naturally, you can't help but be concerned about caleb. it's always troubling when you see him grunting out of pain, jerking at certain angles where his muscles stretch a bit too thin. you'd seen the skin graft on his arm tear slightly once and he'd worn long sleeves for a week.
he won't listen to you.
he knows you care -- he does -- but he can't bear for you to experience the version of himself that he hates: war-torn, veins made out of wires in between metal. he wants to feel you on each finger, the pulse on your neck while he kisses you, the warmth of your flesh. he can't stand that there's a part of him that will never be able to feel a part of you.
because of this, caleb compensates.
he decides to overwhelm you instead. it's the least he can do -- his meimei being so inexperienced at all. caleb wants to give you everything, making you feel everything. he's nothing if not devotional.
the first time he fucks you, he has no sense of boundaries. he's spent the majority of his life smothering himself with your touch, with your presence, even when you were angry with him. caleb would always keep something of yours with him just to feel grounded. it was obsessive, for sure, but it was what balanced his chaos into a perfect equilibrium.
the first time he fucks you, he wants to flood all of your senses. he feels murderous already that he isn't the first one to touch you -- he could've easily taken your virginity during college, when you would pretend to be his girlfriend to fend off other girls, but he wanted to be good.
that desire is completely lost in him now, when he's inside you.
"so deep," you gasp, clutching his broad shoulders. "caleb, s-slow down--"
"m'sorry, baby, i can't," he murmurs into the crook of your neck. he hopes you don't hear what he babbles next, pussy drunk: "love you. love your pussy. i should've fucked you years ago. should fuck you every day so you can't think of anyone else--"
you hear his words, rushed and desperate against your collarbone, and your pussy tightens. he moans at the feeling, giving you breathing room just so he can straighten his posture and hold your legs against either side of his waist.
god, he's so tall. he's pulling your legs up higher as he kneels against you, thrusting and watching the bounce of your tits as your mewls mesmerize him.
"you're gonna make me cum," you gasp. it's like you took the words straight from his mouth.
it's embarrassing, probably, because caleb didn't give you a warning. how could he? you're flushed underneath him, your pussy so fucking tight, just about to cum. it's the most erotic thing he's ever seen. so naturally, he gasps, groaning lowly, but he can't help the way his cock twitches at the sound of your voice and the way it makes him cum.
he's lucky that you cum at the same time. your eyes squeeze shut just as your pussy tightens an impossible grip on his cock.
"oh fuck, shit--" he groans. "pip--"
you can't reply. you can only moan pathetically as you orgasm, while caleb fills you up with a whine.
"fuck. fuck, you're perfect," he breathes. "perfect girl."
your body is limp, mind hazy, but you still have enough fight in you to reply something sarcastic. the look on caleb's face stops you.
it's tender, awfully so. violet eyes wide as he stares at you like an artifact, calloused hands caressing your jaw.
summary: a sparring session with kirishima gets a little out of hand, and being the only medic able to deal with katsuki bakugou, you’re left with the aftermath.
content: fluff + SMUT - mdni ! boxer!bkg + medic!reader. kiri feature! blood & injury. feelings!!! tension. lots of banter. clear consent. semi-public. making out. thigh riding. slight marking / hickeys. fondling. titty sucking. fingerfucking. cum eating. bkg does not get off but he is fine w that. there is a quite a bit of build up before the smut lol. wc: 5.2k.
note: #needthat
masterlist. | header art credit: @ ami_ranthao on tiktok !
In the ring, he came alive. An absolute powerhouse, brute force and flawless technique bleeding together to create Katsuki Bakugou, one of the best up and coming boxers of your time. Everyone was a little enamored— a perfect face paired with such a vulgar tongue, an ego backed with the skill to match.
His win-or-nothing attitude led him to the top, but also caused complications with his medical staff. A few too many outbursts had scared them into backing down, allowing him to keep pushing despite his injuries.
Until you were hired a few months ago.
The first day you were assigned to him, the other medics had either snickered or grimaced, having each had their own share of bad luck with him. It seemed to be some rite of passage among them. When you met him, you understood exactly what the others had meant. There was enough fire behind that stare to send anyone skittering away.
But, to their surprise, you had returned back in one piece, with a perfectly bandaged Katsuki trailing behind you; glowering with something like an irritated smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, but tended to.
You were the only medic that could handle him.
Which is why you were spending your Saturday evening with your knees drawn to your chest on a bench at the edge of the boxing gym as he sparred with his close friend, and fellow boxer, Eijirou Kirishima.
The sound of their collective panting filled the air, the thud of fists against skin echoing off the walls as they tested each other.
Quick jabs, hits to the ribs; it was push and pull as they were nearly on equal ground, two decorated professionals with national titles.
You had to keep a close eye— track his movements to take note of any injuries, run over how exactly you would deal with each one. It was your job to.
But, admittedly, you found your gaze wandering against your will lately. More often than you wanted to admit.
It was difficult to ignore the way his biceps flexed with each jab, how soft blond tufts fell over his face, stuck to the sweat lining his forehead, the low hang of his boxing shorts highlighted his abs straining with each motion.
"Fuck!"
The sharp curse broke your trance, eyes snapping up, immediately alert.
Eijirou's hands flew over his mouth, his fighter's stance softening, hesitant hands reaching out towards his friend whose head was angled down, fighting to not reel.
"Woah, man, I am so sorry—"
Katsuki slapped his hand away, wiping at the blood beginning to drip down his nose with the back of his hand, unyielding eyes meeting Eijirou's.
"Keep it goin', Shitty Hair. And you,"
He didn't bother to look at you as you approached, keeping his burning stare on his opponent while waving you off with a harsh motion of his free hand. "Get back."
His bite was nothing new. You didn't bother to fight the eye roll, stepping closer to assess the extent of the damage. "Don't be dumb. Let me look."
"You deaf or something? Beat it."
More blood trickled down, coming over the curve of his lip. You had worked with Katsuki long enough to know that he pushed himself until he was battered, had nothing left to give.
Your job was to keep that from happening.
With a sigh, you grabbed him by the crook of his elbow.
"You are gushing blood. Come on—"
"Get your fuckin' hands off me, you piece of—"
"Again, don't be dumb—"
Eijirou blinked between the two of you, watching as you wrestled to keep Katsuki's arm in your grip, ineffectively attempting to drag him away. With a smile that didn't quite meet his eyes, he began to take backwards steps towards the bench where he kept his water, knowing there was little else he could do in this situation.
"I'm gonna take five. Go with her, man."
Feeling Katsuki's resistance give in just enough, you tugged him towards the med bay, giving Eijirou a grateful look over your shoulder. You hoped he didn't feel too guilty. Sparring was never supposed to get this intense, after all. But, mistakes happened.
You offered soft apologies under your breath to the few nurses on the same late shift as you were with a tight smile as you rushed past them to guide him into the room at the very back, shutting the door behind you.
It was just you two now.
Katsuki was still panting, worked up from the fight. There was probably enough adrenaline in his system to keep him from feeling the real pain of his affliction.
You pushed him back onto the bed against the wall to your right with a hand over his chest, feeling the warm muscle rise up and down under your palm before you turned to rummage through the cabinet, fishing out a medical kit with a crease forming between your brows.
"Are you trying to get yourself put on medical leave before your match next week?"
He didn't say a word, only the sound of his heavy breathing filling the room as you felt his glare against your back.
You sighed.
"Right before I get off too..."
"Yeah," He scoffed, a mocking edge to his voice. "'Cause I did that shit on purpose."
"You kept pushing. That was stupid and you know it, the best athletes know when to call it quits."
Katsuki scoffed, his jutted lower lip pursing as you set down the kit beside him, opening it up to fish out some gauze. "Maybe we should get you in the ring. Since you're such an expert."
You pushed his thighs apart with an unimpressed look, standing between them to get as close as you could.
A hand went behind his neck, gently tilting his head down so the blood wouldn't trickle back into his nose, go down his throat.
You carefully pinched the sides of his nose bridge to stop the blood flow, wiping away at what had escaped with clean gauze.
“You love making my life harder,” you muttered under your breath. “Can’t you just admit I'm right? Say you’ll be more careful?”
“The day I say that shit you can put a gun to my head.”
You rolled your eyes, but he continued.
"I don't say shit I don't mean," he sighed out, abs flexing as he winced slightly. “If your meddling ass didn't get in the way, I would've won.”
“Or you would've gotten your ass beat, but whatever.”
“I've had worse. A fucked up nose is nothing."
"Is that supposed to be a good thing?" you raised a brow, getting a new piece of gauze. "You never know when to stop, Katsuki. That's your issue."
The room settled into silence only the hum of the AC, your shifting, and the quiet, reluctant winces that slipped past as you tended to him.
His eyes never left you.
Sometimes, you wondered why.
Why he allowed you to treat him, why he let you get close. But you shook yourself out of those thoughts, reaching down to grab an ice pack. No time to get sidetracked, not now. Especially on something that was very likely nothing.
"Bleeding stopped."
He didn't respond, eyes downcast as you alternated between pressing it to either side of his nose bridge.
When he finally spoke, his words were quick. Quiet.
"I was going for his blind spot."
Said like he had to explain himself to you, or maybe himself.
But he didn't have to. You knew that his slip ups were extremely rare, he never made the same mistake twice— he beat himself up over every error, obsessed over earned perfection, victory.
His high standards for himself were what got him so far, but you knew they got to him. That, quietly, he sometimes needed reassurance, like anyone would.
“I know you were.” you finally responded, voice gentle, without pity.
"Eijirou's right side was open and he was getting tired. That was the right move. You would've gotten him."
He blinked down at you, as if assessing your honesty before a slight smile touched his lips. He gripped the edge of the small bed a little tighter, leaning down closer.
"Knew you were starin'."
Your heart jumped in your chest, but you pushed it down.
"Well, that is my job."
"It's your job to watch for injuries. Not stare."
You couldn't help what came out of your mouth next.
"Maybe I was staring at Eijirou."
"You think you're so funny."
"I think your ego's inflated."
"Wanna say that again?"
You pressed the ice a little too harshly into the side of his nose, drawing a small groan from him.
"Save it, Katsuki."
You packed up your kit and gathered the bloodied gauze to throw away, rinsing your hands before coming back to assess your work.
Blood clean, no signs of continued bleeding. A small bruise forming under his right eye from the trauma, expected.
It took everything in you to ignore the weight of his eyes, how he looked at you with an intensity reserved for his opponents in the ring. Calculating, searching. You could feel the burn crawling up the back of your neck. Professional, keep it professional.
You nodded a little too quickly, turning on your heel. "Yep, all good. No more sparring, but you can go back now."
He tugged you by the back of your shirt collar before you got too far, pulling you back between his legs, face only inches away from yours.
"You don't want that."
The sudden proximity along with his words made your heart spike, as if caught.
What did you want? The question made you uneasy.
(Or, maybe it was the answer that you knew deep down that made you want to crawl out of your skin.)
You pushed back slightly, deflecting.
“I want you to see Dr. Tanaka as soon as you can. I'll make an appointment for tomorrow morning since he left for the day. I think your nose is broken.”
“No it's not.”
It wasn't. If it had been broken, you would've known from one look, you would have been angrier with him. But that was your out, your excuse to get away. And he had called your bluff, gaze unmoving.
"Don't play dumb right now."
“I'm not playing dumb." the words came snappy, brave; but you were just so close, that fire faltered. His hand that had gripped the back of your collar had shifted carefully to the front, so close to your neck that you were afraid he might feel your heart try to burst out of your throat.
"You're just…" you trailed off, struggling to find your words. "…difficult. You're being difficult.”
"Difficult?" a dry sort of laugh. "You're the difficult one. For someone smart you can be pretty fuckin' dense."
You bit the inside of your lower lip, eyes darting between him and the door.
You knew what he meant. This back and forth between you was nothing new. But when it got too real you had always gotten away, said something and acted like nothing had happened once you cooled down.
The sounds outside seemed to be getting louder, closer. These doors didn’t have locks. Anyone could come in, find you like this. One of the nurses checking in, a gym goer looking for band-aids.
“Or maybe you do know. Hm?”
The question pulled you from your thoughts in an instant, made your eyes snap to his— first mistake. Once his crimson stare bored into yours, you couldn’t look away.
Could you have been that obvious? You thought your moments of distraction were fleeting, imperceptible to the average eye.
He had never commented on it before, slipping back to his normal self even after your closest calls.
But you should’ve known better. Katsuki Bakugou was not average in any sense of the word.
(Of course, he noticed. Of course he did.)
You sputtered something before you could think, just wanting to hear something other than the sound of your own thoughts.
"Some…someone could—"
"No one's gonna come in." his voice flat, dismissal easy. All matter of fact as he craned his neck down closer to you.
"Unless you want Eijirou to come in. Since you were, what, staring at him, right? That what you want?"
"What?!" the word was almost a squeak, high and taken aback. "That's not— "
You fought the strange heat crawling up your face by shooting him a look, eyes narrowing.
"Katsuki. I was joking."
He hummed.
(Unbelieving? Amused? A bit of both?)
"Sure you were."
You opened your mouth, then closed it. The deflections that had once come so easy were heavy on your tongue. There was no joke, no eye roll, nothing you could say to slip away. Not this time.
You sighed, next words defeated.
"What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to be real with me." you could feel his breath against your lips; hot, charged. "Tell me you don’t want this, that you haven't thought about it.”
“Katsuki…”
It came out weaker than you wanted. Small, kind of breathless. Almost pleading.
For what— to let you go?
(To keep going?)
He kept egging, eyes not once leaving yours. “Say it. I'll stop.”
And you knew he would. Because he was being serious, you could tell by his voice— how it was low under his breath, softened.
For you, he was being intentionally careful.
Just the thought made you want to cave. But the entire reason your relationship worked, why you were able to handle him, was because you didn't give in.
"There are rules about this sort of thing—"
"You think I give a fuck about bullshit rules?"
"Yeah, I know you don't." you gave him a look. "But I do. I could lose my job, you could get me fired, or…"
You swallowed back the rest of it.
He didn't have to know how it made you afraid, testing the fragile nature of this relationship. How giving in meant that all of this could shatter, that this could all amount to one big mistake.
Katsuki blinked, taking in your expression. He looked off to the side for a beat, lips pursing in thought before, carefully, he took your hands into his.
"You know I won't let that happen. I don't see any of the other shitty medics here."
You snorted a little. Because you did know. You cocked your head to the side, a small smile tugging at your lips. "They're not shitty."
He didn't retaliate, just raised his brows slowly. The truth of his words wasn't what mattered, it was the implication behind them.
(You're the one I see. You.)
His earlier words rang in your ears.
Tell me you don't want this, that you haven't thought about it.
You couldn't, because you had.
Countless times— whenever you watched him hover over his opponents, keep them locked underneath him, the heat in his eyes, a cocky smile on his lips.
He wormed his way into your mind, more often than not, late at night. When sleep couldn't find you and your bed felt exceptionally cold. Empty.
(Him. You imagined him.)
Denying all of that was exactly what you should have done. That would have been the rational thing to do, the smart thing.
But as you traced his face, followed the soft curve of his cheeks against the otherwise harsh lines, watched the furrow of his brow deepen ever so slightly, as if he, of all people, was nervous— you couldn't fight the feeling anymore.
Because you wanted to kiss him, and you wanted him to kiss you— more than anything.
Hesitantly, you brushed your thumbs over the bruises on his knuckles.
“No, I… I do. Want this, I mean."
Something in his expression shifted. Surprise, for a brief second, before that cocky gleam in his eyes that you had seen when he was in-action settled over his face. Only, a little different. (A little sharper, hungrier.)
"Yeah?" he pushed closer, nose just barely brushing yours. "You want this?"
Slowly, you nodded.
"Yes."
His gaze darted from your eyes and lips before the sliver of space between you finally disappeared.
The kiss was tentative, careful. So unlike him that it caught you a little off guard.
Soft. His lips were so soft against yours.
He kissed you like he was trying to figure out the shape of your lips, go slow enough to savor the moment, commit the feeling to memory. The hand near your collar came up to cup your jaw, angle your face just right.
You had thought about what this would feel like for longer than you would ever admit. Did he think of you the same way? Were you what he had expected?
When he pulled back just enough to breathe, he drank in your expression; your pretty lips plush and parted, wide doe-eyes blinking up at him.
He groaned, "Fuck it."
You yelped when calloused hands gripped your arms, hoisted you up like you weighed nothing, thick biceps flexing as he pulled you down to straddle his thigh.
You planted your hands on his chest to steady yourself on instinct, unable to process it for a second. Your thighs were around his leg, his hands at your waist, holding you in a way you had only ever thought would exist in the secret fantasies you let yourself indulge in. The small bed creaking under your combined weight. His chest rising and falling under your palms.
Sometimes, you forgot how strong he actually was. How he wasn’t just some other annoying, short-tempered guy— his body was molded to his profession; brute strength and jagged lines carved from a life in the ring. His shoulders broad, a tapering waist, arms nearly the size of your head. He could probably pick you up and snap you in half if he really wanted to. Your stomach flipped at just the thought.
Before you could open your mouth to speak, he flexed the muscle of his thigh; deliberate, testing. Sharp eyes watching as your face flushed at his bare muscle pressing up against your core.
Your breath hitched, warmth pooled down between your legs, heart beating in your ears as his large hands slid down to rest over your hips, holding you steady— pulling you down closer.
"Feel good?"
Your ears burned at the mocking edge to his voice. You squirmed, caught between wanting to slap that smug look off his face and slowly seek more friction by grinding down.
You didn't have to choose, not when his hands slowly guided your hips down, back and forth against his hardened muscle. You bit your bottom lip between your teeth, clearly embarrassed, ineffectively fighting the whimpers that threatened to slip past with each movement.
His gaze never once left you, taking note of every little reaction.
Heat crawled up your face at being watched so shamelessly.
Leaning forward, you distracted yourself by pressing soft kisses up the side of his throat, staring to grind down on him yourself, your tongue darting out before gently sucking soft marks into his skin.
He let out a strained sigh, tilting his neck back just enough to give you more access.
You hooked your arms loosely around his neck, pecking across his jaw. Your fingers curled into the hair at his nape, giving it a soft tug, pulling his head back so his eyes met yours.
Pupils blown, eyes heavy with want, hair falling over them all messy and disheveled.
You didn't know how you had gone so long without this, how you could have ever wanted to keep your distance. Now that you let yourself have a taste, you didn't think you could ever get enough.
Tugging him to you by the hair, you pulled him to kiss you again.
This time, it was feverish, insatiable. Months of tension and denied desire pouring over all at once.
He kissed like he was still chasing you; like he had something to prove, like he wanted you to feel that you were his favorite taste. A clash of tongue and teeth, nipping at your bottom lip. Each time he pulled back to breathe it lasted less than a beat before he rushed back to steal the soft sounds that slipped past your lips as your hips continued to buck against his thigh.
But the fabric, it was in the way. No matter how hard you grinded down on him, there was too much between you and what you wanted, and the frustration was showing. Your slight sighs turning into small huffs, brows pinching against your will.
The next time Katsuki pulled back, you didn't let him kiss you again. The small string of saliva between your lips broke as you spoke, softly panting. "I want 'em off."
He looked down at your request, pinching the fabric of your pants between his index and thumb. Eyes looking up into yours carefully, like he was uncertain if that was something you really wanted.
You nodded, a little frantic.
"Off. Please."
He got straight to it. Getting them off wasn't pretty, but a controlled sort of desperate.
His movements were precise as always, fairly smooth, but you could feel that something was simmering under his palms as he moved you around to get them off just right, even more so when they finally rested over your bare legs, eyes slightly dazed as he gave the flesh a tentative squeeze.
You bit your lip at the feeling, skin burning under his touch, wanting it all over you.
You glanced down at your shirt.
"This too."
He scoffed, but there was something like a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. "Fuckin' bossy."
His hands slid under the hem, bunching the fabric up over your chest, too impatient to get it all the way off. He reached back to unclasp your bra, letting it fall to the floor as he took in the shape of your bare chest, the way your nipples hardened at the cool air of the clinic.
For a beat too long, he just stared.
On instinct, you wondered if something was wrong, if there was something about you that was weird or unappealing, the feeling twisted in you. But before you could tug your shirt back down, he cupped your tits with both hands, feeling the weight of them, squeezing slightly.
"Been waiting for this shit for so fuckin' long, y'know that?" He groaned out, leaning forward to bury his face into them.
You whimpered as he pressed wet kisses across the skin, thumb brushing over one of your nipples while his tongue lolled out to lick over the other, sucking it between his lips.
You began grinding down on his thigh again, the feeling so much more intense with just your panties on. You shifted your hips to find the angle that felt best, rubbing yourself down against the hard muscle of his thigh beneath you, solid and perfect, the friction sending sparks up your spine, your breaths coming out in shallow pants.
Each roll of your hips made your breath come a little faster, especially as his mouth pulled off one of your tits to give the other a fair share of attention.
Your nails dug into his shoulders when he nipped at your chest, sucking harshly, catching your sensitive peak between his teeth just to hear you whine. His tongue was hot against your skin, wet and needy.
Katsuki could feel your arousal starting to coat his thigh, soaking through your panties, smearing over his leg with every drag of your hips. Smiling against your chest, he pulled back with a soft pop, looking down at the glistening mess you left behind.
He moved a hand down between your bodies, slightly nudging your hips up with his leg to give him enough space in between to feel you over your panties, the fabric evidently damp as his index and middle finger stopped right above your clothed clit, pressing against it just slightly, enough to pull a shaky sigh from your lips.
"All this from just my thigh?"
There was a smug, slightly demeaning tone to his voice, like he was surprised you were so wet, as if it wasn't his fault. It made you want to throttle him. Or kiss him. Or both.
Your brows furrowed. "Shut up."
He only chuckled, drawing a line down your clothed slit. All slow, agonizing. Self-satisfied at the soft whimper that slips out of you.
"It's a simple fucking question. Haven't even touched you properly yet."
You huffed, mustering your most serious expression to meet his eyes. "God, just quit teasing, Katsuki. You're being mean."
He raised his brows, that smile on his face only widening. "You think this is mean?"
Finally, finally, he hooked his fingers into your panties, pushing them aside. The first touch, skin-on-skin, made you gasp. He dragged his fingers between your folds, coating them in your slick, slow and deliberate, before circling your entrance.
"I can show you mean."
His eyes were locked between your legs, watching his own fingers move. "Look at you," he murmured, almost to himself. “Fucking soaked."
He pushed one finger inside, slow enough that you felt every inch. You whimpered softly, walls fluttering around him.
He groaned softly, watching your face contort, feeling himself get even harder in his shorts.
"Tight," he breathed. "Gonna add another. That okay?"
You nodded frantically, beyond words.
The second finger stretched you more, made you bite down on your lip to keep from moaning too loud. He worked them deeper, curling them slightly. Your chest heaved at the intrusion you fought to not cry out, your nails digging into his shoulder as he hit just the right spot.
"There?" His voice was rough, satisfied. "That the spot?"
You couldn't respond, forehead falling into the crook of his neck, clinging to him as he curled his fingers again, rubbing that soft patch inside you with devastating precision.
Once he found it, he didn't stop, pumping his fingers in and out, hitting it with precision each time.
You grinded down into his hand, feeling the heel of his palm press up against your clit. You chase the feeling, shameless. Lost in the sensation, the overwhelming feeling of him all around you.
You mumbled into the skin of his neck incoherently about how you were: "Almost… 'm gonna…"
You could hear his voice right by your ear. Hoarse, determined.
“Yeah?” his efforts nearly doubled. “Close?”
You could only nod, coherent thoughts gone from your mind, only a desperate haze of want.
"Yeah. Yes. Please, please more…"
He kept at it, silently savoring your desperate sounds.
You wrapped your arms tight around his neck, moans muffled into his skin as the tightly wound up knot came undone. Your breaths getting heavy in your lungs, head getting fuzzy, eyes fluttering shut, nails having left angry red lines down the skin of his upper back.
He ran a hand up and down your back as you collapsed against him, coming down from the high. He let you rest against him, breathing from a moment before pulling you back with a small kiss to the side of your head.
"Look at me."
It didn't sound like a request.
"Hm?"
You watched with hazy eyes as he slowly pulled his fingers out of you, the loss making you whimper. They glistened under the harsh light of the clinic, coated with the evidence of what he'd just done to you.
He held your gaze as he brought them to his mouth. His tongue darted out first, licking a long strip up the slick-covered fingers. Then, he took them fully into his mouth, sucking them clean, eyes never once leaving yours.
Your breath caught in your throat. Heat flooded through you again, despite having just come. Tasting you off his own fingers like you were the best thing he'd ever had— it was almost too much.
When he finally pulled his fingers from his mouth with a soft pop, he smirked at your expression.
"Tastes good," he said simply, like commenting on the weather.
You clenched around nothing, already missing him inside you, feeling spent but somehow needing more.
"You're shameless."
"Last I checked, I wasn't the one humping your thigh."
Your face burned, a small, angry sort of pout settling on your lips.
He snickered, hand sliding up to your waist, giving it a small squeeze. "Little too late to get all embarrassed. Shit was hot."
"Uh huh…" You gave him a look, "Um. Thanks, by the way... that was—" You trailed off, not knowing how to express what you feel just the right way. "Good. It was good."
Katsuki snorted. "Just good?" you rolled your eyes, but leaned into his teasing with sweetness, something he didn't quite expect.
"Much better than good."
He searched your eyes for a beat, a hand coming up to brush back some of your hair. Then he pecked your lips— soft, almost sweet — before tugging your shirt back down carefully.
That was when you slowly realized, he was wrapping this up. But… he didn't cum?
He didn't cum.
"Hey, wait you didn't—"
He knew what you were talking about, the strained bulge in his shorts was nothing short of obvious.
"Does it look like I care."
His dismissal of his own need threw you off.
"Katsuki, that's not fair. I can't just—"
"Sure you can. You just did."
You turned his head towards you, pulling him into a soft kiss, parting his lips with yours, trying to not get lost in tasting yourself on his tongue. Gently trying to urge him to let you have him the way he had you.
You try to convince him, urge him to let you return the favor, do something.
You ran your hand over the bulge in his shorts, traced it gently, wanting. He groaned against your mouth, the sound strained in the back of his throat, like he was holding himself back. "C'mon, Katsuki," you palmed him over his shorts, wanting to hear more. "Let me? Please?"
He looked like he could give in, his jaw tense, eyes screwing shut as your finger hooked into the waistband of his shorts, drawing out a breathy sigh. You froze when the intercom crackled above you.
"The gym will be closing in ten minutes. Please begin wrapping up your sessions and make your way to the exit. Thank you."
You blinked. Fuck.
"…I can be quick?"
That was a lie. Ten minutes wasn't nearly enough time to do what you wanted to.
He waved you off with a snort, tugging your hand away from his throbbing cock, taking it upon himself to adjust the hem of your shirt with more care than you thought possible from someone like him.
"Relax." He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. "Shit’s not a big deal. Can take care of it in the shower."
The mental image of him standing under the shower, hand wrapped around his cock, thinking about this — you — made something low in your stomach tighten.
You must have made a face, because he huffed out a laugh.
"But if you want to make it up so bad," He leaned in closer, nose brushing yours. The soft curve of his lashes was so much more apparent this close. He pressed a final, lingering kiss, grinning softly as he spoke. His voice low against your lips, promising. "We'll go for round 2."
may blabs: baby's first smut dont throw tomatoes at me.. ok
btw if u ever genuinely have a bloody nose do NOT tilt your head back. that blood will go down your throat and if it gets into ur stomach u could throw up and that is not good so do NOT do that ✌️✌️
big special thank u to the mutuals ( @updownandbatty & @cupidkats & @hushedlotus ) AND irls i bothered w this fic… u are goated ❤️🩹
again, art in the header is not mine, credits to the artist !!!
taglist: @nanakamii 𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ :
masterlist ★ taglist form ★ want to send in a request?
꒰ synopsis ꒱ ✶ it’s been a rough night. your heart is still recovering from being broken, you need an uber home, your phone is dead, and everyone else has already left the class 1-a yearly reunion. well—everyone except bakugou. he gives you not just a ride home, but a solution to your lonely predicament
── ✶ WORD COUNT. 12.0k words ; give it a chance plssss
── ✶ BEFORE YOU READ. female reader ; pro hero bakugou + pro hero reader ; reader was in class 1-a ; reader has a quirk (she's stretchy - think like elastigirl from the incredibles LOL) ; reader gets her heart broken by an unnamed random guy + has insecurities ; bakugou is silently pining (and quite good at hiding it tbh) ; friends (sort of) to lovers ; cunnilingus ; p in v ; creampie ; morning after ; confessions (sort of. its bakugou ok) ; getting together ; the class 1-a girls are gossips ; masterlist.
꒰ commentary ꒱ ✶ hi my name is riv and i am going thru mental breakdown after mental breakdown about my life but it wont stop me from writing about letting bkg hit
Class 1-A is trauma-bonded for life—it’s this invisible, untraceable, yet undeniable thing.
Sure, years pass. Adulthood kicks in. Lives become busier, more hectic, more demanding. Time is a funny thing—nine years ago, you were sitting in a classroom with these people, learning how to be a hero. Nine years later, you’re sitting in a rented-out bar, sharing a drink with them as they trade hero stories like it’s part of the average day.
Then again, you suppose it is the average day for pros. Wake up, go to work, save people, crack cases, go on patrol, and go to sleep. Repeat.
Adulthood is a bummer. Everything is so different now—you don’t gossip with Toru every day or giggle with Mina in passing periods. You don’t tease Ochako about her rapidly growing crush or share headphones with Kyoka during lunch. You don’t study with Yaomomo or sit in Tsu’s room and have deep discussions about philosophy. Class 1B isn’t there to rival you and your peers. Mister Aizawa isn’t popping around at the oddest moments in that ridiculous sleeping bag.
And then adulthood is nice. Some things never change—Bakugou is yelling about something in the distance like a maniac, while Midoriya rubs his neck sheepishly. Todoroki says something with that deadpan face of his, and that only seems to set the blonde off even more. You can’t help but huff, rolling your eyes fondly.
Class 1-A is trauma-bonded, and fuck if it’s not one hell of a bond—adulthood claiming your lives and free time or not. You’ll find the time to get together like this at least once a year—with someone as good at planning as Yaomomo and someone as persistent and vocal as Iida, everyone makes it to the Class 1-A routine meet-up.
If only you weren’t so fucking devastated at this meet-up, you could have appreciated it properly. But you are, and there’s nothing to do about it now but suck it up—and hey, there’s always next year, right?
That’s what you tell yourself as you robotically hug each girl goodbye. That’s what you tell yourself as you watch your former classmates—turned occasional colleagues—file out of the bar and head off in different directions, dispersing along all the paths life has dragged them down separately.
You stand there for a good second after everyone leaves—you’re the only one left, you’re sure. Alone. As always, you think with a self-deprecating scoff, you’re alone. Even when you’re surrounded by a room full of people, you’re alone.
You should just get an Uber home. It’s late, you have morning patrol, and it’s getting really fucking cold, the night breeze biting at your skin. But you stand there anyway, stiff and unresponsive, because you are, despite trying to shove it all aside for one night, devastated. And so fucking alone.
“The hell are you still standing out here for?” comes a gruff voice from behind you.
You jolt—and that’s how out of it you are, because who the hell sneaks up on you so easily? You’ve honed your fighting abilities and reflexes better than that. You’ve made sure your skills are good enough that you aren’t crept on so easily. So why didn’t you hear Bakugou coming up behind you? You have no clue.
“Bakugou,” you mumble, “why are you still here?”
“Hah?” He looks at you, mildly irritated. “I asked you first, Stretchy. Answer me before you ask me stupid questions.”
Stretchy. Even after all these years, Bakugou calls everyone by those obnoxious nicknames he comes up with instead of their actual names. You’ve noticed a long time ago that he always goes one of two routes when picking his stupid little names: by physical appearance or by quirk. It just so happens he chose to use the latter for you—ever since the day your body stretches out like elastic in front of him for the first time, you’ve been Stretchy. Have been nothing else. Will probably never be anything else.
If you weren’t so emotionally downcast, you might’ve rolled your eyes and snapped back: my name is not Stretchy! But you don’t have it in you. So you just mutter, “I’m getting an Uber.”
“So get it, then,” he grumbles. “The hell are you waiting for? It’s the middle of the fucking night.”
You don’t point out that it’s…kind of sweet, in a blunt, Bakugou sort of way, that he’s concerned about your safety. Or that it’s pointless to be, considering you’re a pro hero too—one who patrols in the middle of the night on a regular basis. But anyone who’s shared years with him, classroom and battlefield alike, knows better than to argue with him over meaningless things if they value their eardrums.
“Yeah, whatever,” you mumble, pulling out your phone to call the damn Uber. You should’ve just driven yourself, but you’d been too exhausted—and, frankly, too sad—to deal with the thirty-minute drive. It’s not like you can’t afford to waste the money, anyway.
You tap your screen once. Then twice. Nothing.
Huh.
You press and hold the power button. Still nothing. You’ve got to be fucking kidding, you think.
As if your week couldn’t have gotten any worse.
First, you get ghosted by your almost-but-not-quite boyfriend, who was never really your boyfriend, but that’s not the important part. The important part is that he almost, just almost, was by anyone’s standards. Then, after he gets you fucking attached, you find out he ghosted you for some other girl with way nicer fucking tits and longer legs than yours (no, you did not stalk that girl’s socials, thank you very much. You just happened to stumble onto it and accidentally…tapped the tagged user. That’s all). Then, you miss out on enjoying the one night you look forward to every year because you can’t pull yourself out of this stupid, heavy funk. And now, finally, your phone is dead. Completely dead. No Uber, no ride home, no immediate access to the ice cream in your freezer to have a good, necessary cry.
And Kaminari has already left, so he can’t charge it with his quirk. Great. Fantastic, even.
“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.” Bakugou’s voice cuts through your spiral as he glares at you. “Were you here to be social or be on your damn phone all night? How’s that thing already dead, huh?”
“I wasn’t on my phone,” you shoot back, a little more petulant than intended. “I just…forgot to charge it before I got here.”
He stares at you with what can only be pure, hard judgment. “You people are so poorly prepared for everything, it never fails to piss me off.”
Well. If your week couldn’t get any worse, you now have to have Bakugou Katsuki, of all people, call you an Uber and get you home, which means you have to tell him your address. Which means you will, inevitably, lie awake all night wondering if he’s going to look up your apartment and judge it. Not that you think your place is bad, or that Bakugou is even the type to care about that kind of thing—but your brain is not exactly known for being reasonable once it gets going.
At the same time that you say, “I’ll pay you back if you call me an Uber,” he exhales sharply and snaps, “Well, fucking follow me, then.”
You pause.
“What?” you blink.
He’s already started walking off, and your question only seems to irritate him further. “Exactly what the fuck I said. Follow me.”
You do—only because you have to, if you want to ask him again to get you the damn Uber. “Bakugou, I’ll pay you before the Uber even gets here, okay? You don’t have to worry about your money—”
You hear the sharp beep of a car unlocking, and then a sleek, obnoxiously fancy Porsche lights up from the inside. Bakugou yanks the passenger door open and jerks his chin toward it, already glaring.
“Get in. And don’t talk like I can’t afford a fucking Uber—I’m not so desperate for money that I need you coughing it up that fast, you damn loser.”
“You…what?” You just blink at him, stupidly.
Bakugou looks like he’s just about one minor inconvenience away from exploding. He tips his head back with a long, aggravated groan. “God damn it, Stretchy—I’ve got shit to do in the morning, okay? Get. In. Did you hear me that time? For fuck’s sake, your hearing can’t be that bad.”
“…Why?” you ask, somehow even more stupidly.
You can’t help it—this doesn’t feel like a Bakugou thing to do. And it definitely doesn’t feel like a Bakugou thing to be doing for you of all people.
“Can you just fucking get in the car so I can drive you home and call it a night?” he grits out.
His eye is twitching now, just slightly, and you decide you would actually like to make it home tonight, so you decide not to push your luck. You walk over and get into the car without another word. It’s best not to piss him off to the point where he changes his mind on helping you altogether. That would be rough.
The door slams shut behind you almost immediately after you’re in, and Bakugou is in the driver’s seat just as fast. “Put your seatbelt on,” he mutters, reaching for his own.
He says this as you’re in the process of reaching for it, and you sometimes forget just how unnecessarily annoying Bakugou can be. And bossy. Very, very bossy.
“I am,” you mutter back, rolling your eyes.
”Here,” he only grunts in response, handing you a charger, and you wordlessly take it, plugging in your phone.
”Thanks,” you say quietly. “Good thing you were still there, huh?” You give him a sheepish look.
His only form of reply comes as a flat look. You wither under it.
”What were you still doing there while everyone was gone anyway?” You mumble.
”Taking a phone call,” he mutters. And then, because he’s apparently still as petty as he used to be back in the day, he glances at yours and adds, “Because I keep mine charged.”
You all but pout at his pointed statement, huffing as you start to defend yourself. “Okay, well, I never make this mistake usually. I just—”
You cut yourself off when your phone lights up from charging and turning on, catching your attention at the same time it does Bakugou’s. Well—that was pretty fast, at least. You almost wonder if the five percent he’s managed to get you to will be enough to last you on an Uber ride home. That would be better than a long thirty minutes sitting next to the agitated lump of blonde hair next to you, right?
You can’t entertain the idea for even a second longer than you had it, though. Because Bakugou is already muttering under his breath, “Finally,” before looking at you and saying, “now send me your address so I can type it in.”
”You know, if you were this pressed for time I could’ve just typed the address into your GPS myself,” you say dryly.
”Great idea,” he says just as dryly, “next time, maybe I’ll try that when you talk less. Now gimme the address, idiot.”
Well. You give up on your idea of the Uber and you do. And you watch as he slots his phone into the holder on the dash, your message lighting up the screen—Stretchy. That’s your contact name.
Of course it is. (But then again, it’s a miracle Bakugou even saved your contact at all—you’d always assumed he had the class group chat muted.) You fight the urge to roll your eyes again and just slump back into your seat instead, resigning yourself to your fate for the night as he taps on your message and pulls up your address in his GPS.
The engine hums to life, low and smooth, and the car pulls out onto the road. You sink a little deeper into your seat, letting your head fall back for a second before, against your better judgment, your eyes drift over.
Bakugou drives like he does everything else: so absurdly impressively, it’s actually ridiculous. It’s just driving, and yet he makes it look like it’s something only he can do so well—one hand on the wheel while the other rests on the gear shift, relaxed. His posture is easy, shoulders set, gaze sharp on the road ahead. And it’s just one of those attractive things men do for no reason.
It’s…annoying. How natural he looks. How good he looks.
The streetlights flicker over him in passing streaks, catching the sharp line of his jaw, the slight furrow in his brows, the way his eyes narrow just a bit when he switches lanes. Bakugou looks so annoyingly good, and you’re helpless to notice it.
Because that’s just the thing—you’ve always noticed it.
You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought he was attractive back in high school. You definitely did. It was hard not to. He was bulky and muscular and tall with a good face—he even wore baggy pants and a tight-fitted shirt for his hero costume. He did all the right things (without meaning to, of course) to be attractive to the average girl.
But his attitude? Well…that’s another matter.
That had killed the attraction before it could ever be anything more than a passing thought. A surface-level thing. Something you’d notice and immediately shove aside because Bakugou Katsuki was not someone you entertained a crush on unless you were actively trying to make your own life harder. And you definitely didn’t need that, so you never put much thought into it.
And yet, now, years later, watching him drive like this, you’re painfully aware that it’s…still there. That lingering attraction that you undeniably have for him. Persistently so.
You tear your gaze away before you can get caught staring. What the hell is wrong with you? It’s just Bakugou. You’ve known him for over a decade, and you’ve never been affected by him like this, and you won’t start now. Your broken heart and devastating loneliness are getting to you. That’s all.
The silence stretches—not uncomfortable, exactly, and you’re sure Bakugou would prefer it this way, if anything. But still, you feel like it’s too stiff for you to handle, so you do what you’re best at. Awkwardly making small talk to fill in the awkward silence, even if it’ll annoy him.
(If anything, you hope it will.)
You clear your throat. “So.”
He doesn’t look at you. “So?”
“…Busy lately?” you try, immediately regretting it. God, that was lame.
He huffs quietly through his nose. “Yeah. Work doesn’t exactly stop for heroes.”
“Right,” you nod, even though he isn’t looking. “Same.”
Another beat of silence. You glance at him again, just for a second, and immediately regret it when you notice the way his hand shifts slightly on the wheel, forearm flexing.
Holy fuck.
“Your new agency’s…uh. Doing well?” you ask, grasping at anything that sounds remotely normal. Remotely interesting. Bakugou would love talking about himself—right?
“Tch. Obviously,” he mutters. “We’re not half-assing shit over there.”
“Yeah, I figured,” you say quickly. “I’ve heard good things.”
He shoots you a brief sideways glance, like he hardly believes it. “From who?”
“People,” you shrug, already cringing. “Around.”
“Hn,” he grunts. He looks back at the road. “Well, they’re right. I’m gonna be the best agency soon, too—you’d do well to remember that.”
You press your lips together, trying not to smile. God, he’s insufferable. You hum, letting your head rest back. “Kaminari said you’ve been working yourself to death without some sidekicks.”
“Dunno why you’re listening to that idiot,” Bakugou scoffs. He looks a little sulky at the mention of having no sidekicks—like it’s a sore topic. (You’re not surprised in the slightest when Kaminari tells you that no sidekick stays for long after getting a taste of Bakugou’s abrasiveness.) “Dunce-face talks too much.”
“He said you don’t take breaks.”
“I don’t need breaks.”
You snort softly. “Yeah, okay.”
That earns you another glance, longer this time, but the sulkiness is gone, and there’s something almost amused sitting underneath it. Barely there, but it’s there. “Worry about yourself,” he says, turning back to the road. “You’re the one who looks like shit tonight.”
You blink, then scoff. “Wow. Thanks.”
“You know what I mean,” he mutters.
Yeah. You do. You’re sure you looked miserable and stiff as a board all night. No way the girls didn’t notice, but they know you well enough to know you’ll come to them on your own time—and you will. When the time is right, you’re sure you’ll vent away about men and their shittiness and their lack of communication and commitment when you’re feeling up to it.
For now, though, you’ll just sit here and be driven home by Bakugou Katsuki, who seems to know something is up, yet does not comment on it as he does a surprisingly nice thing for you. And for some unknown reason, that makes something in your chest feel just a little less heavy.
The rest of the car ride goes rather smoothly, and you pull up to your apartment in what feels like a surprisingly fast amount of time. Time…doesn’t seem to drag on with Bakugou, even when it’s silent. Of course, he’d actually entertained your small talk when you tried here and there, but you find that there’s almost…comfort in Bakugou’s silence.
He parks in front of the building. And then, he surprises you as he says bluntly, “You've been actin’ weird all night. What’s with you?”
You stiffen, jaw tightening. “Nothing, I don’t know what you’re—”
“That’s bullshit. I’m not fucking stupid,” he cuts in, flat.
“Well, why’s it your business?” you snap, sharper than you mean to.
Bakugou shrugs, like it really doesn’t matter either way. “It’s not. But I drove thirty minutes in the opposite direction for your dumbass, so I’m curious why.”
You huff, looking away toward your apartment building, arms crossing tighter over yourself. “It’s nothing. Just…a shitty week.”
“Tch.” He leans back slightly, still watching you. “Shitty how?”
“Just stuff,” you mutter. “It’s not a big deal.”
He clicks his tongue, clearly not buying it. “Liar.”
You shoot him a look. “Excuse me?”
If there’s one thing that Bakugou is that people tend not to give him credit for, it’s that he’s perceptive. Observant. They make the mistake of thinking that he always rushes right in, charges head-on without an ounce of a plan or a single thought in his brain other than brute forcing his way out of everything. But that’s farther from the truth than anyone would assume. Bakugou is so smart, it just adds to the list of reasons why he’s infuriating.
He’s smart, and he notices things, and he always has a pretty fucking good idea of what he’s talking about.
So when he says, “You’ve been off all night. Quiet—and not your usual type of quiet,” you look at him funny. You never assumed he’d have a good idea of what he’s talking about when it pertains to you.
“Wow. Since when do you know me so well?”
“I know all of you freaks—have to if I’m gonna beat you all and be number one,” he shoots back immediately. Then, after a moment, “You still seein’ that guy Dunce-face was talking about?”
You still. Just for a second. How did…how did he know that’s what was wrong? (And why is Kaminari airing your business out like that? From now on, you’re going to stick to the girls, and that’s it—Kaminari has lost his gossip privileges.) And of course, Bakugou catches the way you stiffen almost immediately, so he catches on that he was right. “Hah. Knew it,” he mutters. “Sparky says the guy’s lame as shit.”
“It’s not—” you start, then exhale sharply. “It’s nothing.”
“That means you’re not seein’ him anymore, I take it,” he says. “So was he a jerk?”
You groan, dropping your head back against the seat. “Can you not?”
“No,” he says, without hesitation. “You’re sitting here acting like shit over some guy?”
“I’m not acting like shit,” you snap, even though you know you are. “And he’s not just some guy, either.”
“You are acting like shit,” he says flatly. “What, you love him or something?”
“No,” you sputter, “we didn’t even know each other like that for it to be love.”
“So then what’s the big deal?”
You look away again, jaw tight. “I don’t know! It’s like…it’s just…” You trail off and sigh. “It’s stupid.”
“Yeah,” Bakugou shrugs. “Probably.”
Your head snaps back toward him in disbelief. (At least now you know there is at least one thing he’s not good at—he can’t comfort people for shit.) “Wow. Thanks, asshole.”
“But you’re clearly stuck on it,” he continues, unfazed. “So it’s not stupid to you. Are you gonna be fine, or are you gonna go up there and spiral all night?”
“Still don’t see how it’s your business,” you grumble.
It’s only silent for a moment before Bakugou grabs his keys and turns the ignition off on his (very fancy) car. His door opens and closes, and before you can even get an idea of what’s happening, he pulls your door open and gestures for you to get out.
“Let’s go,” he says.
“W-what?” you stutter.
“I said, let’s go,” he rolls his eyes, “We’re goin’ up to your place, and you’re gonna give me a bottle of water and somethin’ to snack on. Least you can do for making me drive all this way.”
It’s his way of keeping you company for a bit longer. This much, you know.
Bakugou is a complicated guy. He’s mean and rude and crass and loads of other unpleasant things that people could use to describe him in order to convey that he’s…not easy to get along with. Not even a little.
But he’s a good person at heart. It’s undeniable. People are always safe around Bakugou, even if it costs him his life (though really, it hardly ever does because he’s just that good), and even if it takes every ounce of his blood, sweat, and tears. He does it because it’s in his nature to do so—ingrained in him since the day his quirk was manifested. He’s the best at winning against bad things, and it helps people—imperfectly, sure, and not always in a very heartfelt manner, but as sincerely as it comes.
If he decides to come up and spend time with you for a bit to keep your mind off of your broken heart, it’s not because he pities you or feels this self-righteous sense of justice. He never does what he doesn’t want to do. So he wants to do this—and it’s because in his own, weirdly unexpected way, he cares.
Perhaps it’s not entirely unexpected, though, you suppose—after all, Class 1-A is trauma-bonded for life. All of you.
—
When you let him into your apartment, he takes a quick glance around. Lingers over the small trinkets and items you keep as decor, and then marches his way over to the kitchen as he mumbles, “What sorta snacks you got?”
You pull out one of the bags of red, hot, spicy chips from the convenience store that you keep stashed away—they can’t be good for you, but you figure you only live once—and hand them to him. He perks up minimally.
Bakugou likes spicy things. It’s one of the first things you ever learned about him, actually about him as a person and not just him pertaining to the nature of the hero course, and for some reason, it’s a detail you seem to remember.
He grabs the bag and slinks off to your couch while you grab your long-awaited ice cream and slump onto the opposite end of it right after, which isn’t too far, considering your couch is not that large. His feet are thrown over your coffee table, and you don’t care enough to bother with scolding him about how ill-mannered it is.
“So,” he grunts, popping a chip into his mouth. “Why the pity party? He dump you or somethin’?”
“We weren’t together,” you mutter, digging your spoon roughly into your frozen treat. You’re long past the point of wondering if it’s a wise idea to tell Bakugou all your woes—he’s already here, so you figure, why the hell not? “I don’t think it qualifies as a dump.”
“Ah,” he huffs, chewing as he seems to get whatever clarity he was searching for. “So he ran off before things got official, and now you’re sulkin’.”
“I’m not sulking,” you click your teeth—all of which is said through a rather sulky tone, so he only snorts and raises an eyebrow at you. You just respond by glumly taking a spoonful of your ice cream as you add, “And it’s not even like I fell for him that hard, okay? It’s just…the principle of things—he shouldn’t have strung me along like that, and he could’ve just told me instead of disappointing me when things seemed to be going great. And, he definitely never implied that he was seeing other people, so it’s particularly low of him to do all that just so he could see another girl who is clearly so opposite of me, so I’m not even sure I was his type, rather than an easy situationship. Except I didn’t give him what he wanted easily, so I bet that’s why he lost interest so suddenly when he realized he wasn’t going to get what he—”
“Holy fuck,” Bakugou groans, “you sound like the damn nerd with all that mumbling. Okay, so some guy wanted to get in your pants, you didn’t let him, and he got bored. Big deal—just means you picked a fucking loser. So don’t do that next time.”
He says it like it’s so simple. It’s never that simple. Men are so naive.
“Thanks for the stellar advice,” you say sarcastically, shooting him a flat look.
He only smirks, shrugging as he hums, “Yeah, don’t mention it. Don’t get used to it though—I’m not a fuckin’ therapist who solves your shit for you.”
“I’ll try not to depend on you too much,” you roll your eyes. You take another spoonful of your ice cream and sigh tiredly as you slump back against your cushions, and he sighs heavily and throws his head back exasperatedly.
“Look, I know I’m not always the most…fuck, I don’t know the word—”
“Kind? Compassionate? Empathetic? Understanding—”
He shoots you a withering glare, and you huff as you trail off. “Anyway,” he fixes you with a pointed look, “even though I don’t get all bent up outta shape over nonsense like this, I’d get it if you were head over heels for this bastard. But it sounds like you didn’t even like the loser that much, so I’m failing to understand why it matters that bad.”
“Because,” you sigh in exasperation, “I just…I don’t know…I wanted someone to choose me and like what they see, okay? No one ever cares to even bother getting to know me, and I’m starting to wonder if there’s a reason why.”
“You just haven’t set your sights on the right guy yet,” he shrugs, “big fuckin’ deal. You’ll stop being dumb and choose a good one eventually—I’m willing to believe you’re capable of at least that much.”
“They really ought to give you your therapy license,” you say dryly, your face as unimpressed as your tone. “I bet people would pay good money to hear this.”
“I’ll consider it if my agency is a bust,” he snorts, shooting you a sly smirk as he leans back into the couch, one arm slung over the backrest. “Seriously though,” he adds after a second, side-eyeing you, “you’re makin’ this deeper than it is. Some shallow guy bein’ shallow is a stupid reason to get all in your head about shit or whatever.”
You press your lips together, staring down into your melting ice cream. “Well, that’s easy for you to say,” you mutter.
“Hah?” he grunts.
It is easy for someone like Bakugou. Someone who’s always good at everything and knows it. Has enough confidence for two people and then some. You’re certain that if Bakugou actually let women come near him long enough to entertain the idea of a romantic relationship with him, they’d be at his feet the way they are for Todoroki. Women have a thing for men they feel like they can change, can make soften up just for them. He’d be a magnet for the fix-it type of girls if he were actually interested someday, and it only frustrates you further when he talks like your problems are so simple.
“This is how it’s always been for me—even back in high school, it was the same thing.”
Bakugou’s brows knit slightly. “The hell are you talkin’ about?”
You stare intently into your pint of ice cream, stabbing the spoon in and out. “Like…with guys. It’s always been like this.”
“That’s bullshit.”
You blink at him. “What?”
“I was there, in case you forgot,” he says, as if that alone settles the matter. “Don’t rewrite shit. You got asked out once by that extra.”
You frown. “That’s not—okay, first of all, that was just so he could try and show off his support gadgets to the agency I did my work study with. It doesn’t count. And second, that’s not my point.”
“Then what is?” he shoots back.
You hesitate, then sigh, dragging your spoon through your ice cream again. “Like…I don’t know!” You gesture with your hand vaguely, “I’m never memorable…or the sort of person that stands out enough for people to be interested, you know? Even Mineta made a list once when we were in school—did you know that? Ranking all the girls. And I was last. Like, dead last for whose tits he’d want to see in order. And I know it’s stupid—it’s Mineta. But some part of me wondered why I was last, and…I just figured maybe when I got older, got more confident, and figured myself out, then it’d be different. But it’s not. It’s just the same thing again—and now I’m starting to wonder if there’s a reason why I was last on that list.”
Silence settles heavily between you. Bakugou stares at you incredulously, like you’ve just said something that’s genuinely incomprehensible. “You’re fuckin’ kidding me, right?” He scoffs.
You don’t meet his eyes as you bring your legs up to your chest and hug your arms tightly around your knees. “What?” You frown, sulky and self-conscious.
“You’re tellin’ me you’re still hung up a decade later over that small fry not wantin’ ta take a peek at your tits? Why the fuck would you even want him to see them?”
“I don’t want him to see them,” you defend, huffing. “But like…fuck, c’mon! If the perveiest, creepiest guy you know doesn’t get excited at the thought of seeing you naked, who in their right mind will?”
He looks at you in pure distaste. “I knew you were an idiot, but I thought you weren’t this much of a fucking idiot, Stretchy. Sitting here wanting people to see you naked. Fuckin’ absurd.”
“Don’t be purposely dense,” you snap. You don’t know why it matters so much that Bakugou understands where you’re coming from, but it does. It’s important that he understands. “I’m not…I just…all my life, I’ve never been the one people want. There’s always someone better. Hotter, or smarter, or funnier. Nobody wants me—not even for the wrong reasons. How can I expect anyone to want me for the right ones?”
Bakugou is silent. For a moment, you think he finally understands. Think he’ll finally have an odd moment where he’s compassionate and gentle and you see eye to eye and have a heart-to-heart about your lifelong insecurities and your raging sense of inferiority when it comes to anything outside of your job. (Because at least you can give yourself that much—you’re good at your job.)
But then he says, “You’re so dumb, it physically hurts to watch you sometimes.”
And you bury your face into your knees and just sigh. Why did you have any hope for anything else? Why did you expect Bakugou Katsuki of all people to have empathy for your lack of confidence? The walking epitome of confidence is sitting on your couch, and you had the gall to think he’d even try to understand you.
But then he takes you by surprise.
“You see the shit people say on the internet about you, don’t you? You got fans. They think you’re hot.”
You blink as you lift your head back up. “Well, sure, but—”
Bakugou cuts you off. He looks at you like you’re dumb as he speaks, and you almost wonder if you are with the way he holds so much conviction in that gaze of his. Like he believes wholeheartedly you’re a stupid fucking idiot with stupid fucking thoughts.
“But fucking what? That means you’re clearly not the ugliest girl on the planet. You’re sociable enough that you got plenty of friends, too, and you have talents. You’re half decent enough at hero stuff. You’re tellin’ me you think no one wants you? You have to be pretty air-headed to think no one’s gonna desire you or whatever.”
All things aside regarding the…well, delivery of his statement, it’s a pretty nice statement. Something about the idea that Bakugou believes someone could definitely want you makes your chest feel rather light. It’s kind and comforting in an odd way, despite the rough and borderline mean way of saying it. That’s Bakugou for you, though, you suppose. Always doing good in the least seemingly good way possible.
“You’re being weirdly thoughtful,” you fix him with a look as you stir your ice cream around. You fight back a small smile.
He huffs, throwing another chip in his mouth before he mumbles, “I’m always thoughtful, you loser. I’m fuckin’ awesome, you’re just blind as shit.”
“Yeah, yeah,” you smile.
“Just eat your ice cream before it turns into soup,” he grumbles.
You take his advice for once, scooping up another bite just to give your hands something to do. The cold bites at your tongue as you think on his words. You have to be pretty air-headed to think no one’s gonna desire you or whatever. Are you? Are you air-headed to think that? No one has given you a reason to think they do want you—but he seems to say it like he knows it’s true. Like he knows someone wants you exactly in the way you want to be wanted. It eats away at you in your head. Does he know who? Is it someone from your old class? A friend of his? Kirishima, or Sero, or hell…even Todoroki? (You rule out Kaminari rather quickly—you almost pity the guy for how long he’s pined after Jirou.)
You glance at him from the corner of your eye. He’s already looking at you. You freeze for half a second, catching him eyeing you down, and he doesn’t even bother pretending otherwise. Just watches you, eyes narrowed slightly like he’s trying to figure something out, trying to search for something that he can only find in you.
“What?” you mutter, a little defensive.
“Tch.” He looks away first, shoving another chip into his mouth. “Nothin’.”
You don’t buy that for a second. “You’re staring.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You literally were.”
“Eat your damn ice cream,” he snaps back, but there’s no real heat in it.
“Why’re you being all weird all of a sudden?” you mutter.
He scoffs. “You’re the one who’s weird. Don’t start projecting.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
You roll your eyes as you go back and forth with him, but there’s a small smile tugging at your lips again, uninvited and almost second nature somehow. It lingers longer than you expect. Who knew it could be so easy to smile in Bakugou’s company? You wonder if the you from high school would be shocked to see this now—hell, you think the you of last week would be shocked to see this, too.
You look back at him, and he’s still staring—softer this time, less like he’s searching for whatever it is he was searching for a moment ago, and more like he’s staring just to stare.
“What?” you ask again, furrowing your brows.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you—looks at you hard and good and…and so full of certainty and conviction like earlier. Certainty for what, you wonder. You have no idea, but it almost feels like something is shifting in your relationship with Bakugou—or perhaps, something that was always there that you never knew of is revealing itself. It makes your stomach twist.
What relationship do you even have with him? Outside of being semi-friendly? You shared a class with him for three years and fought through a dark, heavy disaster side by side. It’s unfair to say you don’t know him that well—he was your friend. That much, you think, is fair to say. Perhaps not your closest friend, nor a lifelong one. But a friend all the same.
So what is it? Why does it feel like there’s something that’s making itself noticeable now, all these years later? What is it exactly? Your head spins as you try to figure it all out, all while he just keeps on fucking staring.
“Nothing,” he mutters finally, but it sounds distracted. It sounds like his mind is elsewhere, and his body is here.
“You’re still staring,” you whisper.
His jaw tightens slightly. “Stop sayin’ that,” he mutters.
“Then stop staring.”
“I was making eye contact, you fucking idiot.”
“I think you were staring.”
“No, the fuck I wasn’t.”
“You’re looking right at me as you say that.”
“'Cause it’s called fucking eye contact—are you dumb or something?”
You stare at him. He stares right back. And then, because you’re you, you break it first—huffing out a quiet laugh and shaking your head. “I see. Are you just now realizing I’m super gorgeous or something?”
“Tch. Weren’t you just going on about how no one seems wowed by you?”
You glare at him. “Low blow. And I said that’s how it seems to be for some reason—I never said I agreed with it. Personally, I think I’m rather delightful, and people should notice it more.”
“Yeah, real charmer,” he mutters.
You bump your knee lightly against his without thinking. “Shut up.”
It’s small. A casual touch, if anything. You didn’t think much of it—in fact, it almost came to you naturally. But sitting on your couch and spilling your heart out and sharing snacks with Bakugou feels so oddly familiar, though, that perhaps your judgment is a little clouded.
He stills at the small touch. Your smile fades a little when you realize it—when you realize he didn’t just brush it off like it’s casual. His gaze drops again, slower this time, to where your knee is pressed against his. And then back up. Did you cross a boundary? Did he find that weird? Is he uncomfortable? Was that a more intimate gesture than you thought it was?
You’re sitting there spiralling in your head as you just watch him, waiting for him to say something. Anything.
He doesn’t. Instead, he leans forward slightly—just enough that the space between you closes so that only a few bare inches remain. Your breath hitches.
“Bakugou—”
“You’ve always been pretty dumb,” he mutters, voice low.
You blink. “What?”
“Exactly what I said,” he closes his eyes and sighs, like he’s tired and conflicted and…and something else. Something else you just can’t decipher, no matter how much you try. “I don’t get how you don’t fucking see it.”
“What do you mean?”
He doesn’t answer. But he does open his eyes—deep and sharp vermillion eyes that are looking at you, and he seems to have made a decision that he’s almost a little hesitant with. Like he’s reluctant to fully go through with it, but still. He’s determined. That much you can tell—you know what a determined Bakugou looks like, and this is it. This is it if you know it, and you know that you know it.
And then he leans in.
He leans right in, pressing his lips to your and kisses you softly. It’s so soft—softer than any touch you’ve ever felt. So careful and considerate, as if you’re a fragile petal that’s on the verge of falling off the stamen, and he’s taking every ounce of willpower to keep you tethered to where you are. Keep you from falling away. Keep you there and whole and pieced together so that even the most delicate of touches doesn’t ruin you.
You almost wonder if he thinks he would—ruin you, that is. You wonder if all that careful consideration is because Bakugou believes you’re a fragile petal that could blow away, and he’s nothing but a harsh, cold wind that would blow you off your balance and carry on like it’s just his nature to do so.
And then he pulls back just as fast as it happened to look at you, brows furrowed slightly like he’s bracing for you to shove him off or yell at him.
Your brain is still catching up. He just kissed you. Bakugou Katsuki just kissed you. You stare at him, wide-eyed, and for once, he actually looks uncertain. Nervous, even—almost disappointed. And it does something weird to your chest.
“Fuck, I shouldn’t have done th—”
“You just kissed—”
You both speak at the same time. You pause, he does too, and then his jaw tightens. “Yeah. I…that was stupid. Sorry—I…fuck, I don’t know what I was think—”
You don’t know why you do it, but you lean forward and kiss him again. It just happens before you can process it—some invisible, untraceable, yet undeniable force that makes you just do it.
And instantly, without even questioning it, his hand comes up, quick and certain, as it grips lightly at your jaw to steady you so he can kiss you properly.
It’s slower this time. More deliberate. Less like he’s being careful and more like he’s trying to savor it now that he knows that he can. His lips press into yours as if they fit like puzzle pieces, and his tongue slides past your parted mouth to press against your own. Your breath catches, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his shirt without you meaning to.
It’s weird, but it’s not—kissing Bakugou. He’s the last person you ever expected to kiss tonight, maybe even ever, but fuck does it feel like it’s the rightest thing you’ll ever do.
“How the fuck do you think no one wants you?” he grumbles between kisses, like he’s personally insulted by the idea. It’s starting to occur to you that perhaps he is just a little insulted by the idea. “You’re so…so fuckin’ dense.”
“No one has ever made it clear,” you snap, bringing your hands around his neck and tugging on his hair as he kisses you deeper.
He hisses, but it only eggs him on to kiss you harder, more fervently. “You want it clear? Then here the fuck you go.”
He kisses along your jaw. Down your neck. Across your collarbone. When your shirt slips off, you don’t even have the clarity to stop and think about what it is you’re doing—it just feels that natural and right to let him do it. He takes in the sight of your tits in your bra, grabbing a handful of them with large, warm hands as he scoffs.
“These the tits that small fry didn’t wanna see? I’m fuckin’ glad—I’d be pissed as hell if he got to see these.”
He pulls off your bra. Rips it right off your back and makes you gasp as you feel the claps fly clean off somewhere in the distance.
“Hey—”
“Oh, shut up,” he huffs, “it’s a fuckin’ bra. I’ll buy you some more if you’re that pressed over replacing one.”
Before you can even scold him for tearing your undergarments and being so nonchalant about it, his mouth latches onto a nipple, sucking and rolling his tongue over the nub as it hardens under his touch. You gasp, arching into his touch, whining when one of his hands moves to cup your other breast and use his fingers on the neglected nipple.
“Oh my—fuck,” you breathe, your heart rate getting faster as your breaths come out more labored.
Bakugou grins against your tit, still sucking and licking—and when you feel the faintest pressure of teeth around your nipple while his fingers pinch around the other, you let out a sound that you’d be mortified about if your mind wasn’t so stuck in the clouds, hazy and unclear.
He kisses down the valley of your breasts when he finally pulls away—right down your belly and right above the waistband that’s sitting against your skin before he looks up at you for permission. “This okay?” he grunts.
You nod quickly as you breathe heavily.
He gives you an unimpressed look as he raises a brow. “Use your words,” he says firmly, “I know you can—can’t you?”
“Yes,” you whine, “yes, this is okay. J-just…get on with it.”
That satisfies him enough, it seems, because he’s pulling all the cloth that separates your core from him down, revealing your dripping cunt as he lets you kick off the cloth that pools at your ankles.
“Look at you,” he coos, grinning smugly at the sight of your arousal smeared along your folds and your skin. He leans closer to get a better look, and you whine in shame. “Fuck,” he grunts, parting your legs with strong hands along your inner thighs as you try to close them from embarrassment. “Quit that,” he hisses. For whatever reason, you obey. “Fuck, you are so wet.”
“Bakugou,” you whine again, horrified, “what is wrong with you?”
He gives you a deeply bothered look. “Katsuki,” he snaps.
“What?” You furrow your brows. Why is he introducing himself to you as if you’ve never met him before—does this man forget that he and you not only shared a class for three fucking years straight, but you fought a war side by side? Of course, you know his first name is Katsuki—
“For fuck’s sake, Stretchy,” he says in pure exasperation, “you’re so dense, you make rocks seem weightless. Say Katsuki, not Bakugou—s’weird to hear that during sex. That’s my fuckin’ mother’s name, too, y’know.”
“Thank you for that mental image,” you fix him with a glare, “and I’m not denser than a rock—”
He licks a stripe along your pussy to shut you up, and fuck does it work. Bakugou—or…well, Katsuki, you correct in your head—is so good at everything he does, it’s almost infuriating. But you aren’t a liar, and you would be lying if you said you weren’t grateful for him being so good at eating you out. It’s like his life depends on it, the way he laps away at your folds, pressing his tongue into your cunt and pulling back away to roll over your clit. It’s so…so fucking good.
It feels good. Feels right. Somehow, it feels like this is natural and like he’s supposed to be there between your thighs. You’d expected yourself to be a bit more self-conscious about him seeing you like this, doing things to you like this, for a bit longer. But you’re not.
Instead, you’re throwing your head back into the couch as you moan, “Katsuki—mmhhh.”
“Yeah?” he grins, so smug and handsome at the same time. Just unfair. “You like that, huh?”
“B-be quiet,” you huff, whimpering when a finger sinks past your folds and stretches you open, “you always talked too much.”
“And you always talked too little,” he counters, “tell me how good you feel and say my name like that again while you do it,” comes his blunt demand.
And he earns what he asks for, of course, because a second finger follows that first, and it makes you whine out his name in response like it’s an inevitable chain of events. He’s pumping his digits into your wet cunt and pressing into your sweet spot like it’s that simple. His mouth closes around your clit, and he sucks, his tongue working some sort of unearthly magic along the bundle of nerves as you practically sob in pleasure.
Good, good, good—everything that Katsuki does is so good. He’s so good at everything, it blows your mind. Literally. You can hardly think as he fucks his fingers into you and builds that familiar pressure up in your lower belly. They’re longer and thicker than your own—and all those years of explosives at his fingertips have really roughened up the skin. They’re calloused and scarred. And they feel amazing when they glide along your walls. The friction is so different when it’s his fingers and not yours—they hit angles and stretch places you never hoped to do so yourself.
Like he can read your mind, he asks, “Feels nice?” with a low voice.
You can barely think, let alone form a proper response. Everything feels too sharp, too overwhelming—your breath catching, your body reacting before your brain can keep up. You roll your hips into his fingers as they thrust into you, grinding down onto his mouth so his tongue can lap away at your clit.
“Yeah—” you manage, voice uneven, “so…so good, Katsuki—”
“I know, baby,” he murmurs. Baby—he just called you baby. And it’s…sweet. He says it oddly sweet and oddly gentle as he kisses your clit and smiles into your thigh when the kisses trail along the insides of them. His fingers are still pressing into that soft, sensitive spot in the back of your walls, still applying pressure exactly where you see white every time, and all the while, he seems to be so unexpectedly happy to be doing it.
You stare down at him, watching him between your legs, and when vermillion eyes intensely stare right back, piercing and calculating and yet so…so soft, you can’t look anymore. Just close your eyes and let it happen as your body starts to creep towards that familiar sensation of euphoria.
“Katsuki,” you whine, voice cracking.
“Jus’ let it happen, sweetheart,” he hums, “gonna cum for me?”
“Yeah,” you whine some more, “yeah—fuck. M’gonna cum.”
“Then do it, baby.”
You do. Katsuki is there to work you through it. Your walls spasm as you fall—no, plummet—off the edge, and he doesn’t hold back for an instant. His fingers are fucking into your tightness, the squelching sound of them gliding against your wet folds invading your very good hearing. His tongue is rolling back and forth against your swollen clit—so unforgiving and ruthless in his pace.
You can feel your back arch off the cushions of your couch, your hips working on their own accord as they move and grind down into his touch. Katsuki devours it all—laps away at your juices and groans at the taste of you. Groans right into your pussy and leaves you shuddering at the vibrations his gruff voice leaves against where you’re most sensitive.
“So fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, “driving me crazy here, y’know—sucking my fingers right in, I don’t even have to do much myself.”
When you’re done chasing your high, chest heaving as you catch your breath and slump back against your couch, his mouth doesn’t stop. He just stays there, pressing his lips where he can along your thighs, kissing and sucking into your skin, leaving blossoming marks in his wake while you try to gather some coherence in your mind.
“Fuck,” you say breathlessly. “I…just…yeah. Fuck.”
He snorts. “You’re too easily impressed,” he mutters.
“Yeah, well,” you glare, not meeting his gaze, “it’s not like I’ve ever done…this—” you vaguely gesture at him between your legs, “—to have a proper assessment of your skills.”
He looks at you. Bewildered. “Wait—you’ve never been fucked?”
“I’m not a virgin!” you sputter quickly, “not…not that there’s no reason why I can’t be a virgin—but I’m not, okay? I’ve been fucked.”
“So what is it then?” he raises a brow.
“I’ve never had someone do…this,” you gesture again.
“Eat you out?”
“Why do you have to go and say it like that?” you whine, covering your face with your hands—you’re sure said face is bright red and flushed.
He’s always been so vulgar. Even when you were kids. At least then, he was just vulgar with his language and not the connotations, but right now, he’s being vulgar about everything. And it’s seriously fucking with you right now—in more ways than one, evidently.
Katsuki only snorts, looking at you in mild amusement. “If you can’t say it, you got no business doing it. And you gotta have better standards, too—the fuck do you mean you never been eaten out before?”
“Men are not so giving,” you glare at him, “they’re in it for themselves. You’d know that if you weren’t a man.”
“Well, I am a man,” he shoots back, “and as a man, I know I’m pretty fucking giving. Cause I got standards and shit for my performance, and you should fuck people who have standards. And while you’re at it, you should get some god damn standards yourself, too.”
“I think you should take off your clothes instead of sitting there and lecturing me,” you huff.
To your mild surprise, he stands up and pulls you into his arms, lifting you up easily—seriously, what is he built from?—before mumbling, “Where the fuck is your room?”
You mumble out, “Hall to your left—s’the door on the right at the end.”
In what feels like record time, he’s there, tossing you onto the mattress softly enough that you don’t feel the recoil of impact harshly, but hard enough that you do a little bounce. He chuckles as you glare, easily lifting the black t-shirt he’s wearing over his head. It reveals his bare torso and…shit.
It’s not as though you’ve never seen Katsuki shirtless. Of course, you have. You’ve trained with him and battled alongside him, and more than once has he been shirtless, or even had his shirt burned clean off. It’s nothing new to you that he’s muscular and well-built and so fucking broad—but fuck. He’s really bulked up since you last saw him shirtless. The biceps you can see from his short-sleeved shirt were already proof of that, but seeing him now without it, seeing his pecs and the clear indents of every ab while the broadness of his body is on full display, is just something else, entirely.
And you’re staring. Because how could you not? Of course, you’re staring. You’re only human, no matter how superhuman this society is—you can’t help it that you’re simply in awe as you look at him.
And he seems to notice it instantly, because he gives you a teasing grin as he murmurs, “Likin’ what you’re looking at, huh? Makes sense.”
“Would you be quiet?” you huff. You sit up as he unbuckles his belt, watching as he strips himself of his pants and boxers in one go, easily revealing his erection as if there are no second thoughts.
It must be nice being so easily sure of yourself, you think. Everything about Katsuki’s life seems like it must be so nice. Good quirk. Good intuition. Good looks and an equally good body. Good everything—he must never overthink things. He must never overthink if the person in front of him likes what he has to offer and if it’s good enough to like for longer than one short instance. Of course, it’s good—it’s him.
It must be nice being Bakugou Katsuki, born to be so confident and so great at everything.
At least that’s what you think until he mutters, “Quit starin’, you freak,” with a huff. His ears are pink at the tips, and he doesn’t meet your eyes, and…it’s weirdly adorable that he’s shy.
You smile, endeared as you reach over, grabbing his hand, pulling him down to hover over you in bed, his arms caging you while his nose bumps against yours. You can see his eyes better from here. Closer than you’ve ever seen them. His lashes are darker than the rest of his hair—almost a light brown that flutter so beautifully when he blinks.
You hum, kissing his mouth with a soft peck, there one second and gone the next. He frowns, almost pouts, at how quickly it’s over.
“Don’t get all shy on me now, Blasty,” you murmur.
“I’m never shy, Stretchy,” he shoots back.
Your hand moves between your bodies, hesitantly reaching for his hard, swollen length. There’s a blonde patch of hair between his thighs that is neatly trimmed, and he’s got a small birthmark at his hip bone. As for his cock—it’s…well, it’s big. Thicker than it is long, but no less impressive. You figured it would be. Of course, just like everything else he’s got, he’s blessed to be impressive.
You wrap a hand around his cock, stroking slowly as he shudders and lets out a soft, breathy groan. Your hand barely wraps around the girth of it, fingers just shy of meeting, and you look down to watch your fist slide up and down the length of him. He’s slick with pre cum that dribbles from his tip, twitching a little when you squeeze at the base experimentally as you stroke him.
“S’that even gonna fit?” you gape at the sheer size of him, and that’s all it takes for that minimal shred of shyness to leave him. He has the nerve to look at you smugly—so wholly amused.
“Course it is,” he snorts, smirking slyly. “Got you all nice and prepped, didn’t I? B’sides—isn’t bein’ stretched out and all kinda your thing?”
You give him a dirty look. Your quirk doesn’t work that way, and he knows it, but you suppose it’s naive to expect anything less from Bakugou. Of course, he’d throw in a cheeky, asshole-kind of poke at your meta abilities when he sees fit.
“Be quiet,” you warn.
“If that’s what you want,” he hums, “then you should fuckin’ do something about it.”
You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him in, kissing him hard and rough, earning a deep, satisfied rumble from his chest as you do. His cock nudges against your inner thigh, grinding against you for a short moment before he stills, jaw gritting tightly as he forces himself to be patient and mutters, “You got a condom?”
“On the pill,” you peck the corner of his lips, “so just fuck me—fuck me, Katsuki.”
That’s all he needs to hear. His tip is nudging against your entrance, sliding along your folds, and gathering the slick that’s practically dripping so he can coat himself in your mess. It’s filthy, and it makes you shudder as you feel the hot, heavy weight of him simply brush against you.
“Fuck,” he groans, “gotta feel you—m’gonna go insane.”
He’s pushing past your folds, sinking inch after agonizing inch so slowly, so carefully, you almost want to hiss that you won’t break. But something stops you—the way he stares between your bodies, that dazed look in his eyes with wide pupils as he watches himself sink into you is enough to force you into submission and be patient.
For him—just for him, you’ll be patient.
“Baby,” he drawls, his voice a low, rough purr, “baby, you’re so fuckin’ tight—god.”
“Fuck, Katsuki,” you whimper. He stretches you out good—fills you up and then some as he presses into all the right spots. “S’so deep—need more, please.”
“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” he presses a soft kiss between your brows before his hips are moving.
It’s slow at first, like he’s testing the waters, and when your head throws back into your pillow as you whine in pleasure, it’s like every worry in his head about hurting you flies out the window. His hips snap faster into you, his thrusts go a little deeper, his movement a little more frenzied. By the time he sets a fluid pace, it’s quick and rough and so fucking good.
“Wanted this for so long,” he grits his teeth, letting out a long moan as you clench around him. “Shit, wanted this for so fuckin’ long you wouldn’t believe—wanted you for so fuckin’ long.”
“More,” you whine, “p-please—give it to me, Kats.”
Oh. Oh, he likes the sound of that—there’s a deep, almost animalistic groan in the back of his throat that erupts before he goes impossibly faster, bullying his cock into your walls and slamming into that soft, sensitive spot he did so easily with his fingers, too. Something in his brain is almost rewired, you think, when he hears the nickname fall from your lips.
Something that makes him bury his face into your neck and nip and bite at the skin hungrily.
“Say that again,” he demands. “Say it.”
“Kats,” you sob, “mmhh—s’good, baby. Feels so good.”
“Yeah? Bet no one’s ever fucked you like this, huh? Like you mean something?”
“No,” you shake your head, “no one.”
“Only me, huh?”
“Only you,” you whimper, nodding along as your hips roll as much as they can into his own, trying to match his movements so he can press even deeper into you.
Katsuki does fuck you like you mean something. No one’s ever really done that. You’ve always had sex just for the sake of sex. It’s never been anything more outside of that—sure, you’ve had your eye on a guy, or two that you wished maybe would look at you as something more than a good fuck. But they don’t make a lasting impression to keep you wanting more. Keep you craving more. Keep you hoping that maybe, just maybe, there could be more.
Somehow, Katsuki makes that possible. He grabs your hips softly, rubs his thumb back and forth like he’s worshipping the skin when he angles you down on his cock for deeper access to your cunt. He kisses your jaw and cheeks with soft, wet pecks instead of just shoving his tongue down your throat. He bites his lips and looks at you with soft, dazed eyes and not the usual dark, lust-filled ones you’re used to.
You never really minded being used. Never minded being more than an easy fuck if it meant you could get something out of it, too. But he makes you feel wanted—and you like being wanted. You like being something worth coming and staying for.
“Fuck, m’close, sweetheart,” he rasps, sweat collecting on his forehead as his pace gets sloppier. The thick head of his cock slams roughly against your walls, and a thumb finds your clit to bring you closer to your peak with harsh circles against the sensitive bundle of nerves.
You can feel it—can feel the slow build of pressure in your belly, that familiarly delicious ache between your thighs as the friction of his cock sliding in and out of your pussy accumulates in every nerve. You’re close too, and Katsuki can tell—it’s so fucking easy for him to read your body. Like he was made to understand it.
“Close too, huh?” he pants, “you almost there?”
“Yes,” you wail, “yes—fuck, yes! Wanna cum.”
“Then do it,” he hums, “cum with me, baby.”
He rolls his hips into you once—then twice, and you feel it snap. That coil in your belly that was tight and waiting to burst. It makes your mind go blank and your lips part, and a cry of his name rings in your own ears loudly. You can feel the way you contract around him, spasming and squeezing and pulling him in as your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave.
It makes his cock twitch before he tenses and stills—his own orgasm hits him just as hard. Hot, white ropes of his release fill you up, the messy, sloppy pace of his thrusts fucking his load into you as he works you both through your highs.
It’s good—not just because it’s pleasurable, but because you feel important. You feel like only you could give him this, and only you could be the one he wants it from. He leans down and kisses you, slow and messy, drinking in your moans as he pours his own into your mouth. He says your name so pretty when he’s like this—so breathless and soft, you feel like your ears are ringing just listening to the sound of him.
“You’re so good, baby,” he mumbles, “so good for me.”
“K-kats,” you whimper—it’s all you can even say.
“I know,” he moans, “I know, sweetheart.”
And then it’s over. You finish, and so does he, and then it’s just the two of you tangled like that while you both pant and catch your breath. Sweaty skin on sweaty skin, lingering touch on lingering touch. Your fingers weave through his blonde locks, tracing along his scalp and fiddling with the small baby hairs at the nape of his neck. His fingers are wrapped around your hips, digging softly into the plush skin and making home in the warmth of it.
“People want you, dumbass,” he mutters, leaning and kissing your cheek. “You’re just an idiot who doesn’t know how to look.”
“Be in my line of sight next time, and maybe I will,” you mumble.
He laughs as he slumps down next to you, pulling your body into his as he wraps you up with his body and the sheets on your bed—it’s the softest sound you’ve ever heard from him, and fuck, do you want to hear it more.
You wonder, as sleep creeps up on you, if this will all be an odd, weird, crazy dream when you wake up.
—
When you wake up, it is not an odd, weird, crazy dream.
Well, it’s definitely odd and weird and crazy. But it’s not a dream, that’s for sure. A sleeping, clearly bare Katsuki is in your bed, right beside you, and you’re in his arms. He’s holding you close and tight, and there would be no chance of escape if you wanted to leave his embrace (which you don’t really think that you do).
One minute turns into two. Two turns into three. And eventually, after a few agonizing minutes of trying to slowly inch away just enough to get a closer look at his sleeping face, Katsuki says without opening his eyes, “Quit squirming.”
You still. And then, you huff, squirming around just to annoy him.
“Oi!” he glares, opening two sharp, yet sleep-hazed red eyes. “I just said stop.”
“Well, I don’t answer to you,” you scowl. “How long have you been awake?”
“Since you decided to stare at me like a creep.”
“I was not staring,” you say, giving him a scandalized look.
He only grins, giving you a sly look as he yawns and mumbles, “Yeah. Whatever you say, dumbass.” Then he pulls you closer, bringing your cheek to lie on his chest while his chin props itself over the crown of your head. “You okay? From last night, I mean?”
“Yeah,” you say softly. “M’fine.”
“Not hurt? Wasn’t too rough?”
“Nope,” you answer easily.
You realize this position might have less to do with the fact that he wants to hold you rather sweetly, and more to do with the fact that he might not really want you to look at his face when he asks his next question.
“You uh…you regret it? Or some shit?”
You pause, taking in the odd, rare moment of…vulnerability in his voice. Like he’s scared to hear your answer but needs to know desperately. You find yourself answering rather honestly when you say, “No. I don’t. Last night was really nice—I liked it.”
“Yeah?” he breathes.
“Yeah,” you mumble.
“Great. Go out with me, then.”
You do a double-take as you pull away and look at him in equal parts disbelief and equal parts irritation. He has the nerve to look rather expectant. “What?”
“What do you mean, what?” he huffs. “Go out with me—exactly what I said.”
“You can’t just throw that out there randomly!”
“Randomly?” It’s his turn to be shocked and irritated. “The fuck do you mean? I was balls deep in you last night, and this is random?”
“Yeah b-but…” You sputter, smacking his chest. “First of all, don't say it like that! And second, I had no idea until last night that you even thought I was attractive, let alone likable. Now you want to date me out of the blue?”
“I don’t ask shit for no reason out of the blue,” he grumbles, “of course I think you’re attractive and likable if I’m asking you out. You think I’d waste my time with just anyone?”
“Usually,” you give him a flat look, “when you ask someone out, some sort of confession comes first. You know? Like, hey—I think you’re pretty cool. Or you’re really beautiful. Or even, hey, I think we get along nicely, don’t you? Do you wanna go out sometime?”
Katsuki closes his eyes and sighs exasperatedly. “Hey, loser,” he smiles tightly. It’s rather petty, honestly. “I think you’re cool and beautiful—thought it since we were fuckin’ brats in school. We get along nicely for the most part, too, when you’re not a pain in the ass. Let’s go out.”
“That was a demand, not a question.”
“You are so fuckin’ difficult for no reason,” he groans, digging the palm of his hand into his eyes tiredly. “Holy fuck—you’d say no, or somethin’? That why you need it to be a question?”
“Well, no, I wouldn’t…but it’s the principle of things—”
“Fuck your principles,” he mutters, pulling you close and planting his lips onto yours. You melt rather instantly, kissing him right back without hesitation. He grins against your mouth and pulls away, leaving you breathless. “The only damn principle you need to know is that you and I are good for each other. And that means we should go out.”
Class 1-A is trauma-bonded for life—it’s this invisible, untraceable, yet undeniable thing. You think it’s a good thing that you are, because it leads you straight to Bakugou Katsuki.
—
One new message from: ♡ PLUS ULTRA GIRLIES ♡
Mina: sooo can we talk about last night? SOMEONE was def giving us the cold shoulder
Toru: ^^
Kyoka: ^^
Momo: Come on, guys. I’m certain there’s a reasonable explanation. We should be ready to listen whenever she’s ready
Ochaco: absolutely!
Tsu: but we do want to hear the reason asap
Mina: yeah it better be good bc that was just mean
Toru: ^^
Kyoka: ^^
You: i promise i’ll tell u everything soon ok? but guys.
You: holy fuck. guys…
You: i slept with bakugou last night
Mina: WHAT?
Toru: WHAT?
Tsu: WHAT?
Kyoka: WHAT?
Momo: WHAT?
Ochako: WHAT?
Mina: I KNEW HE HAD THE HOTS FOR YOU I KNEW IT
Mina: THIS NEEDS TO BE A GROUP CALL RIGHT NOW
You: I CAN’T TALK RIGHT NOW HE’S LITERALLY IN FRONT OF ME MAKING BREAKFAST IN MY KITCHEN
Ochako: aw wait that is sooo sweet of him. he’s a great cook too
Toru: proof or it didn’t happen :P
You: [ one attachment ]
Kyoka: HOLY SHIT THAT’S DEFINITELY HIS BACK
Momo: Well…As long as you’re happy!
Mina: LMAOOOOO STOP YAOMOMO
Ochaco: bakugou can be nice when he wants to be!! don’t be so hard on him
Tsu: when has he ever wanted to though…?
Toru: never lol let’s be real
You: he has a soft side OKAY? ochako is right u guys are being way too hard on him
Mina: oh god it begins
Toru: she’s already making excuses for him
Kyoka: the sex was that good huh??
Momo: Make sure you pee so you don’t get a uti ok?
yeah i wrote this in one day. this asshole has taken over my life yet again 6 years later i feel like history always repeats itself
tags: 🔞dubious consent, vaginal fingering, unprotected piv sex, aphrodisiacs, drug use, somnophilia, undernegotiated kink, daddy kink, creampie, MC gets drugged (not by Sylus), alcohol mention
1 | 2
You moonlight as Sylus’ assistant. Things go a little differently than planned.
As if to welcome you home your phone rings the second you step through the door. You fumble with your bags and keys, elbowing the door closed while you tap your screen, and step out of your shoes. “Hello?”
“It’s me,” Sylus’ rich voice says through the speaker. “Are you off work?”
“I am,” you say, and hang up your coat. You flick the light on as you continue from the hallway to your kitchen. “You called right after I got home. Did you just wake up?”
His voice sounds rougher than normal. It’s a little early for him—but then again, his sleep schedule is all over the place. Just when you think you’ve got it figured out he changes it up again. Breakfast at noon, lunch at midnight, hard liquor when the sun is setting. “How was your day?” Sylus asks instead of answering your question.
Long. Tiring. No overtime today—a miracle in and of itself. There’s been a lot of missing people reports lately, more than usual, and the more you look into it the more it puzzles you. It doesn’t help that the reports are vague and made late; by the time someone notices the missing person is, well, missing, it’s already been several days if not weeks. The people taken don’t have much in common except for being relatively young and easy to miss. They usually live alone. It’s had you close the padlock on your door with more care than usual.
You turn on the tap and fill a glass with water. “Is that what you called me to ask?”
“Not necessarily. Can’t I still want to know?”
“Are you calling to remind me about tomorrow? I haven’t forgotten. Or were you afraid I wouldn’t open the door when you rang?” you say.
Questions without answers, back and forth, a game of tug the rope. Like every time you call you wonder who will get tired of this game first. Surely Sylus. He likes winning, you know that much, but he gets bored. The only reason he hasn’t given up yet is because you rarely say yes to his invitations. You expect today’s call to be similar to the one from a few days prior, where he breezily informed you there’s an outfit waiting for you at the base, if you wanted it, and to come early so you can try it on. You politely declined the offer.
“I’m sorry,” Sylus says. You still in surprise, glass just touching your lips. You set the water down again. What for? “It is about tomorrow, but—I have to cancel. Something unexpected came up.”
He sounds genuinely upset, even through the speakers of your shitty work phone. Your personal one finally croaked last week after six years of duty, and you’d have to forego this month’s gas bill to get a new one. You frown as you clutch the phone a little more tightly to your ear. “Why? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” You immediately bite your lip at that last one—a mistake.
As expected Sylus laughs, though without his usual rich fucker mirth. “Are you worried about me, kitten?”
You consider just hanging up, but you really are curious why he’s cancelling at such short notice. It’s never happened before—though maybe your “never” is too small of a research pool. You’re surprised he even kept up the invitations after you accepted for the first time, certain that his interest in you would fade after he conquered your denial. Human psychology—the more you can’t have it, the more you want it.
You would know.
And that would have been the end of it, except the next day a package arrived. An invitation to an art gallery, one he mentioned in passing during the dinner he took you to. You expressed interest at the time, as well as appreciation for a very nice Prosecco, and received an unopened bottle of the very same brand along with his invite. Handwritten, gorgeous and slanted, on thick expensive paper. You’re pretty certain the cream-coloured envelope—scented, of course, and pressed closed with a wax seal that would be beautiful if it weren’t for the gaudy feathers stuck to it—it came in alone could cover a week’s worth of groceries.
“I’m worried about the unlucky person who decided to challenge you.”
Sylus sighs on the other end of the phone. “It’s nothing like that. Tonight was supposed to be a wrap-up of something I’ve been working on for a while, but the twins got sick. I can’t do it without them.”
Despite your best intentions you feel yourself soften the moment Luke and Kieran are mentioned. “Are they okay?”
“They’re fine. They’re strong, so they won’t die.”
Very reassuring, that. “I see.”
“But we can reschedule. Next weekend—what do you think?” Sylus says. The tinny speaker makes him sound almost hopeful.
“I can’t. It’s Tara’s birthday that weekend.”
“Two weeks from now?”
“Association event.”
“You’re difficult to get a hold of, kitten.” He’s smiling now, you’re sure of it. You can picture it, the way his mouth curls, brushing over his voice with a soft edge. “Is there a waiting list that will take my name?”
No, you want to say. There’s no waiting list. You volunteer for birthday planning and Hunter lectures because your apartment is empty and sad, and spending time here, alone, makes you feel even more empty and sad. There’s too much room here for Sylus to occupy your mind. Will he call today? What is he up to? No good, surely. He texts you photos of beautiful things. A large hand stroking a horse’s mane, a gem on a tie, polished shoes on rich soft carpet. It’s boring, his captions say.
“Maybe if you tell me what you’re doing I’ll help you.”
There’s a moment of surprised silence. “How generous of you,” Sylus says, voice low and amused. You feel your cheeks grow hot. “And what were you hoping to receive in return?”
Of course. You exhale, disappointed with yourself. Quid pro quo, equal exchange. There’s no altruism, not here, and no out of the goodness of your heart. He probably wouldn’t believe it if you told him you hadn’t been thinking about something in return when you said that. Maybe that’s why Sylus keeps calling. Because you’re fool. And there’s still some use to be made of you.
“The offer to turn yourself in is still open.”
Sylus laughs again. “Sure. If that’s what you want. I won’t make any promises about how long I’ll stay behind bars, though.”
It was an idle threat, but he sounds so smug that it makes you want to ask for real. Maybe you really should just hang up. His voice in your ear makes you stupid. You’re about to say that you’re leaving, to never mind your offer, that you were joking anyway, when Sylus speaks again. For once, he answers your question.
“We’re chasing a new drug on the market. The distributors are cycling it through hotel chains in the N109 zone, but whenever we try to follow it to the source there’s a dead end. We had a good lead, but I needed the twins to play distraction. The distributors are almost as paranoid as I am,” Sylus adds. There’s an amused lilt to his voice that makes you curious. He doesn’t strike you as paranoid; doesn’t even strike you as careful, really. Who else with this big of a bounty on his head wanders around Linkon without a care in the world? “I was hoping to move the plan to next week, but it’s unsure where they’ll be by then. If you were to come along…” You mentally supply a shrug to his casual pause. “I could still go with the original plan. Except instead of tonight we would strike tomorrow.”
“You’re busting down a drug cartel?” you say. Sylus hears the incredulity in your voice, because he chuckles.
“The N109 might be lawless, but there’s still rules, sweetie. They’re selling drugs on my turf without paying their dues.”
So it’s about money after all. You suppose that’s reason enough for someone like Sylus. Still—something niggles at you. Is it simply because the numbers are that high? Because it’s a matter of pride? Of power? If he were simply bored he wouldn’t be so concerned.
“What kind of drugs? Are they dangerous?”
“It depends on how they’re used,” Sylus answers.
Another cryptic answer. You turn your eyes to the ceiling as though some merciful god there will soothe your exasperation. Fine. Whatever. He can keep his secrets. You’ll find out for yourself. When you speak again it’s with newfound curiosity and determination to stick your nose in his business: “I understand. The big bad leader of Onychinus has to show off his strength.”
“Something like that. So? You’ll come?”
Surely this isn’t really necessary.
Your reflection watches you button up your blouse in the changing room’s mirror with a confused expression. You’ve worn formal-wear before. For work events, usually, your one works-for-everything black dress that you’ve mended a dozen times by now soldiering on bravely. But most of the time you’re wearing things that are comfortable and practical. Not this. You look down at the ruffles down your collar with a sense of vague bewilderment. You can’t move around freely in this. Aren’t you supposed to be a distraction?
You decide to put these questions to the person who pushed you inside the changing room with a mountain of outfits in your arms. The changing curtain opens with a rssshjt and reveals the culprit sitting on a bench with crossed legs.
“Hey,” you say as you step out, “Aren’t we in a rush? Why are we wasting time with me trying on new clothes?”
Sylus stares at you, lips parting slightly as his eyes flick down, then up again. “Dressing for the part is important, kitten. Did you want to walk in there with your Hunter boots?”
“They’re more comfortable than whatever these are.” You point at your heels with an accusing finger. They’re going to chafe so bad. You can already tell. The shoes wink at you menacingly when you shift on your feet, the sides catching the overhead lights with an evil gleam. “Just so you know, I can’t run in those. Or the skirt.”
“You won’t be doing any running,” Sylus promises. He shifts in his seat and takes something out of his bag. “Here. Pick whatever you think matches.”
He opens a flat box that can only be described as a dragon’s treasure hoard. Rows upon rows of neatly pinned jewellery sets glimmer at you, each more expensive-looking than the last. Earrings and bracelets and necklaces and rings, all decorated with delicate filigree and diamonds that leave no discussion as to whether or not they’re real. Most have some kind of red gem attached to them.
“I’m supposed to be your assistant,” you say after you manage to find your voice. “I’m not earning enough to afford any of that.”
“Then why not try working for me for real? You can see for yourself what the salary is like.”
Har har. You give Sylus a dry look and pick out the one pair of earrings that doesn’t look like it costs more than a mansion. They’re simple studs, silver with a tiny stone in the middle. Plain enough for a nobody assistant. You put them on quickly with the help of the changing room’s mirror.
“Ta-da. Done.”
“You haven’t tried on the rest yet,” Sylus says. He points at the pile of clothes. “Go on. We have time.”
You give him a disbelieving look. “You told me this hotel thing would take the weekend, not the whole week.”
“You dislike shopping that much?” Sylus’ mouth curls up again. “Alright. Excuse me—” He leans back, addressing the sales employee that’s wisely stayed a healthy distance away from this madness. “We’ll take all of them. Everything she’s wearing will be to-go as is.”
“Of course, sir,” the employee says quickly, bobbing their head deferentially. “Excellent choice as always.”
“Sylus,” you whisper-hiss as the employee empties out the load of fabric from the changing room, “Are you insane? Tell them we’re not taking everything!”
“I just like to be well-prepared, sweetie. Don’t worry. If there’s anything you don’t like we’ll get rid of it. The rest you can keep—think of it as a gift for helping me out.”
You despair. This is the kind of shop where clothes don’t have price tags. You don’t know if the not knowing makes it better or worse.
“Just so you know, I’m not keeping anything. You can return it or whatever, I don’t care, but I can’t accept something this expensive.” Not even to re-sell it, though the thought is tempting. People would probably think you’re trying to scam them, or worse, that you stole it. You might not be able to run in this skirt, but you have to admit that it’s gorgeous. Soft to the touch, comfortably stretchy, a lovely dark shade of red interrupted by a small slit on your thigh. The blouse is similarly beautiful. The kind of thing you pass by in shop windows and appreciate it for its design—and then move on, because there’s no way you’ll ever wear something like that. Except now you are.
“As you wish,” Sylus simply says, then offers you his arm. You take it somewhat begrudgingly. Your balance is excellent, but the heels. They’re giving you what is hopefully a not-weird sway to your step, and consequently shift most of your weight to your toes. Taking Sylus’ arm is completely justified, you tell yourself.
You try not to think about how warm he feels. Or how your fingers can’t even curl over half of his bicep. You fail immediately.
“Why don’t you run me through tonight’s plans?” Sylus says as he helps you into the car. “Since you’re my assistant now.”
“Arrival in fifteen, shake hands, and get an invite to cocktail party at eight,” you go down the list on your fingers after you buckle yourself in. “Mingle until we’re either invited to a backroom or someone can give us a name. And then we kick their asses.”
Sylus chuckles. He keeps his eyes on the road as he drives, shifting gear with one hand, the other lazily on the steering wheel. It’s effortlessly hot, and it annoys you a great deal. “There might be a few steps in between intelligence gathering and ass-kicking, but you got the gist of it. You are?”
“Your overworked assistant,” you say.
“Overworked?” Sylus asks, amused. “I don’t remember this being part of the script.”
“I’m simply trying to portraying my role as realistically as possible.”
Sylus shakes his head, laughing softly as he changes lanes. “My boss of the year mug begs to differ. But sure. You are working on the weekend. And I am?”
“Mr. Qin, sir,” you supply dutifully.
“Very good. We’re almost there. Is your tracker still in place—? Good. Keep it on you at all times. Take your gun, too. But keep it out of sight.”
You stuff your gun in the sensible hand bag between your legs, wedged next to the paperwork Sylus provided that mimics what an actual assistant would be carrying around with them and a thick bundle of Association files. You couldn’t resist the urge to bring your work with you. One particular case hasn’t left you alone since you saw it. Perhaps because you were reminded so much of yourself; one of the missing girls is your age, with the same dark bags under her eyes. A you in another life. You linger over her photo while Sylus drives, going through the same details you’ve read a hundred times.
Lives alone. No pets. No family. No friends, either, or no friends who keep a close eye on her. The report was made by a co-worker.
She has medical debt, just like you. A mild case of Protocore Syndrome; something that requires daily medication to keep under control. You doubt that wherever she is now is able to supply her with what she needs.
You sigh and trade the file for something of Sylus’. Now’s not the time. You need to work on memorising names and faces. You’re not a Hunter right now; you’re Sylus assistant, and you’ve got a job to do.
Then again…
It’s not a bad cover, but you have to wonder at how useful you’ll really be there. Sylus didn’t tell you what the twins were supposed to do—your guess was wreaking havoc, but your role is very much not that. Or maybe it is and you just don’t know it yet. The only reason Sylus keeps you around is for your resonance, after all. Having backup that amplifies his powers tenfold is an attractive bonus, especially for someone like him. Even if he only tolerates you.
Not that it comes easily, the resonating. You’ve done it a handful of times, and every time it’s a struggle. Not because you hate him, though you do resent him for drawing you in so easily. And not because you fear him, though you are afraid of how much he might see. The only thing you allow to slip through is your naive trust that he’ll hold up his end of the deal. He uses you, you use him, and everyone gets to go home at the end of the day to lie in bed and think about how many of his big fingers could fit inside you.
Okay. Maybe that’s just you. But still—the tentative partnership is enough for a superficial, strained tether between the two of you. Brittle and eggshell-thick. Just like your heart.
“We’re here,” Sylus announces, and pulls up in front of a large, beautiful building. White, of course, because it’s owned by rich people, but the columns rising up to support the balconies are beautiful. Little stone birds nest in between the hand-hewn branches, and ivy trails down the pillars gracefully. The fanlights above the balcony doors are inlaid with stained glass. The light filtering through paints the edges of the windows with softly glowing pastels.
There’s no visible parking space at the front—Sylus simply leaves the engine running for an employee to rush over and take the car away. You’re greeted warmly when you step inside, good to see you, Mr. Qin, a pleasure, your suite is ready for you, just this way, we’ll take your luggage for you. Even the elevator is beautiful. Its wooden interior is painted; another gardenscape to fit the theme outside, with white large birds nesting near the water. You want very much to trail over the river with your fingers, but keep your hands to yourself.
The elevator takes you to the very top floor. The hotel owner is waiting for you there, an older balding man who, after giving you a cursory limp handshake, forgets you’re there and pours all of his attention in Sylus.
“—always an honour, Mr. Qin, we’re so pleased Onychinus considers doing business, truly pleased, here’s your suite—please enjoy the complementary gifts as you see fit—everything will be to your liking, I’m sure, it’s short notice, but everything we provide is top quality, I assure you, only the finest for our guests, as you’ll see—”
“Much appreciated,” Sylus interrupts. “My assistant will forward you the documents I mentioned.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” the man bobs his head without sparing you so much as a glance. “Please let me know if there’s anything you need. Drinks, food, company—we’ve got some great girls, very pretty, I’m sure any of them would be happy to—”
“That won’t be necessary,” Sylus says silkily. “My assistant and I would like to be shown to our rooms now.”
“Ah,” the hotel owner deflates temporarily, but a second later he revives himself. “Of course—you must be tired. Though if you’re at all inclined—? There’ll be a little party later tonight, around eight. Anyone staying here is free to attend at any time, plenty of faces you’ll recognise, Mr. Qin, I’m sure—”
“We’ll be there,” you say. You smile, holding the man’s gaze as he looks at you with irritated bewilderment; you’re supposed to be pretty, not speak. He glances at Sylus, slightly unsure, but all Sylus does is tilt his head. There’s a challenge in his eyes the hotel owner clearly has no wish to engage in, and so he quickly nods again, rubbing his hands.
“Indeed, indeed! How wonderful, Mr. Qin, we’ll be waiting to see you there. Now for your suite…”
The man keeps babbling all the way to your door, at which point you can tell even without your resonance that Sylus is rapidly starting to get annoyed. You would be too if you were him—but you’re not, which means you get to watch everything unfold with barely held-back amusement. Sylus is never outright rude, but his replies keep getting shorter and curter, and you have to press your lips together to keep from laughing when at one point he throws you a desperate look.
Help me, his eyes say, and you take pity.
“Thank you,” you say forcefully, cutting off the stream of conversation pouring from the hotel owner’s mouth, and open the door for Sylus to step through. The hotel owner watches him disappear into the suite with a disheartened look, but ultimately decides you’re unworthy of his attention.
“Wishing you a pleasant stay!” he tries to say over your shoulder. The door closes with something that sounds a lot like relief.
Sylus pinches the bridge of his nose.
“You look tired, Mr. Qin,” you say. Sylus gives you a look, and this time you do laugh. It’s so unusual to see him out of his depth. “Not the kind of attention you’re used to?”
“Normally I don’t waste my time on people like him,” Sylus says, and sinks into one of the plush chairs.
People like you.
You watch Sylus pour himself a drink. His hands are large and beautiful. The veins spidering under his skin stand out against his pale flesh; when he moves his fingers, one of the rings he’s wearing tinks against his glass. The smile fades on your lips. You feel very out of place, standing in middle of all this opulence that Sylus moves through with his usual bored grace. Nothing seems to impress him in this room that you marvel at. Silk sheets, embroidered bathrobes, scented candles. The handles of the bathroom inlaid with pearl. You’re scared to touch anything. Your presence alone sullies this beauty.
Carefully, you place your bag on the desk on the far side of the room. It’s made of deep walnut, its surface sanded down to a shine. Your reflection moves over the wood like a dark stain.
How could you ever hope to want a man who has everything he could ever wish for?
“Are you hungry?” Sylus asks from behind you. You shake your head. When you turn around you see he’s made himself comfortable in his chair, laptop open on his legs. He’s wearing his glasses; they balance on the bridge of his nose. He dips his chin and looks over them to address you. “Then get some rest. If everything goes to plan we’ll stay in here until eight.”
You’re not particularly tired, either, but you obediently step out of your heels and sink down on one of the beds. It’s huge and soft, and the mattress bounces slightly under your weight. A shame you won’t actually get to sleep here if all goes according to plan. You unbutton the top of your blouse and pull your hair free from its updo; if you’re in for a long night you might as well try to get comfortable while you can.
There’s a ticklish feeling on your back, and you look over your shoulder to see Sylus’ eyes burning into you. You stiffen. Are you doing something wrong? You wouldn’t be surprised if there was some kind of rich-people etiquette you’re butchering somehow.
“Are you going to sleep?” he says.
“No, I think I’ll just read or something.” You take out your Association files again and place them on your lap, toying with the staple. As you sort through the stack your eye lands on one of the leaflets displayed on the nightstand. They’re tourist recommendations, but for rich people. Private spas, fine Michelin dining, horseback riding—there’s even mention of an auction scheduled for tomorrow. You, too, could be the proud owner of a gem-encrusted race car.
“Play cards with me, then. If you’re just looking to pass the time.”
“Aren’t you busy?”
Sylus closes his laptop. “Not right now.”
“I don’t have anything to bet,” you say, but you’re already rising from your seat and walking over to him. Sylus moves the side table in front of him and produces a pack of cards from his jacket like some kind of magician. You watch him shuffle them in his long fingers.
“I’ll supply our bets for the both of us, then.” Sylus deals two hands, then places the stack face-down in the centre of the table along with a stack of poker chips.
“Do you always carry those around with you?”
“For luck,” Sylus says. He’s smiling slightly at an inside joke you’re not privy to.
The game begins. You place your cards, back and forth, occasionally taking one from the stack. You play with your colleagues sometimes, when work is slow. No poker chips are involved, but whoever ends up as this week’s winner gets to say where you’ll get drinks together on Fridays. It’s a good-natured, messy kind of play, where everyone is laughing and groaning and chatting; Simone, fiercely competitive; Tara, keeping tally of everyone’s wins; Xavier, who everyone suspects only pretends not to know the rules of the game. How else do you explain a five-week winning streak?
Unlike your colleagues Sylus has an excellent poker face. He surveys his cards quietly before making a decision, and neither complains nor celebrates when he draws from the stack. Despite this, however—
“I think you’re eligible for a refund on that luck,” you say. You place down two cards. One remains in your hand.
Sylus chuckles. “This is just par for the course for me, kitten. Besides…” He plays a card. “If I use up all my bad luck in a card game, isn’t that preferable?”
Is that how it works? You stare at Sylus’ card pile with a doubtful expression. “Aren’t you worried I’ll take advantage?”
“Why would I be worried about that?” he says. He’s smiling again. For some reason it makes your cheeks feel warm; quickly, you look away and pretend to focus on your cards.
This continues for a while.
You play cards. Sylus loses. You offer to go best out of five, seven, ten; you win every time. “You’re not giving me good cards on purpose, right?” you ask during the final round. “I promise I’m not cheating.”
“If you were you’d be very good at it. I’ve yet to catch you, after all.” Sylus places down another card. It’s terrible.
You decide to put him out of his misery and play one, two, three cards: a combo chain that both ends the game and announces you as undisputed winner of the night. There’s no more time for another go. The clock-hand ticks; half past seven. You need to start getting ready.
“Congratulations,” Sylus says. Despite having lost he doesn’t sound upset in the slightest; if anything, he sounds pleased. He leans back in his chair. “What would you like as your prize?”
You look up, startled. “Prize—? I thought we were just playing with chips. I already told you, I don’t have anything to bet.”
“Humour me. Tell me what you want.”
“There’s nothing I want,” you lie. You watch Sylus’ hands as he tucks the cards back into a neat stack. You want those hands. On you, inside of you, caressing your most intimate parts. In your mouth, between your legs. You want him to forget about the party so he can hold you in between those ridiculous silk sheets all night instead. You can almost feel it, his body on yours. The heat of him, his strength.
You close your eyes to anything that comes after that. You shut out the fantasy of his voice in your ear praising you for being good, low and beautiful and sonorous, the moment it turns to something else. Something softer. You know what it means. You don’t want to acknowledge it. As long as you can file away your feelings under simple desire you can pretend at indifference at the thought of your inevitable replacement.
There will come a day where you’re no longer useful to him. It won’t do to dwell on wishing for things that were impossible from the start.
“Hm.” Sylus puts away his cards and his chips, glancing at his watch. “Well, the offer stands. Let me know if you think of something.”
You nod, despite knowing that there can never be anything you ask of him. Keep me close a little longer, part of you wants to say. Discard me now to save me from future suffering, another part thinks. Pretend to be the cruel, violent monster you introduced yourself as to me. Make it clear, beyond any reasonable doubt, that you find me inconsequential; that you’ll never want me the way I want you. Chase me when I run. Let me go quietly. Flip a coin, pick a card, spin the wheel of fortune and pray that Lady Luck will let you escape my pathetic, selfish desire.
The ballroom welcomes you with a gust of warm chatter.
Not much dancing is happening. The music is slow and jazzy, slotting seamlessly into the murmur of people talking, laughing, and drinking. Glasses clink, jewels shine, and heels click over the floor. Yours included. Some of the faces you recognise from the files Sylus gave you prior to this mission; investors, entrepreneurs, CEOs. Big bosses at the top of their shiny pyramids. Newly rich or born into fortune, it doesn’t matter—everyone here built their wealth on morally dubious foundations.
Sylus’ entrance does not go unnoticed, but aside from a few lingering glances no one says anything. His hand is on your lower back, steering you gently through the crowd, and you want to tell him to quit it because that’s not how a boss treats an employee. But there’s too many eyes watching you for you to speak freely, and so you endure.
You understand why they’re looking, of course. Aside from his notoriety Sylus looks magnetic in his dark casual suit. Red on black, as per usual, matching both his eyes and the pin on his lapel. You look at his profile with a tinge of resentment. What’s he so beautiful for, anyway?
“Mr. Qin,” someone says. A woman with dark hair and a deep-cut dress approaches him, smiling. You recognise her from your briefing as Ms. Yang—owner and founder of one of the biggest tech conglomerates in the N109. “I didn’t think I’d see you here.”
“If you did that would mean I’ve become predictable.”
She laughs, then turns to you. She’s beautiful, and you feel yourself grow warm under her gaze. Underneath her polite smile there’s something sharp and scrutinising that makes you want to squirm. “And who’s this?”
“My assistant,” Sylus says. You bow your head.
“Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Yang.”
“Your assistant? A pretty girl like her?” Ms. Yang tsks, eyes narrowing. “And I bet you’re working her to the bone, too.”
“May I remind you of your own standards?” Sylus says. “The prototype I sent to you the other day was returned unopened.”
Ms. Yang scoffs, but you catch her smile. It mirrors Sylus’. It clicks for you then—these two are more than business partners. They get along with each other. No, they like each other. They look good together, too. A power couple.
The sounds of the party around you grow slightly distant as you try to hold onto your neutral expression. You’ve only ever been involved with Sylus as the crime lord on Linkon’s wanted posters—even when you started working together the image of him walking to you under the sound of a bell, cloaked in red mist, has been hard to shake. You’ve seen him kill. He even made you kill him. And when he’s not killing or maiming he likes to spend his time leisurely; that’s how he makes it seem, anyway, from the things he tells you over text. Took the yacht out for some fishing. On a jet to someplace cold. It’s my first time tasting a wine this sweet.
You feel a little stupid for realising so belatedly that for all its crime and violence Onychinus is also still a business.
“You can take it,” Ms. Yang says dismissively. She turns to you, gently touching your shoulder. “If you get tired of him you can come work for me, sweetheart. Don’t waste your beauty on a stubborn man like him. I’ll treat you well.”
“Oh,” you flush, unsure of what to say. “Um, thank you—”
Sylus pulls you to him by the elbow. His fingers curl around your arm completely. “No can do. She’s irreplaceable, so she’s not allowed to leave.”
“Ugh,” Ms. Yang scoffs. “You’re terrible. Don’t come crying to me when you scare her off.”
Sylus says nothing; he simply smiles, smiles, smiles, handsome and awful and inscrutable, and hands both you and her a drink he plucks from a passing waiter’s tray. The conversation quickly devolves into things you don’t understand. Tech, stocks, names and places and brands that mean nothing to you. You’re soon joined by others, more beautiful and powerful people who shake Sylus’ hand and compliment him on his latest acquisitions.
There are several times where you feel you ought to slip away.
Surely Sylus doesn’t need his assistant to hover over him all night. This isn’t so much a party as it is a networking event for most of the people here, and it would be completely natural if you were to step back and leave him to his own devices. There is a difference in rank, after all. Certain boundaries cannot, must not be crossed—even if you’re his assistant.
And outside of this hotel you’re not even that.
But every time you’re about to take that step Sylus’ hand curls around your elbow again, tugging you closer. His broad palm settles on your back, skin on skin; you hope he doesn’t feel the goosebumps that ripple over your spine. He’s warm, a steadfast weight, one that you can’t escape from when turns his head and looks at you with his deep red eyes.
You don’t know why he does it. By accident? On purpose? You dearly hope your half-baked theory about how he can read minds is incorrect and wish fervently, as you’ve done many times, that you could read his. He should be bored, indifferent, introducing you like the inconsequential afterthought you are both in reality and pretence. But his voice doesn’t make it seem so; he sounds pleased, warm. Happy whenever someone notices you by his side.
A figment of your imagination. Desire twisted so sharply that it slices you cleanly in half like a knife, leaving the core of you exposed to the convincing performance Sylus puts on. He’s a good actor. He’s charming. Ms. Yang touches his arm and he doesn’t flinch from it.
You desperately want to run away.
You’re just about to do it, too—just going to the washroom, and then simply not coming back—when there’s a lull in the conversation, and one of the men in suits invites Sylus to a backroom to see some kind of ‘special merchandise’. You frown and try to catch Sylus’ gaze—does this have to do with what you’re here for? But when he looks at you his gaze gives away nothing.
Sylus hesitates a moment, then leans in closer to tell you in a low voice, “I’ll be right back.”
Great. Perfect. Isn’t that what you wanted? To be free of his hand on you, keeping you anchored to the floor? You watch Sylus walk away, head bent to hear what Ms. Yang is saying. Her shiny red lips move quickly, curved around a slight smile.
Everything is so awesome.
You breathe out slowly and collect yourself. Get it together. Now’s the time to gather intel. Without Sylus by your side you’ll be able to move more freely; no one’s going to look twice at the mousey assistant in her plain dress. You linger near the snack—pardon, canapée—table and eat while you listen in to the conversations around you.
“…stocks are down again. The tech market has been so unpredictable as of late…”
“…another divorce. I mean, I would too, if I were her…”
“…quite the show. Who would have thought the new spring collection would be flower-themed…”
You forget sometimes that rich people are by and large wholly uninteresting. It seems almost impossible that Sylus is one of them; the more you learn about him the more you feel like you don’t know. Questions with answers, again, your curiosity never satisfied.
Like this drug that he’s after. Why is he so concerned with it? From what little he told you it didn’t sound like it was any more dangerous than the usual stuff circling about in the N109 Zone. Or maybe it’s not the drug, but the people behind it? You take another sip of your champagne. It’s good, light and fizzy and slightly sweet. The one upside of having money to spend.
“…the latest on the market,” a quiet man’s voice says somewhere to your left. “I heard that perhaps tonight we’ll get a sample of it?”
At this your ears prick up. You don’t look in his direction, but pretend to circle the food table to get something on the other side of it. You strain to keep track of his conversation, and yes, there’s the reply:
“I should think so,” someone answers him, a younger voice, “but we’ll want some fairies to go along with the dust.”
Laughter. You furrow your brow; what does that mean?
Time to abandon the food. You turn and drink your champagne, tipping your head back so you can freely look at who was just speaking to get a better look. It’s a small group of people, mostly men, all wearing fancy suits and nursing glasses with hard liquor in them. They’re sitting on the velvet sofas situated away from the centre of the ballroom, close to the walls.
Perfect.
“Good evening,” you smile as you approach. “Is it alright if I join you? I was just wanting to rest my feet for a minute.”
“There’s your fairy, Hans.” One of the men winks at who you assume spoke earlier; a wiry man with a smooth face and blond hair that is combed back in a way that can’t be comfortable for his hairline. You laugh along like you’re part of their little inside joke and sink down next to him, ignoring the way none of the men make any effort to stop manspreading.
Hans offers you a fresh glass of alcohol while the others resume their conversation around you. “I don’t remember seeing you around here before.”
“Perhaps I didn’t make enough of an impression.” You take the champagne. “Or maybe you weren’t paying close enough attention.”
His mouth ticks up. “Think I’d remember a pretty face like yours, darling.”
Ugh. “Is that right? I’ll start to think you’re here for pleasure instead of for work.”
Hans smirks, eyes trailing down your figure. “Who said the two don’t mix?” He leans closer, slinging his arm over the back of the sofa in a move he probably thinks is smooth. “There’s going to be an exciting auction tomorrow night, apparently. This party is just the prelude. But what about you? You here with someone?”
“My boss,” you sigh. It takes little effort to summon real exasperation. “He likes to drink, though, so it’s just a matter of when he’s had enough and we can go back to our rooms.”
“That’s a shame,” Hans says. “Don’t you want to have some fun before you go?”
“I love fun.” You smile again, hoping it looks coy and not desperate. If you’re being too obvious Hans doesn’t seem to mind; he chuckles, rubbing a hand over his chin.
“I thought so.” He clicks his fingers at a hotel employee, who nods and vanishes; when they reappear they’re carrying a tray of… what looks like ordinary drinks. Is that his idea of fun? More alcohol? Where’s the 'dust'? Either way you take the opportunity to lose the glass of champagne Hans gave you on the table in front of you. Maybe he’s just trying to get you drunk so he can fuck you. At the end of the day men are all the same, and this particular breed is worse than the usual asshole who won’t take a hint.
“More champagne?” you ask, tilting your head.
“The finest there is, darling. Here you go, drink up. You’ll love it.”
You glance around the rest of your little company; everyone is happily partaking, and Hans is looking at you expectantly. It doesn’t look or smell any different than normal, so you carefully take a small sip.
Nope, same as before. No weird aftertaste, just bubbles on your tongue.
“It’s great,” you say to be polite. “To be honest, it’s my first time here. Usually I’m kept too busy to attend these kind of parties.”
“I’ve always believed pretty things are meant to be shown off, not hidden behind desks,” Hans says. He’s smirking again, eyes flicking briefly to the glass you’re holding. “Why don’t you stick with me tonight? I’ll take good care of you.”
You suppress your disgust and smile, neither agreeing nor denying, which seems to be good enough for Hans. “Tell me about what you do,” you say, which is all the encouragement he needs to start monologuing about his law firm. All you have to do is nod and hum and throw in the occasional what does that mean? because you’re a naive, silly girl who doesn’t know anything about the world. Good thing Hans is here to tell you what’s what.
You keep half an ear out for more mentions of the dust, either from your chatty companion or the group around you, but nothing comes up. At first you feel frustrated, but as time passes and you drink your champagne the worries slowly dissolve like the bubbles in your glass. You’re pleasantly warm, tucked away in this sofa. The velvet feels nice when you brush your fingers over it, back and forth, while Hans talks to you. It’s a little harder to pay attention now; you’re mesmerised by how the fabric under your hand keeps changing colour as you move over it. But you do your best. Hans really isn’t such a bad guy. His hand on your thigh doesn’t even feel as repulsive anymore, though you can’t help the prick of disappointment that they’re not as big as Sylus’.
But you can’t have the main course. Not allowed! Off-limits! Maybe you should just settle for the finger food. The canapées (ha, see, you remembered) are so small you barely taste them. Or maybe it’s just that there’s a sweet taste permeating your mouth. Your tongue feels a little funny. Does Hans’ tongue feel funny too?
Hans chuckles again. He leans close, hand on your neck so he can whisper in your ear. Usually you’d immediately jerk away, but the sensation is so funny. You feel every little hair on your skin move under his breath individually. “I think it does, darling. Want to move somewhere quieter so we can check?”
That doesn’t sound so bad, actually. You’re sweating. No longer pleasantly warm, just hot all over. Aching a little, in your stomach. Did you drink too much? There’s too many people here. You stand, wobbling slightly in your pretty heels, and follow Hans through the ballroom, on your way to the exit. His hand on your lower back feels all wrong, but it’s fine. You love fun. Does he want to dance?
“Sure, darling. We can dance once we’re back in my room,” he says. He sounds amused. You laugh; you want to be amused too. This is such a great party. It was so nice of Sylus to bring you here.
“Sylus?” Hans asks, one brow raised. “Who—”
“There you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” You turn around. It’s Sylus! Oh, but he doesn’t look very happy. Sylus’ eyes slide over to Hans, who is no longer smiling. “I’ll be taking it from here.”
“And who are you to—”
“I’m her boss. Get lost.” Sylus takes your arm and pulls you close, away from Hans. You go easily. This is so much better. These are the hands you’ve been wanting. Hans makes a pained noise; faintly you feel the crackle of Sylus’ Evol brush past you, but you’re too busy with the gem pinned to Sylus’ coat to ask why. It’s so red and pretty. Like his eyes. You love his eyes. Sometimes you have this weird urge to reach out and touch them. Directly, with your fingers, pulling them from their sockets.
Sylus steers you away from the ballroom, still holding your hand. He’s looking down at you with furrowed brows. “Are you feeling alright?”
“I’m so great,” you tell him earnestly. You smile up at him. He really is so pretty.
To your delight Sylus’ mouth curls up, too, though it doesn’t quite reach all the way to his eyes. He opens a door down a hallway and ushers you inside, but it’s not your hotel room. A powder room? There’s no one else here, though. Everyone’s probably at the party. Shouldn’t you go back? You’re going to blow your cover like this. And Hans, you should tell him—
“I turn my back for a few minutes and you’ve replaced me already?” Sylus guides you to sit down on one of the loveseats.
“But it wasn’t a few minutes,” you say, suddenly sullen. “You were gone for so long. I was waiting for you.”
“I’m sorry,” Sylus says. “I didn’t mean to leave you by yourself.” He strokes a finger over your cheek and you lean into it fully, rubbing your face against his hand like a cat.
“It’s okay,” you say confidently. “I knew you’d find me again. Or did I find you?” Sylus sits down next to you and lean against him. “It’s like, no matter what I do I keep coming back to you. Like a boomerang.”
Sylus laughs softly. “A boomerang? You pack quite the punch for such a little thing.”
You nod. “I’m really strong.”
“And very warm.” Sylus puts his hand over your forehead. “You’re burning up, kitten. Are you feeling sick? Did someone give you something? A pill, or a drink?”
You’re not really feeling sick per se. It’s just that you’re so hot, and your clothes feel so tight, and the ache in your lower stomach hasn’t gone away at all. It’s only gotten worse. You feel empty. When Sylus pulls away his hand you make a noise of protest and grab it again, pressing it against your cheek. “That feels nice,” you sigh. Has his skin always felt this good? “Touch me more,” you demand.
Sylus exhales. He cups your other cheek with his free hand, angling your face up to him. Your eyes almost flutter closed—almost, because you really want to look at him. “Try and remember for me, sweetheart. Did you take something?”
“You think I’m stupid again,” you say. “What if I’m just drunk? Have you never been drunk? I could be a total lightweight.”
Sylus’ thumbs stroke over your temples. “I’ve never thought you were stupid. And I’ve never seen someone’s pupils get this big off alcohol alone.”
You frown a little. Is that true? You slide your hands up Sylus’ torso, burrowing them under his jacket to get closer to his skin. His hands were feeling so nice on your face just a moment ago, but now it’s no longer enough. Like scratching at an itch—temporary relief, but once you stop it flares back up worse.
Sylus shifts, allowing you better access to paw at his chest, and you tug at the collar of his blouse. The fabric is soft, almost silky, and it feels good to rub your fingers over it. “I only had a drink,” you say, slightly defensive. “Because Hans offered. And I didn’t want to say no, because I wanted to do a good job.” Your hands falter, and you look down at them dejectedly. Oh. Is that it? Did you mess up? Is that why Sylus took you away?
Sylus places one hand over yours, encouraging you to keep touching him. “I understand,” he says. “Tell me more about Hans. Who is he?”
The low powder room light catches the rings on his hand in a reddish shine when he moves in his seat. And his fingers, too, they’re so nice. A little too warm for how hot you’re feeling, but somehow you think that if he touched you more it would help. Maybe he could take some of that heat from you, share the burden, so your head would cool down. What was his question again?
“Your rings are so pretty,” you say, peering at his hand.
“You can have them if you like,” Sylus says. You fiddle with them; Sylus lets you take them off, hold them up to the light, and try them on. You frown a little when not even your thumb is big enough to hold the smallest one. Sylus laughs softly, plucking it off. He takes your left hand in his, sliding the ring onto your ring finger instead. “I think it fits better on this one,” he says.
What a liar. You wiggle your fingers; the ring moves with them, spinning around loosely. “They’re all too big for me,” you say unhappily.
“Then I’ll have it resized for you.”
You sigh, leaning your head on his shoulder. “No. It’s okay. Too much effort.”
Sylus stills for a moment when you lean against him; then his arm wraps around your shoulder, pressing you closer still. You sigh again, but this time happily; he smells so good. You turn your head, pressing your nose against his throat. Faintly you can feel his pulse under the jugular.
“Then consider it a reward for telling me about Hans. Hmm? Who is he, sweetie? Why were you with him?”
If your head felt clearer you’d pay more attention to the way Sylus’ voice tightens, but right now all you can focus on is the promise of wearing him on your skin. That is a pretty good reward. You pull at the tail of your memory, trying to arrange the picture frames in your mind in an order that makes sense. “He has a law firm, but I forget the name—something with a V? He likes fun, and he likes to drink… He said he was here for an auction. He talked a lot, and he kept putting his hand on my leg but it was okay. He gave me a drink, but everyone else was also drinking, so I don’t know. I’m feeling so hot, Sylus. I’m sweating so bad.”
“Poor kitten,” his voice says close to your ear. Despite the heat you shiver. Sweat is beading on your forehead; you’re so uncomfortable, in your pretty dress and pretty shoes. You want to take it off. Your teeth ache, your skull throbs, and everything feels very big. Alive-big. Even the air is oppressive.
The only thing that is nice and good is Sylus, and so that’s what you cling to.
“You found the drug we’re after before I could, though not quite in the way we intended to,” he says. His voice hits your skin in a pleasant way. You can almost feel it, the words sticking to you, brushing over your cheek. “But you can handle it. There’s no dangerous side effects. You just have to ride it out.”
You deflate. So you did mess up. Nothing has ever been harder in your entire life than to pull away from Sylus in this moment, but you manage somehow. “You can go back to the party,” you say miserably. Your tongue is heavy, and it’s hard to make the words sound right. “You have to catch the dust. And Ms. Yang is probably waiting for you. So.”
“Are you jealous?” Sylus sounds pleased. He doesn’t let you scoot away from him; one of his hands has curled around your waist, and he pulls you back against his side. You’re a boomerang. You can’t resist. Sinking into his weight, his big thigh, his strong shoulder that is so perfect for leaning on—how is anyone meant to resist?
But you sniff and say nothing. He’s having fun, and you’re not. Not fair. This dust or whatever sucks. Aren’t you supposed to have a good time when you’re tripping? Of course you’d be the one to only experience the stupid side effects. The ache keeps spreading, growing stronger with every passing minute. You want something in your mouth.
“This blows,” you say unhappily. Sylus has the audacity to laugh, and you whine. “You’re so mean. Stop laughing at me. You’re not—not nice at all, so stop laughing.”
“I’m sorry,” Sylus chuckles. “I’m sorry, sweetie, don’t be angry. Come here, where are you going—? There. Stop trying to run away. I’m not laughing at you. I promise—look at me, come now. You’re just very cute when you’re high.”
“So glad you’re so amused by all this.”
But you don’t resist when Sylus coaxes you back into his arms. The heat in your body is still rising, and it feels good to have something to hold onto—even if it’s not quite enough.
“You can tell me,” Sylus murmurs. “You can be jealous. I’d be happy if you were, actually.”
Faintly you wonder how that makes sense, but even when Sylus is being a bully you want to see him happy. You’ve only caught glimpses of it, his real smile. Never fully, always guarded, a bored smirk rather than a genuine curve of joy. What could make a man like him happy? You’ve wondered, often. Those glimpses always seemed so random. The moment you notice him in the crowd. Watching you play with his bike. Listening in to the twins chattering away at you about their latest crazy stunt.
“I was,” you tell him glumly. “She was so pretty, and you talked with her a lot. And she knows things about you I don’t.”
Sylus exhales, his grip on you tightening briefly. “As far as I’m concerned I belong only to you,” Sylus says, voice low. “And I’ll tell you anything you want to know. You just have to ask me. We can trade, if you like—an answer for an answer.”
That at least does make sense. Nothing is ever for free with Sylus, after all. There’s no giving without taking. You want to say okay, but all that comes out of your mouth is a pained whine. You curl in on yourself. The ache is starting to get unbearable. You’re shivering despite the heat, and your body is moving on its own. The room is spinning—or is it just you? You watch with bleary detachment as your hands try to unbutton Sylus’ blouse. They’re unsuccessful. The buttons are small and annoying; your hands only manage to get one free before they grow desperate and just tug at the fabric instead.
“Sylus,” you whimper. “I can’t get it open.”
“What is it, sweetheart?” Even as he says it Sylus’s fingers deftly take over, unbuttoning his shirt for you. You press your hands against his chest the moment you’re able to; he’s warm, but you’re burning so hot his skin is almost cool to your touch. You look at his face, dazed. There’s a slight flush curled over his cheekbones—high, sharp, pretty. You touch his face, stroke over his brows with your thumb. Whoa. Like a caterpillar.
“What caterpillar?” Sylus frowns. Your fingers move with his brow, furrowing down, making the caterpillar move like a real one.
You can’t answer; you’re busy. You trace over his beautiful nose with one finger, following its downward curve to his lips. Sylus inhales sharply, but makes no move to stop you. You press on his lower lip, opening his mouth. His teeth are sharp, and his tongue is a pretty shade of pink. He allows you to admire him—even allows for you to put your curious fingers in his mouth, stroking over his tongue and his gums. He bites them lightly when you go deeper—a warning. You move on to his neck, press into the dip of his collarbone, between his pecs, down to the trail of soft, light hair that thickens as you go lower—
Sylus catches your wrist in his hand when you start tugging at his belt. “What are you looking for, kitten?” he asks in a low voice.
Something. Anything. You’re breathing hard; the air is hot in your mouth. “It hurts,” you say. Your voice breaks. “It really hurts, Sylus, I don’t like it.” You want to be closer. When you try to straddle him your dress gets in the way, and you make a noise that sounds like crying. “Please,” you croak. “Please, daddy—”
Sylus makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a growl, and then both your dress and hips are lifted in one go. He sets you directly on his cock—you hadn’t even noticed he was hard, too absorbed in touching his bare skin—and you moan. Relief floods your body. Yes, the pit in your stomach says. Yes. That’s it. That’s what you need.
You rock your hips forward, eliciting another moan—both from you and Sylus this time. Sylus’ hands dig into your hips. You’re not the only one who’s breathing hard anymore.
“Do you usually—?” he starts, then cuts himself off with a hiss when you repeat the motion. “What do you want, sweetie? Tell me. I’ll give you anything you ask for.”
You’re too far gone to feel embarrassed anymore. The small cognisant part of you that is aware of the horror of exposing yourself like this is drowned out by the pulse between your legs and the sweat sliding down your spine; you’re empty, and you need filling up. “Make it stop hurting,” you whine. “Please, Sylus, please? I feel so empty, can you—I need to have—” You drag his hand to your mouth, wrapping your lips around his fingers and sucking, then groan, frustrated, when it’s not enough to quell the gnawing ache.
“Alright,” Sylus says roughly. “Alright. I understand.” The pads of his fingers press down on your tongue—he tastes salty, earthy, a tangy sort of musk that has saliva flooding your mouth—then retract so his tongue can take their place. You melt. The horrible tingling feeling under your skin still burns, but Sylus’ mouth takes the edge off; you feel like the carousel you’re on slows, just enough for you to wrap your arms around his shoulders and cling to your ride. Sylus cups the back of your skull, moving your head whichever way he pleases. This is nice, too—you don’t have to think. Just open your mouth and drink him in.
“Was that what you wanted?” he rasps. His breath clings to your skin.
“Yes,” you beg. “Yes, yes, for so long, so please—”
He kisses you again, rougher this time. His free hand guides your hips to keep moving over his clothed dick; soon a damp spot stains both your underwear and his pants. You’re so hungry.
“Need a little more help?” Sylus husks against your mouth. He’s already tugging your underwear to the side before you can nod. His fingers are still wet from your mouth, and you keen when he rubs them over your weeping cunt. “Talk to me, sweetie. How are you feeling? Still hurts?”
You sob when he settles on your clit; it takes a full minute for you to remember how to move your mouth to talk. “Feels hot—achey,” you slur. “Still hurts, but better. Please don’t stop though,” you add quickly, despairing at the thought of him declaring you cured and taking away his fingers.
“Don’t worry,” Sylus murmurs. “I won’t. Just keep talking to me. Keep talking to daddy. How long is so long? Did you want to kiss me before today?”
“Yes,” you whimper. “Don’t remember—long time, so—”
Your reward is one long finger sliding inside you. Sylus put the rings you discarded on again, and you feel the cool silver nudging at the edge of your entrance. Deliriously you wonder if they’ll fit inside, too. You’re so wet you think you could take anything right now.
“Good girl,” Sylus says. He sounds strained. “Good girl, asking for it now. Why didn’t you earlier?”
“Scared,” you manage in between your moans.
“Of me?”
“No—kind of—wanted you, just…” You trail off when a second finger starts to prod at you. You’re wired so tight you think you’re going to burst apart when you come, and you need to come. Sylus taps your cheek, and you will your eyes to focus again.
“Don’t drift off without me, beloved. Just what? Tell me. Tell me everything.”
Everything? But how to start? There’s so much. Layers on layers, fragile kernels behind a hard, leathery shell. Everything is to pick it clean, red pouring out, each a fragment of your guilty longing. Words are hard right now, but—
there are easier ways for you to talk.
The room lights up in warm gold. Resonating has always been so hard with Sylus, but without your usual barriers raised high it barely takes any effort. It feels good, in fact—like a key slotting perfectly in a lock, a puzzle piece, one half pressed against its other. Sylus groans under you—there’s no filter, and he wants it all, greedily touching your whole life that you let slip through unguarded. Your nightmares, your fears, your worries. Things you’d rather forget—getting your period for the first time, forgetting your gym clothes, crying on the bus home from college because of a bad grade. Messing up at work. Awkward one-night stands. Happy memories—celebrating your birthdays, blowing out the candles in one go. Bad ones, too. A funeral. An empty home.
Sylus holds them in his hands, twining everything together in a thread he follows like a red line to the present.
Meeting him. Your fear. Your anger. Your sadness, too, the constant hollow grief weighing heavily on every step you take. Your defiance in spite of it. The will to live. The pain that comes with it.
And there, amidst it all, is his name.
You cry it out when he curls his fingers inside you, fucking you until all you see is that golden shimmering brightness between your eyelids. It flares like a beacon, bursting open like seeds spilling out of overripe fruit. Your body is somewhere in there, a little pit of its own, rushed away by the current of pleasure. Sylus, Sylus, Sylus. His resonance with your own paints your gold red at the edges, bleeding into the core of you, tendrils spreading and gripping with no intent of letting go.
He takes, and he gives—you feel his sharp greed, his delight, his arousal to have you here so vulnerable. He’s happy you’re clinging to him, open and sweet and easy. You sense his determination, a calculated desire that wins out against his own physical needs. The rest of him remains shadowed, a dark stain that you don’t have the clarity of mind to try to touch. The need is still burning through you, even after your orgasm. It’s enough to know that he doesn’t recoil in disgust from your want. No—he soaks in it, your memories, the fantasies, now recoloured in his shade.
Here’s to our mutual use of each other.
The resonance fades. You slump against Sylus, unable to keep holding onto the connection.
You’re given no reprieve; Sylus kisses you again. He’s hungry too, you realise. Whatever he took from your resonance has whetted his appetite. He works open his belt with one hand, unzips his trousers, and frees his cock from the confines of his nice dress pants. It doesn’t cross your mind to ask about protection. All you know is that that has to go inside of you, now, and Sylus seems to have the same idea. It hurts to have his fingers taken out of you, but fortunately the pain is short-lived: he helps you lift your hips, and you sink down onto his cock fully.
“Oh god,” you whimper. The slide is eased by the fire burning inside of you, but Sylus is huge, and you can feel him all the way to your ribcage. You put your hand over where you feel him, right above your navel. A slight bump twitches in response.
“He’s not here right now,” Sylus says. His chest is falling and rising rapidly, the flush on his cheeks spreading down to colour his beautiful pale skin. “Why don’t you ask daddy instead? Hm? Isn’t that what you said earlier?” Sylus flexes his hips up into you. He widens his thighs further and forces your own to follow suit—you have to cling to him for balance as he continues to move you over his cock, something he eagerly welcomes. “You wanted this,” he says, breathless and matter-of-fact. “Is it how you imagined? How does my cock feel, sweetie?”
You cry out when he pushes you down onto him and rocks up into you at the same time. You see stars—colours melting together, any semblance of clarity swallowed and gone. The feeling of Sylus’ cock pleasantly numbs you to anything else. Thinking is still hard, but that’s alright; Sylus is here. You grasp onto his voice. “Good,” you moan. “‘S so good, daddy, love your cock—really needed it, thank you—”
A growl rips loose from Sylus’ chest, and you gasp when teeth sink into your neck. The pain is uncomfortable but not unwelcome; you clench around him in response, leaning into his bite. “What else?” he rasps against your throat. He grinds his cock against your deepest spot, and stars bloom against your retinas. “What else have you thought about?”
Didn’t he already see? Maybe he got lost in the resonance. Or does he want you to tell him? He’s slowing down, and you don’t want him to stop. Anxiously, you dig your nails into his shoulders. “Your fingers,” you manage. “Inside me. After you call me I always—I need to come, your voice, it’s so… I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I feel really guilty, I promise. I know it’s bad. I’m being really bad, you make me all—turned around, and I can’t help it—”
“No,” Sylus snarls, and his grip on you tightens. He squeezes you flush against him, head tucked against his neck, and your vision is obscured. Your breath clings wetly to your own face, open-mouthed and panting. “You’re perfect. You’re perfect—it’s alright. I’ll give you whatever you want. Anytime.” His voice breaks for a moment, wavering. “If I’d known—you just need to ask me. Ask your daddy.”
“I want to come,” you whine. “Dad—can I—will you make me come? Please—”
It seems Sylus is done talking now, because anything that comes after that is swallowed by his mouth on yours. He grips your hips, hard, and fucks you until you’re crying his name again. Relieved, you give yourself over it. Cool water pours over the flaming wound inside of you, and sizzles hot when you reach its climax. Sylus follows immediately after, pumping his cock into you with raspy groans until a wet shock of warmth spills into you as an afterthought to your own fire.
You shiver, pussy clenching around him—trying to swallow it all up and keep it inside where it belongs. The ache is soothed, and despite the exhaustion throbbing between your ears the world around you loses some of its haze.
You try to push yourself upright against Sylus’ shoulders with wobbly arms. He looks a mess—his hair all mussed from where you gripped it, sticking to his temples with sweat. The faint rim of red that remains in his eyes with his pupils blown wide seems to glow in the dimness of the powder room. He leans forward to catch you in another kiss, less hurried this time, but you still feel his teeth against your mouth and tongue. Your stomach twinges in response, but your eyes droop. You feel like you’ve been hit by a truck.
“‘M tired,” you slur. “Daddy…”
“I know, kitten. It’s alright. Dad’s here, you can go to sleep.” Sylus voice is hoarse, but it hasn’t lost any of its soothing authority. His cock is still hard inside you, and though it doesn’t quite sate your hunger it gives it something to hold onto.
It’s so easy to do as he says. You close your eyes and rest against him, breathing him in. His sweat smells good. Your tongue catches some of it, and you sigh, content.
tags: 🔞pussy eating, a handjob, unprotected piv sex, loss of virginity, caleb and mc's usual What Art We relationship. if the whole "Caleb is MC's brother but also not" thing isn't for you now's the time to click away!
It doesn't matter how many times you tell yourself you won't do it—
“Caleb!”
—without fail, you run and jump into his arms. Caleb catches you every time.
You cling to him, burying your nose in his shoulder. He smells like work, leather and metal and gasoline. Sweat, too, but that you don't mind. It's something that's Caleb's. You like his smell. When you pull back from him he's smiling wide, eyes soft as he looks down at you.
“Hi, pips. Didya miss me?”
“Missed you enough not to ask why you look like haven't slept in three days,” you reply lightly. You poke his cheek with a finger. “Did you miss me?”
“Always do, pretty girl.” Caleb readjusts his bag, and you tug on his arm.
“Then let's go,” you say, and Caleb lets you lead the way.
“I'm happy you came to pick me up, baby, but next time you can just have me come straight to your door, okay?” Caleb steps behind you, around you, moving himself to the part of the sidewalk closest to the street. His hands are on you when he does, gently, steering you on your arm, your lower back.
“But this way I get to spend more time with you.”
There's never enough of it. Time. You realised that, after Caleb died. Wished to turn it back, flip the hourglass, just another day, another minute, just one more second with Caleb.
Somehow you got your wish. You intend to make the most of it.
Caleb laughs and ruffles your hair. “Okay, smooth talker.”
This part is easy.
You're always ecstatic to see him, these first couple of hours. The joy is so fierce and intense you don't care about anything else; you're just happy Caleb is here, and that he's with you. You greedily drink in his affection, grab hold of anything he'll give to you, because you know that it's precious. Grains of sand in the hourglass.
You chat while you walk. You do most of the talking, as usual; Caleb can never say more about his work than ‘fine’ or ‘okay’ or ‘busy’. You try to accept this, even when it hurts. Even when the anger burns; even when it makes you want to shake him until the secrets fall out of his pockets.
“What do you wanna eat today? Should we stop by the store?”
You shake your head. “Dinner's waiting for you.”
Caleb is surprised; he smiles, bemused, and raises a brow. “Did you order in for us? Or did you make somethin’ and burn it again?”
"No,” you jab at his ribs with your elbow. “I cooked for you. And that was just the one time, you meanie.”
“For me?” Caleb is pleased. He pulls you close for a moment, arm swung around your shoulder, and kisses the top of your head. The warmth of it trickles all the way down to your toes. “Thank you, sweet girl. What'd I do to deserve that, huh?”
“Don't say thank you yet. Maybe you won't like it.”
“I like everything you do, baby.”
If you could, you'd eat those words instead of dinner. Pluck them right from the air and let them dissolve on your tongue, then swallow. Hoping you taste Caleb's voice in your throat.
Yeah, this part is easy.
It's good—it's how things are meant to be. It's not without effort: you have to pretend that Caleb's eyes haven't changed, that his complexion hasn't become paler, more drawn. You have to pretend not to see that the edges of him have sharpened. This Caleb is harder. Quieter. His quick, easy smile has lost about ten percent of its previous shine. It is a loss you grieve very much, but—
you're well acquainted with grief, now.
For the first couple of hours, you're always very good about ignoring all of this.
You walk Caleb all the way to your apartment, and line your shoes up next to his in the hallway. His sneakers are huge and well-loved, logo old and faded on the sides. He always buys a same pair of new ones, then wears them out until he can't use them anymore.
You should spend more money on yourself, you tell him when he buys you flowers, heels, a watch, a nice coffee machine. Caleb never listens to you, just smiles.
I just like spoilin’ my girl, that's all.
You've begun to watch your words more closely when you talk about things you like.
“You even set the table? What's goin’ on here?” Caleb narrows his eyes at you playfully when you enter your home. “It's not my birthday for a while yet, pips.”
“Don't be silly.” You move to the stove and turn it on low so the pans already assembled there can start warming up. Caleb did this for you for years, day in, day out. Breakfasts and lunches and dinners, snacks from the corner store. He used his pocket money to get two of everything you liked.
You ate it together on the pavement just outside your home.
“Sir? Your seat is ready,” you say, and pull out his chair with a bow. Caleb sits down with a chuckle, and you serve him food. Things he likes, lots of it. Rice and fish and sour fermented things. Fried vegetables, crispy and still-warm.
“You've finally gotten good at this, huh? No burned edges this time,” he teases.
“Like you didn't snatch up the burnt ones before I could eat them.” You push more food on Caleb's plate. He's too thin, these days. It makes you wonder if he remembers to eat when he doesn't do it with you.
Caleb insists on doing the dishes after, and this you allow, though you help him dry and put things away.
“I got you dessert, too. Do you want it while we watch a movie?”
Caleb looks at you, hands covered in bubbles. “Why're you bein’ so nice to me today, huh? Did you do something bad again?”
You huff. “Fine. No dessert for you, then.”
Caleb splashes you with soapy water in retaliation, and you dodge, laughing. You lean your head against his shoulder, just for a moment. It's nice. You're punishing yourself.
“I just want you to have nice things.”
Caleb shifts, pressing his weight into you until you move away again. “I already got you, pretty girl. I don't need anythin’ else.”
You turn your back to him, hang up your towel to dry. You keep your voice level. “What about a girlfriend?”
The faucet runs, then stops. “You know I'm not dating anyone. Not planning to, either.”
“I'm not pretending to be your girlfriend at work again,” you warn him. It was awful. Nothing like back when Caleb went to DAA. His colleagues were nice, but you felt like you were burning alive with Caleb holding your hand, fingers interlaced, talking to some of the guys he worked with. Kissing you on the cheek when you left.
It was so nice. It was the worst kind of punishment he could have given you.
“Why not? You're so good at it.”
Like anything was difficult with Caleb. You didn't even need to do anything; just stand there, next to him, looking at him like you were in love. It required no effort on your part.
“I don't like lying,” you say simply. “What do you wanna watch tonight? You can pick.”
Caleb looks at you with a serious expression. For a moment you think he'll continue about the girlfriend stuff, but then he shakes his head. “Actually, I wanted to take you somewhere tonight. You not too tired?”
“Depends. Where are we going?”
Your breath comes in white little puffs, clouds that trickle up to the night sky. It's very clear out tonight; the moon is at three-quarters, so it's not too dark, not even here at the outskirts of Linkon.
Caleb hands you a blanket from his car, then zips up your jacket all the way to your chin.
“’S cold out, baby.”
You marvel at all the things he pulls out of the back. A thermos with hot chocolate, a heating pad, camping chairs that unfold with one shake. And that's not counting all the stuff he usually has in there: first aid kits, fixing tools, flashlights, rechargeable batteries. Gum and water and sanitary pads and towels. Your favourite chapstick, a sweater for when you get cold.
Apocalypse Caleb, you called him when you first found out. He laughed.
“What if I'd said I wanted to stay in? Look at all this,” you say. “You prepared so much.”
Caleb shrugs a little. “Then we would've stayed in.” He tests the camping chair, pushing it securely into the ground. “Here you go, pips, go sit down.”
You do as he says, tucking the blanket over your lap. Your nose is cold, but the rest of you is very warm. Caleb insisted you put on more clothes before you went.
You let your head fall back to look up at the stars. They blink back at you; little dazzling lights, far far up ahead. So far out of reach. Just like Caleb.
The first couple of weeks after he came back you felt like you were in a stupor. Dazed. You'd forgotten how to walk and talk and breathe the way you normally do. You didn't know how to look at your brother anymore, the person you loved most in the world. You felt like you were burning out of your skin being in the same room as him. You felt like you were dying when you weren't.
“Earth to pipsqueak.” Caleb's finger pokes your cheek. “You got a deep thinkin’ look on your face. What's on your mind?”
You shift, turning your face to him. He's sat down right next to you; the arm of his camping chairs right up against yours. Absentmindedly, you fiddle with the little net at the end that lets you put cups in there.
“I was thinking about when I saw you again for the first time.”
Caleb smiles a little, but it's not a very happy smile. “Not a fun day, huh.”
“It was the best day.”
You cried so much you couldn't open your eyes anymore. Blindly, you clung to Caleb, refusing to let go. When he had to leave you for a minute to sort out his Colonel duties you had a full-blown panic attack.
He had to rush to your side to work you through it, warm hand rubbing your back, telling you listen to his breathing. Just focus on me, pips. On me, okay? I'm right here.
This is the tricky part.
You love Caleb very much. You're so, so happy he's here.
You're so, so furious.
Some days you think that this anger is the only thing that sustains you.
“Are you still upset with me?”
Your big brother never had to ask how you were feeling. He always already knew, even when you didn't want him to.
There's lots of things you don't know about me now.
You look back up at the sky. “What will you do if I say yes?”
Caleb takes your hand, rubbing warm fingers over your cold ones. “I'd ask you to tell me how I can make it better.”
I want you to turn back time. I want you to let me go inside first. I want to die in your place. I want you to bury me.
“You already make everything better.”
Caleb makes a small noise, like he's in pain. You squeeze his fingers, and he squeezes back.
“I wish...” he trails off, then sighs. “I wish you were angrier with me.”
You laugh a little. Wisps curl up from your mouth; cold air is sucked back inside. It tastes clean on your tongue. “If I was any angrier I'd explode.”
“So you are angry with me.” Caleb's voice is very soft. “Why haven't you shown me? You can yell at me if you want. Or hit me. I don't mind.”
“No.” You look at him again. His eyes are dark. Everything is, out here, in the middle of the night. The only light comes from the stars. “That's your punishment. You have to stay with me for the rest of your life, and you only get to have nice things. I'll never hit you. I'll never curse at you. You'll let me take care of you whenever I want, and you'll never get to see me angry again.”
The only thing that could hurt him more is removing yourself from him, and you can't do that. This will have to do. You want him to suffer. You want him to be punished, every day, for dying, for leaving, for not seeking you out again.
You’re a bad person. Maybe it's yourself you're so angry with, all the time.
Caleb lets out a deep breath beside you. “I'm sorry, baby. I'm really sorry.”
You don't care. You'd love him even if he weren't.
Caleb takes your hand, presses a kiss to your palm. “If that's what you want, I'll do it.”
“There's one more thing,” you say. Your curl your fingers over his cheek, stroke along his jaw. “I'm not pretending to be your girlfriend anymore. You can tell your colleagues we broke up.”
Caleb's breath hitches. “Because you don't like lying?”
It hurts, when Caleb lies to you. It hurts because you love him so much, even with all his lies.
“Yes. Also, what if you meet someone you want to date? Or maybe I'll go on one.”
You've never even been kissed. There was always Caleb, always only him, and then there was school, and somehow no one ever even seemed to be interested in you anyway. Then Hunter exams, work, death. Only recently have you begun to consider that while you may forever be cursed to want what you can't have the most, maybe you should give the experience a try with someone else.
Even if it's just to see what it's like. Even if it's just so you can fantasize about Caleb's hands touching you better.
Caleb is still next to you. He does that sometimes, where his whole body stops. But underneath everything is moving, buzzing, like there's an animal in a cage wanting to get free. A plane stuck in forever takeoff.
“I'm not going to date anyone. Who are you going on dates with?” He asks quietly.
You shrug a little. You kick your feet, scuffing dirt on your toes. “No one yet.”
“Is there somewhere you wanna go?” Caleb presses. “Or something you want to do? I'll do it with you. I'll take you anywhere you want.”
The anger fills you. You're so happy he's here, your Caleb. He wants so badly to never hurt you, but his presence is one big hurt. It's a kind of pain you crave, can never have enough of. But it crushes you. Every day again.
You look up and see a star blink at you and then disappear. There's another, but this time it blinks red. A plane flying overnight.
“I've never kissed anyone,” you say, still looking up. “Tara was shocked when I told her. If I can't find someone on my own she said she'd help me.”
“Baby.” Caled sounds desperate. He's holding your hand very tightly, so you look at him. “You don't ever have to kiss anyone if you don't want to. Or—” Caleb exhales. He looks tense, like he's upset but doesn't want to show it. “Or you can do it with me.”
You frown. If he's going to sound so reluctant saying it he shouldn't say it at all.
“But I do want to,” you mumble. “And I wanna do it with someone who wants it too. I don't want it to be pretend.”
“Then it can just be practice. How's that sound, pip? You can practice with me as much as you want. See if you like it, and if you don't, then it doesn't count.”
You're conflicted.
On the one hand, you want to take everything Caleb gives you. And this is one of the things you want most, have been wanting most, since you were about fifteen and started to understand that the way you felt about your brother wasn't like how most people felt about their siblings.
I'm not your brother, Caleb's voice says in your head. I'm tired of playing house.
It's an offer that's too good to refuse. But—
You're very angry with him. And you worry that if he gives you this you'll let some of it slip through; after everything you just said to him about punishment it'd be an embarrassment to your integrity if you just gave it up.
Unlike Caleb, you're not a liar. Some things that are true you just keep to yourself.
“What do you think?”
Caleb is smiling his warm big brother smile. You relax instantly; at this point, it's Pavlovian. You see Caleb, and you know you're safe. Nothing will happen to you as long as you're with him.
Caleb senses that you're about to give in, because he adds, “We can even do it now, if you want to. You want to, baby? Come sit on my lap, and I'll kiss you.”
You throw off your blanket. Stand up. Take one step, and sink down on his lap. Caleb's arms wrap around you immediately, holding you tight against him. His hands squeeze you through your jacket. Very faintly, you feel his heartbeat. It's fast.
“I don't want you to force yourself,” you say. But you're already here. If he makes you leave now, you’ll cry yourself to sleep tonight.
“I never force myself with you, pretty girl.” Caleb's calloused fingers stroke your cheek. He pulls on your chin so you face him properly.
Very, very gently, his lips press against yours. They're soft—even softer than you thought they'd be, and you've spent a lot of time thinking about Caleb's lips. Your pulse is rabbit-quick, heart threatening to grow wings and fly out of your chest.
You breathe against Caleb. The cold air prickles in your nose, but Caleb is very warm. He always has been. Your sun. Your summer in a bottle. He moves his lips against yours, and you copy him. Curious, you poke the tip of your tongue against his lower lip.
Caleb groans. He opens his mouth, then, and presses you against him tighter. He slides his own tongue against yours, and you taste hot cocoa. The pudding you got him for dessert. Your head feels light, fuzzy, like you're way up in the clouds next to all those stars. Your heart thunders in your ears.
When you pull away you realise you're panting; Caleb is, too. He's hard underneath you.
Suddenly you're overcome with what you've just done. Whose dick is hard under your legs just from kissing you. You duck your head into Caleb's shoulder so he can't see your face and he lets you, running his big hands soothingly over your back.
“How was that, pips?” he asks. His voice is hoarse. “Did you like practicin’ with me?”
“I don't know,” you say muffled into his neck.
“You feelin’ a little shy? Want me to take you home?”
“I don't know.”
Caleb laughs a little, then sighs. It's a happy sigh. He squeezes you against him tightly, then stands up holding you in his arms. “My little girl is so cute I could eat her up,” he says fondly. “C'mon. Let's go back.”
You don't protest. You feel like you're burning up again. Caleb tucks you into your seat, clicks on your seatbelt, and loads all the stuff he brought back into the back. The car engine rumbles to life under your feet, and then you're gliding back into the city.
Caleb's hand is on your leg while he drives. Just below the knee, fingers squeezing down occasionally. You wish he'd move it lower. You wish he'd stop the car and kiss you again. You wish he'd fuck you on the backseat.
The radio is on low, and Caleb hums along to the song. You don't feel angry so much anymore now; you're flushed, flustered, quiet.
You touch your hand to your lips and watch the world outside the window slip away in the dark.
“Up you go now.”
“Hmm?” you ask sleepily. “Caleb?”
“Yes, baby. I'm right here.”
There's the sound of a car door closing, and air rushes past you. You're floating, no, flying—it's Caleb, carrying you. Your body moves with the sway of his feet, boots going thump thump thump along the hallway to your apartment door. You rub at your eyes.
“I'm sorry I fell asleep.”
He looks down at you and smiles. “Don't be. You were feelin’ all tired, weren't you? Now you can go back to sleep in your bed.”
You don't want to go back to sleep. If you have to be in bed you want Caleb there with you, kissing you more. Even if it means you won't be able to look him in the eye tomorrow.
“I'm not sleepy anymore now.” You press your finger against the lock, and the door clicks open. Caleb steps inside, toes off his boots, then continues into the living room to set you down on the couch. He kneels to take off your shoes.
“I can do it,” you say, nudging at his hands. “Caleb—”
“I know. But let me do it for you.”
You sink back into the cushions and watch him for a moment. “I've decided,” you tell him.
Caleb looks up at you. He's finished with your shoes. His hand is wrapped around your ankle, and strokes up, along your calf, over your knee. “Decided on what?”
“I want to practice more.” Your cheeks burn when you say it. It's dark inside, just low light from a table lamp behind you, but you can see Caleb much better compared to when you were out stargazing.
It means he can see you much better, too.
Caleb's hand squeezes your leg, moves a little higher. His eyes look bright. Eager. Angry. “Yeah? You sure you're not too tired?”
You nod, and zip off your jacket. You're suddenly very warm—the extra layers Caleb insisted you wear for your little trip stick to your skin, sweaty and too-tight. Caleb, still kneeling, helps you with your jacket, folding it neatly over the back of the couch. When you get stuck in your sweater he helps you with that, too.
He chuckles when you grab his zipper and bend closer to pull off his jacket all the way. He's wearing a fleece sweater underneath, and that has to go, too. You pull on it impatiently, and once it's off, tug on Caleb's shoulders. Come closer, your hands say. I want you closer.
You're angry again.
You think Caleb might be, too, because he doesn't kiss you so gently this time. He's wound tight, a wire ready to spring, and licks into your open mouth like he'll die if he doesn't. The kiss is harder, messier, spit and teeth, Caleb half-crawling, half-crouching over you and pressing you into the cushions. His knee is in between your thighs, dangerously close to your wet hot core, the part of you that's burning brightest. Burning for him. For his touch.
Your hands roam over his chest, dig into his hair, pull on his necklace. The metal is warm from his skin, and the chain digs its teeth into your fingers. Caleb moans when you pull on it, pull him closer to you.
Caleb's hands are in your hair, too, cradling your skull, moving you below his hungry mouth. You make sounds, too, little hitching breaths, whines that he swallows whole. Your body is hot. You want him so, so badly.
You've always wanted him. Always chased him. Curled up at his side, hanging off his arms, perched on his shoulders.
Look, Caleb, I'm flying!
He'd make you fly for real one day, Caleb promised. Once he's a pilot, he can take you anywhere. See anything. Even way beyond the clouds.
You start to cry.
Caleb jerks back as if shocked, big hands coming to rest on your cheeks. His eyes flit over your face, brows pinched. “Oh, pips, baby, what's wrong? What's wrong?” He hugs you close and rocks you, just like he did when you were little. “Did I hurt you? I'm sorry.”
You hurt me all the time. You hiccup against his shoulder, tremble when he pets your hair. Try to breathe, chest heaving, blood rushing fast.
“Hey, talk to me. What's got you so upset, huh?”
You're so angry. You're so angry you can't talk for a moment, mouth nothing-words against Caleb's shirt. “Can't—” you hiccup again. “Can't tell you.”
“Gonna make me guess? I'm reaaal good at it.” Caleb shifts to sit on the couch, lifting you on his lap. You bury your head in his shoulder, and he tucks your hair behind your ear before stroking it again.
“Guess number one: you didn't like the kissing.”
You shake your head. You liked the kissing very much.
“Hmm... Guess number two: you're mad at me. Am I right?”
Yes. No. Kind of. Not really. You're upset Caleb can't give you what you want. You're angry at yourself for kissing him anyway. You knew this would happen, so why why why did you do it?
Because you love him so much. Because you've never wanted anyone but him. You want so badly for this to be real, and it can't be. You're the worst kind of person, greedy and cruel, because even after you got what you wanted more than anything else in the world—Caleb, alive, different, changed, but not dead, not in the ground, not blown to pieces—you still want more.
Caleb takes your silence as a yes, and he kisses your head. “See? I told you I'm real good. Now how can I fix it, baby? Why are you upset at me?”
“What if—” your voice comes out scratchy. You sniffle, start again. “What if I wanted to do other things? Not just kissing. Would you practice with me then too?”
Caleb is silent for a moment before answering. “I told you, pips. Whatever you wanna do, I'll do it with you.”
You push up suddenly, twisting so you can look at him. Your nails dig into his chest; your vision is blurry with tears. “I hate it when you do this. When you act like this. I'm so angry at you, all the time. You lie to me, you hurt me, and it doesn't even—doesn't even matter, because I—” the tears fall again, heavy and wet, “because I love you so much. I just let you. I just hurt.”
A sob wracks your body, and you fall back against Caleb, shaking. His arms come around you and squeeze you so tight it's painful.
“Oh, pip.” Caleb almost sounds like he's crying, too. “Baby. I don't want you to hurt. I don't want anything to hurt you, even me. Least of all me.” He lets out a shuddering breath. “Can you tell me what it is I'm doing that's making you so angry? You sure it's not ‘cause we kissed?”
You shake your head.
“Then why? What am I actin’ like, pretty girl? Tell me and I'll fix it.”
“Like—like it doesn't matter. Like you'd do whatever, and none of it really matters. Like I'm just using you.”
Caleb noses against your forehead. “Everything I do with you matters, baby. And I like it when you use for me stuff you want.”
“I don't want it like that,” you say quietly. “If you don't feel the same way I do, I don't want it.”
That's a half-lie. You want it. You take it all, Caleb's touches, the kisses he drops on your head, the hand he holds yours with in a crowd, the groceries he buys for you, the time he makes for you, his calls, his texts, his warmth, everything.
But all of those things fall under safe territory. Things that can be explained away into the familiarity of the act, because Caleb's always taken care of you. Kissing and dating and sex is something else, something that you can't bear to lie to yourself about. To have Caleb lie to you about.
Caleb is very quiet. He's hard under you again, something neither of you acknowledge.
“Then how do you feel, pips?” he asks finally. You draw up your knees and curl your hands in your lap.
You knew this question was coming. This is what you were afraid of, letting him so close, letting him touch your want, your anger, your fucked-up desire. Some of it spilled out. He asks questions you can never answer, except now you did.
“I can't tell you.”
“Do you want me to guess again?” You hear the smile in Caleb's voice. He likes playing with you. He likes when you make him work for it, whatever it is.
“It's a secret. You can't guess it.”
“Then do you wanna trade?” Caleb says softly in your ear. “I'll give you my secret, and you give me yours.”
Caleb has so many secrets now. So many things he hasn't told you, so many things you don't even know to ask about. You promised each other you'd never keep anything from each other, years ago. But Caleb broke that promise, and now there's a whole wall of things left unsaid dividing you.
Of course you want to know.
“Then you go first. And it has to be a good secret. I won't tell you if you try to trick me.”
Caleb hums and leans back against the couch, gently wiping at your cheeks. “My secret's that I really liked kissin’ you, pip. I was so happy you let me, ‘cause I've been thinking about doing that for a long time.”
Caleb's thumb is still stroking over your cheek, even though you're pretty sure there's no more tears left to clean up. As expected, his secret isn't as heavy as yours, but the words pierce through you regardless.
He's thought about it for a long time. What's a long time? A month? A week? A lonely year in deepspace?
“I liked it too,” you say in a small voice.
Caleb's eyes crinkle into little crescent moons. He's smiling wide. “I'm so happy to hear that, baby. I want you to feel good. I want to make you feel good.”
Then make me feel good, is on the tip of your tongue. You can't say it. You need to think about how to respond, how to match Caleb's secret with your own in a way that won't repulse him forever.
“Is there anything else you've thought about for a long time?”
Caleb gazes at you with dark eyes. They're beautiful, framed by long dark lashes that kiss his cheek when they flutter closed. He's not closing them now, though; he's looking at you with a strange, serious expression.
“Yeah.”
When he doesn't elaborate, you push him. “Like what?”
You earn a tap on your nose for that. “Now who's trying to trick who, huh? It's your turn.”
You press your hands against Caleb's chest and look down at them while you speak. The words come slowly. Carefully.
“I guess that... my secret is the same as yours. I've thought about it for a long time, too.”
Caleb's heartbeat flutters under your palms. He echoes your question back at you: “And other things?”
You're burning again, a hot little flame that starts low in your stomach and blazes through your neck, your cheeks, your ears. Red all over.
You keep your eyes away from Caleb's, afraid of what he might say, and don't answer.
“You asked me, right? If I'd do other things too?” Caleb's voice is very close. His breath is warm on your cheek. “What other things, pip? What have you been thinking about doing with me?”
Your heart trips over itself. He's going to find out. He's going to know. He'll know and he'll be disgusted by you, he'll pull away from you, he'll finally be alive again and you still managed to ruin it all—
Caleb presses his lips to your jaw, once, then twice, then nudges you with his nose, his hands, to kiss you on the lips. “You can tell me,” he murmurs. “It's just me, pips. Only me here.”
He kisses you again, coaxing you out of your little shell. And you come crawling, because it's his voice that's calling your name. Caleb's hands slide over your arms, your waist, stop to squeeze at your hips. He lifts you, briefly, so he can grab your leg to straddle him.
You're so wet you're afraid he'll feel it, afraid he'll feel a wet little spot just like you're feeling his cock strain against his pants under you. When you break the kiss a thread of saliva keeps you connected. Without noticing one of your hands has wound itself in Caleb's hair, and you slide it lower to cup his cheek. His skin is warm and tanned. The freckles that grow darker in summer dance under your fingertips, and you map them with your eyes, putting together constellations on his cheeks. You always wished you'd get freckles, too, but unlike Caleb you just burned.
Even now, whenever you smell sunscreen you think Caleb. If you close your eyes you can feel his hands rubbing it on your cheeks, your arms, every part of you. Like a shield, like armour.
But even with all those layers—
“Still don't wanna tell me?” Caleb asks. His voice is rough and low, husked at the edges. You're this close to kicking him out so you can finger yourself while you still taste him on your lips, trying to fill the aching emptiness everything he does ignites in you.
—you're always burning.
“Tell me what you want. I'll give it you.”
“I want—”
You're just a person. Human. Weak with wants and needs. Everything has a limit, even you. Even your desires.
“I want you to touch me,” you whisper.
Caleb makes a low sound in the back of his throat. His dick twitches in his pants, and when you dare to look at his eyes you see they're blown so wide there's barely anything left of his usual violet.
“Where, baby? Where do you want me?”
You shake your head, whine. Caleb chuckles breathlessly.
“You're not makin’ it easy for me, princess. Is it here?” He moves his hand from your hip to your thigh, squeezing. “Or here?” His other hand travels up, all the way to the back of your neck.
“I can't. You'll hate it,” you manage to force out. “It'll ruin everything. And then you'll leave, and I can't—I can't lose you again—”
You thought you were done with crying, but tears threaten to spill again. Caleb shushes you. “I'm not goin’ anywhere. I'll never you leave, pip, I promise. No matter what you say to me. No matter how angry you are, or how much you cry. I'm always here.”
Can you believe him? Can you trust him?
And if not Caleb, who's left?
“I want to touch you,” he whispers. “All over. You just tell me where. I want it.”
You close your eyes. You take the hand on your thigh, and bring over, up, right over where your jeans zip closed. You're catching fire.
“Right here, huh?” Caleb says. There's a tremble in his voice. “Do you wanna take off your pants when I do?”
Eyes still closed, you nod once.
Immediately, Caleb's moving, hoisting you up with both his Evol and his own strength. Your eyes fly open in surprise, and you see he's taking you to your bedroom. For all his hurry you're laid on the bed oh so gently, and then his fingers are working open button—zipper—shimmy down—
And a thumb hooks around your underwear. Caleb's breathing fast, eyes glued on the wet spot right in the centre of it. He strokes his thumb over it, and your hips jerk in surprise and arousal.
“Can I—” Caleb groans and presses his forehead against your naked thigh for a moment. When he looks up at you again your breath catches over the raw need on his face. “Can I touch with just my hands? Or can I use my mouth?”
The heat is making you short-circuit. “But—I—wait, I haven't showered,” you stutter.
Caleb presses his nose against your core, inhaling deeply. His fingers dig into your legs so hard it'll bruise, and he moans. You think you might pass out before he actually does anything.
“Can I?” he asks again, though this time it sounds more like he's begging. He's already pulling your underwear off, and you're too distracted to notice he stuffs it in his back pocket instead of throwing it on the floor.
“I—okay,” you whisper, because Caleb so very rarely asks for anything. Because you want to give him everything. Because you're so unbelievably wet that you'll die if he doesn't touch you right now, hands, tongue, whatever he wants.
As soon as you give him the okay he leans in. You gasp when he licks up a broad stripe over your cunt, pressing his tongue flat against it, groaning like it's him who's feeling good.
“Caleb—” You whimper when he does it again, and then again, and then he's eating you like he's been starving for days. He fucks you with his tongue, he sucks on your clit, and when he adds his fingers—long fingers, big and strong, big enough to curl against your weakest spot—your head falls back on the bed with a whine. The more sounds you make, the more eagerly he laps at you, kisses you, bites at the soft flesh of your thighs.
Dazedly, you wonder if this is meant to feel this good. You can't stop clenching down on him, trying to suck him deeper inside. You're going to come, and you're going to come fast, and is this even real or a dream inside your head?
“Shi—it,” Caleb groans. “You're so pretty, baby. So fuckin’ pretty. Knew you would be, too. Fuck.”
“Caleb,” you pant. “Caleb, I'll—”
He moans in response, tongue working you again, the sound of his fingers moving inside you wet and obscene. The pleasure builds, crests, then rushes over you like a wave. Your whole body tenses, one big strain, caught up in the current. Broken moans leave you on the comedown, body shuddering like a leaf caught in the wind.
You twitch away from Caleb, who hasn't stopped lapping at you, and then melt, boneless, into the sheets. While you catch your breath you see Caleb rise, licking his lips. He sucks his fingers—his fingers, the ones that were just inside of you—clean with a lidded gaze.
Even now, after just having come on his tongue, you feel a warm twinge in your lower stomach.
“Was that nice, pretty girl? Did it feel good?”
You nod. It was more than nice. Caleb just ruined your vibrator for you, and you fear you’re going to have to spend a pretty penny to get anything that'll come close to the way he just made you feel.
When you push yourself up on your elbows it occurs to you that Caleb's still fully dressed, and you're still wearing your shirt. You haven't even taken off your socks. The red dotted pattern winks at you from the edge of the mattress.
You suddenly feel shy. What are you supposed to say now? Will Caleb go home, leave like this was business as usual? Your dimly lit bedroom is cosy and warm, but you doubt you'll be able to fall asleep tonight. Not after this.
Fortunately Caleb saves you from having to say anything. Smiling, he crawls up the bed, hovering over you to kiss you again. You taste traces of yourself on his lips; you realise this is the very first time that you do. It's weird. A little bitter, a little musky, but—
It's not bad. Not if Caleb's the one making you taste it.
When he gathers you in his arms, maneuvering you side by side, your face tucked under his chin, you hug him back. If you cling to him tightly enough maybe he won't leave.
“Was that what you wanted, baby?” Caleb murmurs into the crown of your head.
“How are you so good at that?” you whisper back.
Caleb laughs and squeezes you closer. His cock is rock-hard and poking you insistently in your stomach, even through his pants. “Am I? I'm glad you think so. It's my first time givin’ it a spin.”
Huh?
Shock overtakes embarrassment, and you pull back to look at him.
Huh?
“What?”
Caleb cocks an eyebrow. “What ‘what’?”
“Have you ever had sex?” you blurt out.
The corners of Caleb's mouth twitch upwards. “Nope.”
“But why?” The endless love letters, the confessions, the whispers, the stares. Everyone loves Caleb, no matter where he goes, and you've come to accept it simply as fact a long time ago. You understand, because you love him too. Even if the jealousy makes your stomach feel sick with it sometimes.
“’Cause I never wanted anyone else. I told you, didn't I? I want to touch you. You just tell me where.”
Anyone else?
Anyone else?
You sit and gape at him. Caleb chuckles and kisses the hand that's curled against his chest. “I can see the steam comin’ out your ears, baby.” He sighs, and the smile fades on his lips. He looks back at you with his serious eyes again. “Well, what about you? Have you?”
“No,” you say meekly. “There was—no.”
Caleb relaxes, and his smile returns. “Good.”
“Caleb.”
“Hmm?”
“Do you...” you hesitate. Pause. Rethink what you want to say. “You didn't mind? Touching me?” It doesn't gross you out? Disgust you? Make you hate me, make you leave, make you not want to be around me anymore?
Caleb kisses your hand again. “I loved it, baby. Even more than I thought I would. I'd do it every day if you let me.”
Every day—
You shake your head. Focus. “If I tell you another secret, will you tell me another one of yours again?”
“There's more secrets?” Caleb frowns a little, but he brushes over your cheek gently. “Yeah, pips. I'll tell you if you tell me.”
He hasn't run screaming yet. He said he wanted to touch you, that he's wanted to kiss you. You don't dare to look too closely at what it might mean. What lies at the end of devotion? Does it have an end, with Caleb?
I've been thinking about doing that for a long time.
“I wanted you to touch me,” you say carefully. “But I also want to—to touch you. Not for practice. Just because it's you.” You peek at Caleb through your lashes. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes glitter like stars.
“Where, beautiful? Where do you wanna touch me?”
Your voice is very quiet when you answer. “Anywhere that makes you feel good.”
Caleb's eyes flutter closed for a second. When he opens them again he looks serious, but it's not serious angry Caleb. It's serious thinking Caleb, one who's arriving at the end of a very long equation.
“For a long time?”
You duck your head. “Maybe. Now give me your secret.”
Caleb sits up abruptly and pushes into your space. You fall back in surprise, back hitting the mattress, as he leans over you. His pretty purple eyes are dark again, intense, storm-in-a-bottle. Clouds gathering for rain.
“I want you to touch me. I've wanted you to touch me since forever. I want to fill you in every way I can, with my hands, my mouth, and my cock, and I want you to look at only me.”
Your mouth drops open, air coming shallow and fast.
“It's never been pretend for me. I don't want anyone else touching you, ever. Only me.”
You swallow. “But—what—what if it doesn't work out? Things will be different. And I don't want to lose—to lose you.” Not again; never again.
Caleb lowers his head to press a kiss against your pulse, just below your jaw. "You'll never lose me, pip. I promise.” When you stay quiet he lifts his head to look you in the eye. It's a little frightening, the intensity of his gaze. The weight of his want. “I promise. Is that the only thing you're worried about? Losin’ me? Think I won't like you anymore after I've been inside you?”
You're worried about a million things. About not measuring up, about falling out, about being so angry with him and loving him so, so much at the same time. About drifting apart, again.
Caleb takes your hand and guides it to his groin, presses it against his cock. He lets out a little hiss. “Feel that, beautiful? Feel how much I want you? It's always been like that. When we were livin’ together—I jerked off three times a day, I wanted you so bad. I felt like I was going crazy. I—” Caleb exhales, drops his head on your shoulder. “I stole your used panties. I sniffed your gym clothes. I was so fuckin’ desperate.”
Caleb's words send a zap of lightning between your legs. Your whole body is aflame and breaking out in a sweat; it's a little hard to focus on anything but Caleb's dick twitching against your fingers, his hot breath on your skin, and I stole your used panties. I wanted you so bad. Feel how much I want you?
It's always been like that.
You tug at his shirt. “Take off your clothes,” you demand.
A tentative smile breaks through on Caleb's face. Without a word he obeys, sitting back up on his haunches and peeling off his longsleeves. There's a compression tank under it, and this too is dropped on the side of the bed.
But you're impatient, now, and your fingers reach his belt before he can. You tug the leather free, fumble with the belt loops, then go for his zipper. Caleb's hips rock against you, once, like he can't help it, and he watches your hands with a shaky sigh.
He helps you tug his jeans down, and then his underwear, and then, and then—
Your mouth feels dry when his cock slaps against his stomach, finally freed. It looks red, angry, leaking with precum. You want to touch it, so you do, pushing yourself upright while Caleb kneels before you: one careful, curious finger stroking alongside the shaft.
Caleb shudders.
“How can I make you feel good?” you ask earnestly. “Show me.”
Silently, Caleb takes your hand and wraps it around his cock. Your fingertips just barely manage to touch, not-quite closing around him. He places his much bigger hand over yours and shows you, squeezing at the base, twisting upwards, gently at the tip and down again. He's panting; the flush on his cheeks has spread all the way down to his neck, over his chest, his lovely freckled skin. Scarred and bruised. So perfectly his.
When you grow bolder and start moving your hand on your own, upping the pace, Caleb lets out a strangled moan, throwing his head back as his hips jerk forward helplessly. “Oh, fuck,” he groans. “Pip, baby, angel, that feels so good. Feel so good around me. I'm gonna—ah, gonna cum soon if you keep going.”
“Do you want to?” you ask. You look up at him, your big brother, your protector, your heart. Your pain and the cure.
Caleb laughs, breathless and eager. “I wanna cum anywhere you let me.”
That's not good enough. You slow your hand and stop while holding him at the base. Caleb squeezes his eyes shut, brow scrunching up.
“But I want to know what you want,” you say. A little petulant, a little bossy, because Caleb's always spoiled you, indulged you, and you told him, didn't you? This was punishment. He'll let you take care of him whenever you wanted. He's only allowed to have nice things. To feel good. To get everything he wants.
Caleb's eyes open again. “Inside you,” he rasps. “Inside your pussy.”
Another wave of heat makes you let go of him, scooting back on the bed. Caleb watches, entranced, as you lie back and hold out your hands to him.
“Okay,” you say simply.
There's a moment where Caleb looks like he's frozen in time; disbelieving, desperate, helpless.
Then he moves.
He crawls over you and kisses you again. He's trembling a little, and you think you are too. You jolt when you feel his fingers against your clit again, still sensitive, raw, everything so new.
He dips them inside, nose pressed against your neck and inhaling deeply, stroking once, two, three times, curling them until your nails dig into his shoulders. When he removes them he spits in his palm; then holds it out to you, under your chin.
“Spit,” he commands.
You spit.
He slicks himself up with your combined saliva, your arousal, his sweat, and then his tip is pushing against you, into you—
“Fffuck,” Caleb groans. “Relax, pip. Relax for me. Shit, you're perfect. So tight.”
You're trying to do as he says, but your whole body has turned into one big nerve, and at the root is the little place that Caleb's entering now, deeper and deeper, hot wet thick warm tight.
His jaw is clenched, and even in the low light you see the sweat shining on his brow. He's so careful with you, pushing himself further in so very slowly. Pausing when you gasp or tighten around him reflexively.
Once he bottoms out, pelvis flush with yours, he exhales.
“Caleb,” you croak. You're so full.
A bead of sweat drips down his nose, and your Caleb smiles. “Yeah, baby. You're doin’ so good. Feel how far in I am?”
You can feel him in your throat. Your lungs. Your heart, completely.
“I love you,” you tell him, voice patchy, and watch his eyes glisten. His lips press on yours, hard, full of relief.
You tell Caleb you love him every time you say goodbye. It's a little bit of a compulsion. You have to say it, need to say it, because what if? What if you don't get the chance to again? What if this loop of time is broken, again?
But it's different, now.
“I love you, too, pretty girl. Always have.” Caleb rolls his hips into yours, and you gasp. He does it again, a little harder and a little faster, and keeps doing it until you're whimpering under him, your legs locked around his hips and your arms scrabbling for purchase on the wide, muscular planes of his back.
He cradles your skull and tucks it against his neck, large fingers splaying wide over your head. His shoulders are broad, overtaking everything you see. Everything you feel.
Caleb's other hand shoves itself between your two bodies to rub your clit, and when Caleb shifts, angles his hips, and fucks you—
Stars explode behind your eyes. A loud moan swings loose from your chest, unable to stay inside, because it feels so, so good, and then Caleb keeps hitting that spot, keeps making more noises spill from your lips, just like they do from his, until the core of you is wound tight again.
Caleb kisses you messily, panting in your mouth and groaning low whenever you squeeze down on him.
“Come on my cock,” he rasps. “Come on my cock, pip, let me feel you, just like that, c’mon—”
You're helpless before his command. You do as he says while clinging to him tight, shaking, and a few tears slip out from the sheer intensity. Caleb leans down and licks them up, tongue hot and wet on your skin.
He works you through the wave, just barely, before he loses his rhythm. He hits you deeper, now, harder, clenching his teeth, pressing biting kisses on your neck. The only thing you can do is hold onto him.
“Gonna—gonna come, angel, gonna come inside you, fuck, I'm gonna fill you up. Take it, you're gonna— take it—”
Caleb's hips jerk one, two more times, and then he spills inside of you with a heady groan. It shocks you, the heat of it, and you moan with him on his comedown. Caleb rocks inside you a few more times, trying to fuck his cum into you deeper, and then—
He melts. Right on top of you, heavy as can be, and the air is pressed out of your lungs with a soft oof.
Before you can complain, though, he turns, rolling you onto your side. You do your best not to knee him in the stomach while you reposition your legs, because Caleb won't let go of you even a little.
He buries his face in your neck, hair tickling your cheek, and you stroke your fingers through his short dark strands. “What do you think?” you tease him. “Do I need practice after all?”
Caleb squeezes your sides; you can feel him smiling against you. “Depends. Am I the one you're practicin’ with?”
You laugh. Caleb's cock is still inside you, and you feel it twitch at the sound. “Nope. I told you, I only want it for real.”
Caleb loosens his grip on you just enough to look you in the eyes. His hair is messy, and his cheeks are still flushed. Sweat clings to his temples. He looks so beautiful it's like he's not from this world.
“Then we'll do it for real. As long as it's me, pips. Will you promise me?”
Caleb's holding his pinky, and you take it in yours. “And if I want other things? Not just—kissing or touching?”
The tips of your ears are warm again.
“Then we'll do those too.”
You lower your eyes, focusing on a freckle near his lovely mouth. You have to say it now. After this you can't go back to the way things were.
“Like dating. For real. Not... not just so you can turn down confessions.”
“Oh, pip.” Caleb pulls you close again, a tight, warm hug, and your eyes flutter closed at the proximity. Silly, the way you’re still connected but him embracing you makes you feel warm and safe all over again. “I'd turn those down either way, you know. Even if you didn't wanna help me.”
You give his chest a weak slap. “Answer the question.”
“Yes ma’am.” Caleb does his funny soldier voice, and suddenly you just can't take him seriously anymore. Dummy. Dork. Crazy. Still inside you, still hard, and he gives you a salute when you ask him very seriously if he wants to be your boyfriend.
You throw your head back in exasperation. You're trying very hard not to laugh. “I'm serious!”
Caleb chuckles softly and gently pulls you back so he can kiss you. “Good. Me too.”
“No, you're not,” you accuse him. “Stop goofing around and answer me. Or I'll think everything you said was a lie.”
Caleb's gaze softens. “I meant it, pip. I'm very serious about you. About us. If you want me to date you, be your boyfriend, anything, you already have me. I wouldn't lie to you about that.”
You purse your lips, considering. “I guess if you're my boyfriend I could make sure you're fulfilling your punishment.” When Caleb cocks an eyebrow, you huff. “Did you forget already? I said you have to stay with me for the rest of your life. You only get to have nice things, and you'll let me take care of you.”
“...And you wouldn't get angry at me. I remember,” Caleb says softly. He brushes his lips over your cheek. “I'll take anything you wanna give me. Even if I wish that you'd be angry at me.”
That wall of secrets separates you again. You've lost so much time grieving.
Caleb, too. You see the pain in his eyes, the change in his face. He's still yours. He's always been yours, and nothing can take that away from you.
But you and him, you've been through a lot. Scared to show each other the scars—afraid of what the aftermath might change.
“Then stop hiding yourself from me,” you say. “Maybe I'll be angry at you, then.”
“Have you... do you wish I was still the old Caleb?”
Caleb's voice is unsure, vulnerable in a way that you've heard very few times in your life. It's anxious Caleb. And just now you had silly Caleb, and there's angry Caleb, and serious Caleb, all these different sides of him, gleaming in the light like facets of a pretty stone.
All different, all the same.
You smile. You rest your head on Caleb's chest, feel his strong heart pump the blood around in his body. You're sweaty, messy, and the sheets need changing. Tears and drool and cum. Blood and spit and hurt. Love and pain. Anger, so much of it, and someday it will need a name. A place to sit and live.
NOT CLICKBAIT: MY SISTER ASKED ME TO PRACTICE KISSING SEX WITH HER.
it doesn't mean anything. it's just practice. i'll put in just the tip. caleb's usually a man of his word — until he isn't.
includes: 18+ nsfw, pseudocest (a LOT of pseudocest), making out, dryhumping, breastplay, titjob, masturbation while giving a blowjob, cum eating, cunnilingulus, fingering, "just the tip", unprotected sex, squirting, creampie, repressed virgin + repressed virgin = they be doing too much sex
Caleb normally has the patience of a saint. Hiding your feelings for a girl you see practically 24/7 would do that to you. He's learned all the ways to stop his cheeks from flaring up each time you make his heart flutter, which is saying something, because you basically give him a heart attack just by being in his presence.
But his pretense of normal older brother behavior nearly breaks when you come up next to him on the sofa, head lowered and hands fidgeting, "Caleb, do you know how to... You know..."
You're too shy to say it entirely, but Caleb would be an idiot not to know what you mean when your whole face reddens like a ripe tomato, teeth gnawing on your cherry pink lips in nervousness.
Caleb gently puts down his phone, willing his entire body to remain still. Pretend to be sane. "And pray tell," Caleb is grateful his voice doesn't give away anything he's feeling, eyes still fixated on your lips, "who gave my innocent little sister such dirty fantasies?"
Your head shoots up to face him, cheeks somehow turning even redder. "What?! Get your head out of the gutter! I'm just talking about kissing!"
Something awful fills in his mouth, but he still forces his lips to quirk into a smile, arms crossing over his chest to feign nonchalance. "Why do you want to know?"
"I... um..." You're fiddling with your fingers again, gaze flitting to anywhere that doesn't meet his burning stare. "I want to... practice."
Caleb suppresses the urge to— well, he's not really sure. Something close to a flinch, maybe. If he were drinking tea, he probably would've choked on it from shock.
A thrill runs through him at the request, but a cold dread quickly seeps in to crush any feeling of delight. Sure, this exact situation may have been one of his dirty fantasies, but in his imagination, he never really had any solid idea why you'd want to practice kissing with him in the first place; it was just a silly thing he thought about when his carnal desires took over.
But now that you're in front of him, actually asking him to kiss you, he can't help but think of a thousand possible reasons why. Were you just curious, having watched too many romance movies? Were you practicing for a hypothetical boyfriend?
...Or were you practicing for a guy you already had eyes on, too shy to kiss him without experience?
Well, unfortunately for you, Caleb has never felt the need to kiss, so how would he know how kissing worked? Or at least, he didn't want to kiss anyone that wasn't you. Which was definitely not in his cards.
Until now, the opportunity handed to him on a silver platter.
"You want to practice with me?" Caleb inches his face closer to yours, one brow raised. You blink rapidly, flushed down to your neck.
"It's... it's not that I want to do it with you, specifically..." It's not a very convincing argument, but it sends a pang of hurt to his chest nonetheless. "It's just that I haven't- I don't have anyone else to ask-" Good, because Caleb would've probably killed him. "You know what? Forget about it. It's weird."
You try to get up from the couch and leave, but Caleb wraps a strong hand around your wrist, pulling you back. Perhaps he tugged a little too strongly to his direction, because you end up straddling his lap, hands holding onto his shoulders to balance yourself.
"What's weird?" Caleb smiles, putting on his most convincing expression of 'kissing your sibling is totally normal'. "I don't mind."
Your eyebrows scrunch together in confusion and disbelief. "You... don't?"
"It's just practice. Why? You think I can't do it?" He pulls you closer by the waist, looking up into your eyes, strands of your hair brushing his cheek. "It's definitely better than letting my baby sister make out with some other loser."
You're gnawing on your lip again, and Caleb can't help but stare at the pink tongue that darts out to wet your dry lip.
"Well?" Caleb cocks his head to the side. "We don't have much time until Gran gets home."
Your grip on his shoulder tightens, cheeks an endearing shade of pink. "...Let's go to your room."
Caleb has the patience of a saint.
He chants it in his mind over and over to convince himself, because he's quickly realizing it isn't true. He'd kept his paws to himself for the better part of the time you've been in his room, even when you sat on his lap instead of beside him on the bed and stared at him expectantly.
The thing is, Caleb knows next to nothing about kissing because he's never tried it himself. But he doesn't let it show. He cups your cheek carefully, tells you to close your eyes, and hopes he's doing a good job of pretending like he knows what he's doing.
From then on, it's instinct.
Slotting your lips together at the right angle. Trying to not lose his breath as he kisses his dearest sister. Biting on your bottom lip gently to urge you to open your mouth for him, and preening when you obediently do.
Caleb doesn't really know how much tongue one should use. But he's probably doing too much.
At first, he's just testing the waters. Licking at the seam of your lips. Teasing the sensitive roof of your mouth. Gives your tongue a shy nudge.
Ten minutes later, he's sucking on it. Hands roaming your body. Eyes glazed over with sheer delight when you don't push him away, instead tangling your fingers in his hair to pull him even closer. He sucks on your tongue like it's candy, and you make noises he's never heard before, "ah, hn, gege..." straight out of a wet dream. He breaks away for a second, just for a breather, but you pull him back in and he nearly moans when you shyly give kitten licks to his tongue, soft and wet and fucking adorable.
Fuck, I'm hard, he thinks to himself, wishing you don't notice, but there's no way you don't feel his bulge pressing against you, rubbing against your thigh.
He wants to move his hips. Hump his cock against your panties beneath your skirt. Better yet, strip all the clothing altogether. Fuck you hard like in the wet dreams that plague him at night. Filthy fantasies of your pussy wrapped around his cock, wet with your juices and his cum. His fingers rubbing your engorged clit to see you cry out his name, drenching his hand with your slick. Cunt stretched to fit all of his thick girth, his base messy with frothy cum.
His hips move, just a little bit. He rolls his hips upward, directly pressing on your pussy. You squeak into his mouth, fingers curling tighter to his hair, but you don't stop him. You can feel him smile as his hands are placed on either side of your waist, moving you to rock back against him.
"C'mon, you move too..." he murmurs before he's sealing your lips again, the slide of his tongue against yours addicting. You clumsily raise your hips, rubbing at the tent in his pants, and the filthy groan he lets out goes straight to your core.
"D-do you do this when you kiss other girls?" You gasp as his lips move to your neck, sucking a visible mark beneath your ear. He makes a vague, unanswering hum, and you end up forgetting you even asked soon enough.
The friction makes you feel hotter than ever, burning at the nerves in your brain. You feel yourself getting dumbed down into a state where all you can think about is more, I need more of him, drowning in your most base desires.
The pace gets more frantic. Your clothed cunt rubs against his pants, all the while Caleb refuses to separate your pressed lips. At this point, you're not sure what you're doing qualifies as kissing, just panting against each other's mouths, tongues rubbing obscenely.
"Mm... ah... stick out your tongue more, meimei..."
"Ahn, yeah, okay... mmph..."
You're almost reaching... something you can't quite name, but it's hot, and it's near. You grind against your big brother more desperately, pursuing that high, and you swear you'll die if Caleb stops—
The front door opens. Gran's keys clatter on the living room table.
Caleb pulls away, and you very nearly whine in disappointment.
But Caleb's hair is in charming disarray, eyes clouded over with lust, lips swollen and shiny with your spit. It's a sight you want to burn into your eyes forever, distracting you enough to forget for a moment how you've been basically blue-balled.
"Fuck," he utters, voice raspy and ruined. His grip on your waist loosens. "We should— we should probably stop here."
"Yes," you respond breathlessly, even though you want to do the exact opposite. Clearing your throat, you slowly pry yourself off from him, legs feeling like jelly.
A wave of mortification washes over you when you find a wet spot on Caleb's pants, right where you rubbed against him. Right where he's pitching a tent he can't possibly hide, somehow even larger than it felt.
You don't acknowledge it. Pretend it doesn't exist. Neither does he, covering it up with the hem of his large sweater. You rush to the door, patting down your messy hair and your even messier clothes, wrinkled and probably soaked with more than just sweat.
But before you leave, you whisper almost too quietly, "...Tomorrow."
Caleb understands immediately. Gives a crooked smile. "Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow" is similar as the first time. The only difference is you're in the dining room, sitting on the table with Caleb between your spread legs, still humping against each other as you desperately lock lips.
You don't make plans after that, but the next day, you find yourself knocking on his door late at night, unable to sleep. He doesn't have to ask why you're there, simply pulls you into his bed as he kisses down your neck, clothed cock rubbing against your pajama shorts.
It takes a week of shy touches and heavy makeouts before Caleb's hands find the courage to leave your waist, trailing up beneath your shirt. You shiver at the sensation of his warm, large hand sliding over your skin, fingers dipping into the slope of your back. "Anyone kissed you here before?" he whispers to your ear, fiddling with the hook of your bra. Stunned speechless, you shake your head no, and it's all he needs to hear to push up your shirt.
Caleb doesn't hide his awe. He stares intently at your chest, at the cute, lacy bra topped off with a tiny bow. It's different from the time he accidentally saw your underwear hanging to dry and you rushed to scurry them off in embarrassment — this time, you're clad in it, showing it off even, despite your burning cheeks.
He takes a sharp breath, hands roaming around your body almost in worship. Pushes up the bra to reveal your tits in full glory, nipples perky and tempting him to lick. He fondles the supple skin, teases at the peaks, and something dark curls in his eyes when he hears you let out a "Haah, wait, Caleb, that's...!"
Slowly, he presses light kisses on the valley of your breasts, licking at the expanse of soft skin. When he wraps his lips around a nipple, his hand prods at the other one, keeping eye contact while he sucks.
His touch feels like fire, your core burning hotter than ever. The sight of your big brother playing with your tits should not excite you this much, but you can feel yourself dripping, soaking your underwear into ruin. You don't dare tear your eyes away even as shame makes you want to hide — it'd be such a waste to miss even a moment of this, to see Caleb lick at your nipples, suck red marks anywhere his lips roam.
"You smell so good..." He presses his nose between your breasts, breathing in the scent of your sweat and the body soap you share. "So pretty..." His tongue trails a line downwards, eyes fixed to your gaze.
You bite down on your bottom lip, struggling to keep yourself quiet. His brow furrows, stopping for a moment to press down on your lip with his thumb. "Don't do that. You'll hurt yourself."
"The neighbors will hear," you murmur, considering the thin walls. Caleb thinks for a moment, and then he grins.
He takes the edge of your shirt, lifting it to your mouth. "Bite on this?"
Your cheeks fill with heat, but you open your mouth in assent.
The humiliation almost makes it hotter. The shirt muffles your moans, but you're also exposing yourself to Caleb, letting your brother suck on your tits as much as he wants. Swirling his tongue around the perky buds, lapping up his own spit that drips down. Squeezing your other breast and flicking the tit with his finger.
"Hey, meimei..." he mumbles while he sucks. He takes one of your hands, places it over the bulge in his pants. "What do you think of kissing gege over here too?"
Moments later, you're on your knees while Caleb stands in front of you, suckling on his tip as he fucks his cock between your tits. "Fuck..." He can't stop himself, lightheaded and on the verge of a nosebleed as he looks down on you, pushing your breasts together and licking his leaking precum. "My baby sister is sucking my cock... you look so good with your mouth full, meimei..."
You couldn't fit most of it in your mouth, not with the sheer size of it. Caleb's cock was so stupidly huge, you could barely wrap your hand around it fully. It was long and thick, and you felt dizzy at the thought of putting it inside you. Your pussy clenched, feeling more empty than ever, and you couldn't help but sneak a hand underneath your shorts to rub your clit, so wet from arousal.
"Haah, that's it, keep going..." Without noticing it himself, Caleb's thrusts have gotten rougher, his tip scraping the back of your throat. "Gege's cumming soon... take all of my cum, hm?"
Your rubbing grows more frantic as he reaches closer to orgasm, admiring his pleasured expression. Caleb runs a hand through his hair, hips still moving to fuck his dick in your mouth, muscled torso shiny with sweat. "Ugh, fuck, your tongue... yeah, that spot feels so good, pips... gege loves it when you suck me like that."
I want his cock in me I want his cock in me chants in your head, fingers still rubbing your clit. You've always masturbated to your older brother, imagined his hot body over yours, but it's different when he's using you for his own release. Having him fuck his huge dick to your throat while you're touching yourself, watching him in the throes of pleasure.
"Ah, shit, here it comes, fuck— show me your tongue, meimei—"
Caleb pulls you away from his dick by your hair, and you'd be disappointed if not for the sight of him jerking off his own cock, fist hitting over his heavy balls, until he shoots his thick load, spraying cum all over your face, your stuck out tongue, and your tits.
You cum on your fingers as he groans deeply, still stripping his cock as he releases, and it takes a while for him to finish cumming. "Fuck... that felt so good..."
Caleb looks down at you, places a thumb on your cum-stained tongue, and swirls it around. "Swallow it."
You obey, gulping down his thick load. His eyes shine with satisfaction, patting your head like he usually does to praise you. "Good girl."
He helps you to your feet, pushing you back to bed. His large hands roam around your body again, running along your curves, massaging his cum on your tits. Then he leans down to lick it off, not once breaking eye contact.
"Don't worry about the mess. Gege's going to clean you up now, okay?"
Your little "kissing practice" becomes so much more. Eventually, you're sneaking around every opportunity you get — when Gran is out, or when it's late at night, or when you're about to shower and Caleb gets the bright idea to sneak in the bathroom to pin you against the wall and slide his cock between your legs. Look, my cock and your pussy are kissing.
It doesn't take a genius you've gone far, far beyond just kissing. So it doesn't surprise you anymore when on one of your "practice sessions" in your bedroom, his fingers brush on your inner thigh. "Let me kiss you here, too."
It's not surprising, but you still feel a bit shy lifting up your skirt and spreading your legs when Caleb tells you to. He looks far too pleased with himself when he finds you're absolutely wet, pure white panties almost see-through. He rubs your clothed clit with his thumb, chuckling when you unconsciously move your hips to grind against his finger.
But Caleb doesn't have the patience to tease. He slips off your underwear and marvels at the strings of arousal clinging to your soaked panties. "Naughty girl..." He clicks his tongue, gripping your thighs to spread them apart. "So wet for her big brother."
Your pretty pussy is flushed pink, dripping onto the sheets. He can see it clench around nothing in anticipation, waiting for his cock to fill it up with cum.
Caleb can't stop himself anymore. He inhales deeply into your bare cunt, groans a curse to himself, then begins to dig in.
His first lick is a broad stripe on your clit, thick tongue swiping on the sensitive nub. You jolt at the unfamiliar sensation, curling your fingers into his hair. "Ah, wait, Caleb- ohh, ahh, no...!"
"So fucking sweet," he moans at the taste, licking relentlessly now. "Fuck, I should've done this sooner."
He laps at your slit, drinking up the pussy juice that won't stop leaking. He smothers his face in it, nose rubbing on your clit and chin dripping with your slick, hands holding down your trembling legs to the mattress. He's squeezed between your thighs, and he looks like he's on heaven, utterly delighted at the moans he's pulling from you.
"Nn, mm, ahh, gege! Oh, your tongue-!" You're unable to string together a full sentence, mind a constant loop of so good fuck fuck gege's licking my pussy so good.
Caleb slurps noisily, an embarrassing noise you'll worry about later, but for now, your fried brain can only think it's so hot, you're so wet, gege please lick me more I love it right there please please.
Caleb sucks your clit like he's making out with it, rolling his tongue in circles and lapping up anything he can catch, thoroughly pussy drunk and intoxicated. He's grinding mindlessly into the mattress until he can't take it anymore, freeing his cock from his sweatpants and jerking off at the taste of your pussy.
"You're so fucking good for me, meimei," Caleb groans loudly, fucking his tongue into your hole as his dick pulsates in his hand, spurting more precum. You thrash around, riding his face and making a mess of him. "Fuck yes, just use me. Gege's just a toy to make you feel good."
And it really is as if you're treating him like a toy for your pleasure, burying his face to your pussy, uncaring if he can't breathe. Carelessly bucking up your hips to get his tongue deeper, licking the spot you want him to reach. Rubbing your swollen clit on his nose.
You've fantasized about this, of your big brother holding you down on your bed and making you cum on his tongue. Not stopping until you've squirted all over him, his fingers still fucking your pussy even when you feel overstimulated. You want it. You want it so bad.
"Caleb, more, please, I'm gonna cum!" you wail, legs trembling, bracing for the orgasm you know will ruin you.
"Go on," Caleb says, and you can feel the words form on his lips against your cunt, the vibrations driving you closer to the brink, "Cum on your big brother's face."
Your eyes roll back, liquid spraying out from your pussy and onto Caleb's mouth. "Fuck yes, keep squirting on me, pips." It keeps coming out like a leaking faucet and Caleb sits up, putting his cock on your pussy and letting the squirt drench him, using it as lube as he rubs his cock.
"Shit, you're so wet," he says in awe, staring as you keep spraying the clear liquid. He taps your clit with his tip, laughing when it makes you gush one last time. "So sensitive, too."
"Gege... ah..." you weakly utter when Caleb keeps rubbing his cock on your pussy, covering himself in your cum. The obscene squelch only gets him harder.
His cock is throbbing, so hard that it hurts. He wants to put it in. Fuck his precious little sister's pussy that's right in front of him. Take her virginity and fill her up with his hot cum. Fuck her against every surface on this house, on your bed, in the bathtub, on the floor, at the sofa you both always watched TV on growing up.
"Just the tip," he pants, just sane enough to make a compromise, prodding at your hole with the leaking head. "I want to put it inside you, meimei."
"Ah..." You stare at the cock between your legs, so huge compared to your tight pussy. We can't isn’t something you can say when you've already crossed the line several times over. And you can't seem to take your eyes away from his dick, thick in girth and long, curving prettily in a way you know will hit that spot inside you.
"Please..." He leans down to whisper in your ear, hand pressing down on your stomach, measuring just how deep it'll reach. "Gege's been wanting this for so long."
There's no way that'll fit, the more reasonable voice inside your head cries out. I want all of him inside me, the whore in you says otherwise. "G... gege's cock is too big..." You don't mean it to sound so provocative, saying it as statement of fact, but he twitches against your skin, and you hope it's only in your imagination when you think Oh god, did he just get bigger...?!
"Then gege will be careful." Caleb strokes your pussy with his fingers, enjoying watching you tremble at the lightest touch. "I'll make sure it won't hurt."
And so, Caleb begins his quest to loosen your virgin pussy. A quest he seems to particularly enjoy, boredom never flicking across his features as he adds more fingers to your tight cunt. Marvels at the overflowing wetness slicking his hand, prodding everywhere in search of your g-spot. Holds down your thighs when he finds it, not allowing you to escape from the pleasure.
"Do you like this, pips? Do you like it when your big brother fingerfucks you?"
He sounds utterly sinful, words slightly muffled by the tit in his mouth, fucking in three thick fingers in your cunt, a thumb rolling on your poor, puffy clit.
"I like it so much." He makes another hickey on your chest. "I like the feeling of my sister's tight, virgin pussy squeezing around me."
Inevitably, his filthy words make you cum hard, splattering a mess on his arm.
"Cumming again?" Caleb hums as you gush around him for the nth time, fingers still moving, making your pussy squelch. "You really like this, huh?"
You groan weakly as he peppers your face with kisses, pussy twitching from the overstimulation. "Hnn... too much, Caleb... I can't..."
Caleb tuts, sucking another mark on your collarbone. "You can."
"Gegeee," you whine, holding onto his back. You feel like you've cum enough times to last a lifetime, the sheets beneath you soaked through and through.
"Please?" He nuzzles against your neck, affectionate and loving. "Just the tip. I want to feel you inside."
You glance at this monster-sized cock. And then at the puppy dog eyes that don't match it at all, sparkling innocently like he didn't just say the filthiest talk known to man.
"You don't want to try it?" He slides his heavy cock between your legs, letting you feel every vein. "I'll make it feel good. Better than my tongue."
He takes his dick in his hand, dips the head inside your pussy, just a small stretch. A fresh wave of slick wets it, spurting clear drops of arousal. When you don't push him away, just wrapping your arms around him and waiting with bated breath, he carefully pushes deeper.
It's thicker than you imagined it'd feel. Even thicker than his fingers. An overwhelming pressure that takes your breath away, your mouth forming an 'o', and you're almost annoyed when he stops sliding in.
He really just put the tip.
"Fuuuuck," he swears, using all his restraint not to slide everything in one go, a bead of sweat from his chin dropping on your chest. "Your pussy's so warm, meimei..."
"Haah, Caleb..." The thickness is nothing you've ever felt before, nothing his fingers could prep you enough for. Caleb's so big everywhere, from his height, his broad shoulders, his toned arms, his hands on your waist, and even with how massive he feels with just the tip, you can see the length of him that hasn't gone inside between your legs.
He moves slowly, fucking his tip in and out in a pace that leaves you wanting and hungry. "Mm, shit..."
He grips you tightly, gaze fixed on the way you clench around him, pretty pussy welcoming his cock. You wrap around him so deliciously, your cute twitchy clit just sitting above his cock. "God, you're so tight, my cock probably won't fit all the way."
It's a hypothetical thought. Because he really does mean to just put in the tip.
But you keep sucking him in, cunt warm and wet and hot and so good around him. Without meaning to, his cock slides further than he means to every other thrust, reaching deeper and deeper to your core, the plap plap noises of your skin slapping together echoing in your room.
When his cock is halfway in, Caleb is on the verge of cumming. "Ah, ah, wait, shit, sorry," he's panting out, apologies spilling from his lips, but his hips never stop moving. "Fuck, you just feel so good, I can't stop."
Your nails are digging scratches on his muscled back, mind turned into mush. The only thing you can think about is how big he is, how much deeper he could go if he went all the way. How much better it would feel if you could feel his cock in its entirety.
"Ge," you mindlessly whine. "Gege, please..." Are you begging him to stop? Or to fuck you hard and fast without restraint? You don't even know anymore. But your body answers for you.
You lock your legs around him, pulling him closer.
His cock slides in all the way to the hilt.
"Oh, fuck!"
Without warning, he spills inside you, load after load of cum filling up your pussy. He's cumming hard, groaning brokenly into your neck, his orgasm so mind-shattering he can't do anything other than pump his milk deep in your cunt, hot neverending pulses of semen flowing to your womb.
"Ah, shit, I'm sorry, I can't stop cumming, fuck...!"
It's not just that he can't stop cumming. He's still as hard as he was before.
It isn't long before he hoists your legs on his shoulders, looking absolutely pussy drunk. He rams his entire cock into you with rough, deep thrusts, fucking his cum deeper into your womb, some of it overflowing from your hole and coating the base of his cock in white. "I came inside my little sister's pussy," he babbles mindlessly, his groans pornographic. "My cum... deep inside your cunt... fuck..."
"Ge, your cock is so big," you moan like a slut, uncaring if the neighbors hear the debauchedy in your house at this point. "Fuck me more, please, I want more of your cum!"
"Ah, meimei, you're being so loud." Caleb brings his hand to your pussy, tormenting your clit again, making your legs kick out. "Everyone will know your big brother is fucking you so good. Getting his little sister pregnant while no one else is home."
"Yes, yes, please, I love it when my big brother cums inside me!"
"Yeah? You wanna be gege's cumdump?" He pants, flicking your clit, groping your breasts, nailing your g-spot in every thrust — everything he knows to make you moan louder, scream his name. "Go ahead. Milk your big brother's cock dry."
Time passes in a blur. It just so happens that you'll be alone at home for the next few days, your Gran going out to visit a friend from the countryside. Caleb takes this as his opportunity to fuck you without fear of getting caught.
Caleb fucks you in all sorts of positions, in different places — doggy style in the kitchen, making a mess on the floor; "Haah, meimei, how do we face Gran after this? You've squirted all over the table we use to eat together."
Reverse cowgirl on the living room couch, the show playing on the TV completely forgotten; "Ah, pips, didn't you say you liked this actor? Something about how good-looking he is. So why aren't you paying attention? Come on, hng, haah... don't just fuck yourself on gege's cock. Focus on the movie."
Laid out on your bed, 69 in your room; "Fuck, you're dripping all over me, baby... Yeah, suck on my cock, just like that. Your mouth feels fucking amazing."
And now, in his bedroom, Caleb leans back, letting his precious baby sister ride him first thing in the morning, awoken by the feeling of your wet pussy enveloping his cock. He enjoys seeing you fuck him yourself, desperate for release, tits moving as you bounce on his dick, flicking your own nipples and rubbing your clit to give him a show.
"That kissing practice," Caleb starts, unable to help himself and lazily circles your swollen clit with his finger, making you cry out, "that was just a ploy for me to train you, wasnt it? Training you to be your big brother's slut."
"Ah, ah, yes, hn, I wanted... wanted to be gege's slut!" You move your hips with more fervor now, and Caleb knows too well that's a sign you're close.
He pushes you to your back, slamming into your pussy with intense thrusts. Makes you squirt on his cock, spraying all over his abs. Smiles at the sight of your fucked-out face, tongue lolling out, eyes rolled back. "That's right. You've become my slut. All mine."
And then he thrusts again, and again, and again. Because he's raised a devil who can't be satisfied with normal sex anymore.
(And if he slips in an "I love you" or two after that, well, you're too fucked out to hear anyway.)
ੈ✩ synopsis: it's been years. satoru knows that despite his reservations, he could never just tolerate you.
ੈ✩ cw: smut (18+ only, mdni), f!reader, rivals/enemies to lovers but not really, repressed feelings, feelings realization, teasing, oral sex (f! receiving), unprotected sex, mentions of suguru defecting, mentions of hooking up while underage, past suguru x reader implied
ੈ✩ wc: 6.7k (hello????????????)
ੈ✩ a/n: this came out of nowhere truly. i was just thinking about gojo A Lot Today
divider by cafekitsune !
For what it’s worth, Gojo didn’t hate you. Hate isn’t the exact word for it, really. He’d felt disdain, dislike, annoyance — the way one would feel toward a buzzing mosquito that always lingered. That was what you were to him. Always there, always demanding attention even when you didn’t mean to, always leaving behind a mark on him that itched.
You were the underdog. The weakest, at first. He didn’t pay you much attention during your first year. Assumed you were as boring as Nanami, even if you did have a pretty face. He didn’t need to care – he and Suguru were the strongest at just their second year at Jujutsu Tech. Nothing could dampen his shine.
You were on a mission with Suguru when you discovered you possessed the capability of a special grade. Maybe that was why he resented you, just a little. It was obvious you had a crush on him, and to Gojo’s lament, Geto had a soft spot for you, too.
After Geto turns his back on Jujutsu society, you become the thorn in Gojo’s side.
You were the only one who never seemed afraid of him, not even post-Plasma Vessel, not even after he became something brighter and sharper and altogether different. You’d just tilt your head when he walked past and say things like, “You’re floating again,” or, “Don’t suppose you’re going to help clean this up?” when he’d be in the middle of some curse’s bloody crossfire.
Maybe that’s why he kept you around, if only to see what you’d say next.
You could never resist a little fight. You’d wheel in on your crutches after a mission, limbs all bandaged up and blood in your hair, and throw a smirk his way like you’d just come back from brunch. Whenever you were in the same room, the air turned electric, headlights pointed into fog.
You were the first person who figured out he couldn’t handle spicy food, who put two and two together when he winced at red pepper flakes, and never let him forget it. He didn’t especially like that, but he was used to people being careful around him. It drove him crazy to see you carve through that care like a machete through shredding paper.
After Suguru left, everything about you grated worse. Gojo had trained himself not to get attached — that was lesson number one at the top, wasn’t it? Yet every time you glared at him with those tired eyes, all he could see was how close you’d been to Suguru, the way you used to laugh together at pretentious shit he never understood. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it made Gojo want to step on your pride and crush it like a cigarette butt.
Gojo realized that he was attracted to you on his eighteenth birthday when he opened the bathroom door and caught you with some punk from the Kamo clan. Tongue down your throat, hands grabbing at the straps of your top. It was December – weren’t you fucking freezing?
The image was seared into his brain for the rest of the night. It hadn’t occurred to him that you were a creature of sexuality. You had always seemed uptight. Snarky as a defense mechanism, probably to hide that you were a virgin. After downing a bottle of soju, he realized that his bitterness and anger were instead manifestations of jealousy. It should’ve been him.
He’d never told anyone about the look you gave him, after. When you caught him watching in the cloudy mirror, your lips still raw, your shirt crooked, and you didn’t even fix your mess of hair. You just met his eyes with that blankness, an old wound showing through. Maybe, in that moment, Gojo realized you’d seen him standing there the entire time. Maybe you’d wanted him to.
He’d tried to ignore it after. He really had. Gojo bummed around campus pretending you didn’t exist, or at least that you weren’t any different from the other junior sorcerers.
(You were—your scars healed, he sometimes saw you running sprints on the track at five a.m., sweat banding your forehead, and remembered the straps of your top sliding off tantalizingly off your shoulders, Kamo’s thumb hooked greedily in your waistband.)
When you fought together, you were all business. So was he. Nobody could say Gojo ever screwed up a mission because he was distracted. Still, the memory of you lingered. Savored and wretched.
Once, while walking to the infirmary, he looked over and saw you chewing on the cap of a red marker, tapping your foot, hair in some pathetic stub of a ponytail. He couldn’t stop himself from thinking your lip might taste like ink, the cheap kind that came off on the tongue.
He hated that. He hated admitting there was something he wanted but couldn’t take. Breaking rules was supposed to be his thing.
He let it fester. He didn’t mind it. After all, there was little to look forward to. The world had gotten gray after Suguru. Missions, lectures, Sumo with friends he made superficially, more missions, half the victims murdered or missing. Everything felt diluted except for that sharp prickle when you brushed past him in the hallway, smirking like you were in on a private joke.
When you graduate, he doesn’t see you for two years.
He starts his stint in student teaching at Jujutsu Tech with two children under his wing. The next time he sees you, you’re in Yaga’s office laughing, a knuckle tugging at the talismans wrapped around your other wrist.
“Satoru,” Yaga says calmly. “Take her on tomorrow’s mission with you.”
You look at him knowingly, tauntingly. No explanation comes, only inference. You’re back in a way that might be permanent.
He corners you after.
“Hey,” Gojo say, as if it’s just any old day, as if his jaw doesn’t feel alternately numb and razor-stiff at the sight of you.
You turn. Same as always—the hiked-up sock on one leg, the hair bunched with a silk ribbon, the chipped smile. For a second, Gojo wonders if you even could recognize what you did to him, just existing in the same corridor, radiating casual antagonism like static. You two don’t hug. Not your thing. Instead, he flicks you hard on the ear and pretends not to notice the faint blush that creeps across your cheekbones.
“So,” he drawls, “heard you managed to take down that Tanabata Curse on your own. Impressive.” He leans closer. “Or did you bribe it with those sausage buns you always smell like?”
You give him that flat, deadpan stare, then snort—loud, graceless. “That’s rich coming from the guy who’s single-handedly keeping the school vending machine in business.”
Gojo was waiting for the other shoe, and there it was.
“Bet Yaga’s got a running tab just for you. Maybe get him to expense your therapy, too.”
It was so easy with you, the way you volleyed back. He hadn’t realized until now how much he missed it. Most people folded around him, like origami or crepe paper. You sharpened.
He grins, real teeth, and for a half-second feels like someone had punched through the gray filter of the last year and let in a trickle of color.
“So you’re copying me, huh?” Gojo taunts. “Heard I was going to be a sensei?”
“No,” you snort. “Iori-san recommended me. I was living in Kyoto, actually, but some family stuff came up.”
“Family stuff,” Gojo says, as if trying on the syllables for fit. “Guess the prodigal fails upward.”
You jam your hands into the pockets of your uniform, shrugging, and stare past the vending machine. Watching the sunburned light slant through frosted windows and stripe the cracked tile. There is a gouge in the wall by your left ankle, pressed raw and caked with red ink. He notices you standing at ease, the way no one ever did around him.
“It’s nothing,” you say, softer. “Grandfather has pneumonia. I’m supposed to go pray for his recovery outside Ueno in two weeks.” You pull a face, as if the prospect of old man duty is more terrifying than a special grade leak.
Gojo crams his hands into his jacket pockets, feeling the warmth pool around his knuckles.
“Always amazing how mortality sneaks up on people,” he says, voice airy, but it lodges somewhere behind his ribs. “I have to shadow a teacher on a dumbass second-year about risk assessment in Shibuya tomorrow. The kids keep tripping over their own feet.”
You make a little noise, almost a laugh, and nod. He realizes you’re chewing gum— lychee-flavored —because when you yawn, he can taste the ghost of it in the air, chemical and sweet. It reminds him of himself. How Suguru and Shoko would always tease him about his candy breath.
Gojo doesn't ask if you’d heard from Suguru, or why you moved away without saying anything, or why you really came back. There was never any point with you. Instead, you both watch the maintenance man unstaple a lost cat poster from the bulletin board and tape up a new one.
He doesn’t know why, but he asks you to get a drink with him. You don’t know why, but you agree.
You wind up at a hole-in-the-wall in Koenji, stuffing your faces with curry pan and pulling cheap beer from sweat-slicked cans. It’s loud, warm, the kind of place that fogs over glasses and blots out any trace of bureaucratic obligation.
Gojo tries not to look too closely at the way you tilt back your head when you laugh, or the purpling bruise on your jaw, or how your sneakers are flecked with blood. The kind of detail that makes him itch.
You don’t talk about school. Don’t talk sorcery, or missions, or the thing with Suguru that still hangs between you like a tattered curtain. Instead, you ask if Gojo remembers the Christmas karaoke where Ijichi blacked both his eyes with the mic stand (he did); whether he’d ever really felt satisfied with his constant flings with foreign girls that he flaunted when he was younger (he hadn’t). Something flickers in him when you mention that, maybe regret or envy or just the last dregs of adolescence refusing to die.
He returns the favor. Gojo asks about Kyoto, though he doesn’t really care about the answer, and you tell him about a ramen place that uses soy milk in the broth, about your estranged little brother, about the time you got arrested for breaking into your old middle school gym to swim in the pool when you were home during some drunken winter. You say it with the straightest face on Earth, so for a second, he believes you.
You always did have a talent for deadpan. You told Gojo once that you preferred not to explain yourself; it was more fun to keep people guessing.
He asks if you still wear those stupid platform gyaru boots like you had school, and you deadpan: “What, you think fashion dies when you hit twenty?” He laughs until he chokes on beer foam.
For a while, the two of you just sit. The bar is cramped and dim, all linoleum and haphazard glassware, and the air stinks of old oil and fries. Someone at a neighboring table sings a pop song at half-tempo, their voice thick with nostalgia. There’s something comforting about it, something that makes your bones settle in a way that hadn’t happened in months.
You want to ask Gojo if he’s lonely. Maybe that was why he asked you to drinks in the first place. He’d never say yes, not if his own teeth were getting pulled from his mouth, but the question boils in you anyway. Instead, you ask: “Doesn’t it ever get exhausting, being the strongest?” It comes out more offhand than you intended.
Gojo rolls his can between his palms, considering.
“It’s like being made of rubber bands. Sometimes it feels like enough to hold the world together. Sometimes—it snaps.” He looks at you with that terrible, guileless kindness, the kind that makes you want to punch him or burst out crying. “But then you show up, and it’s worse. And better, but mostly worse.”
You kick him under the table, hard, and Gojo yelps, lips curling out of mock offense. “Asshole.”
He orders you another drink, and you refuse it, so he drinks it for you. You tell him that life as a runty former prodigy hasn’t changed much, but you don’t elaborate. You both know all the words by heart now: blood, loss, repeating years, nothing ever coming out even, not when it counted.
Eventually, you wobble out together, nearly falling down the chipped concrete stairs, your balance shot and your coordination suspect. Gojo watches you for a minute, head tilted, the motion mechanical, like he’s clocking for a weak point.
“I could walk you home,” he says, deadpan except for the glimmer in his duck-egg blue eyes.
You raise your hands. “I’ll take my chances. I don’t need an escort every time I go ten meters outside.”
He gives you such a look—eyes glossy as hard candy, faintest shine of teeth—that for half a second, your knees nearly buckle anyway. Not from liquor. Just from the know-how that Gojo Satoru is, and always will be, a little dangerous.
Even here, even now, with his hands in his pockets and his collar turned up against the night wind, he’s a walking siren song for disaster.
“So you’re saying you want to test your luck?” he says, breezy, easy, but his body’s angled toward you like you’re the only person on the block.
It’d be smarter to bail. To leave him in the orange-hued glow of the dingy karaoke bar like you left everything else in your life lately: hard, fast, with no room for hesitation.
But he’s right there. And you remember: his hands are steady, even if his head isn’t, and you have always been fatally attracted to the dumbest option available.
“I think I’m testing my luck by still being here,” you say softly.
You don’t really know how it happens.
One second, you’re outside a bar with Gojo Satoru, both of you ruining your livers and roasting each other’s egos, and the next, you’re pressed up against a vending machine in the alley. The pavement is slick with spring rain, and displaced neon from the sign overhead puddles down over your hands, over the way his body pins yours like you actually belong beneath him.
His mouth is colder than you expect. Like he’d been cradling an ice cube or breathing in winter the whole night, just to have this one unfair advantage. His hands are annoyingly gentle, palming the sides of your jaw, thumbs digging into the hinge behind your earlobes just enough to hurt.
You try to push him, reflexively, but he’s read every signal you’ve ever sent—your surface-level resistance, your tendency to escalate, your near-masochistic need to never be the one to ask first — and he leverages all his stupid, bullshit height to crowd closer. He doesn’t even let you break from the kiss to say something mean, just crowds your mouth full of himself and the faint taste of beer and sugared daifuku.
The vending machine buzzes. You’re hyperaware of the cold—how every pressed seam of your body maps itself onto his, how you’re shivering, how you’re not even sure if it’s from the rain, the adrenaline, or the feeling of Gojo’s belt scratching at your bare knuckles as you anchor yourself to him. You’re acutely aware of how easily this flips: how he makes you feel incensed with something close to madness.
You want to own this, to steer it—but you’re the one whose lungs scrape and who can’t commit to pulling away. Maybe he expected you to hit him for kissing you. Instead, you bite his tongue just enough to taste metal and he makes a sound between a curse and a groan.
Your hands snake up under his jacket. He’s as sharp as a blade, impossible in every dimension. You marvel at the devastation of him: how little he cares about the world, how much he wants you to care about him.
His hand flattens against your ribcage, not groping but checking, like maybe you’re a spell he could shatter. You’re not feeling especially fragile. If anything, this is a fever breaking: years of competition and mutual sabotage, now distilled into the heat between Gojo’s mouth and your jaw, the cold nip of his fingers kneading into your sternum.
Sensory detail is all there is. You’re keenly aware of the thrum of blood in your wrists, the nick of his teeth at the curve of your neck, the low, serrated pitch of your own voice.
Suddenly, the atoms around you flicker. You gasp, eyes opening as your bodies knock against a firm, wooden dresser. His figure is obscured by dimness and blue moonlight.
You’re in his bedroom.
“Neat trick,” you scoff. “But very presumptuous.”
He smirks, wicked, the lines on his face splintered by shadow, white hair a halo around his head. The bedroom isn’t what you expect—no catastrophe of dirty laundry or grotesque anime body pillows. Just clean sheets, an uncluttered desk, a modest, queen-sized Western-style bed. A bottle of water. A set of mechanical pencils. A stack of unread mail. Gojo Satoru is as meticulous at home as he is reckless in the field.
He crowds you up against the dresser, palms planted on either side of your hips, letting the wood bite your ass through your skirt.
“Presume away,” he whispers in your ear, breath cool and syrupy.
You roll your eyes. “Is this where you conduct all your interviews? Very professional, sensei.”
“Would you like an evaluation?” His hand ghosts down, curious, until his thumb traces the peak just above your waistband. The skin is hot, starved for contact. You tense, anticipation threading through you like sweet poison.
He cups behind your knee, hoisting, and in one fluid, absurdly athletic motion, lifts you onto the top of the dresser. There’s not much space.
Your back smacks against a stack of manga (ah, there was his geekdom), one thunking to the floor, and Satoru snorts at your glare. Then he wedges a thigh between yours and grins like a devil.
“Nice of you to join me,” he says. “Don’t make too much noise, ‘kay? Kids are asleep.”
“Kids?” you furrow your brows.
“I’ll tell you about it later,” he breathes, muttering against your mouth in between kisses. He’s so aggravatingly tall that you have to lift your upper body to kiss him back.
He grinds the front of his thigh up into the space between your legs, suppressing a laugh at the barely-there gasp it forces out of you. Both hands grip the overhang edge of the dresser, boxing you in but not quite touching more than necessary, like he can crowd out the air itself without ever granting you the satisfaction of more.
You’re sick with adrenaline, anger, lust, all of it, and you want to run your mouth but can’t seem to find enough breath. It’s Gojo who closes the gap, his mouth dropping to yours again, tongue skating over the seam of your lips, coaxing more from you than you’d ever give outright.
The room is so quiet the smallest things seem amplified: the wet click of your kiss, the fabric of his jeans grinding against your front, the sound his fingers make when they finally find their way up the back of your thigh and inch under your skirt.
You remember, briefly, that this is the strongest. The boy who taunted you for years, got under your skin even if you never showed it. All those years, and here you are, making him weak. It stuns you.
He groans when you bite his bottom lip, squeezing your ass as he hurriedly smoothes his other hand up your thigh. He hoists you up in his arms to bring you toward the bed.
“This is reckless,” you breathe.
“You think so? I’d like to call it a little reunion.”
“We’re going to be colleagues.”
“Mm. And the higher-ups are a pretty shitty HR department.”
You laugh breathily.
You let yourself be dropped onto the bed. It’s not unlike being deposited into a pit, or a portal, or maybe just a future you have always half-dreamt of: Gojo Satoru crawling over you, weight pressing down with the playful arrogance of someone who’d always win at arm-wrestling, who’d always get the last word in a flame war, who could pick apart your technique and refashion you on a molecular level if he wanted.
“So,” he says, sitting back and looking at you over the slope of his nose, “wanna start from the top? Or skip straight to advanced coursework?”
He undoes the buttons of his shirt, slow, knuckles glancing the curve of your jaw, letting the fabric slide along your collarbone before he sets it aside. Showman. You hate it, how much you like the attention; how you find yourself preening under his gaze, dirty sneakers and all.
You don’t answer, not verbally. Instead, you roll your eyes at his corny banter, then you roll your hips against his hardening length. Your eyes widen slightly when you hear the low curse under his breath. Never in your life have you thought you’d ever reduce Gojo Satoru to something desperate.
“Take your clothes off, Gojo,” you whisper.
“Try again.”
You huff. “Gojo, please take your clothes off.”
He bites back a grin, the boyishness in his smug expression infuriatingly attractive. “Not what I meant, baby. If we’re going to be around each other all the time again, I want you to be more familiar with me.”
You blink at him in confusion before you realize.
“Satoru. Undress for me. Now.”
He chuckles as he unbuckles his belt. “I always thought you’d be bossy in bed.”
“Oh yeah?” you breathe. “Is this like one of your wet dreams in high school?”
“Maybe. You’re usually too busy crying on my cock during those, though.”
You’re thankful for the darkness to save you from him seeing the furious flush through your body at his words.
You don’t even get a chance to snark about him living out his adolescent dreams; he kicks off his jeans in a single, fluid motion and palms himself through his briefs, like he’s granting you a show with his body.
Gojo’s shirt is already forgotten somewhere on the floor, and for all your jabs about how skinny he used to be, there’s definition—cords of muscle along his arms, scars up his abdomen, hipbones that look sharp enough to cut. He walks his fingers up the length of your calf, coaxing it over his shoulder, and kisses the soft skin just above your knee, his voice muffled as he murmurs, “All my dreams are wet dreams, by definition.”
You’re about to retort, but he yanks you closer until you’re practically folded in half. Your skirt rides up, the back of your thighs bent around his, and that’s the exact moment you feel his erection press against you.
“And they’re all about me?” you ask.
He only laughs lightly. Warm air between you, the room cloaked in want from the mix of your shallow breaths. He hasn’t even touched you yet, not really, but you can feel yourself soaking through your thong.
You’re suddenly aware of how little there is between you, how the air itself seems to liquefy around his body. Gojo lets your legs dangle off the bed as he kneels on the floor. His head drops to mouth at the inside of your thigh, tongue darting out to taste your skin—he’s greedy about it, dragging his teeth up until he hits cotton, looking you in the eyes as he lets the flat of his tongue rest against the seam of your underwear.
“Shit,” you rasp, and he smirks, breath warm where you’re already flushed and needy.
“You got a problem?” he says against you. The vibration punches through muscle and nerve, leaves you scrambling for retort as he inches your thong aside with a thumb, lazy and unhurried.
“Yeah,” you manage. “Think you missed a spot.”
“Oh?” He raises a white brow, then kisses your clit softly, once, as if it’s a dare to call his bluff. It steals the breath out of you. Before you can speak again, you feel him suckle on the bud, forcing a moan out of you that you don’t intend to let out.
It’s humiliating, the way your hips jerk up into his mouth; it’s nearly clinical, the way he pins them down, big hands running hot along your thighs to hold you perfectly still. You dig your nails into the comforter, gasp in time with every slick, lazy drag of Gojo’s tongue. He licks you the way he might taste-test an expensive new sake, each pass deliberate and slow, like he’s cataloguing every possible reaction.
“Satoru—” It croaks out of you, throat dry and chilly.
He hums, mouth still working you over, then slides a finger in over the edge of your underwear, pads soft and cold from the night air but warming up fast. He draws his tongue back, only to drop another two fingers beside the first, spreading you just so, and then he’s eating you out in earnest, alternating between gentle flicks and obscene, sucking pressure.
The rhythm is erratic, designed to keep you scrambled— the mix of gentle and rough makes your stomach stir in unbridled lust. His fingers dip into your wetness, filling you up with a squelch that heats your insides.
You clutch the sheets and bite a yelp into your sleeve, taste polyester and want. He doesn’t miss a beat, just laughs into you, the sound resonating so deep that for a red-hot second you imagine it splitting you down the center.
Gojo’s hands splay over the backs of your thighs, pinning you open. You could throttle him for being this methodical, this precise, this goddamn arrogant about making you come apart.
It’s the way he looks up at you while doing it that levels you: eyes clear and drinking in your every reaction, ego ballooning with each stutter in your breath, every helpless twitch. You’d throw something at him if you had a free hand, but both your fists are busy knotting themselves in the sheets, clinging to the edge of whatever precipice he’s shoving you toward.
He crooks his fingers inside you, and your hips jump, but his mouth’s already working your clit in a way that’s making your cunt whipped with arousal. You’re too drunk on lust, too drunk in general, to warn him about your orgasm, but he already knows. There’s a cocky glint in his eyes when you come on his tongue.
Gojo helps you ride out your pleasure before pushing your body higher up his bed, his knees in on each side of you as he frantically takes off the rest of his clothes and yours. You mewl, reaching for his cock, and he snorts and takes your wrist in his hand.
“Don’t,” he mumbles. “Do anything to my cock, and it’ll be catastrophic, I swear.”
“Does that mean we’re not gonna fuck?”
“No, baby. That means that I have to be in control.”
You roll your hips up anyway, just enough to test the promise in his voice. He nips at your clavicle, the warning clear as a curse.
“I mean it,” he says, and there is the sensei in him: a sharpness that leaves no room for argument and an underlying dare that begs you to try—and fail—to disobey.
“If I don’t—” He stops, as if the admission costs him, then strokes his thumb deliberately up your slit. “If I don’t do this right, you’ll never let me live it down.”
You almost laugh. You have known him since adolescence, since before you had words for want; even now, you understand him better than anyone else. Gojo operates on challenge. If loving him had a texture, it would be the silky drag of your own underwear sliding wet off your ankle as you watch him toss it carelessly over his shoulder.
“Then do your worst,” you say, confident. “I don’t care.”
He laughs, almost meanly. “You asked for it.”
He lines himself up, running the head of his cock through your slick enough times to make you shiver. Then, in an act of completely unnecessary showboating, he pushes in with not a single ounce of gentleness.
The stretch burns, satisfying, disgusting. You arch into it, keening hoarsely, and he has the gall to slap a hand over your mouth as he bottoms out.
You breathe into his palm, taste remnants of his sweat, his cologne. He hunches over you, hips grinding in close, and begins to give you everything he’s got.
At first, it’s slow, controlled; then it’s not. He fucks you like he’s got something to prove—and maybe he does.
Your body is hyperactive, every nerve set alight. You flex around him and he nearly loses grip, mouthing curses into your neck.
The strangled groan muffling into your cheek is not entirely his own. He holds you there, suspended, his wrist twisted just so, like he’s anchoring your entire body using nothing but the leverage of his hand on your jaw. With your mouth plugged and your cunt practically suctioned tight around him, he starts to thrust, pace stuttered at first, then faster, like he’s a machine designed for exactly this kind of sweet violence.
Your hands scramble for something to cling to: the back of his neck, the sheets, the jut of his hips, anything. Every time he drives in, he stirs something molten in your belly. It’s pain on the front end, pleasure as an aftershock, a consecutive chain reaction detonating somewhere behind your navel. Each time your breath snags, his own rhythm falters, and he seems to eat it, greedy for your feeble noises.
“Should I take my hand off?” he pants, teeth grazing your earlobe as he fucks you. “You gonna keep quiet for me now?”
You bob your head—what else could you do?—and he peels his palm back, just enough for you to draw a desperate, bitten-off mewl. You can feel your own drool slicking the side of your mouth.
You gasp, greedy for air, and he leans back just enough to watch the tears pinpricking the corners of your eyes. There's a feral pride in his face, sweat beading his brow, as he fucks you deeper, meaner, until the headboard slaps a staccato percussion against the wall that matches the ragged pulse in your ears.
He laughs again, softer this time, but it's not with amusement. It's hungry. He wants this, all of it—the red mark blooming on your neck beneath his mouth, the keeling spasms in your thighs as you angle your hips to take him deeper, the hot, shameful noises you barely recognize as your own.
Gojo is a man who wants to destroy you and preserve you in equal measure, and the weight of this duality slams into you with every new thrust.
At some point, you dig your heel into the back of his thigh, nails raking down his spine so hard he swears and stutters, nearly losing rhythm. You use the opportunity to nip at his jaw, tasting the salt and the ozone tang that is uniquely his.
For a moment, you think you could overpower him—he's not using the gravity of his infinity, just sheer physicality—but then he cages your wrists to the mattress above your head and holds you there like a vice.
“Knew you’d be a little control freak,” you laugh, your voice cracking and tapering off into a groan. “Or something… worse. Surprised you didn’t make me call you daddy.”
He drags in a breath and glowers, rutting harder, jaw clenched so tight you think it might crack. He leans in and bites the shell of your ear, nipping just enough to sting.
“Not giving you the satisfaction,” he snarls. “You’d just use it against me for eternity. I know you.”
“Bet you fantasize about it though,” you taunt, unable to stop yourself from rocking against his thrusts, “Bet you wanna be called sensei while you fuck one of your students raw, hm?”
He lets out a sound, deep and feral, then snaps his hips forward. You feel the shape of him everywhere, like he’s rewriting your insides. You wonder bitterly if you’ll ever be able to want anyone else again.
He releases your wrists to cradle the back of your head, guiding your mouth back to his. If he’s lost control, he’s pretending otherwise.
Your tongue slips against the blunt of his teeth, swallowing every obscene noise either of you make. The air is hot and salty, the both of you sweat-slicked and trembling. He whispers a string of curses into your mouth, your hair, your shoulder, like a litany, like he’s praying you’ll tell him to stop — even though you won’t, and he knows it.
“Call me senpai, instead, sweetheart. You never did it when we were in school.”
He doesn’t even smirk, too focused on slamming every inch of himself inside of you, but you feel his heart pounding where your bodies fuse.
“Senpai? You always hated my guts. Why would I start respecting you now?”
“Because I bet I’m the best dick you’ve had all year,” Gojo mumbles. “Respect your elders, baby.”
“Oh, fuck,” you pant, voice shredded and high. “Of course you— fuck— like the whole authority trip—”
Gojo’s fingers twist in your hair and yank your head back, peeling another pathetic mewl out of you as he devours your neck, teeth chasing the thready pulse beneath your jaw. His cock stabs harder, meaner, each pistoning thrust slapdrunk with self-regard. He thinks briefly that he could keep you like this forever—a body wound tight for his fucking pleasure, nails splitting crescent moons in his forearms, cunt spasming whenever he catches your sweet spot on the drag. He’s in love with his own stamina, but you can feel the tremor in his legs, ticklish with how close he is to coming.
“You’re right,” he breathes, dragging his face up until his nose slams against yours. “I also like it when you say please.”
He drags the pads of his thumbs along your lower lip, slick with spit and sweat. “So say it. Just once. Then I’ll give you what you need.”
“Senpai,” you whine, a broken moan pretty on your lips. “Oh, fuck, I’m close — please – ”
Your cunt pulses around him at the word, as if your body’s always been primed to obey him, and you’re sure he can feel it. He laughs, mean and breathless, and hooks your knee up, angling you open for the final push.
If you could speak, you’d call him out on it—that he’s chasing your finish just to make himself look good, that this is the mission only the Strongest can carry off—but your brain is too frayed, voice ripped to syllables and desperate heat.
There’s a brief divide, a split-second eternity: the narrow line where you nearly peak, nearly lose, nearly fold. Gojo is relentless, chasing you higher, his hand circling your throat—not squeezing, just anchoring you in the moment.
“Come for me, baby. Come on my cock,” he whispers, and his voice is more curse than plea, the blue of his eyes almost phosphorescent in the dark.
You do. It carves you open, so sudden and hard your body bows off the bed. You writhe under him, keening, aware only of the slick noise of your own pleasure and the vice of his hands, holding every inch of you in place. He fucks you through it, relentless, until your vision goes gray at the edges.
You nearly black out, everything seizing around the points where your skin meets his, the pressure of Gojo’s grip anchoring you to a world you’re barely aware of. You’re boneless and seized at the same time, toes cramping, tears squeezed from the corners of your eyes as you whimper into his shoulder. He buries his face in your neck and shoves once, twice more, then swears and follows you, cock jerking as he pulses inside with a fullness.
For a moment, neither of you moves —he’s draped over your body, weight pinning you to the mattress, breath rasping through clenched teeth as his sweat mingles with yours and trickles in sticky lines across your sternum.
You angle your jaw to taste the salt in the hollow of his throat, lips working dumbly, unable to find words. All you can do is drag in the reek of sex and ozone and, under that, the faint bite of lychee gum left on your tongue mixed with the taste of your cunt in his mouth.
It’s stupid, how much you want to stay here. To freeze this brief, perfect, lunar second where nothing hurts and nothing haunts. But life isn’t generous like that. Not for you, and definitely not for Satoru.
After a length of indefinite time, Gojo stretches, collapses to the side, and arranges both of your legs over his thigh like you’re some expensive throw blanket. He hums, satisfied, gaze heavy on the ceiling tiles, thumb idly tracing lazy arcs on your knees.
Neither of you speaks, but it’s not uncomfortable. What is uncomfortable is the sticky mess cooling on your inner thighs, which Satoru observes with clinical interest before rummaging one-armed for his discarded shirt and using it to wipe you off, nice and rough, like a cat cleaning another’s fur
You try to squirm away, but he just laughs—low and hoarse, his vocal cords well and truly shredded—then tucks the shirt under your ass and re-cages your legs in his arms.
“So,” he says, voice gone thin and sleep-drowned, “That’s one item off the list.”
You raise your eyebrows. “You keep a list?”
He turns his head to regard you, face half-framed by limp white hair and an uncommonly pensive look, like he’s uncertain if you’re joking. “Of course. Not gonna die knowing there was something left undone.”
You snort, “That’s some little old lady logic. Thought you’d live forever.”
He shrugs, wrist finding a familiar groove under your knees. “If immortality’s on the table, I don’t want to be bored. You’re the least boring thing I’ve got.”
“That’s a bad line,” you scoff, but you let him smooth your hair from your forehead. The silence after is companionable, if you don’t think about it too hard.
You let your eyes wander over the room—in daylight, it’d be Scandinavian white and beige, minus the dark window shades and the malicious blue inferno of his clock display. There’s a photo tacked to the wall opposite, warped by thumbtacks and time: a younger Satoru, Suguru, and a wedge of their old classmates clowning for the camera, arms looped around each other. There’s another tucked beside it, too: a candid, your own face blurred in motion, half out of frame, scowling as Gojo dumps a snowball down the back of your jacket.
You nudge him in the ribs. “Didn’t know you were sentimental.” He flinches, then laughs, the sound more honest than anything you’d heard from him at school.
“Only started when I realized how easy it is for things to change,” he mutters.
“I usually try not to think about those things. Not that I won’t change. But for the record, you’re stuck with me,” you ramble, bashful. “You know what I mean.”
“Yeah. Good,” he says, and then, as if remembering the world beyond the covers, flips you until you’re half draped over his chest, arm beneath to cradle your shoulder, the other folded behind his head to serve as an impromptu pillow. He smells like ancient sunlight and a taste of foreign aftershave, and under it all, like summer static, some deeper, earthier undertone that’s always been his.
he takes you in, he feeds you, he gives you a home when the world around you can no longer make sense of the word- and yet you’re just as much of a grounding force in his life. when the frenzy hits, though, he can’t make heads or tails of anything; all he knows is that you’re a pretty, fleshy thing and he aches to sample it.
content smut/nsfw, daddy kink, dilf/guardian! sylus, so by a stretch it can be pseudocest, noncon, soft! sylus but turns into frenzied! sylus, yandere themes, piv, rough handling, loss of virginity, some angst because of guilt/disillusion, codependency, age gap (but both parties are 18+), biting, dark content, almost 10k words
sidenote i could only resist the catch-22 sylus agenda for so long. it’s not fully canon compliant but its heavily based around it. so yes sylus has his iconic mullet and he’s a lil baby crashout in this. also no this isnt even the sylus bday fic i had in mind but if i dont get that one out in time then this will be the substitute 😣 anways, i hope u enjoy my friends <3
You don’t remember much, growing up. Beyond him, at least.
The world goes to shit with the predators and your parents fade out of the equation- and you’re left alone for much of your youth until an ominous man comes along and takes you under his wing— but only reluctantly.
For a while afterward, you think he still grudges you for the day you, in one way or another, managed to fall under his custody, becoming a knot in his neat web of plans and purposes. Deep down, you got the feeling that he didn’t need you as much as you did him; despite his choosing to keep you around, it was likely more out of guilt than any genuine affection- but you’d decided that was okay.
He saved your life, pulled you from the fire before you could really feel its burn, and you’d be the last to make complaint for your circumstances.
There’d be no circumstances if not for him.
But he tenderizes. It turns to be an open thing, his fondness.
He takes you in when you’re fifteen. Since then- throughout the course of around six years, he’s become softer. Less ambiguous to you. There’s things he keeps under wraps and always will despite the harmless pestering on your end (like questions regarding his work, the silhouettes that trail you both constantly— and the curious glances thrown to the blood on his collar after he returns late in the night). But he’s not longer as obscure to you, his person.
Trust blooms in the parts of you where an impoverished lifestyle of scraping by carved out gaps. And you’re used to hiding- that’s not much different now- but instead of diving for shady alleyways, you find refuge in him.
He’s dangerous. That was established early on; since the first moment you met him, really, knelt before him in fear after grabbing his pant leg for help (an action he mistook for a foolish attempt at pickpocketing), that was obvious.
He’s threatening.
Never to you. Not now.
Sylus is a man of impressive decorum and somehow all the blood coating his hands doesn’t take away from his class— he extends those hands to you, callouses and all, and gives you a patient look as if he’s expecting you to take them.
At sixteen you start calling him dad (more of an accident than anything else- it’s not a conscious thing that compels you to view him as something paternal).
He doesn’t object to it.
Things fall into place in weird ways.
When all the pieces settle, you find yourself looking at a semblance of a home— a safe place that the self-proclaimed beast curated with his own paws through painstaking efforts. (Whether you were fully cognizant of them or not didn’t matter: he tried his damnedest to be what you needed, and could only hope it was enough.)
The two of you are always on the move. He barges into your room panting at night and tells you to hurry and pack a bag, or just outright scoops you up in his arms and tucks you into the car’s backseat seconds before you hear the tires revving off. Your surroundings are perpetually changing around you and yet he remains the same; a citadel, a rock in your life.
Sylus provides an air of safety. Despite it all, the abrupt ‘field trips’ (at least, that’s what he called them when you were a bit younger) taken to ward enemies off your location, the bullets that fling by your periphery on furtive nights out and the red threads that coil behind him like talons- destroying anything before it can so much as harm a hair on your pretty head- you feel safe with him.
Predator or not- he’s good to you, a lighthouse fixed firmly amidst rolling smog and cyclones.
You can’t count a time he’s lost control or been unprepared for a frenzy, and he’s taken the proper precautions to keep you from him whenever he suspects one is coming on. The broken activator just solidifies his vigilance. And he’s instructed you plenty on what to do if he does lose it, God forbid, albeit your agreement to it was utterly uneasy.
He figures he’ll spare you the little horror show, he’d joked just to smooth out the worried crinkle in your brow.
Yet- Figures he’ll spare you your life, is what he doesn’t say, despite it being a shared thought between you both.
He teaches you how to wield a gun early on.
You’d told him you didn’t wanna use it, but something as trivial as guilt had no place in Linkon as it collapsed into decadence and carnal ruin. And something like sympathy, he’d also added, was stupid. An invitation to get yourself killed.
(Silly, that. Silly and hypocritical of the man who takes pity on runts.)
Conversation is kept at a minimum at first, and clipped, but he sprinkles in tips and tricks at self preservation— life hacks in the most literal sense— and he keeps an eye on you. Watching always. He makes sure you’re holding up well and even lets you hold down the fort while he’s gone doing God knows what. It feels like a privilege when he entrusts things to you, no matter how seemingly small.
Sylus is special to you. You love him as a teacher, a protector, a warm chest to snuggle up to on the sofa when you’re restless and can’t sleep but you know he’s downstairs with a cushion waiting—
You love him as a father, too.
Not everything about him is clear to you, though... You learn many things but one you have more difficulty understanding is the way he perceives you.
You don’t know if he loves you as a daughter, or a welcome nuisance, or a stray (because he has a penchant to root for the underdog). At first, you questioned if he even loved you at all.
But you’re older now,… and you see it, the heart he wears on his sleeve to bleed for you. He cares for you. And he’s there for you.
And when he asks you to leave with him- less of a hurried demand now and more of a gentle, imploring breath amidst chittering sounds of crickets and night bugs as he stands as a single shadow against your bed frame—
You take his hand.
✦
Boxes piled in every other corner, the building feels less like a home and more like a warehouse- a very tiny, cozy warehouse, with each of your scents intertwining in the unassuming spaces where you meet.
It’s no feat of architecture- just a small apartment nestled in the innards of the southern district, and it certainly isn’t a product of exorbitant spending (the place is deceptively… humble, for what Sylus can afford), but for what it is, you like it.
You’ve dwelled at several different addresses before, and you expect this arrangement will be more of the same. You stopped mourning over the loss of houses that could’ve been homes some time ago; you bounce between streets and domains like rabbits. However, there’s a strange comfort that builds in your chest as weeks pass and, for this reason or that, your guardian shows no signs of jilting the flat.
One day, he calls you to the living room after you’ve showered, and he sits you down.
You lie in a makeshift cage between his long legs as they hang over the couch, one hand smoothing over your damp hair while the other brushes it through.
He’s never in much of a hurry to speak, so when you reach for the TV remote to fill the silence, and he stops you- you concede to the quiet, knowing whatever he’ll say to break it will be worth some thought.
Still, he seems more contemplative than usual. It warrants pause on your end.
Internally, you consider your belongings- the deliberate choice you made to keep most of them boxed- and find relief in the fact that you’ll have less to pack if Sylus were to inform you right now of another move.
It’s a little sad, but it’s just the way things are. You won’t cry over the hand that you were dealt. If nothing else, you’re just thankful, what with the squeeze this city of sin has on its people, that somewhere along the way, Sylus came to loosen you from it.
You owe him. But he never names his price.
Long, rough fingertips meticulously weaving through your hair, gentle despite the callouses as he twists it into braids, you fall into the belief that he won’t.
Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but you can’t find much in you to debunk it save for the tiny, deep-rooted fear that one day you’d wake up, and- just like your parents on the day of outbreak- he’d be gone. There was plenty of doubts in your head, but most if not all were born from an old trauma, and Sylus seemed… content, weirdly enough, at your side.
It becomes an easier and easier thing to believe that’s where he’ll remain.
“Sweetie,” he eventually says, “I wanted to… discuss something, with you.”
You perk under his hands, spine straightening. You give him a sidelong glance over your shoulder and find his eyes, a sharp red, surprisingly mellow as they flit across the bridge of your nose, reading your expression carefully.
“What’s wrong?”
That (the instinctive response to believe something’s gone amiss) almost brings a wry smile to his lips, but he wets them a moment later and opens them to speak. “Nothing. Not this time,” he explains smoothly. “You… You’re used to moving around, the both of us are. I’m sure it’s been… tiring, at the best of times.”
“Well,” you start as a reply, but find your speech cropped short because you’ve no real way to deny that: it was exhausting. Of course it was. But wherever he went, you’d follow. That’s just how it’s always been.
Besides, if not fixed firmly at his side- you’d be choosing the hell that is overrun, lawless Linkon; to be tossed back into its maw for the predators or, if you’re more fortunate, a not as brutal death by starvation.
Noting your silence- your agreement- Sylus continues.
He ties off the end of the tuft with a colorful band and moves to work on the other, surprisingly deft. He’s only done your hair a million times- but still, his odd expertise in it was as surprising as it was endearing. The fact that you’re twenty-one now doesn’t change this common arrangement- or the mutual fondness the two of you have for it. You like when Sylus dries or does your hair, and evidently, he does too, for whatever reason.
Maybe it’s just therapeutic for him to feel something soft in his hands. He’s better acquainted with the opposite.
“So what if we were to stay?”
The words take a moment to click.
Because you don’t stay anywhere. You don’t stay, you just run and drive and hide. Live life perpetually on the down low. On the run.
Sylus does not settle.
Still, his voice, thoughtful and velvety, rumbles behind you in a continuous, comforting sound and forces you to take what he’s saying seriously.
“This place- you don’t dislike it, do you? It’s nice. Nothing gaudy or impressive. But it’s… homey,” he muses aloud. “Off the books. You’re safe here. Safer than what the other addresses had to offer, at least.”
You ponder it for all of five seconds before answering. And to be fair it’s not actually hard to; an inner part of you assumed you’d be on the move for all your life, but you’re weirdly pleased at the idea of… not being on the move for all your life.
Some anchorage sounds nice.
You tuck your head to your chest. “I… I think I would like that.”
He perks a bit. You feel it in his hands when they pause, done with their task, and one shifts to rest on your crown.
His knees, flanking either side of you, close in. Without thinking, you latch onto one’s calf and lean into it as you grab the remote. This time he lets you.
“Yeah?” He goes, a little breathless. “Are you sure? You realize it’d be a little more… permanent.”
“Okay.”
Sylus looses a sigh somewhere behind you.
“What I’m getting at is that you’re no longer a little squirt in desperate need of me,” he clarifies in a more pointed tone, and you resist arguing that- you have no time to, really, “so if you want to leave, you can feel free to. Don’t think you’re being shackled here by me.”
For as genuine as his words sound, you quickly cotton onto the expectancy that undercoats them- the mite of something that almost makes you believe he’s waiting for affirmation on your end. A rare thing. Usually it’s the other way around.
It pulls a huff from you, though. Peels of laughter rattle from the screen in front of you (he managed to unpack your TV, but as it stands, most of the house is still pretty bare) but you ignore your favorite show for the moment to turn and frown at him.
You grab his knee while you do, saying, “Of course I don’t think that. If anything, I feel like I’m holding you back.”
Scarlet eyes blink and widen, but just slightly. White hair falls over his brow (his locks loosening from gel after a long day) when he gives his head a tilt. After a beat, he laughs at you, a deep, rumbling sound- and pats your head directly after to fix the flustered knot in your brow.
“Well, I guess we’re both wrong then, hm?
He stoops forward to kiss your cheekbone- a chaste, quick thing- and then he gets up with a grunt to head for the hall.
You watch him with a strange flutter in your chest (one that you label affection; not a wrong guess but it also fails to fully encompass just what he means to you) and stare at the wall even as he disappears behind it.
But he calls over his broad shoulder to you, “Don’t sit too close to the screen, by the way. Someone tends to get headaches when watching cartoons.”
Crossing your arms with a pout, you lean your back into the seat of the couch and splay your legs out on the fluffy rug. You’re glad for that being unpacked, but quickly find yourself planning for the following days and all you’ll have to take out and assemble- which admittedly wasn’t much, but it was still enough to trigger your lazy streak.
Sometimes you just want to lounge around all day and do nothing: a fantasy that feels more possible after your guardian’s suggestion.
You holler back, “Oh, just go to sleep, old man.” Distantly, a door opens, but it doesn’t close.
He’ll be out later.
✦
He doesn’t come out later, contrary to your belief, but his open door does make a little more sense to you when it’s deep into the night and you emerge from your own room, scared, and traipse down the hall.
The remnants of a nightmare that felt too-real grip you. Five fingers on, they don’t let go.
But Sylus- the quasi foreboding man who took you in- knows how to pull you from a pinch.
You seek his warmth as the swath of wooden tiles cooling the balls of your feet blends into carpet- that of his bedroom- navigating in total darkness as you enter.
“Sylus-?” You can’t even get the word out before he startles upright and you hear the clink of something steely and dangerous—
“I-It’s me, daddy!” You assuage quickly, voice a frail, shaken sound that’s made even smaller by the dregs of a bad dream that still hangs fresh over your mind.
Even as the images peter out— claws wrapping around your throat, a dumpster rattling as you and other ragamuffins brawl over veritable trash as food, the roar of a predator as it holds you down, saliva dribbling into your ear— the emotions are harder to shake.
You feel dizzy and a little out of place as he lets out a deep sigh of relief, flicking on the lamplight, and blinks heavily at you.
The fingers that have dipped beneath the mattress retract and return to his lap. You observe it with a relaxing of your shoulders.
Some of the tension fades from him too, but not all of it.
He asks, concern entangled with gravely bits of exhaustion, “What’s wrong, sweetie?”
You say nothing, your own voice failing you as you mentally struggle to not only find your thoughts but string them together in a coherent way.
Everything around you was blurry. Felt unstable. A cold, clammy sweat licks up your palms and forehead. The ground beneath you grows a mouth and threatens to swallow you whole- the shadows in the corner ominous and great, watching.
Of course, it was only a nightmare, an unpleasant dream that you’d laugh about and forget easily enough come morning. But right now, it’s not. It’s vivid and horrifying and amalgamating into the atoms of reality to create a special kind of paranoia. It won’t let you sleep tonight.
…Not unless something’s there to hold you, at least.
Sylus’s own voice is groggy, a bit confused. Almost unthinkingly, though, he extends a hand to welcome you.
“C’mere,” he lifts the blanket and you’re instantly drawn to the empty space beside him.
You assume it with eagerness and all but barrel into his chest, punching out a grunt from him before he chuckles faintly, reaching over to pull on the thin, beaded chain. Darkness paints across your surroundings but a small highlight swims in cherry-red eyes as they soften at you.
Strong, lean arms wrap around you, helping you burrow into him without objection.
“Was it a nightmare?” He murmurs just above a whisper, voice warm but rough as the fluffy comforters, the same ones he tucks you both under, hug him back in. “Haven’t had one of those in a while, hm?”
He feels you jerkily nod under the dip of his chin and makes a sighing response. Callous finger pads close around your back and rub little circles there meant to soothe. “S’okay, kitten. It’s over now,” he breathes, languidly pecking your temple with open lips, smearing away the part of your fringe that’s been pasted there by a cold sweat.
He has this weird habit of taking you under his wing despite his serrated edges and the natural intensity of his stone face; right now, you curl up closer to his breast, finding a tenderness he perhaps only reserves for you, and he exhales overhead.
Fears are fast to flee, wrapped up by him. As moments pass, and your erratic heart rate resumes a more normal pace, you sound your gratitude in a low murmur. Vaguely, you wonder if you’d also stirred Sylus from a nightmare of his own upon stumbling into his room, because his own pulse- typically extremely slow- undulates in his sternum.
It thumps against your ear, creating a cadence almost considered fast. A touch uneven and a lot loud.
“…Thank you, daddy,” you mouth against him, nuzzling into his pajamas- a thin, linen shirt that oozes a domesticity you’re hard-pressed to come by.
Beneath your ear— a skip.
“For… for always being there for me.”
It sounds a little sappy, but in the moment, none of that phases you. Evidently- with a low, contented hum emanating from deep within his chest- it doesn’t phase Sylus, either.
You wonder if it’s your imagination or a real, bonafide smile that curves against your head.
“Well, that’s where I belong, isn’t it? At your side,” he murmurs, and after a beat you feel his lips press a kiss to your crown, mild but lingering. “And you belong at mine, if you want it. I’ll always be here for you, sweetie,” he promises, “no matter what.”
Finally, you let your eyes flutter shut.
✦
Weeks pass. They do so pleasantly; slowly, but not in a bad way.
The quiet- mainly the lack of wandering from point A to B all for the sake of anonymity- is a welcome reprieve. Some doubts linger surrounding the agreement you and Sylus came to, but it becomes a more solid idea in your head as days pass without interuption:
This can be home.
So you start acting like it.
When noon hits, you don’t go with Wolfe, Sylus’s most trusted contact, for the usual training session when he swings by- bidding him farewell with a small wave- but instead stay back to work on the house.
Noon comes and goes. The sky turns dusky and your belly howls for food but you pay none of it any mind, too engrossed to care.
Because this is exciting.
You decorate all throughout the day, unwrap furniture from cardboard and feel anticipation swell inside you. You sing and twirl.
Before Sylus returns, you buzz with excitement while picturing his face upon walking in- not to a barren space but to a cozy one- and the rare show of his surprise. It’ll probably be nothing beyond a flare of his eyes or a soft sound of acknowledgement, but you pine for it all the same.
You’d like to make him happy. To make him feel more comfortable, at home. Especially after a long day spent weaseling throughout the blind spots of the city. He’s only allowed so much time to kick off his shoes and relax, and you want to highlight those moments for him.
It’s the least you can do, you think with a small smile, stepping down from a stool to appraise a photo you just hung (one with his hand around your waist, pulling you to his side— a would-be perfect photo if not for the crow that blurs in the corner of the lens).
Focused, you stick your tongue out and square your fingers, closing one eye because that’ll definitely help you make a better judgement on whether or not the frame is straight enough—
It slants sharply when the front door opens and slams.
You jolt, ripped from your small trance as you spin your head towards the entryway, only an iota prepared to run for the hallway and bird dive into the closet- that’s if you even make it in time. Bullets will always be faster than your little legs and if you’re correct in your belief that it’s those shady men who hate Sylus, come to retaliate against him, then there’s no way they’ll deliberate and give you a chance to escape—
Sock-clad feet halt on the floor. The stop in momentum hurls your head inches beyond your axis of balance, but the figure that freezes in the threshold, familiar, tall but hunched over, somehow seems more surprised.
Not at the new touch-ups on the walls and the neat, embellished rooms- no, but at you.
Trudging into the apartment, he looks worse for wear and you take the sight of him in with a different, growing kind of alarm.
Your shoulders ease up, just slightly. It’s not an intruder, a pack of big, unscrupulous men barging in to avenge some grievance related to the assassin who took you in- which is relieving, but the concern is tight in your brow all the same.
When he speaks, his voice is ragged. Half man half animal.
“Sweetie- what are you-?” He cuts himself short to make a sound of displeasure that comes from deep within his throat. Raw, brutal.
“You shouldn’t be here-!” You give a little flinch in response to the ferocity in his tone, phlegm catching in his trachea before he looks down, shakes his head with a hard blink, and stomps into the bulwarks of the apartment.
“Dad, you-?”
Ignoring your startle (perhaps blind to it; you think his mind is on other, more inward matters as something wild glints in his eye- paired with a conflict that worsens with each heaving breath), Sylus grabs your wrist, and he does it tightly.
“There’s no time- I need you to hurry. Help me with my suppressants- now!”
Something clicks in you, then, a distant memory lighting itself from a foggy space of remembrance.
“And kitten, listen to me. If I ever… lose control,” he starts, words a gentle, almost resigned mumble against a backdrop of city sirens and a snarling engine as the car veers into a more secluded road. You stare at his profile with a flicker of unease. But he remains composed, saying as if it’s a topic as simple as the weather, “I need you to handle me,” he glances at you, gaze steady, a brilliant, solid red, even as your mouth opens to bluster out a denial of that possibility.
“But- your suppressants- We can use them—“
“Maybe,” he turns to look out the windshield, at the road ahead. Dust and debris scrape in the wind. Even for the southern district, the place was ratty, but this is where the deal was to be had, and Sylus needed those vials before morning. “But things don’t always go as planned, you know that, sweetie. So… If something ever fails, or I become immune to the dosages— I taught you how to shoot.”
“I- I wouldn’t shoot—!“
He snaps his head over and barks, fingers whiting around the wheel. “You would! You would and you will.”
Startled, your vision blurring despite the hand you close firmly over your breast- as if balling your emotions in your palm, holding them at bay- you swallow. Scarlet eyes ripple, irises dancing around a black orb as it shrinks and becomes frantic. Unease flutters in your chest as his cold instructions turn over in your mind- but for all his hammering of them into you- you don’t bite the hand that feeds. It’s just not in your nature.
You don’t even bite the hand if it asks you to.
Begs.
Noting your shock, the stunned expression that barely masks a confused kind of hurt, your guardian blinks. Sighs and looks away.
Exhaust blows out from the back of the vehicle; you catch it in dark tails from the rear view mirror, in whiffs as the air around you becomes sour and noxious.
“I taught you to shoot,” he says again after a beat. Softer, this time. “When it gets to the point where it really matters,… don’t let your daddy down, okay? Please, sweetie. Just… agree on this one thing.”
For once in a handful of years, not considered easy by any means- but enjoyable at his side- you stare at the man who took you in and find him cruel.
You dip your chin, more out of hurt than anything else, highly uncertain as dread contricts your lungs, and nod.
It does what it was meant for: It placates him. You think it even convinces him.
He’s putting all his faith in it, in that wordless assent you’d given him years ago, for the sake of the present.
Though, Sylus still thinks it’s manageable. That there’s still a shot that this frenzy- triggered by an enhancer after a gloved hand squeezed glass to the point of bleeding, vindictive and bent on getting the last laugh- can be resolved. So you hurry to lay him on the couch as his breathing picks up, scuttling towards his room before coming back with arms full of a briefcase.
You crash to the rug and prop the case on the coffee table, fishing out a syringe before sidling up to him and taking his arm.
With some resistance- and a grunt that sounds more wolfish than man- he lets you, and you line up the needle with his arm. You say a curse under your breath when tears smear across your lids and make fuzzy the room around you.
“Hurry,” he rasps.
Shakily, you dig at the crook of his arm with your thumb to plump up the vein before- with little coordination- you feed the needle in with a sharp breath.
It mingles with Sylus’s as he makes an uncomfortable noise, the glittery fluid disemboguing into his bloodstream.
Split seconds feels like eons.
Time moves slow as molasses and you chew on your lip until something like metal sours your tongue.
Between fingers that tremble wildly just to keep it inside him, steadily injecting him with the suppressant, and a heart that pounds with uncertainty in your ears— given no assurance whatsoever that you’re not too late to pacify him— you don’t realize all the gawking on his part.
The ardency in his gaze, fleetingly tender, as it remains fixed to you. Some unspoken battle happening behind it.
…The darker thing, with a name you can’t assign, is winning out.
He feels it, too; conscious thought lending itself to his baser person— instincts, ugly and primal and overwhelming— all against his will.
“You were supposed to be with Wolfe,” He forces out with great difficulty, sweat beading his temple. He’s hot to the touch, skin like a kiln, baking your fingertips as they hover over him.
Light as feathers, you still feel the burn.
“I would’ve never came.”
Thickly, you swallow, rubbing his forearm soothingly even as the veins there bulge and glow, putting a fright in you that you do well to ignore.
He needs you right now. He needs you and you won’t fail him.
“Shh, shh,” you hush, folding your upper half over the sofa to plant your head against his shoulder.
One hand, between your bodies, gradually plies him with the suppressant; the other slips to the nape of his neck and intwines with his mullet, tugging softly.
He lets out a soft sound at that, temporarily appeased.
“It’s okay, daddy. It’s okay.”
You need it to be true.
For what it’s worth, he does seem just a touch comforted by that.
It’s not lasting.
He’s dangerous, and he knows. He’s losing out to the predator instinct, and he knows and he’s terrified but he remains rigid. Has to.
“I want you to inject all of it into my veins,” a sonorous voice rings at your ear, dry, open lips moving against your head as he smushes a kiss there. You think it’s more subconscious a move than anything as the cognizant trace in him fades out, albeit you still appreciate it.
A large hand, hanging off the couch- shaking not because it’s weak but because it’s trying its best to be- shifts to rest over your back.
He continues, “And then I want you to leave me. If we’re lucky, I’ll pass out and ride it through that way…”
Clenching your jaw, you nod against his neck, under his chin, and bite down on a whimper.
“You’ll be okay, daddy. Tomorrow morning, you’ll be all better. The suppressants w-will make you sleepy, and—“
Something surges in him, then, a growl cutting through your eardrums as you flinch back and he- before the second little vial even reaches the halfway tick- knocks it from your hands.
It collides with the coffee table and shatters.
The rug- the fluffy one you’d happily picked out with him some months back- darkens with a splotch you can’t easily scrub out.
Like an animal in a cage he’s revolted. You’re not naive enough to not see the movement for what it is; no matter how watered down, it’s still a version of it: a beast lunging.
Whatever’s left of his conscience is just barely barring that monster off, but as you fall back on your ass and gape at him, you realize with horror he will not turn out as the victor.
Fear brews in your belly. Butterflies swarm the pit of it, leaving nausea in the wake of their wings as they make quick work of your bravery- or the pretense you held of it.
A drop of blood pricks from the crook of his arm, the syringe made useless as it lay broken on the carpet: you watch it with shock, numbness almost, before looking up to him.
He forces himself to go recumbent, five fingers splayed over his face. The gaps in them, though, reveal grimacing, pearly teeth.
Canines bared no different than a hungry predator, defensive and bold.
Unlike you, very real in their display.
For a number of seconds, you do not breathe. Eyes wide and scared.
“Go,” he croaks out after a moment.
It takes longer than it should to register.
When it does, you gasp as if stirred from a bad dream. It’s precious- the sign he gives that he’s still in control- and you don’t take it for granted. You rise to wobbling knees, frenetically glancing between the dazzling shards and his heaving chest.
You extend a cautionary, worried hand, something in you utterly wrecked at the sight of him- your savior, your shield, your father figure- crumpled in on himself.
“Daddy—“
“Go!”
Silence strobes across the living room, but just for a second. It bites into you where it settles.
Unthinkingly, you turn. His words and their grating tone cut better than any knife ever could. Tears clinging to your lashes, you steel your legs (because they’re gelatinous beneath you), whip around, and start for the front door.
You don’t know where you’ll go apart from Sylus tonight, but that’s all to be figured out later after you calm your nerves down a bit and convince yourself it’ll all be fine—
The couch groans atop its wooden frame.
Suddenly, a hand snatches around your wrist, scorching hot, and when you swirl around, his head is bowed.
A whit of hope strings you along—
“D-Dad?” You breathe, “Are you okay now?”
Scarlet eyes peer up from a silvery curtain of hair, aflame, near glowing, and you let out a gasp.
—And drops you.
“I thought you wanted to help little old me? So…” he muses darkly, “where are you going?”
The reality of your situation takes a second to catch up to you.
Something that can accurately be called fear clamps in your chest— not for what he could be but for what he is now. Some change has happened in him, some sickness taken root, and until it passes, you’ll be victim to the beast that wears your savior’s face.
Stunned, you listen. “Has your father ever left you hanging? Don’t tell me you wouldn’t do the same?”
“Sylus-“
He tuts, a belittling sound. “That’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. C’mere, kitten, sit.” Long fingers entwine around your wrist and you’re reminded of wolf paws trampling over twigs in forests. It’s not unbearably tight a grip, not yet, at least, but he’s certainly applying more pressure than what he generally does.
You wet your dry lip, dread wringing you from the inside out. You feel oddly parched.
“But Sylus- you’re not-“
“Sit,” he suddenly growls, something undeniably dark glittering in his eye.
You’re without opportunity to argue or even try to reason with him, because he yanks you into his lap and loops his arms around your middle.
You liken yourself to a bird in a cage. His limbs your bars and your soft sounds of fear like twittering.
Using the last of your rational thought- your brain losing ground to fight or flight instinct- you try to think back to his instructions (funereal as they were), but find yourself creating other options. Even if you did want to shoot Sylus like he’d made you promise all those years ago, it’s not like you’ve got a gun lying around for it… No, the one he gave you (the one you keep as a token of him, like a locket) is sandwiched between your mattress and its framework.
A-And that’s where it’ll stay. No matter what.
Because you don’t bite the hand that feeds. You don’t bite the hand that feeds even after it pleads to be.
You decide, right then, that it’s better to play dead.
Sat perfectly still in his lap, your plan succeeds for all of half a minute before a hitch appears. To begin with, it was one born out of desperation, with low expectancy- but damn it all you still flinch when you become aware of his teeth and your proximity to them.
Fangs brush against your throat, uncomfortably sharp. It raises alarm in you, but it’s quickly lost in the other warning bells clanging in your skull.
You shiver. To your horror, Sylus chuckles.
“Are you scared I’ll hurt you?” He murmurs, breath searing your neck where it fans against it. It’s labored and fast; the depravity amplified against your earlobe.
Somewhere in you, you find the courage to answer. “A- A little,” you feebly admit. “I couldn’t get all the suppresants in.”
Sylus hums, low and satisfied, but you don’t quite miss the undercurrent of decadence in it- as much as you might want to.
“Good,” he quips. “Frenzies feel so much better without the pushback. You shouldn’t have injected any in me in the first place.”
“But you said-“
“It’s in my DNA to want to bite. It’s a little cruel to keep me from that… don’t you think?”
A debate happens within you, short-lived but tumultuous. You deliberate on answering because really, how can you? What is there to say that can temper him when he’s like this? A predator in the flesh.
And the thing about predators is that, somewhere in the equation, there must be prey—
But no. No- you refuse to believe he’ll succumb to that animalism, not when he’s more or less like blood to you. Your trust for him runs as thick as it, anyway. Blood is thicker than water, and poison, too- so the toxic lilt in his voice means nothing. Nothing at all.
You swallow, unable to offer any real reply. “I- I-“
“No,” he snips, a palm drifting lower. Positively impatient. Ever the obliging, albeit sometimes brusque man, the Sylus you know is nowhere to be found.
“Tell daddy what you really think of him. Think he’s a monster, don’t you?”
Finally, he nips at your neck, cutting himself loose from the self restraint he stubbornly moored himself to, groaning at the softness. Seamlessly, he suckles a hickey into your throat and you mewl.
The single thread of whatever the hell it is that’s keeping him at bay- his buried conscience, perhaps- snaps.
He makes a hot, ferocious sound, pawing at your breast now, drawing a startled yelp from you that his gums throb at. “Should he act accordingly? Hm? Use your words, kitten.”
Words? No. No, you think actions would suit you better- he’s not in his right mind right now and you need to leave like he’d ordered before your image of him, the one you’d put on a precious pedestal, collapses.
Daringly, you get up to try and bolt out again, mind single as your eyes dart to the front door.
If you can just leave the apartment, maybe you can lose him in the weaving, shady paths that are labyrinthine Linkon. Surely, he’ll find someone else, someone deserving (culpable men are not hard to come by here), and make them his glorified plaything instead.
By the time the sun rises, he’ll have woken from this awful, twisted trance—
He lets out a roar, angrily snatching you back onto the couch.
This time, though, there’s no semblance of freedom as he pins you under him, hovering close enough to bump his long nose against yours as he grips your hips tight enough to bruise.
“Nawh, you wound me, sweetie… And here I thought…” he rasps, ruby eyes glossing as the lid droops, blatantly ogling your jostling breast, “You had daddy’s better interest in mind.”
That’s unclear. But yours? Your better interest?
There it is again- blitzing across your frazzled conscience, stark against the dreadful haze: Play dead.
You do.
The blow will come, that’s definite. But if you play your cards right, maybe, a small hope in the back of your head says, you can lessen it.
You go limp beneath him and his hands. Even as they grope your tits through your shirt before he quickly foregoes that charade in favor of ripping open the collar, you remain still. You clamp your eyes shut and bite down on a pathetic sound.
Each and every one of your intentions evade riling him up, and yet your mere presence, pliant but shivering beneath him, does a good enough job at that on its own.
Still, as his energy builds into a devastating force, you’re quietly thankful for the amount you did manage to get in with the syringe. Likely, you realize with a heavy swoop of your heart, the determining factor in your life.
H-How much was it again-? Two vials? Or a vial and a half-?
Briefly, you glance over to the table where the case lay, open but half empty, and contemplate something stupid before the man- beast- above you laughs. Asserts himself in your face.
He’s all you see when he says, “I guess you don’t have your better interest in mind, either. Hm, kitten?”
And you’re all he smells, feels, knows, as he ruts his clothed cock against your thigh and you feel the swollen bulge. You shiver again. He’s really, really hard and is he actually planning to fuck you with that-?
You?
The pleasured, but not close to satisfied, grunt he makes says yes. Yes, absolutely he’s going to fuck you.
Rip off your panties after uncivilly pulling off your shorts and stuff his flushed length inside with a—
—“Fuck, kitty!”
He’s met with resistance.
And you forget your plan completely, terror taking over entirely as you begin to wriggle and plead for him to hold off, to reconsider— you’re a virgin and he’s mean and given your relationship, you two were never supposed to end up parallel to one another on the couch, desire brewing between your naked bodies. Well, you’re naked- or growingly; but Sylus isn’t.
Scraps of leather cling to sturdy, lean muscle, but he’s broiling in them still, skin licked with sweat. Evidently, heat has fried his neurons- his memory of himself- too.
“Please, daddy, I- I’ll—“
Oh, break. You’ll one hundred percent break but you keep from saying it aloud because you suspect it’ll warm his blood all the more. A correct guess, but it’s a little late for taking back what you did say. Sylus cottons onto it and groans.
“Don’t do this, Sylus,” you try to remind him of who he really is, even if your voice is small and untrustworthy. “Y-You don’t have to. J-Just remember who you are- who I am!”
His precious girl.
Once, he’d even said, his treasure.
Your heart stings.
Taking out the engorged, weeping head of him and rubbing it at your mostly-dry entrance (in hopes to prime it after failing to push his way inside), he’s hardly lucid as you babble.
Cute… But unimportant, he decides.
…Yet, he does somehow find it in him to look up, and you do find a trace of… something in him, human-like and guilty, when he does. It’s quicksilver. Gone when you blink.
Your pussy lips try to spit him out but it just works him up further.
The darkness in his gaze returns in tenfold.
He manages a scoff. “Oh, c’mon. Of course I remember~ You’re daddy’s little girl, aren’t you?” He hums meanly, suddenly immune to the wide, kicked look you send him. It’s always done wonders on him before, but you’re met with failure.
“So how come you can’t take his cock? I know you could, if you just tried a little harder. Relaaax. Ease up. From now on, someone’s gonna have to be the calm one between us when I get into my frenzies. You can be that, right?” That sentence instills dismay in you for many reasons, but you have no time to think on them.
He husks, “Now, go on. Help guide me in.”
You don’t reach a hand down between you two like perhaps he wanted, but you do hear a faint squelch right then as he cants his hips forward an inch, and it does make you gasp. Despite yourself, you slick up for him- for God knows what reason, maybe just as self preservation or some deeper, pitiful attempt to please him- and it becomes obvious.
Sylus notes it with a shaky breath that blends with his other labored, ragged ones, and a grin that’d better suit a bastard.
He delves inside, by a small miracle, but you can’t stop from crying when he reaches halfway in and blood rings around the thick base of him. Inwardly, you try to separate the sin from the face, telling yourself between strained breaths that he’s not in control, that this frightening, terribly unfamiliar side isn’t the real him.
You whimper more when you realize you’ll be squinting at him for months to come, losing sleep over the question of, was he helpless to the beast, or hiding it in him all along? Was he a mere victim to the predator instinct forced onto him? or willfully steering it—?
No. No. Because he’s like blood to you. And blood is thicker than water, and poison, and the niggling doubts you feed on until gluttony.
“I-It hurts,” you try when he bottoms out with a resounding groan. Shameless and frenetic. He stoops over you after pressing your legs all the way back to the couch, rough as he purrs in your ear.
“You say it hurts, but your pussy just squeezes tighter around me… So you’d understand why I’d be getting mixed reactions, don’t you?”
He whispers. For the second documented time, you find Sylus cruel. Very, painfully, cruel.
It’s hard to argue with him, even when you know he’s wrong. You think if he was more awake right now, more him, then he’d side with you as well. And yet he’s completely untrustworthy right now, morally black and mean. So, so mean.
That devilish smirk on his blissed-out face might bring on an even sharper sting than his cock as it spears inside you and starts a brutal pace.
Well.
Not quite.
Your eyes flare. So do his, want and pure, unadulterated need zipping between your bodies as his perspiration dribbles onto your collar. He hangs his head into your shoulder and you feel droplets slip between the valley of your breast.
It doesn’t take long for the heat to feel sweltering; sweat running like the Nile between you both.
“Silly little bird. You just- hah, fuck- have no clue, do you? How tempting you are?”
You ignore it all because it’s better to. Maybe ignorance won’t shield you from his hands as they clench around the fat of your hips, but it’ll certainly help you later on down the line when you want to forget and are thankful for the kickstart.
You try to focus on the ceiling, but even that blurs behind him when he leans back some just to stare, moaning at what he sees.
Even beasts can appreciate beauty, he distantly observes.
Those eyes on you, not gentle per usual (albeit sometimes tinged with a harmless tease) but ravenous and sharp- are even harder to ignore. You can’t stop your hands from lifting to push at his face to try to block him out.
All for naught, of course.
With a choked moan, he chuckles. “Ugh- look at you. These little hands keep swatting at me, even though your face is full of pleasure. Fuck,” he curses, his face handsome but a bit unnerving as it dons a more perverted look, eyes half closed, “You feel…. good. I always knew you would.”
No. No. Shut up, shut up—
“You wanna be good for your daddy?”
Yes.
Not like this.
He gathers your unruly hands and cuffs them above your head. “Then lie down and take it. If it hurts as much as you pretend, I’m sure it’ll… feel better that way, if you give in.”
There’s a very small window in between Sylus hovering over you and then Sylus dipping down to bite the fleshy bit between your neck and shoulder: in it, there’s no time to prepare.
Ice tingles in your veins, shock stealing your breath.
It’s the pain, first dull and uncomfortable as his teeth sink in, but then quickly all-consuming, that helps you find the scream.
The scream— a small, broken cry.
It doesn’t make much noise, not enough for any possible neighbors to hear- in Linkon, none would even bat an eye to it, anyway- but he covers your mouth regardless. He eats up the pathetic sounds with rough lips and hungry groans.
You don’t know how much blood he’s drawn, but there’s a little on his teeth that he makes you taste.
“Ngh, you’re delicious,” he heaves after a break. Saliva connects you both in a fleeting strand. “I’m sure your pussy tastes even better- but kitten, I really don’t have the time right now to try it. You’ll forgive me, won’t you?” He chuckles in your ear. You know he does not care for the answer. It’s deep and mean-spirited.
This side of Sylus- this rotten caricature of the man who took you in— All the hurt for it turns to loathing.
“For later,” he decides after a beat, resolved as he ignores your sneer.
You’re used to ambition on his end, but not greed: right now, his goals gravitate more towards selfishness than anything else.
All of it nears its end and quickly.
As he ruts into you, though, frenzied thrusts reaching their mark with loud grunts, it feels more gradual for you… Painfully slow. Seconds might as well be minutes, or hours, even.
It’s feral, the glint in his eye as he reshapes your walls to fit the outline of his massive cock, your virgin pussy spasming around him. Responsively, he gives a twitch, and you swear you feel his balls jump when he pauses- just for a moment- and they rest above your ass.
Sylus looks down at you, breathless and wild, and you shake at the lack of familiarity in his gaze. Ruby red eyes survey you almost frantically, with one intent only- to fuck you within an inch of your life, undoubtedly. Full of need. It’s a bottomless gaze. You think right then that you can’t give him what he wants because he’ll always be left wanting for more.
You’re not an ocean— if he reaches his hand in, he’ll inevitably reach the bottom but that clearly doesn’t stop him from trying to pull everything from out of you anyway.
It scares you. You feel small, mouse-like, but when he snatches your jaw into a sultry kiss, all canines and spit, you realize that even amidst the tumult of his predator state, you still mean something to him.
You’re all he sees. Feels. Understands to want for.
He burns inside you, the juncture of your thighs becoming sticky, gross. He ploughs inside without care for it, chasing his end and choking out moans along the way.
He coaxes some out of you, too.
Maybe it’s out of fear but you suckle on his tongue experimentally and he shakes, damp skin shivering under your finger pads as you dig them into his forearm.
Maybe you can’t play dead, but if all else fails, you can still play nice.
That’s in your best interest.
“F-uck, sweet thing, you’re gonna make me-“ a primal noise rips through his chest and rings in your ears. He lowers himself to your neck again and suckles at the orbs of blood that prick at the surface, lapping away at the small mess he made.
You wonder if after all this is over, you’ll be able to pretend it was just a love-bite, a hickey or something minor. Healable. Something able to be forgiven. Even if that would also be hard to reconcile with, considering you’d never thought he do something like this to you, the precious girl he’d flip Linkon upside down for—
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He’s classy, but not now. Cursing up a storm at your clavicle and pounding into you without thought, blunt nails embedding into your hips. Aching to brand himself wherever he can.
There’s no ceremony to it all (though there is a build-up, his pelvis quickening but stuttering against the underside of your bent thighs) when he comes.
He shouts and you scream, holding onto him for dear life as a torrent of something hot and thick floods you. Your legs shake, poor cunt desperately trying to push its intruder out but it flutters when he throbs inside you and quivers. A wisp of pleasure paralyzes you- it’s so good.
Warmth trickles between you; all along the seam of you when he withdraws until only the tip remains, his cheeks flushed, eyes unfocused.
You let your head bounce against the cushion when he slides it all out with a wet ‘pop’, squeezing your eyes shut in shame. But relief joins it, too, your jaw (that had went slack only to howl with delight) closing as you catch your breath.
It’s done. It’s over. You went through the hard part and now you just have to wait the aftershocks of it out until morning, when you’ll finally be given the chance to recuperate and forget the monster your daddy was acting the night before—
Something thick, straightening back to life, nudges at your sopping hole again as it clenches around nothing. Your eyes snap open.
A large, callous palm holds you down, bracing you by the collarbone. He tuts, leaning over you with a dazed but wholly vicious grin.
Far from satiated.
“Ah-ah, kitten. It’s a little early to tap out, isn’t it? I’m far from done with you.”
He drives himself back home, slamming into you with a moan you brokenly mirror.
✦
Morning birds tweet outside the window. Bickering back and forth to one another.
The sheer curtains glow with sunlight as the onset of dawn makes its way in. Rays of it slur together in blocks on the floor.
Sylus’s room, you realize groggily. Not the living room with its new sofa stained with sweat and sex or the rug with its shattered, neon vials.
A strong arm holds lazily to your waist. Warm breath at your ear tickles you into slight wakefulness. The body slotted behind yours isn’t scorching hot like your nerve endings remember, though, almost flinching in response, and his sounds aren’t ragged. No, it’s…
Peaceful.
The events of the evening before come back to you in increments.
Your mind, with the natural want to protect you, chalks it all up to a bad dream.
The ache between your sticky legs and the fat cockhead that sits limply above the cleft of your ass- appeased- says otherwise.
You let out a soft gasp. The man behind you grumbles out a low, noncommittal sound before his lashes flutter over the blade of your shoulder.
“…Baby? What’s wrong?”
He untucks himself from there and is given great pause when his nakedness- and yours- clicks. His limbs harden around you— horrified and confused as every fresh memory from last night comes barreling into him as well.
Stunned, he lifts his head from its perch at your shoulder, but his hand remains above your hip, feather light and hesitant.
Wearily, you turn to meet him when his other hand gently steers your chin to look his way.
He looks tired. Fucking exhausted, the fine wrinkles in his face emphasized under the weight of the night prior. He looks—
Devastated.
“You-…” A sharp, shallow breath beats from his chest. His eyes, wide and unsteady, flit between yours, searching desperately for something he can’t quite find or recognize as you wet your lip to speak.
“Yesterday, I… Started decorating the house. I was excited to show you,” you say without really knowing why. Sylus’s shoulders sag ever so slightly at your apparent calmness, but the fear in his eye remains as he surveys the bruises- all the discoloration in your otherwise supple skin- and blinks.
You inhale shakily, looking down to his chest and all its striations, put on full display in the afterglow of what transpired however many hours before.
It feels wrong to call it a night of love-making, or even a term more raw, unfeeling, as sex. No, it was…
He fucked you within an inch of your life and that was all you really knew. He fucked you until you passed out and then sometime afterwards, apparently snapped out of his trance just enough to carry you back to his bed and sleep the remnant of his frenzy through.
But it wasn’t his fault. Couldn’t have been.
(Whose, then?)
You murmur, “I should’ve went with Wolfe.”
“No,” and there it is again, that fucking snarl, searing you through to the core but before panic can settle, he’s cradling your cheeks and pressing his forehead to yours.
His eyes are intense, but not scary. No, they’re tender and beaten and lovely as his chest shudders and he shakes his head. “No, sweetie. What happened…” he starts, just as unsure of how to label it, “had nothing to do with you. Don’t ever blame it on yourself. Do you understand?”
Blearily, you nod.
You see him in double when he sighs and carefully thumbs away a tear you didn’t realize had formed and fell.
…But Sylus appears a mite uncertain with himself when his eyes fall to your breast before quickly averting, self aware to the point of near pain and definite discomfort. “I’ll clean us up,” he ventures, glancing at you again.
For permission, you realize. To scoop your jelly limbs up and carry you to the shower, bridal-style, where he’ll wash the both of you naked, intimate and-
And should-be alarming.
But it’s not. Not now when you’re still dazed and bruised and his dried cum is caked to your thighs in white rivulets- and he’s just as wounded, but ready to fix. Ready to repaint over the peeling bits of you both in the aftermath of it all. Hang a picture over the hole in the wall of your heart.
“…Okay.”
He wastes no time in picking you up, but he’s gentler than ever when he takes you with him to the bathroom adjoined to his room. It’s awkward: you note that even in the bone-deep fatigue. You can tell he’s trying not to look at all the places instinct tells him he should, and you do well to blot out the sight (and memory) of his softened cock as it dangles between his legs.
The shower starts. Sylus keeps you upright so you don’t fall because your joints will literally fail you otherwise.
“I’m sorry,” he laments as the water pours overhead, holding you against him. He means it in more ways than one. And yet, before you can voice your acknowledgement, and an unsure forgiveness, a small hope stirring in your gut that says this can be moved on from—
His lips press to yours. Chaste but searing; somehow even more world-shattering than last night.
It’s different. He’s… awake.
Jaw slack, you blink at him, water clumping your lashes both. He’s as handsome as a wolf is hungry but- for the moment- domesticated. Even his crow’s feet seem to soften.
“I’ll help you unpack the rest today,” is all he says as he reaches behind you for the soap, gaze unwavering even as you latch onto him and your perfect tits jiggle, his hand dipping below to carefully lather at your marks.
ੈ✩ tags: based on caleb's myth and set a little after they escape the lab, lads spoilers? i guess?, afab gender neutral reader, unprotected sex, virginity loss, fingering, oral sex, handjobs, they are icky gooey romantic, religious imagery duh
ੈ✩ wc: 3.2k
ੈ✩ a/n: xia yizhou im sooooo drunk. xia yizhouuuuuuuuuu
divider by omi-resources
When Eve was born, she was close to Adam’s heart. Under the aorta, surrounded by pumping blood. Cut out of his rib – a part of him.
Similarly, you are a part of Caleb. Sometimes, it feels like you only exist within his context.
Seeing him again had evoked the memory of soft grass and violet skies, the juices of summer fruit dripping down your chin. You say his name in your head and think of it. It feels like your first memory. The first thing beyond clinical white walls and the harsh rubble of a battlefield.
When Caleb saves you and teaches you what it means to lie with another human being, you drown yourself in all of it. All the affection, all the dopamine. You feel the sun on your skin and it feels like being kissed a thousand times over.
Caleb teaches you about affection very slowly. There’s hand-holding, his thumb caressing your palm. Forehead kisses.
For people who share a close bond, a kiss on any part of their body can be seen as a sign of affection.
It takes him almost two months to kiss you on the mouth. It’s not like he hadn’t thought about it. He dreamt of your mouth often, but that was something he kept to himself. It’d be humiliating to tell you how much he thought about the image of you biting into a ripe fruit. The pink pout of your mouth. How much that vision would haunt him even before the two of you had escaped the lab.
You’re so eager about kissing him that it genuinely disorients him. Your small hands always grip some part of him – his shirt, his hair. Your kisses over the past few months have gotten longer.
Your touch is the only thing that reminds him he’s not a cold, mechanical weapon. Blood flows through his veins, hard. It feels so good with you. Too good.
He can’t help the rush of blood that floods downward when he thinks about you. Can’t help the feeling when you linger a little too long near his neck. He’s had to scold you for biting the skin next to his jugular, your hands pawing too eagerly at his body like an overexcited puppy.
Caleb likes to calm you down with other indulgences. Swimming is one of them, but you insist on being naked. Cutting pieces of fruit has been good, as long as he doesn’t watch the way your mouth moves as you eat it.
You learn easily. You’re too observant in a way that infuriates him. It’s been months and you’ve memorized all the reactions he has to your touch. You know that the two of you share a close bond because of what he lets you get away with. Kisses on the mouth have gotten to be so much that he has to hold himself back. You notice this. So you play with him.
You’ve been camping out at your current cabin for over a month. It’s the longest you and Caleb have stayed somewhere. Both of you have come to the unspoken conclusion that you might stay there long term, considering it was an open cabin and there hadn’t been any threats to you both since you first found it.
It’s summer again. Not like it was when you had first remembered it. You and Caleb have traveled far since your escape, far enough that the climate has changed to something more barren. Dryer. Gone are the nights with fireflies and long grass. The two of you are lucky that the cabin you found is near a river. Despite this, the environment isn’t the same.
It’s fucking hot. Which is why you wear less clothing, opting for nakedness around the house if there’s not much to do. Caleb doesn’t protest, even though he knows damn well that the sight of you has his blood pumping harder towards his dick. The look in your eyes is too innocent. You don’t know any better, he presumes, and he can live with that. Anything to make you feel comfortable in the first year of your life outside of the labs.
It’s an afternoon in July and you’ve gone for a swim. Caleb hates to leave you alone but decides to do it that morning after you stubbornly refuse to wake up early.
Going into town for some supplies. Be good.
And you are. You prepare some food for later and go for a swim in the river. You’re draped in linens by the time he comes back.
When he sits up on the bed you share, you settle in his lap without asking. He stiffens, but his hands still automatically go to your waist, circling your sides softly.
You lean in to give him a wet kiss, more passionate and practiced than before. You’ve gotten better – you were much shyer, more naive a few months ago. Now, you’re more deliberate with your affection. Kisses on the mouth for reassurance. Teeth on his neck when you want something.
When you nip him, he huffs.
“What is it? Are you still angry that I didn't take you with me?” He raises a brow.
You shrug, mumble something unintelligible.
“Can’t I just kiss you? I’m showing affection. Because I like you.”
“I know you like me,” he chuckles, “you don’t have to keep doing it.”
You frown slightly. “But it feels like —”
He raises a brow. “Feels like what?”
“Like you’re not… getting it,” you mutter petulantly. “Like something’s missing.”
It’s Caleb’s turn to frown this time. He caresses your cheek softly with callused fingertips.
“What do you mean? I kiss you back. Love kissing you back.”
But I want more, you want to scream. You don’t know what more is, though. There are times you get too caught up together, when his tongue prods between the seam of your lips. You always remember the faint flame that seems to ignite whenever things go a little too far. It’s tantalizing warmth, wetness in between your legs.
Your yearning turns to desperation. Your eyes are big and wide as you plead with him silently, unable to form words.
“Caleb…”
“Yeah, honey?”
“Call me something else.”
“Like what? Your name?”
“No. Like in the pictures we watch.”
The movies. Caleb smiles softly. He supposes he spoils you too much by taking you to see them once a week, but he can’t help it. Each time, he loves to see your face from the side, the way your eyes glow in awe at the lives of humans on screen. They’re ancient fairy tales to the both of you. Despite his cynicism, he can’t take that away from you.
“What? Like baby?”
“Y-Yeah,” you mumble.
“You want me to call you that?”
“It sounds nice,” you huff. “But if it’s weird, you don’t have to –”
“Okay,” he sighs. “Okay, baby.”
He rubs his thumb over your jaw and you preen to his touch immediately, like an eager cat.
“Kiss,” you mumble.
You’ve been saying this a lot lately. Less as a question, more of a demand. Caleb can never deny you.
He slots his mouth with yours and you respond in kind. It’s soft, like the waves kissing the tide, until it’s not. He feels your tongue tease his mouth with an unexpected aggression and he jolts in surprise.
Where the hell did you learn that?
“Baby–” he mumbles, but he cuts himself off with a strangled noise. Your tongue is in his mouth again. Naively, bravely. Full of intent.
He can’t help but groan. He can feel blood rushing to his cock already.
He should stop you. He really should. But he doesn’t. It’s not like he’s felt this kind of affection with anyone else, either. He’d been less sheltered than you, for sure, but he doesn’t have the experience to withdraw. He’s too selfish. He’s been waiting for you for so fucking long.
So, he mirrors your intensity. Pulls lightly at your clothes out of eagerness. You tug your sleeves off until your robe drapes halfway down your back. His eyes widen as he pulls back to see the curve of your breasts.
Desire consumes the both of you. While he’s frozen, you attempt to take matters in your own hands by grinding against his clothed cock.
“H-Hey –”
“That feels good, right?” you breathe. “F-Feels good for me…”
“Baby,” he pants, “we should probably – hah – stop…”
“Why?” you pout. Your mouth glistens with sweat. Or is it spit? “Want to feel good. Want you to feel… good…”
Caleb groans. He can’t push you away, not when you’re in his lap like this. He attempts to satiate you by kissing the corner of your mouth. You whine when he pulls away.
“Where are you going?”
“Nowhere, I just —”
“Don’t wanna kiss me anymore?” You look up at him with wide, wet eyes. Seeing the curve of your mouth makes his skin burn hot.
“Of.. of course I do. But–”
“You said kissing is a sign of affection,” you mumble. “Anywhere, if \we’re close. And we’re super close, I think, soooo…”
His breath hitches when your hand grazes his clothed cock. Your eyes lower as you bite your bottom lip. Almost instinctively, you palm him with a little more pressure. Enough to make him gasp.
He whispers your name shakily and you take it as encouragement. You free his cock from his shorts and lick the tip, kissing it down to his shaft gently as you revel in the way he shudders.
“Fuck,” he gasps, “you gotta stop–”
You whimper. Your breath on his bare cock makes him shiver. You want to kiss him all over.
The way he responds makes heat rise in your body. It’s unfamiliar but it feels good. You want more of it. When you sit up to look at him, he captures your mouth in a feverish kiss. You can’t help but fall forward, bracing yourself with your hands on his shoulders while your core is slotted right above his aching cock.
You rub against him and he moans. It’s like nothing you’ve ever heard from him before.
“That feel good?” you whisper.
“Y-Yeah– oh, shit,” he gasps.
You mewl, grinding against him as you kiss him once more. Every touch point with Caleb feels electric. He bites down on your bottom lip and you make a small noise of surprise. He finally pulls away to look down at you, pupils swollen at his eyes settle on your chest.
His mouth descends to lick around your nipples, making you gasp and moan like he’s never heard before. The air around you feels so hot that you could melt into a puddle.
“Nnn – Caleb,” you whine. “More…”
“Mm, more what, honey?”
“Dunno,” you huff, your eyes wet. “More… it hurts…”
You’re referring to the throbbing in between your legs. He knows this. When his fingers brush over your swollen clit, you hiss.
“Hah–”
“Yeah,” he sighs, “Feels nice, hm? Right here?”
He continues his ministrations on your bud. Watches you moan until you let out a choked gasp from his fingers prodding the inside of your pussy. You’re flooded by fullness, all around you.
“Oh, Caleb,” you gasp, “that’s –”
“Too much?”
“Nnn – feels good –”
You blush at the sound of squelching from below you. You’re so wet – wetter than when you’ve ever prodded yourself late at night out of curiosity while he sleeps beside you.
“Hey,” his voice snaps you out of your fever dream desires, “Lay back for me, sweetheart.”
You obey, whining when he pulls his fingers out of you. He pries your legs apart and nips at your supple thighs. When he lowers his head to lick at your slit, your kitten-soft mewl has his cock throbbing against the mattress.
He fills you with his digits again, groaning as your walls welcome him easily. You’re silky and wet inside, smooth like a river bed. The way he eats your pussy is fucking obscene. You grasp the locks of his dark hair to stay grounded to Earth.
“Caleb,” you whimper, pulling his hair. His violet eyes flicker with something darker, something you’ve only seen when he’s competitive. His expression as he sucks on your clit is something else entirely, a version of him slowly unfurling with precedent desire. Something new blooms in your core. Pink-slippered, kissed by the paradise of his mouth.
The sensation in combination with his fingers pumping inside of you is so much that you don’t even register the build up. Your orgasm hits you like an exploding star. It feels as destructive as it is beautiful. You feel rebirthed, almost.
Your hips are still stuttering as he slides up to caress your jaw and kiss you all over your face. Without thinking, your hand extends to brush over the bulge in his slacks, making him groan in surprise.
“What are you doing?” he husks.
“Does it feel good? Your face is warm like mine…”
“Y-Yeah..” His breathing picks up rapidly as he watches you shyly unzip him. His cock is heavy in your hands. You thumb over his leaking tip and your breath hitches when he involuntarily bucks into your hand.
You’re mesmerized by his reactions. You’ve never seen him want so much in the time you’ve been with him. Your stomach churns knowing that all of it is directed at you.
His hand helps your smaller one pump his shaft. When he feels you grind against his thigh, he moans.
“Please,” you whine pathetically. You could cry from how much you ache for him, your cunt fluttering around nothing. “Need –”
“Need me to fuck you?” he mumbles. He thinks of covering your eyes when you watch movies together. How he taught you how to kiss properly.
Caleb has thought about this exact moment ever since. He’s afraid to take from you when everything else has been taken from you, too. But your eyes are wet and wide, begging for him. As touch-starved as both of you were since childhood, perhaps you both deserve this.
He rolls you over and undresses himself entirely, slotting in between your legs. He bites back a groan when his cock presses against your wet heat. Ever since he took you with him, he’s wanted to be good and selfless. Didn’t want to ruin you just because he wanted you for himself.
This is the first time he decides to be selfish.
He eyes you warily as if to ask permission. You nod, legs tightening around his waist.
When he pushes into you, his mind goes blank. He’s never felt anything so warm in his life. It feels like sinking into the unknown – bliss flooding his insides once he bottoms out.
“Shit,” he mutters.
“I’m –” you gasp, overwhelmed, “Do I feel good?”
He chuckles. Kisses both your cheeks, then your forehead. “Yeah. Amazing. You’re so tight.”
His voice makes you blush even more. Your core stings with an unfamiliar sensation but it’s a pain you don’t entirely mind. Like pressing down a bruise. He cradles you in his arms as he moves slowly and the pain turns to pleasure.
Caleb can’t help but fuck you in earnest. There are tears in your eyes but your moans are turning him on even more. Fuck, he really can’t help it. You’re all he’s ever wanted.
He gets rougher as he kisses you, tongue heavy in your mouth. Biting at your lower lip hungrily. His forbidden fruit. Your body welcomes him like a flower opening up to the sun.
“Caleb,” you moan. The first name you’ve ever known, even before your own. “Caleb –”
He mumbles into your shoulder in between thrusts. Pants your name and I love you in different breaths like a mantra.
Your back arches as he reaches somewhere deep inside you that you’ve never touched yourself. Your thighs are shaking and it almost alarms him until he lifts his head from the crook of your neck.
He wishes he could take a picture of your face right now.
“Keep doing that, mmnn –” you breathe. “Feels good… I…”
“You like it?” he rasps.
“Yes, yes –”
“Tell me, baby.”
“Love it,” you moan, “Love you. Love you so much –”
God, he could cum right now. His cock twitches as you clench around him.
“You’re perfect, shit. It’s you and me. Always, okay?”
“You and me –”
You cum so hard that the world around saturates with vibrance. Your eyes are screwed shut, phosphenes like shooting stars in your lids. Flung into space with his wings enveloping you with love.
“Oh, God, you look –” he pants, his eyes blown wide. “I love you, fuck!”
You feel his warmth flood your insides like syrup. You sigh into each other’s mouths. Unspoken love letters.
Caleb collapses beside you, chest heaving, one arm draped protectively across your middle. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin as your breathing gradually slows. The afternoon light filters through threadbare curtains, casting golden stripes across your intertwined bodies.
"You okay?" he whispers, pressing his lips to your temple.
You nod, unable to form words yet. Everything feels different now—your body, the air between you, the very cabin itself. The universe has shifted on its axis.
"I didn't hurt you, did I?" His voice carries a hint of worry.
You turn to face him, your nose brushing against his. "No. It was... perfect." The word feels inadequate for what just happened, but language fails you.
He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, violet eyes searching yours. "You're perfect," he murmurs. His thumb traces the curve of your bottom lip, and you can't help but catch it gently between your teeth.
"Careful," he warns playfully, but his eyes darken again.
“We should do it again.”
He laughs, the sound warm against your skin. “Already? You’re insatiable.”
“Maybe.”
"Give me a minute to recover, honey."
You hum contentedly, stretching like a cat in sunlight. Every nerve ending in your body feels alive, sensitized. The places where his hands touched you still tingle with phantom sensation.
"I didn't know it could be like that," you whisper, tracing the line of his collarbone with your finger. "All this time, I felt something was missing. I mean, it was you. Obviously. But this feels like… more."
Caleb's fingers trace the notches of your spine, counting each vertebra like precious stones. You shiver under his touch, still sensitive from before.
"I used to dream about your skin," he confesses, voice barely above a whisper. "Back in the lab. What it’d be like to touch you. How it felt to touch you the one time I held your hand in the field when we escaped the first time.”
“And now you have me.”
“Mhm.”
“Took you so long to kiss me though. I’m sure Caleb from a year ago would have a heart attack if he saw us now.”
Caleb's expression softens, vulnerability painting his features in a way you've rarely seen. "I wanted to give you time. Let you discover the world first."
"You are my world," you say simply. It’s so easy for you to say that it pains him. It sounds naive. He’d warn you of it if he didn’t feel the exact same.
“So are you. This is our little galaxy.”
“Our little galaxy," you repeat, rolling the words over your tongue like a prayer.
You nestle against him, fitting perfectly in the curve of his body. The cabin creaks around you, a protective shell against the barren landscape outside. In here, you've created something lush and verdant—an Eden of your own making.
You are both the most diligent worker at Sakamoto's Store and the most hypersexual person that Shin knows. Overhearing your thoughts and accidentally seeing your fantasies routinely leads to profound psychic damage for him, as well as the most poorly timed boners in the world.
All of this only gets worse when the two of you start hooking up.
6k words. comedy, smut. all the sex scenes are vanilla; however, the reader constantly reads and thinks about horny fanfiction tropes including: free use, omegaverse, and breeding. these are all mentioned but not discussed in detail. warning: the reader has a warped/unhealthy relationship with her sexuality, this fic is about shin fixing her with his stroke game lol. credits to @/cafekitsune for the dividers and @hansolen for the fic brainrot <3
You are the worst coworker that Shin has ever had.
This is saying a lot, given that he's worked with countless two-bit assassins who could barely a handle a gun (no one he worked with in his late teenage years could hold a candle to Mr. Sakamoto, truly), as well as Lu, who can barely orient herself within the store. You are, in contrast, brutally efficient with your work, incredible with the customers, and very cooperative with Shin. You even know how to handle a gun, and you do it with such pinpoint precision that it's always nonlethal despite being brutally debilitating. (Your skill level does hold a candle to Mr. Sakamoto in this respect, and Shin wonders if his boss has given you some kind of private training—a thought that fills him with such jealousy that it makes him want to chew on the sale stickers in his hands.) There's just one problem.
You are probably the horniest person alive, and Shin is about to lose his fucking mind listening to your thoughts.
Now, Shin is used to hearing the unfiltered stream of consciousness of the average human being. This naturally includes carnal desires here and there. He’s desensitized to most people’s erotic fantasies about their favourite gravure idol, memories of their last sexual encounter, intrusive thoughts about their friends, et cetera. He habitually tunes it out. But whereas a regular person might have these thoughts once or twice a day, you seem to have them once or twice an hour. And none of your thoughts are ever brief or underdeveloped. They usually last at least ten minutes each, with detailed internal monologuing and accompanying 8K UltraHD visuals, and you really only ever stop when you're trying to remember a code at the till or doing some quick mental math with the accounts.
Needless to say, Shin tries to keep you at the register as much as possible.
You used to tell yourself (in your head) that your mental fixation on sex was a natural consequence of your dry spell. After quitting the assassin life, you'd been celibate for the first time in at least a decade, forced to attain sexual gratification with nothing but masterfully written fanfiction and your vast collection of vibrators. (Your favourite one is hot pink, seven inches, rabbit eared. You sometimes have trouble getting it to fit, but it’s worth it for the way you cum when you do, and this knowledge makes Shin want to die.) You were convinced that getting laid would bring you enough relief to stop thinking about sex every hour of the day. You had thought that you'd go back to “normal” after that, though Shin doesn't know what “normal” entails for you. (One free-use fantasy a day instead of twelve? Daydreams strictly featuring humans rather than tentacle monsters? It's hard to say.)
Regardless, Shin had to agree: surely, there would be a limit to your sex-obsessed thoughts. It made a lot of sense that you were simply frustrated and in need of an outlet. Naturally, after sleeping with you, he'd expected your thoughts to quiet down.
(Yes—Shin slept with you. It was an accident, through and through, and he routinely feels bad about it. He'd been meaning to ask you out, treat you to dinner, maybe even get you flowers depending on the vibe. The type of thing that Mr. Sakamoto did for Aoi, when they first started dating. If everything went well, then you two could consider getting intimate. His interest in you has nothing to do with sex, after all—no, not even the fact that you've had explicit fantasies about deepthroating him while he works the cash. He'd die if you ever tried that, actually.
The plan was always to take things slow and maybe even start a relationship if the two of you really hit it off. He'd even asked Mr. Sakamoto for advice on what a civilian romance should look like! But then Shin walked you back to your apartment one night when you were feeling down, and you invited him upstairs, and one thing led to another, and, well… it turns out that you aren't the type of person to take things slow. Or think about relationships. Shin’s never overheard any thoughts from you about actually dating him, come to think of it. And no, before you ask—that doesn't bother him. Not at all. Not one bit.)
To both his surprise and yours, getting laid somehow had the opposite effect on you. Rather than being calmed, you're somehow even hornier—and now all your horny thoughts are about Shin.
It's nonstop. Shin can't believe it. Whereas you used to think about all sorts of people in your sexual fantasies (mostly your fanfiction men, but also some BL characters, occasionally Keanu Reeves, and very often that Nagumo guy), you now think solely of Shin. You're thinking about him right now, pausing as you finish restocking the onigiri.
Shin can hear every single thought from across the room, the way you feel the edges of your sanity fraying with the memory of his touch. The whole day, you've been remembering how it felt to have your pussy stretched around his cock, how it felt to have his hands on your curves, how he seemed to know exactly how to touch your body to make you keen. (Shin admits he cheated; a little ESP goes a long way in bed.) You soaked the sheets when you finally came, and he kissed you relentlessly through your orgasm. It made you so horny that you had to immediately go another round.
No other man’s ever made you cum like that, you keep thinking. You've fucked more people than you can count, but not a single person has ever felt so good inside you. The realisation is driving you crazy, and Shin feels like he's about to go crazy with you. In the absence of a cold shower, he wants to shove himself into the freezer right now. There's no other way to get rid of his raging boner.
How did it feel so fucking good?! you keep thinking, oblivious to his struggles. I need his cock inside me again. I need him to hit it raw this time. I need him to bend me over the counter and cum in my pussy right now—
It makes him want to die, listening to your thoughts. It also confuses him, somewhat: he isn't that experienced, and objectively he’s a little clumsy in bed. His performance is probably mid in the grand scheme of things, which makes him wonder why you feel like his dick is heaven-sent.
But more than anything, Shin wonders if you ever think about anything other than his dick. Sex isn't the only thing the two of you have done together. The first time you hooked up, he'd spent the night at your place. You clung to him in his sleep and you drooled on his chest and he thought it was kinda funny. He was careful not to wake you as he wiped your chin. You’d cooked him breakfast by the time he'd woken up: homemade miso, fresh rice, tamagoyaki. He made you burnt coffee after. You gave him a goodbye kiss, which somehow turned into a goodbye blowjob, which then escalated into wasting the day together in bed. You were really cuddly the whole time, and Shin could hear you think, how weird, I hate it when people hold me, and I hate it when people kiss me, but you liked it from Shin. You liked it so much that your pussy started dripping, and then what else could you do but suck him off again? (He returned the favour, of course.)
There was a lot more than just fucking, but you never think about any of that other stuff. You only ever think about his stroke game.
Not that that bothers Shin. Not at all. Not one bit.
By noon, he reaches his limit.
Shin considers himself a responsible guy and dedicated employee. He'd ordinarily never want to take off in the middle of the day to fool around with you—or anyone else—but it's his lunch break, and he has to get you to stop fantasizing. His dick is so hard that it's painful, and even with the apron it's getting tricky to cover up. As soon as the clock hits 12, he's throwing it off and making a beeline for you.
“We need to talk,” he says, grabbing you by the hand, and the face you make is so giddy that he can't help but sigh. You’re practically beaming as you take off your apron and say bye to Lu. We’ll be back in 30! you tell her in a sing-song voice, because you’re a very conscientious worker even when outrageously horny.
“You heard my thoughts?” you ask as the two of you climb the stairs to his room, and he snorts.
“How couldn't I?” He gives you a miserable look, cheeks flushing. “Were you doing that on purpose the whole morning?”
“No.” He raises a brow. “I'm serious—I wasn't trying to cause any trouble for you! It's just…” You bite your lip, and it takes all of Shin’s self-control to stop himself from staring at its glossy sheen. “I really just need to be touched again.”
“I don't believe you,” he says as he pulls you into his room.
“You're an esper! You should know I'm telling the truth!”
“I also know you like to torture me with your thoughts.”
“Well, yeah…” You smile at him, sheepish. “But I really just need a bit of relief. Want me to prove it to you?”
There's a sudden glint in your eye that makes Shin nervous, out of his depth. Sometimes he gets the feeling that you want to eat him alive, and he never knows how to handle it. He’s never gotten this level of attention before, and never in his wildest dreams did he think he'd get it from someone like you.
(Yeah—you're way out of Shin's league. For all his plans of a civilian romance, he wasn’t sure if he could actually score a date with you. He still isn't sure if he can score one. He's also not sure he’ll survive this encounter.)
He swallows. “Prove it…?”
“Uh huh.” You look so pretty right now, sitting on the edge of his bed. “Let me show you.”
You read too much hentai. Shin knows this firsthand (you read a lot of it on the clock, and all the images get blasted right into his prefrontal cortex), but he can also tell from how you act. It’s just way too fucking outrageous when you spread your legs for him, pulling up your skirt, and he's greeted not by the sight of your panties (you wore a lacy pair to work and kept bending over in hopes of flashing him—you had not been shy at all in this thought), but your bare, glistening cunt.
No fucking way.
“You’ve been working like that?!” he blurts out, mildly horrified even though his dick is jumping at the sight of you. You laugh, and you conjure up your panties from somewhere. They dangle from your fingertips, sheer and drenched.
“Took them off as we came up here. They're useless now anyway, see”—they’ve been soaked through for hours, and my thighs are all sticky—“and besides… I wanted to give you easy access.”
He thinks he's going to pass out.
“Easy access,” he repeats stiffly, bright red.
“Uh huh. Wanted to be efficient—we only have, what, twenty minutes?” Before he can even react, you're already turning around, bending over for him, ass up. From this angle, he can see just how wet you are—and how you're clenching around nothing, your cunt empty and needing to be filled. You glance over your shoulder, give him a teasing smile. “What are you waiting for?”
It’s a wonder that Shin doesn't cum on the spot, really. Like he said—he isn't an experienced guy. He's never slept with anyone so forward, or so—well. Smoking hot, for lack of better word. Half of him has a mind to just stand there and say that he can't believe you, and half of him has a mind to fuck you like you've been hoping all morning. Thankfully, this latter half of him wins out—probably for the better. If he helps you work this out of your system, you'll probably stop assaulting his mind with all your horny thoughts and his dick can exist in peace for the rest of the afternoon. Right?
Right?
(He ends up being extremely wrong.)
By the time he's pulled down his pants, put a condom on, and started pushing inside you, the two of you have seventeen minutes left. He worries briefly that it won't be enough time to get you to cum (nor him, though that isn't his goal currently), but it turns out to be a non-issue. Your pussy swallows his cock easily, stretching around him so perfectly that he nearly chokes. He always hears you talking about how sex with him feels leagues better than with any other person, but he’s not sure if you know that the same is true for him. No one's ever felt as good as you, and it takes every ounce of willpower in him not to cum immediately.
You're already close to the edge, too. Probably pent up from squeezing your thighs together all morning and thinking about his touch. You moan in a way that is obscene, like something out of an AV—but Shin knows that it isn't a performance. He can feel your body and hear your thoughts, all the genuine bliss you get from being filled up. When he starts moving, it's with intent. He fucks you like you’ve been fantasising all day, all week—with a relentless pace, focused on giving you nothing but pleasure. You tighten around him like you were made for him, and—
—apparently you feel like you're being used? Like a hole? The fuck! Shin almost stops mid-stroke to balk at you—he wouldn't do that to you!—but then you moan and he feels you getting wetter at the thought, and then he has no choice but to keep going. He's not about to kill your high.
Nine minutes left. Your clit is throbbing, neglected, and as soon as you think about touching yourself, Shin’s fingers are circling it instead and making you keen. He hits the spot inside you that has your eyes rolling back and your spine arching beautifully, and you can’t speak with your mouth, but he hears you anyway: the begging, the neediness, right there right there you're doing so good Shin you feel so good don't stop don't stop don't, don't—
“Oh fuck,” you whimper, pressing your face into the sheets, and then Shin feels you pulsing around him, drenching him. He gets dragged over the edge with you, gasping sharply as he finds his own release. You collapse as he twitches inside you, spilling himself inside the condom, and he almost snorts when he hears you thinking, wish you were cumming in my pussy instead. Do it raw next time, okay?
“You know we have to use a condom,” he says between pants.
“But I'm on birth control! Read my mind—you know I'm telling the truth!”
“And I also know that birth control is only 93% effective,” he says, rolling his eyes. He glances at the clock. “C'mon—we only have five minutes until our lunch break ends.”
It feels a little weird, rushing you. He’s never had a quickie before, but he understands that you can't exactly take your time with cleaning up afterwards. Still, he thinks about what it was like the last time the two of you did this—how slow and soft it was after, how he stayed inside you for a bit, how he kissed you long and cleaned you up carefully. It just felt like the right thing to do after sleeping with someone, especially given that that someone was you. He'd much prefer to do that right now.
But you are both punctual workers, and anyway Shin’s heard enough of your idle thoughts to know that you’re fairly apathetic to aftercare—you never expect it, and you’re never particularly sad when you don't get it. Sometimes you even fantasize about being used roughly and then discarded (a thought that he finds so unpleasant that it instantly kills his boner every time).
So it's probably fine to rush back downstairs, he figures. He throws you some wipes, lets you clean yourself up. You do it without complaint. You're not upset. He can even hear your mind humming with satisfaction, coming down from the highs of sensory pleasure.
Which is why he's confused when he hears you think, Huh. That didn't feel as good as I thought it would.
It's not like it felt bad.
This is what Shin hears all afternoon: You had a good time. You generally like being treated like a hole. You hadn't thought that Shin would have it in him to do that (neither did he, he admits), but it was kind of thrilling that he did. You want him to do it again for sure. He hit your g-spot with the kind of precision that only an esper can manage, and your vision nearly went white as you found your climax.
And that's what matters, right? You came. You had an orgasm. The little death. The ultimate goal of sex. You used to have a hard time with it, but after so many missions your body started to enjoy sex and now you cum very easily. And you came very easily with Shin, so that means you must enjoy having sex with him too, right?
But it was better the first time you had sex. Objectively better. You came way harder. You even squirted during your second round with him! Your orgasm was so intense that you felt blissed out for the rest of the night, and even the morning after. When you woke up and realised that Shin was not only still there, but also holding you, it made you so horny that you nearly woke him up with a blowjob. It was only with great self-control that you woke him up with breakfast instead.
You don’t feel like that right now, though. You don't feel horny and you don't feel like cooking and the euphoria of your orgasm melted away a while ago. You just feel sort of… empty.
You don't feel bad, though. It's a beautiful day. The char siu bao in your hand is incredibly fragrant. Piisuke is on your shoulder and chirping in your ear. Shin looks really handsome in his apron—did you know that, Shin? you ask him in your mind—and he goes bright red at this thought and looks away. You don't feel bad, you mentally reassure him. You just don't feel as good as you thought you would.
But Shin does feel bad. He feels miserable, actually. He's not a very experienced guy, but even he can tell that you’re the type of person who needs to be held after having sex. It seems like you probably don't realise it, but it's clear as day to Shin, and for the rest of the afternoon he hates himself for not having done it. It wouldn’t have had to be for very long.
Lu could have covered for an extra fifteen minutes, he keeps thinking. Fuck!
Eventually, you ask him to come over in the evening, and he scrambles to agree, desperate for a do-over.
Shin’s not really good at this hook-up business.
Now—he isn't exactly good at relationships either, but he feels exceptionally awkward about coming over to your place with the express purpose of having sex. He isn't familiar with dick appointment etiquette, especially not appointments involving a friend. Was he meant to bring a gift? A Netflix movie recommendation? It would have felt wrong to show up completely empty-handed, so he ends up bringing your favourite snacks and two bottles of Pocari Sweat. If this is anything like the first time he stayed over, you'll probably both need it.
You're delighted by the snacks and amused by the drinks. He wrestles with himself over what kind of small-talk to make—there’s a PS5 out right now, and your TV screen is paused on Leon Kennedy’s face, so maybe he can start a conversation about the horror genre? He watches a lot of films—but you're dragging him into your room before he can overthink it.
“I missed you,” you say, voice all sweet with affection as you straddle his lap.
“It's been two hours,” he points out, somehow managing not to stammer.
“Eight hours since we fucked.”
“That's not very long at all.”
“Felt like forever to me.” Your whisper is so tender in his ear, incongruent with the absolute filth you're thinking about right now. You need his cock so, so bad—you’d have it inside you 24/7 if you could have it your way, though he's also free to help himself to your body at any hour of the day. Sure, he can't smoke on the premises, but there's no rule against hiking up your skirt and pushing your panties to the side so he can—
“I wouldn't do that in the store!” he squawks, and you giggle.
“Then you should start taking me up to your room more often.”
Shin would be more than happy to host you, actually. He’s been thinking lately about having you over for dinner—Aoi’s been teaching him how to cook—and getting to know you better, in a non-Biblical way. But Shin knows that's not what you mean. You want him to carry you upstairs without asking and to throw you onto his bed and to fuck you into the mattress. You want to go back to your shift without your panties, his cum dripping out of your pussy and sliding down your—
“You really want me to finish inside you,” Shin remarks, bewildered at your sheer obsession over it, and you tilt your head.
“Don't you?”
“No. I mean, yes. I mean—we shouldn't. It's, uh. Risky. I don't want to get you, y'know… pregnant…” His dick twitches in a way that makes him grateful that you don't have ESP. He's realising something about himself that he absolutely cannot think about, and which you would absolutely exploit if you figured out. He clears his throat, hoping he looks normal. “Like. You know. It's better to be on the safe side.”
You study him carefully. “I dunno, Shin.” You smile knowingly. “I don't think I'd mind it if you wanted to breed me.”
Shin is going to die.
The next twenty minutes pass in a horny blur. The two of you spend it all over each other, his cock sliding along your opening—dangerously close to pushing in. You beg him for just the tip, both verbally and mentally—pleaaase Shin please please please it'd be so easy, I'm still stretched out from before, you know it'd feel good—and he's watched enough adult films to know that this is a blatant trap. He somehow pulls away, and immediately feels bad at the crushed expression you make, so he decides he has no choice but to make it up to you by putting his head between your thighs. Within minutes he’s sucking on your clit and making you keen, his fingers curling inside you. He knows your orgasm is intense both from the way you gush all over his face and how your mind goes pleasantly, blissfully quiet for a moment.
It doesn't stay quiet for long.
The most debauched image possible comes to his mind—you, underneath him, your legs folded into a mating press as you take his cock. He’s giving you another load, pumping you full. It's filling up your womb, and you'll definitely get pregna—
“You’re fucking evil,” he groans. “And you read way too much hentai. Those visuals were so goofy.”
You laugh, unbothered. “Sorry, I'll adjust them for realism next time.”
“Please don't,” he begs, even though he knows he's going to spend the next week being mentally assaulted by your breeding kink fantasies. He just hopes they stay relatively normal and don't devolve into the weird omegaverse stuff. Or the monsterfucking stuff. Or the gangbang scenarios. Please, God, anything but the gangbang fantasies. He’ll scream if you imagine another threesome with him and that invisible asshole who kidnapped Lu. He’ll simply resign if you add Nagumo.
To your profound disappointment, Shin ends up using a condom. He doesn't give you much time to feel sad about it, settling quickly between your legs and practically knocking the breath out of you as he thrusts into you. He’s left kind of breathless too. You weren't lying—you are still stretched out from earlier in the day, wet and pliant for him, and there's hardly any resistance as he starts pumping into you. He watches you carefully, laid out underneath him—your eyes squeezing shut as you're made to take his cock. Your mind goes a little quiet again, overwhelmed by pleasure. It's simultaneously a blessing and a curse: Shin’s finally getting a break from your psychic teasing, but the knowledge that he's fucking you dumb is doing something horrible to him.
He changes his angle, and a whimper leaves you. You tighten and gush around him in a way that makes it obvious what he’s hitting; he doesn't need ESP to know to keep doing it. Still, your thoughts are going haywire, a tangle of desire, and it's impossible for him to ignore. I need, he keeps hearing as your thighs starts to twitch, as you start tearing up, I need I need I need I need—
Your eyes land on his lips, and Shin hears you.
His kiss is open-mouthed, clumsy, but you’re hungry for it anyway. You’re panting into each other’s mouths when you start pulsing around Shin’s dick, and you end up cumming so hard on his cock that it's dizzying for you both. He fucks you through your orgasm, and it's only when you're glassy-eyed and limp beneath him that he finally lets himself finish. He pulls back as he does, gasping sharply, but not for long—you draw him back in quickly, clinging to him as you seek out another kiss. The two of you stay like that for a long moment—still connected, breaths heavy with exhaustion, lips slow and lazy against each other.
“Enjoy yourself more this time?” Shin asks, and you hum sweetly against his mouth. You’re still too mindless from your orgasm to form any real thoughts, but Shin can tell that you don't really want to talk. You want to keep kissing him. And you want him to hold you while you do it, which he happily obliges.
Some ten minutes later, you make a small noise of protest when Shin pulls out of you, and it turns into a look of outright betrayal when he gets up. Shin’s heart clenches immediately.
“Just getting stuff to clean up,” he explains, and you relax visibly.
“Oh,” you say. “Right.”
You seem antsy. You feel antsy. You're antsy because you just realised how much you like kissing Shin. Specifically, you've realised that kissing him elevates your orgasms into mind-blowing experiences, and now you're questioning every other orgasm you've had. Maybe I don't actually enjoy sex that much? you wonder. Or maybe I always needed to be kissed to enjoy it more? Wait, no. I hate it when people kiss me. It's gross. Except for when it's Shin. Why Shin? Hm… that apron must really be doing something for me.
Your head hurts. Shin patiently watches you replay your past experiences in your head, comparing all those nights with this one, and he can’t help but frown. Deeply. Your eyes go wide when he gives you an alarmed look at one particular memory.
“Shit, sorry! I forgot you’d see all that.”
“No, I'm sorry,” he says, feeling—not for the first time—guilty about his powers. “If I could turn it off, I would.”
“Don't be sorry. You can't help it. That'd be like if I were sorry for breathing.” But despite your easy words, you’re watching him carefully, and your mind is stirring in an unsettling way. I'm nervous? you realise. Your heart is beating in a way that suggests a flight or fight response. It gets worse the longer you stare at him. Why am I nervous? Tell me, Shin.
“I wouldn't know.” Except he’s got a good guess, and he'd rather die than say it out loud because it would be embarrassing for you both if he were wrong. He'd have to resign. Nevertheless, he tries to guide you in a specific direction: “Have you really never liked it when people kissed you?”
“No,” you reply immediately. “I don't see the point of kissing during sex.”
He gives you a long look. “What if it’s not just sex? What if it's just a regular kiss on a regular day with, like, a partner? Someone you're really serious about.” He blinks at the confused stare you're giving him. “You mean you don't like that either?”
It's suddenly very noisy. Shin can hear your mind buzzing as you stare at the ceiling of your room, not with coherent sentences so much as shapeless confusion. His skin crawls with the echo of your discomfort; it's a wonder you aren't slipping out from the sheets to run away.
“...I don't know,” you finally decide. “I don't have much real dating experience.”
“Huh? You’ve said before that you've dated lots of guys.”
“Um.” You’re careful not to look at him. “Yeah, I guess. They all sucked though. I, like, wanted to kill every single one of my exes.”
“Like they were shitty boyfriends?”
No, like they were assassination targets, you think, and Shin has to keep a straight face as you reply, “Yeah, something like that.”
You rarely lie to Shin. You did it somewhat frequently until you figured out that he was capable of ESP, and then you stopped because you didn't see a point anymore. You only do it now when there's something you really don't want to talk about, so Shin relents. He focuses on cleaning himself up, and he interrupts the tense hum of your thoughts when he turns his attention to you. By the time he's finished and slid back into bed, your more complicated emotions have vanished, and you're back to marveling at the quality of the orgasm you just had. Apparently you like to keep things fairly simple in your inner world.
When Shin puts an arm around you, he can hear your pleasant surprise—and your immediate desire to press into him.
You're so happy just being held by him, it's shocking. And painfully endearing. Shin tries to pretend not to notice the warm glow of your thoughts, as well as your confusion over them: surely the simple act of being close to someone can't feel so good. Maybe the whole kissing thing was just a coincidence and Shin happened to be hitting it just right when your lips met. Or maybe he used his ESP on you to make you cum extra hard and he's still influencing you, and that's why you feel so tenderhearted right now.
“My powers only allow me to read minds,” he tells you. “I can't control other people.”
“Aw,” you say, “that's too bad. I bet forced orgasms with ESP would feel amazing.”
“...”
Shin realises something else about himself that he absolutely cannot let you know. Thankfully for him, you're none the wiser. Your mind’s somewhere else entirely when you climb on top of him, smiling neatly. Mind you, what you're thinking is still making him feel nervous. He's always a little out of his depth with you.
“Shin…”
You lean in, breath sweeping over his lips. His heart jumps.
“Y-yeah?”
“I'm still confused about how that felt so good.”
“I’ve noticed.”
You hold back a laugh. “Yeah, I guess you would have.” Then you give him an apologetic look. “Sorry I'm so stuck on it. I just thought I knew my body, y'know? I felt like I had tried everything worth trying. Sex was starting to feel boring, including the freaky stuff. But this is very new to me.”
This close up, Shin can feel the brush of your lashes when they flutter. See the glossy swell of your lips from all the kissing. Take in the fragrance of your hair. He starts to feel dizzy. “I-is it? I don't think we've been doing anything, uh. Crazy.”
“I didn't think so either.” Your thumb traces his lip. You're thinking about kissing him again, and you're also thinking about riding him as you do it. “I can't help but want to try it a few more times, you know? Just to make sure it wasn't a fluke.”
“A few more times,” he repeats, and you smile.
“You don't have anywhere you need to be tonight, do you?”
The two of you get two hours of sleep that night, and you end up going through both bottles of Pocari Sweat and all the snacks. There's no time for breakfast or burnt coffee the morning after; you make the executive decision to just eat something at the store instead. Shin leaves behind a toothbrush and you tell him he should also bring an extra set of clothes next time. He tries not to get too excited about the fact that there's going to be a next time. He fails.
Mr. Sakamoto sees the two of you as you make it to work just on time together and immediately figures out what's happened. Shin gets a mental reprimand for not marrying you first, and the disappointment from Mr. Sakamoto is so strong that he briefly considers resigning out of disgrace. But he stays on, and the days pass, and your relationship with him remains the same. Sort of.
Because, see. Now that you're regularly getting laid, your horny thoughts have finally (finally!) calmed down. You now have one free-use fantasy a day instead of twelve, and your daydreams only occasionally feature tentacle monsters. You do like to torture Shin with breeding kink scenarios, but that's only once a day, and they never involve any other guys. Shin considers this a victory, respite from the psychic agony that he was previously experiencing.
There's just one problem.
You want to kiss Shin all the time now, and it's making him feel like the horniest person alive.
He can't believe it. He doesn't have a particularly strong sex drive, and he rarely ever has sexual fantasies. But holy shit is he having them a lot now, and he can't say it's strictly your fault.
You spend most of the day now thinking about what it felt like to kiss him in bed, and what it felt like to hold his hand as he moved inside you, and what it felt like to be in his arms afterwards. What it would feel like if you were to do those things that you used to hate—kissing someone, linking fingers, embracing them—with Shin. Not just in bed, but on a regular day, out in the open. In a secluded park somewhere, or maybe at the top of a Ferris wheel, or even on a random street corner if the mood is right. All of these daydreams are usually followed by very explicit fantasies about public, unprotected sex, but the kissing is the most important part of it. The subsequent creampies are pretty significant too, but not nearly as much as the bits where you make out.
And somehow, the thought of cumming in you is not the part of the fantasy that's driving Shin crazy.
You give him a meaningful look. A week ago, this would have been a sign that you wanted him to bend you over the counter and give you backshots. Now it means you want to sneak away to kiss him and hold hands, and this makes him want to do things to you that would get him fired immediately.
Shin sighs, and he contemplates shoving himself into the freezer.
END
I wrote this with one hand and did not proofread it. my apologies if you see any errors. I just needed to be free of these thoughts asap. release me...
PS - I know the Resident Evil/Leon Kennedy mention must have felt very random, but it's set-up for potential future sequels haha.
suguru had never known what to make of the two of you.
satoru the six eyes and his twin sister. satoru who was his best friend, and you, the girl who looks just like him.
satoru who let suguru bend him over and fuck him until he cried, only to roll off the bed, pulling out his phone.
god. he knew satoru was a dick, but this?
it hurts more than it should. they'd never talked about it, never even called each other friends. he should have figured this wasn't anything special.
but what the fuck is satoru doing on his phone?
"satoru?" he says, trying to sound casual.
everything has to be casual with satoru. low-key. being with him feels like he's coaxing a wild animal. get too close, and he might just bolt.
bolt, only to hit him out of the blue days later with a picture of a candy and a smarmy comment about suguru's taste in food. or his hair. or his power as a sorcerer, or whatever was going through that malfunctioning brain of his.
god, why the fuck does he even like him again?
satoru turns back so suguru can see his smirking face.
god. that was why. the face of a fucking angel, a smile that made his heart skip. why did it have to be on this asshole?
"what, suguru? you feelin' lonely?" satoru drawls.
it's a question he knows the answer to. keep it chill. don't show your hand. don't get too close or he'll get scared.
it aches. "shut up," he says, "i'm just curious who you're texting right after i pulled my dick out of you."
he smirks back when satoru pauses, hesitates.
"who's this person you're thinking about right after you cum?" suguru drawls. he's proud of how distant he manages to sound.
satoru's eyes dart towards him, all ice blue and piercing.
"nobody," he says, setting his phone face down while he pulls on his pants.
he blinks. "what are you..."
satoru ignores his question, strolling out towards the door while waving goodbye. "later, su-gu-ru~"
"but this is -"
before his eyes can furrow, satoru closes the door behind him.
"...your room."
he'd thought that it meant something different this time. satoru always left right after they fucked, he never stayed.
but this is satoru's room. so he'd either kick suguru out, or let him stay.
he hadn't been prepared for him to just... leave. his own room.
what's wrong with him? seriously.
suguru glances at the downturned phone. flips it over.
nee-chan~ (2)
his sister? it beeps.
nee-chan~ (3)
no, don't. i'll ask shoko
you'll ask shoko to do what? satoru has a lock, so he can't see.
seriously, i mean it
after a moment, there's another message.
are you ignoring me, or just busy with him?
don't come over. slut
...what?
the message notification disappears along with the message.
suguru gets a strange feeling.
he looks around satoru's room. he finds some girl's clothes.
does satoru even like girls? they could be yours. he's seen you in his room before.
the strange feeling starts to get. stranger.
there's condoms in here, too, which is weird because satoru has never asked him to use them. or used them himself. he whined when suguru suggested it, actually. asked if he was scared of getting knocked up.
ugh. stupid, insufferable, endearing little shit. he wants to have him in his arms right now.
but it doesn't mater what suguru wants. satoru just left. like he always does, sooner or later.
picking up the phone, he makes his way out. down the hall, towards the girls' dorm.
shoko is already there when he gets there. holding out an arm to stop him.
he raises a brow.
"she's sleeping."
"how do you know i'm here for her?"
shoko shrugs. "why else would you be? saw gojo go in there. anyways, they're asleep now."
"can't be. i was with him just a few minutes ago."
the look she gives him is... strange. everything about this situation feels... off.
he pushes past her, and she sighs.
there's no noise inside, at least. he looses a curse to twist the lock on the door, turn it form the inside.
and it's surprising because - god, what was he expecting?
you're there, curled up beneath the blanket with satoru laying behind you, arms wrapped around you and holding you close.
it's romantic, sure. intimate.
but nothing weird. well, nothing too weird. satoru's always been weird, and you're just like him, so of course you're both weird together. you've always been close. you're his twin sister. what is he thinking?
with a toss, he lets satoru's phone fall onto the floor.
he avoids shoko's gaze as he closes the door and stalks off.
(he doesn't see her anxious glance at the door.)
"he's gone," satoru whispers to you, brushing his thumb over your nipple as you bite your lip.
"shut up," you hiss, putting a hand over his. "i can't believe you did that. why did he follow you? what did you say to him?"
his other hand, threaded beneath your panties, wriggles playfully.
"whaaat? you said you wanted to go to bed. i didn't want to make you wait." he sighs dramatically, "i'm the strongest sorcerer, you know. i need my rest~"
and without you, there is no rest.
as soon as your body is against his, it's like all the tension leaves him. you're there, with him, and everything is all right.
all his worries fade away when he can wrap his arms around you and feel you embrace him in return. mind blank at the soothing sound of your voice. never mind the words you're saying.
"yeah, but do you need to do... this." you say fruitlessly. "you could have come later."
"didn't wanna come later," he kisses your shoulder, "wanted to see you now."
you wriggle in his arms, too wide and too strong to escape, even if you wanted to.
it's enraging. it's gratifying. you don't know what it is, and never have.
he must have been fucking suguru. and after he got his, he came to you.
should you laugh, or cry?
"i could have asked shoko." you mumble almost miserably.
but a sigh escapes you as he fondles your breast. satoru always knows how to make you feel good.
maybe not as good as shoko does, but you're still nice enough not to say that to his face.
"what? to sleep with you?" satoru scoffs, "you can't sleep without me, either."
neither of you have ever slept alone, not a single night in your life.
not even when you were deathly ill and the clan begged the precious six eyes to stay away and not catch your sickness.
satoru had stayed by your side the entire while. held your hand while your head pounded and your body ached. wiped your tears when you cried.
because you were very young, and very sick, in more pain than you'd ever felt before. you had honestly thought you were going to die.
there had been no servants, no mother or father or caretaker. only satoru holding you close, lifting you to drink some water and medicine. telling you that you couldn't die. he wouldn't allow it.
and to your child's mind, that had been reassuring. your brother never left you. your fever broke and you were okay, just like he said you would be.
now, you know better. now you know satoru would lay in bed with people who weren't you, even if he always came back (for now).
now you knew what it was like to have someone else by your side.
(but was it enough? could it ever be enough? could it ever be what you have with him?)
"i'll never know until i try." you turn in his arms to face him, and he allows it.
blue eyes. beautiful, beautiful blue. a pretty face. almost as pretty as shoko's.
you've been learning, lately. you used to think of the mole on her cheek as an imperfection, the cigarette smoke a bad habit.
now? you still think it's a bad habit, but the mole is charming. and you don't hate the smell as much because shoko took you out shopping for perfume.
she asked you which one you liked the most, and bought it for herself. she wears it every friday when you have your girls night out with utahime.
where you get drunk enough to make out with her until she brings you back to the dorm, kissing and fondling and touching.
she asks you if it's okay. asks you how you like it best. asks you to touch her this way, that way.
it's not like how it is with satoru. but she makes you feel good, makes you happy. she wants you to feel good. when you cry she kisses your tears away, like she knows better than to ask but wants to comfort you anyways.
when was the last time satoru tried to comfort you?
"hey," satoru breathes into your ear, pulling your panties down, "c'mon."
when you think of her, your heart flutters. when you think of satoru, your stomach flips, and your whole body aches.
you don't know what love is. you don't think satoru does, either.
otherwise, why would he ever leave geto's arms? when he's so obviously head over heels for him?
you clasp one arm against his chest as you reach down, stroking his cock to hardness. geto must have made him cum (satoru has never made you cum). must have fucked him.
satoru rolls you so you're on top of him.
his shirt is off, baring his lean, muscled chest. your brother, your strong, handsome, beautiful brother, looking up at you with wandering eyes and greedy hands.
your hands are equally greedy. running over his chest, ghosting over his nipples until he shivers. oversensitive. he always is after he's been with geto.
satoru's got a condom out already. he slips it on, leaning forward and pinning you down beneath him.
he doesn't have to use condoms with geto. he doesn't have to be the one on top all the time, either. geto can fuck him. he must like that.
geto's a special grade sorcerer. geto's a man. he's not his sister.
his cock is sliding up and down against your entrance, wetting the condom as he nips at your breast.
he always leaves marks like this, but never where anyone can see.
does he leave marks on geto?
"do you like him more?" you mumble, anxiety swirling in your gut. your lower half is a hot swirling pool of need, leaking for him.
and he inches in, making you whine, making you claw marks into his shoulder. you hope geto sees them.
satoru groans, low and throaty. it always feels like coming home when he's inside you. a perfectly matched lock and key.
his hand threads through your hair. you're so beautiful, so fucking beautiful. he'll admit he's a vain bitch, but who wouldn't be? looking like the two of you do.
maybe one day he should get you to dress up like him. wear a strap and fuck him, that'd be fun.
for now, you're warm and soft and perfect for him. so comfortable. and you're rambling about stuff that isn't important.
"what," he murmurs, breathy from the warmth of you around him, "who?"
if the frustration shows on your face, he can just fuck it away.
"geto." the name is swallowed by a swift thrust, hands planted on your hips.
you wish he'd touch your clit more (you never ask). you wish he'd answer your question (you're afraid to push). but your brother just doesn't think about other people.
"c'mon," he whines, "don't talk about some other dude. you're with me."
"you were with him."
"so?" he thrusts in harder, stealing your breath, like that'll win him the argument, "you're fucking shoko."
satoru fucks you breathless, then. pumping in and out so quickly that the friction has you shuddering, shivering, close enough that you finally start to squeeze around him.
it's always like this with him. you feel like you're drowning, helpless. all you can do is cling to him.
"satoru," you hate how pitiful your voice sounds, "satoruuuu...."
he's hitting you, so deep and so hard it hurts, pierces through the breathless haze and leaves you clenching around him.
"please," your breath escapes you with his next thrust.
please don't leave me. don't abandon me for him. don't discard me now that you have someone better. don't leave me all by myself...
tears dot at your eyes, squeezing around him. satoru's own eyes are wide and wild, his hips shoving into you staggeringly fast.
"i got you," he says, close, so close, "i've got you."
another deep thrust, painful as it is pleasurable, bruising and fast like his fingertips on your hips. he swallows your moans with a kiss.
he thinks he can eat up all your complaints, all your anxiety. hide away from his own by nestling himself in your body.
you don't want anyone but him, right? he's the only one who touches you like this.
the way you squeeze around him, the way your body feels against his, no one else gets that from you. shoko couldn't do this for you. no one could.
you say his name again and he's ready to burst. you love him always. you're so good for him. you make him feel good just by being there.
a part of his life. a missing limb. his precious sister, his beating heart, right there against his chest.
"there," satoru pants, "fuck, there, cum for me, baby..."
it's tears you blink away when he gasps and cums, burying himself inside you with a wounded sort of whimper.
you never do, when it's him. to be fair, you've never done it to yourself, either.
you only ever came when shoko fucked you. but fucked is such an ugly word for how gently she touched you, how soft she smiled.
"satoru," you whine again, "do you like him more than me? i like you more than shoko..."
satoru doesn't answer you. his hands move from your bruised hips to wrap around you, pull you close, plant kisses on your head.
"you know," he mumbles out your name. "you know."
there's a flash of rage. irrational.
he won't say it. he won't even say it. satoru will fuck you, his own sister. cling to you like he needs you to survive, sleep with you every night of his life.
but he won't say he loves you more than geto. he won't even say he likes you.
and you know - because you know him like the back of your hand, you were born with him, you spent every waking moment of your life with him until you came to the school - you know satoru loves you.
but he loves you like he loves air. it's always there. always accessible. it's not like the air will suddenly leave.
you curl into satoru's muscled chest, let him embrace you closer, sink into the silence that's only comfortable for him.
toji and megumi are competitive men, but they've got this feigned nonchalant act down good, so you're oblivious to the little competition between your brother and dad. in fact, you're the one that thinks you're sneaking around behind their backs!
but they see it. like when you're up late playing video games with megumi and side-by-side concentration on the TV somehow turns into you on your brothers lap, fingers running through his spiky hair, lips sucking his own into your mouth as his hard cock grinds against your barely clothed pussy. you're trying so hard to keep your voice down and avoid alerting your dad to what you're doing... but megumi is pulling your pyjama shorts to the side and rubbing your clit hard and fast and in such a mean way you can't help but be loud.
"megs... stop... dad will hear us," you're whining, grabbing at his wrist as if you have the strength to stop him.
"he won't," megumi lies through his teeth, quickly tugging his own plaid pyjama pants down to expose his cock. your brother lines himself up with your heat and thrusts upwards, almost giving away his smile as you yelp at the intrusion and follow your surprise with a bitten moan.
he fucks you like it's not wrong. like megumi is just your boyfriend, not your brother, and you're nothing more than two college kids with crazy sex drives and a penchant for reckless sex. pawing at your tits through your pyjama top, he lets himself forget for a second that your father is probably rock hard in the next room—that he's ducking in to leave bite marks on your neck that you'll chide him for later just so that toji can see them and know his son's laid claim to you.
and once you've cum twice on his cock and he can't hold on any longer, he pulls out to shoot ropes all over your pretty pussy. he smears it all over your clit with his thumb, which sends electric shock up your spine, and then with a deep kiss to your lips, he kicks you out of his room.
typical brother, you think, always wanting his space. little do you know that megs is sending you out because he knows your dad is waiting in the next room with an awful smile and a cock that is a lot more punishing than his. he knows you're going to fuck toji, and that he'll see the indents of his teeth on your neck, and the mess of cum he's left over your pussy...
but maybe megumi would be a little more hesitant if he knew that the reason toji never leaves you this messy for him is because you let daddy cum inside.
ੈ✩ tags: pseudocest/incest (caleb is referred to as your big brother lol), brat!reader, unprotected sex, dacryphilia, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, pussy inspection (idk), use of gege, teasing, cum eating for those with the eyes to see (?)
ੈ✩ wc: 2.3k (hello????)
ੈ✩ a/n: i will not be held accountable for this as i was possessed during the two hours it took to write this. bye
Caleb likes to rough you up. He does it as a favor for never letting you get into fights with other boys on the playground. The grudge you held against him for locking you in the attic when he was dealing with a bully was so deep within your marrow, that it took months of allowance money for him to make it up to you.
Now, though, he knows you can handle yourself. The little hunter girl you are. Talented and stubborn to a fault, with bright eyes and a sharp tongue you aren’t afraid to use. You’ve been like that since you were a kid.
He can’t help the satisfaction he feels when he gets to reduce you to tears, though. Likes to taunt you when what he’s doing to you is all a bit too much despite how much you pretend to be a big girl and grit your teeth through it. Whether it’s a playful arm wrestle or the trials of trying to take his cock in your tight heat.
But even when he roughs you up and overpowers you, he loves to coddle you afterward. He’s your big brother after all – there’s a soft spot for you in his heart always. Even if it’s deep like a bruise on ruined fruit, his love for you is sweet all the same. It’s always hurt to love you. Like the masochistic thrill of pressing down on a wound.
He should feel bad right now. He was rougher than usual on you today, but you seem to like the bites and the bruises littering your skin. You were getting stir-crazy lately, which is probably why you talked back to him today, knowing damn well that his temper was short-fused because of work lately.
But you’re just so good for him, milking his cock for all it's worth. He told you as such when he was deep inside you only minutes prior, kissing the tears on your cheeks. You know deep in your heart that your gege will always take care of you. Even when his love hurts, it’s all from a good place.
Caleb looks up to the sound of the bathroom door opening. He’d expected you to go to your room and get dressed before returning to him, but you’re still naked. He narrows his eyes.
“Hi,” you say softly.
“Hey.”
You climb into his lap, nesting yourself in his embrace. He takes a deep breath and tightens his grip on you, swallowing you inside his arms. You could never get used to how large he was compared to his lanky teenage self.
You whine when he squeezes your hips.
“Missed you.”
“I just went to pee,” you scoff. “Stop smothering me.”
“Oh, is that what you’re calling my cuddles now?”
“Yes,” you huff. As if you didn’t make yourself at home in his lap moments before.
“You’re being such a brat lately, you know that?” he says lowly, tracing your bottom lip. He smirks at you with a slight tilt of his mouth, his violet eyes gleaming.
You part your mouth and his gaze darkens. You bite his thumb.
He laughs, not unkindly, but you know it’ll taper into his usual scoffs. The ones that you coax from him when you don’t obey him or when you’re picky. Spending more than half of your life with him means that you have his micro-expressions memorized.
“See?” he mutters, pulling his thumb back. “Brat.”
Before you can respond, he pushes two fingers into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue.
“What’s wrong, Pip? You usually like having your mouth full.”
You whine in response. A noise that’s defiant more than anything.
“Suck.” Caleb’s voice is biting. You can feel his fingertips graze the back of your tongue and you exhale sharply. You end up obeying.
“There you go. Good girl.”
You can’t help but glare at him. He finally pulls his digits out of your mouth, watching intently as a string of saliva stretches from your tongue to his fingertip. Your insides flutter with something in between arousal and disgust.
“Stop playing with me,” you huff.
He lets out a sharp laugh. “What do you mean?” he asks innocently. You shiver when he peppers sweet kisses below your ear, down your neck.
“Tickles,” you whine, your shoulder jerking. You squirm and the strength at which he’s able to hold you down should scare you. Instead, it excites you. Your stomach pools with shame.
You pout, continuing to defy him by moving so much. Trying to get off his lap, thrashing like you’re an unsettled bird. You don’t often bicker the way you used to when you were younger, but there’s still a place inside you that holds a specific kind of irritation when you hear him chuckle darkly. Knowing he doesn’t take you seriously. Even when he fucks you, there are moments you feel reduced to your younger self. His kid sister.
“Stay still,” he huffs. “Let me hold you, honey.”
You make a noise of protest just because. You always want to provoke him for reasons you can’t explain.
He sits you down firmly on his thigh and it reminds you of your size difference. Renders you embarrassed, because you’re still bare and your skin is so hot and his touch is so –
He holds you by the jaw. "I can feel you, you know," he says to you, his eyes inky amongst a bed of indigo. "You're not even trying to hide it anymore, are you?"
“Wh-what?”
His lips move to your ear, kissing the lobe before he whispers, "You're getting worked up again, hm? Need Gege to calm you down?”
He grinds you against his bare thigh, moving you like you’re a ragdoll. You gasp involuntarily. It’s now that you realize how embarrassingly wet you are.
Caleb makes a strangled noise. As if the air is punched out of him. “Hah – you feel that? Is that all you? Or you and me, baby?”
“You and… me?”
He leans back to flash you a raised brow. “Yeah. You and me. Did you forget that I just –”
“Yes,” you cut him off, blushing, “I remember. Don’t be crude.”
“I want to know. You’re not normally this wet, you know.”
Fuck. You want to bury your face in his shoulder to hide your reaction, your face up in flames. You had always admired his candor. But there are times like these when he could pry anything from you. When his bare honesty would humiliate you.
“I cleaned up in the bathroom,” you shoot back, frowning.
“Did you?” he smirks. “I’d like my own proof.”
“Excuse me?” you scoff.
He gives you a knowing look. Usually, he likes to wipe you down with a warm, wet towel, maybe bathe you after he makes a mess out of you. This time, you had fled to the bathroom without warning, still embarrassed for some reason. He didn’t understand. Fucking was the closest he could get to you without sewing himself inside your skin. He loved you, and you loved him, so it often puzzled him why you were so shy sometimes.
“What?” he asks. He tilts his head, soothes a palm over the bruise he gave you on your waist. “Just wanna see if you cleaned up as good as you thought.”
His hand moves down to your hip. “Or should I find out for myself before you start making a mess on my thigh?”
You shoot daggers at him. “Don’t –”
His eyes flicker with intrigue before he narrows them. “Don’t what, hm? Your big brother just wants to check. You were never so good at cleaning yourself up, you know?”
You frown. Your heart is ready to burst from your sternum.
“You used to ask me to wash your hair in the bath,” he says lowly, giving you a lazy grin. “Said no one washed it as good as me. I think you just wanted a scalp massage, though. Spoiled girl.”
Your face burns even hotter. For him to mention something so innocent from your juvenile self while suggesting something so dirty minutes prior – the humiliation almost makes you shudder.
“I– I don’t need –”
“C’mon. You know you can’t hide from me. You never could.”
You blink at him. Before you know it, he lays you on your back, pressing his weight against you. Your eyes flutter when you feel his hard cock against your thigh, inhaling as you feel him shift his body.
He presses a kiss to your thigh, then pries your legs open. The intensity in which he examines your pussy makes you want to crawl into a hole.
He hums, prodding in between your folds with deft fingers. You whimper at the stimulation.
“C-Caleb –”
He hums. “Hm.. just as I thought,” he murmurs, amused. “You missed some.”
“I did not –”
“You know,” he tsks, “I’m a bit disappointed.”
“What? Why?”
“You were so eager to leave me. I would’ve cleaned you up myself,” he sighs, feigning disappointment. “Like I always do. But you still didn’t do a good job, even though you’re all grown now. What a shame.”
He’s quick to move down your body. It’s like whiplash.
“What are you doing?” you ask, your voice high with incredulity.
“What do you think?” he grins. “I’m gonna make sure you’re all clean.”
“You can’t be serious.”
He looks at you with a hint of disdain and it makes your heart sink. In the back of your mind, you know his demeanor is all play, but any sign of disapproval from Caleb always makes you panic slightly. You had always wanted to please him, even when you were kids. That coupled with your attuned sense of his emotions made it all the more Pavlovian. You’d give in to him if it would make him happy, no matter what.
“A-Are you serious?” you mutter.
“Deadly.”
He spreads your legs even more, pushes himself down his king-sized bed until he’s face-level with your glistening cunt. You almost gasp when you feel his breath against you.
“Be good,” he whispers sternly. You can only nod.
He laps up your arousal with eagerness and everything inside you melts. You don’t realize how sensitive you are from the sex you had with him less than an hour ago until you feel his lips latch onto your clit.
“O-Oh, Caleb, don’t–”
He simply hums. Your eyes roll back at the sensation. You whimper and you think that maybe you feel the hint of a laugh against your pussy. That or it’s a sharp breath.
Caleb has kissed death too many times to count. He really thinks he should be dead by now, given the horrific incidents he’s been through, even beyond the explosion. It’s funny. He doesn’t think about his own morality anymore now that he’s with you again, reunited. He thinks that if he should dance so close to the edge of death again, he’d do it for you. Drown for you. Drown in you. Let the sweetness of you kill him like slow poison in his veins. Like mistaking heroin for honey.
What’s awful about Caleb is that he wants to sacrifice himself for you. The altar is where he can rest his head – on your shoulder, on your stomach. In between your legs.
He groans against your core and you cry out. You’re so, so sensitive. You pull his hair and whine to tell him as such, but he only doubles down on his actions. A man starved.
You tug on his dark locks and he moans, squeezing your hips. Encouraging you to arch yourself up to his mouth so he can taste every drop of you.
“I– I’m probably clean now—”
He chuckles against you, then sucks on your clit. When he lifts his head to meet your eyes, he looks otherworldly. Rosy cheeks and messy hair. Boyish. You’ve never seen him look like this before in your life.
“You want me to stop? Really?”
“You don’t have to keep–”
“You’re halfway there, baby,” he smiles warmly, kissing your clit. You jolt and his gaze turns unbearably fond. “Want you squeaky clean, okay?”
Your eyes widen. Before you can protest, he’s licking you up again. You moan out, your knees knocking together as if the middle of your body is struck by lightning. All the arousal in your belly seems to make a mess of your insides.
You gasp when Caleb hooks two fingers into you without warning. You don’t need it, really, you barely need any prep for it. You’re so slick with want that there’s no resistance. It’s so fucking easy for him to reach into the depths of your sex. He grazes the sweet spot by your cervix and your legs start to tremble.
You’re so fucking close, and for some reason, what comes to mind is the image of you and Caleb as your younger selves. When you were naive, when you were frustrated with him more than usual because you didn’t realize that you had a crush on him.
You think of the word crush and think of demolition. A car crash. An avalanche. His moans vibrate against your pussy as his tongue licks up all of your honey, his fingers prodding your g-spot with a constant rhythm.
“Caleb,” you whine. “I can’t–”
Your eyes shut tightly until the phosphenes behind your lids vibrate like the birth of a new star. That’s the only way you can describe the orgasm that washes over you – like chaos, like the big bang. You’ve never cum so hard from head in your whole life.
Despite this, he doesn’t let up.
“Caleb, Caleb,” you gasp. “S’too much–”
You have to push away his head to get him to stop. He pauses, looks up at you with eyes half-lidded. Full of delirium. A wet, sweet mouth.
You think of peaches. You think of him in the summertime, wiping his mouth from a bite full of watermelon.
He pulls his fingers out of you and licks up your slick, grinning.
♡ tags ; psuedocest / adoptive incest, afab + fem!reader, minor age-gap (3 years), mentions / non graphic depictions of child abuse (from readers days in the orphanage), childhood crushing, mutual pining, developing relationship, size difference, some religious imagery, loss of virginity, petnames (baby, princess, pipsquak), use of meimei once and gege a few times but very sparing, oral (f!recieving), nipple play, marking, light masochism from reader, mouth-spitting, fingering, bare-backing, 18+
♡ wc ; 23.3k (kill me)
♡ a/n ; hey. this is an incest fic for adoptive siblings. if that makes you uncomfortable, don't read it. block me if you need to. please spare me lecture.
also - i have reader be carried by caleb a couple of times but dude has a bionic arm so he's strong as shit to me. the size difference tag is mostly about his dick. aside from the carrying there is no phyiscal indicators for reader
important to the fic but i play in simplified cn. please go listen to the simplified cn voice actor before you read this. for my sanity. most of my characterization is based on various cn translations from the kind cn fanbase. special thank you to mao @/yinyuedijun and this yt channel.
♡ synopsis ; for as long as you can remember, the sight of caleb's back is whats made you feel safest. it's no surprise that every man that comes after him never quite measures up.
PART ONE: ANYTHING YOU SAY CAN AND WILL BE HELD AGAINST YOU.
At seven, you knock out one of your teeth roughhousing with one of the orphanage boys.
The good news? You’re winning. You’re at the age where size matters more than gender but the boy you’re fighting is both bigger and older than you.
Even so, you manage to pull off shoving him back.
You don’t know his name, only his face— buzzed head and red gums, the pristine picture of anger. You roll around with him in the small stretch of yard behind the orphanage - white tanktop stained with grass, all knobby knees and short limbs as you fight and fight and fight with every ounce of your strength.
You are seven with something to prove and a lot already lost. Your pride refuses to let you lose further. You recieve a hit of adrenaline when you launch the top of your head into the older boys chin and hear his teeth clack from how hard it lands. He collapses in a pile, spits curses he learned from the grown-ups that come in and out as he lays there.
He nearly jumps you when you’re both down. Your head is throbbing where his chin connected and you can tell if he decides to fight you again, your chances of winning have slimmed significantly.
You see it in his eyes. In his face. He’s so angry. Always is. You knew it was a bad idea to provoke him to begin with.
He nearly, nearly jumps you and almost knocks you out completely.
So you decide it might be better to prepare for it. You fold up. Put your arms up high and brace for impact when a shadow - long, endless, casts over your head. Eyes half open, a familiar pair of beat-up sneakers stand in front of you in the grass. You hear a familiar voice. It’s colder than you’re used to.
“Bullying a little kid is lame,” Caleb says, sharp. It makes you shrink further even though it’s not directed at you. “Quit fighting or I’ll get one of the grown-ups.”
You can’t see what's in front of you. You only hear a shock of gasps around you—another confrontation that quickly settles into silence before Caleb turns around.
His face is soft as he bends down to be eye level. Kind, boyish, gentle - he opens up his arms. He’s not happy about something. You can tell because his smile is a little dimmer than normal. You desperately hope it isn’t because of you.
Even knowing Caleb is going to scold you a bit, you find yourself welling up in tears from relief even over fear. You wail as you wrap your arms around his neck and Caleb hoists you up and carries you on his hip like you’re still a baby.
He’s silent as he carries you into the house.
“You shouldn’t get into fights,” He says, soothing. You sniffle as he walks you inside. His shirt smells like summer, hands fisted in it. Holding on for dear life. Call for me next time.”
Caleb sits you on the mattress, in the room all the older kids share. Your feet don’t touch the ground as he kneels in front of you and rifles around under his bed. He has bandages and alcohol, cotton swabs and gauze.
His eyes are kind as he assesses your wounds. Pours alcohol onto a cotton pad and frowns each time you sniffle and sob from the pain of getting them cleaned. “A crybaby like you shouldn’t fight anyone, seriously.”
“Shut up,” You say first. You hang your head low, instant regret. Your hands close again, blunt nails digging into your palms. Your lower lip trembles. Caleb quickly puts a hand on the top of your head when he notices your distress. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. Just depend on me, alright?” He grins with the same front tooth missing. Like a mirror image of you, you think. “I’ll always help you.”
__
At ten, you give up celebrating your birthday.
You’re the age Caleb was when you met and now you’ve both left the orphanage and lived away from it for a few years. You’ve spent nearly three years with a woman you call Grandma and the world feels a lot kinder with her in your life. She takes good care of you. Gives you a warm bed to sleep in, and good food to eat. Doesn’t get angry when you break cups or get up in the middle of the night to go pee.
You live in a house with only three people and you even get to have your own room—one you don’t have to share, not even with Caleb. It’s nice to sleep where there’s no one else, even if most nights you crawl into Caleb’s bed anyway and sleep next to him because it's more comfortable.
Grandma is nice to you. Sometimes, she looks like she’s somewhere far away but it never lasts for long. You’re thankful to her for taking you in.
You have a warm bed to sleep in, good food to eat, and Caleb is right next to you. He’s your brother now, so you can be together forever. And none of the adults from the orphanage are here to punish him anymore when he tries to protect you.
You’re ten and the world seems to be trying its best not to hurt you any further. Somehow, this only makes you feel more uneasy.
You’re happy. It scares you. You often wonder when someone will punish you for it. If someone will be blamed for allowing it. It makes you feel helpless when you think about it too long.
But you have Caleb. He makes it easier. You can cling onto his shirt when it gets too hard. And he’s older now, enough to really feel grown up.
A night, when you clutch the fabric until it stretches wide, trembling after you’re plagued by bad dreams - having nightmares of rusted rain, Caleb is there.
No matter how deeply asleep, he always wakes up to hold you.
( You wait for him to tell you that you’re too big to be getting scared over nightmares, but the day still hasn’t come. You hope it never does. You think you’d be so sad you would never stop crying. )
You’re ten, and the world seems kinder - but you know better by now. You try to take precautionary measures against letting it take everything from you again.
And you start small. With yourself, and your birthday.
You’ve only ever celebrated a few birthdays. In the orphanage they’d celebrate a lot at once, so it never felt very special. You can’t really remember the ones you had before then, don’t remember much from then at all. Since you’ve been adopted, Grandma has celebrated your birthday and made it special. She and Caleb cook your favorite meal together and you sit around and cut-cake afterwards.
They even decorate the house with balloons and streamers.
Your birthdays now don’t compare to the ones you had then.
Nothing bad is happening but still. You like celebrating your birthday. But, can you feel okay about getting to celebrate a birthday at all? When you thought for sure your life might end before then?
Before your eleventh birthday, you announce to your family that you don’t want to do anything special this year. When they probe you with questions about why not, you refuse to give up any answers.
Caleb is thirteen and heartbroken when he hears you say this. Asks questions even as you turn your nose up and refuse to answer. You get into a fight about it, one of the very first of your entire relationship.
It’s that same night you begin to sleep in your own room.
In the weeks leading up to your birthday, you find your house to be more quiet than usual. Caleb is busy with something but you blame yourself for the distance between you. He always comes back seeming tired. Even though he still pats your head and smiles at you the same way, you notice when he seems a little less there at the dinner time.
When your birthday finally comes, your grandma still decides to celebrate it in a small way. She makes your favorite food and gets you a cake and candles. Hugs you when you cry about it, too. The only thing they skip is the decoration.
(You’re brave though, when next year rolls around and tell them you miss it. It makes Caleb happy enough to hug you tight.)
The warmth that fills your heart seeing your name in iced letters is too big for your body. You wonder if this is what having a family was like.
At night time, after dinner and before you cut the cake - you open your presents. There’s two for your eleventh birthday. One from grandma and one from Caleb. Usually, they sign their gift to you together but this year they’re separate.
At first, your heart sinks, but you try not to think about it. Grandma gets you a bike that matches Caleb’s so the two of you can ride together. You’re happy to have it but Caleb insists you can just keep riding on the back of his if you don’t want to learn.
You open Caleb’s gift second. It’s wrapped in pretty paper with a bow on it so you undo it carefully. Inside of it is a plain looking box.
“Open it,”
There’s a pair of earrings and a necklace when you do. It’s not cheap plastic like all the other jewelry you’ve ever had in your life. Little apples covered in gemstones, and a little gold necklace with a pendant and a locket. Your eyes go wide, fingers trembling a little as you touch it.
You look for Caleb’s face unthinkingly. Kind and warm, eyes crinkled and shoulders slack in relief when he sees your happy reaction. His hand is warm as it rests on your head, rubbing gently.
“It took a while but I’ve been helping our neighbors for money so I could buy it for you,” Caleb says, looking down at you with an easy grin. “The day you were born is important for me, so don’t say that you won’t celebrate it from now on. Okay?”
When tears well up in your eyes, you barely have to say a word before Caleb brings you into his waist. You cry to him the same way you always do - with a hand fisted in the back of his shirt like you’re terrified of where you’d end up if you let go.
Even when you ruin his shirt with salty tears, Caleb never voices a word of complaint. His steady heartbeat and warm hands that make you feel like he’s already done it all before, stay exactly where you expect them.
Your dependable, kind older brother.
__
At thirteen, you take your first field trip overnight.
It takes a tremendous amount of effort to make it happen.
Grandma was easy to convince, but it took you fourteen whole days to convince your brother that you could handle going on a school field trip without having your hand held the entire time.
(You can still hear the amused, taunting lilt in his voice from when you first mentioned it. Sure you’ll be okay pipsqueak? My bed won’t be there for you to take over if you get scared, you know?)
Ugh. He can be so strict. An you swear he was even more stubborn about it than usual.
You had to use every tactic in the book to get him to say yes. Kissing up to him, acting extra wistful, doing your chores and being super well-behaved. After strategically buttering him up for two weeks prior to you just asking, you also made sure to ask when he had one of his friends over. He’s strict regardless of who's around, but having another person in your corner is good for morale.
(This method is effective for the record. Just as Caleb goes to turn you down, his friend throws an eraser at him and clicks his teeth.
“There’s a limit to your siscon behavior. Just let her go.”
You sneak said friend a candy the next time he comes over as thanks.)
After a lot of persistent begging, Caleb relents and allows Grandma to sign your permission slip. It’s an overnight trip sure—but it’s heavily supervised and rooms are separated by gender anyhow. You really don’t know what he was so worried about.
So far, the trip has been really fun. You went to a butterfly garden conservatory as a part of your science project and one landed on your nose. Your friend even managed to get a good picture. In the afternoon, you did a bit of sightseeing and got to buy some street food.
When evening rolled around, you and all your friends holed up in the same hotel room sleeping together on one big floor. You stayed up a few hours later than you should’ve—gossiping and discussing the newest chapter of a very popular romance webnovel. Most of them are out by the time the clock hits midnight.
And now, you’re the last one awake at 1am.
Unfortunately, no matter how long you try to sleep—it is hard to sleep away from home, knowing Caleb isn’t right down the hall. No matter how much the thought makes you frown.
You’ve outgrown the habit of crawling into his bed every night. Still, you think you rest easier knowing that he’s there. You’d never admit it but subconsciously, it comforts you just knowing he is. The few times you get nightmares of the Chronorift these days, your nightmares are especially persistent. You don’t crawl into his bed like you did when you were a little kid as often as you used to. Even when you want it, it’s just a little embarrassing.
Regardless though, he’ll stay up with you until it passes, and until you go back to to sleep. It’s the only thing that helps it go down easier some nights. That he’d be there no matter what happened.
By the time the clock strikes one-thirty, you get the feeling you just won’t be able to sleep unless you at least call him.
So, after carefully sneaking your phone out of your bag - you leave your hotel room to wander the halls and end up in the lobby in your PJs.
You realize your incidental act of rebellion when you catch some stares from late-night guests. You hesitate on whether or not you should go back before deciding that’d be pointless. Fingers hovering over the call button, it takes a beat before you hit and hear the number dial. He’ll probably scold you but you know he’ll answer.
He picks up in one ring. His voice is thick with sleep when he speaks. “It’s late. You should be asleep.”
“Yeah, I know. Sorry, Gege,” You say, crossing slippered feet against the tile of the hotel lobby floor. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
His voice softens instantly. “Somethin’ happen?”
You shake your head before realizing he can’t see you. “No, I just couldn’t sleep.” A beat. “I thought I would sleep better if…I talked to…someone.”
It’s too embarrassing to tell him you wanted to talk to him, specifically. Caleb is quiet on the other side of the line before he laughs, just a little. “You were so adamant on wanting to go with your friends, huh? I thought you’d be just fine. Were you being brave for show?.”
You frown a little, groaning. “I did have fun. A lot of fun. We talked a lot before bed too, and now everyone else is asleep. It’s not like I regret going. And I wasn’t being brave, I was just—”
“Sure, sure. Still can’t sleep unless you know I’m there, huh?”
Silence stretches over the line. You feel your face grow hot with embarrassment as you stretch your legs out, chin tucked against your chest.
“Maybe I should just hang up on you,”
“I didn’t say it was a bad thing,” Caleb says more gently. “You can call me as much as you want.”
“You’re being nice like when we were kids.” You observe.
Caleb scoffs a little. “I’m always nice.”
You roll your eyes and Caleb laughs like he knows you did it. It’s quiet again before he speaks. In the voice that makes him feel older than he is. “I’m worried about you so I’m being even nicer than usual. Is that okay?”
His tone is light, teasing, but there’s more to it than he lets on. You trace a pattern into the worn, fabric arm of the chair you sit in. “Why?”
“I get worried when you go somewhere I can’t see you.” He says agreeably.
Your face tugs into a frown, strangely mortified by the sincerity of it. “It’s not like I’m a kid anymore. I’ll be fourteen in a few months.”
Caleb laughs. “As far as I’m concerned, you’ll always be a kid.”
You huff. “That’s not fair. Does that mean I’ll have to beg you like this to do anything for the rest of my life? You’re too much.”
“At least until you turn eighteen.” Caleb replies, voice airy and content. “And if you’re still a little weakling then, probably a few more years after that too.”
You groan. “How terrible. What kind of brother are you? So cruel.” You pause “You’re more like my dad sometimes.”
“Since you’re my responsibility, I usually have to act as all three.” Caleb says with ease. “You should get used to it.”
Despite your grievances, your body relaxes exactly the way you expect as you listen to him talk. You yawn out loud, sleep making your eyes and limbs heavy.
“Finally tired?” He asks, voice softened. Doting. It’s so instant, you don’t have the will to fight it. “Go sleep. Make sure you eat tomorrow morning and don’t just wait until noon.”
“Okay, Gege.” You yawn again. “Goodnight. Love you,”
A long silence stretches between you. You wonder why he hesitates. “Love you too. Now go to bed. And don’t sneak out without telling your teachers again,”
“Wait, how did you—”
“I know everything.” He says dismissively. “Goodnight, okay?”
You pull back and stare at your phone. He’s a little scary sometimes.
“Yeah. Okay. Night,”
__
At sixteen, you go experience the first real heartbreak of your life.
It’s less over the actual relationship and more about the events leading to your break-up.
Your secret boyfriend of five months kissed one of your closest friends. And you caught them both red-handed.
It was in the gymnasium after school a few weeks ago. You nearly fist fought them both before getting overwhelmed and simply running away in tears to a nearby playground. Your two other best friends had to pry you out of a bed of mulch and take you home after wiping your tears.
You have a list of grievances about the situation. You like (?) the guy but you loved your friend - but now you have neither. And all of it happened for a reason you cannot wrap your mind around at all.
You’re thankful for your other friends who have taken your side in the matter while still trying to get to the bottom of it. And it’s good having them, but in your time of teenage angst - the one person you’d like to tell absolutely can’t know.
Not telling your older brother is hard. Keeping the secret makes you feel guilty enough, but it’s made harder when he’s home. And he will be for the next two weeks until he has to go back to the dorms. They’re on some kind of spring break.
Until then, you make it your mission to keep up appearances. Since the one person you don’t want to find out about your relationship is the person who’d find out the fastest.
Caleb is strict. Has been for as long as you can remember. Though you’ve never explicitly spoken on dating - he has, more than once, “subtly” warned you about having an interest in the opposite sex. You remember how you made stupid heart-eyes to one of his school friends years back and he still brings it up whenever you ask about him and how he’s doing. As if even wanting to know is some kind of betrayal.
(And well, maybe you do ask just to see him react like that. It’s…funny. It’s not like Caleb needs to know that.)
You don’t like keeping secrets from your brother. You’re close. Way closer than most people ever are with their siblings.
Maybe because Caleb has always taken care of you—he feels less like a sibling you can pointlessly squabble with and more like your guardian at times.
It’s hard for you to lie to him explicitly so the fact you’ve kept the relationship under wraps for five months is kind of impressive.
You always told yourself, you’d tell Caleb if it ever got serious. Truthfully though, you didn’t think it was going to last. Didn’t even want to accept until your friends pressured you.
Your now ex-boyfriend is the one who asked you out, which is what pisses you off the most. He’s one of the popular guys in your grade and he’s…nice. Was nice. You don’t think you’d be sad if he simply broke up with you and went out with your friend. You’d think less of him maybe, but it’s not like you’re in love with him.
It’s all the other stuff that’s weighing you down. It’s getting into a fight with your friend. It’s getting two-timed by the jackass who asked you out first. One you didn’t even like that much.
(Maybe not at all.)
It’s wanting to whine and complain about all of this to your older brother who would take your side but not being able to - because you can’t tell him half truths. You don’t have it in you. You barely have it in you to lie to him.
(Truthfully, you think the only reason you’ve been able to all this time is because you’ve kept said boyfriend at arms length somewhat knowingly. You haven’t had a proper kiss.)
Telling Caleb everything is a long time compulsion you don’t know if you’ll ever unlearn.You don’t know if it’s loyalty or gratitude—only that it makes you feel like a dog whose been leashed to a post for most of your life before it gets unchained.
Even when you’re no longer shackled to it, you find you can’t go anywhere. Being without it doesn’t free you, not really. You find it goes against what you know to try to escape without hearing the click of metal.
You stay by the post. You tell Caleb everything. It feels outright wrong to lie about something important.
(And it’s still hard lying about something unimportant.)
You’re sure it speaks to the depth of your attachment but you always end up spilling your guts to him. Like a child always wanting to please their parents and behave. You know Caleb will accept you, even if he gets angry. But you don’t actually know how he’ll react and that scares you into not wanting to tell him at all.
The thought of disappointing him is what makes you most uneasy.
So, you decide that you’ll take it to the grave. It’s your one half-ass rebellion and these are the natural consequences. As long as you process your friendship grief and wear out your anger - it’ll be smoothed over before you know.
Meticulously, you time your sessions of grieving and angry debriefing phone calls in the hours Caleb is out of the house. You work hard at keeping up as if nothing is happening in your life at all. You feel an unshakeable feeling of guilt the entire time, one that has you waking up in cold sweat but you ignore it because… well, you don’t really know how to fix it.
(Truthfully - you’re irrationally worried that he’d leave over something so trivial, and you’d be seven and all alone in the world again. As nonsensical as it is, and as much as you want to pretend otherwise, your attachment to Caleb really matters that much to you.)
You very nearly make it to the finish line of this plan too. Almost. .
In the middle of your crying session - you answer a knock on the door and assume it’s Granny (who does, at least partially, know what’s going on). You open it without thinking.
It’s the last person you want to see in the moment.
You quickly try to shut the door but Caleb is quicker. Slides his unnecessarily huge body through the small gap and shuts it behind him - trapping you both. You stumble back a little, but he catches you by the wrist to make sure you don’t actually fall.
You feel like a deer in headlights. Red, water rimmed eyes, runny nose, and face puffy - you try to pull your sleeves over your hands and wipe your face. Even though he’s already seen it. You’re too old to be crying like this in front of him. It’s humiliating.
Caleb grabs your wrists easily before you can wipe them away. You blink away a few unshed tears to get a better look at his face. You inhale, your chest tight - feet like lead as you look at your older brother. His pinched expression, almost pained but still tender. Still gentle. Just seeing it again makes you want to cry.
“I knew it,” He says. He drops your hands and instead cups your face with his palm, thumb wiping away tears as he cups your cheek. His expression is firm. “What’s wrong, hm?”
It’s like something in you collapses.
You give into it without any effort.
Caleb makes it so easy, after all, to be the weakest version of yourself.
With him, there’s no desire to fight what feels inevitable. So you let yourself fall to nothing in Caleb’s arms and cry. You’re torn up over your first real friendship fight so you let yourself lean on him. Just like you do at seven, and ten, and all the years before. Fist your hand tight in the fabric of his shirt like you’re worried he’ll shake you off, even though he never does.)
(Later, you’ll remember this conversation and realize that there was never any room for anyone else. It was a kind of teenage naivety to think otherwise.
You’ll hear the sentiment from everyone you know—friends, colleagues, family: the person you can be weakest with is who you should marry. If only you had known that then, too. Maybe accepting it would’ve been easier. Maybe you would’ve known sooner what feeling you’d spend the rest of your adult life chasing)
Caleb rests his hand on the back of your head as he tucks your face against his chest. It’s warm and soft. The comforting scent of detergent and cologne, undercut by oil and jetfuel. You wish you could bury yourself in.
You stand and cry like that in silence for a long while. Caleb holds you tight without asking any questions, his chin resting on top of your head, patting your back.
When you pull away from him, ready to explain - he walks himself over to your bed and sits on it. His expression is unreadable. Concerned but trying not to worry too son.
With his legs wide, he opens his arms out to you to invite you into his lap the way you did when you were kids. You wonder if he’s joking—trying to make you laugh and cheer you up.
But in the moment you’re so fragile, you tuck your chin and sit anyway. He stiffens briefly, as if surprised but soon enough, strong arms lay drape your waist as he lets you lean into him.
“Ready to talk about it?”
You fidget. “Aren’t you busy?”
He shakes his. “I’m all yours.”
Your chest feels warm and fluttery when he says it. It soothes you. .
You sniffle, adjusting in his lap. “I’m sorry.”
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” He asks. “You don’t have to,”
“No, I—” You shift in his lap. “It feels wrong. Not telling you.”
Caleb hums. “You’re at that age. I already know that much. But no matter what I’m on your side, so don’t hide when you’re feeling sad or upset. Okay?”
“Nn,” You nod. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”
“It’s really fine. It’s not like I can really be mad at you, right?”
You make a small, thoughtful noise. “You say that but you’re unexpectedly good at holding grudges.”
Caleb laughs. “Hm, that’s true. But not with you.”
You repeat the words to yourself, half-dizzy with a smile. “Not with me.”
Caleb smiles at you. He holds you a little tighter. You grab hold of his jacket, white knuckling the fabric until your heartbeat settles.
“So. Do you want to tell me what happened?”
__
( In the end, you tell Caleb everything from start to finish.
It’s just as you predicted. Once you start, it’s hard to give him anything but the full truth. Caleb listens to you intently without interjecting. Rests his chin on your shoulders, leaving you with nothing but his body language to pick up on his moods.
He stiffens when you tell him you had a boyfriend. Calms down when you tell him you didn’t like him very much, that all you did was hold hands and cuddle and you still think it was a waste.
Caleb listens to it all. Hangs onto your every word until you’ve tuckered yourself out. You think of what they say about how a burden shared is a burden halved and hope that it’s fine to depend on him this much all these years later.
Caleb is silent and steady for the duration of your talk. Towards the end he tells you: “No boy should ever make you cry. Should I get revenge for you?”
“Gege,” You say exasperated “And what about boys making me cry? That’s all they do from what I can tell.”
He doesn’t refute that. “ That’s true. It’s better to avoid them, really. If I ever make you cry you though, you can hit me,” He replies. You laugh a little.
“I don’t think you would make me cry without good reason.”
“If I do, I’ll make sure to repent for my whole life after.” He says, joking. Maybe joking.
Your cheeks warm “Your whole life feels like a long time.”
“Is it? You can’t really get rid of me easily, so I think it makes sense.”
“I guess that’s true. You can’t get rid of me either, you know.”
Caleb grins at you. “How lucky.”)
__
At nineteen, you go to a club in the Linkon entertainment district for the very first time.
Your friends dragged you here. It’s your first year of the Hunter Academy and your first time living away from home. You’ve spent most of the school year completely focused on training and working towards your goals - trying to be strong enough to work alongside a certain someone and hold your own.
You’re not here of your own volition, but honestly? It’s not so bad. Drinking and dancing with your friends proves fun for the first couple of hours at least.
After that gets old though, really more stressful than anything.
You aren’t supposed to be here in the first place. That’s the main cause of your current unease. The club is 21+ and it was already an ordeal getting in. The longer you stay, the more restless you feel—the more you want to leave before anyone gets caught up in anything.
You’ve been knocking back drinks all evening, courtesy of some of your friends - and the night is starting to come to a halt for you internally. All the discomfort and overstimulation go from engaging to overwhelming, and your head is starting to spin.
You’re in the section where you and your friends got invited. Apparently there’s someone tonight who's popular in the nightlife scene - son of some rich business man you think. Your friend has been doing you all the solid of keeping him happy. Your eyes flit over to where they dance on the floor and you feel yourself wince just looking at them.
Shit, your head is throbbing.
Pinching the bridge of your nose, you sink back in your seat and think about what the best strategy is to get out of here.
All of you should go home honestly. There won’t be major consequences for simply being intoxicated, but sneaking into an establishment like this really might affect your ability to graduate. Your academy is not known for its leniency.
Aside from that, you’re tired. You should have more energy than this. You would normally, you think. But it’s a Friday and you had taken up some extra training since you had no plans to be out. The addition of alcohol dehydrating you and the sharp and particular pain from stiletto heels makes you lethargic. Dead on your feet.
It’s later in the night but not so late people are leaving. A second wave of attendees are shuffling in now. You have half a mind to mix with the crowd and leave by yourself. It feels like a good idea at least.
But then, more people are brought to your section. You’re only half-paying attention as the guy from earlier, the one paying for you all, happily introduces the new group to people already sitting.
“...And Caleb, it’s good to see you. You’re usually too busy to come to things like this,”
A pair of eyes bore into you. You freeze completely, eyes glued to your phone screen as you catch a glimpse of the one person you absolutely do not want to be meeting here.
“Yeah,” A familiar voice says. His voice is light like he’s not noticed anything.”I’m glad I came. I’ve already seen some interesting things.”
The dull throb in your head turns the corner to a sharp pain. A feeling of complete misery washes over you. Truly, the worst possible outcome. You wonder what Caleb is doing here in the first place. From what you know, this isn’t usually his kind of establishment either. Maybe someone from his dorms dragged him here too? You think it’d be something like that.
You make the mistake of looking up as Caleb slides in opposite to you with a few other friends. His expression is completely unreadable as your eyes meet across the table. He flashes you a smile that makes your nerves stand on end. All you can do is look away, eyes flitting back down your phone.
A text appears at the top of your screen.
from cpt big bro (1:03am): nice to see you.
A feeling of unease immediately feels you, but when you look back up at Caleb - he’s pretending like you don’t even exist.
You don’t know why you feel so guilty in the first place. Sure, you snuck in here but it’s not like you did something unheard of. And you’re past the legal drinking age in the first place. And the clothes weren’t your idea. You’ll tell him that when he inevitably asks.
You’re not doing anything so wrong but you’re worried he’ll get the wrong idea.
(A voice in your head asks: what idea? You tell yourself it’d be embarrassing if your brother thought you were looking for a hook-up. It’s reasonable enough.
You decide not to interrogate the reasoning any further, even when the feeling doesn’t go away.)
You find your gaze falling in your lap as you try to dissolve the overwhelming feeling of shame and upset just knowing Caleb’s seen you like this.
It’s worse though to have him ignoring you. You know he’s probably doing it for your sake. Even knowing he’s not malicious doesn’t make it much better. Your eyes stay glued to your phone screen.
You don’t know how much time passes before someone else joins you at the table.
A woman this time.
“Caleb! You actually came,” She says over the music. You watch her from your peripherals as she slides in next to him without hesitation. “I thought Kenji was lying to get more girls to show up.”
You hear him laugh a little. You think he sounds a little uncomfortable, but maybe you’re reading too much into it. “I didn’t have much of a choice.”
“Isn’t that always how that goes?” She hums. Your eyes widen slightly seeing the way she presses herself up against his arm. “But I’m glad you're here. Maybe I can convince you to dance.”
“You can try,” He says. You know he’s just being amiable. Or at least, you think he’s just trying to be amiable.
You’ve never really seen Caleb flirt with a girl, so you don’t have a real reference for what does and does not count.
It’s the first time in all of your life you’ve ever seen Caleb get hit on so closely. You’re used to his popularity of course - but back then, Caleb usually made a point to run away. No one ever got near enough. He’s always been nice about it of course, tries to let people down easy.
You don’t know the girl who's flirting with him now, but you can tell that they know each other. They’re sitting close, but not enough to be obvious. You can hear them too, though. Hear how she talks to him. It’s not hard to tell that she’s hitting on him. And your brother isn’t reciprocating but he’s not quite turning her down. It doesn’t seem to bother him, enough that when he makes jokes playfully rejecting her - the conversation still doesn’t sour.
They get along, is what you mean. Better than you thought they would.
Your stomach churns.
You try not to think about whats making you sick. But it washes over you all at once. More dizzy than nauseous. You feel like someone is tying your insides into a coil. The more you try to divert your gaze - the harder it is to ignore it. Caleb glances at you from time to time, but it seems accidental at best.
Your heart is hammering. You think about how long it’s been since you’ve last seen each other. All the things that have happened while you’re apart.
When you find you can’t sit and handle anymore, your body makes the decision to leave for you.
It happens quickly. You stand to your feet, nearly stumbling in your heels as you talk to a friend on the dance floor and make-up a nonsense excuse about needing to leave. She offers to call you a taxi, but by then you’re already making a bee-line to the door and out of the club.
It’s late when you leave. Your whole body feels like it’s trapped in ice as the unforgiving night air whips your skin and leaves you cold. You stumble down the steps in your heels until you finally make it onto the curb with all the other drunk club-goers trying to get home or sober up.
You’ll flag down a taxi, go home, and pretend nothing happened. You repeat the routine to yourself over and over.
It feels like the only way you can handle it. Your mind can't process it otherwise. Can’t think too hard on what you might’ve been privy too.
“Where are you runnin’ off to?”
You freeze when you hear Caleb’s voice. You have half a mind to break into a sprint but you aren’t sure you can without breaking your ankles with your heels. Another part of you is preening over the fact he came immediately to find you. You turn around and try to walk away briskly - only to feel a warm hand on your wrist, pulling you towards him and making you come to a halt.
“Let me go,” You mumble.
He holds you a little tighter.
“Don’t be like that. No matter how much training you have, I know you can’t run in heels so quit it,” Caleb says, with a sigh. “Why’d you run off?”
“What do you mean why?” You say, words slurring. “Who’d wanna see—hicc—”
Caleb frowns at you. “Why’re you trying to be tough if you can barely keep yourself standing up straight?”
He sighs, bending down. You let out a noise as he undoes the strap of your heel.
“Take them off,”
You pout. “How am I supposed to walk home like that?”
“I’ll carry you on my back,” He replies. “Your ankles with have a hard time if you keep wobbling like that,”
“My feet will get dirty from the pavement.”
You’re being difficult on purpose. Drunk and upset, arguing with anything he says. Caleb knows this you’re sure but he doesn’t seem to have a reaction to it besides mild exasperation. Despite that though, he still tends to you.
He makes a face at you before sighing. You watch as he slides his jacket off of his shoulders and drapes it over you. It’s oversized on him, even more so on you. It fits more like a dress and covers more than your outfit does.
When you’ve slipped your arms through it, he drops down onto his knees and undoes the other strap of your heel. He turns around after that, signalling for you to get on his back. You want to refuse him but you find you don’t have the words to do so. You comply with his request, putting your arms around his neck as he lifts you with frightening ease.
He bends down with you on his back to pick your heels up and carry them.
“Aren’t you gonna ask me anything?” You mumble. Caleb sighs. It makes you bite your lip.
“It can wait a bit.”
“Hmph.”
You find you have nothing left to argue with him. You give up on trying to refuse and let him carry you, both hands lifting you up as you keep your arms around his neck. Your cheek pressed against his shoulder, worried your makeup will smear on it.
You don’t know how long you walk. Your eyes are closed for the duration of it and you only open them again when you sense a change of lighting. The noise of an automatic door and a tired greeting alarms you. You feel embarrassed, suddenly, at the idea that someone else has seen you like this.
Caleb just greets them as normal.
“Aren’t you gonna let me down already?”
“Are you feeling uncomfortable?”
“No, but—”
He doesn’t respond to you further. You get the impression there’s not much meaning to continue arguing so you keep quiet.
You watch from over his shoulder as he roams the aisles until he comes across cheap pairs of slippers and socks - next to other random household items. He picks the correct size without asking you. Seeing it only adds to the strange feeling you’ve had since leaving the club.
He goes to self check-out, pays for the sandals, then carries you to one of the few seats and table near the window of the 7/11. Carefully, he sets you down on one, your heels on another, then silently opens the packaging. He drops to his knees and looks up at you in silent question.
“You don’t need to—”
He doesn’t say anything when you attempt to refuse him. Keeps quiet and just waits for you, not unkindly. You frown and hold your foot out to him. He rolls each sock carefully onto your feet, pulling them all the way up over your ankle before the slippers follow.
“Do they fit okay?”
“Mm,”
You nod. Caleb hums. Holds his hand out.
“C’mon. Pick out something to eat or drink so you sober up a bit,”
“While we talk?” You ask, voice suddenly small. He pauses, smiles just barely, and pats your head with the same firm hand he always does. It makes you want to cry.
“Yeah. While we talk.”
You nod as Caleb helps you off the seat. “I’ll go get some water.”
“Okay,”
You think of what you want to eat. Childhood memories whisper answers to you. Chips and candy - sweet and salty so you have balance. You remember the way Caleb would cut into his own snack budget for you to get what you wanted. He’d pretend to complain, but he’d smile at you while you ate.
You pick the same things you used to. You wonder if he’ll notice.
He returns with two bottles of water. “Did you finish choosing?”
You nod. His eyes drift to your hands. He cracks another smile that makes you happier then it should.
“I see. Let’s check out then, hm?”
Your heart flutters. You follow him quietly. He goes to the cashier the second time around - amiable, friendly and easing some unspoken tension. Apologizes for the inconvenience and, with familiar diligence, asks if there’s a recycling bin for him to toss trash nearby. The cashier offers to do it for him.
Afterwards, he holds his hand out to you like it’s only natural for you to want to hold it. You take it.
Of course, you do.
He guides you outside, and the two of you sit on the curb. An expectant look appears on his face when he dusts off place beside him where he’s hoping you’ll sit. You do, knees touching - folding your hands into your lap. He opens the bottle of water and hands it to you.
“We could’ve just shared one,” You offer.
“I’m not so stingy,” Caleb says.. You purse your lips. You want to tell him that’s not what you mean, but you don’t want to ask yourself what you do mean.
You take it from him and drink.
Silence stretches over the seemingly endless night. The streets of Linkon prove to be busy and limitless. Given the district you’re in, you’d expect it to be more packed - but the streets are desolate. Proof of life resides in the lights of buildings and clubs but now, here—it feels like you’re the only two people left in the world.
It’s quiet for a long while. You sit like that until you break the ice.
“You still haven’t asked me anything.”
“Well,” Caleb looks at you from the corner of his eyes and shrugs, taking a drink. “I can kind of guess why you were there in the first place. Don’t have much of a clubbing spirit, you know. Your friends probably told you to go right?”
You nod.“You’re not upset?”
“Mm,” Caleb sighs. “Not at you for just going. It’s hard to be mad at you especially when you…” He trails off, an almost imperceptible smile on his. He shakes his head before continuing and you miss the window to ask about what that was all about. He glances at you again. “Your dress is too short, though.”
You feel heat crawl up your skin. “It’s not that bad. And I’m nineteen,”
“So? You’re still my baby sister. Naturally I won’t approve, right? You know that much.”
You bend over your knees, pouting. You feel weirdly happy but try not to think about it. “You’re so unreasonable sometimes.”
He clicks his tongue. “I’m being very reasonable right now,”
“...Mm.”
Tension lingers in the air. You open the chips Caleb got you and tilt it his way. A peace offering. He takes one.
“Why’d you run off?”
You make a face. Will yourself to not cry as you tuck your chin.
“...I dunno.”
He glances at you. You miss the knowing expression on his face. “Even if you were doing a good job of lying, you know that wouldn’t work on me right? Did something happen? Something you can’t tell me?”
“Nothing happened but you—”
Caleb interjects. “Me? So it’s because of me then.”
You bite your tongue. Caleb is lost in thought.
“I didn’t mean to ruin your night showing up. Didn’t know you’d even be there. It’s not like I’m mad or anything.” Caleb starts.
“It’s not that,” You say quickly. The frustration just thinking about it makes your throat well up. You can feel it. You drink water trying to wash it down.
“Then?”
It slips out of you, exasperated as you sit up and turn to look up at him.
“You were ignoring me,” You say, voice wet and shaky - hands fisted at your knees, shoulders tight. You still haven’t sobered up much. Your lips curl into a frown. Caleb is stunned into silence. “You didn’t even… I thought you were mad at me. And then that girl sitting next to you was—”
You stop yourself. Caleb looks at you wide-eyed. Opens his mouth to say something but closes it again soon after. He processes what you’ve said slowly, though he doesn’t seem surprised by all of it.
“I wasn’t mad at you. Surprised, but not so mad. Even if I were mad, I wouldn’t ignore you. It’d make more sense for me to drag you out myself, don’t you think?”
You huff. “It felt like you were mad at me. And—”
You want to ask. Who was she? Why was she so close to you? Why didn’t you push her away? Do you like her?
Nothing comes out right. You bite your lip. “That girl… was she your friend?”
Caleb stops. He looks awkward all of a sudden. “Huh? No, no. She’s my senior. She has someone else she likes,”
“She was hitting on you,” You say bluntly, sticking your feet out. “And you didn’t stop her.”
For a brief moment, you swear he looks amused. His expression settles again quickly. “I know she’s not being serious so I didn’t feel like there was any point causing a rift.”
“She’ll get the wrong idea. If you don’t turn her down properly and just let her—” Be all over you. Touch you so close. Get in your space. “...flirt with you.”
A beat. “You think I should turn her down properly then?”
It hangs in the air. You want me to turn her down?
You bite the inside of your lip. “Yeah.”
“Will it make you feel better?”
Your eyes meet. For a brief second you feel like someone has stolen all the air from your lungs in one go. You look down.
“Yeah,”
Caleb’s breath hitches just a touch before he speaks. “Okay.”
He opens his arm up to invite you closer and slot into his side the way you used to. Blinking wetly, you scoot across the concrete and tuck yourself under the safety of his arm. Your face is close to his chest. He smells like cologne and iit makes your heart beat feel erratic. His hand comes up to stroke your head and you let him soothe you like you have so many times before.
“No matter what happens, there’s nothing you could do or say that’d make me angry enough to ignore you. I’d never ignore you if I didn’t think you wanted me to,”
“I never want you to ignore me, ever.” You say immediately. “Never ever.”
He chuckles. The way it reverbs in your body makes you dizzy. “Okay, princess. Noted. Do you wanna sit a little longer or should I call a car for you?”
You tuck into his side. It’d be nice if you never had to leave him ever again. Pressing into him, your words muffle in the fabric of his shirt. You tug at the hem.
“Wanna stay here. Just for a bit.”
He hesitates above you. But a while later, you feel his lips at the crown of your head - right at your hairline. His voice is gentle. “Sure. As long as you want,”
__
At twenty-two, you often dream of your older brother.
At first, it’s grief. Caleb dies not long after your birthday and in the months that pass - the warm memories of your childhood seem to follow you into sleep. Some nights, it feels kind to see him. In your dream, you run into his arms and he holds you tight when you tell him you missed him.
Grief holds the rest of you hostage. You want for nothing and think of nothing except your brother. You miss Grandma too, of course you do.
But there’s nothing in the entire world like a brother. Like your brother—who you could ask anything of. It’s hard to unpack the loneliness you feel. Hard to explain it to other people.
In the months you correct yourself from saying have to had—and watch peoples eyes change into one of sorrow and pity. At the worst of it, you can’t even pretend to think of that as a kindness. Can’t even thank them for being nice. At the worst of your grief, you find yourself especially angry at being pitied. You look at people and want to say they don’t understand. They don’t know what you lost. There are no words that make it digestible. You bite your tongue, give a tight-lipped smile.
What you wanted to say was this: How dare you act like you understand what I lost? How dare you feel sorry when you don’t know the half of it? My brother is dead. A piece of me is missing.
You never say any of it. You bury the words in the black vast of your grief and throw yourself at finding answers.
Your feelings about the incident change the more you find out. About Grandma and the abomination in your heart—and you cycle from anger to sorrow to unease.
They never change about Caleb though. The apparition of him, warm and broad, cycles through your dreams every now and again. Some nights, you wake up expecting to be seven years old again—clinging to your older brother, the only thing you know in the world that’s made you lose everything.
Most nights, you wake up from dreamless sleep and feel yourself wanting to cry.
(You don’t cry often when he’s gone, even when you should.
Who would be there to hold you now when you do?)
When you finally see Caleb again, see him alive—your emotions become just as complicated as your mind has been in the months of his absence.
You’re ecstatic, you’re angry, you’re terrified, you’re so so sad. You are all of these things at the same time.
And then, you realize that the death of Caleb did not only change you. Your older brother comes back to you. He’s warm, kind, and gentle sometimes. But it’s not the same. There’s something about him, inexplicable, that is changed forever.
Caleb dies and comes back wrong—but this only strengthens your resolve. To do what, exactly? You aren’t sure. You don’t know what you want and you still know nothing about the Aether Cores. Or about what Caleb does.
All you do know is that your older brother has come back to you, and you are empty without him. You’d rather have him wrong than not have him at all. You’ll fix him or become wrong with him before you ever let go of him again.
(Even the way he is now, sometimes, he seems worried about ruining you. You want to say sometimes—then ruin me. You know what he’d say if you did. He knows he’d tell you to watch your tongue and not to say what you don’t mean.
You’ve thought about it, though. You’d rather that then he disappear again. You’d rather you know what's going on then not. )
Things have changed. Caleb has changed.
You have changed, most of all.
When you hear from Caleb for the first time he no longer wants to be your brother - that he’s tired from playing house with you, your first reaction is devastation. The memory of that dread is so strong, you still feel it when you replay it all in your mind. Caleb above you, caging you in, unreadable—no longer what you know.
You don’t think about anything. You can’t. It destroys you completely to hear him say it. Makes you want to cling to him and beg. Cry loudly enough to wake the version of him that did want to be your brother. That loved you unconditionally.
When you have to go the next morning and find a memory of your childhood tucked away - you realize not all of him is lost to you. That the parts of him you loved so dearly have not entirely disappeared.
So you stay, and try to mend the broken pieces of your relationship back together.
At twenty-two, you often dream of your brother.
When he comes back to you, you think you’ll be given one more dream before he disappears. You figure the real thing is back in your hands. It’ll go back to the way it was before, where your sleep is long and dreamless but that’s fine. As long as you can wake-up and see the sun, without feeling like yours was stolen from you—anything is fine.
At twenty-two, even after you learn he’s alive, you often dream of your brother.
The first time you ever have a wet dream of Caleb is just after he comes back to Linkon.
After you sit in the garden with Caleb and blow the hydrangea petals away from his face, and his hand comes up to touch you. After he promises to take good care of the flower he takes back to SkyHaven. After he tells you there was no way he’d be able to stay away from you.
When you sleep the night after he returns home, you dream of Caleb again.
This time you’re in your bedroom—the one from your childhood home, that Caleb spent so many years taking up space in. You dream of your brother on top of you and you both look a little younger. His face contorted with pleasure, and your hand being the one to give it to him. The image missing from the waist down, all you can see is the clear view of him over you. Making it so obvious what you’re doing. Doing together.
You wake up from your dream with a feeling like something’s crushing your chest. A wheezing breath as you struggle to calm down. A distinct feeling of wetness between your legs that cling to your PJs when you stumble into your bathroom - trying to relieve yourself and being confronted with the reality of what just happened.
The first time you have a wet dream about Caleb—you only feel shame. You tell yourself that it’s a fluke, and that dreams are meaningless anyway. It makes you violated to think of him like that. You can’t control what you do in your sleep. You decide not to dwell.
Weeks pass and you see Caleb again. You share fruit and more conversation, and the following night - you have another wet dream. This one, more vivid than the last. Different. You dream of Caleb with a baton to your neck and the tension in the room when he caged you in his arms. In your dreams he’s cruel as he drags the metal end down your body, pushes it against your—
You wake up the next morning almost inconsolable.
The cycle repeats for as long as you see him. Every time Caleb appears in your life, you dream of him the next night. You wake up in shock, wet down your legs and spend all morning trying to suppress it down as far as you can.
You tell yourself all sorts of things when it happens. You reason with yourself. Dreams are nonsense. You can’t control them. It’s your brother. You don’t think of him like that.
(You think of all the times you’ve seen him since he’s returned. All the ways his eyes soften for you, all the ways his hands linger—how ever since he’s denied being your brother at all, you think of what that might make you now.
It breaks your heart to not have him as your brother. Your precious family. An unbreakable bond. The one you love most. He touches you the way brothers aren’t supposed to, and you remind yourself of what you can’t have. You remind yourself of what loss you would feel first.
He always looks pained when he touches you like that, though. And, for some strange reason, sometimes you want to tell him: Did you know I dreamt of you touching me? So you don’t need to make that face. Like you’re wrong. My dreams couldn’t make you this gentle.)
The harder you try to force it down, the harder it is to pretend it’s nothing. You push and push and push—but each time you see him, the cycle repeats.
Eventually, it’s too hard to pretend. You refuse to name it, or think about it—but when you let your mind stop forcing it so deep into your subconscious, it’s easier to reconcile.
It doesn’t go away. But your skin prickles with embarrassment, and you sigh, and you move on from it. Even if the dreams don’t stop, you can go on about your day when you leave it all alone.
You think maybe, if you and Caleb never saw each other again, it might even work to rid you of the dreams completely.
But he’s your brother—your precious family, the one you love most. You see him all the time. Whenever your schedule allows it, he’s the first person you check with to see if you can come spend time with him. Even if he can’t be with you, you stay over at his place to eat his food and watch TV on his expensive flatscreen.
It makes you feel like you live together again.
(You try not to reel at the thought. It’s normal for siblings to stay together from time to time. It’s like a sleep over. That’s all.)
So it’s not unusual for you anymore to drop by his place. You even have a key.
(Your key, you think. Caleb put a stupid green apple cover on the top part of it. It’s for you, and only you.)
Even when you do come over, sometimes you only see him at night. You have little conversations before you need to go to sleep (or rather, when he makes you go to sleep.) But it still feels better than only seeing him sometimes.
So it’s not unusual for you to be here in your PJs and watching something stupid while draped on Caleb’s couch.
It is unusual, however, to have him come home so soon.
PART TWO: SO ONLY SAY MY NAME, IT WILL BE HELD AGAINST YOU.
You pick your head up as soon as you hear the security system for Caleb’s apartment announce someone at the door. The time reads 6:56pm.
Heavy footfall makes you pick yourself up, crawling to the edge of the couch and standing on your knees to catch sight of him. You lean forward.
“You’re home early.”
It takes him a second to register who's talking, but he smiles slightly when he does. Turnt towards the doors, he’s leaned against a wall as he undoes the laces of his steel-toed boots.
“So are you,”
You give him a melodic hum. “I got off since we have a holiday. I have Monday off too.”
“Yeah? That’s good. You should try to rest up some,”
“I will. Gotta catch up on my shows first though,” You reply thoughtfully. “I’m like half-way through ‘em.”
“Workin’ hard I see. Try not to over-exert yourself.” He adds, playfully sarcastic. You nod.
You answer him in silly earnest. “Of course. I’m more relaxed here so don’t worry.”
He pauses as he finally stands back up. You see him at the other side of the room with a smile.
“Yeah?”
You feel something in your stomach that you choose to ignore. “Yeah. Plus I don’t have to eat my own groceries.”
“It’s better you eat mine than me wasting them,” He says with a shrug.
“How generous of you.”
“Right?”
You lean forward, resting more of your weight on the couch. “Did they just send you home early too? Or is it some special Colonel privilege?”
You see him shake his head as he slides off his coat and walks over to the fridge, grabbing a plastic bottle of water out of it before taking a few long drinks.
“Mm, kinda the first.” He says thoughtfully. “I got injured in the field today, had to go to the infirmary. It’s a minor injury but I checked in with my commanding officer and he told me I might as well go home.”
You frown. “What kind of injury?”
“It’s really fine,”
“Caleb.”
He sighs, turning towards you. The open fridge door illuminates him. “Just got a bruise along my thigh from how I fell. Nothing broken.” He says. You’re still frowning at him. “Don’t worry about it.”
“How can you be fine if they sent you home?”
“It’s not like that,”
“I don’t believe you,” You say petulantly. Caleb shuts the fridge door with his hip as he laughs.
“What, you want me to show it to you?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s on my thigh. I’d have to take off my pants,” He says, laughing. He joins you on the couch - sitting where you were laying—eyeing you while he waits for you to come join him. You narrow your eyes suspiciously but crawl over to him anyway, sitting beside him with your legs up. “Unless you’re really just wanting me to strip, promise it’s fine. I’ve had it worse,”
“That’s not a good thing. If it were me you’d be freaking out already and fussing over me.”
“It’s different,”
“Is not,”
“Is too. My little sisters still a bit of weakling, see—if I don’t take good care of her she’ll end up hurting herself even worse,” Caleb says, voice high.
“I’m not even weak. Maybe not as strong as you but not weak.”
“When you get stronger than me, we can talk about who gets to worry about who,” He says, flicking your forehead lightly. You pretend to flinch at the injury.
“You let me do whatever I want except worry about you.”
“You got it. Glad you’re getting up to speed.”
You elbow him. Caleb laughs.
You sit back with your knees to your chest, frowning. Caleb leans back, arm stretched on the back of the couch. Inching closer to him subconsciously, your brow furrows as you think about his injury.
It’s like he reads your mind.
“You’re really worried about it.” He murmurs.
You purse your lips. “No shit.”
“Don’t cuss,”
“I’m twenty-two!”
“So?” He raises his eyebrow.
“You make me want to strangle you sometimes.”
“If you succeed I’ll be impressed.”
You glare at him. “I’ll make sure to wait until you’re fully recovered so it counts,”
He relaxes into the couch, eyes filled with mirth. “Smart move.”
“You’re still in your outside clothes. Don’t you want to wash up first?”
“Do I smell bad?”
“No, that’s not it. But if you get too comfortable, you might not want to get up to do it, you know?”
“I’m not like a certain someone, so I’m not worried about that.” Caleb says. You huff as he continues on. “I just wanted to sit with you for a bit first. Is that not okay?”
“I didn’t say all of that. Don’t put words in my mouth, jeez.”
He hums. “Just checking,”
Comfortable quiet settles between you as Caleb sits and watches your drama with you intently.
You relax further into the couch as you settle back in, once again engrossed in your show. It’s a period and fantasy drama about a once noble woman getting married against her will to a supposedly cruel emperor. Crude description aside, it has high political stakes, violence, and good writing.
The romance aspect of the show was what drew you in more-or-less, but it’s a slowburn between the main couple. You’ve mostly been watching for the high-tension plot. It captures both your attention and seemingly Caleb’s too.
“Wait,” Caleb interrupts half-way through an episode. “I want to watch the rest with you but I need to shower,”
You smile at him. “It’s good right? It’s not a lot of romance but there’s other stuff. We can watch it together after you wash-up and maybe…we can have a drink together.”
“You’re so interested in that,”
“I want to know what kind of drunk you are. It’s not fair you’ve seen me drunk and I haven’t,”
“Pfft,” He rubs your head with hand, amused. “What kind of reason is that? But you know what? Sure. Order whatever you want with my card while I go shower.”
“Yay!”
You pause the TV as Caleb stands up and stretches, fishing for his wallet and passing you his card. Snatching it from between his fingers, you give him a mischievous look that makes him laugh.
“Go shower,”
“I am, I am,” He holds his hands up. “I’ll be quick,”
__
You watch your drama late into the evening.
You drink casually with Caleb as you binge watch the final few episodes of the season you started on. You take a break later in the night to have dinner delivered to you, but afterwards - you decide to keep watching.
Caleb wasn’t lying when he told you he holds his drink well. You’ve both been knocking them back since eight pm. Even with the time to sober up in between, he seems like he hasn’t had a single thing to drink the entire time.
You feel far from wasted, a warm meal in your stomach settling some of inebriation - but you still feel somewhat tipsy. At least enough to have that pleasant, warm, loose-limbed buzzed. You’re sober enough that Caleb doesn’t get on your case about drinking enough water - though you sure it’ll be a different story in another hour or two if it keeps going.
Half-past midnight - you’re two episodes deep into the third season of your drama.
Relaxed, you’re half-way draped on Caleb - legs in hips lap and nursing another cheap can of beer. After several episodes of action and violence - the story is starting to get back to the romance aspect for the main couple.
Maybe it’s your fault for not thinking it through, but you’re really not expecting a graphic sex scene to play so soon after so much high plot.
In the first place, it doesn’t start out like a sex scene. The main character went to go visit her injured husband after he returned from battle. Sweet, you thought. Maybe you’d get to see them have some intense, longing eye-contact like they’ve been having for a while now.
You aren’t sure when exactly it takes a left turn. You’re tipsy and comfortable and warm. On your phone looking things up on social media.
They kiss once, then twice before a breathy moan cuts through the comfortable.
Before you can scramble to find the remote and scrub through it, the scene changes instantly in temperature. A few tepid kisses rapidly go from chaste to deep, all tongue and teeth.
Near full blown nudity flashes across your T.V. screen as a strange heat creeps up your neck. You feel like you’ve had enough mental torment when you see the male lead kiss his way down the female leads neck. It’s more uncensored then you thought.
Your voice is trembling a little. “We should uhm,” You swallow thickly. “Where’s the remote..?”
Caleb feels a little… different. He seems startled hearing you speak, looking at you with lidded eyes. “Not sure. Think you had it last,”
“Oh, right. I don’t,” Another moan rips through the tension between you. It takes your full body effort not to jump. “....really remember where I put it,”
“You want me to help you look?”
You blink at him. “I mean… we should, probably look for it. Since, uhm… you know.”
“Are you uncomfortable?” Caleb interrogates. You stare at him.
“You aren’t?”
Caleb is quiet for a long time, like he’s thinking hard about the answer.
“I feel fine,” Is what he says after what feels like forever.
“You feel… fine.”
He nods without looking at you. “We can skip it if you want. Probably have to get up to find the remote, though.”
You sink back in the couch, your face feeling warm. “It’s fine, then.”
You’re a little startled as the couple on T.V starts to really have sex - at least more than foreplay. It’s not full frontal, but the sounds and angles are enough to get the point across. Caleb just… watches. Relaxed.
“You sure?” He offers, glancing at you again. “It’s fine if it’s too much for you,”
Frowning, you sit up slightly. “What do you mean too much for me?”
“Hm?”
“You’re saying it like you’re used to it,”
Caleb gives you another glance. Assess you once or twice before looking back at the T.V.
“Does it matter if I am or I’m not?”
You find yourself at a loss for words. Is he used to this? That can’t be the case, right?
“You never dated anyone when we were growing up.”
Caleb nods. “You don’t really need to date someone for something like that, though it’s better that way.”
You find yourself shocked by his answer. He’s changed a lot, you know that but—
But it feels wrong. You can’t imagine him just hooking up with someone and having a one-night stand. He’d only ever do it with a girlfriend. So if he has any experience, it’d have to be with someone like that.
He smiles at you. “You’re making a scary face.”
You look up at him, unsure of what face you should be making. The question slips out before you can stop to think about whether or not you should even ask it.
“So are you… used to it?”
He pauses before leaning in. “This is the second time you’ve asked,”
“That’s…”
“I don’t think it’s the kind of thing someone’s little sister should ask their older brother right?”
You snap your mouth shut. Caleb leans a little closer. “Right?”
“You’re not answering,” You whisper. Your foreheads touch.
“Is there a specific answer you’re looking for?” Caleb says.
Your eyes widen, teeth pressing against your lip as you tear your gaze away from his face. . “No,”
“Is that what my answer should be or are you answering what I just asked?”
You don’t give him a reply.
Caleb lets out a soft breath of laughter before he finally seems to decide he’s teased you enough. He gets like this more and more lately. Most times you cool off from it quickly but…
You aren’t sure what drives you to make a move. What makes you tug him back to you by the front of his shirt when he tries to pull away. If it’s the alcohol, or the jealousy that makes you do it. It’s hard to say what the source of your heart pumping so hard is—only that it’s all Caleb’s doing.
Your hands fist in the front of his shirt as you drag him forward and kiss him as hard as you possibly can, only barely avoiding biting down with your teeth. Chaste but harsh, you press your lips together with nothing but pure desperation, air pushing hard through your lungs as you do. For a minute or two, longer than a kiss should last.
And then, you pull away. Out of breath like you just ran a marathon, cheeks hot and flushed. Your first kiss that you initiated. It’s almost mundane.
Embarrassed, your first instinct is to jump off the couch and lock yourself in the bathroom. But Caleb knows you. Even better than you know yourself.
He catches your wrist as he leans towards you. His expression is unreadable.
“You kissed me,” He says, completely entranced. “You did right? I didn’t just dream that?”
“It’s your imagination. You must be drunk,”
He laughs good naturedly. “Maybe I am.”
Your frown deepens. How do you refuse him when he acts like that?
Your heart feels like a jackhammer against your ribcage. You can’t. You really can’t. You shouldn’t have—
“I didn’t mean to k-kiss you,”
Blatant heartache fills his eyes. It feels like something is crushing your chest. “Is that so?”
You squeeze your eyes, relenting only a little. Your voice is barely above a whisper. “We can’t.”
Caleb scoffs “Why? Because you see me as your brother?”
“You are my brother. You are and you always will be, and I don’t want to lose that. I can’t, I can’t. You’re—”
“Why can’t you?” His voice is raw, almost desperate. Trying so hard to understand you. It makes you hurt seeing him like that. “What can I do to become more to you?”
“You’re already`—” Everything to me. “You’ll always be the most important person to me.”
His hands grip tighter, devastation darkening the familiar aura of warmth you’ve come to love. Like he’s at the precipice of something considering what he should do. It takes him a while to come upon answers. Staring at you so desperately before closing his eyes, loosening his grip like he’s ready to let you go.
He looks like he makes a choice then. Really makes one. You can already predict what’ll do. What smile he’ll give you but it feels different from other times.
You hold onto him before he can, hand fisted in his shirt. He startles again, softens, not agitated despite how wishy-washy you’re being.
“It’s not that I don’t want you,” You say, so quietly it almost evades you both. “But I don’t want to lose you as my brother if we become more than that.”
Silence falls between you.
“You won’t lose me,” He replies, gently and easily. Your eyes meet. It’s nice. “I want to be everything to you, remember? All of it. I want you to only think of me for the rest of our life. For us to only need each other. You don’t need to give anything up. When have I ever said no to you?”
You turn away from him, shaking your head. “You said that you never saw me as family, that you wouldn’t be—”
Caleb stops you. “I want to be everything to you. Everything. I want us to only need each other. I had to make you understand. From the start, I never intended to give anything up for anyone else.”
“But that’s…”
“I don’t care if it’s wrong,” He says, reading your mind. “I’m asking what you want. Tell me who you want me to be. I’ll do all of it for you.
You glance down, away from him - guilt, remorse, fear. You’re resolve is wavering, but you’re too afraid to say it out loud.
His voice softens. A hand, big and warm and kind, cups your cheek. You know. Know every scar, every touch.
“Tell your big brother what you want and he’ll give it to you.”
Something in you shatters. The weak resistance you’ve been trying to hold onto so desperately, denying yourself of what you’ve wanted deep down all this time. Having it offered to you, handed to you—proves to be too much. It all comes tumbling down.
Your voice comes out like a whine. Your dependency more than shows.
“Touch me,” You gasp, voice wet with tears. Caleb cracks a slight smile. “Touch me, please—want you so bad. Don’t want anyone else to have you.”
Caleb looks elated. Adoring. Madly and terribly in love.
“What a crybaby, hm?” He pulls away from you, standing up before scooping you in his arms “Here. Hold onto me. I’ll carry you,”
“Caleb, I’m too—”
He stops you. “I have a bionic arm. Don’t say you’re too heavy. It could carry ten of you.”
He keeps good on his promise. You wrap your arms around Caleb’s neck as he picks you up. Wrapping your legs around his waist, a gasp leaves your mouth as his hands rest under your thighs - lifting you as he walks you to his room. It reminds you of when you were little though a lot has changed since then.
The realization makes you nervous.
“The TV is still playing.” You mumble..
“You won’t be able to hear it from my room,”
“This is embarrassing,”
“You’ll live.” Caleb hums.
“I hate you,”
Caleb opens his bedroom door with his hip and closes it the same way, walking you to the end of his bed and dropping you on to his mattress. He leans over you, hands on either side of your thighs to keep himself up - inches away from your face.
“Don’t say things you don’t mean. It’ll make me sad.” He says sweetly.
You pout. “Sorry,”
He laughs a little. “It’s okay,”
This close to you, you feel a strange warmth glow your whole body. You crane your neck up to kiss him chastely, pulling away and feeling shy again.
“You taste like beer,”
Caleb stares at you for a long time, smiling slightly. Dazed. “Should I go brush my teeth?”
You look down, away from his face, your hands fiddling with the ends of his shirt. “No…”
He presses his forehead to yours, noses brushing. “How can you be so cute, hm?”
“Quit that,” You whine.
“If you get this embarrassed just hearing you’re cute, you’ll have a hard time later on.”
You blink up at him owlishly. He laughs, pressing a kiss to your cheek.
“I’m barely holding it together, you know?”
You look up at him.
“What do you wanna do to me?”
His eyes seem to dilate. “Don’t ask me that,”
“Tell me. I want to know,”
He laughs breathlessly. “That’s unfair,”
“I don’t have to be fair with you,” You say petulantly. “Tell me,”
“I’ve spoiled you too much.” Caleb says, faux regret. “Even if you get scared, you can’t run away.”
“I won’t get scared,”
“Really?” Caleb hums. He moves to the side, his mouth next to your ear - voice barely audible. He puts his hands over yours as he towers over you. “You sound confident, but you know—I’ve wanted to touch you for so long. So badly that it scares me just thinking about it. Can you handle that?”
It’s a confession you think, as much as it’s dirty talk. He pulls back and you’re face to face again.
“I’m not scared of you. Even if you can’t control yourself I won’t be scared.” You tell him, headstrong as always.
His smile falters. “I don’t want to hurt you,”
“I know you like to call me a weakling but you know I’m not really made of my glass,” You stare at him, eyes tracing over his features. “It’ll be hard for you to break me in one go. Might’ve be fun,”
He tsks. “Don’t talk like that. I’d prefer to treasure you.”
You look at him for a long time quietly.
“I dreamt of you.”
“Hm?”
You feel your face flush, but for some strange reason - you have an urge to tell him. The words come easy. Maybe you’ve just been waiting for a reason to confess.
“Of you touching me,” Caleb’s eyes go wide. You smile a little. “Used to dream of you when you were, you know… but it wasn’t the way I dream of you now.”
“How do you dream of me now?” His voice is strained.
“They’re dirty dreams,” You say, fidgeting. “Sometimes I’m touching you and making you feel good. But most of the time, it’s you doing whatever you want to me.”
His voice is hoarse. “Yeah?”
“Mm,” You lock eyes. You can see it in him. It almost feels cruel, but you’re not saying it to tease him. “I had a wet dream about when you were interrogating me. You were being mean in that one. Really mean,”
“I already said sorry about that,”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it,”
He swallows. “Oh,”
“Yeah, oh.” You slide your hand up his arms, squeezing the back of his biceps as he leans over you. Look up at him with mutual love. “I’ll only say it once so please listen carefully: I’m fine with anything if it’s you.”
It’s unexpected when Caleb tackles you to the bed. Not to kiss you, rather—but to hug you. You squeal as you both drop onto the mattress with your legs hanging off the edge. Caleb’s full weight crushes you, trapping you in his arms. You find yourself laughing a little, giggly as you feel him squeeze you tight enough to crush you.
“You’re squishing me, Caleb.”
He laughs breathlessly, rolling you both to the side. Pulling away with your face inches apart, he beams.
“Do you know that I’m crazy about you? Or do you say things like that not even knowing?”
“I don’t know,” You say, burying your face against his chest. “I just know you take good care of me. I want to take good care of you too,”
A spectrum of emotions pass through Caleb’s features at once at the admission. It’s the most vulnerability he’s ever shown you.
His body stiffens. He takes a deep breath before pulling away from you. You watch him innocently as he pushes himself up closer to the headboard. Rolling onto your stomach, you stare at him as he rolls onto his side.
“More comfortable this way, right?”
Consider without trying, your face warms. Caleb’s voice is whisper soft. “C’mere.”
You push yourself up until you’re closer to him, legs no longer hanging off the edge.
Within his reach, Caleb’s hand find your waist. He’s strong, you forget it all too easily—until he’s manhandling you to be in his grasp. Careful but demanding. Rolling on his back, he pulls you onto his lap until you’re straddling him.
The view proves too much for you both. His face is pink. A sheepish smile on his face.
“Regretting it?”
You shake your head quickly, careful not to rest your weight on his lap. He rests one of his hands on your thigh, closer to your knee and steals a glance at you.
Like this, you become aware of him for the first time. Consciously, as if he’s become a completely different person. All the things you’d never allow yourself to consider, slowly draw into focus. Like seeing him with a new set of eyes.
You notice every detail. Sparking arousal and curiosity, you put your hand on his chest and just stare. Unconsciously, your fingers reach for the dog-tag necklace you gifted him - straightening it. Metal warmed underneath your fingertips, you center it on his shirt. At the dip of his muscles where his chest is.
Fitted tank-top shows off enough to give you an idea of what’s underneath. Smooth, alabaster skin. Muscles bulking underneath the ribbed cotton - soft and supple from lack of tension, rising and falling with each breath. Your thumb smooths over the silly apple-shaped pendant, the raised letter of the dogtags. The brief skin to skin makes the air feel electric.
You do it unthinkingly, really. Following your instinct, you rest your hand on his chest before sliding them up closer to his neck. Defined clavicles, the long column of his throat and how it leads to the angled curve of his jaw. Eventually, your hand finds his face. His boyish features—handsome but youthful. Caleb leans into the touch. His usual, playful teasing nowhere to be found. It makes you jolt in surprise. His expression is painted by desire, a rosy flush to what's an otherwise perfect face.
His voice grows thick. An octave deeper than you’re used to. “Having fun?”
“Nn,” You shift under the weight of his gaze. “Sorry,”
“S’fine,” He says, pressing his cheek to your palm. “You can touch me however you want.”
Hearing it embarasses you. But your reply comes quickly. “You too,”
Caleb smiles shakily. His hand slides up your thigh. It’s slight, barely there. His hands are trembling.
“Can I kiss you?”
“We’ve kissed before,”
He shakes his head. “It won't be like before.”
“I don’t have any experience,”
Caleb laughs breathlessly. “I don’t care.”
You frown, but let yourself fall forward. Suddenly inches apart, your eyes widen. Caleb is staring at you this time. His eyes soaking in your expression, gaze falling onto your lips and staying there. They flicker back to yours for silent permission.
You meet his eyes completely assured. He swallows and cranes his neck, his hand coming up to your face to cradle it. His thumb traces your lips, inching himself closer and closer. You can hear his breath. Feel it on your face from how close you are.
Cupping your nape, he presses his lips to yours with unfathomable tenderness—undercut with the hottest flames of desires you’ve ever felt. It’s hard to describe it. All of the kisses you’ve ever had in your life have been Caleb’s, but this one really is different.
An unfamiliar desperation fills it despite being a gentle press of lips. He pulls away and you miss him. Try to chase it as he speaks against your mouth.
“Open your mouth, baby. Breathe through your nose,”
You listen to your older brother obediently, mouth parting as he leans in to kiss you again. Soft at first before pulling you down deeper into him by your. A moan escapes you subconsciously and you feel Caleb shiver. Eyes closed, you let him guide you through it. He controls the depth, the pace. You kiss deeply like that, holding each other before he pulls away again.
Every time you part, you feel a strange pang of sadness. Caleb never leaves you like that for too long
Your mind is hazy with desire as you fall into a pace with him. He breathes hard each time he pulls away from you, seems overwhelmed each time he kisses you again. Switching between deep kisses to chaste one, your lips throb from the overwhelming intensity of it. His mouth perfectly warm, lips soft and full. Wet as the kiss deepens but not unpleasantly. A tingly sensation that makes your skin prick.
You make a noise of surprise when Caleb slips his tongue against your mouth. But you don’t dislike it. Rather, out of curiosity, you copy him.
(A habit of your childhood—to copy your older brother and keep what you like from him as your own. )
Caleb inhales when you mirror him. Your eyes flicker open briefly to see his face, pleased by the draw of his eyebrows, before letting them close again.
There’s nothing intimidating about kissing Caleb. Every fear you harbor about how you should do it is washed away by the sheer force of your lust for one another. Like a gap of communication has finally been bridged—with your soft tongues sliding against each other, brushing against his palate, open mouth panting, subconsciously rocking your hips. Each second of doubt is brushed away by the overwhelming feeling of mutual, lovesick desire. It flows through your veins with more naturality than even your blood. Nothing more righteous, more sure.
You kiss like you’re telling him every secret you’ve ever kept—lips incapable of anything but honest confession. Holding onto each other in desperate, desperate necessity. A lifeline. A lifetime of holding it in, unraveling like the seconds couldn’t pass quickly enough to answer for it.
It feels like the beginning of devouring. You’ve never felt so hungry for something in your life. It gnaws at your conscious thoughts.
Desire simmers as you subconsciously settle your weight on Caleb’s lap, rocking your hips against the pleasant hardness meeting it. Not entirely sure of what it is your even touching. Caleb moans softly each time you do.
“Fuck,” Caleb pulls away finally. You whine and he laughs at you. Kisses you again, just once. “Shh, baby.”
“Nn, you don’t wanna kiss?” Your words come out slurred, even to your own ears.
“Not that I don’t want to, but you’re—” His laugh comes out higher, breathier. “Doing a little more than kissing,”
“Mm?”
He looks up at you. Amusement mixed with arousal. “You don’t even know what you’re doing, do you?”
“Feels good,”
“You’re this weak to a little pleasure,” Caleb says. His hands are hot as they squeeze your hips. “Can’t you feel what you’re sitting on?”
The question sobers you. Caleb hold you steady to stop you before changing the pace. Uses his strength to hold your hips down as he grinds you over the full length of his…
“Oh,” You’re startled. You’re grinding against—
“You’ve been grinding against my dick like that without thinking about it at all. Isn’t that dangerous?”
A shiver wracks through you. Caleb’s voice is husky, low when he says. It’s crass and to the point—something you could never imagine hearing him say. But now that you have heard it, it makes it feel like your whole body is melting. Sticky arousal climbs through your limbs, leaves your mind muddled as you moan. Shivering, you fall forward in his arms. He closes them around your back, grinding his hard-on against your clothed cunt. The way it catches on your clit so indirectly feels so good you could cum from it.
His lips find your face, your jaw. His kisses affectionate. “Feels good, huh?”
“Mmm,” You press your face to his neck. “Caleb,”
“Do you want to cum like this? Or do you want me to make you feel even better?”
“Better?”
“Yeah,” Caleb says, a promise. “Better. Promise. Do you want that?”
You nod. “I want it,”
“Gonna lay you on your back, okay?”
You make an affirmative noise as Caleb flips you on your spine with ease. Surprised by his strength again, you gasp a little as he turns you over until he’s over you. He kisses you sweetly.
Your head feels full. Too heavy on your shoulders. You want to put your tongue in his mouth again and you don’t feel all the way there. Caleb looms over you.
“You’re beautiful,” Caleb says, breathless. Your eyes go wide. “Really fucking beautiful,”’
“That’s…”
“I think it all the time. Want to say it to you all the time, but I never wanna scare you.” Caleb hums, a hand on your thigh.
“Why would that scare me?”
Caleb chuckles like it’s obvious. “You get skittish easily, you know? When I act less like your brother and more like…”
You finish the sentence for him with a pout. “My boyfriend?”
He hums like just hearing it feels good, eyes lidded. “Yeah. Like your boyfriend.”
“Well that’s….”
“Do I make you nervous?”
His expression is playful. Makes your stomach flip. Your hand finds the hem of his shirt.
“So what if you do?”
“It’d make me happy,”
“You want me to be nervous? How mean,”
He leans into your space. You kiss again and feel disappointed when it’s over. Were you always so desperate?
“Don’t put words in my mouth. It just feels good to know you think of me that way, yeah?”
Something about it, about him like this makes your stomach tie in knots. You make a face, head tilted trying to tempt him into doing what you want. Caleb knows without you speaking a word, always does. Dips his head down to appease, lips firm and steady. Soft and full enough to make you melt. Your arms around his neck, a little breathless, mewling at the way it makes it feel like there’s electricity in your skin.
“You really like kissing, huh,” Caleb says. He pulls away again. Casts a brief glance your way before he peppers kisses all across your face. Draws his lips down your jawline, hot and wet as he noses against your skin. He finds your pulse and darts his tongue across the sensitive skin of your neck.
You keen. It’s a sudden sound, sensitive. Your body shivers. Caleb makes an affirmative noise and does it again. Scrapes the same spot gently with teeth.
Another pitchy moan escapes your lips. Caleb breathes from his nose like laughter. Places more experimental bites and licks all along your neck. Your voice slips before you can catch it.
“Harder,”
He appeases you. Just like always. Feeling his teeth in your neck makes your mouth fall open and you moan his name like a small prayer.
His teeth leaves marks along your neck at your request, hands at your waist to hold you in place as you learn more about your body. You can feel your shorts dampen as he does it. It overwhelms you, makes you tremble with every light breath and every sordid bite. You don’t have any experience, have nothing tangible to compare it to except the things you did alone in your bedroom.
It doesn’t compare at all, though. No amount of relieving your sexual urges as a desperate teenager or fumbling against a stranger in a club even kind of helps your mind make sense of it. Caleb kissing and biting down your neck, his hands touching your skin—it’s the first time in your life you’ve ever felt it. First time you’ve known touch like this.
First time your mind has been rendered so useless to think.
He rests his mouth as his hands slide up your sides. You gasp slightly as they go underneath your shirt but you don’t make any move to stop it. Further and further they go until the reach for your back. Searching for something.
“You’re not wearing a bra,” He whispers..
“I don’t at home,”
He lets out a breath like the winds have been knocked out of him. “Right,”
“Are you into that?” You ask before you can stop yourself, surprised by the sound of your own voice. Caleb just laughs like he’s in disbelief.
“Take a guess,”
“I just don’t get it,”
Caleb doesn’t say anything to that. But his hands maneuver. Stopped just underneath the swell of your tits, his eyes look up at yours and ask for silent permission. His shoulders sag with relief when he receives it.
The way your chest fits in Caleb’s hands makes your breath hitch. Squeezing the fat of them, relishing how they feel between his palms. He’s quick after that, pulling your shirt up until it’s gathered underneath your neck. There’s an impatience to it that surprises you, something uncharacteristically lacking composure as he halfway undresses you.
His eyes linger like that for a long time. So long it makes your face burn.
“Stop staring,”
“...I don’t know if I can.”
There’s something like awe in his gaze. Your spine tingles, goosebumps appearing on his skin. The way his hands hold onto your waist. He presses his cheek just below your sternum with an loving sigh, kissing it as he picks his head back up. It’s sweet to the point it almost nauseates you. It might if it were anyone other than Caleb.
His thumbs draw over your nipples, hardened from arousal. Your chest rises and falls in anticipation, in ache. Thighs squeezing together in a silent admittance. His touch is experimental, careful in observing what elicits the most reaction out of you.
Chest tender, takes one of your nipples into his mouth without warning. You gasp, hand covering your mouth as you feel him smile against your chest.
The air shifts again. Hotter, heavier—there’s a sudden carnality to the way he’s touching you. Mouth latched onto your nipples tenderly, grazing them lightly with the blunt end of his incisors like he can guess everything you like. His mouth on your chest is overwhelming. It baffles you that something can feel that good. Each time you think you can’t be surprised any more, Caleb makes good on making you feel better and you’re forced to eat your words.
Between your legs is throbbing hard. Whatever Caleb can’t fit in his mouth, he teases with the rough pads of his fingers - brushing and squeezing and twisting. Alternating as to make sure nothing goes neglected. Your hips cant against air, frustrated by lack of friction. Caleb is relentless, but does not make any move to sate your growing desires.
“Caleb,”
His eyes are washed over as he looks up. A look on his face you don’t know, have never seen until now. His voice is low in the back of his throat, strong hands cupping your chest and squeezing.
“‘Mm?”
A sibling bond like this, you think, is to blame for understanding so quickly what Caleb wants. Something you know innately, deep in your subconscious that makes your cheeks grow hot. A hot, prickly feeling goes down your back and all your clothes suddenly feel restrictive. He sits and remains steadfast, but you can sense it too.
It feels good but something is missing. Something is off.
Despite his restless desire, he’s taunting you. Goading you. You groan and Caleb laughs.
“Don’t—Caleb. Please,”
“Did you want something?”
Another groan leaves your lips as his smile remains unfaltering.
“You promised you were gonna make it feel better,” You say, so petulant and childish to your own ears you wince.
Somewhat predictably, this works on Caleb right away. Overwhelming lust tucked carefully behind a thoughtful smile. “I did, huh?”
“Don’t be a jerk,” You reply. He laughs but not for long.
He has something flash on his face at your reply. You just kind of know. “Sorry, sorry,”
“Stop holding back.”
He looks surprised. “I’m not—”
You nudge him with your knee. “You are. You think I don’t know you? Didn’t you say you wanted me to see you differently? Stop acting like a cool older brother. It’s annoying,”
His expression is one of awe and amusement. It’s not quite that he’s irritated, but you can sense that you just barely get under his skin with the implication.
“Weren’t you the one who was crying about not wanting anything to change? Now you’re chiding me? You were acting so spoiled just a minute ago to get your way and now you’re saying you don’t want me acting like your big brother, hm?”
Your eyes widen at the change in character. It still feels like Caleb, but it’s so intense. Too sincere to be completely playful. A strange mix of lust, nerves and fear wash over you. “Just—”
He pushes himself back up to hover over you, swift as a hand cups your jaw, forcing your gaze up. Pure arousal shoots through your veins, almost unwittingly, as you catch sight of Caleb’s gaze. An vengeful quality to it.
“Meimei,” He says, and your breath hitches. Your head is clouded with the immoral lust of hearing it this way. “Your older brother didn’t teach you how to lie, right? If you want something, say it with your mouth. Say it clearly,”
A flush crawls onto your face, eyes darting away. Caleb allows you this much mercy. To let you look away feels kind.
It’s an uncomfortable sort of feeling. To acknowledge what desire, what reaction you’re seeking. It’s unfair, and childish - since Caleb has done nothing but love you from the very moment you met him. Kind, gentle, considerate—you love him so deeply that it hurts to breathe just thinking about all you’ve experienced.
Something about what you’re asking of him is ugly. Born of selfishness, the desire to have all of him, too.
“Ugh, just—stop saying you want me and show me,” You say, full of distress.
You see it in his eyes when something clicks.
And then, with a sudden force, he kisses you. It’s rougher than the ones previous, deeper, greedier. What you want. You moan into his mouth as Caleb licks at your lips, pulling away to kiss your cheek. Sweet as always.
“Don’t regret it,”
The change is immediate. In a way, he’s still just answering to your desires - but you don’t dislike this part of him. Your heart rate kicks up as Caleb strips you of your shirt completely before settling himself back down to where he started.
From just beneath your breasts, all the way down the place of your belly and navel - Caleb places hot, wet kisses to your skin. No longer languid but hurried, long fingers curling into the very edge of your waistband as he drops down further and further before settling between your thighs. He glances up at you when he begins to pull down your shorts but doesn’t ask you for permission and it makes you feel a strange thrill when he doesn’t.
Caleb tugs your shorts off and helps you wriggle out of them in one go - an audible groan escaping his mouth. Plain, tattered cotton panties hug your hips as you lay with your legs up. He nudges your thighs open as you place your feet flat on the bed. With your legs spread, your clothed cunt is readily visible.
He lets out a soft breath. When you look down, your eyes meeting—there’s something almost animalistic to him. A completely and utterly ruined expression, blush dusting across his nose and cheekbones.
“I want to make you feel as good as you can, okay?” Caleb says breathlessly.
He brings his mouth to your inner thigh, closer to your knee and places a sweet kiss on the skin. Both of his hands are gripping hard onto your hips, as he breathes in the scent over and over. It sets your body alight to see it in glimpses. His brow is furrowed as he sucks and bites sloppy hickies into the soft fat of your thighs - working his way up slowly. When he finds you properly marked on one leg, he repeats it on the other.
You can feel the ache of fresh bruises. A sensation that coaxes a completely new wave of arousal straight from the deepest depths of your body. An impossible wetness soaking the paper-thin cotton, sliding down the curve of your ass from how keyed up the touch makes you.
It’s less that he’s satisfied in his markings with you, more that his desire for you grows too heavy. Caleb stares at your pussy with eyes of pure, unmistakable reverence.
You have never been able to picture another human being looking at you the way he does.
So much ardor. So much bone-deep, blood-red voracity in a single gaze. The shakiness of his breathing, the harsh grip of his hands, that unsteady look in his eyes as his nose and mouth hover over the soaked panties over your pussy. As if you can see the words repeating in his mind: want, want, want. Nothing more certain.
Your whole body wracks with a shiver. You whimper with your hands fisted at your sides in anticipation.
A startled gasp escapes you as Caleb doesn’t do anything but press his nose firm to your pussy and breathe. Deep and unrepentant like he’s trying to memorize the scent of you, use it to track you like a bloodhound. Embarrassed warmth floods your system and you squirm in protest of his actions.
But you’re trapped there. Completely and utterly, rendered helpless by his gri. His eyes flicker up unfocused but quickly go back to being closed. It’s all the communication you need to know he intends to do exactly as you’ve begged him to do. To expose the extent of his unsavory appetite. Inhaling the scent of sweat and skin, of a day of lounging and leaving your pussy completely confined.
He looks so madly-in-love in the moment you find it hard to breathe even a word of protest. Your clit throbs unhelpfully in response.
Your mouth falls open in a silent scream when Caleb finally, finally drags his tongue over the seam of your panties. He doesn’t pull them off—instead sucking the wetness from the material. Puffy clit helplessly pulled into the force of it while trapped under your panties, you buck your hip up against his tongue. Caleb obliges you. He points the tip of his tongue and slides it over the small bud through the cotton - completely stiffened from arousal. You shake at the touch, the wet promise of pleasure. How the drenched fabric of your panties gives the most gratifying, mind-numbing friction. You moan loud. You can’t help the sound that leaves you when he licks your pussy.
You’ve never felt anything like it before. It’s the first time you’ve ever felt this way, but you’re under the impression that most people will never know a pleasure like this in their life.
When your underwear is completely saturated with spit - only then does Caleb let off from you. Without a single word of warning, he tugs away the material. Exposing your pussy, bare and throbbing - he blows warm air onto your clit and watches as you squirm.
Another beat of admiring before his mouth latches onto your pussy again. Panties tugged away haphazardly, his tongue sliding from wet hole all through the seam, the soft folds of your pussy - settling at your clit. He licks experimentally, wading through your moans. When his tongue tastes your clit just the right way, you practically scream.
With newfound dedication, he commits to worshipping your pussy with his mouth.
It’s humiliating. Purely euphoric and undeniably stimulating, boneless as Caleb’s tongue laps desperately at your clit. His eyes shut, completely blissful - brows furrowed and moaning into you. He eats you out like it’s what he’s wanted to do his entire life and this is the last opportunity he’ll have to make good on his dreams.
The corrupted thought lights fire under your body anew. To think of Caleb lusting for you when he shouldn’t be. Like a forbidden fruit, ripe and sweet and nearly his—nearly within his grasp but always just barely slipping between his fingers. Your kind, sweet, considerate older brother thinking of ruining your mind and body. The idea he’d been torturing himself over it makes you sad but more than that it incites impossible longing. You want him to want you even more than he does now.
You can feel your body ache for it for the first time. Like a reply to his feelings, you think of how good it will feel when Caleb finally fucks you. Takes you, plucks you from vine and claims you all for himself.
But the act of him tasting you like this is more than good. The tender bundle of nerves is throbbing hard against the wet flick of his tongue - hips rutting to meet the perfect motion of his mouth. Something in your belly warms. Sweetens your senses and melts you from the inside like crystalized honey coming to liquid sugar over a flame. Your mind has melted away so utterly you can’t do anything but reach your fingers through his hair and chant his name.
“Caleb,” Your voice is unfamiliar to you. Worked up beyond any rational understanding.. “Caleb, Caleb, Caleb.”
Closer and closer, Caleb remains completely persistent in his efforts. Licks your clit and laps up all the arousal that spills - silky fluid like ambrosia to the unending heat of his mouth.
The knot tangled inside of your body unravels with an alarming speed. Makes your eyes go wide before you shut them again hard, your spine arching off the bed - every muscle in your body going unbearably tense as Caleb’s tongue toys with your clit. The filthy sound of licking making your ears ring.
Your body goes taut. It feels like a calamity. A pure rapture, like God himself is bringing pleasure. The kind that can only be derived from being your maker. Caleb has that in common with him, you think.
Your voice rings loud, hands fisted in his hair. You’re cumming hard, and fast, and there’s white behind your eye-lids. Smatterings of bright stars as you press them shut.
You cum so hard you can’t breathe. For a brief moment you’re weightless before it all comes crashing down in one swift go. Caleb eats you out through it relentlessly and your voice breaks on the syllables of his name - asking for mercy and receiving none. It feels so good it terrifies you. Your body is trembling, cunt spasming around his tongue as Caleb continues his assault.
You feel something wet rush out of you but Caleb is undeterred. He drinks it all down, every last drop until he’s satiated at least some of his endless, terrifying thirst.
When he pulls away from your pussy, his mouth is soaked in saliva and your cum. He looked the most satisfied you’ve ever seen him in your life. You’ve never been so scared of someone while being so unbearably aroused in the same breath.
“You taste so fucking good. Better than I dreamed in my entire life. Need to taste it again. I almost don’t want to do anything else.” He laughs breathlessly. “Almost.”
“Caleb,” You whimper. completely helpless as you try to catch your breath. “Fuck, ‘m still cumming,”
“Gonna make you cum over and over and over.” Caleb says cheery. “Promise,”
After cumming the first time, your body's sensitivity increases tenfold. Where you think it’ll cool off the glaring heat, melting you down to your core - all it does is turn it higher, make the feeling more tangible. Caleb’s offer to make you cum again excites you more than it scares you. You stare at him when he comes up for air.
“Kiss?”
“Even after all that?”
You nod sheepishly.
“Jeez. How cute can someone be?”
He comes up for a kiss, surprised when you lick into his mouth. You like tasting yourself on him, tongue dipping in for more. Caleb smiles at your enthusiasm, eyes lidded when he pulls away.
“Open your mouth,”
You give him a blank stare but do as he says. He puts a hand on your throat, tipping your head back before you feel something warm hit your tongue. Your eyes meet Caleb’s in surprise, instinctively swallowing the spit as it slides down your throat. Caleb meets you with an eager kiss, a gentle affection in his voice. “Good girl.”
Something washes over you hearing the praise. A soft moan into his mouth that leaves Caleb with raised brows. “You like hearin’ you’re my good girl, huh?”
Your face feels hot. “...Maybe,”
“Still so bad at lying, pipsqueak. Some things never change,”
The affection in his voice makes you forgive him. You know the tone, the sound—the lilting coo of your older brother's voice when he’s teasing you. It’s a way of speaking you could recognize in a heartbeat, the kind of voice that you’re anxious without. It shouldn’t soothe you in this context, shouldn’t make your pussy feel so achy when you know exactly how he’s addressing you.
Caleb kisses down the length of your body again. Neck to navel until he settles down between your thighs. You can’t mask your surprise. Caleb looks up at you from between your legs.
“What? You thought one time would be enough for me?”
Truthfully, yes. You’re a little startled at the thought he’s going to do it again. Make you feel all of that again. An anticipatory shiver makes you squirm but Caleb holds you in place. He presses another kiss to your clit. “One time doesn’t even come close to being enough.”
True to his word, Caleb starts the process all over again.
The second time around, he doesn’t let himself up to breathe. You’re locked in place as his increased familiarity with your body has him driving you over the edge even faster. Firm grip on your thighs, face buried between your legs - he laps at your clit for what feels like an endless amount of time. The pleasant warmth of his mouth paired with the focused, precise licks on your sweet spot make your body wrack with an impossible pleasure. It’s gentle enough to not be completely overstimluating - but his endurance, his persistence in doing it makes your experience a new high. A trembling mess of limbs and quiet, desperate pleas. Too much, too fast - toes curled as he hoists your legs over his shoulders to give him full access. Clit pulsating, stiff under his tongue with his nose bumping occasionally.
It feels so good you’re almost content to let him stay there. Let your mind wash away and succumb to the gluttony tying you to the bed. You cum twice again from the pressure - your body experiencing each one longer. Unable to withstand it, your hands clenched tight trying to level yourself with the feeling. A pleasure you’ve never experienced, the kind you doubt you’d be able to feel with someone else.
Caleb has always been like this in that respect. Your older brother who set the standard for every other man you ever came across. You were always using him as the gold standard, comparing every man you’ve ever met to him. Especially ones who claimed to like you. What would your brother do, how would he act, how would he treat you. He’d never tell you if you were too much. Never call you spoiled even when you act it, embody it so why settle for less? Why want for something else? For someone else?
It’s not surprising that Caleb touches you with the same level of care he’s always given you. Even less surprising that your body longs for it so desperately.
Caleb is your big brother after all. He takes care of you like this. No one else gets to have it. It makes you entitled, moody, and emotional just to think of him acting this way with someone who isn’t you.
Yearning and deep affection well up inside of you as these things cross your mind. Whisper to your longing as a deep, endless need overwhelms your mind. Your third orgasm steals the breath out of your lungs. A shockwave of emotions washes over you, as you tug at his hair. You let out a throaty whine.
“Caleb,” You whimper, pulling him off. “Caleb,”
Attuned to your emotions, Caleb is quick to pull away when he hears the audible distress. He pulls away from you, worried. “Shhh, hey. It’s okay, I’m here. Did you want to stop?”
You shake your head rapidly. Caleb gives you a small smile. “Just being a crybaby, then?”
The truth is, yes, just a little. You can’t voice this to Caleb so you instead give him some unknowable, unreadable look. He reads it almost instantly, shifting himself to hug you tight. Without any words at all, like he knows every single thought that passes through your mind. You wrap your arms around him and nudge your nose against his neck. He smells familiar.
“This what you wanted?”
You nod against him. Caleb’s heartbeat is steady in a way that brings you bone deep comfort.
“Be more pampered with me. More selfish, more demanding, more spoiled. Gege will do anything for you, so don’t hesitate.”
Hearing him refer to himself that way makes your stomach flip. You nuzzle yourself deeper into him, aroused by the sound of his laughter - playful but smug. You speak against his chest, words muffled.
“Want it inside right now,”
His breath hitches immediately. “Yeah?”
Another nod. You pull away to look him in the eyes when you ask. You know how to beg Caleb for something. You’ve been doing it your whole life, and right now is the most sincere you’ve ever been. Doe-eyed and full lips, all covetous and coy the word falls from your mouth with ease.
“Please,”
It has the exact impact on him you want it to have. Groaning, the outline of his cock twitching with a shameful lust, almost blanking out at the thought. He scrubs a hand over his face.
“You’re gonna kill me,”
“Please,” You repeat. Caleb kisses you as if to stop you from saying it again.
“I have to stretch you out on my fingers. It’ll hurt otherwise,” You open your mouth but Caleb cuts you off. “Don’t say it’s fine.”
“Caleb,” You whine and he laughs sympathetically.
“Be a good girl,” He placates, and it works on you just as maddeningly as your begging does on him. “Hm? For me?”
You melt. How embarrassing.”...Fine,”
He coos at you lovingly and you make no effort to deflect. You can’t. Your usual fire and wit, your banter is dissipated. Brain thoroughly undone from so many orgasms and the deep, aching want in your cunt - so apparent it makes you want to sob. A desperation to be full that you didn’t fathom existing in such a bodily way, something you thought only existed in porn.
Sensing how strung out you are, Caleb changes positions again. Instead of laying between your legs, he curls up besides you. He turns on his side, sliding an arm underneath and hugs your body close to him. Like he’s cradling you. Your legs slot together, one of yours between both of his - your other leg on the outside. Caleb hikes your thigh up - high enough to have your legs spread. The arm not supporting your back is supporting you, his forearm underneath your thigh.
At this angle, you’re face to face. Caleb can see you clearly as he cradles you in his arms. A large hand squeezes your ass before reaching around - teasing your clit with long fingers.
You feel…small like this. It’s the way you’re being held. The feeling of Caleb’s arm under your back, sliding up to hold your neck.
His fingers are exceptionally long. Slender and thin, with thick veins from wrist to pinky, more appearing less visibly to the rest. His palms are big- making up the bulk of their size. You feel yourself fixating on them in their movements.
On the calluses on them from handling guns, to the few thin scars from your childhood that have remained on his body into adulthood - now scarred. The way his fingers caress you, stroke your clit slowly. He kisses you again with a silent question like: you like this, right?
The eagerness of your tongue into his mouth answers it for him, a puppy keen on greeting it’s owner. Caleb laughs sweet into your mouth, encouraging you with all the kindness he has in him. His fingers slides through your slick folds impressed until he reaches low enough to be at your hole.
You’ve put your own fingers in there before. You think you can handle someone elses.
You find out fast that you can’t.
Caleb’s fingers are long. They’re thicker than yours, and longer than yours - and just the first one gives you a stretch you're not expecting. You shudder, a noisy breath. It’s an intrusion, a noticeable one. Caleb is careful, though. It’s easy for him to push the digit it when you’re so wet inside. A soft squelching noise makes your skin burn hot but Caleb goes on undisturbed.
His finger reaches deep. He fucks it in so slowly and so carefully but it feels like it never ends. All the down to the knuckle with just the one, you find yourself shuddering. Caleb is quiet, but you can hear the labor in his breaths. Feel his cock pressed against your inner thigh and twitch.
You moan his name instinctually - not for any particular reason and he says nothing. Just thrusts his finger in and out. How can something feel so different on the basis it’s someone else? You can’t hold still, rocking your hips against the sensation. Caleb groans unabashed.
“You want it so bad, huh?” He says, half-delirious and so pleasantly smug. You nod immediately.
“A little more. Hang in there, okay?”
Okay, you think. You’d do whatever it takes in the moment for Caleb to fuck you more quickly so you bite in the side of your cheek and try not beg stupidly each time he repeats the process. Another finger, longer than the last - stretching out, reaching deeper than anything has ever gone in your life, thrusting until your pussy takes it. It surprises you to know just how much you can take when you take three and you really feel it. How soft it is inside.
“Enough,” You whisper hoarsely.
Caleb doesn’t heed your request. Another finger goes in. It takes four for him to finally feel like it’s enough. Four fingers stroking from the inside out, an almost brutal precision curling against your g-spot. Not enough to cum, just enough to get so wet he can’t pull his fingers out without the filthiest noise you’ve ever had to follow it.
Completely out of your mind, you grab onto him weakly. Every ounce of shame and sense gone.
“Caleb,” Your voice is a pant. “Fuck me. Please, please—just do it,”
His own voice is no better than yours. “Gotta grab a condom from my—”
Your voice is vicious. Like you’re lashing out at him. “No. Fuck me.”
Caleb is quieted by it. Unsure of how to react. “Don’t be like that, baby.”
A reprimand. Soft as ever. Tears well up in your eyes immediately. “Please hurry,”
“We have to use a condom next time, okay?”
You hear nothing that comes out of his mouth except the words next time, and nod.
He gives in. You’re thankful he always does. You’re at your wits end and you don’t know if your body can handle any more waiting. Not getting what you want with Caleb unsettles and upsets you. Especially this strung out.
Caleb rolls onto your back again after he pulls his fingers out. You whine at the loss, unwittingly falling onto your back with both legs open. Presenting yourself in some impossibly obedient way that you can’t catch quick enough to stop, knees bent and up in the air. Waiting impatiently for Caleb to follow.
He follows suit moments later. His hand resting on your knees to spread your legs for him, taking in an eyeful of you as he stands on his own.
At the angle you’re laying and with nothing to distract your senses - you can see Caleb in full shape. Your body responds in kind for you, throbbing between your legs as you cut his figure. Tall and strong and broad, visible muscles and deltas. There are veins above the lowcut of his waistband, thick and tempting. A little lower than that - a patch of dark hair that leads to…
Your throat feels dry seeing Caleb’s cock standing to attention, just underneath his sweatpants. Eyes blinking rapidly trying to make sense of it. How it strains, a wet patch where it ends. Your breathing slows significantly. Your mouth watering, mind fizzling like a bottle of champagne. The ache in you urges deeper, hand going between your legs to soothe it. Or maybe welcome what's coming.
Caleb is breathless. Amusement undercut by lasciviousness. “Enjoying the view?”
You nod stupidly. Caleb grins a little. Makes a show of hooking his thumb into the top of his sweats and tugging all the way down. A thick trail of hair and the smooth, uncut outline of his cock has you gasping. When he tugs his pants all the way pas his thigh, you feel completely speechless.
He’s huge. Utterly. Too heavy to stand on its own, uncut, veiny. You blink in disbelief, like everything in the room has paused. It’s burly. Ridiculous. Thick enough to look like someone’s forearm. Pearls of pre-cum dribble of out of the tip, pulled back to be revealed. A ruddy reddish brown and angry. It’s darker then the rest, throbbing in a way that looks almost painful. It’s not the first time you’ve seen it but that was on accident in a bath before it was—
You stop your train of thought and just stare for an unknown amount of time.
He looks sheepish. The tips of his ears crimson red, all the way down to his chest. You make an unintelligible noise at the sudden change in attitude and also at everything else.
A sensible person would feel fear. Not your strong suit. You don’t know if it’s bravery or lust that inspires the reaction in your body. You just know you want him to fuck you so bad you might jump on him to get it.
“We don’t have to get in today, princess. We’ve got time to—”
“If you try to deter me one more time I’m going to run away from home,”
Caleb closes his mouth. He just mumbles something, but obliges you right after.
In what can only be considered a miracle, Caleb finally settles between your legs. His hands are on top of your thighs as he taps his tip against your clit, rubbing the pre-cum into the mess, The feeling of skin on skin elicits a gasp out of you both. His voice is shaky.
“Might not last,” He says hoarsely
“S’fine.” You put a hand between your legs and spread your pussy open for him a little wider. A move from porn that works on him instantly. He swears hard under his breath, not giving himself a chance to indulge in the feeling long.
Tip nudging through slick folds—Caleb finally, finally slides in.
Another synchronised moan, sweat breaks out onto your skin as you feel the thick tip of Caleb’s cock finally come through. You feel full. It’s completely different from four fingers, more invasive on your body than ever. .
It elicits a chain reaction. You watch Caleb above you, death grip on your hips trying to keep his composure and not fuck a hole through you. A horrible part of you almost wants him too, even knowing you absolutely wouldn’t be able to take it.
You’re trembling. It feels ridiculous but you’re so worked up that -
“Gonna c-cum,”
Caleb’s eyes blow wide. “From—fuck. That ain’t fair, you can’t,”
You buck your hips up and groan. He’s stretching you out so fucking good. One more time and it’ll hit that spot and it’ll feel so perfect, so right. You need it. Caleb shakes over you.
“Mercy,” He says, not sober enough to laugh. You’re going to lose your mind soon. Maybe you already have.
“I-s it all in?”
“Half,” Caleb grunts. You moan at the thought.
“Fuck me. Shit, please,” Your voice breaks high on the last syllable. Caleb looks like he wants to protest, wants to tell you to take it slow. But you can see it in his face that he’s reached his limits. Or maybe he reached them a long time ago and he’s already far gone.
But he listens. Your jaw goes slack and he pushes in. Inch by tortuous inch until you feel him bottom out. Feel his hips on the back of your thighs. His cock is throbbing inside of you, silken walls clinging onto the shape like you’re being pried open. It doesn’t take anything. He shifts as he bottoms out and your voice comes out in garbled, unintelligible noise.
“O-oh, ‘m cumming, cumming, ngh,” Your back arches up that leaves your mind blank. Completely white out, nothing but static as you cum again. Cum around the hard, intrusive length of your older brothers cock - bullying into your cervix until it’s wet and pliable and fuckable for him. Stretching out like it’s his to shape and mould. You can feel it in your body, each vein and each curve. Caleb lets out a whistle. Sharp and so fucking dark, it exicites you helplessly.
“She’s clingy just like you,” He says, fond but sneering.
Your head spins when it dawns on you on what he’s saying.
“Caleb—”
“I feel conflicted. Are you naturally this gifted?” He laughs, folding over you. Overtaken by something. Bending you under his weight. “Or is it because it’s mine that you’re making it so easy?”
“I was worried, you know,” He pulls out. The disappointment and gaping emptiness are brief. You hear the way your body refuses him pulling out. “Worried about how such a tight hole would fit something so big. Worried about your body, but you’re taking me in so fucking well. So perfect,”
You’re panting. It feels so good. Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth, limp under the weight of it as Caleb gives you a slow few thrusts to get you used to the size. But you’re so stretched and sensitive it just feels fucking incredible from the jump.
“Be a good girl and let me in.” You clench down on him. He grins to himself. “That’s it,”
He bottoms out again. Slams hips and fucks you in one swift, unforgiving motion. Groaning, he puts his hands up under your knees, driving his dick into you with animalistic need.
“Your pussy feels so fucking good. Too good. I’m never gonna be able to think about anything else. It’s not like I was before but you’re-” Out, back in. You haven’t made a single coherent sound. “You’re just too good. It’s warm and wet and still so tight, how are you still so tight, huh? It’s like you don’t want me to leave.”
For a brief moment, the two of you make eye contact. The vivid color of his eyes burns bright, pins you underneath the weight of his gaze. It goes straight to your stomach, making it flip in one smooth go.
“Tell me it’s okay,” Caleb says, barely restraining himself.
You look up at him confused. He suddenly looks like he’s at his wits end.
“Tell me it’s okay to fuck you hard,”
Like a woman possessed, you reach your arms around to squeeze his back and biceps. You put your mouth close to his ear as you bring him down towards you.
“Gege,” He twitches inside of you. “Fuck me as hard as you can,”
You underestimate just what effect it’ll have on you. On him. As quick as he possibly can, he pushes his hands under your knees and folds you into a mating press so deep it makes you scream. He’s pistoning you instantly, pounding into your pussy like he owns. Your nails dig into the muscles of his shoulders without realizing.
“I love you,” are the only words that come out of his mouth. It has you clenching down even harder. “Gege loves you more than anyone else in the world, okay? More than anyone.”
Just like that, Caleb fucks you. Given up on being gentle but still trying to make you feel good, trying to touch somewhere no one ever will again - he folds you up under the weight of his body and fucks you with relentless stamina. Your mind is gone. His cock is fat and heavy inside of you, splits your pussy open as the tip knocks against your g-spot with each thrust. His balls smack against your ass on each go.
It’s too much. For your brain, for your body, for your insides - getting permanently rearranged like he’s crushing your womb. A feeling like it should be painful, but it isn’t because he’s got you so good and open. This a reward for you both. For his patience. Every thought wrung from your head, impressed by your body’s own avarice for cock. Addicted to the feeling of getting strethed, gaped completely open. It feels like you’re cumming without a clear end.
Wanting Caleb to cum inside of you is a distant thought. Pleasant like a lullaby as your body yearns for it. Another sharp orgasm builds. It builds and builds and builds - and you know’re going to be fucked through it again.
But this time Caleb is close. Right alongside you. Sweating and panting in your ear as he pounds into your frenzied.
His voice comes out like a whine and it turns you on even more. You say it before he can think of pulling out, tightening your legs around his waist.
“Cum in me,”
Caleb grinds himself deeper. “Gonna cum in you, baby. I love you, I love you—fuck!”
Pure euphoria floods your entire nervous system as Caleb bottoms out one last time. His cum fills your pussy in thick, long spurts. It feels hot as it takes, makes you shiver with how it feels. Disappointed at the idea it’ll flood back out.
Caleb, still balls deep - continues suddenly. Where you think he’s gonna pull out, he doesn’t. Instead he fucks you again, this time more clear-headed as he rubs your clit - a hand between your bodies. His voice is shot.
“Sorry. Don’t wanna be selfish. One more nice and easy, then we’ll clean up?”
You have no room to protest. After all, Caleb is nothing but relentless when it comes to spoiling you. You let him fuck another orgasm out of you until you’ve got nothing left to give.
He collapses on top of you after your pussy milks what's left of him
You kiss when he does, sweaty and tired. You look at his blissed out face and kiss his nose with affection.
“I love you too, Gege.”
He pauses then laughs. Brightly. Hopelessly.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,”
__
You aren’t sure when exactly you pass out.
You remember lingering with Caleb in his bed before limping into the bathroom. And a bath too, if your memory serves you right. You must’ve fallen asleep in the tub with Caleb, the broad warmth of his chest lulling you right to sleep. You’ve got good endurance from being a hunter, but you’re tuckered out just thinking about earlier.
Also a little embarrassed.
You wake on the couch of the living room. Cleaned, changed, and tucked into with a blanket over you. There’s a scent and the quiet sizzle of a pan. Your limbs feel heavy as you pick your head up. It’s still dark out but it seems like morning.
You rub your eyes as you swing your legs over and place them on the floor.
Standing to your feet, you find slippers at the end of the couch and feel your heart swell ten sizes. You put them on before padding into the kitchen.
Caleb is at the stove like you thought he’d be. You flush seeing his back covered in scratches and a bite or two - none you remember leaving. You know your body is in the same state if not worse.
You walk up to him and wrap your arms around his middle, pressing your face against his broad back. Your voice is small, embarrassed. Everything feels brand-new.
“G’morning,”
Caleb turns the heat down and puts the spatula on the counter top, turning to face you. He looks down at you with a boyish grin. Unfairly handsome, making you pout.
“Morning, sleepyhead. Feel okay?”
You tuck your face into his chest and nod. “Just a little tired. I don’t hurt or anything.”
“That’s good, then,”
You make a little mm sound and stay there for a while. Caleb is content to hug you until you pull away.
“Caleb?”
“Hm?”
Your face feels warm. “...Kiss?”
He stops, then beams. Dips his head down to catch your lips in a kiss that feels romantic and practiced, but doesn’t make you feel strange in a bad way. You’ve never had a boyfriend, not a real one. Does everyone feel butterflies like this?
Maybe there’s something wrong with you. He pulls away and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth.
“You’re less moody than you usually are when you wake up,” Caleb teases. “Good to know. An effective way to deal with your attitude is always welcome.”
You frown at him, feeling furious for more reason than embarrassment. It’s really unfair how flirtatious he is. “Shut up,”
Subconsciously, your hands are fisted as you cling to Caleb’s chest. With no shirt to hold onto you, your muscle memory finds it the most steady. They’re clenched hard from embarrassment and a flood of other feelings you need soothed.
Caleb grabs your hand and unfurls them for you. Strong, warm, big hands grasp yours in their palm and open them both softly - fingers interlocking until you’re no longer so tense. Just melted away.
“I’m right here,” He says. A wave of emotions passes over you.
You hold his hand and squeeze it. Once, twice - it has a steadiness the grip of fabric doesn’t.
You smile to yourself. Helplessly happy. Overwhelmed with pure, unrelenting love.
“Yeah,” You say, more to yourself than anyone else. “You are,”
ANOTHER WORD FOR HOMESICK (I WANT TO SAY YOUR NAME AGAIN) | M. BACHIRA
☼ tags ; omegaverse, afab + fem!omega!!reader, alpha!bachira, childhood friends to lovers, established reader backstory, coming-of-age, romance, mutual pining, implicit sexual content (virginity loss to an oc), explicit sexual content ft. bonding, knotting, penetration, oral (f!recieving), fingering, praise, lovey dovey dirty talk, petnames (mostly baby) 18+
++ notes: readers appearance is mostly non-descript but they are shorter than bachira and have several piercings and a tattoo which are explained in story.
☼ content warnings ; lore applicable sexism, sexual harassment of reader as a minor (details in authors note, explained further in extended authors note), lore applicable homophobia, implied bisexuality + referenced mutual queerness queerness, underage drinking, heat / estrus as a symptom of puberty
please thoroughly read content warnings and tags before clicking read more.
THIS IS PART ONE. CLICK HERE TO HERE PART TWO.
☼ ao3 link | extended authors note | fics for gaza
☼ wc ; 16.4k / 33.2k
☼ a/n ; sorry for the incredibly long wait. as always i got extremely carried away. but cheers for fujoneet reader coming after this! written as part of the @ficsforgaza intiative
as mentioned above, there is a scene in this part of the fic that has reader experiencing their first heat as a minor omega during their heat.
they are being sexually harassed underage. if you find this content may be too triggering to you - the scene starts at the the [ THIRTEEN ] subheader and ends indicated with ***.
☼ synopsis ; you can't decide on how you feel about alphas, but your resentment or discomfort around them grows stronger over time as an omega who presented particularly young
maybe that's why you feel so devastated upon hearing the news that bachira, your childhood best friend, had been hiding his alpha status from you your whole life.
PART ONE: MAY THE BRIDGES I HAVE BURNED..
[ NINE]
A car speeds past you when you turn the corner. Too fast, you watch it skid to a stop at a red light and feel your face grow flush. You tuck your chin into the collar of your coat, cold numbing your senses.
The mailman is at your door by the time you walk home. He smiles courteously and hands you the mail directly when you approach your front gate. You bow to him politely before taking it, the cold making your eyes water.
“I haven’t seen you in a while,” He says. Nakamura oji-chan has been running mail to this route since you were a little baby. Mama said he has a grandchild now so he works less hours. You’re glad to see him. “You’ve grown so big. What year are you in now?”
You hold up four fingers. “Fourth year. I’m nine,”
“You’re growing up well, then huh? That’s good.”
You’re not tall enough to reach the kitchen cabinets at the highest height and still losing baby teeth but other than that you think it’s pretty okay, so you nod. He laughs before turning to leave, and you make sure to stand in front of the door before he goes to be polite.
You shuffle through the mail as you walk inside. Warm air makes your face tingle. There’s two letters for you today. They’re addressed to your parents, but they’ve got your name on them so you think it’s okay to call them yours. One letter is from the hospital, but there’s another one too.
You don’t know what it is. It’s in a separate black envelope with a raised seal along and government postage. There’s some stuff for nii-chan and mama - plus some coupons that papa gets from a subscription service.
You announce yourself loudly once you’ve looked through it all. Only papa’s brown shoes are in the rack which means he’s the only one home.
Slipping your shoes off, you slide your feet into brand new Doraemon slippers and prop your bag up against the couch in the living room before finally hanging up your coat. Your tummy rumbles after you regain feeling in your fingers, and you decide the nap can be pushed back till after snack time making your way towards the kitchen.
You make sure to take the mail with you. Mama always tell you to leave it on the counter so she can take a look when she’s home. You’re good at remembering this.
Papa is working at the dining table when you come in. He works on a fancy computer from home some days. He smiles when he sees you, bright eyes pointed toward you. You decide to hand him the mail directly.
“Hey, sweetie.” His smile is soft. Ripe oranges sit for you on the counter, cut evenly on your favorite plate. Papa nudges them towards you with a smile. Quickly, you run to wash your hands and sit adjacent to him upon return. You start snacking on your oranges, wondering if he sliced them for you or just to eat. You sit folded up in the dining room chair as papa pats your head per routine. “How was school?”
You look down. “It was okay. We learned about praying mantis bugs. My friends thought they were scary but I thought they were cool, at least a little…”
Papa sits and waits for you to say more expectantly. You shrug, unable to think of anything more to say.
“They are, aren’t they? They’re really important to our eco-system.” Papa says. You nod. He starts to explain more to you about praying mantis bugs and you do your best to listen even as you feel your eyelids start to droop. You get sleepy early in winter because it’s dark so fast.
Even though you’re not listening too closely, you notice papa stops talking half-way through a sentence. You peek at him through your lashes. He’s holding the special envelope from before. Papa is very quiet when he reads it.
“What’re you reading?”
His eyes go wide. You wonder if papa is also tired, since he seems so surprised you’re there. His brows are furrow - putting the letter face down on the dining room table. He’s silent for a long time, though you don’t fuss to ask again.
“We got some important news in the mail,” Papa says quietly. He seems a little different somehow. “We’ll sit down when and talk about it when mama gets home, okay?”
“Am I in trouble?”
He smiles at you like normal this time but he still seems a little sad. “Not at all sweetheart. It’s just an important talk so I think we should be all together. Is that okay?”
“Yeah, that makes sense.” You tell him, looking down at your lap trying to figure out what to say so he stops seeming sad. “It’ll be okay, papa.”
Briefly surprised, he smiles again, using his hand on your face to pull you close to him wet kiss on your temple that you take in stride. You’re glad he seems to feel better.
“That’s right, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
_
When mama comes home, her and papa sit and talk for a long time in the kitchen. They send you to nii-chans room. Predictably, he turns you away when you knock on his door and goes down to complain to your parents. You think that whatever happened must be more serious than you thought, since he comes back up and lets you sit in his room without complain upon return.
Nii-chan rarely invites you to do things with him by yourself, so you’re surprised when he invites you to his lap so you can watch him play games.
Mama always says he’s just going through a phase when he’s being mean. You think that makes sense. You’re happy when he’s nice, though.
After a while, papa comes to get you. Him and nii-chan talk in whispers about something and take not-so-subtle glances.
Papa starts to explain a little to you as you go down stairs, holding his hand. He squeezes it tighter than normal.
“Do you know what an omega is, sweetheart?”
You nod. You’ve got a vague understanding at least. Nii-chan is an alpha, papa is an omega and mama is a beta. It was hard for mama and papa to have you, so they consider you both miracles.
“Well, today, we got news about what you are,” Papa says. He tries to smile. “And you’re an omega like me.’
“Oh,” You say. You look up at him as you walk down the stairs. “Is that bad?”
He shakes his head when you ask, but strangely doesn’t end up saying no directly.
__
After you find out you’re an omega, nii-chan walks you to school for a few weeks.
You find this to be very strange for several reasons.
For one, nii-chan doesn’t really like school and he doesn’t seem to like spending time with you either. He started going this year, you think - something mama had said about getting his life sorted. Either way, he clearly doesn’t want to be going at all.
So, it doesn’t make sense when he starts accompanying you even a little.
“I can walk to school by myself,” You say, not really meaning anything by it. He stares down at you. You aren’t sure why he’s so mad. Nii-chan always seems a litle bit mad at everything. You wonder if all alphas are like that.
“Don’t be annoying,” He says, harsh. You bite your tongue and turn your gaze to the sidewalk under your feet.
“I’m not being annoying,” You clutch the straps of your bag, because you’re not. He’s the one who suddenly decided to walk you, which makes him the more annoying one. Plus, he’s always causing trouble at home anyway, not you.
“Didn’t they explain to you that you’re an omega?”
You look up at him confused wondering why it matters. He stares at you for a long time, and even gets angry again before scratching the back of his neck. His hand comes down to the top of your head and you flinch, expecting him to mess your hair up but he pats it instead.
“Stupid brat,” He sighs after that. You huff but try not to let it show. “Worry about yourself and shut up.”
__
[ TEN ]
There’s a playground near your house that’s a few minutes walk. It has a rusty swing set but a nice slide. Most importantly, there’s a patch of concrete you can jump rope and draw on. You like going there most of all with Miki-chan. Not today though. Miki-chan is out of town to visit her granny in Osaka.
Nii-chan offered to take you but you usually refuse him. It’s not to be mean, but just because doing things with nii-chan always makes you a little sad.
He’s moved from home now, but you still feel weird when you see him since he hasn’t liked you all this time. Mama tells you not to hold it against him - and that you’ll understand him better when you’re older. You hope that’s true. You try not to hold it against him.
But it doesn’t mean you want him with you at the park.
(You feel especially dejected when nii-chan acts cold to you but you can’t be sure why. Papa says it probably has something to do with your hormones, since nii-chan is an alpha. Something about packbonding. You don’t quite get it.
It’s starting to feel like every problem you have is because of being an omega, but you try to keep that thought to yourself so you don’t make papa sad.)
You bring your jump ropes and chalk along with you. The sky is half-blue, half-grey. You wonder if it might rain on your way there or if it’ll be blue and warm all over by then. You like the rain, but you’d prefer sunshine today so you can draw with chalk.
You think of things to do. You’ll sit on the swings first then jump rope, thenn draw. Or maybe it will rain and you’ll have to run home. You hope you didn’t jinx yourself.
Your neighborhood is small so you know the names and faces of all the kids there. Even the little ones who are in the grades beneath yours. Mama tells you it’s important to know your neighbors. You aren’t really trying to remember for that reason, though. It’s more like it bugs you not to know. You’re always like that.
Papa uses the word meticulous to describe you. Meh-tick-you-lus. It’s easy to say but hard to spell.
(Nii-chan says you’re just acting like an omega when you do things like that. This makes your parents upset, especially papa. You never take nii-chan seriously when he complains though. He complains about everything.)
When you arrive at the playground, there’s a boy on the grass playing with a soccer ball by himself. You’ve never seen him before. He’s got big wide-eyes and a shock of yellow hair underneath which is super cool. His hair is long, just a little shorter than yours and he even has bangs. You wonder if he’s an omega too, since you’ve only seen omega boys be that pretty.
Your heart beat fasts. It’d be nice to make a new friend, though you’re a bit unsure what to say. You’re a little nervous to approach him but you reason it’d be stranger not to.
“Hi,”
The boy stops playing with his ball, doing a trick to kick it up into his hands. He’s cool. Or at least very interesting. His eyes are bright, dark brown with a touch of yellow like his hair. You wonder if grows like that or if he’s allowed to dye it. He stares at you for a long time wordlessly. You shift your weight on your feet.
“Hi,” He says back.
You smile.
“What’s your name?”
“Bachira,”
He asks for yours and return and you give it to him.
“How old are you?”
“I’m ten,”
“Really? Me too,”
“Do you know how to play soccer?”
You shake your head. “My nii-chan plays it sometimes at his school, but I dunno how. I prefer jump rope. I can do some tricks with a jump rope.”
He lights up when you mention your nii-chan plays soccer, eager to ask you about it. “Is he good at it?”
“I think so,” You reply honestly. You ended up going to a lot of games when you were little. He used to practice lots in your backyard too and stayed after school. The memory makes you a little sad “He wanted to play it more but he got hurt. We went to a lot of matches when I was a baby. He has some trophies and stuff.”
“That’s so cool,” Bachira gushes. You shrug because you don’t really feel like agreeing. “Do you think he would play soccer with me?”
You shake your head dejectedly, eyes cast to the ground. “Probably not. He barely plays with me so I don’t think he’d play with you.”
You feel a little bad telling him that given he seems so excited, but it’s true. Soccer or not. It’d also be a little unfair if he played with Bachira, you think. Bachira visibly deflates.
“Oh,”
“It’s okay. I don’t think I’d be good at soccer but you can tell me about it.” You say, because Bachira seems fun to be around. He doesn’t seem interested but you go on. “The thing you did with your ball earlier was cool.”
He lights up again and you smile softly. “Really? I know a lot of other tricks, too. I’ll show them to you!”
You nod. “Okay. I’m gonna draw on the concrete while you play.”
You sit on the nearby patch of concrete and set your jump rope besides you as you open up your box of chalk - all brand new. You came in deciding to draw a cat or bunny, but decide to draw a soccer ball as a peace offering to your new companion.
“Okay! But you have to look up when I tell you or you’ll miss my tricks.”
“Sure,” You tell him.
As soon as you sit down down to draw, Bachira starts talking a mile a minute about soccer. He took your words to heart it seems like. You think he must really like soccer, maybe even more than you like jump rope and you really like jump rope. But you don’t mind listening to Bachira talk. He kind of reminds you of Miki-chan, who also talks a lot. It’s good since you prefer not to talk much.
“So the tricks and cool stuff you do with your feet is called dribbling?”
He brightens at the fact you put it together without him saying “Yeah!” following it up with “You’re really nice.”
Your brows raise in surprise as you shake your head. Embarrassed, you direct your gaze down towards your lap.
“Not really. I’m just normal.”
He doesn’t say anything else, just grins as he keeps going. You decide to keep drawing instead of talking, listening to Bachira ramble. He tells you to draw for a while he practices his tricks, so he can show you the best ones and you agree without any hassle.
You look through your plastic box of chalk, smiling as you choose a color. You decide to draw with dandelion yellow.
__
Bachira brings you home to meet his mom after he runs out of tricks to show you.
On the way there, he tells you more about her and himself. She’s his only parent, and she makes art so he thinks you’d like meeting her. Mama usually tells you not to follow strangers, but Bachira doesn’t feel like a stranger. He’s your friend and you find you really like him.
When you get there, Bachira’s mom seems very happy to meet you. She’s pretty and smells like paint. She asks you if you know your parents numbers, since they might be worried about you disappearing and you give it to her, even though you know you’ll get scolded.
It takes mama and papa twenty minutes to come over. Mama scolds you about doing something dangerous by yourself. You tell her it wasn’t dangerous because you were with Bachira and you really like Bachira.
They don’t scold you again after you say it.
__
(Bachira becomes apart of your daily life as easy as breathing. Despite going to different schools, you always walk to and from school together after meeting. You’re close friends, maybe even closer than you and Miki-chan who you’ve known since you were a baby.
Bachira always comes to pick you up anyway, and you walk home from school together every single day. He always has one hundred things to tell you but you like to listen to each and every one. You like how much Bachira has to say about everything.
On the way home, you play rock-paper-scissors on who’s house to go to. You like it best when Bachira comes over, but if nii-chan is home, you normally go over to his. Sometimes, you wish you went to the same school. Being with Bachira is always fun.
It’d be nice if you could be together all the time. You think if you were always with him, you’d never be bored. You wonder if it’s too much to hope Bachira feels the same. )
__
“So, you’re an omega?”
Bachira and you are playing in the yard today. Your room is getting renovated. According to otou-san, it should’ve been done a while ago to accommodate your nests but it’s getting done now instead. You’re in the backyard with a book, staring up at him as he joins you under the shade. It’s the end of summer break and everything is too hot.
You look at him. “Uh-huh. Otou-san is too.”
He stares at you for a long time before joining you in the grass. You feel weirdly self-conscious of the space he occupies next to you. You’ll be eleven soon enough. Bachira drapes his head in your lap as you sit, staring up at you. You don’t bother moving him. He’s always like that.
He puts his hands up and shades his face from the sun. His eyes glow yellow gold just like always.
“Does that mean you like alphas?”
The question is embarrassing somehow. Makes you feel weird because you can’t answer right away. You cast your gaze away and shrug, pretending to read your book but finding it hard to focus with Bachira’s eyes on you.
You read in a book that alpha and omegas fall in love most naturally. Sometimes they like betas. But you’ve always felt sure you like omegas, and you don’t want to lie to Bachira so you don’t.
“I don’t know,” You say truthfully. “I’m supposed too,”
“But do you?”
You can’t answer him right away. You scrunch your nose and think of nii-san, the only alpha you know personally. The idea of dating someone with any similarities to him troubles you, even though you know he’s not a bad guy. You shake your head.
“I don’t know. Alphas are too much,” You say after some time. That feels like the right choice. Sometimes, you see older kids and alphas and they all feel that way. “And they’re scary.”
“Then what about omegas?”
That feels easy to answer. Bachira stares at you intently and you flush, turning away and covering your face with your hand. “I like them…they’re pretty and smell nice.”
“Hm,” Bachira says. His expression is hard to read. You make a face at him, head tilted asking the same thing. “I think I might like alphas. I dunno though. I don’t know what I am,”
A pang of disappointment makes your chest ache but you bury it and smile at him. Just barely, corners of your lips lightly upturned. “That means we’re opposite.”
“But in a way it means we fit together right?” Bachira says, same as usual. Expectant. Content. Like it’s not a big deal at all. You nod and cast your gaze down to your lap again.
“Yeah. Right.”
__
[ ELEVEN ]
Fifth year students have special lessons for secondary sexes, before a secondary health examination.
In your fourth year, you learned about the characteristics of your primary sex which is most important for betas. Most people are betas, so you guess it makes sense they spend so much more time about it. Still, it’s a little surprising how little your teacher really discusses…anything at all.
You try to pay attention to the lesson but keep tuning out, finding it boring and most of all - not very useful. Otou-san had this conversation with you already. It’s not anything new.
You don’t mean to sound like a know-it-all of course, but with the way otou-san quizzes you on it, you’re pretty sure you know more than most of your classmates and maybe even your teacher.
You find your teacher leaves out a lot of important details about alphas and omegas, though you don’t feel you can or should correct her. During your lesson, you start to understand why Otou-san insisted on making you learn at home.
Reflecting on it, you think being an omega is a hassle. Sometimes it seems scary. Most times though, it just feels inconvenient. When people find it out about you, they always act like they know you. But they only know you’re an omega, so you doubt that’s true.
Your first heat hasn’t come yet since you’re on lots of medicines but you get all the same growing pains. New, tiny fangs are already forming in your mouth and your scent is stronger than most kids your age. Your body is already changing, growing and you have to get more check-ups than other people.
Okaa-san says that’s normal. That you’re normal. But it doesn’t really feel that way. You notice otou-san never uses the word normal, only says that you’re perfectly healthy.
You wonder if it’s something so strange that you’re teacher can’t discuss it. If your disposition is something so offputting. Omega’s are uncommon but not unheard of, right? So why does everyone seem so hush-hush?
You don’t know how to explain the feeling. It’s lonely. People know you’re an omega, but you don’t even know what that means. Don’t know what it means to feel like an omega either. But supposedly it dictates so much of your life.
You keep yourself from sighing as to not disturb your class. The led of your pencil snaps from pressure as you write in your work-book.
__
[ TWELVE ]
You return to the classroom early after health examinations.
It’s the start of the sixth year of your elementary. Most people are finding out their secondary sex for the first time today, but since you already know yours - you’re given a pass to go back and read quietly in the classroom until it’s over. Some people have already developed with strong, obvious scents but getting the official results require a medical check up.
You want to linger a little more so you can talk with all of your classmates but your P.E. teacher shoos you out of the room before long.
After you change out of your gym clothes and back into your uniform, you traverse down the hall and take the long way back. It’s April. The sun is out, peeking through the leaves as warm shades of spring bloom outside your schools windows.
The hallway is unusually quiet. You try to keep your steps light so the hall monitor doesn’t write you up for making noise and causing a disturbance.
You haven’t been able to shake the strange feeling since morning. Such an important day, met with anticipation - but you exist entirely outside of it. You almost feel noting towards it at all.
You’ve known you were an omega for nearly three years now and you’ve already heard rumors about you in relation.
It is isn’t all that important to you. But it is, at the same time since it seems important to other people.
Maybe it’s because you already know yours, but it makes you kind of uncomfortable to hear how your classmates talk about it.
You’ve never liked talking about being an omega, even though it’s not a secret. You pretend not to hear them when you’re in earshot but you always do.
Omegas are weaker, more annoying, too emotional. The only thing they have is attracting alphas, and most people want an alpha to take care of them. Alphas are bound to be successful, and they’re good at sports. It’s great that they have easier chances of seducing them and betas, too. They’re easy and weak so naturally an alpha will want to take care of them.
You’re used to hearing it, and rarely bother to correct them no matter how wrong they are. Sometimes, you want to point out to them you’re one of those things at all - but then, you wonder if that makes you weak and emotional so you never do. You’re not weak, nor annoying, and you rarely show your feelings to anyone.
You can’t make sense of whats expected of you and why your classmates laugh you off when you mention you like omegas, either. You’ve always preferred omegas and their company. They’re comfortable, understanding, easy to be with and smell nice.
There’s something exhausting about the idea you need to be with an alpha. All of it is tiresome. You can’t help but get the impression that from here on, it’ll only get harder to deal with and you don’t want that. You don’t want it to matter. You just want to be yourself.
Lost in thought, you arrive at the classroom. One of your friends seems to have arrived at the same time. Your heart skips a beat at the sight of her.
Akemi-chan is one of your good friends. She’s beautiful. She has long, straight hair and cut-across bangs and always smiles. There’s a mole under her eye and her scent is ripe and summery like peaches. She smiles when she sees you.
She’s so pretty and she stands to close to you - an arm around your waist with a comfortable laugh.
“Guess what!”
“Did you find out your secondary sex?”
She grins, brightening several degrees. “I’m an omega. And,” Her voice drops suddenly. “Chiyo-san is an alpha!”
“Ah,” Your voice drops.“Did you like Chiyo-san?”
She nods. “Now that I know she’s an alpha, I like her more, I guess?”
You try not to look sad, and try to quiet your heartbeat at the way she shows you affection she wouldn’t had you not both been omegas. She doesn’t pull away from you despite knowing you like omegas, so you still feel grateful. Akemi draws her cheek against yours gently. Scents you in the way friends do with her wrists.
You nod listen to her. The listless melancholy of whats forward draws your attention outside.
You notice storm clouds coming in as Akemi looks alongside you. It feels different.
It feels a little too early in spring for such stormy rain.
__
“I didn’t get the results of my secondary sex exam,”
You’re on your way home back from school when Bachira blurts this out to you. Your eyes widen slightly in surprise, turning to look at him so you can understand his feelings better. Given how quiet Bachira’s been today - you figured something was wrong.
You look at him, unsure of what to make of it.
“Does that bother you?”
Your question surprises him in return. It’s not unheard for people to present later. It manifests in everyone eventually, even betas. You don’t remember all the terminology though it has something to do with a specific hormone.
Bachira thinks on your question before looking down at his shoes. He shrugs. “Mm. Dunno. Guess it just makes me feel even more different.”
You think about what Bachira seems to go through at school and feel your heart tug. That makes sense you think.
You shake your head, with new and sudden resolve. “I think it’s fine. It kinda makes sense. I got mine early so you get yours late. We’re always like that, right?”
You hope the attempt to comfort him reaches him. When you look over and see him smiling, you feel unimaginable relief. The world feels more colorful when Bachira smiles. He pauses in the middle of the street, throwing an arm around your neck with a grin that feels like himself again.
“Yeah. Right.”
__
[ THIRTEEN ]
You can’t tell it’s your heat right away.
A fever breaks along your skin in a cramped train car. sweat clinging to your skin underneath your middle school uniform, a heat rash making your whole body itch. The noise around you becomes static, cottony as your heart starts thudding against your ribs.
Your ears are ringing. Time slows down around you as the speed of the subway seems to double underneath your feet. Your knees buckle as you try and hold yourself upright as the intense and unfamilar feeling of desire violates your senses. Too intense for your body. It doesn’t feel like you. You’re not in your right mind.
It’s too early. Most people’s heats don’t come for another year or two at least. You feel so unlucky as the pain flares, mixed with something burning between your legs.
You try to focus your thoughts elsewhere. You take the same train home every single day at the same time. Plenty of students take it, but clubs keep you later than most.
Bachira often comes with you just like he has today, so you focus on him. His middle school is a short-distance from yours so you try and walk home together when you can. A small promise that means the world to you. If you can’t go the full way, you always meet up at the intersection and walk the short distance together instead.
You focus on Bachira as he stands next to you. He’s watching a game of soccer on his new phone, turned sideways with a single headphone in. You watch it over his shoulder. You try too. Your skin scorches, hot like something crash-landing through the atmosphere as a tension grows between your legs. Sweat breaks out around your collar and the small of your spine. You feel out of your body - floating just outside of it. Your neck throbs, scent glands suddenly aching. Both wrist and neck, all of you—aching.
You can barely make any sense of your surroundings anymore. Your breathing is erratic as you grip onto the metal pole tight and try to make sense of your surroundings. You want to hold out until you can get to a stall. You’ve had a plan for this for as long as you can remember.
You just need to keep it together until the train stops.
There’s a man behind you. You don’t notice him until you do. You’re still wearing your uniform - short skirt rolled up to combat the heat of the season. A calloused hand reaches underneath the fabric. You think it’s an accident until it sticks between your inner thigh. It slides up slowly, getting closer to where it shouldn’t be. Your breath hitches. You shiver. Your body is hot.
“Are you an omega?” An older man, the one behind you murmurs. His voice is crass, grating and dark against your skin. Your stomach twists with fear as your gaze freezes you into place. Unable to find your voice as he touches you, you try not to recoil. Disgusted at your body reacts to the involuntary arousal that spikes in result of it. He’s an alpha. The acrid, overbearing nausea of an alphas scent drives itself into your center like a stake. You hate it so much it’s unbearable but every is so hot.
You have no control. Over anything. You’re terrified and barely there.
Fear makes you jump. Your conscious mind slowly loses its grip as you feel your skin dampen with increasing heat, skull throbbing. Your heat is coming and it’s coming fast. You breathe heavily in a pant, trying to ignore the sensation. Trying to ignore everything, just to drown out the oppressive scent of alpha invading your lungs as you tuck your chin.
“You’re a little young to be presenting like this. Having your heat on a train like this,” His voice weighs down on you oppresively. Your heart is so loud, clamoring noisily behind your ears as tears prick at your eyes. His hands go further and further and you flinch. Brushing where you don’t want to be touched you jolt.
our jolting makes Bachira look up from his phone.
“Are you trying to tempt an alpha?”
You’re not very conscious. You’re disgusted. You know this is normal but it feels wrong. You feel wrong. The horror is grounding in it’s own right. Fog clouds your mind, makes your senses sharp. You feel split at the seams. Fighting with your own consciousness, you can’t think of anything except trying to suppress your instincts. But it’s painful, so painful - and something sticky is running down your legs. It’s not you, it’s your body. It’s violating.
Your instincts want an alpha. Your body wants something you can’t understand to the point it aches inside of you, aches between your legs and makes you want to throw up.
Before the man behind you can get any further, your shaken awake by the sound of him practically shrieking. Bachira appears in the corners of your vision.
You’ve never seen him so angry.
You can see his hand reaching behind you. Your eyes gloss over as you stare at Bachira. The hand touching you is gone and you feel immediate comfort. You ground yourself in the warmth of his eyes. You try to find his face amidst your tears.
“Bachira-kun,” Your voice is a whimper. You tuck your head against his shoulder. “I’m scared, I’m so scared, it hurts,”
He stiffens and then his voice comes. It’s soothing, sounds just like him. High and soft. He hums a lullaby to you like nothings wrong. When his hand rests on your lower back, it doesn’t make you feel like crawling out of your own skin.
It’s weird to see him this calm. The loud Bachira you know is never so poised, but he holds you steady. You whimper as he pushes you against his scent glands. He smells sweet. You huff it involuntarily. Bachira doesn’t tell you to stop.
When the train comes to a slow, you let him move you through the station and take you to the bathroom. Your knees are weak. He’s not the type to worry but you’ve made him so concerned.
He opens a stall and sets you gently on the toilet. The cool linoleum sobers you enough to look at Bachira. His worry, his concern, his care. You whimper.
“Hug me,” You practically beg. He hesitates, clicking himself into the stall alongside you as you let yourself drape around his waist. It’s not very different from how you usually are, is it? Bachira is always so affectionate, yet it feels so different.
He rubs the scent glands on his wrist on your neck.
Above you, Bachira is on his phone. Your brain is too hazy to make the details, but you think you hear your fathers voice on the other side of the line.
“Ji-chan will be here soon,” Bachira says. You clutch the back of Bachira’s uniform. It’s the first time he’s ever felt so broad. “Don’t worry.”
“Meguru. Thank you,” You say in a half-sob.
“Anytime,” He says, his voice small and high and so familiar. “I’ll always protect you. Promise. No alpha will touch you again.”
***
__
The reality of your first heat should be what you expect. You know these things happen. Otou-san has told you to be cautious everywhere you go for the last four years without fail.
But when it happens to you, it’s the first time you feel resentful about your secondary sex. Anger towards your body first, for not being able to control itself. Angry at the world next, for making you feel as if it’s your fault.
You grow averse to alphas in the after math. You try not to be. You try not to let your discomfort show and try not to become the sort of person who makes judgements on secondary sex - but for a long time, just the thought of being around them makes your bones chill.
The only thing that keeps you from being all negative is Bachira. His anger for you when discussing that day is enough to ease the burden. Bachira bears your hurt like its his.
You start calling Bachira, Meguru when you call him after he stays with you during your heat. It’s the last bridge of closeness to cross - the last barrier between you. He calls you by your first name too, sometimes a nickname if the mood suits him.
You find yourself so thankful to be his friend some days it makes you want to cry.
You find yourself even more grateful when he tells you he’s an omega. It comforts you. You think, he’s too good to be an alpha and too goo to be with one but you never tell him. It’ll happens someday and you think you’ll be sad.
But for now, you’re happy being by his side a little while longer.
__
[ FOURTEEN ]
Miki-chan invites you to celebrate her fourteenth birthday with a visit to the mall.
There’s a huge mall a little over half an hour away from Chiba that she’s been dying to visit since forever agp. Her nee-san takes all of you in her nice car, even letting you spend money on her card within reason. She’s a lot older than all of you, twice your age with a big girl job in Tokyo. She’s stylish and kind and always has fun nail designs because she works for a famous fashion magazine.
Otou-san has also given you an excessive amount of pocket money after you told him about your day-trip. You really weren’t planning on getting anything, but you’re glad to have something in case Bachira wants to make a purchase.
You’re stopped in for frozen yogurt, following Bachira as Miki-chan and another mutual friend, Sasaki-san wait for you to come up front. You watch amusedly as Bachira piles his frozen yogurt with more toppings. You’re pretty sure he’s not even going to finish it.
You peer at his cup from over his shoulder, watching him pile gummy bears onto his already loaded cup of frozen yogurt, wrinkling your nose in distaste.
“What flavor of froyo did you get this time?”
“Sea salt chocolate. For balance,” He says, dead seriously.
You smile involuntarily before brushing past him, spooning yogurt chips into your own cup. You get different things depending on your mood but always keep it simple. Since it’s hot and humid, you’re getting a coconut flavor with shaving, yogurt chips, fruit and strawberry sauce and sprinkles for good measure.
“You’re too much,” You move past him and wait for him to finish up at the counter. “But if you’re happy,”
“I’m always very happy. I have no place for sadness!” Bachira replies.
You give him another crooked smile, turning to where Miki and Sasaki are chatting.
“I’ll pay for Meguru-kun,” You announce. His frown is instant.
“Eh? No way, I brought money though? That’s why I put so much stuff,”
He’s pouting. You wonder if all omega boys are that cute naturally or if it’s just Bachira.
“Buy something with it later.”
He pouts, swallowing his complaint as he knows it’ll fall on deaf ears.
“Fine,” He huffs, placing his alongside yours on the weight. The cashier gives you two a knowing smile that you miss as she rings up, sticking a color-changing spoon in each before passing it back along with your change. “I’ll get you back for this.”
You don’t say anything as you watch the weight counter.
“Over one thousand yen…. you’re such a glutton,”
“I’ll split it with you as thanks,”
You make a face of disgust that makes him cackle as you both sit down and join your other friends. Bachira drags his chair to sit as close to you as possible, fully inserting himself into your personal space per usual. You eat a spoonful of your frozen yogurt, unconcerned. Sasaki stares at you for a bit. Your eyes meet and you tilt your head in confusion but she turns away.
“Miki-chan, is there anything else you want to look for?”
“New shoes, maybe.”
You glance at her then shake your head. “Pick something else.”
“…Okay. Thank you in advance, I guess,” Miki-says with a laugh. You smile a little.
You look over at Bachira who’s very enraptured in his fro-yo.. You lick your thumb as reach over and wipe the corners of his mouth - stained with chocolate.
“You eat like a kid,” Fondness unmistakable in your voice.
He shakes his head sagely. “Eating something delicious is supposed to make you eat like a kid, you know? And we are kids. This is what it means to be free citizens of the world! Of this great nation!”
“Uh-huh. I’ll take your word for it, but clean your mouth at least.”
Bachira looks at you with smeared mess of chocolate, worsened by another sugary bite. “Why should I worry about it when you’re here to do it for me?”
You give him flat look. Despite yourself though, you use a napkin from the middle of the table to wipe his mouth off. Miki scoffs at you both.
“If you’re too spoiled, she’ll get sick of you,” Miki-chan says bitterly.
“She’d never get sick of me. You on the other hand,”
You shake your head as the two of them hiss at each other. You’ve been friends for years and they still argue. It’s hard to say they’re oil and water. If anything, they’re so similar it baffles you why they don’t get along better then they do you. After a minute of glaring, she sighs and goes back to thinking of her shopping trip.
“Well if shoe’s are out of the question, maybe some new earrings. Oh! And we should get you some makeup you can wear at school.”
You shake your head. “I told you I’m not interested.”
“You’re wasting your beautiful omega looks. I won’t allow it,” Miki pouts at you even as you shake your head. “I promise it’ll be easy stuff. I just think it would look nice on you.”
Bachira doesn’t even look up. “You’re pretty the way you are.”
“Don’t say something that embarrassing,”
“It’s not embarrassing if it’s true,” He voices, sing-songy. His insistence only worsens your frown.
Sasaki glances between you again, you think. It’s too brief for you to catch but the weight of it lingers even when she pulls her gaze.
“Please? Just a little? I’m buying it for you so it’s fine right.”
“I know you said you want to practice on me but it’s not just that, right?”
Miki smiles at you, coy. “Eh… maybe? I want to max your potential more like. You’re not seeing my exquisite vision but I will make you.”
You shake your head, and sigh - pretending to be more troubled than you are. “Fine. We’ll go after. I want to go to another store too. For stationary,”
“You’re too much of a bookworm. Boring. Nerd!” Bachira says automatically.
“The one time we agree on something,” Miki replies.
You frown at both of them. “It’s important that the world has boring people. How else would we have laws?”
“Even you thinking about laws is so boring,”
You shake your head, displeased.
Conversation flows more steadily between you, Miki and Sasaki. Bachira tunes out, draping himself all over you once he’s done eating. He fidgets with your hands, resting his head on your shoulder. You adjust so you can eat while letting him.
“Pee,” Bachira announces abruptly. He stands up, arms over his head as his shirt slides over his belly, exposing skin. “Need to pee really bad. Pee time,”
“Do you want me to come with you?” You ask.
He looks down at you and smiles widely before shaking his head. “Mm, no. I’ll be fine. I can do it by myself. I’m no longer a kid!”
You give him a raise brow in reply to say can you? that makes him stick his tongue out. You chuckle at that. “Go pee then. Don’t get lost.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
Bachira does a salute before scurrying off to find the closest bathroom. Sure that’ll occupy his time, you smile to yourself as take a spoonfuls of your melty frozen yogurt - careful not to spill any as you put in your mouth and go back to conversation.
Sorry about that. What were you saying, Sasaki-san?”
She stares at you for a long time. “Are you two… like… together?”
You blink.
“Sorry?”
“You and him,” Sasaki reiterates. Besides her, Miki snorts.
“What a good question,”
You shoot her a unimpressed look. “Ignore her. No, we’re not.”
“What?” Sasaki says. The genuine disbelief shocks you a little. You’re used to Miki teasing you but not this. “Seriously? Even though he’s like that?”
“Oh, what? Like touchy?” You reply, starting to understand. Miki interrupts you.
“Don’t bother, Sasaki. It’s a lose cause.” She shakes her head.
“Again. Ignore her,” You emphasize, shooting her a glare. “Anyway no. We’re just childhood friends and he’s always been sort of clingy like that.”
“With everyone?” Sasaki says pointedly. “Or is it just because it’s you…?”
You pause.
You’ve never… considered that. You rarely have time to feel overly conscious about what Bachira does or doesn’t do with you. In the first place, he’s not the sort of person that’s easy to predict. He’s got more quirks than you can keep track of but all of it is Bachira. It makes no sense to question his idiosyncrasies this far in. There’s nothing he could do to make you think of him differently. Bachira doesn’t have many friends outside of you to begin with.
You blink a few times, considering it. “No, I’m…sure it’s just with anyone he feels very close too,”
“But to that extent? He was letting off his—“
Miki shoots her a look and shakes her head. You catch it but find yourself unable to ask, lost in thought. Too hung up on what feels like the edge of an epiphany.
There’s a long bout of silence until you shake your head.
Even if it’s only you, it doesn’t make a huge difference.
“Bachira is only interested in alphas,” You reply, remembering. Sasaki seems surprised by that for some strange reason. “It really doesn’t mean anything,”
Before long, Bachira returns to the table. He takes as long as you predicted, but you find you’re a little relieved to see him acting the same. He drops down and places his chin on your head, waiting for you to look up at him.
“Didja miss me?”
A sweet, familiar scent. A soft, high voice. A wild look. You look up at him, reassured by your own reminder of his sexuality. You grin mischievously.
“Not at all,” You say with fake nonchalance. He gasps.
“Rude!”
Yes, it’s fine. Still the same old Bachira.
__
[ FIFTEEN ]
“Oh,” You can’t mask the surprise in your voice as your older brother sits at the dining room table. “Nii-san.”
Your oldest brother has recently started at a real office job. It’s closer to your childhood home then his apartment, so some nights if he’s too exhausted - he’ll drop in and sleep in his old room. It’s rare you come across him though, since he’s usually home and asleep as soon as it’s night time.
He must’ve come from the office. He’s still wearing his dress shirt and tie, though he has the suit jacket he wears to the office laid over the back of a dining room chair. You try to get used to him looking like that, but the version of him most strongly in your head is all the years he spent as a delinquent.
His straightened out appearance is unusual for you no matter how often you come across it now. You mostly keep in touch through socials and sparse texts, and he sometimes calls you. His hair is dyed a natural color now and he only has his piercings in on days off. The few tattoos he used to show off are now well hidden under his clothes.
But his manor and demeanor are largely the same when he’s relaxed. The way he spreads out when he sits makes him look like the average delinquent. The familiarity of it is comfortable albeit funny.
“You’re home late,”
“I had student council,”
He taps his fingers against the table, a silent gesture for you to sit.
“You’re in student council? Since when?”
You shrug, setting your bag down to join him in the kitchen. “Since school started. I was roped into it,”
“Then are you in other clubs?”
“I’m in a volunteering club. We help the elderly and read with younger classes and help out around school.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, tipping his head back. “We’re complete opposites somehow…”
You purse your lips, faintly amused as you open your fridge up. There’s more pudding then when you left in the morning, but you decide against asking as you take one and open a drawer for a spoon. “You were already skipping class and stuff by then, right? I remembered because you and kaa-san used to argue while I was doing homework.”
“You heard all of that?”
You open the plastic peel off lid and dip into the flan-like texture, nodding indifferently as you sit in the dining room chair across from him. “Uh-huh. Kinda hard not too.”
“It didn’t scare you?”
“Nah,” You tilt your head. “You glaring at me whenever you saw me did though. A little.”
His eyes go wide before sighing. “Sorry. I was a knucklehead back then.”
“It was fine. It made me a bit sad but I’m fine now. And I hope you don’t hate me any more?”
He gives you a half-hearted laugh, still feeling guilty. You’re mostly teasing. Nii-san has only grown increasingly over protective, though you still don’t know what he’s thinking. He also gives you allowance now, which is nice.
He leans back. “Nah, course not. How could I hate such a good kid?”
He reaches over to pet your head as you eat your pudding, giving you a smile you can’t really read. “Your birthday is soon right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Got any plans?”
“I’ll probably drag Meguru-kun around to the bookstore.”
He makes a face at you. “That brat,”
“Don’t call him that.” You frowb. “I don’t get why you hate him so much anyway.”
“Because he’s always hanging around you and he’s—“ He shakes his fist aimlessly, unable to find the words. They’ve had arguments with each other for as long as you can remember. “Whatever. Fine. Just. Don’t marry him,”
“He likes alphas,” You say with ease. He looks at you incredulous, before shaking his head.
“Sure. Even if that changes don’t marry him. Don’t date him either. Settle down with someone nice,”
“No offense, nii-san but that’s not really a lecture I wanna hear from you,”
“See? He’s already rubbing off on you.”
__
“Huh? The two of you already broke up?”
Bachira lays on your bed on his stomach while you sit at your desk, his legs swinging up in the air. Predictably, he’s watching videos about dribbling on his phone.
You haven’t seen him in a few days but it makes sense that he wouldn’t have heard about it. Your relationship with Inoue wasn’t very public to begin with, at least not on her end. Aside from that, you always got the impression that things would turn out this way.
You’re sure that your own pessimism and detachment is part of the reason.
You busy yourself with the derivatives taunting you on your graphing paper, making an affirmative noise. “A couple of days ago,”
“Ehhh? Wasn’t she totally clingy with you, though?”
You shrug indifferently.
Inoue-san was the only other omega in your grade who likes other omegas. There’s rumours about Suzuki-kun who’s a second year and some other third years you don’t really know. Of them, Inoue was the only one you knew personally. You sit next to each other in class and joined the same clubs coincidentally.
A conversation in the club room making flyers devolved into one about secondary sexes and sexuality. Eventually, you landed on the topic of being an omega. You commiserated about it then, shared some words of camaraderie about the social woes of being the perceived weaker sex and became a little more comfortable with each other. You aren’t sure what thread of conversation exactly led to the talk of you both mutually preferring omegas.
Inoue-san confessed too, that unlike you who couldn’t figure out what you felt towards alphas, she knew with some certainty she didn’t like them at all.
Another few weeks of friendship and the steadily closing distance between you, one thing led to another. Inoue-san confessed to you first in a sort of abrupt and out of the blue way. It was a semi-impulsive decision to date her, but you thought she was pretty and nice. A puppy crush worth something, a youthful love affair.
So after summer break, the two of you started dating.
It was a short lived relationship. A break in routine. You dated for three months and broke up just this last week. The first month of your relationship was nice. You ate lunch together and texted a lot. The second month you went on dates. The third month had been fine for a little before everything seemed to rip at the seams and fall apart.
Inoue-san was nice to be with when you were alone. In the sanctity of storage rooms or her childhood bedroom - where there were no eyes to leer at either of you, she was everything you liked about being with an omegas. Soft skin, pretty eyes, an intoxicating scent that made your brain go alight when you touched her. She was comfortable to be with during your pre-heat, easy to touch and hold and caress.
It made sense to be with her in the way you always thought it would.
Fundamental differences in your feelings about being omegas in a relationship would appear sooner rather than later though. You’re sympathetic, which is why you don’t think you’re as hurt as you should be.
“I kinda knew. In the back of my mind, I guess,” You click the end of your pencil to push out more led, scribbling out some more numbers. “She always avoided crowds. Seemed paranoid about people finding out in general. So I thought it might be something like that.”
“You don’t seem very sad,” Bachira points out. You give him an amused smile from the corner of your eye.
“What kind of best friend would want me to be sad?”
“Nooo,” He whines at you, tossing a stuffed toy at you that you reflexively duck a way from. “I was just worried about you, jeez. Plus, I didn’t really like her, you know?”
There’s no way you couldn’t have known. Bachira being hesitant towards people in your life isn’t anything new. He’s never been fond of any new friends you’ve made, always openly jealous and always asking for assurance that he’s still your number one. Sometimes he’d go as far as doing it in front of them, which you reprimanded him for.
Sometimes.
You roll your eyes. “Oh I know,”
He grins. “I was being so nice this time,” He pouts, rolling onto his back with his arms crossed over his chest. He turns his face to your bedroom wall instead of you. “You should praise me. I wasn’t even mean to her face! Not once,”
“Pfft,” You laugh behind your hands. “Yeah, good job. Still, I didn’t think Inoue-san was that bad. She didn’t do anything to me,”
“She was ashamed of you,” Bachira says. It’s weird. A strangely serious sentiment that makes your eyes go wide.
“Not of me,” You correct. “Of us, maybe. I think she was being sincere when she said she liked me but I mean. I get it. It’s not something I go around telling people either, though I’ve been out for a while,”
There’s some impulse he bites down. It’s not like you’re defending her, but Bachira takes it as such and takes it personally as he does most things. You give him a small smile as you notice, so attuned to his moods. Even his petulance doesn’t shake you. Selfishness comes as naturally to Bachira as breathing.
“I wouldn’t be ashamed to be with you in public,” He bites his tongue again and you want to ask what could be on his mind. He’s intending the words to be lighthearted, but there’s weight there. You aren’t sure how you’re meant to hold it. “If were ever to fall madly in love with each other, I would tell the entire world.”
You try not to let it mean anything. The numbers on your page blur together so much you have to start a problem over. It takes you a second to pull the shake out of your voice.
“If you like something, don’t you usually tell the whole world anyway?” You say sardonically. Bachira frowns, huffs, turns his head away. His ears are pink.
“Yeah,” He says back and leaves it there. “Usually keeping it in makes me feel like I’m gonna explode into a million little pieces. Bleh,”
He slumps back onto one side of your bed and keeps watching his game. The sound of your pencil scratching along the paper makes up for the empty space.
__
[ SIXTEEN ]
On the field, Bachira shines brighter than any star in the night-sky.
You’re the only one here for todays game. His mom usually comes to whichever one she can, but she has an important exhibition on the other side of the country today. Bachira didn’t show any disappointment about it. You’re not sure how he feels but you doubt it affected too much.
When it comes to soccer, he becomes completely single-minded.
The soccer Bachira plays is a reflection of him. Golden yellow and free, like a shade only he can color with, that touches everything and makes it shine in its path.
The Bachira you know—the Meguru you’ve known your whole life is different when it comes to soccer. Soccer is the precedence of his entire existence. For Bachira, who enjoys being completely and entirely uninhibited, there’s nothing as freeing as the square PVC frames of a net.
He splits his life in two ways. Soccer and everything else.
The field are still mildly damp today. It lingers in the air, cooling on your skin as you watch him from the stands in utter awe. Rays of light spill through gaps in the thick clouds over head, shining down on the field and making each move vibrant.
The game goes on around you bustling endlessly. Noise from all sides. Whether that be in the stands with people talking amongst themselves, the shouting of coaches, or the players talking to one another. It’s loud all around, blurry movements of team mates passing the fall back and forth make up the scene. Guarding and passing, taking each other into consideration as all team sports encourage.
The soccer that Bachira plays is different from the soccer everyone else plays on the field. Selfish, ego-centric, enigmatic - you find that you can’t take a single breath or you might miss something. It’s antithetical how team sports are played. Eye-catching and flashy as he dribbles the ball along with his feet in a movement like a dance.
He’s mesmerizing. Despite all the things happening around you all at once, your gaze is fixated completely and utterly on Bachira. So bright it outshines everything else, everyone else, without feeling apologetic. Without reason or rhyme, without strategy. A soccer that demands to be seen.
This is a game with many players, but to you - it is simply the stage in which Bachira shows off his talent in it’s rawest form. Even in a place not well suited for it, Bachira shines. You’ve never seen anything so brilliant. It’s been years since you last attended a game and seen this applied version of himself.
It’s the first time Bachira has ever felt so close while feeling so far. It’s the first time you can’t hide from him, pinned underneath the honey-viscous weight of his presence.
He dribbles the ball between his feet and kicks hard into center stage, scores a goal so beautifully unpredictable the whole crowd roars in cheers and Bachira laughs like he’s delighted.
You love Bachira. You realize this as he stands like a center piece in the field.
Like the moon loves the sun. Like the sand loves the tide. Like shadows love light. Bachira is more beautiful playing soccer than you’ve ever seen him, and it occurs to you it’s taken you sixteen years to find this out.
He’s so beautiful you can’t tear yourself away. Can’t run from the realization.
His eyes find yours in the crowds of people, elated with his brows raised. You can practically hear him where he stands, lips curled around the words. Did you see that? Did you see the goal I made?
You break the neutrality of your face and grin wide, uncharacteristic as you chant his name. “Go, Meguru!”
Bachira laughs again as the game goes on. Your shining star, your ego-centric sun. Your heart is beating loud enough to crush your ribs.
What an incredible view.
__
(Namikaze highschool wins that round of their inter-high bracket. The team goes to celebrate. They never invite Bachira.
Today, though, Bachira has you. After the game, Bachira wraps you in a hug so tight it could break you. You wonder when he got so strong. His scent, overwhelming and sweet, mixes with the scent of sweat and deodorant. You like it. You hug like that for a while, suddenly aware of your lack of proximity.
A comment Sasaki-san made about you two years ago pops back into your head but you still don’t think to let him go.
After he showers and changes back into his usual attire, you and Bachira walk to the 7/11 around the corner of his house.
You sit on the curb, legs out stretched. The sun is in full bloom, sky painted an pastel orange melting into pinks and blues. You hand Bachira his soda water from your bag, and split the melon flavored popsicle you bought in two halves.
You give him the bigger half. Unusually, it’s very quiet between you two.
“I’m going to become the best striker in the world,” He says. A repeat of a dream you’ve heard before, but said with amazing conviction. You look at him for a long time. Wet hair and brown eyes. You tuck a piece of hair behind his ear to look at him better then smile.
“I know you are,”
His grin brightens. “Right! Right, so when that happens,” His voice drops, feather soft. “When it happens, make sure you’re watching me. Don’t look away or you’ll miss it. ‘Kay? You gotta promise.”
He holds out his pinky for you. Were his hands always so calloused? Were they always so big, you wonder. You look at Bachira and suddenly he seems so much older. You nod your head.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Meguru.” )
__
[ SEVENTEEN ]
“Come over,” Bachira demands on the other side of the line. His voice is nearly a screech. You don’t think you’ve ever heard him so excited in your entire life and that is saying a whole lot. “Come over, now. Like right now! You have too, you absolutely must,”
You pull your bag up on your shoulders as you pull the phone away from your ears. “Jeez, jeez - alright. I just got back from my supplementary lessons, so give me a second.”
“Are you on the street in front of my house?”
“Huh? Yeah, I am.”
The phone line cuts off, going completely silent as you stare at your phone in a mix of confusion and disbelief. Your fingers hover over the call back icon for a second before a tremendously loud shout and even louder footsteps sound in your ears.
You’re too surprised to laugh as Bachira comes barreling towards you in minutes flat. You steel yourself preparing to catch him if he lands face-first, but he manages to pull back in record speed skidding to a halt. You blink at him rapidly. He feels like an illusion.
“You ran here,”
“Yes. I did. Because,” He grabs both of your hands and starts to tug you into some kind of spinning dance in the middle of the sidewalk. “I. Have. News!”
“News? What about?”
His eyes widen and shine brilliantly. “Bluelock!”
__
The act of disappearing requires a lot more work than you could’ve imagined.
You’re being dramatic. Bachira isn’t disappearing. Not forever, at least. He’s just going away for a while, abruptly doing the thing that he would’ve done regardless because it’s not like he can become the best striker in the world in Japan alone. It’s something that was bound to happen eventually.
And, it’s not like you didn’t get any warning. The letter came months beforehand. Bachira was set to leave towards the end of November, which meant he about a month to prepare. Which means you’ve had about a month to be with him.
It’s not a big deal. You have other friends. Other people. It’s good that Bachira is going to be in a place that he can play the soccer he’s always dreamed. Even as his best friend, there’s some things you can’t do for him. It’s the happiest you’ve ever seen him, which is saying more than you ever could.
Rationally, you know there’s nothing to worry about. Emotionally, you’ve found out that you rely on Bachira more than you thought. Even the thought of him leaving temporarily is making your heart wrench. You’ve asked him a million questions.
It’s not like you to be so anxious about anything. You ere on the side of calm. But it’s Bachira. Your Meguru, so you can’t help but worry.
Bachira, dense as he is about other people, sympathizes with your concerns without asking and doesn’t get mad when you answer. It’s easy for you to forget that he understands you in his own way.
Bachira depends on you because he cares about you and you take care of Bachira because you are about him. It fulfills a mutual sense of purpose.
This is a normal part of growing up. You’ve been repeating it to yourself constantly. It’s not like you won’t see him ever again. You’ll see him afterwards, at least for a little while. You won’t be able to call or text him while he’s in the facility but that’s not forever. And even while he’s in there, he wants to hear about your boring life. So he says, anyways.
Rationally, you know it’s fine. Emotionally, you’re growing a keen sense of awareness about this being the end of your so-called youth. It’s not you’re adults, but you’re not kids either. You’re going to be eighteen next year. You have to think about entrance exams. You have to think about life and where Bachira will go without you.
Time is passing by you whenever you hesitate. Eventually, it’ll catch up to you and Bachira will be somewhere so far out of your reach. There’s no one you can think of more perfect for center stage. No one’s soccer will every shine as brilliantly as Bachira’s.
But it’s lonely. In it’s own right. To think about how far he’ll go. He’ll dribble himself to the ends of the Earth eventually.
At least for another week though, he’s within your reach. You have so many pictures together in your room per his request over the last few years, but looking at him now you kind of wish you had more.
“Aren’t you wanting to practice?”
“Ehh?” He frowns. “I can practice later. But I can’t be in your room all the time you know. I want to burn it into my brain. I thought we should do something special to commemorate but I couldn’t figure anything out.”
You hum. A thought strikes you. It’s incredibly out of character, but maybe that’s why it does. “We could drink together.”
Bachira laughs at first, definitely assuming it was a joke. When he realizes you’re dead serious though, he gasps, scandalized. Your lips quirk up at the corners.
“Who are you? An impostor? A shadow clone?” Bachira grabs your shoulders and shakes you lightly. “What did you do with my uptight best friend?!”
You laugh helplessly. “Don’t act like that. I just know where my parents keep bottles of shochu cold in the basement and thought maybe. I’ve never touched it before. It’s the weekend right? So if we get too drunk, you can sleep here.”
Bachira dramatically places a hand over his mouth in shock. “Have you really been replaced by alien clones…I can’t believe my ears.”
You shake your head. “Do you want to drink together or not?”
“Ehhhh?? Of course I do!” Bachira says, absolutely enthused at the idea. “We should get so drunk together.”
You consider it. “My parents are visiting relatives. I guess I can text and see if nii-san is coming home.”
“Are you saying it’s okay to get drunk if he isn’t planning on coming?”
You nod. “He’d probably be easy on me but I don’t want him to lecture you,”
Bachira squishes his face to yours, rubbing his cheek on yours with unabashed affection. You try not to laugh. You can feel him so close, smell him so close it makes you a little dizzy. Bachira doesn’t let out his scent more than necessary, but he is now just barely - scent glands brushing against your skin.
He smells sweet, but in a strange way. It was comforting and familiar. A little unusual for an omega given how strong it was but it’s not like Bachira is very usual in general.
It’s a little intimate for friends, but it’s Bachira and who knows when you’d see him next. You let him do as he pleases.
“Hurry and text your brother,” Bachira huffs, then brightens back up again. “Then lets drink! Yay!”
__
You bring the bottles of shochu back up to your bedroom as a pre-caution. Nii-san is is a couple hours away for a work trip, but you can’t get over the lingering paranoia of him appearing back home and trying to fight Bachira as a result so you figure it’s probably better to drink in your room.
You bring two glasses up with you along with juice and soda water, unsure about the taste. Bachira likes soda water as is so maybe he can use it as a chaser.
You sit across from each other at the small table close to the floor in the middle of your room. It took a while to get the bottles open.
You’ve smelled it before but it’s a little weird having it available to drink.
“I can’t believe you’re drinking with me. Underage. You, of all people.”
You pour a little shochu into each of your cups with a roll of your eyes. You’ll save the mix-ins for later, but you’re interested in tasting it on its own. You’re sure your parents have other stuff too, sake, beer and wine but you don’t know where they keep it. You read the labels of the bottle before drinking it.
You brush past what Bachira has said. “Fourty-three percent seems like a lot.”
“That’s basically half right? Doesn’t that mean this is gonna make us super drunk? Ohh, think I’m gonna throw up in your room? I haven’t done that since we were ten!”
“Please don’t throw up in my room.” You say, shaking your head. “I don’t know actually. It seems like a lot. Guess we’ll just have to drink and see.”
You shrug. You pick up your glass, signaling Bachira to do the same. He lets out a loud kanpai as you do, making you laugh a little as you bring the glass up to your lips. The scent itself sort of burns, you can’t imagine what drinking it is gonna be like.
You watch aghast as Bachira knocks the entire glass back and nearly hacks up his lungs coughing. His eyes are wet when he recovers with a fit of laughter that he can’t seem to get control of.
“Ahhh, it burns! It burns so much and it tastes weird. But it was easier to drink at once.” He says dramatically laughing, nearly retching in the process.
You stare at him in disbelief before taking a sip of your own drink refusing to partake in the same foolishness. He’s right that it burns. You always heard that but feeling the acidity in your mouth is different. It feels like all the moisture from your mouth is going along with it. You try it a few more times in short sips.
Are you some sort of masochist?
“I kind of…” You blink. Your eyes water as you look up at Bachira. “I kind of like it…?”
Bachira takes the bottle into his own hands that time and pours more of it straight into your glass and less into his. You’re sitting but you feel woozy. He pours soda and juice along his own before picking it up again, smiling with a friendly cheers.
__
Hours pass.
You and Bachira drink two entire bottles and talk to each other about nothing in particular. Mostly, it’s Bachira telling you how excited he is to go to Bluelock and you listening. You like listening to him. You love his voice.
You’re not sure when exactly the distance between you had disappeared entirely. You’re used to Bachira. To his body heat, to his presence, to his weight. You know how to carry him. Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the drawn out feeling of loneliness making you feel self-conscious.
You don’t know what it is exactly. But there’s something about him at this proximity you’re having a hard time with. Wrapped up together, tangled on your bedroom floor while you both reek of liquor. He smells like burnt honey and he’s… handsome. More than he is pretty, you think. Still pretty though too.
He’s so unusual in every way. Your love for him sort of simmers underneath you in a pleasant but difficult way. You blink. Your eyes are bleary. He talks so much, but it’s the first time you really think about kissing him. The first time you wonder about how it feels.
You’re staring. Bachira pauses halfway as you’re tucked against him and stares back, mouth curled into familiar chesire grin. He drops his voice down to a whisper.
“What?” He says. He’s being teasing. He does that occasionally.
“Nothing,” You say and want to shut your eyes. “Keep talking. ‘s fine.”
“It’s not nothing,” He whines petulantly. “You’re not listeninggggg,”
“Sorry.”
He hugs you, an arm slipping under you and squeezing you. Was he always so strong? You figured his legs might be but there’s muscle in his arms too. “I’m not actually mad, dummy.”
“I was sorry, though.” A beat of silence. A heartbeat. “I’m gonna miss you.”
“Really?”
You look at him incredulous. “Of course. Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“You’re hard to read sometimes! Even for me.”
You decide not to apologize again. Bachira would complain. You desperately want to tell him you love him. They’re the only words on you mind. But even this wasted, you can’t bring yourself to do something that pointless.
“You’re the most important person in my entire life,” You opt for instead. “And I hope you find someone who can play the kind of soccer that’s fun for you.”
Another minute of silence passes before you hear the familiar huff of Bachira crying. He cries often but he hasn’t done it in front of you for quite some time. He tucks himself against your neck and shoulder, shifting to press against your scent glands.
“I was doing a good job not trying before this,” He mutters. You rub his back soothingly, smiling a bit. “Gosh…don’t be so sappy like that randomly. It’s bad for my heart!”
Your own throat feels thick but you keep it down. Manage to swallow the tears away. You want to tell him so badly it’s making it hard to breathe.
Bachira looks up after a while. You do him the courtesy of wiping his tears away with your thumb, brushing them away from his face.
You don’t realize how close your faces have gotten until you nearly brush against his nose.
You think the alcohol is making you hallucinate when you feel a kiss.
Your eyes are still open for it. It’s not clumsy but it’s not smooth either. You blink. And you feel it again, and it lingers a little longer until you close your eyes and kiss back.
You kiss him so hard it feels like you forget how to breathe.
__
You don’t talk about it.
When Bachira wakes up the next day thoroughly hung-over and much in the same condition, treating you exactly the same - you assume he’s forgotten about it unlike you. You try not to let it weigh on you by writing it off as one of Bachira’s many quirks. Maybe you’ve gotten practice at repressing your emotions better than you thought since it works perfectly.
The week passes by easily. At the end of it, you see Bachira off along with his mom and the rest of your family who insisted on waving him off. The thought of not knowing the next time you’ll see him is painful but you manage it with the feeling you’ll see him eventually.
Though you don’t know how long it’ll be.
__
The next time you see Bachira’s face is on T.V.
It’s the first time you’ve ever sat in your living room to watch a game of soccer. You had wanted to attend, but tickets had only been alloted for family. You settled on watching at home, though Bachira’s mom had promised she would relay any messages she could from Bachira to you through text and otherwise.
You’ve never been into soccer. Despite your many years spent along side it for one reason or another, the sport itself has rarely ever been of any interest. You’re sure this is partly to blame on the fact you are hilariously unathletic albeit perfectly healthy.
When the U-2o match gets announced and you hear Bluelock will be playing, your ears perk up like a dog. You’re glad Bachira isn’t around to see how you announce to your entire house and tell them the T.V. and living room will be totally occupied during the duration of the match. You invite Miki-chan who pretends to want to refuse but comes over to watch anyway. Your nii-san joins you, which isn’t a surprise since he liked soccer to begin with.
You know whats happening well enough since you’ve had it explained to you hundreds of times.
You see several people on the screen during the match. Bachira’s team mates. Team mates he gets along with. There’s another player named Isagi on the field and him and Bachira have such tangible chemistry you feel a little jealous watching them.
In the short few months Bachira has been away at Bluelock, you can see how he’s changed. How much his soccer has transformed and improved in so little time.
Most of all, you can tell that Bachira is having the best time of his entire life. You can deal with the mild envy if only he gets to be that happy forever.
The U-20 games end in a victory for the Bluelock team and several interesting characters appearing. That guy, Isagi, announces to the world that he’s going to be the one to lead the team to victory. You think to yourself that you understand exactly why Bachira likes him.
The next time you see Bachira in person is not long after that. Apparently as a reward for their win, they’d been granted two weeks of free time.
It was only a few months, but it’s easy to tell how much Bachira has changed. It was all over him. He carried himself with more confidence, more electricity, more buzz.
He was still himself while being completely unrecognizable at the same time.
You were happy Bachira was happy, elated to hear all about his life and new friends. You couldn’t keep track of all of it, but you’ve been spending the last few days attached at the hip now that he was back in your hometown.
He’d had another day to visit friends already out in Shibuya that you couldn’t attend. Not that you really wanted too. You were happy he extended the invite but being around that many athletes and no doubt many alphas sounded like a nightmare.
You figured he would have another day or two like that as is, so when he texts you again that he’ll be meeting with some Bluelock friends, you’re content to let him go and not tag along despite yourself. As much some whiny part of you wanted to monopolize him completely (an omega part of you, you can admit) you feel it’s more important for Bachira to nurture his newer relationships on his own.
And again, being around that many alpha athlete teenage boys is mildly nightmarish to you in particular.
So you invited Sasaki to the mall to talk about this and that to keep your time occupied. She’d started dating some guy at school and you have yet to know the details.
You weren’t expecting to run into Bachira with his friends at the same mall.
You catch Bachira’s eye from across the way in the middle of the mall, along with a group of boys you know to be his new team mates. You honestly think it’d be better to avoid them for now. Not that you’re not happy to see Bachira, but there’s no way this won’t be incredibly awkward for you.
Sasaki nudges you though, not caring in the slightest at your visible distress. “Isn’t that Bachira-kun?”
“Yes,” You hiss, trying not to be obvious. “Let’s go the other way.”
“Huh? Why?”
“Because—“
You turn around to leave but don’t really get a chance as you hear a voice shout your name.
You flinch as you turn around. Sasaki gives you an amused look that you elbow her for immediately, feeling yourself jolt. After she makes fun of you, she holds your hand with an affirming squeeze and comforts you in a way only betas can - a soft citrus scent washing over you. You squeeze her hand back sighing, thankful as the group of boys stalk over to you.
Bachira runs more than he walks, skidding to a halt in front of you. “Ehhh? What are you doing here?”
“Came to gossip and walk around with Sasaki-chan,” You say with a shrug, pointedly ignoring the three pairs of eyes on you as you talk. “And buy books.”
“I thought you said you couldn’t come,” Bachira pouts at you, giving you a pointed look. You smile lightly.
“I didn’t say that,” You reply softly. “I didn’t want to intrude, that’s all.”
“You’re not intruding! Even if you were, I wouldn’t really care.”
“But you should,” You insist, shaking your head. You turn to his friends, getting a better look at them. Two alphas and one beta if your nose is right. You look at them apologetically. “Sorry about interrupting your outing.”
The one of them with pink hair and the prettiest features you’ve ever seen talks first. You’re sure people mistake him for an omega, but his scent is too alpha like for that to be the case. It’s strong enough and distinct enough for you to identify from this distance. “Not at all. I’m Chigiri. This is Nagi,” He says, introducing the other alpha next to him. “And I figure you already know of Isagi,”
You smile a little at that. “Ah, yeah. I do, actually.” You glance at Isagi. He’s a beta in the way he feels like the pinnacle of peace and safety off the field. It’s a little funny how different he seems. They all seem, really.
“Stop getting so buddy-buddy with them,” Bachira bemoans. You frown at him.
“Sorry about him,” You introduce your name first, then Sasaki. “We’re all childhood friends. It’s nice to meet all of you. Sorry to disturb your day off.”
“You’re not disturbing us,” Isagi says serenely. You think he seems a touch smug but can’t tell if you’re imagining it.
“You’re welcome to hang out,” Chigiri says next. He and Isagi share an unreadable but obviously conspiratorial look. Your eyes widen at the offer, shaking your head with your hands up.
“Ah. No, we don’t want to intrude seriously.”
“Why are you deciding for me?” Sasaki cuts in, making you shoot her a very sharp glare. “Shouldn’t you at least ask?”
“You’re not intruding,” Chigiri assures, an incredibly disarming smile on his face. “We’d be bound to see each other again if we’re both here anyways. May as well, right?”
You feel yourself sink, glancing at a very Bachira and thinking of the complaints you’re going to receive as soon as the two of you are alone. Your shoulders slump as you reluctantly smile, lips pressed into a flat line.
‘That’s true. If you’re sure you don’t mind, then alright.
__
For alphas, you think Bachira’s friends are pretty nice.
Nagi barely speaks, but he’s weirdly been engaged in conversation for the entire duration of you knowing him. He’s got the imposing looks and vibe of an alpha but precisely none of the aggression - at least from where you’re standing. He’s been considerate of you in his own way, especially after Bachira had announced the general discomfort you had felt towards alphas over all.
Chigiri is similarly nice. You can tell he grew up around omegas and are not surprised at all when he informs you he has omega sisters in his house. He’s extremely friendly for an alpha, and you’re sure another omega would be foaming at the mouth at how polite he is.
Of his friends though, you still take preference to Isagi. He is a beta through and through. Adaptable, friendly, easy going while having a sort of snark you find incredibly entertaining. Him and Bachira get along like a house on fire, but not in way that’s entire negative. You do feel a little envious seeing how close they’ve gotten in such a short period of time, but you’re mostly happy for him. Their bond is obviously special.
The rest of your group left a few moments ago, leaving you and Isagi to a much bedgrudging Bachira. You’d gotten food from the food court but it wouldn’t require so many people to go wait so you and Isagi have been securing a spot. You aren’t sure how to be alone with him, never been all that good with strangers.
Isagi is good at making conversation though, so you haven’t had to do much leg work.
You end up at the topic of Bluelock and Isagi practically beams at the chance to talk about it. It’s kind of cute in it’s own right. You know some stuff about it, but the logistics have been lost on you. Bachira tends to talk about these things more with onomatopoeias than with words.
You fiddle with something on the end of your bag as you engage in conversation.
“How does the facility manage like… having omegas and stuff in there?” You wonder. You voiced the concern to Bachira before leaving too but he had assured you it’d be fine. You kind of feel nosy asking.
Isagi shoots you a confused look. “Hm? Bluelock doesn’t have any omegas. It sucks but they considered it too high risk so only betas and alphas were admitted.”
Your turn to look confused. “Sorry? But Bachira is enrolled in it no…?”
Isagi stares at you. “Uh,” He scratches the back of his neck. “Bachira is an alpha, though? Like, a pretty strong one too. It’s hard to tell from his scent from what I hear but he’s prescribed the really high dose medications that the other alphas take. Part of the rut management and everything.”
You blink.
“…That’s…” And then you look up, completely unsure of what to say. “..Are you sure? Like… really sure?”
Isagi looks at you sympathetically. His voice is soft and comforting. “Yeah. I’m sure. Sorry,”
You shake your head. “No it’s,” You feel your eyes start to well up, chest feeling especially tight. “It’s okay. It’s not like you did anything wrong.”
“You’re a nice girl, huh?” Isagi says, voice tender and easily sensing your sudden distress. It makes your lip wobble. You want to cry into a strangers arms even though you absolutely can’t. “I’ll scold him for you.”
You give him a thankful look. “I’m gonna uh,” You swallow. “Go to the bathroom. When Sasaki comes back tell her to text me. And Bachira, uhm. I guess just tell him I went home.”
Isagi smiles. “Sure.”
You thank him again picking up your few things hastily and bolting in the opposite direction.
You don’t really know what you’re supposed to do or how you’re so suppose to receive the information. It’s not a sense of betrayal you feel welling up inside of you, but something closer to a sudden deep remorse and regret. And so much shock you can barely make sense of anything. You feel the sorry in your bones, and you feel the paved memories of your entire lifetime begging to shake under your feet.
Bachira is still Bachira.
But he’s an alpha. An alpha who likes other alphas, in the same way you’re an omega who likes other omegas. He’s like you. You shared this your entire life, but you never knew not once. You didn’t even have any idea.
What kind of friend does that make you? What kind of friend have you been to him all this time? Was it bad enough that he couldn’t share it? When you’ve depended on him so much?
You don’t know how you end up in a bathroom. It’s in such a far away part of the mall. You feel out of body, moving on autopilot as you shuffle into the empty stall and sit on the toliet with your bag and your things.
You’re reminded of your first heat on the train back from middle school. An old memory but not old enough you easily forget. Hesitance turned to frustration and disgust towards alphas. You’d avoided after that for years and still do now. Was it then?
Despondent, you aren’t sure what to do with yourself. The echo of stalls, the noise of people loudly outside, the forceful beat of your heart. A reminder that you’re really living through this realization so late. It’s weird. It hurts so much you can barely think through your thoughts and come upon any answers on how to go on.
It’s not hard to understand why. Bachira is selfish but he’s also loyal. You’re sure that sometime ago, to protect the vulnerable version of you who was already so distrusting of alphas, Bachira had kept it from you as to break your perception any further. You can’t blame him for that, especially when that distrust towards alphas yet to dissolve completely. Of course he wouldn’t be comfortable telling you.
You can’t bring yourself to hate him over it and never would. You’d spend the rest of your life trying to unglue the fused parts of yourself with him, the memories and you’d never see the end of it if you attempted.
What hurts you is that he never told you. Not ever. Not even when you voiced your worries about his heats in Bluelock. Not even as you drank together. Not even when he kissed you.
Was he never going to tell you?
Did he never trust you enough to tell you?
That hurts most. You only have yourself to blame. The thought makes your heart wrench. Your eyes water as you focus in on the ground and try to breathe.
The door of the bathroom itself opens and shuts all of a sudden, familiar footfall making hundreds of alarm bells go off at once. You already know it’s Bachira, but for the first time you don’t know what you’re meant to say to him. The feeling is so complex you can barely put it in words for yourself. How were you meant to face him?
“Meguru,”
You can hear him whimper on the other side of the stall door, fists hitting it in a dull thud.
“I’m sorry,” He’s crying. You want to open the door and comfort him so badly but shame stops you. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry - it’s all my fault. Don’t hate me, please don’t hate me.”
You hate hearing him cry. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to keep your voice steady. “I don’t hate you at all.”
“You’re lying. You won’t even open the door to look at me.”
“I just can’t,” You say, not really know how else to explain it. “But nothing could make me hate you.”
“But you hate alphas, don’t you? You’re uncomfortable with me now. We can’t be close anymore, right?”
You don’t say anything to that. You want to deny it. You want to tell him nothing could make you want to stop being his friend.
But then, you remember that Bachira is destined for unimaginable greatness. Bright like the sun and even more interesting, more talented, more cool than you could ever be. He’s an alpha to boot. You think of the future of your life and how you’ve always pictured it to be quiet and functional, because that’s who you’ve always been. Bachira is—was a star crash landing in your life, anyhow. You think of all of that, along with everything else - and all the ways you’ve betrayed him unintentionally.
You’ve used up all of your luck. Inevitably. Eventually, it was always going to end with a gradually forming distance. You knew that before he left just like you know it now. And nows as good a time as any to put it to rest.
“Meguru,” He’s your first friend. You’re sure that’s why he’s so shaken up. Distance would be better. “You have to focus on becoming the best in the world, right? I’ll uh,” You try to breathe. “I’ll be watching from a distance no matter what,”
“Please don’t leave me,” He whimpers. You wince.
“It’s not like that. There’s a lot of people who are beside you now.” You say warily, trying to comfort him. If you were a more selfish person, you would want to be friends. You love Bachira. You’ve loved him your entire life. You probably always will. But you think if he’s had to keep this secret from you so long - you don’t deserve any of that. “It’s fine. You’ll be fine,”
Without me. You’ll be fine without me. You want to tell him that, but can’t bring yourself to say it.
You won’t be, you don’t think. Not for a while. But this is the least you can do for your relationship. For your best friend who you haven’t paid enough attention too.
“I’ll stay with you until you stop crying,” You offer. “And when your eyes aren’t red, we can both just go home. Okay?”
Bachira sniffles on the other side of the door and doesn’t reply.
__
[ EIGHTEEN ]
On your eighteenth birthday, Bachira’s mom calls you at midnight.
Yu-san is like a third parent to you, so you pick regardless for the reason she calls. She sounds relieved when you answer despite the sleep in your voice. You’re up late studying for your driving license exam which you’ll finally be eligible to take starting now.
“Ah. Hello?”
“Hey, kid. Thanks for picking my call,” She sounds like she’s doing something. It’s a Sunday so she’s probably painting. “Don’t sound too confused. I just called to wish you happy birthday. Meguru always called you at midnight, didn’t he?”
You look down at the papers on your desk, twirling pen in fingers. “Yeah, he did.”
“You two still aren’t talking, right? But knowing Meguru, he’ll feel sad later on when he realizes he didn’t wish you because he was upset,” She hums, nonplussed. You smile a little. Yu-san is just like that, you think. Even after being aware of you and Bachira’s fights, the way she’s treated you hasn’t changed. “So I thought I’d do in his place.”
“It’s alright, Yu-san. But thank you,”
“Of course,” She says. You hear the faucet running and the familiar clicking of paint brushes on the other side of the line. “Come over when you have some time. I brought ingredients for your favorite. We can go pick up a cake together, too. I bet you’re too busy studying and forgot to make plans, right?”
You flush. “…I did.”
She laughs good-naturedly. “Right? I thought so. I know it’s just you in the house, but feel free to invite Sasaki and Miki-chan, alright? And don’t stay up too late studying.”
You feel tears well up in the corners of your eyes. “Thank you for always taking care of me, Yu-obasan,”
ੈ✩ tags: fem reader (gets called a girl and wears lingerie), established relationship, fingering, unprotected sex, teasing, mentions of masturbation, megumi is bad at feelings
ੈ✩ wc: 2.5k (what the fuck)
ੈ✩ a/n: its me n megumi n the dog metaphor against the world sorry. yes like the mitski song. could be considered a part 2 of this
Your heart beats faster as you fix the blanket atop the couch. Your mind is calm, but your body isn’t, as if anticipating his return.
Megumi is coming home today.
It’s been less than a week – maybe four days. You weren’t counting. You insist. But he said that it would only be two days.
You feel tense upon his return since things had gone sour the last time you spoke. You were being clingy again, overbearing. Sometimes you wanted to stitch yourself to him and he couldn’t take it.
Your blood stills when you hear the knob to the door of his apartment jiggling. You stayed there often instead of your dorm – he gave you a key.
He’d let you move in if it was an easier process. The apartment was in Gojo’s name, but it’s mostly Megumi’s. He wasn’t going to get your name on the lease to the apartment Gojo paid for. He wouldn’t, not now, at least. Megumi felt crazy for even thinking about it when you’ve only been official for six months.
He unlocks the door and steps inside, a thinly veiled cloud of irritation surrounding him from having to deal with Gojo post-mission. His eyes land on you on the couch, wearing a new lingerie set.
You think you see his eyes widen in surprise for a fraction of a second. He schools it back to a facade of stoicism as quickly as his expression of desire leaves.
“Hey,” you say softly.
“Hey,” he mutters.
You ask him about his mission and he tells you. It’s like pulling teeth to get him to talk about anything so openly that you get to see his feelings, so you take in every expression he makes like it’s something intimate. Maybe for him, it is.
He’s short with his responses. Eyes looking everywhere but you.
“You okay?” you prod.
“Yeah… just, uh–” he exhales and glances at you before looking away. “Distracted.”
“Distracted?” you snort. “Does that mean my efforts of seducing you are paying off?”
His brows raise slightly at your boldness, a faint blush dusting over his cheeks. “Perhaps.”
“C’mon,” you pout. “Is that all you have to say?”
He exhales and properly looks at you this time. You’re wearing a mix of satin and lace – all a sage green, just a touch lighter than the color of his eyes right now. He’d blame it on the dim lighting, but his black pupils are swallowing up his irises, his eyes looking dark forest green from afar.
A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of Megumi's lips. "Alright," he says, feigning a tone of aloofness. "I suppose you look... tolerable."
You scoff. “Tolerable?”
“Yes, tolerable,” he chuckles. “Some might even say pretty.”
“Does that include you?” you mumble.
“Yes. Of course, it does.”
He says it kindly. Like throwing a dog a bone.
It’s funny how much you’re trying. You’re almost as quiet as him, though more eager to come out of your shell around your friends. He liked that you thought this would be a grand gesture instead of telling him you missed him. He’ll tease it out of you anyway. You think you’re doing the same to him.
In bed, you’re often wet-eyed, pouty. Pliable. You don’t know how to ask for what you want, thinking that Megumi must not want you as much as you want him. It’s cute. He can always tell when you’re horny by the way your hands fidget around him. How your stares linger with suppressed longing.
Megumi knows because he’s just like you. He’s just more attuned. He won’t tell you, not directly, but he also likes to tease you a little.
It shouldn’t get him hard, the way you want him so desperately yet try so hard to contain it. You think it would disgust him, but in reality, he wants you even more. It’s beyond disgust or dignity at this point.
He supposes it’s the sense of control he craves. You tease him often for being a control freak and for being so serious during missions. He can’t help it — his technique forces him to be a leader, herding around his shikigami. His Divine dogs adore him.
He notices that, like them, you are eager to please.
You look at him sheepishly, embarrassed of the elaborate display of your body. You don’t feel like you’ve won anything even though he called you pretty. Technically.
Megumi’s eyes soften when he realizes how easily you’re giving up.
“Um,” you mumble, reaching for one of his hoodies draped over the chair. “Are you hungry? I thought we could do takeout and watch movies–”
“What’re you doing?” He interrupts you, glancing at the hoodie you’re starting to put on.
You blush and his cock twitches in his slacks.
“Nothing… just–”
“Come here,” he commands, his voice rough. You make a small noise of surprise as you fall into his lap, the oversized hoodie drowning your frame.
He notices you smell strongly of roses – one of the perfumes you break out for special occasions. He also notices the slight gloss of your lips.
“You smell nice.”
You blink at him, embarrassed. He looks at you in adoration and amusement.
Before you can get out a thank you, he leans in and inhales, nose nudging at your collarbone. He wants to bite you above it, but you’ve put on his damn sweatshirt.
You shiver when his hands reach underneath to splay over your abdomen, right over the lace.
“Why’d you cover up?” he chides lightly.
“It’s… cold,” you mumble. He knows you’re lying.
“I’ll warm you up, then.”
You gasp lightly when he nearly tears the hoodie off you, your nipples pebbling to the cool air. His hands graze your ribs to your hips. His eyes flicker with something predatory when he notices the wet stain on the delicate fabric of your underwear.
“Don’t hide from me.”
“I– I wasn’t,” you huff. “I just thought you weren’t… y’know. In the mood or something.”
He laughs.
“You’re cute. Thinking I don’t want you.”
You glare at him. He thinks you resemble an angry kitten.
“Well, you didn’t react to me when you walked in, so…”
“You don’t have to dress up for me. I do like this, though.” He rubs his hands over your breasts and you reflexively preen into his touch. You look away, assuming he’s just saying this to appease you.
He’s telling the truth, though. Megumi is so good at controlling his expressions that you hadn’t even noticed the hitch of his breath when he walked into the room. It was bad enough to be around you, finding you desirable during mundane moments, like when your bedhead emerges in the morning as he makes coffee. The determined look on your face during a mission when you hone in on your cursed energy.
Hell, he’s gotten hard just watching you read a book. Seeing you like this was something else entirely.
He sighs as he cradles you in his lap, mouth nipping at your collarbone as if to admonish you. You’re so warm, everywhere, and he’s about to snap from the way his cock strains against the confines of his pants.
“Did you miss me?” you whisper.
He pauses, lashes fluttering against your neck. He isn’t the kind of person who says he misses you. He rarely holds your hand. Ignores your use of corny emojis. But then, he pulls away slightly to look at you wholly, and his green eyes are blown out with desire.
“Having no service the whole time was a bitch,” he mutters.
You hum. “So you didn’t get any of the funny videos I sent?” you pout.
He rolls his eyes and shuts you up with a kiss. He’s always careful at first when he kisses you like you’re breakable in his hands, but this time, it’s like lighting a match. He pins you against the couch like he’s starved. Days without seeing your face and hearing your voice made him feel insane.
He groans as you cling to him. He loves how you’re as desperate as he is. Trying to mold your bodies together. He’s impatient to unclasp your bra and fiddle with your garter and underwear. He likes you in the set, but he likes the simplicity of skin-to-skin contact much more.
Megumi splits you open easily on his fingers. He didn’t know what it was like to be so passionate about pleasing another person until he met you, and since your first time, he’s addicted to every reaction you make. He has it all memorized, every spot that makes you moan out. He supposes it’s overly clinical to think about sex that way, but control has been his strong suit for far too long, and you seem to like it far too much.
You whine as your hips buck up, the curl of his fingers already hitting the spot inside your cunt that makes you dizzy.
Once you cum, you’re frantic in helping him undress. You blink at the small bruises that align his abs, frowning slightly, but he knows to shut you up with his tongue in your mouth and his cock rubbing against your slit. He grins when you moan.
“Want me inside you, huh?” he whispers in your ear, his tone almost threatening. “This all you could think about while I was gone?”
“Y-Yes—”
“Yeah? My baby can’t help but cling to me like a little pet.”
You whimper his name, humiliated. He rubs your clit gently and you gasp. After nuzzling your neck, he pulls back and hovers to admire how wrecked you are. He smiles and your cunt pulsates with want. He always looks a little mean when he wants you.
“Can I tell you a secret?” he rasps.
You nod.
“I kinda like it when you’re clingy. I like knowing it’s me you want and nobody else.”
Your eyes flutter, pressure building in your stomach from the warmth seizing your body. You’re so close just from him playing with your clit. When he retracts his fingers, you whine.
Usually, he scolds you or teases you, but he fucks into you instead, without warning. Groans when he bottoms out, knowing how well you fit together. He’s carved you in his image – you’re perfect around him.
He doesn’t talk much during sex, not usually, but he wants to indulge you. Reward you with what makes your face hot, what gets you wet at night.
“Good girl,” he mutters. “Good fucking girl—”
You moan so loud he has half the mind to cover your mouth. His stomach flips. He hooks a thumb into your mouth and watches your eyes water in delight. It makes him ache all over with tenderness.
He ruts into you quicker, hips slapping against yours as he uses his other hand to lift your leg. You feel your head spin with how deep he’s getting, feeling him up to your rapidly beating rabbit heart. Lungs tightening with pressure.
“Oh, god—” you moan, your voice pitched.
He grunts, your pussy swallowing his cock in a bed of warmth. You feel impossibly tight. Tethering him to you. He doesn’t usually get this rough unless he’s stressed. He wants to be gentle.
But fuck, he hated that mission. He hated being in the middle of nowhere, with no service, with only Gojo of all people to keep him company. With only thoughts of you to warm him at night when he had his hand wrapped around his cock.
“Missed this, huh?
“Y-Yeah– missed you–”
He chuckles darkly. It wasn’t what he asked, but it’s easy to make you a desperate girl.
“Megumi,” you whine. “Missed you. Missed you so much.”
“I know, baby.”
“Tell me you missed me,” you mumble.
“You know I did.” His tone is mildly dismissive but the softness in his voice makes you keen regardless. He soothes you with a tongue to your jaw, thumbs hooked on your hips like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
“You touch yourself while I was gone?’ he mutters, slowing his thrusts as he peers at you with dark, vulturine eyes.
You blink rapidly, unsure of what the right answer is. He slides out until his tip is brushing the inside of you, then slams himself to the brim of your cunt. He grins when you mewl.
“Yes – fuck–
“Language,” he scolds, smiling. He holds your chin in his hand. “So honest. I thought about you too.”
He feels you flutter around him and groans.
“Can you show me?” he grunts.
“Hm?” You’re barely conscious of yourself when you’re full of him, face cradled by him – his angel on Earth. It’s times like this when he feels justified to tease you and call you his pet. Despite never admitting it, he belongs to you more than you belong to him.
“Touch yourself. I wanna see.”
You bring a shaky hand in between your bodies to circle your clit, legs trembling at the extra stimulation. Megumi can feel his gut searing at how your face contorts in pleasure, gasps hiccuping out of your mouth like bubbles when he presses his knuckles down gently on your stomach.
He’s more than willing to sink deeper and deeper into you. Your warmth and wetness and softness help him obscure all the jagged parts of himself. He can forget.
“Feels so fucking good,” he groans. “So good, baby.”
You moan and babble incoherently as you take him, fucked out of your mind.
You’re fucking close. He’s coaxed both of your legs up and onto his shoulders. You can feel him dig into the most sensitive parts of you. You feel drunk on the feeling of his cock.
It seems that your pulses are synced because he smiles at you knowingly. He knows all your expressions, the slight constriction of your cunt around him when you’re on the edge.
He leans in close to whisper in your ear. “Gonna cum, angel?”
“M-mhm… can you– hah–”
“Yeah?” he breathes.
“Faster,” you hum. “Just like – oh, fuck –”
His hips buck and you pulse around him, letting out a choked gasp as you come. Fuck, he should pull out. Going raw was only a recent development, mostly because you’re very persuasive, but he usually likes to pull out and spill onto your stomach. Your tits if he’s feeling more pent-up.
He can’t find it in himself to not come inside you right now, though. You feel too good and he doesn’t want to ruin the buildup of what will be the most relief he’ll have in days of not touching you.
Your face is begging him, taunting him. His eyes flutter as he finally lets himself go, grunting as he spills inside you. He doesn’t realize until after he pulls out how tight his grip on you is. He falls back on his knees, watching your heavy-lidded eyes examine his glistening cock.
