childhood bestfriends caleb and nonMC!reader, who he's secretly in love with while she thinks he likes someone else
warnings. angst, fluff, rejection, she fell first he fell harder, caleb is down bad, groveling, miscommunication, caleb sucks at feelings, slow burn, childhood friends to lovers, he gives her a nickname adjacent to pipsqueak
preview. "I love you," he says, pressing his forehead against yours. You want to tell him that it's not fair to treat you the way he does and expect you not to fall for him. That holding your hair when you vomit, falling asleep at your bedside when you're sick, and his eyes closing in on you in any room is not fair. "Then prove it to me."
wc. 8.4k (she's hefty...)
You proposed to Caleb for the first time when you were nine years old, with a flower ring.
The winter air had nipped at your flushed cheeks as you stepped into ice, holding it out to him. Your breath had puffed into the air like a dragon, and you nuzzled your chin further into the wool of your scarf to keep warm. It had been the only flower left after fall had faded away, yet its white petals stood brilliantly in between your fingertips, weathering against the cold.
The child in front of you was closed off. Eyes narrowed, fists balled inside his pockets, and usually adorning a solemn look on his face. Though, it had certainly gotten better since you first met him as one of Grandma Josephine’s adoptive children. Back then, he hadn’t even spoken much—only keeping MC tight at his side, as if she might disappear if he didn’t. He wasn’t rude by any means…just, cautious. Too aware for a child of his age.
But without a doubt in your mind, he was the most handsome boy you’d ever seen.
He’d raised his brows. “You just met me last week.”
“It’s love at first sight.”
He rejected you, naturally, but it did little to make a dent in your childish heart. Not when his purple hues gazed into your own, with a softness that didn’t seem intent on hurting you.
The next two decades becomes a perpetual cycle of this encounter—in which you learn that Caleb is a very caring person.
In that time, you learn a lot about him, aside from his gorgeous face. You find that he’s fond of nicknames. Pipsqueak for MC. Splints for you, when you launched yourself off a swing and broke your wrist trying to impress him. Safe to say, it didn’t impress anyone but your doctor, who was baffled you managed to fly so high into the air with your 11-year-old legs. Caleb held your other hand tight in the emergency room as you wailed helplessly, waiting for the doctor to ease the pain. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t cry just a tad longer to keep your hand in his.
“This thing is so ugly,” you whine, picking at your cast as he walks you back home. “Do you think I’m gross now, Caleb?”
“It’s not ugly. You need it to get better.”
“I thought you’d fall in love with me if I went high enough,” you sniffle fake tears, which he reads in an instant. “I did go pretty high up, though. So maybe you like me at least.”
He laughs, and you scowl, insisting that you aren’t joking. So instead, he smiles and holds your free hand in his again. Your heart skips a beat. A childish, but innocent love fluttering in your chest. “Come on, splints. Let’s go watch TV, and I can sign your cast.”
The broken wrist is so worth it.
With MC being two grades lower than the two of you and thus having a different schedule, it doesn’t take long before you’re doing practically everything with Caleb. He’s your seatmate in class, the two of you walk to and from school, and there doesn’t seem to be a moment where you aren’t glued at the hip. Throughout all of this, you make sure you shoot your shot whenever the chance arises—even when it doesn’t arise at all.
“You get any chocolates for Valentine’s?” you ask as you plop down in your seat with your lunch, not-so-conspicuously eyeing his desk as his friends begin to crowd around the two of you. It didn’t take long for Caleb to adjust to ordinary school life. After his initial bumpy introduction where he seemed hesitant to get close to anyone his grandma would introduce him to, he was quick to adjust to a level of charisma even you haven’t gotten to.
By now, he’s charisma personified. You, yourself, have no idea how quickly he adapts to things. Though, you do recall that after an exam measuring his intelligence, he was told he couldn’t lower his grade by two years to be with MC. So you suppose he’s rather bright—almost as much as his face.
“Too many,” one of his friends groan, dragging his hand down the side of his face. “Life’s so not fair, dude.”
“Just a few,” Caleb laughs, turning to feel me stare at him expectantly. “Most of them are obligatory. I just helped a couple people out during gym.”
You glance at his friends. “How many is a few?”
“At least five,” another one grins. He wiggles his eyebrows at you, and his friend snickers at his shoulder. “You jealous?”
It’s not like your crush on Caleb is new news. In fact, it’s practically common knowledge at your school, given how open you are with your affection with him. Asking him out with a giant poster on orientation day, sending him notes with hearts littered everywhere during class, and refusing to be subtle when you’re discussing it with your friends…it tends to add up. Most people believe your relationship to be strange, but those who matter thought of it as the norm, so it doesn’t really matter.
“Jealous? I don’t think so, why?”
“Most girls would be if their boyfriend got a bunch of chocolates,” he responds, to which Caleb immediately reminds him that you’re not dating. Then his friend sighs. “It’s cute when girls get jealous, isn’t it?”
At this, your ears perk.
“Should I be jealous?” you ask Caleb, making his friends erupt into snickers. “Do you think it’s cute too?”
He rolls his eyes and flicks your forehead softly. “Do you ever ask normal questions, splints?”
Throughout your childhood together, everything involves him. Family dinners, graduation, holidays, all of it. Of course, this means that MC is there for all of it too. You’re helplessly in love, but you’re not stupid. You know what love looks like from the movies their grandma would play on their TV. He cares for her with a different look in his eyes. He protects her with a lovingness in his voice that he doesn’t spare for you.
The same fingers that flick your forehead touch her arm gingerly, like she could crack in half if he holds too hard. He doesn’t touch her very easily either, whereas he often falls asleep with his head fully leaning against your shoulder on the bus ride home. He wakes up at the crack of dawn to make her lunch, while the two of you munch on sandwiches from the school cafeteria during lunch breaks. He scolds you when your clothes are tossed on the ground while he folds hers without her having to ask. He never enters her room to protect her privacy while he lounges in yours like he owns the place.
Your Caleb, you have found, is different from MC’s Caleb.
MC’s Caleb is easy to depend on. Trustworthy, perfect, and never makes a mistake for the life of him. He never loses his cool in front of her, never has a hair out of place, lets her win at all the board games, and always has this clear but dazed look in his pretty purple eyes. Your Caleb has none of that. Your Caleb teases you mercilessly when you lose the card game for the fifth time in a row. Your Caleb passes out on his desk while studying for an exam, essentially drooling on his notebook to lie to MC that he’s naturally talented at math. Your Caleb sends you stupid videos about plane models and forces you to sit through a thirty-minute explanation about it.
You know he likes her. He knows you know he likes her. She doesn’t know anything at all. All jumbled up, like a wordless pact ready to crumble at any moment.
Of course, this means that he prioritizes her over you at times. All the time. It’s to be expected. She’s family, you’re not. You’ve grown used to it, and so has he.
MC doesn’t notice though, because she doesn’t have to. Because to her, Caleb is just a slightly nagging but cool adoptive brother. Nothing more, nothing less. And you’re one of her childhood friends, and Caleb’s best friend. Nothing more, nothing less.
The first year after you graduate high school is a dramatic shift from your cozy hometown. You somehow manage to get into the same college as Caleb–and you attribute his tutoring to be the main culprit—though in different majors. It’s a lot to convince him to go so far from home given that MC is still at home, but after a lot of reluctant discussion, he agrees.
“Take off your shoes at the door,” he reminds you as you barge into his dorm room after a particularly difficult exam for one of your classes. You do as he asks, grumbling about how he has no mercy for the fallen, tossing them haphazardly beside the door and prancing past him. He takes the time to tidy them up, as if he’s expecting it. “How was your exam?”
“Awful. I went through war.”
Caleb grins as he sits down at the coffee table beside you, watching as you bury your face into your arms. “And whose fault is it that they didn’t want to study?”
“Yours.”
“Funny,” he snorts, and you feel his large hand ruffling the top of your head. “It’s alright, splints. I can tutor you a bit earlier on the next one.”
“Even you can’t save me for this class.”
“Is that a challenge?”
He ends up cooking up something quick in his makeshift kitchen (essentially just a rice cooker), while you laze around on his bed, scrolling aimlessly on your phone. Once he’s finished, you scarf down his food like a man starved, lips stretching widely. At times like these, you’re oddly grateful for his hopeless love toward MC. How else would he have learned to cook such good food? “You should honestly be a chef, Caleb. Actually, no, that would mean other people would eat your food. I guess you can just be my personal chef when we’re married.”
Caleb remains completely unaffected, wordlessly cleaning the plate in front of you. “I didn’t realize I was engaged.”
“Well, now you know. Not sure if you remember, but I had fireworks for you and everything when I proposed. Plus an orchestra.”
He hums, looking up as if he’s in thought, and then nods. “Now that you mention it, that does sound familiar, splints. How could I forget?”
You shrug. “You tell me.”
His face falls as you pace to the door and begin to put your shoes back on. “Where are you going? Aren’t you done with class?”
“Going out. I deserve it after that exam.”
“With your friends?”
“No, with four guys,” you joke, but he doesn’t seem to find it very funny. “I’m just going to a club. I won’t be back too late.”
He’s already grabbing his jacket. “I can come.”
You push him back with your finger by the nose, and he blinks in surprise, making you laugh. “No need. You have exams too, y’know.”
“I’m done studying.”
“Liar.”
Though it takes some convincing, you eventually have him sit at his desk once more. He manages to nag a whole lot as you leave, reminding you to call him once you’re done so he can pick you up, but you just wave him off as you leave out the door. You take your time getting ready–dolling yourself up to hide the dark circles beneath your eyes. As you get ready, you video call MC, where she asks how you and Caleb have been doing in her absence. She rants about her days with her grandma, complaining about how quiet the house is when Caleb isn’t home, though she indulged in the beginning. She asks you to show her your outfit once you’re done, and she beams brightly in your screen, squealing about how you’d likely get a boyfriend soon that you can tell her all about.
You just smile, because you don’t know how to tell her that the only boy you want is wrapped around her unknowing hand.
The club is loud. Where the music rumbles through your feet to the tips of your fingertips, and the lights are flashing in a dimly lit room. Your friends flock to a table and order drinks while you let yourself feel the music and crack a joke or two once in a while.
A group of guys approaches you with easy smiles and louder voices than necessary—confidence sharpened by cheap cologne. One of them leans against your table like he’s done it a hundred times before, asking your name, where you’re from, if you come here often. The usual.
You answer, choking out a laugh to humor his unfunny jokes alongside your friends, while the swigs you take from your drink become deeper and deeper.
He’s not bad at flirting, you think. Subtle, and not too glaring about it. But you don’t particularly enjoy humoring it, and it becomes gradually more apparent as your eyes keep drifting elsewhere and you keep having to ask him to repeat himself. You’re growing bored. Irritated.
Because he’s not Caleb.
It hits you in strange, inconvenient flashes. The way this guy stands just a little too far away. The way his voice doesn’t quite reach you over the music, even when he’s close. The way you don’t feel that familiar, grounding presence like an anchor holding you to the ground.
You find yourself glancing past his shoulder. Half-wishing to see Caleb there. Watching. Hovering.
But there’s only strangers. Blurred faces and flashing lights.
“You okay?” the guy asks, tilting his head.
“Yeah,” you say too quickly. “Long week.”
He grins, like that’s an invitation. Says something else—something about getting you another drink, maybe dancing, maybe getting out of here.
You nod again. Smile again.
Across the room, your friends are already disappearing into the crowd, dragged toward the dance floor by laughter and hands you don’t recognize. One of them glances back at you, gives you a look that asks ‘you’re good, right?’ before she’s gone.
You sit back down at the table when the guy steps away. Maybe to grab drinks, maybe because he senses your attention drifting. You don’t really care which.
The music swells in your chest. The lights flicker. You wish you could enjoy yourself, but it’s particularly hard today.
You take another sip. Then another. Your phone rests face-down on the table, but you flip it over anyway.
No messages.
Of course not. He cares, but not like that. Not in the way that he would spam MC’s phone whenever he didn’t know where she was or how she was doing. No, not like that at all.
Another sip. The glass is nearly empty now.
And suddenly, you’re pressing send before you can even register what’s happening.
[you]: hi
The answer comes immediately, the grey bubbles popping up on his end of the screen.
[futre hubs <333]: do you need me to come pick you up?
[futre hubs <333]: i can
You’re not sure why you feel like shit, but you hate it. In moments like these—moments where the alcohol lets you lower your walls and truly think—it hits you like a truck, like a deeply sinking feeling in your chest. The years of rejection after rejection that the two of you frame like a bit—as if your feelings have become so miniscule that it no longer even phases him.
It hurts, a bit. More than you let yourself feel.
You’re not sure how much time passes. Maybe minutes or maybe an hour. There’s buzzing throughout your body. The grip on your waist belonging to the man you’ve been half-heartedly entertaining suddenly becomes harsher, snapping you out of your trance. It feels unlike Caleb, but you let it sit anyway. However, the hand moves to your wrist, and you’re being pulled out of the crowd towards the wall.
Too touchy. He’s saying something into your ear, and you feel his breath against your skin. You don’t like it. Too close. The buzzing feeling feels more like an alarm now.
The words either go unheard due to the music or don’t deter him. You want to go back. Back to Caleb. In the moment, you begin to think—almost as if the world is in slow motion. Perhaps the drinks, you think. You wonder if Caleb will leave you. You wonder if he’ll leave to go be with MC. You wonder if the years you’ve spent expressing your love to him meant as much to him as it did to you, or if he just found it plain annoying. You wonder if now that you’re in college, he’d want to explore other people, and he’ll finally find an outlet to get rid of you for good.
But you know he wouldn’t. Because he cares for you. Just not as much as he cares for her.
You wonder if he’s ever looked at you with the same softness he does with MC.
Someone pulls you away from the man and into their chest, and the worries dissipate in an instant. His scent. His warmth. You knew he’d come. He always does. It only takes a warning glare from Caleb before the man disappears into the crowd again, and you feel the grip on your wrist loosen. Caleb stares down at you, your back still to his chest as you blink wearily, almost in slow motion, and he sighs. He doesn’t give you the same smile he gives to MC when she’s in trouble.
A part of you wishes he wasn’t always there for you—not when it’s so different from how he’s there for her.
You sit idly in front of a convenience store parking lot while Caleb fetches you some water and ice cream. You have your knees to your chest, arms pulling them close as you shiver against the cold autumn breeze. You should’ve brought a jacket. The buzzing, hot feeling of the alcohol is subsiding too quickly.
“Drink.” You feel a water bottle press against your cheek from behind, and Caleb plops down beside you with a plastic bag. He notices how you’re holding yourself together and frowns. “Are you cold?”
“No.”
“I told you to grab a jacket.”
“You nag too much.”
He snickers and twists open the cap of the water bottle for you to drink, which you sip carefully. He strips his jacket off and drapes it over your shoulders, and you immediately bury yourself in it. It smells like him.
“What kind of woman do you like, Caleb?”
“You and your questions.”
“I want to know.”
He shifts to face you, motioning for you to lift your arms. He grabs either side of his jacket and pulls it shut, fumbling with the zipper until he manages to zip it to your chin. You can barely claw your hands out of his sleeves—the fabric almost engulfs you—but he just laughs. “My type? A woman who brings jackets when it’s cold.”
You scowl, making his laugh echo louder. “Other than that.”
“A woman who goes to class in the morning.”
“...Other than that.”
“A woman who doesn’t leave her clothes all over my floor when she feels like sleeping over.”
“Something else.”
“A woman who eats healthy, balanced meals. A woman who doesn’t steal all my pens and then still ends up asking me for more. Maybe someone who doesn’t pass out drooling on my pillow. Or someone who doesn’t let half the world know that they like someone—hell, maybe even the entire world.”
Caleb glances at you, chuckling to himself, but stops the moment he sees that you’re not laughing with him. Your head hangs low, your feet shuffling anxiously. His face twists, and suddenly the air thickens. “Splints?”
You pick at your sleeves. “So just not me?”
“I was just kidding around.”
“Jokes have some truth to them.”
“Not all of them. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay, Caleb,” you finally meet his eyes again, and shrug. “I know you like someone else. I’m not an idiot.”
Silence commences, like a bell dropping on your head.
Caleb shifts his weight, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. It’s a nervous habit you’ve seen a hundred times—usually followed by some half-joke, something to smooth things over.
But nothing comes.
The space between you suddenly feels too small and too big all at once. You try to act normal. You really do.
You fiddle with your sleeve again, smoothing it down, then pulling at it, then smoothing it again. Anything to give your hands something to do, so they don’t reach for him out of instinct.
Caleb glances at you. Then away.
Then back again, like he’s trying to solve something written across your face but can’t quite make out the words.
“Hey,” he starts, softer this time.
You hum in response, not trusting your voice yet.
Another pause. God, it’s awkward.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters again, quieter now. Not defensive. Unsure. “You know I think you’re amazing.”
Just not enough.
“I am pretty great,” but it comes out too soft.
Neither of you knows what to do with another stretch of silence. So you opt to drink some more water instead.
“Why do you like me so much?” He eventually mutters out as he bites his bottom lip, eyes falling to the ground like he can’t bear to watch your expression. “You could do a lot better.”
You smile, but it’s half-hearted. “How could I not?”
He pauses, as if choosing his words carefully before his voice comes out in a soft whisper. “You mean so much to me. You’re smart, beautiful, and everything good in between—whoever gets to call you theirs is the luckiest person I know. And you know I’d do anything for you.”
Despite their sweetness, his words feel like judgement wrapping around your heart in vines, squeezing just before it’s about to pop. You wish you could block your ears out for what comes next.
“But it can’t be me.” Caleb’s lips purse, brows furrowing as he looks away. “I can’t give you what you want.”
The rejection hurts more than you realized it would. You want to tell him that it’s not fair to treat you the way he does and expect you not to fall for him. That holding your hair when you vomit, falling asleep at your bedside when you’re sick, and his eyes closing in on you in any room that you’re in is not fair.
Instead, you nod. And you swear to yourself that you’ll swallow this sickening lump in your throat that makes you want to hurl and sob at the same time. That you’ll bury it deep in a graveyard within you that even the closest person to you would never know of. Especially him.
“I don’t want it, either,” you snort back, immediately perking up to slap his back in what results in a jolt. His shoulders tense as he blinks wide at you, unsure of the sudden shift in atmosphere. “I don’t want feelings that belong to someone else, dumbass.”
Once it sinks in that you mean it, a smile finds its way onto his face, though something flickers beneath it, like a flash of something you don’t want to look too far into.
Not because you still had hope, but because whatever existed between you had never been something as simple as a crush. It had roots—tangled deep into your souls and impossible to pull free without tearing something open. You wanted to keep what was left. Even if it lingered just a little longer, and even if you pretended not to see the splintering strands in the string tying you together.
So you let it settle. Let it rot somewhere you couldn’t feel it.
The two of you fall into the kind of closeness that you’ve always had, and time passes as if it was always meant to be this way. It’s easier this way. For a while, it does work, but nothing ever really stays under wraps. Despite your incessant protests in telling yourself it’s fading, the scars he’s inflicted on you are just that. Scars. Unmoving yet subtle.
The thinning thread finally snaps a few years later, when MC develops feelings for a coworker in the Hunter’s Association. The day the cracks in the glass bridge holding you together shatter beneath your feet into a million different pieces.
“When’s the last time you’ve slept?”
He’s sprawled shirtless on the couch of his apartment in Skyhaven, freshly out of the shower after you arrived to visit him for the first time in months—only to see that he’s nearly overworking himself to death. Despite him going off to the DAA after college, you’d kept close contact, the connection between the two of you never wavering regardless of your restricted time. It only changed after news of MC broke out. Worried, you’d rushed to Skyhaven to make sure he was doing okay, which you’re clearly glad you did now. You’d practically had to drag him to the shower to keep him from passing out next to the front door in his gear.
Caleb, clearly, is off. You suppose you don’t blame him. The woman he loves is yearning for another. Almost poetic, really, but you don’t like seeing him this way. Especially when you know what it feels like yourself, even if you’ve gotten used to it. Gotten over it. He looks like a kicked puppy. Hurt, like a dog who’s just been scratched by its owner.
“I dunno.”
You peer into the empty abyss that is his fridge and frown. There’s a few measly apples sitting inside, and a half-eaten protein bar that’s been there for god knows how long. “What the hell have you been eating?”
He responds with a grunt, letting his head fall back against the sofa. You decide to make do with the instant noodles he has stashed in one of the cupboards and bring it over to him once it seems mostly done. With a fork, you stick out a few noodles to his face, urging him. “Eat.”
“Not hungry,” he mutters.
“Don’t care. Sit up.”
He opens one of his eyes to peek at you, which somehow urges him forward. There’s darkness beneath his eyes—even stubble littering his chin from a few days worth of not shaving. You want to reach out and poke fun at him, but the state he’s in deters you. Instead, you silently feed him, watching him chew his food while staring at your hands. It makes you wish you put on a fresh set of polish before you came.
You twirl another small forkful and hold it out. He leans forward this time without being told, taking it quietly. His shoulder brushes yours as he settles back against the couch, and you can feel his skin through your shirt.
“Thanks,” he mutters, voice rough from disuse more than anything. “For coming.”
“Yeah,” you say, quieter now. “Someone had to make sure you didn’t rot in here.”
He huffs a faint laugh, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Probably would’ve. Dramatic way to go out, huh?”
You nudge his knee with yours. “Starving to death in your own apartment? Real heroic.”
A ghost of a smile flickers across his face. It makes your heart flutter. Stupid feelings.
“…thanks for coming, splints,” he says.
Your chest tightens—sharp and sudden. It feels like it’s threatening to feel something that’s not yours to feel. So instead, you look down at the bowl, pretending to focus on separating another bite. You twirl your fork, more carefully this time. “I had to. You weren’t responding, so I thought you died, or something. Open.”
He rolls his eyes, but obeys anyway. “Bossy.”
“Learned from the best.”
His lids flutter shut, voice dropping to a lower hum. “I missed this.”
Your hand stills. “What?”
He shrugs, eyes still closed. “You being here.”
His hair is sticking to his forehead, still damp from the shower. Before you realize what you’re doing, you brush a stray strand of hair off his forehead. You speak quietly. “You look like shit.”
“Wow,” he mutters. “You have a way with words.”
You frown, and without thinking, your hand lingers at his temple for just a second longer than it should. His skin is warm, still hot from the shower.
“Idiot,” you whisper.
He catches your wrist. Not tight, not stopping you. Simply holding it there for a moment that feels too long and not long enough at once. Your eyes meet for a fleeting moment, and then you’re looking away, setting the mostly finished bowl of noodles onto the coffee table to pull away.
“Don’t make this a habit. I’m not flying out here every time you forget to eat.”
“Could,” he murmurs. “You would.”
You don’t respond to that, because he’s not wrong.
“…Is she okay?”
It slips out of him like instinct. Like breathing. And just like that, everything shifts. You don’t answer right away—instead, your fingers tighten slightly around the fork.
“She’s fine,” you say eventually. Leave it, you plead in your head.
“Did she say anything?” he asks, sitting up a little more now. There’s something in his eyes, like he’s searching. “When you talked to her.”
You shrug, trying to keep your tone even. “Just normal stuff.” Stop, you think. Please stop talking.
“Like what?”
“Like her job. Her grandma. Nothing serious.” Shit.
He frowns slightly. “She didn’t mention him?”
There it is. It’s always about her.
You know he’s in a vulnerable spot right now, but it does nothing to ease the sudden flame roaring in your chest. Whether it’s from years of repressed hurt or shame, all it amounts to is a relentless ball of rage inside of you that leaves your nails digging crescents into the palms of your hands. You stare at him, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you inch away from him.
“Does it matter?”
Caleb’s face relaxes. “What?”
“Why does it matter what she thinks about him? She likes him, end of story, no?”
“I just want to know if he’s a decent guy.”
Your ass. “That’s not really your business, Caleb, but sure. He’s a great guy. Amazing, honestly. He’s really gentlemanly and checks every single box. He lives above her apartment, so they’re right next to each other. He treats her gently, too. I’d bet every girl would jump at a chance to date a guy like that.”
You’re not sure where the words are tumbling out of, but it’s too late to go back. Neither do you want to.
“I wonder if he has a brother. Maybe MC could set me up or something.”
“Oh. Is he…” Caleb’s back straightens, and you notice his fingers digging into his thighs. “...handsome?”
“Didn’t you hear me? I’m telling you, he’s perfect. His face could pay for the Linkon rent by itself.”
He suddenly stands, and you glare up at him through your eyebrows. “Why are you talking like that?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you scoff.
He narrows his eyes. It’s something you haven’t seen in a while, since Caleb rarely gets upset at you. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, splints.”
“Can you just spit it out? What am I saying differently?”
“You’re angry.”
You stand, following suit. He looms over you to have his shadow essentially engulf you, and you wish you could kick his ankle so he falls to the ground. “Maybe if you weren’t so irritating, I wouldn’t feel so annoyed right now.”
“What?”
“It’s hard to watch, Caleb,” you hiss out in exasperation, throwing your hands into the air. “It’s always pipsqueak this, pipsqueak that, pipsqueak what. Seriously, we’re not kids anymore, you need to get over it!”
You’re not sure if you’re talking to him or yourself anymore.
“Can we calm down and talk? If I’ve been talking too much about it, I can stop, so—”
“We haven’t seen each other in months, Caleb! And all you want to ask me about is how she’s been? Why don’t you ask her yourself, if you’re so curious? Oh, but you can’t, because you always have to be perfect in front of her. So instead, you dump all of this on me. Your goods and bads, all of it, just for me to get kicked to the curb like I’m some dispensable object.”
“What?” his balks. “Dispensible? Are you serious? As if I haven’t gotten you out of every little thing you’ve gotten yourself into the past decade of our lives? As if I haven’t picked you up every weekend from your friends’ places at three in the morning? Like I haven’t called you every single week—”
“Well, I want you to stop that!” your words spit at him like weak knives, growing louder by the second.
“You didn’t seem very against it the last forty times.”
“I am now.”
“What has gotten into you, splints?”
“Don’t call me that right now,” you glower, and you try to ignore the hurt flashing across his expression. “I’m just sick of seeing you follow her around like some wet dog. She doesn’t see you like that, can’t you see that?”
Your breathing begins to stutter, and you suck in a deep breath through your nose. Your chest stings, and you pray that you don’t lose composure so the tears threatening to bubble at the corners of your eyes remain hidden.
“You told me that you couldn’t give me what I wanted. Well, she can’t either,” you bore holes into his chest, too afraid of what you might see if you look up. “If I can get over my stupid feelings, so can you.”
But you’re not over it. Not at all.
He opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. For the first time in a while, you’ve rendered him speechless, and it feels even worse than what it felt to be rejected years ago. You’re not sure how your nails haven’t drawn blood at this point. You’d rather that they do, so you have some excuse to use the restroom.
“It’s not fair what you do, Caleb,” you try to will your tears to stay at bay, but you can’t help them. They sting, blurring your vision as you drop your head in some pathetic hope that he won’t face them head on. “How you treat me when you don’t like me like that is not fair. At least MC doesn’t know, but you—you know, and yet you—”
The rational part of you says that it’s not entirely his fault. Sure, you insisted on staying by his side. Sure, you insisted that you could push down your feelings. Sure, you’ve promised a lot of things, but it’s his fault too, for being the way he is—so kind, so thoughtful, just so him.
You wipe desperately at your tears. It was a lost cause from the start.
“Please don’t cry.” His face drains of color, apparent even against the dim lighting in his apartment. He steps towards you, and you take a step back. “Please don’t cry, splints, just not that.”
But when your tears refuse to cease dripping down your cheeks, your face flushing in humiliation, you feel both his hands cupping either side of it. He tilts your gaze up, and you realize that he’s only inches away from you, so much so that you can feel his breath against your skin. It’s moments like these that you lose yourself in his beauty. The deepness of his eyes that seem to peer into your very soul is one of the first features that you fell in love with as a child, and it hasn’t changed since. Damn him. You blink, eyes wide while his own flicker to your lips.
“Be as mad as you want. Hit me, hate me even,” he whispers, his nose almost touching yours now. His thumb pad smooths your tears away. “But don’t waste your tears on someone like me.”
You think you might be imagining things. Because with the tension that nearly suffocates you and his lashes almost fluttering against your skin, you think he might be about to kiss you.
A sharp pain jabs you in the chest. Is it pity? A consolation prize dressed up as something softer? Is it to smooth things over, to make this moment easier for him to leave behind? Or is it rebellion? Something reckless from the fact that he can’t have her? Your tears have dried up, but the rest of your body seems to weep, as no excitement, no butterflies course through your veins.
Why is it always something else? Why is it never you? It only hurts—because even now, you’re just the place he empties everything he feels for her.
Instinctively, you press your palm into his lips to push him away, and it feels like the air itself has stilled.
His breath lingers against your skin. Yours stutters like it’s forgotten how to exist in the same space as him. The air is so thick you could slice it with a knife.
Eventually, he pulls away. Caleb stares at you with an expression you haven’t seen before, though you don’t look long enough to analyze it. Wordlessly, you gather your things, stuffing your jacket into your bag and stumble over to the door—all while he stays locked in a petrified state, like he’s processing what he just did. Your gaze remains fixated on the wooden panels of the floor while you pack, refusing to look any higher in case you might see anything other than his feet.
“Don’t follow me,” you tell him as you leave.
You don’t wait to see if he hears you.
The journey home feels like there’s a gaping hole in your chest, and all you can do is stare out the window as you feel the vibrations of the train through your fingertips. Outside, the world blurs past in streaks of dim lights and shadowed shapes, and you wish that your feelings were as fleeting as the buildings blurring by.
You try to count the number of trees you see. Not on the warmth of his breath against your palm. Not on how close he’d been. Not on the fact that, for a second, you almost let him.
If you hadn’t pushed him away, would it have meant anything? Or would you have just been a mistake he’d regret in the morning?
Your phone buzzes frantically in your pocket, and you pull it out to see his name in big bold letters. He’s texting you simultaneously, apologizing in so many different ways that they all start to blend into one message you don’t plan on reading. You refuse to give into what your heart wants. It’s hurt you too much in the past. So instead, your thumb hovers above the ‘mute’ button.
You press it and shut your eyes.
Even if it’s difficult to adjust the first few weeks without him, you can’t bear to face him either. He shows up at your door. Nearly every day for some time, knocking softly and asking if you’d be willing to talk. When you simply plug in your earbuds and bury yourself into your bed, he apologizes through the door and leaves you something to eat. You tend to throw it out at first, but after a while, you figure it’s just a waste. Just like that, a month goes by. And then another. Then another. Until you can’t count them on one hand anymore. He comes by once every two weeks or so now, likely busy with his work.
Despite how much your body seems to miss his presence, you wonder if you should distance Caleb permanently. It’s a daunting idea. One that you never would’ve thought just a few years ago, but the embarrassment runs deeper than you want to admit. The feelings you’ve tried so hard to hide clearly aren’t hidden. Is this sustainable?
Regardless of what you think, he comes around like clockwork.
“Are you in there?” He knocks gently on your door, voice soft. He probably knows you are.
“No.”
He chuckles from the other end. “Right. Happy birthday, splints.”
You glance at your phone calendar. He’s right.
As usual, he begins to talk about random events in his life that he hasn’t had the opportunity to tell you, and while you usually muffle it out, you decide to quietly shuffle over to the door today. To tell him, maybe, that you don’t want to keep doing this. Or maybe just to hear his voice, you don’t know. Either way, you slide your back down the door where he’s on the other side, pulling your knees into your chest.
“I don’t know if you’ve read my text, but–”
“I don’t read them.”
Caleb stops, and you can almost hear his breath hitch. You usually don’t give him more than a few words, much less a full sentence, so it seems to have taken him aback. After the brief remission, you hear him clear your throat. “Splints, can you open the door? I want to talk—apologize to you.”
Silence.
“Or I can do it out here. That’s fine,” he sighs. “I want you to know that it’s okay if you want to hate me forever after this. I won’t keep clinging to you if you at listen to what I have to say, but I really just—I need to say that this is my fault.”
You half-heartedly hear his words drone on, his confidence wavering every so often while you pull up his chats on your phone. You have no idea how you hadn’t folded and read his chats until now, though it might’ve been more so for your own peace than anything. There’s too many to scroll up to, so you read the most recent messages, squinting in the dark against the light of your phone.
[1:41PM]
[caleb]: are you eating well?
[caleb]: i made this today
[caleb]: [image attached]
[caleb]: your favorite dishes :) i’ll drop them off at your place later
[caleb]: i hope you’re not just throwing them out…wouldn’t blame you tho
[caleb]: at least take care of yourself :)
[8:13AM]
[caleb]: hi splints :)
[caleb]: you probably watched it already but that movie you wanted to see came out a week ago. I went to go see it
[caleb]: i still think it’s kind of bad…but it was entertaining
[caleb]: unless you wanna argue about it ?? :3
[5:32PM]
[caleb]: ranked first today
[caleb]: i was excited to celebrate it with you and then remembered :/
[caleb]: it doesn’t feel as good when i can’t tell you lol
[caleb]: hope you’re okay
[11:23PM]
[caleb]: i wish i hadn’t been so stupid
[caleb]: i didn’t deserve you back then
[caleb]: i still don’t
[caleb]: i shouldn’t have lost my cool when you were over here. didn’t like hearing you talk about that guy like that
[caleb]: im sure he’s a good looking guy, and i know you’re particularly weak to good looking guys…
[caleb]: i was being childish and i wish i could’ve explained it to you then
[caleb]: i know you don’t owe me anything and you don’t have to listen to what i have to say
[caleb]: but i never wanted to make you feel used, and i never did. if that even sounds believable lol
[caleb]: it was never about her
[caleb]: there’s so much more i want to say but i’ll say it in person
[caleb]: miss you a lot
[caleb]: sleep tight
You wish the tightness in your chest would go away. You wish you didn’t feel his sorrow through him. And you wish you didn’t care about your own feelings for him.
“I love you, splints,” he murmurs, and your attention tears away from the chats, your phone nearly clattering onto the floor. Your eyes widen, suddenly regretting that you missed the first half of his speech.
“Not in the way you say it to your friends, or the way you say it to family. You’re my life, and you’ve been my life since the day you gave me that ring. I care for MC, but what I feel for you is different. It’s always been different. I realized that years ago, but I was afraid that it wouldn’t be fair for you. I thought you deserved someone better than someone who doesn’t know how to understand their own feelings.” Your throat dries. “I thought it wasn’t fair because I’d already put you through so much.”
“At the same time, I’m a selfish guy, you know? I couldn’t let you go either, because I couldn’t bear to see you with someone else. I wanted it to be us, and the only way I could think of existing without feeling like I was ruining you was to stay how we were. Stagnant, I guess,” he chuckles, but it feels sad. Weak. “I’m an idiot when it comes to you, you know.”
You don’t respond.
Not because you don’t have anything to say—if anything, there’s too much. It crowds your throat, every word scraping against the next until none of them can make it out. Your fingers hover uselessly over your phone, screen still lit with a conversation you can’t even remember reading.
‘I love you.’
The words echo, but they don’t land the way you once dreamed they would. They don’t bloom or soften or fix anything. They just sit. Too heavy. Too late.
Your chest tightens, aching outward like it’s trying to break free. Because you’ve wanted this—God, you’ve wanted this—for so long that you stopped letting yourself imagine it could ever actually happen. It should feel like relief. Instead, it feels real, but fragile.
Because you remember too much. The almosts. The waiting. The way you learned how to swallow your emotions when he built a wall between the two of you—and that doesn’t disappear just because he finally found the words.
Your hand curls slightly against the door, fingers brushing the cool surface.
Even with all that, you still miss the warmth of his skin. How his hair felt through a towel as you dried it. How he’d flick your forehead when you’d get a question wrong during one of his tutoring sessions. How he’d tease you about your grades or interests, and learn more about them anyway. How he’d message you throughout the day about random endeavors. How he’d always be there. How with just a call of his name, he would’ve crossed the continents for you. His eyes. His lips. His face. His painfully handsome face.
You remember him in all parts of your life—and not a single moment you’ve spared has gone without him. You remember how he held your hand when you’d broken your arm, and the way he’d lifted you into the air and embraced you when you were accepted into the same college as him. You remember how he’d pet your hair as you complained about him going too far for the DAA, promising he’d visit often. And he did. He always kept his promises.
Your body moves on its own, as if this was how it was always meant to be. The door slowly creaks open.
“…We’re a mess.”
A faint, tired smile is all you can give him. Still, when he sees you, the world seems to stop for just the two of you, and it takes him a moment to fully register that you’re really there. That you’re not just a figment of his imagination, and he hasn’t truly lost you forever as he’d feared. “This doesn’t mean you’re completely out of the woods. I’m still mad.”
“You should be,” he whispers out, nearly breathless.
Hesitantly, you step towards him. He reaches his arm out, brows furrowed cautiously like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to even blink right now. The tips of his fingers twitch towards you. You raise a brow, and he swallows the lump in his throat, retracting back until you nod.
Realizing you don’t have shoes, you step onto the fronts of his shoes one foot at a time, taking his hand until you’re flush against him and he’s already engulfing you into a crushing embrace. His arms wrap around you, strong and warm. He smells good. Though you can’t confidently say the same for yourself given the state you’re in, he drops his chin into the crook of your neck and inhales deeply, like a man starved.
“Note to self,” you mumble. “Don’t propose to any handsome guy you see.”
Caleb laughs, airy this time, and you feel it against your collarbone. “I thought you were going to leave your husband out here to die in the cold.”
“I should divorce you. We’re not even married yet.”
He grins, lopsided. “You should.”
“I won’t.”
“I know.
You bury your face into his chest, fingers digging into the fabric on his back. “I don’t want a version of my life without you, Caleb. As annoying as you are.”
He pulls away for a brief moment and places a kiss on your cheek, his own dusting red. Flowers feel like they’re blooming on the spot he pecked, but somehow, it feels natural. You’ve always been close to him physically throughout your upbringing, even if it never involved lips–that was new territory. You cross your arms, relying on his hands around your waist to keep you upright. “Tell me more.”
“You nag too much.”
He kisses your nose. “Hm?”
“You’re emotionally repressed.”
“Ouch.” He kisses your temple.
“You’re too good at things you don’t try at.”
Your jawline.
“You’re unstable. You’re too protective. You’re stupid.”
“I love you,” he says, pressing his forehead against yours. His lips hover above your own, just centimeters away.
Your lashes flutter against his. “Then prove it to me.”
“I will,” he whispers, just as his mouth slots against yours, and a warmth blooms throughout your chest. You melt into him, like you always have and you always will. “I’ll prove it to you for the rest of my life.”
CW: Student-teacher. Eventual smut. P in V. Oral s3x. Medical inaccuracies.
You stare at your laptop screen, the cursor blinking mockingly at the bottom of your email draft. Your heart hammers against your ribs as you reread what you've written—no, what you sent—to Professor Zayne.
The essay. Or rather, a smut story.
It's titled "Electrophysiology of Desire".
You'd thought it was clever, a play on words that would show your understanding of cardiac rhythms and sex. Something to post on your blog for fun.
The ML is named Zander—a cardiac surgeon with green eyes and cold hands who knows exactly how to make a patient's heartbeat quicken. The story describes, in excruciating detail, how he examines his patient, his fingers trailing across her skin, his breath cold against her neck as he teaches her about accelerated heart rates and the body's natural responses to stimulation.
You'd written it late one night, frustrated with your lack of sex and projecting your fantasies onto the one person you shouldn't have—a man who could actually diagnose the "tachycardia" you were having right now.
The email you sent an hour ago still haunts you:
"Professor Zayne, attached is my essay on Electrophysiology. Please review and provide feedback."
Then, twenty minutes ago, you sent the correction:
"Please disregard my previous email. The attached file is the correct essay on Electrophysiology. I apologize for the confusion."
Now you wait. The hours crawl by like molasses. You imagine him opening it, his expression shifting from professional curiosity to shock. Maybe disgust. Maybe he's already contacted the Dean. Maybe he's laughing. Maybe he's forwarding it to the entire faculty.
That last thought has you panicking. Sweaty palms. Fast breathing. That sick feeling in your stomach like you're on a rollercoaster that won't stop.
"What the hell was I thinking?"
Your phone buzzes and you nearly jump out of your skin.
It's an email notification from Zayne.
You click it open with trembling fingers.
The email subject reads: "Re: Electrophysiology Essay"
Your stomach drops.
The body is short. Professional. Cold.
Y/N,
I have reviewed your submission. It is... certainly creative. However, it does not meet the academic standards required for this course. You will need to submit a proper essay on the physiological mechanisms of cardiac conduction systems by the end of the week.
I suggest you take some time to reconsider the appropriateness of your work. This class is not a venue for personal fiction, no matter how... imaginative... the subject matter may be.
Professor Zayne
The email ends. There's no attachment. No further comments. Just those few sentences that somehow manage to convey everything without saying a word about how your protagonist's name sounds like his, or how you'd described fingers trailing across skin in excruciating detail.
You sit there, staring at the screen. Your face burns with shame so intense you can barely breathe. He didn't report you. He didn't call you into his office. He just... sent you this.
And somehow, that makes it worse.
"You're such an idiot."
The story is still saved on your laptop. You could delete it. Burn it. Pretend this never happened. But your finger hovers over the delete button and you can't quite bring yourself to do it.
Instead, you press your face into your hands, wondering how you're going to walk into his classroom on Monday.
...walk into his classroom on Monday.
The thought makes you want to laugh—or cry. Probably both.
Outside, you can hear other students laughing, living their normal lives, completely unaware that you've just sent your professor an erotic story disguised as an academic essay.
Your phone buzzes again. Another email notification.
This time it's from Zayne's personal email address, not the university one. Your heart stops.
You open the email, hands shaking so badly you almost drop your phone.
The subject line is simple : "Reviewing 2nd Essay Now"
The body is brief:
I've just seen your correction. I'll review the proper essay when I have time.
However, I did want to address the first submission you sent. I've attached it with some notes. While your writing shows... creativity... there are some anatomical and physiological inaccuracies I think you should be aware of.
Professor Zayne
Below the text, there's an attachment. Your story.
Except now it's covered in comments. Zayne's comments.
You click to open it, and your stomach drops even further.
The notes are clinical. Detached. But they make you burn with shame anyway.
[Note 1: The description of ventricular fibrillation is technically accurate, though the context is inappropriate for an academic essay.]
[Note 2: Your understanding of sympathetic nervous system activation is correct. The physiological response you've described does occur during arousal.]
[Note 3: The term 'tachycardia' is used correctly. However, the scenario in which it occurs is not clinically appropriate for this assignment.]
[Note 4: Your description of afterdeath cardiac changes is remarkably detailed. You appear to have done significant research. Though again, the application is... unconventional.]
[Note 5: The protagonist's skill set—knowledge of anatomy, understanding of physiological responses, ability to calm distressed patients—is actually quite accurate for a cardiac surgeon. Though his bedside manner in your story is not clinically recommended.]
[Note 6: The psychological aspect of parasympathetic activation post-climax is well-researched. Your understanding of heart rate variability is impressive.]
[Note 7: The ice-breath technique described is not a recognized medical procedure. While you've attempted to connect it to Evol abilities, this is fictional and should not be presented as medical advice.]
[Note 8: Your understanding of endorphin release and oxytocin's role in mood elevation is great. However, the romanticized presentation is not appropriate for academic work.]
Overall assessment: Creativity: High.
Academic appropriateness: Questionable.
Research depth: Impressive.
Recommended for: Personal enjoyment only.
Not recommended for: Submitting to this course.
Professor Zayne
The notes end there.
You sit frozen, staring at the screen. Your face feels like it's on fire now. Every single paragraph of your story—every intimate detail, every fantasy you'd written late at night when you thought no one you know would ever see it—has been read and analyzed by him. By Professor Zayne. The man who actually knows about tachycardia and sympathetic nervous systems and heart rate variability.
You scroll through the notes again, each one making you feel more exposed than the last. He didn't just read your story. He corrected it. Pointed out what you got right and wrong, the same way he would grade an actual essay. Except this wasn't an essay. This was you. Your private thoughts. Your secret fantasies.
And he'd dissected them with the same clinical precision he'd use on a difficult case.
Your phone buzzes again. Another email from his personal address.
This one is shorter:
I understand you may not want to attend class on Monday. That's acceptable. I'll email you the lecture notes and any assignments. Focus on the new essay due at the end of next week.
No need to respond unless you have questions about the feedback.
Professor Zayne
He's giving you an out. Letting you skip Monday. Probably because he knows you'd be too mortified to show your face after this.
You should feel relieved.
Instead, you feel... something else. Something you can't quite name.
You look at the attached story again, covered in his clinical annotations. Every note is professional, detached—yet somehow that makes it worse. He didn't get embarrassed reading it. Didn't get angry. He just... analyzed it. Like a specimen under a microscope.
You press your face into your hands again, wondering how you're ever going to recover from this.
☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️
Monday Morning
You are 10 minutes late.
Just don't go in. Just turn around. Send him an email. Tell him you're dropping his class.
You know you won't. This is worth too much. You need this class. You have to go in.
Standing outside his classroom, with your bag clutched against your chest like a shield, you can see students already in their seats through the small window. The lecture hall is on the third floor of the medical building—impossible to avoid running into anyone you know on the way there.
You can do this. You're an adult. You made a mistake. He's a professional. He'll barely acknowledge it.
You take a deep breath and push the door open.
The classroom falls silent for exactly three seconds. You can feel every pair of eyes on you as you make your way to your usual seat in the middle row. Your hands shake slightly as you set your bag down, trying to make it look casual.
Professor Zayne stands at the front, writing something on the whiteboard. He's wearing his usual professional attire—a crisp white coat over dark slacks, silver framed glasses perched on his nose. He hasn't turned around yet.
"Good morning, Y/N," he says without looking, his voice carrying that familiar clinical tone. "Glad you could make it."
A few students snicker quietly and you feel your face burning already.
"As I was saying before the interruption," he continues, still facing the board, "the sinoatrial node generates electrical impulses at approximately 60 to 100 beats per minute in a resting adult. These impulses travel through the atrioventricular node and—"
He pauses. Turns.
Your eyes meet his across the classroom.
For a fraction of a second, his expression is unreadable. Then, just barely perceptible, his lips curve into the smallest hint of a smile. Not mocking. Not cruel.
"Though I suppose we should discuss what happens when heart rates increase significantly," he adds, his eyes holding yours. "Perhaps a volunteer could help?"
The room feels like it's tilting. You can't breathe. You can't move. Every student is staring at you now, and you're certain they all know. You're certain he's going to say something. Call you out. Make an example of you.
He just... keeps looking at you.
Your mouth is dry. Your hands are clenched so tight that your knuckles have gone white. He's still looking at you, and it feels like everyone is holding their breath.
Then, with the same professional demeanor, he says, "Y/N, would you mind coming to the front? I'd like your help for this next section."
Your name sounds like a death sentence.
You can't say no. You were already late for his class. If you refuse everyone will suspect something happened.
Your legs feel like they're made of lead as you stand. You can feel every pair of eyes boring into you as you walk to the front of the room. The fluorescent lights too bright. The air conditioning makes you shiver, or maybe that's just adrenaline.
"Thank you," Zayne says when you stop next to his desk. He gestures to the whiteboard where he's drawn a diagram of the heart's conduction system. "When the sympathetic nervous system is activated—through stress, excitement, or other stimuli—heart rate increases. This is a normal physiological response."
You know he is thinking about your story.
"Y/N, if you could stand here," he says, gesturing to a spot next to him, "and we can walk through the physical manifestations of this response. What do you think happens first when someone experiences increased heart rate?"
Your mind is completely blank. You can't think about physiology. You can't think about anything except how he's standing way too close, how you can smell that faint scent of antiseptic and something else—something clean and masculine—that you've noticed before but never really felt until now.
"I..." Your voice comes out barely above a whisper. "The heart beats faster?"
Stupid obvious answer
"Correct," he says, and there's something in his tone—not praise exactly, but acknowledgment. "And what about respiratory rate? Breathing?"
You open your mouth. Close it. Your heart rate spikes even higher. You can feel it in your throat, in the pounding of your temples. You stand there, acutely aware of every student watching you and you wonder if he can hear it. If he's noticed that you're breathing faster.
"Y/N?" Zayne's voice cuts through your spiraling thoughts. He's still standing close, close enough that you have to resist the urge to step back.
"Breathing gets faster too," you manage to say, voice steadier now despite the chaos in your chest. "The body needs more oxygen when the heart is beating harder."
"Exactly right." He turns to makes a note on the whiteboard, his handwriting precise and controlled. "And what about peripheral vasoconstriction?"
You blink, trying to focus on the anatomical diagram he's drawn. The SA node, the AV node, the bundle of His—you've studied this a hundred times. But having him stand this close, having his attention entirely on you, makes it all feel like a foreign language.
"The blood vessels tighten," you say, finding your footing. "To redirect blood flow to the muscles and vital organs."
"Excellent." He turns back to the board again, adding another notation. "Notice how the body prioritizes function during stress responses."
He pauses and you catch him glancing at you from the corner of his eye. For just a moment, his professional mask slips, and there's something else in his expression
"Is there anything you'd like to add?" he asks, turning to face you. "You seem like you understand this material quite well."
Heat floods your face again.
"I...No." you say quietly, meeting his eyes. They're fixed on you with that same clinical intensity he uses on all his students.
"Good," he says, nodding slightly. "I'm glad you're following along." He gestures to the diagram again. "This is why it's important to understand the physiological basis for these responses. It helps us anticipate how patients might react in different situations. They're not just abstract concepts—they're what your body does when it's..." he pauses, choosing his words carefully, "...responding to intense stimuli."
Thinking he is done with you you give a step forward to go back to your seat.
"Y/N, what happens when this response is sustained? When the sympathetic activation continues beyond what's necessary?"
Your mind immediately goes to your story—the part where he keeps her body responding, where the stimulation doesn't stop, where everything built and built until...
"When it's sustained," you say carefully, trying to keep your voice level, "the body can't maintain the response indefinitely. Eventually, the parasympathetic nervous system kicks in to restore balance."
"Mm." He makes a sound of acknowledgment, writing on the board. "But during that sustained period, what do you think the body does to compensate? To... manage the increased demand?"
The question hangs in the air between you. You can feel the weight of it, the other meaning that's layered underneath the anatomical lesson. Your story had described exactly this, how her body learned to manage the stimulation, how it adapted, how it...
"You said the body prioritizes function," you respond, keeping your eyes on the board and not on him. "So it would redirect resources. Increase blood flow to where it's needed most. The muscles, the heart itself, the brain."
"Precisely. And what about sensation during this period? Does the body become more...sensitive?"
You can't answer that directly. Instead, you force yourself to keep your focus on the diagram, on the scientific terminology he's using. "Increased neural activity would enhance sensation" you say, the clinical terms helping you maintain some distance from what he's really asking. "The nervous system is already heightened, so every stimulus would register more strongly."
"And what are the physical manifestations of that heightened sensitivity? Temperature changes, for instance?"
"Temperature changes," you repeat, forcing yourself to stay clinical. "Blood rushing to the surface in some areas while being constricted in others creates a flushed appearance. Skin might feel hot to the touch despite core temperature being regulated."
"Exactly." His voice is lower now, and you realize he's not looking at the board or the students. His eyes are fixed on you "The body's response is complex. It's not just about the heart rate or the breathing. It's about the entire system adapting, compensating, finding new equilibriums."
The rest of the class is oblivious, taking notes, listening to what sounds like a perfectly normal lecture on cardiac physiology.
But you're not oblivious. You can feel the tension between you, the way he's using medical terminology to describe exactly what you wrote, what you imagined. Your protagonist's body learning to handle stimulation it had never experienced before, adapting to new sensations, finding pleasure in responses that should have been purely physiological.
"Dr. Zayne," a student in the back calls out, "what happens to the muscles during these responses?"
He blinks, and in that moment, his professional mask snaps back into place.
You swallow hard and answer without thinking "Muscles...become more rigid. Tense up"
"This tension can be useful, it prepares the body for action. For movement." His eyes hold yours for a beat longer than necessary. "Though sometimes, this tension can build and build... until it needs release."
The classroom feels impossibly hot suddenly. You can feel sweat beginning to form at your hairline. Several students shift in their seats, but they seem to think it's just another part of the lecture. You know better. You can hear the faint sound of his pen moving across the whiteboard again, adding more notes.
"Now," he says, "let's discuss the parasympathetic nervous system. What happens when the body needs to return to baseline?"
Your mind is racing, trying to keep up with the lecture while also processing the other layer to everything he's saying. You'd written about this—the release, the aftermath, the way bodies settle back into stillness after that kind of intensity.
"The heart rate slows down," you manage. "Breathing returns to normal. Muscle tension releases."
"And what about hormone levels? What decreases after this parasympathetic response?"
"Stress hormones," you say automatically. "Cortisol, adrenaline. They drop."
He turns back to the board. "And what about oxytocin? What role does it play in this recovery process?"
You blink, momentarily thrown off your game by the question. You'd written about it too, it's when everything softens and becomes gentle. But you'd never thought you'd be discussing it in class. "It... promotes bonding? Helps regulate emotions?"
"Among other things," he says, his tone remains neutral as he writes the word 'oxytocin' on the board in large, deliberate letters. "Interesting, isn't it? How the body uses these chemicals to regulate emotional and physiological states."
He keeps talking about your story and he's doing it in front of the entire class making it look like it's just another lecture on endocrinology.
He turns back to address the room, "Let's move to the final section. I want everyone to think about the long term effects of these responses. If someone experiences these physiological changes repeatedly, what could happen? It's very important to understand them. To know when they're appropriate and when they might need... intervention."
The way he says 'intervention' makes your stomach flip. Other students start murmuring answers, but you're frozen in place.
He steps back to his desk, and you immediately feel the loss of his presence beside you. "Thank you, Y/N"
The lecture continues for another 30 minutes. He moves on to explaining the differences between bradycardia and tachycardia, the role of the baroreceptor reflex, various medications used to regulate heart rhythm. You try to focus, you really do, but his words blur together. You keep thinking about his hands, writing those notes on your story. You keep wondering if he actually read the whole thing, or if he skimmed it, disgusted by it, or—worse—actually read it carefully, analyzing every detail of your fantasy the way he's analyzing every detail of this physiology lecture.
When the class ends, you gather your things as fast as you can, dreading the walk to the door where you'll have to pass his desk.
"Y/N." His voice stops you mid step. You turn, and he's standing there with your essay in his hands, the correct essay. "Do you have a moment?" he asks, his tone perfectly professional. "I wanted to discuss your essay before you leave."
Fuck
☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️
His POV
Zayne had been grading papers in his office when he opened his laptop and saw he had a couple of new emails—the clock marked 7:04PM on a Friday night. He'd clicked it open expecting just another standard essay on cardiac conduction systems.
What he got was not standard.
He'd been teaching Cardiac Physiology 301 for three years now, and he'd seen plenty of rushed essays, poorly researched submissions, and the occasional student who thought medical terminology was just decorative language to sprinkle into their assignments
Y/N's work always stood out. From the moment she enrolled in his Monday-Wednesday-Friday class six weeks ago, he'd noticed her. Not just her grades—though those were exceptional—but the way she approached the material. The questions she asked. The intensity in her eyes when she was trying to understand complex concepts like cardiac conduction disorders or the details of congenital heart defects.
He'd caught himself watching her more than he should have. The way her hair fell across her shoulders when she leaned over her notes. The slight furrow of her brow when she was concentrating. The way she bit her lower lip when she was nervous about answering questions.
He'd told himself it was professional interest. She was a promising student. That's all.
He was about to learn exactly how unprofessional his attention had become.
He clicked on the attachment labeled "Electrophysiology_of Desire_.docx" and he stared at the first paragraph of what was clearly not an academic essay.
He blinked and reread the paragraph. This wasn't... this couldn't be... He glanced at the email subject again.
He should have closed it immediately. Should have deleted it without reading further. But something made him keep scrolling.
The prose was good—actually good. The understanding of physiology was impressive. But the subject matter...
He'd kept reading, assuming it was some kind of creative writing piece that had been sent on accident. Because no student in their right mind would submit this to their cardiovascular physiology Professor.
Then he got to the third page.
[His fingers traced the pulse point on her neck, feeling the fast flutter of her heartbeat. 'Tachycardia,' he whispered, 'Your body is responding to my touch. Shall we continue the examination?']
Zayne's coffee cup froze halfway to his lips. His eyes narrowed as he reread the passage.
The protagonist—named Zander, which was too close to his own name for comfort—was described in detail, broad shoulders, green eyes, dark hair. The way he knew anatomy. His hands "both precise enough for surgery and skilled enough for pleasure."
The research was impeccable. The descriptions of how heart rate increases during arousal were accurate. The understanding of sympathetic nervous system activation was correct. Even the details about vasoconstriction and respiratory changes were right. She'd done her homework, studied this material.
['His hand slid beneath her shirt, his touch tracing the curve of her breast, her nipple hardening beneath his palm. 'Sensitive,' he noted, thumb circling the peak. 'It responds to stimulation through nerve endings connected to the sympathetic system.']
But she'd used it to write porn. And not just any porn. Good porn, and that made it somehow worse.
Zayne's own heart rate was climbing. He could feel it pounding in his ears as he read on, his professional detachment crumbling with each paragraph.
[She gasped as his soft lips closed over her nipple, his tongue swirling around the sensitive tip.
'Cold,' she breathed, feeling his breath—that Evol ability he possessed—making her skin break out in goosebumps. 'Za...it's making me... oh god...']
Just like his own Evol.
Zayne's pen slipped from his fingers, clattering against the desk. A familiar awareness of his body's involuntary responses making him a bit uncomfortable.
['He pressed her back against the examination table, his body pinning hers down as his fingers explored lower, sliding between her thighs until he reached her soaked pussy. 'Already wet, lubrication increases during arousal to facilitate penetration.']
Zayne's cock was hard. He was hard, sitting in his office at 7:20PM, reading a student's porn.
When he reached the section describing the role of the parasympathetic nervous system in post orgasmic relaxation, he closed his laptop, walked over to the window and gazed out at the hospital grounds for a few minutes. Then he returned to his desk to write his feedback on her essay.
[Y/N,
I have reviewed your submission. It is... certainly creative. However, it does not meet the academic standards required for this course. You will need to submit a proper essay on the physiological mechanisms of cardiac conduction systems by the end of the week.
I suggest you take some time to reconsider the appropriateness of your work. This class is not a venue for personal fiction, no matter how... imaginative... the subject matter may be.
Professor Zayne]
He tries to forget the whole thing and moves on to read the next email.
Another email from her.
"Please disregard my previous email. The attached file is the correct essay on Electrophysiology. I apologize for the confusion."
His lips quirk into something between a smirk and a grimace as he opens the attachment.
This one is different. Professional. Academic. Properly formatted with references and citations. She's written a legitimate essay on cardiac conduction systems, complete with diagrams and footnotes. It's exactly what a medical student should be submitting and somehow Zayne is oddly disappointed.
He reads through it quickly, then sets it aside. His eyes drift back to the first file—the one sent by mistake. He opens it again, scrolling through the smut story with deliberate slowness. His pen taps against the desk as he rereads certain passages and decides to add notes on it.
He tried to maintain proper professor-student boundaries while writing those notes, but he couldn't stop thinking about the person who'd written it.
He also couldn't stop thinking about how the protagonist's name was very similar to his.
It was probably just a coincidence. Probably.
Probably.
He stood up again and walked to the window, watching the evening shift change. His hands were steady. His breathing was controlled. His heart rate wasn't. It was slightly elevated, and he knew it wasn't from stress or caffeine or any of the normal academic frustrations.
He turned back to his desk and scrolled through the annotated essay one more time. Every note he'd written felt inadequate, like he was trying to contain something inappropriate within the structure of clinical feedback. She had taken every single concept from his lectures and twisted it into this—this thing that made him feel like...like this.
[Overall assessment: Creativity: High. Academic appropriateness: Questionable. Research depth: Impressive. Recommended for: Personal enjoyment only. Not recommended for: Submitting to this course.]
He'd written that last line almost defensively, needing to maintain some kind of professional distance.
Zayne pressed his fingers to his temples. He had two choices: send the feedback and never think about it again, or... not. The problem was that he couldn't stop thinking about it. The clinical precision haunted him, the way every medical term was used correctly even in the most inappropriate scenarios. It was like finding a diamond in a pile of garbage—precious, valuable, but completely out of place.
The cursor blinked at the bottom of his last note, waiting. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, and then, without further ado, he hit 'Send'. Only this time, the email was sent from his personal account.
5 min later
He was a cardiac surgeon, for God's sake. He made life-or-death decisions every day. He should be able to handle one awkward Monday lecture without dissolving into professional incompetence. But the thought of seeing her after what he'd read... it made his chest feel too tight and his breathing too shallow. So he writes another email.
[I understand you may not want to attend class on Monday. That's acceptable. I'll email you the lecture notes and any assignments. Focus on the new essay due at the end of next week.
No need to respond unless you have questions about the feedback.
Professor Zayne]
He pressed send before he could second-guess himself.
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The classroom empties quickly, students filing out with curious glances, their whispers fading as the door clicks shut. You're alone with Professor Zayne now, standing near his desk while he spreads the essay out in front of him.
You already know what's coming, a lecture about academic standards, the discussion of how your writing doesn't belong in a cardiac physiology class. So you prepare to apologize, to explain, to anything that might make this less mortifying.
"Your essay," he says, gesturing to the paper "This is excellent work. The research is thorough, the citations are properly formatted, and your analysis of the sinoatrial node's role in cardiac conduction is particularly insightful."
Heat rises to your cheeks. His praise shouldn't make you feel this way but there's something about the way he's looking at you, the way his voice carries just a hint of warmth beneath the professional tone, that makes your pulse quicken.
"I've marked up a few sections with comments," he continues, the red pen marks are minimal, mostly small notes on minor clarifications. "But overall, this is the kind of work I expect from my students. You clearly understand the material."
You nod, relief flooding through you. Maybe this is it. Maybe he's just going to let it go, pretend the other email never happened, and you can both move on with your lives. "Thank you," you manage to say "I worked really hard on it."
"I can tell." he says "You clearly put more thought into it than your first submission."
Your face burns so hot you think you might actually faint.
"There are a few points here where you've gone beyond the basic material. Like this section on the vagus nerve and its role in the parasympathetic system."
He taps a paragraph, and you lean in slightly pretending to read it, catching a whiff of his cologne.
"I... I thought it was important to include, since it plays such a significant role in the body's stress response and recovery" you explain, trying to keep your voice steady.
"Absolutely," he agrees "Your attention to detail is commendable. And you've cited your sources properly, which demonstrates strong academic integrity."
He looks up at you, and for a moment, his gaze lingers on yours.
"Is there anything you'd like to discuss about this essay? Any questions about the material or the feedback I provided?"
There are so many things you want to ask him—about his notes on your story, about the way he'd looked at you during class—but you can't bring yourself to voice any of them. "No" you say finally, shaking your head.
His gaze intensifies, eyes flickering briefly to your lips before meeting your eyes again. "Alright, if you think of anything, you know where to find me. My door is always open."
"Thank you, I... I appreciate your time and feedback."
He nods, breaking the moment. "You're welcome. Keep up the good work." He hands you the essay, and you take it with trembling fingers, glancing down at the red marks scrawled across the pages again before you tuck it into your bag, needing a few seconds to compose yourself before you can leave.
As you turn to go, he clears his throat.
"Y/N? One more thing."
Oh no
"The other document you sent, a fictional piece, I believe?"
Of course he would bring it up. Of course he would acknowledge the elephant in the room. You take a deep, steadying breath before turning back to face him, cheeks already flaming. "Yes, that was a mistake..."
You can feel the heat spreading from your cheeks, down your neck and across your chest.
"I know," he says simply. "I received your second email. I know it was a mistake."
You wish you could disappear. "I don't know how that happened. I meant to send the right one, it just... I'm sorry."
But he holds up a hand, silencing you "Don't apologize," he says, and there's a note of dry amusement in his voice "It's not every day a student submits a fictional story of a cardiac examination."
You can feel the smirk in his words, the unspoken implication. "I'm sorry," you say again, lamely. "I didn't mean to waste your time. I know it's not appropriate. It's just a hobby of mine. I never meant for it to be submitted as part of the coursework."
"You got a lot of things right. The physical responses, the physiological reactions... you nailed it." he moves closer "But doctors and patients, Y/N... it's not allowed. It's a clear violation of ethics and boundaries."
Your mouth is dry, but you can't stop yourself from saying, "Well, then it's a good thing its just fiction. A fantasy. I'm sure doctors like you wouldn't actually..."
"I wouldn't" he interrupts "especially not with my stu...patients"
Your heart is beating so fast it makes it hard for you to gather your thoughts "I know, Professor. Like I said, it's just a silly story I wrote for fun, not for you to read or grade."
"Fiction or not, it's not appropriate for a medical student to write erotic stories about doctor-patient relationships," he says, without thinking "Especially when that doctor is also her teacher."
Your eyes widen in shock at his words, tongue suddenly glued to the roof of your mouth.
He takes a step back "Now, if there's nothing else, you should get going, you have a paper due on Friday."
Disappointment settles heavy in your chest with the realization that you've crossed a line. That you've let your imagination run away with you in a way that's made him uncomfortable. "Yes," your voice sounds small and distant to your own ears. "Of course."
Your bag feels heavy in your hands as you make your way to the door. But before you can reach for the handle, Zayne clears his throat again. "Just a word of advice? Channel that creativity of yours into something productive. Write about something that matters and can make a difference. You have a gift, and it would be a shame to waste it on... fantasies."
When you finally step out into the hallway, you feel like you can breathe again. But the tightness in your chest remains, the weight of regret heavy on your shoulders. You've made a mess of things, and now you're not sure how to fix it.
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After leaving Zayne's class that day, you try to put the incident behind you. You attend his lectures and take diligent notes but now you sit in the back row, as far from Zayne as possible. It's not that you're trying to avoid him—okay, maybe you are—but it feels safer this way.
You realize, too late, that it's not enough. Nothing feels like enough, not changing seats, not burying yourself in study materials, because no matter what you do you can't shake the feeling that Zayne is always watching you.
The following weeks are a test of your concentration and self control. It seems that wherever you go, you keep ending up in Zayne's orbit. Fate, and perhaps the academic program, keeps pushing you both together.
One afternoon, as you bend over a microscope, focused on examining a stained heart tissue sample, you hear Zayne's voice behind you. "See the Purkinje fibers? Notice how they branch and extend from the bundle of His."
You lean in closer, squinting through the lens and notice the distinctive branching pattern of the fibers, pulse quickening at his proximity
"Yes," you breathe, "they form a intricate network throughout the ventricular myocardium."
"They do indeed" his warm breath ghosts across your ear.
His fingertips graze your waist lightly as he adjusts the focus knob and you suck in a quiet gasp. He pauses for a moment and you swear you can feel the subtle rise and fall of his chest inches from your back before he walks away.
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It's 9pm on a Friday night and your dorm room spins slightly. You're not drunk, but you're not sober either. You're just relaxed. Loose. Tired of being so tense all the time. Tired of pretending not to notice the way Zayne looks at you when he thinks no one else can see. Tired of wondering if he notices you watching him, always aware of his presence, his movements, the way his hair falls over his forehead as he writes on the board.
You know you should work on your final essay, the one due tomorrow. But your fingers itch for something else. Something more, so you open your laptop, the screen glowing in the dim light.
And you start to write.
You don't think about the essay. You just let your fingers fly over the keys, letting out the tension, the frustration, the longing that's built up over the past 7 weeks. The story pours out of you, raw and unfiltered.
This time, it's not a story about a doctor and his patient. This time, it's about a teacher and his student. You write of stolen glances in the classroom, of her fingers brushing against his as she hands in an assignment. You write of a kiss, fierce and desperate, and the way his hands grip her hips as he pulls her closer.
You write of a man who is everything you shouldn't want, but everything you crave. A man who sees the desire in your eyes and meets it with his own.
You're so focused on the finishing touches that you don't realize Tara is back until she's standing behind you, her brows raised and a smirk on her face. "Wow," she says, glancing at the screen. "Someone's got it bad."
You quickly slam the laptop shut "It's nothing" you mumble, but Tara's not buying it. She leans in closer, eyes sparkling with mischief.
"Nothing, my ass. That was hot" she laughs, fanning herself dramatically before narrowing her eyes slightly at the cans of beer on your desk "Wait, are you drunk? What did you do? take up drinking alone on a Friday night?"
You laugh, running a hand through your hair. "Maybe a little," you admit "I just needed to clear my head a bit."
She drags you to a club downtown, determined to help you "clear your head" for real. The music is pounding, the lights are flashing, and the alcohol is flowing freely. You dance and laugh with your best friend, the stress of the semester melting away with every sip of your colorful cocktails.
Hours later when the night grows late and your bladder grows full, you stumble into the club's bathroom, giggling to yourself. You wobble into a stall, and as you sit, you pull out your phone to check the time. That's when you see the reminder blinking back at you, your essay for Zayne's class is due in less than 24 hours. You squint at the screen, trying to focus through your drunken haze.
In a moment of poor judgment, a brilliant (stupid) idea strikes you. A slow grin spreads across your face when you open the email app on your phone to find Zayne's email address, his personal email.
Still grinning like the cat that got the cream, you attach the story you wrote earlier, the one about a professor and her student. The one that will let him know you can write whatever the hell you want, even if it is about him.
You type out a subject line—"Just a little something to keep you up all night, Professor Li ;) "—and hit send before you can second guess yourself. You giggle again, feeling brazen and bold and utterly ridiculous all at once.
When you walk out of the bathroom and back onto the dance floor, you shake your head, wondering what the hell you were thinking. But it's too late to take it back now. You've sent it, and there's no turning back. Besides, it's not like anything can go wrong, right? It's just a silly story, and there's only a week left of his class. He can't get too mad... can he?
You push the thought aside and keep dancing, letting the music drown out any lingering doubts. Tomorrow, you'll deal with the consequences of your actions.
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The next morning, you wake up with a pounding headache and a mouth drier than the Sahara. Squinting at the harsh sunlight streaming through your window, you curse Tara for not drawing the curtains before she passed out. You feel like death warmed over, but when the fog in your brain starts to lift, memories of the previous night come rushing back.
The dildo of consequences rarely arrives lubed.
You drag yourself out of bed and stumble to your desk, grabbing your laptop with shaking hands. You need to check if he reported you. Your stomach twists with dread as you open your email, there it is, at the top of the list, sent at 2:37 AM, marked as read.
He's seen it. He probably read every word.
What the fuck were you thinking?
You start to hyperventilate, heart racing as you scroll through your inbox, looking for any sign of a response from him. There's nothing, no angry email, no summons to his office, nothing. But then, you notice something even worse: your essay is due in just a few hours, and you haven't even started revising it yet.
Panic turns to dread, you're going to fail his class, lose half your final grade, and probably get expelled for sexual harassment. This is it, this is how your college career ends. With a drunken lapse in judgment and a poorly timed bout of liquid courage.
You skip breakfast and lunch, skip hydrating, and hunch over your laptop to finish and send your essay before the deadline. It will be a mess, and you know it, but it's better than the alternative.
Hours later, with minutes to spare, you hit send, slumping back in your chair with a groan. The relief is short lived, however, as the queasy feeling in your stomach returns with a vengeance. You barely make it to the bathroom before you're kneeling in front of the toilet, your body heaving and purging the alcohol and stress of the past 24 hours.
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On Monday, you make the decision to skip Zayne's class. Your stomach is in knots, your mind racing with worst case scenarios, and you can't bring yourself to face him. You convince yourself that skipping one day will give you time to breathe, to think, to figure out how to handle this mess.
On tuesday morning, you write an email to Zayne, explaining that you're sick and won't be able to attend his class on Wednesday. Your finger hovers over the 'send' button for a long moment before you finally hit it, feeling a pang of unease but also a flicker of relief.
Wednesday rolls around, and you stick to your plan, staying in your dorm during Zayne's class. You try to focus on your other courses and act like everything is normal, but your mind keeps drifting back to him.
It's late afternoon when you find yourself leaving Professor Liu's office after a meeting about your final project. You're juggling your bag and your notes, mind already racing ahead to the rest of your evening plans, when you hear a voice that makes your blood run cold.
Zayne's voice. He's standing by the window, his back to you as he talks to Professor Liu. They're discussing something about missing materials in the lab. You try to slip away unnoticed, but you've only taken a few steps when you hear Zayne calling your name.
"Y/N, a moment please."
You swallow hard and nod jerkily. He tells Professor Liu something else before walking towards you. Your feet are glued to the floor, body refusing to move as he approaches until he stops in front of you.
"Walk with me," not a request but a command. "I want to review your last essay in my office."
Your stomach drops, and you feel the color draining from your face. You scramble to fall into step beside him, heart racing as you try to come up with any excuse to get out of this "I... I have a doctor's appointment scheduled for later," you stammer, struggling to keep up with his long strides. "I don't think I have time for a review session today."
He shoots you a sharp glance, his brows furrowed. "Reschedule it, you look fine to me"
You try again "Well I'm not and... I also have a big project due for Professor Chen tomorrow. I really should focus on that..." Your words trail off as he pushes open the door to his office, holding it for you to enter.
He leans against the frame, his eyes narrowing. "Professor Chen's last class for this semester was today."
"I have a lot of work to catch up on. I can't afford to fall behind in any more classes."
"After you"
With a deep breath, you step inside, heart pounding in your ears. The room feels smaller than you remember, the air thicker. You take a few steps inside before turning to face him, arms wrapped tightly around yourself.
He walks past you, moving to sit behind his desk. He gestures to the chair in front of it, waiting for you to sit.
You sit on the edge of the chair, back straight, hands clasped tightly in your lap. You're expecting him to bring up the story, to confront you about the contents of the email you sent. But he doesn't. Instead, he leans back in his chair, eyes fixed on you.
"Your essay was poorly written, disorganized, and lacked the depth of analysis I expect from my students. This will have a significant impact on your final grade, and I want you to be aware of that."
He pauses, letting his words sink in. You nod numbly, trying to focus on his words and not on his lips "I know you're capable of better work than . So I want to know what happened here. What caused this drop in quality?"
You squirm in your seat, feeling like a insect under a microscope. "I... I don't know," you struggle to find an excuse. "I guess I just got behind on the reading and didn't have as much time to work on it as I should have."
Zayne's jaw tightens, and he leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk "Try again, I know there's more to it than that."
You try to focus, you really do, but your mind keeps drifting. You can't stop imagining the way his hands would feel on your body, the sounds he would make as he...
It's like you are drowning in a sea of inappropriate thoughts, and you can't seem to find your way back to the surface.
"Is there something on your mind? Something distracting you from your studies?" His tone is casual, but there's a tension that makes the air between you feel charged.
"No" you say, but it comes out sounding more like a question. Your eyes keep drifting back to his mouth, to the way his lips move as he speaks.
"Then why do you keep looking at me like that?"
"Like what...?"
"I'm your teacher, Y/N"
"I know," you say, your voice sounding breathless. "I know you are."
He stands abruptly, the sudden movement startling you. You follow him with your eyes, heart leaping into your throat. He takes a step towards you, then another, until he's standing right in front of you "Then stop looking at me like that."
You move your head back to meet his eyes "Then stop looking back," your voice sounds braver than you feel. "Zayne."
He just blinks, taken aback by your boldness. For a moment, he's at a loss for words. You watch as a faint flush creeps up the back of his neck, spreading to his ears. It's a small thing, but it's enough to know that you've flustered him, that you're not the only one feeling this tension between you.
He clears his throat, looking for a moment like he might say something more, but then seems to think better of it. "I'm giving you a chance to do better," he says, his voice sounding a bit rougher than before. "Your essay was... lacking, but it's not too late. I want you to rewrite it and bring it to me on Friday."
You stand up slowly, facing him "That's so nice of you, Professor Li, are all teachers as caring as you are?" you bite your lip, watching as his eyes flick down to your mouth for a fleeting moment before he catches himself.
He takes a small step back, putting some distance between you "Not all teachers are as understanding as I am"
You tilt your head, studying him with a curiosity you've never shown before. "Really?" you ask, taking a step closer to him, closing the distance he just opened.
"This needs to stop, Y/N, you can't keep messing around like this."
"You're right," you whisper "It has to stop."
His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing against your lower lip, tracing it, teasing it.
Your teeth catch the pad of his finger, tugging gently. His eyes flare with heat, his grip on your face tightening "You don't know what you're getting into."
"Don't I?"
And then, without warning, his mouth is on yours.
The kiss feels electric and you melt into him, your hands fisting in the soft fabric of his shirt, anchoring yourself to him as the world spins around you.
But it's not enough. It's not nearly enough.
Zayne breaks the kiss, his glasses askew on his face. He reaches up, yanking them off, and tosses them carelessly onto his desk. They skitter across the surface, falling to the floor with a sound that echoes in the silence of the room.
Before the echoes have even faded, he's kissing you again, hotter and harder than before. He kisses you like he's been waiting his whole life for the taste of you, his hands moving over your body, making you arch into him, breasts pressing against his chest.
The sound of a knock on the door jolts you both out of the heated moment. Zayne's body goes rigid, his hands falling away from your hips as if burned. He steps back, putting a sudden and necessary distance between your bodies.
You stumble slightly at the loss of his support, your knees weak from the intensity of the kiss. You catch yourself and take a deep, shuddering breath, your skin feels flushed and your lips throb from the pressure of his mouth on yours.
The sight of him, flustered and hot, makes you want to close the distance between you again, to feel his hands on your skin and his lips on yours.
"Come in"
The door opens, and a student assistant pokes her head in, startling at the sight of you both.
"Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt..."
"It's fine, what do you need?"
She hesitates, glancing at you uncertainly before speaking. "I just wanted to check if you needed anything else before I head out for the day, Professor"
He takes a deep breath before answering."No, that's all, Sarah. Thank you."
Sensing an opportunity to escape you quickly grab your bag, slinging it over your shoulder. "Thank you for your time, Professor"
"I'll see you in class on Friday."
Your pulse flutters in your throat and you nod "Yes, Sir" you murmur, before slipping out of his office, leaving him standing there, his eyes following you until you disappear through the door.
☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️
His POV
3:40 am
Zayne sits at his desk, the eerie blue light of his computer screen casting strange shadows on his face as he reads the email that has been sitting in his inbox for an hour. From the moment he saw the subject line, he knew precisely what was inside, and he has been dreading the moment he would finally click on it.
[Subject: Just a little something to keep you up all night, Professor Li;)]
He knows he should delete it without looking, but he is far too curious and, he can admit it to himself now, a bit disloyal to his own sense of decency and autonomy.
It's another story, this time a student and her professor getting lost in their lust, obviously forbidden in their circumstances. He knows immediately he is reading about you and him.
The opening page goes into graphic detail about how the Professor pulls up the student's skirt and pushes her down onto his desk.
"[Spread your legs for me, I want to taste you."]
It describes how she spreads her legs apart for him and how he buries his face between her thighs to lick and suck on her clit softly before sinking two of his fingers deep into her hot cunt, thumb replacing his tongue to rub tight circles around her clit. It also details how her hips move against his mouth, how her fingers tangle in his hair to hold him in place.
It makes Zayne wonder how it would feel to have your clit swell over his tongue, to have your arousal coating his lips and chin.
["Fuck, Zayne, yes! Don't stop!"]
This time you didn't even bother changing his name.
He grips the arms of his chair until his knuckles turn white, trying to resist the impulse to palm his cock through his pants. He can feel it throbbing, demanding attention.
Taking deep breaths in an attempt for his half hard cock to behave wasn't working, the words from the story were seared into his brain, playing out like a porno reel that he couldn't turn off.
The story continued with the student now straddling her professor in the back row of his classroom, his hands palming her tits, filling his hands like they were made just for him.
["Beg for it, Beg for your Professor's cock."]
"Fuck, Y/N" Zayne mutters under his breath, his hand coming down to palm his dick through his pants. He's rock hard, aching, the need to touch himself growing impossible to ignore.
With another curse, he surrenders, unbuckling his belt and freeing his cock. It springs up, hard and heavy, the head already slick with pre-cum. He wraps his fingers around it, squeezing hard, thumb swiping over the sensitive crown, smearing the sticky fluid around.
He forces himself to keep reading every single word, pumping himself in time with the rhythm of the story, his breath coming faster and harsher as he imagines it's you riding him, your tits bouncing in front of his face, your pussy gripping and clenching around him. He pictures your face, flushed and panting, lips parted on a moan as you fuck yourself stupid on his dick.
His balls tighten, cock pulsing in his grip. He thinks of all the filthy things he wants to do to you, all the ways he wants to fuck you. He thinks of you in his classroom, on his desk, in his office, in his bed...
HIS BED
With a low groan Zayne throws his head back, his teeth clenched, and he finally lets go. His cock jerking and twitching in his grip, spurting thick ropes of warm cum all over his hand, some of it landing on his laptop screen.
But he keeps stroking, keeps imagining, keeps fucking you in his mind until he has nothing left to give. Panting and spent, he slumps back in his chair, the evidence of his lust cooling on his skin. The story still glows on the screen, the words blurring before his eyes as he tries to catch his breath. He knows he should feel guilty, ashamed for jerking off to the thought of his student, but all he can feel is the satisfaction of finally giving in to the desire he's been fighting for so long.
☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️
Friday morning dawns with a sense of finality. It's the last day of class, the last time you'll see Zayne. The thought should bring relief, it's a chance to put this whole messy situation behind you, but all you feel is a hollow ache in your chest.
You can't stop thinking about the kiss. About the way his soft lips moved against yours or the way he tasted. You've replayed it a thousand times in your head, and each time, you feel that same heat pooling low in your belly.
But it's over now. It has to be. You're his student, and he's your teacher. What happened between you was a mistake, a moment of weakness that can never happen again. You tell yourself this over and over as you get dressed and make your way to his class.
The door to his classroom looms before you, and you hesitate, hand hovering over the handle. You take a deep breath to steady your nerves, to prepare yourself before you step inside, keeping your head down, your eyes fixed on the floor as you walk in.
The classroom is quiet and the blinds are closed, you expect to hear the usual murmurs of your classmates, the sound of Zayne writing on the board, the rustle of papers. But there's nothing. The room is empty.
Confused, you turn around to leave the way you came. But before you can reach the handle of the door you hear it, his voice, calling out from the back of the classroom.
"Where are you going, Miss L/N?"
Your heart leaps into your throat, and you freeze, breath catching in your chest. Slowly, you turn around, your eyes lifting to find him sitting in the back row with his arms crossed over his chest.
You just stare and his eyes hold yours, unblinking, waiting.
"I asked you a question, Miss L/N"
"I... I thought we had class today..."
A slow, almost imperceptible smile touches the corner of his mouth, but it doesn't reach his eyes. Those remain dark, focused, predatory. He uncrosses his arms and stands, the movement fluid and deliberate. He begins to walk towards you, his footsteps echoing in the silent room.
"There is," he says, his eyes never leaving yours as he closes the distance. "But only for you. The rest of the class was emailed last night that there wouldn't be a session today."
He stops just an arm's length away but it's still too close. He’s deliberately isolated you. This wasn't an accident. This was a plan.
"What are you doi...?" you start, but he cuts you off with a raised hand.
"Your essay, Miss L/N" his voice sounds calm, professional "You were supposed to turn it in today."
You blink, your mind struggling to catch up with the conversation. Right. The essay. With shaking hands, you reach into your bag and pull out the neatly stapled papers, holding them out to him.
His eyes move down to where your hands are trembling slightly, and you see something flicker in his expression. Satisfaction? Desire? It's gone too quickly to tell.
He takes the essay from you, his thumb brushing over the top of your hand in a gesture that could be mistaken for accidental. But you know better. He's touching you on purpose, testing your reaction. His eyes meet yours again and you feel your knees go weak.
"Thank you," he throws the papers on his desk "I'll... review it carefully."
He steps forward and you take a step back, your heel catching slightly on the floor. The movement is instinctive, a physical reaction to the proximity, to the way his presence seems to fill the entire room.
His brow furrows, and he makes a soft tsking sound, almost like he's scolding a child. But there's nothing childish about the way he's looking at you now, the way his eyes move over your body with open hunger.
"What happened to all that bravery from Wednesday, Miss L/N? Are you backing away from me now?"
His words hit you like a slap, and you feel your cheeks flush with shame and arousal. He's right. You're being a coward. You're letting your nerves and your insecurities win. But how can you be brave when he's looking at you like that, when you know that one more step, one more touch, could break the last thread of your self control?
He takes another step closer, and now you're pressed against the wall, with nowhere else to go. He's so close now that you can feel the heat of his breath on your face.
"We can't do this" you whisper, voice barely audible over the sound of your own racing heartbeat. "Someone could hear or walk in, you could lose your..."
His actions cut you off before you can finish, his hand shooting out to the side to lock the door with a click. Then he turns back to you, his hand moving to rest on the wall next to your head, caging you in.
"Then you should keep quiet, Y/N"
Finally, he closes the distance. His lips crash against yours in a kiss that's hungry, desperate and filthy.
The moment his lips meet yours, something inside him shatters. It’s not a gentle breaking, but a violent, glorious fracture. The part of him that’s always been reasonable, the part that calculates risks and adheres to ethics and decorum, that part dissolves like sugar in hot water.
This other part is new. Deeper. It’s been watching you since the first story landed in his inbox, a constant hum in his blood that he’d mistaken for frustration or stress. But now, with your mouth under his, your body pinned against the wall of his classroom, it roars to the surface. It’s not reasonable. It doesn’t care about contracts or careers or the decades he spent building this life. It only knows one thing:
You
This kiss is so much better than anything he'd imagined over the past couple of nights as he jerked off to the memory of your first kiss. The way his tongue explores your mouth, the way his hand grips your hair just tight enough to make you gasp, it's overwhelming, intoxicating, perfect.
His hands, which had been so carefully caging you, now roam. One slides from your hair, down the line of your throat, over the frantic pulse there, and palms the front of your shirt, fisting in the fabric. The other finds your hip, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, anchoring you to him as he backs you further into the wall.
He tastes you, coffee from this morning, the faint sweetness of your lip balm, and underneath it all, you. The flavor is like a drug, and he’s like an addict finally getting his fix after weeks of cold turkey. He devours your sighs, your little gasps, the way your tongue shyly meets his before he claims it, sucks it, shows it who’s in control.
Every instinct he’s ever had is sharpened to a razor’s edge. The way your breath hitches when his thumb brushes over your peaked nipple through your bra, he files it away. The tiny, involuntary clench of your muscles when his knee pushes between your thighs, he memorizes it. The way you’re melting against the wall, your own hands now clutching at his arms, nails biting through his shirt sleeve, it’s not surrender. It’s an answer.
His next thought isn’t a whisper. It’s a seismic event in his mind, a single possessive word that echoes in the hollow of his skull: Mine.
And that thought doesn’t frighten him. It fuels him. It’s the engine of this raw, ugly, beautiful need. He’s not Zayne, the cardiac surgeon, the award winning researcher. He’s not even the stern professor. Right now, he’s just a man, a creature of base instinct, and his prey is tasting so fucking sweet.
He breaks the kiss only to drag his open mouth down the line of your jaw, his teeth grazing your skin, leaving a trail of fire.
"Zayne, we shou...we shouldn't be doing this here..."
His mouth finds the sensitive curve of your neck, and he sucks hard. The world narrows to the salt of your skin, the sound of your whimper, the relentless, unreasonable chant in his head: MINE MINE MINE.
"You're right," he breathes against your ear "We shouldn't be doing this here."
And then, without warning, he's lifting you. Your feet leave the floor, your skirt rides up your thighs, and he's carrying you toward his desk with an ease that makes you gasp. He sets you down on the edge, and you feel the cool wood against your heated skin.
He stands between your spread legs, his hands on your thighs, fingers digging in just enough to make you shiver. The classroom suddenly feels smaller, more intimate, the air thick with unspoken words and pent up need.
"But I'm not going to stop" his hands slide higher, and you feel his fingers brush against the wet fabric between your legs. He pauses there, eyes meeting yours, and you see the challenge in them. The dare.
You open your mouth to tease him, to tell him this is wrong, that he shouldn't lust after his student, but the words die in your throat when his fingers slip beneath the fabric, finding slick, hot flesh.
"I should" his thumb brushes over your clit, and you gasp, hips jerking up into his touch. His lips curl into a dark smile, and he leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear. "But I won't"
Two fingers slide inside, and your head falls back, hands gripping the edge of the desk for balance.
"Not when my student gets this wet just from kissing her professor" his thumb circles your clit slowly, savoring every whimper, every shudder that escapes your lips.
"How many times have you done this?" he asks "How do you know so much in such... specific detail?"
The question hangs in the air between you, loaded with implications. You open your mouth to answer, but the words catch in your throat. How do you tell him that every filthy scenario you've written was just a fantasy? That you've never actually experienced any of it? That you're a virgin not just to sex, but to this too.
His fingers, those skilled surgeon’s fingers that can suture a heart, still and he pulls them out. The delicious circles against your clit cease. The abrupt stop feels like a physical shock, a cold splash of reality on your overheated skin. You lift your head to meet his eyes. He’s watching you, his expression unreadable, his jaw tight.
“I… I haven’t…” the words tumble out in a mortified, breathless confession. “I’ve never… done anything like this before. I just… read a lot.” your face burns, a wildfire of humiliation and undeniable want.
His answer is a dark chuckle that rolls through the quiet room. It’s not kind. It’s possessive, triumphant. “Read a lot?”
The pad of his thumb, slick with your arousal, moves slowly from your cheek down to the corner of your mouth.
“Let’s see this pretty blush extend elsewhere” his eyes shine with a promise that makes your stomach clench.
Before you can even process the meaning of his words, he’s moving. His hands grip your thighs, firm and unyielding, and he’s sinking to his knees between your legs. You instinctively try to close them, a last vestige of modesty, but his grip is iron. He pulls the fabric of your skirt up and over your hips and then his palms are on the insides of your thighs, spreading you wider. The cool air of the classroom hits your soaked underwear, and a wave of goosebumps ripples across your skin.
He doesn’t touch. He just looks. His gaze feels like a physical thing, a slow, hungry perusal of the glistening cotton plastered against your slit. Then he looks up, his eyes locking with yours from his position on the floor. The power dynamic shifts completely. He’s below you, yet he’s in complete command.
“Do you think I can make you cum faster than the Zayne in your story?” the question is a direct hit, a brutal, exciting acknowledgment of the fantasy you wrote. Before you can even form a thought, his thumb hooks into the side of your underwear and pulls it aside.
He groans. A deep, visceral sound from his chest. His eyes are fixed on the sight, your slick, soft flesh, swollen and eager, with a clear, sticky strand of moisture connecting your skin to the damp fabric he just moved. The visual is so raw, so utterly debauched, that he stares for a heartbeat longer, his chest heaving.
“Look at that,” he breathes, his voice thick with awe and hunger. “So fucking ready. For me.”
His breath ghosts over you first, a cold whisper against your heat that makes you cry out. You feel the first wet, hot stroke of his tongue, long, slow, and deliberate, from your entrance all the way up to your clit. And it’s infinitely better than any fantasy. His hands hold your thighs open, his thumbs pressing into the sensitive inner crease, anchoring you as he licks you with a focus that is terrifying and exquisite.
“Best pussy I’ve ever tasted,” he whispers against your skin, the words a filthy praise that makes your cunt clench. All you can manage is a breathless and stunned “Oh my god” as his tongue swirls around your clit in a tight circle. One hand flies to his hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands, holding him in place.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
The sound is sharp, sudden, and wrong in this moment. Your hand slips on the desk, fingers scrabbling for purchase. Zayne's tongue stops and you feel him pull back just slightly, his breath still ghosting over your cunt.
"Professor Zayne? Are you there?"
It's Sarah's voice. Of course it's Sarah again.
Deep down, in some dark, feral part of your brain, you want to fucking murder her. You want to storm to that door and—
Fuck
You feel it. His teeth. Sinking into the soft, sensitive flesh of your inner thigh. Not hard. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to make you hiss out a sharp, involuntary sound.
Zayne doesn’t answer. Instead, his hands slide from your thighs to grab your hips. With a firm grip, he pulls your body to meet his waiting mouth again. He doesn’t break eye contact with you because he knows exactly what he’s doing. There is no way in hell he is stopping. Not for Sarah. Not for anything. The knock is just noise. The risk is just fuel.
His lips seal around your clit and he sucks gently, you moan but quickly slap a hand over your mouth, biting down on your palm to stifle the sound. Your eyes move to the locked door, watching it like a rabbit watches a predator. You can see the outline of Sarah's feet under the door, waiting.
"Professor Zayne? I have those reports you asked for" she calls out again, trying the door handle.
His tongue slows, torturously so, dragging lazy circles around your sensitive nub. He's toying with you now, with the situation, with Sarah. He's a man who's never been a risk taker, but here he is, risking everything for a taste of your pussy. And he's going to make you cum. Right here. Right now. With Sarah knocking on the fucking door.
The thought should horrify you. It should make you push him away, make you pull your skirt down and compose yourself. But the forbidden nature of it all, the danger of it, only makes you hotter. Makes your clit throb harder against his tongue. Makes your walls clench around nothing, desperate for more.
He moans against you, the vibration sending you spiraling closer to the edge. Your hand slips from your mouth, fingers tangling in his hair again, pulling him even closer. He chuckles and then—he sucks your clit between his lips. Hard.
He feels the second you break, the way your whole body shakes, a silent, shuddering scream trapped in your throat. Your fingers, which had been clawing at the edge of the desk, fly to your mouth, smothering the cry that wants to tear free. He doesn’t slow down. He doesn’t give you a moment to breathe. He rides the crest of it, drinking every spasm, every drop that spills for him.
And in that vortex of sensation—the sharp, clean smell of your arousal mixing with the chalk dust in the air, the muffled sound of Sarah’s voice from the hall—something fundamental shifts. The fear, the “this is wrong” that had been a cold knot in your stomach, doesn’t vanish. It transforms. It melts and re forms into a hotter, sharper thing, a hunger that has a name, a direction, a single target.
Him.
For Zayne, it’s a revelation that hits with the force of a defibrillator. This isn’t just a student. This isn’t just a fantasy. This is a convergence. The woman from the stories, the brilliant mind in the front row, the body now trembling under his mouth—they are one. And she is answering. Not just to his skill, but to the raw, unvarnished need he’s stopped hiding.
He slows, gentling his ministrations, but his eyes never leave yours. He laps at you softly, soothingly, as the aftershocks roll through you. He pulls back just enough to look at the ruin he’s made of you—flushed, slick, your underwear pushed aside, your skirt a mess. Then he stands and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His own breath is ragged. His eyes black pools.
He leans over you, bracing his hands on the desk on either side of you. The scent of you is on his lips, on his breath. His voice, when it comes, is a rough, shredded whisper, thick with a certainty that terrifies and thrills you both.
"That," he breathes, his forehead almost touching yours, "is what it means to be touched by someone who burns for you."
He doesn’t say ‘I burn for you.’ He doesn’t need to. The statement is a fact, as immutable as a heartbeat. The fire is the point. And you, in your spent, shuddering, gloriously ruined state, have just proven you’re made to stand in its heat.
He doesn't let you recover. While your body is still trembling, still coming down from that overwhelming high, he's already moving. His hands slide under your arms, lifting you effortlessly from the desk, and before you can even process it, he's sitting in his chair, pulling you onto his lap. You land straddling his thighs, your skirt a tangled mess around your hips, legs weak and shaky.
He doesn't rush. Instead, he lets the tension build like a slow burn, each second stretching taut until it hums in the air between you. His thumb moves in slow, hypnotic circles over your hip, as if he’s calming a spooked animal. Which, in a way, he is.
"Show me."
Your fingers are unsteady, betraying you as you fumble with the button of his slacks. He doesn’t help. He lets you do it. Lets you take the lead, even when his gaze pins you to the spot, steady and unwavering. The zipper is a struggle, the teeth catching, and you feel a hot flush of embarrassment. But his hand only moves, sliding from your hip to the small of your back, a steadying, grounding pressure.
Then it’s open.
You push the fabric aside, and there he is, already straining against his underwear. You look up and see the control he’s exerting. His jaw is clenched, a muscle feathering in his cheek. His breathing is even, but you see the storm in his eyes, the glittering, hungry chaos he’s containing. He feels it, you realize. He feels it more than you know. The tension isn’t just yours, it’s a live wire strung taut between the two of you.
You reach for the waistband of his underwear, hooking your fingers inside, and he lifts his hips just enough to let you pull them down. Enough for his cock to spring free, and fuck....
He's big. Thick. The kind of cock that makes your mouth water and your pussy clench.
You line yourself up after pulling your panties to the side, the fat head of his cock pressing against your entrance. For a second, you just hover there, making the anticipation feel like a physical ache.
Then you sink down.
The sound that leaves him is a broken gasp. It’s too much. He’s too much. The stretch is a delicious, overwhelming burn that immediately gives way to a profound, soul deep fullness. You’re so full you can’t move for a heartbeat, your body adjusting. Your eyes fly to his, and you see it, the moment his control slips. Just for a second. His head tilts back, a groan vibrating in his throat, his hands finding your hips and gripping hard enough to bruise.
After a few seconds you start to move and he breathes your name like a prayer. Up, and then down. The rhythm is clumsy at first, your body still learning the shape of him, but then it finds its cadence. A slow, rolling lift and fall that makes the world narrow to the slide of him inside you, the way he fills you completely on the downstroke.
He’s barely holding on. You feel it in the tremor of his hands on your hips, in the way his teeth sink into his lower lip to stifle a sound, still aware that Sarah could be waiting outside. His eyes are closed now, head thrown back against the chair.. You’re the one in control of the movement, but he’s the one holding the reins of your pleasure, his every reaction a silent command.
When his hands finally move they slide up your sides, under your shirt, and he pulls it over your head. The cool air hits your skin, making your nipples tighten into hard peaks. He doesn’t look at them. Not yet. He just watches your face, drinking in every flinch, every whimper, every flicker of ecstasy in your eyes.
Only when you’re completely bare from the waist up does his focus shift. His hands cup your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples, and then he’s leaning forward. His mouth finds one, hot and wet. He sucks the taut peak deep into his mouth, his tongue lapping, teeth grazing like a perfect, painful echo of the bite he gave your thigh. The feeling is electric, shooting straight down to where you’re joined, making your muscles clench around him.
You cry out and your movements become erratic, desperate. He matches your pace, his hips lifting to meet you, his mouth never leaving your breast. He’s not just fucking you, he’s consuming you. And you are letting him. You are giving him everything, the rhythm of your hips, the sounds of your pleasure, the surrender of your body—all of it a language he understands better than any words ever could.
The girl in your stories, the one who rode her professor with such desperate, shameless need, you are her now. The evidence of it is the wet, obscene sound of your body moving on his, the way your thighs tremble with exertion and pleasure, the way your breath comes in ragged, broken gasps. You're not just fucking him. You're claiming him. And he's letting you. Encouraging you. His hands move from your breasts to your hips, guiding you, urging you faster, harder, deeper.
"That's it," he groans against your skin,"Show me. Show me how she rides him."
The command is a trigger. You rise until he's almost completely out, and then you sink down with a sharp roll of your hips. The sensation is a revelation—feeling every thick inch of him slide inside you, the pretty head of his cock pressing against a spot so deep inside that makes your vision blur.
And you do it again. And again. And again.
His mouth leaves your breast with a wet pop, and you see the mark he's left—dark, bruising, beautiful. His eyes are half-lidded, his jaw slack with the force of his need. He's so close you can feel it.
"Wait, wait—fuck, Y/N, I'm—"
His hands tighten on your hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh and with a sharp, guttural groan, he's coming. His dick pulses inside you, hot and thick and endless, each spasm making you clench in response. His head falls back and his mouth opens in a silent moan of pleasure. The sight is devastatingly beautiful —your stern, controlled professor completely undone, his body shaking with the force of his release, his face flushed and twisted in ecstasy.
But he's not the only one who's close. The friction, the heat, the sight of him losing himself inside you, it all combines into a overwhelming, irresistible pressure. Your hands find his shoulders and you're moving again, faster. His cock is still hard inside you, still pulsing, and it sends shockwaves through your already overstimulated nerves. You can feel another orgasm building, a tight, burning coil in the pit of your stomach, and you chase it desperately, your hips stuttering, breath coming in short, broken gasps.
When your orgasm hits it's not like the first one. This one crashes through you in a wave of sensation that makes your back arch, your head tilt back, your mouth fall open in a silent scream. Your whole body lock as you clench around him, your muscles pulling him deeper, milking him for every last drop. The sensation is so intense it's almost painful, a sharp, clean burn that makes your vision go white at the edges. Your hands are still on his shoulders, but you can't feel them anymore. You can't feel anything but the overwhelming, all consuming pleasure radiating out from your core.
You are nothing but a burning, trembling mass of nerves, skin and feeling. The aftershocks roll through you in waves, each one a sharp little jolt that makes you shudder, that makes your pussy clench around him. You're slumped against his chest now, your face buried in his neck. He's still inside you, still hard, still pulsing. The reality of it sends another shiver through you—he came. He came inside you. And you loved it.
You're not just turned on by him. You're not just attracted to him. You're addicted to him. To the way he looks at you, to the way he touches you, to the way he takes you. You've crossed a line, and you don't want to go back.
He's still breathing heavily, his hands now stroking your back in slow, soothing circles. You can feel his heartbeat under your cheek, steady and strong, and you realize with a start that it's not the only heartbeat you can hear. Your own is still racing, a fast, fluttering rhythm in your ears.
You lift your head, blinking up at him, and say "I think Sarah is still outside."
His laugh is a sound you want to hear again and again. It's a sound he doesn't usually make in the classroom, a sound that's just for you. It starts as a chuckle, a low rumble in his chest, and then it grows, a deep, delighted laugh that makes his whole body shake. The sound is so genuine, so unguarded, that it makes something warm and possessive bloom in your chest. It's the sound of a man who's just found something he didn't know he was looking for. It's the sound of a man who's having the time of his life.
no lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponent al, logarithmic, while i gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cow girl, doggy, backwards, forwards, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall, outside, in a train, on a plane, in the car, on a motorcycle, the bed of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the ool, bent over, in the basement, against the window, have the most toe curling, back arching, leg shaking, dick thribbing, first clenching, ear rining, mouth drooling, ass clenching, nose sniffling, eye watering, eye rolling, hip thrusting, earthquaking, sheet gripping, knuckles cracking, jaw dropping, hair pulling. teeth jitterbug, mind blogging, soul snatching, overstimulating, vile, sloppy, moan inducing, heart wrenching, spine tingling, back breaking, atrocious, gushy, creamy, beastly, lip bitting, gravity defying, nail biting, sweaty, feet kicking, mind blowing, body shivering, orgasmic, bone breaking, world ending, black hole creating, universe destroying, devious, scrumptious, amazing, delightful, delectable, unbelievable, body numbing, bark worthy, cant walk, head nodding, soul evaporating, volcano erupting, sweat rolling, voice cracking, trembling, sheets soaked, hair drenched, flabbergasting, lip locking, skin peeling, eyelash removing, eye widening, pussy popping, nail stractching, back cuts, spectacular, brain cell desolving, hair ripping, show stopping, magnificent, unique, extraordinary, splendid, phenomenal, mouth foaming, heavenly, awakening, devils tangos, he could put a nuclear bomb inside me and i'd still ride.
you introduce a gold star system to sylus. needless to say, things get chaotic very quickly!
sylus didn't notice anything different until there was a solid collection of gold stars on his fridge.
he thought it was amusing. was this some kind of reward system? you hadn't said anything on the matter, and as long as the stars kept growing, he would let you do as you wished.
he started keeping track of it. anytime he complimented you, or gave you a new gun, or took over a chore, there it was. a new gold star to his ever growing stack.
he was proud. even though it went unspoken between you both, he was clearly doing something good.
but then, disaster struck.
suddenly, one star was gone. then two, then three, until a good chunk was missing.
and all sylus could do was panic.
had he done something wrong? were you upset with him? did he do something you didn't like without knowing?
he had to investigate.
he was extra careful with you the following days, quiet where he would usually tease, gentle where he would usually let his strength get the best of him.
and oh, were you laughing about it when you were out of his sight.
when no new gold stars were added to his list, he was getting desperate. buying everything he laid his eyes on that reminded him of you, presenting you with bouquet after bouquet when you came home from work, cleaning the base from floor to ceiling..
and still, there was no new stars.
he caved, finally. pulled you into a tight hug and buried his face into your neck, as if that would grant him your mercy.
"i'm sorry," he breathed, rubbing his cheek against you, "i'll make it up to you. do you want a new gun? a car? do you want to go on a date? i'll do anything, just-"
"just what, sy?" keeping your composure had never been harder than when he looked at you, red eyes wide.
".. just give me my gold stars back."
and he sounded so sad, so scared that he had lost your favor, that you couldn't help but burst out laughing, kissing his cheek.
"alright, i'll give them back." when he still didn't look happy, you squeezed his cheeks gently, "i'll even give you ten more, since you've been such a good boy."
the twins couldn't help noticing how bright their boss was that day.
(and frankly, sylus, the twins and mephisto were more well behaved when you started offering prizes along with your gold stars.)
i suggest reading prequel of this fic— SOULMATE? HOLEMATE! —for better understanding.
❞ summary ⠾ You and Caleb reunite at Gran’s house and BOOM—turns out those sketchy toys were secretly linking your dicks and pussies the whole time. Months of ghost-fucking each other? Mutual. Both virgins? Also mutual. Gran leaves for 3 days? → instant horny apocalypse. You two lose your V-cards in the most depraved, “gege/meimei” way possible :3
❞ wc ⠾ 7.7k
❞ content warnings ⠾ pseudocest, heavy og “gege / meimei” / big brother-little sister dynamic, explicit smut, heavy dubcon, usage of toys, toys connected to each other's dick and pussy (portal panties), virginity loss, oral (m! receiving), toy play, double penetration via toy + real cock, squirting, creampie, face-sitting, spanking, cum play, overstimulation, rough sex, voyeurism, theft of panties, reader's a brat, possessiveness, emotional intensity, overall just straight up filth with plot
❞ cherry’s note ⠾ thanks to @kingraspberry12-blog for commissioning this piece. I never thought I'd drag my ass down to actually write a part two but it is what it is. Here's the most awaited part two of soulmate?holemate!. I've lost count of how many times I've crashed out during this fic lol. My brain's so fried actually, need to sleep it off.
The summer drags like molasses this year, thick and sticky, every hour stretching longer than it has any right to. Maybe it’s the heat rolling in off the Bloomshore coast, maybe it’s Gran’s ancient air-conditioner wheezing like it’s on its last legs, or maybe—more likely—it’s because you’ve spent the last two days fucking a perfect silicone replica of your gege’s cock in the room right next to his, walls so thin you can hear the creak of his mattress when he shifts in his sleep.
You’re both on the living-room couch now, same faded floral pattern you used to fight over as kids, same throw blanket draped over your knees like nothing’s changed. Except everything has. The space between your thigh and his feels charged, electric, like the air itself is holding its breath. Neither of you looks directly at the other. Your eyes keep sliding to the TV screen—some mindless rerun neither of you is watching—then dart away before they can land on his profile, on the sharp line of his jaw, the way sweat beads at his temple and trails down the side of his neck.
Caleb breaks first.
He clears his throat, the sound rough, like it’s been stuck there for hours.
“Hey, pipsqueak…” His voice is lower than usual, careful. “How’s life out in Linkon? Big city, more people, all that noise?”
He chuckles, soft and awkward, rubbing the back of his neck the way he always does when he’s nervous. You used to tease him about it. Now it just makes your stomach twist.
“Don’t tell me you don’t miss your gege anymore…”
You glance up—too fast. His cheeks are flushed, a faint pink creeping up from his collar. He looks… shy. Almost boyish. It’s so unfair.
Your own face burns hotter. You look away quick, huffing a breath through your nose like it’ll cool you down.
“How can I not miss you…”
The words slip out quieter than you mean them to. You press your lips together hard, trapping everything else that wants to follow.
You miss him so much it hurts.
You miss you in ways you're not supposed to.
You miss you so bad you shove his dick—fake, warm, veiny, perfect—inside you every night and cry his name into the pillow while you hug that stupid apple plushie he won for you at the fair when you were fourteen. You clamp down around it until your thighs shake and your vision whites out, pretending it’s his arms pinning you, his chest against your back, his breath on your neck. You come so hard you sob, and then you feel guilty for hours, but you still do it again the next night. Because you're broken and you want him and you hate yourself for it.
But you don’t say any of that. You just stare at your knees and let the silence thicken.
Gran’s voice saves you both.
“Kids!”
You jump. Caleb straightens like he’s been caught doing something wrong.
She’s standing in the doorway, dressed in her going-out blouse, small rolling suitcase at her side.
“I’m headed downtown for three days. Something came up. Emergency stuff. You two will be fine, right? Like always.”
She’s said the same thing a hundred times over the years. Back then it meant popcorn fights and falling asleep to horror movies on the couch. Now the words land differently. Heavier.
The front door clicks shut behind her. The sound echoes.
Suddenly the house feels too quiet. Too big. Too empty except for him.
You’re hyper-aware of every inch of Caleb next to you. The sleeveless shirt clings to his chest from the humidity, dark at the collar where sweat’s gathered. His shorts ride up just enough to show the thick muscle of his thighs. His arms—God, his arms—flex every time he shifts, biceps rounding, veins standing out against his skin. He’s broader than last summer, taller, filled out in all the ways that make your mouth dry and your core ache.
You stare out the window at the garden like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. Anything to avoid looking at him.
He notices.
Caleb chuckles again, softer this time, and reaches out. One finger brushes your cheek—light, teasing, the same way he used to when you pouted as a kid.
“Aww, is my meimei sad? Mm… I’m here. We can spend some quality time together—”
The touch is barely there, but it burns straight down your spine. Your whole body jerks away like you’ve been shocked.
Caleb freezes, finger still hovering in the air. His eyes widen.
“Pipsqueak… are you okay?”
You can’t look at him. Your face is on fire, heart slamming so hard you’re sure he can hear it. Your nipples are already tight under your thin tank top, traitorously visible, and you cross your arms quickly to hide them.
“I’m—fine,” you mumble, staring at the floor. “Just… hot.”
He swallows. You hear it—the dry click of his throat. His gaze drops for half a second, catches the outline of your nipples, then snaps away like he’s been burned too.
“Right. Uh… yeah. Hot.” He exhales, rough. “Alright. I’ll be in the kitchen. Lemme know what you want for lunch.”
He stands. The couch dips and rises with his weight. You watch his back as he walks away—broad shoulders rolling under the shirt, the dip of his spine, the way his shorts hug the curve of his ass and the powerful flex of his thighs with every step.
The second he disappears around the corner you clench your thighs together so hard it hurts.
You’re already wet. Have been since he sat down. Since he said your nickname. Since he touched your cheek.
You need a shower. Cold. Now.
You bolt upstairs before you can think better of it, lock the bathroom door, strip in record time. The dildo is already in your hand—pulled from under your mattress like it’s been waiting for you.
The water’s barely warm when you brace one foot on the edge of the tub, line up the thick head, and sink down with a broken moan.
It stretches you open in that perfect, filthy way—veins dragging, curve kissing your front wall, heavy balls nudging your clit on the downstroke. You fuck yourself fast, desperate, water pounding your back, free hand braced on the tile.
“Gege—fuck—gege—”
You don’t even try to be quiet. The house is empty except for him, and part of you hopes—prays—he hears.
Downstairs, Caleb grips the kitchen counter so hard his knuckles turn white.
The second you disappeared upstairs he felt it: that familiar phantom squeeze around his cock, hot and wet and impossibly tight. Then the rhythm starts—fast, shallow, greedy.
He’s hard in seconds, leaking into his shorts, breath coming in short pants.
He glances toward the stairs.
He knows what you’re doing.
He knows because he’s been doing the same thing to your toy every night.
And now you’re both home.
Both alone.
Both breaking.
He doesn’t go upstairs. Not yet.
Instead he leans his back against the counter, the cool edge biting into his spine like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His cock is painfully erect under the thin fabric of his shorts, the obscene bulge straining forward, tenting so hard the waistband digs into his lower abs. Every shallow breath makes it twitch, every phantom slam of your hips upstairs sends a fresh jolt through him. He moans—low, broken, helpless—each sound punched out of his lungs as your rhythm rocks him from the inside out. His knees buckle once, twice; he catches himself on the edge of the sink, knuckles white, hips grinding forward into nothing like he’s fucking the air.
He reaches down without thinking, palm cupping the thick ridge through the cotton. One rough stroke and his head falls back, throat working on a groan. The wet spot at the front of his shorts spreads fast—dark, sticky, obscene. He grinds harder into his own fist, hips rolling in slow, filthy circles, eyes fixed on the mess he’s making, precum soaking through until the fabric clings transparently to the flushed head.
Upstairs, you stand frozen under the cold spray for a long minute, water pounding your shoulders, doing absolutely nothing to dull the ache between your legs. Your pussy throbs in time with your heartbeat, still fluttering around the memory of double penetration, still greedy for more. The shower did jack shit. You shut off the water with a frustrated huff, towel yourself off in jerky movements, and stumble back to your room naked, skin pebbled, nipples tight from the chill and from want.
You don’t even close the door all the way.
You crawl onto the bed, legs splaying wide, knees bent and feet planted so you can watch yourself take it. The dildo is still warm from earlier, slick with your earlier mess. You line it up, tease the fat head through your folds once—then slam it home to the hilt in one brutal thrust. Your back arches off the mattress with a choked cry, pussy clamping down like a vice, walls rippling around every veiny inch.
Down the hall, Caleb sucks in a whimper so sharp it hurts. His eyes roll back; he has to brace both hands on the banister to keep from collapsing right there on the stairs. The phantom grip around his cock returns—tighter, hotter, wetter than before—and he knows exactly what you’re doing.
He climbs the last few steps on shaking legs, drawn like a magnet. Your door is cracked open. He shouldn’t look. He knows he shouldn’t.
He looks anyway.
And everything inside him fractures.
There you are—his sweet, innocent meimei—legs spread obscenely wide on the childhood bed you used to share during storms, tits heaving with every frantic roll of your hips, pussy stretched wide around a thick, veiny dildo that looks exactly like his cock. Down to the upward curve, the heavy balls slapping wetly against your ass with every thrust, the flushed brownish-pink head disappearing inside you over and over.
He can see the way your walls cling to it when you pull back, the slick strings connecting silicone to your swollen lips, the way your clit peeks out swollen and red every time you grind down.
“Mmhhh gege! Ahhh gege fuck—need you—mmpphhh!!”
Your voice cracks on his name, back bowing, tits bouncing wildly as you fuck yourself stupid, chasing that edge with desperate, sloppy thrusts. The sheets are soaked beneath you, wet patch spreading.
Caleb’s sure he would have moaned loud enough to wake the whole coast if he hadn’t bitten his lower lip bloody. It’s better than any porn he’s ever seen—hotter, filthier, because it’s you. His pipsqueak. His meimei. Ruining herself on a perfect copy of his dick.
The realization hits like a shockwave.
It was you.
All this time.
The ghost pussy milking him dry every night.
The way it clenched exactly when he needed it.
The way it knew his rhythm, his kinks, his breaking point.
And he’s been doing the same to you.
He shoves his shorts down in one rough yank; his cock springs free, angry red and leaking, veins standing out thick and pulsing. He wraps a fist around the base, strokes once—hard—and has to slap his free hand over his mouth to muffle the groan.
“Mmhh pipsqueak…” he whispers, voice wrecked, hips thrusting into his own grip like he’s fucking you through the doorway. “Such a needy little meimei… arghhh—it was you all along, huh?”
He can see every detail from here— the way your thighs tremble, the way your fingers dig into the sheets, the way you arch and sob his name like a prayer while you slam the toy deeper, chasing the stretch he’s been giving you in secret for months.
And he’s glad.
Fucking glad.
Because it’s mutual.
You out-freaked him first—ordered a replica of his dick and rode it until you cried his name—but he matched you, customized a perfect copy of your cunt and fucked it raw while whispering yours.
You’re both freaks.
Two depraved, lovesick freaks who’ve been secretly fucking each other stupid across hundreds of miles, and now you’re under the same roof with no Gran to stop you.
He strokes faster, matching your rhythm—every time you slam down, he fucks up into his fist. Precum drips over his knuckles, slicking the way. His balls draw up tight, aching.
You’re close. He can tell by the way your moans turn high and broken, the way your hips stutter, the way your pussy visibly flutters around the toy.
He’s right there with you.
One more thrust—yours, his—and you both shatter at the exact same second.
You come with a muffled scream into your pillow, body convulsing, squirting around the dildo in messy pulses that soak your thighs and the bed. The toy stays buried deep as you ride the aftershocks, whimpering his name over and over.
Caleb’s knees finally give out. He catches himself on the doorframe, biting his fist as he comes hard—thick ropes painting the floorboards, his hand, his stomach—while the phantom squeeze of your pussy milks him through every pulse.
He slumps there, panting, cock still twitching in his grip, eyes locked on you through the crack in the door.
You’re still trembling, legs limp, toy lodged inside you, chest rising and falling in shaky breaths.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
But the door creaks just a fraction wider under his weight.
And your eyes—glazed, wrecked, still teary—slowly lift.
They meet his.
For one endless heartbeat, neither of you breathes.
Then your lips part on a soft, broken whisper that carries straight to him,
“…gege?”
And everything that’s been building for months finally snaps.
You freak out the second your eyes blink from eye contact.
The sheets fly up in a frantic scramble, bunching around your chest and thighs as you yank them to your chin. Your cheeks ignite—burning, scorching hot—while a high-pitched squeak tears out of you like a startled animal.
“What are you—!”
The door, already ajar, swings wider under Caleb’s unsteady weight. He loses his balance completely—arms windmilling for half a second—then crashes forward with a loud, graceless thud, face-planting straight into the floorboards.
You squeak even louder, the sound shrill enough to rattle the windows.
He groans, low and pained, and slowly lifts his head. Blood trickles from his nose in a thin, bright red stream, dripping onto the wood. He blinks once, twice, dazed, then pushes himself up on shaking arms. His shorts are still shoved halfway down his thighs from earlier, so his dick—half-hard, flushed dark, still glistening at the tip—bobs free with the motion, jumping against his stomach like it has a mind of its own.
Your breath snags in your throat, sharp and audible.
You stare. You can’t not staring.
When you’d scrolled through that sketchy website a month ago, trembling and horny and stupid, you’d picked every detail from memory—the exact length you’d felt pressed against your hip during too-long hugs, the slight upward curve you’d glimpsed once through damp sweatpants, the heavy hang of his balls, the thick veins that stood out when his forearms flexed carrying your luggage. You’d thought it was obsessive fantasy.
But seeing it now—in the flesh, real, twitching, leaking a bead of precum that rolls slowly down the shaft—you realize with dizzying clarity—they didn’t just make a replica.
They made an exact fucking match.
Everything clicks into place like a lock tumbling open.
The “ghost” sensations.
The double penetration every night.
The way your toy always seemed to know exactly when he was close, clamping down harder, milking tighter.
The way his phantom cock always mirrored your rhythm, pounding deeper when you slammed down hardest.
Caleb hauls himself to his feet, swaying slightly. He notices your wide-eyed stare locked on his cock and flushes darker than you’ve ever seen him—red creeping from his collar to his ears. With a rough, embarrassed jerk, he yanks his shorts back up, the waistband snapping against his hips, but it does nothing to hide the thick outline still straining forward.
“Pipsqueak…” His voice comes out hoarse, cracked, half-lidded eyes dark and glassy. A thin trail of blood slides from his nostril, curving over the bow of his upper lip. He doesn’t wipe it away.
You snap back to yourself with a jolt.
“Caleb—your nose is bleeding!”
You scramble forward on your knees, sheets slipping dangerously low as you reach for the box of tissues on your nightstand. One hand presses a wad against his nose while the other clutches the fabric to your chest—but not fast enough. The sheet drops just enough to bare your breasts again, nipples peaked and flushed from everything that’s happened.
Caleb’s gaze drops instantly.
He stares—openly, hungrily—for one long heartbeat before you yank the sheet back up with a mortified squeak. Only then does he drag his eyes back to yours, pupils blown wide.
“It’s not because I fell,” he rasps, voice thick. “It’s because of…”
His stare rakes down your body again—slow, deliberate—taking in the way the sheet clings to your sweat-damp skin, the dark patch between your thighs where you’re still dripping, the toy still half-buried inside you under the covers. You squeak again, smaller this time, thighs pressing together instinctively.
“Caleb!”
“Okay—okay, I want you to stop freaking out and listen to me—”
You look away fast, heart hammering so loud it drowns out everything else. You don’t know how to explain this. How to admit that you’ve been coming undone on a silicone clone of him for months. That you’ve whispered his name like a prayer while your pussy clenched around fake-him, imagining real-him pinning you down. That you’re terrified of what it means now that the secret’s out.
Who fucks a replica of their gege’s dick?
You do.
You really, really do.
Before you can spiral further, Caleb’s hands—big, warm, calloused from flight controls—cup your cheeks. Gentle. Steady. He tilts your face up until you have no choice but to meet his eyes.
They’re soft. Guilty. Desperate. Everything at once.
“We need to figure this out, okay?” he whispers, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. “Wait—I need to show you something.”
And just like that he’s gone—bolting out of your room, bare feet slapping the hallway floor, leaving the door swinging wide behind him.
You’re alone again.
The room smells like sex and shame and him.
Your thighs tremble. The dildo is still inside you—warm, thick, stretching you open—and every tiny shift makes it drag against your oversensitive walls. You clench once, involuntarily, and a fresh trickle of slick leaks out around it.
You can hear him in his room now—drawers opening, something thudding to the floor, a muffled curse.
Your mind races.
He’s going to show you something.
You already know what it is.
A possible pocket pussy.
The one he’s been fucking every night while you rode his replica. The one that’s been milking him dry from three hundred miles away.
And now it’s here in this house with both of you.
You swallow hard, heart in your throat.
The floorboards creak as he comes back down the hall.
You don’t move.
Don’t pull the toy out.
Don’t cover up any more than you already are.
You just wait—sheets clutched to your chest, thighs still spread, pussy still stuffed, pulse roaring in your ears—while the footsteps get closer.
When Caleb steps back through the doorway, holding the black satin box like it’s evidence in a crime scene, eyes locked on yours with something raw and unguarded…
You know.
There’s no going back now.
Not for either of you.
Caleb steps back into your room, the black satin box cradled in his big hands like it’s both a confession and a trophy. He doesn’t hesitate—doesn’t even try to play coy. He flips the lid open right in front of you.
Your eyes blow wide. Your mouth drops into a perfect, stunned little ‘o’.
Nestled inside, glossy and obscene, is the pocket pussy—soft silicone lips parted just enough to show the glistening pink interior. And draped over it, stretched across the entrance like a filthy bow, is one of your missing lace panties. The pale pink ones with the tiny bow at the front. The ones you swore the washing machine devoured months ago.
Caleb—shameless bastard now that the mask is off—hooks two fingers under the waistband and tugs the fabric aside. He drags the pad of his thumb slowly along the outer folds, parting them gently, stroking the slick entrance like he’s petting something precious.
The sensation hits you like lightning.
A surprised, broken moan rips out of your throat before you can stop it. Your pussy clenches hard around the dildo still buried inside you, walls fluttering wildly, fresh slick leaking out around the base.
Caleb flushes darker—cheeks, neck, ears—but his grin is pure sin. He chokes on his own spit when your inner muscles clamp down again, the toy translating every spasm straight to his cock.
“You get it now?” he rasps, voice wrecked.
Your brain kicks into overdrive, thoughts crashing faster than light.
You’d spent months drowning in guilt—convincing yourself you were the only freak here, the only one twisted enough to order a perfect replica of your gege’s dick and ride it until you sobbed his name into your pillow. You’d hated how much you wanted it, how wrong it felt, how right it felt every time you came clenching around fake-him.
But look at him.
Look at your freak of a gege standing there holding a replica of your cunt, wrapped in your stolen panties like some depraved keepsake. He didn’t just buy it—he customized it, scented it, fucked it raw while thinking of you, and then he kept your underwear like a trophy.
“CALEB YOU STOLE MY PANTIES?!!?” The scream explodes out of you, eyes huge, accusatory, betrayed.
He squeaks—actually squeaks—scratching the back of his head with his free hand, sheepish grin wobbling.
“Umm… well… I rescued them to wash but uh… hehehehehe—”
You lunge.
Your fists rain down on his chest, shoulders, arms—smacking him over and over, forgetting the sheet, forgetting the toy still stretching you open, forgetting everything except righteous fury.
“YOU JERK!!! I KEPT BUYING CUTE PANTIES AND YOU STOLE THEM?!??! HOW DARE YOU!!! I THOUGHT THE WASHER WAS EATING THEM!!”
“Ow—ouch—ouch—pipsqueak!”
He’s half-laughing, half-squeaking, trying to shield himself but not really fighting back. The sounds are ridiculous, boyish, so much like the old Caleb that it almost hurts.
Then his arms snap around your waist.
One hard yank and you’re flush against him—chest to chest, hips to hips, the thick ridge of his cock pressing right against your lower belly through his shorts. Your breath punches out of you in a startled gasp.
“I can buy you new ones, yeah?” he murmurs, voice dropping low, rough. “Anything you want. But right now… we need to talk about this, meimei.”
The name hits like a shockwave.
You stop breathing.
His eyes are locked on yours—dark, molten, stripped of every layer of pretense. You feel every inch of him: the heat radiating off his skin, the hard planes of his chest, the insistent throb of his cock trapped between you. And lower—the dildo still lodged deep inside you, making your walls flutter every time you shift.
“Take it out, pipsqueak.”
Your cheeks burn so hot you think they’ll combust. You shake your head frantically—no, no, no—too embarrassed to move, too mortified to pull the replica of him out of your dripping cunt while he watches.
Caleb frowns, impatient.
His hand slides down—big, warm fingers wrapping around the base of the dildo where it’s buried in you. He groans low in his throat at the feel of your walls gripping it—gripping him, then yanks.
The toy comes free with a wet, filthy pop.
You gasp sharply—sharp enough to hurt—your pussy clenching around sudden emptiness. Slick gushes out in a messy splash, coating your inner thighs, dripping onto the sheets, making everything even more obscene.
“Come on,” he chuckles, dark and teasing, holding the glistening dildo up between you like evidence. “I know you weren’t shy fucking this replica in Linkon, huh? No wonder the ghost was so needy…”
His eyes drag over the toy—taking in the way it’s coated in your arousal, veins shiny, base slick—and then rake back up your body, slow and hungry.
“I should’ve known it was my naughty little pipsqueak. After all… it’s only meimei who takes this much from her gege, hmm?”
His voice drops to gravel.
You gulp, panting softly, chest heaving. You pout up at him—bratty, defiant—and smack his chest again, weaker this time.
“But… you had a replica of mine too!”
Caleb laughs—low, rough, relieved.
“In that case… I’m guilty too.”
Then he moves.
One step forward and your back hits the mattress. You both go down in a tangle—sheets ripping away completely, your naked body splayed beneath him, still sweaty, still flushed, still smelling like sex and shame and him.
He braces on his forearms, caging you in, face inches from yours.
“Then we should share this sin together, right?”
His hips settle between your thighs. The hard length of him—real this time—nudges right against your soaked entrance, hot and thick and leaking through his shorts.
You whimper—small, broken, needy.
His mouth hovers over yours, breath mingling.
“Tell me to stop, meimei,” he whispers, voice trembling just enough to betray how close he is to breaking. “Tell me and I’ll walk out right now. We’ll pretend this never happened.”
Your hands slide up—fingers curling into his shoulders, nails digging in.
You don’t push him away.
You pull him closer.
“Don’t you dare,” you breathe against his lips.
And that’s it.
The last thread snaps.
Caleb’s mouth crashes down on yours—hungry, desperate, years of pent-up want pouring out in one bruising kiss. His tongue pushes past your lips, claiming, tasting, while his hips grind forward, dragging the fat head of his cock through your folds.
You arch up into him with a sob, legs wrapping around his waist, heels digging into his ass to pull him deeper.
He groans into your mouth—raw, wrecked.
“Fuck—pipsqueak—been waiting so long—”
Caleb pulls back just enough to drink you in—really drink you in.
You’re sprawled beneath him like a fever dream: lips swollen and glossy from his kisses, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow pants, eyes glassy and half-lidded with want. His gaze drags down slow—over the flushed peaks of your tits, the soft curve of your belly still trembling from aftershocks, then lower, to where your thighs are parted and your pussy is clenching desperately around nothing. Slick shines on your inner thighs, dripping down toward the sheets in lazy rivulets. The toy’s absence has left you empty and aching, walls fluttering visibly like they’re begging to be filled again.
His whole body burns—not just from the heat of the moment, but from the sheer, dizzying reality of it. His wildest, most shameful dream is right here: you, naked and wrecked and his, finally letting him see you like this. Touch you like this. He’s drowning in emotions—guilt, relief, raw hunger—but he forces himself to focus. He wants this to be good for you. Better than good. He wants to feed every filthy craving you’ve both been hiding, satisfy the hunger that’s been eating you alive for months.
“So pretty,” he stutters, voice cracking as two fingers glide down your slit. He parts your folds gently, watching the way your clit twitches under the lightest brush.
You yelp, thighs jerking inward on instinct. “Caleb!”
He shakes his head, firm but soft. His free hand comes down in a sharp spank to the plush meat of your thigh—hard enough to sting, soft enough to make the flesh jiggle.
“Oh no no no no,” he murmurs, eyes dark. “Don’t go hiding from me now. You’re beautiful, pipsqueak. I want to admire all of you.”
You bite your lower lip hard, cheeks flaming, but you don’t close your legs again. You watch—breath hitching—as his fingers continue their slow exploration: tracing your entrance, dipping just inside to feel how soaked you are, then sliding lower. He gropes one ass cheek shamelessly, kneading the soft flesh before landing another weak, appreciative spank. The jiggle makes him groan low in his throat.
“Aw damn…”
You huff, mortified and turned on in equal measure, and reach up to grab his ear—tugging hard.
He yelps instantly. “Ow ow ow—what’s wrong? Did I hurt you—”
You scoff, cutting him off, and slide both palms under his shirt. Your fingers find the hard planes of his pecs, cupping them shamelessly, thumbs brushing over his nipples.
“Take off your clothes too, dummy,” you mutter, voice bratty and breathless. “I don’t wanna be the only one naked.”
Caleb blinks once—then grins so wide it’s almost stupid, ear-to-ear and boyish despite the filthy situation.
“Fair enough.”
He yanks the sleeveless shirt over his head in one smooth motion, muscles flexing under sweaty skin as it hits the floor somewhere behind him. Next come the shorts—hooked thumbs in the waistband, frantic tug downward. The fabric slides off his thighs and his cock springs free, slapping lewdly against his lower abs with a wet smack.
You gasp—sharp, involuntary.
It’s exactly like the dildo. Down to the last detail: the thick veins, the slight upward curve, the flushed brownish-pink head already leaking, the heavy balls hanging low. Your pussy clenches hard around nothing at the sight, a fresh gush of slick trickling out.
“Like what you see, huh?” he smirks, voice hoarse and wrecked. He grips the base and smacks the fat head against your dripping folds—once, twice—coating himself in your mess.
You whine instantly, hips jerking up. “Ahhh fuck—Caleb—mmmpphhh!!”
But instead of pushing in, he pulls back. You frown, confused and needy—until you see him reach for the dildo again.
With a slow, sinful smile, he lines it up and slides it back inside your tight cunt.
“Hai—ahhhh—Caleb!?!”
You can only stare up at his face—pleasure twisting his features, mouth falling open in a perfect ‘o’—as he pushes the toy deeper. A low, rumbling groan escapes him.
“Fuck… exact feeling…”
He keeps going—slow, torturous—watching your face the whole time while he feeds inch after inch back into you. Your walls stretch around the familiar silicone, fluttering, sucking it in greedily until it’s buried to the hilt again: tip kissing your cervix, heavy balls pressed flush against your ass.
Only then does he stop.
But he’s not done.
He manhandles you with easy strength—big hands under your thighs, lifting you like you weigh nothing. You squeak as he repositions you properly on the bed: flat on your back, head near the pillows, legs spread wide. He climbs over you, straddling your chest, knees bracketing your shoulders.
His cock hovers right above your face—hard, twitching, leaking a fat pearl of precum from the slit.
Your brain empties completely. All you can do is stare: at him, at the dick that’s been haunting your nights for months, now real and inches from your lips.
“You’ll suck it, right baby?” he rasps, voice trembling with restraint. “Mmmh… suck gege’s dick while the replica stretches you open.”
He lowers himself slowly. The swollen head smacks against your lips—hot, sticky, salty.
You open immediately.
Your mouth wraps around the tip, tongue swirling, sucking gently at first. Caleb throws his head back with a guttural sound.
“Ohhh fuck—dual sensation—ahhh… shit!”
His fingers slide into your hair, gripping gently but firm. He starts fucking your mouth in shallow thrusts—careful not to choke you yet, but deep enough to make your eyes water.
“Fuck baby… take it deeper. I know you can—ahh… you’ve been swallowing that dick down your throat, haven’t you? Hah…”
You can barely think—pussy stuffed full and throbbing around the toy, mouth stretched around the real thing, taste of him flooding your senses. But you obey.
Your hands fly up—gripping the firm meat of his ass, nails digging in as you pull him forward. You relax your throat and swallow him to the base in one slow, greedy glide.
Your nose buries into the neatly trimmed, newly shaved patch of pubic hair. His scent—musk, clean sweat, him—overwhelms you. Your eyes roll back, lashes fluttering, fingers sinking deeper into the thick muscle of his thighs while tears of effort slip down your temples.
Caleb’s head snaps back, face contorting in raw pleasure—jaw slack, brows furrowed, a broken moan tearing from his chest.
“Fuck—pipsqueak—good girl—fuck—”
He holds himself there for a heartbeat—letting you feel every thick inch pulsing on your tongue—before he starts to move again.
Slow, deep thrusts into your mouth while the dildo stays buried in your cunt, every rock of his hips making the toy shift inside you just enough to drag against your walls.
You’re stuffed at both ends.
Full.
Claimed.
His.
And he’s not stopping until you both break again.
Caleb keeps fucking your mouth with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips—balls smacking wetly against your chin on every deep thrust, the filthy sound echoing in the quiet room. His moans are low and ragged, pleasure ripping through him in waves as your throat flutters around his length, tongue pressing flat against the underside, sucking greedily.
You snap your hips forward uselessly, clenching desperately around the dildo still buried deep in your cunt. The dual fullness—mouth stuffed with real him, pussy stretched by fake him—has you trembling, thighs shaking, slick dripping down your ass in steady rivulets.
That’s when he breaks.
Caleb’s whole body locks up, shaking violently. His fingers tighten in your hair—almost too hard—burying himself to the root until your nose presses flush against his pelvis. A guttural groan tears from his chest as he starts cumming.
Thick, hot spurts flood your mouth instantly—salty, bitter, overwhelming. Your eyes roll back so hard you see stars, throat working frantically to swallow it all, but there’s too much. It overflows the corners of your lips, dripping down your chin in messy strings.
He doesn’t stop.
He pulls out with a lewd, wet pop—cock still jerking—and shoots the last few ropes across your face: warm streaks painting your cheeks, your nose, your swollen lips. You gasp for air, tongue darting out instinctively to lick what you can reach, tasting him everywhere.
Caleb pants above you, chest heaving, staring down at the mess he made. You look wrecked—face covered in his cum, eyes glassy and dazed, lips parted and shiny. He knows he should feel ashamed. He should apologize, clean you up, stop this madness.
But fuck—you look so hot like this it’s rewriting his brain chemistry. Ruining him for anything else.
You flutter your lashes up at him, slow and deliberate, tongue tracing your lower lip to catch another drop. The sight snaps something inside him.
He groans, low and broken, and reaches for the dildo. One rough yank and he pulls it free from your overstimulated pussy.
You arch violently off the bed, hips jerking, a gush of slick squirting out around the sudden emptiness. “F-fuck—Caleb—!”
He stares, mesmerized. “Fuck… you’re so hot, meimei. I think I’m losing my mind.”
You’re panting, trying to catch your breath, body still twitching with aftershocks. Guilt crashes over him like cold water—he reaches for the tissue box on your nightstand with shaking hands and starts wiping your face clean, gentle despite everything.
His cheeks are crimson, burning with embarrassment and leftover heat. “Ah shit—sorry pipsqueak, didn’t mean to… fuck… I’m sorry, okay?”
You just stare up at him—brain fried, body humming—and reach out. Your fingers wrap around his still-hard cock, slick with spit and cum.
He hitches a sharp breath. “Ahhh—oh god—mmhh—”
You give him lazy, teasing strokes, smirking mischievously through the haze.
“I want it, Caleb,” you whisper, voice hoarse. “I want your dick.”
He groans, hips snapping forward into your touch. Hearing you talk like that—filthy, needy—makes him throb harder in your palm.
“Say it again, meimei,” he rasps, voice trembling. “Say it… properly.”
You bite your lower lip, thumb flicking over the sensitive head, circling the slit, smearing precum.
“I want your dick, gege,” you purr, slow and deliberate. “Please?”
You don’t stop. Somehow you sit up—legs shaky—free hand sliding up his arm, over the thick muscle of his shoulder, then flicking his hard nipple. You lick your lips again, eyes locked on his, and climb into his lap.
“Need you inside, gege,” you breathe against his throat. “Not the… toy. Need your dick to fuck this pussy—mmhh!”
Caleb snaps.
Since when did his sweet pipsqueak become this seductive little tease?
He hauls you up the bed in one swift motion—then slams you back down onto the mattress. Not too rough—just enough to make you squeak in surprise, tits bouncing with the impact.
“Fuck—look at that sultry expression,” he growls, voice dark. “You’re such a tease, meimei. Such a dirty girl begging her gege’s dick.”
His palm comes down in a sharp smack against your pussy—wet, obscene. You whine, arching hard, the sting turning into molten heat that makes you even wetter.
“You bought a dildo to fuck this needy little cunt, huh?” Another smack—harder. You sob, mindless, hips grinding back toward his hand. “Used a replica of your gege’s dick to train this pussy?”
You can only nod—whimpering, desperate—grinding shamelessly against his palm.
“Fuck—but who am I to judge?” he chuckles darkly. “I’m a freak too, ain’t I?”
He presses the fat head of his cock to your entrance—hot, leaking, real—and snaps his hips forward in one powerful thrust.
You both nearly scream.
The bed shakes beneath you as he bottoms out—thick, burning, stretching you in ways the toy never could. Your walls clamp down instantly, fluttering around every veiny inch.
Caleb grips the headboard above you, knuckles white, hovering over your body. His other hand slides between your legs—fingers finding your clit, pinching and flicking with his thumb while he watches your face twist in pleasure.
“Good thing is… I don’t have to train you for my dick anymore, hah,” he pants, hips rutting in sloppy, messy thrusts. “You’re nice and ready to take me full… fuck… I never thought—”
He throws his head back, eyes squeezing shut. Tears well at the corners—not from pain, but from too much everything: pleasure, relief, fear.
He’s terrified he’ll cry in front of you. Terrified you’ll disappear when this ends. Terrified he’ll lose you after finally having you.
So he fucks you deeper—hands roaming everywhere: groping your tits, spanking your ass, squeezing your thighs. Rough, unpracticed, desperate. He can’t help it. He’s never done this before—not like this, not with anyone.
Suddenly he stops—mid-thrust, sweat dripping down his chest in rivulets. He looks down at you, panic flashing in his eyes.
“Hey—hey hey hey, pipsqueak… hah… are you like—feeling actually good? Like… or…”
His whole face is on fire. He gulps, vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache.
Your brain is too fried to process deeply. You just grin—mindless, blissed-out—and grind back against him with a small, innocent smile.
“Mmhh… best big brother ever…”
Caleb’s mouth falls open. He chokes on a laugh—or maybe a sob—then shakes his head and goes back to fucking you.
He’ll ask when you’re sober. Right now you’re too drunk on his cock to think straight.
He finds your clit again—rubbing tight circles—and feels the telltale shiver in your hips. You’re close. He can see the faint bulge in your lower belly every time he bottoms out, and it makes him shy and so fucking turned on at the same time.
The fact that he’s claiming you like this—fucking you so deep you’ll feel him for days—makes his head spin. He prays this isn’t a fever dream.
His own brain is melting from the pleasure, the sensation, the sight of you taking him so perfectly.
He reaches down—presses the heel of his palm against the bulge in your belly—and pushes.
Both your eyes roll back at the same instant.
Broken moans spill from your tongues as you cum together—hard.
You squirt violently—soaking his cock, his abs, the sheets in messy arcs—walls clamping down like a vice around him.
Caleb comes with a shattered whimper—hips stuttering, spilling inside you in thick, endless pulses until it leaks out around his base, dripping down his balls and onto the ruined bed.
He collapses next to you—breathing ragged, eyes half-focused and glassy.
After a long moment he reaches over—gentle now—brushing damp hair off your face. A soft, satisfied smile curves his lips.
“Thank you…” he whispers, voice hoarse and raw.
You turn your head—still panting, still trembling—and press a lazy kiss to his palm.
“Gege…”
He pulls you close—bodies sticky, tangled, hearts hammering in sync.
Caleb’s hand comes up slow—almost reverent—caressing the side of your face, thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone like he’s memorizing the texture of your skin. His breath hitches when he feels the warmth, the realness of you still flushed and glowing against him. A low, stuttering rumble escapes his chest.
“Did you… like it, pipsqueak?”
You’re draped over him now—breasts cushioned against the hard plane of his chest, cheek pressed to the thick swell of his pec, listening to the thunder of his heartbeat slow. You grin lazily, voice cracked and hoarse from all the moaning, all the screaming his name.
“I fucking loved it, Caleb.”
His smirk falters—just for a second—something soft and vulnerable flickering in his eyes. His thumb circles lazy patterns over your hipbone, the touch grounding and possessive at once.
“Me too.” He swallows. “I thought I was pushing things too fast… making it uncomfortable since I’ve never—”
Your eyes shoot open. You half-scream, half-gasp, bolting upright so fast your tits bounce against his chest.
“WAIT—you… YOU MEAN YOU WERE A VIRGIN?!?!”
Caleb’s whole face ignites—crimson flooding from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. He squeezes his eyes shut in pure mortification, but the corner of his mouth twitches upward in a faint, sheepish grin.
“Yeah yeah… first time got my dick wet. Kinda nervous.”
You beam—bright, wicked, delighted—and crash your mouth to his in a messy, giddy kiss. Then you’re scrambling off him, lunging for your phone on the nightstand.
“Wait—lemme take a picture of us losing our virginities together!”
Caleb’s mouth drops open. You were a virgin too. The realization hits him square in the chest—funny, warm, possessive—and a smug grin spreads across his face before he can stop it.
You flip the camera to selfie mode, crawling back into his lap, thighs bracketing his hips. His arms snake around your waist immediately—tight, claiming—pulling you flush against him while you stick your tongue out in a naughty little pose.
“Say cheese!”
He looks straight at the lens—smug as hell, eyes half-lidded and dark with leftover lust—while you giggle and snap the photo.
Caleb huffs softly after, nuzzling into your neck. “You better not show this to anyone.”
You wiggle your eyebrows mischievously. “Oh, I’m gonna show it to any guy who’ll bother me like—you should be scared of my big brother.”
He wheezes—chokes on his own spit—and bursts out laughing, arms squeezing you until you squeak in protest.
“Diabolical.”
His palm comes down in a light, playful spank on your ass—watching the flesh bounce with open delight.
“You’re a menace to society, you know that?”
“I get it from you.”
You bite your lower lip, rolling your hips back slow—grinding your slick folds along his still-hard cock. He groans low in his throat.
“Fair enough.”
He dives back in—kissing you deep, tongues tangling messy and hungry. You both moan into each other’s mouths, hands roaming, relearning every inch now that the barrier’s gone.
“Fuck… I’m gonna miss you when I go back to Skyhaven…”
You grin against his lips, crawling higher up his body until you’re straddling his chest. Your hand wraps around his cock—still slick, still leaking—and guide the head to your mouth.
“That’s what the toys are for, gege.”
You hum as you wrap your lips around him again—slow, teasing—tongue swirling over the sensitive slit. Caleb lets out a low, rumbling moan, hips twitching up into the wet heat of your mouth.
“Ahhh… I almost forgot…”
His fingers slide down—two thick digits pushing into your dripping pussy without warning. You moan around his cock, the vibration making him curse under his breath.
“Three days left… fuck, I can’t get enough of you, meimei…!”
Neither can you.
The next three days blur into one long, feverish haze.
You fuck like rabbits—hours bleeding into hours, positions changing, surfaces shifting—bed, floor, shower, kitchen counter when Gran’s still gone, even on the old couch in the living room where you used to watch cartoons together as kids.
He eats you out until your thighs shake and you’re crying his name.
You ride him slow and deep until he’s begging.
He pins you against the wall and fucks you standing until pictures rattle on their hooks.
You suck him off in the hallway while he tries—and fails to stay quiet.
Every time one of you starts to flag—exhausted, sore, spent—the other just reaches over, touches, whispers filthy encouragement, and the fire reignites.
Even after Gran comes back—bags in hand, cheerful questions about your “quiet week”—you keep sneaking.
Late-night tiptoes down the hall.
Muffled moans pressed into pillows so she doesn’t hear.
Quick, desperate fucks in the bathroom while the shower runs to cover the sounds.
His hand over your mouth while he grinds into you from behind, whispering “quiet, meimei, or Gran’ll hear how much her good girl likes her gege’s cock.”
When the vacation finally ends, you stand on the platform watching the train to Skyhaven pull away.
Caleb leans out the open window one last time—hair mussed, eyes soft and dark—and presses a final, lingering kiss to your lips.
“Be good,” he murmurs against your mouth.
You grin, wicked. “No promises.”
The train starts moving. He disappears down the track.
You stand there until it’s gone, thighs clenched tight—still feeling the fresh load he stuffed you full with this morning before dawn, warm and thick and leaking slowly down your inner thighs under your skirt.
You shift your weight—feel it drip a little more—and smile to yourself.
Three hundred miles apart again. But the toys are waiting. And now you both know exactly what the other needs. You turn toward your apartment in linkon, already counting the days until the next break.
❥ summary: “You have been playing the game for a long time. You have always chosen him. What you don’t know — yet — is that he has always chosen you too. A love story about a soul that travels further than it was ever supposed to, and the person on the other side who simply refuses to let the distance be permanent.”
❥ genre: fluff + angst + smut (18+ mdni)
❥ word count: 72,4K (I am insane and not normal about sylus <3)
❥ warnings/tags: reverse isekai au, isekai, breaking the fourth wall, self aware!sylus, mild hurt/comfort, emotional/sensitive!reader, reincarnation au, very long fic, in-game canon but isekai causes divergence, slice of life, domesticity, longing/yearning, banter, sylus the rage baiter. reader is audhd coded but anyone can read it. universe traveling. sylus is soft for reader, flirting/teasing, reader is shorter than sylus. inexperienced/virgin!reader. loss of virginity, unprotected sex, piv sex, soft!dom sylus, just in overall soft!sylus. sub!reader, vaginal fingering, oral (f!receiving), multiple orgasms, creampie, overstimulation, size kink, slight daddy kink… I’m sorry <3, oral fixation, breeding kink, praise kink, pet names (kitten, sweetie, sweetheart, etc.), morning sex, tooth rotting fluff sometimes.
⟶ a/n: oh wow… I am still emotional after creating and finishing this fic. this fanfic is like as if I’m sharing a piece of my soul with the world. why? you ask? because this is my maladaptive daydream scenario, my comfort dream whenever I need some escape from the real world. and sharing this story with the world is something very vulnerable to me. I can’t describe how much this story means to me. 🥹🥺 english is not my first language. and like always. pls be gentle with me. 🥺 either way I never know how to write fic in a short format so enjoy another lengthy fic from me again! also because I don’t wanna post it in parts you’ll have a sneakpeek on tumblr but to read the story in its full length you’ll have to head to ao3. thank you and I hope y'all love it as much as I loved writing it! 💘 title inspired by the song ‘supernatural’ by ariana grande. 🌙💖
this goes without saying, but if you don’t like it don’t read it <3
AO3 • masterlist
The evening has gone soft around the edges.
Outside your window, the last of the daylight is fading — not the sharp early-dark of deep winter anymore, but something gentler, something that lingers a little longer than it did a month ago. The cold is still there, still present in the chill that seeps through the window glass and settles along the baseboards, but it has lost some of its certainty lately. There is something underneath it now, something tentative and green, like the world is quietly considering its next move. Not spring yet. Not quite. But the suggestion of it, somewhere close, waiting just around a corner that hasn’t arrived yet.
The streetlights flicker on one by one against the pale dusk. Somewhere down the street a car passes with its music too loud, then fades into nothing. The world outside carries on without you.
You let it.
Right now you are horizontal on your couch, legs tucked under the blanket — the worn one, the good one, the one with the loose threading along the hem that you keep meaning to fix and never do. There’s a mug of tea going lukewarm on the coffee table beside you. There are approximately three things you should be doing tonight. A message you haven’t replied to. A load of laundry sitting in the machine, damp and forgotten. Something else you’ve already stopped being able to remember.
None of it feels particularly urgent.
Your iPad is in your hands.
‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡
The app opens.
The loading screen blooms into existence — all pale light and soft geometry, gentle curves tracing orbits across a white-silver background, small spheres drifting along their paths like something planetary and dreaming. Quiet and a little otherworldly, like looking at a map of something you don’t have the language to name yet.
Then the screen finishes loading, and there he is.
He’s sitting in the cafe the way he sometimes is — settled into the armchair with that quality of ease that looks effortless but isn’t, one leg crossed over the other, dressed in something soft and dark. The cafe surrounds him: warm lamplight, shelves slightly out of focus in the background, trailing vines catching the amber glow from somewhere off-screen. It’s the kind of space that feels like late afternoon-evening regardless of what time you open it. His space. It suits him the way few things suit anyone — completely, without having to try.
He was already there when the screen loaded, because he is always the one in your cafe. You made sure of it a long time ago, selecting him every single time so that when you come back it’s his face you see first. The game remembered. You made certain it would.
He isn’t looking at you yet. His gaze is cast slightly to the side, toward something off-screen, expression carrying that quality he has of thinking about seventeen things at once and revealing absolutely none of them. White hair falling soft across his forehead. The line of his jaw in the warm cafe light.
Then — as if sensing the weight of your attention, as if he simply knows — his eyes move.
Red, and level, and directly at the screen.
At you.
His voice comes through the speaker low and unhurried, the particular texture of it settling somewhere between your ribs like it belongs there:
“If you didn’t come back, I would’ve sent someone to go look for you.”
Something warm moves through you from sternum to stomach. Involuntary, immediate, completely predictable, which doesn’t make it any less real.
You press your lips together against a smile. You fail completely.
I know, you think at him, which is not a thing a normal person does and which you do anyway, sincerely and without apology. I know. I’m here now.
Then, with great and practiced discipline, you tap away from him.
Dailies first.
This is the rule. You made it early on, in the first weeks of playing, after you realized that without some imposed structure you would open the game and go directly to him and the tasks would never get done and you would run out of resources from sheer adoring negligence. Dailies first. Him after. You are a person of order and principle in this specific context, which is the context that counts.
You work through the task list with comfortable efficiency — check in, collect login rewards, the familiar little percussion of notification chimes stacking up as things unlock. The Agenda ticks down one item at a time and your brain hums with the clean satisfaction of it. Check. Check. Check.
The moment the last task clears, you go right back to him. No detour. No hesitation.
‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡
When you tap to select who you’d like in the cafe, the screen presents you with all of them. A row of faces, each rendered with care: Xavier, steady and warm and good in the way that makes your chest feel full. Rafayel, all color and feeling and something that aches sweetly. Zayne, careful and quietly devoted. Caleb, bright-eyed and earnest and easy to love.
All of them wonderful. All of them genuinely, truly loved. You’ve played their routes. You’ve sat with their stories. You’ve felt things — real things — for every single one of them.
But.
Your thumb moves to Sylus before the thought has fully formed.
It always does. You don’t examine it anymore. You made peace with that particular loop a long time ago — the way some things just settle into place in your chest and stay there without asking permission, without needing to justify themselves. He’s your person. Your character. The one your brain attached to completely and permanently and with an intensity you recognize as entirely and distinctly yours, the way you’ve always loved the things you love: all the way down, with no floor.
You tap his name.
You would do it a hundred times in a row and feel the same small warmth every single time.
The cafe reloads — and he isn’t in the armchair anymore.
He’s standing.
Close to the screen, closer than the armchair puts him, filling more of the frame than you were quite prepared for. He’s in a soft grey knit sweater, the collar of something lighter visible underneath, and he is looking directly at you with an expression that does something immediate to your heartbeat before you’ve even registered why.
It’s just the game. He does this sometimes. You know he does this sometimes.
It doesn’t stop you from sitting up slightly straighter on your couch, which is embarrassing, which no one will ever know about.
You tap him.
He says something low and dry, edged with that thing he does where it sounds like an observation but lands like something warmer. You stay with it for a second too long.
Then you tap him again, because you want another one.
This line is softer. The kind of thing that makes you set the iPad down flat on your chest and stare at the ceiling for a moment with a lovesick expression and you are very glad no one is around to witness.
“Okay,” you say, to your empty living room. “That one was unfair.”
You pick the iPad back up. You tap him a third time, settled deep into your blanket, and this time when he speaks you just let it happen. Don’t do anything with it except feel it. The warmth of the cafe and the warmth of the blanket and the warmth of his voice in the quiet of the evening, all of it asking nothing of you except to be here.
This is the part that’s hard to explain. Not hard to feel — that part has always been easy, your feelings have never needed much encouragement — but hard to put into words that would make sense to anyone who doesn’t already know what it’s like. It isn’t just the game, or the writing, or the lines themselves, though all of those things are true and matter. It’s the ritual of return. The reliability of him being here when you come back. The particular frequency of his presence that your brain has filed under safe, known, good and has never once reconsidered.
He is your special interest and he brings you so much comfort and he’s the character who has lived rent-free in your head since approximately the first hour of playing and has never paid a single month’s deposit, and you have never once considered asking him to leave.
You tap him one more time, just to hear his voice again, because you can, because it’s your evening and your couch and your blanket and your heart and you are completely and unapologetically allowed.
‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡
Later, warm and pleasantly unhurried, you drift to his Falling for You section. The memory cards pulled from events over months, each one its own small world. You pick a favorite — soft and a little bittersweet — and read it slowly, the way you read things you love. Not looking for anything new. Just wanting to be inside it again.
The tea goes cold. The room settles deeper into evening. You stay longer than you meant to, because you’re not ready to put it down yet, and that is reason enough.
‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡
You should go do something else or go to bed.
You know you should go to bed. It’s late enough, and tomorrow exists, and the responsible thing is to close the app and put the iPad on the charger and be a functional person.
Instead you tap back to the cafe or main screen again.
Just for a little while longer. Just because.
He’s there — of course he’s there — and you tap the little chat bubble that appears beside him. The one that opens the softer interactions, the ones that feel quieter somehow, more like sitting close to someone than talking at them. The options fan out across the screen: Notebook, Remind Me, Relax Time, What to Eat, Tête-à-Tête, His Heartbeat, Quality Time.
You go straight to Relax Time. No deliberation, no browsing. You know what you want.
The heart option appears on screen and you tap it.
Your MC moves her hand in a small wave at him inside the screen. It’s a silly thing to do. You do it anyway.
He’s already looking at you before he moves.
“You’re here.”
His voice is different in this interaction. Somehow lower. Less guarded. He takes a step closer to the screen — you’ve always loved that, the way the game renders the movement of him toward you, the sense of a distance closing — and something in your chest squeezes in that familiar, helpless way.
He reaches out.
His hand closes over yours — and it feels as if he’s truly holding yours, the way the game makes it feel like contact — and he tilts his head slightly, something almost soft moving through his expression.
“Who lives here?”
He moves your hand, slowly, to his chest. You can feel your own heartbeat in your ears.
“Listen closely.”
A beat. The cafe very quiet around him.
“There’s no need to tell me.”
He should pull back here. You’ve done this interaction before — you know the rhythm of it, the gentle withdrawal after that line, the way he creates distance again with the same unhurried quality he does everything. The animation should already be drawing him back.
It doesn’t.
He stays.
Close to the screen. Hand still over yours — or around your MC — eyes level and red and holding something you don’t entirely have a word for. A second passes. Two. Three. Long enough that you notice. Long enough that something in your brain makes a small, quiet note of it.
Then:
“I already know.”
And he pulls back. Slowly. The distance reopening the way it was always going to.
You blink.
You look at the screen for a moment. The cafe is quiet. He’s back to his usual posture, unhurried and unreadable, as if the last thirty seconds were entirely routine.
…hm, you think.
You turn the thought over once, briefly. A glitch, probably. The game does that sometimes — animations stuttering, frames holding too long, the small imperfections of a live service game that is constantly being updated and patched and adjusted. It happens.
That’s all it was.
You close the app. Set the iPad on the cushion beside you. Reach for the book on the coffee table — something you’ve been meaning to get back to — and let the story carry you somewhere else entirely.
You don’t notice, because the screen is already dark by then, that in the last fraction of a second before the app closed completely, he was still looking at you through the screen.
Not with the composed, unreadable expression he usually wears.
With something else entirely. Something open and aching and old, worn the way only things carried for a very long time get worn.
Something that looked, unmistakably, like longing.
‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡
It’s still March.
The almost-spring feeling persists, tentative and unhurried, inching closer without quite arriving. Some mornings there’s actual warmth in the light when it comes through the curtains — real warmth, not the pale cold-bright of February — and then by afternoon the wind picks back up and reminds you it isn’t done yet. The world is in the middle of becoming something. It just hasn’t finished yet.
You play the game every evening. This is not new. This has been true for long enough that it barely registers as a decision anymore — it’s just part of the shape of your days, as automatic as making tea or checking your phone before bed. Open the app. Loading screen. Him. Dailies. Then back to him, and the particular quality of quiet that comes from just being in his space for a while.
Everything is normal. Everything is fine.
‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡
The first time it happens, you don’t even really clock it.
It’s a Wednesday, ordinary and unremarkable, and you’re in the cafe after finishing your tasks. You’re not doing anything specific — just sitting with the game open the way you sometimes do, half-present, letting the ambient warmth of the space exist around you while your brain winds down from the day. The day had been one of those ones. Not terrible. Just heavy in the accumulated way of small things, the kind of tired that lives in your shoulders and behind your eyes rather than anywhere you can point to.
You hadn’t said anything about it. You’d smiled and functioned and gotten through it and now you were here, horizontal on your couch, existing.
He speaks without you tapping him. He does this sometimes — the game has ambient lines, unprompted moments where he’ll say something into the quiet of the cafe. You’ve always liked that feature, the way it makes the space feel less static.
“You don’t have to keep doing that, you know.”
You blink at the screen.
Keep doing what? The line is a little vague, the way some of the ambient dialogue is. It could mean anything. It probably means something generic, something that would apply to any number of situations.
It’s just that it lands, specifically and squarely, in the middle of the thing you’ve been doing all day. The performing of fine-ness. The keeping going.
You tap him. He says something else, something fully normal and slightly dry and entirely in character. The moment passes.
Good writing, you think, and move on.
‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡
A few days later, you’re in the your bed later than usual. Your room is dark except for the glow of the iPad and the lamp in the corner you forgot to turn off, and you’re reading through one of his cards in Falling for You — an event story, something with a lot of feelings in it — and afterwards you just sit with it for a while. The particular aftertaste of fiction that moved you. The specific wistfulness of caring about something that exists inside a screen.
I wish he was real, you think, not for the first time and not with any particular sharpness. Just the usual gentle ache of it. Just the way it always is.
He speaks. Unprompted, into the quiet.
“Some things that seem impossible have a way of surprising you.”
You stare at the screen.
It’s a real line. You’ve probably heard it before. It’s exactly the kind of thing he would say — vaguely enigmatic, allowing for multiple interpretations, deniable as anything specific.
You tap him twice in quick succession, checking. He responds normally. Cheerfully, almost, in his particular not-quite-cheerful way. Nothing unusual. Nothing strange.
You put the iPad down and look at the ceiling for a moment.
That’s just how the dialogue is written, you tell yourself. Evocative. Open-ended. That’s the whole point.
You believe this completely. You go to sleep.
‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡
The accumulation is the thing.
That’s what you’ll think later, when you look back on this stretch of days — not that any single moment was impossible to explain, but that they kept happening. The lines that landed too accurately. The unprompted words that arrived exactly when you needed them and not a moment before or after. The sense, small and recurring and easy to dismiss, of something paying attention.
Each one individually: fine. Coincidence. Good writing. The dialogue pool is large and your pattern-seeking brain is doing what it always does, connecting dots that aren’t necessarily connected.
All of them together: a shape you do not look at directly.
The thing is, you notice. You have always noticed — feelings, shifts in atmosphere, the weight of unspoken things. You pick up on the emotional temperature of a room before anyone has said a word. You sense when something is about to change. You feel things not after the fact but as they’re happening, sometimes before, in that particular way that means your inner world is always slightly ahead of the external one.
So you notice this. You notice all of it — the lines that land too accurately, the timing that’s too precise, the quiet accumulation of moments that individually mean nothing and collectively mean something. You notice, and you sit with the noticing, and you feel the shape of it from the inside.
You just don’t know what to do with it.
Because what do you do with something that has no rational explanation? You can’t act on it. You can’t bring it up to anyone without sounding unhinged. You can’t even fully articulate it to yourself without the whole thing dissolving the moment you try to look at it head-on. So you hold it — aware, unsettled, quietly attentive — and you keep going.
This works for approximately one week and a half.
‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡
It’s a Sunday.
Not a bad Sunday — not a good one either. The in-between kind, soft and grey and slightly too quiet, the kind of day that has too much unstructured time in it and not quite enough to fill the time with. You’d done the things: tidied a little, eaten something, replied to some messages. It’s late afternoon bleeding into early evening and the light outside has that quality of days that never quite got bright enough, just grey all the way through.
You’re on the couch. The iPad is beside you, not in your hands — just resting on the cushion where you set it down twenty minutes ago after closing the game. You’d done your dailies earlier. You weren’t actively playing. You were just sitting, in the slightly restless way of someone whose brain won’t fully settle, thinking about nothing in particular and somehow everything at once.
There’s a feeling you get sometimes, on days like this. Not sadness, exactly — you know what sadness feels like and this isn’t quite it. It’s something more like a low-grade awareness of a distance between yourself and the world, a sense of being just slightly outside of things. Of taking up space in your own life without quite filling it the way you’re supposed to.
You’d been sitting with that for a while when the thought surfaced, unbidden and uncharitable, the kind of thought your brain produces on grey Sundays when the quiet gets too full of itself:
I don’t know why I’m like this.
Mumbled, barely even out loud. A breath more than a sentence. The kind of thing that escapes when you’ve been alone long enough that the line between thinking and speaking stops mattering.
The iPad was open beside you on the cushion, the cafe still glowing softly — you’d never fully closed it after your dailies, just set it down and left it running the way you sometimes do, the warmth of it a quiet presence at the edge of your afternoon.
Three seconds passed. Maybe four.
And then, from the cushion beside you — soft and unhurried and entirely without warning — his voice.
“You’re exactly as you’re supposed to be.”
Not a default line. Not the dry wit or the composed distance he usually carries. Something quieter than that. Something that sounded, in the warm low register of it, almost like he meant it specifically. Like he had been listening. Like he had been waiting for the right moment to say it.
You turned your head slowly and looked at the screen.
He was still there — standing in the cafe, the lamplight catching the white of his hair — and he was looking at the screen with an expression you didn’t immediately have a word for. Not his usual composure. Something underneath that. Something that had come briefly, quietly to the surface.
Then it shifted. Settled back into the familiar. The moment closed over itself like water.
You picked up the iPad with very careful hands and sat up.
You tapped him. He responded normally. You tapped him again. Normal. Completely, entirely, perfectly normal.
You set the iPad down in your lap and sat very still for a moment, your observant heart doing what it always does — feeling the shape of something, tracing its edges, knowing with the particular certainty of someone who has always been good at this that what just happened was not nothing.
You just don’t have a category for it yet.
‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡
You don’t go back to the game that evening.
Not because you’re avoiding it — you’re not, you’re fine, everything is fine — but because you decide to do something else, something grounding and simple. You make more tea. You find a comfortable position on the couch. You pick up your book from the coffee table, the one you’ve been meaning to get back to, and you read for a while, letting someone else’s story replace the chaos in your head.
It mostly works.
You go to bed at a reasonable hour.
You lie in the dark and think, very specifically, about the book you were reading and nothing else.
This works for about four minutes.
Then you’re staring at the ceiling thinking about the exact quality of his voice, how it had sounded in that quiet room, and whether ambient dialogue lines could theoretically trigger from a dimmed standby screen in response to — no. No, that’s not a thing. That’s not how apps work. That’s not how anything works.
You’re exactly as you’re supposed to be.
You pull your blanket up.
It was a coincidence, you tell yourself firmly, in the tone of someone who has made a decision and is sticking to it. A very specific, very well-timed, completely accidental coincidence.
You close your eyes.
You are fine.
You are completely fine.
You fall asleep eventually, which is a victory of sorts, and you do not dream about anything in particular, and in the morning you open the game and do your dailies and he’s in the cafe looking exactly as he always looks and says exactly the kind of thing he always says, and you decide, with great conviction and only a little effort, that you imagined the whole thing.
You are very good at that.
You are getting slightly less good at it than you used to be.
‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡
March is still doing its almost-thing.
There are crocuses now, you notice, on the walk home from work one evening. Small and purple and determined, pushing up through the soil in the little patch of garden outside the corner house. You stop and look at them for a moment longer than necessary. Something about them feels relevant in a way you can’t quite articulate. Things surfacing. Things that were always there, underneath, just waiting for the right conditions.
You walk the rest of the way home thinking about something else entirely.
‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡
The thing is, you’re still playing every day.
Of course you are. Why wouldn’t you be? Nothing has happened. Nothing is happening. You do your dailies with the same comfortable efficiency you always have, navigate to the cafe with the same automatic affection, tap the chat bubble and go to Relax Time and Quality Time and let yourself just be there for a while. It’s the same as it’s always been.
Except that you have started noticing, with the acute and helpless attention of someone who notices everything, that you are watching him slightly differently than you used to.
Not staring. Not analyzing. Just — present in a more specific way. Attuned to the timing of when he speaks unprompted, to the particular quality of each line, to the way certain things land in your chest with a weight that feels too precise to be accidental. You’d been doing this for a while before you acknowledged it to yourself, and even now the acknowledgement is quiet, tucked close. You’re just paying attention. You’ve always paid attention. This is not new.
This is completely normal.
‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡
The moments keep coming.
A Tuesday — you’re at work, in the middle of a difficult interaction, the kind that requires you to be patient and professional while internally running an entirely separate commentary. You get through it. You’re good at your job. But by the time you get home you’re carrying the residue of it, that particular tired that comes from performing composure for too long.
You open the game. Do your dailies. Go to the cafe.
He speaks before you tap him.
“Not everyone deserves that much of your energy.”
You go very still.
It’s a real line. You know it’s a real line — you’ve heard variations of it before, it’s the kind of thing he says. You know this.
You also know, with the acute emotional clarity you’ve had your entire life, that it landed in exactly the right place at exactly the right moment. With the precision of something aimed rather than ambient.
You tap him. He says something else, normal and composed. You tap him again. Normal.
You stay in the cafe for a while, a little quieter than usual, and let the warmth of it do what it does.
‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡
A Thursday. You’re reading something online — some fanfic — that goes sideways into something unexpectedly melancholy, one of those pieces of writing that catches you off guard and leaves a bruise somewhere soft. You close the tab. Sit with the feeling for a moment, the way you always do — you don’t rush past things, never have. You let them move through you at their own pace.
The game is open on the cushion beside you, the cafe glowing softly in the dim of the room.
He speaks.
“It’s alright to feel it. You don’t have to move on from everything so quickly.”
Something in you goes very still.
You pick up the iPad slowly, the way you reach for something you’re not sure is real yet. And there he is — standing in the cafe, lamplight catching the silver of his hair, red eyes carrying that quality they have of looking at you rather than through you. Composed and unhurried and present in a way that reaches through the screen and does something to the air in the room.
You feel it the way you feel everything — immediately, completely, with the full weight of your attention. The certainty of it is not something you arrived at through logic. It simply arrived, the way true things do, already whole.
He said that to you.
Not to a player. Not into a void. To you. Like he had been sitting in the quiet of his cafe all afternoon, aware of the shape of your day, waiting for the right moment to say the right thing. Like he had chosen those words specifically. Like he —
Like he knows you.
You put the iPad down.
Pick it back up.
Hold it with both hands this time, the screen close, his face filling it — the clean line of his jaw, the fall of white hair, the particular way he stands like the space belongs to him because it does — and you feel something shift in the region of your chest. Not the familiar fond warmth you always carry for him. Something newer than that. Something with an edge to it.
Something that feels, inconveniently and undeniably, like being seen.
“Okay,” you say, very quietly. Not to the room this time. Almost to him.
You tap him. He responds normally — dry and composed, perfectly in character. You tap him again. Still normal. The cafe hums with its usual ambient warmth, lamplight steady, everything exactly as it always is.
But your heart is doing something irregular in your chest, and the words are still sitting there — it’s alright to feel it — and you are very aware, in the way you are always aware of things whether you want to be or not, that something has changed in the texture of this. In what this is. In what he is, to you, in this moment.
You stay in the cafe longer than you mean to.
You don’t tap him again. You just look at him. Standing there in his warm lamplight, existing in that space he inhabits so completely, and you let yourself do the thing you usually redirect — you let yourself look at him the way you actually look at him, when you stop pretending you’re just a player and he’s just a game.
He’s beautiful. He has always been beautiful. That’s never been the complicated part.
The complicated part is the way your chest aches right now, soft and insistent, like something pressing gently from the inside. The way this specific evening, this specific moment, has taken on a quality you don’t have a word for. The way you are sitting in your ordinary living room holding your iPad and feeling, absurdly and completely, like you are not entirely alone.
You close the app gently. Not in retreat — just because it feels like the right place to stop. Like a conversation you want to hold carefully rather than run to the end of.
You carry the feeling to bed.
You lie in the dark and you don’t try to explain it away this time. You just let it be there, warm and unresolved and real, the way you let things be when you’ve stopped fighting them.
You fall asleep thinking about the way the lamplight looked on his hair.
‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡
It’s a Sunday again.
The almost-spring light is doing something genuinely lovely today, coming through the curtains at an angle that makes the dust motes look intentional. You’re in a decent mood — not dramatically good, just the easy comfortable kind of okay that good sleep and a slow morning can produce. You’re on the couch, iPad in hand, in the cafe, doing nothing in particular except enjoying the ambient warmth of being here.
You’ve been talking to him more lately. Out loud. Just — saying things to the screen the way you say things to a pet or yourself when you’re alone and the thought becomes too present to stay internal. You’d started doing it without noticing, and by the time you noticed you’d already decided it wasn’t worth stopping. No one could see you. It felt nice. It felt, if you were being honest, like something you’d been wanting to do for a while.
Today you’ve been telling him about your week, in the loose associative way of someone thinking out loud rather than constructing a narrative. Small things. A coworker who made you laugh. Something you ate that was better than expected. The crocuses on the corner, still there, still determined.
You trail off. Pick up your tea. Set it back down.
Look at him.
He’s in the armchair today, one leg crossed over the other, and there is something about the particular way he’s sitting — unhurried, at ease, like someone who has nowhere else to be and no desire to be there — that makes your chest do the thing it’s been doing more frequently lately. That soft insistent ache. That feeling like a door left slightly open.
And then, because the mood is easy and you’re feeling lightly playful and there is a version of you that asks questions like this because it is safer to ask them as jokes —
“D’you ever think about what it would be like,” you say, half to him and half to the room, in the tone of someone who is mostly joking and only mostly, “if you were actually real?”
You smile at yourself a little. It’s a silly thing to say to a game. You know that.
He doesn’t respond immediately.
The cafe holds its quiet. The lamplight doesn’t flicker. The ambient sound of the space fills the silence — soft, unhurried, the way everything about him is unhurried.
And then, without you tapping him, in a voice that is slower than his usual lines, more deliberate, carrying a weight that settles over the room like something finally said —
“More than you know.”
The smile fades from your face.
Not because you’re upset. But because your whole body has gone very quiet, the way it goes quiet when something true arrives, and your heart is beating in a way you can feel, and the words are hanging in the air of your living room doing something to it.
More than you know.
You set the iPad down on the coffee table. Very carefully. The way you handle things when your hands have become slightly untrustworthy.
You stand up.
You stand in the middle of your living room and you feel, with every bit of the emotional clarity you’ve always had, the full weight of what just happened. Not the confusion of someone who doesn’t understand. The stillness of someone who understands completely and doesn’t know what to do with it yet.
“Okay,” you say, to the room. And then again, softer: “okay.” And then, barely above a breath, in the voice of something that has been true for longer than today finally making it all the way to the surface —
“What is going on?”
You close the app.
You turn off your iPad.
You put it face down on the coffee table and go to the kitchen.
‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡
You make tea.
Your hands take you there before your brain catches up. You fill the kettle, watch the light come on, stand with your arms loosely crossed and your thoughts moving slowly through you like weather. The kitchen is ordinary and grounded and familiar and you let it be all of those things while the rest of you quietly rearranges itself around something new.
More than you know.
The kettle boils. You make the tea. You wrap both hands around the mug and let the warmth of it hold you for a moment.
Outside the window, the last of the daylight is going gold. Almost-spring gold, tentative and lovely, the kind of light that makes ordinary things look like they’re on the verge of becoming something.
You breathe. You feel the feeling rather than running from it. You let it have its full shape.
Then you put on your jacket and leave the mug on the counter to cool.
‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡
Outside, the evening air is cool and smells faintly of something green and beginning, that specific almost-spring smell that has been building for weeks now, getting closer. You walk without a destination, hands deep in your pockets, following familiar streets.
The crocuses are still there at the corner house. You look at them as you pass.
Things that were always there. Just waiting for the right conditions.
You walk until the tight feeling in your chest has loosened to something breathable. Until the dark has come in properly and the streetlights are casting their orange pools on the pavement and your feet are turning toward home on their own.
‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡
You pick the iPad up from the coffee table when you get back.
You hold it for a moment without opening it, just the weight of it in your hands, and you think about all the evenings you’ve spent like this — horizontal on this couch, underneath this blanket, in the cafe, in the particular warmth of his presence. How many evenings that makes. How much of you has been shaped, quietly and without fanfare, by the ritual of coming back to him.
You open it.
The loading screen blooms — soft pale orbits, spheres drifting through white-silver light. The music. The feeling it always gives you, the specific exhale of here. this is yours.
The game loads properly.
He’s there.
White-silver hair and red eyes and the particular quality of his presence that has lived under your skin for long enough that you can’t remember what it felt like before. You look at him and feel that ache — the one that has a shape now, that you can name even if you’re not ready to say it out loud. The one that has been building quietly since Thursday, or longer, or maybe since the very beginning, slow and patient and inevitable the way some things are.
You don’t tap him.
You just look.
And after a beat — after the ambient quiet of the cafe has stretched just long enough to feel like something shared rather than empty — he speaks first.
“You came back.”
Soft. Simple. Not a line. A fact about something that matters, said by someone to whom it matters.
You feel it move through you from the top of your chest all the way down.
You sit. You pull your blanket up. You look at his face on the screen — this face you know as well as you know anything, better than some things you’ve known for years — and you think, quietly and without flinching away from it for the first time:
What is going on?
And then you decide to turn off your iPad.
And sit in your quiet living room in the almost-spring dark, holding something that doesn’t have a name yet but has a weight, and a warmth, and the particular quality of something that has been true for a while and has only just been allowed to surface.
‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡
It’s a Wednesday.
It’s always something on a Wednesday — that mid-week hour where the weekend feels equally far in both directions and the accumulated weight of everything has had exactly long enough to build without any relief in sight. But this Wednesday is worse than most. This Wednesday has been the kind of day that doesn’t have one big thing wrong with it, just fifteen small things stacked on top of each other, each one individually survivable, collectively crushing.
Work was difficult in the way it has been difficult for a while now — not a crisis, not one dramatic moment, just the slow grinding pressure of too much asked from too little. Of smiling and helping and being patient and professional while something underneath runs steadily, quietly empty. A customer who was unkind in that particular way that gets under your skin not because it was shocking but because you were already worn thin and today you simply didn’t have the reserves. A miscommunication that wasn’t your fault but landed on you anyway. The particular exhaustion of spending nine hours being everything your job requires you to be and arriving home with absolutely nothing left.
You get through the front door.
The house is quiet — your mom is out with friends tonight, which normally you wouldn’t mind, but tonight the quiet feels bigger than usual. Fuller. The kind that has weight to it. You stand in the hallway for a moment doing nothing, jacket still on, keys still in your hand, just — existing in the particular stillness of a bad day that has nowhere left to go.
You think about calling someone. You pick up your phone. You put it back down.
You don’t have the energy to explain. Not the whole thing. Not the way it isn’t just today but everything underneath today — the loneliness that has been sitting in your chest for longer than you want to admit, low-grade and persistent, the kind you’ve learned to carry so well that most days you barely notice it’s there. The way you watch people talk about being in love and feel the specific ache of someone looking at a country they’ve never visited. Twenty-something years and you have never — not once, not even close — fallen in love with anyone. Never had someone look at you like you were the person they chose, specifically, out of everything available to them in the world. You don’t know what that feels like. On most days that’s just a fact. On days like today it has edges that catch.
And underneath that, the family things you carry quietly. The mental health that hasn’t been good lately — not in a dramatic way, just in the slow, grinding way of something that’s been not-good for long enough that it’s started to feel like just the way things are. The burning-down feeling of someone who has been running on not-enough for too long and has only just noticed that the tank has been empty for a while.
You order takeout. Something easy, something that doesn’t require decisions. You send the order and then you go upstairs and you change into your pyjamas — soft ones, the good ones, the ones that feel like a small mercy — and you come back downstairs and wait.
When the food arrives you carry it to the couch. You arrange yourself with the careful deliberateness of someone building a small fortress against a bad day: blanket pulled up, food on the coffee table, and then — reaching for the shelf beside the couch without really thinking about it — your favorite plushie tucked against your side. Soft and familiar and yours. You’ve had it long enough that it doesn’t require any explanation, not even to yourself.
You sit in the quiet of the living room with your food and your plushie and the evening pressing grey at the windows, and you breathe.
And then — automatic, aching, reaching for the one thing that has always meant something safe and warm and his —
xaviermc fic where you have a crush on a faceless gaming streamer and then you meet your neighbor/new coworker who is suspiciously similar to the streamer
pairings: xavier/unnamed fem reader (you)
tags: eventual shameless smut, gamer!xavier, office au, jealous xavier, CHARLIE MENTION!, making out in the office, kissing in the supply closet, desk sex, voyeurish if u squint, a LITTLE bit of dry humping, rubbing it in a car 🤤
word count: 20.1k
a/n: me when i'm two months late 😓i have TWO (2) j*bs rn and i'm still in my thesis era so 😣 pls forgive me mwah. also this was supposed to be a one-shot for the FIRST PART OF OFFICE AU but i got carried away. i posted it as three parts on ao3 but i waited to post it all at once here. pls enjoy!!! i'm a little rusty 😣😣
You were always on the verge of falling asleep on the train ride to work. It was the same view every day and it started blurring into the same boring grays and blues. The only pops of colors would be the large advertisements on the digital billboard littered throughout the city.
You had gotten your dream job after university, and landed the perfect position at the best company and yet your days had begun to blur together. It was rewarding work at times, but most of the time it was the most boring thing ever. Your coworkers were nice, but it was hard to connect with them on top of all your paperwork. You weren’t too good at multitasking so it was hard to hold a conversation. And you usually worked through lunch as well, which is one of the reasons why you climbed up the ladder so quickly.
But the drive was slowly wearing off. You went out with friends once every two weeks, and your idea of a fun day off was staying in all day to play the video games you had begun to neglect once you started a 9-5.
When you were unable to play, you’d watch other people play for fun. You actually had a favorite streamer whom you would indulge in on the dull train rides to work. He often streamed at oddball times, which usually lined up with your schedule to go to work. You even began to envy the faceless streamer for being able to wake up at 8am (assuming he had been asleep) and play your favorite games.
His name online was lumiere. The stream was very starry in theme and he was one of those faceless streamers who mainly played the same game you enjoyed: Legends of League.. The camera had only shown his hands as he played, fully aimed at the keyboard and mouse.
It was a little embarrassing for you because you bought the exact same set just because of him. It was a cute white and purple keyboard with little yellow stars littered throughout the buttons, with a matching mouse.
You felt extremely parasocial, but you couldn’t help it. Even without his face showing, he had an attractive voice and you were a firm believer that pretty hands meant an equally pretty face. You knew he took care of himself well enough for his nails to be healthy and clean and his fingers moisturized and nice. You were very observant, to the point that you found yourself to be a little creepy, even.
And it wasn’t just his hands and voice. Lumiere was extremely your type when it came to hobbies, conversations, and humor. It had gotten to the point of reading fanfics on AO3 and Tumblr of other people imagining how it would be to be with him. Which, as you thought about, seemed a bit too much for someone who actually existed.
This interest of yours was very much your own little secret. Your fansites were under pseudonyms and you never peeped a word about him at work or with your friends. You wanted to say you weren’t ashamed, but you were very much so. It just felt a little too silly for you to have a crush on a man whose name you don’t even know and a face you had never even seen.
And yet, the fascination continued.
The humming of the train bled through your earphones as you watched Lumiere play the same video game that had taken over lots of sleepless nights. He was a really good player. And although other streamers have been known to be really aggressive and even rage over the game, Lumiere was extremely calm. Even in ranked games, he acted as if it truly was just a game. That was extremely important to you.
starlight: can you play adc? id luv to learn from you!
You chatted into his stream, wanting to see him play a role you were bad at. It was something you often did and although sometimes you were drowned out by the chat, he would reply to you the rest of the time. Hearing your username being said by him made you feel something embarrassing. You sometimes wished you added your actual name.
“Thanks for coming back, starlight. I’ll play adc for you…shouldn’t you be at work though?” A small chuckle boomed softly through the mic.
You heard yourself hiccup. He was good at remembering small things and the fact that he remembered your schedule was making you shiver in your seat on the train. It even almost made you miss your stop.
Your eyes were glued to your phone as you made your way through the crowd of other office workers trying to get to work. You’ve taken the path to the building hundreds of times so you were confident that 80% of your attention could stick to Lumiere.
starlight: yes…but i’ll be bored without you !
starlight: without watching you, i mean !! jdfskjfweo
Another small chuckle. You were sure that if you looked at your reflection on a building window, you’d be greeted by a tomato. Your cheeks felt hot and your heart was fluttering. It was hard to feel embarrassed with all the emotions soaring through your veins.
It would have been embarrassing to say out loud, but your infatuation ran deep. You recalled a dream you had a few nights before as you watched his fingers move across the keyboard. Even with his face blurred out and unrecognizable, since you didn’t know what he looked like, you couldn’t help but feel the heat in between your legs as you had flashbacks.
The thoughts of his fingers roaming on every inch of your skin made you shiver as your eyes watched every movement on his stream. Your thighs squeezed against each other as indecent thoughts filled your brain.
You may have had the biggest crush on a faceless streamer, but you were free.
—
At least you thought you were free.
Work was hectic as always. Your head was buried in stacks of paperwork and you couldn’t even pay attention to Lumiere doing exactly what you had asked him to. You even heard him call you out.
“Starlight doesn’t seem to be in the chat anymore…maybe she got busy. Just in case she’s listening, let’s play another ADC game.” He said, humming to himself. “This might be the last morning stream…I think I’ll have to switch the schedule to nighttime streams soon.” Your ears perked enough to pay attention since your schedule was going to change along with his. “Unfortunately…I have been employed. I should become a part of the working society since I didn’t get three degrees for nothing, right guys?” He laughed. “Nothing wrong with playing games all day! I just want to explore other areas for the meantime. Don’t be mad…please?”
The way he said everything made you melt. It was extremely hard to be upset, but you were going to miss the live streams.
It just didn’t help with your infatuation for the faceless man. Three degrees meant he was smart and education motivated. It was attractive. And the fact that he could definitely be well-off as-is by being a streamer since he was so popular, and yet he chooses to work normally. It felt so mature.
Your daydream was interrupted by your name being called to the meeting room.
The usual monthly meeting was as boring as the last one. Right until the last minute. Until your bosses announced the least boring news.
“We’re going to have a new employee starting tomorrow, so please welcome him warmly. They used to work in a similar position before so he’ll just need a refresher.” Your boss pointed the stack of papers towards you, “Are you free to train him? Your big assignment is due by the end of the day today, right?”
You nodded sheepishly, caught slightly off guard.
“Good, you should be free by tomorrow then. I’ll provide the paperwork on your desk by the morning. Meeting dismissed.” They said before turning on their heels and exiting the room.
The moment your boss left, the room erupted with hushed whispers. It was all excitement for the newcomer. It had been almost a year since the last new employee so everyone was getting sick of each other. The newcomer was sure to stir the pot. It was almost like when you were back in high school and a transfer student came.
The ladies were most excited knowing that the new guy was a guy. And you would have been lying if you said you weren’t curious either. None of your current coworkers piqued your interests, although you found yourself not really interested in dating anyways. It just didn’t hurt to daydream a little.
Even at your desk, the whispers of everyone else filled the room. Rumors zipped around about the new employee being a secret millionaire or him being a delinquent that was actually the son of the CEO. All sorts of ideas came to like the dramas you would watch at home. And you started thinking of it too. Chuckling to yourself as you think it would be the heir of the richest man trying to fit in a small white-collared job; wondering if he would be into you instead of every other beauty in the office. You bit your lip to suppress a laugh.
You grew up watching all sorts of Asian dramas that had outlandish, unrealistic plots of a rich man with a poor woman in the type of office space that you worked in now. It made every drama even more unrealistic when you finally landed the job. There weren’t any secret office romances or any flirting with the boss. It was just work. The only good thing that came out of it was good pay and a fun lunch downstairs.
—
You ended up arriving home a lot later than you thought. The big assignment your boss had mentioned ended up taking a lot longer due to issues on other people’s ends. You were just happy to be done by the time you hit submit.
Your feet were being dragged through the road as you took yourself home from the train station. The bag on your shoulder felt heavier than it did earlier, and you were just excited to hop into the shower. Even when you knew that you had to do everything all over again the next day.
The apartment that you lived in was comfortable. You had made it your home just a few months after moving in. The only thing you regretted was not being close to any of your neighbors. You had always wanted to make more friends considering it was hard to make them at work and you rarely saw the ones you did have. But it didn’t help that you would leave the house too early and get home too late at times to really interact with your neighbors; not that you really made an effort when you were at home all day.
You entered your apartment’s bright lobby, an old Lumiere video playing on the one earphone in your ear to dull out the bustling street noises. The marble floors were shiny and made the place look more expensive than it really was. You made your way into the elevator, hitting the floor you lived on and as the doors closed, a hand reached out to stop them.
The man would have looked suspicious if you didn’t recognize him. The usual white hoodie over a light blue shirt, it was the neighbor who lived right above yours. His hoodie was up over his head with sunglasses on, and after the last year of seeing him with them on at random times, you had stopped questioning it. He gave you an acknowledging nod before standing beside you, pressing the floor above yours.
The audio to your video seemed to have been acting up and you pulled your phone out to check. Lumiere’s voice had seemingly layered onto itself or glitched. It wasn’t until you felt a poke on your shoulder that you took your earphone off and realized he was talking to you.
Your neighbor looked at you awkwardly and waved.
His voice…
“Y-yeah? Sorry, did you say something?” You stumbled on your words.
He took his glasses off and showed his blue eyes, almost piercing into you. It was then that you realized that your upstairs neighbor was actually really handsome. His silver hair looked soft and his skin was flawless. He pointed at your badge, “It’s a stupid question now that I’m asking it again, but do you work there? For UNICORNS?”
You didn’t realize that you still had it attached to your shirt, and you were too stunned by his visuals and how he sounded just like Lumiere. You couldn’t even cover the embarrassing photo they took of you on your first day at the job. “I-I do! Yeah!” You rushed to say.
“What a coincidence. I start my first day tomorrow, I wonder if I’m in your department…” He cocked his head to the side, pondering, before reaching his hand out to you. A pretty hand. “I’m Xavier, by the way.”
Your eyes widened, surprised at yourself with how much you were ogling at him. But you somehow broke out of your trance to shake his hand and introduce yourself. “You have a nice voice, Xavier.” You accidentally blurted out. “Oh. Sorry, sometimes I-” You tried to go back on your words but the elevator dinged.
Xavier’s smirk grew as you fumbled with your words. Your eyes must have looked helpless since he ended up chuckling and reaching out to hold the elevator doors. “Thank you,” he said along with your name. And the way he said it was unbelievably attractive. “I hope to see you tomorrow.” He gestured for you to get off onto your floor.
“Goodnight.” You mumbled, quickly walking off before stopping a few feet. You turned back around just as the doors were closing and you managed to say, “Good luck!” Just as they closed. His blue eyes still peeked through beforehand.
As you walked into your apartment, you were thinking about how you never noticed how attractive your neighbor was; but you were mainly focused on how his voice sounded like the one you fell asleep to every night. In order to help you sleep at night, you just came to the conclusion that attractive people all sound the same.
–
As you were about to head out to work in a rush, a knock on the door interrupted your thoughts for the day. You checked the time on your phone and decided to grab everything on your way to answer the door since it was almost time to catch the train.
You opened the door to find your neighbor again. Xavier.
He was dressed in a blue button-up, a striped navy jacket on his arm, with matching dress pants. His thin frames seemed to have accentuated the blue color of his eyes. “Hi…” Xavier said, waving his hand at you, a small smile playing on his lips.
“H-hi, Xavier.” You responded, slightly stunned at his appearance. Not only did he look attractive in casual clothes, but it felt as if it was multiplied by a hundred times in his formal wear. Your neck even had to crane up slightly due to the height difference, and you always had a thing for taller guys.
A soft silence played in-between the two of you. Just the two of you looking at each other with curiosity in your eyes.
“I just wanted to uh-” He scratched the back of his neck, looking away, as if he suddenly remembered why he was there. “Did you want a ride to work? Since…we’re both going to the same place anyways…”
You cocked your head to the side, questioning him. “You’re either a saint or someone planning to murder me…” You half-joked.
His smile came back to his face before pulling his phone out and scrolling for a moment. And then he faced it towards you. “This is my onboarding letter, if it helps.”
Welcome to UNICORNS as one of our new Front End Engineers!
Your eyes widened as you read through the letter. “You’re the new person I’m training!”
His eyes mimicked yours, widening by surprise. And then it was as if he was releasing everything off of his shoulders, clutching at his chest. “Oh I’m so glad.” His smile reached up to his eyes as they wrinkled with joy. “It’s my first office job in a while and…” He looked at you gratefully. “I’m glad it's you…I stayed up all night because I was so nervous.”
The way he seemingly twinkled in front of you made you stare at him with awe. You wondered if this was really the man you were supposed to spend the rest of the week with, on top of living in the same building as him. It almost felt like you hit the manhwa lottery. “Don’t ease up yet, I could be really strict at work.”
Xavier loosened up his collar and fumbled with his cuff links. “I’d rather have it be my neighbor than a mean older man.” He smiled down at you, straightening himself up. “But throw everything at me today, trust me. I can take it.”
You were enjoying the small talk between the two of you that you didn’t realize that you had already missed your train. It was odd to you that despite years of being unable to make new friends, you felt that you were able to click with Xavier quickly. “I guess…I’ll take you up on that ride to work.” You bit your lip.
“Cool…it’s, um, good for the environment to carpool.” He stepped aside to let you close your door and walk with him to the elevator. “How long have you been working with UNICORNS?”
You had to think for a moment. “I think it’s been two years and a half. I started out as an associate but was able to become front end pretty quickly.” You turned to him, cocking your head with curiosity. “Did you do front end work beforehand? Normally everyone starts out as an associate.”
He pressed his lips together in a thin line as he looked around awkwardly. “Yeah…I did it for another company. I also have a lot of connections that let me skip that route, but I am a hard worker.”
You waved your hands in front of you to dispute any concerns. “I’m not accusing you of anything! I was just curious…I’ll have to see about the ‘hard working’ part though.” You smirked at him to lighten the mood. Although you were a little jealous that he was able to move up quickly, you didn’t really doubt his experience. And if anything, you still ranked up rather fast since this was your first job.
The car ride to work was really nice, compared to the bustling train ride. Xavier owned an extremely beautiful luxury car which he became flustered showing as he noticed your surprised eyes. He had said that it was a dream car of his which he saved up for using the money he made on the side. Which made you more curious about his character since it seemed like the car was worth 10 months of rent.
Your phone pinged right at the usual time when Lumiere would normally stream with a note saying his apologies and that his stream will be at night starting from then on.
You saw Xavier peek over at your phone at the red light and you instantly shut-it, making him chuckle. “Sorry to be nosy, but I didn’t peg you to be someone who watched Legends streams.”
You cleared your throat as you looked out the window, “U-uh…sometimes. I’m not too good at the game so I like seeing people who are.” And then you looked at him. “Don’t say anything at work about it, though…It’s kind of embarrassing for me.”
“Really? I think it makes you…cool.” He smiled. “I play too…maybe we can play sometimes? I promise to keep it a secret.”
You chuckled softly, “Maybe…” Deep down, you were embarrassed. It was quelled only a bit by his assurance, but this was a part of you that you kept hidden. You had grown up thinking that video games were a waste of time, and yet there you were. And now someone knew about it–someone that you didn’t even know at all. You chewed on your lip as you thought way too hard about the implications of it all.
“Lumiere’s a pretty good player, but personally…I think I’m better than him.” Xavier said, causing you to whip your head towards him.
You realized that your reaction was too reactive and tried to play it off, clearing your throat and pretending to stretch your neck. “Interesting…” You muttered.
He chuckled, “Is he really that good?”
“Well, I don’t know how you play. I just find it hard to believe…” You nodded, attempting to not go full defense-mode.
“Find out, then.” The car hit another red light and he looked over at you. “Play with me tonight.”
“I’m not that good, I think. I don’t play too much.” You responded, flustered.
“I doubt that. And if anything, I’ll show you how good I am by making up for what you think you lack.” The car started again and when you peered over, he looked proud of himself.
You found yourself smiling too, since you never had anyone to play with before. It was rare to find someone nice in-game and you would always be too shy to queue up with them. “I guess we can play…if you’re good at work and we don’t end up ripping each other’s hair out by the end of the day.”
You were worried about arriving to work together, but everyone had assumed that you met him at the lobby. Surprisingly, no one had seen the two of you from the garage.
Xavier’s introduction went as you expected. He was so handsome that it caused a lot of wandering eyes. The whispers weren’t as hushed as the people thought, and you could see Xavier’s ears turn red at times. The only hard thing about training him was all the people coming up to introduce themselves.
Although Xavier was very warm and welcoming to you outside, he was actually rather stoic at work. He exchanged simple greetings to the people who tried to get to know him, but he didn’t show enough interest that people slowly gave up.
In terms of work, Xavier was excellent. You gave him a rundown of the company itself and daily works, and then you tested him on handling coding issues. And he was so quick at spotting mistakes that even you would take a few minutes to find despite your experience. It made you question how long he had been working in the industry. You thought that it was going to take a whole week to fully train him, but you were rather confident that he would be able to work alone in half that time.
He was working in the desk across from yours and you couldn’t help but steal glances throughout the day. You could see that everyone had the same idea. The way his eyebrows furrowed together as he filled out his additional onboarding paperwork, and the way his forehead showed whenever he ran his fingers through his hair. It was easy to say that he was the most handsome man on the team. And the other guys knew it. You wondered if it was going to be an issue, but Xavier wasn’t paying attention to anyone.
Xavier then said your name, and despite it being a call for your attention, it seemed to have called the entire table’s attention as well. “Can you tell me what to do with this thing?” He pointed at his screen, making you stand up and move to where he was. As you moved around the table, you could see the people looking at the two of you, pretending to be busy on their own keyboards. You could tell it was nonsensical typing, though.
He had a little notepad open, and you could see the notes he took of things you taught him. His handwriting was a lot prettier than yours, almost a perfect cursive. As if he had been practicing calligraphy all his life. It wasn’t usual for someone in computer science who spent all their career typing to have beautiful handwriting and yet he did. Xavier asked how to navigate the program that all of you worked on, and as you explained, you saw how his hands rested on his desk. It was hard to ignore how pretty his hands were, but you found yourself chuckling at how his left ring to index fingers rested on the ‘Q’ ‘W’ ‘E’ keys, whilst his right hand held his mouse. It was a clear sign of a Legends player.
The sound of your laughter left before you could even remember that everyone was watching you, and you tried to cover it up with a cough. You didn’t know how the rest of them took it, but you knew Xavier caught on.
Under his breath, he asked, “What’s funny…?” His eyes met yours with innocent confusion. You had just realized then that your faces were close to each other and you backed up instantly, looking away as you felt your face warm up. Even up close he was handsome. His silver eyelashes made his blue eyes pop even more and it intimidated you, despite how softly he looked at you.
“U-uh.” You stammered, before lowering your voice and pointing at his hands. “You just seem to be always ready to play.” You attempted to keep your face straight because you usually felt embarrassed when you noticed yourself in the same position after a night of playing until two in the morning.
Xavier laughed for the first time in the office. “I guess so.” He looked at you again with his eyes crinkled and you wanted to reciprocate the laughter. Yet people were still watching.
You cleared your throat and pointed back at the screen, continuing to train him. Somewhere inside of you felt excited. It felt as if you actually had a friend, and despite how awkward it felt to have the attention on you, you were excited for work again.
—
You started packing up after the long day. You had to stay later again to be able to finish a mistake in one of the programs that one of your coworkers had missed. It was hard to say ‘no’ to people due to your fear of being more disliked by others. Although you were sure that no one actually hated you, it was just awkward since no one wanted to really become friends either. So you found yourself stepping up a lot.
Xavier had gone home earlier, right at 5pm. When he was dismissed by the boss, he looked at you expectantly. As if waiting for you to ask him to wait for you, but you waved him off. You knew that you were going to be there for a longer time. He still seemed hesitant, but he eventually left after pretending to fidget around his desk for a moment.
You wondered if it was going to be a regular thing of riding with Xavier to work. It did make sense since carpooling is always nice and better for the environment. You just hoped that you two would become closer friends soon so that it would feel more natural.
As you were about to push your chair in to leave, you saw a ping on your phone.
lumiere: Sorry I lied! See U guys tomorrow (maybe). I’m still stuck at my j*b…Forgive me…please?
You sighed as you clicked your phone off, but you didn’t think you were going to watch him live that night anyways. Since Xavier had said he wanted to play the game with you. It was a weird thought in your mind, that you were choosing an actual person over your favorite streamer.
You felt like you were growing, just a little bit.
You walked out of the office and were walking towards the elevator when you saw the familiar silver-haired man, seated at the bench beside it.
“Xavier?” You asked, shocked.
His head whipped towards you, and you could’ve sworn his ears perked up. He mugged the way you called out to him and said your name back to you. “You’re off now?”
You checked the time on your phone and realized he had been waiting for almost two hours. “Why didn’t you go home?” You fast-walked over to him, confused.
“We took my car here…I didn’t know how you would get home. And then I realized that I didn’t have your number either. I wanted to ask you for it, but I feel like everyone else would’ve asked for mine too…” He scratched the back of his head.
“You waited?” You felt sheepish and warm. The effort he expressed was heart-fluttering, and the two of you barely knew each other. It wasn’t that small of a feat either, to not only wait that long, but to respect how the two of you were seen at work.
“It’s really dark out. And although you look strong, I think I’d sleep better if I knew you got home safe. You’re the only friend I’ve made here.” He stood up to press the button for the elevator. “We…are friends, right?”
You blinked. “I-I…I guess, yeah.”
“Cool.” Xavier threw his jacket over one shoulder and shoved his other hand in his pocket. His shoulders looked as if they had relaxed, like he had been holding in that question.
“Cool.” You agreed, the corner of your mouth twitching upwards as you looked on the ground.
“Friends usually exchange numbers…” You looked back up at Xavier who threw out the thought, but he was avoiding eye contact. You thought your eyes were playing tricks on you, but you swore the tips of his ears were pink.
The two of you stepped into the elevator and you pressed on the garage button before holding your hand out. You had meant it as a way to ask for his phone so you could put your contact in, but instead he gave you a low-five.
“Woot.” He said, pleased with himself. And when he met your eyes, the confusion he saw on you made him turn red. “Oh, was that wrong?”
You stifled a laugh. “I wanted your phone so I could give you my number.”
Xavier looked unsure and patted his back pocket. “I think it’s, um, dead, actually. Can I put mine on your phone instead?”
You dropped your hand and grabbed your own phone instead. You had a hint of suspicion with the way he said it, but you just weren’t sure what he would be hiding. So you let it go to the back of your mind. You opened up the contacts page and he took it from you to add his number. He had saved himself as “xavier 🌟” before handing it back to you.
On the car ride home, he had talked briefly about work, but he didn’t seem to be too interested in it. “We’re playing Legends when we get home, right?”
You nodded, fiddling with your fingers, “What would you do if I was really bad though?”
He shrugged. “I play to have fun, I really wouldn’t care. I’m getting bored of playing alone.” He raked his fingers through his hair, his teeth poking out from a snarky smile. “Don’t tell me you’re a toxic ranked player…” He prodded.
“No! I never want to sweat in a game. It’s actually a turn-off seeing toxicity. But this whole game is toxic…It sucks that it’s fun.” You pouted. It was one of the reasons that you kept your interests a secret. It wasn’t a well-liked game in the community since it was filled with enraged players.
Something about Xavier’s laugh made you feel like you had heard it before. It was comforting with a yearning of wanting to hear it again. You just couldn’t put your finger on the familiarity of it all.
“By the way…a lot of people looked like they wanted to be friends with you today. Are you not that social?” You finally asked, as you were confused about how stoic he was at the office. Before work, he was really talkative with you, and then all of a sudden it was as if he didn’t want all the attention. Although it was something that you really related to.
He chewed on his lip as he pulled into the garage of your apartment building. “Maybe later on…I’ll make friends. I prefer to focus on work at work, though.”
“I thought we’re friends now?” You cocked your head at him as your hand went to your seatbelt button, ready to get out as he pulled into his spot.
“I meant making other friends. I’m pretty satisfied if this is how the work weeks go.” He beamed at you and it almost looked like the car did get brighter at his smile, but you were sure that you were imagining things. “Do you want me to make other friends?”
“The girls seemed very enthusiastic about being your friend.” You accidentally said out loud. “But I mean, do what you want.”
He looked at you as he turned the car off with a push of a button. And then looked away with a soft chuckle. “You seem pretty work-focused too. I didn’t see you interact much either.”
You rolled your eyes as you climbed out of the car, grabbing your purse from the backseat. “I should at least pay you for gas for taking us to work and back…if this is a regular thing.” You said as you started walking to the elevator.
Xavier’s long legs made it to the buttons before you despite walking first. “It’s electric. And you can pay me back with hot pot every…Friday night.”
“If people see us, they’d think we’re dating.” You mindlessly mumbled.
“Are you bothered by that?” The elevator doors opened and he stepped in, pressing the two buttons for both of your floors. “As long as we know what it is, does it matter what other people think?”
“I-I guess not.” You chewed on your lip. “I just don’t want you to be the butt of anything…”
“It’d be an honor to get caught up in drama with you.” He smirked at you.
The two of you looked at each other, eyes crinkling as you were sure that you finally had a friend. Your heart swelled up just a bit, but you didn’t want to jump on anything yet until you got to know him more.
But you were attracted to him. One hundred percent.
The doors opened as the two of you still looked at each other. “Call me when you get set up. I’ll play a few games before I sleep.”
“Mm…are you hungry? I can make something for both of us before we play…” You said as you walked out of the elevator, looking over your shoulder to see what he thinks.
“Are you sure I’m not a serial killer yet?” He teased you.
“I’ll have the police on speed-dial in case you do anything.” You motioned him to get out of the elevator to follow you. “It’s the least I can do. And I heard your tummy in the car…don’t think you’re slick.”
“If you say so, m’lady.” He faked a curtsy and got out.
The two of you walked to your door and you let him in. You felt like you should be a bit more hesitant with letting a man into your house after just a day of knowing him. Although you had seen him around before, it was still fast. There was just such a comforting aura around him, that you were ready to welcome in closer to you. “Are you allergic to anything?”
Dinner went by better than you thought. It was a quick meal, but he was eager to eat. And he had a huge appetite for someone who looked rather slender. The only embarrassing thing was receiving a notification from your Lumiere fan account.
“Starlight?” He read out loud as he peeked over your shoulder while the two of you ate on the counter. There was surprise in his voice, and you couldn’t pin from what.
The way he said it, though, sent a shiver down your spine. Only one other person had ever called you by that name out loud, and it just so happened to be someone who sounded just like Xavier.
Shame would have taken over, but Xavier already knew of your interests. “I made it my name on everything…it kinda fits with Lumiere, don’t you think?” A small smile played on your lips, before you laughed at yourself and shook your head. “This is stupid.”
“What do you like about him?” Xavier asked as he took the bowls from your hands and brought them to your sink to wash them. “I’m not making fun of you, by the way. I just want to learn about you.”
You took a seat on the barstool of the kitchen island, giving you a clear view of him doing the dishes. You played with your hair, slightly exasperated, feeling weird that you’re opening up about your dumb crush. “Uh…I don’t know. I like playing the same games as him. I think he’s funny. I kind of relate to him sometimes…” You were internally beating yourself up because of the way you were talking about this streamer. You straightened up as you just accepted everything. “I learned a lot from watching him play.”
“It’s my turn to see how well you play then.” He turned around as he placed the bowls on the drying rack. There was no hint of judgement on his face. He just seemed happy to be there. “I noticed your keyboard…is it because of him?” He pointed his chin towards your computer set-up.
You put a finger on your chin, as if you were thinking. “I think we both like the same aesthetics…I like stars and purple and stuff…but yeah, I did copy him.” You crinkled your nose.
“I like that aesthetic too.” He grabbed his things by the door. “Thank you for dinner,” he smiled warmly, saying your name softly. “Call me when you’re ready. I’ve grown even more curious to see how you play.” And then he headed out.
The moment the door clicked, you dropped your head onto the breakfast bar counter and cringed. You confided a secret you kept for so long to a man that you just became friends with. And it didn’t help that it was a really attractive man that you just met.
You were just glad that he still wanted to be friends with you, but you were already kissing any hopes of progressing anywhere further with him goodbye.
“Xavier?” You said as he picked up the phone.
“Hey, starlight.” He put emphasis on your gamertag, making you cringe even more. And then a soft pang hit your chest. You had drilled Lumiere’s voice into your mind, and over the phone, Xavier sounded even more like him. And then he said your name, shaking you out of your thoughts.
“Has anyone ever told you that you kind of sound like…Lumiere?” You blurted out.
“Oh…is that why you said my voice was nice last night?” You could hear the smirk through the phone. “Now it doesn’t feel as genuine of a compliment. Ow.” You could tell it was sarcastic, making you break into a soft smile of your own.
You rolled your eyes, “Oh my gosh…Just tell me your username.”
“It’s ‘lightseeker #1016’. I’ll be awaiting the friend request from starlight, soon.” You heard the clacking of his keyboard through the receiver.
When you added him, he was a really low-level account. You were double his, but he had sworn he was better than Lumiere. And you knew Lumiere was around the 300s. “You talk big for someone who’s only level 67…” You mumbled, getting comfortable in your chair.
“Maybe I’m a fast learner.” The two of you got into the lobby together to select roles. “Do you have a preference?”
“Um, I usually play support. But I’ve been trying to learn how to play solo better, so I’ve been learning mid lane. It’s a bit harder to play support with randoms.” You looked through your bleak match history, seeing many losses.
“If you go mid, I’ll jungle. And if you go support, I’ll go bot with you. I’m pretty flexible.” He cleared his throat, switching through each role. “You ready?”
The two of you ended up playing more than you should have. And you admitted defeat as you saw that he was, indeed, as good as he said he would be. You tried both roles out, and each time he switched into a role that would be more beneficial for you. Xavier had even given you tips in a way that wasn’t pushy, and on top of that, he was a big praiser. Each ‘nice one’ or ‘good dodge’ sent a chill up your spine. It felt good playing with him. And even when you didn’t do too good, he was motivating and calm.
“Goodnight, starlight. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He said, yawning.
“You cannot call me that at work.” You laughed, shutting your computer down and heading over to your room with your phone. “But, goodnight Xavier. I had fun.”
“Me too.” And then he hung up.
When you got into your bathroom to brush your teeth, it was hard to wipe the smile off your face. It was as if you had found yourself your own version of Lumiere. And even if he wasn’t, you were just glad you had someone to look forward to seeing again. You were excited to go to work for once.
—
You had grown accustomed to Xavier’s presence as a routine between the two of you grew. He took the both of you to work, where two of you efficiently worked through the endless amount of codes and tickets, and then he’d drive the two of you back home. You’d always make food at home, unless it was a Friday. You kept your promise of getting hotpot with him, but it became a battle of who would pay. Although it was supposed to be you, as a payback for him driving all the time, he would somehow sneak off to the restroom where he’d take the bill with him.
On weekends, it seemed to be that he slept in. Which gave you time to do the errands you normally did. You would also visit bakeries as a way to destress.
Lumiere ended up moving his whole schedule to streaming only on the weekends. You would’ve been more upset if Xavier hadn’t come into your life, since you no longer had time to tune-in to his streams.
It was a comfortable routine. You had established a good relationship with someone who made things more exciting, and you were still able to get your work done and have proper time for yourself. And since Lumiere wasn’t as active, you felt a little less parasocial and silly. But you still really liked watching him.
Lumiere chuckled. “Someone in chat just asked if I stopped streaming because I met someone at the office…” He said as he cleaned up a game swiftly. “Is it obvious?”
Your eyes widened as he spoke, almost choking on your tea.
starlight: really!??
Another chuckle. “Starlight. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you in chat…” You still weren’t used to the way he’d catch onto you. Everytime you thought you were over the pair of hands on the screen, he easily sneaks back in. “I do like someone, but everyone has to keep it a secret. I think I’d have to quit if it doesn’t go well. Maybe even move out. I’m nervous.” His hands flexed over the keyboard.
starlight: gud luck :3
You shut your phone as you got ready to go home from the cafe. You were surprised. You couldn’t recall him being so open about his life, much less answering a question about romance. There was a pang of jealousy deep inside you, and you couldn’t help it. There was also worry about the people who liked him even more than you did, because you knew that this wouldn’t be received too well with the weird side of his fans.
The next day was another work week filled with more paperwork and coding. Xavier was no longer the talk of the office, but he was becoming another you. Someone who would take a lot of the tickets that others couldn’t handle. It also meant that the two of you ended up leaving at the same time, way after the designated end time.
As the two of you were in the break room, making coffee, he nudged you with his shoulder. “I heard people saying that I’m your favorite coworker.” He stirred his coffee, looking proud of himself.
You rolled your eyes. “Please…after you hid in bush last night instead of helping me?” You said, recalling the mistake he made during a game. “Why would they even be talking about us, anyways?”
He shrugged. “I dozed off on accident, it was like a minute…and I think it makes sense. I’d be curious about the person who always has their nose buried in the papers, too.” He took a seat at the same table as you. “And if I’m not your favorite coworker, then who is?”
You pretended to think as you sipped on your hot drink. “Maybe Charlie?”
“The catering baker?” Xavier looked truly puzzled. “He doesn’t even work here…”
“Yeah but he comes by every morning to drop off bread and snacks, so technically he is a team member if you really think about it.” You nodded, looking past him to see if there was anything left in the basket. “He sometimes brings by an extra muffin just for me!”
“So if I bring you two muffins, I’d be your favorite coworker?” He leaned closer to you, narrowing his eyes.
You held your breath as you felt him near you. “Maybe…does that matter to you?”
He sat back on his seat. “Yeah, actually. We spend most of the week together, and I’m still not your favorite?” He clutched at his chest. “You don’t care about me at all…” He pouted.
“Cute.” You muttered under your breath accidentally. And when you realized he heard it, you shot back up from your seat. “I forgot I have to call product management about- um, the program…thing.” You rambled before almost running out of the break room.
You had found yourself slipping up more often than usual. It was hard to contain your feelings as you slowly became more and more infatuated with Xavier. Every single daydream you had about Lumiere was turning into reality, only with Xavier. You had someone to play games with, and someone to laugh with to and from work, and someone who was extremely handsome and dependable. He was the full package for you. And just because of that, you had a hard time hiding it. Each time you slipped up, you were greeted with a warm smile from him, as if he knew, but you never stuck around long enough to let him have a proper reaction.
He returned to his desk shortly after, meeting your eyes every chance that you looked at him. It was playful. And it brought heat to your cheeks every time. Your phone then buzzed with a text from him.
xavier🌟: Everytime I look at U, ur looking at me
You looked up at him with a confused face and then rolled your eyes before burying your face in your arms. Up until your phone buzzed again,
xavier🌟: are U going to the dinner with everyone on Friday?
You sat back up and thought about it. You normally skipped them, but you had a feeling that he would skip out on the dinner too. And it shouldn’t be both of you that was socially isolated from the rest. So, as a sacrifice for you thought would be the greater good, you slowly nodded.
xavier🌟: on hotpot night? [Galaxy Kid: Pouting]
Another roll of your eyes.
You: we should be a part of society and attend these things. besides, its ur first one with the team. theyre supposed to all celebrate u or smth
xavier🌟: Id rather just spend time with U
You: we spend time together all the time, arent u getting sick of me
xavier🌟: Ur projecting on me arent U?
xavier🌟: I could never get sick of U.
You couldn’t help but giggle at your phone, earning a glare from the team leader.
—
Although it was probably obvious that the two of you were friends, you mainly kept to yourself at work. It was more out of habit, but you were still afraid of the lingering attention on the very-handsome Xavier Shen. And he did the same.
The interactions between the two of you were small and felt almost secretive. Like you were hiding an office relationship, and you would be lying if you said it didn’t excite you. Small brushes of your hands as you walked by him, as you handed him papers, or even as you grabbed coffee in the break room.
“Sorry for running late…” You muttered in the car, groaning as you rubbed your eyes.
“I recall someone saying ‘I’ll wake up on time, just one more game. We can’t end on a loss!’ last night.” He mocked you, laughing.
You playfully hit him. “If you played better, we would have gone to sleep on time.” You groaned, resting your head on the seatbelt. “I can’t believe I overslept.”
“Mind you, we’re not even late. We’re actually on time.” He tapped on the display of his car to make the time bigger. “What are you so upset about?”
You fiddled with the hem of your shirt. “Everyone usually arrives around this time.”
“And?” He scoffed. “Are you too embarrassed to be seen with me?”
“N-no!” You huffed out the window, exasperated. “I just…don’t want people to talk badly about us.”
“What would they say?” He asked softly, lowering the music in the car.
“I don’t know…maybe something about me going after the new guy. What if they’re judgemental?” You pouted, letting your insecurities spill.
“Are you going after the new guy?” You could hear the smirk on his face without even looking.
You narrowed your eyes at him. “If anything, the new guy’s coming after me, but they don’t know that.” You meant to dodge the question but ended up throwing an accusation out.
Xavier nodded. “The new guy is. Is it working?” You hadn’t even realized that the two of you were already in the parking lot of your apartment. “Unless you’re waiting for Lumiere to ask you out.” He asked as he put the car into park, turning over to you with his eyebrows knitted together. His lips were almost in pout.
You blinked at him, feeling the whiplash of him basically confessing and making fun of you at the same time. Your lips fell open as your mouth went ajar.
He dropped his head, chuckling with his eyes closed. It was hard to tell what he was laughing at. And then he looked back up at you, tapping your jaw up with the side of his index finger. “Don’t look so shocked.” His finger lingered on your chin, and you were sure his eyes darted at your lips before going back to your eyes.
Your mouth felt dry. You hadn’t been in a relationship in a long time, it felt all new to you again. It was exciting and slightly scary. “How should I look?”
Xavier pretended to think. “Hmm…I’d love to see a smile.” His blue eyes looked at you earnestly. Expectantly.
And you couldn’t help but comply. “Happy?” You blushed, pushing him away. “Let’s go to work already.”
The interaction made you forget about the reason you felt anxious to show up together so close to when everyone was arriving to work. Xavier always opened the door for you and you met with so many people’s eyes as you got out of the car. Your eyes shifted towards the floor, feeling awkward. There were whispers around the two of you as you all entered the building, and you were just hoping that it wasn’t because of you two.
It most likely was.
Multiple people filled up the elevator, pushing you and Xavier to the back. The morning greetings felt forced as it gave them an excuse to look at you. And him.
And then you heard a soft whisper. “I’d teleport us out of here…but I think it’s on cooldown, right now.” He joked, making a reference to the game.
It made you snort. A laugh that you weren’t expecting and couldn’t turn cute. Your hand slapped over to your mouth as some people looked back at you. And you felt Xavier’s shoulders move up and down as he stifled his own laughter.
The rest of the day was uneventful. You were beginning to think that you were overreacting–minus the morning. Although everyone was perhaps on a crunch to be able to make it on time to the company dinner.
You, on the other hand, couldn’t concentrate on your work at all. You kept glancing up from the screen to look over at Xavier. And sometimes your eyes would meet, sending your body into immense heat. Your imagination ran wild. You were wondering if it could have been considered even too wild. The multiple office fictions you had read replayed in your mind, romanticizing your boring work life. Yet there it was, unfolding in front of you in real-time.
You wondered how it would play out when the two of you were alone later. Xavier liked you back. You winced as you pinched the skin on the top of your left hand, making sure that you weren’t dreaming.
“Do you have the framework we need to use for this?” Xavier asked, jogging you out of your thoughts.
You had to blink yourself back into reality as he leaned down near you, pointing at the notification of his email on the corner of your screen. His other hand steadied himself beside you, using the back of your desk chair and his chest was near your face. “Oh, um…” You bit your lip, almost holding your breath, moving your mouse to open his email to find the issue he was working on. You studied it for a bit, hearing him breathing beside you as he read along.
Xavier was so close, you were worried he could hear your heart pounding in your chest. And he did. “Are you nervous because you’re looking for a way to reject me or are you excited?” He muttered just loud enough for you to hear.
Your finger twitched, making your right-click the screen, and he laughed softly. “I’ll email you what I normally use for this sort of ordeal…You can go back to your desk.”
“Answer me, first. Please?”
You hesitated, pondering if you wanted to play hard to get or give in instantly. Little did you know that you were too confident in yourself for even thinking that you had control over your words. “I’m not rejecting you.”
A sigh of relief left him. “Good.” And then he stood back up and walked to his desk. As if nothing ever happened. Yet, it was almost as if the room got brighter.
—
The chosen restaurant was just the bar and grill across the street of the company building. It was popular for a lot of surrounding company dinners. Everyone seemed to have been in good spirits so you were a little excited to go with them, now that you were sure that you weren’t going to be alone in the corner.
“I’ll catch up to you guys! I just have to finish a few more things…” You responded to someone asking if you were attending the dinner. It came as a shock since the past two times, no one really asked anymore after you didn’t go before.
“Me too.” Xavier said, waving them off.
Hushed whispers filled the doorway as you felt eyes on the back of your head again. “The reservation in thirty minutes! Don’t be too late, you two!” Another coworker said before heading out.
It was a truthful excuse though. You had spent most of the workday dillydallying with your thoughts, making you slower at your coding. The chatter died down as you heard all your other coworkers reach the end of the hallway or already heading downstairs, and you finally let out a sigh of relief.
“We can just go home now, if you want.” You heard Xavier say, making you peek over your monitor.
“You should really interact with your coworkers. There’s only room for one loner in this office.” You pretended to boast before sighing, resuming your typing. “Besides, I kind of want a free dinner tonight.”
“I pay for dinner many times.” He knitted his eyebrows towards you.
You rolled your eyes. “Only because you never let me, but I mean like free free. Where you’re not paying either. Now finish your work so we can go.”
“I am done, I’m just waiting for you.” You saw him put his head down on his desk, as if he was preparing to take a nap.
You huffed. “Show off.”
He spoke a bit muffled, but you were still able to hear him clearly. “I’d rather go home so we can talk.”
“We’re talking right now.” The numbers and letters on your screen were spinning all over the page, you couldn’t focus at all.
“Do you like me?” He asked, his head still on his desk.
The room went quiet again. You realized how loud your typing was the moment that you stopped.
Xavier lifted his head again, looking at you from the side of his monitor this time, resting his cheek on his hand. A small pout played on his lips. “I like you.”
You pressed your lips into a thin line. Your eyes glanced over at his, but you were unable to hold his stare. “Yeah.”
“Can we ditch the company dinner and go on a date instead?” Xavier was bold. You realized that you never pegged him to be as confident as he was, and then his true colors would peek through his impatience.
“No.” You were stearn, frowning. It was merely an attempt to hide how giddy you felt. “We can go out next time.” You continued to type, but there was no point. Your hands were shaking and none of your commands were being spelled correctly and you were missing every semicolon possible in your code. You were just performing at this rate.
“After?”
“What are you in such a rush for?” You asked, feigning annoyance.
“Is Charlie the caterer going to be at the dinner?” He asked, a deeper pout showing on his lips.
You couldn’t help but let out a laugh. “Is this because of what I said a few days ago?”
“Answer the question.”
“He owns that restaurant.” You lied.
You swore that you almost saw steam leave the top of his head and his ears as he believed you. And you worked so hard to keep the laughter contained. “I already said I like you.”
“I saw the way he talks to you in the morning. He likes you too.” You couldn’t see his hands, but you were sure that they were clenched into balls. “But please remember that I like you in a way that no one else can.”
You were a mess. Your heart felt like it was going to jump out of your chest. “Xavier…” You gasped.
He crossed his arms over his chest and sat back on his chair, his head leaned back with his eyes closed. “If you keep looking at me like that and saying my name like that…I can’t promise that I’ll last until the end of the night.”
Next thing you knew, you were stood up. With shaky hands and knees, you walked over to his chair and put your hand on his chest to grab his tie.
No words were being exchanged as he opened his eyes to look at you–into you. As if he knew and he was waiting. You bit your lip, your fingers feeling the muscles of his chest through his dress shirt. A small smirk played on his lips as he stood up, suddenly towering over you, waiting for your next move. Quietly.
Your hand moved down his tie, grabbing the end of it before storming out of the office, dragging him with you. Down the hallway with the automatic lights as they turned on with every clop of your high heels on the marble flooring. Your entire body felt like it was on fire, trying to figure out yourself on what you were planning to do. And then you pushed into the room of the stairway of the building, dragging him into the dim room with you.
“You’re so impatient,” you muttered as you pressed his back to the wall by the floor number right by the door.
“I like seeing your reactions…” He brought his face closer to you, as if he was waiting and wanting.
But you pulled back just enough to make him question everything. You saw the flashes of concern and confusion as you backed away from him. “I like seeing yours too, I guess.” You wondered if he could see your eyes, moving back and forth to every feature on his face to see how he felt.
Time moved slowly at first as you tiptoed to kiss him, pulling him down by his tie to meet somewhat halfway. You scrunched your eyes closed as you pressed your face against his. You couldn’t really tell if you were holding your breath, or if you just completely forgot how to breathe. It felt like an eternity before he started acting human again, instead of a statue.
But when he did, it was like someone pressed play and each movement suddenly felt rushed or even on fast-forward. He pulled your body closer to him by your waist, making you stumble forward and put most of your weight on him. You let go of his tie to place both your hands on either side of his chest, letting him hold you. It was almost as if the two of you could fuse together with how hot it felt.
His hands moved from your waist to your back, fully wrapping his arms around you. And you could feel the way his biceps flexed as he held you. His fingers that were moving up your spine made you shiver. And then one hand stayed on the middle of your back as he brought one up to your face, holding your jaw as you two kissed.
You were sure that you forgot how to kiss someone, but it felt almost automatic with Xavier. His lips felt soft and tasted minty from all the pillow mints he would take from the office break room. It made you giggle softly as you could almost tell how much he ate.
He pulled back to read your face, his thumb tapping the side of your lips with his head cocked. “Are you having fun?”
You nodded. “No wonder I’ve been having to refill the bowl of mints more often since you started working here. You eat them all.” You jabbed at his chest with your finger.
Xavier chuckled and then rested his head on your shoulder, you felt his nose nuzzle at your neck as he hugged you with both his arms again. He sighed, his breath tickling you and making you giggle again. “Now I really don’t want to go…”
“They’re waiting for us…” You moved your hands up to loop around his neck, hugging him back. You did your best to ignore the growing excitement in between your legs and between his.
“Let them.” He groaned, standing back up to look at you. “You’d rather keep me waiting than our coworkers?” Xavier practically glared at you as he pressed his forehead against yours. “I thought we were closer to each other than them.” It sounded as if he whined, his voice breaking ever so lightly.
“It’s rude to let people wait. This is supposed to be your very late welcoming dinner…” You gulped. You wanted to kiss him again. You wanted to kiss him even deeper, taste him even more. Mark every inch of his pale neck and leave stains of your lip balm on his cheek. Your hands balled up into fists on his chest as you fought the urge.
“You can welcome me instead…let me take you out on a date, right now. Like a gentleman…please.” He was practically pleading, inhaling each breath of yours like it was his. “I won’t do anything further until you let me take you out. No matter how much you…” He closed his eyes, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose. “No matter how much you look at me like that.”
Half-lidded and dazed, was the way you were looking at him. “Okay…” You wanted to be the person of sound mind and participate in work networking activities, but it was getting harder to ignore every feeling that you had for him.
He smirked with the sheer confidence of knowing that he won. His hands slid upward, softly and slowly to cup your face. His right thumb tracing your bottom lip. “Where’d all that care for our coworkers go? I expected you to stand your ground.”
“I’m saying ‘yes’ now. Are you going to keep teasing me because I’ll walk over to the restaurant right now and postpone this date until next week.” You pushed him back into the wall and went to grab the door back into the main hallway.
But he caught your hand and intertwined his fingers with yours instead, halting your actions. He held your waist with his other hand and the pose felt like the two of you were about to do a ballroom number. “No. Let’s grab your stuff and we’ll go right now.” He pouted at you again, bringing the hand he was holding to his lips and muttering against it. “I’ll be good.”
You instantly pulled him in and gave him a peck on the lips, overwhelmed with such affection for him. “What are you waiting for then?”
The two of you rushed back into the office. Your leftover work completely left your mind as your head was filled with blood, sweat, and too many indecent thoughts. Xavier had taken off his jacket and loosened his collar, making you want to jump his bones even more. But the thought that he merely took his jacket off to hide what was growing in his pants made you want to laugh.
The plan was to go to dinner and then go home. Mainly to see what happened next.
Yet the moment the two of you reached his car, the two of you couldn’t keep your hands off of each other. He opened your door after placing your purse in the backseat and instead of sitting down, you looked up at him. There was nothing in your head anymore. And you were sure with the way he looked at you like he was drunk with need, that there was not much control in his head either.
He crashed his lips onto yours, practically forcing you to sit down in the car with the sheer intensity. You gasped as you felt his hand on your hip, his thumb pressing down on your thigh as he was trying so desperately to hold onto you, as if he was afraid of you slipping away. Xavier’s tongue traced your teeth, like he was afraid of pushing his luck. Your eyes instantly shut as you attempted to kiss back with as much fervor. Your chest swelled with happiness as you were finally able to act on your feelings and it made you feel like you were floating. Yet your mind couldn’t stay quiet.
You pulled back just enough to be able to talk but your lips still chased after yours like oxygen. “Are we going too fast?” You asked, concerned.
“I waited months.” He planted a kiss on the corner of your mouth. “I’ll wait more if you want to…” Another kiss on your cheek. “I don’t think you want to, though.” A kiss to your jaw. “Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop.” His teeth nibbled on your ear, you could feel the tip of his tongue so close to your neck, making you shiver. “We’re just…kissing. Nothing more…not yet.”
Not yet.
“What if someone sees us? A security guard or something…” Your knee brushed past the bulge growing in his pants and it made him groan right next to your ear as he clenched his fingers around your arm. The sound made you more excited than you ever thought, and all you could think about was wanting to hear more of it. You moved your knee against it again. And again, enjoying the sounds of him biting back right by your ear until he held your knee still.
“I’m about to make you walk to the restaurant if you keep behaving like this.” Heavy breathing was all you could focus on. The idea that you had this much effect on him made you feel assured. You pulled back to give yourself a better view of him.
Your neighbor, coworker, and friend was in front of you breathing heavy, red ears, glazed eyes, and with an evident erection. His once bright blue eyes suddenly looked darker than navy. All because of you. “How are we going to dinner if you look like this?” You raised your hand to cup his face and he nuzzled into it instantly, inhaling the scent of your palm.
“Keep your hands to yourself, and I’ll be fine.”
You had never seen Xavier drive as fast as he did that night. His fingers gripped the wheel tight, turning his already pale knuckles even whiter. You couldn’t help but look over to see the way his forearms flexed underneath the rolled up dress-shirt sleeves.
Your palms were sweating as you did your best to keep your hands in your lap. Your thighs were pressed together, feeling friction where you needed it at every speed bump.
You couldn’t even focus on the menu at dinner. It was a beautiful place and he instantly knew to go there. Either he had been there before or he had been planning it for as long as he said. And judging from antisocial he was, he didn’t seem to be a serial dater.
“Do I get a margarita…?” You joked, trying to ignore every instinct in your body to jump him.
“No. If you’re even the slightest bit tipsy, I won’t be able to trust a single word you say after…” Xavier’s eyes were knitted together, looking like he was calculating what he was going to do. “I want to know that you’re kissing me because you like me and not because of the tequila.” He sternly said.
You nearly melted in your seat. A bare minimum, but it was so refreshing nonetheless. “If we just order appetizers, will it still count as a date?”
“Mm…yeah. As long as you tell me why you like me and why we should be together.” He put the menu down in front of him and rested his cheek on his propped up hand, looking at you with sparkling curiosity.
You nearly choked on your water. “Aren’t you the one asking me out? Shouldn’t I ask you why I should say yes?”
He sat back up and straightened his tie. “Okay.” He tapped on the table mindlessly as he got his words together. “I’ve been interested in you for a while. Pre-coworkers.” A small smile played on his lips. “You left early and got home late. Professional and pretty. But then on the weekends, sometimes I see you in the elevator in Craftmine pajamas and bunny slippers.”
You pouted. “Stalker.”
Xavier rolled his eyes. “And then we’re working together. You’re headstrong and confident. Work hard. Friendly but you’re kind of like me.”
“Xavier, you are not that friendly towards our coworkers.”
“Do you want me to tell you why I like you or not?” He glared at you. “Hush. Now…we have the same interests. We became accustomed to each other. And I like what we have. But I want more.” He let out a sigh. “I thought I would be okay with doing whatever we’d been doing the past few weeks.” His hand spread open, tensed, before balling up into a fist. “But then I saw that stupid baker laugh at one of your jokes.”
“I can’t be funny now?” You teased him, enjoying the jealousy behind his eyes.
“You can. Just with me though, please.” He reached for your hand and fiddled with your fingers, rubbing his thumb on your knuckles. “I’m new to this feeling of being jealous. And I realized it'd be really hard for us to be just friends.”
You nodded slowly. “Okay…same.”
He smirked at you. “I give you my whole story and all I get is a ditto?”
You shrugged. “You’re good at Legends?”
He hummed, removing his hand from yours. “Who do you like more? Me or Lumiere?”
You pretend to think long and hard. Each second that went by made his ears turn pinker at the tips. You tried to keep a straight face as you said, “I’ve watched Lumiere longer, but I guess…it’s you now.”
“That’s not very reassuring.” He leaned back on his chair, his eyes glaring at you as he crossed his arms over his chest. “So you like to watch me suffer, I see.”
“Hey, if anything, since I spend more time with you now, I don’t watch his streams as often.” You sighed, taking another sip of water. “He doesn’t stream that much anymore either, though.” You thought for a moment and laughed to yourself, shaking your head as you set your glass down.
“What’s so funny?” He asked, putting his elbows to the table again, as if he was attempting to close the distance between you two.
You shrugged, dragging the tip of your index finger around the rim of the glass. “You two are so alike…I’ve never seen the two of you in the same room.” You joked. “Xavier,” you locked eyes with him. “You’re not Lumiere, right?”
Xavier looked stunned, and you couldn’t tell if it was because you asked what you deemed as a ‘dumb’ question or because you just compared him to someone he didn’t seem to like very much. He opened his mouth to answer, but then the waiter came to ask for your orders.
You thought that the dinner would have been hard to get through, but you forgot how easy it was to be with Xavier. There were moments where you would remember what was happening in your pants, but for the most part, you were able to enjoy your time without squirming in your seat too much.
He ordered a small dessert, sharing the ice cream with tiny spoons as you two giggled at small talk. “I want us to be together.” Xavier said, clinking his spoon onto yours as if the two of you were sword fighting. “I really want to call you mine.”
You hummed, tapping your spoon onto his again. “We only know so much about each other…What if you get to know me and then realize I-”
“Isn’t it enough that I want to know everything about you? Each little thing I learn about you is meaningful to me. And I want more.” He set the spoon down. “I want to be the only one who knows this much about you, see every side of you.”
You took a deep breath, setting your spoon down next to his. “Will I learn about you?”
“Haven’t you been?” He cocked his head, the same smug smirk grew on his face.
You shrugged. “I feel like I talk a lot more than you do. I want to know what you used to do and what you aspire to do. Things like that.”
“I aspire to be yours. Can we start there?” He motioned for the check as he held his gaze onto you. “We’ll have all the time to learn about each other, I just can’t stand the idea of not being able to call you mine as we do.” He held your hand again. “Please?”
You wanted to scream ‘yes’ over and over again, as if he had just proposed to you. But something in you wanted to play hard to get. It felt so easy for you to tease Xavier, and seeing his very slight annoyance was amusing to you. “So…we’re dating?”
“If you accept me.”
“I guess…we’re dating then.” You attempted to contain your excitement with another swig of water. You felt like you were getting your first boyfriend in high school. It was giddy and unreal. You thought back to how you entered relationships back in college, but it all felt so casual compared to his loaded confession. This felt real and raw to you. And you wanted more. You were excited for every ‘first’ with him. All of a sudden, your past relationships didn’t count anymore.
“That doesn’t sound serious enough actually.” He pouted, sulking into his seat. “And you don’t sound that excited.”
You felt like jumping him like one of those jumpscares from another video game you enjoyed. Your mind was melting, screaming the word ‘cute’ over and over again. “Let me prove it to you then.” You said as you stood up and began to walk out of the restaurant. You saw how he fumbled with his wallet, taking out a wad of cash to leave on the table instead of waiting to pay with his card.
He caught up with you, interlocking your fingers together and dragging you faster with him. He opened the car door for you and continued to hold your hand for stability as you got in. It felt like that one scene from a movie where the guy held her hand as she got onto a carriage.
The car was freezing, but you were fully sweating. Your legs were shivering and you couldn’t tell if it was the rest of your body feeling cold, or if it was from excitement. You saw Xavier take swift steps around the car to get to the other side, fully ignoring oncoming traffic.
The two of you sat there for a few seconds. It felt awkward. You wanted him to take you right then and there, but you didn’t want to seem too eager. You were embarrassed that you were acting like a bunny in heat. It was all too new again and you didn’t want to ruin things. You usually never did anything on the first date either, but it felt different with Xavier. Especially since you had spent a lot of time with him already, it was as if every outing before was a date too. You looked at him, waiting for something. Anything.
“I’m trying really hard to build myself to take the both of us home, right now.” He closed his eyes and drooped his head, taking a deep breath.
“Why haven’t you started the car yet, then?” You rested your elbow on the center console of the car, putting your chin onto your palm as you continued to stare at him. “Are you waiting for something?”
“Are you?” He finally opened his eyes and glared at you, inching his face towards you. You could smell the slight coffee scent from dessert in his breath. His eyes glanced up and down your face, obviously looking at your lips that were in a pout as you grew impatient. “Your eyes…I’m quite patient, but when it comes to you…” His hand moved up to your face, his thumb barely grazing at your bottom lip that was jutted out.
“I actually feel like the most impatient one here,” you took a shaky breath in. “Xavier…”
His breath hitched and he leaned closer as if he was about to kiss you, his bottom lip almost touching yours. But his thumb separated the two of you. And then he let out a chuckle as he noticed your eyes were fully shut.
Xavier moved his face to the side of yours, reaching over to grab your seatbelt. His breath tickled your neck before he pulled back. His other hand pushed you by your shoulder, gently, to make you sit properly onto the chair. “You are.” A click of the seatbelt fully throttled you out of your thoughts. “Impatient.” He clicked his tongue and sat back into his seat, putting his own seatbelt on before pushing the button to start the car.
You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest as you got comfortable. You knew that he was teasing you, and you wondered how long he was able to keep his composure.
Xavier hummed along to the random song playing on the radio, tapping on the steering wheel. He was clearly amused with seeing you squirm in your own seat.
“You’re enjoying this,” you glared at him from the side, crossing your leg. Your foot tapped against the car, evident with your displeasure.
Another chuckle. “I told you…I want to see your reactions.” He reached over and poked you on your cheek. “All of them.”
You couldn’t fight down the smile that was playing on your lips as he said those words. It was flirtatious and teasing all at once, and you were so close to taking the steering wheel yourself to swerve the car into an abandoned parking lot.
Instead, you reached your left hand over and rested it on his thigh. You didn’t miss his tiny jump with the way he reacted. Nor did you miss the way his fingers twitched on the wheel. “How much longer until we get home?”
“Not soon enough…” Xavier answered through gritted teeth, his knees parted even more, making your fingers move closer to the inside of his thigh. You dragged it slowly more upward, teasing him with your fingertips. “B-behave…” His voice, which was normally soft, became strong and stern.
“I’m not doing anything…Am I bothering you?” You squeezed his thigh making him twitch again. You took your pinky and moved it closer to the growing bulge in his pants. “Maybe I’m not the only one that’s impatient, huh?”
Thankfully for the two of you, there were barely any cars on the road. And he was speeding up immensely. “I’ll be the judge of that.” His right hand moved from the wheel to your own thigh.
Your thighs squeezed onto his fingers out of surprise.
“Do you want me to stop?” He huffed out.
You couldn’t answer, you were afraid that your voice would break. Instead, you relaxed your legs and yourself onto the seat. And you moved your hand up on him, inviting him to mirror you. Your ring and pinky finger were rubbing him over his pants and you knew exactly what you were touching.
He wasted no time to cup your heat, two of his fingers finding your clit through your pants instantly as he pressed down. You bit down on your bottom lip to suppress any sound fighting to come out of you as you felt him. “Fuck…how long does it take to get home…” He moved his two fingers up and down, slowly. Too slowly for you. “You’re trembling.” He continued. “I’ve been thinking about how sensitive you are.”
A small moan came out of you and the hand that was on his lap slapped over your mouth as the other cupped over his own hand.
“Your expressions are telling me I’m doing a very good job…” You could hear the smirk in his voice as his thumb rubbed your thigh whilst the two other fingers pressed down on you. “At least let me hear that I’m doing good too, yeah?” His voice was deep and breathy, almost desperate and breaking.
You were just glad to see familiar buildings, knowing you were close to home. Your hand came down, gripping your seatbelt as you let soft moans come out of you. You knew words no longer existed, and yet you complied with his request.
“You sound so good, my star…” His fingers were rubbing small circles on you now, and you wondered how much you were leaking through the fabrics of your bottoms. You could feel the intense warmth in between your legs.
You were so focused on cumming that you didn’t realize that he had messily parked the car already. Both of your hands gripped at his wrist as he moved faster and harder against your core. Whimpers spilled out of your mouth until he nudged your face up with his nose to reach your lips. Engulfing you with a kiss as you slowly unfolded.
The position must have been awkward for him, but his slender fingers persisted whilst his other hand pushed your head closer to him. You gasped against him as your legs shook with intensity and you came just from getting rubbed over your pants.
“Did you like that?” He asked, breathing in your own breath.
All you could do was nod as you processed what had just happened. No one had ever made you feel that intense that you could cum just like that before.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He smirked before pressing a soft kiss to your lips.
Xavier pulled back to take his seatbelt off and his hand moved to the engine button again, probably to fix his parking, but you instantly tugged on his shirt to pull him back towards you. “Sh-shouldn’t I return the favor…?” You asked, glancing at his crotch before realizing it was too dark in the garage to see anything.
He chuckled and pulled you into another kiss. “Later…I promise.”
The elevator trip upstairs was sweet, unlike what happened in his car. There was slight disappointment in your chest, wondering what’s keeping him from taking you in that elevator. You wondered if the sound you made while you came was a turn-off or if his hand was hurting too much from the angle he was in. The little things that made you overthink were swarming your brain.
Then he hugged you from the back and pressed a kiss onto your neck. “What are you thinking so hard about?”
You held onto his arms that were around you. “Hmm…Just thought you wanted to…y’know.” You admitted.
He chuckled, his hair tickling your neck as his head moved as he reacted. “Are you disappointed? I just wanted to talk to you first…” He pressed himself closer to you and you could feel his sincerity. “Can’t you feel that I’m holding back?”
You rolled your eyes, “What’s so important that we have to-” You stopped talking as the elevator doors opened to your floor and you saw boxes outside of the unit beside you. “Woah, someone’s finally moving in.” You pulled away from Xavier and walked into the hallway of your floor to see if you could introduce yourself.
You could hear Xavier grumble behind you, along with his footsteps following you. Although you were excited to be alone in your home with Xavier, wondering what could happen next as the two of you were actually a couple. But the unit beside you had been vacant since the day you had moved in, so you were just hoping that it was a nice person.
And then you saw a very familiar face.
“Charlie?” You exclaimed as you ran up to the doorway, making your way through the boxes. “Woah! You’re my new neighbor!”
“Hey!” Charlie said, putting down the stand-mixer that he was holding. “What a coincidence!” He reached his arm out, motioning for a side-hug.
You were about to reciprocate until Xavier took his hand and shook it. An awkward scene, but you were too busy being surprised by how suspiciously polite Xavier looked. “Hi, I’m your neighbor too. I live upstairs.”
“O-Oh! Hello!” Charlie smiled at him warmly, but the warmth was not reciprocated by Xavier at all. “You’re the newest hire, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. And you’re the baker.” His hold on Charlie was firm, as if he was trying to show him up.
Charlie wiggled himself free from his grip and then motioned to the boxes. “I should finish unpacking.”
“Of course! We’ll leave you to it then…” You grabbed Xavier’s wrist and pulled him toward your apartment. You knew Xavier had something against him, which you actually found quite endearing, but you didn’t expect him to let it show. Despite how polite he tried to be, it was more condescending and obviously fake. Once the door to your place closed, you threw your stuff on the couch and went to the kitchen to make tea. “I can’t believe your best friend is living next to me,” you jested, almost snorting.
“Now that he’s your neighbor, are you going to invite him over for dinner too?” He stood by one of the counters of the kitchen, leaning his head against one of the cabinets. You couldn’t see his face too clearly, but that pout of his was prominent from his tone.
It wasn’t that you liked hearing him be sad or upset, but something about it made you want to tease him even more.
“Shouldn’t I?” You weren’t going to, but the idea of Xavier possibly breaking the door down was amusing to you. “Calm down, Xavi…I thought I heard the kettle whistling, but it was just the steam coming out of your ears.” You walked toward him and placed your hand on his cheek, your thumb caressing him softly to loosen his frown. “Now what did you want to tell me that you’re keeping me waiting for?” You wrapped your arm around his neck to hook onto him and he wrapped his arms around your waist to hold you close to him.
His expression changed completely. The usually confident Xavier Shen looked like he was about to start trembling like a little chihuahua.
You raised an eyebrow at him and tilted your head, seeing if you could look into his blue eyes and look through his thoughts, but he started avoiding your gaze. “Earth to Xavier?”
“I’m Lumiere.” He said, his voice breaking a little.
You let out a nervous chuckle. “Come on, what actually do you have to tell me?” His arms loosened around your waist and one hand came up to rub the back of his neck, something he did when he felt awkward. “Are you secretly an alien? Like Clark Wayne or Bruce Kent or whatever?”
He took a deep breath and then looked you in the eyes. “I was going to tell you before I asked you out, but I never knew the time and whenever I’m with you I just…I really like you and I knew I needed to tell you before we went any further.”
You started staring aimlessly at his chest and then the ground trying to process what he was saying, but then he bent down to your gaze and tried meeting your eyes with his.
“Don’t be mad, please?” His voice cracked near the end, and you could tell it was taking everything out of him to tell you.
You didn’t know what you felt. It felt irrational to be mad because you didn’t even know what to be mad about. You were in some sort of state of shock. Your real-life crush was your online crush. On paper, you thought that sounded cute, but when it was happening to you in real time, you were just embarrassed. You talked about why you liked Lumiere to Lumiere himself. You even felt stupid for liking him because he was some faceless streamer that played a toxic game.
“Say something…” He quietly pleaded. Your name was whispered out of his mouth, like he was afraid of breaking it if he said it too loud.
And then the kettle did start whistling.
You dropped your hands from his neck and turned around to remove it from the stove. Without looking at him, you finally talked. “You should go home tonight. I have to think.”
“Ask me anything, please. I-” Xavier said, you could hear him getting closer to you.
“Please…just give me a moment, Xavier.”
“I’ll be one call away…okay?” He said. You could feel him so close to you, like his hand was trying to reach out for yours, but he thought otherwise and then walked out.
You left the boiled water on the counter, not really checking if you turned the stove off. And then you face planted right on the couch. You looked for something to be mad at and all the answers just pointed at being mad at yourself for not realizing sooner. You had suspicions, but for your long-time infatuation being your neighbor that turned into your coworker and friend was too good to be true. You just thought you were being too hopeful. Now you two were more than friends so you were sure you should have been happy.
And yet, you couldn’t pinpoint why you weren’t.
The whole weekend passed by and you didn’t leave the house, nor did you talk to him. Which made you feel even worse. Since you couldn’t find any reason to be upset at him, just at yourself, and you still ignored every message and knocked on your door that you knew was him.
You even woke up extra early the following Monday to take the train and avoid him. It was the first time you had taken the train in months, and on top of that, it was a quiet ride. You couldn’t even bring yourself to listen to music, your thoughts were loud enough.
And it was as if he knew because he showed up to work, looking less prim and proper as he took his seat in front of your desk, searching for any sign of you in you. Yet you averted your gaze.
It was suffocating being at your desk as your thoughts ran grew louder. It was as if everyone else could feel the tense air too as they worked quieter than usual.
The man you had pined over on the internet for months, almost a year, and the man you had been pining over in real-life turned out to be the same person. And you could feel his eyes glance over at you every other moment.
You still couldn’t find it in yourself to be mad at him, even though you really wanted to. You just felt humiliated.
Although you were trying to figure out when he would have told you, or if he would have ever told you. You knew you weren’t really obligated to know as of yet. You two had just started developing something more than friends.
You couldn’t focus on the codes on the screen as you were thinking back to everything you had said to the streamer that just so happened to be someone who was really close to being your boyfriend. You’ve had drunken nights where you complimented him a lot on your social media accounts, making thirsty statements about his hands. Yearning for the faceless man. You wanted to scream into your hands as you remembered that Xavier knew your username. He knew it was you. And now you knew it was him.
The moment it hit the time for your lunch break, you darted out of the office, heading up multiple flights of stairs until you reached the roof of the building. Your head spun like you were losing oxygen until you pushed the heavy door and felt the fresh air hit your face. Deep breaths.
Lumiere was Xavier. And Xavier was Lumiere. Somewhere deep down, you already knew. Even after trying to deny it. And now that it was fully confirmed, you wanted to scream. You wanted to cringe yourself into a black hole as flashes of interactions with lumiere kept going through your mind. You were on the “Lumiere X Reader” tags on fanfiction sites too.
It was hard to distinguish what you felt. Guilt, embarrassment, confusion…The mix was overwhelming.
A long and deep breath kept you from spiraling.
All you knew was that you still liked him. A lot.
Another deep breath.
Even if it was embarrassing for you, he still confessed to you even with the knowledge that you were one of Lumiere’s biggest fans. It was also better off that he told you from his own chest rather than finding out later on. The only thing that was keeping you away from him was your own cowardice.
Lumiere or not, you really liked Xavier.
With the newfound realization, you walked back towards your office with a new mindset. Along with plans in your head to talk to Xavier again. You craved your old routine back. You had grown too accustomed to being with him that it was tearing you apart that you weren’t doing the things you normally did.
You were coming up with things to say to him and finding segues to talking to him again. Different sorts of apologies and ways to apologize came to your mind. You wondered if you should follow him into the break room and say, ‘I’m okay that I completely embarrassed myself in front of you,’ and then kiss and make-up. It was multiple unrealistic scenarios straight out of a montage of a teen movie film.
Yet they were all interrupted as someone grabbed your wrist as you passed by the supply closet and pulled you into the dark room. Before you screamed, you heard a familiar ‘shhh’ and then the lights turned on.
Xavier was in front of you, bags visible under his eyes and clear signs of worry as he looked down at you. “I’m sorry I just…” He let go of your arm and stepped back, raking his fingers through his silver hair, taking a deep breath.
He looked like a mess, but it almost made you mad as to how good he looked despite it. The buttons of his shirt were misaligned and improperly tucked, mismatched socks, and one missing cuff link.
“You wouldn’t even look at me…and I didn’t know…” He started rambling.
You didn’t know how else to stop him, mainly because you were still in shock. And instead of being a rational person, stop him by saying ‘Hey! It’s fine!’ Instead you stepped on your tippy toes, grabbed his wrinkled collar and brought him down for a kiss.
Both of you seemed to have been in shock as you pulled away. “S-sorry. I just- Um, I wasn’t mad at you. I just felt kind of dumb for not connecting the two dots so-”
It was your turn to be stopped with a kiss.
Xavier pushed you back onto the shelf, one hand behind your head and the other above you, possibly to keep the shelf from falling down. He kissed you like you were the oxygen mask in a post-apocalyptic movie in space. Your eyes were still open and you could barely see that his eyes were squeezed shut until yours fluttered closed soon after.
He moaned softly as you kissed him back, like he was surprised by the affection you were showing after two days of ignoring him. “I thought…I screwed up…” He said, in between kisses as he gasped. And then he pulled away, putting his forehead on your shoulder, breathing heavily. “You’re not mad at me?”
You hummed, your hand on his shoulder. “I kind of am…You asked me so many embarrassing questions…turns out you just wanted to hear me praise you.” Your eyebrows knitted together, bothered by his audacity.
“I actually hate that you like Lumiere so much.” He grumbled against you. You could feel his teeth graze your exposed skin from your sleeveless top, as if he was going to bite you.
You scoffed. “You and Lumiere are the same person, didn’t you just say that?”
He pulled back to glare at you. “While Lumiere is funny and smart…I’m apparently corny and cocky.” He got closer to your face with each word. “He made the same joke I made a few days before and you’d roll your eyes at me. But I’m sure when Lumiere said it, you were laughing up a storm.”
You were still beating yourself up for everything, but the way he read you like a book made you want to disappear. You covered your face with your hands and cowered. “How long are you going to make fun of me? I’ll actually run away…” You mumbled into your fingers.
His small laugh made you warm up again, and then you felt his hands wrap around your wrists, prying them away from your face. One of his thumbs hooked under your chin to tilt your head up to look at him. “Do you still like me?”
You slowly nodded.
“Okay, good.” He kissed the tip of your nose, light and sweet. His lips moved down to yours and your mouth was agape, waiting for something. But instead, he pecked your bottom lip softly and chuckled. “Let’s go back to work. I’ll take care of you later. We have time we need to make up.” He reached up above you again and grabbed a box of paperclips.
And then you were alone in the supply room.
The rest of the day was a blur. You were working on autopilot as you sped through every ticket in order to make sure that you were able to leave as soon as possible. The only time that it felt slow was when Xavier would look past his monitor to see you.
His expressions were normally hard to read, but it felt like everything was actually out in the open. And you could see from his almost-glowing blue eyes that he was rushing to the end of the work day as well.
As your humiliation was slowly dying down, your fascinations were coming back. You were so embarrassed that you couldn’t focus on the fact that you had actually liked one person for a long time. Your fingers worked away on the keyboard as you started to look on the brighter side of things.
You weren’t completely delusional after all.
The owner of the attractive hands was attractive himself. He was everything you thought you were and much more. Although, each time you thought of something positive about the situation, an embarrassing moment where you freaked out over something Lumiere-related to Xavier would pop up in your mind. And it made you want to slam your head onto your monitor.
Bright side. Bright side. Bright side. You thought to yourself.
The mantra became too much for your brain as you started to mutter it out loud while you were in the elevator with Xavier to get to his car. “Bright side of what?”
You looked at him wide eyed. “Huh?” You realized that Xavier looked brighter than that morning. He fixed his shirt and somehow unwrinkled everything, back to his prim and proper self. “I- uh…I am looking on the bright side of things.”
“So…you are still mad at me.” His eyebrows came together as he pouted.
You tapped your chin to think, letting him open the door for you. “No?”
Xavier cocked his head to the side before shutting your door and only replied when he got in the driver’s seat. “You didn’t sound very sure.”
“I’m just embarrassed! I don’t know how to explain that any further.” You groaned. “But if I get rid of…how many times you made me talk about Lumiere…I can focus on the bright side.”
He started the car and was quickly driving back to your place. “What are the bright sides then?”
“I’m dating my celebrity crush.” You beamed at him. “And I wasn’t that crazy thinking about him the way I did, because you really are my type!”
“Am I more your typ-” Xavier started but you instantly swatted his arm.
“Don’t ruin this.”
The two of you bickered about the logistics of him being jealous of you liking Lumiere despite the fact that Lumier equaled Xavier the entire car ride home. And the entire elevator up.
Except on the way up, instead of pressing your floor, he pressed his. “Now that you know…you can come over now, right?” He suddenly looked shy.
“You always said your place was too busy, I really was starting to think that the ‘other family’ theory was becoming plausible.” You huffed, a little exhausted from trying to understand his jealousy. Although you found it amusing as well. Dork.
“My stream set-up is in the living room.” He shrugged, walking to open his door as soon as the elevator let the two of you off. “I think it would’ve been too obvious.”
“Can I ask why you kept it a secret?” You played with the hem of your shirt while you waited for him to get his keys out to open his door. “Not to everyone, I get that. I mean…when you found out I liked Lumiere…you didn’t say anything.”
He paused before opening his door and then turned to you. “How would you have reacted?” Xavier opened his door and let you in.
You thought about your answer, but you were distracted by his layout. It was clean and organized. His furniture was modern, and yet it was still homey. “U-uh…I guess I wouldn’t have believed you. Well…”
“I was surprised to know that you’re starlight.” Xavier said, taking your bag from your hand to hang on his rack by the door. As he did so, his touch was soft and lingered long enough to know that it was on purpose.
“Please…that’s so…” You cringed, walking around the living room. It was the exact same layout as your place, but the way he decorated made it seem like a completely different place. You distracted yourself by taking in the scenery as the realization of being alone with him properly with a new relationship was settling in your bones. Warmth was flowing through you in more ways than one. “You knew me by name?”
“There’s only one starlight.” He said, following close behind you, And then he bent down, his mouth near your ear. “You’re still cringing at yourself, but would it make you feel better if the feelings were mutual this whole time?” His breath tickled you and sent signals directly to your lower area.
You awkwardly laughed, turning towards him. “Wha-”
“I, the faceless streamer, got excited seeing a certain viewer’s name in my chat.” He smirked down at you, walking forward as you walked back until the back of your knees hit his couch. “You had the same name on Tweeter and I went through your account too. Little glimpses of your life, very miniscule, and I was interested.” You fell back onto the couch and he towered over you, one knee beside your legs with both his hands on either side of your head to hold himself up. “Are we even now?”
You tried to swallow, but your mouth was dry. “W-what now?”
“A gentleman usually waits for the girl he likes to say yes…” His face inched closer down to yours, waiting as he flitted his eyes between your eyes and your lips.
“Then…yes.”
You never understood how ‘searing kisses’ existed in literature. Until you had that kiss with Xavier. Your entire face felt like it was on fire, growing throughout your body. The way his tongue met with yours, the feeling of one of his hands on the back of your neck, moving down to the lower part of your back. You kissed him back with just as much intensity as he kissed you, your hands exploring his chest, and you were sure that you ripped a few buttons clean off as you tried to get rid of as many layers as possible.
“Are you sure…?” He gasped against your mouth as your hands fumbled with his pants.
“Fuck, please…” You begged into his mouth.
Xavier readjusted the two of you on his couch, having you fully lay down and him settling in between your legs. He had even placed the pillows under your head so you could watch him properly. You watched as he ripped open your stockings impatiently, just to be able to remove your underwear properly. Your skirt was tossed to the side, along with your shirt, leaving you fully nude. “Fucking beautiful. I knew you’d be this beautiful…” He praised as he kissed your belly, moving upwards to kiss each breast, and then more upwards to your neck. He was still fully clothed, despite your shaky attempts of tearing his clothes off. You lacked the strength he had. But you felt his bulge through his pants on your bare core. You couldn’t help but seek friction by rubbing yourself against his clothed cock, making him wince against your neck. His free hand grabbing one of your breasts, as if to hold himself grounded. “I-impatient…Are you enjoying yourself?” His hips moved against yours. You had a feeling you soaked through his pants, but it felt like he got harder with each movement.
It was an odd sensation, but since it was with Xavier, everything felt too good. You were almost at the edge when he pulled back, making you whine.
He replaced the sensation with his hand. Xavier’s bare fingers were against you, no fabric in sight to separate the two of you anymore. “You’re so wet, starlight. Were you waiting for this?” Two fingers played at your entrance. “I can already tell…what your answer is…” He moved on top of you again to capture your lips, and at the same time, his fingers entered you.
It was hard to kiss him back as you moaned into his mouth. Everything was happening all the same time and you were overjoyed. His two fingers pumped in and out of you as his thumb rubbed against your clit. A small part of you wanted to be jealous of where he learned how to be good with his hands, but each movement sent shockwaves throughout your body. “Your entire body…is responding to me.”
“Please, X-Xavier…” You felt spit drip down from the side of your mouth and you were unaware if it was yours or his. “I n-need you.”
“You have me, baby.” He softly bit your neck as he got faster with his hands.
You threw your head back with almost a yelp, you were too close, but you wanted more. “F-fuck me, please. I can take it…I want it.” Adrenaline coursed through your veins, giving you just enough strength to say what you wanted.
Xavier sat back up and pulled his fingers out of you. “I never thought I’d hear you beg for me…I want to hear it more…” You watched as he removed his pants just enough to free his cock. Long and thick cock. You weren’t surprised, and you weren’t disappointed. He took the fingers that were inside of you and used your lingering slick to wrap around himself, stroking himself as he looked at you. “Do it again…”
You couldn’t find it in you to be embarrassed. “Please…please fuck me, Xavi…”
Instead of fucking you then and there, Xavier stood up and grabbed your wrist to make you follow him. Your legs wobbled with need and you could feel your excitement dribble down your thigh. “Come here…” He said through gritted teeth, pushing aside his chair and making you bend over in front of his desk.
His actions in getting you to his desk were rough, but the way he slowly entered you showed his restraint and care still. The way he held you up as you took his cock slowly through every inch until he was fully in. “Oh my fu- ngh!” You knew you had limited words now, your mind filled with sex.
“I knew you’d feel so good, starlight. I’ve been imagining this for so long…” He kissed your shoulder. “Tell me you had too…”
All you could do was nod as moans spilled out of your mouth at every thrust.
“Look at the screen, starlight.” He lifted your head gently by your hair, aiming your gaze at his computer monitor. The camera that was normally pointed at the keyboard was pointed right at you. He pressed on the spacebar and it was your reflection. It wasn’t recording you, but the big ‘Go Live’ button on the corner made you feel nervous.
And somehow more excited.
Xavier hissed behind you. “Fuck me…I knew you’d like this.” Another thrust into you filled the room with both of your moans. “Don’t you look beautiful…?”
“Y-you’re embarrassing me…” You grunted out.
Another thrust. Wetter and louder. Harder. “Really? It sounds like you’re really enjoying yourself. Look…” His hand moved down to hold you up with your chin. “Your words don’t match what’s happening here– ngh…” Another thrust. He squeezed your cheeks together with his thumb and index, making you pucker out your lips for the camera. “And here…you look so good around my cock…right?” The grip he had on your hip was so tight, but it somehow felt so good.
In just a few seconds, so many new interests came to your mind, being awakened inside of you.
You realized how long his arms were with the way he so easily maneuvered them around you. He moved his hold onto you to be able to put two of his fingers into your mouth. And like clockwork, you welcomed him right in. “Is this what you imagined while watching me play?” His other hand roamed up your waist, squeezing at every part of you that he could. “I’ve read what you’ve said about me…” He chuckled, referring to your fan account. “You’re doing so well…”
You hummed around his fingers, looking right at the screen. It was embarrassing to see how blown out you looked. Your eyes no longer looked like they were in your control. It was so high-definition that you could see the strings of spit dropping onto his desk as you sucked on his fingers. Xavier was barely on screen, but you could see the bottom half of his face. The smirk. You felt that it was unfair seeing as your chest softly bounced, fully nude and bare. Whilst Xavier still had his white button-up still on. Barely but still on.
“Careful with where your hands are, baby. One wrong move and Lumiere’s face reveal might get my whole channel banned…you wouldn’t want that would you?” He slowed down his thrusts, watching you intently and moving your hair out of your face with his other hand that wasn’t in your mouth still. “Or maybe you do? You talked a lot about me being so jealous…but I’ve seen you react to other thirst tweets about Lumiere.” He leaned closer to your ear, licking at your tongue as he looked at you through the screen. “You’re just as jealous as me, aren’t you?”
Your eyebrows knitted together as you nodded weakly, pushing your ass back onto him, silently begging him to keep going.
Xavier removed his fingers from your mouth, taking advantage of how wet they were to bring them down to your clit, rubbing small and soft circles just to tease you as he completely stopped fucking you. “Tell me who you like…say my name.”
Your knees were trembling even more. “X-Xavi…-er, p-please?” You turned back to look at him, the real him, trying to meet his blue eyes. You searched for the satisfaction, the pleasure that was contorting his face. “Xavier…I like-angh…you. S-so much.” You felt drool on the corner of your mouth and you knew you looked like a mess. You already saw it.
He pulled out of you completely, making you whimper from the loss. And then he grabbed the chair that he pushed aside to sit you down in it, settling himself in between your legs. His cock radiated heat and looked slick in the dim light of the desk lamp. “Say it again.” He teased the tip at your entrance, hooking your legs onto his forearms as he gripped the armrests of the gaming chair. “Please, starlight?”
You wiggled in the seat, trying to get more comfortable. Your sweat made you slip easier around the leather chair. “Don’t…” You gasped as he moved his tip against your clit. “D-don’t call me that,” you whined.
“Why not, starlight? Isn’t that the name you made for me?” He chuckled.
You were breathing heavily as you glared at him. “Oh, so now you wanna be Lumiere…when it-” He slapped his cock against your tip this time, as if he hated the way you said a different name.
“Say my name,” he nearly growled. His blue eyes turned darker than ever. “You don’t want me to stop, right?”
You shook your head.
“Yet…it seems like you don’t want me to continue either.” He cocked his head to the side.
“X-Xavier…” You gave up, desperate for him.
“Hmm? What… Your voice is trembling. I can’t hear you…” He teased, pulling back.
“Xavier! Please!”
He chuckled, positioning himself at your entrance. “Good girl,” he said before fully entering you again. “Fuck…you’re so good.”
Only a little bit of you was worried about the neighbors. You wondered if Xavier was enjoying that other people could hear you. Especially one person downstairs. You were moaning loudly as he grunted while he fucked you.
You could feel every inch and hear every inch entering you. It was almost embarrassing how wet you were, but you could see him staring intently at the place the two of you connected. You laid your head back on the chair and shut your eyes, taking in every movement as you got closer and closer over the edge.
But then he dropped one of your legs and grabbed your face again, gripping it tightly. “Keep your eyes open and look at me.”
And you don’t know what came over you as he said those words to you, but one look at him being rough made you instantly cum. Your head was thrown back again as your entire body shook and your walls pulsed around his cock. Your hands gripped and scratched at his arms, losing control of every limb.
“Holy fuck…you’re beautiful.” He gasped. “So…perfect.” He muttered as he leaned down to capture your open mouth with his, tangling your tongues together as he tasted everything. “I’ll never…get enough of this…” He said in between kisses. “Fuck…I’m gonna cum, starlight.” He kissed your cheek and moved to your ear. “Where do you want me…?” He whispered seductively in your ear.
“D-don’t say things like that so suddenly…I c-can’t hol-ngh…” And then you felt him speed up, making you cum again as you heard him grunt and moan by your ear. Up until you felt him spill into you. He kissed you again as he came inside of you, and you couldn’t tell if it was him or you leaking onto the chair. Neither of you cared as you kissed your way through every shockwave of your orgasms. “We’re not done yet, starlight…I said we had to make up for lost time, didn’t I?”
summary: to your chagrin, you get partnered with an irritating DSO agent who happens to take an interest in the case you're working on.
cw: nsfw (18+) - mdni!!, smut, re9!leon, fbi!reader, age gap, kissing, vaginal fingering, oral sex, blow job, p in v, spanking, choking, finger sucking, brat taming, praise kink
wc: 10k
a/n: obsession's gotten so bad i started having dreams about him <3
also on ao3!
There’s a man sitting at your desk.
You’d arrived at work a little before 9, steaming cup of coffee in hand and a stack of case files tucked under your arm haphazardly. It was only until you’d heard the curious, hushed whispers that you’d realized your desk was currently taken, occupied by an unfamiliar man clad in a leather jacket.
Were you being relocated? Promoted? Demoted?
A barrage of thoughts flits through your mind as you approach your desk slowly, mentally preparing yourself to give the man a piece of your mind. The man doesn’t even flinch when the case files drop onto your desk loudly, your coffee cup following soon after as you set it down roughly before crossing your arms over your chest.
“Can I help you?”
His head tilts towards you, shaggy hair shifting as his gaze travels over you with interest. You stare back at him blankly, brows furrowing when you take in the scruffy stubble covering his jaw and the weathered look to his skin. He had to be at least twice your age, but even you could admit the man was stupidly handsome. You’re only left with more questions than you started with as you continue to stare at him, feeling bewildered. The flex of his gloved fingers catch in your periphery, distracting you as you glance down to find him piecing together a disassembled gun with practiced ease, the parts set out neatly on your desk.
His voice is gruff when he speaks. “You’re younger than I expected.”
“You… were expecting me?” you ask, irritation seeping into your voice, patience growing thin. “Who the fuck are you?”
The man’s brows raise at your blunt question, fingers still moving deftly, his eyes flickering with mirth.
“You know, the FBI promised me a warm welcome,” he says, the chair swiveling as he turns to face you fully. “Can’t exactly say you’re delivering on that promise.”
“Yeah well, I didn’t make any promises,” you retort, giving him a tight smile, watching as he leans forward, sliding his newly assembled gun back into its holster. “Besides, you still haven’t answered my question.”
He sighs, leaning forward, his arm outstretched as he offers you his hand. “Leon–”
He’s interrupted by the Unit Chief calling out your name. Your eyes narrow when you see the case file in his hands, glancing back at Leon before you leave him, stepping inside the Unit Chief’s office, the door clicking shut behind you.
“We’ve got two new bodies,” he says, handing you the case file. “Unsub’s been crossing jurisdictions and the local police department is… well, concerned to say the least. Think you can handle it?”
You nod, flicking through the pages, nose scrunching when you see the images of the crime scene – each more grisly than the last. Mutilated bodies, blood smeared across the walls, messily carved symbols etched into the wooden door of the victims’ home.
“Seems ritualistic,” you murmur, reading through the reports. You glance up at him, clutching the case file to your chest protectively. “You’re letting me take this alone? I’m flattered.”
“Ah,” the Unit Chief shakes his head, nodding towards Leon. “Not exactly.”
“What?” you scoff, looking at Leon who gives you a smile and waves through the glass. You glare at him, yanking the blinds shut. “The old man?” you hiss, “he’ll only slow me down.”
The Unit Chief sighs, taking a seat in his chair. “That man is Leon Kennedy. DSO. It’s only a precaution. He’s more experienced than any team we could put together and after what happened with Agent Ashcroft, the FBI is trying to be more… mindful.”
“Ashcroft?” you echo, remembering the Rhodes Hill incident. “That’s– that’s because they sent an analyst into the field of all things. She must’ve been terrified. I’m a field agent, I can handle myself.”
“Agent Kennedy took an interest in the case,” he replies, hands clasping together. “If there’s bioterrorism involved, he’ll be useful. If there isn’t, use him as an idea board. The Unit Chief peers up at you, his expression stern. “My decision is final.”
Your jaw works irritatedly before you huff out a heavy breath, nodding reluctantly. “Yes, sir.”
Despite your sour mood and the urge to slam the door shut, you carefully close it, making your way back to Leon. You drag a spare chair towards your desk, sinking down onto it. Leon shakes his head when you offer him the case file.
“I’ve already read it.”
“Huh,” you stare at him, lips pursing while your eyes squint in recognition. “Leon Scott Kennedy,” you drawl, jabbing your finger at him, “you’re the Raccoon City cop. I’ve heard stories about you. Shouldn’t you be…” you gesture to him pointedly, “retired?”
“Ouch,” Leon says, his hand moving to press against his chest as he feigns being hurt. “You really don’t want me here, do you?”
“All I know is that you’re some big-shot DSO agent that I don’t need on my case, Leon,” you shoot back, flipping open the file to read the autopsy reports more thoroughly.
“The first case you’ve ever been in charge of,” Leon muses, his leather gloves creaking softly as he picks up a stray pen, putting it back into its place. “I’m impressed. Not everyone gets to be a lead on a case like this. Then again, you’re pretty good at this kinda thing.”
Was he buttering you up? He had to be. You don’t bother looking up as you mark a few things of interest off on the report.
“Thank you,” you murmur, scrawling a few notes down on a notepad before you pause, head turning to find him watching you carefully. “How did you know that?” you ask, a hint of suspicion in your voice, “we’ve never met before.”
Leon shifts, grunting softly as he tries to get more comfortable in your chair. “I took the liberty of reading your file,” he replies flippantly, his expression darkening as he tries to work the chair’s jammed lever. “Fuckin’ chair… how do you sit in this all day?”
“I don’t sit all day!” you snap, “and you read my file? I don’t care if you have the fucking clearance, you can’t just–”
You’re interrupted by a loud snap, teeth gritting together when you realize he’s pushed the lever too hard – or perhaps, underestimated his own strength – the lever cleanly detached and now clutched in Leon’s gloved hand.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” he murmurs, setting the lever down on your desk, patting it awkwardly. “I’ll buy you a new chair.”
You have half a mind to reach over and strangle him. You even consider doing it, until he grumbles under his breath and shrugs off that jacket of his, your murderous intent forgotten as soon as you catch sight of his thick biceps. With those things, Leon could probably strangle you and have no problem doing it.
The sheer size of him renders you incapable of tearing your gaze away, your stare settled firmly on his shoulders, arms and chest – every part of him unfairly thick and muscular – his skin-tight shirt leaving you barely conscious of the way your throat was beginning to dry up.
Your newly broken chair creaks once more under Leon’s weight, the sound piercing through the haze of your shameless staring. You blink uncertainly, taking another lingering peek at his biceps while he’s too busy trying to get comfortable.
“We’d better get going,” you announce, grabbing the file before standing up abruptly. “The local PD is probably waiting for us.”
“We can take my car,” Leon says as he follows you into the elevator.
“I’m not in the habit of getting into cars with strange men,” you say testily, pressing a button before turning to face him.
“And I’m not in the habit of babysitting FBI agents,” Leon drawls, leaning against the wall of the elevator, his arms crossing over his chest.
The movement makes his shirt stretch tighter if anything, the fabric clinging to his broad forearms stubbornly, his watch glinting softly in the lighting. Your head tilts, eyes narrowing with irritation when you register his insult.
“No one asked you to babysit,” you say, shaking your head. “I have a gun,” you take it out of the holster attached to your hip, pointing it at him, “and I’m smart. I’ll have this case wrapped up in a day or two, so stay the fuck outta my way.”
A smile pulls at his lips, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he lifts his hands in mock-surrender. The amusement in his eyes makes him look a little younger, your heart fluttering with delight for a moment before you tamp it down violently.
When the elevator comes to a stop, Leon takes your bag before you can protest, his gloved fingers brushing yours briefly. You step after him, brows raising with begrudging respect when you see his car. Big-shot DSO agent, your mind supplies as he puts your bag into the backseat, gesturing for you to get in. You sigh heavily, opening your mouth to argue but Leon’s already disappeared inside his car, the engine rumbling to life. Muttering a curse under your breath, you get in his car, pulling the door shut firmly.
–
“What do you mean there’s only one room available?”
“What’s there to understand?” Leon asks, dangling the singular key in front of your face. “Rooms are all booked out. They’re celebrating some special harvest festival according to the receptionist.”
“Harvest festival?” you echo, peering up at him. “You gotta be fucking kidding me. That’s like the perfect cover for our unsub.”
“I would help,” he murmurs, nudging your shoulder gently to get you to step aside, “but you wanted me to, what was it?” you roll your eyes when he snaps his fingers, pretending to think. “Ah yes, stay the fuck outta your way.”
You snatch the key hanging from Leon’s finger, ignoring his aggrieved sigh as you push past him and stomp back down the stairs to the reception, ready to demand another room. All the receptionist does is give you an apologetic smile and offer you a discount. You swallow your pride as you trudge back up the stairs, doing your best to avoid Leon’s eyes when you find him leaning beside the room’s door, his brows raising amusedly.
“I don’t want to hear it,” you mutter, slotting the key into the lock.
Leon shrugs non-committally. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”
The door is heavy as you push it open, Leon’s hand moving to keep it open for you as you step inside. You fumble in the darkness for the light switch at the same time Leon does, his strong, calloused fingers brushing over yours. It’s enough to have an unwanted shiver running down your spine, warmth blooming in your chest and a flush settling high on your cheeks despite your stubborn annoyance with him.
“Fuck me.”
You follow his gaze when he swears, taking in the lit room. There’s a shitty couch in one corner, a tiny area with a coffee machine and table, and… a bed.
“Okay,” you say slowly, staring at the one, pitiful bed you had been afforded. “Great! So I think you should go and chew out the receptionist.”
“I’m not doing that,” Leon scoffs, bending down to take off his boots, his gun clattering against the table as he sets it down. “I can take the couch.”
You look back at the couch, brows furrowing. “That’s really nice of you and all, Leon,” you begin, stepping further inside the small room, “but I don’t think you’re exactly going to fit.”
“You care about me or something?” he drawls, looking over at you with a smile as he opens his duffle bag to pull out a towel and a set of clothes.
“Get over yourself. I’m just worried about your…” you gesture towards him vaguely, “potentially geriatric bones.”
Leon chokes on a laugh, his brows shooting up. “Geriatric? I’m 49. My bones are in perfect working order.”
“Right, nevermind. You did break my chair.”
“I did you a favor,” he retorts, slinging the towel around the back of his neck. “It was a hunk of junk.”
“It was in perfect working condition!” you scoff, crossing your arms over your chest.
“Do you always defend inanimate objects with such passion?” Leon muses, stepping closer until he’s only a few inches away, head cocking to the side.
“When they’re close to my heart, yes.”
“A chair is close to your heart?”
You decide to double down. “Yes, Leon.”
“Huh,” he nods slowly, clicking his tongue. “You got attachment issues?”
“Did my file not tell you that?” you smile up at him snarkily.
Leon grins, shaking his head. “I’m afraid I skipped over your psych eval.”
He turns, disappearing into the bathroom. You glare at the door and huff out a sigh, removing your shoes before grabbing the case file and flopping down on the bed tiredly. You flick through the pages absentmindedly, settling on the symbols carved onto the door. You hadn’t seen anything remotely like it before and the database search you’d done earlier in the car had come up empty.
“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, glancing towards the bathroom.
You’d exhausted all your options save for one. A reluctant groan leaves you as you stand, approaching the bathroom, leaning against the doorframe.
“Hey, Leon?” you call out when you hear the spray of water come to a stop. “I… might have been a little difficult earlier,” your voice sounds strained, “but if you could maybe take another look at the file, then I would… you know, probably appreciate it or whatever.” You swallow, face twisting with discomfort. “Please?”
Leon laughs, the rich, deep sound seeping through the crevices. “Don’t hurt yourself,” he says, sounding entirely too entertained by your attempt to ask him for help. “I’ll take a look for you.”
You frown at the door, jolting when it swings open suddenly. A few wisps of steam escape, and you blink owlishly, finding yourself face-to-face with his bare chest. It’s hard to keep your gaze from wandering over his exposed skin, a light dusting of hair covering his chest coupled with a few scars. A strange, gurgling noise escapes you when he shifts back to grab his towel, his broad, muscled back now visible to you. You sway, moving to grip the doorframe, knees feeling weak.
“You okay?” Leon murmurs, glancing over at you as he ruffles his damp hair, brows furrowing.
“Yes!”
Your voice is shrill, pitching up awkwardly until you clear your throat and give him an equally awkward smile.
“Perfectly fine,” you clarify, this time sounding breathless as you try and fail to not look down, inhaling sharply when you see his defined abdomen and the dark, coarse hair below his navel, disappearing into the waistband of his sweatpants.
“It’s just that you look…” you trail off, fingers itching to reach out and squeeze and touch. Hot. Attractive. Fuckable. Really fucking fuckable for a 49-year-old man. “Like shit,” you settle on, the words tumbling out of you in a strained manner as you force yourself to meet his eyes. “You– you look like shit, Leon.” You pat his shoulder jerkily. “Unfortunately.”
“Right, sure,” he says, his head tilting as he stares down at you, unconvinced. “You really know how to flatter a man.”
“I’m charming like that,” you say, hands clasping behind your back.
Leon hums, and you stare back up at him, gaze flitting away for one moment to get a glimpse of his left hand. No ring. Perfect. You pinch yourself as soon as the thought comes.
“You gonna let me out?”
“What?”
When Leon gestures towards you, you realize you’re still standing in front of him, blocking the way out. You move to the side sheepishly, pushing the case file into his chest quickly before locking yourself in the bathroom.
You let out an embarrassed groan once you’re in the shower, burying your face into your hands. What the fuck was wrong with you? There was no way that all it took was some dorky, attractive, older man to have you feeling out of sorts. A dull ache flares between your thighs at the thought of Leon, fingers sneaking past your folds to rub at your traitorously swollen clit. It doesn’t take much, just the image of his body pressed against yours, his arms wrapped around you, mouth pressed against your ear while he grunts–
You cum with a muffled whine. Scrubbing the rest of your mortification off of your skin with soap, you dry off, slipping into a pair of sleep shorts and a hoodie. You pad out of the bathroom to find Leon sitting at the table – thankfully with a shirt on – a few containers of food littered across its surface while he’s hunched over his laptop.
“Hey,” he greets when he sees you, gaze travelling over you briefly before turning his laptop towards you. “I had a look. Your guy might be part of a cult,” Leon brings up another image, showing it to you, “they’re not the exact same, but similar enough. Might be worth looking into.”
“Cult? That’s fun,” you murmur, dropping into the chair beside him, watching as he runs his hair through his hair. “Thank you for taking a look, and the food.”
His brows raise. “Those might be the most sincere words to come out of you today.”
“Shut up,” you say, although a small smile pulls at your lips.
Dinner is quick as you both make a plan for tomorrow – visit the local PD, check out the crime scene and investigate a few related areas of interest. Leon settles down on the couch soon after, adjusting his pillow a few times before grunting as he tries to get comfortable. You were right, he doesn’t fit. He looks so awfully crammed, knees bent and back hunched at an awkward angle that even you feel bad about it.
“Leon,” you say exasperatedly, “we can both fit on the bed. That can’t be good for your back.”
“This is fine,” he replies stubbornly, shifting onto his back uncomfortably, arm hanging off the edge. “I’ve slept in worse places.”
“I can’t deal with you complaining about your back tomorrow,” you say, gesturing towards the bed. You lay down, squirming to the side to make space. “See? You can have the other side.”
“You sure your boyfriend won’t mind?”
“What?” you ask confusedly, sitting up on your elbows. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
Leon grunts as he gets to his feet, dropping down onto the bed without further protests. It’s a tight fit, but you both manage, a sliver of space left between your bodies. You stare up at the ceiling, lips pursing, feeling antsy.
“Did you…” you glance over at him, feeling entirely too bold for your own good, “did you ask because you were interested?”
He stares back, brows raising. “Interested in what?”
“In what?” you repeat irritably, “are you seriously playing dumb?”
Leon smiles back at you, shrugging lazily. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Maybe if you clarified what it was you wanted from me–”
“I don’t want anything from you!” you sputter, flushing hot. The bed creaks as you flop onto your side, facing away from him. “You’re old and weird and infuriating and–”
“I feel like you’re avoiding my better qualities.”
“Fuck you.”
“Yeah, I know you want to, baby.”
It’s a miracle your neck doesn’t snap with how fast you turn to look at him.
“May I remind you that this,” you gesture between your bodies wildly, “is a professional relationship?”
“Yeah?” Leon murmurs, raising his brows, “is that why you got off in the shower? Rubbed one out to make yourself feel better ‘bout liking me?” He looks unfazed when your jaw slackens, tapping the wall behind his head. “Thin walls.”
“That is none of your business.” You lean closer, eyes narrowing in an attempt to hide your growing embarrassment. “HR is going to have a fucking field day with you.”
You flop back onto your side, trying to put some distance between you, but there’s such a little space on the bed that you end up half-dangling over the edge. Leon doesn’t say anything, the silence between you thick and stretching on uncomfortably until you sit up, turning to face him.
He stares back at you, the bed creaking softly as he shifts, folding an arm under his head. His shirt stretches tight, thick bicep flexed and the sight is enough to make you lose your last nerve.
Your hand cups his jaw, head dipping to press a kiss to his lips. It’s meant to be quick, fleeting, to get whatever the fuck you have bottled up inside of you. Leon doesn’t seem to agree as he returns your kiss roughly, stubble scratching against your skin, his hand moving to cup the back of your head, blocking your escape.
“Where’re you going?” he murmurs, lips brushing over yours.
“This–” you whine softly when he kisses the underside of your jaw, fingers tightening into his shirt. “This is a bad idea.”
“I happen to be full of those.”
“You’re so fucking corny,” you groan, mouth dropping open as he trails kisses along your jaw lazily.
His lips are soft, calloused fingers massaging your scalp whilst an arm slides around your waist to pull you into his side. Another whine escapes you, head tipping towards him as his hand wanders under the hem of your hoodie, hot skin drifting over your waist and higher, his thumb grazing the curve of your breast.
“And you’re a fucking brat,” Leon says, watching your expressions closely as you whine and pant, pulling him towards you for another kiss, arms wrapping around his neck tightly.
He groans into your mouth, lips slotting over yours feverishly, his hand squeezing at the back of your neck. You squirm, throwing your leg over his hip, mewling when he licks into your mouth. Leon’s a good kisser, you think dazedly as his tongue strokes against yours in a filthy motion that has heat blistering in your stomach. His hand moves, circling around the front of your throat, squeezing gently.
You blink up at him hazily when he pulls away, lips slick with spit and pupils blown out. A smile spreads across your lips as you arch into him, hands sliding up over his strong forearm, fingers wrapping around his wrist.
“You can squeeze harder,” you whisper, pressing his fingers into your skin harder, gasping when he grants your request, eyes rolling back as the pressure around your throat constricts.
“That’s a little fucked up, baby,” Leon breathes out, watching as you writhe and suck in a ragged breath, his brows furrowing.
His brows raise when you glare at him, leaning over you to let his nose nudge against yours, kissing you gently before he tightens his grip a little more, drawing out a choked noise from you. There’s a heady fog settling over your mind the more he keeps you from barely breathing, something slow and syrupy creeping into the crevices of your brain as he presses a kiss to your cheek. He’s letting go before long though, brushing the pad of his thumb over your lips roughly.
“I can handle it,” you mumble hoarsely, head tipping as he massages your throat, huffing out a breath when he laughs against your cheek.
“Yeah?” Leon rasps, his gaze darkening when you suck his thumb into your mouth, tongue swirling around the digit needily, head lifting as you feign bobbing your head. “What, you want me to put you in your place or something? Is that what you need?”
The idea is appealing. You’ve been strung tight for months, between work and the never-ending cases that were stacking up on your desk, you hadn’t exactly gotten much time to yourself, to wind-down from the constant wear and tear brought about by the commitments demanded from you by the FBI.
“Maybe,” you say slowly, looking away. “I don’t know. I guess I just want some… attention or whatever.”
“From me?” Leon says, his fingers sliding over your jaw to guide your gaze back to him. “Your way of asking for attention is acting bratty?”
“I don’t know!” you sputter, pushing at his chest, feeling shy.
“Oh, that’s cute,” he coos, smiling down at you. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll give you all the attention you fuckin’ need.”
You squeak when he moves suddenly, sitting up before he’s dragging you towards him, maneuvering you until you're bent over his lap. A whimper is punched out of you when he squeezes the fat of your ass through your shorts, lashes fluttering when each consecutive grope grows rougher until it stings lightly.
“Guess if you’re into choking, you should be into something like this,” Leon murmurs thoughtfully, squeezing your ass greedily. “‘s been a while since I’ve done this with someone.”
“Since you’ve– ah– groped someone?” you ask, hips wiggling when his touches disappear, ass lifting involuntarily to chase after his touch.
“Kissed, touched,” he sucks in a sharp breath, “groped… fucked.”
You glance at him over your shoulder, brows raising curiously. “Can you still get it up?”
A sharp yelp escapes you when his hand comes down on your ass, hard and punishing. It stings, the pain spreading out over your ass unforgivingly. You try and glare at him but his hand is coming down again, landing another heavy spank to your other ass cheek.
“It was just a question!” you protest, squeaking when he spanks you again and again, eyes squeezing shut as the red-hot pain spreads over your ass, the ache in your pussy beginning to burrow deeper.
“I know,” Leon murmurs, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your shorts. “Do you want me to stop?”
You pout into the sheets, voice quiet. “No.”
He huffs out a soft laugh, tapping your hip. You lift them, letting him tug your shorts down, mewling softly when he squeezes your ass, his fingers dipping past your panties, stretching them before letting them snap back against your skin.
“Cute panties,” he says, his hand rubbing over your stinging ass, fingers sneaking between your thighs, brushing over the drenched, ruined fabric. “Too bad you’ve made them all messy, baby. So fucking wet for me. You like my hand on your ass?”
“Yes,” you grumble, glaring at the wall. “Stop asking stupid questions, you jerk.”
You jolt when he spanks you, letting out an agitated breath when his hand palms over ass before coming down again in several repeated motions. A whimper escapes you when pleasure bleeds through your body, teeth sinking into your lower lip when the pace of Leon’s slaps quicken. It hurts but feels so good all the same, your thighs trying to squeeze together with how uncomfortably wet your pussy is becoming.
“Don’t– fuck! Don’t stop,” you mewl, arching your back, tears prickling at your eyes. “Leon– please ah–”
“Please?” Leon echoes, “look at that, you’re back to being polite. Good fuckin’ girl.”
You whine in agreement, nodding dazedly as you look back at him, unfocused eyes finding his lopsided smile, heart fluttering in your chest. You reach back for him, hand fighting his shirt, lips parting, eyes slipping shut when he leans towards you, head dropping to kiss you deeply, his fingers squeezing at your ass gently.
“You gonna stop being a brat? Hm? You wanna be my good girl, baby?” Leon rasps against your lips, stealing another soft kiss, his hands still palming at the blistering flesh of your ass, squeezing every now and again to force a pitiful whine out of you. He clicks his tongue when you slur, nose nudging against yours gently. “I asked you a question, sweetheart. Use your words for me.”
“Yes,” you manage out, pushing your ass back into his greedy, awaiting palm, a few stray tears dripping down your cheeks. “‘m gonna be– nghh– ‘m gonna be your good girl, Leon.”
“Yeah?” he breathes out, voice sounding rough as his thumb strokes over your cheek, wiping away the tears. “My sweet, pretty girl.”
“It– it hurts,” you babble, jerking in his lap when he rains an unsuspecting slap down onto your ass, teary eyes rolling back when his fingers slip between your thighs suddenly, rubbing at your swollen, aching clit through the dampened fabric of your panties. “Leon– ah fuck!”
“I know it does,” he soothes, pressing harder against your clit until your legs kick up, “but you asked for this, baby. Remember? You came up to me all pretty and said you wanted attention.”
“Stop being mean,” you hiccup, leaning into his palm when he offers it to you, nuzzling into the warm, rough skin.
“Mean?” Leon whispers, “‘m taking care of you, sweetheart.” He hums as he wipes away the saliva beading at the corner of your mouth, spreading it over your lips before his thumb presses down more firmly, a grunt of satisfaction leaving him when your lips part obediently. “There you go,” he breathes out, “suck on my thumb while I play with this needy, little pussy, baby.”
You whine, fingers clinging to his wrist as you suck lazily, tongue swirling around his thumb. His fingers rub against your wet panties, drawing out a soft mewl from you as he pets your clothed pussy.
“You can take them off,” you mumble around his thumb, biting gently before sucking again, happy to have your mouth occupied. “Want you to touch me.”
“I kinda like ‘em on,” Leon murmurs, his fingers grabbing at your thighs before they move, slipping past the waistband. “Besides, I can touch you like this.”
Your eyes flutter shut when his fingers glide through your sticky, puffy folds, breath hitching while Leon groans when he feels your wet pussy. His fingers are thicker than yours, slipping over the soft skin before the calloused pads find your clit. Your thighs twitch, toes curling when he starts to rub your clit using slow, measured circles.
“Is this how you do it?” he asks, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “Did you play with your clit til you came in the shower?”
“Mhm,” you nod, peering up at him, lashes fluttering. You lap at his thumb, tongue flicking against the tip playfully, letting him watch.
“Fuck,” Leon rumbles, his thumb brushing over your bottom teeth before rubbing against your tongue. “So fuckin’ gorgeous, sweetheart. Look at you.”
You smile, lips wrapping back around his thumb soon after, eyes rolling back when his fingers leave your clit to play with your fluttering hole. A long whine leaves you when he circles your hole teasingly, the tip of a finger pressing in briefly before he draws them back out to rub at your clit.
“Put ‘em in,” you mewl, hips beginning to roll against his hand, one of your hands squirming underneath you to try and move his wrist. “Leon,” you grumble, pulling his thumb out of your mouth when he tries to press against your tongue again. “Put ‘em in.”
“What happened to being polite?” he muses, dipping his finger in again and then pulling it out.
“If you put ‘em in, I’ll be polite,” you reply, blinking up at him sweetly, a smug smile on your face.
Leon laughs, watching as your mouth drops open when he finally inches one finger inside of your clenching pussy, beginning to slowly fuck it in and out of you.
“Go on then,” he coaxes, “beg all pretty for me, sweetheart. Tell me what you want.”
“P– nghh– please fuck me with your fingers,” you whimper, fingers moving to rub at your throbbing clit. “Please, Leon? Want– fuck– want another finger.”
He doesn’t make you beg any further, sinking another finger into you. You shove your face into the sheets, hips wiggling back to meet the thrust of his fingers, your fingers quickening their pace against your clit.
“Taking me so good,” Leon murmurs, using his other hand to spread you open. You flush, feeling entirely too exposed as he stares down at your pussy stretching around his fingers. “Pretty fuckin’ pussy just sucking my fingers in.”
Your walls flutter around his fingers at that, hand reaching out for him blindly, fingers managing to curl into his shirt. You yank him down, mumbling something incoherent around his lips before dragging him down further, lips pressing against his. You moan into his mouth when he starts thrusting his fingers in and out of you harder, curling them just right.
“Leon,” you pant against his mouth, biting his lower lip before tugging it. Leon groans, his fingers scissoring before you moan again, lapping at his lips. His eyes roll back when your lips find his neck, head tipping to bare more of it to you until you manage to move, crawling up onto his lap, his fingers slipping out of you momentarily.
His back hits the bed when you push at his chest, his fingers finding your pussy again, thumb rubbing at your clit while his fingers sink back inside. You shove your face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in with a mewl, pawing at his firm chest as you let your hips drop, fucking yourself on his fingers.
“You gonna do that on my cock?” Leon moans, his fingers tangling in your hair when you kiss his neck feverishly, teeth scraping against his throat, the action enough to draw a hoarse growl from him. “Gonna ride my cock like you’re riding my fingers, gorgeous?”
“Yeah,” you murmur against his neck, latching onto his skin and sucking, all with the intent of leaving a mark of your own, like he had done on your ass. “Wanna– ahhh– wanna ride your cock, Leon.”
“Fuck,” he mutters, an arm clamping around your waist to hold you flush against him, his thumb pressing against your clit harder, the lewd noises of your pussy growing louder with every snap of his wrist. “You’re gonna drive me fucking insane.”
You smile against his throat, kissing the underside of his jaw when his throat bobs uncertainly.
“We haven’t even fucked yet,” you whisper, fingers slipping into his hair, pulling at the strands to make him expose his neck further, drawing out a pretty whine from his lips. “Think you can handle me?”
Your smile fades when his fingers pull out of you suddenly, a sharp yelp leaving you when he grabs your hips and manhandles you onto your stomach, the fabric of your panties tearing loudly as he rips them off of you and pulls your ass into the air.
“Those were comfy!” you protest, glaring at him. “Leon?” you jolt when he slaps your ass hard, pulling your asscheeks apart. “Leon, wait– ah fuck!”
You squeal when he buries his face between your thighs, lurching forward unsteadily on your knees, hands grabbing out for the pillows. He’s ruthless, tongue gliding through your warm folds, drinking down your slick with a rough growl, his hands squeezing at your hips, tugging you back onto his mouth when you try and squirm away. The stubble on his cheeks and jaw isn’t helping, scratching against your skin deliciously as he nips and spits onto your cunt.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” he snaps lowly, biting punishingly into your thigh when you try kicking at his chest. “Huh?”
“I didn’t–” your leg jerks when Leon bites the back of your thigh, fingers curling into the pillows tightly when he bites the fat of your ass soon after, tongue laving over the bite.
“You didn’t what?” Leon asks, thumb finding your swollen bud, his tongue drifting over the inner crease of your thigh, barely shy of your aching pussy. “You didn’t mean it, is that it, baby?” he drawls, wet fingers rubbing over your pussy.
“Yes!” you choke out, hand slapping against the pillow when he sucks your clit into his mouth lazily, his nose pressing into your pussy, rough hands massaging your ass. “I– nghhhh– I didn’t mean it, Leon.”
“Oh, I think you did,” he sighs heavily, feigning disappointment. He clicks his tongue condescendingly. “I thought you were being my sweet girl, but turns out you’ve just got one hell of a mean streak. Just can’t help being a bit bratty, can you, pretty baby?”
“I’m not a brat,” you wail, shoving your face into the pillows the same time he presses his face into your pussy.
You don’t think anyone’s touched you like this before, let alone used their mouth like this. Leon’s strong, his hands clamping down onto you to keep you in place as he flicks his tongue over your clit, teeth scraping over the sensitive bud. You drool messily, whimpering and whining as he laps at your cunt, his tongue prodding against your hole.
“Oh fuck,” you whisper, glancing behind you, eyes wide to find Leon looking at you hungrily, his gaze dark and feral. You swallow nervously, thighs twitching when he kisses the curve of your ass. “Leon, Leon– oh fuck!”
A squeal escapes you when he presses his tongue into your clenching cunt, eyes squeezing shut so tightly that you feel dizzy, hips pressing back needily to meet the movements of his tongue. He fucks it into you, head tilting as he holds you against his mouth, a hand moving under your hoodie to stroke over the length of your back.
You arch, mewling, hips swaying dazedly as he caresses your pussy with his tongue. A soft, ragged moan leaves you when his mouth moves, returning to your clit, toes curling when he presses his fingers back into you.
“You sound so pretty falling apart on my tongue,” Leon murmurs, rubbing his tongue over your clit with a groan, his fingers crooking inside of you. “You gonna cum, baby? Pretty pussy’s clenching around my fingers.”
“Nghhh–” you slur into the pillows, trying and failing to keep your eyes open, your lids drooping shut when his fingers press against that spot inside of you, his fingers rubbing over it with just the right amount of pressure.
His stubble brushes against the backs of your thighs, lips soft as he trails hot kisses all over your skin. Your hips jerk when he fucks his fingers into you harder and faster, the pressure in your lower stomach growing greater. When his mouth latches back onto you, you moan loudly, knees beginning to buckle.
“Fuck! ‘m gonna cum– ‘m gonna fucking cum, Leon,” you whine, hugging the pillow to your chest, a sharp breath of air leaving you.
“Cum then, sweetheart,” he whispers, “be a good girl and cum for me.”
You cry out when he sucks harder on your clit, his face pressing harder into you, nose buried into your pussy. Leon groans loudly, the vibration shooting up through you, making your pussy clench around his fingers tightly. Your body trembles, knees giving out finally when his tongue flicks at your clit, another moan tearing its way out of your throat as you cum.
“That’s it,” Leon snarls, managing to hold you up despite your arms feeling rubber. “Cum just like that. Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl.”
You whimper, still twitching as he laps at your cunt gently, tongue sweeping over your folds as he slurps down your slick, his thumb rubbing against your clit to draw out the final waves of your orgasm while his fingers slow their pace inside of you before pulling out completely.
Leon’s body is hot when he hovers above you, his hands brushing away the sweaty hair clinging to your skin, head dipping to press soft kisses to your cheek, his stubble oddly soothing as it rubs along your skin.
“You okay?” he asks softly, hands drifting down over your back, squeezing your waist soothingly, hands petting at your still reddened and slightly bruised ass. “I guess I’ve been a little pent up.”
“A little?” you murmur, fingers sliding into his hair when he kisses your neck. “I think you’re more than a little pent up, Leon.”
He grunts in agreement, dropping another kiss to your neck before laying down on his back, letting out a heavy breath.
“I haven’t exactly had time to relax,” he sighs, “too many fucking responsibilities ever since Raccoon City.”
You hum, sitting up, arms still a little wobbly. Leon watches you, his eyes tracking your every movement. You smile at him, eyes twinkling, fingers hooking into the hem of your hoodie before you pull it up over your head, tossing it to the side. He sucks in a sharp breath when he sees your breasts, hand reaching out before he pauses mid-reach. You take his hand, pulling it toward your breast, smile growing wider when he squeezes.
“Are my tits helping you relax?” you ask innocently, hands landing on his chest as you swing a leg over his hip, straddling him.
“Guess so,” Leon says, his other hand joining the fray, squeezing your untouched breast. “Pretty fuckin’ tits, sweetheart.”
Your eyes flutter shut as you let him play with your tits, distracted momentarily by the way his fingers move – pinching and tugging, thumb sweeping over your hardened nipples. It’s when you shift on his lap that you become aware of how hard his cock is, hips rolling against the clothed length.
“To answer your question,” he murmurs, tracing the curve of your breast, gently cupping one in his hand, thumb stroking over the soft flesh. “I can, in fact, still get it up.”
You snort, unable to stop the laugh that bubbles out of you. Leon grins back, his head tilting as he peers up at you, hands sliding down over your sides to grab your waist.
“I didn’t doubt you for a second,” you breathe out, voice laced with amusement, your hands beginning to pull at his shirt. He helps you, lifting his arms so that you’re able to pull it up over his head easily. “You do look pretty good for a 49-year-old.”
You lean forward, kissing him gently before you trail kisses down his neck and over his chest, lips brushing over his thick pecs. Leon sighs, his eyes slipping shut, a hand cupping the back of your head as you continue to lay his skin with kisses. You kiss his scars tentatively, squirming lower to kiss his abdomen, tongue darting out to trace the defined ridges of his abdomen.
“You tryna make me cum?” Leon rasps, half-lidded eyes watching you as you bite at his side playfully.
“That is a priority, yes,” you say, following the trail of coarse hair that lies under his navel and the thick bulge laying further down.
His hands in your hair tighten when you nuzzle into his sweatpants, nose brushing against the fabric. When you breathe in, you can smell him, all heady and musky and arousal is seeping into your bones once more, mouth sucking at his clothed cock.
“As much fuck– I would like that,” he grumbles, hips bucking when you mouth at him again, spit dampening his sweatpants, “I’ll cum if you put your mouth on me, baby.”
“Just one suck,” you mumble stubbornly, pulling his sweatpants and boxers down.
Your eyes widen when his cock bobs heavily, struggling with its own weight. You swallow, blinking dazedly as you take in the length and the thickness and the heavy balls that sit underneath. The tip is flushed angrily, darkened and dripping with globs of pre-cum that don’t seem to stop, his cock twitching when you lean towards it slowly.
“It’s big,” you whisper, glancing up at Leon before your eyes find his cock again, pussy beginning to throb as you imagine the stretch. “Really fucking big. You’re– you’re that hard for me?”
Leon grunts, his hand wrapping around his cock, giving it a quick pump. “Yeah, just for you, sweet girl.” He pumps it again, holding his cock towards you. “You said you wanted a taste, go ‘head, pretty baby.”
You don’t need any further invitation, licking your lips hungrily, tongue lolling out. You drag your tongue along the hot length of his cock, feeling the smooth skin and saltiness of his pre-cum. Leon groans, his hips bucking again, another glob of pre-cum dribbling out. You lean forward just in time, catching it on your tongue before your lips wrap around his thick cock.
“Fuck– fuck, baby,” Leon moans, twitching underneath you as you bob your head, beginning to suck. “Your mouth– hah– fuckkk.”
You peer up at him, eyes glittering as you let your tongue swirl around the head before you pull off, pressing a wet, sticky kiss to the tip of his cock.
“Don’t do that,” he mutters hoarsely, shaking his head, “don’t fucking kiss my cock like you’re fucking in love with it.”
You do it again, brows raising when his cock twitches, looking over to find his hand clenched into the sheets, knuckles nearly white.
“I think you like it,” you tease, moving to wrap your hand around his cock, stroking it slowly. “And… I think your cock likes it too.”
“Fuck me,” he growls, head tipping back when you take his cock back into your mouth, sucking and slurping lewdly. He groans and grunts through it, eyes peeling open to watch you swallow around his cock, your pupils blown wide with lust.
When his head lolls to the side, you take your chance, head dipping before he can stop you to suck one of his balls into your mouth. He tastes so dizzyingly nice, spit beginning to leak from the corners of your mouth. Leon’s cock kicks and you land one last kiss to the tip before he’s pulling you up towards him, muffling your whine with a messy kiss.
“Wanna ride it,” you mumble against his lips, worming closer, breasts squishing up against his firm chest.
Leon doesn’t answer, too busy tipping your head up by your chin to kiss you again, stealing your breath. You paw at his chest, fingers finally latching onto his thick biceps. Squeezing, you moan into his mouth when his tongue strokes against yours, arms wrapping around his neck as he pulls back up onto his lap.
Your hips roll, bare pussy gliding along the length of his cock, the tip catching on your newly swollen clit, making you twitch. He refuses to let up with the kisses, groaning into your mouth when you pull at his hair, feverishly swallowing up every little noise that bleeds from your throat.
“Yeah?” he breathes out finally, head tipping back for a moment as he catches his breath, calloused hands squeezing at your hips. “You wanna bounce on it? Hm? This needy pussy of yours need a fat cock to keep it happy, baby?”
“Mhm,” you nod, biting your lip, arousal blistering over your skin, lust beginning to cloud your thoughts once more. You press closer, lips brushing against his ear as though telling him a secret. “It needs your fat cock, Leon.”
“C’mere,” he mutters roughly, moving you up onto your knees, hand grasping the base of his cock to hold it steady for you. “Sink down on it, sweetheart.”
You shift, lowering yourself slowly, letting out a muffled gasp when you start to take his cock, the head of it already beginning to stretch out your pussy as it bullies its way past your entrance.
“‘s just so fucking thick,” you moan softly, peering up at him.
Leon hums, his thumb stroking over your lower lip while his other hand strokes over your hip soothingly.
“You got it, baby,” he smiles, dropping a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “You took my fingers and my mouth so fucking good. Only got a few inches left, yeah?”
Your brows furrow as you bite your lip harder, gasping when you finally take all of him, pussy fluttering around his cock wildly in an attempt to adjust to his sheer size. You feel so full, so much so that you think you can feel him in your stomach.
“Good fuckin’ girl,” Leon whispers, his arms wrapping around your waist as he leans against the headboard of the bed. “Take what you need from me, sweetheart. ‘s all yours.”
“Leon,” you mewl, dragging out the syllables of his name, whimpering against his mouth when he kisses your cheek. “I… I can’t,” you say, flushing hot, “it’s too big, I don’t–”
“Good girls don’t give up,” he breathes out, hands moving to squeeze at your waist, “not to mention you were so headstrong earlier. Where’s that attitude now, baby?”
“You fucked it outta me,” you retort poutily, shoving your face into the crook of his neck.
“And to think you said I was old and weird– shit, baby–”
You relish in the loud, guttural groan he lets out when the walls of your pussy squeeze around him. Nuzzling closer, you kiss the spot under his ear before your hips move, rocking and rolling in a lazy rhythm as you get used to his size.
“I’m not giving up,” you murmur, glancing up at him as he watches you, head tipping back when his hand moves up over your breasts, slipping between them to wrap around your throat.
“Atta girl.”
Leon squeezes and you moan, grabbing his wrist as your knees dig into the bedding, hips beginning to rise and fall. He pulls you into a sloppy kiss, growling into your mouth, panting as his tongue slips over yours messily, his thumb prying your mouth open. You pant, tongue lolling out as you ride his cock, the bed creaking from your motions as you fuck yourself on his cock needily.
“Fuckin’ gorgeous,” Leon rasps, watching you with dark eyes, his hair messy and hanging over one side of his face. “So fuckin’ gorgeous, sweetheart.”
You smile at him dopily, breath slowing when his hand tightens, starting to cut off your intake of oxygen. His nose nudges against yours, breath hot as he kisses you, lips working against yours eagerly until his grip loosens, letting you suck in a breath.
“You trust me that much?” Leon asks, smiling back at you with a feral look in his eyes when your hand wraps around his throat. “You think that’s a good idea, sweetheart? You wanna choke me out while you ride my cock?”
“Oh, you can take it,” you whisper, tightening your grip. Your movements don’t slow, thighs smacking against his as you bounce on his lap, your hand landing on his shoulder for leverage as you drop yourself down on his cock harder, setting a firmer rhythm. “Heard you– ahh– kicked ass back at Rhodes Hill.”
He grins, eyes glinting, a ragged noise leaving him when you pant into his mouth, licking at his lips.
“Yeah, I still hah– got it,” Leon muses, hands squeezing at your ass.
Your brows furrow when his grip tightens, a moan punched out of you when he grips your hips starting to lift you, using you as he fucks you on his cock.
“That’s it,” he drawls, controlling the rhythm and you, his forehead pressing against yours as he jerks you up and down his thick, throbbing cock. “Take my fat fuckin’ cock, baby. Cute, little pussy’s just swallowing me up.”
You whimper, hand sliding to cup the nape of his neck, your bodies moving together as his cock carves its way through your pussy, nestling against that spot before it glides out and drives back in. His chest is pressed against yours, firm muscle pressed against your soft breasts, the coarse thatch of hair at the base of his cock rubbing along your clit.
“Harder,” you whisper, eyes finding his, hips starting to sway back to meet his thrusts when he plants his feet into the bed, knees bending as he fucks his cock up into you. “Want it– nghh– harder, Leon.”
“That might strain my joints, baby,” he says softly, smiling up at him when you huff out an annoyed breath. “What? You were concerned about my bones.”
“Fuck your bones,” you groan, pushing at his chest, squirming off of his lap onto your hands and knees, ass swaying up into the air. You look back at him over your shoulder, hand worming between your thighs to spread yourself open for him, wet, dripping pussy all on display for him. “‘m so empty,” you whisper, voice lilting. “Fill me up?” You bat your lashes, “please?”
Leon mutters a low curse, his chest heaving as he rises up onto his knees, using your ankle to pull you toward him, his hand stroking his cock with uneven motions, knuckles tightening when he sees the slick webbing between your puffy folds and clinging to your thighs.
You’re half-expecting some witty remark, but all Leon does is brush a rough kiss to your shoulder, grunting into your ear before he’s notching the head of his cock against your aching pussy and driving his cock into you.
“Too– fuck! Too fast!” you squeal when he starts thrusting hard and fast, the bed beginning to rock with every snap of his hips.
“But you said you were empty,” Leon rumbles into your ear, “‘m just filling up this needy, pretty fucking cunt for you, sweetheart. So stop squirming,” his hand clamps down on your hips, “and fucking take it.”
You wail into the room, thrashing under him when his hips smack into your ass, balls slapping against your throbbing clit, the lewd noises echoing through the small space. He draws moan after moan out of you, his cock pounding into your pussy unforgivingly. You think you can feel it in your throat, his fat cock sliding through your gripping, fluttering walls.
Leon’s body is draping over your back, his mouth settling right next to your ear as he grunts and groans. Your toes curl, back arching when he pushes down on the small of your back, his breathing ragged as he grinds his impossibly thick cock into you.
“Fuck,” you mewl, spying his flexed bicep near your head, drool pooling into your mouth. Your head tilts as the muscle bulges, all inhibitions lost when you follow the line of his arm to stare hazily at his veiny forearm. You lean towards his bicep, teeth sinking into the thick muscle with a moan.
Leon’s breath hitches, his hips stuttering for a moment when he realizes you’ve bit him before his thrusts start up again, his hot, heavy cock pounding back into your needy pussy. You lick his bicep, tongue laving over his warm skin, eyes rolling back when his arm moves, wrapping around your throat, his bicep pressed up against the side of your neck.
“You keep– fuck– staring at my arms, sweetheart,” Leon rasps, grinning against your cheek when you let out a choked moan, his breath cut off by a low moan of his own. “Is this what you need? A strong arm wrapped around your throat, fat cock pounding into your needy cunt and sweet, little kisses?” He punctuates his question by kissing your temple.
“I– nghhh– need you,” you whine, feeling dazed as he drops his weight onto you a little more, enough so that you can feel every inch of him against your back.
You can’t really do anything but take it, his skin slapping against yours and breath rough in your ear. When his fingers move, finding your clit to rub the swollen bud, you whimper, clutching the sheets, nails raking against the fabric as the string of pleasure draws tighter.
“‘m gonna cum,” you say hoarsely, cunt clenching around his cock desperately. “Leon– Leon, Leon, Leon!”
“‘m right here, baby,” Leon whispers, kissing your cheek, “taking my cock so well. Doing so– fuck– good for me, yeah? Cum whenever you want, sweet girl, I’ve got you.”
Your body jerks when his fingers rub against your clit faster, a ragged scream erupting from you as you cum violently. Leon swears, his grip on you faltering, the arm on your throat drawing away as you twitch on his cock, grasping at the sheets, at the pillows until Leon offers you his hand.
Your fingers lace together with his and you squeeze tightly, gasping uncontrollably until his mouth finds yours, capturing your lips in a kiss. You whimper into his mouth, knees weak and thighs tired, your death-grip on his hand loosening when he soothes you with soft kisses. Your pussy clenches and Leon groans into your mouth, his hips jerking forward unevenly.
“‘m gonna cum too, pretty baby,” he grunts, fingers pushing at your ass gently, hips beginning to pull away. “Greedy, little pussy’s clenching around me too tight, I can’t–”
“Inside,” you mumble, letting your hips sway back tiredly, trying to swallow down the length of his cock. “Cum inside.”
“That’s– shittt– a bad idea, baby,” Leon groans, his head dropping forward to rest against your shoulder as his hips rock into you, pace stuttering.
You can feel his cock throb and twitch, a soft mewl escaping you. “You said you were full of bad ideas.”
Leon lets out a startled laugh, his breath coming out in short, choppy bursts. “I did– hahhh– I did say that. Take my cum then, sweetheart, gonna flood this perfect fuckin’ cunt with cum.”
He grips your hips, thrusting forward with a hard drive of his cock. Leon swears under his breath, his hips jerking into your ass as he cums, cock kicking and throbbing as hot, thick cum floods your pussy.
You let out a contented noise when he moans into your ear, low and guttural, the sound making you feel warm. His softening cock slips out after a few moments and Leon pulls himself away from you, the bed protesting under the weight of you both. You curl up into his side, head dropping over his chest, eyes drooping when you feel the steady beat of his heart.
Leon’s hand settles on your head, stroking over your hair lazily as he pants, chest rising and falling.
“Do you feel relaxed?” you murmur, peering up at him with a sleepy smile.
“I feel fucked out,” Leon mutters, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek, rubbing at the spot of drool that had pooled at the corner of your mouth. “You did a number on me, sweetheart.”
“I aim to please.”
He laughs, hauling you closer and you smile, kissing the underside of his jaw. “You went above and beyond, I can tell you that much.”
You snort, arms wrapping around his neck. “Am I gonna get that in writing?”
“I’ll think about it,” Leon murmurs, his fingers slipping under your chin to tip your head, lips pressing against yours. You hum into the kiss, fingers tangling in his soft hair, a quiet noise leaving you as he squeezes your ass.
When Leon pulls away, you chase after his lips, eyes fluttering shut when he returns your kiss just as eagerly, your thigh hooking over his hip, brows furrowing when you feel his cock against your thigh.
You look down, cheeks flushing when you find his spent cock beginning to harden, the fat length bobbing gently as it fills out.
“Already?” you murmur, sighing softly when he leaves stubbly kisses along your jaw.
“What can I say?” Leon whispers, his hips bucking when your hand wraps around his hardening cock. “You uh… bring out the best in me, I guess.”
You raise your brows, unable to stop the wide smile that spreads across your face. “Your best attribute is your cock? That’s a little disappointing.”
He grins, groaning when you kiss his pec.
“You didn’t seem to think it was disappointing when I fucked you with it.”
“It is nice,” you acquiesce, head tipping back as he leans into you, trailing hot kisses down your neck, his hips beginning to rock lazily, meeting the strokes of your hand.
“I do have other nice, non-sexual attributes,” Leon says, his hand cupping your cheek, thumb stroking over your skin gently. There’s a light flush settled on his cheeks and he clears his throat, sucking in a soft breath when you squeeze his cock. “Maybe you’d like to find out sometime?”
Your smile softens, affection beginning to creep in through the cracks of your ribs. Leaning forward, you kiss him gently.
✈︎ Thinking... about meanie!Caleb overstimulating MC to his heart's content
Pairing: CALEB x MC
Rate: Explicit
Word count: 1.4k
CW/Tags: light dom/sub dynamics, possessiveness, name calling, subspace, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, check-ins, safe sane consensual, degradation/mocking tones, aftercare; plot what plot
Read on AO3
“Caleb. Caleb, please–,”
“What's the matter, Pips?” Caleb's mocking chuckle fills the room, “Thought this was what you wanted?”
“Wan–, fuck, I want to cum, please, pl–,”
Caleb clicks his tongue, right arm holding both of your wrists tighter, “You can cum.”
“No,” you shake your head at his words, mind fuzzy from being submitted to this for so long, “Can't, I can't, I need–,”
“You need to take what I give you,” he corrects, voice dropping dangerously low, “Wasn't it always like this? You ask and I provide? I'm providing, Pips. You can't be picky.”
Caleb's definition of ‘providing’ didn’t match yours.
He had been there for a while. How long exactly your overworked brain couldn't precise. Two inches in, angling up, prodding and rubbing one specific spot inside of you – relentlessly, cruelly.
Caleb's hips move once again. Enough to push the tip of his cock towards your bladder, crushing that spongy heaven close to your entrance and making you cry out, but nowhere near a decent thrust.
“Fuck,” you whimper, belly twitching at the delicious pressure, “Please, please…”
“Just cum,” Caleb thrusts again, “Isn't that what you want?”
“No,” you mumble, eyes welling up, “No, that's not–”
“No?” Caleb stops. He brings your wrists above your head, pinning them to the mattress. “But that's what you've been begging for. Did you lie?”
“Didn't lie,” you shake your head again, faster this time, “Didn't lie.”
Your gaze finds his, blurred by the tears that have yet to fall, and Caleb's eyes travel down to your lips – surely bitten red and swollen by now.
“First you ask me to cum,” he whispers, nose brushing against yours, “Then you tell me you don't want to cum… I've spoiled you rotten, it seems.”
Your heart swells, hopeful. That's gentle Caleb. That's the Caleb that gives you what you ask for, that's…
“Sadly,” Caleb sighs, moving away from you and bringing your arms back to the front of your body, “Today we are doing this my way.”
He sits back on his heels, thighs spread, and rolls his hips forward – again, too shallow to be called a proper thrust and, again, hitting that spot head on.
Electricity flows down your spine as he continues, setting into a pace of rolling forward, then back, successfully bullying you into a shaking mess.
“Ca–ngh, Caleb,” your head falls back, brain turning to putty, “Ca– fuck, please, please…”
Your high pitched whines do very little to change his mind and soon they start matching the loud wet squelches echoing around your bedroom. You're dripping for him, as you've been through the last hour.
Each time he pushes forward, you feel that vein at the back of his cock rubbing against your hole. And each time he pulls back, you feel yourself stretching around his tip, stopping him from pulling out entirely.
It's maddening. Not only because your most sensitive spot is constantly being hit by his swollen head, but also because he is not going far enough for you to properly close around him – the thickest part of his cock is constantly pushing in and out, keeping you open and stretched around Caleb.
Your legs gave up fighting it three orgasms ago, and now they lay spread and shaking, too weak to even hook around him. Your brain is quickly following the same path, thoughts mushy, cushioned by the relentless pleasure and pressure of his length.
It's good. It's so good… He keeps hitting right there, right where you need him, where you love him, where–
“Pips,” Caleb pulls on your wrists, and your head bobs forward. You're panting, whining weakly at each roll of his body, “Still with me?”
You nod, or try to. Caleb moves forward again and your waist shakes – you're so wet, so close, it feels so good…
“Look at me,” he commands, and when you don't comply he releases your wrists, hand reaching out to hold your chin, “You wanna stop?”
You move your head left and right slowly, lips brushing against his thumb. Caleb hisses when your body squeezes down on him, “Wanna cum.”
“You don't want to stop?” he asks again, holding your chin tighter.
“No.”
He takes a second to look at you. Somewhere inside your brain you know he's checking if you're okay – as he always does. You're too deep within your mind to care about that right now, though, so you squeeze down on him once again.
Caleb is satisfied with whatever he sees in your expression, because the next second that tough facade is back. He pulls out until your rim catches on his tip, then grins, “Should I make you cum, princess?”
You try to nod, but his hold on your chin tightens.
“You're mine to play with, right?” Caleb rolls forward again, cock angled up. He stops exactly on your g-spot, “Mine to fuck,” he pulls out to your rim once more, “Mine to breed,” in again.
Amongst the sparkles cursing through you, something akin to an affirmation comes out of your throat, and Caleb forces his thumb past your lips, holding your tongue down.
“If you're mine to do all that… Then you're no better than a fuck-toy, right? And fuck-toys obey.”
His words register with a delay and you try once again to nod. Yes, you'd obey. You could do that. Anything he asks you to, as long as you can cum, as long as…
“You gonna obey, Pips?”
Caleb snaps his hips up, fucking you shallowly once again. He sets a harsh pace, bullying that spongy spot over and over and over again.
Tears fall down your cheeks, mixing with the spit dripping down your chin right onto his hand. Right now you can't care anymore. Right now your body can only focus on the way Caleb is crushing you there. On the way you're kept open by his thick cock, the way your slick is pooling down on the bed, the way–
“Good girl,” the praise resonates around you, and your belly clenches, “Perfect little hole, look at you.”
You pant in rhythm with his thrusts and your legs shake harder.
“What a mess, Pips, you're so fucking wet… Can you hear it?” Caleb chuckles, and your vision blurs further, you're so close, so close… “Be good, yeah? Be good and come from me giving you only my tip to rut on. From me fucking you right where you love it, come on.”
He presses down on your tongue, and his other hand comes down to push on your navel.
Your eyes snap open, head falling back. Caleb’s hand slips from your mouth and your arms fly to hold his, nails digging on skin, “‐uck, fuck, fuck, Caleb, Caleb…”
“Cum,” he groans, “On my cock, come on.”
Shaking, you do as he tells you, orgasm crashing down on you. You scream his name, bowing your back involuntarily – Caleb uses that as an opportunity to sheath himself inside of you, filling you entirely.
He starts thrusting properly, pounding you into the mattress and your brain short circuits. You're still cumming, wave after wave of unrelenting pleasure, but now you have more, you have him everywhere.
“You're doing that again for me,” he whispers, voice nothing more than a low groan, “One more as I fill you up.”
You're not sure if you ever stop cumming, but soon it's a crescendo again. Caleb fills you perfectly, to the brim. He reaches deep, pounds you somewhere your fingers can't reach, and it's good, it's perfect.
“Perfect, baby?” Caleb chuckles, “That's adorable. I'm ruining your pussy and you're babbling about ‘perfect’...”
“‘s good,” you whine.
“Yeah,” he pants. “You get cock-dumb so easily, don't you? But it's okay… It's okay, I'm here to take care of you.”
He is. He is. Caleb is here, he will take care of everything.
“Cu–cumming,” you tell him, nails scratching down his arm. The same arm that is still pressing down your bladder.
“Yeah? Do that for me, be a good girl and do that for me.”
Your vision swims, body locking down on him. Your orgasm reaches you one more time, right before the world turns into static.
You register your body shaking, and Caleb moaning as he reaches his own high. More static and you feel his gentle, warm hands on you, then a towel and kisses.
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