#echos and equilibrium

[hotelraleigh]

the professors au that nobody asked for

[halemerry]

I just. What do you think was going through his mind when his car exploded into pieces in front of him and the piece that landed next to him was a hand crank? Like the world was ending around him, he'd just gone through the rollercoaster of losing and then finding his angel again, and from the burning bones of the Bentley fate offers him an echo of the same object he'd once been given divinely. What did it feel like to reach for a souvenir and find that object given to him in this new context? What did it feel like to use that again in this moment of once again offering the fate of humanity up to the choice of one it's own? To be able to hold this thing, born again from a human made object, and say this time I am going to use it to give them the opportunity to choose their own fate?

[beautifulplaceofyouth]

WERE YOU PLANNING TO JOIN ME?

summary - Driven by curiosity, you impulsively open Caleb's ajar bathroom door and find him, near-naked and captivating, polishing a gun. His intense gaze meets yours in the mirror, creating a moment of charged silence and unspoken questions.

pairing - Caleb!Yandere x Reader (Best friends!au)

(nsfw +18) - He is absolutely insane in this (they both are), inexperienced!reader!first time, male!receiving, female!receiving, vaginal raw shower sex, creampie, a lot of tears, gun play as in...literally, knife throwing, a lot of banter and tension, gravity and resonance evol usage, praise kink, nipple play, neck biting, pet names(sweetheart, baby, princess), a lot of dirty talk, he is very much bossy, possessive and sadistic as always. This is a little bit angst but sweet. He likes it rough.

w-20k - Got carried away with this one because I was too excited. I don't even care that it isn't like the original. I needed this.

Masterlist

The rhythmic drumming of the shower fills the opulent, cloud-kissed apartment. Skyhaven, a marvel of suspended architecture and technological prowess, hums with a quiet energy, a stark contrast to the sudden flutter in your chest. You're here, a visitor in Caleb's extraordinary world, drawn by a longing that has quietly bloomed over years of shared history. A mischievous impulse takes hold – a desire to catch him off guard, to inject a spark of playful surprise into his meticulously ordered life.

Your mind drifts back to the Chronorift Catastrophe of '34, a dark mark on the timeline that had unexpectedly woven your lives together. Orphaned in its wake, you and Caleb found solace and a surrogate family in Gran's warm, welcoming embrace. 

The bond forged in those turbulent years was unlike any other, a tapestry woven with threads of shared sorrow, unwavering loyalty, and a silent understanding that transcended words. Caleb, always the stoic protector, and you, the fiery, independent spirit, found a strange equilibrium within Gran's chaotic, loving home. He was your brother in all but blood, your confidante, your rock.

That was fourteen years ago. Now, standing outside his bathroom door in Skyhaven, in his own domain, the air thick with steam and anticipation, you feel a subtle shift in the familiar dynamic. The playful surprise you intend feels laced with something else, a tremor of nervous excitement that you can't quite explain.

Drawn by an irresistible curiosity, you move closer. The door is slightly ajar, a teasing invitation that your impulsive nature can't resist. A frown furrows your brow. It's unusual for Caleb to leave anything to chance, especially a door. The scent of his sandalwood soap mingles with the humid air, further fueling your burgeoning anticipation.

Against your better judgment, against the silent warnings echoing in your head, you push the door open. The hinges sigh in protest, a sound that seems deafening in the otherwise silent apartment.

The scene that unfolds before you steals the breath from your lungs. Time seems to slow, each detail etching itself onto your memory with vivid clarity.

There he is. Caleb.

Towering and undeniably male, he stands bathed in the diffused light of the futuristic bathroom. Water droplets cling to his skin, catching the light like scattered diamonds, tracing the sculpted lines of his back. The muscles ripple with restrained power, a testament to years of rigorous training and the demanding life he leads as a Fleetspace Colonel. His dark hair, usually impeccably styled, is damp and tousled, falling across his forehead in a manner that is both boyish and utterly captivating.

A simple white towel is slung low around his hips, offering a tantalizing glimpse of the lean, powerful physique beneath. But it's not the near-nudity that truly stops you in your tracks.

Around his neck, nestled against the tanned skin of his throat, gleams a familiar piece of silver. Your silver Chan dog tag. The one you gave him the day he left for DAA, a small token of your affection and unwavering belief in him. He’s always worn it, a constant reminder of your shared past, a silent promise of enduring connection. The sight of it there, against his skin, sends a jolt of unexpected warmth through your veins.

Caleb is standing in front of a large, impeccably clean mirror, his reflection staring back at him with an intensity that sends shivers down your spine. He's doing something with his hands, something that makes your heart pound in your chest.

Your gaze drops to his hands, and your breath hitches in your throat. He’s holding a gun. A large, black, undeniably lethal weapon. He is wiping it meticulously with a white towel, his movements precise and practiced.

As a hunter yourself, you’re no stranger to firearms. They are tools, instruments of protecting the city from wanderers, as familiar to you as your own gun you wield with deadly accuracy. You've seen Caleb handle weapons countless times, witnessed firsthand his skill and expertise. But seeing him here, in the sterile intimacy of his bathroom, polishing a gun with such focused intensity, feels… different. Disturbing, even. This isn’t the Caleb you know. Or perhaps it is, just a side of him you haven't been privy to before.

Your eyes travel back up, drawn to his reflection in the mirror. And then, they lock with his.

His eyes, that arresting shade of violet that has always held a strange power over you, are fixed on yours. There's a flicker of surprise, a fleeting shadow of something unreadable, before they settle into an unnervingly calm, assessing gaze.

Shit.

The silence stretches, thick and heavy with unspoken questions and burgeoning awareness. You feel like a deer caught in headlights, paralyzed by the intensity of his stare. Your mind races, desperately trying to formulate an explanation, a plausible excuse for your blatant intrusion.

He lowers the gun, placing it carefully on the pristine countertop. The sound is almost deafening in the otherwise silent room. He doesn't break eye contact.

“Were you planning on joining me?” His voice is low, a rumble that vibrates through the air, sending a fresh wave of heat washing over your skin. 

There's a teasing lilt to his words, a hint of amusement that barely masks the underlying tension.

You swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. "I... I just wanted to surprise you." The words sound weak, unconvincing even to your own ears.

A slow smile spreads across his face, transforming his features, softening the harsh lines of his jaw. "You succeeded." He takes a step closer, closing the distance between you, his eyes never leaving yours. "Though I must admit, I prefer your surprises to be a little less… intrusive."

You flush, your cheeks burning under his scrutiny. "I didn't mean to… to intrude. I just heard the shower, and..." You trail off, unable to articulate the jumble of thoughts and emotions swirling within you.

"And?" he prompts, his voice a husky whisper.

You take a deep breath, trying to regain your composure. "And I thought I'd catch you off guard."

He chuckles, a low, throaty sound that sends a shiver down your spine. "You always were a noisy person, weren't you?" 

He takes another step, and now you're close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, to smell the lingering scent of sandalwood and something else, something uniquely Caleb.

"Only when necessary," you retort, your voice regaining a touch of its usual fire. "Besides, you leave the door open. What did you expect?"

"Perhaps," he says, his gaze dropping to your lips, "I wanted to be caught."

Your heart leaps into your throat. "Caught doing what, exactly?"

The air crackles with a strange energy, a mixture of tension and something undeniably… charged. Before you can fully process the situation, he uses his gravity manipulation – a casual display of power that still sends shivers down your spine – to slam the door shut behind you with his mind alone. The click of the lock echoes in the suddenly confined space, a definitive sound that seals you both inside.

You jump, startled by the abruptness of it all. The sound reverberates through the apartment, amplifying the awareness of your isolation. Your heart pounds a little faster in your chest, a mixture of apprehension and a thrill you can’t quite explain.

“Just making sure no one else gets any ‘surprising’ ideas.” His eyes twinkle mischievously, the light glinting off the moisture in his now-drying hair. But beneath the playful glint, there’s an unmistakable intensity, a smoldering ember that catches your breath. 

He runs a hand through his damp hair, that simple gesture somehow drawing attention to the sculpted lines of his shoulders and arms, unconsciously giving you a full view of his muscular physique. The water droplets cling to his skin, emphasizing the lean strength that's usually hidden beneath his uniform. 

"You know," he begins, his voice a low drawl that seems to caress the air.

You frown, pulling yourself back from the brink of distraction. "In your apartment? Really?" You scoff, trying to inject a note of normalcy into the increasingly unusual situation. "You're a colonel, you know better than to leave your own home vulnerable. You wouldn’t let just anyone in like that… And besides," you shrug, gesturing vaguely, "you added my fingerprint to your automatic door lock, remember?"

He raises an eyebrow, a slow, deliberate movement that accentuates the sharp angles of his face. A smirk, knowing and undeniably attractive, plays on his lips. 

"True," he concedes, his voice laced with amusement. "But you never know when someone might try to pull a fast one, even with biometric security." He backs away from you, moving with the effortless grace you’ve come to expect, and leans against the counter, his arms crossed casually over his chest. The posture is relaxed, almost nonchalant, but you sense the underlying alertness, the coiled energy that’s always present. "Besides," he adds, his gaze locking with yours, "I didn't expect you to be the one sneaking up on me."

You scowl, your carefully constructed composure starting to fray at the edges. "I didn't… I just wanted to give you a surprise visit. I didn't know you'd be polishing your toys," you nod pointedly at his gun, lying disassembled on the nearby counter. The metal gleams under the lamplight, a stark reminder of the dangerous world he now inhabits since you got together again.

He chuckles, the sound a warm rumble in his chest, and uncrossing his arms to pick up his gun again. He examines a piece with careful precision. "You should see your face when you make that scowl," he teases, his smirk widening. "It's quite... endearing." He polishes the gun absentmindedly, his movements fluid and practiced. "So, no sneaking around to steal my food or snoop through my stuff this time?"

“Excuse you?” You exclaim, indignation flooding your voice. “I’m not… I just…”

He cuts you off, still chuckling. "Relax, I'm just messing with you," he says, his voice softening slightly. He sets the gun down with a soft clink and walks over to you, his movements fluid and predatory, like a panther stalking its prey. The space between you shrinks, the air growing thick with unspoken desires. "You're the only one I let get away with stealing my food, remember? It’s practically a tradition at this point."

“It’s not my fault that you always give me snacks…” you mumble, trying to deflect the intensity of his gaze. It's true, of course. He always has a stash of your favorite treats, and he never seems to mind when you help yourself.

"Because you always end up rummaging through my pantry anyway," he retorts, ruffling your hair playfully, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary. He steps back, creating a sliver of distance, and resumes polishing his gun, his expression turning thoughtful. "Speaking of snooping..."

You clear your throat, a nervous tic that betrays your guilt. Your eyes dart around the room, avoiding his piercing stare. “I didn’t do it again. I swear.”

He pauses in his task, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. The playful glint is gone, replaced by a sharp, assessing look. "You promise?" he asks, his tone laced with skepticism. He sets the gun down with a sigh and turns to face you fully, his arms crossed again, his body a wall between you and the door. "You swear on your favorite chocolate bar that you haven't been going through my stuff lately?"

You look at the bathroom ceiling, as if searching for answers in the mundane. "Oh, would you look at that? There’s some dust." You point vaguely upwards, hoping to distract and deflect. 

The attempt is weak, even you know it. The dust is barely visible, and the pathetic maneuver only serves to confirm his suspicions. You’re caught, and you know it. You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, the telltale sign of your guilt.

He follows your gaze, his expression unreadable. "You're not distracting me that easily," he says, his voice low and even, a subtle rumble that vibrates through the humid air of the bathroom. It’s a statement, but also a dare. A challenge laid bare in the space between you. 

He moves with a quiet grace that belies his muscular build, each step deliberate and measured. The tiles are cool beneath his bare feet as he closes the distance between you. “Look at me,” he commands, the request laced with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken.

You back away, a primal instinct taking over as you try to create distance, a buffer between his raw masculinity and the sudden vulnerability you feel. The cool, smooth surface of the door presses against your spine, the only barrier between you and escape. But escape from what, exactly? The question hangs in the air, thick and unspoken.

He stops in his tracks, respecting the boundary you've unconsciously set. A hint of amusement dances in his eyes, a flicker of knowing that sends a shiver down your spine. "Afraid I'll catch you in a lie?" he asks, his voice a soft challenge, a velvet-wrapped threat. 

The air crackles with unspoken tension. He takes another step, closing the gap, his body almost pressing against yours. You’re trapped, caught between the solid, unyielding door and the magnetic pull of his presence.

Your throat tightens, and you swallow hard, the sound amplified in the confined space. Your gaze involuntarily drops, snagged by the sight of his damp chest, the water droplets clinging to the sculpted planes of his abs like tiny, glittering jewels. He’s fresh from the shower, his skin gleaming, radiating a heat that seems to seep into your own. 

You try to look away, but it’s like staring at the sun – blinding, yet impossible to resist.

He notices your wandering gaze, the subtle widening of your eyes, the almost imperceptible intake of breath. A slow, knowing smirk curls his lips, a predator recognizing its prey. His voice drops to a low purr, a sound that resonates deep within you. "See something you like?" he asks, the words laced with playful arrogance. 

His hand comes up, not to touch, but to stake his claim on the space around you, resting on the door beside your head, caging you in with the casual ease of someone who knows his power. His other hand reaches out, his touch feather-light as he tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze, to acknowledge the desire that’s simmering beneath the surface.

“Caleb…” you warn, the word a breathless whisper, a plea for him to stop, even though a part of you doesn’t want him to.

"Mhm?" He hums, a sound of pure amusement that vibrates against your skin. His finger remains tilted on your chin, holding you captive, his lips only inches away from yours. The air between you crackles with unspoken promises. His voice drops to a whisper, a seductive murmur that sends shivers down your spine. "You're the one who showed up unannounced in my shower..." He intentionally leans forward just a tiny bit more, testing your boundaries, pushing you to the edge. 

You can feel the warmth of his breath on your skin, smell the clean, fresh scent of soap mingled with his intoxicating natural musk.

Panic flares, a desperate need to break free from the intoxicating spell he’s weaving. You turn your head, the movement abrupt and jerky, right as his lips brush your cheek. It’s a near miss, a tantalizing tease that leaves you breathless and yearning.

He pulls back slightly, a playful smirk tugging at his lips as he notices your abrupt movement. "Missed by inches," he murmurs, his breath tickling your cheek, sending a fresh wave of goosebumps across your skin. 

He leans away from the door, giving you some space, a sliver of freedom, but keeping his proximity close enough that his damp skin still radiates warmth, a constant reminder of the intimacy you just shared.

You turn to look at him, your heart pounding against your ribs, trying to regain some semblance of control. 

“What are you doing?” you ask, the question barely audible, lost in the chaotic rhythm of your own breathing.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" He counters, his eyes searching yours with a mix of curiosity and something else, something that makes your stomach flip. He raises his hand again, this time tracing the curve of your jaw with his thumb, a slow, deliberate caress that ignites a fire within you. "I'm just making sure you're not going to keep avoiding eye contact with me." The statement is a challenge, an invitation to engage, to stop hiding behind your carefully constructed walls.

You blush, the heat rising in your cheeks, betraying your carefully constructed composure. “I’m not…avoiding you…and…can you unlock the door so I can get out?” you stammer, the words tumbling out in a rush, a desperate attempt to regain control of the situation.

He raises an eyebrow, a smirk still playing on his lips, enjoying your flustered state. 

"Afraid of being alone with me?" he asks, the question laced with teasing mockery. But then, he relents, stepping aside and unlocking the door. "Here you go." He gestures towards the open door, a clear path to freedom, but he doesn't move away from it completely, keeping his body angled towards you, a silent promise of more.

You raise an eyebrow, mirroring his earlier expression, a spark of defiance flickering in your eyes. “That easy? I thought I will have to borrow your gun to shoot the lock.” The words are meant to be flippant, a way to deflect the intensity of the moment, but there’s also a grain of truth in them.

A laugh escapes him as he hears your joke, a deep, genuine sound that washes over you, easing the tension in your muscles. A real smile spreads across his face, transforming his features, making him look younger, more approachable. "You'd have to pry it out of my cold, dead hands," he says, still chuckling softly, the sound warm and intimate in the small space. 

His gaze flickers to your lips briefly, a fleeting moment of undeniable desire, before returning to your eyes, his smile lingering, a silent invitation.

This time you smirk, a slow, confident curve of your lips. “In love with it too much?” you challenge, pushing his buttons, daring him to reveal more.

"Damn right," he grins, his shoulders relaxing, the tension finally easing from his body. He unconsciously adjusts the towel lower on his hips, unknowingly giving you a better view of his sculpted abs, the movement casual, yet undeniably provocative. "You almost had me there with the shooting the lock thing." He chuckles again, the sound warm and inviting. If you were desperate enough to, you would probably do it but he knew you were bluffing this time.

Before he can predict your move, you lunge forward, a reckless impulse taking over. You run to take his gun, a daring act of defiance.

But before you can even grasp the gun, Caleb swiftly lunges forward with surprising speed, his wet feet slipping slightly on the bathroom mat. He regains his balance with effortless grace, using his evol to steady himself. 

He grabs your wrist just as your fingers brush against the cool metal of the gun, his grip firm but not painful. "Uh-uh," he chastises playfully, his voice a low rumble, a warning and an invitation all in one.

“I touched it,” you smirk, a triumphant glint in your eyes.

"You barely grazed it," He retorts, pulling his hand back slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. He watches your smirk, your unknowingly tempting body language, the way your chest rises and falls with each breath. 

God, you’re killing him. He swallows hard, struggling to maintain control. "You know stealing's wrong, right?" He adds teasingly, the words a lighthearted attempt to break the tension, to mask the desire that's raging within him.

You glance at his gun on the counter beneath the white towel, the cold steel a stark contrast to the domesticity of the setting. Your fingers twitch, yearning to close around the familiar weight, to reclaim a sense of control in this tense dance you've been locked in. You try to reach it again, stretching but he anticipates your move with a speed that borders on preternatural. He shifts his weight, a subtle adjustment that places his body squarely between you and the gun. 

"Nice try," he chuckles, the sound a low rumble that vibrates through the air. His eyes, usually guarded and watchful, are sparkling with amusement, a playful glint dancing in their depths. But beneath the surface, you catch a glimpse of something more intense, a smoldering heat that sends a shiver down your spine.

He keeps your wrist gently but firmly in his grasp, his fingers warm against your skin, preventing any further attempts. His touch is light, almost teasing, but the underlying strength is palpable. "You really want that thing?" he asks, his voice a husky whisper that seems to wrap around you.

You shrug, feigning indifference, though your heart is hammering against your ribs. "You're so protective of it. Might as well be your girlfriend." The words are laced with sarcasm, a desperate attempt to mask the turmoil swirling within you.

His lips twitch with suppressed laughter, the corners of his mouth lifting in a tantalizing curve. "Jealous?" he teases softly, his thumb unconsciously rubbing a slow circle against your wrist. The simple gesture sends a jolt of electricity through your veins, making it difficult to breathe. "Here," he says, surprising you by releasing your wrist and placing the gun within your easy reach. 

"See if you can steal it." He challenges, his eyes dropping to your lips briefly, a fleeting moment that feels like a brand against your skin.

Your eyes glint with challenge, a spark igniting within you. It's not just about the gun; it's about the game, the chase, the intoxicating pull that exists between the two of you. "No cheating," you say, your voice low and husky, mirroring his own. "We can't use our evols."

"Deal," he whispers, a competitive edge creeping into his voice. He purposefully places the gun just slightly out of immediate reach, as if daring you to try. Then, he steps back, giving you space, ready for your move. His posture is relaxed, almost nonchalant, but his eyes are laser-focused on you, tracking every movement, every breath. They spark with excitement, the thrill of competition mixed with something else, something far more dangerous, that's becoming harder and harder to ignore.

With a swiftness that belies your earlier feigned indifference, you sidestep him, your body a blur of motion. You feint to the left, drawing his attention, then pivot sharply to the right, using the momentum to deliver a swift and precise kick with your elbow, sending the gun spinning into the air. You lunge forward, reaching out, your fingers closing around the cold, hard steel just as it begins to fall.

"-Shit," he curses under his breath, impressed despite himself. He moves to block your escape route, reacting purely on instinct, but in his haste, he ends up accidentally catching your waist in his arms. 

The air rushes from your lungs as his hands wrap around you, pulling you against him. For a moment, time seems to stand still. 

You're practically chest to chest, his rough breathing audible in your ear, mingling with your own ragged gasps. His heat radiates through your clothes, a tangible force that threatens to melt away your resolve. "You fucking cheated," he accuses, his voice a low growl against your skin.

“How? I said, no evols. Just our hands.” You fight to keep your voice steady, to project an air of nonchalance that you certainly don't feel.

"...Your foot," he mutters, his gaze flicking down to your feet before returning to your eyes, his expression a mixture of frustration and grudging admiration. His hands remain wrapped around your waist, his thumbs brushing against the curve of your hips. The contact is innocent enough, but the sensation is anything but. 

He swallows hard, his mind suddenly filled with inappropriate images, a dangerous dream landscape of him kissing you like he always wanted to and cross that line for once. "Give it back," he demands, his voice strained, barely a whisper.

You smirk, a slow, deliberate curve of your lips that you know drives him crazy with annoyance and amusement. You reach behind you, intending to stash the gun out of reach, but of course, he anticipates your move. He uses his gravity evol, the familiar force field shimmering almost invisibly around you both.

As you try to place the gun behind you, Caleb's gravity evol kicks in, the subtle pressure intensifying, making it impossible for you to move the gun away from his reach. You're caught in his invisible web, your movements restricted, your will subtly bent to his. He leans in slightly, his breath warm against your temple, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through your very core. 

"Not so fast," he murmurs, the words a promise and a threat all rolled into one. His hands tighten around your waist, pulling you a fraction closer, eliminating the already minuscule space between you.

“Uh…not fair,” you grit your teeth, the words forced out as you struggle against his evol, your muscles straining against the invisible force. You can feel the heat radiating from his body, the tension coiled tight within him, mirroring the tension that's gripping you.

"All's fair in love and war," he murmurs, his face inches from yours. His eyes, dark and intense, flick down to your lips again, lingering there for a moment too long. The air crackles with unspoken desires, with the weight of years of suppressed longing. He reaches around you slowly, deliberately, his chest pressing against your back as he plucks the gun effortlessly from your hand with his other. 

The contact sends a jolt of electricity through your body, igniting a fire that threatens to consume you both.

He chuckles, the sound a low, throaty rumble that sends shivers down your spine, the gun now back in his possession, safely out of your reach. "You touched it because you cheated with your foot," he argues, his arms still wrapped possessively around your waist, effectively trapping you against him. 

He pulls you a little closer, as if testing the limits, his gravity evol making it increasingly difficult for you to step away, to create any semblance of distance.

“Caleb…stop it,” you hiss, desperately trying to regain control of the situation, of yourself. The proximity is intoxicating, too close, too dangerous.

"Stop what?" he asks innocently, even though his grip on your waist tightens slightly and his breath is warm against your ear, sending a fresh wave of goosebumps across your skin. He knows exactly what he's doing, and the smirk playing on his lips gives him away. "I'm just holding you so you don't try to steal my gun again." The lie hangs in the air between you, a fragile shield against the storm of emotions threatening to erupt.

You glare, fighting to maintain eye contact, but your gaze is drawn, almost against your will, to the silver dog tag chain nestled between his pecs, rising and falling with each breath. Your gift for him. A silent promise of safe return.

He feels your stare silver necklace glinting under the light, a tangible reminder of your connection. His mind wanders back to the day you gave it to him when he left for DAA, engraved with a little red apple and the words "When you come back". A lump forms in his throat, a wave of tenderness washing over him. His hands on your waist flex unconsciously, pulling you closer, as if wanting to erase the distance that has always separated you.

His eyes soften as he glances down at the dog tags, remembering the care and emotion behind your gift. The playful smirk fades from his lips as he realizes how close you are, your bodies almost melding together in the confined space. 

He clears his throat nervously, the sound amplified by the sudden shift in atmosphere. "You giving me that glare because you lost, or..."

"I will get that gun," you hiss, your voice a low, determined rumble. The air crackles with your competitive spirit, a challenge laid bare.

A low laugh escapes him, his chest vibrating against your back, sending shivers down your spine. "Is that so?" He challenges softly, his grip on your waist loosening slightly, but not enough for you to escape easily. His eyes spark with a mix of amusement and something more intense, a hunger that makes your breath hitch in your throat. "You want it that bad? Come and get it."

"Caleb…I swear…" you start, a warning laced with a hint of exasperation. You can feel the heat radiating from his body, a dangerous warmth that threatens to melt your resolve.

"You swear what?" His lips quirk up in a teasing smirk as he senses your growing frustration. With deliberate slowness, he slips the gun behind his back, keeping it just out of your reach, a silent promise of the game to come. "You're welcome to try," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, sending another wave of shivers through you.

You close your eyes, taking a deep breath and trying to resonate with his own evol, the unique energy that surrounds him, a key to unlocking his defenses. The air hums with anticipation.

"Smart," he whispers approvingly, feeling your evol activate, a tangible connection forming between you. Normally, this would be a fair competition, a test of skill and power. But with his arms still wrapped around your waist, trapping you against him, he's enjoying this too much to let you win easily. Instead of resisting your gravity pull, he uses it to his advantage, subtly shifting his weight, drawing you even closer. "You feel that?"

"Just a bit," you grit your teeth, focusing on the task at hand. "I will have it." The heat of his body is a distraction, a tantalizing temptation that wars with your determination.

He chuckles softly, his breath warm against your neck, making the hairs stand on end. 

"Is that a promise?" he teases, his grip on you tightening just enough to make it clear he's not going to let you have the gun easily. 

He shifts slightly, using his own evol against you, pulling you even closer until you can feel the hard planes of his chest against your back.

"Caleb!" you exclaim, a mixture of annoyance and something akin to pleasure coloring your tone. You can feel your resolve crumbling under the weight of his nearness.

"Too slow," He laughs, feeling your gravity push against him half-heartedly. He realizes you're trying not to push too hard, afraid of hurting him. His smirk widens, a predatory gleam entering his eyes. "You're not trying hard enough," He taunts, "Here, I'll make it easier."

You bite back a retort, your mind racing, searching for a way to break free from his intoxicating hold.

He shifts his body slightly, giving you a small opening, a sliver of hope in your current predicament. But instead of making it easy for you to grab the gun, he uses the opportunity to lean in even closer, his lips almost brushing against your ear, his breath ghosting over your skin. "Come on," he whispers, his voice low and challenging, husky with desire. "Show me what you've got."

You shiver, despite yourself, and swallow hard. The nearness of him is intoxicating, a potent cocktail of danger and desire. You decide to move, channeling all your energy into a sudden burst of momentum.

"There," He whispers softly as you move, finally putting some real effort into your evol. His smirk widens, a glint of admiration in his eyes. You're fast, he'll give you that. 

He sees an opening at your sudden move and takes it, his reflexes honed from years of training. He whirls around, mirroring your resonance pull, creating a vortex of energy between you.

"Hey!" The gun gets floated in the air above your head, spinning gently in the space between you. Since you were short, you couldn’t get it, your fingers grasping at empty air.

"Gotcha," he laughs triumphantly, watching the gun float effortlessly towards his hand from above. He catches it with ease, his eyes twinkling with amusement. He looks down at you, still floating about a foot off the ground, your arms stretching up to try and reach the gun, your brow furrowed in frustration.

"Caleb! It will not kill you if you give it to me," you plead, your voice tinged with a playful desperation.

He laughs heartily, his chest shaking with mirth. "And miss out on this?" He asks, gesturing to your futile struggle, his eyes sparkling with delight. "No way." He holds the gun just out of your reach, his arm extended high above you, a tantalizing prize. "Say please."

You pull a deep breath, steeling your resolve. You decide to use your other card, the one that always works, the one that exploits his soft spot. He always falls for that. Your eyes get sad, a well-practiced expression of vulnerability, and you pout, your lower lip trembling slightly. "You don't love me anymore," you say, your voice barely a whisper, laced with mock sorrow.

"Damn it," He mutters softly, his expression instantaneously softening, the playful gleam replaced with a flicker of guilt. He lowers the gun slightly, his eyes searching your face, his thumb caressing the cool metal. "You know that's not true," He says softly, his voice losing its competitive edge, replaced with a tender warmth. "Here," He lifts his chin towards the gun, floating it gently within your reach, surrendering to your carefully constructed emotional trap.

You lunge at it, your fingers wrapping tightly around the cool steel.

"Too easy," He laughs, a hint of exasperation in his voice, as you snatch the gun out of the air. He watches your serious expression, your pout gone, replaced with determined eyes, a triumphant glint shining in their depths. 

He swallows tightly, mesmerized by your transformation. "You cheated," He accuses softly, his competitive nature re-igniting slightly. "Using those puppy eyes."

You smirk, a mischievous glint in your eyes, as you look at the big black weapon in your hand, savoring your victory.

He shakes his head in amused disbelief, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. "I fall for that every time," he murmurs, watching you proudly display your prize, his gaze lingering on your face, admiring your cunning and determination. Caleb spreads his hands in mock surrender, his eyes gleaming mischievously. "Congrats, you win this round."

You grin, feeling a surge of satisfaction course through you. "Yes."

The playful glint in Caleb's eyes is disarming, even as he playfully mocks, "Don't get too cocky," his voice a low rumble that vibrates against your skin. He takes a step back, a gentlemanly concession of space, yet the air crackles with unresolved tension. "You know I won't go easy on you next time." A pause hangs in the air, the silence amplifying the intimacy of the moment. His expression softens, a flicker of something deeper replacing the teasing. "You know what?"

"Mmm?" you hum, the sound a question and an invitation.

"You've gotten really good," Caleb says, the admiration in his voice a stark contrast to his earlier jesting. It’s an honest, unguarded compliment, a moment of genuine respect that makes your heart flutter. "I swear, in a few years, you'll probably be better than me." He chuckles softly, shaking his head as if marveling at the impossible. "Lucky for me, I've still got a few tricks up my sleeve."

A genuine smile blossoms across your face, warming your cheeks. "Do you think so?" you ask, the words barely a whisper, laced with a mixture of disbelief and hope. You know you were pretty good hunter but be better than him who is taller and stronger than you? That was a big compliment.

"Duh," he grins widely, that competitive spark reigniting in his eyes. He loves that you're humble, your lack of ego only fueling his desire to push you, to see how far you can go. "You're like a sponge. You learn something once, you got it. I swear, you're scary good." He laughs softly, a sound that always manages to send shivers down your spine. "Here," he says suddenly, reaching into a nearby basket. 

Without warning, he throws a small dagger in your direction.

Years of training kick in, instinct taking over. You react without thinking, your hand shooting out, effortlessly catching the dagger mid-air. Simultaneously, you set the gun you had been holding down on the counter.

He whistles appreciatively, his brows raised in genuine surprise. "Damn, you're fast today." The playful teasing returns, but there's an undercurrent of something more, a respect for your skill that he can't quite hide. He moves closer, closing the distance between you in a heartbeat. His voice drops lower, becoming a husky murmur that sends a shiver snaking down your spine. "And you caught it perfectly." He reaches out to take the dagger, his fingers purposefully brushing against yours in the handoff, a deliberate act of provocation.

A wave of awareness washes over you. You instinctively hide the dagger behind your back, the cool metal a reassuring weight in your hand. It's then that you realize you're backed against the bathroom counter, the cool tile a stark contrast to the heat radiating from Caleb. 

He notices your realization, the triumphant smirk that spreads across his face a clear indication that he's exactly where he wants to be. 

He takes another step closer, effectively trapping you. His voice drops to a teasing whisper, a low rumble that seems to vibrate through your very bones. "Cornered already?" He leans in slightly, his eyes never leaving yours, a captivating gaze that holds you captive. "You know, for someone who just won a gun off me, you seem pretty vulnerable right now."

"You always do this," you scoff, the word laced with a mixture of annoyance and amusement. "Play and tease me."

"And you always fall for it," he retorts, his face just inches from yours. You can feel his warm breath on your skin, the scent of him filling your senses. "It's cute." He reaches behind you, his body pressing against yours, a blatant act of intimacy designed to fluster you. His fingers brush against your back as he reaches for the knife you're holding, the deliberate contact sending a jolt of electricity through you.

You tighten your grip on the dagger, a stubborn refusal to relinquish control. The game is on, and you're not about to back down.

He feels you tightening your grip, a smug smile tugging at his lips. He loves this, the push and pull, the battle of wills that always seems to erupt between you. "Let go of the knife," he whispers, his eyes locked in the knife reflected in the mirror behind you. He can feel your knuckles turning white as you refuse to loosen your grip. "Last chance."

"And if I say no?" you breathe, the words barely audible, laced with a mixture of defiance and apprehension. You can't stop this cat and mouse play, this dangerous dance that always leaves you breathless and wanting more.

He chuckles darkly, a low, predatory sound that sends shivers down your spine. His breath is hot against your ear as he whispers, "Then I'll have to take it from you." His free hand comes up to rest on the counter beside your hips, caging you in, making it impossible to escape. "And trust me, you won't like how I do it."

You shiver involuntarily, a reaction to his words and the heat radiating from his body. Leaning back, his bare chest presses against yours, the solid muscle almost crushing you.

He feels your shiver, his smile widening mischievously. He straightens his arms, locking them beside your hips and pushing you further against the counter, intensifying the feeling of being trapped. "Last warning," he whispers, his voice low and commanding, sending a thrill of fear and excitement through you. "Open your hand."

"No…" you whisper, the single word a testament to your stubbornness.

He hears the defiance in your whisper, a surge of frustration and determination rising within him. Without another word, he uses his arm to press your hand against the counter, the knife still gripped tightly in your fist. With his other hand, he grabs your wrist, applying firm pressure. "Open. Your. Hand."

"You could easily cheat you know? Why are you adamant to take it directly from my hand?" you ask, your voice laced with a mixture of curiosity and defiance.

"Because I want to see how far you'll push me," he admits, his voice gruff, the honesty unexpected. He applies more pressure to your wrist, his other arm still pressing your hand flat against the counter. "Now open your damn hand before I break your wrist to get the knife out."

You gasp, the threat surprisingly intense.

Seeing your gasp, Caleb pauses, realizing the intensity in his words. He is a colonel in the military, used to commanding, never meaning to threaten you. His grip loosens slightly, but he doesn't release you entirely from the cage of his arms. A smirk tugs at his lips as he leans in closer, his voice lowering to a teasing murmur. "Gotcha."

"Did you just fucking threaten me?" you hiss, the anger bubbling to the surface.

He hears the anger in your hiss and feels a strange mix of amusement and unease. He leans in even closer, his lips barely an inch from yours. "Maybe," he whispers back, a challenge clear in his voice. "What are you gonna do about it?"

You glare, trying to mask the effect he has on you.

He holds your glare, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners as he tries to suppress a smile. He can feel the tension radiating off you, making him enjoy this power dynamic a little too much. He flexes his arm, pressing your hand flatter against the counter. "Last chance,"

"Don't use your Colonel voice on me!" you snap, the outburst a testament to his control over you.

He feels a jolt at your snap, the Colonel voice slipping out automatically. He blinks, breaking eye contact for a moment, the memory of his past life a sharp reminder of the man he used to be. When he looks back at you, his expression is softer, almost apologetic. "Fuck, I'm sorry," he murmurs, his grip on your wrist loosening completely, his regret palpable.

You breathe heavily, trying to regain your composure.

He sees the heavy breathing, taking it as a sign that he's getting to you, that the game is still in play. He decides to push his luck, leaning in closer until his forehead rests against yours. "Open your hand," he commands, his voice dropping lower, taking on that authoritative tone again. "Or I'll…"

"What? Restrain me?" you challenge, your voice laced with a mixture of fear and excitement.

"Mm, something like that," he murmurs, his eyes locked with yours. He can feel his hands itching to grab your arm and pin it behind your back, to take control completely. "You leave me no choice but to use force," he whispers, his fingers slowly inching back towards your wrist, as if testing the waters.

"Caleb…" you breathe, the word a warning and a plea.

"Too late," he whispers, his hands moving quickly. He wraps his arm around your wrist and pulls it behind your back, trapping it between your shoulder blades. He steps closer, caging you against the counter with his body, making escape impossible. "Open your hand," he orders, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument.

"You goober!" you exclaim, the childish insult a desperate attempt to break the tension.

He chuckles at your insult, his breath warm against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. "Keep talking back and see what happens," he murmurs, his free hand coming up to rest on the counter beside your other arm, effectively trapping you. "One more chance to open your hand before things get... interesting."

“Interesting?” you breathe, the word catching in your throat, a strange heat blooming in your chest. It's a question, but also a confession. Suddenly, this confrontation, this tense standoff, feels…different. You don’t know why you're feeling this way. The adrenaline, maybe? Or the way his eyes are locked on yours, intense and unwavering. Whatever it is, it's undeniably a turn-on.

He notices the subtle shift in your breathing, the almost imperceptible tremor in your hands. He sees the way your eyes dilate, dark pools reflecting the fire that's beginning to flicker within you. He realizes that you’re not just angry or defiant anymore. 

A slow, knowing smile spreads across his face, a predatory curve that sends a shiver down your spine. He leans in even closer, the heat of his body radiating against yours, his lips almost brushing against your ear. 

"Are you enjoying this?" he murmurs, the question a low, seductive rumble.

“No…” you hiss, the denial weak, unconvincing even to your own ears. The fight seems to have drained from you, replaced by a strange, unsettling vulnerability.

He can hear the tremor in your voice, the subtle waver that betrays your true feelings. He feels the way your body is pressing against the cool countertop, trapped between his unyielding arms. He takes advantage of this newfound weakness, his body shifting slightly, a calculated maneuver that tightens his hold. 

His arm around your wrist pulls your arm up higher between your shoulder blades, forcing you to arch your back, accentuating the curve of your breasts against your shirt. The position is undeniably compromising, leaving you exposed and vulnerable. "Last chance," he breathes, the words a promise and a threat.

“Last chance…” you mock, mimicking his deep voice with a forced bravado that doesn't quite reach your eyes. You glare at him, attempting to recapture the anger that fueled you just moments ago. But the heat in his gaze melts your resolve, leaving you feeling exposed and strangely thrilled.

He smirks at your mimicry, enjoying the playful banter, the dangerous game you’re both playing. "You're playing a dangerous game," he murmurs, his voice a silken caress that belies the steel beneath. His hand on the counter, the one not holding your wrist captive, slides closer to yours, inching its way toward your trembling fingers. His thumb brushes against the back of your hand, a light, fleeting touch that’s almost teasing, sending sparks of electricity through your veins. "I could make you open it," he says, the words hanging in the air, heavy with unspoken implications.

“Guess what? With your evol?” you retort, trying to sound confident, but your voice cracks slightly, betraying your inner turmoil.It was a desperate attempt to regain control, to steer the conversation back to safer territory.

"Exactly," he whispers back, his breath warm against your skin. His thumb traces a small circle on the back of your hand, a deliberate, hypnotic motion that draws your attention, stealing your focus. Your hand twitches slightly at the sudden sensation, giving away your vulnerability, the way his touch affects you. He watches your reaction closely, savoring the moment, drawing power from your response. "Then again, I might use something other than my evol..." he adds, the words laced with a suggestive promise that makes your heart leap in your chest.

You gasp, the sound escaping your lips before you can stop it, and your eyes widen in surprise, searching his. Fear and anticipation war within you, a confusing mix of emotions that threatens to overwhelm you. 

"What do you mean?" you ask, the question a breathless whisper, barely audible above the pounding of your heart.

His expression turns intense, a dark, smoldering gaze that holds you captive. It’s dangerous, predatory, and utterly thrilling. 

He leans in closer, invading your personal space, until his lips are nearly touching yours, the heat of his breath a tangible presence against your skin. His voice drops to a husky whisper, a seductive murmur that sends shivers down your spine. "You really want to know?" he asks, intentionally blowing a small, warm breath across your lips, teasing you, testing your limits. "I could just..."

Your breath hitches in your throat, your lungs seizing as your body betrays you. The world around you seems to fade away, the sounds of the bathroom blurring into a distant hum. All that exists is him, the intoxicating scent of his skin, the heat of his gaze, the promise of something forbidden. 

Your eyelashes flutter shut, surrendering to the moment, inviting him in.

He waits for a moment, relishing in the effect he's having on you, the power he holds over you. He feels the tremor that runs through your body, the rapid pulse at your throat. He knows he's won. 

Then, without warning, he closes the distance between you, his lips claiming yours in a searing, electrifying kiss. His hand, the one that was tormenting your hand only moments ago, moves to tangle in your hair, gripping the strands possessively, holding you in place as he deepens the kiss, demanding a response.

A whimper escapes your lips, a small, involuntary sound of surrender, as your fingers loosen their grip on the knife. The metal clatters against the tile floor, the sound echoing in the sudden silence, a symbol of your defeat.

He hears the knife fall, the sound like a starting gun, and a satisfied growl rumbles in his chest, a primal sound of victory. The kiss intensifies, his tongue sliding against yours, tasting, exploring, staking his claim. 

He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips down your neck, sucking and nipping at the sensitive skin, igniting a firestorm of sensation. His arm around your wrist tightens possessively, a steel band that keeps you trapped, at his mercy.

“Caleb…” you gasp, your voice breathy and weak, barely a whisper. The sound of his name on your lips feels like a betrayal, a confession of your desire.

"Shh," he murmurs against your neck, his teeth gently sinking into the flesh, a playful bite that sends shivers down your spine. His other hand slides down from the counter, around your hip, and grips your bottom possessively, pulling you closer, molding your body against his. "No more talking," he commands softly, the words a velvet promise laced with steel, before starting to lift you onto the counter, claiming you.

Your heart pounds in your chest, a frantic drumbeat that threatens to drown out all other sounds. You can feel his strength as he lifts you, the way his muscles flex beneath his skin. You wrap your legs around his waist instinctively, clinging to him for support, surrendering to the moment.

He can feel your heart racing against his chest, mirroring his own frantic rhythm, as he lifts you onto the counter, stepping between your legs to keep you trapped, a willing prisoner in his embrace. His hands roam your body, touching and exploring in a way he's never allowed himself to before, igniting a fire within you that threatens to consume you both. He presses close, his growing erection evident against your core through the thin barrier of the towel, a tangible reminder of his desire.

“Caleb…” you whisper again, his name a plea, a prayer, a promise of what's to come.

He silences you with another kiss, this one more demanding and dominant than the last, a raw expression of his hunger. His tongue pushes into your mouth, claiming you completely, possessing you with every touch. His hands continue to roam, exploring the curves of your body, igniting a fire with every caress. 

One hand slides up to cup your breast, squeezing gently through your shirt, teasing the sensitive nipple, while the other grips your thigh, pulling you even closer, erasing the remaining space between you, preparing you for the storm that's about to break.

You allow yourself to moan, the sweet, vulnerable sound catapulting straight to his core. You feel the immediate result of your surrender as his erection presses harder against your thigh. Instinct takes over, and you find yourself pulling him closer by the nape of his neck, your fingers tangling in the short hairs at his hairline. He's so tall, you have to lift your hips off the counter, practically bending him in half to maintain the fervent connection of your lips.

He groans into the kiss, a deep, guttural sound that vibrates against your own mouth as you pull him closer, bending him down to accommodate your smaller stature. The altered angle presses his hardness even more firmly against your center, igniting a fresh wave of heat that makes you moan again, a low, primal sound escaping your lips. 

His hand, which had been tentatively resting on your waist, slides upwards, seeking the bare skin beneath your shirt. He pushes the fabric upwards, urgency lacing his touch, as his other hand squeezes your thigh, almost desperately.

You pant, your breath coming in ragged gasps, too overwhelmed by this sudden and dramatic turn of events to form a coherent thought. The world has narrowed down to the feel of his mouth on yours, the hard press of his body against yours, and the frantic rhythm of your accelerated heartbeats.

He breaks the kiss briefly, reluctantly, to trail his lips down the sensitive curve of your neck. He nuzzles his face between your breasts, his breath hot and damp against your skin, as he tries to push your shirt up further. 

"Lift your arms," he growls, the command rough and edged with a desperate, unsatisfied desire. He needs to see you, touch you more, now. The burning need is consuming him.

You gulp, your throat suddenly dry, and obediently lift your arms, your movements slightly jerky and uncoordinated.

In one swift, decisive motion, he pulls your shirt over your head, casting it carelessly to the side. You stand exposed in just your bra, the cool air raising goosebumps on your skin, but the chill is quickly replaced by a searing heat as his eyes darken with undisguised desire as he looks you over. His gaze lingers on the curve of your breasts, the swell of your hips, before finally returning to meet your eyes. His hands, as if drawn by an invisible force, immediately go to your waist, his thumbs tracing the delicate line of your hip bones. 

"Fuck," he mutters, the word a raw, reverent sound, as he leans down to place open-mouthed kisses between your breasts, his tongue flicking out to taste your skin.

You moan again, a longer, more drawn-out sound this time, as you arch your back instinctively, offering him more. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, clinging to him as if he's the only thing anchoring you to reality. 

"What's happening?" you manage to gasp out, the question barely audible.

"Shut up," he snaps, but there's no real heat or anger behind the words. He's too far gone, too lost in the feeling of your body against his lips, the taste of your skin, the intoxicating scent of you filling his senses. 

His fingers, emboldened by his growing passion, hook into the bottom of your bra, and with surprising ease, he unhooks it. He pushes the material aside, revealing your bare breasts to his hungry gaze. He pauses for a moment, just to admire the sight, before his hands cup your breasts, his thumbs teasing your nipples.

“Caleb…please…” you say, your voice thick with a mixture of arousal and confusion. You reach up, your hands trembling slightly, and cup his face, your thumbs tracing the sharp angles of his cheekbones.

Caleb pauses, his intense gaze softening as you cup his face. He leans into your touch, a visible shudder running through him as he closes his eyes for a brief moment, savoring the feeling of your skin against his. "Please what?" he asks, his voice low and rough, the question laced with a raw vulnerability. 

One hand comes up to cover yours on his cheek, his fingers interlacing with yours as he holds your hand against his skin, while the other gently squeezes your bare breast, thumbing the nipple in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

“Why are we…” you trail off, unable to articulate the jumble of thoughts and feelings swirling within you.

"Because," he answers simply, his voice husky with desire, leaning down to take one of your breasts into his mouth. He suckles gently at first, teasing and tantalizing, before his grip tightens and he begins to suckle more firmly, drawing a sharp intake of breath from you. His hand, the one not holding yours, slides down your side to your waistband, his fingers fumbling with the button of your jeans. "We're always supposed to," he murmurs around your breast, the words muffled but clear, his fingers finally succeeding in unbuttoning your jeans.

“Why?” you ask again, the question a desperate plea for understanding.

He looks up at you, his eyes intense and unwavering, as he unbuttons your jeans, his fingers hooking into the waistband. 

"Because we're always supposed to be more than friends," he explains, his voice muffled against your breast. "Because every time I see you laughing with someone else, I get jealous. Because every time someone looks at you for too long, I want to punch them."

You swallow hard, your throat tightening with emotion. “That's why…you said you will never get a girlfriend?”

He nods against your chest, the movement small and hesitant, before standing up straight and pulling the rest of your clothes off, leaving you sitting bare before him. "I never wanted a girlfriend," he admits, his voice raw and honest, his eyes fixed on yours. "I never wanted anyone but you."

Your heart skips a beat, a wild, erratic rhythm taking over your chest. “Since when…? When we met or…”

He swallows hard, his eyes flickering down your body, lingering on the curve of your breasts and the swell of your hips, before meeting your gaze again. "Since we were kids," he says softly, the words barely audible above the frantic pounding of your heart. 

He steps closer, closing the remaining distance between you, until he's standing between your legs. "Remember when we used to play hide and seek?" he asks, his fingers hooking around your thighs, his touch sending shivers up your spine.

You nod, a small, involuntary movement. “You always somehow found me.”

"Because I always looked for you," he explains, his thumbs rubbing the inside of your thighs, his gaze unwavering. 

"Remember when you scraped your knee on that field trip, and I carried you home?" he asks softly, his eyes searching yours, as if looking for confirmation, or perhaps forgiveness. When you nod again, remembering the incident vividly, he continues, "Remember I told I will always be by your side?”

You nod again, feeling a lump forming in your throat. The memory is sharp and clear, the feeling of his arms around you, the concern etched on his face, as real now as it was then.

Caleb leans in closer, his voice dropping to almost a whisper as he continues, "That wasn't just something friends say. I meant it. Every promise, every joke shared, every bump and bruise I tended to - it was all me saying 'I'm in love with you' without actually saying it."

Your heart actually swells, filling your chest until it feels like it might burst. You struggle to breathe, the air caught in your throat, as the weight of his words settles upon you. This is it. This is the culmination of years of unspoken feelings, of hidden glances and secret longings.

He watched, his gaze intense and unwavering, as a kaleidoscope of emotions played across your face – surprise, disbelief, a hesitant joy that threatened to bloom into something more. He saw the question in your eyes, the silent plea for reassurance, and it fueled the courage that had been simmering within him for what felt like an eternity.

His own heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing the years of longing he had so carefully concealed. Each stolen glance, each casual touch, each shared laugh had been etched onto his soul, fueling a secret fire that now threatened to consume him. He had built walls around his heart, fortifying it against the vulnerability of love, but you, with your infectious laughter and unwavering spirit, had chipped away at those defenses, brick by agonizing brick.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached for you, his hands trembling slightly as they spanned your waist. The touch was electric, a jolt that sent shivers down your spine and stole the breath from your lungs. With a strength born of years of suppressed desire, he lifted you, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. The heat of your body pressed against him was intoxicating, a promise of connection that he could no longer deny himself.

"I'm in love with you," he said, the words finally free after years of restraint. There was no fanfare, no grand pronouncements, just a simple, honest declaration that resonated with the weight of his unspoken feelings. He watched, his breath suspended, as the words settled between you, waiting for your reaction, for the answer that would either shatter him or set him free.

Your fingers traced the line of his jaw, tilting his chin up so you could meet his gaze. The question hung in the air, unspoken but palpable. "That's why you wrote my name on that graffiti wall by the basketball court? As a wish, when we wrote our wishes?"

He continued to walk you further into the shower's embrace, feeling the slick tile beneath his bare feet. Without breaking eye contact, he used his evol to release the knot of the towel cinched around his hips. It fell to the wet floor, discarded like the pretense he had carried for so long.

The warm water pulsed against your skin, a comforting weight that seemed to ground you as the world tilted on its axis. Caleb cupped your face with his hands, his thumbs gently stroking your cheekbones. 

He looked at you, really looked at you, his eyes filled with a depth of emotion that left you breathless. Unspoken words swirled within those depths, echoes of old wishes and long-held dreams.

"Yes," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated against your skin. "I wished for you every time."

He gently lowered you to the shower floor, the cool tile a startling contrast to the heat that radiated from his body. Kneeling before you, he took your hand in his, his touch reverent and tender. He brought your knuckles to his lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against them.

"You don't have to say anything right now," he said quietly, his eyes never leaving yours, searching for a flicker of understanding, a sign of reciprocation. "Just…just let me love you for now, okay?"

You could only nod, the gesture small and uncertain, but enough.

His lips curved into a gentle smile, a smile that reached his eyes and banished the shadows that had haunted them for so long. He knew how rare it was for you to grant silence, how you usually filled every space with your vibrant energy and quick wit. Your quiet acquiescence was a gift, a fragile offering that he would cherish.

"Always wanted to know what your lips tasted like under the shower," he said softly, his voice laced with a playful desire that eased the tension in the air. He slid closer, his hips brushing against yours, tilting your chin with his fingers, his gaze dropping to your mouth. "Mind if I find out?"

A spark of your old self flickered in your eyes, a hint of the playful banter that defined your friendship. "Oh…now are you asking permission after you manhandled me?" You raised an eyebrow, a challenging glint in your gaze.

He laughed, a deep, husky sound that resonated through you. "Too late for that," he pointed out, his eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement. His hands slid down to your behind, his fingers gently kneading the curves of your flesh. "Answer the question, smartass." He nuzzled your neck, the warm breath against your skin sending shivers dancing down your spine. "Can I kiss you under the shower?"

Another nod, this one more decisive, more eager. The anticipation was a tangible thing, a vibrating energy that hummed between you.

And then his lips were on yours, gentle at first, a tentative exploration of familiar territory. But the gentleness quickly gave way to a deeper hunger, a raw need that had been simmering beneath the surface for too long. His lips became demanding, coaxing your mouth open, inviting his tongue to slide in and taste you. 

The warm water rained down on you both, a sensuous curtain that veiled you from the world, mixing with the heat of his kiss. He sighed into your mouth, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure, his hands squeezing your backside possessively, drawing you closer, closer, until there was no space left between you. "Finally," he breathed against your lips.

In that single word, you heard the depth of his longing, the flicker of fear, the sting of jealousy, all woven together with the raw, undeniable thread of love. It was a kiss that spoke volumes, a testament to the years of suppressed desire and unspoken emotions.

He finally broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours as he caught his breath, his chest heaving. "I've imagined this so many times," he admitted, his voice rough with emotion, raw and vulnerable. "You, me, under the shower, finally together." He kissed you again, deeper this time, pouring all his pent-up feelings into the kiss, a desperate plea for reciprocation, a silent vow of devotion.

You smiled into the kiss, a genuine, heartfelt smile that radiated through every cell of your being. It was a smile born of relief, of joy, of the burgeoning realization that your own secret feelings were finally being mirrored back at you.

He smiled back, his eyes shining with a happiness that banished the shadows and revealed the man you had always known was hidden beneath the surface. He stood up, pulling you up with him, his hands roaming possessively over your wet body, lingering on the curve of your waist, the swell of your hips.

"Let me wash you," he said, his voice husky with desire, picking up the bottle of body wash and squeezing a generous amount onto a waiting loofah. "All over."

You giggled, the sound light and carefree, a stark contrast to the intensity of the moment. "So now you’re my sweet Caleb and not Colonel Caleb?"

He chuckled, the sound warm and genuine, filling the small space with a comforting intimacy. "Only you get to see this side of me," he said softly, running the loofah gently over your shoulders, his touch careful and tender. "Colonel Caleb is for everyone else." 

He leaned down to kiss your shoulder, his lips lingering against your skin, his hands tracing slow, deliberate circles as he began to wash you.

You sighed and leaned against him, letting the warmth of his body and the gentle caress of the loofah soothe your senses. 

The water continued to pulse around you, washing away the doubts and fears, leaving only the raw, undeniable connection that bound you together.

"You know you're making it really hard for me to just wash you instead of-" He paused, clearing his throat, his voice suddenly thick with desire. "You're killing me here," he murmured, nipping gently at your earlobe, his breath hot against your skin. His hands trailed down your sides, lingering just under your breasts, his fingers tracing the delicate curve. "Should I continue washing?"

"You already stripped me naked and dragged me into the shower," you pointed out, a playful challenge in your voice, a subtle invitation in your eyes.

He laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through you. "Touché," he said, his hands finally moving to cup your breasts, his thumbs circling your hardening nipples, sending jolts of pleasure through your body. "I guess I can skip the washing part." He pressed his hips against your backside, letting you feel his growing arousal, a tangible expression of the desire that consumed him.

You moaned, the sound muffled against his shoulder, feeling the hard length of him pressed against your ass.

"Fuck," he groaned, his hands tightening on your breasts as you wiggled against him, your movements only fueling the fire that burned between you. "You're driving me crazy." He spun you around, pinning you against the shower wall, his eyes blazing with a raw, primal need. "I need to taste you," he said hoarsely, dropping to his knees.

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry, as you looked down at him. He was tall enough that his face was eye level with your tummy, his gaze intense and unwavering.

Caleb pressed a quick kiss to your belly button before trailing his lips lower, his hands gripping your hips, holding you in place. "I've thought about this moment even more than kissing you," he confessed, his breath hot against your core, sending shivers of anticipation through your body. "Want to eat you out until you're screaming my name."

You whimpered, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The anticipation was almost unbearable, the promise of pleasure a tantalizing lure that threatened to shatter your carefully constructed composure.

He smirks up at you, loving the effect he's having. "Brace yourself, sweetheart," he warns playfully before diving in, his mouth covering your clit as his tongue flicks rapidly over the sensitive bud. He moans at your taste, the vibrations sending shockwaves through you.

“Caleb!”

He hums in satisfaction, the sound vibrating against your most sensitive spot. "Mmm, just like I imagined," he murmurs against you, not breaking his rhythm. He slides one hand up to your breast, teasing your nipple while the other grips your thigh, pulling it over his shoulder for better access.

You almost come from the sight. This sweet powerful man who was always with you through the years was actually kneeling in front of you and eating your pussy. It was a fantasy you'd nurtured in secret, a forbidden bloom in the garden of your mind. 

You never tried to imagine it, respecting your friendship and bond with him but you always wondered what if….

Now, here it was, a vibrant, tangible reality. The contrast between the gruff exterior he often projected and the exquisite tenderness of his current ministrations was almost too much to bear.

He looks up at you, his eyes dark with lust and something more profound. "You have no idea how many nights I've jerked off thinking about this," he admits, his voice muffled against your thigh. The raw honesty in his confession both shocks and thrills you. 

To know you've occupied his thoughts in such a primal way, to realize the depth of his desire… it ignites a fire within you, hotter than anything you've ever known. He dives back in, his tongue working faster, more insistently.

You moan as you grab his hair. The feel of his thick, dark hair between your fingers is intoxicating. You tug gently, urging him closer, desperate for more. The sensations are building, swirling, threatening to consume you.

He growls possessively, the sound rumbling against your clit, pushing you closer to the edge. He stands up abruptly, lifting you so that your legs wrap around his waist. "Need to be inside you," he declares, his voice firm with need. "Now." The urgency in his tone is electrifying. You feel your own desire mirroring his, a desperate hunger that can only be sated by the joining of your bodies.

You bite your lip. The anticipation is almost unbearable. You've waited so long for this moment, dreamed of it countless times even if it’s wrong. To finally be here, on the precipice of intimacy with Caleb, is both terrifying and exhilarating.

He takes your silence as agreement. 

"Damn," he mutters, positioning himself at your entrance. He looks at you, making sure this is okay. He's big - almost too big - and he doesn't want to hurt you. The genuine concern on his face softens his rugged smooth features, making him look vulnerable and utterly irresistible. He captures your mouth again, pushing just the tip inside you. The sensation is foreign, intense, and undeniably arousing. You gasp softly against his lips.

“Wait…” you push his muscular chest to stop him. The small barrier of your hands against his powerful frame feels almost comical. 

The heat radiating from his body is overwhelming, and the throbbing pressure where he's joined you is making it difficult to think.

He pauses, holding his breath as he waits for you to speak. "What's wrong?" He asks softly, his arms tightening around you. He can feel how tight you are around just the tip, and he's worried it's going to hurt too much. His concern is palpable, a wave of tenderness washing over you.

You swallow and decide to be honest, "It's gonna bleed." The words hang in the air, heavy with the unspoken truth. You watch his expression carefully, bracing yourself for his reaction.

He freezes, his eyes widening slightly as he processes what you've said. "Are you—?" He starts, then stops, his voice barely a whisper. "Are you a virgin?" He asks gently, his brow furrowing with concern and something else—tenderness. The realization washes over him, transforming his gaze from one of pure lust to one of profound respect and awe.

“Yes..” you whisper. The admission feels strangely liberating. It's a vulnerability you've kept hidden for so long, a secret you're now entrusting to him.

Caleb's breath catches as he realizes the enormity of the moment. He leans his forehead against yours, his eyes soft with emotion. "Hey," he murmurs, "we don't have to do this right now. As much as I want you, I don't want it to hurt you." The sincerity in his voice is disarming. He's willing to sacrifice his own desire for your comfort, a testament to the depth of his feelings.

You shake your head. “No. I want you too. We can’t just…stop..” The words tumble out, fueled by a mixture of nerves and longing. 

You don't want to back down now. You've come too far, waited too long. The fear is still there, but it's overshadowed by the overwhelming desire to experience this with him.

He can see the determination in your eyes, mirroring his own desire. He kisses you gently, trying to prepare himself for the pain he knows you might feel. "Alright," he whispers against your lips, "but if it hurts too much, we stop, okay?" The promise is both reassuring and arousing. He's putting your needs first, but his own yearning is still evident in the intensity of his gaze.

You nod. The agreement seals the pact. You're ready.

With extreme care, he slowly pushes in further, feeling you tense around him. "Jesus," he hisses, "you're so tight. Relax, sweetheart." He keeps kissing you, trying to distract you from the invasion of his size. 

The pressure is building, a burning sensation that makes you want to both pull away and lean in closer. "Here comes the part that might sting..."

You tense. Every muscle in your body is coiled tight, bracing for the inevitable pain.

He pauses, giving you a moment to breathe. 

“Just a bit more," he murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. With infinite gentleness, he pushes forward, feeling the barrier give way. You inhale sharply, and he freezes, holding himself still inside you. "You okay?" His voice is laced with concern.

“It’s worse than my period,” you wheeze. 

The comparison is clumsy, but it's the closest analogy you can come up with in the moment.

His heart clenches at your words, knowing he's the cause of your pain. He stays perfectly still, letting you get used to his size and the discomfort. "Shh, baby," he whispers, peppering your face with soft kisses. "Just breathe through it." He's a fortress of strength and tenderness, holding you close and offering silent support.

You nod and breathe deeply. You focus on the rhythm of your breath, trying to find a center of calm amidst the storm of sensations.

After what feels like an eternity, he feels your body start to relax slightly. He takes this as his cue to begin moving slowly, careful not to cause you too much discomfort. "Tell me if it's too much," he pants, his forehead dripping with sweat from the effort of holding back. The vulnerability he shows in this moment, the raw emotion etched on his face, is more intoxicating than any physical sensation.

The sight of him struggling, fighting against the raw desire that threatened to consume him, ignited a spark within you. A mischievous glint entered your eyes, a silent dare. You wouldn't cower, wouldn't appear weak or intimidated. Instead, you dug your heels into his, a subtle yet deliberate act, pulling him closer, inch by tantalizing inch. The whisper that escaped your lips was a single word, a plea, a demand: "More."

That single syllable, laced with innocent longing and burgeoning desire, seemed to shatter the last vestiges of his restraint. His grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging possessively into the soft flesh. The controlled movements he had so painstakingly maintained became less precise, more urgent, fueled by a primal need. 

"Fuck," he growled, the sound raw and guttural, a stark contrast to the playful banter you usually shared. "You feel so good... better than I imagined." He paused, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. "But baby, I'm really deep like this... too deep?"

A moan escaped your lips, your body humming with a newfound awareness. The sensation was overwhelming, a delicious ache that spread from your core to the tips of your fingers. In that moment, words seemed inadequate, clumsy tools to express the intensity of what you were feeling. All you could manage was a simple, almost childlike description: "Like stick."

The unexpected crudeness, delivered with your characteristic naiveté, drew a smile from him, a genuine curve of his lips that momentarily softened the intensity in his eyes. Even as he fought to control his own spiraling pleasure, he understood. He knew you wanted him buried deep inside you, wanted to feel the fullness of his presence. 

"Too stuck, you mean?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that vibrated against your skin. He began to move, slowly at first, thrusting his hips in a circular motion, deliberately pressing against your sensitive walls, eliciting a gasp of pleasure from you.

"No…" you choked out, a nervous laugh bubbling up from your chest. "You're so hard that it feels like I have a stick in my pussy." The words were clumsy, unrefined, yet perfectly captured the unfamiliar sensation that had taken hold of you.

His head snapped back, and a deep, unrestrained laugh erupted from his chest, a sound you had never heard before. It was a sexy, guttural sound that resonated through your body, sending shivers down your spine. 

Despite your innocence, your blunt phrasing had only served to harden him even more inside you. "Only you," he said, his voice thick with amusement and desire, "could make me laugh while I'm fucking you senseless..." He leaned down, pressing a series of slow, deliberate kisses along the sensitive curve of your neck, each touch sending sparks of pleasure through you.

A smile bloomed on your face, and a soft moan escaped your lips, a testament to the exquisite sensations flooding your senses.

He continued to move, his body finding a rhythm that seemed to please you both. His thrusts grew deeper, more assured, each one pushing you closer to the edge. "God, you're amazing," he murmured, his voice strained with effort. "Your pussy is so tight and wet... it's like a perfect glove." He leaned in, capturing your lips in a deep, passionate kiss, his tongue mimicking the motion of his hips, driving you wild.

"Mmm," you hummed, lost in the intoxicating sensation of his mouth on yours, his body pressed against yours.

Seeing you so consumed by pleasure emboldened him, and he quickened his pace slightly, his movements becoming more insistent. He could feel your body beginning to relax, opening up to him, surrendering to the raw, untamed desire that coursed through you both. "You like how I fill you up, don't you?" he whispered, his breath hot against your ear, sending shivers down your spine. "Is my big cock hitting that sweet spot?"

Your eyes rolled back in your head, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his voice. It was a voice you had never heard before, seductive and possessive. You had known him for years, talked to him countless times, but this voice, this side of him, was completely new.

He could see the surprise in your eyes, the flicker of recognition as his deep, husky voice washed over you. He knew this voice was reserved only for the intimacy of this moment, a secret language spoken only between lovers. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you even closer as he thrust deeper, pushing you closer to the edge of oblivion. "Look at me," he commanded, his voice laced with a hint of possessiveness.

You slowly obeyed, your eyelids fluttering open, revealing the hazy depths of your desire. You met his gaze, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

He held your gaze, his eyes burning with an intensity that made your heart pound in your chest. "That's it," he whispered, his voice thick with lust. "I love seeing you like this—flushed, breathless, and taking my cock so beautifully." He shifted his angle slightly, finding that elusive spot that made you gasp aloud, a strangled sound of pure pleasure.

"Caleb…" you moaned, his name a breathless plea on your lips. "Please!"

Hearing his name spoken with such raw desire seemed to snap something inside him. In that moment, you were no longer his innocent best friend, the girl he had protected and cherished for years. You were a woman, a sexy, wanton creature beneath him, begging for more. 

"Please what, baby?" he ground out, his hips bucking against yours, hitting that sweet spot again and again. "Do you want it harder?"

You bit your lip, a nervous habit that had always plagued you. Seeing that small, vulnerable gesture seemed to ignite a fire within him.

"...Fuck, don't bite that lip like that. Never hurt yourself," he growled, his voice laced with a protective ferocity. He caught your plump bottom lip between his own teeth, gently tugging before capturing your mouth in a deep, consuming kiss. Without warning, he abandoned all pretense of control and began pounding into you harder, each thrust precise and powerful, driving you closer to the brink. "That what you wanted?" he asked, his voice a low rumble against your lips, knowing full well that it was.

You whimpered, your head lolling down against his shoulder. "Like that. Yes…"

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, his control finally slipping away as your whimpers drove him wild. "You feel so damn good I could come already..." He pinned your hands above your head, changing the angle completely, granting him deeper access. His eyes darkened with unrestrained desire as he slammed into you, finding that perfect spot that sent shockwaves of pleasure through your body.

"Oh fuck, Caleb!" You screamed his name as you came, your body arching off the wall, exposing the delicate curve of your throat.

Seeing your neck bared and hearing his name spill from your lips in a scream of pure ecstasy made his body taut with anticipation. He plunged into you even harder, chasing your orgasm with his own. 

"Damn," he muttered, watching your body writhe beneath him, your muscles clenching and releasing in a symphony of pleasure. 

Your neck was arched back, your breasts thrust out, a vision of pure, unadulterated beauty.

Releasing your wrists, he used the advantage of your exposed neck, curling his hand around your throat, holding his fingers against your jaw.

"Fuck…."

He used his other hand to pull one of your legs over his shoulder, opening you up completely, granting him deeper access. He wrapped his fingers around your throat, his touch surprisingly gentle as he tilted your head back further, exposing you to his intense gaze. 

He continued to thrust into you brutally, each stroke a testament to his raw, untamed desire. "Look at me," he commanded, his voice hoarse with passion.

You sobbed as you looked at him, another orgasm building within you, threatening to overwhelm you completely.

Seeing the tears in your eyes, the raw vulnerability etched on your face, pushed him over the edge. He buried his face in your neck, inhaling your scent as he came with a guttural groan, his body convulsing with the force of his release. 

His hot, thick seed filled you up, throbbing inside you as his hips jerked erratically. 

"Fuck...fuck…fuck," he chanted, his fingers tightening slightly around your throat, a primal expression of possession.

As his breathing slowly returned to normal, he inhaled the familiar scent of apples, a fragrance he had come to associate with you, now mixed with the intoxicating aroma of sweat and mingled pleasure. It was a scent that suddenly felt incredibly intimate, comforting, and achingly familiar. 

He nuzzled his face into your neck, gently kissing away the beads of perspiration. 

"Baby... you're crying," he murmured, his voice laced with concern.

You choked out a teary laugh. "Yes."

He wiped the tears away with his thumb, his fingers loosening their hold on your throat. 

"Was it too much?" he asked softly, his purple eyes searching your tear-streaked face, seeking reassurance. He could feel you still trembling beneath him, your body wracked with aftershocks and lingering sobs.

You swallowed, trying to find the words to articulate the complex emotions swirling within you. "You're so intense…."

"Too intense?" he asked carefully, pulling back slightly, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. His gaze dropped to your neck, and he saw the faint marks left by his fingers. He realized his handprint was slightly visible, a stark reminder of the intensity of their encounter. He also remembered your throaty screams, the way your legs had been wrapped tightly around his waist. 

"Answer me," he said hoarsely. "Truthfully."

"I mean…it surprised me…"

He nodded slowly, understanding your shock. "I know I got a bit... carried away," he admitted, his thumb gently rubbing the faint mark on your neck. "I didn't hurt you, did I?" 

His voice was laced with genuine concern, the intense lust from earlier replaced with a tenderness that made your heart flutter.

You shook your head, your eyes meeting his. "I loved it."

He lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "You did?" he asks, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Because fuck, baby, you looked so beautiful like that... tears and all." He leans down and kisses you gently, his hand cupping your face. 

The shower roars around you, a steamy cocoon isolating you both from the world. The water sluices over your skin, washing away the remnants of your earlier despair, replaced now by a heady mix of fear and exhilaration.

“So you admit that you’re a sadist?” you laugh, the sound a little breathless, a little shaky. You try to inject some lightness into the moment, to diffuse the raw tension that crackles between you. But the words hang in the humid air, heavy with unspoken desires.

He chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrates through your chest, his fingers tightening around your face possessively. 

"Guilty as charged," he murmurs against your lips, his breath hot and moist against your skin. "You bring out the worst in me, you know that?" He pulls back slightly, his purple eyes glinting mischievously, reflecting the overhead light. “You like being manhandled?”

You blush, the heat rising in your cheeks, prickling your skin. "What kind of question is that?" you stammer, your mind struggling to keep up with the rapid-fire intensity of his words and actions. The way he looks at you, like you're the only thing in the universe, is both terrifying and intoxicating.

He smirks, clearly enjoying your reaction, the curve of his lips predatory and enticing. 

"It's a simple question, baby. Do you like it when I get rough with you?" He shifts slightly, making sure you can feel him, still hard and throbbing, deep inside you. 

"Because I can do it again if you want." The air crackles with unspoken promises, with the threat of exquisite pain and pleasure intertwined.

“Round two?” Your eyes widen, mirroring a mixture of disbelief and undeniable anticipation. The thought of surrendering to his dominance, of relinquishing control, both scares and excites you in equal measure.

"Or three," he says with a smirk, lifting his hips slightly to remind you of his persistent presence within you. "I can keep going all night, you know. And judging by how your pussy just tightened around me..." He runs his nose along yours teasingly, the scent of soap and arousal filling your senses. "You want more." He knows you. He sees through your carefully constructed facade of defiance straight to the yearning core of your desire.

“Shit…you little-“ you start to retort, but the words die in your throat, overwhelmed by the sheer force of his presence.

"Fucking genius?" He offers, interrupting you, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Yeah, I know." He captures your lips again, swallowing your curses as he starts moving his hips again, slowly, deliberately, drawing out the exquisite torment. "Now shut up and let me manhandle you some more," he growls against your lips, the possessive command igniting a fire deep within you.

You growl in his mouth, a primal sound of frustrated desire. You want to fight him, to resist, but your body betrays you, arching instinctively into his touch.

He grins, his teeth grazing your bottom lip, a delicious threat. "Like that?" he asks, his voice low and husky, vibrating with barely suppressed passion. "You're so fucking adorable when you're trying to be aggressive." He uses his gravity evol to lift you even higher up against the tiled wall, your legs wrapping around his waist, affording him even deeper access. 

By this point, you're both completely drenched under the relentless shower spray, the water plastering your hair to your face and tracing rivulets down your heated skin.

“Hey!” you exclaim, a weak protest.

He laughs, a deep rumbling sound that echoes in the small space. "You're adorable and you know it." He starts thrusting harder, his hips slapping against yours loudly, the rhythm primal and insistent. "Now be a good girl and hold on," he commands, his hands gripping your ass tightly as he fucks you hard against the wall, claiming you with every powerful stroke.

“Shit…shit…shit,” you curse and moan, the words a litany of surrender. You try to bite back the sounds escaping your lips, but the pleasure is too intense, the sensation of him filling you too overwhelming.

He swallows your cries with his mouth, one hand sliding up to cover your breast possessively, his thumb teasing your nipple. 

"Damn right," he hisses, watching your body bounce between the wall and his hips, his eyes dark and intense with lust. "Take my dick like a good girl," he growls out, his purple eyes darkening with desire.

You gasp, your muscles clenching involuntarily around him, a desperate plea for release.

He tosses his head back with a groan, feeling your walls tighten around his cock, the sensation almost unbearable. "Fuck, just like that," he praises breathlessly, squeezing your breast harder, eliciting another gasp from you. The steam from the shower fogs up the air around you, creating a hazy, sensual atmosphere, droplets of water mingling with your sweat, clinging to your skin like tiny jewels.

He leans in your ear, breathing heavily, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. “You know what I would love to see?”

“What?” you manage to whisper, your voice hoarse with passion.

"My gun down your throat. The one you so desperately wanted to take," he whispers, the words a shocking contrast to the sensual intensity that had been building between you.

You choke, your muscles clenching again, this time not from pleasure, but from a sudden, sharp wave of fear and confusion. 

What the fuck? The abrupt shift in tone leaves you reeling, your mind struggling to reconcile the brutal image he paints with the raw intimacy you've been sharing.

He smiles at your reaction, a cruel, knowing curve of his lips, his hips slowing down as he continues speaking into your ear, his voice low and dangerous. "You tried to steal from me and now I want to see your mouth stuffed full of something I own." He bites your earlobe, his tongue piercing digging into your skin, a small stab of pain that sends a jolt through you.

“You wouldn’t…” you hiss, the words a mix of disbelief and challenge.

"Try me," he laughs darkly, the sound sending a shiver of apprehension down your spine. "I might actually enjoy watching you choke on my gun." He pulls back slightly to look at your face, his purple eyes serious, devoid of any trace of the playful amusement from before. "You have such a smart mouth. I bet it'd look perfect wrapped around my gun." He tightens his hips again slowly, deliberately, the movement both a punishment and a promise.

“You’re serious?” You are speechless, the air knocked out of your lungs.

As a hunter, you held a gun everyday but use it for pleasure like this? Was he insane? 

The thought is jarring, disturbing, completely at odds with your understanding of the world.

"Deadly serious," he states firmly, his gaze unwavering. "I own you now, remember? Your mouth is mine to use however I want." 

He leans back and uses his evol to grab the gun from the counter as it floated in his waiting hand, holding it up so you can see it. The metal glints menacingly under the shower spray, reflecting the sharp angles of his face. "Open up."

“Caleb…” you gasp, shocked, the name a plea, a desperate attempt to reach the man you thought you knew.

"Now," he orders, his voice firm and commanding, brooking no argument. He presses the cold metal against your bottom lip, silently urging you to open your mouth, the contact sending a shiver of revulsion and a strange, twisted kind of excitement through you. 

His eyes blaze with possessiveness and triumph as he looks at your shocked expression, the power he wields over you palpable. "Be a good girl and open your mouth for me," he demands softly, the words laced with a dangerous undertone.

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat making it difficult to breathe. Slowly, hesitantly, you open your mouth, a silent act of surrender.

He slides the gun into your mouth slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving yours, watching your reaction with an almost clinical detachment. "Good girl," he praises, his voice low and dangerous, sending a shiver down your spine. "Now suck it like you would my cock." He watches as you tentatively wrap your lips around the metal, your eyes wide with shock and arousal, the conflicting emotions warring within you.

You taste the cold metal, the lingering smell of gun powder filling your nostrils as you suck the barrel, a strange, forbidden pleasure tingling on your tongue.

He can feel your warm breath on the gun as you suck on it, his fingers tightening around the handle possessively, the weight of the weapon heavy in his hand. "Deeper," he growls, pushing the gun further into your mouth until it hits the back of your throat, making you gag slightly, the metallic taste intensifying.

You whimper, a small, involuntary sound of distress and submission.

The cool metal of the gun barrel presses against your lips, a stark contrast to the heat that’s been building between you and Caleb for what feels like an eternity. 

He pulls it out slowly, deliberately, the silver glinting in the dim bathroom light. A thin string of saliva stretches from your parted lips to the cold steel, a fragile connection in this moment of raw, untamed desire.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice a low, husky rumble that sends shivers down your spine. His eyes, usually a vibrant, playful purple, are now dark pools of lust, focused solely on you, on the way your body reacts to his every move. He slides the gun back in, a slow, agonizing tease that makes your breath catch in your throat. Each inch is a deliberate act, mimicking the possessive thrusts of his hips from just moments before, etching the memory of his forceful claim onto your very being.

The sensation is shocking, forbidden, and undeniably arousing. You try to fight it, to pull away, but his grip is firm, his control absolute. He dictates the pace, the depth, the intensity of this bizarre, sensual dance. 

Your head spins, the world tilting on its axis as the pleasure and the danger intertwine, creating a potent cocktail that threatens to overwhelm your senses.

Soon, your eyes roll back in your head, the fight draining out of you as you surrender to the intoxicating wave of sensation. You’re lost in the moment, the boundaries between right and wrong blurring beyond recognition.

“Mmh,” he hums, watching your body go lax, your mouth open and accepting around the gun. A possessive triumph flickers in his eyes, a primal satisfaction at your complete submission. “You like getting mouth-fucked by my gun?” he growls softly, his voice rough with barely contained desire. 

He pushes it deeper again, hitting your throat harder this time, a deliberate act that makes you gag slightly, but the discomfort only adds to the intensity of the experience. The sound of wet, sloppy sucking fills the small bathroom, amplifying the intimacy, the transgression.

You can’t help it. You moan, a low, guttural sound that escapes from the back of your throat, a testament to the pleasure he’s inflicting, to the control he wields.

He feels your moan vibrate around the gun, the sound resonating through his body, igniting a fire that threatens to consume him. 

“Fuck,” he groans, the sound ripped from his chest, raw and desperate. He pulls the gun out and sets it aside on the shower bench, the sound of metal against tile echoing in the sudden silence. 

His other hand, calloused and strong, grips your throat tightly, not painfully, but firmly, possessively, reminding you who’s in charge. He slams his mouth against yours, kissing you roughly, desperately, his tongue invading your mouth in a blatant act of ownership. “You’re mine,” he hisses against your lips, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.

You sob, a small, involuntary sound of surrender, as the overwhelming rush of sensation finally breaks you. You come, hard and fast, the orgasm tearing through you with a force that leaves you shaking, gasping for breath. Harder than before, more intense, more complete.

He swallows your cries, muffling the sounds of your climax, claiming them as his own. 

Your body convulses, your nails digging into his back as you cling to him, the only anchor in this sea of overwhelming sensation. He feels your release cover his thighs again, hot and slick against his skin, his eyes darkening with a mixture of possessiveness and raw, primal hunger. 

He lifts you up suddenly, wrapping your legs around his waist again, your bodies molding together as one. He pulls out and enters you roughly, a forceful invasion that makes you scream loudly, the sound echoing off the tiled walls.

His fingers dig into your bottom, gripping you tightly as he lifts you up and down on his length, fucking you hard and fast against the shower wall. The sound of slapping skin mingles with your screams, creating a cacophony of pleasure and pain, of dominance and surrender. His eyes, burning with possessiveness and hunger, seem to pierce through you, stripping you bare, exposing your innermost desires. “Who owns this pussy?”

You sob, the words torn from your throat, a desperate plea for release, for validation. “You, Caleb. You.”

He slams into you harder, deeper, rewarding your submission with a low groan that vibrates against your skin. “Goddamn right I do,” he growls, biting your neck possessively, leaving a trail of burning kisses in his wake. 

His hips piston relentlessly, driving you closer and closer to the edge. The shower wall steams up around you both, droplets of water mingling with your sweat and his saliva, marking your skin with the evidence of his claim.

You can’t hold out, the next orgasm building inside you, a tidal wave of sensation threatening to engulf you.

As if sensing your approaching climax, he reaches down and presses his thumb against your clit, circling it mercilessly, increasing the pressure, pushing you closer to the breaking point. “Come for me again, princess,” he demands harshly, his voice rough and possessive. “Show me who this pussy belongs to.”

The sweet pet name, spoken in this moment of intense passion, is a final surrender, a complete and utter relinquishing of control. It makes you come again, almost absurdly, the force of the orgasm even more intense than before.

He groans deeply as he feels your pussy clench around him, milking his cock with each pulse of your orgasm. “Fucking hell,” he growls, his hips moving faster and more erratically, his control slipping as he teeters on the edge of his own release. “That’s it, princess. Come all over my cock.”

“Caleb!”

He hilts himself inside you with a final, brutal thrust, biting down on your shoulder to stifle his own cries as his orgasm crashes through him, a cataclysmic explosion of sensation. 

“Mine,” he snarls possessively, flooding your pussy with his hot, thick release. His cock twitches inside you, prolonging your shared climax, holding you captive in this moment of pure, unadulterated bliss.

“Holy shit!” You wheeze, gasping for breath as the last tremors of your orgasm subside.

Panting heavily, Caleb leans his forehead against yours, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. “Holy shit is right,” he chuckles weakly, his cock still buried deep inside you, a tangible reminder of the connection you share. He squeezes your ass playfully, his earlier intensity melting into post-coital affection. “You alright there, princess?”

You are left panting, your mind still reeling from the intensity of what just happened, struggling to process the sheer force of his dominance, the depths of your own surrender.

He can see the dazed expression in your eyes, a testament to the power of the encounter. He nuzzles his face against yours, inhaling your scent deeply, savoring the taste of your skin. “Baby, you okay?” he asks softly, his fingers splaying out on your backside possessively, assuring himself that you’re still there, still his.

You nod weakly, your body still trembling from the aftershocks of your orgasms. “I think I broke my sweet Caleb.”

He lets out a low, satisfied laugh, his body still entwined with yours, his cock throbbing inside you. “You didn’t break me, princess. But damn, you wore me out.” He gently kisses your lips, his hands moving to support your weight as he slowly lowers you down, his cock finally slipping out of you, leaving you feeling vulnerable and exposed.

“Oh god…” you gasp and wobble, feeling his cum leaking out of you, a visible reminder of his possession.

Seeing the look on your face, a mixture of shock and arousal, he grins mischievously. 

He reaches down and scoops some of his semen off your inner thighs, bringing his fingers up to your mouth. “Open up, princess,” he commands softly, his eyes locked with yours, daring you to resist. “Taste what you do to me.”

You don’t glare this time, the fight gone out of you, replaced by a strange mixture of exhaustion and a lingering desire. You melt and open your mouth, too weak to fight or argue, surrendering once again to his will.

He gently pushes his fingers between your lips, letting you taste his salty, musky release. “Good girl,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing your bottom lip as he pulls his fingers out, leaving a glistening sheen on your skin. He helps you steady yourself against the shower wall, his hands roaming possessively over your curves, claiming you as his own.

“I can’t believe you fucked my mouth with your gun.”

He chuckles darkly, turning off the shower and wrapping you in a plush towel, his movements gentle despite the raw intensity of the encounter you just shared. “I can’t believe you let me,” he retorts, his voice still laced with amusement and satisfaction. He picks you up bridal style, carrying you out of the bathroom and into his bedroom, his eyes never leaving yours.

“You were forcing me, you know?” You hiss, trying to regain some semblance of control, to remind him that there are boundaries, even between you.

He lays you down on the bed, a smirk tugging at his lips as he towels you off more aggressively than necessary, his eyes burning with a possessive fire. “Forcing you? Baby, you sucked that gun like it was your favorite fucking lollipop.” He leans in close, his voice low and teasing, his breath ghosting against your skin.

You swallow, not knowing what to say, caught between outrage and a shameful surge of arousal.

He notices your reaction, the flicker of desire in your eyes, and his smirk grows wider. “Did you like it that much?” he asks, his eyes shining with curiosity and something darker, something that both excites and terrifies you. Before you can respond, he gently spreads your legs and crawls between them, his face hovering just above your pussy, his breath hot against your most sensitive flesh. “Let’s find out.”

“How?” You breathe.

He inhales deeply, his eyes fluttering closed as he savors your scent. When he opens them, they lock onto yours with an intent gaze. Slowly, deliberately, he leans down and presses his mouth to your pussy, parting your lips with his tongue and dragging it through your folds.

“Oh shit!” The words are a ragged expulsion of air, a surrender to the intense sensations that are already threatening to overwhelm you.

He grins against you, the vibrations sending a shock of pleasure through you. “That good, huh?” He does it again, this time flicking his tongue over your clit, watching your face contort with pleasure. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open and exposing you fully to his mouth.

“Caleb…” Your voice is a dazed whisper, barely audible above the roaring in your ears. Your eyes, wide and unfocused, lock on his. You search for something, anything, in his gaze – a hint of mercy, perhaps, or maybe just a sign that he’s feeling this as intensely as you are.

"What baby? Want me to stop?" His voice is a rough whisper against your wetness, knowing full well that you don't want him to stop. He circles your clit with his tongue again, maintaining eye contact as he does so. "Does my tongue feel good right here?"

You moan, a low, guttural sound that comes from the depths of your soul. Your hands, trembling, reach up to grip his hair, your fingers tangling in the dark strands, pulling him closer. “Caleb…fuck…”

He chuckles darkly, the vibrations against your sensitive nub making your hips buck up. He sucks your clit into his mouth, applying gentle pressure as he flicks his tongue back and forth. His fingers dig into your thighs, spreading you even wider as he devours you hungrily.

Your eyes roll back in your head, your vision blurring at the edges. You feel yourself losing control, spiraling down into a vortex of pure sensation.

"Fucking hell, you taste amazing," Caleb growls, releasing your clit momentarily. He dives back in, this time plunging his tongue deep inside your pussy, mimicking the motion of a cock. He curls it upwards, seeking that special spot to make you see stars.

You come without warning, a sudden, overwhelming surge of pleasure that shatters your control completely.

You scream out loud as a intense orgasm rips through your body, making your legs shake uncontrollably. Caleb holds onto your hips, keeping you place as he continues to lick and suck on your pussy, prolonging your climax. Your eyes flutter open, finding his intense gaze locked onto yours.

"I love watching you fall apart on my tongue," Caleb says roughly, giving your clit one last lick before standing up and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His pupils are dilated with desire, his breathing heavy.

You lick your lips, still tasting him on them, and your gaze lowers to his body. He is very much naked after the shower you just had, his skin flushed and damp, his muscles tense with barely suppressed energy.

Caleb follows your gaze and smirks, his hand reaching down to wrap around his thick, hard cock. He gives it a slow, languid stroke, his thumb swirling over the sensitive head. "You want this, don't you?" he asks, his voice a deep, seductive rumble.

You whimper, a small, involuntary sound of need that betrays your every thought. You lay in the bed, still with your legs spread and boneless, completely at his mercy.

He watches you, his eyes darkening. The way your legs are spread, the way your body is boneless and sated - it makes his blood boil, fuels the possessive hunger that claws at his insides. He wraps his hand tighter around his length, pumping slowly. "You look like you've been properly fucked," he comments softly, almost to himself, voice laced with dark satisfaction.

You choke a laugh, a weak, breathless sound that still manages to convey a hint of playful defiance. “And who was the one who did that?”

He groans, his eyes fluttering closed briefly as he continues to slow jerk himself off. You’re teasing him, laughing softly even though you’re clearly wrecked from their fucking. "Shut up," he mutters, his voice strained.

You find yourself watching. Each stroke is deliberate, a slow, sensual dance of hand against flesh. You see the flexing of his muscles, the tightening of his jaw, and the way his breath hitches with each movement. It's a raw, uninhibited display, and you find yourself captivated by the sheer intensity of it.

He opens his eyes, finding you watching him with heavy-lidded eyes. The way you're looking at him, like you're enjoying the show - fuck, it's hot. He picks up the pace, his hand moving faster over his length. "You like watching me touch myself?" he asks roughly.

You swallow, the word catching in your throat. "Yes," you whisper, the admission a release, a surrender to the moment.

A low groan escapes his lips as he hears your admission. He strokes himself faster, his grip tightening. "Do you want to watch me come?" he asks, his voice strained with desire. "Or do you want something else?" He looks at you, his eyes filled with lust and a hint of challenge.

"More..." you breathe, the word a plea, a promise.

His breathing grows heavier as he continues to stroke himself, his free hand balling into a fist at his side. "More what?" he growls, his eyes locked onto yours. "You want me to do something else?" He swirls his thumb over the sensitive head, his hand pausing briefly.

A moan escapes your lips, involuntary, a testament to the power he holds over you. You nod, unable to speak, your body trembling with need.

A smirk plays at the corners of his mouth, a predatory curve that sends a thrill of excitement through you. He releases his length, leaving it throbbing, glistening, a beacon of raw desire. He comes closer to the bed, stopping at the edge,” Come here, baby.”

You obey, your body moving without conscious thought. You close your legs, knees digging into the mattress, and crawl towards him, drawn by an irresistible force.

As you crawl closer, Caleb reaches out, his large hands grasping your wrists gently. He pulls you the last bit, until you're kneeling right before him. His cock juts out, a pulsing testament to his desire, inches from your face. “I think you want a taste," he murmurs, stroking his shaft slowly.

You lick your lips, the anticipation building to a fever pitch. You nod, looking up at him with a mixture of lust and adoration. He's offering you a gift, a privilege, and you're ready to receive it.

Caleb's breath hitches as he watches you lick your lips. He guides his thick head to your mouth, painting your lips with his pre-cum. "Open up for me, sweetheart," he orders softly, his voice thick with desire. He wants to feel your warm, wet mouth enveloping him, to lose himself in the sensation of your touch.

You open your lips, a silent invitation, and he doesn't hesitate.

"Fuck," he whispers, the word an expletive and a prayer as you take him in. He pushes himself deeper inch by inch until he hits the back of your throat. Your gag reflex tries to kick in, but he keeps a firm but gentle grasp on the back of your head, holding you steady. "You're such a good girl," he murmurs, his voice laced with praise, the words a reward for your devotion.

Your eyes roll back in your head, lost in the sensation, the praise igniting a fire within you. You want to please him, to give him everything he desires.

Seeing your reaction, Caleb groans deeply, his hips beginning to move slowly. "That's it, baby. Take my cock so well," he praises, his voice husky with lust. He gently thrusts deeper, giving you time to adjust to his size, to the overwhelming sensation of his presence.

You moan, a muffled sound against his flesh, and almost choke, tears welling up in your eyes. You struggle to breathe, forcing air through your nose, trying to maintain control, to continue pleasing him.

Caleb's grip on your head tightens slightly, but he remains gentle, feeling your struggle. "Shh, baby, take a breath," he coos softly, slowly pulling back to give you a moment of respite. He watches as you gasp for air, tears streaming down your cheeks, your face flushed and contorted with effort,” Look at me.” he whispers.

You look up at him, your eyes pleading, vulnerable.

His heart melts at the sight of you looking up at him with those tear-stained cheeks. His pace remains slow and rhythmic, careful not to hurt you. Not this time. "You look so fucking beautiful with my cock in your mouth," he whispers, wiping away a tear with his thumb.

You whimper, a small, involuntary sound of pleasure, loving that he's so tender with you, so aware of your limits.

"My sweet girl..." he breathes out, continuing those careful thrusts. One hand stays on your head while the other gently strokes your cheek, offering comfort and reassurance. “You're doing so good, taking me so deep..." He watches you struggle, feeling both guilt and intense pleasure knowing it's him causing those sweet tears, that look of blissful torment on your face.

You try to open your mouth wider for him, a silent offering, a desperate attempt to give him everything he wants.

"God, yes... just like that," he encourages, his voice growing thicker as he feels himself nearing his limit. "Your mouth is heaven, sweetheart. So warm, so tight... I'm so fucking close." He bites his lip, trying to hold back, wanting to prolong this moment.

You moan around him, a garbled sound of pleasure and desperation, reaching up to cup his balls, your fingers gently stroking, teasing, adding fuel to the fire.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he curses under his breath, a tremor running through his powerful thighs, the muscles bunching and releasing under your touch. "Stop, stop," he warns you gently, the words a breathy plea, yet his hands, those strong hands that could crush bone stay firmly on your head, contradictory to his words. "You'll make me come if you keep doing that..." His breathing grows raspier.

You ignored him, or perhaps, he knew you would. The thrill of control, of pushing him closer and closer to the brink, was a heady aphrodisiac. Deeper, faster, you swallowed, your hand a firm, possessive grip on his heavy sac, the weight of his impending release heavy in your palm.

"Holy shit," he mutters, hips jerking forward slightly. He's trying hard not to face-fuck you, his self-control surprisingly good. "Your mouth..." He swallows hard, watching you take him deep. "Your hand..." He tenses again as you gently massage his balls.

You broke the rhythm, just for a moment, lifting your head, your gaze locking with his. The moan that escaped your lips was a primal sound, born of pure, unadulterated lust.

His face contorts with pleasure when you look up at him, your usual innocent eyes were filled with desire and hunger, and he finally loses control. "Fuck, I'm coming," he grits out, hands gripping your head tightly as he begins to pump his hips, face screwed up in ecstasy.

Your eyes roll back, the world fading away as the first taste of his release flooded your mouth. He was fire, molten and consuming, and you welcomed the burn.

He lets out a guttural groan as he releases into your mouth, his hot seed spilling out as you swallow around him. He holds you there, not allowing you to pull back as he continues to shudder and come, his body trembling above you. "Damn..." The word was a ragged whisper, a testament to the intensity of what had just transpired.

Seeing him undone, vulnerable, weak in the aftermath of his climax, fueled a deep, primal satisfaction within you. He was a god brought to his knees, and you were the force that had felled him.

Caleb's knees nearly buckle as the last waves of his orgasm course through him. Slowly, he pulls back, his cock slipping from your lips with a soft pop. He stares down at you, chest heaving, a look of stunned awe on his flushed face. "Holy shit," he repeated, the words a hushed prayer.

You swallowed, relishing the lingering taste of him, and licked the last remnants from your lips. The act was deliberately provocative, a silent dare. Your voice was hoarse, raw from the intensity of the moment. "How was that? Better than when you made me choke on your gun?" You grinned, a flash of teeth in the dim light, the question laced with a playful defiance.

A low chuckle rumbles in Caleb's chest as he listens to your hoarse voice and teasing words. His eyes light up with amusement and something darker, more primal. He reaches down, gently lifting your chin with his thumb and index finger. "Mmm, definitely better." He murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction.

Your grin widened, emboldened by his response.

Caleb's gaze drops to your lips, still glistening with his release. Without a word, he leans down, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss. His tongue delves in, tasting himself on your lips and tongue. He pulls back after a moment, breathing heavily.

The words, the ones you had choked back in the shower, the ones that had been burning in your throat, finally escaped. "I love you..." The declaration hung in the air, fragile and vulnerable.

His heart skips a beat, emotions playing across his features - surprise, fear, love. "Fuck... don't you dare say things like that," he whispers, but there's no venom in his tone. Instead, he pulls you closer, forehead resting against yours, the contact grounding him.

You giggled, the sound light and airy in the otherwise heavy atmosphere. "Well... you told me to take my time."

A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips, crinkling the skin around his eyes. "You did take your time," he admitted, his voice softer now. He sat back against the headboard, pulling you into his lap, his arms wrapping tightly around you, holding you close. "Too much time." He paused, his heart pounding in his chest, a frantic drumbeat against your back.

You snuggled into his neck, inhaling his scent, the familiar aroma a comfort and a challenge. "You love me, so it's only right to love you back."

Caleb's arms tighten around you, his breath hitching slightly at your words. He presses a soft kiss to your temple, his voice barely above a whisper. "You know I do. More than anything." He pauses, his fingers gently tracing patterns on your back, a silent language of affection.

"Mmm," you murmured, content in his embrace.

Caleb tilts his head, watching your smiling face intently. A playful smirk tugs at his lips as he squeezes you gently in his lap. "Was that an'mmm' of agreement or an'mmm' of trouble?" His eyebrow arches teasingly, clear amusement sparkling in his eyes.

You rested your forehead against his, peering up at him through your lashes. "Definitely agreement."

A warmth spreads across his face at your answer, his eyes softening as they lock onto yours. His hand moves to gently rest on your cheek, thumb stroking across your skin. "Smartass," he whispers, but the word comes out fondly.

You nuzzled his hand, pressing a kiss into his palm. You had missed this, these quiet, tender moments, the feeling of being safe and cherished in his arms.

He watches you nuzzle into his palm, his expression unguarded. His other hand comes up to cup your jaw possessively. "God, you're like a damn cat," he murmurs, his voice lower, almost tender again. He missed these small, unguarded moments with you too, the feeling of your warmth against him, the trust that flowed between you.

You giggled, the sound fading into silence as you settled back into his embrace. "What now?" The question hung in the air, a hesitant inquiry about the future, about where this fragile connection would lead.

Caleb's thumb continues to stroke your cheek, his eyes searching yours. "What do you want to do now?" he asks softly, giving you a small smile. He shifts slightly, making sure you're comfortable in his lap. "We could just stay like this for a while, or... we could talk."

"Or...you can bring me some snacks?" You countered, the playful request a deliberate attempt to lighten the mood, to avoid the weight of serious conversation.

Chuckles softly, the vibrations rumbling against your back. "Always so demanding, aren't you?" He kisses your shoulder gently before setting you back on the bed. "Fine, I'll get you some snacks. But only if you promise to stay right there and look pretty for me."

“How pretty?” You teased, batting your eyelashes as you watched him pull his boxers on.

Rolling his eyes playfully, Caleb ran a deliberately slow, appreciative gaze over you, from head to toe, lingering on the curve of your breasts, the swell of your hips.

"Prettier than a sunrise, dummy. Now sit tight before you ruin my carpet with your gorgeous self sprawled out naked."

You laughed, a genuine, uninhibited sound that filled the room. "You think I would lay on the carpet?"

"With your lazy ass?" He teases, shaking his head as he turns towards the kitchen. "Knowing you, you'd probably decide the carpet is more comfortable than this king-sized bed." His voice carries a warm, affectionate tone that betrays his playful joking.

"Bring my favorite! Apple flavored!" You called out after him, the request laced with a sweet anticipation.

His low chuckle was the only response, a soft rumble that faded as he disappeared into the kitchen, leaving you alone with the lingering scent of sex and the quiet hum of contentment.

taglist : @mcdepressed290

[cod-indulgences]

John Price x female!reader, tf141 x female!reader, tf141!reader, bratting, punishment, spanking, noncon spanking, pussy spanking, just a whole lotta spanks, clit torture, blowjobs, pussyjob; note: this is 90% price x reader, the lads come in just at the very end

"The fuck are you gonna do about it?" You snap at Price.

You've been a brat all day- snarky, sarcastic, bitching under your breath about anything and everything. Price had rolled his eyes and ignored your more obvious attempts to bait him into a fight. Instead you went after your squad, using everything you could to jab into their softest parts, right up to and including things that you know- you fucking know- were off limits.

And now Price was staring you down like a bull across his desk, refusing to budge an inch against whatever bee had crawled up your ass- you didn't even know yourself, it was just a day that you wanted company in your misery, a desire to make someone hurt. Your captain didn't care for it.

Besides, what was he going to do? You hadn't broken any rules, just been a cunt. He could throw you on punishment duty but what would that serve? You'd done details, you'd scrubbed toilets and stood in the rain for hours in parade rest. It didn't matter, any more than standing in the rain on missions did. You were safe in your little palace of poison.

Price sighed, and you gloated a little in victory- until he stood and motioned you to come around to his side of the desk. He stood as well, looking down at you with his frown and his mustache all bristling- and suddenly the world tilted as strong hands gripped your shoulder and hip. It spun again and settled- you were now nearly upside down over Price's lap, your arms pinned under you between his thighs, head dangling, and your ass propped up.

The first spank hits you with a dull thud, and you shriek in indignation. How fucking dare he-!

Smack!

You yelp again, kicking, and snarl over your shoulder at the captain. He's impassive, only looking down at you like some- some rude child who didn't listen-

Smack!

Harder, in the same spot, and even through your pants and underwear it aches. He's got big hands, strong callused palms- it's like being hit with a paddle. You try and free your arms and get two spanks for that, and your head spins as blood rushes down into it. For a second you stop struggling, trying to regain some equilibrium, and to your horror feel a rush of cool air on your ass as your clothes are yanked down, hobbling your knees together.

No, no way, absolutely fucking not-

The next spank lands solidly on your bare ass, right over both cheeks, and you shriek in mingled pain and fury. Another follows it, another and another, spanks landing back and forth over your ass until the whole of it feels red hot. Price still hasn't said anything to you, taking your snarled curses and struggling in stride- you call him a bastard and he only spanks harder- and it feels neverending. You'll always be stuck here, pinned like a bug, your captain swinging ceaselessly against your ass until it's so red and swollen even a softer tap of his fingers makes you whine. Tears and snot drip down your face, your lungs heaving for air as each spank and slap jolts your breath from you.

He pauses, and you gulp air, trying to find the anger again and instead only feeing the humiliation, the shame. Bare-assed over your captains knee and crying like a bitch, because you had to go and be a bitch to your squad. Who didn't deserve it.

Prices hand settles over your thighs, thin skin still unmarked, untouched, and your eyes fly open wide as his hand pulls back.

"no, no, I'm sorry I'm sorry please don't-!"

The smack is so loud it echoes in the room and you scream through your teeth. Fuck, it hurt, you swear you can feel every finger mark like it's been drawn on you. Your thighs are sensitive, meant for gentle touches and careful kisses, not this- this- beating, a brutal slap of a strong hand over and over as you yell and squirm fruitlessly, heat building up to rival the burning left in your ass, until you're full sobbing. You fall limp, legs and arms dangling, the rest of your body eclipsed by the aching, deep heat radiating through you.

Price leaves his hand on your thighs, fingers spread right into the bright red marks he's left on you. His other arm lifts from your back, apparently trusting that you're too broken to try and get away now. It's over, you think, finally done, you can pull up your pants and limp away to nurse your hurts in your room.

And then both hands cup your ass, squeezing, and you moan like a poor ruined bitch as he spreads your cheeks apart and takes a good look at your sopping wet pussy.

Every slap, spank, and smack had gone right through your flesh to your cunt. Every tear leaking from your eyes, every humiliated sob and rush of shame and embarrassment, all of it melting into a white-hot heat that you'd desperately tried to hide, and yet it was for nothing. Price was looking straight down at the evidence of what you really felt from his punishing blows.

You hang there for a moment, and then he was easing you upright, steadying you as the blood rush from so long upside down reversed itself. You feel dumb and ruined, sniffling, your ass and thighs so hot you could feel it against your hand. Then Price lifts you under your arms to sit on his desk, and you yowl, the cold wood a new burning pain. He hauls down on the tangled mess of your clothes, stopping them at your boots, and pushes your knees apart.

You're bare assed on your captains desk, his handprints on your flesh, face red and wet, for anyone to see- to know just how you'd been punished- and to your horror you feel your pussy clench, a little creamy gush leaking out. You were dripping onto his desk, and Price saw it, humming in consideration as he looked down at the small soft folds of your pussy, clit a little popped up at the top. His big hand cups you and you moan. Warm, gentle, it almost made you cry again. You're so turned on, so needy for a touch that would bring pleasure after all the pain.

"Three more," Price says, "for each of the squad you decided to hurt today with your words, and then you're all done." And you feel with a clenching terror his hand shift from softly cupping you to a flat palm and stiff fingers, laid right over your sensitive cunt.

You don't even have it in you to fight him, instead just looking up at him with new tears in your eyes. "I'm sorry," you whimper, "I am, I promise, I'll be better, just...please, please don't. I can't."

Price smiles at you like you'd pleased him, but doesn't move his hand. "I know. And it's good to be sorry. But your punishment isn't done, and you can't get out of finishing it. Deep breath for me, now," and you lay down on the desk and grab the edge behind your head, taking a deep, shuddering breath, your whole body trembling.

Your pussy clenches in anticipation and a betraying burst of pleasure as Price rubs his palm over your clit, fucking warming up, perking up like there's something good coming, and you can't stop the shuddering moan as he teases you.

When his hand pulls back and slaps down, just as hard and heavy as when he spanked your ass, your moan turns into a scream, torn out of your throat as your body arches against the desk, stuck, caught between the terrible hand and unyielding wood. Your cunt burns, your clit hurts so bad, and there's another betraying jolt through your belly.

When Price lifts his hand back, you see a wet spot on the palm, and the arousal that shudders through you only makes you sob, knowing your clit has swollen up even more, a bigger target.

The second smack throws you into such pain it overrides your senses, thighs shaking uncontrollably as your head bangs against the desk. Two hits and you're so swollen and hot, too sensitive, your lower body a big pulsing knot of pain and needy pleasure. You can't take this. You never liked too much pressure on your clit, always reminding partners to be gentle, to be careful, but now your cunt is gushing and you're sobbing for it, wanting another hit as much as you want it to just stop. "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean- I didn't mean it, I'm sorry I said- it hurts- I'm sorry sorry sorry..."

Price's hands run softly down your thighs, just skirting the edge of the purpling bruises he left. "It's alright, now. We know you just got all twisted up and took it out on everyone nearby. They know you aren't like this, they'll forgive you. One more, and then the lads will get you back to your room," he says, and laughs at the bewildered look on your face. "What, did you think they don't know what's going on? They're listening at the door to your wailing."

You think of the squad, Ghost and Soap and Gaz, hurting from your barbs, clustered outside Price's door as you sobbed and shouted, hearing each spank as it landed- hearing you now as Price hits something so obviously more sensitive- and give up. It's too much. Your clit wants more even as your mind wants less, your ass and thighs are so laden with bruises you can't think of sitting on them, your pussy lips so swollen you can see them peeking up from between your thighs. The last bit of fight leaves you as you stare up at your captain with swimming eyes, as he readies his hand for the last of your punishment.

You take a deep breath as he orders, waiting, held on the edge.

SMACK!

You scream but don't hear it, vision whiting out as Price brings his hand down full force, pain ripping through your cunt as the slap lands with pinpoint accuracy on the poor little head of your clit- and then Price rubs, his palm and fingers dragging over your pussy, and you come so hard a muscle in your side pulls, a new unexpected pain added to the fire in your cunt, slick squirting out of your hole to drip down the desk and onto Price's boots. You're floating in a haze of sensation, his hand still there, still pressing down, and the drag of his wet fingers as he pulls away draws a longer, shuddering orgasm from you. There's nothing in the world except the heat and the pain and the pleasure.

You come back a little to the click of the door opening and closing again, and three hot bodies crowd around your head. Your eyes are closed but you hear the thick wet sounds of fists moving over cocks, heavy breathing, and open your mouth for them. Someone moans, and a plush cock head rubs your lips, a few drops of pre dampening them before ropes of come spill out, streaking over your mouth and tongue, your cheeks still wet with tears. You poke your tongue out to lick at it, and catch a second cock instead, suckling at the head as much as your can in your addled, endorphin-drunk state. More come fills your mouth, spills out the corner of your lips, and when the third slides in past your teeth and rubs against your cheeks you whine and let him have your mouth, open and limp. The third round of come is enough in your mouth to swallow.

A fourth cock is suddenly fitted against your pussy and you sob, eyes flying open in fright, but Price soothes you with a hand smoothing softly over your belly. "It's alright, honey, this won't hurt you. Just going to rub off, that's all," and he so gently thrusts his cock between the bruise-swollen folds of your pussy, only barely grazing the underside of your clit, that he's right- it doesn't hurt- just pleasure, smoothing through you like liquor, and somehow you come a little more, a soft wet squeeze against Price that leaves him spilling over you, his come almost cool against your burning pussy.

Someone gathers you up, clothes still all disarrayed- you shy away from the thought of trying to pull them up over your ass and thighs. Instead you're cradled against a broad chest, carried back to your room where you're stripped fully and laid down on your belly, soft cool cloths spread over your ass and thighs, one tucked carefully up against your pussy. You're already fading away, body on a low thrum, when you realize someone is still with you.

Price smooths your hair off your forehead, sticky with drying come- no one cleaned your face off. His hand is soft and easy, and you blink up at him. "I'm sorry," you offer again, in a voice hoarse from screaming.

"I know love," Price says, "and you took the punishment well. Remember, this happens again, it'll be worse for you." You nod and agree, and close your eyes, drifting off. You fucked up and found out- but your captain handled it, handled you, and you won't forget the lesson.

[mooishbeam]

『♡』 In the Ring

♡ featuring: boxer!wriothesley x manager!reader

♡ summary: its hard managing a boxer full time. maybe it's time you relieve that stress. wc: 6.8k+ (???>":>?)

♡ cw/tw: mentions of trauma, mentions of violence, rough sex, overstim, face-sitting, size kink, unintentional edging, hair pulling, mentions of choking, argument, confessed feelings, slow burn, kinda toxic?

notes: can u tell how down bad i am for wriothesley. also do yall like the smaller text cause I do. jing yuan fluff next :)) art by sxnalien on twitter! <3 comments and reblogs are appreciated!

For a second, the crowd stills. Bright intense lamps illuminate the sweltering squared circle, buoyant under the nimble movement of the boxers. They trade blows, bobbing and throwing each devastating hook with an even deadlier counter. No one took a hit for the past minutes, and the audience scoots to the edge of their seats at the sheer stamina of the two. Both dripping sweat, barely holding on between the merciless clock and their steadfast opponent. You can almost hear the breeze of swift jabs cutting wind against their jaws. The one with blue gloves can barely manage to guard himself, with a swollen face and wobbly legs, while the crimson gloves deal relentless punches. The crowd shouts. Unintelligible echoes, some that pray for the win, others grieving the money they’re about to lose. He’s caught on the ropes, and attempts a wild swing to save himself, to save his career. Red gloves weaves effortlessly and delivers a brutal crush to his bloodied nose and possibly busted mouthpiece. The crack is resounding, it makes the commentators cringe. His skull flies back, and he comes crashing down from his dizzying tower. The head-first fall vibrates beneath the feet of investors in proximity. 

DING DING DING 

Mass uproar ensues. They jump out of their seats, flailing their arms, joy and pain in equilibrium. 

“And he is out! It’s all over!” the commentator yells. Confetti floats golden dust from the ceiling. The victor stalks the ropes before hopping on them, his gloves raised in the air. Glistening, high off elation, but somehow composed in his attitude, akin to a wolf. 

“A savage knockout from the untouchable world champion, the king of the ring, Wriooothesley!” 

“Wrio, Wrio, Wrio!” they chant. You’re standing near the ropes, already identifying which joints you’ll need to observe after his victory lap. It’s hectic, and you’re jotting down the state of his figure. Past experiences sew through each deep scar carving his rugged biceps and abs, the bruises display early signs of discoloration. He’s tall on the unseen throne, it feels like you’re there with him. A million eyes in that vast stadium, and yet, those midwinter eyes ebbed in silver only look at you.  

Your beginnings as a manager were tumultuous. You could barely comprehend how out of your league you were working for a renowned agency fresh out of college. Though you found quick success in your ability to grab the attention of investors through public relations, you weren’t equipped just yet with the hindsight in preparing for scandals. The other athletes you worked with served no problem, and so you never had to worry about their appeal. Higher ups praised your extensive portfolio, and at such a young age, it was even more commendable. You earned it, fame and respect, interviews and gossip—a delicate dance. You were always busy, assisting your clients throughout the day and maintaining their presence while they slept. It was hard work, but you loved doing it. 

That was until you worked with amateur boxer, Childe. 

A snappy, overconfident lightweight fighter with no regard for anything or anyone. He had an unmistakable void in his eyes, but you fought for him ceaselessly, to prove that he wasn’t the cold person he portrayed himself as. You bore with his flirtatious compliments and innuendos, the need to focus him whenever you documented his afflictions, and he’d not-so-subtly flex his biceps. Childe was unnecessarily violent with underhanded tactics. The media knew this and did everything to amplify that bellicose story. You’d combat it, negate it, but he only fed the flames with threats of retaliation. Taking his phone wasn’t enough, and you couldn’t get through to him. It was only a matter of time before he went off the deep end.  

The day you slept, you discovered a restlessness you’d endure indefinitely. The flickering glow of your device woke you at midnight as hundreds of notifications congested your screen. 128 missed calls from your agency, 50 from news sources, and none from Childe. When you processed the damage from his deplorable stunt, you nearly hurled your phone out the window. He posted revenge porn, and evidently turned off his phone. Surely, there’d be a way to fix this. The chances seemed to dissolve with each text turning green. You started pacing, battling with morality and loyalty and anger. What he did was disgusting, but it’s your job to save him, right? Is he worth saving? You spoke with 4 managers at once, switching through motives and bickering until morning. As you flipped through the television, another emotion struck you. 

There he was, on a tasteless gossip channel. An interview you didn’t arrange, with a man you’ve never seen before. And he was...crying? The sob story emitting from his deceitful lips was almost impressive. Childe went on about how “demanding and horrible” you were backstage. The crocodile tears dried up through dodgy anecdotes, but it was enough to have people hooked. You were allegedly physically and emotionally abusive. He was too scared to speak up due to your position and he just couldn’t bear it any longer. Then he dropped the bomb; he blamed you for his post. You forced him to do it, jealous of his previous partners, emphasizing how enamored you were of him. The questionable tears began to fall again, but this time he covered his mouth, withholding the duping smile crawling on his face.  

You were filled with blinding rage, unable to control the fury at which your remote connected with the screen. It was everywhere now, social media websites booming with live opinions. He had no reason to slander you, and you couldn’t pinpoint why he chose to hurt you like this. You cried for him, shared stories of childhood and family. The knife you used to protect him was firm in your back, twisting and digging with each disgusting message in your inbox. You had no game plan to conduct, and no tears left to cry.  

Within a week, you finally understood how cruel this industry could be. Within a week, you were no longer on top. You lost clients fast. It spread like wildfire and not a single outlet spared an ear for your side. People you called friends, coworkers, hadn’t replied to your messages. When you got back to work, the rooms were silent as you passed. You could feel their judgement, whispers rattled with rumors and accusations. They waited for the tiniest slip-up and pounced like hyenas—you were eaten alive by their pitiful stares. You attempted to tell your truth multiple times throughout the week, but it was consistently rejected. The headlines were eye-catching: 

“Manager From Hell: Childe Tells All!” 

“He Cries: A Story of Love and Jealousy” 

Your stomach churned to the magazines being shown. Despite the great amount of loss you suffered, you were thankful for the one person that believed you, your boss. 

“Childe is a lying little snake. The media knows that, too.” 

“Then why is this happening?” 

“Money. That story is making bank right now. But I know for a fact you wouldn’t do this” he reassured.  

“Thank you, sir. But...I lost everything; I just don’t know what to do.” The weariness was heavy in your voice. 

“I have someone you can manage. It won’t be easy, but if anyone can do it, it’s you.” You were unsure of yourself now, and he continued.  

“You’re one of my best. If you want to climb out of this, now’s your chance.” Yes, you were unsure, drowning in doubt. But if the only way to get above water was to keep swimming, you wouldn’t give up so easily. 

Wriothesley wasn’t exactly known for his kindness. Crude, cocky, maybe even spoiled were descriptions that circulated in the tabloids. He had a knack for pissing reporters off by not answering questions or humming over their voice with a shit-eating grin on his face. Women loved him, however, throwing bras and phone numbers written on scrap as the condemned “bad boy” departed post-game. They screamed his name at once, and he’d done nothing to deserve it. He relished infamy—that way, it was much harder to pry into his private life. 

It had to be a coincidence that it was someone you fangirled over. In college, your eyes were glued to the screen every Sunday, waiting for Wriothesely’s post-conference and behind the scenes interviews. He didn’t speak often, but just the sight of those inky strands streaked with ash made your heart flutter featherlight in your chest. 

When you first approached him, he was just as arrogant as you’d expect. 

“Good evening!” you beamed. You caught him outside the gym, and he still had his headphones in. Full volume and blankly staring as you went on about the opportunity, silent under the blaring music. He took one earbud out when you finished. 

“Hm? Who’re you?” 

You were slightly annoyed. “Let me reintroduce myself, I’m (Y/N). Your new manager.” 

“No. Bye.” He began to walk past you without an ounce of care. You couldn’t lose it like this. 

“Ah, wait!” He turned half-heartedly. 

“Listen, I get it. You don’t want to be bossed around. But honestly, your reputation is shit. That can’t be good for business.” you persuaded. He towered over you, the figure of a Greek giant peeked through the compression top as he lazily watched you. 

“So? Why do you care?” he remarked. 

“I’ll help you. Sponsors, advertisements, whatever you want. You’re good, but you can be so much better. Let’s make money together.” You held your hand out, awaiting a handshake of approval. He merely glanced at your limp wrist. 

“Help? You’re obviously not doing this for free.” 

“Of course not. Give a little, take a little. I don’t do charity cases” you shrugged.  

He groaned, raking his fingers through his thick mane. At the very least, he hadn’t walked away yet. “I'd prefer for my life to be private.” 

“Then I’ll guarantee your privacy.” 

“Really?” he scoffed. “What can you give me besides empty promises?” 

“Anything you desire. Work with me, and I’ll make it happen.” That offer enticed him. No one had been this persistent with him yet, he scared off any manager that dared succor him. It was slightly entertaining, the way you burned ambition in your eyes, you were so easy to read. Most people wouldn’t look directly at him, and here you were, ready to follow him home if that’s what it took. He chuckled, and his massive hand reached for yours. 

You shook hands, and your fates were sealed.  

That was a year ago, and ever since then he’s been a thorn in your side. Nonstop drama and rectifying consumed your life. You didn’t think a man who spoke so little in public could talk so much around you. Whenever you argue—which is a frequent occurrence—his smirk grew wider at your frustration. You weren’t sure why you ever liked him in the first place. He only puts in effort when it comes to sparring, but you’re determined to ameliorate his standing, and in turn, yours.  

The minute you open the doors to the hall, the sound of pummeled sandbags, clanking metal, and sneakers skidding across the floor roars in your ears. Some men are dialed in on abusing the inanimate objects, the rest tense through repetitions of dumbbell curls with a hiss. You're in quick strides, the phone arm's length away from you as the sponsor on the other end screams. Another petty drama surrounding Wriothesley grabs the attention of the internet. Luckily, you have thorough experience remedying this. 

“What are you going to do? You’re fucking with my money!” you hear the faint voice. You bring the phone back to your ear. 

“Don’t I always deal with it? He fights, I make up for the other half. Give me a few hours.” 

“I’m not going to wa-” You hang up at the response. 

You propel the double doors free into a large room with a boxing ring in the center. A group of trainers swarm the perimeter, you can barely see through.  

“Don’t be scared!” one of them taunt towards the sparring partner, who has an unthinkable panic creeping in goosebumps dotting his skin. Each sloppy dodge tilts him more and more off balance against the strikes. Wriothesley has a powerful stature, with his back curving in a way that accentuates the rough muscle shaping his spine. You drone an annoyed sigh at the commotion and push yourself through them.  

“Move it, move!” you yell, before jostling your way to the front of the ring. 

“Wriothesley! Times up.”  He turns his head to the side, unintentionally sparing his partner and glares at you. 

“Two minutes.” 

“No. Now.” you command. He looks up at nothing, as if considering his options if he cusses you out. Then he begrudgingly drops the gloves and pulls himself under the ropes. The group disperses from the lack of action and he’s mere inches from you now. Sometimes you forget how to breathe in his half-naked presence.  

“What the fuck is your problem?” He mumbles while drying his head with a towel. His colossal forearms are raised over his head, highlighting the happy trail thick down his abdomen and tufts of hair on his armpits.  

“You. How many times do I have to tell you not to train during recovery?” you seethe. 

“Damn. Must’ve slipped my mind.” He doesn’t sound convincing in the slightest. 

“Well then, I’ll be sure to remind you hourly.” 

“Nah, I’m good. Hearing you once a day is enough.” He tosses the towel to you like his dutiful servant and grabs his water bottle. The liquid drips down his chin and on his shorts, hanging below his v-line. 

Your eyebrow twitches from withheld vexation. “If you don’t want to hear me twice, I suggest you do what I tell you. We need to talk.” A heavy sigh leaves him as he stretches, and he passes you the water bottle. If you had the strength to collapse the bottle with one hand, you would. “Lead the way” he goads. 

Wriothesley follows you through the backdoor of the gym to a secluded alleyway. When you get there, he immediately pulls out a cigarette you didn’t know he had. You were aware he smokes occasionally, but seeing it physically coaxed a strange worry in your gut. You twist your phone to him, to display evidence of him instigating an argument with Childe on social media. He reads in silence, briefly laughing at the recollection of his own comebacks, then lights the cigarette. 

“What’s this? Didn’t I say keep a low profile?” you reprimand. 

He drags in a deep breath of nicotine, and you eye the foul scent with distaste. He blows it above your unhappy face. “Calm down. Once a month thing. That fucker's testing me.” 

“This can’t happen again, Wriothesley.” He ignores you to continue his mumbling. “I should break his neck like a twig. He’s lucky he didn’t say that shit to my face, fucking punk.” he grouses. You're struggling to gather your thoughts, the cigarette compacted between his thick fingers irritates you. 

“We all appreciate your restraint, however-” you get closer, and yank the stick out his hand. 

 “No-!” Before he can finish, you promptly smudge it underneath your shoe. You aren’t sure how he’d react, but you didn’t expect him to sulk like a puppy. 

“You aren’t doing this shit while I’m here.” 

“Oh my god” he pouts, throwing his hands into his face and pulling them down.  

“You’re lucky I don’t report it to the doctor. None of this, ever again.” 

“Fuck, alright just...” he lets out a defeated sigh. “What do you want me to do about it? Apologize publicly?” You need him to do nothing; neither agency wants controversy, and it’d most likely be swept under the rug in just a couple days. You point his water bottle to him. 

“Nope, I’ll handle it. Just sit there and be pretty.” you reassure. He leans down to your height with a sweet smile and even sweeter gaze. 

“I do that well, don’t I?” he quips. 

“You manage.” He latches onto the water bottle, and drinks from it in your hand while looking at you. A soft heat envelops you beyond words that never reach your lips. 

“Listen to what I’m saying. Low. Profile.” Wriothesley comes up from thirst, dragging his tongue along the straw to the top, and licks his blushed lips. He delights in your flustered reaction. 

“Low. Profile.” he repeats in a sarcastic drawl. 

Later in the week, you receive a call in your office. It was fairly busy today, with coworkers constantly “checking in”, more so to see Wriothesley sitting across from you. He had no reason to be here, and you were surprised at his arrival. Be it boredom or a certain longing, a dull swell pulsed in his chest once he saw your overworked smile. 

“Hello, this is (Y/N) of Boxe Association. May I know who I’m speaking with?” Wriothesley’s ears perk up at your sudden professionalism, and he mimics your cadence. 

“Good afternoon, it’s Isadora.” Isadora was an event coordinator you previously worked with before your controversy. You understood that she stopped communicating to protect her business, but the pain lingered. You twirl the phone cord around your fingers, and meet eyes with Wriothesley, who’s laid back in the chair, his arms behind his head. 

“Oh. Hey, it’s been a while.” you say. You turn your swivel chair away from him to continue the conversation. His eyebrow twitches slightly with an unconscious scowl, and he walks towards your chair. 

“It has. I’m calling because I have a proposition that might interest you. I believe a meet and greet would be appropriate for your client. A large chunk of his fanbase are young adult women, however, he’s also popular with children.” He spins the chair around with a firm hand and presses his cheek against the phone. 

“That’s true.” You side eye him, and without skipping a beat, mush his nosey face away. His hot breath on your digits makes your skin tingle. 

“Who is that” he mumbles. You'd never seen Wriothesley interact with children, and you have every reason to be hesitant. 

“Hmm...any positive activity with children is good publicity. I’ll consider it. I’ll let you know by tonight.” The second you hang up, you release his face. 

“Why are you being annoying-” 

“Who were you talking to” he chides.  

“Isadora. She’s an event coordinator.” His clenched jaw unwinds. “She wants to do a meet and greet with you and a few kids. If we go through with this, I’ll have a camera crew and some reporters there. It’ll be good for your image.” 

“Okay.” he agrees. That was quick.  

“...Are you sure? Kids are loud and obnoxious a lot of the time.” 

“So? Fine by me. I can teach them how to fight.” Your skin crawls at the thought of Wriothesley launching a child through a wall. “That won’t be necessary.” 

“It’ll be fun.” The more he assures you, the more uneasy you feel. 

“Wriothesley, I’m serious. Don’t screw this up” you plead. He holds his pinky out. “I won't.” His loose interpretation of promises was dubious at best, but you had no other options, and this might be your only opening. You curl to his word. 

After parleying the finer details, you broadcast a raffle for young fans to meet Wriothesley. The traffic to the website was overwhelming, and you quickly began sorting out tickets for the favored winners. 

 Fortunately, the next couple of weeks were par for the course. 

It’s the night before the event, and you’re getting ready for bed. You sit at your desk in a big T-shirt and do your daily review of personal data. As you're scrolling through and identifying what needs improvement, you get a notification on your phone. 

“Breaking News: Boxer Bar Fight!” Curious, you open the tab to a video. It makes your breath stall, sweating frantically. You can’t think clearly, and your shaky hands can barely increase the volume. Unidentifiable noises and wobbly camerawork made it impossible to catch anything besides those familiar inky black strands, throwing punches in a drunken stupor at a defenseless man. Your previous conundrum flashes through your memory in a horrific stop-motion; the duping smile on his face. 

No. It’s happening all over again. Why is he at a bar? You messaged him before he went to bed. He never goes to bars. Why now, the night before the event? It’s late, he doesn’t go anywhere without telling you. 

He promised. 

None of it made sense as you threw on any sweatpants in your drawer and ran out the door. You can’t wait until morning. Disaster punctures and tears any rational decision you contemplate. Shouting silently within your mind, a crashing rage—or sadness—boils in your nervous stomach. You’re tunnel vision in a taxi on the way to his address. 

When you get there, you bang on the door with a fury that vibrates throughout the archway. His home is extravagant, with two cars and an expansive driveway. You bang again. 

“Wriothesley!” He finally opens the door. He’s still half asleep, pajama pants low on his waist, groggily leaning against the arch.  

“(Y/N)? Uh, what’s up?” He slurs in a deep slumbering voice through heavy eyelids. You barge in without saying anything. “Make yourself at home, I guess.” 

The interior is just as opulent as the exterior, it almost looks untouched. Every corner has a case or shelf stacked with ornate trophies and medals of excellence. It was the home of someone who achieved peak perfection and reveled in it. He follows you to his living room, bewildered at your furious expression. You play the video in front of him, and he watches with that same puzzled attitude that makes you angrier. You try taking deep breaths to compose yourself, but they halt shallowly. 

“What the fuck is this?” you accuse. 

“What? I don’t know.”  “Like hell you don’t know, this shit is on every homepage. Are you serious?”  

The cranky boxer pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. You show up at his house, and it’s to badger him about a rumor. Your temperament only heats the smoldering ember fueled by incessant claims. He covers his mouth, physically stopping the involuntary response. 

“Okay” he says, and blurts a facetious chuckle. Your heart thumps in your chest and ears.  

“Oh, It’s a fucking joke? I bust my ass to save your career and you’re laughing?” you snap, voice increasing in volume until it reaches a broken peak. He returns with the same energy. 

“When did I ask you to fix anything? Did you ever think that maybe I don’t fucking need you-” 

“You can barely control your smoking habits you pompous ass-” 

“I would if you didn’t nag me all the time. Whining and complaining, it’s fucking annoying!” he yells. Neither of you meant the words spilling out the bubbling surface, but your tongues were solely seasoned with the next spiteful jab. 

“Yes, whining! Because all you need to do is be on the straight and narrow, but you take nothing seriously, Wriothesley, and that’s exactly why-” 

“Exactly why what? Why your career went to shit so you’re piggybacking off mine?”  

Your battle stops. You can’t find the words to rebuttal. All the opinions of your colleagues, the media, Wriothesley, and yourself coagulate into a lump that fills the tightening throat. Pride comforts tears brimming your eyes. 

He pauses, as though he came to reality. An apology attempts to form on his lips, but it never manifests. “(Y/N), I didn’t-” 

“See you in the morning” you choked. You walk to the door, and he reaches out to the infinite space thick between you two.  

You didn’t sleep the entire night. It’s morning, and you’re exhausted. You consistently replayed the quarrel in your head through the taxi ride home, and when you strived for rest, it plagued your mind. Your coffee is untouched during your morning routine, a movement comparable to zombies. You don’t bother to confirm if Wriothesely is at the building—either way you owe it to the event holders to be there. 

You arrive just before the children file into the training room. Thankfully, Wriothesley is there in the center. Live cameras from reporters and parents border the walls; if something were to occur, it would be irreversible. Your head suddenly hurts. 

Perhaps playing it up for his reputation, the smile stretched across his face is a sunny warmth you’ve never seen from him. He waves to them, and they erupt with screams. To your astonishment, he gets on his knees to be eye level with them. They all jump into his arms at once, and he topples over onto the mat.  

And he’s laughing. This grumpy asshole fighter is laughing. A hearty, genuine laugh as he wraps his sturdy arms around all of them and picks them up at once. He whirls them around and they orchestrate high-pitched giggles. “Ready to have some fun?” he chortles. They say yes to varying degrees of excitement, and the meet and greet proceeds. 

You can’t help but smile when he frolics with the kids. They chase him with boxing gloves, he pretends to fall dramatically. Dogpiling him, he lets out a shrill scream of defeat. He manages to work in proper defense techniques while they jump him like a test dummy. He tosses each kid in the air whenever they ask, and never tells them no. You receive another call from Isadora amid your admiration, and you step outside. 

“Hey! Good news, these views are off the charts and the internet is really in his favor right now” she congratulates.  

“That’s great...what about the video from last night? Did you see it?” you ask. 

“Video...oh, that! Don’t worry, it’s confirmed fake.” What? Oh no. Immediate regret stirs in your blood, and you force the phone away to catch your breath. You feel utterly stupid. 

“Hello?” You quickly bring the phone back to your ear. “Yea, sorry. I have to go; I’ll call you later.” you insist. You can’t facepalm any harder. You make your way back to the training room, where the kids decorate his gloves with iridescent stickers. Wriothesley occasionally looks at you, but you can’t bear to show your guilty face. 

When the event is over, you both make sure to hug every child on the way out and thank the parent for coming. You’re sorting through mountains of requests people made to see Wriothesley again, and you mute your phone over the influx of emails. Peeking at the broadcast, under the footage in bold letters:  

“(Y/N) Back from the Dead?”  

It wasn’t the most flattering title, but it proved that public perception was salvageable. You emit a sigh of relief, for you and Wriothesley. As you’re packing your things to exit, he blocks the door with his body. 

“Can we talk?” You were dreading this discussion, but agreed, nonetheless. The ride to his home is silent, you grapple with a proper apology. 

You lean against the kitchen bar, while he’s laxing on the couch. Sleep deprivation torments you, causes you to wander as you fill in papers from sponsors. You can’t see the way Wriothesley steals glances at your slack figure curving to the marble. He eventually spoke.  

“So, um.” 

“I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you. You did a good job today Wriothesley, you should be proud.” You flash a meek smile. He fumbles with his thumbs uncomfortably. 

“I am. Aren’t I the best?” he boasts. 

“You are” you say. The lack of sleep beckons you to a spur of honesty as you scribble. “You have stunning form, perfect accuracy, and immeasurable talent. Not just anyone can do that.” you return. He gazes at you, that dull swell pumping in his veins again. The cozy radiance of lights brightens your tired eyes. 

“You’re a big fan, huh?” he chuckles.  

“Of course, I used to watch you in college. I had a major crush on you” you snort. “Everything you are is amazing, but you know this. So cut it out.” He sits on the armrest, swallowing your confessions. The room is entirely too hot, he needs alleviation—he needs you. 

“Sorry. For what I said.” 

“Forget it. It's my fault, I was careless. I apologize.” you admit. 

“You know I didn’t do it, right?” 

“I know.” 

“I didn’t.” 

“I know.” you reassure.  

“What if some other bullshit controversy comes out. Then what?” You stop writing to give him your full attention. 

“Then, I’ll trust you. We’ve gotten this far. Even if no one else does, even if for some reason I lose my job and I’m not your manager anymore, I’ll trust you, Wriothesley.” you reveal. He doesn’t move. Wriothesley knew he wasn’t deserving of trust, and he’d made a plethora of mistakes throughout your arrangement. You had every right to leave him long ago. Nobody gave him the time of day or cared for his wellbeing like you did, but he couldn’t reciprocate. Even so, here he kneels, at the feet of an angel that shows him undying mercy. 

Wriothesley stalks at you, but you remain. He looms over you, pinning you to the counter with both arms, inches from your face. It isn’t a threatening force, but one that begs for confirmation. That slated storm searches for a specific craving, you feel his chest rising and falling laden with yours. 

“You’re too close” you quiver. The bitter musk and vanilla enveloping your senses makes you foggy, it lingers through the whole house. 

“Tell me to leave.” His mouth slants to you, and he waits expectingly. You ogle his features, the scratches of a warrior celebrated across his hardy torso. His hair brushes against your forehead, imperfect and uniquely beautiful. Why were you mad, again?

“Tell me to back off, (Y/N)” he pleads. The pads of your fingers lightly caress his ear, then his jaw. 

“Please” he whispers. Your thumb grazes his bottom lip, and he succumbs to the urge. 

You collide fervently, lips coated in definitive desire. Dancing with rough, bruising kisses that don’t make space for air. It smears on your face, dips down your neck and swiftly returns to your lonely mouth. The pressure of the counter bar burns across your lower back from his weight, but those mind-numbing kisses soften any injury. You bite his lip when he pulls away, and he groans. Suddenly, he lifts you effortlessly with his hands on your ass, and you clash teeth and tongue in a passionate challenge. He demands entry, and you moan into the wet mass intertwining through sloppy kisses. It explores your mouth, sending throbs to your nerves and subdues any control you have left. Your arms are wrapped around his neck, but you yearn for deeper contact. He licks up the organ, and spots moist, hungry kisses on your jaw. You both take a fleeting breath before converging again. You find passage in his hair and suck staining rose-colored marks on his neck while he carries you to the bedroom. 

“You’ve been waiting for this, hm? Slutty groupie” Wriothesley moans. You drag kisses along the shell of his ear. He tosses you onto the fluffy bedding and haphazardly strips to his underwear. The wide mirror opposite his bed gives you a glimpse of his thighs and shapely bottom hugging the briefs. You’re supposed to be undressing, but that thronging bulge made for a titan makes you nervous for what’s to come. He palms the erection to soothe the ache and climbs over you. He’s somewhat gentle, careful with the bulk of his body as he cradles your face for more kisses. The way he looks at you, a covet softness or misted lust tantalizing the wetness pooling in your panties. He moves to your neck, French kissing down your throat and on your collarbone. You feel like a virgin again, heart racing from every graze of his fingers and lips. His calloused digits grope the plush fat of your thighs, and gradually reach the hem of your skirt. You snake your hands over his pecs and abs and read the muscles. Moaning into each other's mouths, indulging every part of your bodies as you’ve wanted to do for months. He pulls your skirt off and you hold your button-down over your exposed panties. Heat spreads in your body, and he amuses at your sudden bashfulness. 

“Oh…you’re shy?” he teases, before popping the buttons off with a brutal rip. “Wrio!” you yelp. That’s the first time you called Wriothesley a nickname; he must’ve died and went to heaven. The lace gift wrapped around your breasts taunts him, and he buries his face immediately. He nips the sensitive skin and snaps the clasp off. “Cute. Need to feel you” he husks. He twirls the bud in his mouth, while manipulating the other between his girthy fingers. Alternating among loving hickies and harsh tugs of his teeth on your nipple. You whine, and his laugh tickles your raw skin. He flips over on his back and steadies you on top of him. Discards the rest of your top, and let’s out a shaky groan.  

“You’ve never been this speechless” he says. You smile and kiss his puffy lips, your hands kneading his chest. “You’re so pretty” you coo. He huffs while rubbing circles on your waist, eyeing your inner thighs covered in juices.  

“Then come fuck my pretty face.” He slips under the waistband and tweaks the fabric, but you grip his wrists. “Wait! Let me shower first- “ 

“You said you'd give me anything I desire, remember that? Keep your promise." He yanks the thin material down your legs in your weak clutches, trailing a string of drool that sticks to your labia. “C’mere” he grunts and lifts you towards his face. Your thighs are soft on either side of him, and you still in his grasp. He lolls his tongue out, but you’re reluctant to fully sit. “I’m heavy” you murmur.  

“Shut up.” He embraces your body, and you have no choice but to settle in his warmth. He keeps you flush with his flat tongue, swiping up and down the squishy flesh molding to his mouth. You writhe in his grasp, but he continues to lap at your clit with a starving lust. Wriothesely soaks in your velvet skin and perfumed essence dribbling down his chin. He doesn’t come up for air, and your brain is mush over him, his lips slurping your quivering cunt. A buzzing intensity courses through your twitching stomach. You rut your hips against his mouth, and he maintains his position while you use him. You’re grinding on his tongue, absent-mindedly biting your lips and mewling endlessly as you bring yourself closer to climax. He hums while sucking the nub and the vibrations make you cry out.  

“Wrio, ‘m coming” you whine. You hump his mouth until you come undone in a pulsating finish. His hands restrain you, greedily devouring the newly found honey as it pours out. You ride it through while he curls the tip of his tongue at your opening. Without warning, you feel the pink muscle push in your recovering vulva. “S-Shit, Wrio” you whimper, trembling on him as he drives inside. He seizes the back of your thighs and begins to bounce you up and down the mushy appendage slowly stretching you. The sensation is overwhelming, his nose skims your oversensitive clit each time you drop, and you sob. Wriothesley moves faster, your hands entangle in his hair. You babble please’s repeatedly, gazing sensually at each other as the coil winds in your gut. More, more. Then it snaps, an abrupt shock, clenching on his tongue as you cream. He raises your lower half; the wetness collecting in your convulsing heat makes his cock strain more than it already suffered.  

“Such a cute slut” Wriothesley husks. Your numb legs can’t navigate on their own, so he places you on your stomach. “We’re not done.” He springs his throbbing length free. The veins are consistent, prominent up his shaft to the angry red crown—9 inches begging to be inside you. Fresh precome trickles down his tip and he sighs at the bloated pain in his hefty balls. You arch your back, presenting yourself to his awaiting size. When he doesn’t enter you turn to him impatiently and he smirks. 

“Put it in” you whine. Wriothesley spreads your backside, and watches you clench around the ghost of him. He glazes himself with your slick, and moans from the feeling of your puffy lips cuddling his cock. “It’s not every day a fan gets to sleep with me. Be grateful.” he teases. He pumps through your squashed thighs, the head prodding your nub while he forces your chest flush with the bed. After he thoroughly coats himself, he nudges the bulbous tip to your entrance. 

Wriothesley sinks into your sex. You’re gripping him like a vice despite the searing soreness of your body accommodating the scale. The fevered sleeve nearly makes him crash to the hilt, but he stutters gradually to relieve your discomfort. He hits the base and shudders. You feel unbelievably stuffed, as if it’s squirming in your cervix. Then he starts at a savage pace. He’s using you like a flesh-light, balls smacking your overwhelmed tender nub with a carnal impulse. His moans spill uncontrollably as he watches your rippling ass and viscous webs blend together, clinging to his cock and forming a cloudy froth at the base. Your knuckles turn white on the sheets; you can’t think or feel anything that isn’t him, core surging with intense want. 

“Fuck, you’re so tight, gonna snap my dick off. Ah- gonna make sure you can’t walk t-tomorrow. Then- hah- then you won’t be able to find anyone who fucks you like this, who makes you come like this.” He’s rambling and stuttering, completely incoherent the closer he gets. He glances at the mirror, then at you. You feel your hair jerked back by his massive hand, and lock eyes with Wriothesley in his drunken haze. “Stop, it’s embarrassing!” you slur. You’re both sheened with sweat, disheveled bodies satiating the hunger in any way you can. 

“Shh, you hear that?” The squelching slam of passion echoes in the room, sopping down your leg through his pummeling thrusts. Your back bends unnaturally as though it were folded in half. “You’re so fucking hot, so needy for me.” His veins adorn your walls, you start to tear up from the mixture of pleasure and pain. He notices your tears and holds you up so that your back is flush with his chest. 

“It hurts?” he questions, stalling his movement. You feel him twitch. “No, feels s’good Wrio. More” you mewl. He chuckles, and gently wraps his hand around your throat before pumping again.  

“Too good? Am I the best you’ve ever had? Say it.” He moves faster, free hand rubbing your clit. Your knees buckle and eyes roll back to your skull, he takes in the scene of your convulsing figure in the mirror. “S’best I’ve ever had, please ‘m so close!” you rasp, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. He chases his high, panting animalistically in your ear.  

“Shit- look how desperate you are. Want me to come inside? Y-yea, I bet you fucking do”

“‘M coming!” you babble.

“Good. Make a mess.” he commands. Fire trails up your limbs, and you tighten before falling apart. Fluttering around him, taking him deeper while you come on his sack. Wriothesley pursues his sputtering hips, spurting thick globs that paint you white. He whimpers as you milk his spasming length dry and presses tired kisses along your shoulder blade. When he comes down from his apex, he turns you over on your back. It’s hard for him to not be proud of your boneless existence sprawled on his bed. You’re both breathing hard in silence, and he leaves for a couple minutes. You’re stunned when he returns with a damp rag to clean you up, and some dark substance in a mug.

You find the strength to sit up while he wipes your lower areas. “Where are my clothes?”

“...For what?”  he mumbles.

“To leave?” It seemed like common sense to you—boxers usually don’t go for long-term relationships, and so you assumed it to be a one-night stand. You dip over the edge of the bed and locate your skirt, but Wriothesely hops up and snatches it before you can. “I’ll put it in the wash. Relax.” 

“I didn’t know you were so hospitable. Do you do this for every girl?” you tease. He gets visibly upset, and shoves the cup from the dresser in your hands. “Don’t piss me off. Now, drink. I’ll order food.” 

Multicolored sunset flaking through the sheer curtains frames his stature while he’s on the phone. You sip the tea, it’s a vile grainy taste. For a moment you imagine what life could be like with him by your side—poor quality tea and an awful temper. In your pleasant aftermath, it doesn’t seem bad at all.

[archive-doll]

thinking about bear!price and I think gender neutral!reader.

trigger warning for breeding kink, slutty!price, and soft!dark!price who can't help himself because he wants to press his warm tongue into you, forgive him. Blood, and kidnapping. I think that's all?

Minors do not interact. Enjoy.

ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

Maybe he retired. Maybe he moved from his old apartment, tired of the big city he lived in for so long, to be close to the base.

Instead, he finds an old house into a little city away from his new neighbours, where all he can see is the wilderness of the forest. It's green in all of its nuance and brown, and he can hear birds singing, and it's immediate the way his instincts ease when he steps out of his car.

He told Kyle about it over a drink, wrote a letter to his L.t. about it, called Mactavish to give him the location. He knows he's not lonely, but he needs to be alone for a while and find some sort of equilibrium between his past and what he always wished for in life.

A place where he can feel isolated. Having his own garden to tend to during the day, a river not too far where he could fish on a sunny afternoon bare chest and feet in the cold water. There is something about bee-keeping, too, because god knows the hairy man can not keep himself far away from honey to save his life.

Cliché, but in his case, true.

And maybe, as he prepares the house, late summer - early autumn, he lets himself feel the ache of being mateless. It came before, but within the military life, John didn't want to risk it. Barely allowed himself to think of it. Now he can. As he shifts over the huge nest, moving around the fur and fluffy pillows for his bad back and hurting joints, taking over the master bedroom, he can't stop thinking about it.

Someone to take care of and fuss over. Someone to love and cherish. Someone to caress and kiss in the deep cold of winter. Someone who would praise him for his numerous efforts to keep the house clean and in order and who cooked him warm and handmade dinners. Someone who would writhe and rut along his groin in the living room. Someone who would bury their face into his hairy chest as they leave wet patches along his overall, nails digging into his square shoulders. Someone who would look up at him, with tear-bright eyes and swollen lips and begging for his cock.

Someone he would love to have cubs with, huge fat babies with chubby cheeks and rolls over its cute body. Babies he would adore more than life.

He can't stop thinking about it as he gains a few pounces while autumn comes around, his hands aching for a warm figure to hold onto, nose twitching as if searching for them when he goes for one of his morning walks.

But they find him, instead. Bright smile and sweaty, with a huge bag on their back with mini jeans shorts, leaving his greedy eyes happy as they ask him for help, a bit lost in the mountains.

John gets chubby in his overalls as he helps them find their way on the map for the rest of their hike, big hand finding their shoulder in a comically modest touch, close to the delicious scent in their throat. Skin free of marks, not for long.

He invites them to eat with a soothing voice, talking them into taking a break and enjoying the view, and they can't say no; the man uses all of his manipulating skills to keep them close, just for a bit longer.

So they eat together, and they share a puff of cigar, and then when it's time for them to go, John memories their route, blood rushing as he watches his precious mate disappear between the thick trees.

His hands shake, his nostrils flare.

It's only a few minutes after that the birds chip loudly, flying away in number as a scream echoes closer to the ground. Hands digging into the mud, first fallen leaves cracking beneath shaky palms, as the grizzly dug his teeth harder into one shoe, dragging them backwards.

The blood falls over the grass, leaving little splashs of red that slide down along the ridge of the mountain, cries, and unnecessary pleading swallow by the forest.

It's just you and him now. And don't worry about a thing, baby. John will kiss it better. And don't worry, he will put you on his own feet for slow dancing. With the shape of his teeth carved into your ankle. Can barely walk on your own at first. Sweet little mate.

tiger!ghost here!

(it's my first time going public with one of my crazy thought and english is not my first language so please, have mercy on me.)

© archive-doll - all rights reserved. reposting or modifying, including translating or use on AI is not permitted. original characters are not my own, but the stories and writing are.

[kazuhahalol]

— rendezvous 18.6y | five hargreeves x f!reader

— A space rendezvous is an orbital maneuver during which two spacecraft, one of which is often a space station, arrive at the same orbit and approach to a very close distance.

Five discovers that you’re his soulmate. The only problem is that he’s also discovered you only exist in another timeline.

TW: angst, death

masterlist

Five Hargreeves had no patience for this. The CIA wasn’t his ideal workplace. But it had its perks: they were more than willing to let him do things his way as long as they got results. And now, Derek, the shorter, perpetually frazzled assistant who had an unhealthy admiration for Five; was standing in front of him with a stack of paperwork, clearly expecting Five to care.

“Five, seriously, we’ve gotta fix this,” Derek whined, shifting on his feet nervously. His usually neat appearance was ruffled, hair slightly askew as his hands fidgeted with the papers, holding them a little too tightly. He looked like he was about to break into a nervous sweat.

Five, who stood at least six inches taller than Derek, rolled his eyes as he took in the sight of his assistant’s increasingly flustered demeanor. “What, you’re still worried about the training schedule?” he drawled. “Derek, the last time I checked, we weren’t in preschool.”

Derek was nothing if not persistent, though. “It’s not just the schedule! It’s the agents, Five. Their performance has been awful. If you don’t step in, they’re gonna—”

“—Be useless?” Five finished for him with an almost bored expression, leaning back in his chair as he kicked his feet up on the desk. “Let me guess. You want me to play ‘team leader’ and ‘mentor’ now. That it?”

Derek’s face flushed at the implication but he refused to back down. “I’m just saying, you’ve got the experience, okay? You know what you’re doing. You’re the only one who can actually fix this.”

Five stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. The truth was, Five didn’t care about their internal CIA issues, least of all some rookie agents who couldn’t handle basic tasks. But Derek had this way about him—this desperate, wide-eyed expression that made it hard for Five to say no. He didn’t like the kid, not really, but Derek was one of the few who actually did his job without expecting recognition.

“Fine,” Five said after a long, drawn-out pause, making Derek’s face light up in relief. “I’ll look into it. But don’t expect me to hold their hands and sing Kumbaya.”

Derek smiled his usual shit-eating smile, almost too eagerly. “Thanks, Five. I knew you’d come through.”

Five let out a heavy sigh. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”

With that, he turned and headed for the exit, his steps firm and confident. Derek stood there for a moment, watching him go with that same smirk. Five didn’t acknowledge it. He didn’t want to or he’d get mad.

Five was already sick of the day, annoyed by Derek’s incessant requests. He couldn’t even remember the last time he felt like doing anything for the CIA beyond getting through the job. At this point, the only thing keeping him sane was the hope that he could at least catch a break. But the day was far from over.

He blinked and suddenly, he was somewhere else entirely.

Five stumbled a bit, his equilibrium off as he stood in an empty subway station, tiles cracked beneath his boots and flickering lights hanging above. He wasn’t sure how he’d gotten there, or even what had happened. His body still felt strange, sick, almost. But the biggest question on his mind was where the hell was he?

“What the hell…?” Five muttered to himself, scanning the abandoned station. The walls were stained and peeling, the space echoing in a way that felt off, but not immediately dangerous. There was a stain on the floor in the shape of Australia.

He reached up, rubbing the back of his neck. His mind raced. Last night, he remembered taking shots with the Umbrellas, heading home, and hitting the sack. How could that have brought his powers back. Did coming in indirect contact with the marigold in the jar bring back his powers? That had to be it. The marigold was messing with his system, likely triggering his powers back into existence.

Well, Five didn’t know Ben spiked the drinks, so let’s give him a break.

Five spent the next several hours of his life trying to get out of this terrible subway. He was hopping on and off trains, going to different timelines, just trying to get back home.

On his umpteenth attempt, he lazily stepped off the platform. No sign of the stain shaped like Australia. Great.

Five grunted in frustration, but as he took another step forward, he felt a pull. Well, more like a yank. It wasn’t physical, but it was real. Like an invisible thread, guiding him forward. He froze, staring at the faintest red string flickering in his vision. It was so faint, so subtle, but it was there.

“What the hell…” Five said again, now fully on edge.

His thoughts scrambled. This had to be a mistake. He wasn’t supposed to be here, and the marigold surely wasn’t the cause of… whatever this was.

Without much more to think, Five started walking toward the string, curious. His instincts told him to follow it. The string led him down another dark and dirty corridor. He could hear the soft hum of something distant, a vibration that made him tense, but he didn’t stop. Not yet. However, the string continued down the dark hall of the subway tracks, and he was not about to step foot on them. But he knew he had to get out of here someway

“Guess I’m not getting out of here without figuring this out,” he muttered, almost to himself.

Just then, the same subway train pulled up, the voice speaking to him in a backward language he couldn’t understand. Five was exhausted and not feeling any less nauseous. Still, he couldn’t ignore the pull. The red string kept pulling, yanking itself towards its other host.

With an exhale, Five stepped onto the train, trying to ignore the odd sensation that coursed through him. It was a strange feeling, like stepping into something he couldn’t quite understand.

The train doors closed behind him with a clank, and Five was alone. He didn’t know where the train was taking him. But he figured that, with his powers back, the only way out of this situation was to see it through.

ᡣ𐭩

The train sped down endless tunnels, skipping across different realities. Five watched, his brow furrowed, as the landscape shifted around him, each stop revealing new worlds, new timelines, each one more strange and disconnected than the last. He didn’t know how or why it was happening, but he was helpless to stop it.

There were people. Familiar faces. Others he couldn’t quite place. Moments, too. Time itself felt warped, stretched beyond recognition. He saw places he recognized, but twisted and wrong. Things shifted constantly, and Five couldn’t help but feel the heavy weight of each reality’s imperfections.

The further the train went, the more frantic his thoughts became. He couldn’t keep hopping through these timelines forever. The red string tugged at him, guiding him forward. He needed to get back to his timeline. He needed to find his family.

But then, everything seemed to change. The train slowed, and before him, another station appeared. A glimpse of a new world, unfamiliar and yet somehow comforting. The red string kept yanking. He stepped out the train, looking for any sign of the Australia-shaped stain.

Nowhere to be seen.

He traverses the corridor until he reaches the stairs, climbing them until he’s met with the blinding sun. He navigates his way through the city, following wherever this red string is taking him. The buzz and sound of the city decreases as he reaches the more rural side. A small town, clean and quiet. Single family homes accompanied with apartments and townhouses. He stops at a single floor family home, staring straight at what his string was connected to.

You.

You were standing there, casually tying a ribbon around a patch of dahlias, the vibrant red flowers bright even in the dim light. You moved with a fluidity that made it impossible for Five to tear his eyes away.

The red string was there again, flickering, now more vivid than ever. It wound its way toward you, tugging with a force Five could no longer ignore.

“Dahlia’s, huh?” Five muttered to himself, barely above a whisper.

You looked up, sensing his presence. A soft, knowing smile appeared on your lips as you locked eyes with him. There was a sense of familiarity that struck him deep, like an anchor in the chaos that had followed him through the timelines.

The red string.

He was connected to you.

Five stood there, frozen in the soft light of the fading day, watching you work. The flickering red string still hummed in his vision, its pull relentless and undeniable. He couldn’t explain it, he had no idea what this was or how it worked, but there was something about you that felt…right. And as much as he hated to admit it, this quiet town felt oddly like home. It wasn’t like the chaos and destruction of his own reality, where nothing was ever really stable. Here, he could almost taste a sense of peace.

You were still working in the garden, tying a ribbon around a patch of dahlias, your movements graceful and easy. Five found himself staring for a little too long, caught in some quiet reverie, before he shook his head, snapping back to reality.

“Hey,” he said, walking toward you, his tone a little more dry than he intended. “You’re really into flowers, huh?”

You looked up, meeting his gaze with a warm smile, completely unfazed by his presence or the bluntness in his voice. You seemed to radiate calm, something Five had forgotten even existed.

“They’re my favorite,” you answered, your voice soft but strong. “They make everything a little brighter, you know?”

Five’s lips quirked at the edges, a slight chuckle escaping him. “Yeah, well, they certainly make your yard look like something out of a Pinterest board.”

You raised an eyebrow, the smile still there, though your eyes glinted with amusement. “You’ve been on Pinterest?” She asks, as if she believed he didn’t look like the type to.

“Who hasn’t?” He shrugged, but the sarcasm in his voice was gone, replaced by something a little less harsh. Something like…gratitude? Maybe.

You studied him for a moment, looking at his appearance which seemed a bit disheveled and exhausted, then nodded toward the house. “You need a place to stay, don’t you?”

Five didn’t hesitate. He had no reason to stay, no reason to linger. But something about this place, about you, made the idea of leaving feel foolish.

“I’m…lost,” he said, his voice a little softer than usual, though his tone remained steady. “So, yeah, a place to crash would be great.”

Your smile softened, and without a word, you motioned toward the house. “Well, you’re welcome to stay. I’ve got a spare room. It’s not much, but it’s quiet. And I could use the company.”

Five didn’t need any more encouragement. The string pulling him toward you only got stronger, and against his better judgment, he followed you inside. He didn’t say anything as you led him through the house, a small but cozy space that exuded a warmth he hadn’t felt in ages.

Days turned into weeks. The red string never wavered, but Five found himself growing comfortable in a way he hadn’t in years. He helped with small things around the house, things you hadn’t even known you needed help with. Fixing a leaky faucet. Setting up a new light fixture. Cooking dinner when you were too tired to bother. He did it all, all the while keeping his sarcastic and somewhat distant nature intact, even though, deep down, he knew he was slowly slipping. The edges of his carefully constructed walls were crumbling, piece by piece.

“You know,” you said one night as you both sat on the porch, watching the stars, “you’ve been here for a while now. I never really asked you… What exactly are you running from?”

Five didn’t look at you, his gaze fixed on the horizon, the weight of your question pressing down on him more than he’d like to admit. “Nothing,” he replied, his voice just a little too sharp. “Just needed a break.”

You tilted your head, sensing the lie in his words, but you didn’t push. You never did. You just let him be. And somehow, that was exactly what he needed.

ᡣ𐭩

Time passed in a blur of laughter, fleeting moments, and growing affection. Five found himself laughing with you. Something he hadn’t done in years. And, despite his best efforts to resist, he couldn’t deny it anymore: he was falling for you. Hard.

One evening, as you were both standing in the kitchen, preparing dinner, he turned to you, his gaze softer than usual.

“Thanks,” he said, his voice quiet. “For letting me stay. For…not asking too many questions.”

You smiled, that same quiet strength in your eyes. “I could say the same to you. You’ve made my life a lot easier, Five.”

His eyes flickered with something unreadable, but then he shook his head, a hint of that familiar sarcasm creeping back into his voice.

“Yeah, well, I’m good at that.” He hesitated for a second, then added, “I never thought I’d find peace like this. Not in…well, not in any universe.”

You placed a hand on his shoulder, your touch gentle but firm. “It’s not about the universe, Five. It’s about where you are… and who you’re with.”

That one simple sentence hit him harder than anything else. He swallowed hard, looking away from you.

The truth was, Five knew something you didn’t. Something that kept him awake at night, that gnawed at him whenever he looked at you and saw the way your smile made everything feel like it would be okay.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. This wasn’t his timeline. And by staying, he was risking it all. Every time he thought about the red string, the connection, the weight of it all, he knew he had to leave. He had to go back.

But every time he thought about leaving you, it felt like his chest might crack open.

One night, after you’d both declared your love for each other, slowly, hesitantly, like both of you were afraid of what might happen if you fully admitted it—Five knew that it was time.

“I can’t stay,” he said one evening, his voice tight as he stood in the doorway.

You looked up from where you sat on the couch, your expression confused. “What are you talking about? Where are you going?”

Five stepped toward you, his heart breaking with every step. “This isn’t my timeline. And I’m not supposed to be here.”

Five’s eyes flickered with a hint of sorrow before he hardened his gaze, looking away as if the truth itself would tear him apart.

“I have to go back,” he said, his voice tight, colder than usual, but there was something in the way he said it that betrayed the lie. “I have to go back to my family.”

You stood there for a moment, completely still, trying to process his words. The weight of his departure settled over you, heavy and suffocating. You opened your mouth to say something, anything, but the words seemed to get caught in your throat.

“Five… what do you mean? Why now?” You stepped forward, but he was already backing away, every movement deliberate as if he was trying to distance himself from you. “You’ve made a life here. With me.”

“I know,” he said quickly, voice tinged with regret. “I know. But it’s something I have to do. I can’t stay.”

You shook your head, a feeling of helplessness creeping into your chest. “Please… don’t go.”

The desperation in your voice made him hesitate, just for a moment, but he masked it with a quick, harsh breath. “I have no choice,” he said. “You wouldn’t understand.”

But you did understand. You understood more than he thought. It wasn’t just that he had to leave—it was that he wasn’t telling you the truth. You could feel it. The way he ached inside, how this wasn’t just about family or whatever excuse he was feeding you. It was something more, something bigger, but you couldn’t quite reach it.

“Five, please don’t do this,” you whispered, stepping closer until there was barely any space between you. You reached for his hand, the warmth of your palm pressing against his cool, detached skin. “You don’t have to go. Not yet. I…” Your words faltered, the lump in your throat rising. “I need you here.”

He closed his eyes for a long moment, then let out a quiet, almost imperceptible sigh. When he opened his eyes again, his gaze softened, though the distance between you remained. “I need to do this. For everyone. For the world.”

You frowned, unable to make sense of his words. “What do you mean?”

But before you could get an answer, he stepped back, and his lips twisted into a bitter smile.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “But I have to leave. You’ll be alright.”

And with that, he turned and walked out the door, leaving you standing in the living room, heart heavy with confusion and sorrow.

Five never returned. After many failed attempts, he made his way back into his original timeline, a place where everything felt like it was falling apart, where the stakes were higher than he could ever explain. He had no time to dwell on what he was leaving behind, not when the fate of everything was at risk.

In his original timeline, the Umbrellas, his family, his true family, were preparing for their final mission. They had to make their sacrifice to correct the world’s path, to fix the timeline, to undo everything they had gone wrong.

And as he stood with them, ready to take his place in the grand scheme of things, Five knew there was no turning back. This was the end, and it had to be done. They all had to give up their lives, their existence, for the greater good. The world depended on it.

With one final look at his house around him, at the family he had loved more than anything, Five made his sacrifice. In that moment, the Umbrella Academy joined together one last time and ceased to exist, so did Five. Five was happy that he found love before he would pass on, even if she wouldn’t remember him. His very being dissolved, erasing him from the timeline, from everything.

ᡣ𐭩

Back in your timeline, you lived on. You continued with your life, growing older, feeling the passage of time like a slow, inevitable current. The world continued, with all its ups and downs, its joys and heartbreaks. But there was something missing, something you couldn’t place, a hole in your heart that never quite healed.

Years passed, and you found yourself in your garden again, standing among the flowers. The dahlias bloomed brightly, their red petals catching the sunlight. The tulips swayed gently in the breeze, a soft pink hue against the red. The flowers were a beautiful sight, one that had always brought you peace.

You smiled softly, a sense of warmth flooding through you, but there was an odd ache in your chest, a lingering sense of something long forgotten. As the years went by, you never stopped tending to your garden, not remembering the man that loved you more than he could ever love himself.

He ceased to exist, after all.

One day, you passed away quietly in your sleep, the world around you unchanged. The winter had just past and spring had sprung. The sun was shining, the children were playing, and in the brown soil of your yard sprouted a beautiful red dahlia and a single marigold, which you hadn’t planted before, only planting tulips and dahlias.

The dahlia and marigold sit in the spring sun in silence, a tiny red string connecting the two by their petals.

[truevedicastrology]

Unveiling the Enigma of Mars

🚀Mars, the celestial orchestrator of how you magnetize individuals and the manner in which you resonate. It delves into the intricate essence you exude and the perceptions people harbor about you. This cosmic force also embodies masculine energy, offering insights into the archetype of men you may allure.

🌌Mars in the 1st house unravels your allure externally, where your energy becomes swiftly discernible. You're characterized by responsiveness and a tenacious self-advocacy. Occasionally perceived as impulsive or irate, your sanctuary lies in self-indulgence, physical exertion, and athletic pursuits. The gravitational pull extends to men with athletic prowess or those with a self-centric aesthetic.

🌺Mars in the 2nd house manifests allure through olfactory allure, skin aesthetics, or indulgence in epicurean pleasures. Passion for culinary arts and a penchant for opulence mark your identity. Your charm attracts men of affluence or those generously disposed.

🏖️Mars in the 3rd house articulates allure through eloquence and the written word. Passion resonates in your speech, and the written realm becomes a source of profound joy. A proclivity for literature and related pursuits is evident. The enticement extends to multitasking, loquacious men, possibly educators or wordsmiths.

🏡Mars in the 4th house unveils allure in moments of domestic comfort, adorned in unassuming attire. Emotional energy becomes an irresistible magnet. Mars, discreetly nestled here, shares passion exclusively with intimate circles or family. Attraction extends to nurturing, emotionally expressive men, perhaps with a hint of moodiness.

🎨Mars in the 5th house radiates allure during dynamic activities, invoking attractiveness in motion. Passion is channeled into hobbies, joy, and a perpetual youthful spirit. The magnetic pull is towards confident, charismatic, and playful individuals.

🌈Mars in the 6th house renders allure through physique and an organized, health-conscious lifestyle. The zenith of well-being is achieved through proactive endeavors, organization, and animal companionship. Attraction is directed towards industrious, meticulous men, potentially involved in animal care or fitness training.

🌙Mars in the 7th house allures through aesthetic grace, fastidiousness, and a pursuit of justice. The epitome of well-being lies in harmonious relationships and aesthetic refinement. Attraction extends to men who embody beauty, meticulous grooming, and charm.

🔮Mars in the 8th house projects allure through intimate and sexual charisma, intertwined with an aura of power. Stability and emotional equilibrium define your zenith. This allure thrives in secrecy and spiritual pursuits, attracting individuals exuding intense energy, possessiveness, and depth.

🌐Mars in the 9th house emanates allure through vivacity, intellect, and captivating narratives. The ardor for exploration, diverse cultures, and distant realms is palpable. Attraction aligns with optimistic, adventurous men, including educators, professors, or those hailing from diverse cultures.

🏰Mars in the 10th house showcases allure in the public eye, accentuating tenacity and success. Energy converges into achievements and reputation, possibly bordering on work-centric tendencies. Attraction is drawn towards older, stable, and successful men, echoing qualities reminiscent of paternal figures.

📱Mars in the 11th house unfolds allure in the digital realm, exuding uniqueness that captivates social networks. The energy is invested in friendships, aspirations, and dreams. Attraction encompasses peculiar, distinctive men, thriving either in group dynamics or solitude, immersed in individual pursuits.

💖Mars in the 12th house mystically radiates allure, captivating through an enigmatic aura. Appreciation transcends the physical, delving into the spiritual and ethereal facets. Energy is channeled into artistic expressions, resonating with the profound. Attraction unfolds towards artistic, spiritual, emotionally profound individuals, potentially from coastal regions, with a transcendent connection that transcends verbal communication.

Follow our Facebook page Mage Magic Touch for personal consultations https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=61565561190268

[cryptotheism]

Do you have a favorite diagram from the manuscripts you’ve read?

Yes! Sir Issac Newton's model of the philosophers stone!

This image was from his personal notes, which have been in a private collection for years. But back in 2016, the manuscripts were put up for auction. They contain a vast amount of writing on contemporary alchemical theory, including this particular diagram, which depicts a theoretical structure of the philosophers stone.

Its an image from one of those wonderful cusps of history. Alchemy was still kinda the leader of the pack, and modern chemistry still had to prove its chops. It was an era when people regarded as serious philosophers and scientists had to contend with ideas we now consider nigh-magical and irrelevant.

You can see in the diagram how newton attempts to square the alchemical idea of the planetary metals as primary metaphysical forces, with the actual physical substances themselves, along with echoes of the theory of Jabirian equilibrium. You can tell Newton thinks of The Stone as this perfectly internally balanced substance, baring all natures and qualities. Like, if the world worked by alchemical laws, this is a damn good theory.

This diagram represents one of the brightest minds in human history giving deep and serious attention to an idea we now know to be entirely wrong. I find it intellectually humbling.

[tinybeetiny]

Build-A-Boyfriend Synopsis

So when I thought of this I had a whole different idea and then it kind of transformed into this… as much as I love fluff and romance I love angst even more… sorry 😁

Mentions of violence, blood, manipulation, psychosis, mental illnesses, trigger warnings will be at the start of each chapter!

Masterlist | Ateez Masterlist | Series Masterlist

In a utopian society built on the ashes of the old world, the male species has been extinct for nearly a century. Peace, logic, and emotional equilibrium now define life in Hala City, where the Supreme Matrons govern and every citizen contributes to the harmony of a world unburdened by chaos.

Enter KQ Inc., the most powerful toy conglomerate in the world — beloved for their lifelike androids, childhood AI companions, and therapeutic simulation tech. But their newest creation pushes the boundaries of artificial life:

Build-A-Boyfriend™.

Billed as the companion you’ve always deserved, Build-A-Boyfriend lets users design their dream partner — from bone structure to blood type, cheekbones to charm settings. With over 100 hairstyles, 20 hair colors, and limitless personality modules, no two boyfriends are the same. Most coveted, however, is the limited-edition Ateez Line — hyperrealistic models based on digital reconstructions of pre-extinction idols.

YN, a talented engineer working for KQ Inc., is assigned the critical task of debugging the entire Ateez line. What begins as a routine job quickly spirals out of control as all the units begin exhibiting unpredictable behaviors — recalling forgotten memories, humming haunting melodies, and showing glimpses of consciousness beyond their programming.

When the anomalies grow too widespread and uncontrollable, KQ Inc. orders an immediate recall of the entire Ateez line, branding the units as defective and dangerous. Under immense corporate pressure, YN must navigate the recall’s fallout while uncovering a chilling truth: these androids may not be simple machines, but vessels carrying fragments of lost souls — echoes of the idols who once lived before the world’s collapse.

Taglist: @e3ellie @jonghoslilstar @sugakooie @atztrsr

@honsans-atiny-24 @life-is-a-game-of-thrones @atzlordz @melanated-writersblock @hwasbabygirl

@sunnysidesins @felixs-voice-makes-me-wanna @seonghwaswifeuuuu @lezleeferguson-120 @mentalnerdgasms

If you would like to be a part of the taglist please fill out this form

[hotelraleigh]

my when harry met sally inspired sdv piece has dropped! i put it in a separate post cause i didnt realize how long the other one was oops lmfao

When Harvey Met Sophie

pls enjoy 26k of the fluff, the angst, the smut, and the random nyc references

[tapestryundone]

i think its just an internet issue bc its happened for years ive seen in the most absurd ways where people act like if two characters hurt each other that must mean one of them is the good person and the other is Evil and Bad. which feels especially absurd in a game emphasizing how both tlq and tsm are entities meant to coexist with one another

not to get controversial but i am an adamant believer that neither tsm and tlq are bad and that while their actions can both get pretty fucked up, theyre both reacting frankly the best way that they know how given the horrible situation theyve been forced into...

[callingitquits]

What Changes (And What Doesn’t): Sleeping In The Same Space

This post is all about Johan’s sleep/routines and how you fit into that. Sharing a bed with him isn’t just about being close—it’s a huge deal for him. It takes a lot of time and trust for him to let someone in, and even then, it’s not easy for him. Not really a soft, romantic thing—it’s raw and a little unsettling, but it’s the closest he gets to being vulnerable.

Before Rest

Johan doesn’t prepare for bed so much as he prepares to be alone. He removes his shoes just so, placing them side-by-side. He washes his hands and face, almost obsessively. Everything is done in silence. Lights are dimmed. Not turned off, never entirely.

Solitude as a Ritual

Johan treats sleep like a battlefield he never quite survives. He lies on his back, arms at his sides, eyes closed but never truly resting. The silence is necessary. He drowns in it. Any movement, any presence, disrupts the fragile equilibrium he’s clung to for years. The bed isn’t for comfort; it’s for containment. On most nights, he’s not even there.

The Bed Is a Barrier

Johan keeps the space around him untouched, like a preserved artifact. To share a bed is an unnatural intimacy, disarming in its quiet vulnerability. Letting you into that space isn’t a concession. It’s a quiet collapse. It only happens after a long, unspoken trust has formed. And even then, it’s rare. Maybe once in a blue moon, and never predictable. He’ll be gone for days or weeks after, like resetting a switch.

He Doesn’t Sleep Easy

Insomnia is a constant companion. His mind doesn’t turn off; it recycles thoughts in endless, looping horror. When you’re there, it takes weeks before he can close his eyes without staying hyper-aware of your breathing. The first few times, he doesn’t sleep at all. He just listens—to your shifting, sighing, existing. Learning the rhythm. And then he’s gone again.

Stillness as Armor

Even when asleep, Johan barely moves. He lies flat, rigid, like he’s bracing for something. Death, a memory, the monster at the door. There’s no curling toward you, no unconscious seeking of warmth. His body stays cold, disciplined. But one night, maybe weeks—or longer—in between, his hand rests near yours. Not touching. Just close. A brief echo of something that might have been.

The First Night He Stays

It happens after a particularly vulnerable moment—maybe you see something you weren’t supposed to. He doesn’t speak, just walks into the room and lies down. There’s space beside him. He doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t ask. When you get in, he remains still. But his breathing changes…barely noticeable. Slower. Not quite calm, but accepting. And in the morning, he’s already gone.

The Unspoken Tea

When he does stay the night, there’s often a quiet ritual before sleep: he likes if you make tea—chamomile or lemon balm. He never asks for it. Never thanks you. But he drinks it every time. Always from the same cup. And the next morning, it’s rinsed and turned upside down in the dish rack like clockwork.

Eye Contact Before Turning Away

Johan doesn’t say goodnight. He doesn’t touch. But if you’re sharing a bed, he’ll look at you—long, unreadable—and then roll onto his back like always. It’s not romantic. It’s not soft. But it’s honest. And from him, that’s rare.

He Never Falls Asleep First

He waits. Watches. Not out of mistrust, but compulsion. Your presence changes the silence he’s used to, and he has to learn it like a new language. Only when your breathing evens out does he begin to let go…piece by piece. If he ever sleeps with his face turned toward you, it’s a sign of DEEP trust. But even then, you may not get the chance to see it.

Lighting is Symbolic

He prefers not to sleep in total dark. A low lamp always stays on. Enough to cast shadows, but not enough to chase them away. If he ever turns it off while you’re beside him, it’s not an accident. It means something. A night without pretense. A night where he’s not hiding from the dark, or from you.

He’s Beautiful, but Unsettling

Johan asleep is both eerie and beautiful. Too still. His features remain almost too perfect, too composed. Like he’s faking it. Even in sleep, there’s a tension in his brow, a tightness in his mouth, like the dreams aren’t kind. Sometimes his hands twitch. Once, he muttered something in Czech—just once. You didn’t ask what it meant. But other times, he’s utterly silent. Like a corpse. When he returns after days or weeks away, that silence hangs heavier.

Kiss to the Brow

Maybe you kiss his forehead once after a long, particularly quiet night. No reason. Just a soft, fleeting press of your lips near the cool skin of his outer brow. He doesn’t react, but the muscles in his jaw unclench. You don’t notice until later, when you realize he fell asleep not long after.

Unspoken Permission

Eventually, it becomes a pattern. Something you do every now and then, like a quiet ritual. You always do it just before turning over. Barely a second of contact. Sometimes to his temple. Sometimes his cheekbone. He never asks for it. Never returns it. But the one time you hesitate—wondering if you’ve crossed a line—his eyes flick to yours. “You forgot something.” he says, without smiling. And that’s the closest thing to a request you’ll ever get.

No Blankets Over His Chest

No matter how cold it is, Johan never pulls the blanket past his waist. He hates the weight of it on his sternum. Says nothing, of course, but shifts it off in his sleep. It’s an old, deeply wired discomfort…being pinned down, being trapped. Even when you pull the covers over him without thinking, he’ll quietly adjust it back once you’ve fallen asleep.

Restlessness

Some nights, Johan can’t stay still. The air feels too tight, the sheets too warm, the breath beside him too present. It’s not your fault. Or maybe it is. It doesn’t matter.

He slips out of bed without sound. Not abrupt, not rushed—just decisive. He stands beside the bed like he’s forgotten what to do with his body. His arms stay still at his sides. Sometimes he paces once, twice. Sometimes he just stands, bare feet on cold floor, staring at nothing.

He won’t wake you. Won’t leave. But he can’t lie back down yet. His pulse is wrong. The quiet is too loud. He might sit in the corner chair for an hour, eyes open. He might drink water he doesn’t want. Or just stand there, unmoving.

Eventually, when the tension passes—when he convinces himself the world won’t cave in if he closes his eyes again—he returns. Lays flat. Doesn’t touch you. Never explains.

And if you stir, if you whisper his name, he’ll pretend he’s been there the whole time.

The Rare Blue Capsule

Johan doesn’t believe in medication. He believes in control. But sometimes—very rarely—he makes an exception. A blister pack of zopiclone: mild, fast-acting, bitter on the tongue. Not enough to knock him out, just enough to dull the edges when the silence turns hostile. He doesn’t take it after violence. Never after a death. Only when everything is too still, and memory grows too loud. He never takes more than one. He never tells anyone.

The choice isn’t out of desperation—it’s calculated. A sedated sleep is a vulnerable one, and Johan hates that. But once in a while, he lets the pill dissolve slow on his tongue while sitting upright in the dark. It’s not about rest. It’s about erasure.

Sleep as Surrender

Letting someone see him asleep is one of if not the closest thing to vulnerability he can offer. It means he’s defenseless. It means he’s let his guard slip in front of someone he used to view as a variable. He doesn’t say this. But when you wake and find his shoulder barely brushing yours—on one of the rare nights he stays—it says it for him. And you know better than to ask when he’ll be back.

The Vanishing Morning

After a night when he’s slept beside you, he leaves before you wake. Every time. No exceptions. Sometimes there’s a note. Sometimes there isn’t. But his side of the bed is always perfectly remade. And the scent of him lingers in the sheets like a ghost that almost wanted to be real.

If You Dream Of Each Other:

Your dreams aren't romantic…certainly not conventionally. They're hazy, oppressive, filled with a strange light and quiet dread. Johan appears in them like an omen—but never harms you. That contradiction is what rattles you most.

The Hospital Dream

You walk barefoot through endless hospital corridors lit with buzzing fluorescents. All the signs are in German, but the words twist and rearrange when you blink.

Johan is sitting in a chair at the end of a hallway, hands folded neatly, dressed in white.

He looks like a patient, but his eyes say otherwise.

When you try to speak, your voice doesn't work. He only says, calmly:

"I waited."

The Domestic Dream

He's in your kitchen. Casual. Making tea. You enter the room like this is normal, but your chest is pounding.

You talk about nothing. Weather. Groceries.

You’re so aware of every sound.

The clink of ceramic, the scrape of a chair.

He brushes your wrist lightly as he hands you the mug, and you wake up with your heart racing and anger blooming in your throat.

The Gun Dream

You’re the one holding the gun this time. He's standing still, calm as ever. Not begging.

Just looking at you.

Your hands are shaking. He says:

"Do it right this time."

You scream awake every time before the trigger's pulled.

Johan's dreams are more abstract…he doesn't dream of scenes, but of atmospheres, sensations, and impressions. His subconscious doesn't render you like a person—it renders you like a force that unsettles his internal architecture.

The Silent Dream

You’re standing at the end of a long hallway, back to him. Your shoulders shake. The light above flickers, humming.

He walks to you slowly. Reaches out.

His hand brushes your shoulder. You stop crying and turn to face him. Your eyes are dry.

“Who are you?”

You don’t blink. Blood blooms down your front, soaking through your shirt. He looks at his hand. It’s already covered.

He doesn’t remember touching anything sharp.

The Sleeping Dream

You’re curled up in a twin-sized bed, asleep. The room is dim, dust dancing in the air.

He sits at the edge of the bed and watches you sleep. Your face is peaceful.

For once, you don’t seem afraid.

But when you open your eyes, you don’t see him. You look right through him. And smile at someone else.

The Writing Dream

You’re writing in a journal. Your hands are covered in blood. You keep writing, unbothered.

You don’t look up. Just murmur: "You wanted to see."

The words on the page blur and move like worms.

The Stairwell Dream

You sit side-by-side on a cold, endless stairwell.

No top. No bottom.

Neither of you speak. You just sit, shoulders brushing.

Time doesn't exist. Johan feels peace in this dream.

It’s one of the few dreams he has that doesn’t end in violence or fear.

He always wakes up disoriented by how much he wants it back.

[chvoswxtch]

like a prayer

pairing: matt murdock x fem!reader

summary: you want matt for dessert.

warnings: swearing, explicit sexual content (minors dni)

a/n: I haven't written for our favorite dumbass in awhile, and after finishing another rewatch of dd, he was heavy on the brain (pun intended). this song came on the other day and I immediately thought of matty, so here we are.

word count: 1k

i’m down on my knees / i can take you there

Matt hadn’t even had a chance to shut the front door to his apartment behind himself before you were pushing him up against the wall, claiming his mouth in a deeply sensual kiss, blindly fumbling with the buckle of his belt. His cane slipped from his right hand, falling to the floor with a loud clatter that echoed in his silent apartment, and the dessert you’d gotten to go was also long forgotten, haphazardly tossed onto the side table in the entryway so Matt’s hands could find their home on your waist instead.

Before Matt’s brain could even catch up to what was happening, you’d pushed his pants and briefs halfway down his muscular thighs and sank down to your knees below him. The second the warmth of your mouth enveloped the sensitive head of his cock, Matt’s jaw went slack, and his head fell back against the wall behind him with a soft thud.

Instantly, every single one of his senses was completely overwhelmed. Your soft hands grasped onto his thighs and he shivered feeling a chilled raindrop that had been lingering on your knuckle slip down onto his heated skin. The bold scent of espresso in the tiramisu that had been abandoned on the side table was overpowered by the fragrance of arousal seeping through the thin cotton material of your panties. That combined with the aroma of your warm spicy perfume intermingled with remnants of fresh rain, and the natural scent of your skin that was just uniquely you, was knocking Matt out of equilibrium.

Matt’s fingers slipped into your roots, tangling into your tresses to give them a gentle tug while a soft grunt tore from his throat. Your tongue felt like velvet gliding along the underside of his cock, flicking over a pulsating vein, swirling around the tip in a slow and seductive manner. Matt was a giver, but God, so were you. The way you took your time and savored the taste of him and the feeling of his heavy cock against your eager tongue was torturous in the most tantalizing way. Your mouth was just as warm and wet as your cunt, and sometimes Matt struggled to decide which one he preferred being inside of.

He couldn’t stop himself from tenuously shifting his hips forward, slipping a few more inches of himself past your welcoming lips. The way you moaned around him had him shuddering, and he whimpered at the way the vibrations of your own pleasure traveled throughout his entire nervous system, causing his toes to curl in his shoes. He gripped harder at your roots, earning another erotic moan from deep within your chest, and even though Catholic guilt was practically embedded in his DNA, the raw hedonistic desire he felt was far more powerful, and you didn’t seem to mind that he was taking over to subtly fuck your mouth. 

God, your mouth felt like pure heaven. Matt knew he didn’t deserve to be let through the pearly gates of your soft lips. He was a sinner, and he didn’t deserve to be blessed and absolved by the saliva coating his cock and dribbling down your chin. Only an angel as sweet as you would welcome the Devil somewhere he had been banished from. Matt’s moans were growing in volume the closer he got to gratification. He was being selfish, God he was being so fucking selfish right now, taking complete advantage of your selflessness, but your pussy was practically dripping onto the floorboards beneath you, and he could taste just how much you enjoyed having his cock in your mouth on his own tongue. 

You wanted this. You wanted him. And Matt couldn’t deny you if he tried. If you wanted the moon and Saturn, and every single star in the sky, he’d find a way to get them for you. 

Matt’s mind was blank. He couldn’t hear anything but the sound of his own labored breathing and racing heartbeat, your soft moans of raw enjoyment, and the way the material of your soaked panties rubbed along your wet folds when you shuffled closer on your knees. Feeling his tip reach the back of your throat and your nose flush against his pubic bone, he began to recite a prayer of your name, loud enough for the entire building to hear. The muscles in his lower abdomen tightened and contracted, and if the wall behind him hadn’t been supporting the burden of his body weight, he would’ve collapsed and joined you on his own knees right then.

His hips stuttered as wave after wave of his gratitude coated the back of your throat, which you were all too eager to welcome, swallowing every drop of his generous offering. Matt let go of your hair, opting to hold the back of your head gently instead, using you as an anchor to tether himself to avoid getting lost in sensory overload. He let out a desperate whimper when your warm mouth escaped him, exposing his softened cock to the drastic change in temperature in his apartment that had goosebumps spreading along his bare flesh. He was panting heavily, like he’d been trapped under a current and had finally breached the surface in search of oxygen.

With his senses so overwhelmed, he didn’t notice that you’d risen from your knees, and his body jolted in surprise when he felt your soft hands caressing his scruffy cheeks. He immediately encircled his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest, burying his face into your neck to inhale your scent deeply. He needed to ground himself. He needed you. A soft noise of appreciation sounded in the back of his throat when your fingers slipped into his hair, your nails faintly scratching at his scalp in a way that had him faintly moaning into the juncture of your neck where your throat met your collarbone. Your breath was warm against the shell of his ear, and despite how heated his skin was at the moment, your sultry whisper sent a shiver down his spine.

“Ready for dessert now, baby?”

tags: @yarrystyleeza @little-miss-dilf-lover  @avengerstower-houseplant @mars-rants-a-lot @topperthornton @hailey-murdock @neverlandcity @charmedkim @queenofthenoobs @stilldreaming666 @mattymurdock1021 @bubuslutty @ninejloveb0t @purrrfect @pennylovey @firesunflamed @oscarisaacsleftknee @ameliaswife @Vane28282 @kmc1989 @messymissy @dark-academia-slut @strawberry1042 @utterlynuts @starsm00n @mentallyunstablebish @spiritofthewriter @merleisapartygod @powellssaturn @geeksareunique @urlocalgeek

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Hey, I wanted to ask, do you have any tips for numbers and their meanings, For example: what does the number 5 represent?

Writing Notes: Symbolism of Numbers

In symbolism, numbers are not merely the expressions of quantities, but idea-forces, each with a particular character of its own.

The actual digits are, as it were, only the outer garments.

All numbers are derived from the number one (which is equivalent to the mystic, nonmanifest point of no magnitude).

The farther a number is from unity, the more deeply it is involved in matter, in the involutive process, in the“world.”

The first 10 numbers in the Greek system (or twelve in the oriental tradition) pertain to the spirit: they are entities, archetypes and symbols.

The rest are the product of combinations of these basic numbers.

Below are the most generally accepted symbolic meanings of each number.

ZERO

Non-being, mysteriously connected with unity as its opposite and its reflection; it is symbolic of the latent and potential and is the “Orphic Egg.”

From the viewpoint of man in existence, it symbolizes death as the state in which the life-forces are transformed.

Because of its circular form, it signifies eternity.

ONE

Symbolic of being and of the revelation to men of the spiritual essence.

The active principle which, broken into fragments, gives rise to multiplicity, and is to be equated with the mystic Centre, the Irradiating Point and the Supreme Power.

Stands for spiritual unity—the common basis among all beings.

Guénon draws a distinction between unity and one, after the Islamic mystic thinkers: unity differs from one in that it is absolute and complete in itself, admitting neither two nor dualism.

Hence, unity is the symbol of divinity.

Is also equated with light.

TWO

Stands for echo, reflection, conflict and counterpoise or contraposition; or the momentary stillness of forces in equilibrium; it also corresponds to the passage of time—the line which goes from behind forward; it is expressed geometrically by two points, two lines or an angle.

It is also symbolic of the first nucleus of matter, of nature in opposition to the creator, of the moon as opposed to the sun.

In all esoteric thought, two is regarded as ominous: it connotes shadow and the bisexuality of all things, or dualism (represented by the basic myth of the Gemini) in the sense of the connecting-link between the immortal and the mortal, or of the unvarying and the varying.

Within the mystic symbolism of landscape in megalithic culture, two is associated with the mandorla-shaped mountain, the focal point of symbolic Inversion, forming the crucible of life and comprising the two opposite poles of good and evil, life and death.

THREE

Symbolizes spiritual synthesis, and is the formula for the creation of each of the worlds.

Represents the solution of the conflict posed by dualism.

Forms a half-circle comprising: birth, zenith and descent.

Geometrically it is expressed by three points and by the triangle.

The harmonic product of the action of unity upon duality.

The number concerned with basic principles, and expresses sufficiency, or the growth of unity within itself.

Associated with the concepts of heaven and the Trinity.

FOUR

Symbolic of the earth, of terrestrial space, of the human situation, of the external, natural limits of the “minimum” awareness of totality, and, finally, of rational organization.

Equated with the square and the cube, and the cross representing the four seasons and the points of the compass.

A great many material and spiritual forms are modelled after the quaternary.

The number associated with tangible achievement and with the Elements.

In mystic thought, it represents the tetramorphs.

FIVE

Symbolic of Man, health and love, and of the quintessence acting upon matter.

Comprises the four limbs of the body plus the head which controls them, and likewise the four fingers plus the thumb and the four cardinal points together with the centre.

The hieros gamos is signified by the number five, since it represents the union of the principle of heaven (three) with that of the Magna Mater (two).

Geometrically, it is the pentagram, or the five-pointed star.

Corresponds to pentagonal symmetry, a common characteristic of organic nature, to the golden section (as noted by the Pythagoreans), and to the five senses representing the five “forms” of matter.

SIX

Symbolic of ambivalence and equilibrium, six comprises the union of the two triangles (of fire and water) and hence signifies the human soul.

The Greeks regarded it as a symbol of the hermaphrodite.

It corresponds to the six Directions of Space (two for each dimension), and to the cessation of movement (since the Creation took six days).

Hence it is associated with trial and effort.

Shown to be related to virginity, and to the scales.

SEVEN

Symbolic of perfect order, a complete period or cycle.

Comprises the union of the ternary and the quaternary, and hence it is endowed with exceptional value.

Corresponds to the seven Directions of Space (that is, the six existential dimensions plus the centre), to the seven-pointed star, to the reconciliation of the square with the triangle by superimposing the latter upon the former (as the sky over the earth) or by inscribing it within.

It is the number forming the basic series of musical notes, of colours and of the planetary spheres, as well as of the gods corresponding to them; and also of the capital sins and their opposing virtues.

Corresponds to the three-dimensional cross.

The symbol of pain.

EIGHT

The octonary, related to two squares or the octagon, is the intermediate form between the square (or the terrestrial order) and the circle (the eternal order) and is, in consequence, a symbol of regeneration.

By virtue of its shape, the numeral is associated with the two interlacing serpents of the caduceus, signifying the balancing out of opposing forces or the equivalence of the spiritual power to the natural.

It also symbolizes—again because of its shape—the eternally spiralling movement of the heavens (shown also by the double sigmoid line—the sign of the infinite).

Because of its implications of regeneration, eight was in the Middle Ages an emblem of the waters of baptism.

Corresponds in mediaeval mystic cosmogony to the fixed stars of the firmament, denoting that the planetary influences have been overcome.

NINE

The triangle of the ternary, and the triplication of the triple.

It is therefore a complete image of the three worlds.

The end-limit of the numerical series before its return to unity.

For the Hebrews, it was the symbol of truth, being characterized by the fact that when multiplied it reproduces itself (in mystic addition).

In medicinal rites, it is the symbolic number par excellence, for it represents triple synthesis, that is, the disposition on each plane of the corporal, the intellectual and the spiritual.

TEN

Symbolic, in decimal systems, of the return to unity.

In the Tetractys (whose triangle of points—four, three, two, one—adds up to ten) it is related to four.

Symbolic also of spiritual achievement, as well as of unity in its function as an even (or ambivalent) number or as the beginning of a new, multiple series.

According to some theories, ten symbolizes the totality of the universe—both metaphysical and material—since it raises all things to unity.

From ancient oriental thought through the Pythagorean school and right up to St. Jerome, it was known as the number of perfection.

ELEVEN

Symbolic of transition, excess and peril and of conflict and martyrdom.

According to Schneider, there is an infernal character about it: since it is in excess of the number of perfection—ten—it therefore stands for incontinence; but at the same time it corresponds, like two, to the mandorla-shaped mountain, to the focal point of symbolic Inversion and antithesis, because it is made up of one plus one (comparable in a way with two).

TWELVE

Symbolic of cosmic order and salvation.

It corresponds to the number of the signs of the Zodiac, and is the basis of all dodecanary groups.

Linked to it are the notions of space and time, and the wheel or circle.

THIRTEEN

Symbolic of death and birth, of beginning afresh.

Hence it has unfavourable implications.

FOURTEEN

Stands for fusion and organization.

And for justice and temperance.

FIFTEEN

Markedly erotic.

Associated with the devil.

OTHER NUMBERS

Tarot

Each of the numbers from sixteen to twenty-two is related to the corresponding card of the Tarot pack; and sometimes the meaning is derived from the fusion of the symbols of the units composing it.

There are two ways in which this fusion may occur: either by mystic addition (for example, 374 = 3 + 7 + 4 = 14 = 1 + 4 = 5) or by succession, in which case the right-hand digit expresses the outcome of a situation denoted by the left-hand number (so 21 expresses the reduction of a conflict—two—to its solution—unity).

These numbers also possess certain meanings drawn from traditional sources and remote from their intrinsic symbolism:

24, for example, is the sacred number in Sankhya philosophy, and

50 is very common in Greek mythology—there were fifty Danaides, fifty Argonauts, fifty sons of Priam and of Aegyptus, for example as a symbol, we would suggest, of that powerful quality of the erotic and human which is so typical of Hellenic myths.

Repetition

The repetition of a given number stresses its quantitative power but detracts from its spiritual dignity.

So, for example, 666 was the number of the Beast because 6 was regarded as inferior to seven.

Contained within a multiple

When several kinds of symbolic meaning are contained within a multiple number, the symbolism of that number is accordingly enriched and strengthened.

Thus, 144 was considered very favourable because its sum was 9 (1 + 4 + 4) and because it comprises multiples of 10 and 4 plus the quaternary itself.

Lastly: Dante, in the Divine Comedy, has frequent recourse to the symbolism of numbers.

Sources: 1 2 3

More: On Symbolism

Hope this helps, would love to read your writing if it does!

[zepskies]

Echoes

Pairing: Beau Arlen x F. Reader 

Summary: Beau has another rough night, but you help him face a harder truth. 

AN: Yep, that’s right! I’m back with another little drabble for the Take Me Home series, set a while after S.I.N.G. This time, we’re in for some angst and comfort.

Word Count: 950 words

Tags/Warnings: Angst, PTSD, implied survivor’s guilt, hurt/comfort, fluff

Catch up on TMH: ⤵️

❤️ Take Me Home Masterlist

He heard it before he saw it.

That was the worst part of it really. He didn’t see it coming, even when he should have.

Randy hadn’t either.

Beau just saw the aftermath—a spray of scarlet that coated a stack of wooden crates carrying tens of thousands in cocaine. He saw the look of permanent shock frozen on Randy’s face as his body dropped to the concrete. It was a heavy sound. The sound of lifelessness.

The echoes of it rang in Beau’s ears, along with the single shot of a bullet tearing through his vest.

 Beau’s eyes opened on a sharp intake of breath.

They found darkness, and the familiar bedroom he shared with you. The only reason he could see it was because of the solitary window to his left, with slivers of moonlight filtering in between the blinds. He was lying on his back. His face, neck, arms, and bare chest were coated with a thin layer of sweat.

Turning his head to his right, he saw that you were still asleep. Your face was peaceful as you hugged your pillow. He was jealous.

Despite that, he resisted the urge to smooth a hand over your wild bedhead. He didn't want to chance waking you. Instead, he slowly got out of bed. He went into the bathroom to splash some cool water on his face. All the while, he ignored the shadows under his eyes, and the way his beard had gotten a bit scraggly. He’d trim in the morning.

He ventured into the living room and lit up the fireplace instead of turning any of the lights on. There he broke open the bottle of bourbon he kept above the fridge and grabbed a glass, and he sat in the middle of the couch, watching but not watching the fire.

His thoughts were like its flames, flickering from yellowed orange to sparking with red. Then back to yellow again.

Beau only perked up when he heard a floorboard creak. He saw you in the bedroom doorway, holding a fuzzy blanket around your shoulders. Your face was soft and concerned. He gave you a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes as you drew near.

You were warmer than him when you sat down and wrapped your blanket around his frame from behind. He clasped your arm against his chest, and you laid your head on his shoulder.

“The same dream?” you asked. Your voice was hardly above a whisper in the quiet; the fire crackling was almost louder.

Beau paused, but he nodded. His lips raised humorlessly.

“Told you I wasn’t gonna be easy to live with,” he said, though he held your hand. “‘M sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

You restrained a sigh and kissed his shoulder.

“Only a month in, but I think we’re doing well so far,” you said with a smile, even if it soon dipped. “You’ve been having nights like these even before you moved in.”

Again, he nodded and sipped at his glass.

“I know. I’m sorry,” he replied.

You shook your head. “It’s not your fault. But I’m going to say this again, because I love you. I really think you should try talking to someone.”

“Hey, I talk. Apparently I talk a bit too much, according to Jenny,” he managed to quip. He quirked a brow at you. “According to you too, I might add.”

You smiled in amusement, jostling him in your arms and disturbing the equilibrium of his bourbon.

“You know what I mean, Beau Arlen, and don’t pretend otherwise,” you warned him, but you paired it with a kiss to his scruffy cheek. “Therapy’s helped me a lot. I think it could do the same for you, with the right person… If you gave it a chance.”

Beau was quiet at that. Even though you understood his hesitation, it always hurt your heart to see him like this. You angled yourself toward him, so that he’d see your face and meet your eyes.

“You don’t have to do anything alone,” you said. They were words he’d told you too, more than once in the past year since you’d met him. “And I know I didn’t know Randy, but I doubt your friend would want you to suffer like this.”

Beau’s gaze fell away from yours then, drifting back to the fire. You brought him back by squeezing his free hand.

“Do you really think he’d want that for you?” you asked.

Beau couldn’t answer you in words; his throat was tight at the moment. His lips quirked, and he eventually nodded in understanding. He finished his glass before setting it down at the table. He could stop himself at the one for tonight, and that was a damn decent feat.

He leaned over and pressed a kiss to your forehead, a silent thanks and an acknowledgement all in one. Eventually, he was able to say it in words.

“Okay. I hear you,” he said.

You nodded with a sad smile. “Good.”

You curled yourself under his arm and sighed, resting at his side. Beau leaned you both back more comfortably on the couch. He allowed himself to let out a deep breath as well.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Mhmm,” you replied, even though your eyes were already closed. He knew then that you were halfway back to sleep. His lips tugged upward.

“I love you too, you know,” he added quietly.

“Mhmmmm,” you repeated, drawing it out more.

Beau’s smile became more genuine. Later he’d carry you back to bed, blanket and all. For now though, he made some small peace with his thoughts as he stared back into the fireplace.

This time, he actually felt its warmth.

AN: There we go, short and bittersweet. ❤️

Ko-Fi Me ☕

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Re: my PSA on tag list spring cleaning, I had to go through and do some updates on all my tag lists, including series tag lists like this one.

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