Check out the rest of my Horny thoughts list here.
5. “yeah? right there?” in a mocking voice with Rafayel.
Somewhere outside of Rafayel's room waves rolled against the rocks, the sound drifting in through the open window. He brushed a damp strand of hair away from his face, his skin warm from the heat. One hand remained tangled with yours against the sheets, and you could feel his steady pulse knocking hard against your palm.
He wasn't breathing through his nose anymore. Every intake of air was a short, dry rasp against the column of your neck. He didn't bite to leave a mark, he bit because his jaw was locked too tight to do anything else, his teeth catching the skin above your collarbone until you felt the sharp, stinging pressure of his incisors.
Nothing about the way he moved felt graceful now. The mattress creaked beneath his weight, the headboard knocking softly against the wall. He adjusted his position, one knee sliding between your legs to force them further apart.
Then his hips shifted.
The tip of his cock pushed against a rigid knot of nerves deep inside.
Your breath caught instantly. Your spine straightened, lower back lifting off the mattress, every muscle tensing around him in an involuntary clench.
Rafayel froze.
His rhythm broke. He didn't move for three full seconds, his chest rising and falling hard against your breasts. His eyes, usually half lidded and distant, dilated until the dark almost swallowed the color. He looked down at you, your mouth still hanging open from the shock of it.
The corners of his mouth twitched up, sharp and dry. The tension in his shoulders didn't leave, but that familiar, mocking lift returned to his brow.
He drew back slowly—just enough for the friction to tease the very edge of that spot—and then nudged it again with a hard thrust.
Your entire body reacted before you could think, trying to force him deeper.
"Yeah?" The rough amusement in his voice was unmistakable, the vibrations rattling through your jawbone. It wasn't soft, it was the smug tone he used when he caught you cheating at a card game. "Right there?"
"Don't—" You swallowed "Raf, move."
"Move where?" He stayed exactly where he was, shallowly grinding his hip bone against yours, the heat of him burning through the point of contact "Here?"
"You're doing it on purpose," your hand left his to dig into the slick skin of his shoulder, trying to pull him down.
"I'm not doing anything." He let out a breathy huff that was almost a laugh and pressed his forehead against yours, his nose brushing yours, his breath hot and smelling faintly of the wine from dinner. "Tell me what you want, cutie."
You didn't answer. You arched your back again, a clumsy shove of your pelvis against his.
The playfulness vanished from his jawline, his teeth clicking together. "Fine."
He braced both forearms on either side of your head, his chest crushing down onto yours again as he drove forward. He didn't pull back out this time, he kept the pressure heavy, his hips rotating in small circles that caught that exact ridge of flesh with every single turn.
The sound of your breath turning into whines filled the space between your faces. Rafayel watched your eyes roll back, your focus splitting as the coil in your stomach tightened to a knot. His mouth came down on yours hard, his tongue forcing its way past your teeth to catch your moans, swallowing them down while the tip of his cock kept hitting the same spot over and over again until you were struggling to keep hold of a coherent thought and your walls began to shiver and give way.
thinking about bf!caleb who let's you sit on his lap as he studies for his DAA exams.
bf!caleb who pats your hair and rubs your back as you yap quietly about your tough day. who knows just how to cheer you up: with cuddles in bed.
your sweet bf!caleb who is sweaty from practice flights, but showers at your pleas request. who returns in a pair of grey sweatpants (asshole) and dodges your teasing as he settles in behind your back.
bf!caleb who reefs the blankets up and over you two. who keeps you warmer than any heater. whose calloused palms press against your tummy while he reminds you to take deep belly breaths to calm down.
when you ask him to talk, to distract you from the sombreness settling in your bones, bf!caleb obeys without hesitation. for the next hour, he rambles on about calculating 3d vectors and the latest model aeroplane he's itching to get his hands on.
all the while, bf!caleb's thumb swipes back and forth over your hip bone soothingly. his dying chatter is replaced by tender kisses, first on your temple but then trailing down to your neck.
bf!caleb murmurs so softly, "this okay, pipsqueak?" you nod, content to let his hands and lips roam your pliant body.
somehow, bf!caleb ends up between your thighs. a complete accident, he swears! but a welcome one as his tongue plunges you into an ocean's depths of pleasure.
like a riptide, you're caught beneath the surface, bf!caleb's nimble fingers rolling over your clit and tongue tasting your walls to keep you submersed in a sea of ecstasy.
like gravity weighing down you, you're powerless against bf!caleb's forearm pushing your hips into the bed. you're overjoyed forced to lie there and take every mind-shattering, breath-taking lap of his tongue and movement of his fingers.
bf!caleb who can't doesn't stop until you're crying out, near hysterical from how many orgasms he's dragged out of you.
bf!caleb who cleans you up and holds you tightly to his chest as you return from the far reaches of the galaxy. and who kisses your forehead and praises you lovingly while sleep swallows you whole.
9,661 words * ˛ ✦ ･ The doll lies there still, eyes open, her soft hair arranged across the surface. Caleb reaches for her. He lifts her with one hand, the other already working at the fastenings of his trousers, and he places the doll on the carpet before them, sitting in a way that faces them, her painted gaze fixed upon the scene with the unblinking, eternal patience of an audience. He positions her carefully, ensures her eyes align with the joining of their bodies. “There,” he says, and his voice is thick, distorted, the voice of something that has worn human speech for too long and is beginning to let the seams show. “Our newest daughter must watch. She must see how Papa loves her Mama. She must learn what wanting truly means.”
WARNINGS: third person pov (fem!reader), alternate universe – historical fantasy with some vague horror-like themes, significant age gap, size difference, heavy dubious consent, caleb is not human, dollmaker!caleb, duke's daughter!reader, non-consensual voyeurism (dolls as cameras or what passes for it in this setting), obsession, dolls as daughters to caleb and reader, praise, petnames, making out, stalking, cunnilingus, nipple play, overstimulation, creampie.
The afternoon light does not enter Caleb workshop so much as it is permitted to gaze inside. The skylight overhead, a rectangle of clouded glass set into the sloping roof, filters the sun into a thin, grey-gold glow that barely illuminates the wall. He does not necessarily require light to see; he requires it only to maintain the fiction that he operates within the same physical constraints as his patrons, his apprentices, and the men who watch him from the street below.
Well, there are two of them today.
One stands beside the bakery on the corner, holding a newspaper that he has not turned in almost an hour. The other is a woman, dressed as a nun, her bowl extended to passersby for alms but her eyes fixed on the upper window where his silhouette moves. He knows their schedules. He knows the exact moment the bakery’s clock chimes at half past two, when the false nun shifts her weight from her left foot to her right, signalling to an unseen third agent stationed in the tenement across the lane.
They believe themselves subtle. They believe the Dollmaker of Skyhaven is absorbed in his craft, too artistic to notice the mundanity of church surveillance.
Caleb dips his brush into a dish of turpentine and cleans the bristles with slow, circular strokes. He is not artistic, he is merely precise. He notes the nun’s presence not with alarm but with the same observation he applies to the humidity in his kiln, the viscosity of his glazes, the exact number of dust motes suspended in the light beam.
Three years ago, the Church sent a single inquisitor; and now they send teams, the escalation almost flatters him.
And then there is the matter of the Emperor.
The Emperor does not send street-level agents. The Emperor sends questions through intermediaries, veiled inquiries slipped into the ledgers of the Imperial Arts Council.
How many dolls does the Dollmaker produce annually? What becomes of the offcuts, the failed pieces? Does he keep apprentices? If so, how many? Has he fathered children? The questions arrive on heavy stationery, sealed in wax the colour of blood, and he answers them with the dishonesty of a man who knows his interrogator cannot afford the truth.
As much is necessary. Failures are discarded, broken to pieces and burned to ashes. No one has yet to be deemed worthy in the Dollmaker's eye. There are no children, not even one.
The Emperor knows, in the way that men who hold absolute power always know, that there is something in Skyhaven that does not kneel correctly.
But the Emperor also knows that Philos Empire is held together by threads finer than Caleb's brushes; the Northern provinces rattle their sabres, the Eastern colonies demand autonomy, and the treasury requires the soft power of culture to mask the hard poverty of its coffers.
Skyhaven is the heart of that soft power, and Caleb is the axis upon which the entire mechanism turns.
Remove him, question him openly, imprison him on charges of whatever theological deviation the Church invents next week, and the merchants cease their pilgrimages; the aristocratic patronage evaporates; the empire’s claim to cultural supremacy develops a crack that spreads, that widens, that swallows whole ministries.
So the Emperor watches, and doubts, and does nothing.
And the Church watches, and prays, and does nothing.
They are all, in their way, his dolls in the first place—incapable of doing anything without his explicit permission.
Caleb sets the brush aside and lifts the half-finished head from his workbench. It is for a patron from outside the capital—a mining magnate from the Southern provinces who made his fortune in salt and copper and now wishes to purchase refinement. The man arrived in Linkon six days ago, trailing entourage and desperation, begging for a doll to present to his new wife.
The commission bores him. The proportions are standard. The expression—demure, grateful, slightly downcast—requires no invention; it is the price he pays for his continued sovereignty.
He runs a thumb along the porcelain cheek. The surface is still warm from the kiln’s last firing, and under his touch it seems almost to yield, as though the material remembers being something else and wishes to return to it. He does not indulge such fancies. He sets the head in the rack beside three others and moves to the eastern window, the one that overlooks the lane.
The false nun has been joined by a child—a new element, a boy of perhaps eight years who sells matches no one buys. The Church has started using children now.
Caleb finds this interesting. He files the information in his mind and draws the curtain with a slow, deliberate movement that the agents will read as absentmindedness.
The clock on the mantelpiece—a piece he repaired himself, its face a miniature of his own—ticks toward three. He does not wait for the Southern magnate. He does not wait for the Arts Council inspector scheduled to visit. He waits for the only appointment that has ever mattered.
At seventeen minutes past three, the carriage arrives.
He hears the wheels before the horses, a particular quality of rubber and wood on cobblestone that distinguishes her vehicle from the hundred others that pass outside his door daily. The rhythm is lighter, faster, the gait of horses bred for pleasure rather than labour. He stands at his workbench, his hand suspended over a dish of powdered pigment, and counts the seconds until the carriage stops.
The door opens. He hears the step being lowered, the soft murmur of a coachman speaking words he does not need to hear. Then her voice, answering, too indistinct for the words to carry but unmistakable in its timbre.
Caleb removes his apron—a length of black linen that hangs from his neck to his knees—and folds it into thirds. He places it on the hook beside the kiln room door; then he adjusts his spectacles, smooths his cravat. By the time the three knocks sound against the shop door—one, two, three, the correct pattern established on her third visit—he is already moving through the front room with that soundless, gliding step that makes his heels seem decorative rather than functional.
He opens the door.
She stands on the threshold, smaller than the frame, smaller than the afternoon, smaller than he is by a margin that seems to him not a measurement of height but a statement of scale. She is beautiful. The word arrives in his consciousness as a fact rather than an observation, as inevitable as gravity. She carries a parasol, though the sky is the colour of old pewter and no sun threatens her skin. She wears gloves of white leather that she has yet to remove, and her eyes find his with the immediate, unguarded pleasure of someone who believes absolutely in the safety of the world she inhabits.
“Good afternoon,” she says. “I hope I’m not disturbing your work.”
Caleb tilts his head. The angle is precisely calculated, a gesture of welcome that resembles nothing so much as a key aligning with its lock. “My dear,” he says, and the words fill the doorway, occupying the space between them with a weight that seems to slow the air itself. “You could never disturb me. You are the reason the afternoon exists.”
She laughs and steps across the threshold without waiting for invitation, certain in his welcome of her.
The parasol closes with a snap that echoes in the room, and she stands there, beautiful and surrounded by the watching faces of dolls who have not yet been taught to see her, and she smiles.
“I’ve come for another,” she says. “I know it hasn’t been so very long since the last. But I’ve been thinking about her for months. I can’t seem to stop.”
He closes the door; the latch engages with a click that is a tad too loud with its echo. “Of course you have,” he says and moves past her, not touching—never touching without purpose, never brushing against her in the accidental way of ordinary men—and gestures toward the chair by the display case.
The chair with the velvet cushion the colour of dried roses, it faces the window so the light falls correctly across her face. “Sit, little one. Tell me what grows in your garden.”
She settles into the chair with the fluid, untrained grace of someone who has never been required to perform elegance. Her back does not touch the rest. Her feet, in their pale slippers, do not quite reach the floor. She places the parasol across her lap and folds her gloved hands over it, looking up at him with an expression that holds no calculation, no suspicion, no awareness of the fifteen pairs of eyes that have watched her, in her father’s mansion, through every hour of the day and night for three years.
“I want something of the sea,” she says. “Father says we may finally return to Lemuria by autumn. The physicians say the capital air doesn’t suit his constitution, though I’ve never noticed him ill.”
Caleb has already moved to the tea service. He pours into her cup and then into his own, which is black and featureless and heavy as stone. “Not like the others,” he repeats, carrying the cup to her. He extends it, and when she reaches to take it, her bare fingers brush his. The skin is warm from being contained in the leather. His own fingers are cool, as always, and he sees her register the temperature difference with a slight widening of her eyes that she does not comment upon. She never comments upon the things that should concern her.
“Tell me, sweetling, what fault do you find in your daughters?”
“Oh, no fault!” She cradles the cup in both hands, sipping without tasting, drinking because it is offered. “They are perfect. You made them perfect. But they are … city children. Palace children. They belong here in Linkon, with the dust and the stone. When I take them to Lemuria, they seem … out of place. Like flowers forced to bloom in the wrong season.”
He takes his own chair, the wrought-iron piece that creaks slightly under his weight. He sits with his spine aligned to its back, his coat settling around him like wings folding.
“You wish for a daughter of the tide,” he says. “A child of salt and foam.”
“Yes.” The word is breathed rather than spoken. “Exactly. I knew you would understand. No one else does. I tried to explain to Lady Simone at the Governor’s Ball, and she smiled as though I were speaking in tongues. She said, ‘A doll is a doll, My Lady. What difference is there whether it is made for the shore or the salon?’”
“She is a fool,” Caleb says, without heat. “And you, my treasure, are not. A doll made for the shore carries the shore in her bones. Her weight is different. Her breath,” he pauses, tilting his head again, “her breath would taste of salt.”
Her eyes stare at him over the rim of her cup. There is no fear in her gaze. There is only fascination, the gentle, voracious curiosity of someone who has never encountered a locked door and therefore does not recognize the shape of a key.
“Can you truly make such a thing?”
“I can make anything you require, my lovely girl.” he sets his cup aside, untasted. “For you, I would carve the moon from its socket and polish it to a finish you could wear at your throat. The sea is a simpler commission.”
She laughs again, that bell-like sound that seems to hang in the workshop air longer than its acoustics should permit. “You say the most extraordinary things. The gentlemen at court would be scandalized if they heard you speak of carving the moon.”
“The gentlemen at court,” he says, “are not in this room. And if they were, they would not be scandalized. They would be rendered irrelevant.”
Her cup is soon set aside—she has drunk half, always half, never finishing what is given to her, a habit Caleb has noted across sixteen visits—and rises from her chair. “Will you,” she pauses, her gloved hand suspended in the air between them. “Will you give her the same eyes as the others? The ones that seem to follow you?”
Caleb turns his head. The round spectacles catch the grey light from the window, momentarily eclipsing the violet of his own eyes. “Do my daughters follow you, little one?”
“Sometimes.” She drops her hand, returning it to herself. “When I wake in the night, I think I see them looking at me. But it must be the candlelight. Or my imagination. Lady Simone says I have too much imagination for my own good.”
“Lady Simone,” he says, “knows nothing of my craft. If my daughters look at you, it is because you are the only worthy sight. A doll without a witness is merely ware, you give them purpose.”
She accepts this with a small, pleased nod, as though he has confirmed a pleasant daydream rather than admitted to a truth that would unmake her understanding of her own household. “Then I shall place her facing the window,” she says. “In Lemuria. So she can see the sea.”
“Yes,” he agrees. He returns the face to the cabinet, locking the door with a click that seems to seal something more than glass. “Place her facing the window. She will want to see the tide return.”
“I knew you would understand.” She steps back, returning to her chair. “When might she be ready? I do not mean to rush you. I know your work cannot be hurried.”
Caleb calculates aloud, though he has already determined the answer. “The current commission—a provincial patron, a man of no consequence—requires completion first. My reputation rests on sequence. Two weeks for him. Then,” he pauses, letting the silence carry weight. “Then I shall begin on your daughter. Four weeks. Perhaps five. The sea requires layers, and salt requires patience.”
“I have patience,” she says.
“Do you, my sweetling?” He asks, and the question is so gently delivered, so devoid of edge, that she does not hear the irony.
She has never needed patience. She has him. She has fifteen watchers in her bedchamber. She has the absolute, unwavering attention of the most feared artisan in the Empire, though she believes she has merely purchased handsome toys.
“I shall wait,” she says. “I always wait well. Father's mansion is very comfortable, and I have my books, and my other daughters for company. Although,” she hesitates, a small crease appearing between her brows. “Lately, the one in the blue dress—the fourteenth—she seems different. Her face is the same, but sometimes I find her in places I don’t remember leaving her. By the writing desk, looking at my letters.”
Caleb’s expression does not change. His face is a mask of attentive concern, perfectly constructed. “Porcelain expands and contracts with the weather,” he says. “The capital’s air is treacherous. She may shift on her stand. It is not uncommon.”
“Of course.” The crease vanishes, smoothed away by his explanation. “That must be it. I worried I was being silly.”
“You are never silly, my darling. Your observations are valued, even when the explanation is mundane.” He moves to the door, not to open it yet, but to stand beside it, a sentinel in charcoal and black. “When she is ready, I shall send word. You need not come to me unless you wish to. I can deliver her myself.”
“Oh, would you?” She rises, collecting her gloves, her parasol. “I would like that. The servants are always so clumsy with packages. And I trust only you to handle her.”
“Only me,” he echoes. “That is the correct arrangement.”
She laughs, delighted, and extends her hand. He takes it—not to shake, but to hold, his cool fingers enveloping her warm ones for three seconds, four, five, long past the duration of social ritual. She does not withdraw. She waits, trusting, until he releases her with a slow, deliberate withdrawal that leaves her skin marked by nothing but the memory of pressure.
“Until next time,” she says.
“Until then,” Caleb agrees.
He opens the door. The afternoon has grown darker, the pewter sky pressing low over the lane. Her carriage waits, the horses stamping, the coachman staring resolutely forward. She steps out, opens her parasol although the first drops of rain have not yet fallen, and walks away without looking back.
Caleb watches her go. He watches through his own eyes, and through the eyes he has planted across the city. In the Duke’s mansion, on the third floor, in the chamber facing east, fifteen heads turn. Fifteen pairs of painted eyes focus on the door, waiting for it to open, waiting for her return. The fourteenth doll, the one in blue, has already shifted her position by three degrees, orienting herself toward the writing desk where the letters lie, where the secrets of the Duke’s correspondence wait to be read and transmitted and known.
The dolls do not watch their owners. Not usually. Not unless their maker requires it. And she—his pretty thing, his little one, his only worthy witness—is the only owner worth the watching.
The sixth week arrives, and Caleb does not travel to the Duke’s mansion in the carriage that waits at his door. He walks. He moves through Linkon City with the unhurried, gliding stride of a man who has never needed to rush because time has always arranged itself to accommodate him. The streets are wet from morning rain, and his boots strike the cobblestones without sound, each step placed with the exactitude of a needle penetrating cloth.
He carries the doll in a case of black lacquered wood, fitted with velvet the colour of dried blood. The case is heavy—not with the doll’s weight, which is negligible, but with the density of intention.
Six weeks. He promised five. He has taken six, and the extra week sits inside him like a swallowed key, turning, unlocking something that has been waiting since the moment she first stepped into his workshop.
Caleb sees the carriages before he sees the mansion. Three of them, lined along the carriage drive with their doors thrown open, their interiors already half-stacked with trunks and hatboxes and the innumerable possessions of a household preparing to return to its ancestral seat. Servants move between the house and the vehicles like ants dismantling a colony, their arms laden with folded linens, with leather-bound books, with the fragile, wrapped shapes of porcelain.
They are leaving. She is leaving. The knowledge enters his consciousness not as surprise but as confirmation of a variable he introduced himself.
He made the doll slowly and perfectly; but he made it late.
A footman approaches, hesitant, recognizing the black coat and the case and the spectacles that catch the light like something that has learned to mimic humanity too perfectly. “Mr. Xia,” the boy stammers. “The Duke is expecting you. This way, sir.”
Caleb inclines his head. “Of course.”
The mansion is vast, all ornate columns and gilded cornices and the aggressive, defensive luxury of provincial nobility trying to convince the city of its permanence in the capital. He moves through it without looking up. He has seen the ceilings before, through other eyes. He knows the pattern of the frescoes in the east wing corridor because the fourteenth doll, the one in blue, has stared at them nightly while she slept. He follows the footman with the docile, attentive posture of a craftsman humbled by aristocratic patronage, and inside the locked cabinet of his mind, he files every face they pass for future reference.
Her father, the Duke meets him in the library;he is thinner than his portraits suggest, his complexion is sallow, and his hand when extended to shake bearing the faint tremor of a constitution that the capital’s air has eroded.
“Mr. Xia,” the Duke says, and his voice carries the strained heartiness of a debtor greeting his creditor. “You’ve brought it? My daughter has spoken of nothing else. Six weeks she has waited, sir. Six weeks.”
“Six weeks,” he repeats, and the word hangs between them, perfectly neutral, perfectly weighted. “The work required it. I hope she finds the delay forgiven by the result.”
“I’m certain she shall.” The Duke releases his hand quickly, as though the temperature of his skin has transmitted something that cannot be named. “She’s in the receiving room. I’ll have you shown up. We depart tomorrow, you understand. The physicians insist. The sea air, the native soil. I’m sure you comprehend the urgency.”
“Entirely,” Caleb says. “Family must be preserved at all costs.”
The Duke smiles, uncertain, and gestures to another footman. Caleb is led up the grand staircase, past the landing where the fourteenth doll sits in its alcove, its painted eyes fixed on the corridor. As he passes, he does not look at it, he does not need to; not when he feels its attention like a thread pulled taut between them, of shared sight that vibrates with his pulse. The footman chatters nervously about the weather, about the journey, about the Duke’s gratitude.
He responds with appropriate sounds that are arranged to resemble conversation without speaking the words. His focus is ahead, behind the door at the corridor’s end, where the air already tastes different to him, where the scent of her has begun to seep through the wood.
The receiving room is blue.
She is there, standing by the window with her back to the door, her posture is straight and perfect. She turns when the footman announces him, and her face—beautiful, always beautiful, the template from which he has learned to sculpt perfection—opens into an expression of such unguarded delight that he feels something in his chest, something that is not a heart, constrict with the satisfaction of a predator scenting its prey.
“Oh,” she breathes. “You came.”
The footman withdraws, and the door closes. Caleb stands alone with her, and the case in his hands seems suddenly animate, hungry, a vessel containing not merely a doll but the six weeks of his delay, the accumulated weight of every night he spent perfecting her newest daughter. He sets the case upon the table by the door, and turns to her with a smile that he has constructed from the memory of human warmth, a curve of the mouth that does not reach the violet of his eyes.
“Did you doubt me, my sweetling?”
“Never.” She moves toward him, and her steps are quick, eager, the gait of someone who has never learned that desire should be concealed. “But I thought—Father said you might not finish in time. That we might have to send for her. I couldn’t bear the thought of her travelling alone.”
“She does not travel alone,” Caleb says. “She travels with me. And now, she travels to you to be with you.”
He reaches to open the case, and the doll lies within, nested in velvet, her eyes staring upward with the patient expression he sculpted for her; the hair is made of corn silk, falling around her porcelain shoulders in waves that seem to move even in stillness; she is dressed in a gown the colour of sea foam.
She gasps. The sound is small, delicate, a breakage of breath that he captures and files. She reaches into the case with both hands, lifting the doll with the reverent, instinctive gentleness of a mother retrieving a newborn, and cradles it against her chest. “She’s perfect,” she whispers. “Oh, she’s more than perfect. She’s waiting. Just as I asked. She’s waiting for the sea.”
“No, my sweet; she waits for you,” he corrects, his voice is lower now, the measured cadence beginning to shed its social rhythm, the pretence slowly falling away. “All my daughters wait for you. But this one,” he pauses, and steps closer; enough that the scent of her becomes dominant, that he can see the individual lashes framing her eyes, the faint, living pulse in the hollow of her throat. “This one is special. This one carries the sea in her bones. I made her for the shore. I made her for your bedchamber in Lemuria. I made her to watch the window with you.”
“Yes.” She looks up at him, the doll still clutched to her chest, her eyes wide and trusting and utterly blind to the shift in the room’s pressure. “I shall place her facing east. So she sees the sunrise over the water. So she waits with me always.”
Caleb’s hand rises. His fingers hover beside her cheek, close enough that the air between them seems to thin, to warm with the friction of proximity.
“You speak of waiting,” he murmurs. “You speak of patience. But I have waited, my dear. I have waited longer than six weeks. I have waited through sixteen dolls. Through sixteen visits.”
She blinks.
The doll’s porcelain head shifts slightly against her shoulder. “I … I don’t understand.”
“No,” he says, and the word is soft, almost tender. “You do not. And that is why you are precious. That is why you are mine.”
His hand moves. Not to her cheek—he resists, with a control that feels like the grinding of gears, the urge to mark her, to bruise her, to leave evidence on her flesh that would prompt questions from physicians and ladies-in-waiting and the Duke himself. Instead, his fingers close around the doll. He plucks it from her embrace with the smooth, unhurried motion of a man removing an obstacle from a path, and he turns to the side table—the one by the chaise, the one with the lamp that casts a circle of amber light onto the carpet—and he lays the doll upon it.
“Caleb?” Her voice has changed; not fear—she does not know fear, not in his presence, not yet—but confusion, a gentle bewilderment, the soft uncertainty of a child whose toy has been taken without explanation. “What are you—”
“Hush, little one.” He turns back to her. He is taller now, or the room has shrunk; he stands before her, and his hands rise to cup her face, his thumbs resting along her jawline, his fingers spreading behind her ears into the warmth of her hair. “You have had your doll. You have had your sixteen daughters. Now you shall have me.”
He kisses her.
Unexpected, overwhelming heat spreads. His lips are warm, almost feverish, a temperature that contradicts the coolness of his hands, his skin, his perpetual chill. He opens her mouth with a pressure that brooks no hesitation, his tongue sliding past her teeth to claim the sweetness within, and she tastes of everything he has imagined through sixteen sets of borrowed eyes: tea and honey and the faint, lingering sugar of the macaroons she favours, and beneath it, the essential, irreplaceable flavour of her life, her blood, her breath.
She makes a sound against his mouth—small, and surprised; but she is not resistant.
Her hands lift, fluttering, uncertain where to settle, and he guides them without breaking the kiss, pressing her palms flat against his chest, over the charcoal waistcoat, over the place where no heartbeat pounds but something else resides, something taut and wound and finally, finally releasing.
She clutches the fabric, and Caleb feasts.
He drinks from her mouth as though she contains the only moisture in a desert, his tongue stroking hers, mapping the interior of her lips, the edge of her teeth, the sensitive hollow beneath her tongue. He angles her head with the exact, jointed pressure of his thumbs, tilting her chin to deepen the access, and when she gasps into him—when her breath becomes his breath—he swallows the sound and demands more.
Six weeks. Sixteen dolls. Years of watching, waiting, collecting her moments through glass eyes, and now she is here, real, warm, yielding, and he is devouring the evidence of her existence one kiss at a time.
When he releases her mouth, they are both breathing differently. Her lips are swollen, glistening, parted around questions she does not know how to ask. His own mouth feels altered, sensitized, alive with the phantom of her taste. He looks down at her, at the beautiful creature who stands before him with her hands still grabbing a fistful of his coat, and he smiles with a warmth that is genuine because it is predatory.
“Sweet,” he says. “So sweet, my pretty girl. I knew you would be. I have imagined this taste through every doll I placed in your chamber. I have wondered if you would be honey or cream or something rarer. You are all three. You are everything.”
“I don’t—” she sways slightly; er eyes are unfocused, the pupils dilated, her. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”
“You are being loved by me,” Caleb tells her. “You need understand nothing else.”
His hands move from her face. They trace the column of her throat with featherlight touches that leave gooseflesh in their wake, and then they descend to the bodice of her dress. The fabric is fine, silk or something like it, the colour of ivory, and he finds the fastenings to let the buttons give way, and the hooks to loosen. Tender hands peel the dress from her shoulders with a deliberation that feels like unwrapping a gift he has already waited too long to open, and when the fabric pools at her waist, he reveals her breasts.
They are perfect.
Not the perfection of his dolls, which is symmetrical and cold. They are living perfection, soft and smooth and weighted with the gentle gravity of flesh, the nipples are a shade of rose that no pigment has ever accurately captured. He cups them in his hands and feels the warmth of her radiate into his palms like coals placed against ice.
She inhales sharply; her spine arches, pressing her more firmly into his grip, and he accepts the offering with a low sound that is not quite a groan, not quite a purr, but something that belongs to no human throat.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, and the word is reverent and possessive and absolute. “My lovely little girl. Look at you. Look what you’ve hidden beneath all that silk and propriety. Look what belongs to me.”
Caleb lowers his head.
His mouth closes around her left nipple, and the heat of him—impossible, overwhelming, the warmth of a kiln rather than a man—envelops her flesh. He sucks. Hard. The pressure is sudden, intense, drawing the sensitive peak deep into the wet cavern of his mouth, his tongue lashing against it with firm, insistent strokes.
She cries out, a high, broken sound that echoes in the room, her hands flying to his hair, her fingers tangling in the brown strands that never fall out of place. He does not release her. He suckles with the focused intensity of a parched man finding a puddle of water, and his pleasure is evident in the way his eyes half-close, the way his jaw works, the way his free hand rises to knead her other breast, rolling the neglected nipple between his thumb and forefinger until it stiffens to match its twin.
He moves from one breast to the other without pause, marking no territory because he claims all of it, every inch, every curve, every shuddering breath. He bites, gently, testing the resilience of her flesh, and when she moans—when her head falls back and her throat exposes itself to the lamplight—he growls against her skin and sucks harder, drawing the blood to the surface, resisting with a violence that trembles through his frame the urge to bruise, to purple, to leave the unmistakable imprint of his mouth where anyone might see. He pulls back only when both nipples glisten, swollen and darkened, throbbing with the heat of his attention, and even then he does not release her breasts entirely. He holds them, possessively, his thumbs strumming across the wet peaks, his eyes fixed on her face.
“Please,” she whispers. The word is directionless, a plea cast into waters she does not know the depth of. “Please, I-I—Caleb, I f-feel so…”
“I know what you feel, sweetling.” His voice is thick, the measured cadence fractured by something that reeks of hunger. “I know every sensation in your pretty body. I have studied you. I have memorized you. Now I am confirming my research.”
His hands slide from her breasts. They grip her waist, and he lowers himself to his knees before her. He looks up at her through his round spectacles, the violet eyes darkened to something near black, and his hands find the hem of her skirts. He pushes them upward, slowly, revealing layer after layer of petticoats, of stockings, of the delicate, ribboned underthings that separate her from the air. She stands frozen, beautiful and small and trembling, her hands hovering in the air as though she has forgotten their function.
“Mr. Xia,” she breathes, suddenly formal until she is not. “Caleb. What are y-you—you mustn’t…”
“I must,” he says simply. “I have lasted not doing this for years. Spread your legs, my dear. Be good for me.”
She obeys. The movement is hesitant, automatic, the compliance of someone who has never been taught to refuse the things asked of her by men she trusts. He guides her feet apart with gentle pressure, and then he is beneath her skirts, his head disappearing into the shadowed, fabric-draped space between her thighs, and his mouth finds her cunt.
She is pretty there, too.
The thought arrives as a fact, as inevitable as gravity; the skin is smooth and soft as the porcelain he shapes in his kiln, the folds delicate and flushed with arousal, glistening with the evidence of her response to his mouth at her breast. He inhales her scent—sweet, yes, but beneath it the darker, saltier perfume of a woman ready to be taken, the essential musk of her sex that no doll, no matter how perfect, can replicate.
Caleb groans, the sound vibrating against her most sensitive flesh, and then he feasts.
His tongue parts her. It strokes upward from her entrance to the hood of her clitoris with a slow, devastating thoroughness, lapping at her as though she were a delicacy to be savoured rather than consumed in one measly bite. She cries out, her hips bucking, her hands falling to his head, gripping his hair with a desperation that seems to surprise even her. He does not allow her movement. His hands clamp around her thighs, holding her spread and open and vulnerable to his mouth, and he delves deeper, pressing his tongue inside her, tasting the liquid heat of her core, before withdrawing to circle her clit with relentless, flickering pressure.
“Oh,” she gasps. “Oh, please, I can’t—it’s too much, aah! I-It’s—”
“It is exactly enough,” he murmurs against her, the words muffled by her flesh, the vibration of his voice adding another layer to the pressure. “You will take what I give you. You will take it, and you will thank me, and you will give me more.”
He slides one hand upward, beneath the bunched fabric of her skirts, and finds her entrance with his fingers. Two of them, long and cool, are pressing into her tightness with a steady, unyielding pressure. She is wet, so wet, slick and scorching around his digits, and the sensation of her inner walls clutching at him—living, responsive, desperate—draws another groan from his chest. He pumps his fingers in rhythm with his tongue, curling them upward to stroke the spot inside her that makes her knees buckle, that makes her cry out with a sharp, animal sound that has no place in the receiving room of a noble house.
Caleb makes her cum with his mouth.
The orgasm rolls through her like a tide, slow and inexorable, building from the pressure of his tongue and the stroke of his fingers until she is shaking, sobbing, her thighs trembling around his head, her hands pulling his hair with a force that would dislodge a lesser man’s composure. He is no lesser, much less, is he a man. He does not stop. He rides her through it, gentling his tongue but maintaining the suction around her clit, milking her with his fingers, drawing out every spasm, every clutch, every drop of pleasure until she is limp, gasping, her head lolling in every which way from surrender.
But he is not finished.
Before she can recover, before her breathing can steady, he renews his assault. His fingers move faster, deeper, curling against her inner walls, and his mouth descends again to her clit, sucking with renewed, almost punishing intensity.
A wail rips through her, and she tries to close her legs, to escape the deluge, but his grip is iron, his will absolute. “No,” he commands against her, the word a hot breath against her oversensitive flesh. “You do not retreat from me. You do not deny me. Give me another, little one. Give me what I am owed.”
She cums again, but this time, much harder. The second orgasm crashes into the first without boundary, a continuous wave of pleasure that seems to break something loose in her, some final tether to propriety or consciousness. She sobs his name, “Caleb,” and her body convulses around his fingers, her juices flooding his hand, his chin, the fabric of her ruined underthings.
When he withdraws, she is barely standing.
He emerges from beneath her skirts with his chin wet, his spectacles slightly askew and splattered with slick, his eyes are completely black and blazing with a violet light that seems to generate its own heat.
Caleb rises to his feet, his movements fluid and jointed, and he catches her as she sways, lifting her into his arms with an ease that belies the density of his own frame. “Good girl,” he whispers against her temple. He carries her—not to the chaise—but to the carpet in the centre of the room. The rug is thick and designed with an intricate pattern of blues and golds that will cushion her and hide what spills. He lays her upon it with a gentleness that contradicts the violence of his intention, arranging her limbs with the same care he applies to his dolls, spreading her legs, lifting her hips, positioning her so the lamplight falls across her flushed, naked skin in the exact manner he requires.
And then he turns to the side table.
The doll lies there still, eyes open, her soft hair arranged across the surface. Caleb reaches for her. He lifts her with one hand, the other already working at the fastenings of his trousers, and he places the doll on the carpet before them, sitting in a way that faces them, her painted gaze fixed upon the scene with the unblinking, eternal patience of an audience.
He positions her carefully, ensures her eyes align with the joining of their bodies.
“There,” he says, and his voice is thick, distorted, the voice of something that has worn human speech for too long and is beginning to let the seams show. “Our newest daughter must watch. She must see how Papa loves her Mama. She must learn what wanting truly means.”
Caleb frees himself. His cock is heavy, flushed dark with blood, the skin stretched tight and glistening at the tip with the evidence of his own arousal. He is large—he knows this, has always known it—and he grips himself at the base, guiding himself to her entrance, pressing the broad, weeping head against her slick, fluttering folds.
She looks up at him from the carpet, her eyes glazed, her hair dishevelled, her dress bunched around her waist like shed skin. She is small beneath him, fragile, a living doll arranged for his pleasure, and the sight of her—open, waiting, his—drives a shudder through his spine that he does not suppress.
“Look at me,” he commands. “Not the doll. Not the room. Me. Know who takes you.”
“Caleb,” she breathes. “I-I’ve never—no one has e-ever—”
“I know.” The words are a purr. “And no one ever will. You are mine, my sweetling. I will be your first and your only one forever.”
He pushes inside her.
The tightness is exquisite. It is purity, it is possession, it is the absolute, irrefutable claim of a man who has waited beyond the patience of mortals and now takes what time has owed him. She is wet, prepared by his mouth and his fingers, but she is small, and he is thick, and the stretch of her virgin flesh around his intrusion draws a cry from her throat that is part pain, part wonder, part something deeper that neither of them has language for. He sinks in slowly, inch by inch, his jaw locked, his eyes fixed on her face, watching every flicker of sensation cross her features, cataloguing her responses with the obsessive attention he brings to his glazing.
Caleb bottoms out. The head of his cock presses against her cervix, nudging the gate of her womb with a steady, battering pressure that makes her gasp, her hands flying to his shoulders, her nails digging into the wool of his coat.
He is seated to the root inside her, surrounded by her heat, her tightness, the rhythmic, involuntary flutter of her muscles trying to accommodate his girth, and he holds there, letting her feel the full extent of his possession, letting her understand the depth of her impalement. “Feel me,” he murmurs, and his hips begin to move slowly. Each withdrawal is a torture of friction, and each thrust is a deliberate, grinding return that drives him against her cervix with unrelenting force. “Feel where I am. This is where I belong, my dear; buried inside your pretty cunt, so deep that you cannot tell where you end and I begin.”
“Please,” she sobs, her legs wrapping around his waist, her heels digging into the small of his back. “Please, Caleb, I—it’s too much, y-you’re so—”
“I am exactly enough,” he growls, and his pace intensifies—not faster, but harder, each thrust landing with a heavy, wet slap of flesh against flesh, the sound obscene and perfect in the quiet room. “And you will take all of me. You will open for me. You will mold yourself around my shape until you cannot breathe without me.”
He fucks her with the intensity of a man performing a sacred rite, his hips rolling and snapping with a precision that seems to target the exact depth, the exact angle, the exact pressure required to shatter her. He watches her, the thin rim of violet in his gaze boring into her face as his cock batters her cervix, as her breasts bounce with the force of his thrusts, as her mouth falls open around sounds that are no longer words but pure, unfiltered expressions of being taken.
“You are going to Lemuria,” he gasps, and the words are punctuated by the heavy, rhythmic impact of his body into hers. “You are going to the sea. To the sun. To your father’s estate. But I will be with you. Do you understand? I will be so deep inside you that it is like I am with you always. Every step you take on that shore, you will feel me. Every wave that breaks, you will remember this. You will carry me in your womb, my seed, my weight, my presence. You will never be free of me, my lovely girl. You will never want to be.”
“Yes,” she cries, tears streaming from the corners of her eyes, her face flushed and desperate and beautiful. “Yes, please, I want—I want you with me, I want—”
“You have me.” He leans down, his weight pressing her into the carpet, his mouth capturing hers in a kiss. “All of me. Now give me your pleasure again. Give it to me while I take you. Give it to me because I demand it.”
She cums around his cock.
The orgasm is different from the ones he gave her with his mouth—deeper, more violent, a convulsion of her inner walls that grips him like a fist, milking him, demanding his own release. She screams into his mouth, or perhaps he swallows the sound; her body arches off the carpet, her spine bowing, her nails scoring his shoulders through the fabric of his coat. The sensation of her climaxing on him, the rhythmic, desperate clenching of her virgin cunt around his invading flesh, tears a groan from his chest that seems to originate from somewhere beneath his ribs, somewhere that has never before been permitted to make noise.
But he does not stop.
Caleb breaks the kiss and stares down at her, his spectacles are askew, and his eyes are burning with a black-violet light. “Again,” he commands. “One more. The last one, sweetling. Promise me; promise me you will give me one more, and I will fill you. I will mark you from the inside where no one can see, where only you will know, where you will carry my claim across the sea and through every day of your life.”
“I promise,” she sobs, delirious, overwhelmed, her body still twitching from the aftershocks. “I promise, I promise, please—”
“Together,” he murmurs, and the word is binding like a vow. “Promise, sweetling. Promise. Together now. Good girl.”
He increases his pace. The rhythm that was slow and intense becomes something else—faster, harder, a pounding, battering assault that shakes her body against the carpet, that drives the breath from her lungs, that makes her breasts bounce and her thighs tremble and her head fall back in absolute, surrendered abandon.
“Caleb,” she screams. “Caleb, I can’t, I’m going to—I’m—”
“Now,” he snarls. “With me. Give it to me now.”
She shatters.
The final orgasm crashes through her with the force of a wave breaking against stone, a continuous, rolling convulsion that seems to originate from her core and radiate outward until every limb, every muscle, every nerve is singing with the violence of her release. And as she cums— as her cunt grips him like it can't bear to let go—he finally allows himself to follow.
He buries himself to the hilt inside her, pressing so hard against her cervix that she can feel the pulse of his release like a heartbeat in her deepest place, and he spills into her with a heat that seems to scald, a volume that seems impossible, flooding her womb, her channel, marking her with the irrevocable evidence of his possession. He groans, a sound like stone grinding against stone, like the kiln’s deepest fire finding voice, and he pumps into her with short, jerking thrusts, ensuring every drop is deposited, ensuring nothing is wasted, ensuring she will leave this room carrying him inside her in a way that no sea, no distance, no time can dissolve.
They collapse together, and he does not withdraw; he stays inside her, softening but still present, still claiming, and he gathers her against his chest with hands that tremble only slightly. She is limp, gasping, her face pressed against his collar, her tears wetting his cravat.
The doll watches from the carpet, patient and eternal.
Just like himself.
“Good girl,” Caleb whispers into her hair, his voice returned to its low, melodic register, though it is thickened, satiated, almost sleepy in its satisfaction. “My perfect, sweet girl. You did so well for me. You took everything. You gave everything.”
“Caleb,” she mumbles, half-conscious, her body still twitching with aftershocks around his spent length. “I feel you. I can still feel you. It’s like—it’s like you’re still—”
“I am,” he says. “I will be. Even in Lemuria. Even when you stand on the shore and watch the tide. You will feel me inside you, warm and heavy and real. You will touch yourself in the dark and find me there. You will never be alone, my dear. You have never been alone. I have been inside you since the first doll.”
He adjusts her in his arms, withdrawing finally with a wet, obscene sound that makes her whimper at the loss, and he arranges her dress with gentleness, covering her breasts, smoothing her skirts, restoring the fiction of her propriety even as his seed slides down her skin, even as the mark of him pulses in her bruised, swollen core. He lifts the doll from the carpet—his hands are steady now, perfectly steady—and he places it into her limp, unresisting arms. “Hold her,” he instructs. “Take her to Lemuria; let her watch the window, let her wait with you. And when you look at her, when you see her eyes in the dark, remember that she sees you too, that I see you too.”
She clutches the doll. Her fingers are weak, trembling, but they close around the porcelain body with such tenderness that it makes him smile. “I will,” she whispers. “I promise.”
Caleb stands. He adjusts his clothing—trousers fastened, coat smoothed, spectacles straightened, cravat adjusted to hide the absence of any heartbeat in his throat. He looks down at her, at the beautiful creature lying spent and claimed on the Duke’s carpet, cradling his doll, leaking his seed, marked by him in ways invisible and indelible.
“Tomorrow,” he says. “Your father departs tomorrow. I will not see you again before you go. But I am with you. I am always with you.”
He steps into the hallway, closes the door with a click that seals the afternoon into memory, and descends the grand staircase with the posture of an artisan who has merely delivered a commission and received the payment in full.
Dearest Readers,
It is with a trembling hand and a fluttering heart that your humble observer dips her quill into the inkwell this morning, for the sheets that have arrived upon my desk contain intelligence so staggering, so deliciously unprecedented, that one scarcely knows whether to clutch one’s pearls or order a fresh gown for the inevitable celebrations.
Gather round, for the fog of rumour has at last parted.
The Duke of Lemuria—yes, that Duke, the very same whose holdings kiss the salt and spray of the shores, whose treasury is said to be buoyed by tides of pearl and amber—has issued a formal announcement that has set every drawing room, every guildhall, every cloistered corridor of the Citadel, and every shadowed nook of Skyhaven ablaze with whispered conjecture. His Grace declares, in language so carefully wrought it might have been carved from ivory itself, that his only daughter, that radiant creature whom society has long delighted to call the Darling of the Sun and the Sea, is to be united in matrimony to none other than Mister Caleb Xia of Linkon City.
Allow that name to settle upon your palate, dear reader.
Mister Caleb Xia.
The Dollmaker of Skyhaven.
To the uninitiated, one might assume this to be some quaint romantic fancy—a noble daughter smitten with a handsome craftsman, a minor scandal of the heart to be hushed with a modest settlement and a swift removal to the country. But we, who have watched the currents of power eddy and swirl through the capital these many years, know that nothing concerning Mister Xia is ever merely quaint.
Nothing concerning Mister Xia is ever merely anything.
He has never, in all his years of public prominence, demonstrated the slightest interest in the marriage mart. No seasonal balls have found him in attendance. No matchmaking mama has succeeded in cornering him beside the punch bowl. He has moved through our society like a figure in a dream, present and yet untouchable, visible and yet unmistakeably distant. And now, suddenly, shockingly, he is to be a husband. Not merely a husband at that, but a duke.
For here is the particular inclusion of this announcement that has set the Empire trembling upon its axis: upon the solemnization of this union, Mister Caleb Xia shall cease to be Mister Xia in any meaningful social sense. He shall be addressed, henceforth and in perpetuity, as the Duke of Lemuria. He shall assume the full mantle of ducal authority, the administrative sovereignty over those sun-drenched coastal estates, the parliamentary voice in the Imperial Diet, the hereditary privileges and crushing responsibilities that have, for centuries, descended through the bloodline of his bride’s noble house. The Duke of Lemuria—her father, the present incumbent—has effectively declared that his title, his legacy, and his territories are to be entrusted to a man whose primary credential is an unparalleled ability to sculpt a human face from fired clay.
One can almost hear the collective gasp of the aristocracy echoing across the cobblestones.
But wait, dear reader, for the plot thickens into a consistency one might almost spread upon toast. His Imperial Majesty, the Emperor himself—he who sits upon the Obsidian Throne and commands armies that make the earth tremble—has granted his personal approval to the match. This is no mere formality. The Emperor’s endorsement transforms what might otherwise be dismissed as a provincial peculiarity into an affair of state. He is to be family. Imperial family, by extension. The Emperor has, in effect, placed his own shadow between the Dollmaker and those who would seek to question him.
But what of the bride, you ask? What of the creature who has, by this announcement, become the most envied and, one suspects, the most scrutinized young woman in the Empire?
We have long known her as the Darling of the Sun and the Sea, the only daughter of the Duke, a vision of beauty have launched a thousand sonnets and twice as many sighs from the lips of disappointed suitors.
She has resided these past seasons in her father’s capital mansion, a soft presence in a hard city that one might mistake her for a living doll herself—though, of course, no doll, however masterfully wrought, could replicate the particular luminosity of a soul that has never learned to suspect its own reflection.
It is said—whispered, rather, by those who have attended her intimate receptions—that she possesses a collection of dolls so extensive it requires its own chamber in the Lemurian mansion. One wonders, with a delicious shiver of speculation, whether this matrimony represents the culmination of a courtship conducted entirely through the medium of bisque and velvet, a romance whispered across sixteen painted faces, a seduction enacted in the language of craftsmanship.
What other suitor could possibly compete with a man who has, quite literally, populated her private world with his creations?
The matchmaking mamas of Philos are, by report, in various states of collapse. Those who had earmarked the Duke’s daughter for their own sons must now recalibrate their dynastic ambitions. Those who had harboured private hopes of attracting the Dollmaker’s eye—yes, there were such women, bold creatures who fancied themselves capable of thawing that legendary chill—have retreated to their boudoirs to shred handkerchiefs and curse the fates. The Artisans’ Guild of Skyhaven, meanwhile, has entered a state of collective apoplexy, torn between pride at their member’s elevation and terror at the vacuum his exclusivity shall leave in their ranks.
Who shall now serve as the Empire’s premier dollmaker? Who shall fill the atelier that once accepted the most discerning commissions? The answer, one suspects, is no one. The art shall become, under his continued but distant patronage, a relic of the old order.
But let us not, in our fascination with politics and power, neglect the human heart—if indeed human hearts are what beat in the breasts of these two curious figures. For beneath the scaffolding of titles and approvals and strategic calculations, there lies the simple, scandalous, utterly captivating fact of a marriage. A man and a woman. A bedchamber. A life to be shared across the miles that separate Linkon City from the Lemurian shore. She who is soft, and small, and beautiful beyond the capacity of his pigments to capture. He who is cool, and precise, and possessed of a gaze that suggests he has already mapped every day of their future together.
Will he adore her?
The announcement promises he shall. It speaks of a beautiful wife to be adored, of a duchy to be managed with the same devotion he brings to his craft. And one believes it—strange as it may seem, this one believes it absolutely. Not because the language is convincing, but because it is unnecessary. Any man who has spent years fashioning sixteen perfect masterpieces for a woman’s private chamber has already demonstrated an adoration that transcends the conventional vocabulary of courtship.
He has adored her in porcelain. He has adored her in glass. He has adored her through eyes that do not close, through limbs that do not tire, through a vigilance that has never slept. Now he shall adore her in flesh, in title, in the full, unshielded light of ducal privilege.
One can only wonder what children might issue from such a union. But that, I suspect, is intelligence for another season, another sheet, another whispered dispatch from your devoted observer.
Until then, raise your glasses to the happy couple. The tide, it seems, has turned in their favor. And the tide, as every citizen knows, does not turn back.
SAINT'S NOTES ! posting from my back-up because the reach in my main has been so fucked because of that evil fucking tag; nonetheless, have fun with the dollmaker, because i'm back to be evil and start mass-posting again after disappearing for a while. this blog is only a back-up, all interactions and masterlists can be found in here.
[looking at people younger than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at people older than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at myself] its over
Tags & CWs: threesome w/ snowapple action, dvp, MC is a free use toy, ball gag, aftercare, Dom Zayne, Dom Caleb, sub MC
Author's note: I've been wanting to try being a bit more spontaneous with my writing and try writing shorter things - so here we are! Wrote this during my work hours with minimal editing and just tried to go with the flow rather than overthinking and feeling the need to constantly explain every position and action in detail. Please enjoy a little tumblr exclusive!
You’ve been a brat all day and they’ve got your arms tied up, gag in your mouth, taking turns to use your worn out little cunt as much as they want.
They talk casually, like you’re just a thing for them to use.
She feels extra tight today.
She’s leaking all over the sheets.
She always get so messy when she’s ovulating.
They haven’t let you come, a toy doesn’t come, they said when you’d complained, leading them to strap the ball gag to your mouth.
You’re jostled around between the two of them, one slides out and you’re only empty for a second before the other fills you back up again. When they’re not inside you they’re stroking themselves as they watch.
They don’t give you time to think. First you’re on your back, Caleb pinning your legs to your chest whilst Zayne’s holding you hands at the headboard. Then all of a sudden you’re flipped to your front, face pushed into the mattress as Zayne fucks you hard and deep and Caleb’s smearing his precum over your cheek as you look up at him with teary eyes.
The only time they give you a break is so they can kiss and touch each other. But it’s still torture for you because as you watch them grind up against each other, cocks rubbing back and forth, precum mixing and making a slippery mess, you want to be on your knees licking them. You want them to press their two lengths into your mouth, stretching your lips wide open around them.
But they don’t let you. Instead they spend time stretching your tight pussy before squeezing themselves inside you. Zayne underneath and Caleb behind.
Their two cocks bully their way into your cunt, and you’re whining around the gag but they don’t care, they’re too busy chasing their own pleasure, kissing each other over your shoulder while you’re crushed in the middle, just a toy for them to use and, fuck, do you find that hot.
They move in tandem inside you, you’re never left empty as when one retreats the other slips in. Their moans fill your ears, hands are everywhere, squeezing and groping every inch of your flesh.
But still they barely acknowledge you.
They murmur filthy words to each other about how good their cocks feel rutting into you.
Love it when she squeezes around us.
I can feel you throbbing against me.
We should use her like this more often.
And it only drives you more insane.
How they fuck you and use you like a fleshlight. Just a hole for them to pound into and fill over and over again.
Perfect little pussy, made just for us.
When it’s obedient, that is.
You’re drooling down the side of your face, completely fucked into submission and you can’t think of anywhere else you’d rather be.
Zayne comes inside you with a grunt, warmth flooding your cunt and covering the other cock still buried inside. And he’s barely finished filling you up before he’s sliding out and Caleb’s pushing in even deeper right after. He fucks Zayne’s cum into you, the obscene squelching and slapping from the mess seems so loud and you cringe. But Caleb just fucks into you harder, pushing on your back to press you into Zayne, until he eventually releases with a long groan. His cum overflows from your cunt, mixing with Zayne’s.
They manhandle you, moving you off of Zayne to lie on your back before forcing your thighs wide apart. Caleb pries your swollen folds apart with two fingers, putting your overused hole on full display for them.
You feel their eyes boring into your abused little cunt.
Push it out. Let us see.
You bear down and feel yourself empty gradually. But not for long.
Two sets of fingers push their cum back in every time it dribbles out. Only now do they allow you to come over their probing fingers that rub incessantly at your g-spot. Someone’s mouth is sucking on your clit, another on your nipple, and you fall over the edge with a scream around your gag.
Your walls pulse again and again. Spurts of your juices coat their forearms.
Cum drools from your hole down to the bed when their fingers finally slip from your pussy.
Caleb pats your sensitive folds.
Good girl.
It’s like he’s petting a dog for behaving well. You’re not sure if he’s talking to you or specifically your cunt.
The rope is removed from your wrists and gentle kisses placed across the marks left behind.
They clean you lovingly, praise whispered in your ears, reaffirming words of adoration uttered as you drift off to sleep.
Thanks for 69 followers lmaooo even though I'm a rare poster
F reader, porn what plot, super soft and sweet Caleb, fingering, unprotected p in v, very thinly veiled hand/restraint/size kinks, evol use, idk if all the positions make sense but it’s what my mind wanted, probably unrealistic but my goon my rules
wc: 3.2k
18+ content below
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You wake up to the warmth of a large body beneath your own, Caleb’s resting heartbeat thrumming steadily under your ear. One heavy arm is wrapped around your shoulders, pressing you deeper into his embrace. Rarely do you ever feel as content and at peace as you do right now.
Slowly, regretfully, you extricate yourself from his sleeping form. After having an internal battle over whether to stay or go, you just couldn’t pass up the chance to surprise him with breakfast. It’s not often that you’re the first one awake.
As you pull the duvet over him once more, you admire his face. There’s beauty in the hard set of the colonel’s brows, a certain nostalgic playfulness in the exaggeration of his expression when he’s teasing you, but when he’s asleep he looks vulnerable in that sort of way he doesn’t like showing. It reminds you of the many facets to his being, all yours to keep.
Running a fingertip along his cheek, over the slope of his nose and down to his lips, you linger there for a second longer, giving him a short kiss before turning away. Your legs dangle over the edge of the bed as you stretch your arms above your head, still tired but wanting to do something nice for the man who never fails to put you first.
Some days you wonder how he isn’t completely exhausted juggling not only his demanding job but also his demanding pipsqueak. He must be hiding it.
Yawning so wide your eyes water, you blearily note the sound of rustling fabric. Caleb wraps an arm around your waist from behind, sitting up to rest his head on your shoulder. Maybe you should’ve tried to be a little quieter, a little faster to leave, but you can’t be upset about the way he clings to you—you love it too much.
“Where,” Caleb says, voice a low rasp against your ear, “do you think you’re going?”
Your fingers tighten in the sheets. His morning voice always gets to you. Yet, you sense an undertone of fragility.
“I was going to make you breakfast in bed,” you murmur, one of your hands skimming over the arm wrapped around your midsection.
Caleb huffs, amused. “And I ruined it? Whoopsie.” Tilting his head into your neck, he breathes you in, and your brows crease as you try not to let something so small draw a reaction from you. “But it’s too early for you to be startin’ the day. If you get up now, you’ll want a nap later.”
You sigh. Caleb’s right. You can already feel yourself relaxing back into him as he adjusts to pull you into his lap, your body easily slotting against his own.
“Let me help you with it later, though,” you say begrudgingly.
The muscles in his forearm flex against your stomach as he squeezes you, pressing a kiss to your neck that makes you stiffen. “Alright, alright. We’ll see.”
Tilting your head back, it rests on his shoulder. Caleb’s hands drift either side of your waist, thumbs pressing into your lower back in slow, circular movements reminiscent of a massage. Your hands find his wrists with a sharp inhale, but when he hums into your skin, you let yourself slowly slacken in his hold.
“Mm, that’s it,” he whispers, and your lungs stutter around a breath.
“What’re you doing?”
Caleb’s lips twitch against your skin. “Makin’ you feel all nice and relaxed. It’s working, no?”
As if to prove his point, his hands slide up an inch further, continuing his massage, and your back arches slightly in response. His lips graze the junction of your neck before he sucks lightly on your skin, and the mix of sensations are already dizzying.
“You’re making me feel a little more than relaxed,” you huff, hands slipping down his forearms, feeling the way his movements make for the shifting of muscles and tendons beneath his skin on one arm, the other unyielding metal. It’s anatomy, a basic principle, but somehow it fascinates you in a way, makes your cheeks heat further.
Caleb grins conspiringly, grip on your body tightening. “How so?”
He soothes his tongue over the small mark he made before kissing his way to the collar of your sleep shirt.
“I feel warm, and…” you lose your line of thought, or perhaps you’re too embarrassed to say more.
“And?” Caleb prompts, voice dipping lower, hands stilling on your waist. “If you’re warm, should I take your shirt off?”
Nodding, you pull yourself upright. It’s an excuse, but you both know that. He brings his hands to the hem of the shirt, raising it over your lifted arms and tossing it to the foot of the bed. Caleb hooks his chin over your shoulder, bringing you to lay back against him once more with a hand splayed at your stomach.
“Just look at you,” he murmurs in barely concealed admiration. He grips your jaw, taking a moment to place a smattering of kisses to your neck before coaxing you to glance downward. “Look.”
Caleb’s hand is a perfect fit to your waist—you wear him like he was made for you, or maybe you were made for him, and he can’t help but feel the same way as your supple skin molds to the shape of his fingers. Pressing his palm flat against you, fingers stretched wide, he lets out a breath that passes over the shell of your ear.
His hands leave you momentarily before skirting over your wrists, drawing a slow line up your forearms, biceps, ending at your shoulders as he clutches them.
“I want you to watch as I touch you, okay baby? Don’t look away.”
You crane your neck to see his face, and when you glimpse the way he looks so breathless as your eyes meet, it stirs something low in your stomach. “Caleb…”
He simply catches your jaw once more and angles it how it was before. Anticipation makes your breath come short as you watch his palms smooth over your chest, catching your nipples in a way that makes you lean into the contact. His fingertips trace your sternum, moving lower as his hands wrap either side of your waist, sliding upwards and feeling along the bones of your ribcage. He makes it to your chest again, cupping your boobs, and you lean further back against him, the both of you trying to control your breathing.
“Please, Caleb,” you say, voice quiet and unsteady. Your eyes stay on his hands, mostly because he asked you, though the sight is hard to look away from in and of itself.
Caleb gasps, almost silently. “You don’t need to beg me, my pretty girl. I’ll always give you what you want,” he says, but you have a feeling he likes hearing you ask for it.
Caleb's fingertips skim your nipples, repeating that same little sweep of his fingers after you make a breathy sound. Just faint, drawn out touches of the pads of his fingers have you gripping his arms, the gentle, observant way he handles you making your heart flutter. You don’t even notice your eyes have closed, your body chasing his hands each time he pulls them away.
Fingertips closing around the buds, he rolls them, pinches them, does whatever will get you to go soft and pliant and needy under his hands.
“How do you feel now?” He asks, head dipping down to meet your neck. “Still ‘warm, and’?”
Nodding, your nails bite into his skin slightly as he makes out with your throat. “Ah—It’s good, you feel good.”
“Oh—”
Squirming, your legs manage to part over one of his thighs, and the pressure against your core feels relieving to the ache that’s becoming more apparent. You sense Caleb’s gaze, his muffled moan as you rock your hips against his thigh, just a small shift in your hips that feels lewd to be seen doing.
When his thigh lifts beneath you, you whine, rolling your hips far more openly, and Caleb seems to be done with whatever it is you’d started doing, quickly pulling you closer and lying back on the bed with you both on your sides, him spooning you. Palm sliding down to your legs, he pulls the top one securely over his thigh before parting his own legs, and you’re forced open with him. You tense, instinctively trying to close up, but one is hiked high over his thigh and his other leg rests over yours, pressing it into the mattress when he feels you move.
“You don’t know what you do to me, do you?” Caleb pants, and you can feel his bulge twitch against you, fingers teasing the waistband of your sleep shorts. “It’s okay, I’ve got you. I’ll make you feel more than just good, yeah? Anything you want.”
Muttering an utterly wrecked assent, you feel his hand slip beneath your shorts, rapidly seeking out your wet folds. You both moan as Caleb feels how soaked you are for him, your breath hitching at the first glide of his fingers through your heat.
“You’re dripping,” Caleb groans, stroking you slowly.
Thighs quivering, you whimper, reaching to grasp at the closest part of him you can reach, which happens to be his arm again. You’re not disappointed. You call out his name under your breath.
Caleb slides the first digit into you, pressing up against your walls. The drag out is careful, and he pushes back in just as steadily, the depth alone reaching parts of you that your smaller fingers struggle to find. Pulling out, his finger makes its way to your clit, pressing down and making slow circles on the sensitive bud while you let out a faint sound into the thick air between you.
“Shh,” he says, lips attached to your neck, breathing you in. “Caleb’s gonna take care of you.”
“You’re so nice to me,” you reply, a little lost in his big warm hold.
A breathy laugh escapes him, reverberates through his chest into your back. “That’s right…”
And he does take care of you. After toying with your clit until you’re almost dizzy, slack against him, he lines two fingers up to your hole, pushing them in as deep as they’ll go. You moan at the stretch of him, clenching around him as he sets a fast pace, fingertips knocking against your walls, searching for that spongy spot that makes you see stars.
“Caleb, Caleb, ah—” you breathe, gripping his arm with vigour, rocking your hips into his hand as much as the position will let you. Caleb whimpers into your neck, watching the display, trying not to cum in his pants from how you’re grinding your ass over his boner each time you shift your hips. When you keen loudly, head falling back, he knows to keep angling his fingers right there, at the spot that’ll make you fall apart on his fingers.
You squirm at his relentless precision, and Caleb’s other arm wraps around you, pulling your body the rest of the way atop his own, thighs spread over his as you lay fully against his chest. Your legs tremble in an effort to shut, and he uses his evol to hold them in place. A wave of arousal shoots to his dick at how easy it is to restrain you, how you don’t fight against it .
“Cum, cum all over my hand,” Caleb rasps, voice right beside your ear, sounding almost as undone as you are. “Cum for me.”
Bringing your hand to your mouth, you bite down on your skin, but Caleb is quick to remove it, replacing it with his fingers. He shoves them halfway into your mouth as your orgasm hits, and you moan around them, back arching sharply whilst he fingers you through it.
“Good girl,” you hear in the midst of it all.
Your hips slow their movements, and your hazy stare meets the ceiling. Caleb’s hand stops moving, remaining inside you as he pulls his fingers from your mouth to trail them over your chest softly, leaving a path of saliva in their wake. Still catching your breath, you sigh as he directs his attention to your boobs again, pinching one nipple softly, teasing the bud between his fingertips.
“When I’m lookin’ at you from here, I can see what you see,” Caleb murmurs, voice close. A pleasant tingle runs down your spine. “I can feel when you move, smell your shampoo, your perfume, your scent.”
He gives your nipple one sharp pinch before moving to the other. Your head falls to face the side.
“I feel you too,” you respond. Caleb’s dick is leaking a wet spot through his clothes and your shorts, pressing against your behind. You shift your hips over him and he grunts, hand coming to hold you in place.
“Wait, baby,” he speaks in a soft voice, and his fingers start moving inside you again, setting the same rapid pace as before. Whining, your hands slam against the mattress as you try to push up, but Caleb wraps an arm around you to pull you down again.
“Caleb, hurts—” you cry out at the overstimulation, body writhing helplessly.
“You can take it,” he says, holding you tight. “Unless you want to stop?”
“No!”
“I don't want to either.”
Caleb’s evol prevents your legs from kicking out, and you feel a little like a pinned bug when there’s nothing you can do to escape him. The sensations are overwhelming, painful, but still so good, and you’re not sure whether to chase them or run away. You’re given neither option, anyway.
Eventually, you stop fighting, going boneless atop him.
“See? Knew you could do it,” Caleb breathes.
By the time he slows, you’re not sure if you want him to. He halts to a slow grind inside you, thumb finding your clit as you moan weakly. Then, he scissors your walls, and your body jolts at the feeling. A third digit prods at your entrance. You squeak as it joins the rest, a tight fit, but not painful.
“Squeezin’ my fingers so tight.” Caleb thrusts them into you shallowly. “Do you want me even deeper? Need you, pips.”
You fight the haze in your mind as you reply. “Been so good to me, Caleb. I want you to have it. Want you inside.”
Caleb nips the shell of your ear, shoving his fingers as deep as they’ll go before pulling them out, releasing his evol’s hold on your body to pull your shorts and panties down your hips. You move your legs to help him get them past your knees, kicking them off when they slip down to your ankles to the far corner of the bed.
Grabbing an unoccupied pillow, he tugs it closer and flips you both over, slipping it beneath your hips. You let out a breath as your cheek meets the mattress, going lax as he cards a hand through your hair and tilts himself to meet your gaze. His eyes are dark, but his smile is so soft, hair falling against a forehead beaded with sweat, face flushed.
“I love you,” he says warmly, pressing a kiss to your shoulderblade. “More than you’ll know.”
You watch him. He averts his gaze downward, shucks off his pants, makes a little sound as his dick is freed. Caleb adjusts the position of your thighs and slides his tip over your folds, using one hand to smear your juices all over himself, the other holding himself up, his thick bicep almost close enough to your face to bite. He starts to push himself in.
“I love you too,” you finally say, squinting at the stretch of him—it hurts, but it’s delicious all the same. “You’re… everything to me.”
Caleb looks up, gaze locking onto yours. His other arm braces at your other side, his face bowing to press a kiss to your cheek. Brows creasing, your hand finds one of his.
“Do it,” you whisper.
Shuddering, his hips slam into yours, filling you all the way, your body being pushed against the bed. Neither of you look away from each other. The sound you make is high pitched and a little pained, and Caleb summons all his restraint to let you adjust, grinding into you gently and singing your praises between breathy whimpers, even as your nails dig into his skin.
At some point, your eyes drift shut. Tension and pain bleeds out of your body, world narrowing to the warm air and your combined breaths, Caleb’s dick nudging a place high, high up inside you, his voice next to your ear. You forget everything besides him, remember nothing but the present, pulled into a world where your growing, mounting pleasure is all you can feel. You are light, warm, held.
“Oh, honey,” Caleb rasps, deepening his thrusts. “You feel good?”
You don’t know what your face is doing. The press of his hips against your own is heavenly, the sounds you make together are lewd, and through everything you find that you can’t respond to him. Caleb loves you, is making love to you, and you love him so much, too.
“Mmh, you’re so cute,” he says, expression fond. Then his breath hitches, and he sighs into your hot skin. “Sucking me in. Never wanna leave you.”
Caleb drapes his body over your own, fucking you in earnest, and you take it, grinding back against him without realising, back arched sharply. The pressure of his body against yours still accommodates both your rapid breaths. Feeling him so deep, so close, makes your heart feel full and warm. Your body parts around his dick, lets him in, accepts every inch, all he’ll give.
Your legs start to tremble as your orgasm approaches, little tremors that, alongside your pulsing walls, tell him you’re on the brink of falling apart.
“Gonna cum, gonna cum baby,” Caleb moans. “Love you love you love you…”
You don’t know who cums first, so inextricably entwined in this moment that it’s anyone’s guess. Caleb thrusts into you until you both have matching tears of overstimulation, until he physically can’t keep going on. Then, just before you pass out, he lays himself beside you and pulls you into his arms.
—
You wake up redressed in warm pyjamas, clean and pleasantly limp, to Caleb stroking your cheek. He gives you one of those smiles that make you want to keep him in your arms for an eternity.
“Hey, how are you feeling? I made us pancakes,” Caleb says, helping you sit up. When you immediately cling to him, he laughs and hugs you back.
“I’m feeling hungry,” you pout. “And I need to pee. But… I thought you said you’d let me help with breakfast?”
Caleb hums in consideration. “Oh, really? I never heard such a thing.” Leaning down, he kisses your forehead. “Besides, when have I not taken care of you? Making breakfast is a piece of cake.”
Huffing, you try to turn away from him, but he only pulls you closer. “You spoil me.”
“Yep, and I’ll have you know Caleb’s got a lot more love where that’s comin’ from, Pipsqueak,” he says, lifting you up and walking you to the bathroom. “That’s for sure.”
Here’s the thing about trying to do something nice for someone who is annoyingly capable of doing everything himself: it doesn’t work.
You’ve been trying for three weeks.
Three.
And you have nothing to show for it except a slightly bruised ego, a jaw that aches, a pussy that’s always throbbing, and a creeping, maddening awareness that Caleb Xia Yi Zhou might actually be impossible to spoil.
His birthday is in two weeks.
Two weeks, and you’ve cooked him exactly zero meals because every time you shuffle into the kitchen with some grand intention — a recipe pulled up on your phone, ingredients arranged on the counter — Caleb is already there.
Already at the stove.
Already flipping something in a pan with the confidence of a man who learned to cook before he learned to shave.
He’ll glance over his shoulder at you and smile, and it’s that smile, the soft one with the slight crinkle at the corner of his purple eyes, and you’ll feel your irritation deflate like a sad balloon because god, he’s so annoyingly pretty.
You tried cleaning.
You got up early. Practically military-early, which for you is a genuine sacrifice.
You dug out the cleaning supplies from under the sink and you had the vacuum cleaner out before seven in the morning, which should have earned you some kind of medal.
Instead you found the living room already clean. Not recently clean. Impeccably clean. Like it had never been touched by the concept of mess. There was a note on the coffee table in his handwriting: Don’t strain yourself, Pipsqueak. — C.
You may have crumpled that note aggressively.
You may have then proceeded to sit down in the middle of the clean living room floor and have something that could generously be called a meltdown. A tantrum, if you’re being less generous.
Caleb came in from wherever he’d been — still in that black and orange flight jacket, hair slightly messed, looking unfairly effortless — and found you sitting on the floor with your arms crossed and your expression set to full operational sulk.
He didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at you, and then the corner of his mouth tugged upward, and he laughed. Not mean. Never mean with you.
Just warm and rich and a little helpless, like you were the funniest thing he’d ever seen and also slightly exasperating.
“I just wanted to help,” you told him, which came out more like a whine than a declaration.
“I know,” he said, and before you could say anything else he had you up over his shoulder like you weighed nothing — like you were a bag of laundry, like the laws of gravity simply applied differently to you when he decided they did — and the world flipped upside down and his hand was firm and warm on the back of your thigh.
“Caleb—“
“You wanna work so much?” His voice had dropped, that particular low register that lived somewhere between teasing and intent. “Alright. Put that mouth to work.”
And the thing is. The thing is. You’re not going to dwell on what happened after that.
You’re absolutely not going to think about how you ended up on your knees on the floor of his office with his hands loose in your hair and his cock heavy on your tongue, or about the sounds he made, or about the way he looked down at you with those purple eyes gone dark and said good girl like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
You are not dwelling on any of that.
You’re especially not dwelling on the fact that you’d have done it again. Enthusiastically.
But the point is — and you have to keep coming back to the point because your brain has a truly inconvenient tendency to wander — his birthday is in two weeks.
And you have done nothing.
Zero.
You’ve been outmaneuvered at every turn by a six-foot-two military pilot who apparently never sleeps and has a pathological need to do everything himself before anyone else can.
Domestic route: blocked. Culinary route: blocked. Cleaning route: blocked and mocked, very gently, via handwritten note.
Fine. Fine.
If he won’t let you help him with the house, you’ll help him in a different way. A much more interesting way.
The idea had come to you in the middle of the night, the way good ideas tend to. If Caleb loves his uniform, and he does, he’s meticulous about it in a way that borders on religious — the pressed lines, the insignia, the whole Colonel energy he wears like a second skin — then what better way to short-circuit his brain than to wear it yourself?
You’d ordered it three weeks ago, back before the tantrum, when you still thought the cooking plan might work.
It had been sitting in your closet ever since, tucked behind a row of regular clothes, hidden in plain sight as something so mundane that Caleb, who does occasionally poke his head into your room to return folded laundry like some kind of domestic nightmare, would never look twice at it.
Just a dry-cleaning bag. Just a work uniform. Nothing to see here.
You pull it out now, holding it up in the soft late-afternoon light that comes through your window, and you look at it critically. It’s exactly right. The cut, the fabric, the insignia you’d had replicated. The jacket. The pants. The whole setup.
Caleb is in his room, the door cracked open the way it always is when he’s working at his desk, which means you can hear the faint occasional sound of papers shifting or his pen moving, which means he is exactly where you want him.
You look at the uniform again. You look at yourself in the mirror on the back of your closet door.
You’re going to march into his room, and you’re going to make Colonel Caleb Xia Yi Zhou lose every single thread of his composure, because it’s almost his birthday and you refuse — refuse — to be outmaneuvered a fourth time.
But here’s what they don’t tell you about ordering a uniform online when you’re more focused on the fantasy of it than the logistics: size matters.
Size matters a lot.
You step into the pants first, which is a process. You get them up past your knees fine. Past your thighs is already a project. By the time you’ve wrestled them up over your hips you’re already slightly out of breath, and when you look in the mirror the fabric is pulled so tight across your ass that you can practically count the individual seams.
You turn sideways. You turn back. You try bending at the knee to test the range of motion and the pants make a sound like a warning.
Don’t, the pants say. Absolutely do not.
Okay, so bending is out.
Moving with anything resembling caution is also out.
If you sit down in these you might genuinely be trapped.
You accept this as the price of the plan and move on to the jacket, which is the least of your problems until it isn’t — the buttons close over your stomach fine, but once you get to your chest it becomes a negotiation.
The fabric strains. The buttons are doing their best. They are trying so hard and they are losing, and there’s a gap between the second and third button from the top that wasn’t there in the product photos, where the fabric pulls apart just enough to show a strip of skin and the edge of your bra.
You look at yourself in the mirror for a long moment.
“Okay,” you say.
Your ass looks genuinely extraordinary. You have to give the too-tight pants that — they’ve done something transcendent back there. The uniform jacket hits just above the curve of it, which means when you lean forward even slightly there is an event happening. And the gap at the chest is doing something. It’s doing something you hadn’t planned, but you’re choosing to count it as a feature.
You rake your hair back, let it fall, tilt your chin. You point at your own reflection.
“He’s not gonna know what hit him.”
Your reflection looks back at you with the energy of someone who is sixty percent confident and forty percent about to back out.
You do not give her the opportunity.
You turn away from the mirror before the forty percent can gain ground, grab the door handle, and head out into the hallway.
The apartment is quiet. The late afternoon has gone gold and long-shadowed, and Caleb’s door is still cracked the way it was before, a thin rectangle of warm light falling across the hall floor. You can hear him in there — the faint shift of paper, the soft particular sound of his pen, totally absorbed. He has no idea.
You stop outside his door. You breathe.
You arrange your face into an expression of worried contrition, which takes some doing because underneath it you are absolutely delighted with yourself, and you knock twice on the door frame, keeping your body just out of sight around the edge.
“Caleb?” Your voice comes out with exactly the right wobble — concerned, a little sheepish, the voice of someone who has done something they feel bad about. “I’m really sorry, but — I was trying to do something nice, and I think I kind of messed up...”
There’s a pause. You hear his pen stop.
“Messed up how?” His voice is careful, not alarmed. Just attentive, the way he always is when you sound uncertain, because Caleb has never once in his life been able to hear you sound uncertain without immediately paying attention. It’s one of his more exploitable qualities.
“I tried washing your uniform for you,” you say, and you let the words come out small and guilty. “And I think — I think it might have... shrunk.”
Another pause. You can picture him at his desk, his brow doing that slight furrow, trying to work out why that’s a problem that requires you to sound this apologetic.
“Sweetheart.” His voice is mild, unoffended, just a little puzzled. The chair shifts. “Let me see it. Come here.”
That’s your cue.
You step around the door frame and into the light of his room, and then you walk toward him. You take your time with it, because the pants make fast movement inadvisable anyway, and because the whole point is to let him see every inch of you in this thing that barely contains you — the jacket pulled tight across your chest, the gap where the buttons strain, the pants that have given up any pretense of modesty and are simply painting you in detail.
Caleb goes completely still.
He’d been turned partway toward the door, one arm braced on his desk, and that’s how he stays — perfectly, completely motionless — as you cross the room toward him.
His mouth doesn’t drop open. He’s more composed than that. But his eyes go somewhere darker and the breath he’d been in the middle of just... stops. You can see it. The stillness of his chest.
His cock is already pressing against his pants. You notice this without looking directly, the way you notice a fire — by the heat of it, by the fact that the room feels different suddenly
You don’t say anything. You walk to his desk, turn so your back is to him, and lean against the edge of it. Your ass settles onto his work papers with a soft, definitive sound. You glance back at him over your shoulder.
He still hasn’t spoken. He’s just watching you.
His eyes trace the uniform, absorbing every detail like a blueprint he’s determined to master. His jaw is tight. The smirk hasn’t arrived yet — it’s building, you can see it in the set of his mouth, the way the corner of his lip is just beginning to pull.
You cross your arms loosely, settle your weight back, and look at him.
“Well?” you say, keeping your voice light, unbothered, like you aren’t desperately aware of your own heartbeat. “What do you think? Think it shrunk?”
And there it is — the smirk, slow and deliberate as a knife being unsheathed, landing at the corner of his mouth like he was never trying to hold it back, just waiting to make sure you were watching when it showed up.
“Mhm,” Caleb says. It’s not an answer. It’s not even a word. It’s just a sound in the low register of his voice that goes directly down your spine. The look in his eyes is the look of a man who has already decided what’s going to happen next and finds it very, very funny that you thought you were in charge of this.
You swallow.
Maybe you didn’t think this through all the way.
You think — well, you THOUGHT — that you have the upper hand here.
You’re sitting on his desk, his papers crinkled under your ass, wearing his uniform like you own it, and he’s just standing there in front of you looking at you with that smirk, and you think: yeah, okay, I’ve got him. You think: he’s flustered and I did that. You think a lot of things very quickly, in the way you do when you’re trying to feel confident and your brain is helping you lie to yourself.
Then Caleb stands up.
He’d been leaning slightly forward, one hand on the arm of his chair. He rises to his full height like the tide coming in, slow and inevitable, and suddenly he is very tall.
You’ve always known he’s tall. Six-foot-two is not a secret.
You have lived with this man, you’ve stood next to him at the grocery store and craned your neck at him across the dinner table and had him tuck you under his arm for years without really registering it the way you register it now.
You have to lean back just to keep eye contact. Your hands go automatically to the desk behind you, bracing.
“Hi,” you say, which is not what you’d planned to say.
He doesn’t answer. Instead he reaches out — and picks you up. Both hands, one at your hip and one at your thigh, and he lifts you like you’re a piece of paper he’s clearing off the desk and deposits you further back on the desk surface, higher up, and the pants — the beautiful, already-suffering pants — finally meet their end.
The seam goes with a sharp tearing sound right down the middle, and you feel the cool air of the room find your inner thighs, and you make a sound you hadn’t planned to make, somewhere between a gasp and a laugh, and your hands fly down to cover yourself automatically. That does nothing, by the way, because Caleb’s hands are already there, wrapping around your wrists and holding them to the side with a calm, immovable firmness.
His hands are enormous around your wrists. You could probably fight it but you don’t, because you’ve already forgotten what you were fighting for.
Your panties are orange. Bright, irreverent orange, the exact same color as the stripe on his flight jacket, and they are completely visible through the wreckage of the pants.
Caleb stares at them.
And then he does something you didn’t predict, because you should have known by now that Caleb in this mode is ungovernable: he drops his head.
He dips down between your thighs and puts his nose right against the fabric, and inhales. Long and deep and completely shameless, like you’re something he’s been wanting to smell for a long time and he is going to take his time about it.
You feel the breath of it through the fabric, warm and deliberate, and your hands jerk reflexively in his grip but he doesn’t let go.
“Caleb—“
He licks. A long, slow drag of his tongue over the front of your underwear, and the fabric is thin enough that you feel all of it — the wet heat, the pressure, the shape of his mouth working against you like he’s trying to memorize you through the cotton.
He does it again. He makes a sound low in his throat that is not a civilized sound, that belongs to something older and less housebroken than any version of Caleb you’ve been allowed to see before.
There is saliva soaking into the fabric now. There is the obscene warmth of his mouth. And there is you, gripping the edge of his desk with fingers gone white, breathing through your teeth.
He lets go of your wrists, steps back, and reaches into his own pants. He doesn’t bother taking them off — just shoves them down to his knees, enough to free himself, and his cock springs out like it’s been waiting for this, already flushed and heavy, standing up toward his stomach.
He wraps one hand around the base of it and strokes it slowly, watching you, watching the orange of your panties, watching the evidence of what he’s already done to them.
“Mmm,” he says again, that low sound from before. Not a word. An assessment.
Then he steps forward, and instead of pushing in — instead of doing the obvious thing, the thing you are absolutely ready for whether you’ll admit it or not — he just leans against you.
Pushes his cock down flat against the front of your panties, along your stomach, and the length of him is just. There. You both look down at the same time.
His tip passes your navel. Surpasses it. There’s cock laid against your stomach in a way that makes the math of the situation very, very clear.
“Look here, Pips.” His voice is low and easy, like he’s making an observation about the weather, like he’s discussing something reasonable and not currently resting every inch of himself against your skin. “I’m gonna be in here one day.”
Not I want to. Not can I? Just — I’m going to. The same tone he uses when he talks about flight routes and promotions and things he’s already decided are going to happen.
Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
He pulls back, and there are wet spots on your panties, and he looks at them with an expression of profound satisfaction before he presses himself back against you. Not inside, just along you, rubbing the length of his cock over your pussy through the ruined fabric. You’re so wet that it soaks through immediately and he can feel it.. You can tell by the hitch in his breath and the way his hips rock forward once, twice, following the slick heat of you like he can’t help it.
“Fuck,” he breathes, and it comes out reverent.
His cock moves against you in long, rolling strokes, gathering up your slick, dragging it across the fabric. Spreading isn’t enough. It isn’t enough, and Caleb knows it, and you know it, and the knowing doesn’t stop anything.
You feel the exact moment he loses the last organized thought in his head. It’s in the shift of his hips, the way they press forward with new intent instead of the rolling stroke from before.
His hands grip the backs of your thighs, and he pushes, and the wet cotton of your panties catches him, gives just a little, and his tip nudges in by a fraction — barely there, barely a suggestion of inside — and that’s all it takes.
He cums.
Just like that.
A low, bitten-off sound tears out of him, and you feel it — the heat of it soaking into the fabric, spreading in a wet rush that joins everything already there, and he’s still pressed against you, shuddering, his forehead dropping toward your shoulder without quite landing.
“Jesus—“ he breathes, and it comes out broken, like he wasn’t expecting himself.
You look down. The orange cotton is wrecked, soaked through and stained, clinging to you with the weight of what he’s done, and Caleb is looking down at it too.
“Again,” he decides, out loud, which is not a request.
He draws back and pushes forward again, harder this time, and the fabric holds for approximately one more second before it doesn’t.
The seam at the center tears cleanly, cotton splitting apart, and with the combined slick of you and the mess he’s already made, his cock slides and then doesn’t quite find the angle it was looking for. Instead it slides up, and he ends up fitted snugly between your lips, sandwiched in the wet heat of you, your folds closing around him on either side without him getting inside. The tip of him grazes your clit.
You make a sound that isn’t your voice, or isn’t a voice you’ve used before.
He goes still. Then his hips roll, experimentally, once, feeling it — the slick of you on both sides of him, your flesh pressing in, and the soft brush of your pubic hair against the base of his cock strike him directly in the brain stem.
“Oh, fuck.”
His hips find a rhythm, a steady roll that sends his cock gliding between your lips. Each thrust drags him against your clit, his length slick with your desire and the remnants of his own release. The room echoes with filthy, sloppy sounds—the smack of skin on skin, the lewd squish of his cock plowing through the fucking mess you’ve made together.
He cums again. Just erupts, fountaining up your stomach, over the ripped hem of the costume jacket, and it goes everywhere and he watches it go everywhere. His cock is still twitching.
Then he looks up at you.
“Ma’am,” he says, and the word is wrong and filthy in his mouth. Wrong because you’re not his superior, wrong because he’s never called you that in his life, wrong because of everything. He says it with a straight face.
With his hand already moving, rubbing the flat of his palm over your stomach, spreading what he’s put there into your skin. His jaw is tight. “I don’t think this uniform belongs to me anymore.”
“Caleb—“
“’Yes, sir’ works.” He isn’t looking at your face. He’s watching his own hand move, the cream worked into your skin going slick and shining. His thumb drags through the mess of you and he pushes it between your pussy lips — against them, not in, just the pressure of him insisting — and your thighs try to close and his hips stop them. “You’re so wet for me, Pips. You’re soaking. Did you know that?”
You knew. You’ve known for the last fifteen minutes in excruciating detail.
“You did this to me,” you manage.
“Yeah,” he agrees, like that pleases him enormously. “I did.”
He takes the ruined waistband of your panties in both hands, the torn fabric hanging in tatters, and pulls the remnants taut. A strip of it pressed flat against you, between your lips, and then he presses his cock back over it, and the combined friction is something your nervous system genuinely wasn’t prepared for.
He drags. Long and deliberate and slow, forcing the fabric tight against your skin, and the edge of the seam catches your clit just right and you make a noise loud enough to embarrass yourself, your hands scrabbling at the back of his neck.
“There she is,” Caleb says, very quietly, and he does it again.
Your thighs shake. The pressure builds with a speed that makes you feel cheated out of the anticipation of it, and when you tip over the edge you take him with you. You squirt, sudden and surprised and messy, and it hits him across the lower stomach and the base of his cock and he makes a sound like he’s been hit.
You expected this to slow him down. You expected this to be the moment he regroups, take a breath, bring some of that Colonel composure back to bear.
He grabs your hips instead.
His eyes are wide and dark and there is nothing composed about him. He looks at the mess between your bodies, your slick and his cum and the ruined orange cotton of your underwear, and his expression is the expression of a man who has found the meaning of life,
“Need gege to clean you up?” He asks.
His hips roll forward, coating himself back in you, and the mess makes a sound, and Caleb Xia Yi Zhou, Colonel, decorated pilot, the most responsible person in your life, looks at you with your ruined uniform jacket hanging off your shoulders and your thighs wrapped around him and his cock slick with everything that’s passed between you, and he smiles. Wide and a little wild and completely without apology.
You are in so much trouble.
Caleb grabs the remnants of your panties in both fists and pulls, and they give immediately. The cotton is already destroyed, and the last of it comes away with a sound of final surrender.
He drops it somewhere. He grabs the shredded ends of the costume pants, what’s left of them still clinging to your legs, and those go too, peeled down and discarded over the edge of the desk. You’re bare from the waist down in the ruins of this cheap costume uniform and the cool air of his room comes for your skin all at once.
Caleb doesn’t notice, or maybe he doesn’t care. He’s looking at you with the focused, slightly unhinged attention, and his cock is still hard and flushed and absolutely ready despite cumming all his kids all over you.
He picks his cock back up in his hand. Looks at you. And then he brings it down against your pussy in a single, deliberate slap.
The sound it makes is obscene. Wet and sharp and loud in the quiet room, and the splatter of everything already there — your slick, his cum, the accumulated evidence of the last twenty minutes — goes everywhere, and you jerk. Your thighs try to close and Caleb puts one hand flat on your inner thigh, open-palmed, holding you in place.
“Stay,” he says, like you’re a very beloved problem.
He does it again. The slap of his cock against your pussy, light and then firmer, and every impact sends a shock up through your hips. The wet sound of it fills the room and he is watching — watching it happen, watching the cream fly, watching the way your lips part and close around the impact, and his expression is so rapt and so unabashedly delighted that you almost laugh except that you’re too busy making sounds that aren’t laughter.
“Caleb—“
“Sir,” he corrects, absently, still watching what he’s doing with the focus of someone who finds it genuinely fascinating. “Or ma’am, I don’t care, pick one.”
“I’m not calling you ma’am,” you say, breathless.
“No, you’re the ma’am.” He looks up briefly. “You’re in uniform, Pips.” Then back down. “You’re technically outranking me right now.”
This is demented reasoning and you both know it. But it doesn’t matter because he’s moved on from slapping his dick on you to pressing his tip directly against your clit, circling it in slow, lazy strokes like he’s drawing something. His free hand has found your pussy lips, two fingers sliding along either side, pressing them together, releasing, pressing again, the wet sounds mortifying and you’re watching him do it with your mouth open because apparently your body has decided to spectate.
“Hi,” Caleb says to your pussy, conversationally. His fingers press your lips together again. They make a sound. “Yeah,” he says, nodding, like he’s hearing something only he can understand. “I know. Me too.”
“Are you talking to it—”
“Shh.” His tip presses down and rolls over your clit again and your sentence evaporates. “We’re having a moment.”
You are going to lose your mind.
In fact, you are already losing it.
You lost it approximately seventeen minutes ago and you’ve just been running on the fumes of it.
And Caleb is still working that slow deliberate circle with the head of his cock and squishing your lips between his fingers with the focus of a man who has found his calling.
“You’re so goddamn soft,” he says, and now his voice has dropped all the way down, into that register that does things to your ovaries.
“You know that? Every time I think about how — “ he presses down harder, rolls, and you make a sound that does things to his expression — “how fucking small you are—“ another stroke, the tip dragging slick — “I can’t even, Pips. I would fill you up to your throat, do you understand that? I’m not — I’m being serious right now—“
“Caleb—“
“Sir,” he says again, more firmly this time, though it’s undercut by the fact that he’s clearly struggling to form sentences himself.
His hips have started moving again with that roll, working himself against you, and the slick built between you is audible and continuous and bubbly. “I would split you in half, sweetheart, I would be so far in you—”
He cums.
It happens mid-sentence, which would be funny under other circumstances. His voice just stops, replaced by a rough broken sound, and he tilts forward and his cock kicks upward and he paints you with it. Long white stripes landing across your stomach and the open front of the costume jacket, soaking into the fabric and your skin alike. And he keeps stroking through it with his fist, milking every last drop out, watching it land.
The uniform is destroyed.
It is a complete loss.
There is no dry cleaner in the world that could help this uniform.
You don’t care. You reach out and grab his wrist.
“Again, sir,” you say, which is what he said earlier.
He looks at you. His chest is heaving. His hair is messed up, falling across his forehead. His pants are still at his knees, which looks ridiculous, but on Caleb it just looks like a man who didn’t have time for niceties.
He tries. He genuinely tries.
His hips shift forward, his hand moves, and then his whole body seems to make a decision. Caleb falls forward, catching himself on his forearms on the desk, and lowers his head until his forehead rests in the crook of your neck. His weight on you but managed, warm and enormous, his breath coming against your collarbone in deep, ragged pulls.
He doesn’t move.
The room is very quiet.
After a moment, Caleb says, in a muffled, genuine tone, “I think my soul just left my body, Pips.”
You stare at the ceiling. Your chest is heaving.
There is cum on the costume. There is cum on you.
Your pants are in pieces on the floor and you are sitting on his work papers and his face is in your neck and he has just, apparently, experienced some kind of astral event.
“Are you dead?”
“Yes.” A pause. “Don’t tell Gran.”
You bring your hand up — slowly, because everything is a little slow right now — and rest it on the back of his head.
His hair is soft. It’s always soft, stupidly soft, and he makes a low satisfied sound at the contact like a very large, very spent dog who has found his spot and has no plans to relocate.
“Don’t die yet,” you tell the ceiling.
Caleb laughs into your neck. It’s muffled and helpless and warm, and it shakes through his whole chest and into you, and you feel it everywhere.
The Colonel Behind Closed Doors (Is Your Good Boy)
summary °✧୨ৎ Caleb’s favorite place to be is at your feet, leashed like a dog. he tries to be a good boy, but you make it challenging, pushing him until he breaks.
content °✧୨ৎ pet play/collar + leash, humiliation/degradation. teasing, begging, bondage, spitting in mouth, stepping on him, praise, crying/dacryphilia, orgasm control (delay&forced), overstimulation, drugs mentioned as a metaphor, mentions he previously failed to pull out, calls himself your “bitch boy” once, sucking fingers, masturbation/fingering, squirting, pet names, he humps your shoe, he licks his own pre-cum, he cums untouched (again), some cuddling aftercare
a/n °✧୨ৎ may contain errors. I’ve looked at this too much & can barely tell how it sounds anymore. <3
The colonel instills fear with a mere glance. His name alone summons dread. He fits the role so well that it appears innate. Many assume it’s just his constant disposition.
They couldn’t be more wrong.
Plenty of layers lie beneath that mask of a cold-hearted superior. He sits at the hierarchy’s pinnacle, yet there’s someone he answers to, of his own volition; no ulterior motifs, hidden strategy, or power to be gained.
Their commander is under your command—under your heel.
That dangerous, imposing force pines for your approval. So, he’s made to work for it.
Stripped naked, he sits obediently on the floor, staring up at you like he’s seeing God. Uniform tossed to the couch, his authority is discarded, all transferred to you.
“Gonna be a good boy for me?” Your stiletto hovers over his crotch, nearly grazing it, before digging into his upper thigh.
“Mhmm, i’ll be so soo good.” He’s brimming with energy, livened by those two simple words. As always, they melt him into something so malleable.
His lips part as you brush over them, quivering under your thumb. Drool seeps from the corners.
“This is all you’re getting for now. Open.”
You’d been letting saliva accumulate. With his immediate compliance, it descends onto his tongue. Emitting a lengthy groan, he allows your spit to linger there, mixing with his. He revels in its presence, before swallowing. Eyes shining with excitement, he awaits further instructions, practically foaming at the mouth to serve you.
He’s your sweet little pet—striving for perfect adherence to each rule. If told to sit and roll over, there would be no hesitation.
He's on a tight leash, woven into your palm.
And it’s not solely metaphorical.
The ruthless colonel loves to be collared.
Red leather encircles his neck. Dangling from the center, is a silver dog-tag engraved with his name. The strap fastened to him is kept taut. He moans with each assertive tug.
To him, nothing is hotter than being thrust into submission. It has his tip dripping, tinged an angry blend of red-purple hues. The veins on his shaft are so pronounced, like marking a path, imploring you to follow.
“Aww, your cock is already crying for me, what a needy boy you are…gonna have to be still though, okay? Can you do that for me?”
He nods with genuine conviction. However, determination won’t be enough. Failure is a promise reinforced by each moment.
Especially, once the ultimate temptation is level with him.
Wrists bound by rope and a verbal order, he’s denied permission to touch. Escape would be easy, you both know that. Of course, some knotted fibers are utterly useless against him. But that adds to the fun. It’s harder to resist when giving in would be so simple.
Your bare pussy is so close. Its heat whispers against his skin, beckoning him.
He leans forward slightly.
“Stay.”
That strict tone makes his cock dance. His shaky apology is silenced by the parting of your folds. The wetness is audible as they reveal your fluttering hole. A trail of your essence spans to your ass, each glistening bead chased by another.
The remedy to his thirst is smeared slowly over your pussy, flaunting what he’s been barred from. He tracks every movement, teeth puncturing his bottom lip. Unable to claw him from his trance, the blood goes unnoticed.
Two fingers slip past your entrance, a drawn-out sigh past your lips. “hah—everything’s so sensitive, even my small fingers are just sooo muchhh. Nothing compared to the stretch yours would give…mmm, down to the knuckle, prying me apart.”
Like a puppy begging for nourishment, his pupils are massive, fixed on the meal in front of him. The proximity stirs his taste buds; he swears they detect a faint trace of the flavor. It’s carved into his memory, taunting him with recollection that’s too vivid, yet too hollow. The urge to indulge is difficult to reject.
Watching him struggle to fight it turns you on.
You’re soaked, loud squelches produced by each motion. It’s hard to delay what you so badly desire. But watching the cracks multiply is too enticing.
You love having that power over him—the only one capable of crumbling something so sturdy. And he’s always so eager for it, welcoming any method.
This one is the most brutal. Arms tied behind him, he’s forced to observe passively. Arousal shines on your wrist, dribbling onto the tile. He wants nothing more than to lick it all up, shamelessly lapping at the ground. It’s a privilege he’d do anything to earn.
“Want some?” It’s not truly a question, you already have the answer. It’s just way more satisfying to hear it from him.
“Please pips—w-want it!” He bounces slightly, restlessness bleeding into every syllable.
Such an adorable reaction warrants a little treat.
Torso guided by your heel, he lies back, legs outstretched. His head is supported by the chair. Your right foot is raised to the cushion, settling beside the crown of his skull. The other is against balls, making him gasp.
Leaning forward, your cunt is positioned over him. Your fingers thrust aggressively. Droplets spill intermittently into the mouth awaiting them—injecting him with euphoria so intense that it hurts. You’re the most potent drug. He can’t stop himself from chasing that high, humping your shoe like an animal.
“Tsk, did I say you could use my foot?”
With a distressed noise, he goes rigid. Expression pinched in concentration, he’s straining to remain still. Everything within him calls for the opposite.
The sight makes you burn, laugh rippling into a moan. “Now tell me how pitiful you are.”
“So fuckin’ gross, a dog that keeps makin’ m-messes.” He twitches with want, getting off on those words.
“Yeah, that’s exactly right.” Tension is ushered to your center as you push into that dizzying spot. More and more juices leak from you, claiming him inside and out. “Should I take you for a nice walk around the fleet? Show aallll those subordinates how fucking pathetic their colonel is?”
“Do whatever’ya want with me. Belong to you pips—mm’your little bitch boy, fuckin’ looovee it.”
The thought of being fully at your mercy drives him closer to the edge, as it does for you. He’s rutting against you once again, leaving streaks of pre-cum past your ankle.
“Yet, you still can’t control yourself, huh? About to shoot your dirty cum all over me, aren’t you?”
The tells are so obvious. His inhales are sharper, the snapping of his hips more chaotic. Seconds from his grasp, that peak is yanked away. Your leg shifts to the left, planting itself beside his outer thigh.
The loss of friction makes him flinch like he’s been kicked. “I-I didn’t mean to. Baby, please—I’m so sooo sorry! I’ll make it up to you—reaaally need to cum!”
His length is so engorged, screaming for relief. Tears fall towards his chin as he aimlessly thrusts into nothing. They’re collected with a swipe, swirled over your puffy clit—pleasure fueled by his frustration.
“Poor thing…gonna have to hold it, bad dogs don’t get rewards,” you pout mockingly. “Don’t sulk.”
That last part is insincere, you’d hate for him to stop; desperation makes him even more stunning, amplifying every sensation within you.
The pulse in your core sends shockwaves with each beat. Your hands accelerate to match its haste. “Hngh—aching so bad, might fill that whiny throat of yours. Think you deserve it?”
“I d-don’t deserve you, try so hard to be better. Please—need to drink it all up, miss that sweet little pussy so much, you’re killin’ me.”
Seems he has learned something.
Even if your mind had changed, it would be too late for interference. You squirt violently, struggling to stay upright. Gravity immediately adjusts to steady you. The feeling of release, paired with his evol’s embrace, is sheer bliss. If he wasn’t ensuring your balance, you’d certainly collapse. Strong spasms grip every inch of you so tightly. The consecutive gushes are almost too intense.
He treats each one like they might evaporate, Adams’s apple bobbing with avid gulps. Lids heavy, he consumes everything to the very last trickle. Staring up into heaven, he’s completely drunk off its taste, longing to be inside. It always greets him so warmly, hugging him like he’s been missed. That unrelenting grip insists that he stay. It gets him into trouble. His mind becomes too scrambled; when spoken orders conflict with your body’s, he sometimes follows the wrong one.
That’s why access to you has been revoked for a week; he failed to pull out—again. It hasn’t even been two full days, and he’s already distraught.
“Just the tip, pleasepleasepleaseee—I know you love my cock, always tellin’ me how good it feels. It can do muuuchh more than your fingers."
Amused, you expel a short puff of air. “Seems I haven’t trained you well enough. It's almost like you want to add another week…”
"Wait, please don’t! I won't do it again, swear!” His gaze is panicked, searching for forgiveness in yours.
“How cute.” Hand withdrawing from your cunt, you gather some of his pre from your shin. Fingers now lathered with both of you, they’re shoved past his lips. He sucks automatically. As the substance is consumed, satisfied noises continually flow from him.
When deemed to be enough, you stop him. Freeing his mouth, you point downward. “Clean up after yourself.”
His tongue promptly meets your leg, whirling over that remaining filth. The wet licks become more hurried as you smile down at him. His eyes are wide and glassy, brows raised and drawn together. Gazing up at you is a look of complete subservience.
One fluid of his simply replaces another. He still shines on your skin, now in strips of saliva. Once that’s all there is, he keeps going, as if trying to absorb you.
“Good boy,” you purr.
His moans drop in pitch as you pat his head. Lids squeezing shut, he fucks the air faster, and faster, before suddenly locking up. Unassisted by touch, all that bottled pressure bursts.
Lowering to your knees, you caress his face—contorting involuntarily, yet still unbelievably perfect. Pleasure has seized all control of his body. Thick strings of him repeatedly splash your top, sliding down your cleavage. Broken ‘sorry’s follow his strained growls.
“I know baby…you tried so hard for me,” you coo. One hand still soothing him, the other contrasts it—drawing invisible shapes on his sensitive tip, continuing once his climax subsides. You pull him closer, resting his head on your shoulder. “Since you wanted to cum so badly, let’s see how many times.”
His dick is bullied into numerous orgasms. Each one leaves him more disoriented than the last. He’s panting loudly, sobbing into your neck. But he endures it willingly—gratefully. Even torment is delightful when inflicted by you.
Nearly all his strength is depleted by the time you’re done. Once untied, his arms immediately wrap around you. You find him so endearing in this state. All toughness is gone. He’s completely vulnerable—exhausted to a rare degree, unable to pretend otherwise.
Around you, he doesn’t have to.
“I’m so proud of you, you did such a good job,” you whisper, stroking his hair. The praise offers a short burst of energy, before he slumps against you. Attempting to express gratitude, his words are muffled by fatigue. Nuzzling into your warmth, his breathing gradually slows. He dozes off within minutes.
Even when the position becomes uncomfortable, you maintain it for a while. Holding him silently, you admire this part of him.
Summary: Caleb has had it with you trying to meet up with other guys and takes matters into his own hands.
Wc: 1.9k
Content warnings and tags: a little smut (dry humping technically), a very angry Caleb, yearning, tensionnnn but it gets resolved, implied stalking.
You couldn’t believe how angry Caleb was. You’d rarely seen him in this state and you were even more shocked that he was basically silent. You expected a lecture, firm voice never raised but unrelenting nonetheless.
He’d caught you after you snuck out of the house to go to a carnival with a boy from school, and just as you thought you’d get your first kiss, Caleb stepped in.
“We’re leaving,” he’d said, waves of anger radiating from him. “And you,” he looked at the boy behind him. “Try that again. I dare you.” The threat was clear and the poor kid just shook his head with wide eyes and left quickly without sparing you another glance.
You scoffed at the whole scene before withering under Caleb’s glare, although you couldn’t help but be irritated at his interruption. This was the fourth time he’s interrupted a date, which is why you snuck out in the first place.
He grabbed your hand and hauled you back to his car, opening your door with a hard look on his face before shutting it with a little more force than necessary.
You watched him from the corner of your eye as he drove home. His hand was clenched on the wheel while the other systematically pushed his bangs back; a tell of his frustration he’d had since he was little.
The ride home was deathly quiet, he didn’t even turn on music; another sign that you’d screwed up big time.
“Cay-“
“Don’t.” The one syllable was so commanding that you didn’t dare try again, so you propped your chin up in your hand and watched the city go by.
It was a perfect spring evening. The trees were blooming and the streetlights had just started to come on. You thought back to when that meant it was time for you to stop playing night games with the neighborhood kids and go home.
After an eternity in the car, Caleb finally parked in front of the house and wasted no time walking around to open your door with the same hard look on his face from the carnival parking lot.
You decided it would be better just to follow his unspoken instructions, stepping out and waiting for his lead.
Without a word or look at you, he strode into the house and stood in the front room while you locked the door.
“Where’s gran?” You asked quietly.
“Out.”
“For how long?”
“Long enough for us to talk about what just happened.”
“Come on, Cay, I’m not a little kid anymore! I’m allowed to have fun and go on dates and, god forbid, kiss a boy!” You finally let yourself explode a little bit and it was cathartic. You’d been so frustrated with his constant interruptions and you realized in that moment that you hadn’t had a proper outlet for these bottled up feelings.
“But you have to sneak out to do it? I thought you’d been kidnapped!” He snapped back.
“Of course I had to sneak out! I wouldn’t have been able to go otherwise!”
He let out a heavy sigh and shook his head with his hands on his hips.
“You know, for someone as smart as you, you’re pretty dumb, Pipsqueak.”
What the fuck? Did he actually just call you dumb?
“Excuse me?”
“This won’t happen again. Got it?” He had that same commanding tone and it made you shake with anger. Who did he think he was telling you what to do?
“You don’t control me, Caleb. I can do whatever the fuck I want, and you can’t stop me,” you stated, crossing your arms with a scowl on your face.
That just made him laugh, which irritated you even more.
“You don’t get it, do you?” He said, pushing his bangs back again. “I’ll always be there to interrupt. No matter where I am or how old we are, as long as I’m alive, no one will ever get that close to you again.”
His statement both shocked you and made a warm ache bloom in your chest.
“You’re insane,” you stated. His head whipped to you and even in the low light of the family room, you could see the way his spine straightened.
He advanced on you slowly like a predator, his eyes both unnerved and excited you.
“You think I like feeling like this?” He practically growled out. “Constantly being at the end of my rope but still falling, waiting for that final snap that will kill me?”
He was getting dangerously close, so you took a few steps back until a wall stopped you, but he was still coming towards you.
“I wish I could get rid of these feelings. Believe me, it would be better than this torture.”
You shrunk back into the wall, holding an arm out to keep him from getting too close. You wouldn’t be able to bear it.
“Caleb, don’t-“ your hand was pressed firmly against his sternum, but he inched closer easily, resting his elbow above your head.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t, Pipsqueak.” Even without looking at him, you could tell he was practically glaring at you.
Truthfully, no response came to your head. Your fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt, eyes scrunched shut at what you knew was coming.
“I-I can’t…” you finally managed with a shaking voice.
An unamused huff left him and he brought his hand up to capture yours still crumpling his shirt.
“Then why? What are you scared of?” He asked, leaning closer.
“Everything will change. What if… what if we end up driving each other crazy?”
This time, his laugh rumbled deep in his chest so you could feel it beneath your fingers.
“I’m already crazy for you, silly girl. Are you really so blind?”
That finally made you look up at him, and the look in his eyes shocked you. It was pure adoration mixed with barely withheld restraint.
“Really?” You asked, honestly shocked. He swallowed and nodded his head, leaning down to kiss your temple lightly.
You let out a shaky breath and closed your eyes, not realizing you leaned into his touch instinctively. This motivated him to cup your cheek, trailing his lips down slowly.
“Why do you think I constantly interrupt your dates? Why I’ve told everyone at school that you’re off limits, or that any guy with enough balls to approach you has to go through me first?” His mouth was leaving torturous pecks along your jaw line moving closer and closer to your mouth with each question he posed.
Your hands moved on their own, gripping his shoulders but unsure whether to pull him closer or push him away.
“I should smack you for all of that,” you muttered. “I was wondering why hardly anyone talks to me at school.”
“Mmhmm. You probably should,” he said. “But you won’t.”
“And why is that?”
“Because… you want this just as much as I do.”
Before you could respond, his mouth was on yours and you melted into him, bringing your arms to wind around his neck and pull him closer. A small sound came from deep in his throat and he tilted his head, slotting your lips together at a new angle that made you dizzy.
The hair at the base of his neck tickled your fingers as you gripped him there, knocking the pair of you back into the wall with a thud. It startled you both enough for him to pull away slightly, just enough to breathe but not without sharing each other's air.
He watched you as you tried to comprehend what just happened, his eyes darting from your mouth to your eyes and back to your lips so quickly you could barely keep up.
“How did you even know where I was?” You whispered. He rested his forehead on yours gently.
“I don’t think you want to know the answer, Pip.”
“…We’ll talk about that later,” you breathed out before pulling him back into another searing kiss.
Your stomach felt like it was on fire, and you couldn’t get close enough to him. You tried pulling on his shoulders and neck and even his torso, but it just wasn’t enough.
“Fuck, you’re going to kill me,” he mumbled against the skin of your neck. He bent down and quickly grabbed the back of your legs to hoist you up, quickly resealing your mouths as your legs wrapped around his waist and finally, you were a little bit closer to him.
His hips kept you pinned to the wall and he continued his assault, and your hands moved down his back, hoping he would arch into you a little more. The groan he let out when your nails dug into his shoulder blades made your entire body shiver.
“S’not enough,” you managed to say between kisses. His tongue that had been leaving wet marks on your collarbone was suddenly replaced by teeth. With the sound of your yelp still in the air, he renewed his grip on your thighs and started walking in the direction of his room.
“You can’t say things like that. I’ll actually lose my mind.” He sat on his bed, back resting against the headboard and you tried to push your tongue into his mouth. His own tongue caressed yours and it made you tighten your grip on his hair.
You didn’t like that his head was still so much higher than yours, you were sure his neck was starting to hurt.
With your hands on his shoulders, you adjusted yourself so your legs were on either side of his hips, before you pushed him back a little. Just enough to make his mattress bounce a little below you.
You took a moment to watch him. His eyes were hooded and dark, his lips were a little swollen and damp, and his hair was positively disheveled.
A slow smirk spread across his face.
“Enjoying the view?” He asked, rubbing his hands on your sides.
“Asshole,” you muttered before diving back in. You sat on his lap fully, moaning into his mouth at the sensation of his erection pressing against your core. His hands moved your hips in a motion that made your muscles clench in the best way.
“Fuck, Cay, it feels so good…” you whined, letting your head fall back as he nipped and licked the skin of your neck.
“Keep going for me, Pretty. You’re doing so well,” he mumbled with a particularly aggressive roll of his hips.
You yelped and he brought your mouth back to his, keeping a hand on the back of your head to hold you there.
“Just like that,” he muttered as he bit your bottom lip.
“Don’t stop,” you nearly begged. “M’so close…”
“Let go for me, Pips. Let me make you feel good.”
At that, your body seized with an intense pleasure and your moan was swallowed up once again by his mouth. His groan followed yours soon after, hips bucking lightly as he rode out his own orgasm.
You reluctantly pulled away, still holding onto his shoulders and his hands still on your hip and thigh.
Both of you were panting, still letting yourselves feel the high as it came down, but then Caleb got that determined look in his eye that scared you sometimes.
“That’s one, pretty girl. Now we just need three more until I make up for interrupting your dates.”
“Remind me again sweetie, why did we bring your doctor?” Sylus asks.
“Medical monitoring,” Zayne replies.
“Fine, but him?”
They both stare now at Caleb, who’s casually braiding your hair.
“You all planned something on the same weekend with me & since I can’t split myself into 3….Hot springs with everyone it is. I’m sure you’ll get along,” you say.
“You owe me, Kitten,” Sylus sighs.
“Iiiif you ask really nicely, I’ll even braid your hair,” Caleb grins.
Sylus turns to Zayne, giving him an expectant look.
“I know,” Zayne pinches the bridge of his nose, “You’ll get used to him.”
“Who said I plan to?” Sylus scoffs.
You swim over to Sylus and trace his chest seductively with your finger.
“Sylus, don’t be mean. Besides, I’ll be sleeping in your bed tonight.”
“Mmh, true.” He kisses your neck, then shoots Caleb a provoking look. “Fortunately, there are no dogs are allowed in bed.”
You slap his chest teasingly.
“Next time, hit me with more force, Sweetie.” You can feel Sylus press his hard cock against you under the water.
Zayne watches attentively. Caleb’s eyebrows knit together.
“Does he always act like that around you?” Caleb asks.
Sylus smirks. “Some of us prefer more…interesting activities with her than braiding hair.”
Zayne lets out a restrained, cough-like laugh.
Caleb glares at him.
“Don’t hold back, Doc~” Sylus laughs.
Caleb pulls you by the wrist, away from Sylus’ embrace.
“You’re letting him get away with quite a lot,” he says, lifting your chin to meet his gaze.
His grip around your wrist tightens. “I might start thinking you prefer him, even though I’m the one, who’s closest to you!”
Sylus sips his wine, observing the scene.
“This might get interesting,” he says under his breath.
A sudden shiver runs through Caleb, as if the temperature around him dropped.
“Cool your temper, Caleb,” Zayne says as frost gathers in the air, “He’s baiting you.”
Caleb can feel the heat in his head settle.
However, instead of stepping back, he pulls you in and kisses you firmly. His tongue buried deep inside of you, the sound of his breathing filling the place.
“That’s one way to respond to bait,” Zayne remarks.
As Caleb keeps kissing you, his hand slides lower. His fingers press against your swimwear, gently stimulating your clit, trying to claim you in front of the others.
Sylus uses his Evol to pull you away from him. “Don’t be so greedy, Puppy. Share~!”
As soon as you’re back in Sylus’ arms, he seamlessly picks up, where Caleb stopped. He rubs two fingers along your slit while kissing you. You’re surprised at how quickly things are escalating.
“Did the dog kiss or lick your face…?” Sylus mocks, noticing how wet your mouth is.
“I see…this is how you want to play,” Caleb barks. He doesn’t hesitate for long & swims toward both of you, pressing in close. He turns you to face him & draws your back toward Sylus, pinning you in between the both of them.
“Look at me…or do you want more of him?” Caleb asks.
“I recommend removing her swimwear,” Zayne interjects.
“Remove my w-what?” you stutter, feeling increasingly flustered as they take control of the situation.
Caleb’s not wasting a second. Your naked body is now pressed closely against both Caleb & Sylus’ big frames.
You wiggle to gain some space to move more freely, but are blocked by both of them.
Sylus smirks, “Your escape route isn’t that good.”
He’s grabbing your neck with one hand as the other attends to your tits and squeezes them tenderly.
Caleb devours your lips with sloppy kisses while he pushes two fingers inside you. When your soft moans are swallowed by his mouth, he simply picks up the pace.
Sylus tilts his head toward Zayne.
“The doc likes to watch, huh? Not joining?”
Zayne’s lips turn slightly upward.
“I will. Don’t worry. Consider me…in charge of the treatment plan. For certain things, I like to take my time.”
“Let’s say…he likes giving orders,” Caleb huffs.
“I don’t take orders,” Sylus snaps.
“Relax, it’s more about her safety,” Caleb adds
“What? Does he want to make sure she won’t get overstimulated?” Sylus asks.
“Incorrect.” Zayne responds.
“Kinda the opposite,” Caleb laughs.
Sylus raises an eyebrow, “Oh?”
All three of them are glancing at you now. You’re barely there. You don’t register what they’re saying. You’re busy catching your breath. Caleb’s holding you in place using his Evol, steadied in Sylus’ arms. Your legs are spread above water level for everyone to have a good view.
“Be my guest, I’ll let you have the first taste,” Sylus is offering to Zayne.
“Gracious, but I have other plans,” Zayne gets real close to you now.
He gently massages your rim with his fingers, before pushing one in. You squirm from the sudden sensation.
Caleb’s stroking his cock in anticipation. He knows what Zayne’s planning, he’s had his fair share of participation in these so called ‘treatment plans’ for you.
“I may have underestimated them. I see why you keep them around, Kitten,” Sylus laughs.
“Sylus, hold her steady,” Zayne instructs.
“I said, I don’t take orders, Doc,” Sylus replies.
Zayne responds composed, “He needs to conserve his energy.”
Sylus glances briefly at Caleb.
Zayne’s tone is calm, but firm: “Let him recover. He’ll need his Evol later.”
Sylus is reluctant, but since he prefers feeling your full weight in his arms anyway, he complies. Zayne is in his element now — Anatomy.
He knows exactly how to carefully, yet efficiently prepare you, how to position his fingers, how fast to push, where to apply pressure.
He’s 4 fingers deep into you, adjusting his pace and the depth as needed, before attending your front and repeating his routine, until he’s pushed in his whole hand.
“Z-Zayne, I—I…” you mutter under your breath.
“Caleb,” Zayne cuts in, calling his name before you can finish.
Caleb knows his role. He stands up and taps his leaking cock against your lips, guiding you to take him.
“Suck it well, Pips. You’ve done this before! Let the doctor finish his examination.”
Sylus’ eyes widen. He lets out a loud laugh as he watches you obediently take in Caleb’s cock while Zayne’s casually fisting you. Your moans are muffled, your eyes glistening.
“And here I thought I was the bad influence,” Sylus says amused.
Caleb shoots Sylus a cocky smirk, “Hope you’ve got the stamina to back up the attitude.” Caleb uses his Evol now again to ensure everyone has good access to your body. Sylus joins in as soon as Zayne clears you.
You’re soon stuffed by all three of them, your mind completely blank, senses overstimulated, moans echoing. You don’t know anymore whose cum you’re licking off whose body, whose juices you’re swapping with who, who is digging their tongue or cock into you — everything is a blur.
“Let my name leave your lips tonight a thousand times…ten thousand times even,” Zayne moans as he bends you over, fucking your ass. You whimper with each thrust, since it pushes Caleb and Sylus’ cocks simultaneously deeper into your other hole.
Caleb, who’s pounding into you from below, is drunk on lust and caught up in the intensity. “Look at you~ I didn’t teach you that,” he smirks.
“C-Caleb…,” you barely breathe out, “Cal..C—”
“Yeah, I’m your Caleb,” he responds, only to thrust into you faster.
Sylus closes the distance to Caleb more than either of them expected.
He’s lying on top of Caleb, his cock buried in you as well, sharing your hole with him. “Greedy little kitten…and I might add, an equally greedy pup,” he purrs near your ear. Caleb lets out a breathy laugh.
Your walls are tightening around them, you’ve never felt so full, their sizes are tearing you apart, each stroke shoots a deep spark through your body, mouth dry from all the panting, any leaking liquid gets pushed in again, occasionally given you to swallow as well.
They pass you around as they please, cumming inside you in rotation, tossing & turning you as they desire, you’re leaking everywhere. Your ass and clit get slapped, your hair pulled, your tits pressed into someone’s mouth — your body doesn’t belong to you anymore.
Whenever anyones heating up, Zayne uses his Evol to cool them down. There is no resting period. The water ripples violently around you as everything becomes heat, breath, wet, and overlapping moans. And as the morning comes…you realize you could indeed split yourself into 3.
❕cw: pseudo-incest, handjob, mentions of p in v sex, mentions of exhibitionism
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⋆ 𑣿 ⠀𝔥onesty is the best policy.
…. at least, that’s what caleb had always taught her.
well, if she’s being honest (and she is no patron saint), then she can’t bear to witness the sight of her older brother sprawled out lazily on the veranda. in the house he rebuilt for them— for her.
it’s one thing to reminisce on the past, what should have been. a gruesome thought, one she weighs like the scales of justice. she had lost her gege. in return, she had earned a lover. both coexisted inside those thick, hefty bones. the same ones that sunbasked in the june sunset right in front of her eyes. feeling complicated yet comfortable with his presence.
he’s shirtless, because of course he is. that stupid large frame that doesn’t know how to not take up as much space as possible. but somehow, he leaves enough room for her to squeeze in.
caleb doesn’t crack an eye open when the left side of his lips curls into a knowing smile. he continues to bounce his crossed feet, one earbud silently waiting for her to place into her ear. their evening ritual.
“you just gonna stand there?”
reluctantly and at the pace of an unsure cat, her bare feet pad against the hot porch wood. she slowly descends to him, finally seeing those purple eyes peer open to watch her. fuck him and those stupid eyes and those god-forsaken freckles that make up every constellation she’s ever known.
he’s not shy with his hands, the pads of them running up her shirt and stroking the underside of her bare breasts as she lies against his chest. he strums them to the rhythm of the song that plays, not too loud and not too quiet. just like him.
her eyelashes flutter like butterfly wings against his carved pecs. he pinches her nipple to let her know it tickles, feeling him exhale with a silent laugh through his nose and onto her cheeks. he looks down at her expectantly.
‘you know what you’re doing’ is what those eyes really say.
“do i have to beg?” she finally pouts.
“i’m thinking about it.” he jabs, fingers stroking downward to her navel in the most excruciating way.
“caleb.”
it’s not enough.
“please, caleb.”
humming in approval, he retracts his hand and tugs at her chin to pull her upward, lips finally pressing down onto hers. he kisses her with that eased perfection, deepening it immediately but waiting until the right moment to swipe his tongue across her bottom lip. he’ll do this for a millennium, until she’s panting and soaking his lap, begging for some sort of relief.
it’s odd, wanting to have his cock buried deep inside her at a house that’s eerily identical to their old one. even with josephine gone, there’s still this rush of adrenaline at the thought of prying eyes. of getting caught with her brother.
her lips falter, the wet sounds of their mouths moving together flooding all five senses. she opens her eyes to find him staring back, the same smirk from earlier unfurling at the corner of his lips, which she can feel against her own. biting him would only make him more smug.
“stop thinking so much.” he’s so drunk off their kiss that she almost isn’t able to make out what he says.
“touch me.” he adds before she can even manage a response, rolling his hips upward in encouragement.
there’s an alluring secretiveness to the act of unbuttoning his jeans and unzipping them. enough to snake her hand downward and grip onto his thickening cock. the size of him complements the rest of his proportions. her beautiful, unreal brother. unfair.
she squeezes his shaft as she runs the pad of her thumb over the weeping tip, earning a sweet groan from him.
“tell me i’m your baby.” she whispers, grateful for only having one earbud so she could hear his ragged breaths with each stroke.
caleb tucks a stray hair behind her ear, then trails his thumb down to her mouth for her to suck on it. she obliges a little too quickly, causing her cheeks to grow crimson with blush.
it's more an instinct than a rational decision - after all, rafayel doesn't do anything bad. it's just... after countless bad experiences and relationships that drained you, it's hard to believe in true love once it shows up.
you know rafayel's intentions are pure. you can feel that his heartbeat resembles the sound of your name. you are aware of it all... and yet, you still hesitate each time he gets a little bit too close.
you're just scared; and you know it. words of your past lovers calling you too much and too broken, asking you what's wrong with you once the doubt clouded your mind and fear started to claw under your skin.
you just needed reassurance, some tender attention. you just craved a little bit of love. is that so wrong? does that turn you into a monster?
perhaps, you are one. perhaps, this is why you keep on hurting rafayel now.
guilt gnaws at you, making your head spin with worries. it hurts. you're so terrified of feeling this pain again that you can't open up. you can't come to rafayel and confess that your heart is too heavy for anyone to handle, and you will only end up hurting him more and more–
a warm pair of arms wrap around your waist from behind. the faint scent of sea breeze and vanilla fills your senses, causing your heartbeat to slow down ever so slightly.
rafayel is here. he sees you in your worst crying form... and doesn't leave.
quite the opposite, he treats you like you're a fragile little treasure in the palm of his hands. you suck in a breath as he turns you around to look at you properly, his eyes - focused yet ever so gentle - scan your features, searching for any trace of pain hiding within. his thumb runs over your cheek. your eyes flutter shut.
"it's okay." rafayel whispers softly, tenderly. "i'm here, yeah? nothing's gonna hurt you, baby. i will protect you, just stay right here."
slowly, you take a deep breath. your fingers instinctively curl on the material on his shirt, more an instinct than a rational thought.
"but i am–"
"i will want you no matter what you become. in every shape or form, you are the one i love."
something about rafayel's words - maybe it's the hint of desperation in his voice, maybe it's the way he looks at you as if losing you is his greatest fear - makes you freeze.
a second passes, then another.
the fear in your heart remains as it was, and you can still feel it clouding your thoughts. and yet, when rafayel holds you in his arms right now, you allow yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, this one time you will finally get to know how true love looks like.
Synopsis: Seven minutes in heaven with your college Rival Rafayell couldn't have been more insufferable—except it didn’t end in seven minutes. One kiss turned into another, and somehow the game bled into the night, your rivalry burning hotter in the sheets. Weeks later, you act like nothing happened between you, but Rafayel doesn’t take it lightly. Jealousy flickers sharp whenever he sees you laugh with someone else, as if you plan on pissing him off.
Content warnings: College AU, Rivals to lovers, Jealousy, Heavy Sexual tension, Kissing, Making out in the closet, Explicit sexual content, Rough sex, Possessiveness, Riding, Face fucking, Oral sex, Cunnilingus, Fingering, Overstimulation, Dirty talk, Manhandling, Marking/bruising, Jealousy-fueled intimacy, Consensual but rough dynamics, Rafayel gets jealous, mc wants to piss him off
Word count: 10k
chapter 1 - chapter 2 - chapter 3 — ao3
Chapter 1 - Push and Pull
You despised Rafayel Qi more than you ever wanted to admit, and nothing in this life would have satisfied you more than wiping that smug, infuriating smirk off his face. He was the kind of insufferable you could spot from across a lecture hall, lounging in his seat like the world existed for his amusement, tossing out comments that were always just sharp enough to get under your skin.
For the past two years, he’d been your personal plague, an ever-present thorn in your side. And somewhere, deep down in the place you didn’t like to acknowledge, you almost admired his persistence—how one man could make you want to strangle him in every single encounter.
He never knew when to shut up. Always poking, always pushing, like testing the limits of your patience was his chosen sport. And oh, how you’d made it your mission to give it right back, to make his life just as miserable in return. That was the thing about the two of you, a perfect disaster of cause and effect. The light and the fuse. People didn’t even bother asking how your latest spat had started—they just assumed it had, because it always did.
On campus, your names had become inseparable in the worst possible way, whispered together with knowing grins or exasperated sighs. Group projects? A nightmare. Debate class? Civil war. Even casual conversations in the cafeteria would somehow pivot to, “Did you hear what Rafayel said to her this time?”
You hated it, hated that your name was tethered to his like some cosmic joke.
You could still hear his voice from that afternoon in the library, casual and smooth as ever, leaning over the table with that lazy smile. “Relax, cutie,” he’d said, sliding your textbook toward himself without asking. “If you keep glaring at me with that expression, people are going to think that you fancy me.”
You had snatched the book back, teeth clenched. “The only thing I fancy is the idea of never having to see your face again.”
He’d only laughed, low and infuriating. “Harsh. Guess I’ll just have to make sure you keep seeing it, then.”
You couldn’t begin to fathom what crime you had committed—whether in this life or some unfortunate past one—to deserve being stuck with him every few weeks. Yet here you were, standing on the soft, beer-stained carpet, surrounded by a cloud of cheap perfume, laughter, and the low thrum of bass shaking the floorboards. Alcohol hummed in your veins, warm and distracting, while the partygoers whooped and hollered around the circle.
A chipped glass bottle spun on the floor, wobbling to a stop as if it had been conspiring against you all night. You stared at it like it had just declared war on you, because, of course, the neck was pointing directly at Rafayel.
For a fleeting, wicked moment, you considered grabbing it and cracking it over his annoyingly perfect head. Seven minutes in heaven. With him.
The crowd erupted—half in mock horror, half in the kind of delight that came from watching a train wreck you couldn’t look away from. Simone and Tara exchanged a wide-eyed glance that said they were both surprised and already placing mental bets.
You narrowed your eyes at them, but before you could say a word, movement caught your attention. Rafayel was already walking toward the closet—no hesitation, no acknowledgment of the chaos he left in his wake. He didn’t even look back at you, as if it was a foregone conclusion you’d follow.
That arrogant prick.
You scoffed under your breath and stood, brushing imaginary lint off your jeans, mostly to keep from flipping him off in front of everyone. Simone and Tara nudged each other like middle schoolers about to watch a fight, grinning as though they hadn’t just sold you out to the devil himself.
“Don’t wait up,” you muttered at them, your voice sharp enough to cut.
A guy from somewhere in the back yelled, “My money’s on murder!”
Another chimed in, “Nah, they’re either gonna make out or burn the place down.”
You ignored them all, though your jaw tightened. Seven whole minutes trapped in a cramped, dark space with Rafayel—his cologne, his smug smirk, his constant need to one-up you. And as you reached the door, he glanced over his shoulder at last, that infuriating grin playing on his lips.
“Don’t look so thrilled, cutie,” he drawled, holding the closet door open just wide enough for you to pass. “I promise to make it worth your while.”
You rolled your eyes so hard it was a miracle you could still see. “You wish.”
His smirk deepened, lazy and sure of himself. “I do,” he said lightly, stepping in after you. “But it’s more fun when you do too.”
The door clicked shut, sealing you into seven minutes of hell. You pressed yourself into the farthest corner as the door shut, sealing out the noise of the party. Darkness swallowed the cramped space, save for a sliver of light leaking through the crack between the door and frame. Your breath caught—not from nerves, you told yourself, but from the sudden proximity.
His cologne lingered in the air, warm and heady, with some other undertone—salted, oceanic—that clung stubbornly in your head. The realization annoyed you more than his actual presence. It was unfair, you thought, that someone so irritating could smell that good.
A faint brush against your arm made you flinch. You turned your head sharply, catching the faint outline of his profile in the gloom.
“Keep to your own space, yeah?” you muttered, your voice low but sharp. You tried to shift farther away, but the closet was far too small, and you hated the way every movement brought you back within reach of him.
His laugh came quiet but deep, curling at the edges with smugness. “My bad, princess,” he murmured, leaning just close enough for the warmth of his words to ghost over your cheek. “Didn’t realize I’d already stepped on your toes tonight.”
You shot him a glare, even if you knew he probably couldn’t see much of it in the dark. His arm was still brushing yours, his casual lean making it clear he had no intention of shifting away.
“I will step on yours if you don’t move,” you warned, crossing your arms tight over your chest and turning your body slightly to shield yourself.
Instead of taking the hint, he tilted his head lazily. “So aggressive tonight,” he said softly, mock sweetness dripping from the words. “Acting like this isn’t the highlight of your night.”
You huffed, the sound sharp in the close air. “In what universe would this be my highlight?”
“In mine,” he answered smoothly, without missing a beat.
You scoffed, the sound sharp in the thick air between you. “You’re so full of yourself, Rafayel.” the words left your mouth like you were flicking a match, each syllable meant to cut.
He only hummed in response, low and lazy, and you hated how close the sound came—how it brushed over your ear like the faintest touch. The closet was warm, the air stale, and you could barely make out anything in the dark. But the sliver of light from the doorframe caught just enough of his face to make his expression clear—amused, entertained, like this was his own private game.
You scoffed again, softer this time, if only to keep from saying something that would sound too much like admitting defeat. He chuckled quietly, that smug undercurrent in every note, and then his arm brushed yours again. You stiffened, your jaw tightening on instinct, but he didn’t shift away. Instead, he leaned in just slightly, tilting his head toward you until you could feel the faint stir of his breath. One hand came up to brace himself on the wall behind you, close enough that you could feel the subtle press of his body against yours.
Your pulse ticked up despite yourself. This was absurd. Infuriating. And yet your chest felt tighter than it should.
“Stop touching me,” you hissed, shifting back as far as the wall would allow.
He gave a quiet laugh, as though you’d just said something endearing. “Where exactly do you want me to go, cutie?” he murmured, voice low enough that you almost missed it. “Closet’s only so big.”
The worst part was that he was right. There wasn’t an inch of space left between you. You rolled your eyes, even though you knew he could probably see the movement in the faint light. “Try harder.”
“Oh, I am,” he replied smoothly, the corner of his mouth lifting in a grin you could hear in his voice.
Seven minutes had never felt longer.
He smirked, leaning in just enough to test your patience, his voice dropping to that infuriatingly casual tone he always used when he knew he was getting under your skin.
“Kind of convenient, isn’t it?” he murmured, the words brushing against you like a challenge. “Whole party out there, and somehow you end up locked in here with me. Almost like you rigged it. Guess you really can’t stay away, cutie.” his next words ignited the fire in you even harder, “Especially since you can’t beat me when it actually counts.”
Your teeth clenched, heat prickling at the back of your neck. Before you could think better of it, your hand shot out, gripping the front of his shirt and tugging him just enough to close the already minuscule space between you.
“You’re delusional,” your voice was low and pointed, every word pressed like a blade. “Your ego must be eating what’s left of your brain, because you’re lying to yourself if you think I’d choose this. I’d rather be anywhere else.”
You held his gaze, and now you were close enough to make out the sharp line of his jaw, the faint curve of his mouth, and—annoyingly—just how clear his eyes looked in the thin strip of light. He stared back at you with the same infuriating calm, only a slow tug of a smirk breaking the stillness.
“Funny,” he whispered, leaning in just enough for his breath to mingle with yours. “You’re the one hanging on to my clothes like you’re about to tear them off.”
Your own smile curled, deceptively sweet. “I’d rather tear your head off.”
The space between you tightened, silent except for the shallow drag of your breaths. You hated that the air felt heavier now, that the warmth radiating from him made your skin hum in awareness. Neither of you moved back, both locked in the same unspoken dare you’d been passing between each other since the day you met.
He smirked, and you felt your jaw tighten in sync with the way your fingers curled, bunching the front of his shirt in a hard grip. He was too close, close enough that your breath caught against his, every inhale shared in the warm, cramped dark. Your pulse spiked, not that you’d admit it, not even to yourself.
You hated this. Absolutely hated him.
A sharp scoff escaped you before you planted a hand against his chest, shoving him back just enough to reclaim a sliver of space. But before you could take another step away, his arm moved and slid down from the wall behind you until his hand brushed against your waist, steadying himself.
The light contact made your pulse trip over itself. You grit your teeth, biting back the words that wanted to snarl at him to stop touching you—though you weren’t sure if you meant it entirely.
“You don’t seem in a rush for me to let go,” his voice was carrying that lazy taunt that made every nerve in you itch. His hand stayed exactly where it was, with more purpose now, his fingers settling with a certain confidence at your waist.
Your glare could have cut glass. “What kind of delusional state gives you the nerve to think you can touch me?”
You shoved at his chest again, harder this time, but his grip only tightened, pulling you forward with the movement so that your body collided with his. Your breath left you in a startled grunt, the solid heat of him impossible to ignore.
You looked up at him, startled and seething, yet heat coiled traitorously low in your stomach at the new position. Every sharp exchange, every smug remark he lobbed your way had wound itself into something you refused to name, and you’d sooner die than admit Rafayel could have that kind of effect on you.
His smirk curved lower, slower this time, his voice brushing over you like the edge of a dare. “I like it when you bite back,” he murmured, leaning just enough that the air between you thinned. “Makes me wonder what you’d do if I touched you… on purpose.”
His gaze flicked down briefly, then back to yours, full of quiet challenge. “My guess? Not much. You can’t really one-up me.”
The air felt heavy, your breaths matching his in a quick, uneven rhythm. Tension held you both still, tethered in the narrow space between his chest and yours.
“Cocky bastard,” you whispered, every word sharpened between clenched teeth. “You’ll get more than you bargained for.” you tilted your chin up, closing the space by a fraction, your lips nearly grazing his. “So either move your hand… or I’ll make you.”
His smile didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened infuriatingly slow, like he was savoring the moment.
“Yeah?” his voice dipped just enough to brush against something inside you. “And how exactly would you make me?”
His fingers tightened on your waist, not painfully, but with the kind of deliberate pressure that felt like he was testing how far he could push before you snapped. Heat surged under your skin, your muscles tensing as your breath came shallow, matching his.
You couldn’t even say who moved first—only that suddenly his mouth was on yours, hot and unyielding, all teeth and heat and reckless challenge. He kissed like he expected you to fight him, so you did, matching the push of his lips with your own bite until the taste of him left you dizzy.
Your whole body pressed into him, seeking leverage you didn’t want to admit you needed. His grip on your waist anchored you, pulling you closer until there was no space left to guard. Your teeth caught his lower lip, hard enough to pull a groan from his chest, low and rough.
The cramped heat of the closet wrapped around you both, the world reduced to the tangle of limbs and breath and the sharp scent of him. Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging as his bent knee slid between yours, shifting your weight until your back met the wall again with a muted thud.
He didn’t stop. Your mouths were a frenzy—hot, rough, and desperate in a way neither of you would ever admit aloud. Your hands clutched at him, fisting the fabric of his shirt, not to pull him closer—though it felt that way—but to keep yourself from stumbling under the force of it all.
The taste of him lingered on your tongue, sharp and consuming, each kiss a challenge neither of you wanted to lose.
You bit at his lower lip, he returned the favor, and your tongues tangled in a battle for dominance that left both of you breathing ragged. Teeth grazed swollen lips and the sensitive skin just beneath, his mouth dragging down to your neck. His lips were warm, his breath hotter, and when he sucked a mark there, his smirk was felt more than seen.
“Someone’s enjoying themselves,” he rasped against your skin, his voice low enough to scrape over your nerves.
“Shut up,” you bit back, shoving at his shoulder, though your body betrayed you, arching into him when his hands—bolder now—slipped beneath the hem of your shirt.
Your mouth found his again, urgent and unrestrained, and you yanked hard on his hair, pulling a groan from deep in his chest. The sound vibrated against your lips, and heat pooled low in your stomach.
You were both panting now, breaths coming fast and shallow, and then you felt his bulge—hard against your hip, impossible to ignore. His thigh pressed between yours, and without thinking, you grinded down against it, the friction dizzying.
He groaned again, but this time it was laced with that infuriating amusement. “Cute,” he drawled, his tone deliberately light, even as his grip on you tightened. “Almost desperate. Must be all that pent-up frustration from wanting to fuck me this whole time.”
Your nails dragged slow beneath his shirt, scratching from his ribs down to his stomach before sliding back up again. The movement earned a low, unrestrained groan from him, his breath hitching just enough to make you smirk—though you didn’t get long to savor the victory.
His hands were already on you, firm and unapologetic as they cupped your ass, pulling you down against the solid line of his thigh. The friction sent a jolt through you both, making your bodies lurch together, grunts and gasps spilling into the heat between your mouths.
Even breathless, neither of you could resist the game.
“Feel that?” he smirked, the words curling against your ear in a delicious rasp as he shifted his leg just right, making you gasp. “You’re soaking through, cutie. Didn’t know you could get this wet just from grinding on me.”
You hissed through your teeth, catching his smirk in your peripheral, and refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing you falter.
“Yeah? Then maybe you should be more worried about yourself,” you shot back, your voice low and edged with heat. Your fingers slipped lower, brushing the waistband of his jeans. “You’re so hard, Rafayel. I bet if I touched you just a little, you’d cum in seconds.”
His grip tightened at that, a subtle, wordless admission he wouldn’t dare voice.
What you don’t expect is his low, rough voice brushing against the shell of your ear like he knows exactly what it does to you.
“Go on,” he murmurs, the words warm and wicked, “be a good girl… touch me. We could help each other out.” The tease is casual, almost lazy, but the weight of it coils heat deep in your stomach.
Before you can throw a retort, his fingers are already at your waistband, dragging the zipper down in a slow, deliberate pull. Then his hand slips inside, the heat of his palm startling against your skin. His breath hitches in something like satisfaction, and a soft grunt escapes him, carrying both a praise and a taunt.
“Slippery already,” he drawls, his tone dipping just enough to make it sound like a secret. “Must’ve been desperate for me, huh? Can’t help yourself… even just being close to me gets you like this.”
You grit your teeth, trying to swallow the sound building in your throat, but it escapes anyway—a low, unsteady moan—as his fingers slide inside you. He doesn’t ease in; his pace starts steady, controlled, and just dizzying enough to steal your breath.
You’re too far gone to argue, too caught between his touch and the heat thrumming through you to remember whatever insult you’d been ready to throw. Instead, you crush your mouth to his, the kiss greedy and unrestrained, tasting of defiance. His fingers work inside you in a steady, deliberate rhythm, just enough to make your knees threaten to give.
You don’t let him have all the satisfaction. Your hand drifts lower, finding the hard outline pressing against his jeans, rubbing in the same measured pace he’s set for you. The sound he makes is low and rough, pulled from somewhere deep, and you drink it in like victory.
Your mouths stay locked, swallowing each other’s shallow pants and quiet moans, the kiss breaking only for sharp gasps before crashing together again. Teeth catch lips, fingers dig into clothes and skin, both of you pushing harder, faster—daring the other to give in first.
The tension snaps for you in a shiver, your body tightening around his fingers as heat floods through you. He swallows your moan like it’s his, kissing you harder, deeper, until you’re dizzy. A moment later, his hips jerk, a muted groan breaking against your mouth as he follows, the heat between you spilling over into something ragged and messy.
Still, neither of you pull away. You kiss until your lips are bruised, until breath comes in broken pulls, until it’s impossible to tell if you’re clinging from want or because neither of you can stand without the other holding you up.
“Pretty sure that was more than seven minutes,” he murmured against your neck, his tone dripping with satisfaction before his teeth sank into your skin in playful retaliation.
A sharp sound slipped from you—half moan, half hiss—your body still humming from the high, even as irritation flickered hot in your chest.
“Who knew all it would take was a couple of my fingers to strip some of that attitude away, cutie?” he added, the bait curling lazily from his lips like he already knew you’d take it.
Your response was wordless at first—a firm grip on the half-hard length straining against his jeans, followed by a hiss against his neck as your other hand tangled in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him suck in a breath.
“How about,” your voice was low and edged with challenge, “you get me out of here and fuck me until it’s all gone, hm?”
His mouth crashed onto yours before you could blink, the kiss bruising and impatient. His hands gripped your ass and hips with a possessive force, pulling you flush against him as his smirk ghosted over your lips.
“Gladly,” he breathed, smug as ever.
“Bastard,” you muttered against his mouth, earning nothing more than a quiet laugh before he hauled you out of the cramped closet.
The hallway erupted in whistles and amused voices from classmates, but Rafayel didn’t so much as glance at them—his only focus fixed entirely, and unapologetically, on you.
—
Your hands roamed over him in desperate, greedy paths, grabbing at whatever skin you could reach—his back, his shoulders, the flex of his arms—as he drove into you with slow, delicious thrusts that somehow felt both sweet and merciless. His body hovered above yours, holding you caged between his hips and the mattress, each movement pulling ragged moans from your throat.
The air between you was hot, tangled with the sound of panting breaths and the wet heat of messy, biting kisses that kept breaking and reforming like neither of you could stay away for long.
“I can bet,” he moaned between thrusts, his voice rough but edged with that familiar smirk, “you were this wet every time you argued back at me… isn’t that right?”
His flushed face hovered over yours, his gaze locked on you as his palm slid over your breast, kneading and teasing your nipple until it peaked under his touch.
You answered with a scoffing moan, biting back the urge to roll your eyes even as pleasure shot through you when he angled his hips just right, hitting deep enough to make your stomach clench. You lifted your hips to meet his thrusts, still unwilling to give him the full satisfaction of your surrender.
“Why don’t you quit being insufferable,” you grunted, your voice breaking when his teeth grazed your neck, “and fuck me properly instead?”
His fingers found your clit mid-sentence, circling in maddening, precise strokes that made your breath stutter. “Make me cum again, I’m close.”
“Who am I to refuse you, princess?” he mocked in a low, wicked whisper, his tone all heat and challenge.
Your back arched helplessly into him as release tore through you, your body tightening around his cock in pulsing waves. His hips jerked with the rhythm of your climax, your moans mixing with his as you dragged him into a heated kiss, swallowing each other’s sounds. His grip on your hip tightened hard enough to leave faint, perfect marks you’d find later, a wordless claim in the shape of his fingers.
Your palms pressed firmly to his chest, the heat of his skin slick under your fingers as your nails dug in for balance. You rode him in a steady, unrelenting rhythm, each movement pulling a groan from deep in his throat.
Your head tipped back, lips parted, the sound of your panting filling the room as your breasts bounced with every rise and fall. His mouth caught one nipple, sucking greedily before his teeth grazed the sensitive peak just enough to make your muscles tighten around him.
“This must be new to you, right?” he asked, though the lift of his brows and the smug curve of his mouth made it sound more like confirmation than curiosity. His tone was breathless, feigning innocence, which only made it worse.
Too lost in the way his cock filled you, you could only grunt between gasps, “What are you talking about?”
His hands tightened on your waist, guiding you down harder onto him. He murmured against your chest, his lips brushing your skin before closing around your nipple again, biting until a moan escaped you.
“Being on top,” he rasped with a smirk you could hear, his gaze flicking up to meet yours. “Considering you’re never above me in anything.”
The taunt was punctuated by a sharp thrust upward, his hips grinding into you as a low grunt rumbled from his chest. “How do you like it, princess?”
You bent forward, bracing a hand against his jaw, then sliding it to the back of his neck as his eyes locked on yours—amethyst and heat-drunk, his lips wet and kiss-bruised. Through a breathless moan, you rasped out your answer, your nails biting into his skin.
“Would like it better,” you panted, “if you didn’t run your mouth.”
He only smirked, that maddening curve of his lips catching the dim light before he ducked down to suck another mark into your neck—one of many already burning along your skin. His smugness was infuriating, but it was harder to focus on that when you felt him twitch inside you, his cock hitting deep enough to blur your vision.
“Oh, but you do like when I run my mouth, don’t ya?” his voice was low, curling with amusement before he caught your lips in a kiss that was all heat and teeth and unspent tension. You kept moving on him, chasing the high with relentless rhythm, your breath breaking against his. “Seemed to love it a few minutes ago,” he murmured between kisses, “when it was between your legs.”
A sharp moan tore from you when his thumb found your clit, already slick and swollen from the previous orgasm he pulled from you. The touch was almost too much, your body clenching around him in a shiver that drew a low, unrestrained groan from his chest. He chuckled against your skin, his fingers digging into the soft curve of your ass as if he meant to keep you exactly where you were.
“I even recall you moaning my name so nicely when you came around my tongue…” his voice rasped against your ear, warm enough to send a shiver down your spine.
Your head tipped back, eyes squeezing shut as you bounced harder, your mouth falling open on a broken gasp. You were so close you could taste it.
“Never heard my name sound that sweet from your mouth before,” he taunted, his words smug but tangled with his own uneven breaths, knowing it must turn you on.
The sound of his grunts matched the rhythm of your moans, your bodies locked in a pace that was more a challenge than surrender, both of you teetering at the edge.
You blocked out the smug noise spilling from his lips, focusing instead on keeping your rhythm steady despite the burn in your thighs. Your voice came out shaky but biting, laced with challenge. “You better not cum before I do, asshole.”
Your teeth sank into your lower lip hard enough to sting, and his answering thrust made your head tip back. He met your pace with deep, upward drives of his hips, each one threatening to push you over. His fingers dug into the flesh of your ass, guiding you, controlling the motion as if he owned the moment and you.
“Don’t worry that pretty head, cutie,” he chuckled between low, rough grunts, the sound vibrating against your chest when he leaned in. His eyes drank you in—your slack jaw, your unfocused gaze, the way pleasure had stolen the sharp edges of your expression. “I wouldn’t miss the chance to watch you cum around my cock… so freaking beautiful like this…”
His lips brushed your neck in a fleeting kiss just before your body seized around him. Heat and pleasure tore through you, your thighs trembling violently as you came with a broken, shaky moan. You felt the wet rush coat him, spill between you, soak into the sheets beneath.
His groan was deep and rough, the sound dragging low in his chest as his hips faltered. You didn’t need to see his face to know he was seconds away; you could feel it in the iron grip of his hands on your hips, in the heat radiating from his skin, in the breath he caught like he was holding back the inevitable.
Leaning down, you caught the warm line of his neck between your teeth, biting hard enough to draw another groan from him. Your lips found the sweet spot just beneath his ear, sucking until his muscles tensed under you.
That was all it took—he jerked inside you, twitching hard as heat spilled into you in thick, pulsing waves, coating your sensitive walls until you could feel it drip. His head tipped back, breath ragged, and you felt the faintest chuckle rumble in his chest, even through the haze of release.
“Can’t ever say you hate me now,” he rasped, his voice still rough with the edge of release, “not after letting me mark you like this, cutie.”
Before you could snap back, his hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you down into a kiss that stole the rest of your breath. It was searing and messy, all heat and teeth, his lips moving against yours like he had no intention of letting you go any time soon. Your bodies were still pressed tight, the aftershocks thrumming between you, and every pull of his mouth tasted faintly of victory.
—
Rafayel wasn’t the type to cling to jealousy or waste energy on expectations he never asked for—but watching you slip back into that same dynamic, as if nothing had happened between you, lit something sharp and ugly under his skin. It was one thing to keep up the bickering, the constant push-and-pull you two seemed addicted to, but being so close to anyone else in this place? Laughing, leaning in, letting other people into your space the way you let him, even if just for one night? That ticked him off more than he wanted to admit.
He could lie to everyone else, but not to himself. He was jealous. Or at the very least, bothered—more than before, more than he had any right to be. Especially since you seemed intent on shoving it in his face, as though proving just how easily you could cozy up to other guys on campus might put him in his place.
Seeing you dance with that colleague tonight had made his jaw tighten, a scoff of disbelief escaping before he could bite it back. Because he knew better—he knew what you wanted. He’d felt it in every heated moment you’d given him, in the way your body melted under his hands, pliant no matter how sharp your words were.
You could pretend, you could deny—but he’d already dragged the truth out of you in the dark, in the messy rhythm of tangled sheets and bitten lips. And tonight, all he could think about was how you’d come undone for him, over and over again, chasing release like a spark to a fuse you couldn’t stop lighting—and now you were cozying up with another man.
The dynamic between you hadn’t shifted in the slightest—you still scoffed, still snapped at him, every exchange bristling with the same defiance he had come to expect. Normally, Rafayel thrived on it; it was what made this little game so addictive. But tonight, with the taste of you still burned into his memory, he had hoped for something different—some flicker of change, even if you refused to admit it.
He caught you alone near the drinks table, slipping into your space without hesitation, his shadow falling across you as you tipped the bottle. You turned your head sharply, eyes narrowing, your scoff cutting through the din of music and chatter. “What do you want now, Rafayel?”
The tone—biting, impatient—made his jaw twitch. Normally it thrilled him, but the sharp edge tonight dug deeper. Did you really despise his presence that much? Even now, after everything?
He leaned one elbow against the counter as though he had all the time in the world, his amethyst eyes catching the low light and glinting with that practiced, playful spark. He slipped the mask on as easily as a second skin, the one he always wore with you. “Back to making me work for your attention, I see.”
You rolled your eyes, ignoring the weight of his gaze as you poured yourself a shot. The liquid burned down your throat, leaving your lips wet when you licked the taste away. His eyes tracked the movement without restraint, though you didn’t seem to notice.
“Sometimes I seriously wonder if you don’t have better things to do than pester me all day,” you muttered, as though the idea of his presence alone grated on you.
He nearly laughed, the sound curling up the back of his throat, but the bitterness still lingered like ash. He could hide it well—he always did—but something in his chest coiled tighter, a heaviness he couldn’t smirk his way out of.
He poured himself a shot like it was second nature, tossing it back with the same careless ease he wore like armor. Then he leaned in, closing the space between you with an unbothered smirk tugging at his lips.
“Gonna pretend it never happened, is that it, princess?” his eyes found yours in the low light, sharp against sharp, daring you to flinch first.
You leaned in too, your voice dropping to a hiss that barely carried over the music. “Stop calling me that.”
His laugh was low, warm, almost affectionate in its own infuriating way. “Funny,” he murmured, tilting his glass aside. “Had you in my bed, moaning for me, and the first thing you pick up after is that attitude.”
Your glare could have cut straight through him. You scoffed, turning your head deliberately, your gaze sweeping the room—for him, it wasn’t hard to guess who you were looking for. The guy you’d been dancing with earlier. His jaw tightened before he could stop it, the weight of his stare narrowing back on you.
His voice came out rougher now, laced with the edge of something he usually hid behind a smirk. “So that’s what it is. Maybe I should fuck you slow next time. Sweet, steady—see if that’d finally get you to acknowledge it.” his head tilted slightly, the words a challenge, a taunt, but his eyes searched yours like he wanted the truth more than the fight.
You laughed, the sound sharp as glass. Through your teeth, bitter but smiling just enough to sting, you shot back, “There’s no next time. And I’d rather you dropped the cocky act.” your gaze flicked up, unwavering. “Not everyone wants to end up in your bed, Rafayel.”
The smirk didn’t falter on his lips, but the burn of your words sank under his skin all the same. Oh, how he loved your attitude. The sharpness in your voice, the fire in your glare—it always turned him on, but tonight it scraped against something else too. Annoyance. You dismissed him so easily, brushed everything off as if it hadn’t mattered, as if you’d rather erase it than admit it was real.
But he couldn’t forget. He didn’t want to forget the sound of your moans, the way your nails dug into his skin, the bite of your teeth against his shoulder, your mouth desperate and hot on his. Every mark you’d left on him still burned under his skin.
His smirk came quick, practiced, though his jaw ticked in irritation he couldn’t quite swallow down. “Well, you wanted it,” he drawled, voice low enough to coil between you, “and you seemed pretty determined to show me just how badly.”
The proof lingered—your mark, blooming faint but undeniable on the side of his neck. He saw the flicker in your expression when your eyes caught it, the twitch of your jaw before your glare sharpened even further.
You spit your words back at him, close enough now that he could smell you. Sweet perfume, deliberate and light, clinging to your skin like temptation. The thought of you applying it for someone else—for that guy you’d been pressed against earlier—made his stomach knot in a way he refused to admit. His smirk stayed fixed, masking the flare of heat in his chest, but it didn’t quiet the urge that nearly consumed him—to press his face into your neck, breathe you in, and let himself get drunk on you.
“Seriously, what’s your fucking problem?” you snapped, each word sharp enough to cut. “Yeah, we fucked. So what? You expect me to drop at your feet now and suck you off or something?”
Every syllable was a double-edged knife—turning him on even as it lit a flame of irritation low in his chest. Did you really think that’s what he wanted from you? While he’d never be opposed to the thought, that wasn’t it. Not even close. What he wanted was for you to stop pretending it meant nothing, to stop brushing it off like you hadn’t melted under him, clawed at him, begged for more until your voice broke.
His eyes lingered on yours, refusing to look away, holding the heat of your glare. You looked pissed, but he couldn’t tell if it was your usual game or if he’d really struck a nerve this time, dug under your skin deeper than you wanted him to.
“I wouldn’t be opposed to it,” he said smoothly, smirking like he hadn’t just swallowed down the words he really wanted to say—that you were driving him insane, that you’d taken root under his skin, that it wasn’t just your body he wanted. He tilted his head slightly, voice curling like smoke as he added, “Do you want me begging for it first?”
The faint shift in your expression—hesitation, surprise, something flickering behind your eyes—was gone almost as quickly as it appeared. You scoffed, your laugh short and bitter, already angling your body away like you’d had enough.
“I want you to leave me alone,” you shot back, each word bitten off like you meant to end it right there. Your smile was cutting, the kind meant to dismiss, to wound. “Enjoy the party, Rafayel.”
And before he could stop you, you turned toward the crowd—toward him, the other guy—and something inside him twisted sharp, the smirk still plastered on his face doing nothing to smother the frustration building in his chest.
Watching you dance, flirt, and laugh with that guy for hours ticked Rafayel off in ways he couldn’t keep buried—not with alcohol humming in his veins. His eyes followed the sway of your hips, the way sweat caught the low lights on your skin, turning you into something untouchable and magnetic. The guy had slipped away a few minutes ago, probably for another drink or a bathroom break—Rafayel couldn’t be bothered to care.
His focus was on you, only you. The words you’d thrown at him earlier replayed like a broken record in his mind, cutting sharper every time. He hadn’t expected you to cling to him, hadn’t even expected softness or anything close to it—but acting as if you hadn’t spent a night tangled together, bodies desperate, mouths bruised—it set something raw and restless burning in him.
He hated it. Hated how much it mattered. Hated the circumstances, hated that it made him feel like this—like he wanted to drag you away and make you admit every mark you left on his skin meant something more than just a mistake. And he knew it would probably end badly. But watching another man press into your space, lay hands on you—watching you let him, welcome him—it made his blood run hotter than the whiskey in his glass.
Rafayel wasn’t stupid enough to believe you were doing it on purpose just to rile him up. But still, the thought gnawed at him. The possibility that you knew exactly what effect you had on him—and chose to wield it—made his chest tighten in a way he couldn’t laugh off anymore.
Your hips swayed slow and unbothered to the rhythm, a lazy, carefree roll that pulled him in before he could stop himself. You hadn’t even realized who pressed up behind you—he could see it in the way you welcomed the touch too easily, as if you thought it was that other guy. That thought alone made his jaw clench, the bitter edge of alcohol still coating his tongue.
His hands settled on your waist, fingers splaying possessively over the curve, and you arched in response without hesitation. That simple movement—that you’d done it for someone else—made frustration coil low and sharp in his chest. His grip tightened, pulling you flush as he dipped his face into the slope of your neck. The scent of your perfume laced with heat and sweat filled his head, dizzying, intoxicating, far too easy to get drunk on.
“You smell so good,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low enough to sink right into your bones.
You stiffened instantly, the realization snapping through you. It was him, not the guy you thought. Your body shifted as if to turn, to throw him a glare or maybe shove him away, but his arms circled tighter around your waist, holding you still, pressing you into the steady rise of his chest. His nose brushed just beneath your ear, his mouth dragging close enough that his words threaded warmth into your skin.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” you asked, your voice pitched low, sharp but not steady—caught off guard, unsettled.
His lips ghosted another breath over your neck, dangerous and calm all at once, the lazy drawl of his voice cutting through the bass of the music. “Couldn’t keep watching that guy put his hands all over you.”
You scoffed, refusing to give him the satisfaction of stillness, your body swaying side to side with the beat as though he weren’t pressed so close. He took it for annoyance, maybe even defiance, and you threw your words like sparks over your shoulder. “Then don’t fucking look, Rafayel. It isn’t any of your business.”
His chest brushed against your back, solid and warm, crowding you until there was no space left to claim as your own. You rolled your hips again, half in spite, half because fighting him always ended like this—like gravity itself had shifted around him. His breath trembled against your neck, catching faintly on the perfume he couldn’t seem to stop drinking in.
“Are you drunk?” you muttered, sharp with irritation.
“No,” he rasped, voice rougher than usual, his hips sliding in sync with yours. The deliberate press made it impossible to ignore the unmistakable hardness straining against your ass. His fingers found your hips, not tentative but claiming, tightening when you didn’t shrug him off.
You scoffed under your breath, but your body betrayed you, still moving, still letting him. “Then why the hell are you all over me right now?”
He didn’t answer in words first. His lips ghosted along your neck, deliberate and lazy, before catching against your skin in a kiss that lingered too long to be innocent. He pulled your hips flush against his, making sure you felt exactly what you’d provoked, exactly how hard he was.
“It’s how it should be,” he murmured, his voice a low curl of smoke, the smirk etched against your skin as he leaned into your ear. “So do me a favor, cutie, and tell that guy to back off.”
Your laugh came sharp, edged with a bite. “I thought I told you to back off, Rafayel.” still, your hips betrayed the venom of your words, grinding against him like you couldn’t stop yourself. “I’m leaving home soon, anyway.”
That pushed him too far. His patience snapped into something darker, frustration coiled tight with want. His mouth brushed your ear, tone suddenly rougher, meaner, though still soaked in heat. “The next words out your mouth better not be that you’re leaving with him.”
His grip tightened at your waist, and the pressure sent a shiver down your spine no matter how hard you tried to fight it. You hated that your body still reacted, hated that even when you were frustrated—angry, even—it didn’t stop the rush of heat that pooled beneath your skin.
His breath brushed your ear as he leaned in, the low bass of the music vibrating through the floor and through your bones, but all you could hear was him. The two of you swayed together, not to the rhythm, but to something far more reckless.
“Get your act together, Rafayel.” your voice cut sharp, laced with sarcasm as you turned to face him. The flashing lights caught the tension in your jaw, as tight and unyielding as his own, and for a moment it felt like you weren’t dancing so much as locked in combat.
His lips curved—not into a smile, not really—but into that insufferable smirk he wore whenever he wanted to rile you. “Mm, harsh. Though, to be fair, I’m not the one grinding against strangers for an audience.” his words came low, casual, but there was a rawness underneath, the kind that betrayed too much.
Your eyes narrowed, voice dripping with annoyance. “You’re either drunk out of your mind, or you’re jealous. Whichever it is—you have no right to say that.”
His hold only tightened, and the jealousy he refused to name aloud lingered in every breath he refused to let you take alone. His jaw ticked, a scoff breaking past his lips. It was supposed to sound amused, the way it usually did when he was poking at you, but the laugh carried a sharpness he couldn’t quite disguise. Jealousy bled through no matter how smooth he tried to make it. His eyes locked on yours, unblinking, the crowd and the music dissolving into a blur behind you.
“Don’t go home with him.” the words came out low, bitten off, heavier than he intended.
You scoffed, the sound sharp enough to cut, pushing against his chest to put some space between you. He barely gave, his body rooted in place, but you turned anyway, your voice tossed over your shoulder, drowned by the bass but still slicing through him all the same. “Unbelievable.”
The sway of your hips as you walked away was infuriating, deliberate, as if you knew exactly what you were doing to him. His jaw clenched tighter, watching you head straight toward the direction that bastard had gone. Before the thought could even settle, his hand shot out, catching your wrist.
You barely had time to gasp before he was dragging you through the crush of bodies, threading you through the mess of perfume and sweat and music until the two of you spilled into a darker corner, half-hidden near the bathroom hallway.
“What the fu—” the curse was barely past your lips before his mouth was on you.
It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t measured. It was a smash of lips and teeth and bottled-up want that burned through every ounce of restraint he had left. He couldn’t hear another word of you telling him to back off, couldn’t stand the thought of you storming away toward anyone but him.
And to his reckless satisfaction, you didn’t shove him off. Not right away. Instead your lips parted, your tongue chasing his with a heat that shocked him as much as it thrilled him. The back of your shoulders hit the wall with a thud, and he pinned you there, his hand curling around your jaw like he needed to hold you still, like he couldn’t risk you slipping through his fingers again.
He broke just enough space to breathe, his forehead nearly pressed to yours, breath ragged against your lips. His voice was hoarse, raw in a way you’d never heard. “I’m jealous.”
The confession scraped out of him like it cost something, but his eyes didn’t waver. They bore into you, dark, heated, a storm of frustration and something softer underneath. His cheeks were warm, but his gaze was sharp, almost accusing.
“Didn’t think your little act of indifference would get to me, and it didn’t at first,” he said, his tone clipped, defensive, as if he needed to convince himself more than you. His fingers dug harder into your hips, holding you where you were, his frustration bleeding through every touch.
“Until I saw him all over you. And you—” his jaw tightened again, the words heavier, almost bitten through his teeth. “You couldn’t have welcomed him more sweetly.”
“Is that so?” you scoffed, though the sound came out thinner than you wanted, betraying the heat gathering in your chest. His eyes caught the flicker of yours dropping just once to his mouth before darting back up, a slip you couldn’t take back. You hated that he noticed, hated the way he thrived on it, as if your irritation was his favorite game.
“I don’t remember owing you anything, Rafayel,” you managed through a ragged breath, voice sharp but trembling at the edges.
His grip tightened at your waist, fingers digging into the fabric just enough to make you stumble the slightest step into him. The closeness burned. There were people all around you—laughing, drunk, tangled in the music—but the crowd blurred into nothing, leaving only the thrum of his pulse pressed against yours, the friction of your remarks colliding.
“It’s like you’re trying to piss me off on purpose,” he muttered, low and rough, the words curling warm against your ear before his mouth stole yours.
The kiss was hard, bruising—more a clash than a surrender—but your body betrayed you, answering with the same fever. Your fingers curled into the half-buttoned placket of his shirt, yanking him closer until the last breath of air between you vanished. He groaned against your lips, the sound half frustration, half need, his tongue meeting yours in a reckless tangle. The taste of him was dizzying—bitter with jealousy, sweet with desire—and it made your head spin worse than the alcohol.
When he tore back just enough to speak, his voice was ragged, every word bitten off as though it cost him something.
“I’m jealous and pissed, and so fucking turned on.” his teeth grazed your skin as he caught the line of your jaw, then your throat, nipping at the place where your pulse fluttered out of control.
His breath spilled hot over your perfume, a scent he knew wasn’t chosen for him—and that knowledge set his temper alight.
He inhaled against your neck, lips brushing dangerously close. “Tell me, cutie…” his tone dipped into mockery, sharp and soft all at once, “is that what you were aiming for?”
—
Shutting Rafayel up was easy enough if you played your cards right. And right now, with your thighs draped on each side of his head, his face buried between them, it was the most effective method you’d ever discovered.
He’d pulled you straight out of that party—cocky grin, sharp remarks, his hand at the small of your back like he had every right to lead you wherever he pleased—and somehow, the two of you ended up here again, tangled in the mess of his sheets, tearing at each other’s clothes like you were starving.
He hadn’t wasted a second once the door shut. The moment he shoved you back onto his bed, Rafayel dragged you over his mouth, pinning you there with a kind of desperate arrogance, tongue lapping at your folds like he had something to prove.
Your thighs trembled with every stroke of him, the slick sound of his mouth against you filling the room. He groaned into you, the vibration making you jolt, fingers tightening around the headboard as you rocked against him.
“Fuck—Rafayel,” you gasped, the words breaking into a moan as his hands urged you down harder, forcing you to grind over his mouth like he wanted you to drown him.
You couldn’t help laughing breathlessly, the edge of smugness curling your lips. “Didn’t know you liked shutting up this much,” you panted, voice cracking as he sucked hard on your clit, pulling another shaky cry from you.
He hummed against you in response, and the casual defiance in it made your chest tighten with something more dangerous than lust. Still, you couldn’t resist taunting him, voice pitched with a mix of moan and tease. “Do you wanna make me cum, Rafayel? Hm? So eager to please me for once?”
That had his fingers digging into your thighs, bruising and possessive. He pushed his tongue deeper, fucking you with it, and you cursed, head falling back, vision hazing. But you weren’t done. You leaned into the crueler edge of the game, your smirk curling even as your words hitched mid-breath.
“Maybe the other guy would’ve been just as eager… you know, the one who whispered all kind of things in my ear while grinding behind me—”
Your taunt cut off in a broken scream when he growled low into your pussy and sealed his mouth around your clit, sucking so hard your whole body jerked. The orgasm ripped through you with a violence that made your thighs quake against his grip, soaking his face as you cried out his name like you couldn’t hold it back. And the bastard didn’t even slow down.
“S-shit, ahh…” you gasped, the sound breaking out of you before you could bite it back. His mouth didn’t let up, not until you cried his name, your whole body trembling as your hips moved helplessly against his tongue, too sensitive to bear it yet too desperate to stop. A low growl rumbled in his throat at the sound of your curse, vibrating against you, and then suddenly—his grip clamped around your thighs, dragging a startled cry from your lips as he flipped you onto your back.
Before you could catch your breath, he was already over you, stealing your mouth in a kiss that left you dizzy, his hips grinding down into yours, the hard line of him pressing insistently through the fabric of his pants. His lips broke away only to trail down your throat, and then his teeth found you, sucking rough marks into your skin like he meant to brand you.
“You already got me so worked up…” his voice was rough, almost bitten out, “but then you go and say his name while I’m between your legs?” he sank his teeth lightly into your neck, the sting chased by the drag of his tongue.
Your protest melted into a groan as his fingers slid inside you, stretching you with merciless precision. He moaned low when your release slicked against his touch, making each movement faster, deeper, your body clenching around him in desperate pulses. His other hand spread over your ass, holding you open for him as his mouth closed around your breast, sucking hard, leaving your nipple aching under the wet heat of his tongue.
When his eyes lifted, messy hair falling into his flushed face, the burn in them was enough to make your stomach twist. Jealousy and hunger sharpened the edges of his gaze, the sound of his voice rough and almost mocking. “If you wanted it rough, cutie, you could’ve just asked. No need to piss me off, pulling shit like this on me.”
Your laugh came out broken, shaky, your voice trembling on each gasp. Still, you managed, “Where’s the fun in that?”
He kissed you then like he was trying to win something, all heat and defiance, his mouth clashing against yours in a mess of teeth and breath. You answered with equal force, your hands already curling tighter in his hair, dragging him closer until you broke the kiss just to flip him beneath you.
The motion was sharp, your thighs locking around his hips as you shoved him down onto the mattress, stealing a groan out of him that sounded far too satisfying.
“You’re so easy to trigger, aren’t you?” you taunted, breathless as you pressed your mouth to his throat, nipping at the skin until he tilted his head back with a curse. Your fingers fumbled at his belt, deliberately slow, grazing him in ways that made his jaw clench.
“Maybe it’s time someone puts you in your place. Because clearly…” you scoffed, dragging your nails lightly over his stomach as you marked his neck, “…you don’t know where you stand.”
His hips twitched under the drag of your palm, his breathing uneven now—finally losing that insufferable composure that always drove you mad. His pants and boxers were gone in what felt like seconds, and you perched just above him, teasing, stroking him in slow, deliberate movements that had his eyes darkening, his chest rising sharp with every breath.
When your mouth wrapped around him at last, he swore violently, a hand flying to your hair, gripping hard enough to make your scalp sting. The sound that tore out of him was raw, unguarded, his back arching off the sheets.
“S-shit, fuck…” he hissed, the word breaking, and you almost laughed around him, because the victory was already rushing through your veins, warm and heady. The Rafayel who always had a sharp retort, always stayed a step ahead, was now groaning under your mouth, bucking helplessly into you, fingers threaded tight in your hair as if he’d lose himself without the anchor.
He looked almost beautiful like this—breathless, undone, stripped of every cocky remark he usually wielded like a weapon. You could admit it now, he was dangerous when quiet, his charm sharper in the silence between gasps.
“Cutie shit—just like that,” his voice cracked, raw and heavy as his hand tightened in your hair. “I’m not gonna last.”
The ragged sound of his breathing filled the space, and just when you felt him twitch against your tongue, he pulled you away with a guttural growl. His mouth caught yours in a kiss that was messy, desperate, teeth clashing as if he couldn’t stand the distance for even a second longer.
“Not yet,” he rasped against your lips, his grip bruising your hips as he dragged you up into his lap. “Not until I fuck you so good you forget whatever guy you were entertaining earlier.”
You barely had time to roll your eyes before he flipped you over with startling ease, pressing you down and sliding into you in one rough, unrelenting thrust. The breath tore out of you in a broken moan, nails sinking into his shoulders as your body stretched around him.
“You’re tight, princess,” he groaned into your ear, hips snapping forward, the sound spilling out of him low and guttural. “Fuck, you take me just as good as last time.”
Whatever sharp retort you might’ve had died the moment he set a brutal rhythm, pounding into you with a pace that stole the ground from under your thoughts. Pleasure tore through you too fast, too much—until you were trembling around him, clenching hard as your release crashed over you.
“So sweet when you come for me,” he rasped, voice unraveling as your walls squeezed him tighter. “Squeezing me so goddamn t-tight…”
He pulled out only to drag you forward, manhandling you face-down, ass high, the mattress dipping under his weight as he shoved back inside without warning. The thrust punched a scream out of you, raw and unguarded, and he chuckled darkly at the sound, his fingers digging deep into your hips as if to brand you there.
“You wanted rough, didn’t you?” His tone was half-growl, half-smirk, sharp with the kind of heat that left no space to breathe. He snapped his hips hard against you, deeper, faster, each movement sharp enough to leave you reeling. “Wanted to make me jealous, huh? Then take it.”
Your mouth hung open, words failing as he pushed you past every edge, the drag of his jealousy turning him feral, reckless—eager to ruin you until there was nothing left in your head but him. And in truth, you loved every second of it. Because this version of Rafayel—the one who burned with want, who touched like he was starving, who let his jealousy unravel into raw need—was utterly, devastatingly irresistible.
.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!
Summary: Caleb finally comes back to Linkon after a long mission and hes starving 😋
Warnings: established relationship, porn with no plot, softdom!caleb, oral (f receiving), squirting, mating press, p in v sex, unprotected, creampie, breeding kink, spitting, clit slapping, dirty talk, moaning and whimpering caleb, pet names (Pips, baby, pretty girl, princess), needy Caleb, pussy drunk caleb (my fave), pls tell me if i missed anything 🙏
Notes: this came to me randomly one day and then i lwk forgot about it for 4 months…
First post kinda nervy
You weren’t really sure what had happened — one second you were practically leaping out of your spot on the couch to welcome Caleb home, and the next you were being pushed backwards, your back pressing into the cushion, and Caleb’s face pressed against your thigh as he dug his fingers into your pyjamas shorts, looking up at you.
“You just got home aren’t you tired?” You looked down at him, one of your hands moving to pull the colonel hat off his head and dropping it in the space next to you. He shook his head, your fingers drifting into the strands of his hair as they gently brushed against you, messing it up further. His eyes trailed down your body as his cheek pressed firmer into your thigh before looking back up at your face.
“You haven’t even changed yet…” Your eyes drifted away from his face, taking in the sight of him on his knees in front of you, desperately tugging your shorts off as he still adorned his uniform. The sight would’ve made you go feral if you weren’t focussed on the fact that he had just arrived home after being gone for almost two months and was probably exhausted.
“Pips,” his voice came out husky as he spoke, “you think too much about shit that don’t matter.” He offered you a small devilish grin before pressing a kiss into your bare thigh, tossing your bottoms behind him as he shifts in his spot. His eyes focus on your lace panties, the pale red colour deepening as your wetness grew from his words.
“This,” he pressed a kiss further up on your thigh, “is all i care about right now,” another kiss; right next to the band of your panties as he pushes your legs further apart.
You shuddered at his actions, realizing that theres no way you’re going to get him to do anything before he takes his time to greet you properly.
“You really missed me that much huh?” You teased, shifting your hips downwards. “How could I not? Look at you” he mumbled, his mouth leaving a trail of kisses over your clothed pussy, his tongue pressing flat against your clit on top of the fabric. You gasped at the sensation, your hand resting on his head as you stared down at him.
“How are you still teasing after being gone for so long?” You whined, tugging at strands of his hair. He looked up at you from between your things, his tongue moving to slide along your clothed slit, adding to the wet patch already on your panties. His purple eyes seemed darker as he chuckled, the vibrations making your twitch. “Yknow… you’re so wet I can taste you even through these.”
Your eyes widened at his words, feeling a new wave of heat coarse through you as your hand moved to smack into his shoulder. “Caleb! Oh my god” Your face was red, you could feel it. His intense gaze did nothing to help the burning under your skin; the slight twitch of your body every time his mouth ghosted over you. It was insane. How did this man want to devour you and tease you at the same time? He knew exactly how to make you go crazy for him.
He laughed again, pulling away slightly to stare at the damp spot on your panties. His index finger hooks into the top of them, pulling them down your legs and letting them fall to the floor next to him. His hand moved back between your thighs, his thumb slowly pressing into your clit and rubbing circles into it.
The sensation had your legs spreading wider, your bottom lip pulled between your teeth. His face moved closer to you, his tongue licking into your slit as his thumb continued to slowly rub at your clit. Your head rested back against the pillows, your hips shifting down against his face.
“Fuck Caleb…” you moaned softly at his actions, eyes locked on him as he moves between your thighs. His own eyes flutter shut as he pressed against you further, his tongue pushing inside you. He hums at the taste, a low sound that vibrates through you, the heat building under your skin growing. He lazily fucks his tongue inside of you, grinning against your pussy as your legs tighten around his head and you moan out louder.
His hand moves down from your clit to press your thighs open wider, folding you in half on the couch as his mouth moves up from your slit, lips wrapping around your clit to suck on it gently.
You cry out at the action, his middle and ring finger teasing your entrance — the tips of his fingers pressing inside slowly before pulling out, barely sinking inside you. “D-dont be fucking mean ‘leb” you whine, tugging at his hair. He releases your clit from between his lips, looking up at you with a grin.
His chin and lips are soaked, your slick on his face glistening in the faint lighting of your shared Linkon apartment. Your skin was flushed, chest heaving as his fingers push into you, sinking in till the knuckles. Your eyes flutter shut as he takes his time, slowly fucking his fingers into you and curling them.
“Youre so pretty like this, Pips” he groans against your skin, biting into your thigh and sucking until you twitch away from him. “Wanna make you cum all over my face, say sorry for leaving for so long” his eyes look at your face, free hand trailing up your body to push your shirt up, freeing your tits for him.
His eyes lock on them, face moving back to suck at your clit, free hand grabbing at your tits while his other spreads up, fucking his fingers into you harder. You moan out, the pressure in your lower stomach building steadily as you clench around his digits, eyes squeezing shut.
“Can tell she missed me,” he mumbles against your clit, sucking it into his mouth between words, “squeezing me so fucking tight”
“Calebbbb” you whine out, the sound ripped from your throat and high pitched. You wish you weren’t folded like a pretzel beneath him, only for the reason that you wanted to drag your hips across his face and ride it.
“I know, princess, feels soooo good right?” He teases, biting back a laugh as he watches your reactions. He decides to take pity on you, doubling his efforts and speeding up, teeth nipping at your clit as his fingers push into you faster, loud squelches filling the room.
The pressure in your stomach feels like it’s gonna explode, you’re so wet, slick dripping down around his fingers and pooling on the cushion below your hips. Your head falls back, a loud moan of his name falling from your lips desperately as you claw at his shoulders before tugging back at his hair.
“Caleb- fuck- ngh!” The pressure snaps before you can warn him, pussy gripping around his fingers as you gush, squirting on him. His fingers pump deeper, a wicked grin on his face as his mouth latches onto you, drinking in the liquid gushing out of you.
Your leg tries to move, tries to push him away as your orgasm washes through you, vision going white as you sees stars. His actions dont let up, even as you come down from the high, hips twitching and your hand reaching down to swat at his shoulder.
“C-caleb-!”
He shakes his head as you whine out his name, looking up to see small tears pricking your eyes from the overstimulation. He grins, pulling his fingers from you, soaking wet as slick drips down into his palm. He licks it up, sucking on them as he looks at you before stuffing them into your own mouth.
You let out a small gasp as theyre pushed past your lips, sighing at the taste of you before his tongue runs back over your entrance, lapping up your juices.
“Tastes so fucking good” he mumbles against your skin. He pulls his fingers from your mouth, raising from the ground to crawl onto your body. Your legs are still thrown over his shoulders as he kisses you, knees pressing into your shoulders as he grinds his hard cock against your core through the slacks of his uniform.
He breaks the kiss, mouth moving to latch onto your neck and jaw, kissing along the skin. “Could stay down there forever, my pretty girl just tastes so good” he emphasizes the word with a groan, biting into the skin of your neck. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, small moans and whimpers escaping your lips as he marks your neck, taking his time.
His hips grind against your pussy, the rough fabric of his military slacks rubbing against your clit deliciously. You try to move against him, still folded beneath him in a mating press, a small whine escaping you. “Caleb… please”
He moves down to your chest, sucking and biting over your tits. He smiles into your skin, his voice low as he ruts against you again, “what is it baby? Need something from your Colonel?”
“Need you” you moan out, pulling his head back up to kiss his mouth, biting into his plush bottom lip. He kisses you back desperately, hands sliding down your body to grab at the button of his pants, tugging it undone before pushing them down to free his hard, throbbing cock.
He moans into your mouth, hands gripping your hips as he ruts his length against your folds, slick coating him. He breaks the kiss by biting your lip and you whimper out in response, nails digging into his shoulders.
“Gonna fuck this pretty pussy so good,” he groans out, forehead dropping to yours as his tip prods at your entrance, “stuff you so full your pussy never forgets what i feel like”
He lets out a laugh as you moan at his words, biting and kissing at his own neck. “Tell your Colonel how good that sounds, say please sir i want it” he teases, pushing into you and slotting himself inside until theres no more room.
You moan out, pushing at his shoulders so you could look at his face better. “Sounds s-so good, sir”. His grin widens at your words, hips pulling back to thrust into you roughly, tip hitting your cervix. You grip him harder as he pulls away, eyes locked on how your stuffed pussy spreads around him, how pretty you look taking him.
“Fuckkk, theres my pretty girl” he groans out, spitting onto your clit before his finger moves to rub it. His thrusts are hard and slow, cock dragging through your walls to the tip before slamming back in. You cry out every time his tip slams into your cervix, fingers trailing down to his arms to dig your nails into his biceps, pulling a whimper from his lips.
“Need m-more Caleb, please” you whine out breathlessly, your cunt so full of him but still not enough. “W-want you to fuck me like you really missed me”
His eyes snap up to yours, head tilting as he gives a few more slow, hard thrusts before nodding. His hips immediately picking up their pace, pistoning into you roughly. “Like that, baby?” He asks, eyes still on yours as he presses your legs further against your shoulders, fucking into you harder.
You cry out at the pace change, highpitched moans leaving you as your head falls back and your eyes squeeze shut. Hes so deep inside you, every inch stuffed into you and every vein dragging against your tight walls. You squeeze around him, drool slipping from your lips as the pressure in your stomach builds.
“Answer your Colonel” he grunts out, voice low as he speeds up even more. The couch slides back on the floor as he thrusts into you, one of his hands flying up to grip onto it to stop himself from falling. He lets out a laugh, hips not slowing their motion as his other hand return to your clit, fingers rubbing quick circles into it before pinching.
Your body jerks at the motion as you nod, struggling to find words. “J-just like- fuck- like that”. Your legs are sore, thighs burning from being bent in half, nails still digging into his skin through his stupid uniform. You wanted to rip it off of him, wanted to see the sweaty, soft skin underneath the layers of it. Everything feels fuzzy, your eyes opening slowly to look down at where he sinks in and out of you lewdly, wet noises filling the livingroom. You look up, eyes trailing over where his toned abs and chest hide behind his uniform, before settling on his face. His cheeks are flushed, sweat drenching his messy hair as it falls in front of his face. His bottom lip is pulled between his teeth, eyes half lidded and dark with lust. Curses fall from his lips along with small grunts and whimpers, eyes shutting briefly every time your slick gummy walls clench around him deliciously.
You shudder at the sight of him, pussy clenching impossibly tighter around him as you twitch, right on the edge of your orgasm. You whine and moan, clawing at him as he fucks into you, spitting down onto your clit against before slapping it roughly. “Need you to cum, baby,” his eyes meet yours and he shivers “fuckkk i wont last if you keep looking at me like that” he groans out, head dropping to rest on your chest as he ruts into you wildly, fingers slapping at your clit again.
You cry out his name, insides squeezing as you cum, white hot bliss washing over you as you twitch and shake under him. You babble out useless words, things that dont even make sense as drool slips from the corner of your lips, vision going white. Your ears are barely able to register his words as he moans above you, lips kissing over your breasts.
“Gonna cum inside, gonna make sure it sticks. You’d l-love that right? If you had my baby then I really will be inside you forever, youd always be mine”.
You feel so dizzy, his words making pleasure bloom right under the orgasm your body was still coming down from, his hips relentless as they chase his own high. His mouth latches onto your nipple, sucking it into his mouth as his fingers still play with your clit. You try to push his hand away, overstimulation making your nerves feel like theyre on fire.
He slams his hips into you till the hilt, emptying inside of you. Thick spurts of his cum paint your walls, filling you up to the brim before slowly slipping out and rolling down the curve of your ass. You tumble into a second orgasm, less intense but still enough to punch the air from your lungs as you cling onto him tighter, walls squeezing him like a vice.
He whimpers as he cums, hips rocking against yours before stilling, his forehead resting on your shoulder as he pants above you. Your fingers slip into his hair, both of you coming down from your highs as you twitch against each other.
He kisses your shoulder before pulling away, softening cock pulling out. He looks down, watching his cum slip out of you and soak into the couch below your hips, the fabric now thoroughly ruined.
You look at him with a lazy smile as he pushes strands of hair from your face. “I missed you”
His boyish grin lights up his face as he pulls your legs down from being pressed against your shoulders, the pressure easing as he massages your thighs. He slides down to the floor in front of you, kissing your lower belly before moving to your thighs.
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