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prettyboykatsuki-moved · 4 months ago

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MY LOVE, MY ALIBI | CALEB | XIA YIZHOU (LNDS)

♡ tags ; psuedocest / adoptive incest, afab + fem!reader, minor age-gap (3 years), mentions / non graphic depictions of child abuse (from readers days in the orphanage), childhood crushing, mutual pining, developing relationship, size difference, some religious imagery, loss of virginity, petnames (baby, princess, pipsquak), use of meimei once and gege a few times but very sparing, oral (f!recieving), nipple play, marking, light masochism from reader, mouth-spitting, fingering, bare-backing, 18+

♡ wc ; 23.3k (kill me)

♡ a/n ; hey. this is an incest fic for adoptive siblings. if that makes you uncomfortable, don't read it. block me if you need to. please spare me lecture.

also - i have reader be carried by caleb a couple of times but dude has a bionic arm so he's strong as shit to me. the size difference tag is mostly about his dick. aside from the carrying there is no phyiscal indicators for reader

important to the fic but i play in simplified cn. please go listen to the simplified cn voice actor before you read this. for my sanity. most of my characterization is based on various cn translations from the kind cn fanbase. special thank you to mao @/yinyuedijun and this yt channel.

♡ synopsis ; for as long as you can remember, the sight of caleb's back is whats made you feel safest. it's no surprise that every man that comes after him never quite measures up.

extended authors note. | caleb playlist | ao3 | tipjar

PART ONE: ANYTHING YOU SAY CAN AND WILL BE HELD AGAINST YOU.

At seven, you knock out one of your teeth roughhousing with one of the orphanage boys.

The good news? You’re winning. You’re at the age where size matters more than gender but the boy you’re fighting is both bigger and older than you.

Even so, you manage to pull off shoving him back.

You don’t know his name, only his face— buzzed head and red gums, the pristine picture of anger. You roll around with him in the small stretch of yard behind the orphanage - white tanktop stained with grass, all knobby knees and short limbs as you fight and fight and fight with every ounce of your strength.

You are seven with something to prove and a lot already lost. Your pride refuses to let you lose further. You recieve a hit of adrenaline when you launch the top of your head into the older boys chin and hear his teeth clack from how hard it lands. He collapses in a pile, spits curses he learned from the grown-ups that come in and out as he lays there.

He nearly jumps you when you’re both down. Your head is throbbing where his chin connected and you can tell if he decides to fight you again, your chances of winning have slimmed significantly.

You see it in his eyes. In his face. He’s so angry. Always is. You knew it was a bad idea to provoke him to begin with.

He nearly, nearly jumps you and almost knocks you out completely.

So you decide it might be better to prepare for it. You fold up. Put your arms up high and brace for impact when a shadow - long, endless, casts over your head. Eyes half open, a familiar pair of beat-up sneakers stand in front of you in the grass. You hear a familiar voice. It’s colder than you’re used to.

“Bullying a little kid is lame,” Caleb says, sharp. It makes you shrink further even though it’s not directed at you. “Quit fighting or I’ll get one of the grown-ups.”

You can’t see what's in front of you. You only hear a shock of gasps around you—another confrontation that quickly settles into silence before Caleb turns around.

His face is soft as he bends down to be eye level. Kind, boyish, gentle - he opens up his arms. He’s not happy about something. You can tell because his smile is a little dimmer than normal. You desperately hope it isn’t because of you.

Even knowing Caleb is going to scold you a bit, you find yourself welling up in tears from relief even over fear. You wail as you wrap your arms around his neck and Caleb hoists you up and carries you on his hip like you’re still a baby.

He’s silent as he carries you into the house.

“You shouldn’t get into fights,” He says, soothing. You sniffle as he walks you inside. His shirt smells like summer, hands fisted in it. Holding on for dear life. Call for me next time.”

Caleb sits you on the mattress, in the room all the older kids share. Your feet don’t touch the ground as he kneels in front of you and rifles around under his bed. He has bandages and alcohol, cotton swabs and gauze.

His eyes are kind as he assesses your wounds. Pours alcohol onto a cotton pad and frowns each time you sniffle and sob from the pain of getting them cleaned. “A crybaby like you shouldn’t fight anyone, seriously.”

“Shut up,” You say first. You hang your head low, instant regret. Your hands close again, blunt nails digging into your palms. Your lower lip trembles. Caleb quickly puts a hand on the top of your head when he notices your distress. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Just depend on me, alright?” He grins with the same front tooth missing. Like a mirror image of you, you think. “I’ll always help you.”

At ten, you give up celebrating your birthday.

You’re the age Caleb was when you met and now you’ve both left the orphanage and lived away from it for a few years. You’ve spent nearly three years with a woman you call Grandma and the world feels a lot kinder with her in your life. She takes good care of you. Gives you a warm bed to sleep in, and good food to eat. Doesn’t get angry when you break cups or get up in the middle of the night to go pee.

You live in a house with only three people and you even get to have your own room—one you don’t have to share, not even with Caleb. It’s nice to sleep where there’s no one else, even if most nights you crawl into Caleb’s bed anyway and sleep next to him because it's more comfortable.

Grandma is nice to you. Sometimes, she looks like she’s somewhere far away but it never lasts for long. You’re thankful to her for taking you in.

You have a warm bed to sleep in, good food to eat, and Caleb is right next to you. He’s your brother now, so you can be together forever. And none of the adults from the orphanage are here to punish him anymore when he tries to protect you.

You’re ten and the world seems to be trying its best not to hurt you any further. Somehow, this only makes you feel more uneasy.

You’re happy. It scares you. You often wonder when someone will punish you for it. If someone will be blamed for allowing it. It makes you feel helpless when you think about it too long.

But you have Caleb. He makes it easier. You can cling onto his shirt when it gets too hard. And he’s older now, enough to really feel grown up.

A night, when you clutch the fabric until it stretches wide, trembling after you’re plagued by bad dreams - having nightmares of rusted rain, Caleb is there.

No matter how deeply asleep, he always wakes up to hold you.

( You wait for him to tell you that you’re too big to be getting scared over nightmares, but the day still hasn’t come. You hope it never does. You think you’d be so sad you would never stop crying. )

You’re ten, and the world seems kinder - but you know better by now. You try to take precautionary measures against letting it take everything from you again.

And you start small. With yourself, and your birthday.

You’ve only ever celebrated a few birthdays. In the orphanage they’d celebrate a lot at once, so it never felt very special. You can’t really remember the ones you had before then, don’t remember much from then at all. Since you’ve been adopted, Grandma has celebrated your birthday and made it special. She and Caleb cook your favorite meal together and you sit around and cut-cake afterwards.

They even decorate the house with balloons and streamers.

Your birthdays now don’t compare to the ones you had then.

Nothing bad is happening but still. You like celebrating your birthday. But, can you feel okay about getting to celebrate a birthday at all? When you thought for sure your life might end before then?

Before your eleventh birthday, you announce to your family that you don’t want to do anything special this year. When they probe you with questions about why not, you refuse to give up any answers.

Caleb is thirteen and heartbroken when he hears you say this. Asks questions even as you turn your nose up and refuse to answer. You get into a fight about it, one of the very first of your entire relationship.

It’s that same night you begin to sleep in your own room.

In the weeks leading up to your birthday, you find your house to be more quiet than usual. Caleb is busy with something but you blame yourself for the distance between you. He always comes back seeming tired. Even though he still pats your head and smiles at you the same way, you notice when he seems a little less there at the dinner time.

When your birthday finally comes, your grandma still decides to celebrate it in a small way. She makes your favorite food and gets you a cake and candles. Hugs you when you cry about it, too. The only thing they skip is the decoration.

(You’re brave though, when next year rolls around and tell them you miss it. It makes Caleb happy enough to hug you tight.)

The warmth that fills your heart seeing your name in iced letters is too big for your body. You wonder if this is what having a family was like.

At night time, after dinner and before you cut the cake - you open your presents. There’s two for your eleventh birthday. One from grandma and one from Caleb. Usually, they sign their gift to you together but this year they’re separate.

At first, your heart sinks, but you try not to think about it. Grandma gets you a bike that matches Caleb’s so the two of you can ride together. You’re happy to have it but Caleb insists you can just keep riding on the back of his if you don’t want to learn.

You open Caleb’s gift second. It’s wrapped in pretty paper with a bow on it so you undo it carefully. Inside of it is a plain looking box.

“Open it,”

There’s a pair of earrings and a necklace when you do. It’s not cheap plastic like all the other jewelry you’ve ever had in your life. Little apples covered in gemstones, and a little gold necklace with a pendant and a locket. Your eyes go wide, fingers trembling a little as you touch it.

You look for Caleb’s face unthinkingly. Kind and warm, eyes crinkled and shoulders slack in relief when he sees your happy reaction. His hand is warm as it rests on your head, rubbing gently.

“It took a while but I’ve been helping our neighbors for money so I could buy it for you,” Caleb says, looking down at you with an easy grin. “The day you were born is important for me, so don’t say that you won’t celebrate it from now on. Okay?”

When tears well up in your eyes, you barely have to say a word before Caleb brings you into his waist. You cry to him the same way you always do - with a hand fisted in the back of his shirt like you’re terrified of where you’d end up if you let go.

Even when you ruin his shirt with salty tears, Caleb never voices a word of complaint. His steady heartbeat and warm hands that make you feel like he’s already done it all before, stay exactly where you expect them.

Your dependable, kind older brother.

At thirteen, you take your first field trip overnight.

It takes a tremendous amount of effort to make it happen.

Grandma was easy to convince, but it took you fourteen whole days to convince your brother that you could handle going on a school field trip without having your hand held the entire time.

(You can still hear the amused, taunting lilt in his voice from when you first mentioned it. Sure you’ll be okay pipsqueak? My bed won’t be there for you to take over if you get scared, you know?)

Ugh. He can be so strict. An you swear he was even more stubborn about it than usual.

You had to use every tactic in the book to get him to say yes. Kissing up to him, acting extra wistful, doing your chores and being super well-behaved. After strategically buttering him up for two weeks prior to you just asking, you also made sure to ask when he had one of his friends over. He’s strict regardless of who's around, but having another person in your corner is good for morale.

(This method is effective for the record. Just as Caleb goes to turn you down, his friend throws an eraser at him and clicks his teeth.

“There’s a limit to your siscon behavior. Just let her go.”

You sneak said friend a candy the next time he comes over as thanks.)

After a lot of persistent begging, Caleb relents and allows Grandma to sign your permission slip. It’s an overnight trip sure—but it’s heavily supervised and rooms are separated by gender anyhow. You really don’t know what he was so worried about.

So far, the trip has been really fun. You went to a butterfly garden conservatory as a part of your science project and one landed on your nose. Your friend even managed to get a good picture. In the afternoon, you did a bit of sightseeing and got to buy some street food.

When evening rolled around, you and all your friends holed up in the same hotel room sleeping together on one big floor. You stayed up a few hours later than you should’ve—gossiping and discussing the newest chapter of a very popular romance webnovel. Most of them are out by the time the clock hits midnight.

And now, you’re the last one awake at 1am.

Unfortunately, no matter how long you try to sleep—it is hard to sleep away from home, knowing Caleb isn’t right down the hall. No matter how much the thought makes you frown.

You’ve outgrown the habit of crawling into his bed every night. Still, you think you rest easier knowing that he’s there. You’d never admit it but subconsciously, it comforts you just knowing he is. The few times you get nightmares of the Chronorift these days, your nightmares are especially persistent. You don’t crawl into his bed like you did when you were a little kid as often as you used to. Even when you want it, it’s just a little embarrassing.

Regardless though, he’ll stay up with you until it passes, and until you go back to to sleep. It’s the only thing that helps it go down easier some nights. That he’d be there no matter what happened.

By the time the clock strikes one-thirty, you get the feeling you just won’t be able to sleep unless you at least call him.

So, after carefully sneaking your phone out of your bag - you leave your hotel room to wander the halls and end up in the lobby in your PJs.

You realize your incidental act of rebellion when you catch some stares from late-night guests. You hesitate on whether or not you should go back before deciding that’d be pointless. Fingers hovering over the call button, it takes a beat before you hit and hear the number dial. He’ll probably scold you but you know he’ll answer.

He picks up in one ring. His voice is thick with sleep when he speaks. “It’s late. You should be asleep.”

“Yeah, I know. Sorry, Gege,” You say, crossing slippered feet against the tile of the hotel lobby floor. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

His voice softens instantly. “Somethin’ happen?”

You shake your head before realizing he can’t see you. “No, I just couldn’t sleep.” A beat. “I thought I would sleep better if…I talked to…someone.”

It’s too embarrassing to tell him you wanted to talk to him, specifically. Caleb is quiet on the other side of the line before he laughs, just a little. “You were so adamant on wanting to go with your friends, huh? I thought you’d be just fine. Were you being brave for show?.”

You frown a little, groaning. “I did have fun. A lot of fun. We talked a lot before bed too, and now everyone else is asleep. It’s not like I regret going. And I wasn’t being brave, I was just—”

“Sure, sure. Still can’t sleep unless you know I’m there, huh?”

Silence stretches over the line. You feel your face grow hot with embarrassment as you stretch your legs out, chin tucked against your chest.

“Maybe I should just hang up on you,”

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing,” Caleb says more gently. “You can call me as much as you want.”

“You’re being nice like when we were kids.” You observe.

Caleb scoffs a little. “I’m always nice.”

You roll your eyes and Caleb laughs like he knows you did it. It’s quiet again before he speaks. In the voice that makes him feel older than he is. “I’m worried about you so I’m being even nicer than usual. Is that okay?”

His tone is light, teasing, but there’s more to it than he lets on. You trace a pattern into the worn, fabric arm of the chair you sit in. “Why?”

“I get worried when you go somewhere I can’t see you.” He says agreeably.

Your face tugs into a frown, strangely mortified by the sincerity of it. “It’s not like I’m a kid anymore. I’ll be fourteen in a few months.”

Caleb laughs. “As far as I’m concerned, you’ll always be a kid.”

You huff. “That’s not fair. Does that mean I’ll have to beg you like this to do anything for the rest of my life? You’re too much.”

“At least until you turn eighteen.” Caleb replies, voice airy and content. “And if you’re still a little weakling then, probably a few more years after that too.”

You groan. “How terrible. What kind of brother are you? So cruel.” You pause “You’re more like my dad sometimes.”

“Since you’re my responsibility, I usually have to act as all three.” Caleb says with ease. “You should get used to it.”

Despite your grievances, your body relaxes exactly the way you expect as you listen to him talk. You yawn out loud, sleep making your eyes and limbs heavy.

“Finally tired?” He asks, voice softened. Doting. It’s so instant, you don’t have the will to fight it. “Go sleep. Make sure you eat tomorrow morning and don’t just wait until noon.”

“Okay, Gege.” You yawn again. “Goodnight. Love you,”

A long silence stretches between you. You wonder why he hesitates. “Love you too. Now go to bed. And don’t sneak out without telling your teachers again,”

“Wait, how did you—”

“I know everything.” He says dismissively. “Goodnight, okay?”

You pull back and stare at your phone. He’s a little scary sometimes.

“Yeah. Okay. Night,”

At sixteen, you go experience the first real heartbreak of your life.

It’s less over the actual relationship and more about the events leading to your break-up.

Your secret boyfriend of five months kissed one of your closest friends. And you caught them both red-handed.

It was in the gymnasium after school a few weeks ago. You nearly fist fought them both before getting overwhelmed and simply running away in tears to a nearby playground. Your two other best friends had to pry you out of a bed of mulch and take you home after wiping your tears.

You have a list of grievances about the situation. You like (?) the guy but you loved your friend - but now you have neither. And all of it happened for a reason you cannot wrap your mind around at all.

You’re thankful for your other friends who have taken your side in the matter while still trying to get to the bottom of it. And it’s good having them, but in your time of teenage angst - the one person you’d like to tell absolutely can’t know.

Not telling your older brother is hard. Keeping the secret makes you feel guilty enough, but it’s made harder when he’s home. And he will be for the next two weeks until he has to go back to the dorms. They’re on some kind of spring break.

Until then, you make it your mission to keep up appearances. Since the one person you don’t want to find out about your relationship is the person who’d find out the fastest.

Caleb is strict. Has been for as long as you can remember. Though you’ve never explicitly spoken on dating - he has, more than once, “subtly” warned you about having an interest in the opposite sex. You remember how you made stupid heart-eyes to one of his school friends years back and he still brings it up whenever you ask about him and how he’s doing. As if even wanting to know is some kind of betrayal.

(And well, maybe you do ask just to see him react like that. It’s…funny. It’s not like Caleb needs to know that.)

You don’t like keeping secrets from your brother. You’re close. Way closer than most people ever are with their siblings.

Maybe because Caleb has always taken care of you—he feels less like a sibling you can pointlessly squabble with and more like your guardian at times.

It’s hard for you to lie to him explicitly so the fact you’ve kept the relationship under wraps for five months is kind of impressive.

You always told yourself, you’d tell Caleb if it ever got serious. Truthfully though, you didn’t think it was going to last. Didn’t even want to accept until your friends pressured you.

Your now ex-boyfriend is the one who asked you out, which is what pisses you off the most. He’s one of the popular guys in your grade and he’s…nice. Was nice. You don’t think you’d be sad if he simply broke up with you and went out with your friend. You’d think less of him maybe, but it’s not like you’re in love with him.

It’s all the other stuff that’s weighing you down. It’s getting into a fight with your friend. It’s getting two-timed by the jackass who asked you out first. One you didn’t even like that much.

(Maybe not at all.)

It’s wanting to whine and complain about all of this to your older brother who would take your side but not being able to - because you can’t tell him half truths. You don’t have it in you. You barely have it in you to lie to him.

(Truthfully, you think the only reason you’ve been able to all this time is because you’ve kept said boyfriend at arms length somewhat knowingly. You haven’t had a proper kiss.)

Telling Caleb everything is a long time compulsion you don’t know if you’ll ever unlearn.You don’t know if it’s loyalty or gratitude—only that it makes you feel like a dog whose been leashed to a post for most of your life before it gets unchained.

Even when you’re no longer shackled to it, you find you can’t go anywhere. Being without it doesn’t free you, not really. You find it goes against what you know to try to escape without hearing the click of metal.

You stay by the post. You tell Caleb everything. It feels outright wrong to lie about something important.

(And it’s still hard lying about something unimportant.)

You’re sure it speaks to the depth of your attachment but you always end up spilling your guts to him. Like a child always wanting to please their parents and behave. You know Caleb will accept you, even if he gets angry. But you don’t actually know how he’ll react and that scares you into not wanting to tell him at all.

The thought of disappointing him is what makes you most uneasy.

So, you decide that you’ll take it to the grave. It’s your one half-ass rebellion and these are the natural consequences. As long as you process your friendship grief and wear out your anger - it’ll be smoothed over before you know.

Meticulously, you time your sessions of grieving and angry debriefing phone calls in the hours Caleb is out of the house. You work hard at keeping up as if nothing is happening in your life at all. You feel an unshakeable feeling of guilt the entire time, one that has you waking up in cold sweat but you ignore it because… well, you don’t really know how to fix it.

(Truthfully - you’re irrationally worried that he’d leave over something so trivial, and you’d be seven and all alone in the world again. As nonsensical as it is, and as much as you want to pretend otherwise, your attachment to Caleb really matters that much to you.)

You very nearly make it to the finish line of this plan too. Almost. .

In the middle of your crying session - you answer a knock on the door and assume it’s Granny (who does, at least partially, know what’s going on). You open it without thinking.

It’s the last person you want to see in the moment.

You quickly try to shut the door but Caleb is quicker. Slides his unnecessarily huge body through the small gap and shuts it behind him - trapping you both. You stumble back a little, but he catches you by the wrist to make sure you don’t actually fall.

You feel like a deer in headlights. Red, water rimmed eyes, runny nose, and face puffy - you try to pull your sleeves over your hands and wipe your face. Even though he’s already seen it. You’re too old to be crying like this in front of him. It’s humiliating.

Caleb grabs your wrists easily before you can wipe them away. You blink away a few unshed tears to get a better look at his face. You inhale, your chest tight - feet like lead as you look at your older brother. His pinched expression, almost pained but still tender. Still gentle. Just seeing it again makes you want to cry.

“I knew it,” He says. He drops your hands and instead cups your face with his palm, thumb wiping away tears as he cups your cheek. His expression is firm. “What’s wrong, hm?”

It’s like something in you collapses.

You give into it without any effort.

Caleb makes it so easy, after all, to be the weakest version of yourself.

With him, there’s no desire to fight what feels inevitable. So you let yourself fall to nothing in Caleb’s arms and cry. You’re torn up over your first real friendship fight so you let yourself lean on him. Just like you do at seven, and ten, and all the years before. Fist your hand tight in the fabric of his shirt like you’re worried he’ll shake you off, even though he never does.)

(Later, you’ll remember this conversation and realize that there was never any room for anyone else. It was a kind of teenage naivety to think otherwise.

You’ll hear the sentiment from everyone you know—friends, colleagues, family: the person you can be weakest with is who you should marry. If only you had known that then, too. Maybe accepting it would’ve been easier. Maybe you would’ve known sooner what feeling you’d spend the rest of your adult life chasing)

Caleb rests his hand on the back of your head as he tucks your face against his chest. It’s warm and soft. The comforting scent of detergent and cologne, undercut by oil and jetfuel. You wish you could bury yourself in.

You stand and cry like that in silence for a long while. Caleb holds you tight without asking any questions, his chin resting on top of your head, patting your back.

When you pull away from him, ready to explain - he walks himself over to your bed and sits on it. His expression is unreadable. Concerned but trying not to worry too son.

With his legs wide, he opens his arms out to you to invite you into his lap the way you did when you were kids. You wonder if he’s joking—trying to make you laugh and cheer you up.

But in the moment you’re so fragile, you tuck your chin and sit anyway. He stiffens briefly, as if surprised but soon enough, strong arms lay drape your waist as he lets you lean into him.

“Ready to talk about it?”

You fidget. “Aren’t you busy?”

He shakes his. “I’m all yours.”

Your chest feels warm and fluttery when he says it. It soothes you. .

You sniffle, adjusting in his lap. “I’m sorry.”

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” He asks. “You don’t have to,”

“No, I—” You shift in his lap. “It feels wrong. Not telling you.”

Caleb hums. “You’re at that age. I already know that much. But no matter what I’m on your side, so don’t hide when you’re feeling sad or upset. Okay?”

“Nn,” You nod. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“It’s really fine. It’s not like I can really be mad at you, right?”

You make a small, thoughtful noise. “You say that but you’re unexpectedly good at holding grudges.”

Caleb laughs. “Hm, that’s true. But not with you.”

You repeat the words to yourself, half-dizzy with a smile. “Not with me.”

Caleb smiles at you. He holds you a little tighter. You grab hold of his jacket, white knuckling the fabric until your heartbeat settles.

“So. Do you want to tell me what happened?”

( In the end, you tell Caleb everything from start to finish.

It’s just as you predicted. Once you start, it’s hard to give him anything but the full truth. Caleb listens to you intently without interjecting. Rests his chin on your shoulders, leaving you with nothing but his body language to pick up on his moods.

He stiffens when you tell him you had a boyfriend. Calms down when you tell him you didn’t like him very much, that all you did was hold hands and cuddle and you still think it was a waste.

Caleb listens to it all. Hangs onto your every word until you’ve tuckered yourself out. You think of what they say about how a burden shared is a burden halved and hope that it’s fine to depend on him this much all these years later.

Caleb is silent and steady for the duration of your talk. Towards the end he tells you: “No boy should ever make you cry. Should I get revenge for you?”

“Gege,” You say exasperated “And what about boys making me cry? That’s all they do from what I can tell.”

He doesn’t refute that. “ That’s true. It’s better to avoid them, really. If I ever make you cry you though, you can hit me,” He replies. You laugh a little.

“I don’t think you would make me cry without good reason.”

“If I do, I’ll make sure to repent for my whole life after.” He says, joking. Maybe joking.

Your cheeks warm “Your whole life feels like a long time.”

“Is it? You can’t really get rid of me easily, so I think it makes sense.”

“I guess that’s true. You can’t get rid of me either, you know.”

Caleb grins at you. “How lucky.”)

At nineteen, you go to a club in the Linkon entertainment district for the very first time.

Your friends dragged you here. It’s your first year of the Hunter Academy and your first time living away from home. You’ve spent most of the school year completely focused on training and working towards your goals - trying to be strong enough to work alongside a certain someone and hold your own.

You’re not here of your own volition, but honestly? It’s not so bad. Drinking and dancing with your friends proves fun for the first couple of hours at least.

After that gets old though, really more stressful than anything.

You aren’t supposed to be here in the first place. That’s the main cause of your current unease. The club is 21+ and it was already an ordeal getting in. The longer you stay, the more restless you feel—the more you want to leave before anyone gets caught up in anything.

You’ve been knocking back drinks all evening, courtesy of some of your friends - and the night is starting to come to a halt for you internally. All the discomfort and overstimulation go from engaging to overwhelming, and your head is starting to spin.

You’re in the section where you and your friends got invited. Apparently there’s someone tonight who's popular in the nightlife scene - son of some rich business man you think. Your friend has been doing you all the solid of keeping him happy. Your eyes flit over to where they dance on the floor and you feel yourself wince just looking at them.

Shit, your head is throbbing.

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you sink back in your seat and think about what the best strategy is to get out of here.

All of you should go home honestly. There won’t be major consequences for simply being intoxicated, but sneaking into an establishment like this really might affect your ability to graduate. Your academy is not known for its leniency.

Aside from that, you’re tired. You should have more energy than this. You would normally, you think. But it’s a Friday and you had taken up some extra training since you had no plans to be out. The addition of alcohol dehydrating you and the sharp and particular pain from stiletto heels makes you lethargic. Dead on your feet.

It’s later in the night but not so late people are leaving. A second wave of attendees are shuffling in now. You have half a mind to mix with the crowd and leave by yourself. It feels like a good idea at least.

But then, more people are brought to your section. You’re only half-paying attention as the guy from earlier, the one paying for you all, happily introduces the new group to people already sitting.

“...And Caleb, it’s good to see you. You’re usually too busy to come to things like this,”

A pair of eyes bore into you. You freeze completely, eyes glued to your phone screen as you catch a glimpse of the one person you absolutely do not want to be meeting here.

“Yeah,” A familiar voice says. His voice is light like he’s not noticed anything.”I’m glad I came. I’ve already seen some interesting things.”

The dull throb in your head turns the corner to a sharp pain. A feeling of complete misery washes over you. Truly, the worst possible outcome. You wonder what Caleb is doing here in the first place. From what you know, this isn’t usually his kind of establishment either. Maybe someone from his dorms dragged him here too? You think it’d be something like that.

You make the mistake of looking up as Caleb slides in opposite to you with a few other friends. His expression is completely unreadable as your eyes meet across the table. He flashes you a smile that makes your nerves stand on end. All you can do is look away, eyes flitting back down your phone.

A text appears at the top of your screen.

from cpt big bro (1:03am): nice to see you.

A feeling of unease immediately feels you, but when you look back up at Caleb - he’s pretending like you don’t even exist.

You don’t know why you feel so guilty in the first place. Sure, you snuck in here but it’s not like you did something unheard of. And you’re past the legal drinking age in the first place. And the clothes weren’t your idea. You’ll tell him that when he inevitably asks.

You’re not doing anything so wrong but you’re worried he’ll get the wrong idea.

(A voice in your head asks: what idea? You tell yourself it’d be embarrassing if your brother thought you were looking for a hook-up. It’s reasonable enough.

You decide not to interrogate the reasoning any further, even when the feeling doesn’t go away.)

You find your gaze falling in your lap as you try to dissolve the overwhelming feeling of shame and upset just knowing Caleb’s seen you like this.

It’s worse though to have him ignoring you. You know he’s probably doing it for your sake. Even knowing he’s not malicious doesn’t make it much better. Your eyes stay glued to your phone screen.

You don’t know how much time passes before someone else joins you at the table.

A woman this time.

“Caleb! You actually came,” She says over the music. You watch her from your peripherals as she slides in next to him without hesitation. “I thought Kenji was lying to get more girls to show up.”

You hear him laugh a little. You think he sounds a little uncomfortable, but maybe you’re reading too much into it. “I didn’t have much of a choice.”

“Isn’t that always how that goes?” She hums. Your eyes widen slightly seeing the way she presses herself up against his arm. “But I’m glad you're here. Maybe I can convince you to dance.”

“You can try,” He says. You know he’s just being amiable. Or at least, you think he’s just trying to be amiable.

You’ve never really seen Caleb flirt with a girl, so you don’t have a real reference for what does and does not count.

It’s the first time in all of your life you’ve ever seen Caleb get hit on so closely. You’re used to his popularity of course - but back then, Caleb usually made a point to run away. No one ever got near enough. He’s always been nice about it of course, tries to let people down easy.

You don’t know the girl who's flirting with him now, but you can tell that they know each other. They’re sitting close, but not enough to be obvious. You can hear them too, though. Hear how she talks to him. It’s not hard to tell that she’s hitting on him. And your brother isn’t reciprocating but he’s not quite turning her down. It doesn’t seem to bother him, enough that when he makes jokes playfully rejecting her - the conversation still doesn’t sour.

They get along, is what you mean. Better than you thought they would.

Your stomach churns.

You try not to think about whats making you sick. But it washes over you all at once. More dizzy than nauseous. You feel like someone is tying your insides into a coil. The more you try to divert your gaze - the harder it is to ignore it. Caleb glances at you from time to time, but it seems accidental at best.

Your heart is hammering. You think about how long it’s been since you’ve last seen each other. All the things that have happened while you’re apart.

When you find you can’t sit and handle anymore, your body makes the decision to leave for you.

It happens quickly. You stand to your feet, nearly stumbling in your heels as you talk to a friend on the dance floor and make-up a nonsense excuse about needing to leave. She offers to call you a taxi, but by then you’re already making a bee-line to the door and out of the club.

It’s late when you leave. Your whole body feels like it’s trapped in ice as the unforgiving night air whips your skin and leaves you cold. You stumble down the steps in your heels until you finally make it onto the curb with all the other drunk club-goers trying to get home or sober up.

You’ll flag down a taxi, go home, and pretend nothing happened. You repeat the routine to yourself over and over.

It feels like the only way you can handle it. Your mind can't process it otherwise. Can’t think too hard on what you might’ve been privy too.

“Where are you runnin’ off to?”

You freeze when you hear Caleb’s voice. You have half a mind to break into a sprint but you aren’t sure you can without breaking your ankles with your heels. Another part of you is preening over the fact he came immediately to find you. You turn around and try to walk away briskly - only to feel a warm hand on your wrist, pulling you towards him and making you come to a halt.

“Let me go,” You mumble.

He holds you a little tighter.

“Don’t be like that. No matter how much training you have, I know you can’t run in heels so quit it,” Caleb says, with a sigh. “Why’d you run off?”

“What do you mean why?” You say, words slurring. “Who’d wanna see—hicc—”

Caleb frowns at you. “Why’re you trying to be tough if you can barely keep yourself standing up straight?”

He sighs, bending down. You let out a noise as he undoes the strap of your heel.

“Take them off,”

You pout. “How am I supposed to walk home like that?”

“I’ll carry you on my back,” He replies. “Your ankles with have a hard time if you keep wobbling like that,”

“My feet will get dirty from the pavement.”

You’re being difficult on purpose. Drunk and upset, arguing with anything he says. Caleb knows this you’re sure but he doesn’t seem to have a reaction to it besides mild exasperation. Despite that though, he still tends to you.

He makes a face at you before sighing. You watch as he slides his jacket off of his shoulders and drapes it over you. It’s oversized on him, even more so on you. It fits more like a dress and covers more than your outfit does.

When you’ve slipped your arms through it, he drops down onto his knees and undoes the other strap of your heel. He turns around after that, signalling for you to get on his back. You want to refuse him but you find you don’t have the words to do so. You comply with his request, putting your arms around his neck as he lifts you with frightening ease.

He bends down with you on his back to pick your heels up and carry them.

“Aren’t you gonna ask me anything?” You mumble. Caleb sighs. It makes you bite your lip.

“It can wait a bit.”

“Hmph.”

You find you have nothing left to argue with him. You give up on trying to refuse and let him carry you, both hands lifting you up as you keep your arms around his neck. Your cheek pressed against his shoulder, worried your makeup will smear on it.

You don’t know how long you walk. Your eyes are closed for the duration of it and you only open them again when you sense a change of lighting. The noise of an automatic door and a tired greeting alarms you. You feel embarrassed, suddenly, at the idea that someone else has seen you like this.

Caleb just greets them as normal.

“Aren’t you gonna let me down already?”

“Are you feeling uncomfortable?”

“No, but—”

He doesn’t respond to you further. You get the impression there’s not much meaning to continue arguing so you keep quiet.

You watch from over his shoulder as he roams the aisles until he comes across cheap pairs of slippers and socks - next to other random household items. He picks the correct size without asking you. Seeing it only adds to the strange feeling you’ve had since leaving the club.

He goes to self check-out, pays for the sandals, then carries you to one of the few seats and table near the window of the 7/11. Carefully, he sets you down on one, your heels on another, then silently opens the packaging. He drops to his knees and looks up at you in silent question.

“You don’t need to—”

He doesn’t say anything when you attempt to refuse him. Keeps quiet and just waits for you, not unkindly. You frown and hold your foot out to him. He rolls each sock carefully onto your feet, pulling them all the way up over your ankle before the slippers follow.

“Do they fit okay?”

“Mm,”

You nod. Caleb hums. Holds his hand out.

“C’mon. Pick out something to eat or drink so you sober up a bit,”

“While we talk?” You ask, voice suddenly small. He pauses, smiles just barely, and pats your head with the same firm hand he always does. It makes you want to cry.

“Yeah. While we talk.”

You nod as Caleb helps you off the seat. “I’ll go get some water.”

“Okay,”

You think of what you want to eat. Childhood memories whisper answers to you. Chips and candy - sweet and salty so you have balance. You remember the way Caleb would cut into his own snack budget for you to get what you wanted. He’d pretend to complain, but he’d smile at you while you ate.

You pick the same things you used to. You wonder if he’ll notice.

He returns with two bottles of water. “Did you finish choosing?”

You nod. His eyes drift to your hands. He cracks another smile that makes you happier then it should.

“I see. Let’s check out then, hm?”

Your heart flutters. You follow him quietly. He goes to the cashier the second time around - amiable, friendly and easing some unspoken tension. Apologizes for the inconvenience and, with familiar diligence, asks if there’s a recycling bin for him to toss trash nearby. The cashier offers to do it for him.

Afterwards, he holds his hand out to you like it’s only natural for you to want to hold it. You take it.

Of course, you do.

He guides you outside, and the two of you sit on the curb. An expectant look appears on his face when he dusts off place beside him where he’s hoping you’ll sit. You do, knees touching - folding your hands into your lap. He opens the bottle of water and hands it to you.

“We could’ve just shared one,” You offer.

“I’m not so stingy,” Caleb says.. You purse your lips. You want to tell him that’s not what you mean, but you don’t want to ask yourself what you do mean.

You take it from him and drink.

Silence stretches over the seemingly endless night. The streets of Linkon prove to be busy and limitless. Given the district you’re in, you’d expect it to be more packed - but the streets are desolate. Proof of life resides in the lights of buildings and clubs but now, here—it feels like you’re the only two people left in the world.

It’s quiet for a long while. You sit like that until you break the ice.

“You still haven’t asked me anything.”

“Well,” Caleb looks at you from the corner of his eyes and shrugs, taking a drink. “I can kind of guess why you were there in the first place. Don’t have much of a clubbing spirit, you know. Your friends probably told you to go right?”

You nod.“You’re not upset?”

“Mm,” Caleb sighs. “Not at you for just going. It’s hard to be mad at you especially when you…” He trails off, an almost imperceptible smile on his. He shakes his head before continuing and you miss the window to ask about what that was all about. He glances at you again. “Your dress is too short, though.”

You feel heat crawl up your skin. “It’s not that bad. And I’m nineteen,”

“So? You’re still my baby sister. Naturally I won’t approve, right? You know that much.”

You bend over your knees, pouting. You feel weirdly happy but try not to think about it. “You’re so unreasonable sometimes.”

He clicks his tongue. “I’m being very reasonable right now,”

“...Mm.”

Tension lingers in the air. You open the chips Caleb got you and tilt it his way. A peace offering. He takes one.

“Why’d you run off?”

You make a face. Will yourself to not cry as you tuck your chin.

“...I dunno.”

He glances at you. You miss the knowing expression on his face. “Even if you were doing a good job of lying, you know that wouldn’t work on me right? Did something happen? Something you can’t tell me?”

“Nothing happened but you—”

Caleb interjects. “Me? So it’s because of me then.”

You bite your tongue. Caleb is lost in thought.

“I didn’t mean to ruin your night showing up. Didn’t know you’d even be there. It’s not like I’m mad or anything.” Caleb starts.

“It’s not that,” You say quickly. The frustration just thinking about it makes your throat well up. You can feel it. You drink water trying to wash it down.

“Then?”

It slips out of you, exasperated as you sit up and turn to look up at him.

“You were ignoring me,” You say, voice wet and shaky - hands fisted at your knees, shoulders tight. You still haven’t sobered up much. Your lips curl into a frown. Caleb is stunned into silence. “You didn’t even… I thought you were mad at me. And then that girl sitting next to you was—”

You stop yourself. Caleb looks at you wide-eyed. Opens his mouth to say something but closes it again soon after. He processes what you’ve said slowly, though he doesn’t seem surprised by all of it.

“I wasn’t mad at you. Surprised, but not so mad. Even if I were mad, I wouldn’t ignore you. It’d make more sense for me to drag you out myself, don’t you think?”

You huff. “It felt like you were mad at me. And—”

You want to ask. Who was she? Why was she so close to you? Why didn’t you push her away? Do you like her?

Nothing comes out right. You bite your lip. “That girl… was she your friend?”

Caleb stops. He looks awkward all of a sudden. “Huh? No, no. She’s my senior. She has someone else she likes,”

“She was hitting on you,” You say bluntly, sticking your feet out. “And you didn’t stop her.”

For a brief moment, you swear he looks amused. His expression settles again quickly. “I know she’s not being serious so I didn’t feel like there was any point causing a rift.”

“She’ll get the wrong idea. If you don’t turn her down properly and just let her—” Be all over you. Touch you so close. Get in your space. “...flirt with you.”

A beat. “You think I should turn her down properly then?”

It hangs in the air. You want me to turn her down?

You bite the inside of your lip. “Yeah.”

“Will it make you feel better?”

Your eyes meet. For a brief second you feel like someone has stolen all the air from your lungs in one go. You look down.

“Yeah,”

Caleb’s breath hitches just a touch before he speaks. “Okay.”

He opens his arm up to invite you closer and slot into his side the way you used to. Blinking wetly, you scoot across the concrete and tuck yourself under the safety of his arm. Your face is close to his chest. He smells like cologne and iit makes your heart beat feel erratic. His hand comes up to stroke your head and you let him soothe you like you have so many times before.

“No matter what happens, there’s nothing you could do or say that’d make me angry enough to ignore you. I’d never ignore you if I didn’t think you wanted me to,”

“I never want you to ignore me, ever.” You say immediately. “Never ever.”

He chuckles. The way it reverbs in your body makes you dizzy. “Okay, princess. Noted. Do you wanna sit a little longer or should I call a car for you?”

You tuck into his side. It’d be nice if you never had to leave him ever again. Pressing into him, your words muffle in the fabric of his shirt. You tug at the hem.

“Wanna stay here. Just for a bit.”

He hesitates above you. But a while later, you feel his lips at the crown of your head - right at your hairline. His voice is gentle. “Sure. As long as you want,”

At twenty-two, you often dream of your older brother.

At first, it’s grief. Caleb dies not long after your birthday and in the months that pass - the warm memories of your childhood seem to follow you into sleep. Some nights, it feels kind to see him. In your dream, you run into his arms and he holds you tight when you tell him you missed him.

Grief holds the rest of you hostage. You want for nothing and think of nothing except your brother. You miss Grandma too, of course you do.

But there’s nothing in the entire world like a brother. Like your brother—who you could ask anything of. It’s hard to unpack the loneliness you feel. Hard to explain it to other people.

In the months you correct yourself from saying have to had—and watch peoples eyes change into one of sorrow and pity. At the worst of it, you can’t even pretend to think of that as a kindness. Can’t even thank them for being nice. At the worst of your grief, you find yourself especially angry at being pitied. You look at people and want to say they don’t understand. They don’t know what you lost. There are no words that make it digestible. You bite your tongue, give a tight-lipped smile.

What you wanted to say was this: How dare you act like you understand what I lost? How dare you feel sorry when you don’t know the half of it? My brother is dead. A piece of me is missing.

You never say any of it. You bury the words in the black vast of your grief and throw yourself at finding answers.

Your feelings about the incident change the more you find out. About Grandma and the abomination in your heart—and you cycle from anger to sorrow to unease.

They never change about Caleb though. The apparition of him, warm and broad, cycles through your dreams every now and again. Some nights, you wake up expecting to be seven years old again—clinging to your older brother, the only thing you know in the world that’s made you lose everything.

Most nights, you wake up from dreamless sleep and feel yourself wanting to cry.

(You don’t cry often when he’s gone, even when you should.

Who would be there to hold you now when you do?)

When you finally see Caleb again, see him alive—your emotions become just as complicated as your mind has been in the months of his absence.

You’re ecstatic, you’re angry, you’re terrified, you’re so so sad. You are all of these things at the same time.

And then, you realize that the death of Caleb did not only change you. Your older brother comes back to you. He’s warm, kind, and gentle sometimes. But it’s not the same. There’s something about him, inexplicable, that is changed forever.

Caleb dies and comes back wrong—but this only strengthens your resolve. To do what, exactly? You aren’t sure. You don’t know what you want and you still know nothing about the Aether Cores. Or about what Caleb does.

All you do know is that your older brother has come back to you, and you are empty without him. You’d rather have him wrong than not have him at all. You’ll fix him or become wrong with him before you ever let go of him again.

(Even the way he is now, sometimes, he seems worried about ruining you. You want to say sometimes—then ruin me. You know what he’d say if you did. He knows he’d tell you to watch your tongue and not to say what you don’t mean.

You’ve thought about it, though. You’d rather that then he disappear again. You’d rather you know what's going on then not. )

Things have changed. Caleb has changed.

You have changed, most of all.

When you hear from Caleb for the first time he no longer wants to be your brother - that he’s tired from playing house with you, your first reaction is devastation. The memory of that dread is so strong, you still feel it when you replay it all in your mind. Caleb above you, caging you in, unreadable—no longer what you know.

You don’t think about anything. You can’t. It destroys you completely to hear him say it. Makes you want to cling to him and beg. Cry loudly enough to wake the version of him that did want to be your brother. That loved you unconditionally.

When you have to go the next morning and find a memory of your childhood tucked away - you realize not all of him is lost to you. That the parts of him you loved so dearly have not entirely disappeared.

So you stay, and try to mend the broken pieces of your relationship back together.

At twenty-two, you often dream of your brother.

When he comes back to you, you think you’ll be given one more dream before he disappears. You figure the real thing is back in your hands. It’ll go back to the way it was before, where your sleep is long and dreamless but that’s fine. As long as you can wake-up and see the sun, without feeling like yours was stolen from you—anything is fine.

At twenty-two, even after you learn he’s alive, you often dream of your brother.

The first time you ever have a wet dream of Caleb is just after he comes back to Linkon.

After you sit in the garden with Caleb and blow the hydrangea petals away from his face, and his hand comes up to touch you. After he promises to take good care of the flower he takes back to SkyHaven. After he tells you there was no way he’d be able to stay away from you.

When you sleep the night after he returns home, you dream of Caleb again.

This time you’re in your bedroom—the one from your childhood home, that Caleb spent so many years taking up space in. You dream of your brother on top of you and you both look a little younger. His face contorted with pleasure, and your hand being the one to give it to him. The image missing from the waist down, all you can see is the clear view of him over you. Making it so obvious what you’re doing. Doing together.

You wake up from your dream with a feeling like something’s crushing your chest. A wheezing breath as you struggle to calm down. A distinct feeling of wetness between your legs that cling to your PJs when you stumble into your bathroom - trying to relieve yourself and being confronted with the reality of what just happened.

The first time you have a wet dream about Caleb—you only feel shame. You tell yourself that it’s a fluke, and that dreams are meaningless anyway. It makes you violated to think of him like that. You can’t control what you do in your sleep. You decide not to dwell.

Weeks pass and you see Caleb again. You share fruit and more conversation, and the following night - you have another wet dream. This one, more vivid than the last. Different. You dream of Caleb with a baton to your neck and the tension in the room when he caged you in his arms. In your dreams he’s cruel as he drags the metal end down your body, pushes it against your—

You wake up the next morning almost inconsolable.

The cycle repeats for as long as you see him. Every time Caleb appears in your life, you dream of him the next night. You wake up in shock, wet down your legs and spend all morning trying to suppress it down as far as you can.

You tell yourself all sorts of things when it happens. You reason with yourself. Dreams are nonsense. You can’t control them. It’s your brother. You don’t think of him like that.

(You think of all the times you’ve seen him since he’s returned. All the ways his eyes soften for you, all the ways his hands linger—how ever since he’s denied being your brother at all, you think of what that might make you now.

It breaks your heart to not have him as your brother. Your precious family. An unbreakable bond. The one you love most. He touches you the way brothers aren’t supposed to, and you remind yourself of what you can’t have. You remind yourself of what loss you would feel first.

He always looks pained when he touches you like that, though. And, for some strange reason, sometimes you want to tell him: Did you know I dreamt of you touching me? So you don’t need to make that face. Like you’re wrong. My dreams couldn’t make you this gentle.)

The harder you try to force it down, the harder it is to pretend it’s nothing. You push and push and push—but each time you see him, the cycle repeats.

Eventually, it’s too hard to pretend. You refuse to name it, or think about it—but when you let your mind stop forcing it so deep into your subconscious, it’s easier to reconcile.

It doesn’t go away. But your skin prickles with embarrassment, and you sigh, and you move on from it. Even if the dreams don’t stop, you can go on about your day when you leave it all alone.

You think maybe, if you and Caleb never saw each other again, it might even work to rid you of the dreams completely.

But he’s your brother—your precious family, the one you love most. You see him all the time. Whenever your schedule allows it, he’s the first person you check with to see if you can come spend time with him. Even if he can’t be with you, you stay over at his place to eat his food and watch TV on his expensive flatscreen.

It makes you feel like you live together again.

(You try not to reel at the thought. It’s normal for siblings to stay together from time to time. It’s like a sleep over. That’s all.)

So it’s not unusual for you anymore to drop by his place. You even have a key.

(Your key, you think. Caleb put a stupid green apple cover on the top part of it. It’s for you, and only you.)

Even when you do come over, sometimes you only see him at night. You have little conversations before you need to go to sleep (or rather, when he makes you go to sleep.) But it still feels better than only seeing him sometimes.

So it’s not unusual for you to be here in your PJs and watching something stupid while draped on Caleb’s couch.

It is unusual, however, to have him come home so soon.

PART TWO: SO ONLY SAY MY NAME, IT WILL BE HELD AGAINST YOU.

You pick your head up as soon as you hear the security system for Caleb’s apartment announce someone at the door. The time reads 6:56pm.

Heavy footfall makes you pick yourself up, crawling to the edge of the couch and standing on your knees to catch sight of him. You lean forward.

“You’re home early.”

It takes him a second to register who's talking, but he smiles slightly when he does. Turnt towards the doors, he’s leaned against a wall as he undoes the laces of his steel-toed boots.

“So are you,”

You give him a melodic hum. “I got off since we have a holiday. I have Monday off too.”

“Yeah? That’s good. You should try to rest up some,”

“I will. Gotta catch up on my shows first though,” You reply thoughtfully. “I’m like half-way through ‘em.”

“Workin’ hard I see. Try not to over-exert yourself.” He adds, playfully sarcastic. You nod.

You answer him in silly earnest. “Of course. I’m more relaxed here so don’t worry.”

He pauses as he finally stands back up. You see him at the other side of the room with a smile.

“Yeah?”

You feel something in your stomach that you choose to ignore. “Yeah. Plus I don’t have to eat my own groceries.”

“It’s better you eat mine than me wasting them,” He says with a shrug.

“How generous of you.”

“Right?”

You lean forward, resting more of your weight on the couch. “Did they just send you home early too? Or is it some special Colonel privilege?”

You see him shake his head as he slides off his coat and walks over to the fridge, grabbing a plastic bottle of water out of it before taking a few long drinks.

“Mm, kinda the first.” He says thoughtfully. “I got injured in the field today, had to go to the infirmary. It’s a minor injury but I checked in with my commanding officer and he told me I might as well go home.”

You frown. “What kind of injury?”

“It’s really fine,”

“Caleb.”

He sighs, turning towards you. The open fridge door illuminates him. “Just got a bruise along my thigh from how I fell. Nothing broken.” He says. You’re still frowning at him. “Don’t worry about it.”

“How can you be fine if they sent you home?”

“It’s not like that,”

“I don’t believe you,” You say petulantly. Caleb shuts the fridge door with his hip as he laughs.

“What, you want me to show it to you?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s on my thigh. I’d have to take off my pants,” He says, laughing. He joins you on the couch - sitting where you were laying—eyeing you while he waits for you to come join him. You narrow your eyes suspiciously but crawl over to him anyway, sitting beside him with your legs up. “Unless you’re really just wanting me to strip, promise it’s fine. I’ve had it worse,”

“That’s not a good thing. If it were me you’d be freaking out already and fussing over me.”

“It’s different,”

“Is not,”

“Is too. My little sisters still a bit of weakling, see—if I don’t take good care of her she’ll end up hurting herself even worse,” Caleb says, voice high.

“I’m not even weak. Maybe not as strong as you but not weak.”

“When you get stronger than me, we can talk about who gets to worry about who,” He says, flicking your forehead lightly. You pretend to flinch at the injury.

“You let me do whatever I want except worry about you.”

“You got it. Glad you’re getting up to speed.”

You elbow him. Caleb laughs.

You sit back with your knees to your chest, frowning. Caleb leans back, arm stretched on the back of the couch. Inching closer to him subconsciously, your brow furrows as you think about his injury.

It’s like he reads your mind.

“You’re really worried about it.” He murmurs.

You purse your lips. “No shit.”

“Don’t cuss,”

“I’m twenty-two!”

“So?” He raises his eyebrow.

“You make me want to strangle you sometimes.”

“If you succeed I’ll be impressed.”

You glare at him. “I’ll make sure to wait until you’re fully recovered so it counts,”

He relaxes into the couch, eyes filled with mirth. “Smart move.”

“You’re still in your outside clothes. Don’t you want to wash up first?”

“Do I smell bad?”

“No, that’s not it. But if you get too comfortable, you might not want to get up to do it, you know?”

“I’m not like a certain someone, so I’m not worried about that.” Caleb says. You huff as he continues on. “I just wanted to sit with you for a bit first. Is that not okay?”

“I didn’t say all of that. Don’t put words in my mouth, jeez.”

He hums. “Just checking,”

Comfortable quiet settles between you as Caleb sits and watches your drama with you intently.

You relax further into the couch as you settle back in, once again engrossed in your show. It’s a period and fantasy drama about a once noble woman getting married against her will to a supposedly cruel emperor. Crude description aside, it has high political stakes, violence, and good writing.

The romance aspect of the show was what drew you in more-or-less, but it’s a slowburn between the main couple. You’ve mostly been watching for the high-tension plot. It captures both your attention and seemingly Caleb’s too.

“Wait,” Caleb interrupts half-way through an episode. “I want to watch the rest with you but I need to shower,”

You smile at him. “It’s good right? It’s not a lot of romance but there’s other stuff. We can watch it together after you wash-up and maybe…we can have a drink together.”

“You’re so interested in that,”

“I want to know what kind of drunk you are. It’s not fair you’ve seen me drunk and I haven’t,”

“Pfft,” He rubs your head with hand, amused. “What kind of reason is that? But you know what? Sure. Order whatever you want with my card while I go shower.”

“Yay!”

You pause the TV as Caleb stands up and stretches, fishing for his wallet and passing you his card. Snatching it from between his fingers, you give him a mischievous look that makes him laugh.

“Go shower,”

“I am, I am,” He holds his hands up. “I’ll be quick,”

You watch your drama late into the evening.

You drink casually with Caleb as you binge watch the final few episodes of the season you started on. You take a break later in the night to have dinner delivered to you, but afterwards - you decide to keep watching.

Caleb wasn’t lying when he told you he holds his drink well. You’ve both been knocking them back since eight pm. Even with the time to sober up in between, he seems like he hasn’t had a single thing to drink the entire time.

You feel far from wasted, a warm meal in your stomach settling some of inebriation - but you still feel somewhat tipsy. At least enough to have that pleasant, warm, loose-limbed buzzed. You’re sober enough that Caleb doesn’t get on your case about drinking enough water - though you sure it’ll be a different story in another hour or two if it keeps going.

Half-past midnight - you’re two episodes deep into the third season of your drama.

Relaxed, you’re half-way draped on Caleb - legs in hips lap and nursing another cheap can of beer. After several episodes of action and violence - the story is starting to get back to the romance aspect for the main couple.

Maybe it’s your fault for not thinking it through, but you’re really not expecting a graphic sex scene to play so soon after so much high plot.

In the first place, it doesn’t start out like a sex scene. The main character went to go visit her injured husband after he returned from battle. Sweet, you thought. Maybe you’d get to see them have some intense, longing eye-contact like they’ve been having for a while now.

You aren’t sure when exactly it takes a left turn. You’re tipsy and comfortable and warm. On your phone looking things up on social media.

They kiss once, then twice before a breathy moan cuts through the comfortable.

Before you can scramble to find the remote and scrub through it, the scene changes instantly in temperature. A few tepid kisses rapidly go from chaste to deep, all tongue and teeth.

Near full blown nudity flashes across your T.V. screen as a strange heat creeps up your neck. You feel like you’ve had enough mental torment when you see the male lead kiss his way down the female leads neck. It’s more uncensored then you thought.

Your voice is trembling a little. “We should uhm,” You swallow thickly. “Where’s the remote..?”

Caleb feels a little… different. He seems startled hearing you speak, looking at you with lidded eyes. “Not sure. Think you had it last,”

“Oh, right. I don’t,” Another moan rips through the tension between you. It takes your full body effort not to jump. “....really remember where I put it,”

“You want me to help you look?”

You blink at him. “I mean… we should, probably look for it. Since, uhm… you know.”

“Are you uncomfortable?” Caleb interrogates. You stare at him.

“You aren’t?”

Caleb is quiet for a long time, like he’s thinking hard about the answer.

“I feel fine,” Is what he says after what feels like forever.

“You feel… fine.”

He nods without looking at you. “We can skip it if you want. Probably have to get up to find the remote, though.”

You sink back in the couch, your face feeling warm. “It’s fine, then.”

You’re a little startled as the couple on T.V starts to really have sex - at least more than foreplay. It’s not full frontal, but the sounds and angles are enough to get the point across. Caleb just… watches. Relaxed.

“You sure?” He offers, glancing at you again. “It’s fine if it’s too much for you,”

Frowning, you sit up slightly. “What do you mean too much for me?”

“Hm?”

“You’re saying it like you’re used to it,”

Caleb gives you another glance. Assess you once or twice before looking back at the T.V.

“Does it matter if I am or I’m not?”

You find yourself at a loss for words. Is he used to this? That can’t be the case, right?

“You never dated anyone when we were growing up.”

Caleb nods. “You don’t really need to date someone for something like that, though it’s better that way.”

You find yourself shocked by his answer. He’s changed a lot, you know that but—

But it feels wrong. You can’t imagine him just hooking up with someone and having a one-night stand. He’d only ever do it with a girlfriend. So if he has any experience, it’d have to be with someone like that.

He smiles at you. “You’re making a scary face.”

You look up at him, unsure of what face you should be making. The question slips out before you can stop to think about whether or not you should even ask it.

“So are you… used to it?”

He pauses before leaning in. “This is the second time you’ve asked,”

“That’s…”

“I don’t think it’s the kind of thing someone’s little sister should ask their older brother right?”

You snap your mouth shut. Caleb leans a little closer. “Right?”

“You’re not answering,” You whisper. Your foreheads touch.

“Is there a specific answer you’re looking for?” Caleb says.

Your eyes widen, teeth pressing against your lip as you tear your gaze away from his face. . “No,”

“Is that what my answer should be or are you answering what I just asked?”

You don’t give him a reply.

Caleb lets out a soft breath of laughter before he finally seems to decide he’s teased you enough. He gets like this more and more lately. Most times you cool off from it quickly but…

You aren’t sure what drives you to make a move. What makes you tug him back to you by the front of his shirt when he tries to pull away. If it’s the alcohol, or the jealousy that makes you do it. It’s hard to say what the source of your heart pumping so hard is—only that it’s all Caleb’s doing.

Your hands fist in the front of his shirt as you drag him forward and kiss him as hard as you possibly can, only barely avoiding biting down with your teeth. Chaste but harsh, you press your lips together with nothing but pure desperation, air pushing hard through your lungs as you do. For a minute or two, longer than a kiss should last.

And then, you pull away. Out of breath like you just ran a marathon, cheeks hot and flushed. Your first kiss that you initiated. It’s almost mundane.

Embarrassed, your first instinct is to jump off the couch and lock yourself in the bathroom. But Caleb knows you. Even better than you know yourself.

He catches your wrist as he leans towards you. His expression is unreadable.

“You kissed me,” He says, completely entranced. “You did right? I didn’t just dream that?”

“It’s your imagination. You must be drunk,”

He laughs good naturedly. “Maybe I am.”

Your frown deepens. How do you refuse him when he acts like that?

Your heart feels like a jackhammer against your ribcage. You can’t. You really can’t. You shouldn’t have—

“I didn’t mean to k-kiss you,”

Blatant heartache fills his eyes. It feels like something is crushing your chest. “Is that so?”

You squeeze your eyes, relenting only a little. Your voice is barely above a whisper. “We can’t.”

Caleb scoffs “Why? Because you see me as your brother?”

“You are my brother. You are and you always will be, and I don’t want to lose that. I can’t, I can’t. You’re—”

“Why can’t you?” His voice is raw, almost desperate. Trying so hard to understand you. It makes you hurt seeing him like that. “What can I do to become more to you?”

“You’re already`—” Everything to me. “You’ll always be the most important person to me.”

His hands grip tighter, devastation darkening the familiar aura of warmth you’ve come to love. Like he’s at the precipice of something considering what he should do. It takes him a while to come upon answers. Staring at you so desperately before closing his eyes, loosening his grip like he’s ready to let you go.

He looks like he makes a choice then. Really makes one. You can already predict what’ll do. What smile he’ll give you but it feels different from other times.

You hold onto him before he can, hand fisted in his shirt. He startles again, softens, not agitated despite how wishy-washy you’re being.

“It’s not that I don’t want you,” You say, so quietly it almost evades you both. “But I don’t want to lose you as my brother if we become more than that.”

Silence falls between you.

“You won’t lose me,” He replies, gently and easily. Your eyes meet. It’s nice. “I want to be everything to you, remember? All of it. I want you to only think of me for the rest of our life. For us to only need each other. You don’t need to give anything up. When have I ever said no to you?”

You turn away from him, shaking your head. “You said that you never saw me as family, that you wouldn’t be—”

Caleb stops you. “I want to be everything to you. Everything. I want us to only need each other. I had to make you understand. From the start, I never intended to give anything up for anyone else.”

“But that’s…”

“I don’t care if it’s wrong,” He says, reading your mind. “I’m asking what you want. Tell me who you want me to be. I’ll do all of it for you.

You glance down, away from him - guilt, remorse, fear. You’re resolve is wavering, but you’re too afraid to say it out loud.

His voice softens. A hand, big and warm and kind, cups your cheek. You know. Know every scar, every touch.

“Tell your big brother what you want and he’ll give it to you.”

Something in you shatters. The weak resistance you’ve been trying to hold onto so desperately, denying yourself of what you’ve wanted deep down all this time. Having it offered to you, handed to you—proves to be too much. It all comes tumbling down.

Your voice comes out like a whine. Your dependency more than shows.

“Touch me,” You gasp, voice wet with tears. Caleb cracks a slight smile. “Touch me, please—want you so bad. Don’t want anyone else to have you.”

Caleb looks elated. Adoring. Madly and terribly in love.

“What a crybaby, hm?” He pulls away from you, standing up before scooping you in his arms “Here. Hold onto me. I’ll carry you,”

“Caleb, I’m too—”

He stops you. “I have a bionic arm. Don’t say you’re too heavy. It could carry ten of you.”

He keeps good on his promise. You wrap your arms around Caleb’s neck as he picks you up. Wrapping your legs around his waist, a gasp leaves your mouth as his hands rest under your thighs - lifting you as he walks you to his room. It reminds you of when you were little though a lot has changed since then.

The realization makes you nervous.

“The TV is still playing.” You mumble..

“You won’t be able to hear it from my room,”

“This is embarrassing,”

“You’ll live.” Caleb hums.

“I hate you,”

Caleb opens his bedroom door with his hip and closes it the same way, walking you to the end of his bed and dropping you on to his mattress. He leans over you, hands on either side of your thighs to keep himself up - inches away from your face.

“Don’t say things you don’t mean. It’ll make me sad.” He says sweetly.

You pout. “Sorry,”

He laughs a little. “It’s okay,”

This close to you, you feel a strange warmth glow your whole body. You crane your neck up to kiss him chastely, pulling away and feeling shy again.

“You taste like beer,”

Caleb stares at you for a long time, smiling slightly. Dazed. “Should I go brush my teeth?”

You look down, away from his face, your hands fiddling with the ends of his shirt. “No…”

He presses his forehead to yours, noses brushing. “How can you be so cute, hm?”

“Quit that,” You whine.

“If you get this embarrassed just hearing you’re cute, you’ll have a hard time later on.”

You blink up at him owlishly. He laughs, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“I’m barely holding it together, you know?”

You look up at him.

“What do you wanna do to me?”

His eyes seem to dilate. “Don’t ask me that,”

“Tell me. I want to know,”

He laughs breathlessly. “That’s unfair,”

“I don’t have to be fair with you,” You say petulantly. “Tell me,”

“I’ve spoiled you too much.” Caleb says, faux regret. “Even if you get scared, you can’t run away.”

“I won’t get scared,”

“Really?” Caleb hums. He moves to the side, his mouth next to your ear - voice barely audible. He puts his hands over yours as he towers over you. “You sound confident, but you know—I’ve wanted to touch you for so long. So badly that it scares me just thinking about it. Can you handle that?”

It’s a confession you think, as much as it’s dirty talk. He pulls back and you’re face to face again.

“I’m not scared of you. Even if you can’t control yourself I won’t be scared.” You tell him, headstrong as always.

His smile falters. “I don’t want to hurt you,”

“I know you like to call me a weakling but you know I’m not really made of my glass,” You stare at him, eyes tracing over his features. “It’ll be hard for you to break me in one go. Might’ve be fun,”

He tsks. “Don’t talk like that. I’d prefer to treasure you.”

You look at him for a long time quietly.

“I dreamt of you.”

“Hm?”

You feel your face flush, but for some strange reason - you have an urge to tell him. The words come easy. Maybe you’ve just been waiting for a reason to confess.

“Of you touching me,” Caleb’s eyes go wide. You smile a little. “Used to dream of you when you were, you know… but it wasn’t the way I dream of you now.”

“How do you dream of me now?” His voice is strained.

“They’re dirty dreams,” You say, fidgeting. “Sometimes I’m touching you and making you feel good. But most of the time, it’s you doing whatever you want to me.”

His voice is hoarse. “Yeah?”

“Mm,” You lock eyes. You can see it in him. It almost feels cruel, but you’re not saying it to tease him. “I had a wet dream about when you were interrogating me. You were being mean in that one. Really mean,”

“I already said sorry about that,”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it,”

He swallows. “Oh,”

“Yeah, oh.” You slide your hand up his arms, squeezing the back of his biceps as he leans over you. Look up at him with mutual love. “I’ll only say it once so please listen carefully: I’m fine with anything if it’s you.”

It’s unexpected when Caleb tackles you to the bed. Not to kiss you, rather—but to hug you. You squeal as you both drop onto the mattress with your legs hanging off the edge. Caleb’s full weight crushes you, trapping you in his arms. You find yourself laughing a little, giggly as you feel him squeeze you tight enough to crush you.

“You’re squishing me, Caleb.”

He laughs breathlessly, rolling you both to the side. Pulling away with your face inches apart, he beams.

“Do you know that I’m crazy about you? Or do you say things like that not even knowing?”

“I don’t know,” You say, burying your face against his chest. “I just know you take good care of me. I want to take good care of you too,”

A spectrum of emotions pass through Caleb’s features at once at the admission. It’s the most vulnerability he’s ever shown you.

His body stiffens. He takes a deep breath before pulling away from you. You watch him innocently as he pushes himself up closer to the headboard. Rolling onto your stomach, you stare at him as he rolls onto his side.

“More comfortable this way, right?”

Consider without trying, your face warms. Caleb’s voice is whisper soft. “C’mere.”

You push yourself up until you’re closer to him, legs no longer hanging off the edge.

Within his reach, Caleb’s hand find your waist. He’s strong, you forget it all too easily—until he’s manhandling you to be in his grasp. Careful but demanding. Rolling on his back, he pulls you onto his lap until you’re straddling him.

The view proves too much for you both. His face is pink. A sheepish smile on his face.

“Regretting it?”

You shake your head quickly, careful not to rest your weight on his lap. He rests one of his hands on your thigh, closer to your knee and steals a glance at you.

Like this, you become aware of him for the first time. Consciously, as if he’s become a completely different person. All the things you’d never allow yourself to consider, slowly draw into focus. Like seeing him with a new set of eyes.

You notice every detail. Sparking arousal and curiosity, you put your hand on his chest and just stare. Unconsciously, your fingers reach for the dog-tag necklace you gifted him - straightening it. Metal warmed underneath your fingertips, you center it on his shirt. At the dip of his muscles where his chest is.

Fitted tank-top shows off enough to give you an idea of what’s underneath. Smooth, alabaster skin. Muscles bulking underneath the ribbed cotton - soft and supple from lack of tension, rising and falling with each breath. Your thumb smooths over the silly apple-shaped pendant, the raised letter of the dogtags. The brief skin to skin makes the air feel electric.

You do it unthinkingly, really. Following your instinct, you rest your hand on his chest before sliding them up closer to his neck. Defined clavicles, the long column of his throat and how it leads to the angled curve of his jaw. Eventually, your hand finds his face. His boyish features—handsome but youthful. Caleb leans into the touch. His usual, playful teasing nowhere to be found. It makes you jolt in surprise. His expression is painted by desire, a rosy flush to what's an otherwise perfect face.

His voice grows thick. An octave deeper than you’re used to. “Having fun?”

“Nn,” You shift under the weight of his gaze. “Sorry,”

“S’fine,” He says, pressing his cheek to your palm. “You can touch me however you want.”

Hearing it embarasses you. But your reply comes quickly. “You too,”

Caleb smiles shakily. His hand slides up your thigh. It’s slight, barely there. His hands are trembling.

“Can I kiss you?”

“We’ve kissed before,”

He shakes his head. “It won't be like before.”

“I don’t have any experience,”

Caleb laughs breathlessly. “I don’t care.”

You frown, but let yourself fall forward. Suddenly inches apart, your eyes widen. Caleb is staring at you this time. His eyes soaking in your expression, gaze falling onto your lips and staying there. They flicker back to yours for silent permission.

You meet his eyes completely assured. He swallows and cranes his neck, his hand coming up to your face to cradle it. His thumb traces your lips, inching himself closer and closer. You can hear his breath. Feel it on your face from how close you are.

Cupping your nape, he presses his lips to yours with unfathomable tenderness—undercut with the hottest flames of desires you’ve ever felt. It’s hard to describe it. All of the kisses you’ve ever had in your life have been Caleb’s, but this one really is different.

An unfamiliar desperation fills it despite being a gentle press of lips. He pulls away and you miss him. Try to chase it as he speaks against your mouth.

“Open your mouth, baby. Breathe through your nose,”

You listen to your older brother obediently, mouth parting as he leans in to kiss you again. Soft at first before pulling you down deeper into him by your. A moan escapes you subconsciously and you feel Caleb shiver. Eyes closed, you let him guide you through it. He controls the depth, the pace. You kiss deeply like that, holding each other before he pulls away again.

Every time you part, you feel a strange pang of sadness. Caleb never leaves you like that for too long

Your mind is hazy with desire as you fall into a pace with him. He breathes hard each time he pulls away from you, seems overwhelmed each time he kisses you again. Switching between deep kisses to chaste one, your lips throb from the overwhelming intensity of it. His mouth perfectly warm, lips soft and full. Wet as the kiss deepens but not unpleasantly. A tingly sensation that makes your skin prick.

You make a noise of surprise when Caleb slips his tongue against your mouth. But you don’t dislike it. Rather, out of curiosity, you copy him.

(A habit of your childhood—to copy your older brother and keep what you like from him as your own. )

Caleb inhales when you mirror him. Your eyes flicker open briefly to see his face, pleased by the draw of his eyebrows, before letting them close again.

There’s nothing intimidating about kissing Caleb. Every fear you harbor about how you should do it is washed away by the sheer force of your lust for one another. Like a gap of communication has finally been bridged—with your soft tongues sliding against each other, brushing against his palate, open mouth panting, subconsciously rocking your hips. Each second of doubt is brushed away by the overwhelming feeling of mutual, lovesick desire. It flows through your veins with more naturality than even your blood. Nothing more righteous, more sure.

You kiss like you’re telling him every secret you’ve ever kept—lips incapable of anything but honest confession. Holding onto each other in desperate, desperate necessity. A lifeline. A lifetime of holding it in, unraveling like the seconds couldn’t pass quickly enough to answer for it.

It feels like the beginning of devouring. You’ve never felt so hungry for something in your life. It gnaws at your conscious thoughts.

Desire simmers as you subconsciously settle your weight on Caleb’s lap, rocking your hips against the pleasant hardness meeting it. Not entirely sure of what it is your even touching. Caleb moans softly each time you do.

“Fuck,” Caleb pulls away finally. You whine and he laughs at you. Kisses you again, just once. “Shh, baby.”

“Nn, you don’t wanna kiss?” Your words come out slurred, even to your own ears.

“Not that I don’t want to, but you’re—” His laugh comes out higher, breathier. “Doing a little more than kissing,”

“Mm?”

He looks up at you. Amusement mixed with arousal. “You don’t even know what you’re doing, do you?”

“Feels good,”

“You’re this weak to a little pleasure,” Caleb says. His hands are hot as they squeeze your hips. “Can’t you feel what you’re sitting on?”

The question sobers you. Caleb hold you steady to stop you before changing the pace. Uses his strength to hold your hips down as he grinds you over the full length of his…

“Oh,” You’re startled. You’re grinding against—

“You’ve been grinding against my dick like that without thinking about it at all. Isn’t that dangerous?”

A shiver wracks through you. Caleb’s voice is husky, low when he says. It’s crass and to the point—something you could never imagine hearing him say. But now that you have heard it, it makes it feel like your whole body is melting. Sticky arousal climbs through your limbs, leaves your mind muddled as you moan. Shivering, you fall forward in his arms. He closes them around your back, grinding his hard-on against your clothed cunt. The way it catches on your clit so indirectly feels so good you could cum from it.

His lips find your face, your jaw. His kisses affectionate. “Feels good, huh?”

“Mmm,” You press your face to his neck. “Caleb,”

“Do you want to cum like this? Or do you want me to make you feel even better?”

“Better?”

“Yeah,” Caleb says, a promise. “Better. Promise. Do you want that?”

You nod. “I want it,”

“Gonna lay you on your back, okay?”

You make an affirmative noise as Caleb flips you on your spine with ease. Surprised by his strength again, you gasp a little as he turns you over until he’s over you. He kisses you sweetly.

Your head feels full. Too heavy on your shoulders. You want to put your tongue in his mouth again and you don’t feel all the way there. Caleb looms over you.

“You’re beautiful,” Caleb says, breathless. Your eyes go wide. “Really fucking beautiful,”’

“That’s…”

“I think it all the time. Want to say it to you all the time, but I never wanna scare you.” Caleb hums, a hand on your thigh.

“Why would that scare me?”

Caleb chuckles like it’s obvious. “You get skittish easily, you know? When I act less like your brother and more like…”

You finish the sentence for him with a pout. “My boyfriend?”

He hums like just hearing it feels good, eyes lidded. “Yeah. Like your boyfriend.”

“Well that’s….”

“Do I make you nervous?”

His expression is playful. Makes your stomach flip. Your hand finds the hem of his shirt.

“So what if you do?”

“It’d make me happy,”

“You want me to be nervous? How mean,”

He leans into your space. You kiss again and feel disappointed when it’s over. Were you always so desperate?

“Don’t put words in my mouth. It just feels good to know you think of me that way, yeah?”

Something about it, about him like this makes your stomach tie in knots. You make a face, head tilted trying to tempt him into doing what you want. Caleb knows without you speaking a word, always does. Dips his head down to appease, lips firm and steady. Soft and full enough to make you melt. Your arms around his neck, a little breathless, mewling at the way it makes it feel like there’s electricity in your skin.

“You really like kissing, huh,” Caleb says. He pulls away again. Casts a brief glance your way before he peppers kisses all across your face. Draws his lips down your jawline, hot and wet as he noses against your skin. He finds your pulse and darts his tongue across the sensitive skin of your neck.

You keen. It’s a sudden sound, sensitive. Your body shivers. Caleb makes an affirmative noise and does it again. Scrapes the same spot gently with teeth.

Another pitchy moan escapes your lips. Caleb breathes from his nose like laughter. Places more experimental bites and licks all along your neck. Your voice slips before you can catch it.

“Harder,”

He appeases you. Just like always. Feeling his teeth in your neck makes your mouth fall open and you moan his name like a small prayer.

His teeth leaves marks along your neck at your request, hands at your waist to hold you in place as you learn more about your body. You can feel your shorts dampen as he does it. It overwhelms you, makes you tremble with every light breath and every sordid bite. You don’t have any experience, have nothing tangible to compare it to except the things you did alone in your bedroom.

It doesn’t compare at all, though. No amount of relieving your sexual urges as a desperate teenager or fumbling against a stranger in a club even kind of helps your mind make sense of it. Caleb kissing and biting down your neck, his hands touching your skin—it’s the first time in your life you’ve ever felt it. First time you’ve known touch like this.

First time your mind has been rendered so useless to think.

He rests his mouth as his hands slide up your sides. You gasp slightly as they go underneath your shirt but you don’t make any move to stop it. Further and further they go until the reach for your back. Searching for something.

“You’re not wearing a bra,” He whispers..

“I don’t at home,”

He lets out a breath like the winds have been knocked out of him. “Right,”

“Are you into that?” You ask before you can stop yourself, surprised by the sound of your own voice. Caleb just laughs like he’s in disbelief.

“Take a guess,”

“I just don’t get it,”

Caleb doesn’t say anything to that. But his hands maneuver. Stopped just underneath the swell of your tits, his eyes look up at yours and ask for silent permission. His shoulders sag with relief when he receives it.

The way your chest fits in Caleb’s hands makes your breath hitch. Squeezing the fat of them, relishing how they feel between his palms. He’s quick after that, pulling your shirt up until it’s gathered underneath your neck. There’s an impatience to it that surprises you, something uncharacteristically lacking composure as he halfway undresses you.

His eyes linger like that for a long time. So long it makes your face burn.

“Stop staring,”

“...I don’t know if I can.”

There’s something like awe in his gaze. Your spine tingles, goosebumps appearing on his skin. The way his hands hold onto your waist. He presses his cheek just below your sternum with an loving sigh, kissing it as he picks his head back up. It’s sweet to the point it almost nauseates you. It might if it were anyone other than Caleb.

His thumbs draw over your nipples, hardened from arousal. Your chest rises and falls in anticipation, in ache. Thighs squeezing together in a silent admittance. His touch is experimental, careful in observing what elicits the most reaction out of you.

Chest tender, takes one of your nipples into his mouth without warning. You gasp, hand covering your mouth as you feel him smile against your chest.

The air shifts again. Hotter, heavier—there’s a sudden carnality to the way he’s touching you. Mouth latched onto your nipples tenderly, grazing them lightly with the blunt end of his incisors like he can guess everything you like. His mouth on your chest is overwhelming. It baffles you that something can feel that good. Each time you think you can’t be surprised any more, Caleb makes good on making you feel better and you’re forced to eat your words.

Between your legs is throbbing hard. Whatever Caleb can’t fit in his mouth, he teases with the rough pads of his fingers - brushing and squeezing and twisting. Alternating as to make sure nothing goes neglected. Your hips cant against air, frustrated by lack of friction. Caleb is relentless, but does not make any move to sate your growing desires.

“Caleb,”

His eyes are washed over as he looks up. A look on his face you don’t know, have never seen until now. His voice is low in the back of his throat, strong hands cupping your chest and squeezing.

“‘Mm?”

A sibling bond like this, you think, is to blame for understanding so quickly what Caleb wants. Something you know innately, deep in your subconscious that makes your cheeks grow hot. A hot, prickly feeling goes down your back and all your clothes suddenly feel restrictive. He sits and remains steadfast, but you can sense it too.

It feels good but something is missing. Something is off.

Despite his restless desire, he’s taunting you. Goading you. You groan and Caleb laughs.

“Don’t—Caleb. Please,”

“Did you want something?”

Another groan leaves your lips as his smile remains unfaltering.

“You promised you were gonna make it feel better,” You say, so petulant and childish to your own ears you wince.

Somewhat predictably, this works on Caleb right away. Overwhelming lust tucked carefully behind a thoughtful smile. “I did, huh?”

“Don’t be a jerk,” You reply. He laughs but not for long.

He has something flash on his face at your reply. You just kind of know. “Sorry, sorry,”

“Stop holding back.”

He looks surprised. “I’m not—”

You nudge him with your knee. “You are. You think I don’t know you? Didn’t you say you wanted me to see you differently? Stop acting like a cool older brother. It’s annoying,”

His expression is one of awe and amusement. It’s not quite that he’s irritated, but you can sense that you just barely get under his skin with the implication.

“Weren’t you the one who was crying about not wanting anything to change? Now you’re chiding me? You were acting so spoiled just a minute ago to get your way and now you’re saying you don’t want me acting like your big brother, hm?”

Your eyes widen at the change in character. It still feels like Caleb, but it’s so intense. Too sincere to be completely playful. A strange mix of lust, nerves and fear wash over you. “Just—”

He pushes himself back up to hover over you, swift as a hand cups your jaw, forcing your gaze up. Pure arousal shoots through your veins, almost unwittingly, as you catch sight of Caleb’s gaze. An vengeful quality to it.

“Meimei,” He says, and your breath hitches. Your head is clouded with the immoral lust of hearing it this way. “Your older brother didn’t teach you how to lie, right? If you want something, say it with your mouth. Say it clearly,”

A flush crawls onto your face, eyes darting away. Caleb allows you this much mercy. To let you look away feels kind.

It’s an uncomfortable sort of feeling. To acknowledge what desire, what reaction you’re seeking. It’s unfair, and childish - since Caleb has done nothing but love you from the very moment you met him. Kind, gentle, considerate—you love him so deeply that it hurts to breathe just thinking about all you’ve experienced.

Something about what you’re asking of him is ugly. Born of selfishness, the desire to have all of him, too.

“Ugh, just—stop saying you want me and show me,” You say, full of distress.

You see it in his eyes when something clicks.

And then, with a sudden force, he kisses you. It’s rougher than the ones previous, deeper, greedier. What you want. You moan into his mouth as Caleb licks at your lips, pulling away to kiss your cheek. Sweet as always.

“Don’t regret it,”

The change is immediate. In a way, he’s still just answering to your desires - but you don’t dislike this part of him. Your heart rate kicks up as Caleb strips you of your shirt completely before settling himself back down to where he started.

From just beneath your breasts, all the way down the place of your belly and navel - Caleb places hot, wet kisses to your skin. No longer languid but hurried, long fingers curling into the very edge of your waistband as he drops down further and further before settling between your thighs. He glances up at you when he begins to pull down your shorts but doesn’t ask you for permission and it makes you feel a strange thrill when he doesn’t.

Caleb tugs your shorts off and helps you wriggle out of them in one go - an audible groan escaping his mouth. Plain, tattered cotton panties hug your hips as you lay with your legs up. He nudges your thighs open as you place your feet flat on the bed. With your legs spread, your clothed cunt is readily visible.

He lets out a soft breath. When you look down, your eyes meeting—there’s something almost animalistic to him. A completely and utterly ruined expression, blush dusting across his nose and cheekbones.

“I want to make you feel as good as you can, okay?” Caleb says breathlessly.

He brings his mouth to your inner thigh, closer to your knee and places a sweet kiss on the skin. Both of his hands are gripping hard onto your hips, as he breathes in the scent over and over. It sets your body alight to see it in glimpses. His brow is furrowed as he sucks and bites sloppy hickies into the soft fat of your thighs - working his way up slowly. When he finds you properly marked on one leg, he repeats it on the other.

You can feel the ache of fresh bruises. A sensation that coaxes a completely new wave of arousal straight from the deepest depths of your body. An impossible wetness soaking the paper-thin cotton, sliding down the curve of your ass from how keyed up the touch makes you.

It’s less that he’s satisfied in his markings with you, more that his desire for you grows too heavy. Caleb stares at your pussy with eyes of pure, unmistakable reverence.

You have never been able to picture another human being looking at you the way he does.

So much ardor. So much bone-deep, blood-red voracity in a single gaze. The shakiness of his breathing, the harsh grip of his hands, that unsteady look in his eyes as his nose and mouth hover over the soaked panties over your pussy. As if you can see the words repeating in his mind: want, want, want. Nothing more certain.

Your whole body wracks with a shiver. You whimper with your hands fisted at your sides in anticipation.

A startled gasp escapes you as Caleb doesn’t do anything but press his nose firm to your pussy and breathe. Deep and unrepentant like he’s trying to memorize the scent of you, use it to track you like a bloodhound. Embarrassed warmth floods your system and you squirm in protest of his actions.

But you’re trapped there. Completely and utterly, rendered helpless by his gri. His eyes flicker up unfocused but quickly go back to being closed. It’s all the communication you need to know he intends to do exactly as you’ve begged him to do. To expose the extent of his unsavory appetite. Inhaling the scent of sweat and skin, of a day of lounging and leaving your pussy completely confined.

He looks so madly-in-love in the moment you find it hard to breathe even a word of protest. Your clit throbs unhelpfully in response.

Your mouth falls open in a silent scream when Caleb finally, finally drags his tongue over the seam of your panties. He doesn’t pull them off—instead sucking the wetness from the material. Puffy clit helplessly pulled into the force of it while trapped under your panties, you buck your hip up against his tongue. Caleb obliges you. He points the tip of his tongue and slides it over the small bud through the cotton - completely stiffened from arousal. You shake at the touch, the wet promise of pleasure. How the drenched fabric of your panties gives the most gratifying, mind-numbing friction. You moan loud. You can’t help the sound that leaves you when he licks your pussy.

You’ve never felt anything like it before. It’s the first time you’ve ever felt this way, but you’re under the impression that most people will never know a pleasure like this in their life.

When your underwear is completely saturated with spit - only then does Caleb let off from you. Without a single word of warning, he tugs away the material. Exposing your pussy, bare and throbbing - he blows warm air onto your clit and watches as you squirm.

Another beat of admiring before his mouth latches onto your pussy again. Panties tugged away haphazardly, his tongue sliding from wet hole all through the seam, the soft folds of your pussy - settling at your clit. He licks experimentally, wading through your moans. When his tongue tastes your clit just the right way, you practically scream.

With newfound dedication, he commits to worshipping your pussy with his mouth.

It’s humiliating. Purely euphoric and undeniably stimulating, boneless as Caleb’s tongue laps desperately at your clit. His eyes shut, completely blissful - brows furrowed and moaning into you. He eats you out like it’s what he’s wanted to do his entire life and this is the last opportunity he’ll have to make good on his dreams.

The corrupted thought lights fire under your body anew. To think of Caleb lusting for you when he shouldn’t be. Like a forbidden fruit, ripe and sweet and nearly his—nearly within his grasp but always just barely slipping between his fingers. Your kind, sweet, considerate older brother thinking of ruining your mind and body. The idea he’d been torturing himself over it makes you sad but more than that it incites impossible longing. You want him to want you even more than he does now.

You can feel your body ache for it for the first time. Like a reply to his feelings, you think of how good it will feel when Caleb finally fucks you. Takes you, plucks you from vine and claims you all for himself.

But the act of him tasting you like this is more than good. The tender bundle of nerves is throbbing hard against the wet flick of his tongue - hips rutting to meet the perfect motion of his mouth. Something in your belly warms. Sweetens your senses and melts you from the inside like crystalized honey coming to liquid sugar over a flame. Your mind has melted away so utterly you can’t do anything but reach your fingers through his hair and chant his name.

“Caleb,” Your voice is unfamiliar to you. Worked up beyond any rational understanding.. “Caleb, Caleb, Caleb.”

Closer and closer, Caleb remains completely persistent in his efforts. Licks your clit and laps up all the arousal that spills - silky fluid like ambrosia to the unending heat of his mouth.

The knot tangled inside of your body unravels with an alarming speed. Makes your eyes go wide before you shut them again hard, your spine arching off the bed - every muscle in your body going unbearably tense as Caleb’s tongue toys with your clit. The filthy sound of licking making your ears ring.

Your body goes taut. It feels like a calamity. A pure rapture, like God himself is bringing pleasure. The kind that can only be derived from being your maker. Caleb has that in common with him, you think.

Your voice rings loud, hands fisted in his hair. You’re cumming hard, and fast, and there’s white behind your eye-lids. Smatterings of bright stars as you press them shut.

You cum so hard you can’t breathe. For a brief moment you’re weightless before it all comes crashing down in one swift go. Caleb eats you out through it relentlessly and your voice breaks on the syllables of his name - asking for mercy and receiving none. It feels so good it terrifies you. Your body is trembling, cunt spasming around his tongue as Caleb continues his assault.

You feel something wet rush out of you but Caleb is undeterred. He drinks it all down, every last drop until he’s satiated at least some of his endless, terrifying thirst.

When he pulls away from your pussy, his mouth is soaked in saliva and your cum. He looked the most satisfied you’ve ever seen him in your life. You’ve never been so scared of someone while being so unbearably aroused in the same breath.

“You taste so fucking good. Better than I dreamed in my entire life. Need to taste it again. I almost don’t want to do anything else.” He laughs breathlessly. “Almost.”

“Caleb,” You whimper. completely helpless as you try to catch your breath. “Fuck, ‘m still cumming,”

“Gonna make you cum over and over and over.” Caleb says cheery. “Promise,”

After cumming the first time, your body's sensitivity increases tenfold. Where you think it’ll cool off the glaring heat, melting you down to your core - all it does is turn it higher, make the feeling more tangible. Caleb’s offer to make you cum again excites you more than it scares you. You stare at him when he comes up for air.

“Kiss?”

“Even after all that?”

You nod sheepishly.

“Jeez. How cute can someone be?”

He comes up for a kiss, surprised when you lick into his mouth. You like tasting yourself on him, tongue dipping in for more. Caleb smiles at your enthusiasm, eyes lidded when he pulls away.

“Open your mouth,”

You give him a blank stare but do as he says. He puts a hand on your throat, tipping your head back before you feel something warm hit your tongue. Your eyes meet Caleb’s in surprise, instinctively swallowing the spit as it slides down your throat. Caleb meets you with an eager kiss, a gentle affection in his voice. “Good girl.”

Something washes over you hearing the praise. A soft moan into his mouth that leaves Caleb with raised brows. “You like hearin’ you’re my good girl, huh?”

Your face feels hot. “...Maybe,”

“Still so bad at lying, pipsqueak. Some things never change,”

The affection in his voice makes you forgive him. You know the tone, the sound—the lilting coo of your older brother's voice when he’s teasing you. It’s a way of speaking you could recognize in a heartbeat, the kind of voice that you’re anxious without. It shouldn’t soothe you in this context, shouldn’t make your pussy feel so achy when you know exactly how he’s addressing you.

Caleb kisses down the length of your body again. Neck to navel until he settles down between your thighs. You can’t mask your surprise. Caleb looks up at you from between your legs.

“What? You thought one time would be enough for me?”

Truthfully, yes. You’re a little startled at the thought he’s going to do it again. Make you feel all of that again. An anticipatory shiver makes you squirm but Caleb holds you in place. He presses another kiss to your clit. “One time doesn’t even come close to being enough.”

True to his word, Caleb starts the process all over again.

The second time around, he doesn’t let himself up to breathe. You’re locked in place as his increased familiarity with your body has him driving you over the edge even faster. Firm grip on your thighs, face buried between your legs - he laps at your clit for what feels like an endless amount of time. The pleasant warmth of his mouth paired with the focused, precise licks on your sweet spot make your body wrack with an impossible pleasure. It’s gentle enough to not be completely overstimluating - but his endurance, his persistence in doing it makes your experience a new high. A trembling mess of limbs and quiet, desperate pleas. Too much, too fast - toes curled as he hoists your legs over his shoulders to give him full access. Clit pulsating, stiff under his tongue with his nose bumping occasionally.

It feels so good you’re almost content to let him stay there. Let your mind wash away and succumb to the gluttony tying you to the bed. You cum twice again from the pressure - your body experiencing each one longer. Unable to withstand it, your hands clenched tight trying to level yourself with the feeling. A pleasure you’ve never experienced, the kind you doubt you’d be able to feel with someone else.

Caleb has always been like this in that respect. Your older brother who set the standard for every other man you ever came across. You were always using him as the gold standard, comparing every man you’ve ever met to him. Especially ones who claimed to like you. What would your brother do, how would he act, how would he treat you. He’d never tell you if you were too much. Never call you spoiled even when you act it, embody it so why settle for less? Why want for something else? For someone else?

It’s not surprising that Caleb touches you with the same level of care he’s always given you. Even less surprising that your body longs for it so desperately.

Caleb is your big brother after all. He takes care of you like this. No one else gets to have it. It makes you entitled, moody, and emotional just to think of him acting this way with someone who isn’t you.

Yearning and deep affection well up inside of you as these things cross your mind. Whisper to your longing as a deep, endless need overwhelms your mind. Your third orgasm steals the breath out of your lungs. A shockwave of emotions washes over you, as you tug at his hair. You let out a throaty whine.

“Caleb,” You whimper, pulling him off. “Caleb,”

Attuned to your emotions, Caleb is quick to pull away when he hears the audible distress. He pulls away from you, worried. “Shhh, hey. It’s okay, I’m here. Did you want to stop?”

You shake your head rapidly. Caleb gives you a small smile. “Just being a crybaby, then?”

The truth is, yes, just a little. You can’t voice this to Caleb so you instead give him some unknowable, unreadable look. He reads it almost instantly, shifting himself to hug you tight. Without any words at all, like he knows every single thought that passes through your mind. You wrap your arms around him and nudge your nose against his neck. He smells familiar.

“This what you wanted?”

You nod against him. Caleb’s heartbeat is steady in a way that brings you bone deep comfort.

“Be more pampered with me. More selfish, more demanding, more spoiled. Gege will do anything for you, so don’t hesitate.”

Hearing him refer to himself that way makes your stomach flip. You nuzzle yourself deeper into him, aroused by the sound of his laughter - playful but smug. You speak against his chest, words muffled.

“Want it inside right now,”

His breath hitches immediately. “Yeah?”

Another nod. You pull away to look him in the eyes when you ask. You know how to beg Caleb for something. You’ve been doing it your whole life, and right now is the most sincere you’ve ever been. Doe-eyed and full lips, all covetous and coy the word falls from your mouth with ease.

“Please,”

It has the exact impact on him you want it to have. Groaning, the outline of his cock twitching with a shameful lust, almost blanking out at the thought. He scrubs a hand over his face.

“You’re gonna kill me,”

“Please,” You repeat. Caleb kisses you as if to stop you from saying it again.

“I have to stretch you out on my fingers. It’ll hurt otherwise,” You open your mouth but Caleb cuts you off. “Don’t say it’s fine.”

“Caleb,” You whine and he laughs sympathetically.

“Be a good girl,” He placates, and it works on you just as maddeningly as your begging does on him. “Hm? For me?”

You melt. How embarrassing.”...Fine,”

He coos at you lovingly and you make no effort to deflect. You can’t. Your usual fire and wit, your banter is dissipated. Brain thoroughly undone from so many orgasms and the deep, aching want in your cunt - so apparent it makes you want to sob. A desperation to be full that you didn’t fathom existing in such a bodily way, something you thought only existed in porn.

Sensing how strung out you are, Caleb changes positions again. Instead of laying between your legs, he curls up besides you. He turns on his side, sliding an arm underneath and hugs your body close to him. Like he’s cradling you. Your legs slot together, one of yours between both of his - your other leg on the outside. Caleb hikes your thigh up - high enough to have your legs spread. The arm not supporting your back is supporting you, his forearm underneath your thigh.

At this angle, you’re face to face. Caleb can see you clearly as he cradles you in his arms. A large hand squeezes your ass before reaching around - teasing your clit with long fingers.

You feel…small like this. It’s the way you’re being held. The feeling of Caleb’s arm under your back, sliding up to hold your neck.

His fingers are exceptionally long. Slender and thin, with thick veins from wrist to pinky, more appearing less visibly to the rest. His palms are big- making up the bulk of their size. You feel yourself fixating on them in their movements.

On the calluses on them from handling guns, to the few thin scars from your childhood that have remained on his body into adulthood - now scarred. The way his fingers caress you, stroke your clit slowly. He kisses you again with a silent question like: you like this, right?

The eagerness of your tongue into his mouth answers it for him, a puppy keen on greeting it’s owner. Caleb laughs sweet into your mouth, encouraging you with all the kindness he has in him. His fingers slides through your slick folds impressed until he reaches low enough to be at your hole.

You’ve put your own fingers in there before. You think you can handle someone elses.

You find out fast that you can’t.

Caleb’s fingers are long. They’re thicker than yours, and longer than yours - and just the first one gives you a stretch you're not expecting. You shudder, a noisy breath. It’s an intrusion, a noticeable one. Caleb is careful, though. It’s easy for him to push the digit it when you’re so wet inside. A soft squelching noise makes your skin burn hot but Caleb goes on undisturbed.

His finger reaches deep. He fucks it in so slowly and so carefully but it feels like it never ends. All the down to the knuckle with just the one, you find yourself shuddering. Caleb is quiet, but you can hear the labor in his breaths. Feel his cock pressed against your inner thigh and twitch.

You moan his name instinctually - not for any particular reason and he says nothing. Just thrusts his finger in and out. How can something feel so different on the basis it’s someone else? You can’t hold still, rocking your hips against the sensation. Caleb groans unabashed.

“You want it so bad, huh?” He says, half-delirious and so pleasantly smug. You nod immediately.

“A little more. Hang in there, okay?”

Okay, you think. You’d do whatever it takes in the moment for Caleb to fuck you more quickly so you bite in the side of your cheek and try not beg stupidly each time he repeats the process. Another finger, longer than the last - stretching out, reaching deeper than anything has ever gone in your life, thrusting until your pussy takes it. It surprises you to know just how much you can take when you take three and you really feel it. How soft it is inside.

“Enough,” You whisper hoarsely.

Caleb doesn’t heed your request. Another finger goes in. It takes four for him to finally feel like it’s enough. Four fingers stroking from the inside out, an almost brutal precision curling against your g-spot. Not enough to cum, just enough to get so wet he can’t pull his fingers out without the filthiest noise you’ve ever had to follow it.

Completely out of your mind, you grab onto him weakly. Every ounce of shame and sense gone.

“Caleb,” Your voice is a pant. “Fuck me. Please, please—just do it,”

His own voice is no better than yours. “Gotta grab a condom from my—”

Your voice is vicious. Like you’re lashing out at him. “No. Fuck me.”

Caleb is quieted by it. Unsure of how to react. “Don’t be like that, baby.”

A reprimand. Soft as ever. Tears well up in your eyes immediately. “Please hurry,”

“We have to use a condom next time, okay?”

You hear nothing that comes out of his mouth except the words next time, and nod.

He gives in. You’re thankful he always does. You’re at your wits end and you don’t know if your body can handle any more waiting. Not getting what you want with Caleb unsettles and upsets you. Especially this strung out.

Caleb rolls onto your back again after he pulls his fingers out. You whine at the loss, unwittingly falling onto your back with both legs open. Presenting yourself in some impossibly obedient way that you can’t catch quick enough to stop, knees bent and up in the air. Waiting impatiently for Caleb to follow.

He follows suit moments later. His hand resting on your knees to spread your legs for him, taking in an eyeful of you as he stands on his own.

At the angle you’re laying and with nothing to distract your senses - you can see Caleb in full shape. Your body responds in kind for you, throbbing between your legs as you cut his figure. Tall and strong and broad, visible muscles and deltas. There are veins above the lowcut of his waistband, thick and tempting. A little lower than that - a patch of dark hair that leads to…

Your throat feels dry seeing Caleb’s cock standing to attention, just underneath his sweatpants. Eyes blinking rapidly trying to make sense of it. How it strains, a wet patch where it ends. Your breathing slows significantly. Your mouth watering, mind fizzling like a bottle of champagne. The ache in you urges deeper, hand going between your legs to soothe it. Or maybe welcome what's coming.

Caleb is breathless. Amusement undercut by lasciviousness. “Enjoying the view?”

You nod stupidly. Caleb grins a little. Makes a show of hooking his thumb into the top of his sweats and tugging all the way down. A thick trail of hair and the smooth, uncut outline of his cock has you gasping. When he tugs his pants all the way pas his thigh, you feel completely speechless.

He’s huge. Utterly. Too heavy to stand on its own, uncut, veiny. You blink in disbelief, like everything in the room has paused. It’s burly. Ridiculous. Thick enough to look like someone’s forearm. Pearls of pre-cum dribble of out of the tip, pulled back to be revealed. A ruddy reddish brown and angry. It’s darker then the rest, throbbing in a way that looks almost painful. It’s not the first time you’ve seen it but that was on accident in a bath before it was—

You stop your train of thought and just stare for an unknown amount of time.

He looks sheepish. The tips of his ears crimson red, all the way down to his chest. You make an unintelligible noise at the sudden change in attitude and also at everything else.

A sensible person would feel fear. Not your strong suit. You don’t know if it’s bravery or lust that inspires the reaction in your body. You just know you want him to fuck you so bad you might jump on him to get it.

“We don’t have to get in today, princess. We’ve got time to—”

“If you try to deter me one more time I’m going to run away from home,”

Caleb closes his mouth. He just mumbles something, but obliges you right after.

In what can only be considered a miracle, Caleb finally settles between your legs. His hands are on top of your thighs as he taps his tip against your clit, rubbing the pre-cum into the mess, The feeling of skin on skin elicits a gasp out of you both. His voice is shaky.

“Might not last,” He says hoarsely

“S’fine.” You put a hand between your legs and spread your pussy open for him a little wider. A move from porn that works on him instantly. He swears hard under his breath, not giving himself a chance to indulge in the feeling long.

Tip nudging through slick folds—Caleb finally, finally slides in.

Another synchronised moan, sweat breaks out onto your skin as you feel the thick tip of Caleb’s cock finally come through. You feel full. It’s completely different from four fingers, more invasive on your body than ever. .

It elicits a chain reaction. You watch Caleb above you, death grip on your hips trying to keep his composure and not fuck a hole through you. A horrible part of you almost wants him too, even knowing you absolutely wouldn’t be able to take it.

You’re trembling. It feels ridiculous but you’re so worked up that -

“Gonna c-cum,”

Caleb’s eyes blow wide. “From—fuck. That ain’t fair, you can’t,”

You buck your hips up and groan. He’s stretching you out so fucking good. One more time and it’ll hit that spot and it’ll feel so perfect, so right. You need it. Caleb shakes over you.

“Mercy,” He says, not sober enough to laugh. You’re going to lose your mind soon. Maybe you already have.

“I-s it all in?”

“Half,” Caleb grunts. You moan at the thought.

“Fuck me. Shit, please,” Your voice breaks high on the last syllable. Caleb looks like he wants to protest, wants to tell you to take it slow. But you can see it in his face that he’s reached his limits. Or maybe he reached them a long time ago and he’s already far gone.

But he listens. Your jaw goes slack and he pushes in. Inch by tortuous inch until you feel him bottom out. Feel his hips on the back of your thighs. His cock is throbbing inside of you, silken walls clinging onto the shape like you’re being pried open. It doesn’t take anything. He shifts as he bottoms out and your voice comes out in garbled, unintelligible noise.

“O-oh, ‘m cumming, cumming, ngh,” Your back arches up that leaves your mind blank. Completely white out, nothing but static as you cum again. Cum around the hard, intrusive length of your older brothers cock - bullying into your cervix until it’s wet and pliable and fuckable for him. Stretching out like it’s his to shape and mould. You can feel it in your body, each vein and each curve. Caleb lets out a whistle. Sharp and so fucking dark, it exicites you helplessly.

“She’s clingy just like you,” He says, fond but sneering.

Your head spins when it dawns on you on what he’s saying.

“Caleb—”

“I feel conflicted. Are you naturally this gifted?” He laughs, folding over you. Overtaken by something. Bending you under his weight. “Or is it because it’s mine that you’re making it so easy?”

“I was worried, you know,” He pulls out. The disappointment and gaping emptiness are brief. You hear the way your body refuses him pulling out. “Worried about how such a tight hole would fit something so big. Worried about your body, but you’re taking me in so fucking well. So perfect,”

You’re panting. It feels so good. Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth, limp under the weight of it as Caleb gives you a slow few thrusts to get you used to the size. But you’re so stretched and sensitive it just feels fucking incredible from the jump.

“Be a good girl and let me in.” You clench down on him. He grins to himself. “That’s it,”

He bottoms out again. Slams hips and fucks you in one swift, unforgiving motion. Groaning, he puts his hands up under your knees, driving his dick into you with animalistic need.

“Your pussy feels so fucking good. Too good. I’m never gonna be able to think about anything else. It’s not like I was before but you’re-” Out, back in. You haven’t made a single coherent sound. “You’re just too good. It’s warm and wet and still so tight, how are you still so tight, huh? It’s like you don’t want me to leave.”

For a brief moment, the two of you make eye contact. The vivid color of his eyes burns bright, pins you underneath the weight of his gaze. It goes straight to your stomach, making it flip in one smooth go.

“Tell me it’s okay,” Caleb says, barely restraining himself.

You look up at him confused. He suddenly looks like he’s at his wits end.

“Tell me it’s okay to fuck you hard,”

Like a woman possessed, you reach your arms around to squeeze his back and biceps. You put your mouth close to his ear as you bring him down towards you.

“Gege,” He twitches inside of you. “Fuck me as hard as you can,”

You underestimate just what effect it’ll have on you. On him. As quick as he possibly can, he pushes his hands under your knees and folds you into a mating press so deep it makes you scream. He’s pistoning you instantly, pounding into your pussy like he owns. Your nails dig into the muscles of his shoulders without realizing.

“I love you,” are the only words that come out of his mouth. It has you clenching down even harder. “Gege loves you more than anyone else in the world, okay? More than anyone.”

Just like that, Caleb fucks you. Given up on being gentle but still trying to make you feel good, trying to touch somewhere no one ever will again - he folds you up under the weight of his body and fucks you with relentless stamina. Your mind is gone. His cock is fat and heavy inside of you, splits your pussy open as the tip knocks against your g-spot with each thrust. His balls smack against your ass on each go.

It’s too much. For your brain, for your body, for your insides - getting permanently rearranged like he’s crushing your womb. A feeling like it should be painful, but it isn’t because he’s got you so good and open. This a reward for you both. For his patience. Every thought wrung from your head, impressed by your body’s own avarice for cock. Addicted to the feeling of getting strethed, gaped completely open. It feels like you’re cumming without a clear end.

Wanting Caleb to cum inside of you is a distant thought. Pleasant like a lullaby as your body yearns for it. Another sharp orgasm builds. It builds and builds and builds - and you know’re going to be fucked through it again.

But this time Caleb is close. Right alongside you. Sweating and panting in your ear as he pounds into your frenzied.

His voice comes out like a whine and it turns you on even more. You say it before he can think of pulling out, tightening your legs around his waist.

“Cum in me,”

Caleb grinds himself deeper. “Gonna cum in you, baby. I love you, I love you—fuck!”

Pure euphoria floods your entire nervous system as Caleb bottoms out one last time. His cum fills your pussy in thick, long spurts. It feels hot as it takes, makes you shiver with how it feels. Disappointed at the idea it’ll flood back out.

Caleb, still balls deep - continues suddenly. Where you think he’s gonna pull out, he doesn’t. Instead he fucks you again, this time more clear-headed as he rubs your clit - a hand between your bodies. His voice is shot.

“Sorry. Don’t wanna be selfish. One more nice and easy, then we’ll clean up?”

You have no room to protest. After all, Caleb is nothing but relentless when it comes to spoiling you. You let him fuck another orgasm out of you until you’ve got nothing left to give.

He collapses on top of you after your pussy milks what's left of him

You kiss when he does, sweaty and tired. You look at his blissed out face and kiss his nose with affection.

“I love you too, Gege.”

He pauses then laughs. Brightly. Hopelessly.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,”

You aren’t sure when exactly you pass out.

You remember lingering with Caleb in his bed before limping into the bathroom. And a bath too, if your memory serves you right. You must’ve fallen asleep in the tub with Caleb, the broad warmth of his chest lulling you right to sleep. You’ve got good endurance from being a hunter, but you’re tuckered out just thinking about earlier.

Also a little embarrassed.

You wake on the couch of the living room. Cleaned, changed, and tucked into with a blanket over you. There’s a scent and the quiet sizzle of a pan. Your limbs feel heavy as you pick your head up. It’s still dark out but it seems like morning.

You rub your eyes as you swing your legs over and place them on the floor.

Standing to your feet, you find slippers at the end of the couch and feel your heart swell ten sizes. You put them on before padding into the kitchen.

Caleb is at the stove like you thought he’d be. You flush seeing his back covered in scratches and a bite or two - none you remember leaving. You know your body is in the same state if not worse.

You walk up to him and wrap your arms around his middle, pressing your face against his broad back. Your voice is small, embarrassed. Everything feels brand-new.

“G’morning,”

Caleb turns the heat down and puts the spatula on the counter top, turning to face you. He looks down at you with a boyish grin. Unfairly handsome, making you pout.

“Morning, sleepyhead. Feel okay?”

You tuck your face into his chest and nod. “Just a little tired. I don’t hurt or anything.”

“That’s good, then,”

You make a little mm sound and stay there for a while. Caleb is content to hug you until you pull away.

“Caleb?”

“Hm?”

Your face feels warm. “...Kiss?”

He stops, then beams. Dips his head down to catch your lips in a kiss that feels romantic and practiced, but doesn’t make you feel strange in a bad way. You’ve never had a boyfriend, not a real one. Does everyone feel butterflies like this?

Maybe there’s something wrong with you. He pulls away and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“You’re less moody than you usually are when you wake up,” Caleb teases. “Good to know. An effective way to deal with your attitude is always welcome.”

You frown at him, feeling furious for more reason than embarrassment. It’s really unfair how flirtatious he is. “Shut up,”

Subconsciously, your hands are fisted as you cling to Caleb’s chest. With no shirt to hold onto you, your muscle memory finds it the most steady. They’re clenched hard from embarrassment and a flood of other feelings you need soothed.

Caleb grabs your hand and unfurls them for you. Strong, warm, big hands grasp yours in their palm and open them both softly - fingers interlocking until you’re no longer so tense. Just melted away.

“I’m right here,” He says. A wave of emotions passes over you.

You hold his hand and squeeze it. Once, twice - it has a steadiness the grip of fabric doesn’t.

You smile to yourself. Helplessly happy. Overwhelmed with pure, unrelenting love.

“Yeah,” You say, more to yourself than anyone else. “You are,”

#caleb x reader #love and deepspace x reader #caleb smut #love and deepspace smut #lads x reader #lads smut #writing tag #psuedocest cw #incest cw #this is super vanilla. but of course there is incest sdkjfsd

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enhaflixer · 3 months ago

Text

Touché - DATING YOU TO DISTRACT YOU BUT GETS DISTRACTED FIRST

Academic Rival!Jake x f!Reader (Smut, Crack, Fluff) MDNI 18+ ENHA HARD HOURS

Jake Sim has one job—beat you in the race for the Harrison Fellowship. His strategy? Get close. Get under your skin. Get you too distracted to focus. His method? Kissing you stupid. Pressing you against walls. Finding out exactly how far he can push before you snap. The problem? You like to push back. Now, between tangled sheets, heated arguments, and “just one more time” turning into every damn night, Jake’s got a new problem. He’s not thinking about winning anymore. He’s thinking about you. 💔 “This was supposed to be a game. So why do I feel like I’m the one getting played?”

You drum your fingers against the desk, watching Professor Martinez pace at the front of the lecture hall. The midterm papers are stacked neatly in his arms, and you can practically feel the anxiety radiating off the two hundred students packed into the room.

But you're not anxious. Not really.

You know exactly what score awaits you—the same score you've received on every major assessment since freshman year: the highest in the class.

Your eyes drift across the lecture hall to where Jake Sim sits, surrounded by his usual entourage. Even now, minutes before receiving a grade that could make or break their GPA, they're laughing at something he's said. The sound of his rich laughter carries across the room, drawing more than a few admiring glances.

Jake Sim. Campus golden boy. The kind of person who walks into a room and immediately owns it. The kind of student professors mention in other classes. The kind of face that appears on university brochures—which it literally does, as he's been the unofficial "face" of the university's marketing materials since sophomore year.

He's also the only person who's ever come close to beating your scores.

"Before I hand these back," Professor Martinez says, silencing the murmurs, "I want to discuss the grade distribution."

He clicks to display a graph on the projector screen. The curve looks normal enough, with a significant peak around the B-range.

"As you can see, the class average was 78.4," he continues. "We had a standard deviation of approximately 12 points. However—" he pauses, adjusting his glasses, "—we also had two outliers."

The next slide shows the same curve with two dots far to the right of the main distribution. Your throat tightens with a familiar tension.

Jake's eyes meet yours across the lecture hall. His expression is casual, but you recognize the intensity in his gaze. This is what it's always been like between you two: a silent acknowledgment of the competition that's defined your college experience.

"Our top two scores," Professor Martinez announces, "were separated by only half a point."

The room stills. This is closer than usual.

You see Jake sit up straighter, his perfectly coiffed hair catching the light as he leans forward. Even from across the room, you can see the flash of white teeth as he grins confidently. His friends nudge him, already assuming victory.

"Mr. Sim scored an impressive 98.2," Professor Martinez says, and a ripple of impressed murmurs spreads through the lecture hall.

Jake's golden-boy smile widens as he accepts congratulatory shoulder pats from his friends. He hasn't looked at you yet, clearly believing he's finally done it—finally beaten you.

"And Ms. L/N—" Professor Martinez pauses, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips, "—scored a 98.7."

The half-point difference might as well be a chasm.

Jake's smile freezes in place, his dark eyes immediately seeking yours as the realization hits him. He's lost. Again. By the slimmest of margins.

You allow yourself a small, satisfied smile before looking down at your notebook, pretending to be humble about your victory. But inside, you're savoring the moment. It never gets old, watching the golden boy settle for silver.

After class, you take your time gathering your materials, accepting quiet congratulations from a few classmates. Unlike Jake, you don't have an entourage. You have acquaintances, study partners occasionally, but your focus has always been on achievement rather than popularity.

As you make your way up the steps of the lecture hall, you sense someone behind you. You don't need to turn to know who it is—you can tell from the expensive cologne and the sudden hushed whispers of nearby students watching the university's academic rivals in proximity.

"Congratulations," Jake says, falling into step beside you as you exit into the hallway. His voice carries none of the warmth it does when he's with his friends. "Half a point. Must be nice."

"It is," you reply coolly, clutching your midterm paper with its red 98.7% circled at the top. "Maybe next time."

Jake stops walking, forcing you to stop too unless you want to seem like you're fleeing. You turn to face him, noting the way his dark hair falls perfectly across his forehead despite the late afternoon humidity that has your own hair frizzing at the edges.

"There's always the final," he says, his voice lowering into something almost like a threat. "And the Harrison Fellowship application is due next month. Midterms are just one battle."

You raise an eyebrow. "A battle you lost."

Something flashes in his eyes—not anger exactly, but frustration mingled with something else. Challenge, perhaps. Determination.

"This isn't over," he says, his voice carrying just enough for a few passing students to slow down, sensing drama between the two top students.

"Never said it was," you reply with a sweet smile, hugging your perfect test paper to your chest.

Jake maintains eye contact for a moment longer than comfortable, then breaks into the easy, charismatic smile that's plastered across half the campus publications. The sudden shift is disorienting, his intensity disappearing behind his golden-boy mask so quickly you almost doubt it was ever there.

"See you in Advanced Statistical Methods tomorrow," he says cheerfully, as if your competition is just friendly banter. "Front row as usual?"

"Where else?" you respond, puzzled by his sudden change in demeanor.

He winks—actually winks—before turning to join his waiting friends, who immediately surround him like a protective bubble of popularity. You watch him go, telling yourself the flutter in your stomach is just the satisfaction of victory, not a reaction to those dark eyes or that practiced wink.

One of Jake's friends says something that makes the whole group laugh, and you catch Jake glancing back at you before joining in. Something about his expression makes you uneasy, like he's not quite done with this interaction.

You shake off the feeling and head toward the library. The Harrison Fellowship application won't write itself, and you'll need to maintain your perfect GPA if you want to beat Jake Sim for that too.

What you don't realize, as you push through the heavy library doors, is that Jake is watching you go, his mind already formulating a plan that has nothing to do with studying—and everything to do with making sure you don't beat him again.

Jake closes his apartment door behind him and leans against it, loosening his tie with a frustrated jerk. The congratulatory words from his friends still ring hollow in his ears. Second place. Again.

"Damn it," he mutters, tossing his backpack onto the couch. His roommate looks up from his laptop, eyebrows raised.

"Let me guess. You didn't beat her again?"

Jake shoots him a glare that would silence anyone else, but Ethan has been his best friend since orientation week. He's immune.

"Half a point," Jake says, collapsing into an armchair. "Half a freaking point."

Ethan whistles. "That's close, though. Closest you've gotten."

"Close doesn't get me the Harrison Fellowship," Jake snaps, running his hands through his perfectly styled hair, messing it up for the first time all day. "Close doesn't get me into Stanford. Close is just another word for failure."

"Dramatic much?" Ethan chuckles, turning back to his computer.

But Jake isn't listening anymore. He's staring at the ceiling, where he's pinned his vision board—Stanford acceptance letter (photoshopped, for now), Harrison Fellowship certificate (also photoshopped), summer internship offer from Goldman Sachs (real, but he turned it down for a research position), and a cutout from last semester's dean's list (where your name appeared just above his).

A slow smile spreads across his face as an idea forms.

"I need to change tactics," he says, sitting up straight.

Ethan glances over. "What do you mean?"

Jake jumps up and begins pacing, energy suddenly radiating from him. "I've been trying to beat her on a level playing field, but that's clearly not working."

"So what, you're going to cheat?" Ethan frowns.

"No, nothing like that," Jake says, waving his hand dismissively. "I'm going to... distract."

Ethan closes his laptop, now fully invested in the conversation. "Distract how?"

Jake's smile grows wider, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "I'm going to ask her out."

Ethan stares at him for a long moment before bursting into laughter. "You're joking."

"I'm completely serious," Jake says, grabbing his planner from his backpack and flipping it open. "Think about it—if she's spending time with me, that's less time studying. If I can get under her skin, disrupt that perfect focus..."

"That's cold, man," Ethan says, though he sounds impressed. "Even for you."

Jake shrugs, already jotting down ideas. "It's not personal. It's strategic."

"And what if she says no?" Ethan challenges.

Jake looks up, his signature confidence returning. He runs a hand through his hair, instantly restoring it to its usual perfection, and flashes the smile that got him voted "Most Likely to Succeed" three years running.

"No one says no to Jake Sim," he says with a wink.

Over the next hour, Jake crafts what he considers the perfect plan. He maps out your study schedule based on when he's seen you at the library. He notes your usual coffee spots, your preferred study locations, even which days you attend office hours. He's been your competition long enough to know your habits.

"Phase one: casual coffee," he mutters, writing it down. "Phase two: study dates. Phase three: actual dates."

Ethan watches with growing concern. "You know, most people just ask someone out because they like them."

"I do like her," Jake says absently, still planning. "I like beating her."

"You sound abusive."

"You know what I mean."

"And what happens when midterms are over? When you've gotten what you want?"

Jake looks up, genuinely confused. "Then I end it, obviously."

Ethan shakes his head. "You're going to fall on your face with this one, Sim."

"Watch me," Jake replies, holding up his planner with a flourish. Every hour of the next two weeks is now color-coded and annotated with his "Distraction Campaign."

He's never been more excited about a project in his life. The Harrison Fellowship is as good as his. And the look on your face when he finally beats you? He can already imagine it, can already feel the sweet satisfaction of victory.

What Jake doesn't account for is the possibility that his perfect plan might have one fatal flaw: himself.

The next morning, you're settling into your usual spot in the library's northeast corner—the one with the perfect combination of natural light and distance from foot traffic—when a coffee cup appears in your peripheral vision.

"Americano, extra shot, light room for cream. That's your usual, right?"

You look up to find Jake standing there, holding not one but two cups of coffee, dressed in a blue button-down that makes his eyes seem impossibly dark in comparison. His hair is artfully tousled, and he's wearing the smile that graces the university's promotional materials.

"How do you know my coffee order?" you ask, suspicious.

Jake shrugs, sliding the cup toward you. "I notice things."

"Like my study schedule?" You glance pointedly at your books, then back at him.

"Actually, that's why I'm here." Jake pulls out the chair across from you without waiting for an invitation. "I was thinking we could study together for the Advanced Statistical Methods final."

You nearly choke on your first sip of coffee. "Study together? You and me?"

"Why not? We're the top two students. It makes sense."

It makes absolutely no sense. You and Jake have been academic rivals since freshman year. Studying together would be like a gazelle inviting a cheetah to dinner.

"What's your angle?" you ask bluntly.

Jake places a hand over his heart, feigning offense. "Can't a guy just want to collaborate with a fellow academic?"

"A guy, yes. You? No."

His smile shifts into something more genuine—smaller but reaching his eyes. "Fair enough. But I'm serious. Professor Rivera's finals are legendary. Even I could use some help with time series analysis."

God, I'm good, Jake thinks, mentally congratulating himself. The humble approach is working perfectly. A little vulnerability, a touch of self-deprecation, and she's already softening. Time series analysis? Please. I memorized that chapter last week. But she doesn't need to know that. Step one of the Distraction Campaign is officially in motion.

Against your better judgment, you agree. You tell yourself it's because you can keep an eye on him this way, maybe even figure out his study techniques.

By the fourth study session, you're beginning to regret your decision. Not because Jake is unpleasant company—quite the opposite. The problem is that nothing gets done when he's around.

"So if we apply the Durbin-Watson statistic here—" you begin, only to be interrupted by Jake's phone buzzing for the twelfth time in twenty minutes.

"Sorry," he says, not sounding sorry at all as he checks the message. "Study group chat. They're trying to figure out where to meet later."

"You have another study group today?" you ask, exasperated.

"No, tonight's the Alpha Delta Pi mixer. I'm helping set up." He flashes that campus celebrity smile. "You should come."

"Pass," you say, trying to refocus on your notes. "Some of us prioritize academics."

"All work and no play," Jake tsks, leaning back in his chair. His foot nudges yours under the table—accidentally? You can't tell.

"Can we please get back to time series analysis?"

"Sure, sure," he concedes, but within minutes, he's tapping his pen rhythmically against the textbook, creating a distracting beat.

You grab the pen from his hand. "Jake. Focus."

He grins. "Sorry. Did you know you get this little crease between your eyebrows when you're concentrating? It's cute."

The comment throws you so completely that you lose your place in your notes. Jake takes advantage of your momentary disorientation to check his phone again.

"Don't you have a system?" you ask, frustration mounting. "A study schedule? Notes? Anything?"

Jake laughs. "I have a photographic memory. I just need to read through something once."

You stare at him in disbelief. "That's..."

"Unfair? Yeah, I know." He winks. "But we all have our strengths. Mine's memory. Yours is..." he gestures vaguely, "...being intensely organized, I guess."

You narrow your eyes, not sure if you've been complimented or insulted.

The pattern continues for a week. Jake shows up at your study spots with coffee, snacks, or once, inexplicably, a small potted cactus ("It reminded me of you—prickly but low-maintenance"). He asks insightful questions just often enough that you can't justify kicking him out, but he constantly interrupts with texts, stories, or unnecessary observations.

"Did you know the librarian at the front desk used to be a professional ballerina?" he whispers, leaning so close you can smell his cologne. "She performed with the National Ballet for ten years before blowing out her knee."

"Fascinating," you mutter, trying to ignore how his proximity makes your heart rate pick up. "Can we please focus on the practice problems?"

"I was focusing," Jake protests. "I finished the set fifteen minutes ago."

You glance down at his paper. Sure enough, all twenty problems are completed, with work shown in his surprisingly neat handwriting.

"How did you—I've only done eight!"

Jake shrugs, looking pleased with himself. "Photographic memory, remember? I read the chapter once."

"Then why are you even here?" you snap, frustration boiling over.

His expression softens into something unreadable. "Maybe I like the company."

You don't have a quick response for that.

The day before your Advanced Statistical Methods final, Jake suggests studying at his apartment "for a change of scenery." Against your better judgment, you agree.

You arrive to find his roommate Ethan headed out the door.

"You must be the competition," Ethan says with a knowing smile. "Good luck." He shoots Jake a look you can't interpret before leaving.

Jake's apartment is surprisingly neat, with an unexpected number of books lining the walls. You'd pictured a bachelor pad with pizza boxes and sports memorabilia, not this adult space with actual furniture and framed art.

"What? Did you think I lived in a frat house?" Jake asks, reading your expression with annoying accuracy.

"Kind of," you admit.

"I'm more than just the campus golden boy, you know." There's an edge to his voice you haven't heard before.

The study session starts out productively enough. You quiz each other on formulas, and Jake makes flash cards that actually help clarify a complex concept you've been struggling with.

Then, in the middle of explaining autocorrelation, Jake suddenly says, "I'm starving. Want pizza?"

Before you can answer, he's on the phone ordering, and somehow twenty minutes disappear into a conversation about the best pizza toppings (you: mushroom and olive, him: Hawaiian, which leads to a heated debate about pineapple as a legitimate topping).

When the food arrives, Jake insists on taking a study break. One episode of a show turns into three. When you finally check your watch, it's 11 PM, and you've accomplished maybe a third of what you planned.

"I should go," you say, gathering your notes.

"It's late. I can walk you home."

"I live in the north dorms. It's a fifteen-minute walk."

"Exactly. Perfect opportunity to quiz each other on regression analysis."

You want to say no, but he's already grabbing his jacket.

The night air is cool, and Jake walks close enough that your shoulders occasionally brush. True to his word, he quizzes you on formulas as you walk, and you're begrudgingly impressed by how much he actually knows.

At your dorm entrance, he hands you a final flash card. "Last one."

You take it, squinting in the dim light. Instead of a formula, it reads: "Coffee tomorrow morning before the final? 7 AM?"

You look up to find him watching you intently, his usual confident smile replaced by something more hesitant.

"I don't know if that's a good idea," you say slowly. "I have a morning routine before exams."

"Part of which includes coffee, right? I'll bring it to you. No study talk. Just caffeine and moral support."

You should say no. This whole "friendship" with Jake has already cut into your study time more than you'd like to admit. But there's something in his expression that makes you pause.

"Fine. But if you're late with my coffee, all bets are off."

His smile returns full force. "I wouldn't dream of it."

As you head into your building, you realize with a start that you've actually enjoyed spending time with Jake. Not that you'd ever admit it to him.

What you don't see is the way Jake's smile transforms into a triumphant grin as soon as you're gone. He actually pumps his fist in the air like he's just scored the winning touchdown.

"Phase two: complete," he whispers to himself, pulling out his phone to text Ethan. THIS IS TOO EASY, he types, adding three crying-laughing emojis. She's actually letting me walk her to her dorm. Tomorrow I'll sabotage her entire morning routine.

He strolls back toward his apartment, checking items off his mental Distraction Campaign list. Yet somewhere between his self-congratulation and plotting tomorrow's coffee delivery (he plans to be precisely seven minutes late—just enough to throw off her exam prep but not enough for her to give up waiting), he realizes he's humming.

Jake Sim doesn't hum. But here he is, practically skipping down the sidewalk, because he's seeing you again in less than twelve hours. For the plan, he tells himself firmly. Obviously just for the plan.

The Statistical Methods final comes and goes. Despite Jake's best attempts at sabotage, you still manage to edge him out by two points. His frown when Professor Rivera announces the scores is brief but noticeable before he slips back into his golden boy persona, all easy smiles and gracious congratulations.

"This calls for a celebration," he says afterward, falling into step beside you as you exit the classroom.

"Me beating you again?" you ask with a smirk.

"Our combined brilliance," he counters smoothly. "Dinner tonight? I know a place off campus that makes incredible pasta."

You hesitate. The study sessions were one thing—you could justify them as academic. But dinner? That sounds suspiciously like a date.

"I have to start my research paper for Political Economics," you say, which is true. The paper isn't due for two weeks, but your color-coded semester planner has tonight blocked off for outline development.

Jake's smile doesn't falter. "Perfect. I'll bring takeout to the library. Which section will you be in? The third-floor carrels or your usual table by the east windows?"

It's unnerving how well he knows your study habits.

"Fine. East windows. 7 PM." You shake your head, wondering when exactly you started agreeing to Jake Sim's proposals so easily.

Jake arrives at 6:58 PM with two bags of food that smell so divine you immediately realize how hungry you are. He pulls up a chair beside you—not across the table where a study partner would sit, but close enough that your elbows occasionally brush.

"I got you the mushroom ravioli," he says, unpacking containers. "And garlic bread. And tiramisu."

"How did you know I like mushroom ravioli?"

Jake grins. "You mentioned it during our pineapple-on-pizza debate. I pay attention."

The food is incredible, and despite your intentions to eat quickly and get back to work, you find yourself lingering over dinner, drawn into Jake's animated story about his disastrous first college party.

"So there I am, completely soaked, holding this stranger's pet iguana, while the campus police are knocking on the front door," he concludes, and you're laughing so hard you have to cover your mouth to avoid disturbing other students.

Jake reaches out and gently moves a strand of hair from your face. The gesture is so unexpected that you freeze.

"Sorry," he says, not looking sorry at all. "It was bothering me."

Perfect, Jake thinks, noting how you momentarily freeze at his touch. One small touch, ah-ah-ah! Another step in my master plan. He mentally checks off another item on his distraction checklist, feeling rather pleased with himself for how easily you've been thrown off your focus.

You clear your throat and turn back to your laptop, suddenly very interested in your research paper outline. "I should really get back to work."

"Of course," Jake says, but he doesn't leave. Instead, he pulls out his own laptop. "I've got some reading to do anyway."

Every few minutes, he shifts in his seat or sighs or taps his fingers on the table, each movement pulling your attention away from your work. You're about to snap at him when he leans over to look at your screen.

"Your outline structure is impressive," he says, genuinely. "I never thought to organize political theories that way."

The compliment catches you off guard, and you find yourself explaining your approach. Before you know it, an hour has passed discussing political philosophy instead of writing your outline.

"You're doing this on purpose," you accuse, suddenly realizing his game.

"Doing what?" He widens his eyes in mock innocence.

"Distracting me."

Jake places a hand over his heart. "I'm wounded. Can't I just enjoy intellectual conversation with the smartest person on campus?"

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

"Seems to be working so far," he says with a wink.

You roll your eyes and turn back to your laptop, determined to ignore him. It works for approximately five minutes before he slides a folded piece of paper in front of you.

Curious despite yourself, you open it to find a surprisingly good sketch of you concentrating on your work, complete with the small furrow between your eyebrows that he'd mentioned before.

"When did you do this?" you ask, startled.

"Just now. I dabble in drawing."

"Is there anything you're not good at?" The question comes out more sincere than you intended.

Jake's cocky smile falters for a moment. "Beating you, apparently."

There's a hint of genuine frustration in his voice that makes you look at him more closely. For a brief moment, the golden boy facade slips, and you catch a glimpse of something more complex beneath—ambition, insecurity, determination all mixed together.

Before you can respond, he stands up. "I should let you work. But first..." He hesitates, then plunges ahead. "Would you go out with me? Like, on an actual date. Not studying. Not takeout at the library. A real date."

You stare at him, speechless. This isn't part of your carefully planned semester. Dating Jake Sim doesn't fit anywhere in your color-coded schedule or your academic goals.

"Why?" you finally ask.

His smile returns, but it's different somehow—less practiced, more nervous. "Because I like you. Because you're the only person on campus who doesn't buy into my whole..." he gestures vaguely at himself,"...thing."

You stare at him blankly for a moment, then raise an eyebrow. "What 'thing'? Your dick?"

Jake's eyes widen in shock before he bursts out laughing, a genuine, unpolished laugh that's nothing like his carefully cultivated campus-celebrity chuckle.

"No! I meant—" he gestures vaguely again, still laughing, "—the whole golden boy persona. The Jake Sim Experience™."

"Oh," you say, fighting a smile. "I thought you were just being weird."

You should say no. Every logical part of your brain is screaming to reject this distraction from your goals.

"When?" you hear yourself asking instead.

Jake's face lights up with genuine surprise, as if he expected rejection. "Friday? 7 PM?"

"I have to work on my—"

"Political Economics paper, I know," he interrupts. "But even you need to take breaks sometimes. I promise to have you home at a reasonable hour, and I'll even help you with research on Saturday."

You find yourself nodding. "Okay. Friday."

"Okay," he echoes, looking so genuinely pleased that you momentarily forget this is Jake Sim, campus golden boy and your academic rival.

He gathers his things, still smiling. "I'll text you details."

As he walks away, you try to refocus on your outline, but your mind keeps drifting to Friday night. It's just one date, you tell yourself. What harm could it do?

Back at his apartment, Jake crosses off "Step 7: Secure actual date" from his Distraction Campaign list with a flourish.

"She actually said yes?" Ethan asks, looking up from his video game.

"Why do you sound so surprised?" Jake tosses his backpack on the couch and collapses next to it.

"Because she's smart enough to know better?"

Jake throws a pillow at his roommate. "The plan is working perfectly. I've already cost her at least ten hours of study time this week. By the time the Harrison Fellowship application is due, she'll be so off her game I'll finally beat her."

"And you're still convinced this is just about winning?" Ethan asks, pausing his game to give Jake a knowing look.

"What else would it be about?"

Ethan snorts. "You sketched her, man. You never sketch anyone."

"It was part of the distraction," Jake insists, but he finds himself pulling out the second drawing he made—the one he didn't give her, the one that captures her mid-laugh, eyes bright with intelligence and humor.

"Right," Ethan says, noticing the drawing. "Just make sure you know which one of you is actually getting distracted here."

Jake rolls his eyes. "Please. I'm totally focused. You should hear my internal monologues when I'm with her. I literally count every successful distraction tactic like I'm Count Dracula or something. 'One missed study hour, ah-ah-ah! Two coffee dates, ah-ah-ah!'"

Ethan stares at him for a beat. "Yeah, right. Because that's not what love sounds like at all."

"Right?!" Jake agrees enthusiastically. "It's pure strategy. Nothing else."

Ethan face-palms. "That was sarcasm, you idiot."

"Whatever." Jake waves him off, completely missing the point. "You'll see when I win the fellowship and she's wondering what happened to her perfect GPA."

Friday arrives faster than you anticipated. You spend an embarrassing amount of time choosing an outfit—something casual enough to maintain your dignity but nice enough to acknowledge this is, in fact, a date.

When Jake knocks on your door at precisely 7 PM, he's brought his A-game. Designer jeans, a button-down with the sleeves rolled up to showcase his forearms, and that calculated smile that's gotten him through every social situation since puberty.

"You look nice," he says, his eyes doing an appreciative sweep that makes you momentarily self-conscious.

"So do you," you reply, because it's true, even if you wish it weren't.

The restaurant he's chosen is a small Italian place tucked away on a side street downtown, far enough from campus that you're unlikely to run into other students. It's intimate without being overtly romantic, with exposed brick walls and soft lighting.

The conversation flows surprisingly well. Jake is charming when he wants to be, asking questions about your hometown, your family, your childhood dreams. You find yourself laughing at his stories, drawn in by the way his face lights up when he talks about his first debate tournament victory.

This is going perfectly, Jake thinks, watching you smile at something he's said. Phase three proceeding exactly as planned. Every minute she spends with me is a minute not spent on the Harrison application. By this time next month, that fellowship will have my name on it.

His internal victory lap continues through dessert, especially when he catches you staring at his mouth while he tells a story about his freshman year roommate.

After dinner, Jake suggests a walk along the riverfront. The night is cool but not cold, and the path is lit by old-fashioned lampposts that cast a golden glow on the water.

"So," Jake says, walking close enough that your hands occasionally brush, "this was nice."

"It was," you admit, surprising yourself with how much you mean it.

"We should do it again sometime," he suggests, stopping by the railing overlooking the river.

"Maybe," you say, unwilling to concede too easily. "I do have a lot of work to do on my fellowship application."

Jake takes a step closer, exactly as he'd planned during his pre-date strategy session with Ethan. "The fellowship isn't for another month," he says, his voice dropping lower. "Plenty of time for both work and... other things."

Before you can respond, he leans in and kisses you.

It's meant to be calculated—the perfect mix of confidence and restraint, designed to leave you wanting more, to occupy your thoughts when you should be focusing on academics. But something unexpected happens when his lips meet yours.

For a brief, disconcerting moment, Jake forgets the plan entirely.

Your response, the soft sound you make as your hands find his shoulders, the way you taste like the tiramisu you shared for dessert—it short-circuits his strategic thinking. When you pull back slightly, he follows, chasing your lips without conscious thought.

"That was..." you begin, sounding slightly breathless.

Jake quickly regains his composure, mentally adjusting his strategy. This is even better than I planned. She's completely flustered.

"Just the beginning," he finishes with a confident smile, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "If you want it to be."

You narrow your eyes slightly, as if trying to figure him out. "What's your angle, Sim?"

"No angle," he lies smoothly. "Just enjoying the moment."

You don't look entirely convinced, but when he leans in again, you meet him halfway.

Over the next week, Jake implements what he privately calls "Operation Kiss Distraction." The strategy is brilliant in its simplicity—physical contact prevents academic focus. And it works every time.

On Monday afternoon, you're reviewing notes for Professor Wright's Macroeconomics seminar when Jake slides into the chair beside you, coffee in hand.

"How's it going?" he asks, leaning close enough that his shoulder brushes yours.

"I need to finish these notes before—"

He silences you mid-sentence with a kiss, soft and deliberate. Your protest dissolves as his hand cups your cheek, tilting your face toward his. By the time he pulls away, you've forgotten what chapter you were reviewing.

"Before what?" he asks innocently, his thumb tracing your lower lip.

"I... don't remember," you admit, and Jake's smile is nothing short of triumphant.

On Wednesday, you're in the library's reference section, surrounded by economics journals for your fellowship research. Jake finds you there, pressing a kiss to your shoulder before you even realize he's arrived.

"How did you find me?" you ask, trying to maintain your focus on the article you've been highlighting.

"I always know where to find you," he murmurs, his lips moving to the sensitive spot below your ear. The highlighter slips from your fingers as he works his way along your neck, leaving a trail of heat in his wake.

"Jake," you protest weakly, "I have to finish this research."

"In a minute," he promises, turning your chair to face him. His kiss is deeper this time, more insistent. Your hands find their way into his hair as he pulls you to your feet, backing you against the shelves. The solid weight of the books behind you contrasts with the warmth of his body against yours, his mouth hot and demanding.

When he finally breaks the kiss, you're both breathing hard. Jake's usual perfectly styled hair is mussed from your fingers, his eyes dark with something that looks like genuine desire.

"See? Just a minute," he says with a grin, though it's been at least fifteen.

You try to remember what journal article you were reading, but your mind is blank, filled instead with the lingering sensation of Jake's mouth on yours.

By Friday, you've developed a Pavlovian response to his presence—one look from Jake across a room and your pulse quickens in anticipation. He knows it too, using it to his advantage.

During a study group at his apartment, he waits until the others are engrossed in problem sets before leaning close, his breath warm against your ear.

“Meet me in the kitchen.”

You shouldn’t go. You have work to do. But two minutes later, your book is forgotten, and you’re following him anyway.

The moment you step inside, Jake is on you. He shoves you against the counter, his mouth crashing into yours, hungry and insistent. His hands are already under your sweater, fingers skimming up your sides, making you shiver at the contrast of his heat against your skin.

“We shouldn’t,” you pant as his teeth scrape against your collarbone, his grip tightening on your waist. “Everyone’s right there.”

“Then be quiet,” he murmurs, lips dragging lower.

A moan slips out before you can stop it as he sucks a deep mark onto your throat, his tongue teasing the bruised skin before moving lower. His hands wander, slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts, fingers brushing over your soaked underwear.

“Fuck,” he exhales against your neck, pressing the pads of his fingers firmly over the thin fabric. “Already wet for me?”

Your breath hitches as he rubs slow, teasing circles, the pressure making your thighs shake. He chuckles, dark and low, before slipping his hand beneath the fabric, his fingers sliding against your slick folds.

You grip his shoulders as he works you open, curling his fingers just right, his pace unrelenting. Your body arches against him, desperate for more, but he doesn’t let up—doesn’t stop marking you, doesn’t stop driving you closer to the edge with expert precision.

“Cum for me,” he whispers against your skin, voice dripping with satisfaction. “Be a good girl and make a mess for me.”

And you do—your climax crashes over you, your body shuddering as his fingers continue their slow, torturous strokes, dragging it out until you’re barely holding yourself up.

He finally pulls back, admiring the deep red bruises blooming across your neck and chest, the way your body still trembles in the aftermath. He smooths a hand over your thigh, smirking as you struggle to catch your breath.

Twenty minutes later, you return to the study group, cheeks flushed, legs weak, lips swollen from his kisses. You pretend to focus, but you can still feel the ghost of his fingers between your thighs, the bruises throbbing like a silent confession.

Jake follows a minute after, looking impossibly composed, except for the self-satisfied smirk he can’t quite suppress.

Another productive session, he thinks, eyes flickering to the marks on your skin. She’s falling further behind every day.

The next Tuesday, after an especially intense makeout session that leaves you both disheveled and breathless, Jake captures your hands in his, expression suddenly serious.

"I've been thinking."

Your stomach tightens. Is this where he admits the whole thing has been a calculated distraction? That none of it meant anything?

"We've been doing... whatever this is... for a couple weeks now," he continues, his thumb tracing circles on your palm in a way that makes it hard to focus. "And I think we should make it official."

You blink, surprised. "Official?"

"Be my girlfriend," he says, flashing that perfect Jake Sim smile that's graced countless campus publications. "Properly."

It's the logical next step for his plan, he tells himself. Girlfriend status means more of her time, more distraction, more control over her schedule. It's strategic brilliance, not genuine desire. The flutter in his chest when she smiles up at him? Merely satisfaction with his own cunning.

"Okay," you agree, and he kisses you again, mentally checking off another item on his master plan.

Phase Four complete, Jake thinks triumphantly. This fellowship is as good as mine.

What Jake doesn't acknowledge, even to himself, is how often he finds himself thinking about you when you're not around. How he's started skipping his own study sessions to meet you. How his friends have noticed his GPA slipping while yours somehow remains steady.

"Dude, you missed the entire Econ study group yesterday," his friend Matt points out after class. "We're two weeks out from finals."

"I had something more important to do," Jake says, thinking of how you'd smiled against his mouth when he surprised you outside your afternoon lecture.

Matt looks skeptical. "More important than maintaining your GPA for the Harrison Fellowship? You've been working toward that since freshman year."

Jake shrugs it off, but the comment nags at him. Has he possibly overcommitted to his distraction strategy? Is he risking his own academic standing in the process?

He resolves to recalibrate, to find a better balance between distracting you and focusing on his own work. But that resolution lasts exactly as long as it takes for you to text him asking if he wants to meet at the library.

Just an hour, he promises himself. I'll kiss her senseless for an hour, then go back to my apartment and work on my application.

The hour turns into three, and he doesn't get any work done that night.

The pattern continues. Each time Jake thinks he's the one in control, each time he mentally tallies another successful distraction, he fails to notice how his own academic focus is slipping. How his perfectly organized planner is suddenly full of your name instead of study reminders. How he's started dreaming about you instead of his acceptance letter to Stanford.

"The plan is still on track," he insists when Ethan questions him. "She's completely distracted."

"And you're not?" Ethan asks pointedly, gesturing to Jake's phone that he's checking for the fifth time in ten minutes.

"Of course not," Jake scoffs, hastily putting his phone face-down. "I'm laser-focused on victory."

"Right," Ethan drawls. "That's why you've written her name in your planner instead of 'study for Econ final'?"

Jake slams the planner shut. "That's... strategic. So I remember when we're meeting to... implement distraction tactics."

"And the fact that you've started wearing cologne to the library?"

"Psychological warfare."

"You missed basketball with the guys to help her carry books."

"Building trust to maximize future distractions."

"You turned down Jessica Miller—who you've had a crush on since freshman orientation—because she asked you out on the same night you were supposed to see the protagonist."

"Commitment to the mission."

Ethan picks up a crumpled paper from Jake's desk and unfolds it. "And this poem?"

Jake snatches it away, cheeks reddening. "Research! I'm researching what kind of sappy stuff might further distract her."

"Uh-huh. And you've set her text tone to a special sound because...?"

"So I know exactly when my target is messaging me," Jake explains with the confidence of someone completely deluding himself.

"You literally have a framed photo of her on your nightstand."

"That's just to... remind me of the enemy."

Ethan throws his hands up in exasperation. "You planned your entire class schedule around hers for next semester!"

"Advanced strategic planning," Jake insists, even as he absently doodles her initials on his notebook margin. "The long game."

The truth—which Jake is nowhere near ready to admit—is that somewhere between calculated kisses and genuine laughter, between strategic touches and real conversations, his perfect plan has developed a fatal flaw:

He's falling for you. And he doesn't even realize it.

Jake wakes up in a cold sweat, staring at the calendar on his wall. Three weeks until the Harrison Fellowship deadline, and his plan is working too well—on himself.

"I need to recalibrate," he mutters, grabbing his planner. "Time for phase five: Total Disruption."

After a hurried breakfast, he texts Ethan his new strategy while walking to class.

"You're digging yourself deeper," Ethan replies immediately.

"Watch and learn," Jake types back with the unfounded confidence of a man about to step on a rake.

He implements the new tactics that very afternoon. When you mention needing to study at your apartment that night, Jake suggests studying together, kisses you until you agree, then "accidentally" falls asleep on your couch. By the time you wake him at 2 AM, neither of you has done any work, but he counts it as a win.

"Sorry, princess," he murmurs sleepily, using one of his new strategic pet names. "Guess I was more tired than I thought."

You raise an eyebrow at the nickname but let it slide. "You should go home and get some actual sleep."

"Or I could stay," he counters, pulling you down for another kiss. "Save myself the walk across campus."

It works. You let him stay, and Jake falls asleep feeling smug about another night of study time successfully sabotaged.

What he doesn't anticipate is waking to find you already up, quietly typing at your desk, wearing his sweatshirt from the night before.

"Morning, sleepyhead," you say without looking up. "Hope you don't mind I borrowed this. It's comfortable."

Jake stares, momentarily forgetting his master plan because something about seeing you in his clothes makes his chest feel tight. "I... no, that's... it looks good on you."

"Thanks," you reply, still focused on your laptop. "I made coffee. I've been up since six working on this fellowship essay. Having you here actually helped me focus—I didn't want to wake you by going out to the library."

Jake's smug feeling evaporates. "You've been working for three hours already?"

"Mmhmm. You're cute when you sleep, by the way. Very peaceful. Not at all like when you're awake and plotting world domination."

He's not sure which is more disconcerting—that his sleepover tactic completely backfired or that you called him cute.

The next day, he tries a new approach. While you're in the bathroom during a study session, he quickly closes all fifteen tabs on your laptop, thinking it will set your research back significantly.

You return, notice immediately, and sigh. "Did you close my browser?"

"Oh, did I?" Jake feigns innocence. "Sorry, I was just checking something and must have hit the wrong button."

"It's fine," you say, pulling out your phone. "I was using the cloud sync feature. See?" You tap a few buttons, and all fifteen tabs reappear on your laptop screen. "Everything's backed up automatically. Handy, right?"

Jake's smile feels brittle. "Super handy."

His attempt to hide your textbooks the following week is thwarted when you casually mention that you primarily use the e-book versions anyway. "They're searchable," you explain, showing him how quickly you can find specific information. "Much more efficient."

The emergency ice cream date he arranges the night before your Political Economics paper is due—which should have derailed your writing schedule—somehow turns into a productive discussion about Keynesian theory that actually helps you refine your thesis.

"This is exactly what I needed to tie my argument together," you tell him excitedly between bites of rocky road. "You're a genius, baby."

The casual endearment catches Jake so off guard that he chokes on his ice cream.

"You okay there, Jakey?" you ask, patting his back as he coughs.

"Fine," he wheezes, face red. "Just... went down the wrong way."

You continue using the nickname throughout the evening, each "Jakey" hitting him like a physical blow. It shouldn't affect him—it's just a name—but something about the affection in your voice when you say it makes his stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with ice cream.

By the time he walks you home, Jake is thoroughly confused by his own reactions. This isn't part of the plan. None of it is.

The clothing swap attempt is perhaps his most spectacular failure. After a particularly heated make-out session at his apartment, Jake deliberately puts his t-shirt in your bag and hides the one you wore over.

"Can't find my shirt," you say, rummaging through your things the next morning.

"That's weird," Jake replies, feigning confusion. "Maybe it got mixed in with the laundry?"

"Probably," you agree easily, grabbing one of his shirts from his drawer. "I'll borrow this one, okay? I'm already running late for Richardson's lecture."

Jake watches in disbelief as you pull his shirt on, gather your books, and kiss him goodbye. The shirt is too big, sliding off one shoulder, but instead of looking disheveled, you somehow make it look deliberate and stylish. When you walk into lecture twenty minutes later, he overhears two girls complimenting your outfit.

"Isn't that Jake Sim's shirt?" one whispers. "They must be serious."

The comment shouldn't please him. It's supposed to be about making you late, not about public confirmation of your relationship. Yet he finds himself smiling anyway.

The text message barrage during your Advanced Economic Theory seminar is Jake's next carefully plotted distraction. He sets alarms for precise intervals, determined to make your phone buzz continuously throughout Hammond's lecture.

8:05 AM: Morning. Left a coffee on your desk. Hope Hammond doesn't bore you to death today.

8:13 AM: Still thinking about last night. The way you gasped when I touched you there...hard to focus in class right now.

8:19 AM: Prof Wilson just used your elasticity argument from last week. Didn't credit you though, the bastard.

8:24 AM: thinking abt you in that tiny red dress of yours, suddenly my dicks stood up like a perfectly inelastic supply curve

8:31 AM: Found that article you needed for your paper. I'll trade it for dinner tonight. Thai place just opened downtown.

8:36 AM: You look so good in that blue sweater. Even better when I was taking it off you yesterday.

8:42 AM: Remember what we did in the library stacks last week? I keep picturing you pressed against those books, trying not to make a sound.

8:47 AM: Study at my place tonight? Ethan's gone till morning. We can actually be loud for once. I love it when you're loud.

8:52 AM: The hickey I left on your inner thigh still there? Maybe I should check personally after class.

8:55 AM: Just realized I still have your underwear from Tuesday. You can have them back... or not. Your call.

The messages continue, alternating between casual conversation starters, blatant attempts to tempt you away from academics, strategic pet names (Jake has privately ranked their effectiveness, with "princess" at the top), and the memes he's carefully selected as backup distractions.

But when class ends, you emerge looking perfectly composed. "Phone on silent," you explain when he casually asks if you got his texts. "I always silence it during Hammond's lectures. He's strict about interruptions."

"Right," Jake says, deflated. "Smart."

"But I did see them after class," you continue, linking your arm through his as you walk across the quad. "The memes were funny. Nice distraction technique."

Jake glances at you, trying to gauge whether you're annoyed about the explicit messages.

"So..." he ventures, "the other texts didn't bother you?"

"Bother me? No." You give him a sly smile. "Though I'm pretty sure Hammond would've had a stroke if he'd seen what you wrote about perfectly inelastic supply curves."

Jake feels his face warm slightly, which is ridiculous because he's not the type to blush. "I meant every word."

"I know you did." You lean closer. "And yes to dinner tonight. Though I already found that article myself."

"I meant what I said about my place too," Jake says, his voice dropping lower as a group of freshmen pass by. "Ethan really is gone all evening."

You pretend to consider it. "I do have that study block scheduled..."

"I'll make it worth rescheduling," he promises, mouth close to your ear.

"You always think you're so irresistible, don't you, Jakey?" you whisper back.

There it is again—that fluttering in his stomach at the nickname. It's getting harder to ignore, especially the way it sounds so natural coming from your lips. Jake doesn't understand why his calculated pet names feel like strategic maneuvers while yours feel like treasured endearments.

"We'll see," he says, already thinking of ways to make you forget all about your study schedule tonight. Maybe he'll wear that shirt you like, the one that brings out his eyes. Maybe he'll suggest dessert after dinner. Maybe he'll use that cologne you always seem to lean in for.

Jake's so busy plotting his next move that he doesn't notice the knowing smile on your face—or the flash drive in your bag containing a nearly completed fellowship draft that you've been working on during the hours he thinks you're distracted.

Three days later, Jake implements what he considers his most strategic move yet: the extended weekend getaway. Under the guise of a romantic surprise, he books a cabin at a lakeside resort two hours from campus for the weekend before a major economics presentation you both need to prepare for.

"No internet," he tells you with what he hopes is a charming smile. "Just you, me, and nature for two days."

To his surprise, you seem genuinely excited. "That sounds perfect! I've been so stressed with all these deadlines. A break will help clear my head."

"Exactly," Jake agrees, already imagining how far behind you'll fall without internet access or your usual study materials. "It'll be... relaxing."

They arrive Friday evening, and Jake is pleased to discover the cabin is as rustic as advertised. No WiFi, spotty cell service, and blissfully isolated from neighboring cabins.

"It's beautiful," you say, walking onto the small deck that overlooks the lake. The setting sun casts everything in a golden glow, including your profile as you lean against the railing.

Jake finds himself staring, momentarily forgetting his ulterior motives. "Yeah," he agrees softly. "Beautiful."

You turn and catch him looking, and something in his expression makes you smile in a way that creates a strange tightness in his chest.

"So," you say, walking back to him slowly. "What should we do first in our internet-free paradise?"

Jake has a detailed plan for keeping you thoroughly distracted all weekend. It involves hiking, canoeing, cooking together, board games, and strategic makeout sessions whenever you mention anything remotely academic.

What he doesn’t plan for is how the isolation amplifies everything between you. Without the constant interruptions of campus life, without the pressure of appearing a certain way for classmates or professors, something shifts.

Friday night, you build a fire in the small stone fireplace, and Jake uncorks a bottle of wine he brought specifically to lower your academic defenses. One glass turns into two, which turns into lazy kisses on the couch that grow increasingly desperate, increasingly needy.

Your hands slip under his sweater, dragging over warm, taut skin, feeling the way his muscles flex under your touch. When you tug it over his head, he helps you, throwing it aside like it’s useless, like all he needs right now is you. Then he does the same with your shirt, his hands immediately returning to your skin, sliding up your sides, his rings cold and teasing against your heat.

“Fuck,” he breathes, staring at you, pupils blown. His hands roam, fingers grazing over your bare stomach, thumbs brushing up to your tits, teasing your nipples until they pebble under his touch. He groans, head tipping back for a second as if he’s trying to compose himself, but it’s useless. He’s already too far gone.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, voice gravelly, unfiltered. It’s not calculated—just a raw, messy confession that makes your breath hitch.

You don’t answer. You just pull him back down, kissing him deeper, harder, tongue sliding against his as you push up against him. He moans into your mouth, low and needy, gripping your hips as you press closer.

“Bedroom,” you whisper between kisses, and he barely nods before hauling you up, hands firm under your thighs as he carries you there.

The cabin’s lone bedroom is small, but he barely notices it, too focused on the way firelight spills across your skin, making you look almost unreal. Almost untouchable.

But he does touch you.

He lowers you onto the bed, spreading you out beneath him, then he’s kissing his way down, taking his time, dragging his lips over your collarbone, your stomach, leaving a path of heat in his wake.

And then he’s between your thighs, spreading you open, eyes dark, his rings a sharp, cool contrast against your burning skin.

“Fucking hell,” he groans, voice already wrecked. “Look at you, baby. So fucking wet.”

You whimper as he trails his fingers through your slick folds, the sensation heightened by the hard, unrelenting press of his rings against your sensitive skin.

“Jake,” you whisper, thighs twitching as he spreads your folds with his fingers, watching the way you glisten in the dim light.

“Shit,” he breathes. “You’re dripping. You want me that bad?”

You nod, gasping when he drags his thumb over your clit, pressing down, rubbing slow, torturous circles. The metal of his rings makes it colder, sharper, and the sensation sends a full-body shiver through you.

“Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Need to taste you.”

Then he dives in, licking a long, slow stripe up your slit before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking, hard.

You cry out, hands immediately burying in his hair, gripping tight, and Jake—Jake fucking moans so loud into you it vibrates through your whole body.

“Oh my god—Jake,” you whine, head falling back as he keeps going, licking, sucking, absolutely devouring you like he’s starving.

He groans again, his hips grinding into the mattress like he’s getting off just from tasting you, and the desperate, wrecked sounds coming from him make you even wetter.

Then he slides two fingers inside, and you swear you see stars.

“Holy fuck,” he pants against your thigh, thrusting his fingers in and out, his rings catching against your slick heat with every movement. “You’re so fucking tight. Jesus, baby.”

His fingers curl, finding that spot that makes your whole body jolt, and he moans again, practically whimpering against you as he watches you come undone beneath him.

“Listen to her,” he groans, voice shaking, fingers plunging deeper, faster, wetter. “Fucking talking to me, baby—your pussy’s talking to me—”

You sob his name, hips grinding against his mouth, and he loses it, sucking harder, fingers working even faster. The sounds are obscene—wet, messy, loud—but he loves it, loves how ruined you are, how ruined he is.

“You gonna come for me, pretty girl?” he rasps, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, his lips slick with you. “Gonna make a mess all over my fingers, yeah?”

Your whole body tightens. The heat in your stomach snaps, and you cry out, thighs shaking as you come, clenching hard around his fingers.

Jake moans so loud it’s almost embarrassing, almost filthy the way he reacts to your pleasure like it’s his own.

He keeps moving, working you through it, voice a wrecked, desperate mess of praise. “That’s it, that’s my good fucking girl—holy shit, you feel so good—”

You whimper, body twitching from oversensitivity, and he finally slows down, pulling his fingers out, bringing them to his lips. He groans as he licks them clean, eyes dark and half-lidded as he stares at you.

Then he’s crawling up your body, kissing you breathless, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

He’s lining himself up, pressing in, and the moment he pushes inside, his head drops back and he lets out the most wrecked, filthy moan you’ve ever heard.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” He sounds like he’s falling apart, like this is undoing him completely. His forehead presses against yours, his breath ragged. “Oh my god, baby, you feel—” He exhales sharply, shaking. “I can’t—I need to move—”

“Do it,” you whimper, nails digging into his back.

He groans as he starts thrusting, deep and slow at first, like he’s savoring the way you feel wrapped around him. But then you moan, rolling your hips up to meet him, and he breaks.

He picks up the pace, fucking into you hard, deep, the bed creaking with every movement.

And he’s so loud.

Every thrust rips another filthy moan from his throat, another wrecked gasp, another desperate curse as he loses himself completely.

“God, you’re so loud,” you tease, voice breathless but smug, knowing full well how completely undone he is.

His response is immediate—he gets louder. A shameless, broken groan rips from his chest, his head tipping back, fingers digging into your hips.

“You—fuck—” His voice cracks, his thrusts turning erratic. “You’re gonna—gonna make me—”

“Cum inside me,” you whisper, staring right into his dark, blown-out eyes.

Jake fucking breaks.

He lets out the filthiest, most desperate moan you’ve ever heard, his whole body shaking, his hips snapping against yours one last time as he spills inside you, burying himself deep, filling you up with everything he has.

After, he collapses against you, still shuddering, breath uneven, lips brushing over your skin as he whispers something you can’t quite hear, something too soft, too raw.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This was supposed to be a distraction. But as you drift off to sleep against his chest, Jake stays awake, staring at the ceiling, completely, utterly fucked in a way that has nothing to do with sex.

Saturday morning, Jake wakes to find you gone from the bed. Panic spikes through him momentarily before he hears movement in the kitchen. He pulls on sweatpants and pads out to find you at the small stove, wearing nothing but his button-down shirt from the night before, making pancakes.

"Morning, angel," he says, the endearment falling from his lips without conscious thought. He wraps his arms around you from behind, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, and is rewarded with a smile that does strange things to his heart rate.

"Morning, Jakey," you reply, turning to kiss him properly. "Sleep well?"

That nickname again. He should hate it—it's childish, diminutive—but when you say it, it feels like some private treasure between you.

"Very," he says, and means it. "Those look good."

"Blueberry pancakes. I found some berries in the fridge."

Jake blinks. Cooking breakfast together was on his distraction agenda, but you've already taken the initiative. He'd planned to get up early, hide your phone to prevent you from checking emails, and control the day's activities. Instead, he slept later than intended, and you seem perfectly content in this tech-free environment he designed to frustrate you.

After breakfast, you suggest a hike, another item from his distraction checklist that you've somehow adopted as your own idea. The fall morning is crisp and clear, perfect for exploring the trails around the lake.

"I needed this," you say as you walk hand in hand along a pine-scented path. "I've been so focused on the fellowship and finals that I forgot what it's like to just... breathe."

Jake feels a twinge of guilt. "You have been working really hard."

You squeeze his hand. "We both have. That's why this weekend is so perfect. A chance to reset before the final push."

The guilt intensifies. He's been working hard, yes, but not as hard as he should be. Not as hard as you. His grades have slipped over the past few weeks, his focus increasingly fragmented between his academic goals and his fixation on sabotaging yours.

The hike leads to a small clearing overlooking the lake. Without discussion, you both stop to admire the view. You lean back against Jake's chest, and he wraps his arms around you instinctively, resting his chin on top of your head.

It's peaceful. Simple. For a few minutes, Jake forgets about fellowships and competition and distraction strategies. He just exists in this moment with you, and it feels bizarrely right.

"Thank you for planning this," you say softly.

"You're welcome, princess," he replies, the pet name now coming naturally.

You turn in his arms, looking up at him with an expression he can't quite decipher. "I like when you call me that," you admit.

"Yeah?" Jake tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "I like when you call me Jakey."

The admission surprises him as much as it seems to please you. You rise on your tiptoes to kiss him, soft and sweet, and something in Jake's chest aches.

The moment is interrupted by a distant roll of thunder. You both look up to see dark clouds gathering on the horizon.

"We should head back," Jake says, taking your hand. "Looks like rain."

You make it halfway to the cabin before the skies open. By the time you reach the porch, you're both soaked through and laughing. Jake pulls you inside, where the remains of the previous night's fire have left the cabin pleasantly warm.

“We should get out of these wet clothes,” Jake suggests, voice thick with heat, his smirk widening when he sees your eyes darken.

You don’t hesitate. Your soaked jacket hits the floor with a heavy plop, followed by your drenched shirt, clinging to your skin before you peel it off.

“Race you to the shower,” you tease, already backing toward the bathroom.

Jake growls low in his throat, tearing off his own clothes as he follows, jeans hitting the floor as he stalks after you.

The moment you step under the spray, hot water cascading down, he’s on you—pressing you against the cold tiles, kissing you deep, messy, hungry.

His hands roam your slick skin, fingers trailing up your waist, over your tits, down your stomach—gripping, groping, claiming. The sharp chill of his rings against your heated body sends a shudder through you.

Then you reach for his hand, dragging it to your mouth. Holding eye contact, you wrap your lips around his middle and pointer finger, sucking slow, obscene.

Jake chokes.

“Ngh— oh my fucking god—”

His hips jerk forward, cock twitching against your stomach, eyes blown wide as he watches you drag your tongue up the length of his fingers before pulling off with a wet pop.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he groans, voice wrecked, and suddenly his mouth is at your ear, his breath hot, desperate. “Turn the fuck around.”

You obey without hesitation, pressing your hands flat against the tiles, arching your back just enough to tempt him.

Jake grips your hips, dragging his cock through your slick folds, teasing—

And then he slams inside.

“Fuck!” His moan is loud, raw, unfiltered, tearing from his throat as he buries himself to the hilt.

You gasp, gripping at the tiles as he stretches you open, splitting you apart. He barely gives you time to adjust before pulling out and slamming back in, setting a brutal, punishing pace that has you wailing.

“Louder,” he growls, voice shaking as he bites down hard on your shoulder, his hips snapping against you. “Fucking scream for me, baby.”

Your moans rise in pitch, gasping and broken, but it’s not enough for him.

“Fucking louder,” he snarls, gripping your chin and turning your head slightly. “Let everyone fucking hear what I’m doing to you.”

And fuck, that does it. You wail his name, voice cracking, high-pitched and desperate, and Jake fucking snaps.

“Oh my fucking god,” he groans, loud, no shame, no restraint. “That’s it, that’s my good girl—fuck, you’re so loud for me, fuck, fuck—”

His fingers slide between your legs, rubbing your clit in harsh, fast circles. “Come on, baby—come for me—fucking scream for me while I ruin this little pussy—”

Your body locks up, pleasure crashing over you in waves, your moans turning into sharp cries as you come hard, clenching down so tight around him.

Jake fucking loses it.

“Fuuuuck, oh my god, fuck, fuck, fuck—ngh—”

His voice shatters, his thrusts turning wild, his hands gripping your hips hard as he slams into you one last time and spills inside you, hips twitching, letting out the most wrecked groan you’ve ever heard.

“Ohhh fuuuuck—” His head tips back, mouth hanging open, the filthiest, most obscene moan tearing from his throat as his cock pulses inside you, filling you up.

He keeps thrusting, whimpering, riding it out, his forehead pressing to your shoulder, panting so hard he’s practically breathless.

Silence. Just the heavy, ragged sound of your breathing, the water pounding down over you both.

Then—Jake laughs, breathless, pressing a lingering kiss to your shoulder.

“Well.” His voice is wrecked, rough. “Guess I should’ve made you scream my fucking name sooner.”

Afterward, wrapped in the cabin's fluffy towels, you curl up together on the couch to watch the storm through the large windows. Jake pulls a blanket over you both, and you nestle against his side, fitting perfectly.

"This is nice," you murmur, already sounding half-asleep. "Just being here with you. No competition, no pressure."

Jake feels a fresh wave of guilt. "Yeah," he agrees quietly. "It is."

Eventually, you doze off, your head on his chest, one hand curled possessively on his stomach. Jake strokes your hair absently, listening to the rain and your steady breathing, trying to ignore the growing realization that he's no longer sure what game he's playing—or if he's playing one at all.

That evening, Jake cooks dinner as planned, but the romantic meal meant to keep you from studying now feels like something he wants to do for you rather than to you. He finds himself putting extra effort into the pasta sauce, adding spices he knows you like, opening the better bottle of wine he'd brought as a backup.

You set the small table by candlelight, and when you sit down to eat, the conversation flows easily—not about classes or the fellowship, but about childhoods and dreams and favorite books. Jake learns more about you in one dinner than he has in three years of competitive observation.

"I want to make a difference," you tell him when he asks about your post-graduation plans. "Economics isn't just about markets and money to me. It's about understanding systems that affect real people's lives."

"That's... actually really cool," Jake says, surprised by his own sincerity.

"What about you?" you ask. "Why economics?"

Jake opens his mouth to give his standard answer—the one about prestigious job opportunities and his father's expectations—but what comes out is something closer to the truth.

"I'm good at it," he admits. "And being good at things has always been important to me. Maybe too important."

You reach across the table to take his hand. "There's nothing wrong with wanting to excel."

"There is when it's the only thing that matters," Jake says quietly, the words emerging from some honest place he usually keeps carefully locked away. "When you'll do anything to win."

You study him for a moment, head tilted thoughtfully. "So when exactly were you planning to tell me that this whole relationship was just an elaborate scheme to distract me from winning the fellowship?"

The question hits like a physical blow. Jake stares at you, mouth actually dropping open. "What—how did you—"

"Please." You roll your eyes. "The timing was painfully obvious. You suddenly wanted to 'study together' right when applications opened? The constant texts during lectures? Accidentally closing my browser tabs? Hiding my books? The weekend getaway with 'no internet'?" You make air quotes with your fingers. "I've been onto you since day one, Jake Sim."

Jake runs a hand through his hair, completely thrown off script. "I—well—shit."

"Did you actually have a written plan? Like an actual document called 'How to Sabotage Her Academic Career'?"

Jake winces. "It wasn't called that exactly, but..."

"Oh my god, you did!" You start laughing, which confuses him even more. "Let me guess, you had phases? Codenames? Did you rank your distraction techniques by effectiveness?"

His silence confirms it all.

"You stupid dumb fuck," you say, shaking your head in disbelief. "I knew everything from the very beginning. Every single move. And you thought you were being so clever."

Jake stares at you for a moment, then his expression shifts from embarrassment to something closer to amusement. His lips quirk up at the corners.

"Baby, I'm so sorry," he says, though his tone makes it abundantly clear he's not sorry at all. He leans forward, lowering his voice. "But I'm also not at all because honestly? Fucking you, being with you is so fucking enjoyable that I don't care what I did to get here."

"Are you serious right now?" You're caught between outrage and reluctant admiration at his audacity.

Jake shrugs, completely unrepentant. "The plan was stupid, sure. But it got us here. And here..." he reaches for your hand across the table, "...is pretty damn good."

"You're unbelievable," you tell him, though you don't pull your hand away.

"I know," he grins, completely missing the criticism. "So, do I need to grovel, or can we skip to the part where you forgive me because you've been playing me just as much as I've been playing you?"

After dinner, you curl up together in front of the fireplace with the second bottle of wine. The storm continues outside, rain pattering against the windows, making the cabin feel even more isolated from the rest of the world.

"Tell me something you've never told anyone," you challenge, your head in Jake's lap as he plays with your hair.

He considers for a moment. "I almost transferred after freshman year."

You sit up, surprised. "Really? Why?"

"Because of you, actually," Jake admits. "You beaten me in every class we shared, and I'd never... I wasn't used to being second best. I thought maybe I wasn't cut out for this university after all."

"What changed your mind?"

Jake meets your eyes. "Pride. Stubbornness. I couldn't let you win like that."

"So you stayed just to beat me?" You sound more amused than offended.

"I stayed to prove I could," Jake corrects. "And then it became about more than that. About actually learning, actually growing. Having you as competition made me better."

You smile, leaning in to kiss him softly. "You make me better too, you know. You push me to work harder, think differently."

The kiss deepens, wine and confessions making you both bolder. Before long, you're straddling his lap, the blanket fallen to the floor as his hands grip your thighs.

“Take me to bed, Jakey,” you murmur against his ear, voice dripping with heat, but your body is soft, pliant against him.

Jake groans, gripping your thighs tighter before standing, lifting you with ease, your legs locked around his waist. His arms wrap securely under you as he walks the short distance to the bed, his lips dragging over your jaw, your neck, your shoulder—like he can’t stop touching you.

The bed creaks as he lowers you onto it, but instead of diving in like usual, he hesitates. Hovering over you, eyes dark, his fingers trailing over your ribs, your stomach, up to your collarbones.

For once, he’s not rushing.

This time is slower, more deliberate.

Jake peels your clothes off piece by piece, kissing each newly exposed patch of skin, his mouth reverent, like he’s memorizing every inch of you. He lingers at your stomach, your hips, your inner thighs—leaving soft, open-mouthed kisses, his breath hot against your sensitive skin.

And you do the same, taking your time dragging your hands down his torso, feeling the muscles tense under your fingertips. You push down his briefs, freeing him completely, and the way his cock twitches in anticipation makes your thighs press together.

Then—finally—he sinks into you.

And it’s so fucking much.

The stretch, the heat, the way his hips press flush against yours, leaving no space between you. His forehead drops to your shoulder, a wrecked, trembling breath escaping him as he fully seats himself inside you.

He doesn’t move. He just stays there, buried to the hilt, breathing hard, his body shaking like he’s about to fall apart.

You feel everything—every pulse, every twitch, every inch of him pressing so deep inside you it makes your breath hitch.

“Jake,” you whisper, voice soft, fingers threading through his hair. “Look at me.”

Nothing.

He’s still hiding—head tucked against your neck, panting against your skin, avoiding your eyes like he’s afraid of what he’ll see.

“Jakey,” you murmur again, voice lilting, teasing. “Baby, look at me.”

Still nothing.

So you smack him.

“Ow—what the fuck?” he sputters, head snapping up.

And you take advantage of his shock—grabbing his face, cupping his jaw, forcing him to look at you.

The moment his eyes finally meet yours, something shifts.

His pupils are blown, his lips parted, his breathing erratic. You watch his throat work as he swallows hard, his body stiffening above you.

And then—his gaze drops.

Straight to your tits.

“Ohhh, fuck,” he groans, completely mesmerized, and instead of thrusting, instead of moving at all—he just stares. “Holy shit.”

You smack him again.

“Jake!”

“SORRY!” He grins, voice breathless, but his eyes don’t leave your chest. “It’s just—you look so fucking good—”

“You dumbass, I said look at me,” you growl, yanking his chin up—forcing his eyes back on yours.

He exhales sharply. And this time, he listens.

Eyes locked on yours, he lowers himself, lips grazing over your collarbone, trailing lower—lower—until his mouth finallycloses over your nipple.

“Ohhh, fuck,” you moan, your back arching into him as his tongue flicks over the sensitive bud.

Jake groans, low and deep, sucking hard, his lips wrapping around the soft flesh, but his eyes never leave your face.

“That’s it, baby—” His voice is thick, raspy, hot against your skin. “Wanted my fucking eyes? You got ’em.”

Fuck, it’s so much worse.

The way he’s sucking on your tits, so focused, so intent, his hips starting to rock against you in slow, deep thrusts—never breaking eye contact.

“You’re gonna watch me, baby,” he breathes, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses over your skin between every filthy suck. “Gonna watch me fucking ruin you.”

You whimper, clenching hard around him, and his groan vibrates against your breast.

“Oh my fucking god,” he chokes, voice breaking. “*You’re squeezing me so fucking tight—ngh—fuck, baby, you feel so good.”

You’re a mess now, panting, gasping, fingers threading through his damp hair, pulling him closer.

“Jake— ohhh my god—”

“Louder,” he demands, voice rough, biting just hard enough to make you cry out. “Scream for me, baby—let me fucking hear you.”

And you do.

You moan his name so loud, your body shaking beneath him, and Jake fucking loses it.

“Fuuuuck— baby—fuck, you’re gonna make me—ngh—”

His hips snap forward, pace turning desperate, his breath coming in wrecked, gasping moans as he buries himself inside you, his cock hitting so deep it makes your vision blur.

“Come with me,” he pleads, voice wrecked, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing rough, frantic circles. “Fuck, please,”

The coil snaps.

Your orgasm rips through you, your walls squeezing around him so hard it has Jake shouting.

“Ohhh fuuuuck—”

His whole body trembles as he spills inside you, his hips twitching, his moans so loud, so filthy, his eyes still locked on yours even as he completely falls apart.

His thrusts stutter, erratic, drawing out every last wave of pleasure until he’s completely drained, panting, shaking, forehead pressed against yours.

A few moments pass, the air thick with heat and heavy breathing.

Then—Jake huffs a breathless laugh.

“Did you really fucking smack me?” he murmurs against your skin.

You smirk, breathless, fingers still buried in his hair. “Wouldn’t have had to if you weren’t a goddamn tit guy.”

Jake grins. “Guilty.” He kisses your collarbone, then your throat, then your jaw. “But can you blame me?”

You roll your eyes, legs still locked around his waist. “Just shut up and hold me, Jakey.”

And this time—he does.

"I think I'm falling for you," he says quietly, the words slipping out in the darkness before he can consider their implications.

You're silent for a moment, and Jake holds his breath, suddenly terrified. Then you prop yourself up on an elbow, looking down at him in the moonlight.

"I know," you say with a small smile. "Your distraction campaign has been pretty obvious."

Jake's eyes widen. "You knew?"

"Of course I knew. I've been competing with you for three years. I know how your mind works." You trace his jawline with one finger. "What I couldn't figure out was when it stopped being a strategy and started being real."

"I'm not sure I know either," Jake admits. "Maybe it was real from the beginning, and I just didn't want to admit it."

You lean down to kiss him, soft and sweet. "For what it's worth, I'm falling for you too. Even though you're still a competitive jerk sometimes."

"And you're still an academic show-off," he retorts, but he's smiling as he pulls you back down against his chest.

As you drift to sleep in his arms, Jake realizes with a start that he hasn't thought about the Harrison Fellowship once all evening. More surprisingly, he doesn't care.

Sunday morning brings clear skies and the reluctant awareness that their weekend escape is coming to an end. Jake wakes to find you already up, sitting cross-legged on the end of the bed with your laptop open.

"I thought there was no internet here," he says, sitting up groggily.

"There isn't," you confirm. "But I downloaded all my research documents before we left. I've been working on my fellowship application."

Jake blinks, his brain still foggy with sleep. "You... what?"

You glance at him over your shoulder. "I've been up since six. Thought I'd get some work done before you woke up."

"But this was supposed to be..." Jake trails off, realizing too late what he's about to admit.

"A way to keep me from working on my application?" you finish, arching an eyebrow. "Yeah, I figured that out about five minutes after you invited me."

Jake groans, falling back against the pillows. "Am I that transparent?"

"Only to me," you assure him, closing your laptop and crawling up the bed to kiss him. "And I came anyway, because I wanted to spend the weekend with you. But I'm still going to win that fellowship."

"You're terrifying," Jake informs you, pulling you down for a proper kiss. "And impressive."

"I know," you reply with a smirk that reminds him exactly why he's been obsessed with you for three years.

They spend their final morning at the cabin making love once more before reluctantly packing up to return to campus. The drive back is comfortable, your hand resting on Jake's thigh as he drives, the radio playing softly in the background.

As the campus comes into view, Jake feels a strange reluctance to return to reality—to classes and competition and the looming fellowship decision. The weekend has changed something fundamental between you, but he's not sure how it will translate back to real life.

"What now?" he asks as he pulls into a parking space outside your dorm.

You turn to face him, expression serious. "Now we both work our asses off on our applications, ace our finals, and see what happens. No sabotage, no distractions."

"And us?" Jake asks, surprised by how much your answer matters to him.

"Us is separate from the competition," you say firmly. "I want to be with you, Jake. But I'm still going to try to beat you in every class."

Jake laughs, relief washing over him. "I wouldn't have it any other way, princess."

You lean across the console to kiss him goodbye, lingering longer than necessary. "See you tomorrow, Jakey. I've got a fellowship application to finish."

As he watches you walk away, Jake is struck by the realization that for the first time since freshman year, he doesn't care if you beat him. He just wants you both to succeed.

Back at his apartment, Ethan takes one look at his face and bursts out laughing.

"Oh man, you've got it bad," he says, shaking his head. "What happened to 'Total Disruption'?"

Jake collapses onto the couch with a groan. "It all backfired. Spectacularly. She knew what I was doing the whole time."

"No shit," Ethan says, not even looking up from his game. "Everyone knew. You weren't exactly subtle."

"What do you mean everyone knew? I was totally subtle!"

Ethan pauses his game and turns to face Jake, exasperation written all over his face. "Dude. You literally canceled a meeting with your fellowship advisor because she texted asking if you wanted coffee. You've been walking around campus with this dopey smile for weeks. You drew her. Multiple times."

"That was part of the plan!" Jake protests.

"The plan you spent more time talking about than actually studying for the fellowship you supposedly care so much about?"

Jake opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. "Okay, but here's the thing—"

"No," Ethan holds up a hand. "Here's the thing. You're in love with her. You have been for weeks. Maybe months. Maybe years, who knows?"

"I just realized it today," Jake admits quietly.

"TODAY?" Ethan throws his hands up. "Oh my god. I literally told you this would happen the day you made your stupid plan! Day one, I said, 'You're going to fall for her,' and you said, 'No way, it's purely strategic.'"

"I didn't think—"

"Obviously!" Ethan's practically shouting now. "You've been so busy convincing yourself this was all some master scheme that you completely missed what everyone else could see from a mile away."

"It wasn't that obvious," Jake mutters defensively.

"You FRAMED a PHOTO of her! It's on your NIGHTSTAND!"

"That was to remind me of my enemy—"

"Oh my GOD, will you STOP?" Ethan throws a pillow that hits Jake square in the face. "Just admit it. The great Jake Sim, master strategist, completely played himself."

Jake is silent for a long moment, then sighs heavily. "Fine. You were right. I played myself. I fell for her. Hard. Are you happy now?"

"Ecstatic," Ethan deadpans. "So what's the plan now, Romeo?"

Jake stares at the ceiling, thinking about your parting words. About competition and companionship, about winning and wanting.

"The plan," he says slowly, "is to stop planning so much and just... see what happens."

"Revolutionary," Ethan rolls his eyes. "What about the fellowship?"

Jake sits up, a new determination settling over him. "I'm still going to try to win it. But not by sabotaging her—by actually earning it. And if she wins instead..." He pauses, surprised to find he means what he's about to say. "Then she deserves it."

"Who are you and what have you done with Jake Sim?" Ethan asks, though his sarcasm has softened slightly.

Jake's phone buzzes with a text from you. He checks it immediately, a smile spreading across his face at the message: Missing my Jakey already. Study date tomorrow? I'll bring the coffee if you bring those amazing notes from Richardson's lecture.

"Case in point," Ethan says, watching Jake's expression change. "Completely whipped."

"I am not—"

"Just answer your girlfriend and spare me the denial," Ethan cuts him off, turning back to his game.

Jake ignores him, typing back: It's a date, princess. I'll even let you borrow my sweatshirt again.

Your reply comes seconds later: Bold of you to assume I was planning to give the first one back.

The warmth that spreads through Jake's chest at your message is undeniable, as is the realization that his perfect plan has completely, utterly, wonderfully failed.

Because the truth—which he's finally ready to admit—is that somewhere between calculated kisses and genuine laughter, between strategic touches and real connections, Jake Sim has done the one thing he never planned on:

He's fallen in love with his greatest rival. And he couldn't be happier about it.

fin.

TL: @ziiao @beariegyu @seonhoon @somuchdard @ijustwannareadstuff20 @ddolleri @zzhengyu @annybah @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltigloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @inlovewithningning @vveebee @m3wkledreamy @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @bloomiize @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4ss @starniras @wonuziex @sol3chu @simj4k3 @kkamismom12 @princesstiti14

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