#everything smells moldy

[rectangleshorts]

There is nothing I want more in this world, right now, than to not be somewhere with 90% humidity.

[galilelgalileo]

Stan is been eons you been in the bottle, it’s moldy, take a bath!

[iguinn]

why is this happening so close to the exams...

[swagging-back-to]

realized why jasmines hospital cage smelled like an entire bucket of piss. bc i used it to clean the dirty wood stuff and plastic is very pourous

[0wlettie]

⏾⋆.˚─── caleb x fem!reader

⏾⋆.˚─── synopsis: you've been avoiding caleb recently because you've just realized how you truly feel about him, but when life hits you hard one day, you realize that you might need him more than you thought you would...

⏾⋆.˚─── tags: 16.9k, angst, hurt/comfort, pining, clingy, crybaby!reader, pet names (princess, good girl), light D/s dynamics, crying (but in sexy way), dirty talk, slight degradation/dumbification, possessive behavior, (because it wouldn't be a caleb fic if he wasn't at least a little bit possessive) fingerfucking, pussy eating, unprotected sex, subspace but it isn't really talked about, squirting, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, under-negotiated kink

⏾⋆.˚─── ao3 if you want to read there ^^

⏾⋆.˚─── a/n: this is my first ever lads piece and i worked very hard on this absolute monster of a fic, so i hope whoever happens to come across this enjoys it; beta'd by me so any mistakes are my own; title comes from IKUK by ONEUS because i played the fuck outta that song writing this and it slaps ! as this is nsfw Minors Do Not Interact (ageless blogs who follow will be blocked)

Burying yourself further into the depths of your hoodie, you slowly make your way up to your apartment. The elevator is currently out of commission; some sort of mechanical error, the bright orange note taped to the cautioned off doors stated, so you’re forced to make the grueling journey to the seventh floor by stairs alone.

After an eight-hour long shift working at a department store nearly an hour away by bus, you’re maybe a little more than upset at the prospect of being on your feet longer than you really have to be. Unfortunately, you’re left with little other options at this point. It wasn’t like you could magically teleport to the seventh floor. Sighing long and loud, you rub your eyes.

“Fucking whatever, man.” You grumble to yourself, readjusting your bookbag before turning around and heading to the stairs. The sight of all those floors is intimidating, but you force your feet to move regardless. Even if the soles of your aching feet are screaming at you to stop, you continue on. Once or twice you lean against the wall for a bit of a breather, only moving again when you’re startled by the notifications of your socials on your phone.

You are so fucking tired.

But still, you take one more painful step. Then another. Then another. One by one by one until—

‘Home sweet home.’ You think a little hysterically, barely glancing at the shiny gold 713 before pushing your way through the door. After, of course, fumbling through your various pockets looking for your keys. Your fingers are shaking slightly, but that’s easily ignored once you finally make it inside. You inhale sharply, blindly feeling for the door behind you as you toss your bag to the floor. You take in your apartment as you close your door with your back, absently kicking off your shoes.

To your right is your bathroom, to your left is your ‘bedroom’ and straight ahead is the kitchenette. It's a cozy little thing, your place; a studio you found for cheap a few months after graduating highschool three years ago. It’s not the greatest place—there's water damage on various parts of the ceiling, a few moldy spots in the bathroom that refuse to leave, the a/c unit does shit all during the summer, there’s basically no insulation so it’s freezing during the winter and you can hear everything going on with your neighbors upstairs and downstairs. Oh, and the indoor washer-dryer unit never works so you have to haul your dirty laundry down the elevator once a week to the nearest laundromat if you don’t want to smell like ass.

This place is a dump, but it's your beloved dump—all the plushies, figures and books lining the shelves prove that fact. Even if it’s a little chillier now that the sun’s gone down, the familiarity would usually be enough to slow your heart rate and lower your defenses.

It’s not enough, though. That thrum of anxiety still runs through your veins, and you’re about three seconds away from hyperventilating. You’ve gone past the tired phase of your day, and are now verging onto the ‘mental breakdown’ part. Groaning and pretending like you don’t feel the familiar burn in the corners of your eyes, you turn towards your little kitchen area and shuffle in. It's pure muscle memory that has you reaching for the cabinet above the stove, pulling out the hot cocoa mix and your favorite mug in seconds. Your routine has been the same for months now—hot chocolate, some cookies, your favorite plush throw and a show you’ve already seen before to help numb the panic. It was the most effective method you’ve come up with, the only one to work long enough for you to get some sleep.

Well. It was the second most effective. The first was currently a two-hour drive away at college, studying for a career in the aerospace field.

You bite down on your lip hard when tears pool in your eyes, and unconsciously, your gaze is drawn to the cluster of polaroids pinned to the front of your refrigerator. Photos of various things cover the pale surface—the sky at dusk, a stray cat that occasionally shows up by the park down the street, fireworks from a festival you went to last year, a silly picture of you in the mirror that’s mostly the flash of a camera—but the one that stands out to you the most is underneath a cartoonish magnet of an airplane.

You’re pressed together cheek to cheek with a boy a few years older than you at the time. A huge grin splits your face, your eyes squinting closed from the glare of the camera. His smile is a little smaller, controlled. But there’s a mischievous glint in his eyes as he holds two fingers up behind your head, his other arm holding onto the camera off screen.

It’s you and Caleb Xia. Your best friend in the entire world. 

The man you’re deeply in love with.

Seeing his face after months of barely any contact is enough for the ache in your chest to fully affect you. Your hands shake so badly that you accidentally end up dropping your mug. You’re too slow to catch it, and you watch in numb detachment as it falls and shatters against your wooden floors, shards bouncing off the floor to land on the soft purple cotton of your kitty socks.

You promptly burst into tears, squatting down to cup your knees as you cry loudly into the space you’ve made.

Thick, salty tears run warm tracks down your cheeks as you sob into the open air. You try to blink them away as fast as you can, and when that doesn’t work, you roughly scrub your face. You haven’t cried like this in a while, but it was a long time coming. You were on the verge of a meltdown—you could feel it as days passed you by. That doesn’t make you feel any better, though. Not when you’re kneeling on the ground trying to pick up shards of ceramic while blind from your tears. It’s a recipe for disaster, but nothing can really ruin your day more than this. You certainly don’t care if you accidentally cut yourself, not when it feels like your very world is ending.

“Shit!” You lose your grip on one of the shards you grab. You quickly yank your hand back to avoid getting cut as it falls back to the ground. It breaks even further upon impact, and a hysterical scream threatens to erupt from your mouth, but you hastily swallow it back down. The walls are thin and you don’t need a nosy neighbor to see you like this.

‘Can’t blame anyone but yourself, dumbass.’ The voice in your head berates you. No one told you to push away the one person who could make it all better—you were the one who decided that all on your own. It’s painful to admit, even to yourself, but it’s true. You’re trying your damnedest to avoid Caleb, and you’ve been doing so for a couple months by now.

It’s easy to blame conflicting schedules and the hours separating your homes for the distance. Easy to pin the blame on your exhaustion after long days, his work as a part-time mechanic, the fact that you’re an adult and you can’t keep going to him when you just feel like it. Waking him up at three in the morning because you suddenly feel lonely. Calling him during work or class because you have to tell him about this funny post you saw on one of your socials. Cuddling and hanging all over him because touching him makes you happy and warm and safe.

Kimberly—a coworker of yours—was right to low-key call you out on your seemingly unhealthy dependence on Caleb. As embarrassing as it is to admit, it was her offhand comment that got you to fully realize how you feel about him.

Wow, with how much you cling to the guy I was sure he was your boyfriend or something.

Except Caleb isn’t your boyfriend. He’s your best friend—the only friend you can confidently say you have.

But the thought of him becoming more than that was surprisingly…tempting. An idea you never dared to contemplate was suddenly brought to the forefront of your mind and now you couldn’t escape how right it would feel. But those thoughts were scary, and there were times where you almost slipped up and said something more than strictly platonic. You could only imagine the look on Caleb’s face as he’d let you down gently—because there was no way he’d ever consider you as a girlfriend, not when he still views you as nothing more than his childhood best friend, a little kid sister. It hurts, that realization; cuts deeply in a way you’ve never felt before and that’s when it truly clicks in your head.

Unconsciously, you think you always knew how you really felt about Caleb. It’s hard to pinpoint an exact time when you didn’t care deeply for him. A thousand little moments along the course of your lives together just eventually added up into something stronger than platonic affection; something that consumed your mind, body and soul until nothing was left for him to take. Not that you were trying to blame him for your own emotions, it’s just…hard to keep yourself out of his orbit. Harder still to try and live with these feelings of yours. So you took the coward’s way out and just…pushed them away.

You stopped calling so randomly. Stopped bothering him at work. Stopped sending him random links to nearby cafes where you could go together. Stopped inviting him over for sleepovers and movie nights. Started to decline his invitations out, his subtle questions of spending time together, his concerned texts until…

Until here you are; crying on the floor of your dumpy apartment, alone and cleaning up the broken shards of your favorite mug. A mug Caleb gave to you as a housewarming gift. It was one of the cutest little things you'd ever seen; stubby, round and in the shape of a panda bear, it fits your aesthetic to a T. It was large enough to carry at least two cups worth of tea or hot chocolate, and even though it was a bit bulky for your own smaller hands, it made your day whenever you did use it. And now it’s in a bunch of tiny pieces scattered along your wooden floors.

A fresh wave of tears fills your eyes as you stare down at one of the panda’s broken eyeballs. The furious churning in your gut makes you feel sick and more than anything you wish you weren’t here anymore. In this cold, lonely and broken apartment of yours. You wish you were with Caleb.

You miss him.

You miss his stupidly tall self. How safe and protected he makes you feel. How much he makes you laugh when you're sad. How comforting his hands are whenever you accidentally hurt yourself. You miss the gentle, teasing cadence of his voice; the depth of his pretty colored eyes; the security and warmth of his hugs. You miss him so fucking much.

“I’m such a mess.” You whisper roughly, trying to wipe away the tears as they fall, hoping they’ll stop soon. But they don’t, slowly but surely continuing to wet your flushed and puffy face. You groan and cover your eyes with your balled up fists, blindly sitting back on your ass and scooting along the floor until your back hits the nearest surface. You bring your knees up until they rest underneath your chin, wrapping your arms around them and squeezing.

There’s a brewing ache settling in your chest; a gaping hole where Caleb still sits despite everything. You were the one who viciously dug him out, but you still can’t help but feel sorry for yourself anyway. It’s not like he doesn’t still reach out, but you feel like there’s this wide canyon between the two of you now. You don’t know if you can even force yourself to reach out first, not when you feel so guilty for ignoring him in the first place. 

Unmoored and lost in waves of pain and loneliness, you sit there for what feels like an eternity, drowning over and over and over again. As time passes, though, that raging sea calms into something manageable. Your tears eventually dry up and your breathing evens out a bit, but you still feel like you’re on that precipice. Like one wrong move will have you slipping into a free fall, back into the angry, churning sea of your heartache.

RING! RING-RINNG!

An obnoxiously loud tone rings out from your stomach, and you just about jump ten feet into the air.

“Fuck!” You scream, accidentally hitting your head on the countertop above you. You yelp, squeezing your eyes shut as you fumble through your hoodie pocket for your phone with one hand, the other going to gingerly feel around the throbbing area of your skull. You recognize the familiar tone and it sends your slightly calmed heart back into overdrive; beating so fiercely that you’re afraid it’s going to burst through your ribcage. The pain immediately turns into something unimportant as you dig your phone out of your pocket.

Your eyes are locked onto a smiling photo of Caleb. It’s him in his mechanic’s uniform, unbuttoned halfway through and showing the white tank top underneath, grease smeared all over him and his clothes with his sleeves half rolled up. He’s unfairly and stupidly handsome and you hate that it’s the photo you have saved for him. You hesitate as the ringing continues. Should you pick it up? You’re still so hurt and lonely, but do you really have the courage to answer after you’ve been treating him so unfairly this entire time?

One more look at his smiling face has you immediately folding like a wet paper napkin, however, and you answer the call moments later.

Except that it’s a facetime rather than a phone call, a fact you realize once your face greets you after you pick up. Luckily, his eyes are drawn off to the side, so you quickly turn the camera around to face your socked feet. You frantically curse inside of your head, but there’s nothing to be done now. You don’t have the heart to hang up on him, not when you can see every little detail of his pretty face. The sight already has you feeling better, even when he hasn't even acknowledged you yet.

You’re a weak, weak person.

“You know, when someone facetimes you it's because they want to see your face.” The clear, teasing tone of his voice causes your cheeks to darken, his eyes flicking up and then down to lock onto your feet pointedly. The last time you two were speaking by voice was…maybe two and a half weeks ago? A far cry from how you used to call him at least twice a day. Despite the snark, you can’t help but savor the warmth in his words. Still, you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t reply somehow.

“Fuck off, you know I don’t like facetimes, Caleb.” You grumble, attempting to be normal but you fail within seconds. Your voice cracks halfway through your sentence and there’s an audible stuffiness to your nose that carries over to your speech. It’s so painfully obvious that you’ve been crying.

That amiable cheer of his dissolves immediately, his eyes snapping to stare directly into the camera as his smile morphs into a noticeable frown.

“Hey, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” His eyes dart over the screen frantically, like he can figure out the answer based on your socked feet and kitchen floor alone. Honestly, it wouldn’t surprise you if he somehow did—Caleb’s strangely good with small details and can tell your mood just by looking for your subtle microexpressions. While you know some others around him have found it a bit strange, you just think it's sweet how deeply he cares about things like that. It’s…cute, to you. You like that he pays so close attention.

You see some of that perceptiveness when Caleb zeroes in on something small near your feet. His eyes narrow slightly, but before you can even look to see what exactly he’s staring intently at, his eyes are raising up to stare back into the camera. Like he can see you even when it isn’t facing you directly.

“Turn your camera around.” 

You bite your bottom lip at the seriousness of his tone. The statement sounds more like an order and while normally you’d at least tease him for it, maybe even sass him back for the firmness of his words, you just can’t bring yourself to ignore him. Not when it feels like you can finally breathe after what feels like ages.

Still, you hesitate.

Rubbing your cheek, you look down at the ‘switch camera’ button. It would be so easy to just let Caleb in right now, to let him see just what a fucking mess you are so he can make everything be okay again. But your coworkers' words float through your mind—how strange it is to be so reliant on someone when you yourself are a grown ass adult. Nervously, you rub your feet together, taking a bit of comfort in the soft fabric rubbing against your skin. You don’t know what to do…both sides are warring within you and the more you try and decide, the harder it is to come to a decision.

That’s when Caleb speaks up, almost as if he can sense your indecision.

“Tell me what’s wrong, princess. You know I can make it feel better.” You breath hitches, your heart thumping so fast that all the blood rushes to your ears in an instant. Caleb’s voice is so soothing—so soft and sweet and comforting that tears prick the corners of your eyes. You want to be with him so badly that it makes your chest ache with longing. 

“Caleb..!” You sniffle out, hiding behind your hand when his gaze becomes too much for you. Your face feels so hot that you’re afraid of spontaneously combusting. God, he knows how to make you weak and you would be angry at him if it didn’t make you feel so small and safe.

“You don’t have to worry with me around—you know that I’ll take care of you, don’t you? C’mon, lemme help you out like you need me to.” You peek above your hand, shivering at the intensity of his stare. It’s in stark contrast with his softly murmured words, and your brain goes a little fuzzy the longer you meet his gaze.

Caleb has always taken care of you, even when you were nothing but the lonely, annoying little girl who lived next door. Three years his junior and acting like a crybaby at even the slightest of inconveniences, he should’ve naturally found you insufferable. But he never once turned you away, no matter how many times he had to dry your tears, play with you, help you study and so, so much more. He always made sure you were looked after when your parents were too busy to even care, bringing you over to dinner with his parents or even sharing some of his lunch with you when he knew you hadn’t eaten. Caleb has always been there to make it better, to take care of you and make all of your worries fade away. Why wouldn’t he do the same now? He’s completely right—you need him.

“You promise?’ You whisper, the tears pooling in your eyes overflowing as you hiccup.

“I promise.” He says solemnly. Silently, you reach out and press the reverse camera button.

His eyes track rapidly over your face once the camera switches, no doubt cataloging the very obvious evidence of your crying fest. The thickness of his brows furrow into slants as he takes in your face, a frown pulling the corners of his lips down as concern lights up his dusk-purple irises. You stare at each other for a few quiet beats, the only noise coming from Caleb’s end as he moves to somewhere a little quieter. The slight sounds of murmuring and laughter gradually fade away as he goes somewhere private, the lights casting a warm glow over his complexion as he sits down. 

‘Maybe he was at a party? Or a friend’s house?’

“...Bad day?” Clearly, he’s waiting for you to open up before he does anything else. You shy away from his knowing gaze, suddenly feeling embarrassed for your tears. You’re an adult who pays rent and taxes—you should be more than capable of handling these emotions on your own but…but you also can’t help but like that Caleb wants to help you too.

He’s obviously waiting patiently for you to reply, but you stall just a little longer. Tugging at a strand of your hair that fell out of your bun, chewing on your bottom lip as you count the handles on your cabinets, tugging at the loose thread of your hoodie pocket…the excuses continue until you have nothing else to do but stare at Caleb. It’s only then that you begin to tell him about your day, underneath the gentle patience of his warm gaze.

From your alarm going off a half hour late so you had to rush through your normal routine in order to catch the bus on time. To the older woman who yelled at you for not having the right dress size for her daughter’s baby shower and complaining to your manager. To the weird, creepy homeless man who harassed you at the bus stop and even followed you on until the bus driver noticed and kicked him off a few stops before yours. To then have to walk up seven flights of stairs because the elevator all of a sudden wanted to have a problem today of all days. And now, with your feet carefully tucked away from the mess you made earlier when you clumsily dropped your favorite mug ever and broke it into a million little pieces. It was all just too fucking much and you felt like you were going crazy because you should be able to handle these events but you just can’t—

“Hey, hey, it’s alright. Just breathe with me, okay?” Caleb’s voice is like a beacon in the night; a guiding light for you to follow to safety lost amongst the roaring, crashing waves of your turbulent emotions. Shakily, you inhale deep and slow breaths, following Caleb’s instructions as he continues to stare at you. You feel ridiculous crying again, and something on your face must show that because Caleb shoots you a look.

“Stop that already. There’s nothing wrong with feelin’ this deeply, princess. Especially since you've already had such a long day.” You toss him a pout, trying and failing to not let his kind words affect you. He sees through your attempt easily, a helplessly fond expression taking over the worry as he watches you wipe the remaining tear off your cheeks. A comfortable silence follows his words, and you take the time to compose yourself a little. As much as you hate to admit, talking to Caleb did wonders for your current mood. You feel a whole lot better than you did before.

“How we doin’? Better, now?”

You nod, rubbing away the last of your stray tears. He smiles softly, eyes taking in your calmed expression.

“Good, good.” He mumbles, and you finally notice a peculiar jangling sound emanate from his side of the phone. Tilting your head slightly, you focus your attention back on Caleb. Before, when he called, he was dressed in a casual graphic-muscle tee and the shining silver chain you had gifted him when he first went away to college. Now, there was a leather jacket tossed over the shirt, and judging from the echo and the faint ringing sound, it looked like he was in a…car?!

‘He wasn’t–!’

“Caleb…please tell me you aren’t coming over to my place now!?” He shoots you a cheeky smile in response—something that makes panic and delight swell within your lower belly so fast that you have no idea what you’re feeling more. Logic wins out, however, and you try to dissuade him as quickly as possible.

“Caleb, it’s 8:30 p.m. on a Friday night! With traffic it’ll be at least a three hour trip!”

“Mah, it’s no big deal at all. I only have one class tomorrow and even if I do miss it, it won’t be too much of a hit. No biggie.” He says flippantly, shrugging his shoulders with a half-smile. You suddenly want to reach through the camera to smack him on the back of his head. This is not a ‘no biggie’ matter! A five to six hour round trip is just ridiculous, even for your best friend.

“Caleb!”

“Princess!” He tosses back mockingly, and you fight back the urge to melt. He knows that little nickname of his is unfair—it’s why he’s abusing it so thoroughly now. But this just feels like way too much, especially since you’re feeling a lot better than before.

“I-I’m fine now, there’s no need for you to go out of your way like this…”

He pauses, and you can see in his hands are the keys to his car. He shoots you a look as he lowers his hand, one that sends a bolt of heat through your veins.

“Then tell me not to come.”

“Wh-what?”

“Tell me, then. If you really don’t want me to come over, then say it.” You open your mouth, ready to do just that but you falter at his expectant face. As much as you were protesting before, the thought of seeing him in person—of feeling his big, warm hands around you makes your chest squeeze painfully. You easily acquiesce after a few moments of staring into his eyes, groaning into the palm of your hand to avoid his smug expression. Though, when you glance back at him, that little curl to his lips is still there—prominent when combined with the bright and satisfied look in his eyes.

“That’s exactly what I thought. I’ll see you soon, then.”

You murmur out something vaguely coherent, but Caleb doesn’t let you go without one last goodbye.

“Bye, princess.’’

“...goodbye, Caleb.’’

Freshly showered and an apartment as tidy as you can make it with thirty minutes left—glass cleaned up and everything—you anxiously wait on the futon that serves as your bed. Your skin is still a little dewy from the water, and your hair is a bit wet, but it’s safely twisted and pinned up into two buns on top of your head. Dressed in a soft and worn pair of grey sweats and an oversized maroon hoodie that you’re ninety percent sure is Caleb’s, you’re as comfortable you can possibly get at the moment. With a nest of plush and colorful throws as well as a few plushies to keep you company, you recline back on the futon, currently in its couch mode. You try to make yourself look as natural as possible, but an anxious tingle still remains low in your belly.

This will be the first time seeing Caleb in months and it’s nerve wracking.

You have no idea how to even act around him. Will he bring up the distance between you both? Will he avoid it? Or will he just wait for you to eventually tell him what’s wrong—something that you’ve done in the past on numerous occasions. Hiding things from Caleb never really is a thing you do; he’s just too good at figuring you out, and you have this compulsion to spill your guts whenever you stare at him too long.

But how would you even go about explaining it all? 

“Ugh, I hate this.” You groan, covering your face with one of your plushies as you curl up on the futon. Embarrassed doesn’t even begin to describe how you feel now. So much for trying to be self-sufficient. You ended up having to depend on Caleb yet again to help you. And he was driving all the way to Linkon! Three hours was a long time, and you know he’s had a full day of classes and work, so he was no doubt exhausted. Not to mention the stairs! Fuck, you really are the worst, aren’t you?

You curl up even tighter as the embarrassment blooms into bright and ugly shame. Tears push at the corners of your eyes again and you wish you could stop crying already, but you just can’t. Sniffling, you rub your cheek against the silky-smooth fur of your seal plush. Another gift from Caleb—a birthday one, actually. You both had spent the day at the mall where you two went around for hours. He won the little guy in a crane game that was outside of one of the cutesy stores you like to peek your head in occasionally. It had taken a few more tries than he would have liked—his words verbatim—but you eventually left the mall with one more plush heavier.

‘More evidence that I need to grow up.’ You puff out your cheeks before blowing out a loud breath. Yeah, you were never going to give up your collection of plushies. Childish or not, you deserve to have sweet, cute little guys you can cuddle up to when you need a bit of happiness. With one last cheek rub to your seal, you slowly sit up and pat your cheeks. Glancing at the clock, you realize that Caleb’s got about fifteen more minutes or so. 

“Maybe I can order something for us to eat? That fried chicken place that he likes so much should still be open now...” Opening up your phone, you’re about to tap the food delivery service app, but a knock at your door stops you. You blink, confused, before Caleb’s muffled voice comes from behind the heavy, brown wood.

“You mind gettin’ the door?” 

You scramble up from your seat, flailing a little when your feet get tangled up in your blankets. The struggle you go through is loud and obvious, so by the time you get the door open, Caleb’s smile is wide and amused.

“Doin’ alright there, princess?” You opt to ignore his rhetorical question, glancing down at the bulging white bag dangling from his left hand. Double bagged you can’t really tell what’s in it—just that it’s full and heavy looking, a logo of a nearby convenience store on the front. You glance back up at his smiling face. Normally, you’d have already jumped him, and your usual song and dance involves you hanging off of his neck like a monkey while he ushers his way inside; lightly bickering all the while. However…you’re trying to be considerate here. He’s likely tired from all the work he’s had today, so pouncing on him like some overexcited puppy wouldn’t be welcome, you’re sure. Instead, you opt for something a lot more toned down.

“Did you really buy snacks? I was gonna just order something for us. To, y’know, make up for all that gas you used.” You pout a little, pulling Caleb in by his wrist and kicking the door shut behind him. The warmth from his skin seeps into your hand, and you fight the urge to wrap yourself around him like a koala. Face feeling hot, you pretend like your thoughts aren’t totally embarrassing and pull him towards the futon. You carefully keep your eyes trained on the chains dangling from his jeans instead of meeting the stare you can feel boring through your forehead. 

Before you can get very far, though, he gently stops you by tugging his wrist back a little, mindful not to dislodge your own hold. He herdes you to your kitchenette with a little snort, depositing the bag in his hand onto the countertop with a muted ‘thump’.

“Why order out when I can just make you somethin’ instead?” He raises a brow, and you let go of his wrist so he can shrug out of his leather jacket. The thought of a home cooked meal sounds more than appealing at the moment, especially coming from Caleb. You swear that if he wasn’t so set on that aerospace engineering stuff that he’d be an amazing private chef. You tell him as much while he drapes his jacket over a metal hook drilled into the wall near the counter, belly growing warm at the sound of his laughter and the visual of his bare, muscled arms.

“That’s sweet of you to say, but I don’t think I’m that good.” His smile is a little lopsided once he turns back to you, but it’s the way he opens his arms that truly turns that warmth into something scorching.

“Before the food, though, I think there’s somethin’ you’re forgetting to give me, hm?”

You inhale sharply, your lower lip trembling as you look at his face. His expression is a mask of calm, but there’s an anticipatory sort of fire in his eyes, and you realize that he wants you to jump him like you would normally. Resolve cracking once again into pieces, you immediately jump into his spread arms. Your own limbs fly up to wrap around his neck, and you stand on your tippy toes for only a second before his arms surround you, lifting until your legs wrap around his waist. He squeezes you tightly, resting his chin on your shoulder while you hide away in the crook of his neck, your trembling hands fisting the fabric of his shirt.

The cologne he wears floods your nose—something deep and masculine that makes you think of late night drives, clear lakes and winter nights. That familiar scent instantly has you sagging in his hold, trusting that he’s strong enough to carry your body weight as you press even closer to him. His warmth, his scent, the strength in his arms and the low, soothing hum he starts when you inevitably let loose a few tears and sob a little; all of it causes you to feel human—something you haven’t been feeling in a long, long while. You vow to yourself to never avoid him ever again—you think you would actually just keel over and die if you have to live without his hugs.

“I missed you.” Your teary voice is muffled by his throat, but he understands you perfectly regardless.

“Missed you too, princess.” One of the hands supporting your waist slides up your spine, stopping when it reaches the nape of your neck. He rests his hand there, fingers absently playing with the baby hairs at the base as you rub your nose against his neck. Your face feels like it’s pure magma with the way it burns, and your heart is beating so fast that you’re positive Caleb can feel it, with how close you two are pressed together. As flustered as this is making you feel, however, there is a part of you that’s just melting into the easy affection between you two. A part that’s growing the longer you’re touching him.

It feels so good to be in his arms again, to feel him enveloping you, keeping you safe and protected. The slow rise and fall of his chest soothes you, and your slight sniffles calm down. Sleepily, you rub your nose against his throat again, the action surprising a low chuckle out of him that makes your brain go blank with contentment. Eventually, though, you have to part. So, with one last squeeze, Caleb pats your back and gently lowers you to the ground. You only realize you’re pouting when one of his large hands comes up to squish your cheeks together. You squawk in protest, using one of your own hands to swat at his hand before he lets you go. 

“Don’t do that!”

“Then don’t look like that. Makes me wanna bully you when you’re acting cute.” The smile on his face is teasing, but there’s something contemplative in his gaze as he regards you. 

Your face flushes a blazing red, that sleepy soft feeling evaporating in an instant. His voice echoes loudly in your head as your eyes widen. Did he just…call you cute? No, he said you were acting cute. But, doesn’t that mean the same thing? Doesn’t it? You feel like you’re about to go insane from his flippant words, and you bring your hands up to cover your hot face in embarrassment. This kind of banter is normal for you two—it’s supposed to be normal, but now it’s all too much. You can’t…you can’t deal with him talking like that, not when you’ve just noticed how you really feel about him!

A strange expression flits across his face after he takes stock of you, but before you can even think to ask, the look is gone and he slings an arm over your shoulder. He pulls you into his chest, the smile audible in his voice as he leads you into the kitchen.

“Alright, I’ve got a few options we can choose from…”

You end up choosing something simple but delicious—ramen! 

Your kitchen area is small, but composed of two separate counters; one connected to the wall in an L-shape with the sink, microwave and stove, the other splitting the area in half. Caleb is working near the sink and the stove, all of the ingredients spread out in an organized fashion. The water is set on the stove getting hot, the packs of noodles placed on the counter by it. Various toppings litter the surface of the counter—eggs, some seaweed, what looks like bok choy and pork belly. He knows it’s your absolute favorite and the thought of him specifically going out of his way to buy you something makes your heart thump inside of your chest painfully.

You’re sitting on top of the second counter, lighty swinging your feet back and forth as you watch him work. A heavy, almost burning feeling settles in your lower stomach as you do. He looks…at home, here, like he belongs in your kitchen. Moving about with an easy finesse that speaks of his intimate knowledge of your apartment.

How he only uses the first two burners because the back flames don’t get hot enough; how he knows exactly where you keep your pots and pans and other kitchen tools; how he knows that the cool water doesn’t flow from the faucet so he grabs one of the water bottles from out of the fridge; how he expertly maneuvers in your kind of cramped kitchenette despite his height, dodging around sharp corners and the hanging overhead lights like it’s instinct. It’s all too fucking much for you to take in. Like some sort of rom-com, domestic fantasy brought to life. The soft lofi station playing in the background of your apartment from your speaker only cements that fact. 

It should be nothing new to you—it is nothing new to you. Caleb and you have ended up in the kitchen together countless times before in the past. But you were ignorant back then. Now, you’re completely aware of how strongly you love Caleb, how deeply and wholly it consumes you, so all of the normal things you did together seem to carry a deeper meaning. But it has to be your imagination—it’s just all in your head. You can't believe that Caleb sees this any different than normal. Caleb is your best friend so he obviously loves you, just…not like how you love him.

It stings like a bitch to admit, but you have to come to terms with it. You won’t be avoiding him anymore, you’ve already decided that, so you need to be able to handle it when Caleb does something platonically affectionate. ‘You’re his best friend—like a little kid sister to him.’ You chant like a mantra inside of your head, trying to control the blush on your face when you watch his arms flex as he uses a knife. You can’t help but trace over his profile, lingering on the length of his eyelashes, the sharp jut of his jawline, the soft furrow of his brow as he concentrates, the softened line of his pink lips. It’s kind of creepy how hard you stare, but there’s nothing you can do about it. Not when everything about him draws you in like a moth to a flame.

“You’re unusually quiet. What’s goin’ on in that big ole brain of yours?” Caleb keeps his eyes trained on the pork belly he’s cutting, but you still feel his attention zero in on you regardless. You fidget a little, expecting the question yet not at the same time. What should you even say?

What you can only say, you think. The truth.

“I guess I’m just…sorry?” Your quiet voice comes out more like a question, and you drop your eyes to your socked feet as they sway. You can’t bear to look at Caleb anymore, not when the shame and guilt from before start to come back.

“Sorry?” 

You shrink back at the sound of his confusion, and as much as you loathe to bring it up first, the instinct to spill your guts wins. You’ve always been an open book to him, and after years of that habit, you don’t have the strength to change that now. 

“I…I’ve been avoiding you–,” A lump forms in your throat halfway through your words, and the rhythmic cutting of the knife abruptly stops. You keep your gaze down, but Caleb’s focus goes from being present in the background to suddenly being there. You can literally feel his eyes bore into your forehead. You hunch further into the hoodie on you—Caleb’s hoodie—as if it can physically hide you away from your problems. Still, you continue to speak, absently noticing Caleb start to move in the background.

“And I’m so sorry about that. It wasn’t your fault at all, I promise you. I just…I just figured that maybe I was, um, bothering you too much? I mean, I know I can be pretty annoying and you’ve been sweet to actually try and tolerate it, but I’ve got to grow up sometime, right? I shouldn’t be constantly texting or calling you over silly, nonsensical things about my day. I’m an adult, so I can’t be so selfish with you all the time, not when we both have our own separate lives to live—” You hiccup, and it's only then that you realize you’re crying again. Your fingers are bunching up the fabric of the hoodie you’re wearing, your knuckles turning white from the strain. You sniffle, opening your mouth to continue, but another hiccup interrupts you as more tears blur your vision.

The abrupt sound of the sink turning on momentarily quiets your crying fit, and you snap your head up towards the sound. Caleb is furiously washing his hands, and you can only watch bewildered as he does so for the next thirty seconds. He whips back around after, absently drying his hands with a nearby towel before throwing it across the counter. His face is slightly pained as he stalkes towards you, and you’re suddenly aware of how big he is once he gets close.

His shoulders block out most of the overhead lights as he crowds into your personal space, his hands coming up to cup your flushed cheeks as he slides himself in between your legs. The stare he gives you is complicated; emotions flitting too fast for you to decipher with your obscured vision. Gently, he uses his thumbs to clean away the tears falling down your face, wiping away the ones in your eyes just a moment later. You sniffle a little, staring up at him with wide eyes as he slowly lowers his head to bump yours. 

“Where in the world did you get the idea that I wouldn’t always want you around?” There’s a genuine note of distress in voice, though it’s clear he tries his best to hide it.

You only cry harder, shaking your head as your hands go from clinging onto the hoodie you're wearing to his shirt. It feels so stupid to admit that someone else influenced you—to say out loud that you were being so cruel to someone so important and close to you because you were afraid. Afraid that your feelings would get the better of you. Afraid that you would drive Caleb away with your clinginess. Afraid that you’d crumble to pieces if he ever rejected you. Because you need him in your life like you need air to breathe.

The grip on your face tightens.

“You don’t have to be so quick to grow up without me, y’know? Who said you needed to do that?” He switches tactics a bit, injecting a lighter tone in his voice as he wipes away more of your tears. Your lower lip wobbles, but you do take his words to heart. A little bit, at least. You open and close your mouth, and it takes more than one try to speak past the lump in your throat, but you do after a few moments of patience.

“...You don’t think it’s immature? You don’t…you aren’t annoyed by me being so-so clingy?”

He shakes his head, the corners of his eyes crinkling faintly when he gives you a soft smile. You sniffle again, leaning into the warm palms holding your face. Your fingers loosen the death grip you have on his shirt. He moves a little closer in response, and you can feel the heat from his body seep through the fabric of your pants. Goosebumps rise across your skin when you realize how close Caleb is to your inner thighs. ‘Focus.’ You demand yourself, breath hitching when Caleb swipes his thumb underneath your eye.

“Of course not. I like it when you call me up the way you…used to.” Pain briefly flashes across his face before that gentle smile comes back. Your lip wobbles at the sight, but he quickly shushes you, lightly squeezing your face. You understand the silent message and swallow down a fresh wave of tears.

“You…you seriously don’t mind that I want to,” live underneath your skin 24/7 “be near you anyway I can? Even if it means that I’m bothering you when you’re busy?” Your inner thoughts mortify you, but the idea of being around Caleb all day, every day is so appealing to you that you feel insane with the way your entire being yearns for that to be the case.

“You never bother me. You have to know that, right, princess?” You bite your lip, one part of you disbelieving while the other half sings with delight at hearing those words come from Caleb. Kimberly meant no harm when she planted the idea, but you’ve had months to turn it over repeatedly in your head, and your insecurities have been louder than ever in your isolation.

“I’ll start trying to…at least.” 

Caleb sighs a little, eyes flickering down for a moment before they meet yours squarely.

“Baby steps then.” He knocks your heads together gently before easing up his hunched shoulders. The palms cupping your cheeks leave after a few more seconds and he gives you one of his usual warm smiles.

“No more ignorin’ me, alright?”

You tellingly don’t say anything right away. You know you’re not going to avoid him anymore, it’s just, making your voice work after all of that feels like a herculean endeavor. Sniffling, you slowly blink up at him. Your silence makes his smile grow wide enough for his eyes to close, but there’s a rigidness to his expression that makes your stomach swoop. He leans back down, one of his hands tucking underneath your chin to raise it, the other falls to rest next to one of your legs on the counter. The back of his knuckles brush against your skin and you feel your eyes widen at the sharp look he shoots your way when his eyes open, smile fixed in place.

“You won’t ignore me anymore, right.” The soft murmur sounds more like a threat than a question, and that swooping sensation returns. You realize that you’re getting excited by the look in his eyes, your flush only growing more prominent when you feel yourself get embarrassingly wet from the intensity. You instinctively move to cross your legs, but since he’s still in between them they only tighten around his waist. His eyes drop to look down before they raise back up, one of his eyebrows arched as searches your face. After he looks his fill, a slight smirk curls the side of his lips up, and his head tilts to the side in an almost sarcastic fashion.

“R-right, I promise!” You stammer out, breath hitching when that downright mean look lasts for a beat longer before his smile becomes real. He pulls back the hand underneath your chin while the other gently rests on the outside of your thigh, lightly patting it before he removes himself from your personal space. Your breath whooshes out of you loudly, your heartbeat going a mile per minute as your red face gets even redder. His smile somehow gets brighter in response.

“Perfect. Now, just sit there and relax. Dinner should be ready in just a little bit.”

You stop pulling away from Caleb after that night.

You never did fully explain to him why exactly you started distancing yourself, no matter how subtle and unsubtly he tried to pry. You guess you feel embarrassed by the reason. Embarrassed that you allowed your fears to get in the way of your friendship—that you allowed these stupidly intense feelings of yours to negatively affect one of the few good things in your life. So you keep the real catalyst to yourself, instead focusing on catching up with Caleb. You haven't really spoken-spoken in…four and a half months, so there was a lot to catch up on. Which was easy enough to do once you started regularly calling and texting him. 

However, some things were still different, no matter how much you tried for it not to be.

Since you had your little revelation, everything and anything Caleb did that was even the slightest bit affectionate had you blushing like crazy. Constantly, you were flustered by the very obvious care he showed you, which had been amplified ever since you started talking again. It was like he was compensating for your insecurities by being extra sweet to you, and it was driving you insane to try and keep your head on straight.

He made a point to see you in person at least once a week, alternating between taking you out to eat or to walk around the mall, or cooking you something at home and watching movies. Without fail, Caleb would show up at your door knocking like clockwork. It worried you, at first. You didn’t want him to overexert himself in an effort to make you feel better, but you realized something about three weeks into this new routine.

Caleb needed it as much as you seemed to.

He was subtle about it, but you knew the man as well as he did you. So you noticed how relaxed he would get when you would ask him for things. How genuinely thrilled he seemed when you spoke openly about your feelings. How quickly he would respond to your texts even when he was busy, or how he picked up every single time without fail whenever you called. How he would jump at the chance to spend even a little bit of time with you.

How easily he would touch you.

You guys were physically affectionate before, but now…it was happening way more often. A hand on your waist, your lower back, resting behind your back or draped over your shoulder when you sat down; ruffling your loose hair or snagging your wrist when you playfully pulled away for him; pinching your cheeks to tease you, cupping underneath your jaw to emphasize a point he was making; or, god forbid, the few times he stopped you from rushing ahead by resting his hand on the nape of your neck and squeezing. He loomed over you in public, bodily putting himself between you and random strangers, using his height to his advantage when he wanted to herd you in another direction, coaxing you to lay or lean on him whenever you were sleepy either at home or outside.

After realizing that your relationship wasn’t so one-sided, well…it was easier to accept your new routine. Easier to allow yourself to indulge, easier to not feel guilty when Caleb was getting exactly what he seemed to want by looking after you so well.

Which led you to your predicament now.

“...You want me to come with you to a party?” You hold your phone up to your ear with your shoulder, chewing on a fruity twizzler as you circle a word in your book of word searches. It was sanrio themed and Caleb had snagged it for you on one of your little outings two weeks ago. The page you were working on was thirty-three out of sixty and was filled with various little chibis of cinnamoroll. 

“It won’t be that bad. Gideon’s cousin is throwing a bit of a housewarming thing, and he invited me to come. Last week you picked what we did, so technically it is my turn…” He trails off playfully, and you pout because he’s right. You had forced him to stay inside and ordered pizza—you refused to let him go back to his apartment until you had finished all five of the twilight movies. Payback, really, when he forced you to watch all of those boring ass war movies he liked so much.

You roughly blow out a sigh, sliding your pen into the book.

“Is it a party or a…party party?”

“A party party, so as much as I wouldn’t mind you wearing one of my hoodies again,” You flush at the pointedness to his tone, “You should make an effort to wear something a little nicer.”

“Caleb~!” You whine, throwing yourself back across your splayed out futon. The only thing he does is laugh at your expense, and as much as you want to be truly annoyed, you can’t. His voice is too warm and soothing in your ear for you to feel any true irritation.

“C’mon, it won’t be so bad. We’ll stay for an hour or so, and then we can head back to my apartment. You wanted to see it anyway since I moved.”

“I guess so…”

“Just a little bit of human interaction, and then I’m all yours. Doesn’t that sound like a good deal?” His voice is softer now, coaxing almost. Like you’re some little kid that needs to be convinced to eat their veggies. It shouldn’t make you flush so intensely. Nor should it make your mind go fuzzy and cotton-filled, but here you are. Zoning out a bit because of his tone.

“...Yes, it does.” You mumble, blinking to try and erase that sudden fog.

“See, that wasn’t so hard now, was it.” A fainter voice echoes from his side of the phone and he leans away for a moment to answer. You glance at the clock. 3:47 p.m on a Wednesday. He’s in the middle of his part time shift at the auto shop near his college. ‘He must’ve just been invited if he’s calling me during work hours.’ You finish nibbling on the twizzler in your mouth while you wait, a bit of dread filling your gut as you think about meeting Caleb’s other friends.

You weren’t scared of them, per se. You were just a little—okay, you were a lot introverted. Going outside only seemed like a good time if you were either with Caleb or going on a simple walk. Talking with people has never been something you liked or needed in your life. Too many bad experiences with others—both their fault and yours, depending on the situation—so you mostly keep to yourself. And Caleb’s friends are from college or from the mechanic shop. Places where certain kinds of men reside, and while you won’t just baselessly accuse his friends of being people you won’t get along with, you shied away from interacting regardless. But now…now you didn’t have a choice in the matter. So that meant you had to make at least a decent impression on them, if only to save Caleb some peace of mind.

“Sorry about that, one of the guys had a question about the truck we’re working on.” Caleb’s voice snaps you out of your pensive thoughts.

“No worries, you know I don’t mind.” He hums absent-mindedly, before shuffling noises can be heard through your phone speaker.

“What time’s the party?”

“This Thursday night. It officially starts at eight, but people’ll probably start showin’ up at seven-thirty.”

“Oh, alright. I get out at six, if you wanted I could meet you halfway?”

He scoffs. 

“I can just pick you up, it’s no big deal. I’ll just make sure to leave a few hours earlier.” You bite your lip, but you accept his decision. You’ve gotten better at that, you think. Following his lead more without questioning him so much.

“Your vacation starts this weekend, right?” You blink. What does that have to do with anything?

“Mhm?”

“Stay the week with me.”

Your eyes widen and you stare blankly out your window, just barely catching your phone as it slips from underneath your chin. You…you stay in his new apartment with him…for a whole week…? You don’t know whether or not you want to scream in delight or pass out in flustered embarrassment. Just thinking about being alone with him in his space for a whole uninterrupted week sends those familiar tingles down your belly to your cunt. You suck in a breath, cheeks feeling hot as your fingers tremble around your phone. Denial sits on the tip of your tongue because if you’re in close proximity for that long you know you won’t be able to stop yourself from doing something incredibly idiotic—

“Please? I miss you, and we already don’t see each other enough.” He doesn’t really beg, but that soft, cajoling tone comes back and it has you caving immediately. Because you’re still one clingy bitch and you do actually miss him like crazy whenever you aren’t near him.

You just hope that you can somehow find the strength to keep yourself together the entire week.

“The whole week, huh. Sure, why not?” You say softly, smiling when that gets you a slightly startled intake of breath. Did he really think you weren’t going to say yes?

“You’re carrying all my bags, by the way. All of them.” You state without hesitation, smile curling into a devious grin.

“...How many bags are you planning to bring?” He asks cautiously, and you only giggle in response.

“You little brat.” He sighs out, but there’s nothing reproachful in his tone. You giggle again before you stop, hearing another voice pipe up from Caleb’s side. You’re a little sad to see him go, but he is technically on work time.

“Sorry, I gotta—”

“No, no it’s okay. We’ll see each other tomorrow night, then.”

“Alright. I’ll see you soon, princess.” He murmurs, and you hastily answer him back before the line cuts off. You sigh, bringing the back of your palm to your cheek. You get flustered so easily around him, but you’ve grown to handle it. Somewhat. Kind of. More importantly…

“Do I even have something appropriate enough for a party party?” You wonder to yourself, getting up to shuffle over to your closet. You never needed fancy or ‘nice’ clothes since you were in school, so you highly doubt you have anything on hand that was nice enough. You know Caleb won’t be super picky on the definition of ‘nice’ but…you want to make a good impression.

Ten minutes later you run through your whole closet and you have nothing to really show for it. You found a few hoodies that you’re definitely packing, as well as a couple pairs of fuzzy sweatpants you thought you lost. But nothing in the realm of ‘nice’ that this party required. You sighed a little to yourself, but picked out a week’s worth of clothes and shoved them into a duffel you had stored in the back of your closet. You’d pack the rest of your toiletries and other accessories you needed later. For now, though, you had to make a quick trip down the street. You’re lucky that there’s a relatively nice clothing shop within walking distance.

‘The fucking things I do for that man.’ You smile as you shrug on your jacket and slip on your crocs.

The soft ‘thump’ of your boots hits the ground rhythmically. You’re pacing a little, trying to get used to the added height the boots give you. While not your first time wearing boots like these, it is your first time wearing them with a skirt. It’s a strangely nice feeling, the gentle tickle of the soft fabric against your thighs, and you can admit you’re kind of obsessed with it. You make one last turn in your boots, almost tripping over a stray snag in your rug before you hastily right yourself.

Stopping in front of the floor length mirror propped against your bathroom door, you give yourself one last once over.

Your long hair flows down your back and chest, the thin braids you did topped off with shimmery white bows, lines of silver chains scattered throughout. Your makeup is simple—black puppy liner, highlighter brushed along your cheekbones and nose, and a thin layer of gloss that makes your lips twinkle a subtle black underneath your lights. Around your neck lies a thick, black choker with a layer of silver chains hooked to it. The real star of the show is your outfit, however. The one that you spent a decent chunk of money getting but one that you’re infinitely proud of.

The black bralette top you’re wearing is thin and stretchy; lined with lace and with a cute skull and bones decal. The top is the slightest bit on the small side, and combined with the sown in padded cups you not only don’t have to wear a bra, but your tits look fucking fantastic. The black skirt you’re wearing has ribbons lining the top like a corset, and cinches your waist in a way that doesn’t make you feel like you’re suffocating while giving you a nice shape. You paired it with wide-holed fishnet stockings and a pair of calf high, chunky black boots. You adjust the stockings a little, pulling them over the skirt up until they reach high unto your waist. You turn this way and that, cocking your head to the side to review your fit just one more time before Caleb appears. You’re mostly satisfied with it. 

The only thing that you would say kind of ruins it for you, though, would have to be…

‘Maybe I should’ve done the oversized look instead.’ Your mood plummets a little when you notice the layer of pudge slightly poke out from the sides of your skirt, as well as your slightly sagging arms. You cross your arms with an aggravated sigh, looking away from the mirror to ignore the imperfections you can see. You were so satisfied before…where did all that confidence go? ‘Wherever the hell my common sense went, that’s for sure.’ You think to yourself with a snarky tone, before you blow out a deep breath. You still have some time, maybe you could go and grab one of the graphic tees you have?

A knock at your door stops you, and you realize you’ve got no more time left. You sigh, lightly patting your cheeks before making your way to the door. You’re more than a little nervous—you feel a little sick, actually, but you’re trying not to think about that. With no time left, all you can do is grin and bear it.

One last breath and you swing the door open.

Your face gets hot when you realize how handsome Caleb looks—black jeans with rips in them and a grey button up hidden beneath an open dark blazer, a few buttons undone to reveal the sharp jut of his collarbones and the silver chain hanging loose—but what really has you flustered is the look on his face when he realizes what you’re wearing. It’s quiet between you two for a long beat as his gaze slowly travels your body from head to toe, something dark and hot swirling in his eyes. You lightly bite the inside of your lip, fingers gripping onto the edge of your door as you watch the rigid line of his body. It didn’t even look like he was breathing, and feeling the tension grow stronger the longer the quiet persists, you hastily try and break the ice.

“C-come in already, silly. Don’t just stand outside, I told you that you’d be helping me with my bags!” You swiftly turn away from Caleb at the door, blush spreading so fast that you’re dizzy from the rush. The look on his face…you shiver just thinking about it. That wasn’t the kind of look you give your best friend—not even close. You try not to let that stop you from gathering your purse and keys, though, heading towards your futon to pick them up. You bend over slightly, stretching out your arm to snag them from the other half of your bedding.

Except you’re a bit too far from the straps of your bag—a cute little thing in the shape of ghostface that you found in that store yesterday that just spoke to you. You huff, pretending like you don’t feel the intense stare burning holes into your back. You do in fact realize the position you’re in; you in your short and flowy skirt, half bent over your layed out futon, the entirety of your lower half nearly exposed. You feel a slight brush of cool air against the backs of your thighs, and feeling a little bold, you slide a knee up onto the futon. The fabric of the skirt slips higher and you snatch the straps of your bag quickly, blushing even hotter when you realize that you just most likely flashed Caleb behind you.

You aren’t that embarrassed about it, oddly enough. The look in his eyes when he saw you…it wasn’t one you’ve ever seen directed towards yourself before. But you can’t say that you’re upset by it, honestly it was a bit of a confidence booster. You…you don’t know the deeper meanings behind the heat in his gaze; you don’t know if it’s just surface level lust or if he thinks of you the way you think of him…but you are going to enjoy it for as long as you can.

Swallowing thickly, you slip the bag over your shoulder to rest across your chest, turning around with a bright smile.

“Ready!”

~~~~~

Caleb might have…miscalculated a bit.

The party was originally a way for him to segue into asking you to come over. He figured you’d give in easily enough and they’d spend a little time chatting in the corner before he’d whisk you back to his place. While he wasn’t certain what you’d be wearing, he also didn’t think it’d be too wild. That broken heart sweater and a pair of your black ripped jeans maybe. Or those new black cargos and the cropped graphic t-shirt of godzilla you adore so much. Something easy, something comfortable. You were being forced into a social situation you weren’t familiar with, so it’d only make sense.

Except you love proving him wrong when he least expects it.

He watches as your skirt swishes around the backs of your thighs, eyes trailing up the slope of your spine as you two walk towards his car. Thankfully, despite your earlier teasing threat, you only had a duffle bag and a book bag filled with your toiletries and other smaller items you wanted to bring—not that he was really worried about anything being too heavy for him to carry. Even if it was, he’d be way too distracted looking at you to feel any real annoyance.

Your hips sway in an unconscious, but sensual rhythm as you walk in front of him, your wild, dark curls bouncing softly, the thin chains in your hair tinkling ever so softly as they clink against one another. His fingers twitch with the sudden urge to tug at a stray braid swaying from the force of your movements, but he dutifully keeps ahold of your bags. He’s determined to keep his distance. If he really gets his hands on you, he wouldn’t be able to let you go long enough for them to leave. It’s difficult, however, when you keep shooting him these nervous little glances from underneath your eyelashes; almost as if you’re expecting him to do something. As if you want him to do something.

‘Not that I can exactly blame her for that. I wasn’t very subtle.’ He muses to himself. When he first saw how you looked, he was pretty sure he blacked out for a moment. He’d never seen you dressed so…boldly before. So much of your skin was on display, so much of your figure bared to his eyes. It took everything in him to not jump on you, but now wasn’t the time. He could have a little patience. It’d make when he finally takes you apart that much sweeter.

“You cold?” He asks after you rub your arms for the nth time coming down from your apartment. You purse your lips, the light from a nearby streetlight catching the enticing shine of your gloss. He pointedly looks into your eyes, as if that will stop him from imagining what your lips would look like wrapped around his fingers.

“I thought it’d be a little warmer out ‘cuz it’s still summer…” Caleb chuckles, fishing inside of his pocket for the keys to his car. You frown at him, lightly smacking his arm when he laughs again.

“Relax, princess. I’ve got a jacket in my car you can use.” He carefully gauges your expression, smirking a little when a glassy sheen covers your eyes. He expects it to quickly disappear—like it always does whenever he throws that pet name out—but it stays. The frown at your lips slacken into something close to a pout, your cheeks gaining a light dusting of pink that spreads to the tips of your ears peeking out from the fall of your hair. You go quiet again, but he leaves you to your thoughts, something forming in his head as he pops open the trunk.

He tosses your bags inside, slamming the back closed a moment later. When he looks up again, you’re poised by the passenger door, shivering slightly as you stare at your reflection in the window. That soft look still lingers in your eyes, and the idea forming inside of his mind solidifies. Caleb calls out to you, and you take a moment to blink before turning your head to face him. He rounds the trunk to the back door of the car, yanking it open and grabbing the jacket left on the back seat. 

“Here.” He holds the black bomber jacket open, watching closely as you shuffle over and turn around. He slides it around you, using the hands on your shoulders to flip you back around once you slip your arms through the sleeves. The thing practically drowns your figure, stopping just below where the skirt ends. You look good in his clothes, good enough that he's sorely tempted to just take you home instead of to the party. He has a slightly different plan—one that he thinks will work out just fine.

Looking into your eyes again, and seeing that hazy almost dreamy look, he gently tucks his fist underneath your chin. Using his other hand he guides you to lean against his car. Slowly, he tilts your chin up, lightly rubbing the pad of his thumb underneath the swell of your bottom lip, resting his fist above your head.

It has the effect he assumes it would.

Your breath hitches, that cooling blush of yours returning rapidly, coloring your cheeks and nose a splotchy pink. You…melt into the touch on your chin, wide eyes somehow growing bigger as you look up at him. Your hands reach for the edges of his blazer, fingers curling around the thicker fabric. He smiles, stepping in closer so that he can really tower over you, flattening his palm against the cool metal of his car. You stop breathing when he does and he lightly shakes your chin.

“Where are your manners at, princess? What do you say when someone gives you something?” He lowers the pitch of his voice a bit, softening his tone into something sweet yet chiding. You shiver, pupils expanding until a thin ring of your iris is left. Caleb allows the smile he wears to turn the slightest bit mean, relishing when that gets him a high pitched whine. 

“C’mon, you know the words.” He raises a brow and gives your jaw another shake. You inhale a trembling breath, blinking slowly before you open your mouth.

“...Thank you, Caleb.” He smiles at the sound of your lovely voice whispering out his name. He would bottle that noise, if he could. Drink it down for the rest of his life and never get tired of it. 

“Good girl. You’re welcome to keep that jacket, too. Don’t even have to steal it from me like you do my other stuff.” You only stare at him, lips parted and breaths coming in fast pants. He laughs, slightly mocking as he drags his knuckles up your cheek and down the side of your throat. He allows the contact to last for a few beats, taking in the obvious pleasure on your face, the way your legs shake, how you have to lean against the car to even stay upright. He hasn’t even done anything to you yet and you’re already like this. With one last gentle tap to your cheek, he finally leans back.

“Let’s go. If we don’t leave now, we’ll be stuck in rush hour traffic.”

You’re floating.

Not literally, but you feel as if you’re walking on air. Not even your natural social anxiety is affecting you now, thick into the crowd of Gideon’s family and friends. Caleb had mentioned a housewarming party, but that’s as far as you know. As far as you care to know, sitting primly on Caleb’s lap as he talks with one of his mechanic buddies—a man whose name you immediately forget once you hear it. The conversation doesn’t last long, maybe ten minutes or so, before the other man is drawn off deeper into the crowd in search of something else to drink.

Once the other leaves, Caleb leans his head against yours and looks down at your phone. You're playing a puzzle app, and he quietly watches you play a game of sudoku, occasionally jumping in when you get a little stumped. His hand curls around your waist, absently rubbing one of your skirt’s ribbons in between his fingertips. The other holds onto a red solo cup—the contents you aren’t a hundred percent certain on. He was nice enough to let you take a sip, but you weren’t a fan of the artificially fruity flavor, nor did you like the kind of alcohol hidden underneath it. Wine is more your speed, and after making a face once, Caleb merely laughed and kept the cup to himself.

You aren’t entirely sure how you ended up sitting on him like this, but you can’t say you mind. It’s nice being cradled close; your back resting in the curve of Caleb’s arm, your legs thrown over his thighs and your head resting on his shoulder. You’re warm—courtesy of Caleb’s jacket hanging off your shoulders—and comfortable. Aside from a few friendly ‘hellos’ by the various friends and acquaintances that stop by your little corner of the living room, no one’s really bothered you and Caleb.

As nice as it is, though, there’s still a worry that’s niggling at the back of your mind. A question of…why. Why did Caleb pull you onto his lap as soon as you two walked in? Why did he touch you like that earlier? Why has he been so intense lately? All of the questions you have float through your mind and it slowly begins to push back that pleasant fog you’ve had since you first walked out of your apartment.

You aren’t stupid. You know that there’s a tension between you two. The kind of tension that leads down a road that you both won’t be able to turn back from, but it’s the why of that tension that’s eating you up inside. Before a few hours ago, you wouldn’t have thought that Caleb was interested in you. But that look combined with his behavior…it’s clear that at the very least he’s attracted to you. But does he want you the way you want him—does he love you the way you love him? You don’t know, and that, you think, is what scares you most.

The fingers on your waist lightly tug at the ribbons in your skirt and you look up at him in question.

“How we feelin’?” 

“M’fine. Comfy.” You pause, biting the inside of your lip to avoid getting gloss on your teeth. Caleb immediately catches your hesitation.

“What else?” 

“...I’m a little…confused, too.” He doesn’t seem shocked at all, merely waiting with a warm expectant look on his face for you to continue. You open and close your mouth, stopping and starting until you gather the courage to finally ask what’s been on your mind.

“What am I to you?” Your question takes him off guard a bit, his eyes widening in surprise. He looks away for a moment, the shock turning into something deeply thoughtful. His gaze swings back to yours after a few long seconds of silence, a burning intensity lightning up the dusky-purple hues of his iris.

“What am I, to you.”

“Caleb, I’m serious.” You frown, feeling a little hurt that he seems to be making fun, but he just shakes his head.

“So am I. What, or more like, who do you see me as, [✦].” The sound of your name startles you, and you begin to understand that he’s deadly serious. 

“Who..?” You trail off, breath hitching when Caleb’s hand cups your cheek. He says nothing more, brushing the pad of his thumb underneath your eye as he waits. Your hand grips your phone tightly, a nervous tremble wobbling your bottom lip. Is he asking…does he want you to speak your feelings? You blink rapidly, feeling the familiar itch at the corner of your eyes.

You’re scared. You’re fucking terrified, and if Caleb wasn’t holding you like this, you think you’d run away immediately. ‘But I’ve already chosen to stop hiding from him. I promised myself that.’ You inhale, closing your eyes briefly before opening them again, meeting Caleb’s stare resolutely. You can do this—you can explain to him how you really feel.

He’s asking you to, and how could you bear to deny him like this?

“You’re my best friend,” You reach out and lay your hand on the one holding your face. “You’re the most important person in my life. You drive me fucking crazy all the time with your relentess care. I’m basically spoiled because of you, y’know? Can’t even do anything by myself anymore, I need you around me all the time if I want to have any fun. You…you’ve got to know that you’re my entire world at this point, right? You’ve got to know that I—” You choke on the words, tears pooling in your eyes as your force the phrase your heart has been screaming for so long.

“I love you. I love you so much that it literally makes me fucking stupid.” You throw out with a watery laugh, blinking rapidly to try and salvage your makeup.

With every word spilling from your lips, Caleb’s eyes grow brighter and brighter; the smile playing at his mouth wide and baring the straight whites of his teeth. He’s absolutely gorgeous under the dim lighting of the living room you’re in, and the sight takes your breath away. He’s positively beaming with how brightly he shines, and it takes everything in you not to shake apart when he knocks his forehead against yours and that utter joy gets even closer.

“Then you know exactly how I feel about you.” He whispers, his warm breath puffing against your lips. You can barely believe your ears—it feels like a dream come true. For you to be held in his lap, close enough to see the little indigo flecks in his eyes, to count each individual lash on his eyelids, to see the wonder and love and lust in his eyes as he stares at you deeply.

“You–you do?” You know you sound disbelieving, but this moment truly doesn’t feel real to you. 

“That’s so hard to believe, to you? That I’d return your feelings?” 

You struggle to answer, struggle to do anything when the hand on your waist tightens, the one cupping your cheek sliding around to thread through the hairs at the nape of your neck. Caleb doesn’t look like he’s expecting an answer, though, his eyes dropping to focus on your parted lips. You flush at the heat in his gaze, swallowing back a groan when his fingers slip higher up your waist, catching on the fishnets and meeting your bare skin.

“I could show you, you know. If you give me a chance.” He murmurs, lightly dragging his nails against your skin. Goosebumps raise along your arms at the thought of him proving his love for you. You…you want that. You want that so much. Something must show on your face because Caleb chuckles, dragging his nose up to your temple to meet your hairline. You feel the soft warmth of his lips against your forehead, an action that makes you shiver.

“Let’s get out of here, yeah?” You nod, unable to speak as the anticipation rushes through your veins, the spreading warmth of your belly down to the throbbing heat of your cunt.

You barely make it through his apartment door before he pounces on you.

His hands grip your face as he crowds you against the door, lips crashing into yours with an intensity that takes your breath away. You moan into his mouth, your arms lacing around his neck. You scratch your nails lightly through his hair and he groans deeply into your mouth. The sound causes your cunt to pulse and you feel yourself leak against the cotton of your panties.

His palms slide down your neck and then down your sides before they travel around to grip your ass. Within the next moment, you're lifted into his arms, and you scramble to throw your legs around his waist as he blindly moves you toward his bed. You trail kisses down his chin to his throat, lightly sucking on the thin skin there. God, it feels like a fantasy to be here in his arms, getting the privilege to mark him up like this.

“Fuck.” He grunts when your teeth dig sharply into the side of his neck, the hands on your ass squeezing roughly before tossing you onto his bed. You’re panting harshly as your eyes travel up his own heaving chest. The lights in his bedroom are dim, and they cast exaggerated shadows against his tall form. As dark as the room is, though, it does nothing to hide the raw desire in his eyes as he begins to unbutton his shirt. Every inch of bare skin revealed makes you even wetter, and you squeeze your thighs together when he lets the shirt drape open. You shiver, biting your lip as Caleb drops to his knees on the bed, the buckle of his belt jingling as he unloops it from his jeans.

You swiftly follow when you realize you’ve just been staring, tossing off your top to reveal your bare tits to the cool room. Hands shaky from adrenaline and the slight chill, you reach for your skirt next, but stop when you’re suddenly yanked forward by your ankle. Gasping, you fall to your back and are pulled closer to Caleb. He easily positions you partly over his lap, legs spread and half folded over. Your entire body feels hot from that easy display of strength, and you whimper when he leans down to mouth against the side of your neck.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted this?” 

His first sentence ever since you left the party startles you, but you don’t have time to speak when his teeth dig into your skin. All you can do is gasp out, fingers latching onto his shoulders as he licks over the mark before doing the same to another patch of skin.

“How long I’ve wanted to have you under me, spread out and fucking shaking apart.” Your back arches when one of his hands cup your tit, rolling a nipple between his fingers while the other hand slides down to unzip the back of your skirt.

“You looked so pretty tonight, you know that? Almost didn’t let you leave ‘cuz you were just too tempting lookin’ like that.” Those words send a bolt of heat through you, and you want to move against him, but you can’t, bent in half and held down by the bulk of his body.

“S’because of me, yeah? Got all dolled up cause you were going out with me?” You nod, helpless to do anything else when he slowly grinds his clothed cock against you. You can feel the hard ridge even through the layer of his jeans and your skirt, and you moan when you realize how fucking big he is.

“Wanted…wanted you to think I was pretty.” You gasp when the hand on your tit pinches your nipple, shaking when his other hand finishes unzipping your skirt.

“I always think you’re gorgeous, princess. But I don’t mind you dressing up for me. Can get you all the pretty little skirts and tops you want if you model ‘em for me. Only for me.” He presses a kiss to the hollow of your throat before separating himself slightly, the corner of his mouth ticking up when you chase him. But he easily pushes you back down, closing your legs and yanking off the skirt like it personally offended him. He doesn’t even bother taking off your fishnets or your lacy panties after he spreads your legs around his waist, merely pushing them aside enough so he can stick two fingers inside of your cunt.

“F-fuck…Caleb!” You cry out, tears forming at the corners of your eyes as you toss your head back. His words combined with the stretch of his fingers makes you feel as if you’re losing your mind. You’ve never had sex before—the only experience you’ve had were the different toys and dildos you have stashed away in your apartment. Other boys never caught your attention, and you were always able to satisfy yourself just fine on your own so you didn’t think you needed the touch of another. But having Caleb’s fingers inside of you now, pistoning in and out was electrifying and you know that it was going to ruin you when you finally feel him inside of you.

The thought has you suddenly desperate for it, and you weakly paw at the bulge in his jeans. He bucks into your hand with a low groan, the pace he sets with his fingers faltering once you get a semi-decent hold on his cock. He returns to his pace soon after stopping though, using his left thumb to rub against your clit as he slides the fingers of his right hand in all the way and curls them. You jolt at the intense feeling, desperation getting stronger as that coil in your belly tightens further and further.

“Give it to me, please, want it so bad, gimmie it now—” You whine, your other hand tugging at the loose end of his shirt while the hand on his bulge clumsily rubs up and down his dick. You blink the half-formed tears out of your eyes, pleading with your face as you desperately try and get him to listen to you. He spits out something too low for you to hear above the squelching noises of your sopping wet cunt, but you soon forget about that when his fingers hit that one spot inside of you just right.

You jolt hard, legs wildly jerking as a white-hot bolt of heat sizzles its way up your spine. The cry that falls from your lips sounds more like a wounded animal, but Caleb’s eyes are dark with satisfaction. He presses that spot inside of you again, rubbing insistently while he does the same to your clit. You can literally feel your brain melt out of your ears from the dual sensations, hips instinctively jerking up to meet his fingers. You’re on the precipice, riding the edge of that peak but you still aren’t quite there yet and it makes even more tears fall from your half lidded eyes out of frustration.

“You close?” But Caleb’s voice was more statement than question, eyes piercing as he watches you start to break apart underneath his hands. You nod anyway, crying out in protest when he slips his finger out. Only to squeal when he lifts you so that you're balancing on your shoulders, your thighs resting around his neck while he buries his face into your cunt.

You can’t even form words when his tongue traces over your clit, his hands placed on the soft flesh of your thighs, gripping tight enough to bruise. He eats you out without any foreplay, going from sucking on your clit to dipping his tongue inside of your hole, trailing nipping kisses to your inner thighs before he’s right back to licking into your cunt while nosing at your clit. It’s so much stimulation—too much stimulation for you as tears drip down your flushed cheeks. You can feel it coming, your orgasm. It’s in the way you clench on his tongue, thighs wrapped so tightly around his neck that you have to be suffocating him. But, if anything, the fervor he eats you out seems to grow, trialing one of his hands from your thigh to lightly trace over your hole. He slips two fingers back inside again, and using his tongue, fucks your dripping slick back into you. Your orgasm crashes into you when he hits that spot again, eyes rolling into the back of your head as white sparks flash across your vision. Your mouth drops open in a silent scream, legs spasming around his neck as you finally come around his fingers.

“Mhm, fuck, that’s it. C’mon, let me have it all, princess.” Caleb’s words ride out on a slight laugh, the vibration of his hoarse voice making your cunt clench around his still moving fingers. The intensity of your orgasm flees, but he’s still thrusting in and out of you. Your voice is shrill when he rubs your clit hard, purposely aiming for that little spot inside of you as oversensitivity wracks through your frame.

“C-C-Caleb—!” You can barely get anything past your crying mouth, hands reaching out to tangle in his hair as he continues to overstimulate you. You somehow get even wetter, the sounds he’s causing between your spread legs are absolutely filthy as they echo out into the dark room.

“You’ve got another for me, don’t you. You wanna be my good girl, yeah? Give me another and I’ll give you what you want.” He licks another stripe from your hole to your clit, fingers rubbing that spot inside of you, pulling back to widen, before thrusting back inside and repeating. Through the haze filling your mind, you can hear the order he gives you. And of course, because you are a good girl for him—his good girl who listens to everything he says—you give him exactly what he wants.

You come for the second time, squeezing so tightly around his fingers that he can’t even move them inside of you anymore when you do. Your back arches off the bed at an insane curve, ragged moans and cries erupting from your hoarse throat before you fall limply back to the bed, hands falling to rest at your sides. ‘Did I…just come on command..?’ You feel tired and wrung out, but that burn of arousal doesn’t fade. Even when the feeling on your clit and in your cunt make you squeal from oversensitivity, you’re still soaking wet.

“Did so well for me, princess. So fucking beautiful when you come. You’ll look even prettier when you’re spread out on my cock–mh, fuck.” Caleb groans, slowly retracting his fingers, watching raptly as your cunt gushes out more slick. You whine out something unintelligible, your entire body shivering from the aftershocks of two orgasms in a row. But still, you dutifully let yourself be manhandled, half lidded eyes lazily tracking Caleb as he bends you in half again. Your eyes lock onto the smears of your cum and slick across his mouth and cheeks, something inside of you strangely warm at the sight of him marked by you.

Caleb’s muttering all sorts of filth about you under his breath as your eyes trail down his chin to his jaw, that satisfaction burning brighter when you notice the hickeys you gave him darken. Your attention is captivated by him as he slips his jeans and briefs down just low enough to pull out his cock. You can see the tip of it from how you’re angled, and the sight causes your cunt to clench and unclench at the thought of finally taking it.

“Fuck, look at you. Prettiest fuckin’ pussy and for my eyes only, yeah? No one else has seen you like this, and no one else will, cuz your little cunt is mine, right? Say it.” 

“M-my pussy, s’yours, Caleb. It’s all yours.” You whimper out. Caleb slaps the tip of his cock against your clit, doing it again when you wheeze out a moan. You wiggle your hips as much as you can in your position, wordlessly begging for him to finally fuck into you. He smiles at your desperation, but it’s a far cry from those sweet, gentle smiles he usually gives you. The slant of his smile is mean, his eyebrows rounded out into a condescending expression that makes you gush.

“Need this dick, yeah? Need me to empty that little head of yours—to make that itch go away.” He slaps the tip of his cock against your clit again before trailing it lower, lightly pushing into your hole before slipping it out. He does that a few more times, all with that mean little smile on his face as he watches your desperation turn into more frustrated tears.

“Caleb!” You cry out, tears slipping down the sides of your cheeks. He tsks, leaning over you until the tip of his nose brushes your temple.

“What did I tell you earlier about using your manners?” 

You shiver at the warning in his tone, mouth falling open when he trails gentle kisses down the side of your face until he reaches your lips. This close, you can taste yourself covering the lower half of his face, see the sweat that’s beading on his forehead and wetting his hairline, the wideness of his pupils as they eclipse the natural purple of his iris, the flush to his cheeks as he poises himself over you. You do what you always do in front of Caleb when he asks you for something.

You cave in.

“Please, please, please Caleb fuck me. Need you so bad, need you to make me stupid, please, want you—” You choke as he pushes in, eyes rolling back as the stretch of his overwhelms all of your senses. He’s so big that it feels like an eternity before he bottoms out. And when he does, you can feel the tip bump into something smooth and hard deep inside you. You jerk when he brushes that place, hiccuping when he shifts and hits that point again. Something…different is building up inside you, something that doesn’t quite feel like a regular orgasm. But you don’t have the breath to voice that weirdness out loud, not when you’re stuck staring up at Caleb’s slack, wet mouth as he looms above you.

“Thaaat’s fucking it, fuck—” He cuts himself off with a low moan, large hands pressing down on your thighs as he pulls out a little, then pushes back in. You realize that you’re drooling when Caleb leans down to lick it away from the corner of your mouth, the silver chain bumping against your skin and causing goosebumps to raise along your skin. You chase after his mouth with a little whine—you can taste yourself on him and it makes you clench down on his cock. He shivers, groaning before meeting you for a proper kiss, all the while keeping up his slow and deep thrusts. He puts more weight on your thighs as he kisses you deeper, tongue tangling with yours as you shakily reach up to throw your arms over his shoulders.

His cock hits even deeper than before, and you fall back with a drawn out moan, eyes unseeing as he does it again. It’s hard for you to register anything else when all you can focus on is the feel of his dick hitting that wall over and over and over again. Your mouth stays wide open as he slowly but harshly pounds into you, hiccupping breaths exiting you every time he bottoms out. You feel like you’re dying—the heat damn near suffocating you as it spreads like wildfire from your lower belly throughout the rest of your body. It’s too much too soon but you can’t help but love it—love how Caleb feels inside you, love how wild he looks above you, eyes half lidded and mouth parted from the slew of filth he’s spitting at you.

“So fucking tight, princess. Feel so good wrapped around my cock.” He groans out, turning his head to lay biting kisses against one of your calves. Your mouth only drops open wider, hiccupping again when he slides his other hand over to play with your clit. It takes one, two, three rubs before you’re clenching down again. White noise fills the space between your ears as you come for the third time on his cock, except you feel something else come out of you.

You don’t even realize that you’re squirting all over him, the wetness slipping down your thighs and his dick to wet the sheets below. You don’t realize much of anything past that point. Not the fact that Caleb jerks his hips forward as he finally came. Not the fact that he bit down hard on your calf as he did so. Not the fact that his other hand kept rubbing your clit, causing even more liquid to squirt out of you. 

Nothing else mattered in your mind at that moment. You were floating, weightless and thoughtless in a fog so dense that you couldn’t see a thing. It was freeing. It was so, so fucking peaceful that you almost didn’t want to leave. But there was someone coaxing you back with sweet kisses and large, warm hands. So you slowly but surely woke from that fog, blinking your puffy eyes open to see Caleb staring down at you in slight concern.

“Back with me, princess.” You nod, but it feels like your head weighs about a hundred pounds when you do. 

“Mhm.” You hum when it’s clear that he’s waiting for a verbal answer. The smile you get is worth the slight discomfort of using your voice, though.

“Here, drink some of this water and we can go to sleep.” You blink again as he helps you sit up, holding onto a glass of lukewarm water with a purple bendy straw. You drink as much water as you can, and are slightly surprised when you end up finishing the whole glass. Caleb laughs a little at your bewilderment, but soon he’s bundling you up in his arms.

You two lay back down and get comfortable on clean sheets—something you don’t think too much of at the moment. You lean into Caleb’s heat as he spoons you from behind, sighing when he slides one arm underneath your head. That arm locks around your neck in a chokehold, while his other limb securely wraps around your waist, hand resting low on your stomach.

“Goodnight, princess.”

“G’night.” You whisper, pressing one last sleepy kiss against the bicep against your cheek before you allow darkness to encroach on your vision.

[apricot-blossomss]

I love your latest Apollo story! This line "Let's release her into no man's land, make sacrafices to Apollo to soothe him and hope for his mercy." give me an idea for a request. What about an actual sacrifice story where reader is offered to Apollo as an exchange for the reward as people have hoped, but he falls in love with her at the first sight and treasure her contrary to her expectations?

☛ mortal! fem! reader is sacrificed to apollo

☛ sfw, tw: disease/epidemic(the plague), threats of violence/death; this was such a fun request to write, thank you very much!

Two weeks. The plague had been raging in your city for two weeks, and it was on the brink of collapse. Bodies lined up on the sides of the streets, too many to bury, the cries and sighs of the dying to be heard from out of the houses. Louder than the weakened bawling of the sick were the screams of the relatives, losing loved ones, that cut through the horrid symphony of suffering.

Of course, you knew how precarious the situation was. You knew you had an obligation to your people after your father, the king that was supposed to protect them, had drowned them in such misery. He had insulted the god Apollo and now, innocents were dying in the hundreds for his blasphemy. When he had turned to the city's seer, the old man had prophecied that only one thing could save the city: sacrificing you to the god to appease him.

Other than your father, you were ready to give everything for your people, but the thought of your impending death made a cold wash over you, your heart squeezed in an unforgiving panic as tears ran down your cheeks. Without so much as a second thought, your father had ordered you to be locked in a cell until the sacrifice tomorrow morning. It hit you like a flash that it had to be morning already, you only had so little time left, and you were spending it chained like an animal in a cold, moldy dungeon, shivering in terror and crying cold tears over your fate.

Another tremble shook your body and you pressed it into the corner you were sitting in, longing for the smallest bit of comfort. Your stomach was empty, but you weren't hungry, you felt too sick. If only you could have spent your last night in your room with your pets and your instruments, where it was warm and bright and the memories of better times lingered. They hid under the covers, lurked behind the doors and would have brought you comfort. Instead, your end would be thoroughly miserable.

You had overheard what the soldiers had said. Chained up, you would be brought before the city gates to an altar, built quickly to serve its purpose, and an archer on top of the city walls would end your life for your sacrifice to be collected by the god. You sniffled and tried to think of something beautiful as your hand squeezed the place over your heart that would soon be pierced by the arrow. It was as if you could feel it already.

Eventually though, the despair in combination with your exhaustion must have overwhelmed you, because the next thing you knew was that two guards were waking you up, releasing your chains and guiding you up the stairs. Over the night, the cold had settled in your bones, but that wasn't the only reason your legs were wobbly and unstable as you ascended into the palace. Your father wasn't there, but that didn't surprise you. Only a group of scholars, magistrates and officials had gathered to lead the procession out of the city.

The moment you left the palace, still guarded, though you assumed it wasn't for your protection but rather your safekeeping, the horrible smell of rotting flesh and burning bodies hit you. If it hadn't been for your empty stomach, the urge to puke would have overwhelmed you. That would not have been a very graceful last walk. Looking forward, you saw that the people, sick and healthy, but all dirty and with grief written into the hollows of their eyes, had gathered along the sides of the road to watch the procession.

There was no music played, and the usual sound of screams and cries had given way to a haunting silence. Ignoring the piercing smell, you allowed yourself to bask in the bright sunlight for a moment, dwelling in the irony that it would be your downfall.

When you were almost by the city gates and your feet started to hurt, a commotion disrupted the eerily still crowd of onlookers and the procession halted, guards stepping forward to protect it. An elderly woman broke free from the assembly. Her thin hair, sickly complexion and buboes on her face and neck left no doubt that she was very sick. When she called out, her voice was but a rasp. "Princess!"

Surprisingly, the guards didn't stop you when you stepped forward, towards the woman. Though you could see why. Even if you got infested, it wouldn't matter, your life would end before the sun had risen to its peak. Unable to stabilize herself, the woman had fallen to her knees and you crouched down to her. A stifled gasp erupted from the crowd when you placed your hand on her shoulder. "It'll be alright," you said, not knowing where you got the sudden calmness. "It's all going to be over soon."

"Thank you," the woman sobbed, cradling your hand as dirty tears got caught up in the deep wrinkles of her face. "Thank you for your sacrifice, princess." Two young women stepped forward and helped her up as the guards took you between themselves once more, and as the procession moved forward, you felt strengthened. That was right. What did your life matter if you could save the lives of thousands?

Only the guards proceeded with you once you reached the gate. You took a nervous look upwards that made fear jolt through you once more. The archer was already in place. The archer that would seal your fate once you were displayed upon the altar.

The alter itself was a few hundred steps from the walls, a quick construction for this purpose only. The guards chained you onto it, so that you were displayed upon it like a sacrificial lamb. How fitting. When they left, you could barely sit up enough that your back didn't bow under the metal pressure, but you wanted to die with dignity. That was why you stricktly forbade yourself to cry, but you couldn't stop the trembling of your body and the racing of your heart, it's beat drumming in your ears, running in its last moments to its inevitable end.

Shivering and heaving, you awaited the arrow. This was so much worse than if they had killed you right away. It was torture not to see it coming. Managing a quick look back at the city gates, you saw the archer draw his bow. Despite yourself, a fearful sob left your throat and you closed your eyes, waiting. Almost anticipating. Any second now. The darkness was comforting.

The touch on your chin made you jolt. There was a hand, gently lifting your chin. Was it Thanatos, death itself? Death had an unexpectedly gentle touch.

"Open your eyes."

Without thinking, you did and froze. Your heart, that had been beating as fast as a dragon-flies' wings, halted for just a second. A breathless second, because in front of you stood the most beautiful creature you had ever seen. He was no man, he couldn't be. Emitting an otherworldly glow, his hair seemed to be woven out of gold, his skin as spotless as marble and his eyes a golden color. No, he was no man. The bow draped over it's shoulder, with which he had unleashed despair onto your city, sealed the deal. It was the mighty god Apollo himself.

You couldn't read his expression, but it was neither happy nor angry. He didn't present himself as a vengeful, destructive force of divinity, yet his might you could feel in every fiber of your being. His touch on your skin burned, as if you were too close to his godliness. Only now you followed his other arm with your eyes, that was stretched behind you, and gasped. It held the arrow meant for you, as if he had grabbed it out of the air right before it would have hit your body.

His surprisingly soft fingers tilted your chin further upwards, not meeting any resistance. Your body surrendered to his touch automatically. Golden eyes studied your features with such interest that it made you sweat. The weight of his godly eyes on you was almost painful. With a courage you didn't know you had in you, you looked up, right into those hard, unforgiving eyes. They widened slightly as you did and the god tilted his head. When he spoke, his voice shook you to your core.

"Who are you?"

Too caught up in the melody of his smooth voice, the grave sound of centuries and eternities, you almost missed the question. For a second, you contemplated wether you should tell him, but you didn't see what use there was in lying. And you knew you couldn't lie to him. It was time to meet your purpose.

"I am the eldest daughter of the king that offended you, and who's city is suffering the hail of your arrows, Lord Apollo. I am a sacrifice to you. Please-," your voice broke, but you forbade yourself to cry. "Take me, let me die for my city and have mercy on my people." You could have cursed yourself for the way your lip was trembling, and you added a choked "if it pleases you."

They had chained you down like an animal. Apollo knew that the king was a scumbag, but so much of a scumbag that he would leave his daughter to die without a second thought. The audacity to think that he would be satisfied with this, that he would be granted mercy. And such a pretty little thing you were, too. And obviously way more interested in your people than their king.

All you could hear was your heaving breath as you averted your eyes. His hand left your chin and when he lifted it, you ducked under the impending hit, but it didn't come. When you looked up carefully, he had only placed his hand on the altar next to you. Still, his golden eyes studied your face, though you thought that they looked just a little softer than before. His other hand dropped the arrow and came up to your face to brush strands of hair behind your ear. "What is your name?"

You told him, but he showed no reaction. Were you not enough to satisfy his vengeance? "Please," you begged, "accept me as sacrifice and forgive my father's sins."

The god only scoffed. "Who had that idea? What moron prompted you to be sent out here?" Again, you told him of the seer and his prophecy, shaking under the weight of the chains and your fear. "So, he told your father he would be forgiven if he sacrifices you to me?" the god said. "How could such an error happen to him? He is a very skilled seer." He wasn't talking to you but to himself, glaring at your city in the distance. The waves of his godly anger rolled off of him and left you breathless. You cursed yourself. Was this all you could do? Shiver, die, cover?

The god let out a sigh that sounded like a tragic tune. Such grace, even in the most minor of his mannerisms. He spared another glance at you and again, you felt like blinded by the sun itself. "How would you like a new home, Princess?" there was a scornful tone to his voice when talking about your former home. His lips twitched in mocking amusement. "The old one produces such horrid smells."

You felt your chest constrict with a sudden surge of anger. "And who's fault is that?"

Oh gods.

You had not just said that. What had you been thinking? You didn't dare to breathe as both you and him were, for a moment, stunned by your words. Because you didn't want to see the extent of his eternal anger at your defiance, you chose to look on the ground, expecting the death blow any moment now. But no, he would not make it quick for you, not when you had shown such impudence. Would it be a torturous death? But if it was already set in stone...

You didn't know what prompted you to look up again, but you did, and found him with a stunned expression only making his features prettier. "You hold a grudge against my father because of his blasphemy, fine. Give him the torturous death he deserves. But if you think bodies thrown in the sewers for the rats to eat because there is not enough wood to burn them would touch my father, you are wrong. But it does touch me, and I care about my people. You can do whatever you want to me, and I know you will, but I am begging you to end this punishment!"

You were fierce. Apollo was stunned by your bravery, not many had ever dared to talk to him like that. His sister would like you. There was such clear directness in your words, he could tell you were intelligent, smarter than your father, and you could articulate it even under godly scrutiny. You were interesting. And even more pretty glaring at him. Something tingled inside him, as if you had touched a nerve, but a good one.

"Heh"

It was a slight sound, almost swallowed up by the wind, but it made you look up in disbelief. But it was true. The smile on Apollo's features stunned you, he was too beautiful to be beheld by mortal eyes like yours. Your amazement by his grin almost washed away your confusion about his amusement. Why was he smiling? Why weren't you dead yet?

You flinched away when his hand touched your waist, but you were surprised by how gentle it was. It wrapped around the chains that tied down your whole body and dug painfully into your flesh and they dissipated. A wave of his hand and the bruises that had formed under their pressure healed in front of your eyes. "Hm," he hummed and you looked back at him. "Such a shame, those bindings taking up the view."

"Uh," was all you could say, still half lying on the altar. His smile widened, but it was not malicious. No, it was ... charming. Flirty. Stunningly beautiful.

"Tell me, pretty lady, do you sing?" he asked, leaning on the altar with his two arms caging you in as he leaned towards you. He was so close you could feel it radiating off of him. It felt like heat, only that it buzzed that air in a way that made your lungs constrict. Pure power.

"Ye- I mean, a little," you said, trying to follow his sudden mood shift. "Why?" Because boldness had been the most effective diplomatic tactic so far, and because you felt the strong urge to say it, you added: "Do you want me to sing for you?"

His eyes gleamed with... something. Now, he was truly shining. "Yeah, real interesting," he smiled, leaning even closer. Your heart was racing. "How about I rephrase my previous question, darling. You can either go back to your city and your father, or you can come with me. Your choice. Either way, your city will be forgiven and have peace."

The proposal knocked the breath out of your lungs and the flirtatious smile on his face didn't make it any better. You looked back at your city. Back to your father, who was so willing to sacrifice your life for his, who hadn't even had the decency to see you one last time before sending you out to die, alone and scared, paying for his mistakes. There was nothing there for you, but something was pulling you to the man in front of you that you couldn't quite explain.

"I want to leave with you," you said, surprised by the firmness of your voice. And even more surprised at the way he lit up, emitting a soft golden glow. The stone cold gold of his eyes had melted into warm honey as his arms sneaked under your body and lifted you up. You couldn't help but smile back, as if you were out of control of your face muscles.

"That little smile of yours is almost as irresistible as mine," the god grinned down at you and you felt yourself blush, slapping his chest out of embarrassment as you would have done any man's. For a moment, you were mortified by your own actions, but it turned into relief the next moment because Apollo let out a hearty laugh. A little chuckle left your own lips and for a second, his eyes lingered on them.

The next, he was shielding your eyes with his hand and you could only hear and feel him all around you now. "You might want to close your eyes for a bit. It might get bright."

As you did, he removed the hand, held you gently and looked down upon your face as a hail of golden light engulfed the two of you. Your fingers dug into his tunic but he couldn't have minded it any less. There was something about you that fascinated him. You were interesting, and the god liked interesting people. Eyes still closed, one of your hands found his and squeezed, and he was glad your eyes were closed, or you would haves even the bright pink blush on his marble cheeks.

Yeah, real interesting.

[doki-doki-imagines]

You hate running. It makes you sweaty and it takes nothing for you to stink, showing to the world your sigma scent that you try so hard to hide.

“Please, come over.” It’s the message that sent you in such an anxious state that everything you hated held no value anymore.

Your relationship with Michael is peculiar. You aren’t exactly lovers, not fuckbuddies but also not romantically involved. You just help each other.

Michael Kaiser, a future football star, presented himself as an omega at a young age, and as quickly he started to take suppressants since his career is strictly for alphas and to the utmost for betas.

“Yeah, they say that anybody can aspire to this career, but it’s all bullshit-“ He spat out at the time, blonde strands covering his eyes “Omega are treated like shit, always benched and used as lockers room whores, you stand no chance.”

Michael hates alphas, he hates betas, he hates everybody that believes to be better just because their secondary gender is stronger than his.

That’s why he trusts you. A sigma, owner of a scent that can calm him down, but without the strength to overpower him. But he doesn’t trust you enough to deal with his heats, and you never dig further, more than happy to leave him his space.

That’s why the message gave you immediately a dry throat and sent your heartbeat into a frenzy. You know that this week he has a heat, you know how much he hates to look weak.

If he messaged you the situation must be desperate. And as much as you like to think you are a rational person, saying you don’t have feelings for Michael would be a plain lie. There is fondness when you caress Michael, you search for his approval, for the kind words that blossom from his throat only in his weakest moments.

But you aren’t dumb, knowing perfectly that your feelings aren’t one-sided, that his blue eyes search for your figure when he thinks you aren’t looking, and you notice the sparkles in his irises when you let him vent, confide; sky blue sparkles reserved just for you.

“Michael, where are you?“ You are finally inside the house, he gifted you a spare key not so long ago. The room is spare, but his smell is so strong you almost lose your footing. It pulls you down and makes your stomach churn. Usually, you couldn’t smell anything thanks to the suppressant Michael takes, so you weren’t used to such a strong odor.

It’s strong and unpleasant, the kind of smell you’d feel around trash bins, however, it feels so much like Michael that you can feel your heart pounding in your ears.

Your Michael needs you. Thighs squeeze, already feeling wetness pooling in your panties. You are ashamed of yourself, such a strong reaction and you aren’t even close to his body.

When you reach his bedroom you choke on your saliva, dizziness overcomes your body, therefore you lean on the door before taking the last step.

“Michael!” You open up ready to run to him, but you have to stop at the sight in front of you.

The blonde omega is on the ground, back lying on the ground, in between an old and moldy cover dripping with his sweat. There is half-eaten food around him, old and dirty clothes as an undone nest. His room is filled with trash.

“Ngh.You are-ah!” He looks at you, his pupils so dilatated you almost can’t see anymore his blue irises. Blonde and blue strands are stuck on his sweaty face, moans and sighs keep flowing from his mouth, while his naked body twitches pitifully.

“Michael, baby come here.” You kneel on the ground, and shivers start to run down your body, both because of his heat affecting you and because of disgust, a liquid from a tin can on the floor dirtying your pants.

His hands find immediately the end of your shirt, pulling it up. Whines keep flowing from his mouth, fingers frantically working to push away the clothes separating him from your bare skin.

“Ngh. Want you-“ Rough fingers push down your bra, just enough for his mouth to latch on your nipple. His tattooed hand keeps pawning at your waist, inching closer to your pants.

Your hand goes to the back of his head, supporting him in the uncomfortable position. You scratch and tug the sensitive skin, muscle memory of what you know he loves, while your other hand slides down his sweaty body, caressing his hard muscles and soon tracing the line down his abs to reach the blonde bush leading to where he really needs you.

“Please, agh-” His eyes shut close, a lonely tear runs down his porcelain skin when you start to massage his hard member. His tip is already red and leaking, so you don’t need more lube to slide up and down his shaft.

“Ngh-ah. I want more.” He mumbles into your chest, your nipple abused by his greedy mouth.

“So you remember how to speak, mh?” You twist your wrist on his tip, feeling his muscles twitch under you. “Where is your toy?” You whisper, so near his red lips, begging for your attention.

“On your righ-gh” He gasps into your neck, his hips twitching while his nose nuzzles the crook of your neck, where your sigma smell is the strongest.

You look around, your hands still caressing his cock. There is so much trash you have to stop scratching the back of his head to start rummaging around.

Luckily you found it quickly, just under a sheet full of holes totally stiff from being used that much. It’s pink, almost fuchsia, but it’s not particularly long or wide, you guess it has the standard dimensions. It’s the knot at the base that takes the spotlight: it’s engorged and you know how strong it vibrates, abusing that little bundle of nerves that makes Michael’s eyes roll in the back of his eyelids.

You are a little too lost in looking at the toy that you don’t notice how the man under you unzipped your pants, his red and swollen lips now mouthing on your cotton panties, blue irises looking at you, almost begging for a crumb of your attention.

“Want you- want” A sigh leaves his mouth, together with a shiver strong enough to make his back arch like a bow. “Feel good- you too” He moans, head brushing on your lap, making his hair even messier, between the blonde strands sticking to his forehead and the others flying freely around your lap.

“If you want it so much, show me.” You pull him away, eliciting a groan of displeasure. Your legs are now wide open, jeans already unbuttoned. You remove your cotton shirt together with the bra, feeling your body on fire.

The blonde sits on his knees now, his sweaty skin shines under the light of the small lamp, abs look like carved out of marble.

“You and your damn- agh, tight-fitting jeans.” His blonde eyebrows scrunched, focused on pulling off the blue garment.

You snicker at his comment, his smell affecting you, but not enough to make you delirious.

“Fuck you-“ He spits out, cheeks red for the little effort “Come here.” Michael’s strong hands grip your waist, pushing your torso against his naked body, his cock rubbing on your tummy, droplets flowing from his red tip, staining your skin and rolling down your legs.

Michael starts to grind on your tummy, while his tattoed hand runs to your core, simply pushing your underwear aside, already wet and sticky.

“Not as unaffected, mh?” The blonde moans into your neck, but you can feel his smirk on your skin.

“Shut up and behave, omega” You moan into his ear, making Michael buck into your pelvis. One of your hands keeps his hips close to your tummy, not a lick of air between your bodies while the other starts to finger his puckered and wet hole, welcoming your fingers with the same intensity of two long-lost lovers finally meeting.

“Mgh, ah-“ He throws his head back, exposing his throat to you, sweats run down his Adam’s apple, begging to be bitten. You can only focus on him, his long chubby fingers caressing your core, curling and pistoning into you with no finesse or thought, just desperately trying to prepare you for the next act.

His wetness rolls down your wrist, you add another finger and then another scissoring and massaging his tight hole, trying to prepare him as best as you can. His hormones hit you stronger than before; almost unbelievable since earlier you had almost choked just by entering his house.

The hand that kept his hips close left his body, finding on the ground Michael’s toy.

“W-wait-“ Words cut off by a sigh, his blue irises, almost entirely covered by the pupils, are crossed but a crumble of sanity still seems to be there “Kiss-still no” He gulps “Still haven’t kissed” He slurs, you notice the fatigue in his words.

You don’t make him wait much more. Your lips lock with his wet ones. Tongues dancing together with no style or finesse, a mere exchange of saliva between lovers missing each other taste, delirious from each other smell. You break the kiss, but leave no time for Michael to whine about the sudden emptiness, his fuchsia toy’s tip already in his mouth, getting it ready for use.

Michael moans at each stroke of the toy on his tongue, you see him sucking on it, pulling a show for you. His fingers leave your core to start groping the fat of your thighs, pulling a whine out of your lips. Out of spite, you push harder the toy into Michael’s mouth, touching the back of it eliciting a gag and right after a moan out him.

“You are ready, baby.” You state, pulling out the spit-covered toy, making the blonde’s tongue loll out. You push back his blonde and blue mane, sticky with his sweat, before pushing on his chest to make him lean back on the old cover on the ground.

There is a copious amount of pre wetting both his abs and shaft, running down his legs straight to his hole and covers. “Ngh- ah.” Michael’s whine under your body, while you push the toy into his ass with no friction. The toy sucked in like the blonde man needs it to survive, chest rising and lowing so fast you almost worry he’s getting a panic attack.

“Ah-“ Micheal throws his head back when you finally push the toy entirely in, only the knot being left out vibrating at the setting you know he loves. You move it in a circular motion to rub the glands there that you know make him reach the skies of pleasure.

You start to trust the toy into his welcoming ass, eliciting moan after moan. His hands grip again your thighs and with the little strength he has left, Michael grinds your core on his shaft, mixing your body fluids together.

Fat tears roll down his reddened cheeks, sliding down his neck, while you start to grind without his help on his shaft, trying to reach your own peak while thrusting the toy into his hole. The room is filled with the sound of skin slapping and of your whines, soon you feel your canines sharpening, but never enough to be able to mark him.

Grinding is not enough now, your clit throbs in pain and you start to feel restless knowing you’ll never be able to reach your own peak like this. You finally throw your underwear away letting his cock penetrate your core, making the man under you almost howl in pleasure.

Michael’s cock twitches inside you, your tight hole hugging his shaft like a glove. Under you, his hips move confused, not able to decide if to follow the thrusts of the toy or to share with you a drop of the pleasure he is feeling now.

His hands can’t keep still, hesitant between squeezing the cover under him or your body, caressing and pinching. Each movement is a compliment, something your usual Michael wouldn’t say so easily. And then he says it, words that shake your heart, but not in a pleasant way.

“Mark me, make me-“ Words that make you gnash, teeth cracking under the pressure.

“I can’t you fucking idiot.” You show him your teeth. You are just a sigma, a glorified omega that will never be able to realize an omega's true desire.

Your words enter from one ear and exit from the other. Or just get reflected back by his thick skull. Michael cranes his neck to show you his engorged gland, exactly where one of his blue roses is tattoed, while he increases the rhythm of his hips, making you jump harder on his cock, each time making you hop closer to him.

“Please, help me. Please-“ The blonde cries under you, voice much more desperate than a simple whine.

“You really are, ah-“ ‘something else’ you wanted to add, but a delicious thrust make you lose on your tracks.

He starts to blabber your name, a confused plea to a merciful god. It sends a shiver down your spine, it makes your toe curl; the power you feel a sinful bliss.

You thrust the toy one last time, before using both your hands to pull his neck close to you. You bite, canines sinking into his warm skin. Michael twitches under you, hands now tightly gripping your legs and ass, leaving indents on your skin that will leave a mark.

“Love you-“  He moans into your ear, his thrusts into your core slowing down as he cums in you. It’s copious and you feel it already rolling down your legs. You start to tear up, so near your apex, but you never leave your hold on his neck, knowing a simple bite from your much less sharp canines won’t satisfy him.

“Say it again.” You mumble into his neck, eyes teary and with a shade of neediness in them.

Michael doesn’t stutter at your order, ‘love you’ blossoms from his throat and it illudes you that they are born from his heart. The thrusts of his hips are erratic, he keeps cumming into you, shaft sensitive and overstimulated, but not giving up ‘till you’ll reach your peak.

“Love you too.” You whine into him, biting as hard as you can before your body gives up under the intensity of your own release.

Pants echo in the room, both your smells mixed but it’s calming, a lull to your excited hearts. You lay on his chest, his tattoed hand caressing down your spine, soft fingertips brushing against your skin, no real thought behind this touch.

“Michael, I bit you.” You mumble into his chest, shame showers over you for letting yourself go so much, even if your gesture didn’t create any real damage; your teeth will never be strong enough.

You look up, Michael seems lost in thought, the heat subdued for a while. His red and plump lips are puckered, blue eyes looking at the ceiling.

The blonde leaves you hanging a bit more, his hand never stops caressing your body and you feel your body almost melting into his.

“I’m just sad-“ His voice is rough and he won’t look at you, but your heart jumps at the last word. You want to crawl out of your skin for having crossed his boundaries “The mark won’t last longer, guess you’ll have to bite me often.” Michael finally looks back at you, a smirk plastered on his face and blue irises sparkling with mirth knowing perfectly what he has done to your poor heart.

“You bastard.” You gasp out in relief, your lips locking into his like two magnets attracting each other. You feel him laugh under you, giving your tongue access to his mouth. It’s not an elegant kiss, it’s sloppy but also full of love a feeling you were both too scared to show.

“Heat will restart soon,” Michael says, pushing you away just enough to talk. “rest a little.”  You nod at him, your body is also sore, your muscles scream for a bit of rest before going all out again.

The day is still long.

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

hello seth! i don’t think my tumblr works with anon so i’ll just send it like this! i’m a huge fan of your writing and i absolutely adore it. whenever i am in the need for a good story and writing inspiration i go to your blog. so i was hoping if you could write a sally face fic! i haven’t seen too many on here and willing to write for m reader or ftm.

i like the thought of being with sally and just having time with him, soft domestic type stuff. then he starts asking you how you really feel about his face and you smile and take off his mask with permission and kiss him saying he’s beautiful and to not worry. you kiss him and hold him. he then sits up but keeps your lips locked and you begin to explore each other sexually but in a such intimate way you both are crying almost. if you want could be m reader but i would love a ftm reader! can we also have reader be bottom but still be guiding sally and affirming him. i know this is a big ask and you’re always working so hard so please take liberty with this ask! take what you want from it and remove what you don’t like. i just love you’re writing. take your time as well! writing can be draining sometimes and you really need to find that inspiration so i want to make sure you feel no pressure!

have a good day/night/evening!!<3

❝ I'll show you how we're supposed to feel (when we meet at Orion's belt) ❞

SalFisher x ftm!reader | fluffy, NSFW | reader has had top-surgery & bottom growth | sub. bot. reader | NOT PROOFREAD | wc: 5.4 k

warnings: mentions of facial dysphoria, self-deprecating thoughts (Sal), unprotected sex, praise (a lot of it), minor hair pulling, creampies, AFAB terminology (clit referred to as dick/cock, terms like cunt and boypussy are used)

masterlist ;

authors note: thank you so much for your kind words! hearing that you use my writing as writing inspiration made me feel so warm and fuzzy on the inside oh lord 😭 you're too kind! This request was the softest one I've ever worked on, thank you so much for gracing me with the opportunity to write this~

*song on repeat: Orion's Belt by Sabrina Claudio / Baby Girl by SMNM

"Cold, cold, cold," Sal lifts his head from the couch. The sight of you rushing down the wooden stairs in nothing but a towel makes him lift himself to sit. "Fuck! Sal, you should put carpet in here!" Grinning, he leans forward and folds himself in half to stare at you furiously lifting the towel up to wrap around your shoulders instead.

"You hate carpet. B'sides, it'll get that weird moldy smell in here. I told you to get those fuzzy slippers," Gizmo meows in agreement from his corner of the couch. "Traitor!" you exclaim and he simply meows once again, lifting a leg to lick his stomach and Sal reaches over to give his head a good scratch.

"See? Even Gizmo agrees."

"Gizmo has in-built fuzzy socks. He has no say in this," your huffing and puffing simply makes Sal roll his eye, lifting Gizmo up to place the large cat right on his stomach while he props his head onto the armrest of the couch. Gizmo stretches out onto his torso, unbothered by the change in position while he presses his nose into Sal's chest and twists until he's nearly full on his back; the action makes Sal secure the old cat on him. His olive-toned arm loosely wrapped across Gizmo's purring body.

You're still rambling but it's all background noise to Sal. The sight of your bare legs and backside calls for his attention and despite how guilty he feels, he can't help but drag his sight all the way up to your — now — bare shoulders. The towel is now limply draped over the towel rack, and your muscles and bones are moving seamlessly underneath the fabric of your skin.

Everything about you can make him feel like he's going to explode. In a good way, if you can believe it. He sure as hell didn't. Sal remembers the first time he saw you, thinking you looked cool and that it was nice your interests lined with his. Somehow you managed to become more than that.

More always scared Sal. It was greedy and selfish. He wasn't religious but there was a sense of anxiety that came from wanting and needing more than you were given. Some sort of divine guilt was planted within him through passing by churches and reading the signs of worship plastered on billboards. Needing more is frightening, especially from other people.

More time spent with you two. More hours of listening to you speaking. More days spent with you in his home, bare skin and bare soul all for him and only him.

It frightened him!

Because, as self-centered as it sounds, he'd have to give you more. Don't take this the wrong way, he wants to — God, he wants to — but...but...

What if you don't like all that he has?

The fabric of his skin is spoiled. Marred. One of his eyes is artificial, his jaw asymmetrical, bone blown to bits, nose cut off and skin grafts stitched together and spliced.

His heart hammers in his chest, and his breathing is shaky as he squeezes Gizmo. The patch-furred critter mews, twisting once again and crawling up. His weight on Sal's chest is comforting. The pressure across it squeezed down on him, reminding his body that it was real and he was safe.

"In conclusion, I propose we buy a heater! That way we can — "

You're dressed in Sal's pajama pants, hands in the middle of pulling down the oversized band shirt when you notice Sal squeezing his eyes shut.

"Sal? Baby? What's wrong?" You sit by his legs, placing a hand on his knee and pressing your hands on it to ease him back down. "You're okay, baby. You're okay." It's not often Sal gets like this. You've known him ever since he came to Nockfell County; you know he's the type of person to withdraw within himself when his anxieties get the best of him. He's certainly gotten better with time and as your friendship — and eventual relationship — got stronger, the both of you worked on ways to lean on each other when things get tough.

Sal inhales deeply, Gizmo raising with the motion, and exhales. You don't pry more, giving him room to find the words and tether back to you. Gizmo's purrs muffle the silence.

"Sorry, just, the sight of your ass gave me a heart attack, Jesus," the joke is met with a loose grin but Sal knows you better than that. Still. He's grateful you snort at his jesting. Gizmo stands — Sal grimaces as he puts all his weight on his sternum — then walks over to your lap instead. The sight makes him calm down.

The faded grey of the once-black band shirt and his pajama pants do too. It's silly but the sight of you in everything that's his comforts a part of him. You're here. You're in love with him. Your gaze holds nothing but patience and adoration and a tinge of worry.

But you're here, in his clothes, in his room, his cat in your lap, and your hands on his body.

"You feeling better, Sal?" He nods, pushing to sit. "Do you wanna talk about it, baby?" Gizmo gives your chin one more bump before he jumps on the floor and meanders his way to his food bowl. Taking the chance, you inch closer to Sal and he's grateful for it.

You're not scared of the cold prosthetic on his face. The iron bolts that secure the straps to his face and head, the glass eye that shines humourlessly in any situation.

"Do you ever want...more from this? From me?" That line of questioning made your brows furrow and mouth frown. "What do you mean?" You reach for him and Sal reciprocates by holding your hand in his lap.

"I was joking about seducing Mr Smith from the electronics store for a heater," he scoffs at your lame joke but continues. "I don't mean that, I'll get us a heater. Just..."

"You've never seen...all of me." His grip loosens but you don't let it. "So?" he looks at you, his face angled low and the shape of his prosthesis mimics his brow bone. Sal is pinching his face, confused at your indignant tone.

"So?" He whispers. You lift his hand up, inching in closer and placing his knuckles over your clavicle.

"So?"

"Doesn't it freak you out? We've been together for so long and you've never seen my face," he murmurs. Since you're so close, speaking above a whisper would ruin this moment. Sal's heart is racing again though this time the anxiety is laced with his love for yours. It's a confusing emotion but he relishes the way you press your forehead to his, nose bumping with the bump on his prosthesis.

"Do you want me to see your face?" He inhales sharply, glancing away.

"...I do. But..."

"Mm?" you spread his fingers out, guiding them to your neck and the calloused pads of Sal's fingers make gooseflesh spread. The hairs on the back of your neck standing in applause; because that's what he does to you.

He makes your pupils expand, makes your heart race, makes your brain produce dopamine; your body lights up like a goddamn firework when he so much as looks your way. You can be yourself with him without fear because you know you do the same to him.

"...I've only ever let you kiss me when it's dark. The first time we had sex, I couldn't even take off the mask...I just...I'm..."

Your frown deepens when Sal sighs, his shoulders dropping.

"Be honest. Does it bother you?"

He's glad you don't reply immediately. A part of him always worries your love for him overtakes everything else. That, if something ever happens between the two of you and it tears you apart, you'll feel regret once the love is gone. You brush his hair behind his ear, cupping his jaw as you shake your head.

"No. It doesn't. Because it's you, Sal. I love you. Even the parts you aren't ready for me to see." He exhales and his breath escapes through the slits of his mouth. You feel it on your thumb and it makes you grin.

There's a twitch in his eye and your grin falters for a moment before it reappears when he locks eyes with you.

"...Do you want me to see your face, baby?"

His jaw is set. His tongue is made of lead. So Sal simply closes his eyes and gives you a minuscule nod. If it weren't for your hand on his jaw, you probably would've mistaken it for a twitch.

"Can I take off your prosthetic?"

Another nod.

"Are you sure, baby? I won't do it if you're not — "

"I'm sure." He says in one breath. "I'm sure."

A moment of silence was shared and you leaned forward to press your lips in the molding of his. The cool material does not pulse or pump with life but it's your Sal's and you cherish it deeply; he exhales shakily and you grin as your fingers dance through the locks of blue to find the straps that hold the prosthetic in place.

It's secure, it's meant to be, and you can feel the wear and tear of the years in the material. The scratches and indents weaved into every fiber. You unbuckle the lower end first and Sal tightens his hold on you, so you pause and press another kiss to his porcelain cheek.

When he nods, you continue, cupping the mask in one hand to steady it while you undo the upper buckle.

Sal would be statue-like if it weren't for the nervous tremors in his fingers. The mask loosens and its weight drops into your hand. His breath does not come through the slits anymore and you can feel it breeze through the fine hairs on your fingers.

He says nothing and neither do you. Still, you place one more kiss on the forehead of his prosthetic and lower it from view.

Sal has his eyes cast away, but he faces you. There's a large scar across the right side of his mouth, splitting his lips and exposing his teeth. There's a dent on the right side of his lower jaw that leaves his bone structure slightly unbalanced, and the cartilage of his nose is completely missing. The skin has healed, stretching his eye and tugging on the rest. It's pinkish still, never quite settling into the rest of his olive-toned skin, and Sal understands why it's jarring.

It's like peeling back the layers of what makes humans...humans.

The skin. The sight of his face makes people unnerved. Teeth and gums and muscles and the lack of a nose. One side of his face was a plain canvas and the other was a goddamn Jackson Pollock painting of horror.

Your touch on his bare skin shocks him. The pads of your fingers drag across his cheekbones. "Does it hurt?" You ask with your eyes lidded.

"No, no, it...it doesn't." You smile and your thumb rests just under his eyes, sweeping fondly while your palm holds his face preciously within your hand. There's a flush to his skin — it's not unusual with how the prosthetic held over his face nearly 24/7.

There's a feeling of nakedness that comes without the even pressure across his visage but your hands are an amazing substitute.

"You don't have to be nice," he says. "It takes a lot to get used to — "

"I know I can't completely convince you to not think of yourself as 'something to get used to' but you're not. Not to me." Sal's eye water and he wills himself to finally look at you.

There's a pinch to your brows, it makes your eyebrows cast this shadow across your eyes and highlight the colours of your eyes. You're frowning at his self-deprecation, though beyond that he can see you mean well.

"I would gladly sit on your face, Sal."

He scoffs, groaning as he slips away from your hand to toss his head back and flop right onto the couch again. "You're fuckin' impossible, (Y/N)," he mumbled as his hands covered his face. You place the prosthetic down on the makeshift coffee table near the couch and chuckle as you swing one leg over his hips and rest your crotch over his.

"What? I'm being honest here!" Bracing your weight on your elbows, Sal finds the comfort of your body across his similar to Gizmo's. "You're fucking beautiful," he squirms at that and you huff, nuzzling your face into his neck while he peeks from over his fingers.

"You don't have to say that," you huff once again. "I'm not saying that because I have to, I'm saying it because I want to. You're fucking beautiful, me being your boyfriend is just a coincidence."

He feels you shifting and instinctively, his hands rest on your hips and there he is again. You know you shouldn't stare, so you don't, but the shy glances at his face are less than secretive. His eyes are blue, cobalt almost, and his eyebrows are a darker shade of his hair. The shape of his eyes is rounded, with a deep crease and heavy eyelids just like his father's. Lifting your head, you gaze down at him and your hands are once again gingerly ghosting on his skin. This time, they're tracing his collarbones, feeling up the protruding muscle of his neck and halting at his jaw.

"Can I kiss you, baby?" He has a quirk. A lip twitch that he does when he's excited; you've been dating him for years and you're still finding out new things about your boyfriend. It makes your heart race and it only triples in speed when he nods. Hovering, the peak of your lips ghost his. He had always envied how you kiss his prosthetic. It was an extension of himself but he hated how badly he wanted to feel you on him.

They press to his and Sal slips his eyes closed. It's nothing more than a peck. Innocent, chaste. But then he's tightening his grip and pulling you in; tilting his head like he's always seen other people do and you're grinning into it. He knows because he can feel it.

He can feel it.

How your lips spread, the hint of teeth that slide over his bottom ones, and the crinkling of your nose that's brushing over his cheek.

"You taste so good, pretty boy," your words make his ears red. "I'm sure anything is better than kissing porcelain," he replies with a breathless tone, leaning forward again as if unwilling to part from you even if just to talk.

"No, don't disrespect yourself like that. What did we say about making those jokes." "Hah, I'll stop when you do."

Giggling, you're leaning in again. Sal wonders if kissing you is the only reason he's not completely in tears. The first time he'd accidentally showed Larry his face, he'd cried because Larry didn't look away from him. You taste tears on your lips and Sal curses softly as he tucks himself under your jaw, groaning. You shush him comfortingly, threading your fingers through his hair as he takes a few deep inhales.

"I love you." Those words are followed by more tears and you squeeze him again. "I love you, Sal," he nods against your — his — shirt. He can feel the grin you have from the crown of his head.

"I love you. I love you. I love you."

Because you did. Sal was the man you wanted to be with until the Earth decided to throw in the towel; it didn't matter how buried your love for each other would be, because when your bones are dug up, or his guitar, or the treasure trove of things you've called yours; in the future, when you whisper to those archeologists: "Do you know?" they'd nod and reply, "We know you loved him."

Sal has never felt love like this. One that felt overwhelming at first, the same way entering a body would be for the first time in your life, but once he embraced the feeling? It was so...fulfilling.

How lucky was he?

Sal pulls away to cup your face and he leans in. You meet him halfway.

The feeling of your breath, your heart thudding against his own chest, the pulse beating under his thumb as he holds your neck — Sal isn't sure if he'd ever get into heaven but he doubts it ever compares to you.

His jaw moves and your lips part as you press closer. Fuck, kissing him felt like drinking in sunlight. There's a freedom that follows it, leaves you floaty and blissful.

"I love you," he replies between the friction, teeth biting down on your lower lip if only to hear if you'd gasp. You do.

"I love you so fuckin' much, (Y/N)." There's a feverish desperation in his words. But it makes your heart swell. There's no doubt in his eye, nothing but the truth and the truth is he'd worship you.

You're kissing again. Eager to show him the explosions he sets off within you. Between desperate lip locking and messy tangles of tongues, his hands move down and up your — his —shirt.

Squeezing your sides as he drags his digits across your skin. It spreads fire across your planes, has your already uneven breath shuddering as he memorizes the shape of your body again.

There's a growing hardness between his legs. You can feel it — twitching below your crotch as he tilts his head and tastes the lust that perspires from your neck.

He's greedy with his mouth. How could he not be? Sal has been wanting to taste you the second he realised how badly he wished you were his.

"Fuck, Sal." You groan, chewing on your lower lip as he experiments with this unmarked territory. His tongue is warm, his teeth brushes over pumping arteries with an air of amusement; when he finds the sweet spot? The spot where your breath hitched as he kissed it?

Sal makes your blood vessels explode. It isn't enough that the hairs on your neck stand in attention because of him, or how your blood rushes to your head when he so much as looks your way. He's determined to show you he can worship you in more ways than one.

You're gripping onto his shirt and your hips grind down. The moan he lets out makes your cunt wetter than before.

"I need you," you tell him as he sinks his teeth in. Just to test it out, to see if you'd like it. You do. His back feels cold as you lift his shirt but he grips at your wrist, panting as he moves his head away so you can see him.

"Can I...Can I keep it on?" He already felt a touch too exposed. You nod, reassuring him with a chaste peck.

"I'm gonna take of my shirt. You've made me all warm," he smiles a bit too smugly. He's handsome that way. When he gets a bit cocky — it's a sure fire way to make your head dizzy with desire.

"My shirt," he mumbles.

But when your bare torso is revealed the sass is pushed away. Sal presses kisses on your chest, teasing your perk buds with his too-warm hands and relishing in the way you toss your head back when he takes one in his mouth.

"Sal, holy fuck." He kneads at your ass, making your hips move back and forth. Rocking your clothed cunt over his boner as he leaves hickeys and bitemarks.

Here is where I plant my love, he thinks as he feels your heart pound against your ribcage, here is proof that he's mine.

Your pants are pulled below your waist and Sal moves back, making you yelp at the loss of balance. One second you're over him and the next, you're both tumbling over the couch.

His hand cradles the back of your head, curling over you as much as he could when you crash. Thankfully, none of you knocked into the coffee table but the adrenaline of the short fall makes the both of you wide-eyed.

"Holy fuck!" You laugh breathlessly. He scans you for any injury but soon follows suit. "You okay?" His hair curtains your face from view as he descends to claim your lips again.

"I'm peachy, baby." Sal grunts as you tug at the waist band of his pants. "Don't stop..." and how could he say no to you when you look up at him like that?

Your hands invade underneath his shirt and Sal moans as you press your fingers lightly into his back, kneading at the tense muscles. "M'not gonna take it off. Just wanna feel you," you assure as you reach his shoulder blades. God, the feeling of your hands on his body made him feel so Holy.

Ironic in the grand scheme of things but it's not like Sal gave a damn.

It's your turn to mark him up. He often already is. But this time your lips latch onto the obvious places. Lifting yourself to sit, Sal is suddenly at your mercy as you lovingly bruise him up with your mouth.

Sal lifts himself off your crotch a bit, panting and moaning at your ministrations, and slips his hand down your pants. Your breath stutters as your boyfriend touches your core.

"Sal," you plead. "I know, baby. I know," Sal frowns when you whine. "What? What's the matter, sweetheart?"

"You're just..." You're breathing heavily as you stare up at him, nails lightly digging into his skin as your dick twitches against his palm.

"You're so fucking beautiful, Sal."

That catches him completely off-guard. He hates how tears immediately burn at his waterline but regret doesn't come when they travel down his cheek. You're kissing him and the self-depriciation doesn't once rise. That snivelling, hissing, voice of doubt remains mute as you hold him.

"So fucking pretty," he slips his finger in as if attempting to distract you with pleasure. It makes you keen but you continue to sing praises for him as he pumps his digits in and out of you.

It's hard to move when you curl your arms over his back, hands peeking from the stretched out collar of his shirt. Forehead once again pressed to his.

"I can't — "

"You're all mine. My pretty boy is all mine." Blood should not rush so quickly to one's head. His chest is dusted in red, his shoulders, his ear, the apples of his cheek —

"You feel so good, Sal."

You allow him to push you back, splaying out onto the floor with your eyes lidded in want as he looked at you.

"...Shit, you're making my brain go all stupid," he grumbles — it sounds more like a whine. You lift your hips as he tugs your pants down and off. Sal gets between your legs and for a moment you think he's about to just slide in — which causes you a bit of concern considering how much meat he's packing between his legs — but then he lays on his stomach and your cock peeks straight up.

"I've watched a few pornos," he says with a grimace, "but — "

"I can guide you, Sal." He's looking up at you with those doe eyes and you chuckle as you brush some of his hair back. "You made me cum from grinding on your goddamn leg before. You've got this, Sex Grandmaster Sal."

"Really don't think mentioning Larry's marijuana induced rambling is setting the mood, babe," your giggle smooths out the furrowed brows he had. "Sorry, sorry."

Your cunt is making his mouth water. Sal presses his thumb on your cock and the sigh you let out eases his worries. His tongue on your dick has you inhaling deeply, slowly, back arching off the floor as he looks up at you.

He's overzealous but fuck does it make you wetter than you've ever been. Licking and sucking on your cock while he teases the opening of your cunt with his fingers. The hints of teeth makes your hips twist but he holds your hips down with muffled groans.

"Fuck, yes. You're doing so good, Sal. S'fuckin' good — holy shit, babe," the way your voice gets all pitchy makes him grin. Your slick on his tongue is making him want more, so he spreads your lips apart and sinks his tongue inside, it makes your grip onto his head, and Sal moans into you at the pinpricks of pain that follow.

Fingers accompanies his tongue and you're clamping your thighs around his head. It forces Sal's face into your cunt and the whole thing has him chuckling against you.

Pinning your thighs apart, Sal licks and swipes at the slick around his mouth and chin, catching his breath as he curses.

"Fucking Christ, does it feel that good?" You whine in retaliation. "You're the one going down on me of course I'm going fuckin' crazy. You get all whiny when I go down on you too — "

He curls a finger inside of you and you cut yourself off with a particularly loud moan. The floorboards above you creak and like a deer lifting its head as a branch snaps in the distance, another follows as whoever was in the living room heard the echoing cries of pleasure.

Sal slips another finger in and you cover your mouth, glaring at his handsome face petulantly. It falters as he stretches you out, thrusting in and out with a steady rhythm that he occasionally breaks to curl his fingers up.

You're groaning and curling your toes, eyelids fluttering and squeezing shut as he jerks you off with his other hand. Loosening his jaw, Sal uses his spit to lube you up further. He had a thing for sloppy sex. You once joked he enjoyed the slick-and-slide of it all and he didn't deny it then and probably won't ever.

"Nuh - no, don't wanna cum yet, I wanna cum with you, baby," he slows his rhythm, staring at you as you lift yourself onto your hands and taste yourself on his lips.

"Want you inside me. Please, Sal, I'm beggin'"

"You don't have to. I've got you." He nods when you hold onto the waist of his pants. Pulling it down to his knees and let his cock spring out into the air. Fuck, it's a pretty dick.

It's fat and heavy. Thicker than longer, the girth always makes your toes curl. It's a darker colour compared to the rest of his skin tone, the mushroom tip a warmer shade that burns when you tease him too much. You motion for the couch and he leans against it, whispering your name as you hover over his cock.

"Fuck, you're so hot," he says as you pump his dick with your fist while you line it up to your cunt. "You're pretty fucking hot yourself, big dick," he struggles not to laugh in your face, shaking his head in 'disapproval' that's short-lived.

You sink down on the tip of his cock and Sal moans out your name, squeezing your hips. You shiver for a moment, willing your insides not to clench so excitedly when you've still got some ways to go.

"Shit, (Y/N). You're so fuckin' tight." You could not agree more. The more you go down on him, the more you're tempted to just squeeze him like a vice. Sal brings your face down to kiss him, very quickly becoming addicted to the feeling of it. It's no wonder teenagers made out in the hallways all the damn time.

Gravity helps you the rest of the way. When he's all the way inside of you, you part your lips, the way your eyebrows slope being felt on Sal's forehead as you clench around him.

"Fuuuuck, Sal" you're whimpering his name, arms wrapped around his neck as you look at him. "You feel so fuckin' good, baby."

He swallows thickly, reaching to push your hair away from your face as he gazes up.

"I love you, so fuckin' much. I love you, Sal," you're determined to make him turn into nothing but mush. He's certain of it. His insides felt like a field of flowers, all blooming at once, even if it didn't sense at all. There's an airy moan that escapes him as you squeeze your inner thighs, your hips move forward and Sal grips you like he's afraid you're just a figment of his imagination.

"I know, baby," he whispers back. "I love you, more than you can imagine."

A dopey grin appears on your face. "You think you can show me how much you love me, handsome?" He smiles and your heart feels like it's going to stop.

"I can do more than show you, pretty boy."

He turns you over on your side, not once pulling out. You hastily grab some couch pillows for the both of you before your descent onto the floor. It's cold but that's all the more reason to hold onto each other.

Once your head is on a pillow and you're on your back again, he drapes over you.

Another kiss. Another mischievous nibble. A sly dance of tongues.

Sal is pulling out, the drag of his dick makes you whimper, and thrusts back home. The action has your nails leaving welts on his back but it just reinvigorates him.

He's splitting you open and filling you up. Every thrust makes you see stars. You're unwilling to let him go if the legs wrapped around his waist are saying anything.

But Sal is growing flustered the more praises you tell him.

"That's it, baby. Fuck this pussy, this pussy's just for you."

"Fuck, you look so good, baby. On top of me, fucking me, shit — !"

"Oh, God, your cock is — yeah, right there! — you're in so deep, Sal -Ah!"

You're so fucking filthy.

He wants to hide his face in your neck but he doesn't wanna take his eyes off you. Eyes trailing where his lips and teeth had been, eyeing the sheen of sweat on you and your messed up hair.

The shower you just took had been in vain, huh?

"Fuh - fuck, I'm close," he warns, bracing himself on his elbows as he hovers above you.

"Yeah? Me — mff! — too. Cum inside, baby. Need to feel you — fuuuuck — dripping outta' me," he chuckles breathlessly at your words.

His hips are stuttering and he can see the way your brows are furrowing, angelic moan after angelic moan being knocked out of you. He gives your cock a rub and the way your back arches off the floor makes him hold his own orgasm back just so he can see you like this as clearly as he can take it in.

"Sal, oh fuck, baby!"

"I've got you, (Y/N)."

He chokes out a groan as he feels you clamping down on him, your cunt gripping onto him like it never wants him to let go. You gasp as he snatches your breath, messily making out with him as the aftershocks of your orgasm are barrelled through thanks to Sal's deep thrusts.

"Shit, shit, shit," you smile as he begins to lose his rhythm. Ignoring how sensitive your boypussy feels as he chases his end. "C'mon, baby, fill me up. Yeah, that's it."

He cums with one final thrust. The warmth of it floods your insides, earning pleasant shivers from you as you moan out his name. He's riding his orgasm out, pushing in and out of you shallowly as he catches his breath above you.

"Jesus, fuck..." You giggle at his words, chest rising and falling in rapid motions as your heart tries to calm down.

"That was, Christ, that was — " "Fucking amazing?"

He nods, falling on top of you as carefully as he can. You embrace him, humming as he kisses your neck while you rub his back. The both of you catch your breath, satisfied expressions etched on your faces.

When Sal moves, your eyes are already closed. He pulls out and you whimper at the loss, ignoring the way he stares at his own jizz dripping out of your cunt in favor of gazing at his face.

"We gotta take a shower all over again," he says, helping you sit up and accepting the hug you give him when you're righted.

"...Wanna do it all over again in the shower?" Your question earns a throaty chuckle. "Thought it was implied in my statement."

Another beat of comfortable silence is shared. Sal sighs, nuzzling his face into your neck.

"Thank you, (Y/N)."

"I've got you, Sal."

[helenofsparta2]

I think the most important thing to acknowledge about the character of Luke Castellan is that he had an absolutely shitty childhood,  went through a lot of trauma, had every right to hate the gods and got manipulated by Kronos, while also acknowledging that he became an absolutely shitty person himself, and that no amount of trauma excuses any of his actions.

Luke’s Childhood

No one can deny that Luke had an absolutely traumatizing childhood.

Since he was a newborn, he lived in a house full of mirrors, and monster statues, where the walls were plastered over with hundreds of pictures related to Hermes, and which smelled like burnt cookies and moldy sandwiches. He lived alone with a mother, who was mentally extremely unstable. A mother who talked to statues. A mother, who would sometimes grab his shoulders, while her eyes glowed in a bright green color and freak out about Luke’s fate. A mother, Luke was so afraid of that he hid in his closet from her.

May Castellan obviously loved her son, but growing up with someone like that had to have been absolutely terrifying for a child.

He ran away when he was only nine years old, and lived on the streets from that moment on, surviving completely on his own for five years. (The Diary of Luke Castellan, P.9)

He was cold, scared, hungry, and so lonely that he tried to befriend mortals and even told them of his identity in desperate hope for connection, only to be led down by them time and time again. (The Diary of Luke Castellan, P.13)

The first good thing that ever happened to him was meeting Thalia. The first person he could trust, the first person who truly understood him and the first person, he truly cared for. Later that year they find Annabeth and immediately decided to protect her.

And up until that moment, up until the end of “The Diary of Luke Castellan”, despite his hardships, and against all odds, Luke remained a good person. He cared for Thalia, he didn’t hesitate to befriend Annabeth, and he even showed kindness to Halcyon Greene.  

But between the end of that story and the beginning of the Lightning Thief things obviously changed. And in my opinion, there are fourmain reasons for that.

The prophecy surrounding his fate

His opinion of the gods (especially his father)

Thalia’s death

Kronos’ manipulation

The Prophecy

Luke’s early childhood was, as I’ve already said, defined by his mother’s knowledge of his fate. For most of his life, he had probably heard her say things like “Not my son,” and had seen her despair over what was to come. But I doubt he truly believed her during the first nine years of his life—Luke probably just thought his mum was crazy.

But then, he meets Halcone Greene, a son of Apollo with the gift of prophecy and got the confirmation, that his future is doomed:

He looked up miserably. He nodded. “There’s more,” I pressed. “What scared you so badly?” He avoided my eyes. Reluctantly, he typed: Hard to be sure. Luke, I also saw a sacrifice in your future. A choice. But also a betrayal. (The diary of Luke Castellan, Page 42)

Hal green immediately backed down. I could swear the old man was terrified of me now, but I didn’t want to know what he saw in his visions. Whatever nightmares were in my future, I had to survive today first. (The diary of Luke Castellan, page 43)

And this prophecy haunted him ever since that moment:

Every time I blinked, I remembered Hal’s words on the computer screen, as if they’d been burned into the back of my eyes: A sacrifice in your future. A choice. But also a betrayal. What did he mean? I was sure he hadn’t tole me everything. But one thing was clear: my future terrified him. (The Diary of Luke Castellan, P.47)

Finally, when he was fourteen, he meets Hermes for the very first time in his life, and finds out that his father knows about his future, but doesn’t (or can’t) tell him anything about it, despite the fact, that it ends in tragedy.

"We're doing fine without your help," Luke growled. "Now, what were you saying about my destiny?" (…) I realized Hermes knew what May Castellan's mutterings meant. I wasn't sure how, but looking at his face I was absolutely certain. Hermes understood what would happen to Luke someday, how he would turn evil. "My son," he said, "I'm the god of travelers, the god of loads. If I know anything, I know that you must walk your own path, even though it tears my heart." "You don't love me." "I promise I . . . I do love you. Go to camp. I will see that you get a quest soon. Perhaps you can defeat the Hydra, or steal the apples of Hesperides. You will get a chance to be a great hero before . . ." "Before what?" Luke's voice was trembling now. "What did my mom see that made her like this? What's going to happen to me? If you love me, tell me." Hermes's expression tightened. "I cannot." "Then you don't care!" Luke yelled (The Last Olympian, Chapter 13)

This must have seemed liked the biggest of betrayals, and really reinforced Luke’s opinion, that his dad does not care about him. It was probably one of the major contributing factors in making Luke hate his father.

Luke and the Gods

Even before meeting Halycone Greene, he disliked the gods, and specifically his dad:

Our super powerful parents don’t even talk to us, much less help us. Why? If I tried to explain that, I’d fill up this whole diary, so I’m going to move on. (The Diary of Luke Castellan, P.8)

Hermes is the god of merchants… and travellers, which explains why the divine jerk left my mom and never came back. He’s also the god of thieves. He’s stolen things like- oh, Apollo’s cattle, women, good ideas, wallets, my mom’s sanity and my chance at a decent live. Sorry, did that sound bitter? (The Diary of Luke Castellan, P.16)

But his experience with Hal made it much worse. He started to see them as cruel, unjust and plain evil.

An angry, coppery taste filled my mouth. I already knew the gods could be cruel. My deadbeat dad had ignored me for fourteen years. But Halycon’s Green’s curse was just plain wrong. It was evil. (The Diary of Luke Castellan, P.25)

Part of me felt tempted to knock out the old man with my golf club and feed him to his drapes. Then at least, he couldn’t help the monsters lure any more demigods to their deaths. But I couldn’t make myself do it. He was so frail and pathetic. Besides, his curse wasn’t his fault. He’d been trapped in this room for decades, forced to depend on monsters for his voice and his survival, forced to watch other demigods die, all because he’d saved a girl’s life. What kind of justice was that?  (The Diary of Luke Castellan, P.30)

If anybody deserved a gold club across the head, it was Apollo- and all the other deadbeat Olympian gods, for that matter.  (The Diary of Luke Castellan, P.30)

And all of that got even worse after Thalia’s death—a death orchestrated by Hades, because of Zeus’ actions. Ever since then, Luke had lived in Camp Half-Blood in Cabin Eleven, surrounded daily by the unclaimed campers and haunted by the loss of friends—or at least other kids he knew—who died untimely deaths year after year. When he was around seventeen, he received a quest to steal one of the golden apples from the Garden of the Hesperides. After failing, Kronos began to manipulate him.

To just quickly sum it up again, his childhood was defined by a mentally very unstable mother, whom he was scared of, an absent father and, later on, a very lonely, dangerous life on the streets. He lost one of the only two people he ever truly cared about in circumstances which probably made him blame himself and which reinvigorated his already existing hatred of the gods. He was plagued by a prophecy about his own future, he felt like a failure because of his quest, and he got manipulated by Kronos, who probably used the lack of a parental figure in his life and his very justified resentment against the gods to his advantage.

So, yeah, his life very much sucked, and he had every right to be angry and bitter.

However, like I said, none of that excuses what he did in the PJO books. Trauma can never excuse behavior and the way Luke acted in these books, and everything he put the other characters through was absolutely unforgivable.

He did not care about the campers living in camp halfblood or about innocents getting caught in the crossfire.

He wanted to start a war between the Olympians, which would have not only cost the life of millions if not billions of innocent people, but also would have forced demigods to choose sides and fight each other:

(“Imagine the world in chaos. Nature at war with itself. Olympians forced to choose sides between Zeus and Poseidon. Destruction. Carnage. Millions of dead. Western civilization turned into a battleground so big it will make the Trojan War look like a water-balloon fight.” (The Lightning Thief, Chapter 9)

He trained the monsters and demigods in his army specifically to kill the kids at camp half-blood.

(The monsters made a semicircle around a young guy in Greek armor who was hacking on a straw dummy. A lump formed in my throat when I realized the dummy was wearing an orange Camp Half-Blood T-shirt. As we watched, the guy in armor stabbed the dummy through its belly and ripped upward. Straw flew everywhere. The monsters cheered and howled. (The Sea of Monsters, Chapter 9)

He was okay with the kids who didn’t join him getting hunted down to extinction

(“Half-Blood Hill will be overrun by monsters within the month. The heroes who survive will have no choice but to join us or be hunted to extinction.” (The Sea of Monsters, Chapter 9)

He poisoned Thalia’s tree, making it possible for monsters to get into Camp Half-blood

He was okay with Camp Half-blood getting destroyed time and time again

("This is only a taste of what is to come," Luke said. "Soon we will be ready to storm Camp Half-Blood. And after that, Olympus itself. All we need is your help." (Titan’s Curse, Chapter 17)

He let Chris go crazy in the labyrinth and didn’t bother trying to save him (at least as far as we know)

He was okay with watching demigods be killed in Antaeus’ arena (Battle of the labyrinth, Chapter 14)

He manipulated Silena, threatened her and lied to her to get her to spy for him.

("Before . . . before I liked Charlie, Luke was nice to me. He was so . . . charming. Handsome. Later, I wanted to stop helping him, but he threatened to tell. He promised . . . he promised I was saving lives. Fewer people would get hurt. He told me he wouldn't hurt . . . Charlie. He lied to me." (The Last Olympian, Chapter 17)

He actively supported the idea of humanity getting driven back to their caves:

(“I’ve been used?” Luke’s voice turned shrill. “Look at yourself. What has your dad ever done for you? Kronos will rise. You’ve only delayed his plans. He will cast the Olympians into Tartarus and drive humanity back to their caves. All except the strongest-the ones who serve him.” (The Lightning Thief, Chapter 22)

He was absolutely horrible to Annabeth

There is no doubt, that Luke used to care about Annabeth. He felt responsible for her the second he met her. At the end of the last Olympian, she was also the catalyst for Luke gaining the upper hand over Kronos.

But for most of the PJO books, his own need for revenge was more important to him than her life, and he did not hesitate to bully, torture, or kill Annabeth.

He did not try to stop Annabeth from joining Percy’s quest to the underworld, despite the fact, that he was certain the quest would fail

He tried to get Percy to mistrust Annabeth while they were on a quest, a time where trust is very much vital for survival:

(“That’s true,” Luke said, looking troubled. “Still … Hades has the helm of darkness. How could anybody else sneak into the throne room and steal the master bolt? You’d have to be invisible.” (The Lightning Thief, Chapter 15)

He brought up Annabeth’s trauma with the cyclops, mocked her and told her she disrespected Thalia’s memory when she was only 13 years old (and he was 20):

(“Traveling with a Cyclops,” Luke chided. “Talk about dishonoring Thalia’s memory! I’m surprised at you, Annabeth. You of all people-“ “Stop it!” she shouted (…) I didn’t know what Luke was talking about, but Annabeth buried her head in her hands like she was about to cry (The Sea of Monsters, Chapter 9)

He would have been okay, with Annabeth getting her head bashed in by Oreius

(“Percy,” Luke said calmly, “tell your giant to back down or I’ll have Oreius bash your friends’ heads together.” Oreius grinned and raised Annabeth and Grover off the ground, kicking and screaming (The Sea of Monsters, Chapter 17))

In that same book, he told Oreius that he could eat Annabeth alive

(He (Luke) advanced slowly, smiling. The edge of his sword was tinged with red. “One thing I want you to watch before you die, Percy.” He looked at the bear-man Oreius, who was still holding Annabeth and Grover by the necks. “You can eat your dinner now, Oreius. Bon appetit.”( The Sea of Monsters, Chapter 18))

He used her love for him to manipulate her into holding the sky, an action, which was excruciatingly painful and could have very easily killed her

(He rose unsteadily. "I knew I could count on you." He began to walk away as the trembling blackness threatened to crush Annabeth. "HELP ME!" she pleaded, "Oh, don't worry," Luke said. "Your help is on the way. It's all part of the plan. In the meantime, try not to die." The ceiling of darkness began to crumble again, pushing Annabeth against the ground. (Titan’s Curse, Chapter 5)

He cuffed her, gagged her, and held a sword against her throat (Titan’s Curse, chapter 16)

He was prepared to make Annabeth watch Percy, her best friend, and one of the most important people in her life, die in Antaeus’ arena (Battle of the Labyrinth, Chapter 14)

He tried to guilt her, a 14-year-old girl, to leave her entire life behind to run away with him, only because he was scared of dealing with the consequences of his own actions ("He came under a flag of truce. He said he only wanted five minutes to talk. He looked scared, Percy. He told me Kronos was going to use him to take over the world. He said he wanted to run away, like the old days. He wanted me to come with him." (The Last Olympian, Chapter 12)

He was also absolutely horrible to Percy

He set a hellhound on Percy only a few days after Percy had seen his mother “die”

He wanted him, a 12-year-old, to fall into Tartarus and die there

(Luke looked down at the scorpion, which was now sitting on my thigh. “You should have died in Tartarus, Percy. But don’t worry, I’ll leave you with my little friend to set things right.” (The Lightning Thief, Chapter 22)

He lured him into the forest, poisoned him, and left him there to die completely alone, and probably planned for his remains to get eaten by monsters with no remorse whatsoever  

(“I wouldn’t,” Luke cautioned. “Pit scorpions can jump up to fifteen feet. Its stinger can pierce right through your clothes. You’ll be dead in sixty seconds.” “Luke, what-“ Then it hit me. You will be betrayed by one who calls you a friend. “You,” I said. He stood calmly and brushed off his jeans. (The Lightning Thief, Chapter 22)

An event, which traumatized Percy and made him scared of Luke for a time, might I add.

 (I said nothing. Despite the javelins pointed at me, it wasn’t the bear twins who scared me. I’d imagined meeting Luke again many times since he’d tried to kill me last summer. I’d pictured myself boldly standing up to him, challenging him to a duel. But now that we were face-to-face, I could barely stop my hands from shaking. (The Sea of Monsters, Chapter 9)

He wanted to make Percy watch Annabeth and Grover get eaten alive

(He (Luke) advanced slowly, smiling. The edge of his sword was tinged with red. “One thing I want you to watch before you die, Percy.” He looked at the bear-man Oreius, who was still holding Annabeth and Grover by the necks. “You can eat your dinner now, Oreius. Bon appetit.”(The Sea of Monsters, Chapter 18))

So, even though I like Luke as an antagonist and I understand his reasons for hating the gods, these points are the reason why I will never, and I mean never, be a Luke apologist and why I don't think he deserves Elysium

[slugsby-pt3]

zero day headcannons

- andre is always bruised the fuck up from assholes at school because cal always has some smart shit to say and andre has to whiteknight him

- cal does not cut but andre….yall aren’t ready for that

- cal is depressed in the way that he is dissatisfied with the world and not the type where he feels the need to punish himself

- cal’s surprisingly a really good big brother and was really excited to get a baby brother

- andre and his older brother fight like dogs, andre has definitely chased his brother around the kitchen with a knife as siblings do

- andre isn’t a wall puncher because he’s so anal about his room looking a certain way so he goes down to his basement and breaks shit

- andre doesn’t listen to music, like he doesn’t have a favorite band at all. He listens to whatever’s on the radio that isn’t ear piercing and whatever cal listens to

- andre is a secret hopeless romantic, i.e keeping that note from a girl in eighth grade

- cal knows Rachel likes him and just see it as a non factory (plus a secret thing of liking how reactive andre gets where cal brings her up)

- andre unknowingly is in love with cal and just sees them as best friends that really care for each other (in a I just wanna kiss him in a bro way) and doesn’t understand his parents telling him they are “codependent”

- andre’s internalized homophobia is the reason him and cal died virgins

- even if they ended up realizing it, cal wouldn’t be able to get it up (hiii dylan)

- andre’s room is insanely tidy, like has the layout and an organizer so everything goes where it should

- cal’s room is dirty as all fuck, clean/dirty clothes on the floor, growing cultures in all the dirty moldy bowls on his bed side table and around his bed

- cal smells like applesauce and cheap weed

- andre is accidentally straightedge, not because he like believes in that ideology. He’s just very particular in the things he allows himself to do. (Plus cal got him high one time in tenth grade and andre hella greened out and it ruined it for him forever of it)

- people at school don’t know andre is jewish and just think he’s obsessed with German shit in a edgy nazi teenage boy way

- cal hates school functions, and even skips assemblies, but always comes to Andre’s cross country and track meets

- andre is very protective over mel and uses his money from his pizza job to buy her toys and clothes

- when andre and cal have sleepovers at Andre’s house, cal’s expected to adhere to mel having a specific spot on Andre’s bed since she was “here first”

- andre was known as the angry kid in elementary after throwing a printer towards a teacher in the second grade (giving Connor realness)

- andre has fun saying shit in French/german to confuse cal

- andre is that fucking irritating kid that plays devil advocate in history/government class

- andre took lineleader crazily serious in elementary school, fully letting that small sense of superiority completely control him

- he also took kahoot and dodgeball to the next level (andre was one of those shitty teenage boys that would throw it as hard as he could and then be a dick saying ‘I didn’t even throw it that hard’ as if he didn’t nearly pull a goddamn muscle doing that shit)

[shiftingdiariesofophelia]

i spend so much energy trying to make/find fun creative things to add to my scripts and i’m not gonna gatekeep, so here’s some of the funniest/weirdest/lowkey best things i’ve added to any of my scripts (that I haven’t talked much about before):

-I can always find things I need.

-Santa is real

-People just??? trust me??? I could genuinely tell someone that world war two was between the australians and canadians and they’d just be like yeah that checks out

-I don’t have allergies bc i hate sneezing

-Every pair of shoes I own are comfy as hell

-My hair can’t get knotted/tangled

-no periods because f that for real

-I always win/I’m naturally good at card and board games.

-Babies/Animals like me and will stop crying/whining/etc. when i’m around.

-cigarettes taste good and aren’t bad for you. i wanna be lana del rey coded so bad i guess

-i will literally never be in a situation where i have to kill someone. (useful for more dangerous drs!!!)

-random beef with the funniest character imaginable. hp dr? me and susan bones are arch enemies. fame dr? me and pete davidson indirect tweet each other all the time complaining. avengers dr? me and the ancient one are fist fighting in the mirror dimension idc

-indestructible things. i am clumsy and stupid i need this in every dr.

-pages don’t rip out of notebooks on accident (this has been the bane of my existence since 9 years old)

-I always have a hair tie when i need one. because you think you won’t need one, and then the second you don’t have it, you need it.

-people don’t smell. lifesaver.

-*random character* knows i shifted but can’t do a goddamn thing about it/doesn’t care and just goes with it. my favorite examples are Shane Dawson (fame dr) and Professor Trelawny (HP dr)

-i can’t get hurt in stupid ways (stubbing toe, tripping, etc.)

-if someone tries to shoot me the gun will literally fly out of their hand lmao (again, useful for dangerous drs)

-i know everyone’s phone passwords

-infinite toilet paper (for dystopia/woods/etc. drs, but could just be useful every day tbh.)

-i’ve always got some kind of out of pocket one liner for when the situation is too awkward

-tattoos don’t hurt (i am a pussy)

-adding random side characters/completely new mfers to my scripts because if i’m constantly around these fine ass bitches i know everything about i might actually have a heart attack

-when someone’s mean to me they get some form of karma in the next 24 hours directly related to how mean they were. call me stupid? enjoy tripping up the stairs. push me over? i hope you enjoy biting into a sandwich only to find the bread is moldy.

there’s probably more but this is just a short list of the first ones i could think of

[wronggalaxy]

I've seen people doing "shout out to disabled people with gross traits", so I thought I would do my own, but with traits I've never seen discussed in these posts(an asterisk (this thing: *) after it means it’s something I expirence)

So, shout out to disabled people who:

—Can't always wash their hands after using the toilet. *

—Who wet/mess themselves in bed(and can't clean it up) because "I can't leave bed" means I can't leave bed.

—Who get nosebleeds because they pick their nose so much. *

—Who can take a bath/shower, put on deodorant, and put on freshly washed clothes and still smell 'bad'. *

—Who can't help but get food/drink/blood/snot/etc. on their books/comics/magazines when they try to read. *

—Who eat everything with their hands. *(I've eaten cereal and soup with mine on multiple occasions)

—Who have/have had moldy dishes/pop bottles/wrappers/food/etc in their room for weeks or months or years or longer. *(I just recently had help from a sibling to replace my broken furniture, clean up my space, and throw out trash. Before that I had moldy stuff in my room for up to 4 or 5 years for some of it.)

—Who have never had bed wetting problems, but do struggle to stay dry during the day. *(Bed wetting is valid too, of course, and so is doing both, I've just seen people talk about bed wetting, but not day wetting.)

—Who eat things(specifically non-food things)you know you shouldn't. *(I'll eat just about anything(just not most foods), but I'm big on styrofoam and old chipped paint from my walls)

—Who don't know/can't use "basic manners" *

—And a bunch of other stuff I can't think of right now(feel free to add more in comments/reblogs)

There is no shame here.

[apopcornkernel]

@juuuks THEY HATED JESUS BECAUSE HE SPOKE THE TRUTH

no cause petrichor smells so bad idk why ppl are so obsessed with it

[shisasan]

Picking a single favourite quote might be an impossible task so which quote (or quotes) do you seem to come back to more often than others?

Picking a single favorite quote might truly be an impossible task because there are so many brilliant writers out there whose words have deeply influenced my life. These extraordinary souls have breathed new life into me when I was ready to give up on everything. Without any particular order, these quotes are not intended to enlighten or educate anyone but offer a brief insight into the words I turn to for comfort, inspiration, or understanding when I'm not at my highest self.

I'll begin with my most dearest Hermann Hesse, whom I like to call my Alpha and Omega. He transformed my life from a young age, opening mysterious portals to other worlds and making me feel deeply understood, embraced, with a true sense of belonging. His writing not only awakened my mind to new realms of thought and emotion but also offered immense solace and companionship through his exploration of the human spirit:

"A wild longing for strong emotions and sensations seethes in me, a rage against this toneless, flat, normal, and sterile life."

"I have always thirsted for knowledge, I have always been full of questions."

"We have to stumble through so much dirt and humbug before we reach home. And we have no one to guide us. Our only guide is our homesickness."

Rainer Maria Rilke, a beautiful and tender infinite soul, whose writings deeply resonate with the complexities of the human condition and the relentless quest for understanding:

"I am dark, I am forest."

"I grow strong in the beauty you behold. And with the silence of stars, I enfold your cities made by time."

"Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer."

Novalis, who occupies a cherished place in my heart for his poetic and deeply insightful exploration of life and love.

"We are eternal because we love each other."

"I often feel, and ever more deeply I realize, that fate and character are the same conception."

"Sometimes with the most intense pain a paralysis of sensibility occurs. The soul disintegrates—hence the deadly frost—the free power of the mind—the shattering, ceaseless wit of this kind of despair. There is no inclination for anything anymore—the person is alone, like a baleful power—as he has no connection with the rest of the world he consumes himself gradually—and in accordance with his own principle he is—misanthropic and misotheos."

Egon Schiele, whose intense and raw portrayal of human emotion and beauty has deeply moved me, revealing the unfiltered essence of the human experience.

"I must see new things and investigate them. I want to taste dark water and see crackling trees and wild winds. I want to gaze with astonishment at moldy garden fences, I want to experience them all, to hear young birch plantations and trembling leaves, to see light and sun, enjoy wet, green-blue valleys in the evening, sense goldfish glinting, see white clouds building up in the sky, to speak to flowers. I want to look intently at grasses and pink people, old venerable churches, to know what little cathedrals say, to run without stopping along curving meadowy slopes across vast plains, kiss the earth and smell soft warm marshland flowers. And then I shall shape things so beautifully: fields of colour…"

Anaïs Nin, a force of nature and embodiment of feminine strength, whose deep exploration of inner life and boundless creativity has left an indelible impression on me. Her work continues to inspire and challenge me to embrace the fullness of my inner world:

"She was colour, brilliance, strangeness."

"I have the power to multiply myself. I am not one woman."

"Ordinary life does not interest me. I seek only the high moments. I am in accord with the surrealists, searching for the marvelous."

"I can only connect deeply, or not at all."

Carl Gustav Jung, one of the most brilliant psychiatrists, psychologists, psychotherapists, and empiricists in history. Jung's exploration of the collective unconscious and shadow self has offered me invaluable tools for self-awareness and personal development. His legacy continues to inspire and guide those seeking to understand the depths of the mind and the path to self-discovery.

"A man who has not passed through the inferno of his passions has never overcome them. As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being. Everything that irritates us about others can lead us to an understanding of ourselves."

"People will do anything, no matter how absurd, in order to avoid facing their own souls. One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious."

"The privilege of a lifetime is to become who you truly are."

Fyodor Dostoyevsky, the maddening genius with profound understanding of human nature and morality:

"If you want to overcome the whole world, overcome yourself."

"People speak sometimes about the 'bestial' cruelty of man, but that is terribly unjust and offensive to beasts, no animal could ever be so cruel as a man, so artfully, so artistically cruel."

"People. People. Endless noise. And I am so tired. And I would like to sleep under trees; red ones, blue ones, swirling passionate ones."

"I exist. In thousands of agonies—I exist."

"If there is no God, everything is permitted."

Virginia Woolf, a literary giant whose deep introspection and exploration of the human condition have left an indelible mark:

"No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anybody but oneself."

"What is the meaning of life? That was all—a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years. The great revelation had never come. The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead, there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark; here was one."

"I want to raise up the magic world all around me and live strongly and quietly there."

"Reality? Reality has never been enough for me."

Mikhail Bulgakov, a masterful writer and playwright, another troubled soul who faced censorship and persecution in his lifetime, with immense talent and a deep soul, fascinated me with his imaginary worlds that blend reality with fantastical elements, feeling both familiar and boundlessly expansive:

"But would you kindly ponder this question: What would your good do if evil didn't exist, and what would the earth look like if all the shadows disappeared? After all, shadows are cast by things and people. Here is the shadow of my sword. But shadows also come from trees and living beings. Do you want to strip the earth of all trees and living things just because of your fantasy of enjoying naked light?"

"Kindness. The only possible method when dealing with a living creature. You'll get nowhere with an animal if you use terror, no matter what its level of development may be. That I have maintained, do maintain and always will maintain. People who think you can use terror are quite wrong. No, no, terror is useless, whatever its colour – white, red or even brown! Terror completely paralyses the nervous system."

"Everything passes away - suffering, pain, blood, hunger, pestilence. The sword will pass away too, but the stars will remain when the shadows of our presence and our deeds have vanished from the Earth. There is no man who does not know that. Why, then, will we not turn our eyes toward the stars? Why?"

"There are no evil people in the world, only unhappiness disguised as evil."

And then there is indispensable Franz Kafka. Although I have shifted away from his writing in recent years and no longer resonate with it as much, he was a dear friend and frequent company during my darkest, loneliest, and most challenging times. His work, full of raw honesty and insight, offered a kind of companionship that felt both intimate and enduring:

"The way he can risk everything and risks nothing, because there is nothing but truth in him already, a truth that even in the face of the contradictory impressions of the moment will justify itself as such when the crucial time arrives. The calm self-possession. The slow pace that neglects nothing. The immediate readiness, when it is needed, not sooner, for long in advance he sees everything that is coming."

"I, for the most part silent, had nothing to say; among such people the war doesn’t call forth in me the slightest opinion worth expressing."

"You do not need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. Do not even listen, simply wait, be quiet, still and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked, it has no choice, it will roll in ecstasy at your feet." Of course, there are many more authors who deserve to be on this list, but I chose these because they have touched my life in ways that are both unique and deeply personal. I hope that at least some of you will read to the end and find a bit of inspiration and insight in these quotes, just as they have given me. If you’ve made it this far, thank you. 🌹

[pancaketax]

What Remains | Chapter 17 The Art of Breaking Things (Tony Stark x M! Reader)

TW : Graphic Description of Physical and Mental Torture, Humiliation, Dehumanization. Summary : You’re tortured—body and mind—by Matthew, who pushes harder every time you refuse to break. Burned, beaten, humiliated, you cling to silence like a final shield. But in the end, you’re left alone, broken, with only one thing holding off death: time. Stark has hours to pay. If you’re lucky. And the silence that follows is heavier than pain.

word count: 8.1k

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Matthew yanks you violently off the street, making you stumble harshly onto the sidewalk. You don’t even have time to scream before you're dragged, forced, into a narrow alley, squeezed between two grimy buildings. The air is thicker here, saturated with humidity, as if even the light itself refused to enter. He pulls you further, all the way to a rusted metal door, which he bashes open with his shoulder. The shrill screech of the hinges tears through the silence, twisting your stomach even tighter.

He shoves you inside a crumbling, half-collapsed building, abandoned for years. The walls are stained with green patches, devoured by moisture and mold. The musty smell is almost tangible, a slimy presence creeping into your throat, making you gag. Every step causes the floor to creak beneath your feet. The ceiling drips steadily, drops falling into a rusted basin in the corner of the room, adding a morbid rhythm to the scene.

You don’t even have time to take in the place when a sharp crack slices the air.

Pain slams into your temple like a bolt of lightning. His hand crashes against your cheek with brutal, almost calculated force. A ringing bursts in your ear, your head slamming against the metal doorframe with a dull thud. A burning heat explodes under your skull, radiating down to your jaw. You stagger, barely staying upright, the metallic taste of blood already stinging your tongue.

But he doesn’t let you fall.

He grabs your collar like someone gripping an overstuffed bag, yanks you upright with a snap, prevents you from collapsing. You’re hanging between his hands like a limp puppet, legs trembling, breath caught, unable to grasp how everything escalated so quickly.

He wants you to feel every second of your powerlessness. Every moment etched into your flesh like an unerasable scar.

He throws you to the ground with calculated brutality, like tossing a worthless sack of meat. Your body crashes onto the rotting floorboards, pain flaring up in a dry wave from your back to your neck. The wood groans beneath the impact, a cloud of black dust rising around you, stinging your nose, clinging to your damp skin. The stench is unbearable — a blend of moldy wood, dead rodents, and damp earth. It feels like you're sinking into an open grave.

You want to move.

You want to get up, scream, fight, grab onto something, anything. But he's faster. And he doesn’t wait.

His foot slams into your stomach with the raw force of a sledgehammer. You feel your ribs squeeze under the blow, air rushing out of your lungs in a strangled gasp. Your chest collapses, like it’s been crushed between two iron plates. A blinding pain explodes. You choke, unable to breathe, muscles frozen from the shock.

Your body folds in half from the blow. Your mouth opens in silence, but no scream escapes. Just a rough, pitiful gurgle. And him, standing above you, barely panting. As if this was just the beginning. You roll to the side, half from reflex, half from survival instinct. Your arms curl protectively around your shattered abdomen, but another kick slices through your flesh like a stake. It rips a cry from you — raw, guttural, animal. Your breath shatters. There’s no more air. Nothing left.

The metallic taste of blood rises in your mouth. Hot, thick. You feel it slide against your tongue, sink into your throat clenched tight from pain. You want to spit it out, but you can’t. You’re drowning in your own saliva, your own nerves giving out one after another.

— You really think I’m just going to kill you?

His voice cracks like a whip — too close, too intimate. A moist whisper dripping into your ear, trembling with restrained excitement. His breath, hot and foul, scorches your cheek. It reeks of cold cigarettes and fury.

He drops into a squat with a sharp motion. You hear his knees strike the rotting floor. Then his hand slams down on your head, seizing a handful of your hair with brutal force. And he pulls.

Your neck twists back with a sinister crack. Pain bursts from your skull like an electric jolt. Every root, every nerve screams under the tension. Your jaw clenches, your eyes fly open, drowning in panic. His face is there. Inches from yours. Distorted. Red. Twisted by something sick. He smiles. And you can't tell if he's about to kiss you or rip your throat out. You see his eyes. Two bottomless black voids. Nothing but a flicker of pure hatred, a sick glint of greed burning like oil on fire.

— "So you're working for Stark now, huh?"

His grip tightens in your hair. One notch more. Enough to make your scalp feel like it's about to tear off. You grit your teeth. You won't give him that pleasure, that whimper. But the burn is there, searing, anchored in your skull like a rusty hook.

— "You’re fucking lucky, you know that? Because if you were just some lost little shit... I’d have already killed you."

His voice is slow. Mocking. He savors every syllable like a twisted caress. You feel his breath against your cheek, hot and acidic, like it could melt your bones from the inside. A smile twists his lips. Slowly. A sadistic smile, the grin of a predator sure of its power.

— "But no. You, you’re a goldmine."

And he lets go. Your head drops back brutally, no control. The back of your skull hits the floor. A dull, sick thud. Your vision blurs instantly, streaked with white flashes. A starburst of pain explodes in your skull, radiating down to your jaw. For a moment, the world tilts. And he laughs. Softly. Like it was just an appetizer. You feel your strength draining, second by second. Your whole body is caught in a vice of pain, every muscle on high alert, but he gives you no chance to recover.

— "Just one question."

With a sharp, brutal motion, he flips you over like a bag of meat. Your shoulder blades scrape the rough floor, rotten wood tearing through your clothes and into your skin. Before you can even register what��s happening, his knee slams into your sternum. A brutal, wet crunch echoes through your ribcage. You try to breathe. You want to inhale. Nothing. Your lungs convulse in the void, desperate, helpless. You open your mouth, frantic, but only a choked gurgle escapes, a twisted, inhuman rasp.

Panic crashes into you. Your heart pounds against your temples, frantic. No air. The world goes blurry, the edges of the room rippling like underwater.

— "How much would he pay to get you back in one piece?"

You look up at him. Your gaze meets his. A graveyard chill spreads through your chest. He knows. He already knows. And it makes him smile. A slow smile, stretched, almost tender. A parody of affection painted on a mask of sadism.

— "Let’s find out what you’re really worth, kid."

You want to scream. Push him off, run, scratch, bite, crawl, beg — anything. But your body won’t move. Your chest still tries to rise, gasping, in a mockery of breath. Air remains stuck somewhere in your throat, as if your own body had turned against you.

And he doesn't move.

His knee stays there, planted in the center of your sternum, heavy, unrelenting. You hear cracking sounds. One by one. Bones. Your bones. Your ribs, crushed under the pressure. The pain is total. A devouring black tide, consuming everything—breath, thoughts, will. He looks at you with a curiosity almost fascinated. Like a kid pressing down on a bug just to see how far he can squash it before it stops moving.

— "Funny, isn’t it?"

His voice oozes a sick pleasure, almost a warped tenderness. You feel his fingers tighten in your hair, then a brutal pull—your head yanked back before being slammed against the grimy floor. A dull thud echoes in your skull. The back of your head strikes the boards with a wet, sticky sound.

The smell of stagnant dust, rotting wood and rusty metal fills your nostrils. You feel your own blood seep into your mouth, slide slowly against your tongue, flow down your throat. Salty. Warm. Too familiar.

— "You’ve always had a face that begged for trouble."

His thumb brushes your cheek, slowly, as if petting a cat—then, with a sharp motion, he grabs your jaw and squeezes until the bone threatens to snap. Your teeth grind together painfully. You feel your jaw about to dislocate under the pressure.

— "Think you're clever with Stark behind you?"

You want to answer. Spit something back. Provoke him. Anything. But nothing comes out. Your throat is dry, your mouth clogged with blood and saliva. He sees it. And he doesn’t like it. He wants a reaction. He demands it.

He requires it.

His fist hits you without warning, a blast of raw violence. The pain is searing. Your cheekbone explodes on impact. Your eye pulses, throbs, radiates heat. Your skull bounces off the floor like a deflated ball. The shock echoes through your brain, a deep pounding that grows louder. You can't even feel your face anymore. Only the sticky warmth of blood pouring down, and flashes of white light bursting behind your eyelids.

You try to keep your eyes open, but the world tilts. The room spins, swells, distorts like a panicked camera. Sounds stretch and warp. You're not even sure you're breathing. You're not even sure you're here.

Matthew laughs. A thick, guttural laugh, dripping with the vilest satisfaction. Not a laugh of humor. A butcher’s laugh. A hunter’s. The laugh of a man who's never felt more in control, savoring every second of his domination.

— "Wanna see something funny?"

His fingers finally leave your jaw, leaving your skin painfully imprinted. For a quarter of a second, barely a heartbeat, you think it’s over. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, uneven, like a buoy ripped from the sea. But it was just a trick. A trap.

You see his foot rise, a dark silhouette against the dim exterior light, then crash down with inhuman force.

CRACK.

It’s not an external sound. It’s you breaking. Your ribs, fragile and already battered, give under the pressure. The pain is blinding, absolute, radiating through your left side like a fire ignited inside your ribcage.

Something breaks. Something tears.

Your back arches, your whole body convulses in agony, and a scream bursts from your lips—primal, tearing, slicing through the damp, stagnant air of the room. And him—he was waiting for it. Hoping for it. He tastes it like a triumph.

— "Ah… There we go! That’s more like it!"

His foot hovers for a second above you. And then he does it again. Again. And again.

Each impact is more brutal than the last. Each blow a deliberate, precise act of cruelty. His foot crashes down like a hammer on glass. You feel your ribs cracking, your skin stretching, your muscles twisting. A dull, wet sound accompanies each strike—the disgusting sound of a human body reduced to an inert, vulnerable mass. Your body spasms uncontrollably, jerks of pain wrenching you from yourself.

You claw at the floor with your nails, trying to escape, crawl, move an inch away—but there’s nowhere to go. Only the cold wall behind you, and him. Always him.

— "Gonna cry now?"

He leans over, and his hand slams into your throat with such force it rips a choked gasp from your lungs. His fingers clamp like a steel trap around your windpipe, merciless, squeezing without hesitation. You feel the cartilage compress, the air cut off instantly.

He nearly lifts you from the ground, just enough to snap your neck's alignment, force your head back. His thumb presses your chin upward until your vertebrae groan, your throat stretched like a wire ready to snap. His face twists into a grotesque expression. A mix of pure excitement and hateful rage.

— "Huh?! That’s where you’re at, huh?"

You open your mouth, but no sound escapes. Your breath stolen. Your scream smothered. Black stars explode at the edge of your vision, flashes like silent lightning splitting your temples. Everything goes blurry. Everything fades away.

You feel your body struggling in vain, like a trapped animal. You want to scream, beg, bite, fight back — but you can’t even breathe anymore. Only that suspended moment, that unbearable vertigo. And the weight of his hand, relentless.

Your body begins to weaken. Your legs won’t hold you, your arms weigh a ton, and your breath shortens, harsh and ragged, caught somewhere between your chest and burning throat. You want to curl up, disappear, become empty so the pain will slide off without catching. But he’s not finished. He looks at you with an almost awed glint in his eyes, as if he’s finally discovered the best part of the show.

— "You’re fragile, you know that?" he murmurs, his sweetened voice laced with disgust. His hand slides down your arm with unbearable slowness, his fingers brushing your clammy skin as if testing its resistance.

Then he finds your wrist. The broken one. The one you protect without even realizing it. The one Stark examined, Bruce scanned, Peter glanced at with quiet worry. Matthew recognizes it. He grabs it. And with a swift, almost surgical twist, he jerks it.

Pain explodes instantly. It’s not a burn or a blow. It’s lightning ripping through you, shooting to your skull, reducing your entire being to a pure scream. You scream. A hoarse, raw cry torn from your guts. It shreds your throat, it tears the air, it tears you apart. It’s the cry of a body being crushed. Of dignity fracturing like bones under his grip. You’ve lost control. Your arm flails uselessly, and you feel your wrist swelling, pain flooding in like acid tide.

Matthew watches you, impassive. No — satisfied. Like a child crushing a bug and watching the twitching legs. He tilts his head slightly, almost tender. Then he finally lets go of your wrist, dropping it like useless trash. You collapse, your breath jagged, your throat raw, your cheek on the dirty floor. And he smiles.

— "There. Now you sound real," he says. And you want to disappear.

Until he sighs. Not from boredom — from contentment. A slow, satisfied breath, like after a hearty meal or a night of pleasure. And that sound, more than the blows, turns your stomach. He leans toward you, his words dripping like poisoned sugar.

— "You're cute when you're obedient."

A shiver runs through you, icy and foul, sliding down your spine like rancid oil. You want to rise, spit in his face, scream that you're not this, not this trembling thing he’s delighting in breaking. But you can’t. Your body responds only to pain now.

— "I wonder if Stark’s ever seen this version of you?" he whispers, mocking, his voice dripping with obscene amusement. He tilts his head, eyes gleaming like a predator savoring victory, taking time to admire the terror in its prey.

— "The little Stark Industries prodigy… on his knees, shaking, at someone’s mercy." He laughs. A fat, empty, unbearable laugh. And that sound hits you like another punch. Your stomach contracts. You want to get up, gather whatever pitiful strength remains, to throw a punch, a curse, anything. But your body stays there, inert, broken, paralyzed by fear and exhaustion. He feels it. He knows. He revels in your stillness like an offering.

And maybe that’s the worst part. This complicit silence between your breathless body and his endless cruelty. You’re just an empty puppet. And he’s taking full advantage.

His hand tightens slowly around your neck, his fingers pressing into your skin with deliberate slowness — almost tender, if not for the pain radiating into your jaw. You feel each knuckle, each squeeze, like a chain closing around your throat.

— "I'm going to call Stark now." His voice carries that false softness, that singsong tone that never means anything good. He’s playing. Enjoying himself. Like a cat with a mouse whose legs are already torn off.

— "And he’ll realize you’re not that important after all."

He pulls something from his pocket. You hear plastic crackle in his hand before you see it: a burner phone, plain, worn, probably stolen or bought to disappear right after. A banal object — but in his hands, it’s a weapon. He turns it on. The screen glows with a pale light. He taps a pre-saved number. No name, just digits. Your heart skips a beat.

He leans closer, pressing the phone against your bruised cheek, the screen nearly glued to your sweat-soaked, blood-streaked skin. The light outlines your face, illuminating the wreck you’ve become in a few hours. You’re forced to watch, to see the name appear, to hear the beeping tone echo on screen. A slow, repetitive pulse, vibrating through the rotting walls, like a muffled alarm. Each ring is a slap, a violent reminder of what you’re no longer: free, strong, dignified.

He doesn’t even look at you anymore. He stares at the screen with a smile glued to his face. He’s not waiting for a response. He expects nothing from the other side. Because to him, placing the call is already a victory. He’s reduced you to this — a voice that might beg. A proof of weakness to flaunt. A bargaining chip to threaten or break to get more.

And you, lying there helpless, hear your own breath tremble, caught in your throat, while the ringing continues, obsessive, like a countdown to the ultimate humiliation.

He grabs your hair again, his fingers digging into your scalp, and with a sharp tug, jerks your head back violently. Your vertebrae protest in a silent crack, sharp pain slicing up your neck, making your skull hum like a cracked tuning fork. But he doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t soften. He doesn’t care. He wants you stretched, exposed, offered.

— "Come on, pick up, asshole." His voice is snide, mocking, impatient, like he’s already savoring the upcoming show.

The phone buzzes in his hand. Beep. Then another. Beep. You feel tension thicken in the building’s humid air, each second tightening the knot in your gut. And suddenly — a click. The line opens. No doubt. The call went through. And that’s when he changes.

His voice shifts in a fraction of a second. The sneering tone vanishes. The insults fade. In their place, syrupy politeness, fake sweetness, the tone of a well-mannered parasite who knows he’s latched onto something valuable.

— "Good evening, Stark."

And immediately, he throws you to the ground like a sack of meat. Your back hits the rotten boards with a dull thud, and a strangled gasp escapes your throat — shock, pain, terror all in one. He did it on purpose. He wants Stark to hear. To make the impact echo. To let that gasp say more than any word ever could.

Then comes silence. One of those heavy, stretched, deadly silences. You hear only your ragged breathing, your racing heart, and in the receiver… a breath. Light. Controlled. But unmistakable. He’s listening. He’s there. And the tension turns glacial, like the blood itself freezing in your veins.

Then Stark’s voice. Calm. Controlled. But sharper than a scalpel. Each word placed with surgical precision, a cold threat oozing through the circuits.

— "You just made a fucking mistake." No yelling. No panic. Just that implacable statement — a promise.

Matthew chuckles. Not loudly. Not like some manic burst. No, it's a low laugh, grating, self-satisfied. A laugh reeking of cruelty and the smug certainty that he's got the upper hand.

— "Yeah? You think so?"

With a flick of his foot, he flips you onto your back, carelessly, like someone turning over a corpse just to check it’s really dead. Your head hits the floor with a dull crack, and you taste blood in the back of your throat.

— "What I think is, you care way too much about that kid. And that might cost you."

His hand slides slowly down your jawline, brushing the bruises, the cuts, the marks he's etched into your skin with blind rage. It's not a tender gesture. It's possession. Mockery embodied in a touch.

You try to turn your head, to recoil from that repulsive contact. But his fingers tighten around your face, forcing your gaze toward the phone.

— "Take a good look, Stark." His voice is thick with perverse glee. "He's not as strong as you think. Actually, he's... fragile." And without warning, he presses down hard on your fractured wrist.

Pain erupts through your arm like a grenade. Your vision blurs with searing tears, your back arches, and a scream bursts from you — raw, ripped, inhuman. It bounces off the bare walls, saturating the already stifling air. Matthew bursts out laughing.

— "You hear that?" He tilts the phone toward your mouth, like he's offering your agony live. "Beautiful, isn’t it? I think he's starting to learn his lesson."

Then, nothing. No sound from the other end. Just silence. A deathly silence. So thick it crushes your chest even more surely than Matthew's weight. A silence that says something just broke. Something Matthew may not have expected.

Then Stark speaks. One sentence. But every syllable slices like a blade honed against stone. Cold. Precise. Irrevocable.

— "You're dead."

Nothing else. Not a word more. None needed. Matthew doesn’t laugh. His smile freezes, just for a second. He flinches, almost imperceptibly. Like a cold current just ran down his spine. Then he straightens up, swallows the jolt, and puts his mask of arrogance back on.

— "You're right. I'm mortal, after all." He chuckles again, but the confidence is gone. "But before that... you're gonna pay, Stark."

He grabs you roughly under the shoulders, yanking you toward him like a weightless sack of sand. Your body screams in silent protest. Your ribs, your wrist, your skull — all shrieking. You don’t even have the strength to groan. Just a strangled gasp escapes as he hoists you up, the cold barrel of a gun suddenly pressed to your temple. He holds you like a trophy. Like a living threat. Like a ticking clock.

— "Ten million." His voice is steel. "And he sees him alive."

Then comes silence. Icy. Not a breath, not a sound, not a word through the speaker. A silence that presses. That claws. That devours. A silence that says death is no longer a threat — it’s a promise.

Then Stark’s voice returns. Lower. Slower. Each word dragged with surgical precision, like driving a blade into the moment’s flesh.

— "You have no idea what you’re doing."

No yelling. No screamed threats. Just that unbearable gravity in his tone. That promise of vengeance that won’t come in a flash of rage, but in a storm that leaves nothing standing. Matthew freezes for half a second. Just long enough for you to feel it. His fingers, clenched at your nape, tighten. A shiver runs down his spine, but he straightens immediately, violence reasserted on his face.

You feel his breath against your ear — hot, damp, animalistic. He looks at you the way one evaluates a stolen object. Gauging the value of a bargaining chip.

You're no longer a person. You’re currency.

— "You’ve got twenty-four hours."

A beep. Sharp. Final. The line goes dead. But not him. Not you. Not this creeping nightmare latched to your bones. Matthew remains still a second, frozen in a temporal fracture. Then he explodes. A swift, brutal motion — the burner phone flies from his hand and smashes to the ground with a sharp crack, small, insignificant, yet soaked in fury.

The smile he’s worn all along falters. A fraction of a second. A crack. Then he looks at you again. And you know it’s only just beginning.

Something’s changed in his eyes. A spark. A feverish glint replacing the simple rage. He’s not just hitting to blow off steam now. No. Now, he’s playing. He’s calculating. He’s savoring.

His smile returns. Slowly. Like a blade being sharpened. And this time, it’s worse than before. Worse, because he got what he wanted. Because he knows Stark heard. Because he knows Stark is coming. And that certainty? It intoxicates him. It makes him almost euphoric.

— "So now, we wait. Like good little boys."

He raises his hand. You see it. You know what’s coming. You can almost feel the air tremble around his fist. But your body is too heavy. Too slow. Too broken to react. Your eyelids flutter, your mind fights to stay present, but your muscles no longer respond. And when his fist slams into your face again, it’s the end. Everything goes black. The world disappears in a cold vertigo. A sticky, bottomless black hole that devours all.

You feel your body slipping backward, as if swallowed by an endless fall. You are nothing but pain. A dull, boiling pain that throbs in every corner of your being. Your brain tries to hold on to something, anything. But everything unravels.

Every nerve screams. Every bone grinds. Every part of you feels like it’s about to break, like a dam under pressure for far too long. You have no idea how much time has passed. Minutes. Hours. Days maybe. The world has lost all shape. All color. Just this void. And the burning.

Time stretches, warps, dilutes. It has no logic anymore. No rhythm. It collapses like your breath—irregular, chopped. Sometimes, you think you’re falling asleep, fading out, but the pain always pulls you back—a jolt, a spasm, a nerve twitch. You don’t even know if your eyes are open. You don’t even know if you’re breathing. Every movement, however small, is a tidal wave in your shattered chest, a ripple of fire in your wrist. Your skull pounds to the beat of a distant war drum.

You still hear his voice. It floats there, between your own body’s shallow sighs. No more screaming. Now it whispers. Sometimes, it laughs. And that’s worse. You want to hold on to something. A thought. A memory. A face. But even that, he’s taken from you. There’s nothing left. Nothing but pain. You drift somewhere between the void and a pain so sharp it seems to have hijacked your breath, your pulse, your entire being. You’re just a body in fragments, suspended in a black sea. Each heartbeat hammers your wounds like a rusted mallet, pumping a slow, searing poison through your veins. One pulse after another, like a sentence being carried out.

Then, slowly, you surface. Against the current. Pulled upward by a cruel force, a glacial drag that refuses to let you sink. And it’s the smell that greets you. The stench hits you first. Rancid. Foul. A blend of stagnant damp, rusted metal, dried blood, and animal sweat. The air is a swamp—thick as tar, laced with mildew and fear. Every breath is a battle, each inhalation a burn in your throat. The floor beneath your skin is freezing. Jagged. You feel the splinters, the cracks, the grime embedded in the cement. You’re lying on a hard surface, no warmth, no comfort. Your body is frozen, numbed by the blows, the cold, the shock. You want to move. You just want to turn your head.

But at the first attempt, a searing pain erupts in your chest, stabbing through like a spike. Your crushed ribs scream in unison. A muffled groan escapes your cracked lips. You swallow the rest. You swallow it all. Even that—you won’t give to him. And yet, a sound slices through the silence. Footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Deliberate.

They echo in the enclosed space like a countdown to judgment. The echo slides along the walls like a serpent. He’s not walking. He’s circling. Like a predator around a wounded body, waiting for the perfect moment to bite again. Then his voice. That laugh you’d recognize anywhere. Wet. Smug. Foul.

— "Oh… waking up, are we?"

Matthew.

Your stomach clenches. You tremble. From pain, from exhaustion, from rage. But in his eyes—it’s fear. And he likes it. It excites him. You can hear it in his voice, in his breath. You open your eyes. Slowly. Your eyelids are heavy, glued by sweat and blood. Your vision is blurry, distorted by tears, the harsh light, and fever. But his silhouette stands out. Unmistakable. He’s right there. In front of you.

Sitting on a rickety chair, legs apart, elbows on knees, as if watching a show. His face is lit by a sickly flickering neon above, deepening the shadows under his eyes and the vicious line of his grin. A predator’s grin. A hunter’s grin. You want to speak. You want to scream. You want to bite. But your throat is on fire. Dry, choked by panic, pain, and the memory of his hands. No sound comes out.

And he laughs.

— "Shit, you really look like hell now."

He watches you like a painter before his canvas, eyes scanning each mark, each bruise, each freshly inflicted wound—as if claiming his work, a blood signature carved into your skin. His gaze is both possessive and cruel, assessing the worth of your suffering. Casually, he drags on a cigarette, the smoke tangling with the already suffocating air, adding another layer of unease. Then, almost theatrically, he reaches toward you and, without hesitation, presses the ash into your skin. The burn is sharp, sudden, unbearable—a sting that makes you groan involuntarily, your head hitting the wall in an uncontrolled reflex.

Matthew bursts into a hoarse, inhuman laugh—like a predator roaring at its victory.

— "Think I like seeing that look on your face," he sneers, his voice soaked in perverse sadism.

Without waiting for you to catch your breath, he lunges forward and grabs your face. His thumb presses against your brow with clinical precision, and pain shoots through your skull as if every nerve ignites at his touch. He pulls you closer, forcing your gaze up, and with terrifying intensity, he says coldly:

— "Stark thinks you’re important, huh?" His pupils, gleaming with sadistic thrill, lock onto yours with ruthless determination.

— "You’re nothing but a pawn," he adds, merciless. You try in vain to look away, to escape this mirror of your own misery, but he holds you with brutal strength, chaining you to his control.

— "Look at me," he commands, then, as quickly as he grabbed you, he releases you.

Like in a horror film, your body—broken by pain and fear—slumps against the wall, powerless, with no energy left to fight back. You want to fight, to defend yourself, to scream, but you’re spent. Your mind and body have hit their limit. Matthew rises, circles the space slowly, looming like a beast prowling its prey. Then, without warning, he lunges and grabs your throat with a devastating motion. His grip is deliberate violence: a brutal hold, tight, calibrated not to knock you out, but to make you feel every second of your helplessness. In a chilling tone, he whispers,

— "If Stark shows up… I want him to find you on your knees." His smile widens—cruel, perverse—before adding with a stinging tone,

— "Broken."

A jolt of pain shakes you, your breath shortens, and your vision begins to blur. The impact has drained you, like a puppet without strings tossed in the chaos of a game you no longer control. Then Matthew pulls back and, with terrifying calm, sits back down, crosses his arms, and throws at you, detached:

— "You’ve got less than twenty-four hours before Stark pays." A merciless sneer draws across his face, heavy with dark promises, before he adds in a low, menacing voice:

— "And I’ll make sure every hour counts."

The atmosphere inside Stark Tower has become suffocating. A raw, stifling void fell over the room the moment the call ended. Not a word. Not a breath. Even the screens—normally vibrant and full of motion—seem frozen in a glacial suspension of time. The air hums with an electric tension, ready to snap at the slightest spark. But no one dares to move.

Tony remained there, unmoving, bolted to his leather chair as if the slightest motion might shatter the already precarious balance of the moment. His phone still rests on the desk—black, silent. Harmless. And yet, charged with threat. As if the poison distilled by that voice—Matthew’s—still clings to the walls, to the skin, to every frayed nerve.

His gaze is fixed, locked onto some invisible point ahead. But inside, everything is turmoil. A methodical chaos. His jaw is clenched so tightly you can almost hear the tension in his muscles. He hasn’t blinked since the call ended. Hasn’t drawn a full breath. He’s frozen in a state of absolute alert. In his mind, the words loop. Ten million. Or he dies. The echo seeps in, corrosive, like a blade jammed into his neck. He hears the scream again. He sees the blows. The blood. The bastard’s laughter. That parasite. That piece of shit.

Tony calculates. He maps trajectories in his head, estimates response times, potential locations. He pictures walls, angles, shadows. He does what he does best: finds the weakness. But this time, there are no elegant solutions. No multiple outcomes. Only one end. Matthew is not walking out of this. Not this time. Not after this. Not after what he’s done.

A sharp crack slices through the silence. Tony’s hand slams against the desk with a contained, brutal force, like thunder in a room already saturated with tension. The wood groans under the impact, and the noise, sharp as a blade, startles Pepper. She doesn’t cry out. Doesn’t flinch. But her fingers, clenched around the tablet she held, tremble—just enough to say she understands. She hasn’t spoken since the call ended. Not one word. But she knows. She knows exactly what’s brewing in the shadow of this silence, between Tony’s held breath and the icy fire in his eyes. She’s seen him like this before. Once. Maybe twice. And that look, that hollow black void that takes him over when his anger crosses a certain line… it’s never good. Never.

— “Tony.”

Her voice cuts the air like a fine blade, unwavering. Calm. Steady. But firm. The quiet authority of someone who’s been through every war by his side. Who knows his cracks. Who’s seen them open before. But he doesn’t really hear her. Not truly. His eyes remain fixed somewhere in the shadows. Black. Completely black. A void. His face is still, carved in cold rage. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. His breath is slow. Mechanical.

It’s an expression he hasn’t worn in a long time. Far too long.

And Pepper knows. When that look returns, something’s about to fall. Something is going to die. She steps forward—quick, determined. Her heels barely tap against the floor, but each step is a declaration of the battle to come. She moves around the desk without hesitation, comes to stand right in front of him—close enough to force eye contact. To make him see her. Hear her.

— “You can’t charge in blindly.”

A suspended silence. Then, finally, a blink. He closes his eyes. Slowly. As if the gesture costs him something. His head turns toward her, millimeter by millimeter. And when his gaze locks onto hers, the air between them turns to stone.

— “Look at me, Potts.”

The voice is low. Razor-sharp. Icy calm. Each syllable falls like drops of mercury onto an already frozen surface. A distant tone. Dangerous. One she never wanted to hear again.

— “You really think I’m just going to sit here and throw money at it?”

Pepper freezes. Just a second. It’s not a question. It’s a verdict. And it’s exactly what she feared.

— “We don’t even know where he took him.”

She tries. Again. But already, she can feel him slipping. Drifting to the other side. Where emotion is replaced by the machine. Cold revenge. Strategic intelligence weaponized.

— “I’ll find him.”

His fingers latch onto the desk edge, dig in like claws. Knuckles whitening with pressure. He doesn’t tremble. He doesn’t raise his voice. But everything in him screams. A silent rage. Surgical. And this time, she feels it—this isn’t Iron Man speaking. It’s the man. Tony Stark. And he’s ready to burn the whole city down to bring him back.

— “And then what?”

Bruce’s calm, deep voice cuts through the silence like a slow, deliberate blade. He’s just walked in—no noise, no display—but his presence shifts the entire room. It’s not a reproach. Not a command. It’s a question. But it holds an entire world of meaning. He heard the call. He saw the tension in Stark’s frame, the microscopic tremors in his hands still flat on the desk. He knows. He knows exactly what’s unfolding. And more importantly, he knows what Tony is capable of when fury eclipses reason.

— "What are you planning to do, Tony?"

There is no anger in his voice. Not like in Pepper's. No fear either. Only that heavy concern, laid down softly, almost paternally. The way you would speak to a man standing at the edge. Because he’s seen him jump before.

Stark doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are locked onto an invisible spot on the wall, frozen, opaque. He seems absent—but Bruce knows him too well. He’s not lost. He’s assembling everything. Every variable, every scenario, every option. It’s a silent storm behind those empty eyes.

And at the heart of that storm, one single certainty burns: he will find him. And he will make him pay. Dearly.

He rises in one sharp, abrupt motion, as if sitting one second longer might make him explode.

— "I’ve got work to do."

His voice is dry, metallic, stripped of all warmth. He grabs his phone in one hand, his glasses in the other—automatic, precise movements, like a machine rebooting with a single directive: locate, strike, eliminate. He doesn’t even glance at Pepper as he passes. He moves around her without slowing. Without a word.

— "Tony!"

She tries to stop him, just to make him pause, think one second longer. But he ignores her. He crosses the room like a heat-seeking missile. Unstoppable. Bruce, still standing motionless, watches the scene. His crossed arms slowly relax as he lets out a tired sigh.

— "He won’t wait."

— "I know." Pepper’s voice is tense. Exhausted. But she’s already calculating too.

He nods slightly.

— "Then we better make sure he doesn’t do something stupid."

His gaze stays fixed on the place Stark just vanished from, as if he’s afraid the whole building might follow the billionaire’s rage. Because with Stark in that state... there will be no half-measures. Only consequences.

You don’t know how long you’ve been here. There are no more points of reference. No more day, no more night. Just this dirty, pallid light pinning you down in a morbid in-between. The concrete beneath your back is freezing, uneven, but your skin is burning. The fever rises in suffocating waves, gluing your clothes to your sweat-soaked body. Every breath is torture. A sharp blade lodged in your side, slowly slicing the inside of your ribcage with every movement, every sigh. You breathe in fragments. You breathe offbeat.

The room is a prison of concrete and mold, drowned in a swampy gloom. A single bulb hangs from the ceiling, squeaking, suspended from a wire that's far too long, swaying at the slightest draft. Its light flickers, pulses, like the beat of a sick heart. Shadows crawl across the damp walls, twisting into monstrous shapes, puppets of a cruel theatre. They distort, stretch, merge with you. Sometimes, you think you see something move—but it’s only your fever. Or your mind, slowly breaking.

And the silence. The real kind. The one that doesn’t comfort. The one that clings to your skin, screaming of absence, of solitude, of death waiting to happen. That silence is worse than the blows. It's full of what might come. It devours you from within.

Then, footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Steady. The sound of a verdict approaching. They echo off the walls like an ending. Each step makes your stomach churn. You recognize it immediately. That rhythm, that weight, that way of walking like the world belongs to him. Matthew.

He had left you alone. You don’t know for how long. Maybe hours. Maybe a day. But he always comes back. He never truly disappears. He haunts you even in his absence. And when he returns, it’s always worse. Like a nightmare you thought was over, coming back crueler, more inventive.

You feel him before he even speaks. His gaze pierces you through the darkness. You feel it crawling across your skin, your wounds, your weakness. You close your eyes, but it doesn’t help. He’s here.

— "Still holding on, kid?"

His voice drips with pleasure. That filthy pleasure of seeing you on your knees, broken, on the edge. You don’t answer. You can’t. Your throat is on fire. Your mouth, dry. And more than anything, you don’t want to give him that. Even if you have nothing left.

You fixate on a spot on the wall. Anything, just to avoid meeting his eyes. But you already know he’s coming closer. That he won’t leave you be. Not yet. Not now.

Your body is nothing but ruins. A carcass, wheezing, too weak to sit up, too damaged to even shiver properly. Every part of you is a silent scream. Every bone seems ready to break again. Your muscles are raw cords, pulled to the limit. Your breath is shallow, erratic, caught in a vice of pain and fever. You don’t even know how you're still holding on.

But Matthew can’t stand that. The silence. That muteness that slips through his fingers. That refusal to scream. He takes it as an insult.

A metallic sound rings in the muggy air. Something he picks up, without hurry. Then, the blow. Brutal. An explosion inside your skull. Your head slams against the wall behind you with a dull, animalistic thud. You feel the stone scrape your skin, a hot wetness dripping down your neck—blood, sweat, you can’t tell. Your jaw clenches. You resist the scream, the primal urge to cry out. You give him nothing.

— "I said: still holding on?"

His voice is harder now, clipped. He wants to hear you. Wants you to crack, to beg, to plead. He wants to rip away the last shreds of dignity you still have. Reduce you to flesh, to barely human breath. But you don’t scream.

You hate him too much for that.

Even if your body shakes. Even if you are nothing but pain and vertigo. Even if every nerve in your back screams for it to end. You cling to your silence like a weapon. One of the last things he hasn’t taken from you. A thick silence falls again in the room. Heavy. Viscous. Suffocating. Then he crouches. Slowly. Too slowly. Like a predator approaching a dying prey, not to finish it off, but to watch it suffer from up close.

He’s there, right in front of you. At eye level. And you can feel his breath.

— "You think Stark’s coming, huh?"

He pulls a cigarette from his pocket, rolls it between his fingers like he’s got all the time in the world. Lights it with a lazy, ceremonial gesture. The crackle of tobacco cuts through the silence, a harsh soundbite in this endless night. He takes a long drag. And looks at you. Like he’s already savoring what’s next.

He exhales slowly in your direction, a calculated, calm provocation. It hits your face—thick, acrid, blending with the room’s stench, with sweat, with dried blood. It makes you cough, stings your throat, but you stay silent. Still. Only your gaze locked on him.

— "You think he really cares that much?" The laugh that follows is low, filthy, soaked in that smug contempt that makes you nauseous.

— "You’re no more special than the rest. It’s just a game, kid. He pays. He gets his toy. And he forgets you in a week."

You slowly lift your eyes to him, each blink sending a pulse of pain through your temples. But in your gaze, despite the fever, despite the tremors, there’s something even he can’t stomach. A cold hatred. Silent. Relentless. And he sees it. He feels it. He loves it. His smile stretches. Slowly. Disgustingly. Then, without warning, his expression shifts. Freezes. Closes off. There’s no more amusement in his eyes. Just a primal, instinctive command: strike.

His fist flies before you even have time to see it. It cuts through the air—fast, brutal—and bursts your brow open with a soft, horrible thud. Your head jerks to the side under the impact, slams against the wall. A white light explodes behind your eyelids.

The pain is immediate, explosive, and your vision blurs at once. Blood trickles down your temple in a warm line, sticky and inevitable. You feel it seep into your mouth, metallic, nauseating. You don’t move. Not a cry. Not a word. But it’s your gaze he’s aiming for.

— "Stop looking at me like that."

His voice is harsher. Deeper. A new tension, colder, more direct. Because he knows. He feels that despite everything he’s done to you, he hasn’t broken you. Not completely. And that, he can’t stand.

He grabs your collar with a dry, brutal grip, lifting you a few inches off the ground—just enough for your feet to lose contact before dropping you back down. Your legs buckle instantly, unable to support your weight. You collapse against him like a puppet whose strings were cut, your body heavy, slack. A broken puppet. And he knows it. He sees it. He feeds on it.

— "Still wanna play tough?"

His voice is low, mocking, but he doesn't wait for an answer. Because he knows he's pushed you to the edge. Because he knows that answering means playing his game. And you refuse to give him that. You stay silent, despite the tension in your throat, despite the rotting adrenaline twisting your gut. He sighs—a long, impatient breath, as if your resistance is nothing but an annoying whim.

Then, slowly, like one savoring a meal long prepared, he lifts his hand. The cigarette, still lit, glows between his fingers. He brings it closer to your arm, just above the bruised skin. The heat brushes against you at first, a scorching breath, almost bearable. You tense despite yourself. But you don’t move. You want to believe he’s bluffing. You want to believe he’s only after a reaction, a flicker of panic, a flinch.

But no.

He’s not bluffing. The cigarette presses against your skin with a vile sizzle, the hiss of burning flesh twisting your insides. A wave of raw pain shoots through you, blinding, inhuman. You gasp. You clench your teeth. But no scream comes. Only that awful sensation, that searing burn drilling into your bones, branding itself deep into your flesh. Matthew clenches his jaw, his features tightened with a dull fury he no longer bothers to hide.

— "You’re exhausting, you know that?" His tone is sharp, irritated, but not tired. He still has energy to burn. He just wants it to hurt. He presses the cigarette against your skin again, grinding the ember with a slow, controlled twist—like plunging a blade just for the pleasure of it.

This time, you can’t hold the moan back. It slips out—hoarse, muffled, broken. And he smiles. A satisfied sneer, almost relieved. He got what he wanted. A sign. A crack. He straightens slowly, like he has all the time in the world, like there’s nothing more urgent than watching the damage.

— "You’ve got a few hours left before Stark pays."

His hand drifts lazily across the rotting table until it finds the gun lying there like a stage prop. He picks it up, twirls it between his fingers with the ease of a man who fears nothing. Then, without warning, he points the barrel right at you. Not to shoot. Just to remind you it could happen. That it will happen.

— "If you’re lucky."

And without another word, he turns and walks out, leaving you alone. Alone with the searing pain on your charred skin. Alone with the taste of blood, the gnawing humiliation, and the sticky dread settling in. An anticipation that tastes like nightmares and smells like dried blood.

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