rafayel who longs for his bride, awaiting the day they will unite, his heart echoing with yearning all while his paint strokes another canva, telling another story that is deep buried away in his mind.
rafayel who sees his bride for the first time in this lifetime, the pure shock rendering him confused and speechless, the captivating aura inspiring him anew.
rafayel who stays up late at night, unable to rest as his hand fists his leaking cock. his heart thrumming so fast he could hear it beat against his chest with every rise and fall. every small sensitive feeling having him spiral as he imagines his bride wrapped around his cock, squeezing him dry for her own pleasure.
rafayel who cums a shaky orgasm, his hips desperately jerking up into his hands. whiny grunts leaving his lips as he tips over the edge, the sound of your voice in his head capturing a tingling feeling through his sweaty body.
rafayel who then paints his bride's figure at the strangest hours of the night, the robe he threw on barely hiding his already sensitive and hard cock as he imagines every curve, every dip, every line of her body. the plush softness he yearns to feel, to kiss and treasure for another lifetime.
rafayel who patiently waits for his bride who eternally is his in this life and the next.
this pookie is unedited, HOPE EVERYONE'S PULLS WENT GOOD, got the myth in 150 pulls, 100 euro later :")
Rafayel's lips curl into a slight smirk as your obscene pussy squelching sounds fills the warm air. your tight walls clenching around his prying fingers.
“is this too much, my cutie?” he purrs into your ear, his fingers not stopping the relentless abuse on your dirty cunt leaking all kinds of fluids just for him. all for him…
his pretty little wife.
“raf-” you whine, your hips jolting up as his fingers curl up, hitting the spot that makes your eyes roll back and your pussy squirt all over his fancy suit that he had pulled the sleeves up on, and the personal tailored jacket discarded somewhere on the floor— long forgotten as he works on pleasing your needs.
what type of husband would leave his cute wife all needy and begging for him?
“yeah?” he teases fingering at a higher intensity letting the juices gush out your overstimulated pussy.
“o-oh god!” you scream, pressing your hand to your mouth and riding out your orgasm on his delicious fingers, your hips moving like the fast tide of the fancy yacht you were on. “such a good girl, just like that baby” he praises, pressing soft kisses to the side of your face, letting you slowly come down from your high.
and when you curl up all embarrassed into his chest afterwards, he would give you a cheeky laugh and swoop you into his welcoming arms.
“soooo what scent do you want for our bath bomb? i was thinking about lavender today?”
RAFAYEL GILRIES RISEEEEE, WISHING EVERYONE LUCK WITH HIS NEW MYTH PULLS. LOVE YA POOKIES🩷
A quiet evening by the shore, where the ocean meets the sky in hues of twilight. Rafayel stands ankle-deep in the water, the waves lapping gently at his feet. The air is thick with the scent of salt and something deeper—something like longing.
You stare at him as the breeze whips through your own hair. A prolonged sense of nostalgia settling in the deepest part of your heart.
Rafayel’s features are a mesmerizing blend of elegance and quiet intensity, as if carved by the sea itself, soft yet sharp, ethereal yet deeply human. And as he turns to face you, you find yourself lost in blue-ish pink, a sunset meeting the furthest part of the ocean.
"I'll start charging you." He muses, his eyes gliting with his mischievous charm. "For what?" You muse back, take a few steps closer, feeling the small tide pull at your legs.
"Staring at this cultivating art," he jokes, splashing a little of the water into your face.
You gasp as the cool water hits your skin, laughing despite yourself. "Cultivating art?" You repeat, shaking your head. "More like cultivating arrogance."
Rafayel grins, unbothered, the fading light catching the playful curve of his lips. "Arrogance is just confidence with a little extra flair," he counters, stepping closer, the waves swirling around his ankles like liquid silk.
The space between you feels charged—like the moment before a storm, electric and inevitable. You tilt your head, studying him. "And what exactly do you plan to charge me? Seashells? A song? A secret?"
His eyes darken slightly, the amusement softening into something warmer, more intimate. "How about a memory?" he suggests, voice low. "One worth keeping."
The offer hangs in the air, sweet and tantalizing. The ocean sighs against the shore as if holding its breath.
You reach out, brushing a droplet from his cheek—whether from the sea or his earlier splash, you’re not sure. "Depends," you murmur. "Is it a memory of you?"
Rafayel catches your wrist gently, his thumb tracing your pulse. "Would that be so bad?"
The world narrows to the space between your breaths, the salt on your lips, the way his gaze lingers like the last light of day.
You smile. "I suppose I can afford that."
The moment your lips meet his, the world dissolves. Salt and sunset, wind and waves, all fading into the background. Rafayel stills for a heartbeat, surprised, before his fingers tighten around your wrist, pulling you closer. His other hand finds the small of your back, anchoring you against him as the tide swirls around your legs, as if the ocean itself is urging you together.
His mouth is warm, tasting of sea spray and something faintly sweet, like the last trace of summer fruit. The kiss deepens, slow and searching, as if he’s memorizing the shape of you. When you finally pull back, breathless, his eyes are darker now, the playful glint replaced by something hungrier.
"That," he murmurs, thumb brushing your lower lip, "was a down payment."
You laugh, but it’s shaky, your pulse fluttering where his fingers still linger. "On what?"
"On forever," he says simply, like it’s the easiest truth in the world.
And as the last light of twilight bleeds into the horizon, you realize; you’d pay it again and again if it meant spending one more fleeting moment with Rafayel.
three years of shared meals, whispered promises, and hands brushing in the quiet spaces between battles. three years of loving him—fiercely, desperately—even when his eyes were distant, even when his mind was somewhere else.
and yet— you always notice.
you notice the way his voice softens when he speaks to her. the way his gaze lingers a second too long when mikasa walks into the room. the way his anger, his fire, his everything bends around her like gravity.
you see it in the way he fights—reckless, untamed—only for her to pull him back. you see it in the way he lets her.
you’ve tried to pull him back too. he never stays.
you tell yourself it doesn’t matter. that love isn’t measured in glances or silent understandings. that you’re the one who shares his bed, his secrets, his quietest hours.
but then—
mikasa smiles, and eren’s whole world shifts.
and you realize, with a sinking, shameful ache, that you were never the one holding his heart.
you were just keeping it warm for her.
so you turn, retreating into the distance, because how can you blame him?
how can you fault him for loving her when you love him the same way—helplessly, hopelessly?
the truth is, you’ve always known.
you saw it in the way his fingers twitched when she was near, like he was fighting the urge to reach for her. you heard it in the way his voice cracked when he said her name, mikasa, like it was something sacred.
and you?
you were just the one who happened to be there.
the one who held him when the nightmares came, who traced the scars on his skin and pretended not to see the way his eyes searched for her even in his sleep.
so you step back.
not with anger, not with tears—just a quiet understanding, the way you’ve always understood him best.
because love isn’t always about being chosen.
sometimes, it’s about knowing when to let go.
and if your heart shatters a little as you walk away—well. at least it was yours to break.
tags: angst, fluff, jealousy. (reader x eren) status: unedited :)
"We’re just roommates." That’s what you tell yourself whenever Eren Yeager crashes onto your bed at 2 AM, smelling like weed and cheap booze, ranting about his latest problems with Mikasa and how Jean is such a dick.
"We're just friends." Eren would repeat for the hundredth time as he overlooks the subtle tension between you both. The lingering eyes and the weird feeling burning in his chest when your back turns and your attention focuses on anyone but him.
"It's not like that." You would repeat once more, catching Armin giving you a meaningful look as you try to avoid staring at Mikasa hanging over Eren a little too much. Your throat tightening like you were a fish thrown on land and left to dry out in the sweltering heat.
"Friends can be intimate, right...?" You think as Eren's face smoulders your stomach, his body clearly exhausted and his eyes shut closed peacefully.
Because when the sun rises and morning comes once more, this will never be spoken of.
The unspoken rule hangs between you like a fragile thread—one wrong move, one careless word, and it snaps.
Eren will wake up with a groan, rubbing his temples like he always does after a long night, and he’ll blink at you with those tired, stormy eyes like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just spend the night tangled in your sheets, his warmth seeping into your skin. Like he didn’t murmur your name in his sleep, so soft you almost convinced yourself you imagined it.
And you? You’ll laugh it off. You’ll throw a pillow at him and tell him to get his shit together, to stop treating your bed like his personal crash pad. You’ll ignore the way your pulse stutters when his fingers accidentally—always accidentally—graze yours as he stumbles out of your room.
Mikasa will ask him where he was. Armin will give you that look again. Jean will make some snide comment about Eren’s terrible habits.
And life will go on.
Because that’s what you do. That’s what you’ve always done.
Pretend.
Ignore.
Lie.
But when the door clicks shut behind him, and you’re left alone with the ghost of his presence still clinging to your sheets, you’ll press your face into the pillow where his head had been and breathe in the fading scent of him—smoke, cheap cologne, and something unmistakably Eren.
And for just one second, you’ll let yourself ache.
Then you’ll get up, smooth out the wrinkles in your life, and pretend it doesn’t kill you a little more each time.
synopsis: sent as a spy by the fatui, readying her duty to threaten the duke of meropide and gather intel, only to find herself under his not so gentle touch.
tags: smut, hate sex, betrayal, sexual manipulation, rough handling, dark scenes, angst, no happy ending, smut with plot, harsh words.
word count: 2k
rating: 18+, sexual activity, and mild violence.
Your hand hovers steady over his neck, the cold edge of your blade kissing his skin—just enough to threaten, not yet enough to draw blood. His pulse thrums beneath the steel, unhurried, unafraid, as if the weapon pressed to his throat were nothing more than an inconvenient touch.
Wriothesley doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink.
His eyes lock onto yours, dark and unreadable, a flicker of amusement dancing in their depths. The bastard has the audacity to smirk.
"Typically, people look for other ways to kill me." His voice is a low, rough drawl, edged with something dangerously close to boredom. One eyebrow lifts, mocking, as he leans further back into the sofa, the picture of ease. The movement presses his throat harder against your blade, daring you to do it.
Your fingers tighten around the hilt, knuckles whitening.
"Did the Fatui send you?" His tone shifts, sharpening like the very knife at his neck. The amusement fades, replaced by something colder, something furious. "Did they force you to butter me up? Make me trust you?"
He leans forward abruptly, forcing you to either cut him or retreat. You hold your ground, but your breath hitches as his face comes inches from yours, his presence overwhelming—heat, leather, and the faint metallic tang of old blood.
"I need information," you grit out, fighting to keep your voice steady.
A harsh, humourless laugh escapes him. "Oh, sweetheart," he murmurs, the endearment a venomous thing. "Don’t you think you’ve gotten enough of that from snooping through my office?"
Before you can react, his hand snaps up, calloused fingers clamping around your wrist like a vice. Bone grinds against bone as he twists, merciless, forcing a sharp cry from your lips. The blade is almsot forced out of your hand, but your grip tightens at the hilt, yet despite your desperate hold, in an instant the tables turn—his other arm slams into your chest, shoving you back against the nearest surface with enough force to knock the air from your lungs.
Now, it’s his body caging yours, his breath hot against your ear as he growls, "Let’s talk about who really sent you."
Your breath hitches as his familiar heat consumes you—the scent of leather and steel, the lingering trace of smoke and sweat. Memories surge unbidden: the press of his bare skin against yours in the dark, the rough scrape of his calloused hands tracing your spine, the low murmur of his voice, warm and honeyed with promises he never meant to keep.
For a single, damning second, you hesitate.
It’s all he needs.
Wriothesley’s grip on your wrist tightens, his thumb digging into the tender pulse point until your fingers spasm, the blade slipping from your grasp. The clatter of steel against the floor is deafening in the sudden silence.
His other hand fists in your collar, yanking you forward until your forehead nearly brushes his. The proximity is suffocating—his breath fans over your lips, the same lips that once traced the scar along his ribs, the same lips that whispered lies into his skin.
"Pathetic," he rasps, voice thick with something between fury and betrayal. "You should’ve tried cutting harder."
His knee slots between your thighs, pinning you in place, a cruel mimicry of the way he’d crowded you against the wall that first night, all teeth and whispered threats that melted into something far more dangerous.
But this time, there’s no tenderness in his touch. Only the cold, calculating grip of a man who’s decided you’re not worth mercy.
"Now," he murmurs, dragging the tip of a dagger—your dagger—along your jaw. "Let’s try this again. Who. Sent. You?"
Wriothesley was many things:
Duke of the Fortress of Meropide. Lord Incognito of the murky depths. A man who thrived in the shadows, who ruled with an iron grip wrapped in velvet courtesy.
But above all else—he loathed traitors.
And you? You had played your part too well.
His grip on you was unrelenting, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your throat just enough to remind you—he could crush you if he wanted to. His other hand still held your wrist, twisted at a brutal angle, your blade long since discarded.
You thrashed against him, but he only tightened his hold, his breath hot against your ear.
"Who. Sent. You."
Each word was a hammer strike, cold and precise.
Your lips parted, defiance warring with something darker—fear.Not of death, no. You’d danced with death before. But of him. Of the way his eyes, usually alight with wicked amusement, had gone glacial. The way his body, once warm and yielding against yours in the dead of night, now felt like unyielding steel, cold like sharp ice.
"Father," you choked out.
The word hung between you like a guillotine’s blade.
Wriothesley went utterly still.
Then—he laughed.
A low, humourless sound, more dangerous than any snarl.
"Ah," he murmured, his thumb brushing your pulse in a mockery of tenderness. "So the Fatui did send me a little spy. And not just any spy—Arlecchino's little pet."
The name of The Knave, the Harbinger who had raised you, shaped you, sent you here, seemed to carve the air between you.
Wriothesley’s grip shifted, his free hand tangling in your hair, wrenching your head back to force your gaze up at him.
"Tell me," he said, voice deceptively soft. "Did she know you’d spread your legs for me, too? Or was that your own initiative?"
The words were a knife, twisted deep.
You swallowed hard, but there was no defense. No lie left to tell.
Wriothesley’s smile was razor-edged.
"Good." He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear in a cruel parody of the way he’d once whispered to you in the dark. "Then she’ll know exactly why I’m sending you back to her in pieces."
"Wriothesley!"
Your voice was sharp, desperate, as you arched against him, your body straining beneath his weight. His knee pressed harder between your thighs, the rough fabric of his trousers dragging against the sensitive skin of your inner leg. The friction was cruel—almost deliberate—a taunting reminder of how easily he could shift from pain to pleasure, from punishment to something far more dangerous.
"Don’t do this," you whimpered, the words breaking in your throat.
His grip on your hair tightened, forcing your head back further, exposing the vulnerable line of your neck. His breath was hot against your skin, lips grazing the spot where your pulse fluttered like a trapped bird.
"Why not?" he murmured, voice thick with something between fury and hunger. "You didn’t seem to mind when it was me fucking you into the mattress. When it was your nails digging into my back. When it was your lies spilling from those pretty lips."
His free hand slid down your side, calloused fingers tracing the curve of your waist before gripping hard enough to bruise.
"Oh sweetheart," his voice lowered, his breath hot against your ear. "Did you think about the Knave when you were screaming my name? Or were you too busy pretending you actually wanted me?"
You shuddered, shame and desire twisting together in your gut.
His laugh was dark, mocking. "Pathetic."
Then, with a sudden, brutal shift, he yanked you forward, his mouth crashing against yours in a kiss that was more teeth than tenderness. It was a punishment. A claim.
And when he finally pulled away, his lips were stained with the copper tang of your blood.
"You don’t get to beg now, sweetheart," he whispered, thumb swiping roughly over your lower lip. "Not after what you’ve done."
Wriothesley’s grip on your hair tightened, forcing your head back further, exposing the vulnerable line of your throat. His breath was hot against your skin, lips grazing the spot where your pulse fluttered like a trapped bird.
His free hand slid down your side, calloused fingers tracing the curve of your waist before gripping hard enough to bruise. You gasped, arching into the pain—or was it pleasure? The line between them had blurred long ago with him.
"Tell me," he growled, pressing closer, his body a furnace against yours. "Did you think about the Knave and your mission when you were cock drunk on my dick begging for more?"
You shuddered, shame and desire twisting together in your gut. His knee between your thighs pressed harder, the rough fabric of his trousers dragging against your sensitive skin, teasing just enough to make your breath hitch.
"And look at you all ready and shivering for it, already wet and begging like a desperate slut for my cock because that's all you're good at doing" he grinds his knee briefly on your wet cunt, the evidence there through the dampness of the fabric.
His hand slid down to the waistband of your pants, fingers dipping beneath the fabric with deliberate slowness. You tensed, but he only smirked, his breath hot against your ear.
"But I’ll let you squirm for it."
His fingers found your clit, circling just once—teasing—before retreating. You bit back a whimper, hips jerking forward instinctively, seeking the friction he’d denied you.
Wriothesley chuckled, low and cruel. "Oh? Still so eager for me?" His grip on your hair tightened, forcing your gaze up to meet his. "Even now?"
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.
His smirk deepened. "Good."
Then his hand was back, fingers slipping inside you without warning, curling just right to make your back arch. A choked moan tore from your throat as he worked you ruthlessly, his thumb pressing down on your clit in tight, punishing circles.
"Look at you," he murmured, voice rough with something darker than anger. "Still so fucking wet for me. Even after you sold me out."
You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders as pleasure coiled tight in your belly. But just as you teetered on the edge, he withdrew, leaving you empty, aching.
"No." His voice was steel. "You don’t get to come until I say so."
Before you could protest, he spun you around, shoving you face-first against the nearest surface—the desk, the wall, it didn’t matter. His body pressed flush against your back, one hand fisting in your hair while the other yanked your pants down just enough to expose you.
You heard the slick sound of him spitting into his palm, the rustle of fabric as he freed himself. Then the blunt head of his cock pressed against your entrance, teasing, torturing, before he slammed into you in one brutal thrust.
You cried out, the stretch bordering on pain, but he didn’t stop, didn’t slow. His hips snapped forward relentlessly, each movement driving you harder against the unforgiving surface beneath you.
"This what you wanted?" he snarled, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to leave bruises. "You thought you could play me? Use me?"
You couldn’t answer, couldn’t think—every nerve was alight, every thrust dragging you closer to the edge despite yourself.
His hand slid around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, a reminder of his control. "Look at you," he breathed, lips brushing your ear. "Taking me so well. Like you were made for it."
The words shouldn’t have sent heat pooling low in your belly. But they did.
He fucked you like it was a punishment, like he wanted to ruin you for anyone else. And when your body tightened around him, pleasure cresting despite your shame, his grip on your throat tightened just slightly.
"No," he growled. "Not yet."
You whimpered, trembling on the edge, but he didn’t relent. Not until his own rhythm faltered, his breath coming ragged against your skin. Only then did he finally let go, his fingers slipping between your legs to press hard against your clit as he drove into you one last time.
"Now."
The command shattered you. Pleasure ripped through you like a blade, sharp and blinding, as he spilled inside you with a low, ragged groan.
For a moment, there was only the sound of heavy breathing, the slick heat between your thighs, the weight of his body still pressed against yours.
Then Wriothesley pulled away, tucking himself back into his pants with deliberate calm. When he turned to face you, his expression was ice.
"Clean yourself up," he said, voice devoid of anything resembling warmth. "Then get the hell out of my sight."
He turned to leave, but not before tossing your discarded blade at your feet.
"Next time you try to kill or threaten me," he said over his shoulder, "make sure you mean it."
And then he was gone, leaving you trembling, ruined, and—worst of all—wanting more.
had this idea and wrote it at 1am in the morning so please bare with me if there are any errors, spelling mistakes or weird sentence structure. please don't plagiarise or post my work on any other platform. 🩷
rafayel whimpers. full-blown pupils, desperate whimpers and needy whines as he strokes his hard cock imaging you above him, riding him, getting yourself off using his cock and body. god the way he would squeeze his cock in his hand, practically commited to the feeling and memory of you clenched around him, riding him like he was the only thing that mattered. and fuck it got him off so good thinking about your soft moans, and your hands all over his body as he strokes himself to an earthshaking orgasm, his hips bucking up desperately into his hand. strings of cum leaking from his tip like pearls. he'd call you afterwards, your voice calming him, a soft sooth leading him into a tranquil post-orgasm state, his skin still sticky with sweat.
unedited + playful caleb + high school caleb + fluff + slowburn
"so that's where my favourite hairtie went," you pout, your voice tinged with mock annoyance as you narrow your eyes at caleb. he stands in front of you, his fingers absentmindedly twisting the delicate hair tie around his wrist. the cherry stud glints in the light, a small but unmistakable detail that makes your heart skip a beat. it looks oddly perfect on him, the soft pink contrasting with his skin in a way that feels unfairly attractive. you try to push the thought away, but it lingers, stubborn and unrelenting.
"you shouldn't steal, you know," you chide, dragging out the last word with exaggerated emphasis. your arms cross tightly over your chest, a defensive gesture that does little to hide the flicker of amusement tugging at the corners of your lips. tilting your head up, you meet his gaze with a pointed glare, though the intensity falters when you catch the faint smirk playing on his lips. his confidence is infuriating—and undeniably charming. you realized soon after entering your teenage years why exactly caleb was so popular.
caleb's eyes flicker to yours, a playful glint in them as he shrugs, the movement casual and effortless. "steal? i prefer to think of it as... borrowing pipsqueak," he says, his voice low and teasing. the way he says it sends a shiver down your spine, and you hate how easily he can unravel your composure with just a few words.
you huff, trying to maintain your facade of irritation, but the warmth creeping into your cheeks betrays you. "borrowing implies you asked," you retort, your tone softer than you intended. the air between you feels charged, and for a moment, neither of you speak, the silence heavy with unspoken tension.
caleb’s frame towers over yours, his broad shoulders and height casting a faint shadow that seems to envelop you. the morning light streams through the windows, bathing him in a soft, golden glow that highlights the relaxed curve of his lips and the faint crinkles at the corners of his eyes. his school uniform fits him impeccably—crisp, tailored, and effortlessly elegant—and you can’t help but notice how the tie rests snugly against his chest. a mischievous thought flickers through your mind: the urge to tug on that tie, to disrupt his composure just enough to hear him scold you in that low, gravelly voice of his that tinges you in places you should be embarrassed to admit.
the truth is, you crave his attention as much as his praise. there’s a strange, magnetic pull between you, a tension that feels both exhilarating and frustrating. despite growing up together, despite the years of being seen as nothing more than his "little sister," you can’t shake the desire to prove yourself to him—to be seen as something more, even if you’re not quite ready to admit it to yourself.
"do you want it back, pipsqueak?" caleb’s voice is light and teasing, his lips curling into a playful smirk as he dangles your hair tie above his head. the cherry stud catches the light, twinkling like a tiny star just out of your reach. he knows exactly what he’s doing, using his height—and his evol, if necessary—to keep it just beyond your grasp. it’s a game he’s played countless times before, one that always leaves you flustered and determined in equal measure.
"caleb!" you chide, your voice a mix of mock frustration and hidden delight. you stretch your arm upward, pretending to reach for the hair tie, but deep down, you don’t really want it back. secretly, you hope he keeps it, that he wears it like a badge of something unspoken, a silent claim that keeps all those admirers at bay. the thought sends a warm flutter through your chest, though you quickly push it aside.
"nuh-uh, you’re going to have to try harder than that, pipsqueak," he taunts, his smirk widening as he waves the hair tie even higher. his laughter is low and rich, a sound that makes your stomach twist in the most delicious way. determined not to let him win so easily, you plant one hand firmly on his chest, the warmth of him seeping through the fabric of his shirt. the other hand stretches upward as you rise onto your tiptoes, your balance precarious, but your resolve unwavering.
for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you—the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palm, the faint scent of his cologne, the way his eyes glint with amusement as he watches you struggle. it’s infuriating how effortlessly he can disarm you, how easily he can make your heart race with nothing more than a teasing smile and a few careless words. and yet, you wouldn’t have it any other way.
"caleb," you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper as your gaze locks onto his. his purple eyes—deep, mesmerizing, and flecked with faint hints of violet—sparkle down at you, holding a warmth that makes your breath hitch. the space between you feels impossibly small, your chest pressed lightly against his, the steady rise and fall of his breathing syncing with yours. his free hand snakes around your waist, his touch firm yet gentle as he helps you keep your balance. the heat of his palm seeps through the fabric of your clothes, sending a shiver down your spine.
you flush at the closeness, your cheeks warming under his unwavering gaze, but you don’t pull away. there’s something about this moment—something charged and unspoken—that keeps you rooted in place, your heart pounding in your chest.
"you can keep it," you whisper, your voice soft but steady. the hand that had been reaching upward trails back down, coming to rest lightly on his shoulder. your fingers brush against the fabric of his uniform, the subtle texture grounding you as you try to steady your racing thoughts.
caleb’s lips curve into a slow, teasing smile, his head dipping slightly to bring his face closer to yours. "oh, giving up already, pipsqueak?" he murmurs, his voice low and velvety, sending a thrill through you. his arm slackens, the hair tie now forgotten as his hand moves to tuck a loose strand of your hair behind your ear. the gesture is unexpectedly tender, his fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary, and you feel your breath catch again.
"consider it a gift," you whisper, your voice trembling slightly despite your attempt to sound confident. your fingers tighten around his tie, giving it a gentle tug. to your surprise, he doesn’t resist, allowing you to pull him down until his face is level with yours. his eyes never leave yours, their intensity making your stomach flutter. the air between you feels electric, charged with something you can’t quite name but can’t ignore either.
for a moment, neither of you speaks. the world around you fades into the background, leaving only the two of you in this quiet, intimate bubble. his breath mingles with yours, his proximity overwhelming yet intoxicating. you can see every detail of his face—the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his lashes cast delicate shadows on his cheeks, the slight curve of his lips as they hover just inches from yours.
and then, ever so slightly, he leans in closer, his gaze flickering down to your lips before returning to your eyes. the unspoken question hangs in the air, and your heart races as you realize just how much you want to close the distance between you.
caleb’s lips part slightly, as if he’s about to say something, but no words come out. instead, his gaze softens, the playful glint in his eyes giving way to something deeper, something that makes your pulse quicken. his hand, still resting at your waist, tightens almost imperceptibly, pulling you just a fraction closer. the warmth of his body against yours is intoxicating, and you find yourself leaning into him without even realizing it.
"you’re full of surprises today," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you. his free hand brushes lightly against your cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw in a gesture so tender it makes your breath catch. "first, you let me keep your hair tie, and now this?" he tilts his head, his lips curving into that familiar smirk, but there’s a softness in his expression that wasn’t there before.
you swallow hard, your fingers still clutching his tie as if it’s the only thing anchoring you to reality. "maybe i just like seeing you flustered for once," you retort, though your voice wavers, betraying the nervous flutter in your chest.
caleb chuckles, the sound is low and warm, and it sends a shiver down your spine. "flustered, huh?" he repeats, his tone teasing but his eyes searching yours with an intensity that makes your stomach twist. "you’re the one who’s blushing, pipsqueak."
you open your mouth to protest, but the words die on your lips as his face dips even closer, his nose brushing lightly against yours. your heart feels like it’s about to burst out of your chest, the air between you thick with unspoken words and lingering tension. his breath is warm against your skin, and you can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to close the distance, to finally give in to the pull that’s been building between you for what feels like forever.
but before you can act on the thought, caleb pulls back slightly, his smirk returning as he straightens up. "careful," he says, his voice laced with amusement. "if you keep looking at me like that, i might start thinking you actually like me."
you blink, momentarily stunned by the sudden shift in his demeanour. then, as his words sink in, you feel a surge of indignation mixed with something else—something you’re not ready to name. "like you?" you echo, your voice rising slightly despite your best efforts to sound composed. "don’t flatter yourself, caleb."
he laughs, the sound rich and full, and it only makes you more flustered. "sure, pipsqueak," he says, releasing his hold on your waist and taking a step back. but the way he looks at you—like he knows something you don’t—makes your cheeks burn even hotter.
as he turns to walk away, the hair tie still wrapped around his wrist, you can’t help but notice the way his fingers brush against it almost absentmindedly, as if it’s something precious. the sight sends a strange warmth spreading through your chest, and you quickly look away, trying to ignore the way your heart skips a beat.
"come or we'll be late for the train," he calls over his shoulder, his tone light and teasing. but there’s a hint of something else in his voice—something that makes you wonder if maybe, just maybe, he feels it too.
"coward." you faintly murmur to yourself, finding your bag and slinging it over your shoulder. perhaps, just maybe he felt it too, or perhaps you were just a hormonal teenager who had a crush on her older childhood friend.
your eyes roll back into your head as your third orgasm rakes through your sweaty and exhausted body. legs trembling and hands reaching for something to anchor yourself to, caleb helps you ride out your orgasm with harsh and fast thrusts.
filthy sounds rake the room as you lean against the counter for support. caleb's hips rutting at you like a lifeline. "c-caleb, slow down, please," you gasp, begging as your orgasm spasms out, leaving you a sensitive mess. your free hand, pressing flat against the countertop to hold yourself steady. you knew caleb wouldn't let you buckle onto the floor, but it kept you grounded by feeling the cold surface against your burning body.
"take it like a good girl, i know you can do it." he commands, his fingers digging into your hips as he pulls you harder to meet his brutal thrusts. he was leaving angry red marks in his awake, and it sparked a sinister satisfaction in him seeing all his hand prints and teeth marks petal your skin like the first fallen leaves of autumn.
he was claiming you, making sure those bastards knew you were his, and his alone. and he wasn't sharing you with anyone. especially not when he alone could make you this reactive to him. barely a few deep thrusts later your body had already started builing up another coil in your stomach, loving how his dick felt stroking your walls and filling you to the brim with his thick and veiny cock.
"caleb~" you mewl as he buries himself balls deep into your wet and squelching cunt, letting your walls tighten around him and impirts himself on you as if he was some desperate animal in heat. but god, he couldn't help it. seeing his pretty girl smiling and laughing with other men made him want to remind you that no one could make you feel like he did, and no one will ever get to touch you like he's touching you right now. and no one knew your body, soul, and mind like he did.
"you like that huh, my good girl?" he purrs dangerously, slowing his thrusts to become slow and deep, hitting exactly the same spot that made you see stars each time his hips met the back of your ass. "ngh caleb f-faster," you practically beg, wanting the previous pace and friction back.
a slap echoes through the air as he lands a soft yet shocking hit to the globes of your ass. his large hand immediately coming to soothe over the burning skin. "count" he commands roughly, striking your ass a second time as you writhe and beg from him to speed up his thrust and making you cum for the fourth time.
"two" you gasp out your mind numbing as his fat tip nuzzles against your womb, your legs wobbly and your mouth drooling shamelessly like a cock drunk whore. his hand strikes again hitting a little bit harder making you jolt, but it shamelessly sends a shiver through your body and straight to your needy pussy. "f-fuck caleb three!" you practically shout your ass arching into his thrusts more.
his hand snakes up from your ass, moving across your arched back and right to the back of your neck before he applies pressure there, encircling his long fingers around your neck. "who makes this pretty pussy feel good?" he snarls dangerously, his mouth burning hot against your ear as he pulls your neck back, bringing the back of your head to rest against his chest. he teases you with a few fast strokes before slowing down again at a painful pace that your impatience and need could not handle.
"you!" you gasp out, your words slurring together. "only you do" you repeat your head rocking back to rest on his chiseled chest as he does a deep sensual thrust right up in an angle that makes your toes press up from the floor and your body melt like a puddle.
he nibbles and licks at your earlobe, enticing more lewd sounds of you. your moans and cute gasps filling your apartment in the dead of the night, and you knew for a fact that the neighbours could make out exactly what was happening.
his other hand that gripped at your hip, slides up to your stomach, the cold metalix feeling of his mechanical arm leaves a trail of awareness on your hot skin. he presses down at the perfect spot, feeling his cock hit that spot perfectly.
"who do you belong to?" he coos, but his voice is low and dangerous and although he has no intention of hurting you, he would burn anyone else that dared lay a finger on a strand of your hair. you were his. his to protect, his to love, his to keep. and you were only his.
" 'm yours," you cry out your hand, covering his mechanical one that presses against your stomach. "good girl," he praises before pressing a wet kiss to the side of your neck, his teeth sinking in lightly to leave a mark in its wake.
satisfied with your replies, caleb gives in to your pleas, speeding up his pace into his fast thrusts. hammering into you as your skin slaps against one another in a tense motion. "that's it my good girl you can do it, cum for me" he demands his teeth nibbling any of your exposed skin he could get to. he wanted the world to see that he owned you, and that he was the only one that could touch you like this and make you come undone.
it was pathetic but as his praise registered in your fucked out brain, your body sent itself into overdrive letting your fourth orgasm crash down on you. his hips rock against yours, filling your cunt with his seed as his dick twitches between your warm walls . as you took laboured breaths to steady yourself you could tell he wasn't softening as he stayed nestled in your cunt. "caleb," you whimper out hazily. you knew caleb was nowhere done with you tonight.
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