Request are CLOSED! | An 18+ Blog, no minors allowed! | A simp for Genshin, Star Rail, and anime men | Writes fanfics | 26 | Female | Multiverse | Love & Deepspace | Sylus & Rafayel | Wattpad: Joonie_Lover_33 | AO3: JoonieLover33
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🌸: Fluff
🔥: Smut
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❥ summary: She was moments from sealing her fate at the altar when a dragon crashed through the cathedral and stole her away. Imprisoned in his tower, she raged—until she began to understand that perhaps her gilded cage had been the true prison all along. What began as captivity became sanctuary, and somewhere between his gentleness and burning red eyes, she fell for her dragon.
❥ genre: fluff + angst + smut (18+ mdni)
❥ total fic word count: 36,7k (I am not normal about sylus sorry <3)
❥ this part: 10k
❥ warnings/tags: alternate universe, royal!au, dragon!au, dragon sylus, fantasy/fantasy!au, developing relationship, princess!mc, pining sylus, sylus sometimes shifts back to his sylus dragon companion form (half dragon/half human), longing/yearning, kidnapping, captivity, kinda shy!reader, reader is described as shorter than sylus, emotional!reader, no use of y/n (don’t really use it anymore tbh), attempted murder (not shown but hinted at that it was gonna happen) by named original male character, unhealthy family dynamics (bc certain expectations being set on royals), the fiancé being used as a malicious misogynistic plot device, romance, sylus kinda has been watching reader from afar for years. sylus is soft for reader. minor character death
❥ continuing the tags for future parts: mating. inexperienced/virgin!reader, loss of virginity, monsterfucking because hello, unrealistic first time, unprotected sex, piv sex, soft!dom sylus, ok… just in overall bye, sub!reader, oral (f!receiving), multiple orgasms, creampie, overstimulation, major major major size kink, praise kink, dirty talk, oral fixation. huge breeding kink aaaaa sorry. they’re both FREAKS. scent kink? knotting. sylus is worshipping his sweet princess ok! doggy style / prone bone (meow) and multiple other positions. lots of pet names (mostly sweetie. kitty/kitten. little kitten). lowkey pillow princess vibes. this is high key sweet and soft and then turns filthy (and then turns soft again). also there is ALWAYS aftercare in my fics even if I don’t explicitly write it. reader has hair, no further description though. this is not beta read sorry
⟶ A/N: okay so this started because I saw this fan art from this amazing artist. it’s very nsfw and it’s obviously monsterfucking. NEVER thought I’d be into this but here I am dnndjdj anyways I was at first struggling with finding a specific plot bc I wanted to write dragon sylus but I wasn’t sure yet who or what reader would be and it came to me randomly this week because one of my friends in a lads discord server I’m in said we’d look like princesses when I said we’d both look good in milkmaid/summer dresses. and that sparked me to write this trope. <3 I am so proud of this one and I genuinely love it sm 🩷🥰 I've written everything already but tumblr doesn't want me to post it all at once </3 next part soon!
this goes without saying, but if you don’t like it don’t read it <3
AO3 • masterlist • part 1 • part 2 • part 3 • extra • epilogue • extra (2)
The cathedral doors opened with a sound like thunder.
Music swelled—the traditional processional, played by the kingdom’s finest musicians. Through the gap in the doors, you could see it all: hundreds of faces turning toward you, the long silk runner stretching impossibly far, candles flickering in elaborate candelabras, flowers—white lilies and orchids, traditional and proper, just as Sungki, your fiancé had insisted—cascading from every surface.
And at the end of that endless aisle, Lord Pak Sungki himself.
Tall and handsome in his formal attire, dark hair perfectly styled, that pleasant, charming smile fixed on his face as he watched you. Everything your parents had hoped for in a match—a powerful nobleman from a wealthy province, politically connected, respected throughout the kingdom. On paper, he was perfect. Your father had practically glowed with pride when the proposal came. Your mother had wept with joy.
Waiting.
Your father appeared at your side, offering his arm. His eyes were bright with unshed tears of pride. He leaned close and pressed a kiss to your temple.
“You’ve made me so proud,” he whispered. “You’re doing the right thing. For yourself. For all of us.”
The right thing.
Your hand curled around his arm, and you felt the tremble in your fingers even through the layers of silk and lace. He patted your hand absently, mistaking your fear for excitement, and then you were moving forward.
One step. Then another.
Cold feet, you told yourself desperately as faces blurred around you. Just cold feet. Every bride feels this way.
But the knot of dread in your chest said otherwise.
The faces around you smiled—noble houses from every corner of the kingdom, all dressed in their finest, all here to witness the crown princess bind herself to Lord Pak Sungki. You recognized some of them—distant cousins, your mother’s ladies-in-waiting, advisors to your father. They looked so happy for you, nodding approvingly, their expressions soft with sentiment.
Another step. Closer to Sungki. Closer to your future.
You remembered the flowers. That moment weeks ago when you’d excitedly shown him your sketches—forget-me-nots for true love, roses for devotion. Small and personal and yours. He’d barely glanced at them before sliding them aside, explaining that the wedding planner had already selected lilies and orchids. Traditional. Proper. He’d smiled that charming, empty smile and kissed your forehead like you were a child who’d suggested something adorably naive.
You’ll thank me when you see how elegant everything looks, he’d said.
You’d told yourself he was right. That you were being silly and sentimental.
But those weren’t your flowers lining the aisle. Nothing about this wedding was yours.
Three more steps.
Your throat felt tight. The bodice of your gown seemed to constrict around your ribs despite being perfectly fitted. The cathedral suddenly felt suffocating, too hot despite the cool spring air drifting through the windows.
You thought about your study. Your sanctuary in the eastern wing where morning light streamed through tall windows, where your books waited—poetry and history and philosophy. Your escapes. Your companions. Your joy.
You won’t have time for that anymore, Sungki had said when you’d mentioned wanting to keep that space. He’d actually laughed. Explained with that patient, condescending tone that you’d have proper duties now—managing the household, hosting dignitaries, producing heirs. Besides, he needed that wing for his personal guards. Security concerns.
We’ll get you some nice poetry collections for your sitting room instead. Something pretty to display.
Like you were a doll to be arranged in his perfect house.
You’d wanted to argue, to insist that those books weren’t decoration, that you were perfectly capable of managing duties and keeping the things that made you you. But you’d swallowed it down. Smiled. Nodded.
Because he was right, wasn’t he? You were being childish. Selfish.
So why does it feel like I’m losing myself?
Two more steps.
Sungki’s smile widened as you drew closer, and something about it made your skin crawl. His eyes tracked your every movement—not with love or even affection, but with something else. Something that made you think of hunters watching trapped prey.
Possessive. Satisfied. Triumphant.
Like he’d already won something.
Like you were already his.
Every decision about this wedding had been his. The flowers. The music. The guest list. Every opinion you’d voiced had been gently, charmingly dismissed. Trust me, he’d say. I know best.
And everyone had agreed with him. Your parents, the wedding planner, the entire court. Lord Pak Sungki was such a good match. So respectful. So proper. You were so lucky.
But every bride didn’t wake up at night with a racing heart and a primal urge to run, did they?
Every bride didn’t flinch—just slightly, just for a moment—when her fiancé touched her, even though he’d never been anything but gentlemanly.
Every bride didn’t feel like she was watching her future through thick glass, happening to someone else, some other version of herself who was braver or stupider or simply more resigned to her fate.
One more step.
Your father guided you up to the altar, and you felt his hand slip away from yours. He was giving you away. Literally placing your hand in Sungki’s, transferring you like property to be traded.
Sungki’s fingers closed around yours.
Warm. Firm. Just slightly too tight, his thumb pressing against your pulse point as if measuring your heartbeat, counting the moments until you belonged to him completely.
Your breath caught. Panic clawed at your throat.
You’d tried to talk to your mother once. Just once. Started to express your uncertainty, your doubts, the feeling that something was wrong—
But her face had gone cold immediately. That look she got when you were being difficult.
Not sure about what, exactly? About securing your kingdom’s future? About fulfilling your duty as crown princess? About making the most advantageous match anyone could hope for?
She’d told you she’d been frightened before marrying your father too, but she’d done her duty. You would do the same.
The conversation ended there.
And now here you stood, hand trapped in Sungki’s grip, about to speak vows that would bind you to him forever.
The officiant began to speak, his voice resonating through the vaulted space, echoing off stone and stained glass. Words about duty and honor and the sanctity of marriage. About two houses joining. About the future of the kingdom. About binding oaths and unbreakable vows.
Nothing about love. Nothing about choice.
Nothing about you.
You stared at Sungki’s chest, unable to meet his eyes, unable to do anything but stand there as the world closed in around you like a fist. Your heart hammered against your ribs so hard it hurt, a desperate rhythm that screamed run run run even though there was nowhere to go.
The officiant’s words washed over you, meaningless sounds that sealed your fate with every syllable.
“And do you, Lord Pak Sungki, take this woman—”
The rest was drowned out by the roaring in your ears, blood rushing so loud you could barely hear anything else. You watched as if from very far away as Sungki’s lips moved, forming words you couldn’t hear over your own thundering pulse.
But you saw his expression. That gleam in his dark eyes. The way his grip on your hand tightened just a fraction more.
Possessive. Victorious. Final.
No, something inside you whispered desperately. No, please, not like this—
Then the officiant turned to you.
His mouth was moving. Everyone was looking at you. Waiting. The entire cathedral holding its breath for your answer, for the words that would end everything, that would close the door on any other future you might have had.
Say it, you thought, your throat tight with unshed tears. Just say the words and it will be over. You can stop fighting. Stop doubting. Stop hurting. Just surrender and—
But your lips wouldn’t move. Your voice had died somewhere deep in your chest, smothered by the weight of everything pressing down on you.
“And do you—”
Then the stained glass window exploded.
The sound was deafening—not just glass shattering but the scream of stone cracking, ancient masonry giving way under impossible force. The explosion of noise hit you like a physical blow. Screams erupted from every corner of the cathedral, high and terrified and primal. Your father’s arms wrapped around you instantly, trying to shield you, but something massive and dark blotted out the sun streaming through the destroyed window.
A dragon.
Your mind couldn’t process it at first. Dragons were legends. Stories. Things that hadn’t existed for centuries, if they’d ever existed at all.
But this was real.
Black scales that seemed to drink in light itself, so dark they looked like pieces of night given form. Crimson markings traced along its body—across its chest, down its legs, along the membrane of its wings—glowing like embers, like veins of fire running through living stone. The wings themselves almost spanned the entire width of the cathedral, massive and powerful, sending pews toppling like children’s toys as they beat the air with each movement.
And its eyes—
Burning red eyes, bright as forge-fire, bright as blood, locked onto you with an intensity that stole what little breath you had left.
Not with hunger. Not with malice.
With purpose.
Chaos exploded around you. People were running, shoving, trampling each other in their blind panic to escape. Guards shouted orders that no one heard, drawing swords that looked pathetic and small compared to the creature descending into the cathedral like a living nightmare. Your father was yelling something—your name maybe, or orders, or prayers—pulling you backward toward a side exit, but your legs wouldn’t move.
You were frozen. Rooted to the ground. Staring up at this impossible thing that shouldn’t exist, that couldn’t exist, and yet was here, real and terrifying and—
The dragon’s massive head swung toward you with frightening precision, as if it knew exactly where you were, as if you were the only thing in this cathedral that mattered. Those red eyes met yours, and something passed between you in that moment—something you couldn’t name, couldn’t understand, that felt like recognition even though that made no sense.
Then everything happened at once.
Guards rushed forward with spears and swords, their armor clanking, their screams brave and desperate and utterly futile. Your father tried to drag you toward safety, his grip bruising on your arm. Through the chaos, you caught a glimpse of Sungki—your almost-husband, the man who was supposed to protect you—shoving through the crowd in the opposite direction, using nobles as shields, protecting himself and only himself.
Not even looking back at you.
The dragon moved.
It was so fast for something so massive, defying physics and logic and everything you thought you knew about how the world worked. Its tail swept aside a line of advancing guards like they weighed nothing, sending them tumbling into pews. One wing stretched out, blocking the path of guests trying to flee through the main doors, corralling them away from its target.
Away from you.
Because it was coming straight for you, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.
A scream built in your throat but stuck there, trapped behind shock and terror. The creature was enormous—death itself given form, a force of nature, unstoppable and terrifying and beautiful in the way that avalanches and lightning strikes are beautiful—and it was reaching for you—
Your father shoved you behind him, drawing his ceremonial sword with shaking hands. “Stay back!” he roared at the dragon, his voice cracking. “You’ll have to go through me first!”
The dragon paused.
For one impossible moment, it looked at your father—this small, brave man with his useless sword—and something like regret flickered across its massive face.
Then it moved again, but carefully this time, deliberately. One claw extended past your father, moving slowly enough that he could see it coming, could dodge out of the way as those massive talons—each one longer than your forearm, curved and wickedly sharp—reached for you with impossible, heartbreaking gentleness.
“No!” Your father swung his sword. The blade connected with the dragon’s scales and shattered like glass.
The dragon didn’t even flinch. Those claws closed around you—around your waist, your shoulders, cradling you like something precious and fragile—and lifted.
Your feet left the ground. Your father’s desperate fingers slipped from your arm. You heard him scream your name, heard your mother’s answering wail from somewhere in the crowd, heard guards shouting and weapons clattering and the world descending into absolute chaos—
But it didn’t matter because you were rising, the dragon’s wings beating once, twice, with such power that the remaining windows shattered outward and the candelabras toppled and everything that wasn’t nailed down went flying.
And then you were through the broken window, out into the open air, the cathedral falling away beneath you with dizzying speed.
You were airborne.
“No!” The word finally tore from your throat, raw and desperate. Your hands scrabbled uselessly at the claws holding you, but they might as well have been carved from mountain stone. “No, no, no—put me down! Put me down!!”
The dragon climbed higher, powerful wings carrying you up and up and up until the cathedral looked like a child’s toy below. You caught a dizzying glimpse of the chaos you’d left behind—overturned pews, your wedding guests scattering like ants, guards streaming out of the building, tiny figures pointing up at the sky. At you.
Your kingdom spread out below like a map. The castle where you’d spent your entire life. The city where you’d walked among your people. The forests where you’d ridden as a girl. All of it shrinking, becoming distant, being stolen away from you with every beat of the dragon’s wings.
“Help!” You screamed it with everything you had, until your throat burned and your voice cracked. “Somebody help me!”
But there was no one. Just sky and clouds and wind whipping your veil away, sending it spiraling down like a white flag of surrender.
“Please!” Tears streamed down your face, hot against your wind-chilled cheeks. Your whole body shook—with terror, with shock, with the adrenaline that flooded your veins and made your heart feel like it might explode. “Please, I don’t—I don’t understand—why are you doing this?”
The dragon’s head turned, one massive eye focusing on you with disturbing intelligence. The crimson glow softened somehow, the harsh fire banking to something almost… gentle.
Then it spoke.
“You are safe.”
The voice rumbled through its entire body, so deep you felt it in your bones, in your chest, vibrating through the claws that held you. It wasn’t quite words—more like meaning translated directly into your mind, bypassing language entirely.
Male. Definitely male. And… concerned?
“I will not harm you,” it continued, and this time you heard something underneath the words. Something that sounded almost like… an apology? “I know you are frightened. I am sorry. But you are safe now.”
Safe? SAFE?
“You kidnapped me!” Your voice cracked on the words, high and broken and edged with hysteria. “You destroyed my wedding—you—my parents—” A sob cut you off. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. “How is any of this safe?”
The dragon’s eye closed briefly, something like pain flickering across its massive features. When it spoke again, its voice was softer, gentler, almost… tender.
“The wedding would have been your death.”
The words hit you like a slap. “What? No—no, that’s—Sungki wouldn’t—”
“I will explain everything,” the dragon promised. “When we arrive. When you are calm enough to hear it. But please—” and here its voice became almost pleading, “please believe that I am not your enemy. I know what you have lost today. I know what I have taken from you. But I swear to you—on everything I am—that I did this to save you.”
You wanted to scream at it that it was lying, that nothing about this made sense, that you didn’t need saving. But the words wouldn’t come. Because some traitorous part of you—that same part that had been screaming at you to run during the ceremony—whispered that maybe, just maybe, this creature was telling the truth.
And that thought was somehow more terrifying than anything else.
“Where are you taking me?” You tried to sound commanding, tried to channel every ounce of royal authority you possessed, but it came out as a broken, desperate whisper. “What do you want from me?”
“Somewhere you cannot be reached. Somewhere you will be protected.” The dragon adjusted its grip slightly, and you tensed—but the movement was so careful, so deliberate, like it was terrified of hurting you. “I want nothing from you except your safety. I swear it.”
One massive wing shifted, curving slightly to block the worst of the wind from hitting you directly. The cold air had been making you shiver violently—whether from temperature or shock, you couldn’t tell—but now the dragon’s own body heat radiated through its scales, warming you. Protecting you even from discomfort.
It was such a gentle gesture from something so fearsome that it broke something inside you.
A sob tore from your throat. Then another. And suddenly you were crying in earnest—great heaving sobs that shook your whole body. For your ruined wedding. For your terrified parents. For the life you’d just lost. For the fear that still gripped your heart. For the confusion that made your head spin.
For everything.
“Breathe,” the dragon murmured, its voice impossibly soft for something so large. “Just breathe. You are safe. I have you.”
But you couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t do anything but cry and shake and feel like your entire world had just shattered into a thousand pieces that you’d never be able to put back together.
Your vision started to blur—not just from tears but from something else. The adrenaline that had been keeping you conscious, keeping you fighting, began to drain away like water through your fingers. The crash came hard and fast, leaving behind a crushing wave of exhaustion so complete you couldn’t fight it.
“I don’t—” Your voice sounded distant to your own ears, weak and fading. “I can’t—”
The dragon made a concerned sound, a low rumble that might have been soothing if you could focus on it. You felt one claw shift, adjusting its hold so you were cradled more securely against its chest, where its heart beat slow and steady—so much calmer than your own racing pulse.
“Rest,” it said gently. “I will keep you safe. I promise.”
Your eyes fluttered closed. You tried to fight it, tried to stay conscious, to stay alert, because surely falling asleep in the grip of a dragon was the worst possible thing you could do—
But your body had other ideas.
The world tilted and swayed. The wind became a distant roar. Even your fear felt far away now, muffled by the grey fog creeping in at the edges of your consciousness.
The last thing you registered before darkness took you completely was warmth. The steady beat of the dragon’s heart. The gentle, protective curve of its claws around you.
And those burning red eyes, glancing down one more time to ensure you were secure, that soft glow of concern the last thing you saw before everything went black.
⋆°.☾⋆. 𓆩 𓆪 ೃ࿔:⋆
You woke to the sensation of descending.
For one blissful, disoriented moment, you didn’t remember. Your mind was blank, floating in that space between sleep and waking where nothing had happened yet, where the world was still safe and familiar.
Then awareness crashed back in with brutal clarity.
The wedding. The dragon. The kidnapping.
Your eyes snapped open with a gasp, and immediately you wished they hadn’t.
You were still in the air. Still caught in those massive claws. The ground was rising up to meet you—or rather, you were falling toward it, the dragon’s wings spreading wide to slow your descent. Wind whipped around you, colder now, carrying the scent of pine and stone and something wild you couldn’t name.
Terror jolted through you like lightning. You struggled instinctively, a choked sound escaping your throat.
“Easy.” The dragon’s voice rumbled through you immediately, and the claws around you tightened just slightly—not restraining, but steadying. “Easy. I am landing. You are safe.”
Safe. That word again. As if being stolen away by a creature from nightmares could ever be considered safe.
But you couldn’t fight. Couldn’t do anything but squeeze your eyes shut and try not to scream as the world tilted and swayed. You felt the powerful downbeat of wings, once, twice, and then—
Impact.
The dragon landed with surprising grace for something so massive, the shock of contact with the ground barely jostling you in its grip. Those careful claws held you steady, absorbing the movement so you felt only the smallest jar.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
You could hear your own ragged breathing, feel your heart slamming against your ribs. The dragon’s chest rose and fell beneath you with deep, measured breaths—so much calmer than your own panicked gasps.
Then, slowly, carefully, the claws began to open.
You were lowered toward the ground with such deliberate gentleness that it almost broke you. Like you were something precious. Something that might shatter if handled too roughly.
Your feet touched stone—cold even through your wedding slippers. The claws released you completely, withdrawing with careful precision, and suddenly you were standing on your own again.
Your legs nearly gave out.
You stumbled, and immediately—immediately—one massive claw moved back toward you, not grabbing but hovering close, ready to catch you if you fell. You flinched away from it with a sharp cry, and the claw stopped instantly, retreating.
“Forgive me.” The dragon’s voice was soft, pained. “I did not mean to frighten you further.”
You couldn’t respond. Couldn’t do anything but stand there shaking, your arms wrapped around yourself, trying desperately to understand where you were. What was happening. How any of this could be real.
You were in a courtyard of some kind. Ancient stone stretched around you—cracked and weathered with age, overgrown with moss and climbing vines. Crumbling walls rose on all sides, and ahead of you stood a tower. Tall and narrow, built from grey stone that had once been magnificent but now showed the wear of centuries. Windows dotted its length like dark, watchful eyes.
It looked abandoned. Forgotten.
A prison.
“Where—” Your voice came out as barely a whisper, broken and hoarse from screaming. You swallowed hard and tried again. “Where am I?”
The dragon shifted, and you spun toward it with a gasp. It was even more terrifying on the ground somehow—massive beyond comprehension, all black scales and crimson markings and those burning red eyes that watched you with far too much intelligence.
But it held perfectly still. Didn’t move toward you. Didn’t crowd you.
Just… watched. Waited.
“Somewhere safe,” it said finally. “Somewhere hidden. Somewhere he cannot reach you.”
He. Sungki.
The name sent a confusing tangle of emotions through you. Relief that you’d escaped that wedding, that suffocating future. But also—anger. Grief. Terror at what you’d lost, what had been taken from you, even if you hadn’t wanted it.
“My parents,” you choked out. Tears burned your eyes again, threatening to spill over. “They’ll think I’m dead. They’ll think you—that you killed me—”
Something that looked horrifyingly like anguish crossed the dragon’s face. Its head lowered slightly, those red eyes dimming with what you would swear was guilt.
“They will think you're kidnapped,” it said quietly. “And they will search. But they will not find you here. No one will.” It paused, and when it spoke again, its voice was gentler. “I am sorry for the pain this causes them. I am sorry for the pain it causes you. But your life is worth more than their peace of mind. Worth more than anything.”
The conviction in those words shook you. This creature—this dragon—spoke about your life like it was something sacred. Something worth destroying a kingdom’s peace to protect.
It made no sense.
“Why?” The word burst from you, desperate and demanding. “Why are you doing this? What do you want from me?”
“Nothing.” The answer was immediate, firm. “I want nothing from you except your continued existence.”
You stared at him, trying to find the lie, the trick, the hidden meaning. But those red eyes met yours with devastating honesty.
“Lord Pak Sungki,” the dragon continued, and something dark crept into its voice—something cold and dangerous that made the air feel heavier, “has killed before. Three wives, all of noble birth. All died within the first year of marriage. Falls from towers. Sudden illnesses. Tragic accidents.” The last two words dripped with bitter sarcasm. “You would have been the fourth.”
The words hit you like physical blows. “No. No, that’s—” But your protest died in your throat.
Because you remembered now. Remembered rumors, whispered in corners when people thought you weren’t listening. Talk of Sungki’s previous marriages. His terrible luck. How tragic it was that such a good man kept losing wives to misfortune.
You’d dismissed it. Told yourself it was just gossip, just coincidence, just—
Just your instincts screaming at you that something was wrong.
Your knees gave out.
You hit the stone hard, your elaborate wedding gown pooling around you like a puddle of silk and pearls. A sob tore from your throat—and then another, and another. Everything you’d been holding back, all the fear and confusion and grief and rage, came pouring out in great heaving gasps that shook your entire body.
The dragon made a low, distressed sound.
“Please,” he said, and the anguish in its voice was so genuine it cut through even your breakdown. “Please do not cry. I cannot bear it.”
But you couldn’t stop. Couldn’t do anything but weep into your hands while this creature that had stolen you away watched with what looked horrifyingly like a breaking heart.
You felt movement—careful, cautious. Looked up through blurred vision to see the dragon lowering itself to the ground, folding its massive body down until its head was level with yours. Still giving you space. Still not touching.
Those red eyes were so close now. You could see the concern in them. The pain. The desperate need to comfort you warring with the fear of frightening you more.
“I know you do not believe me,” it said softly. “I know I am a monster in your eyes. But I swear to you—on my life, on everything I am—that I would never harm you. That keeping you safe is the only thing that matters to me.”
Something in its voice made your breath catch. Something that sounded like… devotion. Like your life mattered more to this creature than its own.
Why? Why would a dragon care if one human princess lived or died?
“You will stay here,” it continued gently, gesturing with its massive head toward the tower. “In the tower. Everything you need is there—food, water, clothing, books, comfort. You will be safe within its walls. Protected.”
Protected. Or imprisoned.
“And if I want to leave?” Your voice came out small, broken.
The dragon’s eyes dimmed with sorrow. “You cannot. Not yet. Not until—” It stopped, seemed to struggle with something. “Not until the threat has passed. Please understand. This is not a cage. This is a sanctuary.”
You looked at the tower. At the ancient stone and dark windows. At what would be your prison, no matter how kindly it was framed.
Then you looked back at the dragon, at this impossible creature that claimed to have saved you, that watched you with such careful concern it made your chest ache.
You didn’t know what to believe anymore.
“Come,” the dragon said quietly, rising to its feet with fluid grace. “Let me show you. And then—” It hesitated. “Then I will leave you in peace. I know you need time. I understand.”
It began walking toward the tower, those massive legs carrying it forward with surprising quiet. After a moment, you realized it expected you to follow.
You looked back the way you’d come—at the sky that had carried you here, at the impossible distance between you and home.
Then, with shaking legs and a heart full of fear and confusion and the tiniest, most traitorous spark of curiosity, you stood.
And followed the dragon into the tower.
⋆°.☾⋆. 𓆩 𓆪 ೃ࿔*:⋆
The tower’s entrance loomed before you—a heavy wooden door, ancient but sturdy, set into stone that had weathered centuries. The dragon reached forward with one careful claw and pushed it open. The hinges creaked softly, a sound that seemed too small, too normal for this impossible situation.
Beyond the doorway, a spiral staircase wound upward into darkness.
The dragon paused at the threshold, its massive form blocking most of the fading daylight. It turned those red eyes on you, and for a moment you saw something in them—hesitation? Uncertainty? As if it wasn’t sure how to proceed, how to make this easier for you when nothing about this could possibly be easy.
“The stairs lead up,” he spoke quietly. “To your… to the living quarters. Everything is prepared for you there.”
Your living quarters. As if this was a choice. As if you’d asked to be brought here.
But you said nothing. Just stared at those stairs disappearing into shadow, your heart racing with a different kind of fear now. What waited up there? What had this creature prepared?
The dragon seemed to sense your terror because it shifted, angling its body away slightly, making itself smaller somehow despite its size. “I will go first,” it offered. “So you can see. So you know I speak the truth.”
Without waiting for your response—what response could you possibly give?—it began to climb. The staircase was wide enough for its bulk, though barely. You heard the scrape of claws on stone, the whisper of scales against the walls, and then it disappeared around the curve of the stairs.
Leaving you alone in the doorway.
You could run. The thought struck you with sudden clarity. The dragon was ahead of you now, out of sight. You could turn around, flee across the courtyard, try to find a way out of this abandoned place—
But to where? You had no idea where you were. No idea how far you’d flown or in what direction. And even if you somehow made it beyond these walls, what then? The dragon would find you easily. You’d seen how fast it moved.
No. You were trapped here, whether you went up those stairs willingly or had to be carried.
At least if you walked, you kept some shred of dignity.
Taking a shaking breath, you gathered your ruined wedding gown in trembling hands and stepped into the tower. The stone was cold beneath your slippers, and the stairwell felt oppressive, the walls too close, the air too still. Each step echoed softly as you climbed, following the path the dragon had taken.
Up and up and up. Your legs burned. Your lungs ached. The gown was heavy, cumbersome, designed for standing still and looking beautiful, not for climbing endless stairs in a forgotten tower. Sweat dampened your skin beneath all the layers of silk and pearls.
Finally, the stairs opened up into a large circular room.
You stopped on the top step, breath catching.
The space was… not what you expected.
Soft evening light poured through tall windows—real glass, clean and intact despite the tower’s abandoned exterior. The room was enormous, taking up the entire width of the tower at this level. And it was furnished. Not with dusty relics or moldering furniture, but with actual, livable pieces.
A bed stood against one curved wall—large and sturdy, piled with what looked like soft blankets and pillows. Real pillows, not moth-eaten remnants. Near one of the windows sat a small table with two chairs, simple but well-made. Bookshelves lined another section of wall, and your heart stuttered when you saw they weren’t empty. Books filled them, spines of different colors and sizes.
Tapestries hung on the walls—faded but beautiful, depicting forests and mountains and skies full of stars. They softened the stone, made the space feel less like a prison cell and more like… like a room. A place someone might actually live.
The dragon waited on the far side of the space, pressed against the wall as if trying to take up as little room as possible. Those red eyes watched you carefully, gauging your reaction.
“This is the main living area,” it said softly. “There is more. A bathing room through that door—” one claw gestured toward a doorway you hadn’t noticed, “—with running water. It still works. I made certain of it.”
You took a tentative step into the room, your eyes darting around, trying to process everything. This wasn’t some dungeon. This was… prepared. Maintained. As if someone had known you were coming and had tried to make it comfortable.
“The kitchen is one level down,” the dragon continued, its voice careful, almost gentle. “Stocked with food. Bread, dried fruits, preserves, things that will keep. Fresh water from a spring that feeds into the tower. You will not go hungry.”
Your throat felt tight. You moved toward the bookshelves, drawn despite yourself. Your fingers trailed along the spines—poetry, history, philosophy. Stories and myths and scholarly texts. The kinds of books you loved. The kinds of books Sungki had dismissed as wastes of time.
“I was not certain what you would prefer,” the dragon said, and something in its voice made you turn to look at it. There was uncertainty there. Almost… nervousness? “So I brought many kinds. If these do not please you, I can bring others.”
“You… brought these?” Your voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper. “For me?”
The dragon’s eyes dimmed slightly, and it lowered its head. “I wanted you to have comfort. Things that might… help. During your time here.”
During your imprisonment, it meant. But it had tried to make that imprisonment bearable.
You didn’t know what to feel about that. Gratitude felt wrong—this creature had kidnapped you. But the gesture was undeniably… kind. Thoughtful in a way that made your chest ache with confusion.
You turned away, moving toward the windows. The view took your breath away—mountains stretched into the distance, their peaks touched with the gold of sunset. Forest spread below, dark green and vast and utterly empty of any signs of civilization. No roads. No villages. Nothing but wilderness for as far as you could see.
Truly, no one would find you here.
“You can see for miles,” the dragon said quietly. “No one approaches without being seen. You are safe here. Protected.”
Protected. That word again. As if these walls and this isolation were for your benefit rather than your captivity.
You wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly feeling the weight of everything—the gown, the day, the fear, the impossible strangeness of standing in a tower room with a dragon who spoke of protection while keeping you prisoner.
“I don’t understand,” you whispered, your eyes still fixed on the mountains. “Why go to all this trouble? If you truly just wanted to save me from Sungki, you could have… warned my parents. Sent word somehow. You didn’t have to take me. You didn’t have to—” Your voice cracked. “—to do any of this.”
The dragon was silent for a long moment. When it finally spoke, its voice was heavy with something you couldn’t quite name. “They would not have believed me. No one would have. Lord Pak Sungki is respected, trusted. A dragon’s word against his?” A bitter sound, almost like a laugh. “They would have called it madness. Locked you in your room until the wedding to keep you ‘safe’ from the monster trying to steal you away.”
You knew, with sick certainty, that he was right. Your parents had dismissed your doubts. They never would have believed a dragon’s warning.
“This was the only way,” he continued softly. “I am sorry it had to be this way. I am sorry for your fear, for your pain. But I am not sorry for saving your life.”
You turned to face it then, this massive creature who had upended your entire existence. “How long?” you demanded. “How long do you expect me to stay here?”
The dragon’s eyes met yours, and you saw genuine regret in them. “I do not know,” it admitted. “Until Sungki gives up his search, perhaps. Until he finds another target. Until—” It stopped, as if the words were difficult. “Until you are no longer in danger.”
“So indefinitely.” Your voice was flat, hollow. “You’re keeping me here indefinitely.”
“I am keeping you alive,” the dragon said, and there was steel beneath the gentleness now. “That is worth any price. Even your hatred of me.”
The conviction in those words sent a shiver through you. This creature truly believed what it was saying. Truly thought your life was worth all of this—the kidnapping, the imprisonment, your terror and pain.
Why? The question burned in your mind, but you were too exhausted, too overwhelmed to voice it.
As if sensing your breaking point, the dragon moved toward the stairs. “I will leave you now,” he said quietly. “You need rest. Time to… adjust. The door will not lock from the outside—you can move freely within the tower. But please—” and here its voice became almost pleading, “please do not try to leave. The forest is dangerous, and you do not know the way. You could be hurt.”
It paused at the top of the stairs, looking back at you one last time. In the fading light, those red eyes almost looked… sad.
“I know you do not believe this now,” it said softly. “But I promise you—everything I have done, I have done to protect you. I hope, one day, you will understand that.”
Then it descended the stairs, and you were alone.
Alone in a tower room that was far too comfortable to be a prison and far too isolated to be anything else.
You stood there as darkness fell outside the windows, as the room grew dim and shadows stretched across the floor. Stood there until your legs finally gave out and you sank onto the bed, still in your ruined wedding gown, and let yourself cry for everything you’d lost.
For the life you’d never get back.
For the future you’d never have.
And, in some small, traitorous part of your heart—for the wedding you’d been saved from, even if the salvation had come at such a terrible price.
⋆°.☾⋆. 𓆩 𓆪 ೃ࿔*:⋆
You woke to sunlight streaming through the windows.
For the second time in as many days, there was that blissful moment of confusion—where you didn’t remember, where your mind was blessedly blank. Then reality drifted back, slower this time, less like a crashing wave and more like the tide coming in.
The wedding. The dragon. The tower.
You were still wearing your wedding gown. The fabric was hopelessly wrinkled now, uncomfortable where you’d slept on it, pearls pressing into your skin. Your hair had come loose from its elaborate styling, pins scattered across the pillow. You felt rumpled and stiff, but not as devastated as you’d expected to feel.
Maybe you were still in shock. Or maybe you were simply too exhausted for hysteria.
Slowly, you sat up and looked around the room. It looked different in daylight—softer, almost pleasant with morning sun painting everything warm and golden. The books on the shelves caught the light. The tapestries showed their faded beauty more clearly. Through the windows, you could see clear blue sky and the distant mountains touched with pink from the sunrise.
It was, objectively, quite beautiful.
That thought felt strange. Wrong, somehow. You were supposed to be terrified, supposed to be plotting escape. Instead, you just felt… tired. Confused. Uncertain about everything.
You stood and moved to the window, looking out at the view. Forest and mountains stretched endlessly in every direction, painted in morning light. No roads. No villages. No signs of any other people anywhere.
So even if you wanted to leave, where would you go?
The thought wasn’t panicked, just… practical. Observational. You tucked it away to think about later, when your mind felt less foggy.
For now, you needed to do something normal. Something that would help you feel more like yourself.
The bathing room. The dragon had mentioned it yesterday. You should wash, get out of this dress, clear your head.
The door opened easily, revealing a space larger than you’d expected. A copper tub dominated one wall, and there was a small hearth built into the corner—and to your surprise, a fire burned there, crackling softly. Someone had lit it recently. The dragon must have done it before you woke, which meant it had been in the tower this morning while you slept.
That should have frightened you. Instead, you just felt… strange. It had lit a fire so you could have warm water.
A large pot sat on a hook over the flames, and when you checked, it was full of water, already steaming slightly. Enough to fill the tub partway, at least. There was a bucket nearby for cold water from the basin to mix in.
The dragon had thought of everything.
You stared at the steaming pot for a long moment, trying to sort through your feelings about that. It was kind, wasn’t it? Thoughtful. But also presumptuous—assuming you’d want to bathe, assuming you’d stay, assuming it had any right to prepare these things for you.
Then again, you did want to bathe. So maybe you should just… accept the kindness and think about the rest later.
Working carefully, you used the bucket to transfer the hot water to the tub, mixing it with cold until the temperature felt right. Steam rose from the surface, and the sight of it made you realize just how much you wanted this—to be clean, to feel normal, to have this one small comfort.
Someone had left clothes folded on a bench near the tub. You picked up the dress—simple linen in soft blue, well-made but nothing fancy. Practical. The kind of thing a merchant’s daughter might wear, not a princess.
There were slippers too. Stockings. Even a plain wool shawl.
All in approximately your size.
You set them down, pushing away thoughts of how the dragon might know your size, how long it might have been planning this. Those thoughts led nowhere useful.
Instead, you focused on the immediate problem: getting out of this wedding gown.
That proved more difficult than expected. The gown had dozens of tiny buttons down the back, most of which you couldn’t reach. At court, you’d always had attendants to help with dressing and undressing. You’d never realized how dependent you were on that help until now.
After several minutes of struggling and stretching and nearly dislocating your shoulder trying to reach the highest buttons, you gave up on doing this properly. You’d just have to leave some fastened and pull the whole thing over your head.
It took more struggling—and you definitely heard some stitches pop—but finally, finally, you managed to wrestle yourself free.
The gown lay in a heap on the floor, and you left it there, not wanting to look at it.
The bath was heaven. Pure, simple heaven. You sank into the warm water with a sigh, letting it soothe your sore muscles and wash away the grime and sweat from yesterday. There was plain soap on a small shelf—nothing fancy, but it smelled clean, like herbs. You scrubbed your skin until it felt fresh again, worked the soap through your hair to wash away all the pins and powder and perfume from the wedding styling.
When you finally emerged and dried yourself with the towel that had been left on the bench, you felt substantially more human. The simple dress was comfortable, easy to move in. The slippers fit reasonably well. You left your hair loose to dry, too tired to braid it properly.
Looking at yourself in the small mirror on the wall, you barely recognized the person staring back. No elaborate gown. No jewelry. No carefully styled hair. Just… you. Plain and simple.
It should have felt diminishing. Instead, it felt almost like relief. You pushed that thought away too and left the bathing room.
The main living area felt different now that you were clean and dressed in fresh clothes. Less like a prison cell, more like… well. A room. Just a room in a tower where you happened to be staying.
Where you were being kept, you corrected yourself. This wasn’t a visit. This was captivity, no matter how comfortable.
Your stomach growled, reminding you that you’d eaten nothing since yesterday morning. The dragon had mentioned a kitchen one level down.
You found the stairs and descended carefully. The stone was cool under your slippers, the stairwell dimly lit but not dark. After a full spiral, you reached the kitchen level.
It was smaller than the main room but surprisingly well-equipped. A hearth with a fire burning low—the dragon must have lit this one too. Shelves lined with provisions. You investigated them with growing curiosity: jars of preserves, dried fruits, wheels of cheese wrapped in cloth, several loaves of bread that smelled fresh. A barrel of water. Even bundles of dried herbs hanging from hooks in the ceiling.
Not just supplies. A fully functional kitchen.
You cut yourself some bread and cheese, eating slowly while you processed this. The dragon hadn’t just thrown you in an empty tower with some basic food. It had prepared this place. Stocked it carefully. Made sure you’d have everything you needed.
Why?
That question kept circling in your mind. Why go to all this trouble for one person? Why care so much about keeping you safe? You were just one princess out of many in the world. What made your life worth all this effort?
You couldn’t figure it out, and thinking about it too hard made your head hurt. So you finished eating and continued exploring instead.
The next level down held storage—more supplies, neatly organized. Firewood stacked along one wall. Extra blankets in a chest. Candles. Oil for lamps. Everything maintained and ready.
Finally, you reached the bottom of the tower and stood before the entrance door.
Your heart beat a little faster as you looked at it. The dragon had said it wouldn’t lock from the outside. That you could move freely within the tower. But surely that was a lie. Surely it would have secured the door somehow.
Almost without meaning to, your hand reached for the iron ring handle.
You pulled.
The door opened.
Just like that. Easily. No resistance.
You stood frozen, staring at the widening gap, at the courtyard beyond bathed in morning sunlight. The dragon had told the truth. You weren’t locked in.
For a moment, you considered stepping outside. Just to see. Just to prove you could.
But then you remembered the view from the window—the endless forest, the mountains, the complete absence of any civilization. Where would you even go? You had no idea which direction led to anything, how far you’d have to walk, what dangers lurked in those woods.
The dragon had said the forest was dangerous. That you could be hurt.
Was that true? Or just something to keep you here?
You didn’t know. Couldn’t know without trying. And trying seemed… unwise. At least for now.
Maybe later, when you’d had time to think, to plan. When you weren’t so tired and confused.
You let the door close and stood there, hand still on the handle, trying to understand how you felt about this. You weren’t locked in, but you also couldn’t really leave. It was a strange kind of freedom—or a strange kind of captivity. You weren’t sure which.
A sound from outside interrupted your thoughts. Heavy footsteps. Claws on stone.
The dragon was coming back.
Your stomach fluttered with something you couldn’t quite name. Not terror, exactly. Just… nervousness. Uncertainty. You stepped back from the door as it began to open.
The dragon pushed it inward carefully, and those red eyes found you immediately. Something flickered in them—surprise, maybe? Then what looked almost like relief.
“Good morning,” it said, its deep voice softer than yesterday. Then, noticing you standing so close to the door, “Ah. You tried it. I am glad—now you know I spoke the truth.”
“I can’t really leave though,” you said. It wasn’t angry, just… stating a fact. “Can I? There’s nowhere to go.”
The dragon’s expression shifted—guilt, definitely guilt. It lowered its massive head slightly. “No,” it admitted quietly. “The tower is isolated. I chose it for that reason. But you are not locked in—you can go outside, walk the courtyard, even explore the nearby area if you wish. I only ask that you do not venture into the deep forest. It truly is dangerous.”
You studied its face, trying to read those alien features. It seemed sincere. But then, it had seemed sincere about everything, and you still didn’t understand why any of this was happening.
“I brought provisions,” the dragon continued, gesturing behind itself with one wing. You noticed the bundle now—cloth-wrapped packages. “Fresh things. Eggs, jam, bread from a village, vegetables. I thought… I hoped you might prefer them to only preserved food.”
It had gone to a village. Flown however many miles to get you fresh bread and eggs.
“Thank you,” you said automatically, then felt strange for thanking your captor. But it was kind, wasn’t it? Even if everything else about this was wrong.
The dragon’s eyes brightened slightly at your thanks, and it carefully picked up the bundle, bringing it inside and setting it gently on the floor. “I will bring more in a few days,” it said. “Whatever you need. If there is anything you want—books, supplies, anything—tell me and I will get it for you.”
You wanted to ask for freedom. For answers. For everything to make sense. But you were too tired for that conversation. And the dragon looked almost… hopeful. Like your simple thank you had meant something to it.
“I should go,” it said after a moment of silence. “Let you have space. But if you need anything—truly, anything—just call. I will be close enough to hear.”
“You’re staying nearby?” The question came out before you could stop it.
“Yes.” The answer was immediate, firm. “I would not leave you unprotected. I will remain close. Always.”
Always. Like a guard. Or a warden.
Or something else you couldn’t quite name.
The dragon moved toward the door, then paused, looking back. Those red eyes met yours, and there was something in them—something almost vulnerable.
“I know this is difficult,” it said softly. “I know you do not understand. But I promise—everything I do is to keep you safe. One day, I hope you will believe that.”
Then it was gone, the door closing gently behind it, leaving you alone with your thoughts and a bundle of fresh provisions and more questions than answers.
You stood there for a long moment, then finally gathered the bundle and carried it up to the kitchen.
The dragon had brought eggs. Jam and fresh bread that was still slightly warm. Vegetables. Even a small pot of honey.
You set them out on the shelf, organizing them carefully, trying not to think about what it meant that a dragon was bringing you breakfast like some kind of devoted attendant.
Trying not to think about how, despite everything, some small part of you had actually been grateful for the gesture—or about the small flutter of warmth you’d felt when the dragon’s eyes had brightened at your thanks.
⋆°.☾⋆. 𓆩 𓆪 ೃ࿔*:⋆
[A Few Days Later]
The days developed a rhythm, strange as that seemed.
You woke with the sun. Found that a fire had already been lit in the bathing room hearth—the dragon came early, before you woke, silent as a ghost despite its size. You’d bathe, dress in one of the simple gowns it had provided (there were several now, in different colors, all comfortable and well-made). Eat breakfast in the kitchen, usually bread and cheese and fruit, sometimes the eggs the dragon had brought.
Then the day stretched before you, empty and waiting to be filled.
You read. The books the dragon had chosen were genuinely interesting—not just random volumes grabbed to fill shelves, but carefully selected. Poetry that made your chest ache. Histories of kingdoms you’d only heard about in passing. Philosophical texts that made you think. Stories that let you escape, at least for a while, into other worlds where princesses weren’t locked in towers.
You explored the tower thoroughly, learning every corner. Found that the dragon maintained everything meticulously. The fires never went out completely—it must tend them when you weren’t looking. The water barrel stayed full. Supplies appeared on the kitchen shelves before you ran low.
It was taking care of you. Providing for you. All while keeping its distance.
You saw it every few days. It would arrive in the morning or evening, always announcing itself with those heavy footsteps so it wouldn’t startle you. Always bringing something—fresh food, more firewood, once a thick cloak when the weather turned colder.
The conversations were brief. Careful.
“Good morning. I brought apples from an orchard to the south. And more bread.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you need anything? Is there anything you lack?”
“No. Everything is… fine.”
“Good. That is good.”
And then it would leave, and you’d be alone again.
You should have hated this. Should have spent every moment plotting escape or raging against your captivity. But instead, you found yourself… adjusting. The anger that had burned so hot that first day had banked to confused embers. You were still frightened, still uncertain, still desperate to understand why—but the sharp edges of panic had worn smooth.
Maybe that should have worried you. This acceptance. But you were too tired to fight something you couldn’t change, and the dragon had been true to every promise it made. You weren’t locked in. You weren’t harmed. You were, in the strangest way possible, safe.
Even if safe meant alone.
By the fourth day, you’d started talking to yourself just to hear a voice. By the fifth, you’d caught yourself actually looking forward to the dragon’s visits, just for the brief moment of company, the sound of another living being.
By the sixth day, you’d started wondering about it. This creature that stole you away but treated you so carefully. That spoke with such conviction about protecting you. That brought you apples and honey and books as if it wanted nothing more than your comfort.
Why?
The question haunted you, but you never asked. The conversations were too brief, too careful. You didn’t know how to bridge that gap—how to ask a dragon why it cared whether you lived or died.
On the seventh day, everything changed.
You were in the main living area, curled in the chair by the window with a book of poetry, when you heard the familiar sound of footsteps. The dragon was coming earlier than usual—it was barely past dawn.
You set the book aside and moved to the stairs, descending to meet it. You’d learned it was easier this way, greeting it at the entrance rather than making it climb to your level. The staircase was wide enough for its bulk, but only just, and you could tell it found the space uncomfortable.
The door opened, and the dragon ducked its massive head inside. Those red eyes found you immediately, and something in them looked… different. Nervous? Uncertain?
“Good morning,” it said quietly. “I… I have something for you. Something I thought you might like.”
It held something carefully in one claw—a book, you realized. Smaller than the others, bound in dark leather that looked old but well-maintained.
You came closer, curious despite yourself. “Another book?”
“Yes. But this one is… specific.” The dragon’s voice was softer now, almost hesitant. It held the book out toward you. “I thought you would enjoy it.”
You took it carefully, turning it over in your hands. The leather was soft, worn smooth by time and handling. There was no title on the cover, but when you opened it, you recognized the text immediately.
Your breath caught.
The Odyssey of Stars.
It was an old epic poem, written centuries ago by a traveling bard. A story about wanderers and lost souls finding their way home through impossible odds. You’d heard about this book years ago from a visiting scholar, had searched for a copy in the royal library, had asked merchants and book dealers if they’d ever seen it.
It was rare. Incredibly rare. Most copies had been lost to time, and the few that remained were held in private collections or monastery libraries, far from public access.
You’d wanted to read this for years.
“How did you…” Your voice came out as barely a whisper. You looked up at the dragon, confusion and something else—something dangerously close to wonder—flooding through you. “How did you know I wanted this?”
The dragon’s eyes dimmed slightly, and it shifted its weight. “I… I knew you searched for it. That you wanted to read it.”
“But I never told you that.” Your heart was racing now, your mind spinning. “I never said anything about this book. How could you possibly know?”
The dragon was quiet for a long moment, and you could see the conflict in its expression—wanting to explain, but uncertain how. Or perhaps uncertain if it should.
“I have watched over you,” it said finally, so softly you almost didn’t hear. “For longer than you know. I learned what brought you joy. What you wished for. What you needed.”
The words hit you like a physical blow. Watched over you. For longer than you knew. How long? Months? Years? How much of your life had this creature observed, learning your wants and wishes while you remained completely unaware of its existence?
The book trembled in your hands. You should feel violated. Frightened. Angry that something had been watching you without your knowledge.
But instead, you felt…
Your eyes burned. Your throat went tight. Because this creature—this dragon that had stolen you away from everything you knew—had remembered that you wanted this book. Had somehow found one of the rarest texts in the kingdom. Had brought it to you because it thought it would bring you joy.
“I…” You tried to find words, but they wouldn’t come. Your vision blurred with tears you didn’t understand. Gratitude and confusion and fear and something too complicated to name all tangled together in your chest until you couldn’t breathe.
You clutched the book to your chest and just stood there, speechless, as tears slipped down your cheeks.
“I am sorry,” the dragon said quickly, and there was panic in its voice now. “I did not mean to upset you. Please—I only wanted—I thought—”
But it stopped, seeming to realize that nothing it said would help. You could see the anguish in those red eyes, the desperate wish to comfort you warring with the knowledge that its presence might be making things worse.
“I will leave you,” it said quietly. “I am sorry. I am so sorry.”
And then it was gone, the door closing behind it with a soft thud, leaving you standing there with tears streaming down your face and a book you’d wanted for years pressed against your heart.
By the time you’d gathered yourself enough to think clearly, to realize you had a dozen questions you desperately needed to ask, the dragon was already gone. You could hear nothing from outside—no footsteps, no wing beats. Just silence.
You looked down at the book in your hands. Ran your fingers over the worn leather cover.
It had remembered. It had known.
And you didn’t know what to do with the strange warmth blooming in your chest—gratitude and confusion tangled so tightly you couldn’t separate them, leaving you feeling seen and known in a way that terrified and comforted you in equal measure.
next part soon <3 (edit: u can read next parts here)
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𓍯𓂃 summary ❤︎ tired of Caleb’s endless lies and emotional distance after his “death” and return, you sneak into restricted Fleet areas to uncover the truth he’s hiding. Caught red-handed, the confrontation explodes: months of grief, anger, and longing boil over into raw, furious sex. Still in full colonel uniform, a fed-up Caleb manhandles you, fucks you rough and possessive across his apartment, determined to pound the brat out of you.
𓍯𓂃 wc ❤︎ 5.8k
𓍯𓂃 warnings ❤︎ explicit sexual content, rough sex , manhandling, possessive caleb, mean ’n dom!caleb, uniform kink (uniform stays on), brat taming, spanking / impact play, biting / marking, nipple play, fingering, pinv, raw sex, angry sex, make-up sex, Intense emotional confrontation (references to grief, presumed death, trauma), porn with plot, power imbalance (colonel/subordinate dynamic), aftercare . . .18+ ★ MINORS DNI !
The screen of your phone goes dark, reflecting your tired eyes back at you. The last message from Caleb stares up like a ghost: “I’ll be there in few days pipsqueak :D”
Sent months ago. Read, never replied to. You’ve sent dozens since then—casual check-ins that turned into worried paragraphs, then short, clipped demands for him to just call. Every single one delivered, none answered. The only times he bothered to call back were variations of the same excuse: “’m busy pipsqueak, fleet stuffs. Will call later.”
Later never comes.
You shove the phone into your pocket with more force than necessary and exhale through your nose, the sound sharp in the empty corridor. The overhead lights in the Farspace Fleet’s residential wing are dimmed for the night cycle, casting long shadows across the polished metal floor. Your boots make soft, deliberate taps as you walk, the only noise in this sterile hallway that smells faintly of recycled air and disinfectant.
You adjust the brim of your temporary adjutant’s cap—black, crisp, borrowed authority—and round the corner toward the restricted deck. If Caleb thinks he can keep ghosting the one person who’s known him since he was a scrawny kid stealing apples from your grandmother’s kitchen, he’s got another thing coming.
Two can play at ignoring each other. Except you’re done playing.
The Hunter’s Association dispatched a small team to “liaise” with the Fleet after yet another suspicious incident involving protocore smuggling routes. You volunteered before anyone else could open their mouth.
Caleb approved your transfer request within hours. You saw the digital signature yourself: Caleb Xia, colonel, Farspace Fleet. Clean, impersonal, no note attached. He knew you were coming. He knew you’d be here, on his ship, sleeping three sections away from his quarters. And still—nothing. No welcome, no late-night knock on your door, not even a damn “hey” in passing.
Your fingers curl into fists inside your gloves, nails pressing half-moons into your palms. The ache feels good. Grounding.
Ever since he came back from Skyheaven—ever since the explosion that was supposed to have killed him, ever since he reappeared with new scars and secrets stitched under his skin—everything’s been wrong. He smiles like nothing happened, calls you pipsqueak like it’s still a joke between kids, but his eyes are different. Guarded. Tired in a way sleep can’t fix.
He keeps saying he’s fine. That whatever shadows are chasing him, he can handle alone. That you should trust him.
You’re so tired of trusting his lies.
Intel you scraped together before boarding painted a darker picture than his breezy dismissals. The Fleet isn’t fully under his command. There are factions—higher-ups with private agendas, admirals who see Caleb as a convenient shield, a decorated pawn they can push to the front lines while they pull strings from the shadows. Someone’s been setting him up, painting targets on his back, forcing him into missions that smell like suicide wrapped in duty.
And he’s letting them.
Because that’s what Caleb does—takes the weight so no one else has to. He did it when you were kids and he took the blame for breaking the neighbor’s window. He did it when he enlisted to pay for your grandmother’s medical bills after she raised you both. He’s doing it now, smiling through blood and exhaustion while whatever wolves circle him close in.
Your chest burns.
He’s yours. Your Caleb. The boy who promised under a summer sky that he’d always come home. The man who used to sneak into your room after nightmares just to hold your hand until you fell asleep. The one person who’s supposed to let you in.
Someone is trying to take him away piece by piece, and he’s helping them do it.
Not anymore.
You stop in front of the sealed door to the classified operations deck. The panel glows soft red—access restricted. Your borrowed credentials won’t get you through. But you didn’t come this far to stand outside like a good little adjutant.
You glance both ways down the empty hall, heart thudding steady and sure. Then you pull the slim override chip from your pocket—the one you lifted from a careless lieutenant during orientation—and slot it into the port.
The light flickers green.
The door slides open with a hushed pneumatic sigh.
You step inside, letting it seal behind you.
Whatever truths Caleb won’t give you willingly, you’ll find yourself. Even if it means walking straight into the dark he’s been trying to keep you out of.
The door hisses shut behind you, sealing with a soft click that echoes too loud in the sudden silence of the classified operations room. Rows of secure terminals glow faintly under emergency strips, casting blue shadows over locked cabinets and holotables. The air is colder here, sterile, humming with the low thrum of servers.
You’ve barely taken three steps when the panel chirps again—someone else is coming in.
Shit.
You dart behind a tall server rack in the far corner, pressing your back flat against the cool metal, heart slamming against your ribs. The door slides open. Two sets of boots step inside, measured and familiar. You recognize the voices before you even peek through the gap.
Caleb’s direct subordinates—Lieutenant Harlan and Captain Reyes. Older, seasoned, the kind of officers who’ve flown with him since Skyheaven.
They keep their voices low, but in the quiet room every word carries.
“The colonel’s a tough bastard,” Harlan mutters, punching a code into one of the locked drawers with practiced efficiency. It unlocks with a beep. “Runs this fleet like a damn military camp. No slack, no excuses.”
Reyes snorts, leaning against the counter. “Young blood with old-school discipline. But you notice how he cut some slack for that newcomer?”
Your breath catches. You go completely still.
“Yeah,” Harlan says, rifling through files. “The adjutant. Again. Girl gets way too much freedom. Seems like they’re… close.”
Close.
The word lands like a punch. You press your lips together, exhaling slow and silent through your mouth. They have no idea. No one does. You and Caleb have spent months making sure of it—because if anyone ever found out how deep it really goes, how far beyond childhood friends or even lovers, it would give his enemies a weapon sharper than any blade.
“Uncalled for,” Reyes continues, voice dropping even lower. “A colonel that high up, cozy with someone ranks below. He barely glances at those nurses throwing themselves at him. Beautiful women, too. Who knows what’s going on in that head of his. Man’s always been a mystery.”
Your chest tightens. You stand frozen in the dark for what feels like forever—ten minutes, maybe more—listening as they trade pieces of the puzzle you’ve been desperate to solve.
Someone’s maneuvering to take the fleet from him. Quietly. Systematically. There are names you don’t recognize, coded references to “the Board,” to off-grid funding streams and rigged inspections. Caleb’s been fighting tooth and nail to hold his position, burning himself out to keep control, to keep his people safe.
No wonder he’s been disappearing. No wonder the messages stopped.
The drawer locks again. Footsteps retreat. The door opens, closes.
You wait another thirty seconds, counting heartbeats, before you step out of the shadows.
Your legs feel unsteady as you cross to the cabinet. The override chip works again—thank god—and the drawer slides open. You grab the thinnest folders you can find, ones that look recently accessed, and tuck them inside your jacket.
Then you’re moving. Out the door, down the corridor, boots silent on the grating as you hurry toward the residential deck. You need to get to your quarters, lock the door, read whatever you’ve stolen—
“Sera.”
The voice stops you dead.
It’s low, rough at the edges, laced with exhaustion and something dangerously soft. You know it better than your own. You’d know it in a crowd of thousands, in the dark, across years of silence.
Your fingers tighten around the folders hidden beneath your jacket.
You turn slowly.
He’s standing beneath the dim overhead light at the end of the hallway, still in uniform—black colonel jacket pressed, collar tight on his neck, hair a little longer than regulation and falling into his eyes. The shadows carve sharp lines along his jaw, the faint scar that wasn’t there before Skyheaven cutting white across his cheekbone.
Caleb.
He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. Like he’s carrying the weight of the entire fleet on his shoulders and still somehow managing to stand straight.
His gaze locks on yours, unreadable for a moment, then flickers—something raw flashing behind the exhaustion.
You swallow, voice barely above a whisper.
“Caleb.”
You try to smile, the same easy, teasing one you’ve given him a thousand times since you were kids, but it feels wrong on your face, brittle and fake, like cracked glass. “Caleb… I—”
“Into my office.”
The words cut clean through the air, low and clipped. No warmth, no nickname, no trace of the boy who used to tug your ponytail and call you pipsqueak with that lopsided grin. Just cold authority. You actually flinch. The hallway already feels like deep space, freezing and airless, and now he’s somehow made it worse.
You follow him in silence. The only sound is your boots and his, marching in uneven rhythm down the deserted corridor. You can’t stop stealing glances at his back: broad, rigid, shoulders squared like he’s carrying the weight of every star in the sector. The collar of his colonel jacket is turned up against the chill, and in the dim light you catch the shadow of stubble along his jaw, rough and unkempt. He looks… worn. Like he’s been grinding himself down to the bone and forgot to stop.
Your heart twists so hard it hurts.
The office door slides open with a soft hiss. You step inside, the lights coming up automatically, sterile white washing over the sparse room: a metal desk piled with holopads, a star chart glowing on one wall, the faint scent of coffee gone cold. The door seals behind you with finality.
You try again, forcing brightness into your voice. “Caleb, I was just—”
“Stealing.”
He turns. The single word lands like a slap. His eyes are flat, almost lifeless, and the way he’s looking at you is nothing like the Caleb you know. He crosses the room in two strides, hand shooting out to close around your arm. Before you can react, he yanks the stolen folders from beneath your jacket.
You yelp, more from shock than pain. “Caleb!”
He doesn’t let go of your wrist. His grip is firm, unyielding, thumb pressing against your pulse point like he’s checking if you’re real. “Illegal entry into restricted areas. Theft of classified Fleet documents. Sneaking aboard under false pretenses as my adjutant.” His voice is quiet, dangerously even. “All punishable offenses.”
You stare at him, hurt and fury crashing together in your chest until something inside you snaps. You twist your wrist free with a sharp jerk and step back, breathing hard. “Oh, really? Is that what we are now, Caleb?” Your voice rises despite your effort to keep it steady. “The second you put on that colonel’s uniform, you just… lose yourself completely? Is that it?”
His jaw tightens. “Show some respect to the Farspace Fleet’s colonel.”
He advances again, crowding you until your back meets the cold wall. One hand plants beside your head, the other hovering near your shoulder, caging you in without quite touching. He’s close enough that you can feel the heat coming off him, smell the faint trace of engine grease and sweat under his cologne. His eyes bore into yours, storm-gray and furious.
“Don’t,” he says, voice dropping to something raw and rough, “address me so formally.”
Your heart stutters, stops, then slams against your ribs. All the months of silence, the worry, the lies, the distance, every unanswered text and broken promise surges up your throat like bile.
“You killed my Caleb.”
The words come out small, trembling, but they hit him like a physical blow.
For one split second, something fractures across his face, eyes widening, lips parting as if you’ve punched the air from his lungs. Pain, raw and unguarded, flickers there, then it’s gone, slammed behind a glare sharper than before. His mouth opens, some protest or plea forming—
His comm device buzzes, shrill and insistent.
He freezes. The moment shatters.
Caleb straightens, turning away from you so abruptly it feels like whiplash. He puts a few paces between you, swiping to accept the call. His voice shifts instantly, crisp, professional, completely detached.
“Yes, Colonel speaking.” A pause. “No, we’ll look into that later. Yes… the file is here with me.” Another beat. “Dismissed for today.”
He ends the call, back still to you, shoulders rigid. The silence that follows is heavier than vacuum.
When he finally speaks again, it’s quiet, almost resigned.
“We’ll solve this when we reach home.”
He doesn’t look at you as he says it. Doesn’t move to stop you when you push off the wall, folders still clutched in his hand, and walk past him toward the door on legs that feel like they might give out.
You don’t answer.
You can’t.
Because the truth is clawing at your throat—you don’t know if there’s even a home left for the two of you to go back to.
The ride back to Skyheaven is silent, the kind of silence that presses against your eardrums like high-altitude pressure. Caleb drives the car himself, hands steady on the controls, eyes fixed on the viewport as buildings streak past. You sit in the front seat and stare at his profile—the sharp line of his nose, the tense set of his mouth, the faint new scar that pulls at the corner of his eyebrow. He doesn’t look at you once.
By the time you dock at his private residence, the tension between you has thickened into something almost solid.
He keys in the access code without a word and steps inside. You follow, the door sliding shut behind you with a soft, irrevocable click.
The lights come up low, warm amber instead of the harsh white of the fleet. It’s the first thing that feels like him— the faint scent of cedar and engine oil, the old flight jacket slung over the back of a chair, the holo-photo of you both as kids still pinned to the fridge. Home. His home. The closest thing either of you has left to one.
You can’t hold it in anymore.
The second the door seals, you surge forward, fingers closing around his forearm. You yank hard, spinning him toward you with more strength than you knew you had. He stumbles half a step, eyes widening in genuine shock as he faces you.
You’re both breathing hard already.
Your voice cracks the moment it leaves your throat. “You’ve become a person I don’t understand.” The words tremble, raw. “That’s not what I want. I want to understand you, Caleb. I want—” Your grip tightens on his sleeve. “You just keep going away from me. Look at me. Tell me what’s happening. Tell me why you feel like someone else. What happened to my Caleb?”
His gaze drops to your mouth for a fraction of a second, something dark and hungry flickering there, before it snaps back to your eyes. His jaw locks so tight you can see the muscle jump.
He pulls his arm free with deliberate slowness, then lets out a soft, bitter scoff, shaking his head. “Your Caleb, huh?” The childhood nickname falls from his lips like it tastes wrong now. “Pipsqueak… you wouldn’t understand even if I told you.” His voice dips, rough and pleading. “I just need you to trust me. Please, baby—”
The endearment hits you like a blade between the ribs. Baby. He hasn’t called you that in years. Not since before the explosion. Not since he came back wrong.
Something inside you shatters.
“No.” You shove him, both palms slamming into his chest. The force catches him off-guard; he stumbles back and drops onto the low couch with a startled yelp, the cushions exhaling beneath him.
Before he can recover, you’re on him, climbing over his lap, fists twisting hard into the collar of his uniform. You yank him forward until your faces are inches apart, teeth bared, eyes burning.
“Trust you?” Your voice is shaking with fury and something dangerously close to tears. “How the fuck am I supposed to trust you when you hide everything from me?” The words tear out of you, louder, sharper. “How am I supposed to understand you when all you ever feed me are lies? You disappeared, Caleb. You came back like nothing happened. Do you have any idea how much I suffered?”
Your chest heaves; hot tears sting at the corners of your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall.
“I thought you were dead. Six feet under. Gone. Do you know what that did to me? How I mourned you every single day? How I couldn’t breathe without feeling like part of me was buried with you?” Your grip on his collar tightens until your knuckles go white. “How much you’ve fucking hurt me?”
The last word breaks.
You’re panting, trembling, straddling his thighs with your knees digging into the couch on either side of him. Your faces are so close you can feel the warmth of his breath against your lips, see the storm raging in his gray eyes.
For a long moment he just stares at you, chest rising and falling fast beneath your fists. Something raw and fractured moves behind his gaze, guilt, pain, longing, anger, all of it tangled together.
His hands come up slowly, not to push you away, but to settle on your hips, fingers curling into the fabric of your uniform like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold on.
You’re both shaking now.
The air between you crackles, thick with everything you’ve never said, everything he’s never let you see.
And still, he doesn’t speak.
The silence stretches, heavy and electric, until his fingers dig harder into your hips, bruisingly tight. Then, without warning, he yanks you forward, slamming your body flush against his. The sudden impact forces the air from your lungs in a sharp gasp, your chest crushed to his, feeling the frantic thud of his heart mirroring your own.
“Enough,” he rasps, voice gravel-rough, eyes locked on yours with that cold, commanding colonel stare that makes your knees weak even now. Your lips are inches apart, breaths mingling hot and unsteady.
“I heard you.” The words come out clipped, angry. “Do you think I want to live like this? Do you think I had any other fucking options?”
His voice drops to a dangerous whisper, lips brushing your chin, cold and deliberate, nothing like the soft, teasing kisses you remember from before everything went to hell.
“Sera… you think I don’t know how much you hate this uniform?”
A shaky breath escapes you, half-sob, half-moan. You bite down on your lower lip to stifle it, but the sound slips out anyway, needy and broken. “Then why, Caleb—”
He snaps.
In one fluid, furious motion he lifts you, flipping your positions so fast the room spins. Your back hits the couch cushions hard, the breath knocked out of you again as he comes down over you, knees locking on either side of your thighs, caging you completely beneath his weight.
“Because of you.”
The words are a dark chuckle against your throat as his mouth descends, lips dragging hot and possessive down the column of your neck, over your collarbone, lower. “All you do is take, take, and fucking take. You just can’t stop.”
His hands are everywhere, rough, desperate, sliding up under the hem of your shirt to palm your breasts through the fabric. Then his thumbs find your nipples, pressing hard, rolling them with deliberate cruelty. The friction of your uniform against sensitive, peaked flesh makes you cry out, a sharp yelp of pain laced with raw pleasure.
“Ahhh—Caleb, fuck—”
He doesn’t answer with words. Instead he growls low in his throat and rips your shirt open, buttons pinging off across the room like gunfire. Cool air hits your fevered skin a split second before his mouth does, hot and wet, kissing, sucking, biting a path down your sternum.
His large hands grope your bare breasts roughly, kneading the soft flesh until you’re arching into his touch, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming intensity.
“Always running headfirst into danger,” he mutters against your skin, voice muffled as he drags his tongue over one stiff nipple before catching it between his teeth. “Making me worry sick… What will you take from me when I finally have nothing left to give you, hmm?”
He bites down, sharp enough to make you scream, back bowing off the couch as pleasure-pain shoots straight to your core.
“Caleb—what are you—ahhh… mmhhh!!!”
He releases the abused peak with a wet pop, looking up at you through dark lashes, cheeks flushed deep red down his neck, eyes blown wide with lust and something feral. A smirk curls his swollen lips.
“Don’t worry, pipsqueak,” he purrs, voice low and seductive, dripping with dark promise as he pinches both nipples again, rolling them slowly, mercilessly. “Caleb’s going to make you listen.”
His hips grind down deliberately, letting you feel exactly how hard he is through the layers of uniform, thick and heavy against your thigh. One hand slides down your stomach, popping the button of your pants with practiced ease, fingers dipping beneath the waistband to tease the edge of your underwear.
You’re already soaked, trembling, every nerve alight.
He leans in until his forehead rests against yours, breath ragged, voice a husky whisper against your lips.
“You want your Caleb back?” His teeth nip your bottom lip, tugging. “Then take this. Take all of me. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll let you have the truth afterward.”
His fingers slip lower, pressing firmly over your clit through damp fabric, and you cry out his name, hips bucking helplessly into his hand.
He smiles, dark and dangerous.
“Good girl. Now scream for me.”
His fingers hook into the waistband of your pants and drag them down your hips in one rough yank, taking your underwear with them. Cool air hits your soaked core, making you gasp, but he doesn’t give you time to feel exposed. He shoves your thighs wider apart with his knees, settling heavier between them, the coarse fabric of his uniform trousers scraping against your inner thighs.
Caleb doesn’t undress. Not even a button. The black uniform jacket stays zipped, collar high, insignia glinting under the low lights like a reminder of exactly who’s in control now. Only his belt clinks open, the zipper of his trousers rasping down. He fists his cock out—thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip—and gives himself one slow, deliberate stroke, eyes locked on your spread cunt like he’s starving.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice low and mocking. “All that fire, all that mouth, and you’re dripping down your thighs the second I touch you.”
You whimper, hips twitching up, seeking friction, but he presses one palm flat to your stomach, pinning you to the couch. His other hand slides between your legs, two gloved fingers dragging through your slick folds without entering, just spreading you open for his gaze.
“Still think you can demand answers from me, pipsqueak?” He circles your clit once, feather-light, then pulls away when you try to chase it. “Still think you get to take whatever you want?”
He pumps his cock again, slow and filthy, thumb swiping over the head to spread the bead of precome. The wet sound of it makes you clench around nothing.
“Caleb—please—”
“Please what?” His fingers return, one thick digit pressing inside you to the first knuckle, then stopping. “Please stop? Or please give you more?” He twists his wrist just enough to make you feel the stretch, then stills again. “Use your words, baby. Colonel don’t take orders from brats.”
You sob, head thrashing against the cushion. “More—please, I need—”
He slides in to the second knuckle, slow as torture, curling just slightly to graze that spot that makes your vision spark. Then out again. In a little deeper. Out. Over and over, never giving you the full length, never the rhythm you’re desperate for.
All the while his other hand works his cock in lazy strokes, base to tip, twisting at the head. His breathing is getting rougher, but his face stays cold, controlled—mean.
“Beg properly,” he says, adding a second finger and scissoring them wide, stretching you open while still refusing to thrust. “Tell me who this pussy belongs to. Tell me you’re done throwing tantrums and running into restricted zones like you don’t have a colonel ready to spank your ass raw for it.”
His thumb finally—finally—presses over your clit, rubbing tight, relentless circles that make your thighs shake against his uniform sleeves.
“Say it, Sera.” His voice is pure gravel now, hips rocking into his own fist as he watches you fall apart on just his fingers. “Say you’re mine, and maybe I’ll let you come before I fuck you stupid in this uniform you hate so much.”
You’re babbling now, pleas and broken moans spilling out, hips grinding helplessly against his hand as he teases you right to the edge and holds you there, merciless.
He leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear, jacket creaking as he cages you completely.
“That’s it. Keep begging. I’ve had enough of your bullshit, baby. Tonight you’re going to learn exactly who you belong to.”
When you don't answer Caleb’s patience snaps like a frayed cable.
One second you’re writhing under his teasing fingers, begging in broken sobs; the next, he’s hauling you up off the couch like you weigh nothing. A strong arm bands around your waist, the other hooking under your thighs, and he slings you over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry—ass up, head dangling down his back, your ripped shirt flapping open and pants still tangled around your knees.
You squeak in protest, fists thumping weakly against his lower back. “Caleb—put me down—!”
He doesn’t answer. Just strides down the short hallway to his bedroom, uniform jacket creaking with every step, boots thudding heavy on the floor. One hard smack lands on your bare ass, the crack echoing, sting blooming hot across your skin.
“Quiet,” he growls. “You’ve talked enough tonight.”
He kicks the bedroom door open wider and tosses you onto the bed like you’re a sack of supplies—mattress bouncing under your weight, breath whooshing out of you as you land on your stomach. Before you can scramble up, he’s on you, hands rough and merciless. He yanks your ruined pants the rest of the way off, tossing them aside, then flips you onto your back and shoves your thighs apart.
The uniform stays on him—jacket zipped, collar high, belt hanging open, cock jutting thick and angry from his fly. He looks every inch the cold, untouchable colonel, and the sight of him still dressed while you’re naked and trembling underneath him makes heat pool low in your belly.
He climbs over you, knees forcing your legs wider, one hand fisting the base of his cock as he drags the blunt head through your soaked folds. No condom, no warning—just raw, slick skin on skin.
“You want your Caleb back?” he mutters, voice dark, eyes locked on where he’s teasing your entrance. “Then take him. Take every fucking inch until you remember who you belong to.”
He thrusts in with one brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt.
You scream, back arching off the bed, walls stretching around the sudden, overwhelming fullness. He doesn’t pause—immediately pulls out and slams back in, deeper, harder, the headboard knocking against the wall with a sharp thud.
“Fuck—too much—Caleb—!”
He snarls, grabbing your hips and yanking you down the bed to meet every punishing thrust. The frame creaks ominously beneath you, metal joints groaning as he sets a ruthless pace, hips snapping forward like he’s trying to split you in half.
“You’ve been a goddamn brat for months,” he grits out between thrusts, one hand leaving your hip to crack down on your ass again—harder this time, the sting making you clench around him. “Sneaking around my fleet, stealing my files, throwing tantrums when I’m trying to keep you safe—”
Another smack, the sound wet and sharp, your skin blooming red under his palm.
“—running into danger like I won’t lose my fucking mind if something happens to you—”
The bedframe slams the wall again, harder; something cracks in the headboard, but he doesn’t slow. He flips you over suddenly, manhandling you onto your stomach, hauling your hips up until you’re on your knees, face pressed into the sheets.
He drives back in from behind, deeper in this angle, one hand fisting your hair to arch your back. The other reaches around to rub rough circles over your clit.
You catch a glimpse in the mirror across the room—your flushed, tear-streaked face, mouth open in a silent scream, his broad shoulders looming behind you in that hated uniform, jacket straining across his back as he fucks you raw.
He sees it too. His eyes meet yours in the reflection, dark and possessive.
“Look at yourself,” he orders, voice ragged, hips snapping forward hard enough to jolt your whole body. “Look how pretty you are when you finally shut up and take my cock like a good girl.”
He punctuates the words with another stinging slap to your ass, watching the flesh jiggle in the mirror, watching your eyes roll back as he hits that spot inside you over and over.
“This is what you needed, isn’t it?” He leans down, chest pressing to your back, teeth grazing your shoulder. “Needed your colonel to fuck the attitude right out of you. Needed to remember who this tight little pussy belongs to.”
The bed is definitely breaking now—wood splintering, screws popping—but he doesn’t care. He just fucks you harder, deeper, raw and relentless, claiming every inch of you like he’s branding his name into your skin.
You can’t do anything but take it, sobbing his name into the sheets, body shaking with every brutal thrust, completely at the mercy of the man who’s finally had enough.
He drives into you like a man possessed, each thrust harder than the last, the bedframe protesting louder with every slam—wood splintering, metal groaning, screws popping loose. You’re lost in it, nails raking down his uniform jacket, legs wrapped high around his waist, taking everything he gives you and begging for more with broken cries of his name.
“Look at me,” he snarls again, fisting your hair to force your gaze back to the mirror. Your reflection is wrecked—lips swollen, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy with tears and pleasure—while he looms behind you in full uniform, ruthless and beautiful, hips snapping forward with punishing force. “Look how fucking perfect you are when you’re full of me.”
Another sharp smack on your ass, the crack ringing out as your skin burns hot and red. You clench around him involuntarily, and he groans, pace faltering for half a second before he redoubles, pounding into you so hard your knees skid across the sheets.
“Mine,” he growls against your neck, teeth sinking into your shoulder. “This cunt is mine. You’re mine. Stop fighting me—”
The headboard gives one final, ominous crack.
Then everything collapses.
The frame buckles beneath you with a deafening snap, mattress dropping suddenly as the supports give way. You both pitch forward in a tangle of limbs and sheets. Caleb twists at the last second, hauling you against his chest and taking the full impact on his back as you crash to the floor amid broken wood and twisted metal.
The air is knocked out of him in a sharp grunt, but his arms stay locked around you, cradling you protectively even as he hits the ground hard.
For a moment there’s only the sound of your combined harsh breathing and the creak of settling wreckage.
You’re sprawled on top of him, cheek pressed to the warm fabric of his jacket, legs still tangled with his. Your brown hair is a wild mess, strands sticking to his forehead and spilling across his face, some draped over your fingers where they rest against his collar.
He exhales a long, shaky sigh, one hand coming up to rub slow circles on your bare back. “Fuck,” he mutters, voice rough. “Guess I owe maintenance a new bed.”
You don’t laugh. You don’t say anything.
The sobs come sudden and unstoppable, hot tears spilling over as everything—the anger, the fear, the months of grief, the overwhelming intensity—crashes over you all at once.
Caleb freezes beneath you.
His hand moves instantly from your back to your face, cupping your cheeks, thumbs brushing away tears as panic floods his expression. “Pipsqueak… hey, hey—baby, I’m sorry.” His voice cracks, all the cold colonel authority gone, replaced by raw fear. “Did I hurt you? Oh god, no—no, no, no—talk to me, Sera, please—”
You weakly punch his shoulder, more a pat than anything, tears streaming faster. “Shut up…” It comes out a low, shaky sob, barely audible.
He winces like you struck him for real. Immediately he shifts, sliding out of you carefully, gently, murmuring soft apologies as he gathers you up in his arms. You’re limp, trembling, and he cradles you like something precious, carrying you out of the ruined bedroom and into the guest suite down the hall.
He sets you on the edge of the bed, grabs a warm cloth from the adjoining bathroom, and kneels in front of you, wiping you clean with careful, reverent strokes—between your thighs, over the red marks on your ass, down your legs. His touch is so tender it almost hurts worse than the roughness did.
You still won’t look at him, turning your face away, arms wrapped around yourself.
Caleb clears his throat, voice small. “Hey… pipsqueak—”
“Quiet.”
He flinches. “Sorry.” A heavy sigh, then the soft sound of him standing. He lingers for a moment, like he wants to say more, but finally turns and pads out of the room, pulling the door almost shut behind him to give you space.
The moment he’s gone, the air feels colder.
You curl onto your side, thighs pressing together as heat floods your face—burning, mortified, thrilled. Your whole body still hums with aftershocks, skin tingling where his hands were rough, where his teeth marked you.
You can’t believe how much you liked it.
How desperately you want it again.
A slow, wicked smile curves your lips in the dark.
You whisper to the empty room, sweet and possessive, fingers tracing the faint ache between your legs.
“You’re mine, Caleb. Always will be.”
And next time… maybe you’ll make him mad on purpose.
INDULGE ME BECAUSE IMAGINE CALEB AND HIS LITTLE BABY GIRL!!!
"There she is..." Caleb whispered mostly to himself.
He leaned over, worried that somehow even his presence might wake up the little baby that was in your arms. Naked against your chest, just born a little over an hour ago.
"Little apple." He said softly, an index finger tracing at the skin, marvelling at how soft and delicate something could possibly be.
"Do you want to hold her?" You smiled up at him and he immediately pulled away.
"Uh- N- No it's fine. It's golden hour. You're supposed to give her skin-to-skin for a while. Right?" He said hurriedly with a force smile, not wanting to admit that he was terrified of touching something so pure, so fragile.
He hovered, staying close enough to watch every little movement she made but not daring to do more. You saw right through the lie, though.
"Caleb- You have to hold your daughter." You laughed a little. "She's stronger than she seems."
"Come on, Pipsqueak." He said weakly, "I- I can't. I fight monsters, I kill people. I can't ruin her like that."
"You spoke to her all through the pregnancy. She knows you. Just try. Worst thing that'll happen in that she'll cry. Take off the shirt and just hold her." You held up the baby for him to take.
He clumsily pulled off the shirt and gently took the baby in his arms. Or hands. She wasn't that big. His hands covered most of her and she barely reached his chest when he held her up.
She made a gurgling noise and Caleb looked at you with panic.
"I didn't mean to hurt her-" He said quickly, moving to hand her back but you shook your head.
"She's fine. Just settling in. She knows you. Your voice." You smiled, laying fulling back into the bed.
He was holding her right. Her neck supported, little scrunched up body held against his warm skin.
"She's so small." He whispered. "I didn't think she'd be this tiny." He looked down at the baby carefully. "Hey little apple. I'm your dad." He spoke softly.
The baby squirmed a little, sucking her thumb and fully calm against him.
Caleb smiled, his eyes teary. This was it. His little girl. In his arms.
"No one will ever hurt you. I promise." He murmured, kissing the top of her head and turned to you as he swayed a little with her in his arms. "I'm gonna keep you and your mom safe. Always."
