thecoolestastrophile

[thecoolestastrophile]

AIGHJSHSKSBAKSH MY BABY 💔💔💔💔

it’s why I chose to leave without saying goodbye.

[thecoolestastrophile]

AUGHJFSNKSHS MY BABIES

What happens when the LADS guys are caught crying?

A/N: what the title says :) . I've always been someone that people have come to with their problems (forever the therapist friend) and comforting them. But I was thinking about what it'd be like to see the lads men cry, as there's a stigma around men crying (which is stupid but anyways). They're a lil short, but I hope you enjoy!

Warnings: a lil angst, mentions of death, comfort, crying

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Rafayel 

When Thomas called you saying Rafayel had been dodging his calls all day, you weren't surprised. That was typical of your boyfriend. You decided to give him a call and maybe persuade him to finish a painting or two, but he didn't answer. Growing slightly concerned, you called again, but still nothing. Rafayel never missed your calls. He had even answered one day when he was using the bathroom, never wanting to miss a call from his muse. Since you were off work today anyway, you decided to pay him a visit, grabbing your keys and heading to his place. 

It was eerily empty in his house, which worried you even more. Something was off. Had he decided to go on a spontaneous trip out of town? He would have answered your calls then. You decided to try calling him again, not knowing what else to do. Your heart sank when you heard the familiar jingle play, going towards his phone that was going off. Rafayel had left his phone behind. Even more unheard of. The first place you thought of to look for him was the sea, the beach outside his house. If he wasn't there, there were a few more places to try, but that was the closest place. Opening his back door, you stepped out into his yard, leaving it and walking along the sand. 

You had almost decided to turn around and look somewhere else when you spotted a figure up ahead. The head of lilac hair told you it was Rafayel. His knees were pulled to his chest, sitting in the sand, his head gazing out to the sea, his clothes soaked as sat where the waves met the sand, the waves brushing up against him. A breath of relief left your lips, though you were still concerned. Picking up your pace, you jogged over to him, watching him as you got closer. You could tell that something was wrong in the way he sat and gazed out to the sea. Slowing down when you were close, you could see tears falling like pearls from his eyes, slipping down his face and splattering into the sea water. Your heart broke at the sight, carefully moving to sit next to him, not caring about getting your favorite pants soaked. When your arm wrapped around him, he jumped slightly, turning to see who had joined him. Saying nothing, you pulled him closer to you, his head easily falling onto your chest, a silent way of telling him it was okay to be crying. A way to tell him that you were there for him. 

His arms unraveled from his legs and wrapped around you, the sea beginning to soak your legs and his tears soaking your shirt. You brought a hand up to his head, patting his hair as he cried. When he seemed to settle, his tears slowing, you broke the silence. “What happened?” 

“It's nothing,” he muttered. 

“If it got you out here crying and not answering my calls it's not nothing,” you argued. 

“Sorry,” he hid his face. You gently placed a hand on his cheek, encouraging to face you. 

“You don't need to apologize, Raf. I'm more worried than anything. You know you can talk to me, right? You can cry or scream or pout in front of me and I won't run. I care about you so very much.” 

“I miss home,” his voice broke slightly as he admitted what was bothering him. You nodded in understanding, staying silent. “I miss Lemuria. My friends and family. My home. The stupid fish and whales. I miss all of them and I'm the only one I can blame for that. It's my fault they're gone.” His words sat heavy in your hearts. He had told you of his history and past. You didn't remember what had happened, but believed him when he told you, feeling that the two of you were connected, the bond proving it. 

“I can't say that's not entirely true, and I don't remember what happened, but I don't think you can blame just yourself. You still tried everything in your power to save your people. You fell in love. You were young. No one can blame you for that. I know my situation is completely different, but I miss home sometimes too. It's hard. I can't even imagine how much harder it is when your home literally no longer exists,” you told him. He nodded. “Do you regret what you did?” You suddenly asked. 

“Not at all. I'd choose you every time,” he stated. 

“Then you shouldn't take the full blame for what happened. You tried. You really did.” 

Silence fell over the two of you as you watched the waves. You held him in your arms as he sat silently, a few tears falling every now and then. “Is there anything I can do to make your home here feel more like home? I can try to cook a dish from Lemuria or decorate your house,” you offered.

“You feel like home. Just you being here helps,” he admitted. I nodded. 

“Then I'll be sure to come over more often. And if you find yourself missing home, tell me and I'll come. How about we head back and cuddle up? Watch a movie or something?” You offered, knowing snuggling was his ultimate weakness as well as comfort. He nodded in agreement. You stood first, offering your hand to him. He frowned, looking up at you. 

“Those are your favorite pants, why did you come sit here?” He asked. You shrugged. 

“Cause you're more important to me.” 

“More important than that stupid bird plushie?” His eyes narrowed. You smiled at him. He held such a grudge towards the plush, as you chose one time to have it in your arms while you slept. “Even more than the plushie,” you smiled. He nodded, smiling and grabbed your hand standing up. He pulled you into his chest, hugging you. 

“Thank you,” he whispered. 

“Of course. Let's get going.” 

Hand in hand, you all walked back to his place. Once there, you both changed into dry clothes before ordering some food and picking a movie to watch. You had fallen asleep in his arms, too comfortable to not fall asleep. He smiled down at you, thankful that his bride had returned to him. Thankful that he still had part of his home. 

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Sylus

You waltzed into Sylus's office, excited to tell him about your promotion at work. But as soon as you entered, you froze mid sentence, looking at the sight before you. Your boyfriend, Sylus, sitting behind his desk, holding his head in-between his hands. When he looked up at you, his eyes were red, a few tears streaming down his face. He immediately looked away, praying you hadn't noticed. “Sy, are you,” you paused, stunned. “Crying?” 

“No,” he spoke, voice hoarse. You carefully walked over to him, as if afraid to scare him by moving too suddenly. He was lying of course, tears evident on his face. Moving behind the desk with him, you awkwardly hugged him, lightly pushing his face into your chest as your arms wrapped around him. 

“You know, you always tell me it's okay to cry and it doesn't make me any less strong, don't you know it's the same for you? It's okay to cry. Even when you're the big bad boss of Onychinus,” you whispered. He nodded, biting back tears. You stayed as you were, allowing whatever happened to happen. He was unsuccessful in holding back his tears, crying softly into your chest. It was still a shock to you. Sylus was the definition of someone who presented as if nothing could make him cry. It didn't bother you at all, it was just a surprise. Your concern though, was what had happened to make him cry. But you could ask later, and you did, when his tears stopped and he wriggled out of your grasp to grab a tissue. You watched him carefully, observing him. His nose and eyes red, expression downcast. It was unfamiliar to you. You had never seen or heard of him crying. “Wanna talk about it?” You asked. He licked his lips, unsure. 

“If you don't mind,” he finally decided. 

“Not at all,” you answered, moving to sit on his desk in front of him. He smiled softly up at you before taking a deep breath. 

“Some dickhead went on a rampage in the N-109 zone. Slaughtered hundreds of men, women and children for fun,” he spat. “About a year ago, I ran into a child walking around on the street. She had lost her parents and I surprised everyone by supporting her. I found a place for her to live, I visited often to make sure she was doing okay and being taken care of. She was on her way here when she was killed in front of my eyes. I couldn't do anything to save her,” he finished, looking down and biting his lip. You were stunned at the news and furious that something so horrible had happened. 

“Do you need me to go kill this guy? Because I will,” you offered. He chuckled at that. 

“He's been taken care of. Got what he asked for, I made sure of that,” he informed me. You nodded. 

“So it's the loss of this girl?” you carefully asked. He nodded. 

“It's weird and even surprised me, but she kinda felt like a daughter,” he admitted. Not knowing what else to do, you stood up and hugged him. 

“I'm sorry that happened. Truly,” you told him. He gave a slight nod and hugged you back, pulling you in closer. 

“I should have gotten there faster. I didn't know she was there. If I was quicker she could have lived,” he whispered. 

“You don't know that for sure. You didn't know she was there. There was no way to even know she was there. You did all you could, don't blame yourself. It's not your fault,” you soothed. 

“It feels like it is,” he admitted. 

“I know. But you weren't the one to take her life, you did all you could. It may be a bit too soon to think about, but do you want to hold a service for her? You said she lost her parents, so there's not really anyone to do a service,” you offered. 

“That'd be nice. Luke and Kieran have her,” he informed me, words getting softer as the reality continued to hit him. You nodded and moved to place your hands on his cheeks, guiding his lips to yours and pressing a quick kiss to them. “I'll plan it, just tell me what she liked,” you smiled softly at him. He smiled back, sadly. 

“Okay. Use my card for it all. She deserves the best service we can get.” 

“And the best she will. Wanna go get cleaned up?” You asked, he nodded and you guided him to his bathroom, showering with him both literally and with love. Making sure to scrub off any remnants of his fight and loss. You could tell he was still processing it all, upset but not fully grasping the situation. Once clean, you forced him to eat some food before getting into bed with him. Usually, he'd hold you, but today was different. He half laid down on you, head resting on your chest as he listened to your heartbeat. A few tears fell every so often, but he no longer tried to hide them, the grief hitting him. You stayed with him, whispering words of comfort to him, rubbing his back. 

It wouldn't be easy, but with you by his side, Sylus would hold the perfect service for the little girl and process his grief, thankful he had you by his side throughout the whole thing- whether he was strong or weak. 

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Xavier 

When you woke up you were immediately confused, the unfamiliar sterile white ceiling staring back at you. You tried to move, but nothing happened. So you took in the surrounding sounds. The steady beep of a monitor, the sound of a distant fan and talking. You figured you must be in a hospital. It was then that you heard a sniffle, making you blink. You couldn't remember what happened. Who was here with you? Were they crying? Your eyes finally moved, glancing to the side and finding your boyfriend, Xavier. His eyes were red and puffy as he cried. He still had blood from wanderers splattered on his uniform. He looked like he had been through hell and back…maybe he had. “Xav,” you managed to croak out. His eyes widened as he saw you were awake. 

“You're awake. How do you feel? Does it hurt anywhere? I'll get the nurse,” he rambled, standing up. 

“What happened?” You asked, ignoring his questions. He froze in place and returned to your bedside, gently grabbing one of your hands. His hands trembled slightly, making you grow more concerned. 

“I-im sorry. I couldn't get there in time, I was trying to warn you, but I failed and you were hit. Bad. I thought I was going to lose you and it was all my fault. All because I couldn't get to you in time. I'm so sorry,” he spoke, tears falling once again. You managed to shake your head. 

“It's okay Xavie. I know you tried. You did everything you could, I'm sure of it. I'm okay now. You're not gonna lose me,” you comforted him. You wanted nothing more than to reach out to him, to hold him and comfort him while he cried. So you tried, gasping in pain when you tried to move. 

“Don't move yet, you'll make it worse,” he scolded you immediately. 

“I wanna hold you,” you admitted. He frowned slightly before getting up and laying in the hospital bed next to you, his arms carefully wrapping around you so he wouldn't cause any further pain. “Are you okay?” You asked him. 

“I don't know,” he answered honestly. “I don't know what I would have done if I lost you.” 

“You'd move on and live your life of course,” you told him. 

“No,” he firmly stated. “I can't live my life without you. I promise I'll be faster next time.” 

“There's no need to beat yourself up about this Xavie. Part of our job is risking our lives. It was an accident. It'd take a lot more to end me.” 

“Promise?” 

“I promise. I'm not leaving you any time soon, okay?” He nodded and hid his face in your neck. You managed to gain enough strength to lift your hand and rub his back, comforting him. 

The nurse came in and he refused to move, which the nurse eventually accepted, mostly because you said you were fine for now. She asked a few questions and took the vitals she could manage to get without Xavier in the way, before leaving and informing you she'd be back later. When she left you placed your hands on Xavier's face, guiding him to look at you. You wiped away a few more tears with your thumb. “I've never seen you cry so much,” you admitted. 

“Only because it's you,” he whispered, nuzzling into your hand. You hummed in acknowledgement. “We should get some hot pot when I'm released to cheer you up,” you mused. 

“If it's what you want,” he agreed, making you pout at him. 

“What I want is for you to cheer up. Of course it's okay to cry, but that doesn't mean I like seeing you cry. I want you to always be happy.” 

“Then don't ever leave me,” he said seriously. 

“I don't plan on it,” you smiled at him before softly kissing his lips. 

“Good. Now get some more rest so you can heal up and come home,” he instructed. You nodded, moving your arms to snuggle closer to him, allowing his warmth to lull you to sleep. 

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Zayne 

“Guess who's favorite patient is here?! Oh shit,” you suddenly stopped, still holding the door to Zayne's office, freezing in place. His head was in his hands, glasses thrown onto his desk, his hair messy. What really threw you off though, was when he looked up, fresh tears falling down his face. You hadn't seen him cry since you were children, crying over scrapes from concrete. He quickly wiped them away, unsure what to say. You were the same, still frozen in place. Once your brain decided to process that your boyfriend was crying, you hesitantly closed the door behind you and walked over to his desk. He watched uncomfortably. You weren't meant to see him in this state. Hell, he rarely was in a state like this, no one but him should see. “I- you- are,” you attempted to formulate a question, sighing when nothing that made sense came out. “Are you okay? What happened?” You finally asked. Your heart clenched at his reaction, his face welling up in pain before a sob left his throat. Concerned, you quickly made your way around his desk, pulling him into a hug. He buried his face in your stomach, gripping onto you tightly. You had no words, still stunned by the sight, hands instinctively rubbing his back. 

You stayed like that until your back grew sore from the position, Zayne's tears stopping. He broke the hug and leaned back into his chair, apologizing. “I'm sorry you had to see me like that.”

“Don't be. Are you okay though?” You asked, knowing something was obviously wrong. He nodded. 

“Yes. I guess I just got a bit overwhelmed. With the wanderer attack I haven't been home in days. I've barely slept or eaten. It's surgery after surgery, but I can't just not perform. That's someone's life. It hasn't been this back and forth in a while,” he explained. You nodded. 

“Is there no one else who can do the surgeries? You need to rest,” you chided him. 

“There wasn't. There is now. Fucking 72 hours later,” he breathed frustratedly. 

“That explains why you hadn't answered my texts,” you mused. “I figured you were busy, but not this busy to where you haven't slept in days.” He nodded. 

“Can we go home?” He asked, looking up at you. You smiled and nodded, bringing a hand to wipe away a stray tear. “I was going to leave after gathering myself, but you've already seen the worst of it.” 

“I'm glad I did in a way. Of course, I hate seeing you like this, but I want to be there for you. Overwhelmed and crying or stoic and loving. I wanna see all of it. Want me to get your things?” You offered. He smiled and shook his head, his hand guiding the hand that was once on his cheek to his lips, pressing a kiss to your hand. 

“I've got it. Thank you my love.” He stood and grabbed his things, packing away whatever he needed. You grabbed his hand and led him out of his office. 

When you got to his home, you immediately instructed him to wash up while you cooked him something. He agreed, not bothering to argue, though a shower was definitely what he wanted at that moment. Before cooking though, you quickly slipped out, walking down the road to his favorite dessert spot and getting some sweets for him. The woman at the counter recognized you and immediately got together your usual order- filled with your and Zayne's favorites. 

When you got back to his place you snuck back in, glancing to make sure he was still out of sight. Thankfully he was, opting to take a much needed long and hot shower. After placing the bag of sweets on the counter, you got to work. Zayne left the shower some time later, announcing his presence by hugging you from behind while you cooked, the scent of his body wash filling your nostrils. “Feel better?” You asked. He hummed in agreement. “Sleepy?” You chuckled. He made a noise of agreement, muffled as he hid his face in your shoulder, taking in your scent. He was relieved to finally be home. “I got you something,” you smiled down at the food you were making. 

“You did? When?” He asked. You nodded to the bag on the counter. 

“While you were in the shower. Thought you could use some sweets.” 

“That's an understatement,” he chuckled. When the food was done, the two of you ate, you doing most of the talking as Zayne was tired. He was happy to listen though. He could listen to you talk about your day for hours. You could be reading a dictionary and he'd happily listen to every word. After eating, you did the dishes, slapping Zayne's hand away when he tried to help, instructing him to head to bed first. With a kiss pressed to your cheek, he listened. 

Once done with dishes and getting yourself ready for bed, you joined Zayne, easily snuggling up next to him. He was half asleep, but still managed to thank you. “Thank you for this. You always know exactly what I need. All I wanted was to come home to you and sleep,” he admitted. 

“I would agree, though my days haven't been quite as intense. I'm happy to take care of you. I'll ask off tomorrow so we can spend all day in bed,” you offered. 

“You don't need to do that,” he insisted. 

“Too late,” you smiled. “Get some rest, I love you Zayne.” 

“Sleep well my love,” he mumbled out, falling asleep now that he has said everything he wanted to. 

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Caleb 

You wanted to surprise Caleb. He was going to be in town and you hadn't seen him in a while. So instead of meeting him at your place, you decided to show up at his work. You were able to get through security pretty easily, as Caleb had brought you a few times when you visited. You excitedly knocked at his office door before opening it and stepping in. “Surprise!” You called out, a smile immediately turning into a frown when you saw him holding his arm, wincing as tears fell. You ran over to him, gently holding his mechanical arm and looking it over. “Caleb, are you okay? Where does it hurt?” You asked him. 

“It's nothing,” he answered, stopping his tears. It was the same as when they were kids. 

“How many times do I have to tell you it's not nothing if you're crying? That it's okay to cry in front of me?” You scolded him. “Now tell me where it hurts.” 

“I know. But I'm supposed to be there for you, not the other way around. I don't need to be taken care of,” he argued. 

“Everyone needs to be taken care of sometimes. That's how a relationship works. You're there for me and now I'm here for you, so stop hiding,” you sighed. He looked down, avoiding your gaze. 

“It just got an upgrade. They usually hurt, but not this bad,” he softly explained. 

“Do you think there was a malfunction? Should I notify your doctor?” You asked. He shrugged. 

“I'm fine,” he got out, just before wincing again, his hand going to grab his shoulder. You frowned and picked up the phone on his desk, calling for the doctor. 

“Let me take care of you for once,” you told him after putting the phone down, hand reaching to wipe away a few tears that he failed to hold back. “Losing an arm is reason enough to cry anyway. You don't have to pretend it doesn't hurt for me. I don't want you to do that at all.” He nodded, listening to your words. You wrapped your arms around him in a hug, patting his hair until there was a knock at the door. You moved to open the door, letting in two men dressed in lab coats. Caleb explained what was happening and the two worked together to take his vitals and work on his mechanical arm. You brought a chair next to Caleb, holding his hand as they worked. He tried his best to make it seem painless, but failed, wincing every now and then. After some time, the men left. “Better?” You asked him, rubbing his arm. He nodded. 

“Yeah, sorry you had to see that,” he apologized. 

“Apologize again and I'm leaving you. You were this bad when we were kids, how have you not changed at all? I cried all the time in front of you and still do and you don't think I'm weak, right?” You asked. 

“Of course not. You're the strongest hunter I know,” he scoffed. 

“Then why do you think crying is going to make you weak? You're still the strongest commander I know. Getting used to a mechanical arm can't be easy, not to mention, it's newer tech. There's going to be errors.” 

“Yeah I guess,” he half heartedly agreed. You sighed, knowing there wasn't really a way to convince him. You decided on cheering him up the same way you did as when you were kids, knocking the hat off his head and throwing it across the room. “Wha-” he began laughing. You shrugged at him. 

“Only way I know to cheer you up. Should I continue?” You threatened with a grin. He shrugged and you pounced, immediately your fingers finding the ticklish spot on his sides, attacking him. He bursted into laughter, attempting to push you away from him. Unfortunately for him, you were much stronger now than when you were kids. It wasn't until you felt the effects of his evol pushing you away, you were forced to stop. “That's cheating!” You yelled at him. 

“I'm doing what has to be done. There are other ways to cheer me up now, pipsqueak,” he grinned, standing from his chair. His hand found your cheek, caressing it as he grinned at you. “Like this,” he whispered before leaning in and kissing your lips. 

“Such a cheater,” you muttered, face flushed. He laughed and you felt the effects of his evol wear off. He wrapped his arms around you into a hug. 

“Thank you though. For being there and not telling me I'm a wimp for crying over a little pain,” he whispered into your ear. You punched his chest lightly, pulling back to look at him.

“A little bit of pain seems like an understatement, but I won't argue further. You're welcome though.” 

“Promise not to tell anyone about seeing me cry? I've threatened both of my doctors,” he admitted. 

“So you crying and being in pain happens often?!” You exclaimed. 

“I wouldn't say often-” 

“Why didn't you tell me? I would have made sure to come to all the appointments I could have,” you interrupted, disappointed in him a bit. 

“I'm sorry. I was stupid and truly believed you'd think I was a baby, still kinda worried about that if I'm honest,” he admitted. You crossed your arms on your chest. 

“I don't think that. Never will. You've always been way stronger than me. Promise you'll start telling me when you have appointments?” You asked. He nodded. 

“As long as you promise not to tell people I cry,” he agreed. 

“Deal. Now can we go spend the weekend together? A new arcade opened up down the road from my apartment.” Caleb smiled at you before grabbing his coat (and the hat that was thrown across the room). He took your hand and led you out of his office, ready to spend time with his favorite person.

[thecoolestastrophile]

HOLY SHIT

Say it, professor

Synopsis: Rafayel was a smug, unbothered student with eyes that undressed you every class. You were strict, composed, untouchable. Neither of you ever backed down—until the tension finally broke. Because if Rafayel wanted play games, he would for sure be the one to lose them.

Content warnings: Power imbalance, professor/student, explicit sexual content, semi-public sex, obsession, teasing dominance, light coercive language (consensual), soft power play, exhibitionism (implied), possessiveness, praise kink, dirty talk, office sex, sexual overstimulation, oral fixation, light marking, mutual pining, rafayel is a brat, student rafayel & professor mc, menace student raf, mc had enough of him.

Pairings: Rafayel x reader

Word count: 12.6k

A/n: it wasn't enough to write prof raf, i had to write student raf too bcs this dude would be a menace and i stand by that

There’s a certain rhythm to the start of every semester. New faces, stiff notebooks, students pretending to care while you introduce the syllabus. You’ve done this enough times now to expect the pattern—clear, predictable, and boring.

And then the door creaks open. Half an hour in. No knock. No hesitation. Just… him. He walks in like he owns the floor beneath his boots. No rush. No apology. Loose black shirt, collar casually undone, tousled purple hair that’s either a masterpiece or a mess. One hand wrapped lazily around a coffee cup that definitely didn’t come from the campus café. His eyes scan the room—disinterested, slow—until they find yours.

You don’t blink, you just raise a brow, unimpressed. “You must be Rafayel.”

His mouth curls into a smirk, slow and unbothered. “Word travels fast.”

You shift your weight against the edge of the desk, arms crossed. “Only when someone emails three hours before class to enroll late… and still manages to show up late to that.”

A few chuckles ripple through the rows. He doesn’t flinch—he basks in it, like a smug little child that he is so bent on acting like.

“Time is relative,” he says, as if that explains everything. “Plato would agree.”

You give him your best polite smile, the kind that bites beneath the surface. “And yet even Plato would’ve made it to class on time.”

He strolls down the center aisle like he’s descending from some gilded throne, taking a seat three rows in. Dead center. Close enough to make his presence felt. Far enough to keep the upper hand.

“Carry on,” he murmurs, stretching out like this is his stage. “I’ll catch up.”

You stare for a beat too long, already regretting your life choices. Fine. Two can play.

“As I was saying,” you continue, letting your voice sharpen just enough to slice, “this course explores how we define beauty, truth, meaning—and why artists love to pretend they’re above it all while secretly begging the universe to call them special.”

Your eyes slide to him. “Some more than others.”

He doesn’t flinch, just gives you an infuriating smile.

The rest of the lecture rolls on. You don’t look at him again. He lounges in his seat like the material’s beneath him, one leg lazily crossed over the other, eyes half-lidded as you dissect Kant’s idea of disinterested beauty and Plato’s Forms. You see the way other students glance at him—whispered recognition, the tension of sitting near someone who’s already been in galleries they can only dream of. But you don’t feed it. He’s just another student. Late, cocky, and already trying to act like he’s bored.

You don’t care. You’re not here to entertain, and especially not him.

Finally, you reach the end of the class. Closing your laptop, you straighten up and face the room with calm authority.

“There’s no textbook in the world that can teach you what art means to you,” you say, voice clear. “Which is why your first project is a little… unconventional.”

You let the words hang a beat.

“I want you to pick a piece of art—any piece. Painting, film, song, sculpture, poem. Something that makes you feel something. I want to know what you think it means. What truth it carries. Not what the critics say. Not what the artist claimed. What you see.”

There’s a murmur through the class. Some intrigued, some already anxious. You continue, casually flipping through your notes. “It’s due in two weeks. No minimum length, but if I feel you’re bullshitting, I will know.”

That’s when you catch it, movement from his row. You glance up.

He’s smirking, his voice smooth, lazy. “So, basically… art therapy with a grading system?”

A few people laugh. You don’t. You give him a single, flat look. “If that’s the level of depth you’re bringing to the assignment, you might want to drop the class now.”

His smirk falters, just barely.

You add, evenly, “Even if you’re a published artist with gallery acclaim and far too much time on your hands… it wouldn’t hurt to learn how to feel something about the work instead of just displaying it.”

You don’t say his name. You don’t need to. The way a few students shift awkwardly, trying not to look at him, is enough. But he just leans back, lacing his fingers behind his head like this is all part of the game.

There’s a flash in his eyes now, playful, challenged.

“Touché,” he murmurs.

You don’t smile, just begin to gather your things. “Class dismissed.”

As the students file out, you barely glance his way. Not even a nod. He waits an extra moment, watching you pack up, expecting maybe another jab, another glance.

He gets nothing. And somehow, that is what really gets to him.

————

You don’t call on him. Not once during the next classes. Not even when the question hangs in the air a little too long and his gaze flickers up, amused. You ask someone else. Anyone else.

And still, he’s always there in the third row, center. That damn seat like a throne.

You thought maybe it was a one time thing. That after the first class, with his lazy arrogance and too pretty smirk, he’d vanish and find a studio to haunt instead. But no. He shows up. Every single time.

The next four classes go like this. He walks in right on time, but never early. Takes the same seat, sprawls in it like he’s claiming territory. His notebook stays closed. His pen rarely moves. Sometimes he plays with his rings or adjusts the single earring in his left ear like he’s half-listening to a private soundtrack only he can hear. His eyes? Always half-lidded, distant, like the whole discussion on Plato’s form of the Good or Nietzsche’s abyss is some elaborate joke. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t raise his hand. But he watches. You feel it sometimes when your back is turned to the board—his stare, sharp and curious, like he’s dissecting you as much as the subject.

You don’t give him the satisfaction. Not even a sigh. But it’s getting under your skin. His indifference. His presence. His stupidly perfect jawline. The casual way he dresses like he rolled out of bed and still manages to look like he stepped off a magazine cover. You’ve seen that picture of him in two art magazines. Two.

And now he’s here, in your classroom, wasting time and space and oxygen, pretending like he’s bored out of his mind.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You grade the papers. You lead the discussion. You walk into class like his seat is empty.

But still, you know exactly what kind of artist he is. You’ve heard enough through the grapevine. The raw talent. The acclaim. The ridiculous whisper that he sold his first gallery piece at nineteen. And more than that, you’ve heard the one thing that should have warned you.

“Rafayel only pays attention to people who can keep up with him.”

Which is, you assume, the only reason he took your class in the first place. Not for the syllabus. Not for the credit. Just to see if you’d bite.

So far? You haven’t. But god, if you don’t want to wipe that cocky, bored smirk off his face.

————

You’re halfway through your lecture—something about the subjective framing of meaning in postmodern visual culture—when you notice it again.

Rafayel, third row center, leaned back in his chair like he’s physically allergic to giving a damn. His sketchpad is open—not with notes, of course—but with loose graphite lines bleeding across the page. You catch the flick of his wrist as he draws, head tilted, one leg crossed lazily over the other like this is his personal studio and not a philosophy class.

He doesn’t even pretend to care. Not a glance at the board. Not a twitch when you speak.

What the hell is he even doing here?

You feel it simmering under your skin—his smugness, his presence, the way his pencil dances instead of his mind. And then—goddamn it—when he does look up, it’s not at the board. It’s at you. Always at you.

He watches like you’re a painting in progress. Chin propped in one hand, pencil now between his teeth as he chews on the eraser with infuriating nonchalance. His eyes drag from your face to your hips and back again—not subtle, never subtle—with that same faint smile. Not quite flirtation. Not quite mockery. Something just in between.

You don’t react, you don’t let yourself. You refuse to give him any damned reaction to whatever he thinks he’s doing. Instead, your tone sharpens as you lower your notes and sweep your gaze across the room.

“I’ve received nearly everyone’s assignment already,” you say, voice crisp. “If you haven’t sent it, today is the final day. No exceptions.”

Silence.

Then your gaze cuts cleanly to him. “Mr. Qi, I don’t believe I’ve seen yours.”

The room shifts,m subtle but immediate. A few heads turn. Your voice is even, professional, detached, but everyone hears it—that thin thread of irritation beneath.

Rafayel blinks once, slow and then reaches into his bag like you’ve just asked him the time.

“No rush,” he says, standing up like it’s a goddamn performance. “It’s right here.”

He approaches, each step lazy, predatory—unbothered by the attention, soaking in it. When he reaches your desk, he sets the folded paper down like it’s not a mere assignment, but some sacred offering. Then he leans in slightly, eyes glinting with something too smug to be innocent.

“You asked for meaning,” he murmurs, low enough that only you can hear. “I figured I’d start by choosing a piece that reminds me of you.”

You don’t blink.

“Is that so?” you say flatly, picking up the paper without so much as glancing at him. “Must I remind you it’s a philosophy course, not a performance piece.”

He smiles wider, teeth flashing like challenge. “I’ll try to contain myself.”

You look up at him, gaze ice-cold. “Thank you for your submission. You can take your seat now.”

Something flickers across his face then, just for a second. The smile slips and his eyes narrow, not in anger, but in interest. Like he felt the hit.

He nods once. “Of course, professor.”

Then he turns, saunters back to his seat, and this time… his face is unreadable.

The class ends soon after that. You dismiss them with a nod and barely wait for the last pair of footsteps to disappear down the hall before you head back to your office, folders clutched tight in your arms like armor.

The door clicks shut behind you, locking the world out. You exhale, like the breath has been caged in your chest the whole class and now could finally break free.

You don’t want to think about him. But you do. You force yourself to start with the others. It’s only fair. You read through the first three submissions quickly—solid work, but nothing particularly groundbreaking. A few are too stiff, like they were written to impress a ghost of academia rather than explore truth. One uses too many buzzwords. One completely misinterprets Barthes, but at least tried. You take notes, you type scores, you sip your now-cold coffee.

But your fingers twitch. That folded page at the bottom of the stack—his—sits there like a goddamn challenge, practically vibrating with the audacity of existing in your space.

You last maybe five more minutes before you give in. You slide it out from the pile, carefully unfolding it with a sigh already half-formed on your lips.

And then your stomach drops. It’s a charcoal sketch—subtle, moody, uncomfortably intimate. A woman, clearly, seated on a chair with her back slightly arched, hair spilling across her bare shoulders, shirt falling off one arm, eyes closed. The way her neck is exposed, the soft tension in her fingers… it’s not explicit. But it’s not innocent, either.

And the worst part?

You recognize the pose. Because it’s you. Or at least close enough to make your pulse spike.

One of the first classes. That moment you turned to the board, shoulder to the class, adjusting your collar absentmindedly while quoting Kant. You remember the feeling of his eyes on you then. You knew.

And below the sketch, scrawled in that sharp, deliberate handwriting: “Truth lies in the tension between restraint and desire. You asked for honesty.”

Your eyes narrow. The arrogant bastard. You flip the page, expecting garbage. Something half-assed. But it’s not. The written analysis is solid. He references Schopenhauer and Nietzsche with surprising clarity. He even challenges a few popular interpretations with his own arguments—and annoyingly, they’re good. Not perfect. He’s messy with transitions, and one paragraph veers dangerously close to emotional indulgence.

But it’s real. It’s thoughtful. And as much as you hate to admit it—he did the work.

You lean back in your chair, rubbing your temple. Of course he did. He baited you, and now he’s probably somewhere smug as hell, knowing you’re sitting here with flushed cheeks and that image still burning behind your eyelids.

You let the paper fall onto your desk. You won’t let him get to you.

————

It’s been two weeks. One unplanned absence, some vague “personal matters” that you didn’t explain to the class. They don’t need to know. But you needed the space. Needed a week to breathe. To shake off the lingering image of a sketch that felt too familiar, the scrawl of “tension and desire” echoing every time you tried to sleep.

You hated him for it. And worse, you gave him a damn A.

You walk into class dressed in discipline—tight skirt, fitted vest, cream blouse buttoned high and crisp. Your heels echo against the tile, and heads turn because they always do when you look like this—untouchable, focused.

Except for one. Third row, center. Of course. Rafayel. Leaning back in his chair like he never left it. Shirt undone just enough to be distracting, hair a deliberate mess, pencil dancing between his fingers as he sketches, not even pretending to hide it. No notebook. No textbook. Just lines and shadows and that goddamn infuriating smile.

You don’t look at him when you start.

“Before we begin,” you say, calm and measured, “I want to thank everyone who submitted their assignments. Some of you pushed yourselves. Some of you stayed too safe. And some of you…” Your eyes sweep the room, and you don’t stop when they land on him, but you let the pause sharpen. “...clearly enjoy making statements.”

A few students glance around. He doesn’t even flinch as he feels your eyes on him, hiding a grin.

You move on. The class unfolds as usual. You try to focus—on the lecture, on the material, on anyone except the boy who’s driving you absolutely insane. But it’s impossible. His posture, his bored little sighs. The fucking pencil tapping against his lip as he draws without care.

So you snap. Not visibly. Not emotionally. But tactically. You stop mid-slide and glance his way.

“Mr. Qi,” you say sweetly. “Since you seem so deeply engrossed in your own world, maybe you could tell us—what did Kant mean by the universality of aesthetic judgment?”

He doesn’t even blink and doesn’t sit up. He just looks at you like he’s been waiting for this.

“It means,” he starts, voice lazy but perfectly clear, “that beauty isn’t about opinion. It’s about a kind of shared feeling—a universal response to form and harmony. That something beautiful should feel beautiful to everyone, even if they can’t explain why.”

You stare.

He shrugs. “You said it best, professor. Week two. The way your eyes lit up when you broke it down—it kind of stuck with me.”

A few students laugh under their breath. He smiles, not obnoxiously, but just enough to sting.

You inhale through your nose, keeping your spine straight.

“Correct,” you say tightly. “Try keeping up with the next ten minutes too.”

He tips an invisible hat. “Wouldn’t dream of missing it.”

You move on, but your blood is simmering. He’s not just paying attention, he’s memorizing you. And that might be worse than not listening at all.

You feel his gaze like a burn—low, constant, and maddening. He’s drawing again. Always drawing. His pencil moving while you speak, his eyes flitting between the paper and you, like you’re just another subject to be studied. And you can’t help it, your mind drifts as you keep talking on the current subject in the class.

Is he sketching me again?

God, you hope not. God, you know he is. You don’t let your expression shift. You press through the lecture, push harder into the discussion, but it doesn’t matter. He’s lounging back, watching you from beneath those lashes, smug and beautiful and infuriatingly still here.

So fine. If he wants to play games, then let’s raise the stakes. As the clock winds down and students begin to pack their things, you speak above the shuffle, voice calm but firm.

“Mr. Qi, stay behind a moment.”

That gets attention. A few heads turn, one girl even whistles under her breath. He straightens a little in surprise but recovers quick, dragging out his movements like this is his idea. His smirk twitches, but you don’t look at him. Not until the room clears.

He stands in front of you now, casual, confident, waiting. He is still near his usual seat, still clutching that damn sketchpad like a weapon. You glance at the chair—the one he’s turned into a throne for weeks now—and scoff under your breath.

“Come here,” you say, sharp. “I’m tired of looking at you slouched in that godforsaken seat.”

His brows raise, lips twitching with surprise and delight, but he steps closer. Not hesitantly, no, but curiously. Like a lion sauntering toward a hand it knows won’t pet it.

You don’t meet his eyes. You reach into your bag, fingers brushing the paper you’ve stared at too many times this week. You feel his gaze settle on you again—those molten violet eyes burning through every layer of fabric, flesh, nerve.

You hold out the folded assignment.

“Here. You got an A,” you say, cool and professional. “Much to my dismay.”

He takes it from your hand, slow and deliberate, fingers brushing yours like it’s accidental, but you know better. The smile plastered on his face is pure sin.

“Well, you’re the one who said you wanted honesty,” he murmurs. “I thought giving you something inspired might help the grade curve.”

You give him a hard look. “I graded the work, not the artist.”

Another grin. “Pity.”

You inhale. No. No. You straighten your spine, grounding yourself in that thin veneer of authority you refuse to let crack.

“Your work’s decent,” you say. “But you’re too comfortable. Too cocky. You coast. I want to see what happens when you’re actually pushed.”

His head tilts, intrigued now. “Are you offering to push me, professor?”

“Stop,” you snap, sharper than intended. “I’m assigning you a personal project.”

His smile returns immediately, slow and gleaming like it knows something.

“Oh? A special assignment? Just for me? I didn’t realize we were doing favorites.”

You lean in slightly, eyes narrowed. “You’re not special. You’re annoying. But you’ve got potential, and if I have to scrape it out of you myself, so be it.”

He’s silent, watching you like you're the art now.

You continue. “I want an essay and a visual piece. Separate. Same theme.”

“And what’s the theme?” he asks, voice low, cautious—just the edge of real curiosity under the teasing tone.

You meet his gaze dead-on. “Obsession.”

Something flickers in his eyes, a flash of heat, of tension, of something too dangerous, something that should not be present in his eyes, not for you.

Then, the smile, slower this time, a little more darker.

“Well,” he murmurs, voice silk-slick and cutting. “That won’t be hard.”

————

You’re walking down the hall with a stack of papers pressed against your chest, mind already drifting to the next class, the grading backlog, the sheer volume of things you still need to do.

“Professor.” the voice is smooth and familiar and too close.

You blink and glance sideways just as he falls into step beside you, walking a little too fast to have just coincidentally caught up.

Rafayel. Of course. You tilt your head, arching a brow. “Is there something you need, or are you just bored of sketching in class and decided to stalk me instead?”

He grins, hands tucked in his pockets like this is all so very casual. “Tempting, but no. I figured I’d drop off some rough sketches. For the personal project.”

You pause in front of your office door, narrowing your eyes. “Class ended over two hours ago.”

“I know. But you said you wanted to see progress.” He shrugs. “I’m making progress.”

You don’t have time for games. Not now. With a soft huff, you turn the key and push the door open, nodding your head once in silent invitation.

He follows. Of course he does, like he can barely contain himself not to. The door clicks softly shut behind him, and you place your stack down, sorting it as you speak.

“All right. Let’s see them, then.”

He pulls a slim sketchpad from his bag and walks forward, setting it on your desk with that signature smug confidence. “Keep in mind, these are just concepts,” he says, voice teasing. “But they’re… honest.”

You open the cover and stop in your tracks. Your fingers still on the edge of the page, your pulse flickers as your eyes land on the page. The first sketch is tame at first glance. A pair of hands, fingers tangled, drawn in a way that feels desperate. Clingy. Needy. The texture of skin, the tension in the knuckles. The veins. The intimacy of it—unmistakable.

The second sketch is worse. Or better. You don’t know. It’s the curve of a back, caught mid-motion. Bare skin, a spine arched slightly, head tilted back like in pain or pleasure—it’s abstract, sure, but unmistakably sensual. Not explicit. But... felt.

And the last one—still incomplete—is a silhouette. A woman, perhaps. Staring down at something beneath her, mouth slightly parted. Your eyes linger on it longer than you mean to. And you know he’s watching you for every little flicker in your eyes or expression.

Your voice finally scrapes out, cool and measured. “They’re... raw.”

“Wasn’t that the assignment?” he murmurs. “Obsession?”

You keep your eyes on the paper. “You’ve captured tension well. Though some of these might be... misinterpreted.”

He hums low in his throat. “Only if someone’s looking too closely.”

You glance up at him. His expression is innocent, too innocent. You narrow your gaze. “Are these based on anything in particular?”

He tilts his head slightly, his purple eyes sharp like a match just waiting to strike. “Do they feel familiar?”

You refuse to take that bait. “I asked a question.”

“And I answered. Obsession, professor. It doesn’t always need a face.” he shrugs lightly. “But it helps.”

You cross your arms, the paper still in one hand. “You should be mindful of exactly who you draw inspiration from.”

He smiles. “I’m just doing my assignment.”

You stare at him for a beat too long. “I want the essay draft next. No later than Monday. And keep the sketches grounded in theme. Intimacy doesn’t always mean sexuality.”

He leans forward slightly, just enough for the air between you to shift. “Of course. But sometimes obsession does.”

Your jaw tics. You close the sketchpad and hand it back to him, your expression flat. “That will be all, Mr. Qi.”

He takes it, smile lingering like smoke. “See you Monday, professor.”

And then he’s gone, door clicking shut behind him, leaving the scent of graphite and heat behind. And you are still standing there, heart beating faster than it should, trying not to think about how well he draws the curve of a back that could very well be yours.

————

Monday comes fast. You have no class with him today, and yet he’s still wormed his way into your mind. You’d cursed yourself twice already this morning for catching your thoughts drifting back to those sketches. That curve of spine, the suggestion in the posture. And worse—what he might say in the essay.

You’re at your desk now, tapping through lecture notes, coffee going lukewarm, outfit sleek and deliberate. The mirror had warned you before you left home—this wasn’t a “blend in” kind of look. But you hadn’t dressed for him. Not consciously.

You’re halfway through adjusting a file when there’s a knock. You glance at the clock. You don’t need to say a word. He opens the door, casual as ever before you have time to even call out. Tousled hair, sketchpad under one arm, and a folded sheet of paper between his fingers. That same lazy smirk draped across his face like a second skin.

“Professor,” he says, as if he’s greeting an old friend. He steps in and closes the door behind him, uninvited but unapologetic.

You arch an eyebrow as he approaches your desk, the click of his shoes soft but deliberate.

“I brought the essay,” he says, placing the paper in front of you. “And a few reworked sketches.”

You nod, expression unreadable. “Thank you. I’ll review them.”

You expect him to leave, but he doesn’t.

You look up again, confused. He’s still there, still leaning slightly forward, both hands braced on your desk, gaze dropping to your legs before trailing up slowly.

Your eyebrow twitches.

“Is there something else?” you ask, tone cool.

His eyes lift to meet yours—glinting, dark, far too entertained.

“I redid the sketches,” he says. “Figured I’d show you. See if I’m still straddling that line.”

“You’re straddling something,” you mutter before you can stop yourself.

He grins. “Is that permission?”

You exhale through your nose, tone sharp. “Show me the sketches.”

He opens the sketchpad with deliberate care, flipping past the earlier drawings. He pushes the cketchpad in front of you and your eyes land on the new ones.

And your breath catches. These are rougher. Rawer. Every line is heavier, more defined. The same themes are there—tension, intimacy, obsession—but now it’s less suggestion and more revelation. One sketch is of hands again—only this time, they’re gripping the edge of a table, knuckles pale. Another shows a mouth parted, breathless. The final one is the worst.

A woman’s silhouette again—spine arched, blouse slipping low, neck exposed. You see it instantly. The angle, the posture, the way the hair falls. It’s you. You know it. He knows it.

You straighten your shoulders, throat dry.

“These are… technically better,” you say, voice carefully neutral. “Still intense. Still toeing the edge.”

His smile doesn’t fade. “You like them.”

You lift your gaze, cool and challenging. “They’re not about liking. They’re about execution.”

“And the execution’s turning you pink.”

Your jaw clenches. You cross your legs under the desk deliberately, letting the silence stretch. “I suggest you leave before you start confusing the assignment with fantasy.”

He tilts his head. “And if it’s both?”

You don’t answer, you just pick up your pen and look back down at the essay like he’s already left. But he lingers a second longer. You feel the heat of his stare, the weight of his presence.

“See you next class, professor.” and he’s gone.

Leaving you with a stack of papers, flushed skin, and the sharp itch of something you’re not sure you want to name or if you even dare acknoledge.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind him, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. It slips past your lips shakily, and you shift in your seat, crossing your legs the other way in a futile attempt to settle the prickling burn beneath your skin.

Your fingers tap the desk once, twice. Then you reach for the essay. You steel yourself for whatever performative mess he’s written, expecting wit, maybe more of that theatrical flirtation dressed up in paragraphs. But it’s not that. Not exactly.

The first lines are composed. Clean. He’s trying to sound academic. You recognize the effort, there’s a structure, a clear thesis, citations tucked into the paragraphs like he’s following the rules for once.

But then the tone shifts. And it’s subtle. Insidious. He never says anything outright. Not once. But the entire essay hums with implication.

“Obsession is not always fire—it can be stillness. The kind of stillness that eats at you, that anchors your focus until there’s nothing else to see. Sometimes, it wears perfume. Sometimes, it taps a pen against a desk.”

Your throat tightens.

“There is a particular power in knowing someone will never reach for you, and wanting them anyway.”

You don’t realize how tightly you’re gripping the page until your knuckles go white.

“This project has made me consider that obsession doesn’t always come from desire. Sometimes, it stems from awe. From restraint. From the deliberate withholding of something the body already recognizes as inevitable.”

You close the essay before finishing the final paragraph. Your mind races, your chest rises and falls too fast, too shallow. He didn’t say your name and didn’t describe you. There’s nothing technically wrong here, nothing you can point to.

And yet you know that every word, every breath of meaning between the lines, every sketch and every answer he’s given in class like he wasn’t paying attention just to sting you with it later…it’s all about you.

You press the back of your hand to your mouth. You shouldn’t allow this, not even under academic pretense. You shouldn’t like that he sees you this clearly, that he draws you this well.

You compose yourself, force it back into the box.

————

On Wednesday, you arrive to class looking immaculate, composed. Maybe a little sharper than usual. You teach as if nothing is different. No tension. No edge. No shift in your pulse when he walks in and takes his throne in the third row, looking like he never even wrote a word of that essay.

You don’t look at him once.

You finish the lecture, you answer questions and then, you dismiss the class. You don’t linger in the room. You’re back in your office before your heels even stop echoing down the hall.

Your office is quiet, your laptop warm beneath your palms as you click through assignments that have nothing to do with him. Nothing sensual, nothing dangerous, just routine work from students who don’t make your blood pressure spike.

And yet, his essay is still sitting off to the side of your desk like it’s watching you. You refuse to look at it again. You cross your legs slowly, adjusting the hem of your skirt, the crisp white vest hugging your frame just right. You breathe through the simmer in your veins, trying to bury it under logic and clean lines and to-do lists.

You’re halfway through marking an essay on postmodern interpretations of spatial aesthetics when there’s a knock. You don’t even glance up. “Come in.”

The door creaks and closes.

You look up absentmindedly and your throat tightens. Rafayel, with his tousled hair, slightly oversized sweater hanging loose off one shoulder like an afterthought, sketchpad in one hand and a coffee holder in the other with two cups.

Your brow twitches. “Is that bribery?”

He grins. “You wound me, professor. It’s a peace offering.”

He strides in with slow confidence, placing one cup on your desk like this is routine. Like he’s allowed to do this. You don’t reach for the coffee. You keep your fingers curled around your trackpad, eyes locked on the screen in front of you as you clear your throat.

“Your timing is predictable.”

“So is yours,” he counters, settling into the chair across from you like it’s his. “Same time every week, same window open, same playlist low in the background. You’re a creature of habit.”

You don’t answer, you don’t rise to it. Not until he sets the sketchpad beside the coffee.

“I refined them again,” he says smoothly. “Thought you might want to see. You know…since you didn’t seem… indifferent last time.”

Your eyes flicker to the sketchpad but only for a second. You force them back to your screen, ignoring the warmth building in your chest.

“I read your essay,” you say instead, voice voming out even, controlled, distant.

He leans forward slightly, gaze fixed on your face like he’s memorizing it again. “And?”

“And,” you echo, finally lifting your eyes, “you’re toying with a very thin line.”

That grin comes back, lazy and sharp. “Lines are meant to be tested, especially when they’re drawn in pencil.”

You sit back in your chair, cross your legs slowly again—not because of him, but because you need to do something with the heat crawling up your spine.

“The essay was good,” you say, voice cool. “More refined. You cleaned up your phrasing. Your argument was… persuasive.”

He tilts his head. “But?”

You look away. “But you know what you’re doing. And you’re enjoying it too much.”

His voice dips, playful and low. “Is that part of the grade?”

You narrow your eyes. “That depends. Do you want feedback or validation?”

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink. Just watches you with a gaze that feels like it touches you without physically reaching. “Can’t I have both?”

You swallow hard.

“This project is about control,” you say, steadier now. “Not indulgence. So I suggest you keep that in mind for the final.”

He hums. “I think I’m starting to understand that, actually. Obsession has rules…but fantasy doesn’t.”

You don’t know if you want to slap him or kiss him. Instead, you reach for the coffee cup slowly, taking a small, deliberate sip. You take another sip of coffee, your eyes locked on him over the rim. Calm. Neutral. Detached. At least, that’s the lie you tell your bloodstream as it rushes under your skin.

Then your gaze flicks to the sketchpad. You place the cup down, your hand reaching out—slow, deliberate—and you see the way his eyes track the motion.

You glance upand find him already smirking.

“There’s a little tab,” he says, voice low and teasing, “toward the middle. Start there.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That specific?”

He shrugs with a boyish tilt of his head, too smug for his own good. “You could flip through anything, really. But if you want the ones I made just for the project…”

His fingers tap the top corner. You don’t say a word, just open the sketchpad. And your breath catches so subtly even you don’t notice at first.

The sketches are more than before. Much more. More shadow. More definition. More body. More… truth. The first is a figure kneeling—shoulders tense, head bowed like in reverence or shame. You don’t know which one unnerves you more. The folds in the shirt that are familiar or the curve of the hips, the way the spine bends…

Your thighs press together under the desk. You say nothing, just flip to the next page. A mouth—biting a fingertip. The kind of detail you don’t sketch unless you’ve seen it. Another—legs crossed, back arched in a chair that looks alarmingly like your own.

You clear your throat, forcing your voice into something composed. “You’ve… refined your linework.”

He leans forward slightly, arms resting casually on the desk. “You think?”

“Mm.”

You flip to another. A pair of hands again. But this time, they’re braced on either side of something—or someone. Tension. Pressure. It’s in the shadows, the tightness in the wrists. The desperation, restrained. Your fingers twitch slightly on the paper.

You can feel his gaze moving—crawling slowly over your thighs, your waist, the dip in the vest that you didn’t think twice about this morning. But now? Now you feel every breath like it’s being watched.

Your brow furrows. “Rafayel.”

He hums, unfazed. “Hm?”

“You can’t look at me like that.”

He grins, shameless. “Like what?”

“Like you’re still sketching.”

His gaze sharpens. That gleam again—molten, dangerous. “Maybe I am. After all…” he pauses, tilting his head. “…an artist never stops creating in his own mind.”

Your chest tightens.

“There are boundaries,” you say softly, almost more to yourself.

“There are,” he agrees, lifting his cup and taking a slow sip. “You draw them. I follow them. I haven’t touched you, haven’t said anything I couldn’t defend as artistic inquiry.”

You swallow hard. “Artistic inquiry doesn’t usually make my skin burn.”

That slips out. You didn’t mean to say it, and you curse yourself mentally for it. That playful expression of his falters just a little, and is now replaced with something quieter and hungrier.

He sets the cup down. Then he speaks up, his voice lower now, just above a whisper. “I drew what obsession feels like. That was the brief. It’s not polite. It’s not clean. It’s not even safe. But it’s real.”

You glance down at the sketch—one you hadn’t commented on yet. A pair of eyes. Yours, unmistakably. Drawn in graphite, with so much pressure behind each line it’s almost violent.

He speaks again. “I wasn’t thinking about rules while I drew. Just… how it felt. The wanting, the restraint in not touching or speaking it aloud.”

You force yourself to close the sketchpad. Your hand trembles just a little, barely enough for him to catch—but he does. You lean back, crossing your legs slowly, regaining your armor.

“You’ll get your feedback next week,” you say quietly.

And for once, he doesn’t push. He just sits back and smiles. “Looking forward to it.”

And then he stands, picks up his coffee, and walks toward the door. Before he reaches for the door handle, he pauses and looks over his shoulder.

“Oh—and professor?” you don’t answer. “I think you wear the tension better than I draw it.”

And he’s gone.

You should’ve told him to take the sketchpad with him. You should’ve locked it away. Filed it under “unprofessional,” labeled it Exhibit A in your own personal trial. But instead? You opened it the moment he left. And you didn’t just look. You lingered.

Now, days later, the pages are smudged at the corners where your fingertips kept tracing over lines—hips, wrists, the curve of a throat you swear is yours. You keep telling yourself it's the art. The talent. The detail.

Not the way it made you clench your thighs at 1:42 a.m. with your duvet shoved between your legs. Not the way your breath stuttered on a gasp when you dared imagine yourself in those poses—gripped, pulled, bared. He’s a student. He’s your student. And you are losing control.

————

Next Wednesday, the class ends sooner than you expected. You’ve taught with military calm, your voice steady even when your body felt like it was coiled wire. You could feel his gaze the whole time. Always on you. And of course—today of all days—you dressed like a woman with something to prove.

Black fitted blazer. Crisp collar. Tie neatly knotted at your throat. Short enough skirt to test restraint, long enough to deny permission. Garters just visible beneath the hem when you walked. You’d called it fashion this morning. Now? You’re not so sure.

Students begin to pack up after you dismiss the class, looking at your wrist watch. You speak above the chatter, voice clean and professional. “Mr. Qi, stay behind.”

You don’t look at him as you gather your materials. He doesn’t say anything, just waits for you to finish. You can feel it, the tension wrapping tighter with every second you pretend not to notice how his gaze slides down your legs and back up.

You turn on your heel. “Follow me.”

Your heels click down the hall, and you know he’s watching you walk. You feel his presence like heat. He’s silent behind you, close enough that the air shifts with every step. And when you reach your office and unlock the door, you don’t look back. You let him enter and close the door behind you.

Just the two of you now. You walk to your desk as he stands there, waiting calmly, too calmly. You set your materials down and straighten your tie like a shield.

Then you speak, tone sharp. “I’ve reviewed your project thoroughly.”

He walks forward, taking a seat and leans against the chair casually, arms crossed. “So I assumed. You didn’t exactly rush to return it.”

You ignore that. “We need to discuss boundaries. Of implication. Of intention.”

He tilts his head, eyes dragging over your frame again like he’s still sketching you in real time. “You don’t like what I drew?”

Your gaze hardens. “You know that’s not the point.”

He shrugs, casual. “You asked for truth. I gave it. You asked for obsession. I delivered. You never said I couldn’t use you as a reference.”

That pulls the breath right from your chest.

“You’re my student,” you snap, but your voice is breathier than it should be.

He sits up and steps forward, not close, but enough to make you feel it. “And you’re the reason I haven’t slept properly in weeks.”

Your stomach flips. He studies you—your lips, the collar of your shirt, the way your legs are still crossed tight under the desk.

“You want to deny it,” he murmurs, “but you kept the sketchpad, did you not?”

Silence.

You don’t deny it, you just press your knees together a little harder and say, “Sit down. We’re going to talk, nothing more.”

He smirks. “As you wish, professor.”

And he does sit, lounging back. But that gaze? It never sits still, tracing your face with deliberate slowness.

You sit across from him, back straight, hands calm on the desk. Every inch of your body screams for stillness, for control—but it’s a losing battle. His eyes are shameless. They move like they’ve already memorized you, like they’re revisiting territory, not exploring it. They linger too long on your legs, on the edge of your blazer where it cuts high, on the subtle press of black garters just barely visible where your thigh crosses over the other.

And you know. You know exactly what he’s thinking. But you don’t acknowledge it. You cross your legs tighter, clenching subtly at the ache blooming slow between them, and speak like none of this matters.

“I’ve reviewed the full assignment,” you say evenly, pulling open your drawer and placing the sketchpad and essay between you on the desk. “The essay was thoughtful. Well-structured. The arguments were more coherent this time, and I appreciated the restraint in your citations. You finally chose substance over style.”

He hums, that little smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Shame.”

You ignore him.

“As for the sketches—your linework has matured. There’s precision in how you use pressure now. Intention. The theme of obsession was expressed clearly, maybe too clearly in some places. But I can’t dock points for honesty.”

His gaze doesn’t move from you. He hears your words, but it’s not what he’s paying attention to. His eyes linger on the way your blouse shifts when you move. The tight clasp of your thighs beneath the desk. The illusion of composure. And it gets to you.

Your fingers pause over the edge of the paper. You glance up sharply. “You’re not listening.”

His eyes flick up. “I am.”

“No, you’re looking,” you snap, a little too fast. “And not at what matters.”

His smile deepens but his eyes soften, just for a moment.

“I am looking,” he says, quieter this time. “It’s all the same, isn’t it? The way you talk. The way you sit. It’s all part of the piece.”

You’re about to respond—another curt reprimand forming on your tongue—when he leans down, pulling a second sketchpad from his bag. Your pulse stumbles.

“I, uh…” he scratches the back of his neck with a flicker of something that surprises you—hesitation. “I couldn’t stop after last week. I’ve been drawing a lot. Not for the assignment. Just… because.”

Your mouth is dry suddenly. He opens the sketchpad, flips past a few pages with quick fingers—hands you know are steady by nature—and turns it around.

“Here,” he murmurs. “This one’s not for credit.”

You look, and your heart stops. It’s you, but not as you were drawn before. No, this one is not posed, not restrained. It’s you, stripped bare—legs parted, shirt open, head tilted back in unguarded abandon, your mouth slightly open and hair a mess. Your garters still on, barely, but the heels are discarded on the floor. One hand is clutching the edge of the desk and the other is between your thighs.

Your lips part, air catching in your lungs. The detail is breathtaking. Too much. The intimacy, the expression, the way it looks like you’ve already come once and are begging for more. The way he’s drawn your eyes, half-lidded, wrecked.

It’s not romantic. It’s not flattering. It’s possession. Your body betrays you again—your thighs clench, your stomach coils, and you feel it. The heat, the wetness that shouldn’t be there, that you can’t stop. And still, your voice comes out quiet, controlled.

“You shouldn’t have drawn this.”

His gaze is different now—nervous under the arrogance, almost embarrassed to have shown it.

“I know,” he says. “But I did.”

Silence stretches thin between you. He leans back a little, fingers twitching beside the sketchpad. “I can take it back if it crosses the line.”

You look at the drawing again, then at him. And you don’t answer, because your body is burning and your brain is screaming and somewhere deep inside, you already know this isn’t just about art anymore. This is about what happens when obsession stops being theory…and becomes something real.

Silence crushes the air between you, thick and stifling. You sit still for a moment, the explicit sketch open before you, his hesitant eyes barely holding onto their confidence. He knows he crossed the line.

But all you can think about, all you can feel is that you’re soaked. You close your eyes just for a second. One long, steady inhale. It doesn’t help. The ache between your thighs pulses hot, your underwear a sticky mess beneath your sharp, formal outfit. You can’t look at the drawing again without feeling it pulse harder.

So you do the first wrong thing. You stand. His gaze follows instantly—like a dog to a signal, like he knows something’s about to snap. You walk to the door slowly, heels clicking over the floor in a rhythm that could be mistaken for control. You reach for the lock and turn it. A soft, final click.

He shifts slightly in his chair. When you turn back, he’s sitting more upright, brows drawn just enough to show he didn’t expect this. His voice doesn't come, but his eyes say it all.

But you’re not done. You walk back toward him—calm, poised, burning—and instead of returning to your chair, you stop at the edge of the desk. You pick up the second sketchpad with the drawing that still makes your pulse flutter violently, flipping it to the page you should ignore.

You look at him, eyes neutral, almost cold.

“Tell me,” you ask softly, holding the pad loosely in your hand. “How did you think of this? When did you draw it?”

He blinks just once, and the hesitation dissolves. Something else replaces it, more darker and focused. His gaze dips to your legs—slowly, shamelessly—and climbs back up.

His voice is quiet but firm. “Last Wednesday, after I left the sketchpad with you. I couldn’t sleep.”

You hum, biting your lip just slightly. Not to be seductive, but because you need to do something or you'll combust.

His eyes widen. You lean a little on the desk, one hand braced behind you, the other still holding the sketchbook like a loaded weapon.

Fuck it.

If he wants to play so be it. You shift, moving to sit on the corner of the desk in one slow, fluid movement, legs crossed, your thigh riding high, your garter just barely visible under the hem.

His gaze snaps to it like instinct. You lean on one hand now, half-reclined, looking down at him. Your voice is still calm, measured, a little quiet.

“You want honesty, Mr. Qi?” he doesn't breathe. You tilt your head, your eyes flicking between his and the obscene drawing.

“I graded your assignment...” you run a finger along the page slowly. “Late at night.”

His jaw tenses. “In bed.” you continue. The breath he takes is sharp, slow. His purple eyes gleam hot and starving.

You smile, just barely. “Sketchpad in one hand.” then your voice drops, barely a breath. “My other hand between my legs.”

His mouth parts, but no sound comes. You keep going, because if you stop, you’ll never say it again. “I touched myself to the way you drew me. I came with this image in my mind.”

His breath shudders. You watch it ripple through him like you just punched the air out of his lungs. His eyes are molten, wide, like he just saw something holy and filthy at the same time.

“You shouldn’t tell me that,” he whispers hoarsely.

“But,” you murmur, “you wanted me to see it, did you not?”

He blinks hard and swallows, and you see the restraint clawing at him now, the stillness, his fists tightening on his knees.

“Professor,” he breathes, voice barely a thread, “if you say one more thing like that... I’m not going to be able to sit still anymore.”

You stare, and your legs shift slightly, uncrossing. Now it’s your turn to whisper.

“Then don’t.”

His eyes flick from your lips to your legs, drinking in every inch like he’s still committing you to memory—like he’ll sketch this the moment he gets home, or maybe never again, because he’s about to live it.

He exhales sharply, jaw twitching, the breath catching in his chest like it hurts to hold it back.

Then slowly he reaches forward, his fingers land on your knee, warm and steady, the weight of his hand sending a hot shiver racing up your thigh. He rises from the chair without a word, face level with yours, so close now at the edge of the desk.

“You dressed like this on purpose,” he murmurs, voice low and cocky and knowing. “Didn’t you, professor? Tied up all professional just to pretend you haven’t been thinking about those sketches every time you touched yourself.”

You feel your breath stutter, but your body doesn’t retreat. You part your legs deliberately slow and lean back on your hands, tilting your head, offering him that cool little smirk you know will set him off.

“Oh please,” you purr, tone sharp, eyes heavy, “don’t act like you haven’t been begging for me to pose just like this in front of you with every little sketch you slid across my desk.”

His eyes darken, jaw tight. Both his hands come to rest on your thighs now, gripping gently, reverently. His thumbs stroke just beneath the hem of your skirt, just above the garter straps.

You burn under it. His face inches closer, and still he’s searching your eyes for permission, like even now he won’t cross that final edge without it. You scoff, breathless, amused, soaked so badly it’s uncomfortable.

“Oh now you grow a conscience?” you whisper, low and mocking, voice like smoke as your fingers curl into his collar. “After everything you’ve done to me on paper?”

And then you yank him forward. His lips crash into yours. It’s not sweet and definitely not soft. It’s starving. The kiss is all tongue and teeth, your mouths colliding with all the pressure of everything you’ve held back. His hand slips to your lower back, dragging you off the edge of the desk toward him. Your legs uncross fully now, wrapping slightly around his hips to keep him close, to grind against the ache you’ve had for weeks.

You can barely breathe and you don’t fucking care. Your fingers clutch the fabric of his sweater, pulling him tighter, his chest flush to yours, and his hand drags slowly up the outside of your thigh to toy again with the clip of your garter, like he has to feel it, prove it’s real.

And it is. This isn’t a sketch. It’s happening. And you know you should stop. You should. But his mouth tastes like obsession. And you're so wet you could cry.

Your breath is ragged between kisses, your lipstick smeared on his mouth and your thighs trembling where they press around his hips. You can feel the dampness of your panties sticking to your skin, your pulse pounding at the base of your throat as your nails dig into the fabric of his sweater.

You lean in, your voice a whisper, but still sharp, still commanding, even as your lips brush his ear, “Tell me.”

He groans low, nose buried in the curve of your neck. “Tell you what?”

“What else you imagined,” you breathe, almost panting now. “What else you ached to sketch in that little sketchpad of yours.”

His hands squeeze at your thighs, fingers brushing the edge of your garters again like he’s trying not to lose control too fast. His mouth moves lower, trailing open kisses down your throat, nipping beneath your jaw, his breath hot against your collarbone as he groans into your skin.

“Fuck…” he whispers, “…I thought about this for weeks. Thought about how you would look on this desk, with your knees open and lipstick smudged, your tie half undone…”

You moan, gasping quietly as he sucks into your neck, and he chuckles softly, smug.

“Quiet, professor,” he murmurs, licking over the bite mark. “Don’t want the whole damn building hearing how wrecked you’re getting in your own office.”

You don’t let him win that easy. You grab him by the back of his neck, pull him flush to you, and grind hard once into his hips. He groans loudly, body jerking. You smirk against his cheek.

“Then make me quiet,” you whisper, eyes gleaming. “Unless you want everyone to hear how your little professor begged for it.”

His entire body shudders and then his teeth sink into your clavicle, biting down just hard enough to sting, just enough to make your toes curl. His hands roam under your skirt now, palms dragging up the silk of your thighs, fingers tugging at the straps of your panties like he can’t wait to ruin them.

He groans, voice ragged. “You shouldn’t be wearing something this fucking small under that suit.”

“You shouldn’t be touching it,” you snap, breathless.

Even so, you tilt your head back, offering your throat as his lips trail lower. His fingers finally brush the soaked edge of your panties. You gasp, thighs jolting around him, eyes fluttering shut.

You moan his name, unable to hold back. Not Mr. whatever, not a title, not a game. “Rafayel…”

It spills out raw, too intimate, too fucking real. His hand stills immediately, lifting his head. And the look he gives you? It's not just hunger. It’s devotion. Possessive. Dangerous. Like now that you’ve said his name like that, he’ll never stop chasing the sound.

“Say it again,” he whispers, fingers hooked around your panties now, pulling them to the side.

But you can’t. You’re already moaning. And he’s already slipping his fingers over you—slow, deliberate, soaking in every reaction like he’s sketching it live. The first circle of his slender fingers over your clit makes your body jolt. A loud gasp tears from your lips, far too loud.

He growls, teeth biting into your neck to muffle it, his tongue soothing over the sting just as his fingers pick up a rhythm that makes your thighs tremble. Your head falls back and your hips lift, chasing every flick of his fingers, slick and messy and soaked already.

You manage the words between gasps, half-whining, half-accusing, “Those sketches were—ah—so inappropriate, Rafayel.”

He chuckles into your neck, breath hot, lips bruising along your jaw.

“You drew me like I was already yours,” you gasp. “In class…how dare you imagine me like that…”

His fingers press harde, a rough circle that punches the air right out of your lungs. You choke on your next words, hands clutching the desk behind you, legs tensing around his hips.

“Thought about you in every lecture,” he rasps into your neck, voice hoarse, broken. “Skirt tight, collar stiff, those legs crossed like they didn’t want to be fucked open.”

You whimper, head lolling back. His mouth moves up to your ear, hips pressing forward just enough for you to feel how hard he is against your thigh.

“I imagined you bent over the desk in the lecture hall…hands flat, skirt bunched around your hips as I thrusted into you from behind.” he rasps in yout ear, wrecked, “Imagined making you come quietly while a hundred students sat on the other side of the door.”

Your eyes roll back, breath catching hard in your throat, your body clenching so tight it hurts. “R-Rafayel…fuck…”

He groans, fingers moving faster, wet slick sounds obscene in the quiet room, his forehead resting against yours, like he needs to stay tethered to keep from losing control.

“You…on your knees,” he growls, his breath stuttering, “in this office, your pretty mouth wrapped around my cock. Or slammed against the wall, legs around my neck—fuck—I wanted to eat you out until you cried.”

You cry out—choked, high, your hands scrambling for something—his shoulders, the desk, sanity. Your hips twitch. Your walls clench around nothing, and he feels it, feels how close you are just from his words and his fingers and you hate it—how fast you’re unraveling, how quickly he’s reduced you to this. Soaked. Grinding. Moaning his name.

“Fuck—fuck—I’m—”

He sucks at your neck, voice a raw whisper against your skin, “Come for me, professor.”

Your thighs are shaking around his hips, your body already twitching, mind barely clinging to the edges of coherent thought. The feel of his fingers—pressing, circling, relentless—has every muscle in your body screaming. The orgasm crashes into you too hard, too fast, your eyes rolling back as your mouth falls open in a gasping moan. You barely manage to slap a hand over your lips just in time.

You come hard, your pussy pulsing around nothing, slick soaking your panties, your skirt bunched up around your hips like a forgotten piece of fabric. His hand doesn't stop. He holds you, face buried in your neck, whispering filth against your skin as you shake in his arms.

“Fuck, you feel so good like this…trembling on my fingers. God, I knew you’d fall apart for me.”

And he keeps moving. Even after your orgasm fades, even after your thighs spasm with aftershocks—he doesn’t stop. His fingers drag through your slick, teasing your clit again, slow at first—then faster. The oversensitivity crashes into you.

Your whole body jerks. A half-moan, half-whimper rips out of your throat as you try to twist away from him. “Rafayel—”

He growls, biting your neck harder.

“No,” he pants, voice filthy. “You don’t get to run now. I want you insane. I want you fucking ruined…shaking and crying, begging me to stop.”

Your head falls back with a cry, and the pressure is unbearable, pleasure and pain blurring so beautifully it hurts. You try to twist away again, but his arm around your waist holds you steady.

“Rafayel, please—fuck, stop…”

“Say it like that again,” he hisses in your ear, his voice ragged and drenched in obsession. “Say my name like it’s the only thing left in your head.”

You can’t think. Your hands scramble behind you, bracing the desk. Your breath is coming in broken moans, your thighs trembling so hard. You need to breathe. You need to come again. You need to do something. And so, you act. Your hands snap to the buttons of your shirt, ripping them open one by one with sharp, trembling fingers. His hand stills just for a second as he watches.

Your voice is rough, commanding, breathless.

“You want my head filled with your name only?” you whisper. “Then yours shall be filled with this very picture of me, wearing nothing underneath my shirt.”

His eyes darken. And when your shirt falls open—bare, your nipples hard, your chest rising and falling like you’re starving—he groans, loud and feral.

“Fuck…”

He doesn’t ask and doesn’t hesitate. He lunges, mouth wrapping around one nipple, sucking hard, tongue circling it as if his mouth needs the taste of you to survive. You cry out too loud, too much.

He pulls off just long enough to growl, “Stay quiet, professor.”

You shake your head, eyes wild, voice trembling with heat.

“I can’t,” you gasp, shoving his hair back, tugging him closer again. “Not when all I can think about is how your cock would feel inside me right now.”

That stuns him. His whole body jerks, breath stuttering as his hips buck without thinking. He growls, adeep, guttural, wrecked sound what wraps around you like a spell.

“You shouldn’t say that,” he snarls, his mouth dragging back up your chest to your throat. “Not here…not in your office—fuck, I’ll take you right now, bend you over this desk just like I dreamed, make you scream for it.”

Your lips part in a shattered moan. He grabs your waist hard, grinding into you, voice cracking, “I’ll make this whole goddamn building hear how I ruin their little professor.”

His hips grind into you again—slow, deep, filthy—as he groans against your neck, every word he rasps pressed between open-mouth kisses and moans that scorch your skin.

“I’ll take you right here,” he growls, voice shaking. “On your desk, against the wall—fuck, I’ll ruin your reputation with how loud you’ll scream my name.”

His clothed cock drags right over your oversensitive clit and you shudder, gasping sharply as your nails dig into his back. You’re soaked. You know you are. His pants are going to be drenched and he knows it too.

His mouth sucks at your throat, hands roaming—one squeezing your breast hard, the other in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat like he owns it. Then he kisses you, hard and desperate. Tongue, teeth, his breath punched into your lungs, and you bite his lower lip until he curses into your mouth, groaning as his hips roll harder, like he can’t help it anymore.

You break the kiss, panting, dazed from the pleasure and power and lust, and you mock him with a breathless smirk.

“Oh? Should I beg for it?” you murmur, eyes glassy with heat. “Or should I make you beg? Hm?”

His eyes widen, jaw tight.

“Should I make my pretty little student promise he’ll be good?” you lean in, lips brushing his ear. “That he’ll fuck me just right if I let him put that cock inside me?”

He growls, an animalistic, desperate sound as both his hands snap down—one squeezing your ass hard enough to bruise, the other palming your breast, fingers pinching your nipple until you moan.

“You don’t get to play like that,” he pants into your skin, his voice trembling. “You don’t get to talk like that—fuck, you’ll kill me.”

But you’re not done. You slide your hand between your bodies, fumbling with his belt, his zipper, fingers moving fast, and he gasps, body twitching as you slip your hand into his pants and wrap your fingers around his cock without warning.

He moans broken and wrecked, eyes slamming shut as your soaked palm curls around his hard, aching cock.

“Fuck—professor—”

“You’ve been so good,” you whisper, slow and devastating. “So obedient. All semester, sketching me like a filthy little obsession.”

You pump once, twice, and feel him as he shudders against you, knees nearly buckling.

“And now,” you whisper, dragging your lips along his jaw, “you’re gonna fuck me just like you dreamed—deep, slow, until I scream for it, yeah?”

His hands tremble, jaw slack. You twist your hand slightly, just enough pressure to make his hips jerk into your palm—and then you finish him with one final blow, “My soaked little pussy’s begging for you, Rafayel. Don’t you want to feel how tight I’ll wrap around your cock?”

His hand slams on the desk behind you, the other on your thigh, pushing your skirt up fully, and his mouth crashes into yours again, like a man starving. He breathes your name like a curse. And he’s ready to bury himself inside.

You feel it the moment he snaps, his restraint unraveling like a frayed wire pulled too tight for too long. He growls into your mouth, rough, desperate, his hand still clenched in your hair. You chuckle against his lips—taunting, breathless—then slide your soaked hand out of his pants, letting his cock twitch in the open air for just a second longer.

“Oh, fuck…” he pants.

Before he can even blink, he grabs your waist, manhandling you around and bending you forward against your desk, your palms bracing the wood with a sharp thud. He’s on you instantly—grinding his cock, still trapped in his pants, against your ass, his mouth dragging over your neck in open, messy kisses, teeth biting and groaning like he’s starving.

You moan—low and wild—arching into the friction, grinding back until he curses.

“Oh god—fuck, professor…”

You chuckle again, eyes fluttering as you roll your hips deliberately against the length of him, teasing. Taunting. His voice, low and filthy, spills against your ear.

“Everybody’s gonna know,” he growls, his voice shaking, hands gripping your hips. “…how fucking filthy their little professor really is.”

You gasp as he presses harder, not even inside yet, just rubbing against your soaked panties and ruined mind.

“They’ll know how well you take it,” he snarls. “My cock, my fingers. My fucking mouth…over and over until you can’t even breathe from how good it feels.”

You laugh, breathless, devilish, looking over your shoulder at him. Your eyes are wide, wet, sinful. You grind again slowly and your voice is sweet poison.

“If you’re a good boy…” you whisper, “and you keep your word… I’ll let you tie me up in that little studio of yours.”

He chokes on air.

“Paint me,” you go on, breath catching as you writhe against him, “bare, dripping… covered in your cum. More sketches for your collection.”

“Fuck…” he groans, trembling as he fumbles with his pants, shoving them down with shaking hands, his cock slapping hard against your ass as his other hand plants between your shoulder blades, holding you down.

You barely have time to moan before his other hand palms your ass then slaps it, loud, sharp, and perfect.

“Take it, then,” he growls, teeth bared, voice wrecked. And then he thrusts hard, all at once.

You scream as he buries himself inside you to the hilt, stretching you open in one brutal, perfect stroke, his hips snapping forward, balls slapping against you as your desk shudders beneath the weight of it.

You clench around him, mouth falling open, eyes rolling back, tears prickling at the corners as he grinds deep and growls in your ear. “My little professor, yeah?”

And then his hips start rolling, deep and slow.

“Yes…” you cry out, helpless and wrecked, cheek pressed to the desk, your body jerking with every brutal thrust. “Just like that—fuck, just like that—”

You clench hard around him and he moans, deep and guttural, hips stuttering before he slams forward again, faster now, desperate. His voice is a snarl behind you, taunting even through the raggedness, “Like this, professor?”

You cry out again, thighs shaking so violently you nearly collapse, but he doesn't let you. His hand grips your hip hard, dragging you back onto every thrust until you swear he’s leaving bruises.

Then he shifts, both hands on your hips, and arches your back, forcing you to lift your ass higher—and fuck—he hits even deeper. Your breath shatters, words caught in your throat as you moan loud and raw.

“Oh—fuck, right there…”

He grins behind you, breath ragged.

“Here?” he growls, pounding into you now, the sound of your soaked pussy obscene in the quiet room, every slap of his hips against your ass loud enough to carry down the hall. “Like this, cutie? Fuck…you’re so tight I’m gonna lose it.”

You sob, your legs trembling so violently you barely stay upright. Your hands claw at the desk, mascara streaking down your cheeks as you bite your lip, crying out his name like it’s the only thing your mouth remembers. You’re a mess—hair tangled, mouth open, nails digging into the wood.

You feel his hand leave your shoulder blades where he was pinnin you down and he grabs your wrists in one swift motion, pinning them to the small of your back. You gasp as he holds them there, his weight heavy behind you, his breath hot against your spine.

You can’t move—you’re trapped, trembling, split open and shaking while he rails into you like he’s losing his mind. And you can practically hear the smirk in his voice when he leans in, voice low and wicked, right by your ear:

“Gonna take my cum inside too, professor?”

You whimper, gasping as your walls flutter around him again.

“Gonna let me fuck you full?” he pants. “Just like you take my cock? So fucking good…fuck…I will fill you up so good, yeah?”

You clench down so hard it chokes him. “Jesus—fuck…say yes—say yes…”

You know you shouldn’t agree. You know. But fuck—your body’s burning, clenching, soaked and wrecked, and every brutal thrust sends you crashing harder into that edge. So you choke on a moan, voice ragged and sweet and devastated.

“Yes—fuck, yes—I want it, please,” your voice breaks on a moan, panting hard, “I'll take it like a good girl, whatever you want, just please…make me come again…”

He growls, his whole body snapping forward, pinning your wrists harder against your back as his hips slam into yours fast, deep, merciless. The desk creaks violently beneath you, the wood rattling with each punishing thrust.

You can feel his body losing control—his pace erratic, his breath breaking, and he tilts his head back with a shuddering moan, trying so hard to hold on. He wants you to come first. His fingers tangle in your hair, yanking your head back just enough for him to bite down on your neck as you clench again.

“You’re gonna make me lose it—fuck, cutie…I’m so close…”

And you’re there, too. So very close to the maddening edge. You cry out, voice shattered and gasping. “It’s so good—you’re so good,” you choke on another moan, words tumbling fast, “please, I want it…I want you, please—”

Your legs give out completely, your whole body trembling violently, thighs spasming as your pussy clamps down on him hard, soaking his cock in wave after wave of orgasm that crashes through you like a goddamn tidal wave. Your mouth opens but no sound comes out, just a choked breath. Your eyes roll back, tears spilling down your cheeks, black mascara streaking as you sob through it, ruined and shaking.

And it snaps him.

“Fuck, you’re coming—Jesus fuck, you’re clenching s-so tight…”

His grip on your wrists tightens as he slams into you one last time—deep, brutal, to the hilt—and groans like he’s being torn apart. You feel him throb inside you, and then he spills. His cum is hot, spilling in deep inside, and so fucking much.

You feel all of it, filling you, claiming you, his cock twitching inside your pulsing pussy as his body collapses over yours, breath ragged, voice wrecked. “Fuck fuck fuck—mine…”

You breathe raggedly against the desk, your body trembling, skin flushed and soaked in release. His lips trace slowly over your neck, tender now, like he’s trying to soothe every wrecked part of you with a kiss. Then gently, he pulls out, and your whole body shudders at the oversensitivity.

You laugh, breathless, exhausted, as he steadies you with hands still trembling. When he turns you around, your knees almost give, but he catches you again, arms strong around your waist. His face is flushed—cheeks pink, lips red, hair tousled in every direction. Unfairly pretty, honestly.

He looks at you for a long moment—searching, soft. Then he lifts his hand, thumb brushing beneath your eyes, carefully wiping the streaks of mascara and the last of your tears.

You exhale softly, rolling your eyes in amusement. “Now you decide to be gentle?”

He smirks but says nothing, reaching over your shoulder to grab a few napkins from the desk. And without a word, he kneels—actually kneels—and starts to clean you up. First your thighs, slow and deliberate, the way he handles you making your chest ache a little. Then he stands, fingertips warm as they dab gently at your cheeks, your jaw.

You don’t stop watching him. You can’t. There’s something ridiculous about how careful he is now, after the way he just destroyed you across this desk. And still… it’s sweet. Too sweet. Your heart pounds harder. He looks up at you with that flushed face, lips parted, eyes sparkling—and you think, goddamn, it’s really not fair how beautiful he is.

After he finishes cleaning the both of you up—slow and careful, like you’re something fragile despite the absolute ruin he just left you in—he tucks himself back into his pants and exhales hard, flushed, dazed, barely holding it together.

Then he steps in close again. Button by button, he closes your shirt with slow, deliberate fingers, knuckles brushing your skin like he’s trying to memorize every inch. When he fastens the last one, he smirks, that familiar cocky glint back in his eyes even as the pink still lingers high on his cheeks.

“Guess your cold, no-nonsense professor rep is officially over,” he murmurs, voice still rough from breathlessness. “Pretty sure the entire building knows just how filthy you really are now.”

You snort softly, rolling your eyes, your voice still raspy from all the moaning, the crying, the begging. You reach up and trace a slow finger along the back of his head, through the mess of purple strands sticking from sweat.

“Mm,” you hum, biting back a smirk, “not my fault my clingy little student fucked me that good.”

He groans, low in his throat, mouth parting like you just knocked the air out of him all over again. You lean in and kiss him, slow and deep, just long enough to steal the breath he had left.

Then, your lips hover over his and you whisper, voice like silk, “Don’t forget to write down your studio address before you leave…” then your lips graze the shell of his ear, and your voice drops even lower, “…you’ve got a canvas waiting.”

His breath shudders, and you already know he’s not walking out of here without giving it to you.

© zaynessbeloved 2025

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST HERE AND ON MY AO3.

.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!

taglist: @syluslittlecrows, @asiaticapple

[thecoolestastrophile]

So this actually cured my religious trauma thanks

𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

✧ — synopsis: She came to the confessional to cleanse her soul—confessing every filthy thought she’s ever had about the priest she was never supposed to love.

But Reverend Caleb doesn't forgive. He claims. “Don’t you see?” he said, voice now just above a whisper. “Your sin… was never in thinking of me.” His next words were slower, darker, rich with promise.

“Your sin was in not letting me have you.”

✧ — pairing: caleb x mc

✧ — wc: ~11k

✧ — warnings: religious imagery and symbolism, cunnilingus, semi-public sex, confessional, choking, loss of virginity, virginity, first time, biting, licking, altar sex, breeding, power imbalance, submission, dom/sub, spanking, degradation, pet names, worship, praise kink, sexual overstimulation, multiple orgasms, marking, improper use of a rosary, forbidden love, possessive behavior, dubious morality, obsession, jealousy, slow burn, blasphemy, plot what plot/porn without plot, marriage, begging, caleb fulfilling his prophecy to marry mc

✧ — notes: just priest!caleb fucking and breeding mc on the altar after she confessed her sins—wanting her soul cleansed by him. a thought i had days before easter that made me write this gigantic nasty porn without plot oneshot. i hope u enjoyed the wild sinful ride with me <3

The confessional. It is tonight.

The rain taps gently against the cathedral roof—soft, persistent, like fingertips brushing glass. You step through the heavy doors, and the world behind you vanishes into silence.

Inside, the air is cold, tinged with centuries. It smells of beeswax and incense, like time sealed in amber. Faint smoke still lingers in the rafters, curling toward the arched ceiling like the breath of ghosts.

The hush is deep. Not empty, but full—of prayers, of echoes, of things unsaid. Each of your steps sinks into the silence like a secret. The floor, made of cool, polished stone, reflects the colored light that streams in through the stained glass.

Crimson, cobalt, and gold spill across the nave, painting your skin in fragments of saints and sacrifice. The windows tower above, depicting stories of martyrdom and mercy, their faces staring down with solemn, eternal knowing. You’ve known these windows your whole life. And yet now they seem to burn with judgment.

The pews stretch in rows to either side of you, carved from pale oak and worn soft by devotion. Between them rest narrow stands—each one holding hymnals and Bibles with curled edges, opened and closed by countless trembling hands. A rosary is draped over one, forgotten or perhaps left as penance.

Your dress brushes against your legs as you walk, each step careful, deliberate. The candlelight flickers in alcoves along the walls, casting long shadows that sway and watch. They seem to move with you. Or maybe ahead of you.

You walk past the baptismal font where you were once cradled in holy water. Past the wooden doors of the confessional, their slatted windows dark and closed like eyes half-lidded in sleep. You avoid looking at them. You’re not ready for that part yet.

Your breath trembles as you near the altar.

He is already there.

A figure cloaked in black, bowed in prayer, unmoving. The flickering light outlines his silhouette in gold. The dark fabric clings to his shoulders, heavy with devotion and restraint. His hands are clasped. His lips move, just barely. You cannot hear the words—but you feel them, somehow.

You hesitate. Then step forward.

Your shoes make the faintest creak against the steps, swallowed quickly by the vaulted stillness. Each movement feels too loud. Too alive.

You lower yourself into a bow before the great wooden cross, your gaze falling on the carved figure of Christ. The crown of thorns. The ribs etched in wood. The face turned slightly, as though even He cannot look at you.

You climb the short steps, one at a time. Then kneel on the stair just beneath him—close, but not enough to touch. Not yet.

Your hands rise into a prayer clasp. You bow your head.

But your thoughts are not clean.

Your lashes lower, and all you can feel is the warmth of his presence just above you. The gravity of him. The silence between you vibrating like a held breath.

You are here to confess.

But something in you already knows:

You will not leave absolved.

“Your Reverence,” your voice broke through the silence like a crack in stained glass.

Instantly, it felt as though the very walls had turned against you—thorns blooming from the stone, pricking your skin for daring to disturb his prayer. The altar seemed to hum with disapproval.

He didn’t answer. Not at first.

But then—he breathed in sharply, like he’d been struck. And from his lips came a soft, warning hush, as if silencing you was the only way to silence himself. It was soft, but it sank into your skin like warm wine.

It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t kind. It echoed like a warning, but it settled deep in your chest, stirring a part of you that had been asleep for too long. It had been years since you last saw him. And even now, kneeling behind him, you recognized him instantly.

He hadn’t changed, not really. Not where it mattered.

Still in prayer, his posture remained perfect—back straight, hands folded, head slightly bowed. His hair was a shade darker now, but it gleamed under the moonlight pouring through the stained glass above. Silky. Soft. Untouched. His side profile had sharpened with age—more defined, more elegant—but it was still the face you once memorized during slow, stolen moments in the university library.

He was still everything you ever wanted.

And yet, now he was untouchable. A man of God. A priest.

“Forgive me, Father,” you murmured, your voice softer now, almost lost in the candlelight. “I didn't mean to interrupt your prayers… it’s my time for confession.”

For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t move.

But then—he rose.

Slow, steady, deliberate. The robes fell from his frame like shadows peeling off stone. His back now fully faced you, cloaking your vision in silhouette. Then, he turned slightly, just enough for his voice to reach you.

“Pips,” he said.

The nickname curled from his lips like a benediction. His mouth tilted into a smile.

That smile.

The one that once warmed a life too cold to bear. The one that made children feel safe, and girls fall in love, and you believe in things again. It hadn’t changed. It was still soft, still unbearably kind, still threaded with a mischief only you ever saw. It was the smile that belonged to the boy who carried your books and dried your tears. The boy who once told you heaven must’ve dropped you off early.

It was a smile that made you want to fall to your knees—not to pray, but to beg for things no prayer could grant.

You shouldn’t feel this. Romancing a priest is pure sin.

…Or is it?

“Come with me,” he said.

His hand reached out—hesitant, trembling slightly at the fingertips—but before your skin could meet, he pulled it back. The air between you folded with tension.

He wasn’t yours anymore.

Once, he was your childhood friend. Once, he was the boy you loved in secret.

Now, he was the Father of a church beloved by all. A holy man. A savior to many.

And yet still—still—the one who saved you first.

You rose slowly, your hands brushing against the fabric of your dress as you stood. Then, without a word, you descended the altar steps, footsteps hushed and reverent as you followed him toward the confessional.

He led you down the side aisle, the folds of his black cassock brushing softly with each step, echoing beside your own. The flickering candlelight followed in your wake, illuminating the worn stone and the stillness that draped the pews like sleep.

Neither of you spoke.

You passed by statues of saints, their faces carved in stone serenity, gazes heavy with judgment—or perhaps sorrow. The rain outside still murmured, its rhythm softer now, like a hymn sung just for the two of you.

Then, he stopped.

The confessional stood at the edge of the transept, tucked between columns like a secret waiting to be told. Its doors were carved from dark wood, heavy and timeworn, the surface etched with crosses faded by decades of penance.

He gestured toward the booth.

You entered one side in silence. The door creaked open, then shut with a soft click, sealing you in. The space was small, cloaked in shadows. The only light came through the ornate lattice screen before you—thin and golden, like threads of heaven stitched between you and him.

You knelt.

The bench beneath you groaned faintly as you settled, hands trembling in your lap. You could hear the rustle of his robes on the other side. He hadn’t spoken yet, but his presence filled the air between the walls. You could almost feel his breath through the wood.

The screen kept you from seeing him fully—only the faint outline of his silhouette, only the curve of his mouth if he leaned close enough.

A moment passed.

Then, finally—

“Speak, my child,” he said, the low timbre of his voice threading through the wooden screen and settling deep in your chest. It vibrated somewhere beneath your ribs, making your heart thump faster than you wished it would.

You tried to gather your thoughts, but they scattered like fragile petals underfoot. The silence in the confessional felt dense, heavy, sacred. His breath—steady and measured—was too loud in this small space, brushing the air between you like a secret. You clutched your hands together, but the prayer clasp trembled and fell apart. The cold inside the booth made your skin feel sensitive, hypersensitive—each breath prickled your arms, each moment stretched like a string pulled too tight.

“Forgive me, Reverend,” you whispered, your voice barely holding. “I’ve been having thoughts.” You faltered, swallowing the guilt rising in your throat. “I’ve tried to cast them out. I swear I have, but…” Your words drifted, as though even saying them was dangerous. Shame coiled around your spine, pressing down.

The silence stretched too long. Just when you thought he might break it, you saw the shape of his mouth shift behind the lattice—slightly open, as if to speak, then hesitating.

“Who is this man,” he asked gently, “if I may ask?”

His voice was soft, but it cut through you like confession itself. You flinched, not from the sound but from what it demanded. You weren’t sure if it was his question or the holiness of the place that made your heart ache more. You felt like the walls could hear you, like the carved saints above the booth leaned in to listen.

You hesitated. A war raged in your chest—between what you should say and what you couldn’t keep hidden any longer. You hadn’t even spoken the truth aloud before. It had always been a private torment. A quiet ache that you carried like a cross. But now, with him just on the other side, with the sacred wood between you, the lie refused to hold.

“They’ve always been about you.”

And with that, it was done. The sin you had carried silently, the one you buried beneath forced smiles and half-sincere prayers, spilled from your lips like a cracked dam. It hung in the air between you, heavy and irreversible. You waited for condemnation. For silence. For shame. But he said nothing. Not at first.

His lips shifted—parting, then pressing together again. His expression, though mostly obscured by the lattice, flickered. You knew that face too well. You watched him carefully, searching for rejection, for disdain. Instead, he gave you that smile. Gentle, practiced, familiar. The same smile you had seen a hundred times on Sundays, when he blessed children and comforted widows. It had always made you feel safe.

But now it hurt. Because now, it meant distance.

“So… you’ve been having sinful thoughts. About me?” he asked, not with judgment, but with something else—something softer. His voice was laced with concern, with warmth, with something dangerously close to longing.

“Yes, Reverend. And I know I can’t. I shouldn’t.” You shook your head slowly, your words beginning to tremble. Tears threatened to rise, and it felt as though the air around you was pressing in too tightly. You wanted to reach through the screen, to press your hand to his, to feel something real between you. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

“I… I’m to be married,” you confessed. The words felt like stones being laid down in front of you, one after another, building a path you never wanted to walk. Your tears slipped quietly down your cheeks. You didn’t bother to wipe them. Your palms were dug into your thighs, fingers curled in tight. You felt your voice break in half as you added, “I never wanted this.”

You hadn’t wanted love to become something conditional. Something lost to tradition and duty. But it had been decided. You were a woman raised in the faith, under your grandmother’s roof, under her rules. A Catholic woman must either marry or become a bride of God. You had no voice in the matter—only obedience.

“I don’t even know the man they’ve chosen for me, Caleb.”

You froze the second his name left your mouth. Too raw. Too familiar. Too forbidden.

“I—I meant Reverend. I’m sorry.” You wiped your cheeks quickly, trying to restore some formality to your voice, but it was too late. The intimacy had cracked open between you, and no title could fix it.

This was supposed to be a confession. It wasn’t meant to become therapy, or longing, or a desperate attempt to bury love beneath ritual. And yet here you were, unraveling before the very man you were trying to forget.

You heard his breath again. It was different now—no longer calm. There was a subtle shift, the sound no longer steady but erratic, staggered. He was still breathing through his nose, trying to stay composed, but it was clear. Something inside him had changed.

“I came here to confess,” you said, almost defensively now, trying to hold onto something that had already crumbled. “To let go. To cast this away before the wedding. I needed to be clean. I needed to kill the demon that made me think this way—especially about someone like you. A man who’s respected. Loved. Sacred.”

You trailed off. Your hands were trembling again. There was no more strength to pretend. Not in front of him.

But on the other side of the lattice, he was silent still. Breathing. Just breathing.

And somehow, that was worse than anything he could have said.

Because in that silence, you heard the one thing that terrified you most.

He felt it too.

“You have always been faithful,” he broke the silence, and the sound of his voice—low, deliberate—sent shivers down your spine. There was something in his tone. Not gentle. Not warm. Cold, like marble. Unforgiving.

You looked up toward the lattice, unable to see much beyond the shadow of his form. But you wished—desperately—that the wall between you would break. That something divine might shatter it, or that he might reach through and pull you from this torment. But nothing moved.

“Always obedient,” he continued, voice smooth as silk laced with steel. “Always pure. Always a good girl.”

The words lodged in your throat like thorns. That praise—God, that praise—it wasn’t meant to come from him. Not here. Not in this sacred, confining space. You weren’t a good girl. Not now. Not when your thighs had tensed at the sound of his voice. Not when you had touched yourself the night before while imagining those lips murmuring holy things against your skin.

You wanted to scream, to deny it. You wanted to confess the truth of who you were beneath the purity he believed in—or pretended to. But the words wouldn’t come.

You heard him shift. A soft rustle of fabric, a faint movement—closer now. The sound echoed in the tiny space between you. He wasn’t touching the lattice. But he was near enough for you to feel it. The warmth. The gravity of him.

“Some love,” he said slowly, “is born only to be tested.” A pause. Then a breath, heavy, reverent. “And some prayers,” he exhaled, “should never be answered.”

His voice trailed off like incense smoke curling toward the ceiling. Then—nothing. Silence again, deep and terrible. It swallowed everything.

You could hear your own heartbeat, wild in your ears. Your breathing—too fast, too shallow. You shouldn’t be feeling this. Not in the confessional. Not with him.

You opened your mouth, but no sound came. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

And he just waited.

The stillness between you stretched, pulling taut like a string threatening to snap.

You didn’t know—couldn’t know—that he had planned for this. That he had seen your name on the list. That he had made certain he would be in this booth today, waiting for you. Listening to you. Testing you.

Tempting you.

The silence pressed in around you, thick as velvet. It wrapped around your skin, sank into your lungs. The kind of silence that made you forget where you were—only that you were being watched. Not just by him, but by something older, higher, crueler. Every flickering candle, every carved saint, every fragment of stained glass bearing witness to your descent.

And still, he said nothing.

But he didn’t have to.

The air had already shifted. You could feel it—an unspoken weight settling over both of you, thick as oil and far too warm. He was waiting. Not as a priest. Not as a guide. But as something far more dangerous. A man cloaked in holy black, coaxing you with the patience of a saint and the hunger of a sinner. He was waiting for you to surrender.

Your fingers tightened where they rested in your lap, nails grazing skin, your palms damp with heat. You didn’t know how to begin. Didn’t know how to speak the words that had once only belonged in dreams—secret and desperate things meant to die in the dark. But they were rising now, unbidden, unholy, and you didn’t want to stop them.

“Tell me,” he said at last, his voice no longer the cool blade it had been, but something warm now, deeper, smooth like dark wine poured into a golden chalice. “Tell me what these thoughts looked like.”

You inhaled, shaky and thin, your eyes darting toward the lattice. His shadow was still there—still silent and unreadable—but his presence had changed. There was tension in it now. Heat. Anticipation.

“I…” Your voice faltered. Your cheeks were already burning. “I can’t. Reverend, I can’t say it. Thoughts like these… they don’t belong here. Not in this room. Not in this church.”

You looked down, ashamed of your own boldness. This was sacred space. And you were turning it into something impure.

You had come here with the weight of years pressed on your chest—years of silence, of longing, of loneliness. You had come here, not just for absolution, but with a prayer even you couldn’t name. A hope that maybe, just maybe, he’d look at you the way he used to, back when you were young and foolish and still believed in things like fated love.

But he was a priest now. A man revered. A man entrusted with salvation.

And you… you were just a sinner with trembling hands and a body that ached for things no sermon could erase.

“I need to know,” he said, a smile blooming in his voice—low, rich, and far too knowing. “How can I help you cleanse yourself, Pip-Squeak, if I don’t even know where the stain lies?”

He chuckled then, the sound soft but intimate, curling around your ears like smoke. It struck something deep inside you, something hungry, something ancient. You felt the way your legs pressed tighter together, the way your breath hitched just at the sound of it.

You should have stopped. You should have fled.

But this might be the last time you ever see him.

“I…” Your throat tightened around the words. “I thought of your hands.”

Even saying that made your pulse race.

“On me,” you whispered, barely able to breathe. “Not to comfort. Not to bless. Just… on my skin. Exploring. Possessing.”

The moment the words left your lips, you felt something unravel inside you. Like a string that had been pulled too tight for too long had finally snapped. And you couldn’t stop now.

You couldn’t see his face, but you heard the breath he let out—low, heavy, almost shaky. It wasn’t disapproval. It wasn’t shock.

It was something much closer to relief.

“And how,” he asked slowly, “did you want me to touch you?”

His voice was calm. Pastoral. The kind of tone meant to soothe. But it felt like a test, like he was feeding fire to see how brightly you would burn. You felt it in the way your skin tingled, in the way your breath quickened. He was still playing the reverend, but every word was a step closer to the edge.

“Reverend, I—”

“Caleb.”

His name cut through the air like thunder.

Your whole body jolted.

That was not the voice of a priest. That was not holy. That was him—the real him, the one buried beneath the collar and robes and years of distance. Sharp. Commanding. Possessive.

“Call me Caleb,” he said again, lower this time, almost tender.

You swallowed the heat rising in your throat, your voice shaking as you gave in.

“Caleb,” you whispered, the syllable cracking open something deep inside you. “I always imagine your hands... slowly running up my thighs, over my hips, up to my ribs.” You exhaled, shaky. “I imagine you pausing there—just long enough to hear me beg—and then moving higher. I want your hands on my breasts. I want your fingers teasing the tips of my nipples until I’m shaking, gasping, whispering your name like a broken prayer.”

You heard him move on the other side of the lattice. Not much. Just a shift. But enough to know he was listening. Hanging on every word.

“I want to be laid bare in front of you,” you continued, eyes closed now, shame and need swirling in equal measure. “I want to be underneath you, completely exposed, while you look at me like I’m nothing but temptation itself. I want you to command me. To order me. Like I’m the devil’s own creature, sent to test your will.”

You could barely breathe.

Your thighs clenched. Your hands trembled. You didn’t know whose breath was louder now—yours or his.

“I want to be ruined,” you whispered, “by the man I was told to worship from a distance. I want to be claimed. Marked. Made yours.”

And then, softer. Quieter.

“I want you to breed me, Caleb. I want you to fill me again and again until there’s no part of me that doesn’t belong to you. I want to carry your child—not in shame, but in devotion. As atonement. As worship.”

The confessional pulsed with silence.

But nothing about it felt holy anymore.

Behind the lattice, you caught the faintest curve of his lips—a smile. Soft, serene. Almost saintly.

It unsettled you.

How could he smile like that—so calm, so composed—when your body was trembling, your thoughts stained with everything sacred and forbidden? How could he look at you with such quiet kindness after the filth you’d just confessed?

But then, he spoke.

And his words didn’t match the expression at all.

“My sweet girl,” he said softly, voice like velvet against your ears, “you’ve carried this sin for so long… and yet, you still look to me for forgiveness.”

You stilled, the breath catching in your throat. There was no judgment in his voice. No disappointment. Only something deeper. Richer. A kind of hunger masked as care.

He continued, slow and measured, like every word was chosen for its weight.

“You’ve spent your nights dreaming of my hands, my mouth, my body. You’ve imagined how it would feel to be beneath me, filled, ruined—claimed.” His voice dipped lower. “And still, you come here, to this church, thinking you’ll find absolution. Thinking you’ll be cleansed.”

You could feel the heat curling inside you again—stronger now. Almost unbearable.

“But you’ve misunderstood,” he murmured. “This place is not where you’re purified, Pip-Squeak. It’s where you surrender.”

Your eyes widened, heart pounding. The air in the confessional was too thick now, too close. You couldn’t breathe without inhaling him—his words, his scent, the soft, sacred ache of his voice.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me,” he whispered, still smiling behind the screen. “Even when you try to look away. I’ve seen the tremble in your hands when we share communion. The way your lips part when I speak.”

You could barely hold yourself upright. Shame and want coiled together like thorns under your skin.

“I arranged this moment for you,” he confessed. “I made sure it was me sitting behind this screen. I wanted to hear it. I needed to know just how deeply I’ve carved myself into you.”

You gasped quietly, a soft whimper caught between horror and desire.

“I’ve known for a long time,” he said gently, “that you’d never be able to forget me. Not truly. Not with the way you whisper my name when you think no one hears. Not with the way you ache when I touch your hand during blessing.”

He paused. Let it hang. Let it simmer.

“Don’t you see?” he said, voice now just above a whisper. “Your sin… was never in thinking of me.”

His next words were slower, darker, rich with promise.

“Your sin was in not letting me have you.”

The silence stretched like a lifetime unraveling—deep, suffocating, as though the very air between you had thickened. You inhaled shakily, your chest rising with disbelief. His words echoed in your ears, over and over, like a psalm twisted into something forbidden. He wanted you. He desired you. All that piety, all those prayers—his devotion had not been for God. It had been for you.

“Caleb, I—” you whispered, your voice trembling as you reached through the carved gap in the lattice, fingertips trembling with hope, aching to touch him. To feel even the brush of his hand. But the moment your fingers brushed the open air, he recoiled. His hand withdrew like you were fire—like he had been burned.

As if he hadn’t just shattered your soul with the truth.

As if none of it had been real.

“I’m sorry, Pip-squeak,” he murmured, and the softness in his voice made it worse. Too gentle. Too cruel. It held no resolve, no certainty—only guilt, polished and sharp. Your stomach twisted. No. No, this couldn’t be backpedaling. Not now. Not after everything.

“I should have contained myself,” he continued, and his words broke you. “I made an oath. I’m not just the boy you knew anymore. I’m a priest. I have no right to lust after anyone—especially not you.”

And with that, all the air was stolen from your lungs. The flicker of hope that had dared to rise in your chest—gone. He turned away, slowly, and from the gap between you, something small and delicate dropped into your hand.

A rosary.

Elegant, dark red beads shimmered against your skin—cool, smooth, lovingly chosen. A beautiful offering. A quiet rejection.

“Take this. Use it when you pray. I’ll arrange another meeting with a different reverend—someone more… disciplined,” he said, standing now, his voice tightening as he stepped back. “I’m not fit to hear your confessions anymore. I can’t help you. I’ve already failed you.”

He turned, reaching for the confessional door. His robes whispered against the wood, the sound like parting wings. But just before he stepped out, he paused—his profile half-lit by the flickering candlelight.

And he smiled.

Not a warm smile. Not cruel either. Just… unreadable. Quietly ironic. It was a paradox, that expression—so soft, so subtle, and yet it didn’t match the penitent words that had come before it. You couldn’t tell what he wanted. Couldn’t tell if he was leaving you behind… or waiting for you to chase him.

He stepped into the aisle, disappearing into the dark sanctuary beyond.

But you didn’t move.

You remained kneeling for a moment longer, your knees numb, your breath shallow, your hands clenched tightly around the rosary that felt like a curse. And then something inside you snapped—loud and sharp and undeniable.

No.

No, you couldn’t let this slip through your fingers. You couldn’t walk away and accept a life bound to a stranger, to a marriage you didn’t want. You had tasted the edge of something sacred and feral, and you would not let it go.

You surged to your feet, robes swishing around your ankles as you ran through the cathedral. The air burned in your lungs. Candlelight streaked past you, warping the saints and angels into ghosts as you chased his shadow up the stairs. You called his name—broken, pleading, not in prayer but in desperation.

And then—you reached him.

He had stopped before the altar, his back to you, shoulders bowed as if ready to fall into prayer again. But you grabbed him—your hands clutching his arm, your touch shaking with fury and want.

“Caleb,” you gasped, your voice cracking, “please. One chance. Just one. Allow me to commit this sin and carry the guilt—before I’m shackled into something I never asked for.”

He didn’t speak.

So you pressed on, breathless and trembling.

“I don’t care if I’m to be married. I don’t want him. I never did. Please… just this once—taint me. Make me yours so I can’t belong to anyone else.”

That was the breaking point.

You saw it in the way his shoulders tensed, in the way his hands slowly curled into fists. And then—without a word—he turned.

His hand seized your waist, firm and unyielding, and he pulled you flush against him. The sudden closeness knocked the breath from your chest. You could feel everything—his breath against your cheek, the thunder of his heartbeat against yours, the heat between your bodies that had always been there, waiting to be claimed.

His other hand rose, slow and deliberate, and pressed two fingers beneath your chin, tilting your face up. Then, those same fingers slid down, wrapping around your throat. Not to harm, but to hold. Possession, pure and holy.

“You have no idea what you’re asking,” he whispered, his breath brushing your lips, his eyes locked on yours with something darker than longing. “Be careful, Pip-squeak. Because if I say yes—if I give you what you’re begging for…”

He leaned closer, his lips grazing the corner of your mouth, his voice no longer gentle, but a vow.

“I won’t stop. There will be no betrothed. No more prayers to cleanse you.”

He licked the edge of your ears, slow and deliberate, and your whole body arched into him with a soft, desperate moan you couldn’t contain.

“I will ruin you. I’ll make you mine in every way the church says I shouldn’t. I’ll bury myself inside you until your body remembers nothing but me.”

His grip tightened at your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.

“I won’t let you go,” he growled, “not again.”

His irises darkened, deepening into a shade like violet blood—rich, ancient, and hungry. The passion in his gaze no longer shimmered beneath the surface, no longer cloaked in guilt. It bloomed now, wild and uncontrollable, like a flower that had finally burst through the soil after years of suppression. No burden. No veil. Only want.

And you saw it. You felt it—in the way his fingers clenched tighter around your waist, as though he feared you might vanish. As though he had already lost you once and refused to risk it again. His grip was no longer gentle. It was possession.

How could you—merely a sinful, trembling creature before the divine—deny the priest who had already been yours in secret?

“Then don’t, Caleb,” you whispered, your voice soft, reverent, almost worshipful. Your hands rose to cradle his face, thumbs stroking along the edge of his jaw with aching tenderness. His skin was warm beneath your touch, alive with the kind of heat that could melt sanctity itself.

“Don’t ever let me go,” you breathed, your words barely more than air, “ruin me… consume me, like I am the communion and the wine. Take me as if I were the apple, bitten and bold—tempted by Eve, offered to Adam, as the serpent laughs and God turns away.”

Your eyes met his—wide, wet, unwavering. His breathing was uneven now, ragged, thick with restraint unraveled. His pupils blown wide, devouring you like scripture rewritten in flesh.

“Take me, Caleb,” you said, voice no longer pleading, but resolute. A sacred declaration. A promise. This was your moment. Your fall. Your offering. You had waited long enough to become the Eve of your own story—to tempt the man who was once salvation, now sin. To drag him from the heavens and pull him into you.

He stared at you for one long, breathless second.

And then—he smiled.

Not holy. Not kind.

But hungry.

“With pleasure, Pips,” he murmured, voice deep with something primal, something unholy, and beautiful in its blasphemy.

Before you could react, he spun you by the waist, his grip firm and unrelenting, and pushed you forward—your body guided not roughly, but with the precision of a man who had imagined this a thousand times. You stumbled slightly, catching yourself against the edge of the altar, your hands splayed on the white linen cloth that once held chalices and scripture.

Now, it would hold you.

You looked back at him over your shoulder, your breath shallow, your heart pounding like a liturgical drum. He stood behind you, towering, silent, reverent—his gaze devouring every inch of you like he was memorizing a psalm written on skin.

This was not the priest.

This was the man beneath the collar.

And you were no longer the sinner.

You were the sacrament.

“On the altar, honey,” he murmured, his voice dipped in something sweet and dangerous—menacingly saccharine, like poisoned honey. His hands guided you back, gently but firmly, until your spine met the cool linen-draped table. His touch lingered like reverence, like a prayer not yet spoken.

To him, you must’ve looked like temptation incarnate—your flushed skin glowing in the golden candlelight, long hair fanned out over sacred cloth, chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm. A vision of sin made flesh, sprawled out where offerings to God were meant to be placed. But tonight, you were the offering.

He traced the shape of your body with a single finger, slow and deliberate, dragging it over the tight curve of your red dress—the one you chose just for this night, just for him. Each pass of his touch sent a thrill crawling across your skin, your thighs tensing with every inch he explored.

“This was intentional, wasn’t it?” he whispered, lips brushing just above your navel as he pressed a kiss there—soft, delicate, intoxicating. You felt butterflies erupt beneath your skin, fluttering desperately under his breath. “You came here wearing this dress that no good Catholic girl would ever wear. You chose my hour in the confessional. Scheduled yourself with me.”

You couldn’t speak. Your head was light, your limbs loose and tingling from the weight of his words and the unbearable heat of his touch. The anticipation dripped from you like holy oil.

He smirked. And then his hands moved lower, gripping your waist hard, like he was claiming you piece by piece.

You gasped, body jolting at the force of it.

“Answer me,” he commanded, the sweetness gone, replaced by steel. His brow furrowed in mock disappointment, his voice like thunder behind stained glass. You nodded weakly, unable to count how many times you’d already said yes to him—in your mind, in your dreams, in the silent ache between your thighs.

“Good,” he purred. “I love it when you give yourself over to me. When your mind shuts down and your body remembers who you belong to.”

His hands slid down, finding the buttons of your dress. He gripped the fabric with both hands and yanked—ripping it apart with one swift, sinful motion. The sound echoed like a heresy in the sacred space. You gasped, heart racing, body bare beneath him.

From above, you saw his expression shift. His mouth fell open slightly. His pupils darkened further, almost black. His face—usually unreadable—now twisted with hunger. He looked at you as if you were the first woman he’d ever seen. As if you were not just desired… but worshipped.

“You look so divine, Pip-squeak,” he growled, voice low and trembling. His hands came up to your chest, cupping your breasts with greedy reverence, his thumbs flicking across your nipples—once, then again, harder, rougher, until your body arched into him. The pleasure bloomed sharp and sudden, your breath catching in a gasp.

“Caleb, I—”

He shushed you immediately, placing two fingers over your lips as his eyes gleamed.

“No words now. Only your sounds. Only your body,” he whispered. “Let me learn it like the Bible.”

And then he did. He moved over you like a man discovering lost relics—hands sliding across your stomach, down your thighs, along your ribs, over your curves. Every part of you was touched like it was rare, precious. As if every inch of skin was sacred parchment he intended to study and memorize.

But when his eyes lowered between your legs, his expression changed again—this time to something quieter. Something awed.

You scrambled to close your thighs, the instinctual shame creeping up your spine. But his hands were faster—firm at your knees, pushing them apart with command.

“Don’t hide from me,” he said. “I never told you to close your legs.”

And then he saw you.

His gaze locked between your thighs, reverent and consuming. You turned your face away, too overwhelmed to meet his stare, too undone to endure the worship in his expression.

“You’re untouched,” he murmured. His thumb grazed your folds—slow, featherlight, unbearably gentle. “So pink. So soft. Your little petals hiding everything sacred inside.”

You whimpered, unable to speak, trembling under the heat of his voice and the slow, circling motion of his thumb. You could hear it now—the wet sound of your arousal, soft and obscene in the quiet church. It should’ve filled you with shame.

But all you felt was need.

“You’re so wet for me,” he whispered, pressing just slightly deeper, letting his thumb slide through your slick folds as if he were parting holy pages. “This is all for me, isn’t it?”

You nodded. He smiled.

“Then let me worship you.”

And then—he lowered himself.

His lips brushed your inner thigh, trailing upward, each kiss placed like benediction. His hands held your thighs wide open as he reached your center, breath warm against your slick entrance. And then his mouth found you—devoured you.

His tongue lapped at your clit slowly, then faster, lips closing around you as if drawing out sin itself. You cried out, moaning his name like a prayer, like it was the only one you remembered. His fingers gripped your thighs harder, anchoring you in place, as his mouth wrote psalms into your body—his tongue spelling out lust and salvation in every circle, every flick, every sinful kiss.

You arched. You gasped. You sobbed his name.

And still—he kept going.

“Gods, you taste like devotion,” he groaned against your folds. “Like you were made just for this.”

And in that moment, as your body trembled on the altar, thighs parted for a man who wore a collar he never truly obeyed—

You believed him.

His fingers trailed downward, slow and exploratory, until they found the slick heat of your folds. He teased the entrance just below where his tongue had ravaged your clit, circling the soft, wet opening with the gentleness of someone handling something precious—something never touched before. Your body arched sharply, your back curving off the altar in a broken cry. It was too much—too much pressure, too much pleasure, too much him.

Your gasped whispers of “Caleb” unraveled into helpless moans as his finger gently breached you, the motion deliberate and careful, but impossibly overwhelming. Your body clamped down around him, wet and trembling, your inner walls drawing him in like they had been waiting for him all your life.

“Let me open you up, alright, baby?” he whispered against your skin, his voice dripping with affection. “I don’t want to hurt you. I want to make it perfect for you.” His tone was velvet, contrasting the way his tongue resumed its relentless worship of your clit—wet, fast, devout, like he was trying to write a hymn with his mouth.

His finger moved deeper, slowly curling to explore you from the inside—his touch searching, learning, memorizing the feel of your tight, trembling heat. He found rhythm, divine and sinful, his tongue lapping furiously at your swollen bud while his finger pressed deeper, coaxing moans from your lips like a choir from a cathedral dome.

But then, pain.

It was sharp, unfamiliar, a sting beneath the waves of pleasure.

“Caleb… it hurts…” you murmured, your voice broken and soft. This was your first time—your body had never been opened by another’s touch. You tried to hold back the sobs, your forearm covering your eyes to hide the tears you couldn’t stop. Hiccups escaped you, trembling from your chest, fragile as confession.

And he stopped.

“Aw, Pip-squeak…” he cooed gently, his voice laced with guilt and warmth as he moved up to you. “Was that too much?”

He pushed your hand away from your face, just enough to see the mess of tears on your cheeks, the swollen red of your eyes, the vulnerability etched across every inch of you. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your eyelids—soft, reverent, like you were a butterfly he feared would break in his hands. A breath of love after a storm of lust.

“No, Caleb… it’s all just new,” you whispered through your hiccups, the words slurring as you clung to the edges of control. “I’m not used to it. That’s all.”

He looked at you like you were the most fragile and sacred thing he’d ever touched. As if you weren’t a girl laid bare on an altar, but a miracle. His hand found yours, guiding your palm to his cheek, pressing your fingers into the heat of his skin.

“I know,” he said, voice low and warm. “I know, honey. Let me take care of you.” He nuzzled into your touch like it was the only truth he needed. “You’re going to have a beautiful first night. With me. Just relax. I’ll do everything. All you need to do is feel.”

And before you could answer, his mouth claimed yours.

The kiss was not gentle. It was fierce, hungry, consuming. Your lips moved in a tangled, heated rhythm, tongues sliding and curling, mouths parting only to let out breathless moans. You could feel his teeth grazing your lip, then biting—a sting sharp enough to make your knees buckle. He drew blood, and then licked it away, eyes dark with pride at the mark he left.

Then—his hand was back between your legs.

He slid the same finger inside you again, slow but insistent, and you gasped into his mouth. Your lips were still locked with his, the kiss muffling your cries, your body arching beneath him. He didn’t stop. His hand was working you open again, pushing and curling with more purpose now—loving you, preparing you, ruining you.

And then—another finger joined.

You cried out against his lips, breath stolen, chest heaving. His fingers scissored you open, stretching you with maddening care, moving in and out with slick, obscene sounds that echoed through the sacred chamber. Every motion felt like a new world cracking open inside you—every nerve alight, every breath sharp.

“Fuck—Pip-squeak,” he groaned, watching your face twist in pleasure. “You really are my testament, aren’t you?”

He pumped his fingers deeper, faster, pressing into that sacred spot inside you that made you sob. Your whole body buckled, trembling under the rhythm of his fingers.

“Crying for me… moaning like that…” He kissed your jaw, your throat, your shoulder. “You said you’d walk through hell with me, didn’t you?”

Your breath came in stutters, your body grinding down into his hand, chasing the pleasure like a lifeline. You couldn’t speak. You could only feel.

And then—he stopped.

You whined—needy, devastated.

He pulled his fingers from your soaked heat, the emptiness making your body clench on instinct, your folds slick and pulsing.

“Caleb, what—”

“I can’t wait anymore,” he said, his voice hoarse, desperate. “I think you’re ready. And I need to be inside you, now.”

You watched, spellbound, as he stood upright and reached for the belt around his waist. One by one, his fingers undid the layers of his robe, revealing him beneath—the slow unveiling of a god, not a man. He peeled back the fabric as if shedding holiness itself, as if casting off the weight of every prayer he’d ever made. And what remained beneath…

Was divine.

He was sculpted like marble. Veins coiled along thick forearms, chest broad and heaving, every line of his body drawn with aching precision. It was like something ancient. Like Zeus had carved him from his own likeness, then cast him into a collar to suffer the burden of flesh.

And now, here he stood. Unburdened. Unholy. Yours.

All words fled your mouth. All thoughts vanished. You were no longer a girl with a name, or a sinner with shame.

You were his.

At his mercy. At his altar.

And Caleb—your priest, your first love, your god-made-flesh—was about to make you his church.

When he pulled down the final barrier between you—his undergarments falling to the floor with a soft, weighted thud—it echoed like a vow unspoken. The air shifted, heavy and thick with want. And what you saw made your breath catch in your throat.

He was hard. Gloriously hard.

Thick, veined, and flushed with heat, his cock stood proudly between his thighs—an offering, a punishment, a blessing all at once. You had never seen anything like it, not even in those nights alone with your phone dimmed low and your heart racing in guilt. This… this was real. It was beautiful in a way that made your body ache—his shaft a soft, dusky pink with golden undertones, the crown swollen and weeping beads of precum that glistened like sacred oil under the candlelight. It pulsed with restrained desire, the veins beneath his skin standing rigid with anticipation, as if every part of him had been waiting to be released inside you.

He watched your reaction closely, and you realized—he wanted you to look. He wanted you to witness him like this. Bared. Ready. Sacred.

“It’s…” you whispered, breathless, lips trembling as you tried not to stare, “it’s so big, Caleb. I—” your voice cracked slightly, “I don’t think it’ll fit.”

He stepped closer, the heat of his body brushing against your thighs as he leaned down, his hand curling around your cheek.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, lips grazing your jawline, “it will. And if it doesn’t…” he kissed the corner of your mouth, slowly, deliberately, “I’ll make it fit.”

You shivered beneath him, but his next kiss melted your resistance. It was softer this time—reassuring, protective. His lips moved against yours with a slowness that made you ache, a tenderness that threatened to undo you entirely. He kissed you like he’d never get to again. Like this was both prayer and farewell.

And then—you felt it.

The thick, flushed tip nudged against your folds, slick with both your arousal and his need. Your body jolted at the contact, instinctively trying to pull back, but he held you steady. His hand moved from your cheek to your jaw, cradling you gently but firmly, his thumb stroking the curve of your chin.

“Shh,” he whispered against your lips, “don’t run. Just feel me. Let me love you through it.”

Then—he pushed in.

The stretch was impossible. Raw. Blinding. Your inner walls strained to accommodate him, the head of his cock parting you in a slow, aching invasion that made every nerve in your body seize and tremble. He was too big—too thick, too much—and you cried out, your breath hitching in your throat.

“C-Caleb, it won’t fit,” you gasped, tears pricking your lashes. “It’s too much, I—I can’t—”

But he didn’t let go. He pressed a soft kiss to your nose, eyes full of reverence.

“Trust me,” he said gently. “You can. You’re doing so well. Just relax. Don’t tense up. Let your body take me.”

He kissed your temple, then your jaw, and then your lips again—his mouth never leaving yours as he pushed in deeper, inch by inch, each movement slow and reverent. You could feel every ridge, every vein, as he slid deeper into your warmth. The pressure was maddening, the stretch a sweet agony. He was molding you to him—reshaping you around his cock like you were meant for it.

Your moans were breathless, broken, rising in pitch with every inch he claimed. You felt your pulse in your throat, your fingertips, your womb.

And then—he paused.

He looked down at where you were joined, your slick folds stretched wide around him, your body trembling, your breath hitching with each twitch of his hips. His lips curled into a smile, soft and ruined.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You’re taking me so well, baby. And this…” he rocked his hips slightly, making you whimper, “this is only halfway.”

Your eyes flew open.

Halfway?

He met your gaze, eyes dark with devotion and desire.

“We’ll take it slow,” he whispered. “I’ll teach your body how to love me. How to worship me.”

And then—he began to thrust.

Slow, deep, rolling movements that dragged his cock against every untouched nerve inside you. Each push was gentle, yet commanding. Every retreat was followed by a deeper plunge, opening you wider, stretching you further, claiming you with each pass.

You sobbed beneath him—not from pain, not anymore—but from the sheer overwhelming pleasure. He filled you so completely, so intimately, that you didn’t know where your body ended and his began.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice breaking, “you’re perfect—tight, warm, mine. You were made to take me, Pip-squeak. This—” he grunted as he thrust deeper, “this is where you belong.”

Your nails raked down his back, clinging to him, needing something to anchor you as the altar shook beneath your bodies. His forehead pressed against yours. His lips hovered above your mouth, panting into you like he was drowning.

“I’m going to ruin you for anyone else,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’m going to fill you so full of me, you’ll feel me for days.”

And you believed him.

Because this wasn’t just sex.

This was worship. This was prophecy.

And he was your god now.

And this god—this man who had once belonged to the altar—was now the one thrusting into you, deeper and deeper, with a rhythm so consuming it blurred the edge of pain and bliss. With each slow push, he reached into places no one ever had—into your body, into your soul. As if this was your final absolution. As if this… was your cleansing of sin.

“Let me feel you deeper, alright?” he murmured, his voice low and full of heat, brushing your ear like a sacrament. “It might sting a bit, but stay with me, my love.” He kissed you again—tender, warm, anchoring—his lips moving over yours in a slow, open rhythm that steadied your breath as much as it stole it.

Your nails found his back again, digging in harder this time, leaving half-moon imprints across the muscles of his shoulders. He welcomed it—grunted into your mouth—and thrust deeper. The stretch was too much, too perfect, and yet you clung to it, welcoming the ache like revelation.

His lips traveled to your throat, then down the delicate slope of your neck. And when his pace quickened, his hips rolling deeper into yours, the sound of slick skin and desperate breathing filled the chapel air. The sensation was overwhelming—every sense dissolved into him. Your vision blurred, your ears rang with the sound of your own heartbeat, and the warmth of his body became the only truth you knew.

He found your collarbone with his mouth, kissing it reverently before biting down—not gently. The bite was harsh, branding. A mark meant to last. You gasped and arched into him, tears spilling down your cheeks—not from pain, but from something greater. You were overwhelmed, undone, and entirely his.

“Caleb…” you whimpered, voice caught in a moan. “It’s… starting to feel so good…”

He chuckled, low and rough, the sound vibrating against your skin. “Knew it, baby,” he murmured between kisses. “Knew you’d take me like this. Like your body belongs to me.”

His rhythm was no longer careful—it was erratic now, frantic, unrelenting. The god inside him had broken free. There was no restraint left, only desire carved deep by years of silence and prayer. You felt the pressure building again, something enormous and electric gathering in your belly, and you didn’t understand it—but you craved it.

“Caleb, please—please—it feels… so strange,” you sobbed into his shoulder, your voice high and trembling.

He slowed just for a second, lips brushing your temple, smiling like he’d known this moment would come. “You want to come, baby?” he asked softly, lovingly. “Then come for me. You have my permission.”

And then—release.

The world shattered in white.

Your first orgasm rippled through you like holy fire, curling your toes, arching your spine, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your body clenched around him, your cries echoing through the cathedral like sacred hymns, and all you could feel was him—Caleb, Caleb, Caleb—claiming every part of you as if he’d waited lifetimes for this moment.

When your body finally slumped against his, spent and trembling, he gathered you in his arms like something sacred. His hand found the back of your neck, fingers brushing your hair, the other wrapped around your back, lifting you into his lap like a prize, a promise.

“Like it, baby?” he whispered, kissing your forehead, your cheek, your nose. You nodded wordlessly, still floating somewhere between earth and heaven, still pulsing from the aftershocks. “Yeah,” he smiled, his voice soft with wonder, “I can tell.”

Then—he reached for something.

The rosary.

Your rosary.

Dark red beads caught the moonlight streaming through the stained glass, the glow painting your skin in sacred crimson. He unclasped it gently, looped it around your throat, and fastened it like a necklace of devotion. It was weightless and warm, like it had always belonged there.

“You look divine in red,” he whispered, tucking your hair behind your ear. “The hickeys. The tears. The rosary on your throat.” His thumb caressed your cheek as he studied you—eyes soft and worshipful. “You are… heavenly. I’m so fucking glad you chose me.”

You were dazed. Drenched in love. You looked up at him, and for the first time, truly saw him.

The boy you had known was long gone.

What sat before you was a man—a god, a beast, a lover—shaped by prayer, by pain, by desire.

His violet-hued eyes bore into you. His jaw sharp. His lips chapped from too many kisses. His body sculpted like myth, veined and divine, as though made by the same hands that shaped the stars.

And then—he leaned in, voice low and trembling.

“I’m not done with you yet, Pip-squeak.”

Your eyes widened.

“W-what?”

He kissed your mouth—slow and deep.

“On your back, love,” he murmured. “I haven’t had my share. And I intend to fulfill my prophecy—as your future husband.”

Your breath caught as he slowly withdrew from your body, leaving you achingly empty. He helped you to stand, your legs barely steady beneath you. His hands stayed on your waist, guiding you like a lamb, reverent and possessive.

“Hands on the altar,” he said gently, pushing you forward. “Arch your back for me, sweetheart.”

You obeyed.

He leaned down, whispering into your ear, his palm stroking the curve of your spine. “Perfect. Look at you. My obedient little wife.”

Your heart stuttered.

“Caleb…” you gasped. “You’re a priest. You… you can’t marry me. I’m a sinner—”

He stilled behind you.

And then—a quiet laugh. Dark. Dangerous.

His hand gripped your hip, pulling you back against him. The tip of his cock nudged your entrance once more, the heat of him radiating through your trembling thighs.

“I’ll make arrangements,” he said simply. “The moment I breed you… the moment I seal this bond… you’re mine. And no one—no one—will take you away from me.”

He turned your face just enough to kiss you again—deep, claiming, final.

And then, he entered you once more, slowly, fully, with a groan of pure relief.

This time, Caleb wasn’t letting you off easy.

There was no gentleness left in him—only hunger, only need. He drove into you with a rhythm that felt like judgment day: relentless, punishing, divine. His thrusts were thunderous, dragging cries and whimpers from your throat that echoed through the hollow sanctuary like ruined hymns. Each motion forced a sob of pleasure from your lips, your body trembling with every drag of him, every delicious, overwhelming stretch.

“Too deep, Caleb… please—” you moaned, the words barely intelligible between broken breaths.

Your legs had long since given up. Your thighs quivered with exhaustion, and your knees threatened to buckle with every thrust. But before you could collapse, his hand gripped your cheeks—strong, unyielding—guiding you right back into the position he wanted.

“Keep your posture, Pip-squeak,” he growled, his voice rough, breath hot at your ear, and you obeyed like the good little subject he’d made of you.

You let your forehead rest against the altar, body limp under his force, your senses shredded from the high of your first orgasm. But he wasn’t finished with you. He hadn’t even begun to show you what it meant to be his.

Because you wanted it.

You wanted to be ruined again. Used, over and over. You wanted to be his sanctuary and his sacrilege—his only cocksleeve, his blasphemy made flesh.

You pushed your hips back, seeking friction, desperate for the sound—the slick, vulgar squelch that made your thighs shake and his groan rattle through your spine.

“Fuck,” he laughed, dark and delighted. “Look at you. My little whore can’t even wait for my rhythm—now you’re fucking yourself on my cock like a common slut.”

His hand groped your ass, fingers digging into the soft curve before delivering a sharp smack that made your whole body jolt. Your mouth dropped open in a silent cry, eyes fluttering as the sting bloomed across your skin.

“You really are the devil,” he muttered, his voice nearly reverent. “You came here to torment me. To make a man of God fall to his knees for you. And now look at you.”

He reached for the back of your neck where the rosary lay tangled, tugging gently until the red beads tightened around your throat, grazing over the bruises and bite marks he’d left before.

“Imagine me breeding you on the altar,” he whispered, thrusting deeper until you gasped. “Filling you up like a sacrifice. Just you, me, and God watching.”

Then he pulled.

The beads clinked and tightened, the tension making you jolt, your moans gasping and ragged as the cross at the center pressed into your throat. You were sure it would leave a mark—like a collar. Like proof.

“You’d look perfect,” he said, voice low and shaking with lust. “With this mark. Everyone would know who you belong to.”

He loosened it, just long enough for you to breathe, only to tighten it again—controlling the rhythm like a prayer. Your eyes rolled back, tears streaming freely, your body twitching from the overstimulation.

“Caleb…” you sobbed, voice hoarse, lost. “I-I’m close again…”

“I know you are,” he murmured, lips brushing your spine, his teeth catching on your shoulder. “You were made for this. For me.”

His thrusts deepened, the rhythm brutal and beautiful all at once. Your walls clenched hard around him, your body desperate to drag him further inside, to pull him into your core and never let go.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, Pips,” he groaned. “But I’ll die with a smile if it means I get to leave it all inside you.”

And then you broke.

Again.

This time harder. This time deeper. Your orgasm crashed through you like a holy reckoning, violent and luminous, a star exploding behind your eyes. Your body seized and shivered uncontrollably, walls fluttering around him as your vision went white. You screamed his name like it was torn from your soul, your throat raw from the effort, from praising him.

It was all too much—the relentless thrusts, the rosary tight against your throat, the weight of him pounding into your most sacred places. The hot stretch of his cock as it hit that tender, deepest spot. The scent of sweat and salt and sex thick in the air. The wet sounds of your bodies clashing, your skin slick against the altar.

You were sobbing now, lips parted, gasping for air between high-pitched moans and fevered, half-sobbed whispers.

“Thank you,” you cried, “thank you, Caleb… thank you for using me… for making me yours… thank you for claiming me—”

He growled—actually growled—his breath hot at your ear, hips stuttering against you as his grip on your hips tightened.

“I’m gonna fill you now, baby,” he moaned, the words shaky and broken with need. “Say it again.”

“Thank you,” you begged. “Thank you for choosing me—thank you for breaking me—thank you for taking me like this.”

Your hands clutched the altar cloth, nails tearing into the fabric, body writhing against his. “Thank you for fucking me, for ruining me… for cleansing me. Thank you for not holding back. Thank you for loving me like this.”

“Gods” he gasped, shuddering behind you. “Fuck—”

And that was all he needed.

With one final, forceful thrust, he sank himself so deep inside you it felt like your bodies had fused. You felt the tremble in his thighs, the groan that tore from his chest, the way his hips twitched as he came undone within you.

You could feel it.

The heat.

The fullness.

His release poured into you, and with it, something even heavier: a bond. His sin, his promise, his final vow.

He collapsed over your back, chest heaving, breath ragged and uneven. His arms wrapped around you like you were holy. Like you were salvation.

And inside you… he left everything.

His vow. His love. His sin.

His seed.

The altar had seen many unions—but none like this.

You both remained there, bodies tangled and trembling, time suspended in the thick, honeyed silence that followed. Minutes passed like lifetimes—slow and sacred—as if every breath you took together rewrote the shape of the world.

His body draped over yours, flushed and heaving, the weight of him pressing against your spine like a divine burden. You could feel his chest rising and falling, his heartbeat still rapid, still syncing with yours, like your souls were too entangled to separate now. His warmth cloaked you, his skin slick and fevered against your back, and it was all you could do to keep breathing.

His name had become your prayer.

His love, your religion.

His presence, your sanctuary.

“Pip-squeak,” he whispered, voice hoarse and soft, barely formed through the haze of what you’d just done. The nickname sounded different now—deeper, claimed, sacred. But you couldn’t answer. There were no words left inside you. Just breath after breath, whispering through your lips like wind through cathedral glass.

Then he said it.

“I love you.”

The words drifted through the air and wrapped around you like a blanket. Your eyes fluttered open, lashes damp, vision hazy. You wanted to turn to him, to see his face in the aftermath of what had just been sealed between you, but your body felt too wrecked, too stretched, still parted by the weight of his shaft still inside you—keeping you open, keeping his warmth in, like he didn’t want a single drop of himself to leave you.

“I…” your voice broke, soft and trembling, “I love you too, Caleb. I have since we were kids.”

You gathered every last shred of strength in your arms, tilting your head back just enough to cup his jaw, your fingers brushing his skin with reverence. You pulled him closer until his forehead rested against yours, the scent of incense, sweat, and sanctified sin thick in the air between you.

“I’m glad I came to you,” you whispered. “I’ll leave everything in your care… then?”

His gaze softened.

And then—he smiled.

That familiar, golden smile from long ago, reshaped by the weight of years and the burden of forbidden love.

“Yes, honey,” he murmured, voice like a lullaby. “I’ll take care of everything. No one will touch you. We’ll leave this place unscathed… and walk the path God truly chose for us.”

He lifted your hand, the same hand that had touched him, clung to him, loved him—and pressed a kiss to your fingers. It was gentle. Tender. Final.

“I love you,” he whispered again, like a promise sealed in your skin. “Now sleep, my love.”

And you did.

You closed your eyes beneath him, your body still held open by his, still trembling with the ghost of every thrust, every vow. And as the darkness settled, soft and warm, you felt his arms wrap around you tighter—like he’d never let you go.

He was the last thing you saw that night.

And you knew, with a quiet certainty blooming in your chest, that he would be the last thing you saw each night for the rest of your life.

Until death… if it dared to separate you apart.

[thecoolestastrophile]

AAHSHDOABDSHSOABSIABSUSNHDKDNAKSHSKSBDKSBSKBSISBSUANSHXKAHDKZ

BEND THE KNEE. | ZAYNE (LI SHEN)

♡ tags ; afab + fem!reader, reader is not explicitly mc, established relationship, porn almost no plot, somewhat undernegotiated kink, brat-taming, dom!zayne, sub!reader, corporal punishment (spanking), praise kink, emotional catharsis disguised as smut, fingering, cunnilingus (f!recieving), unprotected sex, aftercare scene included, 18+

♡ wc ; 10.6k (in two days...im so cooked)

♡ a/n ; woman has completely lost her marbles. more at 8.

about the kink being under-negotiated. it's a little tricky but zayne kind of springs this on reader which is not good etiquette technically . but because they have such a strong rapport and so much trust in each other - i think it works out for them anyway. always discuss things like this properly with your partner properly. but in this case, these two have a long established dynamic and complete trust in the other so in no way does reader feel uncomfortable or coerced. she trusts zayne to lead and thats important.

♡ synopsis ; bend the knee (verb) (idiomatic, by extension) - to show undue deference, obedience, or support for someone or something

or when zayne sees you on the edge of tipping over and decides to get you to open up, one way or another.

crossposted on ao3

You need something. 

That’s what Zayne concludes after thinking it over.  

For the better part of the last month, you have been in a bad mood.  

It’s unusual for your off-days to last this long, or at least the kinds you’ve been having lately. Easily irritable, sighing and frustrated, receding into yourself. You’re as human as anyone else - but one of the things likes about you most is that even on your worst days, you seem to smile more often than not. It’s not that you’re happy all the time - but you’re prone to things like numbness and avoidance over sadness and projected anger.  

In layman terms, Zayne has never in your entire relationship seen you so frustrated.  

And, despite his best efforts to talk to you about it, you have swiftly avoided the conversation and insisted that everything is fine.  

Zayne is used to you being stubborn. He’s had to navigate that from the start of your relationship. Though you’re open-minded and often easy-going, there are certain intricacies and small details that you refuse to overlook. Always hard-headed about the strangest things and always trying to fix everything on your own in an attempt to ease his burdens.  

(The real problem is you viewing yourself as a burden in the first place but Zayne ventures that won’t be resolved in a weekend.) 

You’ve talked about this at length already. You and Zayne are in a partnership. He’s your lover, your companion - which means you’re in it together. He can’t, however, act like a proper partner to you if you refuse to co-operate with him on any and all levels. 

It’s not like Zayne is upset with you for it. He doesn’t think you’ve done anything wrong. It’s not even especially frustrating. Zayne is patient. He’s trained to be that way. So it’s fine if you need time, and it’s fine if you need a light push from him. He can throw whatever you handle at him, give you whatever you need.  

For Zayne, that’s where the real problem lies. Your sour mood, this odd sense of secrecy, this persistent sadness - Zayne wants to help you get through it however he can. But figuring out what will actually resolve all of that proves to difficult. Do you need a push? Do you need to be forced to open up? Do you need to get emotional release? Do you need a night out or a weekend away? Maybe a date night? 

Zayne has been sitting on this very question for the last few days determined. Any time he’s had a chance to think idly, it’s always drifted back to solving this mysterious puzzle and getting you back where you need to be. Safe, comfortable, and content. 

Zayne settles on this: ultimately, you need catharsis. An emotional purging - the sort of thing that makes you break down so Zayne can build you back up. It seems like an extreme course of action but given just how long you’ve been wading this storm, he thinks that level of emotional distress is only natural.  

After he figures that out, it’s a matter of how to achieve it.  

What will give you the biggest emotional release? He considers a number of things: going on a hike, watching a devastating movie in the theaters, going to visit some baby penguins and seals at the Linkon City Zoo. Things he know will get you worked up in one way or another. Things that will unravel you.  

But nothing he thinks of feels like enough. Whatever’s distressing you is distressing you enough to make you act out of character like this for weeks. His response to that needs to be just as able to carry the weight of it all, or else it might just make you bottle it up worse.  

You need something, Zayne knows.  

He thinks what you might need is to be punished.  

He comes to this conclusion after trying not to think about it all together.  

For Zayne, sex is an intimate affair. And between you, he is the less experimental. He has is moments, but most of your play that ends up being kinkier comes from your fantasies and daydreams. Zayne is happy to do these things for you and with you - and has learned a lot about himself in the process. Too much, maybe. He enjoys making you feel good. On the rare days off he has where you can have proper sex, he wants to give you as much pleasure as he can 

Most of the kinkier things you’ve done are limited to sensation play. Things that should still feel good or won’t strain you to severely. You have had a long time interest in the more masochistic, the more punishing - and it’s not like Zayne hasn’t entertained it here and there. But still, it’s limited. Rarely a properly thought out act and more an impulsive whim. He has those with you more often then he cares to admit.  

Things like temperature play, blindfolds, and minimal restraints. Nothing more than that, and never with consideration to a particular dynamic. How you have sex on a given day depends, the ‘control’ ebbing and flowing based on mood and circumstance.  

The point being: Zayne has never properly punished you, though you’ve asked him to do it before.  

You often make wry comments when he’s being especially firm with something (most often your well-being) about how he’d do it. He teases the idea lightly, but truthfully - teasing and experimenting are different from actually doing. Zayne has never considered it deeply outside of that.  

But when you mention things to him, Zayne always remembers - stows the information away for when he may need it like right now. He likes being well-informed after all.  

It’s all of these things combined that makes Zayne conclude that fulfilling your desire to be punished might actually be the most effective method of handling the state of affairs. It hits all of the marks providing emotional release, as well as physical release - and also gives you a reason to lash out in a controlled space.  

Zayne read a number of BDSM forums and browsed through several erotica novels to get a clear picture after forming the hypothesis - collecting as much information as he possibly could on what his role would be in the affair.  

As far as descriptions go, Zayne can self-report he fits the criteria for a ‘brat-tamer’ in essence. In a nonsexual way, disciplining you borders on second nature. Being firm is easy but so is being playful, and patient - since ultimately Zayne only whats the best for you. In the same vein, he thinks you fit the description of brat in your own way. A tendency to be fussy, a dislike for being told what to do, a playful mischief that he adores and only corrects as necessary.  

It’s only after the extensive amount of research that Zayne is beholden to, does he understand the dynamic and scene itself. When the play starts to make sense, he comes upon on specific conclusion that leads him to believe this answer to be the right one.  

Above all else, you really do want to be good, don’t you?  

This isn’t working for you either. You’ve been bottling everything up for so long Zayne can’t imagine it’d be easy to approach him now even if you wanted to. Fostering an environment for you to express your feelings and for Zanyne to receive them. To respond to them, and ‘punish’ you for any wrong-doing so that the guilt doesn’t weigh down you so heavily. 

Even through your month of bad moods, you sleep by Zayne’s side every night and wake him every morning. You tell him you love him and tell him when you’ll be home, even when you’re huffy and moody. You want to be good, so isn’t it only fair for Zayne to let you?  

Zayne considers it all carefully. He thinks to make it work, he might have to spring it on you. He’s relying on the rapport between on already having been dating a few years - and the preventive safety measures you’ve had in place for other, less severe play. A safe word and a hand signal. It needs to be timed right, needs to throw you so slightly off-center in order for you to be receptive.  

If you turn it down, Zayne will be back to the drawing board.  

But he has a sneaking feeling that this really might be the last of your bad moods.  

__  

It’s one of those weeks where both you and Zayne are off-duty.  

It’s rare that happens. Given your busy schedules and being in the midst of the busy season, you agreed mutually it’d be better to stay home and save your winter date for after the fog clears. Zayne was planning on having a day at home with you pleasantly doing nothing.  

You are decidedly in one of your moods, however. He really can’t pinpoint what triggered it since you seemed to be just fine this morning, almost back to your usual self. And then something in the afternoon flipped a switch and now you’re right back where you’re started.  

Zayne does not want to waste his day-off squabbling with you over something. So he decides today, he’ll try to get to the bottom of it once and for all.  

He approaches you while you’re in the kitchen of his apartment - quietly making yourself a glass of tea. Conversation first, Zayne always tries to talk to you about it. No matter how much you try to avoid it - he thinks you could solve a lot with a conversation. No drastic measures until he at least asks, though a small part of him is expecting the same answer as he received so many times before.  

He watches you in the kitchen, furiously making a cup of tea. In silence, contemplating if now is the right time. He wants to go about things the best he can. All he wants to do is help you. He sighs and then resolves himself.  

Zayne comes up behind you, soft and gentle. “Would you like to tell me what’s happened to spoil your mood, my love?”  

You pause and then frown, huffing - brows furrowed as you somewhat violently mix your sugar into your tea. “No. There’s nothing to talk about,”  

“Nothing? Even though you were just fine this morning,” Zayne says evenly, voice lacking accusation. Still kind and only gently probing. “It’s been a month now of this. Whatever it is don’t you think it’d be better if we discussed it,”  

You pause, a hand curled into a fist on the counter. “How many times do I have to tell you there’s nothing to say?”  

He gives you a long look. “As many times as I see your mood change at the drop of a hat without a single indication as to why,”  

Zayne can see it happen real time. A brief flash of some other emotion that’s followed up by anger. You let out an indignant noise, turning with your cup and looking up at him. Your lip is curled in anger.  

“God, would you just leave it? There’s nothing to talk about so stop wasting time on your day off,”  

Zayne looks down at you with an expression unreadable. And then, he makes a choice to keep his face even. This is normally when he would drop the conversation entirely. Soothe you a bit, and you’d apologize and hug him though you’d still not tell him a thing. But he thinks right now is the best time to enact his plan. He takes your mug from your hand and sets it on the counter behind you, sitting both his and yours besides each other.  

And then he cages you in, trapping your body between him on the counter while Zayne grips onto the marble edge.  

You look at him confused but Zayne remains calm and quiet until he leans down close to you. Almost eye-level, making sure to be far enough for you to look at his face and his expression.  

He lets the silence sit for a beat. He watches your expression change. But he waits - long enough for you to squirm before he breaks it again.  

“Watch how you speak to me,” He says. Your eyes widen in surprise but Zayne doesn’t waver. “Did you think I was going to tolerate this kind of behavior forever?”  

For a minute you’re awestruck. Well and truly surprised, which is all Zayne wanted to accomplish. You stammer. First upset, then a flashing bit of sadness, then anger all over again. You have something to say but you can’t find the right words to combat him. Zayne does this on purpose. He’s always gentle and soothing and easy with you but it’s not the time for it.  

He brings his hand up to your face, palm cupping your cheek - scrutinizing your every reaction under watchful gaze. It’s surprisingly easy to make you nervous - eyes flickering away from him. Zayne decides against forcing it, opting to continue his lecture.  

“Do you think it’s fair for you to speak to me that way?”  

You stutter again. “I already told you that it’s—“  

Zayne cuts you off. It’s unlike him. “I didn’t ask about that. I asked if you thought you were being fair speaking to me that way. Answer my question,”  

“Why does it need to be fair?” Your voice trembles. Zayne does not show you any reaction. It’s harder than he expects given how cute he finds you.  

“Is it unnecessary? Then, should I punish you according to how you’ve been treating me, rather then trying to be fair to you? Since it’s not important,”  

You look utterly bewildered. “Punish—?“  

Zayne holds your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your head up slightly.  

“Yes, punish. If we’re not basing it on fairness - then the only metric left is how you’ve been acting as of late,” Zayne says slow and deliberate. “On that basis, you deserve to be punished. Either you can admit to being in the wrong or be honest with me you can be punished accordingly. Do you understand?”  

A beat. Your lip trembles like you might cry but you seem to get on the same page quickly. You refuse him, but Zayne can tell this is having the exact impact he wanted it to. He knows you’ll keep being stubborn, is expecting it - so you refuting him does not surprise him at all.  

“I haven’t done anything wrong, I already—“  

Zayne shoves a thumb into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue. You make a noise around him, words muffled as you attempt to pull away.  

There’s a long stretch of silence where Zayne locks eyes with you. Reaching out to you - affirming something. He leans on the rapport you have between you. The ability to withdraw from this if you wish. He stares at you as you crumple under the gaze but do not refuse him.  

“Assuming you still don’t understand, I’ll tell you.” Zayne says. His voice is soft, deliberately gentle all while holding your gaze. He presses down harder, feeling your bottom row of teeth at the knuckle of his thumb. “I’m going to bend you over my knee until you tell me in your own words that you’re sorry. Since you can’t be honest by yourself, I’ll help you. Now I’ll ask you again: do you understand?”  

You glare, and flinch - but you don’t back away. “I get it already. But that doesn’t mean—“ 

 Ultimately. It’s tiny, bordering on imperceptible but it’s there. A brief recognition of play, and understanding of whats going on. Zayne steps away from you, freeing you from his grip. His expression remains neutral now, less kind then before. You’re on the same page.  

“Do you want me to carry you to our room or can you handle walking on your own?”  

You look at him furious. “I can walk!”  

Zayne doesn’t say anything as he trails behind you.  

Once you enter the bedroom, Zayne steps in behind you and shuts the door. Your expression is interesting, he thinks. He’s never seen such a colorful array of emotions flash across your face in such a short time. Despite your attitude and your active grumbling, you almost seem timid to him now. You’re clearly protesting him in some way, acting out what he’s sure is your sincere frustration. But all Zayne can feel is pleased that you’re acting the ways he thought you would. It gives him a strange affirmation that he knows you as well as he thought, he’s satisfied with it. Directing it all towards him, all the frustration as you mutter under your breath.  

The words fall on deaf ears and after a while of him not responding, you snap.  

“What are you staring at me for?” You nip. Zayne looks at you unimpressed. He takes a seat on the foot of the bed, careful to leave just enough room for you as he does. He slides his robe off of his shoulders and carefully pushes up the white long-sleeves of the Henley he wears during the cold season.  

“Come,”  

You stand still and Zayne sighs.  

He’s gentler with you normally. Softer and more delicate. But soft won’t get you to listen to him so he opts to pull you closer by the wrist. It’s not often he feels any need to exert his strength over you this way. But it’s different now. It demands it of him, so he does. You struggle as you fall towards him - into his chest, caught off guard by the sudden movement.  

Zayne wastes no time - maneuvering, manhandling you to be bent over his knee. He uses one hand to slide your pants off completely but leaves your underwear as they are. You gasp under your breath in shock. You’re turned away from him, your cheek pressed to the sheets. Zayne takes a minute to drink you in, examining the white cotton with lace trim that you wear underneath your pajama pants, wearing white ankle socks with a matching trim that he finds remarkably cute.  

Your torso rests across his lap, pressed to the mattress with your arms folded in protest as your knees rest on the bed. You kick one of your feet up - Zayne thinks in a half-ass attempt at objection. He holds you down over his lap more forcefully then before, his arm around your waist. He bends down slightly and speaks with a slow, clear voice.  

“This is your punishment. Each time I spank you I want you to count. If you forget, we start over. I’ll stop when you make it up to me and say sorry. Is that clear?”  

“I didn’t even do anything!“  

Zayne uses his hand to grip your chin hard. A warning. “Enough. You had two choices and you made yours. I will not explain myself again,” Zayne says. You quiet at his tone - brattiness temporarily placated.  

It’s strangely natural to him to do this. Easier than he thought it’d be. He thought being so firm, so strict to you would feel awkward for the first time. But it’s easy to do when he thinks of the outcome he wants. Always the best for you - if this is what you need from him, then this is what Zayne can give you. He pulls back when you relent. No longer squirming away from him.  

“Repeat your safeword to me, love.”  

“Red,” You say through a huff.  

His hand rests on your lower back, tugging your panties up until they’re creased. “What do you if you can’t speak?”  

“Tap three times.”  

“Good job.” He says, soothing. It makes you pause in his lap. “Now, count,”  

Zayne uses his hands to grope and squeeze your ass gently before doing anything else. You take a shaky breath underneath him as he carefully measures the pressure. He lifts his palm high before coming back down - a resounding smack echoing through inside of the quiet walls of your bedroom.  

You let out a loud cry.  

You jolt - startling at the feeling. “That—It hurts!”  

“Do I need to remind you of what to do each time,” Zayne asks. You fuss underneath him, pressing your face to the sheets in what he recognizes as embarrassment.  

“Fuck. One,”  

“Good girl,”  

Zayne repeats the motion again. You whimper this time - clearly more prepared for that strike then the first. He stares, already noticing his handprint becoming visible. He waits for you to respond.  

“T-two,”  

Again. Zayne admires the way the fat ripples at his touch. You shift yourself away from him at the sensation but Zayne quickly pulls you right back down to your place. 

“Three,” You whine.  

Zayne touches your inner thigh soothingly.  

“If it’s too much to bear, all you need to say is sorry,” 

You scoff - showy, but your voice is wavering. “What do I have to be sorry for?”  

Zayne sighs. Again. “Shit, four.”  

“You don’t know what you need to be sorry for? Do you need me to answer that for you too?”  

“I don’t need you to—five,”  

“You kept it in for an entire month and took your frustration out on me. All you need to do is apologize and I’ll forgive you.” 

You sniffle, voice small and petulant. “I won’t.”  

Zayne hums. “Then your punishment continues,”  

Again. “Six,”  

Again “Seven”  

Again. “Fuck, eight,”  

You’re sturdy. Sturdy enough to handle a few hits with ease. Zayne knows because he accounted for it.  Your tolerance for pain, your ability to endure it. It’s why he doesn’t set a number though he has one. If he gives you an option to simply sit through a punishment , you’ll grit your teeth and bear it all the way till the end. You’re stubborn.  

You’re strong. Of course you are. He knows eight hits are barely doing much to you - even as he’s coming down on each strike so firmly. You’ve been training as Hunter for years and familiar with pain so much worse than this.  

But you’re sniffling underneath him, clearly holding in soft sobs despite yourself. He thinks it’s proof of the effectiveness but it makes Zayne feel sympathetic all the same. Zayne doesn’t think you’ll make it far past ten. But he keeps all of this to himself. He brings his other hand up to your mouth and rubs his thumb on your lower lip  - feeling for blood or indentations. He presses it to your lips.  

“Don’t bite your lip,” He says, forcing your mouth open with the digit. He presses his thumb against your tongue again as you protest it. “If you need to bite, use my thumb.”  

Where Zayne expects you to bite him sharp in retaliation, you simply close your mouth and suck. He feels his chest squeeze. Slowly but surely.  

Again and again and again. On the eleventh one is what finally makes you forgo trying to hold back your sobs. They’re quiet, almost meek - weakly protesting each one as soft tears roll down your cheek. Before the twelfth - Zayne takes care to remind you. He makes his voice softer on purpose. Makes his words kinder and less stern. 

“All you have to do is tell me you’re sorry. I’ll take care of the rest,” He promises, hand rubbing stinging skin. “That’s all. You can do it, can’t you?”  

You remain silent, hesitant. Zayne doesn’t scold you.  

Again. “Twelve,”  

Your voice is small on the last one.  A little more, Zayne thinks. “Afterwards, you can ask for anything you like.”  

Again. Your voice trembles. Thirteen comes out barely audible, but Zayne decides not to hold it against you.  

“I’m not punishing you because I’m angry, but because I want you to understand—because I want you to be good for me like I know you can be.” Zayne soothes, rubbing gently just where he hit before. “You don’t need to endure by yourself. All you need to do is remember that,”  

You’re quiet. Once more, but he does it softer this time.  

“F-fourteen,” You say. Your voice is wrecked with some unspoken sorrow.  

“Is there something you’d like to tell me,” Zayne presses, voice warm and soothing. “Or would you like to continue you being punished?”  

A pause. Zayne gives you time to respond. He takes a second to glance down further between your legs  - noticing an incredibly dark patch of wetness right at the seam of your panties. He uses his fingers to rub over the spot carefully, amused by the small gasp that leaves your lips. He only brushes it - not provoking you further. A little amused that you liked it despite yourself.  

You shift, clearly ready. Zayne takes the initiative.  

“Yes, my love?”  

Your voice comes out wobbly. Thick with tears and emotions - like you’re just about ready to shatter into a million pieces. It makes Zayne incredibly fond and incredibly heartbroken all in the same breath. He remains steadfast and waits for you as you take a deep breath and find the right words. You have something to say.  

Or you try too, but the words tumble out in a tearful mess anyway. “I-I’m sorrryy,”  

You wail. Zayne can’t help but be taken aback every so slightly by it. He was expecting it but he didn’t think it’d be so difficult for him to hear.  

“Shh. It’s okay. I’m not angry. Are you in pain? Can you sit?” Zayne asks. You sob, answering through tears. Your words are slurred, hiccuping. You cry a little longer before you answer him.  

“Is okay,”  

Zayne nods. He helps stand you up before he sits you back down on his lap - straddling him while he supports your weight. Your face is tear-stricken, eyes red-rimmed and still crying as he pulls you up. His expression warms , reaching up to brush his thumb underneath your eye and soothe your sobbing.  

And then he hugs you. Puts a hand on the back of your head and pulls you into his chest. Your face pressed into the side of his neck. He rubs slow, soothing circles into your back  - telling you to take deep breaths as he kisses your shoulder blades and whispers as many sweet nothings as he can think up.  

You’re a wreck in his arms. Wordless, helpless - your hands are fisted into the back of his shirt. All the fight has been wrung out of you. Limp in his grasp, you weep woefully and tell him you love him in thick tears. Zayne holds you tight, steady - nothing but the sound of your sobs to accompany you until you’ve let enough of it out to at least speak to him. You pull away - face messy and damp  from crying.  

Zayne cannot help but think about how much he utterly adores you.  

Your lower lip quivers helplessly. “I’m sorry, ‘m really sorry,”  

Zayne shakes his head. “That’s quite alright. I told you I’d forgive you, wouldn’t I?”  

You nod. Zayne looks at you warmly, thumb tracing the shell of your ear. “We’ll talk later. Tell me first - what should I give you for being a good girl?”  

You have a floatiness about you. Eyes glazed over just slightly - clearly comforted enough to release whatever you’ve been holding. Unburdened, it’s like you’ve become something else. Hazy and dependent - lashes fluttering and completely sincere. “I’m good?”  

“Yes. You did well. How should I reward you?” Zayne affirms. “Would you like me to take care of this?”  

He goes again to cup your clothed pussy. You rut into his hand - biting the inside of your lip as you nod. 

It’s something about you like this that sears Zayne’s subconscious like a brand. Unusually docile, vulnerable, needy. It’s strange. He didn’t think of himself as someone with such a strong desire to exploit. Or maybe this is an extension of something that’s already been embedded in him for a long time. To take something apart in his hands with precision and put it back together again. A life, a heart, a lover. You’ve been at the very front of the desire for a long time.  

“Tell me what you want. I’ll give it to you.” Zayne says. Soft and sincere and sun-warm just looking at you falling apart so easily. “Don’t be shy. You should be demanding like you always are.”  

You press your cheek to his shoulder, shivering a little in his lap. “Want it hard,”  

“Is that all the hint I get?” Zayne teases. You groan into his shirt as he bites back a laugh.  

“Yes,” You reply instantly. You’re being shy. It almost makes him laugh.   

“Well, if that’s all you want then,” He gropes you, his hands running over the soft curve of your ass  - marks still stinging underneath his palms. “I’ll have to stretch you open first. Make sure it’s soft enough for me to reach all the way in here,” He places a hand on your stomach and you shiver again. Zayne speaks against your shoulder - a smile playing at his lips.  

“Is that alright?”  

You nod. “Uh-huh.”  

You’ve been reduced down to something that Zayne should want to protect - but finds stronger the urge to experiment with. It is an unkind way of thinking after he’s already gone so far as to punish you. Wring your emotions out by force until you sob and shiver like this. But his eyes settle onto your face and the thoughts won’t leave him. They’re even more strangely persistent, even louder than usual - echoed with your wistful demand for him to give it to you hard - whatever that may mean. And Zayne intends to give it to you in the capacity in which he can.  

It means cruel, cutting precision when it’s him. Deft fingers, a sharp memory and endless amount of endurance. Zayne usually placates you, satisfies - gives you enough to make you contented, maybe refreshed, rather then wearing you down. He wants it to be something that you can unwind with.  

Despite all of this and all of the kindness he wants to show you, there’s something about your expression and how you’ve folded over yourself that makes Zayne want to ruin you completely.  

He knows he can. He knows you’d look good like that. He’d take good care of you. He has many useless, unending thoughts such as these until something in him boils over. He thinks about it with a furrowed brow and then when the silence is about to border on too long - he leans in and presses his lips to yours. 

Chaste but longing - clear intention. He eyes you and lands on only one thing to say.  

“I’ll take good care of you,”  

You blink. It’s something he’s said before - but you both know there is something different about how he’s said it. So you just… nod. Listen. Obedient like you never are and his lips tug ever so slightly at the corner.  

Zayne hauls you with him until you’re both able to lay comfortably in the middle of the bed. He lays you down carefully in the mess of sheets and pillows until you’re resting in them like a painting. You’re frayed at the edges, hands twitching at your sides. Zayne hovers over you until he’s close enough. All the air in the grows thick, hot - and he finds he can’t breath around him with the way you’re looking at him.  

There’s a reverence in your eyes. Fingers threading through his dark locks, squeezing at the base until you’re bringing him down nose to nose. Your eyes flutter back open. They’re wide and watery and beautiful—you’re really just looking at him.  

You look… grateful. Entirely grateful.  

Zayne is so hard it’s hurt.  

Zayne kisses you deeply - hungry with it. Suddenly feverish as both hands cup your face and hold you, tipping your head back so you open your mouth wide. He slides his tongue against yours, forces your mouth open deeper like he might try and eat you whole. But you relent - yield unusually easily to the demand of it as your arms go around his neck and stay there holding him close. 

The room fills with the sound of deep breaths. Wet noises that drown out the loud static threatening to render him something more beast then man. You moan into his mouth when you kiss, chasing him each time he pulls away with this little needy pout to you that Zayne adores.  

Zayne pulls away and presses his nose to your jawline. He presses his lips to the corner of your mouth, to your chin, all the way up to the junction of your neck and shoulder. He whispers sweet nothings into the skin - repeatedly affirming only that he wants to make you feel good.  

There’s something about how good you’re being about all of it that feels enigmatic - so much so that it’s completely electrifying for him to witness. This kind of sweetness has a novelty to it that makes his heart pump hard. You’re never so pliant. So willing to give yourself. It’s not that it’s always a fight, but you’re usually so sober during sex it borders on steely. A catlike grin with an ironclad determination to never lose, not even to him.  

And Zayne loves that about you to. Loves being wrapped around your finger or tugged by your leash - loves that you demand things of him. He finds it a privilege to give it to you. This is just too new, too exhilarating for him not to be intrigued by.  

You’ve conceded now. Your body and mind have decided it unanimously and it’s why you’re melting so easily at his every touch. Like accepting a loss - some kind of complete and utter defeat, and accepting it so gracefully it makes Zayne wonder if it’d been your plan all along. 

(He isn’t arrogant enough nor clueless enough to believe that, but the thoughts sends shivers down his spine all the same.)  

Zayne traces kisses around the parts of your body he can reach. Down the slope of your jaw all the way down to the dip of your clavicle - the center of your sternum. Your skin runs warm under his touch - he can almost feel your pulse through your skin. He stops to leave small marks just underneath where your collar would sit. They come out a shade darker and a little bigger than they normally do. They look (read: are) deliberately placed. An intentional trail from neck down. A warding signal.  

He runs his incisors against your pulse, tugging at your earlobe as you shiver somewhat delightfully in response to him. The dull drag of his teeth seems to excite you. Your back curls up, goosebumps covering the surface of your skin.  

Reaching your chest, Zayne uses both hands to squeeze and push your breasts together firm. It’s lacking the delicacy he likes showing - a strong grip, almost bruising. Fingers squeezing the fat until it spills from between them, palms pushing lightly against hardened nipples as you moan out loud in reply. Your body is more sensitive than it is usually. Each touch makes you antsy. 

He ducks his head down deciding not to waste time - mouth closing around one of your nipples while his free hand plays with the other. He flicks and sucks with his tongue, using the blunt of his nail to copy the motion to the other, giving them equal attention.  

You moan, this part of your body especially responsive to touch. He can feel them each pebble with arousal. 

 “Hngh, fuck, fuck - feelsh good,”  

Your words come out slurred as you pant as Zayne pulls each sound out of you. You look blissed out, your hips canting where he’s slotted between your knees - rubbing up against him for friction like you’re in heat. Zayne only stops to switch side. He sinks his teeth at one point, long having lost his usual composure  - licking over the indentations when it’s over.  

“Hicc, more - please, more,”  

The desperation in your voice makes Zayne pull away. He rests his forehead against you, kissing the space above your belly and whispering sweetly. “You’re being so good for me,”  

Another whine. Zayne laughs audibly at it, affectionately - something overwhelming him. He picks his head up to look at you this time. “How can you be so sweet, hm?”  

You preen under the praise so visibly it makes Zayne  shiver. Such a stark contrast, such a receptive reply. Your lips pull into another pout, eyes sparkling with the greed of a lover and Zayne cannot imagine in a million years being seriously angry with you about a single thing. One look is all it takes to unravel him this completely. 

Zayne is reminded that he’s a warm-blooded, living thing laying in bed with you. Heart-beating hard, chest heaving, ears ringing. This animal desire that wells up in his gut and whispers to him to take you while you’re at your most vulnerable - mark you somewhere his fingers can’t reach and plant a seed where no one else can touch, is a loud one. It’s like he can feel how he’s hard-wired to want, and want, and want.  

But he loves you is the thing - so much that all of that desire becomes concentrated. Heavy like dark matter, atoms splitting endlessly as if it defies all known laws of the universe.  

He thinks one hundred thoughts at once and leans up to kiss you like he needs you for oxygen. You’re startled but give him a reply as he forces his mouth onto yours like he’s starving. Signaling it back to him, I love you, I love you, I love you.   

Zayne groans into your mouth before he pulls away and goes back down. He trails open, sloppy kisses down your chest - all the way down to your navel until he’s face to face with your clothed cunt.  

He uses his shoulders to nudge your legs apart even further and feels all the air rush from his lungs like he’s been sucker punched.  

You’re wetter than he thinks he’s ever seen you. It’s thrilling, tantalizing in a way that makes the last threads of his self-control shred themselves into nothing at the sight. He shivers, hands gripping at your thighs to push them even further apart. His lust suddenly feels bottomless - an empty void with a gnawing hunger.  

And then, the only word he can think to use spits from between his lips  - half way between curse and prayer. “Fuck, my love.”  

You jolt hearing it. Whimper so loudly and shamefully, reacting it to him in such an obvious way. Zayne gets the inkling then that you’re going to be spending most of your day in bed just like this.  

He touches first. Can’t help his curiosity. His hand resting on your sex  - thumb dragging against the soaked fabric of your panties. His finger comes away sticky as he rubs and strokes and examines. Burns it into his memory, each slight twitch. How you clench around nothing - slick flooding the material so unhelpfully. The distant thought bounces around in the back of his mind, that you got off this much on being punished. There’s so much.  

Zayne breathes. Has to remember to do it after he sees you like that. Legs spread, chest heaving, and so so eager. There’s a list of things he wants to do with you but he stills, and slows - and just over the unusual pull of his desires, focuses on just touching you. He fixes in on making you cum just like that. Slow easy strokes over the wet fabric. Circular motions that are precise even while each breath he takes is so uneven.  

You keen over him. Pitchy, high - legs trembling. Sensitive. You look down at him with wide eyes.  

“I’ll cum,” You say.  

Zayne realizes you’re even deeper into the head space than he thought. You’re so uncertain about it. He hums.  

“Ask for permission when you get close.”  

The instructions abate your anxiety and you nod, sink back, and let yourself indulge in the touch that Zayne offers to you unrestricted.  

This is driving him crazy. You are driving him crazy. So out of his mind that he can’t find his usual sweet talk. His restrained motions are all he can manage. He’s the one making you cum but for some reason it feels like he needs to sober himself more than you do.  

He kisses the inside of your thigh. “Just once like this, alright?”  

You nod. You’re out of it well and truly, hips meeting his touch. Moaning and breathing heavily, hands fidgeting. You lurch suddenly when Zayne seems to brush an extra sensitive spot and you gasp, eyes shut hard. 

“Wanna cum, please can I—“ 

“It’s alright. Go on,”  

You moan a little thank you without any reminder - your whole body curling in on itself as you get off for the first time in the evening. Zayne watches your panties soak with interest. Up close and personal. Fuck, they’re so drenched now, so wet. He watches cum drip down and soak the sheets underneath you as revel in post orgasm bliss and finds himself at least a little more content.  

He kisses your thighs again. “Good girl,”  

Zayne gives you a beat to breathe before he busies himself taking off your panties. Long fingers curling in the waist band. You lift your legs up helpfully, letting Zayne roll them all the way down until you’re bare. He tosses them along with the other stripped clothes laying in a heap near your bed before settling down again between your legs.  

Your cunt is splayed open. Wet and soft and inviting, he watches it pulse. You’re throbbing, heat radiating off of you in waves. He prefers to draw things out longer, but he feels particular impatient with the state of affairs.  

He pulls you down him close until his breath is just tickling your skin, kissing your clit affectionately before using his tongue to flick against the sensitive bundle of nerves.  

You shudder. Nearly scream. Zayne can tell he’s being impacted by this whole affair in the exact way he thinks he is because of how much it makes him want to keep going. You squeak over him, a hand in his hair.  

“Wait, wait—t-too much, just came it’s—“  

“Shhh,” Zayne soothes with false sympathy. “Be good and take it,”  

You relent. A little helpless whimper leaving your mouth as Zayne takes you into his mouth again. Your clit is throbbing so hard he can feel it on each pass of tongue. His mouth fills with the taste of you, heady and rich. Zayne’s eyes flutter back, pleased with it. He opens them back up to drink you in above him, flush. On your back, spread open and so aroused.  

He feels himself go slack, lust wrenching all the usual tension from him. He’d be fine to just do this until sunrise - and he would, if he wasn’t already feeling so out of sorts. He needs to open you up so he can do what you both want. Zayne closes his lips around your clit - giving you slight suction that he follows with tongue. Your mouth drops open in silent scream, over stimulation frying your nerves. Your jaw is dropped open, drool pooling at the corner of your lips.  

He knows your body like the back of his hand and has no trouble at all navigating the quickest route to make you feel good. The specific ways you need to be touched to loosen your limbs, make your insides soft for him. It’s not that he’s rushing. But he’s being even more particular about it then usual.  

It’s hard to ignore the growing tightness in his pants. He’s been ignoring completely for a while now so he can focus on you, but he’s so hard it’s straining him. Gossamer threads of pre-cum are pooling in the confinement of his boxers, only getting thicker as he ruts himself against the bed to ease the uncomfortable friction he’s feeling.  

He adjusts himself, bringing his fingers up to your core and gently nudging them through your folds as warning of whats to come. 

You let out a low sound. “Ooh,”  

He slides his middle fingers down until  there’s give. It’s easy to find your entrance and push with how wet you are. There’s barely an resistance him when he presses the digit inside and it makes his stomach flip. You’re so soaked it takes no effort - there’s not anything left of you to resist him and it drives him, truthfully, up a wall. Still, you’re clenching down hard on his middle finger. Wheezing quietly as he presses forward, slowly fucking his finger into you until he’s all the way down the knuckle.  

You collapse above him. Your body, a mess of tension and tight nerves,  gives under the weight of the pleasure and you slump back into the bed and take. Moan loud and unabashed, his name sweet on your lips. His favorite sound. If he wasn’t occupied - he’d praise you just for saying it.  

Your pussy feels so good to the touch. Always does. You’re so much more sensitive than usual it feels like you don’t want him to pull away. A whine leaves you at the loss of the stretch. Zayne looks at you from between your legs and sees a face that’s near begging to be filled up by something else.  

It takes every fiber of his restraint to not stop right there and fuck into you immediately.  

But he’s doing this for a reason  - he reminds himself.  

He adds a second finger and it slides in just as smoother. This is enough to prep you. If he stretches you out, scissors his fingers inside of you just right - you can take him easily without him having to worry.  

But he’s feeling especially relentless tonight. You’re still reeling and over sensitive, barely hanging on over him as his mouth busies itself. Two would be good enough to make you cum just like this.  

Zayne is a little out of his wits decidedly - but he gives you a moment to breathe before adding a third finger.  

You gasp. “W-wait, wai—nghh,”  

Goosebumps pebble your skin as Zayne meticulously adds in another finger. His middle, ring, and pointer all fit inside of you with more ease then he expects. He goes slowly on his pointer. Your body wracks above him at the stretch, nothing but mindless babble as you tuck your face halfway to the bed sheets and try to hold onto. 

Three fingers all the way down to base, Zayne curls them up with a cruel demonstration of precision. His hands are bigger than yours  - thicker and longer. There’s a real possibility that this is the first time anyone has touched this deep and the thought sends Zayne reeling.  

With his mouth lapping at your clit and his digits pressed up against your g-spot with such pinpoint accuracy, Zayne is not surprised to hear you above him wailing. Completely different to before, a pleasured sob almost like you’re going to heave. Your voice is raw with need.  

“Oh, please, please, please—can I please—“  

Zayne hums an affirmative into your pussy. It’s all it takes for you to cum for him again. Both of your hands fisted in the sheets as your buck up into Zayne’s mouth - soundless. He continues through it. Makes sure the ecstasy of your high lasts as long as he can draw it out and only stops when you’re desperately pulling him away to make sure you don’t die from the stimulation.  

He pulls off, slick running down his chin - all the way in little rivulets down his neck. He wipes carefully and licks it off of his hand - since anything else would feel like a waste. He sits up on his knees before crowding over you, pressing his forehead to yours as you blink away tears.  

“Still okay?”  

You make a garbled noise. Zayne laughs, a hand coming up to wipe some of the wetness away from your face.  

“Words, sweet girl.”  

“…’m okay.” You say after a while. You stare at him and then reach for his sleeve, tugging at it. “Are you not gonna fuck me?”  

Zayne feels a shiver run down his spine at how blatantly you ask. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever get used to hearing you talk that way.  

“Would you still like me too?”  

You purse your lips. “Please? I was good,”  

Ah. His composure is truthfully already shred to pieces but he isn’t sure he can recover from that. He’s so painfully endeared. It tucks behind his ribs somewhere, makes him feel ridiculously in love and so turned-on it’s startling. He caresses your cheek, tenderly stroke the flush skin with his thumbs.  

“You were very good. So very perfect for me, always,”  

You beam at him. A slow blink followed by a sweet little smile that Zayne reads as bashful. He drops his head onto your shoulders and just sighs. 

He comes up to look at you. It’s not like you look innocent but you’re so completely trusting in him.  

“Come here,” Zayne says. He dips his head down to kiss you as tenderly as he possibly can. You sigh happily into his mouth and he just smiles a little. He feels especially helpless to this onslaught of affection but decides it’s not such a bad thing.  

He gets up again, just to get condoms but you’re tugging at his shirt before he gets a chance to move.  

“Where are you going? And… take this off,”  

“To get condoms.”  

You shake your head. “Just hurry,” 

You’re on contraceptives. You’re also in a long term relationship. But Zayne still tries to use condoms - mostly for clean-up so he uses them more often then not. Only goes without for an occasion.  

(Or for when his lover is laid out underneath, begging him without shame to fuck her already and Zayne really finds he has no other choice.)  

“Don’t whine later when I have to clean it,” Zayne says playfully. He slips of his shirt finally, feeling ten degrees cooler as it disappears with the rest of your clothes. He pushes his pants down just barely past his thighs - cock springing free. Just having the air touching it makes his stomach tighten.  

“You wanted it hard, right? Turn over. On your stomach,”  

You shiver but listen with ease - grabbing a pillow for security as you flip onto your stomach. 

Zayne likes missionary most of all  - but this is a reward.  Prone-bone is a good compromise for what you both want. You lay on your stomach underneath him, limp and focused on nothing but getting fucked and Zayne still gets to be as close to you as possible, bodies pressed together and all.  

You’re beautiful. Zayne won’t ever get over it. The sight of your spine covered in sweat, the slight raise of trembling hips, all the curves and scars and stretch marks he’s kissed over and over again. He feels absolutely besotted with you, entranced by the very sight of you in his bed like he hasn’t seen it so many times before. He’s like this even now, the weight of his own burning desire like a hit to his solar plexus.  

He feels at his wits end when he finally bends himself over you to fuck you. He kisses all the way down from the nape of your neck to the small of your back - the kind of worship only available to the holy thing that lays in his sheets, the deity of his very life. You push yourself up against him as invitation as Zayne lets his cock rest against the swell of your ass - still lightly red from  punishment.  

You spread your legs for him as Zayne slowly, carefully finds the right angle until the tip of his cock catches.  

Your pussy stretches for him like it was made to do exactly this. The ruddy, leaking head of slides into you with ease. Silken walls hugging him, enveloping him in an impossible warmth that makes Zayne feel completely out of his wits. He puts both hands on your hips - making sure to ease in slowly. Careful and kind  - trying his best not to hurt you.  

Zayne is wound tight. It’s a tremendous show of his patience that he’s being so gentle despite, despite, despite. Most of his thoughts feel concentrated in the one part of his body he shouldn’t think with and he wants to sink into you without a single care. His whole being thrashes against this feeling. He holds steady anyway s - until he bottoms out, his pelvis flush to your ass.  

You shudder beneath him. Your face is in a pillow, fucked out and drooling. All you do is moan, pushing yourself up again and wiggling your hips like you’re attempting to entice him into fucking you. As if it’s something he doesn’t already want to do.   

Zayne drops his head onto your shoulders. You whine, wanton and the last remaining pieces of his restraint fall out of place. He pulls out and pushes back in all at once, the both of you lost in the ecstasy.  

The bliss of it is unbelievable. Zayne can barely control himself, mounting you and relying on his memory of your body to fuck himself into the spot you like best. His forehead drops onto your shoulder and he lets himself go loose - kissing the back of your neck as he ruts himself into you again and again.  

“Oh, you’re so perfect. You feel so good. I love you,”  

It’s not fast, but it’s deep. In the way that’s more brutal then him fucking into you hard. Deep and calculated - measured thrusts that force you grind into the bed chasing the friction of your clit. Your legs kicking up from the pleasure, just crushed by the weight of him. Limp and spent from being strung out so far and simply taking what Zayne is giving you. He likes being able to feel you pressed, pinned underneath him. Crowding into your space with his chin at your shoulder, kissing the side of your neck and wherever else he can reach.  

Zayne could cum any second. He’s holding out until he feels that delicious squeeze that tells him you’re getting close again.  

It doesn’t take long. Each inch of his cock ravaging your insides, dragging against your walls on each thrust combined with all the sensitivity has you babbling within minutes.  

You pick your head up just to beg him for it, but Zayne doesn’t even give you a chance to speak. He can feel it while you’re wrapped around him, pussy trembling around the length of his cock - short panting breaths. He knows you’re close before you do.  

A hand cups your jaw as he whispers into your ear.  

“Cum.”  

You cum just like that, as if on command - your entire body seizing. Every muscle taut like a bowstrong. Your hands reach back for his arm - the one he’s leaning on. Nails digging into his forearms, you cum so intensely you gasp.  

“Zayne, zayne, oh fuck - fuck, please,” 

Zayne barely gets a breath before he’s following after you. He cums hard. The load is so thick it feels delayed even as he nestles himself deep into your cunt to finish. It goes on forever until it’s spill into you and clinging around the tip of his cock.  

The both of you lay there spent for a short while before you blink, lazily - and turn your gaze towards him from over your shoulder.  

“More?”  

Zayne laughs a tired, delirious laugh.  

“Anything for you,”  

__ 

You have sex until evening.  

Zayne doesn’t remember the last time you went at it like that. An anniversary he thinks, or some kind of special occasion. You haven’t had that much time. But two days off in a row was still good enough to have you rest.  

It felt necessary, in a way. Being so wrapped up in each other, a good reminder of your trust in each other. A good way for Zayne to cradle you. Carve the notion into you that all he ever wants to do is ease your burden and improve your life rather then make it harder. In between raw sexual desire and somewhat crass display of pent-up lust, is tucked a few years worth of loving.  

Zayne can only desire you this much because he knows you so well.  

After cleaning you up a bit, he let you lay and catch your breath while he went to run a nice bath with your good products, make you a cup of tea, and order takeout. You managed to not to pass out in the mean time which he’s thankful for - as it made the cleaning up much easier.  

The both of you now settle into the warm, soapy water - only after Zayne showers with you too. To get you properly clean and then help you relax.  

You sit with him now in the bath water. The pleasant floral scent of jasmine and lavender fills the bathroom, and you rest your head against Zayne’s chest as he sits comfortable behind you. His nose against your wet hair, he breathes you in and places a kiss to your bare shoulder.  

You stay like that for a long while until Zayne breaks the ice.  

“Is now an okay time to talk?”  

You stiffen, briefly  - dragging Zaynes hand into your lap and playing with his fingers.  

“Mm. Yeah,” 

Zayne waits for you. Patient and prudent.  

You sigh a little, head drooping down.  

“It’s not even—it’s just a work thing. There’s been an ongoing investigation about a group of Hunter’s from a different association. A Special Ops Unit that dissolved right before a series of protocore related incidents. Dissolved offiically but really more like completely disappeared. The problem itself isn’t really the investigation, but the team we’re working with. We’re collaborating with another association and those fucking,” Anger rises in your voice in a way that makes Zayne laugh lightly. You splash the water, taking a deep breath, pressing your thumb lightly into his wrist to distract yourself. “They’re incredibly incompetent and very combative. It’s been a huge pain to work with them, both tactically and on paper.”  

“It sounds incredibly frustrating.”  

You sigh.  

“It has been. One of the guys from the other association is an enormous jackass. He hasn’t done anything I can document on paper and submit to HR as harassment of evidence - but he’s bane of my existence. He’s actively getting in the way of investigation and he’s dead set on specifically scrutinizing my work. It’s been driving me up a wall.” You say, scrubbing your face. Zayne nuzzles into you sympathetically. “Normally I’d just report him immediately, or beat the shit out of him while we spar or something. But,”  

You take a deep breath. 

“If you need to stop here for because of disclosure or something of that nature, I understand,”  

You shake your head. “No, it’s—I haven’t been able to bring it up to anyone, but I think he’s played a role in the sudden disappearance. I don’t have any strong evidence to corroborate this. It’s just a gut feeling. Because of that, I also haven’t been able to bring it up to anyone either. We are constantly squabbling in the office. I worry if I mention it without something stronger to back me up - it’s going to look like I’m making a serious accusation over office politics and I just—”  

“It’s alright, my love. Just listening to you now is enough to make me exhausted. I can’t imagine what it’s been like living through it,”  

You sniffle, suddenly exhausted. Your voice cracks. “It’s been driving me nuts. I know it’ll blow over eventually one way or another, but it’s been such a constant burden. I kill Wanderers. This weird corporate charade is too much for me. It got to the point where just the mention of it was enough to make my blood boil.” You say, sighing. You turn your head and give him a small smile. “I’m really sorry for taking it out on you. It was almost too frustrating and too heavy to talk about - and you already have a lot on your plate so I wanted to just resolve it quickly. But I ended up making you worry and being unfair. I didn’t even realize how bad it’d gotten,”  

Zayne shakes his head. “It’s not as if I was angry with you at any point. Really. It’s so unlike you being that irritable, I was mostly just concerned. So don’t beat yourself up over it. If I couldn’t handle such mild tantrums, what kind of lover would I be?”  

You scowl at him, smiling betraying your features. Zayne just laughs.  

“I’m truly not angry so don’t beat yourself up over it. I do wish though you would depend on me more when you need it. Even if it’s just to vent. We’re partners right?”  

You nod. “…Yeah. Sorry.”  

“It’s really alright. Though I suppose I might’ve seemed angry or given that impression based on… earlier affairs,”  

You laugh. It’s a beautiful, lovely little sound. Like a wind chime. He’s happy to hear it.  

“Wait actually, I would like to talk about that. What was that?”  

Zayne’s turn to blush. He clears his throat.  

“Well… I was worried about you and I wanted to do something for you, somehow. After some thinking, I thought you would need some kind of strong emotional release. I considered going to take you to see the penguins and seals—“  

You interrupt him. “Oh, I would’ve sobbed like a baby,”  

“Right, exactly. But I sat on it for a while and felt like it wouldn’t be enough to break you out of your shell. And then I remembered we talked about this once a long time ago. So, I did some research and thought this would work out best,”  

You smile up at him. “You had a hypothesis didn’t you? Lay it on me, doc. What were you theorizing in that brain of yours that led you here?”  

“Well… sex is a good avenue for emotional and physical release. I thought the spanking aspect and ‘punishing’ you would help absolve some of your guilt as well. So at the time, it made the most sense to me.”  

You laugh under your breath. “You know me so well, huh? It worked great, actually. Better than I thought it would. And it was super hot when you were being all strict with me,”  

Zayne laughs. “I was worried about being so harsh but you really enjoyed yourself,”  

“I did. It felt good but after the crying, I just felt sort of floaty and drunk and pleasant. Like a weight lifted. Haven’t been in subspace like that in a while, but I felt really good.”  

He smiles. “That’s what I was hoping for,”  

“You’re so smart,” You praise, voice cooing and cloying. “Thanks for fixing me up, doc. I’m really indebted to you. I wonder if I’d be doing myself a disserivce to be all honest. It’d be a shame if I never got to see you like that again,”  

Zayne murmurs against your skin, smiling. “I could always punish you for doing less,”  

You grin at him. “See, that sounds wonderful.”  

Zayne gives you a kiss on the top of your head. You look back up at him warmly.  

“Thanks for thinking of me so much. And being so good to me,” You say, almost shy. “Means a lot,”  

Zayne has a million things he thinks of saying. That he’d do anything for you. Ultimately he settles on what he thinks most often.  

“Of course. Anything to make it all better, yes?”  

[thecoolestastrophile]

THIS SERIES IS PERFECT OMGKHSKDHSKDHSK

My Dearest

Prologue

LaDS Zayne X Foreseer!Reader

Summary: You are the Foreseer, forced to live a near immortal life, gifted with the ability to see fate, yet cursed to live among mortals who hate the truth. In your bitterness, you retreat to the Tower of Thorns, where you find peace. That is, until a man appears on your door, a man on the brink of losing his future. Unless you choose to change his fate.

Disclaimer: This series will essentially be an AU, I am ignoring nearly all cannon, because screw it and SCREW ASTRA THAT-

Anways, enjoy this ~400 word intro of Foreseer!Reader hating mortals. ✌🏻

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3

---

Not many venture to Mount Eternal.

It is a barren, frigid landscape, snow so deep that it snuffs out all flickers of life. Not even the sun can touch her jagged peaks.

Mortals call it an icy hell, but in truth, it is a force they cannot conquer. Even with their audacity. Even with their brash foolishness. They know better than to try and tame the vicious beast that is ice and death and snow. Even they are forced to recognize how powerless they are.

And perhaps that is why you have found your peace in Mount Eternal’s glacial depths.

Why you now call it home.

Here, it is just you and the Tower. No more performing, no more kings trying to force you under their thumb, only to throw a fit of rage when you do not bow. Afterall, the truth does not bow for anyone.

So it is here you have found your refuge. Away from the mortals. Away from their arrogance and manipulation. Even though they appear every few years, you find yourself growing comfortable, tucked away, living out your years in near blissful silence.

That is, perhaps, what you hated most about living among the mortals. The noise. Incessant. Overwhelming. They liken silence to death in a way that you could never comprehend, for it is in silence that you find your solace.

And that is exactly what the weathered, stone walls of the Tower offer a demigod like you. The Tower holds your silence so tenderly, like it knows how secretly fragile you are. In a way, you almost see it as your kin. It, like you, is trapped in a state of timeless-ness. Seemingly untouched, though if you look close enough you can see how worn it is, how humanity has used it. A tower of unknown origin, from an unknown time, forced to live in solitude lest it breaks.

While most find it eerie and uncomfortable, you can’t help but feel at peace in its grand halls. The cold marble seems to muffle your very thoughts, like the layer of snow outside can somehow quiet the thrum of magic that constantly pulses through your veins.

So you sit. You sit in the quietness of your home, the Tower of Thorns. You sit so still, that sometimes you forget that you’re even alive. Day after day. Year after year.

Until one day, you find your peace fractured..

All by one human.

---

Y'all, I am fired up for this one. I've had literal brain rot for months. And I know it's Caleb season, but Zayne still has me by the throat. You won't catch me slipping!

Anyways, D don't expect this to get a lot of attention, but I'm going to enjoy myself writing it! Hope my fellow Zayne girlies enjoy it too.

[thecoolestastrophile]

I was looking for this fic a while ago and finally found it again 😋 I absolutely love complete devotion in a man and this is just perfect

Guard Dog AU - Zayne

Summary: AU where you are the Foreseer, and Zayne is a human you've given your blessing to who has devoted his life to staying by your side, protecting you, and worshipping you. He would do anything for you. Anything.

Word County: 2744

Note: Sooooo, I went a bit feral with this one... Could be interpreted as very sub-like behavior for Zayne, but I feel like we all know this man just wants to worship his partner. So yah. I'll be writing similar au's for the other guys too, but this one might be my magnum opus.

Coming soon: Sylus / Xavier / Rafayel

Warning: Gets a little, spicy at the end, but mostly by implication. Reader likes to touch Zayne's face a lot. Someone calls Zayne a concubine and you get pissed.

Enjoy!

---

“Kneel.”

You stare, features a mask of icy indifference, at the human envoy wavering at the foot of your throne. They shiver in their thick coats, no material warm enough to keep out the biting cold of the Tower of Thorns. The biting cold of your glare.

Yet, still, they don’t kneel. You can see the hesitation on their faces, the pride flashing behind their irises. Humans. They always come, high and mighty, thinking themselves better than you, a demigod.

Your lips part, a scathing reproach ready on your tongue, but you don’t get the chance to correct their insolence.

“I said. Kneel.”

Zayne slams his staff into the polished, white granite. The sound of it echoes all the way to the far halls of the tower. The thinly veiled threat behind his words is unmistakable. Kneel before I make you.

The humans all crumble under the weight of his command. They drop to their knees, one by one, trembling at the pure contempt burning behind his gaze. Contempt for them and their human greed. They don’t even deserve to gaze upon the threads of your robes, let alone kneel in your presence, yet they think themselves above it? You may have mercy on their kind, but Zayne would rather cut them to their knees than allow them to show you such disrespect.

A faint smile ghosts across your lips. With the barest flick of your fingers, Zayne returns obediently to your side. He drops gracefully to one knee, head bowed, eyes locked on the unblemished edge of your robes.

It’s almost amusing, watching him turn so docile, so small for you. A man who conquers you in height and strength, who holds himself with the regal poise of royalty, who you’ve blessed with powers no man can dream of - a submissive guard dog at your feet. Ready to kill if you desire him to. Willing to die for you.

“Foreseer-”

Your smile falls away. Right, the humans. Eyes icing over once more, you turn your gaze to the envoy, regarding them with disinterest.

“What do you want, that you’ve come all this way and disturbed my peace?” Your voice rings like a delicate chime, but carries the bite of a frigid river. 

The one who spoke - a man dressed in expensive looking furs, his skin covered in a layer of sweat - flinches at the sharpness of your tone. He seems to steel himself for a moment, collecting whatever pathetic bravery he has gained from his comfortable life, and looks up at you with a determined glare.

“We’ve come here for a prophecy, Foreseer,” he starts again, voice muggish and demanding, “Our kingdom has experienced prosperity in the passing years and our king would like to be certain that it will continue.”

Zayne tenses beside you, his fingers tightening around his staff. You can see him fighting the urge to put this man in his place, his jaw drawing so taut it almost looks painful. Letting out a low hum, you reach out and brush your fingers through the dark strands of hair. A silent request. Zayne wavers, his breath faltering as all his attention falls back on you. 

Always on you. 

Your touch is gentle but insistent, your delicate fingertips tracing his temple, his cheek, his jaw. It leaves his skin tingling, pleasant and cold. It’s an addictive feeling and he can’t help but yearn for more. Zayne nuzzles into your palm, pressing his lips to your skin in reverent gratitude when you give him exactly what he wants, your fingers brushing more firmly against his face.

An uncomfortable cough breaks the silence, “Foreseer-”

“I heard your explanation,” you interrupt him sharply, a wave of frustration washing over you. Zayne can feel it, feels his own frustration at having your attention drawn away from him. But he doesn’t dare make that known, instead watching your face attentively as you speak. “And I will remind you that my prophecies will not be bound to your expectations. They are bound to nothing but fate, so I advise you to deliberate on what you are asking of me.”

“Our King simply wants to ensure that our prosperity will continue,” the man insists, as if you’re the fool who is missing the point. He levels you with a look of disdain, his eyes not so subtly darting to the hand you now have resting in Zayne’s hair. “Though I am certain now that our Highness would not care for the words of a mere oracle who keeps a concubine as her guard.”

The air in the chamber goes deathly still once the words leave his mouth.

Your eyes narrow at the man, glacier and even, but he keeps his chin held high. The rest of the envoy all shift, sharing uneasy glances between themselves. It seems even they know that what he said was a foolish mistake.

One should not anger a god so carelessly.

Slowly, deliberately, you stand from your throne. A flick of your hand and your own scepter appears from the air, the Creatio Protocore glinting dangerously from its tangle of wood. All eyes fall on it, a mix of fear and greed, all eyes except for Zayne’s, which remain glued to you.

Every step you take, every subtle movement, is controlled, the utter definition of grace. Even the air bows to you, shivering around your form, any remaining warmth fleeing from your presence. Tendrils of ice spread along the granite, creeping up the walls, covering the windows, turning the room into a prison of your anger.

And Zayne can’t help but watch, transfixed, adoration curling in the depths of his being. Because this is you, his goddess, his queen. He may be your guardian, but he is well aware that his title is by grace alone, and not necessity. You’ve never needed him. Not like this.

“You seem unaware of whom you speak to,” you murmur, patience tested and gone, “So let me remind you.”

The man lets out a yelp as ice suddenly grips his boots. You feel a flicker of satisfaction at the panic in his eyes, his confidence disappearing like a leaf carried away by the wind. His companions scatter back, looking on in terror as the ice travels up his legs, encasing the entire lower half of his body.

“I am the Foreseer,” you say, stopping a mere foot away from him. “The demigod of the Tower of Thorns. This is my domain, my home, and you are a pest. I owe you nothing. I owe your king nothing. As far as I am concerned, he is beneath me.”

“You insolent- He is our king!” The man spirts, turning a drastic shade of red. “I demand you show him respect, you despicable wi-”

A dagger presses deftly to the man’s neck and he goes silent, his eyes nearly bulging out of his head.

“Be silent,” Zayne snarls, “How dare you speak to the Foreseer in such a way.”

You glance at him over the man’s shoulder, brow flicking up. Any other time, it would warm your heart to see Zayne stand up for you, and you would gladly let him cross the boundaries of his position, to act as he sees fit. To act freely. But in this moment, all you can feel is the rage boiling in the depths of your soul. It’s your turn to show them their mistakes.

So you click your tongue, eyes narrowing, “I did not ask for you to intervene, my dearest.”

Zayne doesn’t miss the sharp disapproval in your voice, his breath catching somewhere in his chest. How thoughtless of him. Dagger slipping back into the sleeve of his robes, he forces himself to step back, head bowed like a wolf bearing its neck submissively.

“I apologize, my lady.”

You don’t offer your forgiveness, only giving him a stiff nod, and Zayne can feel his skin prickle with unease. Every fiber of his being aches, desperate to earn your affection, to please you, to offer an apology you deem sufficient.

If you want him to grovel, he will. If you want him to beg, he’ll do so until his voice gives out. Even if you want to punish him, he’d take it with such deep affection, because anything from you is more than he deserves.

But until you ask anything of him, all he can do is wait.

And currently, you must deal with the nuisance in front of you, even if you can feel Zayne’s laden eyes locked on you so intently.

“Now let’s talk about your king, shall we?” You muse, turning your attention back to the man. He swallows, regret showing in the way his hands tremble so viciously. “You humans have such a twisted view of power. Whether it’s money or prosperity or health. You are all subject to fate and that is why you hate my prophecy. Your king is no different, and I presume he’s looking for someone to blame when your land inevitably falls into poverty. In fact, I feel confident in saying he already sees it coming, and I would wager that he is the sole cause of it. Am I wrong?”

A low murmur spreads among the envoy. The man goes nearly purple in front of you, face tight with indignation, but he doesn’t dare utter a word, not with the looming threat of Zayne’s blade still nearby. 

You don’t need him to confirm what you already know, though. And you’ve had enough of this messing around. The day has been too long, and you desire nothing more than to rest.

“Tell your king that this mere oracle wishes him well in his remaining time on the throne,” you chime and turn to walk away. Your voice carries on over the clicking of your heels, “However short that time might be.”

“You can’t-! Foreseer!”

“See them out, my dearest, and then meet me in my quarters.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Foreseer-!” The man calls again, but Zayne doesn’t even allow him another glimpse at your figure. He’s lost that honor.

“I believe it’s time for you to leave,” he snaps, and breaks the spell of your ice.

The man immediately tries to make a run for you, desperation carved into every line of his face, but Zayne catches him by the collar of his coat and throws him back towards the rest of his party. His eyes set on them, harsh and cold, a sneer pulling at his lips.

“She has dismissed you. I suggest you leave quietly before you test my patience.”

“I will not listen to the orders of a-”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see a sigil carve into the air before a blinding light fills the space. The humans flee from the sudden ice clawing at their feet, voices tight with panic, boots slipping against the granite in their desperation.

A faint smile pulls at your lips as you dip into a hallway. Zayne always has been good at scaring people away.

It’s a quiet venture to your room at the top of the tower after that. The howling gale outside is all you can hear, muffled by the thick stone of the tower’s walls. It’s a somehow comforting sound, soothing some your prickled nerves.

Still, you feel tense as you settle on the edge of your bed. Dealing with the humans always does this to you. That’s why you ended up here, in the desolate, snowy mountains, far from any village or kingdom. Dealing with them is too exhausting.

How many humans have come to you, begging for an audience, only to throw themselves into a rage after you share one of your prophecies? A prophecy you can’t control, you can’t change. Yet they always blame you. 

You can hardly be blamed for resenting their kind.

All of them except Zayne.

Your dearest. Your steadfast peace. The comfort of your isolation was no match when he came to your tower.

And your frustration melts like snow in the springtime when he appears at your door, wavering at threshold. Hesitation furrows his brow, his fingers twitching against the frame. Features softening, you gesture for him to enter.

“Come here, my dearest,” you murmur, tone impossibly gentle.

He hesitates for only a moment before sweeping across the room, reaching you with only a few long strides. You watch as he kneels at your feet, the thick fur of his robes gathering on the stone floor around him. And of course you notice the way his lips press together so vehemently, like he’s biting back something.

“Please speak, darling.”

Zayne’s eyes flutter shut, a shuddering breath passing his lips. You always say the term with such sweetness, such tenderness. It makes him feel dizzy and near breathless, loved in a way that makes his chest ache.

“May I touch you?” He asks, voice a low rasp.

You don’t even have to think to answer, “Of course you may, my dearest.”

With all the care in the world, Zayne gathers the edge of your robes in his gloved hand, drawing the silken material to his lips. His touch is reverent, like even the clothes on your body are deserving of worship. He takes his time, showering each fiber with devout affection, eyes slowly trailing up the material to gaze at you through ebony eyelashes. And you can’t help the way your breath falters so easily for him, always taken aback by the desperation, the hunger you find there.

Something dark glints behind those mottled depths at the sound. Slowly, experimentally he presses closer. When you don’t correct him, his fingers brush questioningly against your ankle, the warmth of his skin seeping through the leather of his gloves. And you’ve never been one to deny him.

Parting your legs, you let Zayne settle between them, your knees bracketing his wide shoulders. His fingers trace adoringly up and down your leg as he nuzzles into your clothed thigh, like a pup starved for affection. You can feel the warmth of his breath, even through the thick material of your cloak, and it makes your usually sharp mind spin.

“Please forgive my earlier thoughtlessness, my love,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, lips brushing insistently against your inner thigh. “I will accept any punishment to atone for my actions.”

Gods, you never thought you would be so weak for one man. But how could you not be? How can you not crumble under such earnest devotion?

You’d freeze the world over if it meant having him forever at your side.

“You have quite the tactic for coaxing me to forgive you,” you breathe, reaching a hand down to trace through his hair. Zayne immediately leans into your touch, molten eyes soft with feigned innocence.

“I am simply a humble servant, unworthy of your favor, my lady,” he hums, eyelashes fluttering when your grip tightens momentarily in his hair. It’s only then a mischievous smile reveals itself on his lips. “How can I coax a goddess such as yourself to do something against your will?”

“You know full well what you’re doing, dearest.” You lean down, until your cool breath ghosts over his skin, sending a shiver through Zayne’s body. His bravado slips away, replaced by an uneven breath, his lips parting ever so slightly. “And there’s no need for it. Everything I have, everything I am, is yours, and that includes my forgiveness. All you ever have to do is ask.”

“You shouldn’t offer such things so lightly, my lady,” Zayne rasps, fingers pressing tightly into the softness of your leg as he forces himself to glance away. “You underestimate how selfish my desire for you is. I would take everything if you allowed it.”

Suddenly, your touch is on his chin, drawing his face back to yours, until he can feel the brush of your lips against his, taunting and delicate.

“If you want everything,” you challenge softly, gaze unwavering, “then take it.”

Zayne inhales sharply. And then his lips are on yours, kissing you so deeply, so tenderly, like he wants to draw the very breath from your lungs, like you’re the only one who can sate his hunger burning inside of him.

And you let him. You let him take everything he desires, because he always gives you everything you could ever desire.

That is how it has always been between the two of you. And that’s how it will always be.

---

This felt pretty different from what I usually write. I was inspired by an Xavier fic I read sometime back, and I just loooove the concept of truly feral levels of loyalty. And I love the idea of reader being just a feral for him.

Can't wait to write Sylus' 😉

[thecoolestastrophile]

THIS ENTIRE SERIES IS ABSOLUTE PERFECTION OMG IM NOT EVEN A SYLUS GIRLIE BUT I ABSOLUTELY LOVED THIS OMG

“Come to drug my girlfriend again?”

(part 2, part 3, and part 4)

synopsis: Sylus hates Caleb, Caleb hates Sylus. That’s it, that’s the fic.

content: sylus x afab!reader; use of Y/N; established relationship; caleb cameo; caleb acts like caleb; mentions of being drugged; general angst; mostly proofread

word count: ~3.4k

a/n: i’m a sylus girlie through and through but caleb intrigues the absolute shit out of me. including his perspective in this was very interesting and i hope i did his character justice. also, i feel that based on what sylus said in his main story, he knows that caleb is/has been alive and what he’s been up to, and caleb being involved with ever and knowing MC’s whereabouts in the N109 zone, know who sylus is. this fic operates under that assumption

The only person you’d told about your mission to Skyhaven was Sylus. And now, having returned from the harrowing journey—after being reunited with your childhood best friend Caleb, who you thought was dead—Sylus was the only person you wanted to see.

Your boyfriend had been keeping tabs on you the best he could while you were gone, using his contacts in Skyhaven to relay information. But he had to be careful not to tip off anyone from the Farspace Fleet lest it ruin your cover, or worse, get you hurt. The second you texted him you were coming home, however, he stopped everything he was doing, hopped on his bike, and sped straight for your apartment.

Sylus was there when you walked through the door, hauling you into his arms and hugging you so tightly you could hardly breathe. It didn’t phase you anymore to find him in your apartment, knowing he had no problem coming and going as he pleased.

“Miss me?” you teased, whispering in his ear.

He huffed. “Not in the least,” he said, hugging you tighter.

“Sy, I love you, but I can’t breathe.”

Finally his gripped loosened enough that you could breathe normally again. You pushed back, hands on his shoulders, and just admired his face after not having seen it for quite some time.

“Enjoying the view?” Sylus asked.

You smiled. “I always do.” You placed a chaste kiss on his lips. “I did miss you though.”

He smiled that soft smile reserved only for you, and you melted at the sight. “I missed you too.”

“I have a lot to tell you, but I’d like to change first if you don’t mind,” you said. “Wait for me on the couch?”

“Of course, take your time, I’m not going anywhere.”

Reluctantly, Sylus lowered you to the ground.

You quickly changed into more comfortable clothes and joined Sylus on the couch, where he pulled you into his lap, the need to hold you far too strong for him to ignore.

“So,” he began, fingers brushing along your back, “where do you want to start?”

You sucked in a deep breath, the words weighing heavily on your tongue, as if saying them aloud will finally make the truth sink in. “Um, I don’t know how else to say this so, it turns out Caleb is alive. Has been this whole time.”

Sylus’s expression remained neutral. “You saw him while you were up there?”

You nodded. “He’s the Farspace Fleet’s Colonel, and he’s…not the same as I remember him.”

Sylus brushed a strand of hair out of your face, his fingers grazing your cheek. “Tell me.”

You launched into your story, detailing everything that happened, from investigating the bombing site undercover to the first interview with Caleb, the switch in personality from Colonel to best friend, to staying with him in his home, visiting Mia in the hospital and running into Zayne, finding Kevi and the Aether Core in his possession.

Talking about the night you were supposed to retrieve Kevi and bring him to Zayne, you got a bit choked up. Having to voice what happened, what you had been in denial about but knew you needed to admit, was perhaps the most difficult of all.

“I wasn’t feeling well that day,” you said, “and before I ‘went to bed,’ Caleb gave me some medicine to help.” You averted your gaze. “All of a sudden, I was so exhausted I couldn’t keep my eyes open, and I ended up falling asleep before I even realized it.”

Sylus tensed beneath you, the unspoken pieces slowly clicking into place.

“Sy…I think Caleb… I think he may have drugged me.”

The betrayal was still raw, maybe more painful now that you’d said it aloud for the first time since it happened.

Abruptly, Sylus removed you from his lap, placing you gently onto the couch before rising and heading straight for the door.

Confused, and perhaps a little desperate, you grabbed his arm, stopping him in his tracks. “Sylus, where are you going?”

Without turning to you he said with such lethal calm a shiver went down your spine, “I’m going to visit Skyhaven and have a chat with the Colonel.”

You snapped to your feet, wrapping both your arms around Sylus’s. “Sy, please, you can’t.”

He looked at you, fury blazing like an inferno in his red eyes. “He drugged you, Y/N,” he snarled. “That cannot go unpunished.”

While you greatly appreciated Sylus’s well-placed protectiveness, your feelings were still a jumbled mess when it came to Caleb. But you knew one thing, you didn’t want him to get hurt, and you certainly didn’t want Sylus to be the one hurting him.

You shook your head, voicing your thoughts aloud. “I don’t want you to hurt him. I know what he did was wrong, and please believe when I say I’m furious about it too, but he’s important to me, Sy. I thought he was dead and I just got him back, we both need to be a little more forgiving than usual, for my sake.”

Sylus was conflicted. The instinct to protect was near overwhelming, but truly the last thing he ever wanted to do was upset you. And killing hurting your beloved childhood best friend would do far more than just upset you.

So he tamped down his instincts and relaxed in your grip. “Fine.”

You breathed a sigh of a relief. “Thank you.”

“But if I have the displeasure of meeting him, I will be saying something,” Sylus said, leaving no room for negotiation.

“Okay, I can live with that,” you agreed. You pulled him back down onto the couch. “I have more to tell you, will you sit and listen this time?”

He shot you a withering look. “Yes, sweetie.”

So you finished your story, telling him about the strange man named Viper, how you found Caleb with the oddly-behaving Kevi and “the Professor,” and your departure that felt like you’d left with more unfinished business than when you’d first arrived.

Sylus kept his word and sat, giving you his full attention despite the fact that his anger still simmered in his veins. He certainly shared your sentiment regarding unfinished business, this was not the first or last time he was going to hear about Caleb. He just hoped he wouldn’t have to kill the Colonel should he cross that line with you, something he was wisely keeping to himself.

—

It’d be two weeks since you’d returned from Skyhaven. You’d spent a fair amount of it with Sylus, trying to make up for the time spent apart.

Caleb was always in the back of your mind, though, and the two of you had shared brief conversations over text during that time. You were still wrapping your head around the fact that Caleb was back in your life, albeit in a much different role than he’d once had.

You were eternally grateful to have Sylus by your side, he was the solid ground you so desperately needed to stand on right now, and he was more than happy to be that for you.

He was with you currently, the two of you settling in for a night-in at your apartment. You’d ordered take-out and were patiently waiting for the food to be delivered so you could start the movie you’d carefully chosen.

Lounging on the couch with your head in Sylus’s lap, you scrolled mindlessly through your phone, flipping it to show him silly posts every now and then. The sense of comfort that overwhelmed you, having such an innocuous night with your boyfriend, was a welcome reprieve to the constant anxiety plaguing you these past two weeks.

The sound of your doorbell cut through the tranquil atmosphere.

You and Sylus locked eyes, the same look of confusion on both of your faces. It wasn’t like the delivery person hadn’t shown up at your door before, but it was certainly unusual considering your instructions said to leave the food in the lobby.

Sylus lightly patted the top of your head. “I’ll get it.”

You lifted your upper body enough for Sylus to slide out from under you and promptly lay back down to resume your scrolling.

You listened as Sylus walked to, and opened your door, then felt rather than heard the pregnant pause before your boyfriend spoke.

“Well, if it isn’t the Colonel of the Farspace Fleet. Come to drug my girlfriend again?”

A myriad of emotions flickered in Caleb’s eyes. Surprise. Recognition. Fury. Regret. Guilt. But Caleb was well versed in handling difficult situations, and had no problem slipping on a mask of charisma, while inside he was positively seething.

You bolted for the door.

“Y/N didn’t mention having a boyfriend when she was in Skyhaven,” Caleb said cheerfully.

You skidded to a halt behind Sylus, panic icing your veins seeing your childhood best friend unexpectedly at your door, holding your bag of take-out in one hand, having a death-glare competition with your boyfriend.

“I didn’t exactly have the time to mention it, Caleb,” you said, trying to cut through the thick tension in the air. “You didn’t tell me you were stopping by, or that you stole our dinner.”

Caleb shrugged. “I was in the area, figured I’d drop in and see what you were up to.” His gaze flicked to Sylus before returning to you. “If you wanted pork ribs you know you could’ve just asked me, right pip-squeak?”

Sylus went rigid at the pet name.

You held back a groan, instead politely asking, “Why don’t you come in so I can properly introduce you?”

Sylus hated that you said that.

Caleb loved that you did.

“Sure, wouldn’t want your dinner to get cold standin’ out in the hall all night,” Caleb said.

You pulled Sylus away from the door to allow Caleb entry. Having the two men, both broad and tall, taking up the entryway made this situation all the more suffocating.

You swiped the take-out from Caleb’s hand, grabbed Sylus’s, and dragged him with you to the kitchen with Caleb following close behind.

Placing the bag on the counter, you whirled to face your childhood best friend, far more nervous than you should’ve been to introduce your boyfriend for the first time. Neither of you had had significant others to introduce before, in fact you pretended to be Caleb’s girlfriend in college so the girls would leave him alone. But since Caleb was gone, you could no longer interfere with each other’s love lives…

You cleared your throat. “Caleb, this is Skye, my boyfriend. Skye, this is Caleb, my best friend from childhood.”

Caleb’s eyes darkened in a way that was still unfamiliar to you but not foreign, and a wolfish grin spread over his lips. “Y/N,” he drawled, his voice dropping, “you know you can’t lie to me.”

You froze, Sylus’s fingers tightening around yours. “What are you talking about?”

Caleb looked languidly at Sylus. “You know as well as I do his name isn’t Skye.” The dark look vanished from his eyes as they settled on you, instead reflecting a deep concern. “Can we go talk, pip?”

“Absolutely not,” Sylus snarled. “She isn’t going anywhere with you.”

You gave Caleb your back to face Sylus who was glaring menacingly at the Colonel. You reached up and cupped his cheek. “Sy.” His gaze snapped to yours, softening slightly. “I’m going to go talk to him.”

He would never deny you anything, nor tell you what you could or couldn’t do. You were your own person, who could make your own choices, even if he emphatically disagreed. He knew you could handle yourself, but this supposed childhood best friend had already drugged you once, and Sylus did not want to find out what else he was willing to do.

Sylus’s brow buckled. “Sweetie, please. I don’t trust him.”

Caleb scoffed.

You shot him a glare over your shoulder.

“I know you don’t,” you said to Sylus, stroking his cheek, “but I need you to trust me.”

He did, wholeheartedly.

With a resigned sigh, Sylus dipped his head, brushing his lips along your temple before whispering in your ear, “I’ll be watching, just call for me if you need help.”

You turned your head and kissed his cheek. “I will, I promise.”

Squeezing his hand and flashing him your most reassuring smile, your attention shifted to Caleb, who stood there looking as murderous as Sylus had when he’d opened your apartment door.

“Caleb,” you snapped, breaking him out of his trance. “Let’s go.”

—

You and Caleb didn’t go far, opting to sit off to the side on the steps leading into your apartment complex. Perched on the branch of a nearby tree was Mephisto, his ruby red eyes trained intently on you as Sylus watched from inside.

“Okay,” you said, “what did you want to talk about?”

Caleb angled his body toward you, grabbing your hands as if they were the most delicate things in the world. “Y/N, what are you thinking?” he asked, that same concern from earlier bleeding into his voice. “You know who he is, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” you said.

His gaze hardened slightly. “You know and yet you’re still with him? The leader of Onychinus? Do you have any idea the things he’s done, the things he’s capable of?”

You snatched your hands away from him, your temper flaring. What right did he have to question you like this? He didn’t get to come back into your life after almost a year of thinking he was gone forever and just tell you what to do.

“I am well aware of what Sylus has done and what he is capable of,” you nearly growled. “But I know who he is at his core and in his heart. That is what’s important to me, that is the man I fell in love with.”

Love. You were in love with this guy?

Caleb’s face fell and a wave of guilt crashed over you.

You took his right hand in yours, saying much softer, “Just because someone does bad things doesn’t mean they’re a bad person. You of all people should understand that.”

“I was just trying to protect you,” Caleb whispered, the pain in his voice clear as he stared at your hands. “All I want is to make sure you’re safe.”

“I know Caleb,” you murmured, trying to catch his gaze. “I’m safe with Sylus.”

Caleb shook his head, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, because he couldn’t believe it. He was the only one who could protect you and keep you safe. He was the only one you were supposed to love. How could he let another man—the leader of Onychinus, no less—come into your life and take you from him? He knew he was gone for a year but he was back now, who else did you need but him?

But Caleb also knew that eliminating this new threat in the form of your current boyfriend wouldn’t be as easy as he wanted it to. You clearly cared for this guy—loved him even—so he’d have to continue playing the long game lest he ruin any chance he had left to be with you.

You sucked in a deep breath, then blew it out slowly. “Look Caleb, I want you in my life, you’re my best friend, but we need to have some boundaries, okay?”

“Boundaries?” Caleb echoed, his brows pinching. “Since when have we ever had boundaries?”

“Since now,” you responded firmly. “You can’t just show up at my door without saying anything. I’m happy to have you over, but we have to plan it first.”

He nodded, a spark igniting in his eyes. He could do that. If it made you happy, then he would do it for you. “Okay, easy, done. Anythin’ else you got for me?”

You couldn’t help the small smile lifting the corners of your lips. It was so much easier with him when he acted like his old self. You missed this Caleb.

“I need you to get along with Sylus, for my sake,” you said, squeezing his hand. “Put aside whatever pissing contest I know you two already have because I don’t want my best friend and my boyfriend hating each other’s guts.”

Caleb’s expression didn’t falter despite the rage he felt boiling in his blood. “That goes both ways ya know,” he said with a rather disarming grin. “You’ll have to talk to your boyfriend about that too.”

It physically hurt Caleb to call Sylus that cursed word, but he had an award-worthy performance to put on if he ever hoped to replace the Onychinus leader as the only thing he’d ever wanted to be to you.

You rolled your eyes. “Please don’t start.”

He laughed, and though it sounded genuine, it was far more forced than he led on. “Okay, okay,” he conceded. “That it?”

“You sound like you want me to give you more boundaries.”

“You can give me whatever you want, pip-squeak.” Preferably your undying devotion, but he’d work on that.

“Caleb,” you admonished but he merely grinned wider in response. With a sigh, you let go of his hand and pushed yourself to your feet. “I’m glad we had this talk.”

He rose as well, towering over you. “Me too,” he murmured. “I’m happy you want me to be in your life again.”

“I never wanted you to leave it,” you told him earnestly. “And as much as I hate to say this, you better go. My dinner is probably cold by now and I need to go talk to Sylus, alone.”

“Didn’t mean to interrupt dinner,” Caleb quipped. “Seriously though, next time you want pork ribs, just call me, okay?”

You laughed. “All right, all right.” You started pushing him down the steps. “Now go, go. Text me when you’re home so I know you’re safe.”

Caleb’s chest tightened. Despite everything, you still wanted him safe, you still cared about him. He would cling to this like a lifeline.

“Text me when you get upstairs so I know you’re safe,” he shot back, meaning to be playful but coming across more hostile than anything.

You frowned. “I told you already, I’m safe with Sylus.”

He smiled to ease the tension and was relieved when it worked. “Just humor me, ‘kay?”

“Whatever.” You gave him one last shove. “Don’t be a stranger, Caleb.”

“I won’t, pip-squeak, I promise.”

And he had every intention of keeping that promise and then some.

—

Sylus flung open the door before you could even reach for the handle, checking you over with a careful precision, making sure not a hair was out of place.

You patted his shoulders. “I’m okay, Sy, we just talked.”

“I don’t like the way he speaks to you,” Sylus grumbled, not stopping his thorough inspection. “It’s like he thinks you’re his possession or something.”

“You say all the time that I belong to you,” you teased.

He cut you a fierce glare. “That’s different, I don’t treat you as though you’re an object for me to claim. You’re a person, Y/N.”

Maybe you were naive, but you didn’t think Caleb thought of you in such a way. You weren’t going to argue about it though. Your date night had been ruined enough, adding a fight into the mix would only further sour your mood and his.

“No, you don’t treat me like that,” you said, knowing he was looking for your reassurance, and you were more than happy to give it because it was the truth.

Sylus visibly relaxed. “You look exhausted.”

“I am exhausted.” You pouted. “I just wanted to spend a quiet night in with you.”

He smoothed your hair as he tucked you close to his chest. “The night’s still young, we have plenty of time to do just that.”

“Our dinner is cold.”

“We can heat it up.”

You wrapped your arms around his waist and peered up at him. “Nothing’s going to change between us just because Caleb’s back. We can talk more about it tomorrow, but I need you to know that.”

He nodded. “I know, sweetie, I wasn’t worried.”

No, Sylus was not worried about you, he was however, incredibly suspicious of what Caleb had in store.

But that was a tomorrow problem, tonight he would give you the date you wanted with no more mention of your childhood best friend.

You nuzzled your face into his chest. “I love you, Sy.”

Sylus kissed the top of your head. “I love you, Y/N.” He drew back, bracing his hands on your hips. “Shall we go warm our dinner?”

You smiled. “Yes please.”

As you trailed behind your boyfriend to the kitchen, you quickly pulled out your phone, firing off a text to Caleb letting him know you were safe.

Still outside your apartment complex, Caleb stared at the notification on his own phone. He kissed the necklace clutched tightly in his hand as a sense of victory washed over him.

[thecoolestastrophile]

Just got Caleb's new myths and OH MY GOD??? THE WAY YOU CAN SEE HIS ABS THROUGH HIS SUIT THING?? 😍😍😍 IM GONNA LITERALLY EAT HIM HES SO YUMMY

[thecoolestastrophile]

He's so malewife

Lesson learned 😶

(She apologized afterwards)

[thecoolestastrophile]

Nooo I'm completely out of diamonds and my aurum pass is about to end and I have literally no money but I need these cards 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

They are feeding us Rafayel girlies sooooo good!!!!

I need this so bad!!! Help!!!

[thecoolestastrophile]

HOLY FUCK

WERE YOU PLANNING TO JOIN ME?

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

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

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

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

Masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There he is. Caleb.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You gasp, the threat surprisingly intense.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You breathe heavily, trying to regain your composure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Caleb!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He takes your silence as agreement. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He pauses, giving you a moment to breathe. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fuck…."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You choked out a teary laugh. "Yes."

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

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

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

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

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

"I mean…it surprised me…"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey!” you exclaim, a weak protest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Caleb!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How?” You breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your grin widened, emboldened by his response.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

taglist : @mcdepressed290

[thecoolestastrophile]

I need to peg him

[LADS] Womb

[thecoolestastrophile]

I'm at the airport rn and it's lowkey making me miss Caleb, if only he was real 😔😔

[thecoolestastrophile]

YUMMY

chapter one ── pest control. the spider’s sense: a spidercaleb series.

♥︎ spider-man!caleb 𝑥 fem!reader

synopsis. ┆ caleb’s life was perfect—until it wasn’t. a radioactive spider bite turned him into linkon’s friendly neighborhood spider-man, the daily bugle started hunting for the man behind the mask, and to top it all off, he was forced to partner up with you—his smart, competitive, and infuriatingly perfect classmate who threatened his spot as number one in the class rankings.

warnings. ┆ college/modern au, academic rivals to lovers, fluff, angst, eventual smut, gran isn’t evil in this LOL, the canon event, college parties, alcohol consumption, cliches, depictions of serious crime, references to the spider-man comics and movies

chapter summary. ┆ caleb's worst fear comes true when the two of you are assigned as lab partners, especially after your first experiment together goes horribly wrong in more ways than one.

series masterlist. ┆ next: soon!

Most days in Linkon City begin with sirens.

Loud, blaring, unmistakable screeches that cut through the early morning quiet like a blade, carving their way through alleyways and avenues alike. They seep into walls, curl beneath locked doors, and coil around the restless minds of those who have long since stopped flinching at their call.

To them, the inhabitants of this city, it is nothing more than background noise—a city’s heartbeat, rhythmic and ceaseless. But to you, it is a warning. A sign that the world beyond the window of your dorm room is a battlefield, and you, a stranger in its midst, are only beginning to understand the rules of this strange place.

Perhaps, in time, you will grow desensitized as they have. Learn to sleep through the wailing cries, to walk these streets without the ever-present weight of caution pressing against your ribs. In a way, they forbade you from venturing out, instilling a fear within you that if you did, you would be the individual these melodies chased—or worse, the victim they had been called for in the first place. 

The entirety of the first semester has passed, and you haven’t even finished unpacking. Your suitcase remains half-full, a tangible reminder that you do not yet belong here. That you still have a choice—to do something before this place sinks its teeth into you, before you become just another soul who mistakes chaos for comfort.

But that choice is an illusion.

Here, people like you make no difference. You are not a hero, nor anything close to it. You are just a student who knows better, one who recognizes that the sirens will always be there, a requiem for the city’s unrest. And the crime will persist, as will the men in uniform who fail to stop it.

Somewhere beyond the blaring wails, beyond the tangled skyline and shadowed alleys, someone is fighting a battle you will never quite understand.

And for now, all you can do is listen.

Yet, in a way, you know that this was exactly where you wanted to be.

Despite its rapidly deteriorating surroundings, Linkon University remained a place of prestige. Young children dreamed of acceptance into its ranks, babbling to their parents about how they, too, would one day make these halls their stomping grounds. Maybe it was naivety that brought you here. Or maybe it was the last remnants of a dream that hadn’t yet died on your tongue.

Or perhaps, it was the medical journalism program—a rare gem, dwindling into obscurity at every other university.

You were lucky to be accepted. But humbly speaking, luck had very little to do with it. Your stats spoke for themselves: a 1540 SAT, a 4.98 weighted GPA, more extracurriculars than you could count on both hands. A smart cookie, as written in the shining letters of recommendation that paved your way here.

And yet, imposter syndrome festered like a quiet disease, creeping into the spaces between your confidence. You have spent your entire life at the top. Always number one.

Here? You were number two.

Number two to whom? You did not know. Not yet, anyway.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

Caleb’s perfect life has unraveled in the span of a week and a half, but he positively swears it’s not his fault.

It’s yours.

Ten days ago, at precisely 12:57 PM, he endured the worst torment known to man: his seat in the lecture hall was stolen. A cruel move, truly. Class had been in session for four days, he’d claimed that seat twice—twice—and by the unspoken law of university students everywhere, that granted him full ownership. So why, then, were you sitting in his allotted property?

Looking back, Caleb sees only two possible explanations. The first: you had unknowingly taken the seat after enrolling just before the census date. The second: you were out to get him from the very start.

And personally? He’s convinced it’s the latter.

But alas, he hadn’t made a fuss about it then. It wasn’t like he’d just lost the single best seat in the entire hall—the one with perfect access to the exit, the projector, and the professor’s desk. But hey, he could be cool about this, right? Yeah… totally cool. So cool. The coolest.

Days passed, and everyone seemed to be settling into the spring semester just fine. The weather was getting warmer, flowers on the great lawn were blooming, and Caleb was thriving.

That was, until the unthinkable happened.

Time? 2:19 PM. Class? CHEM 001 AH. Location? The Grand Hall.

Caleb sat directly behind you, having resigned himself to the second best seat in the room, as the sound of pencils scratching against paper filled the otherwise quiet space.

Taking practice exams felt pointless. A waste of time, really. His efforts could be better spent elsewhere—like taking the real exam or absolutely demolishing his roommate Zayne in Apex Legends yet again. But instead, here he was, surrounded by classmates diligently scribbling away as the session inched closer to its eventual end.

And when it did, Caleb would have simply packed up and gone on his merry way—if not for the single most bone-chilling sentence he had ever heard in his entire academic career.

You were chatting with the girl beside you, talking about things he had zero interest in. Your shared biology class at 3 PM, your dorm building, plans to meet up at the dining hall later… blah blah blah. But then—an acronym. A single, horrific acronym triggered him like a sleeper agent.

“My GPA? Oh, it’s… 4.30. I think. To be honest, it’s been a while since I checked.”

His jaw went slack. His eyes widened. The color drained from his face.

A 4.30 GPA? No. No. That couldn’t be real. That could not be real.

But as his gaze flickered between the back of your head and your friend’s, he came to the most horrifying conclusion of all.

You weren’t lying. And if that were true… then that meant you had the same GPA he did.

Which meant that, depending on your course load and how well you performed, you could take his spot as number one in the class rank.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

Caleb burst into his dorm room, slinging his backpack onto his mattress before face-planting into it with a sound somewhere between a groan and a hmph.

Across the room, Zayne didn’t even glance up from his desk, fingers tapping away at his mounted laptop. Click, clack. Click, clack. For a stretch of time, that was the only sound in the room—until he finally exhaled, the kind of quiet sigh that could only mean here we go again.

“Rough day?”

Caleb didn’t even hesitate. “The worst day.”

Zayne closed his eyes for a moment, like he was mentally preparing himself, before pushing away from his desk and turning his chair just enough to look at his roommate. “What happened?”

Still face-down on the bed, Caleb let out a long, exaggerated sigh—nowhere near as silent as Zayne’s. “I think I have to take trig next semester. Honors.”

That made Zayne pause. Brow quirked, he leaned back. “Why? Your counselor quite literally said you’re already on track to graduate with honors and as one of the top-ranked students in our year.”

That was the problem, though. Caleb wasn’t satisfied with being one of the best. He wanted to be the best—and now, that source of pride was under attack.

“Well, that was before I found out I’m sharing a GPA with some girl in my chem lecture,” he said, rolling onto his back to stare blankly at the ceiling. “Which means if I don’t get my shit together and pack on a few more honors courses, I’m cooked.”

Zayne laughed. Actually laughed. Shaking his head, he turned back to his desk, plucked his glasses off the mousepad, and slid them on. “You should hear yourself right now.”

Caleb’s head snapped to the side, eyebrows pinching together. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s just amusing, is all.” Zayne smirked. “I find it endearing that you, Mr. ‘I can skip the final and still pass with a 94%,’ Mr. ‘I think I might take astronomy honors for fun this semester,’—”

“All riiight, I get it,” Caleb cut in. “What’s your point?”

Zayne snickered, amused. “My point is that if you of all people feel threatened by a classmate you hardly know, maybe there’s a reason for that.”

Caleb hated that there was probably some truth to that. Not that he’d ever admit it. Being threatened by a classmate he barely knew? Please. He knew enough. (And yes, he had meticulously sifted through the entire roster of his chemistry class to stalk your Canvas profile. What? It’s… field research.)

“Y’know, you’re terrible at pep talks,” he muttered, folding his hands behind his head.

“I’m not trying to be,” Zayne replied easily. “But if you want my input—take the trig course next semester. Something tells me you’ll need it.”

Caleb rolled onto his side, fishing his laptop from his backpack as the weight of his evening workload settled in.

And maybe Zayne was right.

Maybe he would need all the help he could get.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

It wasn’t until six days later—today—that Caleb knew for certain fate was no longer on his side.

The professor’s voice cut through the shuffle of students packing up their belongings, all of which were currently praying that their first lab of the semester wouldn’t be a complete and utter disaster. It was a well known fact that Dr. Rappaccini was quite the harsh critic, and an even harsher grader. Her score on Rate My Professors was a whopping 2.8/5 for crying out loud.

“Alright, it’s time for you all to receive your lab partners for the semester. Before heading to the lab next door, please check the list of pairings at the front.”

Luckily, Caleb had committed the syllabus to memory and knew that each person was scored individually no matter how their partner performed, but it was recommended that the pair conduct their experiments together to save time and... okay, maybe he hadn’t memorized it as well as he thought, but at least he knew the core details, right?

Scanning the list, his blood ran cold. He squinted, hoping that the prescription of his glasses had failed him, but of course, it was unmistakable. Your name was printed next to his. Emboldened, unignorable, in a perfectly neutral 12 pt Times New Roman font.

The walk to the laboratory was a quiet one, and you were walking a few feet ahead of him without a care in the world. Reaching for the door handle, he twisted the metallic lever and gestured for you to enter ahead of him with a single nod of his head. It was a force of habit. He may not care for you as an academic peer, but you didn't directly wrong him in any way. Not knowingly, that is.

With a curt nod of your own and a sliver of a smile, you entered the class with a quiet “thank you.”

And before he could follow in step behind you, the neverending line of your fellow classmates began to flood into the room, leaving him to stand idle while offering each of them a thin-lipped smile. It felt like an eternity before he was able to step inside of the laboratory too, and his first instinct was to map out the classroom to find the best possible seating arrangement. 

To his surprise… you’d already claimed the most optimal lab station, and as he approached, you made the first move to speak. 

“I hope you’re okay with sitting here,” you say, fishing out your sleek notebook and a bright blue pencil. “It’s the only lab station with equal access to the exit, the supplies cabinet, and the professor’s desk.”

Caleb raises an eyebrow, cocking his head to the side as bewilderment etches into his features. Were you inside of his brain? He clears his throat, shaking away his confusion as he nods. “Yeah, I’m alright with this spot. Good choice.” 

Smiling, you nod too. “Cool.” 

A beat of silence passes, and you smooth your hands over the black resin material of the table, a movement that his eyes instinctively follow. Then, your hand raises and extends out to him, forcing him to blink himself out of his state of daydreaming. 

You say your name while tilting your head with a smile—this time, a smile with teeth—as you wait for his hand to take yours. “And you’re… Xia?” 

Raising his eyebrows, he shakes his head while a chuckle slips through his carefully crafted exterior. “Caleb,” he corrects, his firm grasp enveloping your hand as he gives it a shake. “Caleb Xia.”

“Ah, got it,” you remark, an epiphany dawning on you as you slip your hand from his hold. “Well, I’m going to go get our safety goggles.” 

But before leaving, you straightened, eyes glued to him—or rather, his head.

Huffing out a laugh through his nose, Caleb’s lip tugs up in the corner. “What are you doing?”

Tapping your chin, you sigh. “I’m trying to see if you have a big head. If you do, I’ll have to go fight tooth and nail for one of the ones with adjustable straps.” 

Rubbing his eye with the heel of his palm, he rests his elbow on the edge of the table before leaning his cheek into his hand. “Well, lay it on me. What’s your diagnosis?”

Humming, you tilt your head back and forth before nodding your head a single time. “Big-head syndrome. I’m positive.”

Caleb’s eyes crinkle as he laughs. “I should take that as a compliment. Big head means big brain, you know.”

“Or a big ego,” you retort with a shrug, giving him a once-over with raised brows before whisking away towards the horde of students currently going to war over the remaining pick of the litter. 

Yeah, that too, he thinks. 

In your absence, he takes the liberty of prepping the lab for the both of you. Beakers? Check. Random substance that the two of you were going to be experimenting on? Check. Hydrochloric acid? Check. Sodium bicarbonate? Check—

“Safety goggles,” you state, plopping down on your stool and handing his pair to him.

Without missing a beat, he speaks. “Check.”

Drawing back slightly, you turn to look at him with an arched eyebrow. “Uh… yeah. Check.”

Faltering, Caleb slides the item onto his face as he stammers through his words. “I was just… never mind, let’s start.”

The class had settled into a low hum—the murmur of newly paired partners, the scribbling of notes, the soft hiss of chemicals reacting. 

As the two of you began the experiment, an incredibly prominent conclusion dawned on him: Disliking you as a person wasn’t as easy as he’d hoped. As a competitor? You were treacherous. As a lab partner? You were… tolerable. Efficient. Annoyingly easy to work with. 

It wasn’t the end result that he was hoping for, if he were to be entirely honest with himself. He wanted you to be difficult to be around, he wanted you to be stuck up, he wanted you to give him a genuine reason to dislike you apart from being the root of his newfound insecurity. But you weren’t, and that was a problem. 

“Pass me the baking soda?” you ask.

“The sodium bicarbonate?”

“Yeah. The baking soda.”

Caleb tilts his head with a smile. “Also known as sodium bicarbonate.”

You glance his way, and your eyes met. “Congrats, big guy. You know big words. Now pass it.”

“Sure thing, boss.” Biting back a smile, he hands it over, only to retract it at the last second. “Wait. What’s it called again?”

Your force smile was all teeth. “Sodium bicarbonate.”

Finally relenting, Caleb places the bowl in your orbit with a triumphant grin. 

He was smart enough to know that this was a bad idea. Despite how easily the two of you worked together, he knew that he couldn’t entertain this any further. You weren’t just his classmate, his peer—you were his competition. And while he’s heard the saying keep your friends close, but your enemies closer just as many times as the next person, he knows that mixing any ounce of developing friendship with his pursuit for greatness would be wrong.

It would work best that way. You can’t be friends, and that’s okay.

And for the first time in what felt like ages, fate seemed to agree with him.

“Hmm,” Caleb soon rumbles, squinting at the beaker. “This isn’t lookin’ too good. You said you added the sodium bicarbonate, yeah?”

You frown, glancing up from your notes. Your stomach twists at the sight of the clock—barely any time left before the lab ends. The professor would be making her rounds any second now.

“What? I didn’t add it. You said you added it.”

Caleb flits his gaze to the side of your face. “No, I added hydrochloric acid.”

Your head snaps toward him so fast he was surprised it didn’t snap right off. “No, I added hydrochloric acid.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did.”

“No, you didn’t.”

You exhale sharply, frustration creeping up your neck. “How are you gonna tell me what I did or didn’t do?”

Your pulse ticks up a bit faster than it naturally should, and your eyes rose up from the glass cylinder. Around the room, students were already wrapping up their conclusions while the two of you hadn’t even finished the experiment. You suck in a breath and push up from your stool.

“Fine. Fine. Can you just pass me the baking soda?”

Caleb nods, handing over the pre-measured bowl of sodium bicarbonate. While you worked to fix the mess, he jotted down a few quick notes. You added just enough of the powder to neutralize the acid—but not smother it completely.

And then? Silence. The two of you sat. Watching. Waiting. Hoping. Praying.

Then, miraculously, the beaker decided to behave and the fizzing subsided.

Like clockwork, you both exhaled, shoulders slumping as small, victorious smiles tugged at your mouths—

Until yours vanished entirely. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Caleb falters, eyes narrowing. “I didn’t say thank you.”

“Well, you should have.”

“Why? If I hadn’t pointed out the weird reaction, we’d have been screwed.”

“Oh? If I hadn’t realized neither of us added the sodium bicarbonate—which was your responsibility, by the way—we would’ve actually been screwed.”

Tension thickened between you like a drawn bowstring. You clench your jaw and look away, scribbling down your final observations. Stupid man, you thought to yourself. And here you were, actually believing that this semester wouldn’t be a total shitshow, that maybe, just maybe, you’d gotten lucky.

Unfortunately not.

Then, your attention was caught by something out of the ordinary. Your gaze lands on his neck, and your breath hitched. Staring back at you was a small, multi-legged beady eyed monster. Sticking out your pointer finger, you still find yourself instinctively drawing back, as if it were out to get you next. “There’s a spider on—”

But before you could finish your sentence, Caleb winced, his veins tightening as he instinctively flicked the eight-legged menace off. You sucked your teeth, drumming your fingers on the table. So much for your timely warning.

Glancing his way, your brows elevate as you see the already forming bite mark on his neck. “Yikes. It got you good.”

“Did it?” he asks, raising a hand to rub over the mark with narrowed eyes. “Hm. Guess so, yeah.”

Reluctantly, you ask, “Are you okay?” 

With a nod, he picks up his pencil once more and works on finishing the last of his lab report. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Sighing airily, you can’t help the smile that tugs on your mouth. “Poor spider, being flicked through the air like that.”

Like routine, Caleb shot a glare your way. “Funny.”

“Thanks.”

With that, you left for the washing station. Meanwhile, Dr. Rappaccini stood from her desk, making her rounds. It was in that moment that a shrill of panic shot up his spine—the stimulation foreign, unfamiliar, and… terrifying. 

He could feel his heart rate shooting through the roof, a sweat break on his forehead, and his fingertips flex at his sides—all things that he wasn’t even conscious of. And before he knew it, he was glancing in your direction, noting that you were distracted. Good.

With a quick ease, he snatched up your notepad and erased a few numbers, replacing them with subtle, logicless mistakes. 34? Now a 26. 32 to the power of 5? Not anymore.

It wasn’t his proudest moment. Sabotaging his own lab partner’s work? Definitely not.

Ten seconds. That’s all it took to ruin you just enough. He slid the notepad back into place, brushing away the eraser shavings. Like clockwork, you returned, none the wiser.

Exhaling softly, you turned to him. “Look, I just wanted to say that—”

“Now, you two,” Dr. Rappaccini’s voice cut you off.

You both turned as she scanned and picked up Caleb’s report, making a few marks with her fine-pointed marker before sliding it back into place. You glanced over, making note of his grade. 94.

Then, she picked up yours. A moment later, she handed it back. Your professor held up a roll of stickers, tearing two off before setting them down on the table.

Despite the vibrant designs on the stickers, your stomach dropped. Your grade was big, bold, and unmistakable. 82.

“Wait—Dr. Rappaccini,” you call after her, staring at the page with widened eyes of shock. “I… I don’t understand. What did I do wrong?”

“Well, your experiment was solid—your observations were well-written, and your documentation was precise. But your math?” She sighs. “Completely off.” A beat of silence. Then, a smile. “Don’t feel discouraged. You’re a good student as you are—no need to compare your scores to others.”

The implication was clear. She thought you were smart—just not as smart as Caleb.

Huffing, you toss your notebook onto the table, fingers curling against the edge of it.

“You got cut off earlier,” he says casually, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “What were you sayin’?”

Blinking, you tried to retrace your thoughts. “Oh, yeah… I was just saying that…”

Your voice trails, eyes drifting to your lab report. Caleb caught the flicker of realization dawning on you—and when you turned to him, his not-so-hidden grin said it all.

“I was just saying,” you snap, “that you’re an asshole whose handwriting looks like a drunk chicken clawed at my report.”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he says with a shrug, peeling off his sticker to plaster it onto your shoulder. “Good luck on the exam tomorrow morning.”

And with that, he walks out of the lab.

“Yeah, you too,” you murmur, though he was already gone before he could hear the hissed “bitch” that followed.

Irritation pricks at your skin as you stuff—more like shove—your belongings into your backpack. Prick. So much for not knowing the single person you were beneath in the class ranks.

Guilt stirred in his chest as he walked towards his dorm building… but only a little.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

By the time Caleb stumbled back to his dorm, he felt like he’d been hit by a freight train.

He barely managed to push the door open before kicking off his shoes, letting his backpack slump to the floor with a heavy thud. His head swam, his breath uneven as he widened his eyes in a feeble attempt to stay awake. Slapping himself on the cheek, he quickly realized it was no use. His neck stung worse than it had when the spider first bit him, the dull throb pulsing beneath his fingertips as he rubbed over the puncture point.

"Are you drunk?" Zayne’s voice drifts from across the room.

"No," Caleb mutters, face buried in his pillow. "Just… tired. Really tired."

He sank into the thin mattress like dead weight, the springs groaning beneath him. With sluggish hands, he pulled his glasses from his face and tossed them onto the bedside table, missing by an inch. His breathing grew heavier, his skin slick with cold sweat. His pupils—blown wide as saucers—fluttered shut as he barely mustered the strength to tug his shirt over his head and toss it aside.

And within seconds, he was out like a light.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

The morning sun sliced through the blinds, painting golden stripes across Caleb’s bare back as he jolted awake.

His chest rose and fell in sharp, erratic breaths, but despite the abruptness of it all, he felt… alert. Fully awake in a way that didn’t exactly make sense.

Blinking rapidly, he reached for his glasses and slid them onto his face with a groggy groan. And then—he froze.

His vision was still blurry.

Frowning, he pulled his glasses off, breathed onto the lenses, and wiped them against his bedsheet. When he slid them back on—blurry again. He pulled them down. Clear. Glasses up. Blurry. Glasses down. Clear.

He stares at them in his hands. “...Weird.”

Setting the frames down, he threw his legs over the bed and staggered toward his closet—only to catch sight of his reflection in the mirror. His eyes nearly bulged out of his head.

Since when the hell did he have abs?

He flexed instinctively, stomach tensing under his own scrutiny. Then his gaze trailed up—to his arms. His biceps. His shoulders.

Turning, twisting, he inspected every angle of himself like a stranger in his own skin. He’d been in shape before, sure, but this? This was different. He would’ve noticed this.

Knuckles rapped against the door, making him flinch.

“Caleb? Are you awake? I forgot my key.” A pause. Then, “Are you feeling any better? You slept like a log last night—perhaps you’re catching a bug.”

"A bug?" Caleb echoes under his breath, flexing again just to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. “Holy shit… Uh, yeah, man, I’m good. Just—gimme a sec.”

Turning back toward his desk, he reached for his chair, only meaning to push it aside—but the moment his palm touched the wood, it stuck.

His brows furrow.

He yanks once. Then again.

Nothing.

His heartbeat quickens as he curls his fingers, attempting to lift his hand—and instead, he lifts the entire chair clean off the ground.

“What the—” His stomach drops. He waved his hand. The chair waved with it. Up. Down. Side to side. Still stuck.

“Caleb?” Zayne calls from the other side of the door.

Caleb whips his head toward the sound, panic tightening in his throat. Shit. He bolted across the room—chair still attached to his palm—and somehow managed to unlock the door just as Zayne strode in.

Zayne, clearly in a rush, barely spared him a glance as he grabbed a stack of papers from his desk, clipped them together, and breezed back out with a nod.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Caleb exhaled sharply—only to realize his hand was still stuck… to the doorknob.

Huffing, he gave it a firm tug, expecting it to pop free. Instead, the entire knob wrenched out of the door, hinges snapping with a loud crack.

"Shit."

He barely had time to process before his body betrayed him once again—this time, with a sharp thwip.

A thick strand of silk shot from his wrist, attaching him to his bedpost.

His pulse stuttered. 

"What. The. Fuck."

Another sharp tug. Another web. More panic. Before he knew it, his dorm room looked like a crime scene from some horror movie—threads of silk stretching from walls to furniture to the ceiling.

His gaze snapped to the clock on his desk. 12:56 PM.

"Alright," he mutters, inhaling deeply. "Exam starts in four minutes. I’m sticking to everything I touch. I’m half-naked. Cool, cool, cool."

But nothing about this was cool.

If anyone in the history of Linkon University could take an exam like this, it was going to be him.

series masterlist. ┆ next: soon!

a/n like & reblog if you enjoyed!! this was really fun to write :) also i should’ve mentioned it rly isnt specified how old reader is, just that she’s in college and just starting her second semester at linkon university :) she can be a transfer student (which is kinda what i had in mind), a first year, etc lol it doesn’t really matter bc i’m fine with that being a “plot hole”

i could not stop laughing while writing this at 4am bc i was just imagining caleb coming up with an elaborate ass internalized beef with reader and she’s just sitting in her chem lab like

taglist. (join it by commenting under this post)

@leonskenthusiast @universallysoulcreator @devonjs-blog @lacieohlacie @kisswithyoureyesclosed @lovesick-sylus @livonianmaia @hqnge @yuuuumii @mizzfizz @simpfortheseven @nyxthejinx-rantsaboutlads @mariojins @rcvcngers @yizhoupilled @irlsammy @gloomuri671 @risagichi @drinking2nite @seikamuzu @flowers-wilt-on-juniper-lane

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[thecoolestastrophile]

AWHFJSBDOABOSVSISVSJ HES SO AWKWARD I LITERALLY ADORE HIM

body shot

— zayne x reader 

synopsis: when sylus called you over to play a game, you didn’t expect it to be with the TA who hated your guts, or did he?   warning/s: college!au, one sided enemies to lovers, teaching assistant!zayne, alcohol, drunk sex, one-sided hate sex (you hate zayne, he thinks its hot), zayne takes a body shot off reader, lots of kissing, onychinus is a frat, wingman caleb and sylus bc i said so note/s: same universe as cherry pop but is read as a standalone! wc: 5.9k 

“He’s looking at you again…” You hear Yvonne whisper from beside you as you tapped on your phone. You rolled your eyes. 

“Let him. I’m not doing anything wrong.” You reply as you swipe through another Moments post on your phone. 

“Seriously, does he have something against you? Why does he keep looking at you?” 

“Dunno.” 

The man in question was the subject’s teacher assistant, Zayne. The old geezer who taught Human Anatomy was nowhere to be found— most likely black out drunk in his car, so the poor med student had to pick up the slack. It was good for his credit, or so the student believes. 

“Ms. (Y/N), mind repeating what I just said?” You snapped out of your trance as you shot up from looking at your phone to see the entire class staring back at you. Zayne stood firm at the front, piercing green eyes staring back at yours as he awaits for your answer. 

You grit your teeth, not liking the attention on you. You also didn’t know what to say as you’ve drowned out his voice for the past hour he was talking. 

“Deadlines…” Yvonne whispers, just loud enough for you to hear. 

“Something about deadlines.” You say nonchalantly, staring back at him as if you were challenging him. Zayne looks at you for a few seconds before he turns away from you, explaining something about an essay to be resubmitted by the end of the week… or something like that. 

“Class dismissed.” You hear almost silent cheers erupt from different sides of the classroom but you paid no mind as you tried to hastily pack up your things and leave. 

“Ms. (Y/N).” Your brows furrowed as the TA called your attention. “Please stay back, I’d like to have a word with you.” You looked at Yvonne who looked just as confused as you are. 

“I’ll… wait for you outside?” Yvonne offers. You shake your head. “No need, I’ll see you at lunch.” You add, your friend nods and informs you that she’d buy your food ahead so you didn’t have to wait in line after whatever talk you’re gonna have with the raven-haired man at the front of the classroom. 

Yvonne was the last student to file out before only you and Zayne remained. 

“Yes?” You asked with a little attitude. Zayne sighs before he starts. ”Your essay on the causes of arrhythmia and how to prevent it is…” he trails off, you cock your head to the side, awaiting for his continuation. 

“It’s mediocre at best.”

Excuse me? Though you didn’t voice out your disbelief, your face sure showed it as Zayne shakes his head. 

“It’s nothing persona—” “Nothing personal?” You scoffed. “Ever since you started out as Doctor Noah’s teaching assistant, you’ve always had something against me.” You poked his chest with an accusatory finger. 

“There are students literally fucking each other in the back but noo–” you draw out sarcastically, “call me out for doing absolutely nothing. God. I know you don’t like me and I don’t like you either, and honestly, I’d rather be anywhere but here if it weren’t for attendance possibly fucking up my GPA.” 

“I have no idea what your problem is but knock it off. It’s annoying, nerd.” You finish off, staring straight into his green eyes, his lips twitch for a split second– something you fail to notice before he calmly replies. 

“You have until the end of this week to resubmit, (Y/N).”

“Go fuck yourself, Zayne.”

—

Your pissed off mood was hidden to none as you stabbed your fork through your lunch. Yvonne looks at you with a slight hint of concern. 

“That bad?” She asks as she takes a sip of her water. You groaned. 

“He told me that my essay was ‘mediocre at best’.–” You imitated his deep voice, sarcastically as you ate another fry. “Can you believe it? Half the class doesn't even pass the damn thing but it’s a problem with me? I’ve never even known of Zayne before this class, what the hell is his problem with me?” 

You didn’t mean to go into a rant, but shit. Ever since he’s become the TA your anatomy classes have been significantly harder. It almost seemed like Zayne was intentionally making your life more difficult for you. You didn’t understand. 

It’s a pity, actually. When Zayne was first introduced as the teaching assistant, you were at a loss for words that there was someone as attractive as him within the vicinity. He stood tall in front of the class, face emotionless but alert. He donned a black button up with slacks, sleek glasses perched on the tip of his nose as he scanned the classroom before his eyes landed on you. 

You remembered feeling self-conscious under his stare, thinking that you looked weird but instead of showing it, you stared right back at him, quirking a brow in response, almost as if challenging him. From the distance, you didn’t see the way Zayne’s lips quirk up in amusement. 

“Babes? (Y/N)? You still with me?” You snapped out of your little reminiscing session to see Yvonne snapping her fingers in front of your face. You gave her a guilty smile before shaking your head no. 

“Sorry, I was thinking about something. What did you say?” You asked, Yvonne shook her head teasingly. 

“Is it about a certain TA?” “Don’t make me want to vomit, Yvs.” You groaned before asking her again. 

“I was asking if you’ll attend the party tomorrow night.” 

You hum. “Who’s hosting again?” 

“Onychinus.”

“Fuck yeah.” 

Yvonne scoffs. “Well that was quick.” 

“Two reasons. One, With the week I had, I need this. And two, Onychinus throws the best parties on campus.” You explain, already mentally planning what you’ll wear tomorrow night. 

“You just think Sylus is hot.” 

“Yeah well, that too.” 

— 

The party was definitely nothing short of wild. Of course, it was thrown by Onychinus, you expected nothing less from the frat house. 

Music was booming, alcohol kept getting refilled and the eye candy was astonishing, Onychinus knew damn well how to throw a party. 

You belatedly realize that this was held in honor of Sylus’ homecoming– hell, you didn’t even know that he was away. You and Yvonne giggled as you tossed back another shot, lips immediately sucking on the lemon in your hand. 

The music was loud and you could barely hear anything, bodies were swaying on either side of you as the DJ played upbeat rap music. 

You felt a little tipsy as you swayed to the beat, losing yourself entirely with the music. You could feel eyes on you but you ignored it. It was a party and you looked absolutely stunning, of course people were going to stare. You knew you looked good and you were going to own it. 

Your eyes flit around the room before it stutters to a stop once it locks hazel green eyes who were locked into you. Your hazy mind almost makes out the striking features of the man you hated most. 

Zayne. He was standing off the side where none of the partygoers were as he observed the crowded dance floor. 

God. You hated how good he looked. He donned a gray button up– clearly too hot for the venue he was in as the first few buttons were unbuttoned, the tie he wore could barely be called a tie as it hung loosely around his neck, he was holding a red cup, eyes seemingly staring straight back at you before he breaks eye contact first and leaves the dance floor.

You follow his movements but ultimately go back to dancing with Yvonne once he leaves your peripheral. 

“Holy shit, was that Zayne?” Yvonne asked, talking loudly over the music. “I think so.” You answered back, hating the way she smirks wryly.

“Isn’t it a bit too early for eyefucking?”

“What?” 

Yvonne giggles as she loops an arm around your neck. “Girly, everyone and their mothers can sense the tension between the two of you.” Yvonne winks. You groan, pushing her away. 

“You’re delusional.” “And you’re in denial!” 

You paid no mind to her retort, hoping to forget your little moment with Zayne as the song changes. Cheers were heard as another trendy song played and you and Yvonne were no exception to that as you got lost in the music.

A tap interrupts your little bubble and you turn around to see the man of the hour looking right back at you. Sylus.

“(Y/N), right?” He asks, his voice almost sobering you up from how deep it is. 

You nod. “Yeah?” 

“You’re open minded, aren’t you?” You raised a brow at his question. You looked at Yvonne who was enthusiastically encouraging you with her face. 

“That depends.” You answered, taking a step forward, grinning at his newly formed smirk. He was amused, Sylus could see why he took a liking to you.

Sylus places out a hand in front of you. “Are you up for a joyride?”

You raised a brow, looking back at the hand and back at him who looked at you expectantly. 

“Where do you want to take me?” You respond, taking a hold of his hand. He pulls you away from the crowd, into a new room where there were a few of his brothers, seemingly drunk out of their minds as they cheered at your arrival. 

Around you, you can see groups playing spin the bottle, never have I ever and you can hear muffling noises in the closet beside the door so you can only assume a certain game of heaven was played.

“Oh shit, dude. I didn’t think you would bring her.” You hear someone laugh, you turn around to see Caleb. The brunette that seemed to drive girls insane.

Of course, pretty men knew of each other. 

Before you could even ask what this was about, Caleb calls someone from the side, laughing as he forcibly pulls a male out of hiding. 

“She’s here. You have no excuse now.” Caleb says before pushing the male in front of you. 

If you were tipsy, you definitely sobered up. 

There stood Zayne who looked back at you with a blank expression on your face. 

You felt tiny under his gaze. He was staring down at you with an expression that was almost calculating, as if he were trying to see right through you. 

“What’s happening here, exactly?” You couldn’t help but ask, looking around, locking eyes with Caleb who smirks and slings an arm around the raven-haired male. 

“My roommate here didn’t want to participate in a game unless he gets who he wants.” Caleb smirks as he rubs Zayne’s shoulders mockingly, his hand holding the red cup points to you. 

“And with his description of his dream girl, all signs pointed to you.” Caleb winks and you couldn’t help your face heating up. 

First of all, Caleb looked handsome doing that and secondly, Zayne wanted you?

Caleb removes his arm from Zayne and pulls you close, teasingly whispering. “You see how so many girls are looking at you with jealousy? Yeah. All of them wanted to be Zayne’s partner but he only wanted you.”

Your eyes widened at the brunette’s words, you looked around the room, some were glaring daggers at you, some looked at you with a hopeful expression– as if they were waiting for you to decline the offer so they could pounce and some looked amused. It wasn’t everyday they got Zayne to attend a party much more participate in the games he used to call childish. 

Your eyes circled back to Zayne who looked at you with the same blank expression you’re used to, but there was a glimmer of intrigue in his deep hazel-green eyes. He was waiting for your answer. Zayne blinks before his pupils focus on Caleb’s arm that was still hanging on your shoulder, his jaw twitching just a little bit, nothing noticeable. 

“W-What…” You stuttered, flustered at the attention on you. “What’s the game?” You asked as Caleb pulled away from you and pats Zayne’s chest, smirking as he walks over to the table and grabs a small tray. 

You recognized the contents to be a shot glass, a little bowl of salt and a lemon. 

You knew the game, you knew it a bit too well. 

“Body shots.” Caleb said your thoughts out loud. 

“‘You willing?” He asks and you look back at Zayne who seemed to be awaiting an answer. 

You didn’t know what it was, maybe it was the fact that you were escorted by Sylus to the room, or that Caleb exposed Zayne’s conditions out loud, or it was because of the power you felt for being the object of Zayne’s desires despite the crowd of girls that wanted him, but your mind was screaming at you to accept. 

“Yeah.” You answered, staring straight at him. 

Zayne’s eyes widened just a tiny bit, not expecting you to accept. In all honesty, he was mentally preparing himself to walk it off, he’s definitely glad the worst didn’t come true. 

Cheers erupted, led by Caleb as he pushed the tray into Zayne’s hand, smacking his back making the two of you wince at the sound. 

Zayne takes a step forward, close enough that your senses can pick up the scent of his cologne and god, did it smell good. 

“You don’t have to do this, you know.” Zayne says, only loud enough for you to hear and hell, his voice almost made your knees buckled. Has he always sounded attractive? 

“Don’t tell me you’re chickening out now, Zayne.” You smirked, baring your neck. Zayne says nothing but you can feel his face coming close to your skin. 

You jolt as you feel a heavy hand on your waist, keeping you in place as his tongue introduces itself on your neck. His moist muscle was flat against your skin as he licked upwards, his breaths tickling your ear as he pulled away. 

Your face heated up as he settled the tray on the table closest to you, his fingers pinching an ideal amount of salt before lathering it over your neck that he just licked. 

The world around you seemed to fade away as you couldn’t take your eyes off his veiny hands that flicked open the hard liquor with preciseness, pouring himself a shot that was waaay too high. 

With his eyes back on yours, he looks down at your chest, you unconsciously jut it out causing the raven head to smirk. Zayne looks back at you, shot glass in hand. 

“May I?” he asks while gesturing at your top. You nod and his fingers loop through the straps of your top, pulling it just enough for him to settle the shot gloss between the cup of your bra and your breast. 

Finally, the lemon slice came as he grabbed it from the table, staring straight at you. 

“Open up.” Zayne whispers and you do so with no complaint, you keep your eyes locked on him as he gently pushes your jaw back up, the sour juice that seeped out shocking your senses. 

“Good girl.”  

With Caleb’s signal— that you barely heard… 

Zayne starts. 

The raven places both of his hands on your waist, he was so close and you couldn’t help but stiffen as he dips his head down once more. You felt his soft tongue laving away at the salt he placed. His lips sucking down on your neck for good measure, causing a stifled gasp to escape your lips as you tried hard to keep the lemon slice in your mouth. 

Zayne ventures downwards, hot breaths leaving your skin rising in goosebumps as he was face to face with your chest. You feel one of his hands move from your waist to your back as he grabs on the shot glass with his mouth, tossing his head back, downing the shot with almost no difficulty. He lets go of your back to place the shot glass blindly on the table. 

Now you truly felt like time stopped as he bent face to face. His eyes remain in contact before it flits to a close as he nears your face. You unconsciously close your eyes, waiting for his lips to finally touch yours. 

Your eyes blinked open once you feel the meat of the lemon sinking under an opposite force. Lemon juice trickled down the side of your lips as Zayne bit and sucked on the fruit. His lips were so close to yours that they were almost touching. One small nudge and it would meet but Zayne pulled away ever so slightly, eyes opening and you can see a confident smirk on his face as he raises his hand to pluck the lemon slice off your mouth. 

You were suddenly reminded of where you were as cheers erupted once more, you see Sylus smacking Zayne’s back once and Caleb letting out an exaggerated cheer. You can feel the thumping of the ground due to the music being played outside, but you could only see and feel Zayne. 

You could still feel his hands on your waist and his breath ghosting over your lips. You shook your head, snapping yourself out of your thoughts as you left the room with no goodbye. 

You needed a drink. 

You grabbed a random red cup from the table, downing it in one go before you walked back to the dancefloor, attempting to relocate Yvonne, but before you could take another step a hand pulled your arm back. 

Zayne.

You looked back at him with a mix of shock as he pulled you flush to his chest. You wanted to say something but no words fell out as he dragged you upstairs. If this were anyone else, you would’ve fought back but you knew that you trusted him to not do anything bad. 

He takes you to a room that was unoccupied, quiet as he shuts the door. 

“What the fuck, Zayne? Why am I here?” You asked, a bit hostile but you’d blame it on the alcohol.   

“We need to talk.” Zayne says, his speech a bit slurred you huffed. “And it couldn’t be by the dancefloor?” You retort. Zayne sighs as a response, ignoring your defiant retort.  

“You felt it too, right?”

You cock your head to the side, feigning ignorance but you couldn’t deny out loud because you indeed felt it too. 

Even now you could still feel the proximity of his lips before yours, his scent tickling your nose and you hated it. Or did you? 

You don’t notice the way that he languidly walked over to you, his hands planting itself right on your waist, startling you away from your thoughts. 

“(Y/N)...” Zayne says, barely audible as he makes you stare right back at his eyes that were considerably darkened. 

“I’m not known for towing between the lines.” He says as he takes a step forward, you unconsciously get closer, his nose brushes against yours, breaths intermingling as his eyes fall into a close. 

“If you do not feel the same, if you do not want this, push me away.” Zayne whispers, surrendering the stakes to you. 

You shakily exhale, overwhelmed by his close proximity. His lips were inches away from yours, just a little more push and you would feel his plush lips against yours. No lemon getting in the way this time. 

God. You wanted him so bad. 

It felt like hours that you and Zayne were on a standstill before you threw all inhibitions away and smashed your lips onto his. 

Zayne lets out a sound as he tightens the hold on your waist, your hands fisting in his hair as you pull him closer. 

It was a clash of tongue and teeth as the two of you scrambled backwards on the bed, your body under his as you pulled apart, a string of spit connecting the two of you. You opened your eyes to see Zayne staring down at you with a dark expression on his face, he was breathing heavily, the glasses on his face skewed and foggy as he panted.  

“T-Take them off…” You whined, pawing at his glasses, failing to take it off. Zayne does so, throwing it to the side before he dips down once more and locks your lips with his. You moan, hands roaming on his back as you press him close, the alcohol prior making you more sensitive as Zayne ventures down, sucking down on your neck.

 “Z-Zayne…” You moaned, hands slipping from under his shirt, feeling at his bare back, trying to tug his shirt off but you were shocked as Zayne stops his ministrations and clasps your wrist through his shirt. 

“Tell me…” He breathes heavily, “You want this.” Zayne resumes marking your neck. “Need to hear you say it…” He finishes as he pulls away, leaving you to whine as your neck is exposed to the cool air. 

“Tell me you want me.” He whispers, tongue tracing the shape of your ear. You moan, fisting his shirt. 

“I want you…” You confess, pulling his chin to meet yours. “I want you so bad, Zayne.” You hear Zayne groan as tongue traces his lips. 

His mouth falls open and you take it as an opportunity to meet his tongue with yours, your fingers fiddling with the buttons of his shirt as you finally take it off. Zayne lets out a sound that resembles a growl as he feels you pull away and push him off, catching him off balance as you switch your positions. 

You sit right on top of his forming bulge, moaning at the hard member that was poking through his slacks. He hisses, closing his eyes as his hands settle on your hips, just resting there as you slowly grind on him. 

He opens his eyes to see you tugging at your shirt, Zayne moans out loud as he sees your breasts sitting prettily in your bra, gulping as he sees your hands reach backwards to unclasp the garment. 

Zayne couldn’t help it as he shot up, hands planted at your back and mouth kissing at your breasts, moaning slightly at the subtle taste of salt. 

You push him back on the bed, smirking at the way his eyes widened at the movement. You kissed your way down, moaning as you reached his happy trail, eyes focused on him as your hands unbuckled his belt and pulled the waistband down, gasping at the length that almost hit you on the face. 

Your mouth waters at his member that stood against his stomach, leaning a little to the left as it stared back at you red, angry. 

“You’re so big.” You say, dazed as you mouthed at his length. Zayne hisses, his fingers gripping down on your hair as you lap on the head. 

“Y-You don’t have to–” Zayne tries to say, only to be interrupted by a loud moan from him as you swallow his length in one go. You couldn’t fit his entirety so you settled on pumping what was left. 

You moaned at the feeling of his tip assaulting your throat as you bob your head, watching as his face contorts in raw pleasure. Zayne’s brows furrowed, mouth falling into an open as he grunted out your name, his hips unconsciously bucking up to reach your mouth.

“You taste so good.” You try to say with his length lodged in your throat but it only serves as vibrations around his length. You could only savor his taste for a few more seconds before you were pulled away from him. 

A whine escapes your throat but before you could complain, his lips smash against yours, tongues intertwining as he repositions you on the bed. He pulls away, and kisses his path down, tugging at your skirt, removing it and your panties in one go. 

You suddenly feel vulnerable as his eyes trained on your soaked pussy. You try to press your legs closed only to have his hands on your thighs. 

“You’re so wet.” Zayne says, as if he were hypnotized before he dives in, tongue sloppily making out with your cunt. He basically moans as your legs twitch against his hold. 

You could feel his tongue drawing patterns wildly, as if it had no direction. You realized early on that Zayne had no idea what he was doing as his tongue licks at your cunt that was almost to where you wanted it but not quite. You pulled at his hair, guiding him to your clit as you used your fingers to expose the hood. 

Zayne, being the smart man that he was, immediately catches on as his longer fingers rub your clit before he places a kiss on it, sucking it with tender care that leaves you writhing under his hold. 

Before you could voice it out, you feel a finger prodding at your hole as his pointer and middle enters, curling up almost immediately as your back arches as his long fingers find your spot. Zayne, watching you with careful eyes pulls away from your clit, blowing on it slightly at the same time adding a third finger in your pussy. 

“M-More… Zayne, please!” You whined. 

Zayne rises up, kissing you once more, forcing you to taste yourself on your tongue as you wrap your arms around his neck, hips bucking up to meet his hard length. Zayne huffs out a breath as he pulls away, taking a look at you who lay before him, eyes widened as your chest heaved out heavy breaths. Your eyes screamed lust and your body was littered in his marks. 

He could feel himself throb before he reaches down the ground to where his pants laid, grabbing at his wallet and taking out the condom that his roommate mockingly put in there, Zayne thinks to give him something in return as he rolls the latex down his length, pumping it for good measure. 

Zayne cages you in, your legs wrapping around his thighs as he pushes his length inside you. 

He had to stop halfway. Fuck. He couldn’t breathe. Your mouth felt waaay different than your cunt does. His eyes fall into a shut as he inches forward. 

“Zayne.” You snap him out of his thoughts. You pull his head down, your lips latching onto his neck as you bite him through your moans. 

It was like music to his ears and a sight for sore eyes. The girl who glared daggers at him in class was now under him, moaning his name. Looking at him with glassy eyes as he fit all inches in. 

“W-Wait.” You say as you felt him bottom out, the stretch making you take a moment to adjust to how full you felt. Zayne watched with heavy breaths as you writhed under him. 

“Move.” You consent and Zayne lets out a groan as he thrusted, pulling halfway before he gently pushes back in, clearly not wanting to mess it up. 

“You can do it harder.” You say as Zayne mouths at your nipple, tongue playing with the hardened bud.

With your words, Zayne balances himself on his arms, hips thrusting at a steady pace as a symphony of moans and grunts echoed in the room. You aided Zayne as you bucked your hips up, chasing his movement as he hits your spot relentlessly. 

“Zayne– Aah—Ngnh. Fuck. Please, Zayne!” You whimper as he grinds on your spot, mouth kissing at your erogenous parts, grunting as he feels your nails dig into his back. 

You can feel his pace lose its rhythm as he thrusts with reckless abandon, very far from the composed and calculated pace he once set. 

Zayne stutters in his moans, hips chasing the feeling of a high that he only knows of in theory, he reaches down, fingers rubbing down at your clit as his hips slammed onto yours. 

“Ah–ahh. Zayne. ‘m so close.” you wailed, eyes closing and head tossing back as you feel yourself getting pulled and his tongue forcing its way to meet yours in an act of sloppiness. You can feel spit running down the sides of your mouth as you twitch. 

“;m cumming… ‘m cumming, Zayne!” You gasp as you feel yourself release. Zayne gasps as your walls squeeze him, as if you don’t wanna let him go.

That triggers his own orgasm as he weakly keeps thrusting his hips, riding out his high before he lets himself fall on top of you, your sweat intermingling as the two of you try catching your breath. 

“Shit.” Zayne whispers as he pulls out, flopping beside you, catching his breath as he takes the condom off, tying it before tossing it aside, deeming it as tomorrow’s problem. He turns toward you, waiting for you to open the topic but no words come out of your mouth as the alcohol you ingested finally took a toll on you. 

You were sound asleep, chest rising and falling as quiet snores left your lips. Zayne chuckles to himself as he stands up and looks for something to clean you with. Once he does so, he lays beside you, pulling you into his arms as he closes his eyes. 

Whatever the two of you needed to talk about was tomorrow’s problem.

— 

You didn’t know what time it was when you woke up. You wake up to a heavy blanket that covers your naked body, your clothes folded neatly on a chair nearby and a glass of water with pills beside it. 

Based on the condensation on the glass, you concluded that it has not been a while since someone left it there. 

Your eyes widen as your sober mind realizes. 

You slept with Zayne. The TA you swore you hated. And worst of all, you liked it. How could you regret that night when the man literally left you hangover pills and folded your clothes for you? 

You shook your head, not wanting to think about anything as you swallowed the pills and drank the water. You sighed, knowing that Zayne probably left so the parting process would be less awkward, you knew how this went, having done a handful of one night stands but nothing felt as good as last night. 

The door to the room opens and you freeze in your place as you hike up the blanket, covering your chest. 

“You’re awake.” Zayne concludes as he enters the room with clothes in his right hand and a bag of takeout food in the other. 

“Yeah…” You quietly agree.

You watched in silence as he settled the food down on the foldable table that he set up, ignoring your stare. 

You couldn’t stand the silence, usually you would bolt out the moment you wake up but you were stuck frozen as you watched Zayne move as if there was no elephant in the room. You hated him and he hated you, so why was he pushing a fresh set of clothes in your hands and preparing a plate of breakfast for you? 

“... is this the part where I leave?” You ask awkwardly, not knowing what to do in this situation. Zayne scoffs. 

“This is the part where you wear the clothes I got you and hopefully… share a meal with me.”

You nod dumbly, standing up from the bed to clothe yourself, not realizing that you’ve exposed your naked body to Zayne once more, not realizing that he was staring at your body filled with marks. 

Zayne gulps, shaking his head as he finishes setting your plates. 

“About last night…” You start, wanting the awkward tension to disappear. “I… What was that?” You recall Caleb’s words. 

“My roommate here didn’t want to participate in a game unless he gets who he wants.” 

“And with his description of his dream girl, all signs pointed to you.” 

“Was what Caleb said true?” Zayne says nothing and that seemed to confuse you as you pointed an accusatory finger. 

“But you hate me!” Zayne sighs, “I truly don’t.” He corrects. “I never did.” 

“Then why did you always pick on me in class?” Zayne looks down guiltily, “It was the only way I could get your attention.” 

“I…” You trailed off. Zayne chuckles as he pulls you back to sit on the bed as you arrange your thoughts. 

A glare breaks through your face as you punch his chest with no force behind it but it was as if you pushed a domino as he fell on the bed, dragging you with him. “You told me my essay was mediocre, was that true?” 

Zayne stays silent and you gasp, before he catches your hand that was raised to punch him once more. 

“It was… decent. But that wasn’t the reason why I asked you to stay behind.” 

You ignored the backhanded remark before asking. “Then why?” 

“You looked really cute that day, I wanted to get a close up, and I wanted to talk to you.” 

“That is a terrible way to get my attention, Zayne.” 

He smirks as he intertwined his fingers with yours, placing a kiss on your fingers. 

“Well you’re in bed with me, aren’t you?” Checkmate. 

“You—” you try finding the words to say until you ultimately give up with a weak. “You’re the worst.”

“Let me make it up to you.” Zayne proposes, you raised a brow at him. “How would you do that?”

“For starters, let’s eat the breakfast I brought and maybe, when you’re all freshened up. I can help you fix your essay over a cup of coffee?” He asks, stumbling over his words a bit as his face flushes, not exactly used to asking people out on dates but you were endeared to his expression as you hummed and pretended to think about it. 

“How about we don’t bring the stupid essay into this.” Zayne chuckles at your words. 

“Then would you like to go out for coffee with me?”

“As long as you’re paying.” You teased. Zayne smiles as he begins to see a new side of you.

“Of course.”

—

The next time Zayne calls you out in class, you no longer felt the offense of being singled out and you were always the last one to leave the classroom. Yvonne found it weird at first but when she spotted you and Zayne in the library, hands intertwined as he quizzes you on your upcoming exams. 

Yvonne smirks, she’s always known there was tension between the two of you. She couldn’t wait to tell you I told you so.

note/s: art student rafayel next...?? or fratboy caleb...

[thecoolestastrophile]

Sorry y'all I got real for a minute there not my usual whimsy I know