#totally not fifty fifty reference | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cinnamorollcrybaby · 7 months ago

Note

Can you pretty please write something like the Nanami college au again?? It was so funnn <33 love your work!

Shibari Master

Tags: dom!nanami x fem!reader, college au, nsfw, mdni, bdsm relationship, fluff, mutual pining, slight angst, happy ending don't worry.

Synopsis: Nanami is the stoic, silent, strong type. He excels in each class he’s put in. He’s never one to cause trouble, but… there have been whispers around the university. “I hear he likes to tie girls up for fun…” “My friend says he’s a freak in bed and left marks all over her.” “Someone told me he has ropes in his dorm.” It seems like Kento has a secret.

An: You guys really seem to love the college au Nanami 😭 I don’t mind. I actually really love writing him. This isn't necessarily a sequel or part two, but I hope this is something that you were hoping for. This is another long one. Strap in.

You were the type of person who really kept to themselves while in college. So many people told you that you would meet some lifelong friends and studying in university, but you didn’t really see the point. Everyone went their separate ways after college. There was no point in befriending anyone in there.

Well, Shoko’s the exception. She’s like a sickness that you just can’t fully get rid of. No matter how closed off you were, she just continued to tease and banter with you. You two often found yourselves sitting next to each other in class or in the dining hall.

Sure, you two had fun being absolute haters together. “Oh my god, yn. Look at what he’s wearing.” Shoko would whisper into your ear, referring to the guy in the hentai face hoodie that no man who gets pussy wears.

Shoko had friends. She was close with all sorts of people: the athletes, the quiet ones, anime nerds, trouble makers, everyone. She didn’t discriminate, which means she had a lot of gossip on everyone.

You were sat next to her in the dining hall as you leisurely munched on an apple. She was yapping about some people in drama club that got caught fucking in the auditorium, “a total orgy” was how she described it.

Your mind was elsewhere though. While you weren’t keen on making friends, you weren’t immune to crushes though. A man like Nanami was right up your alley. He was quiet, respectful, the hottest man you’ve ever seen and smart.

“Girl.” Shoko nudges your arm and furrows her eyebrows at you when you’re not giving her all your attention. “You are not ogling over Kento fucking Nanami right now, are you?” Goddamn her sense of social cues. You could get nothing over her.

“And if I am?” You ask, taking another bite from your apple before turning to face her with an almost challenging look.

“My little yn is finally coming out of her shell.” Shoko grinned up at you. She could never resist picking on you a little bit. “No, but seriously, I’ve heard some crazy things about him.”

“Like what?” You immediately ask with a puzzled expression. What kind of crazy things would Nanami get up to? He seems so strait laced. It’s hard to imagine him doing anything ‘crazy’.

“I heard he likes to tie up girls for fun.”

Oh shit.

Now, as a person who had unrestricted internet access as a kid and a recovering tumblr user, you knew what BDSM was. In fact, you were pretty well acquainted with the concept. Even as it was now more widely accepted after the movie Fifty Shades of Grey (which in your opinion, missed the mark on portraying a healthy BDSM relationship), BDSM still felt a little taboo. It was like a forbidden fruit to you, one that you thought about often.

“So? A man has a kink. Be so for real right now.” You respond as you glance back over at Nanami.

“No babes, it’s not just a kink. Like… I’ve heard that he didn’t touch them like that..”

“Oh…” You almost want to fucking pout upon hearing that.

“Oh yn, you freak.” Shoko laughs as she pokes your cheek. “You totally want him to tie you up.”

“I mean…” You give her a look which makes her laugh even harder.

“Stop.” She says while still laughing. “I heard it something called like shibari…”

*** *** ***

That night instead of researching for your upcoming term paper, you spent all night on the Shibari Reddit and reading up on different forums.

It was nearly three in the morning. Your fingers are scrolling on some sort of shibari blog, and you can’t help but feel almost jealous of these people. It was like an art and BDSM activity all in one. You wanted to do that.

You wanted Nanami to do that to you.

Your eyes are nearly half-lidded when you come across another blog. It was so late. You knew you should probably get some rest, but one more blog couldn’t hurt.

The knots were beautiful and intricate on the model’s skin. There was one photo where large veiny hands were cupping her cheeks as she was tied up. Damn. The master had nice hands.

You learned quickly that the ones who were being tied were called models, and the one who were doing the tying were called masters.

The next photo on the blog was even more erotic than the last. Another model tied up in pretty pink rope, and a tie was being held around her neck.

You’ve seen that tie before. It was unmistakable.

The only man who wears a yellow and black tie like that was Kento Nanami.

Heart pounding, you check the caption:

Knots done by KN

This was too much to be a coincidence, right?

You keep scrolling until you come across a text post instead of a picture.

Looking for models in the Kyoto area. College shibari master looking to teach.

Holy fuck. This had to be fate, right? You felt your stomach swirling with butterflies as you hovered over the message button. What are the odds that this isn’t Nanami?

Yn: Hi.. I saw where you were looking for models to teach.. I was wondering if I could get some info on that.. Sorry to bother you so late!!

Gods. You sounded like an absolute dork. You wanted to delete the message, but it was likely that the master already received it. What had you done?

*** *** ***

You could barely sleep last night, plagued with dreams of ropes and Nanami using his tie on your wrists or neck. You were lucky that you didn’t have a morning class today.

Drowsily sitting up, you reluctantly checked your phone. It was nearly noon since you had stayed up so late. Scrolling through your notifications, your heart nearly stopped when you saw a message from that blog last night.

KN: No need to apologize. Yes, I am looking to teach a new model. What kind of information would you like?

Ohmygod. Ohmygod. Ohmygod.

Yn: Thanks for getting back to me!! I was kinda wondering if you charge anything for a session..?

KN: No, I don’t charge anything. I go through a pretty extensive recruiting process with my models though.

Yn: What might that include..?

KN: First, I like to get to know them on a deeper level than just first name basis. I want to know what kind of understanding they have about shibari.

KN: Then, I request that the model provides me with some kind of proof that they’re in the right medical condition for shibari. It is a demanding art that does include some physical aspects. I want to know what your body can handle.

KN: After that, I try out practice knots on the model, making sure they’re absolutely comfortable every step of the way. I think of this as a trial run.

KN: Granted all goes well, I then draft up a beneficial agreement between the both of us.

Oh. This was so much more than you could’ve bargained for. You didn’t even expect for him to respond back, but he was talking about an agreement??

If this was Nanami, then you could feel yourself falling even more hopelessly for him. If this wasn’t Nanami, you were definitely reluctant to move forward.

Yn: An agreement..?

KN: Don’t let that word discourage you. I’m a man of rules and principles, that’s all. We’ll talk more if we get there.

If.

That word felt like a bee sting right in the gut. As delusional as it may sound, it felt like he was already discounting you without completely being rude.

You didn’t even know what you were thinking when you messaged this person on the internet. You weren’t even sure it was Nanami. The idea of shibari was appealing, tempting even, but you really didn’t want to just experience it with any type of person.

A message on your phone grabs your attention.

KN: May I take you out to coffee sometime, yn?

This was probably wrong, but it felt right. Something was pulling you to keep texting him.

Yn: I don’t normally meet strangers from the internet so quickly.

KN: Oh? We’re strangers? I would’ve at least considered us to be acquaintances.

Your eyes widen as you stare down at your phone. This might actually be Kento Nanami messaging you, and he offered to take you out to coffee. You were now aware of how hard your heart was pounding in your chest.

Yn: Is this Kento Nanami..?

KN: It is. Was it not obvious?

Yn: It definitely was. I think I was just nervous and didn’t want to get my hopes up.

KN: Get your hopes up? You were hoping for it to be me?

Yn: Is it weird if I was..?

KN: I would consider it to be cute rather than weird.

KN: About that coffee..?

*** *** ***

A pile of discarded clothes lay on your bed as you were trying on another outfit while Shoko watched you. You had hated everything you have tried on so far.

“What’s so great about Nanami anyways?” Shoko asks as she opens up your window and lights up a cigarette. You’ve begged her to stop smoking, but she adamantly refuses, stating “at least I’ll die happy”.

“He’s just… kind of mysterious, is he not?” You ask as you’re looking at yourself in a full length mirror. You were to meet him in about thirty minutes at a local coffee shop near the campus.

Your body is being hugged by mocha brown shirt and a brown plaid pleated skirt.

“Jesus, yn. Is he getting to know you or your ass?” Shoko jokes as she grins up at you with her cigarette tucked between her lips.

“Both if I’m lucky.” You wink at your friend who rolls her eyes playfully at you.

“And you’re one hundred percent sure you’re not into girls? What does Nanami have that I don’t?” Shoko’s no stranger to flirting with you. It was just her personality type. Though, if you were into girls, Shoko would definitely be your type.

“I’m sorry. When did you grow a dick?”

“You’re saying you wouldn’t suck my strap?” She playfully pouts and gives you a look that almost makes your heart skip a beat.

“For you, Sho? I just might.” You continue to banter with her as you grab your purse.

“You better go before I steal Nanami’s woman.” She looks away from you as she snuffs her cigarette against the outside brick.

“I’m not his woman.” You retort as you head towards the door.

“Yeah, yeah, I better be your maid of honor. I wanna wear a tux though.”

You laugh at your friend’s boldness and decide to hurry down to the coffee shop, not wanting to keep Nanami waiting. He seems like the type of guy to value punctuality.

As you arrive to the local shop, you marvel at how nice the shop looks. The walls are painted with a soft eggshell white, and it has accents of dark oak wood and black decorations. It’s decorated high and low with botanical plants

Nanami was sitting in the corner of the shop in a more private area of the shop. He seemed to already be sipping on a coffee of sorts. You feel your heart start to pound at the sight of him. He was wearing a black button-up shirt that hugged his muscular arms so deliciously thanks to his harness that he was also wearing. His beige slacks also fit his frame nicely. You might dare say, Nanami has a nice ass.

His hazel eyes lifted up from a book he was reading, and his lips so subtly quirked up into a smile as soon as he caught a glance of you. He stood up from his seat and pulled your chair out for you like the gentleman he was.

“You look lovely.” His deep voice made your head spin for a moment. Sure, you had heard him during class, but he sounded much more relaxed and less robotic.

“As do you.” You respond before realizing your blunder. “I mean, you look handsome-“ The words quickly fall from your mouth.

“Oh? I'm not lovely?" He asks, an edge a playfulness in his tone. You didn't know he had the capabilities for that.

"I- No- I meant. You are?"

"Relax. I don't bite." He takes a small sip from his coffee before lazily looking back up at you. "Unless you ask me to."

Heat floods your face, and you immediately cross your legs together, trying not to show your obvious likeness to that idea. "Good to know." You finally manage to say after a moment.

He gives you a kind, warm smile in response. "Do you want to order a coffee? Then, we can get to know each other more?" He asks in a reassuring tone. His presence is nerve racking, but he also provides almost a sense of comfort. He has things under control, and you just have to follow along.

"Sure." You agree, and he walks with you up to the counter to order a drink.

"Can I get a vanilla latte please?" You ask, and the barista types in your order before rambling off your total. You reach into your purse to retrieve your credit card, but Nanami subtly nudges you while handing the barista his card.

"I could've gotten that..." You quietly state, feeling guilty that he paid for you. Nanami shakes his head with a small scoff of amusement.

"I invited you out, yn. I wouldn't expect for someone to pay for something that I invited them out to." Nanami assures you before the barista hands you your latte. You make the mental note to get him back at a later date.

The both of you settle back in at your table.

"So, how did you find my blog?" He asks with a small, curious smile on his face.

"Well..." You start off, but your voice trails off. Not fancying the idea of telling him that you and Shoko had gossiped about him, you decide to bend the truth just a bit. "I've always been intrigued by the idea of BDSM, and I just kinda fell down a rabbit hole of shibari, which led me to your page."

"Oh really? What intrigued you the most about BDSM?" He cocks an eyebrow up at you, his smile never fading.

"Trust, mostly." You respond sheepishly.

Nanami couldn't have came up with a better answer himself. He shifted his position a bit, and he leaned into the table ever so slightly. "Trust... Is that what excites you?"

You feel your heart flutter in your chest as you gaze into his hazel eyes. "Yeah... being able to follow in someone's lead because I trust they're sense of judgment. That's what excites me."

"A woman after my own heart." He jokes kindly as he leans back into his seat. "So, no experiences with BDSM or shibari though? Just intrigue?"

"Yeah... just intrigue." You agree as you tug your bottom lip between your teeth.

"What all do you know about shibari?"

"Hm, I know the roles of master and model... I know there are different color ropes. It seems like a very emotional act..." He nods at what you're saying.

"It can be very emotional for both the model and the master. It's a huge test of vulnerability, trust, submission, and leadership. You know, Yn, if I ever have the honor of tying you, I will be holding your life in my hands."

You feel the heat rush to your face and between your legs from his words. There was something about giving him that level of control over you that drove you mad on the inside. You almost wanted to tell him that you wanted to skip to the trial run, but you knew that his process was what was best.

"I.. I know that... The honor...?" You softly question, causing for him to gently laugh.

"Yes, the honor. Never ever let a dom or master make you feel like your submission is anything less than a privilege. You don't owe me or anyone any part of you."

Jesus Christ. How was this man even real?

"Uh.. Noted... So, how did you find shibari..?" You hate how spacey you get when you're feeling nervous, but you don't want to fuck up and say the wrong thing.

"I always took pride in photography, so when I found photos of shibari, I knew that was something I wanted to capture. The leadership role was not always something I've been good at." He explains as he gaze drifts down towards his coffee. You're silently grateful that the coffee shop isn't too busy. They're also playing soft lo-fi tunes that drown out yours and Nanami's conversation.

"How long have you been a master?" You curiously ask, feeling a small pit in your stomach as you remember he has had other models.

"Well, I've been tying knots on people since I turned eighteen, but I'd say I really became a master at it when I turned twenty-one. That's also when I really started to take it more seriously. I use to just tie up whoever volunteered just so I could learn the knots on an actual human body. That got me into some shitty situations, so once I gained enough experience, I decided to do this little recruitment process."

"Is this just a hobby or..?"

"I see it as a lifestyle, one that I don't bother hiding."

"Then, what are you in Uni for?" You ask as you tilt your head to the side a bit, feeling confused as to why he was in college if he seemed to only have a passion in something he was already a master at.

He gives you another amused laugh. "Business." He replies.

"Why would you be in the business major?"

"I run my own business, darling. The pictures of shibari I take aren't free, with the exception of the ones I post to my blog to market it. I also photograph other things as well."

"Ohh..." You drawl as you feel a bit embarrassed for not considering that aspect. "So... how many models do you have...?" You reluctantly ask, unable to squash the growing pit in your stomach.

A small smile curls on Nanami's face as he looks at you with an unreadable expression. He seems to completely think through his response before he opens his mouth.

"I wouldn't necessarily say I have any models of my own." He answers, but that really only fills you with more questions instead of reassurance.

"So... that means...?" You ask, not daring to look up from your coffee mug. It was foolish to want a sense of monogamy from him at this early of a stage. You knew it was, but you still couldn't get behind the idea of him having multiple models.

"It means that..." The door to the cafe jingles, and Nanami's face immediately shifts to a more serious one. It's an expression that you're use to because it's the one he uses around campus. He looks unamused and almost annoyed.

"Nanamiiin!!!" A white-haired male drawled as he approached your table. You recognized him as another student from uni.

"Gojo." Kento greets in a flat tone as he eyes the male. Gojo seems to not take any offense to Nanami's tone, and he plops down on the bench seat right next to him.

"Are you on a date, Nanami?" Gojo teases as he eyes you then looks back at the blonde with a grin.

"What are you doing here, Gojo? You don't even like coffee." He says, completely ignoring the other's question.

"This cafe has a really good hot chocolate, you know. Also, am I not allowed to run into my best friend while he's in public with a pretty girl?" Gojo cuts his bright blue eyes towards you, beckoning for you to speak up.

"Oh, are you two friends?" You ask, unable to bear Gojo's omniscient stare.

"The closest." Gojo replies before draping his arm around Nanami's shoulder. Your date rolls his eyes and shrugs Gojo's arm off of him.

"Too close in my opinion." Nanami grumbles lowly.

"So cruel, Nanamin." Gojo pouts over at his friend who doesn't budge in the slightest. "Are you at least going to introduce me to your date?"

"No, leave."

"Nanamiiiin~!"

"My name's Yn." You interject their little spat as you hold out your hand towards Gojo's.

"Yn, what a pretty name for an even prettier girl." He says as he takes your hand and brings your palm up to his lips.

Before either of you could react, a strong hand grabs onto Gojo's wrist, preventing him from kissing your hand. "If you intend on keeping your hand and your dignity, I'd leave now."

Your eyes slightly widen as you watch the covert struggle between the two men. You can’t help but be hyper aware of your heart pounding in your chest. Was he being territorial… over you?

Satrou looks back over at Nanami with a smug grin before he releases your hand. He then drags Nanami’s hand up to his mouth and presses a small, polite kiss to his hand as if to piss the blonde off more. “You should bring her to the pool party next weekend, Nanamin.” He suggests with a grin.

Satoru then stands from his seat. “It was nice meeting you, yn. I hope to see you again soon.” He then promptly leaves the cafe - without even buying a hot chocolate.

Nanami takes a few moments to repress his anger back down. He takes a deep breath before speaking up. “I’m so sorry about him. He doesn’t understand boundaries at all. He didn’t make you feel uncomfortable, did he?”

“No, no, it’s alright! I’m okay.” You assure him with a reassuring smile.

He nods and returns a relieved smile before checking his watch and softly sighing. “I have to go… I would like to see you again.”

You can’t help the smile that creeps up on your face as you nod your head. “I’d like that too..”

“Do you have a free day before next weekend?” He asks before drinking the rest of his coffee. You had only just now noticed that he was drinking straight black coffee.

“Oh, uh, Wednesday afternoons are free.” You respond, feeling a flutter in your chest from the promise of seeing him again.

“Wednesday afternoon it is. How do you feel about coming to my dorm?”

His dorm? The one that’s rumored that he keeps ropes in? You can already feel your excitement bubbling up inside you.

“Your.. uh.. roommate will be there?” You ask, silently kicking yourself for how you stumbled over your words.

“Hm? No, no, I don’t have a roommate.” He assures with a small smile. “I paid the extra money. Considered it to be an investment towards my lifestyle since practicing shibari would be hard to do with a roommate.”

The new information only makes you feel more nervous and excited. For one, it was an extra thousand dollars to be roomed alone. That was no small “investment”. For two, this meant you were going to be alone with him in his room - with ropes.

“Oh.. uh, yeah, I’m okay with that.” You finally respond after a moment.

“Perfect.” He stands from his seat and looks down at you again. You have to crane your neck upward to look at his face. It’s your first time seeing him up close like this. He was tall, and his muscles and veins made you want to salivate all over the table. “See you then.” He mumbles before affectionately patting your head and leaving the cafe.

*** *** ***

The wait until Wednesday dragged on and on. You were so antsy to finally see Nanami again. You had filled your time gushing to a very skeptical Shoko and stalking his blog. He hadn’t posted anything new yet, which you decided to be a good thing. Maybe he didn’t really have any other models?

You politely knocked on his dorm door, triple checking that you went to the right one. He had texted you which one was his this morning.

The door open a moment later, and you were greeted to the sight of a cozy looking Nanami. He wasn’t in his normal attire - just a t-shirt that fit him way too tightly and a pair of grey sweatpants. Slut.

“Hi.” You greeted awkwardly, not knowing what to say.

“Hello.” He let out a puff of air in amusement to your candidness. “Come in.” He says as he moves out of your way. “Make yourself at home, please. I figured we could watch a movie today unless you wanted to do something else.”

Yeah, Nanami - do you. You silently thought to yourself.

“A movie sounds good.” You casually reply as you stroll into his dorm room. It was the average size of a dorm room, but since he didn’t have a roommate, it felt a lot larger. He had a couch where the other bed would go.

Taking in more detail, it was incredibly clean yet cozy. Your eyes drifted around his plain looking room. You don’t really know what you expected, but you assumed there would be some sort of hint to shibari.

That’s when your eyes find a coat hanger, but it wasn’t hanging up coats. Bundles of differently colored ropes hung from the hooks. He had every color of the rainbow and even some multi-colored ropes as well.

Biting your lip slightly, you wondered how the ropes would feel against your skin - if they’d be soft or rough. Would he be gentle or rough?

“I see you found my collection.” His voice slightly startles you, causing for you to flinch. A small chuckle of amusement escapes him from your skittish behavior.

“Oh- uh, yeah, sorry..” You apologize, not wanting for him to think you’re weird.

“Don’t be. I assumed you’d be curious. Want to touch one?” He offers as his hand slowly finds the small of your back, and he casually guides you over to the coat hanger in the corner of the room.

“I’m allowed?” You sheepishly ask.

“I wouldn’t have offered if you weren’t.” He calmly laughs as his hand grazes across a white rope. “This is called jute rope. It’s made for comfort and aesthetics.”

You nod your head and carefully reach out to brush your hand against the rope as if it was made of glass. The rope really was silky smooth. You almost wish your clothes were made out of the same material.

“I didn’t expect it to be so soft.” You muse quietly, allowing your hand to continue petting the rope.

“It’s made with comfort of models in mind. It won’t leave any rope burns or anything like that on their skin.” He explains, and his hand moves to a different rope. “This one on the other hand is hemp rope. It’s rougher, so it can sit more snugly against the skin. It’s great for tight knots and suspension.”

You follow his lead, carefully touching the next black hemp rope. It was rougher than the jute rope. “Suspension?” You quietly ask.

“That’s for experienced models and masters. It’s a whole different breed of shibari - one that requires a huge foundation of trust and understanding of each other’s bodies.” Nanami explains as he watches your facial expressions.

“Oh.. have you ever suspended someone before..?” You can’t help your curiosity when it comes to his experience level.

“Once, but it was sheerly for practice.” He calmly answers before moving his hand over to the soft pink rope next to it. You immediately recognize that rope from the pictures on his blog. “This one is made of cotton. It’s extremely soft and lightweight, great for beginners models.”

You reluctantly reach out and barely touch the pink one. It was incredibly soft, but you can’t help but think about the lucky girl posing in his pictures and how pretty she looked in his hands.

“You recognize this one, don’t you?” He asks, immediately noticing your withdrawal.

“Yeah.” You respond as you look away from him and the ropes. You knew you were being dramatic, but some part of you couldn’t help it.

It’s obvious to you that the girls he’s tied up in the past spread those rumors about him, telling everyone what he likes to do in his free time. You painted a narrative in your head that all the other girls he’s tied up in the past aren’t really into shibari. They probably just wanted to get in his pants. Okay, maybe that was an unfair assumption.

“Hey.” Nanami speaks up, and his hand gently cups your cheek, making you look up at him. “We can pick out your own rope, okay? I want you to be comfortable, and if using ropes that have been on other models makes you uncomfortable, I’ll buy a whole set just for you.”

It’s a heartfelt gesture - proving that he has your best interest in mind. It didn’t completely put an end to your bitter jealousy, but it helped.

“I don’t want you to spend that kind of money just because of my downfall.”

"Downfall-? No, darling, it's not a downfall, and please, there is nothing else in the world I'd rather buy than new shibari ropes. As soon as you can provide a doctor's note to me, I'd love to take you and pick out ropes for you together." Nanami's hand stays firm on your cheek, not allowing for you to look away from him. His voice sounds raw - he's being serious.

Something about him planning for the future makes you relax a bit. He's planning this stuff already as if you're spot in his lifestyle is already guaranteed.

Swallowing harshly, you slowly nod your head. "If it's something you'd like to do as well, I think it would help me feel a bit more comfortable."

"It is. I want this to be as fun for you as it will be for me." His voice drops an octave lower as his eyes rest upon you, practically drinking in the sight of you. Slowly dipping his head towards your ear and neck, he whispers, "You're going to look so pretty tied up. I'm excited to see what color you'll pick."

Oh.

You immediately press your thighs together, trying to subtly hide your arousal from his words. Gods, you were so easy. He didn't even have to do much to get you all worked up.

The two of you lounge on his couch, watching a movie that he has playing on his laptop. He has his arm comfortably placed around the back of the couch. Since you were watching on a laptop, you had to sit rather close to him.

The lingering scent of his cologne in the air made you feel feral, and you could feel his body heat radiating from his body. The movie was just a blur at this point as you were silently wishing he'd just wrap his arm around your shoulders and pull you closer.

You sneakily catch a glimpse of his face, and you notice his eyes are closed. His breathing is even and deep. He fell asleep next to you.

What an absolute cutie.

Carefully, you reach out to the coffee table and pause the movie. With no more background noise, you can hear the soft and subtle snores escaping from his mouth.

Deciding that it would be too weird for you to stay in his space while he's unconscious, you carefully try to stand. but two strong arms loop around your waist and pull you back down - right into his lap.

"Stay." He murmurs quietly. His voice was still breathy from sleep. "Please?"

You gaze up at him, and his eyes were still closed. He had his face nuzzled into your hair while holding onto you like you were a damn teddy bear. Refusal wasn't an option. Even in his sleep, Nanami was stronger than you.

"I'll stay." You whisper back to him, knowing good and well that he was fast asleep. Getting cozy in his lap, you allowed your eyes to slip close as well.

*** *** ***

He apologized profusely to you for falling asleep once you two woke up from your cozy nap. You reassured him that it was okay. You were grateful that he felt comfortable enough to fall asleep next to you, and it seemed like you both needed that nap.

In order to make it up to you, Nanami invited you to that pool party that Satoru mentioned at the cafe. If you had the guts to meet Satoru and still stick around, you may as well meet the rest of his friends.

Now it's Friday, the day before the pool party. You hadn't really heard from Nanami since he invited you, but he was active on his blog. That sick feeling clouded in your stomach upon seeing another model tied up in the white rope you were just touching on Wednesday.

Jealousy's a bitch.

Deciding that you really couldn't be upset, you weren't even technically one of his models. It was also very possible that Nanami was posting older pictures that he had taken before you had even messaged him.

You couldn't stand to sit on the sidelines for much longer. If you wanted to become one of his models, you needed to go down to the clinic and get a physical to prove to Nanami that you were in good health.

Surprisingly, it was easy to lie to the nurse and say that you need a physical to join the volleyball team. She didn't suspect a thing as she had you sit down on one of the cots and fill out a clipboard.

Since this was a university clinic, privacy was not it's strong suit. You could clearly see anyone who walked in through the doors, just as they could see you.

Answering all of the questions on the clipboard with 'no', you perk your head up as your hear voices speaking to the nurse.

Your heart fell into your stomach immediately as you take in the sight of Nanami guiding a girl into the clinic. What were the odds?

Feeling your heart pounding in your chest, you try to calm yourself. This could be just a funny coincidence.

"What seems to be going on today?" The nurse asks while looking between the girl and Nanami.

"She just needs to be checked out is all." Nanami's calm voice felt like a bullet. He was here, helping another girl get a physical, so she could be a model too.

All while he had been practically radio silent to you for the past couple of days.

Glancing over, his eyes caught yours. A smile immediately curled on his lips until he saw you crumpling up your paper from your clipboard.

"Nevermind. I'm good." You tell the nurse and Nanami as you chunk the piece of paper into the trash.

"Hey wait- yn-" Nanami tries as he tries to reach out to you, but you were already gone.

It's funny how he was suddenly flooding your phone.

KN: Yn, please, allow me to explain.

KN: I know you're upset with me. Let's just talk this out.

KN: Tell me what to do to make it better.

KN: Yn, please.

KN: Please. I'm sorry. It wasn't how it appeared.

The messages went on for the rest of the day. You ignored each one of them. You had placed him on some fucking pedestal just because he seemed quiet and 'not like other guys'. BLEH. He was exactly like other guys. He could just tie boy scout knots and say pretty assuring words. This is exactly the reason why you didn't care to make friends. Something will always come around and burst your bubble.

You finally gained enough courage to tell Shoko what happened the next day. She promptly came over to try to console you.

"Baby, he could've actually had an explanation." She oddly advocates for Nanami, even though you distinctly remember her asking what was so good about him when you first brought him up.

"No, he just wanted a way in, so he could lie and make me feel better." You say, telling yourself that fact as much as you were telling her.

"Are you still going to go to that pool party? I'll be there." She says as she rubs your hair gently, allowing the strands to flow through her fingers. "You can at least show him what he's missing."

The thought of going out anywhere sounded like torture and seeing him sounded even worse, but the thought of getting your mind off him did sound appealing. Plus, you did have a really cute bathing suit...

"You'll be there..?" You ask timidly.

"Of course." She assures you with a smile.

*** *** ***

Walking into the huge frat house, your arm is linked with Shoko's. She was wearing a pretty black one-piece bathing suit that she's wearing a black lace shawl to cover her body.

You were wearing a lilac bikini with a bathing skirt that tied around your hips.

It was dark out, but the back patio of the house was lit up by a cozy fire and string lights that wrapped around in trees and around the patio area. The massive underground pool was also lit up by pool lights that were underwater.

It wasn't necessarily crowded per say since it was so massive, but there were probably twenty or so people hanging around the pool and outdoor bar.

"Shokoooo!" A familiar white-haired guy shouted from inside the pool. The he was leaned back, so the water lapped at his chest and abs. He raised up a beer. "aaanndd... Nanami's girl. You made it."

Your face involuntarily grimaced from being referred to as 'Nanami's girl'. Had you not seen pictures of his new models and him taking that girl to get a physical, you probably would've blushed from the nickname.

"She's my girl tonight. Thank you." Shoko bantered with a small grin, and she gave your arm a reassuring squeeze.

Speaking of Nanami, you didn't see him anywhere. Did he decide not to come?

A tall brunette male with long hair and gauges stood beside Gojo in the pool, and he leaned over to whisper in his ear. Satoru's face shifted, and he nodded. "That's right." He said a bit too loudly before the brunette shushed him.

"Come on. Let's get in." Shoko urges you as she slips off her shawl and gets an over exaggerated whistle from Satoru. You then hear a "ow!". It was clear the brunette had elbowed him.

You really don't feel ready to be alone, so you follow her lead and slip the sheer lilac skirt that covered your hips, and you throw it on one of the nearby patio chairs.

Stepping into the water, it becomes clear to you that the pool is heated.

"How does the school even afford this?" You quietly mutter.

"The school?" The brunette laughs. "The school didn't afford this."

"This isn't a frat house..?" You quietly ask as you step deeper and deeper into the water.

"The Gojo-frat house." Satoru replies with a cheeky grin.

"It's called daddy's money." The brunette adds with his own grin.

"It's called Gojo money, Suguru." The white-haired male jabs the other in the side.

The patio door slides open behind you, and you look over your shoulder to see Nanami walking out with another tall brunette male, but this one had shorter hair. He also had tired eyes and a stoic face.

Your heart aches a bit as you share a glance with Nanami. He was wearing swimming trunks and a grey t-shirt that covered his chest. He looked at you with a hopeful glance, as he obviously looked like he wanted to say something.

"Hiromi, haven't seen you here in a while." Suguru comments as he takes a drink from a red solo cup.

"Yeah, law school is pretty unforgiving. I don't recommend." Hiromi says with a small smile as he sits down on the concrete next to the pool. He allows his legs to dangle inside the pool next to you. "I'm sorry. I don't recognize you from around." He says as his gaze falls upon you.

"Oh, uhm, I'm Yn. I don't normally come to these things." You awkwardly greet yourself as you look up at him. Maybe he'd be a good distraction.

"I'm Hiromi Higuruma. It's nice to meet you." He smiles as he sticks out his hand. You graciously take it, and he gives your hand a small squeeze.

Your eyes meet and for a moment. You're almost able to forget about Nanami. That is, until you see the blonde strip off his shirt out of your peripheral vision. You give him the satisfaction of glancing over at him.

Fuck him and his entirely too nice body.

He looked like an Olympian. His shoulders were nice and broad. His chest and abs were perfectly defined too. He slimmed up a bit towards the waist area, and his swim trunks were ever so slightly giving you a peek at his v-line.

"Show off." Hiromi laughs as Nanami sits on the other end of the pool. He then props his hands up on the concrete and allows his entire body to slip into the water.

You're almost completely mesmerized by him, until Hiromi speaks up.

"So, you don't come around these things too much?" He asks as he looks down at you while your lower half is submerged in water.

"No, I don't. I don't really enjoy the party scene." You reply sheepishly as you look back up at Hiromi.

"Me neither." He laughs leaning down towards you slightly. "I don't know why they continue to invite me to these things."

You share a small laugh with him, but a cold chill makes your body shiver. You can feel a pair of eyes boring holes into you. Risking a glance over in Nanami's direction, you see him staring straight into Higuruma's very soul.

Was he actually jealous?

"Do you want a tour?" Hiromi asks as he seems to not even notice Nanami's death glare.

"Uhhh..." You drawl as you glance back over at Shoko. She was currently chatting up a pretty girl at the other end of the pool. A small exhale of amusement leaves your nose. So much for being her girl tonight. "Sure. I'd like that." You respond to Hiromi. He carefully takes your hand and helps you out of the pool.

You two explore the massive frat house, and Hiromi tells you that he use to go to your school and live in the frat house with Satoru, Suguru, and a few other names you don't recognize. However, he left once he was accepted into law school.

"You know... no one would notice if we were gone for just a little while." Hiromi murmurs into your ear as he crowds you against a wall. "I could show you my old bedroom. I doubt Gojo had the decency to even fix it up after I left."

"Oh, I..."

"Hiromi." A deep voice calls from the other side of the hallway, startling you from responding. You glance over and see Nanami with a towel thrown over his bare shoulder.

"Kento." Hiromi responds with a half-smirk. "Have you met Yn?"

"Very much so. Satoru's calling for you outside." Nanami responds flatly as he stares Hiromi down. "I think it'd be wise of you to go see what he wants."

Hiromi lets out a slight sigh, and he moves back away from you and the wall. "Fine." He responds before brushing his hand against your cheek and walking away.

Left alone with Nanami, you have no where to go and hide. You can't avoid his questions anymore.

Stalking forward slowly, you feel your heart start to race with each step.

"You've been ignoring my texts..."

"I have." You respond dryly as you keep your eyes away from him.

The sound of his footsteps hitting the ground draw closer.

"That girl at the clinic wasn't my model. I don't have any models." His voice was lower than normal, hanging onto each word.

"The pictures on the blog? You going silent for a while?" You ask as you take a step back from him.

"I run a business of selling pictures of models practicing shibari as pieces of artwork. It's all completely consensual, usually girls come to me looking to make some money since I give them forty-five percent of all the money earned from the pictures. They're not my models though. I rarely ever see the same girls twice considering the amount of money I pay them." He explains as his footsteps gradually grow closer.

You take another step back, trying to comprehend what he was saying, and your back presses against the wall. Dead end.

"The girl at the clinic?"

"She passed out in front of me completely by sheer coincidence. I was just doing her a favor and not leaving her unconscious in the middle of a college campus."

He takes another step towards you until you can feel his body heat radiating from him. You're eye-level with his pectoral muscles as you can't bring yourself to look him in the eye right now.

"Yn." He says your name in such a demanding tone. You slowly drag your eyes upward and give him a guilty look. Your jealousy had gotten the better of you, and it almost cost you Nanami. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat as he carefully reaches up and cups your cheek. "I've wanted it to be you ever since I first saw you around campus."

"Wanted what to be me..?" You softly whisper as his giant hand encompasses your cheek and jaw. His thumb drags gentle circles on your skin, massaging your face.

"My model. My muse. Please, forgive me for not being immediately forthcoming as to what I do for a living. I'll stop it immediately if you ask me too. I'll do whatever you want.. just please.."

Your hands reach up and gather his jaw before you can even think twice, and you pull him downward to you. He immediately gets the memo and dips his head down, pressing his lips against yours firmly.

You respond immediately with a small whimper as he presses your back against the wall. The sounds of lips smacking together filled the hallway completely as Nanami drinks down every little noise you make.

His hands are gently groping at your thighs, massaging the soft, pillowy flesh beneath his fingers, and he lets out a quiet groan. Your hands trail upwards to his blonde hair, and your rake your fingers through his undercut.

Your bodies are pressed together, barely hidden by the fabric that was your bathing suits. Nanami trails his kisses down your jaw and neck, gently sucking and nipping at the skin. His hands firmly hold onto your thighs, and he lifts your feet off the ground, holding you up against the wall.

“I can’t get enough of you.” His voice mumbles between kisses.

“Nanami…” You softly gasp as he sucks a love bite into the crook of your neck.

“I thought I was going to kill him.” He goes on as he gently bites and kisses down your shoulder. You immediately know he’s talking about Hiromi.

“I couldn’t stand the way he looked at you.” Another bite. “I want to be the only one who looks at you like that.” Bite.

You’re pitifully trying to grind your hips up against Nanami’s growing bulge, desperate for friction. “Say you’re mine, and I’ll give you what you want.”

You feel your heart flutter at his offer. Nanami’s dirty secret wasn’t that he’s a shibari master. He would tell that to anyone proudly. His dirty secret is he’s as jealous and territorial as you.

“I’m yours.” Your voice is breathy as you lean your head back against the wall. “I’m yours. Please, Nanami.”

Oh, that whiny tone will be the death of him.

“That’s what I thought.” He lowly rumbled into your ear before he started to move his hips, practically dry humping you in the hallway. Anyone could walk in and see you two.

You were too enthralled by the feeling of his tip bumping and rubbing against your core. You could feel every outline thanks to both of you being in swimwear.

“Fuck.” He quietly growls as his hands start to move your body as well, practically using you as a toy for pleasure.

He leans over towards your shoulder, and he catches the tie of your bikini string between his teeth. All while he’s grinding against you, he unties one of your bikini strings using only his teeth.

The wet fabric immediately slides down, allowing him a peak at your breasts. He lifts you up a bit higher so he can kiss around your chest. Unfortunately for him, your top is still blocking what he’s aiming for.

“Take it off.” He demanded lowly, getting impatient.

Your hands immediately reach behind your back, and you pull a string that immediately frees your chest. Your top ends up on the ground.

“Good girl.” He rewards as he leans his head down and kisses all around the soft flesh of your breast. His tongue darts out, gently lapping at your nipple, causing you to shiver. A smile curls onto his lips. He loves your reactions.

“Nanami~” You impatiently whine again.

“So needy.” He clicks his tongue. “Tell me what you want, darling.”

“Please.. no I-“ You fumble over your words, feeling to shy that you want him to fuck you into next week.

“Use your words. Tell me.” He’s unrelenting.

“I want.. want you to fuckmeplease.” You quickly say, mushing all your words together.

“You can do better than that, dear. Try again.” It’s no wonder he’s a fucking dom.

“Please fuck me.” You finally whine out.

“Yeah? You want me to fuck you, right here?” He asks as he adjusts his arms. He cradles the back of your thighs with one arm as his other is busy pushing down his swimming trunks just enough.

“Yes.. please..”

“Right where any of our friends could come and see us?” He questions once more as he hooks his fingers into your bikini bottoms, and he pulls them to the side.

“Yes..” You whine as you glance down. Your skin runs cold as you see his length.

“So impatient.” He muses as he gently starts to rub the small bundle of nerves in tight circles, causing your body to shake lightly in anticipation. Your legs hook around his waist, and your arms stay around his shoulders.

“Hope you can be quiet, darling.” He taunts as he aligns himself with your hot wet entrance. He hums as he pushes in at a torturously slow pace. It feels like he’s splitting you in half, quite literally impaling you with his cock as he lowers you down onto it.

Your nails dig into his shoulders as you feel each inch of him push into you. Harsh jagged pants and small moans escape from you involuntarily.

“Or don’t. I wouldn’t mind them knowing how good I can make you feel.”

“F-fuck too big.. ngh~ I.. I can’t.”

“Shh. You can take it.” He hums as he presses soft kisses to your neck. “You’re my— hah.. good girl, aren’t you?”

“Y-yes!” You stifle a cry as your body hopelessly clings to him. He’s only halfway in, and you’re already so delirious.

“So warm and… ngh tight for me, hm?” He praises as he continues shoving himself inside of you. His self control is slowly withering away as your cunt grips him like a vice.

“Therree we go..” He purrs as he’s finally buried himself to the hilt. “Biiig stretch.”

“Sh-shut.. up.” You whimper out of embarrassment as you lean your head down into his shoulder.

“What did you just say?”

“N-noth-“

His hips pull back and snap inward forcefully, causing your back to thump against the wall. “Ah!”

“Say it again.” He demands.

“Shut up..” Your voice is barely a whisper, and Nanami laughs at you. He laughs.

“Oh darling.” He murmurs into your ear quietly. “I’d suggest you check your tone before you speak to me like that again.” He rams his cock into you once more, causing a small whisper-cry to fall from your mouth. “Or else everyone in this goddamn house will find out how much you love being fucked by me.” His hips start to move at a brutal pacing. Your back is flat against the wall as you’re physically knocked back with each thrust.

“I-I… ah~ … ‘m sorry.”

“I know you are.” He murmurs quietly into your ear. “Ngh.. fuck’s sake.. takin’ me so well.” He praises as his hands are dragging you in sync up and down his cock, impaling you harder.

Your walls squeeze around him so deliciously, and your pretty sounds falling from your mouth. Nanami doesn’t feel in control for the first time. Sure, he’s the dominant one in this situation, but his hips are moving completely on their own accord, rutting into you fervently. His cock can’t get enough of your warm spongy walls wrapping around him.

Glancing down, he can see a ring of white and clear slick gathering at the base of his cock. “Such a mess.” He mumbles as starts rolling his hips faster into you.

His thick tip gently kissed your cervix with each roll of the hips. Your body was trembling in his arms. “Na..fuck.. nanami~” You moan as your nails are digging into his shoulder blades, giving him scratched as trophies.

“That’s right, darling. Say my name.”

“Nanami~”

“Louder. Want .. mnnph.. want our friends to hear you.” His hips are rocking back and forth deliciously, rutting you into the wall like an untamed animal. His body was coated in a thin sheen of sweat, and his normally kept blonde hair was messily falling onto his forehead.

“Nanami!” You shout, obeying his demand.

“Good fucking girl.” He growls as he bounces your body up and down along his length.

“Sh-shit.. Nanami, I wanna… ah~ wan’ to cum please.” You ask for permission as soon as you feel the coiling heat in your stomach. Your body is so close.

“Go ahead, baby. Let me feel you.” He pants as he feels his orgasm nearing as well.

“Oh, fuck-“ You whimper as your body spasms on him. Your walls clenching around him impossibly tighter.

“Thaaat’s it.” He purrs as he pumps himself in and out of you gently, fucking you through your orgasm. “That’s a good girl, finishing on my cock like that. So pretty when you cum.”

Your poor fucked out cunt is so sensitive as he’s continually forcing his cock in and out between your soaked folds. Grunts and growls escape his mouth as his pacing is slower but purposeful.

“You ready for my- mmnph~ cum, baby? Where you want it, huh?” He asks as his legs are starting to tremble with each thrust. It’s taking every last inch of self control he has not to finish right then.

“I-inside.. please, don’t pull out.” You whine as your legs tighten around him more.

“Want it inside your pretty cunt? You wanna be filled with my cum? You sure you can handle that?”

“Yes, please.. fuck~ please, Nanami.”

“Come here.” A deep growl rumbles from his throat as he pushes into you as deep as your pussy will allow, and his cock twitches with each rope of cum his blows into you. You’re able to count at least six. “Ohhh~ fuck-!” He curses as his entire body stays tense for a few more moments.

Deep breaths fill the silence.

Your body is gently trembling in his arms as you’re both coming down from your highs. He presses a small kiss to your cheek. “Do you think you can stand..?”

“N-no..” You reply sheepishly.

“Okay darling, I’m gonna sit you down on the floor. I’ll be right back, okay? Just get your top on and wait for me.” He reassures before hissing as he pulls out of you. His seed immediately trickles down your thighs.

He gently sits your bottom down onto the ground, and he makes sure you’re okay before he pulls his swim trunks back up and walks out towards the back patio.

Your body will barely cooperate with you as you tie the lilac bikini top back to your chest. Your hands keep shaking and fucking up the knot.

From the patio, you hear loud cheers and claps coming from Satoru.

“Na-na-mi!” He chants to embarrass his friend. A few others in the pool chant along with him, loving the look of annoyance and underlying pride on his face.

Kento simply rolls his eyes with a small smile and grabs his clothes and your sheer skirt from the back patio. “Go for round two. Don’t be a pussy!” Satoru shouts obscenely, and Nanami flips him off as he walks back into the house with you.

He puts his shirt on you to cover you up and carries you back to his dorm bridal style.

“Sleep at mine tonight. We’ll get you some clothes tomorrow and go to the store.” He offers as he closes his door with his hip.

“The store?” You ask curiously, wondering why you two would need to go to the store. “I’m on birth control.” You inform, thinking he’s talking about getting a plan B.

“Well, that’s good to know, but I was talking about getting your ropes.” He responds with a soft smile as he gently sits you down on the couch. He then digs some clothes for you two to wear out of his dresser.

You had almost forgotten all about shibari after he had fucked you like that. Your eyes immediately glanced over towards his coat rack, and your eyebrows furrow as you realize it’s empty.

“What happened to your other ropes?” You quietly ask.

“Hm? I gave them to a beginner shibari master.” He says casually as he pulls his swimming trunks off. You politely try to look away, which earns a laugh out of him. “It’s not like you haven’t seen me before.” He muses.

“Not like this-!” You shout with a pout as your hands cover your eyes. “Why did you give them away?” You ask quietly.

Nanami pulls on some dry pajama pants, and he carefully walks up to you while you still have your eyes covered. His thumb gently brushes against your lips, causing you to flinch slightly.

“I don’t want you to feel reminded by other people when you’re in here with me. This is our space. We’ll have our own ropes just for me to tie you up with and no one else. You’re the only person for me, and I don’t want you to think that since I have other ropes, it means I’m tying up other people.” He quietly explains as he takes your hands away from your eyes.

“But your business..?” You quietly ask as your eyebrows knit together. The thought was so considerate and sweet, but you didn’t want to be the reason for his loss of income.

“Is not as important as you are. Besides, I photograph other things.”

“And… if you take pictures of me..?”

“My eyes only.” He grins before pressing a kiss into your cheek.

BONUS SCENE.

“How’s that, darling?” Nanami asks as he tightens the knot against your wrists. “You remember the safe word?”

“Feels good.” You softly hum as you allow for your eyes to close. “Yes, I remember the safe word.” The safe word was Malaysia. Nanami admires your expression. You were a complete natural at this. He started off small, only tying your wrists behind your back as you were on his knees.

The red jute rope looked so pretty as it pressed against your flesh. He took out his camera and snapped a picture of your hands bound together. Then a picture of your relaxed face.

“So beautiful.” He praises quietly.

Your eyes flutter open, looking up at him through your lashes. His breath hitches in his throat as he takes one more picture.

“Something feels wrong.” You murmur quietly, and Nanami’s face shifts to one of concern.

“What is it, baby? Too tight?” He asks as he immediately goes to look at your wrists, making sure that he didn’t accidentally bind you too tightly.

“No.. my mouth feels empty.”

Kento’s movement stops as he looks down at you. You give a coy smile back up at him.

“Oh, I see. Too empty?” He says as he leans back up, standing in front of you to where you’re eye-level with his belt.

“Uh huh..”

“You want me to fix that, baby?”

“Please.”

His hand buries into the hair on the top of your head, and he grabs onto it with one hand. His other hand unbuckled his belt and frees his already hard cock from the constraints of clothes.

Your mouth waters as he holds your head just far enough way to where you can see his cock but not touch it. Your wrists immediately pull against the restraints.

“Oh? Is this what you want, hm?” He asks as he slowly pulls your face forward.

“Y-yes..” You stutter, immediately feeling neediness pool between your thighs as you see a bead of precum gather on his reddening tip.

“Open up for me.”

Your mouth is immediately open as you look up at him.

“Ohh, good girl.” He purrs as he thrusts his hips forward, filling your mouth with cock.

You’ve never been happier (or fuller).

BONUS-BONUS SCENE!!

“This plan is absurd.” Hiromi gripes as he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Look, they’re hopeless. What kind of friends would we be if we didn’t help them out?” Satoru asks with a grin.

“Okay, run it by me one more time.” Hiromi says with a small sigh. He should be studying for the bar right now, but his friends needed him.

“Shoko is going to bring Yn to the pool party. You try to get her alone, and I’ll send Nanami in there to get you to come outside. He’ll see her with you and be so overcome with jealousy that he’ll have to spill his feelings!” Satoru explains with big hand gestures.

“You meddle in everyone’s love lives too much.” Suguru shakes his head with a fond smile.

“Shoko started it! She was the one who went telling Yn that Nanami tied up girls, knowing damn well that would intrigue her.” Satoru deflects, causing Shoko to scoff.

“I was doing him a favor! He was clearly lovesick over her, and when she mentioned liking him too, I just gave her a little breadcrumb to make her more interested.” Shoko adamantly defended herself. “You were the one who followed them to the cafe after I told you not to!”

“I had to see it for myself if he was actually going to take her on a date and bring her around!”

“All of you should be charged with stalking and harassment.” Hiromi remarks as he shakes his head. “Remind me to never tell you guys if I have a crush or not.”

*** *** ***

Tags: @theuniversesnepobaby @lemonlimecrystal-blog @getoisinnocent @jjknanamin

#jjk #jjk fanfic #fanfic #jujutsu kaisen #drabble #jjk suggestive #jjk nanami #jjk smut #jujutsu nanami #nanami smut #nanami kento #kento smut #nanami x reader #kento fluff #kento x reader #jjk kento #jjk college au #nanami fluff

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peachylynnie · 2 months ago

Text

house edge

word count: 3.5k (making up for my absence) synopsis: in which sylus finally talks to you, alone. contains: pt 3 of blackjack, pt 2 of ace, sylus x fem!reader (non mc), moderately obsessive sylus, LOT'S OF TENSION, the twins appear, alcohol consumption, cursing, weapons, violence (death, mentions of suicide), and references to gambling. a/n: house edge refers to the odds advantage in the house/dealer's favor. haha this totally isn't late haha. i'm back in school and wifi sucks so this took awhile. i still hope you enjoy. reblogs and comments are always appreciated. lmk if you want to be tagged for the rest of the series. tagged: @sprout341 @miffysoo previous chapter | lads masterlist | next chapter

before he can savor that addictive look on your face (he couldn't care less about the cards), sylus' phone rings.

"tch," he clicks his tongue, ready to decline whoever's interrupting his moment with you.

however, his brows furrow upon reading who's calling.

the twins.

sylus curses under his breath as he stands up. he can't reject their call. he's made it clear to them that they should call only when it's important.

"i'll get back to you on my wager soon, gentlemen," he says as he strides towards the door, ignoring sherman and his lackey's frantic attempts at a compromise. "sweetie," he nods at you, brings the phone to his ear, and steps out of the lounge.

as sherman and his lackey lunge for sylus' cards to search for signs of foul play, you frown at the door he just closed.

this guy. he's no ordinary guy. of course, you knew that when your handler stationed you here. he's the head of onychinus for fuck's sake, the infamous person who runs the infamous faction that runs the infamous n109 zone. but seriously? anyone in their right mind would stay after seeing the hands on the table, especially after a whole night of losing. your handler emphasized that despite how much the rumors about him vary, they all point to him being a cunning man, capable of bringing a rival faction to their knees in less than a day.

it’s not like he’s a gambling addict either. you’ve seen your fair share of them, and they all have this crazed look in their eyes. but no, this fucker gave you the most smug look before tapping the table. it's almost as if he knew he was going to win.

"hey, we need you at the bar," your one-day manager calls for you. "lounge's closing in five minutes."

"yeah," you exhale a deep breath. you need to calm down. it’s bad enough you lost your composure (in front of the head of onychinus of all people). for now you’ll focus on what’s important: no longer the commission but getting out of here. as soon as the last cup is put away, you’ll ring for transportation and book it.

"goodnight gentlemen," you step away from the table. sherman and his lackey stand up in pursuit. "i would advise against any attempts at violence," you say as politely as you can. "this is a lounge, after all. one that is closing too. have some tact, will you?"

and with that, you walk towards the bar, paying no mind to their insulted faces. if they still decide to follow you, you'll use your evol to the max. you can’t afford to care about anyone who’s within fifty meters anymore. every additional second spent here is jeopardizing your chances of escaping sylus qin. did you see that nod? he's nowhere near done with you.

luckily, you don't hear footsteps chasing you. once you reach the bar, you quickly scan the lounge before collecting the empty glasses.

all seemed well for a moment. there were little signs of your one-day manager assigning you more tasks. there were many signs of sherman and his lackey waltzing out. most importantly, there was every sign of you finishing your task, meaning you could soon leave without running into a certain silver-haired man.

however, there were no signs of sherman's gun on the table.

♢♢♢♢♢

it's raining by the time sylus leans back against an alleyway, a hand in his pocket and a foot against the wall.

"speak."

"hey boss!" luke and kieran greet simultaneously through the phone.

"you'll never guess what we found out," the older chirps.

"idiot, he's the one who sent us here," the younger reminds.

"what did you just call me?!"

"cut to the chase," sylus snaps. "i'm in a hurry right now." he is very much in a hurry right now, damn it. every additional second spent here is jeopardizing his chances of seizing you, having you. he needs to get back to the lounge as soon as possible. he needs to see you, talk to you, squeeze out of you that enticing look you had on your face less than five minutes ago.

"woah there, boss. is everything okay? you sound tense," luke asks.

sylus sighs, pinching his nose bridge. "yes, everything is fine, luke. thanks for asking." he glances at the rain-covered window across from him to see if you're still at the table. he frowns when he doesn't see you. "did you confirm what i asked you to?"

"yes," kieran answers, earning a grumble from his twin about his stolen thunder. "there are no authentic protocores here at sherman's warehouse. actually, there are no protocores here at all."

"seems like he was trying to strike us a deal with nothing," luke pipes in.

"how disappointing," sylus chuckles drily. "not surprising, though."

"should we go after him, boss?" the twins excitedly suggest at the same time.

"no need," sylus peels himself off the wall and moves over to the window for a better view. "i'll take care of him myself," he assures as he wipes the glass. he's delighted to find you at the bar drying a glass while sherman and his lackey make their way towards the exit, which leads right into the alleyway he's in. "in fact, i'll take care of him right now."

and with that, he hangs up the call. right on cue, sherman and his lackey step out of the lounge, their faces twisted with frustration from all the losses they experienced tonight. however, their faces immediately morph into fear upon seeing the head of onychinus.

"gentlemen," sylus smirks as he pockets his phone. "i just heard something very interesting."

in a blink of an eye, bloody, inky wisps wrap around the two men's necks and slam them into the wall. the very wall the feared man was leaning on moments ago. how unfortunate.

"w-wait," sherman chokes out. "let's t-talk about t-this."

"what could there possibly be to talk about, sherman?" sylus mocks with crossed arms. "surely not the fact that you tried to deal me not even fake protocores but none at all?"

one would find it difficult to determine if the two men were going pale from the lack of air or the abundance of fear. perhaps both. how unfortunate.

"no matter," sylus shakes his head. "let's talk about my wager instead, shall we?"

the air shifts as his evol tightens around sherman and his lackey's necks. the crimson and ivory tendrils rampage faster and faster, signaling for a brutal execution to come, a signature move every bastard in the n109 zone is aware of. however, the dreaded crushing and disintegration of flesh never comes. seizing this chance, sherman desperately searches for something in his pocket.

“looking for this?”

his eyes widen upon seeing his gun in sylus’ hand.

nobody, not a single one of you, noticed him swipe the gun before leaving.

“now, about my wager,” sylus cocks the gun. “how about your lives?” he aims at the drenched forehead of its owner. “surely it’s the least both of you can do after trying to trick me.” he places a finger on the trigger. “again.”

before sherman can open his pathetic mouth, sylus pulls the trigger, a glorious bang ringing through the rainy night sky. he doesn’t give the lackey a chance to mourn. instead, he gives him the same fate as his employer: a bullet lodged deep into his skull. not a single one of them was worth his evol.

wiping the blood off his cheek, sylus tuts. “felled by your own gun.” he releases his evol. “how unfortunate.”

after chucking the gun on the floor, he approaches the entrance of the lounge. he doesn’t have time to clean up the corpses. he’ll just escort you out another way (yes, this man plans to accompany you wherever you go after tonight). unable to hide his frenzied smile, he grips the door handle and steps in.

♢♢♢♢♢

the brief pitter-patter of rain let in by the door should’ve been your first sign to hightail it out of here. the silver-haired man who’s currently seated at the bar with an elbow planted should’ve been your second. the red hungry eyes trailing over your figure most definitely should’ve been your third.

but you’re too busy drying the glasses with your back turned. big mistake.

“a glass of gin fizz, please.”

you still.

“make that two, actually,” he adds.

you don’t turn around. you don’t dare to. instead, you slowly grab the last glass, prepared to put it away.

“i’m afraid the lounge is closed, mr. sylus,” you counter gracefully.

the man chuckles, leaning back in the stool. “surely this lounge can make an exception for the head of onychinus.”

“of course!” your manager dashes out of the employees' room, eager to earn the lounge additional funds. “what are you doing?!” she scolds you with what she thinks is your name. you’re thankful you have an alias tonight because the idea of sylus knowing your identity turns your stomach, which you’re sure is what he’s trying to do by ordering two glasses past closing time. “pour him a glass of gin fizz!” she instructs and dashes back into the employees’ room. you resist the urge to curse when you hear the employees’ entrance lock, meaning she clocked out for the night, meaning it was just you and sylus. couldn’t she have just made the drinks herself if she wanted the additional funds that badly?

exhaling deeply, you use the glass in your hand to scoop up some ice. no point in resisting. last thing you want is for your handler to nag you for not cooperating with the client’s staff, especially when you already gave up on the commission. might as well just get this over with.

“i wouldn’t scoop the ice first if i were you, sweetie,” sylus snaps you out of your thoughts. “it’ll dilute the alcohol.”

you don’t say anything. you just grab a bottle of gin and pour it into a jigger. your customer scoffs.

“are you ignoring me, sweetie?”

you pour the gin into a shaker and squeeze some lemon juice.

“if you’re upset about something, then you should tell me.”

you take out the simple syrup from the fridge and pour it into the jigger.

“how about this?” he starts.

you add the syrup to the shaker along with three ice cubes.

“i ask you a question, and you ask me a question.”

you equip the shaker with its strainer and start shaking it violently.

“aren’t you curious as to how i won?”

you freeze. only now do you feel the chill of the liquor from the shaker.

“go ahead, sweetie,” sylus coaxes, thrilled to finally have your attention. “ask. i know you want to. your face back there said it all.”

placing the shaker down, you open its lid, pour its contents into the ice-filled glass, add a generous amount of soda water, turn around, and slam the glass in front of sylus.

that’ll shut him up for a minute or two.

but it takes everything in you not to gasp when you look up from the glass.

since when was it raining outside? he’s seated with his shiny, silvery hair messily slicked back, beads of water slowly dripping down his face and neck, his drenched button-up suit clinging onto his chest and forearms for dear life, and his ruby-streaked blazer not only hanging from his broad shoulders but also adding to the puddles forming beneath the stool.

you make a mental note to inform your handler that the head of onychinus is NOT some old, short man with a face only a mother could love, like some of the rumors say.

enjoying your gaze on him, sylus tilts his head teasingly. “well?”

you can’t back down. it sounds like he won’t either until you talk to him. pinning your hands on the counter, you lean in. “why did you hit? you knew your chances were low, even after looking at my cards.”

he doesn’t answer immediately. it’s your turn to expect something from him, want something from him. it’s the least you could do after driving him in circles the whole night. besides, he wants a closer look at your face; commit it to memory in case you even think about leaving without compensating him for the absolute torture you put him through.

after taking a slow sip from the glass, sylus asks, “ever heard of gambling addicts, sweetie?”

you squint at him. “yes, but you aren’t one.”

“oh,” he quirks a brow. “so you know of me?”

“everyone in the n109 zone knows who you are, mr. sylus.”

“yes, but you aren’t from the n109 zone, miss dealer.”

you tense. although the shift in your shoulders was incredibly tiny, it was taken hostage by his eyes. he’s impressed by how controlled your reactions are.

but now it's his turn to ask.

standing up from his stool, sylus leans in dangerously close and whispers, “what brings you to the n109 zone, sweetie?”

you don’t answer. but you don’t back away either. sylus likes that. he likes what’s happening right now. when was the last time he felt this ecstatic from a conversation? even though your answers were cryptic, he was able to conclude that you come from a place or are in a position where his existence is made aware, and probably in certain detail too, given your insistence on him not being a gambling addict. when was the last time he had a gin fizz that tasted this good? he’s delighted the serving he had at the previous table was also made by you (how does this psycho know that). and most importantly, when was the last time he felt threatened? something is unsettling about the way you won every single game tonight, with a look of indifference too.

by chance, are you an evolver?

“i assure you, i am from here, mr. sylus,” you answer with a small smile. it doesn't reach your eyes. removing your hands from the counter (he frowns when you do), you turn around to make another glass. hopefully his previous request for two will serve as a distraction. “you’re welcome to look into my name, but i’m sure the head of onychinus has better things to do than to worry about some dealer.”

sylus laughs. he actually laughs. although it isn’t loud, the intervals as to which his rich voice seeps through are enough to convey that your lie hasn’t convinced him. “sweetie,” he shakes his head endearingly and sits down. “because i am the head of onychinus, everything and everyone in the n109 zone is subjected to my worrying, including intruders who use fake names.”

you spin back around, your eyes full of alarm. how does he know about your alias? no, how does he even know you’re not from here? from the beginning, that’s what he’s been insisting on. there’s no way someone as busy as him could know about every single person residing in the n109 zone. at least, that’s what your handler said (oh how wrong she was).

“do you truly expect me to believe that is your name?” sylus repeats your alias with scorn. it’s an injustice to your frame. “it doesn’t suit you. you need to pick better names, sweetie.

what the fuck. he’s convinced you’re an intruder because your alias doesn’t suit you?! this guy. this guy’s not sane. that’s it. now you really need to get out of here. glaring at him, you snatch his glass and dump its contents down the drain. damn it, you wasted too much time. he got you. he got you good. he never intended to uphold his “a question for a question” deal in the first place, given his bullshit answer about gambling addicts.

“i’m afraid i don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie through gritted teeth. “now excuse me, mr. sylus. the lounge was supposed to close fifteen minutes ago.”

sylus licks his lips. he can almost taste the frustration in your face and voice. it’s intoxicating. that’s the second time he’s forced a reaction out of you. how much more until you beg him to stop?

“of course, miss dealer,” he concedes mockingly. "allow me to escort you out.”

“that won’t be necessary,” you hiss. “my car is right around the alleyway.”

“still,” he blocks you from exiting the bar. “it’s dark and raining outside. it’s the least i could do to pay for the drink.”

“money will do,” you frown.

“i’m afraid i’m all out, sweetie,” he smiles. “you did quite the number on me, after all.”

you scoff. not only is his smile shameless, but so is his lie. you may not be from here, but you know damn well it’s going to take an eternity of games to even leave a dent in the head of onychinus’ bank account. you glance at the clock. you should have called for transportation by now. technically, you still can, but you need to be outside. and it doesn’t look like he’ll let you go anytime soon unless you accept his offer.

“you can walk me to the alleyway,” you sigh.

“not to your car?”

you scowl at him. don’t push it.

sylus chuckles and steps aside. when you exit the bar with a huff, he can’t help but think you look like a cat, a cute little one who scratches when agitated. perhaps kitten will be what he calls you next.

after turning off the lights, you step out of the lounge. only to freeze in your tracks.

corpses.

corpses of the two people involved in your commission. narrowing your eyes, you notice a bullet wound in each of their foreheads. you scan the ground, searching for any traces of the murderer. however, your blood runs cold when something catches your eye. sherman’s gun. you crouch to pick it up. did he kill himself? no, that doesn’t explain why his lackey has the same wound.

“ah,” sylus interrupts your thoughts. “i forgot to escort you out the other way. my apologies, kitten.”

he knows violence doesn’t faze you as it normally would for any other outsider. still, he didn’t want you to see this kind of violence since there’s a substantial difference between witnessing an arm get crushed and witnessing the glassy eyes of lifeless bodies.

though, he supposes he worried for nothing since you’re being eerily quiet with your eyes fixated on the gun.

skillfully, you unload the gun. no bullets left. you exhale deeply. from the looks of it, sylus killed them since he knew the bodies would be here. furthermore, he used sherman’s gun, which initially only had two bullets, given the lack of bullet marks in the alleyway. you just happened to miss the sound of gunfire since you were too occupied. but if that’s the case, that means sherman and his lackey died quite the unfortunate death where the former’s gun was their undoing and no one could’ve heard them, which means… your evol. it did its job. too good of a job.

“at least the commission is complete,” you murmur.

sylus furrows his brows. “you, what did you just say?”

for a moment, all that is heard is the downpour of rain and the distant rumbling of thunder.

you pull out your phone and press a contact. “delilah, open it now.”

“what?”

you sprint down the alleyway, not bothering to acknowledge his confusion.

sylus immediately chases after you, his legs moving like never before. shit, you completely took him by surprise. what was that phone call? no, what did you mean by a completed commission? and why do you know how to unload a gun? clenching his jaw, he prepares to teleport to the end of the alleyway, determined to intercept you. he’ll be damned if he lets you escape.

although he blinks to the end of the alleyway, you make a sharp turn, evading his outstretched arm.

“tch,” sylus clicks his tongue before continuing his pursuit. however, you make another turn around the corner, giving you three seconds out of his sight.

by the time sylus turns around the corner, you’re gone. not a single trace of you left behind. but what infuriates him more is that this is a dead end. not a single way out but the way he got here. he slams a fist in the wall, ignoring the blood that seeps down and the deep cracks in the bricks. using his free hand, sylus pulls out his phone and dials his most recent contact.

“luke. kieran. get me access to the cameras surrounding this lounge,” he spits the lounge’s name. “now.”

♢♢♢♢♢

you breathe rapidly as you fall onto the floor, your throat burning and your ears ringing. you’ve never run so fast in your life.

“welcome back,” a smooth voice says your name. your actual name.

you look up to face your means of transportation, delilah.

“what the— did it rain over there?” an acute voice asks.

stella, your handler enters your vision.

both of them reach out a hand for you to take.

you begrudgingly accept and swiftly walk towards the door, eager to give yourself a fucking break after all that happened today.

“what’s the rush?” delilah asks with a yawn. “don’t tell me you failed the commission—"

"how was your first time in the n109 zone?” stella interjects, warning delilah with her eyes.

you pause before turning the knob.

“never send me there again.”

#DUNDUNDUN #*dodges a tomato*#i'm sorry this took awhile #*dodges another tomato*#despite how long it took me to write this #i had fun with sylus' dialogue #sylus x reader #lads sylus #lnds sylus #sylus x you #love and deepspace fic #love and deepspace #lads fic #lnds fic #lads #lnds #love and deepspace x reader #lads x reader #lnds x reader

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bkgexe · 11 days ago

Text

rotary devotion

caleb (love and deepspace) x reader ✾ part 2/2 ✾ 19.7 (35k total)

✾ info! part one

✾ tw! yandere-adjacent activities typical in canon. f!reader referred to w/ gendered language and she/her pronouns.

✾ notes! reminder of angst with a happy(ish) ending lmaoo. smut in this part uhhh they r pretty switch-y both of them so watch out for that also dry humping + oral f!receiving + they're both weird as hell. read on ao3 if u would prefer!

He’s done everything they’ve asked of him. He’s achieved one of the highest ranks in the Farspace Fleet. He’s reintegrated himself into your life somewhat smoothly. He’s become powerful beyond measure, refined his Evol to a point that his strength and precision are unmatched. Ever has modified him into something different, something he can’t come back from. He’s their perfect weapon.

Surely this means they can fix you now. He has to have done enough.

Professor Lucius doesn’t usually respond to Caleb’s requests to meet, but he was insistent this time. He made threats he really had no place to make. Knows that their worst nightmare would be Caleb killing himself and wiping out all the progress they’ve made. They know he has the willpower to do it, too. He knows he’s just a weapon. Understands that ultimately, all he’ll become is a machine. He wants to live, but he wants you to live more.

His only regret would be leaving you permanently. Inflicting that trauma on you a second time and not being there when it comes time to heal.

The professor always conducts his meetings in the gardens. Something about the positive impact of nature on mental well-being. A line straight out of a textbook. Lucius has never felt like a real person. He’s like a machine, too, even though he beats out Caleb in the competition of flesh and blood.

“Colonel.” Lucius has a hard time putting respect into his voice when he says this. As if Caleb got his position through Ever’s string-pulling alone, as if he didn’t put in hard work and sweat to get where he is.

“Professor.” Caleb affords him the same courtesy. He doubts the piece of shit in front of him earned this title in any real, concrete way.

Lucius has a watering can. He tilts it over some blooming azaleas, pink-white blossoms reaching up towards the sun. Droplets of water catch on the petals, pulling them backwards harshly, damaging the flowers. There are real groundskeepers that do this work, but Lucius likes to play at caretaker. “This must be important if you threatened to go to such a drastic extreme,” he says. He watches the azaleas sway in the light breeze instead of looking at Caleb. “Yet you’re wasting my time with silence.”

“I’ve done everything you wanted. And I’ll keep doing more,” Caleb says. He takes his hat off, worries the rim of it in his hand, the one he can feel with. If he can keep his nerves to this one spot, then the professor might believe that he’s approaching this with boundless confidence. “It’s time for you to fix her.”

The expression that overtakes Lucius’s face is grim. Something about it makes Caleb’s stomach twist uncomfortably, makes him feel like he’s about to be pushed off the edge of the gardens, fall to the ground below.

He’s fifty floors up. The fall would be long. He’d think about you all the way down.

“Are you really in a place to be making demands?” Lucius asks. “You don’t think I’ll actually let you end your life without my permission, do you?”

“I do,” Caleb says, “because you agreed to this meeting. Even if you have some kind of control over me, there’s a chance that it could slip. I’m a quick shot. Won’t even need five seconds.”

Instead of responding to the threat, instead of killing Caleb right out to prove that he’s unnecessary, instead of folding immediately because his plans could be rendered impossible—Lucius smiles. It’s a terrible, gut-wrenching thing. The smile of a man that hasn’t felt joy over anything except the suffering of others for too many years to count. “Well, Colonel, I have some wonderful news for you.”

Caleb doesn’t breathe. He’s afraid that Lucius is going to say that somehow, out of his sight for five minutes, they’ve already killed you. If your name comes out of the professor’s mouth, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. His heart rate is already climbing dangerously high, and he tries to breathe deep and even. Keep things calm inside of him. He can’t lose more than he already has.

“She no longer requires our help.”

It’s not at all what Caleb had expected to hear. Internally, his confidence falters. There’s information he doesn’t have. Something important they’ve neglected to tell him. Is this how you feel every time you find out something new he’s been keeping from you? No—he does that to protect you. Lucius has kept something important under wraps for this very moment, to undermine Caleb when he thinks he has an upper hand. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

That smile again. Sharp-edged, the way a wolf smiles its way into an animal’s skin. “Her aether core has been repaired. She found another fragment and used it to stabilize the one in her heart.”

[ ] telling the truth or not. [ ] for you.

“Your silence speaks of confusion. I’ll make it simpler: she will live a long, healthy life. Well—as long and healthy of a life as a Hunter commonly lives. There’s no risk anymore.” Lucius nods, as if trying to cajole Caleb into nodding with him. “Everything you’ve done for us… We appreciate it, but it seems the reward you were seeking has already been granted.”

Everything he’s done for them. [ ] forgive him. You wouldn’t. You wouldn’t, he’s sure of it. He [ ]. So you would be okay. So they would fix you.

“You should be happy. It’s what you wanted.”

You’ll be okay. You’ll be okay. Even as emotion crawls up his throat and makes him feel like he’s going to throw up, like he’s [ ], he’s so relieved by the fact that you’re okay.

“I believe it was the Onychinus leader that helped her acquire the fragment she needed. Her lover. Seems his time was better placed than yours in the end, no?”

[ ]. [ ]. [ ]. [ ]. [ ]. [ ]. [ ]. Her lover. [ ]. [ ]. [ ]. Your [ ]. [ ]. [ ]. [ ]. [ ]. [ ].

The Toring Chip pulls him back from the precipice when he’s being yanked off of the professor, when [ ] and there’s blood on his hands. Lucius [ ], his nose surely broken, front teeth [ ], but he still smiles. Nothing Caleb has done has been for anything, and [ ] for you, because he loves you, because he would do anything for you.

He fights against the guards that pull him away, metal arm freeing itself easily. They shouldn’t have made him so strong. He breaks [ ] before they subdue him, before [ ]. He’s on the ground. His face is pushed into grass, into dirt. [ ] and it meant nothing. It meant nothing.

But you’re okay. You’re okay and he could cry with relief. He is, he thinks. Something is so deeply wrong inside of him and he doesn’t want to be that way. He loves you. He loves you so much. He loves you so, so much and you’re going to be okay. He [ ] if he ever even so much as gets a glimpse of the guy that [ ] you. Her lover.

Someone else took his job from him. He’s the one that’s supposed to protect you. That’s supposed to heal you. That’s supposed to be there when you need him. And he was gone for so long that you [ ] with someone that wasn’t him, and he’s going to kill someone. He’s going to kill someone. He’s going to put Lucius in the ground.

There was another way. Of course [ ]. Ever has lied to him so many times that he should have assumed, but there was another way to heal you. His impulsiveness got him here. If he’d just waited instead of believing them outright, he could [ ] and he would be whole and maybe you’d love him the way he wants you to.

Sound cuts in and out. It feels like his brain is a processor, overheating, melting into hardware. He hears the guards holding him down ask the professor if they should dispose of him and he laughs. Because he would love to see them try. He could break their necks easily if his head wasn’t pounding the way it is, if the chip wasn’t working overtime to subdue him. He could turn these people into paste. (She would be afraid of you. She would be so afraid.) He’s losing more of himself with every passing day, with every emotional lapse of judgement, and he wishes he could go back.

He just wants to be the boy that dried your hair for you after you showered, that sat with you on the porch in late summer and held you in his arms as you read to him from whatever book you were in the middle of. He didn't even need context for what you read to him—he just wanted an excuse to hear your voice for as long as he was allowed.

“Let him go,” Lucius says through the blood in his mouth. “He’s learned his lesson.”

When the guards let him go, he can’t stand up immediately. The cool dampness of the ground beneath him is the only thing that keeps his head from feeling like it’s going to cleave itself from his body. There are gaps in places there shouldn’t be gaps. (She can’t see you like this.) There are white spots in his vision that feel permanent. He claws at the ground with his hand and he can’t feel it, he can’t feel it, the same coolness that touches his face, that stains his skin.

His hand. His hand isn’t real. [ ]. That’s why. Replaced. Cold metal. Can’t feel you with it. (Want to so bad.) Your lover. Can’t feel you with it at all and didn’t even know you’d memorized the details of him. The stretch marks that are gone. He loves you so much. Of course you’d notice. He loves you so much.

“Get up.”

Your palm against his chest. His heart beating under your hand. You could tear it out. He wants it to be yours. He loves you so much. Your lover. Summer heat, buzzing and sticky. Sitting on the porch with you. He can’t feel you with it. Cold metal. He loves you so much.

“You’re embarrassing yourself. Get up.”

Buzzing in his head, like the low drone of summer. Sticky heat. God, he wants you. Your lover. Caleb. I didn’t sleep with him. He needs you to know. He needs you to know.

A foot nudges his side. His coat. The uniform of the colonel. He gets to his knees, then stumbles to his feet. His head is lightning, heat, pain. His vision is black at its edges. He needs you to know. Know what? Your lover. He loves you so much. Caleb. I didn’t sleep with him. Summer with you. (She likes to wake up at nine, so you’re up at eight.) Vacation, when he monopolized most of your time. Mornings he made you breakfast. In the afternoon, he took you to amusement parks, movies, any restaurant you wanted. You liked the shitty place a few blocks away that only did shakes and burgers and fries. (Don’t swear in front of her.) A little more upscale than other fast food places. No drive-thru. Strawberry or chocolate, sometimes with whipped cream. You changed your mind enough that he could never preemptively order for you. Didn’t want to get it wrong. It made him feel like he didn’t know you sometimes, the fact that he couldn’t tell what you were going to want just by your mood.

He wants to be that boy again.

[ ].

“Colonel?” someone asks, and it’s your voice. It’s not your voice. You wouldn’t call him that. Caleb. He wishes it was your voice. (She shouldn’t see you like this.) He misses you. He wants something but he can’t remember what it is. He misses you. “ Colonel.”

“Yeah,” he says. His voice is rough, breaking in his throat. Trying to swallow past the feeling of the gravel in his mouth proves difficult. Trees stand tall above him, growing strong even on top of this building. The azaleas seem to glow, their pink and white blooms fully highlighted by the beaming sun. Their scent is on the breeze, light and honey-like. Spongy earth gives slightly beneath his feet. A fertile garden. A verdant paradise. Breathing deep used to ground him. Now it just reminds him that he’s alive.

A security guard stands in front of him. Lucius is gone. Probably to the infirmary. Blood still adorns Caleb’s knuckles. Dirt is caked into the knees of his slacks. (You’re disgusting.) The guard crosses his arms, impatient. He’s asked Caleb to do something that he didn’t hear. Leave, probably.

“I’m going,” Caleb says.

The guard doesn’t stop him. He stalks back through the garden, into the professor’s observatory and to the elevators. There’s a destination in his heart, somewhere he needs to be so badly he could choke on it.

He needs to find you. He needs to find your lover.

˚✧ ﾟ.

His childhood, a list of wants: safety, warmth, food.

There were no parents in the picture, as far back as he can remember. Fate twisted unfortunately, putting him in a foster home run by a group of scientists. Foster home was too good a word for what it really was—an orphanage, essentially, that just managed to pass during inspections by governmental child care services.

Ten kids, including you. The lab across the street. Constant visits, though he managed to avoid them for a long time. Sometimes kids didn’t come back. Adopted, the matron of the house would tell everyone. No one thought about it too hard. It meant there would be more food for the rest of you.

Each item on his list, crossed off daily. Just. He learned to be self-sufficient, learned the finer points of dealing with people. The matron liked him best because he was charming, kind, looked out for the other kids. The kids liked him best because he would give them his treats, breaking whatever candies or baked goods he received into pieces to share with everyone else. There are laws to give and take. People follow them because they’re born into them. They don’t even realize they’re adhering to doctrine.

But Caleb realized. He knew, even at eleven, the basics of what made people tick.

They took you the most often. Something changed at a certain point, and Caleb was no longer the favorite. You were—quiet, tiny you , with your small voice and empty eyes. At first, he resented you for it. You’d get bigger portions than anyone else, the way he used to. He lost some of his leverage with the rest of the kids. Less to share with them. He lost special privileges with the matron. Staying out later to play with his friends from school became more of an argument, asking for any sort of allowance was rendered impossible.

You acted like you didn’t know anyone. It bothered him. It made him seethe, in fact, that even though you were younger than him, you acted like you were above him. So he did what he was good at. He observed you. Watched, learned, interacted with you more to try to get a read on you. Laughed with you, told the same jokes he told everyone because it made them feel secure. You can always trust someone you can laugh with. Slowly, he came to understand. It wasn’t that you were acting like you didn’t know anyone.

You were forgetting. They were making you forget.

Every time you went to that lab, you came back with your eyes even emptier, your hands always balled into fists. You chewed on the ends of your hair and sat on your bed and didn’t move until mealtime. Because you were scared. You didn’t know any of these people. You didn’t know where you were.

Caleb’s list of wants was small. Self-sufficient. But he considered, even then, what it would feel like to extend that list to you. Safety, warmth, food. He had never been a provider. Taking was easier for him, especially when he could do it with a boyish smile and an ingratiating thank you.

They started bringing Caleb to the lab on his twelfth birthday—and before then, he thought he understood. He thought he had come to understand you.

The worst part was that they didn’t make him forget. Or maybe that wasn’t something they were doing—maybe your brain was rewiring itself, protecting you from the things inside that building. From the serums injected between fingers, the centrifugal stress tests, the cell mutation, the machines that froze the body to a point of near-death and the machines that would warm it until it felt like being burned alive, the Evol amplifiers, the sensory-deprivation chambers, the forced body enhancement, the interviews with their questions that didn’t make any sense but felt terribly important.

Caleb grew eleven inches in three weeks. None of his clothes fit him. His skin burned—burned like it did in the machines, burned with the way it was begging his bones and muscles to stop expanding, burned with the wrongness of his sudden growth spurt.

His childhood, a list of wants: food, quiet, relief from the pain.

Taking care of you started with reintroducing himself every time you returned from across the street. Turned into removing the ends of your hair from your mouth when you were anxious, letting you play with his instead. He’d go to school with tiny little braids in his hair that you left there, brush it off when anyone made fun of him. Portions of his food were saved for you. You always got to shower first, when the water was hottest. The matron would sometimes put the best treats aside for him, old loyalties, and they would be yours without you even having to ask.

Each time you forgot sent him back to the beginning. Slowly, you would begin to talk to him. Slowly, you would begin to smile. He could do this as many times as you needed. Even when his bones ached with a pain that no child should ever have to know, he would make sure that you were clean and fed and content as possible with the life the two of you had been given.

The number of children in the foster home dwindled and he started getting restless. Started worrying when they took you away, even though it was clear that something about you was very important to the people across the street. If you didn’t return, he didn’t know what he would do. He’d already gained incredible control over his Evol. He made you laugh by floating things in the air, sailing paper airplanes across the cramped space of your communal bedroom. They made him do more at the lab. They made him crush things even bigger than him. Cars, tons of solid metal, massive slabs of rock.

Sometimes smaller things. Sometimes things that were scared, that reminded him of you in their innocence.

It was hard for him to touch you after those days. You’d ask him to braid your hair and he’d have to say no, even though it killed him to say no to you. Because he didn’t deserve it. Didn’t deserve to touch you and find solace in your presence when he was capable of such things.

His childhood, a list of wants: your safety, your happiness, a place to rest his head.

The Chronorift Catastrophe itself couldn’t touch his small list of priorities. The woman that found him in one of the camps for lost or orphaned children was one he recognized. At first, he was scared. She had interviewed him once. Twice, she had been the one administering the needle into the delicate skin between his fingers.

But she made it clear that something about now was different. She didn’t want to take him back there. She promised. And though he would never say this out loud—there were things he knew he could do if she reneged that promise. Things he would hate himself for, but things that were necessary.

He needed the help of an adult. Of someone that had some kind of power, some kind of status after Linkon was nearly destroyed. I don’t know where she is, he told her—and she knew he was talking about you.

The worst part about rebuilding his life after the Catastrophe was that you had forgotten again. It felt more significant this time. A new home that he was learning at the same pace as you. He didn’t know how to protect you because he didn’t know what threats to look out for.

Josephine was kind. Caleb would tell this to anyone that asked. But there was something stopping him from forgetting the way she looked at him when she administered the needle—the way she looked through him, the same way he was sure she had looked through you.

And it’s not like the experiments didn’t leave their mark. He had his own problems, sure—frequent body aches, chills that put him in cold sweats for hours, joint freezes that he had to push through, forcing himself past limits that couldn’t be breached healthily—but yours were worse. Whatever they’d done to you left you with a heart condition that had to be monitored. Doctor’s appointments every other week, medication that ruined your appetite. He tried to keep you fed, but it was hard when the idea of eating pushed you to tears. You hated the hospital. You hated the medication. You hated the pain. How could he ever look Josephine in the eye and genuinely thank her for taking the two of you in when this is what her experiments had done to you?

Caleb was very good at a lot of things. Gifted, one might say, if you only considered the pretty parts of the consequences of his childhood. He was not very good at forgiveness.

It’s why he was never fully able to let go, allow Josephine to take care of the two of you alone. Caleb always considered himself your caretaker. He was the one that was looking out for you first—Gran was just a necessary second, a legal adult that would assure you both had a roof above your heads that you couldn’t be taken from.

Stability helped. You adjusted quicker with less stress. Smiled faster, began talking to him like a friend within a week instead of a month. It was enough for him. His list of responsibilities fulfilled. His purpose was to be there for you.

Even when you were at school, in different grades, he would find you at lunch. Abandon his friends to sit with you. When he aged out of your school building and started attending the high school down the street, he had a long talk with the principal that allowed him to leave his last class twenty minutes early to pick you up every day.

People are the same. They’re driven by wants and needs that are so easy to take apart, to play into. He could be your best friend, taking you to the mall on weekends to shop with you. He could be your guardian, chiding you when you stayed out too late with a friend. He could be your doting older brother, picking you up everyday to walk you home. Whatever other people needed him to be in order for them to allow him to be right next to you.

It didn’t matter what they thought. What he was to you was different—something deeper, too nebulous to be titled. He was your everything, and you were his. As it should be.

The time he spent with your hair was sacred to him. His favorite memories of your childhood: pulling at the ends to bother you, massaging shampoo into your scalp with firm and careful fingers, lying his cheek against the top of your head and breathing in the scent of you.

You let it grow out after moving into Gran’s. As it got longer, it should have become more of a nuisance. Another thing to take care of. But because it was a part of you that he got to care for, he never really minded it. He researched styles, spent hours watching videos on hair care, monopolized your time at home so he could practice on you. He wanted to take such good care of your hair because it was important to you. Something he found out while doing another thing he shouldn’t have been doing.

Eavesdropping was second nature to Caleb. Growing up the way he did, he always tried to be a step ahead. To know when you would be taken across the street, when he would. To see if he could glean any information about what was going on from the adults that purportedly cared for the two of you. He’s no different at Gran’s house.

A conversation he overheard, Gran on the phone with your therapist: post-traumatic stress disorder, an unhealthy attachment to things that feel familiar. To your hair, to your few remaining belongings that made it through the Catastrophe, to Caleb. Anything that felt like it was intrinsically yours.

He focused on the hair because focusing on the implications of him being intrinsically yours, even then, could have torn him apart. Could have made him jump the gun at fifteen, to tell you that somehow he knew that he would always be yours, that you were destined to be side-by-side for life. Even in death, he wanted to rest beside you.

Something was very wrong with him. He knew this, even then. Knew that if he went to therapy like Gran wanted, they would pick him apart the way they’d picked you apart. They’d say he had post-traumatic stress disorder, impostor syndrome, a protector complex. That he was unhealthily attached to you—that he believed you were intrinsically his.

This was all easy to figure out on his own time. It wasn’t that he wanted to be ignorant to the things wrong with him—he could just deal with it by himself. He didn’t need other people to tell him what was wrong and then give him some half-assed advice on how to be better. The things that were wrong with him weren’t going to make his life worse. They were going to make your life better. He’d always be there for you, whatever you needed, whatever complex that meant he had or whatever attachments that meant he had formed.

His childhood, a list of wants: your comfort and to exist beside you. And he knew he could provide comfort to you, despite his shortcomings.

He was sixteen when he received his first confession. There wasn’t a point before that where he had considered dating anyone—even considered romance as a concept in his life—and that extended to after. You didn’t like it when he explained what had happened. He was kind, as always, and turned the girl down nicely. You took the card the girl had written for him, still unopened in a cream envelope adorned with shooting star stickers, and ripped it apart.

There isn’t a clear, defining moment in his past where he knew you would always be where he wanted to end up. But this moment serves as a clear indication in his head of the beginning of the messy period where he had to figure out the extent of what he wanted from you.

Caleb hated the attention he got in high school. No one knew him but you—he made sure of that. And yet droves of guys and girls would line up to give him little gifts at the end of the school years, would pass him notes in class asking if he liked anyone, would get close to the other guys on the basketball team in an effort to find out things about him. It was all because of his past—the body given to him through unnatural means, the charisma he learned through trauma.

He resented people for wanting him for those things. But he didn’t really care either way what they thought about him. He was eighteen years old when he became positive that the only person he was ever going to date was you. He’d marry you, too, if that’s what you wanted. A massive wedding that he’d spend his entire savings on, or something small, just friends, even just the two of you. Or you didn’t even have to get married, if you didn’t like the idea of that. Whatever you wanted. Whatever way you would have him. He was yours down to his veins, down to his blood, down to his cells. He belonged to you.

When you received your first—and only—confession in high school, Caleb realized that it went both ways. You belonged to him, too.

You told Caleb about it right after school, like you couldn’t keep it in. You were terrible at keeping secrets from him. He loved that. The guy asked you out on a date, said he’d seen you around and thought you were so pretty, that he’d be kicking himself if he didn’t ask you out.

The guy was a soccer star. Tall, handsome, nice enough. In Caleb’s year, which meant he was too old for you. He’d be going to college on a scholarship the same time Caleb would start at the DAA, because he decided he could provide for you as a pilot. This guy would be an athlete in college and then do some shitty, run-of-the-mill job afterwards. (Don’t swear in front of her. You have to be a good example.) And who did he think he was, asking you out now ? Was he gonna date a high-schooler while in college? Had he even thought about how he’d keep in contact with you while he was away? How he’d make sure you were eating enough, make sure that you were happy?

No. Of course he fucking didn’t. (Language. Careful.) Caleb was the only guy thinking about these things that young. It was okay if it was him because he was meant for you. He’d take things at your pace, obviously—he was just getting everything ready for your future together. He liked to be prepared.

So he talked to the guy. Of course he was nice about it. Didn’t want to embarrass anyone. Just told him to keep his distance, that you were off-limits.

What are you, her brother?

No, he said, and no, no, no, no, no, he wasn’t even though some people liked to say that he was, he wasn’t because he was going to be yours one day and you were going to be his.

Then what’s the problem? C’mon, man—doesn’t she look sweet?

Sweet. The way he said that about you. A suggestion.

Caleb attended a soccer game for the first time that Saturday. It was a shame that the guy who called you sweet fell the way he did while shooting and tore his Achilles tendon. He lost his scholarship. Couldn’t run anymore. Need that in soccer. Those kinds of injuries never fully heal.

No one asked you out after that. Other students looked at him in the hallways and whispered, all speculating on his Evol, the rumor of its power. Didn’t the guy that fell ask out his little sister, or whatever she is to him? No, surely Caleb—golden boy Caleb, captain of the basketball team and all around great guy—wouldn’t do something so drastic. So insane.

Sweet. Sweet.

Things like desire were foreign to him until they weren’t. The guys on his team always talked about women in ways that disgusted him, in ways he couldn’t even begin to comprehend. Just like the guy that fell and hurt himself. They talked about what they wanted to do to the models they saw on social media, even to the girls they shared classes with—and he just didn’t understand it. The depravity.

And then one day he got home from shooting hoops at the park with his friends, and he needed to shower before he saw you because you always complained when he was sweaty from playing sports. Without even thinking, he opened the bathroom door—and you were changing into something comfortable for the night. All he saw was the exposed skin of your back, the curve of your ass in black underwear, the softness of your thighs. He closed the door as quickly as he could and apologized. Apologized again.

He had been hard in his lifetime, obviously, but he was so hard he couldn’t think. Just the image of you in his brain, the idea of him touching the soft skin of your lower back, his hand cupping your ass and squeezing just enough to hurt. (You shouldn’t want to hurt her.) Sweet. He got it. He understood and he hated himself for it.

He was appalled at his own thoughts for a long time. This pushed him away from desire in other ways. He felt sick when his friends started talking about sex, about what they were doing at parties with other people. He refused to get himself off, which led to a lot of long evenings lying in bed staring at the ceiling and a lot of ice-cold showers. He rarely gave in to his desires, but when he did, he couldn’t look you in the eye for a week. If he came in his sleep it didn’t count. Dreams didn’t count, even though each one heavily featured you and your soft, pliable body under his hands. He was overly sensitive, pent-up. You’d brush past him in the kitchen and even the feel of your hip bumping his, the smell of your shampoo, would get him so hard he’d have to excuse himself and lie down.

Everyday was an exercise in restraint. An exercise in self-hatred. (You’re disgusting.) He’d already decided he was going to be with you forever, but you didn’t think of him like that yet. He was going to be good for you and wait. He would still talk to you all the time and take you to the mall and braid your hair for you and listen to you read to him and he would be good .

And he was. He went to the DAA Academy and he was. But it was easier to give in when he was alone. Without you one room over, the guilt felt less like a vice and more like a garment. He wore it without being strangled by it—but he still wore it.

The first time he purposefully got himself off in years was with a scrunchie you’d given him to take to school braided through his fingers. It wasn’t the most pleasant sensation. There was no lube or spit because he didn’t want to ruin anything that was yours. Besides—he wanted it to hurt, because then he was paying for thinking about you like this. It took maybe four strokes. He came so hard that he couldn’t stop the loud, strung-out whine that rose from his throat, couldn’t look at himself in the mirror when he went to the bathroom to clean up, couldn’t stomach the guilt when he hand-washed your scrunchie in the sink with dish soap.

Rationalizing his behavior became a practiced skill. Everything he thought about you that was somewhat akin to sweet was okay—because you were going to want him the way he wanted you. One day, he would touch you the way he imagined touching you and you would sigh into him, you would tell him that it’s okay to need you the way he does, that you need him just the same.

(Disgusting. Disgusting. You can’t choose this for her.) But he wasn’t choosing it for you. It’s just how things would happen. No one else knew your likes and dislikes, the way your tone of voice changed when you were asking for something. No one else knew how to take care of you when you were tired and didn’t want to ask for help. No one else knew the way you liked your hair braided, your favorite meals, your picky nature when it came to the preparation of tea and coffee. He could know you in other ways. More intimate ways. He would know all of it. You wouldn’t have to worry about a thing. No one could love you the way he could.

He grew into adulthood knowing this. He was the only one that could protect you. That could save you from your own body, from the experiments that shortened your lifespan by whole decades. You couldn’t die before him. If you did, he would’ve failed. He made contact with scientists in lofty organizations, he charmed his way into meetings with people that a DAA pilot could never be important enough to meet. He was going to protect you forever and always. Like wedding vows. Because you couldn’t leave him. He wouldn’t let you.

The plan had been in place since you graduated high school. The first real secret Caleb ever kept from you. The first one he felt bad about. So when you both returned to Gran’s during your first ever vacation from the Hunter Academy—when you sat with him on the porch like everything was normal until it wasn’t—he had to stop himself. What’s going through your head, baby? he asked. Couldn’t help it. Called you baby in his mind every single fucking day, because you belonged to him and he belonged to you. Your face in his hands. God, he wanted to kiss you. He wanted anything you’d give him. Whatever you were ready for. But he knew he was going to have to leave you. To protect you, to heal you. It would be better to wait until after. If he kissed you then, knowing he’d have to leave you, break your heart—it would be messier when he came back.

It was for the best. This way, you could be together for the rest of your lives. Once he came back, did what he had to do for Ever, everything would work out.

His life, a list of wants: you and nothing else.

˚✧ ﾟ.

Caleb breaks more than a handful of laws figuring out the identity of your lover.

Getting into the Hunter Association’s database was as easy as monitoring its access port and lifting a username and password from the first person he saw log in. Their information is a joke—a name, a voice file, some info on the guy's Evol—but it does lead him to some of his connections in the more dangerous parts of town.

Obviously, people don’t want to talk. The leader of Onychinus—a dreadful figure, someone with no remorse, who kills with a snap of his fingers. He can’t believe you got mixed up with this guy. But it’s hard for his contacts to ignore him when he’s hitting them with enough G-force that their legs begin to shatter, and that makes getting a name and some poorly-scrubbed CCTV footage easy. (She would hate you if she knew you were doing this.)

Sylus. He’s younger than Caleb thought he would be. Still too old for you. He’s handsome, and Caleb is sure that he’s charming, too. He’s probably playing you just like that asshole that asked you out when you were a sophomore in high school.

He’s gonna break this guy’s teeth. He’s gonna go to the N109 Zone and scrub Onychinus from the planet like a stain.

But first, he has to talk to you about it. He hasn’t slept in thirty-six hours. Nowhere near as bad as he had to put up with in pilot training, but still. His adjutant is keeping everything in order at the Fleet. Something feels like it’s ending, and Caleb isn’t completely sure whether or not it’s his own life.

When he checks your location, you’re at home. It’s nine at night, so you shouldn’t be in bed yet. He comes directly from the other side of town. There’s still blood on his knuckles. Dirt still stains his slacks, the elbows of his coat. His face, he’s sure. He hasn’t tried to see what he looks like, even though he usually likes to make himself somewhat handsome for you. You’ll have to forgive him this one time.

Caleb only second-guesses coming straight here when you open the door after he knocks—your face immediately twists in concern, your hands go to the sides of his face to brush away dirt, blood, whatever’s left behind from the past two days.

You pull him into a hug and he could almost forget everything. He wraps his arms around you and curls into your embrace and he could just be whatever you want him to be. It doesn’t matter if you’re with someone else. (It does. It does. She shouldn’t be with him. You can be better than him.) Just let him stay. Let him be with you however you’ll allow. He’ll take anything. He’ll be your guard dog if you want. Stay awake every night at the foot of your bed. Turn his face into your hand to feel your warmth when you praise him for being good. He’d take that.

His head hurts so badly, even though he’s not missing anything right now. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep. Maybe he can never let himself rest enough to feel the extent of his pain until he’s with you, where he can finally be himself. He considers it a weakness—that vulnerability that you claw out of him. But it’s yours to claw out, like anything else you might want from him.

You’re talking to him. He didn’t realize. His head is roaring so loudly that he couldn’t hear your pretty voice. Your hand is in his hair. Fingers gently massaging his scalp. Isn’t he supposed to be the one doing this for you? Your other hand runs down his back, wraps around his waist. Pulls him closer. That’s all he wants. Closer.

“Tell me what happened,” you say. “Please.”

He wraps his arms around you, and he winces at the movement. His joints are aching, skin burning, body screaming at him to rest. It reminds him of high school. It reminds him of everything that’s ever been done to him and all he can’t have and all he wants—a small list, the contents of which are too much to ask for.

“...a bath, if you’re hurting,” you’re saying. Holding him. It feels like he’s floating in and out of his head. He wants you to hold him always. He’s scared to ask you the thing he needs to ask you. You look up at him and you’re worried, which you should never be about him. “We can get your joints loosened up. Okay?”

He nods. Whatever you want. You smell so good. Did you shower when you got home from work? He loves the conditioner you use. You’ve used it since late high school. He knows exactly when you switched, actually. Beginning of junior year. This brand helped your ends stop splitting so quickly after Caleb would cut your hair. Did anyone cut your hair for you after he left? Or was this dramatic change the first time you’ve cut it since he died?

“You’re gonna have to let me take you to the bathroom, though.”

Your voice is so pretty. Everything about you. (The prettiest girl in the world.) He was always so blown away by you when you’d buy new dresses, do your hair nicely. Nothing compared to when you dressed up for his graduation in the dress he’d bought you, though. He nearly lost his mind. He bought that for you. He provided for you, picked out what you were wearing. It was one step removed from dressing you himself. His ears are ringing, his head pounds. He wanted to steal you away then. To keep you somewhere separate from everything else, to make you his in all the ways that mattered. He loves you. You're wearing one of his old shirts. He can feel the material pilling beneath his fingers. He loves you.

“Hey—please. Look at me, baby.”

It’s the term of endearment that does it. He likes that. He wants to see your face when you call him that. “Baby?” he asks, almost teasing, pretending that he doesn’t feel like he’s been shredded to pieces inside because even if you did really call him that, there’s another man you’re saying it to as well.

“Caleb,” you say—no, repeat. He misheard you. You didn’t call him baby.

There was a steadiness to your voice, a confidence that made him believe you were calm in this situation. When he really looks at you, he can see that isn't how you actually feel. Maybe you did call him baby. Maybe he’s knocked you so far into anxiety that you’re not thinking straight. You look sick from worry. Lines between your brows, marring your forehead. You’re worrying your bottom lip between your teeth. Without your arms around him, both hands are clinging on to his lapels, nearly shaking. And your eyes—

You’re scared you’re going to lose him again. He realizes it too late. Why else would he show up like this, bloodied and worn, in the late hours of the night? The last thing he wants to do is make you feel like this, and once again, he’s been selfish. You’re his priority, but he keeps unintentionally putting himself first.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he tells you, and you visibly relax. Not completely, but some. Your shoulders lower, your grip on his coat leaves the realm of white-knuckling.

You take his hand and bring it to your face—like you’re about to kiss his knuckles. You don’t. Wishful thinking. You examine the skin. It’s the hand he can feel, two knuckles split and the rest patched in dried blood. (You came here to ask about her lover.) He should. It’s important. You touch the scar on his ring finger, the one he got protecting you years ago. When you do actually end up bringing his knuckles to your mouth, pressing a gentle, meaningful kiss to the scar, his thoughts feel less important.

You gaze up at him with that look in your eyes and he can’t deny you. You’re everything to him. “Let’s get you cleaned up. Okay?”

Caleb follows you to the bathroom, watches you run the tub, put in the same bubble bath solution that he used to use when you were younger. Orange blossom scented, with epsom salts. The one he used to pick up from the drugstore when he was around thirteen because the burning in his skin returned. Crying out against his natural growth spurt after he’d already had his artificial one. You were too young to know that. Or—you weren’t, but Caleb wanted to keep that information from you. How often he was in pain, how much it affected his day-to-day. All you knew was that Caleb took baths, so you wanted to take baths too.

One of his most precious memories: your elbow was injured from softball practice, but you needed to wash your hair. You, in a swimsuit in the bathtub. Caleb, on his knees behind you. It’s the only time he’s ever been there for the whole process. The shampoo and conditioner, assorted lotions you left in afterwards. The comb he used to detangle your hair held firm in his hand, tacky with product, until it cramped. The whole moment is steeped in orange blossoms, the smell of your damp skin. The feel of his hand cupping the back of your neck longer than necessary to keep you still.

You face him, the water running, that same scent in the air. Floral, light, with a slightly earthy undertone. And quietly, you begin to undress him. His breath catches in his throat. He can’t move. You push his jacket over his shoulders, let it fall to the ground. Undo the buttons of his shirt. Pull its ends from where they’re tucked in, let that fall on top of his coat.

When you start taking off his slacks, he catches both of your hands in one of his. The wrong one, mechanical. He wants to feel you. He can’t stop staring at the point of connection, how much bigger he is than you—and despite the clear disparity, the power he could have over you, your fingers hook into the top of his belt buckle. “I can do this part,” he says, but his voice is pitchy. He’s not good at hiding how he feels when it comes to you. Especially not when you’re touching him. His mind blanks, he loses a little piece of his sanity that’s always belonged more to you than to him.

You nod. Don’t make a move to try to free yourself. Your fingers stay there, curled into his belt. The tops of your knuckles graze his stomach right above the band of his slacks, your skin meeting coarse, dark hair and the veins that he’s always thought run a little too visibly south of his waistline, and he has to stop himself from moaning at just that—such a light touch that he feels sick in the head at how much it affects him.

“I want everything off,” you tell him. And then you pull away and turn around.

Caleb can feel that his face is hot. Knows how obvious that must be to you. He removes his shoes, his socks. (You should’ve taken them off at the door. You’ll have to clean her floors for her later.) Peels off his dirt-stained slacks. And you said everything. He’s already achingly hard. Your knuckles on his stomach, your fingers curled into his belt. It doesn’t take much for him when it comes to you. He doesn’t want to scare you.

It feels like a power shift—asking him to undress when he’s like this, when you’re still fully clothed—but you’ve always had power over him. It doesn’t matter how vulnerable Caleb makes himself in front of you. You’ve always had access to all of him, whether you wanted it or not. So he does as you ask. “Now what?”

“Get in the tub, obviously,” you say. He can tell you’re rolling your eyes. Wishes you would turn so he could see it. So you could see him.

Would you like his body? It’s a good one. It serves its purpose. He takes care of himself. Needs to, for his job, but also because he wants to be desirable to you. It’s never felt like it’s his. The muscles, the height—how much of that was given to him? Forced upon him? Even if it’s not fully natural, he can at least make it into something you would want. That’s why he’s so careful about his diet, so precise with his work outs. He doesn’t want there to be anything you could find that you wouldn’t like. If he’s perfect for you, then there’s one less reason for you to leave him.

He gets into the bath. It’s not like the one you had in the house growing up, free-standing and large. It’s a smaller apartment. The bath is caged in on three sides by tiled walls, a small shower head juts out of the tile four feet above him. He’s too tall for the shower, too large for the entire space. His knees protrude from the water awkwardly. You probably fit in here perfectly. Damp skin, the smell of you when you’re warm and wet. He hopes you blame the unintentional noise he makes on his body being tired and the feeling of lowering himself into the warm water.

The bubbles are built up to a point where he’s pretty sure you won’t see how hard he is for you. He doesn’t want to scare you. He doesn’t want to scare you. You’re going to touch him. He’s decently sure of it. Take care of him the way he should be taking care of you. He doesn’t want to scare you, but the sheer scale of his want for you is enough that sometimes he thinks the stitching at his seams could come apart, that he could turn into someone different entirely just to finally find out how you would say his name when he fucks you.

He puts his face in his hands, pushes his index and middle fingers against his closed eyes until it hurts. (Disgusting. She’s taking care of you and you’re thinking about her like this.) He takes a deep, shaky breath as quietly as he can. There’s no way you don’t hear him in the small bathroom. “Okay, I’m in,” he says, and he wishes that just once he could control himself when it comes to you. That he could stop thinking like this when you’re caring for him, that his voice wouldn’t sound that fucking pathetic when he spoke to you, that he could be the same boy that washed your hair when you were teenagers and it was all so innocent. He loved you then. He loves you now. It sounds simple. He wishes it was simple.

He wants to be that boy again. Remembering something he’s forgotten is always painful. His eyes burn. He can smell the epsom salts more than the orange blossoms now, the mineral tang of rock and earth.

You lower yourself to your knees. The bath prevents you from being behind him, the way he was when he washed your hair. You’re at his side with a washcloth, and you put out a hand, palm up. Waiting. “I need to clean the cuts.”

Of course. You’ve gotten so good at taking care of him. Maybe when he left, you learned because you suddenly had to take care of yourself. There was no one else to do it. No one who would do it right, at least. “I should be doing this myself,” he says. Offers you his hands despite this.

You remove the blood from his knuckles gently. Thoroughly. The cuts aren’t as bad as they looked before, with their aftermath adorning them. “Thank you for letting me.”

You know him so well. Better than anyone. You know how much he hates letting people down like this—letting you down. He’s the one that’s supposed to be strong. That shouldn’t need this. He was built for it. If anyone else ever saw him like this, he would kill them. Not because he can’t admit weakness—because this is only for you. His vulnerability is only for you. You don’t need to thank him for it.

“Will you tell me what happened?” you ask.

“Question for a question?” Like when you were both little. He just wants you to answer him honestly.

You let his hands fall, satisfied with your cleaning of his wounds. “Okay,” you say, a little hesitant. Like you always are with him now. You drag the washcloth across the width of his shoulders, then back and up the length of his neck, dampening the hair at his nape.

He leans into your touch, lets his eyes close. How often he’s wanted to be at your mercy. Something in him wants you to hurt him, to take back your pound of flesh. Do the very thing he did to you. “I was given some intel I had to follow up on.”

“That’s… vague.” You massage circles into the back of his neck, thumb and forefinger on either side of his spine. Gentle, with the washcloth, but firm.

Quietly, appreciatively, he groans. A noise pulled from deep within him, part of him that hasn’t been treated with this kind of care before reacting. Autonomic. Tears on his face. Burnt neurons. Your lover. “Who’s Sylus?”

Your fingers still, but your hand doesn’t leave his neck. You freeze up like prey. And Caleb has always been your predator. You clear your throat, weakly resume your massage. “That’s Hunter business. I can’t tell you anything about him. You know that, Caleb.”

“I know it’s not Hunter business,” he corrects. “Not entirely.”

You pull back then, and when he looks at you, your brows are drawn tight and low. The look on your face is the same as when you were about to argue with him because you thought he was doing something unfair. He loves the way you get frustrated, the roughness in your voice whenever you fight back. “And who told you that?”

“It doesn’t matter—”

“It does,” you say, voice hard. “Question for a question, right? Because you can’t let go of the same games we played when we were kids. So answer my question.”

What does he say to that? Someone that’s been watching you longer than he has? A corporation that has the resources to know these intimate details about your life? He’s not sure how to answer.

“This is your problem, Caleb. You always think you know best.” You’re fully removed from him, on your knees next to the bathtub. The washcloth drips onto your thighs, below the hem of your shorts. He hopes you don't get cold. “What are you really asking?”

Another question he feels that he can’t answer outright. Admitting to himself that he loves you is easy. Admitting his jealousy is harder—the way it curls into his lungs, eviscerates him every time the idea of you with another person crosses his mind.

“You want to know if I fucked him.”

He flinches—not used to hearing you speak like this. He was a good example growing up. He made sure of that. “Jeez, pip. You don’t have to be so—”

“What? Blunt? Vulgar?” You roll your eyes and his dick throbs and he feels so gross for wanting you like this.

He loves it when you’re a little angry at him, when you’re tired of his bullshit and call him on it. (She probably acts like this with him, too.) And there’s the jealousy again, curling, cutting. No one should hear you speak like this but him. He wants to put his thumb in your mouth and make you whine around it. (No. No. Jesus, dude.)

“I’m an adult, Caleb. I had to grow up when you died,” you say. “I can talk about these things.”

“I know you can.” And he likes it, as much as it makes him feel ill. It’s just—you can talk like that, but he doesn’t want it to be about someone else. He wants it to be about him. “I know. I’m sorry.”

You go back to washing him, and he doesn’t stop you like he should. You soap up the sides of his neck, the wide expanse of his chest. Both shoulders. When you lean over him, he can smell your skin. The same body wash you’ve used since high school. Your sheets used to smell like this when he’d do your laundry. This and your sweat. The way he wants you is the way he’s always wanted you: primal and all-consuming. He wants to prepare himself for you like a meal, feel your teeth dig into his skin. You drag your hand lower, beneath the water. Across his stomach.

He doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t stop you but he should.

When your hand brushes against his erection, he hisses through his teeth. He tried not to—really, he did. But—god. Your hand. Your hand.

You still entirely. You’ve been avoiding eye contact with him, but now you make it. You’re chewing on something in your pretty head, deciding how to move forward. He should have stopped you. He doesn’t want to scare you. Only a little. (It shouldn’t be any at all.) Just enough to see your eyes widen, to see you pull your lower lip between your teeth.

A decision is made. You keep going, slower, maintaining eye contact. Caleb knows he’s leaking ridiculous amounts of precum into the water. He gets a little messy when he thinks of you. As if he’s ever thought about anyone else. And now—you drag the washcloth up the underside of his cock, and he can’t maintain composure. His head falls back, he exhales sharp and hard. You pull another noise from him, a pitchy whine that reminds him of the first time he got off to the thought of you when he was away at school, finally able to voice his desire without you sleeping one room over. Too loud, too desperate.

He should be thinking harder about this but he can’t. All the blood in his brain has gone straight to his dick, and he tries and fails to stop his hips from bucking as you continue to touch him, the cloth drawn up his inner thigh, then back down towards his hip. You lean over him again and everything is the smell of your skin, the soft brush of your hair against his chest.

Your hand travels upwards, out of the water. Across his chest again. He’s so sensitive that it doesn’t matter that you’re not touching him directly. Every caress feels like your hand wrapped around him, gets him embarrassingly closer to a precipice that he never thought he’d reach with you.

“Is this really all it takes?” you ask, and he can’t tell if you’re amused or pleased or mad at him. He’ll take anything but disappointed. He doesn’t want to be something you don’t want.

You lean over him, bring your face close to his. Your breaths mingle. The taste of mint. You’d already brushed your teeth, ready for bed, before he interrupted your evening with his shit. With his need for you.

He doesn’t deserve what you’re giving him right now. He’s being selfish again. Taking when he should be giving. He doesn’t even know how you feel about him. Everything is wrong about this. You lean closer. Your foreheads touch.

“Don’t— oh .” Your hand ghosts the length of his cock again, then traces up the taut lines of his stomach. He’s gonna finish like this. He fucking knows it. He wants to pull you into the bath and feel the line of your body against him, the warmth of you tucked against his skin like a card hidden up a sleeve. Your breath is on his lips. God, you’re so close to him. Wrong. It’s wrong like this. “Hold on, pip,” he says. “Just—wait a sec.”

“Why?” you ask. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

The way you say that makes him sick. Nothing is simple like he wants it to be. Your voice is mean. It feels like he’s dreaming—one of his bad ones, where he feels guilty afterwards for wanting you. “Not like this,” he says.

“Then how, Caleb?” you ask, and you're frustrated. You're trying to understand but your patience is running thing and he understands. “How do you want me?”

The same way he’s wanted you since he was young. He wants to be your everything. He wants you to want nothing but him. He wants to be your protector, your lover, your home. He wants his life to start and end with you, for everything else to be secondary. His life, a list of wants.

He can’t be any of this for you. Not now. His brain is full of holes, his body doesn’t belong to himself. He’s not even fully human anymore. What happens when everything is taken from him? When he’s a shell of himself? He wants to believe that the ghost that’ll be left inside of his body will still care for you and protect you. But he’ll never know. Once the chip wipes out his love for you, he’ll have died. That won’t be him anymore. Loving you is so intrinsic to everything he is. It’ll just be his body, modified by Ever. His Evol, modified by Ever. His brain, modified by Ever.

Their weapon. Not even yours.

“I love you.” His voice breaks on the words. He says it quietly, like a secret you should already know. Something obvious. Not a confession. A reminder—and an explanation. I love you, so of course it has to be different. He feels like you should understand. Don’t you understand?

“But you’ve always loved me,” you say.

He reaches for you. Your chin tilted by his fingers, pretty eyes looking up at him in question. What you’re asking is always a mystery to him, though it shouldn’t be with the way he knows you. Maybe this is why things have taken so long—you’re both afraid to answer each other’s questions, but you’re also both afraid to ask the right ones. “Is that a bad thing?”

“It just means you don’t want me like—that.” You refuse to meet his eyes while saying this.

How can he tell you how wrong you are without being cruel? Of course he wants you like that. He wants you in any way he can have you. “I’ve always loved you,” he says, “and I’ve always wanted you. But I know it’s not—right. I shouldn’t have felt like that.”

Your hand trails lower again, but nothing has changed on your face. You’re thinking, hard, that cute little line present between your brows that you get when you’re really considering something. “Why shouldn’t you feel like that?”

“I think some people could come up with a lot of reasons,” he says, and he laughs, breathy and nervous, because none of the reasons matter to him.

“I don’t care about what other people think,” you say. “Why do you think that you shouldn’t feel like that?”

His breath comes in sharp—you’ve dropped the washcloth and now it’s your nails on his skin, the scratch of them against his sternum, the tops of his abs. He’s trying to keep as clear a head as possible, but his body responds to you automatically. It’s attuned to you, like his cells are being pulled towards you, through you, attempting to merge just to have you closer. “So much of me is missing,” he tells you.

Your hand stills. Nails become the flat of your hand. Your palm on his chest. His heartbeat racing, then slowing, the chip in his head fighting to keep him calm. “Your arm doesn’t bother me, Caleb.”

“It’s more than that,” he says. “They’ve done a lot of shit to me, pip.” (Language.) But does that even matter anymore? You’re an adult. He has to let you be your own person. He has to let you grow up and tell you the things he doesn’t want to tell you because you deserve to know. He amends himself—says your name so you know he’s addressing you and not a memory. “I don’t think I’m all there anymore. I don’t think what’s in my head is me.”

“I know you,” you say.

“Better than anyone.”

“And I know that you’re still you.”

He can’t help but shake his head. You don’t understand because you don’t want to accept it, and he gets that. He’s a facsimile, but a very good one. That’s what happens when you build inside the shell of something else. When he rests his hand atop yours, holds it closer to his heart, you don’t stop him. For that, he’s grateful. Even if he’s not the version of Caleb you want, you’re at least allowing him this.

“I wish it was all simple,” you say.

The same thing he’s wished for. He often thinks that the two of you were never meant to be separate beings. Sometimes he feels like he belongs in your head more than he belongs in his own. It’s what he wants the most—to meld into you, to fill all of the parts of you that you’re missing. Loving you is a close second. Possessing you is a dangerously close third.

“I’ve never been with Sylus," you say, and it's quiet but it feels very loud in the tiled walls of your small bathroom. "He’s a close friend. But that’s all.”

“It’s not even my place to ask you about that stuff.”

“It could’ve been,” you say. “You could’ve kissed me that night on the porch. When we were both home from school.”

Of course you'd think about that night. He had tried to protect you, even then. Stop your heart from getting broken when he couldn't tell you all the terrible things that were about to happen. “I could have. I should have.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I knew things were about to change," he admits. "I thought—maybe after.”

You pause to look at him. Had you known before this moment that he’d been aware that something terrible would come to pass? You won’t forgive him for it, but he would never expect you to. “It’s after,” is your simple reply for much too complicated a situation.

“I didn’t think they’d take so much from me.”

“You’re still you, Caleb." You stare at him for a moment, like you're saying something obvious that he should understand easily. "You are.”

“Not completely.”

“Then I want what’s left.”

“You deserve a lot more.”

“So do you," you say, "but this is what we have. I want what’s left. It should be mine already.”

Of course you'd think that. He loves you. “Come in here with me?”

You hesitate, looking between his exposed knees and his face. Considering something.

“Let me take care of you for a little,” he says.

This decides it. You undress in front of him and he’s rapt. Maybe he should give you some semblance of privacy—but he can’t. He’s imagined this so many times. He’s imagined how your body would feel pressed against his since he saw you half-undressed in the bathroom when he was barely eighteen years old.

You take off your cozy pajamas, the scant underwear beneath. There could never be anything about you that Caleb doesn’t love—and this vulnerability is something he cherishes more than you know. The fact that you’ll undress in front of him and allow him to watch, to look at your body with every emotion he feels for you: love, desire, care, need.

Need to touch. Need to kiss. He wants to press his lips to every part of you. He wants you hanging from his maw by the neck. He wants his teeth to tear you apart, he wants to taste the way you feel when you’re scared and then assure you that everything’s okay, that he’ll protect you forever. He wants to tell you how beautiful you are but his voice is stuck in his throat along with his breath—everything knocked out of him with the realization that this is really happening.

The water is still warm when you slot yourself between his legs, press your back to his chest. He’s so incredibly hard for you but that’s an afterthought, something he hopes won’t make you uncomfortable. His head is blissfully quiet. He just wants to hold you right now. You sink against him and let out a breath that says finally, here I am.

Finally, here you are.

He wraps his arms around you, buries his face in the crook of your neck. Breathes in the scent of your sweat-damp skin. “Whatever’s left of me is always gonna be yours.”

“And I’m always going to be yours," you tell him. A promise. "So it’s mutual. Forever.”

He smiles at that, presses a kiss to your shoulder. He’d like forever with you. He’d love it. “Tell me about your day."

“I should—”

“No. Whatever you need to do, I’ll do it for you later. I just wanna hear about what you’ve been up to all day.”

The washcloth is easily retrieved from the edge of the tub—Caleb’s too tired to lean forward and grab it, so he pulls it into his hand with his Evol. Does the same with your body wash, lathers the cloth until he’s satisfied with the amount. Gently, he cleans you the way you cleaned him. Takes his time caressing every inch of you, holding you against him with his mechanical arm.

It matters less to him that he can’t feel the way he pulls you against his chest, the way his hand feels splayed out across your stomach. All he’s focused on is his cleansing of your skin, the soft hitch of your breaths, the gentle way you speak to him.

He listens to you talk about work, about missions and your coworkers and how your gun keeps jamming—which Caleb makes a mental note to check out for you later—then asks questions about the details. He just wants more. He wants to know everything about what you’re doing all the time. It’ll never not be fascinating to him. But his eyes grow heavy—the thirty-eight or so hours he’s gone without sleeping take their toll.

You notice, turning to look at him. Cradle his face in your hands. “We should get you to bed, hmm?”

“No, I’m listening,” he says. “Promise. Keep telling me. I wanna hear what Simone said.”

You smile, and Caleb’s head blanks. He should ask if he can wash your hair while you’re in here. He should have done things different his whole life so he could’ve gotten to this part a lot sooner.

“Caleb,” you say, and he knows what you’re asking.

He holds your wrists in his hands. Fragile but not. You’re strong, but he’s undergone more physical experimentation than you. A victory of traumas. He wishes his body was weak so you could break him. He would let you. “I won’t be able to go back to how it was before.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“Not now,” he says. “Not yet.”

“Not ever.” Your hands mirror as you touch him—trace his sideburns, the angles of his jaw, the backs of his earlobes. He curls his thumbs into the indents of your palms.

“No matter what happens,” he tells you, “you’re never gonna get rid of me.” And it’s not a promise—it’s a warning. Because if you decide you don’t want him, he would never be able to decide that he doesn’t want you. His life. A list of wants. He doesn’t know what he’d do, but he knows it wouldn’t be good. There’s a part of himself that he can acknowledge but not confront. It’s the part that wants to lock you up, to keep you and tell everyone else you’ve left, that you’ve died, that they shouldn’t worry about looking for you.

But that’s not even what’s distressing about the whole thing.

It’s the same part of him that wants to buy your clothes, to dress you every day, to pull your socks on and hold your delicate ankles in his too-strong hands, to brush your teeth for you because he wants to make sure you’re getting all the molars at the back, to cook all of your meals for you and straighten out your diet so it’s perfectly balanced, to feed you every bite of food from his fork, to hold your jaw in his hand as you chew to make sure you won’t choke, to carry you to every room and carefully place you on the couch or the bed or the counter or wherever you would like to exist next to him, to wash your hair and take his time keeping it healthy, to lather you up and clean you in the shower and do your skincare for you afterwards—

Something is wrong with him. When he says you won’t get rid of him, he means it. Once he has a taste of you, it’s going to unlock something inside of him that he won’t be able to put back together. And he’ll be so good to you if you never leave him. He’ll take care of you always, and try his best to make sure it’s the way you want to be taken care of. Not the thing he wants. He’ll be as normal as he can be and you can take him anywhere and call him anything and ask him for whatever you want.

How to put this into words without scaring you? There isn’t a way.

“I wish I could see into your head,” you murmur, freeing one hand from his grasp and tapping a finger against his forehead, right between his eyebrows.

“You don’t,” he says, because god, you don’t. He’s the exact kind of man that he wants to protect you from. But he’s also the only man that can protect you the right way. “There’s some bad stuff in there.”

You tap him again on the forehead, then on the tip of his nose. “I have a feeling it’s closer to what’s in mine than you think.”

What’s in his head is sick. He will always keep you safe from this. Instead of fighting you, he says, “Be sure you want this.”

And you smile. Allow your hand to sink back into his grip, your wrists once again both secure in his hold. A willing return to his grasp. “I am.”

When you kiss him, it’s the same kind of gentle as your voice. As your hands on his face. He follows your lead—you’re hesitant, clearly inexperienced, but that’s okay. He is too. He’s just thought about it more. He lets you deepen the kiss when you’re ready, only slides his tongue across yours after you’ve done it first. It’s slow, soft, incredibly intimate. Everything he knew a first kiss with you would be.

You’re so careful and precise, so gentle even though you treat everything with such firmness. His arms wrap around you to hold you steady, fingers curling into damp hair—when you moan, the noise small and breathy and completely his, he nearly loses his fucking mind. He moans back desperately, an exchange of sound, a price he pays into your willing mouth.

You pull back to breathe, forehead pressed against his, hands still cradling the sides of his face. He has to breathe too—hasn’t figured out how to do it while you’re kissing him. It should be easy, but you make him breathless. Lightheaded. Like no air he could take into his lungs would be enough, because nothing could fill him like the feeling of your lips against his.

He’ll get better at this for you. He’ll figure out the best way to kiss you, the things he can do with his tongue that’ll make you shiver against him. For now, he closes his eyes, catches his breath, leans into your touch. This is what people mean when they talk about heaven. If it was anything else, he wouldn’t want it.

He hasn’t shaved since two mornings ago. He’s sure his skin is scratchy against your palms. He hopes you don’t mind it that much. Can’t stop himself from asking, “What’d I do to earn that?”

“You didn’t need to earn it,” you tell him. “I just wanted to kiss you.”

He smiles and really has to look at you—just to find out whether or not this is happening. He doesn't deserve this. You’re so solid against him, so real even though he’s dreamed about kissing you more than anything else. He wants to give you everything. Wishes he could.

You smile, too—small, your lower lip pulled between your teeth like you’re trying to hide it. You don’t want him to give him a bright smile because you’re worried that he’ll get ahead of himself, get cocky in the way that always annoys you. He knows you too well, and you know him the same. It’s how he’s sure you’re aware that it’s too late for that. He’s already getting ahead of himself. He’s planning to kiss you every day for the rest of his life, and he’s damn sure gonna do whatever he needs to in order to make that happen. “Do I need to earn another one? Nah—I’m guessing you’ll just want to kiss me again.”

“That depends on whether or not you can keep your big mouth shut.”

He grins at you wide, all teeth and confidence. “Whatever you want my mouth to do, I’ll make it happen. Just say the word.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re clearly amused. He loves you like this. Happy. His. “I think I’m gonna make you earn it. Maybe that’ll shut you up.”

He leans forward, traces your jaw with the tip of his nose. Presses a kiss to the spot just below your ear. “I can do that—I’m an earner. Doubt anything’ll shut me up, though.”

“You’re annoying.”

“You like it.”

You hum in response, mirroring his movements—lips across his jaw, the spot under his ear, the column of his neck. You always take things farther because you never doubt yourself when you go for what you want. He’s always admired you for that. When it comes to you, hesitation is something he excels at. He doesn’t want to scare you.

But you don’t seem scared. You’re looking at him like you want to sink your teeth into his neck. And he’d let you. He’d enjoy it, too.

But this can’t be a comfortable position. Sitting between his legs, back pressed hard against the side of the tub because of the lack of space to accommodate you turning to face him. “C’mere,” he says, and puts his hands under your legs. Lifts you, turns you with his Evol until you’re comfortable on top of him, your thighs on either side of his hips.

He didn’t mean to position you like this—not completely. The thought crossed his mind, about what it would be like to have you on top of him. But he’s good at controlling himself. Always has been around you, something he’s learned. Because he had to.

Maybe he should’ve asked you first. He doesn’t want to scare you. Never wants to scare you. He’s still hard for you and it gets worse when you lean forward, when the length of his cock presses against your stomach, when you kiss him again and this time he can’t remove the thought of what it would feel like while he’s inside you, fucking you slowly, carefully, the way you would maybe want him to.

He would have to control himself. He’s not sure what’ll happen if you ever allow him that—whether or not his thick band of patience and self-control will snap and he’ll live out his fantasies before he can stop himself. He wants to be the only thought in your head. He wants his name to be the only thing you can say.

Not in a depraved way. Not in a disgusting way. He just wants to be the only thing on your mind ever. That’s one way to make it happen. And if he can take care of you while making that happen—if he can show you why he should be the only man that should ever be allowed to touch you, because he’ll treat you so well, because he’ll learn everything you like so quickly—he’d be happy.

“You need to sleep. We should get you to bed,” you tell him. Still too close, your body pressed against his deliciously. It feels impossible for him to remove his hands from your hips. The feeling of his fingers digging into soft skin—he could tear you apart.

He’s getting himself too worked up just thinking about it. You’re right. He should sleep. And he’s allowed to sleep next to you tonight. A blessing. A curse, maybe, considering the fact that there’s gonna be no way for him to take care of himself before you escort him to bed. What will win out, he wonders—his exhaustion, or his need for you?

One is very easy to overcome. The other—well. It’d be a waste of time to try to overcome that.

“Caleb?” you ask. You’re so patient with him sometimes. You never used to be. Is this from before he died, or after? He’s just been enjoying the feeling of his hands on your skin, your breath on his lips, your body flush against his. You tap his forehead twice with a finger, a careful knock. “You fall asleep with your eyes open?”

“They taught me how to do that at the DAA, y’know,” he says, pulling your hand to his mouth. He nips the fingertip you still have extended and he watches your eyes darken, your lips part. “That’s how I got through those dramas you used to make me watch when I’d come home for the summer.”

You roll your eyes and he loves you. “You watched The Duke’s Secret Bride on your own. I saw it in your streaming history.”

“Keeping an eye on me, huh?”

“Like you’re not doing the same.”

How much do you know? A better question: how much do you suspect? He’s careful. Nothing he does to watch over you should be able to get back to you. It’s all protected by the Fleet’s servers, which have been impenetrable long before Caleb took the rank of colonel. He could ask if that would be a bad thing—but he knows you like your independence. Knows that you would ask him to stop.

“I can’t tell if you’re trying to be mysterious by keeping quiet.”

“Is it working?”

“No,” you say.

“Damn,” he says. “Thought I was getting good at it.”

You’re silent for a moment. Thinking something over. “You have to decide,” you finally say.

“What do you mean?”

“Whether you want to go to bed, or…” Your gaze drops to his lips before you look away from him entirely. So cute. You can’t even say it to him. Does he make you nervous? He likes that he does. But he wants you to feel comfortable, too. Safe. “You have to decide,” you repeat, “because right now it feels like I’ve made all the decisions.”

“I want to take things as slow as you need me to,” he tells you.

“I just—it makes me feel like you don’t want... me.” You chance a look at him again. “Or—not in the way that I want you.”

So far removed from the truth, but he understands. It’s hard for him to believe this is happening, too. It seems that any moment now, you could reveal the truth—this is all an elaborate trick you’re playing on him, just to see how far he’d go. How deep his need is for you.

He pulls you against him, fingers digging into your hips. Lets himself give in, just a little. Drags you up his length, tilts your hips back just enough that he can feel—god, you’re so wet. For him. He hisses out your name through his teeth, breathes out tight and shallow.

Your hands find his shoulders, you press your forehead to his. Say his name back, a call and response. The two of you forever. Together, the way you’ve always been. “More,” you say.

There has never been a request you’ve given Caleb that he’s denied you without good reason. And maybe his control is slipping, but he can find no good reason to deny you this. He digs his fingers into your skin hard enough to bruise—and you will, because he has to consciously think about how much pressure he allows his mechanical arm to apply. He can’t break you. He will never break you.

Slowly, he pulls you down the length of his cock, then drags your hips back up. You make the smallest, sweetest noise against his mouth—and that’s it. He’s gone.

He’s rutting up against you like an animal, dragging your hips down hard, harder, until your hands go to his hair to pull, to hold on. The slick glide of his cock against your heat, the way your body moves when it’s completely in his control, the way you tilt your hips to chase your own pleasure—he’s not gonna last long. Every touch is like a live wire to his nerves, every breathy noise that comes from you like something out of his most twisted fantasy. He’s gonna fuck this up if things don’t slow down.

He opens his mouth to tell you this and all that comes out is a deep groan, and he needs to stop. He can’t last like this and he wants to take care of you and be a gentleman and so incredibly selfishly he doesn’t want to finish unless it’s inside you.

(Control this.) He has to. Fuck. He tries to even his breathing, slows his pace. Loosens his grip on your hips, and already there are bruises blooming. He was too demanding, took too much of what he wanted. “Fuck, pip, I’m sorry—”

“Caleb,” you say—no, beg, and your grip tightens in his hair. Where he slowed, you pick up your own pace. “I’m so close, please, just—your hands, I need them—”

He’s gripping your hips within his next breath, so tight that it feels cruel. Moving you again, because all he needs to know is that you’re close, too. The amount of times he’s got himself off to the idea of this—just making you feel good in any possible way—he wants to drown in you. He could die like this.

“Yeah, like that, perfect,” you tell him, and he likes the affirmation. Didn’t realize how much he’d like hearing that. “Like that,” you repeat, and one of your hands untwines from the hair at the back of his head, moves to lay flat against his chest.

Slowly, slowly it creeps up, the curve between your thumb and pointer finger perfectly lining the base of his neck, the smallest amount of pressure on his windpipe. He makes a noise without really thinking, a little higher-pitched, a little desperate—and the way your eyes light up, the way your mouth curves in satisfaction—

He cums hard, his legs tensing up so quickly that they both cramp up. There’s no control of his body—he can’t stop himself from pulling you against him as your hips continue to rock against him—and fuck , he’s too sensitive for this—until you reach your peak, a sharp and vulnerable noise coming from deep within you, unlike anything he’s ever heard.

You let him hold you. Sink into his embrace the way you’ve done every time he’s ever hugged you. Your body folding into him, tucked away at its edges. He wants all of you. Holding you is a mercy, something he feels he shouldn’t be allowed. Regardless, he closes his eyes, lets himself rest his cheek against your hair. Listens to your deep breaths,

He says your name, like there’s nothing else to say. It always feels special to call you by your name after calling you something else for so long. It’s intimate to him. He wants to know if you feel the same, but this isn’t the time to ask. “You’re so…”

You pull away from his embrace to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Something good, I hope.”

Perfect. He was going to say perfect. The thought of your hand begging to curl around his neck just solidifies the fact. Is he into that? If it’s you—whatever you want, he’d be into it. He just never expected something so bold from you. “Is this—have you done this with anyone else?”

He shouldn’t have asked. It’s not his place. He knows that if you have, it’d be okay. Even though the thought makes his stomach fall through the fucking floor, he knows that he would have to be okay with it.

But you shake your head and his exhale is like a holy blessing. It’s like learning to breathe at full capacity after only using half for years. Only him. He’s the only one that’s ever touched you, and the only one that ever will. All his. “It’s okay. If you have, it’s—you can tell me,” he makes himself say, because he is a good person. He has to be a good person for you. If he was truly a good person, he would tell you not to answer his question. To forget he asked.

But again, you shake your head. You can’t say it out loud, which is so incredibly endearing to him. Still, you manage to ask, “Have you?”

Bold in the way you question him, shy in your own answers. He loves you in a way he doesn’t think anyone has loved before. “No,” he says. “You’re the only person I’ve ever wanted to be with.”

Maybe it’s too much—a view into his brain that might scare you. (You don’t want to scare her.) He doesn’t want to scare you. But he’s said it, and that’s that. You’re still here in his lap, your hand was still curved around his neck with intent, you still kissed him first.

“I know,” you tell him, and he understands—you’re not saying that you knew the whole time. You’re saying that you felt the same. That you waited for him, like he waited for you. You had ample opportunity to move on. The guy whose knees he shattered earlier told him about the way the Onychinus leader treats you, with soft touch and genuine care.

And still you waited, even though his hands could never be that gentle. Even though he’s sure his crimes are on par or worse than this other man who could have claimed you if only you’d let him.

You pull the plug from the bath, run the shower. The both of you clean yourselves off and all he can do is look at you. Even when you’re in pajamas again—his shirt, his shirt—soft and cozy, he just can’t take his eyes off you. The night’s final destination is your bedroom—it’s unspoken, but after that, he’s not sleeping on the couch. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to be far from you ever again. He’s going to have to figure out how to manage being away from you when he could just forget everything and stay close. Just the two of you, his hands on your skin, your lips on his.

When the both of you are settled, lying together in bed, you say, “I always wanted to be your first. I didn’t think I would be.”

“Why would you think that?” he asks, almost affronted even though there are many valid reasons he can think of, even now, that would answer his own question.

You shrug, unable to look at him—not shy, never shy. But still getting comfortable with this kind of vulnerability in his presence. “You’re charming. You know that. And I know there were tons of people that wanted to get with you when you were away at the Academy. And you're—I mean, you know. I don't see why anyone wouldn't want you. You're pretty. And you're—big, and... People like that.”

He has to stop himself from groaning, instead dragging a hand down his face to try to physical push down his reaction. Your voice, saying these things—how long have you thought about him this way? Since you were nineteen, since that almost-kiss? Maybe he hasn’t thought about this more than you. Maybe it’s equal. If that’s the case and he finds out, he’s gonna fuck you into the mattress. He’s gonna lose his entire process of rational thinking. “If you keep saying things like that,” he tells you, and it’s a genuine warning, “it’s gonna be hard for us to go to sleep.”

You smile, amused, as if that was the intended reaction. “Fine. I can be merciful. But I want a kiss.”

Tomorrow morning, he will wake up and things will have changed, but not enough. He will have to report back to the Farspace Fleet as their colonel, and he’ll have to explain his absence to Ever, and the parts of his brain that he’s locked up to keep you safe will suffer without you. He will be a part of Ever’s plans until the day he dies. He will love you until his brain is torn apart by the chip that controls him and there is nothing left but a shell. Something that looks like him but is not.

Right now, he’s still Caleb. He kisses you deep, slow, his tongue running across the roof of your mouth because he wishes he could exist there, right behind your teeth. He slides one big hand underneath your sleep shirt, tries to feel as much of your skin as possible.

And who was he ever kidding? He’s not gonna control himself.

He slides your panties down your leg and tastes you for the first time outside of his imagination and this is the only place he ever wants to be. Tongue curling against you, inside of you, wet noises and the sound of your moans, and what did he do to deserve this?

Nothing. It takes a little longer than he'd like for him to make you cum the first time, but then he gets it. The way your back arches when he sucks, the way your legs tremble when he moans against you. He’ll learn everything. And his name, his name, his name, please, Caleb, baby, I want—

But it doesn’t matter what you want right now, because he’s giving you what you need. Worship as absolution. His fingers curling inside you and making you squirm until there are tears in your eyes, until you’re saying no more , but the thing is that Caleb knows you have more for him, and he’s happy to tell you this.

And you do have more for him. You do, and each time your thighs tighten around his head, and your legs shake after a while, a constant tremble, so he’ll hold them for you. Wouldn’t want you getting tired.

When he loses count—seven? eight?—you finally push him away. Not the little weak nudges you’d given him throughout, but a shove with your full strength behind it, dislodging his head from the cradle of your thighs. He’s so hard for you, but nowhere close to finishing. He doesn’t think he can unless it’s your hands on him, your mouth—no. Maybe he can. Even the thought of that makes something in his stomach twist dangerously, makes his breath halt in his chest.

But there are more important things to think about—you look disappointed. This is the exact opposite of what he wanted. “Too much?” he asks, but he can’t quite get himself to apologize. He knows he won’t really mean it. But there’s also a part of him, ingrained like code, that makes him need to give you what you want. He took too much for himself again. Did what he knew was best for you rather than what you thought would be best.

“I don’t—I can’t handle it after that. I wanted you to—” And you can’t even say it now. All that bluster from earlier, talking about another man fucking you. Or—maybe he misunderstands. Because you say, “I want you,” and it’s clear what you mean but you’re so earnest.

You want him to make love to you. Not to fuck you. Because that would be such a callous way to put what crossing that final boundary would mean to you. But it’s a little out-dated, a little too much to use those words. There’s nothing else to replace them with. “I want you,” you repeat, and everything in him softens for you. His perfect girl.

“Next time,” he promises, and he means it. He won’t do this to you again until you’ve had what you want. He’ll do his best to be good. To think about how it would feel to be inside of you—divine, he’s sure, and even that thought extends inside of him horribly, pulls tight like something ready to snap—instead of thinking about what’ll be best for you.

He moves up the bed to kiss you, the lower half of his face soaked. Maybe he should clean himself off first? No. Not with the way you’re looking at him, not with the way you say come here, please . He kisses you with tongue, can’t stop himself from whining a little when he pulls back and sees your face streaked with your own cum.

“You didn’t…” you start.

“I did,” he said. “Earlier, y’know—when you took advantage of a poor, tired man in your bathtub.”

You snort, roll your eyes, act like you’re annoyed. He could fuck the attitude out of you right now, make you apologize for it. Over and over until he’s satisfied—which, knowing him, would take a long minute. He can always tell when you mean it and when you’re saying sorry just to say sorry. And he’d make you mean it.

No. You’re too overstimulated for that. And besides, he’s being good. He’s trying so, so hard to be good.

“Get yourself off,” you say. A command.

His bravado dries up in his throat. The attitude is doing something different to him now. Something worse. “An order?”

“Yeah,” you say, consider something dangerous. “And you can’t use your hands.”

“Oh… my god.” The words are mumbled into the crook of your neck. His eyes are closed. Your voice is fucking incredible. “Do you want me to—how should I—”

“However you want,” you tell him, but he can tell you’re up to something. This is the sound of you when you’re up to something. “But be careful with me. I’m sensitive, remember?”

He wants to be anything but careful with you. You frustrate him to no end and also make him want to smile every second of the day when you play with him like this. He loves being your toy. Christ, that sounds—a little crazy. But that’s always what he’s been for you, so it doesn’t really matter all that much, he figures.

Your hips in his hands, he grinds himself against you. He’s careful to avoid where you’re most sensitive—really just ruts against your hip, your lower stomach, dick straining against his sweats. He has to reach out above your head, his fingers wrapping around one of the wooden slats of your headboard, because otherwise he’ll push you up the bed uncomfortably and he needs to fuck you. No—he needs you to be comfortable. That’s what he meant. His head is spinning and he wishes he wasn’t wearing sweatpants because he wants to feel your skin against him.

They’re going to be ruined but he couldn’t give any less of a fuck. He has to do what you ordered him to do. And even like this—god, you feel so good—he gets close so quickly. His breathing is shallow, labored. He tries to say your name but can’t. His noises are all broken, pitchy, too vulnerable.

The friction of your soft body against the underside of his cock is torture. Your shirt’s ridden up and he has one hand on your thigh and there are already so many bruises, little coin-sized marks from his fingers and mouth that say she belongs to someone . He wants you to do the same. He wants to have more than just scars from childhood that he gained for you. He already belongs to you but he needs it in every way. He wants your teeth to break the delicate skin of his lips and mark him up permanently, so everyone always knows.

He kisses you hard while he rocks his hips against you desperately, like he can tell you this without saying it out loud, and when he nips your bottom lip you return in kind, biting hard just the way he knew you would. Not enough to truly hurt him—but he’ll get you there eventually.

“So good,” you say—put your hands on his shoulders and moan into his ear, dig your fingernails into his shirt. It’s like he’s one step removed from fucking you for real and he thinks you know this, because there’s no real pleasure you could be getting out of this. Apart from the pleasure of seeing him do this for you. Seeing how quickly he unravels even when he’s only able to touch you like this. “So good,” you repeat. “My good boy.”

He cums so fast that it could be a record. Eyes screwed closed, fingers digging into your thigh and the slat of your headboard, nose buried against the crook of your neck. You smell like sweat and body wash and fuck, fuck , he wishes he was inside you, and he rides out the waves of his orgasm against you, dragging his oversensitive cock against your hip. He didn’t even cum this much in the bath—it’s copious, a stupid amount. He could be fucking this into you right now but he has to follow orders. He has to do what you want.

He’s talking shit and he doesn’t even know what he’s saying, just snippets of gonna fuck you so full of my cum next time and so sweet and bet your pussy’s even sweeter and thank you, baby, thank you and thank you for letting me cum and god, fuck, I love you, thank you so much.

When his breathing has calmed, he realizes he’s putting a little too much of his body weight on you—but you don’t seem to mind. Your hands cradle his head, fingers tracing his hairline. He shivers a little at the touch, at the overwhelming after of probably the best orgasm he’s had in his entire life.

“I didn’t think you’d like that so much,” you say. Amused, again. When did you get good at getting the upper hand on him like this?

He can’t look at you. There’s a better question he should be asking. Is he into that? And how many times is he gonna ask himself this question today? The real answer is that he thinks he’d be into anything if you were the one doing it. Maybe he has a couple hard nos, but not many. He’s so bent out of shape over you that he could get off to your bare shoulder, or the skin of your ankles between low-rise socks and a pair of jeans. Anything you do is sexy to him.

He racks his brain for a response that doesn’t feel like giving in. It’s hard with the quiet emptiness that fills his mind, the contentedness of you holding him after letting him do some weirdly depraved shit. “You really have a mouth on you,” is what he settles on.

“Yep,” you say. Nip his earlobe. Jesus—you can’t get him worked up again. You cannot get him worked up again. “Does things like that.”

“Baby, please,” he says. He’s spent entirely. The inside of his sweats is uncomfortably sticky and slick. He needs to fix that and get you both to bed. “Please.”

You laugh. If it wasn’t his favorite sound in the world, he would pinch your cheek, maybe bite you back. Anything to annoy you a little. “Fine,” you say. Admitting to knowing what you were doing. “But let me clean you up.”

Finally, he allows himself to pull away from you. To hold himself up over your body, his face inches from yours. He taps your nose with one long finger, shaking his head. “Nuh-uh. You and those wandering hands. I think it’s best if I take care of that myself.”

“Ugh,” you say, dramatic, and he loves you. “Have it your way. Go clean up alone, I guess.”

“I’ll be thinking of you the whole time,” he promises. Something easy to keep.

You roll your eyes. “You’d better be. Leaving me by myself out here.”

“I’ll be back for you, duh,” he says, and kisses you like it’s his usual. Already a habit he never intends to break. “Can’t just leave you here all messy like this.”

“I don’t ever want you to leave me,” you say—and it’s a little more serious. Your mouth is still set in the small smile you have when you’re amused, but your eyes are devoid of mirth. This is you telling him seriously. I don’t ever want you to leave me, and the again is unspoken but understood by both of you.

“I won’t,” he says, but he’s terrified to make this sound like a promise. Not as easy to keep. “Not if I can help it.”

And you understand that he can’t assure you he’ll be there forever. He sees it in your eyes—something muted and hurt, but not by him. By the circumstance. “You’d better do everything you can.”

For you, he’ll always do this. He’ll claw himself back to life, he’ll tear apart whoever he needs to if it assures his freedom. He’ll work tirelessly to make sure that the only person he belongs to is you. This is what he needs to do now. This is his new command, his new set of orders to follow. “I will,” he says, and then repeats it. “I love you.”

You look at him for a moment, pensive. “In what way?”

“Every way,” he says. “I love you the way I loved you when I was a kid. But also differently. More.”

“More,” you repeat, and he wishes he was more eloquent. You’ve always been the one with the great vocabulary, the penchant for reading books for fun instead of just to figure out how to put together mechanical models or fix plane engines.

“I love you completely.” It’s the only way he can think to put it. “All of you. Everything. And I won’t ever not.”

Finally, you smile. A small thing he doesn’t deserve. “Tell me again,” you say. Troublemaker.

“I love you completely.”

“And you always will.”

He nods. “I always will.”

You take his face in your hands and kiss his cheeks, the corners of his lips. He’s never felt warmth like this. “Then you’re stuck with me,” you tell him, "because I feel the same way.”

And it’s enough for Caleb. It’s more than he deserves, and everything he’s ever wanted. His life. A list. What he’s wanted since he was too young to want it.

Just you, entirely and always.

˚✧ ﾟ.

Life with Caleb is all uncertainties. You knew that this would be the case. You can count on several things: if he can’t see you because of work, he’ll call you whenever he can. He’ll always tell you how much he loves you before he ends these calls. When he comes to see you, it’s always with a gift—a favorite snack, a trinket he saw in Skyhaven that made him think of you, sometimes a handful of blooms he’d picked from the apple trees near his home.

You press them into bookmarks, encase them in resin. Pretty white blossoms flattened and kept perfect forever, a symbol of how he feels for you. They will outlast the both of you. Long after you’re both dead, the flowers will look exactly as they did when you sat with him on your couch and pulled them out from between pages of your oldest and heaviest book.

You will never be entirely sure that you won’t lose him at some point. You will never be entirely sure that Ever won’t do something terrible to him without his consent. You will never be entirely sure that he’ll come back from the Deepspace Tunnel when he flies off for his weeks-long missions.

But he always loves you, and you always love him. This is undeniable, non-negotiable.

He surprises you sometimes, too, when the both of you have time. Dates that are thoughtful and sweet. A weekend away together, when the Fleet can spare him.

In the depth of summer, he takes you out into the country. Tells you to prepare a bag with everything you usually need at home. Two hours from Linkon, a house sits on the edge of its own lake. An older build but obviously well-kept, with wood-panel walls and a wrap-around porch. It’s nothing you would have expected from him, until he takes you to the bathroom and you see the tub. Free-standing, like the one from your childhood home.

“Let me wash your hair,” he says. Asks, really, despite it not being a question. He’d spend the time doing whatever you wanted him to do—this you know. But you love that he asks, that he voices his wants. You love that his wants often involve taking care of you, even if that’s a little selfish.

He knows how to do everything perfectly. You taught him well when you were younger, and he didn’t forget. He never forgets anything you teach him.

“It’s so pretty like this,” he tells you. Short, he means. Shorter than it was when you were younger. The most stark reminder that this is what has come after. You’re not nineteen anymore. Caleb isn’t at the DAA, so far away from you that sometimes you’d get scared he’d left without saying goodbye. You exist together as these new people you’ve become, love each other as well as you can.

You sit on the porch during sunset, after Caleb insists on drying your hair for you, too. You’re sure his arms are tired, his hands stiff. He doesn’t complain once. There’s a swinging bench, pillowed with a high back. Sitting between Caleb’s legs, you lean back against his chest, let his large body engulf you. He was right when he accused you of loving this.

Fireflies dot the budding night sky. The forest that surrounds the lake turns dark, blends into the void that hangs above. It’s hard to tell between firefly and star. It’s hard to tell when exactly you knew what Caleb was doing by bringing you here, to this place that replicates your childhood home not in entirety but in a few very specific ways.

Your childhood was nowhere near this grand, this isolated. You lived in the city. You were lucky to have a porch. You were lucky to have Caleb and you still are. “I love you,” you tell him, in this imperfect replica of the spot where he could have kissed you such a long time ago.

“I know, baby,” he says, presses a kiss to the top of your head.

You tell him that you love him less than he tells you. You’re scared, sometimes, to still be so vulnerable with him. So much has happened. You’re still in the middle of so much chaos, an indeterminate end guaranteed for the two of you. When you say it to him, he doesn’t say it back—as if to not spook you. He knows your limits. Always, he will be the person that understands your boundaries without you having to say them aloud.

“So are you going to kiss me or not?” you ask—a little antagonistic on purpose. You’ll thank him for doing this, for bringing you here, but you have to give him a hard time first.

Maybe you’re imagining it, but it’s like you can feel him smile, feel the amusement coming from his body as he holds you. “I dunno, pip. It’s special, being my first kiss and all. I’m nervous.”

“You’re so annoying,” you say, and you turn and pull him to you by the neck of his sweater and you kiss him, the way you should have the last time this happened, nineteen and hopeful. You forgot your own agency. You were scared of it, more accurately.

There was something there to ruin. The same as the first time you kissed him for real, in your apartment after he came to you exhausted and bleeding. Believing him dead was what showed you that the risk was worth it. Because losing him without letting him knowing your true feelings was the most empty you’d ever felt. You couldn’t deal with that again.

You bite his lower lip—one of his favorite things while kissing you. It never fails to get a reaction, his hands always tightening their grip on you with intent.

And he does, predictable in a way that drives you crazy. “During my first ever kiss?” he pulls back to ask, and you kiss him again and bite harder.

Exactly what he wanted, you’re sure. He groans deep, breathlessly, whispers your name between breaths. Done with joking, now. His hands pull at the ends of your shirt— his shirt, all you sleep in these days.

You put your hands atop his. He stops kissing you to look at you in question, brows drawn up high, concern in his eyes. Did I go too far? is always the question on his lips, always the worry that sits in his bones.

“Caleb…” you say, a soft reprimand. “You're trying to go farther during my first ever kiss?”

He laughs, then squishes your cheeks with one hand, forcing your mouth into a pout. “You think you’re so cute, don’t you.”

You narrow your eyes, your squished pout turning into a squished smile. He loosens his grip, hand instead cupping your chin, tilting your face up to his. “I think you think I’m cute.”

“I know you’re cute,” he says, and he means it. You can tell he does.

“Thank you for doing this,” you say. “You can be a sweetheart when you want to be.”

He wraps his arms around you, pulls you into his embrace. Rubs his chin against the top of your head, something you think he used to do to annoy you but that’s become one of your favorite ways to be touched by him. “Hmm,” he says, pretending to think about it. “Only for you.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” you say, because it’s true. You want him to be sweet only for you, the way you’re sweet only for him.

That’ll be the case until, inevitably, one of you leaves the other. Not by choice. By death or something worse. You wouldn’t leave Caleb for anything else—but you’ve gotten better at thinking less about the future and more about the present. About Caleb’s arms around you, his chin resting on your head, his hands keeping you grounded and steady.

“We should stay here forever,” he says, and you both know that you can’t. Soon you will leave, and life will resume, and the fears you’ll always have will be right back where they always are, sitting like rocks in your lungs.

But that’s not now.

“I’d love that,” you tell him. Melt into his arms, breathe in the smell of his aftershave and earth-logged night and mineral oil. “Let’s stay here forever.”

#lads caleb x reader #caleb lads x reader #this was fun to write but god...... they're so odd. love them #if i didn't tag something correctly PLEASE lmk i am happy to fix things #im just bad at tagging

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