𝒜ngel

zZz. . .🌷🐈 (21! — she ; her)

[catinpinklace]

Hello, lovelies <3

little information about me :

my name is asa, I'm 20 years old college student, she/her, southeast asian.

things I like to re/blog :

1. call of duty (often)

2. general girlblog

3. DC (Jason Todd)

4. rants

5. spider verse (Miguel O'Hara)

this account sometimes reblog nfsw posts, so please if you're a minor do not follow.

[maruuuu116]

[lillyyyysworld]

[liztuxiemacks]

40 year old Sylus fanart

[al1voidz]

i just wanna be loved.

[applefishing]

Daddy Qin Che | 6.2k words dilf qin che takes you in off the street, and he resists his desire for so long that when he finally gives in, he's feral

cw: daddy kink (seriously, he's a father figure), age gap (no age mentioned but mc is 20s and he's 40s in my head), size difference, belly bulge, pussy inspections, guilty dilf, sloppy and messy and deranged

You'd been alone as long as you could remember. You owned nothing but whatever you could fit in a small worn backpack you found in a park years earlier, and no one had ever loved you. Every day was a fight. That’s how he’d found you: in an alley on the n109 zone, gripping one of the shoulder straps of the bag carrying all your worldy posessions, and screaming at the top of your lungs. Every single day was a fight.

He watched you thrash and scream, anchoring yourself down, using your entire body weight to resist. Your attacker drags you along behind him for a few metres, like your desperate fight was nothing but a mild nuisance, and then, when he’s had enough , he turns and raises a knife to end your fight once and for all. A red mist scoops him off his feet and into the air, and your scream is abruptly cut off as you fall back hard into the pavement, gripping your backpack in your arms.

When your rescuer leaves the shadows and approaches, you scramble backwards, clutching that little battered bag like it contained riches. He crouches down. “I won’t touch your treasure, sweetheart. I’ve got more than enough of my own.”

Months pass, and then years, and it becomes less and less clear why the silver-haired man—who could kill without lifting a finger and had the reputation to match—deigned not only spare you from certain death, but to drag you back to his cave and give you a home. And a home was what it was. You'd have been happy if he did truly like in a dark dank cave, as long as it was safe and secure, but you'd very quickly learned that was not what was on offer.

He was decades your senior and struck fear in anyone who was unfortunate enough to find themselves before him. He was also wealthy enough to obtain anything his heart desired, and you—a nobody, with nothing to offer him at all—found yourself living under his roof, under his care, and slowly realising you might be the one thing in the world he treasured above all else.

"Isn't it pretty?" you ask, twirling your flowing skirts for him again.

"Mm," he hums, leaning back in his lounge chair. "Very pretty."

"It's almost too pretty to wear..." You smooth your hands down over the delicate bodice, a pretty pale shade of pink. "What if I spill something on it?"

"I'll buy another," comes his lazy reply. He takes a swig from his glass, and you catch the broken skin across his knuckles.

You take a few small steps and fold yourself onto the carpet at his feet carefully, being sure not the tear the pretty skirt. "Why?" you ask, looking up at him.

His brows twitch. "Why not?"

"What if i ruined that one too?"

"You think I can't afford to buy a thousand more?"

You fiddle a little with the delicate lace. "But you buy me so many pretty things."

He looks down at you, a silver lock falling over one of his dark red eyes. "You've noticed," he says, amused.

You lift yourself up onto your knees and shuffle forward slightly, enough to rest your hands on his knees. His fingers tighten on the glass and then relax. He lowers it to the small table beside him. "What do you want? You know I like when you just ask."

You shake your head. "I don't want anything."

He cracks, his lips curving into a small smile. "Oh?" His head tilts a little.

You shuffle your knees along the carpet a little more, forcing his knees apart to make space for you between them. "Nothing you can buy," you clarify.

When you look up at him, his eyes are fixed on one of your hands, resting on his thigh.

"What happened to your hands, daddy?"

His eyes snap to yours. You'd used the word for the first time only a few months earlier. You'd been nagging about something, trying to get your way. It'd slipped out without thought, and you'd both frozen in place in the seconds afterwards. Then he'd relented to your demand and made no mention of it. So again, and again, you'd hung off his arm and 'please, daddy?' had slipped past your lips, and you found yourself entirely unable to stop. It felt right. And it seemed to work in your favour, too.

You reach for his hand so you can inspect his knuckles. "Why haven't you healed them?" you ask.

"They're a reminder."

You tilt your head in question, a habit you'd picked up from him without notice.

"Someone said something today that I really didn't like, and I want to remember how much I hurt them.” He takes his hand from yours and tucks some loose hair behind your ear. "So I don't go back and kill them. I need them alive for now."

"Is that why you kept me? You need me alive for something too?"

He laughs. It jostles you a little against his legs. Then his muscles relax, and it's clear that's all the response he'll be offering.

You stare at a precariously loose button at his navel, frustrated in your years' long failure to understand why someone like him would take in, and spoil, someone as entirely useless and insignificant as you.

"Tell me what you want that I can't buy," he asks after a moment of your silent brooding. "You're pouting."

"Tell me why you saved me."

He looks immediately amused, which makes your mood worse. "I only helped a little."

You close the final gap between your body and the edge of the lounge. You’re now well and truly wedged between his legs. "Answer me properly or I won't talk to you for a week."

His head tilts. "A whole week?" He smooths down your hair. It feels a lot like being soothed with a pet on the head, as if you were a needy dog desperate for their owner’s approval.

Your mood worsens. "A month."

His lips twitch, a clear attempt to hold back a smile. "Now it's getting serious." He pats the armrest. "Come here."

When you hesitate—stubborn resistance he was all too familiar with—that same red mist that had killed your attacker all those years ago gently scoops you up and drops you exactly where he'd instructed you to sit. He gathers your legs and tucks your feet between his thighs, keeping you securely balanced on your perch beside him.

You expect him to take his hands off you and let the way your feet wedge under one of his thighs be your security. He hardly ever touched you unless absolutely necessary. It was such a rarity that you’d long since concluded that he didn't like to be touched in general. But one of his hands stays wrapped around your bare calf now as he starts to speak. You indulge in the rare treat.

"I was passing by, and I heard your screams. It was clearly an unfair fight. Didn't I do what anyone would? I'm not a monster, am I, sweetheart?"

You frown. "No, you didn't do what anyone would. You took me home and put me in the biggest room here and bought me anything I asked for."

His lips curve and his fingers tighten a little around your calf. "Aren't you happy here?" His thumb moves against your skin under your skirts, caressing. "With me," he adds.

"You've helped other people... in unfair fights."

"Mm."

"But you didn't bring them home."

"No."

"So why me?"

His hand moves up enough to brush against your underskirts, just below your knee. "Sometimes... I come across things––things that catch my eye––and I decide I want to bring them home... and keep them… and make them mine. You know I collect shiny things."

You lift your feet from between his thighs, and before he can intervene, you fall into his lap. His hands hover awkwardly in the air for a moment, like he'd been about to catch you and either failed to get their fast enough or stopped himself. You know him so well, that you know his next move will be forcibly removing you. And so, just as his muscles twitch—

"Am I a shiny thing then, daddy?"

Success.

He's still.

You reach toward his face. His hand snaps up to grip your wrist.

“Your hair is in your face,” you grumble.

His wrist loosens, freeing you, and when you gently move aside the hair that falls over one of his eyes a little, it reveals the glow forming—the same glow you'd seen the first time that word slipped past your lips and every time since.

"Yes, little one. You're shiny. Hop off now."

His voice distracts you from the allure of that red glow. You tilt your head. "Why?"

"You'll damage your dress."

"You can buy me another."

He doesn’t respond, and that loose shirt button catches your eye again. You focus your attention on it, rolling it between your fingers. It's so loose it causes the fabric of his black dress shirt to part a little, giving you a peak of his belly underneath. You’d seen him shirtless more times than you could count. He had a habit of strutting around the place with a towel around his waste. You could imagine how he must’ve looked when he was closer to your age. You imagine all that muscle that sits on him like a bulk and brute strength now might’ve been a little leaner. He would’ve always been tall, but maybe not quite so… big.

"I am happy here... with you." Your shyness isn’t disguised in your voice at all, so you decide you should be brave and look at him, to make sure he understands you mean it. But when you do… your fingers slip, snapping the thread and tugging that little button completely free. You gasp. A tiny little breath of air. An involuntary response to the blazing glow looking back at you—brighter than you’d ever seen it before.

"I won't hurt you, baby," he says, clearly interpreting your surprise as fear.

"Your eye."

"Mm, I know. You should get off now."

"Why does it do that?"

His brows twitch, then his lip, and then his hand resting beside you—like a shock travelling through his all his nerves. "Please, get off," he says finally.

You're transfixed: by his eye, by the tension in the thighs you rest on, by the uncharacteristic plea that escapes his lips when you know very well he has the power to lift you from him, both using his muscles or his evol.

Adjusting in his lap a little, you lean closer, like getting a better look might reveal the secret to his glowing eye. It draws you in, tempting you with its secrets. "It happens when I call you daddy," you mutter, problem-solving aloud. "Is it like a mood ring? Are you happy or angry?"

His chest rises and falls more rapidly than usual, and you're almost ready to jump off, thinking maybe he was in pain. But then, "...Happy," he confesses.

You can't help the grin that lights up your face. You fall into him, wrapping your arms around his neck. He's tense, and his arms don't wrap around you in return, but after a moment, he relaxes. "You never said," you mumble into his neck. "I thought you were embarrassed... or that you hated it..." Nuzzling into his neck, you find yourself quickly rambling. “Doesn’t it feel so right? It felt like I was yours all along. I never knew it was possible to feel this safe, and loved, and… happy.”

He's quiet, and your chests rise and fall together, and the dress you were in love with minutes earlier now feels like a big mess of fabric serving no purpose but to cordon you off from him. You want to be closer.

You nuzzle into his neck some more, inhaling his scent—his warmth and protection and safety and love... love... "I love you, daddy," you mumble.

He's still... and quiet... and then he turns, and with his lips against your temple, he inhales deeply.

You sit up so you can see his face again, trying to stick as close to him as you can. "Do you love me too?"

"Mm, more than anything."

A spark of heat shoots through your body: pure joy. You rock a little in his lap, keeping your arms around his neck, securely latched on. His expression doesn't match yours at all. He still looks a little pained, and it makes even less sense now than it did before.

"What's wrong?"

"Go get ready for bed, I'll come say goodnight."

You frown, and your fingers play with the hair at the back of his neck, much like you had with the lace on your dress and the button on his shirt. "Are you sick?"

"No."

Your fingers still. "You don't like me touching you?"

He doesn't answer.

You arms drop from his neck. "Are you... You just said... You don't love me?"

His hair falls back over his eye. "I love you."

"But I love you and... I want to be close to you... and touch you. So... you don't love me the same?" You fiddle with the edges of his shirt where the button should’ve been holding it together. His bare skin peaks at you, and you slip one little finger past the gap. The moment your finger meets his warmth, his hips jump so violently you're forced to grip onto his shoulders for support.

"Daddy loves you," he breathes as his chest rises and falls heavily. He almost sounds… afraid? It's such a foreign tone for him that you're stunned into silence. "I want to touch you and be close to you, too. So much. So, so much. It's not right. I can't touch you, mm? And you shouldn't touch me."

"Why?"

His hands grip the armrests. "That man I still need alive—the one that said something I really didn't like—he’s only alive because I have self-control. Lots, and lots, and lots of self-control. He said something about the thing most precious to me in this world and he's very, very lucky that I’ve spent so many years building all that control. As are you."

Your brows pull together, and you blink rapidly, processing.

He leans forward a little, arms still pinned beside you. "Daddy wants to do bad things. Bad things to men that mention your name..." His nose brushes your neck. "...and bad things to you." He falls back. "So I can't touch you, and I need to leave my knuckles bloody. Those are the rules."

Your heart flutters rapidly with the revelation he feels the same way. You're so fixated on that, that you entirely skip over the part where he says he can’t. Can't isn't the same as want. And all you care about is the want.

"Touching me isn't a bad thing,” you mutter, doing your best not to pout.

His hand balls into a fist, then it relaxes. "I'm too old for you, you know that.”

"But I love you."

"Those are the rules,” he says again, final.

"So only someone younger can touch me? I should just go find someone my age without your stupid rules?"

He leans forward. He’s large enough that you have to look up at him, even as you sit perched on his thighs. "No," he says simply, calm, final. "Daddy can't touch you, and neither can anyone else."

"That's not fair."

He moves to touch your lips, pausing just before he makes contact. Control. "Don't pout."

You grasp his wrist before he can lower it again. "What about me touching you? That isn't in your rules. Besides, you can't tell me what to do."

"Go to bed."

"No."

"I can make you."

"But you haven't." You wiggle in his lap. "You keep telling me to get off, but you haven't even tried to make me. Why haven't you made me get off, daddy?"

You bridge the small space between his hand and your lips, placing a delicate kiss to his broken knuckles. "It would be easy. I’m so much smaller than you. You could make me get off you, and you could make me stop touching you, and you could lock me in my room and never look at me so you never think about doing bad—"

"Go to bed."

His hand is relaxed in your grasp, a passive limpness that lets you select the finger you want and guide it to your mouth. It brushes your lower lip. "It's okay, daddy. I understand. It's not bad if you don't do anything, right? You don't have to touch me." His finger rests between your lips as you speak.

He watches as you part them a little and touch it with your tongue.

One little kitten lick: a test. Then another. And then, slowly, you guide his finger into your warm mouth. It rests on your tongue for a moment, and then it twitches, a slight press down into your wet warmth. Approval. Your lips seal around him, and you suck, and twirl your tongue around him and gently guide him in and out.

He watches, transfixed. Having his attention entirely on you was enough to have you giddy any other day, but right now... it's enough for you to squirm... to make a little sound with his thick finger filling your mouth. His fingers are so long that you can’t manage the whole thing. At one point, you try, and when you gag a little, he tries to pull away. It’s more a reflexive flinch than any real attempt to stop you. You know you could never fight any actual attempt to take back control.

He lets you catch his hand. “Sorry, daddy. It’s too big. I just wanted to try.”

As you resume your mission, his chest rises and falls in heavy uneven breaths. Any second he could stop you. You keep reminding yourself that he could stop you without so much as a twitch of a muscle. Still, he says and does nothing. Even as you begin to roll your lips in his lap, still suckling on his finger, making small sounds that vibrate through his hand. He says nothing. He basks in your wet warmth, a captive audience and a passive participant.

When you're done with one finger, you start on the next, and in a patient game of wills, you suckle and whine and rolls your hips… until finally, he speaks.

"You're wrinkling your dress."

You pull his thumb from your mouth with a pop. Did he want you to stop? You knew he didn't care about the dress. You’d thought it was in the way when you climbed onto him. It was a barrier between you. Surely he didn't mean...

"Should I... take it off?"

"To look after it."

You nod, joining his game of pretend. Ignoring that he'd just told you he could buy you a thousand more. Hesitation halts you just as you start to climb off him. Was this a trick? Would he stand and hurry away and never give you this chance again?

That unruly lock of hair still flops down over his face to cover his eye. He doesn't grab you when you reach to move it this time. And when you do, his eye is impossibly bright. A silent reassurance, you keep your focus on that glow as you climb backwards off him and reach for the small hook and zip at the side of your bodice.

You gain confidence the longer he sits there, unmoving. There's no sign this is a trick. So by the time you manoeuvre out of the dress and leave a pile of pale pink fabric at your feet, you're practically trembling with anticipation.

Standing before the man that rescued you, far older and wiser and stronger, you've never felt more vulnerable. Even on the night he rescued you, your adrenaline kept you protected from this feeling: like you might be prey.

Your hair tickles your bare nipples as it falls over your shoulder, and you are grateful you at least left your underwear on when you rushed to try on your pretty new dress.

He sits there, knees parted, eyes tracking up and down your body like he's studying, inspecting. His hand drops to his thigh, flat. He doesn't lift it again. It’s not an inviting pat. That would leave no plausible deniability. But you know what he's asking anyway.

This time, when you crawl onto him and settle onto his warm thighs, there's no barrier of tulle and puffy skirts. You can settle right up against him. And he's warm. So, so warm. That's what he's always been: warmth and home and protection. So you wrap yourself around him, pressing yourself as close as you can, and you bask in him.

Just for a little while.

You can't even bare to move away when you speak, letting your lips brush against his skin where you rest in the crook of his neck. "No one's ever cared for me before. I only ever remember being alone. You're more than I ever even dreamed of." You nuzzle into him, humming with contentment. "You're so good to me, daddy."

"You would be in bed right now if I was good to you, sound asleep, not… naked in my lap."

"But I like it. It's what I want." You kiss his skin gently, a brush of your lips more than anything. "Don't you like it? Aren't I pretty?"

His shoulder jostles you a little, enough to tell you he's lifted his arm and then placed it back down again. Control. You sit up so you can see his face, attempting to prompt an answer from him.

He has that pained look again.

You brush your hair over your shoulder, preventing it from covering you at all. Then, keeping your eyes on his face, you cup your breasts in your hands. "They aren't pretty?” You pout. “Is there something wrong with me?”

His eyes are stuck on yours. He hasn't let them drop. They flutter and he blinks rapidly a few times, like he might have dust or an eyelash in them.

"Daddy? Won’t you check my titties for me? Pretty please?"

He sucks in a deep breath, holds it, and his eyes drop.

You let your thumb flick over your nipple, then your remove your hands and lift yourself up on your knees, bringing your chest up closer to his face.

They're so close, his warm breath tickles you.

He’s still. You bask in the feeling of his breath against you as you wait patiently.

Then, "Let daddy check..."

His hand lifts from it's position on the armrest, and you're sure he'll hesitate and move away again. He cups your breast with the tiniest pillow of air between his skin and yours, like he's imagining the weight of it in his palm.

His lips part, and his brows furrow. Pain.

"It's okay if it's me that touches..." you mutter, and without giving him a chance to move or process your intentions, you fall slightly forward, meeting him. His hand hardly so much as twitches as your breast rests in his warm palm. His fingers press a little firmer with each breath you take, lifting your chest, filling the spaces between his fingers.

Then, in a little moment of impatience, you grab his hand and press it against you properly, squeezing. "It's me touching," you breathe as you guide his hand over you. He lets you, and it makes your head spin. "You're just checking for me. Just making sure I'm all healthy. You’re the best daddy in the world."

He makes a sound. It might be a word. You miss it, distracted by his thumb. It moves. He swipes it across your nipple.

"...Need to check."

You hear him this time. It's a mumble, almost slurred, and then he's tugged you closer and his wet lips are wrapped around you. You're dizzy, incapable of processing the reality of his hot warm mouth suckling at your tits like he's hungry. He's gripping you now, firm hands holding you close and squeezing and groping at your tits as he alternates between each one.

"My sweet girl," he slurs. "Letting daddy taste your pretty tits... so, so sweet..." he hardly gives himself time to breathe. His tongue laps at you in apology each time he sucks a little hard––each time his teeth make small indents into your skin when a growl builds in his throat and culminates in a desperate bite.

You squeeze your eyes shut as he devours you, attacking your tits with his mouth in a carnal brutish frenzy. You shiver and tremble as the cool air hits where his spit glazes your soft skin. You hold his head against you, fingers tangling in his hair. Words pass your lips in broken thank yous and pathetic little pleas.

He's so relentless that when he eventually detaches, he's entirely breathless, resting his head against you as he recovers. "I shouldn't..." he mutters. "I can’t..."

You lower yourself back into his lap and cup his cheeks in your palms. "Can I have a kiss?"

He shakes his head, half-hearted. "Can't..."

His glowing eye pulses, beckoning. "I want your tongue in my mouth, daddy. I want all your warmth." You lick at his lower lip, just with the tip of your tongue. "You always give me what I want..." Another lick. "You're so good to me."

The next lick comes with a surprise. His own tongue darts out, meeting yours, slippery and wet. You lick at him again, and he meets you. And then you rest there for a second, your tongue resting against each other, breaths mingling.

It's because it starts this way, that when your lips finally meet, it's all tongue and spit and mess. You lap at each other, and you imagine he might be convincing himself that this is too far departed from the textbook example of a kiss to be defined as such. He's not kissing you. He's playing with your tongue and your lips brushing together is simply an accidental consequence of this other unnamed activity. It alternates between this messy depraved licking and slurping, and a firm desperate invasion, accompanied with his hands holding your head firmly in position. You whimper as he fills your mouth, and a low sound rumbles from his throat in reply.

His hand wraps around your hip at some point, and he pushes you down against him as he invades your mouth. It seems he somehow gets bigger as it goes on. Like he grows into his full size as he loses his inhibition. You very quickly feel like your control over the situation is slipping away, and you find your muscles relaxing as a consequence. This was how it should be.

When he grips you at both hips, you're entirely pliable, and you let him roll you against himself with no resistance at all. The cold buckle of his belt reminds you how entirely clothed he is compared to your nakedness. "Can you feel daddy?" he breathes into your mouth. "There..." he grinds you against him, fingers digging into your skin hard. "Feel it..."

It must hurt. He strains up underneath you, confined by his dress pants. You nod.

"That's yours," he slurs against your lips. "Belongs to you, little one."

"Just for me?"

"Mm... Always gets like that for you..."

"Always?"

"Daddy has been so good, baby. For so long."

He pushes you back, down his thighs a little and you watch as he expertly undoes his fly and releases himself through it—belt still fastened.

He's leaking. You resist the urge to reach out and touch the drippy tip. He doesn't touch it either. It sits up against his still buttoned black shirt and twitches.

That's all the time you have to process seeing him for the first time before he's tugging you back up against him, cock trapped between you.

"Do you wanna know what daddy thinks about?" He kisses your forehead, and when you nod, he cups your cheeks and gently strokes his thumb against your warm skin. "When you wear your pretty dresses, and you're all happy and bouncy, you thank me so sweetly, I think about following you back to your bedroom and helping you take them off… and letting you thank me in ways you shouldn't..." He tugs you closer, letting his leaky tip smear a little wetness on your belly. "...You’d lie back and spread your legs and invite daddy inside your sweet little hole..."

“That sounds nice,” you purr.

He sighs, caressing your cheek. “You’d like that?”

You nod, eager. “Can we go to my bedroom now?”

A flicker of that same pained look, and then he’s scooping you up and carrying you through to where you slept: the only other room in the long hallway that led to his own. You couldn’t get to your room without walking past his own door. You’d always liked it. It felt safe, secure. Something you never had before he found you.

You’re jostled up his chest as he walks, and when you’re lowered back down a little, a firm warmth rests up against your ass. He pauses just outside your door. “Could just do it here,” he says against your temple. His voice is low, but it’s not quite a whisper. “Could hold you up against me and drop you down onto me. Maybe I’d carry you around like that, hm?”

You squeeze him harder, attempting to wiggle impossibly closer.

“I’ve thought about it,” he continues as he turns the doorknob, holding you against him with one arm. “So, so many bad things.” With a few strides into the room, he’s at your bed. “Let go.” You refuse, digging your heels into his back as you cling. “Don’t you want daddy to check your pussy? Be a good girl for me, hm?”

Slowly, you release, and he lowers you onto the bed and flips you onto your belly. The bed dips as he sits down at the edge, and then you’re being partially tugged over him. You rest on your belly with your elbows against the mattress, blind to the way he has your ass in his lap and his arm around your waist so he can position you exactly where he wants.

His big, warm hands move over your ass a few times—circular movements like he’s trying to warm your skin—and then they dig into you, groping and kneading. “Oh, baby. We should stop. I’m really too old for you. I’ve been so good for so long. I’m like your—”

“Dad?”

His hands pause, one finger resting on the strip of fabric covering your cunt. “Don’t say that.”

You push your hips back, seeking him out. “It’s okay, daddy. I belong to you. You have to inspect me like you do all your shiny things.”

His finger taps against your hole over the fabric.

“You took me home because you knew I belonged to you,” you continue as he silently prods at you. “I’m yours, daddy. Me and my pussy. Won’t you have a look?”

He continues stroking over the fabric. “Shouldn’t take them off,” he mutters. Then his finger slips beneath the fabric. “If we leave them on it’s okay.” He may as well be talking to himself. You’re too busy squirming and grasping at your blankets. He strokes and prods at you under your damp underwear, a blind investigation of your already slick and throbbing cunt.

He’s grabbing at your cheeks, pulling them apart. He’s muttering something. And then he’s tugging at the fabric until it bunches up and presses between your lips. He messes with it so much you may as well be entirely bare. It’s an illusion of safety. He plays with you until your hips are jumping in his lap and you’re begging for something. By the time he’s experimenting with the tip of his finger in your clenching hole, the underwear is entirely tugged to the side. “Sweet girl…” he sighs. “It’s trying to suck me in… it’s so naughty…”

You whine, “Hungry, daddy.”

“Mm,” he hums. “Hungry.”

He settles himself at the side of the bed, kneeling, and tugs you closer. You’re still on your belly. “Fine if these stay on,” he mutters just before his tongue dips into you. That’s the only warning you get before he’s lapping and sucking and kissing your pussy like he had your mouth before. It’s starvation confronted. Desperate and ravenous. And the sloppy, shameful slurping sounds have you gripping the sheets and biting into your arm.

“This is what daddy needed.” His nose digs into you as he laps at you, and he grips your ass like he’s worried you might squirm away. “Don’t move.”

You obey. You’re jelly. You have no desire to move at all.

The soft clinking of metal and fabric hitting the floor joins the sounds of your shared heavy breathing. And then, without warning, a large, comforting warmth surrounds you. He lowers just enough of his weight onto you to prevent you moving at all. His breath tickles your neck when he speaks. “Gonna feed you now, baby. Just tell me what you want.”

You whine.

“Tell me,” he commands, a little rumble attaching to the last syllable. “You know I like when you tell me.”

You suck in a shaky breath. “I’m empty…”

“Poor baby,” he coos, kissing your cheek.

“Want… want you to fill me up, daddy.”

His finger prods at your twitchy entrance. “Here?”

You wiggle under him.

“Daddy always gives you what you want.” His tip pushes at you. He guides it around your mess, a slick mix of you and him. “Don’t I?”

You nod and grab at his arm. A little push against your throbbing hole. A groan. “You’re sucking at me, pretty baby. I feel you. Trying to pull me inside. Greedy little thing wants her daddy’s cock deep in her belly?” He sucks on your neck, rolling his hips just enough to play with his tip just inside you, teasing. “Your underwear is still on, don’t worry. It’s okay. This is okay.”

He bites into you as he finally presses inside, filling and filling and shoving your walls apart to make room. “Tell me it’s okay,” he gasps into your neck when he finally stills, smothering you inside and out.

“You’re inside me.”

He breathes heavily into your ear for a moment, completely still. Then he uses his arm around your shoulders and chest to pull you back up against him as he sits back on his heels. “Fuck... That’s right. I’m deep inside. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

You look down at the small lump in your stomach, evidence of his hot, thick presence inside you. “Love you.” It leaves you like a sob.

“Daddy loves you too, sweetheart. So, so much. Feel it. Feel how much he loves you, yeah? Can you feel it?” He drags you off him a little, lifting you like you’re weightless, and he sinks back in. Over and over again. You’re slack, pulsing around him as he moves you. “I can feel your love. Sucking at me and hugging me tight. Can feel how much you love me. Tightening up when I try and leave, hm? Daddy can stay inside you. I can bury my drippy cock deep inside you when I say goodnight, hm? You can fall asleep on daddy’s cock from now on, baby. I’ll look after you. I’ll warm you up inside too. Keep you nice and warm and cozy so you can sleep.”

He presses you back down into the mattress, and the way he grinds into you has you entirely non-verbal. Breathing is your priority. Catching your breath between sobs and whimpers and kisses as he turns your head and invades your mouth. Panting, broken, grumbled words make their way into your ears occasionally. He calls you his good girl. He tells you you’re warm and sweet and perfectly shaped for him. And you are.

Somehow.

He’s so big that you can’t imagine how he fills you so perfectly. But it’s the most perfect satiating fullness. He drives through your walls like he’d carved them out himself and was finally coming home. It settles it for you: he took you home because he knew you were his. Made just for him. You’d never question it again.

And when he’s on his back and bouncing you on top of him, he watches where you join and his eye glows through the damp silver hair that falls across his face. “Tell me what you want,” he groans out as he holds you down to his base and rolls your hips back and forth against him with an almost bruising force.

“Daddy’s cum,” you mewl.

His jaw clenches, and then he pulls you down against his chest and ruts up into you with an animalistic feral intensity. The sounds of your skin slapping together tells you just how impossibly wet and messy you are now. But it’s okay. He’ll fill you up with his warmth, and he’ll hold you to his chest and tell you he loves you, and then he’ll take care of you better than anyone else ever could, like he always had.

[riacain]

[skyizhou]

DRABBLE ! third person pov (fem!reader), alternate universe – modern, age gap, size difference, power imbalance — sugar daddy dynamics, brief mention of caleb knowing her before she turned 18, mild dubious consent, fingering, semi-public fingering (moving vehicle), edging, overstimulation, dacryphilia.

The car is a black Mercedes-Maybach S680, armoured and soundproofed, crawling through downtown traffic. Caleb sits with his thighs spread wide, his back against the heated leather, and she is arranged on top of him like something he has placed there deliberately—which he has. He dressed her himself this evening: a silk dress the colour of bone, cut to his tastes, falling to mid-thigh when she stands. Italian leather heels he buckled at her ankles. Underneath, nothing. He decided that, too.

She knows better than to shift without permission, but she does anyway, restless, seeking friction. He feels the movement in his own body, a sympathetic tightening in his lower abdomen, but he does not react outwardly. His left hand holds a cigarette to the cracked window, smoke billowing out into the humid night. His right hand is occupied elsewhere.

"Be still," he says.

She freezes. She always does, eventually.

He has been working her for twenty minutes, since they left the restaurant. A long dinner with defence contractors, her seated beside him in a private room, his hand on her thigh beneath the tablecloth, fingers tracing higher and higher while she tried to maintain conversation with the man to her left. She had been wet before they reached the car. Now she is soaked, slippery, the silk of her dress bunched at her hips where he gathered it to gain access.

Caleb lets one finger slip inside her cunt. Just the index, to the second knuckle, feeling the flutter of her body trying to draw him even deeper. He does not oblige. His thumb finds the stiff nub of her clit, already swollen, hypersensitive, and presses down with the same pressure he might use on a trigger. 

Not enough to fire. Enough to remind her of the mechanism.

She squeals. The sound is high, unguarded, nothing like the composed woman who walked into the restaurant two hours ago. He feels the vibration of it in his own chest.

"Quiet," he says, and she bites her lip, nodding, her forehead dropping to his shoulder—sweating and panting.

He is fifty-two years old. He has flown combat missions, negotiated billion-dollar contracts, buried the only mother he ever knew. None of it prepared him for the particular danger of this—her weight on his thighs, her breath hot through his shirt, the absolute trust with which she surrenders her body to his hands. He is careful with her in ways he is careful with nothing else, but he is also ruthless.

Caleb works her stiff nub in slow and deliberate circles, applying various pressures, watching her face from inches away. She is trying not to make any noise. Her hands have found his shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle there, seeking anchor. He allows this. He allows her to need him, to want him, to make demands in the daylight hours that he never refuses because he cannot bear the sight of her disappointment. She does not know the extent of it. She knows she is his favourite—he has told her so, in the dark, when she is too spent to remember clearly—but she does not know that he is in love with her; that he has been in love with her for longer than she has been legal; that he would burn the city down around them if she asked, and he hates himself for the weakness of it all.

She whimpers. He increases the speed of his thumb, just slightly, and feels her clamp down on the single finger still lodged inside her. She is close. She has been close for ten minutes; he has kept her there, suspended, riding the edge without falling.

"Please," she breathes into his neck.

"Please what?"

"Please, Caleb—"

He removes his hand entirely.

She makes a sound like a wounded animal betrayed by its owner, her hips chasing his touch, and he waits. Waits until she settles, until she is looking at him with wide, desperate eyes, until he can see the reflection of streetlights in the wetness on her cheeks. Then he returns, two fingers this time, scissoring gently, stretching, his thumb resuming its work with renewed, almost cruel precision.

"You don't come until I say," he tells her.

She nods, frantic, her hair falling across her face. He does not brush it back. He likes her obscured, reduced to sensation, to the animal need he orchestrates. He likes that she is wearing everything he bought her—the dress, the shoes, the pearl earrings he fastened himself—and that she knows, they both know, that she is his creation in these moments. His to display. His to unravel.

The car hits a pothole. The movement jostles her against his hand, and she cries out, her body seizing. He feels the orgasm trying to take her, the rhythmic pulse of her muscles, and he stops again. Just stops, his fingers still inside her but motionless, his thumb lifted away from her clitoris. 

She sobs, actual tears now, her face pressed hard against his collarbone.

"Not yet," he says.

Caleb brings the cigarette to his lips, inhales, exhales toward the window. The nicotine does nothing for him; he smokes for the ritual, for the excuse to occupy one hand while the other conducts its business. 

He has timed this drive to last forty minutes. They have twenty left. He begins again. Slower this time, almost tender, his fingers moving in her with the rhythm of a heartbeat, his thumb barely grazing her swollen nub. She is so sensitive now that she flinches at the touch, her body trying to escape even as she presses closer to him. He understands this contradiction. He has studied her responses for months, mapping the exact pressure that brings pleasure versus pain, the angle that makes her see stars, the sustained stimulation that reduces her to wordless begging.

And she is wordless now. He has finally reduced her to gasps, to the occasional broken syllable that might be his name or might be nothing at all. Her nails have drawn blood from his shoulders, even through the fabric of his bespoke suit. 

Caleb does not mind; he will wear her marks with the same pride he wears his scars.

He increases his pace gradually, watching her face for the signs: the flutter of her eyelids, the parting of her lips, the particular tension in her jaw that means she is trying to hold back. She always tries to hold back. She thinks it pleases him, this discipline, when in fact he prefers her undone; he prefers her with no discipline at all.

"Let go," he murmurs against her hair. "I've got you."

The tender muscles in her cunt start gushing. He feels it happen, the sudden violent spasms of her internal muscles, the arch of her spine, the cry that tears from her throat without restraint. He does not stop. He continues working her with his thumb, his fingers still moving inside her, driving her through the peak and down the other side into something beyond pleasure, into oversensitivity, into pain.

She's convulsing on his lap, sobbing, her body trying to twist away from his hand. He holds her in place with the arm that has been around her waist throughout, his forearm locked across her lower back, pinning her to him. She is too raw to speak, her words degraded to sounds, to pleading noises that need no translation. 

Caleb knows what she is asking—stop, no more, please, can't. He does not grant it.

He keeps her there for minutes, through a second orgasm that seems to rip through her without warning, her body responding to stimulation that should be unbearable, painful. He is hard beneath her, has been hard since the restaurant, but he does not shift her to relieve himself. 

This is not about his pleasure. This is about the demonstration—of his control, of her surrender, of the fact that he can do this to her anywhere, anytime, that she is his to play with as thoroughly and as long as he wishes.

When he finally stops, withdrawing his hand and smoothing her dress back into place, she collapses against him. Her body is limp, overheated, her breath coming in jagged catches. He wipes his fingers on a handkerchief—monogrammed, silk—and then wraps both arms around her, holding her close. She is crying still, silently now, the aftermath of intensity she does not have the appropriate words for.

Caleb presses his face into her hair and inhales. Shampoo that he selected. Perfume that he bought. The underlying scent of her skin, which belongs to no one but herself and him, which he would recognize blindfolded in a room of a thousand women.

The car continues through the city. He does not tell the driver to hurry.

© skyizhou : do not claim, modify, copy or repost my works without permission. feeding my works to ai is strictly prohibited. minors do not interact.

[berrylyhibiscus]

“omg she can talk” omg go fuck yourself

[juliasbored]

[st4rl1ght-dr0ps]

Necklace...

Caleb loves his necklace so much, he doesn't realize how it is hurting you.

✶ Pairing(s): Caleb x non-mc reader

✶Content: brief mention of sex; non-mc reader is feeling insecure regarding her relationship with Caleb; mc is unnamed and briefly mentioned as in a relationship with someone else (not important but I wanted to mention it); very short; no dialog

✶AN: I swear I can write sometimes else than angst, I promise I can! Not proof read (does it work? Should I use "no beta read" instead?) There might be some errors here and there I might have forgotten, if you see them, please notify me! Thank you for reading this 𖹭

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Bonus 𓏲ּ𝄢

You love Caleb, but you can't bring yourself to love all of him, because you know that all of his love doesn't belong to you, because your relationship needs balance, and you loving all of him would make it unstable.

You don't want to think that way about him. After all, you do love him. You have ever since he entered your life. And you are so, so, so lucky that he chose you.

But sometimes, it feels like he chose you because he didn't have another choice, because she didn't choose him. And that feeling gnaws at you; it makes you wake up in the middle of the night, looking at his sleeping form as silent tears run down your cheeks.

You want to love all of him, you truly do, but that would mean you'd have to love the necklace hanging around his neck all the time. And you can't. You just can't. You tried. You really did. But you just can't.

No matter what, the necklace she gifted him stays on. The apple charm with the small ruby and the dog tag with "When you come back" swinging, singing whenever he's around you is here to stay, reminding you of your place in his heart.

You tried to make him wear it less. You spent afternoons shopping, looking for the perfect necklace that would fit his aesthetic: modern and simple, silvery chains and obsidians that look like black holes, amethyst that matches his eyes. You even bought a new dog tag with the words you said to him on your first date engraved: "My heart chose you."

You also bought rings, fidget rings, simple silver bands, large, thin, all so different, so thoughtful of what he liked... Earrings: obsidian, amethysts, silver, simple, with chains... Bracelets, watches, handmade, just like every other jewel, hours of looking for the perfect gift, commissioned to jewelers...

And Caleb? He'd wear them once, twice, maybe even thrice if he "really" liked them, before putting them in a velvet box and never putting them on again, her gift from years ago hanging around his neck as if it were a part of him.

Date nights? It'd be proudly displayed in the center of his chest, and you'd avoid looking at the spot until the end of the night when you'd be spooned by him, the necklace digging in the skin of your back.

There are times you cried during sex because you hated seeing it, you'd hide your eyes with your arms, not baring the sight any longer.

You hate that necklace. You hate the hold it has on his heart. Even though she moved on and has someone else in her life, Caleb's heart is still owned by her, and you fear the day he'll leave you for her grows by the second.

So you keep gifting him jewelries you know he'll put in the box sooner or later, you initiate the intimate contact between you two while he's wearing your gifts, you focus on them, even if they're not conventional, even if they might hurt you, because at least it was something coming from you.

You take as many pictures of him wearing them as you can, and when he puts them in the box, you spend the next few days downtown looking for a new, fragile claim on him.

The necklace stays on. Your gifts don't.

You open the box, and there they are, lying on the fabric, shining so brightly because he barely wore them. You close the box again and sigh, resting your back against the wall, the new necklace you bought today lying in your palm. In less than a week, it will be inside that box, with the others, never to be worn again.

You have no one else to blame but yourself. You knew what you were getting into when you asked him out, and you're the only one who foolishly thought his love for you would grow. Your heart chose him, but his probably never chose you, and it most certainly never will.

[powerhayakawaa]

when you're trying to find a good fanfic to read but your tumblr fyp is genuinly shit

[catinpinklace]

so does anyone wants to make a Caleb x reader fanfic with this dynamic or do I have to do it myself?? (I'm not a great writer so it's gonna be very shitty)

[playlistaddict]

[st4rl1ght-dr0ps]

Rings on our fingers

Some of your gifts were rings, you wish Caleb gifted you one too.

✶ Pairing(s): Caleb x non-mc reader

✶Content: non-explicit sex scene depicted; non-mc reader is feeling even more insecure regarding her relationship with Caleb; mc briefly mentioned as one of the reason why non-mc reader feels insecure. very short.

✶AN: I'm so happy all you liked the first part! The next (and final) part will be out soon! Thank you so so much for reading! not beta read, if you seen any errors please notify me, I'll correct it

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

You kiss him slowly as you put on the necklace around his neck.

"I love you." it's not big enough to hide the one she gifted him years ago.

3 days later, his neck only has one of the two necklaces, your gift ended up in the velvet box.

You press your body against his, kisses are frenzied, desperate, his back hits the door, you grab his wrist and put on the bracelet you had made for him.

"I love you." you pant against his lips, your hand resting on the cold metal, feeling your claim on him.

The next day, his wrist is bare of any accessories, your gift ended in the velvet box.

"I love you." you say each time you give him a gift, each time you try to claim him, each time you hope he'll like it enough to wear if for more than three days, that he'll finally remove the other necklace, part of his past, to focus on your future together.

Caleb has never removed the necklace. It still hangs low, rests in the center of his chest, polished with love, shining brightly under every light because he takes care of it for hours when he has nothing to do.

Nine necklaces, four watches, seven bracelets, five rings, all lying in the velvet box, seeing the light only when a new gift is put inside to be forgotten.

It makes you wonder what you did wrong, but deep down you know, it's not what you did, it's who you are that's the problem. You are not her.

And while he kisses and hugs you, tells you how happy he is that you are in his life, his words feel hollow, as if he were following a script to a happy life he never really consented to, because one of the main actors is not the one he wanted to be with.

You don't have the force within you to change, to shift into the kind of person she is, just to please him. You're scared you'll lose yourself in pretense. Caleb is worth it, you think, but this love is not. It's tearing you apart, eating away at you. Sadly for you, he is not helping.

You hear the keys jiggling outside the apartment door. Caleb is back from the fleet. You get off the wall, put on your most convincing smile, hands behind your back, clutching the newest necklace you bought today, and walk to the entrance.

Large, cloved hands reaches for your waist and pulls you close, chapped lips meets yours in a slow, greeting kiss. You take the opportunity to put on the newest necklace you bought him today. Shorter than any other, almost like a choker, small chain hanging to his collarbone, you tug at it as you kiss him, trying to be the one in charge.

Your desire for him is superficial, you want him, but most importantly, you want to mark him as yours once more, make the marks linger, a sight he cannot run away from, something only you can give him.

The trip to the bedroom is short, undressing is fast. The only pieces of clothing you two keep on are your underwear and your jewelries. Caleb is so, so pretty when he's breathing heavily with his cheeks flushed and his eyes dark, but he could be ever more prettier if he wasn't wearing that necklace.

You don't dwell on it, instead grabbing the velvet box and pulling out one of the rings you bought for him, putting it on the finger it was meant to stay. Your fingers matches, the rings shines under the moonlight. Caleb pulls you in for a new kiss, and you feel his desire. Is it for you, or natural reaction? You don't know, you don't want to know.

The sheets are damp, so are your bodies, you're on top of him, the moonlight illuminates you in a soft, pure glow, his dark eyes are fixated on your ringed hand resting on his chest, covering the necklace, hiding it from your sight. The sighs and moans he let out music to your ears. Only you can make him sound this way, only you can see him this way. Only you.

The position shifts; you're under him. Darkness engulfs you. Your gift shines faintly, but the ruby from the necklace almost blinds you when the moonlight hits it. You hate the necklace so much. You claw at his back, feeling so much pleasure, so much pain, and you want him to feel the same way.

The necklace sways before your eyes, it sings with Caleb and you, forbidden and disgusting melody you wish to never hear again. The ruby shines with the moonlight, you can still read "When you come back" each time the dog tag sways closer to you face. You hate the necklace.

Your hands slowly reach his nape. They toy with the small chains of the necklace and your gift, they dig into your skin, as you look for the necklace clasp, but before you can do anything, his hand grabs your wrist and pulls it away from his nape.

"Not that one," is the only thing he says as he pins your hand against the mattress, his moves now harsher. The necklace swings and sings, over and over; it's the only thing you can hear.

The atmosphere is... Tense, now that you've stopped being intimate. Your back rests against his chest, his hands gently massages the parts of your body he gripped too hard after you tried to remove the necklace. Your gift no longer is around his neck, lying somewhere on the king-size bed instead in the other room.

You observe the ring on your finger, the ring on his finger. Matching, you bought it four weeks ago for your two years anniversary. He wore his only for three days, you removed yours the moment you saw him remove his.

The necklace digs into your back once more. You want to pull away, but his hands grips you gently. Caleb is so cruel, and the worst of it? He doesn't even realize it.

"Do you like what I gift you?" You finally ask, breaking the tense silence, though it quickly comes back as you feel his hands squeeze your flesh for an instant.

Caleb is quiet, has been since you tried removing the necklace around his neck. "... I just don't want to lose them." I weak, pathetic excuse of a lie, you weakly laugh.

"... I always wondered... Why you never gifted me rings... Why you never got on your knees and asked for my hand... But I think I know why now." Caleb remains quiet, listening.

"Do you want a future with me?"

He doesn't answer.

You give him a minute, but even with it, he doesn't say yes. Doesn't say no either but the lack of enthusiasm and desire for your future together says everything you need to know.

"You don't love me like you love her." You finally say, reaching for his hand and removing the ring you put earlier. "I'm sorry." Is all he says, observing your form as you move away from his arms and get out of the tub, reaching for your robe.

You don't cry, you did it earlier as the necklace was singing before your face.

"... Do you want to keep them?" Arms wrapped around yourself, you try to warm yourself up, the soft cotton now your sole source of comfort. "... You can take them back, if you want."

You observe the ring on your finger, then sigh. "... I'll sleep on the couch if you want, and tomorrow, we'll talk about... About us." Is all he says as you walk out of the bathroom, leaving him alone.

The rings on your fingers were never meant to stay. They never belonged there to begin with. Not with him, at least.

[st4rl1ght-dr0ps]

Necklace...

Caleb loves his necklace so much, he doesn't realize how it is hurting you.

✶ Pairing(s): Caleb x non-mc reader

✶Content: brief mention of sex; non-mc reader is feeling insecure regarding her relationship with Caleb; mc is unnamed and briefly mentioned as in a relationship with someone else (not important but I wanted to mention it); very short; no dialog

✶AN: I swear I can write sometimes else than angst, I promise I can! Not proof read (does it work? Should I use "no beta read" instead?) There might be some errors here and there I might have forgotten, if you see them, please notify me! Thank you for reading this 𖹭

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

You love Caleb, but you can't bring yourself to love all of him, because you know that all of his love doesn't belong to you, because your relationship needs balance, and you loving all of him would make it unstable.

You don't want to think that way about him. After all, you do love him. You have ever since he entered your life. And you are so, so, so lucky that he chose you.

But sometimes, it feels like he chose you because he didn't have another choice, because she didn't choose him. And that feeling gnaws at you; it makes you wake up in the middle of the night, looking at his sleeping form as silent tears run down your cheeks.

You want to love all of him, you truly do, but that would mean you'd have to love the necklace hanging around his neck all the time. And you can't. You just can't. You tried. You really did. But you just can't.

No matter what, the necklace she gifted him stays on. The apple charm with the small ruby and the dog tag with "When you come back" swinging, singing whenever he's around you is here to stay, reminding you of your place in his heart.

You tried to make him wear it less. You spent afternoons shopping, looking for the perfect necklace that would fit his aesthetic: modern and simple, silvery chains and obsidians that look like black holes, amethyst that matches his eyes. You even bought a new dog tag with the words you said to him on your first date engraved: "My heart chose you."

You also bought rings, fidget rings, simple silver bands, large, thin, all so different, so thoughtful of what he liked... Earrings: obsidian, amethysts, silver, simple, with chains... Bracelets, watches, handmade, just like every other jewel, hours of looking for the perfect gift, commissioned to jewelers...

And Caleb? He'd wear them once, twice, maybe even thrice if he "really" liked them, before putting them in a velvet box and never putting them on again, her gift from years ago hanging around his neck as if it were a part of him.

Date nights? It'd be proudly displayed in the center of his chest, and you'd avoid looking at the spot until the end of the night when you'd be spooned by him, the necklace digging in the skin of your back.

There are times you cried during sex because you hated seeing it, you'd hide your eyes with your arms, not baring the sight any longer.

You hate that necklace. You hate the hold it has on his heart. Even though she moved on and has someone else in her life, Caleb's heart is still owned by her, and you fear the day he'll leave you for her grows by the second.

So you keep gifting him jewelries you know he'll put in the box sooner or later, you initiate the intimate contact between you two while he's wearing your gifts, you focus on them, even if they're not conventional, even if they might hurt you, because at least it was something coming from you.

You take as many pictures of him wearing them as you can, and when he puts them in the box, you spend the next few days downtown looking for a new, fragile claim on him.

The necklace stays on. Your gifts don't.

You open the box, and there they are, lying on the fabric, shining so brightly because he barely wore them. You close the box again and sigh, resting your back against the wall, the new necklace you bought today lying in your palm. In less than a week, it will be inside that box, with the others, never to be worn again.

You have no one else to blame but yourself. You knew what you were getting into when you asked him out, and you're the only one who foolishly thought his love for you would grow. Your heart chose him, but his probably never chose you, and it most certainly never will.

[monoidmango]

A/N: Umm, everytime I sit down and try to write my established (happy ending) fics I get intrusive thoughts about Caleb angst. Might continue this one later

The sound of running water echoes from the bathroom.

Caleb is taking a shower.

At 3am.

He had just returned from god knows where.

You stand at the bathroom door, wanting to discuss something with him.

You're a little nervous, wondering if he would agree to what you were about to tell him.

Just as you are trying to figure out the best way to phrase it, you hear a strange sound coming from inside.

After listening carefully, you realize with a gasp that he was taking care of himself…

Each breath and groan is like a heavy hammer blow, relentlessly pounding on your heart. The pain spreads like a tidal wave, leaving you sinking in it, unable to breathe.

Actually, today is your wedding anniversary. Your fifth year of marriage, and you've never consummated it.

So, he preferred to take care of himself rather than touch you?

As his breathing grows more rapid, he suddenly lets out a low growl, his voice strained with barely suppressed emotion, "Pipsqueak-"

That one word delivers the final, fatal blow.

Your heart pounds, as if something just shattered into dust.

You try to cover your mouth to stifle your sobs, and turn to run, but stumble on your first step, bumping into the sink and falling to the floor.

"Y/N?" Caleb's voice inside hasn't calmed down yet; you can tell he is trying to control himself, but his breathing is still heavy.

"I...I need to use the restroom, I didn't know you were taking a shower..." you stammer, clumsily grabbing the sink to stand up.

The floor and sink are wet. The more you try, the more helpless the situation becomes. By the time you finally manage to stand, Caleb emerges from the door, his white bathrobe hastily pulled on with the belt fastened tightly.

"Did you fall? Let me help you." He makes a move to pick you up. Tears well in your eyes from the pain, but you push his hand away, your expression a mixture of distress and determination. "No need, I can do it myself."

After nearly slipping again, you limp and stagger back to your bedroom.

No, "escape" is the more accurate word.

For the five years you were married to Caleb Xia, you've been doing nothing but constantly running away.

Running away from the outside world, from everyone's strange looks, and from Caleb's pity and sympathy—his wife is a cripple.

How can a cripple be worthy of the brilliant and successful Caleb Xia?

You were not always like this...

Caleb follows you out, his voice gentle and concerned. "Did you hurt yourself? Let me see."

"No, I'm fine." You pull the blanket tighter around yourself, hiding your disheveled state under it.

"Are you really alright?" He sounds genuinely concerned.

“Mmm.” You nod vigorously, back facing him.

“So, are you going to sleep? Didn’t you want to go to the bathroom?”

“I don’t want to anymore now, let’s sleep?” You whisper.

“Alright," he pauses. "By the way, today is our anniversary. I bought you a present. You can open it tomorrow and see if you like it.”

“Okay.” The present is on the bedside table; you've already seen it, but you already know what is inside without even opening it.

It's the same size box every year, containing the exact same necklace.

In your drawer, there are already nine identical ones. This is the tenth.

The conversation ends there. Caleb turns off the light and lies down across from you. The damp scent of bodywash fills the air, but you barely feel the bed sink. In the two-meter-wide bed, you sleep on one side, and him on the other side at the very edge; there is enough space inbetween  for at least another 3 people.

Neither of you mention "pipsqueak", nor what he had just done in the bathroom, as if nothing  happened. You lie stiffly, eyes burning with pain.

Pipsqueak, or MC, was his adopted younger sister, his first love, his goddess.

Upon high school graduation, MC went abroad, leaving Caleb behind. He was devastated.

You and Caleb were classmates in middle and high school.

You admit that you had a crush on him at the time.

Back then, he was the school heartthrob, a cool and aloof academic star, while you considered yourself pretty ordinary. Not the most academically gifted, nor the most popular or pretty. You had a face everyone could recognize, but not many could describe. Besides, you had larger dreams back then. You were a dancer; started when you were young. The stage was where you felt the most at home. 

So, it was just a secret crush for you; you never thought you would ever stand beside him. 

Until you return home for summer vacation after graduating from the conservatory and encounter Caleb in a wreck.

That night, he was drunk, walking erratically, crossing the street without looking at the traffic lights. A car sped towards him, and you, worried and following close behind, pushed him out of the way, getting hit by the car yourself.

You thought you had done good for yourself up to that point, successfully completing your dance studies and hoping to get a position in one of the large dance companies in the city.

The accident left you with a serious limp.

You'd never be able to dance again.

Shortly after, he swore off drinking and married you.

He was forever guilty, forever grateful, forever soft-spoken, and forever showered you with gifts and money.

Yet at the same time, forever indifferent.

The only thing he couldn't give you was love.

In the beginning, you naively thought that time could heal all wounds, dilute all the pain.

But you never could have imagined that five years later, he would still remember the name "pipsqueak" so vividly, calling out to her when he is serving himself.

In the end, you were simply too foolish…

When Caleb gets up for his Colonel duties, you still pretend to be asleep. You hear him talking to the housekeeper outside: "I have a company dinner tonight. Tell my wife not to wait for me and to go to bed early."

After giving the instructions, he comes back into the room to check on you again. You hide under the covers, your pillow soaked with tears.

Usually, when he goes to any of the Farspace Fleet galas, you would prepare his outfit in advance.

But not tonight.

He goes to the dressing room to change himself and heads to work.

You open your eyes, feeling them swell uncomfortably.

Your phone alarm rings.

It's the time you set for yourself to get up and study.

Because of your leg injury, since getting married, you spend most of your time at home, rarely going out. You divide your day into blocks, finding something to occupy your time. 

You pick up your phone, turn off the alarm and start scrolling aimlessly through various apps.

Your mind is a jumbled mess, unable to absorb anything.

Until, you suddenly come across a video on a certain social media platform.

The person in the video looks so familiar…

The account name: Pips_apple.

The posting time was last night.

You click on the video, and immediately, upbeat music starts playing, followed by someone shouting, "One, two, three, welcome back Pipsqueak! Cheers!"

It's Caleb's voice.

He broke his vow of abstinence from alcohol.

He's even a little drunk.

But would Caleb really shout like that?

The Caleb you remember from high school was a friendly, but aloof academic genius. Not only was he serious when doing course work, but even more so on the sports field; he paid no attention to any of the girls who offered him water bottles and love letters. 

Later, the Caleb who became your husband was even more polite, his emotions so stable they were unwavering. He never smiled, never got angry. He was always detached, so detached that when you occasionally touched his fingers, even his body temperature felt cold.

The camera pans across everyone's faces in the video. You see a slightly tipsy Caleb, his eyes sparkling, raising his glass and laughing loudly at the camera: "Welcome home, Pips!"

So, he could smile after all.

He could be passionate too.

He would call girls by their nicknames.

Just not you. 

You close the app immediately, struggling to catch your breath. You open your email, and read the acceptance letter on your phone over and over again, at least a hundred times.

A graduate school offer from a foreign university, the thing you originally planned to discuss with him last night. You wanted to study abroad for a master's degree; was that okay?

But now it seems there is no need to discuss it with him.

Five years of marriage, countless sleepless nights. 

You needed to get out.

If you didn't find something to do with your life now that MC is back, how would you pass the long hours? Would you spend your whole life waiting for Caleb to come home?

You had already waited for too long.

The pain of waiting... is unbearable now.

Today marks the countdown to you leaving him.