For names Forest or Zeph is okay, deffo prefer Forest for this website just bc of my username
They/them pronouns, homophobes n transphobes can gtfo, any masc terms are fine tho
I actually do art commissions as well! Feel free to dm me asking for any info if you're interested bc i'm currently on making a proper post to promote them
Will write: Fluff, angst, small amounts of smut but nothing in detail(Simply because I don't know how), hurt/comfort, hurt/no comfort
Won't write: MCD, heavy smut, anything I'm not super knowledgable about(but if its like an ask regarding reader having some sort of disorder, I will do my best to research and then write so i properly portray everything 💚)
Please please please let me know if my wording isn't all inclusive! I refuse to write gendered reader or specifical ethnicities for reader bc my writing is supposed to be for everyone
Asks and anon are on so feel free to make requests! If its specific to disorders or anything, give me some time to research 💚
MASTER LIST BELOW
Fluffy Tails and Swiping Claws
You are a lamb hybrid in a house full of predators, what will happen? Male Reader
I can't stop playing BG3, so here's a short blurb with Karlach
: karlach x tav/reader, quiet/recluse-like reader, mild shifting of in-game lore to make it work, very lightweight reader for alcohol tolerance, minor alcohol consumption
Inspired because i finished a play-thru of romancing Karlach and im quite sad and want a hug from her
~~~~~~~~~~
You hummed quietly to yourself, still riding the high of saving the Emerald Grove. The goblins at the Selunite temple had been defeated - saving Halsin and all of the tieflings.
Who were now throwing a very loud, bright celebration party at your camp.
It was alright, you didn't mind it for the first bit, but it quickly grew into a headache. You hadn't had time to wash after the spree, so blood was still caked in where blood shouldn't be. And you smelled horrible, you just wanted a quiet night.
And you would kill for a genuine hug - something warm and grounding.
Karlach had noticed you slipping away from the celebrations, how your brows pulled down like the corners of your lips. She had wanted to follow - truly - but Dammon had pulled her into a conversation that went on for far too long in her opinion.
So swiping a nearly carafe of Amber Wine, Karlach excused herself and went where she had seen you go. Or at least in the direction. You had gone through the nearby woods so she would have to track you down.
And track you down, she did.
Karlach found you sitting by the stream that was just a short walk from the camp - the one the party often used to bathe. Though, you were still clothed, just your feet dipping into the water.
She purposefully stepped on a brach, breaking it, to alert you to her because you seemed too far within your thoughts.
Your head shot up, predictably, "Karlach! I didn't hear you walk up."
"I can see that," She walks up and sits beside you, offering you the carafe, "What's on your mind?"
You debate on your words for a moment, "Not much, really. I think I'm just tired, Dror threw me around during that fight earlier so my head still hurts and the party is... quite loud."
"Yeah, Dror really did a number on ya," Karlach agrees, it was slightly terrifying the way he had been able to throw you like a ragdoll, "but he's gone, and we're okay."
You take the carafe, finally, and take a few small drinks. It felt near immediate the way it settled your mind into a pleasant haze and your back released the tension.
"With just a few more scars to show for it," you add on, taking another gulp.
You pass the carafe back to Karlach, enjoying the stillness, the silence of nature that wasn't true silence.
Karlach looked at you, finally look at /you/. The way you favored your side, despite Shadowheart doing her best to heal the slash a goblin had got, the way your eyes seemed heavy, the way your hands shook.
You had been doing so much recently, fixing her heart, finding artefacts for Gale, making sure Wyll was adjusting alright, ensuring Lae'zel and Shadowheart didn't tear each other's throats out. You were glue, but streched too thin with no structure for yourself.
She says your name softly, watching as you pull your eyes from the stream to her.
"Thank you, for all that you do for no recognition."
She opens her arms and pulls you in, and you accept it. She still ran very warm - but after two upgrades to her heart it was tolerable - and you melted into it.
Just what you had wanted, a hug.
You fall asleep like that and Karlach eventually dozes off as well. Two oblivious lovers, found in each others arms, snuggled together in the woods. Peace for now.
Imagine the six days scenario with the boys, but it turns out the mission was supposed to be done in one day, and the reader went through he'll to get out and is met with this reaction? Imagine when she finally tells the reason she was away, would they regret their actions? How would they react? Don't know if if you take requests, if you do, consider this one.
If not, I am glad I got to read this masterpiece, thank you ❤️
Thank you so much for the request — I absolutely do take them, and I really appreciate this one! ❤️
I tried so hard to keep it short, since the “Six Days” theme has already been thoroughly explored... but, well, I failed spectacularly 😅 So here’s another deep-dive into a what-if/imagine scenario — one that can be read as either an alternate branch of the original storyline or... something else entirely. I’ll let you decide 😉
I’d love to hear your thoughts if you read it — truly means the world to me!
I’ve received so many requests for continuations — especially for Xavier — and yes, his already has a full-length, dramatic follow-up (because how could I not?).
This one here is more of a request-based scenario, but it can absolutely be read as its own kind of continuation. Think of it as an alternate path the story could have taken.
(One day I’ll write full versions for all the boys… but for now, consider this a little taste.)
Hope you enjoy — and as always, I’d love to hear what you think! 💬💔
Here are the links to the previous parts in the series, in case you want to revisit or catch up:
Original Post | Xavier's Story
CW/TW: Psychological trauma, PTSD themes, Forced isolation, Violence / combat injuries, Mentions of starvation, Emotional manipulation, Past emotional abuse, Mental breakdowns, Intense guilt / self-blame, Brief implications of suicidal ideation (in self-sacrificing context), Adult intimacy (emotionally driven, not graphic)
The Truth — What Really Happened
It was supposed to be one day.
A clean, strategic infiltration. In and out. No complications. No room for error.
But no one accounted for the Wanderer.
No one predicted that the target—some nameless, faceless shade masquerading as a rogue—would be more than just dangerous. That he'd found a way to twist Protocore into something ancient and volatile. That he would trigger a fracture in time itself.
In a single blink, the world split. You fell into it. And the loop began.
Six days for them. Six weeks for you.
You lived, died, and bled your way through the same endless day.
Again. And again. And again.
Locked in a cycle of violence, decay, and despair—while everyone else moved on without you.
You clawed your way back—half-starved, half-mad, barely remembering your name. And when you finally escaped the loop, stepped back into their world, broken and still breathing—
They were waiting.
Angry. Unforgiving. And utterly, terrifyingly unaware.
Until now. Until you tell them.
💛 Xavier
It only felt right to write Xavier’s piece after the continuation I posted earlier.
The original scene stood strong on its own, but this one—this is what came next.
The moment after the storm. The truth laid bare.
A quiet, alternate branch of the story, or perhaps a natural consequence of the one that already unfolded.
Either way—I’m glad it found its voice.
You don’t ease into it. You sit across from him in the quiet of the morning, sunlight creeping up the walls like it’s unsure of its welcome, and you tell him.
Not six days.
Six weeks.
A loop. A fracture in time. An engineered nightmare that left you bleeding against the same hours, over and over, clawing through shadow just to return to him. Alone. Lost. Dying.
Xavier doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even blink.
But something in him breaks.
Not loudly. Not violently. It’s quieter than breath. Slower than thought. His fingers slip from the edge of the cup in his hand, and it falls. Shatters against the floor with a sound so sharp it startles the silence—ceramic shards skittering like teeth across stone.
Still, he doesn’t look at you.
He stands, but not with purpose. With instinct. His body moves before his mind can catch it. He turns, walks toward the far wall like he’s searching for air, like the room is suddenly too small to hold what’s happening inside his chest.
You rise—hesitant, aching—but he lifts a hand to stop you. Not cruelly. Gently. Like he’s afraid that if you touch him, he’ll fall apart in a way he can’t recover from.
He presses his palm to the wall. Just one. The other curls into a fist at his side.
“I thought you abandoned me,” he says at last, voice raw in a way you’ve never heard from him. “And I punished you for it.”
He turns back.
And there’s nothing left of the man who told you to ask again in six days. Nothing of the controlled strategist, the ever-collected ghost of war. His jaw is clenched too tight. His eyes are glassed over with fury—but not at you.
At himself.
“I accused you. I mocked you. I dismissed what little strength you had left and threw my pain in your face like it was the only thing that mattered.”
He crosses the room again, slower now. Purposeful. His hands don’t tremble, but his voice does.
“I let you stand there, in front of me, broken... and I thought I was the one who’d suffered.”
He kneels.
Not dramatically. Not for effect.
He lowers himself before you like a man who no longer believes he has the right to stand. His gaze stays down. One hand reaches inside his coat, and when it returns, you see it:
A blade.
Polished. Ritual-cut. Ceremonial. One of the old ones—etched with language you don’t recognize. But you understand that these words mean oath, atonement, belonging.
He offers it to you in silence. Flat in his palm.
“Where I’m from,” he says, quietly, “a wound like this is paid in blood. A betrayal like mine is not survived—it is surrendered to.”
Your hands don’t move. Your breath barely does.
“If you want justice,” he whispers, “take it.”
You stare at him. The weight of the blade between you. The weight of everything.
And then—slowly, gently—you take it from his hand.
Only to let it fall.
The sound is soft this time. Barely a whisper of steel on floorboards.
Then you fall with it.
You drop to your knees in front of him, wrap your arms around his shoulders, and let your tears fall freely.
“I don’t want justice,” you breathe into the curve of his neck. “I want you.”
He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t speak. Just holds you, arms banding around your waist, face pressed into your shoulder like he’s trying to memorize what survival feels like.
When he finally speaks, it’s not confession. It’s surrender.
“After what you endured… after what I made you endure alone… I don’t know what anything means anymore. Not the mission. Not the cause. Not the point.”
You pull back, just enough to see him.
His eyes are hollow with grief. But deeper still—something flickers.
“I thought I understood devotion,” he says, voice barely above a breath. “But I was wrong. What I gave you wasn’t loyalty. It wasn’t love. It was pride. Control. Fear, dressed in logic. And I used it to wound you when you were already bleeding.”
His jaw tightens. His gaze falls.
“I was cruel.”
It’s not said for effect. There’s no tremble in his voice, no self-indulgent break.
It’s simply true.
“And I’m sorry.”
The silence that follows is soft. Dense. Not empty.
You brush your fingers across his cheek, tilt his face toward yours.
“I forgive you,” you say. Steady. Clear. “Because not everything in this world is black and white. And I understand why you did what you did. I know the shape of your fear.”
Your thumb brushes beneath his eye. His breath catches.
“I didn’t tell you to hurt you. Or to punish you. I told you because…” You pause. Your voice thickens with truth. “Because you’re the only one I trust with all of it. The only one who would understand. Who wouldn’t fall apart under the weight of what I’ve lived through.”
You lean forward.
Kiss him. Gently. Not desperate. Not demanding.
Just there. Warm. Real. Home.
Your hands slide up to his temples, fingers massaging slow circles at his hairline, coaxing the tightness from his brow. You feel it—inch by inch—how he softens beneath your touch.
“Let it go,” you whisper. “Don’t carry this weight. Not for me.”
He exhales, shaky. Silent.
You hold him tighter.
“You are my light, Xavier. You illuminate the path. You anchor me when everything else turns to ash. And in that place—those six weeks—do you know what kept me alive?”
Your voice breaks, but you keep going.
“I couldn’t bear the thought of you mourning me. That’s what kept me breathing.”
He says nothing for a moment.
Just rests his forehead against yours. One hand moves to your chest, flattening over your heart like he’s grounding himself with your pulse.
Then—softly, firmly, as if carving the words into stone:
“You will never carry pain alone again. Not while I draw breath.”
No grand vow. No poetry.
Just fact.
And somehow—that’s what makes it a promise.
💗 Rafayel
The morning sun slips in like melted gold, tracing the edge of the sheets, catching the soft arch of your cheekbone. You lie half-curled beneath the covers, his T-shirt clinging to your body like second skin.
And in that sacred hush before the world stirs—you speak.
Not because he demands it. Not because you owe it.
But because somewhere between the echo of his heartbeat and the way his arms wrapped around you like the only anchor you had left—you remembered how to breathe.
You tell him.
About the mission. The Wanderer. The fracture in time.
About the loop.
How six days for him were six weeks for you.
How you woke up every day inside the same nightmare. How you died. How you clawed your way back. Alone. Over and over.
And when you fall silent, your voice scraped raw from remembering—he still doesn’t speak.
He just looks at you.
Like the sun never rose until he saw your face again.
His hand brushes your cheek, feather-light. His voice—when it comes—is almost a whisper.
“Are you ready to share the rest?”
You blink. “The rest?”
“The weight of it,” he says. “Not the facts. Not the fight. The dark. The ache. The part that still won’t let you sleep.”
His voice is gentle. Too gentle for a man like him. It trembles with caution, as if even asking is a violation.
You hesitate. The memories flicker like shadows across your mind—distorted, aching, sharp.
“No,” you answer truthfully. “Maybe not ever.”
His gaze doesn’t falter.
He nods once. No protest. No press.
Then his voice, lighter this time—almost a whisper:
“Then I’ll just have to help you forget.”
And he does.
He lifts you carefully, as if your body might shatter beneath his hands. You expect the weight of a blanket, but instead—he wraps you in something else entirely.
A covering like seafoam. It feels like nothing you’ve ever touched—gossamer, weightless, but cool and smooth against your skin. A whisper of silk and tide.
“It's from home,” he murmurs, adjusting it carefully over your shoulders. “Woven from the ocean’s first breath. They say it keeps sorrow out.”
Then—he scoops you up like you weigh nothing. Carries you to the kitchen with quiet reverence, as if this moment is sacred.
He sets you down on the marble countertop and kisses your knee.
Then he starts making coffee.
He hums as he moves—something aimless and tuneless and purely him. You close your eyes for a moment, letting the scent of roasted beans and vanilla settle around you.
And then—
“So,” he says casually, not looking up, “a cat broke into the studio last night.”
You blink. “A cat?”
He nods solemnly. “Orange. Loud. Looked like he owned the place. Knocked over three canvases and nearly drank my turpentine.”
You raise a brow. “And naturally, you assumed this was my doing.”
“Who else would weaponize cuteness to such chaotic effect?”
You laugh—quiet but real. “I’m not that cruel.”
“No,” he agrees, turning to face you with a soft smile. “But I do suspect you’re still hoping I’ll change my mind about cats.”
You sip your coffee. “I might be.”
Later, the bath is warm, the water laced with something lavender and soft. He sits behind you, your back pressed to his chest, his arms a steady weight around your ribs.
His fingers move slowly—massaging your shoulders, your forearms, your palms, like he’s trying to erase every echo of pain from your body with touch alone.
You both talk, but nothing heavy. Just stories. Old memories. Little things. The shape of the moon that night. The smell of burnt sugar in his favorite gallery. How he once mistook a mannequin for a person and apologized to it for five minutes.
You laugh again, softer this time. And it makes something in him melt.
He wraps you in the softest robe he can find. Carries you again—this time to the bedroom. The ocean glows outside, waves catching the last of the sun like pearls tossed across the horizon.
But he doesn’t stop there.
“Come,” he says, offering a hand. “Tea. Sunset. Company far superior to mine.”
You smile. Follow.
And when you step onto the veranda—there it is.
A small white basket. A red ribbon.
And inside—
A snow-colored kitten, curled like a pearl in a nest, blinking up at you with impossibly blue eyes.
You freeze.
Turn to him, wide-eyed.
He shrugs, just slightly. Nervous. Like he’s bracing himself for mockery. For rejection.
You blink again. “You—Raf, you hate cats.”
He exhales through his nose. “I fear them. Different thing.”
Your eyes shimmer.
He moves toward you slowly, hands lifted in surrender.
“I wanted to make you smile,” he says simply. “That’s all. Just—smile. Like you used to. Before I—” He swallows.
He crouches down before you. One hand comes up to gently stroke the kitten. The other finds your knee.
His eyes lift to yours—and there’s no performance left in him now. Just Rafayel. Just the man beneath the glitter.
“I was so awful to you.”
You open your mouth, but he shakes his head.
“Don’t say it wasn’t that bad. I know what I am when I’m scared. I threw wine over grief and laughter over longing because I didn’t know what else to do. I ruined canvases with your name on my tongue and strangers in my house, and the whole time—I just wanted you to walk through that door.”
His fingers tighten on your leg.
“And when you did—when you came back—I was so full of rage at the idea you’d left me, that I didn’t even ask if you were okay.”
He breathes. One hand comes up, presses lightly to your ankle.
“I don’t know if I deserve this. Any of it. You. The right to hold your hand. To be the one who touches you when you’re tired. Who makes you laugh. Who paints your name into the ocean.”
You slide your fingers into his curls, threading gently through the soft waves.
And he stills. Like he’s afraid to move.
You whisper, “I never wanted perfect. I wanted you.”
He exhales.
“I swear,” he says, softly now, firmly, “on every color I’ve ever touched—never again. I’ll never put my pride above your heart. I’ll never leave you alone in the dark I made.”
Then—he leans forward. Presses his forehead to your knee.
The kitten meows softly, curling into the basket.
And finally—you smile.
Because this?
This is home.
💙 Zayne
You expected something.
A tremor. A breath. A word. Anything.
Instead, Zayne listened. Like a doctor reviewing a chart. Like a man auditing loss.
He didn’t speak when you finished. He simply nodded—once—and turned away, reaching for the drawer by the bedside as though the moment hadn’t cracked the very floor beneath his feet.
His hands, always precise, always godlike in their stillness, carried a faint tremble now. Just at the edges. So minor you might’ve doubted your own eyes, if you didn’t know how obsessively exact they always were.
“I asked,” he said, adjusting a monitor. His voice was quiet. Neutral. Not for you—for himself. “I asked if you’d caught a cold.”
He finished adjusting the drip, typed something into the tablet. Still no eye contact. Still no softness in his voice. But the line of his shoulders was off. A degree too low. A breath too far from centered.
Then—he turned back to you.
His gaze met yours at last. And though his voice didn’t change, the words did.
“I would like to conduct a full diagnostic. Neurological, cellular, metabolic.” A pause. Then softer, with exquisite restraint: “Please allow me.”
You hesitated—not because you doubted him, but because you recognized the plea underneath the logic. He wasn’t doing this for the data. Not really.
You nodded.
And he breathed again.
He worked in silence. Gentle. Thorough. Every sensor placed with hands that barely touched your skin. Each test executed with a reverence that spoke more than words ever could. He treated you like something sacred—something already broken that could not, must not, fracture further.
When sleep finally came, it swallowed you whole.
And when you opened your eyes again—the world was still. Dim. The sterile light of early morning filtered through the blinds.
Zayne sat in the chair beside your bed. Unmoved.
He hadn’t changed clothes.
The same shirt. The same faint stain near the cuff from yesterday’s blood draw. One elbow rested on the arm of the chair, his fingers curved over his mouth, gaze lost in some calculation too heavy for paper.
When he noticed you stir, his posture didn’t shift. But his eyes warmed—just barely. Just enough.
“I cancelled my procedures for the week,” he said simply. “Transferred patients to colleagues. For now, my only case is you.”
You blinked, silent. Then your gaze drifted down, to the low table by the bedside.
There, lined with the kind of hesitant care that comes from someone unused to gifts, sat a modest row of familiar things. A bouquet of white jasmine, fresh and fragrant. Two of your favorite candies in delicate wrappers. And—absurdly, heartbreakingly—three new plush toys, small and soft and so clearly chosen by someone who’d spent an agonizing amount of time in the gift shop second-guessing every decision.
Your heart folded inward.
“Am I dying?” you asked, quieter than you meant to.
He didn’t smile.
But his voice, when it came, was soft and absolute.
“I won’t allow that.”
A long silence passed.
Then you shifted—carefully, your muscles aching—and reached for him.
“Come here,” you murmured.
For a moment, he hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to, but because some part of him still didn’t believe he deserved the invitation. But he came. And when he lay beside you on the narrow couch, his body held a tension that didn’t ease until your head rested on his shoulder.
He stayed still. Let you move first. Let you curl against him the way you needed. His hand hovered over your back, uncertain, until you nudged it gently into place.
Only then did he hold you.
Not tightly.
Not desperately.
But with the kind of quiet conviction that said he would stay as long as it took.
You felt his breath in your hair before you heard his voice.
“I don’t pray,” he said, low, clinical as ever. “I believe in medicine. In numbers. In protocols.”
A pause. His fingers brushed your spine, feather-light.
“But if you hadn’t come back... I would’ve made an exception.”
You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.
Because some things, even with Zayne, are understood in silence.
And in that silence, held against the rhythm of his heartbeat, you felt it clearly: you were no longer his patient.
You were his entire world.
❤️ Sylus
For a moment after you speak, the room holds its breath. So does he.
Sylus doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t demand proof or press for detail. He simply stands there, stone-still, with your words unraveling him from the inside out. The way you say it—quiet, unshaking, without accusation—is somehow worse than if you’d screamed.
His gaze drifts over you then, and you feel the moment the veil lifts.
It’s in his eyes first—how they widen, flicker, and fixate. He takes in the shadows beneath yours, the pallor of your skin, the hollowness in your cheeks. His breath catches when he sees how your clothes hang looser than before. How your hands tremble faintly, barely perceptible unless one knows you too well.
And Sylus knows you.
His chest rises once, sharp and shallow. Then he moves.
Not fast. Not sudden.
But with purpose.
The next second, he’s in front of you, reaching—his fingers brush your jaw, feather-light, as if afraid that even the weight of his touch might bruise. He doesn’t speak as he leads you gently—gently, from a man whose hands have broken bones—into the nearest chair. One knee hits the ground beside you. He opens your jacket with slow precision, not to expose, but to check. To see. To know.
“You’ve lost weight,” he murmurs, voice rough and uneven, like gravel sliding beneath steel. His fingers glide down your arm, finding the sharp edges of bone where softness used to be. “Why didn’t I see it sooner?”
You try to speak, but he shakes his head, already rising.
He moves through the room like a storm with no wind—silent, but charged. Opens drawers. Pulls out clean clothes, a blanket, a glass of water. Then he’s back at your side, crouching again, one arm draped over your lap like a bridge between his fury and your exhaustion.
His hand wraps gently around your ankle, thumb pressing lightly against the bone there as he stares at it like it personally accuses him.
“I told them to take you.” His voice is lower now. Hoarse. “Told them to scare you. Make a point.”
He looks up at you. And for once, his face is completely unguarded.
“I hit you.”
It wasn’t hard. It wasn’t brutal. Not for someone like him.
But it was enough.
His voice falters, only slightly.
“And then I said I wouldn’t look for you.”
He exhales, and it’s not a breath—it’s a confession.
“That was the worst one, wasn’t it?” he asks. “Out of all of it. That’s the one that stayed.”
Your silence says enough.
And something in him breaks again—quietly, like a structure folding inward with no one left to hold it up. His forehead presses lightly to your knee, his arm tightening around your thigh. You feel him breathe you in, like scent alone might bring you back from the half-place you escaped.
“I should’ve known the second I touched you that something was wrong. I should’ve seen it on your face.” His voice cracks, just once. “But I was so angry. So fucking angry I couldn’t feel anything but the space where you weren’t.”
He pulls back. Looks at you again—slowly, steadily. And something inside him hardens, not with rage, but resolution.
“You’re not lifting a hand again. Not for food. Not for water. Not for anything. I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care what it costs. You’re going to rest, and I’m going to fix this—you—with my own hands, piece by piece.”
And when he stands, it’s not the usual slow menace or calculated power.
It’s reverent.
He lifts you—not like someone injured. Like something sacred. And when he carries you out of the room, wrapped in warmth and silence, there is no doubt in your mind:
Sylus will not let go again.
Not even if time itself tries to take you.
💜 Caleb
You aren’t even halfway through when it hits him.
Not like a punch. Not like a wound.
Like an organ failing.
He blinks once. Twice. And then nothing. No movement. No breath. Just silence.
You look up, startled, and the absurdity punches out of you in a short, cracked laugh.
It’s the wrong moment. Too sharp, too bitter. But it slices through the tension like a scalpel.
And still—he doesn't move.
His hands press against the table, white-knuckled. Not to steady himself—he isn’t swaying. He’s rigid. Locked. Like something in him has calcified to hold him upright.
“I’m not fit to lead,” he says, voice flat, low, scorched. “Not when I see betrayal in the only person I’ve ever trusted.”
Whatever breath of amusement you had left dissolves instantly.
“I didn’t just fail as someone who was supposed to protect you,” he adds. “I failed as your—” He stops. Chokes it down. His jaw clenches so hard you can hear the sound of his teeth grinding. “As your Caleb.”
And then—he moves.
Quick, purposeful. Gone in a flash. You hear the kettle filling, the sharp click of a drawer, the dull thud of something fragile hitting the counter too hard. The way he clutches at control would be laughable if it weren’t so violent.
Then the bathwater starts.
Hot. Too hot. He’s not measuring anything. Just pouring. He throws open the cabinet, snatches towels, drops one, curses.
When he returns—his phone is in hand. “I’ll call Dr. Navik. I want a full neurocardiac scan, and we need to rule out—”
He stops. Mid-sentence. Thumb poised over the screen.
You don’t say a word. You just watch as something slows in him. As if time, for once, is merciful.
He lowers the phone. Turns toward you.
His voice—when it comes—isn't clipped or cold or distant. It's frighteningly gentle.
“Pip-squeak.”
He kneels before you, as if he’s afraid standing over you might shatter what little is left between you.
When he reaches out, it’s so slow. So reverent. The back of his fingers graze your cheekbone, barely there. Not because he doubts you—but because he doubts himself.
“How do you actually feel?” he whispers. “Not what I can fix. Not what the scans will say. Just you.”
You breathe. Only once. It shakes.
“Like roadkill,” you murmur. Then softer, almost smiling: “A hot bath wouldn’t hurt. And sleep. Maybe a week of it.”
Your faint attempt at a smile breaks him.
Not loudly. Not outwardly. He doesn’t cry. But something in his face folds in on itself, like it’s suddenly too heavy to wear. He draws a slow, trembling breath.
“I accused you,” he says, and now his voice is wrong. Hoarse. Quiet. Dismantled. “I accused you of being with someone else. After you went through six weeks of hell.”
You try to speak. He doesn’t let you.
“I thought you left me,” he says, and this time his voice cracks—just barely, but it’s there. A faultline in steel. His eyes are on the floor now, unfocused, as if he’s speaking to ghosts.
“I believed you would.”
His breath falters, like the truth is costing him oxygen.
“That it made sense. That I wasn’t enough.”
A pause. His throat works hard around the next words.
“Or worse—too much.”
His hand curls into a fist against his thigh, knuckles white. Not from anger. From restraint. From the effort not to collapse under the weight of everything he’s never said.
“That you’d finally find someone who doesn’t smother you with love that borders on obsession.”
He shifts, like his own skin is too tight. His jaw clenches. His eyes squeeze shut for half a second before he forces them open again, forces himself to keep looking at you—even if it kills him.
“Someone who wouldn’t try to chain you close,” he whispers, “just because he’s too selfish to breathe without you.”
He looks at you now—really looks—and the devastation in his gaze is endless.
His voice breaks on the last word.
“Someone who wasn’t… me.”
And for a moment, he’s not a soldier. Not a leader. Not even a man.
He’s just Caleb. That boy who loved you before he had language for it. And who never stopped. Even when it ruined him.
His hands curl into fists against his knees.
“I interrogated you. Like a stranger. Like a traitor. And all the while you were trapped—alone, dying, fighting—and I was worried about your silence in my bed.”
A breath. And another. Like he’s drowning in air.
“I loved you before I even knew what that word meant,” he whispers. “I carried it for years, swallowed it, starved it. I told myself it was wrong. Forbidden. And the moment I finally had you—really had you—I destroyed it with my own hands.”
He doesn’t look at you. Not until your fingers find his.
Then he shudders. And looks up.
“You always forgave me,” he says, voice breaking now. “Even when I didn’t deserve it. But this time… if you don’t. If you can’t…”
His hand trembles in yours.
“…I’ll understand.”
You shake your head. Just once.
And in that second—he folds into you, arms curling around your waist, forehead pressed to your stomach like a prayer he doesn’t believe he deserves to say out loud.
When he finally carries you to the bath, it’s not in silence. He keeps murmuring things—small things, promises, broken confessions, names only he calls you. He doesn’t try to be strong. He only tries to be there.
And when you’re finally in bed again, drowsy and warm, you find him already beside you. Fully clothed, facing the ceiling, his hand resting on the sheets between you like a lifeline.
You whisper his name.
He turns his head, eyes dim in the dark.
You reach for him, and he comes to you instantly, without hesitation. He lies down beside you, and when you press your head to his chest, he exhales like it’s the first real breath he’s taken in years.
summary: how on earth were you supposed to write a good sex scene with almost zero experience? good thing your best friend was always willing to lend you a helping hand.
themes: childhood best friends to lovers, idiots to lovers, friends with benefits, college! au, slowburn, humour, fluff, angst, petnames, profanity, alcohol consumption, sexual tension, explicit sexual content (oral fem receiving, fingering, nipple play, protected + unprotected sex, clothed sex), porn with so much plot, they're both down bad asf
word count: 25k
lyns notes: its been so long since i've written a full length fic like this, and it ended up being so much longer than I anticipated but please don't get scared by the wc 😭 its so self indulgent because i love caleb and I had way too much fun writing this so I hope you enjoy! <3
This was utterly insane, even for you.
The idea started small, though you supposed you couldn’t ever classify it as innocent. At the time, it had been just a flicker, a fleeting thought that slipped through the cracks of your composure. You were in your best friend's dorm, lounging on his bed like it was your own as you complained.
“I’ve been stuck for weeks now. It’s like I’ve lost the ability to write.”
Caleb glanced over at you from his desk, leaning back in his plush chair as the movement of his fingers over the laptop keyboard stilled for a moment. The expression you received was familiar, you had been on the receiving end of it for years now. One of his lips quirked up, deep lavender eyes alight with amusement, and one eyebrow raised as he took in your anguished state.
“You haven’t lost the ability to write, Pipsqueak, it's just writer's block. You’ve had writer's block before.”
“Not like this.” You shook your head, pulling your knees to your chest and resting your chin on them. “I usually manage to overcome it in a week or so. It’s been like, three months.” Your annoyance with yourself was obvious to him, so clear in the slight pout on your mouth paired with that indignant expression.
It was true, you had been writing ever since you were little. Your imagination ran wild as a child, even before you could physically write, you would spin tales and make up stories to entertain yourself with, frequently getting lost in your own little world. You prided yourself on this talent of yours that helped you breeze through English essays and writing assignments, even going so far as to major in English at university. Writing was your bread and butter. It was more than just being good at it, it was the passion and fulfilment you felt when you did it.
Passion and fulfillment your ass, you couldn’t feel any of that right now.
You were writing a book, your very first one that you started penning in the summer before your sophomore year. The idea had come to you out of nowhere, and once you spent hours outlining all the details, you were certain it was something you wanted to bring to life. The need to finish it burned through you as you spent most of that break stuck at your desk, hunched over your laptop. Caleb had to quite literally drag you out of your room most days, muttering some nonsense about vitamin D and too much screen time.
He had always been like that ever since you were kids – protective, caring, attentive. It was built into his very being, you supposed, ever since he saw you cry outside the first-grade classrooms as a seven-year-old and promised to help you find your way to the correct one. Even now, as he hummed in thought, offering silent support for your frustration.
“You’ve gotten through a large chunk of it, right?”
“Yep.”
A slow, bargaining smile stretched out on his face. “Hey, you know, maybe if you let me read it–”
“Hell no.” You shook your head stubbornly. “I told you, I’m only letting you read it once it's finished, and I think it’s good enough.”
Caleb snorted, “So you mean never?”
You promptly threw one of the plushies on his bed at him. He deftly caught it, laughter slipping from him as he threw it back. The plushy was a grumpy apple one that he had won you back home at the arcade, but the pile of plushies on your bed was so huge that you graciously suggested that he keep it for you. Partial custody, you had joked, I have visitation rights.
“You’ll be the first to read it. I just….need to get through this one bit.”
Ah yes, the bit. The part that you seemed to be cursed to never finish. Everything before it had gone so smoothly, the words flowing and pouring out of you so perfectly. A fun romance novel full of twists and humour was what you aimed to achieve, and it seemed like you were succeeding.
That was, until you reached a part of the story that you truly had no idea how to write. The technicalities of it were.…..unknown at best, to you, who had almost no experience in the matter.
“You know, maybe you could tell me about it. Maybe I could help.” You knew the offer was genuine. Caleb had always been someone you could fall back upon for any assistance. Being two years older than you, in your eyes, he always knew what to do when you were in a pickle. He was the type of friend who placed bandages on your scrapes and offered you candy so you’d stop crying. He carried a hair tie around for when you wanted to tie your hair and helped you study for tests, and explained the concepts that you didn’t understand. Every time you had a problem, he never hesitated to help you in any way he possibly could.
But this….this was something you’d rather die than ask him about.
Immediately, you shook your head a little too quickly, shooting him a tight smile. “Nope, it's fine. Just something I gotta figure out myself.
He stared at you skeptically but shrugged. “Alright. Let me know if you change your mind, okay?”
You wouldn’t.
Would you?
Absolutely not. Even thinking about it felt like a betrayal. It was like opening a can of worms that held snakes. Deadly venomous ones.
And yet here you were, your teeth digging into the plush of your lower lip as he turned back to his laptop screen, continuing to work on whatever assignment he had due. He was in his final year and was infinitely busy, though he somehow still managed to make time for you.
Shamelessly, your eyes studied him. His arms, so well defined and firm-looking, were basically on display for you when he wore that white, sleeveless tee. Dark hair, unruly and messy, no matter how many times you ran your fingers through it in an attempt to fix it. A defined jawline that could probably cut you if you dared touch it. He had grown up unfairly well, no longer the lanky young boy you once knew, now a man. A hot man you had incredible chemistry with.
A very hot man who was completely off-limits.
Still. You supposed that his help couldn’t be the worst thing in the world–
A sex scene. That was what you were struggling to right. In terms of the story, it was a very natural next move for your characters, and it made sense, and while you could simply artistically describe the ordeal and fade to black, you felt it was a necessary addition. You wanted to showcase the desperation the two characters felt for each other, just how deep their feelings ran through something more primal. You wanted it to feel right, to feel magical.
The issue? You hadn’t the faintest idea of how to go about it. In all your nineteen years of life, you had only had sex once, and it had been far from magical. It had been uncomfortable and rushed, the result of a very stupid, drunken one-night stand in your first year. The guy very evidently didn’t know how a woman's body worked, and even thinking back on it made you cringe and fold in on yourself. If it were possible to manually pluck the memory out and destroy it, you would have done it in a heartbeat.
So how on earth were you supposed to write the perfect sex scene when your one sole experience in the matter had been so terrible?
And you couldn’t ask Caleb for help. Even considering doing so made you feel as if you would spontaneously combust. He was your best friend, for crying out loud, and this crossed so many lines. You knew very well that he wasn’t a virgin by any means, having caught glimpses of the occasional hickey on his neck despite his best efforts to hide it from you. He was twenty-one, experienced and could probably talk you through it–
Nope. Not going here.
The idea of Caleb explaining sex to you was mortifying. You didn’t want to hear about any of his conquests, even just the thought of him talking about it made you want to throw up. The notion of him having sex only made your cheeks warm and your throat go uncomfortably dry.
Against your will, the thought festered. It burrowed its way into your mind and settled there as if it belonged, despite its having no business being there. This was completely unethical, but before you could stop yourself, your gaze zeroed in on his tongue darting out of his mouth, licking his lips in concentration as he typed out something. For a second, you wondered how it would feel if he dragged that tongue across the skin of your neck.
Oh my god. What if he simply showed you?
The moment that depraved idea popped into your head, you shot up, getting to your feet with urgency. Startled, he looked over at you, frowning at the alarmed look on your face.
“Are you good?”
“I’m great!” Your voice sounded funny, like you were trying to digest a rock. “I just– er– remembered I have some homework to finish for tomorrow. So I should get back to my room.” You padded over to his door, slipping into your shoes and waving at him. “See ya.”
“....Bye.” He watched your awkward, rushed movements with a puzzled look on his (very nice) face.. You nodded curtly before opening the door and escaping the confines of his dorm, out of his scrutinising gaze that could read you annoyingly well. Another minute in there and you knew he would be grilling you for your odd behaviour.
Jesus Christ. You were so screwed.
“Y/n? Girl, you gotta get your head in the game.”
Tara’s voice cut through your reverie, causing you to snap out of it. One glance up at her would reveal an unimpressed look directed at you, her hands on her hips. “Our darling editor wants to know why your article isn’t on her desk yet.”
Tara was your closest friend after Caleb, and you had met her when you joined the university paper as a student journalist. She was smart, pretty and always had your back no matter what. Blinking rapidly, you sighed, waving your hand.
“Tell Jenna I’ll have it there by the end of the day.”
“You better. You know how she is about deadlines.” Tara pulled one of the chairs from the desk beside yours closer and sat on it, resting her elbows on the armrests. “Seriously, though, why are you spaced out today?”
Well, there was no way you could tell her the truth about that. So you resorted to using a half-truth as an answer. “Writer's block.”
“Ah.”
You turned back to the screen of your computer, staring at the article you had been writing. It was almost finished, thank god. At least here, you had the facts to write around, having done your research. Very different to the situation you found yourself in regarding your stupid book.
Ugh.
“By the way, your boyfriend’s here.”
Your head snapped up at her words, already ready to argue, knowing exactly who she was talking about. Walking into the newsroom holding two coffees was Caleb, wearing that blue-orange jacket that you had bought him for one of his birthdays. He did this pretty often, sauntering in like he owned the place even though he was technically not allowed to be there. Jenna had repeatedly reminded him of this, but he brushed it off, and after a while, she simply stopped bothering. Thus, despite not being on the paper, he spent a lot of time in the newsroom.
This was another problem you faced daily: people mistaking him for your boyfriend. The number of times you had to rehash the fact that he was simply your best friend was astounding, and back when you were a freshman, the constant whistles about you dating an upperclassman– and none other than Caleb Xia– drove you mad. You chalked it down to none of them being fortunate enough to experience a friendship as fulfilling and real as the one you had with him.
“He’s not my boyfriend.” You dropped your voice, keeping it just loud enough for her to hear your rebuttal that held a hint of venom, plastering a smile on your face as he closed in. Tara snickered.
“Sure, and I’m the queen of England.”
“Hey,” Caleb grinned down at you, his eyes momentarily flitting to your friend. “And what?”
“Nothing,” you said brightly, shooting her a murderous look that silently told her to zip it. She smiled innocently and shook her head, slipping back to her desk without another word.
“She’s an odd one,” he quipped, handing you one of the coffees and then shrugging off the jacket, dumping it on the free space on your desk. You already knew it was your regular order, something he had memorised years ago. You sipped the drink, letting the hot liquid calm you down, grateful for the caffeine. You hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before, spending it tossing and turning in your bed.
And why was that?
Caleb leaned against your desk. “Are you free later today?”
A dejected sigh escaped you. “Unfortunately, no. I need to finish this article by the end of the day, and it seems like my writer's block has infected every aspect of my life.” It was ironic, just how true that statement ran.
“Damn.” You could hear the tinge of disappointment in his voice. “I was hoping we would have movie night. I stocked up on your favourite candy.” He reached over, his fingers brushing against the skin of your forehead as he pushed some of your hair that fell in front of your eyes away from your face, neatly tucking it behind your ear like it was second nature. It was, you supposed, considering he had done so about a hundred times.
But something was different this time, or perhaps you were paying far too much attention to every little thing. To how he pulled back and the way the muscles in his forearm shifted subtly, making you wish he had kept the jacket on. The brief touch lingered on your skin, burned into it.
Fucking hell, you were a mess. A tragic, down-atrocious mess.
Your eyes lingered on his fingers for a moment. Heat crept up your neck, and you coughed, rubbing it absent-mindedly, hoping to push down the flush you felt taking over your body. It had been like this ever since the day in his dorm when your brain had decided to work against you and infect you with the thought of sex with your best friend.
What better way was there to describe your state than calling it an infection? It certainly felt like some sort of sickness with the way it plagued you against your will. Somehow, it was worse than the doomed crush you had harboured for him back when you were in high school, because at least that had been innocent. That was born out of pure admiration, and you were sixteen. A lot of things done at sixteen could be brushed off under the excuse of being young and naive. You had quickly gotten over it.
You were evidently no longer so naive. In fact, you knew too much.
“Maybe next time.” You managed to choke out finally after a silence that had stretched a beat too long. Part of you hoped he’d leave you alone now so that you could calm down and refocus your attention to the article.
But of course, he didn’t. Instead, he occupied the chair Tara previously had, complaining about one of his classes as you nodded along, sipping your coffee and glancing between him and your screen. The smooth cadence of his voice usually soothed you and calmed you down, but now it only put you on edge, flowing over scrambled thoughts like honey. Had his arms always been this nice?
You were going to hell.
All things considered, you held yourself to certain standards. You were a woman with morals and integrity, and you were not in the habit of staring at shirtless men.
Except when it was Caleb, apparently.
“Why are you half-naked?” You blurted out gracelessly, heat viciously curling up your body as your eyes dropped down to his torso. You gripped the Chinese takeout you had gotten on your way back from your evening class a little tighter as you took in his figure. A silver chain with a tag and apple pendant (something you had given him before he left for university while you were still struggling in high school) on his bare chest and perfect sculpted abs, running shorts hanging low on his hips.
“I was working out.” He said casually, taking the bag of takeout from your hands and walking back into his dorm, leaving you to follow him. You bit down on your tongue hard, almost hoping you’d draw blood.
This was ridiculous. You had seen him shirtless several times before and had never reacted like this. The other times hadn’t caused you to flush and definitely didn’t cause your heart rate to spike. It didn’t have you furiously fighting off thoughts that had threatened to consume you for over a week now, pushing them back into the furthest parts of your mind and locking them there.
“I’m almost done, could you grab sodas from the fridge?” Caleb placed the food on the table beside his bed. You wordlessly complied, picking the apple-flavoured sodas that both of you liked. Turning back to the main area of his dorm, you walked over, only to stop dead in your tracks.
Caleb was on the floor. Doing push-ups.
There was nothing inherently sexual about it in the slightest. You knew he liked to stay in shape, hitting the gym at least thrice a week to maintain his physique– a very nice physique that seemed to be your current undoing. His hair fell across his forehead, a little matted from sweat. You watched as he pressed down and back up, and in a moment of weakness, you wondered how it would be if you were under him instead of standing to the side and ogling like an idiot. Would his necklace dangle above you, swinging back and forth in your face?
Dear god. You needed to be sedated. Put down, even.
Finally, he seemed to be done, lowering himself down and then rolling onto his back. He sucked in a breath of hair, running his hands through his hair and messing it up even further. Finally, he sat up and looked up at you, a singular eyebrow raised.
“Why are you just standing there?”
Brilliant question. If only you could answer it.
Choosing to skillfully evade instead, you tossed him his soda can and grabbed his laptop from his desk, settling down next to him on the floor. Tonight, the two of you had decided to have dinner together and catch up on an anime you had started together a couple of weeks ago. It had been a while since you had properly hung out, and you knew damn well that it was all your fault.
You were avoiding him. Mentally and physically, especially physically. Caleb, however, being the understanding, saint of a man that he was, chalked it up to you being busy. He made sure to check in on you, shooting you texts or sending you funny videos he knew you’d like.
“We should try and finish all the episodes up until the latest one,” You said, opening up his laptop and logging into the anime site. “They released a new one on Wednesday.”
Caleb hummed, stretching his arms as he shuffled closer. Immediately, you froze, the close contact inciting pure panic within you. Jerking away from him, you glared, holding a hand out to keep an arm's distance between the two of you, much to his confusion.
“Put on a shirt.”
He frowned. “Why? It’s really hot.”
Indeed, it was. “Exactly. You’re all sweaty and gross.”
You really shouldn’t have said that. The moment the words left your mouth, his mouth curled into a smirk– one so disgustingly attractive that you were sure your knees would have probably buckled if you weren’t already sitting down– and his eyes lit up with a mischievous glint that told you he was up to no good. Carefully, he wrapped a hand around your wrist, and the contact has your brain short-circuiting and going into overdrive.
“I think that means you want a hug.”
“Wait– don’t you dare– Caleb!” You yelped as he tugged you harshly, forcing you to fall into his lap, his laughter resounding through the small dorm room. Awkwardly, you shoot your other hand out to steady yourself, placing it on his shoulder as you tumble into him, knee slotting in between his legs and body so dangerously close to his that you wanted to scream. Smoothly, he wrapped his other arm around your waist, circling it and somehow tugging you even closer, until you were flush against him.
“What are you gonna do now, Pips?” He taunted, voice just above a whisper right against your ear.
Unicorns, you bleakly thought to yourself. Puppies. Cupcakes. Sprinkles.
“You’re so annoying,” You hissed, throwing as much irritation into your voice as you possibly could in the hopes that it would drown out the shakiness you felt. His skin under your fingertips was warm, and you could feel that warmth through the fabric of your tank top. “Go fuck yourself.”
He laughed harder, the sound so contagious it broke you out of your downright sinful thoughts. You gripped his shoulder a little harder, mentally chastising yourself for the situation you found yourself in, knowing that there was no good reason for you to be this riled up. Playfighting with him was something you were used to; it was natural. It should not have had your blood pressure rising and heart slamming in your chest so violently.
Swallowing thickly, you barely processed how he let go of your wrist, his other arm also coming to rest around your waist as he pulled you further into his lap so that you were now sitting on top of him. Before you even had the chance to react to that, he buried his face in the crook of your neck and inhaled.
“Missed you this week,” He mumbled softly against your rapidly heating skin. You froze for a split second at the contact, hopelessly blaming the flush spread over your cheeks on the humid weather.
And then you softened.
Instinctively, your arms wrapped around his neck as you hugged him back. “I missed you too,” You whispered, following up with a lie to keep him off your trail. “Just had a lot of work.”
“I know,” he said so patiently that you instantly felt guilty. He lifted his face from your neck so that he could stare at you, and it hit you just how intimate the position the two of you were in was. Although reserved with others, Caleb had always been pretty openly affectionate with you. His hand on the small of your back, fingers intertwined with yours, a light kiss to your temple in encouragement– he had been doing stuff like that to you since you were ten.
So why did it suddenly affect you so much? Why did something so normal for you make you feel so different now?
“Just….tell me about it,” he continued, those mesmerising purple eyes of his locked onto yours. “Shoot me a text. Let me know what's up with you. Don’t you remember the last time you shut everyone out because you were stressed?”
You did remember. It was during your finals last year, when the workload you had overwhelmed you so badly that you simply pushed everyone away until they were over. Caleb had to practically storm his way back into your life and demand that you take a break and slow down before you worked yourself to the bone. The fact that he remembered this only made your guilt worse because your distance this time had nothing to do with your classwork.
It had everything to do with him, though.
“Yeah, yeah,” you mumbled, slowly slipping out of his embrace and settling down next to him once again. You had to remind yourself of what he was to you, and all this thirsting for him was neither healthy nor something a good best friend would do. “I’m not gonna do that again.”
“I’m just saying. And what the hell am I supposed to do with my free time if you’re not here to bother me?” He flashed you that shit-eating grin of his that you were starting to think was more devastating than mischievous.
You had to resist strangling him.
There was only one possible conclusion: something was deeply wrong with you.
How else were you supposed to explain your borderline insane behaviour? It had gotten even worse lately, causing you to daydream at the most inconvenient times, like when you were trying to get an assignment done or even in the middle of class. It was a wonder your professors hadn’t called you out for it yet.
Some level of restraint seemed to remain, though, with you stopping your thoughts from crossing any lines. The moment you caught your mind straying into dangerous territory, you forced yourself to stop, desperately searching for another distraction.
But there was only so much you could do. Thinking was proving to be a dangerous activity.
You pressed your palms into your eyes, hard. It was almost three in the morning, and you hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep. Earlier, you had tried to write around the damned scene, but emerged fruitless. It was like an obstacle you had to clear before you could get to the next level of a game, taunting you with its incompletion.
Something else taunted you, simmering underneath the expanse of your skin. Things that hadn’t even happened yet, but you had already dreamed of them– his mouth on yours, his hands tracing your body with a feather touch.
You were even wearing one of his shirts right now, the oversized tee reaching down to your mid-thighs. Several, just like the one you currently wore, sat neatly in your closet, having been stolen from him over the years. You could faintly smell his cologne; cidery and comforting, enveloping you in what felt like it could be his embrace. Turning onto your side, you pulled the blanket over your body and stared at the wall blankly.
Caleb had been your safe space for so long, and perhaps that was why you gravitated so easily to thinking about him like this. If there was anyone you trusted in such an intimate sense, it was him.
Even if it shouldn’t have been.
God knows you needed to get laid. Unfortunately, you didn’t want just anyone.
You swore you had never been this horny before, least of all for your best friend. Thinking about him in such a salacious way was strictly a new development that was quickly ruining your life, haunting you day and night. Even now, lying in your bed, heat that was impossible to ignore bloomed between your legs.
Maybe if you just indulged once, this madness would stop. Maybe you just needed an orgasm, and then you’d stop going insane over every single interaction you had with Caleb. It didn’t even have to be about him, and this was normal; everyone needed a release now and then.
Your fingers slipped between your legs, pushing the fabric of his shirt up, tracing the outline of your cotton underwear. Your eyes fluttered shut as you let your fingertips gently graze against where you needed them most, letting your legs fall apart just a little bit–
Deep purple eyes flashed behind your closed eyes.
Gasping, you retracted your hand like you had been burned. There was no way in hell you could touch yourself with him in mind; that was everything you had been avoiding for the past three weeks, ever since the notion had first sprouted. Groaning, you buried your face into the pillow.
This had to have been the stupidest cause of insomnia ever.
Caleb 🍎 [15:32 pm] : i better see u at the party tonight :D
Caleb 🍎 [15:32 pm] : will pick u up at 9
Caleb 🍎 [15:32 pm] : no buts.
Caleb supposed that this was technically his fault.
Mentally, he had already prepared for this outcome. It was why he had barely drunk the entire night, barely finishing two drinks and opting out of playing beer pong with the rest of his friends, despite Gideon's need for another member on his team.
“Come on, Pipsqueak.” He had an arm around your waist to help steady you, ensuring you wouldn’t fall flat on your face. You stumbled into the elevator, and he jammed the number of your dorm floor as you wrapped your arms around his torso weakly, leaning into him. Right now, he was the only thing keeping you upright.
You were drunk, slurring your words and unable to walk in a straight line without any assistance type of drunk. And yes, this was his fault.
Probably. Definitely.
One of the frat houses had thrown a party, and he had insisted that you come with him. He had always been great at reading you, and for the last couple of weeks, you had seemed tense over something, though you hadn’t told him what exactly it was yet. That was fine, he knew that eventually you’d spill, but for now, all he wanted to do was help you let loose.
That was exactly what he told you to do when both of you arrived at the party, even pouring you your first drink. Halfway through the party, you seemed more relaxed than you had in the last couple of days, swaying along to the music by his side. He made sure not to drink too much, wanting to be sober enough to safely get you back to your dorm just in case you overdid it.
His intuition always ended up being right when it came to you.
You whined as the elevator dinged, the doors opening. “Everything is spinning.”
“I know, honey, we’re almost there.” He helped you walk into the hallway, smoothly taking your handbag from you and extracting your keys. Holding you tighter, he opened the door and pulled you through, carefully seating you down on your bed and taking your boots off.
Like clockwork, he grabbed a bottle of water from your bedside table, unscrewed it and held it to your cherry-tinted lips. You only used that specific lip-tint when you were going out, and each time you did, he found himself wondering if it tasted like cherry as well. Even now, as he gently propped his index finger under your chin and tilted your face upwards, he entertained the idea of tasting it for himself.
But he wouldn’t.
“Drink up,” He said softly, “You’re gonna have a nasty hangover tomorrow.”
Obediently, you parted your lips, drinking with his help. Your cheeks were flushed due to the alcohol, hair a little frizzy from the heat, but still maintaining the styling you had done before the party. To him, you looked stunning at all times, but he could see the effort you had put in to look nice tonight, from your outfit (a black halter top and jeans) to your makeup, which he knew he’d have to help you take off now.
Once he deemed the amount of water you had drunk enough, he put the bottle back and went into your bathroom, knowing exactly where to find your makeup wipes. He had taken care of you like this once before, so his body moved like clockwork. There was no point in trying to get you to the bathroom– you’d probably just sit down on the floor and stay there for the rest of the night– so he took the wipes with him and crouched down in front of where you sat on your bed.
Smiling, he held your face again, this time a little firmer. “You’d hate yourself if you went to sleep before you took your makeup off,” he whispered, pulling one of the wipes out and dragging it over the apples of your face. Then, he glanced up and into your eyes, noting how you stared at him so keenly, even through a half-lidded gaze, lips slightly parted.
If Caleb could’ve kept your attention on him like this for the rest of his life, he would have.
“What's going through that head of yours?” He cocked his head to the side, studying your intent expression. Immediately, you looked away, but he wasn’t going to back down. Something had been troubling you, and he was determined to find out what. If you wouldn’t tell him outright, he would simply have to guess. “Is it your book, again?”
Your inebriated state made it hard for you to hide things from him. You stiffened in his touch, and he chuckled. “Bingo. You know, if you just told me what you were struggling with, I’d help.” He pressed your chin lightly, angling your face downwards. “Close your eyes.” He gently wiped over your eye makeup, making sure it was all off before continuing. “I know I’m not a writer, but I’m sure I'll be of some value.”
Finally done, he neatly folded the dirty wipe and placed it to the side. “Want some more water? Alcohol is dehydrating.”
And then, out of nowhere, you spoke.
“Sex.”
Well, blurting would probably be a better way to describe how you said the word. Caleb blinked rapidly, wondering if he had heard you correctly as his face snapped back to yours, eyes wide.
“What?”
“Sex.” You slurred a little bit as you leaned closer to him, jutting your lower lip out in a pout and repeating it once more for good measure. “Sex.”
“I heard you the first time,” Caleb could hear how strangled his voice was, unable to think straight at your sudden declaration. Oblivious to his mental distress, you thrust out your hand and pointed at the laptop that sat on your desk with drunken animosity.
“I can’t write a stupid sex scene.”
You sounded so crestfallen, and he would have totally started sympathising with you if not for the reason. A sex scene? What on earth were you writing?
“I–” He swallowed, “Well–”
“I mean, how am I supposed to write a good sex scene if I don’t know what good sex feels like? Or what even like, happens?” Alcohol had certainly loosened you up, and perhaps a bit too much, having erased any filter that you had. This resulted in you rambling on about everything you would have usually kept to yourself, and for good reason. “The sex I’ve had has been shitty.”
The sex you’ve had? Caleb almost bit his tongue off in shock, staring at you incredulously at the information you had dumped on him. He hadn’t even known you had been having sex, and thank every god for that, because he would have probably jumped off a cliff if you ever talked about your sex life with him. Surely, this was some sort of twisted fever dream he had found himself in. This could not have been real life.
“Christ,” He choked out, “I–okay, maybe I can’t help you–”
“Yeah, you can.” Your eyes cut to his, a little too intense for his sanity. “If you fucked me, I’d probably be able to write the scene.”
He gaped at you, about a dozen inappropriate thoughts running through his head before he could stop it. “What did you just say?”
Teenage Caleb would have died if he had heard you say that. Adult Caleb nearly did.
You sighed heavily, and it only succeeded in causing him to spiral even more. “I thought about it. I’m sure it would be good, y’know. You’d know what you were doing, you even look like you’re good at it.”
“You’re so drunk.” He tried to reason with himself out loud, but could hardly recognise his voice with how strained he sounded. Looked like he was good at it? What alternate dimension had he just fallen into?
“Oh, come on, Caleb. I need some hands-on learning, and you–” you slurred the words as you leaned close and wrapped your hands around his bicep, peering up at him through your lashes. “–have very nice hands. They’re hot.”
You, his best friend, his pipsqueak, had thought about sleeping with him. You thought his hands were hot. The news nearly killed him, and he had to force himself to look away from you, his mind running at a mile a minute. Heat prickled at his face and neck, impossible to ignore as he cleared his throat and stood to his feet, pulling away from your touch.
“You should sleep.” He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans, stepping away from you. “I–I’ll see you tomorrow.” It was as if he were going through puberty all over again, with the way his voice cracked embarrassingly as he spoke. He left your room hurriedly, barely getting his shoes back on as he closed the door behind him and leaned against it.
Caleb exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose as the back of his head hit your door. All these years of barely keeping it together around you, carefully tiptoeing between right and wrong, only for you to come and crash into whatever self-restraint he had left.
Right and wrong.
All of a sudden, he wasn’t sure if he was going to choose correctly anymore.
Death had to have been more merciful than the pounding in your head. Grabbing the covers, you pulled them over yourself like a cocoon, trying your hardest to block out all noises and sink even further into your mattress.
Unfortunately, your hangover-induced headache made it nearly impossible for you to go back to sleep. Cursing, you forced yourself out of bed and into the bathroom to freshen up and change out of your clothes and into something more comfortable. Naturally, you gravitated towards an oversized shirt and a pair of shorts, pulling them on after a quick shower.
Then, you went right back to your bed, not wanting to face the day in the slightest. You had managed to resist throwing up so far, and even the thought of having to function like a normal human being made you recoil into your blanket and stay there for the rest of the week. Just as you began to genuinely entertain that notion, a sharp knock at your door caught your attention.
You would have ignored it if you didn’t know the pattern of this knock by heart. No one but Caleb knocked twice in sequence.
Cursing under your breath, you scrambled to the door and opened it, squinting as the bright light of the hallway outside nearly blinded you. There he stood, grinning down at you as he held up a paper bag.
“Aspirin.”
“Thank god,” you immediately let him in, taking the medicine from him and pouring yourself a glass of water. He stood right behind you as you took the pill, ruffling your already messy hair and staring for just a second too long.
“Bad morning, huh?”
“You have no idea.” You winced at the whiny nature of your voice. “It feels like my head is trying to stab itself.”
Caleb chuckled dryly, sitting down on your bed and watching as you settled at your desk and ran your fingers through your hair, trying to smooth out the knots. Something was different about the way he was looking at you, but you couldn’t quite put your finger on it.
“You’ll be fine,” He muttered, shifting his gaze to the ceiling. You frowned, taking in the way his jaw ticked, and placed your glass of water down.
“Are you okay?”
“Me? Yeah, I’m fine.” He said it a little too brightly, glancing down at your desk. Something flickered in his eyes. “Made any progress on that book of yours?”
A frustrated sound left you buried your face in your hands, elbows on your desk. The reminder of your stagnant writing somehow worsened your headache, as if that was even possible. Of course he’d bring that up. “As usual, no.”
For a while, you had hoped that inspiration would strike you eventually, but it seemed like you were well and truly stuck. It had only taken a turn for the worse, with you suddenly despising everything you had already written, unable to even skim any of it without cringing and wanting to hit delete. Your inability to write had morphed into impostor syndrome, which was a development you didn’t appreciate in the slightest.
“It’s okay,” he said, and you would have mistaken his tone for reassuring if not for the way his lips twitched slightly. “I’m sure you’ll be able to write eventually. After you fuck me, apparently.”
Silence.
Razor-sharp silence.
Slowly, you turned your head to face him, eyes wide as saucers. “What….did you just say?”
“Only what you said last night. You said you were sure it would be good, which I beg to differ. It would be amazing, thank you very much.” He dared to smile oh-so innocently, as if he hadn’t just upgraded the superlative of what sex with him would potentially be like.
If you thought you were going to throw up before, you were sure you were going to now. You almost choked on your spit, waves of unadulterated shock crashing through your system as you gawked at your best friend, who appeared much too pleased with himself at the moment. If you weren’t so utterly horrified, you would have tried to slap the smug expression right off of his face.
“No.” The singular word comes out breathless, much to your mortification, your gut churning at the implications of that statement. “No, no, no–”
“Oh yes,” He grinned wickedly, leaning back on the palms of his hands.
“What–what the fuck did I drink last night.” You tried your levity, but your embarrassment ran too deep. Reaching up, you covered your face with your hands in a pathetic attempt to hide away from him. Never, in a million years, had you ever accounted for having this conversation with him, of all people, and you were almost certain there was something in your drinks that had made you say what you did.
His velvety laugh echoed through your dorm, and you wanted nothing more than to fold in on yourself. This had to have been the worst moment of your life.
“I guess you don’t remember, huh?” There was an amused lilt to his tone that made you want to jump out of the window. “I can refresh you, if you’d like.”
“NO!”
The shriek that left you was nothing short of abashed. He leaned forward now, smirking at you conspiratorially. “What's wrong? I thought you needed,” he paused, as if recollecting the exact words you had said to humiliate you even further. “Hands-on learning?”
You pointed to the door, biting back a scream. “Get out.”
The smirk only grew. “Aw, but if sleeping with me is gonna help you write again–”
“OUT!” You glared, cheeks flaming. Your anxiety had prepared you for at least a hundred outright ridiculous situations that had no chance of ever occurring, but none of them accounted for the possibility of your best friend talking about sleeping with you. You couldn’t fathom how he seemed so unaffected by it, as if he were speaking about something as mundane as the damn weather.
Caleb tongued his cheek, evidently fighting off another bout of laughter. He raised his hands to his sides in a placating gesture, but it did nothing to soothe your frazzled nerves. If anything, it only distracted you further, your eyes betraying you and straying to glance at his hands. A suppressed memory from last night resurfaced in your mind's eye, much to your displeasure.
You have very nice hands. They’re hot.
That was it. You were never going to touch alcohol again. Sobriety was your way of life now, seeing that you couldn’t keep your mouth shut when under the influence. The next time you need to let off some steam, you’d have an iced coffee.
“Alright, alright, I’ll go.” He moved towards your door, hiding his teasing smile behind his fist, disguising his chuckle with an exaggerated cough. “But Y/n?”
He didn’t use his beloved pet name. You straightened slightly, momentarily pushing away your embarrassment at the sudden serious shift of his voice. He opened the door and paused, hesitating for a single second. Then, he looked back at you, all-consuming, violent eyes locking onto yours.
“I would do it if you asked.”
You sighed heavily as you walked out of your last class of the day, rubbing the back of your neck and peering up into the darkening sky. Thursdays were the one day of the week when you had longer classes one after the other, which always resulted in you feeling exhausted by the end of it. You barely had the energy to even think about putting together dinner, which your best friend knew, always swinging by once your class ended with enough take-out for both of you and to walk you back to your dorm.
Which meant…
“I hope you’re in the mood for Thai food.”
Caleb slid into your view with that easy-going smile of his, though lately and much to your annoyance, there seemed to be a knowing glint in his gaze every time it settled on you.
“I’m in the mood for anything edible.” You sighed as you began walking back to your dorm. He easily fell into step beside you, as always, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. You supposed it was, considering how long your friendship had lasted. It would be almost twelve years soon, and honestly, you could hardly remember a time when he wasn’t around.
He hummed, knowing how cranky you got when you were hangry. “So easy to please.” It was the way he said it, knowing and with a tone so low that it almost resembled a purr. It had goosebumps rising on the surface of your skin. A little outraged at the way you reacted, you glanced over at him, only to find him already looking at you.
It was how he always looked at you, with conviction and every ounce of his attention. Yet, it felt different, more intense. Or maybe that was just your brain playing tricks on itself.
I would do it if you asked.
Those seven words had haunted you from the moment he had spoken them. The serious expression on his face mixed with the quiet way he had said it– it had undoubtedly fucked you up a little more than you would have liked to admit. You were beyond infuriated and in complete disbelief over how he had simply offered to sleep with you. Like it wasn’t a big deal or a very major, clear boundary that existed in friendships. In your friendship.
If you asked. Like it was that fucking simple. He left your dorm since you demanded it of him, but left you to deal with the aftermath of that absolutely criminal statement of his.
And then there was the teasing.
Relentless and unsteadying. Caleb would say something a little too suggestive or downright sexual before retreating and pretending like nothing had happened. He’d hold your gaze a little longer, or let his touch linger, before looking away with a satisfied smirk. He knew damn well what he was doing, and although you did too, it didn’t stop you from flushing or freezing up. It certainly didn’t stop scenarios from writing themselves in your head.
He was torturing you for your little slip-up. He found it hilarious, and now you were the punchline for every joke that blossomed from it.
He cocked his head to the side now, a small, tilted smile on his lips as he spoke. “What's going on in at head of yours?”
You realised you had stopped walking, and so had he, instead standing right in front of you and occupying every part of your vision. “Nothing.”
Caleb quirked an eyebrow, taking a step closer. “You sure about that? You’re obviously thinking about something.” The cadence of his voice had always been nice, but now the velvety smoothness of it put you on edge in more ways than one. “Are you maybe thinking about–”
“I am not thinking about that.” The statement tumbled out of you before you could bite your tongue. His eyes lit up mischievously.
“Oh, so you’re thinking about something after all, are you?”
Your mouth opened and closed like a fish, struggling to findd to find a comeback to that. Somehow, he was even closer now.
“Mind telling me what exactly that is?”
“Stop it,” You almost snarled, shooting him a withering look as you pushed him away in order to reclaim your personal space. This teasing streak of his was getting unbearable, especially since it was anything but innocent and was driving you up the wall. “Or I’m gonna take the Thai food and leave you with nothing.”
An offended gasp. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would.”
He laughed at your threat and finally let up on you, going back to being the Caleb you knew. He spoke of his classes and the group project he had due at the end of the week, for which he had terrible teammates to work with. It was jarring, how easily he could shift back into acting like he hadn’t just insinuated something so….
Maybe it was just your dirty mind.
Unbeknownst to you, it definitely wasn’t just your dirty mind. Caleb was mentally punching himself.
Caleb had had years of practising self-control when it came to you. Years of holding back and hiding the feelings he had for his best friend, shying away from every opportunity to divulge them. He knew how to keep his hands to himself, his mind from straying and his tongue from running into dangerous territory. He hadn’t meant to do it, but your drunken confession had flipped a switch inside of him. The lines had gotten a little blurry, but he would never, in a million years, ever actually cross them.
So what the hell was wrong with him?
You still hadn’t written a word. Unfortunately for you, you couldn’t even complain about it in peace anymore. Not if you wanted to maintain even a modicum of your sanity.
The reason for said dwindling sanity was sitting beside you right now on his bed, his arm slung around your shoulder, fingers tracing abstract patterns on the top of your shoulder. Usually, this would have calmed you down and even made you sleepy, but it achieved the complete opposite right then. You were painfully awake, his feathery touch like electricity against your skin.
God, you were so fucked. You had hoped that Caleb’s incessant teasing would have put a damper on your sudden, strong attraction towards him, but nothing of the sort had happened. It seemed to have only gotten worse, with you ending up being jumpy whenever he was around, and considering the amount you hung out with him, you were starting to resemble a kangaroo.
Around him, you were constantly tense and always on the precipice of being turned on. To say it was hellish would be an understatement.
“You’re distracted,” he murmured as the credits of the movie you were watching played. Finally, the two of you had managed to find the time to have that movie night you had passed on weeks ago. You shook your head, glancing up at the clock that hung on his wall. It was a little past midnight.
“Just frustrated,” you said finally, because it was the truth in more ways than one. Your frustration with your writing, or lack of, ran deep, but now it was intertwined with another very persistent reason. Being sexually frustrated wasn’t something you were used to dealing with.
He seemed to have caught on, though, his hand falling from your shoulder to your waist, curling around it. “Why are you frustrated, Pipsqueak?” He drawled, turning his head so that he faced you now. Of course, he’d pick this moment to torment you, when you were already frazzled.
“No reason,” you said quickly, voice clipped. A slow, languid smile stretched out on his lips.
“No?” He asked, the side of his mouth tilting. “Could it be….”
“Stop talking.” You despised how hoarse your voice sounded. You wanted– no, needed him to stop doing this before it became unbearable. He was your best friend, for fucks sake. The smile on his annoyingly perfect face melted into a smirk that would have had your knees weak if you weren’t already sitting down.
“I don’t think I will.” He whispered, pulling you even closer as he dipped his head down until his lips brushed against your ear. It was like he wanted you to break, and god, you were so close to doing so. His hand slid up your waist just a little bit. A shiver ran through you, one you couldn’t have suppressed if you tried.
“Tell me,” He mumbled, the words sounding much too loud even though he was still whispering. “Do your frustrations have anything to do with a certain sex scene you’re trying to write?”
You inhaled sharply.
Rationality was a funny thing. Every bit of it seemed to disappear whenever you truly needed it. Things you had no business thinking rushed through your head, courtesy of your bright imagination that chose the most inconvenient moments to work. Thoughts you had suppressed and pushed aside every time they had the nerve to pop up swirled around.
The spark that you had been trying so hard to put out crackled to life in your core, its flames spreading all across your body like wildfire. You were painfully aware of every part of you that was in contact with him, his hand just above your waist, sitting there so possessively, his breath fanning across your neck– fuck. It was too much, but somehow not enough all at once, and immediately you knew what you wanted.
More.
You snapped.
Something possessed you as you turned to look at him, a surge of confidence appearing out of nowhere as you drew closer to him. “Yeah.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What?”
Right then and there, three things became very clear to you. One: You wanted to write. Desperately and preferably sometime soon, because you did want to finish the first draft before you could go in and edit. Two: For some reason, you needed to have sex in order to get over the mental block you had when it came to writing it. Lastly, three: You only wanted to have sex with one person, and it was the man right beside you.
“My frustration has everything to do with the sex scene.” You said, surprising yourself with how steady your voice was. “But you can help with that, right?”
Without waiting for his response, you got to your knees, swinging a leg over him and settling down on top. Surprise flickered in his eyes for a second as your hands found his shoulders to maintain your balance, before he spoke again.
“Pipsqueak,” he started, voice low and careful, attempting to keep the teasing lilt in his voice but royally failing. “What– exactly– are you doing?”
“You told me to ask.” You muttered, dropping your gaze to his lips for a moment before letting it travel back up. “You said you’d do it if I asked. I’m asking right now.”
Caleb couldn’t respond, still staring up at you, eyes wide and ears a little redder than they normally were. Good. It was about time he had a taste of his own medicine. His hands found your waist again, and he blinked twice, slowly, and you prayed he wasn’t all bark and no bite.
You wanted him to bite.
“Y/n,” he muttered, “I….I know what I said.”
You raised an eyebrow, your hands slipping up his shoulders simultaneously until they were cradling his neck, playing with his hair at the nape of it. Was he shy? Now? After everything he had said and insinuated, he had the audacity to be all bashful? “So then you know what I’m asking for.”
“Well–”
“Caleb,” You cut him off, shifting so that you were closer. “I’m asking.”
Conviction laced those words. You could tell he was reasoning with himself, god knows you could read him well enough to know when he was conflicted, when he bit the inside of his cheek before exhaling shakily.
“Pips,” He rasped out your nickname. “You– you’re sure?”
You didn’t recognise the look in his eyes right then as he looked up at you, but it had you unravelling all the same. You leaned in subconsciously, but he quickly moved one of his hands from your waist to your mouth, covering it as his jaw clenched, still studying you. “I need you to tell me you’re sure, Y/n.”
Oh, so this was actually happening. You could feel the heat of your breath recoil against your face because of his hand. The ticking of the clock in his room filled the charged silence between him and you, his fingers brushing against your chapped lips. You swallowed.
“I’m sure.”
Whatever had shifted in you five minutes ago seemed to shift in him as well now. He let his hand drop from your mouth, shamelessly staring at it. “We shouldn’t.” But he pulled you closer, his arms circling your waist and palms splayed out on the small of your back.
“It’s for research purposes,” You breathed out, doing your best to justify how badly you needed him. “Please, Caleb, I need–”
He didn’t let you finish.
You gasped as he crushed his mouth to yours, effectively shutting you up. The pressure of his lips against your own was dizzying, especially with the way they moved; slowly and precisely, as if he was committing the feel of your lips to his memory. You were hyperaware of his touch on your back, the warmth from his hands permeating through the thin fabric of the T-shirt you were wearing.
Pulling him closer, you tilted your head so you could kiss him better. For the number of times you had mentally chided yourself for even thinking about this, it felt remarkably natural to kiss him, your instincts taking over. Your fingers slipped into his hair, entangling in the dark strands and tugging lightly.
Caleb groaned, and you were on fire.
“God, Y/n.” There was nothing playful about the way he mumbled your name into the kiss, and the unfamiliarity of it sent a shiver down your spine. His lips, soft and just a little hesitant, moved in tandem against your own, slotting in between them perfectly like you were pieces of the same puzzle, meant to be pushed together like so. He nipped at your lower lip before swiping his tongue over it to soothe the sting, and the intoxicating sensation drew out a needy whimper from you.
The second that sound escaped you, all indecision disappeared from his end, and the temperature in the room seemed to increase, growing hotter with every smack of his lips against yours. Kissing him was addictive, it felt as if neither of you could bear to pull away from each other.
Without warning, Caleb lifted you off of him and pressed you into the mattress, swiftly climbing on top of you. For a moment, he hovered, looking down at you, taking in the flush on your cheeks and heavy breathing, proud to have been the cause of your breathlessness despite barely doing a thing. Going in once again, he brushed his lips against yours teasingly, before giving you what you truly wanted, the intensity of the kiss taking a turn for feverish.
A hand of his slid up your side until he cupped your jaw oh-so gently, turning your face to the side to give him better access to your neck, upon which he pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses that had heat rush right to your core. The ache between your legs grew, slowly becoming unbearable, and you rubbed your thighs together with a whine, chasing any sliver of friction.
“Shit,” he muttered against you, his other hand slipping underneath your shirt and coming into contact with your stomach, causing goosebumps to rise on the skin. Spreading his fingers and pressing lightly, he kept you from squirming. “Pips, you gotta tell me to stop.”
“Don’t you dare,” you almost snapped at him, impatient and so painfully aroused it was embarrassing. He couldn’t hold back the breathless chuckle that escaped him as he moved lower, teeth grazing your collarbone.
“If, at any point, you want to stop, tell me,” he gritted out, trying to hold onto any semblance of self-control he still possessed. “I don’t wanna do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”
You nodded quickly. “I trust you.”
That was all he needed. Lifting his head slightly, he fumbled with the buttons of your shorts as he leaned back, all his weight on his knees. Once he managed to undo them, you lifted your hips slightly to help him tug them off your body. He settled between your legs, spreading them until the pretty cotton panties you wore were exposed.
Caleb swallowed, his breathing growing erratic and heavy. The wet patch on your panties was his undoing; everything about this situation was bound to be the death of him, but he was too far gone now. He let his hand trace up to your hips, hooking his finger through the waistband of your panties, toying with it.
“Is this ok?” The column of his throat bobbed as he stared up at you from between your legs. When you whispered a needy yes, he pulled the panties down your legs, his eyes darkening the moment they settled back on your core.
“Y/n,” He said your name like he was drunk, a certain sense of reverence infused in his tone that had your cheeks kissed rouge. “You’re even prettier than I thought.”
Than he thought? You would have to take the time to dissect that statement later, much too distracted to do so at the moment when he began peppering kisses along your inner thigh, starting from your knee and working his way upwards. The sensation of his mouth tantalisingly close to where you wanted it so badly was almost too much. Just the sight of him there was so erotic that it had your head swimming. You had never felt more vulnerable than you did right then, exposed and willing.
And then finally– finally– his breath fanned out over your soaked cunt, driving you insane. Liquid fire thrummed in your veins beneath the surface of your skin as your anticipation spilled over. He pressed a light, teasing kiss against your clit.
Caleb dragged his tongue over your slit, licking up it all the way to your clit, which he wrapped his lips around and sucked, knocking all the air out of your lungs. You gasped, bucking your hips up against him, and he chuckled, the sound sending vibrations up your body, from your toes to the top of your head.
“Impatient,” he chided. “Let me take my time with you, princess.”
The new pet name sounded so natural coming from him, and immediately, you knew you wanted to hear him call you that again. He flicked his tongue against the throbbing bud that had been aching for his attention this entire time, positioning your legs to rest over his shoulders. The sounds that left you were shamefully loud, and you had never been more grateful that he lived in a single dorm.
“Cal- oh fuck,” You mewled when he swiped two of his fingers through your wetness, rubbing your folds.
“You’re so fucking wet,” he all but groaned against you, and you could feel more slick gush out of you at that. “Is this all for me?”
Your back arched off the bed when he pressed a finger to your dripping entrance, nodding with a sense of desperation you had never experienced before. “Yes,” you exhaled the word as he pushed his finger inside your pussy slowly, your jaw falling open at the pleasurable intrusion.
Slowly, he began pumping it in and out of you as he continued to give your clit the sweet attention it deserved, basking in the noises that you made. The pads of the fingers of his other hand dug into the flesh of your thigh, keeping you nice and spread out despite all your attempts to shut your legs around him.
When he introduced a second figure to your cunt, your hands found purchace in his hair, gripping and tugging as you panted, unable to focus on anything else. Your eyes fluttered shut as the tips of his fingers brushed against a spot that had you seeing stars, crooking inside you so perfectly. It was as if he knew exactly how to push you to the edge.
Your best friend was eating you out like a starved man and you were enjoying every fucking second of it. He could feel your legs begin to tremble, your impending orgasm building. Shamelessly, you bucked your hips against his face, and the moment he realised what you were doing, he increased the pace of his fingers.
“Come on baby,” he encouraged you, flattening his tongue against your clit and pulling you closer, spurring you on even further. You ground against his mouth desperately, feeling the coil in your core draw tight, so, so close.
“Caleb,” you stuttered his name helplessly, but he somehow understood, knowing just what you needed. “I–I’m gonna–”
He scissored his fingers inside of you, hooking them just right as he gave your clit little kitten licks, determined to have you fall apart on his tongue. Your sweet gasps sent blood rushing straight to his cock, which was already painfully hard, confined in his jeans. Taking your mound into his mouth, he sucked harshly, thrusting his fingers knuckle deep in your sex.
A broken moan escaped you when your climax hit you, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as waves of pleasure washed over you. Your legs shook, but he didn’t let up, grinning proudly against you as he drove his fingers back into your gushing entrance, helping you ride out your high and prolonging it. Once he was satisfied, he lapped at you, refusing to waste even a single drop of your essence.
Caleb pulled away, and the sight of you nearly did him in. Eyes screwed shut in ecstacy and hair fanned out on his pillow, undoubtedly tangled from all your writhing. You looked like the picture of sin, and it was the hottest thing he had ever seen. He climbed back, hovering over you again as he licked his lips.
Your eyes fluttered open, pupils blown out and dark due to the sheer level of desire that coursed through you. You were stunning, and he was destroyed, knowing that he’d never be able to forget the way you were looking at him right then. The way you tasted.
When he kissed you again, it was different. It was a heady mix of heat and tongue and want, messier than the kisses he gave you earlier, the control he had before nowhere to be seen anymore. You could taste yourself on his tongue and moaned, reaching out to touch him.
You started at his collar, dragging your hands down, down, down until you reached the hem of his shirt, whining against his mouth as you tugged at it.
“Take it off.”
Who was he to deny you? He stopped kissing you, sitting up so that he could pull the shirt off, exposing his torso for you. The way your eyes raked over him hungrily was more than gratifying, especially when they caught on the silver chain that hung from his neck, the pendant sitting on his chest. Tossing his shirt to the side, he pushed your own up your body, exposing the skin of your stomach.
“Your turn.”
You let him take off your shirt, tossing it to the side and slipping his hands slip behind your back. He silently asked for your permission, which you gave to him in the form of an impatient nod to which he smirked, unhooking your bra and peeling it off of you, letting the discarded garment join the rest of them on the floor.
One look at you and he was a goner.
“Fuck,” he could feel himself straining his jeans as he took in the sight of your breasts, so perfect and plush. He allowed himself a moment to appreciate you in all your naked glory, before leaning back down, his mouth back on your overheated skin. He dragged his tongue down your neck, sucking and biting like there was no tomorrow.
His lips trailed downwards, kissing the swell of your breast before wrapping around your already hard nipple, stroking his tongue against the aching peak. He palmed the other breast, giving that nipple equal amounts of attention and rolling it under his thumb. You hissed in pleasure, breathless as you arched into his addictive touch.
You could barely think straight; everything he was doing to you sent you into complete overdrive. Every touch was criminally good, the simplest of them causing your arousal to increase tenfold. Perhaps it was because it had been so long since you had last had sex, but you had never before felt so frenzied.
Hooking your legs around his waist, you could feel the outline of him pressing against your thighs. Angling your hips, you pressed your bare pussy against his bulge, the roughness of the denim rubbing you just right. He looked up at you from your chest through hooded eyes, earning another whimper as he pinched your nipple.
“You sound so good.” His words went straight to your head. “Tell me what you want.”
He said it like it was a command, and who were you to disobey, especially when you knew exactly what you wanted?
“I want you inside me,” you whimpered, voice heated with lust.
How could he ever refuse you? Caleb gave you one last kiss before reaching over to his bedside table, grabbing something from the drawer and sitting up and unzipping his pants. You couldn’t help but stare as he impatiently kicked off his jeans and boxers, eyes widening when you finally saw his cock.
Fuck, it was big. Long and painfully hard, you could hardly believe he was hard because of you, but the proof was in front of your very eyes. Your lower lip caught between your teeth as you drank in the sight of him, hyperaware of the wetness that coated your thighs.
He tore open the condom packet, smoothly sliding it onto himself before settling between your legs once.
“W-will it even fit?” You squeaked, a spike of fear cutting through the lust-filled haze of your mind. He grabbed one of your hands, bringing it to his lips and pressing your fingers to them, kissing your knuckles soothingly as he bit back a smile.
“It’ll fit.”
“But– there's no way,” You spluttered, “It’s gonna hurt.” Not that the prospect of being in a little pain deterred you by any means, you were way too horny to stop now. Complaining was probably the least sexy thing you could have done in the moment, but he seemed unbothered, the dark, hungry glint in his eyes never fading. The amused look on his face, however, was not lost on you, nor was the way he bit the inside of his cheek, fighting a smile. You glared weakly.
“Are you laughing at me?” You asked, incredulous. “I swear to god, Caleb, you’re going to split me in half, and you’re laughing?”
“Baby,” He breathed, “You’ll be fine.”
“Easy for you to say!”
You wouldn’t even blame him if he decided he was done with you and pulled his pants back on, but nothing of the sort happened. Instead, he gripped your hips, grounding you to the moment.
Both of you were completely nude, and despite this, you had never felt more comfortable. Not when he looked at you like that, like you were something sacred.
“Relax, Pips, I’ve got you,” He whispered, sensing your apprehension. You exhaled shakily as he pressed his hard-on against your folds, groaning at just how wet you were. “Eyes on me.”
The way he took control so naturally was alarmingly attractive. You looked up, locking your eyes with his, unable to stay silent when the head of his cock rubbed against your swollen clit. “O-oh.”
He shuddered at the feeling, dropping a little so that he was keeping himself up on his elbows. His necklace swung above you just like you had imagined as he ground against you, but it still wasn’t enough. “Ready?”
You didn’t think you’d ever be ready, but you wanted it so badly you didn’t even care. Nodding eagerly, you intertwined your fingers with his, letting him press the back of your hands into the mattress. When his tip caught at your entrance, you whined. “Please.”
Having you beg him like that was dangerous. He squeezed your hands, and then slowly, carefully, sank into your wet heat, inch by devastating inch. Your jaw slackened, loudly moaning his name as he filled you up and stretched you out so pleasurably. His eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he pushed into you until he bottomed out, going breathless himself. One glance down to where the two of you were connected had him actively having to fight off coming right then and there.
Caleb was in heaven, and he was fucking delirious. He forced himself to stay still, moaning lowly when he felt your walls flutter around him, adjusting to his size. “You’re doing so well, princess.” He praised, lowering his head to your neck and burying his face in the crook of it, inhaling deeply in an attempt to calm himself down.
There was so much wrong with this, so why did it feel so right? You felt so perfect, like you were made for him.
“Caleb,” You whimpered once the sting faded, letting go of his hands and looping your arms around his neck, “Move. I need you to move.”
He pulled out until only his tip remained inside of you, before sheathing himself again, causing you to curve off the bed, nails digging into his skin. He did it again and again, nearly growling when he felt you grow even wetter, coating the length of his cock in your slick. Wet sounds that had your cheeks burning filled the room repeatedly.
“Fuck baby, you’re so tight,” He practically growled, contrasting the tender pace he set, telling you he was holding back for your sake. You could feel every inch of him as he dragged against your walls, reminding you how big he was with every thrust.
Your friendship was potentially ruined, but it felt too good for you to care. With your legs locked behind his back, you gripped his biceps, a wanton moan escaping you as your eyes fluttered shut, the pleasure overriding every other sensation.
“So good,” words were hard to put together, and he understood and nodded, holding your hips so tight you were sure there would be marks, just like the marks that blossomed all over your neck and chest from his earlier ministrations. Right now, though, you didn’t care about that, consumed by the waves of euphoria rushing through you.
Slowly, the frequency of his thrusts increased, rendering you completely winded and unable to do anything but gasp for air. You felt another orgasm steadily build up inside you.
Then he tipped his hips a certain way, the tip of his cock brushing against a spot that made you cry out his name, throwing your head back into his pillows. The look on your face was something he wanted to imprint in his memory; the desire lacing your voice was beyond exhilarating.
Caleb could feel his own impending high, so tightly wound because of just how long he had waited for something like this. When you clenched around him, he knew you were close as well, but the act nearly did him in.
“Don’t do that.” his voice was all scratchy and strained, but you promptly did it once again, high off the notion that you were affecting him just as much as he was affecting you. His hips stuttered against yours as his violet eyes flashed. “Fucking hell.”
“Oh my god,” you moaned, “I can’t–”
“Look at me,” he demanded, “I want you to look at me when you come all over my cock.”
Never in a million years would you have thought your best friend would be so good at dirty talk, but the shock quickly melted into obedience as you managed to hold his heated gaze. Reaching between the two of you, his index finger found your engorged clit and rubbed circles against it.
You squealed, overly sensitive. “Shit–I’m gonna– Cal-!”
“Come for me.”
Caleb would never forget how you looked: at his mercy, crying out his name over and over like it was a prayer as you came, spilling over his cock with a euphoric sob. He snapped his hips to yours with renewed urgency, drawing out your second climax and prolonging the feeling. When he saw the fucked out look on your face, it hit him at once.
With one final thrust, he buried himself inside you, coming with a moan, burying his face in your neck once again. His body was damp against yours, his hair tickling you as you breathed heavily. He stayed like that for a couple of seconds, recovering from the intensity of what had just happened.
Wordlessly, he pulled out of you gently, the sudden emptiness you felt having you whimper softly. Peeling the condom off, he tossed it in the bin next to his bed before climbing off of you, muttering something about being back. Seconds later, you felt a warm, wet cloth drag over your core. He cleaned you up, pressing little kisses to the inner side of your thighs.
Once he was done, he gathered you in his arms and pulled you close, kissing your temple.
“Are you okay?” He asked, pulling away just enough so he could try and gauge how you felt, rubbing his thumb over your cheekbone as he cupped your face tenderly. “I didn’t hurt you, right?”
You shook your head and leaned into his touch, completely spent. “No, it was perfect.”
He sighed in relief. You curled into him, and he wrapped his arms around you. “You did so well,” he murmured into your hair, massaging your scalp gently. “You were amazing, actually.” Another kiss to your forehead made you simper as your eyes closed, exhaustion settling into you now that the adrenaline had faded. “Tired?”
“Yeah,” You mumbled. Your legs entangled with his, and he stopped talking, tracing shapes on your back while you drifted off to sleep. He watched you for a bit, savouring the skin-on-skin contact, his mind reeling from what had just happened.
This was strangely normal, no awkwardness or post-nut clarity hitting either of you. Your body lay against his with all of you pressed up against him like that was exactly where you belonged. He could feel the beating of your heart, strong and steady in your slumber, whereas his remained erratic and fast. This was more than just a taste that he had had of you; it was the entire deal, and the knowledge of it all had his morals scattered and all over the place, because now that he knew what he knew, well.
Caleb wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop.
It was supposed to be a one-time thing.
At the time, you had justified sleeping with Caleb as research, something you needed to do in order to get it out of your system. You had assumed, albeit foolishly, that once it was over, you’d be able to go back to normal and continue with your life.
But research was an activity that required constant revisiting. Most of it had to be repeated over and over, especially if it included gathering data from an experiment. There was always a control, and then variations of the experiment would be conducted to record the differences in the outcomes.
At least, that was what you were telling yourself right now as you straddled him, his cock buried inside you.
Truthfully, you didn’t know how this had happened. After that day, everything seemed to be normal, until he showed up at your dorm to help you study for a class he had also taken when he was in his sophomore year. One thing led to another, or rather, one heated touch later, you found yourself under him once again.
And then it happened again, and kept happening. Whispers of it being just for research mixed in with both of your moans became a melody you were more than used to. This was all for your book, after all. For the sake of accuracy and your integrity as a writer.
Definitely not because of how mindblowing sex with Caleb was.
And it absolutely was.
He had made you completely insatiable for him, and almost every time the two of you hung out in one of your dorms, it ended up with both of you in bed. Every other aspect of your friendship remained exactly the same, though, which left you considerably confused. He didn’t look at or treat you any differently, poking fun and driving you up the wall, staying his usual reliable self.
Caleb’s hand cradled the back of your head as he kissed you now, fingers entangled in your hair and pulling slightly. You moaned softly against his lips, grinding on him.
You were in one of his shirts, panties tugged to the side since he hadn’t had the patience to take them off, needing to be inside of you as quickly as possible. Despite his earlier hurriedness, the pace the two of you settled on now was almost teasing, slowly rocking against him as you lazily chased the delicious high that you had gotten so used to experiencing these past two weeks.
“You’re so gorgeous,” he muttered, more to himself than you, hand slipping under your shirt and cupping your breast, squeezing. When he caught you biting your lip, he tutted, letting go of your hair and using his thumb to release it from your teeth. “Ah, ah, don’t do that, you’ll hurt yourself, pretty girl.”
“Too good,” you complained in that whiney, desperate tone he had gotten so addicted to. Pinching your nipple for good measure, he smirked up at you when you squealed.
Caleb quickly learned that he loved having you on top of him. Getting you all to himself like this was a privilege in itself, but fucking you while you wore his shirt? He was on cloud nine. He could feel himself throb in your sweet pussy that welcomed him so eagerly, in turn pulsing around him.
He cursed under his breath when you started to bounce, eager to get to the finish line with him. He sounded so good when he swore, you’d never understand it, just like how you wouldn’t get how he looked so pretty with a flush decorating his face and sex-mussed hair.
Gripping his shoulders, you tipped your head back, giving him access to your neck. He had taken to marking you up as and when he pleased, new hickeys surprising you every time you glanced in the mirror. Despite his tendency to leave them in places everyone could very easily spot them, you didn’t tell him to stop simply it just felt so good.
Everything with Caleb felt good, and not only did it feel good, but you felt completely safe. He was so attentive, doing the most to make sure you were never in any pain, often times focusing more on getting you off rather than himself.
He thrust up into you suddenly, his earlier impatience returning, and you cried out, falling into his chest. He held you, working you through it and dragging you closer and closer to release. One of your hands fell to his torso, tracing the hard lines of his abs and trailing downwards before your fingers found your clit and rubbed.
Shit. If having you ride him was good, being able to watch you touch yourself as you did was unbelievable. When you came, you came hard, and the feeling of it tipped him over the edge.
You were a dream he never wanted to wake up from.
You didn’t bother moving, clinging to him even tighter like you couldn’t bear to not be touching him in some way as you came down from your high. He smelled like sex, sweat, and that cologne of his that you loved. It was the reason you stole his clothes so much and why you were wearing his shirt even now.
Your first time with Caleb was the getaway drug, and now you were addicted to him, to having his hands caressing you all over and him whispering praises in your ear.
“Hey there,” He chuckled, rubbing your back. “All good?”
“Great even,” You mumbled, sitting up properly before finally lifting yourself off of him. You failed to register how jelly-like your legs felt, promptly losing your balance. He caught you before you fell, grinning.
“Can’t walk?” You could hear how smug he was without even having to look at him. It was then that you registered the burn in your thighs and huffed.
“Don’t sound so proud about it.”
“You’re no fun,” he pouted, leaving you to scoff as he helped you to your feet, following suit. “I’ll help you clean up. Do you wanna watch the new episode after?”
Ah yes. Of course, he’d start talking about anime after taking away your ability to stand. That had been the reason he had shown up at your dorm in the first place, but the moment he saw you wearing his shirt, it had quickly become an afterthought.
The whiplash you felt was indescribable, and you could only nod, letting him pick you up and carry you to the bathroom. After a quick shower and change of clothes, the two of you settled down with your laptop like nothing had happened, your head resting on his shoulder as you focused on the show.
Neither of you bothered to talk about your redefined friendship despite having sex regularly. It was just….a new addition. A benefit that you were both taking advantage of, nothing more and nothing less.
But even as you reminded yourself of that now, you found yourself doubting it.
There was something to be said about formal events.
You enjoyed getting dolled up as much as the next girl, but that was where the fun ended. Having to sit through the event was boring and not the way you liked to spend your Friday evenings. You would have much preferred staying in and catching up on some much-needed sleep.
The editor of your university’s paper, Jenna, had organised an affair that was being held in one of the college halls. She had worked very hard on it, inviting several alumni who were all successful in the fields of journalism and writing back so that the current batch of students had the chance to make connections. It was open to the entire student body, but she had made it clear that everyone on the paper was obligated to attend.
Connections were what helped people get further in life. You were grateful for the opportunity to interact with industry professionals, but didn’t understand why she had insisted on keeping it a black tie affair. That probably had something to do with keeping up appearances.
You stood off to the side, sipping on your cranberry juice from a cup that was made for something much more refined. So far, you had spoken to a couple of the guests, but seeing that you had been here for over an hour already, your social battery was slowly dying out. The dress you wore was a black number, floor length, form-fitting and plain except for the slit that reached up to a little above your knee. Perfect for an event like this, not too much and on power with what everyone else was wearing.
Still, it was a little overstimulating. You guzzled down the rest of your juice and placed the empty glass down on one of the tables.
“You’re welcome, by the way.”
You spun on your heels immediately at that voice, eyes widening and settling on the culprit who stood two, maybe three steps away from you.
“Caleb?” You asked in disbelief, taking in his presence. He was wearing a suit.
“The one and only,” he grinned, his hands stuffed in his pockets. “Here to rescue you from your boredom.”
“What are you even doing here?” To say this wasn’t his scene would be an understatement. He didn’t like wearing the whole suit getup, much preferring casual clothing. Hell, Caleb hadn’t even attended his high school prom (though when you asked why, he would never give you a straight answer), opting to spend the night in with you instead.
He looked unfairly good. The collar of his shirt hid those lovely collarbones of his and reminded you of how you had bit down on them the other day, the bottom of it tucked into black slacks. He had even worn dress shoes, instead of the sneakers he so loved and a tie around his neck. The entire getup.
“I literally just told you why. To get you out of here. Are you hard of hearing now?”
You returned his jibe with an exasperated sound. “I meant here, at this thing.”
“Oh. Well, you did mention it was open to anyone yesterday,” he shrugged, grabbing a glass of juice and sipping on it. “So that editor of yours technically can’t complain about me being here.”
That was true. Still, you found yourself bewildered as you stared at him. He was here. For some reason, even though he was allowed to be here, it didn’t make sense to you. You pressed your lips together and cocked your head to the side, studying him.
“So you dressed up and came here.…only to convince me to leave?” The notion sounded strange even to you. Why on earth would he do that? He finished up his drink and put it down next to your empty glass, taking a step closer to you. The simple movement had butterflies erupt in the pits of your stomach.
What the hell?
“Stop thinking so much. Do you want to stay?”
You considered it. “Not really, no.”
“Do you enjoy arguing with me for no reason, woman?” he muttered dryly under his breath, his eyes catching on something over your head. “On second thought, I think you should stay a little longer.”
Now you were just plain confused. One moment he was talking about saving you from boredom, and the next he was insisting you stay? Before you could undoubtedly start another argument just to spite him, he took you by your shoulders and spun you around, pointing in a certain direction. When you figured out what, or rather, who he was gesturing to, you couldn’t hide your gasp.
“Isn’t that the author you like?”
You could only nod dumbly. “Raymond.” Last year, you had a phase where you only read his books day in and day out, absorbing the stories he spun like a sponge. His books were the reason you had decided to start writing your own in the first place, inspired by his storytelling skills.
Caleb nudged your side gently, “Go.”
“How–” you cut yourself off, looking up at him. “How do you even remember that?” You weren’t sure why this entire interaction with him was throwing you off so much, but you felt completely unbalanced. You hadn’t spoken about Raymond or his work in a long time, so how did he know? He shrugged noncommittally.
“I know you.” He said it so plainly, like it was something trivial and basic, but his eyes bored into yours.
Had Caleb always looked at you with such quiet intensity?
He nudged your side gently, reminding you to move. Forcing yourself out of your stupor, you promised him you wouldn’t take too much time and walked over, buzzing with excitement.
The conversation itself wasn’t long, but it was insightful. He answered all your questions about the industry, and you even had the chance to share for appreciation for Raymond's work as well as ask him questions that you had about his novels. You gave him your utmost attention when he gave you advice, but when he started talking about his characters, your eyes and mind wandered.
Back to your best friend, who was waiting for you on the other end of the hall, leaning against one of the walls and scrolling through his phone. He didn’t give a flying fuck about this event, but had still come here for your sake, even when you hadn’t asked him to. He glanced up, his eyes meeting yours, and flashing you a small smile.
Oh.
You looked away and back at Raymond, nodding politely and tuning yourself back into the conversation. Internally, however, you were freaking out. Something was very wrong; that was the only reason you could conjure up at the moment for what was happening to you. How else could you explain the sudden sweatiness of your palms, or the odd, fluttery feeling in your stomach? Maybe it was the excitement you felt from meeting the author you loved so much, but even as you considered this possibility, you knew it wasn’t the answer you were looking for.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
This could not be happening. You plastered a smile on your face as you tried to pay attention to whatever Raymond was talking about, but the damage was done. Your brain had never been one to let go of a single thought you had, especially ones that had to do with Caleb. He had a hold on you that no one else did, and why was that?
Because you liked Caleb.
The horrifying realisation hit you, startling you out of your rapidly spiralling thought process. Blinking, you realised Raymond was done speaking.
“Thank you so much for your time,” You said, trying not to sound as troubled as you felt. The author smiled at you before turning to another student.
Swallowing the newfound lump in your throat, you turned around and walked back to Caleb. This was bad. Having sex with him was already vaguely immoral and probably something that shouldn’t have happened– and shouldn’t keep happening like it did– but having feelings for him? That was out of the question.
“Good talk?” He asked, slipping his phone into his pocket. The genuine interest he had in your excitement made the entire situation worse. Why were you noticing all this now, of all times? It wasn’t like he had suddenly turned into someone considerate. He had always been this way; it was written into his DNA.
You realised he had even tried to tame his hair for today. “It was great.”
“I’m glad. Now I can steal you away from this place.” His eyes were lit up with mischief, just like they did when the two of you were younger and he did something he wasn’t supposed to. Ever the rebel, this one.
You felt a little guilty. All this effort for you? It seemed completely useless. “Okay, but Caleb, seriously, you didn’t have to do this.”
He frowned. “Didn’t have to do what?”
“This!” You waved in his general direction and then gestured around. “I mean, you don’t even like wearing a suit, but here you are. It’s not like it's compulsory for you like it is for me. You could be doing anything else.” You were rambling, you knew, but it was hard to stop. He rolled his eyes.
“Has that stopped me before?”
You paused. “What do you mean?”
“I show up to your newsroom even though I’m sure Jenna wants to castrate me for breaking the rules so much.” He raised an eyebrow. “I attended that lecture of yours when you had a presentation. You know I’m here because I want to be.” You knew he said stuff like this all the time, you always were the recipient of his support. This was normal.
But it didn’t feel normal. For fucks sake, this was the boy you had grown up with. He had seen you fall off your bike, fail tests and puke your guts out when drunk. In each of those situations, he had also been the one to pick you up and bandage your wounds, help you study and hold your hair back for you.
Did he think it was an obligation now?
“You….you shouldn’t feel like you have to do that.” You said slowly, but he didn’t let you continue.
“Oh, please. Everyone knows that where you go, I go too.” He flicked your forehead, immediately receiving a glare in return. “We’re like…….” He stopped for a moment, eyebrows furrowing and lips pursing like they always did when he was thinking hard about something. Then he snapped his fingers. “We’re like those yoghurt-granola snack packs!”
You stared at him blankly. “What?”
“You know.” He decided to explain his stupid analogy, as if your head wasn’t muddled enough. “Those things you can buy at the grocery store. The small yoghurt tubs that have a container filled with granola on top of them? Like, they’re both okay separately, but much better when together. People buy those packs for a reason.” He slipped his phone back into his pockets and beamed at you. “We’re like that.”
Oh my god. That barely made any sense. You weren’t sure if you were mortified because of that terrible explanation or because it hadn’t put a damper on your newfound feelings for him. “You’re such a fucking dork.”
He feigned offence, holding his hand over his heart. “Excuse me? You mean cute, right?”
Right. Wait, no, you didn’t. Ugh. “I think you’re ridiculous.”
“Are you coming with me or not, Pips?”
“But Jenna insisted-”
He rubbed a hand over his face in annoyance before fixing you with a droll look. “Would you rather be here or be with me?”
Be with you.
You ignored the way your stomach flipped. You didn’t have the time or the mental stability to process everything that was happening to you right now. The logical part of your brain swooped in, telling you that you were just confused because of the sex. Yes, that was it. You did not have feelings for Caleb Xia.
Sighing, you relented. “You.” Saying that didn’t mean anything, after all. Nothing about the two of you meant anything, so there was no reason for you to be freaking out, even if it sounded like you had just confessed. A wide grin made a show on his face when he realised he had won, and he tilted his head towards the exit.
“Finally. Wanna get out of here?”
“Just to be clear, this is not what I meant when I asked if you wanted to get out of there.”
You huffed out a soft laugh, fingers curling around his tie as you tugged him closer. “No? Could have sworn you planned for us to end up in a janitor's closet.”
Caleb bit back a laugh of his own, knowing that making too much noise would get both of you in trouble. After leaving the event, somehow, his guiding hand on your hip had turned into the two of you making out in the hallway. You blamed the mess that your head was in for not realising what a bad idea that was immediately, but once you did, you did the most responsible thing you could think of.
And dragged him into the janitor's closet that was close by.
Naturally.
He braced a hand over your head on the cabinet that you were leaning against, essentially caging you in as he dipped his head to kiss you again. “Pretty sure that was you’re doing.”
“Excuse me? You’re the one who kissed me first!” You protested against his mouth, but could hardly complain when he kissed you like it was a relief to do so. Honestly, he was probably the best kisser you had ever experienced.
That must have been the reason for your spiralling thoughts. That and the amazing sex that you were so weak to.
Yep. That’s all. Anyone could be susceptible to such things.
“Can you blame me? Have you seen yourself in this dress?” His free hand slipped into the slit at your knee, slowly dragging the rest of the dress up until it was bunched up around your waist. “You’re stunning.”
He couldn’t stop kissing you. He knew he shouldn’t have kissed you out there like he had the right to, because he was well aware of the unspoken rules of this arrangement, but he couldn’t help it. If getting too comfortable with whatever you had going on with him was a crime, a sin, then he was a criminal of the highest order. The worst part? He didn’t feel a shred of guilt.
But you were wearing that fucking cherry lip gloss, and god knnows he had waited long enough to taste it.
Warmth spread over your chest first before it rushed to the apex between your legs. The control he seemed to have over your body was truly astounding. In his hands, you were putty.
“You don’t look so bad yourself,” You whispered back, loosening the knot of his tie and pulling it off completely, dropping it to the side. “This suits you.”
His lips twitched. “The suit suits me?”
“Shut up and kiss me, loser.”
He complied, grinning against your mouth as he pulled you into another earth-shattering kiss that did positively nothing to soothe your frayed nerves. Stubbornly, you pushed down the feelings bubbling around the confines of your heart, refusing to give them any attention if you could help it.
You gripped the front of his suit jacket, helping him peel it off his shoulders and letting it join his tie on the floor. Without warning, he pressed a knee in between your legs, and you nearly melted against him.
Sex was great. Sex with him was phenomenal. This was just the lust getting to you.
Caleb gripped the leg that your slit now exposed and lifted it, propping it up against his waist. He trailed his fingers against your inner thigh, his touch feather-light yet scorching at the same time. When his index and middle finger pressed against your clothed cunt, you were glad for the hot he had on you, pressed up against the cabinet, because you would have surely buckled if not.
“Wow,” he mumbled amusedly, pushing your panties to the side and teasing your wetness. “You really like the suit, huh?”
The fact that this type of interaction was now commonplace should have been the first sign that things had gone too far.
Usually, you couldn’t think straight when he touched you like this, but today it was all a mix of feeling way too much and dangerous, fleeting thoughts that made you want to tear your hair out.
“Maybe,” You peppered kisses along the column of his throat, determined to get out of your head and focus only on how good he could make you feel. Pleasure and person were entirely separate entities, and you would make sure it stayed that way.
“Suit kink.”
“Never say that again.”
He only smirked, plunging his fingers into you. All you could do was cry out as you gripped the front of his shirt, momentarily forgetting that you were supposed to be quiet. Quickly, his palm covered your mouth, muffling any further sounds you could make. “Can’t have you being loud here, princess. What if someone catches us?”
The way you practically gushed the moment he suggested someone catch you in such a compromising position was downright embarrassing. Raising an eyebrow, he leaned even lower and whispered. “Oh? You like that?”
You whined against his hand, cheeks flushing furiously. You began fiddling with the top buttons of his shirt, and he chuckled lowly.
“For someone who likes my suit so much, you sure are trying to get rid of it quickly.”
“For someone who was dying to kiss me two minutes ago, you talk too much.” You rocked your hips against his hand even as you sassed him back. He moved his hand from your mouth into your hair, carding it through gently, tugging slightly to tilt your head back for him so he could kiss you again, swallowing every sound you made.
No one could sue you for being attracted to a hot man. That was just biology.
You could feel the familiar tightening of your core, signalling your impending crash. You broke away from the kiss, licked your lips and palmed him over his pants, earning a hiss of pleasure in return.
“Don’t– don’t do that,” He choked out, and you smirked triumphantly, refusing to relent on your movements. Batting your eyelashes, you stared up at him through them in faux innocence, unaware that it affected him so much more than you thought.
“Just fuck me already.” You whined, half out of desperation for him and party because now you needed him to fuck you to prove to yourself that this was just sex. To be able to brush away all the compliments he dropped that seemed to go straight to your head, to get the intoxicaing fucking way he kissed you out of your head and away from further dissection. To stop the slow-burning feeling of yearning that was growing inside of you for the boy you had grown up with.
Because you couldn’t possibly have feelings for him. You shouldn’t.
“Fuck, okay,” He slipped his fingers out of you and unbuttoned his pants, releasing his cock. You would never get used to the sight of it, precum already leaking out of the tip; the image itself sending shivers down your spine in anticipation of him.
He pressed back against you, grinding it against your fluttering pussy, going right back to making out with you. It was like he was devouring you whole, claiming every part of you like it had always belonged to him. You could feel yourself get carried away again, forgetting that this was just something he and you did now.
And then he froze.
“Shit,” he muttered. “I don’t have a condom.”
You were too far gone to even care anymore. Cupping his face, you pulled him into another messy kiss, beyond delighted when he moaned, still rubbing his length through your slick folds with a want that rivalled your own. “Put it in.”
Caleb gritted his teeth. “Pips, thats–”
“I’m on birth control,” you kissed his jaw. “And I trust you. I’ve always trusted you.”
That was undeniably the truth. He was the one person in the world that you didn’t have to think twice about when it came to anything, no matter what the situation. He blinked down at you, pupils blown wide with desire but somehow still so focused on you, holding your sides so gently as he hesitated, silently dealing with the conflict in his head.
“I…..are you sure?”
Oh, this sweet, considerate boy. How could you not love him? The thought was instantly forced to be a passing one as you push it away, refusing to acknowledge it.
“Caleb, if you don’t stick your dick inside of me right now, I will cut it off.” The threat earned you a winded chuckle from his end, the strain in his face from holding back so painfully evident. Realising he needed another push, you looked into his eyes, bucking your hips against him and licking your lips as you purred. “Now, fuck me.”
There was a reason you phrased it like that. Crude and so filthy, the words set out a challenge for him. If there was one thing you knew about Caleb, it was that he could never back down from a challenge. His eyes darkened as he grabbed both your wrists and pinned them together above your head with one hand, positioning his cock at your entrance.
Without another warning, he slammed into you, once again covering your mouth to soften the obscenely loud broken moan that left you. He pressed his fingers against your lips, smirking mischievously.
“This is what you wanted, hmm?” He groaned in your ear as he fucked you hard, making it increasingly difficult for you to stay silent. You knew he was doing it on purpose, remembering how he had briefly confessed that he liked it when you were vocal, but here? Here it was risky and stupid, and you couldn’t believe how into it you were.
“Yes,” You gasped, biting his hand at a particularly hard thrust, doing your utmost best to keep all your noises to a minimum. He was just so good, and the feeling of him bare inside of you was almost too much for you.
“God baby, you feel incredible,” he panted, never relenting on his pace for even a second. His breathing was heavy in your ear, almost pained, along with soft grunts that only succeeded in making you even wetter.
“So b-big,” you could only whimper, too caught up in it all to speak properly.
He had well and truly ruined you for anyone else. Your heart and mind were at war with each other, but your body was perfectly content with how he held you like this. With nothing between you, he fucked you raw, and it felt so much more intimate than you thought it would have. You could feel everything, hyperaware of every touch and kiss and overwhelming drag of his cock in your sobbing cunt.
For a moment, you almost wished it wasn’t this good. If only you had never succumbed to your desires that day, maybe you wouldn’t have found yourself in this position, fighting so desperately against feelings that felt so wrong and right at the same time. All this was supposed to have been a temporary fix, a means to an end. Not the start of something you could never see through.
When both of you came, it was intense and devastating, holding onto each other like nothing else mattered. You could feel him fill you up with his cum and as you went limp, one last terrifying realisation making itself known to you.
It wasn’t just sex.
A shattered breath escaped you at the revelation, and you shut your eyes, trying to reason with yourself one last time, but to no avail. Caleb surrounded you completely, holding you up upright with so much care, so deliberately, that it made total sense why you felt this way. With unending affection, he pulled you against him and kissed the crown of your head.
“Thats my girl.”
Except you weren’t. And it would be better for everyone if you remembered that.
You were writing.
It had been so long since you had been able to write like this, but the ability had come rushing back to you all of a sudden. Your fingers flew across your keyboard as you steadily typed, focused and satisfied at the work you were producing for the first time in months.
It was two in the morning when you finally snapped out of your concentrated state, yawning as you shut your laptop. Stretching, you quietly padded to your bathroom to get ready for the night and go to bed. You couldn’t believe you had written almost half of the sex scene when even the prospect of starting it had sounded so unachievable not too long ago.
Courtesy of Caleb, you had plenty of material to pull from.
You splashed water on your face, hoping the cool temperature of it would help you stop thinking about him. To say you were frustrated with your feelings was an understatement; you outright despised them.
This was your fault, you knew damn well it was. If you were going to get a fuckbuddy, it should have been someone who you weren’t so close to, someone you had no personal connections with. Anyone but the best friend you've had since you were seven years old, who you knew like the back of your hand, who knew you like it was second nature to do so.
Gripping the sides of the sink, you shut your eyes, grounding yourself to the moment. Part of you wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. How on earth did you let yourself get in such a predicament?
You needed it to stop. For these confusing feelings to leave before things got even more complicated than they already were. Somehow, you needed to forget about them.
But how could you possibly do that? How were you supposed to forget the deliberate way he kissed you, or how good he made you feel when he looked at you that way? How were you supposed to get the scent of his cologne out of your sheets and closet, or pretend like you didn’t know what it was like to be touched by him?
How on earth were you supposed to get over being in love with him?
You didn’t even notice him walking in.
Writing for your book again meant that you had fallen behind quite a bit when it came to the work you had due for the paper. As a result, you had to stay behind and work late on the articles you had to present to Jenna, stuck at your desk in the newsroom when it was almost nine-thirty at night.
“Thought I’d find you here.”
Your eyes flickered up to find Caleb standing in front of your desk, one hand stuffed in his pockets and the other holding a bag of takeout from a diner that both of you liked. He gave you a soft, knowing smile that made your mouth go dry.
“Hey,” you straightened up in your seat, knowing that your posture tended to get worse the longer you wrote for. “You were looking for me?”
“Not exactly.” He grabbed a chair and parked it next to yours, sitting down. “I just figured you’d be working and forget to have dinner.”
“Oh.”
He was right, and you would have been embarrassed if this hadn’t happened before. Wordlessly, he began unpacking the takeout he had gotten. “Take a break for ten minutes and eat, okay?”
This was just like him. Knowing exactly when you needed to be taken care of while being well aware you could do just fine by yourself. You bit the inside of your cheek as you watched him, apprehensively nodding slowly.
“Okay.”
You grabbed a fry and began to chew, turning to face him and away from the computer. He looked the same as always, unkempt hair and all. It was like he knew you were tired and a little out of it today without you even having to tell him, falling into a comfortable silence as he ate with you.
There wasn’t another soul in this world that knew you so intimately. In the past, this wouldn’t have scared you, because you were so used to him and the ways he fit into your life so perfectly. Now, it frightened you to no end, reminding you of how much you had to lose when it came to Caleb. He was the most precious person in your life, which made it so much easier to fear losing him.
If there were rules when it came to having a best friend, you were certain you had broken all of them. Number one: Don’t sleep with your best friend. Already off to a rough start with that one, it seemed, but there was nothing you could do about it anymore. Number two: Don’t fall for your best friend. You doubted you even needed to go over the rest of the rules. Breaking those two had caused you enough damage.
Finishing up his food, he took a sip of his soda, noticing you were watching him intently. For the first time in a long time, he couldn’t quite decipher the look in your eyes. It almost felt as if you were hiding it from him on purpose.
He tilted the soda cup to you, silently asking if you wanted some of his. You leaned closer and took the straw in your mouth, taking a couple of sips before looking away.
Something was off. “Is everything okay?”
You pressed your lips together and gave him a half smile. “Yeah, everything's fine.”
Caleb narrowed his eyes at you, reaching out and propping a finger under your chin, lifting your face so you were forced to look at him.
“Pipsqueak,” He mumbled, dropping his gaze to your mouth for a split second, but it was enough to make you feel like you were set on fire. Like you were made of porcelain, he swiped his thumb next to your lower lip, rubbing away a stray crumb that had stuck there from your food. Then he looked at your mouth again, subconsciously leaning towards you as if he was about to kiss you.
Immediately, you jerked out of his touch. Guilt ate away at you when you noticed how he reacted to this, the flash of hurt that passed over his face as he frowned. As much as you hated being the cause of it, the way he was looking at you has started to inexplicably hurt. You were unable to stop the tenderness that unfolded in your chest anymore. It was potent, too real to fight against.
“We should stop.”
The words were out of your mouth before you could think about them any further, inciting confusion. He retracted his hand, the corners of his furrowed eyebrows tilting upwards. “Dinner? Because we’re pretty much done with that anyway.”
You could have taken advantage of his confusion and put this conversation off for a while, but you knew that letting this go on any longer would end up being torturous.
“No, Caleb,” You looked away, trying to ignore the way your throat seemed to close in on itself. “I’m not talking about dinner.”
“Then what are you talking about?” His voice took on that impossibly soft tone it did when he was trying to understand how you were feeling to properly help or sympathise with you. It was something he did when you were younger and got hurt, and he wanted to make sure you knew you weren’t dealing with it alone.
Sucking in a breath of air, you looked down at your hands in your lap, playing with your fingers. “I think we should stop having sex.”
A beat passed. You could feel the weight of his stare on you. “Okay.”
You weren’t sure where to go from there, your heart pounding within your ribcage like it was trying to escape. The light from your computer felt too harsh and the ticking of the clock hands was unnaturally loud in the stiff silence that settled over the two of you. Clearing his throat, he spoke again.
“Did…Did I do something?”
“No,” the caution yet dejected way he said it made you blurt that out quickly, refusing to let him think something was completely wrong. “You didn’t. At all. It’s just…..” You trailed off, biting your tongue and regretting bringing this up already. “I….I wrote the scene.”
“The scene?”
“The sex scene. In my book.” The awkwardness in your cadence is foreign to your ears and his. You had never been so apprehensive around him because you had never had a reason to. This was a first you despised vehemently, scorning the way you had to phrase everything so delicately, as if you didn’t, the damage caused would be irreparable.
“Right.” Now he had an unreadable look in his eyes too, matching yours.
“Right,” you echoed softly. “So there's no reason for anymore…...research.” Because research had spiralled into forgetting your regular roles when it came to each other. Research had made you aware of feelings that had been dormant your entire life and should have stayed that way.
In an ironic twist of fate, you had literally fucked around and found out.
“I see.”
You didn’t know what possessed you to keep talking when it was so obvious that both him and you wanted nothing more than to move on from this conversation. You risked a glance at him to find him aimlessly tracing the edge of his soda cup, eyes trained on the straw. “So we can go back to being just friends. Regular friends.”
The clarification made you wince. When his eyes met yours again, you were surprised to find something different in the way he looked at you– those dark purple depths swirling with an intensity that superseded their usual levels, startling you.
“We’ll always be friends, Y/n.”
Caleb didn’t call you pipsqueak. A minute detail that shouldn’t have shaken you at all, and yet here you were stuck on it in spite of the fact that he had just agreed to being friends again. Or rather, the normal definition of friends, because you weren’t ever anything more than that. You swallowed, turning back to your computer.
“Okay. I should get back to working on this article.”
Your dismissal of him was quiet but obvious. The air had started to get suffocating and you needed as much space from him as you could get until you sorted out the mess in your head, one that was your cross to bear. Your fault.
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him nod and get to his feet, turning to leave, but hesitating for just a moment.
It was only when he exited the newsroom that you realised it wasn’t any easier to breathe without him there. It felt even harder now, like someone had their foot over your chest and was putting all their weight on it, letting gravity do the rest of the work. You pushed yourself away from your desk, the wheels under your chair smoothly rolling away until the back of it hit the wall behind you.
Even the impact of that wasn’t enough to shock you out of your misery. Surely, love wasn’t supposed to feel as cruel as it did right now, like claws sinking into your skin and making you bleed. It shouldn’t have felt wrong, but you knew that it was. Perhaps this was retribution for allowing yourself to indulge in something that was so clearly off-limits to you.
A familiar pressure built up behind your eyes as you turned resentful. The sting of your sorrow manifested as tears welled up and caught in your lower lashes. You shut your eyes, but not before those tears slid down your face, cementing the bitter, indisputable reality of your heartbreak.
Caleb stayed away.
He had known damn well that whatever was between the two of you wasn’t forever. It wasn’t even real, solely for the sake of your writing and the book you were so proud of. It was his fault for getting caught up in it all and expecting you to never call it off, to stay in that limbo with him forever.
Saying no to you was something he wasn't capable of. Not when he was ten and you were eight, and you wanted the last piece of cake even though it was his favourite flavour. Not when he was fifteen and you used to beg him to let you wear his shirts because you liked how oversized they were on you. Not when you would give him puppy eyes and sweetly ask him to cook those braised chicken wings you loved so much.
And not when you needed help with writing about sex.
Even if it went against all his morals and everything he had forced himself to believe for the past twelve years he had known you. He had held himself together around you for as long as he could remember, hands to himself and thoughts strictly friendly. Caleb was used to the best friend role. He was good at playing it, even when the script pained him to recite, he did so anyway with a smile on his face.
Because smiling back at him was you. It was always you, with your bright eyes and angelic laughter.
Caleb had accepted this role when he was only nine years old and had stuck to it ever since. He let it consume him, living in ignorant bliss as he silenced the pleas of his heart and what it wanted, no, begged for.
How was he supposed to know where to go from here? The script had deviated too much for him to return to its safety. He knew how your lip gloss tasted, sweet and inviting and maddening, just like everything else about you.
So he stayed away from you and your cherry lip gloss, hoping the marks it had left all over him would fade.
It had been almost two weeks since Caleb last set foot in the newsroom.
Jenna was overjoyed and Tara was suspicious. The latter asked you where your ‘boyfriend’ was, to which you refused to look at her as you muttered the reminder: he’s not my boyfriend. It felt like you were reminding yourself more than her, lacking any of your usual annoyance.
You supposed this was your fault as well. It wasn’t like you had made any effort to reach out either, stuck in your pathetic little cycle of self-pity and fear. You felt his absence, though, cutting deep into you and leaving you with a Caleb-sized hole in your life. The last time you experienced something like this was when he left for university for the first time and you were finishing up your senior year, suddenly having to deal with not having him around for months on end.
At least he was calling you back then, and when you joined him at university, it never happened again. You hadn’t realised what a big part of your life he was until he was missing from it.
God, you missed him.
You missed that stupid, smug chuckle of his when he knew you were getting riled up because of something he said, and his terrible sense of humour. The smirk on his face when you were losing an argument, and how he’d stick his tongue out when he was concentrating on something. Hell, you missed the sound of his voice and the comfort it brought you.
After you finished your work for the day, you walked out of the newsroom and down the hallways of the university building. The cool evening air swept around you, making you think of one of Caleb's jackets that was still in your dorm from the last time he had been, draped over your desk chair. You almost wished you had it with you right now.
Your feet carried you to the dining hall, reminding you of your need to eat through the wall of your troubled thoughts. It was not so much hunger as it was a necessity. Your appetite had been less than robust these past few days, your emotions weighing you down in more ways than one. You didn’t have him to remind you to eat or sleep, or run like a normal human being.
Grabbing an apple to appease your stomach, you bit into it and looked around, mentally going over everything else you had to do that day. Start an essay you had due the next week, beg the members of your group to do their parts of the presentation that was worth a whopping thirty percent of your grade and polish the last scene you had written for your book.
It turned out that your turbulent emotional state had translated into you being more productive than ever, throwing yourself into your studies and writing like you had never before. Anything to avoid thinking about him and what you felt. An unhealthy coping mechanism for sure, but it worked for you.
Kind of.
Unable to stomach anything else, you tossed the core of the apple into a nearby dustbin and left the dining hall, eager to make it back to your room. You hadn’t slept very well lately, and you wanted to get all your work out of the way before crashing. Sleeping, you discovered, was another excellent course of action to take when you wanted to avoid facing something, and at least it wasn’t downright unhealthy. The dark circles under your eyes would certainly thank you.
When you turned the corner, he was there.
Caleb stood there, just a few paces away from you in all his six-two glory. His back was turned to you, but you knew it was him, deep in conversation with his friend, Gideon. You were unable to do anything but stare, your pulse picking up in speed at the sight of him. You wondered if the chasm he had created between the two of you had affected him as much as it had you.
When he bid farewell to Gideon and turned, you panicked. When he saw you, you remained rooted to the spot, watching as his steps faltered and came to a stop. He looked almost as tired as you felt, dawdling briefly before speaking.
“Hey.”
Hey. Hey? Was that all he could say after refusing to look your way for over a week? Your apprehension flared up into anger, and you took three furious steps towards him, your docile stare melting into a glare.
“You sure talk a lot of shit about keeping you informed for someone who has been avoiding me.”
He winced. “I wasn’t….avoiding you.”
“Oh really? Could have fooled me.” You scowled at him as you took another step forward. You were pissed, and rightly so, but it stemmed more from how hurt you felt rather than any genuine anger.
Caleb didn’t bother to meet your eyes, opting to look off to the side instead. That stung a little more than you cared to admit. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, shifting his weight from one foot to another. “Have you eaten yet?’ Barely five minutes around you, and he had already jumped into trying to take care of you. It was so infuriatingly like him.
Every time he didn’t want to face something, he would deflect and redirect the conversation. Your years together had taught you well, making it impossible for him to sidestep you even if he tried. You could tell he was avoiding you even when you were right in front of him.
“Stop changing the subject.”
You watched as his jaw tightened and relaxed, something he did when he was conflicted. All his tells were so laughably obvious to you, and yet you couldn’t make heads or tails of how he was acting right now, so forcibly distant and detached, like being close to you was painful. Your eyes burned.
“Do you hate me?” You asked, hating how your voice suddenly sounded so feeble. His eyes snapped back to yours, wide and defiant.
“I could never hate you.” The finality in the way he said it told you he was telling the truth, and yet, you couldn’t help but fall victim to the doubt creeping into your mind. He was looking right at you now– except he wasn’t really. It was more like he was looking through you.
“Then…then why?” You whispered, taking another tentative step forward. The space that both of you created, consciously or not, was unbearable. You just wanted things to go back to normal, was that so much to ask for?
“I don’t hate you. You just don’t understand.”
“Then make me understand!” You threw your hands up in the air in exasperation, wondering what the hell you had to do to make this conversation go somewhere, because right now it just felt like you were running in circles. “Caleb, please, just tell me why you’re avoiding me, because you are.”
He knew he was and hadn’t a single excuse, other than the reason he swore you never burdened you with. You were looking at him so pleadingly, grasping at straws to figure him out, but for the first time in his life, he found himself unable to give you an answer. Instead, his throat constricted, his anxiety keeping him silent.
“It’s my fault, isn’t it?” Your face crumbled, and upon witnessing it, so did his heart. Your lower lip trembled like a leaf on a windy day, and you bit down on it to stop it from doing so, doing your best to stay composed. Running a hand through your hair, you let out a shaky sigh. “I knew it, I should have never– we shouldn’t have slept together. That should have never happened and now everything is fucked up, and its all because of me.”
Yes. No. The answer wasn’t as straightforward as he needed it to be, and it paralysed him. The anguish you felt was on display for him and anyone who happened to walk by you to see, plain as day, as it twisted your features. It felt as if he had been stabbed in the gut when you backed away from him.
Turning away, you walked off. You had ruined things, you were sure of it, and it killed you. Once again, you let the rift between him and you grow with every step you took to escape the crash you had been responsible for.
A hand on your wrist. You gasped as he caught you, spinning you around and forcing you to face him once again.
Caleb had followed you into the gardens.
“Do you regret it?”
The question cut through you, and you gaped at him. The fervour you were so used to seeing in him suddenly returned, burning brightly in his eyes as he pinned you in place with them, his grip on your wrist never letting up. Question for question, with neither of you getting the answers you wanted.
You scoffed, rapidly blinking away the tears that you felt coming on. “If it's the reason things are weird between us, then yes! I do regret it. I need my best friend, Caleb. I need you.”
How could you not need him? He was your constant, the one person who had been by your side through thick and thin. You needed him in your life, by your side, in whatever way you were allowed to, even if it wasn’t what you truly wanted anymore.
He let go of your wrist. “I can’t do it.”
Your biggest fear was coming true right in front of your very eyes, and you hadn’t the faintest idea of how to stop it. It was taking form, bleeding into existence. You were losing him.
“You can’t do what?”
“I can’t be your friend. I just can’t.” He shook his head, shutting his eyes like he couldn’t bear to look at you.
Your voice comes out weak. Small. “But you said we’ll always be friends.”
“Well, I lied, okay! I can’t be your friend, not when–” He sucked in a breath, rubbing a hand over his face as he tried to reign himself in, stopping his outburst before it could happen. It wasn’t fair to you, none of this was, but he was at his breaking point. “I could do it before, but not anymore.”
“Why?” You whispered, those tears you had so valiantly fought off surging back. Once again, you felt like you had been trampled on, pinned down by a merciless gravity that had no regard for your need to breathe. You weren’t sure there was a reason to fight against it anymore.
He looked up at the darkening sky, deflating. Staying away from you hadn’t made it any better– if anything, it had only made it worse, his yearning to be beside you bubbling to an all-time high. There wasn’t a point in hiding anymore, not when it was turning out to be detrimental rather than soothing.
“Because,” he paused, peering up at the cloudy sky. He couldn’t see the stars. “I can’t go back to being your friend when I’ve tasted you. How am I supposed to act like I’ve never kissed you when I’ve had you in my bed? To pretend like I don’t know how it feels to have you like that? God, Y/n, I can’t do it.
Caleb, whom you had viewed as strong and untouchable all your life. Caleb, whom you had endlessly looked up to, sounded almost tortured, like it pained him to even have to tell you this.
“What are you saying?”
You hoped you didn’t look as terrified as you sounded. It felt as if someone had pulled the rug out from beneath you, but the ground underneath it was falling apart too, leaving you to stumble around and try to find your footing amidst the cracks that remained. If you fell now, you weren’t sure you’d ever be able to get up.
But that was the thing, wasn’t it? You had already fallen, and hard.
Caleb was stripped of his usual self-assuredness and confident smile. He was laid bare there in front of you, fixing you with a look that was so pained it tore through you.
“I’m in love with you.”
The confession ripped through you, although you didn’t register it at first. Those five words felt so improbable to have been said by him to you of all people that the only thing you could feel was disbelief. It just didn’t make sense. Why would something you longed to hear so badly be said with such sadness?
He mistook your stunned silence for aversion. He should have stopped there, given up and walked away, but now that he had finally, finally let it out, it was hard to stop. It was like a dam had broken within him; everything he had ever kept to himself when it came to you rushed out all at once.
“I’m in love with you, Y/n,” he said again, scoffing slightly at himself. No nicknames, just your name spoken in that reverent tone, like you were a divine being he was a devout follower of. “And it kills me because I know you’ll never see me as anything more than a best friend. You’ve made that very clear, and I never want to overstep, so I stayed away from you.”
“Caleb–”
He didn’t let you cut in. “I could do it when I didn’t know what it felt like to have you as something more than friends. The moment we crossed that line, it was all over for me. I would be your friend until I died if I didn’t know.” His hands were shaking, but they stayed by his sides, fingers curled into frustrated fists as he rambled.
“I–”
“But I can’t, Pips. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t be your best friend when I’ve loved you my entire life.” And you’re falling all over again, gravity pulling you down, down, down as something unfurled in your chest. “So please just–”
“Goddamnit Caleb, would you just shut up for one fucking minute!?”
You hadn’t meant to snap, but he was seriously to piss you off, going on and on without giving you the chance to speak your mind. Immediately, he clamped his mouth shut, preparing himself for the inevitable rejection he had imagined too many times to count in his head. You, on the other hand, thought you were going to faint, overwhelmed by everything that had just happened. It was everything you had convinced yourself was impossible.
And yet…
You kept your eyes locked onto his as you closed the distance between the two of you, so close now that you could feel the warmth radiating off of him, combating the chill in the evening air. Swallowing, you asked.
“You’re in love with me?”
He clenched his jaw and nodded. He knew what the consequences were, he was ready for them. It was about time he faced the truth anyway.
What he didn’t expect was for you to start laughing.
You clamped a hand over your mouth as incredulous laughter left you, eyes practically sparkling. Oddly enough, it sounded a little watery, like you were crying at the same time.
And then he realised you were, in fact, crying, tears streaming down your face. Alarmed, he stepped forward and cupped your face, instinctively wiping them away with the pads of his thumbs. This did nothing to dampen your hysterical laughter as you leaned into his touch.
“What the fuck?” He muttered, concern overtaking his previous, heartsick expression. “Are you dying or something?”
“Or something,” you managed to get out, gripping his arms, “We’re so stupid.”
“That…..okay, I’m officially confused. And a little scared.”
“Caleb,” you whispered once you stopped giggling, lethally soft. You looked up at him adoringly, eyes shining and tinged slightly red from your tears. “I’m in love with you, too.”
He froze, mouth falling open. He didn’t have to say anything, though, because honestly, he had said enough. It was your turn now.
You leaned further into his touch, nuzzling your cheek against his palm. “I think I’ve loved you for a long time, but I only realised after….after everything that happened between us.” You flushed, trying to word it as delicately as possible. “And I drove myself crazy because I thought you’d never see me that way–”
“I’ve always seen you that way.” He breathed out, those captivating eyes of his trained on you in wonder. Butterflies came to life in your stomach.
“– So I called it off. I said we needed to stop because I was so scared I’d lose you.”
By the time you finished, you were both staring at each other wide-eyed. His grip on you tightened, one hand falling to your waist as he tugged you closer.
“You love me?”
“I love you,” you nodded. “It just took me a while to figure it out.”
“Pipsqueak.” You had never been more grateful than you were right then to hear that stupid petname. “Oh my god, we are stupid.”
Without another word, Caleb pulled you into a kiss. You reciprocated instantly, wrapping your arms around his neck as you smiled against his lips, unable to contain yourself anymore. He kissed you like it was the only thing he ever wanted to do, holding you like you were precious, which to him, you undoubtedly were. It was your first proper kiss with him without any pretence or excuse surrounding it, and you couldn’t have asked for more.
Chuckling when you dissolved into more giddy giggles, he wiped away any stray tears from your face and rested his forehead against yours. After all these years waiting and hoping that you’d feel the same way, he knew he’d never let you go now.
“I love you, too.” It was a relief to say out loud and to your face, coming out of hiding and letting the truth of his feelings sit out in the light. You pecked his lips again and hugged him, revelling in his warmth and the delight of your feelings being returned. Your best friend loved you back, and everything in the world made sense again.
“Don’t be my best friend,” You mumbled fondly, cheek against his shoulder as you laid out your final request. “Just be mine.”
He smiled, an expression so dazzling you’d never forget it. “I’ll always be yours.”
When Caleb looked back at the sky, he could see the stars.
“Are you done?”
“Shh.”
You rolled your eyes, flopping onto the pile of plushes on your bed as you pulled out your phone and went through your messages. To be fair, it had barely been two minutes since you handed him your laptop, but you were impatient, wanting to know what he thought as soon as possible.
Caleb’s eyes were focused on the screen as he read, humming occasionally as he scrolled through the scene. If anyone had told you a year ago that you’d be letting him read a part of your writing, let alone a sex scene of all things, you would have either laughed in their face or had a mental breakdown.
Yet here you were. Life sure had a sense of humour.
Finally, after an agonising ten minutes, he spoke. “Wow.”
“Is it good?”
He shut your laptop and put it back on your desk carefully, before walking over to where you were. Then, he dropped himself onto the bed as well, purposely caging you in his arms and making sure you were trapped under his weight. Squealing, you hit his arm playfully.
“Caleb!”
Your boyfriend laughed mischievously, lifting his head so you could see the smirk that curled on his lips. “It was good. Very good.”
You sighed in relief. “Thank god.”
“So I must be really good in bed, huh?”
There it was. You groaned as you tried to push him off of you, even though you knew it was a futile task. “Don’t even try, you smug asshole.”
“What?” He asked, dripping in faux innocence. “I mean, you did use me for research purposes. Is it not a fair assumption to make?” He was so proud of it, and knew damn well that the entire sex scene he had just read had been falicitated because of him. Every part of it had been pulled from things the two of you had done, the thought of which made your skin heat up and your cheeks burn.
“You’re so annoying,” you huffed, giving up on trying to get him to stop squashing you. Instead, you adjusted, curling into him. Accepting this, he switched your positions, pulling you on top of him and resting his chin on your shoulder.
“You like it.”
“Unfortunately.”
You yelped when he pinched your side, but it dissolved into giggles when he began peppering kisses all over your face. Slipping his arm around your waist, he held you close, grining against your skin. If you had to stay like this forever, in his arms and under the glow of his radiant smile, you would be content.
“You’re an amazing writer, Pipsqueak,” he cradled your face in his hands, his love for you so achingly obvious in the way he looked at you that you wondered how you had never noticed it before. Rubbing his fingers against your cheek, he kissed your nose. “It would be just as great even if I hadn’t– uh– assisted.”
Though you snickered at him, you couldn’t stop yourself from beaming at his praise for your work. “I’m glad you did though,” you let him pull you closer, arm looping around your waist as you propped a leg over his. “Otherwise we might have never figured our shit out.”
He snorted. “Thank god for research. You would have kept me in the friendzone forever.”
“Hey!”
He silenced any further protests that you could have made, pressing his lips to yours in a sweet kiss. All possible complaints fled your mind the moment he did, eagerly kissing him back. You didn’t think you’d ever get enough of this and you had no idea how you had survived for so long while denying yourself of it.
Caleb had loved you for twelve years, steadily standing by your side and holding your hand even when you couldn’t see it. He had walked beside you through it all, the highest of highs and lowest of lows, lifting you up high over his shoulders with a grin on his face. He would never leave you behind, because he was your home. The one you had grown up with and wanted to wake up to everyday for the rest of your life.
He had taught you love without imposing it on you, silently showing it to you with every little thing he did. Your best friend. Your love. It had taken you a long time to catch up, but when you finally made it to the finish line, you found him waiting there for you patiently, holding out his hand for you to take.
The next time Tara called him your boyfriend, you didn’t correct her.
I just saw the most abhorrent take on Gaz on twitter so i'm writing how i see his childhood
He grew up in a middle-class family, a decent house. They didn't have extra, and things were sometimes tight, but it was a very friendly neighborhood that felt like family. It helped that it was a lot of family too - his aunts and uncles only lived a few houses down, and his grandparents lived right across the street.
And siblings? I say he has one younger brother, thinking about a 5 year age difference. He was enlisting for the military by the time his brother was getting into high-school.
He gets along with his parents fine, sometimes tense with arguments. They're all very stubborn and believe they're right. It's their family's biggest flaw.
Kyle wasn't the easiest kid growing up. He liked to sneak out and run around town with his friends. Sure, he probably spray painted a couple of train cars, but after a near run-in with law enforcement, he put himself straight.
He's very openly friendly and really has no sense of privacy, his family being so open. He's very serious about his job though - always pushing himself to be better. Being stigmatized when growing up by other kids, so he does think he's constantly inferior.
It gets better once he joins the 141 and gets close with them. He loved cooking despite not being the best at it. He also loved giving small gifts, stuff that reminds him of his teammates. (A funny shaped rock, a keychain that made him chuckle, a very out of style hat.)
He's by no means perfect, but he does acknowledge his flaws with a straight face and does try his best to be human. Very down to Earth and is one of the best people to hang around if you just need to chill.
(I imagine his humor to be like my coworkers who's POC:
Person 1: "Wait, let's see who's paler."
Me: "We're pretty close."
Coworker, reaches over to put his hand next to ours' : "No guys, I'm actually the palest."
Just straight faced and hilarious. He knows he's the funniest in the room and will flaunt it, great man to be around)
Zayne x reader, hurt/no comfort, mcd, spoilers for story after EP 5
~
It was a mission gone seriously wrong, leaving you gasping on the ground and clutching your chest. A protofield had gone awry, almost syncing with the Aether Core in your heart.
It created a negative loop, one that was threatening to tear you from the inside out.
But Zayne was there, talking to you. His face was scrunched up in fear, even as his voice remained steady. He couldn't do anything - not unless he could rip the core from your heart.
"...Zayne," you murmur, your voice so weak. Your hands fell limp even as he grasped at them. For once, you weren't scared. "There's nothing you can do."
"No- no-! Don't say that- I'm the best cardiac surgeon in the city, hearts are my specialty," Zayne frantically said, eyes watering. It was strange. Usually, he was the cold, aloof one. "I've got to have an option- there must be something."
As his hands began to tremble, you weakly grasped them to still them. Your entire body felt like it was burning, and he was so cool to the touch. A smile pulled your lips into a quirked position, even as a pain pulled your eyebrows together.
"It'll be okay, I'm not scared," you coughed, your heart unable to take the strain of the protofields anymore. You guide his hand over your heart, which was emitting a visible light through you. "Just... don't leave."
As the dust settled over a battlefield with two cores fighting, there were no sounds of battle. Just a distraught sobbing from a doctor who held onto the body of his loved one.
And even when you grew cold to the touch and your muscles tightened, Zayne had to be pried off of you by the other hunters. Tears ran down his face.
But yet, the world kept turning. And he had nothing but whirlwind memories to remember you by.
Eventually, the memories would degrade. Your smiles would fade, your laughter turning sour, your touch remaining cold. Your final moments plagued his every waking moment and he could only wish for the day he could join your side once again.
hand feeding feeding me gourmet dishes while smiling at me with those pretty brown eyes and sharp fangs, knowing damn well he's going to feed from me, is not going to stop me from falling in love either way😭
Content warnings - Makarov being disgusting, references to SA(and like terms, like noncon use), reader is described as being older (Late 20’s - Older 30’s), drugging, body horror, dehumanizing language(Referring the reader as ‘it’, dog, toy, and other dehumanizing terms), uh mild torture?
READ THE TAGS CAREFULLY PLEASE
Word Count - 5,118 (give or take a few, this is from google docs,,,)
Changelings were a rare breed of people, if they could be called that word, they weren’t really people. Merely a mimicry.
A long time ago, when Makarov was still a child, there were plenty of them. But governments realized their power and tried to corral them, force them into being weapons. There were several large battles about it, and they were all so hard to keep track of. When the resistances started to fade, the government just said they had wiped out all threats to humanity, believing they had made the changelings extinct.
What they didn’t know is that they made small towns. Communities that faithfully played the part, biding their time. Changelings had never gone extinct, merely gone into hiding to protect themselves.
Humanity believed them to be children’s tales, a weird fever dream which never really existed. Something to scare the younger generations into falling into line. A folk tale really, just like faeries or unicorns.
Makarov knew they existed, his town had several such changelings when he was growing up. He had even been friends with one of them, before they were pulled away. But, now was not the time for reminiscing. He had work to do.
Makarov tapped his pen against his desk, lost in straying thoughts. He forced himself to focus on the task at hand.
His men had been consistently getting taken down, to the point it was actively becoming a thorn in his side. He knew exactly who was behind it, that Price man had been an annoying little pest ever since the now-captain escaped his gulag.
The door to his office knocked thrice, a solid sound against the spruce wood.
“Come in,” Makarov called out, looking up the papers and plans scattered against his desk. It was a mess but he didn’t care, he would clean it up later once he got an idea figured out.
One of his generals walked in, holding a file and looking rather smug. Makarov raised his eyebrow at his subordinate, already unimpressed of this swagger he exhibited. He would have to rectify that, he deserved respect and he was going to get what he deserved.
There was no way Makarov wouldn’t let people below him treat him so casually. That was not how this worked. He would make sure this man knew it too. Later.
But for now, he was more interested in the file the man carried. So, Makarov held out his hand expectantly. The general calmly handed over the file, which was almost overflowing. He waved his hand, dismissing his subordinate, who took the leave quickly.
Good, he didn’t have the energy to deal with hooligans like that today.
Thumbing the file open, his gray eyes scan over the pictures and documents. A shapeshifter, it claimed. Picture of you, the person, mid-transformation. His eyes gleamed with interest, scanning with more attention. This could be the weapon he was looking for. Makarov just had to find it, and bend it to his will.
Just like everything else he touched.
And he already knew exactly what you were. Not a shapeshifter as the files had claimed, but a changeling. One who could imitate other people at will. Perfect for infiltrating an enemy. Perfect for ending his enemies.
This was a rare find, indeed. He just had to jump into the opportunity.
Makarov leaned back in his chair, spreading the file out on top of his desk. The paper it was covering was unimportant compared to this. This was a perfect opportunity, he just had to take it. He read over the documents containing your personal information, where you lived, what your schedule was, what you did for work. It even contained information about your family. His men did good work, when properly motivated with a potential new toy.
That was only when he was finished with you, though.
He would use this treasure trove of information to plan. You lived in another country, annoying as that was. It wouldn’t stop him, he had plenty of private planes. And depending how cooperative you seemed, you might get to enjoy the luxury with him. The best of his toys got to enjoy the fruits of his expansive wealth. If you agreed with him, of course.
But, reading your file and your history, he doubted you would. You seemed the fleeing type, which was all the same to him.
Makarov enjoyed breaking in people just as much. It was all the same to him. It just seemed you needed a tighter collar.
He hummed thoughtfully, tapping against the file, your file, again. He would need to do this carefully, lest he let his treacherous enemies find out his plan before it’s carried out. No no, can’t have that. He’ll keep this close to his chest, maybe eliminate all of those who already know about it. That would keep it safer.
Sure, Makarov would lose a few men, but they were all replaceable. Even if it was annoying trying to “recruit” new people.
This weapon, you, he forces himself to burn your name into his mind, was not replaceable. Who knew how many other shapeshifters, changelings, were out there? He should investigate your family even more, to make sure he wasn’t missing anything. It was rare that two normal people gave birth to a changeling - though it was possible if they both carried the gene.
When changelings went missing from the public eye, Makarov didn’t blame them, not really, but he couldn’t let this opportunity slip through his fingers. He had always been known to have a very, very tight grip on those he deemed useful.
And you seemed very useful to him. For now anyway. He wasn’t quite sure what he would do with you after he accomplished his goal, maybe he could mold you into being a good bed-warmer for him.
Several weeks later, Makarov walked down the streets of a quaint town that was listed as your home. His hands rested in his pockets, mindlessly running his fingers over an object. It truly was a nice little community, though it was very wary of him.
It would make sense, he was obviously russian and he doubted this area got much traction. Combined with his nice clothes, yeah he stood out. Oh well, it didn’t overly matter to him. He already knew where you were, thanks to the lacking-security cameras around town.
He moseyed along, taking his time. He wasn’t worried.
Every piece of intel said he was half-way across the globe making a weapons deal, and while he technically was doing that trade still, it wasn’t in person. And he had only sent his men to collect the goods, who believed he was there too. It was an easy cover, especially when he had been making the plan even more obvious. He wanted Price’s men to go there and ruin it, really.
It was a game of chess and he was willing to lose a piece if it meant he could win the game. A noble sacrifice.
Anyway.
The spring air felt nice, warmer than he would ever be used to. He liked the cold more, as it reminded him of himself. Harsh and strong, perfect for wearing people down into what was needed.
Makarov’s gray eyes scanned over the scene in front of him, focusing once more on the task at hand.
There you were, as flawless as the pictures portrayed you. Well, if this was what you truly looked like. You only seemed some few years younger than Makarov, something he was not quite expecting. You looked older, maybe late 20’s through early 30’s if he had to bet on it. He was expecting someone younger. Looks like he didn’t do enough research, but that was fine. Or maybe this was just your disguise, it was hard to tell.
He could do that research after he got his hands on you.
Makarov sped up his pace to walk beside you for a couple of steps, and you seemed unbothered by this. Your face was black, void of emotion to the fellow emotionless man. Though, he could tell you were still wary of him. Not that he blamed you, but you had no clue what was coming your way.
“May I help you, sir?” Your voice is light, polite, but still void of any emotion. You were already an enigma to Makarov, no one was so nonchalant to him. He was someone who demanded respect.
“You can. I have a… proposition for your,” he pauses, thinking over the word, “abilities. You could be very helpful to me. I can promise you’ll be very well compensated and you’ll be able to return home.”
Your steps hesitate, just for a moment. But enough that the Russian man noticed. Ah, you hadn't realized that he knew. You must've thought he was going to ask for directions, or some other mundane, tourist thing. Well, he was no mundane man.
“I'll have to politely decline. I'm quite content with my work currently,” Your tone was more clipped now, more impatient with him. “I wish you a good day, for I must take my leave now.”
You begin to speed up, but Makarov reaches out and roughly grabs your arm with a tight, unyielding grip. A grin grows on his face, full of malice. He loved a good protest, really got his blood pumping.
“Unfortunately, and not for me, you either come willingly or I will have to force you,” Makarov states clearly despite his heavy russian accent, authority dripping from his tone. His patience, what little of it he had, was running out quickly. “It makes no difference to me.”
Your eyes widen and he can spot the exact moment the panic hits you. It's a glorious moment, truly, and he wishes he could slow time to savor it. Causing this panic is a rush of adrenaline that he openly craves. It's perfect and Makarov loves how much power he holds over you now.
You rip your arm out Makarov's grip, his nails leaving behind a nasty looking scratch. He can see your form already beginning to change.
A gentle touch was never who he was. He demanded and he took only for himself.
The first changes are subtle, hard to tell at first. It was things that could be easily overlooked, your hair starting to change length, your eye color changing, face beginning to tweak. But as your panic continued to build, they grew far more drastic. Your face was rapidly changing shape, reflecting faces he saw earlier in the day and then his own, and then another Makarov didn’t recognize. Your hair also began to rapidly change, length growing and shortening, while quickly changing colors.
Then that’s where it began to grow more gruesome.
More animal-like features begin to come and go, like a brief tail or wings, or slitted pupils.Scales cover your skin before being reabsorbed, ears curving but then flattening against the side of your head. It looked incredibly painful, though Makarov did not care how painful it was for you. Seeing a changeling this close, changing so rapidly, was far more interesting to the twisted man.
It's beautiful in the most animalistic way possible. Almost makes him wish you came willingly, so he could explore it more. To dig his nails in and force it under more pleasurable circumstances, really. But he could tell you were growing more agitated, and he couldn’t risk you trying to attack him.
Though, he did bring a syringe for this specific reason. He reaches into his pocket to pull it out. This medicine, if it could be called that as it was more of a drug, was extremely experimental.
As a child, Makarov had heard there was a concoction to force a changeling to rapidly, continually change so long as it was in their system. Changeling’s system processed drugs differently than a normal human, otherwise he would’ve just sedated you and moved on. But this would keep you incapacitated until he could get you back to Russia, as he had plenty of it to make it last.
Even as your pained screams grew, he still didn’t worry. Your intense panic was already acting like a drug, your form trying to take on a new feature to protect you. Your bones were abruptly breaking and healing in just moments. He would feel bad for adding this drug to the mix, but you had chosen the route. He gave you an opportunity to come willingly.
But still, he wanted to watch you for a moment more. It was just so fascinating.
Makarov watches as your arms twist and bend in unnatural ways, breaking bones through your skin. Bright crimson drops down from where the bones stick out. Your eyes are shut, as if stuck in a walking nightmare.
You scream out, echoing in its ferality. It - you - sounds like a dying animal, really.
And this was only from your natural panic, too. This wasn't even from his concoction.
The russian was excited to see how much more you would change with his little drug in your system. He acts quickly, the needle plunging into your neck as he depresses the plunger. Pulling back, he watches as it takes over in your system with twisted curiosity.
You begin to grow monstrous, even in his eyes.
Your skin begins to open, bones protruding from the holes, turning into teeth. Seams begin to rip alongside your joints, forming eyes. They were wide with fear but crying tears of crimson color. Your limbs twist and turn, growing long and far more less human. You look like some sort of demented dog in Makarov’s eyes, one he wished to tame and force into being his loving pet. You were just the perfect thing for him.
As the panic grows too much for your mind to handle, your body falls limp and you fall unconscious. You weren’t used to so many changes in such a short time. Though, even unconscious, your body still twisted and shifted.
Makarov sighs in disappointment, he was hoping for more of a show. It seems you were a little too weak yet. Oh well, he would train you well. You would become much, much stronger in a very short amount of time.
He would make sure of it.
Makarov goes over to you and picks you up roughly. You let out a weak groan and your eyebrows draw together, but he doesn’t pay any mind to it. This pain is just a fraction of what he has planned for you. Since you wanted to defy him, he would seal his point that his orders were to be followed without hesitation with a more physical reminder.
He was not to be defied.
Your unconscious body is tossed none too gently into the back of Makarov’s vehicle. Thankfully, he planned for this and had his windows tinted darker than what was probably legal in this area but he didn’t care for that. He got you into his care now, and while his care wasn’t great, he would make sure you would do great things for him. Well, great in his eyes. He didn’t care how someone else would see it.
After strapping you in, he began to drive off, wishing he could’ve spent more time in your quaint little town. Maybe sniff out a few more weapons to put into his toybox. He could always use spares. Just in case you weren’t as strong as he believed you to be. He hoped you were, because finding replacements was never easy.
Some time later, you began to finally come to. Your head was throbbing and your body protested every moment you made. A groan forced its way out of your throat, struggling to gather your bearings.
Makarov watched passively from beyond your little “room”. It wasn’t really a room, it was a grimy, dark cell. Heavy metal was wrapped around your limbs and kept you close to the floor, a safety measure for himself. He wasn’t sure how good your capabilities were when you were more sound of mind. The Russian wasn’t willing to risk it.
Though, based on your earlier reaction, he heavily doubted you were combat trained. You were too flighty, too tracked on running. He would have his work cut out for him on training over that base instinct.
But, he was willing to wager that you could be great under his iron fist. Once you got more used to your changeling abilities, which he was willing to bet you suppressed your entire life and only used them when you got emotional. Granted, he didn’t have much to base off of this hypothesis, but Makarov would soon learn. This was all based off of what he observed of your reaction to him.
You were right to be scared of him, and Makarov would continue to foster that fear. It was better to be feared than loved in his mind, it kept people in line. It made his life easier.
As you started to gain your bearings, he could see the fear building behind your eyes. It made his blood rush. It made him feel powerful. Your eyes met his and became steely, which was no problem to him. He enjoyed a good challenge and you were trying to put up a fight. Trying being the key word, Makarov doubted it would last for long. He had faced far more tough challenges than you.
If anything, you would be more of a game to him.
“Where am I?” Your voice broke as you asked, obviously trying to put up a front. Your head dropped for a moment, likely from pain. “...What did you do to me?”
“Gave you a little something to help make you easier to transport,” Makarov’s voice was smooth, but void of emotion. It was almost slimy, it made a shiver go down your spine. “And to help me see how far your abilities could be pushed. It gave me a very good insight to you, really.”
Your eyes were so cold as you looked at him, which is what he was expecting. He knew you would resent him, even hate him, until he changed your mind. It would be a fun little side project for him, really. Something to fill the void of excitement.
“Let me go,” Your voice was steady, firm, with your brows furrowed, “I won’t help you - I can’t help you.”
Makarov just raised a single, arched brow at you. This was interesting, the way you said it. Like you were physically incapable of helping him. Well, given how much pain you seemed to be in, it wouldn’t be too surprising.
As it were, it seemed that changing your form too much caused you extreme pain. He imagined it like stretching a muscle you weren’t used to using. Oh well, any muscle could be built up and made stronger - like what Makarov planned to do to you. He just hoped you wouldn’t break before he got to use you, that would be a waste of his precious resources.
“Explain it to me,” Makarov demanded, his voice dark, “why you can’t help me, or so you say.”
He just had to have his suspicions confirmed. The greed turned his want into needs, ones that were going to be fulfilled no matter what others said.
“I- I just can’t-” You stumbled over your words like a newborn deer would stumble over its legs, it would be adorable if it weren’t so pathetic to him. Though, it seemed your fear of him pushed you to keep talking, “I can’t control it, I hardly count as a changeling, why do you think I was living where I was?”
Now that really piqued Makarov’s interest of you. Though, he was well of your lackadaisical attempt at playing weak to be let go. He knew you were powerful, far more than you knew yourself, he could just sense it. But he did believe you when you said you couldn’t control it.
But you began to speak again so he dragged his attention from his inner thoughts to your words.
“When I get emotional I’m forced to change, and it hurts so badly that I’ve never done it purposefully,” You blather on. He was already growing tired of your voice. Maybe if it weren’t so fear filled, he might enjoy it, but now it grated on his ears. “I can’t- I’m broken compared to other changelings.”
However, you did answer his question. So Makarov would go easy on you, for now anyway.
“I see, I’ll have to train that out of you then,” Makarov says, mostly to himself. He had his work lined out for him, you needed so much training. So much shaping, changing one might say but that might be too on the nose. “I can’t have you freezing up on me out in the field, or have your changes go wrong.”
Your eyes grow wide, but he pays it no mind. He pays it even less mind when you begin crying.
So, Makarov simply hums in assent to himself, confirming and planning in his mind, and turns to leave. A good couple of days in a dark cellar with no routine ought to shake you enough that he can begin training you to be a good dog that barked when he pulled your collar. Speaking of which, Makarov did have to actually check in on the progress of that.
He had begun to make it before collecting you, but it wasn’t quite finished yet. He still had several more features to add to it. Features that would help keep you more compliant to his whims.
Your soft sobs are the last thing Makarov hears from you as he exits the cell.
Several weeks later, Price slammed his fist against his willow desk. It shuddered beneath the force of the blow, knocking his pen cup over. Several papers slid off of the edge of it.
“What the FUCK do you mean Makarov has a new weapon?” Price demanded, his eyes burning with anger that threatened to consume him. He had enough on his plate, he didn’t have enough time to deal with the bloody bastard called Makarov.
He dragged a heavy, worn hand down his face after catching the expression on Laswell’s face. He blew out a breath.
“We don’t have the manpower to deal with a new threat from him, Garrick’s out on a mission is Slovenia, MacTavish and Riley are down in Las Almas again helping the Vaquero’s round up the last of Valeria’s men,” Price sighed, collapsing into his chair, which groaned under his weight. “And we both know I’m no one man army anymore.”
Laswell, who had been letting Price rant, crossed her arms with a severe expression on her face. She had flown all the way to England to tell Price herself about this mission. It was too high stakes for there to be any sort of trail. Nothing could go online and any paper used to keep track of details had to be burned.
Thankfully, she had a very good memory. Laswell had been in the business a long time.
“No, you aren’t John, but we have to take this threat seriously,” Laswell explained with the patience of a saint, “Makarov can’t be allowed not to be taken seriously, we have to put a pause on all the other things and deal with this first.”
Price sighed, for a second time, but sat up straighter in his chair. It was strange for Laswell to say to put a pause on all the other missions. She knew the work they did all over the world was incredibly important and most times, couldn’t be paused.
Well, of course she knew how important it was. She was the one woman army who gave them most of their missions and objectives. What she said went, really. She was a woman to be feared, even more so than Price.
If Laswell said it took importance, it always did.
“He took a civilian John.”
Price’s eyebrows immediately shot up and he sucked in a harsh breath. A civilian hostage wasn’t a new situation, but it was for Makarov. It was incredibly out of character for the Russian. The entire sitch seemed off. He wouldn't kidnap a civilian for no reason. Especially with him having a new weapon, well that couldn’t be entirely a coincidence.
“How long ago were they taken? Do we have contact with their family?” Price’s mind was going down the mental checklist. Establish a timeline, protect the family, save the civilian. It seemed simple enough on paper but it rarely was.
As it went with everything in their line of work.
“3 weeks ago, based on camera footage, no known family,” Laswell responded, as if she was reading off of a paper. Knowing her, she had photographic memory and just hid it well. It would be handy, would help with remembering accurate information. “Makarov was alone, his forces were halfway across the globe doing a weapons trade during the time. We sent some men over there to stop it, remember?”
Price nodded slowly, tucking all the information away for later. He desperately needed a drink to deal with this, though. So, he got up and poured two glasses of a proper whiskey, sliding one over to Laswell with another firm nod.
“Do we believe the civilian is the weapon, for whatever reason?” He asked, raising an eyebrow as he took a sip of the whiskey. It burned on the way down, but it kept him level headed if he only had one glass like this.
It was whiskey or a cigar, and he had smoked his last cigar when Garrick left for the mission in Slovenia.
“Changeling,” Laswell stated simply.
Which almost caused Price to spit out his drink. “Those have been extinct for nearly 3 decades, Kate,” the ‘that can’t be possible’ was evident in his tone. “Even if it were true, what evidence do we have to prove it?”
Laswell slid a burned disc towards Price, nodding at his near-ancient computer.
Price took the disc and inserted it into his computer’s disc tray. It loaded for several long seconds before pulling up a video. It was grainy and incredibly glitchy at first, though that might have been partially from the computer that was attempting to run it.
But then it fully loaded and Price could barely believe his eyes.
It was camera footage, obviously, so the view was poor and slightly obstructed, but what he could see was clear. Makarov stood in an impeccable suit as he, who Price assumed to be the kidnapped civilian, stood next to a monster-looking creature. Bones protruding from where your eyes should be and eyes ripping along the seams of your joints.
It was gruesome to watch, and made him sick to his stomach, really. And Price had seen all sorts of things throughout his years of being a SAS captain, but this topped it.
As the footage continued, your form became less and less human. Price could see the fear, the sheer panic on your face. The way Makarov stood there irked Price, the way the man seemed so nonchalant and unaffected to your fear and attempts to flee.
But as your body changed, you stayed frozen to your spot. Price wasn’t sure why, you could easily flee. Your form towered over the Russian, who seemed to be watching with rapt attention. Price could see his mouth moving, but he had no audio for the video. God, how he wished he did.
Shutting the computer lid, Price finally spoke, “I can… see your reasoning for believing them to be a changeling.” He worked to remove the disc to give back to Laswell.
“So, it is of utmost importance that we grab the civilian before Makarov can break them,” Laswell added, tucking away the disc in the case she had grabbed it from. It would be destroyed later.
Price nods slowly, digesting the words. He would need to pull his men back from their current missions to brief them over this new one. That would be a hassle, irritatingly so. The Vaqueros would understand for MacTavish and Riley leaving, as they truly understood the Brits’ scope of work. The captain leading Garrick’s mission would be less understanding, and would probably be a thorn in his side.
“I’ll get the boys pulled back here, probably be back within the next 24 hours,” Price pulled out his phone, getting ready to make several calls. “You should prepare the finer details so we only need to go over this once, Kate.”
Laswell nodded and took her leave, pulling out her own cell to prepare what Price called the finer details.
As Price predicted, less than 24 hours later, everyone was sitting in their respective spots in the briefing room. Ghost and Soap were more jetlagged than Kyle, considering they had a longer flight back. But, they had no time to waste.
“Sorry for rushing you back so suddenly, boys,” Laswell started, laying down some encoded papers regarding all the information she had scrounged together. Her eyes were so tired, she had been up for far too long at this point. “We’ll make this briefing quick, get some rest, and then you’ll ship out.”
Her tired, but sharp, eyes scanned over everyone. Soap was restlessly bouncing his leg, most likely trying to force himself to keep moving to keep from zoning out. While it wasn’t in the file, she suspected it was undiagnosed ADHD. But that wasn’t important. Ghost was silent and still, as always. But his eyes always gave him away, they were drooping more than normal. Gaz was tapping his pen against his leg, a focusing stim of his that Laswell had noticed a long time ago. Price leaned back against the wall near her, his arms crossed over his chest. Though she would never admit it, she knew it was his small way of self-soothing.
Everyone had their coping mechanisms, and she had never been a snitch.
After taking stock of everyone, Laswell nodded to herself. A near imperceptible motion.
“Alright, Makarov has taken a civilian, as you’ve all been told already,” she started, taking a breath. “However, the civilian has been proven to be a changeling.”
“And we believe they will be his new weapon.”
A/N: Oh my god this took forever to type and edit y'all </3
I was in and out of the hospital a lot while trying to complete this (From previous surgeries gone wrong, we think it should be good for now and last longer than previously thankfully)
I've begun writing chapter two so hopefully that will be out quicker than this one but i make no promises!! Leave a like and maybe a comment bc i so badly wanna yap about this to people who wanna yap back
Content warnings - Makarov being disgusting, references to SA(and like terms, like noncon use), reader is described as being older (Late 20’s - Older 30’s), drugging, body horror, dehumanizing language(Referring the reader as ‘it’, dog, toy, and other dehumanizing terms), uh mild torture?
READ THE TAGS CAREFULLY PLEASE
Word Count - 5,118 (give or take a few, this is from google docs,,,)
Changelings were a rare breed of people, if they could be called that word, they weren’t really people. Merely a mimicry.
A long time ago, when Makarov was still a child, there were plenty of them. But governments realized their power and tried to corral them, force them into being weapons. There were several large battles about it, and they were all so hard to keep track of. When the resistances started to fade, the government just said they had wiped out all threats to humanity, believing they had made the changelings extinct.
What they didn’t know is that they made small towns. Communities that faithfully played the part, biding their time. Changelings had never gone extinct, merely gone into hiding to protect themselves.
Humanity believed them to be children’s tales, a weird fever dream which never really existed. Something to scare the younger generations into falling into line. A folk tale really, just like faeries or unicorns.
Makarov knew they existed, his town had several such changelings when he was growing up. He had even been friends with one of them, before they were pulled away. But, now was not the time for reminiscing. He had work to do.
Makarov tapped his pen against his desk, lost in straying thoughts. He forced himself to focus on the task at hand.
His men had been consistently getting taken down, to the point it was actively becoming a thorn in his side. He knew exactly who was behind it, that Price man had been an annoying little pest ever since the now-captain escaped his gulag.
The door to his office knocked thrice, a solid sound against the spruce wood.
“Come in,” Makarov called out, looking up the papers and plans scattered against his desk. It was a mess but he didn’t care, he would clean it up later once he got an idea figured out.
One of his generals walked in, holding a file and looking rather smug. Makarov raised his eyebrow at his subordinate, already unimpressed of this swagger he exhibited. He would have to rectify that, he deserved respect and he was going to get what he deserved.
There was no way Makarov wouldn’t let people below him treat him so casually. That was not how this worked. He would make sure this man knew it too. Later.
But for now, he was more interested in the file the man carried. So, Makarov held out his hand expectantly. The general calmly handed over the file, which was almost overflowing. He waved his hand, dismissing his subordinate, who took the leave quickly.
Good, he didn’t have the energy to deal with hooligans like that today.
Thumbing the file open, his gray eyes scan over the pictures and documents. A shapeshifter, it claimed. Picture of you, the person, mid-transformation. His eyes gleamed with interest, scanning with more attention. This could be the weapon he was looking for. Makarov just had to find it, and bend it to his will.
Just like everything else he touched.
And he already knew exactly what you were. Not a shapeshifter as the files had claimed, but a changeling. One who could imitate other people at will. Perfect for infiltrating an enemy. Perfect for ending his enemies.
This was a rare find, indeed. He just had to jump into the opportunity.
Makarov leaned back in his chair, spreading the file out on top of his desk. The paper it was covering was unimportant compared to this. This was a perfect opportunity, he just had to take it. He read over the documents containing your personal information, where you lived, what your schedule was, what you did for work. It even contained information about your family. His men did good work, when properly motivated with a potential new toy.
That was only when he was finished with you, though.
He would use this treasure trove of information to plan. You lived in another country, annoying as that was. It wouldn’t stop him, he had plenty of private planes. And depending how cooperative you seemed, you might get to enjoy the luxury with him. The best of his toys got to enjoy the fruits of his expansive wealth. If you agreed with him, of course.
But, reading your file and your history, he doubted you would. You seemed the fleeing type, which was all the same to him.
Makarov enjoyed breaking in people just as much. It was all the same to him. It just seemed you needed a tighter collar.
He hummed thoughtfully, tapping against the file, your file, again. He would need to do this carefully, lest he let his treacherous enemies find out his plan before it’s carried out. No no, can’t have that. He’ll keep this close to his chest, maybe eliminate all of those who already know about it. That would keep it safer.
Sure, Makarov would lose a few men, but they were all replaceable. Even if it was annoying trying to “recruit” new people.
This weapon, you, he forces himself to burn your name into his mind, was not replaceable. Who knew how many other shapeshifters, changelings, were out there? He should investigate your family even more, to make sure he wasn’t missing anything. It was rare that two normal people gave birth to a changeling - though it was possible if they both carried the gene.
When changelings went missing from the public eye, Makarov didn’t blame them, not really, but he couldn’t let this opportunity slip through his fingers. He had always been known to have a very, very tight grip on those he deemed useful.
And you seemed very useful to him. For now anyway. He wasn’t quite sure what he would do with you after he accomplished his goal, maybe he could mold you into being a good bed-warmer for him.
Several weeks later, Makarov walked down the streets of a quaint town that was listed as your home. His hands rested in his pockets, mindlessly running his fingers over an object. It truly was a nice little community, though it was very wary of him.
It would make sense, he was obviously russian and he doubted this area got much traction. Combined with his nice clothes, yeah he stood out. Oh well, it didn’t overly matter to him. He already knew where you were, thanks to the lacking-security cameras around town.
He moseyed along, taking his time. He wasn’t worried.
Every piece of intel said he was half-way across the globe making a weapons deal, and while he technically was doing that trade still, it wasn’t in person. And he had only sent his men to collect the goods, who believed he was there too. It was an easy cover, especially when he had been making the plan even more obvious. He wanted Price’s men to go there and ruin it, really.
It was a game of chess and he was willing to lose a piece if it meant he could win the game. A noble sacrifice.
Anyway.
The spring air felt nice, warmer than he would ever be used to. He liked the cold more, as it reminded him of himself. Harsh and strong, perfect for wearing people down into what was needed.
Makarov’s gray eyes scanned over the scene in front of him, focusing once more on the task at hand.
There you were, as flawless as the pictures portrayed you. Well, if this was what you truly looked like. You only seemed some few years younger than Makarov, something he was not quite expecting. You looked older, maybe late 20’s through early 30’s if he had to bet on it. He was expecting someone younger. Looks like he didn’t do enough research, but that was fine. Or maybe this was just your disguise, it was hard to tell.
He could do that research after he got his hands on you.
Makarov sped up his pace to walk beside you for a couple of steps, and you seemed unbothered by this. Your face was black, void of emotion to the fellow emotionless man. Though, he could tell you were still wary of him. Not that he blamed you, but you had no clue what was coming your way.
“May I help you, sir?” Your voice is light, polite, but still void of any emotion. You were already an enigma to Makarov, no one was so nonchalant to him. He was someone who demanded respect.
“You can. I have a… proposition for your,” he pauses, thinking over the word, “abilities. You could be very helpful to me. I can promise you’ll be very well compensated and you’ll be able to return home.”
Your steps hesitate, just for a moment. But enough that the Russian man noticed. Ah, you hadn't realized that he knew. You must've thought he was going to ask for directions, or some other mundane, tourist thing. Well, he was no mundane man.
“I'll have to politely decline. I'm quite content with my work currently,” Your tone was more clipped now, more impatient with him. “I wish you a good day, for I must take my leave now.”
You begin to speed up, but Makarov reaches out and roughly grabs your arm with a tight, unyielding grip. A grin grows on his face, full of malice. He loved a good protest, really got his blood pumping.
“Unfortunately, and not for me, you either come willingly or I will have to force you,” Makarov states clearly despite his heavy russian accent, authority dripping from his tone. His patience, what little of it he had, was running out quickly. “It makes no difference to me.”
Your eyes widen and he can spot the exact moment the panic hits you. It's a glorious moment, truly, and he wishes he could slow time to savor it. Causing this panic is a rush of adrenaline that he openly craves. It's perfect and Makarov loves how much power he holds over you now.
You rip your arm out Makarov's grip, his nails leaving behind a nasty looking scratch. He can see your form already beginning to change.
A gentle touch was never who he was. He demanded and he took only for himself.
The first changes are subtle, hard to tell at first. It was things that could be easily overlooked, your hair starting to change length, your eye color changing, face beginning to tweak. But as your panic continued to build, they grew far more drastic. Your face was rapidly changing shape, reflecting faces he saw earlier in the day and then his own, and then another Makarov didn’t recognize. Your hair also began to rapidly change, length growing and shortening, while quickly changing colors.
Then that’s where it began to grow more gruesome.
More animal-like features begin to come and go, like a brief tail or wings, or slitted pupils.Scales cover your skin before being reabsorbed, ears curving but then flattening against the side of your head. It looked incredibly painful, though Makarov did not care how painful it was for you. Seeing a changeling this close, changing so rapidly, was far more interesting to the twisted man.
It's beautiful in the most animalistic way possible. Almost makes him wish you came willingly, so he could explore it more. To dig his nails in and force it under more pleasurable circumstances, really. But he could tell you were growing more agitated, and he couldn’t risk you trying to attack him.
Though, he did bring a syringe for this specific reason. He reaches into his pocket to pull it out. This medicine, if it could be called that as it was more of a drug, was extremely experimental.
As a child, Makarov had heard there was a concoction to force a changeling to rapidly, continually change so long as it was in their system. Changeling’s system processed drugs differently than a normal human, otherwise he would’ve just sedated you and moved on. But this would keep you incapacitated until he could get you back to Russia, as he had plenty of it to make it last.
Even as your pained screams grew, he still didn’t worry. Your intense panic was already acting like a drug, your form trying to take on a new feature to protect you. Your bones were abruptly breaking and healing in just moments. He would feel bad for adding this drug to the mix, but you had chosen the route. He gave you an opportunity to come willingly.
But still, he wanted to watch you for a moment more. It was just so fascinating.
Makarov watches as your arms twist and bend in unnatural ways, breaking bones through your skin. Bright crimson drops down from where the bones stick out. Your eyes are shut, as if stuck in a walking nightmare.
You scream out, echoing in its ferality. It - you - sounds like a dying animal, really.
And this was only from your natural panic, too. This wasn't even from his concoction.
The russian was excited to see how much more you would change with his little drug in your system. He acts quickly, the needle plunging into your neck as he depresses the plunger. Pulling back, he watches as it takes over in your system with twisted curiosity.
You begin to grow monstrous, even in his eyes.
Your skin begins to open, bones protruding from the holes, turning into teeth. Seams begin to rip alongside your joints, forming eyes. They were wide with fear but crying tears of crimson color. Your limbs twist and turn, growing long and far more less human. You look like some sort of demented dog in Makarov’s eyes, one he wished to tame and force into being his loving pet. You were just the perfect thing for him.
As the panic grows too much for your mind to handle, your body falls limp and you fall unconscious. You weren’t used to so many changes in such a short time. Though, even unconscious, your body still twisted and shifted.
Makarov sighs in disappointment, he was hoping for more of a show. It seems you were a little too weak yet. Oh well, he would train you well. You would become much, much stronger in a very short amount of time.
He would make sure of it.
Makarov goes over to you and picks you up roughly. You let out a weak groan and your eyebrows draw together, but he doesn’t pay any mind to it. This pain is just a fraction of what he has planned for you. Since you wanted to defy him, he would seal his point that his orders were to be followed without hesitation with a more physical reminder.
He was not to be defied.
Your unconscious body is tossed none too gently into the back of Makarov’s vehicle. Thankfully, he planned for this and had his windows tinted darker than what was probably legal in this area but he didn’t care for that. He got you into his care now, and while his care wasn’t great, he would make sure you would do great things for him. Well, great in his eyes. He didn’t care how someone else would see it.
After strapping you in, he began to drive off, wishing he could’ve spent more time in your quaint little town. Maybe sniff out a few more weapons to put into his toybox. He could always use spares. Just in case you weren’t as strong as he believed you to be. He hoped you were, because finding replacements was never easy.
Some time later, you began to finally come to. Your head was throbbing and your body protested every moment you made. A groan forced its way out of your throat, struggling to gather your bearings.
Makarov watched passively from beyond your little “room”. It wasn’t really a room, it was a grimy, dark cell. Heavy metal was wrapped around your limbs and kept you close to the floor, a safety measure for himself. He wasn’t sure how good your capabilities were when you were more sound of mind. The Russian wasn’t willing to risk it.
Though, based on your earlier reaction, he heavily doubted you were combat trained. You were too flighty, too tracked on running. He would have his work cut out for him on training over that base instinct.
But, he was willing to wager that you could be great under his iron fist. Once you got more used to your changeling abilities, which he was willing to bet you suppressed your entire life and only used them when you got emotional. Granted, he didn’t have much to base off of this hypothesis, but Makarov would soon learn. This was all based off of what he observed of your reaction to him.
You were right to be scared of him, and Makarov would continue to foster that fear. It was better to be feared than loved in his mind, it kept people in line. It made his life easier.
As you started to gain your bearings, he could see the fear building behind your eyes. It made his blood rush. It made him feel powerful. Your eyes met his and became steely, which was no problem to him. He enjoyed a good challenge and you were trying to put up a fight. Trying being the key word, Makarov doubted it would last for long. He had faced far more tough challenges than you.
If anything, you would be more of a game to him.
“Where am I?” Your voice broke as you asked, obviously trying to put up a front. Your head dropped for a moment, likely from pain. “...What did you do to me?”
“Gave you a little something to help make you easier to transport,” Makarov’s voice was smooth, but void of emotion. It was almost slimy, it made a shiver go down your spine. “And to help me see how far your abilities could be pushed. It gave me a very good insight to you, really.”
Your eyes were so cold as you looked at him, which is what he was expecting. He knew you would resent him, even hate him, until he changed your mind. It would be a fun little side project for him, really. Something to fill the void of excitement.
“Let me go,” Your voice was steady, firm, with your brows furrowed, “I won’t help you - I can’t help you.”
Makarov just raised a single, arched brow at you. This was interesting, the way you said it. Like you were physically incapable of helping him. Well, given how much pain you seemed to be in, it wouldn’t be too surprising.
As it were, it seemed that changing your form too much caused you extreme pain. He imagined it like stretching a muscle you weren’t used to using. Oh well, any muscle could be built up and made stronger - like what Makarov planned to do to you. He just hoped you wouldn’t break before he got to use you, that would be a waste of his precious resources.
“Explain it to me,” Makarov demanded, his voice dark, “why you can’t help me, or so you say.”
He just had to have his suspicions confirmed. The greed turned his want into needs, ones that were going to be fulfilled no matter what others said.
“I- I just can’t-” You stumbled over your words like a newborn deer would stumble over its legs, it would be adorable if it weren’t so pathetic to him. Though, it seemed your fear of him pushed you to keep talking, “I can’t control it, I hardly count as a changeling, why do you think I was living where I was?”
Now that really piqued Makarov’s interest of you. Though, he was well of your lackadaisical attempt at playing weak to be let go. He knew you were powerful, far more than you knew yourself, he could just sense it. But he did believe you when you said you couldn’t control it.
But you began to speak again so he dragged his attention from his inner thoughts to your words.
“When I get emotional I’m forced to change, and it hurts so badly that I’ve never done it purposefully,” You blather on. He was already growing tired of your voice. Maybe if it weren’t so fear filled, he might enjoy it, but now it grated on his ears. “I can’t- I’m broken compared to other changelings.”
However, you did answer his question. So Makarov would go easy on you, for now anyway.
“I see, I’ll have to train that out of you then,” Makarov says, mostly to himself. He had his work lined out for him, you needed so much training. So much shaping, changing one might say but that might be too on the nose. “I can’t have you freezing up on me out in the field, or have your changes go wrong.”
Your eyes grow wide, but he pays it no mind. He pays it even less mind when you begin crying.
So, Makarov simply hums in assent to himself, confirming and planning in his mind, and turns to leave. A good couple of days in a dark cellar with no routine ought to shake you enough that he can begin training you to be a good dog that barked when he pulled your collar. Speaking of which, Makarov did have to actually check in on the progress of that.
He had begun to make it before collecting you, but it wasn’t quite finished yet. He still had several more features to add to it. Features that would help keep you more compliant to his whims.
Your soft sobs are the last thing Makarov hears from you as he exits the cell.
Several weeks later, Price slammed his fist against his willow desk. It shuddered beneath the force of the blow, knocking his pen cup over. Several papers slid off of the edge of it.
“What the FUCK do you mean Makarov has a new weapon?” Price demanded, his eyes burning with anger that threatened to consume him. He had enough on his plate, he didn’t have enough time to deal with the bloody bastard called Makarov.
He dragged a heavy, worn hand down his face after catching the expression on Laswell’s face. He blew out a breath.
“We don’t have the manpower to deal with a new threat from him, Garrick’s out on a mission is Slovenia, MacTavish and Riley are down in Las Almas again helping the Vaquero’s round up the last of Valeria’s men,” Price sighed, collapsing into his chair, which groaned under his weight. “And we both know I’m no one man army anymore.”
Laswell, who had been letting Price rant, crossed her arms with a severe expression on her face. She had flown all the way to England to tell Price herself about this mission. It was too high stakes for there to be any sort of trail. Nothing could go online and any paper used to keep track of details had to be burned.
Thankfully, she had a very good memory. Laswell had been in the business a long time.
“No, you aren’t John, but we have to take this threat seriously,” Laswell explained with the patience of a saint, “Makarov can’t be allowed not to be taken seriously, we have to put a pause on all the other things and deal with this first.”
Price sighed, for a second time, but sat up straighter in his chair. It was strange for Laswell to say to put a pause on all the other missions. She knew the work they did all over the world was incredibly important and most times, couldn’t be paused.
Well, of course she knew how important it was. She was the one woman army who gave them most of their missions and objectives. What she said went, really. She was a woman to be feared, even more so than Price.
If Laswell said it took importance, it always did.
“He took a civilian John.”
Price’s eyebrows immediately shot up and he sucked in a harsh breath. A civilian hostage wasn’t a new situation, but it was for Makarov. It was incredibly out of character for the Russian. The entire sitch seemed off. He wouldn't kidnap a civilian for no reason. Especially with him having a new weapon, well that couldn’t be entirely a coincidence.
“How long ago were they taken? Do we have contact with their family?” Price’s mind was going down the mental checklist. Establish a timeline, protect the family, save the civilian. It seemed simple enough on paper but it rarely was.
As it went with everything in their line of work.
“3 weeks ago, based on camera footage, no known family,” Laswell responded, as if she was reading off of a paper. Knowing her, she had photographic memory and just hid it well. It would be handy, would help with remembering accurate information. “Makarov was alone, his forces were halfway across the globe doing a weapons trade during the time. We sent some men over there to stop it, remember?”
Price nodded slowly, tucking all the information away for later. He desperately needed a drink to deal with this, though. So, he got up and poured two glasses of a proper whiskey, sliding one over to Laswell with another firm nod.
“Do we believe the civilian is the weapon, for whatever reason?” He asked, raising an eyebrow as he took a sip of the whiskey. It burned on the way down, but it kept him level headed if he only had one glass like this.
It was whiskey or a cigar, and he had smoked his last cigar when Garrick left for the mission in Slovenia.
“Changeling,” Laswell stated simply.
Which almost caused Price to spit out his drink. “Those have been extinct for nearly 3 decades, Kate,” the ‘that can’t be possible’ was evident in his tone. “Even if it were true, what evidence do we have to prove it?”
Laswell slid a burned disc towards Price, nodding at his near-ancient computer.
Price took the disc and inserted it into his computer’s disc tray. It loaded for several long seconds before pulling up a video. It was grainy and incredibly glitchy at first, though that might have been partially from the computer that was attempting to run it.
But then it fully loaded and Price could barely believe his eyes.
It was camera footage, obviously, so the view was poor and slightly obstructed, but what he could see was clear. Makarov stood in an impeccable suit as he, who Price assumed to be the kidnapped civilian, stood next to a monster-looking creature. Bones protruding from where your eyes should be and eyes ripping along the seams of your joints.
It was gruesome to watch, and made him sick to his stomach, really. And Price had seen all sorts of things throughout his years of being a SAS captain, but this topped it.
As the footage continued, your form became less and less human. Price could see the fear, the sheer panic on your face. The way Makarov stood there irked Price, the way the man seemed so nonchalant and unaffected to your fear and attempts to flee.
But as your body changed, you stayed frozen to your spot. Price wasn’t sure why, you could easily flee. Your form towered over the Russian, who seemed to be watching with rapt attention. Price could see his mouth moving, but he had no audio for the video. God, how he wished he did.
Shutting the computer lid, Price finally spoke, “I can… see your reasoning for believing them to be a changeling.” He worked to remove the disc to give back to Laswell.
“So, it is of utmost importance that we grab the civilian before Makarov can break them,” Laswell added, tucking away the disc in the case she had grabbed it from. It would be destroyed later.
Price nods slowly, digesting the words. He would need to pull his men back from their current missions to brief them over this new one. That would be a hassle, irritatingly so. The Vaqueros would understand for MacTavish and Riley leaving, as they truly understood the Brits’ scope of work. The captain leading Garrick’s mission would be less understanding, and would probably be a thorn in his side.
“I’ll get the boys pulled back here, probably be back within the next 24 hours,” Price pulled out his phone, getting ready to make several calls. “You should prepare the finer details so we only need to go over this once, Kate.”
Laswell nodded and took her leave, pulling out her own cell to prepare what Price called the finer details.
As Price predicted, less than 24 hours later, everyone was sitting in their respective spots in the briefing room. Ghost and Soap were more jetlagged than Kyle, considering they had a longer flight back. But, they had no time to waste.
“Sorry for rushing you back so suddenly, boys,” Laswell started, laying down some encoded papers regarding all the information she had scrounged together. Her eyes were so tired, she had been up for far too long at this point. “We’ll make this briefing quick, get some rest, and then you’ll ship out.”
Her tired, but sharp, eyes scanned over everyone. Soap was restlessly bouncing his leg, most likely trying to force himself to keep moving to keep from zoning out. While it wasn’t in the file, she suspected it was undiagnosed ADHD. But that wasn’t important. Ghost was silent and still, as always. But his eyes always gave him away, they were drooping more than normal. Gaz was tapping his pen against his leg, a focusing stim of his that Laswell had noticed a long time ago. Price leaned back against the wall near her, his arms crossed over his chest. Though she would never admit it, she knew it was his small way of self-soothing.
Everyone had their coping mechanisms, and she had never been a snitch.
After taking stock of everyone, Laswell nodded to herself. A near imperceptible motion.
“Alright, Makarov has taken a civilian, as you’ve all been told already,” she started, taking a breath. “However, the civilian has been proven to be a changeling.”
“And we believe they will be his new weapon.”
A/N: Oh my god this took forever to type and edit y'all </3
I was in and out of the hospital a lot while trying to complete this (From previous surgeries gone wrong, we think it should be good for now and last longer than previously thankfully)
I've begun writing chapter two so hopefully that will be out quicker than this one but i make no promises!! Leave a like and maybe a comment bc i so badly wanna yap about this to people who wanna yap back
Changeling reader is not going to be having a fun time :)
The first chapter is from Makarov's POV, so i've been tryna focus on that so reader's emotions aren't super touched on (but will be in a later chapter!!)
Y'all, I'm not dead. I just got hit with the ao3 author curse 🧍♂️
Anyway, chapter 1 of changeling!reader is about halfway done (sitting at an edited 2500 words rn) and i've been tryna plug away at it between work and school!! Sorry i havent posted more
I got the outline for the changeling!reader story done, and hoo boy, it'll be a long one!
It'll be 6 chapters, with varying pov's and tons of characters, and each chapter will be a minimum of 5k words(except maybe the epilogue, as it'll just nicely tie up all the loose ends from previous chapters). And it is Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader, as promised and does follow the general storyline from the poll post. It will also cover some heavy tags, so check each chapters tags before reading
That said, enjoy how i outline my larger projects:
Aka, sticky notes taped to my wall so I don't lose them lmao
hi! sorry to bother but can you double check the links in your masterlist? :(
i got curious ab your works when i found a foster hybrid 141 story and then i found the cat shifter but tumblr keeps saying no post found:(
this is absolutely no bother at all! This was a good reminder for me to re-do/update it
So all the links have been resorted and should be up to date! I went through and made sure they're all working but if it stops, just send another message into my askbox <3
