “no i won’t.”
caleb hums, amused, and then—without thinking, without filtering the thought as he usually does—he adds, “you didn’t seem to mind when you were with jaden. laughing and leaning into him under that umbrella.”
you blink.
“how did you—?”
caleb blinks back.
shit.
the realization hits him a fraction too late, sharp and sudden. he straightens just a bit. he hadn’t meant to say it like that. he hadn’t meant to say it at all.
he laughs again, a little louder this time. “people talk, you know how it is.” he watches you closely as he says it, watches to see if you believe him. “jaden’s a good guy, from what i hear.”
you take another bite of steak, slower now. “you sure hear a lot.”
he smiles at that, “only what’s worth hearing.”
there it is—that faint edge beneath the joke. it pricks at you, subtle but present. you glance up at him, the way his eyes stay on you a second too long before flicking away.
“he hasn’t been answering anyone,” you say. “it’s weird.”
“mm.” caleb hums, “he’s like that sometimes, right? just disappears.”
“not like this.” you pause, watching his reaction. “it’s been weeks.”
caleb tilts his head considering. “people change though.”
the way he says it makes your fingers curl faintly against the plate. you let out a breathy laugh, half-joking. “you sound like you don’t like him.”
he chuckles, “i don’t dislike him. i just don’t think he’s very… reliable.”
“and you know that how?”
caleb finally meets your gaze head-on. there’s warmth there—always—but it’s concentrated now, focused in a way that makes your stomach tighten. “i pay attention,”
you should brush it off. you almost do. instead, you find yourself leaning back in the chair. “you notice a lot about me too,”
“you’re not hard to notice.”
that should be flattering.
and yet, you swallow. “you knew what burger i liked, you knew i hadn’t eaten today, you knew about jaden and the umbrella.”
caleb lets out a quiet laugh, like you’ve amused him. “are those crimes now?”
“no…just interesting.”
for the first time since you sat down, caleb moves closer. “you don’t mind, do you?” he asks, “me paying attention?”
“i don’t know,”
his eyes soften at that, something almost tender flickering through them. but beneath it—you catch something else. possession, maybe. or anticipation. “that’s okay, you don’t have to know yet.”
you look away first, heart doing something uncomfortable in your chest. part of you wants to push. to ask how he knows so much. why it feels like he’s always one step ahead of your questions.
you finish the last bite slower than the rest, more aware now of the quiet between movements. caleb notices, but he doesn’t comment. he simply reaches for your plate when you’re done.
“i’ll wash these later,” he says, setting both plates in the sink. he turns back to you, leaning his hip lightly against the counter, and his gaze lingers on you in a way that feels… assessing. “do you still want to stay? i was going to take a half bath.”
you shake your head. “i should get going.”
“then i’ll walk you out,” he says, “after i rinse off.”
“you don’t have to—”
“it’s fine.” his tone is warm, agreeable. non-negotiable in a way that doesn’t raise its voice. “just a few minutes.”
you hesitate, then nod. “alright...”
that’s all it takes. he turns away from you and heads toward the bathroom, rolling his shoulders as he goes, already loosening the tension from his body. you watch him disappear past the doorway—the broad line of his back, the confident ease of his steps—until the door clicks shut behind him.
you tell yourself you’re only looking because waiting feels awkward, because standing still makes you too aware of the running water down the hall, of the fact that caleb is alone behind a locked door, rinsing heat and effort from his skin while you remain in his space.
you step off the chair quietly.
from caleb’s perspective—though he’s not here to see it—you move the way you always do when you’re thinking, eyes tracing rather than darting, and the apartment opens up to you in fragments.
a book on the side table. not just any book—one you mentioned once, offhandedly, weeks ago. you never said you owned it. only that you liked the ending. there it is anyway, dog-eared at the same chapter you’d quoted.
a spare mug in the cabinet, chipped in a familiar place. the same brand you keep at home.
even the way the furniture is arranged feels tailored to someone who dislikes clutter, who hates feeling boxed in.
to you.
your curiosity sharpens into something colder.
so you move farther in. the sound of the shower continues steadily, a soft rush through the wall, distant but present. caleb is taking his time. he always does when he thinks he has it.
you stop short at the center table.
there’s a necklace there. a small, familiar pendant that you’ve seen disappear beneath shirts more times than you can count.
jaden’s.
your breath catches, like your body forgot how to finish the inhale. your fingers hover above it, then pull back as if the metal might burn you.
why is this here?
your mind scrambles for explanations that don’t quite land. borrowing? coincidence? something you’re missing? but the weight in your chest doesn’t lift. it sinks deeper, spreading nauseatingly.
behind you, the hallway seems longer now. caleb’s bedroom door is closed. and it shouldn’t matter. it’s none of your business. you’ve already crossed some invisible line just by being here, by looking.
and yet, the shower keeps running.
you swallow. it's just a peek, you think.
you move down the hallway like you’re trespassing inside a thought that isn’t yours.
every step is quiet, your attention split between the closed bedroom door ahead of you and the bathroom behind—where the shower still runs. the sound should reassure you. instead, it presses against your nerves, reminding you that caleb is here.
the air feels cooler in the corridor, much denser. you stop in front of his bedroom door. your heart thuds loud enough that you’re certain it must be audible, a traitorous rhythm in your ears as you lift your hand. your fingers hover, trembling just slightly, before curling around the doorknob.
just a peek, you tell yourself again. just enough to quiet the unease.
you don’t get the chance to.
before you can turn, a large hand comes down against the doorframe beside your head, close enough that you feel the vibration of it more than you hear it.
you gasp and spin, losing your balance for half a second before instinct catches up.
caleb is there, just stepped out of the bathroom, shirtless, skin still damp, droplets tracing slow paths down his chest and disappearing beneath the waistband of loose black pants. his hair is darkened from the water, and a small towel hangs around his neck to catch its dampness.
from caleb’s perspective, the sight of you like this—caught mid-reach and eyes wide—is almost unbearable. not because it’s shocking, because it’s intimate. because it feels like he’s walked in on a truth you were trying not to admit to yourself.
he smiles, like this is exactly where he expected to find you.
“what’re you doing?” he asks gently.
his voice is calm. too calm. it contrasts painfully with the way your pulse spikes, the way heat floods your face. you open your mouth to answer, but the words don’t cooperate. they tangle, stall, dissolve before they can become excuses.
“i— i was just—” you stop, frustrated, swallowing hard.
caleb doesn’t interrupt, nor does he move his hand. he leans slightly closer instead, not enough to touch you, but enough that you’re acutely aware of the warmth radiating from him. his eyes stay on your face, patient, intent, and unblinking.
take your time, he thinks.
finally, you straighten, forcing yourself to breathe evenly, to meet his gaze head-on. “…you’re unsettling me, caleb.”
for a split second, something flickers behind his eyes—surprise, maybe. then something warmer, almost pleased.
“unsettling?” he repeats softly, like the word interests him. he tilts his head, studying you with an intensity that makes your skin feel too tight. “i didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, but you wandered pretty far in.”
you don’t step back.
that, more than anything, is what caleb notices first.
your pulse is loud—he can see it, jumping at your throat—but your spine stays straight. your expression settles into something almost flat, as if fear has to pass through several filters before it’s allowed to show. it intrigues him.
you draw in a breath. “you...watch me too much,” caleb doesn’t interrupt, he lets you go on. “you know things you shouldn’t, like- like my habits, my preferences. and jaden. i don’t tell you everything, so explain how you know.”
all caleb could think about is how beautiful you are right now.
the way you confront him without dramatics, the way you don’t ask why, only how. the way you keep your distance emotionally even now, even cornered in a hallway with his arm blocking the door.
he catches every word and every place where you could have softened and chose not to.
“i pay attention,” he says again, but this time it’s quieter, more honest than it should be.
"really? crossing the line is... paying attention?"
"no line has ever mattered to me when it comes to you."
you scoff, faint and humorless. “that’s not an answer.”
he smiles wider, the kind of smile people trust. “it is, just not the one you’re expecting.” he shifts his weight, finally lowering his arm from the doorframe—he wants you to feel like you’ve regained ground. “you’re observant too, you just don’t like what this one implies.”
you search his face, clearly trying to decide whether he’s deflecting or confessing. he lets you. he’s good at this—knows exactly how much to give. “i don’t mean to make you uneasy,” he says softly. “but when you care about someone, you remember things. that doesn’t make it sinister.”
care?
he watches how the word lands. how you don’t react the way most people would. just a narrowing of your eyes, analytical.
“you’re twisting it,” you say. “i didn’t say you cared.”
“you didn’t have to.” he tilts his head, “if you want me to stop doing something, tell me what it is. don’t guess at my intentions. you’ll only scare yourself.”
it’s subtle, he reframes your fear as imagination, your instincts as overthinking. and it makes you hesitate just for a second.
you’re scared, yes—but you’re also curious. and that curiosity is the crack he’s been waiting for. “i don’t like feeling like i don’t know where i stand,”
caleb nods, as if that’s the most reasonable thing in the world. “then stay right here, i won’t move you.”
you don’t realize it yet—but the moment you chose to confront him instead of leaving, he’d already won something. and caleb, patient as ever, is more than happy to let you believe this was your move.
you stand there, barely breathing, and caleb notices every subtle shift in your posture. he takes it all in, cataloging it quietly, a predator and a poet at once.
“i think it’s time,” he murmurs, almost a caress. “time you understood… everything.”
you don’t respond. you can’t. your chest has tightened so suddenly that every breath feels precious.
he leans slightly, just enough for the shadow of him to fall across your face. “everything about me. everything i've needed. everything i've… wanted.”
his words aren’t rushed. they’re seductive in the quietest, deadliest way—and you’re just speechless, caught in the pull of his gaze.
“you don’t know how you’re supposed to feel, do you?” he says, a small smirk playing at the corner of his lips. his thumb brushes lightly against your jaw, ghosting a line that makes your pulse jump. “don’t worry...most people don’t.”
there’s a pause, just long enough for your own heartbeat to fill your ears.
maybe the problem isn't me, caleb thinks. maybe... it's you.
“do you want to hear a secret?” he asks, voice dropping lower.
you just stare at him, flabbergasted, breath hitching.
“good,” he murmurs, interpreting your silence as consent. “i’ll take that as a yes.”
before your brain can even catch up, he moves. his hand cups your chin with an ease that leaves you no choice but to tilt your head up, and the other braces against the door behind you.
"mm-!" his lips press against yours, the heat from his chest pressing fully into yours, and your knees threaten to buckle.
he doesn’t pull away, not when you’re beautifully breathless, not when your hands twitch, uncertain where to place them. he leans in just enough that every inch of him presses into your senses.
“you’re mine,” he whispers against your lips, and it’s not a threat. it’s a promise, and you can’t think, can’t respond, can’t even fully comprehend how tight your body has gone under the weight of it.
from his perspective, every second is perfection: your hesitation, your surprise, the flush rising on your cheeks, the way you’re pinned yet unresisting. he leans in just a fraction more, teeth grazing the soft curve of your lower lip as he deepens the kiss, and he doesn’t plan on ever letting go.
he whispers again, “i’ve wanted you for so long,” and it vibrates against your skin, against the fragile line of your lips, as if every word is carefully designed to consume you.
you close your eyes, heart hammering in your chest, caught between disbelief and the strange, undeniable comfort of being consumed by him.
“you feel…” he murmurs against your lips, a vibration you feel more than hear, “so good. so... goddamn.. good.”
his teeth graze your lower lip just enough to make you shiver. he moves down your jawline, tracing it with the same precise attention he uses when memorizing the curves of your body, mapping each line with reverent obsession.
your pulse spikes, your skin feels too hot, too alive. and his hand slides gently around your waist, pulling you closer, anchoring you against him. the other rises slowly, threading into your hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head so the column of your throat is exposed. he inhales it, lips grazing, tasting, a feather-light press that leaves you breathless.
he whispers again, “you’re mine… mine to notice, mine to keep…”
caleb's damp hair clings to his forehead, strands falling slightly over his eyes. the faint sheen on his skin catches the light from the hallway, highlighting the taut planes of muscle beneath the skin—his shoulders, chest, arms.
he moves down to your collarbone, lips brushing, teasing, savoring. every exhale against your skin is a confession, a claim, a promise. his hands explore just enough to make you aware of his strength, his control, without ever forcing or frightening you.
he mumbles against your throat, words melting into the skin: “every piece of you… every thought… i’ve wanted it all. and now i can have just this.”
and for some reason, against all reason, it feels right. you lean into him, surrendering, letting him hold you, map you—not cruelly, but with the slow, dainty precision of someone who has memorized every part of you, who savors each moment as if you were his favorite candy.
caleb smiles against your skin, confident. devastatingly sexy.
you pull away suddenly, hands pressing against his chest with more force than you meant to use.
caleb lets himself be pushed back.
that, more than anything, steals the breath from your lungs.
his body yields easily, a half-step back, palms open at his sides like he’s showing you he never intended to trap you. the space between you snaps open, cold and dizzying.
you turn your face away and breathe. once. twice. again. your heart is loud, disobedient. “it’s—” you start, then stop, swallowing. “it’s too fast.”
caleb watches you like he’s watching weather roll in—you keep going because stopping feels worse. “i’ve never… kissed anyone like that. i don’t know how far this is supposed to go.”
when you finally look back at him, you realize he hasn’t interrupted once. he’s just staring at you.
then he leans in slightly and murmurs, almost to himself, “you look...beautiful even when you’re overwhelmed.”
“…what?”
was he even listening?
heat rushes up your neck, straight to your face, traitorous and immediate. your reaction betrays you before you can mask it, and caleb sees it—his lips curve faintly then.
“i was listening, i just didn’t want to stop looking at you.” his hand lifts slowly, deliberately, like he’s giving you time to pull away again if you want to. you don’t.
the back of his fingers brush your cheek, feather-light, barely there. then your shoulder. then the curve of your hip, just tracing, like he’s reminding himself you’re real.
your breath catches.
and caleb takes your hand next, guiding it gently, reverently, as if it’s something fragile. he brings it to his mouth and presses a kiss into your knuckles, there's a soundless whimper of devotion more than desire.
he lifts his gaze to yours, eyes undone in a way that feels far more dangerous than confidence. “do you know how badly you’ve imprinted yourself on me?” he whispers.
caleb eases back just enough for you to breathe. it costs him more than you could ever see. “we can stop, if you want to.”
his body betrays him anyway.
from where you stand, you can see it—the way his fingers curl slightly, as if resisting the urge to pull you back in. the way he's fixed on you with an intensity that borders on hunger. he’s still close enough that you feel his warmth, still angled toward you like gravity hasn’t released its hold.
he means what he says, but he also doesn’t want it to be true. inside caleb’s head, he begs silently.
don't stop. please don’t stop.
his thoughts crowd in, sharp and feverish, all orbiting you. the way your breath hitched when you pulled away, the way your hand felt in his, the way your mouth softened under his. he wants—no, needs—to continue, to show you how carefully he could unravel you, how deeply he already has.
say yes, his mind pleads. let me keep going. let me prove it.
his chest aches with the force of it, with the restraint he’s forcing on himself. he has done terrible things with calm hands and a clear head. he has crossed lines without flinching, cleaned up messes the world never noticed.
for you.
he doesn’t think the words out loud. he never would. but the truth sits heavy and warm in his chest: he has already chosen you over everyone else. irrevocably.
outwardly, he softens his grip, though he doesn’t fully let go. his thumb strokes once, unconsciously, over your wrist—an echo of possession he hasn’t earned yet.
“i don’t want to scare you,” caleb says, voice roughened by restraint. “i just… want you to choose.”
his eyes search your face, desperate in a way that’s barely contained, like a fault line just under the surface. he’s smiling, but it’s fragile.
choose me, he thinks. choose this. choose now.
you don’t answer him—not yes, not no—and the silence stretches. he exhales softly, a slow sigh that curves into a smile, as if he’s already forgiven you for hesitating.
“it’s okay,” he murmurs, “you don’t have to rush.”
his hand lifts again, unhurried, and this time you don’t pull away. from his perspective, this feels like standing at the edge of something sacred.
his finger traces a careful path down the center of your chest—a line of awareness following his touch. he watches your breathing change, then lower, to your stomach, then down to your lower abdomen where he presses lightly, testing, grounding you in the moment.
“does that feel good?” he asks.
you don’t answer, your silence thrills him more than words ever could.
his finger drifts a little further, right where your clit is. the pressure is firmer now, deliberate but still restrained, as if he’s asking permission without actually asking. he repeats the question, “does it?”
your throat works, you hesitate, then you nod.
caleb’s breath catches. it’s sharp, involuntary, the kind of reaction he can’t fully hide. his smile deepens into satisfaction, eyes flicking up to your face like he’s just been handed proof of something he already knew.
“good,” he murmurs, approval threaded through the word. "i'll... just do this," he sneaks his hand under your shorts, feeling the dampness of your panty on his digits. this makes you squirm, the back of your hand covering your face. "i'll put it in, okay?" caleb's just about to shove a finger in, when you grab his wrist almost frantically.
"wait–"
"hmm?" caleb stops short, eyes flicking up to you. "what's wrong, dear?"
"i... isn't that painful?"
his look of curiosity then turns into one of delight, how cute you are. "have you not tried putting your own finger in?"
"wh- why would you ask me that?"
"so i know how many fingers i can put in," caleb drags his voice in a seductive manner, eyes intentionally looking you down. "and how fast i can go," he continues pressing on your clit with little nudges. "and... how deep i should be."
you've lost count of how many times caleb have had your mouth ajar, utterly perplexed at this man's range of quality. there you are again, staring at him with furrowed brows, and despite yourself, you can feel your pussy clenching around nothing at his words.
"let's make a deal, pip," caleb places an open-mouthed kiss on your jawline, and instinctively, you tilt your head and shut your eyes. "every time you don't speak, i'll do whatever i want with you, 'kay?"
"aah!" that's what you let out the second caleb slides a long finger in, your hands flying to his shoulders for something to grip onto.
he catches your mouth, sealing your noises with a feverish lapping while his fingers linger at your slick heat, skimming just enough to make you ache, barely breaching you before retreating again.
when instinct makes you try to escape from his hand, his grip tightens, stopping you cold—and the small sound you make is answered only by his cruel restraint. he pulls his fingers back, not to leave you alone, but to continue tormenting your bud, circling, brushing, deliberately avoiding both your clit and the relief of letting himself sink inside.
without any warning, caleb pulls away and buries his face into your neck, his teeth sink into your skin as two of his fingers slide into you in one smooth motion. a shaky sound slips from your throat, the sharp sting blurring into heat, and when you instinctively try to move away from his hand, he bites you again—an unspoken command to stay still.
you part your lips to tell him to slow down, but he steals the moment from you—his mouth claiming yours as his fingers drive into you with sudden intent. his tongue presses past your teeth, devouring every broken sound you make, swallowing them whole while his hand moves with an unrelenting rhythm. it’s rough, almost punishing, and he knows it’s exactly what pulls the gasps from your chest—the obscene, wet sounds of his movements filling the room with every sharp roll of his wrist.
“c–caleb,” you choke out, between the kisses, your legs threatening to give beneath you, already spiraling toward release as his fingers strike that sensitive place inside you again and again.
"yeah?" caleb breathes, the veins in his arm almost poking out as he makes an effort to piston into you with just two of his fingers.
you roll your head back against the door, arms now wrapping around his neck. you hate how the heat in your gut is starting to betray you. "f-feels good, caleb..." you cry out, tears starting to form around the corners of your eyes.
caleb stills abruptly, the sound of your voice cutting through him like a blade. he pulls back as if struck by the suddenness of it, breath catching. for a moment, he only stares—then his gaze drops to his own hand, glistening with evidence of just how far he’s pushed you.
a quiet, disbelieving breath leaves him, something between a laugh and a sigh, and that familiar, dangerous smirk curves his mouth.
“look at you....” he brings a finger to your cheek, caressing the texture of your skin ever so softly. "do you realize how being very good i am right now?" he whispers, " "...you should appreciate how hard this is f'me."
hard?...
"aren't you gunna say anything, bunny?"
you purse your lips together, shy and avoidant. you aren't familiar with these feelings, and you aren't sure how to approach them. so all you settle for is silence. just silence.
but, despite yourself, you like that caleb takes it as consent. that he's doing the honor of adjusting the sails. even though you haven't processed the fact that caleb's admitted his obsession toward you long enough for it to sink into your chest.
all you can understand, right now, is not that caleb had implied of doing horrible things just to keep you in his orbit, but the mere sensation of his hands on you, allover you.
and the way his gaze just tells you to let him in, to let yourself feel him.
so you do.
you lunge forward before you can think better of it, fingers fisting into his damp hair, palms cradling his face as you rise on your toes to crash yourself against him.
the world stops. his eyes squint shut on instinct, then flutter open again in disbelief, ghost-blinking like his mind has short-circuited. this wasn’t the script. this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
you’re kissing him.
you chose him.
oh. god.
he makes a sound low in his throat, something broken and reverent all at once, and that’s all the hesitation he gets. he cannot—will not—let this slip through his fingers. his hands move before his thoughts can catch up, sliding securely under your thighs, lifting you with terrifying ease.
you’re suddenly higher, closer, pressed to him as if you were always meant to fit there. he keeps the kiss intact, unbroken, unhurried now that he has you where he wants you, like this is the only reasonable outcome.
his grip is firm but careful, holding you as if you’re something precious he’s finally been allowed to claim—mouth still on yours with a heart thundering with the knowledge that this time—you came to him.
caleb carries you across the living area as if the distance is nothing. the room blurs at the edges until the sofa catches the back of his knees and he sinks into it with a soft exhale, cushions swallowing him whole.
you end up straddling his hips without quite realizing how, knees pressing into the give of the pillows, hands braced at his shoulders. for a split second, the closeness startles you both—the way your balance shifts, the way his hands hover at your waist, unsure whether to hold or let go.
you don't stop kissing. it’s clumsy in the way first things always are. your mouths don’t quite align at first, teeth bumping faintly. caleb lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh, smiling into the kiss, relief and wonder softening the sharpness he usually wears so well. he follows your pace instead of setting it, learning you as he goes, tentative and greedy all at once.
your lips part, meet again. tongues brush—hesitant, exploratory—like you’re both testing how far the other will go. it’s almost intoxicating not because it’s perfect, but because it isn’t. because you’re figuring it out together, right here, tangled up on his sofa like this is the most natural place in the world to be.
unconsciously, you don’t register when the kiss stops being just a kiss.
your body has already begun answering for you—the way your hips rock forward and grind against him isn’t intentional, just a restless seeking born from heat and closeness. you think you’re only trying to stay balanced. you think you’re only following the rhythm he’s set.
caleb notices.
his mouth falters first. the kiss breaks unevenly, breath catching sharp between his teeth. when he kisses you again, there’s a sound this time—low, strained, embarrassingly honest—slipping into your mouth before he can stop it. his brows draw together, the smile gone, replaced by something raw and overstimulated.
then his hand closes around your arm.
he pulls you back just enough to break the contact, and the absence hits harder than the closeness ever did. caleb’s face is flushed now, color climbing high on his cheekbones, his chest rising and falling too fast.
his gaze drops, just for a second, down below—the way his hardening bulge is pressed against your pussy—before snapping back up to your face, wide and almost accusatory, like he’s been wronged by his own body.
“do you even know,” he asks, voice rough and frayed at the edges, “what you’re doing to me?”
you shake your head immediately. no, of course not. panic prickles at your skin, fear that you crossed a line you didn’t even see. your hands loosen on his shoulders, ready to retreat, ready to apologize.
but caleb doesn’t let you move away. instead, he shifts beneath you, giving you a grinding motion upwards. it presses the truth of him into the space between you, heat and tension where there hadn’t been any a moment ago.
your breath stutters, because you realize how rock hard caleb is.
his eyes darken, embarrassed and ruined all at once. “that,” he murmurs, almost helplessly, “that’s what.” then, quieter—like it’s a confession he never meant to give—“you’re making it so much worse.”
and the way he says it makes your face burn, all the way down to your chest, because suddenly you realize this isn’t a mistake to him at all.
"i'm sorry... i thought, maybe... that you would like it—" the words slip out soft and clumsy, tripping over itself the way you suddenly feel. you apologize again, quieter this time, eyes darting away as if you’ve misread everything.
caleb doesn’t answer right away, and he just looks at you.
with that maddening, knowing ease of his—head tipped slightly, mouth curved in a slow, indulgent smile, like he’s watching a child stumble through something inevitable. his eyes don’t leave you, not even when you keep talking, explaining yourself, backtracking.
“oh,” he murmurs, voice low and almost amused. “there you go…”
you falter. "i'm sorry, i don't know how to do this— i..."
“mmhmm,” he nods along as if he’s encouraging you to keep going, like your apologies are something sweet he’s savoring. “yeah, go on...”
it makes heat crawl up your neck. you almost snap at him for teasing—almost tell him to stop looking at you like that, to take you seriously—but before you can gather the words, caleb leans in just enough to steal the space from your lungs.
“do you really think, that a sorry is what i need from you?” his gaze drifts down your chest—your cleavage—lingering a second too long before returning to your face. the implication settles heavy in your chest, in the silence he leaves behind on purpose.
caleb exhales through his nose, smile deepening, and slowly, caleb’s fingers find the hem of your shirt.
he lifts it just enough to break the line between what he knows and what he’s imagined, breath stalling in his chest as if the sight alone has struck something vital.
his eyes narrow with awe, staring at your boobs, the kind that makes his throat work as he swallows hard. "you're so... beautiful."
for a moment, he doesn’t touch you. he just looks. "so beautiful it hurts."
then his hands rise, tentative at first—testing, asking without words—before confidence overtakes restraint. his palms are warm on your mounds, memorizing you as if he’s afraid the knowledge might be taken from him. his breathing turns uneven, and you feel the answer in his body before he ever says a word, the way he presses closer without meaning to.
caleb buries his face against you as he slides your brassiere down to take your nipple in his mouth, murmuring something unintelligible, something wrecked. he clings like a man starving, and all you can do is clutch at him, a sound slipping from your throat before you can stop it.
caleb presses closer, hips moving on instinct rather than intention, chasing a sensation he doesn’t have language for yet.
he rolls his hips upward, eager to bury his clothed erection into your sex, and you feel the way his tongue is simultaneously laving the pain of your nipple. it's desperate, like a man who’s wandered into paradise by accident and is terrified someone will drag him back out.
his arms lock around you, fingers digging in as though you might disappear if he loosens his hold even a little.
he nuzzles closer, face buried against your chest as if he belongs there, and every movement of his body is pleading, clumsy and earnest, like he’s trying to fuse himself to you through sheer will.
suddenly, caleb pulls away and forces you to rise up. "for a while," he says it almost like a moan, you almost smile from how undone he obviously is. but that immediately falters when you see him unbuckling his belt.
"caleb?"
"yeah?"
"are we... going to have sex?"
he looks up at you, pausing for just a second. "do you not want to?"
you gulp, because the most rational choice is to stop. you don't have a condom. and yet, you can't help but imagine the feeling of his cock buried deep into your womb. shit, just the image is enough to have you clenching your pussy.
"please."
your eyes snap back to caleb, and he's giving you that look. that same look he gave you when you helped him put on a shirt in your bedroom. that same desperate, puppy eyes. "please, please let me fuck you." his voice is raw with desperation, and it takes you aback.
"please let's do it, please let me..." he murmurs against your skin, hands going down your hips, lingering further. "let me thrust into you, let me feel how tight you are, please, please."
you stay silent.
"let me fuck you raw, please."
and that's all it takes.
all it takes for caleb to be lounged back against the pillows, his chiseled abs on full display beneath his rumpled shirt, sweat dripping down his flushed face. his eyes were glued to your every move now that your back is facing him (it was easier to put inside that way), a look of pure, unadulterated lust etched on his handsome features as you rode him with slow, sensual rolls of your hips. the way your ass bounced and jiggled with each thrust, swallowing his rock-hard cock to the hilt, left him absolutely spellbound.
caleb's hands quickly grew restless, roaming greedily over your curves. they slid from your hips, up to your waist, before eagerly descending to grasp at the pliant flesh of your ass. his calloused palms smoothed over the supple mounds, squeezing and kneading the giving skin as if he needed to map every dip and swell. he couldn't resist the urge to grab and mold your ass to his hands, his fingers sinking into the plush, pillowy flesh.
he grabbed two generous handfuls, squeezing them almost roughly as he spread your cheeks apart. this allowed him a shameless, unobstructed view of your slick, dripping pussy swallowing his thick cock to the hilt with each roll of your hips. "oh, god..." caleb groaned, his voice low and rough with lust, almost as if he spoke to himself. "you're... taking me so... well. shit, i can't—" his eyes remained watching your walls stretch around him, your body accepting every thick throbbing inch as he bucked up to meet your downward thrusts.
your thighs quivered with exertion, muscles burning from the intensity of your movements. beads of sweat trickled down your back, your body glistening from the heat of what you're doing. yet caleb remained oblivious to your fatigue, his hands still greedily exploring every inch of your curves. his touch turned almost rough in his fervor, fingers sinking into the pliant flesh of your rear with shameless abandon.
"keep going..." caleb's voice was a low, husky murmur, soft even as his grip tightened meanly on your hips. "c'mon, just a little more." he urged you on, eyes still riveted to the debauched sight of your dripping pussy swallowing his cock over and over, his own need overwhelming any thought of your exhaustion. "you can do it—ngh! take... a little more of this dick, bunny."
but, it seems you couldn't take it anymore. caleb felt you starting to slow down, a soft whimper escapes your parted lips. not wanting you to stop, he leans in and captured your cheek with a tender kiss from behind.
seizing the opportunity, he wrapped a strong arm around your waist, gripping you tightly. and with a swift and sudden movement, caleb flipped you both over, your body tumbling down to the armchair of the sofa. the change in position left you face down, your shapely ass now raised and presented.
he takes a moment to admire the erotic sight of your backside up in the air, your dripping pussy on full display, before standing up. rising to his feet behind you, he grabbed your hips in a firm grip, then, with a primal grunt, he slammed his rock-hard cock deep into your soaked, needy hole.
"angggh!" you scream, as caleb sets a wildly fast pace from the start, his hips pounding against your ass with a staccato rhythm, the obscene slap of skin on skin filling the room. he gripped you tighter, pulling you back onto his thick shaft as he pistoned into you, the blunt head of his cock kissing your cervix with each brutal thrust.
the new angle allowed him to plunge even deeper than before, your body shaking from the force of his wild fucking. caleb leaned over your back, his sweat-slicked chest pressing against you as he growled filthy words of praise into your ear. "baby, this pussy is amazing. 'm gonna fucking ruin you, oka-ay?"
this is it.
this is heaven.
this is everything he's ever wanted, ever needed, ever imagined in the silence of his head. he's replayed this scene in him for many impossible times.
caleb's head rolled back, eyes squeezing shut as he fucked into you with wild abandon. guttural whines and grunts spilled from his lips, his hips slamming against yours with a force that shook the sofa.
"caleb, wait... don't cum inside," you gasped out between ragged breaths, feeling your own peak fast approaching. but he paid no heed to your plea, instead choosing to drive into you even harder and faster.
a dark chuckle rumbled up from caleb's chest, vibrating against your back as he leaned over you. "don't cum inside? mmm, you say that, but your pussy is squeezing me so fucking tight," he punctuated his words with a sharp thrust, grinding his pelvis against your ass. "like it's trying to beg for my cum."
suddenly, caleb's hand fisted in your hair, gripping the strands tightly as he yanked your head back. a surprised, wanton moan tore from your throat at the sudden sting of pain, your back arching as he forced your chin to tilt up. your pussy clenched around him, walls fluttering wildly as a fresh gush of arousal flooded your core.
then, without warning, he wrenched his swollen cock out of your dripping cunt, the sudden emptiness making you whimper. before you could process the loss, hot, thick ropes of cum erupted from the weeping slit of his dick, painting streaks of pearly white across the smooth expanse of your ass.
caleb's body shuddered and jerked as he came undone, his low moan rising in pitch until it almost sounded like a sob of ecstasy. he milked his pulsing cock, stroking it through the throes of his intense orgasm until the last weak spurts dribbled onto your skin. panting harshly, caleb slumped forward over your back, his chest heaving against you as he tried to catch his breath. "fuck... fuck..." he gasped, still gripping your hair with a trembling hand.
almost in disappointment, you look back up at him with a slightly confused gaze. "i... i thought you'd cum inside?"
still panting softly from his intense climax, caleb looked up as you glanced back over your shoulder at him. his eyes, though glazed with lust, met yours with a hint of amusement. a lazy smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he took in your questioning gaze.
"what, baby? did you really think i was gonna pull out at the last second?" caleb chuckled, he brushed a few stray strands of hair from your face with his fingertips, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the rough grip he'd had moments before. "i'm still the same guy, dummy."
same guy, sure.
caleb's still the same guy.
he doesn't know better that after he's finally, finally laid his hands on you like this, he'll spiral into something even more worse.
"caleb,"
"mhm?"
"can we... move to your bedroom?" you say softly, eyes tracing the line of caleb's biceps.
his bedroom?
no, anywhere but his bedroom.
caleb gives you a smile, lets out a breath that gives away a laugh. "we can stay here, can't we?" there's no way he'd let you in there. no way he'd let you see the true depths and layers of his feelings for you. the pictures, the posters allover his wall, the collection of pieces he stole from you, even pieces of all the previous people he's killed for you.
caleb inhales the scent of the sweat from your neckline, and he squeezes his eyes shut. "wanna fuck again?"
do you ever just feel overly horny, overworked and underfucked but you KNOW izu wouldn’t let his sweet girl feel neglected
✩꒱ overworked, underpaid and severely fucked — ft. izuku midoriya .ᐟ
🏁 ꒰ ✩ smut ⋆ mdni ⋆ pro hero izuku midoriya & fem!reader. oral sex, established relationship, care taker izuku. -> izuku midoriya is a good boyfriend, pervy and a little weird … but good. what? it’s not his fault that you’re so easy to look after.
overworked, underpaid but not!! underfucked when you’re with izuku !!!
he’s a little weird, a little perverted but he can be a really good boyfriend if you just give him a chance. promise! izuku is so doting, he’ll leap at the chance to take care of something for you even if you insist you’re getting along well financially.
the first time you let him pay for your food shop and essentials, he walks out of the store with three bags for life on each arm and a boner he just barely manages to conceal. you’re huffy and annoyed because you hardly need the stuff he picked up but it’s enough to last you, so you can’t complain. you kiss deku stupid after he’s loaded the car and lick into his mouth when he settles into the driver’s seat. “always happy to help you, baby.” he murmurs giddy. “just text me what you need next time, you don’t even have to leave the house.” between smooches he doesn’t say he expects a thank you, but you feel the way his chest bristles bristles beneath your fingertips whenever you do give your thanks. as though you’re praising the lord and graced him enough to give you this blessing. he is a little weird.
izuku has an annoying tendency to know what you need before you need it. a bath with lavender oil and candlelight upon return from a three day business trip out of city helping with company interviews — one you had no say on going to. a home-cooked meal because you didn’t have a chance to grab lunch between meetings, although pork katsudon is all he’s good for ( he’ll call kacchan for recipes and cooking advice once you tire of his own skill set). a new work bag because the one you’ve had since starting busted at the strap on the way home, your new one just so happens to be designer because the leather is stronger.
he does it all with a kiss pressed to your cheek and a smile that causes a crinkle at the corner of his eyes — sickly sweet and sticky against you but you tell him thank you all the same and he tells you anything, always. in response. you’re spoiled rotten to the point of feeling suffocated but it’s good, so good, to be swept off your feet for a little while.
izuku is a great listener too. you’ll come home from your job where they don’t pay you enough pennies to give a fuck, designer purse now abandoned on the sideboard by the counter with your keys, heels clicking angrily and izuku will be there ready to hear you out. take your mind off things for a little while.
“you’re frowning, sweet girl, what’s wrong?”
then he’s on his knees, crisp white blouse taut against his chest and tie loose, as he slips your heels off one by one accompanied by angel’s kisses. he lets you curse and vent, spill foul secrets about your coworker who keeps taking credit for your work and your boss who demands too much in too little time all while nodding with bouncing ever-green curls brushing against the inside of your thighs and up your itty bitty pencil skirt.
you ramble on and on, your nails taking through his curls as he descends down on your centre. lips hot on your panties, teething at the fabric that’s already wet and has been since he first sunk to his knees before you — placing you at epicentre of his entire universe. izuku nods at the same time he kisses your clit, agreement in the form of sucking the slick from you as if you’re the only source of life for a thousand miles.
“and god, zu — she stole that client from right u-under my nose!” you’re scowling but your body melts into him below, your hips buck over his nose and he thinks for a second he could die here, happy and unable to breathe if it meant drowning in the deliciousness of your cunt. you’re sweeter when you’re pissed off, when you use him to ease the tension wound tight in your shoulders. izuku is desperate for you to use him, need him, he prefers life this way.
“mhm…” he says, or groans, or sighs blissfully like he’s really listening to you. focused on the tale of how that petty girl at your petty job keeps taking the credit. hed take care of that too, if you let him — call them up and say hero deku had a complaint to make. he settles for this, the now, the exact moment you clench around the thickness of his tongue as it thrusts far enough along your slippery walls to make your body shake. maybe it’s selfish off him, that izuku waits for you to get all riled up at work so that you come home to him like this. broiling under the flesh, smelling like sex that stirs his appetite into something more sinister.
when you hug the back of his head to your weeping slit, izuku purrs as though he’s been rewarded. his tongue does a sweep of the entire length of your cunt, gathers what you drool in viscous waves and smelts his spit into the molten mix, frothy cream gathering just around your hole and clit. messy, greedy, filthy but he doesn’t let up even when his chin is painted with a varnish of arousal.
he doesn’t mind being your crutch or your tool to pass a bad day by, as long as you’re above him like this — toes digging into his shoulders, fist tight in his hair, . “a-and seriously, zu. f-fuck, fuck that girl. fuck. i’m gonna cum!” you squeak shakily and he knows the job is done. you’re happy and you’re distracted, babbling god knows what about who knows what but the anger once built up inside you snaps like an easy spring. your orgasm is melt in the mouth, a piece of heaven created just for izuku to indulge in.
perhaps it is weird and perverted that he loves to be used and to use his skill on you… but you like it and maybe that makes you a little perverted too.
end ! likes are appreciated, but just liking doesn’t do much on tumblr! to support and motivate myself and other writers, reply, reblog and comment if you'd like to see more!! — asks are open to thirsts and thoughts! join my taglist ! love you!
Odile, Odette- A Female Reader x Victor Gideon Darkfic, PART ONE
Synposis: Returning home from a performance of Swan Lake a young woman is stalked and taken hostage by Victor Gideon, who begins to reveal his dark interest in her past. What secrets does she keep?
Trigger warnings for this chapter: Sexual assault, kidnapping, medical torture/abuse, non consensual drugging
No ballet knowledge needed for this fic, we just appreciate the art 😇 it's just one of several themes... enjoy
Read after the cut 🔪
Like a celestial baptism rain tips over the theatre house, making the black night gleam with it as you step out into the street, one high heel turning on an uneven stone.
A stranger's hand closes upon your elbow to steady you.
"Careful."
You start at the contact and smile feebly as you struggle to open your umbrella amidst the chaos of the sidewalk.
"Thank you," you say, but the words are sucked away into the din of passing cars and people laughing and discussing the show as they twist by you to cross the road.
Your heart still catches high in your chest in remembrance of the scenes you'd witnessed, leaning as far forward as you'd dared in your seat to take in the feats of athletic magic that they call dance.
You've begun attending performances, as of late, drawn to an old, abandoned interest through nostalgia for the past.
There had been ballet classes, once, when you were little. You remember a light opening in you like an enchanted flower, passion you'd rarely felt in other things, or have since, an oasis amidst an uneasy world.
Then there had been something unpleasant with another child. A sort of spat. A scratch across a little girl's face; you can’t remember whose, hers or yours. Adults shouting. The lessons ended. Your parents appalled.
The violence of the event had shocked you deeply and for a very long time, killing the joy. But its hold on you is less and less with each ballet performance you go to see to the point that it has almost been forgotten.
It is the stories in those plays of dance that have always compelled you. You have difficulty focusing on the written page, wanting to read too quickly than you are capable of, losing the words. Craving more stimulation and simultaneously less of it at once. Audible and visual presentations of a narrative are easier for you to absorb, lighting fires through your mind for you to follow.
Through them, and only them are you able to relax. To feel not a single stab of the myriad irritations that torment you from sunrise to set.
Even now, afloat on your delight with the evening, you're disturbed by the close, elbowing throng of people in the streets, the screams of car horns and shrieking revellers, and across it all the clapping of the rain down on the earth, a rattling din.
You shrug in under your umbrella, a capsule shelter amidst the lunacy of this city in the night. It is a short walk to the corner you'll call a car from, but time extends in the pull of your discordant thoughts, your unease with public life and, conversely, with the immense pleasure of having seen a very beautiful thing.
As you fall back into memory you stop noticing the others around you, as untouched by their shoving and shouts as though you are a mobile idol of stone.
You find your out of the way corner at last, standing to wait in blissful patience to be driven home. Your wet hands adjust on the handle of umbrella, clumsy with cold. You think how you’ll tell your parents what you have seen, try to convince them that it is a good thing to have found something you love.
Then there is a man's hand on your arm again, this one larger than the first and possessed of a gentle but authoritative grip. Startled, you crane back your head, further astonished by the height of the stranger under his white snakeskin hood, then by the face in its shadow, pale and scar shorn.
The eyes are concealed under a mechanical visor. Foul teeth fill his smirk, constructed from gold.
He's not human, you think. Not anymore. Some illness has altered him, one of the murky ailments your parents have occasionally spoken of in the night when they haven’t expected you to eavesdrop. A lab grown organism, a biological curse.
As you stare into eyes of the device upon the man’s face he speaks.
"I've wanted to meet you for some time, now,” he says; his voice is hushed and sensual, with a slight nasal inflection, like an eccentric actor from a 1970s film. “The time was never quite right. It wasn’t convenient for our paths to cross, until tonight."
You cannot bring yourself to respond to him, still transfixed by the horror of his disfigurement, the dull glint of his gilded teeth. Feebly, you tug at your arm in his hold, but he only draws you closer to him, his rank breath in your lungs like some abyssal perfume.
"There's nothing to be afraid of," the man says, his head falling into a playful tilt. "My name is Dr Victor Gideon. I'd like to help you, if I can."
Only then do you regain use of your tongue again.
"I'm sorry,” you say. “I don't know who you are. I don't need any help. Please let me go."
When you pull at him a second time you drop your umbrella, the wind blowing it savagely into Victor's face. As it strikes him he loosens his grip, and with a soft cry of fear you tear away in your teetering heels, a run that as though traversing a dreamscape seems too slow for true effect.
The same hand that had grasped your wrist before goes around your neck, pressing down until the dark shuts inwards like the end of the world.
"Nowhere to run," says Victor. "Soon you'll be exactly where you belong."
Then his voice is swallowed by the night, as well.
In that sleep you feel yourself carried, hands undressing you, lingering at your breasts and between your legs as they put you into other clothes. Your body stirs at each caress, slickening in expectant openness to sex.
It does not come.
Your eyes spill open, tears falling even before you've properly awoken. In ropes you find yourself bound to a chair within a room you've never seen before, a man at your side whom you've only glimpsed once: the grinning monster from the street, Victor Gideon.
"How are you feeling?" he asks, pacing a lazy circle around your seat. "I tried not to be overzealous. You shouldn't have any lasting injuries."
You recall his fingers in the sleeping mouth of your cunt before you'd entirely awoken and your breaths shorten, barely extending long enough to process the air they tale in. Surely you hadn't imagined that assault on you, dreamt it up, thought of this creature in such a way of your own volition.
No— you see the lecherous working of his mouth, feel him bear down on you from behind, taking his fill of your body in its scratchy white medical gown. Your legs uncovered, the bare hills of hip and the tops of your breasts presented like offerings to appease some carnivorous serpent in its rancour.
Whatever other reasons Victor has for your abduction this, even to your naive, and often oblivious perception is evident. Even altered as he is, he is still capable of the low and terrible designs of men.
"This is Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Centre," says Victor, gesturing broadly. "I run the facility. I'm continuing great work here. My hope is for you to be a part of it."
You cast your eyes downwards, away from the horrific wreck of mortal life that dominates the room, and shake your head.
"Really," says Victor, in a growl like torn velvet. "I thought a patron of the arts like yourself would be more open-minded. What was it that you came to see?"
Nonplussed by this line of questioning, you murmur, "Swan Lake."
Victor scoffs.
"How cliché. Who did you identify with the most? Odile or Odette? I'd be curious to know the answer."
It offends you to think that this repugnant animal could know anything about ballet, but then there is a considerable theatre to his presence, enough to suggest that he had been a cultured man in his mortal life. Intelligent, at least, if he had claimed a doctor’s title and his current position.
“Surely it isn’t a difficult choice,” says Victor, wearying of your bewildered silence. “The imprisoned girl or the willing servant to her oppressor?”
You feel him behind you again, his breath against your neck, a fetid heat. The damp flick of his forked tongue from the dell of your collarbone up to your chin where fright beats in a dual dance with your heart.
You cringe away from him, then ineffectually from the cool hand that ties your throat, the weird coiling shapes of rings on the pitted fingers like sigils of black and gold ice.
"You're not who I was looking for," Victor says in that oddly soothing voice, twisting in serpentine ribbons around you. "But you became of interest to me. Do you know why?"
"No," you whisper.
Victor gives a dark laugh.
"Odile, then. Deceit."
His voice rises on that last word, and you flinch horribly. Seeing this, his tone drops into silk again.
"Haven't you realised that I know who your parents are?"
You don't allow yourself to respond to this, only continue to shudder, your bound hands running hopelessly against the armrests of your chair.
"Vladimir and Beatrice Tremond," Victor says. "We belonged to the same corporation once. Rumour had it when it all fell apart they ran away and had a child together. Now here you are. Truly special."
You wince as the doctor stalks into view again, each step a design in tension. He wants you to feel it, to answer to it. To him.
“Special?” you echo.
“In some way,” says Victor. “I intend to find out how.”
You look at him for as long as you can bear, taking in the ashen flesh, the scar from lower lip down into the leather shirt he wears under his coat. Whatever contact your mother and father had with this monster cannot have been of a friendly nature, yet they have never mentioned him whether to compliment or deride his name.
But then they had spoken little of their previous work, or of any of their past, for that matter, only what was considered necessary. What was safe for you to know.
“You won’t kill my parents, will you?” you ask. “You didn’t— do it already?”
Victor’s masked face offers you nothing, the mouth like another old and ragged wound.
“I’m surprised it matters to you,” he comments.
Appalled, you say, “They raised me. They love me.”
Victor outstretches a ruined hand to your cheek, drying your tears even as they fall.
“Did they? Are you sure that’s why they made you what you are?”
You only continue to weep, your head so far forward in your anguish that only the binds about your hands prevent it from touching your lap.
“So you’re refusing to talk,” says Victor in audible disappointment. “I’ll get the truth out of you, in time. How long will it take, I wonder? Will your body give up the answers first or will you tell them to me yourself? I know which I’d recommend.”
He turns a meaningful look towards an array of medical tools fanned out across a desk, lifting the visor briefly in order to meet your tentative gaze. At once the scarce light in that room becomes a match struck in the ebony and orpiment of his eyes.
Your body tightens, and the walls begin to cycle in a vertiginous dance around you.
Not human, you think again. He’s something less than that. Something more.
“I’m not the person you were looking for, Doctor,” you say. “Why can’t you let me go?”
“There’s too much to learn from you,” says Victor. “Besides, you have other qualities that are... quite admirable.”
He caresses your mouth with his long-nailed thumb, and by some mercy does not kiss you, though you feel that he wants to, holds back only to madden you with the possibility of that vile mouth against yours.
There is a confident sexuality in his touch, aware of its own odious nature. Taking pride in it.
“Oh,” you say, your voice a rasp of dread. “No. No. Please, Mr... I mean, Dr Gideon, I can’t help you—”
“Of course you can!” he roars, his rank breath a force of wind in your hair; just as suddenly he is calm once more, cupping your chin in his enormous palm as though to preserve a delicate thing from a shattered end. “Can’t you see? You’re helping me already.”
You shudder down to your bones.
Victor leers.
“How soft you are. How is it possible?”
You stare at him, this villain in black, not so unlike the conspiring sorcerer of Tchaikovsky’s vision for the parallels to evade you. He has you thinking with a fantastical logic, purposefully upsetting the order of your mind.
“Doctor,” you say. “I don’t understand.”
Again that frightening passion takes hold of Victor: the frustration of bidding the blind to see.
“Then listen to me!” he cries. “The Tremonds warned you to hide yourself, I’m sure. Instructed you to lie to any curious party, if you had to. But I know that there’s power inside you. Together, we could take it so far...”
You look up at Victor with eyes like Saturn’s moon, full of rain.
“I don’t want any part of this,” you say. “I’m sorry. Please. Stop this.”
The awful figure stoops down until you are face to face, ever crevasse of his from grizzled hair to jawline enhanced like the cracks in ageing stone.
In a purr of erotic intent, Victor says, “So stop me, if you can. You’re free to try.”
You stare into the many eyes of his machine, willing him to comprehend your helplessness, the dense and smothering drift of your despair.
“I can’t,” you say. “I can’t do anything. Please, let me go. Whatever you think I am, it isn’t true.”
With a grunt of displeasure Victor turns on his heel, reaching for a needle from his tools.
“I could keep you awake for this,” he says. “Show you the magnificence of my work, but no. You seem too distressed. That can be remedied, however.”
You whimper as Victor prepares the needle, too overcome by fear and emotion even to plead your case. Victor hushes you, his fingers treading like ghosts across your soft left underarm as he turns it to his weapon.
When it goes into you, springing forth a marble of blood, you cry out and flail weakly in your bondage. Victor handles the outburst as tenderly as a mother, running his ringed knuckles across your cheek until you settle.
“Let go,” he says. “All that matters is my plan for you, now. But it can wait.”
Through him you go into absence again, know nothing on this occasion but the timeless vale of sleep.
Wakefulness comes like low mist blown into ascent from the earth, slow and eerie. You’re aware of heavy, shifting movement in the room with you, the continued pressure of restraints at your ankles and wrists. The sweet, rank smell of alcohol. The leaden drowsiness of lifting sleep.
You think of the doctor’s question again—‘Odile, or Odette?’—and think you’re more likely the latter, awaking from a weird and malignant enchantment. The warmth of that chamber beckons you back to it again, and you do not resist, glad to go back into ignorance. Not to think of your predicament, whose knot you can’t slip regardless of Dr Gideon’s suspicions.
It is only minutes after this, however, that he shakes you back into consciousness, having noticed the flickering of your eyelids.
“There you are. Rested, I hope?”
With eyes half-blind with sleep you look down at yourself, compelled to do so by a stinging sensation between bicep and wrist. You find a festoon of tubes leading out from the arm, many cuts and puncture wounds surrounding these mite incisions.
You let out a little scream and look at Victor, imploring.
“Please,” you say. “Take them out of me.”
You’re right to beg; Victor preens visibly, his huge figure gliding across the room with a frightening grace to give you aid.
"Such pretty manners," he coos. "Very well. Allow me."
He labours over the removal of needles, the cleaning and dressing of wounds, the feathering of his vast digits across your epidermis thoughtful and deliberate. He means for you to notice this, to feel smaller for it, penned into a corner with no further option but to comply.
You try, at first, to ignore him, to remain obedient, demure. But then his hand trips in towards your breast, a finger brushing your nipple through the medical gown by what you know is surely no accident. The nipple, unbiased to the identity of its handler, becomes erect.
“Please don’t touch me,” you say.
Your voice, as always, is shy and of very little strength or conviction.
Victor chuckles.
“I’m afraid it’s far too late for that.”
Again he takes hold of your breast, this time with deliberate attention, the mound encompassed by the cracked white palm. You cannot tell if this is his first sexual contact in some time or if he is accustomed to taking his private pleasures with his most beautiful patients, all too ill to make their complaints.
“So helpless,” says Victor. “Is this really what the Tremonds chose to create?”
He partially rotates your head upon your neck, and you experience the strange combination of his cold skin and the churning inner heat of whatever organism exists within him. The cobwebbed edges of Victor’s mouth knot in a grin, and then the whole configuration of flesh and metallic teeth is upon your lips in a kiss.
You become like a dancer’s ribbon, like a swan, bowed back into him. And he is like a snake, his forked tongue winding in your mouth as though to make its nest there.
One hand is still banded about your nape, the golden links joined to one of Victor’s rings a shackle through which only you are chained.
He tastes of death, smells of it. Feels like something no longer living, and at the same time in a fever of existence. He is repugnant, clearly no longer has a full grasp of his faculties after whatever became of him to so alter his appearance. In the latter aspect he is as foreign to you as having come from an extra-terrestrial race, but you know he is a man, feel the certainty of it, obdurate under the ouroboros buckle of his belt.
You will die if this thing makes its rotten love to you, you think, go to decay even as you still pass breath. You’d been dead from the moment he’d touched your arm in the rain; all that’s left of you is impulse, now, the lightning of the human body, forcing your heart to beat against your will.
With a frightening suddenness Victor lets you go, and there is another needle prick like a leech’s nip at your neck.
“You’re not my hope,” he says as you drop into the third nothing of the night. “But a dream you most certainly are.”
Odile, Odette- A Female Reader x Victor Gideon Darkfic, PART TWO
Synposis: Captured by Victor Gideon, Reader is introduced to his nefarious methods of treatment...
Trigger warnings for this chapter: Sexual assault, blood, medical torture/abuse, mental health discussion
Read after the cut 🔪
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You come to in a sensory Tartarus, limbs succumbing to the ache and itch of the gnawing strands that lock you into Victor’s chair, the agonies of having sat still without the freedom to relieve yourself abrading the last of sleep from your stiff form.
The silence of the chamber, to you, is an offence of ambience, a racket: the chuntering of distant speech, the clunk of pipes expanding, the tone of the electrics—unused here, but no doubt alive along the corridors where, presumably, patients and staff alike pass up and down—adding to the irritant that is pervading sound.
All your life you’ve sought to evade it. Here, tied down to cold leather that conversely sticks to your bare flesh as though with heat, you are at the mercy of two enemies: this auditory onslaught, and the creature you must call upon for your release.
To struggle, as you have seen from your earlier wrenching at the rope, is of no use. To summon Victor to you and attack him even less so—you’ve seen the size and strength of him, as though iron were inbuilt through his thick flesh. You’ve seen his eyes, yellow as a death’s head moth, and then as black as its markings.
Like the intrusion of unnecessary sound you have long disliked being pressed to meet the gazes of others. Now, in Victor, you have found not mere discomfort but a terror; you’re relieved that he had kept the visor down for the majority of your interaction. How his present colleagues abide it you cannot understand, nor how your parents had apparently done so in their past work together.
You’d like to believe their connection a lie, something put together to torment a mind incapable of disproving the fact under its current circumstances. But there had been a knoll of truth within you at the words Victor had spoken, and so you do not disbelieve him. Still you wonder at your parents’ motivations for collaborating with a man who had surely possessed cruel ambitions even before illness had taken him.
A dark musing enters you like a covert possession.
Perhaps, while you had slept, Victor had expanded on his explorations of you. Had slipped down the heavy belt and thick skin of his trousers to push up between slack limbs, intent to meet the portal his scaled hands had opened for him.
You rub your thighs together, finding them dry and therefore without any credible indication of him having spilled his sexual signal there.
It is not certain, however; there is the possibility that you would not know, and even if Victor were to deny it had happened a part of you would always believe it. He had lain his hands and mouth on you with too much readiness to doubt that he would take advantage of a dreamer’s state.
You cast a nervous eye about the room, finding nothing in the dark but formless objects, each indistinguishable from the last. Again you acknowledge that without the means to undo your ropes the only avenue out of them is the same that led you in.
Peering doubtfully into the gloom, you say, “Dr Gideon?”
There is no immediate answer, and you begin to pant slightly, appalled at the thought that you might wet your clothes if he should leave you here much longer.
Again you call out, ashamed that you cannot seem to shout no matter how low in your belly you draw your voice from.
“Dr Gideon, please, I need your help...”
Perhaps there is a camera mounted in the room; perhaps the man has been pacing nearby in fractious anticipation of your waking. Either way, this second call is answered, an unseen door smacking brusquely open against the wall as Victor’s shadow consumes it.
A light goes on, a salt sting in tear-raw eyes.
“You took longer than expected to recover,” says Victor. “I’ll use a lesser dose, next time. I’d hate for you to have a bad reaction to anything I prescribe for you to take”
He lurches across to you in enormous strides, the long coat rustling aggressively. You quiver as his cool fingers loosen your arms and ankles, unsure where to look or what to say next. Begging for your liberty had borne no fruit; better, then, to feign compliance until a more likely source of freedom presents itself to you.
“You seem uncomfortable,” Victor comments, watching with sly interest as you shift hesitantly about, barefoot on the tiled flooring. “Might there be any particular facilities you require?”
He touches your abdomen through the medical gown, and you think of his fingers inside you, feel the phantom stretch of them between two walls. Sense again the eager rush of moisture, as though your loins had known a sleeping death until his influence.
“The bathroom, please,” you say, voice wavering with humiliation. “Would I—am I allowed to go?”
Victor’s mouth rips up high on either side of his wounded cheeks, and you think that he might deny you purely for the foul pleasure of observing your shame.
But, in a great show of chivalry, he drops down in a loose bow and points to the door.
“Right this way. You should find everything you need. If you require anything else you only have to ask.”
You intend to seek nothing from Victor than is strictly necessary, putting this distance between you at least if the physical is not to be allowed you. Still you nod politely, follow him a short distance to a private bathroom, one likely of access to staff members only. It is beautifully designed, leftover, presumably, from the building’s previous life, perhaps a luxury retreat for the chronically ill.
Now it surely has another purpose. You’re beginning to piece together from Victor’s words what manner of institute would willingly operate under him. Why your parents had seemed uneasy with your new interest in venturing out into the world, and often at night.
They had feared their old friend, or perhaps others like him.
You look dispassionately at the nearby faucets, struck, for some curious reason, by their banal existence in a world in which monsters exist, of a kind. The medical distortion of man.
“Take as long as you like,” says Victor, and he reaches out to run his finger from the crest of your ear to the hollow of your jaw, following the line of your face as you flinch from him. “I’ll be waiting for you when you’re finished.”
You are shocked by the gentle intimacy of Victor’s touch, stealing piece after piece of you so gradually that he may normalise his way, letting himself into you as if through an unlocked door. There is nothing you dare do to prevent this; the thought of attacking him in any physical fashion is like a hammer to your gut, making you ill.
Not since the incident in the mirrored room as a child have you entered an altercation. You’re afraid of the chaos of it, the absence of control; if something cannot be organised to your liking in some regard it is no longer under consideration for use.
Besides, should you try Victor would crush you like an ortolan in the teeth of a gourmand. It is unsafe to try. You must not push yourself to that.
Shivering, you look at the sink, the little packages of clean toothbrush, paste, a bar of soap and the shrivelled leaf of a shower cap, as neat as in any hotel.
"Thank you," you say.
Victor scrutinises your face, the minuscule gears at work within his mask busily churning.
“Don’t think about trying to get away,” he says. “The doctors here all answer to me. Besides, you won’t be able to access the exits, or break your way through—not like this.”
He lingers on the last word, evidently waiting for a response. When you do not offer one his lower face tightens in displeasure, and he charges from the room in that peculiar, urgent fashion of his, the jagged quickness of the movement never ceasing to alarm.
You’re somewhat surprised that he doesn’t remain to watch you bathe or relieve yourself, but then he has seen your body unclothed already, handled it. Traced its lines as though deciding where to begin a surgeon’s butchery—surely it holds few surprises for him, now, and those that are left he may never uncover.
You intend to be gone from here before he can conduct any further experiments of the flesh.
You take another anxious look around you, noting that there is only a shower in the room. No opportunity, then, to sink beneath a porcelain lake to drown yourself and end your stay before it’s truly begun. Likely there have been patients in attendance who have attempted this in their baths, perhaps even had fair fortune and succeeded.
Had they, too, known the turn of cold fingers in their cavities, the malodorous press of Victor’s kiss? Or had it been their ruined minds alone that had beckoned death, having endured tortures more than you have in the night across their lifetimes?
It embarrasses you to be so self-absorbed, to shudder with hurt and affront as though, like some virgin of medieval principles, you must do away with your existence over a kiss. But it would be true to say that it has razed and left you desolate in the whimsy it has robbed you of in the night, blown out like the pitiless end of star.
Shaking yourself thoroughly, you slip off your crumpled shift, depositing it neatly by the sink before stepping into the ornate shower stall. There you clean yourself meticulously, nails scraping deep into your scalp, soaping and rinsing as many times as it takes for the number of repetitions to set right your equilibrium.
The water becomes a soothing curtain of sound.
You do not allow thoughts of Victor’s assault to prevent you from this work of washing. Your sensory struggles would not have allowed it, anyway: the scent and physical sense of dirt would have bitten like black ants at the nerve. Even had Victor opened you out with the thick sex you’d felt through his clothing you would have come to this stall to wash, as though like the unconscious process of taking a breath it must be performed, unthinking, to live.
You brush your teeth and dry and style your hair afterwards with the products available to you, build a fence of time between yourself and whatever threefold god of fate exists beyond this chamber
You think again of your quiet, yet subtly powerful mother, your father, who had taken her surname in marriage, worshipping like a supplicant that little woman. These people that had seemed so good, that had been patient with the struggles you were born with—your Differences, as they called them. What had they been doing in their previous lives, before you had been born?
Surely they had not been like the creature that has captured and thrust itself at the helpless doll of your bound form. But how could they have endured him if they were not?
For you understand from the lucidity of Victor’s speech that he had largely kept his old self with him after his transformation. Had the same cruel appetite and arrogant delusion before.
What, precisely, had he been a doctor of? From marks upon a map of recollections you make your guess, had already known it from the direction of his probing. You know, too, what he must want of you. The thing you cannot give, nor will. In this, and this alone you have resolve, and like a holy guard you look to its defence as your duty.
There is another white dress for you to put on, this one of a softer, more flattering cut, more akin to civilian clothes. The shoes, in your exact size, are plain white pumps, something no doubt produced for hospital use. No laces, no room to hide anything in the interior or the sole.
You pull at your sleeves and the neckline of the dress, displeased with how they sit. The scratch of the thick lace. Only when you are satisfied with your appearance do you make your move for the door.
You are not a person of impulse, but of meticulous and thorough thought, never leaving the house without multiple contingency plans should any of their number fail.
You cannot, however, plan for a situation in which the variables at play are entirely unknown. Therefore the only semblance of preparation for what you’re about to do is to step quietly out into the hallway and look to see if Victor or anyone else is present.
It appears that there is no one about you; though you’re unsure what direction, if any, leads to a viable exit you take off quickly to your left, imagining you’ll see signs or some other indication on the way.
At the first corner a hand conveys you by the seam of your dress almost into the air, your feet no longer quite in contact with the ivory flooring.
“Now, now,” says Victor, his voice low and pleasant. “I haven’t finished with you.”
He leans in close to your twitching face, seemingly amused behind his metal contraption.
“But you did all those tests yesterday, Doctor,” you say faintly. “You don’t need more, do you?”
Victor lowers you back down again, though he still keeps hold of your collar as though restraining a little child from bolting. His bulk cleaves to the vertices of your stiff back, the body-warmed leather more alive than the skin beneath. That you find cool as satin. Cool as snakeskin. Dead without death.
“I’d like to continue my examination,” says Victor. “I’ll escort you back to your room. I will conduct it there.”
You peer down both ends of the branching corridors, forming doubtful calculations as to the likelihood of successful flight down one or the other. Victor turns your face back to look at him, his ridged fingernails sunken into your cheek.
“Haven’t you run long enough?” he asks you. “Your parents fled from their old deeds, and they’ve taken you right along with them. Infected you with pointless guilt. But that isn’t all you’ve inherited, is it?”
The hand on your back spreads up onto your shoulder, pinching the base of your shoulder blade until you twist limply in protest.
“Lead the way,” he says. “I’d like to keep you in my sight.”
Like a figurine in a music box you turn to his desire, finding the room he’d first brought you to and putting on the light. For the first time you acknowledge the splendour of the place; though all in white, the details of each coiled limb of furniture and accompanying accessory speak of the wealth that had fuelled this sanatorium, its guests once a privileged class.
“Please,” says Victor. “Sit down.”
He points to the medical chair you’d taken the previous night, evidently a new and ill-fitting addition to the room.
“No thank you,” you murmur.
If you are polite, a diplomat, you will be more likely to survive your abduction. If you do not argue, fight, or provoke this man, if you make yourself, in word and manner, very small—this, you tell yourself, will be your protection.
“If not the chair,” says Victor, “then maybe you’d prefer to take the bed.”
His slate lips purse in a vile smirk, and you cross the room in cowed steps to take your seat.
The doctor follows, stooped like some wretched crane to look into your avoidant eyes.
“There,” he says. “Now we can get to know each other a little more.”
You say nothing, only look at Victor’s belt, the symbol you’d taken for a snake eating its own tail in fact two skull-headed serpents, their heads nestled in together as intimately as new lovers.
Victor clicks his tongue in an aggravated fashion.
“You can only keep this up for so long, you know,” he says. “Shutting me out. It won’t work. Why reject the only one that can give you real purpose?”
Your lips remain pressed together as one. Your purpose, as he has demonstrated, serves but one party; you will not claim it, nor whatever secondary role he intends to attach to your person.
The doctor’s gold teeth flash in a thwarted grimace. He begins to pace back and forth, his slow steps—their repetition—a practice in hypnosis.
“I imagine you’re waiting for your parents to come for you,” he says. “But they won’t, you know.”
You glance fearfully up at him, stunned anew by the extent of his scarring, dark threads across his nose and down his jawline, a suggestion of fragility that is not in him.
You believe that he has killed before, and will do so again. A medical man, he could have already euthanized your parents in any number of ways and declared them victim to a natural death.
Pleased to have grasped your attention, Victor says, “Why do you think the Tremonds wanted you so badly? A burning need to procreate, to pass on their legacy? No.”
He reaches out to trace the embroidery on the bodice of your dress, and your breath stops as though your very lungs are so appalled by him as to give up their function in his presence.
“You’re the dirt they threw over their past to try and bury it all,” he growls. “They hoped you’d make it go away.”
You shake your head, and Victor releases a hiss.
“So you disagree. Why is that? Clearly you understand your parents’ involvement in Umbrella, even if they never told you that name, nor who they were working for. Our research was—controversial. The Tremonds lost faith in my Master’s ambitions. Abandoned everything we’d sought to achieve in his name. But I can see that they’ve fooled you into thinking it was a noble act rather than the idiocy it truly was.”
You feel Victor’s hand mould itself to the flute of your neck, fingers upon your voice box as though to play it to his taste.
“Vladimir and Beatrice believed that you would be their redemption,” he says. “Ultimately, they decided that you were a mistake. Or the potential to be one.”
Words cross your lips before you can retract them.
“No. That’s not true.”
Victor presses upon either side of your neck just enough to induce the drunken spill of dizzy sensation.
“If that’s the case,” he says, “then why are you afraid of what I’m doing here?”
You close your eyes, aware of your pulse in one half of your head like the rhythmic working of a saw.
Sighing, Victor withdraws his hand, rubbing his fingers together as though having touched some sticky surface with them.
“I can think of techniques to encourage you to engage,” he says. “We can talk, or I can resort to whatever means I consider necessary to incentivise you.”
From a table in the room Victor pulls forth a scalpel. Bending down, he takes hold of the hem of your dress and folds it up to your navel, the knife going at once to run lightly from one bare ankle to the crease of your thigh.
Pain like the feel of sun-baked rock streams up the length of the limb, and you squeeze either side of your seat, praying that you can endure him. That you won’t break through the pressure he puts upon you with a perverse and sinister fever to undo all that you are.
You reach for the hand holding the knife, shuddering to experience its texture again, the cool of that smooth skin, the roughness of peeling scales, and the weird sense of vascular heat.
“No,” you say. “Please. Don’t hurt me again.”
“Then open up to me,” says Victor. “Or are you too ashamed of what you are?”
You flinch, but otherwise express no reaction. Likewise, Victor is possessed by dissatisfied stillness.
“Is that your final answer?” he asks. “Such a shame. I’d hoped you’d have made progress. It seems we still have work to do.”
Victor wraps the lengthy skirt of your dress around one hand, then with the other draws the scalpel’s edge from ankle to upper thigh, provoking a long scratch to rise. You claw piteously at the front of Victor’s coat, one palm slipping on the snakeskin, fingers tugging the clasps of his shirt.
“Wait!” you cry. “I can’t give you what you want. You have to believe me.”
Victor chuckles, seeming pleased that you have lowered yourself to touch him even if it is only to beg.
“I’m afraid I don’t believe you,” he says. “I’ve begun analysing your test results. Your physical makeup is... intriguing. I won’t rest until every aspect of it is revealed to me.”
Bringing disfigured lips to the cut on your calf Victor draws upon the cut by your ankle bone as though sucking venom from the wound.
Both your hands advance to Victor’s neck, rocking him faintly in hope of dislodging his mouth from you.
He raises his head, wearing an open grin.
“So now you embrace me.”
Your arms move away as though through some automatic mechanism, going instead to hold yourself as you tremble in equal horror and restraint.
Victor watches you curiously, his head almost on its side like that of a jackal hearing something far away.
“You have more fortitude than I imagined,” Victor comments. “Why do you fight what you have to become?”
He bends down again, and you feel his breath on your cleft like a cemetery breeze. You stiffen, waiting for his cloven tongue to follow.
It does not. Victor restrains himself from this, building slowly to the delight, something to tempt him another day, and more exceptional then for his having waited to perform the act.
In a burst of incontrollable hysteria you try to scramble off the chair away from him.
He holds you fast by your dress, then by your body as his fingers go into you. Agony, then, like boiling water poured upon an open wound, and with it the uncaring press of Victor taking you with his dry and unclothed digits. You release a little scream as his arm sways in languid motion—gentle, for the girth of him; he wants to see how you react to such treatment, whether you’re relieved that he abstains from outright violence or is appalled by this pretence of making love.
His visor whirs, lenses adjusting to examine you with a more focused intensity.
“I see that you don’t need much preparation,” Victor comments. “You must have longed for this.”
You try to shake your head, but your neck is locked with the pain that arrests your entire skeleton from your pelvis to the cap of your skull.
“No,” you whisper. “I don’t want it. I don’t want to be here. I want you to let me go.”
The free fingers of Victor’s hands circle your spread vulva, find the pendant above its opening, like a charm.
“You’d rather subject yourself to experimentation than supply what I’ve requested from you,” he comments. “Well, then. It seems this suits us both.”
You reach for the back of your chair and try to lever yourself upright off the spines of his fingertips, and again he wrenches you back to him, the sharp twitch of his head suggesting a glare behind his mask.
“Do I have to resort to sedatives again? A paralysing agent? There would be far less scientific value for you to be in that condition, but I wouldn’t object.”
You reach out to take off the visor so to see his eyes again, wanting to find something sympathetic to reach, but Victor knocks it easily aside, though not so severely as to injure you.
“You shouldn’t interfere,” he says. “This is for your own good.”
“Whatever happened—with my family,” you say, your words separated from one another by the steady movements of Victor’s fingers pulling you to pieces. “Whatever you think I’m part of—I’m not. I swear, Doctor. I’m innocent.”
Victor smiles, enamoured with the sweetness of your pleading.
“Innocent,” he echoes. “In a way. But you have your own secrets you’ve tried to forget, haven’t you?”
You whimper, and Victor nods in triumph at having garnered some sign of recognition.
“You should unburden yourself,” he says. “Or I’m afraid your treatment will be lengthier than you’d like.”
He pauses, waiting for you to acquiesce. When you do not, he reaches down to release his cock from the lock of his belt, showing you the all too physical manifestation of his diabolical thirst. He handles it, commands you by a satin palm on the back of your hand to touch it, this warped pale wand, as broad as brick and dripping at the ghastly head, its smell like water standing in a grave.
You sob in open disgust, and Victor growls, seemingly offended by your rejection in some way, as though he could expect anything else. Perhaps he thought that you’d be so affected by the mildness of his voice and mellow touch as to forget his ugliness, that he has likely bypassed his own humanity for some grand scheme beyond your naive imaginings.
He works both his hands far more meanly, then, one near making particles of your finger bones as he pestles them from the base of his phallus to its end, the other raking through your inner channel as though intent on euthanizing you from within.
You gasp and arch your back, a thing both stronger and weaker than he'd imagined, and then suddenly he is handling you delicately again, overcome by the beauty of this thing he's attempting to break.
You can't resist his strength, his size—
(not like this)
—but you cannot bear it passively, for all you'd coached yourself into thinking you must.
“I was fortunate to find you,” Victor says almost lovingly. “You are enchanting.”
You stare at him, wish that having come, spiritually dead, from the shower stall you could drag him down after you to his end, then are immediately and acutely frightened of yourself for thinking such evil thoughts.
Victor’s grasp upon your hand runs it harder along himself, his voice a low, cunning flirtation as he seeps like a hail of moon stones between your open knuckles.
“I can feel you giving way for me,” he tells you. “What will happen when you’re truly undone?”
You never intend for him to know, vow that as long as you are imprisoned he will always wonder, thwarted by your refusal to show what he craves access to. Driven mad by it.
Victor breathes into the crook of your neck, smelling your skin, tasting it with his sensitive tongue.
"There, now," he says as he passes along the fragile strum of your pulse. "You're so close to revelation."
You are only capable of making noises now, your body concerned with pulling itself into taut control in your desperation to avoid giving Victor what he wants. A muscle in your cut calf shrivels into cramp, but the agony is nothing in the face of that further pressure that ascends under the manoeuvring of fingers and thumb.
You are disgusted by this harrowing of the loins, are in despair that Victor's tender work stirs you to a pinnacle you can no longer contain for all your feeble defences.
Victor's lips almost rest against yours as he speaks.
“Show me how magnificent you really are.”
You come with a close-lipped moan, and feel Victor pour simultaneously down your hand then to your elbow like the heavens undone by a storm. Your fist opens, but Victor still keeps hold of it as though loathe to let you go. The other hand he still presses in your cunt, milking it of every spark and spasm until at last he holds his fingers to the light to look as your lust drips free of them. Then he brings them to your lips and attempts to press them inwards as though administering a medicine.
You turn away, one eye closed against sweat-sheened leather, and Victor hums low in the grey barrel of his chest.
"I hope that you'll be in better spirits soon enough. We have so much to accomplish. You could be truly great."
He brandishes an arm, outlining your body with the gesture. You think of ballet dancers long ago, how their patrons would abuse and exploit their ailing bodies until their short careers were extinguished. Your use here will be limited to such, you think, and you curl up in the chair, your face in the crook of your elbow, the soft inner sphere of skin collecting your tears.
Victor reaches out to fondle the back of your head, cooing over you as though those same fingers were not the cause of boundless pain.
"Farewell until later, then," he murmurs. “And it seems I was mistaken: today you favour Odette."
Odile, Odette- A Female Reader x Victor Gideon Darkfic, PART THREE
Synposis: Reader begins her exploration of Rhodes Hill and her past...
Trigger warnings for this chapter: Sexual assault, violence, blood, medical torture/abuse,
Read after the cut
---
You lie on the hated chair, trying to reign your breathing back into the pattern of your will again. Your airways swim with the stink of Victor’s pleasure, the mortuary stench of his mutant’s shape. The juices of your cunt and the blood from your cut may as well flow as one stream, let out of you as though through the twisting of a valve.
You’d had no choice but to freely allow the doctor his abuse, no choice that would not thrust you into a more impossible position than the one in which you’re wound. It is awful, this imprisoned state, capturing you in both the physical and the psychological realm as though you’d been Victor's experiment before you’d ever entered his domain, always intended for his taking.
Certainly Victor seems to believe that you are so. He had handled you with brutal authority, an entity of infinite beauty and potential for study. One that he is ecstatic to exploit and to use without intervention, whether from his unseen colleagues or whatever rescuer will look for you, if any at all. Even should any come—doubtful, giving the insular life you’d been pressured to live—Victor seems impossible to reason with, focused on the idea that you are owed to him. That you are not at liberty to complain or to request your own release.
As you huddle, given to frail shudders of distress, your thoughts are haunted by miscellaneous scenes from ballet, Victor in each villain’s place, though he does not dance, only surges unevenly like the shambling corpse he is, a being of abrupt aggression and assured calm. At ease in the conflicts and contrasts of his person.
This is what happens to a man offered near limitless power and responsibility, as he has been. A domain to rule, and unnatural power to wield within it—
You tremble to think what else Victor intends to do with you, how many other ways he will defile you until your body gives, involuntarily, its secrets.
Wiping tears from your eyes with careful fingertips you think how little you’d been prepared for this. The vague fear that has hung across your life like a reeking shroud had never been defined in any way that would have been of use.
You recall coming home from a February performance of Giselle two years ago, rubbing your hands together to warm them after having been out in the snow.
Your father—who had been setting a book back onto one of the many shelves lining the living room walls of your parents’ townhouse—had turned to look at you sceptically as you took your dirty boots off in the hallway.
“I don’t know about this ballet thing, you know,” he said. “It’s upsetting your mother. She thinks, you know—well, you just shouldn’t dig all that up, that’s all.”
The joy you’d carried with you all the way home from the theatre had evaporated in an instant.
“It’s not like I’m dancing, Dad,” you mumbled. “I’m only watching it. You said you wanted me to be more independent someday, and I’m trying. I don’t understand what I’ve done wrong.”
Your father pinched the narrow bridge of his nose and exhaled. He was the diplomat of the family, forever martyring himself to reduce what little arguments arose between its members. Though you knew he meant well it was a private source of annoyance for you, each sigh and faltering intercession making you wince.
“It’s just—all that from your past,” said Vladimir. “And you do still have these episodes when things don’t go the way you want them to. It really puts your Mom on edge.”
Shame and indignant outrage had caught you up only to be rapidly suppressed.
“That isn’t fair, Dad,” you said. “You and Mom have had your problems, too.”
“That’s why you should listen to us and trust what we have to say.”
Vladimir spoke without looking at you, the fingers of one hand running along the polished rim of the bookshelf, blindly searching for dust. You dislike that you recognise this trait in yourself, the lowering of the gaze, a genetic ghost, haunting the house of the brain.
“I don’t understand what you want from me,” you say. “You want me to live a normal life, but you don’t want me to live it how I want to.”
You paused to swallow, then, forcing your throat over an inexistent blockage. Having always been a quiet person you were uncomfortable with the expression of feelings, though they often showed themselves on your face and in your manner against your will.
Still, you knew that you must make yourself understood. Establish a firm line rather than concede as you were given to do in avoidance of conflict.
“It’s not going to be the way it was with Annabel Lee,” you say. “She was—I was a child. We both were. I barely remember all of that.”
“But your mom and I do,” your father said. “Feels just like it was yesterday. It was hard on us. The money we had to spend. Having to pack everything up and move. Pick new names all over again—we just don’t want to get a call one day and have to do a repeat.”
As though from a slap you’d recoiled further into the dim hallway. At that moment your mother appeared, passing through the kitchen doorway with a porcelain cup held between both hands, its contents letting off an herbal smoke.
Beatrice had what you suspected was an at least partially affected frailty at all times, never without a cardigan or scarf tucked in around her neck, something to eat or drink to soothe her throat, or whatever other ailment she’d taken on that day. But behind her round spectacles in their tortoiseshell frames your mother’s eyes, too, were a kind of glass. Anything glimpsed in them was a reflection. All else a complex unknown.
“We just want you to be safe, honey,” Beatrice said, having evidently eavesdropped on the disagreement from the other room. “You have no idea what kind of people are out there.”
Feeling patronised, you’d remarked, “Yes, I do.”
“You don’t,” Beatrice said sharply. “And I’m glad you don’t. We don’t want you being put in a position where you feel you have to defend yourself in a way you can’t come back from, because that can’t happen. We can’t afford it. Not unless it’s life or death.”
Your mother eased herself into the nearest chair, setting her tea delicately aside. At once Vladimir knelt to take one of her hands to rub between his as if it had been she, not you, that that had come in from the chill.
“It isn’t going to be life or death,” you said wearily. “You’re both worrying too much.”
Beatrice’s eyes, half closed in grateful relaxation, clipped open again.
“You have no idea,” she said. “None.”
Her voice was soft, but in the way that stone could be so. You knew well to be careful.
“I wish you’d tell me what’s going on,” you said. “You haven’t given me anything. Not enough.”
“It’s enough for you to know how careful you need to be.”
“Exactly,” said Vladimir, patting the back of Beatrice’s hand. “You just can’t trust anybody you meet.”
“I don’t,” you protested. “I don’t understand why we’re even talking about this. Has something happened?”
You looked at your parents carefully, then, searching for the unspoken in their expressions. Neither of them looked much like you, though Beatrice did carry you in her womb: there were photographs of her heavily pregnant in a faded album, somewhere. Scans taken of an ambiguous lode of flesh—you as a foetus.
Your mother’s face in the photographs had shown like lantern flame, a beatific light. She had waited years to have you, having been told she would not carry, and then she had.
Your parents loved you, had wanted you over all else—that was why they were closing in on you now, hoping to pressure you via some nebulous threat to remain in the house with them.
“Is there someone following me?” you asked. “Someone you knew from before I was born?”
Your parents’ eyes met, and something was transferred between them, more primitive than thought.
“Let’s just leave this alone,” Vladimir had said at last. “Your Mom’s sick with stress.”
Nothing productive had come of that conversation, nor will anything likely spring of you continuing to lie on your side, whimpering over what cannot be changed. It is reason, then, that compels you to get to your feet and re-examine the room.
There is a window curtained by strips of white fabric like the cuttings of a maiden’s dress, looking down on the courtyard below. You consider that you may tear up sheets and the curtains themselves and repurpose them as rope to let yourself down on, but you’re not sure that you could tie a tight enough knot. It may well snap, taking you down to the floor like a thrown away doll.
Victor would not let you die, however. He would bring you back into the pale belly of this room and feed himself into your helpless vacuity.
You file away the idea, knowing that you must form as many others as you can before resorting to your Hail Mary, the last of keys to a preeminent lock.
There is a modest sink and mirror on one wall of the chamber, a toilet tucked demurely into the corner of another—Victor had been generous to show you to the private bathroom, you miserably suppose. Then perhaps he has mechanical eyes around the entire hospital, smirking behind them as you lift your skirt to wash yourself at the basin, this itself a quiet and honourable defiance. Nothing of him will be left on your body, you vow, but the wound he put on you like an animal’s tag.
Still your mind turns back and back to him, curving like the V of swans’ flight. What a weird pull Victor has, something far less reasonable than science. You feel no matter how avidly you resist him he is a great many steps ahead of you.
You know that you must leave this room eventually, if only to explore the facility for further routes for escape, but you are oddly reluctant, agoraphobic of the other levels of the building if only in that they may well be playgrounds for greater abuse.
You shudder to recall Victor’s shaft in your grudging hold, that he had indentured orgasm from you with his gruesome hand. To shake off the thought you wander to a dusty gramophone in the corner of your room and cautiously set it into motion.
As the record turns Tchaikovsky’s ‘Waltz, Act 1:No. 2’ begins to play, quickly quieted by your darting hand. You’re sickened to think how long the doctor must have watched you, documenting your interests; he had known to find you after the showing of Swan Lake and, in fact, where you would wait to be driven away so he could claim you first.
Why had he waited so long? Had you truly been lost to him? Or had it been part of his pleasure, the sampling of the wine before he drinks full of his glass?
It will do you no good to speculate, only frighten you more.
Ultimately you decide to begin your investigation of at least the current floor of the building; it is something to do, if nothing else, a distraction from the pain between your legs from having been expanded to fit a monster’s hand.
It seems most practical to move slowly in your investigation, avoiding the focus of observing cameras as you take in the clinic piece by piece over the following days. It is not time you wish to waste, but there is too much suspicion placed upon you, now. Too much expectation for you to flee.
You open the door to your room tentatively and move down a white walled corridor, its features defined by more white curtained windows, ornate vases, and plush golden seats. You may smash one of the ornaments to make a weapon, you suppose, but mentally retract from the thought as though from a nettle sting.
Walking on, you hear voices drift into the hallway from an open door and consider retreat. Only the officious tones of Victor Gideon incentivise you to stay, creeping at a slight angle so as to look into the room without being seen yourself.
It is, you realise, likely the nurses’ station: there is a plain wash basin, shelves stacked with miscellaneous tools and kits, a white set of drawers intended for patient file storage. Your vision would have tired of the absence of colour had there not been four people within that room to draw your eye. Three are nurses, one woman and two men.
The third figure is a tower of serpentine leather before them, leaning down to lecture his underlings as they listen to him, attentive.
“Our new patient may be inclined to wander,” says Victor. “Allow her to, within reason. Should she cause any disturbance within the facility she is to be brought to me, unharmed.”
It is the first time you’ve seen his face without the mask. You scrutinise the weathered dome of his high forehead, the diamonds of shadow closed around eyes just as black but for the medallions at the core of each of them. Greyish lips shrivelled across unnatural teeth.
Had Victor been human still he would not have been handsome, having aged out of whatever looks he might have had in youth.
What did he eat now that he’d lost his humanity? What habits from that other life did he still keep?
Of their number you know only one, and wish that it had been discarded by his new body as obsolete. It turns the gut to think that he might breed, that something in the seminal grease he emits could spawn into something living.
You feel unclean all over again, and run your hands upon the dirtied dress in subtle scraping motions.
“And what if there’s a medical emergency?” asks the female nurse. “Do we restrain her, or administer a sedative?”
She speaks as though her employer were merely a man, of greater authority, certainly, but no more remarkable than that. She and the others are knowingly involved with him and his private profession, then.
You are disturbed by the thought. Unsettled, also, by the acceptance that your parents were in the same line of work. Yet you have known it for a very long time. Had excused them and defended them inwardly. Believed all they told you, scarce though that information had been.
“If there’s an emergency, contact me immediately,” says Victor. “No exceptions. I am to be solely responsible for her treatment.”
The male nurses exchange an imperceptible glance, and the female scrapes one shoe lightly against the other in a nervous tic.
Victor continues his speech, ignoring the reactions he must surely observe.
“If Zeno pays us a visit you must direct all his questions to me.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
"I'd like a meal to be delivered to our guest’s room shortly. Have the chef prepare something for her. She deserves only the best during her stay here."
You make an involuntary sound of disbelief, a compressed squeak. Victor turns, and the many scars and grooves in his face shift as he catches sight of your peeping face by the doorframe.
He utters your name, and as lascivious interest stirs the gelatinate gold of his stare you take off in alarm, thinking only to place distance between you rather than of where to go.
More colourless corridors snake out from the one you've taken. Piano music drifts down one turning, and voices raised in argument from another. Fleeting visions of nude women formed from marble and sweating buckets of wine come to you as you bolt along the dark wood flooring, barely conscious of what you see, searching as though eyeless for some hope of prolonging your inevitable recapture.
You fling yourself at a descending stairwell, coming shortly upon a door from which a doctor is exiting, a wedge of patient files balanced in one hand. Ducking under his arm with a squeaked apology you cast yourself at the gloom within, pulling the door closed with a punctuating snap.
It is a storage space of some description, marked with signs of frequent use. Mounds of books and dirty coffee mugs stand like obscure art features on all flat surfaces. Steel cabinets and labelled cardboard boxes pile against the walls, upon which corkboards pinned with letters and handwritten notes have been instated.
There is a wastepaper basket, not entirely full. A computer—likely password locked, and therefore useless to you—squatting atop a plain desk. Underneath is the space the restless feet of a worker would generally go.
You drop to your knees, wincing at the strain on your cut, and hide there, pulling a tower of nearby boxes in front of you to conceal your location in what shoddy fashion you can.
It will not last; you know it even as you fold both hands over your chest to feel your heart in pirouette. But there is little room within the madness of these past days for rational thought to make much of an appearance.
As you wait for Victor to find you a few leaves of paper fall from the top of the highest box. Each one contains typed notes about various patients that have passed through the care centre over the years, of various genders and backgrounds. There are descriptions of conditions—'Borderline Personality Disorder', 'Temporary Psychosis'—along with their treatments, whose failures and successes are written out in a typically formal syntax.
These are all examples of a front for Victor’s nefarious business, you reason; he does not seem the type to take a true professional interest in his patients and their problems.
The most recently dated files are far more in line with what you'd anticipated from such a man: illegal experiments more akin to torture than true investigation, complexly detailed and ultimately fatal.
'Patient experienced delusions and severe vomiting. Became comatose.'
'Patient suffering necrosis of the upper extremities. Over production of saliva. Increased hunger.'
On each of these pages the same cause is listed: the T-virus.
The term knolls through your thoughts like a bell for the dead.
"I knew it," you mutter. "That’s what he's doing here..."
You slip a hand into one of the boxes for another case file, only the paper slides away across the floor before it’s properly in your grip. Unable to resist, you reach out to take it.
"Is this what you're looking for?"
A colossal fist grips you by one ankle, and you are reeled out from under the desk, tipping boxes on their backs, papers spinning about in an artificial wind. You allow yourself to be pulled out into Victor's view, biting down upon the urge to scratch or otherwise attack him, for your sake, and certainly not his.
"I didn't know what this room was," you insist. "I wasn't stealing."
Victor scoffs.
"Weren't you? This room is off limits to patients. Why else would you try to get in unless you were hoping to liberate classified documents for your own use?"
Here you allow yourself a brave tug at the fingers on your leg.
"I wasn't looking for this room. I was trying to get away from you."
The gold-toothed mouth draws back in a grimace, and the hand not engaged in restraint goes out in a clean, almost clinical strike.
You go down from Victor’s blow like a dancer having slipped on the stage, your head spun around by Victor's hand. You feel your cheek and part of your mouth fill with heat, and a red marbled spume of drool pops from your lip to the floor.
Your body trembles, and you hunch your shoulders together, thinking of your mother's fears. Stricken by the certainty that you will be imprisoned until your egress from life itself should you reveal to this man that you are more than a girl, bleeding for him in the opaline palace that he has purchased for such violence.
So you do not crawl away between the stacked files and papers. Do not bite the hand that goes out to hold the warmth that it has made.
You only look at Victor, a plea for clemency in your eyes.
"Such nobility," Victor comments, his head at an admiring arch. "Even on your knees for me you don't lose your dignity. Perhaps it isn't self-hatred that makes you so resistant. Is it theirs? Vladimir and Beatrice dearly wanted to overcome their infertility. They went to extreme measures to fulfil that wish. Perhaps they weren’t wholly satisfied when it was granted.”
The beast runs a thumb over your bloodied lips, making you taste the foul salt of ichor, the stale flavour of his greying flesh. You imagine swallowing a scale by mistake and your body contracts in delicate revulsion.
"The Tremonds achieved something rare, with you," Victor comments, unperturbed. "Unsurprising, really, considering the majority of their later work was stolen from me."
His eyes are like ancient gold, aged into ruin. They look into you deeply. Understanding you entirely.
"My parents," you whisper, "stole from you?"
Victor's quiet tones are torn through by a crocodilian roar.
"Yes! Years of valuable research, taken for their selfish desires! They should have moved here with me to continue the work we'd given our lives to, but they turned on Spencer's design. Three specimens I’d developed vanished when they ran away. Two have never been recovered, likely destroyed. The last I believed had gone the same way until I found you."
Victor smooths a cracked palm from the top of your head down to your back, opening there as though like a wing. His eyes, though not in any way as expressive as those of an ordinary man's, shine nevertheless with deplorable lust.
"I've waited so long to be reimbursed for my losses," says Victor. "Now I have you."
Your mind roams helplessly the scape of fairy tales: a stolen rose given away by some cursed creature in exchange for the thief’s most beautiful daughter. A rampion taken from a witch’s garden, paid for with a firstborn child to be entombed, still living, in a tower away from the world—
“If my parents are still alive,” you say, “I can ask them to give back what they took from you.”
Victor smiles, an unpleasant expression for such a face.
“They already have,” he says. “At least part of it. It’s here. Inside you.”
He reaches under your body to hold your breast, one finger suggesting a surgical cut from throat to crotch.
“Are you going to open me up, Doctor?” you ask nervously.
“That would be quite useless,” says Victor, to your relief. “The specimen is entirely enmeshed with your being, by now. Besides, I want you alive. Healthy. Docile and ready to act in accordance to my will.”
The hand upon your breast steps up to your throat again, touching your pulse as though feeling the delicate make of a butterfly’s wing.
“You don’t have my parents here, do you?” you ask, with a nervy burst of courage.
Victor stills, and the language of his humongous frame suggests that these comments were a mistake.
“When Elpis is realised,” he says, “none of this will matter.”
You don’t dare to ask what Elpis is, nor who Spencer might be, not yet.
“If it doesn’t matter,” you say, “then why keep me here, Doctor?”
You watch the creature simper, enjoying your use of his title.
Still, he says, “Please, call me Victor.”
“Why?” you ask, ignoring the intimacy of being allowed his first name in your mouth. “Why do I need to be here if I’m not part of your plans?”
Victor opens your jaws with a touch of his hand, loosening the stiff resistance of the bone with ease.
“There is so much beauty in you,” he says. “All I want is to—admire it. The walking evidence of a medical success.”
His fingers brush the inner edge of your lip, savouring the pink glaze of it.
“You’re disgusting,” you whisper, and again you see the stiffness of displeasure through him.
“Now, now,” says Victor. “I’d hoped we could be cordial. I don’t tolerate abuse from my patients, I’m afraid. There are consequences for that.”
Again strong fingers undo your mouth, keeping both lips apart, this time, taking away your hesitant speech.
“Generally I am not motivated by revenge,” says Victor, “only by the satisfaction of completing the unfinished progress Spencer left behind. In this case, however, I must admit that I am grateful for the opportunity to achieve it.”
Your lowered eyes dart back and forth as Victor opens his trousers, the readying length of him already nudging at the fabric. The file room door is closed behind him, locked fast against further intruders, and if there is another exit you’ve not yet noticed you will not reach it fast enough.
“I feared the Tremonds’ interference would sully my creation,” says Victor. “It’s fortunate that you bear no resemblance to their inferior biology.”
You see the waxen lance of his cock come up in his hand, and look instead above, riveted by the inch of scarring on Victor’s full stomach, the entry point through which whatever parasite makes him its host had been inserted. It makes you ill.
“It’s fascinating that this isn’t enough to convince you of the right path,” says Victor, stroking himself with wicked indulgence. “But you’ve wanted company for a long time, haven’t you? Someone that understands exactly what you are. That allows you to express it. That knows precisely how to bring you pleasure.”
“No,” you try to say around Victor’s hand.
He sneers, offering a shining gash of teeth.
“Then you can bring pleasure to me. It’ll remedy the disrespect that I’ve endured in bringing my Master’s toil to life. Repay the loyalty I should have received without question.”
Victor steps in close to you, pushing the nose of his throbbing phallus between the arch of your open teeth.
“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he croons, his thumb stroking your cheek. “Your care is of great concern to me. Let’s see you how easily you take to further treatment.”
Then, with a butt of his wide hips, he thrusts his many inches into the unprepared opening of your throat, and you're without path to breathe, coughing as he brings the base of it up to greet him.
You attempt to scuttle backwards, but Victor’s clutch on your mouth and chin tightens to the point of agony. A frightful image of your head flattened in his fingers falls through your thoughts like a cursed rain.
Tears spark across your cheeks, and Victor gathers them on his fingers, running them across the shaft of him so that you taste your own anguish, a particularly nasty display of vengeance.
“Don’t fight progress,” says Victor. “It’s inevitable, after all.”
You stare up at the wreck of his face, the blunt angle of his large nose, the hairless flat of brow. The portholes into Hell that are his eyes.
He, by contrast, looks at you quite fondly, perhaps thinking you pretty.
“Yes,” Victor murmurs. “Look at me. Acknowledge your destiny.”
He fucks your mouth deeper, uncaring of the saliva that dangles from either corner of it, draining down your neck onto your chest. Your body strains, wanting to fight him off, and at the same time seeking to recoil into some shadow to nurse its oral wounds; your mouth is bleeding, too small for the object given to you to suck, still hurt from the hurling of his hand.
You try not to think of the taste of what you’re eating, being that you cannot afford to be sick should you choke and die in indignity.
“Soon you’ll see that all the time you felt protected you were robbed of your potential,” says Victor. “If you’d been with me since the beginning you would have left this pitiful stage behind long ago and advanced into glory. But it may not be too late.”
As he speaks he inserts himself at a slow and stabbing pace, this somehow worse than a quick fucking would have been.
Then in a random motion Victor leans down to pull you up onto your knees, your arms flying forward so that you are not impaled entirely on the pike of his arousal. Victor raises your dress to your waist, then withdraws from your mouth briefly so that he can touch the lower opening that, to your abashment, drips freely across the prying fingertips.
“Your body has already prepared itself for me,” says Victor with a simpering grin. “I’m flattered. But I don’t think you’re quite ready for that stage just yet.”
You scream out as he attempts to ram his cock back into your mouth, beating your comparatively tiny fists against the drum of his stomach as you try to get up from the floor.
Victor binds your arms easily above your head in a ribbon of his own fingers before catching your lower jaw with his other hand.
"Enough," he snaps. "Take your dose."
With that he cranks the smothering weight of his cock into the yelping circle of flesh and uses it viciously, offended by your rejection, wanting your throat to water for him as your cunt does, to soften enough to take this dreadful weapon without breaking.
You rattle in Victor’s grip, having given up fighting through the terror of what that violence may well come. Victor responds to your limp submission with a sigh, and you feel his cock stop amidst its rhythm but for the vibrations of its release.
As soon as Victor's hands fall away from you your legs kick into motion, propelling you back across the filing room into a cluttered corner. You put your hands over your head as though afraid of the ceiling coming in, letting out gentle cries of anguish.
Victor looks down at you with pleased affection.
“You must be hungry by now, I imagine. I’ll escort you to your room. Today you’ll eat alone, but there will be a meal in the dining room tomorrow I’d like you to attend. The other residents are keen to meet you, I’m sure.”
Bending slightly, Victor coaxes you out from where you still cower in the shade of the cabinets and gets you up on your feet again. Your body is pliable with shock, the stunning effects of fear; you look at Victor, agog, held in a sinister mesmerism by those inhuman black and yellow eyes.
There is a great mind behind them. Corrupted and obsessive, but there, all the same. A mind that was once that of a simple man, the kind you might see at a pulpit or leading any business in the street. Now there is something within him, its instinct destructive but absolute, beyond the bounds of reason.
This you are afraid of. You look at Victor as though he were some denizen of the underworld.
He touches your face, brushes dust from your knees, each act a quiet exertion of power.
“How long do you wish to fight this?” he asks. “How long can you last? You’re so fragile. Damaged by the merest touch. Still you refuse to act. Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that expressing your inner self might not be as terrible as you fear?”
You have no answer, can imagine nothing of that outcome but chaos.
At first, Baby has no idea how to do aftercare. All demons know is breed, breed, BREED. Their intimacy levels aren’t the highest, and he may even tease you if you ask for him to help clean up and cuddle, thinking you’re joking around. It’s only when he realizes that your serious that he starts to (slowly but surely) learn how to properly take care of you.
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
His favorite body parts are his eyes and hands (technically he loves his deep voice - not a body part but still). Baby loves to watch every little detail while he fucks you: how your nose scrunches up, your lips parted and legs shivering as his girthy cock spreads you wide open. He’ll often use his hands to mark you: bringing out his claws in demon form and scrape them across your skin. His favorite body part on you are your mouth and breasts. Baby adores it when you suck him off, especially when his cock rubs the back of your throat. He’ll squeezed and knead your breasts or coat them with thick ropes of his cum. Speaking of which…
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
Like I said before, I think demons have an intense sex drive and want to breed as much as possible. He’ll make sure to stuff your pussy full of load after load of his hot, fertile seed. He views cumming in your mouth or ass as a “waste”, but contradicts himself by cumming over your breasts because you look “stunning” with his seed decorating your chest. Besides that, he’ll keep his cock plugged deep inside your cunt, making sure his seed will take.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
Baby is a notorious panty-thief. He’ll suddenly act all sweet one day, offering to do your laundry for you…only to lock himself in your bathroom, huffing the heady scent laced in the fabric of your underwear. 9/10 he’ll jerk off as he smells you, all shame forgone as he chases his high. He’s even “accidentally” ripped your panties off during sex, saying he’ll buy you new ones while secretly saving the pair he destroyed.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
Because he’s seen as a smaller demon, Baby had little to no experience compared to the other Saja Boys. He was seen as too “frail” or “delicate” to pass his genes on…until you came around. And oh boy, all that pent-up, sexual frustration was finally unleashed in full force the moment you brought up sex with him. Baby had you bent in half on his bed, knees pressed against your tits and cock drilling into your tight hole.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)
He prefers positions where he can see your face while the two of you fuck. Mating press, legs on shoulders, missionary, cowgirl. Every so often, he’ll bend you over the surface of your bed, couch, counter, etc. and take you from behind. He’ll also love to spank you if he (rarely) chooses to do doggy style. Even though he likes cowgirl/reverse cowgirl, deep down, Baby enjoys begin on top.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
Baby’s more goofy, constantly teasing you or joking around. He’ll wear a smug smirk while mercilessly edging you, or remark how cute the little noises you make really are. He’ll playfully slap your tits, pussy and ass with his dick, or comment on how pretty you are covered in bites, nail marks, and hickeys. Baby might even blow a raspberry on your neck, chest and belly, just to be a little silly.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
Baby’s fairly well groomed, though he keeps his happy trail and a smooth, fluffy patch of bush just above his cock. The carpet most certainly matches the drapes, both in his human and demon form. He’ll get finicky if anyone but himself tries to groom down there, so be careful or else you’ll get a groan or a swat to the hand.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
Initially, Baby is rather rough and hard when the two of you began to have sex. If you’re into that, he’ll happily oblige and continue to fuck you that way. But if you’re not, you’ll have to sit down with him and explain that you want your sex life to be more gentle and intimate. It may take some adjusting, but Baby will eventually learn. He has no problem with dirty talk, however, whether he’s plowing into you from behind or fucking you slowly and tenderly.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
He hates to “waste his seed”, but when he does jerk off (I.e. when he steals your panties), he’ll often be fast and rough with himself. Because he wasn’t seen as “desirable” in the demon realm, he was often resigned to pleasuring himself, something he despised immensely. He yearned to find a mate, to be able to share his carnal pleasures with another. Lucky him, he now has you. 😉
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
I headcannon Baby as a huge Shibari fan. Seeing you all tied up, legs spread wide and breasts squeezed between the delicately tied ropes, really does something to him. Because he’s into Shibari, I imagine him being into bondage in general, especially tying/cuffing you to the bed while he fucks his fertile, demon seed into you. Having said that, baby has a HUGE breeding kink, like you can’t even begin to imagine how much he wants you to have his spawn. So he’ll stuff you, over and over, no matter how many times it takes.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
Where doesn’t Baby fuck you? Everywhere is fair game to him: the kitchen, the bedroom, the shower. Even the living room where the other Saja Boys can walk in at any minute. The fact that you could get caught turns him on even more (though he would be opposed if one of the other boys asked if they could join. You are his and his alone). His favorite places, however, would have to be the bedroom, where he can fuck you in every position imaginable or having wall sex with you in the bathroom (he also loves to hear your combined moans reverberate while you fuck in the shower).
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
If you're the one who starts talking dirty, Baby will happily play along. Whether it's breathless whispers while the two of you lie in bed, to you sexting him with tempting photos of yourself and lewd messages, Baby is all for it. He's a handsy guy, so if he sees even a few inches of skin showing, he'll palm your ass/pussy/breasts through your clothes while grinding his already half-hard cock against you. And if you send him pics or videos of you fingering yourself while moaning his name? Honey, he'll be there in a snap, eager to fuck you senseless.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
There's a lot Baby will do, even public sex (to a degree, like having you sit on him and quietly practice cockwarming on the Jihacheol). But if there's one thing Baby despises, it's the thought of you being intimate with someone else. Needless to say, cuckolding is off the table. While he's constantly horny, Baby is big on consent, so a big no to things like somnophilia.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
He's so messy when he eats you out, letting out gutteral groans and purring while he traces his warm, wet tongue along your slick slit. Baby's a bit impatient at times, wanting to forego foreplay and skip to the "main event". However, once he gets a taste of your pussy, there's no going back. He makes sure to paint his tongue over your clit and hole, fucking you slowly on his tongue and spreading your walls apart. On the other hand, he'll gladly let you suck him off, but he'll want to make sure to not cum inside your mouth (he'll save that for when he fucks you into the mattress).
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
Very, VERY fast and rough. While he can be slow and sensual, he gets so drunk off the feeling of your mouth/pussy/ass wrapped around his thick cock. If he's not careful, he'll bruise your face/hips from gripping so hard, his claws making indents on your skin if he's in his demon form. He goes hard, growling and snarling as he pounds into you like an animal in heat.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
As said above, Baby goes fast, so quickies to him are like a little treat. Usually it's him instigating it by sending you a picture of his long, hard cock and asking you to come over (because Baby never begs). He'll make sure to find a place secluded enough (though not always soundproof), and fuck you hard and raw. He may take the time to finger you for a little bit, but before you know it, he's sliding into you with a quick snap of his hips.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
Oh, yes. Baby wants to do it all with you, from wax play over your titties to pet play (with you wearing the collar, obvs). He's well aware how loud you and him are, making sure to encourage you to "sing" for him (and for the other Saja Boys to hear, too, so they know who's fucking you right). While he will do sexual acts in public, he won't go so far as to be publicly indecent and get the two of you in trouble with the law.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
Baby can last a looooooong time, each round being intense, hard and raw. He can fuck you for hours on end, his refractory period being rather short (due to his demon anatomy and all). Overall, I’d say he can do 5-7 rounds (not counting quickies interspersed throughout the day, of course).
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
Let’s get one thing straight: Baby. Hates. Toys. He never used any on himself, and he loathes it if you own any of your own (be it dildos, vibrators, anal plugs, etc). Call him jealous or petty, but he only wants you to cum from his tongue, fingers, and/or cock. Like Mystery barking like a dog, Baby will snarl and growl if he finds a toy in your bedroom, glaring at it with a fierce pout before showing you why you don’t need that toy anymore.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
Baby absolutely will tease you, no doubt about it. He’ll always make sure to leave you flustered and blushing, making snide remarks about how tight your pussy is despite how many times he’s stretched it out, or that cute way your bottom lip juts out when he denies your orgasm for the third time. Also expect him to tease you for cumming “too quickly”, despite him literally drilling his cock into your cunt.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
Very. Fucking. Loud. Unabashedly so. His deep voice carries a certain vibrato whenever he moans or groans. He will rarely (if ever) whine, mewl or squeal. Baby is a very vocal demon, using his voice to send you over the edge when he eats you out or uses it to praise what a good girl you are. Speaking of praise, he’ll use both praise and degradation during sex - it really depends on his mood that day.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
He loves recording the two of you fucking, whether he’s rutting into you doggy style or shooting another load into your tight cunt. His favorite recording of the two of you is when he first tried Shibari, seeing the rope tied intricately across your body while he squeezed your breasts, his cock plunging into your depths while you writhed against the restraints.
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
Despite being seen as ‘petite’ by his fellow demons, Baby has the largest cock out of the Saja Boys. It’s about the same size in his demon and human form: five-six inches soft, eight-nine inches hard. He has a very thick girth as well, about three-four inches. When in his human form, his tip is usually a flushed salmon color, while in his demon form, it’s more lavender-grey. He has very prominent veins, and the gnarled patterns across his body stretch across his shaft as well. Also, his balls are very heavy and will audibly slap whenever he’s pounding your holes raw.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
Holy fuck. It is astronomically high. When he’s not submerged in the demon realm or practicing with the Saja Boys, he’s balls deep inside of you. Even his sex drive is considered high compared to other demons…perhaps it’s all those years of being pent up?
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
Baby remains rather energetic after sex, being able to talk your ear off - whether it’s praise, degradation, or just a random thought. But if the two of you have hours upon hours of fucking like rabbits, he’ll slump over you, snoring softly and keeping you close. His arms will be tightly wound around you, holding you against him as if he’s afraid to ever let go.
----
Thank you for reading! 💜
NSFW Alphabet Prompt by @the-coldest-goodbyegoodbye
Chapter 02: Heartstrings & Hellfire (Male Huntrix x Reader x Saja Boys)
In the underworld, all demons had gathered, making way for the trembling, lone surviving female demon flight attendant. Her legs shook beneath her as she walked toward a towering platform, throne of the King of Demons. Whimpers escaped her lips, echoing in the eerie silence, as thousands of demonic eyes followed her.
She halted at the base of the stairs leading up to the throne. Frozen in fear, she hesitated.
A deafening growl erupted.
Her demonic markings flared red. An invisible force seized her, lifting her off the ground and slamming her down before the throne of Gwi-Ma-the King of Demons. Weakened from lack of soul consumption, he appeared as a massive inferno, only his gaping, flaming mouth visible.
"Let me guess. They got away again?" he asked, eerily calm.
"The Hunters... they're too strong," she whimpered.
"I understand."
"You... you do?" she blinked, surprised by his compassion.
"I understand you're WEAK!" Gwi-Ma roared, launching hellfire at her. Her screams pierced the air as she burned alive.
"Pathetic! Useless! All of you!" he bellowed. The demons trembled, terrified of becoming his next victim.
"Don't you idiots understand? Once the Hunters turn the Honmoon gold, it's over for us!" he snapped. Above them, the Honmoon, a celestial phenomenon had pulsed, glowing gold, expanding steadily.
A soft, melodic pluck of a bipa echoed.
"There once was a mighty demon king," a lyrical voice chimed. The demons turned toward the sound. A male demon in a black hanbok stood on top of a hongsalmun gate. "Stop me if you've heard this one."
"He was in total control. He feasted on souls. The world trembled when he roared."
The demon floated down, a massive demon tiger trailing behind him. The crowd parted, not in reverence, but in fear.
"But then some Hunters sang a song. Now he just starves all day long. Can't touch a soul, his fire's gone cold. Just a whisper in the dark."
~"Will he let the fire go out?"
"Is this the end of him now?"
"Dying king with a crumbling crown?"
"Will he let the fire go out?"~
The singer reached the foot of the throne. Gwi-Ma's mouth smoldered. "I let you keep that voice, Jinu. And you dare mock me with it?" Four more demons materialized behind Jinu.
"I'm not mocking you. I'm here to help," Jinu said. "It's time for a new strategy. We fight the Hunters where they least expect it."
He gestured dramatically. The five of them hovered up to the throne platform.
"Go after the source of their power. The fans."
The five struck a pose.
"A demon boy band?" Gwi-Ma blinked. Then laughed, a massive roar of flame and noise. The crowd forced laughter. "What makes you think that will work?"
With a snap, Jinu transformed his crew into stunning, charismatic idols. The demons gasped in awe.
"Yeah. That's totally gonna work." "Yeah. 100%." All other demons below agree with the transformation, others are even astonished with their new look.
"Okay. I know you, Jinu. In 400 years, you've never done anything that didn't serve yourself. What do you want?" Jinu's smirk faded. A flash of painful memory, a woman and a child. Gone in an instant. "The memories. I want them erased."
The concert ended. Fans exited the arena, buzzing about the gold shimmer on the Honmoon. In the underground lift, the three Hunters and (Y/n) celebrated.
"Did we just see gold?!"
"Yeah, I can't believe we're doing it."
"It's so exciting!"
"Okay. You know what this means boys. It's time to release that song."
"Yes! It's finally time!"
"We're gonna turn it gold. Yay!"
"The moment we waited for."
"Yes!"
But Rumi coughed unexpectedly. (Y/n) swayed.
"Whoa. That was weird." Rumi had coughed unexpectedly in front of them.
"Whoa!" (Y/n) exclaimed as she suddenly felt woozy, as all the boys held her steady.
"Good thing we're taking a break."
"Yeah. Sounds like you both need the rest."
"Yeah. Just need a little water."
"Did someone say water?"
"Hi, Bobby."
The lift doors opened. Staff swarmed in, led by Bobby. Meeting the proud smiles of their manager, Bobby.
"Water! Now! What a show! That guy in the demon suit exploding into confetti? Amazing!"
"Yeah... 'special effects,'" Miro said, sharing a look with (Y/n).
"Social numbers are off the charts! (Y/n), since your manager's on vacation, I'll cover you," Bobby said.
(Y/N) walks beside the boys and has someone adjust her robes and take off some of her accessories.
(Y/n) smiled kindly. "Thanks, Bobby, but you don't have to-"
"You really are an angel, (Y/N). But I promise you that everything is fine and I can manage it well. As long as you are with the boys." Bobby said, reassuring the worried girl of his capabilities.
"So, to celebrate, I booked you all a week-long staycation at the fanciest, most exclusive relaxation resort in Korea." As a reward for the success and topping the charts yet again, Bobby organised a staycation at a fancy resort for them. But they promptly denied it.
The boys exchanged glances.
"Sorry, Bobby. We've already got the hottest ticket in town."
"What?"
"To our couch! Couch! Couch!"
"Bobby, you should go enjoy the resort. This tour has been grueling for everyone." Rumi said to their manager.
"Yeah. You deserve it." (Y/N) Continues as she agrees with what Rumi said to Bobby.
"Me? Ah, no. I couldn't possibly." He tried to deny it at first but accepted it in the end. "Just kidding. Robe me. I'm a 34 short. See you in a couple weeks, boys and (Y/N)!" Since the resort is now available, Rumi states that he should go to the resort instead. Bobby promptly got a robe and face mask on.
"Bye, Bobby!" All four of them greet the manager with farewells.
As he left, he paused. "(Y/n), you okay? You look pale." Bobby questions, pausing her exit to follow the boys. Granted she didn't feel all that fine the past few days but since she didn't want any to worry about it due to it may have been over work and the stress for the concert.
"Yeah, I feel fine, it may have just been the over workload and the stress. But I promise to get some rest." (Y/N) smiled brightly in order to assure Bobby and the other staff members behind him. (Y/N) then caught up with the boys on their way out.
The group left, excited for two weeks off. "All right. Two weeks of vacation."
"Yes. Vacations." Rumi said while smiling deceptively like he was up to something the others didn't know about.
In the middle of Seoul Korea is a building owned by Hunrix themselves. If it was not obvious to the giant Huntrix logo brightly lit on top of the tower. This was the home of the members of the Huntrix but what the public doesn't know is that this was also the home of (Y/n), who just lived below the top penthouse.
The elevator opened to show all three boys still in their robes arriving home. While (Y/n) went home first to change clothing.
"Mmm! I can't wait to eat kimbap and stare at the ceiling." Miro said dreamily at the prospects of rest and food.
"I already picked a movie for us. It's actually a list of 700 two-second videos to watch, all about turtles." Zane said fast, while in the background Rumi can be seen hyperfocusing on his phone about something. "Mm-hm."
"Sounds super boring. But (Y/n) loves turtles, I'm so down to watch with her here."
"Let's do this." Rumi said gleefully as he pressed the button that said 'launch' on his phone screen, where a new album cover of all three members of the Huntrix wearing black armor with golden chain accessories. While (Y/n) was positioned besides Rumi on the cover was dressed in an all white tube top and high waisted skirt with a gold jacket that resembles the jacket worn by the boys but only it was cropped and it also features her signature wings behind her ears and the tips of the wings were colored blue, purple, and pink to represent the three boys in her life. A new single by Huntrix featuring (Y/n) was released to the public, a new song entitled 'Golden'.
Rumi then went to their vast giant walk-in closet where all their previous concert and hunting outfits were all stored. He stops in front of four specific outfits that were worn by the four in the cover of the song. "It's time." He said, smirking to himself.
"Couch! Couch! Couch!" Chanted by both Miro and Zane while holding various foods towards their couch in front of a floor to ceiling window overlooking the city. As they plop down on the most comfortable couch they have. Both sighed in relief as the tiresome weight already had been lifted from their shoulders. "Couch!"
"Ah, yeah. That's the stuff."
"So relaxing."
"Yeah."
Rumi's head was then seen lifting behind the couch with a giant smile on his face. "Hey. Have a good break?"
"Huh?" Both boys relaxing on the couch were baffled by what Rumi just asked them.
"What? No. We literally just sat down!" Miro declared.
As Rumi then further stood up on his two feet making his costume more visible to the other two boys and even smiled wider. "Why are you in your new costume?"
"Rumi, you didn't." The two tried to convince Rumi but in reality they were convincing themselves that their rest was not interrupted.
"Did you announce the new single?" Miro had this annoyed look on his face.
"The promo starts tomorrow - - tonight?" While Zane looked like he was about to cry.
"Tonight?"
As Rumi showed the boys their own costumes to wear, both tried to convince Rumi to let them have their break.
"Rumi, no!"
"No!"
"But the pajamas! Time alone with (Y/n). But no! No!."
Both boys were now sobbing and crying out 'No' but knowing their leader it was already too late and they could kiss their vacation time bye bye. The elevator doors open only for (Y/n) to come in her white nightgown as she was looking at her phone, her angel wings on the sides of her head were visible since it indicates comfortability with the boys.
"Hey! Ugh, guys did you know someone had leaked the promotion and the song for Golden on social media?" She query the boys only to meet all three dressed in their 'Golden' outfits, with both Miro and Zane slumped down and crying behind a smiling Rumi, who was also holding up (Y/n)'s own 'Golden' jacket, tube top and skirt.
"(Y/n) help us."
"(Y/n) save yourself."
"Well, I'm out. I seem to forget that I left the stove on. I should probably go home." (Y/n) tried to run out back to the elevator, but a hand on her left shoulder stopped her. She slowly turns her head left to see Rumi's face as chills run down her spine by his unnerving smile towards her.
"Where do you think you're going, (Y/n)?" Rumi demanded from her while he kept on smiling. The silence that followed was frightening to both (Y/n) and the other two boys.
The elevator doors opened once again showing Bobby walking towards the group. Both Miro and Zane were still sobbing while (Y/n) was hugging herself beside Rumi looking traumatized as her wings were still visible, making it so that Bobby will assume it's part of the look.
"Boys, oh! and (Y/n), you won't believe this!"
"Bobby!" Miro uttered dejectedly.
"No more relaxy time!" Zane voiced out down heartedly. While Rumi was standing confidently and smiling, as (Y/n) was quietly standing beside him, traumatized by what just happened.
"Your new single is on fire! Everyone's listening to it." Bobby said frantically happily to the four in front of him. Which caught the attention of the three.
"Yay!" All four of them cheered together.
"So let's go promo!" Bobby then changed into his own version of the 'Golden' outfit consisting of a black blazer with gold design with black slacks.
A countdown is promoted in every phone of fans waiting for it to reach zero. In the background of the countdown was a gold light surrounding the upper bodies of both Rumi and (Y/n).
"New single?"
"New single?" Everyone in the streets can be seen excited for the new single to be released.
"New Huntrix with (Y/n)?"
In a giant screen in the middle of the street the music video starts to play. The lyrics song of redemption, friendship, and rising from the dark. All four ran into the light together.
Rumi, laying down on a bed with a golden streak from a semi opened door hitting his face. Miro, seated in a window seal as golden light comes from the sky. Zane, leaning against school lockers as golden light shines from the windows.
(Y/n), curled up in a corner in a room filled with nothing but darkness, with her head hiding in her lap hugging her knees, as a golden light comes from above.
All four of them, with the golden light from the sun shines on them as they freely drive, with Miro as the driver, Zane in the passenger seat, and both Rumi and (Y/n) seated in the back seat.
As fans eagerly wait for the start of the music video, the whole crowd counts down in Korean from 5...
4...
3...
2...
1...
~"I was a ghost, I was alone (hah). 어두워진 (Eoduwojin) (hah), 압길 속에 (apgil soge) (ah)"~
~"Given the throne, I didn't know how to believe. I was the queen that I'm meant to be (oh)"~
~"I lived two lives, tried to play both sides. But I couldn't find my own place (oh, oh)"~
"~Called a problem child, 'cause I got too wild. But now that's how I'm gettin' paid, 끝없이 (kkeuteopsi) on stage"~
~"I'm done hidin', now I'm shinin'. Like I'm born to be"~
~"We dreamin' hard, we came so far. Now I believe"~
As the video shows each of the boys having a door opened to them as they are guided by the golden light. While (Y/n) was shown that golden light fills the empty space but then the light was blocked by three figures, she lifts her head up to see all the boys with their hands reaching out to her. Blinded by the golden light behind the boys, she could still see them smiling down at her, renewed by this she took the hand in the middle while the other two helped her stand. As all four of them ran into the light Together as one.
~"We're goin' up, up, up, it's our moment. You know together we're glowin'. Gonna be, gonna be golden"~
Multiple tweets are then shown talking about how amazing the new single, how amazing Huntriz is, how unbelievable it is to feature (Y/n) in a different light with her angel wings looking more realistic on her, and then fans debating whose hand (Y/n) took. "You see my head bobbing?"
~"Oh, up, up, up with our voices. 영원히 깨질 수 없는 (Yeongwonhi kkaejil su eomneun). Gonna be, gonna be golden"~
"Tell us about that new single?" A live interview set up in public where both the Huntrix and (Y/n) talks about their new collaboration song.
"Golden. It's the story of us." Miro started
"It's a song about who we are, and where we're going next." "As well as how our friendship will continue to stay strong." Both Rumi and (Y/n) continued.
"And the first live performance is tonight!" Zane said excitedly as a presentation behind them emphasized the first live performance of Golden.
"It's the beginning of a new chapter for us."
~"Oh, I'm done hidin', now I'm shinin'. Like I'm born to be. Oh, our time, no fears, no lies. That's who we're born to be"~
Thousands of fans chanted and cheered in front of the building of World Cable News for the upcoming performance.
"For the whole world. We're so excited to show you what's next."
Bobby double checked everything with the staff so that the live performance will be perfect.
Miro and Zane in their shared dressing room can be seen laughing and taking selfies with each other.
But with (Y/n) and Rumi in two seperate dressing rooms. Can be seen upset about something.
~"Waited so long to break these walls down. To wake up and feel like me"~
(Y/n) hunched over the table sadly looking into the mirror in front of her and lifting one her feathers to see some already turned black, as Rumi leaned against the wall between him and the other boys wearing a robe looking dejected. As he walked towards the mirror letting go of the robe his demonic purple patterns showed around his arms and chest, (Y/n) slowly pulling down her skirt to show her lower neval a different kind of red demonic patterns can be shown.
~"Put these patterns all in the past now. And finally live like the boy they all see"~
~"No more hidin', I'll be shinin'. Like I'm born to be"~
With a deep breath from the both of them and renewed strength, fixing their appearances. Both went out of their dressing room to see each other and (Y/n) holding her hand out to Rumi. Which he took and faced her while lovinly looking her in the eye, silently communicating to one another and smiling together.
~"'Cause we are hunters, voices strong. And I know I believe"~
~"We're goin' up, up, up, it's our moment. You know together we're glowin'. Gonna be, gonna be golden. Oh, up, up, up with our voices. 영원히 깨질 수 없는 (Yeongwonhi kkaejil su eomneun). Gonna be, gonna be golden"~
All four of them can be seen practising their live performance as fans continue to cheer from outside the station.
"(Y/n) and Rumi's voice!"
"I can't wait to hear them both live!"
Bobby with the camera crew and the other staff can be seen also dancing to the new song. Because of that he also accidentally hit a nearby camera man. "Ah, sorry."
~"Oh, I'm done hidin', now I'm shinin'. Like I'm born to be -"
Rumi was surprised to choke during his singing so he tried to clear his throat. As for (Y/n), she suddenly felt a burst of pain in her abdominal area and put an arm around it but stopped as she covered her pain, so that no one from the boys would be worried.
"Huh?"
"You okay?" Miro asked in concern for Rumi, as Zane looked worried also with Rumi none of them saw (Y/n) quickly holding abdomen in pain.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Let's take it again. From the top." Rumi tried to convince everyone that he was okay.
~"Oh, I'm done hidin', now I'm shinin'. Like I'm born to be -"
All four of them started the practice from the top to perfect the performance for the fans with Bobby still dancing in front of them. Rumi once again coughed out of nowhere as the music stopped.
"Um, Rumi, are you okay? Do you need some water?" Bobby asked out of concern to one of the boys he considers as one of his own.
Rumi, still shocked about his voice choking, can't accept it until he remembers about his patterns. "I just need five. I'm gonna take five." He said before walking out of the stage.
"Five minutes? We go live in ten!" A concerned female station staff said.
"Um..."
Both Miro and Zane looked at one another in worry but (Y/n) was already looking in worry to the direction Rumi went.
"I'll go with him, Bobby, just to check on him." (Y/n) announced as she ran after Rumi before anyone could say something, she was already gone.
"Okay, I can handle this. I'm not having a nervous breakdown. Visualized there's not 10,000 fans at the door screaming and sounding scary." Bobby trying to convince himself while smiling nervously.
"Mayday! There's 10,000 fans at the door screaming and sounding scary!" Two security guards, afraid for their lives, said into their walkie talkies as fans surrounding them kept on screaming and wanting to go inside of the station. Both guards were hugging each other for protection against the fans, one of them even took a picture for evidence for hazard pay.
Rumi ran back to his dressing room removing the harness between his jacket, as he slowly walked to the mirror pulling down the zipper in his tight white shirt. Rumi was shocked to see that the patterns increased, growing towards his throat.
"My voice? Ah, no. No." Breathing heavily he couldn't accept with what's happening.
A knock was heard from his door. "Rumi, is everything okay? Is it about that?" (Y/n) asked genuinely concerned since she knew about his patterns.
Rumi looked back at himself in the mirror and hastily fixed his outfit back. "I'm okay, (Y/n). I promise, I just need time for myself."
"Oh, okay. I'll tell Bobby and the others then." She said hesitantly, putting her hands and forehead on the door that separates her and Rumi. "Rumi, you know that I'm always here for you about anything. I'll always be here for you." She said before walking away to inform the others that the live performance needs to be cancelled and rescheduled.
Unknown to (Y/n) and the others, Rumi had left the station by the emergency exit, conveniently avoiding the eyes of the crowd of fans. As Rumi began to run away from everyone, from the pain, from the loneliness, and from everything.
He began to remember a memory from his childhood that he tried to repress. A song he was thought to sing whenever he felt like he was letting everyone down and that his fears and weaknesses are showing. He could hear his younger self sing echoing in his ear.
A young Rumi singing in front of a grave while Celine made braids around his hair.
~"Fix the world and make it right."~
~"When darkness finally meets the light."~
"Celine, do Hunters kill all demons?" A young Rumi asked as his little mind contemplated the meaning and words of the song.
"Yes."
"So everything that has patterns?" He asked as he lifted up his sleeve to show two purple patterns on his right arm.
"Cover those up. You only have those because-" She said while fixing young Rumi's sleeve to hide the patterns.
"My dad was a demon?"
"You're not one of them, Rumi. You're a Hunter, like your mother was." Both of them looked to the grave stone in front of them. "When the Honmoon is sealed, all demons will be gone from this world. And so will your patterns."
"So these will be gone?"
"Yes. Those will be gone. Rumi... tomorrow there's someone I want you to meet, my daughter. She will be living with us starting tomorrow and I want you to be kind to her."
A young Rumi naively believed in what she said, now is more determined to seal up the Honmoon. While excited to meet someone that can be potentially a friend.
THE NEXT DAY...
"Rumi, this is (Y/n). She's an angel, protector of the Hunters and the world. Angels have existed even before Hunters were known. She will be living with us from now on." Celine explained as she had her hands on the shoulder of a 10 year old (Y/n).
Rumi was in aw when he saw (Y/n) with wings on her head while dressed in a cute floral white dress. "Hi, I'm (Y/n). It's very nice to meet you Rumi. I... I hope we can be the best of friends." She said while holding her little hands out to Rumi for a handshake which he was hesitant to take since he was flustered with how cute (Y/n) was.
"Me... Me too. Let's be best friends." He said as (Y/n) smiled and giggled at him.
Rumi as a teenage boy leaning against his bedroom door covering his growing patterns. Behind the door was Miro and Zane asking him to accompany them to the bath house.
"You always say no, Rumi." Zane complained
"You're so modest. It's just the bathhouse. (Y/n), I can understand since she's a girl but..." Miro was his usual sarcastic self.
"Maybe some other time. You guys go ahead."
"Everytime." "Mm-hm." Both Miro and Zane sighed but went to the bath house anyway.
Celine was seated on the kitchen island reading the newspaper in the Huntrix home. Rumi, knowing that the boys were now gone, wanted to ask her something that was weighing on his mind.
"Maybe they'll understand. Like (Y/n) did." He inquired about telling the boys.
"No, Rumi. Nothing can change until your patterns are gone. And (Y/n) she's different from the boys." She firmly said looking him in the eyes.
As Rumi reached the rooftop of one of the tallest buildings in korea. Breathing heavily and feeling restrictive by his jacket, taking it off and dropping it behind him. As he walked towards the edge of the building overlooking the city of Seoul. He tried to sing again.
~"No more hiding, I'll be shining."~
~"Like I'm born to be!"~
He was trying so hard to sing out his heart.
~"Cause we are Hunters, voices strong."~
~"And I know I believe!"~
But try as he may, his voice just kept on breaking into coughs. He couldn't help but cry out his heart. As he dropped into his knees triggering the Honmoon to shine.
"How am i supposed to fix the world, fix me, protect (Y/n), when I don't have my voice?" He tried to ask someone for an answer to his questions.
"Why now, when (Y/n) and me are so close?" As the Honmoon continue to shine in it's bright blue hue. Rumi can feel the rising frustrations building inside of him.
"Why?" He asks, feeling helpless. Which didn't feel right for him.
"WHY?!" Rumi's voice turned for the first time demonic as he punched into the ground in anger as a red streak began to flow around the Honmoon. Shocked by what he saw he couldn't breathe normally afraid of what may come as the Honmoon returned back to its normal colors. But the hunting voice of his child self began to sing reminding him of his duty.
Rumi covered himself back with his jacket due to the cold temperature as the elevator doors to their home opened. Where he was greeted with Miro and Zane waiting for him. Words didn't need to be said as the both of them comforted Rumi, who let out a sigh of relief. But then, noticed someone was missing.
"Where's (Y/n)?" He asked the other two.
"She's not with you?" Miro asked Rumi in concern.
"She went after you, after she informed everyone that the live performance needed to be rescheduled." Zane informed Rumi as the familiar ding from the elevator doors shows a concerned (Y/n) hugging herself.
"Guys, did Rumi come hom- Rumi!" (Y/n) sighed in relief and hugged Rumi. As he hugged back, Rumi couldn't help but hugged her tighter and inhaled her comforting scent, which caused the other two boys feeling left out and jealous joined in the hugging session. But what the boys didn't notice was how uncomfortable and in pain she was.
As (Y/n) walked back to the stage area and went towards where Bobby was.
"Bobby, we need to reschedule the live performance. Rumi isn't feeling well and I don't think it's best for him to push himself right now." She said firmly to Bobby and to nearby station staff.
"But... But. No. You are right (Y/n). My boy's health comes first." Bobby was surprised at first at what she said but knowing that the boys and (Y/n) are his top priority agreed with her. But then one of the male staff came running in and stopped in front of Bobby and (Y/n), as he took a deep breath and spoke.
"Rumi is gone. It seems like he went out of the emergency exit."
"What?" Both Zane and Miro said as they walked near to Bobby and (Y/n) as they heard what the male staff said.
"Rumi is gone? Then what about the live performance?" Zane asked.
"It's going to be rescheduled. Bobby, I trust that you can handle things here? Miro and Zane, both of you go back to the tower and wait for Rumi there if he comes home." (Y/n) gave them tasks as she tried to walk towards a different exit only to be stopped by a hand grabbing her wrist, and it was Miro.
"Wait. What about you (Y/n)? What are you going to do?" He asked in concern for her well being.
"I'm going to look for him. I have been with him since we were kids, I know him better than anyone else." She said to Miro as she put her hands on his to let him know that she will be fine on her own.
"I promise that if I don't find him within the hour. I'll come back home." She assured him and her smile. As Miro let her go he couldn't help but felt something would go wrong but trusted her too much to stop her.
As (Y/n) ran around nearby places where Rumi could have gone. Minutes had already passed as she stopped to rest in a deserted park and sat on a bench. She couldn't help but think back to her and Celine have a serious talk about Rumi's patterns.
As Rumi walked back to his room and locked himself there for the rest of the evening until the boys returned back from their trip to the bathhouse. (Y/n) showed herself to Celine who was still reading the newspaper.
"You know Celine, if you could give the boys a chance. I believe they would still accept Rumi for who he is."
"We already discussed this (Y/n). When Rumi was born with the patterns I made a promise to her that I would love and protect Rumi. You would know that since you were there." A memory flashed of Celine holding the hands of Rumi's mother, the woman she loved and took her last breath. While an older (Y/n) who silently cried over the loss of one of her friends, was sitting at the side of the bed lovingly holding a baby Rumi in her arms.
"I know that very well. But you could never know how deep a friendship like theirs could overcome."
"Then what about you? When are you going to open up that an Angel like yourself has lived for over a thousand years. And when one Hunter die's it's time for you to be reborn as an infant." Celine countered back to what (Y/n) just said. As silence fills the place, Celine already knows the answer to her question.
"Rumi's patterns must be hidden from the boys and your secret must be kept only between us for your safety. You and I both know the value of your soul." Celine said as she left the Hunrix tower to go back home.
And (Y/n) couldn't help but lay down on the couch, thinking about what Celine just said and she rested her right hand on her navel.
As (Y/n) stood up from the bench thinking of going back to the tower and waiting for Rumi there with the others. A sudden burst of pain made her kneel to the ground and wrap her right arm around her abdomen and her left hand dig into the ground. Suddenly the pain vanished but with shaky hands (Y/n) reached into the left pocket of her skirt to retrieve her compact mirror, only to see some of her feathers from her wings were turning black.
"No. No. No. No" (Y/n) was starting to panic as she tried to block out the noise.
"Please, no. I thought I was free from him. Please." (Y/n) couldn't take it anymore.
"NO!" Just like Rumi, (Y/n) pounded both her hands onto the ground. A powerful surge of red streak flowed throughout the Honmoon before it returned back to its normal color.
(Y/n) Still shocked by what happened just let it go and dusted herself off and went to the direction of the Huntrix tower to go back home.
As the elevator zoomed up to the highest floor, (Y/n) couldn't help but felt cold and hugged herself. When the doors opened she was surprised to see Rumi already there. (Y/n) sighed in relief and hugged Rumi, as the other two boys joined in for the hug she suddenly felt the pain resurfaced once again but hid it from the boys.
After the hugging session between the boys and (Y/n), Miro and Zane had let Rumi and (Y/n) change their Golden outfit to comfort wear, where Miro lent her one of his shirts since the boys didn't want to part yet with (Y/n). All of them are now seated in the dining room eating homemade garak-guksu, a thick noodle soup made by (Y/n) herself.
"I... I'm sorry about the show." Rumi didn't have any appetite despite his favorite being anything that (Y/n) cooks for him.
"Rumi, it's okay. I'm sure everything will be fine. Bobby can handle it" Zane being the ever positive one in the group, comforted Rumi knowing that they all put each other first before anything else. Until his phone rang with Bobby calling him.
"Hi, Bobby!"
"Boys, I can't handle this!" Bobby expressed his concerns and stress in a very unfortunate time.
"There's thousands of disappointed fans, and the network is losing their minds." Because of what Bobby just said to the phone, it made Rumi even more guilty for causing unnecessary trouble for their manager. (Y/n) seeing this reached out and held his left hand to show him comfort.
"Okay, this is why you pay me 3% and I got commissions for representing (Y/n). Okay, back off! My boys and (Y/n) will sing when they're ready." Bobby finds courage to fight back at what is presumed to be staff from the network. Miro having enough of it ended the call seeing that it only hurts Rumi more.
"It's okay. We can reschedule another live show within days."
"I... I don't know if that's going to be possible. My voice, it's in trouble." Rumi hated having to say that knowing that Hunters are supposed to never show their weakness.
"Wait, in trouble? Then why did you push the 'Golden' release?" Miro genuinely asked Rumi for the reason for their vacation to be cancelled.
"Because we're so close, and it's so important." Giving out his reason for releasing it early despite promising the boys their well deserved break.
"But not as important as your health, Rumi. You... All three of you are important to me... To each other. So we shouldn't prioritise our duty over wellbeing." (Y/n) Said firmly to each boy but mostly especially to Rumi as she squeezed the hand she was holding.
"Okay, how do we handle this?" Zane wanted eagerly to help Rumi both out of care but also of concern that without Rumi's voice the Honmoon could be in danger and how it is important to Rumi as well.
"What do we tell the fans? Maybe we should call Celine?" Zane suggested.
"We know what she'd say, Zane." Miro rolling his eyes at the memory.
"Oh, right." Clearing his throat.
"We are hunters. Voices strong. Your faults and fears must never be seen." Both boys imitated the way Celine repeatedly said to them during their training days. Laughing at the absurdity of how many times they heard that line.
"Whoa. You sound exactly like her." Miro complemented Zane for his imitations.
"Yeah, that's how she says it."
"No. We gotta hide it and fix it." Miro suddenly said to Rumi in seriousness.
"For sure. We have to hide it. Mm-hm." Zane totally agreed with what Miro said. Rumi thinks about what they can do as he looked at (Y/n) eating peacefully and was there as a calming presence for each of them.
"Rumi, why don't we take a break? We'll skip the Idol Awards this year and-" Zane suggested knowing that the stress and over work is maybe getting to Rumi. Who then cut him off. "No. No way."
"It's our most important show. It's when we strengthen the Honmoon for the entire year. And where (Y/n) will be able to ward off all demons with her light. We can't skip it. we just can't." Rumi is resolute and will not waver on it. Due to the significance of the Idol Awards to the Honmoon.
"Not when I'm so close." Miro and Zane shared a look then looked at (Y/n) who was looking at Rumi with sadness in her eyes, also looked at both boys and gave them a nod with a small smile.
"Hey, we'll get through this. We can get through anything. Together." Zane said, putting a comforting hand on Rumi's right shoulder.
"Okay. We have two weeks to fix Rumi's voice. Any ideas?" Miro voiced out while looking at Zane knowing that the youngest male had already thought of something.
"I do have one idea."
"Just one?"
"Actually, 57, but let's start with my favorite. Don't worry. It's totally legit." With that final declaration of Zane. Dinner turned lighter, filled with laughter and warm conversation. Afterward, they cleaned up and parted ways for bed.
As each of them departed towards their respective rooms, (Y/n) couldn't help but wonder how to talk with Rumi about his patterns and maybe it was time for her to open up to the boy's but before (Y/n) would even think of it more.
But before she could dwell on it, a ripple of energy pulsed through the Honmoon. The elevator dinged. She ran to the window. No visible cracks or rifts.
"Must be fatigue," she whispered and went to bed, knowing she'd be joining the boys trip tomorrow before her scheduled variety show that Bobby reminded her.
Unbeknownst to the sleeping Hunters and the lone Angel, red cracks silently formed in the Honmoon and through the gap stepped five demons, cloaked in black hanbok and wide-brimmed gat, resembling ancient jeoseung saja, grim reapers of legend.
For them to enter into the human world to fulfill their evil plan to dominate the world.
Chapter 02: Heartstrings & Hellfire (Male Huntrix x Reader x Saja Boys)
In the underworld, all demons had gathered, making way for the trembling, lone surviving female demon flight attendant. Her legs shook beneath her as she walked toward a towering platform, throne of the King of Demons. Whimpers escaped her lips, echoing in the eerie silence, as thousands of demonic eyes followed her.
She halted at the base of the stairs leading up to the throne. Frozen in fear, she hesitated.
A deafening growl erupted.
Her demonic markings flared red. An invisible force seized her, lifting her off the ground and slamming her down before the throne of Gwi-Ma-the King of Demons. Weakened from lack of soul consumption, he appeared as a massive inferno, only his gaping, flaming mouth visible.
"Let me guess. They got away again?" he asked, eerily calm.
"The Hunters... they're too strong," she whimpered.
"I understand."
"You... you do?" she blinked, surprised by his compassion.
"I understand you're WEAK!" Gwi-Ma roared, launching hellfire at her. Her screams pierced the air as she burned alive.
"Pathetic! Useless! All of you!" he bellowed. The demons trembled, terrified of becoming his next victim.
"Don't you idiots understand? Once the Hunters turn the Honmoon gold, it's over for us!" he snapped. Above them, the Honmoon, a celestial phenomenon had pulsed, glowing gold, expanding steadily.
A soft, melodic pluck of a bipa echoed.
"There once was a mighty demon king," a lyrical voice chimed. The demons turned toward the sound. A male demon in a black hanbok stood on top of a hongsalmun gate. "Stop me if you've heard this one."
"He was in total control. He feasted on souls. The world trembled when he roared."
The demon floated down, a massive demon tiger trailing behind him. The crowd parted, not in reverence, but in fear.
"But then some Hunters sang a song. Now he just starves all day long. Can't touch a soul, his fire's gone cold. Just a whisper in the dark."
~"Will he let the fire go out?"
"Is this the end of him now?"
"Dying king with a crumbling crown?"
"Will he let the fire go out?"~
The singer reached the foot of the throne. Gwi-Ma's mouth smoldered. "I let you keep that voice, Jinu. And you dare mock me with it?" Four more demons materialized behind Jinu.
"I'm not mocking you. I'm here to help," Jinu said. "It's time for a new strategy. We fight the Hunters where they least expect it."
He gestured dramatically. The five of them hovered up to the throne platform.
"Go after the source of their power. The fans."
The five struck a pose.
"A demon boy band?" Gwi-Ma blinked. Then laughed, a massive roar of flame and noise. The crowd forced laughter. "What makes you think that will work?"
With a snap, Jinu transformed his crew into stunning, charismatic idols. The demons gasped in awe.
"Yeah. That's totally gonna work." "Yeah. 100%." All other demons below agree with the transformation, others are even astonished with their new look.
"Okay. I know you, Jinu. In 400 years, you've never done anything that didn't serve yourself. What do you want?" Jinu's smirk faded. A flash of painful memory, a woman and a child. Gone in an instant. "The memories. I want them erased."
The concert ended. Fans exited the arena, buzzing about the gold shimmer on the Honmoon. In the underground lift, the three Hunters and (Y/n) celebrated.
"Did we just see gold?!"
"Yeah, I can't believe we're doing it."
"It's so exciting!"
"Okay. You know what this means boys. It's time to release that song."
"Yes! It's finally time!"
"We're gonna turn it gold. Yay!"
"The moment we waited for."
"Yes!"
But Rumi coughed unexpectedly. (Y/n) swayed.
"Whoa. That was weird." Rumi had coughed unexpectedly in front of them.
"Whoa!" (Y/n) exclaimed as she suddenly felt woozy, as all the boys held her steady.
"Good thing we're taking a break."
"Yeah. Sounds like you both need the rest."
"Yeah. Just need a little water."
"Did someone say water?"
"Hi, Bobby."
The lift doors opened. Staff swarmed in, led by Bobby. Meeting the proud smiles of their manager, Bobby.
"Water! Now! What a show! That guy in the demon suit exploding into confetti? Amazing!"
"Yeah... 'special effects,'" Miro said, sharing a look with (Y/n).
"Social numbers are off the charts! (Y/n), since your manager's on vacation, I'll cover you," Bobby said.
(Y/N) walks beside the boys and has someone adjust her robes and take off some of her accessories.
(Y/n) smiled kindly. "Thanks, Bobby, but you don't have to-"
"You really are an angel, (Y/N). But I promise you that everything is fine and I can manage it well. As long as you are with the boys." Bobby said, reassuring the worried girl of his capabilities.
"So, to celebrate, I booked you all a week-long staycation at the fanciest, most exclusive relaxation resort in Korea." As a reward for the success and topping the charts yet again, Bobby organised a staycation at a fancy resort for them. But they promptly denied it.
The boys exchanged glances.
"Sorry, Bobby. We've already got the hottest ticket in town."
"What?"
"To our couch! Couch! Couch!"
"Bobby, you should go enjoy the resort. This tour has been grueling for everyone." Rumi said to their manager.
"Yeah. You deserve it." (Y/N) Continues as she agrees with what Rumi said to Bobby.
"Me? Ah, no. I couldn't possibly." He tried to deny it at first but accepted it in the end. "Just kidding. Robe me. I'm a 34 short. See you in a couple weeks, boys and (Y/N)!" Since the resort is now available, Rumi states that he should go to the resort instead. Bobby promptly got a robe and face mask on.
"Bye, Bobby!" All four of them greet the manager with farewells.
As he left, he paused. "(Y/n), you okay? You look pale." Bobby questions, pausing her exit to follow the boys. Granted she didn't feel all that fine the past few days but since she didn't want any to worry about it due to it may have been over work and the stress for the concert.
"Yeah, I feel fine, it may have just been the over workload and the stress. But I promise to get some rest." (Y/N) smiled brightly in order to assure Bobby and the other staff members behind him. (Y/N) then caught up with the boys on their way out.
The group left, excited for two weeks off. "All right. Two weeks of vacation."
"Yes. Vacations." Rumi said while smiling deceptively like he was up to something the others didn't know about.
In the middle of Seoul Korea is a building owned by Hunrix themselves. If it was not obvious to the giant Huntrix logo brightly lit on top of the tower. This was the home of the members of the Huntrix but what the public doesn't know is that this was also the home of (Y/n), who just lived below the top penthouse.
The elevator opened to show all three boys still in their robes arriving home. While (Y/n) went home first to change clothing.
"Mmm! I can't wait to eat kimbap and stare at the ceiling." Miro said dreamily at the prospects of rest and food.
"I already picked a movie for us. It's actually a list of 700 two-second videos to watch, all about turtles." Zane said fast, while in the background Rumi can be seen hyperfocusing on his phone about something. "Mm-hm."
"Sounds super boring. But (Y/n) loves turtles, I'm so down to watch with her here."
"Let's do this." Rumi said gleefully as he pressed the button that said 'launch' on his phone screen, where a new album cover of all three members of the Huntrix wearing black armor with golden chain accessories. While (Y/n) was positioned besides Rumi on the cover was dressed in an all white tube top and high waisted skirt with a gold jacket that resembles the jacket worn by the boys but only it was cropped and it also features her signature wings behind her ears and the tips of the wings were colored blue, purple, and pink to represent the three boys in her life. A new single by Huntrix featuring (Y/n) was released to the public, a new song entitled 'Golden'.
Rumi then went to their vast giant walk-in closet where all their previous concert and hunting outfits were all stored. He stops in front of four specific outfits that were worn by the four in the cover of the song. "It's time." He said, smirking to himself.
"Couch! Couch! Couch!" Chanted by both Miro and Zane while holding various foods towards their couch in front of a floor to ceiling window overlooking the city. As they plop down on the most comfortable couch they have. Both sighed in relief as the tiresome weight already had been lifted from their shoulders. "Couch!"
"Ah, yeah. That's the stuff."
"So relaxing."
"Yeah."
Rumi's head was then seen lifting behind the couch with a giant smile on his face. "Hey. Have a good break?"
"Huh?" Both boys relaxing on the couch were baffled by what Rumi just asked them.
"What? No. We literally just sat down!" Miro declared.
As Rumi then further stood up on his two feet making his costume more visible to the other two boys and even smiled wider. "Why are you in your new costume?"
"Rumi, you didn't." The two tried to convince Rumi but in reality they were convincing themselves that their rest was not interrupted.
"Did you announce the new single?" Miro had this annoyed look on his face.
"The promo starts tomorrow - - tonight?" While Zane looked like he was about to cry.
"Tonight?"
As Rumi showed the boys their own costumes to wear, both tried to convince Rumi to let them have their break.
"Rumi, no!"
"No!"
"But the pajamas! Time alone with (Y/n). But no! No!."
Both boys were now sobbing and crying out 'No' but knowing their leader it was already too late and they could kiss their vacation time bye bye. The elevator doors open only for (Y/n) to come in her white nightgown as she was looking at her phone, her angel wings on the sides of her head were visible since it indicates comfortability with the boys.
"Hey! Ugh, guys did you know someone had leaked the promotion and the song for Golden on social media?" She query the boys only to meet all three dressed in their 'Golden' outfits, with both Miro and Zane slumped down and crying behind a smiling Rumi, who was also holding up (Y/n)'s own 'Golden' jacket, tube top and skirt.
"(Y/n) help us."
"(Y/n) save yourself."
"Well, I'm out. I seem to forget that I left the stove on. I should probably go home." (Y/n) tried to run out back to the elevator, but a hand on her left shoulder stopped her. She slowly turns her head left to see Rumi's face as chills run down her spine by his unnerving smile towards her.
"Where do you think you're going, (Y/n)?" Rumi demanded from her while he kept on smiling. The silence that followed was frightening to both (Y/n) and the other two boys.
The elevator doors opened once again showing Bobby walking towards the group. Both Miro and Zane were still sobbing while (Y/n) was hugging herself beside Rumi looking traumatized as her wings were still visible, making it so that Bobby will assume it's part of the look.
"Boys, oh! and (Y/n), you won't believe this!"
"Bobby!" Miro uttered dejectedly.
"No more relaxy time!" Zane voiced out down heartedly. While Rumi was standing confidently and smiling, as (Y/n) was quietly standing beside him, traumatized by what just happened.
"Your new single is on fire! Everyone's listening to it." Bobby said frantically happily to the four in front of him. Which caught the attention of the three.
"Yay!" All four of them cheered together.
"So let's go promo!" Bobby then changed into his own version of the 'Golden' outfit consisting of a black blazer with gold design with black slacks.
A countdown is promoted in every phone of fans waiting for it to reach zero. In the background of the countdown was a gold light surrounding the upper bodies of both Rumi and (Y/n).
"New single?"
"New single?" Everyone in the streets can be seen excited for the new single to be released.
"New Huntrix with (Y/n)?"
In a giant screen in the middle of the street the music video starts to play. The lyrics song of redemption, friendship, and rising from the dark. All four ran into the light together.
Rumi, laying down on a bed with a golden streak from a semi opened door hitting his face. Miro, seated in a window seal as golden light comes from the sky. Zane, leaning against school lockers as golden light shines from the windows.
(Y/n), curled up in a corner in a room filled with nothing but darkness, with her head hiding in her lap hugging her knees, as a golden light comes from above.
All four of them, with the golden light from the sun shines on them as they freely drive, with Miro as the driver, Zane in the passenger seat, and both Rumi and (Y/n) seated in the back seat.
As fans eagerly wait for the start of the music video, the whole crowd counts down in Korean from 5...
4...
3...
2...
1...
~"I was a ghost, I was alone (hah). 어두워진 (Eoduwojin) (hah), 압길 속에 (apgil soge) (ah)"~
~"Given the throne, I didn't know how to believe. I was the queen that I'm meant to be (oh)"~
~"I lived two lives, tried to play both sides. But I couldn't find my own place (oh, oh)"~
"~Called a problem child, 'cause I got too wild. But now that's how I'm gettin' paid, 끝없이 (kkeuteopsi) on stage"~
~"I'm done hidin', now I'm shinin'. Like I'm born to be"~
~"We dreamin' hard, we came so far. Now I believe"~
As the video shows each of the boys having a door opened to them as they are guided by the golden light. While (Y/n) was shown that golden light fills the empty space but then the light was blocked by three figures, she lifts her head up to see all the boys with their hands reaching out to her. Blinded by the golden light behind the boys, she could still see them smiling down at her, renewed by this she took the hand in the middle while the other two helped her stand. As all four of them ran into the light Together as one.
~"We're goin' up, up, up, it's our moment. You know together we're glowin'. Gonna be, gonna be golden"~
Multiple tweets are then shown talking about how amazing the new single, how amazing Huntriz is, how unbelievable it is to feature (Y/n) in a different light with her angel wings looking more realistic on her, and then fans debating whose hand (Y/n) took. "You see my head bobbing?"
~"Oh, up, up, up with our voices. 영원히 깨질 수 없는 (Yeongwonhi kkaejil su eomneun). Gonna be, gonna be golden"~
"Tell us about that new single?" A live interview set up in public where both the Huntrix and (Y/n) talks about their new collaboration song.
"Golden. It's the story of us." Miro started
"It's a song about who we are, and where we're going next." "As well as how our friendship will continue to stay strong." Both Rumi and (Y/n) continued.
"And the first live performance is tonight!" Zane said excitedly as a presentation behind them emphasized the first live performance of Golden.
"It's the beginning of a new chapter for us."
~"Oh, I'm done hidin', now I'm shinin'. Like I'm born to be. Oh, our time, no fears, no lies. That's who we're born to be"~
Thousands of fans chanted and cheered in front of the building of World Cable News for the upcoming performance.
"For the whole world. We're so excited to show you what's next."
Bobby double checked everything with the staff so that the live performance will be perfect.
Miro and Zane in their shared dressing room can be seen laughing and taking selfies with each other.
But with (Y/n) and Rumi in two seperate dressing rooms. Can be seen upset about something.
~"Waited so long to break these walls down. To wake up and feel like me"~
(Y/n) hunched over the table sadly looking into the mirror in front of her and lifting one her feathers to see some already turned black, as Rumi leaned against the wall between him and the other boys wearing a robe looking dejected. As he walked towards the mirror letting go of the robe his demonic purple patterns showed around his arms and chest, (Y/n) slowly pulling down her skirt to show her lower neval a different kind of red demonic patterns can be shown.
~"Put these patterns all in the past now. And finally live like the boy they all see"~
~"No more hidin', I'll be shinin'. Like I'm born to be"~
With a deep breath from the both of them and renewed strength, fixing their appearances. Both went out of their dressing room to see each other and (Y/n) holding her hand out to Rumi. Which he took and faced her while lovinly looking her in the eye, silently communicating to one another and smiling together.
~"'Cause we are hunters, voices strong. And I know I believe"~
~"We're goin' up, up, up, it's our moment. You know together we're glowin'. Gonna be, gonna be golden. Oh, up, up, up with our voices. 영원히 깨질 수 없는 (Yeongwonhi kkaejil su eomneun). Gonna be, gonna be golden"~
All four of them can be seen practising their live performance as fans continue to cheer from outside the station.
"(Y/n) and Rumi's voice!"
"I can't wait to hear them both live!"
Bobby with the camera crew and the other staff can be seen also dancing to the new song. Because of that he also accidentally hit a nearby camera man. "Ah, sorry."
~"Oh, I'm done hidin', now I'm shinin'. Like I'm born to be -"
Rumi was surprised to choke during his singing so he tried to clear his throat. As for (Y/n), she suddenly felt a burst of pain in her abdominal area and put an arm around it but stopped as she covered her pain, so that no one from the boys would be worried.
"Huh?"
"You okay?" Miro asked in concern for Rumi, as Zane looked worried also with Rumi none of them saw (Y/n) quickly holding abdomen in pain.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Let's take it again. From the top." Rumi tried to convince everyone that he was okay.
~"Oh, I'm done hidin', now I'm shinin'. Like I'm born to be -"
All four of them started the practice from the top to perfect the performance for the fans with Bobby still dancing in front of them. Rumi once again coughed out of nowhere as the music stopped.
"Um, Rumi, are you okay? Do you need some water?" Bobby asked out of concern to one of the boys he considers as one of his own.
Rumi, still shocked about his voice choking, can't accept it until he remembers about his patterns. "I just need five. I'm gonna take five." He said before walking out of the stage.
"Five minutes? We go live in ten!" A concerned female station staff said.
"Um..."
Both Miro and Zane looked at one another in worry but (Y/n) was already looking in worry to the direction Rumi went.
"I'll go with him, Bobby, just to check on him." (Y/n) announced as she ran after Rumi before anyone could say something, she was already gone.
"Okay, I can handle this. I'm not having a nervous breakdown. Visualized there's not 10,000 fans at the door screaming and sounding scary." Bobby trying to convince himself while smiling nervously.
"Mayday! There's 10,000 fans at the door screaming and sounding scary!" Two security guards, afraid for their lives, said into their walkie talkies as fans surrounding them kept on screaming and wanting to go inside of the station. Both guards were hugging each other for protection against the fans, one of them even took a picture for evidence for hazard pay.
Rumi ran back to his dressing room removing the harness between his jacket, as he slowly walked to the mirror pulling down the zipper in his tight white shirt. Rumi was shocked to see that the patterns increased, growing towards his throat.
"My voice? Ah, no. No." Breathing heavily he couldn't accept with what's happening.
A knock was heard from his door. "Rumi, is everything okay? Is it about that?" (Y/n) asked genuinely concerned since she knew about his patterns.
Rumi looked back at himself in the mirror and hastily fixed his outfit back. "I'm okay, (Y/n). I promise, I just need time for myself."
"Oh, okay. I'll tell Bobby and the others then." She said hesitantly, putting her hands and forehead on the door that separates her and Rumi. "Rumi, you know that I'm always here for you about anything. I'll always be here for you." She said before walking away to inform the others that the live performance needs to be cancelled and rescheduled.
Unknown to (Y/n) and the others, Rumi had left the station by the emergency exit, conveniently avoiding the eyes of the crowd of fans. As Rumi began to run away from everyone, from the pain, from the loneliness, and from everything.
He began to remember a memory from his childhood that he tried to repress. A song he was thought to sing whenever he felt like he was letting everyone down and that his fears and weaknesses are showing. He could hear his younger self sing echoing in his ear.
A young Rumi singing in front of a grave while Celine made braids around his hair.
~"Fix the world and make it right."~
~"When darkness finally meets the light."~
"Celine, do Hunters kill all demons?" A young Rumi asked as his little mind contemplated the meaning and words of the song.
"Yes."
"So everything that has patterns?" He asked as he lifted up his sleeve to show two purple patterns on his right arm.
"Cover those up. You only have those because-" She said while fixing young Rumi's sleeve to hide the patterns.
"My dad was a demon?"
"You're not one of them, Rumi. You're a Hunter, like your mother was." Both of them looked to the grave stone in front of them. "When the Honmoon is sealed, all demons will be gone from this world. And so will your patterns."
"So these will be gone?"
"Yes. Those will be gone. Rumi... tomorrow there's someone I want you to meet, my daughter. She will be living with us starting tomorrow and I want you to be kind to her."
A young Rumi naively believed in what she said, now is more determined to seal up the Honmoon. While excited to meet someone that can be potentially a friend.
THE NEXT DAY...
"Rumi, this is (Y/n). She's an angel, protector of the Hunters and the world. Angels have existed even before Hunters were known. She will be living with us from now on." Celine explained as she had her hands on the shoulder of a 10 year old (Y/n).
Rumi was in aw when he saw (Y/n) with wings on her head while dressed in a cute floral white dress. "Hi, I'm (Y/n). It's very nice to meet you Rumi. I... I hope we can be the best of friends." She said while holding her little hands out to Rumi for a handshake which he was hesitant to take since he was flustered with how cute (Y/n) was.
"Me... Me too. Let's be best friends." He said as (Y/n) smiled and giggled at him.
Rumi as a teenage boy leaning against his bedroom door covering his growing patterns. Behind the door was Miro and Zane asking him to accompany them to the bath house.
"You always say no, Rumi." Zane complained
"You're so modest. It's just the bathhouse. (Y/n), I can understand since she's a girl but..." Miro was his usual sarcastic self.
"Maybe some other time. You guys go ahead."
"Everytime." "Mm-hm." Both Miro and Zane sighed but went to the bath house anyway.
Celine was seated on the kitchen island reading the newspaper in the Huntrix home. Rumi, knowing that the boys were now gone, wanted to ask her something that was weighing on his mind.
"Maybe they'll understand. Like (Y/n) did." He inquired about telling the boys.
"No, Rumi. Nothing can change until your patterns are gone. And (Y/n) she's different from the boys." She firmly said looking him in the eyes.
As Rumi reached the rooftop of one of the tallest buildings in korea. Breathing heavily and feeling restrictive by his jacket, taking it off and dropping it behind him. As he walked towards the edge of the building overlooking the city of Seoul. He tried to sing again.
~"No more hiding, I'll be shining."~
~"Like I'm born to be!"~
He was trying so hard to sing out his heart.
~"Cause we are Hunters, voices strong."~
~"And I know I believe!"~
But try as he may, his voice just kept on breaking into coughs. He couldn't help but cry out his heart. As he dropped into his knees triggering the Honmoon to shine.
"How am i supposed to fix the world, fix me, protect (Y/n), when I don't have my voice?" He tried to ask someone for an answer to his questions.
"Why now, when (Y/n) and me are so close?" As the Honmoon continue to shine in it's bright blue hue. Rumi can feel the rising frustrations building inside of him.
"Why?" He asks, feeling helpless. Which didn't feel right for him.
"WHY?!" Rumi's voice turned for the first time demonic as he punched into the ground in anger as a red streak began to flow around the Honmoon. Shocked by what he saw he couldn't breathe normally afraid of what may come as the Honmoon returned back to its normal colors. But the hunting voice of his child self began to sing reminding him of his duty.
Rumi covered himself back with his jacket due to the cold temperature as the elevator doors to their home opened. Where he was greeted with Miro and Zane waiting for him. Words didn't need to be said as the both of them comforted Rumi, who let out a sigh of relief. But then, noticed someone was missing.
"Where's (Y/n)?" He asked the other two.
"She's not with you?" Miro asked Rumi in concern.
"She went after you, after she informed everyone that the live performance needed to be rescheduled." Zane informed Rumi as the familiar ding from the elevator doors shows a concerned (Y/n) hugging herself.
"Guys, did Rumi come hom- Rumi!" (Y/n) sighed in relief and hugged Rumi. As he hugged back, Rumi couldn't help but hugged her tighter and inhaled her comforting scent, which caused the other two boys feeling left out and jealous joined in the hugging session. But what the boys didn't notice was how uncomfortable and in pain she was.
As (Y/n) walked back to the stage area and went towards where Bobby was.
"Bobby, we need to reschedule the live performance. Rumi isn't feeling well and I don't think it's best for him to push himself right now." She said firmly to Bobby and to nearby station staff.
"But... But. No. You are right (Y/n). My boy's health comes first." Bobby was surprised at first at what she said but knowing that the boys and (Y/n) are his top priority agreed with her. But then one of the male staff came running in and stopped in front of Bobby and (Y/n), as he took a deep breath and spoke.
"Rumi is gone. It seems like he went out of the emergency exit."
"What?" Both Zane and Miro said as they walked near to Bobby and (Y/n) as they heard what the male staff said.
"Rumi is gone? Then what about the live performance?" Zane asked.
"It's going to be rescheduled. Bobby, I trust that you can handle things here? Miro and Zane, both of you go back to the tower and wait for Rumi there if he comes home." (Y/n) gave them tasks as she tried to walk towards a different exit only to be stopped by a hand grabbing her wrist, and it was Miro.
"Wait. What about you (Y/n)? What are you going to do?" He asked in concern for her well being.
"I'm going to look for him. I have been with him since we were kids, I know him better than anyone else." She said to Miro as she put her hands on his to let him know that she will be fine on her own.
"I promise that if I don't find him within the hour. I'll come back home." She assured him and her smile. As Miro let her go he couldn't help but felt something would go wrong but trusted her too much to stop her.
As (Y/n) ran around nearby places where Rumi could have gone. Minutes had already passed as she stopped to rest in a deserted park and sat on a bench. She couldn't help but think back to her and Celine have a serious talk about Rumi's patterns.
As Rumi walked back to his room and locked himself there for the rest of the evening until the boys returned back from their trip to the bathhouse. (Y/n) showed herself to Celine who was still reading the newspaper.
"You know Celine, if you could give the boys a chance. I believe they would still accept Rumi for who he is."
"We already discussed this (Y/n). When Rumi was born with the patterns I made a promise to her that I would love and protect Rumi. You would know that since you were there." A memory flashed of Celine holding the hands of Rumi's mother, the woman she loved and took her last breath. While an older (Y/n) who silently cried over the loss of one of her friends, was sitting at the side of the bed lovingly holding a baby Rumi in her arms.
"I know that very well. But you could never know how deep a friendship like theirs could overcome."
"Then what about you? When are you going to open up that an Angel like yourself has lived for over a thousand years. And when one Hunter die's it's time for you to be reborn as an infant." Celine countered back to what (Y/n) just said. As silence fills the place, Celine already knows the answer to her question.
"Rumi's patterns must be hidden from the boys and your secret must be kept only between us for your safety. You and I both know the value of your soul." Celine said as she left the Hunrix tower to go back home.
And (Y/n) couldn't help but lay down on the couch, thinking about what Celine just said and she rested her right hand on her navel.
As (Y/n) stood up from the bench thinking of going back to the tower and waiting for Rumi there with the others. A sudden burst of pain made her kneel to the ground and wrap her right arm around her abdomen and her left hand dig into the ground. Suddenly the pain vanished but with shaky hands (Y/n) reached into the left pocket of her skirt to retrieve her compact mirror, only to see some of her feathers from her wings were turning black.
"No. No. No. No" (Y/n) was starting to panic as she tried to block out the noise.
"Please, no. I thought I was free from him. Please." (Y/n) couldn't take it anymore.
"NO!" Just like Rumi, (Y/n) pounded both her hands onto the ground. A powerful surge of red streak flowed throughout the Honmoon before it returned back to its normal color.
(Y/n) Still shocked by what happened just let it go and dusted herself off and went to the direction of the Huntrix tower to go back home.
As the elevator zoomed up to the highest floor, (Y/n) couldn't help but felt cold and hugged herself. When the doors opened she was surprised to see Rumi already there. (Y/n) sighed in relief and hugged Rumi, as the other two boys joined in for the hug she suddenly felt the pain resurfaced once again but hid it from the boys.
After the hugging session between the boys and (Y/n), Miro and Zane had let Rumi and (Y/n) change their Golden outfit to comfort wear, where Miro lent her one of his shirts since the boys didn't want to part yet with (Y/n). All of them are now seated in the dining room eating homemade garak-guksu, a thick noodle soup made by (Y/n) herself.
"I... I'm sorry about the show." Rumi didn't have any appetite despite his favorite being anything that (Y/n) cooks for him.
"Rumi, it's okay. I'm sure everything will be fine. Bobby can handle it" Zane being the ever positive one in the group, comforted Rumi knowing that they all put each other first before anything else. Until his phone rang with Bobby calling him.
"Hi, Bobby!"
"Boys, I can't handle this!" Bobby expressed his concerns and stress in a very unfortunate time.
"There's thousands of disappointed fans, and the network is losing their minds." Because of what Bobby just said to the phone, it made Rumi even more guilty for causing unnecessary trouble for their manager. (Y/n) seeing this reached out and held his left hand to show him comfort.
"Okay, this is why you pay me 3% and I got commissions for representing (Y/n). Okay, back off! My boys and (Y/n) will sing when they're ready." Bobby finds courage to fight back at what is presumed to be staff from the network. Miro having enough of it ended the call seeing that it only hurts Rumi more.
"It's okay. We can reschedule another live show within days."
"I... I don't know if that's going to be possible. My voice, it's in trouble." Rumi hated having to say that knowing that Hunters are supposed to never show their weakness.
"Wait, in trouble? Then why did you push the 'Golden' release?" Miro genuinely asked Rumi for the reason for their vacation to be cancelled.
"Because we're so close, and it's so important." Giving out his reason for releasing it early despite promising the boys their well deserved break.
"But not as important as your health, Rumi. You... All three of you are important to me... To each other. So we shouldn't prioritise our duty over wellbeing." (Y/n) Said firmly to each boy but mostly especially to Rumi as she squeezed the hand she was holding.
"Okay, how do we handle this?" Zane wanted eagerly to help Rumi both out of care but also of concern that without Rumi's voice the Honmoon could be in danger and how it is important to Rumi as well.
"What do we tell the fans? Maybe we should call Celine?" Zane suggested.
"We know what she'd say, Zane." Miro rolling his eyes at the memory.
"Oh, right." Clearing his throat.
"We are hunters. Voices strong. Your faults and fears must never be seen." Both boys imitated the way Celine repeatedly said to them during their training days. Laughing at the absurdity of how many times they heard that line.
"Whoa. You sound exactly like her." Miro complemented Zane for his imitations.
"Yeah, that's how she says it."
"No. We gotta hide it and fix it." Miro suddenly said to Rumi in seriousness.
"For sure. We have to hide it. Mm-hm." Zane totally agreed with what Miro said. Rumi thinks about what they can do as he looked at (Y/n) eating peacefully and was there as a calming presence for each of them.
"Rumi, why don't we take a break? We'll skip the Idol Awards this year and-" Zane suggested knowing that the stress and over work is maybe getting to Rumi. Who then cut him off. "No. No way."
"It's our most important show. It's when we strengthen the Honmoon for the entire year. And where (Y/n) will be able to ward off all demons with her light. We can't skip it. we just can't." Rumi is resolute and will not waver on it. Due to the significance of the Idol Awards to the Honmoon.
"Not when I'm so close." Miro and Zane shared a look then looked at (Y/n) who was looking at Rumi with sadness in her eyes, also looked at both boys and gave them a nod with a small smile.
"Hey, we'll get through this. We can get through anything. Together." Zane said, putting a comforting hand on Rumi's right shoulder.
"Okay. We have two weeks to fix Rumi's voice. Any ideas?" Miro voiced out while looking at Zane knowing that the youngest male had already thought of something.
"I do have one idea."
"Just one?"
"Actually, 57, but let's start with my favorite. Don't worry. It's totally legit." With that final declaration of Zane. Dinner turned lighter, filled with laughter and warm conversation. Afterward, they cleaned up and parted ways for bed.
As each of them departed towards their respective rooms, (Y/n) couldn't help but wonder how to talk with Rumi about his patterns and maybe it was time for her to open up to the boy's but before (Y/n) would even think of it more.
But before she could dwell on it, a ripple of energy pulsed through the Honmoon. The elevator dinged. She ran to the window. No visible cracks or rifts.
"Must be fatigue," she whispered and went to bed, knowing she'd be joining the boys trip tomorrow before her scheduled variety show that Bobby reminded her.
Unbeknownst to the sleeping Hunters and the lone Angel, red cracks silently formed in the Honmoon and through the gap stepped five demons, cloaked in black hanbok and wide-brimmed gat, resembling ancient jeoseung saja, grim reapers of legend.
For them to enter into the human world to fulfill their evil plan to dominate the world.
Chapter 02: Heartstrings & Hellfire (Male Huntrix x Reader x Saja Boys)
In the underworld, all demons had gathered, making way for the trembling, lone surviving female demon flight attendant. Her legs shook beneath her as she walked toward a towering platform, throne of the King of Demons. Whimpers escaped her lips, echoing in the eerie silence, as thousands of demonic eyes followed her.
She halted at the base of the stairs leading up to the throne. Frozen in fear, she hesitated.
A deafening growl erupted.
Her demonic markings flared red. An invisible force seized her, lifting her off the ground and slamming her down before the throne of Gwi-Ma-the King of Demons. Weakened from lack of soul consumption, he appeared as a massive inferno, only his gaping, flaming mouth visible.
"Let me guess. They got away again?" he asked, eerily calm.
"The Hunters... they're too strong," she whimpered.
"I understand."
"You... you do?" she blinked, surprised by his compassion.
"I understand you're WEAK!" Gwi-Ma roared, launching hellfire at her. Her screams pierced the air as she burned alive.
"Pathetic! Useless! All of you!" he bellowed. The demons trembled, terrified of becoming his next victim.
"Don't you idiots understand? Once the Hunters turn the Honmoon gold, it's over for us!" he snapped. Above them, the Honmoon, a celestial phenomenon had pulsed, glowing gold, expanding steadily.
A soft, melodic pluck of a bipa echoed.
"There once was a mighty demon king," a lyrical voice chimed. The demons turned toward the sound. A male demon in a black hanbok stood on top of a hongsalmun gate. "Stop me if you've heard this one."
"He was in total control. He feasted on souls. The world trembled when he roared."
The demon floated down, a massive demon tiger trailing behind him. The crowd parted, not in reverence, but in fear.
"But then some Hunters sang a song. Now he just starves all day long. Can't touch a soul, his fire's gone cold. Just a whisper in the dark."
~"Will he let the fire go out?"
"Is this the end of him now?"
"Dying king with a crumbling crown?"
"Will he let the fire go out?"~
The singer reached the foot of the throne. Gwi-Ma's mouth smoldered. "I let you keep that voice, Jinu. And you dare mock me with it?" Four more demons materialized behind Jinu.
"I'm not mocking you. I'm here to help," Jinu said. "It's time for a new strategy. We fight the Hunters where they least expect it."
He gestured dramatically. The five of them hovered up to the throne platform.
"Go after the source of their power. The fans."
The five struck a pose.
"A demon boy band?" Gwi-Ma blinked. Then laughed, a massive roar of flame and noise. The crowd forced laughter. "What makes you think that will work?"
With a snap, Jinu transformed his crew into stunning, charismatic idols. The demons gasped in awe.
"Yeah. That's totally gonna work." "Yeah. 100%." All other demons below agree with the transformation, others are even astonished with their new look.
"Okay. I know you, Jinu. In 400 years, you've never done anything that didn't serve yourself. What do you want?" Jinu's smirk faded. A flash of painful memory, a woman and a child. Gone in an instant. "The memories. I want them erased."
The concert ended. Fans exited the arena, buzzing about the gold shimmer on the Honmoon. In the underground lift, the three Hunters and (Y/n) celebrated.
"Did we just see gold?!"
"Yeah, I can't believe we're doing it."
"It's so exciting!"
"Okay. You know what this means boys. It's time to release that song."
"Yes! It's finally time!"
"We're gonna turn it gold. Yay!"
"The moment we waited for."
"Yes!"
But Rumi coughed unexpectedly. (Y/n) swayed.
"Whoa. That was weird." Rumi had coughed unexpectedly in front of them.
"Whoa!" (Y/n) exclaimed as she suddenly felt woozy, as all the boys held her steady.
"Good thing we're taking a break."
"Yeah. Sounds like you both need the rest."
"Yeah. Just need a little water."
"Did someone say water?"
"Hi, Bobby."
The lift doors opened. Staff swarmed in, led by Bobby. Meeting the proud smiles of their manager, Bobby.
"Water! Now! What a show! That guy in the demon suit exploding into confetti? Amazing!"
"Yeah... 'special effects,'" Miro said, sharing a look with (Y/n).
"Social numbers are off the charts! (Y/n), since your manager's on vacation, I'll cover you," Bobby said.
(Y/N) walks beside the boys and has someone adjust her robes and take off some of her accessories.
(Y/n) smiled kindly. "Thanks, Bobby, but you don't have to-"
"You really are an angel, (Y/N). But I promise you that everything is fine and I can manage it well. As long as you are with the boys." Bobby said, reassuring the worried girl of his capabilities.
"So, to celebrate, I booked you all a week-long staycation at the fanciest, most exclusive relaxation resort in Korea." As a reward for the success and topping the charts yet again, Bobby organised a staycation at a fancy resort for them. But they promptly denied it.
The boys exchanged glances.
"Sorry, Bobby. We've already got the hottest ticket in town."
"What?"
"To our couch! Couch! Couch!"
"Bobby, you should go enjoy the resort. This tour has been grueling for everyone." Rumi said to their manager.
"Yeah. You deserve it." (Y/N) Continues as she agrees with what Rumi said to Bobby.
"Me? Ah, no. I couldn't possibly." He tried to deny it at first but accepted it in the end. "Just kidding. Robe me. I'm a 34 short. See you in a couple weeks, boys and (Y/N)!" Since the resort is now available, Rumi states that he should go to the resort instead. Bobby promptly got a robe and face mask on.
"Bye, Bobby!" All four of them greet the manager with farewells.
As he left, he paused. "(Y/n), you okay? You look pale." Bobby questions, pausing her exit to follow the boys. Granted she didn't feel all that fine the past few days but since she didn't want any to worry about it due to it may have been over work and the stress for the concert.
"Yeah, I feel fine, it may have just been the over workload and the stress. But I promise to get some rest." (Y/N) smiled brightly in order to assure Bobby and the other staff members behind him. (Y/N) then caught up with the boys on their way out.
The group left, excited for two weeks off. "All right. Two weeks of vacation."
"Yes. Vacations." Rumi said while smiling deceptively like he was up to something the others didn't know about.
In the middle of Seoul Korea is a building owned by Hunrix themselves. If it was not obvious to the giant Huntrix logo brightly lit on top of the tower. This was the home of the members of the Huntrix but what the public doesn't know is that this was also the home of (Y/n), who just lived below the top penthouse.
The elevator opened to show all three boys still in their robes arriving home. While (Y/n) went home first to change clothing.
"Mmm! I can't wait to eat kimbap and stare at the ceiling." Miro said dreamily at the prospects of rest and food.
"I already picked a movie for us. It's actually a list of 700 two-second videos to watch, all about turtles." Zane said fast, while in the background Rumi can be seen hyperfocusing on his phone about something. "Mm-hm."
"Sounds super boring. But (Y/n) loves turtles, I'm so down to watch with her here."
"Let's do this." Rumi said gleefully as he pressed the button that said 'launch' on his phone screen, where a new album cover of all three members of the Huntrix wearing black armor with golden chain accessories. While (Y/n) was positioned besides Rumi on the cover was dressed in an all white tube top and high waisted skirt with a gold jacket that resembles the jacket worn by the boys but only it was cropped and it also features her signature wings behind her ears and the tips of the wings were colored blue, purple, and pink to represent the three boys in her life. A new single by Huntrix featuring (Y/n) was released to the public, a new song entitled 'Golden'.
Rumi then went to their vast giant walk-in closet where all their previous concert and hunting outfits were all stored. He stops in front of four specific outfits that were worn by the four in the cover of the song. "It's time." He said, smirking to himself.
"Couch! Couch! Couch!" Chanted by both Miro and Zane while holding various foods towards their couch in front of a floor to ceiling window overlooking the city. As they plop down on the most comfortable couch they have. Both sighed in relief as the tiresome weight already had been lifted from their shoulders. "Couch!"
"Ah, yeah. That's the stuff."
"So relaxing."
"Yeah."
Rumi's head was then seen lifting behind the couch with a giant smile on his face. "Hey. Have a good break?"
"Huh?" Both boys relaxing on the couch were baffled by what Rumi just asked them.
"What? No. We literally just sat down!" Miro declared.
As Rumi then further stood up on his two feet making his costume more visible to the other two boys and even smiled wider. "Why are you in your new costume?"
"Rumi, you didn't." The two tried to convince Rumi but in reality they were convincing themselves that their rest was not interrupted.
"Did you announce the new single?" Miro had this annoyed look on his face.
"The promo starts tomorrow - - tonight?" While Zane looked like he was about to cry.
"Tonight?"
As Rumi showed the boys their own costumes to wear, both tried to convince Rumi to let them have their break.
"Rumi, no!"
"No!"
"But the pajamas! Time alone with (Y/n). But no! No!."
Both boys were now sobbing and crying out 'No' but knowing their leader it was already too late and they could kiss their vacation time bye bye. The elevator doors open only for (Y/n) to come in her white nightgown as she was looking at her phone, her angel wings on the sides of her head were visible since it indicates comfortability with the boys.
"Hey! Ugh, guys did you know someone had leaked the promotion and the song for Golden on social media?" She query the boys only to meet all three dressed in their 'Golden' outfits, with both Miro and Zane slumped down and crying behind a smiling Rumi, who was also holding up (Y/n)'s own 'Golden' jacket, tube top and skirt.
"(Y/n) help us."
"(Y/n) save yourself."
"Well, I'm out. I seem to forget that I left the stove on. I should probably go home." (Y/n) tried to run out back to the elevator, but a hand on her left shoulder stopped her. She slowly turns her head left to see Rumi's face as chills run down her spine by his unnerving smile towards her.
"Where do you think you're going, (Y/n)?" Rumi demanded from her while he kept on smiling. The silence that followed was frightening to both (Y/n) and the other two boys.
The elevator doors opened once again showing Bobby walking towards the group. Both Miro and Zane were still sobbing while (Y/n) was hugging herself beside Rumi looking traumatized as her wings were still visible, making it so that Bobby will assume it's part of the look.
"Boys, oh! and (Y/n), you won't believe this!"
"Bobby!" Miro uttered dejectedly.
"No more relaxy time!" Zane voiced out down heartedly. While Rumi was standing confidently and smiling, as (Y/n) was quietly standing beside him, traumatized by what just happened.
"Your new single is on fire! Everyone's listening to it." Bobby said frantically happily to the four in front of him. Which caught the attention of the three.
"Yay!" All four of them cheered together.
"So let's go promo!" Bobby then changed into his own version of the 'Golden' outfit consisting of a black blazer with gold design with black slacks.
A countdown is promoted in every phone of fans waiting for it to reach zero. In the background of the countdown was a gold light surrounding the upper bodies of both Rumi and (Y/n).
"New single?"
"New single?" Everyone in the streets can be seen excited for the new single to be released.
"New Huntrix with (Y/n)?"
In a giant screen in the middle of the street the music video starts to play. The lyrics song of redemption, friendship, and rising from the dark. All four ran into the light together.
Rumi, laying down on a bed with a golden streak from a semi opened door hitting his face. Miro, seated in a window seal as golden light comes from the sky. Zane, leaning against school lockers as golden light shines from the windows.
(Y/n), curled up in a corner in a room filled with nothing but darkness, with her head hiding in her lap hugging her knees, as a golden light comes from above.
All four of them, with the golden light from the sun shines on them as they freely drive, with Miro as the driver, Zane in the passenger seat, and both Rumi and (Y/n) seated in the back seat.
As fans eagerly wait for the start of the music video, the whole crowd counts down in Korean from 5...
4...
3...
2...
1...
~"I was a ghost, I was alone (hah). 어두워진 (Eoduwojin) (hah), 압길 속에 (apgil soge) (ah)"~
~"Given the throne, I didn't know how to believe. I was the queen that I'm meant to be (oh)"~
~"I lived two lives, tried to play both sides. But I couldn't find my own place (oh, oh)"~
"~Called a problem child, 'cause I got too wild. But now that's how I'm gettin' paid, 끝없이 (kkeuteopsi) on stage"~
~"I'm done hidin', now I'm shinin'. Like I'm born to be"~
~"We dreamin' hard, we came so far. Now I believe"~
As the video shows each of the boys having a door opened to them as they are guided by the golden light. While (Y/n) was shown that golden light fills the empty space but then the light was blocked by three figures, she lifts her head up to see all the boys with their hands reaching out to her. Blinded by the golden light behind the boys, she could still see them smiling down at her, renewed by this she took the hand in the middle while the other two helped her stand. As all four of them ran into the light Together as one.
~"We're goin' up, up, up, it's our moment. You know together we're glowin'. Gonna be, gonna be golden"~
Multiple tweets are then shown talking about how amazing the new single, how amazing Huntriz is, how unbelievable it is to feature (Y/n) in a different light with her angel wings looking more realistic on her, and then fans debating whose hand (Y/n) took. "You see my head bobbing?"
~"Oh, up, up, up with our voices. 영원히 깨질 수 없는 (Yeongwonhi kkaejil su eomneun). Gonna be, gonna be golden"~
"Tell us about that new single?" A live interview set up in public where both the Huntrix and (Y/n) talks about their new collaboration song.
"Golden. It's the story of us." Miro started
"It's a song about who we are, and where we're going next." "As well as how our friendship will continue to stay strong." Both Rumi and (Y/n) continued.
"And the first live performance is tonight!" Zane said excitedly as a presentation behind them emphasized the first live performance of Golden.
"It's the beginning of a new chapter for us."
~"Oh, I'm done hidin', now I'm shinin'. Like I'm born to be. Oh, our time, no fears, no lies. That's who we're born to be"~
Thousands of fans chanted and cheered in front of the building of World Cable News for the upcoming performance.
"For the whole world. We're so excited to show you what's next."
Bobby double checked everything with the staff so that the live performance will be perfect.
Miro and Zane in their shared dressing room can be seen laughing and taking selfies with each other.
But with (Y/n) and Rumi in two seperate dressing rooms. Can be seen upset about something.
~"Waited so long to break these walls down. To wake up and feel like me"~
(Y/n) hunched over the table sadly looking into the mirror in front of her and lifting one her feathers to see some already turned black, as Rumi leaned against the wall between him and the other boys wearing a robe looking dejected. As he walked towards the mirror letting go of the robe his demonic purple patterns showed around his arms and chest, (Y/n) slowly pulling down her skirt to show her lower neval a different kind of red demonic patterns can be shown.
~"Put these patterns all in the past now. And finally live like the boy they all see"~
~"No more hidin', I'll be shinin'. Like I'm born to be"~
With a deep breath from the both of them and renewed strength, fixing their appearances. Both went out of their dressing room to see each other and (Y/n) holding her hand out to Rumi. Which he took and faced her while lovinly looking her in the eye, silently communicating to one another and smiling together.
~"'Cause we are hunters, voices strong. And I know I believe"~
~"We're goin' up, up, up, it's our moment. You know together we're glowin'. Gonna be, gonna be golden. Oh, up, up, up with our voices. 영원히 깨질 수 없는 (Yeongwonhi kkaejil su eomneun). Gonna be, gonna be golden"~
All four of them can be seen practising their live performance as fans continue to cheer from outside the station.
"(Y/n) and Rumi's voice!"
"I can't wait to hear them both live!"
Bobby with the camera crew and the other staff can be seen also dancing to the new song. Because of that he also accidentally hit a nearby camera man. "Ah, sorry."
~"Oh, I'm done hidin', now I'm shinin'. Like I'm born to be -"
Rumi was surprised to choke during his singing so he tried to clear his throat. As for (Y/n), she suddenly felt a burst of pain in her abdominal area and put an arm around it but stopped as she covered her pain, so that no one from the boys would be worried.
"Huh?"
"You okay?" Miro asked in concern for Rumi, as Zane looked worried also with Rumi none of them saw (Y/n) quickly holding abdomen in pain.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Let's take it again. From the top." Rumi tried to convince everyone that he was okay.
~"Oh, I'm done hidin', now I'm shinin'. Like I'm born to be -"
All four of them started the practice from the top to perfect the performance for the fans with Bobby still dancing in front of them. Rumi once again coughed out of nowhere as the music stopped.
"Um, Rumi, are you okay? Do you need some water?" Bobby asked out of concern to one of the boys he considers as one of his own.
Rumi, still shocked about his voice choking, can't accept it until he remembers about his patterns. "I just need five. I'm gonna take five." He said before walking out of the stage.
"Five minutes? We go live in ten!" A concerned female station staff said.
"Um..."
Both Miro and Zane looked at one another in worry but (Y/n) was already looking in worry to the direction Rumi went.
"I'll go with him, Bobby, just to check on him." (Y/n) announced as she ran after Rumi before anyone could say something, she was already gone.
"Okay, I can handle this. I'm not having a nervous breakdown. Visualized there's not 10,000 fans at the door screaming and sounding scary." Bobby trying to convince himself while smiling nervously.
"Mayday! There's 10,000 fans at the door screaming and sounding scary!" Two security guards, afraid for their lives, said into their walkie talkies as fans surrounding them kept on screaming and wanting to go inside of the station. Both guards were hugging each other for protection against the fans, one of them even took a picture for evidence for hazard pay.
Rumi ran back to his dressing room removing the harness between his jacket, as he slowly walked to the mirror pulling down the zipper in his tight white shirt. Rumi was shocked to see that the patterns increased, growing towards his throat.
"My voice? Ah, no. No." Breathing heavily he couldn't accept with what's happening.
A knock was heard from his door. "Rumi, is everything okay? Is it about that?" (Y/n) asked genuinely concerned since she knew about his patterns.
Rumi looked back at himself in the mirror and hastily fixed his outfit back. "I'm okay, (Y/n). I promise, I just need time for myself."
"Oh, okay. I'll tell Bobby and the others then." She said hesitantly, putting her hands and forehead on the door that separates her and Rumi. "Rumi, you know that I'm always here for you about anything. I'll always be here for you." She said before walking away to inform the others that the live performance needs to be cancelled and rescheduled.
Unknown to (Y/n) and the others, Rumi had left the station by the emergency exit, conveniently avoiding the eyes of the crowd of fans. As Rumi began to run away from everyone, from the pain, from the loneliness, and from everything.
He began to remember a memory from his childhood that he tried to repress. A song he was thought to sing whenever he felt like he was letting everyone down and that his fears and weaknesses are showing. He could hear his younger self sing echoing in his ear.
A young Rumi singing in front of a grave while Celine made braids around his hair.
~"Fix the world and make it right."~
~"When darkness finally meets the light."~
"Celine, do Hunters kill all demons?" A young Rumi asked as his little mind contemplated the meaning and words of the song.
"Yes."
"So everything that has patterns?" He asked as he lifted up his sleeve to show two purple patterns on his right arm.
"Cover those up. You only have those because-" She said while fixing young Rumi's sleeve to hide the patterns.
"My dad was a demon?"
"You're not one of them, Rumi. You're a Hunter, like your mother was." Both of them looked to the grave stone in front of them. "When the Honmoon is sealed, all demons will be gone from this world. And so will your patterns."
"So these will be gone?"
"Yes. Those will be gone. Rumi... tomorrow there's someone I want you to meet, my daughter. She will be living with us starting tomorrow and I want you to be kind to her."
A young Rumi naively believed in what she said, now is more determined to seal up the Honmoon. While excited to meet someone that can be potentially a friend.
THE NEXT DAY...
"Rumi, this is (Y/n). She's an angel, protector of the Hunters and the world. Angels have existed even before Hunters were known. She will be living with us from now on." Celine explained as she had her hands on the shoulder of a 10 year old (Y/n).
Rumi was in aw when he saw (Y/n) with wings on her head while dressed in a cute floral white dress. "Hi, I'm (Y/n). It's very nice to meet you Rumi. I... I hope we can be the best of friends." She said while holding her little hands out to Rumi for a handshake which he was hesitant to take since he was flustered with how cute (Y/n) was.
"Me... Me too. Let's be best friends." He said as (Y/n) smiled and giggled at him.
Rumi as a teenage boy leaning against his bedroom door covering his growing patterns. Behind the door was Miro and Zane asking him to accompany them to the bath house.
"You always say no, Rumi." Zane complained
"You're so modest. It's just the bathhouse. (Y/n), I can understand since she's a girl but..." Miro was his usual sarcastic self.
"Maybe some other time. You guys go ahead."
"Everytime." "Mm-hm." Both Miro and Zane sighed but went to the bath house anyway.
Celine was seated on the kitchen island reading the newspaper in the Huntrix home. Rumi, knowing that the boys were now gone, wanted to ask her something that was weighing on his mind.
"Maybe they'll understand. Like (Y/n) did." He inquired about telling the boys.
"No, Rumi. Nothing can change until your patterns are gone. And (Y/n) she's different from the boys." She firmly said looking him in the eyes.
As Rumi reached the rooftop of one of the tallest buildings in korea. Breathing heavily and feeling restrictive by his jacket, taking it off and dropping it behind him. As he walked towards the edge of the building overlooking the city of Seoul. He tried to sing again.
~"No more hiding, I'll be shining."~
~"Like I'm born to be!"~
He was trying so hard to sing out his heart.
~"Cause we are Hunters, voices strong."~
~"And I know I believe!"~
But try as he may, his voice just kept on breaking into coughs. He couldn't help but cry out his heart. As he dropped into his knees triggering the Honmoon to shine.
"How am i supposed to fix the world, fix me, protect (Y/n), when I don't have my voice?" He tried to ask someone for an answer to his questions.
"Why now, when (Y/n) and me are so close?" As the Honmoon continue to shine in it's bright blue hue. Rumi can feel the rising frustrations building inside of him.
"Why?" He asks, feeling helpless. Which didn't feel right for him.
"WHY?!" Rumi's voice turned for the first time demonic as he punched into the ground in anger as a red streak began to flow around the Honmoon. Shocked by what he saw he couldn't breathe normally afraid of what may come as the Honmoon returned back to its normal colors. But the hunting voice of his child self began to sing reminding him of his duty.
Rumi covered himself back with his jacket due to the cold temperature as the elevator doors to their home opened. Where he was greeted with Miro and Zane waiting for him. Words didn't need to be said as the both of them comforted Rumi, who let out a sigh of relief. But then, noticed someone was missing.
"Where's (Y/n)?" He asked the other two.
"She's not with you?" Miro asked Rumi in concern.
"She went after you, after she informed everyone that the live performance needed to be rescheduled." Zane informed Rumi as the familiar ding from the elevator doors shows a concerned (Y/n) hugging herself.
"Guys, did Rumi come hom- Rumi!" (Y/n) sighed in relief and hugged Rumi. As he hugged back, Rumi couldn't help but hugged her tighter and inhaled her comforting scent, which caused the other two boys feeling left out and jealous joined in the hugging session. But what the boys didn't notice was how uncomfortable and in pain she was.
As (Y/n) walked back to the stage area and went towards where Bobby was.
"Bobby, we need to reschedule the live performance. Rumi isn't feeling well and I don't think it's best for him to push himself right now." She said firmly to Bobby and to nearby station staff.
"But... But. No. You are right (Y/n). My boy's health comes first." Bobby was surprised at first at what she said but knowing that the boys and (Y/n) are his top priority agreed with her. But then one of the male staff came running in and stopped in front of Bobby and (Y/n), as he took a deep breath and spoke.
"Rumi is gone. It seems like he went out of the emergency exit."
"What?" Both Zane and Miro said as they walked near to Bobby and (Y/n) as they heard what the male staff said.
"Rumi is gone? Then what about the live performance?" Zane asked.
"It's going to be rescheduled. Bobby, I trust that you can handle things here? Miro and Zane, both of you go back to the tower and wait for Rumi there if he comes home." (Y/n) gave them tasks as she tried to walk towards a different exit only to be stopped by a hand grabbing her wrist, and it was Miro.
"Wait. What about you (Y/n)? What are you going to do?" He asked in concern for her well being.
"I'm going to look for him. I have been with him since we were kids, I know him better than anyone else." She said to Miro as she put her hands on his to let him know that she will be fine on her own.
"I promise that if I don't find him within the hour. I'll come back home." She assured him and her smile. As Miro let her go he couldn't help but felt something would go wrong but trusted her too much to stop her.
As (Y/n) ran around nearby places where Rumi could have gone. Minutes had already passed as she stopped to rest in a deserted park and sat on a bench. She couldn't help but think back to her and Celine have a serious talk about Rumi's patterns.
As Rumi walked back to his room and locked himself there for the rest of the evening until the boys returned back from their trip to the bathhouse. (Y/n) showed herself to Celine who was still reading the newspaper.
"You know Celine, if you could give the boys a chance. I believe they would still accept Rumi for who he is."
"We already discussed this (Y/n). When Rumi was born with the patterns I made a promise to her that I would love and protect Rumi. You would know that since you were there." A memory flashed of Celine holding the hands of Rumi's mother, the woman she loved and took her last breath. While an older (Y/n) who silently cried over the loss of one of her friends, was sitting at the side of the bed lovingly holding a baby Rumi in her arms.
"I know that very well. But you could never know how deep a friendship like theirs could overcome."
"Then what about you? When are you going to open up that an Angel like yourself has lived for over a thousand years. And when one Hunter die's it's time for you to be reborn as an infant." Celine countered back to what (Y/n) just said. As silence fills the place, Celine already knows the answer to her question.
"Rumi's patterns must be hidden from the boys and your secret must be kept only between us for your safety. You and I both know the value of your soul." Celine said as she left the Hunrix tower to go back home.
And (Y/n) couldn't help but lay down on the couch, thinking about what Celine just said and she rested her right hand on her navel.
As (Y/n) stood up from the bench thinking of going back to the tower and waiting for Rumi there with the others. A sudden burst of pain made her kneel to the ground and wrap her right arm around her abdomen and her left hand dig into the ground. Suddenly the pain vanished but with shaky hands (Y/n) reached into the left pocket of her skirt to retrieve her compact mirror, only to see some of her feathers from her wings were turning black.
"No. No. No. No" (Y/n) was starting to panic as she tried to block out the noise.
"Please, no. I thought I was free from him. Please." (Y/n) couldn't take it anymore.
"NO!" Just like Rumi, (Y/n) pounded both her hands onto the ground. A powerful surge of red streak flowed throughout the Honmoon before it returned back to its normal color.
(Y/n) Still shocked by what happened just let it go and dusted herself off and went to the direction of the Huntrix tower to go back home.
As the elevator zoomed up to the highest floor, (Y/n) couldn't help but felt cold and hugged herself. When the doors opened she was surprised to see Rumi already there. (Y/n) sighed in relief and hugged Rumi, as the other two boys joined in for the hug she suddenly felt the pain resurfaced once again but hid it from the boys.
After the hugging session between the boys and (Y/n), Miro and Zane had let Rumi and (Y/n) change their Golden outfit to comfort wear, where Miro lent her one of his shirts since the boys didn't want to part yet with (Y/n). All of them are now seated in the dining room eating homemade garak-guksu, a thick noodle soup made by (Y/n) herself.
"I... I'm sorry about the show." Rumi didn't have any appetite despite his favorite being anything that (Y/n) cooks for him.
"Rumi, it's okay. I'm sure everything will be fine. Bobby can handle it" Zane being the ever positive one in the group, comforted Rumi knowing that they all put each other first before anything else. Until his phone rang with Bobby calling him.
"Hi, Bobby!"
"Boys, I can't handle this!" Bobby expressed his concerns and stress in a very unfortunate time.
"There's thousands of disappointed fans, and the network is losing their minds." Because of what Bobby just said to the phone, it made Rumi even more guilty for causing unnecessary trouble for their manager. (Y/n) seeing this reached out and held his left hand to show him comfort.
"Okay, this is why you pay me 3% and I got commissions for representing (Y/n). Okay, back off! My boys and (Y/n) will sing when they're ready." Bobby finds courage to fight back at what is presumed to be staff from the network. Miro having enough of it ended the call seeing that it only hurts Rumi more.
"It's okay. We can reschedule another live show within days."
"I... I don't know if that's going to be possible. My voice, it's in trouble." Rumi hated having to say that knowing that Hunters are supposed to never show their weakness.
"Wait, in trouble? Then why did you push the 'Golden' release?" Miro genuinely asked Rumi for the reason for their vacation to be cancelled.
"Because we're so close, and it's so important." Giving out his reason for releasing it early despite promising the boys their well deserved break.
"But not as important as your health, Rumi. You... All three of you are important to me... To each other. So we shouldn't prioritise our duty over wellbeing." (Y/n) Said firmly to each boy but mostly especially to Rumi as she squeezed the hand she was holding.
"Okay, how do we handle this?" Zane wanted eagerly to help Rumi both out of care but also of concern that without Rumi's voice the Honmoon could be in danger and how it is important to Rumi as well.
"What do we tell the fans? Maybe we should call Celine?" Zane suggested.
"We know what she'd say, Zane." Miro rolling his eyes at the memory.
"Oh, right." Clearing his throat.
"We are hunters. Voices strong. Your faults and fears must never be seen." Both boys imitated the way Celine repeatedly said to them during their training days. Laughing at the absurdity of how many times they heard that line.
"Whoa. You sound exactly like her." Miro complemented Zane for his imitations.
"Yeah, that's how she says it."
"No. We gotta hide it and fix it." Miro suddenly said to Rumi in seriousness.
"For sure. We have to hide it. Mm-hm." Zane totally agreed with what Miro said. Rumi thinks about what they can do as he looked at (Y/n) eating peacefully and was there as a calming presence for each of them.
"Rumi, why don't we take a break? We'll skip the Idol Awards this year and-" Zane suggested knowing that the stress and over work is maybe getting to Rumi. Who then cut him off. "No. No way."
"It's our most important show. It's when we strengthen the Honmoon for the entire year. And where (Y/n) will be able to ward off all demons with her light. We can't skip it. we just can't." Rumi is resolute and will not waver on it. Due to the significance of the Idol Awards to the Honmoon.
"Not when I'm so close." Miro and Zane shared a look then looked at (Y/n) who was looking at Rumi with sadness in her eyes, also looked at both boys and gave them a nod with a small smile.
"Hey, we'll get through this. We can get through anything. Together." Zane said, putting a comforting hand on Rumi's right shoulder.
"Okay. We have two weeks to fix Rumi's voice. Any ideas?" Miro voiced out while looking at Zane knowing that the youngest male had already thought of something.
"I do have one idea."
"Just one?"
"Actually, 57, but let's start with my favorite. Don't worry. It's totally legit." With that final declaration of Zane. Dinner turned lighter, filled with laughter and warm conversation. Afterward, they cleaned up and parted ways for bed.
As each of them departed towards their respective rooms, (Y/n) couldn't help but wonder how to talk with Rumi about his patterns and maybe it was time for her to open up to the boy's but before (Y/n) would even think of it more.
But before she could dwell on it, a ripple of energy pulsed through the Honmoon. The elevator dinged. She ran to the window. No visible cracks or rifts.
"Must be fatigue," she whispered and went to bed, knowing she'd be joining the boys trip tomorrow before her scheduled variety show that Bobby reminded her.
Unbeknownst to the sleeping Hunters and the lone Angel, red cracks silently formed in the Honmoon and through the gap stepped five demons, cloaked in black hanbok and wide-brimmed gat, resembling ancient jeoseung saja, grim reapers of legend.
For them to enter into the human world to fulfill their evil plan to dominate the world.
pairing: leon kennedy x reader x victor gideon.
cw: implied noncon. victor favours you. threesome. ur conditioned, leon refuses to play along, u and leon know each other. u r afab. victor fucks leon while leon fucks you
a/n: this came to me in a dream
leon was sent to investigate your dissapearance, you were his partner at the DSO.
he cared for you, really. shared coffees and redbulls on all nighters of debriefing teared his secured walls around his heart. the cold agent found himself wondering when he wasn't near, 'what are they doing?'. he had the mind to ask you out. until something happened, you had a mission, a hug and see you laters were exchanged.
but you didnt come back.
so the first week you weren't in your desk, he frowned, but tried to text you. no answer.
second week? he talked to the superior, demanding answers.
you were in arklay county. investigating a claim of a sprout of a virus.
third week? he was in arklay county, went all the way to just start asking around with a picture of you.
all hints lead to a facility, rhodes hill chronic care center.
he went to the place, and barged in, asking everyone, even patients if anyone had seen you, some nurses tried to stop him, but patients tried to nod.
until a tall, snake-like man, stopped him.
cold... chilly hands clasped his shoulders,
"come, mr kennedy, i think i know what you're looking for."
and took him to his office, promising to calm his worries. before he could even think of how did this man knew his name, he saw you.
you.
you fully naked, with a permanent blush on your cheeks and a leather collar with a leash, one tied to the big armchair behind the equally large desk.
before he can pull his gun, victor grabbed him by the neck, cutting his airflow, moving his face towards his, his baby blues meeting gold,
"shh.. agent kennedy, this it just starting."
leon struggled to breathe, trying to squirm away, or hit him, but before anything happens, victor's hold tightens.
and just like that? he's out.
and that's how he got here.
naked. wearing a muzzle. on a leash.
sitting right next to victor gideon as he works, you on his other side, getting ocasional headpats.
he tried reasoning with you, when victor left you both in his room, telling you you both had to leave, that this was sick.
you weren't listening, matter of fact, you tried cuddling with leon, or with victor.
oh yeah. he treated you like his lapdog, sleeping on his bed with you while him? he got the muzzle and the dog bed on the floor.
leon also noticed something. you genuinely liked being the sicko's pet, not just enduring it until he gets distracted and bolting, no. just like now.
while he growls and tries to move away from the leash? your head perched on his lap.
which is why dr. gideon prefered you, by miles.
even, victor's preference was astoundishing.
you got nicer meals. you got smiles and gentle sessions, loving thrusts and great aftercare.
leon got mediocre food, pulls on the leash, a muzzle on his mouth, harsh treatments in sessions, and half assed aftercare.
some sick part of him? envied you. he wanted the cuddles, the gentle care, not be seen as a sex toy. but leon was too prideful to admit it.
he understood what he did to you, he conditioned you.
you enjoyed the sessions, the deranged doctor could ask you to do a handstand while sucking him off. and you probably would try until you got it right.
so while he grumbled on the floor.
gideon noticed his angsty state. smirked.
"its been a very rough day, my dear pets." he stretched, moving from his armchair. "i do feel quite pent up."
leon huffed, trying to move away, while victor pulled on his leash.
"dear." he turned to you, combing your hair "would you mind, getting into position?"
oh god.
victor was going to fuck you in front of him, not a first. he couldn't look away from your figure, you were in prone bone form, your ass hitched up at the sky, your cunt being in a wet state, and your chest pushed down, giving a mouthwatering arch. he could feel himself hardening, victor wouldn't let him touch himself during these scenes.
but, the doctor, instead of moving behind you, he unbuckled his belt and got up, grabbing leon's leash and pulling him behind you.
"agent kennedy." he hummed, crouching to his level and grabbing his cock "you're gonna be the star of this session" began stroking it to full mast.
leon groaned, trying to not show his giddyness. he glared at victor, with all the hate in his body, and the sadist? just smiled, a toothy gold grin, and guided his hard cock onto your soaked pussy.
this was nice.
most of the times during these sessions, you were the 'star', you always came, while leon was just a tool. now? he was actually feeling like cumming, he kept still, trying to memorize the tightness of your walls.
but things couldn't stay still.
dr. gideon smacked his ass lightly "come on, fuck them" he spoke right in his ear, a shiver crawling through his spine. and he started moving, thrusting, leon tried to move forward but the orchestrator of the scene pulled on his leash, his other hand moved to grasp both of his wrists, making him sit upright.
"good. good." he panted right into the shell of his ear "faster."
he moved faster.
in out in out out in.
he couldn't think, all he could see is your arch, your ass, oh god, he wants to grab it, he wants to just, push inside and hug you, and cuddle you.
but no. victor wanted him to suffer.
"they're the best little slut" he rasped onto his ear with a groan.
IN OUT IN OUT IN OUT
victor pressed his hard on to leon's backside, pushing his hips deep into yours.
"how does the star feel?"
good. amazing.
he whined, too lost in your gummy insides, oh how he wanted to lean down and kiss you senseless.
fuck the stupid muzzle on his face, he grunted, trying to move his hands out of the harsh grasp.
the doctor chuckled and moved, manhandaling him into his lap, his hard cock against his back. you whined at the loss of the thrusting but leon gasped, victor lubed up his cock quickly, letting go of his wrists.
"you ready, agent?"
he shook his head, falling onto you, tried to look back at him
"y-you-"
but he was interrupted, gideon pushed inside of him, and he felt as if he was set on fire, and all on his mind blanked.
"this is a special lube, you know?" he panted against his ear "made with aphrodisiacs, and medically? this is the quickest way to get in you, leon."
he felt it, it made the old agent go mad, the stimulus on his cock and on his prostate.
victor began fucking him, the harshness of his thrusts making his hips buck inside you. leon growled, feeling the shocks of pleasure all over him.
he looked at you, your eyes were like stars, pupils dilated wide, almost eating your irises up. and he knew he understood.
leon got it.
he began moaning, trying to kiss you through the muzzle, desperate for more friction. victor just watched the scene while thrusting, with a smirk on his face, he grabbed leon's head, pulling at his dirty blond hair.
"you don't like the muzzle?" he asked with a harsh thrust, one that pushed leon into you. leon whined and shook his head.
"will you behave?" he tilted his head to the side.
leon nodded with all his might, his head was too busy thinking of how good you both felt.
"i can't hear you, agent!"
"yes! fuck! yes! ill behave!" he groaned, frustrated. and just like that? the muzzle came off, and he kissed you.
the kiss wasn't gentle or chaste, it was all tongue and him trying to make his and your faces whole.
he fucked you, his hands grabbing at your hips and moving your to lay on your back.
victor fucked him while he fucked you, it was hard, sweaty and the room stenched of sex.
leon's pace began to accelerate, victor's thrusts became hard and erratic, and you felt your orgasm climb, your lower belly begining to feel warm and fluttery.
with a sharp thrust- victor came, and as he filled leon, you came, and tightened on leon. and leon? he almost screamed.
leon panted, falling fully over you. he was filled, you were filled and victor was satisfied.
Summary. Your mind was occupied with work, and Victor's mind was occupied with you. The moment you decided to step a foot in his office, the trap sprang. Or did it? The good doctor gives you a chance to leave. The only question is, will you take it?
Tags. Suggestive, 18+, I have zero idea what I'm writing, teasing, size difference, dominating bottom Victor, intimacy, the reader is mostly not described (no genitals mentioned), curses, use of nicknames (darling, warder, sweetheart, other), duncon?, proceed with caution
The clatter of tiles under someone's footsteps alerted Victor to the guest's arrival before the double doors to his office had even opened. His tongue playfully darted out, savoring the familiar scent. Uniquely yours, maddening. Oh, how he dreamed of burying his nose in it and never letting go. Unfortunately, he had to be patient. Having finished writing another order, Victor finally looked up at you, offering a radiant smile. "Ah, my warder, you are early today." For a man in his position, Victor behaved too casually. It was as if he wasn't serving a life sentence in his center, but was vacationing at a resort. It would seem that there was nothing that could upset him in the current situation. Just leave him his test tubes and paper, and he will be as happy as a child with a construction set.
This carelessness irritated you. Drove you crazy even. There wasn't a day that went by that you didn't wish for Victor to face real punishment and take the situation seriously. You were his supervisor, not a cute little animal that wanders around, sometimes meowing, damn it! However, if that were the case, you would probably already be feeding worms in the cold ground. If it wasn't profitable for Victor to work for the government, if you weren't interesting to him, then he wouldn't be so cooperative. Even elpis dart in the gun on your hip would hardly have saved you. So, despite your mixed feelings, you'll have to suck it up and handle it like a professional you are.
"You're wasting your budget again, Doctor." You started entering his office. It was, as always, spotless. The bookshelves were organized by catalog, the documents on the desk were put in folders, and even the pens stood straight. There was meticulousness in everything Victor did. Be it work or ordinary life. "You need to curb your appetites. We're not Connectinos, so don't expect the same luxury." A hiss escaped your lips unconsciously, betraying your façade. In any case, Victor saw right through you. He read you like a book, and the visor only helped him catch the slightest reactions. Infuriating.
"Carb my appetite?" Victor echoed, clasping his hands together on the table. He sounded amused. As if the idea itself sounded absurd. What was the value of money in the face of a scientific breakthrough? Honestly, sometimes, he didn't understand humans. Money was created to be spent. Why not spend them on something worthwhile? But your unamused look urged him to give a proper answer. "I have never gone over budget yet. I even managed to save money this quarter." When you crossed your arms skeptically, he chuckled. "If you don't believe me, you can see documents for yourself. They—" He bent down in his armchair slightly to retrieve a stack of bills from the bottom drawer before straightening up. "—are right here."
You didn't want to do it, but it was your job. You extended your hand, expecting to receive documents, but Victor didn't even move to hand them over. He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "Sorry, darling, but important documents shouldn't leave my office." He was just being difficult on purpose. So what were you supposed to do then? At your silent question, Victor rose from his leather chair, offering it with a wave of his hand. "Here you go." You thought he was joking, but he wasn't. He sauntered over to his bookshelves, picking up a weighty tome out of boredom and starting to read. Simply wonderful. You had no choice but to awkwardly plop down in the giant chair and start crunching numbers.
Time dragged on like caramel as you checked the paperwork. It was truly uncomfortable to sit. All the furniture here had been custom-ordered for Gideon. The desk top was higher, the chair wider, even the pens felt heavier in your hand. It was as if he was mocking you, forcing you into an environment that made you feel like an insect. "So far, so good." You muttered discontentedly, rolling your stiff shoulders. To which Victor chuckled. "Glad to hear it." What a jerk. Meanwhile, that chair was giving you no peace. The elevated temperature in the room made your back sweat, making it cling to chair's skin. It felt as if Victor was behind you, surrounding you even as he stood in the distance.
What would it be like to truly be in his arms? To press your nose to his scarred chest. To feel the scales beneath your soft skin as you run your fingers over his torso. To drown in the scent of his heavy cologne and be lost forever. Will he be gentle with you as he takes you apart or cruel as a wild beast?
STOP.
Your mind, clouded by passionate thoughts, drifted back into place as if with a snap of a finger. The thoughts, slithering past like a snake, shook you to the core. Why are you even thinking about this? You shouldn't be thinking about this! Out of anger, you began checking the reports faster, just to escape this trap. This was it, wasn't it? Victor had been looking for a reason to corner you, and he finally found it. And now he was playing one of his psychological games, trying to unwind you. Just standing there... putting pressure on you. The realization that his mere presence was affecting you was disconcerting.
With a soft pop, you carefully stacked the finished pile, a sigh of relief escaping your lips. "You really saved money. I'm surprised." You reluctantly agreed with his statement, distracting Victor from his reading. Smiling, he returned the book to its place and approached the table. "I'm glad you're pleased with me, my warder." That irritating tone again. Stretching, you prepared to stand, but at that moment, his giant shadow fell over you. Looking up, you saw him sitting on the table in front of you. His legs were spread defiantly, and his arms were folded behind him for support, pushing his large gut forward. Even his reinforced table creaked pitifully from the added weight.
"What is the meaning of this, Doctor?" You bared your teeth, hoping his shadow was enough to hide your flushed cheeks. This was another provocation. Victor had pulled this trick more than once, always looking for your reaction. It was as if he enjoyed watching you squirm. With a toothy grin, Victor invitingly threw his coat off his shoulders, letting it hang over his elbows. "Just making my advances known." His knee playfully bumped against your chin, forcing you to look at him in all his glory. Out of anger or embarrassment, you pushed him away. However, you couldn't find the strength to stand up. Your legs felt like cotton wool and wouldn't obey at all. And the chair was too heavy to move.
You expected an attack, but nothing came. His hands didn't find themselves around your throat. Your clothes weren't torn off or shredded. Your body was still yours. At your questioning and slightly fearful look, Victor continued. "I'll make you a deal." He leaned back further, avoiding looming over you. "The doors are open. Your hands and feet are untied, your mind is clear and untouched. If you want to leave at any time, I won't stop you. But if you stay—" Victor's finger reached for the hooks on his vest, undoing them one by one and exposing the scar along his chest for you to see. "—I'll just continue to do as I please."
Swallowing the dryness in your throat, you continued to watch this rather erotic freak show. The cloak lay forgotten on the table, and the vest followed suit. Now you could see everything you were afraid to dream about. Victor was still like a gargoyle, allowing you to take in all of him. Gray skin that was hard and to the touch except in rare places. You'll find soon enough in which, if you're patient. His supple belly protruded, and his chest sagged slightly, befitting his age and not so healthy lifestyle. It didn't bother him. That's just how Victor was. Terribly confident. As soon as he removed the visor from his face, all that remained on him were his pants and shoes. Naturally, you were more bothered by the first ones being still intact. Somehow, a though of looking away eluded you.
Taking your trembling hands in his, Victor guided them to rest on him. "Come on, sweetheart. I promise, my stomach won't split apart to bite your arms off.~" This statement did not inspire confidence in you. If anything, it made you sweat more. A sudden low moan from his lips made you shudder. "Oh yes, just like that." He was surely enjoying himself. Playing with your fingers like a skilled puppeteer, he guided them to twist his nipples. You would never have guessed that such a giant could be so needy and clingy. You didn't want to admit it, but you were starting to like it. Images of the sounds and reactions he might make were already flashing through your head.
Throwing caution to the wind, you took the lead, climbing onto him slowly. Your fingers felt his pulse as soon as you rose to one knee on the chair. Drawing lines from his neck to his stomach, you grabbed his love handles with appreciation. This drew another groan from his lips as he slotted his massive thigh between your legs, lifting you up to lay on top of him. Poor table could only sob quietly as you two drowned in each other. The kiss that followed was nothing if passionate. Scrapping of his crooked teeth and chopped lips against your softer ones was a friction you never knew you would enjoy. You had your fair share of lovers, but none was like that. All-consuming, obsessive and bat shit crazy. The most strange thing that you were in total control of yet you didn’t want to leave. Ever.
"Take these off." You growled impatiently, tugging at his thick belt. His snake-shaped buckle dug into your palm, leaving a distinct mark. "With pleasure." He purred, flicking his tongue. In one motion, he unbuckled his belt and then pulled his pants down, letting them fall to the floor like a heavy weight. Your hands squeezed his swollen balls through fabric, causing him to throw his head back with a sigh. He'd tormented you so much, it was only fair that you returned the favor. He'd be thrilled, either way. Your fingers slid under his briefs, toying with the length before removing them completely. There was now nothing left for imagination as he bulging dick slapped your stomach.
The sight of it made you drool like a rabid dog. By this point, the ability to think had vanished entirely, replaced by the desire to take and consume. Bites, grunts, sighs, and moans filled your ears. So loud that you didn't even realize you were making them yourself, along with your lover. Before you could even remove your own clothes, everything below your stomach that actually mattered, Victor grabbed your hair and pulled you away from where you were glued to his neck like a man possessed. "Ah, patience, my warder. I'd hate to break you in half... yet." With a smirk, he reached behind your hips with his free hand, pulling a jar from the top drawer of his desk. Right now, it didn't matter why it was there or how often he pulled it out during his lonely hours. What mattered was using it, and Victor decided to do so himself.
He dipped his fingers into the greasy mass, spreading it all over his length, making you watch and suffer as your core burned. After he finished, he finally released you and let you remove your clothes frantically, watching with a gaze that bespoke passion and adoration. It took less than a year to break you, and here you are. Right where he wants you. Stripped from your logic and seriousness. In the place where you belonged together. However, even here, he didn't let you go too far. Victor grabbed your ass cheeks before you impaled yourself on his dick, his rings and bracelet digging deliciously into your skin. Like a true seducer, he began slowly, lowering you down inch by inch.
You might have thought you were calling the shots, but Victor was right there to keep you from doing anything stupid. You were too far gone to think rationally, so he kindly guided you into position. Isn't he wonderful? Isn't he caring? He made his desires become an extension of yours as you both sought the sweet peak of satisfaction. Meanwhile, you found it hard to breathe as his dick stretched and filled you. Nothing could prepare you for the moment of intercourse with this fucking mutant. No partners or toys. And when his tip kissed your organs, bulging against your stomach, you literally howled.
Finding the right rhythm also proved to be a challenge. Victor guided you through the first few surges, whispering sweet nothings. "You're so good, darling." Another thrust of his hips into yours. "Come on, take me, I need you." He sank his teeth into your neck and dug his nails into your shoulder blades, leaving red marks. "I need you so much..." It was clear that Victor was also having a hard time keeping his composure, and it was becoming harder to hide with each passing minute. His sighs and moans grew more and more feral as you merged into each other, not knowing where one began and the other ended. Your voice was hoarse from screaming, but he seemed to have the strength to scream for both of you. Your only focus was riding his cock, taking what control he allowed.
Your vision darkened before Victor reached his peak. The next time you woke up, you were in a cocoon of blankets. Victor was right there, one arm behind his head, the other on your waist. His chest served as your pillow. The bedroom was thick with smoke from the expensive cigars he usually smoked, which he'd surely taken again while you slept. Victor looked exactly as you'd imagined. Content, like a boa constrictor lazily digesting its prey. If it weren't for the aching muscles and the lightheadedness, you probably would have been angry. For now, nuzzling into him would suffice.
Noticing your eyes open, Victor leaned down to place a long kiss on the top of your head. "You did great, darling. I'm so proud." Again, with this tone. What an infuriating charming freak. If your superiors had found out about this intercourse, you would have lost your job. However, this didn't bother you as much as it should have. Victor would probably do everything he could to keep it a secret. Why wouldn't he? All you wanted right now was a nice long bath and a hot dinner to restore your energy. And as if reading your thoughts, Victor was already standing up with you in his arms. "Now that I have you, I'll surely spoil you. Mark my words." He promised. It was no longer important that the spoiling would probably be at the expense of the budget you berated him about.
Initially, I was very inspired when writing it, but finishing it was pure agony. I can't seem to find balance in my writing. Plus, I have less attention span than a fish, so :')
warnings/summary: absurdly consensual for the context, you're REALLY into it, not safe or sane tho. experimentation, drugging, needles, med play, praise kink, manipulation(?), doctor/patient dynamics, afab reader, fingering, honestly not as dark as the tags imply you just want his reassurance and attention and he's more than happy to provide such for his most loved toy
what really gets me is the warmth and familiarity of the way victor gideon speaks, he doesn't particularly care to speak to others needlessly so when he does speak to you it's.. in a way of conviction, of reverence
he'd explain everything he's planning for his favorite patient, large fingers flicking the sensitive skin on your inner elbow in order to find a good vein, "maybe if you're good i'll let you pick the next experiment dear.. doesn't that sound nice? hmm.." he trails off with a hum as he easily slides the butterfly needle into your arm
the same man who backs off when you scream in terror for the first time during his tests, putting down the needle filled with something he won't tell you about. speaking to you in a soothing manner he suggests, "we can hold off on this particular experiment cant we dear? your comfort is most important.." as his hands move to unstrap your hands from the examination table. you pull them out slowly, rubbing your wrists gingerly as you look at him hesitantly, not believing him yet. "it's quite alright, pet.." he says as he helps you stand on your own two feet, "why don't i show you the results of your mri? doesn't that sound nice?" his large hand covering the entire lower half of your back as he leads you into his personal office
every time you excitedly ramble about new symptoms and observations of his most recent experiment on you he smiles and cards a gigantic hand through your hair as he asks, "and what do i owe you in payment for the study, hmm pet?" you look up at him excitedly as you ask for new fancy pens for your note taking, watching as he allows a soft smile to grace his face. of course such a good experiment deserves rewards for being so diligent in their findings, nothing dangerous of course, and you're still now allowed any technology to access the outside world, but you have room decor, journals and pens, physical media like vinyls, books, dvds, small things to fill your days when gideon is too busy to attend to you
his favorite moments with you are when your fighting against the effects of the anesthetics in your system just to keep talking to him, asking him questions about the treatment just to keep your eyes open a little bit longer to see the gentle smile gracing his face in amusement to your actions and.. honor in how much trust you put in him. he holds your hand, rubbing a thumb against the back of your hand as he continues to talk quietly to you, only moving away as your breaths start to even out.
in the beginning you catch his attention by requiring no manipulation, no coercion or incapacitation, just asking simple requests in return. it catches him by surprise the first time he brings you into his own personal examination room, you easily hopping up on the table without prompting as you look around the room completely unconcerned about your surroundings. when he approaches you with a tray of sterilized tools you finally start to look anxious and he expects resistance, but all you do is look up at him, "... can you hold my hand?" he just blinks, momentarily stunned, but he quickly regains his bearings as he reassures you, "oh of course, pet. believe it or not i was once afraid of blood myself" he murmurs as his hand envelops your own, your hand flipping around to lace your fingers with his.
when he feels you wither in pain once again he can't help but feel his frustrations rise, placing the scalpel to the side he moves to grab a gauze, using it to stifle any blood still lazily welling up in the wound. he closes his eyes as he hears you hiss and feels you move to the side in his grip, "stop your insolent squirming, you were the one who denied anesthetics." he grits out as he removes the gauze to continue his work carving his work into your flesh, imbedding himself in you in a manner you could never forget. the next time you squirm he allows the scalpel to slice in just a hair further as he says in a low tone, "stay still, you are testing my self control." but to his surprise you arch up into the bite of the blade with a smile on your face as you tell him, "oh doctor.. what if that's what i wanted?"
the next time he approaches you with a syringe filled with one of the only experiments he refuses to tell you about you're still hesitant, but you let him strap your arms to the exam table, "it's okay dear.. you just need to trust me" he whispers. you close your eyes tightly and nod in resolution, but victor doesn't want you tense and anxious for this one so his free hand not holding the syringe moves to rub gently at your covered pussy. it catches you by surprise enough that your eyes shoot open to see his own now uncovered eyes locked on your face, but he just raises a brow as he fells your hips intentionally push into the feeling, staring each other down as you continue your grinding movement as best as you can on the table. "what an.. interesting reaction..." he observes as his hand slowly moves to push your hospital gown up, large fingers easily moving the fabric of your underwear as one starts to circle around your entrance, a thumb moving to rub up against your clit as the finger finally sinks in. you moan out and ball your hands into fists, wishing you could reach out and grab anything to ground yourself as that thick finger starts moving in and out of you with obscenely wet noises for the circumstances. when he feels you start to rut your hips into his hand, seeking more, he finally broaches your entrance with a second finger. it stretches you out enough to leave you gasping but it's not a painful sensation, the gasps turning to moans as he starts to move them. you're quickly approaching your peak under his skilled hands and he notices, moving faster inside you despite the way your walls are clenching around him. when you do cum it's electric, body arching off the table as far as possible as you chant his name, but it quickly turns into whimpers as he keeps going, not letting up at all. when your eyes start welling up tears at the overstimulation you hear him say, "yess.. that's it dear, just like that.." as you feel a poke in the crease of your inner elbow, your eyes closing at the sensation letting your tears finally fall, "i'm going to make you a star.. all you need to do is trust me," he breathes out.
Hear me out... Victor sneaking into reader's room to steal their used underwear and then jacking off with it over their sleeping body (˶´ ٣ `˵)
God anon I've been thinking about this one all day because goD I love pervy, creepy Victor ♡(๑﹏๑//)♡
18+ below, MDNI
reader has a vagina but no gendered terms used
tags: voyeurism, underwear sniffing, jerking off into underwear, victor being a creep, fantasies, minor drugging mention, dub con.
I feel like Victor puts on a very good front; during the day he is a well to do, educated man with manners and a sparkling resume. His odd appearance looked over given his charming nature. At night, however? Behind closed doors often locked by a key only he holds, Victor is a pervert. An unabashed, self-indulgent pervert. All it took was catching your scent on the air as you walked by for his mind to narrow in on you. You were ripe, sweet and heady. No human would have ever smelled it, but he was not human. Not entirely anymore.
Yet his daytime persona hinged on his perversions not being discovered. Openly flirting with you would never work and would risk the careful facade he had built. Instead, he bided his time; waited for you to fall asleep before allowing himself into your room. Confident his carefully placed, heavy footfalls wouldn't rouse you thanks to a little extra something in your evening meds. Stepping through the dark easily to your laundry pile, he flipped through the garments until he found his goal. Your underwear.
Delicate and cute, he thumbs over the smooth fabric. Just seeing it in his hand and smelling your musk on it made him moan, a rush of heat from his head into his groin. Reaching down with his other hand, he slipped his belt open and palmed over the tightening leather. Flicking his tongue out again, he revelled in your scent. Tasting you on the air wasn't enough, though. Pressing the garment over his face, he inhaled deeply. Exhaling with a long moan he opened up his fly, slipping out his half hard cock.
Pulling them away from his face he flattened your underwear out in his palm. Finding the groin of them, Victor pressed the head of his cock against it, rutting slowly at first. All the while he braced himself against the wall, peering through the darkness to see you curled up in bed. You still slept soundly, entirely unaware of what Victor was doing. Scanning over your form he raked over your hips, chest, legs and ass. Every inch of you more fuel to his fire.
Properly stroking himself now Victor fisted his cock quick and rough, wrapping his shaft in the thin material. If only he could hear you moan for him; keening for more beneath him as he teased your slit through your underwear. Would you beg for him? Or maybe you'd act coy and offish, too proud to beg for cock. Both fantasies sped up Victor's hips as he fucked his fist with hard, punishing thrusts. Outside of his mind he knew he would have to be softer with you, slower. But the image of pounding into you as you whimpered and moaned for him made his head spin.
Watching as you shifted in your sleep a part of Victor wanted you to catch him. For your eyes to blearily open as they search the pitch black only to see that hulking form, panting and sweating as he leered near your bed. Most likely you'd be horrified, screaming and crying as you scrambled away from him. But he likes to imagine you would want him. Seeing his cock in his hand is all you need in his fantasy to beckon him closer.
As he feels his orgasm approaching he unfolds the abused undergarment and spreads it over his palm. Jerking himself quickly with the other hand, he laid the head of his cock along the groin of them again. With as much precision as he could manage, he came over the soft fabric in thick ropes, effectively soaking them. Despite his confidence in your unconsciousness, he still choked back the loud groan he wanted to let out as he came. His legs twitched and threatened to give out as he stroked through the last waves of his orgasm, grazing the now hyper sensitive head.
Your underwear was effectively ruined; soaked in cum and crumpled in Victor's palm. He panted hard against your wall as his head cleared, the amount of clean up he'd have to do becoming unfortunately apparent. Growling quietly he went about washing himself in your attached bathroom, cleaning your underwear of his cum. As they laid damp between his fingers he couldn't help the thought of placing them back in your drawer. Thinking you might be wearing the very pair he just defiled every time you walked past him too delicious to deny. Creeping over, he folded the piece gently before slipping it in with the others before straightening himself one final time and stepping out into the hall.
Victor Gideon keeping you, his most precious specimen, by his side for hours as he works in his lab, sometimes you don't talk for hours, you just relax in the nearest chair, maybe reading, maybe zoning off, maybe just watching him. But the catch? You're not allowed to go anywhere without him. He makes sure you have a big bottle of water, some snacks, and has you stay there for hours and hours while he is solely focused on his work.
You keep shifting, growing uncomfortable as the weight of your hydration starts to fill your bladder. You know you can't get up without his permission, and you don't want to bother him by asking when he's so focused like this, so you just cross your legs and stay still, telling yourself you can wait a little longer...
The feeling only gets more intense, till you can't even focus on the book you were reading, and can only stare off into space, desperately squeezing your thighs together, panting under your breath.
Doctor Gideon isn't a fool, he might be busy but he's very perceptive, he knows why you're squirming so much, and he just keeps finding new excuses to drag his work out, until you look like you're about to burst out of the corner of his vision.
Finally, he sets his files aside, and returns to your side, leaning down and brushing your hair away from your sweaty brow. "Is something the matter, pet?" He'd be almost mocking in his tone, while his other, heavy hand drifts down to your swollen bladder, not pressing, not yet, just gently caressing the swell. "You look a little... out of sorts."
Maybe you'd try to hold onto dignity, maybe you'd give in to begging, but before long he'd be sitting you up on a countertop, stood between your legs, hiking up the medical gown he has you wearing to slowly expose your poor, bloated belly. "Oh, my poor dear. So swollen... Do you need to go that badly?"
But no matter how much you'd nod, whimper, beg, he'd just smile, and hold you in place, his hand drifting over your bladder, rubbing slow circles at first before he starts to push down, making you jolt and cry out.
"You've held it all this time... I know you can keep it in just a little bit longer, right, pet?"
...
ough i don't think i've ever been this insane over anyone before i need to be locked up he's making me into things i was never into before HELPPPP HELP MEEEE
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