My idea of the perfect man has always been an unstable, psycho type. I guess a yandere-type man would somewhat fit into this, but I really mean a full-on psycho. For example, all the guys in The Lads are somewhat unstable. Their obsessive need to keep tabs on you? I mean, you can care about someone and want to know if they’re safe—but the lengths they go to? They could just call you, ask you, you know…
Still, it’s kind of hot.
And then there’s Rafayel. A true artist with an ego to match. I’ve always thought BPD would suit him well. He’s always putting on an act—either playing dumb or being overly dramatic to show how much you leaving for work hurts his soul or whatever… But what if he actually had borderline personality disorder? He has extreme highs and devastating lows, where he can’t even get out of bed or ends up sleeping in front of his paintings, which grow darker with each passing week.
Why? Because your work trip triggered him.
You’re like a gun in an insane man’s hands. It’s actually scary. Because when you come back? You almost wish you hadn’t.
The moment you step into his studio, something snaps in his head. He becomes the happiest merman in the whole wide world. He kisses you, hugs you so tightly you can barely breathe, and there are tears in his eyes. This man loves you so much that he has to bleed out all these overwhelming emotions. And when he does, he locks all the windows and doors so you physically can’t leave.
And he’s not joking.
You left him here to “die,” so now he has to make sure his lovely bride stays by his side - by any means necessary.
You don’t need to work, cutie. You have your Rafayel. If you ever wanted to, you’d never have to work again. I’ll take good care of you-just like right now.
He’s on top of you, kissing your neck desperately, whispering sweet promises about being together forever as he moves lower. Your body reacts before you even realize it. Rafayel’s emotions are so intense, so overwhelming, that they leave no room for your own thoughts or feelings.
But you do feel trapped.
You just can’t bring yourself to break up with him. You’re always afraid he’d kill himself from the pain you’d cause. He makes sure you know exactly how it could happen—him in the bathtub, a small sharp knife he uses for his paintings in hand, slowly cutting into his skin, writing your name on the wall just so he can see you one last time.
But you’re not going anywhere.
I’m gonna fuck you so good you won’t be able to walk. You’d want that, cutie, don’t you? Want me to fuck you so hard you won’t be able to sit on your ass for a week straight, huh? Say please, baby, cmon, let your man wreck that tiny little cunt.
But you don’t really have any choice. You’re aware of that, that’s why you let Rafayel strech your legs wide open, that’s why his fat cock goes perfectly into your tight hole; so you just gasp. A weak moan leaves your mouth.
You close your eyes, gripping his biceps for some illusion of comfort.
“That’s right, my love.” Rafayel whispers into your ear, as he starts to pick up the pace. “Let me take care of you. I love you so so much, cutie.”
♡ TW: kidnappning, captivity, cannibalism, gore, nonchalant nihilistic reader, casual mention of asexuality, dark humor but leaning more toward what I'd call morbid absurdity?
♡ FEM reader
♡ AN: normal au, idk this is more comedic than what i normally write, originally a gag response to this post, put it got long...
You wake up groggy somewhere clean and classy.
The ceiling is tall, the furniture expensive—marble floors and Egyptian sheets—and none of it is any familiar whatsoever.
“Hello?” you call out, despite not seeing or hearing the hints of anyone, clutching the comforter to yourself with eyes still adjusting, blinking as you take everything in, getting more concerned as you do.
Did you get fucked up yesterday or what?
Surely not so fucked up you can’t remember booking yourself into a five-star hotel, right?
And yet, by the looks of it, you must have.
It should be more concerning, and yet, “Please, God, don’t let it be in my name,” is the prioritized thought. You’re so broke, you couldn’t even afford a fucking motel room right now, let alone whatever the fuck kind of grand suite this is.
You get up, only then noticing you’re dressed in a silk night gown—which only further distresses you with thoughts about the bill. Clothes nowhere in sight—at least not anything you can recognize as your own. But, laying on the dresser is a pretty little number, with a tiny little note on top.
“Wear me,” you read out loud. Face puzzled with a grimace, before further talking to yourself out loud, mumbling, “What the fuck Alice in Wonderland type shit is this? Did I go home with a freak?”
Confused as shit, you leave the dress where it is while looking around some more. The more you do, you start noticing things that make you start thinking this might be someone's house rather than a hotel room.
Walking into what you thought might be a bathroom, you discover a walk-in closet instead. Fully stocked with clothes. Expensive shit. Classy. And a little creepy, how it’s all solely in different shades of red. Your pajamas too, and the dress laid out. Someone must have a serious preference.
“Where the fuck am I at right now…”
Starting to freak out just a bit, you don’t try any more doors in favor of quickly finding the stairs. Soft in your step, you make your way down them warily. And on your way, you start hearing the tell-tale noise of another’s presence.
Cooking noises—pots and pans and the sound of a whirring fan. It smells good too.
You don’t think he—whoever he is—notices you. But standing with his back to you, shirtless, you sure notice him. He’s got broad shoulders and a toned back stocked with muscles, his waist snatched in a black apron. Hair dyed baby pink of all colors.
Yeah… you definitely got fucked up yesterday because who the fuck is this guy?
You decide against sticking around to find out. One-night-stands are only made weirder when they progress into the day thereafter, and you think you might just be able to make your way over to the door without being heard if you tip-toe it.
You throw it a glance from where you’re hiding around the corner. You can’t spot any shoes.
Shit, how’re you supposed to—
“Door’s locked,” the man informs over his shoulder, switching off the fan before turning around. He then walks up to the breakfast bar placed in the forefront of the kitchen, tray in hand full with a arrangement of bacon, eggs, juice and other morning classics.
He sets out two plates before sitting down.
He’s got face-tattoos—crazy ones that would be impossible not to notice. And yet, crazy as they are, they seem somewhat familiar. His hair is newly washed, hanging in curly bangs just above a pair of eyes that lean more toward the burn in auburn, but are all in all jaded as he starts eating without further acknowledging you.
“I’m sorry—” you squeak as you pop out of hiding, suddenly reminded of how you're still just standing there. “Sneaking out’s not usually my style, but–” A nervous laugh only seems appropriate as you start explaining yourself with theoretic excuses, “I must have taken something weird yesterday ‘cause I don’t remember how I got here at all. I don’t even remember going out—”
“You were on your way home from that shitty burger joint you work at,” he says, mouth full of toasted bread. “I took the liberty of burning your uniform. It was an offence to the art of cuisine.”
You’d just taken a seat on the opposite side of him, having accepted the awkward morning for what it was worth—a funny story for later, you’re sure. However, while the food is a good distraction, making your mouth water and your eyes wander, it’s not enough for you to disregard the unattended confusion left by your utter blackout of the night prior—and neither is his sloppy efforts of helping you navigate it.
“I’m sorry, what?”
He, on the other hand, seems more interested in the food, negligent when explaining, “I laid out a dress for you. I won’t force you to wear it, but you won’t be getting that retched thing you were wearing back, so you might as well—”
“Yeah, no, whatever—” you dismiss, shaking your head with a muddled expression—as if your uniform is the thing on your mind right now. “That doesn’t really explain how I got here?”
Again, helping you with your amnesia doesn’t seem to be too much of a priority to the man as he shrugs with a “There isn’t much to know.”
For all his looks, he doesn’t really have the charm to compliment them. What a shame, you think disappointedly to yourself, watching him with a wrinkle between your brows, wondering why and when chivalry died, and why on earth you’d ever choose to go home with a guy so lacking in it.
“You finished your shift and were on your way home,” he continues, and you’re glad to finally be getting somewhere. “But you never made it, because, while still in the parking lot, I knocked you out with some chloroform, put you in my trunk, and took you here.”
Yeah, that’s the point your throat closes shut.
“What?”
A shiver rushes through you and you get out of your chair. Was that a joke? What, is he a fucking comedian suddenly?
“What the fuck’s going on?!”
He doesn’t acknowledge your hysteria, still just sitting there, eating breakfast as though a woman screaming at him is just another day in his life.
“Do I have to spell it out for you? It’s easy. I kidnapped you. End of story.”
Your mouth hangs open, staring at him, but alas, with the same lack of urgency as he’d had since the beginning, he just ignores your state of shock like it’s something he can’t be bothered to deal with.
Instead, ordering you to “Now come. Sit. Eat,” as if that was more important than explaining himself. “Your system’s still full of chemicals. Gotta eat to flush ‘em out.”
Is he seriously asking you to eat breakfast?
“No drugs this time. Promise,” he adds shortly, as though you’d had the time to form the concern, while still busy trying to make sense of him offering breakfast in the first place after having confessed to kidnapping you.
The more you repeat it, the less sense it seems to make.
“And before you get any wild ideas. No, I’m not going to force myself on you either. That’s not the reason you’re here.”
Yet another thought that hadn’t had the time to cross your mind.
Just a short moment ago, you’d thought this whole thing was a drunk one-night-stand and now you’re learning that not even one part of that was true. Your brain isn’t able to keep up with the new reality, leaving you to stand there, finding little to no answers wracking your brain, making you feel at a loss like an insect trapped in a mason jar.
In the end, you’re only able to come up with reiterations of the same question, pertaining to “Then what the fuck? Why? What do you want?”
But even that seems to annoy him, only answering you with an unsympathetic “Not important for you to know,” before repeating himself, more sternly than before, “Now eat before it gets cold.”
Standing there a moment longer, your thoughts wander back to the door behind you and your shoeless feet and the possibility of you outrunning him, then remember his first comment about the locked door and how it meant you’d probably have no luck in getting out even if you could make it there first.
And then, in the midst of your train of thought regarding your next move, utterly unprompted and with seriously questionable timing given the current predicament, your stomach decides to growl.
You earn his eye-contact with that, the both of you staring at each other for a moment that ends up bordering on a while.
And in that while, you decide to table all ideas about trying to run, fight, or hide.
Sure, they’d have been more reasonable reactions, but none seemed like they’d bear any good results at the moment. And so, going against all reason, you end up doing as he had suggested. Indeed, eating would do you some good, you agree while sitting back down, fork in hand as you start piling up your plate.
While stuffing your face, you steal a look at him once or twice. He doesn’t return it—content with you eating while still equally busy stuffing his own face.
You don’t know… outside the fact that this stranger had just admitted to kidnapping you and divulged his intentions of keeping you hostage here, there’s something even odder going on. And that is that he doesn’t seem like a complete stranger at all…
Yeah… something about him is extremely familiar, but you can’t quite put your finger on it. You’re sure you haven’t met him—not face to face at least—but you can’t shake the feeling as if you’ve seen him somewhere before…
And that’s when it hits you.
“Wait… I know you!” you exclaim once it finally clicks, pointing a finger at him. “You’re that chef—the one who hosts that cooking show that makes all the contestants cry. What’s it called… Kitchen something…”
You snap your fingers, trying to trigger the memory. Whether the method is due credit or not is anyone’s guess, but in any case, you end up remembering.
“Malevolent Kitchen!”
You knew you’d seen those tattoos before. Of course! It’s honestly kind of odd it didn’t come to you any sooner. But you’ve never seen him with his hair down like that, nor were you ever a big fan of the show either.
Still, you recall the name after a few more snaps with your fingers. “Sukuna—Ryomen Sukuna. Right?”
“Correct.” He doesn’t give you more credence other than that, nor does he seem to care much that you figured it out either.
You weigh the possibility of all this being some new type of prank show, but the thought quickly proves too unikely—even when competing with the likelihood of him having kidnapped you off the streets for no good reason. But who knows? All prank shows start off with a shitty premise, after all…
You continue eating. Thinking about the show. You’re not sure if it’s still running. But you do recall hearing something about it a few years back.
There’d been a scandal or something, you think. Or no, not a scandal—more like a bad rumour. One of those stupid Tiktok trends. What was it again? You remember your friends discussing it—some saying it must have been some ploy designed by his rivals to make him run out of business, while others were certain it was actually a clever marketing trick designed to make more people check his restaurants out for themselves.
It was something stupid, and so you hadn’t given it much thought back then, but…
“Holy shit…” you announce once you remember.
True crime tiktokers—you remember now—missing girls and satanic cannibalistic shit.
“No way...” you accuse, dropping your scone onto your plate with a rattle. “Are you really a—”
Your head spins, unable to settle. And when it does, it proves only further unsettling, striking you with a sense of nausea.
“A cannibal?”
You’d hoped he’d laugh. Tell you that was crazy, then say something like you’ve just been pranked and prove to you that this really was all for some dumb reality show.
But he doesn’t.
No, he doesn’t say anything at all, like there’s no merit in even trying to deny it. Rather, he more or less confirms it, looking at you with a moderately impressed expression, like he’s surprised you figured it out so fast.
It fully dawns on you then.
“Oh God, that’s it, isn’t it?”
The sense of sickness deepens, making you look down at your plate in something akin to disgust.
And yet, while there should be a million other thoughts and regrets running though your mind, you can’t help but fret, wondering if breakfast was really going to be your final meal—a thought so depressing, it makes you throw your head back with a you-must-be-joking type of scoff, examining the ceiling above only to notice it being clinically white like in an asylum.
“Oh man, that’s just my luck,” you mutter to yourself more than anyone. “Fucking livestock.”
And then, you don’t know exactly why—it’s undefendable given everything at stake—but you snort as though it was all some big joke.
Suppose, the utter insanity of the morning had reached a summit then spilled over, staining you with it, because not before long you’re laughing, hands clutching the counter so that you don’t tip backwards while you fullheartedly cackle until you're left out right wheezing in your chair.
“Well…” you sigh after a while, with regards to the silver lining, “At least it's a nice cage.”
The man finds it odd, by the way of him, looking at you in silence, having ceased his eating with his hands kept passive beside his plate—not sure what to make of you.
You, on the other hand, reverse the roles and resume eating. Now, all but shoveling the contents on your plate into your mouth before looking up and further chirping, “Is there a jacuzzi in this place? It seems like the type of place to have a jacuzzi.”
Somewhat baffled, though not overly expressive, the man appraises you.
Then, with a pause, answers, “Upstairs.”
You push your barstool out after your final bite, cheering with the food still in your mouth “Score—” as though the reality of the situation went forgotten. “I'm gonna go check that out for a few hours.”
You’ve never been in a ritzy place like this before—it would be stupid not to reap the benefits while you still could. Given he’d just chowed down breakfast, he must not be planning on having you right this second. Besides, if he’s planning to kill and eat you, letting you use the jacuzzi is the least he could do.
You’re halfway to the staircase, when he calls out, “Just be done before dinnertime.”
You turn around and look at him at that, now with a new inquiry, “You’re cooking?”
So, is it safe to say he isn’t eating you at that point either? Maybe it’s more of a nightly thing? Suppose a thing like cannibalism would be better suited after midnight, given its satanic connotations and all, but you wouldn’t want to assume.
In any case, he nods his head, and you can’t think of anything to do but take it as another silver lining, saying, “Double score,” with a shrug before continuing on your path to the stairs.
But not before you’ve taken another step, he calls out a question, as though feeding the utter absurdity of the situation, “Any preferences?”
To which you just wave your hand, making your way to the second floor without stopping this time. “Nah, not really. ‘M not a foodie. Anything’s good!”
—
You’re in there for a while, he notes without bothering to check on you.
Even after several hours have passed by, all without a single sign of you, he decides to let you be.
He doesn’t mind being left undisturbed while cooking, but he won’t deny this type of behavior is new to him.
But perhaps it isn’t so strange. Maybe you’re just biding your time, thinking up ways of escape. A reasonable endeavor—though it won't do you any good. Try as you might, no one has ever come close.
He’ll enjoy watching your attempt nonetheless—all part of the fun.
And yet, despite expectations, you return on your own. Hair wet, skin flush, and fingers pruned as you go, looking refreshed of all things.
Not only that, but he can’t sense even a smidgen of ulterior motives in you—no fight or flight whatsoever. It’s exceedingly strange. None of his victims so far have ever approached him willingly after understanding their circumstances.
But then again, you hadn’t proved to be very normal at all so far.
You just take a seat before the decked dinner table, silently eyeing the bondage he’d typically have to use left around the chair’s arms and legs with mild curiosity, probably curious about how many had sat in the seat before you. And yet, you don’t ask him about it.
By the look on your face, it’s impossible to say if it even bothers you.
You’ve changed out of your pajamas into the dress he’d laid out. Bloodred on the darker side. Just according to the ritual. You’re certainly making things a lot easier than his previous victims. But he won’t say it’s any boring this way, at least not yet. Just for now, he’ll admit he’s even a little intrigued by you.
“Smells good,” you announce, breaking the silence, and he can’t help but further wonder over what an odd thing you’re revealing yourself to be, as he walks up and places your plate in front of you.
Usually, he’d have to threaten or force you—or the person in your place—to indulge him. You however? Not only are you willingly sitting there, you’ve already got cutlery in hand.
“Hmph,” he expresses in mild amazement, thinking, if you really weren’t going to make a fuss, he might as well just sit down as well.
It puts him out of sorts—makes him feel a little fidgety even—unable to make sense of your behavior as he is.
But then, despite looking ever ready to do so, you hold off on digging in. Instead eyeing the meat with a soft furrow between your brows as though assessing something.
It makes him halt. Thinking perhaps he was wrong—maybe he’ll have to force you after all.
Biting your lip, you look up at him through your lashes, eyeing him sheepishly for a small moment like you wanted to inquire about something, before you suddenly seem to banish the idea. Announcing with a shrug, “You know what? I’m not even gonna ask.”
You then cut yourself a piece of the steak. And after gathering a bit of everything on your fork, you proceed to put it in your mouth without any further ado.
He observes you while you swish it about on your tongue—though isn’t sure exactly what he’s looking for. He knows he’s an excellent chef, and so the idea of someone liking his food isn’t a foreign concept to him.
Still though, it’s unfamiliar to watch one of his victims enjoy themselves so much.
“Mh—mmmh!” you hum, pointing to the meat with your fork. “Okay, if this is what human tastes like, I think I might honestly get it.”
Oh, so that had been your earlier concern.
He supposes that’s not such a strange thing to suspect given you’d pieced his whole plan together so early…
Your worry is unfounded though. It’s not human meat. “It’s wagyu.” Even so, you’d eaten it despite not knowing. Forget surprised, he’s even a little impressed.
“Oh, so you don’t just eat women?” you ask then, putting another fork–full into your mouth.
He halts. “What?”
Carelessly, you continue eating while making what he hesitantly would refer to as small talk, “I thought the reports only said missing women?”
Oh, right. He chuckles.
“What’s so funny?” you ask.
This time, he’s the one to break into laughter as he finally takes his own seat opposite from you.
“Hello? What’s so funny?” you ask again.
“Wagyu isn’t a name. It’s a type of beef,” he informs.
You blink at the revealed information, then look down at your plate, a small “Oh,” leaving you, sounding almost a little disappointed. Which only further spurs his amusement with an even louder cackle, causing you to pout as you look back up, whining, “Man, shut up, I told you I wasn’t a foodie.”
Then you laugh as well, at yourself, “Well, whatever it is, it's really good!” before continuing to eat.
“It better be,” he states, beginning to eat as well. “It retails for three-hundred bucks.”
You choke then—just as expected of someone like you with seemingly no knowledge of finer foods—cutlery seizing all movement upon your plate, clutched tightly in your grip. “Excuse me, what?” Eyes wide, you gawk at him from across the table, loudly exclaiming, “That’s even crazier than being a cannibal!”
It’s entertaining to say the least. The way you eye the meat again, now with an incredulous expression, and a bit of hesitantancy—perhaps due to shame for having scarfed it down so fast without properly savoring it.
“I mean, it’s good, don’t get me wrong,” you begin saying after a moment of thoughtful silence. “But three hundred big ones, really?”
Looking up again, your eyes as big as the dinner plates, looking for answers from him as though he could somehow explain a refined palate to you.
But not before long, your stare narrows into a suspicious squint instead, cocking your head sideways with a slow shake. “Nah… you’re fucking with me again, aren’t you?” you accuse, pointing your fork at him with a grin as though you’re onto him about something. “It’s actually just—like—racoon meat or something. You didn’t actually buy beef for three franklins as feed for the livestock—that would just be plain crazy.”
He grabs the wine bottle stationed between you with a soft disapproving grunt—you really don’t know the first thing about food at all, do you? Popping the cork, he then fills your glass, explaining, “The best farmers buy the best feed. I wouldn't wanna fatten you up with anything less than what I’d put in my own mouth.”
You keep a look of disbelief on your face for a moment, mulling it over in your head. Whether you understand it or not is all the same to him. Still, it surprises him to see you grab your glass with another shrug, followed by an agreeing, “Right, when you put it like that, I guess it only makes sense.”
You really are an odd one… He’s still waiting for you to snap out of whatever false calm you’d fallen under, to watch you break down and be left as hysteric as all his prior prey had been. But nothing of the sort ever happens.
No, not at all.
Throughout the dinner you make a few more efforts at small talk, inquiring about what wagyu is amongst other things, accepting his curt answers for what meagre back-and-forth they offer. And in the end, after declaring your fullness, you straightforwardly ask him if he’s going to eat you that night or if he’s planning to save you for another day.
And after hearing him say no, you only say as much as “Right then,” with a big yawn, before further announcing, “If that’s all, I think I’ll go to bed. If that’s okay with you?”
It’s unusual for the evening to end so soon, given how much time he’d been prepared to dedicate to ensure its progression and completion. With all his prior prey, he’d have to all but forcefeed them—a process that would sometimes take up to several hours. But, given you’d cleaned your plate all on your own, he could see no reason to keep you any longer.
And so he dismisses you with a nod and a short “Sure.”
“I’m guessing the room I woke up in is still up for grabs?” you ask, being polite of all things as you carry your plate over to the sink, rinse it, and place it neatly in the dishwasher.
He doesn’t know how else to answer but return your casualness with his own. Saying, “Knock yourself out.”
You celebrate with a tiny “Nice!” before setting your sights to the stairs, then an even more peculiar exclamation of “Good night!” before finally disappearing.
Leaving him to sit there and mull in your wake. Grimacing once noticing too late how you’d hidden a few vegetables in the folds of your napkin…
—
True to his word, he doesn’t kill and eat you during the night.
The next couple of days pass just the same. You sleep alone in the same room you’d woken up in, you utilize the luxury during the day, he makes food, you eat together, and then you go back to sleep.
Strange as it is, it’s not so different from being on a vacation—or well, aside from wondering when he might decide to suddenly eat you, of course.
Still though, just the same as with vacation, the longer it lasts, the more not doing anything gets you feeling a little antsy.
Which is why, “Want any help?” you ask. Sitting by the breakfast bar, elbows propped on the counter, head resting on both palms, kicking your feet while staring at him rummage around, doing the work of five people.
He’s so wrapped up in it, you thought he didn’t notice you, but, similar to your first encounter, he keeps his back turned while addressing you as though he might have known you were there all along.
“You know how to cut an onion?” he asks.
To which you roll your eyes with a scoff, “I mean, I did work at a burger joint, so I would hope so.”
You decide to overlook his audacity and take it as an invitation, even though you’re sure he’d meant it as the opposite.
You ignore his side-eye as you relieve the onion of its coat and start cutting. Even as the man fully stops his own ministrations just to stare at you with arms crossed, you don’t bother.
In the end he doesn’t stop you, just mutters “Your technique is pitiful,” before returning to what he’d been doing—allowing you to continue despite his clear aversion.
“Man, whatever, I got paid minimum wage,” you dismiss with a laugh, finding his dourness funny. “Chopped onion’s chopped onion anyway, so don’t be a dick. And besides, that’s not what you should be worrying about.”
“Oh?” he retorts absentmindedly, without bothering to look at you.
You snicker, setting your hip to the counter, twirling the blade around with your hand while giving him a sly look. “If I were you, I’d be more worried about how I just armed the livestock with a knife.”
You’re being playful, of course, not serious. Even still, you know you’re pushing it, given the man’s your cannibalistic captor you shouldn't be goofing around with. But you can’t seem to help yourself. “I mean, how do you know I won't cut you?”
He still doesn't offer you a glance, but returns your snicker with his own. “You know what? I’d love to see you try.”
“Oh really? You have that much faith in yourself you can dodge a blade with absolute certainty?”
You’re bantering. You’re bantering with the man who plans to kill and eat you. And despite all logic, it’s fun. And, if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s enjoying it too, because, finally his head turns to look at you, grin on his face, and says, “Try it.”
Your smile grows wider, laughing now, “Alright, well, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll take back those nasty comments regarding my onion-chopping skills—”
You’re only barely pointing the knife in his direction as a mock threat before you’re face-first with the pristine black marble of the kitchen counter, arm bent behind your back.
“See?” his voice wreaks heat upon your ear, bent over you from the back, low and gritty, “I’ve handled all types of animals—many of ‘em far more trouble than a brat with an onion knife.”
You don’t know if he notices, but you do—the way his lower half grinds against your ass with bulge and all. Maybe he’s just big, but you swear you can feel a certain stiffness.
“Yeah? I can tell, you really know how to handle someone.”
He releases you instantly upon your comment as though the very words had burned him, even taking extra measures to back up away from you—a sudden grimace on his face as he glares at you like he’s trying to keep you at arm’s length.
“If you're trying to make yourself interesting in the hopes I'll spare you, you should save yourself the embarrassment. As I said, I’m not interested in that shit.”
You had half the nerve to tell him that he could’ve fooled you with the way he was just acting, but you decided to save it. Instead, you just chuckle with a sarcastic “Aw shucks, my masterplan,”
Still though, despite your efforts of disengaging, he stands there, a little guarded, if you were to describe it, as though not convinced you weren’t effectively trying to seduce him.
You shake your head, thinking it all ridiculous. Like, if you were actually trying to seduce him you wouldn’t lead with onions and death threats, now would you?
“Trust me, chef, I understand my circumstances,” you declare with a hand to your chest and a dull look on your face. “I might be livestock, but I'm not dumb like one. I know there’s no reality in which you decide to let me go free. I mean, you’ confessed to being a cannibal, for crying out loud—there’s no way back from that.”
You lean yourself against the kitchen island you’d been pinned against not too many seconds ago. “And I know I'm supposed to be freaking out or whatever. But honestly, freaking out’s just never been my style.”
With both hands flat against the cool marble you tip your head backwards to look up at the ceiling, once again assessing the clinical whiteness of it all, before continuing, “Besides…. in a way, I’ve always had this gut feeling that I'd end up in a situation like this, so I’ sorta came to terms with it ages ago.”
You spot the funny look he gives you in your peripheral, and you restate, “Well, not like this, of course, but you know… In trouble somehow. So, I figure I should just try to enjoy myself as much as I can before I can’t. You know?”
He doesn’t give you any sign that tells you he understands what you’re talking about, but it wasn’t as though you were expecting one either. To be honest, you don’t understand it yourself. By all accounts, you should be losing your marbles right now, and by all means, you probably are—you just never knew it would feel the same as taking a fake sick-day just to get out of work.
But anyways. “You should be happy, chef.” At least that’s what you think. “I heard fear spoils the flavor. Who knows? Maybe you’ll get your first ever taste of untainted meat.”
His unrelaxed countenance doesn’t fully change as he cocks a brow, all but interrogating you, “Thought you said you weren’t a foodie.”
You chuckle. “I just heard it somewhere, is all.” It’s funny how that’s the part he chooses to arrest you on and not any of the other shit you’d just said, but nevermind. “Anything else I can help with?”
He still looks a bit wary. But after a moment, he nods towards the dining room, with regards allowing you to, “Deck the table.”
You smile at his weirdness, wondering if he’s asexual or abstinent while answering, “Sure thing, chef.”
—
A couple of more weeks pass just like that. You help him make dinner despite his efforts to discourage you. Other than that you continue to try and enjoy the luxuries that come with being a lamb raised for slaughter—taking long baths and watching movie marathons in the home cinema you found during your exploring of the house.
He’s gone most of the day, but not everyday. Even so, he’s busy—prepping things in the kitchen, or on the phone in his office. That, his bedroom, and the meat locker in the basement are the only three rooms with a lock in the entire house—except the outer door, of course—and the only three rooms you’ve yet to have seen the inside of.
In your sleep your mind wanders to what he keeps down there—and his bedroom for that matter. Imagining skinned bodies and heads in jars. It’s all you can do to entertain yourself after having run out of things to occupy your need for stimuli.
Today is one of those days especially, where restlessness has taken hold of you in such a way you don’t know what to do with yourself.
He comes home to find all the dining chairs mangled beyond repair, having been tossed a dozen times against the windows and walls.
“Shatterproof glass,” you state without acknowledging his arrival, lying still on the floor in the splinters. “I figured. But it was worth the try—if only to test your eye for precautions.”
He doesn’t do anything but stand there, taking in the crime scene.
“You gonna punish me?” you ask after a moment’s time.
“No,” he answers shortly.
To which you sigh, feeling as though it hadn’t been the answer you were looking for even though that doesn’t make much sense. A little miffed, you prop yourself up on your elbows to look at him, “You’re not even the least bit disappointed?”
He starts making his way to the kitchen, six grocery bags, three in each hand, saying, “It’s only natural. I’m more surprised it took you this long to try.”
You drop back down with a pout at the boring response, staring at the ceiling once more—still clinically white like you’ve been locked inside an asylum. At this point you might start believing it could be true. Mumbling, “Yeah, well, maybe I have an Icarus problem or whatever they call it…”
Another heavy sigh leaves you then. “Not gonna lie to you, chef. I'm starting to freak out a little.” You try making it sound like a warning, though you’re not sure he takes it as such. “Or maybe I'm just bored. Not sure which…”
He ignores you and you pout. And then, just a moment later, with spectacular timing as usual, your stomach decides to growl.
“Oh, really?” you question, looking down your chest to eye your stomach.
“How ‘bout that…” you scoff. “I guess trying to break windows is hungry work.”
You veer your head backwards to where your unlikely roommate stands, packing out of the grocery bags in a slow meticulous manner, like he’s taking his time to enjoy himself, thinking about all the cooking possibilities at his disposal.
Curiosity piqued, “What's for dinner?” you ask as you jump up on your feet and walk over to take your seat by the breakfast counter—it’s become your designated spot.
Standing before the fridge, he’s just finished packing the last item away when turning around and leaning against the door. Asking “What do you want?” while trying to act casual. But you can tell—he’s eager, wanting you to solve his luxury of choice for him.
But alas, it’s questions like those that you hate. And so, clutching the counter, you tilt backwards and make a show of rolling your head against your shoulders, before laying yourself dead against the marble, looking up at him, saying “Oh, come on, chef, you know I don't have the answer to that. Your kitchen might as well be a space station.”
With a sly smile, you bat your lashes at him as though saying pretty please “Decide for me?”
Since that time he’d pinned you against the counter, he’s been more guarded when it comes to your suggestive and flirty ways, standing there, straight and stiff, with only curt “Fine,” leaving him.
It’s boring, you pout to no one but yourself as he rolls up his sleeves and starts picking ingredients.
But then, ingredients in hand, still with his back turned towards you as he makes his way to the stove, he mumbles, just loud enough for it to be meant as an offer and not some joke, “If you’re bored, come help.”
You lift yourself up from your slump, burning holes in the back of his head with your stare. This would be the first time he’s ever spared you any such consideration.
You have to giggle a bit, feeling excited as you jump out of your seat and follow behind him. “The word please ain’t in your vocabulary, huh, chef?”
As though embarrassed to look at you after having requested you in such a way, he even turns his cheek when you get too close, mumbling once again, now lower and gruffer, “I ain’t heard you say thank you yet, either.”
It makes your smile grow wider. “Hmph—I guess we’re bad company.”
—
More weeks pass.
The only thing you ask of him is to rent you a movie you’d been dying to see.
Other than that, you make yourself about as high maintenance as a housecat. He just feeds you three times a day and you never complain.
Over time, you get more and more comfortable—which he hadn’t thought possible—and more and more bratty, inviting him into discussions, coaxing him into indulging you by showing interest in his cooking, spanning from acting deeply invested to fleetingly so. He can’t blame you for trying. Still, he can’t reward your efforts either.
Exercising restraint, he maintains an instrumental distance. The more familiarity you show him, the more he pulls back. After all, he mustn’t forget what you are. In the end, despite how much you act like it, you’re not his pet or partner or imaginary friend. You’re meat. He just needs to figure out what to make with you. That’s all. The only reason behind him keeping you around this long.
Admittedly, your slaughter date was supposed to be ages ago. He’s never kept another victim this long, not by a long shot. Usually, the entire ritual only lasts the weekend, with an entire week at most. Meanwhile, your stay is coming up on a whole month now…
And still, he lets another two weeks pass. And with the additional time, you’ve grown the audacity to sit and pick at his food.
“Not up to your standards?” he questions.
You’ve been unusually quiet this evening. Normally, you’d talk his ear off about this and that and everything between heaven and hell, but right now, if he were to close his eyes, he wouldn’t even know you were there with him.
During your month and a half, you’d yet to have gotten sick. Not that there was any reason for you to get sick, what with you staying safe indoors and him cooking all your meals. Really, you should be brimming with life like you would any other day.
But then again, he had noticed a change in you lately. Mere boredom had evolved into something more, something worse. Sitting there, silently, your expression isn’t only dull, but something even more hushed.
Lonely is the word that comes to mind.
“I don't mean to offend you, chef…” you mumble. “But right now I kinda just wish I had some cup noodles—or maybe a big mac or something else simple like that—anything but this gourmet stuff…”
He’s not sure what to say to that. Though many of his prior victims had refused to eat his food or even gone to such lengths as to throw up after eating it, he’s never, not once, witnessed one request junk food instead.
“I’m sorry, that was rude,” you apologize. Then, releasing a heavy sigh, you pick your gaze up, setting those pitifully downcast eyes in his direction. “When are you gonna kill me?”
Your expression is blank, and yet it has a certain presence—demanding an answer.
It wasn’t a question he was expecting to hear from you.
“Haven’t decided,” he dismisses. He doesn’t let it show, but it sends a chill down his spine. He then begins to eat without you in an attempt to shrug it off. Ignoring the way you stare at him by pretending to have his full focus on his plate, even when he can barely taste the food on his tongue.
“I think you should do it soon. Before my meat goes bad,” you add, unsatisfied with his response—or, at least, he thinks he can detect a certain sharpness in your tone he’s never heard before.
It proves more of a reason for him to keep eating—half his plate already gone while yours remain untouched. Answering you with his mouth stuffed full, “I don't know what to make of you yet.”
“Tch—aren’t you a chef?” you huff to that. He can spot your grip tighten around your utensils, wringing the silver in your grip. “Figure it out already.”
He’s not sure what this feeling is. Something weird in his gut, making the food not sit right. He’s never experienced it before, but something tells him its nervousness. What else can it be? What else would have the power to make him lose appetite as well as make it near impossible to return your glare?
“You haven’t given me anything to work with…” he argues, as though this was a simple matter. “I can’t cook if I'm not inspired.”
Even as he says it, he knows it’s all bullshit—knows it won’t satisfy the frustration he can feel emanating from you.
“Excuse me?” you bark then, voice raised even higher, even sharper, “I’m here waiting to become food, and you’re talking about inspiration?”
You scoff then, incredulously. “Last time I checked, the beef doesn’t tell the chef it wants to be a fucking burger.”
In situations like these, he’d typically resort to the restraints. You hadn’t yet given him any reason to, but still, they’ve remained around the chair’s arms and legs all this time, just waiting to be put to use.
Usually, he wouldn’t bat an eye doing it, but for some reason, with you, he’d like to avoid it.
“Eat,” he says instead, halfway as a command, but otherwise as a measure to diffuse the tension.
But efforts be damned, you won’t have it, throwing your cutlery on the clothed table with a clatter in clear demonstration. “I'm not fucking hungry. How about that?”
Another chill straightens his spine, his jaw clenched, throat tight, repeating “Eat,”
And you, challenging him, stand your ground with a sound “No.”
He throws his cutlery too, then slams both fists down on the table, making everything do a jump. “Either you eat, or I forcefeed you. Pick.”
“Fine,” you return right away, throwing your hands up in a mock gesture of surrender yet make no advancements towards your utensils or the food on your plate. Instead, you make a show of crossing your arms over your chest while slouching down in your seat like a brat, before further pushing your luck with an equally testy “What's for dessert?”
Your plate remains picked to pieces, getting colder by the second, with none of it having seen your mouth. What’s more, not only have you had enough nerve to have asked him for fast food instead, now you’re taking it further by ordering “Dessert?”
“Yeah.” Assessing your nails, you switch between having your fingers pressed into your palm to turning your hand around and stretching them out. Lips pursed before you smack then, “I've been meaning to tell you this for a while now actually, it’s criminal to have dinner without dessert.”
Swallowing thick, he finds the need to gather himself as the magnitude of unrecognizable emotions floods his body and brains, so much his eye twitches receiving them all. “Is that right?”
Meanwhile, you just cock your head to the side, continuing to push him with an assertive “Sure is.”
Teeth clenched, he takes a breath, then relays “Hate to disappoint, but I don’t make dessert,” still trying to put the argument to bed by thwarting your stubbornness.
But you remain determined. In fact, you remain downright unabashed, shooting him a pointedly snarky “What type of chef doesn’t know how to make dessert?”
Yet another chill nearly makes him shudder. Brows lowered, stating, “I know how.”
By all accounts, he’s giving you enough warnings for you to back off and apologize, but you do no such thing. “Then why don’t you?” you inveigh instead, now with a sneer no less.
“Eat,” he repeats again, as if saying for the last time.
But you refuse to let it scare you. “No!” you roar, abruptly standing up with a stomp. “In fact, fuck you! I'm done eating on death row without dessert! It’s ridiculous!”
He gets up too, with a growl no less, “Sit down.”
His fists balled up, placed with knuckles cracking against the table in clear threat you still don’t bother heeding.
You just ball your own fists and mirror his stance. “Are you deaf? I said, not without dessert.”
“That’s it.”
It’s just like the last time he put hands on you—it happens before he can think.
One second, he’s staring at you from the other side of the table, and in the next, he’s already rounded it and planted you flat against it. Though that’s not to say he didn’t have control. No, his actions are perfectly calculated despite his head being anything but—having placed you down, belly-up, just shy of the food, like you’re part of the feast.
“Don’t you get it?” he rasps, clutching your upper arms harshly enough to make you shut your mouth—but too late. With the damage already done, you needn’t push him anymore to make him blurt it out, “You’re supposed to be dessert but you’re making it fucking impossible!”
And still, it’s not the outburst you’d been waiting for.
“Excuse me?!” you gasp. “I’m making it impossible?” With a big scoff, you seem to forget how he’s got you pinned beneath him against the table with the way your hands fly up and ball his shirt in two tightknit fists. “Fuck are you on? I’ve been nothing but cooperative since the start, you asshole!”
“You’re not supposed to be, you brat!” he counters, and then with his head bowed and voice lowered into a whisper adds “I’m fucking starving beacuse of you.”
Your eyes meet his, unwavering in their pursuit, and he can’t defend calling you his victim or his prey any longer.
“Well… if you’re so fucking hungry, go on and eat me already,” you dare, a provocative curl upon your lips drawing him in. “Unless you’re too much of a pussy to try.”
—
“Well, well, well…” you croon, lying beneath his sheets, on top of his chest like it’s your rightful place. A smug look in your eyes, biting your smile, before completing your taunt, “Looks like you fell for my master plan after all.”
He sighs heavily. Hands connected just beneath the small of your back, on top of all that plump flesh he thought he’d have in his stomach, but instead ended up in his bed.
No one could have predicted these turn of events. And so, “Don't flatter yourself... We both know you never had any plan.”
You just giggle, continuing to tease him, “And still, the livestock lives on.”
Shifting, you push yourself up into a seated position, straddling him. “I mean, not to judge or anything, but…” Running your hands down his chest, he watches you admire all the little bitemarks you’d left before your eyes meet his again, as unapologetic as ever. “You’d be a real freak if you ate me after we did all that.”
INFECT ME WITH YOUR LOVIN'| KILL ME WITH YOUR POISON !
summ. After your base is attacked, you're left at the whims of the wilderness- that includes to a lonely Na'vi that seems to take a liking to you.
w/c. ~7.3k
tags. Na'vi!Caleb, human!reader, soft yandere, alienxhuman, Avatar (2009) AU, Slight angst and fluff, Mentions of war, forbidden love (kinda), forest setting, CAVE sex (again??), slight infantilization, doting Caleb, slight predator/prey dynamic, pathetic Caleb agenda, minor injuries, drooling, p in v, HUGE dick, masturbation, spitting, filthy filthy $mut, size difference, cvmming inside, begging caleb, he whines, making out, slightly maniuplative caleb
a/n. it's finally here...this one took me way too long lol. some minor things: in this AU humans can breath on pandora for minutes at a time without a mask. ur girl gotta have more time to make out w the aliens LOL. oh and also, brown skin is mentioned like once, but this is just to refer to human skin (since all skin tones are shades of brown, whether light or dark) not to make the reader insert a certain race.
Your breaths come in ragged, panicked pants, each puff fogging up the cracked glass of your mask. Your brain screams at you to move. Your body stays locked up, though, pinned against the rough bark of a tree.
The edge of an oxygen mask glints alluringly in the midday sun— untainted, uncracked, with advanced tech you know will last you months, but it lays about twenty feet away. And that’s twenty feet deeper into the foreign, bushy wilderness.
Head thumping back against the tree, you spare a few seconds to think. Most people, if not everyone in that lab, are getting killed or already dead. It’s likely still teeming with those hostile Na’vi, so it’s not like you’ll be able to go back anytime soon.
Fuck, this is what I get for applying for this position, you curse internally, gritting your teeth. Some shady military op that’s apparently trying to conquer an alien planet and put scientists like you, who were just trying to understand alien life, in danger.
Oxygen leaks out of your mask with a steady hiss. Your breaths grow shallower, chest tightening. You need that mask. Even if it risks giving up your hiding spot.
Slowly, you crawl out into the open, tufts of plush grass tickling your palms. You keep glancing surreptitiously towards the base, half expecting a screeching Na’vi to pounce at you at any second.
The mask is ten feet away. Now five. You’re about to make the final stretch. But first, you feel it: a little tingle on your skin, a dark inkling that something is wrong.
Then, you see it.
Two dark eyes are pinned on you, peeking through the thick foliage. A zap of terror shoots through you. Instead of recoiling back, you freeze, chest tightening in a way that has nothing to do with your lack of oxygen.
Time stands still.
Move, you snap at yourself internally, but you can only stay petrified, mouth agape, on your hands and knees, arm still reaching for the mask like an idiot.
Would moving even make a difference? The other part of your brain laments. It’s not like I could compete with a Na’vi’s speed.
Then, the branches part. The being reveals himself, all long, blue limbs toned with muscle. A male, you realize, unable to do much but stare right back at him. A bow is slung over his back.
Your heart pounds, fully anticipating him to just whip out an arrow and shoot you right there. But his gaze isn’t predatory or malicious, no— it’s sharp with curiosity, almost wide with surprise at seeing a human in these forests. He’s not one of those hostiles, then?
Even through his messy, brown hair, you can see that he dawns markings that don’t correlate with any tribes you’ve seen. With your experience in studying the Na’vi, you quickly catalogue potential identities. A lone hunter? A nomad?
He steps closer, and closer yet, until he’s just a foot away. Brilliant bright eyes— violet, you realize— drop from you, to the sought-after mask, before shooting back up to you.
Then, with all the grace and elegance of a cat, he crouches down and plucks the mask from the ground.
Desperation rising, you blurt, “No!”
He was merely turning the object in his large palms, inspecting it, but at your outburst he pauses, head slowly raising to stare at you. You resist the urge to clasp a hand over your mouth.
What were you thinking, yelling at this lethal alien? But he hasn’t killed me yet, when Na’vi are known for ending their victims relatively quickly, you ration. So maybe I have a chance?
Your oxygen mask beeps in warning, drawing his endlessly fascinated gaze. You need that mask.
“I mean,” you try again, this time in the basic Na’vi you picked up while studying, “that’s mine.”
The Na’vi tilts his head. Then his lips twitch, sharp eyebrows lowering, as if pleased by hearing you speak to him.
The one-sided conversation is interrupted by a loud crash from the base.
Both of your heads snap in the direction of the base. There’s another crash, accompanied by the screeching of approaching Na’vi that gets louder by the second. The takeover hasn’t stopped. It’d been just moving throughout the base, and now it’s moving towards you.
Finally, you scramble up, forget about that stupid mask, and run.
You don’t know where exactly you’re going. You just push through thick branches and foliage, hoping the vegetation will shield you from the hostiles’ eyes. But then you realize there’s a second set of footsteps behind you.
You shriek as a long arm binds around your waist, tugging you flush against a firm chest. A large blue hand grabs both of your flailing arms easily, and you’re hauled over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
At first, you want to kick and fight some more, but when you look back at the wrecked base, distance from it growing with each of the Na’vi’s long strides, you see the building shake with a low boom, and arrows whiz past the interior. He’s saving you. And though you have no idea where you’re going, as long as it’s away from the mass slaughter taking place in there—
You can only tuck your face against the Na’vi’s neck and pray.
You feel him mount you on something, and you peek just a bit and see that he’s ushered you on an screeching ikran. “Wait,” you panic, squirming to look up at him, but he only glances down airily, before shoving your face into his broad chest with a large palm.
You suppose you should be grateful for the way your view is hindered as the ikran rocks and takes off shakily, as you’re positive you would’ve vomited everywhere if you were forced to see the treetops far below. You still squeal though, clutching at the Na’vi’s torso like it’s a lifeline, eyes squeezed shut. You swear you feel his chest rumbling with laughter against your cheek.
It’s been minutes when world tilts again, air rushing past your ears. You can feel yourself soaring up, steeper, before suddenly the ikran lands with surprising grace, and you’re on stable ground again.
The Na’vi wastes no time in dismounting and taking you up in his arms again. Finally, you open your eyes. The area is lush with vegetation, but it’s clearly distinct from where the base was. Jagged rocks jut out against hills, creating interconnected networks of caves that extend outwards in different openings.
He takes you to one of them. You assume it’s his longtime home, as it’s entrance is veiled by a net woven with beads and wooden vines. He lifts the veil, revealing a spacious interior that glows with bioluminescent fauna that glows dimly even midday. As he sets you down, you can only marvel at the space, curiously taking in a Na’vi den you’ve only studied on computer screens— yet this one seemed decisively different. Most Na’vi homes were villages, clusters of netting and treehouses that were interconnected, built alongside nature, but never the nature itself, like this cave you’re in. There were some similarities, such as the woven net covering the cave that extends slightly to create a hammock-like structure, before dipping to cover the cold stony floor, that suggested he’d settled here for long enough. He must not be a nomad then. But there’s no village in sight— so what is he?
Your thoughts are cut off when you’re lightly shoved onto the hammock without any warning.
You twist, only to see the Na’vi kneeling over you. “What— hey!”
Your words are in English, but he still seems to sense your distress. “Calm down,” his voice is surprisingly soothing even when he’s speaking an alien language. “I just need to fix you up.”
He gestures to a shallow gash on your shin that you didn’t even know was there. Huh.
“But first…” he delicately hands you the oxygen mask. You take it eagerly, discarding your old one. The Na’vi watches, fascinated by the sight of your face without a barrier, but you’re quick to clasp on the new mask, eyes averted.
You sigh in relief, the tightness in your lungs fading with just a few breaths of the recycled air. Yet, you tense up again when lithe fingers grip your shin.
Now it’s your turn to watch in fascination as the Na’vi brings out what looks like a giant pestle bowl and grind up some sort of herbs, the plants bleeding an alarmingly neon green color that honestly looks poisonous— but it’s not like you’re in any position to complain, so you just let him work. You shift your feet a little, feeling ridiculously out of place. He’s quiet, probably concentrated on his work, but your human mannerisms and curiosity urge you to fill the silence with conversation.
“So…” you clear your throat, straining your tongue to wrap around the foreign vowels of Na’vi to tell him your name, before adding, “what’s your name?”
“Ca’leb,” he answers simply.
“Caleb…” you probably mess up an accent or two, but that’s the least of your worries. Mindfully, as not to be rude to your host, you ask, “why did you save me?”
“Well, you were in danger,” Caleb hums simply, and you jerk when his long fingers apply the cool herbal salve along the stinging cut. As his grip shifts to unnecessarily cup your calf in a gentle caress, his violet gaze shimmers in the glowing fauna, intense yet almost shy. “Besides, I’ve never seen a human up close before. I just had to take you.”
Ooookay, you flush, refusing to meet his insistent gaze, I might be stuck with this weird loner Na’vi for a while. At least he’s healing me?
“Alright,” you clear your throat, “thank you. It was…awful back there.”
Caleb shifts closer, slender tail flicking behind him excitedly as he practically lounges on the hammock with you, sturdy netting barely dipping under his weight. “You’re welcome. In fact, I’m surprised you even got away. Humans seem very fragile…can I?”
You don’t even have a chance to reply before he’s practically feeling you up, large hands lifting and turning over your smaller limbs, eyes wide with intrigue. He pokes and prods at your ribs and thighs, drawing quiet noises of shock from you. His hands go up, pushing up the fabric of your shirt, exposing your stomach and almost—
You shove his hands away urgently, letting out a snap. “Don’t you even try going there! Please,” you add quickly, anxious about angering him.
Instead, Caleb looks sad, eyes widening and lip jutting, tail curling backwards dejectedly.
Huh. Strange equating this lethal creature to a puppy, but here we are.
To his credit, he gets over it relatively quick, a pleasant expression making its way back on his face. He tugs his hands away, as if just now realizing that personal space would be nice, especially after the frightful event you just experienced.
More alert now, he stands to his towering height and tucks some furs around you. “Get some rest,” he orders, heading towards the entrance of the cave, where he perches, bow by his side. “I’ll keep watch and make sure no hostile tribes followed us here.” You blink, watching him leave rather abruptly.
You’d think falling asleep in such an unfamiliar place is hard, especially when said place is the wilderness of an alien planet. Yet, with the soft elastic material beneath you and a hide pulled up to your chin, it’s not long before you’re in a land of dreams.
When you wake, the sun hangs low in the sky. Sitting up, you notice Caleb’s steady form is gone from the opening. Apprehensive mingles through you: you didn’t exactly want your only source of protection gone when you were out here in the wilderness.
Meekly, you stand— ignoring your stinging shin— and creep out of the shelter, lifting the netting to step out onto the grass. Glancing around doesn’t give you any more insight on where you are as you’d hoped. Well, it’s another forest, you think dryly, blinking up at the towering trees around you.
“What are you doing outside?”
You turn at the sound of his voice. Gone is the innocent exterior he held; Caleb’s glaring, sharp brows lowered and jaw clenched. Slung over his shoulder is a bloody carcass of some sort of creature, and despite his softness earlier, you find the violence comes eerily natural to him. You swallow thickly.
“I woke up and was just wondering where you went,” you stammer, and his expression slowly relaxes. He really can switch up, huh? You wonder. Are all Na’vi like this?
“Alright,” with a hand on the small of your back, you’re ushered back inside. “Right on time for dinner. Just don’t walk on your injury, yeah?”
You nod, perching back on the hammock. You watch him bring the animal just outside the cave, where he sparks up a small flame. You choose to look away as he hacks at the meat with a knife into tiny cuts— you’ve been on this planet for a while, but as a scientist, your exposure to the wilderness and camping has been limited to cooking smores back on Earth. Eventually, though, Caleb returns with a steaming plate of roasted meat, with a side of what looks like grain and herbs. It’s not any human food, but just the smell of it is enough to make you salivate.
“Thank you,” you eagerly reach for the bowl, but Caleb merely pulls it back an inch, shaking his head with a smile.
“Let me feed you. You should save your energy,” and he’s perching right next to you on the hammock, scooping some food onto a spoon.
“Oh, no, I’m alright—”
He’s already holding out a spoonful. “Say ahh!”
Reluctant, you lift your oxygen mask, leaning forward to take a bite. Caleb watches your expression, enraptured, as you chew and swallow. You give him a strained smile— the food is amazing, but having him be so attentive is a bit embarrassing.
“Delicious,” you comment as you slip the mask on for a second to steal some breaths of oxygen. Caleb lights up at the praise, lips splitting with a smile, big eyes glimmering.
“Good. Eat it all, then. You need strength, yawntutsyìp,” you have no idea what that nickname means, but you continue letting him feed you.
“You should eat too.”
“I will, later.”
“Alright,” eating and rushing a few breaths of oxygen doesn’t exactly leave any room for speaking, but your curiosity really knows no bounds. “What animal is this?”
“It’s a syìl*,”*** Caleb seems eager to hold a conversation, so he doesn’t mind when you eat slower to rush out some questions. “Herds of them are plentiful around these forests, especially less than a mile north.”
“Oh,” you’ve heard of those deer-like creatures in your research. Knowing that you’re tasting one makes you feel an absurd amount of giddiness. “You seem very knowledgeable about these parts.”
“I am. I’ve lived here for quite a while.”
“But I don’t think there are any tribes or villages nearby,” you are careful to tread lightly. As familial bonds are deeply sacred to the Na’vi, and his isolation is not only deeply baffling and rare, the subject may be a sensitive one. “Do you live here alone?”
But Caleb looks unfettered and merely nods. “Yes.”
You press your lips together in thought, but you have to quickly part them again to take the spoon in your mouth again when he insistently waves it around. It seems like this is all you’re getting out of him today, because by the time your bowl is empty, he’s pushing you to lie back into the hammock.
“Sìltsan,” he coos, brushing a palm over your head as you lay down, “good, good job. Now just go to sleep, yeah? You’ve had a long day.”
You’re too tired to even bristle at his doting— does he seriously think humans are a kind of pet or something?— dozing off under his persistent, gentle pats. You sleep deep enough that you don’t stir when he curls up beside you later.
You learn a few things about Caleb in the next days that pass.
One, being that he’s alarmingly attentive.
You’ve woken up at least 3 times with Caleb’s bright eyes pinned on you in the dark of the night. You at first wondered if he was irritated— did you take too much of the pelt, leaving him chilly? Or were you hogging too much space? You attempted to resolve this by shifting away from him one night, ensuring you don’t brush against him. He didn’t take too much of a liking to that, tugging you close again with his long limbs and nuzzling into your hair. You had squeaked, offput, but said nothing. Perhaps you should’ve, because now these nightly cuddles have become a habit. But you don’t want to complain to your ever-accommodating and considerate host. Maybe he’s just lonely, you think, wide awake in the dark cave as Caleb’s breath brushes your hair, arms heavy around you. And really does see you as some sort of pet. Or comfort object.
And that’s another thing: he’s very much completely alone.
Sure, Na’vi travelling alone for some time isn’t absolutely unheard of, but they always return back to their villages. From what you’ve heard from Caleb, he’s never spoken of any relatives or past tribes. And he speaks a lot.
Not that you’re complaining. Most of it is about any fauna or wildlife he brings back to the cave. You’re always quick to stop him before he can cook everything, inquiring about each thing incessantly. He mirrors your enthusiasm, happily rambling out information like they’re not the greatest gems of knowledge for a scientist like yourself. Sometimes, he loves talking about his flying practices in particular, how he maneuvers his ikran and soars over the clouds. You wish you had a notebook to write these stories down sometimes, so you can show them to…
To who? You huff at yourself. The corpses of those scientists back at the base?
You grimace at your own gruesome thoughts. There’s no telling if anyone survived back there, but there had to be more human bases around, right? Though being a cuddle-buddy to an alien out in the wilderness isn’t the worst fate, you have every intention of exploring the possibility of reuniting with other humans later.
You two manage to develop some semblance of a normal routine over the next few days. By the time you wake, Caleb is back with some early-morning catch, and you sometimes help cook it into breakfast, before loitering around all day trying to chase boredom, through the various efforts Caleb endorses. Escaping from civilization for a bit is fun at first.
The first few days you’re taken with the idea of weaving, spending hours trying to loop some vine around a stick. “It’s kinda like crochet,” you realize, slowly going through the motions that Caleb had previously guided you through— “Upwards, then around, then through,” he had instructed, larger hands cradling yours with a delicacy that made you flush.
Caleb just tilts his head. “What is crochet?”
You tell him, and he listens with endless fascination. That’s another thing about Caleb; he loves listening to you speak, however basic your Na’vi, about human life. You tell him about the plants on Earth, the things you used to eat, hobbies, even the boring stuff like jobs and work and traffic. But he just listens, head propped up in his hand, staring so intently you wonder if he’s even listening or if he’s just staring because he wants to.
But eventually, talking about civilization makes you miss it with each word you blurt. And by the— tenth? or eleventh—day, you’re completely over this little vacation.
“Caleb,” you say, in the middle of him braiding back your hair for bed— you’ve long since given up trying to protest this. “Do you think it’s about time I went back out and explore for other humans? I’ve been here a while.”
His fingers pause against your scalp. “Why?”
You blink. “Well, because…I can’t exactly stay here forever. I’m human.”
His fingers continue their strokes, and his tone is more playful than curt this time. “And why not, huh?”
You’re surprised how much the question catches you off guard. Caleb is harmless, that much is sure, even if the large creatures he drags back after each successful hunt is a bit alarming. And it’s not like you have anyone you’re missing back on base or even on Earth— that’s why you signed up for this job, anyways.
“Because,” you huff stubbornly, ducking your head. “That’s just how it is.”
He finishes your braid without another response. But you still haven’t gotten a clear answer from him.
“So, I’ll probably go back out and search tomorrow.”
“No.”
You frown, twisting back to glance at him over your shoulder. “…no?”
His brows are furrowed, azure cheekbones taut with barely-concealed irritation. “No. There’s no telling how many hostiles are still out there. You could be attacked immediately.”
“But how much longer am I supposed to wait? Have you seen any signs of danger nearby?”
Caleb’s eyes widen, before he quickly averts them, almost guiltily. “Signs, yeah. Footprints and such.”
“Right,” you sigh, disbelieving. “So I should just sit here forever then.”
His face softens, and he reaches out to pinch at your cheek. “Don’t be upset,” he croons. “You’re a fragile human*.* There are many creatures waiting in the wilderness to catch you. I wouldn’t want my yawntutsyìp to be in danger, would I?”
“No,” you respond leniently, and he beams, pleased, tail swishing behind him. “No, you wouldn’t.”
But when Caleb curls up beside you that night, steady pats bewitching you into slumber, you form a plan.
You know his schedule by now; every morning, right before the sun has risen, Caleb gets up to hunt.
You remember it because you stir awake every time you feel the hammock shift beneath you, the loss of his body heat. You usually end up turning over and get right back to dozing off.
But today, you don’t let yourself drift off when you feel Caleb sit up. To fake being asleep, you continue inhaling and exhaling deeply, breaths hissing out of your oxygen mask.
A palm brushes over your head, and then a quiet sniff against your hair. Woah, is this part of his normal morning routine too? It takes everything in you to not flush and turn away. Finally, after a bit more nuzzling than needed, you feel his presence depart.
You wait a few more minutes to just make sure he’s really gone, breath held, body tense, before your eyes slide open. Sure enough, the cave is empty, the dim fluorescent fauna illuminating all crevices and corners and confirming that you’re alone.
As you rise and exit the cave, looking over the darkened forest, you rethink your decisions just a little bit. What exactly was the plan after this? You suppose you should at least get to a high place and see if you can spot any structures down below, or even if some humans can spot you and extract you. You’d explore for a few hours, you decide, until the sun rises. And if you don’t return before Caleb gets back, then you’ll just apologize.
I don’t owe him anything anyways, you think as you weave past trees., trying to feel less guilty. Sure, he saved me and all, but I’ve only known him for a week. It’s not like I’m obligated to stay with him.
The actual outcome is not as easy as you hoped.
Sure, finding and traversing an inclined hill was easy enough— aside from how you end up with raw marks on your skin from sharp thorns, leaves and branches in your hair. Your struggles are for nothing.
Because when you look over the edge, you don’t see any buildings or structures amidst the treetops. No, you only see mist, tinged pink from the sunrise.
It takes you a moment to realize that it’s not mist. It’s clouds. He took you to one of those floating sky islands.
Your stomach tilts with unease. Just how far up are you? How far away did he take you from any other living, sapient being?
You’ll never be able to get back down to civilization without his willingness to help, will you?
Your revelation is broken off by a crack of a branch below you. You whip your head down so fast you’re surprised you don’t roll over.
His chiseled torso is smeared with blood. You know better than to think it’s his own. A carcass is already hiked up over his back.
Caleb. He’s standing there, meters below you, looming on the forest floor, gleaming eyes pinned on you even from this distance. And he looks livid.
Long dark hair frames the sharp edge of his tense jaw, falls just over his furrowed brow. It’s a look you’ve never seen on him. Unhinged, feral.
He just stares. You stare back. You don’t know why you feel the urge to run. This is Caleb. He’s cared for you, saved you. Logically, there’s nowhere you can go. But a more primitive part screams at you to get away.
But this is Caleb. He’d never hurt you.
You run.
There’s nowhere run except down, so you make a mad dash down the hill, the swoop of gravity boosting your speed and sparking a rush of exhilaration in your chest. Those branches are clawing at you, tugging at your clothes as if the planet itself was against you, but you push through, breaking into a clearing. You pause for a moment, turning and looking at all possible directions. Before you can decide where to go, you hear the padding of large footsteps on the muddy ground.
It seems you may have become his next hunt.
You panic, turning just in time to try and spring the other direction. But, like the skilled hunter he is, he’s already directly behind you. A hand clasps around your arm, tugging you so that you’re flush against his large body. You wail in discomfort as the glass of your mask is forced against his blood-stained abs, before he’s hauling you off the ground. You shriek, limbs thrashing until he traps them between your bodies, subduing your struggles entirely, and easily begins walking.
“C-Caleb,” you cry, his arms crushed too tight around you, like a deadly snake. “Caleb!”
He shushes you sharply, arms tightening possessively around you. You let out a strained sound in protest.
His feet stop abruptly, and you startle at the sound of another voice.
“What do we have here?”
Caleb physically tenses against you. You wish you could twist around, see who has appeared behind you, but the apprehensiveness radiating off Caleb keeps you obediently still.
Maybe Caleb was just using a very basic dialect of Na’vi with you, because when he speaks to this unknown stranger, you find you can barely understand a full sentence. As they exchange words, you only understand a few phrases; “live nearby” and “friendly” and “mate.”
Mate?
The stranger’s tone darkens, deepening into one that almost seems like he’s lecturing or berating Caleb for something. You make a quiet sound of fear, half expecting to hear the sound of a bow being drawn in your direction— the clamor of the attack on your base still wracks in your head like warning bells.
The conversation quiets at your noise, as if both Na’vi are observing you. Then the stranger barks out a final order, “get going then.”
You feel Caleb continue walking, this time with more urgency.
You’re silent on the way back. When he sets you down on that damn hammock again, you want nothing more than to bury your face somewhere, stomach in knots.
He’s silent, too, uncharacteristically so, as he sets his bow and hunt away and kneels down in front of you. He keeps his gaze fixed stubbornly to your scraped knees, rubbing salve on every tiny nick.
You don’t think you can take the carefully neutral look on his face, the way his eyes avoid yours. “Caleb,” your voice cracks on the syllables. He doesn’t regard you, staying intent on his work.
You tear off the oxygen mask with a hiss, freeing your sight of the murky glass, and swallow painfully. “Caleb. I-I’m sorry, okay? I just thought I’d be able to get rescued by some humans— Caleb,” you cry when he dips his lead lower, brown strands shielding his face. His incredibly tall body, now shriveled up, hunched over till he’s short enough to avoid your eye.
“You know what that Na’vi wanted back there?” he grits out, and you freeze at the sound of his voice. You’ve never heard it this dark; it’s worrying. “He saw you and questioned your presence. He wasn’t part of those hostiles, but the Na’vi know. They all know the intent of most humans who come here, so they assume the worst of every one of them. If he found you before I did…”
His cadence dips. His back shudders as he heaves a shaky breath, blue skin rippling with muscle. Your body reacts before your brain can think, and you’re brushing his hair away from his face, reaching down to cup his face.
“I know, I’m sorry, okay?”
He melts. Violet hues finally raise, wide and shiny. When they flit around and land on yours, his pupils slowly expand, swallowing the irises like a black hole.
“Why did you leave?”
“Because…I have to go back to civilization. It’s not like I can live in the wilderness forever.”
“Why do you want to go back?” Caleb shakes his head, lips trembling. “You’re not like those humans, who just want to conquer and destroy. You can’t truly be happy there. It’s selfish of me, but…” a large palm cups your cheek, stroking your bare skin reverently. “I want you by my side.”
Your lips part in surprise at his declaration. Your heart squeezes— because you know it’s the truth. Just coming to terms on what the company you had worked for was doing, and witnessing the sheer massacre they were willing to provoke from the natives, the countless employees they sacrificed for a greedy and entitled cause was hard enough, but Caleb laid it all out for you. Living with a Na’vi in just this short amount of time showed you what could have been lost because of a human conquest— the tradition and livelihood, sure, but the smaller things, like breakfasts, homemade salves, woven hammocks. What are your options if you return to civilization? It’s either on an overpopulated, dying Earth, or supporting a cause that will destroy the things you’ll come to love.
You feel lightheaded, not just from the heavy, foreign air, but from your heavy thoughts as well. But you don’t slip on the mask if it means it’ll ruin how his skin brushes yours.
Thankfully, Caleb doesn’t seem to expect a response right away just yet, standing to perch beside you. You steal some breaths of oxygen but ultimately keep the mask off, refusing to put any barriers between you two again. He stays close, tail flicking anxiously behind him.
“Did I…scare you back there? Why’d you run?”
“A little, I mean, I guess the sight of you angry and covered in blood was a bit off-putting.” You admit sheepishly.
Caleb laughs, hanging his head, pretty smile softening his features. You can’t help but laugh with him.
“I’m sorry. I just sensed another Na’vi nearby and knew I had to get to you. You’re not hurt anywhere else, right?”
You shake your head, but he frowns, leaning in closer. “But wait, your face…”
“Oh,” you realize, reaching up to feel a few small nicks. “Just some branches scratched me up a bit. No big deal.”
But he leans even closer, until you’re gasping, quickly leaning back so your noses don’t brush. “You need to be more careful,” he breathes, brows still drawn together. He cups your face with both hands, an expression of fretfulness flashing across his features that was so intense it was almost comical— though you held your laugh, not wanting to make fun of his concern.
“Poor thing, your face is all cut up,” Caleb practically whines, thumbs darting to brush every mark. Your cheeks heat under his touch.
“Please, it’s not that bad—”
“Shh,” his nose brushes yours, and he simply caresses your face for a few moments, as if his touch alone could heal you.
“Caleb,” you murmur, muffled by the way he smushes your cheeks slightly.
“Hmm?”
“What all did that man say back there?”
“Oh,” his eyes lowered, a purplish hue staining his cheekbones— is he blushing? “Like I said, he’s a head of a tribe nearby and was just patrolling around their territory. When he saw me with a human…well, he was naturally just appalled. But it’s okay! I just let him know that you were friendly to Na’vi, harmless, and my mate.”
“What?’
“Not that you are,” Caleb blurts, backtracking. “Or that you aren’t. Well, I mean, I had to defend you somehow. But he was obviously taken aback, saying how it’s against Eywa. But…I’ve never been too firm of a believer in that, have I?”
His tone dips to a more sultry one that makes your heart pound. “He says it’s against nature. That something interspecies wouldn’t benefit Awaang. But…” his hand slides down your arm sensually, sending goosebumps in his wake, “I haven’t been much for following the norm, or what’s seen as right.”
Caleb’s lips are a breath away. Your heart pounds. “I’ve never desired anything as much as I’ve desired you,” he pants raggedly, before crushing his lips to yours.
You melt immediately, hands tangling in his long locks and tugging, and he whines against your lips, suckling and biting. Caleb’s kisses aren’t gentle or perfect; they’re eager and sloppy. He licks into your mouth and pushes you onto your back, hulking body enveloping you entirely, shielding your arching and squirming body from the world.
“I’ve never asked for anything, except for you,” he rasps, before sealing the words with a rough kiss,“Eywa couldn’t possibly deny my only request, right?
You squeak against his mouth as he ravages your lips, struggling to keep up with his hunger with your own meek kisses. He finally breaks away with a last wet smooch, glossy lips parting, drool smudged down the corner of them.
“Caleb,” you wheeze quietly, and he’s scrambling to press the oxygen mask to your face, concern bleeding past his arousal.
“I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, can you breath?” Caleb rushes, biting his swollen lip as you take deep, hissing breaths. “I’m so sorry, I did it for too long, I’m sorry,” he gasps again, leaning back off of you to give you some space. You’re not having any of that.
Once you’ve taken a few deep breaths, you’re tossing the mask aside and kissing him again.
Caleb whimpers like he’s in heaven, sagging back over you, pecking and licking at the seam of your lips. He’s gentle at first, as if still concerned about your respiration, but he quickly loses himself, his hunger growing by the second. It seems like he’s taken advantage of the opportunity to pick up exploring your anatomy again from that first day he met you, hands eagerly bunching up your shirt just past your ribs, slipping under to squeeze your tits until you arch and mewl. His other hand wastes no time in sliding down, slipping under your pants to caress your bare thigh, claws tantalizingly close to nicking your soft skin.
When he takes your bottom lips between his sharp teeth and sucks, you can’t repress a quiet moan. The sound makes him harden against you—you can feel the press of it from where it presses against your thigh, and it feels huge.
When Caleb breaks apart again, a string of saliva pulls taught until it snaps, and he wipes it away with a swipe of his thumb. Gently, he rubs the glass of the oxygen mask clean, before securing it back over your face.
His calm actions are at odds with the pained look on his face; you twitch needily at the expression of longing, in his furrowed brow and parted lips.
“Fuck, yawne,” he pants, sitting up to reach for the loincloth around his waist. “Please, need you so bad, please please—”
“Yes,” you gasp, pushing off your already-strewn clothes—first, you kick off your pants and panties, before lifting your shirt and bra off and tossing it aside. Caleb watches the unfamiliar clothing with enrapturement, glowing eyes particularly caught on your discarded panties. His long fingers grasp the cloth, brushing it reverently.
He’s shoving off his loincloth with the other hand, and you are not prepared for the sight of his cock; it bobs up immediately, smacking against his blue abdomen, and it is large. The size of your forearm, almost? Your thighs clench with arousal at the thought.
Caleb groans, brushing the head of his leaky tip with his thumb, before beginning to jerk himself off right in front of you. His bright eyes are pinned to you, raving over your human anatomy, and his abs clench deliciously as he tries not to cum immediately.
Your face heats, and you squirm underneath his heady stare, pussy clenching around nothing. “Please, pretty,” he begs sweetly, scooting a bit closer. “Just need to get myself ready for you, I’m so hard. Need your spit.”
You stare blankly, quietly shocked at his lewd words. “Your spit, hahh,” he clarifies, head rolling back in pleasure, till he’s staring through half-lidded eyes. “Please spit on me.”
You snap out of your daze, leaning your face forward towards his cock. It twitches, a zap of pleasure shooting through it just from your attention alone. You purse your lips and let a wad of pearly saliva land right on his leaky tip and slide down his shaft, highlighting every thick vein in it’s wake.
“Nghh, fuck,” he almost sobs, quiet schlicks from his cock as he begins to pump it with your spit as lube. “Thank you, thank you.”
You’ve never been more soaked in your life. “Caleb,” you wail, shifting your thighs apart eagerly to reveal your swollen pussy, throbbing with need. He gapes at the sight of it, awe and thirst settling on his face now. “Please just put it in. Need you.”
You know he can’t resist. He melts almost immediately, throbbing cock forgotten, settling his massive form between your thighs. He presses his face between them, hesitantly kissing the glossy folds like he’s worshipping at an altar.
You twitch, letting out a keening sound. “I know,” he cooes, brow scrunched as he nuzzles his nose against your thigh. “I just don’t know if I’ll fit, yawntutsyìp. Don’t wanna hurt you.”
“Just put it in, fuck, need it—”
Caleb is nothing if not attentive to you.
Pulling back, he lines himself up, tip just nestled against your hole. He pushes in slowly, making your pussy squelch, walls fluttering so hard immediately it almost pushes him back out. Caleb’s jaw tenses as he tries to go slow, hips twitching eagerly and making his tip slipping in with a pop.
“Ngh, ohmygod,” you squeak, tight ring of muscle burning deliciously at the stretch. You buck your hips for more involuntarily, to which Caleb pins them down firmly with a single hand to your stomach—which only serves to press down against his tip bulging inside you, the pressure making your feet kick out in pleasure.
“I’m sorry,” Caleb rushes, but he doesn’t move his hand, ears pinned back and flushed. He only pushes his hips forward, feeding you inches and inches of his long cock until it presses deep past your gooey walls, poking directly into a bundle of nerves in you. His palm can feel his hard dick in you through your stomach, and just the thought has him spurting precum in you.
“Don’t you dare stop,” you pant before he can start apologizing again, chest heaving as you try to accommodate his size. Caleb’s eyes drop from your face to your alluring tits at that, and he’s dazedly leaning down before he even knows what he’s doing, taking a bud into his mouth eagerly.
“Cay,” you mewl, hands pushing and smacking at his abs, begging him to start moving and relieve you of the pressure. Finally, he blinks away the fog of arousal, maw unhinged against your breast, drooling on your tit as he begins thrusting.
He pumps slow and deep, tip ramming steadily against your g-spot. “You feel so good, can’t believe you can take me so well—” he rambles against your chest, ragged breathes brushing your hardening nipples.
Your cunt sucks him in greedily, clicking with each thrust and leaking all the way down his shaft, until it’s slathered in a creamy mess. Caleb finally lifts his head to look down at the sight, where blue meets brown, Na’vi meets human, where two worlds collide into lewd, forbidden pleasure.
His hips quicken at the sight, until he’s pounding into you, desperately chasing that pleasure again and again. You mewl with every thrust, cunt spasming around his shaft, wringing a pained groan out of him. Your thighs quiver, jerking every time his pelvis smacks against them wetly, the skin pinkened and raw.
“Fuck, fuck, I’m yours, don’t ever leave me,” Caleb blurts, and he feels your stomach spasm underneath his palm in pleasure. You nod drunkenly, lips parted.
“Hahh, yes Caleb, need you so bad!” You hiccup, not exactly aware of what you’re affirming, but his tail swings happily behind him all the same at the agreement.
“Ah, nghh,” his jaw drops again when you clench around his shaft; you swear he’s sheathed in so deep that he’s pressing up against your guts. It’s so full, combined with how his large palm presses your tummy down firmly. “That’s it, my perfect mate,” he grits out, eyes feral and wide with the need to fill you up.
You whine out when he shoves himself a fraction deeper, his leaky tip kissing into your cervix, brute size bruising your walls up. His cock presses up against every nerve ending, making you tense up with pleasure, thighs locked and toes curled.
“I’m gonna cum,” you squeal out, fists curling against his large pecs. “Please—please!”
Caleb doesn’t stop, hips pumping with an exactness that has you seeing starts. “Yeahh, cum all over my cock,” he begs, expression crumbling prettily as he nears his own release. “Let Ca’leb fill you up, please—”
You gush around his shaft with a squeal, pussy clenching down hard when you cum, your smaller feet kicking and curling against the hammock as shocks of pleasure rack through you. Caleb cums immediately at the sensation, and like the rest of him, his load is huge— it doesn’t all fit in your tiny stomach, leaking steadily out of your messy cunt.
Caleb doesn’t even pull out when he collapses on top of you, careful not to crush your body. You don’t complain, heartbeat pounding in your ears as the rush fades, leaving you satiated and sleepy.
You both lay there exhausted for who knows how long, before Caleb suddenly lifts his head from your chest, blinking at you.
“I forgot to make and feed you breakfast. You must be hungry.”
“Mmm, no, Caleb. Not hungry.”
“But you can’t sleep if I haven’t braided your hair,” he complains quietly, frowning. “Then I won’t be taking care of you properly.”
“Trust me, you’ve taken care of enough,” you huff, turning over to nestle your face into his chest.
You’re both content to lay there, instead of going on with your usual schedule. You, because you have a place that feels like home now, doze off as you nuzzle into the hammock. And Caleb, because he finally has someone who belongs to him, sighs as he nuzzles into your hair.
Guys, i need help. I read yesterday a fanfic and it vanished before i could even save it.
It was about nanami x reader, au. They met at work, lived together. They argued, he left to sleep it off in a motel nearby but he didn’t come back, started sending weird messages that felt to the reader OOC. Later he was found dead - and a stalker/killer claiming to bo Kento showed up with a starbucks…. And then gojo als detective came in to help the reader…. Anyone read it? Please i need this, i was so invested….😭😭😭
A/N: happy birthday to us TEEHEE 🤭 also if this looks familiar its bc i recycled lines from something i shared and then never continued writing so just ignore that iykyk....
Thinking about Best Friend!Satoru x Reader..
Best Friend!Satoru who you’ve known since diapers. Whose baby photos are so intertwined with yours that your parents have to squint to remember which toddler was the menace that bit the neighbor’s kid (he insists it was you – it was most certainly not).
Best Friend!Satoru who grows into himself obnoxiously fast. Limbs too long and voice too loud and smile too sharp, looking at you like nothing has changed. Like you’re still the girl two inches taller who used to steal his snacks at recess and boss him around with a gap for two front teeth.
Best Friend!Satoru who grimaces when Suguru asks if you’re dating. Makes a whole show of gagging, dramatically collapsing onto the nearest surface like the idea alone has physically wounded him. “Me? With that hag? If I was attracted to her, I’d cut off my left ball–”
Your brow twitches, and you stomp on his foot. Hard. “Fuck you. Suguru, if I was attracted to him, I’d go bald.”
“Fine, fuck! Both balls then.”
Best Friend!Satoru who just doesn’t see the appeal. When guys go to him asking for advice – what you like, how to impress you – he shrugs them off with a languid flick of the wrist. “Dunno, man. Ask her. She bites.”
(he chooses to ignore the vitriol curdling in his stomach every time some hopeful idiot says he wants to “shoot his shot.”)
Best Friend!Satoru who claims he’s just being helpful. Surely. But he always fucks it up somehow.
“No, don’t take her out there. She’s scared of truffles.”
“Sorry?”
“Yeah. Reminds her too much of her feet, I guess.”
“Oh.”
Best Friend!Satoru who acts horribly offended when you confront him the next day. You’re sitting cross-legged on his bed as he games with Suguru on call, your arms folded across your body and voice shrill. “What the fuck happened yesterday, Satoru?”
“Why’re you asking me? I don’t keep track of your love life.”
“You ruined my date.”
“You lie.”
“You told him I had foot fungus.”
Satoru pauses the game and turns. Glances down at your socks, then back up at you with a scrunch of his nose.
“He looked like the kind of guy who sucked toes, so I had to warn him.”
“I don’t have foot fungus, Satoru.”
“You could. Someday.”
Best Friend!Satoru who tells himself he’s the same old him. You’re the same old you. Except he keeps catching himself staring at your mouth when you talk and your throat when you swallow and your pretty eyes and your pretty smile and your pretty tits (fuck, when did you get those?).
Like, objectively, they’ve always been there. But now they’re just.. there. And he’d be unappreciative not to look and admire, if only a little.
Best Friend!Satoru who finds himself wondering how soft they’d feel, how your nipples would look hard and wet from his tongue. How your neck would look with his marks painting your skin.
Then he blinks, realizes he’s half-hard in his sweats, and immediately starts complaining about being hungry again to distract everyone (mostly himself, and god, he’s hungry for so much more).
Best Friend!Satoru who – when you crash at his place after movie night and fall asleep on his couch with one leg thrown over the backrest and your shorts riding up so high he can see the little dimple where ass meets thigh – has to take the longest, coldest shower of his life.
Best Friend!Satoru who jerks off so hard he sees stars, biting down on his bottom lip so you don’t hear the way he whimpers your name like a pervert.
Fuck.
You.
He cums embarrassingly fast when he remembers you’re in the next room over. Spilling hot into his hand, groaning at the sheer amount. He then emerges half an hour later like nothing happened and tosses a blanket over you while muttering “slutty sleeping positions, jeez” under his breath.
Best Friend!Satoru who keeps telling Suguru “no, dude, she’s not my type”. To which Suguru raises a brow – because he sees the way Satoru smiles when you laugh.
He hums. Watches Satoru stare at you for a full ninety seconds longer – then raises his brow higher.
"Your balls are on the line, Satoru."
"Fuck."
Best Friend!Satoru who knows that you know that he likes your tits. Nothing really ever gets past either of you when it comes to each other. You call him a boob-obsessed pervert. He doesn’t argue, for once – because there’s nothing false about that statement.
Best Friend!Satoru who ends up drunk at your place one night. His head’s in your lap and you’re playing with his hair and his filter just.. evaporates, because he’s in your bed, and god, you’re pretty, and your tits are staring right at him, and fuck, he likes your tits, and he likes you.
“If I motorboated you right now, would you kick me out or moan?”
“Excuse me?”
He repeats the question, and you stare at him before laughing. So hard you snort, which makes him groan and hide his face between your thighs (out of embarrassment, and not for any other reason. no, no alternative motives at all).
“What would you even do if you saw bare boobs, Satoru?”
He gives you an incredulous look. Like it’s obvious.
“Uh.. duh. Squeeze ‘em. Bounce ‘em. Stick my face between ‘em and go brrr.”
He pauses. Looks at you as if waiting for approval. Then raises a hand and makes a little grabby motion mid-air.
“Honk honk.”
You blink, slow.
And maybe because you’re tipsy, maybe because his cheesy grin makes your stomach flutter, maybe because of some dumb concoction of the two – you tug your shirt up. Letting your tits spill free. “Okay.”
And for once in his life, Gojo Satoru is speechless.
No way.
There’s no way you– you, his dumb, stupid, gorgeous, absolutely-nothing-more-than-friends best friend – are in front of him right now. With your tits out. He’s gotta be delusional. Maybe this is one of those dreams he gets where you lean forward and kiss him and he wakes up with a wet spot in his boxers and the afterglow ringing in his ears.
Your shirt’s bunched just beneath your collarbones, tits sitting pretty like it’s nothing. And you’re perfect, just like you always are, and they’re perfect, just like he thought they’d be, and a flush is spreading across his face, and his dick is twitching so hard it hurts.
“Satoru.”
“Mm..?”
“You’re staring.”
“Whoops.”
You raise a brow. “You begged to motorboat me. So do it, loser.”
He answers with a wrecked noise wrangled from the throat – half-laugh, half-groan. Ridiculously long fingers landing on your bare waist as he surges up.
“Fuck,” he whispers. Mouth dry, hands clammy, eyes blown wide as his gaze snaps from your face to your tits to your face to your tits and then all the way down to your sleep shorts before back up. “You’re serious? You’re letting me–?”
“You’ve got about ten seconds before I change my mind, Satoru.”
And oh, that does it.
Best Friend!Satoru who lunges.
Zero hesitation and zero finesse and pure, greedy desperation. His face buries itself between your breasts with a muffled, ridiculous brrrrrrr that vibrates straight through your skin. Nose dragging along the inner curve of one, lips brushing the other, cheeks hollowing as he shakes his head side to side like he’s trying to drown himself in your cleavage. The vibration makes you squeak, before the sound dissolves into breathless laughter.
“You absolute fucking dork–”
He pulls back just far enough for you to see his face – flushed crimson from the tips of his ears to the hollow of his throat, tongue darting out to lick his lips. Lashes fluttering as he stares up at you in open awe.
“They’re perfect,” he whispers, voice cracking, “so fucking soft, holy shit– fuuuck, I might die. Am I dead? Oh, if I am, I’m so, so happy about it.”
Then he dives back in.
His lips are soft and his mouth is hot and he’s relentless – tongue laving open-mouthed kisses over every inch of skin, swirling slow, filthy circles around one nipple until it stiffens into a tight, aching peak. When he closes his lips and sucks – hard – your back arches off the bed. Fingers twisting viciously in his hair.
He groans at the pull, hips jerking forward. Grinding against the sheets.
“Look at these,” he murmurs, hoarse. Hands sliding up to cup your breasts, long fingers splaying wide as his thumbs brush over your split-slick nipples. “Been thinking ‘bout them for years, y’know? Every time you wore those stupid tops and leaned over to steal my fries and hugged me and they pressed against my body– shiiiiit, had to count backwards from a hundred. Didn’t wanna pop a boner in public like a perv.”
And oh, you see it. His hard-on, all warm and thick and pulsing with every heartbeat.
He’s so hard it has to hurt.
“Perv.”
He freezes. A full-body shudder rips through him.
“Don’t,” Satoru whispers. “Don’t– hah– or I’ll cum in my pants right now. I’m not joking.”
You giggle. Fingers running through his hair, cradling his head to your chest.
“Peeeeervert.”
“You’re evil,” he whispers, nuzzling closer. “You’ve always been evil. I hate you so much.”
“You’re literally suffocating yourself between my tits right now.”
“I take it all back. I love you. Never change. Marry me. Have my babies. Name them all after me–”
Best Friend!Satoru who thinks that taking off clothes is suuuuch an inconvenience. He does it because he has to, but really – you’re best friends. You shouldn’t need to wear clothes around each other. If you’re naked in his room all the damn time, then hey, that’s just what best friends are for. And honestly, while he’s at it, what’s a little cock, too? What are best friends for if not fucking?
Best Friend!Satoru who’s on his knees between your thighs before you can even catch your breath, long fingers spreading you wide, eyes glittering in the low light.
“Fuck, look at you,” he breathes. Voice wrecked, thumb sliding through your slick folds just to watch you twitch. “Soaked, huh? Hiii, pretty girl. I know. ‘Toru’s here, baby.”
You barely manage a snarky shut up before he spits – deliberate, filthy – right on your clit. Watches it drip slow and nasty down to your entrance, then drags two long fingers through the mess, mixing it all together before pushing inside without warning.
The stretch makes you gasp – and then he curls his fingers just right, and you swear you see stars.
Best Friend!Satoru who lets out a murmured “attagirl” while he pumps his fingers into your pussy. You’re unsure as to whether he’s speaking to you or your cunt – scissoring you open as his tongue flicks out to swirl ‘round your clit.
“Mmm. Been dreaming ‘bout this pussy, y’know? Used to jerk off in the shower imagining your taste and then– fuuuck, yeah, post-nut clarity would hit so fucking hard. Felt like shit. This feels like heaven.”
Best Friend!Satoru who seals his mouth over your clit and sucks. The way he sucked on your nipples earlier, only harder, and filthier. Tongue flicking fast and then slow and then spelling his own name out against your cunt because of course he does.
“Satoru– fuck! Slow down–”
Best Friend!Satoru who does not slow down. Instead, he pulls off just long enough to grin up at you, lips shiny, chin dripping – “No.”
Then he’s hauling you up by the thighs, lying back against the sheets and dragging you over his face.
“Sit,” he grins. “Sit. Want your thighs around my head when I make you cum.”
Best Friend!Satoru who frowns when you hover just above. Who yanks you down until you’re smothering him, nose buried against your clit, tongue swirling inside you alongside two of his fingers, knuckle-deep. He’s moaning like he’s the one getting eaten, hips grinding uselessly against the air, a pretty bead of pre-cum dribbling down his cock.
And every time you try to lift up to give him air, he pulls you back down harder.
“No, no, use me, baby. Use me. Ride my face. Want you to drown me.”
Your thighs shake.
You’re close, so close, grinding down shamelessly now, chasing it – and he knows. He always knows. Just like he knows the sky is blue and the grass is green and he loves his best friend’s pussy so, so much.
Best Friend!Satoru who sucks your clit into his mouth one last time. Crooks his fingers just right. And then you’re crashing into your high, cumming with his name all sweet on your tongue, gushing while he drinks you down like he needs your arousal to stay alive.
Best Friend!Satoru who doesn’t stop until you’re trembling, oversensitive, trying to squirm away – and only then does he let you collapse beside him. He’s panting, face flushed a cherry pink, lips swollen and glossy with you. Sprawled on his back with an arm flung over his eyes, both of your chests heaving in sync.
You nudge his ribs. “You good, weirdo?”
He doesn’t move his arm. Just lets out the most pathetic little whine you’ve ever heard in your life, then curls into a ball.
“..I came.”
.
You prop yourself up on one elbow, peering down at him. “Wait. Like.. just now? Untouched?”
He peeks from under his forearm, mortified. “Don’t laugh. I’ll actually cry.”
You bite your lip so hard it hurts. Shoulders shaking. And he groans, rolling facedown into the pillows.
“I hate you– shit, sorry, not you.. I hate my dick. Why’s it so loyal to you?–”
You poke the small of his back. “Satoru.”
“–betraying me all the time–”
“Satoru.”
He turns his head just enough to halfheartedly glare at you, cheeks flushed. “Yes?”
“Wanna fuck me?”
His whole body jolts up – dick included. The arm flies off his face so fast it’s comical.
“Hell yeah.”
Best Friend!Satoru who lines himself up with trembling hands. Rubbing the fat head of his cock between your slick folds once, twice, swiping up and coating himself in the mess he’s made of you. And he’s big – bigger than you expected – filling you up with a burningly good stretch. He bottoms out with a groan – long and low and wrecked. Forehead dropping to yours.
“Fuck. Fuuuuuck. Holy shit, you’re tight, baby.”
“Shush.”
He blinks. Pulls back. His eyes dart over your face – hesitant.
“Sorry.”
“It's okay, ‘Toru. Just give me a sec.”
“Okay. Okay, yeah– are you okay?”
You nod, slow. Silence fills the room.
And then his dick twitches, and the both of you burst out into laughter.
It’s awkward. In that best-friends-really-shouldn’t-be-having-sex way.
But that’s what makes it fun, no?
And god, Satoru thinks he loves you.
He likes when you smile. He likes when you say his name. You’re really fucking pretty all the fucking time and even more so when you’re giggling – something in the frequency of your laugh making his brain short circuit to a pleasant buzz. And when you give him the green light, the buzz spreads all the way down into his chest, into some funny fuzzy feeling that makes his stomach do flips.
Best Friend!Satoru who fucks you like he’s trying to crawl inside your skin and live there forever. Slow, reverent, hips rolling deep and deliberate like he’s trying to mold your walls into the shape of his cock with every inch. His forehead stays pressed to yours, breath hitching every time he bottoms out, those ridiculously blue eyes all wide and adoring and completely fucking gone.
“Shit.. shit, you feel–” he cuts himself off with a shuddering groan, pulling out slow just to watch the way your pussy clenches around nothing, desperate to drag him back in. “You’re sucking me in, baby. Greedy little thing.”
Best Friend!Satoru who can’t decide where to put his hands. They’re everywhere, frantic, like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he stops touching. Gentle against your tits, sliding down to frame your hips, then up again to cradle your face while he kisses you all sloppy and open-mouthed, tongue swirling with yours like he’s starving.
And then his eyes flutter open, and he murmurs soft against your mouth – “the clitoris.”
“What?”
He smiles bright, hand drifting down to thumb at your puffy clit. Grinning wider when your head falls back against the pillow and your toes curl and you squeal his name.
“The clitoris.”
Best Friend!Satoru who loses the plot completely when you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer. The rhythm stutters, turning all messy and desperate, and he pants into your neck, hips snapping hard enough that the headboard smacks the wall with a steady thump-thump. But his hand cradles your head gentle, the other supporting your waist. So, so careful.
“Wait– fu– fuuuckk, m’not gonna last if you keep–”
He chokes on the words when you clench deliberately around him, walls milking his cock.
“Shit, cumming, baby–”
Best Friend!Satoru who tries to pull out. Because he’s a gentleman (allegedly). But you lock your ankles behind his back and your arms wrap around his shoulders as you hold him tight to your body, murmuring a quiet “inside. on the pill” – and he’s gone. Eyes rolling back so hard you’re worried for a second, before he slams back inside with a guttural sound. Hips grinding deep as he spills all hot inside you.
He cums forever. Like, literally. Forever. You didn’t know a guy could cum this much. Pulse after pulse, hips jerking helplessly, face buried in the crook of your neck as he whimpers, muffled against your skin. “Fuck, fuck, take it– take it, baby, shiiiit–”
Best Friend!Satoru who stays buried inside you the whole time. Cock still half-hard and twitching every few seconds like it’s raring to go. Trembling, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead, peppering gentle kisses along your collarbone as the silence spills soft between the two of you.
And then he pulls out, slow. Watches his cum drip out of you with a loving sigh. Proceeds to scoop it all up with two fingers and push it back in, smiling when your walls flutter weakly around his knuckles.
“Mine,” he whispers. Rolling your clit beneath the pad of his thumb almost absentmindedly. “All mine.”
Then he flops on top of you like an overgrown cat, face smushing between your tits, arms wrapped tight around your waist.
Best Friend!Satoru who, five minutes later, is hard again. Nudging your thigh with his dick like a golden retriever ready to play.
“Round two?”
You flick his forehead. “You just came inside me like a broken hose, Satoru. Give me five minutes.”
He pouts. Then brightens.
“Cool, I’ll use the five minutes to motorboat you again.”
“Satoru–”
“Brrrrrrbrrbprbrpbrrrrrr.”
Best Friend!Satoru who swears he’s not perving. Surely not.
Best Friend!Satoru who absolutely is.
But he’s doing it respectfully!
Quietly.
Desperately.
In the stupid way stupid guys do when they fall in love with their stupid childhood best friend.
I'm SICK and TIRED of the Kento Nanami mischaracterization.
(Now playing, "Sweet" - Cigarettes After Sex)
(MDNI! Lots of nsfw/sex talk, Husband!Nanami, fluff, comfort(?), smut, short drabble, Reader is heavily implied fem, pregnancy talk, I suppose? Just soft sex with Nanami.)
Kento Nanami does not fuck.
This man is not coming home after a hard day at work and "fucking the shit out of you." Half the time, he can barely get the dinner you made him in his stomach before he's crashing.
This man is not getting off on being called daddy. Or spanking you while calling you his "good little girl."
Nanami views the idea of coming home to you as the only good thing about leaving in the first place. So when he does come back home to you, he expects softness. Comfort. Not lust.
Nanami isn't a lustful man. This isn't to say he doesn't like sex. He adores it. With the right person, of course. But it's not something he does for his own greed. Kento does not fuck. He makes love.
As cheesy as he knows he'd sound if he ever said it out loud, it's the only descriptive that's ever felt right to him. Nanami doesn't want to grab you by your legs and pin you to the wall and "fuck" you. That sounds aggressive, degrading. As if his spouse, his love, his reason for coming home at all, was something to be used.
Nanami pours all of his love into having sex with you. (Literally and figuratively)
He's not grabbing your chin and spitting into your mouth. He's interlocking your fingers, his lips ghosting over yours as his forehead rests against your own.
He's not saying "look at this pretty fuckin' thing..." while admiring the way your cunt clenches around him. He's saying, "You're so pretty... my angel.." while looking into your teary eyes.
Yes, Nanami is Cumming inside of you. But it's not because he wants to "claim" you or prove he "owns" you. But because he wishes to one day start a family with you. A real family. With the love of his life.
This man isn't rolling over and falling asleep on the opposite side of the bed after sex. Nanami cleans you up as if the touch of water on its own will make you disintegrate like cotton candy. He wraps you up in his big arms, knowing there's not a single place on earth you could be safer. He's kissing the top of your head and rubbing your back as you both fall asleep.
《A/N: stop headcannoning Nanami as some weird lowk abusive freaky BDSM husband 🙏 SUKUNA IS RIGHT THERE.》
scott miller is so obsessed with your tits it’s actually insane
i just KNOW that man falls asleep with his face buried in your chest. not even on purpose—like mid-rant about some storm that pissed him off, hands on your waist, and then boom, he’s out like a light with your nipple in his mouth like a baby.
and don’t even get me started on how he talks to them.
“look at them,” he murmurs, staring at your tits like they hung the damn moon. “prettiest fucking pair i’ve ever seen. all mine, huh?”
he says “mine” with his whole chest. because he genuinely believes god put you on this earth to walk around braless in one of his old stormpar shirts just to torment him.
he gets angry when he hasn’t touched them in a while. like you’ll be in the passenger seat chewing gum, totally oblivious, and he’ll glance over and mutter, “i miss your tits.” like he’s grieving.
and if you’re having a bad day? scott is immediately grabbing your face like: “baby. come here. let me put my mouth on ‘em. you’ll feel better, promise.”
the worst part is he’s RIGHT.
he’s so goddamn tender with them, too. rough hands, but soft suckling. tongue slow and lazy. he gets genuinely offended if you pull him away too early.
“what the—babe? i wasn’t done.”
“you were down there for ten minutes—”
“and?? i was doing god’s work.”
no one—and i mean NO ONE—has ever loved tits the way scott miller loves yours. he could be chewing someone out over a busted radar and still glance over at you like “god, i hope she lets me suck on her tits tonight.”
summary: in which you ask about the lads boys condom size.
ft. xavier, zayne, rafayel, sylus & caleb
notes: suggestive content so NSFW / MDNI, xavier’s a little vulgar, zayne is lovely, rafayel wants to kill himself again (!!!), sylus is lovely again, caleb is strange. no explicit mentions of gender (!!!), only a few comments/compliments but nothing explicitly stated. that’s it (i think)
p.s. this is based on a req SO i hope you like it (even if just a little bit) ^^
a/n: yes…that is a cocoaxia original photo…no i don’t want to talk about the implications of me going about my normal human business and stopping to take a photo of the condom aisle to subsequently use for A LADS SMAU…i do it all for the realism…don’t ever say i'm not committed to you ladsnation…ty for reading (- -)(_ _)
