his heart is in his throat. but all he can feel is the way his girthy cock throbs at the sight of the dark, wet spot on your panties.
"...valko." he shakes his head, trying to clear the haze clouding his thoughts.
"ye-yeah." he leans over you, his shaking hands braced on either side of your head. your hips buck in search of him, but he lifts himself away from you.
you gently push him back. "have you never done this before?"
he attempts to smooth the crease between his brows, sucking in deep breaths of your sweetness that only worsen his state.
"pfft what makes you say that." he scoffs weakly.
in truth, you were already far, far beyond the point of stopping. without giving yourself the chance to think twice, you reach for his waistband, undoing his pants before pulling him free.
his head dips into your neck, soft whines bubbling from his throat. a warm breath shudders across your shoulder when you pump him once.
"line it up." you mumble into his ear. it sends a shiver down his spine, a whimper escaping him.
"what? o-oh yeah. yeah on it." with a trembling hand he peels off your underwear, fully exposing your slick core to him.
he manages to rub his tip against your swollen clit, making you arch beneath him.
gingerly, he pushes the bulbous head of him past your puffy lips, slipping deeper into your sinfully hot channel. until he bottoms out. you bite back a sound.
a groan rips from his throat, the tight grip of you driving him to the brink of insanity. "i cant- fuck I'm gonna cum."
you huff, pinching his chin to make him look at you. "get down."
he's flipping the both of you surprisingly with no argument. when he looks at you, he can barely contain it. "this is worse. i can't look at you and not-not--ngh--!?"
you grind slow to shut him up. both his palms slap onto his eyes.
"really? you choose to blind yourself through your first time?" you cock a brow at him.
"this isn't my--" he hisses through his teeth but obeys, peeling his hands away.
and oh lord was he right about it. the sight of you on him, your tummy pushing out just a little from the way you arch, your gorgeous tits inches away from his face, your pussy lips stretched to their limit to accomodate him...
warmth fills you immediately. his hips buck once, plugging you fully. he releases with a broken sound, spurting ropes and ropes of his hot cum into you, thick enough for you to feel them cling to your insides.
your walls clamp around him instinctively. seeing him so utterly shattered because of you has your fingers itching to touch your clit.
"whyd you stop? I'm tougher than I look." he manages to give you a stupid smirk. "go on. use me to finish."
his hand snake around your waist. he helps you bounce on his poor, overstimulated cock.
"here?" his thumb finds your clit, rubbing it slow, to your rhythm. he groans into your neck when you keep gripping him in wet, hot pulses.
"so this is what it's like? to have both of our scents infused together so I can't tell them apart?"
suddenly, there's newfound vigour in him. his hips come to life beneath you. his cock massages your sweet spot at every lewd squelch and slide of him.
your palm pins him down, nail digging crescents into his chest. his hand curls around your wrist, and makes its way up to your shoulder, sliding all the way down to pinch your nipple.
he pulls on it, making you arch.
"this is what mating is, huh?" his voice is raspy. he pulls you closer by your neck, all while keeping his pace.
"will you mark me as yours?" he asks, pressing his forehead to yours. "mark me with your pussy. p-please. just-just scent my dick as yours."
he's rambling incoherently now, and the sharp twitch of him inside you gives him away.
unable to hold back any longer, you move faster. all it takes is for him to rub slow, firm circles over your clit before you're tumbling over the edge. you clench around him, milking him through another orgasm.
silence settles over the room as the two of you come down.
"Would you call yourself an alpha?" You ask Valko curiously, perched on the couch while he sits on the floor between your legs. The TV blares a superhero movie that neither of you have watched and aren't really paying any attention to.
Valko tilts his head back to look up at you, eyes gleaming behind his glasses. "Why do you ask?" He replies and you shrug, running a hand through his thick locks.
"Wolf dynamics." You shrug then smile. "Also fanfiction."
Valko smiles mischievously. "Is this your roundabout way of asking if I have a knot?"
You blink, surprised. "How did you get that from me mentioning fanfiction?"
"You fall asleep with your phone unlocked sometimes," Valko confesses, his trailing fingers leaving sparks across your right leg. "And while I don't snoop—"
"Liar."
"—I do have good eyesight and I happen to know what A/B/O dynamics mean."
Silence is the only response he gets for a moment and Valko looks far too smug at the warring emotions dancing across your face. You look both impressed and mortified.
"But to answer your question, I guess I could be seen as an alpha." Valko turns his sights back to the TV. "So roll around in that for a bit."
He isn't shocked when the TV suddenly turns off and you're standing up.
"Valko."
He's already grinning, wolfish.
"Hmm?"
"Get in the bedroom."
He's scrambling to his feet in a rush of excitement.
There's a few things about you that Sylus finds peculiar. One of which is your texting style.
'Show me that cawk'
Your text lights up his phone, and the longer he stares, the more confused he gets. What exactly were you asking of him?
After a quick google search, he manages a slight grasp on the scenario. A calendar check confirms his theory for the reason you're asking for such a thing, and with that in mind, he's happy to oblige.
One might feel awkward taking nude photos for the first time. But of course, such a thing doesn't apply to Sylus. It's almost too easy for him to find a good angle, mindful to also include a sinful shot of just his abs.
He also makes plenty of use out of the bottle of massage oil in the nightstand.
After taking a dozen or so photos, and one short video, he sends them with the caption 'Does this satisfy you?' and sits back. You read it almost immediately.
And then...nothing.
For five minutes, Sylus waits. Doubt starts to creep up just a little. Perhaps the pictures hadn't been satisfactory. He hadn't included his biceps. Maybe you were mad?
'Come over. Quickly. Please. Can't cum without you.'
He doesn't bother getting dressed, never more grateful for his ability to teleport easily into your bedroom. You'd been expecting him to do so given the way you nearly launch yourself at him, shoving him onto the bed and clambering on top of him.
"Did you like the pictures?" He murmurs into your mouth, fingers sliding into your panties and making you melt into him.
"Y-yeah. But-fuck-the real thing is s-so much better."
Daddy Qin Che | 6.2k words
dilf qin che takes you in off the street, and he resists his desire for so long that when he finally gives in, he's feral
cw: daddy kink (seriously, he's a father figure), age gap (no age mentioned but mc is 20s and he's 40s in my head), size difference, belly bulge, pussy inspections, guilty dilf, sloppy and messy and deranged
You'd been alone as long as you could remember. You owned nothing but whatever you could fit in a small worn backpack you found in a park years earlier, and no one had ever loved you. Every day was a fight. That’s how he’d found you: in an alley on the n109 zone, gripping one of the shoulder straps of the bag carrying all your worldy posessions, and screaming at the top of your lungs. Every single day was a fight.
He watched you thrash and scream, anchoring yourself down, using your entire body weight to resist. Your attacker drags you along behind him for a few metres, like your desperate fight was nothing but a mild nuisance, and then, when he’s had enough , he turns and raises a knife to end your fight once and for all. A red mist scoops him off his feet and into the air, and your scream is abruptly cut off as you fall back hard into the pavement, gripping your backpack in your arms.
When your rescuer leaves the shadows and approaches, you scramble backwards, clutching that little battered bag like it contained riches. He crouches down. “I won’t touch your treasure, sweetheart. I’ve got more than enough of my own.”
Months pass, and then years, and it becomes less and less clear why the silver-haired man—who could kill without lifting a finger and had the reputation to match—deigned not only spare you from certain death, but to drag you back to his cave and give you a home. And a home was what it was. You'd have been happy if he did truly like in a dark dank cave, as long as it was safe and secure, but you'd very quickly learned that was not what was on offer.
He was decades your senior and struck fear in anyone who was unfortunate enough to find themselves before him. He was also wealthy enough to obtain anything his heart desired, and you—a nobody, with nothing to offer him at all—found yourself living under his roof, under his care, and slowly realising you might be the one thing in the world he treasured above all else.
"Isn't it pretty?" you ask, twirling your flowing skirts for him again.
"Mm," he hums, leaning back in his lounge chair. "Very pretty."
"It's almost too pretty to wear..." You smooth your hands down over the delicate bodice, a pretty pale shade of pink. "What if I spill something on it?"
"I'll buy another," comes his lazy reply. He takes a swig from his glass, and you catch the broken skin across his knuckles.
You take a few small steps and fold yourself onto the carpet at his feet carefully, being sure not the tear the pretty skirt. "Why?" you ask, looking up at him.
His brows twitch. "Why not?"
"What if i ruined that one too?"
"You think I can't afford to buy a thousand more?"
You fiddle a little with the delicate lace. "But you buy me so many pretty things."
He looks down at you, a silver lock falling over one of his dark red eyes. "You've noticed," he says, amused.
You lift yourself up onto your knees and shuffle forward slightly, enough to rest your hands on his knees. His fingers tighten on the glass and then relax. He lowers it to the small table beside him. "What do you want? You know I like when you just ask."
You shake your head. "I don't want anything."
He cracks, his lips curving into a small smile. "Oh?" His head tilts a little.
You shuffle your knees along the carpet a little more, forcing his knees apart to make space for you between them. "Nothing you can buy," you clarify.
When you look up at him, his eyes are fixed on one of your hands, resting on his thigh.
"What happened to your hands, daddy?"
His eyes snap to yours. You'd used the word for the first time only a few months earlier. You'd been nagging about something, trying to get your way. It'd slipped out without thought, and you'd both frozen in place in the seconds afterwards. Then he'd relented to your demand and made no mention of it. So again, and again, you'd hung off his arm and 'please, daddy?' had slipped past your lips, and you found yourself entirely unable to stop. It felt right. And it seemed to work in your favour, too.
You reach for his hand so you can inspect his knuckles. "Why haven't you healed them?" you ask.
"They're a reminder."
You tilt your head in question, a habit you'd picked up from him without notice.
"Someone said something today that I really didn't like, and I want to remember how much I hurt them.” He takes his hand from yours and tucks some loose hair behind your ear. "So I don't go back and kill them. I need them alive for now."
"Is that why you kept me? You need me alive for something too?"
He laughs. It jostles you a little against his legs. Then his muscles relax, and it's clear that's all the response he'll be offering.
You stare at a precariously loose button at his navel, frustrated in your years' long failure to understand why someone like him would take in, and spoil, someone as entirely useless and insignificant as you.
"Tell me what you want that I can't buy," he asks after a moment of your silent brooding. "You're pouting."
"Tell me why you saved me."
He looks immediately amused, which makes your mood worse. "I only helped a little."
You close the final gap between your body and the edge of the lounge. You’re now well and truly wedged between his legs. "Answer me properly or I won't talk to you for a week."
His head tilts. "A whole week?" He smooths down your hair. It feels a lot like being soothed with a pet on the head, as if you were a needy dog desperate for their owner’s approval.
Your mood worsens. "A month."
His lips twitch, a clear attempt to hold back a smile. "Now it's getting serious." He pats the armrest. "Come here."
When you hesitate—stubborn resistance he was all too familiar with—that same red mist that had killed your attacker all those years ago gently scoops you up and drops you exactly where he'd instructed you to sit. He gathers your legs and tucks your feet between his thighs, keeping you securely balanced on your perch beside him.
You expect him to take his hands off you and let the way your feet wedge under one of his thighs be your security. He hardly ever touched you unless absolutely necessary. It was such a rarity that you’d long since concluded that he didn't like to be touched in general. But one of his hands stays wrapped around your bare calf now as he starts to speak. You indulge in the rare treat.
"I was passing by, and I heard your screams. It was clearly an unfair fight. Didn't I do what anyone would? I'm not a monster, am I, sweetheart?"
You frown. "No, you didn't do what anyone would. You took me home and put me in the biggest room here and bought me anything I asked for."
His lips curve and his fingers tighten a little around your calf. "Aren't you happy here?" His thumb moves against your skin under your skirts, caressing. "With me," he adds.
"You've helped other people... in unfair fights."
"Mm."
"But you didn't bring them home."
"No."
"So why me?"
His hand moves up enough to brush against your underskirts, just below your knee. "Sometimes... I come across things––things that catch my eye––and I decide I want to bring them home... and keep them… and make them mine. You know I collect shiny things."
You lift your feet from between his thighs, and before he can intervene, you fall into his lap. His hands hover awkwardly in the air for a moment, like he'd been about to catch you and either failed to get their fast enough or stopped himself. You know him so well, that you know his next move will be forcibly removing you. And so, just as his muscles twitch—
"Am I a shiny thing then, daddy?"
Success.
He's still.
You reach toward his face. His hand snaps up to grip your wrist.
“Your hair is in your face,” you grumble.
His wrist loosens, freeing you, and when you gently move aside the hair that falls over one of his eyes a little, it reveals the glow forming—the same glow you'd seen the first time that word slipped past your lips and every time since.
"Yes, little one. You're shiny. Hop off now."
His voice distracts you from the allure of that red glow. You tilt your head. "Why?"
"You'll damage your dress."
"You can buy me another."
He doesn’t respond, and that loose shirt button catches your eye again. You focus your attention on it, rolling it between your fingers. It's so loose it causes the fabric of his black dress shirt to part a little, giving you a peak of his belly underneath. You’d seen him shirtless more times than you could count. He had a habit of strutting around the place with a towel around his waste. You could imagine how he must’ve looked when he was closer to your age. You imagine all that muscle that sits on him like a bulk and brute strength now might’ve been a little leaner. He would’ve always been tall, but maybe not quite so… big.
"I am happy here... with you." Your shyness isn’t disguised in your voice at all, so you decide you should be brave and look at him, to make sure he understands you mean it. But when you do… your fingers slip, snapping the thread and tugging that little button completely free. You gasp. A tiny little breath of air. An involuntary response to the blazing glow looking back at you—brighter than you’d ever seen it before.
"I won't hurt you, baby," he says, clearly interpreting your surprise as fear.
"Your eye."
"Mm, I know. You should get off now."
"Why does it do that?"
His brows twitch, then his lip, and then his hand resting beside you—like a shock travelling through his all his nerves. "Please, get off," he says finally.
You're transfixed: by his eye, by the tension in the thighs you rest on, by the uncharacteristic plea that escapes his lips when you know very well he has the power to lift you from him, both using his muscles or his evol.
Adjusting in his lap a little, you lean closer, like getting a better look might reveal the secret to his glowing eye. It draws you in, tempting you with its secrets. "It happens when I call you daddy," you mutter, problem-solving aloud. "Is it like a mood ring? Are you happy or angry?"
His chest rises and falls more rapidly than usual, and you're almost ready to jump off, thinking maybe he was in pain. But then, "...Happy," he confesses.
You can't help the grin that lights up your face. You fall into him, wrapping your arms around his neck. He's tense, and his arms don't wrap around you in return, but after a moment, he relaxes. "You never said," you mumble into his neck. "I thought you were embarrassed... or that you hated it..." Nuzzling into his neck, you find yourself quickly rambling. “Doesn’t it feel so right? It felt like I was yours all along. I never knew it was possible to feel this safe, and loved, and… happy.”
He's quiet, and your chests rise and fall together, and the dress you were in love with minutes earlier now feels like a big mess of fabric serving no purpose but to cordon you off from him. You want to be closer.
You nuzzle into his neck some more, inhaling his scent—his warmth and protection and safety and love... love... "I love you, daddy," you mumble.
He's still... and quiet... and then he turns, and with his lips against your temple, he inhales deeply.
You sit up so you can see his face again, trying to stick as close to him as you can. "Do you love me too?"
"Mm, more than anything."
A spark of heat shoots through your body: pure joy. You rock a little in his lap, keeping your arms around his neck, securely latched on. His expression doesn't match yours at all. He still looks a little pained, and it makes even less sense now than it did before.
"What's wrong?"
"Go get ready for bed, I'll come say goodnight."
You frown, and your fingers play with the hair at the back of his neck, much like you had with the lace on your dress and the button on his shirt. "Are you sick?"
"No."
Your fingers still. "You don't like me touching you?"
He doesn't answer.
You arms drop from his neck. "Are you... You just said... You don't love me?"
His hair falls back over his eye. "I love you."
"But I love you and... I want to be close to you... and touch you. So... you don't love me the same?" You fiddle with the edges of his shirt where the button should’ve been holding it together. His bare skin peaks at you, and you slip one little finger past the gap. The moment your finger meets his warmth, his hips jump so violently you're forced to grip onto his shoulders for support.
"Daddy loves you," he breathes as his chest rises and falls heavily. He almost sounds… afraid? It's such a foreign tone for him that you're stunned into silence. "I want to touch you and be close to you, too. So much. So, so much. It's not right. I can't touch you, mm? And you shouldn't touch me."
"Why?"
His hands grip the armrests. "That man I still need alive—the one that said something I really didn't like—he’s only alive because I have self-control. Lots, and lots, and lots of self-control. He said something about the thing most precious to me in this world and he's very, very lucky that I’ve spent so many years building all that control. As are you."
Your brows pull together, and you blink rapidly, processing.
He leans forward a little, arms still pinned beside you. "Daddy wants to do bad things. Bad things to men that mention your name..." His nose brushes your neck. "...and bad things to you." He falls back. "So I can't touch you, and I need to leave my knuckles bloody. Those are the rules."
Your heart flutters rapidly with the revelation he feels the same way. You're so fixated on that, that you entirely skip over the part where he says he can’t. Can't isn't the same as want. And all you care about is the want.
"Touching me isn't a bad thing,” you mutter, doing your best not to pout.
His hand balls into a fist, then it relaxes. "I'm too old for you, you know that.”
"But I love you."
"Those are the rules,” he says again, final.
"So only someone younger can touch me? I should just go find someone my age without your stupid rules?"
He leans forward. He’s large enough that you have to look up at him, even as you sit perched on his thighs. "No," he says simply, calm, final. "Daddy can't touch you, and neither can anyone else."
"That's not fair."
He moves to touch your lips, pausing just before he makes contact. Control. "Don't pout."
You grasp his wrist before he can lower it again. "What about me touching you? That isn't in your rules. Besides, you can't tell me what to do."
"Go to bed."
"No."
"I can make you."
"But you haven't." You wiggle in his lap. "You keep telling me to get off, but you haven't even tried to make me. Why haven't you made me get off, daddy?"
You bridge the small space between his hand and your lips, placing a delicate kiss to his broken knuckles. "It would be easy. I’m so much smaller than you. You could make me get off you, and you could make me stop touching you, and you could lock me in my room and never look at me so you never think about doing bad—"
"Go to bed."
His hand is relaxed in your grasp, a passive limpness that lets you select the finger you want and guide it to your mouth. It brushes your lower lip. "It's okay, daddy. I understand. It's not bad if you don't do anything, right? You don't have to touch me." His finger rests between your lips as you speak.
He watches as you part them a little and touch it with your tongue.
One little kitten lick: a test. Then another. And then, slowly, you guide his finger into your warm mouth. It rests on your tongue for a moment, and then it twitches, a slight press down into your wet warmth. Approval. Your lips seal around him, and you suck, and twirl your tongue around him and gently guide him in and out.
He watches, transfixed. Having his attention entirely on you was enough to have you giddy any other day, but right now... it's enough for you to squirm... to make a little sound with his thick finger filling your mouth. His fingers are so long that you can’t manage the whole thing. At one point, you try, and when you gag a little, he tries to pull away. It’s more a reflexive flinch than any real attempt to stop you. You know you could never fight any actual attempt to take back control.
He lets you catch his hand. “Sorry, daddy. It’s too big. I just wanted to try.”
As you resume your mission, his chest rises and falls in heavy uneven breaths. Any second he could stop you. You keep reminding yourself that he could stop you without so much as a twitch of a muscle. Still, he says and does nothing. Even as you begin to roll your lips in his lap, still suckling on his finger, making small sounds that vibrate through his hand. He says nothing. He basks in your wet warmth, a captive audience and a passive participant.
When you're done with one finger, you start on the next, and in a patient game of wills, you suckle and whine and rolls your hips… until finally, he speaks.
"You're wrinkling your dress."
You pull his thumb from your mouth with a pop. Did he want you to stop? You knew he didn't care about the dress. You’d thought it was in the way when you climbed onto him. It was a barrier between you. Surely he didn't mean...
"Should I... take it off?"
"To look after it."
You nod, joining his game of pretend. Ignoring that he'd just told you he could buy you a thousand more. Hesitation halts you just as you start to climb off him. Was this a trick? Would he stand and hurry away and never give you this chance again?
That unruly lock of hair still flops down over his face to cover his eye. He doesn't grab you when you reach to move it this time. And when you do, his eye is impossibly bright. A silent reassurance, you keep your focus on that glow as you climb backwards off him and reach for the small hook and zip at the side of your bodice.
You gain confidence the longer he sits there, unmoving. There's no sign this is a trick. So by the time you manoeuvre out of the dress and leave a pile of pale pink fabric at your feet, you're practically trembling with anticipation.
Standing before the man that rescued you, far older and wiser and stronger, you've never felt more vulnerable. Even on the night he rescued you, your adrenaline kept you protected from this feeling: like you might be prey.
Your hair tickles your bare nipples as it falls over your shoulder, and you are grateful you at least left your underwear on when you rushed to try on your pretty new dress.
He sits there, knees parted, eyes tracking up and down your body like he's studying, inspecting. His hand drops to his thigh, flat. He doesn't lift it again. It’s not an inviting pat. That would leave no plausible deniability. But you know what he's asking anyway.
This time, when you crawl onto him and settle onto his warm thighs, there's no barrier of tulle and puffy skirts. You can settle right up against him. And he's warm. So, so warm. That's what he's always been: warmth and home and protection. So you wrap yourself around him, pressing yourself as close as you can, and you bask in him.
Just for a little while.
You can't even bare to move away when you speak, letting your lips brush against his skin where you rest in the crook of his neck. "No one's ever cared for me before. I only ever remember being alone. You're more than I ever even dreamed of." You nuzzle into him, humming with contentment. "You're so good to me, daddy."
"You would be in bed right now if I was good to you, sound asleep, not… naked in my lap."
"But I like it. It's what I want." You kiss his skin gently, a brush of your lips more than anything. "Don't you like it? Aren't I pretty?"
His shoulder jostles you a little, enough to tell you he's lifted his arm and then placed it back down again. Control. You sit up so you can see his face, attempting to prompt an answer from him.
He has that pained look again.
You brush your hair over your shoulder, preventing it from covering you at all. Then, keeping your eyes on his face, you cup your breasts in your hands. "They aren't pretty?” You pout. “Is there something wrong with me?”
His eyes are stuck on yours. He hasn't let them drop. They flutter and he blinks rapidly a few times, like he might have dust or an eyelash in them.
"Daddy? Won’t you check my titties for me? Pretty please?"
He sucks in a deep breath, holds it, and his eyes drop.
You let your thumb flick over your nipple, then your remove your hands and lift yourself up on your knees, bringing your chest up closer to his face.
They're so close, his warm breath tickles you.
He’s still. You bask in the feeling of his breath against you as you wait patiently.
Then, "Let daddy check..."
His hand lifts from it's position on the armrest, and you're sure he'll hesitate and move away again. He cups your breast with the tiniest pillow of air between his skin and yours, like he's imagining the weight of it in his palm.
His lips part, and his brows furrow. Pain.
"It's okay if it's me that touches..." you mutter, and without giving him a chance to move or process your intentions, you fall slightly forward, meeting him. His hand hardly so much as twitches as your breast rests in his warm palm. His fingers press a little firmer with each breath you take, lifting your chest, filling the spaces between his fingers.
Then, in a little moment of impatience, you grab his hand and press it against you properly, squeezing. "It's me touching," you breathe as you guide his hand over you. He lets you, and it makes your head spin. "You're just checking for me. Just making sure I'm all healthy. You’re the best daddy in the world."
He makes a sound. It might be a word. You miss it, distracted by his thumb. It moves. He swipes it across your nipple.
"...Need to check."
You hear him this time. It's a mumble, almost slurred, and then he's tugged you closer and his wet lips are wrapped around you. You're dizzy, incapable of processing the reality of his hot warm mouth suckling at your tits like he's hungry. He's gripping you now, firm hands holding you close and squeezing and groping at your tits as he alternates between each one.
"My sweet girl," he slurs. "Letting daddy taste your pretty tits... so, so sweet..." he hardly gives himself time to breathe. His tongue laps at you in apology each time he sucks a little hard––each time his teeth make small indents into your skin when a growl builds in his throat and culminates in a desperate bite.
You squeeze your eyes shut as he devours you, attacking your tits with his mouth in a carnal brutish frenzy. You shiver and tremble as the cool air hits where his spit glazes your soft skin. You hold his head against you, fingers tangling in his hair. Words pass your lips in broken thank yous and pathetic little pleas.
He's so relentless that when he eventually detaches, he's entirely breathless, resting his head against you as he recovers. "I shouldn't..." he mutters. "I can’t..."
You lower yourself back into his lap and cup his cheeks in your palms. "Can I have a kiss?"
He shakes his head, half-hearted. "Can't..."
His glowing eye pulses, beckoning. "I want your tongue in my mouth, daddy. I want all your warmth." You lick at his lower lip, just with the tip of your tongue. "You always give me what I want..." Another lick. "You're so good to me."
The next lick comes with a surprise. His own tongue darts out, meeting yours, slippery and wet. You lick at him again, and he meets you. And then you rest there for a second, your tongue resting against each other, breaths mingling.
It's because it starts this way, that when your lips finally meet, it's all tongue and spit and mess. You lap at each other, and you imagine he might be convincing himself that this is too far departed from the textbook example of a kiss to be defined as such. He's not kissing you. He's playing with your tongue and your lips brushing together is simply an accidental consequence of this other unnamed activity. It alternates between this messy depraved licking and slurping, and a firm desperate invasion, accompanied with his hands holding your head firmly in position. You whimper as he fills your mouth, and a low sound rumbles from his throat in reply.
His hand wraps around your hip at some point, and he pushes you down against him as he invades your mouth. It seems he somehow gets bigger as it goes on. Like he grows into his full size as he loses his inhibition. You very quickly feel like your control over the situation is slipping away, and you find your muscles relaxing as a consequence. This was how it should be.
When he grips you at both hips, you're entirely pliable, and you let him roll you against himself with no resistance at all. The cold buckle of his belt reminds you how entirely clothed he is compared to your nakedness. "Can you feel daddy?" he breathes into your mouth. "There..." he grinds you against him, fingers digging into your skin hard. "Feel it..."
It must hurt. He strains up underneath you, confined by his dress pants. You nod.
"That's yours," he slurs against your lips. "Belongs to you, little one."
"Just for me?"
"Mm... Always gets like that for you..."
"Always?"
"Daddy has been so good, baby. For so long."
He pushes you back, down his thighs a little and you watch as he expertly undoes his fly and releases himself through it—belt still fastened.
He's leaking. You resist the urge to reach out and touch the drippy tip. He doesn't touch it either. It sits up against his still buttoned black shirt and twitches.
That's all the time you have to process seeing him for the first time before he's tugging you back up against him, cock trapped between you.
"Do you wanna know what daddy thinks about?" He kisses your forehead, and when you nod, he cups your cheeks and gently strokes his thumb against your warm skin. "When you wear your pretty dresses, and you're all happy and bouncy, you thank me so sweetly, I think about following you back to your bedroom and helping you take them off… and letting you thank me in ways you shouldn't..." He tugs you closer, letting his leaky tip smear a little wetness on your belly. "...You’d lie back and spread your legs and invite daddy inside your sweet little hole..."
“That sounds nice,” you purr.
He sighs, caressing your cheek. “You’d like that?”
You nod, eager. “Can we go to my bedroom now?”
A flicker of that same pained look, and then he’s scooping you up and carrying you through to where you slept: the only other room in the long hallway that led to his own. You couldn’t get to your room without walking past his own door. You’d always liked it. It felt safe, secure. Something you never had before he found you.
You’re jostled up his chest as he walks, and when you’re lowered back down a little, a firm warmth rests up against your ass. He pauses just outside your door. “Could just do it here,” he says against your temple. His voice is low, but it’s not quite a whisper. “Could hold you up against me and drop you down onto me. Maybe I’d carry you around like that, hm?”
You squeeze him harder, attempting to wiggle impossibly closer.
“I’ve thought about it,” he continues as he turns the doorknob, holding you against him with one arm. “So, so many bad things.” With a few strides into the room, he’s at your bed. “Let go.” You refuse, digging your heels into his back as you cling. “Don’t you want daddy to check your pussy? Be a good girl for me, hm?”
Slowly, you release, and he lowers you onto the bed and flips you onto your belly. The bed dips as he sits down at the edge, and then you’re being partially tugged over him. You rest on your belly with your elbows against the mattress, blind to the way he has your ass in his lap and his arm around your waist so he can position you exactly where he wants.
His big, warm hands move over your ass a few times—circular movements like he’s trying to warm your skin—and then they dig into you, groping and kneading. “Oh, baby. We should stop. I’m really too old for you. I’ve been so good for so long. I’m like your—”
“Dad?”
His hands pause, one finger resting on the strip of fabric covering your cunt. “Don’t say that.”
You push your hips back, seeking him out. “It’s okay, daddy. I belong to you. You have to inspect me like you do all your shiny things.”
His finger taps against your hole over the fabric.
“You took me home because you knew I belonged to you,” you continue as he silently prods at you. “I’m yours, daddy. Me and my pussy. Won’t you have a look?”
He continues stroking over the fabric. “Shouldn’t take them off,” he mutters. Then his finger slips beneath the fabric. “If we leave them on it’s okay.” He may as well be talking to himself. You’re too busy squirming and grasping at your blankets. He strokes and prods at you under your damp underwear, a blind investigation of your already slick and throbbing cunt.
He’s grabbing at your cheeks, pulling them apart. He’s muttering something. And then he’s tugging at the fabric until it bunches up and presses between your lips. He messes with it so much you may as well be entirely bare. It’s an illusion of safety. He plays with you until your hips are jumping in his lap and you’re begging for something. By the time he’s experimenting with the tip of his finger in your clenching hole, the underwear is entirely tugged to the side. “Sweet girl…” he sighs. “It’s trying to suck me in… it’s so naughty…”
You whine, “Hungry, daddy.”
“Mm,” he hums. “Hungry.”
He settles himself at the side of the bed, kneeling, and tugs you closer. You’re still on your belly. “Fine if these stay on,” he mutters just before his tongue dips into you. That’s the only warning you get before he’s lapping and sucking and kissing your pussy like he had your mouth before. It’s starvation confronted. Desperate and ravenous. And the sloppy, shameful slurping sounds have you gripping the sheets and biting into your arm.
“This is what daddy needed.” His nose digs into you as he laps at you, and he grips your ass like he’s worried you might squirm away. “Don’t move.”
You obey. You’re jelly. You have no desire to move at all.
The soft clinking of metal and fabric hitting the floor joins the sounds of your shared heavy breathing. And then, without warning, a large, comforting warmth surrounds you. He lowers just enough of his weight onto you to prevent you moving at all. His breath tickles your neck when he speaks. “Gonna feed you now, baby. Just tell me what you want.”
You whine.
“Tell me,” he commands, a little rumble attaching to the last syllable. “You know I like when you tell me.”
You suck in a shaky breath. “I’m empty…”
“Poor baby,” he coos, kissing your cheek.
“Want… want you to fill me up, daddy.”
His finger prods at your twitchy entrance. “Here?”
You wiggle under him.
“Daddy always gives you what you want.” His tip pushes at you. He guides it around your mess, a slick mix of you and him. “Don’t I?”
You nod and grab at his arm. A little push against your throbbing hole. A groan. “You’re sucking at me, pretty baby. I feel you. Trying to pull me inside. Greedy little thing wants her daddy’s cock deep in her belly?” He sucks on your neck, rolling his hips just enough to play with his tip just inside you, teasing. “Your underwear is still on, don’t worry. It’s okay. This is okay.”
He bites into you as he finally presses inside, filling and filling and shoving your walls apart to make room. “Tell me it’s okay,” he gasps into your neck when he finally stills, smothering you inside and out.
“You’re inside me.”
He breathes heavily into your ear for a moment, completely still. Then he uses his arm around your shoulders and chest to pull you back up against him as he sits back on his heels. “Fuck... That’s right. I’m deep inside. It’s okay. It’s okay.”
You look down at the small lump in your stomach, evidence of his hot, thick presence inside you. “Love you.” It leaves you like a sob.
“Daddy loves you too, sweetheart. So, so much. Feel it. Feel how much he loves you, yeah? Can you feel it?” He drags you off him a little, lifting you like you’re weightless, and he sinks back in. Over and over again. You’re slack, pulsing around him as he moves you. “I can feel your love. Sucking at me and hugging me tight. Can feel how much you love me. Tightening up when I try and leave, hm? Daddy can stay inside you. I can bury my drippy cock deep inside you when I say goodnight, hm? You can fall asleep on daddy’s cock from now on, baby. I’ll look after you. I’ll warm you up inside too. Keep you nice and warm and cozy so you can sleep.”
He presses you back down into the mattress, and the way he grinds into you has you entirely non-verbal. Breathing is your priority. Catching your breath between sobs and whimpers and kisses as he turns your head and invades your mouth. Panting, broken, grumbled words make their way into your ears occasionally. He calls you his good girl. He tells you you’re warm and sweet and perfectly shaped for him. And you are.
Somehow.
He’s so big that you can’t imagine how he fills you so perfectly. But it’s the most perfect satiating fullness. He drives through your walls like he’d carved them out himself and was finally coming home. It settles it for you: he took you home because he knew you were his. Made just for him. You’d never question it again.
And when he’s on his back and bouncing you on top of him, he watches where you join and his eye glows through the damp silver hair that falls across his face. “Tell me what you want,” he groans out as he holds you down to his base and rolls your hips back and forth against him with an almost bruising force.
“Daddy’s cum,” you mewl.
His jaw clenches, and then he pulls you down against his chest and ruts up into you with an animalistic feral intensity. The sounds of your skin slapping together tells you just how impossibly wet and messy you are now. But it’s okay. He’ll fill you up with his warmth, and he’ll hold you to his chest and tell you he loves you, and then he’ll take care of you better than anyone else ever could, like he always had.
rafayel/caleb: you are PROTECTED and WATCHED. they get along annoyingly well and end up telling each other all their secrets, even the ones kept from you. they decide working together fully is in your best interest. feed into each other's yandere tendencies. lots of ribbons and blindfolds and manhandling when they fuck you. their shared cute aggression and inability to say no to you is your greatest weapon.
zayne/sylus: daddy duo. zayne is the strict one. you go to sylus when you want to go behind zayne's back to get your way. sometimes sylus betrays you and ties you to the bed posts and leaves you for zayne to find when he gets home. they both call you sweet girl, and when you are in public, they both have a hand on you somewhere at all times.
rafayel/zayne: work really well together when shit gets serious. teacher/student roleplay, often. they have very different worldviews and you are always trying to prompt philosophical discussions between them for your own entertainment. also work together well at night. rafayel holds you against his chest, entirely restrained, while zayne punishes you with his cock. very gentle thorough aftercare.
rafayel/sylus: they nearly kill each other a few times at the start. they are apparently accidents, but you have your doubts. especially when sylus calls raf kitten one day and gets a dagger in his shoulder as a consequence. they take you on exotic trips very often. you get fucked in each place. they keep track of these places on a map and challenge each other in various games to decide who gets to choose the next place to take you. they both love dressing you up all pretty, often in pink.
xavier/caleb: always competing for your attention. snarky. passive-aggressive jealous bickering. lock in together when you need protecting. no hand raised against you lives. every time caleb feeds you a perfectly cooked meal, xavier fucks you for desert to make sure he's keeping the balance. caleb banned him from the kitchen for your safety. xavier makes you call him gege sometimes just to piss him off.
xavier/zayne: you catch them in discussions sometimes that make your head spin. they respect each other a lot. zayne has an accident with his evol one night and needs distance from you, escaping out into the cold night. but before he can spiral into self-loathing, xavier follows him out and talks him out of it. he tells him he's the only one in the universe he trusts with your life.
rafayel/xavier: pure joy and fun with a side of murder. they don't get along at first. xavier doesn't like how involved you are with rafayel's revenge/rescue missions. but after insisting on coming along, he quickly gets on side. ends up completely dedicated to the cause, especially when he sees how it upsets you. you find them napping together sometimes, and rafayel calls xavier old and out of touch when he doesn't understand his art. you have baths together nearly every day, and at night they grab at you and tug you between them like two only children who've never had to share their favourite toy.
xavier/sylus: sylus scares children off as he stands at your side and xavier smiles from your other side and tells them he's not nearly as scary as he looks. sylus stirs up xavier's jealous tendencies on purpose just to fuck with him, and because he knows you like it. he'll sit you on his cock and ask who fills you better or challenge xavier to try and take what belongs to him. respect each other but bicker like they hate each other.
zayne/caleb: serious plotting and scheming. have the potential to take over planet earth. EVER is rubble in 4 business days. no matter how much you want to see them fight, they keep it out of your sight, even when you tease and incite jealousy as best you can. sometimes when you've been more trouble than usual, they punish you together for being a bad girl.
sylus/caleb: the most pampered spoiled princess known to mankind. wants for nothing. sleeps in between them every night and when one of them is gone the other cockwarms you to soothe you. potential for absolute evil to manifest between them as they feed into each other's all-consuming obsession and desire for you. have the potential to work together to destroy all life in the universe if it would make you just a little bit happier.
you finally call it quits on your boss and taboo lover, gojo satoru, fearing that the age gap will never work out. in your grief of missing him, however, you find yourself hooking up with less than savoury company. . . at least your new boyfriend is your age right? you could compensate for him. that is until, of course, you're reminded exactly why someone double your age did it so much better.
⌗ wc : 8.5k ( throat it to the base pretty pls )
♡ ₊˚‧ cws. age gap ( 40s/20s ) :: smut :: angst :: alcohol consumption :: protective!satoru :: reader's bf makes her super uncomfy :: yearning :: hurt/comfort :: makeup sex :: f.oral :: dry humping :: body worship :: praise :: slight degradation :: pussydrunk!satoru :: p in v :: riding :: mating press :: rough sex :: overstim :: multiple orgasms :: phone sex :: possessive!satoru :: creampie :: idiots in love
♡ ₊˚‧ sweetheart. this was commissioned by @chewiebee , thank you baby! art by the glorious @baobei-bu
꒰ guys my age info post ꒱
You always loved challenges. From academic rivalries. To exam duels. To contesting yourself against your previous record of how many hours straight you could study before your eyes got blurry and your brain shut down.
But this one did more than just physically exhaust you. It ached deeper: your heart.
You didn't even know you had a heart. Physically, scientifically, yes. From a young age you learnt that your brain outweighed the little organ pumping blood to it. That's simply how it was for a valedictorian. Studies first. Feelings later.
So why was your heart louder than your brain nowadays? Surely not because you called it quits with a certain white-haired, blue-eyed, genius chairman, right?
. . . Right?
It was for the best. That's what your brain said. Gojo Satoru, your infuriatingly charismatic boss and taboo lover had poisoned your mind like a neurotoxin. Shutting down all executive function and binding your logic. He was distracting you. Jumbling your goals. Making you feel.
Your heart told another story. Whispered the truth to your bitter mind. That it was scared. Scared that Satoru needed a woman that could keep up with him. Someone mature. Who he could settle down with. Not some college girl.
Not someone your age.
That day in his office, you let your brain speak. Told him that he was distracting you. Getting in the way of everything you were working so hard for. You didn't need his spoils, nor his favour. Didn't need him handing you the easy life on a silver platter when you wanted to meld the metal with your own hands.
He thought you were joking at first. You couldn't blame him. Just a week ago you were in his penthouse. Drinking from his coffee mugs and wrapped in his shirts. Just a week ago, you were in this same office. Sat in his lap. Held by his arms.
But you were always the cold type. The kind of crystal that froze rather than burned. And that day— you gave Satoru frostbite.
So why were you the one feeling the chills?
The following month was more than cold. Winter stole away Japan's long awaited spring in your heart. Shrouding it in frost and slowing it to a dull squeeze.
Whatever. You didn't need a heart anyway. Didn't have one. Your brain was all that mattered so it was what you put to work. Thrust it into overtime with your nose buried into books and your eyes drowning in equations.
This was your time to focus. Chase those dreams and leave the fantasies behind in the dirt. It wasn't easy, of course. Satoru was still your boss.
His eyes were still naturally drawn to you in meeting rooms. His tongue still remembered each endearment when he'd thank you for bringing him paperwork. You'd made it a mission to avoid him.
Because maybe then you could forget how the same hands that scribbled out theories on a glass whiteboard were the same hands that caressed you. Tender, rough and anything you wanted them to be. Maybe then you could pretend that the same voice giving announcements and directing orders was the same one that whispered to your ear. Lulled you to sleep or teased you to squirms.
Maybe. Just maybe. You could wrest all the memories into your palms and squash them with that same clinical coldness you've always known. But every time you tried— they bloomed. Like a flower through the cracks of snow. Warm. Taunting.
So you decided to uproot it. Force spring back since your heart was so insistent. Plant a new garden with new flowers. New memories. With someone new.
Hiroshi was right up your alley. Someone new. Loud, and boisterous and not chained by the academic curse. A little disorganised. A little everywhere. But he certainly was new. Younger.
Your age.
He was nice. Or at least, he tried to be. Probably just a little airheaded with a lust for life rather than the future. Live fast, die young. That's exactly what you needed, right? Someone to get your mind off of the ghost haunting it.
Sure, he was a little messy. But most guys were, weren't they?
Satoru wasn't.
Yeah, he made you split the bill every time you went out. But that's a fair expectation, isn't it?
Satoru wouldn't.
And sure, maybe he was a little inconsiderate when it came to your body. But you shouldn't expect him to put your pleasure first, right?
Satoru would.
Spring locked away in the depths of your heart and winter reigned supreme. No matter how hard you tried to wedge Hiroshi into the open wound left in that pesky organ, it was hopeless. He was but a peephole in the crater that Satoru's absence left within you.
Whatever. You were just making excuses. Of course being with someone your age after months in the bed of a man who was double it was going to be a whiplash.
You're overreacting. You just needed to adapt. Give Hiroshi a chance. You liked challenges after all, didn't you?
That's why you're here now. Florescent lights skittering like the thrilled bodies bouncing all around. Bumping and grinding. Drunkenly dancing to the beat blaring from vibrating speakers. The music crumbled with static at the corners. Too loud. Too bass heavy. Too everything.
Parties were hardly your scene. At the end of the semester most of your friends fled their homes for a night on the town— while you readied your markers and colour-coded the next semester's planner.
But instead of schedules and highlighters, your hand occupied a red solo cup. Still brimming. Barely touched. The very plastic itched your fingertips. You still reeled from the bitter taste of bear on the back of your tongue. Curled in when you remembered how much skin the shimmery mini dress exposed. Another thing Hiroshi insisted on.
Your eyes flitted through the sea of heated bodies and dazed dances. Feet glued to the floor and a weight strung on your tense shoulders. Relax, Hiroshi had told you. Let loose and enjoy the party life for once.
He had called you a hermit. Rolled his eyes and gave you the silent treatment when you first denied him. So here you were now, with your boyfriend one-too-many cheap drinks down and his arm heavily wrapped around you. Swaying to whatever beat of whatever song you couldn't even recognise as he chatted— or rather, shouted— to his equally as wasted friends.
Go with the flow. That's all you did nowadays.
Their laughter pierced your ears and jostled you back to the overstimulating reality as one of Hiroshi's friends pointed his almost-finished cup at you clumsily.
"She's a pretty one huh 'hiro?"
For the fourth, disgusting time that night, your boyfriend hauled you in and smashed his lips to yours haphazardly. Smearing the bitter taste on your mouth and sludgingly sucking on your tongue until you'd shove him off again.
"Mhhm, she sure is," he slurred. Carelessly squeezing your ass in spite of his tittering friends. You squeaked. Shot him a small glare, but still tried to smile.
Hiroshi only tugged you further. Grinning with glossed-out eyes to his friend. "Wanna try?"
You thought it was joke. Hiroshi always cracked terrible ones. But when he nudged your side and gestured to the guy's eyes who lit up— your hand braced his shoulder.
The protests died on your tongue. So you shook your head. Hoping the little gesture would usher them both off, or at the very least get one of the other guys to tell them to knock it off.
But Hiroshi only huffed. Wrung you closer and snatched your jaw. "C'mon babe don't be like that. 's jus' a kiss."
You shook your head again. This time with some violence. "Hiro I don't wann—"
"Don't be a bitch."
He wrest you forward. Squishing your face hard between his fingers. Your hip cramped under the hand of his friend who stumbled forward. Mouth opened. Heavy for yours.
The surge of panic took hold. Your foot slammed on his. Elbow jammed into Hiroshi's side. You utilised the nails you had to manicure with your own damn money after the bastard went back on his promise and clawed until you shoved them both off.
"What the— fuck!" You hissed at Hiroshi whose face went red.
Crack!
You stained it redder.
Smacked your hand straight across it and shoved one more time until you were stumbling on your heels. Ignoring his slurred hollers and the jackal laughter of his friends as you pushed through the crowd.
Ears ringing. Heart racing. You scampered into the thick sea of heat and pungent booze. Flashing lights blinding. Music deafening. But you managed to stumble out of the blasted place.
The crisp night air slapped you in the face. Was that spring's lingering chills or the winter inside of you that spilled out?
Heart hammering. Maybe your mind— nope. Scrambled too. Fuck. Not a good combo.
You're not sure which of the two made you snatch your phone despite shaky hands. Heart, mind— brain, soul— who fucking cared anymore. Your thumb jerked through your contacts and jammed the bottom of the list.
Against the curtly renamed Mister Gojo.
You barely heard the call's ringing with the cotton stuffed in your ears. Once. Twice. Thrice. He usually picked up on the second ring. Now you're on the forth.
You should hang up. What were you thinking? It's been months—
"Hey."
The night air had nothing on the way that voice rasped with tiredness froze you to the pavement. Drawled with ungodly hours in his lab, you're sure. He was probably on his way out. You could picture him. Still in his lab coat. Rimless glasses shoved in his tousled hair.
"Been awhile since you called me, sweeth—" his caught the slip of his tongue. Cleared his throat. Maybe rubbed the tiredness from those heavy blue eyes. "Need something?"
"Satoru."
Miles apart and still, you felt him go stiff over the line. His name was a tremble on your lips. No last name, no titles, no honorifics. Just a shaky, raw, Satoru.
"What's wrong?" He asked quick. Wide awake.
"Please come get me." You bit back tears. Sucked in a sob and locked eyes with the concrete. "I— I'm sorry. I just need you to come get me pl—"
"Sweetheart, where are you?"
The gentleness of his voice, the seriousness of his question and the tenderness of the nickname strummed a deep ache in your chest. A sob finally cracked into the line. "Sent you the location. Please come get me."
"Sshh, it's okay. Coming to get you right now okay? Stay where you are."
You yearned to stay on the line. You're sure he wanted you to as well. But your shame swiped the end call button and you stuffed the phone back into your purse. Hands clinging to your elbows as you slumped back into the bricks.
The minutes droned on in your spiralling mind. Replays of tonight's events and several other offences tallied. A miserable repeat of the last few months and all the bullshit you endured with Hiroshi. All for what? Your insecurities?
While your heart was put to some ease, shivers still crawled goosebumps up your arms. You shuddered. Hugged yourself closer as your dress shimmered in the moonlight. What the hell were you even doing in an outfit like this in the middle of spring?
Ah, right. Your boyfriend— soon to be ex— told you to ditch the jacket. And of course you fucking listened to him.
You attempted to rub the goosebumps away as you leaned against the bricks. Limbs pressed into each other as you contemplated the ridiculousness of it all. You're here, in a dress that barely covered your ass, with cheap booze on your tongue and your disgusting boyfriend's kisses on your lips. Haunted by the incessant replay of whatever happened back there with the cold biting into your—
Warmth chased the winter. Wrapped around your shivering body in leather and the scent of familiar cologne that eased your muscles. Your fingers instinctively clamped around the dark jacket as you huddled into its comfort and the strong, embracing arms that came with it.
"You okay?" A voice murmured against your temple.
Your gaze snapped up. Tears flooding the second you met those soft blues behind rimless glasses. Satoru stood before you. His height and shadow shielded you from the horrors inside. Brows knitted and mouth pulled in a frown. His jacket hugged around your quivering form and his arms as your refuge.
You choked on his name. Melted into his warmth. Knees ready to give out as you shook your head and tried to stifle a response.
"I just—"
"Hey! The hell you doin' with m'ah girlfriend?"
The drunken slur stiffened you in Satoru's embrace. Your hands gripped on his biceps as Hiroshi staggered over. Eyes glazed and hands balled. Sporting the nasty hand mark you left on his face.
Satoru didn't need any explanations.
Soft blues sharpened into ice. Cut over his glasses and struck Hiroshi where he stood. His arms tightened. Voice steeled.
"Get lost."
Your hands fell to his shoulders as he crouched down. Fingers unclasping your heels and slipping them off of your aching feet. He paid no mind to Hiroshi who wobbled forward with his finger pointing and face flared.
"The fuck are you?" His slurred voice raised. Satoru hardly flinched. Hooking an index into your heels while his forearm braced around your waist.
Hiroshi shouted.
"D'you have any idea who the fuck yer talking to?"
Not a wince. Not even a blink. Satoru scooped you up into a princess-carry and jerked his head to the drunkard. Staring down his anger with a cold warning and hard glare.
"Do you?"
Maybe it was the way in which he didn't have to raise his voice. Or the blizzard that brewed in his pale eyes. More than a threat. A dare. A dare for Hiroshi to put his money where his mouth was while Satoru's got your teary face tucked in his chest.
"I won't tell you again. Fuck off if you know what's good for you." Cold and crisp. Satoru held you closer and turned heel on the gobsmacked Hiroshi. Leaving him a statue in the winter while you were tucked into the warmth of a car you missed so dearly.
He set your shoes down and clicked in your seatbelt, before shutting the door and rounding into the driver's seat. Not a word. Not even a glance. As the engine stirred and for the first time in months— you actually felt safe.
The car ride stewed in silence. Street lights glinting through the window you fixed your stare to. Despite the warmth that both protected and caressed you, winter peskily crept on your forearms and tugged at your heart again as the adrenaline faded.
You were here again. In his car. In his jacket. Next to him. You called, and he came. Your mind tried to face it with logic. You were a young woman and Satoru, for all his theatrics, had morals. Of course he'd come for you.
But once more your whispering heart, damn her, told another tale. Repeating the reality that he was here. Not for obligation or ethics. Satoru was here. He came because you called.
Your mind scrambled while your heart sung. Some hopelessly romantic lyric about how she knew he'd never forget her.
After forever and half, he didn't shatter the silence, but nudged it.
"What did he do?"
You steeled it. Tucking further into the seat and hiding your stiff shoulders in the jacket. His jacket.
"It's fine."
No tongue clicks nor breath hitches. Just the small flex of his fingers on the steering wheel. A tiny crack in the cool display he held. Yet not a single followup.
Your shoulders eased again. Satoru left you be for the time being, but you knew that wouldn't last. Not with the way he stared unblinking at the windshield. You'd deal with it when it came. For now, you sunk into the familiar seats and let him drive you home.
For someone who would poke and prod as to why he needed such a lavish penthouse if he lived alone— you missed the marble floor and grand glass wall that overlooked Tokyo's neon city.
His home wrapped around you the second he carried you in. Lights turning on as he stepped into the living room and plopped you onto the large, comfy L-shaped couch. You almost reached back for him as he withdrew.
He rounded over to the open kitchen and filtered a glass of water before returning. Placing it in your shaky hands as his eyes scanned your curling form.
"Want something to eat?" He asked.
You shook your head. Not that it mattered as he still ventured back to the kitchen and opened his pantry. Pulling out ingredients for a ramen your slowly rumbling tummy remembered well.
Classic Satoru. Always so insistent that you take care of yourself or he'd do it for you.
The familiarity of it all ached your chest. Just a few months ago this would have been routine. Him taking you home after a busy day at the institution to cook you a warm meal. You, in his arms or his lap. Snuggled up on the couch or his bed. Comfortable. Safe. His.
Now? The walls felt like they were staring through your soul. Chastising you. Why did you ever leave?
Because you had no other choice.
That's what your mind said. Your heart promptly rolled her eyes. You ignored them both in favour of the water. Sipping on the rim and chasing the memories of his fingers brushing against yours when he'd handed you the glass.
You drank— more like gulped— the water down quicker than expected. Was that the adrenaline residuals or your rattling nerves? You weren't sure.
As the rich aroma of crushed garlic and simmering chicken broth caressed your senses, your tense shoulders sagged. Reminded you that you were safe. What were you doing? Hiding from a man who probably got three speeding tickets just to get to you?
Steeling your resolve and shoving the nerves deep within your gut, you stood to your feet. A tremble still in your knees as you cast a hesitant glance over your shoulder.
Satoru was focused on the rhythmic dicing of his knife. A few strands of his white hair dangling before glasses that slipped down the bridge of his nose. He didn't exchange looks. But his rigid shoulders told you that he was acutely aware of every move you made. Including your glance-turned-stare on him.
Drawing a breath and ushering your anxiety, you stepped into the kitchen. Just like old times. Walked right past him and set the glass in the dishwasher. Like it was normal. As if it hasn't been months since your bare feet felt the cold marble while he cooked for you.
As if it hasn't been since forever and a half that you felt his stare between your shoulder blades.
You thought you'd grown accustomed to being his eyes' favourite. Satoru was never one to curtain the windows to his soul. Now, they felt like a conviction rather than a comfort. Condemning you to this prison of tension you subjected the both of you to.
"So, are you gonna answer my question?"
His mouth was more of a prosecutor than his gaze was.
"I told you I'm fine."
And your tongue, ever the defendant. Sharp and quick from years of academic debates. Unfortunately for you, Satoru loved a challenge just as much. He wasn't Hiroshi. But he was your mirror. A part of you hated him for it.
Hated yourself for the way your heart stuttered as he set the knife down. Cleaned his hands and turned to you. Hated your knees for their wobbles as he observed the far cry of your usual demeanour.
Those convicting blues dragged their judgement down your body. Tracing every tremble, every jitter, every terrible attempt to assure that you were fine and not a quiver away from shattering like porcelain on his dark marble floors.
"You're shaking."
Damn scientists. Their very livelihood was to be observant. Look for patterns. Determine conclusions. And your physicist was expertly experienced in every formula of your body.
You couldn't meet his eyes. Frightened of the theories you might find swimming in the blue. So instead you cowered your stare to the counter. Clenched your shaky fingers and fell back on the only thing you had when your pride had been crushed.
Defence.
"You weren't supposed to bring me here. I have a home."
"Deflecting doesn't look good on you."
"I'm not deflecting."
"Could have fooled me."
His audacity willed your stare. You snapped your head back to him. Daggered your glare and so desperately tried to gulp down the venom. But it was a lost cause. Satoru and you were two sides of the same coin. Him the mirror and you the cracks. You the gasoline and him the match.
"What's your problem?" You hissed.
"You're asking me that?"
"I called you cause I needed help. Not a lecture."
"And I'm not trying to give you one." He closed space. Leaving just a gap, but towering over you all the same. He stared at you over his glasses. "So drop the attitude won't you?"
You taut. Festering a retort on your tongue. Burying your heart for the sake of your scrambling mind— only to stop once you saw his eyes. Really saw them.
There was no conviction. Only concern. Deep, drowning worry as they softened at the corners and he drew a long breath, then exhaled. His shoulders sunk.
"Just. . . tell me."
You shouldn't.
You really shouldn't.
But the soft warmth of his eyes unclenched your heart and eased your vocal chords. There was no helping it.
"He. . ." you started. Sighed. "I wasn't even supposed to be at that stupid party. He got drunk. Tried to get me to kiss his friends. I didn't wanna so he—"
You should have stopped. The second you saw frost creeping back into his stare.
"He. . . tried to force me. So I hit them. Ran off. And now we're here— completely fine. Absolutely fine."
You huffed out the last part and clung to his jacket. Fine. Sure. Fine didn't search for comfort in leather. Or quiver in the knees just from recounting the night. Fine didn't sound shaky like you. Nor did it look like damp lashes and pursed lips.
Fine. You were anything but fine.
The softness cracked into a blistering winter. Satoru's gaze frosted over. But then, he chuckled. Nothing warm. Nothing humoured. He shook his head and pushed his glasses into his hair.
"You really know how to pick 'em, huh?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
You retorted instinctively. Bristling as he turned back to the counter. Snatching the knife and taking his frustration out on the cutting board. Muttering a string of boys and your generation.
You weren't sure what it was. Probably the overwhelm. Probably your mind reeling and your heart squeezing. Probably the disapproval that flickered in his stare. But you spun to him. Irritation wrinkling your face and tongue sharp with accusation.
"Yeah, well. At least he's in my generation, huh?"
Satoru was always fast. For some unfair reason he was blessed with both brains and brawn.
The small of your back pressed to the counter's edge. His body trapped yours. Cornered, but not uncomfortable. Even as his brows narrowed and his jaw set tight as his face invaded yours. Frustration etched in the lines of his eyes and the strain on his mouth.
"He wouldn't know how to treat a good girl if she was standing right in front of him."
He grunted.
"I'm not a good girl."
You gritted.
"You were mine."
His achingly tender retort stopped your heart and mind. Focused on the sharp softness of his voice and the gentleness of his knuckle that brushed your cheek.
He was your mirror. It was only natural that your gaze mimicked his. Even if all logic urged you to stand firm. Logic. You didn't need logic right now. All you needed was. . .
"Gojo." You hesitated.
He hitched. "Don't."
As he pressed a thumb to your cheekbone. Not a demand. Not a scold. But a plea. A soft, breathless beg.
"Don't do that to me. Please."
"We can't."
"Because I'm holding you back?"
"Because I'm too young for you."
You spilled. He stiffened. Thumb stopped on your cheek as he stared into your eyes. Your mind reeled. Pulled and tried to lock away that pesky organ. But your heart burst at the seams. Heavy. Hurt.
"You need someone your age—" she wept. Clenching your chest and choking your words. "Someone you can settle down with. Someone that can understand you. Someone that's not—"
He cupped your face. Stifled your whimpers as his forehead pressed to yours. Firm. Tender.
"Don't you dare." He quaked.
You quivered. "It's true."
And so his kiss silenced you.
But surged you all the same.
Months of beer-riddled and lazy smooches steered you to kiss him back. Lips eager to feel the softness and sureness of his. That guiding force that left a sore in your heart. Now comforted by the tilt of his head. The cradle of his hand at the back of your neck.
You melted. Unravelled. Into his strong arms that always caught you. Drowning in the delicate kiss simmering into a passionate caress. Your arms looped around his neck. Dragged him closer. Begged him not to leave. One of his hooked on your waist. Drew you in. Promised you he wouldn't.
You cursed air. And every biological function that needed it. That resulted in both of you having to part from the suffocating need of your lips on his.
For a moment your eyes locked. Breaths bated. Hearts synched.
And then he yanked you back in. Just like you tugged at him. Air be damned. The mere atoms of space between your lips too. Your mouths crashed into that familiar, raw wreck. That collision of white, hot stars.
The shatter of galaxies. That's how he always described it. You'd laughed at him back then. But now you understood it. Deep in your fluttering heart as his fingers threaded into the milkyway that was silky hair.
The arm on your waist slipped down to scoop you up into it. Settle you on the counter as his hand dropped from the back of your head to switch off the stove. Muscle memory, much like the way he mouthed down your neck and smoothed his palms to your waist.
A tremble in his fingers. A fear in his touch. He breathed.
"Tell me what I can do."
And you bled. Oh, you bled.
"Everything."
He groaned into your pulse. Bundled you against his chest and stepped over to the couch. Splaying you out like his sweet treat and object of his worship. The jacket fell from your shoulders. His lips traced over them while certain hands hiked up your dress.
Spaghetti straps gave out to his sharp teeth. Dragging them down to reveal more of your skin to him. To appreciative eyes that awed like you were his idol. The entity of his every desire and very devotion. His mouth made sure to praise. Hot and heavy on your breasts. He savoured their warmth beneath his lips. Caressed the undersides. Stroked and kissed on your firming nipples.
The shudders rocked your hips up against his. Bare thighs kissing his pelvis and drawing another groan from the depths of his chest. A large hand found your hip. Cupping the bone and guiding you, as he always did. Steering your needy grinds into him.
"God, sweet girl." He panted in his pathway to your stomach. "You're shaking."
His hands slipped between your thighs. Spread them apart with shivering strokes. His lips joined them in mellowed kisses.
Your fingers delved back into his hair. Drawing him up against your pelvis with a shaky: "Please."
"Shouldn't have to beg for anything baby. Where'd you learn that from?" His kisses flared. Hot against your panties. Mouthing on your slit to indulge on the whines from the back of your throat. That's right. Satoru never let you beg. Pretty girls don't have to beg, they simply deserve, he'd tell you.
Deserved to have his face stuffed against your sweet cunt. Deserved his wrecked inhale on your scent and his deep groan rattling into the fabric. As he tongues on the damp spot in the cotton. Sucking on your slick through your panties as if not even a smear of your sweetness could be wasted.
He dragged the waistband down. Eyes dilating as your glistening cunt glimmered in the reflection of his pupils. Tender, yet eager thumbs brushed your folds back with a low, drawled:
"Hi there, sweetheart."
And then suffocating smooches down your slit. Spilling some of your wetness that he caught on his tongue. He licked his lips and groaned. Deep and throaty into your quivering cunt. "I know baby, I know."
He crooned. Like he was shushing your pussy and assuring her with strokes. His warm hands splayed on your thighs and squished them between his finger gaps. Heaving you into his hot, awaiting mouth.
His tongue flattened at the bottom of your slit. Dragging a long, filthy trail up to your clit. White lashes flitting with his fluttering eyes. Like he was high as he suckled on the trembling nub.
"So sensitive. Fuck. You been neglecting her?" He slurred.
"Not me." You whimpered.
Satoru huffed through his nose. Squeezing your thighs as he tucked his mouth closer. "Guys your age just don't know how to treat her right." He grunted as his tongue swished on your throbbing clit. Circling and laving while his chin ground into your slit.
You spilled for him, and he relented on the blushing bundle. Chasing kisses down your cunt and stuffing his face back into it. Hands clamping on your ass and squishing as you squeezed around his head with pitching moans. Grinding on his rabid mouth that worked on you wildly. Hungrily.
Filthy slurps and wet squelches be damned. He feasted on your sweet pussy with sucks, and suckles, licks and laves. Drunk on the sweetness you'd deprived him of. Addicted to the velvet.
He groaned. Loud and wrecked. "Fuuuckk. Missed this sweet pussy. Missed her s'much." He drooled. Parting to watch you quiver as his firm fingers tapped meanly on your clit. Buzzing the bud and shivering your slit into more spills. Probably soaking the couch in a puddle of your slick and his saliva.
You broke into whimpers. Bucking into the friction and choking on his name in the hot air riddled with the smell of sex.
"Mmm. And it looks like she missed me just as much." He husked a chuckle. Shooting you a wink as he tucked his head back between your thighs and lathered another long lick to your drenched pussy.
Once more, his face buried. Flushed into your gushing centre and working his tongue and mouth frantically. From sucking on you folds, to fucking you on the pink muscle. He shook his head. Nuzzled into your wetness. Slurped and suckled and spat all over. Wringing that knot tight and hot in your gut as he gulped on your musk.
You clung to his hair like a lifeline. Fingers tight on the white strands as you steered your hips into his face. Smearing your mess all over it. Not that he minded— not with the way he groaned pistoned his tongue into your dripping pussy.
"Cumming—" you gasped. You couldn't remember when last you'd said that. When last release had been in clear sight.
Your grip tightened. Fear trembling your fingers. Fear that he'd pull away. Leave you stranded. Fear that it was all just some yearning dream to begin with and you'd wake up in the brutal reality in which you were still not his.
"Cumming— S'toru. . . fuck," you whined. Praying to the stars and whatever divine being that science proved otherwise. For this to be real. For you to be here. Cumming on Satoru's face after months apart.
His thumbs dug into your thighs. Fingers latching you closer. His mouth smushed against your cunt as he drove you through the release. Evert messy tongue flick on your clit like a filthy declaration: I'm here. I'm here I'm here I'm here, just cum for me.
Your nerves flared. Tummy clenching with your cunt. Tight and trembling until the knot finally snapped— and you wept. Shaking in the flood of heat and toe-curling pleasure. Shivers surging up your spine and tossing your head back.
"Satoru," you moaned. Raw, weak, wrecked. Clutching his hair and riding his face that ground into your spasming cunt. Tongue working overtime to gulp down your sweetness and ensure not a trace of your cum was wasted.
Whining. He was whining. Nuzzling into the mess as your body flopped back on the couch. Tears pricked at your eyes, and still, you tried to watch him. As he rode out your high and eased the pleasure into a tender simmer.
"Atta girl," he groaned, throat bobbing. He lapped up the stickiness and traced its strings back up our thighs. To your tummy, chest, until he finally crashed back to your lips.
His tongue shoved in. Clumsy for someone as experienced as him. You weren't the only one brought to your knees in these few months, and it showed in the urgency of his kiss. In the mumbles and groans. One taste of your pussy was the only hit he needed to be addicted all over again.
Your mouths moulded. Tongues tangled. His glasses fell back over his face and fogged with your heated breaths as he kissed you into the couch. Hands groping and squeezing whatever he could while yours slipped down.
Despite your high and shaky thighs, your hips bucked up. Grinding your sopping, oversensitive cunt against his bulge. His cock hot against the fabric and throbbing into the way you smeared all over his crotch.
A groan caught on your lips together with his teeth. Hands clamped on your waist to guide you into a heated hump. A needy rhythm of his clothed cock against your little clit.
You had always been impatient. And he always urged that you took what you wanted. Your fingers fumbled with his belt. Haste in your hands as you ripped it open and shoved his pants down. Eager to pull his cock from his briefs without a second to waste.
It felt bigger as you palmed him. Heavier. Or maybe you had gotten too used to whatever Hiroshi was. He didn't have veins like Satoru. Didn't crook to the side from the sheer weight and size. Didn't blush all pretty on the tip as you rubbed your hand up and down its long length.
He kissed you harder. Sucking on your lower lip as he pressed your head back into the cushions.
"Greedy girl."
He groaned.
"Thought I was your good girl?"
You giggled.
"Always my good girl."
He braced your hips and effortlessly hauled you up. Flopped you into his chest while he fell back into the couch. Your thighs naturally straddled his lap. Like magnetic poles with an intense force buzzing between you both.
You flushed into him. Hopelessly rubbing your sticky slick all over his pulsing veins. He grunted. Grabbed your thighs and angled just right so that his cock could wedge between your folds. Dwarfing your little cunt and reminding her how she struggled and stretched whenever he was balls deep.
Shivers poured into your kisses as he glided between your soaked folds. Mouths meshing and teeth catching as you both familiarised your heats. Rubbing all over in some sort of lewd greeting as he caught your clit and you throbbed against that prominent underside vein.
"Still remember how to ride it?" He mumbled as he forced himself to part from your lips. Blue eyes shaped in hearts with the clear want to chase after the string of saliva strung between your panting mouths.
It snapped as you chewed your lips. Hands steadied on his broad shoulders and re-familiarising the toned muscle. You flushed into his tip. Pussy pulsing on his pre-cum.
You managed a nod. Locking eyes with him as your nails scratched on his skin. It was a moment of heat. Tension. A hundred words sparking in the gap, but only one action needed.
Satoru guided your hips. As he always did. Squeezed assurances into them as his tip prodded through the first ring of resistance. Then the second. Third—
You clenched. Cunt and jaw. Sucking air between your teeth and curling tight on his arms. He mirrored your hiss. Brows pinched as you pulsed around him hard. He groaned from the back of his throat.
"So fucking tight."
His thumb fell to your clit. Rubbing slow circles under callouses he developed from years in the lab. "My poor girl. Look what you did to her. She's so neglected."
His tongue clicked. Before his lips pursed and he spat. Aimed for your clit as his thumb swirled to the beat of its throbs.
You whined at the friction. Hooked your arms around his neck again and sunk your hips further. Focused on the deep thrum of his cock and the strain of your poor, spasming pussy. Eager, or rather impatient, to feel him in his entirety at last.
But it seemed Satoru had other plans.
He clasped your hips tight. Squeezing them in his big hands and locking them from dropping any further. The protest died on your tongue when his deep drawl caressed your ear.
"Eaasyyy baby." Another squeeze. Another breath.
He guided you down. Bit by bit. Inch by inch, with his hips slowly nudging into yours. Dragging you down gradually. Agonisingly. Until you were fully seated on him.
At last, you felt it. Every thrumming vein. Every twitch. Hitch. The bumps and curves of his cock that you woke up in cold sweat over. Now surging heat deep into the hum of your quivering pussy.
You hid into his shoulder. Muffling your whines and whimpers as your arms sagged down his back. Fuck. You felt so full. So terribly stuffed as you desperately tried to adjust to his size again.
Maybe rutting would help. That's what your impatient hips told you as they rocked against him. Needy and grating. A pitiful hump into his lap.
You knew better. So did he. So he steeled your hips again and pressed a comforting kiss to your temple as you whined. It simmered your patience. But not the heat. Deep and swirling in your tummy.
Your breaths became his for the moment. Pants and huffs exchanged. As if you both needed a second to check reality. Understand that this was real. Two scientists, frightened that your meshing atoms would melt away into a cruel dream.
Satoru made the first move to prove otherwise. Rocking your hips into strokes. Long and slow. As he pulled you up his cock and sunk you back down. Dragging the sticky strings and snapping them round his base with each drawl.
"Gotta teach this pussy how to take me all over again," he huffed. Leaning back into the couch so that his eyes could drown in yours. But the blue was indecisive. Flitting between your heated face and your spilling cunt.
He watched you. Adored you. The way he stuffed you to the brim until your pussy trickled round his girth. The way your thighs quivered in his hands. How your lips festered his name and breathed it into the thick air.
The sway became familiar. Your muscles moving in memory as your rocked with his hands. That gradually loosened as you fell back into step.
Even with the struggle, it was no use. Your body was hopelessly his as his was yours. The rhythm came naturally. Just like how your cunt thrummed on that underside vein and milked it perfectly each time you sank back down and swirled your hips on his balls.
His head fell back. Silky strands spread out on the backrest of the couch as he his deep groans spilled. "There's my girl." His touch roamed. Cupping your ass and squishing it as his hips finally joined yours in fervid rolls.
You found solace in his hair once more. Gripping the back of it as you both matched the rhythm. Pace desperate and moderate as the couch creaked beneath the consistency.
The fire returned. Hot and burning between your exchange of movements. Satoru's face limped into your chest. Burying into your bouncing breasts and sucked hickies around your nipples.
Your cunt poured. Slicking up your laps and slipping him easily in and out of you now. Diving him deep, deep, deeper— so that his cockhead smooched your cervix and his balls flushed your folds. Your clit caught on his pelvis each time. Grinding it into quivers. Into pitiful little moans as your mouth fell open.
"It's so deep," you whimpered. "So good."
"Yeah? Better than that loser?"
Abruptly, his hips snapped. Hands yanking you down and humping on the tight muscle. Frustration bleeding into every filthy grind as your nerves bristled.
Head tossed back. Spine thrown into an arch from the sudden intensity. Maybe it was the neglect. Or the sheer need for him. But white clouded your vision and your voice pitched in that slutty tone as you crumbled into yet another orgasm.
Quicker than the first. Messier too. You limped into his chest as you fell back onto your pathetic attempts of ruts into his lap. Whining and babbling his name incoherently as you spasmed in the flood of heat.
In your delirium you hadn't perceived the chord of Satoru's control. Wound tight and thin, until it— snapped! with your warm release drowning him.
"Fuck." He sneered.
It was quick. Brutal. He wrest you into the couch until your back hit the seats and your sweaty skin stuck to the leather. He shoved deep inside of you as strong hands seized your knees and yanked them with him. "Can't believe you let some fucking punk touch this."
A kiss seethed to your knee. Before he tossed both over his broad shoulders.
"Can't believe you let him neglect it."
His hiss merged with a feral, wet shmack! as his hips snapped into yours. Driving his cock in a precise, sharp fury. Skin smacking against skin as wetness strung and snapped in strings between your soaking thighs.
He fucked a pitched cry from your bobbing throat. Your hands shot out to tug at the tuffs of his white hair as he shoved you into the sofa and chased the spasms of your cunt in hasty, heavy thrusts.
Mouth hot and filthy, Satoru spilled a mixture of degradation and praise. Calling you his pretty slut and whorish good girl in husked pants and deep groans.
The couch joined the wrecked symphony. Creaking loud and pitched. Nothing compared to the whines caught at the back of your throat as his hips made it their mission to leave bruises on your thighs. Leave a dull, satisfied ache in every nook of your cunt so that you woke up feeling him. Remembering him. Him.
Haughty hands hot with hostility snatched your ass. Squeezing the fat between the gaps as he hauled you in and fucked you at just the right angle. Just the right crook. So that he ground and hit a devastatin bundle that sent your glossy eyes and damp lashes fluttering back.
"Sat—toru!" You croaked.
"That's it. Mngh. Don't you ever forget it again."
A feral fever rumbled in his voice. Deep and throaty as he dragged his teeth into your shoulder. Egged on by your choked whines and strangled gasps. Eager to remind you that you didn't need some young jerk when a guy twice your age could pummel your pretty pussy into his expensive couch.
His balls slapped on your puffy folds. Round and throbbing as he grunted into your pulse through the pitiful clenches of your cunt. He chased another orgasm. Yours. You were always first. He'd make you cum twice, even thrice, before he decided to stuff you full.
"You're gonna fuckin' cum again," he ragged, lungs burning as he spilled that fire into your ear. Trapping it between his teeth as his thrusts grew cruel. Drawn-out and deep. Hammering into gooey bundle until your toes curled and your cunt splashed around him.
"You're gonna cum again. Cum on this cock. Show me it's still yours." He huffed. Pistoning from the tip to the base so that you felt every inch of that same cock that was gonna have you creaming.
And then, in the haze of pleasure and the peak of highs— your ringtone cut through the musky air.
Satoru barely slowed. But he tossed his head to the side and stared at your phone vibrating on the coffee table.
The name Hiroshi with a little red heart nearly had the same effect on him as it would a bull. Swirling his mind hot with anger and throbbing the back of his eyes.
But through the glare and grunt, he grinned. "Well. Look who it is."
Voice still drawled even when it deepened. Cooed like the fucking devil as he easily snatched the device and swiped the answer button before your bugged eyes could so much as clear. He gripped your face. Squishing it into his knuckles as he pressed his panting mouth to your ear.
"Show him whose good girl you are, yeah?"
Your mind hazed. Heart hammering. You could barely process what Satoru was even talking about. Even after that grating voice crackled over the line.
"Babe? Where the hell did y—"
"Angh!"
Satoru slammed. All the way. Heavy and hot and oh so suffocatingly deep. Pounding your poor pussy into the soaked couch and pummeling you to weeps and whines. Shallow and hard as his thumb wretched to your clit. Shattering your conscious and throwing both your head and back into a filthy arch.
"There ya go baby," he grinned, feral. "Sing it for me. Whose pussy 's this?"
"Satoru— S-Satoru—! Toru, toru hngh, 's yours!"
He jerked back. Hands clambering on your waist. Steeling them with his strong fingers and yanking you down onto each thrust. Every brutal fuck into your squelching pussy. Loud and clear down the line, he's sure.
He didn't care. You didn't have the capacity to.
All you could was whine. Toss your head back and claw on the slippery leather as Satoru made sure the loud, wet claps battered down the line. Made sure your boyfriend—
No.
Made sure that your fucking ex knew that it was Satoru stuffing this sweet cunt. Him drowning in your cum. Him hammering on a spot Hiroshi couldn't even dream of. Until your eyes rolled back and you tongue drooled. Until your body cramped and your voice sobbed oh so prettily for him. Until—
Your walls squeezed and spasmed. Your mind numb and heart soaring as your body locked up. Higher— and higher— until your nerves burst into a blistering heat and your head swam with white, feverish pleasure.
A filthy squirt sprayed all over him. Cunt squelching and squealing as his balls slapped it messy and his pelvis ground your clit until it spasmed.
"Fuuckk, so my girl still remembers how to squirt for me?" He laughed. Loud, boisterous and breathy.
He threw a grin to the phone. Heard cyrstal clear like your sopping pussy over the line. "You hear that? Her pussy's finally gettin' it good. So just fuck off already."
Bink.
The line died. Not that Satoru was paying attention. Not that he cared. His blue eyes were blown out and focused on one thing and one thing only— his pretty sweetheart gone limp and whining beneath him.
His gaze glossed over. Jaw slack like some animal as his thrusts pounded on autopilot. Like it was simply engraved into every muscle to know how to fuck you into a trembling, teary mess.
Satoru knew your tells. Knew the shakes and the quivers. Knew that your poor little body was frazzled with overstimulation and still reeling from the nasty squirt you messed him with.
"Can't," you croaked. "I-I can't, I can't toru!"
"Of course you can," he grit. "You're my girl. Course you fuckin' can."
His hand tucked beneath your hair. Not to tug it. But to cradle. Holding the back of your head as his hips ached into your shaky ones. He nudged you to look up at him. Meet his panting huffs and whiney breaths as he fucked himself dumb on you too.
"So perfect—" he strained, eyes fluttering with yours as he pushed you both higher. Devastatingly. Agonisingly. "So perfect. So mine. Cum—" his throat bobbed.
"Cum for me. Cum with me. Hah."
All babbled and broken as he smashed his lips back into yours. Colliding those hot and heavy stars as you tugged on his hair and he tethered to your waist. Drowning and strangling on each other's moans until the collision cracked into a ruinous wreck and your orgasms crashed like nebula.
Your heats crushed. Merged. Your pussy gave out in pitiful, milky bubbles. His cock spurted and frothed. Spraying deep and hot as he lathered up your cervix the same way you did his balls.
Whining. Gasping. His bit on your lip and you gulped down his noises. Desperate and clumsy in fumbling rocks and grinds of your hips. Riding out your highs until the heat simmered into an aching warmth and all you could do was hump uselessly.
Hazed, Satoru sucked on your tongue. Panting hard as he spluttered whispers into smudged kisses.
"I missed you. Missed you. I missed you— I love you. Love you. I fuckin' love you."
His weight collapsed into yours. Trapping you into the sofa and melting into your warmth. His chest heaving with yours as the adrenaline sizzled off into a calm stir.
You were stiff. Mind still. Heart frozen. As you contemplated his babbles.
I love you.
Your breath thinned. Had you heard wrong? No. You didn't. He'd never said that before. Never spluttered it out no matter how hazy he fucked the both of you.
You stewed on his words. That familiar, aching fear climbing up your gut and wrapping around your heart as his hammered into your chest. It beat for you. It loved you. This was bad. So very bad.
But it was your mind that eased the storm. That steered your arms to wrap shakily around his neck. That urged your heart to bring your lips to his temple in a kiss.
In a tender whisper.
"I love you."
As your face buried into his shoulder. And your heart mirrored his.
As you allowed yourself to want. To dream. Of you and him— him and you. Even if just for the moment.
Rafayel speaks languidly, his speech slightly slurred. He’s on his fourth cocktail, and it’s starting to show in how he moves. He plucks a maraschino cherry from one of his empty glasses on the table and pops it into his mouth without waiting for you or Sylus to respond. He chews it quickly, keeping the stem in between his thumb and index finger. He then swallows, then places the stem onto his tongue with a dramatic flair. You watch silently over the rim of your own cocktail glass, and your eyes momentarily flick over to the other end of the circular couch, glancing at Sylus. He too is watching Rafayel with an aloof curiosity, one hand swirling his small glass of whisky, the other draped over the back of the couch.
Soft, moody jazz plays throughout the bar – combined with the dim lighting and the number of cocktails you’ve knocked back, it makes your body feel light and your eyelids feel heavy. But the way Rafayel contorts his mouth and lips and the glint of concentration in his eyes makes you sit up straighter in your seat. What is he doing? It takes him almost half a minute – he smirks, then opens his mouth and sticks his tongue out. On the end of it is the cherry stem, tied into a knot. You whistle, impressed, and slightly turned on.
“Nice trick,” Sylus chuckles, then takes a sip from his glass.
He then places it on the table, and reaches past Rafayel, and over to you. You raise an eyebrow at him as he reaches into the glass you’re holding. It’s almost empty, save maybe for another sip of your drink, and your own maraschino cherry. He winks at you, then uses two fingers to skilfully fish it out of your glass. You allow him to take it, then lean back into the couch, waiting to see what he does with it.
“Let’s try and make it a little more complicated,” Sylus drawls.
He bites the cherry off the stem, then chews it before swallowing slowly. He then does the same as what Rafayel did before – he places the stem onto his tongue, then brings it into his mouth. You aren’t able to anticipate what he does next.
He draws back, then leans towards Rafayel, taking Rafayel’s chin in his hand. Rafayel blinks, a little surprised by Sylus’s sudden touch, but stays where he is. Sylus tilts his head and brings his lips to Rafayel’s, and Rafayel freezes momentarily, before returning the kiss, his eyes closing as he melts into it. You watch as Sylus pries Rafayel’s lips open with his tongue, and you see him pass the cherry stem into Rafayel’s mouth. You lean forward, your own mouth hanging open as you watch them, transfixed. You watch as their tongues writhe against each other, the sound of their lips smacking reaching your ears. Sylus’s eyelids are half-open, the corner of his mouth twitched up into a slight smirk as he plays with Rafayel’s tongue. His hand is still holding Rafayel’s chin, trying to keep his head steady. Rafayel is breathing heavily, battling to keep his eyes open, and concentrate on his objective – to tie the stem with his tongue while Sylus’s one is inside his mouth.
You don’t know how long this goes for – you feel like you can watch them go at it for an eternity. You have to cross your legs tightly, and ignore the fluttering feeling in the pit of your stomach. Eventually, Rafayel breaks away, panting, but looking triumphant. He smiles, and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand before sticking his tongue out, revealing another tied cherry stem.
Sylus sits back into his spot with a sigh, looking pleased with himself. He picks up his glass again, then takes another swig of his drink.
“Impressive,” he murmurs. He motions to the other empty glasses on the table, with more cherries in them. “We have a few more cherries to go through. How about we all take turns practicing?”
the lads men discover your secret kink when they stumble upon all the x-rated videos you’ve been hoarding on twitter. busted... but why hide it when your boyfriend’s more than willing to take a seat in your fantasy? — wc. 6.1k
STARRING ♱ xavier ⌇zayne ⌇rafayel ⌇sylus ⌇caleb
WARNINGS ♱ X-RATED VISUALS ARE LINKED. must be logged in to twitter/x to view. fem!reader, ungodly amount of pet names, heavy praise — (sylus) free use, bondage, cum eating/swapping, switch!sy, oral (f. receiving) — (zayne) spanking, meanie!zayne, heavy praise, use of good girl, lowk cervix fking — (rafayel) dubcon-ish (?), somnophilia, degradation (use of slut), mean dom!raf, some yandere themes — (caleb) facesitting/fucking, some use of gravity evol, brief mention of insecurities — (xavier) sub!xavier, begging, edging (m. receiving) — MINORS DO NOT INTERACT 18+
KIT’S NOTE ♱ hehe new year, new medicli layout >:3 i hope you all enjoy my first multi hc of the year! if u see any mistakes, no u didn’t! reblogs and comments are so greatly appreciated, i’d love to hear y’all’s thoughts on this :)<3
ᯓ 秦彻 ⟢ SYLUS ˖᯽ ݁˖ — big bf lets you have your way with him #freeuse
sylus shouldn’t pry—this much he knows. there are boundaries that should never be crossed and this? this is one of them.
your phone is open to a twitter profile. some blank account with an obscure user and the locked symbol next to your name. it’s a private twitter account following 20 people with 5 followers. but it’s the most recent tweet that catches his attention—a man naked and bound to a chair with a blindfold covering his eyes and a woman using him how she pleases.
he picks up your phone with a dry throat and his cock hardening under his slacks. the retweet reads, ugh wish he’d let me use him like this </3
you walk out of his bathroom to see his back facing you and you perk up immediately. “sy, you’re back!” you say, cheerily, but when he turns around with his jaw clenched and your phone that quietly plays the sound of one of the many videos you were watching on twitter moments prior, your smile drops.
“i didn’t realize you were into amateur adult films, sweetie.” he drawls nonchalantly, like his cock isn’t aching for your touch. but you can sense an edge that isn’t typically there.
you stammer on an excuse, feeling your face burn in mortification at having been caught retweeting porn on your alt account. “i—it’s… well, i-it’s not what it looks like.”
“yeah? because it looks like you want to use me… just like this.” he stalks towards you and waves the phone in your face, a small smile pulling at his lips. “is that true? you want to tie me to a chair, blindfold me and have your way with me?”
you pull your lip between your teeth, gnawing at the flesh anxiously. you avert your eyes, staring at your sock clad feet before you feel his fingers tip your chin up and force you to look him in the eye.
“c’mon, sweetheart. you’ll tell me, won’t you?” he murmurs, thumb pulling your bottom lip from your teeth.
“yes,” you respond, throat dry and voice wavering in lack of confidence. “i want to have my way with you.”
he gives you a wolfish grin and all he says is, “okay then.”
—
you never thought you’d see sylus like this. in a chair with rope wrapped around his torso and one of his silk ties covering his eyes. there’s a permanent smirk plastered on his face and it makes you buzz with excitement.
“don’t make me wait for so long, kitten.” he drawls, his cock bobbing up and down in dire need of attention.
you grab his neck, tipping his face up and pressing your lips against his for a sloppy kiss. you push your tongue into his mouth, savoring the deep groan that rumbles in his throat. the kiss doesn’t last long—you pull away just as he starts to get needy, watching how he chases your lips with a growl.
your hand trails down his chest, squeezing at his peck before turning around, back facing him, and grabbing his cock. a small gasp of surprise fills the room right before it’s replaced with the sound of your paired moans as you sink onto his cock.
“shit,” he curses, the word coming out breathless. his hands itch to grab you and they could if he really wanted to. he could break free from the lousy restraints, but he knows how much you want this and he wouldn’t dare rob you of this experience.
and you take him like you were made from it, bouncing on his cock, your ass clapping with every thrust. you whine for him, testing his patience. “does it feel good, sy?”
another deep growl fills your ears and shoots straight to your core. “you know it does, sweetheart. what about you, hmm? does, hah fuck, does using my cock like this satisfy you?”
you choke out a sob, sitting on him completely and grinding your hips against him with vigor. “mmhm, you’re such a good boy, baby,” you moan out, feeling his cock throb at the praise. “b-but you know what would make me feel even better?” you ask, voice cracking.
he tries to thrust into you, but you don’t give him a chance. he’s stuck in this chair with you on top of him so all he can do is pant out a strained, “what?”
“if you—mmm, if you came inside of me,” you whimper. “fuck, sy, please? please fill me up with your cum. want you to shoot it so deep inside of me, please please please?”
your pleas are so desperate, almost as if you aren’t already taking everything you want. as if you aren’t already making his cock twitch and his stomach tighten. as if you aren’t already milking him dry while he lets out a drawn out groan.
a happy moan rips from your throat when you feel his cum spray inside you, filling you so deep just how you wanted. you let him empty himself, waiting till every drop of cum is spilled into you before pulling off his cock, grabbing a fistfull of his hair and bringing his face to your messy, filled cunt.
his surprised moan is muffled by your pussy. you figured he’d rip through the rope and push you away, but he happily laps and sucks at your hole, licking up every bit of your mixed arousal that leaks out of you.
you whine, heat flooding your body as you grind your ass against his face. “y-yeah, eat your cum out of me, just like that, sy,”
“dirty girl,” he murmurs against your cunt before devouring you whole, the sounds of smacking and slurping and groaning resuming.
your knees nearly give out, the only thing holding you up is the death grip you have on his silver locks. you jolt and tremble before him and he doesn’t need to see to know you’re close.
all it takes is a raspy, “cum on my face, sweet girl,” for you to completely unravel, legs shaking uncontrollably as you paint his face in syrupy arousal. you’re reduced to whines and whimpers of his name and sylus just wishes he could see you.
and his wish is granted mere seconds later when you’re weakly tugging the blindfold off of him, taking his gleaming face in your hand and pressing your lips to his to taste the two of you on him.
he groans, passing the release into your mouth while pulling on the restraints in a need to grab you.
“you did so well for me, sy.”
“mmm, thank you, sweetie. and,” his voice drops to a whisper. “next time you want to recreate something… just tell me.”
ᯓ 黎深 ⟢ ZAYNE ˖᯽ ݁˖ — meanie!bf makes you ask for permission to cum #spanking
zayne never uses social media. especially not twitter. but you convinced him to download it so you could send him funny tweets and cute cat videos. he shook his head and downloaded the app just to get you to shut up, but he never actually opened it.
one rare and quiet day, with nothing on his schedule and you stuck at work, curiosity finally got the better of him. he made an account on a whim, and that’s when he saw it: suggested accounts. yours, right at the top, labeled as someone he “may know.” a small, fond smile curved his lips as he tapped on your profile, warmth blooming in his chest at the sight of your cute icon staring back at him.
but that smile fell just as quick as it came when he scrolled a bit too far and found a quote retweet captioned, “does anyone wish their bf would do this to them too??? :((( being spanked then doted on… sigh.”
he watched the video with a dry throat and widened eyes. the first thought that came to mind was that you posted this on your public profile—but then he noticed you only had 15 followers. still, he’ll have to remind you of your digital footprint.
once the initial shock wore off… he watched the video again. is this what you wanted? to be ruthlessly fucked from the back and spanked… by him?
zayne closes the app, clears his throat and throws his head back against the couch he’s sitting on. he pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a shaky exhale.
if that’s what you want… then that’s what you’ll get.
—
he waits patiently for you to trudge past the door, trying to keep himself busy with god knows what till he hears it. the sound of your keychains rattling and the click of the door as you unlock it and walk in.
“hi, zaynie,” you breathe, skipping towards him and pressing a wet kiss to his cheek. one whiff of you and all he can think about is doing all the naughty things you’ve been secretly wanting. his cock aches. his blood thrums. he needs it now.
“are you okay?” you pull back, concerned by his silence and even more deterred when you see his hardened face.
when he speaks, it’s low and stern. a voice you’ve only heard a handful of times. “bedroom. now, please.”
you let out a confused chuckle. “what for?”
when he raises an eyebrow at you, you cower, nodding your head and scurrying to the bedroom like he asked.
it’s nothing like what you expected. you didn’t expect zayne to walk in and strip you bare without a word, didn’t expect him to bend you over the bed and press himself into your tight, waiting warmth. and you definitely didn’t expect his hand to come down hard on your ass—the sharp, thunderous crack filling the room, followed instantly by your startled squeak.
“this is what you wanted, is it not?” he pants, fucking into you with vigor melting at the sound of your sweet, surprised moans. “this is what you were talking about on your twitter, right?”
your voice comes watery, confused. “wh-what?” you ask, hands fisting at the sheets, your body jolting with every sharp, rough thrust.
his hand comes down, your other cheek meeting the same fate and it has another desperate moan crawling out of you. “you wanted to, what was it? get spanked and doted on, huh?”
and then it hits you suddenly—vividly. you remember the video. it was a faceless man taking a faceless girl from behind, ruthless, almost cruel in the way he fucked her. you remember the sharp smack of his hand against her skin, how badly you’d wished it were you and zayne instead. but what turned you on the most—what lodged itself deep inside your core—was the contrast of it all. the way the stranger’s rough, unyielding actions clashed with the softness of his words. the concept of being fucked like a slut while being praised like a good girl. it made you spin.
it only made you think of zayne. zayne and his large, calloused hands. zayne and his sweet voice. zayne and his cock that stretched and fucked you so good that it makes you cry.
and you’d be lying if you said the thought of him realizing this… realizing it’s what you’d wanted all along… didn’t make heat pool low in your stomach all over again.
you clench tightly around him, turning your heated face into the pillow that smelled just like him. this only makes him laugh, humorlessly.
“yeah, you’re remembering now, aren’t you, my darling girl?” his throaty voice only turns you on further. you arch your back and wiggle your ass as an invitation. an invitation for him to give you more. to go hard. “that’s it. good girl.”
you shudder at the praise. “f-fuck,” the curse is whimpered against the silk fabric of his pillow. “fuck, zayne, it’s s-so—god! so deep. feels so good!” you feel him everywhere, but especially in your tightening stomach. you’re already at the precipice of an orgasm and it only makes zayne want to fuck you right to the finish line.
zayne hums, spanking you again just to hear a giggly moan and it makes his heart want to beat out of his chest. “you’re so precious,” he whispers before his hand laces in your hair and pulls your face away from the pillow. “did you want me to find that tweet, sweetheart? so i could spank you and pull at your hair? so i could fuck you stupid on my cock?”
you don’t bother hiding it. you wanted this more than anything. you craved this more than anything. “yes, yes, yes! please!”
“gooood girl,” he murmurs softly. it’s a perfect contradiction to the way his cock drives into you, the tip just barely brushing your cervix. it’s too much. you’re wound tight as hell, a dam on the brink of bursting, and zayne feels it instantly.
“you wanna cum?”
you can barely form the words, desperation breaking your voice as you beg, “can i…? please?”
“yes, baby. cum for me,” he grunts, fist tightening in your hair, pulling you into a deeper arch. “come on. cum all over me.”
you shatter almost instantly. your body trembles as you come apart on his cock, a needy, broken moan slipping free while the tight knot in your stomach unravels and you soak him completely.
he doesn’t stop—he only fucks you through it, steady and relentless, before pressing a gentle kiss to your spine.
“you did so well,” you feel his lips curve into a smile as he murmurs against your slick, overheated skin, “he but we’re not done yet.”
ᯓ 夏以昼 ⟢ CALEB ˖᯽ ݁˖ — bf lets you sit on his pretty face #facesitting
it was no secret that caleb kept tabs on you. he was very open about it—he has all your post notifications on, he knows where you are at all times, and he always knows what you’re up to. it didn’t bother you in the slightest, he’s always been protective of you—watching over you like it was his life’s purpose.
but there’s one secret that you keep from caleb. and it’s nothing major, truly! it’s just… an alt twitter account you use to retweet your soft porn. while there’s no reason to keep this from your boyfriend, you don’t have the heart to show it to him. it’s the home of all your fantasies, more than anything, it’s embarrassing.
even so, the last thing you want is for caleb to know. you’ve done everything in your power to keep this secret. you used an obscure email to create the account, a password with a series of random numbers and letters that he’d never be able to guess and an alias. it was practically impossible for him to trace it back to you.
one day, you were scrolling on said account, thighs pressed together as you came across a video of a girl sitting on a guy's face, tugging at his hair while she glided across his mouth and nose. all you could think about is caleb—how good it would feel to fuck his face like you were in heat.
it was something you thought about often. you’ve had caleb eat you out before, yes, but you’ve never asked to try this in fear that you’d either A. suffocate him or B. he’d be turned off.
so you do what you always do, quote retweeting it with a caption that read: “wanna sit on my bf’s pretty face just like this :,(”
you shut out the app and flop back onto your bed, trying—failing—to chase the thoughts of him away. especially the image of him stretched out against these very pillows and you hovering over him while your arousal drenches his face. you lose yourself in the fantasy, hands sliding down your body in need.
but then your phone starts to blow up—message after message lighting the screen, all from your boyfriend:
caleb ♥︎: baby, are you serious?
caleb ♥︎: is that really what you want?
caleb ♥︎: you wanna sit on my face?
caleb ♥︎: forget it, I’ll be there in an hour. we’ll talk about this when I see you.
your breath hitches and brows knit in confusion—then it clicks. your tweet. maybe you should’ve been more careful before hitting send. maybe the app glitched. either way, when you open the app again, dread crashes over you as you confirm that you’ve posted it from the wrong account—the account where caleb has your notifications on. meaning he saw it immediately.
you delete it in a panic, humiliated, praying none of your other mutuals caught it in time. there’s nothing you can say or do to stop caleb from coming over. so you stand, pace, draw in a shaky breath and wait.
—
caleb lets himself in, shuts the door, and locks it behind him. the talk he mentioned in his text never comes. no greeting. no anger. instead, he strips down to his boxers and climbs into your bed like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
you’re frozen where you stand, lip caught between your teeth, thighs pressed tightly together. when he settles against the pillows, he lifts his gaze to you so calm that it almost scares. he looks at you expectantly.
“well?” he starts. “what are you waiting for? i’m here. you wanted to sit on your boyfriend’s pretty face, did you not?”
you exhale a sharp, nervous laugh, “c-caleb, we don’t have to…” you let shyness take over. “i’ll—i’ll suffocate you. it probably won’t feel good for you either…”
he scoffs incredulously. “come sit on my face before i make you. you do remember my evol, don’t you?”
you barely have time to process it before you feel weightless, a surprised yelp slipping out as he drags you toward him with nothing more than a flick of his hand.
you give in instantly, nodding as you stumble, “okay okay!”
he lets go and watches with hungry, unblinking eyes as you push your shorts and panties down, letting them pool at your feet. you climb onto the bed and crawl toward him slowly until you’re hovering just above his throat, suspended in the tension and your own personal fear.
“caleb, are you sure i won’t be too heavy?” you whisper.
“i’m sure, baby.” he says reassuringly, his hands grabbing your hips and lifting you till your cunt is just inches away from his face. “come on, sit. lemme taste you.”
you let out a shaky breath and start to lower yourself before you can talk yourself out of it, but his arms hook beneath your thighs and force you all the way down, drawing a satisfied moan from him and a startled gasp from you. your hands fly to his hair, fingers threading through the silky strands as you cling to him, grounding yourself before your strength gives out entirely.
you bite your lip, desperate to keep your moans quiet, but the drag of his nose against your clit paired with the warm suction of his mouth has your resolve shattering. it feels even better than you ever imagined. and when his hands come up to palm at your breasts? his fingers tweaking your nipples? you’re a goner.
“fuck,” you whimper, fingers tugging at his roots hard enough to draw a pained groan from him, though it barely registers. all you can focus on is the way he devours you like he’s starving, the vibration of his moans coursing through your body and lighting your nerves on fire, the relentless grind against your swollen, sensitive clit.
“caleb,” you cry, breathlessly, “ah! feels so good.”
“keep fuckin’ my face, pretty girl,” he moans, the words muffling into your cunt. “wanna taste you cummin’ all over me. you can do it.”
he pulls you onto him harder. like he wants to run out of oxygen.
and you obey—even if you wanted to stop, you couldn’t. not when you’re this close—not when caleb wants this just as bad as you do. you hump his face desperately, like a woman depraved, chasing your orgasm. you let your moans out freely, high pitched and needy, letting them join the sounds of slurping and smacking.
your body trembles violently, fingers fisting in caleb’s hair as you shatter, a mix of arousal and slick cum painting his face while you squeal his name like a broken record. “caleb, caleb, caleb—” his name is all that exists—all you can cling to at the moment.
he groans into you, relentless, licking and sucking every last trace, his hips lifting off the bed with desperate urgency. his cock throbs in his boxers, twitching with need for a taste of your cunt.
a sob tears from your chest when he doesn’t slow. “w-wait!” you gasp, legs shaking, body on the verge of giving out. “i’m s-sensitive, ca-caleb!”
“no, baby, please,” he whimpers, raw and earnest. “please let me keep going. you don’t know how bad i’ve wanted this.”
“w-what?” you breathe, dazed.
“for so long, pips,” he admits softly. “just sit there… let me do all the work. please?”
ᯓ 祁煜 ⟢ RAFAYEL ˖᯽ ݁˖ — crazy bf fucks you while you pretend to be asleep #somno
despite his bubbly, sassy exterior, rafayel carried his demons quietly. the kind that kept him watching you—both in real life and through the glow of a screen. the thought of losing you makes something dark twist in his chest. you’re his cutie, his heart, his muse, his entire world wrapped into one person.
he knows it’s wrong to have all your passwords. knows it crosses a line. so he tells himself he’s careful—only checks when he has to, when the ache gets too loud to ignore.
it’s been a while since he last logged into your account, but it’s also been days since he’s seen you. that has to count for something, right? just a quick look. just to scroll through what you’ve seen, what you’ve liked. just enough to feel close to you again.
a smile touches his lips when he sees all the silly tweets you’ve liked.
but then he sees it. a tweet that looks so out of place in the midst of cute cat videos and senseless jokes. a tweet that reads “gf who pretends to be asleep x bf who was gonna fuck her either way,” along with a video of just that. the smile falls immediately, his lips pressing into a thin line while his brows furrow.
his darkened gaze catches on the yellow bookmark, curiosity winning out before he can stop himself. the moment he opens your bookmarks aka the little trove of soft porn, his cock hardens. it’s all amateur and intimate, but worse, there’s a pattern. a theme. every two minute video was a girl getting fucked while she slept. fucked. bred. all while she laid pliant, eyes closed.
rafayel’s eyes drag over the captions again and again, each one making his thoughts spin faster. he loses track of time, an entire hour slipping by as he clicks through every video, cock aching and heart racing, torn between guilt and the thrill curling tight in his chest.
he pictured you like that—lying awake at night, thoughts circling him…his cock… until you finally drifted asleep. he imagined the wetness that pooled in your panties when you drifted off, the way desire followed you even into your dreams. it made something deep in him ache.
how long had you wanted this? with the sheer number of tweets tucked away in your bookmarks, he can’t help but think this fantasy has lived with you for a long time now, growing quietly… patiently.
but why not make your fantasy a reality?
—
rafayel asked you to spend the night, and of course you said yes please. you’d been missing your boyfriend like crazy, and with work constantly getting in the way, time together had become frustratingly scarce.
when you arrived, he’d planned something sweet—movies, cuddling, takeout you both loved. an innocent night in. except you wanted more. every subtle advance you made was met with a gentle deflection. he ignored them all, letting the tension build until you were needy with it. you were wound tight, and he still refused to touch you the way you ached for.
by the end of the night, you felt coiled and restless, yet too perverted to voice what you wanted aloud, especially after being brushed off. so you climbed into his bed with a sulky “goodnight,” a pout tugging at your lips, and tried to will yourself to sleep.
it didn’t come easily. all you could think about was him. your eyes squeezed shut, brows knitting together as the ache lingered, basically impossible to ignore. you were wet beyond belief. and only after you felt slumber slowly pulling at you, you felt your boyfriend press against you.
you felt his hard cock through his pants as he slowly, subtly rocked himself against you with barely steady breaths. your heart raced, holding in the little gasp that’s threatening to spill out of you.
“i saw all the videos you’ve been watching on twitter, princess,” he whispers, rutting against you a little harder, the words hitting just as deep as the motion. “all those videos of girls getting fucked while they sleep… is that what you want?”
both your heart and your thoughts stutter at once. for a split second you think you’re dreaming—but you can feel him, and you can differentiate fantasy and reality. the truth finally settles in as his hand slides beneath your sleep shorts, drifting lower, touching you in a way that leaves no doubt at all. this is real.
he hums when his fingers are immediately met with your slick arousal. “the idea of getting fucked while you’re unconciouis gets you this wet?”
you swallow the whimper trying to break free and let your deepest fantasy unfold. you force yourself to relax, to go pliant in the way you’ve always imagined this—but the moment rafayel circles your clit, your body betrays you, tensing on instinct.
“this slutty pussy wants me to fuck her, doesn’t she, baby? your body’s practically begging for me…” he groans into your ear, grinding deeper into you. “it would be so bad for me to fuck you while you sleep, though. i’d be such a bad boyfriend…”
you want to scream when he slows down. when he starts to retract his hand like it’s some bad idea.
“i shouldn’t touch you while you’re trying to sleep.” he murmurs, a hint of amusement threading through his words.
his hand nearly slips away from your shorts when a frayed plea falls from your lips. “please,” you whimper—and that’s really all the confirmation rafayel needs. he flips you onto your stomach and presses over you like a man starved.
your shorts are barely tugged down and his sweats are pushed just low enough for him to free himself. his hot, thick cock slaps against your bare skin and the contact makes you squeak. he pushes into you, filling you in one deep motion. gasps and moans spill from both of you in tandem, but he doesn’t give either of you time to settle. his hands grip your ass, fingers digging in as your flesh spills through the gaps all while he drives into you relentlessly.
“i knew you were pretending to sleep,” he grunts and it’s barely loud enough to be heard over the sounds of his skin slapping against yours.
you’re breathless when you manage to answer. “h-how?” the question breaks on a whine as his cock drives deeper with every hard thrust.
“i could hear how fast your heart was beating,” he chuckles darkly, never slowing, his pace mean. ruthless. “the way your breathing changed the second you felt me behind you.” his grip tightens as he leans in. “you were just waiting for me to take your clothes off and fuck you, weren’t you?”
you whimper, utterly exposed. “yes…”
“naughty, naughty girl.” he laughs. “should’ve told me you wanted to get fucked while you slept.”
you moan, clamping tightly around him and taking the painful stretch in stride. your back arches for more. like your body needs his cock or you’ll die. the knot in your stomach has been winding tighter all night, waiting for this exact moment, and you’re already embarrassingly close.
“no need to hold back,” he whispers. “soak my fucking cock like the slut you are.”
his sharp words tear a mewl from you, your walls clenching around his cock so tight it steals the breath from his lungs. you break as he drives into you without mercy. you fall apart around him with a beg, “please, please, please—” the word dissolving into a wrecked sob that fills the room.
“good girl,” he breathes. “now go back to sleep and let me have my fun, yeah?”
ᯓ 沈星回 ⟢ XAVIER ˖᯽ ݁˖ — dom!bf lets you edge him and begs you to cum #edging
tara is your best friend in the entire world. the kind of best friend who knows every corner of your life, including the private parts you don’t share with anyone else. especially when it comes to you and xavier.
at first, her curiosity overwhelmed you. her questions were invasive, relentless, sometimes overly embarrassing. but over time, you got used to it. more than that—you started to look forward to it. your weekly dates where you can rant about work at the association and the gory details of your relationship with xavier.
telling tara everything became its own kind of thrill. the late night giggles when she’d come over, the hushed voices so he couldn’t hear anything while he lived in the apartment above you, the way she’d squeal or gasp at every insane detail. it felt good to have someone who wanted to hear it all.
you’d even told her about wanting to try something new with him—something you were pretty sure he’d never agree to. you wanted xavier to be the one begging you for once. he was always so dominant in bed that the idea of flipping the script… of him giving in and taking everything you had to offer, felt almost absurd… which was exactly why you couldn’t stop thinking about it.
you remember when you saw the video of your ideal fantasy on twitter. a video of a guy being dominated by a girl. she made him beg for permission while she rode him and all you could think about was him. how cute he’d be with his blushy cheeks and the yearning look in his eyes. how pretty he’d sound whimpering out pleas and begs to cum inside of you. it shook you to your core. you saved the video to your bookmarks immediately and came back to it from time to time just to fantasize.
the night after you told tara about said fantasy, you decided to send her a visual, just so she knew exactly what you wanted. it’s not like you wanted to tie him up, you just wanted to watch him break underneath you.
@/starringmc: this is exactly what i want to do to xavier!!!
you hadn’t heard anything from tara for a while. you half expected her to open your dm immediately. she’s basically chronically online whenever she’s not on a mission or training, but there was nothing.
a knock at your door pulls you from your scrolling, brows knitting as you get up to answer it. when you swing the door open, your breath catches. xavier stands there, cheeks flushed, posture oddly sheepish.
“xavier? come in.” you step aside automatically, shutting the door behind him before turning back, confusion etched across your face. “what are you doing here? did we have plans?” worry slips into your voice.
he doesn’t answer right away. instead, he lifts his phone and turns the screen toward you—the twitter dm meant for tara, unmistakable.
your throat runs dry. heat rushes through you, mortification blooming in your chest, your face, the tips of your ears.
“i-i can…” you start, words tangling as his gaze pins you in place. “i can explain?”
he cocks his head to the side and asks. “so you don’t want to do this to me?”
“no! i mean—y-yes, but i… i just didn’t mean… i didn’t mean to send that to you.” you splutter. “this is not how i envisioned telling you that i wanted to try something like this. i’m sorry.”
“let’s do it.” he says, tossing his phone on your couch. “let’s recreate it—i want to.”
—
xavier sensed you were nervous. it took you a minute to fully get into it—the headspace, the dominance, but you eventually got there and he believes it’s the sexiest you’ve ever been.
you sat on his cock, slowly grinding against him like you were trying to tease him. your hands gripped at his pecs, palming and squeezing them in a way that made him breathless.
it was a struggle… to let his guard down, to let you dominate him. his hands were on your hips and he urged you to move faster. he wanted you to bounce on his cock till he came, but you said no.
“beg for it.” you whisper. “i won’t move the way you want me to unless you beg.”
he whimpers, the beg slipping past his lips all mumbly and cute—just the way you imagined they would. “please. please, go faster. i want you to go faster.”
you hum, delighted, your walls hugging him nice and tight as his words shoot straight to your core. you kindly oblige, lifting your hips and dropping them to which xavier lets out a blissed out moan. his brows knit in the utmost pleasure and his eyes flutter close.
his hands slide up to your waist, gripping you tight and holding you in place while his cock rams in and out of you. you let out little squeaks with every thrust and it only makes his cock throb intensely, loud whimpers following your sounds in suit.
he tries to hold back. to not get so close, but he can’t help it. you look so pretty riding him with your tits bouncing in his face and your pussy tightening around him like a vice. it makes him twitch frantically.
and you can feel it. the way he jerks and shakes—you know he’s close. you find it oddly endearing…how he’s been reduced to this, but you bite back the smile and school your features into something firm instead. “don’t cum,” you warn quietly. “you can’t cum… not yet.”
his hands still you, keeping you grounded and speared on his length as he begs for permission. “fuck, please—please let me cum.” he pleads, voice broken.
“no, not yet.” and the sound it pulls from him makes your chest ache—the choked, desperate sob torn from his throat at the denial, raw enough to make your heart constrict. “keep fucking me, xavie.”
he shakes his head incessantly, “i c-can’t, baby—fuck, i’ll–i’ll cum!”
“you can hold it.” you say, breathlessly, resuming your wicked motions. “be good ‘n fuck me faster.”
he clenches his teeth, pounding into you just the way you want. his hips snap against you with vigor while his cock helplessly throbs. he wants nothing more than to press deep inside and spill his load into you.
“i wanna cum, please, please, please. baby, please—i’ll do anything.”
you can’t resist him… his pretty face, his sweet voice. you offer a saccharine smile, lean in so your lips ghost over his and whisper. “cum inside of me, xavie.”
a loud, relieved groan slips out of him, his hands grip on you bruising as he pounds into you before he stills. his tip kisses your cervix before he’s pouring his hot, long awaited release into your cunt.
he crashes his mouth against yours, allowing you to swallow his moans as his arms wrap tight around you. he pulls you flush to his chest before he rolls you beneath him, hard cock still pressed inside of you. you squeal into the kiss, breathless and startled as the world tilts.
when he finally pulls back, you’re both breathless, foreheads pressed against one another. you catch the darkness in his eyes, the heat flushing his cheeks, the way restraint is barely holding.
“can i make you beg now?” he whispers, voice low. then, softer… much more vulnerable, “please?”
❥ pairing: wolf hybrid!sylus qin x cat/kitten hybrid!fem!reader
❥ summary: For years, you’d learned to live with loving someone you could never have. You convinced yourself that friendship was enough, that watching from the sidelines didn’t hurt as much as it did. You treasured every smile, every fleeting touch, even as they slowly broke your heart. You told yourself you weren’t enough—would never be enough—for someone like him. Or so you believed. Then one day, everything changed.
❥ genre: fluff + angst + smut (18+ mdni)
❥ wordcount: 31k+ (lol I am not normal about sylus)
❥ warnings/tags: hybrid!au, best friends to lovers, roommates to lovers, idiots in love, mutual pining, miscommunication kinda in terms of assumed unrequited love, longing/yearning, jealous!reader, kinda shy!reader, reader is described as shorter than sylus, emotional!reader, very small / short scene where reader got a bit harassed (not by sylus, sylus comes and steps in and protects reader. It’s a very small and short scene but if it makes you uncomfortable pls skip), synced ruts/heats. mating. inexperienced/virgin!reader, loss of virginity, unrealistic first time, unprotected sex, piv sex, soft!dom sylus, ok… just in overall bye, sylus is soft for reader, sub!reader, vaginal fingering, oral (f!receiving), multiple orgasms, creampie, overstimulation, major size kink, praise kink, dirty talk, oral fixation. some daddy kink and the use of alpha. huge breeding kink aaaaa sorry. I wrote this while ovulating. they’re both FREAKS. scent kink? knotting. sylus is worshipping his sweet girl ok! doggy style / prone bone 😈 and missionary position. lots of pet names (mostly kitty/kitten, little kitten). lowkey pillow princess vibes. this is high key sweet and soft and then turns filthy (and then turns soft again). reader has hair, no further description though. this is not beta read sorry!
EDIT: also I know cats are not seen as prey animals because they are predators themselves but compared to a wolf I felt like that was a big contrast. like cat and dog dynamic. at the end of the day, the state of “predator-prey” is fluctuant and depends on a lot of stuff, as even the biggest predators can become prey. hense why I wrote what I wrote.
❥ a/n: I’ve always always wanted to write a hybrid au and never came around to do it. I wrote something hybrid related YEARS ago but it was sitting in my wips collecting dust. It had the same plot but it was written totally differently and it was not good. so now that I’ve improved my writing over the years I felt like giving this story a shot again but this time with my muse and my everything : sylus. I am so happy and excited to finally release this fic to the world and I hope you enjoy reading this fanfic as much as I loved writing it <3 happy reading! 🩷
this goes without saying, but if you don’t like it don’t read it <3
AO3 • masterlist
Being roommates with your best friend had its perks. You were together almost all the time, sharing both the big and small moments of life in ways that felt natural, inevitable even. You’d lend each other a hand with mundane tasks, or offer guidance when one of you was feeling lost or stuck. Your tall best friend effortlessly reached the top shelves you could only dream of touching—a constant reminder of how much bigger wolf hybrids were compared to cat hybrids like you—and you both spent countless nights dissolved in laughter during movie marathons, shoulders pressed together on the couch, your tail occasionally draping over his leg in those comfortable moments when you forgot to be self-conscious. Sharing responsibilities became something more than just practical—splitting chores like cooking and laundry felt easy and natural, domestic in a way that made your heart ache with how right it felt. There was a profound comfort in knowing your best friend was always dependable, always there, ready to support you whenever you needed it. And whenever you were desperate for warmth, for contact, for reassurance, Sylus was probably already reaching for you, attuned to your needs in that uncanny way wolf hybrids had with those they cared about, ready to envelop you in his arms—that embrace that felt like home and made your ears fold back in contentment.
But living with him also had its disadvantages.
Especially considering that Sylus Qin, your best friend and the man you were hopelessly in love with, was quite the menace.
Sylus had always possessed this striking, almost unfair handsomeness that effortlessly made people swoon wherever he went. It genuinely wasn’t fair how beautiful he was—all sharp features and lazy confidence, those ruby eyes that seemed to see right through you, silver-white hair that caught the light, and that damnable smirk that made your stomach flip every single time. His wolf ears, pale and perfectly shaped, were expressive in ways that made him even more attractive, and his tail—god, his tail—had a way of swaying that drew eyes wherever he went. He had always been lucky when it came to finding partners—or rather, when it came to finding people to warm his bed. Wolf hybrids were already considered among the most desirable hybrid types, powerful and protective, and Sylus wielded that advantage with devastating effectiveness. He’d often bring those one-night stands back to your shared apartment—other wolves, foxes, the occasional panther, all gorgeous predator hybrids who matched his energy—and you’d lie awake in your room, pillow pressed over your ears, trying desperately to block out the sounds with your sensitive feline hearing. It never worked. You’d hear everything—the sounds that reminded you that someone else was touching him, that someone else got to know what his skin felt like, what sounds he made when—
You’d learned to pretend it didn’t bother you. Learned to keep your ears upright and your tail still the next morning when some stranger emerged from his bedroom, disheveled and satisfied, often sporting marks on their neck that made your claws itch to extend.
Sylus had never been the type to stick with one person, always preferring casual flings over long-term relationships. Or so you’d told yourself, because believing he was incapable of commitment hurt less than wondering if he simply didn’t want commitment with you. Maybe it was a wolf thing—they were known for being either fiercely monogamous or completely untethered. Sylus seemed to have chosen the latter.
You, on the other hand, had always craved something real, something lasting. Cat hybrids were naturally selective, notoriously picky about who they let into their space and their hearts, and you were no exception. You dreamed of finding your true love—someone to share adventures with, to laugh with until your sides hurt, someone to dive into deep, meaningful conversations with at three in the morning. You loved the idea of being with someone who let you be your complete, unfiltered self, where you could spend hours talking about everything and nothing—discussing your favorite TV shows one minute, then passionately criticizing capitalism and dissecting the broken state of the world the next. You were a romantic at heart, longing for affection in all its forms: sweet kisses and being held close, but also the chance to be the one doing the holding, to make someone feel cherished and safe and loved, just as much as you wanted to feel those things in return. You wanted what cat hybrids were meant to have—that one person they chose completely, that bond that was supposed to be unshakeable.
Unfortunately, you had never had the chance to experience anything like that.
It wasn’t as though opportunities hadn’t presented themselves. You’ve had chances to explore connections, potential relationships with people who’d expressed interest—a few cat hybrids, a sweet rabbit hybrid from your literature class, even a fox hybrid who’d been persistent in their pursuit. But you’d never been able to make yourself care enough to try, never felt that spark of genuine interest in creating something meaningful with a stranger. Your instincts, usually so good at telling you who was safe and who wasn’t, remained stubbornly silent with everyone except—
How could you even consider anyone else when you’d already given your heart away years ago?
But the devastating truth was that Sylus had stopped being just your best friend years ago—if he’d ever been just that at all. You had been in love with him for god knows how long, and that love had wrapped itself around your heart so completely that no one else even stood a chance. Your cat hybrid instincts had chosen him, decided he was yours, even though he’d never chosen you back. It went against everything that made sense—prey didn’t fall for predator, cat hybrids didn’t bond with wolf hybrids, you were supposed to be naturally wary of him. But your heart and your instincts had conspired against logic.
You still remembered the day you both became friends, though you had never quite understood why he’d chosen you, given how different you were from each other. You were blunt, sometimes too honest for your own good, while Sylus, though perfectly capable of being direct, tended to move through the world with more calculated grace, choosing his words carefully like the strategic predator he was. He was passionate, tender in ways that made your chest ache, and devastatingly intelligent. Sylus was, most of the time, a confident and mysterious man who seemed to know exactly who he was and what he wanted. You, on the other hand, weren’t necessarily insecure, but you wouldn’t exactly call yourself confident either—you existed somewhere in the uncertain middle, always questioning, always wondering. Typical cat hybrid behavior, some would say, but it felt more personal than that. You were deeply in tune with your emotions, feeling everything perhaps too intensely, but translating those feelings into words felt like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands. Your tail and ears gave you away constantly, betraying every feeling you tried to hide. Sylus, though, had always been straightforward with his emotions, expressing himself with an ease you both envied and admired, his wolf hybrid directness something you’d always found both intimidating and attractive. You were an overthinker, your mind always spinning with spiraling thoughts and worst-case scenarios, and he would often step in to quiet the chaos, grounding you with that steady, reassuring presence of his whenever your thoughts threatened to consume you. He had a way of placing his hand on your head, right between your ears, that never failed to calm you down—a gesture that should have felt patronizing but instead felt safe.
You could say that opposites attract, though that phrase felt too simple for what you two had. Wolf and cat. It should have never worked.
Over time, your friendship deepened into something profound, something that felt necessary for survival. So when he asked one day if you’d like to move in with him—into one of his new penthouses, spacious and modern and so very him—you’d barely hesitated. He’d told you he craved a bit more peace in his life and genuinely enjoyed your company, said it so casually like he wasn’t offering you everything you’d ever wanted. It seemed like a good idea, you’d thought. A practical one, even. Your parents had warned you that living with a wolf hybrid might trigger your prey instincts, might make you anxious, but you’d dismissed their concerns.
What a beautiful mistake that had been.
You couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment you fell in love with your roommate, and that uncertainty haunted you. All you knew was that one day, you were suddenly drowning in an emotion so intense, so consuming, it was unlike anything you’d ever felt before. It hit you all at once—or at least, that’s when you finally stopped being able to deny it. Before Sylus, you’d never really had a serious crush, never experienced feelings this powerful, this devastating, for anyone. Cat hybrids were supposed to know, supposed to feel that instinctive pull toward their person, but you’d never felt it with anyone. You often told yourself it must have started shortly after you moved in with him, that living in such close quarters had simply made you confused, made you mistake intimacy for something more. But deep down, in that honest part of yourself you tried so hard to ignore, you knew that wasn’t the truth. This feeling had been quietly growing from the very first moment you met him, taking root in your heart like something inevitable, slowly building until it became impossible to ignore, impossible to uproot. Your instincts had chosen him that day in the library, and cat hybrids didn’t un-choose. That was the curse of it.
It was funny, you thought during those late nights when sleep wouldn’t come and you could hear his steady breathing from his room with your too-sharp hearing, how life had a way of bringing you things—and people—you never realized you needed. People like Sylus, who became so essential to your existence that you couldn’t help but wonder how you had ever lived without them. People like Sylus Qin, who had become both your salvation and your undoing, your safe haven and your deepest ache—the person who could soothe your soul and set it ablaze in the same breath, while remaining everything you needed and everything you couldn’t have.
The wolf who’d become your home, even when your instincts whispered that wolves and cats were never meant to mix like this.
✩₊˚ .⋆☾⋆ ⁺₊✧
You were curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath you as you absently groomed your tail—a self-soothing habit you’d never quite broken, especially when your thoughts were spinning out of control.
It had been three days since the last one-night stand. Three days of relative peace, though you hated that you were counting.
Your fingers worked through the fur of your tail methodically, smoothing down the same spot over and over. It was a distinctly feline habit, one that most cat hybrids developed as a comfort mechanism. The repetitive motion usually helped quiet your racing thoughts, but tonight it wasn’t working. Nothing worked when it came to Sylus.
The soft pad of footsteps made your ears swivel backward before you could stop them—wolf hybrids moved with an almost predatory silence that had unnerved you once, long ago. Now it was just painfully familiar.
“You’re going to wear a bald spot into your tail if you keep that up,” Sylus’s voice came from behind the couch, warm with amusement.
You startled slightly, your hands stilling as heat crept up your neck. Of course he’d noticed. He noticed everything about you, always had. “I’m fine,” you mumbled, though your flattened ears probably betrayed the lie.
The couch dipped as he settled beside you—not too close, never too close, but near enough that his scent washed over you. Pine and something darker, earthier, distinctly wolf. It had terrified you once. Now it felt like home, and that was so much worse.
[Flashback - Seven Years Ago]
The university library had been packed with students cramming for midterms, but you’d managed to find a corner table tucked away near the back. As a cat hybrid, you’d always preferred small, enclosed spaces—they felt safer, more secure. Especially in a school where predator hybrids made up a significant portion of the student body.
You’d been so focused on your literary theory textbook, trying to make sense of post-structuralism for your midterm, that you hadn’t noticed the group approaching until a shadow fell across your table.
“This seat taken, kitten?”
Your ears had flattened instinctively against your head as you looked up at the lion hybrid looming over you, his two friends—a tiger and another lion—flanking him with matching smirks. Predator hybrids. Of course.
“I—I’m studying,” you managed, your voice barely above a whisper. Your tail had curled tight around your leg beneath the table, a defensive posture you couldn’t control.
“Aw, don’t be like that,” the tiger hybrid purred, leaning against your table. “We just want to get to know you better. You’re in our sociology class, right? Cute little thing sitting in the back, always so quiet.”
Your heart had hammered against your ribs. You’d dealt with this kind of attention before—more vulnerable hybrids often did, especially from the more “desirable” predator types who thought their status meant they could do whatever they wanted. Your instincts screamed at you to run, but you were cornered, trapped between the table and the wall.
“She said she’s studying.”
The voice had come from behind the group, deep and carrying an edge that made your fur stand on end. The three predator hybrids had turned, and you’d finally seen him—a wolf hybrid with striking silver-white hair and the most intense ruby-red eyes you’d ever seen. His pale skin almost seemed to glow under the library’s fluorescent lights, making him look almost otherworldly. He was tall, broader than the others, and there was something in his posture that screamed danger in a way that made even the lion hybrids take a step back.
Wolf hybrids were rare, especially in universities. They were known for being territorial, protective, and powerful. Most ended up in military or security positions, not sitting in sociology lectures.
“We were just talking to her, wolf,” the lion had said, though his cocky tone had wavered slightly. “No need to get territorial.”
“Funny,” Sylus had replied, his ruby eyes fixed on them with an intensity that was unmistakably predatory. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re making her uncomfortable. And I don’t tolerate that.”
The tension had been thick enough to cut. Your ears had been flat against your head, your whole body tense as you’d watched the standoff. The wolf hybrid’s scent had filled the air—assertive, dominant, unmistakably alpha. It should have terrified you more than the others had.
Instead, some instinct you didn’t understand told you that you were safe.
The lion hybrid had glanced at you, then back at Sylus, and something in his expression had shifted. “Whatever, man. She’s not worth the trouble anyway.” He’d jerked his head at his friends, and they’d left, though not without shooting dark looks over their shoulders.
You’d sat frozen, staring at this stranger who’d just defended you without even knowing your name. Your heart was still racing, but for an entirely different reason now.
Sylus had turned to you then, and his expression had softened in a way that seemed almost impossible given the dominance he’d just displayed. Those ruby eyes, which had been so sharp and threatening moments before, now looked at you with something gentler. “You okay?”
You’d nodded mutely, not trusting your voice. Up close, he was even more striking—all sharp features and powerful presence, his silver hair catching the light as his wolf ears, pale and alert atop his head, focused entirely on you. You’d noticed his tail hanging relaxed behind him despite the confrontation that had just occurred.
“I’m Sylus,” he’d said, pulling out the chair across from you. “Mind if I sit? I promise I’m better company than those three.”
You should have been terrified. Every instinct should have been screaming at you to run from the predator sitting across from you. But instead, you’d found yourself nodding, your ears slowly lifting from their flattened position.
“I’m…” you started, your voice shaky. You’d given him your name, and when he’d smiled—really smiled, not that predatory smirk the others had worn—something in your chest had felt warm for the first time since the encounter started.
“Pretty name for a pretty kitten,” he’d said, and then, as if sensing your nervousness, he’d gestured to your textbook. “Literary theory? That looks like torture.” He’d tilted his head, a small smirk playing on his lips. “I’m in engineering, but we had to take that intro to humanities course last semester. Nearly killed me.”
You’d managed a small, surprised laugh despite your still-racing heart. “It’s… a lot,” you’d admitted quietly.
“Tell you what,” he’d said, leaning back in his chair with an easy confidence that should have intimidated you but somehow didn’t. “I’ve got some time before my next class. You look like you could use the company, and I make a pretty decent study partner. Even if I don’t know the first thing about post-structuralism or whatever that is.”
And just like that, Sylus Qin had entered your life—unexpected, protective, and impossibly kind. What had started as a chance encounter in a crowded library would become the most important friendship you’d ever have. He’d stayed with you that entire afternoon, helping you study despite knowing nothing about literary theory, making you laugh when moments before you’d been on the verge of tears.
[Present Day]
“You’re thinking too loud,” Sylus said, pulling you from the memory. His hand reached out slowly—always slowly with you, like you were something fragile that might bolt—and gently tugged your tail from your grip. “Seriously, you’re going to hurt yourself.”
Your breath caught as his fingers carefully smoothed down the fur you’d been obsessively grooming, his touch gentle in a way that contradicted everything his hybrid type was supposed to be. Wolf hybrids weren’t known for gentleness. They were dominant, possessive and territorial.
But Sylus had always been gentle with you.
“Sorry,” you murmured, very aware of how close he was, how his scent surrounded you. “Just… thinking.”
“About?” His hand lingered perhaps a moment too long on your tail before he pulled away, and you tried not to mourn the loss of contact.
About you, you thought. Always about you.
“Nothing important,” you lied, tucking your tail closer to your body and away from temptation—both his and yours. Your ears swiveled toward him on their own accord, betraying your attention even as you tried to appear casual.
Sylus hummed, a low sound in his chest that you felt more than heard. Wolf hybrids did that—made sounds that resonated, that were meant to soothe pack members. You’d learned over the years to recognize when he did it, usually when he sensed you were anxious or upset.
He was doing it now, probably without even realizing it.
“You know,” he said after a moment, leaning back against the couch, “sometimes I think about that day in the library. When we first met.”
Your heart stuttered. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His eyes were distant, reminiscent. “You looked so scared. These tiny flattened ears, tail wrapped so tight around your leg. Those assholes cornering you like you were just some toy for them to play with.” His jaw clenched, and you saw his ears tilt back slightly—a sign of irritation. “I wanted to rip them apart.”
You’d never heard him admit that before. “You didn’t, though.”
“No,” he agreed, his eyes finding yours. “Because you were already terrified enough without me going full wolf on them. And because…” He paused, something flickering across his expression. “Because the last thing I wanted was for you to be afraid of me too.”
Your chest tightened. “I was never afraid of you.”
That was a lie. You had been, at first. He was a wolf hybrid, a predator, and you were a cat hybrid. Every instinct had told you to run.
But you hadn’t. And somewhere between that first day in the library and now, your fear had transformed into something so much more dangerous.
Sylus’s expression softened, a small smile playing at his lips. “You were absolutely terrified, kitten. Don’t even try to deny it.” He reached over and gently flicked one of your ears—a familiar, teasing gesture. “These things give you away every time.”
You wanted to argue, to protest, but he was right. Your ears had always betrayed you, constantly swiveling and flattening and perking up with every emotion you tried to hide. It was a cat hybrid thing, being so expressive without meaning to be.
“You still notice everything,” you muttered, feeling heat creep into your cheeks.
“Only when it comes to you,” he said, so quietly you almost missed it.
Your heart nearly stopped. You turned to look at him fully, searching his face for meaning, but he was already standing, stretching in a way that made his shirt ride up slightly. Your eyes caught on his tail swaying behind him before you forced yourself to look away.
“I’m thinking of ordering takeout,” he said, his tone casual again, as if he hadn’t just said something that made your entire world tilt. “Thai sounds good?”
You managed a nod, not trusting your voice.
As he walked toward the kitchen to grab his phone, you caught yourself watching him—the confident way he moved, the silver-white of his hair catching the light, so different from your own cautious, light-footed steps. Wolf hybrid and cat hybrid. Predator and prey.
Seven years ago, he’d saved you from predators who’d wanted to harass you.
Now, you were living with a predator who didn’t even realize he’d already caught you.
Your tail curled around your waist protectively as you forced yourself to look away, back at your phone, at anything other than Sylus Qin and the impossible situation your heart had created.
Some prey, you thought bitterly, were foolish enough to walk straight into the wolf’s den.
You just wished you knew if he’d ever want to keep you there.
✩₊˚ .⋆☾⋆ ⁺₊✧
A few months into your roommate arrangement, you still couldn’t get used to Sylus constantly bringing one-night stands to your shared apartment. It was pure torment—made worse by your heightened feline senses that picked up on everything you desperately wished you could ignore.
As you ate cereal at the kitchen island, your ears flicked toward the sound of Sylus’s bedroom door opening. One of his many conquests—a sleek panther hybrid—quietly slipped out, and you focused intently on your bowl, willing your tail not to lash in irritation. You couldn’t help but watch from the corner of your eye as Sylus walked them to the door, their face adorned with that satisfied, sly smile as they batted their eyelashes at him. Your ears flattened slightly against your head as you watched their fingers play with the collar of his shirt, lingering there while he made no move to pull away, that damn smirk on his face. A knot of anger twisted in your belly. You’d never felt such intense rage before—it made your claws itch to extend, a very catlike aggressive response. He leaned into their touch as they gave him a casual goodbye kiss, and you had to grip your spoon tighter to keep your composure.
You hated experiencing feelings like these. It was a gross emotion, a heavy sensation that felt thick and tar-like, clinging to your chest and making you ache with its oppressive weight. Your tail curled tight around the base of the stool, another tell you couldn’t control.
Anxiety? Sure, you were often more anxious than most hybrids, but that wasn’t the feeling you had at this moment. Maybe it was jealousy? You disliked how that emotion fit so easily on your tongue, leaving a bitter taste.
Each time you witnessed these scenes unfold—the touching, the lingering looks, the casual intimacy—jealousy and frustration would crash over you in waves. It was worse when your sensitive hearing picked up on things you wished you could unhear. Your ears would fold back automatically, and you’d bury your head under your pillow, but it never quite blocked out the sounds from his room. Those nights, you’d catch his scent mixed with someone else’s the next morning, and it made your stomach turn. Wolf hybrids were naturally territorial, their scent marking everything, and knowing he was sharing that with others felt like claws raking across your heart.
As Sylus reentered the apartment and closed the door behind him, you couldn’t stop the bitter words from escaping, your ears still slightly flattened. “So, what number are we up to now?”
He paused, his red eyes finding yours, and you watched his wolf ears swivel toward you with interest before he chuckled and shook his head with that insufferable smirk. “Not sure. Lost count.” He shrugged with casual ease, grabbed an apple from the fruit basket on the kitchen island, and took a bite.
“What was their name?” you asked, staring daggers at your bowl of cereal, your tail now twitching with barely suppressed agitation.
Another shrug, his tail swaying lazily behind him—relaxed, unbothered, so completely unaffected. “I don’t know, and honestly, I don’t care,” he replied nonchalantly before walking away.
You couldn’t understand how he could be so cavalier about it all. Your ears tracked his movement even as you kept your eyes down, hating how attuned you were to his every move.
But it wasn’t just jealousy poisoning your system—it was the longing, the desperate ache for any kind of affection or love from Sylus that went beyond friendship. You were grateful to be his best friend, truly, and you knew it was foolish to hope for more, to wish he’d look at you the way he looked at… well, anyone else he brought home. But you couldn’t help yourself. Deep down, you feared you’d always feel this lonely, this isolated in your feelings. As a cat hybrid, you were already naturally more selective about who you let close, but with Sylus, it was different. You could never fall for anyone but him—your instincts had decided that long ago, whether you wanted them to or not. He was everything you craved and needed in life, and that awareness was its own special torture.
You felt foolish, your ears burning with constant embarrassment even when you were alone. More than anything, you felt hurt, knowing you were the only one to blame. It were your own feelings, your own stupid heart that had caused all this pain.
The thought of him eventually falling in love with someone else—really falling, not just these meaningless nights—made your stomach drop like a stone. You could picture it too easily: some gorgeous wolf hybrid, or maybe an elegant fox, someone who matched his predator energy, someone who made sense by his side. Not a skittish cat hybrid who still sometimes had the urge to run when he moved too quickly. But you forced yourself to push that devastation down, to lock it away with all the other feelings you couldn’t afford to examine. It didn’t matter what you wanted. Sylus was free to date whoever he wanted, to love whoever he wanted. He was your best friend, and that’s all he’d ever be.
One day, you’d have to make peace with the fact that Sylus would always be just your best friend, nothing more.
You just desperately hoped that one day, your tail would stop drooping at the thought, that your ears would stop flattening in distress. That one day, loving him wouldn’t make you feel like you were going against every prey instinct you had—because loving a wolf had never been safe, and your heart had done it anyway.
✩₊˚ .⋆☾⋆ ⁺₊✧
You were cuddled up on the couch, staring blankly at your phone screen without really seeing it. Your ears kept swiveling toward the hallway, tracking Sylus’s movements in his room even though you were trying—and failing—to focus on anything else. The soft music playing from your phone did little to calm your frayed nerves.
Your tail was wrapped tight around your waist, a self-protective posture you couldn’t seem to break out of. It had been like this all day—coiled and tense, betraying the anxiety that had been eating at you since this morning. You’d barely been able to focus on your writing assignment, had given up on reading after rereading the same page five times without absorbing a single word.
The soft pad of footsteps made your ears swivel backward before you could stop them—wolf hybrids moved with an almost predatory silence that had unnerved you once, long ago. Now it was just painfully familiar, and worse, it made your heart race for entirely different reasons.
“You’re wound tighter than a spring,” Sylus’s voice came from behind the couch, warm with amusement and something softer you didn’t dare name. “I can practically feel the anxiety radiating off you from here.”
You startled slightly, your tail constricting even tighter around your waist as heat crept up your neck. Of course he’d noticed. He noticed everything about you, always had. “I’m fine,” you mumbled, though your flattened ears and the visible tension in your shoulders probably betrayed the lie. They always did.
The couch dipped as he settled beside you—close, closer than usual, near enough that his scent washed over you in a wave that made your breath catch. Pine and something darker, earthier, distinctly wolf and distinctly Sylus. It had terrified you once. Now it felt like home, and that was so much worse. That was dangerous.
You kept your eyes on your phone, acutely aware of the warmth radiating from where his thigh was almost touching yours, where his arm rested along the back of the couch. Not quite touching you, never quite touching, but close enough that you could feel the heat of him, close enough that if you shifted even slightly, you’d be pressed against his side.
You wanted to. God, you wanted to so badly it physically hurt.
“You’ve been like this all day,” he observed, his voice dropping to that low, gentle tone he used when it was just the two of you. When he thought you needed comfort. “What’s going on in that head of yours, kitten?”
The petname made your ears twitch traitorously, flicking up for just a moment before flattening again, and you saw his eyes track the movement. Of course he noticed. He always noticed.
Everything, you wanted to say. You. Always you. The way you smell like safety and heartbreak. The way I can’t stop wanting things I’ll never have.
Instead, you managed a small shrug, still refusing to look at him because you knew—you knew—that if you met those ruby eyes right now, he’d see everything. Your fingers tightened around your phone. “Just tired, I guess.”
“Liar.” But there was no heat in it, just a tenderness that made your chest constrict. “Look at you. Your tail’s been wrapped around yourself like armor since this morning, and your ears haven’t been up once. That’s not tired. That’s stressed.”
“I’m not—” you started, but your voice came out shaky, unconvincing even to your own ears.
“Hey.” His hand lifted—slowly, always so slowly with you, like you were something precious that might bolt—and his fingers brushed against one of your flattened ears with devastating gentleness. “Talk to me. Please?”
Your breath stuttered. You should pull away. You should make some excuse and retreat to your room where it was safe, where you couldn’t do something stupid like lean into his touch like the touch-starved cat hybrid you were.
But you didn’t move. You couldn’t.
His fingers traced the edge of your ear with a feather-light touch that sent shivers down your spine, gently coaxing it upward, and you watched his eyes darken as your ear instinctively responded to his touch, slowly lifting from its flattened position. Betrayed by your own body, as always.
“There,” he murmured, that rumbling quality entering his voice—the one that wolf hybrids used to soothe, to comfort. “That’s better. Now tell me what’s wrong.”
You can’t help with this, you thought desperately. You’re the problem. You’re the reason I’m anxious and aching and so desperately in love I can barely breathe.
But what came out was: “You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” He cut you off gently, and his hand moved from your ear to cup your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. His thumb brushed across your cheek, and you wondered if he could feel how hot your skin had become, could hear how your heart was racing. With his wolf hearing, he probably could. “I always want to. You know that, right?”
Did you? Did you know that? Or was this just what he did—taking care of people, being protective, his wolf instincts making him watch out for those he considered pack? It didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t mean anything.
“Sylus…” you breathed, and you heard how it came out—too soft, too wanting, too much.
Something flickered across his expression, there and gone so quickly you might have imagined it. His eyes dropped to your lips for just a fraction of a second before meeting your gaze again, and you felt your tail tighten even more around your waist, your claws flexing nervously against your phone case.
“You do this thing,” he said quietly, his thumb still tracing idle patterns on your cheek that were making it very hard to think, “where you curl up into yourself when something’s bothering you. Make yourself small. And I hate it.”
“I don’t—” you started to protest, but he shook his head.
“You do. Your tail wraps around you like a shield, your ears go flat, and you won’t look at anyone. Won’t ask for help even when you need it.” His other hand reached down, gently taking your phone from your death grip and setting it aside. Then his fingers found your tail where it was wrapped protectively around your waist. “And this… kitten, you’re going to hurt yourself if you keep coiling this tight.”
His touch on your tail made you gasp softly—tails were sensitive, personal, and the way his fingers carefully worked to loosen the tension there felt intimate in a way that made your heart pound. This wasn’t casual touching. This was—
“Let me help you relax,” he murmured, and there was something in his voice that made your skin feel too warm. “Please? I can’t… I can’t just sit here and watch you tie yourself in knots.”
You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. Because his hand was still on your jaw, tilting your face toward his, and his other hand was gently coaxing your tail to unwind, and he was so close you could count his eyelashes, could see the exact moment his pupils dilated slightly as he looked at you.
The air between you felt charged, heavy with something unspoken. Your ears were slowly perking up now despite your best efforts, focused entirely on him, and you saw his gaze flick to them, a small smile tugging at his lips, then back to your eyes, then—briefly, so briefly—to your lips again.
“Better,” he said softly as your tail finally loosened, though it immediately tried to curl around his wrist instead—another betrayal by your traitorous body. “See? You don’t always have to hold everything in by yourself.”
“You’re staring,” you whispered, because you had to say something, had to break this tension before you did something catastrophic like close the distance between you and press your lips to his.
“So are you.” His thumb traced your cheekbone, and his voice had gone rough around the edges. “Your eyes are doing that thing.”
“What thing?” Your own voice was barely audible, and your fingers had somehow found their way to his shirt, gripping the fabric without your permission.
“That thing where they go all soft and wide and I can’t…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening like he was stopping himself from saying something. His hand tightened around your tail, making you shiver.
“Can’t what?” You shouldn’t push. You should let this go. But you’d been so starved for him, for any hint that maybe he felt even a fraction of what you felt, and you were so tired of pretending. Your claws had extended slightly, pricking through his shirt, and you couldn’t even find it in yourself to be embarrassed.
For a long moment, he just looked at you. Really looked at you, like he was seeing something he’d never allowed himself to see before. His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers tangling gently in the hair there, just below your ears, and the touch made you shiver visibly.
“Can’t stop thinking about how much I—” He stopped himself, closing his eyes briefly, his ears flicking back in what looked like frustration—with himself or the situation, you couldn’t tell. When he opened them again, there was something raw there, something vulnerable that you’d never seen before. “You have no idea, do you?”
“No idea about what?” Your heart was going to beat out of your chest, and you knew he could hear it, could probably smell the spike of adrenaline and hope and fear coursing through you. This felt important, monumental, like standing on the edge of something that would either save you or destroy you completely.
His thumb brushed the sensitive spot just behind your ear, making you melt against him unconsciously, and his expression softened into something that looked almost pained. “How hard it is to—”
But then his phone buzzed on the coffee table, shattering the moment like glass. You both jerked slightly, and his hands fell away from you as he grabbed the phone with what looked like frustration, his tail lashing once behind him—a rare show of his own agitation.
He glanced at the screen, and something shuttered in his expression. “Sorry, I need to—” He stood abruptly, running a hand through his silver hair, his wolf ears flicking back in what you’d learned to recognize as irritation. “Work thing.”
You watched him walk toward his room, your tail immediately coiling back around your waist protectively, your whole body aching with the loss of his warmth. Your ears had flattened again, and you felt the anxiety come rushing back twice as strong, your claws still extended and digging into your palms now that they had nothing else to hold onto.
He paused in the doorway to his room, looking back at you with an expression you couldn’t quite read—something conflicted, almost tortured. “Get some rest, kitten. And stop…” He gestured vaguely at you, at your defensive posture. “Stop making yourself so small. You don’t have to do that. Not with me. Never with me.”
Then he was gone, door closing softly behind him, leaving you alone on the couch with your racing heart and the ghost of his touch still burning on your skin.
You buried your face in your hands, ears flat against your head, tail so tight around your waist it was almost painful.
“You have no idea, do you?”
What had he meant? What had he been about to say?
And why did it feel like you’d just missed something crucial, something that might have changed everything?
Your claws dug into your scalp slightly as you tried to calm your breathing, tried to slow your racing heart. Part of you wondered if he was grateful for the interruption. If he’d realized how close he’d come to… to what? Saying something he’d regret? Doing something that would ruin your friendship?
You pulled a blanket over yourself, knowing you wouldn’t sleep, knowing you’d spend the rest of the night replaying every second of that interaction, analyzing every word, every look, every touch. Your tail remained coiled tight, your body still thrumming with unspent anxiety and longing.
“You have no idea, do you?”
The worst part was, you didn’t. You had no idea what he’d been about to say, and the not-knowing was its own special kind of torture.
Just another night of loving Sylus Qin and wondering if maybe, just maybe, there was a chance he could love you back.
Your ears perked slightly at the sound of his door opening again, footsteps padding back toward the living room. You kept your eyes closed, pretending to be drowsy, but your treacherous ears swiveled toward him automatically, and you felt your tail tighten even more.
You felt him drape another blanket over you, tucking it gently around your shoulders. His hand lingered for just a moment on your head, right between your ears—that gesture that never failed to make you feel safe—and you felt your ears relax slightly under his touch, your tail loosening just a fraction.
“Sleep well, kitten,” he murmured, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it. His fingers stroked once, twice between your ears, and you felt some of the anxiety finally start to drain from your body. And then, even softer, like he didn’t mean for you to hear it at all: “God, you’re killing me.”
Then his footsteps retreated, his door clicked shut again, and you were left alone with your pounding heart and the devastating realization that maybe—maybe—you weren’t the only one suffering.
But that couldn’t be right.
Could it?
✩₊˚ .⋆☾⋆ ⁺₊✧
You’d been avoiding Sylus.
Not obviously—you weren’t that transparent. But ever since that night on the couch, since his hand on your face and those words ‘you have no idea’ and the way he’d looked at you like you were something precious, you’d been… careful. Kept conversations light. Made excuses to stay in your room. Tried desperately not to think about what had almost happened, what he’d almost said.
It was easier than facing the possibility that you’d imagined the whole thing, that you’d read too much into a moment of kindness from your best friend.
So when you’d woken up yesterday with a scratchy throat and a headache, you’d almost been grateful. A legitimate reason to stay in your room, to avoid those knowing ruby eyes that seemed to see right through you.
By this morning, though, “a little under the weather” had evolved into “definitely sick.” Your head pounded, your body ached, and every time you moved, the room spun unpleasantly. Your cat ears felt hot and heavy against your head, and your tail was too tired to do anything but lie limply beside you.
You’d texted Sylus that you weren’t feeling well, asked him not to worry, and then buried yourself under your blankets to sleep it off.
That had been your first mistake.
The sound of your bedroom door opening made your ears twitch weakly.
“Kitten.” Sylus’s voice was soft but firm, and you heard him cross the room to your bed. “Why didn’t you tell me you were this sick?”
“’M fine,” you mumbled into your pillow, not bothering to open your eyes. “Just need sleep.”
“You’re burning up.” The back of his hand pressed against your forehead, and even through your fever, you registered how cool his skin felt. How good it felt. “Jesus. How long have you been like this?”
“Not that long.” You tried to pull away from his touch, but your body wouldn’t cooperate. “I said I’m fine. Don’t need… hovering.”
“Tough.” The mattress dipped as he sat beside you, and you finally cracked your eyes open to find him looking down at you with concern etched across his features. His wolf ears were alert and focused entirely on you, and there was something in his expression that made your feverish heart skip. “I’m hovering. Deal with it.”
You wanted to argue, but another wave of dizziness hit and you just closed your eyes again with a small whimper.
“That’s what I thought.” His fingers brushed gently against your overheated cheek, and you heard him sigh. “Stay here. I’m getting medicine and water.”
“Can’t really go anywhere,” you muttered, which earned you a soft huff of amusement before his weight lifted from the bed.
You must have dozed off because the next thing you knew, he was back, coaxing you to sit up enough to take medicine and drink water. His arm supported your back, steady and warm, and you were too sick to care about how you leaned into him, how your cheek pressed against his shoulder.
“Good girl,” he murmured when you’d finished the water, and the praise did something funny to your fever-addled brain. “Now rest. I’ll be right here.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to.” He was already adjusting your pillows, pulling your blankets up higher. “I want to.”
You wanted to ask why. Wanted to ask what that night on the couch had meant, wanted to ask if he’d been about to say what you thought he’d been about to say. But your head was too heavy and your thoughts too fuzzy, so you just let yourself drift, comforted by the sound of him moving around your room, the scent of him nearby.
✩₊˚ .⋆☾⋆ ⁺₊✧
The fever dreams were the worst part.
You kept waking up disoriented, not sure what was real and what wasn’t. But every time you surfaced, Sylus was there. Pressing a cool cloth to your forehead. Helping you drink water. Murmuring reassurances in that low, soothing voice that made your wolf-sensitive cat instincts relax despite everything.
At some point, you felt his fingers gently combing through your hair, careful not to disturb your sensitive ears, and you made a sound that was probably too close to a purr. You felt rather than saw him smile.
“Sleep, kitten,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”
And because you were too sick to maintain your usual walls, too feverish to remember why you’d been avoiding him, you whispered back: “Don’t leave?”
His hand stilled in your hair for just a moment. Then: “I’m not going anywhere. Promise.”
You believed him. And with his scent surrounding you, his presence solid and real beside you, you finally fell into a deeper, more restful sleep.
✩₊˚ .⋆☾⋆ ⁺₊✧
[Several Hours Later]
You woke to the smell of soup.
Not just any soup—the kind Sylus made from scratch, the recipe he’d learned from his grandmother that he only made for special occasions. Rich and savory and exactly what your body was craving.
Your fever had broken sometime while you slept. You still felt weak and achy, but the worst of it had passed. Carefully, you sat up, your ears perking slightly as you registered that the smell was coming from the kitchen.
He was cooking. For you.
Your tail curled around your waist as you slowly stood, pulling on a hoodie over your sleep shirt because you were still chilled. Your legs felt shaky, but you managed to make it to your bedroom door and down the hallway.
The sight that greeted you in the kitchen made your heart clench painfully in your chest.
Sylus stood at the stove, his back to you, hair slightly mussed like he’d been running his hands through it. He’d changed into a simple black t-shirt and sweatpants, casual and domestic in a way that shouldn’t have been as devastating as it was. His tail swayed slowly behind him as he stirred the pot, and you could see the concentration in the set of his shoulders.
He was cooking for you. Taking care of you. Had probably been worried about you all day.
“You should be in bed, kitten.”
You startled—you hadn’t made a sound, but of course his wolf hearing had picked up on your presence anyway. He turned to look at you over his shoulder, and the gentle reproach in his expression was undermined by the obvious relief in his eyes at seeing you up and moving.
“I smelled food,” you said weakly, leaning against the doorframe because your legs were already protesting. “Wanted to see what you were making.”
“Soup.” He turned fully now, and you saw he was holding a wooden spoon, looking unfairly attractive for someone who’d probably spent the last several hours playing nurse. “And you should be resting, not wandering around the apartment.”
“I’ve been in bed all day.” You took a tentative step into the kitchen. “Needed to move.”
His eyes tracked your unsteady movement, and something flickered across his face. “You’re still weak.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re sick.” But even as he said it, he was setting down the spoon and closing the distance between you. His hands found your waist, steadying you, and the warmth of his touch seeped through your hoodie. “Stubborn kitten. Come on.”
Before you could protest, he was guiding you to one of the bar stools at the kitchen island, his hands firm but gentle. You let him, mostly because your legs were grateful for the excuse to stop supporting your weight.
“Stay,” he ordered, pointing at you with mock sternness that was ruined by the fondness in his eyes. “I’m almost done.”
You watched him move around the kitchen with practiced ease, ladling soup into a bowl, cutting fresh bread, pouring water. The whole scene was so devastatingly domestic that it made your chest ache. This is what it would be like, some traitorous part of your brain whispered. If you were his. If he was yours. This easy intimacy, this care, every day.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Sylus said without turning around, but you could hear the smile in his voice.
Your ears flattened in embarrassment. “Like what?”
“Like I’m doing something extraordinary.” He set the bowl of soup in front of you, along with the bread and water. “It’s just soup, kitten.”
But it wasn’t just soup. It was him spending hours making something from scratch because you were sick. It was him staying by your side all day, taking care of you, worrying about you. It was him looking at you now like you were something precious, something worth taking care of.
“Thank you,” you said softly, and you meant for so much more than just the soup.
Something in his expression softened. “Always.”
He leaned against the counter across from you, arms crossed over his chest, watching as you took your first spoonful. The soup was perfect—of course it was—and you couldn’t stop the small sound of appreciation that escaped you.
His eyes darkened slightly at the sound, and you watched his jaw tighten. “Good?”
“Really good.” You took another spoonful, then paused. “Have you eaten?”
“I’m fine.”
“Sylus.”
“I wanted to make sure you ate first.” But at your look—you might be sick, but you could still give him the eyebrow raise that meant ‘I’m not buying it’—he sighed. “I’ll eat after.”
“Eat with me,” you said, and it came out smaller than you’d intended. More vulnerable. “Please?”
For a moment, he just looked at you, something unreadable in his expression. Then he nodded, moved to get his own bowl, and settled onto the stool beside you.
You ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, and you were acutely aware of how close he was. Close enough that your tails could touch if either of you moved slightly. Close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him.
“You scared me,” he said suddenly, quietly.
You looked up to find him staring at his soup, his jaw tight. “What?”
“When I came in and you were that feverish. Not responding properly. Your scent was all wrong—” He stopped, shook his head. “I know it’s just a cold or flu or whatever. I know you’re fine. But for a second, I…” He trailed off, his hands gripping his spoon too tightly.
Your heart clenched. “Sylus—”
“I don’t like seeing you hurt. Or sick. Or in pain.” He finally looked at you, and the raw honesty in his eyes stole your breath. “I know I don’t have any right to feel that protective of you. I know we’re just friends. But I can’t—” He stopped again, seeming to struggle with the words. “I can’t stand it. The thought of something happening to you.”
“You have every right,” you said before you could think better of it, your fever-weakened filters failing you completely. “You’re my best friend. Of course you’re allowed to worry.”
The moment the words left your mouth, you saw it—the tiny flinch, so quick you almost missed it. His jaw tightened, and something shuttered in his expression. His shoulders tensed, then deliberately relaxed, like he was forcing himself to compose. His ears flicked back for just a second before returning to their neutral position.
He turned back to his soup, his movements careful and controlled. “Right. Your best friend.”
The words were even, toneless, and somehow that made them worse. Made the sudden distance between you feel like a chasm even though he was sitting right there.
You didn’t understand what you’d said wrong. Didn’t understand why the air had suddenly gone cold, why he wouldn’t look at you anymore, why his tail had gone completely still behind him—a sign of a wolf hybrid keeping tight control over their reactions.
“Sylus?” you tried, your voice small.
He was quiet for a long moment, and you watched him take a slow breath. Then another. When he finally looked at you again, something had shifted—not back to how it was before, but to something softer. Resigned, maybe. But gentle.
“Sorry,” he said, and his voice was warmer now, even if there was something sad underneath it. “Just… worried about you. That’s all.”
That wasn't all. You knew it wasn’t. But you were too tired and confused to push, and he was clearly trying to smooth over whatever moment had just happened.
“Finish your soup,” he said, and this time there was a hint of his usual teasing. “Can’t have you getting worse on my watch.”
The tension eased slightly, and you found yourself relaxing despite the confusion still swirling in your fever-fogged brain. You both finished eating in a more comfortable silence, and gradually the warmth between you began to return. Not quite the same as before—there was something bittersweet in the air now—but better than that awful coldness.
“I should get you back to bed,” he said finally, standing and offering his hand with a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You need rest.”
“I’m not that tired—”
“Liar. Your ears are drooping.”
You hadn’t even noticed, but he was right. Your traitorous ears were folded with fatigue, giving you away. “Maybe a little tired.”
“Come on.” Before you could stand yourself, he swept you up into his arms, carrying you like you weighed nothing. You should have been embarrassed, should have insisted you could walk. Instead, you let yourself curl into his chest, your face tucked against his neck, breathing in his scent.
His arms tightened around you almost imperceptibly, and you felt him press his face briefly into your hair, right between your ears. “Stubborn kitten,” he murmured, and there was so much fondness in his voice it made your chest ache. “Always trying to be strong even when you don’t have to be.”
“I can walk,” you protested weakly, but you made no move to leave his arms.
“I know you can.” He carried you down the hall with ease. “Doesn’t mean you should.”
He shouldered open your bedroom door and carried you to your bed, laying you down with a gentleness that seemed at odds with his size and strength. His hands lingered as he tucked the blankets around you, smoothing them down with unnecessary care.
“There,” he said softly, and when you looked up at him, his expression had gone tender again. Unguarded. Like whatever wall he’d put up earlier had crumbled. “Comfortable?”
You nodded, suddenly unable to speak around the lump in your throat. He was being so careful with you, so gentle, and you didn’t understand how he could look at you like that—like you were something precious—while accepting that he’d only ever be your friend.
His hand came up to brush against your cheek, his thumb tracing a feather-light path across your skin. “Your fever’s down,” he observed. “That’s good.”
“Sylus,” you whispered, not even sure what you wanted to say.
“Shh.” His hand moved to your hair, fingers carefully combing through the strands, mindful of your sensitive ears. “Just rest now. You can overthink everything later when you’re feeling better.”
A weak laugh escaped you. “You know me too well.”
“Yeah.” Something flickered in his eyes—fond and sad and resigned all at once. “I do.”
His hand continued its soothing path through your hair, and you felt your eyes growing heavy despite yourself. The fever, the emotional exhaustion, the warmth of his touch—it was all pulling you under.
“Stay?” The word slipped out before you could stop it.
You felt him hesitate, felt the war happening in him. Then the mattress dipped as he sat beside you, his back against your headboard, his hand never leaving your hair.
“Until you fall asleep,” he said quietly. “Then I need to clean up the kitchen.”
His hand found yours under the blankets, fingers intertwining, and that small point of contact felt more intimate than anything you’d ever experienced.
“Sylus?” you mumbled, already feeling sleep pulling at you.
“Yeah, kitten?”
You wanted to ask what had happened earlier. Wanted to ask why he’d looked so hurt, why calling him your best friend had felt like the wrong thing to say. Wanted to understand the resignation in his eyes.
But your thoughts were getting fuzzy, and the words wouldn’t come. So instead you just squeezed his hand weakly and whispered, “Thank you. For everything.”
His hand tightened around yours, and you felt him lean down, his lips pressing gently to your forehead in a kiss that felt like goodbye and forever all at once.
“Always,” he murmured against your skin. “I’ll always take care of you. That’s… that’s what I’m here for.”
There was something in his voice—something that sounded like acceptance of a role he didn’t want but would take anyway. Like he was making peace with being your friend when he wanted to be something more.
But you were too far gone to process it, sleep dragging you down into darkness.
The last thing you registered was his thumb tracing circles on the back of your hand, and his quiet voice, so soft you might have imagined it:
“Even if it’s all I ever get to be.”
✩₊˚ .⋆☾⋆ ⁺₊✧
You woke to sunlight streaming through your curtains and the realization that you felt significantly better. The fever had broken completely, the ache in your body reduced to a dull soreness, and your head was finally clear.
Clear enough to remember everything from yesterday.
The soup. The conversation in the kitchen. The way he’d tensed when you called him your best friend. The way he’d composed himself and been gentle with you anyway. The forehead kiss. The way he’d held your hand until you fell asleep.
That last thing he’d said—had you dreamed that? Even if it’s all I ever get to be.
Your heart raced as the memories solidified, as you tried to make sense of his reactions. Why had calling him your friend upset him? Unless…
Unless he wanted to be something more.
The thought made your breath catch, made hope flutter dangerously in your chest. But no—that couldn’t be right. He brought people home all the time. He’d never shown any sign of wanting you that way.
Except… except for the way he looked at you sometimes. The way he touched you. The careful way he took care of you. The hurt in his eyes when you called him your friend.
Even if it’s all I ever get to be.
✩₊˚ .⋆☾⋆ ⁺₊✧
You stood in the kitchen, phone clutched in your trembling hand, staring at the little red dot on your tracking app like it might disappear if you glared at it hard enough.
Ovulation tomorrow. Heat cycle begins in approximately 24 hours.
Your ears flattened against your head as dread pooled in your stomach. It wasn’t the heat itself that had your tail bristling with anxiety—you’d been through plenty of cycles before, knew how to manage them, stock up on supplies, lock yourself in your room with enough water and snacks to last the three or four days until it passed.
No, what made your hands shake was the shared calendar glowing on the tablet mounted to the kitchen wall.
You’d pulled it up with some vague idea of marking off the dates you’d need to yourself, maybe giving Sylus a heads up that you’d be unavailable for a few days. A courtesy, since you lived together. Nothing unusual about that.
Except when you’d opened the calendar, you’d seen it.
Sylus - Rut Cycle
Starting tomorrow. The exact same day as your heat.
“No,” you whispered to the empty kitchen, your tail puffing up in distress. “No, no, no, this can’t—”
But it was right there in his careful handwriting from when he’d logged it weeks ago. Wolf hybrids were meticulous about tracking their ruts, especially ones like Sylus who prided themselves on control. He would have marked it the moment he felt the pre-rut symptoms starting.
And it aligned perfectly—horrifically—with your heat.
Your claws extended involuntarily, pricking into your palms as you tried to steady your breathing. This was fine. This was… manageable. You’d just have to tell him. Simple. You’d walk to his room right now, knock on his door, and calmly explain that you’d both need to make arrangements. Maybe one of you could stay somewhere else for a few days. Maybe you could—
The thought of telling him made your stomach twist into knots.
Because how exactly were you supposed to have that conversation?
“Hey Sylus, funny story, but we’re both going into heat and rut tomorrow, so maybe one of us should leave because I absolutely cannot be around you while my body is screaming for a mate and you smell like everything I’ve ever wanted”?
You pressed your hands to your heated face, ears flat against your skull.
No. Absolutely not. You couldn’t tell him.
You glanced down the hallway toward his closed bedroom door. Light still seeped out from underneath—he was working late again, had mentioned something about a project deadline when you’d seen him briefly at dinner. He’d barely looked up from his laptop, too focused to notice the way your scent had already started changing, that pre-heat sweetness that cat hybrids gave off.
Or maybe he had noticed and was too polite to mention it.
Your tail lashed anxiously behind you as you looked back at the calendar, at those two overlapping markers that felt like a countdown to disaster.
The thing was, heats were already hard enough to deal with on their own. The fever, the desperate ache, the way your body craved touch and comfort and things you absolutely should not be thinking about. You’d spent every heat cycle since moving in with Sylus locked in your room, music turned up high, trying desperately not to think about the fact that he was just down the hall. Trying not to imagine what it would feel like if he—
No. You couldn’t go there.
But this? This was so much worse.
Because Sylus going through his rut at the same time meant the entire apartment would reek of alpha wolf pheromones. Dominant, possessive, claiming pheromones specifically designed to call to omegas and send compatible mates into a frenzy.
And you, going through heat, would be so sensitive to his scent you’d probably lose your mind.
Cat hybrids were already more susceptible to wolf pheromones than other species—something about the predator-prey dynamic made the biological response even stronger. You’d read about it once, in a textbook you’d immediately regretted opening. How prey hybrids in heat could become almost… fixated on nearby predator hybrids in rut. Especially ones they were already close to.
Especially ones they were already in love with.
“This is bad,” you muttered, setting your phone down on the counter with shaking hands. “This is really, really bad.”
You should tell him. You knew you should. This was important, something roommates needed to coordinate. He deserved to know so he could make his own arrangements, maybe stay at a friend’s place or book a hotel room for a few days.
Your fingers hovered over your phone, pulling up your messages with him.
We need to talk about something important
You typed it out, stared at it, then deleted it.
Hey, so about tomorrow…
Delete.
I just checked the calendar and I think we have a problem
Delete.
“God, why is this so hard?” you whispered, your tail wrapping around your waist in that self-protective gesture you’d been doing all day.
Because you knew why. Because telling him meant acknowledging it. Meant sitting across from him and discussing heats and ruts and biological needs while pretending you weren’t desperately in love with him. Meant watching his expression shutter with professionalism while he matter-of-factly discussed sleeping arrangements, like the thought of you in heat didn’t affect him at all.
And you weren’t sure you could handle that. Couldn’t handle seeing confirmation that while your body would be screaming for him specifically, he’d just be dealing with a rut—a biological inconvenience that any willing partner could help with. It wouldn’t mean anything to him.
Your ears swiveled toward his room at the sound of his chair scraping, footsteps moving around. Working, like he’d said. Oblivious to the crisis you were currently having in the kitchen.
Maybe… maybe you didn’t need to tell him.
The thought crept in treacherously, and you immediately felt guilty for even considering it. But—
But you’d handled heats before on your own. You had supplies, you knew the drill. You’d just lock yourself in your room, ride it out like always. Sure, it would be worse with him in rut down the hall, his scent probably seeping under your door and driving you absolutely insane, but you could handle it.
You were strong. You had self-control.
And telling him would just make everything awkward. Would create this ‘thing’ between you that you’d have to navigate afterward. He’d probably insist on leaving, on being a gentleman about it, and then you’d feel guilty for driving him out of his own home. Or worse, he’d stay and treat you with kid gloves for weeks afterward, carefully avoiding you like you were something fragile.
No. Better to just… not say anything.
You’d deal with your heat quietly, behind your locked bedroom door. He’d deal with his rut the way he always did—probably by calling one of his regular hookups, inviting them over to help him through it. The thought made your claws extend painfully, jealousy and hurt lancing through your chest, but that was fine. You were used to that pain.
At least this way, he’d never know. Never know that you’d spent three or four days in heat just down the hall, your body aching for him specifically while he was with someone else.
God, this was going to be torture.
Your phone buzzed with a text, and you nearly jumped out of your skin.
Sylus: You still up?
Your heart hammered as you stared at the message. He never texted when he was working unless—
Sylus: Thought I heard you in the kitchen. Everything okay?
Of course. Wolf hearing. He’d probably heard you muttering to yourself, heard the distress in your voice even through his closed door.
Your fingers trembled as you typed back:
You: Yeah, all good! Just getting some water. Don’t let me distract you from work ☺️
The emoji felt forced, but you needed him to think everything was normal.
Three dots appeared, then disappeared. Then it appeared again.
Sylus: Your scent just spiked with anxiety. What’s wrong?
You closed your eyes, cursing his too-perceptive wolf senses. Of course he could smell your emotional state from his room. Of course.
You: Nothing! Just remembered I have a deadline coming up for a writing assignment at work. Already stressing about it lol
You: Go back to work! I’m heading to bed soon anyway
Please believe it. Please just let it go.
Sylus: Okay. But if you need anything, I’m here. You know that.
Your chest constricted painfully.
You: I know. Thank you 💕
You stared at the heart emoji you’d added without thinking, then quickly locked your phone before you could spiral into analyzing whether that was too much.
Moving quickly, you erased your name from the calendar for the next four days, leaving the space blank. If Sylus looked—which he probably wouldn’t, too buried in work—he wouldn’t see anything unusual. Wouldn’t know.
Then you grabbed your phone and retreated to your room, closing the door firmly behind you and leaning against it.
Tomorrow. Heat started tomorrow.
And Sylus would be in rut.
In the same apartment.
Your tail lashed anxiously as you looked around your room, mentally cataloging what you’d need. Water bottles—you’d need to stock up. Snacks that didn’t require leaving your room. Maybe some ice packs for the fever. Definitely your noise-canceling headphones for when he inevitably brought someone home to help him through his rut, because you absolutely could not handle hearing that while you were in heat.
Your phone buzzed with another message:
Sylus: Get some sleep, kitten. And stop overthinking whatever’s got you stressed. It’ll be okay.
If only he knew.
You typed back a quick good night, then flopped onto your bed, staring at the ceiling as your mind raced.
Twenty-four hours. That’s all you had to prepare.
Twenty-four hours until you’d be locked in your room, burning with heat, while the man you loved was down the hall going through his rut.
You buried your face in your pillow, letting out a muffled sound of frustration.
This was going to be the longest four days of your life.
Your phone lit up one more time with a final text from Sylus:
Sylus: Sweet dreams.
You stared at those two words until they blurred, your heart aching.
“Yeah,” you whispered to your empty room, your tail curling protectively around yourself. “Sweet dreams.”
Like you’d be getting any sleep tonight.
Not when tomorrow would turn your apartment into your own personal hell, and Sylus would go through his rut without ever knowing what it was doing to you.
✩₊˚ .⋆☾⋆ ⁺₊✧
The next day, you left the apartment before dawn, slipping out while Sylus was still asleep. You couldn’t risk running into him, couldn’t trust yourself to act normal when you could already feel the first warning signs of your heat beginning to stir beneath your skin—a restless energy, a sensitivity that made your clothes feel too rough, a warmth that had nothing to do with the temperature.
You spent the early morning hours methodically gathering everything you’d need for the next few days. The essentials came first: your favorite comfort foods, drinks, and enough water to stock a small convenience store. You didn’t leave anything out, moving through your mental checklist with single-minded focus because focusing on the task kept you from thinking about what was coming, about who was waiting at home.
Your last stop was the one that made heat crawl up your neck despite the early hour. The sex shop on the corner of Fifth and Main was blessedly empty, and you kept your ears tucked low as you quickly selected another vibrator—a backup for when your other toys inevitably needed to recharge. The knowing look the clerk gave you made your tail bristle with embarrassment, but you forced yourself to maintain eye contact as you paid. You weren’t ashamed. You shouldn’t be ashamed.
Yes, you were a virgin cat hybrid, but that didn’t mean you were clueless about your own body, about what you enjoyed or needed. Just because you were inexperienced with partners didn’t mean you couldn’t indulge in your own sexuality, couldn’t take care of yourself during your heats. You’d learned years ago what worked, what helped ease the ache even if it never fully satisfied the way your instincts insisted a mate would.
A mate like—
No. You couldn’t think about that.
By the time you’d finished your errands, the sun had fully risen and you could feel your heat beginning in earnest. It started subtly—a slight fever warming your skin, a heightened awareness of every scent and sound around you, a restless ache low in your belly that you knew would only get worse. Your body was preparing, responding to the hormonal surge that came with ovulation, and you needed to get home. Needed to lock yourself away before it became obvious, before your scent grew too sweet and telling.
Home. You had to go home.
Home to Sylus.
The thought sent a spike of longing through you so intense it nearly stole your breath, and you had to grip your shopping bags tighter to ground yourself. This was exactly why you needed to get back, needed to barricade yourself in your room before your heat-addled brain did something catastrophic like seek him out.
But with each step closer to the apartment, anxiety bubbled up inside you, rising like a tide you couldn’t hold back. Your ears kept swiveling anxiously, your tail couldn’t stay still, and your hands trembled slightly as you climbed the stairs to your floor. What if he was there? What if he could already smell the change in you, the pre-heat sweetness that was undoubtedly growing stronger by the minute? What if he looked at you with pity, or worse—with clinical concern, like you were a problem to be managed?
Your key fumbled against the lock twice before you finally managed to open the door.
The apartment was silent.
Empty.
You stood in the doorway, bags clutched in your hands, ears perked and straining for any sound of movement. Nothing. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic from the street below.
Relief flooded through you first—thank god, you wouldn’t have to face him, wouldn’t have to pretend everything was normal while your body burned and your instincts screamed.
But then the relief curdled into something heavier, something that settled in your chest like a stone.
What if he’d left? What if he’d packed a bag and gone somewhere else to ride out his rut—a hotel, maybe, or a friend’s place? What if he’d called one of his regular partners, arranged to spend the next few days with them somewhere far away from you?
The thought made your claws extend involuntarily, jealousy and hurt lancing through you even though you had no right to either emotion. This was what you’d wanted, wasn’t it? For him to be gone, to not have to deal with him being in rut just down the hall?
Except now the apartment felt too empty, too quiet, and the thought of him wrapped around someone else, helping them through their heat while he worked through his rut, made you feel physically ill.
Your tail drooped as you carried your bags to your room, ears flat against your head. This was fine. This was better, actually. Easier.
It didn’t feel easier.
You kept your door open as you methodically unpacked everything, needing to finish before your heat progressed further. Comfort foods went on your nightstand within easy reach. Water bottles lined up on your desk. The new vibrator, still in its package, got tucked into your bedside drawer along with your other supplies—the ones you’d collected over the years, the ones that helped but never quite enough.
Your mini fridge, a recent purchase you’d justified as necessary for late-night writing sessions, was now packed with drinks and anything perishable. You’d thought of everything. You were prepared.
You were fine.
The heat was building steadily now, making your skin feel too tight, too sensitive. Your clothes were becoming unbearable—every seam and tag felt like it was scraping against your skin. You stripped down to just a thin pink tank top and sleep shorts, the least amount of fabric you could get away with, and finally collapsed onto your bed.
The sheets were cool against your feverish skin, and you pressed your face into your pillow with a shuddering breath. You could do this. You’d done it before. Just a few days and it would be over.
That’s when you heard it—the sound of the front door opening.
Your entire body went rigid, ears shooting up and swiveling toward the sound. Footsteps in the entryway, familiar and achingly known. Your bedroom door was still open—you’d been about to get up and lock it when—
His scent hit you like a physical blow.
Pine and earth and something darker, muskier, unmistakably wolf and unmistakably Sylus—but stronger now. Heavier. Richer. The scent seemed to fill the entire apartment, seeping into your room and wrapping around you like a living thing.
Rut. He was in rut.
And he was here.
Your heat-primed body responded instantly, devastatingly. The ache low in your belly intensified into something almost painful, your skin flushing hotter, and you felt your body start producing that telltale slickness that came with arousal. A soft, needy sound escaped your throat before you could stop it—somewhere between a whimper and a purr—and you immediately bit down on your pillow to muffle any further sounds.
No. No, no, no. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to be here.
You forced yourself to move despite how much your body protested, stumbling to your door on shaky legs. Your hands trembled as you reached for the handle, trying to be quiet, trying not to draw his attention to the fact that you were home.
But it was too late.
“Kitten?” His voice drifted down the hallway, rougher than usual, with that gravelly quality that rut brought to wolf hybrids. “That you?”
You froze, hand on your door handle, every muscle in your body locked up with tension. He could probably already smell you—your heat scent mixing with his rut pheromones in the air between you. There was no hiding it now.
“Y-yeah,” you managed, hating how breathless you sounded. “Just… just got back.”
Silence. Then footsteps, coming closer, and your heart launched into your throat.
“You okay? You sound—” He stopped, and you could pinpoint the exact moment he scented you properly, when the reality of the situation clicked into place. “…Fuck.”
The single word, rough and low and edged with something that might have been hunger, sent a shiver down your spine straight to your core.
You should close the door. Lock it. Put a barrier between you and the wolf hybrid in rut whose scent was making you dizzy with want.
Instead, you stood frozen, fingers gripping the door frame, as his footsteps brought him closer to your room.
This was bad.
This was so, so bad.
And some traitorous part of you—the part ruled by heat and instinct and years of suppressed longing—thought it might be exactly what you’d been waiting for.
You should close the door. Lock it. Put a barrier between you and the wolf hybrid in rut whose scent was making you dizzy with want.
Instead, you stood frozen, fingers gripping the door frame, as his footsteps brought him closer to your room.
And then he was there.
Sylus appeared in your doorway, and the sight of him nearly brought you to your knees.
His silver hair was disheveled like he’d been running his hands through it, his ruby eyes were darker than you’d ever seen them—pupils blown wide with heat. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, and you could see the tension in every line of his body, the way his muscles were coiled tight like he was physically restraining himself. His wolf ears were pinned back, and his tail was rigid behind him—signs of a predator barely holding onto control.
He looked wrecked. Devastating. Dangerous.
And he was staring at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
“You’re in heat,” he said, his voice even rougher than before, gravelly in a way that did absolutely nothing to help your situation. It wasn’t a question.
You nodded mutely, not trusting your voice, your fingers digging into the doorframe hard enough that your claws left small marks in the wood.
His eyes tracked the movement, then traveled over you—taking in your flushed skin, your thin clothing, the way you were trembling slightly. His nostrils flared, scenting you, and a low sound rumbled from his chest that went straight through you.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” There was something raw in his voice, almost hurt. “I would have—I could have made arrangements, I—” He stopped, his jaw clenching. “Fuck, kitten, I wouldn’t have come back here if I’d known. This is—”
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” you managed, your voice barely above a whisper. “I thought you’d left. Thought you’d go somewhere else for your rut.”
Something flashed across his expression—surprise, maybe, or confusion. “Why would I leave?”
*Because that’s what you always do,* you thought. *Because you’d rather be anywhere else than deal with this kind of intimacy with me.*
But you couldn’t say that. Couldn’t reveal how much you’d thought about it, how much the idea of him with someone else during his rut had shredded you.
“Sylus,” you breathed, and even you could hear the desperation creeping into your voice. “You need to go. Please. This is—it’s too much, I can’t—”
“I know.” He took a step back, and you saw how much it cost him, saw the way his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I know. I’m sorry. I’ll go to my room, I’ll stay there, I won’t—” His eyes squeezed shut briefly. “You won’t even know I’m here. I promise.”
But that was the problem, wasn’t it? You would know. Would feel him down the hall, would smell him, would lie in your bed aching and burning and knowing he was so close, knowing he was going through his rut alone just like you were suffering through your heat alone.
“You should leave,” you said, even though the words felt like they were being torn from your chest. “The apartment. You should go somewhere else. A hotel or—or call someone who could—” You couldn’t finish that sentence, couldn’t voice the image of him with someone else even though it was killing you.
His eyes snapped open, and there was something fierce in them now, something possessive that made your breath catch. “No.”
“Sylus—”
“I’m not leaving you alone during your heat,” he said, his voice dropping into something that was almost a growl. “And I’m sure as hell not calling anyone else. I don’t—” He cut himself off, shaking his head like he was trying to clear it. “Just… stay in your room. I’ll stay in mine. We can do this.”
Could you? Could you really survive the next few days knowing he was so close, knowing all you had to do was walk down the hall and—
No. You couldn’t think like that.
“Okay,” you whispered, your tail wrapping tight around your waist. “Okay.”
He stared at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then he took another step back, putting more distance between you, and you hated how much you wanted to close that distance, wanted to—
“Lock your door,” he said roughly. “Please. Because if you don’t, if I smell you like this all night, I won’t—” His voice cracked slightly. “I won’t be able to stay away. And you deserve better than—than me losing control because of biology.”
Your heart clenched. Even now, even in rut, he was trying to protect you. Trying to be good, to be respectful, to give you the choice.
If only he knew that you’d choose him. Would always choose him. That there was no one else you wanted, rut or no rut, heat or no heat.
But you just nodded, watched him retreat down the hallway to his room, heard his door close with a finality that echoed through the apartment.
And then you were alone.
You closed your door. Locked it like he’d asked. Then collapsed against it, sliding down to sit on the floor as your whole body trembled.
This was going to be impossible.
✩₊˚ .⋆☾⋆ ⁺₊✧
[Later that night]
You’d tried everything.
The vibrator helped for maybe ten minutes before the ache came roaring back twice as strong. The cold shower had been a mistake—your skin was too sensitive, every drop of water feeling like too much. You’d attempted to sleep but gave up after an hour of tossing and turning, your sheets soaked with sweat and twisted around your legs.
Nothing worked. Nothing helped.
Because your body knew what it wanted, and it wasn’t any of your usual coping mechanisms.
It wanted him.
Sylus. Just down the hall. Going through his rut while you burned through your heat, and the cruel irony of it was almost too much to bear.
You could smell him even through your locked door—his scent had permeated the entire apartment, rich and heavy and making your head spin. Could hear him too, your sensitive cat hearing picking up every sound from his room. The creak of his bed. His footsteps pacing. Once, a low groan that had sent heat flooding through you so intensely you’d nearly blacked out.
He was suffering too. You knew he was. And knowing that you were both suffering separately, alone, when you could be—
No. You couldn’t think like that.
But your heat-fogged brain wouldn’t let it go. Kept circling back to the same thoughts: *He’s right there. He needs help. You need help. This is biology. It doesn’t have to mean anything. You could help each other and then pretend it never happened and—*
Except it would mean something. To you, it would mean everything. And when it was over, when the heat and rut faded and reality came crashing back, you’d have to live with the fact that you’d had him once and would never have him again.
That might actually destroy you.
A sound from his room made your ears perk up—something between a growl and a groan, frustrated and pained. Then footsteps, heavy and deliberate.
You froze, every muscle in your body going tense as you heard his door open.
Footsteps in the hallway. Coming closer.
Your heart hammered against your ribs as you heard him stop outside your door. There was a long moment of silence, and you could picture him standing there, fist raised to knock, fighting with himself.
“Kitten.” His voice was wrecked, strained. “Are you… are you okay?”
The concern in his voice, even now, even when he was clearly barely holding it together, made your chest constrict painfully.
“I’m fine,” you lied, your voice coming out shakier than you’d intended.
“Liar.” A soft thump against your door—his forehead, maybe, or his fist. “I can hear you. Smell you. You’re not fine.”
You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your hands over your face. “Neither are you.”
A rough laugh, completely devoid of humor. “No. I’m really not.”
Silence stretched between you, heavy with everything unsaid. You were both on opposite sides of the same door, suffering, wanting, unable to cross that final barrier.
“I should have left,” he said finally, quietly. “Should have gone to a hotel like you said. This is… fuck, this is torture.”
“Why didn’t you?” The question slipped out before you could stop it. “Why did you stay?”
Another long silence. Then: “Because I couldn’t. Couldn’t stand the thought of you here alone, in heat, vulnerable. What if something happened? What if you needed something and I wasn’t here?” His voice dropped even lower. “And I… I couldn’t go to anyone else. Not when—”
He stopped abruptly, like he’d caught himself about to say too much.
“Not when what?” Your hand was on the door handle now, trembling.
“Nothing. Forget it. I should—I should go back to my room.”
But he didn’t move. You could feel him there, could sense his presence on the other side of the door like a physical thing.
Your heat-addled brain was screaming at you to open the door. Your heart was screaming something else entirely—something that sounded dangerously like tell him tell him tell him.
“Sylus.” Your voice cracked on his name. “I can’t… I can’t do this anymore.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’ll go—”
“No.” Your hand turned the lock before you could second-guess yourself. “That’s not what I mean.”
The door swung open, and suddenly there he was, so close you could see the war happening behind his eyes. His rut pheromones washed over you in full force now, unfiltered by the door, and it took every ounce of self-control not to simply throw yourself at him.
He looked as wrecked as you felt—hair a mess, skin flushed, eyes wild and desperate. His chest was bare, just sleep pants slung low on his hips, and you could see how tense every muscle was, how hard he was fighting his instincts.
“Kitten,” he breathed, and it sounded like a warning and a plea all at once. “Don’t. Please. If you… if you’re too close, I won’t be able to—”
“I’m in love with you.”
The words tumbled out in a rush, propelled by heat and desperation and years of keeping them locked inside. And once they started, you couldn’t stop them.
“I’ve been in love with you for years. Since the library. Since that first day when you saved me and smiled at me and made me feel safe for the first time in my life.” Your voice was shaking, tears already gathering in your eyes because this was it, you were ruining everything, but you couldn’t stop. “And I know—I know you don’t feel the same way. I know I’m not—I’m not what you want. Not experienced enough, not confident enough, just… not enough.”
The tears spilled over, tracking hot down your cheeks, and you saw his expression crack, saw something like anguish flash across his face.
“Every time you brought someone home, it killed me,” you continued, your voice breaking. “Every time I heard you with someone else, I wanted to die because it wasn’t me. It was never me. And I tried—I tried so hard not to feel this way, tried to be happy just being your friend, but I can’t anymore. I can’t keep pretending that this doesn’t hurt, that watching you with other people doesn’t destroy me.”
You were full-on crying now, your shoulders shaking with sobs, your ears flat against your head. “And I know this is the worst possible time to tell you this. I know it’s just the heat talking and you probably think I’m pathetic and I’ve ruined everything, but I couldn’t—I can’t keep lying. Not when you’re right here and I want you so badly it physically hurts and I know I can’t have you because I’m not—I’m not—”
“Stop.”
His hands were on your face suddenly, cupping your jaw, tilting your head up to meet his eyes. And what you saw there stole your breath—not pity, not discomfort, but something raw and desperate and achingly tender.
“Stop saying you’re not enough,” he said, his voice fierce despite how gentle his touch was. “Stop saying I don’t want you. You have no idea—” His thumb brushed away your tears, and his own eyes looked suspiciously bright. “God, kitten, you have no idea how wrong you are.”
Your breath hitched, your heart stuttering in your chest. “What?”
“Those people I brought home? I was trying to forget you.” His voice cracked slightly, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. “Trying to convince myself that if I just found the right person, if I just tried hard enough, these feelings would go away. That I could stop wanting my best friend, stop dreaming about someone who deserved so much better than me.”
“Sylus—” you whispered, but he shook his head.
“You think you’re not experienced enough? Not confident enough? Kitten, you’re everything.” His hands trembled slightly against your face. “You’re brilliant and kind and so fucking beautiful it hurts to look at you sometimes. And every time you smiled at someone else, every time I thought about you finding someone who could give you the relationship you deserved, someone who wasn’t fucked up and broken and—” He stopped, taking a shuddering breath. “I’ve been in love with you since that day in the library too. Maybe before. And I thought—I thought I was protecting you by staying away. Thought you’d be better off with someone who wasn’t a wolf hybrid with too much baggage and a rut that made him dangerous.”
“You’re not dangerous,” you said fiercely, your own hands coming up to grip his wrists. “Not to me. Never to me.”
“I wanted to be good enough for you,” he continued, like he needed to get all of it out. “Wanted to be the kind of person who deserved someone like you. But I’m not. I’m selfish and possessive and the thought of anyone else touching you makes me want to—” He cut himself off, his jaw clenching. “And now you’re here, in heat, telling me you love me, and I can barely think straight because all I want is to—”
He didn’t finish the sentence, but he didn’t need to. You could see it in his eyes, feel it in the way his hands tightened on your face.
“Then do it,” you whispered. “Please. I don’t want to spend another second pretending. I don’t want perfection or whatever impossible standard you’ve set for yourself. I just want you. Just this. Just us.”
For one breathless moment, he just stared at you, his eyes searching yours like he was looking for any sign of doubt, any hint that you didn’t mean it. His thumbs continued their gentle path across your cheeks, wiping away the tears that wouldn’t stop falling.
“You’re crying,” he said softly, and there was so much tenderness in his voice it made your chest ache. Even now, even when you could see how much he wanted this, wanted you, he was being careful. Being gentle. “Kitten, you’re shaking.”
“Because I’m scared,” you admitted, your voice breaking on the words. “I’m scared this is a dream. I’m scared I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone and this will have never happened and I’ll have to go back to pretending and I can’t—” A sob cut off your words, and you pressed your palms against his bare chest, feeling his heart thundering beneath your touch. “I can’t go back to before. Not now. Not after finally telling you.”
Something in his expression crumbled, and he pulled you closer, one hand sliding to the back of your neck while the other wrapped around your waist. “This isn’t a dream,” he murmured, his forehead pressing against yours again. “I’m here. I’m real. And I’m not going anywhere. Not anymore.”
“Promise?” It came out so small, so vulnerable, and you hated how desperate you sounded but you needed to hear it.
“I promise.” He tilted your face up, making sure you could see the truth in his eyes. “I’ve been an idiot. Been running from this, from you, because I was terrified. Terrified of not being good enough, of ruining our friendship, of you realizing you deserved better and leaving. But I’m done running.” His voice dropped to something fierce, possessive. “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine. And I’ve been yours since that day in the library when you looked up at me with those wide, scared eyes and I knew—I knew I’d do anything to keep you safe.”
Fresh tears spilled down your cheeks, but these felt different. Felt like relief, like release, like seven years of aching finally being soothed.
“I’m yours,” you whispered back, and saying it out loud felt like shedding a weight you’d been carrying forever. “I’ve always been yours.”
His pupils dilated at your words, and you felt the low rumble start in his chest again—that wolf sound that meant contentment, possessiveness, mine. “Say it again.”
“I’m yours,” you repeated, your hands sliding up his chest to wrap around his neck. “Only yours. I don’t want anyone else. I’ve never wanted anyone else.”
“Fuck,” he breathed, and you could see him visibly fighting for control, his whole body trembling with the effort. “You can’t—you can’t say things like that to me right now. Not when I’m in rut and you’re in heat and I’m barely holding on as it is.”
“Then don’t hold on,” you said, and you watched his eyes darken impossibly further. “I don’t want you to hold back. Not anymore. I want all of you, Sylus. Everything you’ve been keeping from me.”
“Kitten.” It came out strained, almost pained. “If we do this—if we cross this line—there’s no going back. You understand that? I won’t be able to pretend anymore. Won’t be able to watch you walk around this apartment and not touch you, not kiss you, not—” He cut himself off with a harsh breath. “Wolf hybrids, when we bond, when we claim someone as ours, it’s… it’s permanent. Especially during our ruts. The instinct to mark you, to make sure everyone knows you’re mine—”
“Good,” you interrupted, and his eyes snapped to yours in surprise. “I want that. Want everyone to know. Want you to stop bringing other people home because you’ll have me. Want to stop pretending we’re just friends when we both know it’s always been more than that.”
He made a sound that was half-groan, half-growl, and you felt it reverberate through your entire body where you were pressed against him. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“I do.” You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes fully, needing him to see how serious you were. “I know exactly what I’m asking for. I’m asking for you. All of you. Your rut, your instincts, your possessiveness—I want all of it. Because I love you. Not in spite of what you are, but because of it.”
Something shifted in his expression then—the last wall crumbling, the final thread of his control snapping. You saw the exact moment he stopped fighting himself, stopped fighting this, and surrendered to what you both wanted.
“Tell me one more time,” he demanded, his voice gone rough and commanding in a way that sent shivers down your spine. “Tell me you love me. That you want this. That you’re choosing me.”
“I love you,” you said, pouring every ounce of feeling into the words. “I want this. I want you. I’m choosing you, Sylus. Today, tomorrow, always. I’m yours, and I want you to be mine.”
“Always have been,” he said, and there was something that looked almost like wonder in his eyes. “God, kitten, I’ve been yours since the beginning. You just didn’t know it.”
Then something in him broke.
He surged forward, closing the distance between you, and kissed you like he was dying and you were oxygen, like he’d been drowning for seven years and you were his first breath of air.
It wasn’t gentle. Wasn’t careful or tentative or any of the things a first kiss probably should be. It was desperate and hungry and raw—years of suppressed longing, years of wanting and denying and pretending finally breaking free all at once. His lips crashed against yours with bruising intensity, claiming you, devouring you, and you gasped into his mouth at the sheer force of it, at the way it felt like everything you’d ever wanted and more.
Your hands flew up to tangle in his silver hair, fingers threading through the soft strands as you pulled him closer, closer, never close enough. You felt his wolf ears flatten slightly under your touch—sensitive and responsive—and the small reaction made heat pool low in your belly.
He groaned against your lips, the sound vibrating through your entire body and straight to your core, and his hands slid from your tear-stained face to your waist, gripping you with a possessiveness that made you whimper. Then he was pulling you flush against him, eliminating every inch of space between your bodies, and the full-body contact made your knees weak.
His bare chest pressed against your thin tank top—you could feel every defined plane of muscle, every rapid beat of his heart, the overwhelming heat of him seeping through the fabric and into your skin. His scent enveloped you completely, that pine and earth and pure wolf musk intensified by his rut, and it was so much stronger now, so overwhelming that all you could breathe was him, all you could feel was him.
Your heat-primed body responded instantly, desperately. Slickness pooled between your thighs, your skin flushed hotter, and a needy sound escaped your throat—somewhere between a whimper and a purr—that made him growl in response.
“Fuck,” he gasped, breaking the kiss only to trail his lips along your jaw with open-mouthed kisses that made you shudder. His tongue traced the line of your jaw before his teeth scraped gently against your skin—not quite biting, but the promise of it—and you moaned. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this. Wanted you.”
He moved lower, finding the sensitive spot just below your ear, and when his lips closed over it, sucking gently, your claws extended involuntarily, pricking through his hair to his scalp. The small sting only seemed to encourage him, another growl rumbling from his chest.
“Same,” you managed breathlessly, tilting your head back to give him better access, your body arching into his of its own accord. Your tail wrapped around his leg possessively, and you felt his own tail brush against your hip. “God, Sylus, I’ve wanted you for so long—”
His mouth moved to your throat, lips and teeth and tongue tracing patterns that made you tremble, and you could feel him breathing you in, scenting you. “You smell so fucking good,” he murmured against your skin, his voice gone rough and gravelly with rut. “Always smell good, but now—fuck, kitten, you’re in heat and you smell like mine and I can’t—”
He kissed you again, swallowing whatever you were about to say, and this time it was somehow even more intense. Slower, deeper, but no less desperate. His tongue swept into your mouth and you met him eagerly, tasting him—something dark and rich and addictive—learning the shape of him, the texture, the way he kissed like he was trying to consume you whole.
You kissed him back just as fiercely, seven years of yearning finally finding an outlet, and when your tongue slid against his, when you sucked gently on his bottom lip, the sound he made was absolutely sinful.
Your back hit the doorframe suddenly and he pressed against you, caging you in with his larger body, and the feeling of being surrounded by him—his scent, his warmth, his overwhelming presence—made you dizzy with want. Made your heat-addled brain short-circuit with how right it felt to be trapped between him and the wall, how safe and claimed and desired you felt.
His hands roamed your sides with a reverence that contradicted the hunger in his kiss, sliding under the hem of your tank top to finally, finally touch bare skin. His palms were rough and warm, and everywhere he touched felt like it was on fire, nerve endings lighting up in his wake. He traced the curve of your waist, your ribs, his thumbs brushing just below your breasts—teasing, testing—and you arched into his touch with a whimper.
“So soft,” he murmured against your lips, his hands continuing their exploration, mapping your body like he was memorizing every curve, every dip. “So fucking perfect. Been dreaming about touching you like this. About what you’d feel like.”
His words made you bold. Your own hands left his hair to explore, sliding down his neck, over his shoulders, feeling the powerful muscles bunch and flex under your touch. Down his chest, your fingers tracing the defined lines of his abs, feeling them tense as you touched him. His skin was fever-hot, and you could feel his heart pounding beneath your palms.
“Tell me to stop,” he breathed against your lips, even as his hands continued their exploration, even as he ground his hips against yours and you felt exactly how much he wanted you. The hard length of him pressed against your stomach made you gasp, made more slickness flood between your thighs. “Tell me this is just the heat, just the rut, and I’ll—I’ll go back to my room, I’ll—”
“Don’t you dare,” you said fiercely, fisting your hands in his hair and pulling him back down to you, crushing your lips against his with all the desperation you felt. “Don’t you dare stop. This isn’t just heat. This isn’t just biology. This is me choosing you. Choosing this.” You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, to make sure he understood. “I love you, Sylus. Heat or no heat, rut or no rut, I love you. I’ve loved you for seven years and I’ll love you for seven more and an eternity more after that.”
His eyes blazed with something that looked almost like reverence, like worship, and his hands came up to cup your face with a tenderness that made your chest ache. “I love you too,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “So fucking much. For so long.” His thumb brushed across your cheekbone, catching a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. “You’re everything, kitten. Everything I’ve ever wanted. Everything I thought I’d never deserve.”
“You deserve this,” you whispered fiercely. “You deserve to be loved. You deserve me just as much as I deserve you.”
Something in his expression cracked, and when he kissed you again, there was a tenderness beneath the hunger that made your heart feel like it might burst. He kissed you like you were precious, like you were his, like he was trying to pour seven years of love into this one moment.
You kissed him back with everything you had, your hands sliding up to cup the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in the hair there, one hand reaching up to gently scratch behind his wolf ear. He shuddered against you, a whine escaping his throat, and you felt a surge of feminine power at the reaction.
“Sensitive,” you murmured against his lips, and did it again, your fingers gently stroking his ear.
“Fuck—” His hips jerked against yours involuntarily, and his grip on you tightened. “You’re going to kill me.”
“Good,” you breathed, and then you were kissing again, lost in each other, in the taste and feel and scent of finally, finally having what you’d both wanted for so long.
His hands slid down your back, over your hips, and then he was gripping your thighs and lifting you effortlessly. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively, gasping at the new position, at the way his cock pressed against you even more intimately. Your covered pussy, already aching and soaked, pressing against him. Your tail wrapped around his waist too, clinging to him, and his own tail curved around to brush against your leg.
“Bedroom,” he growled against your mouth. “Need—fuck, kitten, I need you so bad. I can’t hold back anymore.”
“Yes,” you gasped, and then he was carrying you, his lips never leaving yours, stumbling slightly as he navigated down the hallway, too consumed with kissing you to pay proper attention to where he was going.
He shouldered open his bedroom door—not yours, his—and the significance wasn’t lost on you. His space. His scent everywhere. His den.
He laid you on his bed with a gentleness that contradicted the hunger in his eyes, following you down, covering your body with his. The weight of him, the heat, the feeling of being surrounded and covered and claimed made you moan, your back arching up into him.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to look at you—sprawled on his bed, your hair a mess, your lips swollen from his kisses, your chest heaving with rapid breaths. His eyes tracked over every inch of you like he was memorizing the sight. “So fucking beautiful. And mine. Finally mine.”
“Yours,” you agreed breathlessly, reaching up to pull him back down to you. “Always yours. Just like you’re mine.”
“Always have been,” he said, and then he was kissing you again, and you were kissing him back, and nothing else mattered except this—
Finally, finally having what you’d both been denying yourselves for years.
Finally coming home.
He kissed you with a heat that stole every breath from your lungs, his lips devouring yours with desperate need, raw passion, and something deeper—a promise of exactly what was to come, of how thoroughly he was about to claim you, mark you, make you his in every way that mattered.
The soft whine that escaped your throat—high and breathy and so distinctly cat-like—only spurred Sylus on further, feeding a fire in him that had been burning for seven years. That sound was addictive, intoxicating, the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard fall from your lips, and it made every wolf instinct in him roar with possessive satisfaction. Your arms wrapped tightly around his neck, desperate and needy, pulling him closer like you couldn’t bear even an inch of space between you. Your hips shifted instinctively against his, seeking friction, seeking relief from the heat burning through you, and the moment your body pressed firmly into his groin—where you could feel exactly how hard and massive he was, how much he wanted you—a low, rough groan rumbled from deep in his chest, vibrating against your lips and making you shudder.
He pulled back slightly, lips parted and swollen, his pupils blown so wide his red eyes looked almost black. He looked like he was about to say something important—but you immediately chased his mouth, a needy mewl escaping you, your cat hybrid instincts refusing to let him go, refusing to lose that connection for even a second. His breath hitched sharply at your eagerness, at your complete inability to let him leave, and with a soft curse muttered against your skin, he brought his large hands up to cradle your face tenderly, his thumbs stroking your flushed cheeks.
He tried once, maybe twice, to pull away again—clearly intent on speaking, on saying whatever thought had crossed his lust-fogged mind—but every single time he attempted it, he melted right back into you helplessly, like his lips weren’t meant to be anywhere else but claiming yours. Like the rut coursing through him wouldn’t allow him to stop touching you, tasting you, consuming you.
Eventually, he tore himself away with several lingering, reluctant kisses, finally managing to draw a full breath. His lips were thoroughly swollen, slick and glistening with your shared saliva, and his gaze—dark, glazed over completely with rut-driven desire—held yours like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality. You stared back at him, your chest rising and falling rapidly in perfect sync with his, both of you breathless and utterly consumed by each other. Your pupils were dilated too, your heat making you hypersensitive to every touch, every scent, every minute shift of his body against yours.
As your lips parted for another shaky inhale, you tasted nothing but him—the intoxicating pine and musk scent of him invading your senses, the overwhelming feel of his body covering yours, the scorching heat radiating between you. And then, just as you began to steady yourself slightly, his tongue slid across your bottom lip, teasing, tasting, demanding entry with a dominance that made your toes curl. Your breath caught sharply in your throat before escaping in a needy, completely uninhibited mewl as his tongue slid against yours—hot, slick, utterly possessive. The kiss deepened until it felt like he was tasting your very soul, claiming every part of you, and you surrendered to it completely.
You had absolutely no doubt—he was the best kisser you’d ever known, the best you’d ever have. Every single kiss from him was sensual, passionate, and absolutely drenched in love and longing and raw, primal need. He didn’t just kiss you—he devoured you, worshipped you, made you feel like you were the center of his entire universe. Like you were the only thing that mattered in this moment, in this life.
“Fuck, I need you so bad, kitten,” he groaned roughly against your mouth, his voice gone gravelly and deep with rut, the sound so raw and desperate it sent a violent shudder tearing through your entire body. The sensation pulsed hot and insistent between your thighs, and you knew—without any question—that your panties were completely ruined. You were soaked, throbbing, absolutely undone by him. The slickness from your heat was making a mess, and you could tell by the way his nostrils flared that he could smell it, that he knew exactly what he was doing to you.
“M-more… please, please,” you whimpered pathetically, clinging to him like you’d physically fall apart without his touch to hold you together. Your claws pricked into his shoulders, and your tail wrapped tighter around his waist, trying to pull him impossibly closer.
His nose traced along your jaw, down to your throat, and you felt him inhale deeply against your skin, breathing you in like you were oxygen and he’d been suffocating. “Fuck, your scent,” he growled, the words vibrating against your throat as he wrapped himself around you completely, his larger body pressing you into the mattress. “Smells so fucking good. So sweet. So ready.”
You shuddered violently as his teeth grazed your neck—not quite biting yet, but the promise of it made liquid heat pool in your core. His wolf instincts were showing now, the rut making him more aggressive, more possessive, and every prey instinct in you should have been screaming danger. Instead, you tilted your head back, baring your throat to him in complete submission, in complete trust.
“Can smell you,” he continued, his voice rough and strained like he was barely holding onto control. “Can smell how wet you are for me. How ready your body is. Your heat—” He groaned, pressing the hard, thick length between his hips against you, grinding into your core through too many layers of clothing. “You’re ready for breeding. Ready for me to claim you. Ready for my pups.”
You moaned and whimpered at his words, your body arched up into his, as more slickness flooded between your thighs because yes, yes, that’s exactly what your heat-drunk mind wanted.
“I can smell it,” he continued, his hips grinding against yours in a rhythm that had you gasping, that had you trying to spread your legs wider even with your little sleeping shorts still on. “It’s so strong. So fucking intoxicating. And believe me when I say it’s all I can think about whenever you’re close like this—have been thinking about it for years. The rut just makes it a billion times more pronounced, makes it harder to hold back, makes every instinct in me scream to mount you, to breed you, to fill you up until you’re dripping with me.”
“Sylus,” you whimpered, and you weren’t even sure what you were asking for. Everything. Anything. More.
His teeth scraped against your throat again, harder this time, and you felt your cat hybrid instincts war between the urge to submit and the urge to bite back, to mark him just as thoroughly as he was about to mark you.
“Tell me you want this,” he demanded, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes, his own blazing with barely controlled hunger. “Tell me you want me to claim you. Make you mine. Because once I start, kitten, I’m not going to be able to stop. The rut—” His voice broke slightly. “I’m going to want to bite you. Mark you. Knot you. Breed you. And I need to know that’s what you want too, that this isn’t just the heat talking.”
“It’s not just the heat,” you said fiercely, your hands coming up to frame his face, making him look at you, making him see the truth in your eyes. “I want all of it. Want you to claim me, mark me, make everyone know I’m yours. Want your bite on my throat. Want you to knot me. Want—” Your voice dropped to something almost shy despite the explicit nature of what you were saying. “Want you to breed me. Fill me up. Give me everything.”
The sound he made was inhuman—a growl and a groan and something desperate all mixed together. “Fuck, you can’t say things like that to me. Not when I’m already barely holding on.”
“Then don’t hold on,” you whispered, reaching up to scratch gently behind his wolf ear, knowing exactly how sensitive they were, knowing it would drive him crazy. “I don’t want you to hold back. Not anymore. I want all of you, Sylus. The wolf, the rut, the claiming—all of it. Because I love all of you, my dear Alpha."
At your words, his control finally snapped.
Moments later his mouth claimed yours again, and this time there was no hesitation, no holding back. The kiss grew hotter, deeper, more consuming, each pass of your lips stoking the fire between you until it felt like you might combust. His hands moved down your body once more while yours slid to the back of his head, your fingers tangling desperately in his silver hair, careful of his sensitive wolf ears. When you gave a soft, experimental tug, he moaned into your mouth—a deep, rumbling sound that you felt in your chest—and his hips jerked against yours involuntarily.
One of his hands trailed slowly up your stomach, callused fingertips dragging against your overheated skin, while the other held firmly at your hip, gripping possessively, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. His touch made you weak, made heat pool between your thighs in waves, slickness soaking through your already-ruined panties as you kissed and touched each other with unrestrained hunger. Your tail thrashed against the bed, completely out of your control, betraying just how affected you were.
His fingers brushed delicately along the sides of your ribs, moving up and down in slow, reverent sweeps, his fingertips tracing every dip and curve as if memorizing your body, as if he’d been dreaming of this moment for years and wanted to savor every second.
“You’re so soft,” he whispered against your lips, his voice gone rough with want. “So fucking soft. Been wanting to touch you like this for so long.”
A moment later, his hands slipped away from your ribs only to settle at the hem of your tiny, flimsy tank top. His fingers played with the fabric, his knuckles brushing against the underside of your breasts and making you gasp.
“Can I undress you, little kitten?” His ruby eyes searched yours, dark with desire but still careful, still making sure you wanted this as much as he did.
You bit your lip and nodded frantically, unable to find your voice in that moment, too overwhelmed by need and heat and the feeling of his hands on you. Your ears were perked forward, focused entirely on him, and your pupils were so dilated your eyes looked almost black.
His smile deepened—predatory and loving all at once—as his hands slipped beneath your top for just a second, his palms hot against your skin, before he hooked his fingers into the fabric and slowly drew it upward. You raised your arms to help him remove it, whimpering slightly as the air brushed your newly exposed skin, your nipples pebbling instantly in the cool air and under his heated gaze.
Heat bloomed across your body under the way his eyes roamed over you, drinking in every detail like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. The way Sylus looked at you—eyes filled with nothing but love, awe, adoration, and raw, desperate hunger—made you feel so alive, so wanted, so utterly his.
You didn’t know what to do with your hands. They trembled helplessly at your sides, your claws extending and retracting nervously, and your core trembled just as much while he tossed the discarded clothing aside carelessly. His eyes never left you as he lowered his mouth to your collarbone, and his lips moved there with such affection, such reverence, that it sent a sweet shiver down your spine all the way to the tip of your tail.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered against your skin, letting his mouth wander over every inch of newly exposed flesh, pressing kisses like prayers. “So divine… ethereal. Perfect. Mine.”
Your bare chests pressed together, skin against skin, and the contact made you both groan. Every point of contact sets you ablaze—his fever-hot skin against yours, the solid muscle of his chest, the way you could feel his heart racing just as fast as yours. You stared up at him with wide, overwhelmed eyes as he continued kissing his way across your body, your ears twitching with every soft sound he made.
His large hands slid to the curve of your waist where it met your hips, gripping you firmly, his fingers spanning almost the entire width of your waist. He scattered damp kisses and gentle nips—careful not to break skin yet, but the promise was there—over your shoulders and down the path to your breasts. You whimpered softly when he traced the tip of his nose over the swell of your breast, breathing in your scent deeply, savoring the moment before his lips followed the same path.
“Smell so good here too,” he murmured against your skin. “Everywhere. Every inch of you smells like heaven. Like mine.”
He leaned down and pressed the softest, sweetest kiss to the side of your breast before lifting his gaze to yours, his ruby eyes molten with desire. “Are you okay?” he murmured, his voice strained with the effort of maintaining control. His forearms rested on either side of your body, caging you in gently, his larger frame completely covering yours. When you nodded, he brought one hand up to stroke your cheek, his thumb warm and tender against your flushed skin, careful of your sensitive whiskers. “Kitten… if we’re gonna go any further, I need you to talk to me. I need verbal communication. Think you can do that?”
You stared at him for a moment, breath catching, completely overwhelmed by the tenderness in his eyes despite the rut clearly driving him mad with need. Then you nodded again before catching yourself. He raised a brow and gave you that knowing look that sent warmth spreading through your chest.
“Sorry,” you whispered, your voice coming out breathier than intended. “Y-yes, Sy. Yes… I think I can do that.”
“Good girl,” he praised softly, and the words sent a spike of pleasure straight to your core. A gentle smile curved his lips even as his eyes blazed. “Good kitty.”
The purr that escaped your throat was completely involuntary, your cat hybrid instincts responding to the praise before you could stop them. His eyes darkened impossibly further at the sound, and you felt his cock twitch against your thigh.
“And if you want me to stop—” His mouth pressed back to your heated skin, trailing barely-there kisses down the valley between your breasts, his wolf ears tilted forward to catch every sound you made. Your eyes fluttered shut as your fingers twisted in the sheets, claws puncturing the fabric. “—you tell me right away. Okay?” he muttered, his voice raw and strained with want.
“Y-yes, Sylus… I understand,” you whimpered, another involuntary purr vibrating in your chest.
“Good.”
He breathed in through his nose, inhaling your scent deeply, and you shivered when he exhaled warm breath directly over your nipple. “Fuck, angel… you’re so beautiful. So perfect. Can’t believe I get to have you like this. Can’t believe you’re finally mine.”
Then he wrapped his lips around your nipple, teeth skimming lightly over the sensitive peak as he sucked and licked with slow, hungry passion. His tongue was hot and wet, circling and flicking in ways that made your back arch off the bed.
“Sy…” you mewled, the sound high and needy and so distinctly feline. Your hips lifted helplessly as your cunt sought any kind of friction, your tail thrashing against the sheets.
Sylus looked up at you, his mouth still wrapped around your nipple, and his eyes were absolutely wicked. Heat crawled up your skin under his gaze. He could see everything on your face—want, need, desperation—and he welcomed it, reveled in it. His lips returned to their work, long, slow, lavish licks from the flat of his tongue over your pebbled nipple while his other hand rose to squeeze your other breast, kneading gently, rolling your nipple between his fingers.
The dual sensation made you cry out, your hands flying to his hair, threading through the silver strands. When your fingers accidentally brushed his wolf ear, he groaned around your nipple, his hips grinding down against you involuntarily.
Impatient, trembling, desperate for more, you guided the hand on your breast downward—down your stomach, down to the heat between your thighs where you needed him most. His breath hitched sharply, his mouth releasing your nipple with a wet pop as he stared at you.
“Please,” you whimpered. “Need you to touch me. Need—”
Your words cut off in a loud, helpless moan as his fingers slipped beneath the band of your little sleeping shorts and down to where you needed him most. His mouth fell open with a loud, helpless groan right against your breast when his fingers met your soaked folds.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his fingers sliding through your slickness, exploring, teasing. “Fuck, kitten, you’re drenched. So wet for me. Is this all from your heat or—”
“You,” you gasped out as his fingers traced your pussy softly, learning every fold, every sensitive spot. “It’s you. Always you.”
He groaned again, the sound vibrating against your skin, and you felt his cock throb against your thigh, hard and hot even through his underwear. His fingers continued their exploration, one finger circling your entrance teasingly before sliding up to circle your clit with maddening lightness.
He worshipped you there for a moment—just his fingers teasing, learning every response, cataloging what made you gasp and what made you moan—before he suddenly pulled back. Completely away from you.
You whimpered at the loss, your hands reaching for him desperately, a distressed mewl escaping your throat that made his ears flatten apologetically. But he was already sitting up, watching through half-lidded eyes as he took his time removing the rest of his clothes. Every movement felt agonizingly slow—the flex of his muscles, the reveal of more pale skin, the thick trail of hair leading down from his navel.
When he finally pushed his underwear down, his cock sprang free, thick, massive, hard and flushed dark with need. Your eyes widened at the size of him, at the sheer girth and length, at the prominent veins running along his shaft, at the bead of precum already leaking from the tip. You felt another gush of slickness between your thighs, your body preparing itself instinctively, but your mind was suddenly racing with doubt.
He was big. Bigger than you’d imagined, and you were a virgin. How was that supposed to fit inside you? Your eyes traced down his length to where you could see the thick bulge at the base—his knot, still not fully swollen but already intimidating. The thought of taking all of that, of being stretched around him, knotted by him…
Panic fluttered in your chest even as arousal pooled hot and heavy in your belly. Your heat-addled brain was at war with itself—half of it screaming ‘want, need him, need to be filled, bred, knotted’ while the other half whispered anxiously ‘too big, won’t fit, it’s going to hurt—‘
You shut your eyes briefly, the conflicting emotions making you whine and mewl like the kitten you were. The sounds were desperate, needy—desperate to feel him again, desperate for his heat on your skin, desperate to be filled despite your fears. But underneath it all was that thread of nervousness, of uncertainty about whether your body could actually take what it was begging for.
When he was finally naked, you felt the bed dip as he moved back over you. He leaned down, his lips immediately finding your neck, licking and sucking softly, careful of where he’d eventually place his mating bite. His hands cupped your sensitive breasts and massaged them with tender, reverent fingers, his palms rough against your soft skin. Heat flooded your body as Sylus kissed down your shoulders, then your chest, his mouth leaving warm, fluttering trails that made your tail curl.
Your trembling hands slid into his silver hair, threading through the strands, gently scratching at the base of his ears in the way that made him shudder. He continued to kiss and taste every inch of exposed skin, his tongue occasionally flicking out to taste, to scent-mark, to claim.
Sylus’s lips moved slowly down your body, worshipping you with unhurried kisses, while his hands traced the lines of your shaking form—mapping every curve, every soft place, every breath you took beneath him. Lower and lower he went, until he was settled between your thighs, his broad shoulders forcing your legs wider.
He leaned forward, breathing in the heat of your core as he ran his nose slowly along the patch of dampness clinging to your shorts. You tugged at his hair when he inhaled your scent deeply, his eyes rolling back slightly, a rumbling groan emanating from his chest.
“Fuck, kitten,” he hummed, looking up at you with an intense, hungry gaze that was pure predator. His wolf instincts were fully on display now, and every instinct in you should have been screaming. Instead, you spread your legs wider in invitation. His hands left your skin to curl into the waistband of your tiny shorts. “You smell so good… so fucking ready. I can’t wait to taste you. Been dreaming about having my mouth on your pretty pussy for years.”
A shuddering breath slipped past your lips as you lifted your hips instinctively, silently begging him to take them off. He slid the fabric down your legs torturously slowly, and you watched his eyes track the string of slickness that connected your pussy to the soaked fabric before it broke.
“No panties,” he observed, his voice gone even rougher. “Were you expecting this, kitten? Or do you just walk around the apartment with nothing under these tiny shorts, driving me fucking insane?”
“I—I was too hot,” you stammered, your face heating up. “The heat, I couldn’t—”
“Shh, I know.” He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, soothing. “I’m not complaining. Fuck, I’m not complaining.”
Once he pushed your thighs open wider for him, you whimpered as the cool air kissed your wet slit, as you were completely exposed to his ravenous gaze. Sylus stilled for a moment, his eyes devouring the sight of you—your glistening center clenching around nothing as he watched your pussy pulse with need and so swollen, your slickness coating your inner thighs.
“Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Perfect. All mine.”
He licked his lips slowly, deliberately, before leaning down and placing lingering kisses along your inner thighs. His tongue dragged warm, teasing strokes over your soft skin, sucking gently, leaving marks, worshipping. His mouth was so close to where you needed him most, but each kiss felt like sweet torture, keeping him just out of reach.
“Please,” you whimpered, your tail lashing in frustration. “Sylus, please—”
“So pretty when you beg,” he murmured as he guided your legs up and over his shoulders, settling you perfectly beneath him, his hot breath ghosting over your aching core. “Again.”
“Please,” you repeated, more desperate this time. “Please touch me, taste me, anything—”
You were about to beg more—about to plead for him—when his lips left your thigh… only for him to nuzzle directly against your pussy a moment later. The contact made you cry out, your back arching off the bed. He smeared your slick across his lips with a groan of satisfaction, savoring your taste as he opened you with his tongue, dragging it flat from your entrance to your clit in one long, devastating lick.
“Fuck,” he groaned against you, the vibration making you whimper. “Taste even better than you smell. Could eat this sweet little pussy for hours. Might have to, just to prepare you for my cock.”
You gasped, your body arching as his wet tongue finally met your throbbing heat again, this time circling your clit with purpose. He licked and sucked with the dedication of a man starving, like your pleasure was the only thing that mattered in the world.
He pulled back again briefly, only long enough for his fingers to slide in and spread your outer lips for him, exposing your swollen clit and clenching entrance fully to his gaze. Sylus smirked as he eased a single finger inside you, watching your body react—the way your hips twitched, the way your walls fluttered and clenched around the intrusion, how greedily your wet hole swallowed his digit. You moaned into the pillow beside you, trying to muffle the desperate sounds, your ears flat against your head with overwhelming sensation.
Those little whines—soft, needy, helpless, so feline—only drove Sylus to chase more of those heavenly noises from your lips. His mouth returned to your clit, sucking the swollen bud between his lips while his finger worked inside you.
“Fuck… such a tight little pussy,” he moaned against you as your cunt clenched repeatedly around his finger. “So fucking tight. Virgin tight.” The word made you clench harder, and he groaned. “I’m going to have to prepare your tiny pussy for my cock, kitten. Have to stretch you out nice and slow so you can take me. So you can take my knot. So I can breed you all night long.”
Your whines grew louder at the mention of his knot and the thought of him breeding you, your heat-driven instincts screaming yes, need that, want to be knotted, bred, filled. The pleasure washed over you in waves as his finger curled inside you, finding that spot that made you see stars.
His fingers were so much bigger than yours—just one of his was more overwhelming, more delicious, reaching deeper than anything you’d ever done to yourself. And when he added a second finger, stretching you carefully while his tongue worked your clit, you thought you might die from how good it felt.
“That’s it,” he praised, his voice muffled against you. “Get used to being stretched. You’re doing so good for me. Such a good little kitty.”
The praise combined with the physical sensation made you purr loudly, your body going pliant and eager for him, desperate to please, desperate to be good for your alpha, your mate.
Your mate.
The realization should have overwhelmed you. Instead, it felt like coming home.
Your breath hitched as your body responded to him, your core fluttering and clenching around his fingers like it recognized him on instinct alone. A soft whimper slipped past your lips, tail curling against the sheets as your ears twitched, betraying just how sensitive you were to every careful movement he made. Sylus’s fingers moved slowly inside you, unhurried, reverent—like he was memorizing the way your body opened for him.
Without thinking, your hips began to sway into his touch, chasing the closeness, the intimacy of it. A low sound rumbled from his chest, warm and deep, his gaze softening even as it burned with want. He watched you like you were something precious—your trembling thighs, the way your hands fisted the sheets, the small, helpless movements of your tail when pleasure crept higher.
You panted softly as he added another finger, his touch patient, coaxing. He gave your body time, easing you open with gentle insistence until the stretch stopped being overwhelming and turned into something lush and intoxicating. Your whimpers grew quieter, needier, each one melting into the next as his fingers curled inside you with deliberate care.
When he kissed you, it wasn’t rushed. His lips lingered, tender and consuming all at once, as if he was afraid of leaving even for a second. Your claws threaded into his hair, tugging him closer, your body responding to him as naturally as breathing. His thumb brushed your clit, and the kiss deepened—slow, intimate, devastating.
You gasped when his tongue slipped into your mouth, kissing you with desperate devotion. “That feels good, doesn’t it, baby girl? You like it when I touch you like this?” Sylus groaned—right as his thumb found your clit. You bucked into him, nodding frantically.
“Use your words, kitten,” he teased darkly.
“Yes—please, Sy, please… feels so good,” you whimpered, voice breaking. “Please...”
He kissed his way down your body again, making you whine and beg in soft, breathless sounds—even as his fingers kept thrusting inside you.
Sylus inhaled your scent as soon as he settled between your thighs, but he didn’t keep you waiting. He wet his lips, then dipped his head to drag his tongue in a slow stripe from your dripping folds to your clit.
“Fuck, Sylus!” you shrieked, hips lifting off the mattress.
Senseless, needy noises poured from your throat. Your hips stuttered against him, and he simply sighed—like there was nothing in this world he wanted more than to eat you out right here, right now.
He savored you, his mouth moving with unhurried devotion, his fingers still inside you, grounding you even as pleasure began to blur the edges of everything else. His free hand rested on your hip—not to hold you down, but to keep you close, to remind you he was right there.
Your name spilled from his mouth like a promise, and his from yours like a prayer. Tears stung your eyes as the feeling built, overwhelming in the sweetest way. His tongue moved with quiet confidence, his fingers curling just right, drawing soft, needy sounds from deep in your chest.
“It’s okay,” he murmured when your body tensed, sensing it instantly. “I’ve got you. Breathe kitten.”
You buried your face into the pillow, nodding weakly, trusting him completely.
When he returned to you, slower this time, more intentional, the pleasure bloomed again—gentler but deeper. You sighed at the same moment he did—yours high and breathy, his deep and dreamy. He lapped at you with clear intention, fucking you with slow, careful strokes of his fingers this time, keeping you just where you needed to be. Your hands found his hair, holding him there as if you might float apart otherwise.
“Oh—my god,” you whimpered, trembling hands gripping his silver hair with one hand while the other clamped over your mouth to silence yourself. “F-Fuck… Sy, f-fuck…”
He moaned into your pussy, lips sealing around your clit. You jerked at the sensation. “Fucking hell— you taste so good. You feel so good. You’re everything,” he groaned against you.
“Fuck, baby—oh my fucking god,” you cried out. He sucked lazily on your clit while curling his fingers inside you, then sucked harder as he circled your little bud with his tongue. His fingers moved faster, deeper, hitting your sweet spot over and over. You moaned his name between breathless mewls, now gripping his hair with both hands. “Feels so good Alpha…”
Your whole body trembled violently, heat spreading everywhere, your hips grinding helplessly into his face and hand.
“A-Ah! I’m coming—please, please—”
“Cum for me, kitten,” he murmured before sucking your clit again.
Your body snapped tight as your orgasm tore through you. Your mind exploded into blinding stars, pleasure crashing through your nerves so sharply you cried out his name. You trembled uncontrollably as you came against his mouth, your soul unwinding in his hands.
“You’re doing so well for me, kitty,” he whispered proudly as his fingers slowed, sliding out to softly rub your swollen slit while he kept licking your clit—guiding you gently through every last wave.
You were a sputtering, helpless mess, trembling as he pushed you right to the edge of overstimulation. As your senses returned in shaky pieces, you felt his fingers slip away from your heat. Your pussy clenched around nothing, desperate and empty. You felt like a fevered storm, soaked from the waist down, dripping onto the sheets, whimpering helplessly.
You needed him. Badly. Your pussy pulsed insistently—begging to be filled again. Begging for his cock.
You rolled onto your stomach with a breathless, needy mewl, burying your face into his pillow as it still held his scent. Your tail curled tight against the sheets, flicking weakly as your body trembled with lingering sensation. Your ears twitched at every sound behind you. You kept your eyes closed when you felt his hands on you again—large, warm, unmistakably steady as he lifted your hips and spread your legs wider, guiding you with quiet certainty.
A soft, startled sound slipped from you when Sylus leaned in and pressed his face between your thighs. He inhaled deeply as he spread your cheeks apart—slow, deliberate—his wolf committing your scent to memory. The reaction was immediate. Your body shuddered, slick gathering between your folds as your arousal bloomed again, stronger this time, your scent thickening and turning sweet. The low sound he made in response vibrated through the mattress, deep and instinctive, and the bed shifted beneath the force of it.
Then his mouth was on you.
Messy, hungry, unrestrained—his tongue dragged over every inch of sensitive skin between your thighs, saliva warm and unashamed. His hands locked firmly on your hips, holding you tilted just right, keeping you open and offered. His focus narrowed completely to your heat, to the way wetness welled and spilled freely now, mixing with his saliva and trailing down to soak the sheets beneath you. Your clit throbbed desperately, aching as each flick of his tongue passed just beside it, teasing your frayed nerves.
The vibrations of his quiet growls traveled straight through you, doubling every sensation. When his tongue finally circled your clit, a loud, broken cry tore from your throat, ears flattening as your back arched off the bed. He licked a slow, possessive stripe up through your folds, teasingly dipping his tongue into your needy entrance—just enough to make you gasp—before gliding back up. His tongue spread you open with wet warmth as his lips closed around your clit, sucking with reverent hunger.
You nearly sobbed at the feeling. Your whole body trembled, overwhelmed and desperate, instincts screaming. You needed more—needed him. Without thinking, you tried to grind yourself against his mouth, chasing friction like a needy little thing, but his arms slid around your thighs. His biceps caged your hips in place, holding you still with effortless strength.
Not cruel. Not rushed. Controlled.
“Taste so good, kitten… could eat this pussy all day,” he growled against you.
The man you loved more than anything was between your legs, tongue gliding slowly up and down your soaked slit, savoring you like prey he had no intention of letting go of. Every soft mewl, every helpless sound you made only urged him on. His mouth returned to your clit, sucking gently but deliberately, lips warm and persistent as though he wanted you to feel every second of it.
When he leaned in deeper and slipped his tongue into your entrance, your breath caught sharply. He curled it upward, brushing your inner walls with careful precision. Your fingers bunched the sheets in a tight, trembling grip, claws threatening to tear through the fabric—and he felt it. He repeated the motion, slower, firmer, intent sharpening.
You were undone beneath him. A needy, whimpering mess, hips betraying you as they strained uselessly against his hold. Soft, breathless cries spilled from your lips as he licked upward again, pressing his tongue against that sensitive spot inside you. Your vision blurred. Your hips bucked hard against his mouth, thighs clamping around his head as another orgasm crept frighteningly close.
Greed and desperation overtook you. Your hips pushed against his face to force his tongue deeper into your aching cunt.
“Sylus…” you moaned, voice breaking, raw and needy. You were so close—aching, trembling.
You moved your hips against him helplessly, fucking yourself on his tongue as he pressed firmly into that sensitive spot inside you. His thumb circled your clit in slow, perfect circles that made stars dance behind your eyes.
“Be a good girl and come for me,” he murmured, voice low and commanding, devotion wrapped tight around the words—before plunging his tongue back inside you.
That was all it took.
Your body gave in with a shattered cry, pleasure ripping through you as your vision went white and your ears rang. Your movements turned sloppy and uncoordinated as you came against his mouth, hips stuttering through the final waves. He stayed with you through it all, tongue soothing, lapping gently until the overstimulation made you twitch and whine. Only then did he ease back.
“You did so well, princess… so good to me. So beautiful. And you taste so good. So sweet,” he murmured against your inner thigh, voice thick with praise.
You whimpered softly at his praise, still oversensitive and aching, your body trembling in small aftershocks from the force of your climax. Your tail twitched weakly against the sheets, ears flicking as if every sound and touch reached you twice as strongly now. Before you could fully gather yourself, Sylus shifted above you, moving up your back with slow intention. He pressed soft, lingering kisses along your spine, each one warm and grounding, then across your shoulders, and finally to the curve of your neck.
Your breath hitched with every kiss. Your whimpers and broken little moans never quite stopped as he spoiled you—touching you like you were precious, worshipping you with a devotion that made your chest ache. His presence was steady and sure, his body a solid warmth over yours, anchoring you as much as he aroused you.
“I love you so much, sweet girl,” Sylus murmured, voice low and sincere as he nuzzled into the crook of your neck. His nose brushed your skin, breathing you in like instinct demanded. “So responsive to me.”
The room felt heavy with anticipation, the air thick with scent—your arousal sweet and unmistakable, his deeper and warmer beneath it. You lay beneath him, every inch of you flushed and sensitive, nerves still singing from where he had touched you. His words settled deep inside you, soft and reverent, and you melted into the mattress, your usual hesitations crumbling under the weight of his affection.
“I love you too,” you breathed back, the confession barely louder than a whisper, as though saying it out loud might undo you.
His lips returned to your neck, open-mouthed kisses trailing along your skin in a slow, unhurried line. Each press lingered, deliberate, almost possessive without being rough. He moved from your neck to your shoulders, then along your jaw, his breath warm against your ear. You whimpered again, your body arching instinctively, hips pressing back against him without conscious thought. It felt natural—necessary—your feline instincts urging you closer, seeking friction, seeking him.
His skin was slick and hot against yours, his body radiating heat so intense it chased away the chill entirely. When you turned your head slightly to look at him, you caught the scent of yourself on his breath and lips, your arousal clinging to him. His eyes were dark and heavy-lidded as they met yours, pupils blown wide. Moments later, you felt the warm drip of his own arousal spill into the small dip of your back, making you shiver.
Sylus lined himself up slowly, carefully, and glided his cock through the slick cleft of your ass. Your breath caught as his tip dragged along your slit, spreading wetness everywhere. Your body trembled as precum leaked freely from him, smearing over your clit and folds, the sensation making your inner walls clench and flutter in response.
You squirmed helplessly beneath him, your body a writhing mess of need, tail curling tight as anticipation coiled low in your belly. Every slow roll of his hips made your breath hitch, made your muscles tense like you were bracing for something inevitable.
“Let’s move you around,” he murmured softly, hands sliding to your hips as he tried to guide you onto your back.
A needy mewl slipped from you before you could stop it, your body resisting the movement instinctively.
“Kitten?” he prompted gently, pausing.
You swallowed, voice trembling as the words spilled out. “Sy… I want you to take me from behind. Please. I need you to fuck me like this. I want my first time to be like this—with you. Please.”
A low growl rumbled from his chest, restrained but unmistakably wolfish. “That’s your heat talking,” he murmured, though his hands tightened slightly on your hips.
“Please,” you whimpered again, desperation bleeding through every word. “I can’t do this anymore. I need you. I need you so bad.” Your hips ground back against him, slick heat coating his length, the friction driving you nearly frantic. The tip of his cock brushed your entrance, teasing, while your clit throbbed with every small movement. Your mind felt hazy, overwhelmed by want.
“I don’t think your tiny virgin pussy can handle my cock,” he said quietly, voice husky, teasing—but there was hesitation there too. His grip tightened, steadying rather than forcing. “Especially not like this.”
You felt him breathing harder behind you, his control slipping inch by inch. His body was tense, like he was holding himself back with everything he had. You could feel the conflict in him—the way he wanted you, the way he was fighting to make this right.
“I can handle it,” you insisted, voice shaking but sincere. “Let me be your good kitten.”
Sylus stilled. His hand guided himself to your entrance, fingers firm and grounding as he rubbed the tip of his cock over your swollen clit. Your mind spiraled, the sensation overwhelming. Your breath broke into a soft cry, your back arching off the bed as sensation flooded you.
“Fuck, Sy, please,” you pleaded, your voice breaking. “I can’t do this anymore. I jus’ need you so bad. My pussy needs you. It needs to be filled with your cock and cum. Please, Daddy. Let me be your good kitten. Fill this little hole up, breed this pussy. My Alpha, please—”
Your words were a catalyst, sending Sylus over the edge. A deep growl tore from him as his hands gripped your hips, tilting them and spreading your legs wider. His rough, wide hands caressed your ass, his touch both gentle and commanding. He circled his tip around your entrance, the motion slow and deliberate, pulling desperate whines from your lips. You squirmed, your hips wiggling, trying to push back against him, but his hold was firm, his dominance undeniable.
“You’re so warm. Taste and smell so nice and ripe.” he murmured, breath ragged. “So ready for my cubs, kitten.”
You whimpered beneath him as his hips ground forward, his voice darker than you’d ever heard it, rough with instinct. The head of his cock brushed lower, grazing your entrance before he drew back slightly, watching the way your tight, little virgin pussy clenched, desperate and begging to be filled. His teeth clicked softly near your ear, sending goosebumps racing over your skin and making your hips jerk beneath his.
This time, when his tip pressed against your soaked centre, he hissed sharply. The instant his dewy tip pressed against your entrance, you mewled, your body tensing with anticipation. The fat head of his cock was a promise, a prelude to the fullness you craved. Your stomach seized, the wait torturous, your clit throbbing in time with your racing heart.
“Gonna take care of you, breed you so good.” He murmured, circling his hips again, the tip winding around your entrance, dipping between your folds. You lifted your hips instinctively to meet him, back arching under his chest as your body begged for what was coming.
“You look so beautiful like this,” he whispered, voice thick with longing. “Mine.”
“P-please, Daddy—” you croaked, the word tearing out of you in a thin, broken whisper. Your ears flattened instinctively as Sylus's heavy breathing filled the space behind you, each husky exhale brushing your skin and making your tail curl tight. His presence was overwhelming—solid and powerful, all wolfish heat and restrained hunger. His flushed cockhead pressed more firmly at your entrance, making it ache, while your clit pulsed painfully beneath him.
You trembled beneath him, every inch of you alive with need. Your tail curled tight against the sheets and then loosened again, betraying how restless you were. He covered you completely, his heat bleeding into you, chasing every last trace of cold from your skin until there was nothing left but warmth and want. You writhed softly, helplessly, yearning for him to fill you—yearning to be so full of him that the world blurred into white and there was only Sylus.
His nose brushed along the side of your neck for a brief second, an instinctive nuzzle that made your breath catch. Like he had to breathe you in, like he had to ground himself before he moved.
“Ah… such a pretty, tiny pussy,” he heaved, voice thick with desire and something darker beneath it—something wolfish and barely leashed. “Can’t wait to breed this tight little pussy all night long.”
The words went straight through you, a hot shiver tearing down your spine. You whimpered, and your body clenched around nothing, begging.
A broken gasp burst from your lips when he finally slipped the tip of his cock inside. It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t careless. It was slow and heavy, the kind of pressure that demanded your entire body’s attention. You felt him shift behind you, sitting up just enough to look down, his eyes locked on the place where your body tried to accommodate him.
“Ohhh—” the sound that left you wasn’t even fully a moan, more like something pulled from deep in your chest. Relief and ache tangled together as you relished the feeling of him, the pressure turning into bliss as the head of his length spread you open. It felt like he was parting you slowly, shaping you with patience, like he refused to hurt you even while his need raged.
Your walls stretched in a slow, aching attempt to wrap around him, but it was clear from the start it wouldn’t be easy. He was overwhelming—thick and wide even at the tip, the stretch made sharper by how desperate and worked-up you already were. A harsh hiss slipped through his teeth when he had to pull back slightly, easing you open with controlled restraint, cock throbbing inside your center in time with the fluttering convulsions of your walls.
A shaky whine spilled from you as he pushed forward again, the stretch searing through you. His veins dragged along your walls in a way that felt intimate and claiming, like he was molding you to him, pressing himself into every place your body could offer. Your claws flexed against the sheets, leaving faint marks in the fabric as you tried to steady yourself.
He went deeper. And deeper.
A long, fragile sound broke from your throat as you shuddered, overwhelmed by how much of him there was. He was so big. So impossibly thick. You felt split open around him in the most helpless way, your body trembling as it struggled and then clung, like your instincts didn’t know whether to fight or surrender.
“Sy, I can’t—” you mewled, voice cracking into a needy, feline sound that made his breath hitch. “S-so big… t-too b-big…”
He didn’t answer immediately.
His hands slid down to your ass, spreading you open carefully—just to see you, to understand exactly how your body was taking him. His gaze was intense, pupils blown wide, the wolf in him watching the way your dripping cunt fought to accept him. His jaw flexed, a quiet tremor of restraint rolling through him as if he was holding back everything he wanted to do.
“Poor kitty,” he sighed, voice rough with a mix of amusement and aching tenderness. “So tiny…” His thumb brushed your hip, a gentle stroke that softened the words. “My pretty kitten can barely take me.”
Slowly—carefully—he pushed just a little further, inch by inch, his pace controlled like he’d rather break himself than break you. His breath ghosted over your cheek as he leaned down, voice lowering into something intimate.
“You can take it,” he murmured. “You’re doing so, so good for me.” Another slow push. “Such a good little kitten.”
And then he kissed your cheek—soft and sweet, a tender mark of love right in the middle of all that heat.
“It’s so big,” you mewled again, hips stuttering helplessly beneath him. Your tail flicked once in frantic need, your ears flattening as your body tried to adjust around his size. “Ah… Daddy…”
His grip tightened slightly—not harsh, but firm enough to hold you steady, to keep you from slipping away from the pressure you were begging for. The wolf in him rumbled low, but the man you loved stayed careful, coaxing your body instead of forcing it.
“You can do it, kitty,” Sylus insisted, voice a low growl right by your ear, warm breath washing over your skin. “You’ll take daddy’s cock… like the good little kitten you are.”
The stretch burned, sharp and intense… but it was intoxicating, too. Your eyes fluttered shut, lips parting on helpless sounds as he worked himself deeper, your pussy fluttering around him in a desperate attempt to adjust. Your whimpers turned breathless and pathetic, sweet and needy, the kind of sounds that felt too honest to stop.
He paused again, just long enough for your walls to soften around him, just long enough for your body to stop resisting and start learning him.
“Such a good girl,” he breathed.
Your body clenched hard at the praise, slick gathering faster as if your cunt had decided to reward him for being gentle.
You took a deep, shaky breath—and when he pressed forward again, it was different. He slid inside far enough for the swelling near the base of his cock to begin spreading you wider, and your exhale shattered into a cry when you felt your core strain around his knot. Your thighs shook violently, claws scraping at the sheets as your body tried to process the fullness.
Sylus’ breathing came faster and hotter, panting against your back. You felt drops of sweat fall from his chin as he hovered over you, shaking with restraint. His hands stayed on your hips—steady, grounding—while the tip of his cock nudged deep, brushing that sensitive bundle of nerves inside you that made your vision blur.
“Alpha,” you mewled, voice trembling, small and desperate. “T-too big…”
A broken sound tore from him, animalistic and raw, like the wolf was slipping through the cracks of his control. He shuddered over you, hips trembling as he fought himself, jaw clenched so tight you could hear his teeth grind.
He held himself there—still, strained—breathing hard, like he was forcing patience into his bones.
Then his voice softened, roughened by devotion. “Look at me,” he whispered, breath hot against your ear. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
Your throat tightened painfully at the tenderness in it. It didn’t make the need smaller. It made it worse—because it reminded you this wasn’t just lust. This was Sylus. Your Sylus.
And then his restraint snapped, not into cruelty, but into aching surrender.
He thrust forward harder, hips snapping with a force that drove him all the way in. Filling you to the brim.
You cried out, body arching off the bed as the fullness stole your breath. Your toes curled, eyes squeezing shut, and your pussy convulsed around him like it couldn’t decide whether to clamp down or melt. You felt his precum mix with your slick, hot and deep, and tears spilled freely down your cheeks—overwhelmed by the stretch, the relief, the trust, the love tangled into it all.
For a moment, you were suspended in pure sensation—shaking, full, completely his.
You felt stretched perfectly around him, filled so deeply your entire body buzzed. And as your walls slowly softened, adjusting around his thickness, the overwhelming fullness began to bloom into something sweeter. Deeper.
You clenched around him without meaning to.
Sylus groaned low, the sound vibrating through your spine. His face tightened with restraint as he leaned over you, his hands sliding down your waist and then kneading your ass cheeks, touch possessive but gentle.
“Fuck,” he hissed, voice strained. “So fucking tight…” He dragged a shaky breath in. “You look so beautiful like this—taking me all the way… my good kitten.”
“Please… I need you,” you whimpered, voice breaking as your pussy pulsed around him, needy and greedy, refusing to let him go. Your tail curled tighter, trembling with every beat of your heart. “Please Sy…”
He pulled out slowly—so slowly it felt cruel. The empty ache hit you instantly, making you whine, your hips chasing him without permission. “Such a needy pussy,” Sylus groaned, and then he thrust back in again, hips snapping forward hard enough to make your whole body slump into the mattress.
The first thrusts were deliberate—strong enough to make your breasts bounce, deep enough to knock breath from your lungs. Each snap of his hips drew something new out of you: a breathless mewl, a whine, a broken plea you couldn’t hold back. Your ears flattened and your tail flicked in frantic rhythm, your body reacting like instinct had stolen every last ounce of pride. The sounds filled the room quickly—soft, frantic, embarrassingly sweet.
Sylus groaned, the wolf in him practically purring at the way you responded. But his hands stayed careful on you, holding you steady, guiding the pace so it didn’t steal too much from you too fast.
“That’s it,” he murmured, voice low and thick with approval as he pressed his mouth to the back of your shoulder, kissing you like he couldn’t help it. “Sing for me, kitten…”
And with every thrust that followed, you did—your body trembling, heart open, love and heat crashing together until there was nothing left in you but him.
“Ah—ah, fuck, daddy… oh my god—” you hiccuped, your voice breaking into breathless little sounds as Sylus moved his hips slowly but firmly behind you. Each thrust sent hot, lightning-sharp jolts through your body, pleasure blooming and spreading until it made your limbs feel weightless. Your pussy pulsed greedily around him, still struggling to adjust to his girth, but the stretch became more bearable with every careful push—turning from sharp overwhelm into something lush, intoxicating, almost addictive as your body began to surrender.
You didn’t just take him—you learned him. Like your instincts were wrapping around his, yielding not out of weakness, but because it was him. Because it was love. Because your body trusted him even when it trembled.
His pace quickened, hips snapping against yours with growing urgency, rough enough to make the bedframe rock beneath you. The slap of skin against skin echoed through the room, obscene and steady. Each deep thrust dragged a helpless sound from your throat as he drove into you again and again, filling you so thoroughly it stole your breath every single time. His palm slid down to your ass, spreading you open as he pushed in fully, claiming every inch with a possessive kind of care that made your chest tighten.
You cried out when your body clenched around him, instinctively welcoming him deeper, the pressure making your eyes squeeze shut as if you could feel him everywhere.
Your tail flicked erratically behind you, betraying how close you were to losing yourself. Your ears twitched at every low sound he made—every ragged breath, every restrained growl that vibrated through his chest and into your spine. He held you firmly in place, his cock stretching you open until it left you dizzy and breathless, your thighs trembling with the effort of keeping up. His hands tightened on your hips, guiding you back onto him with slow, deliberate thrusts—still controlled, still watching you, feeling you, reading every shiver as if your body spoke a language only he understood.
Even now, even like this, Sylus took his time in the moments that mattered, pausing just enough for you to breathe, to soften, to take him fully, his restraint trembling at the edge of snapping.
“That’s it,” he groaned, forehead pressing briefly to your back. “My good girl. My kitten.”
The praise hit you like a kiss to the soul. Your walls fluttered around him, greedy and tight, and you whimpered helplessly.
His voice softened just enough to make it ache. “All for me.”
He kept you pinned with one broad hand at your lower back, forcing your hips up while pressing your chest firmly into the mattress, holding you exactly where he wanted you. There was no escape from him—only sensation. You were a mess beneath his weight, tears sliding down your cheeks, drool collecting at the corner of your mouth, broken little mewls spilling freely as his rhythm became more demanding, more relentless… but never careless.
His breathing came faster and faster, hot pants washing over your back. Drops of sweat slid from his chin, landing warm against your skin. You could feel yourself burning just as hot, your entire body glowing with it—especially when his tip nudged deep, brushing that sensitive bundle of nerves inside you that made your vision blur.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he murmured, voice thick, almost wrecked, as he rolled his hips deeper into you—slow for one thrust, almost reverent… and then firm again.
“Y—yes,” you gasped, barely holding yourself together. “‘S too much—Sy—feels s’good,” you mewled, voice breaking as your hands clawed the sheets, nails catching and scraping. Your back arched instinctively, pushing you closer, begging without restraint. Your tail curled tight and then flicked again, like your body couldn’t decide whether it wanted to hide or be claimed harder.
He chuckled softly—low, intimate—before leaning down until his breath brushed your ear and his nose grazed your neck in something instinctive and wolfish, a brief nuzzle that made you shiver all over.
“Good,” he whispered. “Let it consume you, kitten.”
His pace quickened. Thrusts grew rougher, deeper—driven by something hungry and unyielding that made the wolf in him bleed through the cracks. The wet sounds of your body filled the room, obscene and overwhelming, every slick drag and blunt press pushing you closer to the edge. His grip tightened, grounding you, keeping you right where he wanted you, refusing to let you drift anywhere but into him.
“Sy—Sylus…” you mewled breathlessly, voice dissolving into something small and desperate. “Feels so good…”
His thrusts turned relentless—punishing in the best way, stealing your breath, pulling your sounds from your throat until they became high, helpless cries. Your body trembled, completely at his mercy, every nerve alight. Your pussy fluttered around him like it couldn’t stop reacting, clenching greedily every time he bottomed out.
“That’s it,” he murmured, and this time his voice was almost gentle, thick with approval and want, like he was trying to soothe you even as he ruined you. “Come for daddy.”
The coil then snapped violently. You came undone around him with a sob, your mewls breaking into a raw, desperate wail as pleasure tore through you. Your whole body convulsed, thighs shaking, walls clenching hard around his cock. Sylus cursed low—guttural, wrecked—slamming deep once, twice, before he held you there, buried fully inside you as he spilled hot, his grip ironclad on your hips.
For a moment, there was nothing but ragged breathing. Your body trembled beneath his, overstimulated and shaking apart, your tail going taut and then twitching weakly as you tried to recover.
His thumb traced slow, grounding lines up your spine—firm and reassuring, a gentle reminder that you were safe. That he had you.
“That’s my good girl,” Sylus murmured against your shoulder, voice possessive and warm. “My kitten sounded so beautiful when she came for me.”
Then, Sylus shifted back just enough to draw his knot from your entrance a fraction. The movement made you whine, your walls clenching instinctively as if to keep him there. You felt a warm, generous mouthful of saliva slip from his lips and coat your slick, swollen entrance—his breath shuddering as he watched it, as if the sight alone tightened his control into something thin and trembling. His next push slipped his thickness back into you with sinful ease, and when his hips finally pressed flush against yours, he collapsed over you again with a groan. One elbow sank into the pillow beside your head while the other held your hips tilted just right, keeping you offered as he emptied himself deep—so deep it felt like it kissed the very center of you.
“So tight,” he rasped, voice shaking. “So good… mine.”
“Daddy—ah!” you cried, breathing matching his as his knot throbbed inside your walls. The stretch bordered on uncomfortable, but your body still pulsed with pleasure, your clit throbbing between your thighs like a desperate plea for relief. Your nipples pressed hard against the bed beneath you, sensitivity spiking with every shallow breath.
It took him a minute—he stayed buried, panting, trembling, fighting to stay gentle even as his instincts urged him to claim you harder. But soon Sylus shifted again, cock and knot pushing and pulling inside you with slow insistence, and your breath caught sharply when the heavy grind pressed into your g-spot like mortar and pestle, crushing pleasure into you until you felt faint.
“F-fuck…” you choked, voice barely there.
You hadn’t even realized his knot had receded enough for him to move properly again until he drew back and pushed right back into you with a slick sound loud enough to make heat crawl up your cheeks. Your ears flicked in embarrassed sensitivity, tail twitching weakly as if the sound alone made you feel exposed.
His hand came up to cradle your head, fingers threading gently through your hair—soothing you, grounding you—while his cock pulsed deep inside you, still hard, still claiming. He pressed a kiss to your temple, slow and warm, as if he couldn’t help himself.
You barely had time to catch your breath before he moved again, hips snapping forward, driving into you with renewed force.
Soon the only sounds filling the room were the slap of his hips each time they met your ass, the wet squelch of him sinking deep, and the occasional broken crack of your mewls—soft, choked, sweet. Sylus’ growls threaded between them, low and vibrating, a wolf’s satisfaction wrapped in human restraint.
You whimpered helplessly, mind fogged, body trembling… but it wasn’t enough. Not when it was him. Not when you wanted to be claimed over and over again until the ache turned into something permanent, something that lived under your skin.
Every thrust, every sharp slap of his hips against your ass, sent sensation ricocheting through you. Your thighs shook, your body tightening around him as another coil started to form—unbidden and overwhelming. Your heat pooled low and heavy in your belly, thick and demanding, your clit throbbing with every drag of his cock against that aching place inside you.
You could barely breathe. Barely think.
Your entire world narrowed down to the weight of him pressed tight to your back, his hand in your hair, his warmth surrounding you like a shield. Even his scent—wild and comforting—wrapped around your senses until there was nothing left of you that wasn’t tuned to him.
And when his fingers slipped down to your clit again, rubbing rough, careless circles, the pleasure hit sharp and blinding. Your moans broke apart into desperate, choked sounds, your body trembling uncontrollably as another orgasm surged up without warning.
When it hit, it tore through you completely. Your body convulsed, a fresh wave spilling out as you cried out, overwhelmed, tears sliding down your cheeks. Your pussy clamped and fluttered, milking him greedily as if it couldn’t stop.
“Fuck,” Sylus groaned, his rhythm faltering as he felt you fall apart again beneath him—his breath breaking, his control slipping into a low, shaking sound that rumbled like a growl against the back of your neck.
And still, even as he wrecked you, his hand tightened gently in your hair—steadying, soothing—because no matter how wild the wolf became, he never stopped holding you like you were his heart.
You could barely think. Your whole body trembled beneath him, thighs quivering uncontrollably, head spinning from the dizzying mix of overstimulation and pleasure— from the way he had filled you so completely it felt like your body didn’t know what to do with the fullness. Your sounds came out wrecked and broken, reduced to breathless cries that cracked in your throat. Tears kept sliding down your cheeks, warm and helpless, as if your body couldn’t hold anything back anymore—not sensation, not emotion.
And then Sylus slid out of you completely. The sudden emptiness made you whimper instantly, your walls clenching around nothing, your tail giving a weak, frantic twitch against the sheets. Your legs trembled, trying to close on instinct, but there was nothing there to hold onto anymore—nothing except the aching need he had carved into you.
It didn’t last long. Sylus’ hands gripped your hips and he manhandled you gently, shifting you with that careful strength of his—wolfish power wrapped in devotion—as he flipped you onto your back. Your ears flicked, oversensitive to the sound of the sheets rustling, to the heavy way he breathed above you, to the low growl that lingered in his chest like he couldn’t bear the distance.
“I need to see you,” he groaned breathlessly, eyes dark and hungry as they locked onto yours. “Need to kiss you.”
His arms circled around your back and he claimed your mouth in a heated kiss that stole what little air you had left. It wasn’t just lust—it felt like he was trying to touch your soul, trying to say everything he didn’t have the courage to confess with words. His mouth moved against yours like he couldn’t get enough, like kissing you was the only thing that made him feel grounded. And just as fast as he had left you, he entered you again.
You gasped sharply into his mouth as he pushed back into your tight, soaked heat, the stretch blooming into something deep and dizzying. Your claws curled reflexively against his shoulders, holding onto him like you were afraid you’d float apart otherwise. He sank all the way inside with a slow, steady push, and the sound you made was halfway between a sob and a moan, your body instantly pulsing around him in greedy, helpless recognition.
Sylus shuddered, a low rumble vibrating through his chest as if the wolf in him had settled the moment he was back where he belonged.
Once he was fully inside again, he rolled his hips forward in one slow, deep stroke. You cried out, back arching off the bed as the motion dragged through you inch by inch, intimate and consuming. His thrusts stayed careful—controlled—slow enough that you felt every ridge and vein, every deep press that made your vision blur.
He didn’t pull out far. Only enough to rock inside you, gentle and achingly deep, as if he wanted the closeness more than anything. Like he didn’t want to be separated from you even for a second.
He kissed your lips again—then your cheek, your jaw, his nose brushing your skin in little, instinctive nuzzles that made your stomach twist. His breath was warm and damp, his scent thick around you—wolf, desire, and something softer beneath it that felt like home.
“You’re perfect,” he whispered against your mouth. “So warm… so tight… so good for me.”
Your ears flicked and your tail curled weakly as the praise sank into you, settling somewhere deep in your chest. You whimpered, eyes glossy as you stared up at him, your heart pounding too hard to feel real.
And he kept moving—slow, deep, worshipful—like he was savoring every second of being inside you. The angle was perfect. So deep, so consuming, that Sylus gradually picked up his pace, leaving you a breathless, whimpering mess beneath him. His strokes lengthened, hips rolling forward in long, languid thrusts that made the bed creak softly. The room filled with the wet, desperate sound of slick skin meeting slick skin again and again, every noise making your cheeks burn and your body clench tighter.
Every time he sank into you, his pelvic bone dragged against your throbbing clit, and you cried out his name in pure, helpless ecstasy—louder than you meant to, more needy than you could stop. “Sylus—!”
“You’re taking me so well, sweetheart,” he whispered, voice warm and adoring as he leaned down, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. His lips brushed your skin, his breath shuddering like he couldn’t stop himself from breathing you in. “Doing so… so good for me.”
Soft grunts fell from him whenever he hit that specific deep spot inside you, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment as pleasure tore through him. You whimpered when his mouth returned to yours, capturing your lips in a heated, dizzying kiss that made your head spin harder.
One of his hands slipped down between your bodies, finding your clit with practiced ease. He rubbed two slow, deliberate circles over your sensitive nub—testing, coaxing.
You jerked against him with a sharp gasp. Sylus’ eyes darkened even more, his breath hitching as he watched you react.
When he slid into a hidden pressure point deep in your core—paired with the relentless way his fingers circled your clit—you clenched around him like a vise. Your eyes rolled back as pleasure surged violently through you, overwhelming and new, almost frightening in how fast it built. Your whimpers climbed higher, turning into breathless, broken cries as he picked up his pace, fucking you deeper, the sound of his breathing growing ragged.
“I love you, kitten,” Sylus moaned, lips curling into a soft, tender smile as he watched your face contort—so overwhelmed, so beautifully undone just for him. The words sounded like truth, like devotion spilling out without permission. Filth and praise slipped from his mouth like honey, messy and reverent all at once. “This pussy was made for me.”
You shuddered, eyes stinging again, heart clenching painfully at how sweet and possessive it felt coming from him.
His mouth covered yours again, swallowing every little noise you made, smothering your trembling breaths. Your body trembled under him, tail flicking weakly as the tightness in your belly returned, coiling and pulling tighter with every thrust, every touch, every kiss he gave you.
Your whimpers and gasps grew louder as ecstasy flooded your senses. Sylus’ hands couldn’t get enough of you—sliding over your hips, your waist, your back—touching you like he wanted to memorize you, like he was terrified this wasn’t real. His palms lingered, his thumbs stroking soothing lines that contradicted the hungry way his hips drove into you.
You whimpered at the speed of his thrusts, feeling another orgasm build rapidly. Your legs locked around his hips, clinging to him, pulling him closer. Sylus felt it too—the way you squeezed around him with every stroke—so he drove harder into your heat, shifting his hips with careful precision, searching for the exact spot he knew would shatter you.
Your arms trembled as they wrapped around him, nails digging into his back. It earned a deep, helpless groan from him—half pleasure, half restraint snapping. The coil in your belly tightened, tingling down your legs, trembling on the edge of breaking.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, voice strained as though the words physically hurt him. He cursed softly when you tightened around him on purpose, your body greedily clenching as if to keep him trapped inside you forever.
“Please…” you moaned, mind hazy with want, eyes glossy as you looked up at him. Your ears flicked forward, your body practically pleading without even moving.
“You want to cum, sweetheart?” he asked, voice thick, tender, wrecked.
You nodded frantically, biting your lip as your body trembled beneath him. You bucked up instinctively, chasing him, nails sinking into his skin. His hand moved back to your clit, pressure firm and perfect, while his other hand found yours. He intertwined your fingers, squeezing once—an anchor—before pinning them gently to the bed like he didn’t want you to get lost in it.
He rubbed your clit with slow insistence, just enough to drag the pleasure higher and higher until you couldn’t breathe properly.
“Cum for me, kitten,” Sylus demanded softly, voice warm against your cheek, more devotion than command.
And when he nudged that one perfect spot inside you—paired with his deep voice and the way his eyes never left your face—you exploded. You shattered, coming undone so violently it ripped a cry of his name from your throat. Blood rushed in your ears, drowning out the sound of your own sobbing breaths. Sylus crashed his lips onto yours, swallowing every broken noise as if he didn’t want anyone else to hear them, as if he wanted them all for himself.
Your head fell back, back arching sharply, your tail going rigid for a second as your body twisted under the force of release. Pleasure rolled through you in heavy waves, leaving you trembling and helpless.
Sylus groaned into your ear as your walls spasmed around him, clenching desperately, begging—needing him to stay, to fill you, to never let you go.
“Fuck…” he moaned, pushing himself up as he thrust harder, deeper, the head of his cock hitting your spot repeatedly. His voice cracked with need. “I need to fill you up again, kitten.”
You were dazed, trembling, but you still nodded vigorously, whining as overstimulation mixed with want. Your pussy squeezed around him in greedy pulses, like it was answering him. “Please…”
His hips stuttered, thrusts turning sloppy as the pleasure overtook him, his control finally slipping through his fingers. Then—with a raw, broken moan—he spilled inside you again.
As he came, his mouth moved to the junction between your neck and shoulder. His canines sank into your skin in a marking bite, instinctive and claiming. His teeth stayed embedded for a moment, and somehow you barely felt pain—only a hot rush of oversensitivity and the dizzying intimacy of being chosen. Being kept.
A soft, shocked sound left you—half moan, half whine—as he held you through it, encouraging your hips to grind against him even as his knot kept you plugged, sealing him inside while he emptied against your cervix again.
You mewled at the sensation, warmth flooding your core and spreading thickly through your walls as he stayed buried deep. Your ears fluttered with every sound he made, and when your hearing finally cleared—when the blood rushing through your ears calmed—you could hear him.
Soft, happy growls. Content, satisfied noises that vibrated against your skin while his tongue soothed the indents of his teeth. His canines still nipped you now and then, more like affectionate little reminders than anything else, and you found yourself smiling through the haze, relaxing completely against him.
Sylus licked the sweat from your skin, nuzzling you happily, his nose brushing your cheek and temple like a wolf who couldn’t stop checking that you were still there—still his.
Everything stayed blurred and soft when you came back to yourself fully. Your body ached, but in the sweetest way—completely relaxed, thoroughly ruined, glowing with an exhaustion that felt like bliss. Your tail lay limp against the sheets now, finally still, and your ears only twitched faintly when Sylus shifted above you.
Once you’d both caught your breath, Sylus leaned his forehead against yours, eyes softening into blissful awe. He kissed you tenderly—slow and careful, like he was savoring the simple fact that he could.
“That was…” he breathed, smiling down at you like he couldn’t believe you were real—your hair tousled, skin flushed, lips swollen from his kisses. His thumb brushed gently under your eye, wiping away the last trace of tears.
“So good,” you rasped, voice hoarse and hazy with pleasure. “Perfect.” You cleared your throat softly, smiling up at him even as you still trembled.
Your skin was sweaty and sticky, but he didn’t care. He looked at you like you were beautiful in a way that hurt. You felt his knot soften slightly, his cock still half-hard inside you, and he pulled you closer, hands roaming lovingly over every inch of skin he could reach. He was still dazed too—still caught on how breathtaking you looked when you came apart for him… because of him.
Overwhelmed with affection, you cupped his cheeks in both hands, thumbs stroking softly over his flushed skin, and pulled him down into another kiss. This one was slow, tender, deep—full of emotion. Full of everything the two of you had been too afraid to say.
And that was how the rest of the night went. Tangled limbs, soft kisses, quiet nuzzles, Sylus’ warm hands tracing you like he never wanted to stop. Your purr-like little sighs when he holds you close, his low, satisfied rumbles when you melted into him. Intimate touches that weren’t rushed, weren’t desperate—just yours.
You felt loved. Safe. Claimed in the gentlest way. At home in his embrace.
Caleb invites Gideon to spend his birthday with the three of you.
tags: 🔞f/f/m, piv sex, anal sex, double penetration in two holes, voyeurism, fellatio, no y/n. calebmc's usual pseudo-incest, now with gideon flavour.
“I’m headin’ home for the weekend,” Caleb tells Gideon casually. “Want to come with?”
Gideon pauses, bent over his boots, then continues to tighten the laces. “Yeah, sure thing.” Equally casually. His voice doesn’t waver anymore, even though Caleb has always kept his invitation confined to the privacy of their shared dorm room. Still Gideon’s fingers fumble the knot. Sweaty. He has to start over again from the bottom.
“You sure?” Gideon looks up. Caleb is standing over his bed, back turned to Gideon. He’s folding his clothes into his duffel bag. “It’s gonna be your birthday. You don’t wanna visit family?”
“No, they’re travelling for work right now.” And even then. Gideon can never say no to Caleb—or to you, for that matter. The yes is implicit. Taken and given without question; Gideon can tell from Caleb’s tone. Even if he asks he already knows.
“Cool. I’m leavin’ early, so make sure to set an alarm.”
Gideon nods, then smiles a little, rising from his seat to grab his own travel bag. He nudges Caleb in passing. “I didn’t think you’d remember my birthday.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Gideon’s smile fades. Caleb gets such an intense look in his eyes sometimes. When he turns that gaze on Gideon there’s no escape—Gideon is frozen still, rooted to the spot. Partly caught in the wonder of Caleb’s full attention, something rare and precious that he really only reserves for his studies and you, and partly a warning from his hindbrain. Freeze. Hold your breath. Submit, show your belly, and hope for the best; this is something stronger than you, and you weren’t built to challenge it.
The moment stretches well past the point of comfortable, but then one corner of Caleb’s mouth ticks up. Gideon’s shoulders untense. “You remembered mine.”
Gideon did. Smuggled you here in secret, one that he doesn’t completely believe Caleb was convinced by, but your brother acted fully surprised when he opened his dorm room and found you sitting on his bed with freshly baked birthday cupcakes. Gideon remembers that Caleb refused to share them with anyone, but handed Gideon one of them when the other guys weren’t looking. Remembers Caleb’s fingers over his more than the taste of them. A little hand-made love letter—written by you and passed to him by your brother’s hand.
“That’s different,” Gideon mumbles. Everyone knows the DAA’s golden boy, after all. Gideon’s just the sidekick. If someone remembers his name it’s to ask for Caleb’s number.
Caleb returns to packing his bag. “Not to me.”
Gideon swallows and looks away, down at his feet. His laces have come loose again.
“Ge!”
Your voice rings out clear and sweet, and you come flying as soon Gideon and Caleb set foot outside the train. Caleb immediately drops his bag, opening his arms wide for you to jump into; a long-perfected drill, one that has been established way before Gideon ever got to witness it. You laugh when he spins you around, clinging to him tightly. Caleb only sets you down after he’s kissed your forehead, and even then he’s reluctant to let go. His hand lingers on your face, stroking over your cheek, head bent low to be as close to you as he can.
The first couple of times Gideon saw this he wondered: which Caleb is the real one? Is the gloomy guy who keeps a gym logbook down to the decimal point really the same person wearing the brilliant smile he does now? Is it possible for someone to go through life so unaffected by anything only to come alive before his little sister?
After a while Gideon decided that it didn’t matter. And as far as he knows he’s the only one who’s been privy to it—both the Caleb that he shows to the world, and the one he shows you. It’s a privilege. A sign of trust. Caleb trusts him. He’s never said it outright, but then he doesn’t need to. He doesn’t allow anyone else to borrow his notes. Gideon’s never seen him tighten anyone else’s flight belt for them, either. Firmly and efficiently, strong fingers pulling on Gideon’s belt loops to make sure it’s secure.
Gideon never says no to that, either, even when his dick strains against his jeans uncomfortably in the cockpit.
“Hi, baby,” Caleb says. He’s smiling at you. Gideon smiles too. It’s impossible not to. Your happiness might exist in a bubble, but standing so close to it it’s impossible for it not to rub off. And then—pop!—you turn to him, and wrap your arms around his neck.
You don’t have to reach as high as with Caleb, and it takes Gideon a moment to remember to wrap his arms around you in response. It surprises him every time, the sudden shift of spectator to participant. He locks eyes with Caleb over your head. Your brother is wearing a fond expression, but his eyes are sharp when they meet Gideon’s. Gideon quickly looks away, feeling embarrassed for no real reason. He inhales your scent—quick and deep; he has to get what he can—and sways you back and forth to make you laugh.
“I missed you,” you say when you pull back. You look between Gideon and Caleb; Caleb takes your hand and locks your fingers together. “Was the trip okay? Are you hungry? I made food at home, so you don’t have to worry about anything.”
“We missed you too, pips,” Caleb smiles. “And dinner sounds good. I could eat. Gid?”
“Yeah,” Gideon says. “Yeah, let’s go.”
You leave the train station side by side. Caleb on your left, Gideon on your right. Two knights. Your hand is safely tucked in your brother’s. Your free one brushes over Gideon’s every now and then, swaying with your step. Gideon burns with it every time it happens. Just a touch, and he burns for you.
Dinner comes and goes. The food is great; Gideon eats his plate clean twice over. Your home is as familiar to him as his own now—the warm wooden ceilings, the plates with their little bird motifs, the small shrine near the entrance burning incense for your Gran. Everything shows signs of being well-loved, but it’s clean and tidy. Cosy. Caleb’s attempt to make your solitude as comfortable for you as possible. He knows you don’t like living by yourself; knows Caleb hates it even more, especially when you call him late at night and he slips out of the dorm room, answering you quietly. When Gideon listens very closely he can hear your tearful voice under Caleb’s soothing one. And when the call ends and Caleb steps back inside Gideon can hear him tossing and turning for a long time.
Gideon wonders if you know that your brother’s side of their dorm room has several screens devoted to little cameras in hidden corners.
“Gideon-ge,” you say, “do you want to do anything for your birthday? Is there somewhere you want to go?”
“Oh,” he says, surprised. “No, uh. Not really. I thought I was just gonna hang out with you guys.”
You smile at him from across the table. You’re relaxed, leaning against Caleb’s side. Caleb’s scooted his chair flush against yours so you can swing your legs over his lap; Gideon can just make out your brother’s hand resting on your thigh. “Okay. Thanks for spending it with us. I promise we’ll make it really nice for you.”
Gideon flushes. “No—yeah. ‘Course.” He clears his throat and rises from his chair, gathering plates so his hands have something to do. From the corner of his eye he can see Caleb’s amused expression, which only fuels the heat in his cheeks.
“Here, let me do that.” Caleb rises too, and together he and Gideon clear the table. You set up Gideon’s usual spot in the guest bedroom upstairs while the guys do the dishes. Despite Gideon’s flush he feels comforted by the routine. He’s an only child, a happy surprise for his parents who had given up on conceiving, and he’s always wished he had siblings. A younger one, preferably. A little sister. This, with you and Caleb, is the closest he’ll ever get to it.
After dinner you settle in the living room. You and Caleb on the sofa, Gideon on the floor cushion by the table. Caleb puts on music while the three of you chat; he has an impressive CD collection, and Gideon curiously watches him handle the old tech. Caleb likes analogue better, he once told Gideon. Likes that he can hold it in his hands.
Gideon doesn’t recognise the songs. Old music. He likes them all the same, though, though maybe that’s just because he likes hearing Caleb hum along. They play on low, curling comfortably around the darkening evening sky. You mouth along with the lyrics every now then. Gideon watches Caleb watching you, eyes lidded, when you wet your lips.
You ask them about the Academy—are they studying hard? Getting good grades? Having fun, too, going to any parties? (What parties? This guy keeps refusing all invitations, Gideon pokes Caleb.) In return you tell them about life here in Linkon. Friends, school, your anxieties about preparing for college. You’re worried you won’t score high enough to be eligible for a scholarship.
Gideon knows that Caleb has been saving up so that you can do whatever you want regardless of the outcome, but he doesn’t say that. Instead he says, “You’re going to do great.” And he means it. You’re smart, like your brother. Butterflies rise in his chest when your expression softens into something shy.
“Thanks… I really hope so.”
“I know so,” Caleb says, ruffling your hair. “I raised a hard little worker.”
“Does ‘raised’ mean ‘bullied’? If yes, then you’re right. You worked very hard to make sure I had no time for anything but studying.”
“Ungrateful little pipsqueak,” Caleb’s hand reach out to tickle your sides and you half-heartedly wriggle away from him, laughing. Gideon laughs too. When you move around on the sofa your knee ends up resting against Gideon’s shoulder. He doesn’t move, and neither do you. It stays there, anchoring him to your little world. A hidden entrance behind the thorn bushes. It’s impossible to remain unscathed in the process of stepping inside, but Gideon has learned to welcome the pain. The thorns burn him so sweetly he thinks he could stay there forever. Even if it’s just on the threshold. Looking in.
After a while Caleb declares it’s bedtime.
Gideon’s stomach swoops as he stands. You hop up from your seat, up on your tiptoes to kiss Gideon on the cheek. “Night-night, Gid,” you tell him, and he dazedly says “yeah” like an idiot until he remembers to add a quick “you too”.
You disappear down the hallway to the bathroom, and Caleb follows. He pauses just before he rounds the corner, turning his head slightly.
“Door’s open.”
Gideon swallows. “Yeah. Got it.”
He brushes his teeth quickly in the kitchen sink before heading upstairs first, keeping a sharp ear out for when the water stops running on the other side of the house. Gideon has just settled into the guest bed—the pillow smells like you, and he breathes in deeply before shuffling onto his back—when a twin pair of footsteps creak over the stairs, then into your bedroom. A door opens, but doesn’t swing shut. Gideon has kept his own slightly open, too, though he knows from experience that putting his ear to the wall works best.
There’s Caleb’s voice, a warm muffled baritone that is too low to catch the words of. Yours is easier to pick up; you’re laughing about something. Teasing. You ask your ge if he grew even bigger since last you saw him.
“Why don’t you go ahead and check?” Caleb’s voice says, suddenly closer to the wall. Gideon bites his lip, hand drifting lower to palm his hardening dick. There’s no talking for a beat, but he can hear Caleb’s groan. It sounds like a yeah, followed by a quiet “open up”.
Gideon’s eyes squeeze shut, and he unzips his trousers. His cock jerks impatiently when Caleb moans, and Gideon quickly spits in his palm. The first few strokes are just to take the edge off, really, but when Caleb keeps making noises it’s just so hard to stop. He’s loud about it too, unashamed in a way that winds Gideon even tighter—when Caleb talks there’s no filter. It’s not hard to imagine what’s happening in the next room over when he groans about your wet little mouth.
Relax, Caleb’s voice says. You can take him deeper. Such a good girl—does his cock taste good? Do you like it when he uses you? You missed this, right? While he was away? Just a little bit more, and then he’ll fuck you. He missed you so much. Did your pussy miss him, too?
Gideon gasps when you whine, his hips jerking up violently. Caleb must’ve pulled you off him, because for a while there’s silence again, intermingled by soft rustling. Then the bed creaks, and you moan. A wet slap follows, and then another, a slow rhythm Gideon matches with his hand.
Caleb is speaking again. Gideon can’t make out the words, but it acts as a steadying undercurrent when the noises you make grow louder. Whines and moans that up in volume as Caleb ups the pace; a yelp when a louder smack echoes, then another one. Gideon can see it when he closes his eyes, the red sting it’d leave behind on your ass. He wants to rub his hand over it and soothe the hurt. Admire the print that Caleb left behind.
He tries to stave off his orgasm while still keeping the pace that Caleb is setting—sweat beading on his brow, stomach tensing, little gasps punching out of his chest. He strains his ears, listening for when your cries start to slur.
“Ge,” you cry. “Gege, love you—”
Gideon hisses, his hips stuttering. Please, he thinks desperately. Please, I can’t hold it.
He comes the second he hears your bitten-off moan. It’s followed immediately by Caleb’s heavy grunt; the creaking loses its rhythm and dissolves into quick rough slaps. Caleb’s voice breaks halfway through a long, drawn-out moan; Gideon’s dick twitches helplessly, despite having nothing left to give. His spend feels tacky on his stomach.
Harsh breaths even out. The room next door quiets. Gideon blinks a few times to make the stars go away, chest heaving. Once he manages to sit upright he cleans himself up with the clean towel you put out for him. Thoughtful girl. He hears your hushed voices speak for a little while, then fall silent. There’s some more shuffling, and then, click—the faint light in the hallway disappears.
Gideon breathes out and follows your example. The dark aftermath makes it harder to be alone, so he turns on his side and faces the wall. You and Caleb are on the other side. Your combined presence is a living thing, one that permeates every breath this old house takes. Briefly, Gideon presses his hand against the wall and imagines he could reach through the faded wallpaper. Who would be closer? Is it you next to him, wrapped in Caleb’s arms? Or would his palm connect with Caleb’s still-warm back?
Gideon sighs and lets his hand drop. He bundles the blanket and hugs it in his arms, and pretends it’s a body curled up against his own.
“Can I open my eyes now?”
“Nope,” Caleb says behind him. “Keep ‘em closed. Move a little to the left—” Two hands on Gideon’s hips, warm and big, and he almost stumbles into the wall. Caleb keeps him upright, chuckling. “I said to the left, not the floor.”
“Fuck you, man.” Gideon is fully red. He knows Caleb can see it too; can hear the amusement in his voice, the dick.
“Just don’t peek.”
“I’m not,” Gideon complains. “If you’d just tell me—”
“Just a little more, Gideon-ge? I’m almost done,” your voice says, suddenly close, and Gideon abruptly shuts up. He has some inkling of what’s happening; the house smelled sweet the moment he stepped inside, sugar and flour mixing with the heat of the oven. He was suspicious way before that, to be truthful. Caleb dragging him around town while leaving you behind at home—he’d never do such a thing without good reason. He didn’t even bother to come up with a better excuse. Gideon knows for a fact that Caleb always buys the same pair of running shoes, and that he doesn’t give a crap about anyone’s opinion save for his little sister’s.
But Gideon went. He sat and waited while Caleb pretended to browse, comparing brands, asking Gideon for his thoughts and then immediately dismissing them. He didn’t dare to assume.
When he knocks into another piece of furniture Caleb laughs at him. “Your sense of direction sucks. How did you ever pass the dead reckoning trial?”
Gideon opens his mouth to say that was totally different. He had his eyes then, didn’t he? And he can handle a cockpit blind. Shuffling about in a house, even if it’s a very familiar house, is a whole trial of its own.
But he never gets the chance to air his grievances. Caleb’s arm wraps around his shoulders, squeezing his bicep. His other hand settles on Gideon’s waist, guiding him to the living room without any more unfortunate bumps. All the words dry up in Gideon’s mouth. When Caleb pushes him down onto the couch there’s no resistance, just a resigned exhale. Part of Gideon is glad he’s not able to see Caleb’s face while he manhandles him. He’s half-hard as it is.
Caleb retracts from him, a brief gust of air, footsteps that recede and intermingle with yours in the kitchen. You’re whispering, too quiet for Gideon to hear.
“Okay,” you say. Your voice has drifted over next to him, somewhere by his knees. “You can look now.”
Gideon slowly removes his hands, blinking against the light. On the low table in front of him candles flicker cheerfully; real ones, not the fake stuff they sell at the stores. Happy Birthday Gideon! the cake says in cursive fondant.
Gideon’s throat closes. He hopes you think the wetness in his eyes is because of the light. “Oh,” he says. “Wow.”
“Happy birthday,” you smile up at him. The candles dance in the reflection of your eyes. You’ve curled up on Gideon’s usual floor pillow while Caleb’s taken a seat next to Gideon, one arm casually thrown over the back of the sofa.
“Happy birthday,” Caleb says. He nudges Gideon gently, wearing that same relaxed smile he only ever shows when you’re around.
“Thanks,” Gideon manages. He blinks rapidly. “This looks—amazing, seriously.”
“Made it myself,” you say proudly. “While you were out. Did I surprise you?”
You’re always the first to congratulate him on passing exam week, right behind Caleb. The first to tell him to be safe when the weather is bad and he has to fly. When he got the flu and spent a week shivering in bed you dropped by the Academy to make him soup from scratch, even though it takes two hours by train from Bloomshore.
Is he really surprised when he knows how thoughtful you’ve always been? No. Not one bit. “Yeah, totally. Didn’t see this coming at all.”
“Liar,” Caleb snorts. “Come on, blow out the candles so we can cut the cake.”
“Make a wish,” you say when Gideon leans in. He closes his eyes. There’s not much for him to want in this moment, so all he summons in his thoughts is the image of you and Caleb, sitting on either side of him, waiting for him to make his birthday wish. Just let me have this for a little longer.
The candles dim, smoke curling up in light wisps. You gently pluck them out of the frosting, then cut out a neat slice. Gideon watches you scoop up a forkful and hold it out to him expectantly. He flushes once he realises what you mean for him to do; he glances at Caleb, who’s watching it all with a relaxed smirk. Go on, his eyes seem to say.
Gideon slowly leans in and lets you feed him. The cake is delicious—not overly sweet, chewy and moist—but you could’ve fed him cardboard and it would’ve registered the same. Your eyes crinkle when he swallows. “Good?” you ask him.
“You missed a spot,” you say, and lean in. Gideon stills obediently, expecting you to wipe it off, but once your hand curls around his cheek you keep going. In the end it’s your lips that touch the corner of his mouth, not a tissue or your thumb. Gideon inhales sharply. You pull back just enough to look at his eyes; giving him a way out, Gideon thinks distantly. But why would he ever want to escape? How could he, when you’re touching him?
When he remains as he is you do it again, rising up from your knees to kiss him more firmly, no longer just on the corner of his mouth but fully over it. Gideon groans, hands hovering awkwardly in the air. He doesn’t know how much he’s allowed. You show him; guiding his hands to your waist, the back of your head. He touches you gently, reverently. Afraid to scare you off. You taste sugar-sweet—or is that just the cake? When you open your mouth and he feels your tongue he whines, high and pathetic. The only thing that keeps him from shrivelling up from embarrassment is that you’re making sounds too; pleased sighs, soft hums. Your hands in his hair, gently scratching over his nape. He shudders.
When you crawl into his lap to straddle him his eyes fly open. He meets Caleb’s gaze from across the sofa, who’s watching intently but making no move to stop any of it. Oh, Gideon thinks faintly when you shift and your thigh grazes his boner. He keeps looking at Caleb while you kiss him, and sees the hunger in his friend’s eyes sharpen to the point of a knife.
“Do you want to keep going?” you murmur against Gideon’s lips.
“Yes,” Gideon says immediately. There’s no hesitation. Whatever it is. “Yes.”
You pull back and smile, looking over at Caleb. Your brother’s already moving—he leans closer, cupping the back of your neck to pull you in. Gideon watches slack-jawed. Caleb doesn’t kiss you; he eats you, slotting his mouth fully over yours. Your eyes flutter shut. Gideon’s cock twitches at the pretty sound you make when Caleb pushes on your jaw and chin, opening your mouth wider. Dazedly, Gideon wonders if he could come just from watching this—you and Caleb making out right in front of him while your hips rock into his own every now and then. He thinks yes.
But that doesn’t seem to be on today’s itinerary: Caleb releases you after a few moments to turn to Gideon instead. Gideon’s long past the feeling of vertigo, but he still feels as though the world turns upside down the second Caleb kisses him. He’s not gentle about it. Caleb’s mouth is insistent and hot, messy with spit, and doesn’t take no for an answer. When Gideon doesn’t open quickly enough for him he bites at Gideon’s lips. Gideon goes slack under him, moaning into his mouth when you add a trail of wet kisses down Gideon’s neck. Yep, fuck, no doubt about it. He’ll come like this no problem.
Whatever clarity of thought remained short-circuits the moment Caleb pulls off and slides down on his knees. You remove yourself from Gideon’s lap, curling up at his side. Your hands slip over his belt, tugging it free with nimble little fingers. Gideon’s panting already—he’s vaguely aware that he must look desperate, but he doesn’t care. Not when Caleb unzips Gideon’s pants and tugs them down his hips along with his underwear. His cock slaps free painfully, smacking against his hoodie and leaving behind a streak of pre-cum.
“Open wider,” Caleb tells him, pushing at Gideon’s knees. “Sit closer to the edge.” Gideon does as told, shaking one leg free from his jeans so Caleb can shuffle in between them. Your brother holds out his hand to you, and you spit in it. It doesn’t do anything to soothe the rough callouses on Caleb’s palm, though, and Gideon whimpers when it wraps around his dick fully.
And then, when Caleb opens his mouth, looking up at him through his dark lashes—Gideon bites the inside of his cheek, desperately summoning images of flight plans and zero gravity chambers. You nudge yourself behind Gideon, legs on either side of him, hands sliding under his shirt and up his torso as Caleb sinks Gideon’s cock in his mouth.
“Oh my god,” Gideon chokes. “Christ. Fuck. You—” he cuts himself off with a hiss when Caleb’s teeth scrape against his sensitive skin.
“Be gentle, ge. Careful with your teeth,” you say. Caleb hums around Gideon in response, sending tremors of pleasure up his spine. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, hands curling into fists on his thighs.
You rest your chin on his shoulder, fingers grazing over his nipples, and Gideon’s hips jerk up helplessly. Caleb grunts but makes no move to pull off; he settles into a slow, careful rhythm, following your instructions. It occurs to Gideon that this is probably the first time Caleb’s had a cock in his mouth. It certainly feels like it, anyway. It’s messy and lacks any refinement, but it doesn’t matter. Just the sight of seeing Caleb on his knees is enough to make Gideon’s balls draw up. His friend’s eyes stay on him, flashing an electric violet; a storm Gideon can’t outfly no matter how hard he tries. He can only give himself over to it. And combined with your mouth on his neck, hands stroking over his stomach, his chest, thumbing over his nipples—
he doesn’t stand a chance.
“Go a little faster, gege. Hollow your cheeks,” you instruct. Caleb makes a noise, shifting on his knees. Gideon moans openly the second he speeds up, head lolling back against your shoulder.
“Fuck,” he rasps. “Fuck, I can’t—I’m gonna cum, please, please, let me cum—”
“Just a little longer, okay?” you tell him sweetly. “I’ll tell you when.”
Gideon lets out a desperate whine, but he nods. “Yeah. Okay. Okay.” He’s trembling, one leg bouncing impatiently. He silently thanks whatever higher being is out there for mercy when Caleb pulls off briefly to catch his breath.
You pet Caleb’s hair. “Breathe through your nose, ge,” you say. “Use your tongue, too, press it against the underside.”
Caleb’s big hands slide over Gideon’s thighs, squeezing at the muscle. He rests his head against Gideon’s knee briefly to give you a lop-sided smile. “Yes ma’am. You havin’ fun bossing me around?”
“Wha—you’re the one who said to teach you,” you sputter. You nuzzle against Gideon’s shoulder. “Doesn’t it feel good? Gid?”
“No, no, it feels good,” Gideon says breathlessly. “Really good.”
You lean back against the couch, pulling Gideon with you. He resists at first, abs tensing—he doesn’t want to hurt you. You tug at his arms. “Put your weight on me,” you tell him. “It’s okay. Just lie back. You can just feel good now.”
When Caleb places one hand over Gideon’s stomach and pushes, what else can he do but obey? He gingerly leans against you, one hand absentmindedly stroking over your leg when you raise your knees on either side of him. You’re soft and warm. Sweet. You nudge his jaw, drawing him into a kiss. At the same time you open your mouth for him Caleb does so too on his cock, and Gideon just barely keeps from crying out. Caleb’s hollowing his cheeks just like you told him; clumsily, sure, but it was already over for Gideon the moment you kissed him. There’s no strength left in him to keep him from melting into you.
“Want to come, Gideon-ge?” you mouth against him. “You did so good. You can come. You’re so good, letting us play with you like this.”
When you take one of his hands and interlace it with yours, fingers squeezing down, Gideon comes with a shout. His hips jerk, and he hears Caleb gag in surprise—he feels bad about it, but unfortunately the sound only makes him twitch harder.
He cracks his eyes open just in time to see Caleb swallow, then immediately closes them again with a groan. When Caleb drags his mouth off him Gideon lets out a weak laugh, hips shying away from the sensation. Caleb rises off his knees and leans over, and for a moment Gideon thinks he’ll kiss him again—but Caleb moves past him, over his shoulder. He can just see you obediently opening your mouth from the corner of his eye. If he could blush any harder, he would. The wet sounds so close to his ear are obscene.
“Hmm,” you sigh. “You taste good.”
Through the haze of bliss it takes a beat for Gideon to understand, but when he does he hides his face in his hands. “This is crazy,” he says behind them.
Caleb laughs a little. “Tappin’ out already?” he teases. “Thought you’d last longer than that.” Gideon scowls at his friend from behind the opening of his fingers. Caleb is grinning down at him. “C’mon. Sit up.”
Gideon pushes himself upright with noodle arms so you can crawl out from behind him. “Can we kiss a little more?” you ask him.
You smile at him, and Gideon’s heart twists. You fit so perfectly into him, mouth soft, kissing him sweetly. You encourage him to wind his hand through your hair, to move you as he likes. He’s thought about doing this so much it’s surreal to actually experience it; Gideon is still not totally sure if he’s dreaming or not. He’s not had this particular fantasy before, but these elements—you in his arms, eager and pliable and sighing his name—star in every one of them.
Your pretty little sounds grow into quiet moans, ones Gideon mirrors. He’s making you feel good. His dick is starting to get hard again.
He’s so gone on the rush of you that he misses the shuffling of clothes—only when you jerk in his arms with a sudden whimper does he think to pause and pull back. Caleb’s worked your shorts off, underwear pulled to the side. When Gideon looks down he can see your brother’s fingers moving inside you. Caleb’s looking at him, though. Eyes all serious and dark again.
“Gid,” you whine when he sits and stares. “Touch me?”
“Sorry, sorry,” Gideon soothes. Your expression has gone a little glassy, and his cock twitches. “Here?” His hands slide up your torso, under your shirt, a little emboldened after hearing your beg for him. For him. Gideon-ge. You’re not wearing a bra, so he’s free to cup your bare breasts. You push into him, moaning quietly when he thumbs over your nipples.
You go liquid under pleasure, Gideon finds out. It’s a discovery that already haunts him; to know that you’re weak to feeling good, to know that this is what you look like when you give yourself over to it. Curled against his chest like a little cat, hips shivering against your brother’s hands, kisses growing sloppier the longer Gideon plays with your tits. The sound you make when Caleb removes his fingers is heartbreaking.
Gideon looks at his friend, waiting for orders. What’s next? And Caleb must be able to read it in his eyes, because he reaches around the sofa and pulls out an unopened box. Gideon just barely manages to catch it when Caleb tosses it to him.
“Since you came when you were told you get a reward,” Caleb says with a slight smile. “Just play nice. No hurting. Only I get to do that.”
Gideon flusters. “I am nice,” he says indignantly, fingers tightening around the condom packets. He’d be whatever you wanted him to. He strokes your cheek and you hum, leaning into his touch. “Can I fuck you?” he asks you quietly.
“Mm-hmm,” you say, nuzzling his hand. “How do you want me? The birthday boy gets to pick.”
Gideon wets his lips, eyes darting briefly to Caleb. Your brother has settled in the big falling-apart chair across the table, knees spread, his elbows on the chair’s arms. The audience waiting for his show.
“Then—” Gideon says, gently pushing on your shoulders. “Like this? Is that okay?”
You go easily, pliantly following his weight as you lie down on the sofa for him. Gideon quickly divests himself of his hoodie—he’s starting to feel sweaty. His pants are fully discarded as well, leaving him in just his t-shirt. Your hands pet over his abdomen appreciatively. “You’re so handsome,” you tell him. “Good-looking Gideon.”
His cheeks heat again, and he ducks his head. “I’m not all that,” he mumbles.
“I think so,” you reply earnestly. “I want you.”
Gideon’s throat feels all funny again. He doesn’t trust his voice and so kisses you instead, pulling up your own shirt so he can trail his mouth lower over your chest. He has half a mind to ask you to forget about fucking you—can you just ride his face instead? For an hour or more, preferably? But when he moves further down you pull at his shoulder, eyes teary.
“Please? I’m ready, I really need it,” you whine. “I need you.”
“Okay,” Gideon shushes. “Okay. You have me. I’m here.”
Had him all this time, really. You and Caleb both. Gideon will give you everything you want. Anything you want. He rolls on the condom, notching himself against your entrance. You’re soaked; Caleb did a good job preparing you, and Gideon likes to think that at least some of it is thanks to him. It was his name you called out, him you arched into while Caleb worked you open. That has to count for something.
Gideon whimpers when he sinks inside. You’re wet and hot and so tight still, clenching against him so good there’s white static in his head for a minute. Gideon pants. His stamina is usually decent, but whenever you and Caleb are involved usual doesn’t apply to the rules. The laws of gravity written anew, bent to Caleb’s hand.
When Gideon glances over he sees that same hand palming Caleb’s dick through his pants.
“Shit,” Gideon groans when he rocks his hips forward. “You feel so—you’re so wet. So pretty. Does it feel good? I’m not hurting you?”
“It feels good,” you beg when he sinks in a little deeper. “More, please.”
Gideon gives you more. He hugs you tightly against him and revels when you cling back just as tight, legs locking around his hips, arms around his shoulders. He presses as much of himself against you as possible and commits it to memory. Once this is over he wants to feel the imprint of you lingering on him. In his mouth, where he kisses you, your wet little tongue stroking against his own; your hands in his hair, scrabbling against his back when his thrusts grow heavier. Your thighs pressed against his hips, soft and strong. Trembling. For him to give you what you need.
When you pulse around him his eyes flutter closed. “Baby—” he starts, then immediately stops, biting his tongue. Didn’t mean to let that slip out. Gideon knows his place. He does. He’s just thought about it so long, his baby, his and Caleb’s, your two hands in theirs. He groans and buries his face in your neck.
You laugh a little, hand stroking over his hair. “What is it? Why’re you hiding?”
“Sorry,” Gideon mumbles. “Not trying to…”
“Come kiss me,” you say in his ear. “Come kiss your baby.”
Gideon moans; his hips move without his say-so, and he pulls back to see your little smile. You’re doing it on purpose, too; he can see the playful glint in your eyes when you tilt your head at him. Gideon fervently hopes you don’t see through him as much as he fears. Caleb’s constant (and accurate) read on him is plenty mortifying, thank you.
Gideon glances at his friend again. Caleb’s lazily fisting his cock, lips slightly parted. His eyes are so dark Gideon can’t make out any purple at all. “Well?” Caleb says when Gideon stares for a beat too long. “What’re you waitin’ for? She said to kiss her.”
Gideon shivers a little, then does as told. You pulse around him again, which makes his head spin. So cute. You’re so cute. He loves kissing you. Loves that you love it so much, too, that it makes you feel good, that it makes you clench around his cock—
“Good?” Caleb’s voice asks. “Push one of her legs up. Hold it down with your hand.”
You cry out the next time Gideon thrusts into you, knee pressed against your shoulder. Gideon’s fingers dig into your soft flesh, pushing your lower leg up and out until it rests on his shoulder. He noses against it, panting, mouthing at your ankle. He’s never been especially into feet, but just now he’s overcome with the desire to lick yours. Has your brother ever done that? Would it be the first anyone’s ever touched you there?
Caleb exhales roughly. “Yeah. Like that. Press down on her stomach.”
“Ge,” you sob when Gideon obeys. “Ge, gege, I’m gonna come, please—!”
Gideon moans. Gideon-ge. Ge. Your baby. Feeling his cock through your stomach makes his head swim, but your voice is what ultimately draws him closer to the edge. He’s trying to hold off, desperate to feel you come on his dick, but you’re not making it easy for him. He grits his teeth when your body seizes against his own, biting his cheek and tongue to keep a clear enough head to watch your eyes glaze over in your pleasure. Your pussy pulses around him sweet-hot, begging for something to fill you up. He wants to give it to you so bad his stomach hurts with it.
Gideon is so gone on the sauce that he startles when Caleb’s hand suddenly settles on his neck. Hadn’t even heard him walk over, too lost in what he thought would only forever exist in his daydreams. “Don’t come yet,” Caleb says roughly. “Pull out for a sec. And lie down on your back.” Gideon whimpers a little at that; pulling out, now? While you’re still fluttering around him through your comedown? But Caleb squeezes his fingers around Gideon’s nape, and makes Gideon look at him instead of your fucked-out expression. “C’mon, puppy. Move it.”
Gideon groans high and needful when he pulls out of you, but with Caleb there’s no saying no. Especially not when he looks like this. His eyes are blazing, jaw tense, and Gideon thinks he almost looks angry. No, maybe he really is angry. It would explain the way he pushes Gideon down, mean and hard. If the sofa hadn’t cushioned him it would’ve hurt.
Gideon tries not to think about what it means that this makes his dick twitch again.
Caleb makes you crawl over Gideon while he fiddles with another mystery box from the spot behind the couch. Gideon hears the shnick of a bottle being opened, but he can’t see anything; you’re kissing him again, and your stomach is warm and soft again his cock. Then, suddenly—you whine, whole body tensing. Caleb shushes you.
“Be good,” he tells you. “You wanna be good, right? Relax.”
“Slowly,” you whimper. “It’s too much. Ge—”
“Stop fussin’. If you keep squirming it’ll only hurt more.”
You bury your face in Gideon’s neck. “Gideooon…”
“You’re callin’ for Gideon now? But he’s not gonna save you.” Caleb smacks your ass. Gideon feels it through you, the jolt of your hips, the breath you suck in when Caleb’s palm lands. “Lift your hips, baby.”
Trembling, you do as he says. Your hair falls over your eyes and partly over Gideon’s; he’s blind, and happily so, but unprepared for Caleb to grab your hips and lift you over Gideon’s cock. He sinks you down on it slowly, and Gideon has to clench his fists and grit his teeth all over again so he doesn’t come in you the second he bottoms out.
Caleb pushes you down against Gideon, one large hand on your back, and Gideon wonders for a moment what he’s meant to do, if anything at all, but then—
Something presses against his dick. Slowly, fed deeper inch by inch, rubbing against his length through a thin wall inside of you. You hiss and whine and dig your nails into his shoulders, but Gideon’s not of much use for comfort. Caleb’s dick is right up against his own inside you, and he thinks he’s going to pass out.
He looks past you, over your shoulder, up at Caleb who’s thrown his head back with his eyes closed. He’s still wearing his clothes, jeans just shucked down far enough to free his cock. He groans when he rocks forward, eyes opening briefly to catch Gideon’s. His cock sinks deeper inside your hole, and Gideon shivers. Who’s really fucking who, here?
“Almost,” Caleb pants. “Almost in, pips, just a little more. Here, lift your—yeah. Just like that, good girl.” One of Caleb’s hands finds its way between you and Gideon. His knuckles dig into Gideon’s lower stomach, back and forth as he rubs your clit without any regard for Gideon’s comfort, and Gideon groans when you clench around him again. The tips of Caleb’s fingers graze the root of Gideon’s cock, and Gideon bites his lip so hard that his mouth fills with an iron tang.
Caleb rocks his hips forward again. Gideon doesn’t need to see it to feel it; the heat of your brother’s body hovering just behind yours, the hands that dictate where your hips go, and the insistent slide of his cock until he’s seated fully in your ass. You’re shivering, clenching and unclenching around the two of them in a desperate bid to stay open and relaxed enough to take it. When Caleb pulls you up to kiss you Gideon catches a glimpse of your eyes. They’re glassy and dreamy, a pretty fucked-out doll with flushed cheeks and sweaty hair sticking to the side of your face. Gideon palms your stomach again. He’s probably imagining it—wishful thinking, because that’s all he’s ever done since he first saw you and Caleb together—but compared to before he’d swear it feels bigger. Fuller. Him and Caleb, one on each side of you, an infinite embrace that loops and skips over the little knot that is Gideon’s hand holding yours.
You squeeze it reflexively every time Caleb moves. He goes slowly at first, kissing the side of your head and pushing the hair out of your eyes while you make cute little sounds that actively eat away at Gideon’s heart. Then a little faster. A little meaner. Caleb looks Gideon in the eye while he frots his cock against Gideon’s. Touching and yet not; it’s a tease, a taunt, one that he knows Gideon won’t back away from but will surrender to, because that’s what he’s always been helpless to do. Sweat beads on his forehead.
“Feelin’ good, baby?” Caleb asks. Gideon’s heart skips a moment, unsure who Caleb is addressing. Your brother’s eyes crinkle when Gideon doesn’t dare to answer. “I know you are.” Caleb kisses your temple. “You like Gideon’s cock, huh? Nice and full? He’s been holdin’ out pretty well. Don’t you think so? Say thank you.”
“Thank—thank you,” you gasp out. “Thank you, ge, thank you—”
“Listening so well.”
Caleb releases you from his grip, and Gideon catches you when you slump against him. He feels desperate. His vision blurs, unable to grip onto anything solid. He’s bursting at the seams, trying to make it last, to be good, to deserve your pretty voice saying thank you so nicely, but Christ—
Caleb snaps his hips forward, fucking your ass and fucking Gideon and Gideon needs to come, he needs to come so badly he doesn’t even need to move, he just needs to lie there and take it. Take whatever you and Caleb want to give him. Anything. Everything. His eyes tear up. When Caleb and you moan in unison at a particularly deep thrust he can’t take it anymore:
“Please,” Gideon rasps. “Please, please can I come? I can’t—please, please—”
Caleb licks his lips and bends down. His rhythm doesn’t falter when his hand closes around Gideon’s throat, but Gideon’s heart does. Skipping wildly, breath catching, balls drawing up and it hurts—
“Not yet,” Caleb pants. “Not yet, puppy, hold it.”
“Please,” Gideon slurs. “Please, sir—”
He’s too far gone for embarrassment, but still his stomach swoops when Caleb laughs. Frenzied and breathless, a little wild and a little strange and Gideon loves him, he really loves your brother and he really loves you and his dick is seriously, actually, genuinely going to explode. Caleb leans down and kisses him again, mean and with teeth, and Gideon can’t hold back anymore. His cock jerks inside you and he comes, hard, pleasure shooting up his spine and buzzing around the back of his skull until he feels dizzy despite lying down. His moans sound loud in his ears, his voice twisted as though it belongs to a stranger’s. Caleb fucks him and you through it relentlessly.
“I’m sorry,” Gideon pants against Caleb’s mouth when he finds his words again. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I couldn’t hold it anymore.”
Caleb smiles, but it’s far from reassuring. “We’ll work on it.”
Gideon doesn’t get the chance to think about the implications of that. The relief of release ebbs away and is immediately caught and strangled in the realm of too-much, wringing his insides out until he’s gasping for breath again. He wants to laugh and groan and squirm away, but there’s nowhere to go: you’re tightening up, close to your own edge, and Caleb’s weight behind you is as sure as a rock. Gideon’s cock twitches weakly. Mercy, he thinks helplessly.
“Go on,” Caleb rasps. He’s pulled back and taken his hand off Gideon’s throat, and uses it to pull your hips against his cock with a wet slap. “Come on Gid’s cock, baby.”
You warble something against Gideon’s shoulder, and he forces his jelly arms to wrap around you. You cling to him, sobbing when your body seizes and you do as your brother tells you to. It’s wonderful. It’s agony. Gideon’s cock feels raw, wet with his own spend clinging to him inside the condom. You pulse around him viciously.
He watches with bleary eyes as Caleb’s jaw sets, his hips finally losing their steady rhythm and slipping into something hard and loose. The animal need of pleasure. Gideon feels it when Caleb comes, or maybe it’s just in his head; Caleb’s seed pulsing inside you, the swell of his cock. The final few snaps of his hips, slow and mindless, making sure you get everything he can give with the same heady groan Gideon heard last night.
Caleb looks beautiful like this. Moreso than Gideon had even imagined, and he’s imagined it a lot. Flushed cheeks and glittering eyes, the faint shine of sweat on his brow highlighting his handsome features. Gideon thinks about licking it off while your mingled breaths slow.
Caleb sighs, pleased. Just got a good workout in, Gideon can almost hear him say. He peels you off Gideon’s chest gently, wiping your tears and drool and kissing you sweetly on the mouth. “Good girl,” he tells you, and Gideon shivers a little at the devotion in his eyes.
You hum weakly. “Mm-hmm.”
Caleb smiles. He pulls himself out slowly, petting your head when you grumble and groan. He’s way too big, you complain. Dummy ge, he almost split you in two, couldn’t he tell? What would he have done then, if he’d had to sew you back together?
Caleb laughs and steps into the kitchen to get a clean towel. “If you keep sayin’ cute things like that I can’t promise I’ll behave any better next time.”
“Stupid,” you sniff. You take the towel and gently rise, petting Gideon’s chest apologetically when he tenses against the drag of your pussy over his cock. “Are you okay, Gideon-ge? Caleb didn’t bully you too much, did he?”
“Yeah,” Gideon wheezes when you fully remove yourself. “Just—just peachy.”
You laugh a little and wipe the cum off his stomach, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to his lips. Gideon is unprepared for it; he blinks and you’re gone, and he kicks himself for not kissing you back. Caleb takes the towel from you and trades it for a glass of water.
Gideon pushes himself up from the sofa. His body feels as though it’s been spinning in antigrav for hours.
“I’ll run you a bath,” Caleb tells you gently. He draws you into his arms and holds you while you drink. “Hungry?”
You nod. “I wanna eat chicken.” You reach out and take Gideon’s hand, drawing him into your half-embrace with Caleb. “What do you feel like having for dinner, Gideon-ge?”
“Oh,” Gideon blinks. His body moves without thinking, arm reaching to wrap around you. It’s as easy as breathing—or maybe it’s just because it’s you. “Chicken is good.”
“Then chicken it is,” Caleb says. He shifts, moving his legs so Gideon can sit more comfortably on your other side. He slings his arm over the back of the sofa again, though this time his hand reaches up to stroke Gideon’s nape. Caleb’s short nails scratch lightly over Gideon’s short hair like they would with a pet’s. You lean your head on Gideon’s shoulder, sighing contentedly, and his heart soars.
It doesn’t come back down until much later, once baths have been had and dinner has been eaten. The three of you ended up having Gideon’s birthday cake for dessert; Caleb fed you, you fed Gideon, and Gideon tried to remember to chew and swallow like a normal person. Afterwards Caleb put his music on again, something slow and warm, and you lit the candles around the living room. You can blow them out later, you told Gideon conspiratorially, so you can get some extra birthday wishes in.
He’d laughed, painfully aware of his heart tripping over how cute you are smiling up at him, and didn’t tell you that today was already a wish come true. There’s nothing else for him to want. But he said yes, of course. Always yes. He’ll blow them out and think of your pretty face when he does.
Gideon closes the tap. He dries his hands and pushes the bathroom door shut, but stops before he enters the living room again. His feet just brush the threshold. You and Caleb are curled up together on the sofa, your head in his lap, and Caleb strokes over your hair while you talk. The low light from the candles throws a warm hue over you, soft shadows that flicker with the candles’ breath. Gideon watches it from the dark of the hallway.
He doesn’t want to disturb it, and he doesn’t want to leave. Always caught in this twofold dilemma. Can’t make up his mind, either, neither to leave nor to go.
And then, just when he thinks he’ll quietly go up the stairs, you catch his eye. Maybe the floorboards creaked when he shifted on his feet, or maybe his stare was too intense for you to miss. But your face lights up the moment you see him, and you sit up, one hand outstretched;
“Gideon-ge! What are you doing over there? Come here, we were waiting for you!”
Gideon breathes out, and steps forward.
From wikipedia:
Alpha Centauri is a star system that consists of three stars: Rigil Kentaurus, Toliman, and Proxima Centauri. Rigil Kentaurus and Toliman are Sun-like stars that together form the binary star system Centauri AB. Proxima Centauri is a small faint red dwarf. Though not visible to the naked eye, it’s the closest star to the Sun.
“You lasted eight seconds on that bull...and I’m wondering if you can last longer.”
“Longer on the bull?” you ask carefully.
His smile is wicked. “Sure. Let’s start with that.”
synopsis: you think conquering a bull looks easy, so rodeo champion sylus decides you need a lesson in riding—in the backseat of his pickup truck
tags: nsfw, explicit sexual content, cowboy!sylus x city girl!reader, lust at first sight, riding, teaching, kissing, car sex, size difference, cowgirl position, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, sexual overstimulation, creampie, fluff + smut
wc: 13.2k / ao3
a/n: save a horse, ride a qin che ;)
The rodeo smells like dirt and beer and bad decisions.
You’re wedged between Tara and some guy in an absurdly oversized cowboy hat who keeps whooping like he’s personally invested in watching men get concussed by livestock. The stands are packed, the sun is setting, and you are profoundly, deeply bored.
“Isn’t this AMAZING?” Tara shouts over the announcer’s voice.
“It’s definitely something,” you say, taking another sip of overpriced beer.
“Come on! Live a little!” Tara hits your arm playfully. “You said you wanted adventure, didn’t you?”
What you actually said three days ago was that you needed a weekend away from your suffocating corporate job and your mother’s passive-aggressive texts about your biological clock. Tara—your chaotic, impulsive, rodeo-obsessed friend and coworker—interpreted that as “drive three hours into the middle of nowhere to watch men cosplay as cowboys.”
“I said I wanted a spa weekend. With wine. And no animals.”
“This is way better than a spa!”
“Tara, I’m watching a man get thrown off of a bull into a literal pile of shit.”
“That’s the best part!”
You’re starting to regret every choice you made that led you here, mentally drafting escape strategies: sudden vague illness, a family emergency of unclear nature, alien abduction—
“Next up,” the announcer booms, “give it up for Sylus Qin, folks! Undefeated this season, riding Wild Cherry—”
The crowd absolutely loses their minds. Apparently this guy is famous. Or infamous. It’s hard to tell.
Tara is suddenly sitting up straighter. “Oh my god, it’s him.”
“Him who?”
“SYLUS. The Sylus Qin. He’s only the best bull rider in the circuit right now. Undefeated. Gorgeous. Thighs that could crush your skull and you’d say thank you.” She’s practically vibrating. “This is why we came.”
“We came all the way out here for one specific cowboy?”
“We came for THE cowboy.” She looks at you like you have brain damage. “He has entire fan accounts dedicated to him, y’know. Sychos, we call ourselves. Get it, like psych—”
“Yeah, I got it,” you cut in. “Naming yourselves after men who sit on angry animals for prize money. Very adult behavior.”
“Adult behavior is overrated.” Tara waves you off. “And just you wait, babe. You’ll be calling yourself one by the end of the night.”
You snort. “If that happens, I give you permission to euthanize me.”
“Fine, but I get your closet.” She bumps your hip with hers. “I’d grieve, obviously. But in designer.”
A group of girls in tight denim shorts and matching red bandanas suddenly flock to the rail below you, phones out, glitter letters spelling STAY ON, SYLUS across posterboard. One of them whispers something to the girl beside her that makes her giggle and bite her lip.
“Those are the Sychos, huh?” you say, like you’re confirming a wildlife sighting. “You count yourself among the faithful?”
“Please. Me? I’m not here to worship him.” She tips her chin toward the girls, sliding her sunglasses into her hair. “I’m here for his disciples.”
You shoot her a look. To Tara, men sit in the same category as traffic cones—loud and in the way, only tolerable when directing her somewhere else.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Unbelievably efficient, you mean.” She tosses her braid over her shoulder and checks her lipstick in the reflection of her phone screen. “They convert easily.”
Before you can respond, the PA system crackles in a sharp burst of static that jolts the arena to attention. Everyone shifts at once, boots scraping against metal as the crowd angles to catch a glimpse of the rider. Someone whistles. Dust stirs around the chute like it’s coming alive.
The girls below you erupt first, phones snapping up, posterboards rattling against the rail.
The announcer’s voice rolls through the speakers—a slow country drawl that buzzes through the bleachers, through your ribs, through the stupid can of beer in your hand:
“Competitor twenty-two…Sylus Qin.”
Tara exhales like she’s been waiting hours for this exact moment. “Showtime.”
“—ain’t nobody lasted more than six seconds on this beast all year—”
“That’s what she said,” you mutter into your drink.
Tara doesn’t hear you. She’s too busy screaming with the rest of the crowd as the gate slams open.
The bull explodes into the ring—twisting, bucking, trying to murder its rider with pure muscle and chaos. The man on top is already locked in, one hand high, the other on the rope, body rolling with each violent buck like he’s done this a thousand times. Because he probably has.
You’ll admit—objectively, technically, it’s impressive. In the same way watching someone juggle chainsaws is impressive. Impressive and dangerous and stupid.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t wobble. Doesn’t even seem winded. Just rides the beast like it was born to be beneath him.
Six seconds. Seven. Eight.
The buzzer sounds. He dismounts smoothly, landing on his feet while the bull handlers rush in. The girls below you are shrieking like someone won the lottery.
You finish off your beer.
“...That’s it?” you mutter.
“That’s it?” Tara whips her head toward you so fast her sunglasses nearly fly. “He just survived a demon with horns and you’re bored?”
“Looked like…balance,” you say with a shrug. “Core strength. Decent stance.”
Tara opens her mouth, ready to annihilate you, but the crowd erupts again as the rider approaches the bleachers—a frenzy of camera flashes, dads slapping shoulders, girls crying.
You glance up just in time to see him.
Sylus Qin. Helmet off, silver hair tousled, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt. A handler says something to him, but he barely responds. His red eyes scan the bleachers, not searching the crowd—hunting through it.
And then they find you.
Not the screaming girls pressed against the rail. Not the sign glittering under the fluorescent floodlights.
You.
His gaze flicks over you once, slow, like he’s taking note of every inch. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t wave, just assesses you in a way that makes your pulse jump.
Tara gasps like she’s witnessing a miracle. “Oh my god,” she hisses, shaking your arm. “He’s looking at you!”
“He’s looking in this general direction,” you correct, throat suddenly dry.
“General direction, my ass.” Tara’s voice is wild with victory. “He’s staring at you like you just spit in his drink. And he liked it.”
You’re about to argue when Sylus drags the back of his glove across his mouth—still looking up at you, the stranger with crossed arms and a steady, blank stare. His eyes narrow, heat flicking to life behind them. Interest. Curiosity. Challenge.
You tilt your head, like you’re still trying to figure out what the fuss is about.
The gesture lands like an insult.
He holds your gaze for a beat too long, tips his hat directly at you with what can only be described as spite, and saunters out of the arena.
Tara explodes beside you the second he disappears through the gate.
“WHAT WAS THAT?” Tara is practically screaming in your ear. “What just happened? Did you see that? He looked at you like—like—”
“Like nothing.”
“Like EVERYTHING.” She grabs your face, turning it toward hers. “Do you understand what just happened? Sylus Qin just acknowledged you. Personally. In front of everyone.”
“He probably does that for lots of people—”
“He doesn’t.” A girl in front of you turns around, and she looks furious. “He literally never does that.”
She’s wearing a crop top with “Qin” bedazzled across the chest and more makeup than seems practical for an outdoor event. Her friends beside her look equally angry.
“Excuse me?” you say.
“You heard me.” She looks you up and down with obvious disdain. “We’ve been coming to his rides for months. Months. And you—you didn’t even cheer! You just sat there like you were bored!”
“I mean...I was?”
Tara makes a sound like she's trying not to laugh.
“This is bullshit.” Bedazzled stands up, and her whole group follows. “Come on. We’re going to the back. Maybe if we’re there when he comes out—”
They file out of the row, shooting you looks that range from annoyed to homicidal.
The moment they’re gone, Tara turns to you with the biggest grin you’ve ever seen.
“Oh my god.”
“Don’t.”
“You made enemies in under eight seconds. I’m so proud.” She’s bouncing on her heels now. “Did you see their faces? They looked like you personally victimized them.”
“I didn’t do anything—”
“You existed while looking unimpressed. Apparently that’s a crime here.” She glances toward where the group disappeared, then back at you with a gleam in her eye. “God, they’re going to be so upset when they find out he—”
“When they find out he what? Looked at me for two seconds?”
“That man tipped his hat at you like a declaration of war. That’s not nothing.” Tara is still grinning. “Anyway, I need to pee. Come with?”
“Yeah, sure.”
You both head toward the bathrooms, navigating through the crowd. The line is mercifully short.
“I’m calling it now,” Tara says as you wait. “Something’s going to happen.”
“Nothing is going to happen. He probably tips his hat at people all the time.”
“Sure, babe. Keep telling yourself that.”
You roll your eyes and head into a stall. When you come out to wash your hands, Tara is leaning against the sink, scrolling her phone.
“You go ahead,” you tell her. “I’ll meet you back at the seats.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m going to fix my hair. I look like I’ve been at a rodeo.”
“You have been at a rodeo,” she confirms, already heading out. “Don’t take too long! Next round starts in ten!”
You’re willing your last few flyaways into place when your phone buzzes in your back pocket.
Unknown Number: Tell me.
Unknown Number: Did I disappoint you, or are you always like that?
Your stomach drops.
You: who is this?
Unknown Number: Take a wild guess, sweetie.
Unknown Number: Here’s a hint: silver hair, red eyes, just gave the performance of the night to the most unimpressed audience member in rodeo history.
Fuck.
You: how did you get my number?
Sylus: Your friend. The enthusiastic one in the seat next to you.
Sylus: I asked one of the staff to track down “the girl in section B who looked like she’d rather be getting a root canal.” She was very helpful.
You’re going to murder Tara.
You: that’s borderline stalking
Sylus: It’s resourceful.
Sylus: Also, your friend gave me your number with the promise that I would “show you a good time.” Her words, not mine.
Sylus: Though I’m not opposed to the prospect.
You: you’re insane
Sylus: You’re texting back awfully quickly for someone who thinks I’m insane.
Sylus: So. What’s your damage?
You: excuse me?
Sylus: I just rode 2000 pounds of rage that hospitalized four people this season. People are losing their minds. There are women in this crowd who would commit felonies for my autograph.
Sylus: And you looked like you were waiting for a bus.
Sylus: I need to know what your problem is.
The audacity of this man…
You: maybe i’m just not impressed by men showing off
Sylus: Showing off implies I did it for attention. I did it because it’s my job and I’m good at it.
You: i don’t cheer for men who do their jobs. sets a bad precedent
Sylus: You’re cruel.
Sylus: I like you.
Sylus: Gate 7. Twenty minutes.
You stare at your phone. This cannot be happening.
You: why would i do that?
Sylus: Because you’re curious. Because I’m curious. Because you clearly have opinions about my performance that you’re dying to share.
Sylus: Or are you scared?
You: of what? you?
Sylus: Of admitting I was more impressive than you’re letting on.
You: you’re delusional
Sylus: Gate 7. Twenty minutes. Prove me wrong.
You should block this number. Should go back to Tara. Should absolutely not go to Gate 7.
You: ...i’ll think about it
Sylus: Clock’s ticking, sweetie. Gate 7. Don’t make me come find you.
You pocket your phone and find your seat beside Tara in the stands, heart racing.
“Your cowboy texted me,” you inform her flatly.
“HE DID?!”
You wave your phone in her face as evidence.
“When were you planning on telling me you gave out my phone number to the man who looked ready to challenge me to a duel?!”
“He was asking around for it! What was I supposed to do, say no?” She looks absolutely delighted with herself. “Shit, what did he say? Is he asking you out? Please tell me he’s asking you out.”
“He wants me to meet him at Gate 7.”
Tara screams. Actually screams as she rips your phone out of your hand. Several people turn to look.
“YOU HAVE TO GO.” She’s reading the messages, scrolling rapidly. “He’s obsessed. He’s one hundred percent obsessed with you.”
“He’s not—”
“‘Don’t make me come find you’?” She looks at you with her jaw dropped. “That’s obsessed behavior. When are you going?”
“I’m not going—”
“You ARE going. This is Sylus Qin. Do you understand how many people would kill for this opportunity?” She’s already pointing you to the aisle. “Those girls down there are going to lose their minds. This is the best night of my life.”
“You’re a little too excited about this.”
“Are you kidding? You’re about to go meet the hottest bull rider in the circuit, and his entire fan club is going to implode when they find out. This is peak hurt-comfort material.” She pauses, eyes lighting up with realization. “I’m gonna try to console them afterward. The blonde one is kind of cute when she’s angry.”
“Tara.”
“What? You get the hot cowboy, I get to make the heartbroken rodeo girls feel better. Everybody wins.” She grins. “Especially me.”
You roll your eyes. She physically shoves you toward the exit.
“Now go. Before he changes his mind.” Tara looks down toward the rail where Bedazzled and her friends are still trying to get Sylus’s attention. “I’m going to go offer emotional support. Wish me luck.”
You’re going to strangle her. After you maybe, possibly go to Gate 7.
Just to tell off the cowboy.
Obviously.
—
Gate 7 leads to a restricted area—trailers, practice equipment, and cowboys in various states of undress. You’re about to turn back when you see Sylus.
He’s leaning against a fence, hat tilted back, stripped down to a white t-shirt that clings to his muscled frame in ways that should be illegal. There’s dirt on his jeans, and a dark bruise blooming on his pale forearm that he doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by.
He’s taller up close. Broader. And those eyes are definitely, unnaturally red.
“You came.” He sounds genuinely pleased.
You nod, keeping a careful distance. “You’re very pushy for a stranger.”
“Sylus.” He pushes off the fence, extending a hand toward you. “Now I’m not a stranger.”
You take his hand, large and calloused and scarred along the knuckles. His grip is warm and firm, and he holds on just a second longer than necessary.
“And you are?”
You tell him your name, and he repeats it slowly, like he’s testing how it feels.
“Pretty. Doesn’t match the attitude, though.”
Your eyes narrow immediately. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You looked miserable up there. Bored. Like you were mentally filing your taxes.” He tilts his head, studying you. “City girl?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Sweetie, everything about you screams ‘I don’t belong here.’” His eyes drag over you slowly—your designer boots, your expensive jeans, the way you’re standing like you’re afraid of getting dirty. “Your boots cost more than most people make in a month. You’re holding yourself like someone might brush against you the wrong way. And you’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one people get when they’re critiquing something they’ve never done themselves.”
“I don’t need to ride a bull to recognize—”
“Recognize what?” He’s close enough now that you have to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. “Go on. Tell me, princess. What did I do wrong?”
Princess.
He says it like he’s daring you to get offended. You want to hate it. But your pulse clearly didn’t get the memo.
“Second buck,” you say before you can stop yourself. “You held center. But you should’ve leaned into it.”
His eyebrows raise slightly. “Should I?”
“The bull was digging left. You stayed neutral. If you’d shifted your weight—”
“Show me.”
You blink. “What?”
“Show me.” He gestures to the fence rail beside him. “Up. Show me what I should’ve done.”
“I’m not getting on a fence—”
“Ah.” He crosses his arms, stance relaxed like he’s already won. “All that mouth was just for show. My mistake.”
Your jaw tightens. You step forward and grab the top rail.
His hand closes around your wrist before you’ve even set your weight.
“You’ll slip like that.” He adjusts your grip, thumb dragging across your palm. “Fingers here. Wrist locked. Unless you want to fall.”
“I wasn’t going to fall—”
“Show me, then.” He steps back, waiting.
You haul yourself up onto the rail, boots wedging between the crossbars, steadying your weight to keep your balance. You settle there, stable, and you know you’ve done it well because he pauses in that particular way men do when they realize you’re more capable than they assumed.
He moves closer slowly, until he’s standing right there, palm coming to rest lightly on your ankle.
“Your eyes weren’t on the rider,” he says.
“They were on the bull," you tell him. “The rider’s posture only matters relative to momentum. The animal is the variable. You were just—compensating.”
His thumb shifts against your ankle bone, pressure increasing the slightest fraction.
“Compensating for a thousand pounds of rage isn't ‘just’ anything.”
You meet his eyes. “It is when you’re supposed to be good at it.”
He doesn’t smile. He steps between your legs, looking up at you with that unreadable expression.
“Show me,” he says, unhurried. “Show me where you think I should’ve shifted.”
You swallow. “I’m not a professional—”
“That didn’t stop you from having an opinion, did it?” He tilts his head. “You’ve been judging me since I got off that bull. So judge. Show me what I did wrong.”
You lift your hand, pointing to where you’d seen the bull dig in. “Second buck. Right there. If you’d leaned into it instead of holding straight—”
His hand comes to your knee. Not grabbing, just setting the angle. “Like this?”
Your breath catches.
His other hand settles light on your hip—the kind of touch that’s functional, yet makes your skin burn through your jeans.
“Or here,” he asks, voice dropping lower, “if you want to keep your spine neutral?”
The air shifts between you.
“You’re—” You have to clear your throat. “You’re mocking me.”
“I’m learning.” His thumb brushes a slow circle against your knee. “You sat above me for eight seconds looking unimpressed. Now you’re above me again.” His eyes hold yours. “So teach me. What should I have done differently?”
It’s not about the bull anymore. You both know it.
“You should’ve—” Your voice is unsteady. “Weight forward. Hips angled—”
“Show me.” His hands are still on you, patient and sure. “Don’t tell me. Show me where.”
You shift your hips forward slightly to demonstrate and his grip tightens, subtle yet unmistakable.
“Like that?” His words are rougher now. “That’s what you wanted to see?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting.” He steps back finally, hands dropping away, and you hate that you immediately miss the contact. “Get down.”
“What—”
“Get off the rail. I’m going to teach you something.”
“I don’t need—”
“Yes, you do.” He’s already walking toward the practice area. “You know the theory. Now let’s see if you can execute. Come on, city girl. Time to back up all that criticism.”
You should refuse. Should go back to the stands. Instead, you climb down from the fence and follow him.
Because he’s right. You’ve been judging from a distance. And something about the challenge in his voice makes you want to prove him wrong.
Or maybe prove him right.
You’re not sure which would be more satisfying.
—
The mechanical bull sits in the empty practice area like a challenge.
“Absolutely not.”
“You just spent ten minutes telling me what I did wrong.” Sylus is already at the control panel, adjusting settings with casual confidence. “Now you get to prove you understand what you’re talking about.”
“I don’t need to ride it to understand—”
“Talk is easy. Execution’s different.” He doesn’t look up. “You can critique all you want, but until you feel it, you don’t actually know anything.”
The dismissiveness in his tone makes you tense. “Fine. Start it up.”
“Not yet.” Now he looks at you. “Get on first.”
You approach the bull, eyeing it skeptically. It’s wider than it looked from a distance.
“Problem?”
“No.”
“Then stop stalling.”
You grab the rail and try to pull yourself up. Your boots slip on the metal and you barely catch yourself.
“Easy, princess.” He’s beside you instantly, hands on your waist. “Step on the platform. I’ll lift.”
“I can do it myself—”
“I know you can.” His grip is firm. “But this is faster. Up.”
He lifts you like you weigh nothing, and suddenly you're straddling the barrel, thighs spread wide, hands scrambling for the rope.
“Don’t.” His voice stops you cold. “Hands off.”
“Then how—”
“You were very confident about hip positioning a minute ago.” He walks around you slowly, assessing your form. “So use your hips. Thighs tight. Core engaged. That’s all you need.”
“That’s not—”
“It is.” He stops in front of you. “You’re trying to hold on because you don’t trust your body. But I watched you on that fence. You’ve got the strength. You just don’t know how to use it yet.”
His hand slides up your outer thigh—not suggestive, testing muscle tension. Your body doesn’t seem to know the difference.
“Squeeze.”
You do, and his hand presses back, checking your stance.
“Harder. You’re holding back.” His thumb digs into your quad. “I can feel it. You’re stronger than this. Show me.”
You squeeze harder, and he makes an approving sound.
“There. That’s what I want to feel.” His hand stays on your thigh, warm and grounding. “When this starts moving, that tension doesn’t drop. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll see.” He moves behind you, his hands settling on your hips. “Lean forward. Hips first.”
He guides your position—forward, tilted, adjusted until you’re perched in a way that feels both vulnerable and powerful.
“This feel unstable?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Good. It should.” His hands don’t leave your hips. “That instability is what you work with, not against. The bull moves, you move. Simple.”
“Nothing about this is simple—”
“It is when you stop overthinking.” His breath is warm against your ear now. “I’m starting it slow. Just feel it. Don’t try to predict or control. Just respond.”
The bull lurches to life.
Your instinct is to grab, to tense, to fight it.
“Breathe.” His voice cuts through your panic. “Hips loose. Let them move.”
You try to focus on your hips, on moving with the gentle rocking.
“Better. But you’re still thinking too much.” The bull bucks slightly harder, and you gasp. “Stop planning your next move. There is no next move. There’s only now.”
“That’s not helpful—”
"No?" He kills the power suddenly. “You want helpful?”
Before you can process, he’s swinging up behind you.
The barrel was already small. With him on it, there’s no space left. His chest is solid against your back, his thighs bracketing yours, his presence overwhelming every sense.
“What are you—”
“Teaching you the difference between knowing and understanding,” he says, like it’s obvious. Like this was inevitable. “You can tell me what I should’ve done. Now I’m going to show you why it works.”
His hands settle on your hips again—firmer this time, fingers splayed wide.
“This is your center.” His fingers press into your hip bones. “Everything starts here. When I move, you’ll feel it here first. Pay attention.”
You can’t do anything besides pay attention. Can’t think about anything except the heat of him, the firm weight pressed against you, the way his voice seems to resonate through your entire body.
“Ready?”
You nod because words are impossible.
The bull starts again, and this time it’s completely different. You feel how his body moves—the subtle shift of his hips, the roll of his spine, the way he absorbs each movement and redirects it. His hands guide you through it, showing you without words how to respond.
“Feel that?” His voice is low against your ear. “That’s what you were trying to describe. The lean, the shift, the weight distribution. It’s not about thinking. It's about feeling.”
His hips roll against yours, demonstrating, and your brain short-circuits.
“Breathe.” His hand spreads across your lower stomach, steadying you. “You’re holding your breath. Don’t. Breathe with the movement.”
You try to breathe, but it’s difficult when you’re this aware of every point of contact.
“Now you.” His hands loosen slightly. “Match my rhythm. Show me you understand.”
You focus on his movement, on the way his body guides yours, and you start to match it. Your hips roll with his, following his lead, and suddenly the movement makes sense.
“There she is.” The satisfaction in his voice goes straight to your core. “Knew you could do it. You just needed to stop thinking you knew better than your body.”
The bull bucks harder and you move with it, your hips rolling, your thighs squeezing, and his hands tighten on you.
“Atta girl.” The words come out rougher. “That’s exactly right. Keep it up.”
You do, and you feel the moment something shifts—the moment it clicks, the moment you stop fighting and start responding.
“You feel that, sweetie?” His voice is strained now. “That’s what eight seconds feels like. That’s what I feel when I ride.”
“Sylus—”
“I know.” His hands slide to your waist, holding you steady as the bull spins. “You’re feeling it now.”
The intimacy of the statement, combined with the movement, the heat, the way his body fits against yours—it’s overwhelming.
“This is—”
“Intense.” He finishes for you. “That’s the point. That's what you were watching from the stands and didn’t understand. The rush. The focus. The way everything else disappears and it’s just you and the movement and eight seconds of pure instinct.”
The bull bucks hard and you gasp, but his grip keeps you stable.
“I’ve got you, princess. You’re not falling. Just stay with me.”
And you do. You stay with him through every twist and buck, your body learning the rhythm, responding to his guidance, until you're not sure where your movement ends and his begins.
When he finally kills the power, you’re both breathing heavily.
“You got it. Eight seconds,” he announces after glancing at his watch. “Not bad for someone who’d never done it before.”
“You were helping—”
“I was teaching. You were learning.” His hands are still on your waist, and he hasn’t moved away. “Big difference. That was all you at the end.”
You’re painfully aware that you don’t want him to let go.
“So.” His thumbs stroke once across your sides. “Still think a city girl knows better than a cowboy?”
Your mouth is dry. “Maybe we’re even.”
His laugh is low and pleased. “Maybe.” He dismounts finally, fluid and controlled, then reaches up for you. “Come here.”
He lifts you down and your legs immediately betray you, shaking and unstable.
His arm wraps around your waist before you can fall. “Easy. Adrenaline drop. Give it a minute.”
“I’m fine—”
“You’re not.” His hand finds your pulse at your neck, pressing lightly. “Heart rate’s still elevated. You’re shaking. When’s the last time you ate?”
“Lunch. Around noon, I think.”
“Hours ago.” He’s already pulling out his phone. “You need food. There’s a diner close by. Best pie in the state.”
“I don’t need you to feed me—”
“Maybe not. But I’m doing it anyway.” He pockets his phone, arm still around your waist. “You just burned through all your energy, and I’m not letting you back out there until I know you’re steady. So. Diner. My treat.”
“This feels like a scheme to keep me around longer.”
“Is it working?” He holds you tighter against him, almost automatically—like his body recognized you before his mind caught up. “Because if it is, I’ve got a whole list of other places I could take you. Hardware store. Feed supply. This town is full of exciting places I could take my time with you.”
Something in the way he says it sends heat down your spine.
“You’re not subtle, you know.”
“Never claimed to be, sweetie.”
Before you can respond, your phone vibrates.
Tara: where ARE u???
Tara: DID SYLUS THE STALLION KIDNAP U???
Tara: if u are in danger pls respond
Tara: if u are having a good time ignore this
You swipe the notifications away.
Sylus watches your thumb move, red eyes half-lidded with amusement. “Emergency?”
“No. Not yet, anyway.” You slide the phone into your pocket. “But if you murder me, my friend knows your name. And your face.”
His laugh echoes across the arena. “Noted.”
You try to step out of his hold, but your legs have other ideas—immediately crumpling under you like two pieces of wet spaghetti.
Before you can hit the dirt, his hand flashes out, hooking a finger through your belt loop and yanking you back against him.
“Careful, city girl. Told you. Adrenaline crash.”
He doesn’t give you a chance to argue, just scoops you up with one arm and settles you against his side.
“Sylus, I can walk—”
“Clearly not,” he counters, but he’s grinning as he starts toward the parking lot, carrying you with ease. “Stop squirming. You’re only making this harder on yourself.”
You’re acutely aware of several things at once: his arm banded around you, the heat of him, the way his shoulder is right there. And—
Oh god.
The group of girls from earlier. Bedazzled and her friends—minus the blonde. All staring as Sylus walks right past them, carrying you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He doesn’t even glance their way, completely oblivious. But they notice. Oh, they notice. If the looks they shot you were bullets, you'd already be bleeding out on the dirt.
You bury your face against his shoulder, trying to make yourself smaller.
“Cold, sweetie?” His voice rumbles through his chest.
“No,” you mutter into his shirt. “I’m trying not to get shanked.”
He pauses mid-step. “What?”
“Your fan club. They look like they want to murder me.”
He glances back, finally noticing the group of glaring fans, and laughs like you told him a bad joke.
“Oh, them.” He adjusts his grip on you, hauling you higher. In one smooth motion, he tosses you over his shoulder.
You shriek. “What are you doing?! Put me down!”
He dips you, slow, like he’s genuinely about to release you. “If you insist."
Your legs are dangling, the Sychos are staring, and you’re suddenly very aware of the distance between your boots and the ground.
“No—no, I don’t insist—!” You clutch at his shirt, holding onto him for dear life. “Don’t you dare put me down—”
“Thought so.” He straightens, one arm locking securely against you as he keeps walking. “See? Now they can’t reach you. Problem solved.”
“Sylus!”
“You’re the one who said they looked dangerous. I’m just being practical.” His hand settles firmly on the back of your thigh, patting it gently. “Now stop wiggling before you fall.”
“I’m going to fall because you just—you can’t just throw people over your shoulder—”
“Just did.” He heads straight for a massive black pickup, tall enough you’d need a running start to climb in. He pops the door open with one hand and deposits you in the passenger seat. “And you’re still in one piece. I’d say it all worked out.”
Your hands are still fisted in his shirt, arms locked around his shoulders. He notices immediately.
“You can let go now, sweetie,” he says, amused.
Your brain registers that you’re sitting. That you’re safe. That there’s no reason to still be holding on.
Your hands don’t get the message.
“I—” You look down at where your fingers are twisted in his shirt. “My hands aren't listening.”
“I can see that.” He’s trying not to smile. “You need a minute?”
“Shut up.” You force your fingers to uncurl, releasing him. You sink into the leather, groaning into your hands. “My dignity is destroyed.”
“Your dignity was already questionable after that bull ride.” He leans against the doorframe, eyes glinting with mischief. “Besides, it could've been worse.”
“How could that have possibly been worse?”
“I could’ve set you down and let them watch you try to stand on your own.” He’s smirking now. “Would’ve made my point even clearer.”
Your cheeks burn at the implication. “You’re impossible.”
“You keep saying that.” He closes your door and walks around to the driver’s side, sliding in with easy grace. “But you’re still here.”
“Maybe I’m waiting for the right moment to escape.”
“Good luck with that. Your legs still work about as well as a newborn calf’s.” He starts the engine, eyes flicking to you with amusement. “Give it another ten minutes. Then you can make your dramatic exit.”
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“I’m enjoying you. The entertainment is just a bonus.” He shifts into drive. “Seatbelt. Then you're going to tell me what possessed a city girl to spend her hard-earned money watching idiots wrestle with livestock for sport.”
—
The diner is exactly what you’d expect—vinyl booths, checkered floors, jukebox blasting something twangy, and a waitress who looks like she’s been working here since the dawn of time.
“Sylus, honey!” She’s got a thick drawl and a smile that crinkles her whole face. “Didn’t expect to see you tonight. Thought you’d be celebratin’ with the boys.”
“Had better plans, Dolores.” He gestures to you.
“Well, ain’t that somethin’.” Her eyebrows shoot up, looking between you both with obvious interest. “The usual for you, sugar?”
“Please. And whatever she wants.”
You order coffee and pie because apparently that’s what you do now. Follow strange cowboys to diners and eat pie at ten PM.
“I’ll get that right out.” Dolores pats Sylus on the shoulder as she leaves, but not before giving you a very obvious once-over that feels almost approving.
“So,” Sylus says once the waitress leaves. “Eight seconds.”
“Are we really doing this?”
“We’re absolutely doing this.” He leans back in the booth, looking insufferably pleased with himself. “You lasted eight seconds on that bull. With my help, admittedly, but still. Eight seconds.”
“And?”
“And I’m wondering if you can last longer.”
The way he says it makes heat crawl up your neck.
“Longer on the bull?” you ask carefully.
His smile is wicked. “Sure. Let’s start with that.”
Dolores brings pie—massive slices that look homemade. You take a bite and it’s unfairly delicious.
“Okay,” you admit. “This is really good pie.”
“Told you. Dolores doesn’t mess around.” He takes a bite of his own, watching you. “So. What do you do? When you’re not being dragged to rodeos, that is.”
“Marketing. Corporate.” You make a sour face. “It’s as boring as it sounds.”
“Can’t be that boring if it pays for those boots.”
“The boots are the only good thing about it.” You take another bite. “What about you? Is bull riding actually lucrative, or do you just like getting thrown around for fun?”
“I don’t get thrown, sweetie. That’s the whole point,” he corrects you with a grin. “And yeah, it pays well. If you’re good at it.”
“Which you are.”
“Which I am.” There’s no false modesty to it, just fact. “Been doing it since I was seventeen. Worked my way up. Now I’m ranked second in the country.”
“Second?”
“For now. I’ll be first by the end of the season.” He says it with absolute certainty.
“Confident.”
“Realistic. I know what I’m capable of.” His eyes meet yours. “And I know what I want.”
The weight of that statement sits between you.
“And what do you want?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
“Right now? To figure out what it takes to actually impress you.” He leans forward slightly. “Because I don’t think anyone’s managed it in a while.”
You open your mouth to respond when Sylus’s phone rings. He glances at it and sighs.
“Give me a minute. I need to take this.” He slides out of the booth. “Stay put.”
You blink up at him, chin tilted just a little. “Yes, sir.”
He stops, eyebrows lifting, then gives a soft, incredulous shake of his head.
“Cute.” He’s walking backward toward the bathroom, phone angled away from his mouth, still looking at you. “But if you’re trying to draw blood, sweetie, you’re going to have to put your jaw into it.”
You’re left alone with your pie, trying very hard to pretend your heartbeat isn’t pounding in places it has no business reaching.
“Can I top off that coffee, sugar?” Dolores appears almost immediately, like she was waiting for him to leave.
“Sure. Thanks.”
She pours slowly, then glances toward the bathroom. “He’s a good one, that Sylus.”
“I just met him like, two hours ago.”
“I know.” She’s smiling. “That’s what makes this excitin'.”
“What do you mean?”
Dolores leans in conspiratorially. “Honey, I’ve been workin’ here for fifteen years. This is the spot all them rodeo fellas flock to after. I’ve seen Sylus in ‘ere dozens of times—always with the boys, always alone. Never once brought a girl here. Not one time.”
Your heart flips. “Maybe he just—”
“Trust me, them buckle bunnies try. Lord, do they try. That boy has more women throwin’ themselves at him than I have napkins in this diner.” She shakes her head. “He’s always polite about it, that sweetheart. But he never takes ‘em up on it. Too focused on riding, he always says.”
“Then why—”
“That’s what I’m wonderin’, honey.” Dolores sets the coffee pot back on the counter, wiping her hands on her apron. “But whatever you did, you got his attention. Really got it. I can tell.”
You notice his hat sitting on the seat beside you—the black cowboy hat he’d tossed there when he sat down. On impulse, you pick it up and settle it on your head. It’s too big, sliding down slightly, and you have to tilt it back to see properly.
Dolores notices and her eyes go wide. Then she grins. “Oh, honey. Do y’know what that means?”
“What?”
“Wear the hat, ride the cowboy.” She’s trying not to laugh. “That’s the rule ‘round here.”
Your face heats. “That’s not a real—”
“Realer than them nails on your hand.” She eyes your manicure with a shake of her head, still grinning. “Cowboys don’t play pretend.”
She walks away, leaving you sitting there in his hat, suddenly very aware of what you’ve just done. You consider taking it off. Handing it back when he returns. Playing it safe. But something stubborn and reckless in you keeps it on.
You take a sip of coffee, trying to look casual, when the bathroom door opens.
Sylus walks back toward the booth, phone in his hand, looking slightly annoyed. “Sponsors. Kept going on about—”
He sees you and stops dead in his tracks.
His eyes go dark—pupils blown wide, that red almost glowing in the diner lighting. His jaw tightens, and you watch his throat work as he swallows.
“What do you think you’re doing, city girl?” His voice has dropped at least half an octave.
“Drinking coffee.” You take another sip, holding his gaze, heart hammering. “Why?”
“You know why.” He slides back into the booth, but there’s tension in every line of his body now. “Take it off.”
“Why?” You rest your chin on your hand and blink up at him. “Does it not look good on me?”
He goes quiet for a moment, just looking at you. He closes his eyes and shakes his head, almost laughing. “It looks perfect on you. That’s the problem.”
“I don’t see a problem.”
“Of course you don’t, princess.” He leans back, arms spreading across the back of the booth. “You put on a man’s hat and think it’s just a fashion statement.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.” He’s studying you now, that intense focus that makes you feel pinned in place. “It’s a claim. One I don’t think you intended to make.”
You adjust the hat on your head, tilting it back slightly so he can see your face better.
“That depends on what I’m claiming.”
His gaze traces your mouth, your throat, the line of brim shading your eyes. When his attention finally returns to yours, he drops the word between you like a coin:
“Me.”
You open your mouth, but nothing actually comes out. He smiles like he knew that would happen.
“You publicly claimed a cowboy. Impressively reckless move, by the way.” He leans back, legs stretching under the table like he’s getting comfortable. “So now I have two choices: ignore you, or teach you what you started.”
“And which are you choosing?”
“What do you think?”
Your eyes narrow. “I think you’re enjoying this too much.”
“I am. You’ve been pushing me all night. Looking unimpressed, critiquing my ride, now stealing my hat.” His eyes scan your face. “Now you’re sitting there wearing it like you’re innocent."
“Maybe I just like the style.”
“Maybe. Or maybe you wanted to see what I’d do. How I’d react. Whether I’d actually follow through.” He cocks his head. “So. How am I doing? Meeting expectations?”
Your mouth is dry. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do.” His voice drops lower. “You’ve been testing me since the moment I met you. Before that, even. Every word, every look.” He leans forward slightly. “This is just you pushing harder. Seeing if I’ll push back.”
“And will you?”
“Absolutely.” He doesn’t waste a breath. “Question is whether you’re ready for it.”
“I can handle it.”
His laugh is quiet. “Can you, sweetie? Because that hat says you want something specific from me. Something I’ve been holding back on all night.” His red eyes are dark now. “And once I stop holding back, I don’t do things halfway.”
The promise in his voice makes heat pool low in your stomach.
“You’re very confident.”
“I know what I'm looking at. Someone who’s been playing it safe. Someone who wants to stop overthinking.” He pauses. “Someone who put on my hat because she wanted me to do something about it.”
“That’s a lot of assumptions.”
“Then take it off.” He gestures to the hat. “Right now. Prove me wrong.”
Your lap with a single shake of your head—no.
His smile is absolutely feral.
“We’re leaving.”
You blink up at him. “Maybe I’m not finished.”
He tosses way too much cash onto the table—enough to pay for the coffee, the pie, Dolores’s retirement, and the entire county fair.
“Yes, you are.” He stands, extending his hand. “Come on, city girl. Time to see if you can back up what that hat is promising."
You look at his hand. At the challenge in his eyes. At the way he’s smiling like he already knows exactly how this is going to end.
And you take it.
His palm is warm against yours as he guides you to the door. As you pass the counter, Dolores calls out: “You take good care of her now, y’hear?”
Sylus doesn’t break stride. “Oh, I intend to.”
Outside, the night air hits you, cool and dusty. Gravel crunches beneath your boots as you approach his pickup parked at the edge of the lot. He opens the passenger door, but before you can climb in, his hands are on either side of you, caging you in. One is pressed beside your head against the metal, the other settling on the open door, his body a wall of heat that’s too close to ignore.
“Last chance,” he says, like a warning. His fingers toy lazily with the hat. “You take this off, I drive you back to your hotel. Wish you good night like a gentleman.” His thumb pauses at the curve of the brim. “And the next time we see each other, we’re back to being strangers.”
It’s a terrible idea. You know it’s a terrible idea. But he’s looking at you like he’s already imagining you in his lap, and you’re looking at him like you want to see how good he is without the bull.
You reach up and adjust the hat, making sure it’s secure.
“I don’t want to be strangers.”
He doesn’t respond with words. Instead, his hands settle on your waist as he lifts you effortlessly, taking his time settling you into the passenger seat. He reaches for your seatbelt, pulling it across your body slowly. The click echoes in the quiet of the cab.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I couldn’t forget this—”
Only then does he lean in, forearm braced against the doorframe, his face inches from yours. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear with an affection so unexpected you forget how to breathe. For a second, you think he might kiss you.
Instead, he flicks the spot he cleared on your forehead.
“—if I tried.”
—
Sylus doesn’t drive back toward town. Instead, he heads in the opposite direction—away from the arena, away from the lights, into the dark stretch of highway that leads to nothing but open land.
“Where are we going?” you ask.
“You’ll see.”
His hand rests on the gear shift, close enough to your thigh that you’re acutely aware of it. The radio plays something slow and country that you don’t recognize, and the silence between you isn’t uncomfortable—just charged. Waiting.
You watch the landscape change outside your window, buildings giving way to fields, streetlights disappearing until there’s nothing but darkness.
“This is very serial killer of you,” you say finally.
He glances over, amused. “Having second thoughts?”
“Just making an observation.”
“For the record, if I wanted to murder you, I wouldn’t take you somewhere this obvious.” He’s smiling now, thumb tapping against the steering wheel in time with the music. “Besides, you're still wearing my hat. That implies a certain level of trust.”
Your hand goes to the brim automatically. You’d almost forgotten it was there.
“Or a certain level of stupidity.”
“Maybe both.” He turns off the highway onto a dirt road, the truck bouncing slightly over the uneven ground. “We’re almost there.”
“Almost where?”
“Patience.”
The road winds upward, climbing steadily. Trees give way to open sky, and then suddenly you’re at the top of a hill and he's pulling over, killing the engine. The entire valley spreads out below—a sea of twinkling lights in the distance, small towns and scattered ranches creating constellations on the dark earth. Above, the sky is filled with stars, more than you’ve ever been able to see in the city.
“Oh,” you say quietly.
“Yeah.” He’s watching you instead of the view. “I like to come up here after a ride. Bulls fight back, fans scream—up here, no one asks anything of you.”
You tear your eyes away from the sky to look at him. “It’s beautiful.”
“It is,” he agrees. But he’s still looking at you, not the landscape.
“Pretty stars,” you say, but there's a challenge in the words. “Shame you haven’t looked at them once.”
“If you want to talk constellations, sweetie, I’ll play along.” He shifts in his seat, angling toward you. “Or you can admit you didn’t climb in my truck because you're fond of astronomy.”
“First of all, I didn’t climb in your truck.” You manage to find your voice. “You picked me up and put me in it.”
“Correct.” His mouth curves slow. “And then you latched onto me like a kitten falling out of a tree and said, and I quote, ‘don’t you dare put me down.’”
Your face heats. “My legs weren’t working—”
“Your legs were working just fine once we got to the truck.” His eyes hold yours. “You just didn’t want me to stop touching you.”
The tension in the truck is suffocating.
“Get in the back,” he says quietly.
Your stomach flips. “What?”
“The backseat.” He says it simply, nodding toward the leather bench seat behind you. “Go on. I’ll give you a head start.”
“A head start for what—”
“For getting comfortable before I join you.” His eyes are dark now, heated. “Unless you’d rather stay up here and stare out the windshield?”
You should probably ask more questions. Should probably think this through. Instead, you unbuckle your seatbelt and turn toward the back.
The console is in the way, making you climb over the seat awkwardly. You brace one hand on the seat back, getting one knee up on the console—
“Keep it moving, sweetie.”
You shoot him a look over your shoulder. “Make me.”
The crack of his palm against your ass is immediate, sharp enough to make you gasp. Then his hand is rubbing the spot gently, soothing.
“Consider it done."
“You just—”
“Helped you along. You asked for it.” He sounds completely unrepentant. “Would’ve been inconsiderate of me not to oblige.”
Your face is burning as you scramble the rest of the way into the backseat. You turn to glare at him through the gap between the seats.
“Comfortable back there?” he asks smugly.
“You’re an asshole.”
“And you like it.”
You settle into the backseat, heart pounding, very aware of how spacious it is. How the tinted windows make it feel private despite being parked on a hilltop. How he’s still in the front seat, just watching you squirm.
“Are you coming back here or not?”
“Depends.” He’s taking his sweet time, the bastard. “Are you going to keep that attitude when I do?”
“Probably.”
“Excellent.” He shifts, and you hear the driver’s door open. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
He gets out and you hear his boots on the ground, coming around to the back door. It opens and suddenly he’s there—too big for the space, filling the entire doorway as he climbs in with easy confidence.
The door closes behind him, and suddenly the truck feels very small.
He takes a seat, legs spread, one arm along the back of the headrest, and just looks at you.
“Come here.”
You move toward him and he guides you with hands on your waist until you’re straddling his lap exactly like you straddled the bull earlier. The position is familiar now, but infinitely more intimate. His hands settle on your hips, thumbs pressing into the hollows.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Still wearing my hat, I see.”
“You told me to keep it on.”
“I did.” His hands slide up your waist, then back down. “Looks good on you. Better than I imagined.”
“You imagined this?”
“From the second you put it on.” His eyes hold yours. “Imagined you exactly like this. In my lap, in my hat, in the back of my truck. Reality’s better, though.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His hand comes up to adjust the hat again, tilting it back slightly so he can see your face better. “Because now I get to see if you can follow through on what you started.”
You swallow. “And what did I start?”
“Everything.” His hand moves to cup your face, turning it toward his. “You sat up in those stands looking at me like eight seconds was nothing. Critiqued my form to my face. Then had the goddamn nerve to put on my hat in front of witnesses.” His other hand presses against your ribs, palm warm and steady through the thin cotton. “And for someone so unimpressed, your heart’s about to beat right through your shirt.”
You glance down at his hand on your ribs, then back up at him, tilting your head with mock innocence. “If you wanted to get your hands on me, you could’ve just asked nicely.”
“Is that right? Then allow me to ask you nicely.” His fingers curve around your jaw, thumb skimming your bottom lip. “Can I kiss you? Can I put my hands on you? Can I make you forget every reason you think this is a bad idea?”
The directness of it steals your breath.
“That's a lot of questions.”
“One word answers all of them.” His eyes search yours, glowing a deep red that’s almost otherworldly even in the dark. “So what's it going to be, sweetie? Yes or no?”
You want to make him work for it more. Tease him, push back, see how far you can take this.
Instead, you hear yourself say: “Yes.”
His smile is devastating. “Say it again.”
"Yes."
Then his mouth is on yours, and every thought evaporates.
The kiss isn’t tentative or testing—it’s all-consuming. His tongue slides against yours with clear intent, his hand tightening in your hair to angle you exactly how he wants you. You make a sound that’s embarrassingly desperate and feel his mouth curve against your lips.
“There it is,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to speak. “Knew you’d make those pretty sounds.”
“Shut up.”
“Make me.”
You kiss him harder, fisting your hands in his shirt, and his laugh vibrates through you. His hand slides from your jaw to your throat—not squeezing, just resting there, feeling your pulse race under his palm.
“You taste even better than I thought you would,” he says against your mouth, kissing you again before you can respond. “Been thinking about this since you looked at me like I was wasting your time in those stands.”
“That was barely three hours ago—”
“Three hours too long.” His teeth catch your bottom lip, tugging gently. “Could’ve done this in the parking lot. In the diner. Hell, I thought about it on the practice bull when you were sitting in my lap, acting like you didn’t know what you were doing to me.”
You roll your hips like you did on the bull, teasing, feeling exactly how hard he is through the denim.
He hisses through his teeth.
“That's how we’re doing this, hm?” His hand slides from your throat to your hip, holding you still with effortless strength. “You want to play, princess? Fine. Let’s play.”
His mouth finds your neck and you gasp at the heat of it, at the scrape of teeth followed by the soothing stroke of his tongue. He’s marking you, and you both know it—intentional, claiming, leaving evidence that you were here, that you let him do this.
“Sylus—”
“I know. I can feel you shaking. You want more.” His hand slips under your shirt, settling at your low back. “You’ve been worked up since the bull, haven’t you?”
Heat runs up your spine. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Liar.” His teeth graze your earlobe. “I felt how you were shaking. Saw how flushed you got. And I’d bet my prize money that if I touched you right now, I’d find you soaked.”
Heat floods through you at the accusation. “You’re very sure of yourself.”
“Am I wrong?”
You don’t answer, which is answer enough.
“Thought so. You want something? Then ask nicely.” His smile presses against your throat. “You made such a point of it earlier. So ask.”
Your pride wars with your need. “I don’t beg—”
“I didn’t ask you to beg. I asked you to ask.” He pulls back to look at you, and there’s heat in his eyes, but something patient, too. “What do you want?”
The way he’s looking at you—like he’ll wait all night if that’s what it takes, like he’ll give you anything you ask for as long as you just ask—makes something in you soften.
“Touch me, Sylus,” you say quietly. “Please.”
“See? That wasn’t so hard.” His hand slides higher up your shirt, fingers tracing your stomach, your ribs, the underside of your breast. “And since you asked so nicely…”
His thumb brushes across your nipple and you gasp, arching into the touch.
“That’s what I wanted to see.” His voice has gone dark, satisfied. “You, letting go. Not thinking so hard about your next smart comment. Just feeling.”
His thumb circles again, slower this time, and you bite your lip to keep from making another embarrassing noise.
“Don’t.” His other hand finds your chin, pulling your lip free with his thumb. “I want to hear it. Every sound. Every breath. No one can hear you out here but me. So let me hear what I do to you.”
He rolls your nipple between his fingers, and you can’t stop the moan that escapes.
“Perfect.” He sounds wrecked. “Do that again.”
“Sylus, please—”
“Please, what?” His mouth finds your jaw, kissing a path to your ear. “Use your words. Tell me what you need.”
“More—I need more—”
“More of this?” His hand moves to your other breast, giving it the same attention. “Or more of me?”
“Both—” Your hips rock forward on instinct, and this time he doesn’t stop you. Sylus lets you grind against him, his free hand at your hip guiding the movement.
“That’s it, pretty girl. Take what you need.” His breathing has gone rough. “Show me how badly you want this.”
You rock against him again and feel him twitch beneath you, hard and hot even through all the layers of clothing.
“Fuck.” The curse slips out raw and unfiltered. “You feel what you do to me? How hard you make me when you move like that?”
“Yes—”
“Good. Because I’d like to return the favor.” His hand slides from your breast down your stomach, fingers playing at the button of your jeans. “Say yes.”
“Yes—god, yes—”
Your yes barely lands before his mouth is back on yours, hot and wet and relentless as he flicks the button open and slides the zipper down with ease. “Lift up for me.”
You do, bracing your hands on his shoulders, and he helps you shimmy out of your jeans and underwear. They get stuck on your boots, and you both fumble with them, laughing breathlessly until you’re finally naked from the waist down.
“Leave them. Boots and hat stay on,” he decides, eyes dragging over you. “I like the look.”
“Of course you do.”
“City girl spread out like a cowgirl in the back of my truck?” His hands are on your thighs, spreading them wider. “That’s a fantasy I didn’t know I had until right now.”
He’s still fully clothed, and there’s something obscene about it that makes you squirm—you half-naked in his lap while he’s still in his jeans and t-shirt.
“Don’t get shy on me now.” His thumb brushes your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you need him. “You’ve been pushing me all night. Testing me. And you’ve been so damn good at it, too.”
He glides a single finger through your center and you gasp at the contact, your body curving into his touch involuntarily.
“Christ,” he groans. “All this for me?”
You can’t form words.
“Since the bull?” His fingers trace through your wetness, maddeningly light. “Since I had my hands on your hips? Or before that—since you watched me ride?”
“All of it,” you manage.
“All of it.” He sounds way too satisfied with himself. “So you were impressed. You were just too stubborn to admit it.”
“Your ego—”
“Is about to get a lot bigger.” He finds your clit and circles it slowly. “Because I’m going to make you come for me at least twice before you even think about taking my cock. Understand?”
Your breath catches. “Twice?”
“Minimum.” His hand slides higher, cupping you fully now. “You’ve been wound up all night. I’m not rushing this on account of your impatience.”
“Don’t—ah—” Your protest dies when his finger circles slowly. “Don’t be smug about it—”
“Too late.” He watches your face with wicked eyes as he touches you, learning what makes you gasp, what makes you grind down against his hand. “But I like that you’re still trying to tell me what to do. Keep it up. See where it gets you.”
His finger slides inside and you cry out, head falling forward to rest against his shoulder.
“That’s it. Take what you need. I’m not going anywhere.”
He works you slowly, adding another finger when you’re ready, his thumb finding your clit with devastating pressure. And all the while he’s murmuring praise against your temple—telling you how perfect you are, how good you feel, how beautiful you look falling apart for him.
“Sylus—I’m gonna—”
“I know. I can feel it.” His fingers move faster. “There. Right there. Come on, princess. Let me see what happens when you finally stop fighting it. Make it count. I've got you.”
The command combined with his fingers and his voice and the heat of him beneath you—it’s all too much. Your orgasm hits with a cry, clenching around his fingers as pleasure crashes through you. He works you through it, drawing it out until you’re trembling and oversensitive, and only then does he slowly withdraw his hand.
You’re still catching your breath when he brings his fingers to his mouth.
Your eyes go wide. “Sylus—”
“Shh.”
His own eyes close as he tastes you, tongue dragging over the pads of his fingers. When his lashes lift again, he looks wrecked in a way you've never seen.
“That,” he murmurs, lips closing around his knuckle, “is going to be a problem.”
You can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but stare at his mouth.
“A...problem?”
“For me. And now for you,” he says, hand already sliding up your thigh once more. “That’s one. Now let’s get you the second one before I lose my mind.”
You shake your head. “I can’t—I’m too—”
“You can. You will.” His two fingers slip inside with little resistance, fucking you slowly but without mercy. “I need you ready for me. Need to make sure your body can handle what it’s begging for. Understand?”
Your hand flies to his wrist—not to stop him, just to hold on.
He looks down where you're holding him, lips brushing your cheek. "Oh? That bad already?"
Your head falls to his shoulder. “This is torture—”
"Maybe." His thumb presses against your clit again and you jerk. “But you’ll thank me for it later.”
His fingers work you back up, and despite the oversensitivity, despite thinking you couldn’t possibly—
“That's it.” His forehead presses against yours, breath hot against your lips. “Feel that? Let it build. Don't rush. I want all of it.”
You’re climbing again impossibly, every nerve ending screaming, and when his fingers curl just right—
“Fuck—already?” He increases the pressure, and you cry out. “Greedy little thing. Go ahead. Give me another one.”
You do, less intense than the first but somehow deeper, clenching around his fingers while he murmurs approval.
“That’s two.” He slowly withdraws his hand, and your breath hitches at the loss. Before you can process the movement, his fingers are at your lips. “Open.”
You do, and he slides them into your mouth—the same fingers that were just inside you. The taste is foreign and intimate and when you automatically close your lips around them, his breathing goes ragged.
“Look at that.” His eyes are locked on your mouth. “So obedient when it suits you, hm?”
You swirl your tongue around his fingers deliberately, and his hips jerk beneath you. Then you bite down lightly and he laughs.
“There she is.” He pulls his hand away, already working his belt. “Now help me with this before I lose what’s left of my patience.”
Your fingers join his at the buckle. “Didn’t know you had any patience to begin with.”
“I’m a very patient man.” He gets his jeans open just enough to free himself. “Just not when it comes to you.”
There’s a moment where your brain can’t connect the visual to reality.
His cock sits in his palm, thick and heavy, already flushed and glistening with precum that's slowly swelling under his thumb. A single vein runs along the shaft, steady and pulsing with each heartbeat you can feel through your own.
You felt him earlier—broad and unforgiving, even through denim, against the curve of your ass every time your hips rolled back into him on the practice bull. You’d convinced yourself it was just the momentum. Coincidence. Adrenaline.
You look up at him. Then down. Then up again.
“Show-off,” you scoff, but it comes out thinner than intended.
He huffs out a laugh, low and disbelieving. "Sweetie, if you're going to bluff to my face, at least don't drool while you do it."
You try for nonchalant, rolling your eyes and straightening your spine. It does nothing to hide the tremor in your knees.
“You’re shaking. Relax.” Before you can protest, he’s already cupping your jaw, kissing you slowly, deeply, thoroughly, in a way that says slow down, you’re okay, I’m right here. He pulls away only when he’s sure you’re not trembling anymore. “You can handle it.”
He positions you over him, hands on your hips, guiding you onto the blunt head of his cock.
“Slow,” he instructs. “Take your time. Let your body adjust.”
You sink down slowly and the stretch makes you gasp. He’s patient—letting you control the pace, hands steady on your waist.
“That’s it. Breathe. You’re taking me so well.” His voice is strained. “Almost there. Just a little more.”
When you're fully seated, you’re both breathless.
“There,” he says roughly. “That’s one.”
Understanding hits you through the haze.
“You’re counting,” you say.
“I’m counting.” His hands squeeze your hips. “You lasted eight seconds on that bull. Let’s see if you can make it to nine on me.”
“And if I can’t?”
“Then we keep trying until you do.” His teeth scrape your collarbone. “I’ve got all night.”
You brace your hands on his shoulders and start to move, rolling your hips the way he taught you earlier.
“There you go. Just like that. Find your rhythm.”
You do, and his hands help guide you, help you find the perfect angle.
“That’s two,” he says when you rock down particularly hard.
When you really start to ride him it’s not pretty, not practiced, but instinctive and desperate. The stretch, the fullness—it's almost too much, the way every shift of your hips makes him groan beneath you. His hands slide up your back, threading into your hair when your rhythm stutters.
“Three.”
You’re already nearing the edge of release again—oversensitized and overwhelmed but chasing that feeling anyway.
“Four.”
“Sylus, it’s—too—too much—”
“You can take it. I know you can.” His fingers circle your clit slowly, and you can't help the way you clench around him. His jaw flexes, eyes closing for half a second. “Not yet, sweetie. Give me five more. I know you’ve got it in you.”
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can. You’re tougher than you think.” You slam down hard, chasing that feeling, and his control visibly cracks. “Five—fuck—”
Your thighs are burning, your breath coming in gasps, but you don’t stop. Can’t stop. You sink onto him once more, inch by inch.
“Six.”
“Sylus—”
“I know. I can feel it. The way you’re clenching around me.” His other hand tightens in your hair. “But you don’t get to come until we hit nine. Think you can hold it?”
It’s torture. Exquisite torture.
You ride him in one long stride, hips lifting until just the tip holds you, then sinking back down until he fills you to the base.
“Christ—Seven—”
Your thighs are shaking now, barely holding on, and he knows it.
“That's it. Take it.” The words are hot against your throat. Everything else fades. “Eight.”
“I can’t hold it—”
“Yes you can. Give me one more." His hands tighten around your hips, holding you steady. "One more, and it's all yours.”
You slam down hard, and he groans your name into your mouth.
“Nine.”
You shatter, clenching around him, and suddenly he’s moving—flipping you both so you’re on your back across the seat, legs spread, boots planted on either side of him as he looms over you.
“My turn.” He pulls almost all the way out, your walls still fluttering around him as you chase the end of your third orgasm. "Unless you want me to stop?"
“Sylus—please—I need—”
He pushes back in, driving deep into you in one motion. You wait for the rhythm, the thrust, the relief. He doesn't give it to you.
“I know what you need.” Your hips twitch once, and his fingers tighten around them in gentle warning. “But I need to hear you say it.”
You clutch at his forearms, nails digging into the taut muscle. "Sylus—move—"
"Move how?" He stays infuriatingly still. "Faster? Harder? You're going to have to be more specific than that, sweetie."
"Harder—I need you to—god, just fuck me, Sylus, please—"
"Finally."
It sounds like relief, like hunger, like he's been holding himself back as much as he's made you wait.
Then he moves—hard and fast and exactly what you asked for—and your back arches off the seat. His hands shift to your thighs, spreading you wider, holding you open at an angle that hits deeper, more intense in all the places you’re already trembling from before.
"Is this what you needed? This what you've been trying to say?"
"Yes—ah—yes—"
One hand slides between you, finding your oversensitive clit, and you nearly sob.
“Wanted this since I saw you—” His hips snap forward harder. “That bored look on your pretty face—wanted to fuck it right off you—”
He’s not counting anymore. Not teasing. Just taking what he needs, and something about the raw desperation in it makes you clench around him.
“Jesus—” he groans, head dropping forward. “—do that again.”
You do, and he’s on you, mouth on your shoulder, teeth catching skin—not to mark you this time, but to survive you. His hand leaves your thigh to brace against the window behind you, giving him more leverage. The truck rocks with the force of his thrusts and you don’t care, can’t care about anything except the feeling of him inside you.
“Too much—”
“Not enough. One more,” he says, and it’s not a request. “Give me one more and I’ll give you everything.”
You’re wound up impossibly again, every inch of you too sensitive, his fingers and his cock and his voice still pushing you higher, higher, higher—
“That’s it. You feel that?” His thrusts get harder, more erratic, fingers circling your aching clit as he pounds into you. “You've got me. Fuck—I'm right there with you, okay? Right there—stay with me. Take me with you. Now.”
You clench around him helplessly, so tight that Sylus feels every pulse, every aftershock, every sensation of your orgasm wrapped around his cock. He follows immediately after, burying himself deep with a sound that’s almost pained, spilling the heat of his release inside you, holding you like he's afraid you'll disappear. His hand grips the leather seat like he might rip it out of the truck, and you feel the way his whole body goes taut before collapsing against yours.
For a moment he stays frozen like that, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard. Then he carefully pulls out, and you both wince. His hands are immediately around you, pulling you up and gathering you against his chest as he shifts to sit back against the seat.
You end up curled in his lap, dazed and spent, his arms wrapped around you like he's not quite ready to let go yet.
His mouth finds your temple in a single, unhurried kiss. Another follows just under your jaw, then another on your shoulder. He doesn't speak, just holds you while your breathing slowly evens out.
“Holy shit," you finally manage.
“Yeah.” His laugh is breathless against your neck. “Holy shit.”
He shifts you carefully in his lap, pulling you tighter against his chest so you're tucked under his chin, legs draped over his thighs. Your body feels like liquid, every muscle completely melted, nerve endings still firing in aftershocks. His hands are gentle now—one rubbing slow circles on your back, the other reaching for tissues from the center console. He takes care of you with surprising tenderness, his touch soft where moments ago it was demanding.
“You with me, city girl?” He speaks quietly into your hair, pressing a kiss on top of your head. “How are you feeling?”
You lift your head to look at him. “Like I just got thrown off a bull. Except better.”
“Mission accomplished.” His smile is relieved, then turns knowing. “You’re going to feel this tomorrow. Fair warning.”
“Is that supposed to scare me?”
“It’s supposed to prepare you.” He glances down at you, hand tracing patterns against your hip. “Every time you sit down in those bleachers tomorrow, you’re going to remember exactly what happened in this truck.”
“Bold of you to assume I’ll be in the bleachers.”
“You will be. Front row, sweetie.” His voice is confident but not cocky. “So I can see the moment you stop pretending I don’t impress you.”
You could play it cool. Noncomittal. Hedge your bets. But the way he’s looking at you—hopeful and honest and maybe a little uncertain underneath all that confidence—makes you want to be honest with him, too.
“Yeah. I’ll be there.”
He goes still for half a second, just long enough for you to catch the spark in his eyes. He looks at you for a long moment like he's trying to memorize something, then clears his throat.
“That's good. Really good,” he says it low, fighting a smile and losing. One hand squeezes your hip while the other reaches for your jeans. “Here. Lift up. Let's get you dressed before I say something that makes you reconsider.”
You do, and he helps you shimmy them back on. They get stuck on your boots—again—and you’re both laughing together like a shared secret by the time you finally get them past your ankles.
“These damn boots,” you mutter.
“Careful." His tone is almost protective. "Those boots are innocent. They stayed on like they were supposed to. That's what matters.” He helps work your jeans over them carefully. "In fact, they're the only thing that behaved." His eyes land on something near his feet as he's tucking his shirt back in. He picks up his hat, holding it between two fingers. "This one apparently couldn't handle the ride."
“When did that happen?”
“No idea. I was distracted.” He settles it back on your head like it belongs there, adjusting the brim. “There. That’s better. That’s the look I wanted.”
“What look?”
“City girl in a cowboy hat looking like she just got thoroughly ruined by a bull rider.” His smile is pure satisfaction. “It’s a good look on you.”
“Your ego is showing again.”
“Can you blame me?” He cups your face, eyes warm as he leans in to kiss you, softer now, but no less intense. “Now. Where are you staying? I should get you back before your friend calls the cavalry.”
While he’s focused on finding the location on his phone, you glance around the fogged interior. The windows are completely opaque—condensation covering every surface, hiding the world outside. On impulse, you reach back and trace your name in the moisture on the back window.
You’re halfway through when you catch his eyes in the rearview mirror, watching you with an expression you can’t quite read.
“Hold on.” He sets his phone in the cupholder and twists around, reaching back to add his name right next to yours in the condensation, then draws a heart connecting them.
“There.” He settles back into his seat, looking pleased. “Now we match.”
Your heart does something complicated behind your ribs. Before you can respond, your phone erupts with buzzing from somewhere in the passenger seat.
Tara: GIRL WHERE ARE U
Tara: are u ALIVE
Tara: send proof of life IMMEDIATELY!!!
“Your friend thinks I've got you hogtied behind the barn,” Sylus says, reading the texts over your shoulder. “Funny. I haven't even gotten my rope out.”
"Yet?" The word slips out before you can stop it.
His laugh rumbles through his chest as he pulls you back against him, like the sound is something you're meant to feel, not hear. “You're unbelievable. Now give me the phone.”
“Why—”
“Proof of life. Come here.”
He pulls you against him with one arm, holding your phone up with the other. You’re both completely disheveled—his silver hair a mess, your face flushed, his hat crooked on your head—both grinning like idiots.
He takes the photo and hands your phone back.
“There. Send that. Should ease her concerns.”
You send it.
The response is instantaneous.
Tara: OH MY GOD
Tara: OH MY GOD
Tara: U LOOK SO HAPPY
Tara: IS THAT HIS TRUCK???
Tara: THATS MY GIRLLLLL
Then another message pops through. A photo.
It’s Tara—equally disheveled, equally pleased—with her arm around a blonde girl. The blonde girl, the one who'd been glaring daggers at you earlier. Both of them look extremely satisfied with themselves.
You stare at your phone. “Oh my god.”
Sylus leans over to look, and his laugh is genuine.
“Looks like you and your friend both got your money's worth out of the rodeo.” He starts the engine, hand immediately returning to rest on your thigh. “You ready, sweetie?”
“For what?”
“The twenty-minute drive where I try very hard not to think about pulling over and seeing if you can make it to ten.”
“Ten?” You blink at him. “That’s…ambitious.”
He doesn’t miss a beat.
“Tomorrow, then.” He says it with such certainty, like it's already decided. Like there's no question you'll both end up here again.
He shifts into drive, thumb tracing lazy patterns on your leg. The radio plays quiet jazz. The world outside is dark except for passing streetlights and the occasional glow of distant houses. You settle back into your seat, watching the open road unfold ahead of you.
Then you catch it in the side mirror—the back window of his truck, still fogged from the heat you created together. And there, illuminated by the moonlight, you can just make out the shapes: your name and his, connected by that careful heart he drew.
Your heart stumbles in that way that always means trouble.
His hand squeezes your thigh once, like he knows exactly what you're thinking.
You look over at him—at his profile in the dim light, at the small smile playing at his lips, at the way he glances over at you like he can't help himself—and cover his hand with yours.
“You pick.” Caleb’s gaze flickers down to your lips, then back up. “Who gets your kiss.”
Seven. Six. Five.
Zayne and Caleb both move at once, until they’re close enough to touch you. Close enough to ruin you.
Four. Three. Two.
Their shoulders brush, but neither backs down. You could say a name, could stop this. But you don’t.
One.
“Happy New Year, meimei.”
synopsis: zayne only invites caleb over to be polite. then a snowstorm hits. now you're spending new year’s tangled between them, begging for something none of you were ever supposed to want.
tags: nsfw, pseudo-incest, threesome (no m/m), slow burn, angst and fluff and smut, drinking games, hurt/comfort, jealousy, possessiveness, kissing, vaginal fingering, oral sex, vaginal sex, creampie (x2), praise kink, love confessions, brat tamer zayne + brat enabler caleb
wc: 17.6k / ao3
a/n: there’s just something about snowapple, huh……..
The holidays don’t feel like they used to.
When you were little, you loved everything about the season—going to the winter markets, drinking hot chocolate, ice skating in the park. As the years went on, the magic faded little by little. Gran stopped hiding presents around the house. You didn’t have time to make your favorite cinnamon cookies. And when your older brother, Caleb went off to the Aerospace Academy, you started hating the holidays altogether.
This time of year is all about family. Spending time with the people you love, feeling grateful for all that you have. You don’t feel fortunate this year, though.
It’s your first winter since Gran’s passing, and you haven’t heard from Caleb since the funeral. You don’t blame him for his radio silence—his duties as Colonel in the Farspace Fleet certainly outweighed making gingerbread houses with his kid sister. Still, it doesn’t make you feel any less lonely as the days get shorter and the nights grow colder.
A knock at your bedroom door snaps you out of your self-pitying thoughts.
“Hey,” Zayne says, opening the door just a crack. “Is it alright if I come in?”
The question almost makes you laugh. It's no question he’s welcome inside—it’s his home, after all.
You do have one thing to be grateful for this year, you realize. If Zayne hadn’t taken you in after Gran’s passing, you weren’t sure where you’d be right now. It wasn’t easy at first—hells, it still was far from easy—but you and Zayne had grown into a comfortable rhythm of living together. You’d learned how he likes his tea (extra sugar), found a television program you both can agree on (that one ridiculous children’s cooking competition), and had even finally come to a compromise on the air conditioning temperature (warmer during the day for you, cooler at night for him).
“Of course,” you respond. “Come in.”
He’s still in his work clothes, tie loosened, dark hair a little disheveled. It always looked like that after he’d run his hand through it a few times. And he only ran his hand through his hair when he was thinking about something serious.
“Is everything okay?” you ask, sitting cross-legged to make room for him to have a seat at the foot of your bed.
He doesn’t respond at first, just hands you a glass of water, watching intently as you gulp it down. It’s almost routine now, the way he checks in on you each night when he comes home from the hospital. He hates leaving you alone all day, hates that he can’t take care of you all the time. He won’t admit it to you, though. Not with words, anyway.
But you see it in the glasses of water. The cash he secretly places on your dresser so you can do something fun. The fresh-cut fruit he leaves in the fridge for you because he knows you won’t prepare it for yourself. Little things that are easy to take for granted. But thinking about them altogether, seeing the way he studies you now, like he’s trying to solve whatever is making you upset…it makes your chest ache.
“Everything is fine,” he responds, only after you’ve finished the water. He takes the now-empty glass from your hands and sets it on your nightstand. “I just wanted to see how you’re feeling. I know the holidays can be hard after loss, and I’ve been working a lot of late nights, and I just—“
He lets out a shaky sigh, running a hand through his hair once more.
“I need to know that you’re okay. More than okay,” he says. “And if there’s anything you need, anything you want, I need to know that you’ll tell me, alright?”
You grab his hand without thinking, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
“Zayne, please don’t worry about me,” you tell him. “I am more than okay.”
He nods once, but doesn’t let go of your hand.
“There’s something else,” he says finally, voice lower now. Almost hesitant.
You tilt your head. “Okay…”
He clears his throat, thumb brushing the edge of your palm.
“I spoke to Caleb.”
“Caleb?” You nearly choke on air. “Like… Caleb, Caleb?”
“Yes, Caleb Caleb,” he smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“He called a few nights ago. I didn’t tell you right away because I wasn’t sure if…” His words trail off. He sighs. “I wasn’t sure if it would make things better. Or harder.”
Your breath catches, just for a second. Caleb. You’d thought about calling him yourself a hundred times since the funeral. Maybe a thousand. But you never did. Because you were afraid he wouldn’t answer. Afraid you’d just be annoying him.
Zayne shifts, his knee brushing yours. “He asked about you.”
You look down at your hands, still joined. “What did you say?”
“I told him you’re strong. But lonely. That you’ve been trying to carry all this weight by yourself.”
You swallow hard.
“I didn’t mean to go behind your back,” he adds, quickly. “But I invited him to stay for New Year’s. Here, with us. In the guest room.”
Your head snaps up. “You what?”
“I know it’s last minute. And I know you’re still… processing. But I thought maybe—just maybe—it’d be good for you to have family around. Someone from…before.”
Before Gran died. Before you started waking up in this house. Before everything changed.
Your voice is quiet. “And what if I’m not ready to see him?”
Zayne’s expression softens.
“Then he doesn’t come through the door,” he says. “Not unless you want him to.”
Your chest twists. You nod slowly, lacing your fingers through his.
“I want him to come,” you decide. But the tone of your voice isn’t entirely convincing.
Zayne is patient, though. He always is. He waits for you to continue, giving your hand a calming squeeze.
“It’s just…” you start, clearing your throat. “You’ve already done so much for me. And I don’t want to take up more space than I should.”
His jaw tics, like the words physically hurt him.
“Don’t say that.” He says softly, but there’s an edge to it. “Don’t ever act like you’re some kind of burden. Not to me.”
He holds your hand tighter.
“You’re not taking anything I wouldn’t give,” He looks at you like he’s trying to will it into your bones. “This is your home, too. You belong here, with me. Whether you believe it yet or not.”
The words hit you, and it’s all too much. Too generous. Too thoughtful for someone who was just meant to put a roof over your head.
You look away, let go of his hand before you can overthink his words. The air shifts back to neutral.
“So,” you say, trying to make things lighter. “When’s he getting here?”
Zayne lets you have the out. “Tomorrow night.”
You nod, heart thudding.
Tomorrow, everything changes.
—
You don’t realize how long you’ve been pacing until Zayne speaks behind you.
“You’re going to wear a hole in the floor.”
You turn. “Sorry. Just—nervous.”
He nods once, adjusting the sleeves of his sweater. No lab coat today. No stethoscope. Just…Zayne, in socks and sweatpants. And still, somehow, the most intimidating person in the room.
“He’s your brother,” Zayne says. “You’ve missed him.”
You chew your lip. “I have.”
Before either of you can say anything else, there’s a knock at the door.
You freeze. Zayne doesn’t. He crosses the room and opens it in one smooth motion.
“Colonel,” he says in greeting.
And just like that, Caleb’s standing in the doorway—coat half-unzipped, snow in his hair, duffel slung over his shoulder. He’s taller than you remember. Stronger. Sharper, too. But when his eyes land on you, they soften.
“Hey, pipsqueak.”
Your heart lurches. “Hey.”
You expect him to hug you right away. But he steps inside slowly, looking past you. Around the room. At the cozy living space filled with things that aren’t yours, but feel like yours now. At your shoes, tucked next to Zayne’s by the door.
At Zayne, who hasn’t moved. At you and Zayne. The space between you. The space that isn’t quite enough to be completely innocent.
Something unreadable flickers in Caleb’s eyes.
Then he hugs you.
His arms wrap around you, solid and warm. The way they always used to. But this time, it’s slower. Lasts a little too long. His hand finds the back of your head, thumb soothing against your hair like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.
You feel the breath he lets out, quiet but heavy. One it seemed he'd been holding for days. Weeks. Months.
And when you start to pull back, he doesn’t. Not right away.
His hand slides down to your shoulder.
“You holding up okay, meimei?” he asks, voice low, too close to your ear.
You nod, because you are holding up okay. You just feel…guilty.
Guilty that you’re standing. That you don’t spend your nights grieving anymore. That you’ve found some version of safety again, and it doesn’t look anything like your life before—the one where Caleb was the only boy you’d ever trusted.
Zayne leaves the two of you alone, and you’re not sure if that makes things better or worse.
You swallow the lump forming in your throat and force yourself to move. You attempt to grab your brother’s duffel bag, but he just raises an eyebrow.
“I’ve got it,” he says, slinging it over one shoulder like it’s weightless. “I’m still stronger than you, last I checked.”
“Barely,” you mutter, but it makes your heart ache a little. Because he used to say that kind of thing every day. Used to ruffle your hair and annoy you on purpose, just because he could.
“I’ll show you to your room,” you say, already leading the way.
He sets his bag down with a thud at the foot of the guest bed, looking around the room with that quiet soldier’s habit of scanning for exits, sightlines, vulnerabilities.
“It’s not much,” you say, hovering awkwardly by the door. “Zayne’s been meaning to repaint it.”
Caleb doesn’t comment. He crosses to the window, peering out at the quiet street below.
“You’ve changed,” he says finally.
You blink, taking a few steps into the room. “Is that a good thing?”
He turns to face you. “Didn’t say it wasn’t.”
There’s a pause—long enough for the air between you to grow heavy. You cross your arms, shifting under his stare.
“Just say what you want to say, Caleb.”
He exhales through his nose. “It’s a nice place. He takes care of you.”
“Yes,” you agree. You refold the spare blanket at the end of the bed, despite folding it three times today already.
“But?”
You lift your chin. “There is no but.”
His jaw works, studying your reaction. “I just worry, alright? It’s not exactly a standard arrangement.”
You bristle at that. “Gran trusted him. I trust him.”
“And what does he want in return?”
That one cuts deeper than you expect. Not because Zayne’s ever given you a reason to doubt him—he hasn’t. Not once. He’s done nothing but protect you, respect you, care for you with a kind of quiet loyalty that never asks for anything in return. But you can’t help that a part of you has wondered, late at night, what exactly Zayne is doing—what he’s waiting for. What will happen when he sees you’re not broken anymore, when he realizes he doesn’t need to take care of you.
You swallow. “He’s not like that.”
Caleb scoffs under his breath, not even trying to hide it.
“What?” you snap.
He crosses the room, grabbing your wrist to hold you still. You didn’t realize you were still smoothing the edges of the blanket absentmindedly.
“I’ve seen how he looks at you.”
Your stomach drops.
“He doesn’t look at you like you're some random roommate. Or a helpless child. Or whatever story you’re telling yourself to sleep at night.”
You try to escape his grip, but he just pulls you in closer. “You’re reading into things,” you tell him.
“Maybe,” he admits. “But I’m not blind.”
You turn away, and he lets you go. “Zayne’s never done anything to make me feel uncomfortable.”
“I’m not saying he has.” Caleb’s voice is calmer now, but it’s the calm that comes right before a storm. “But that doesn’t mean I’m just gonna sit back and pretend he’s not looking at you like you’re his.”
You shake your head. “You don’t know anything about it.”
“I know enough to ask questions,” he says. “And I know you.”
You fold your arms tight around your chest, suddenly cold. “Then you’d know you have nothing to worry about.”
"Right."
He watches you like he’s realizing he already lost you—and you didn’t even notice you were leaving.
“I’ll let you get some rest. Bathroom’s down the hall,” you murmur, already backing towards the door. “Goodnight, Caleb.”
You’re gone before he can say it back, missing the way his expression falls after you close the door behind you.
—
You wake up slow, heavy in a way that has nothing to do with sleep. The house is quiet except for the faint sound of something sizzling.
The smell is warm. Familiar. It makes something behind your ribs ache.
When you step into the kitchen, Caleb’s already there—sleeves pushed up, working a pan like it’s any other morning.
“Figured I’d make breakfast,” he says without looking up. “Your old favorite.”
There’s a plate on the counter already, piled high with pancakes dotted with chocolate chips and strawberries, maple syrup pooled on the side. Just like he always made when you were younger. You used to love them.
You stare at the plate, throat tight. “Thanks,” you manage, taking a seat at the counter.
You take a bite. It’s fine. Just a little too sweet. A little too much. But you chew quietly and don’t say a word.
Zayne appears a moment later, already dressed, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He doesn’t say good morning right away—he just looks at you, then the plate, and goes to grab something from the fridge.
He sets a container of lemon yogurt by your plate.
“I picked this up for you the other day,” he says, grabbing you a spoon. “Thought you might like it with pancakes.”
You blink at it, then at him.
“I do,” you reply. “Thank you.”
You swap out the syrup for the tangy coolness. It hits exactly right. You don’t look up, but you feel Caleb’s pause. Hear him flip the next pancake a little too hard.
“Guess I’ve got some catchin' up to do,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone. And it hits harder than you wish it did.
The next few minutes go by in tense silence, save for the tapping of Zayne’s fingers as he sends off some work emails and the scrape of your spoon against the plastic yogurt container. As soon as you’re finished, you toss it in the trash, as if hiding the evidence of Zayne’s care will wipe the look of disappointment off of Caleb’s face.
It doesn’t.
“So,” you try instead. “I was thinking…”
“Really?” Zayne doesn’t even look up from his phone before speaking. “That’s never ended well.”
You roll your eyes back so far it hurts.
“I was thinking ,” you repeat louder, stretching out the word, “that we could go outside, maybe check out the park across the street. Build a snowman or something.”
As soon as the thought leaves your mouth, it sounds stupid. Why would grown men want any business playing outside, rolling up snow and—
“Dibs on the middle,” Caleb announces. Nevermind, then. “He’s gonna have the best abs the Linkon snowpeople have ever seen.” He flexes his biceps, and you playfully swat his arm away.
You dare to look at Zayne, fearing he’ll say no. You shoot him the best puppy-dog eyes you can manage.
To your surprise, he tilts his head with a look that says Is that even a question?
“I’ll run to the store and get some supplies for his face,” he says.
You smile so hard that both of the men laugh.
“I’ll go find some clothes for him, then,” you tell them, already halfway to your room.
When you come back out, Caleb’s already at the front door, all decked out in snow gear. You have him carry some of the accessories you managed to find—a too-small hat, mismatched mittens, a hideous scarf. The two of you head out to the park, where Zayne said he’d meet you.
For now, though, it’s just the two of you.
The world outside is soft and white, the park nearly empty beneath the chill of the winter morning. Everything feels new, untouched since last night’s snowfall.
“This’ll be the spot,” Caleb says, already dropping to his knees in a patch of clean snow. “Optimal snowman real estate.”
His gloved hands move with ease, scooping snow up into a giant ball like he’s done this a hundred times before. He probably had, now that you think about it. You used to beg him to make snowmen with you at the sight of a single snowflake.
Some things haven’t changed.
You sniffle, rubbing your nose on the back of your sleeve. You try to be discreet, but Caleb catches the movement like a hawk.
“Cold already, huh?” he stops his work on the hip-height snowball, turning his attention entirely to you. “You always did forget how brutal snow is when you’re not just watchin' it from the window.”
You roll your eyes, but your cheeks sting, and your nose is definitely red if the look he gives you is anything to go by. His expression softens, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“You’ve got frostbite written all over you,” he mutters as he removes his gloves one at a time. You try not to stare at the way he flexes his hands, getting them used to the cold air.
Then, without waiting, he reaches for the ridiculous plaid scarf you’d brought for the snowman—a hideous thing, probably meant for a donation bin. Caleb shakes it out, stands up, and steps closer.
You reach out a hand to grab it from him, but he ignores it. Instead, he wraps the scarf behind your neck himself, looping it once around your throat. When his hands linger on the fabric, warm knuckles brushing your jaw, you nearly forget how to breathe.
“Y’know, the weather in Skyhaven’s pretty nice this time of year,” he tells you, his breath forming small clouds between you. “You wouldn’t get cold there.”
Your heart sinks at what he didn’t say. At the thought of what life would be like had you not moved in with Zayne.
At the end of the day, though, it was Zayne who welcomed you into his home with open arms when your brother barely stuck around for the funeral. It was Zayne who Gran entrusted with your safety—not Caleb. And that meant something to you.
“I don’t mind the cold,” you tell him, looking down at your boots. “And I don’t think I could live in a place without snow.”
He ties the scarf tighter, just enough to force your chin up to look at him.
“You should’ve asked me,” he says, holding your gaze. He doesn’t need to explain what.
“You didn’t offer,” you reply.
His jaw tightens. “You didn’t wait for me to.”
For a moment, the world goes quiet. No wind. No snow. Just Caleb’s hands still on the scarf at your throat, his eyes searching yours like he’s afraid he’s already lost something he never got to keep.
“I didn’t think…” You hesitate, fingers brushing the end of the scarf. “I didn’t know that was something you wanted.”
Caleb doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away.
“Did you really not know? After everything?”
You hesitate, then shake your head no.
“It was never even a question. Not to me,” he says, voice steady and low. “I didn’t think I had to spell it out. I thought….I thought you knew I’d take care of you. That I always would. No matter what.”
He doesn’t move, but the scarf suddenly feels tighter.
“I didn’t offer,” he adds quietly, “because I didn’t think I had to. You were supposed to come to me.”
Your chest twists. “But you never said—”
“Neither did you.”
He exhales once, sharply, and finally lets go of the scarf around your neck—but he doesn’t step back. If anything, he leans in closer. Just enough that you feel the heat of his breath when he speaks again.
“I would’ve cleared out my whole apartment for you. Would’ve burned the whole fuckin' place to the ground if you’d asked,” he says, but he doesn’t raise his voice. That almost makes it worse. “I’d have built you a home brick by brick with my bare hands if it meant you’d stay where you belong.”
“Caleb…” you start, but there’s no end to the sentence. Because what can you say? Sorry? I didn’t know? I didn’t think I was allowed to belong to you?
“I know he’s the one who takes care of you now. The man who was there when I should’ve been. I get it,” he sighs. “But don’t act like it doesn’t kill me. Like I didn’t want you to choose me.”
His eyes dart to your lips, only for a second. Like he regrets it instantly.
“Would you have?” he asks suddenly. “If I had asked?”
You want to lie. To make it easier.
“I…” you whisper. “I don’t know.”
And it’s the truth. Even though it devastates you to say it. Even though it feels like betrayal—of Zayne, who’s been nothing but good to you. And of Caleb, who’s never asked for anything, but whose pain bleeds through every word right now.
You don’t know what your life would’ve looked like if you’d gone with Caleb. If you’d waited. If you’d known. If he’d said something sooner. If you had.
You don’t know which of them you want more. You don’t even know if you’re allowed to want at all.
His hands curl into fists at his sides, like he’s holding back—fury, desperation, maybe just the urge to touch you. And you’d let him, wouldn’t you? Just for a second. Just to feel it. Just to know what it could’ve been like.
But you can’t.
Not when he’s a guest in the home Zayne’s built for you. Not when he’s the only family you have left.
“You should’ve been mine,” he says as he steps back, so quietly you barely hear it. He pulls his gloves back on without another word, goes back to forming the base of the snowman as if he didn’t just tear your heart into pieces.
The wind picks up, but it’s not what makes your eyes burn.
“Thought I’d find you two out here.”
You turn at the sound of Zayne’s voice, heart hammering. Caleb doesn’t look up. You blink back your tears, praying that Zayne doesn’t notice the tension between you and your brother that’s so heavy it hurts.
If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. Just hands you a paper bag filled to the brim with carrots and blueberries and buttons.
“I thought blueberries would make a nice smile. Buttons for eyes,” he speaks about the snowman supplies so seriously, you can’t help but smile. “And of course he’ll have a carrot nose.”
“Of course,” you echo, and immediately get to work.
Between the three of you, the snowman is finished in no time. Caleb drew a six-pack onto his stomach. You gave him a lopsided blueberry smile. And now Zayne carefully presses in the button eyes with surgical precision.
“Suppose we should give him a proper winter welcome,” Caleb’s voice calls from behind you.
Before you can ask what that means, something slams into your shoulder. Snow explodes. And Caleb’s already kneeling for another handful.
You yelp. “Oh my god—are we seriously doing this?”
Another snowball flies past you. Zayne dodges it without a word, shaking his head like he can’t believe he’s indulging this. But he’s already packing one, too.
You can’t help it—you’re laughing, running behind the snowman for cover, breath sharp in your chest. The three of you hurl snowballs at each other like it’s war. It’s the most alive you’ve felt in days.
Zayne aims low. Caleb aims hard. Too hard.
You straighten just as he releases. A perfect throw, dead-center. You don’t even see it coming until—
Thwack.
It hits you square in the chest. Not the shoulder. Not the arm.
Your heart.
Everything goes white.
The cold hits you an instant later, but so does the dark. You feel your knees buckle. Hear someone shout your name. Someone else curses violently. Then nothing.
Just snow. Just silence. Just the sound of someone crashing through it, trying to reach you.
—
You wake to warmth—and raised voices.
“…you shouldn’t have thrown it that hard,” Zayne mutters, low but scathing.
“I wasn’t aiming for her,” Caleb bites back. “You think I’d do that on purpose?”
“She stopped breathing,” Zayne says quietly so as not to disturb you. But the strain in his voice tells you he wishes he could shout. “Blunt force like that could be fatal for someone with her condition.”
The words land like a slap. You don’t fully register them at first. Your brain’s still foggy, blurred by whatever knocked you under, but they hit you all the same. You think that Zayne can be dramatic at times about your heart problems—it was his job to worry as your cardiologist, after all—but something about this time felt serious.
“You think I don’t fuckin' know that?” Caleb’s attempt at keeping his voice down is less effective.
Your lashes twitch. They don’t notice.
“She collapsed, and you stood there frozen while I had to make sure her ribs weren’t shattered—”
“I wasn’t frozen—”
“You panicked.”
“Because I care!” Caleb snaps. “Because I didn’t think—”
“No. You didn’t.” Zayne’s voice is cold. “She could’ve gone into cardiac arrest from that kind of impact.”
His palm brushes your temple, fingers sliding back into your hair.
“She still might.”
That’s when you shift. It’s a microscopic movement, but Zayne’s hand is already there, steadying your forehead.
“Hey,” he says, instantly focused, the edge in his voice vanishing. “There she is.”
You blink once, then again—eyes adjusting to the soft lighting of the living room, to the deep ache in your chest, to the feel of something firm and warm beneath your cheek.
Zayne’s lap.
Your head is in his lap.
Behind him, Caleb stands stiffly at the foot of the couch, arms crossed, jaw clenched like he’s holding something back with every cell in his body.
You try to move, but Zayne stops you with a look.
“You passed out,” he says. “Don’t even think about sitting up.”
Caleb’s voice is tighter now, like he’s fighting to stay calm. “She can barely breathe and you’ve got her in your lap?”
“She wasn’t breathing,” Zayne replies evenly. “And her head needs elevation. So unless you suddenly have a medical license—”
“Fuck you,” Caleb mutters.
The silence is thick. Your throat aches. You try to speak, but all that comes out is—
“I’m fine,” you whisper, but it comes out scratchy.
“You’re not,” they both say at the same time.
You’re about to fight back, argue that you can’t feel a thing. But you blink down—and freeze.
You’re wearing one of Zayne’s shirts. One of his favorite medical school tees, oversized and soft with age. Definitely not what you were wearing outside.
Your breath catches in your throat. “Did…Did one of you—?”
Caleb’s already shaking his head. “Zayne did.”
Zayne’s jaw ticks. “You were soaked. You’d passed out. I wasn’t going to leave you in wet clothes to freeze.”
You blink again. You can feel the fabric brushing your bare thighs. Which means your jeans are gone, too.
Heat floods your face.
“I would’ve done it if it were anyone,” Zayne says tightly, misreading your silence. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t like that.”
Your hand strays under the blanket just to be sure. Thank the gods, your underwear is still on. And you chose to wear one of your favorite little black lace thongs this morning.
You’re not sure if that makes things better or worse.
You don’t say anything. Neither do they.
Then Caleb moves.
He drops to a crouch beside you, the cold fire in his expression finally flickering into something else. Guilt, maybe. Or shame. Or something messier than either.
He just stares—like he can’t believe what he’s done. Like he can’t stop replaying it. Like seeing you wrapped in Zayne’s clothes, curled into his lap, is some final punishment he deserves.
His voice is low. Not like before.
“You scared the shit outta me, pipsqueak.”
He doesn’t meet your eyes at first, just folds his forearms on the edge of the couch cushion, fingertips brushing the blanket near your hip like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch you.
“I thought you weren’t gonna wake up,” he says. “I—I thought I’d hit you too hard. Thought I’d…” His throat works. “Thought I broke something I couldn’t fix.”
You don’t know what to say. Especially when Caleb finally looks up, eyes rimmed red at the edges.
“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” he murmurs. “I swear to god, if I could take it back—”
You reach out before you mean to, your fingers grazing his wrist.
He goes still. So does Zayne.
Caleb doesn’t grab your hand. He doesn’t speak again. He just stares at where you’re touching him like it hurts. Like it means more than he’s ready for. Then, gently—like you’ll break if he breathes wrong—he turns his palm over and curls his fingers around yours.
Zayne shifts behind you, and it’s only then you remember you’re still in his lap. Still wearing his shirt. Still in the middle of a war neither of them will admit you’re at the center of.
You look between them. Caleb, still crouched at your side like he can’t leave, like he won’t. Zayne, rigid but close, your head still resting in his lap like it belongs there.
And suddenly it hits you—how much they both care. How differently they care.
Zayne holds you like a duty he chose. Like a storm he’d rather face head-on than let touch you. Caleb looks at you like he just realized what it means to lose something he never claimed. Like he’d rip the universe into pieces if it meant he had a chance to make you his.
Your hand is still in Caleb’s. Zayne’s hand is still at your hip. And you don’t know which one is harder to let go of.
So you don’t.
You just sit there between them. Half in one world, half in the other. Threaded through with heat and guilt and things no one’s willing to say out loud yet.
Your throat aches with everything you can’t ask. Everything you want to. But all that comes out is a whisper, barely audible: “…I’m okay.”
And you close your eyes. Not because you’re tired.
But because it’s the only way to stop yourself from choosing.
—
You don’t ask why Zayne went out of his way to get tickets.
Not after the last day and a half—after the fall, the bruising, the tension that followed. No one said much, but everything they did was louder than words.
Zayne brought you tea before you could ask. Let you curl against his side while he worked, pulling a blanket over your legs like he’d done it a thousand times. He never mentioned the way you flinched—just checked your temperature twice and frowned when you tried to stand too fast.
And Caleb… Caleb acted like it was a full-time job to make sure you didn’t move. He teased you about milking the injury, sure—but still picked up your laundry basket with one hand and tugged your sock up with the other. Still sat behind you when he put on your favorite holiday movie, letting you lean on his chest like it didn’t drive him insane.
It wasn’t cold between the three of you. Just cautious. Like everyone was waiting for someone to say the wrong thing. Break the fragile truce. Tip the balance.
So when Zayne mentioned the party offhandedly over coffee yesterday morning—barely looked up from his laptop as he said, “There’s a New Year’s thing I thought we could go to. A rooftop party. Linkon skyline, open bar.”—you blinked.
Caleb had raised an eyebrow. You’d just blinked. Zayne doesn’t do parties. He barely does people. But he booked it anyway.
“Thought it’d be good to get out of the house.”
He didn’t say it, but you knew what he meant. After everything…maybe a night out wasn’t such a bad idea.
You don’t question it. You don’t dare. Not when he’s trying, in his own quiet way. Not when Caleb agreed with a shrug and said, “Can’t say no to a free open bar.” Not when it feels like maybe this is the night something shifts—good or bad, you’re not sure.
And maybe that’s why you reach for the dangerously low-cut evening gown that’s been collecting dust in the back of your closet. You thought it might stay there forever. But maybe some part of you always hoped they’d see you in it.
Tonight, you want to feel like more than someone they’re trying not to break. You want to feel like someone worth burning for.
And yeah, maybe you just want to feel hot. Just once.
Not pitied. Not protected. Just—wanted.
So you shimmy into the gown just before nine, smoothing the silky fabric down your hips and adjusting the neckline with a frown. The front dips lower than you remembered—it’s practically a threat.
The zipper, however, is the real problem.
You reach behind you, fingers struggling to tug it up past your waist, but the angle’s all wrong. You try once more, cursing softly under your breath, and—
“Need a hand?” Zayne’s voice is at your door.
You freeze, caught mid-reach. “I—uh—yeah. I can’t get the zipper.”
He says nothing for a beat. Then the door creaks open.
You catch his reflection in the mirror before you feel him. His tall frame comes to stand just behind yours, the scent of clean cologne and cool air curling around you. He’s already dressed, suit perfectly fitted, hair still a little damp from the shower.
You don’t meet his gaze in the mirror. You can’t. Not when his hand slides gently to your back, fingers brushing bare skin.
“This dress is asking for trouble,” he murmurs, voice low.
You try to laugh. “Good thing I’m innocent.”
Zayne doesn’t respond. He begins pulling the zipper up, agonizingly slow, knuckles grazing along your spine like he’s taking his time.
At the halfway point, he pauses. You feel the warmth of his breath near your neck.
“You’re sure you want to go out like this?” he asks quietly.
“Why?” you breathe. “Do I look bad?”
“No,” he says, too fast. “You look perfect.”
You lift your gaze to the mirror, finally, and see the flicker of something hungry in his eyes, barely controlled.
Then the zipper reaches the top. But he doesn’t move away. You feel him, all of him, still behind you, eyes scanning the length of your body—the slit that cuts high on your thigh, the way the silk hugs the curves of your hips and waist just right.
He goes still when his gaze reaches your chest, and it’s not because the draping fabric exposes the sides of your breasts.
Well, not entirely, anyway.
His brow furrows. Then, carefully, his thumb brushes along your sternum.
You suck in a sharp breath as he grazes the bruise that bloomed beneath your collarbone—the one from Caleb’s snowball two days ago. You’d hoped makeup and a deep neckline would distract from it. That you could pretend you were fine.
But Zayne doesn’t miss things. He never has.
You flinch, just slightly, and that’s all it takes.
“You’re still hurt,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.
You swallow. “It’s just a bruise.”
“I shouldn’t have made these plans,” he says suddenly. Quiet, but sharp.
You blink. “Zayne—”
“I thought you’d be fine. I thought…” He trails off, breathing through his nose like the words make him sick. “I didn’t think you’d still be flinching. Didn’t think I’d be zipping you into a dress while you’re still in pain.”
You don’t know what to say. It’s rare to see him like this—guilt creeping in around the edges of his otherwise composed expression.
“It’s not your fault,” you say softly.
His reflection in the mirror looks composed, but his hands are trembling.
“I just wanted you to have one night to feel good,” he says. “To feel like yourself again. I thought inviting Caleb would be good for you. Bring something back that you’ve been missing.”
You hadn’t realized how carefully he’d been watching. How much he’d noticed the way your light dimmed these past few months—how the grief had hollowed you out, how the loneliness swallowed you whole.
“I need you to be happy again,” he whispers. His fingers graze the bruise again, so gently you barely feel it. “Even if it’s not because of me.”
You hesitate, heart catching on the words. Because he means it. And because he’s wrong.
“I know I’ve been…off,” you admit. “And I know Caleb brings out this part of me that’s been gone for a while.”
Zayne exhales, slow and shaky. Like he’s bracing for the worst.
“But you make me feel so safe. Steady,” you add. “Like myself, even when I forget who that is. You’ve given me a place to call home. Taken away the pain during some of the lowest points of my life.”
Your voice wobbles. “I don’t always know how to show it,” you admit. “But you make me happy, Zayne.”
He presses a kiss to your hair, breathes you in like he doesn’t want to ever lose this moment.
Then you smile, teasing the mood back to something lighter. “And anyway…it’d be a real shame if this dress never left the house.”
His eyes darken, fingers tightening slightly at your hip.
“It shouldn’t leave this room ,” he says, barely audible. “Not looking like that. Not on you.”
You swallow, lips parting, but stay quiet. You don’t need to ask what he means by that. Because outside of this room—
“Pipsqueak!”
Caleb’s voice booms from down the hall, and you and Zayne spring apart from each other like teenagers who just got caught behind the bleachers, even though nothing actually happened. Still, you feel the weight of Zayne’s gaze lingering on you like it could have.
The door opens before either of you can move.
Caleb steps in, dressed in slacks and a white button-down, holding a black tie in one hand. His eyes land on you first—then flick to Zayne, standing way too close for it to look casual.
His brows lift. “Am I...interrupting something?”
“She needed help with her zipper,” Zayne responds, maybe a little too quickly.
“Right,” Caleb responds, but he doesn’t give Zayne a second glance. He’s only looking at you now. “You look…beautiful.”
Zayne excuses himself, the door clicking shut behind him. You and Caleb are alone now. The silence stretches, heavy and raw.
“So,” Caleb says, voice lighter than his eyes. He holds his tie out to you like a peace offering. “Think you can help me with this? Or should I go ask him, too?”
You step forward and grab it before you can think.
“You always ask me,” you say. “You never learned how to do it yourself?”
“Yeah,” he breathes. “I just like when you do it.”
You step up to your brother, looping the tie around his neck with practiced fingers. His hands settle at your waist, light and familiar. And for a moment, you’re aware of everything—his heartbeat, the lingering smell of Zayne’s cologne, the way your hands tremble slightly as you tug the knot into place.
“Tighter,” Caleb murmurs, low enough that you almost miss it.
You glance up, and he’s already watching you. His eyes don’t move when yours meet them. They just darken—flicking briefly to your mouth before returning to your face.
“Not used to you being this quiet,” he adds, softer now. “You okay?”
You nod, your fingers still working the knot of his tie. But they move slower now. Less sure.
“Just…thinking,” you say.
“About him?”
Your hands still. The knot is nearly done, but you don’t step back yet.
“About everything,” you say finally.
You’re standing so close now, your chest nearly brushing his.
“You know,” he murmurs, voice dropping lower, “I’ve never liked sharing. Not when it comes to you.”
Your breath catches.
His gaze jumps past you, toward the mirror behind you both. You follow it, and realize how close you really are. How your back is slightly arched. How his chest is nearly pressed to yours. How his hands, at some point, found your hips.
“Look at us,” he says, just behind your ear. “You really think anyone else would love you like I do?”
His hands don’t move, but you feel them everywhere. The ghost of them. On your back. Around your throat. Running up your thighs. The places they haven’t dared touch yet—but want to. Desperately.
You inhale too sharply, because you feel it, too. You always have. The kind of love that borders on obsession. That makes you feel like you belong to him—like you always did. The kind of love you’re not supposed to say out loud.
And maybe that’s why you don’t.
You turn to face him slowly, eyes meeting his. And for one terrifying, beautiful second, he thinks you’ll say it. That you’ll surrender.
But instead, your gaze drops to his chest. You fiddle with the edge of his tie like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to sanity.
“I think your tie is all set,” you whisper.
It’s an out. It’s mercy. And it tears something open in both of you.
He lets out a low laugh, like he knows. Like he’s going to let you get away with it—for now.
But this thing between you? It’s not going anywhere. And next time, he won’t let you walk away so easily.
—
You’re slipping on your heels when the lights flicker. Once. Twice. Then—dark.
The apartment goes silent except for the wind howling outside.
“…that’s not good,” Caleb says, straightening from where he’d been lounging by the kitchen counter, champagne bottle in hand.
Zayne’s already at the window, pulling back the curtain. “Shit,” he mutters
The snow is blowing sideways, so thick you can hardly see the outline of the streetlamps.
Caleb lifts a brow. “So…no rooftop countdown?”
Zayne doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are on the snow, calculating.
“It’s not safe,” he says finally. “Even if we could get there, power’s out across half the grid. Roads are iced. No one’s going anywhere tonight.”
You blink. “Wait, seriously?”
Caleb sets the bottle down. “Seriously seriously?”
Zayne finally turns to face you both. “We’re officially snowed in.”
There’s a pause—three overly dressed-up people in the middle of a darkened apartment, surrounded by flickering streetlights and a winter storm.
You’re the first to break it.
“Well,” you say, “this feels like a wildly overdressed sleepover.”
“Could be worse. At least we’ve got champagne,” Caleb grins. “Guess the party’s here now.”
You glance down at yourself—the curve-hugging silk, the neckline that’s barely legal. You’d worn it for a rooftop, not a blackout.
“Guess I should take this off then,” you mutter, mostly to yourself, already turning to head to your room.
“No,” Zayne and Caleb exclaim in perfect unison.
You freeze.
Their voices echo together for a beat too long, until Caleb laughs and runs a hand through his hair. “I mean—I just think you should, uh, give it the night it deserves.”
“I’m just trying to be practical,” you tease. “This is not exactly blizzard-friendly attire.”
“You’re not exactly going outside,” Zayne countered.
Caleb leans back. “Besides,” he adds, “you’re the one who said the dress deserved to be seen.”
You glance between them. The way Zayne avoids your eyes. The way Caleb doesn’t. And suddenly, the snowstorm doesn’t feel quite so inconvenient.
Zayne’s already moving to the supply closet. “I’m getting the candles.”
You blink. “Okay then.”
As his footsteps fade, Caleb lifts an eyebrow and hands you the champagne bottle. “Will you do the honors?”
You take it, fingers curling around the chilled glass. “Bold of you to trust me with this.”
“First time for everything,” he grins.
You eye him over the cork. “Not exactly. Remember New Year’s when I was, what—sixteen?”
His laugh is immediate. “God. When I smuggled us that cheap sparkling wine from Gran’s basement?”
“You called it champagne. You were very insistent.”
“I was trying to impress you.”
You pause mid-twist, looking at him. “It worked.”
The cork pops with a soft thud. You pour, slowly, careful not to spill, and hand him a glass.
Caleb’s smile fades into something gentler. “You were so nervous that night. One sip and you looked at me like the whole world was about to change.”
You shrug, cheeks warming. “It kind of did.”
For a moment, neither of you speaks. Just the flicker of a memory, the fall of snow against the windows, and the fizz of champagne filling the quiet.
Then the hallway glows—candlelight spilling back in, soft and golden. Zayne steps into the room, arms full of half-melted tea lights and mismatched candle jars. The glow spills across his face, turning the sharp edges warm.
His eyes land on you first—still in that ridiculous dress, holding a half-full champagne flute. Then they flick to Caleb, relaxed on the couch now, glass in hand, smirking like he never left.
“I leave for two minutes,” Zayne says, setting the candles down, “and you two are already drinking?”
You point to your brother. “It was his idea!”
“Guilty,” Caleb says, lifting his glass with a smug grin.
Zayne sighs, but there’s the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth. He reaches for the bottle and pours himself a glass.
“Since we’re stuck here,” he says, raising his glass, “we might as well make the most of it.”
The three of you gather around the counter, lifting your glasses in a toast.
“To old traditions,” Caleb says.
“To unexpected nights,” Zayne adds.
You look between the two of them for a moment too long before murmuring, “To both of you. To us.”
“To us,” they respond, the three of your glasses clinking together softly.
There's a warmth in your chest now—part champagne, part something else.
“Sooooo,” you say, voice light as you set your glass down. “Now what?”
Caleb downs the rest of his glass. “Well, we could sit here and talk about our feelings—”
“Please, no,” Zayne deadpans.
“—or,” Caleb continues, undeterred, “we could play something.”
Zayne arches a brow. “You brought board games?”
“No, old man. I was thinking…,” Caleb grins, reaching for the champagne. “Truth or sip.”
Your eyes widen. “Seriously?”
“You said it yourself—wildly overdressed sleepover,” he shrugs. “It’s tradition.”
You glance at Zayne, expecting resistance. But instead, he just takes another slow sip of champagne and says, “Fine. But no lying.”
A shiver of anticipation curls low in your stomach.
“Deal,” you say, already bracing. “Who goes first?”
The three of you drift into the living room, gathering around the candlelight like moths. Caleb sinks easily onto the rug in front of the couch, stretching his legs out and tugging a throw blanket over them. You follow, folding yourself beside him, your shoulder brushing his in a way that feels both familiar and new. Zayne takes the armchair across from you, one elbow resting on the armrest, long legs stretched out. A little more distant—but his gaze never strays far from you.
Caleb lifts his glass with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Alright. I’ll start.”
You and Zayne exchange a look—his is more suspicious than yours.
Caleb turns to you, grin widening. “When was the last time you had a crush?”
Your hand tightens slightly around your glass. “Define crush.”
“You know,” he says casually. “Butterflies. Staring too long. Thinking about someone when you shouldn’t.”
Zayne doesn’t say a word, but he shifts in his chair.
You hesitate, pulse ticking up. “…Can there be more than one answer?”
“Only if it’s recent.”
You glance between the two of them—your brother, who’s always known you too well, and Zayne, whose gaze feels like it could burn through you if you let it.
Then you lift the glass and take a sip.
Caleb groans. “Coward.”
You smirk over the rim. “I’m choosing peace.”
Zayne leans forward slightly, resting an arm on the side of the chair. “My turn?”
Caleb raises a brow. “Go for it.”
Zayne’s eyes flick to Caleb. “What was your impression of me the first time we met?”
Caleb barks a laugh. “Easy. Thought you were boring as hell.”
You snort into your drink.
“But,” Caleb adds, “I also figured you were the only guy in town smart enough not to flirt with my sister.”
The pause that follows is heavy. You don’t look at Zayne, but you feel him.
“Well,” Caleb sighs. “Guess that aged poorly.”
Zayne doesn’t deny it.
You clear your throat. “My turn.”
You turn to Zayne. “What did you think when you saw me in this dress?”
Zayne’s jaw clenches. Caleb chokes on his drink.
Zayne meets your gaze across the candlelight, slow and steady. “That I was going to have a problem.”
Your stomach flips. Caleb coughs into his glass again.
“Your turn,” Zayne says to him calmly, as if he didn’t just wreck the room.
A few rounds pass like that. Laughter builds, champagne flows, and the questions shift from innocent to reckless faster than the candle wax can melt.
You learn Caleb once stole your middle school crush’s number out of your phone and prank-called him. You learn Zayne once got suspended in high school—something about pulling a fire alarm for a friend to get out of their math test. And when Caleb asks who your first kiss was, you drink. No one complains.
By the time another bottle’s been opened, you’ve all stopped pretending this is just nostalgia.
Zayne leans back, cradling his glass loosely in one hand. “We should raise the stakes.”
Caleb eyes him. “What, like stripping?”
Zayne doesn’t dignify that with a response.
You smirk. “What do you mean?”
“Add dares,” Zayne says simply. “If someone won’t do it, they take a sip.”
You nearly spit out your drink. "Are you drunk?"
Zayne just shrugs. "Maybe a little."
"You hate games," Caleb says, glancing at you with mock horror. “Who are you and what have you done with our buzzkill?”
"I don't hate games," Zayne corrects. "I hate losing."
Caleb groans, pretending to think hard, then narrows his eyes at Zayne. “Fine. Dare.”
Zayne’s voice is deceptively calm. “I dare you to whisper something to her. Something you’ve never said out loud.”
That gets Caleb’s attention. His grin falters, just slightly.
“That’s dangerous,” he says. But he sets down his glass.
Zayne shrugs, sipping his drink. “So is champagne.”
Your pulse stutters.
Caleb looks at you. Really looks at you. Candlelight paints the sharp lines of his jaw, the glint in his eyes.
Then, without breaking your gaze, he leans in.
His lips brush the shell of your ear, and his voice drops so low you feel it more than hear it:
“I used to dream about you in this dress before it ever existed.”
You freeze. Heat rushes to your face, your spine, the space between your thighs.
He leans back like he didn’t just knock the air out of your lungs. Zayne’s jaw is tight.
It’s your turn next. And they’re both looking at you like they already know you’re going to make a mistake.
You set your glass down with a clink and stretch your legs out in front of you, wriggling your toes.
“My turn,” you say, pretending to think hard. “Okay…I dare both of you to take off one of my shoes.”
They both blink.
“What?” Caleb laughs.
You shrug. “My feet hurt. I didn’t know I’d be stranded in five-inch heels.”
Zayne cocks his head, slow. “You’re serious.”
“Completely,” you say, lifting one leg and pointing dramatically. “Left and right, please.”
Caleb shifts forward first, crawling just enough to reach your feet. His hand curves around your ankle, warm and steady, and you feel it in your chest. Long fingers brush warm against your skin as he unclasps the strap and eases the shoe off, slow and careful.
Zayne doesn’t move at first. Just watches. Then he sets his glass down and crosses the distance like it’s nothing. His touch is more clinical, but no less gentle—his thumb pressing just slightly into the arch of your foot as he slides the heel free.
The second shoe hits the floor with a quiet thunk.
You swallow. The room feels warmer now.
“Well,” you say, voice thinner than you meant. “Thank you.”
Caleb’s next, and he turns his attention straight to you.
He pretends to think. Then—
“I dare you to drink champagne…” His eyes go to Zayne, then back to you. “From both of us.”
You stare at him, confused. “Like—from your glasses?”
Caleb just smirks. “Not quite.”
Zayne stiffens. “Caleb,” he says, low. A warning.
“What?” Caleb laughs. “It’s just a dare. One sip from my mouth, one from yours. Nothing she can’t handle.”
Your mouth goes dry.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re stalling.”
You glance at Zayne, expecting him to shut it down. But he doesn’t.
He just…holds your gaze. Silent. Still. Waiting.
Your heart slams.
“Fine,” you mutter. “Let’s get it over with.”
Caleb leans forward first, barely suppressing his grin. He takes a sip—just enough to pool behind his lips—and tilts his chin.
You move in slowly, bracing one hand against his chest. You feel his heartbeat race against your palm, kicking fast as you bring your lips to his. And when your mouths touch, he lets you take it—smooth, cold champagne passed between you like a secret.
His breath catches as it happens. His hand hovers at your waist but doesn’t touch. He wants to. You feel it in the way he exhales like he’s been punched.
And when you pull back, he doesn’t move for a second. Just looks at you like he’s seeing something he’s wanted for a long time and can’t believe he’s feeling.
The room tilts slightly, or maybe it’s just your pulse crashing in your ears. That wasn’t a kiss—not really. Not by definition. And yet—Oh, my god. You just kissed him.
Not on the cheek. Not by accident. Mouth to mouth. Lips to lips. Champagne flowed between you, but it’s not the drink that’s making your head spin.
Caleb’s still staring. Like he doesn’t want to look away, in case this was a dream. Like if he blinks, he’ll wake up.
And he’s not grinning now. Not teasing. Not cocky.
Just wrecked.
His eyes drop to your mouth, like he’s remembering exactly how it felt. Then flick up to yours—searching for a sign. For permission. For regret.
You don’t know what you’re showing on your face, but your heart is doing something violent in your chest. Because it wasn’t supposed to feel like that. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. It was a dare. A game.
So why does your skin still burn where he touched you? Why can’t you look away?
Why does it feel like you just crossed a line you can’t uncross?
Caleb finally shifts back, running a hand through his hair like it might cool him down. But his knuckles are pink. His ears are red. His whole body is buzzing, and you can feel it across the space between you.
You drag your gaze to the floor. But you don’t have any more time to process it.
Zayne is already standing.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. Just takes a slow sip, his throat working as he holds it behind closed lips. Then he crosses the room.
When he stops in front of you, he cups your jaw, guiding you to your feet. Your hands find his shoulders, solid and unmoving beneath your palms. You feel the tension in him. Every nerve coiled. Every instinct leashed.
You tilt your head back instinctively, inviting him in without words. He leans down until your lips meet.
Zayne is restraint incarnate. His touch is steady. But everything else—his breath, the tremble at the corner of his mouth, the way he holds perfectly still as you take the sip from him—betrays the storm inside him.
The taste is barely there. But the feeling lingers forever.
When he pulls away, your lips are still parted. He reaches up without thinking, thumb dragging slowly across your bottom lip.
“You missed a drop,” he whispers. He’s too quiet, too close. But he doesn’t pull away.
Instead, he brings that same thumb to his lips—and closes his mouth around it.
His eyes flutter shut. Just for a second. When they open again, they’re darker.
You don’t breathe until he steps back, jaw clenched, hands fisted at his sides like he doesn’t trust them.
No one speaks.
Caleb clears his throat and pours another drink. “Fun,” he tries to say, but it’s hoarse. Almost angry. “You’re up, doc.”
Zayne returns to his seat, eyes never leaving you. He doesn’t even blink. “Who are you planning to kiss at midnight?”
Fuck.
“I hadn’t thought about it,” you respond. Because it’s the truth. Because even in your wildest dreams you’ve never let yourself imagine that you’d get to kiss one of the favorite men in your life, let alone both of them.
Zayne hums. “Think about it now.”
Your eyes dart between them. Neither one is smiling now. “That’s not fair.”
Zayne shrugs again, but something in his jaw ticks. “Didn’t say it was.”
You glance at the digital clock on the emergency radio. 11:42. Less than twenty minutes left. Midnight is coming. You have to pick someone, and they both know it.
That doesn’t mean you have to pick now, though.
So you drink.
When you set your glass down, there’s nothing left. Not even a drop.
Zayne’s eyes flick to the empty glass. Caleb stares, fingers flexing around his own drink.
And that’s when it hits you. You don’t get to dodge anything anymore. No more sips to hide behind. No more stalling.
Your heart pounds.
Caleb leans forward slightly. “Guess that was your last out,” he murmurs, voice quiet but tense.
You glance at the clock. 11:45. Only fifteen minutes left.
“Guess so,” your voice is barely above a whisper. You clear your throat before continuing. “Well, lucky for me, it’s my turn.”
The two men stare back at you, waiting for your next command with bated breath.
“I have a question for both of you, then,” you say slowly, building up confidence in preparation for what you're about to ask next. “If I asked you to kiss me…tell me how you’d do it.”
The room stills. Even the candlelight seems to pause.
Caleb looks at you like he’s not sure you’re serious. Then he sees your face—how you’re not backing down—and something in him shifts.
“I’d take my time,” he says. “Let you feel every second of it.”
Your throat goes dry, eyes wide. You don’t expect his response to come so easily.
“You think I haven’t thought about it?” Caleb’s voice is low, almost casual—but his eyes are locked on yours like he’s daring you to run.
“If I kissed you,” he says, shifting just slightly closer, “it wouldn’t be careful.”
His glass tips slightly in his hand, long forgotten. “I wouldn’t ease into it like I was afraid to scare you off. I’d pull you into me so fuckin' close—so close you couldn’t leave.”
Your pulse skips a beat.
“I’d hold the back of your neck. Thumb right here—” he gestures gently along the hinge of his own jaw, “just enough pressure to remind you I’m not letting go.”
His voice drops even lower, his eyes dark and wild in the candlelight.
“I’d kiss you like I already knew what you tasted like. Like I’ve imagined it too many times to get it wrong.”
He exhales. “Because I have.”
You feel it—physically, like heat pooling low in your stomach.
Zayne hasn’t moved. He’s still seated in the chair, elbows on his knees, watching the flicker of flame like it’s the only thing keeping him sane. When he speaks, it’s quiet. Like he’s choosing each word with a scalpel.
“I’d back you into the wall.”
Your head snaps toward him.
“Not hard. Just…enough.”
“I wouldn’t touch you. Not at first. I’d let you feel it. The closeness. My breath on your lips. The wait,” his voice dips. “I’d wait until you asked me. Until you begged me.”
Heat flashes through your chest. Zayne’s gaze flicks down—to your mouth, your neck—then returns to your eyes.
“Then I’d kiss you slow. Hold your face in my hands,” he pauses, like the thought alone overwhelms him. “Press my mouth to yours so deep you forget where you are. Who else is in the room.”
Caleb lets out a humorless laugh at that, but you don’t hear it.
“I’d kiss you like I’ve tried not to,” he went on, his voice growing rougher around the edges. “Like I’d forget every rule I’ve made for myself.”
“Enough,” Caleb snaps. The word cuts through the room like glass breaking.
Zayne goes still. Caleb doesn’t even look at him. His eyes are locked on you—burning, unreadable, muscles tensing like he’s barely keeping something down.
“My turn,” he says, voice tight. “One last dare.”
You try to breathe. Of course you can’t.
“You pick.”
Your heart trips over itself.
“Pick what?”
Caleb’s gaze flickers down to your lips, then back up.
“Who gets your kiss.”
You peek at the clock. 11:59.
“It’s your dare,” Caleb murmurs. “And your choice.”
They both move at once.
Not fast—just a slow, inescapable convergence. Like gravity. Like heat drawn to heat. Caleb rises from where he’s been sitting on the floor, eyes never leaving yours. Zayne doesn’t speak, doesn’t breathe. He just stands—shoulders squaring as he closes the distance, like he’s already preparing to be chosen or destroyed.
Your breath stutters. They’re both in front of you now. Close enough to touch you. Close enough to ruin you.
Caleb’s voice is low, frayed. “Just say it.”
Zayne’s eyes scan over your face. “Or don’t.”
The final seconds tick down.
Ten. Nine. Eight.
You’re trembling, chest tight. You could say a name. You could stop this. But you don’t.
Five. Four. Three.
Then—
Two.
Their shoulders brush. Neither backs down.
One.
Midnight.
—
No one moves. Until they both do.
Caleb’s hand finds your jaw at the exact same time Zayne’s thumb brushes your cheekbone. Your breath hitches—caught in the no man’s land between them—as two sets of eyes lock on you like you’re a sin they’re both ready to commit.
Caleb’s hand tightens ever so slightly, tilting your face toward him.
“You waited too long,” he murmurs, his lips brushing yours—not quite a kiss, but not not one, either. It’s a warning. A claim. A threat and a promise. “Happy New Year, meimei .”
And then he takes your mouth.
Not gently. Not sweet. It’s possessive—like he’s afraid if he doesn’t do it now, Zayne will.
His mouth crushes into yours, heat and hunger and years of not yet all flooding in at once. You gasp, and he uses it—drinks you in like he’s parched, tongue claiming yours like you were meant for this. Meant for him.
He pulls away to look at you, at the way you’re already falling apart for your brother after just one kiss. His mouth is all over your neck, kissing your cheeks, your nose, the tips of your ears.
“You know I’d do anything for you, pretty girl,” he breathes, tongue darting out to trace the sensitive part behind your earlobe. “So why’d you make me wait this long?”
But just as quickly as it starts, Zayne is there. He doesn’t pull Caleb off you. Doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. Instead, his fingers trail from your cheek to your throat, the touch sending shockwaves to your core, and you feel your body tip toward him before you even register the movement.
“Did he give you what you wanted?”
The air leaves your lungs in a sharp, trembling breath. Caleb tenses beside you, cursing through gritted teeth.
Zayne lifts one hand, thumb dragging along your bottom lip like he wiped the champagne. But he doesn’t stop there this time. He presses inward, just enough to part your lips. Just enough for the pad of his thumb to slip past your teeth.
“No? Pity,” he says, but there’s no softness to his voice.
You feel your body go still, every nerve ending tuned to the weight of him on your tongue. Caleb growls low beside you, but Zayne doesn’t even look at him. His focus is entirely on you.
He presses in deeper.
“Then ask.”
Your lips part wider, a soft noise escaping as he finally pulls his thumb free. The absence hurts more than the pressure did.
“Please,” you whisper. You don’t even know what you're asking for. You just know that you need it now .
Zayne barely tilts his head—like he’s deciding whether to give it to you—when Caleb moves. His arm snakes around your waist and yanks you back against him, hard enough to steal your breath.
“ No ,” Caleb nearly snarls, arm caging you tighter against him. “Don’t beg him.”
You feel Zayne shift in front of you—closer. Not competing. Waiting. The energy between them is like two storms circling the same eye.
“What happened to that little mouth of yours, huh?” Caleb’s voice is meaner, hot and taunting against your neck. “Now you wanna be quiet? Or did he already fuck the fight out of you with just his thumb?”
You try to turn your head, but Caleb’s hand is already there—fisting in your hair, tilting your face toward him.
“Nah,” he snaps. “You don’t get to hide now. Not after the way you looked at him.”
His thumb swipes your lip rougher than Zayne’s did, like he’s trying to erase the touch.
Then his mouth is back on yours, tongue licking deep against you like he’s trying to mark you from the inside out—claim every soft sound you make before Zayne can hear it. He drinks in your gasps, bites the edge of your lip like a warning, and silences whatever protest you might’ve had.
It’s so overwhelming that you don’t feel the zipper at first.
Not until the fabric at your back loosens, cool air replacing warmth, your dress slipping inch by inch.
“You can let him have your mouth,” Zayne’s teeth graze your ear. “Everything else is mine.”
Your lips part in surprise against Caleb’s, but it’s already happening. Zayne’s fingers trace the length of your spine, but his hand is soon replaced by his lips. He kisses the small of your back, the space between your shoulder blades, the base of your neck, each one hotter and longer and more agonizingly delicious.
Caleb pulls back just enough to drag your dress lower, baring your shoulders, then your chest, until the fabric pools loosely at your waist. Normally, you’d feel the urge to cover yourself, to hide your body from your brother. Your guardian. But your focus is already elsewhere, too overwhelmed to feel exposed.
“Zayne,” you whisper, turning halfway, reaching for him.
He doesn’t let you kiss him.
Instead, one hand finds your waist, holding you still. The other rises to your chin, tilting your head back just enough to make you feel helpless. His mouth brushes your jaw, your cheekbone—everywhere but your lips.
“You want it?” he asks softly, like he’s asking about more than just a kiss.
You nod. Desperately.
“Then say it.”
Before you can respond, Caleb’s hand slides up your bare waist, just under your breast. He slides his thumb slowly across your nipple, teasing the sensitive skin there. The sensation causes you to gasp, your eyes fluttering shut, back arching instinctively into the warm, broad body behind you. But Zayne doesn’t flinch.
“Eyes on me. You know what I want to hear,” Zayne murmurs, voice dark with command. “Don’t make me take it without asking.”
Your breath catches on the shame of it. The need.
“I—” you whisper. But it’s not enough.
Zayne’s fingers tangle in the hair at the base of your neck, like he might take it anyway.
So you give in.
“Zayne, please,” you beg, and you can already feel his lips curve in satisfaction. “Kiss me. Touch me. Anything, just…I—I can’t take it anymore.”
Whatever was holding him back finally breaks.
“So beautiful,” his breath mixes with yours. “Open for me.”
You do. Of course you do.
And then he’s on you. Tongue sweeping in, mouth dragging yours open wider, deeper, until you’re trembling in his hold. He doesn’t rush. He devours. He teaches your mouth exactly how he wants it.
You melt against him, back arching, head tipping, lips parting wider as he sucks on your bottom lip. It’s not gentle. It’s not soft. It’s everything.
Caleb’s hands are firmer now, like he needs to remind you he’s still here. Still watching. Still the one who saw you first. His mouth is on your breast now, his teeth finding your nipple, biting down just hard enough to draw out a moan.
Zayne pulls back suddenly, breathing hard, forehead resting against yours.
“This is wrong,” he pants. His voice is low, shaky. “You’re too young. You don’t even know what you’re asking for.”
He closes his eyes, like it hurts to even look at you, at the way you’d give him anything he’d ask for.
“But I do. And I’ve wanted it for way too long to be gentle about it now.”
His eyes flick down to your mouth.
“I’ve thought about that mouth. About you. For years. And now that I’ve had a taste…” He swallows hard. “I’m not going to be able to stop.”
You’re panting, lips kiss-bruised, eyes wide. Your dress is hitched around your waist, straps fallen, spine pressed against Zayne’s chest like you’re trying to hold yourself upright—but it’s barely working.
Then Caleb kneels.
He doesn’t ask. Just sinks to the floor in front of you with a look that’s all hunger and heat and something darker. His hands slide up your thighs, under the slit of your dress, finding the curve of your ass.
“She doesn’t want you to stop,” he says without looking up, voice thick. “She’s already begged enough.”
You whimper as his fingers curl into the fabric at your waist, dragging it down inch by inch.
“She’ll tell us what she wants,” Zayne murmurs, breath brushing your ear. “Won’t you, angel?”
His thumb strokes over your pulse, lazily. Dangerous.
“But you already got what you wanted, didn’t you? My kiss? Your brother’s tongue in your mouth?” His lips ghost over the shell of your ear, his filthy words making your thighs press together involuntarily. “Wasn’t that enough?”
You shake your head, frantic, eyes flicking down to where Caleb has the dress bunched at your hips.
“More,” you whisper. “Please—I need more. I need both of you.”
The words hang in the air, trembling like they’ve been waiting to be said. Then everything between you shifts.
It’s Zayne who speaks first.
“If that’s what you need,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “then that’s what you’ll have.”
You nod, breath catching. But it’s not Zayne you’re afraid of.
It’s Caleb.
You can’t bring yourself to look at him. Not at first. Because what if he thinks it’s too much? What if needing both of them makes you selfish? What if it ruins everything?
But then you feel his hand—reaching, grounding, curling gently around your wrist. He stands up, and when you finally lift your eyes to him, Caleb’s already looking at you like he knew. Like he’s always known.
He steps in closer, pressing his forehead against yours.
“I’ve imagined a hundred ways to have you,” he murmurs. “And none of them looked like this.”
He kisses you then, hard, leaving you breathless. Like he just remembered that he could and didn’t want to waste it.
“I should be mad. Furious,” he says, breath hot and shaky against yours. “But all I feel is relief.”
It’s you that kisses him this time, and the low, broken sound he makes when your lips find his burns deep in your chest.
“I’ll take it,” he groans. “I’ll take anything you give me.”
“She asked for both of us,” Zayne says, gaze steady on Caleb. “So that’s what we give her.”
“Yeah,” Caleb nods once, but his eyes don’t leave yours. “Whatever she wants. I’m in.”
And for the first time, you don’t feel like you’re asking too much. You feel like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.
Both sets of hands are on you now—Zayne’s on your neck, your shoulders, your spine, Caleb’s trailing down your throat, your chest, your stomach. And both sets of hands stop where your dress has fallen at your hips.
“Show us what’s ours,” Caleb says, fingers curling around the silk fabric that still keeps the most intimate part of you covered.
And with one sharp tug, the fabric pools at your ankles—and everyone stops breathing.
Because under your dress, you’re bare. No silk, no lace. Just you, naked and throbbing and embarrassingly wet.
You never would have gone without underwear had you known. You never thought it could get this far. You just didn’t want panty lines.
And now the two men who are supposed to be your protectors are circling you like prey.
“ Fuck ,” Caleb breathes, his voice wrecked. “You were this ready for us?”
You start to shift—to cover yourself, maybe, to escape—but Caleb’s hands catch your wrist before you can hide.
“Don’t you dare,” he growls. “Not after letting us see you like this. Not after giving us this.”
“I didn’t mean to—” you whisper.
But even you don’t believe it.
“No?” Zayne’s fingers glide up your ribs. “You think we don’t notice? How you look at us? How you walk around this house with wide eyes and those tiny fucking sleep shorts like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing?”
“I—I don’t know what I’m doing,” you stammer. And you mean it. You’re not playing games. You never were.
But you always wanted to be noticed. Wanted them to notice.
“Then maybe it’s time we show you,” Caleb murmurs, tilting your chin up with two fingers. “What it does to a man. What you do to a man. To us.”
Before you can register the movement, you’re hauled into Zayne’s lap, the two of you seated on the armchair. Your brother kneels between your knees, forcing them wider.
“God, you really didn’t know what you've done, do you?” Caleb groans, trailing kisses up your thigh. “What you've been doing to us for years?”
You try to close your legs, shy, uncertain—but they don’t let you. Zayne’s hands are unmoving, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of your inner thighs, keeping you open. Caleb’s hands stay firm on your knees, holding you right where he wants you.
“Look at him,” Zayne growls in your ear. “He hasn’t even touched you yet. Hasn’t even tasted how sweet you are, and he's already shaking.”
He's right. Caleb hasn’t touched you, not where you really want him to. But he’s getting closer with each movement, with each open-mouthed kiss he presses between your legs, across your hips, low on your stomach.
When Caleb finally traces his finger across the seam of you, featherlight, you practically scream.
You can’t help yourself, not when you’d only ever imagined what it’d feel like for someone to touch you there. Not when the one to finally do it was the man you were never supposed to want.
And certainly not when you feel the cock of the man who had taken you in press hard and heavy through his slacks against your back.
“Shh,” Zayne leans forward to kiss your temple, but the shift only pushes him against you harder, the friction unbearable. He locks his arm around your waist, caging you against him in an attempt to stop your squirming. “It’s okay to let go. It’s just us three.”
You nod, then shake your head. You don’t know what you’re feeling, or if you’re doing anything right. You just don’t want it to stop.
Caleb’s mouth is so close to you now that you feel his voice more than you can hear it.
“You’d let me, right, meimei?” With the way he looks at you now, eyes wild and desperate, you don't care what question comes next. The answer is already yes. “You’d let me touch you? Just once? Just tonight?”
You don't answer with words. Your hips tilt towards him instinctively, and that's all the invitation he needs.
“ Yes ,” you gasp, but his two fingers are already inside you, curling slow and deep and punishing. It’s already too much. Not enough.
When his tongue finds your clit without warning, you nearly come undone then and there.
Your head falls back against Zayne’s shoulder with a moan. His hand, warm and strong, kneads your breast in encouragement.
“That’s it. You’re being so good for us,” he praises. “You love this, don’t you? Feeling your big brother inside you?”
You want to cry yes , but you can hardly focus on the words. Your attention is too tied up in the feel of Zayne’s length grinding up against your backside now in a steady rhythm, all while Caleb’s mouth and fingers claim your cunt like he’d die if he stopped.
“You’re so fucking responsive,” he murmurs against you, the vibration of his words only teasing you more. “Every sound you make, every time you clench—I feel it, baby. Fuck, I feel all of it.”
You don’t know how much more of it you can take, just know that you feel an aching emptiness where Caleb had been when he finally pulls away. He laughs when he sees your expression—breathless and flushed and wrecked—and pulls you up to stand with him.
Your older brother just stares at you in awe for a moment, the two of your panting breaths filling the silence. His lips are shining with your slick pleasure, visible even in the dim candlelight. When the corners of them turn up in a prideful smirk, you playfully push him away.
“You said it was just a touch,” you pout, teasing.
He pulls you back into his chest in one possessive move. “Didn’t say it’d just be my fingers.”
Your lips part to respond, but his mouth covers yours before you can get a word out. He licks your tongue with his, over and over and over again, until all you can taste is the heat of the way he made you come apart.
“Mmm, fuck ,” he mutters hot against you. “You’ve been keeping this from me? All this time?“
He holds your jaw, then drags his tongue across your bottom lip like he’s savoring the taste. You whimper, and he only holds you tighter.
“You won’t be able to hide anymore, sweetheart. Not when I know what’s under those pretty little dresses,” his teeth graze your jaw as he speaks like you’re something holy. “It’s mine now. It’s always been mine.”
Your world is turned upside-down before you can finish listening to his sentence.
Literally.
Zayne’s strong arms haul you over his shoulder, his grip firm and steady across your bare thighs. He’s shirtless now, the press of his skin against yours sending electric heat between your legs.
“Zayne!” you yell, wriggling in his grasp. “What are you—“
He slaps your ass, hard, and you cry out. He’s already soothing it with gentle circles of his palm, turning his head just enough to kiss your side. You're halfway to his bedroom before you can even say anything about it.
“My turn.”
You’re down the hall in a few strides, Caleb already stripping out of his dress clothes as he follows behind you. You only breathe again once you’re laid out on Zayne’s king bed, the soft sheets cool against your back, the faint yellow of the streetlamp illuminating you in a warm glow.
Once Zayne takes off his pants, he doesn’t move right away. He stands at the edge of the bed beside you, palming his cock over his boxers, eyes dragging over you like he’s deciding whether you earned the right to lie there.
“ Fuck , look at you,” he murmurs, eyes hungry, reverent. “This is how I always wanted to see you. Open for me where you belong.”
Before you can cover yourself with the blanket, Zayne grabs your wrist and pulls you upright. Then he shifts back and sits, legs spread long, beckoning you forward with two fingers.
“Come here.”
You hesitate, but something in his gaze makes your body obey before your mind can catch up. You crawl forward, flushed and trembling, until you’re straddling his lap—bare and open and completely at his mercy. He leans back slightly, one hand sliding up your thigh, the other resting at your waist.
Your hands hover near his chest, uncertain.
“Can I—” you start, then trail off, unsure where the line is anymore. Unsure what you’re allowed to want.
His hands move to cover yours, pressing them gently to his chest. He guides them lower, over the smooth, hard lines of his abs, down to the waistband of his underwear. He seems in control, the way he’s showing you where to touch. But the shake of his breath and the tension in his brow say otherwise.
“You can,” he whispers, and his hands release yours. The next move is up to you, now.
Caleb’s hand at your back grounds you, gives you a moment to take everything in. You turn to your brother, in nothing but tight black boxer briefs that do little to hide his erection. The sight of it makes your core throb, and you’d do anything to see it uncovered.
“You’re in charge, yeah?” Caleb assures you. “Take what you need. All of it. Make him beg for it.”
You don’t know exactly what you need. Not yet. But you do know that you hate being the most underdressed person in the room.
Your fingers tighten around Zayne’s waistband, your gaze shifting between the two men. Zayne nods in approval. Caleb’s hands find his own waistband, but he doesn’t move yet. Like he’s waiting for you to direct the pace of things.
You drag Zayne’s boxers down his hips, unable to quiet the gasp that escapes when you see his bare length for the first time, heavy and full of want. Caleb follows, his own cock springing free as he sheds the last of his clothes.
Your lips part without meaning to, and you don’t know where to look first. They’re both so impressive, bigger than you dreamed they would be, thick and throbbing, with veins you instinctually wanted to trace with your tongue.
You swallow once, your throat suddenly dry. “I didn’t think—I mean, I figured, but…seeing you like this…”
“You figured, did you, now?” Zayne teases, stroking himself as he watches you in awe. “So you’ve thought about this before?”
Your cheeks burn red, but there’s no use in denying it now. You want to know what they feel like, want to know if they’ll be just as affected by your touch as you are by theirs. You just don’t know who to touch first.
So you don’t choose.
You wrap one hand around Caleb, and his knees nearly buckle at the contact. He grabs onto the headboard to steady himself. Your other hand finds Zayne, moving up and down the length of him like you watched him do to himself.
“Harder, angel,” Zayne instructs, eyes dark with need. “It’s not going to break.”
At that, you pump them both with more force, your grip more confident now. You don’t know where to look—at Caleb, who watches you like he regrets even blinking if it means missing the sight, or Zayne, who looks at you like he’s imagined this moment a million times before tonight.
As if sensing your internal dilemma, Zayne smiles, pulling your hand away. You frown, your other hand still loosely wrapped around Caleb.
“Am I doing it wrong?”
“ No ,” the men reply instantly, reassuring you. That’s a relief.
Zayne grabs you by the hips, pulling you closer to him, so close that you can feel the heat of his cock inside your thighs.
“There are ways to make it easier, though,” he says. But you’re still confused.
You tilt your head. “Easier…?”
Caleb gathers your hair in his hand, turning your head to face him. You can see every pulse of his hard length this close. You look up, trying your hardest not to stare. Caleb only smiles.
“If it’s wet, you can move faster,” he tells you.
You think back to his mouth on you, and your stomach flips.
Your eyes catch the prominent vein, the one you want to lick but you don’t know why. It‘s right there, just in front of your mouth. You don’t ask before wetting your lips, don’t give them any chance to tell you it’s wrong.
You press your tongue against the underside of his cock, tracing the vein slowly. Caleb lets out a low curse, his grip on your hair tightening. You blink up at him, mouth parted, eyes wide.
“Like this?” you ask genuinely, and that only makes it worse.
He forces his eyes shut. “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m not gonna last.”
You take that as a sign to keep going, wrapping your lips around the tip and sucking softly, his precum salty and warm on your tongue. You find a steady rhythm, taking him deeper and deeper until he hits the back of your throat.
The stretch of him leaves your jaw aching, tears stinging behind your lashes. But you’ve never felt better. Never knew of a pain that could feel so, so good. You moan around his cock, and his entire body shudders.
He pulls out suddenly, releasing his hand in your hair and running it through his own, staring at the ceiling like it’ll save him from ruin. You don’t know why he stopped. You thought you were doing a good job.
“You were going to kill him if you kept going like that,” Zayne’s voice, warm and easy, interrupts your spiraling thoughts. “You were perfect. So perfect.”
You turn your attention to him now, preparing to take him in your mouth next. But he stops you with a hand at your jaw before you can shift lower.
“But I want to be perfect for you, too,” you blink up at Zayne, so desperate to make him unravel as well.
“You already are,” he grits out, voice wrecked. “God, you always are.”
He brings your face close to his, close enough to kiss you, but stopping just before.
“But there’s another way to get it wet.”
Your heart is beating so hard, you’re sure they can hear it.
“Show me,” you whisper.
And that’s all it takes.
He lifts you up by the waist, flipping you onto your hands and knees. You face Caleb at this angle, your brother cupping your face so softly, like he still can’t believe you’re real.
“You’re gonna take him, pretty girl. And I’m gonna let you,” he tells you, and it’s the most serious you’ve seen him all night. “But if you so much as flinch the wrong way, he won’t get to finish a breath.”
You nod, although you’re not quite sure what you’re agreeing to. Not until you feel the unmistakable press of Zayne’s cock against your entrance.
You gasp at the pressure of it, and he didn’t even go inside of you. Your reaction makes Zayne smirk.
“You’re trembling,” he says. “Still think you can handle it?”
You nod, shifting your hips back in an attempt to feel more of him. But Zayne pulls away.
“Words, sweetheart,” he commands. “I need to hear you say it.”
“I—” you start. “I want to feel you, Zayne.”
Caleb strokes your cheek, the movement keeping you calm. “Want to feel what? Tell him.”
“I want to feel Zayne’s—” you hesitate, afraid to say the rest. “Zayne’s cock.”
Zayne groans at your admission, rewarding you with a slow drag of the head of him against your slick folds. He taps it against your clit once, twice, already making you clench around nothing. And when he finally presses in—just an inch—you need Caleb to hold you steady.
“You need to tell him where you want it,” he says. You watch as your brother touches himself at the sight of you, spread and begging for another man, and the sight alone nearly breaks you. “Tell him exactly what you need. Make him give it to you.”
“Zayne, p—please, I need you to fuck me,” your raw need outweighs any of the shame you felt a few minutes ago. “Oh, please, Zayne, I need your cock in my—”
If he had any ounce of self-control left, it evaporated the second he heard the words I need you and fuck me come out of your innocent little mouth. He fills you completely with a single thrust, and you cry out at the feel of him, deep and hot inside you.
“ Fuck ,” Zayne curses, grabbing your hips so hard you suspect they’ll bruise. “I knew you’d be tight, but fuck —you’re unbelievable.”
“You knew, did you now?” You say coyly, unable to resist teasing him the way he did you, but it comes out more breathless than you mean it to. “So you’ve thought about this before?”
Unlike you, though, Zayne doesn’t avoid the question.
He makes sure you hear his answer.
“I’ve thought about it, angel,” he says. “About the way you’d sound when you begged for me.”
He rolls his hips, and you whimper.
“How pretty you’d look when you’d spread your legs for me.”
His next thrust is shallow, almost cruel.
“How long you’d last once I got my mouth on your perfect little cunt.”
Another thrust.
“And especially,” he pulls out almost entirely, “how fucking good you’d feel coming around my cock while you cried my name.”
He slams into you—hard—pumping into you again and again and again.
“Zayne, I—”
You try to turn your head, but you’re stopped by Caleb's hand under your jaw.
“Don’t look at him,” he growls, grabbing your face with both hands now. “He didn’t watch you grow into this. Not like I did.”
You open your mouth—part gasping at his confession, part moaning at the way Zayne hits the front of your walls just right at this angle. Caleb uses it as an invitation, licking into your mouth at the same pace Zayne fucks into you from behind.
“He didn’t suffer every night, lying awake in bed because he was aching to touch what he couldn’t,” Caleb says between kisses, practically panting. “Not like I did.”
His mouth consumes yours once more, each of Zayne’s thrusts pushing your tongues deeper against each other. He pulls away only once he can sense you’re at your breaking point.
“So you look at me while he takes what I’ve been dying for,” Caleb says, just as Zayne’s fingers work your clit as he thrusts into you just the way you need.
You don’t realize you’re crying until Caleb’s thumbs wipe tears from your cheeks.
“Let go, meimei.”
And you do.
Your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, all-consuming and overwhelming and everything you wished it would be.
“Caleb,” you breathe as you clench around Zayne, the feeling of being in between the two so intoxicating it makes your head spin.
You reach for your brother, but he’s already pulling away—the sight of you reaching your climax for the first time in front of him, because of him, all too much. He wanted to last for you, and you were making that damn near impossible.
Zayne pulls out just as the last wave of pleasure washes over you, and you whine at the loss.
“Don't worry. I’m not done with you,” he says like a warning, or a promise.
He lays you down on your back, brushing a stray piece of hair behind your ear. The moment is so sweet, so tender that you nearly forget where you are. What you’re doing. Who you're doing it with.
Zayne’s cock, hard and heavy against your belly, quickly reminds you.
“Zayne?” you say, quieter than you mean to.
You feel his cock twitch just at the sound of his name in your mouth.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“You said I could have anything I wanted,” you remind him. “That you’d do whatever it takes to make me happy.”
He nods, concentrating on your every word.
“And I meant it. You just need to ask. So tell me,” he says, trailing kisses down your throat. “Tell me what it is that you want.”
He enters you again, the new position forcing you impossibly close. When he fucks you this way, it’s slower—so intimate it makes your heart ache.
“I want you to come inside of me,” you ask before you can hesitate. “I want to feel it. All of you, in me.”
He stills, eyes wide, then narrowing just as quickly. When he pumps into you again, it’s a little harder. A little rougher.
“You don’t have to say that,” he murmurs, eyes flickering over your face like he’s looking for the catch. “Not for me. I thought we were talking about what makes you happy. Not…not my favorite fucking fantasy.”
Your heart skips a beat. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, and the sound he makes is so un-Zaynelike that you almost laugh.
“Who says it’s not my fantasy, too?” you challenge.
“Do you know what you’re saying? What that means?” His voice breaks. “You can't say that. Not unless you know I won't stop.”
You nod, all softness and wickedness at once.
“I want all of you. I want to know what it’s like to be yours like that. To feel you come apart inside me.”
Zayne goes still, like your words alone might put him over the edge if he doesn't stop himself.
“Your brother won’t be happy, will he?” You glance over at Caleb, whose eyes are locked on you.
“He’s watching. He’s hard. And he wants you all to himself.” Zayne’s voice is low, so low you didn’t think Caleb could hear it.
But he crosses the room at that in two strides.
“You’re really gonna sit there and tell her no?” He gestures at you, gaze soft but voice sharp. “Look at her, Zayne. She’s asking so sweetly. And you’re really gonna deny her that?”
Zayne does look at you then. He stares at you like he’s never seen you before.
“You’re sure?” he pleads, rocking slowly now inside you. “Not for me. Not for him. For you .”
“For me.”
At that, he surges forward, mouth at your neck like he’s starving, hips pressed hard against yours. You arch without meaning to, the way he’s fucking into you now almost too much for your body to handle.
“All I’ve ever wanted was to see you happy,” he admits. You’ve heard him say it before, but this time you really believe it.
His hands thread into your hair, strong arms caging you as he leans in, breath trembling.
“I’ve tried to be good. Tried to keep my hands off you. Keep you safe. Thought maybe that was what you needed,” he swallows, jaw tight, like the words cost him.
“But if this—” he kisses your temple, and you lean into it. “If this makes you happy…”
His pace turns relentless, like he's trying to bury a lifetime of restraint in the space between your hips.
“Then I’ll give you every goddamn piece of me.”
You smile, and that’s what shatters him.
Not the lust. Not the moans. Not even the way you beg.
That smile.
“Mine,” he growls, clutching you tighter. “ Mine .”
You feel him pulsing inside you, filling you with the heat of his release. It only makes you smile harder, the feel of him losing control inside of you sending you over the edge once more.
“ Fuck —I love you,” he says it like a curse, like it hurts. And maybe it does. “I love you so much it makes me fucking crazy.”
“Zayne, I—” I love you, too. You want to say. I love you so much it scares me.
But before the words can land, Caleb’s hand is on your jaw, two fingers sliding between your lips, wet and possessive and smug.
“Mm-mm,” he hums. “Not yet.”
Zayne growls, eyes locked on your mouth as Caleb’s fingers press deeper on your tongue, claiming your silence.
“Say it. Say you need me,” he rasps, voice like sin. “Say it when he’s still inside you.”
You look between the two men, lips full, heart thrumming. You try to breathe. Try to form a sound around the pressure in your mouth.
But even if you could, what would you say?
This shouldn't feel right. But Zayne's gaze doesn't hold jealousy. Only hunger. Curiosity. Like he wants to see how far you'll go.
So when his fingers slip out, wet and slow—you choke on your own breath as you gasp it out:
“Caleb, please…I need you.”
You barely register Zayne easing out of you before your brother’s hands are on your hips.
He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t wait. Just grips your sides and shifts you down the mattress like you weigh nothing.
You gasp as your thighs hit the edge of the bed. Caleb stays standing, looming between your legs while Zayne shifts behind you, arms bracketing your waist to keep you upright. He kisses your shoulder, your spine, grounding you while Caleb drinks in the view.
“She needs a minute,” Zayne mutters, voice wrecked. “Look at her. She can’t take more.”
You make a soft sound—half protest, half plea—and Caleb smirks, leaning in close.
“You really think she needs saving from me?” he speaks to Zayne, but his focus is entirely on you. “Or are you just scared of how good it’s gonna feel?”
Caleb’s hand trails up the back of your thigh, making your legs twitch. He feels it. So does Zayne.
“I can take it,” you whisper, and both men freeze.
“Angel—” Zayne starts, like he’s about to argue again.
But you turn your head toward him, eyes glassy but blazing. “I want to.”
Caleb’s expression turns feral. “That’s my girl.”
He lines himself up against you, hands wrapped around your thighs, the position leaving you spread and helpless before him.
“He made you smile like that. I saw it. And I’m glad.”
He leans forward—the smallest movement—but the head of him catches your clit in a way that makes your breath stutter.
“Now I wanna ruin it.”
Caleb grinds the length of his cock against your entrance, up and down, coating himself in the slick combination of your and Zayne’s pleasure.
“You should’ve let me have you first. You should’ve known I’d love you better.”
You’re so wet that he slips in without meaning to, just a little, but it’s enough to make him curse, enough to make you clench around the heavy tip of him.
“Then prove it,” you’re panting now, looking up at him with eager eyes. “Take me how you wanted to all this time. Like I’m yours. Like I should’ve been.”
“You should’ve been?” His voice is raw, disbelieving, cracked wide open.
You gasp as he slams into you in one brutal, claiming thrust, and the sound that rips from his throat is somewhere between a growl and a prayer.
“You were . You fuckin’ were,” he thrusts harder, like he can make you feel it in your bones. “It doesn’t matter who touched you first. I’ll be the last. You belong to me. It’s always been me.”
He fucks into you like he’s losing his mind. Maybe he is.
“I should’ve taken you the first time you looked at me like I was more than just your brother. Should’ve put you in my bed and never let you out.”
“I would’ve let you,” you whisper, and there’s no hesitation. "I still would."
"Don't—”
You moan his name, and that’s it.
It’s not pretty. It’s not gentle. It’s everything you’ve both ever wanted.
You’re trembling, legs shaking, vision white at the edges. Caleb doesn’t stop—won’t stop, not even when his cum drips down your inner thighs—but Zayne’s still there. His hands cradle your waist, guiding you through every wave, every cry. He leans in, presses a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head.
You reach for him blindly—grasping, needing—not because you’re slipping, but because you need him to know. Need him to know this doesn’t make him less. That you’re not choosing one over the other.
His hand finds yours and squeezes.
“I know,” he says quietly, forehead pressed to yours. “You don’t have to say it. I know.”
He shifts closer, wrapping you up even while Caleb breaks you open.
“You’re everything to me. You hear me?” His voice wavers, but never breaks. “You’re everything.”
And that’s what kills you. Not the pleasure, but this—being loved so wholly you can’t remember how you ever survived without it.
Then— pop.
You flinch as the window flashes with white-gold light, followed by the sharp crack of fireworks lighting up the night sky.
Caleb blinks, lifting his head, still buried inside you. “Seriously?”
Zayne huffs a soft laugh into your hair.
And you smile.
Only for your throat to tighten—because you realize what that means.
The night is slipping. Already changed. You’ve already crossed the line and now…now there’s no going back.
Your laughter stutters into a quiet sob. “I don’t want it to end.”
"Then we won’t let it,” Zayne cups your face instantly, thumbing away the tears before they fall. "We're not going anywhere."
“I don’t know what happens next,” you whisper.
"We figure it out. Together,” Caleb’s voice is rough and sure as he gently pulls out of you. His hand sneaks up to ruffle your hair. "You're stuck with us now, y'know that? No way out now."
You huff a tired, shaky laugh. Because god, you want that to be true.
The two help piece you back together again. Caleb cleans you up, pulls one of his t-shirts over your head with careful hands. Zayne’s there a moment later, kneeling in front of you with a glass of water. His other hand cradles your jaw as you sip, thumb brushing softly over your cheekbone.
“Slow,” he says when you start to gulp. “You’re okay. Just breathe.”
And only then—when your body is clean, clothed, and cradled in warmth—do they lay you down between them, the blanket pulled over all three of you. Caleb curls behind you, hand splayed possessively over your stomach. Zayne pulls you toward his chest, heart beating steady beneath your cheek.
You don’t know what tomorrow looks like. But for the first time, you’re not afraid of asking for too much. Of being too much. You understand now. That this kind of happiness—this deep, aching love—only happens when it’s both. When Zayne holds you steady and Caleb tears you apart. And somehow, they both make you whole again.
"I love you," you breathe. "Both of you."
For a second, you think they won't answer. That maybe they didn't hear you.
But Zayne kisses the top of your head. "We know," he murmurs.
Caleb holds you tighter.
"We love you, too," he adds, quieter than you've ever heard him.
When you close your eyes, tucked between your brother and your guardian, sleep no longer feels like an escape.
$15.99 MAIN COURSE 5 ━ CALEB 夏以昼
synopsis. you find yourself unable to say no when X-02 explains that he's been tasked—forced—by those who held them captive to take your virginity.
what happens when they push caleb to his limits—not knowing the lengths he will go to to protect you? from everyone, except himself.
wc. 11.6k please mind the content warnings.
━ ✧ cw: mdni, explicit sexual content, forced-to-fuck situation, lots of 'gege/ge' use (you're not allowed to call him caleb), X-02!caleb and A-01!reader, virginity loss (both m and f), forced voyeurism, directed/instructed sex, light coercion and emotional manipulation, dubcon, handjob m!receiving, oral f!receiving, lots of making out, unprotected, caleb purposely does not pull out, undescriptive implied murder, themes of abuse and captivity (its A-01 and X-02 okay)
━ ✧ an: the last installment of kinktober is FINALLY here. my favorite for last, caleb <3 literally don't understand how it became 10k+ words lol. i was fully intending for zayne's to be the longest at 7.3k.
that's a wrap on aeyumi's 2025 kinktober. see you guys never i'm disappearing off the face of the planet i am so burned out. love you all!
as always, please mind the content warnings. if they bother you, don't read.
Caleb's jaw clenches as the men in white coats wheel in a sight that's all too familiar to him. Your unconscious body lays on the cot, coming back from yet another battlefield.
Your unconscious body lays on the cot, coming back from yet another battlefield.
He knows better than to lash out—even if it's all he wants to do when he sees you like this. The handlers had quickly learned that the best way to control X-02 was with A-01. To threaten A-01 was to keep X-02 in line. If he resisted? Stimulate her pain receptors. If he planned another escape? They guaranteed they'd be found again, just like all those years ago. Only this time, he'd never see you again.
It was a simple, yet painfully effective.
Caleb is prepared for what's to come. He would connect your transfer ports, gifting you his Construo energy so you could heal, broken and mangled from unfathomable bloodshed.
That part he didn't mind as much—to see color return to your cheeks, to see firsthand that you were alive.
Sometimes, if he was lucky, he even got to see your eyelashes flutter open, your beautiful eyes taking in the fluorescent lights wondrously, memories wiped clean. Like you'd been reborn—in a life different from this hellish one, if even just for a moment.
But they never let you see him, always sure to remove him, or sometimes you, from the lab and back to the lonely room separated by that damned wall he knew you sat across. His A-01.
With the go-ahead from the handlers, Caleb connects his transfer port to yours, holding your limp hand and murmuring to you tenderly. It was the same repeated words, now etched into his soul.
"I'm sorry. I won't fail you next time. Our next escape will be our last—I promise."
He grows weary as the energy is almost completely drained from his body. Lately, you'd needed more of it every time they'd have him repair you. He can feel the heat rising in his chest, blood boiling, contemplating what they've been doing to you. The horrors you were being subjected to.
Caleb shudders as he feels your Destructio energy caressing his—signaling that your body is almost done absorbing. The sensation was something he'd grown to crave more than anything, the closest thing he'd ever get to holding you again. At least until he could free the both of you. As the months dragged on, the endless cycle of violence and repairing fractured his soul—even he knew that freedom might just be a faraway delusion.
Desperately, he presses your transfer ports tighter, knowing they will disengage and you'll be taken away from him again. It's pointless; whatever vitals that appear on those screens always inform the handlers that the ports have disconnected.
Even though it's futile, he keeps your fingers intertwined with his—praying they won't notice for a while longer. That they won't take you away again.
But that dreaded moment doesn't come.
He tears his eyes away from you when he hears the researchers whispering among themselves, gesturing to different machines that displayed various vitals. Caleb's teeth clench tightly as he watches them point their eyes towards you, unconsciously moving to block you from their view.
When they catch his eyes, they turn to each other once more before slowly approaching him. Caleb tenses instantly, his body poised between you and them—ready to shield you.
They flinch. Though X-02 didn't carry the volatile Destructio energy, he had proven himself to be just as dangerous when A-01 was threatened. The lead researcher, one that'd known X-02 since he was a child, steps forward.
"X-02, we need you to do something for us."
—
Your eyes flicker awake, squinting at the harsh lighting. The room you find yourself awakening in is terrifyingly sterile. The incessant beeping of the machines around you makes your head split.
Trying to sit up, you realize your arms are strapped down. The beeping quickens, pulsing erratically as your heart starts to pound, realizing you're completely restrained.
"Hey, it's okay," a soft voice whispers from beside you, "You're okay."
Your head pounds as you try to place it. It's both unfamiliar and familiar.
Craning your neck around, you see a man sitting on a chair that's pulled up to your bed. He's wrapped in a similar exoskeleton suit as you. His eyes remind you of a sunrise you'd seen once long ago, deep amethyst hues that bleed into a pink coral that's almost golden.
"Caleb."
"Yeah," he whispers in awe, "That's me."
The researchers had let Caleb know that they'd reinserted the memories that had been extracted from you—the ones containing the word 'X-02.' Containing 'gege.'
They'd assured him that this was temporary. Once he was finished, they'd remove them, and the ones from today, again.
Considering what they were asking him to do, that was probably for the best.
He'd savor this while he could—the look of recognition and adoration in your beautiful eyes, eyes he dreamt about every single night.
Caleb exhales when the monitors settle, your heartbeat calming quickly. He reaches a tentative hand out, fingers gently brushing against your cheek.
You lean into his touch instinctively, as if you'd done it thousands of times before—trusting him implicitly.
Calming. Encouraging. Bright.
Caleb scoots closer, his eyes shining under the fluorescent lights. You try to reach out for him, but the leather cuffs dig into your skin as you tug. Caleb's hands instantly find the restraints, his expert fingers working to undo them.
Suddenly, a staticky voice blares from the intercom.
"X-02."
It's a clear warning directed at Caleb. He looks incredibly irritated, his eyebrows furrowing and eyes sparkling dangerously.
"W-What is that?" you ask, on edge again—the monitors reflecting your distress.
"It's…" he struggles to find the right words. You fill in his silence.
"It's them, isn't it?"
Caleb looks surprised but simultaneously relieved that you remember that much—that he doesn't have to explain the devastating reality you've woken up to.
"Yeah, it is," he whispers, stroking the irritated skin of your wrists, "But don't worry. I'll make sure they don't hurt you."
He intertwines his pinky with yours. You're hit with the memory of when he'd taught you what pinky promises meant—that same day he'd shown you the sunrise.
"X-02, you are not to undo A-01's restraints. Please proceed with what we discussed, or we will have you removed."
"Fuck! Just—just give me a moment!" he snaps at the air. His distress makes your chest clench nervously.
"What are they talking about? W-What did they tell you to do?"
Caleb breathes a sigh of relief when no accusation or hostility colors your words, realizing you still trust him, unconditionally. His heart throbs, thankful it's not his vitals being tracked. He knows he doesn't have much time. If he doesn't follow their orders, they've guaranteed they'd find someone else to carry this out.
And there was no way in hell he'd let anyone else touch you.
"They…they want me—us—to…"
Something about seeing Caleb so uncertain and lost for words makes you uncomfortable. Your fingers squeeze his, trying to reassure him—the same way he would do to you.
"Cal—" you're interrupted as Caleb gently closes his palm over your mouth.
"Gege. Call me gege. Th-They don't know about Caleb."
The meaning of his words slowly sink in as you remember all the times you'd woken up, healed from battle, remembering nothing but the name 'Caleb.'
The one thing they couldn't take from you. Not if they didn't know.
"Gege," you correct yourself with a whisper, "W-What does that mean?"
Caleb's own pulse skyrockets as he hears you call him that,"It means…brother. Family, friend, protector. Whatever you need me to be."
As you digest those words, he murmurs, "You trust me, right?"
Your head cocks in confusion, but you nod, "Yes. You're the only one I trust, gege."
"X-02!" The voice over the intercom is much more aggressive now, "Proceed, or we will find someone else!"
Caleb growls venomously at that notion, his head snapping towards the source of the voice. For a second, the air around you crackles and the lights flicker—gravity seeming to shift. Slowly, his fist clenches by your side and everything returns to normal. His expression is unreadable, softening when he looks at you.
"Close your eyes for me, please?"
You eyebrows furrow with confusion but you obey, your lashes fluttering shut. He's only ever protected you—you trusted him more than you trusted yourself.
A small eternity passes before something happens, something soft and foreign pressing against your lips, which part in surprise. Your eyelids flicker open, met with the sight of Caleb's shut eyes, right in front of your own.
Caleb hovers over you, thumb gripping your chin gently in place as he continues to press his lips into yours—stealing your breath straight from the source. He groans into you, feeling his suit getting painfully tight as he grows increasingly and uncomfortably swollen.
It's innocent—chaste. Just his lips against yours. But it's more than enough to send the blood rushing between his legs.
When he finally pulls away, his cheeks are rosy and his ears are tipped red. His purple eyes search yours pleadingly, as if expecting to be punished and preemptively asking for forgiveness.
But your anger doesn't come, only looking at him with wide and confused eyes, "W-What was that?"
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he apologizes still—the self-loathing eating at him. Your first kiss, and you'd had no say. And he hated himself for how badly he'd enjoyed it—loved it.
"Why are you sorry?" you ask genuinely. Your entire body tingled, the sensation of his lips still ghosting against yours even with his face a foot away from you. You were bewildered as to what he was apologizing for. You didn't understand what he'd just did, but it hadn't seemed like a bad thing.
"I want to explain," he whispers, stroking your face tenderly, "I can explain. It's—"
But he's cut off by that same crackly intercom again.
"X-02. You are not authorized to say more. Proceed as you have been directed."
Caleb let's out a string of expletives that's so venomous it makes you wince. His eyes widen when he notices, gently holding your face in his hands.
"I-I'm sorry, princess. Don't be scared, everything's okay."
Caleb's words, his touch, make you feel so unbelievably safe. But you can't quite ignore the ominous staticky directions, coming from the intercom in the corner of the ceiling.
"Then what's happening?" you whisper. As you try and reach out for him, your wrists once again tug against the cuffs, and panic settles in. You jerk against them, looking at him pleadingly. The monitors beep erratically, reflecting your rising anxiety. You can feel the energy inside of you surfacing with volatility, your entire body covered in goosebumps.
Caleb watches, helpless, as you realize that your powers, your energy, is useless. The entire room is built with some kind of destructuo energy dampener, specifically designed to control you.
It was no doubt in response to an incident years ago where you'd nearly destroyed the laboratory, and every single person in it, when they'd taken him away from you.
Knowing no other way to calm you, he leans back in, consuming your hyperventilating breaths with his lips. His hands gently stop your wrists from thrashing, soothing your irritated skin with his thumbs. You moan into him, overwhelmed by everything, taking solace in the comfort he provides you. It feels familiar, and yet different all at once.
Earlier, it was gentle, cautious, delicate. But now?
It was frenzied, claiming, desperate.
Caleb is scared, not knowing how to fix this—how to explain what they've asked him to do, scared of not being able to protect you from this.
From him.
He climbs onto the bed with you, gently parting your knees so he can settle between them. The way your tongue intertwines with his makes him groan, growing excited even when guilt weighs heavily on his body, his cock hardening painfully against his unforgiving exoskeleton.
You hadn't quite kissed him back earlier—not knowing how. But now, your lips moved in tandem with his, tongue messily twirling with his, learning quickly. Even when you barely understood what it meant, your body responded instinctively.
Caleb pulls away to breathe, his chest heaving as he hovers over you. Your eyes flutter up at him, hazy and bewildered. His eyes are drawn to your puffy lips, a line of spit connecting you to him.
"I-I've always wanted to do that," he croaks. The heat in his confession makes you shiver, something akin to excitement brewing in your stomach.
"Really?" you whisper breathlessly, in disbelief. He gives you a half smile as he nods, tucking your hair behind your ear.
You blink up at him, dazed—drunk off the sensation of his lips. Caleb presses his forehead to yours, holding the back of your head tightly, gripping your hair like it'd keep you from ever disappearing again.
"I have to do this. So they don't hurt you," he whispers. It's not completely untruthful. If he didn't do it, they'd find someone else to defile you. His words might be a slight stretch, but there was truth there.
As well as his own deception.
"Do what?" you whisper, still completely lost.
"They want us to…" he tries to speak clearly, knowing they'll warn him again, likely for the last time.
"They want me to—They're forcing me to take your…" Caleb gulps, his eyes darkened with a torrent of bitter conflict.
"Your first time."
He can tell by your expression that you're unsure what he means. His gut coils in an alarming mix of arousal and guilt at your inexplicable innocence and inexperience. Pressure builds in his groin at the idea that he will be the one to change that.
His heart pounds painfully, "Just…just trust me. If we don't do this…they said they'll find someone else."
The entire room crackles with sinister energy as he speaks, the lights flickering ominously. While you're unsure what he means, you knew you didn't want anyone else near you, touching you. Pressing their lips to yours, like he just did. The thought makes your skin crawl.
You watch with wide eyes as he leans back in, pressing his lips to your jaw this time. Caleb groans at how your body naturally responds to him, pretty little whimpers escaping you. His lips trail down your face, to your neck where you feel him inhaling deeply. It makes you blush, wondering why he's behaving this way. And why it makes your thighs clench excitedly.
"G-Gege!" you whimper when his lips latch onto the sensitive skin against your pulse. You feel him smiling, satisfied by the way the monitors go insane as they pick up on your increased heart rate and blood pressure, signs of how excited you are—even if you don't realize what it means.
"That's enough. Continue, X-02. Further down."
His fingers clench, blood boiling again—reminded of how methodical they've instructed he go about this. Like it meant nothing. Like it wasn't something he'd wanted for years.
He kisses down every inch of your exposed skin, his face eventually scratching against the rough metal of your suit as he moves down your neck.
"Stand by. Someone will enter shortly to remove your exoskeletons."
Caleb's eyes widen at that, a surge of hostility and protectiveness claiming him. Your dazed look of bliss only fans those flames of possessiveness—eyes snapping to the door as it slides open.
Before you can register what's happening, Caleb is off of you, standing between the bed and the door. The lights flicker wildly, lab equipment inexplicably trembling—metal scratching against the linoleum floor. The air around you feels odd, almost weightless.
"Do not fucking come near her," Caleb warns. He doesn't even realize what's happening—doesn't even notice the unprecedented deadly energy radiating off of him. The lab technician looks utterly terrified.
On the other side of the one way mirror, the group of laboratory researchers murmur excitedly among themselves—jotting down everything they see. For a moment they want to stop their little experiment, now having something far more interesting to study.
"This is incredible. Is it possible X-02 is developing some kind of…new ability?"
"It's seems A-01 truly is the key to unlock his potential."
"Screw the intercourse study, we should study him instead."
"Ca—Ge," you whisper urgently, not being able to remember ever having seen him do something like this before. Normally you'd be the one with the offensive abilities, your energy and blades, and him with the healing and power of creation, "W-What are you doing?"
Caleb's eyes soften when he looks at you, the pulsing energy surrounding him seeming to dissipate. But as the lab technician inches toward you, Caleb's hostility returns instantly, an animalistic noise escaping his throat. You flinch when one of the bulbs in the fluorescent light tube above shatter.
The man's hands raise in desperate surrender, eyes snapping to the dimmed light, discreetly speaking into his mic, "The hell am I supposed to do?! He'll kill me if I get any closer!"
At instructions that are inaudible to Caleb, the technician clears his throat, voice trembling as he speaks to him.
"Th-There's a button beneath the panels of your suit, at the back of the neck. If you press that, your exoskeletons will retract until it's pressed again."
He flees after, his face pale as a sheet—desperate to get out of that room and out of X-02's sight. Caleb turns back to you, fingers instantly caressing your cheek.
"Sorry, did I scare you?" he murmurs.
You shake your head, "N-No. But why do they want us to remove our suits?" Your cheeks are red, knowing it'll mean you'll be naked. In front of Caleb.
Caleb's own cheeks burn as his eyes drift down your body, unable to stop himself from imagining your bare skin under the imposing layers of metal.
"W-We…" he struggles to find the words as he carefully climbs between your legs again, "We need to be naked. To do this."
This. Once again, you didn't understand what that meant but you knew you wanted it to be Caleb. Not someone else, like they'd threatened if he didn't comply.
"B-But…" you blush harder, clearing your throat. Caleb kisses your forehead reassuringly, able to read you like an open book. You were nervous, shy.
"It's okay," he murmurs, fingers trailing across your collar and up to your neck, "Please…I-I want—I need to see you."
Your eyes widen wondrously at the desperation of his plea, heart hammering at the prospect of being naked in front of someone. In front of him.
"X-02, proceed. Now."
Caleb's eyes darken with annoyance. He leans in to kiss you again, whispering reassuringly against your lips, "It'll be over soon, okay?"
You moan into his mouth as kisses you aggressively, his fingers roaming across your shoulders. Even through the exoskeleton it made you shiver, an unexplainable fire growing in your gut.
Goosebumps form under the metal as Caleb's tongue tangles demandingly with yours, his fingers finding the nape of your neck. He wants to warn you, give you more time to adjust, but they'd given him far too many warnings already. Especially considering the power he'd just inadvertently displayed, he was surprised they hadn't separated him from you already. Not that he'd let them, not after he'd gotten a chance to taste you.
Caleb's fingers gently lift the metal panels against your neck, thumb finding the button they'd mentioned. With his lips still on yours, his eyes quickly scan the ceiling for all visible cameras, intentionally shifting his body to block your body from them.
His heart pounds as he presses it, inexplicably excited at the idea of seeing you naked. You gasp into his lips when you feel the tight exoskeleton disengaging, exposing your skin to the cold air. You can't look down, Caleb's metal fingers gripping the back of your head firmly in place, while the other grips your hip possessively.
Only when he releases your lips can you look down, seeing your own naked body for the first time in you're unsure how long. Caleb follows your eyes, breath quickening as he takes you in. His cock lurches, nearly feeling himself explode just at the mere sight of you.
"Beautiful," he croaks, thumb wiping away the saliva on your lips. His entire body trembles, overwhelmed by how exquisite you are, how soft your skin is, how mouthwatering your breasts are as they taunt him.
He doesn't dare look further down, knowing he won't be able to stop from losing himself entirely—pinning you down and taking you like a madman.
You try to cover your body, but of course your wrists only rattle against the metal cuffs.
"E-Embarrassing," you mumble, averting your eyes shyly.
Caleb wants to reassure you, but he's swiftly interrupted.
"X-02, proceed as you've been briefed. Start by stimulating A-01's breasts."
Your eyes snap up to the intercom, heart beating erratically in disbelief. Your breasts?!
Caleb holds your cheeks, bringing you out of your anxious thoughts, and pressing his forehead on yours.
"I have to," he whispers, trying to hide his excitement. A dark part of him thanked the twisted universe for providing him this opportunity.
"Why?" you croak quietly, your breath fanning across his lips, "W-Why are they making us do this?"
Caleb's heart fractures at your words, reminded that just because he wants this, doesn't mean you do.
"I-I…" Caleb stutters, "I don't know. They're always running experiments on us. If I had to guess, they want to see how we react to different physical stimuli…like pleasure."
"Pleasure…" you trail off, lost in your tumultuous thoughts. Caleb's eyes are drawn to your hardened nipples—puckered and begging for his attention, even as he tries to focus on your discomfort.
"X-02 this is your last warning to proceed as directed."
"J-Just do it," you whisper before he has a chance to lash out at the unseen voices. Caleb's face snaps to yours, both excited to continue and devastated by the notion that you were doing this entirely against your will.
But even if he wanted to, he couldn't refuse.
"I'm sorry," Caleb whispers as his lips trail down your bare collar. He moans at the smell of your skin, his hips bucking against your thigh. He's still in his exoskeleton, the material digging harshly into your legs.
Your eyes flutter shut as you feel moisture on the swell of your breasts, his lips latching on gently. You squirm, feeling self conscious with Caleb so close to your intimate parts. There's a building tension in your gut, half parts anxiety and half something you've never experienced before.
"I-I'm so sorry," he says again, but this time he's apologizing for how excited, how hard, he is. He feels terrible, but it doesn't stop him from wanting you.
"Focus on her areolas."
The thought of sucking on your nipples nearly sends Caleb into a frenzy. His eyes plead with yours, "I have to." When you nod hesitantly, his head dips down, taking one peak into his mouth and capturing the other with his rough fingers.
You lurch, cuffs digging painfully into your wrists, "Nnngh…C-Caleb!" You can't think consciously enough to remember not to use his name, overwhelmed by the sharp pleasure of his mouth on your breast.
Caleb nearly chokes against your skin, the sound of your moan completely unexpected and entirely irresistible. He growls excitedly, sucking harder. He can vaguely make out the sounds of the machines beeping wildly—the audible indication of your arousal fuels him, especially knowing your body wanted him even if you didn't.
"O-Oh that feels…" you trail off, struggling to breathe—the machines mirroring your thunderous heart rate.
Caleb braces himself for whatever you're about to say, lips still closed over your nipple, eyes nervously peering up at you through thick eyelashes.
"Unngh—f-feels goo—ood," you choke, forgetting your surroundings entirely. That there's a group of people watching you from the cameras. All you can focus on is the foreign feeling building in your body, every nerve tingling like it might burst.
You whine when he freezes momentarily, taken aback by your reaction. You try to prop yourself up to look at him, but you feel his teeth bare down gently on your sensitive flesh, causing you to thrash against the restraints.
"Really?" his words are muffled, breath hot against your flesh, "A-Are you sure, princess?"
Your head is thrown back with a moan as he sucks harder, "Y-Yeah? Is it—nngh—n-not supposed to?"
"N-No! It is. It is."
He ruts eagerly against your thighs, unable to contain his excitement as he samples your soft skin. He forces himself to control his urges, wanting to make this as enjoyable as possible for you. As you shiver against his metallic suit, Caleb pauses before finding the button at the nape of his own neck and pressing down.
You watch with wide eyes as the panels of his exoskeleton shuffle into themselves, leaving him naked—his body sculpted and muscular. It's then you realize his right arm is entirely modified, while the other is still flesh.
Your gaze drifts downward, specifically between his legs. Caleb flushes as he sees how erect he is, wet sticky arousal smearing against his abdomen as his cock stands tall. It lurches with excitement as he looks down at your naked body, kneeling upright between your legs.
"A-Are you okay?" you stutter, not understanding why his body is reacting like this. You'd never seen a man's body, but it looked swollen and painful, "Does that hurt?"
Caleb's cheeks burn as he watches you stare at his cock—feeling self conscious. Like you, this was the first time he'd seen himself naked in a while. The handlers were exceedingly careful not to share too much knowledge about their skeletons—not wanting to fuel another revolt.
"No, it doesn't. Don't worry, princess."
"I-Is it supposed to be like that?"
Caleb clears his throat, embarrassed, "…No. I'm like this…B-Because of you."
Your head tilts in confusion, but there's another instruction before you can inquire more.
"X-02, you may now undo A-01's restraints."
Caleb bristles at the intrusion but obliges, deftly undoing the cuffs and taking your wrists into his hands, massaging them tenderly. He doesn't even get to soothe you for two seconds before they're demanding more.
"A-01, stroke X-02's penis. With your hands."
"Wait—" the shock is evident on Caleb's face, turning to the blinking camera, "You never said anything about that—"
His tone is murderous, the energy around him once again sucking inward, making it difficult to breathe. He can't help it—unable to control this…ability of his that seemed to manipulate the gravity around them. And when he got emotional, it seemed especially volatile.
"You said she wouldn't have to do anything," he snarls, the idea of them subjecting you to more than they needed to like acid on his tongue. What they'd tasked him with doing to you would already be traumatic enough. He didn't want you to have to do the same, regardless if you would remember it or not.
"There's been new developments. A-01, proceed."
If Caleb had to guess, it was likely, what they believed to be, his newfound power that they now wanted to test. To them, it seemed to manifest as a result of A-01—specifically after physical intimacy with A-01.
And they wanted to see what else they could uncover about X-02, using A-01.
"No," he desperately turns to you, "No, you don't ha—"
"I-It's okay…gege," you wince at the resurfacing memories of what would happen when you didn't cooperate with them. The sensory injector. The pain.
You take him into your trembling hands. Caleb jolts when your fingers come into contact with him, curling over you. The exam bed shakes with the weight of his body as he curses lowly and whispers your name.
"O-Oh Christ," he pants, his entire body heaving. You slow your ministrations.
Your stomach flutters as he moans, seeming to thoroughly enjoy your touch—a concept that makes your entire body heat with confusing desires, even without him touching you.
Caleb's eyes are squeezed shut, trying to sear this feeling into his memory. He falls backwards, supporting himself with his palms, his hips rutting up into your timid hands.
You watch, mesmerized. You need to use both hands to completely grip him, the sticky fluid spilling onto your skin. His entire body rolls into your palms, a thin sheen of sweat starting to form on his abdomen.
Simply obeying orders, you really didn't have a clear grasp on what exactly you were doing. But even in your inexperience, you knew this was filthy. Lewd and intimate.
"A-01, make sure you stimulate his testicles too."
The intrusion startles you, making Caleb choke out a curse when you accidentally squeeze down on him.
"O-Oh sorry," you whisper, removing your hands. Caleb moves faster, catching your wrists and bringing them back to wrap around him.
"Hah—D-Don't stop," he groans, "Need you t-to touch me. Please."
When he realizes you have no idea what they'd just instructed you to do, he carefully brings one of your hands to cup the sensitive skin under the base of his thick length. He gently guides your fingers, showing you how to do what they'd asked. You audibly gasp as your fingers wrap around, what you assume is, his testicles—soft and heavy in your hand.
Your movements aren't particularly skilled, obviously, but your touch is pure heaven to Caleb. His balls quickly tighten excitedly in your fingers. You'd barely been touching him for a few minutes and he was already close.
"H-Hah—oh g-god. J-Just like that," he praises lowly, stroking your face with a shaky hand. As your eyes meet, you're struck with the sudden desire to feel his lips again. Caleb watches your eyes drift to his lips, lurching fiercely in your hands as he catches you.
"Come here," he whispers huskily, fingers weaving into the back of your head and tugging you forward—eager and aggressive. It's sloppy, his tongue claiming every inch of you as saliva escapes the corner of your mouth, struggling to keep up with his fervor.
When your hands stop moving, unable to focus on anything but his lips, Caleb groans and encompasses your fingers with his own. He uses your hand to jerk himself off, breathing growing increasingly heavy as his body rolls up into your joined hands. At the feeling of your wet timid tongue, he comes completely undone, unable to stop from exploding in your hands.
Caleb hisses into your mouth, shuddering violently under your touch. You feel something wet and hot splatter against your bare skin. It makes you shiver, reminding you that you're completely naked. You'd forgotten, his proximity keeping you warm and toasty.
"F-Fuck—!" Caleb curses as he holds the base of his cock, squeezing—trying to stop himself. But it's too late, his release painting your delicate skin milky white.
Of course, it was his first orgasm—a completely new sensation, so he had no idea what to expect. He didn't know if orgasming a few strokes in was normal or not. All he knew was that he was upset that he hadn't been able to prolong the glorious moment.
If the feeling of your fingers could render him in this state, what would being inside of you do to him? The thought excites him as much as it terrifies him, rendering him thick and desperate once more.
On the other side of the wall, the group of researchers note everything they see, including how the lights flicker erratically as X-02 approaches and reaches orgasm, his energy levels spiking to unprecedented levels and behaving more like that of A-01's destructuo energy.
"Is he showing signs of…evolution?"
"What do you think is the cause? A-01? Or climax?"
"Do you think A-01 could exhibit similar developments?"
"We theorized that physical pleasure might prove more efficient in the healing and recovery process than X-02's energy. What if…it can do more?"
They look excitedly between themselves before reaching for the intercom mic.
"X-02, proceed with the next phase."
Caleb is almost entirely incoherent, his entire body heaving with the force of his climax. His eyes widen at how much of his cum you're covered in.
"I'm sorry, couldn't stop myself," he blushes, moving to wipe you off. He freezes as he watches his release drip off your tits, groaning at how much harder it makes him—cock unbearably sensitive.
"It's okay, gege. It's…warm," you whisper wondrously at the way the white pearly beads reflect the fluorescent light. Caleb watches with shadowed eyes as you use your delicate fingers to wipe a rivulet off of your swollen peak. At your whimper, your nipples sensitive from his prior attention, he gently pushes you back down, hovering over you.
"You have no idea what you do to me, do you?"
He doesn't give you a chance to speak, stealing your breath all at once. His fingers ghost down your body, tracing your sensitive nipples in their path downward. Greedily, he swallows up your whimpers.
"X-02."
Caleb groans, swearing against your lips. The moment is shattered as he remembers what the next phase is. He looks at you, already repenting—this would be the point of no return.
"Forgive me," he rasps, pressing one last kiss to your forehead before his lip carve a path down your body. You writhe, moaning as he travels down, his tongue tasting every inch of you.
Your eyes widen when he reaches your pelvis, scrambling and trying to push him away, "W-Wait, not there."
Caleb looks up, desperate, "Please, princess. I…I have to."
Again, not entirely true, but not entirely a lie.
"You…have to," you echo, looking down at him. He's between your legs, faces inches away from your core. It made you squirm.
"Yeah. I-It'll be quick," he whispers, willing to do anything to reassure you—even if it's likely not true.
But one thing he knows for certain, "I'll always protect you, I won't let anyone hurt you."
Except of course, him.
Relief tinged with shame floods him when you finally nod and whisper, "O-Okay, Caleb."
At his despondent expression—grappling with the idea that you're agreeing because you have no choice, you grasp his face and bring it back up to meet yours, "I trust you, gege."
It soothes him, but it's not enough to reassure him entirely.
His body trembles with the weight of his restraint, his face inches away from your cunt. Your smell intoxicates him—it takes everything in him not to dive in, literally, head first.
"Close your eyes for me princess."
You oblige, breath quickening as you wait for him to do whatever it is they've tasked him with. All you can hear is the faint pulse of the monitors reading your vitals, and your labored breathing, as you wait for what feels like an eternity.
"C-Caleb—w-wha—!"
You're interrupted by your own scream when you feel Caleb's familiar mouth press against your most private parts, his nose prodding your lips apart.
"W-Wait, don't—don't," you say weakly, back arching off the bed at the sharp sensation. Caleb's arms loop around your thighs, holding you firmly in place—preventing escape. You whine as his tongue dives deeper, wedged right between your quivering folds. His moans reverberate off your sensitive skin, making your gut bubble with pleasure.
Caleb is too lost in your essence to register your rising distress, groaning desperately, "O-Oh y-you taste so fucking good."
Your eyes widen at his lustful words, his voice deep with desire and possession.
Truthfully, your distress stemmed from the idea that theywere also forcing Caleb to do something he didn't want, something that seemed so…disgusting. But the idea, the proof right between your thighs, that he seemed to…enjoy this—it made your entire body twitch with confusion.
"Uhhngh…r-really?" you moan in disbelief, sitting up on shaky elbows. The sight of his eyes hooded with pleasure, tongue lapping eagerly at the slick that refused to stop dripping from your legs, made you unbearably excited.
Caleb answers with a pleasured growl, unable to pull away from your nectar. His words vibrate against your core, making you writhe, "Mmnn..w-would never lie to you."
He tugs you aggressively closer to him, your body sliding down the exam bed as he practically brings your body to his lips like how you'd drink from a bowl. As his lips latch onto a unbearably sensitive bud of flesh, you're interrupted once more.
"X-02, the next phase is penetration, not f—"
You yelp as Caleb's fingers dig painfully into the plush of your ass, a snarl erupting from his shiny lips. Another halogen tube light bursts as he regards the unseen researchers venomously.
"You want me to fuck her, at least let me make sure she's ready!"
You flinch at the pure hatred in words, half-expecting them to barge in—punishing Caleb for his insolence. But you're only met with tense silence. Caleb turns to you again, his face softening.
"Sorry," he mumbles sheepishly, "Are you okay?"
You gulp nervously, but nod nonetheless. At that, Caleb kisses you again. Your nose scrunches at the new taste, goosebumps forming when you realize you're tasting yourself.
Pulling away, Caleb refocuses on devouring you. This time you don't protest when he places your legs on his shoulder, his expression absolutely starved—crazed, as he admires the mess he's created between your legs.
The scrutiny makes you squirm, "D-Don't stare."
Caleb only grins, leaning back in. You whine when he takes a deep breathe, inhaling your scent, making you flush with embarrassment.
"Cale—Ge. D-Don't do that."
He chuckles, warm breath making you twitch, "M'sorry princess. Can't help it."
His eyes lock with yours, the dawn hues darkened—reminding you more of dusk now, "I can't resist you. Not now. Not ever."
Your chest throbs at the sincerity of his confession. But he distracts you from it, latching back onto the sensitive nub at the crest of your core, sucking at it roughly.
"O-Oh God," you wail, fingernails digging into the bed, "W-Wait, slow down!" Your body is overwhelmed by the quickly forming tension in your abdomen, terrified by what might happen when that coil snaps.
Caleb growls with dissatisfaction but does his best to obey, easing his lips—suckling slower, trying to be gentler with you. His right fist clenches painfully with restraint, your soft mewls of pleasure echoing in his mind.
The scientists murmur excitedly between themselves, even despite X-02's disobedience. They knew he'd never done anything like this, and he was proving more and more just how resourceful he was—how quickly he could learn and adapt. And now, with the exhibition of his "newfound" offensive abilities…
The possibilities of what they could do with their new weapon were endless.
For Caleb, it was easy to pick up on the things you like and what you didn't. You were so responsive to him—but above all, his desire to possess your pleasure made it all the easier to learn every inch of your body.
You feel his hand enclosing over one of your breasts, kneading it as he continues to devour ravenously. When he starts to tweak your nipples, your body spasms and you see stars, your legs tightening so forcefully you're scared you might choke him.
Glancing down with blurry vision, you watch the pure bliss on Caleb's face as he tastes you. You gasp when you notice he has one fist wrapped around his cock. It looks thicker than it had when you held it, still shiny with the thick white cream that he'd released.
Caleb catches you staring, his abdomen tightening with excitement. With his tongue at your entrance, he can't help but imagine putting himself inside of you. You were more than ready, an obscene amount of arousal coating your inner thighs.
It's what they were demanding he do anyways, right?
You're dazed when Caleb pulls away, standing on his knees—instantly missing the warmth of his mouth. You're so out of it you don't even register that Caleb is lining himself up with your core, until his tip is nudging you apart.
"C-Caleb?" you whimper, eyes widening, "W-Wait you can't put that inside me—i-it won't fit!"
Not removing himself, he hovers over you, letting your foreheads rest against each other. You groan as he rubs the swollen tip of his erection up and down your slit, gathering the moisture and smearing it against himself.
"J-Just trust me, okay?" he pleads, at his limit of how much he can hold back. He needs to be inside of you.
You bite your lip and nod slowly, not being able to deny him, "I-It's going to hurt right?"
Caleb let's his head catch along your tight little hole as he rubs ups and down, "I think so. But only for a little, okay princess? I-I promise."
He swallows your response, mouth slotting over yours again. The vibrations of your moans pulse through his entire body, his eager and possessive tongue distracting you as he lines himself back up. His free hand rubs tender circles into your trembling thighs, holding them farther apart as he tries to sink into you.
You rip your mouth away, yelping in pain. The monitors read your distress, and Caleb pauses, his jaw slack and teeth tightly grit.
"I know, I know—I'm sorry," he whispers.
"X-02, do not stop. Proceed."
Caleb seethes, glaring at the cameras—still blocking you from their sight. But he stays still, refocusing on you. He gently strokes your cheek, kissing your temple. It takes everything in him to wait—to give you more time to accept and adjust, even when all he wants is to bury himself inside of you.
"Ignore them," he whispers, "I-I'll wait until you're ready."
You shake your head—you were used to pain after all, "N-No just keep going. I don't want them hurting you."
Caleb freezes at that. Hurting him. That was your first concern.
He groans lowly, "F-Fuck don't say things like that. Not while I-I'm like this."
You blush as Caleb looks down at you with unquenchable hunger burning in his eyes. Hesitantly, you wrap your arms around his shoulders, tugging him closer.
"J-Just put it in, it's okay."
Caleb's eyes widen, a pained growl escaping his throat at your half-plea, "F-Fuck."
He buries his face in the crook of your neck, taking deep breaths of your scent to try and ground himself. At the same time, you feel his cock pressing deeper against you, trying desperately to penetrate you.
Your eyes squeeze shut, biting down on his shoulder. Caleb groans deeply, hips lurching at the sting—inadvertently pushing further into you, almost as if begging you to bite harder.
And you oblige, especially when he continues to try and force his cock into your tight heat. He groans with frustration, having a hard time getting inside of you. Sure, he was inexperienced but surely it shouldn't be this difficult.
"God you're tight as hell," he croaks your name desperately, "Please, baby."
The little name he calls you hits your ears like honey, making you shiver. Your eyes flutter at him, trying to focus—hazed with pain and something foreign, "Mmnngh..P-Please what ge?"
You take a deep breath, trying to loosen your body—your muscles cramping painfully with tension. Caleb swears at your wide questioning eyes, the way you call him that so sweetly, already obeying without him needing to elaborate.
"Y-Yeah just like that. Fuuuck…good girl."
Your stomach flutters with his praises, distracting you momentarily and allowing him to finally push in—just barely. You groan, your body tensing again. Even with your fragmented memories, you know you've felt worse pain before—through punishment, augmentation, experimentation. But this felt different...bearable.
But above all, it was Caleb inflicting it. And that made you want to withstand it.
"A-Almost," he whispers, sweat beating down his temple. He looks down, where your bodies are connected. Truthfully, he hasn't even gotten his full tip in, but he could feel you finally stretching fractionally.
"Hurts," you gasp, eyes focusing in and out, "Nnngh…I-I think it's too big."
Caleb's hand grips the rail of the hospital bed, caging you against his body, "Hah—F-Fuck…Just bear with me, a-a little while longer, okay?"
With tears streaming down your face you nod, taking another deep gulp of air. Caleb curses, his knuckles turning white and fingers going numb with the force which he grips the metal railing of the bed.
You nearly scream as you feel his thick head finally pop fully into you, the monitors going insane as they read your vitals.
"Oh god," he chokes as he feels your gummy walls enveloping just one inch of his cock, "Mmmngh—fuck you feel s-so good wrapped around me."
He squeezes the base of his cock again, jaw tightened as he nearly cums just from putting his tip inside you. When you whimper again, he looks up, violet eyes wide—as if just snapping out of his own trance. Caleb's heart clenches at your pained sounds, guilty that while you writhe in discomfort, he quite literally drowns in the pleasure your body provides him.
"I'm sorry," he presses his lips into your temple, holding still—not letting any more of himself slip in, "It-It'll be over soon, I promise."
You gasp for air, feeling unbearably stretched out. Looking down, you groan at the sight of his tip tightly nestled in your folds, your thighs shiny with moisture. The sight is so lewd it entrances you, your mouth shamefully agape.
Caleb chuckles, his voice trembling as he forces himself not to thrust into you. His thumb traces your bottom lip, "Hah—careful, princess. Don't drool."
You weakly swat his hand away, glaring at him, "I-I am not!"
He's about to tease you more, relieved as he sees you smile faintly, when the intercom crackles to life.
"X-02. Continue."
He hisses with frustration and you gulp nervously. Though you'd somewhat gotten used to it, you knew he was barely inside of you—and it hurt.
"I-I have to move okay, baby? I…I'm sorry."
You nod, squeezing your eyes shut, bracing yourself.
"C-Come on, don't do that. Look at me, please."
Your eyes flutter open, looking at him questioningly.
"I-I want—I need to see you, okay?" He pleads, tilting your chin up. He smiles when your eyes meet, "Deep breath for me?"
"C-Caleb—!" you cry, nails digging into his shoulders as he pushes into you slowly—not even remembering not to use his name. One inch. Then another.
Caleb's muscles spasm as he fights to stay in control, "C-Christ, I can't—you feel…"
He cuts himself off with a string of curses as you tighten. He's about halfway inside of you, and already he's questioning how much more of this he can take before he comes undone again.
"Caa—leb," you moan, the syllables breaking as he slips incrementally into you. You wrap your trembling legs around his back, unable to support them any longer. His entire body freezes at that, the sound of his name coming so beautifully out of your lips, the feeling of your thighs locking his body against yours.
"Princess, please," he groans, "Fuck…Y-You're making it impossible to be gentle."
Your eyes widen at how pained he sounds, not understanding what exactly you were doing that was hurting him. But you knew you could handle it, and you'd willing accept more if it meant sparing him.
"Nnnngh—I don't want you t-to be in pain," you whisper, "Just do it, I can—hah—handle it."
Caleb's eyes darken at your words. Looking down at you, he realizes the extent of your vulnerability and trust.
You had no idea what you were doing to him. What he could do to you.
"You don't know what you're saying. Don't say that."
"I-I do!" you insist, eyes rolling slightly as you feel his hard length brushing deeper into your sensitive walls, "Ge, please. Just put it in."
Caleb feels his resolve crumbling. The sound of you begging him to, essentially, fuck you, drove him to the edge of insanity. His body moves on its own, pushing deeper into your torturously irresistible gummy walls. Until he's completely bottomed out.
Both of your eyes are drawn to where your bodies are joined—glued to the sight of your pelvises molded firmly together.
"O-Oh…" you breathe out in awe, "It…y-you're inside me."
The machines go ballistic when you notice the obvious red streaks against Caleb's pelvis. He notices it too, and, for a second, it feels like a knife sinks into Caleb's stomach—knowing it's yours. Your blood. The sight made his hair stand on its ends.
His fist clenches so harshly that his nails pierce the skin of his palms, forcing himself to take a deep breath as his cock twitches inside of you. They'd brief him that there might be resistance, blood, since it'd be your first time. But seeing it was a different thing entirely.
Capturing your chin, he brings your eyes back to his twinkling violet irises, "Look at me. Everything's okay—I promise."
You gulp and nod, entire body tense with the strain of the pain. You trusted him. You'd give him all of you.
Caleb's cock pulses like a living breathing thing, with only one necessity to survive—you. Your wide-eyed trust drives him insane, coating your insides with his immeasurable arousal. He moans, "I-I need to move, baby—please. Hah…Can I?"
Your nose scrunches as he twitches, even the minuscule movement of his breathing making the ache sting to life.
"X-02, move, now."
The lights pulse erratically as Caleb's eyes glow with uncertainty, ignoring the intercom and instead looking to you for permission. Or forgiveness. Perhaps both.
With a deep breath you nod, "D-Do it. We h-have to."
Caleb growls, unhappy with your words—the insinuation this was entirely against both your wills. That perhaps he was the only one enjoying this.
But his body moves on its own accord. He falls onto his palms, hair falling and shadowing his eyes—hands on either side of your face.
"Ge?" you whisper, wincing when he pulls out an inch.
"Nnngh…l-let me make you feel good," he pleads, practically rambling as he slides that one inch back into you. He groans at the feeling—quickly becoming addicted to the sensation of your body wrapped around his. You choke on your words, biting deeply into your bottom lip to ease the sting from his thickness stretching you completely apart.
"Please, I need you to feel good too," he whispers desperately, withdrawing again—farther this time. It scares you, his desperation bordering on madness. Not giving you a chance to speak, he pushes his mouth to yours. You whine as his tongue eases your lips open, seeking yours out.
He pushes back into you, distracting you with his demanding kiss, moaning into your lips. You squeak, the feeling of his leaking tip pushing against the bottom of your stomach a sudden jolt of pain and…pleasure.
"Fuck—you just got tighter,"Caleb groans. His rhythm is sloppy, inexperienced, but somehow he still reaches your deepest and most sensitive parts. Even if he didn't know what to do, his sheer length and thickness was enough to have you moaning for him.
"W-Wait, ge—" you whimper, confused at the feeling of his cock thrusting in and out of you. Your thighs ached, his body heavy against your spread legs, and it still stung where he connected with you. But the sensation was quickly burning away into something pleasurable, especially with Caleb's hooded eyes beholding you like you were the only thing in this entire world.
It made your stomach flutter with something terrifying. Similar to the feeling that'd been brewing when he had his lips on your clit, his teeth against your tits, when his tongue was in your mouth.
"Oh god," he rambles, his wet skin slapping against your thighs, "Y-You're so perfect. My perfect princess."
You practically purr at his praises. Bewilderingly, it seems to make it feel even better, "Nngh…gege…s-so big I can't…"
Caleb groans at your unknowing praises, feeling the tightness building in his balls again, reminding him of when he'd exploded against your fingers and tits. Everything you do, your mewls, your words, your tightness, all come together in an intoxicating cocktail designed to draw him irrevocably insane.
But he's determined not to cum again unless he can get you there with him.
"Sh-Shit…Y-You feel so good," he huffs desperately, "Nnngh—fuck—!"
With one hand, he gathers your ankles into his hands. His thick muscles strain as he lifts you, your ass coming off the bed. He puts both your calves against his shoulder, his cheek pressed against them, all while supporting your lower back.
"O-Oh!" you squeak as the air is compressed out of your lungs, the angle making him reach farther than before.
"W-Wait—hic," your cheeks burn as you hiccup, tears still pooling at your neck, "S'deeper now—t-too deep!"
"X-02, bring A-01 to climax. Now."
Caleb snarls with annoyance. How was he expected to just do that, on command? He'd never done this before.
You can just vaguely register the order, your nails digging into the leather material of the bed. The pleasure is almost as overwhelming as the pain, and it made you sob uncontrollably, "W-Why are they—hah—doing this to us? W-Why do they make us do these things?"
Caleb's throat tightens. He bends down, pushing your thighs deep into your chest, kissing your face desperately. He licks up your tears, catching them as they fall.
"Don't cry," he pleads, nuzzling your cheek with his face. His rhythm is messy as he draws closer to cumming, fueled by the thought of repeating what'd happened earlier—only this time, inside you.
"Please don't cry, princess. I'm sorry, I-I'll make it better," he promises, though his movements don't stop. Even the immense guilt isn't enough to get him to stop indulging in your perfect body. His metal hand holds your face greedily, trying to mold your body to his.
You hiccup again, his cock seeming to reach up into your lungs, making it harder to breathe through the tears of pleasure.
"No—I-I…I like it," you admit breathlessly. Caleb's entire body tenses at that, his eyes shadowing. Of course, up until this point, it was clear your body responded to him. The proof was in your pretty little mewls, your drenched thighs, your love-struck eyes.
But to hear the verbal confirmation was an entirely different story.
Your eyes widen as Caleb's pace picks up considerably, his animalistic fervor increasing tenfold.
"You do?" he growls, "Y-You like my cock inside you?" Your heart skips a beat at his provocative lewd words, and you nod eagerly.
"Nnngh—no. Say it. Say it for me. Please."
At a particularly poignant thrust, his cock reaching into your diaphragm, you squeal—submitting to his every demand as your body responds eagerly to him, "Y-Yes—! I like your cock in me, Caleb!"
His cock throbs at that, unable to think straight as all his blood reallocates south, "G-God, you're so good for me baby."
There was that little nickname again. You didn't know what it meant but it drove you insane.
"You think you can cum?" he coos roughly, "Can you be a good girl and cum for me?"
You find yourself nodding instinctively, even when you don't really understand what he's asking for. But your body seemed to crave exactly what he was demanding.
"Nnngh—! I-I think so," you gasp, feeling like your abdomen might explode. The feeling scares you, not knowing what would come out when it burst. Caleb groans, throwing his head back, exposing his bobbing Adam's apple to your hooded gaze.
"Hah—Wait princess, not so tight," his eyes roll back, letting out a pleasured string of expletives—voice rough with passion.
"I-I can't—" All you can do is choke and sob as you feel your body unravel, unable to control any part of yourself—not your words, your muscles, or your thunderous heart.
Caleb kisses your ankle, still propped against this chest. He trails a wet path down your foot to your calves, worshiping your body.
"Fuck—!" Caleb cries as your walls strangle him, becoming tighter than before, "Uunngh…just like that baby—f-fuck I can feel you."
You wail his name repeatedly, forgetting that you weren't supposed to call him by his name. You don't hear the intercom blare, too far gone in the depths of your first orgasm.
"X-02 pull out. Under no circumstance are you to finish inside of A-01."
Caleb hears the orders loud as day, but he says nothing, instead continuing to lick a path down your calves—repositioning your body so that he can kiss you as you finally explode against him.
As your pussy constricts against him, you hiccup frantically, "O-Oh god, I-I—"
He cuts you off, swallowing your screams and scooping your body into his arms, pounding into you with reckless abandon. His mouth slots over yours, tongue parting your receptive lips and reclaiming parts of you that he deemed his. One of your hands finds his thick shoulders while the other desperately grabs hold of his mechanical arm, fingers digging into the unforgiving metal.
Caleb's rips his mouth away with a strangled gasp as he feels the sting of your hand wrapping around his robotic arm, the first sensation he'd felt there in years.
That sensation makes his cock lurch inside your throbbing pussy, his arms wrapping tightly and possessively around you. You mewl, stuttering through your climax.
"C-Caleb," you gasp, "F-Feels good…nnnghh…please don't stop." You groan as you feel how wet the space between your bodies is, coated in whatever you'd released as you reached your peak. His never ending thrusts makes your cunt quiver as the pleasure starts ebbing into a sharp sting.
"Never," he growls, "Fuck baby—hah—I-I want to cum inside you."
"X-02! Pull out, now."
Caleb snarls venomously, disregarding the order blatantly. Your eyes widen as you finally hear it. The idea of him pulling out of you right now, while your body sucked him in—begging him to prolong the pleasure, made your mouth taste bitter.
"Mmmngh…Caleb," you moan, "Please…I d-don't want you to pull out."
Caleb's eyes widen at that, his thumb brushing across your bottom lip, "Sh-Shit—yeah? You want me to fill you up, princess? Stuff you with my cum?"
The words spill out of Caleb's lips, surprising even himself with how filthily feral they are.
"Absolutely not. Do not cum inside her. Pull out, X-02. Now!"
The obvious sound of people panicking in the background can be heard through the intercom, as the researchers realize X-02 has no intention of listening to them, not anymore.
"Mnnngh—gege," you whimper, trying to regain his attention—able to think a bit more clearly now, "I-I want you. W-What you did earlier. Inside me."
Caleb's eyes snaps to yours from the intercom, cursing at your words—at the way your body wrings against him. The air around you becomes thin, making it hard to breathe, the lights flickering wildly. You vaguely hear hospital machinery clattering as they topple, chaos seeming to erupt as Caleb's eyes narrow at you. Sweat drips down his brow as he huffs, clearly close to his own undoing.
"Fuck. Do you know what you're asking?" he demands, fingers tightly gripping your hips, "Nnngh—D-Do you know how bad I want to fill you? Y-You can't take it back."
Honestly you didn't know exactly what you were asking, but you knew you wanted it.
"Unngh…w-want it," you plead, "P-Please. Please."
He groans at that, knees buckling—weight baring down on you as it finally hits him.
You were designed to be his undoing. His ultimate weakness. The only thing in this world with the power to destroy him. Just like now.
"R-Ready princess? Hah…You're gonna take it all, aren't you? Like a good girl?"
You whine and nod, feeling his cock head nuzzling against your tummy, threatening to make you implode. You claw at his back, feeling another tsunami of pleasure about to crash violently into you—this time more intense.
He clearly hears the sounds of frantic voices nearing the door of the room you're in. It only makes him hammer faster, harder. As the door whooshes open, Caleb wraps himself possessively around you, unwilling to let anyone near you, to see you, in this state.
"Don't come near her, I swear to fucking—" he snarls, his rhythm faltering but not stopping, choking as your climax forces you tighter. Even vaguely aware that there's people mere feet away from you, you feel yourself coming apart again.
"X-02! Get off of her!"
At the sound of shuffling feet, Caleb's fist clenches against the metal railing of the exam bed. You wince as you feel it come apart—the sheer force of his grip enough to yank it easily off the body of the bed. You hear it crash, unable to see exactly what's happening as Caleb covers you. You assume he'd flung it at whoever was at the door—screams and gasps filling the air.
"Don't. Don't touch her. I will kill you," he bites out, trying to stave off his orgasm, even as his body continues to slap into yours. The pure hatred in his eyes petrifies you. You know you should care about what's happening around you, but all you can do is gently cup his face, bringing it back to yours.
His entire face softens, his rhythm slowing fractionally to a passionate languid pace—every thrust intentional and deep. The blissful look of submission of your face sends him over the edge, and he feels his cock absolutely erupt inside of you.
"Fuck—I-I'm cumming, princess," he warns with a strangled groan, kissing the corner of your lips, "You'll take it right? Haah—all of it?"
"N-No we can't possibly let him…"
"Absolutely not. We don't even know if A-01 is fertile or not. We can't risk it…"
"Well someone stop him then. Get the sensory injector."
Caleb snaps at that—the idea of them taking you from him, of hurting you. You gasp as you feel Caleb's energy surge and your own energy naturally trying to attune itself to him—but your powers suppressed by the dampeners.
The air is filled with the ear-splitting sound of metal collapsing into itself, walls crumbling, people screaming, of Caleb groaning your name as he cums—you're so overstimulated that your second orgasm completely overwhelms you. Even if the room wasn't covered in Destructuo energy dampeners, you don't think you would have been capable of doing anything other than raking your fingers through his skin, crying his name as you took everything.
You're almost in complete darkness as all the lights shatter. Debris falls, but gravity seems to shift, causing it to fall everywhere but atop of you.
"Caleb—!"
He groans as you scream his name, your eagerness amplifying the depth of his orgasm—completely lost in the feeling of finishing inside you.
"C-Christ, y-you're perfect," he growls, arms wrapping around you like you were a rag doll, rutting into you like a rabid animal. As if he hadn't just blasted a damn hole into the underground compound of the Othman Research Bureau, without even lifting a finger. All while fucking your brains out.
"My cum belongs inside you," he snarls, rhythm sloppy as he fucks his release deeper. His entire body spasms, rope after rope painting your walls white, "Don't let it out, okay baby?"
His filthily sweet words completely distract you from the crumbling room around you. He buries his face into your neck, suckling your pulse as he rides the violent waves of his climax. Your head moves to the side to give him better access, and through your hooded eyes you can make out the utter destruction that seems to have ensued at hands of Caleb's temper—his protectiveness.
The steel door is completely caved into itself, barring anyone from entering. But you're unsure if there's even anyone on the outside of the crushed mess of metal. You don't hear any voices anymore, nor any screams. Just the faint blare of alarms sounding all across the compound—the sound sealed off from your little bubble.
Caleb roughly grabs your chin, forcing your eyes back to him.
"Look at me," he demands, "Hah…N-Need to see you."
You moan at the feeling of something thick and hot flooding your womb, making your belly feel swollen. Your orgasm wanes quickly, your body sensitive and overstimulated to the point of pain.
Caleb's movements slow, though they don't stop—even as his muscles quiver with painful overstimulation, begging him for mercy.
"Caleb," you whine, fingers trembling as you grab hold of his face, "No more. Unnngh…It-It hurts."
His jaw tightens, knowing he has to stop. His hips stutter to a halt, but he doesn't pull out. He rolls you onto your side, his cock still nestled deep inside of your sore walls.
"I'm sorry. I-I didn't mean to hurt you," he kisses your temple, burying his face into the top of your hair, taking deep breaths of your scent.
You mumble happily into his chest, enjoying the warmth and safety of his arms—the sting fading away into the background. He strokes your spine with his fingertips, basking in the afterglow of your orgasms and whispering sweet words into your ear.
"We have to go soon," he whispers into your hair.
"Go? Go where?" your eyes flutter with fatigue, fighting to understand him.
He pulls back, facing you again. His face shines with sweat, cheeks pink, and lips swollen.
"Our final escape, remember?"
Your heart beats excitedly at that, but you whine, "I don't want to move. You're so warm." You'd never felt warmth like this before, never felt anything as soft as his bare skin against yours.
Caleb chuckles, the sound deep and velvety, "If I could, I'd stay inside of you forever."
You shudder at that thought, which makes Caleb's eyes darken with renewed interest. But he clears his throat, carefully pulling out of you.
You whimper as he slips out, leaving you with only an aching emptiness. Caleb is silent, mesmerized by the sight between your legs. Thick pools of white dribble out of your perfect swollen lips, mixing with the streaks of faint red on your soft inner thighs. At his heated stare, your legs instinctively shut in embarrassment, wincing at the soreness.
You watch with wide eyes when his cock hardens again, smearing his stomach with moisture as it stands erect against his naval. Coming closer, he presses against you, his erection now firmly nestled between both your bodies. He grins at your doe wide eyes, lifting your chin upward so he can see you fully.
"Don't worry, beautiful. Not right now."
"O-Oh. Good," you giggle sheepishly, finding a sense of relief and, strangely enough, disappointment.
He moves your hair to the side, exposing your neck. Your breath catches as he leans down, gently kissing your pulse. His fingers move to your nape, finding that same button from before.
You wince as you feel your exoskeleton activating, wrapping your body in cold metal once more. Caleb smirks as he watches you squirm, knowing that you're leaking his seed into the bodice of your suit. He forces himself to look away, knowing his erection will never go down if he keeps looking at you.
You survey the damage around the room as you wait for Caleb to collect himself and reactivate his own suit. Your eyes find a puddle of dark liquid pooling in from where the door once stood, now a mangled mess of steel.
You can't find it in yourself to feel any remorse.
Looking down at your fingers, you can still feel your energy being suppressed. The energy dampeners must've been built underground, still intact and fully functioning.
Then it strikes you.
"Caleb, how come your powers work but mine don't?"
Caleb reaches behind his neck, his exoskeleton activating. He reaches his hand out to intertwine your fingers with his.
"The dampeners were designed for you, princess. Not me. As far as they were concerned, the only thing my energy was good for was repairing you."
You hum thoughtfully, letting him lead you to the crumbling hunk of rubble. The energy around him thrums to life as begins to manipulate gravity and create an opening for you to crawl through.
"Ready to go home?"
You nod, your heart skipping at that. At the prospect of home.
You sigh happily as he loops his arm around your waist, kissing the top of your head.
As the two of you escape once more, you find yourself wondering about Caleb—about your gege.
If Caleb had been capable of this level of destruction all this time, of stopping them without so much as lifting a finger, why hadn't he just done that from the beginning?
.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND AO3. i am not @/aeyumicores or @/aeyumiicore or any variations of my blog name.
✧.˖ i do not permit translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or others. please do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own.
