youkoden

[youkoden]

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐛𝐲 𝐋𝐚𝐜𝐞 [ 𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 ]

𝐚/𝐧: this started as a joke. you know the whole “caleb is a panty sniffer.” and then. I saw it. Him. In the bathroom. Lace in hand. Towel low. Shaking. And suddenly it wasn’t funny anymore it was hot and tragic and ruinous. Caleb, I love you. but you are absolutely a panty sniffer… and it’s kinda beautiful.

but here you guys are… a story where he doesn’t jerk off for pleasure. He suffers for it. he aches. He edges himself into spiritual crisis. (I couldn’t stop thinking about it until I wrote the whole damn thing.)

𝐜𝐰/𝐭𝐰: sexual content/explicit masturbation (m), intense longing, edging, obsession, panty sniffing (yes. yes.), emotionally tormented man™ behavior, caleb being ruined by a piece of laundry (and we love it), no actual sex, but you will absolutely feel like you need a cigarette. PLEASE, consume responsibly, and maybe… hydrate first.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 5,137

𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐯𝐞 O𝐟 𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐎𝐰𝐧: [Click here]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐑𝐀𝐍 hot. Too hot. And still, Caleb didn’t move.

He stood with his back to the stream, eyes shut, steam curling around his shoulders like smoke—smoke that rises after something has burned too long, smoldering quietly, undetected. A heat that did not scald so much as it accused. It bit at his skin with the same tenacity guilt might have, were it made flesh.

He welcomed it.

The world beyond the bathroom was muffled, distant. As though it existed in another plane altogether. Here, only the drumbeat of water, the hiss of old pipes, and the cool tile beneath his palm reminded him he was still tethered to something solid. Something real.

His mind, however, was loud. Too loud.

It always was, after a mission. Not the violence—that part was mechanical now. The smell of sweat, of dust and blood, had long since ceased to unsettle him. What lingered was the silence after. The stillness. The return.

The knowledge that he’d come back to a place that felt safe—and that she would be there.

Or worse… that she wouldn’t be.

That absence struck harder than any wound.

Caleb dragged a hand through his hair, slicked it back, exhaling low. The water kept falling. Beads clung to the curve of his spine, trailed his ribs, slid down the flat plane of his stomach. He moved through habit—soap, rinse, breath—while his mind wandered into places he avoided during daylight.

Her voice. Her laughter in the kitchen. The soft shuffle of her socked feet across the floor in the morning—always a little uneven, as if her body hadn’t yet caught up to being awake.

He remembered the exact shade of her eyes when she was tired, that faint crease between her brows when she read too long without her glasses. He remembered how she used to cling to him when they were younger—head tucked beneath his chin during thunderstorms, fingers curled in the hem of his shirt.

As if she believed, even then, that he was something safe.

As if he’d ever deserved to be.

Caleb inhaled, slow and shallow. Turned to face the stream. It struck his chest hard, scalding the dip beneath his collarbone. He let it.

He was older now. So was she. And yet nothing between them had softened. If anything, it had grown sharper—more impossible. With every change in her, every careless laugh, every casual brush of fingers or bump of shoulders, the boundary between what he was and what he wanted eroded.

And she didn’t notice.

Of course she didn’t.

How could she, when she still looked at him like he was the boy who carried her backpack? The one who patched her scraped knees? The one who always made room beside him on the couch without a word?

Now she tossed her laundry in with his. Stole his hoodies and left them on chairs. Used his razor once—just once—and never noticed how long he stared at it after, trying to pretend it was only plastic and metal.

And not something that had kissed her skin.

He rubbed a hand down his face. Felt the rasp of stubble, the sting behind his eyes—not quite tears. He didn’t cry. Not anymore. But something ached there. Pressing behind the bone. Something for which he had no name, and nowhere to put.

He was tired.

Not in the way a man grows tired from a long day’s work, but in the way a soul grows weary when it’s been caged too long. When it yearns for something it has no right to hold.

He reached for the soap again. Washed his hands a second time. Then a third. The motion was automatic, desperate. Useless.

No matter how many times he rinsed, some part of her still clung to him. Her scent. Her warmth. That quiet, maddening intimacy of shared space—a version of domesticity they never spoke of, never defined, but never lived inside all the same.

He shouldn’t be living with her.

He knew that.

But when she asked—light as breath, “You’ve got an extra room, don’t you?”—he’d said yes before reason could claw its way into his throat. Before logic could whisper what it would cost.

Now she was everywhere. In the pantry. The hallway. In the quiet rhythm of his days.

And in the silence, too.

He pressed his thumb to the base of his throat. His pulse thudded too fast beneath it.

The water wasn’t loud enough anymore. It couldn’t drown out the memory of her smile that morning—half-lidded eyes, tea in hand, hair twisted up carelessly. She’d worn that soft burgundy top again. The one that always slipped off one shoulder like it had been made to reveal her.

She had no idea what she looked like in that light. She never did.

She called him roomie now. As if it were a joke.

But it wasn’t a joke to him.

It hadn’t been for years.

He turned off the water. One hand on the knob. Silence slammed into him like a door thrown open in winter—sharp, sudden, cold.

Goosebumps rose along his arms.

He reached for the towel, wrapped it around his waist without thought, then stood motionless, listening. Waiting. For what, he didn’t know.

Nothing.

Just the old pipes groaned. The soft drip of water from his hair. The sound of himself, breathing.

Behind him, the mirror was fogged. Steam clung to the glass, a breath held too long, obscuring the man within.

He preferred it that way.

He didn’t want to see what this longing had made of him.

Still damp, he stepped away from the sink, feet silent against tile. Crossed the room.

There—just inside the door—was the basket of dirty laundry she’d left earlier.

He hadn’t asked her to. She hadn’t asked him if she could. That was the way of things now.

He didn’t look at it. Not yet.

He just stood there, water dripping from his hair, his shoulders. Every breath slower than the rest. Like his body feared what he might find. Like it already knew.

He shouldn’t.

But he did.

He reached down, hand trembling more than he would ever admit, and brushed aside the first layer—t-shirts, socks, something crumpled and worn. Her scent rose like heat from them. Like memory. Like sin.

And there it was.

Folded into the bottom, careless as an afterthought—burgundy lace.

His finger hovered over it. Didn’t touch. Couldn’t. As if contact might damn him entirely.

He stood there, towel loose at his hips, chest bare, water trailing down his spine—and stared at that fragile scrap of fabric like it was holy. Like it was proof of something he’d never be allowed to want.

His throat ached.

He let his hand fall away.

Stepped back.

Closed his eyes.

And for one terrible, fleeting second—he let himself imagine what it would be like if she had left it there on purpose.

He opened his eyes slowly, like a man waking from a fever. Not rested. Not whole. Just returned.

The lace was still there.

Still folded. Still innocent in its placement—so quiet, so unaware of what it had done. Or maybe not unaware at all. Maybe that was the cruelty of it. That something so slight, so soft, could undo him entirely.

It didn’t know what it was, this scrap of fabric. And he hated it for that. Or wanted to. But instead, he pressed a hand to his chest, as if he could calm the wild stammer of his heart. As if pressure could flatten the shame.

It was no use.

His pulse thudded loud, chaotic—like guilt made audible. It echoed in his ribcage, fists pounding on a locked door.

He stepped forward again.

The towel at his waist was soaked now, clinging half-heartedly to his hips. Heavy with steam. With sweat. With restraint. One breath too deep, and it would fall.

He didn’t fix it.

Or maybe he wanted it to fall. Maybe some buried part of him longed to be stripped bare—to stand revealed in his ruin. Nothing but skin and sin and the softness that undid him.

He reached again.

Slower this time.

So slow it barely qualified as motion. His hand hovered like it feared contact. No—feared desecration. As if this wasn’t cloth, but relic. An offering. A consecrated thing left behind by a woman who had no idea what she meant to the man who found her.

His fingers trembled above the lace. Paused.

He didn’t breathe.

What the hell am I doing?

This was hers. Not a stranger’s. Not some faceless, nameless fantasy plucked from passing lust.

Her.

The girl who used to steal fries off his plate like it was a sport. The one who always fell asleep on long car rides with her head against his shoulder, her breath warm and innocent against his neck. The one who called him roomie now, with a lopsided smile and her hair twisted up like it didn’t matter she looked like a fucking vision.

He knew her.

And she trusted him.

That thought struck like a lash.

His hand recoiled—snapped back as if burned. He turned too fast, breath catching in his throat, and gripped the edge of the sink like it might save him. Anchor him to something solid. Something good.

The mirror was still fogged. He was grateful for that.

He didn’t want to see the man he’d become. Not like this. Not when the hunger he’d buried so long had risen like a tide and dragged him to his knees.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Inhaled once—then again, slower. Like breath alone could reset the ache, flush the want from his veins.

You can walk away.You should.You have to.

But he didn’t move.

Because that lace—warm still, faintly perfumed with her air—had already etched itself into him. Its shape. its color. The ghost of her skin inside it. He couldn’t unsee it now. Couldn’t unfeel it, even without touching.

His towel slipped slightly at his hips.

He didn’t fix it.

Instead, his hand lifted again. Slower than before. Almost reverently. As if to reach for something holy.

He was trembling now—not visibly shaken, but stretched taut. A fine line of strain along his forearm, through his knuckles. As if some quiet violence were occuring just beneath the skin. The kind of violence born from restraint. From a hunger that had gone too long unfed, surviving on shadows and fragments.

This time, he touched it.

Just the edge.

Just the soft wiper of lace between two shaking fingertips.

And he stilled.

It was lighter than he imagined. Softer. Fragile. As if it might disappear if he held it too long. Disintegrate under the weight of what he felt.

She had worn this.

Against her thighs.

Against skin he’d never touched—had never dared to see—but had dreamed of. Feverishly. Desperately. Like a sinner who couldn’t stop praying to the body he’d vowed not to worship.

He let the fabric slip between his fingers.

Let it fall.

He couldn’t do this.

He shouldn’t even be here.

But something inside him howled—low, feral, wounded. A desperate animal pacing behind the cage of his ribs. The ache in his chest had no exit. No mercy. No name. Just pressure—relentless and growing.

She would hate him if she knew.

She would never forgive this.

He bent his head.

Pressed his forehead to the wall. Cool tile bit into flushed skin. His breath fogged the surface. He whispered something—inaudible even to himself. A prayer, maybe. Or a plea. Or just her name, unspeakable in its softness.

Please. Let me stop.

But he didn’t stop.

He turned again.

Looked down.

And this time—God forgive him—he picked it up.

Cradled it in his hand like it might shatter. Like it was something alive.

It was warm.

Still warm.

As if it remembered her.

As if it missed her.

He lifted it slowly. No one was watching. Only his own guilt stood beside him now.

He pressed it to his chest. Just once.

And closed his eyes.

He didn’t think.

He just brought it to his face.

Not to defile it.

But be near it. Near her. In the only way he could allow himself.

Just for a moment.

And when the lace brushed his lips—when the ghost of her skin lingered there like a benediction—he made a sound.

A low, guttural thing.

Half-pain. Half-prayer.

It came from somewhere deep. From the place where loneliness curls into longing and longing becomes worship.

He didn’t move.

He just stood there, lace pressed to his face, breathing her in like penance. Like memory. Like ruin.

And for the first time in weeks, his body softened. Not with relief—but surrender.

Complete. Wordless. Damning.

He stayed like that for a long time.

Lace at his lips. Breath shallow. Head bowed.

A man in a shrine of his own making.

He didn’t want to move. Movement would make it real. Movement meant intent—meant the illusion was gone, the denial shattered. That this wasn’t some chance encounter with temptation.

That he hadn’t stumbled into sin, but knelt before it.

But his body—faithless, devoted—had already made the choice.

He was hard.

Painfully.

The kind of arousal that curled in his lower belly and pulsed low, deep, unrelenting. It ached in time with the guilt rising in his throat—one beat for her name, one for her absence. There was no hiding from it. No lie left.

He hadn’t meant to get hard.

But hadn’t he?

Hadn’t he touched the lace knowing exactly what it would do to him?

Hadn’t he held it to his mouth like a starving man tasting the edge of grace?

His free hand clenched at his side. The other still held her panties—burgundy, delicate, damp now with water or sweat or shame. Maybe all three. Maybe it didn’t matter.

He should’ve dropped them.

Instead, he turned. Slowly. Like a man walking toward his own execution.

And pushed open the door.

The hallway was still.

Too still.

He paused, listened.

Not for footsteps.

Not for her.

No—he was past the fear of being caught. What scared him now, what rooted something cold and jagged in his guts, was the possibility that no one would stop him. That he would be left alone with this need—trembling, ravenous—and no one would pull him back.

No one would remind him who he used to be.

He stumbled into his room, towel barely clinging to his hips, breath jagged as if he’d sprinted there. When the door closed behind him, something inside him cracked.

A sound escaped his throat—low, raw.

He didn’t know if it was relief or despair.

The lace was still in his hand.

Crumpled gently now. Like it belonged there. Like it was something meant to be held. Cherished. Claimed.

He lifted it again. Slow. Reverent.

And inhaled.

God.

Her scent was faint now. But it was there.

Sweet. Familiar. That light floral warmth that clung to her skin, to his hoodies she borrowed, to the air she left behind when she moved through a room. Not perfume—never that. Just her.

That was all he could think.

It smells like her.

Over and over, the thought pulsed through him like a litany.

It smells like her.

It was wrong.

It was shameful.

It was everything he’d ever wanted.

His knees nearly gave beneath the weight of it.

He sat, hard, on the edge of his bed—towel loosening, slipping lower. The rough fabric dragged against his erection, and the friction drew a sharp breath from his lips.

His cock throbbed—heavy, aching, swollen with the kind of need that had nowhere to go but inward. Pressed down. Buried.

He didn’t touch himself.

Not yet.

He couldn’t.

Because to touch himself now would mean he’d crossed the line he’d spent years building. And though he was already halfway into the fire, some part of him still clung to the ledge.

Still pretended restraint counted for something.

He closed his eyes.

Imagined her.

Not naked—God, no. He couldn’t even let the image form without shame closing like a fist around his throat.

But her voice.

The way it tilted upward when she laughed too hard. The pink in her cheeks after hot tea. The slow, softened glow in her eyes when it was late—past midnight, when everything about her was quieter, warmer.

Would she hate him, if she knew?

Would she flinch, recoil, pull away?

Or worse—would she pity him?

His hand trembled.

He brought the lace down, pressed it to his collarbone, dragged it lower. Across the center of his chest, where his heartbeat thundered like a warning. Then he let it fall—to his lap.

It landed softly against the thick line of his erection beneath the towel.

And that—that—was what undid him.

The contrast.

That delicate, innocent scrap resting against the most depraved part of him.

Her—against this.

It should have made him stop.

It didn’t.

His breath caught.

His head tilted back, eyes clamped shut as if the dark behind his lids could hide him from himself.

A single whisper left his mouth—so soft it barely existed.

“Forgive me.”

Not to God.

Not to heaven.

But to her.

To the woman across the hall.

To the woman who trusted him with her mornings, her laughter, her tired silences.

To the woman whose underwear he now held in shaking hands, towel loosened, forehead damp, thighs clenched thigh, cock throbbing with each breath drawn like confession.

And still—he didn’t touch himself.

Not yet.

Because there was something sacred in the waiting.

Something necessary in the ache.

He wanted to stay on this edge a little longer. Where it hurt. Where he could pretend this was suffering, not pleasure. Where her name still tasted like regret, not hunger.

Where he could still lie to himself.

Where he could still believe he was only a man ruined by love.

Not yet a man ready to be consumed by it.

He brought the lace to his face again.

It settled like it belonged there—along the curve of his cheek, across the bridge of his nose, catching faintly at the edge of his lips.

He didn’t adjust it.

Didn’t dare.

He needed it.

The scent of her bloomed stronger now, drawn out by the damp heat of his skin. It seeped into him—into his breath, into his bloodstream. Into thought. Memory. Weakness.

He inhaled again. Deeper. Slower.

And nearly shattered.

There was something in it—something purely her. No perfume. No artifice. Just warmth. Skin. The quiet intimacy of clean cotton and untouched flesh. Familiar in the way only the essential things are—like the shape of home, or the silence before sleep.

It reminded him of nights she’d fallen asleep on the couch, curled into herself beneath one of his hoodies, cheek pressed into the throw pillow she claimed as hers.

He’d always cleaned up around her in silence—gathered empty mugs, folded the blanket, turned down the volume. He never touched her.

He wanted to. God, he’d ached to.

But he didn’t.

Because she trusted him.

And now?

Now he sat alone, towel loose around his hips, lace pressed to his face like a relic stolen from an altar.

And he couldn’t stop shaking.

His free hand drifted—slow, uncertain—to the center of his chest.

Fingertips brushed skin still flushed from the shower, still damp with heat and the ghost of steam.

He traced downward.

Over the ridge of his ribs. The quiet dip of his stomach.

He wasn’t thinking anymore.

Or maybe he was thinking too much.

Each breath felt like trespass. Each movement, a confession.

When his fingers reached the knot of the towel, they faltered.

Just briefly.

A flicker of resistance. The ghost of decency.

It didn’t last.

He undid it—slowly, slowly—every slip of fabric another betrayal.

The towel fell open across his thighs.

And the air hit him like judgment.

He was so fucking hard.

Of course he was.

His cock lay against his stomach, flushed dark, heavy, throbbing with the kind of ache that wasn’t new—but never felt old. That deep, unrelenting pressure that lived too close to shame to be called desire.

He didn’t touch it.

Not yet.

That would make it real.

Instead, he just looked.

At himself.

At what she had done to him.

And she didn’t even know.

Or maybe… maybe some part of her always had.

Maybe she knew.

Maybe she’d always known what her nearness did to him. What her socks in the hallway, her humming in the morning, her stealing the last of the milk without apology did to his mind.

To his body.

He exhaled—ragged, quiet.

And finally, finally, let his hand curl around himself.

Just the lightest touch.

His body jolted.

Not from pleasure.

Not yet.

From sensation. From the shock of contact after so long in denial. After months—years—of not letting himself even think of her while doing this.

He dragged his hand up—slow, reverent, measured—and let it fall away again.

No rhythm.

No haste.

He needed to feel it first.

To suffer it.

To sit in the ache like it might absolve him.

The lace shifted—slipping lower across his lips.

He let them part. Let his breath catch. Let the edge graze his tongue—just once—before he lifted it gently, again, to the bridge of his nose.

Like a blindfold.

If he couldn’t see, it didn’t count.

If he only imagined her there—kneeling between his legs, eyes soft, voice low—it wasn’t real.

It was just grief.

Wrapped in want.

He closed his eyes.

Let the image rise.

She was there. On her knees. Between his thighs. Bare skin to hardwood. Her gaze steady, unafraid. One hand over his, as if to say, Let me.

Her eyes weren’t wide with shock or shame.

They were soft. Curious. Trusting.

As if she wanted to watch him fall apart.

And in that terrible, beautiful illusion, he whispered her name.

Not the name others used.

His name for her.

The one she used to roll her eyes at, wrinkle her nose over, toss back at him with mock indignation.

The one he said just to see her laugh. Just to keep her close.

“Pipsqueak…”

It left him in a rasp. More air than sound.

He said it again.

Softer.

Than louder.

“Pipsqueak…”

And this time, the guilt struck deep.

Like the first drop of ink in clear water. Like the first cut after a promise not to bleed.

He still wasn’t moving.

Not really.

His hand remained curled around the base of his cock—no rhythm, no urgency. Just pressure. A trembling grip. As though holding himself was the only way to keep from breaking.

His hips didn’t roll. His thighs stayed taut but still.

He was edging—but not in the way the word usually meant.

This was something else.

Spiritual. Sacred. Punishing.

He hovered on the boundary between torment and release, between guilt and need, and still—still—he didn’t let go of the lace.

He couldn’t.

Because it smelled like her.

And he—he didn’t smell like anything worth keeping.

Not sweat. Not skin.

Just regret.

A man trying to sanctify his ruin.

His hand began to move. Not with hunger.

But with the solemnity of a man touching something sacred.

He stroked himself once—from base to tip—slow, deliberate.

And flinched like he’d been struck.

The pleasure wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t greedy. It was molten—slow and thick as honey—crawling up his spine, blooming behind his ribs, coiling low in the hollow of his belly.

He gripped a little tighter. Dragged his palm up again. Thumb brushing the head. Smearing precum across the crown.

A groan broke from him—low, fractured, muffled into the lace that still clung to his face like a second skin.

Her scent was stronger now. Not imagined. Not faint. Real. Like she’d soaked into his skin. Like she was the air.

He imagined her again.

Kneeling before him. Bare knees to floor. Hands soft on his thighs.

Not shy. Not teasing.

Just… curious.

The way she always was. The way she looked at butterflies. Or fireflies blinking against dusk. Or stars when they first pierced the dark.

As if wonder itself was enough. As if he could be enough, too.

He imagined her eyes lifting to meet his.

Soft. Wide. Wanting nothing but understanding.

Wanting him.

Not as protector.

Not as roommate.

Just as he was now—bare, trembling, undone.

And then, in that fragile, impossible vision, she leaned forward.

Her hands stayed where they were, steady on his thighs. Anchoring him. Forgiving him.

Her mouth hovered, parted. Her breath, warm against the aching head of his cock.

Then, softly—so softly he almost didn’t survive it:

“Is this for me?”

No teasing. No seduction.

Just honesty. Just her.

He groaned aloud.

The sound startled him. Raw and instinctive, broken free from somewhere buried too deep to name.

But not enough to stop him.

His hips moved—just slightly—seeking more friction. More her.

The wet sound of his strokes filled the room now. Obscene. Slow. And still, the lace clung to his skin. Her lace.

It made everything worse. It made everything better.

“Yes,” he whispered.

To the room. To the lace. To the ghost on his skin.

“It’s always been for you.”

In the vision behind his eyes, she smiled—hesitant, shy, but not uncertain.

She leaned in.

And kissed the tip.

Just once.

A soft, reverent press of her mouth to his flesh, like she didn’t know what to do yet, but wanted to learn. Like this was her way of knowing him, of meeting him, in the place he could no longer hide.

Her lips parted.

Her tongue flicked out—kitten-soft—gathering the precum that shimmered there.

And then she wrapped her mouth around him.

Slow.

God, so slow.

He imagined her lips stretching to take him, her lashes fluttering as she sank down, inch by aching inch. Not all the way—not yet—but enough.

Enough to make his breath stutter. Enough to make him shake.

He was shaking now.

Hand stroking in time with the image behind his eyes.

Long, slow pulls. Twisting at the head. Just enough pressure to ruin him. Just enough to keep from falling over the edge.

He could see her.

Hair falling loose across her face.

Nails digging into his thighs for balance.

Her mouth warm, wet, perfect as she hollowed her cheeks and took him deeper.

He’d lose himself in her.

He wanted to.

He wanted to fist her hair. Not to control her—but to anchor himself. To ground this fantasy in something touchable, tethered, real.

He wanted to beg.

Not for her mouth—no, she gave that freely in this dream.

But for forgiveness.

For this.

For all of this.

For the years he’d thought about her like this—beneath him, around him, part of him—and said nothing.

“Pipsqueak…” he breathed.

Again.

And again.

Like a curse. Like a plea. Like a name he would die whispering.

His thighs tensed. His stomach tightened. He felt it—the slow, spiraling heat at the base of his spine. The build. The pull.

But he didn’t let go.

Not yet.

His hand slowed.

His jaw clenched. Teeth grit tight.

He pressed the lace harder to his face, trying to breathe through her—through the last of her scent, through the imagined weight of her palms on his thighs, her mouth stretched around him, her eyes wide with awe.

Not yet.

He wanted it to last. He needed it to hurt.

He wanted to suffer for her. Because the second he came, she would vanish. Her warmth would dissolve. Her voice would fade.

And the silence would be unbearable.

So he stroked himself slowly. Carefully.

Balancing on the knife’s edge of release. Breathing her in like penance. Holding her name between his teeth like a relic. Telling himself—just a little longer.

Just… a little longer.

In his mind, she didn’t stop.

Her mouth opened wider. Slower. No hesitation this time.

Not because she had to. But because she wanted to.

Not out of obedience—but out of something worse. Something better.

Desire.

Caleb gasped—sharp, broken.

His hand moved with her phantom rhythm. Mirroring the drag of her lips, the sweep of her tongue, the way her cheeks hollowed as she took him deeper. Inch by aching inch.

His grip matched the imagined pressure of her throat—soft, then tighter. A slick, heated pull. Wet devotion made flesh.

He could feel her nose brush the base. She was choking slightly—he saw it, heard it, felt it in his mind.

But she didn’t stop.

She moaned. She liked it. She wanted more.

And that moan—muffled and low—vibrated through him like a live wire. Lit his spine with a jolt so violent, so pure, it nearly broke him.

His back arched, just slightly. Toes curling into the sheets. Thighs trembling beneath his own touch.

"Fuck..." he breathed into the silence. His voice was wrecked. Barely human. “Pipsqueak… please…”

He didn’t even know what he was asking for.

More? Forgiveness? To forget? To keep remembering?

Her name sat on his tongue like salt—like something tasted too many times, but never swallowed. Never spoken when it mattered.

He imagined her pulling back—just enough to look at him. Lips swollen. Glossy. Spit clinging to the corners of her mouth. Eyes dark. Wide. Wickedly innocent.

“Do you like that, Caleb?” she asked, breathless, smug. “Do you like it when I take you this deep?”

He whimpered.

Actually whimpered.

His hand jerked once—too fast.

He nearly lost it.

His body was ready.

Desperate.

Every nerve burned. His cock twitched in his palm, aching, leaking, pleading.

But he didn’t let go.

He couldn’t.

Because she wasn’t really there. Because if he came now, it would be just him.

Just Caleb.

Alone in a dim, quiet room—with his hand and a stolen scrap of lace.

Not her mouth. Not her voice. Not her warmth.

Not the weight of her on her knees, letting him fuck her throat like he’d dreamed of for years—slow, deep, sacred.

He slowed his hand. Groaned—not from need, but from resistance.

From reverence. From denial.

His chest heaved. Muscles locked tight. The pressure curled inside him like a tide that had nowhere to go.

He let it rise. Then fall.

Let the pleasure pull back from the brink like a retreating wave. The pain of it—of not finishing—was almost sweeter than release.

Because in the suffering… she stayed.

He dragged his hand up once more—slow, trembling—then let it fall away.

Shuddering beneath the weight of it all.

He wouldn’t come.

He refused.

He’d edge himself raw.

Because he wanted her. Because he always had. And because no matter what he told himself—

No matter how long he’d tried to bury it—

He couldn’t pretend anymore.

Not with her lace pressed to his face. Not with her name between his teeth. Not with her ghost in his hands.

Not now. Not ever.

To be continued... — © 2025 by Sylus Little Crow

[youkoden]

EVERYONE SHUT THE FUCK UP SCIENTISTS AT THE SCHMIDT OCEAN INSTITUTE HAVE FOOTAGE OF A LIVE COLOSSAL SQUID FOR THE FIRST TIME EVER !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

🦑‼️🦑‼️🦑‼️🦑‼️🦑‼️🦑

[youkoden]

Summer Dreams

Love and DeepSpace

Caleb x Reader

(No trigger warnings: Mostly fluff, use of Y/N, spoilers for Caleb’s Myth even though I didn’t read it yet)

AN- I need yall to know I did not finish Caleb’s Myth yet so any reference to his myth is an educated guess on my end. Also I wanted this to take place during the event of ‘Endless summers’

Hiiii wrote this at 3am (I need to sleep) hope you enjoy!

“This will be our last escape….”

The coldness of the lab

The warmth of the bright sky that blended into night within the Cave

Most importantly.. her

Growing up nearly isolated from each other- a wall dividing their interactions. Yet he would continue to speak what comes to his fleeting mind. Unknowing if she listening back or not. If she would talk back or not. Nonetheless escape was the target- bring her to paradise by all means.

They’ve done it one- why not attempt once more?

So they did.

Fight… control… repair… all boiled down to a moment. In the end her arms wrapped around his as the cosmos shoots down before them. Lips pressed against each other with finality for the two of them. Sadness was one that was too late to think about, with the both of them understanding the destruction that came with their predicament. Because there were already home- the paradise they so longed to see..

The world as they knew it became a flash of white light as they return to what they once were particles within the atmosphere….. returned to form.

“C…..b”

“Ca….?”

“Caleb.”

His eyes shoot up before getting blasted by the sunlight staring him down through tithe trees. As something cold pressed on his forehead shocking him into place.

Rapidly blinking out the blurry image showed a view that was not filled with destruction. But of flower beds and stores that seemed to go down for a mile. Most importantly… her.

His lips parted a little shocked to see her and more so the environment that currently surrounds them.

“Caleb” She chuckles and pulls away the can from his forehead “I swear- you’re the only person who can fall asleep in this type of weather.” The woman presses a drink to her forehead before taking a seat next to him and handing a can to him.

Reality sets back in as Caleb sighs out a lazy smile draws from his lips. His shoulders dropping down as he readjust his back on the wall that supported him.

“You took too long pip-squeak- besides the weathers nice out” shifting the can to his left hand. (Y/N) huffs and playfully glares at him but seems to stop.

“Hey-“ she goes to wipe something off of his face “Was your dream that bad?” Her face changes to one of worry. Caleb’s hand naturally followed hers- tears seem to run down his face.

“Overcooked in the sun a bit too long” Caleb comments with a small smile. “Now I got condensation running all over” the furrow in her eyebrows tells him what he needs to know.

“What happened in the dream? Did you lose something? Oh? Something tragic happened!” She guessed as her eyes follows his.

He couldn’t help but laugh as his head cocks to the side- “wouldn’t you like to know nosy people I swear…” his eyes lowered for a second as he opened his can. Meeting her eyes once more he begins. “Well it had you as my co-Star of the dream”

Her micro expressions as she listened to him is all he could focused on. The way her eyebrows raised when hearing something from his dream that seemed to reflect their reality. Leaning on his leg almost to hear him better. Most importantly her eyes as it gazes at him that gets his blood flowing.

His dream of her with cybernetic technology couldn’t compare to now she looked in front of him. He missed her…

“Then we… exploded at the end” a soft bittersweet chuckle left his throat. While (Y/N) stares at him like a season ending of the latest drama she loves to watch.

“Damn… so we really died together just like that? That’s fucked” she comments before taking a big gulp of her drink. Caleb couldn’t help but watch her once more. Not wanting to reveal the kiss they shared, it’s already enough that he’s dreaming about her. He closed his eyes as the thought came up of having her actual lips on his. “You’re leaving some unanswered questions that I’m curious about ” (Y/N) points to him once more “So tell me- how did we get into the position- before.. well dying..”

Caleb thinks as he looks at her carefully struggling to tell her. Though he pauses- he wants nothing more than to hold her for the rest of the day before he has to return home to Skyhaven and play colonel. Before he could stop himself- the dream before they kissed he poured how he felt about her…

“We kissed” it slips out of his mouth. There was a pause before he continued “I told you how I was going to protect you- but you refuse to leave… saying how we couldn’t be without each other…” his tone slowly more and more quiet as he looks off. His face was already red from the sun but it felt more warm in her gaze.

(Y/N) stares at him before looking down at something “dreams reflect the minds struggles… so do you- think of that with us and our relationship?” She looks back at him. Caleb opens his mouth and looks back down

“Right…. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable about-“ he was about to ramble.

“No” (y/n) cuts him off and looks at him with conviction in her eyes. “What do you think about us Caleb… please..”

He sighs and stares at her “you know that already pip-squeak- there’s nothing more I want than to be at your side..” he looks off to the side then back at her. “To protect you… and keep you safe. Because.. You mean everything to me” He ends off as the words leave his lips.

(Y/N)’s expression softens as her hands reaches his. Caleb can only watch as their hands wrap around each other like a well oiled machine. “You mean so much to me Caleb” her voice was quiet but her eyes screamed much more.

He couldn’t help himself moving his drink down to touch her face. “You don’t know how much it means for me to hear you say that (Y/N).” He gently pushed her hair away from her face as their lips meet. One that his dreams could never replicate. They pulled away before hugging each other.

“I’m sure that wasn’t a romantic kiss compared to your dream” she grins which made him grin more as he holds on her waist.

“I couldn’t even dream of this” Caleb replied “and if I was- I hope I never wake up from this…”

“Promise me something” (Y/N) smirks “that we don’t blow up after this kiss like your dream”

Caleb looked at her with a shinny glimmer in his eyes “I can’t make that promise to you pip-squeak but I can promise to love you a hell of a lot more before that could happen” he proceeded to kiss her much longer this time around.

[youkoden]

I saw this on Twitter (i forgot the @), but it really got me thinking. What would your hc be if the boys were playing the game and you were the mc? I hc that Caleb would save every "y/n laughing compilation" he comes across, rafayel would edit y/n's face on random fish and make crack edits and from his alt account he would drop the most gorgeous fanart, and for some reason I feel like sylus would use "quality time" religiously

Hi anon, thank you for sending this in ^^

I completely agree with your takes. Here is my take to compliment yours.

Rafayel: Is the undisputed Fanart King, sketching your character from every angle, in every possible outfit. If an art contest exists, he has already submitted three entries before anyone even knew it was happening. But beyond his artistic obsession, he is also the cursed glitch hoarder. While normal people would be horrified at a headless version of you appearing in-game, Rafayel takes screenshots for exclusive content, considering it a divine blessing from the tech gods. Despite his god-tier art skills, he has zero patience for level locks that force him to wait before progressing, so instead of playing at a normal pace, he rage-quits for months, then returns to binge the game in one sleepless week. His camera roll is half fanart, half stunning in-game scenery that he edits like it’s going in an art gallery.

Xavier: Does not play games for casual enjoyment. He plays for answers. He is a speedrun menace, hitting the first dialogue option before the text box even fully loads. If he gets stuck, he immediately transforms into a lore-devouring beast, reading every spoiler possible just to figure out how to proceed. The only thing keeping him from fully losing his sanity is his refusal to buy premium currency, his pride dictates that he must grind every last diamond by sheer willpower alone. And so, he hoards gems like his soul depends on it, progresses at breakneck speed, and once he’s finished all available content, he descends into 3 AM theory rabbit holes instead of doing something sane like, you know… sleeping. He probably has a color-coded spreadsheet tracking all the route impacts.

Zayne: No one would ever suspect that the infamous, critically acclaimed AO3 writer Frozen Seal, master of soul-crushing angst and tender, breathtaking romance, is actually the stoic, overworked cardiologist Zayne. His fics have a reputation for being so emotionally devastating that readers leave essays in the comments. His update schedule? Completely dictated by his hospital shifts. His author’s notes? Usually something like "Sorry, a patient coded. Will update later." Writes the most heart-wrenching, steamy romance scenes with surgical precision, leaving readers sobbing and sweating in equal measure. Has the smut writing skills of an ace author- which are god tier. Daydreams about you constantly, except when he’s actively resuscitating someone (Even he has limits.)

Sylus: Sylus owns everything. Every premium outfit, every pose, every CG. His entire paycheck is funneled into this game, and no one will ever know the full extent of his power. If questioned about how he maxed out every possible feature, he simply smirks and says, “Skill issue.” But despite single-handedly funding the dev team, he is infuriatingly secretive about his content. His in-game gallery? Locked. His premium screenshots? Hidden. Some speculate he has developers tied up in his basement feeding him exclusive content, but according to Sylus, it’s simply the fruit of his labor. Strangely enough, despite having literally everything, he still has beef with the gacha system and will cuss out the algorithm if he doesn’t get his way.

Caleb: Is cursed with abysmal gacha luck, pulling three-star memories every single time without fail. He suffers, but at this point, he embraces the suffering like a tragic hero. His nights are spent watching crack compilations at 2 AM, laughing silently to himself like a man on the verge of losing his mind (he is this 🤏🏻close). By all accounts, he plays the game rationally until your character appears, at which point all logic is abandoned. He has every single one of Zayne’s fics bookmarked, and he doesn’t just skim he analyzes them like scholarly literature, leaving long, heartfelt comments. And, of course, in the quiet solitude of his room, a freakishly realistic body pillow of you sits on his bed. If questioned? He doesn’t even blink. "It’s a limited-edition collector’s item."

[youkoden]

You're safe.

Sylus x MC/You

Genre:  One shot, angst but comfort?, fluff, gender neutral reader

Word count: 1200 words

Little note: Sylus comforts you after a nightmare about your past lives as per request of a lovely anon.

Warnings: mild gore?, blood, description of a nightmare, use of pet names (honey), teeth-rotting fluff

(Also posted on AO3)

Suffocating.

The air was suffocating.

Heavy smoke clouded your vision and made your eyes sting, tears forming in them.

Your hands were covered in blood, it dripped from your fingers heavily, pitter pattering on the scorched ground beneath your knees.

You could hear choking sounds inches away from you.

Through your tears you caught a glimpse of white hair, black iridescent scales.

“Sylus!” you whimpered.

Your dragon wheezed, choked, gurgling sounds echoing from his throat. There was a large sword sticking out of his ribcage. It was impaled all the way through.

It was you who had forced it through.

“No, no, no, no, Sylus,” you sobbed.

Trembling hands captured his cheeks, cradling his face with so much care. Blood smeared on his skin and you frantically tried to wipe it off, only making it worse.

Long claws circled your wrist.

“Shhh, it’s alright,” he whispered weakly.

Tears fell heavily down your cheeks, streaming down like a river, dripping onto his peaceful features.

“Please, please don’t leave me,” you begged of him.

“I will always be here,” he told you. “Always.”

The bright crimson in his eyes faded to a soulless maroon.

You screamed.

You were awakened by gentle but firm fingers, shaking your shoulders.

“Honey, hey.”

Sylus leaned over you, ruby eyes startled, widened with concern, little droplets of water dripping from his wet snowy hair. He'd turned on the lamp on the bedside table and its soft, yellow light outlined his sharp features. Images of your dream, of your shared past life, overlapped with the present, man and dragon flashing before your eyes before finally settling on the man inches away from you.

“Shhh, I'm right here,” he told you steadily.

Mind hazy with sleep, you reached up and wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down onto you.

Sylus let out a little surprised groan. He caught himself just in time not to crush you under his weight, forearms coming to rest next to your head, on each side of the pillow. You buried your face in the curve of his neck, inhaling his scent, nuzzling your nose against the exposed skin. The scent of his expensive body wash contrasted with the smoke that still burned your throat.

“I came out of the shower and you were crying,” he explained. “It was just a nightmare, it’s okay.”

You gripped onto him so tight you were scared you’d choke him but you were shaking. Desperate to hold him now, like you couldn't do in your dream.

“There was so much smoke, my hands were covered in blood… It was your blood,” you began to tell him, tears welling up in your bleary eyes.

You felt your vocal chords tie themselves into a knot, the salt of your tears going down your throat.

“I pushed a sword into your chest,” you whimpered.

You heard him inhale sharply against your hair.

“I didn't-... I don't-... Sy…” you hiccuped into his neck.

His arms circled your frame and he rolled the two of you over onto your sides. His motion shifted you a bit lower, low enough to bury your face in his chest.

“I know, honey, I know,” he whispered against the top of your head.

Your hands came down to sprawl themselves over his chest, feeling the unscathed skin, the muscles, the tendons. He was warm under your fingers, soft, whole. There was no sword, no blood. You sobbed against his heart.

“Sy, it was awful,” you told him.

You felt the rumbling of a hum within his chest when that was all he could offer you in response.

Your arms circled his waist and you laid your head against his chest, ear pressed to his heart, to listen to its steady beat. And you wept, for him, for you, for a past long gone which you felt so deeply engraved in your chest.

Sylus held you close, long fingers cradling your head against his chest, his other hand on the small of your back.

“It's over now,” he told you, “We're safe and sound.”

Your grip tightened around him and so did his around you.

His hand traced over your shaking shoulders, massaging the tensed muscles, slid down your back soothingly. You held onto him like your life depended on it.

Encased within his embrace was where you wanted, no, needed to be.

He moved his hand away and shifted a little, and you held on to him tighter, afraid he'd slip between your fingers. Another sob ripped through your chest.

“Shh, I'm not going anywhere,” he told you reassuringly.

You realized then he was just tucking the covers over the both of you, cocooning you in warm silk sheets and his arms. When he dragged you even closer, you were able to slip your legs in between his. The sigh that escaped your lips was interrupted by little sobs but it was one of relief.

Sylus seemed to relax in your embrace. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head and began to run his long fingers through your hair carefully. Occasionally, they would get caught up in a knot but he gently detangled it.

Slowly but surely, your sobs began to quiet down.

“You know, I'm glad you're no longer a sorceress,” he told you quietly, fingers slipping into your hair to massage your scalp.

Your head slowly leaned back into his hand and he supported the weight, shifting his position so he could look down at you now that your face was finally away from his chest.

“In this life, I can keep you here, just like this, safe and sound. And I’m no longer afraid you'll be taken away.”

His deep voice was mellow but serious, it resonated with your heart as if the sole sound of it could wrap it up in a tender hold.

The tears hadn't stopped yet. They blurred your vision but you could see his eyes gaze back at you steadily, so attentive.

“What if you're the one who's taken away from me?” you whispered up at him.

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest.

His other hand lifted to catch the tears falling endlessly from your eyes with the knots of his fingers.

“Who would even dare?” he responded, confidence so palpable you found yourself agreeing with him.

You kissed the palm of his hand.

He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss against your forehead, resting his lips there for a long while. You let your eyes close, sinking into him.

So utterly tangled with him, you could feel the steady beat of his heart against yours, the rise and fall of his chest when he breathed, his warm breath against your skin.

Slowly but surely, the tears dried. He cleaned any remains with tender fingers, kissed each one of your swollen eyelids.

“You're safe,” he promised and you believed him.

“I'm tired,” you told him, snuggling further into him.

He wrapped his long arms around you again.

“You can sleep. I'm not going anywhere.”

And you knew he really wasn't because there was no purer love in this world than his.

[youkoden]

࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ do you see (him) in the back of your mind? (read on ao3)

word count: 2k

tags: fluff, angst if you squint, mentions of his myth, dragon!sylus mentions

summary: on a particular day, you kept dreaming of him. One of those dreams catches your attention—horns, tails and all, and you decide to tell him.

a/n: some practice sylus writing because he's my second fav 🖤

You kept staring at him unabashedly, entranced.

He found that behavior amusing, finding and matching your gaze with an insufferable amount of mirth in his eyes. A teasing remark, a half grin on his lips—anything to get a blush out of you. That time, however, his words turned to mist on your brain as you took him in. You knew him well; the way his eyes glimmered under the moonlight, how his lips savoured every drop of his drink, as if trying to classify each note of flavor of it, and even the way his hair moved with the cold breeze. Sometimes you’d run a gentle finger, making way through the handsome shape of his nose, only stopping when he’d let out a scoff and grab your wrist, playfully.

“What are you doing, sweetie?” He stared back, a smirk gracing his sharp features.

You blinked, resting your head on your hand. You had agreed to have dinner (breakfast, for him) on his base before heading out for one of your assignments. This particular mission required pulling an all-nighter onto the outskirts of the N109 Zone. You didn’t particularly need to convince him, he just shrugged and nodded as if you’d asked him to go get something for you at the corner store, a small, non-inconvenient errand on his criminal routine. 

So you spent the entire daylight sleeping, trying to catch up on some required rest before going into battle. Sleeping during daytime usually meant naps, which is why you had a hard time staying asleep, waking up between forty minute intervals.

Each time, a stranger dream.

It had started with a regular one, just you and Sylus going auctioning. Then, fleeting dreams that resembled your first meetings, the oppressive force of the gunshot piercing his heart, his rough hand grasping your wrist like his life depended on it, forceful mannerisms that had quite actually scared you away from him, enticing you into running away and never looking back. 

And finally, a dream so foreign and out of place it took you a minute to break the barrier between dreams and reality upon waking up. How imposing, how impossibly handsome; your Sylus, tall and intimidating, sporting two wonderful spires on his head, and a long, thick, slithering barbed tail from his lower back. Scales had adorned his entire body, ebony and rough, and a single ruby emanated glow and warmth from his sternum, at the rhythm of a living heartbeat. His face was covered in blood—not yours, not his—as he stared at the glowing moon in longing and awe.

And still, in this dream, his eyes turned soft at the sight of you.

You gave him a warm smile, now back to reality to the real Sylus in front of you. “I dreamed about you earlier.”

He returned the smile, a glint of something playful and kind in his crimson eyes. “Was it a good dream?”

“Mhm.” You nodded, pondering. “It was quite the sight.”

“Tell me.”

“You’d laugh.”

He shifted on his seat, putting the fork down as he took a breath. Sylus tilted his head, the smile never wiping off his face, the now dying candlelight casting a warm, soft glow around you. “Oh?” 

You immediately shook your head, a slight blush adorning your cheeks, frowning. “Not like that. Ugh.” At least not this time.

The gentle sound of one of his classical vinyls cocooned the warm atmosphere of his dinner table, the melody one you had picked out a few weeks before, shopping with him. It was so effortlessly romantic, soft and tender—truth be told, so many dinners with Sylus were like that, and you started wondering how truly effortless or accidental it all was. It seemed so specifically tailored for you; the music, the special serving of food just for you, the way the moonlight would hit the table just right, the smooth silk tablecloths, the comfy cushions on the seats; it all screamed soft, soft, soft , as if he was self conscious you'd walk away again the moment you cut yourself on his edges. You'd grown to love him, gunshot powder and all, but something laid unspoken between you two. Something both of you should be aware of, but only him seemed to carry the weight of.

It stumped you.

Sylus let out a chuckle. “Well, then. I promise to be as straight faced as possible, kitten.”

“Not very comforting.”

He shrugged. “I'm simply doing my best.”

You inhaled, trying to recall more details about the dream. You grabbed a grape, placing it on your lips, letting it linger there for a moment before slowly biting down on it, staring into space. As you swallowed, you looked up briefly at the ceiling and finally spoke.

“ If you randomly woke up as an animal, real or fantastic—and don't say a crow—what animal do you think it would most likely be?”

One of his eyebrows raised in amusement, his smirk deepening. The candle was holding onto the last thread of light, the amber light surrounding the room slowly giving out. It gave the atmosphere an enigmatic mood, making the situation seem so serious it was silly. “Does that have to do with your dream?"

You rolled your eyes. “Just follow along.”

His gaze never left yours, carefully studying your expectant expression. He took out a casino chip out of his slacks and started playing with it, a fidgeting you immediately recognized as calculating and weighting every option on his mind, you realized he was holding back on answering what was truly on his head. 

You looked around the room, almost awkwardly, as the silence stretched on. “Hello?”

Sylus finally let out a scoff. “I'm more interested in what you thi—”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“What? I'm telling the truth. Besides,” he leaned towards you ever-so-slightly. “I'm curious what brought this on.”

The candlelight went off completely, the only source of light being the moon gently cascading its glow on the room. You went to grab another grape, but stopped halfway through. Despite his aloof and seemingly playful behavior, you couldn't help but feel as if that question had held some unspoken weight on him. 

You laid back completely on the chair, staring out at the moon. “I had a dream you were some kind of creature. Horns, tail, scales—no wings that I remember, though. It was incredibly detailed. You looked like a dragon.” You took a deep breath, and almost whispering, still daydreaming about the mental image, you spoke: “It suit you.”

He didn't reply, not immediately, the chip on his hand ceasing its movements for a moment. A brief hesitation, a glimmer of something in his eyes (melancholy? Nostalgia?) flashed, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by a half smile. He put the chip down and slid it towards you, taking a deep breath, beckoning you to keep going.

“We rested in a cave. Just like now, we were staring at the moon, and your tail—” You giggled fondly. “It was wrapped around me. Not asphyxiating me, mind you, but gently. And warm. It felt so real.”

You paused, and then continued.

“I wonder if that was some sort of…past life, or something.”

The room was completely darkened, and he had moved away from the glow of the moonlight, making it difficult to figure out what he was thinking. As the silence stretched on, you couldn't help but feel self-conscious — you'd half expected him to let out one of his earthy laughs upon hearing it. How cliché, how passè, the classical bedtime story of the beauty and her beast, deeply in love in his lair, a wonderful ever after following trials of blood and fire to be together. You've been watching too many romantic movies lately, sweetie , was the reply you expected him to blurt out, and then you'd pout, and finally go out to your mission and fight wanderers until the sun rose.

But he seemed to savor the recounting of your dream, as if taking apart thread by thread the tapestry of your words. You wondered what expression he had at that moment. Maybe he was coming out with a witty retort, something you've never heard before, or maybe he was annoyed at the prospect of him being a beast in the dream (when he'd been nothing but gentle with you lately), or maybe—

He let out a gentle chuckle, forcing you out of your thoughts. You stared at him, trying to find his eyes, until you met with a slightly glowing crimson gaze in the dark. A sign of danger, a pair of red eyes in the abyss—but they held none of the teeth that would swallow you whole. Instead, it enveloped you in a warmth that reminded you of cozy winter dawns, of summer nights, of a hot cup of tea after a draining day. 

How wonderful.

Sylus shifted on his seat. “Did something else happen in that dream?”

“Such as…?”

“We’ve watched one too many dramatic movies lately. Surely this one dream doesn't end in tragedy, likewise?”

You tutted, blushing, muttering. “Isn't the prospect of us cuddling under the moonlight enough for you?”

“With a monster —”

“A very handsome one.” You interjected. “And he is nothing but gentle with me.”

A pause of silence. Then, after staring deep into your eyes, as if attempting to break open your mind and peer into your jumbled thoughts, he let out a warm, almost elated laugh. 

“You do…have a fascinating way to look at things.” He spoke.

As if wanting to emphasize your earlier point, you stood up from the table and carefully walked towards him, two dinner knives in hand, and positioned yourself behind him. On the other side of the room, a body length mirror stood guard to the dark outlines of your bodies contrasting in the gentle glow of the moon.

The knives reflected the silvery light almost magically as you held them up the sides of his head in a horned fashion, a playful yet tender smile adorning your lips.

“You looked something like this.” You whispered, staring into the mirror. If you squinted hard enough, his silhouette looked very similar to the Sylus that had graced your dreams. “See? It looks good. It does suit you.”

He chuckled, his voice laced with something raw and unspoken. He gently grabbed your wrist, enveloping his calloused fingers around your soft flesh, as if counting every pulse under it. His digits interlaced with yours and he maneuvered you until you were at his side—then, he slid an arm around your waist and pressed you closer to him, his face burying on your sternum, something resembling a purr coming out of his throat. It made you freeze for a single second, the movement and the warmth so eerily similar to the one provided by his tail in your dream you wondered if you'd truly been the only one to dream about it.

“No tail. Is that alright?” He muttered, his voice muffled by your shirt. 

You shrugged. “Warm all the same.”

Something inside him opened at the sound of your words, and he let out a content, satisfied sigh. You could feel him smile against the fabric of your clothes, and under normal circumstances you'd tease him about it. Yet this time, he felt oddly vulnerable—like a cat bunting a beloved; it was not the time. You couldn't rob him of that.

“Let's go.” He broke the moment, pulling away. “It's getting late.”

He stood up, his arm leaving your waist—lingering for a fraction of a second, not truly wanting to pull away—and walked to the doorway with languid steps, taking his coat from the hanger.

“Does that mean I can call you that now?” You asked grabbing a last grape out of the fruitbowl.

“What was that now, kitten?”

“Dragon.” You smiled mischievously. “My dragon.”

He turned around, briefly speechless, and for a moment you feared you'd said something wrong—maybe he hated the nickname, or thought it was too silly, or preferred something else. But then his lips curved upwards, his gaze impossibly soft and cozy.

“If it's from you,” he reached for the motorcycle helmet and tossed it at you. “Any time.”

[youkoden]

Pairings: Dragon!sylus x reader

Notes: sorry for dying I’m back now, I got sick, and I hate this respectfully I will write a better piece once I’m feeling better.

Warning: mentions of dead deers, Beast!Sylus.

The first time you saw Sylus, you thought you were going to die.

Not because he attacked you. No—he stood still at the edge of the clearing, wings half-folded, steam rising from his nostrils. His skin shimmered like obsidian, black horns curving back over a crown of tangled white hair. He was… massive. Nearly seven or more feet of muscle, talons, and silent, menacing power.

He approached one day while you were outside, picking some carrots from your little farm outside of your cottage house.

And he dropped a dead deer at your feet.

Just—thump. Right there. Legs curled awkwardly, neck broken, but it was still warm.

You stood frozen, eyes flicking from the deer to the dragon-man and back again. He said nothing. Just stared, red eyes unblinking, tail twitching like he was waiting for something.

“…Do you… want me to cook it?” you asked weakly.

He blinked. Once. Then turned and vanished into the trees.

The second time, it was gold.

He didn’t make a sound at dawn. You just stepped out of your cottage one morning and there it was: a heap of raw gold nuggets and coins, like someone robbed an entire mountain.

You stood on the porch with your tea, staring at the glittering pile and blinking hard.

“…Is this a trap? Or maybe—maybe the forest spirits finally accepted my offerings of mushroom stew.”

You knelt down to inspect the coins. They were ancient. Some of them had runes you didn’t recognize. One had a dragon engraved on it. You poked it.

A low growl rumbled behind you.

You jumped, turning to find him again—towering, hulking, silent. Red eyes fixed on you.

“You again?” you whispered. “Okay, this is… this is getting a little weird.”

He stepped closer. You backed up.

“Did you lose this?” you asked, pointing at the gold. You knew how much dragons like treasures or shiny things, and getting barbecued by a dragon was not on your to do list this morning. “I can… help you carry it back?”

He stared. Then, slowly, he said, “Take it.”

You hesitated. “I mean, I guess I could keep a few—”

His wings twitched. “Take it.”

“…Okay.”

You picked up one coin.

He exhaled hard through his nose, clearly unimpressed. With a frustrated snort, he turned and walked off again, stomping like the very earth offended him.

The third time it happened, it was rocks—shiny ones. Polished quartz, opal, raw moonstone, the kind of stones that sparkled like water under moonlight. You found them lined across your windowsill one morning, arranged carefully as if someone had studied where the light hit best.

You sighed, fingers brushing over the smooth surfaces

“This again…”

The forest was silent behind you—but not for long.

A rustle. Then heavy, deliberate footsteps. Heat crawled up your spine before you even turned.

And there he was.

Sylus.

Towering, wings partially unfurled, horns gleaming in the dappled light. White hair tangled from wind and weather. Red eyes, burning like coals, locked on you.

He stood still. Staring.

You stared back, heart stuttering in your chest. “You again…”

He didn’t speak, not at first. He just nodded to the rocks with a barely perceptible tilt of his head.

“You brought these?” you asked, voice unsure.

He exhaled heavily, a deep sound from the pit of his chest. Then, in that low, growling voice, he said,

“Take them.”

You hesitated, brows furrowing. “They’re… beautiful, but why do you keep bringing me things? The deer, the gold, now these—”

“You not… understand?” he asked slowly.

You scratched the back of your head, awkward. “Understand what?”

He stared at you, expression unreadable, and then sighed—deeply. He looked down, broad shoulders slumping just a bit. Like a man who had tried very hard to follow the sacred rites of his kind and was now at the end of his rope.

Was he really this doomed?

“You are human,” he muttered. “But… pretty.”

Your cheeks flushed. “Um… thanks?”

He looked up again, eyes intense. “Good scent. Good eyes. I like your laugh.”

That only made it worse. Your heart kicked up in your chest.

“I brought prey. I brought gold. I brought treasure. I make nest warm. You live in it. You eat. You make funny noises when happy.” He stepped closer, voice rough, sincere. “I protect you. I fly over your roof at night. I scent-mark the trees so no male gets close.”

“You… what?”

He blinked once. “You are my mate.”

You froze.

“M-Mate?”

“Yes.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. A hundred things crashed into each other in your brain. The gifts. The constant watching. The deer. The way he always appeared when you left your cabin too far behind.

“Wait,” you said softly. “The deer was… a courtship gift?”

He nodded.

“And the gold?”

“A dowry.”

“…The rocks?”

“For your nest.”

“…Oh my god,” you whispered. “I’ve been accidentally accepting your… your dragon proposal this whole time.”

His tail flicked. “Yes.”

You groaned, covering your face. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“I am dragon,” he said, almost stubborn. “I bring gifts. You are meant to understand.”

You peeked at him between your fingers. “Well, we’re very different, because I just thought I was being haunted by a very generous forest spirit.”

His nostrils flared. “I am not a spirit. I am Sylus. And I chose you.”

Your chest tightened at how… earnest he sounded. There was no guile, no smooth charm. Just raw, beast-like devotion. He’d been courting you the only way he knew how. And you’d been accepting everything without a clue.

“You said I’m your mate,” you said carefully. “But what if I don’t feel… ready for that?”

His eyes flickered. “Then I wait.”

You blinked.

“I do not take,” he said. “I give. Always. Until you give back.”

You stared up at him. “Even if it takes years for me?”

“I live long. I can wait.”

Your heart felt too big for your chest.

Then you reached out—slow, cautious, and brushed your fingers over the back of his hand.

His breath caught.

“…I’m not saying yes,” you whispered. “But I’m not saying no.”

His wings twitched slightly, his tail curling around your porch like a barrier. You half expected him to roar or make some triumphant noise, but instead He lowered his head to your hand, and pressed his warm, scaly forehead to your palm.

A growl, low and soft, rumbled from his throat.

It sounded like a purr.

Weeks later…

You sat on your porch, legs tucked under you, a blanket over your lap. The shiny stones had been arranged into a little circle beside you. A bowl of soup sat nearby.

A shadow passed overhead, followed by a familiar gust of heat and wind.

Sylus landed quietly for someone his size. He approached slowly, claws tapping the wood.

“You are back” you smiled.

You reached into your pocket and pulled out something small—clumsy, handmade. A necklace you’d woven with leather cord, threaded with one of the moonstones he’d brought.

You held it out, and he stared, surprised.

“You said dragons give. But I want to give something too.”

He took it, slowly, like he thought it might disappear. His claw curled around it carefully.

Then, with deep reverence, he tied it around one of his horns.

“I will never remove it,” he said.

You laughed softly and leaned back against his warm side as he sat beside you.

You still weren’t sure where this path would lead.

But he was warm. Loyal. Fierce.

And most of all, he waited for you.

You looked up at the stars and smiled.

“…Maybe being with you wouldn’t be so bad.”

[youkoden]

captive bird - caleb 夏以昼

tension boils over during the thunderstorm in caleb’s living room—things get heated. what really happens in captive bird when caleb and mc are finally honest with how they feel about each other.

━ .ᐟ✧ PAIRING: caleb x female reader (afab)

━ ✧.˖ GENRE: smut, porn with plot, porn with feelings/angst, fluff, canon story continuation

━ .ᐟ✧ WORD COUNT: 13.4k

━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, SPOILERS TO CAPTIVE BIRD (main story), more compliant with original chinese script, pseudo-incest (it’s very clear they are not related and do not feel related), unprotected sex, oral (male and female receiving), fingering, virginity loss (male and female), panty sniffing/licking (while on female mc), panty stealing, multiple orgasms, light choking, improper use of Evol, lots and lots of dirty talking (caleb is a vocal man), lots of pet names (princess, brat, baby, babygirl, and the occasional pip-squeak), cumming on stomach, cum…licking?, use of gege, size difference, use of Y/N, lots and lots of main story/lore/anecdote references, lots of feelings and angst, references to caleb’s right arm, bratty mc/brat tamer caleb

━ .ᐟ✧ LINKS: ao3 | captive bird video (also has entire ch2)

━ ✧.˖ A/N: vomits everywhere DON’T LOOK AT ME,,,,,idk how this got out of hand….i was hoping it would be MAX 9-10k…it’s 13k….anyways i hope you enjoy <3 first of many love letters to caleb, my babyyy. 

if you cannot tell yes caleb is my favorite….far far behind is sylus and then behind him is zayne. but i fear it is not even close. 

this is the first installment of my “””planned””” caleb series - essentially it’ll be smutty moments throughout the canon content: main story, five star mems, bonds, etc. no schedule, no promises. i will write when i feel inspired <3 

lore and plot build up is probably 4k words and the smut is like 9k. It goes lore → smut so you can skip the plot and go straight to the smut if youd like LOL

THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL NEVER POST MY FICS ON OTHER TUMBLR BLOGS. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND ON AO3.

✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖ nsfw | minors dni | 18+ only | minors dni | nsfw ✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖

“Our reporters out in the field confirmed the lockdown will be lifted after being in effect for weeks. The Farspace Fleet assures everyone that the explosion in the Cascade District will not happen again–”

The newscaster is cut off when Caleb shuts off the television, coming up behind you. True to his word, three days had passed and it seemed the situation in Skyhaven was on the cusp of “resolving.” You’d finally be able to return home soon. 

Home–to Linkon. It used to be Caleb’s home too. 

On the other hand, your prickly relationship with Caleb had only tensed further in the past few days. You’d exchanged maybe a handful of words, not for lack of trying on his part. 

After he had clasped the monitoring bracelet onto your wrist, he may as well have locked away the last bit of hope you had that the Caleb you once knew was still under that prim and poised Colonel’s uniform. 

In your time at Skyhaven, he’d proven time and time again that the Caleb you grew up with, the gege you once loved, was gone. And what remained was someone you did not recognize, and didn’t know if you cared to. 

And yet, in the three days you locked yourself in the hollow room of his suffocating home, he’d still cook every meal for you, despite being gone much of the day. Three times a day, without fail, a tray of your favorite Caleb specials would show up at the foot of your door, accompanied by small and ridiculous sticky notes that pulled relentlessly at your heartstrings.

Caleb always loved notes. He used to say it was your guys’ thing.

But now, you weren’t so sure there was a you and him anymore. 

“After all this is over, the Fleet will return to the Deepspace Tunnel. You’ll be safe. For now,” Caleb’s words cut through your thoughts. You nearly jump at the sound of his voice, this being the most you’d allowed him to say to you lately. 

What’s more jarring is the idea that the Farspace Fleet is leaving Skyhaven. You’d forgotten that they hardly ever stationed here–spending most, if not all, their time patrolling the Deepspace Tunnel. 

“So you’re just going to leave again? Without saying anything?” you bite out, overwhelmed by a bitterness you hadn’t quite processed since reuniting with him. 

Caleb smiles, a ghostlike smirk that doesn’t meet his eyes. It’s riddled in self deprecation and pity, “You won’t have to see me anymore. Shouldn’t you be happy?”

He doesn’t give you a chance to respond before he chuckles and grabs your wrist, “I’m about to leave. Let’s have dinner together.”

Between the idea that Caleb is leaving you yet again, and him making yet another demand of you, you violently rip your arm away from him. Your words are venomous as you spit them out, “So I have to listen to the Colonel even when it comes to eating and drinking now?”

You storm away from him, sitting on the couch in the living room, hands clenched in your lap. Your gaze is fixed on your angrily quaking fists, and in the corners of your vision you see Caleb seating himself on the ottoman in front of you.

“You can be mad, but don’t let it affect your health,” he holds out an apple in front of you, a silent offering. It's perfectly red opulent skin only makes you bristle with more annoyance. 

“I’m not mad.”

Caleb chuckles knowingly, “Growing up, I knew you better than anyone.”

His voice doesn’t change but there’s an undercurrent of emptiness that makes you look up at him. He doesn’t meet your eyes, his cheek resting on his fist as he turns the apple in his fingers, the ruby skin glinting under the lights.

“I could see through your lies before you could blink. Bite your lip, and I could instantly tell you were upset.” 

He speaks as if remembering something precious he’d lost, violet eyes briefly flickering to yours before they cast downward again, focussing on the apple like it might solve your problems. 

“Then tell me, since you know me so well, what am I thinking right now?” 

Before he can respond, you continue, “I’m thinking…how did you turn into someone I can’t even recognize?” 

Part of you regrets the words as soon they come out. But the other part, the larger part, wants him to see what you see. To feel what you feel. You think that part of you wants to hurt him like he’s been hurting you.

Caleb chuckles darkly, putting the apple back into the fruit bowl on the coffee table with the other perfect and untouched apples, “I know. You’re thinking a chip got put into my brain and it changed who I am, right?”

His shadowed gaze  meets yours, unfathomable emotions shining through the eyes you once found immeasurable comfort in. He reaches out to hold your cheek, his fingers grazing your jaw. The look in his stormy eyes makes your skin crawl, and yet his touch is so unbearably familiar that you can’t help but lean into him. 

“What if I told you…I was always this person?” 

Your breath catches at the inexplicable hope that clashes with the sinister darkness shadowing his face. His deceptively simple words have you unconsciously inching away from him, your mind reeling as you struggle to accept them. Refuse to accept them.

Could he really always have been this person? 

Could you really have been so deluded that you’d fallen in love with a complete stranger? 

No, not a stranger–but someone who never even existed to begin with. 

You recoil, not from his touch–but from his words, your spine hitting the back of the couch. There’s a split second where Caleb’s face falls, a flash of the sweet innocent boy you were yearning for finding its way to the surface. But then his face hardens, his Colonel’s mask slipping back on. 

He stands before you, between your parted knees, his height looming over you like the impending storm that brews just outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of the glass cage that was his home. 

Caleb’s voice is so rough you almost don’t recognize it. His fist grasps the back of the couch beside your head, trapping you between it and him. You can’t bring yourself to push him away, your chest pounding at his proximity, eyes instinctively drawn into the curves of his lips as he speaks. 

“It’s you who’s still living in a fantasy, Y/N.”

Those hauntingly beautiful amethyst irises search yours for even a glimmer of understanding. You’re nearly consumed by the stark contrast of the frenzy and despair in them.

“The people who want your power–who’d hurt you. They should all just…disappear.” 

Caleb speaks with such a sinister conviction, as if he’s swearing a solemn oath to you. One that paints your skin with goosebumps at just how serious you can tell he is. How much of his humanity he’s willing to throw away–for you.

“You’re only safe when you’re by my side.”

He smiles at you, a deceptively warm smile that reminds you of the gege who always bandaged your knees and shielded you from the thunderstorms that reminded you of the roar of Wanderers. The Caleb your heart found itself inexplicably yearning for, no matter how much you told yourself you shouldn't. 

But the flickering darkness–the frantic despair in his deep purple eyes pulls you back into reality, like a blackhole swallowing all the light around it. 

“I’d rather be in danger than live like this, Caleb!” the sheer anger you’d held onto from the last three days boils over, tears of frustration pooling in the corner of your eyes. 

Your next words come tumbling out before you can stop them, knowing just how much they’ll hurt him. You’re not even sure they’re true–but once the floodgates open, you can’t shut them.

“I don’t need you!”

Caleb’s gentle smile transforms into one of disbelief as your palm rests on his chest, finally finding the strength to push him away. When he glances away from you, his eyes darting around frantically, he looks hopelessly lost. A plane adrift. 

“Don’t need me?”

His voice is incredulous as he grabs your wrist, holding it above your head. His grip is firm and unyielding, but not enough to hurt you in the slightest. Caleb always knew just how much you could take, after all. 

It doesn’t take much for him to pin you firmly against the couch, leaning in closer to cage you into the furniture. In the back of your mind, you know you should shove him off–slap him even. 

But all you could focus on is the way his long eyelashes are so close you could count them. How you can feel his heated breath fan across your parted lips, practically able to taste him on your tongue.

You can’t find it in yourself to put up a fight, unable to even tear your eyes away from him as the dark expanding universe in his irises searches yours. All you can do is weakly, pathetically, hit his arm. 

“Then tell me, what do you need? I can give you anything.” 

Did you want him to leave?

Your heart pounds at his words, the raw honesty and vulnerability dripping off of them, so serious it was nearly a threat. The desperate glint in his eyes was unlike anything you’d ever seen before. 

You didn’t recognize him in the slightest. 

“You want to return to Linkon? Then we can go back to Linkon.”

Could you return to Linkon with him? To the place where you’d held Caleb’s hand for the first time and inevitably fallen in love with the gege who’d protected you all your life? A man who was now no more than a ghost of who he once was.

“If you want to return to the past, then we can rebuild our old house and live together again.”

House. Not home. Because that’d been destroyed in the same explosion that’d killed your Caleb. 

“And if one house isn’t enough, I’ll build you an entire maze.”

A maze. Designed with the illusion of a way out, but in reality you knew it’d just be another way to keep you caged in like a little helpless bird all over again. Flying around aimlessly–lost.

“I’ll decorate it with everything you could ever want. It will be the most beautiful, stunning garden you’ve ever seen.”

Caleb holds your face possessively as he speaks, as if you might disappear at any moment. His thumb catches stray tears as they descend your cheek. The devotion in his yearning eyes is boundless, a void threatening to swallow you whole. 

A dream world just for the two of you. 

“No one will ever be able to find you ever again. I’ll protect you forever.”

The dream shatters into a million glass fragments, the shards embedding into your heart that had bled and scabbed over so many times these past few weeks in Skyhaven that it was unrecognizable. 

You press your free palm into his chest, pushing back gently. There’s no frustration or urgency this time, just a heartfelt plea that you can’t quite place. 

“Caleb…you shouldn’t do this.”

The words feel foreign as they leave the tip of your tongue. 

“You’re my…” the term feels like acid but you force it out, needing to get through to him. Your open hand on his chest closes into a tightly clenched fist. 

“My…brother. You mean more to me than anything.”

For a long time you hadn’t felt like Caleb was your brother. You don’t really know if you’d ever felt like he was. The only thing you were certain of was that Caleb had become the most precious person in your life. 

And you loved him. Was in love with him.

But it was too late to tell him that now. 

For now, you needed him to see reason. That the world he envisioned for the two of you was nothing more than a faraway dream, and dreams existed only in the whispers of the night. 

Caleb freezes, before biting out a bitter chuckle–halfway between a scoff and a sneer. The Colonel’s mask slips off, fluttering to the floor entirely. The wild look in his eyes is reminiscent of a caged beast that’d been whipped one too many times. 

“Hah–brother?” 

You struggle as Caleb pries your hand off his chest, not really knowing why you’re fighting him. It’s hard to think, with him so close to you, your resolve fading with each moment that passes. 

You vaguely hear the bowl of apples on the coffee table being knocked over, unceremoniously tumbling to the ground. Caleb hovers above you, his face darker than the torrent of storm clouds just outside the glass windows. 

“Y/N, your biggest mistake was believing that I could play the part of your perfect brother forever.”

You can’t tell if it’s the terrifying roar of thunder or his shocking confession that makes your heart pound so violently it hurts. Your fist quivers as you pull back, but Caleb only holds you tighter, unwilling to let you go.

The weight of his words crushes you–stealing your breath away, until there’s nothing left but the wreckage of your resolve. 

“Day after day, I’ve endured. I’ve held myself back. But now…”

His voice is so low that you can barely hear him over the clap of thunder, gravelly with a hungry desperation that makes your toes curl against the carpet.  

“I’m done playing pretend.”

The lightning outside flashes, illuminating his shadowed eyes revealing the depth of his turmoil. Without the carefully knit Farspace Colonel’s mask he always wore, Caleb was an open book, wearing his heart so openly on his sleeve that you could see every twisted thought.

Temptation, desperation, yearning, guilt, sin. All that he had shouldered and endured alone, donning the role of the supposed “older brother” like a shield, unwilling to risk losing the most precious thing in the world to him.

You.

And after weeks of seeing nothing but the cold, faraway, unforgiving Colonel of the Farspace Fleet, you were drawn to this Caleb like a moth to a flame.

Illogically, irrevocably, and so deeply that it hurts you. 

Caleb swears under his breath, shaking his head as if trying to snap out of a daze. His grip on your wrists loosens, but he doesn’t let go. His words come out in a forced choke, almost as pained as his anguished stare. 

“Don’t. Don’t look at me like that unless you’re willing to admit you’re done playing this game too.”

You can hear the blood pounding in your ears, your face no doubt as red as the apples that had tumbled to the ground. Your thoughts race a mile a minute, trying to reconcile what you’d always felt for him, telling yourself you shouldn’t, with what he was confessing to you now. 

What if you were never part of the game to begin with?

“Like what?! I’m not doing anything!” is all you can find yourself saying, almost petulantly, deflecting from what’s threatening to spill over. His skin felt impossibly hot against yours, his fingers nearly branding your wrists, reminding you just how much you’d come to feel for him. 

Reminding you of exactly who your heart was so violently pounding for in this exact moment.

Caleb shakes his head, a dark breathy chuckle escaping his lips as he releases your hands from above your head, instead gripping the couch behind you, boxing you in again. The storm outside fades away, until it’s only him, looking at you with an entire universe’s worth of longing reflected in those lavender halos.

His hand lifts to your cheek, hesitating before he uses the knuckles of his fingers to wipe your tears away, stroking along your jaw. It’s impossibly innocent, and yet you find your thighs clenching against him.

“Tell me I’m insane.”

You blink up at him trying to process what he was asking of you, the same exact things you had been telling yourself for…years. 

“Tell me…it’s all in my head.”

Caleb’s voice is nothing more than a desperate whisper, pleading with you to tell him what he needs to hear. Yes…or no. Whatever it is, he just can’t play this game anymore.

“Tell me you don’t feel…this.”

His long fingers slowly, tentatively, thread into your hair, his thumb stroking your jaw as he gently grasps your face, tilting you closer to him. Your eyes flicker to his parted lips that are so close you could just inch forward and taste them.

You definitely felt it.

“I-I don’t. Caleb…we can’t do this.”

You lie through your teeth, still holding onto the last fray of restraint you had left. The last, dying, part of you that wanted to keep the memory of you and Caleb exactly how it was. In a beautiful crystal box, that you could cherish and protect forever. 

Unchanging, undamaged, untouched.

Perhaps…that’s what Caleb thought he was doing when he kept you here in his glass home. Keeping you alive. 

“Didn’t I say I could always tell when you’re lying, pip-squeak?” 

His amethyst eyes are hooded with a deep swirling caution, warning you. That he can see right through you–he’s always been able to. And he’s never taken well to you keeping things from him. 

You try to bite back the visceral shiver at that sweet little pet name he so effortlessly called you, even when he was looking at you like a lion would a sheep. 

Caleb lowers himself so he’s kneeling before you, his knees pressing into the edge of the couch between your legs. 

“You’re trying to preserve a fantasy–a dream. But I’m right here, in front of you,” he urges, his voice broken and raw. Taking your hand, he presses your palm to his chest–his heart. Even through his shirt, you can feel the ridges of his muscles heaving with the weight of his heavy heart beats.

“Caleb…” you murmur, halfway between a warning and a plea. The feeling of his heart beneath your palm blurs the line between reason and desire. 

Caleb shuts his eyes, drawing a deep and shaky breath.

“Don’t say my name like that,” he growls, his fingers digging into the expensive leather of the couch, so forcefully that it threatens to rip.

“Don’t say my name like I’m already gone. I’m right here.” 

The vulnerable plea in his voice is so thick that you choke, tears welling in your eyes as you stare up at him, his eyes reflecting the same Caleb who used to point out planes as they flew by in the sky, promising you the world. 

Maybe you were the one who’d imprisoned him.

Trying desperately to hold onto the Caleb you knew. Blind to the fact that he was right in front of you, even if he’d shed the feathers you once knew. Forcing him into the tiny suffocating cage of what you wanted. 

He was right here. The Caleb who wore your hair ties on his wrist, the same one who dried your wet hair, who always looked for your face in every crowd.

The same Caleb who always did anything and everything to protect you, ever since he held your hand for the first time. 

And you’d punished him for it.

Your hands come up to hold his face in your palms, holding his gaze with unyielding regret. Caleb’s breath audibly catches at your touch, his face instinctively nuzzling into your palms, eyes shutting in a brief second of respite. 

“I…” you start, trying to find the words. But they escape you, stuck in your throat, where your heart clenches with repentance. Caleb is incredibly patient, stroking circles into the back of your head, not pushing you. 

You try again, “I’m…” You curse yourself inwardly, eyes prickling. 

Why couldn’t you just fucking say it? 

You were the coward, after all. 

Caleb’s thumb brushes against the corner of your mouth, careful not to stroke your bottom lip like he so desperately wanted to. His other hand clenches into a tight fist that trembles with the weight of his restraint. 

He gives you that half smile that’s so effortlessly Caleb that what’s left of your resolve snaps. 

“You don’t have to say it,” he reassures, almost dejectedly, his beautiful bright violet eyes falling, dimming like a burnt out bulb, “It’s okay.”

Even when he’s falling apart at the seams, his first instinct is to protect you. 

His breathing is heavy, lips parted, as his eyes flicker to your lips. The longing is so evident in those amethyst irises, but the light fades with every second that passes. Fighting with every instinct in his body, his thumb brushes along your jaw one last time before he releases your face, getting onto his feet.

“Just…have dinner with me before I go–please.”

Your eyes widen, heart pounding painfully as you watch him back away from you. 

No. 

You were done living in this fantasy you’d built. The dreamland you’d woven for Caleb and yourself. It was just as much of a prison as the one he’d put you in. 

Before you know what you’re doing, you reach out to grab his wrist and yank him back. Taken utterly by surprise, Caleb falls back toward you with little resistance. Almost falling into your lap, his hands shoot out to the couch behind your head to steady himself, his forehead nearly pressed into yours.

“What are you–”

Before your courage fades, you thread your fingers on either side of his face into his soft hair. You lean in the rest of the way, resting your forehead on his, his bangs prickling your skin. Your breaths mingle, his lips so close you could almost feel them–how soft they’d feel against your own.

Do. Don’t think.

You push your lips to his, swallowing his subtle gasp of surprise, pulling him as close as he can possibly get with his knees pressed up against the seat of the couch.

Caleb hesitates, his hands remaining respectfully by your head, his lips still.

But that lasts for less than a fraction of a second before his hands are gripping the back of your head, fingers tangled aggressively in your hair, teeth nipping at your bottom lip, groaning unabashedly into you.

Caleb’s lips are soft, slotting perfectly against yours like two broken pieces of glass. His teeth gently graze against your lip, begging for more. He’s the perfect balance of hungry and tender, demanding and delicate. 

You can tell he’s holding back, adorably so–not wanting to cross any boundaries unless you haul him over those lines. Despite that, he can’t help but cup the back of your head possessively, pulling you impossibly closer against his torrid lips.

Finally giving into what you’ve dreamt of for years possesses you with a boldness you’ve never experienced. It isn’t long before you’re teasing the seam of his lips with the tip of your tongue, wanting in.  

Caleb groans, one hand cautiously shifting to your hips. He hesitates, and you use your own palm to press him into your waist, begging him to hold you tighter. 

In one swift motion, he has your legs swung over his thighs, not going so far as to seat you on his lap. You sit on the cushion beside him, his arm cupped behind your back, the other holding your jaw. Your own hands are looped around his neck, inhaling his breath as your own, your tongue desperately tangled with his. 

To your dismay, Caleb pulls away, his fingers gently holding your chin. He pants, broad chest heaving with desire, tilting your face so that your eyes level with his.

“Tell me you want this.”

He fights with every instinct in his body that tells him to take your lips in his again. The way your beautiful eyes flutter at him, your lips perfectly parted so that he can feel your warmTH fan against him.

He’d spent his entire life forcing himself to look the other way–convincing himself that he should be the brother figure he thought you needed. Resolved his heart to still every time he saw those very fluttering eyes and intoxicating lips.

But now you were unraveling that very carefully crafted resolve, imploding it like a collapsing star. 

“I need to hear you say it, Y/N.”

You were a coward, but Caleb always made you brave.

Swinging your thigh over his lap, you straddle him, pressing him deeper into the couch. Caleb swears under his breath, his hands instinctively resting on your waist, locking your body against his. Holding his face in your hands, you bring him in so close his long eyelashes tickle your cheek. 

“I want this. I want you.” 

Caleb’s swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the intensity of his need, “God, you have no idea how many times I’ve imagined you saying that.”

He weaves his hand into the back of your head, pulling you to him, consuming your moans once more. His tongue claims every inch of you, causing your mind to go blank, throwing all prior restraint and reason out the window. 

Your body rolls instinctively against his lap, gasping when you feel something solid and thick right where your undoubtedly soaked panties press against Caleb’s lap.

His fingers tighten against your hips, threatening to leave fingertip shaped bruises, ripping his lips away with every ounce of self-control he has left.

“Y/N…this is your last chance to tell me to stop,” he rasps, eyes clouded over with a dark animalistic gleam. A desire that could only be born from years of pent up yearning and restraint.

“Once we start…I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop,” he murmurs, holding your cheek so adoringly. It’s clear that, while he’s giving you an out, he prays to the Gods that you won’t tell him to stop. 

With a pointed roll of your hips, earning you a delicious breathy moan from him, you grip the back of Caleb’s head, tugging on his hair. You pull his head against your chest, cradling him affectionately.

Caleb inhales a sharp breath at the sound of your pounding heart against his ear. How many times he’d stayed up, fraught with haunting nightmares, listening to this very sound, to your steady breathing, grounding him to this reality.

“I’m done playing pretend, Caleb.”

You can feel his entire body go rigid beneath you, his thick muscles tensing with heated desire. He lifts his head, his eyes meeting yours, his thumb swiping against your bottom lip with reverence. 

“Then…let me show you what’s real.”

With very little effort, Caleb picks you up, gripping your thighs and wrapping your legs around his waist. You squeal, looping your arms around his neck, hanging on for dear life.

“A little warning next time would be nice,” you grumble as he walks you, presumably, to the bedroom he had given you. His bedroom.

Caleb chuckles, his frustratingly infectious laugh, pressing a wet kiss into your jaw, “You used to beg me to carry you like this all the time. Suddenly you don’t like it?”

Your cheeks heat up at the memories of all the times he’d carried you around when you feigned being too exhausted to move, “It’s different now.”

You find your back being pushed against the cold and hard surface of the bedroom door.

“You’re definitely right about that. Back then…I couldn’t do this.”

He presses his lips into the curve of your neck, biting down with just enough force to make you clench against his solid body, crying out in surprise. Your reaction elicits a deep and warm chuckle from him. He kicks open the room of the bedroom and sets you down gently on the plush of the mattress.

He keeps his fingers pressed firmly into your thigh, keeping it hooked against his waist. Your chest heaves with desire, looking up at him expectantly. He hovers just an inch above you, kneeling between your legs, elbow pressed into the bed beside your face, caging you in.

“You’re…” he rasps, fingers digging into the plush of your thigh. He trails off, at a loss for words as his eyes rake down your lips, to your wonderfully exposed neck, to the defined curves of your collar. He clenches his fist, trying to calm down and stop himself from absolutely devouring you.

Breathtakingly beautiful.

“I’m what?” you tease, biting your lip at the way his eyes travel down your body, like it was his first time seeing the sky. Your hand travels from his jaw to trickle down his pulse, fingers teasing the bare skin where his silver necklace normally sat, the dogtag forgotten somewhere on the living room couch.

He groans, knees buckling under your touch. You gasp when you feel his excitement against you, your body instinctively arching up to grind against him. The sensation feels so mind numbingly intense that you can’t help but let out a soft moan, your eyes squeezing shut in embarrassment. 

Caleb hisses, his fingers digging in, almost painfully, to your thigh. His hips chase the feeling, bucking against you again, making both of you groan. He holds your jaw tenderly in one hand, forcing you to look at him, his voice rough with lust. 

“You’re a brat,” he murmurs, sinking down to your neck, “Gonna be the death of me.”

He trails a kiss of heated kisses down your pulse point, using his tongue to draw the most beautiful moans from your kiss-bitten lips. When he reaches your collar, he laughs into your burning skin.

“Nothing else to say, princess?”

You whine at his condescending tone, never a fan of losing to him. Mustering up your courage, you trail your hand lower until they tease the waistband of his pants. You don’t give him a chance to protest before you slip your fingers in, gasping when they meet the hot leaking tip of his cock. It’d hardened to the point that it could practically sit at his belly button, so you didn’t have to reach very deep for what you wanted. 

You revel in Caleb’s string of choked expletives, biting back the moan that threatens to escape your own lips when he sinks his teeth into your shoulder, desperately trying to stave off the orgasm you’re already building in him. 

Years of yearning, restraint, and being completely and utterly uninterested in anyone that wasn’t you had truly eaten his stamina.

It only encourages you to wrap your fingers snugly around him, giving him just one single languid stroke. 

Caleb’s fingers find your wrist, closing tightly enough to stop your ministrations, a dangerous warning reflected in his eyes. You can see his pulse pound in his neck, his breath coming out heavy and forced.

“Let’s not forget who’s in charge here, hm?” he grits hoarsely, deceptively calm, trying his best to hide how completely unraveled you have him with your pretty little fingers wrapped around him. When he has you panting so divinely beneath him, like he’d dreamt of for years.

With your hand caught in his, your eyebrows furrow in challenge. Your free hand weaves into the back of his head, pulling him back down so you can press a teasing kiss into his neck. When he stiffens above you, you sink your teeth in, marking him as yours, which he’d always been. At his hiss of ecstasy, your hips buck up to drag against his bare erection, nearly able to feel how wet you’d gotten through your panties and through your jeans.

“Such a tease,” he grounds out, his purple eyes burning with a dangerous desire, “Who taught you to be such a brat? Cause I know it wasn’t me.”

Your eyes flare with indignation, despite how badly your body literally quivers for him

“Not a brat. You’ve just always been a sore loser,” you taunt, pressing another heated kiss into his pounding jugular, this time letting your tongue tease him.

With a feral growl, you find both of your hands pinned above your head with just one of Caleb’s bigger hands, his grip punishing and addicting. He pushes his cock right into your inner thighs, giving you a taste of what’s to come. 

“You’re going to regret that, baby.”

With his free hand, he undoes the buttons on your blouse, yanking it open. Your coat had long been forgotten, probably somewhere on the couch, leaving you completely naked before him. You hadn’t worn a bra since you’d been stuck inside for the last three days, and with Caleb being at the base most of the time, you didn’t see the point. 

You yelp as the cool air-conditioned breeze hits your bare nipples, not noticing the way Caleb’s eyes widen, his pupils dilating like he’d been concussed. 

“Why aren’t you…” he trails off, his eyes doing their damn best to stare into your eyes and not at the soft plush of your breasts. The way your beautiful skin leads up to your hardened nipples that are just begging to be tasted. He doesn’t finish his thought, swearing like a sailor. 

Caleb’s violet eyes search yours, pleading with you. 

“Tell me one more time.”

You trace his jaw with your fingertips, trying to ignore how painfully exposed you feel. His eyes flutter shut, his cheek nuzzling into your hand. Like a puppy.

But when his eyes open again, there’s a ravenous fire that reminds you more of a rabid wolf than a sweet little house pet. 

“Tell me you want this. Because...” he pauses, his fingers tracing down your collar, stopping right before the swell of your chest.

“I can’t go back to playing house. I can’t go back to pretending to be your big brother. Not when I’ve tasted you.”

Your heart flutters, core tightening, at his simultaneously sweet and filthy words. Gently wriggling one hand free, you grab his finger that rests on your collar, guiding his hand down. Caleb’s breathing grows incredibly heavy and off-beat as he watches you lead his hand to cup your breast.

You bring his face to yours, whispering, “Caleb…”

“Please. I can’t wait anymore.”

Caleb’s eyes widen noticeably, cursing, “God you–you’re so fucking beautiful. Especially when you say my name like that. You have no idea what you do to me, do you?”

With one hand still pinned above you, the other holding his hand to your chest, you crane your neck up, pressing your forehead to his.

“Show me, Caleb.”

At the sound of his name rolling off your perfect tongue yet again, Caleb snaps. Gone was the chivalrous restraint he’d been hell bent on exhibiting. 

He brushes his thumb across your bottom lip before pulling your chin to his, consuming you in a mind numbing kiss. You’re so distracted by his tongue against yours that you don’t notice when his fingers close around your nipple, rolling it torturously. 

You tear your lips away with a moan, your back arching into him. 

Caleb chuckles, between trailing kisses down to your chest, “Needy little thing, huh?”

You’re about to snark back at him until he takes one of your nipples into his lips, letting his tongue circle it tenderly. You bite your lip to stop the embarrassing sounds that threaten to escape, the warmth of his mouth driving you to insanity.

Caleb snakes one hand to your lip, gently unfurling it from your teeth. He’s still attentively devouring you when he forces himself to tear away for one second.

“Don’t you dare hide those pretty sounds from me,” his voice is commanding, every bit of the Farspace Colonel you’d come to know. Except this time, the Colonel makes you shiver with desire and not fear.

His thumb presses deeper, teasing your tongue. Growing impatient with how you hold back your cries, he sinks his teeth into your hardened nipple.

“Nngh–Caleb!” you all but scream. You can feel him smiling against your chest before he alternates to the other, drunk on the noises you cry for him. The taste of your skin on his tongue.

“You always were so good for me.”

With his lips latched onto you, he uses his free hand to unbutton your pants, tugging them down until you’re in nothing but your soaked panties. His fingers trickle down, teasing the waistband. Before he goes further, he grips your chin, bringing your hazy eyes to his.

“More?” he murmurs tenderly, trying to get a temperature check on how you feel. He’d be damned if he ever made you unhappy again.

You sit up on your elbows, peering down at him. He’s flushed from his cheeks to the tip of his ears, his lips shiny with saliva. You let yourself revel in how devastatingly handsome he is, a sinful thought you’d denied yourself many times before.

God, you needed him so fucking badly.

Desperate to make up for years of lost kisses, you pull him in for another. When you finally pull away, you press his forehead against yours, your breath uneven, noses touching.

“More. Please.”

Caleb grins, “That’s my girl.”

Pushing you back against the bed, he sucks a trail of hickeys from your neck, to your breasts, down to your stomach. 

In between his kisses, he murmurs, “Let me worship you like I’ve always wanted to.” You whine when he gets to your legs, sucking a bruise into your inner thigh. Your instinct is to pull away, acutely aware of how close he was to your soaking panties.

But Caleb’s fingers dig into the plush of your hips, effectively locking you against his desperate breath and wild eyes. He continues his relentless attack on your quivering thighs, purposely letting his nose brush against your panties, using his fingers to tease them to the side, letting his warm breath caress your most sensitive parts.

“You’re fucking soaked,” Caleb growls, almost in awe, “God, you spoil me.” He’s so close that he can smell you, his mouth literally watering in anticipation.  

You whine, at your wit’s end, “Caleb, don’t tease.” 

“Always so impatient,” he chuckles with a crooked grin, “I didn’t hold myself back for nearly a decade just to rush this.”

You groan in frustration, tears nearly forming in your eyes from the pure desperation, “You’re such a–hnngh!”

You cut yourself off with a breathy cry, more of a screech, when Caleb presses his tongue into the soaked fabric of your panties, nearly wedging himself into your leaking lips. 

He groans as he tastes you. Even through the fabric you taste like a fucking drug. If heaven had a taste…this would be it. 

“I’m such a what, princess?” Caleb chuckles breathlessly into your pussy, using your same teasing taunt from earlier. 

You’re about to reach over to smack him when Caleb finds your clit, even through the underwear, his lips sucking obsessively. Your hips buck up into his mouth, back arching off the bed, only to have Caleb press his big hand into your stomach, pushing you back down. 

“Dreamt about this, you know?” he grunts into you, practically taking a deep inhale of your intoxicating pheromones, his nose pressed into your underwear, as his tongue works you into a frenzy. He renders you unable to speak, even though you want to beg him to move your panties to the side.

He licks another stripe, this time between your lips and all the way until the tip of his tongue strokes your clit, making you squeal.

“Dreamt of how you’d smell.” He can’t help but breathe in a shaky breath, intoxicated by you, drunk off your scent. 

“Dreamt of how you’d taste.” He finally tugs your panties down your thighs, nearly cumming right then and there at the sight of your naked core, glistening for him. Like a hormonal teenage boy. 

“Hah–Caleb!” you’re cut off when his lips latch onto your bare clit, suckling gently as his fingers start to tease your folds, gathering up your copious slick with his fingertips and smearing it around.

“Dreamt of how you’d call my name. Just like that, babygirl.” He continues to devour you like a five course meal, better than any recipe he’d ever perfected. You tasted so divine on his tongue, he feared he’d never come back from this. Never be able to be without you. Always wanting to dive in between your legs, devour you until the only thing that dared leave your lips was his name. 

“God you taste…” he can’t even complete his thought before his tongue is wedged between your slit again, lapping you up greedily. You’re too lost in your own pleasure to tease him, your eyes fluttering backwards.

“Can you take a finger, princess?” he groans shakily, practically begging. His breath is hot on your sensitive core, making you tremble. 

“Y-Yes–mmf–please,” you huff, fingers carding through his hair as he nuzzles happily between your thighs. Like a bear with a honeypot. 

“That’s my girl,” he breathes against you before slipping one finger into you. You gasp, the sting from just one digit taking you by surprise–thicker and longer than your own. But it doesn’t necessarily hurt. 

Caleb bites the inside of his cheek, trying to focus on licking up the honey between your legs and not how unbelievably tight you are around just one finger. His cock leaks with the urgent need to feel you, and with how beautifully you’re unraveling for him, he has to fight from cumming untouched.

“You’re so…tight,” Caleb groans, almost in awe. He only had one finger in you. And you felt like that. You can only respond in a string of strangled moans, completely lost in the sensations that ripple through every nerve ending.

“Sh-shit,” he mutters, imagining what you’d feel like wrapped around his length as you clenched against his one finger. You were dangerous.

“Gonna need to stretch you out. Can you take another, sweet girl?”

You nod, not really knowing what he’s saying–too lost in this whole new world of ecstasy Caleb is introducing to you. But you trusted him with your entire life. 

Gently, Caleb adds another one of his lengthy fingers. You wince at the stretch, the pain ebbing over the pleasure, causing tears to spring to your eyes. Caleb instantly stills, suddenly hovering above you, his fingers still deep inside you. His purple eyes are crinkled in concern, his free hand brushing the stray strands of hair off your cheek. 

“Hey,” he murmurs tenderly, his thumb catching stray tears, “You with me?”

You writhe, still adjusting to the stretch of his second finger, the pain dulling slowly. His still fingers start to feel unnatural, the need for friction growing with every passing second. 

“I’m–angh–I’m good,” you pant, “C-Caleb–please. Move.”

Caleb nearly chokes, his cock lurching at your tearful and needy plea. He slowly starts to move his fingers in and out of you again with the utmost gentleness.

“You’re doing so good for me, Y/N,” he pants, trying to keep his own orgasm at bay, “So wet and–hah fuck–warm.”

You whine at his praises, your gut knotting in excitement, the sensation returning back to a tingling pleasure. 

Caleb gently scissors his two fingers, pressing his tongue against your core once more, desperate for another taste. 

“I can feel you squeezing my fingers,” he rasps in between sucking at your sensitive bud, “Feel good, princess? You like it when I praise you?”

You whine, nodding as best as you can, too far gone to feel ashamed. Your heart squeezes when you suddenly wonder just how Caleb had become so skilled with his fingers, with his tongue. 

But you’re pulled out of those thoughts when the man in question starts flicking his tongue with renewed vigor and passion. An overwhelming pressure builds in your gut that makes you writhe with a mix of anticipation and anxiety.

Caleb presses you back down, flat against the bed, “Tell me, baby. Let me hear you.” He jerks his fingers, simultaneously flicking his tongue against your clit. His hips buck repeatedly, groaning into your core as he fucks into the mattress.

The lewd sounds of his fingers inside you makes your cheeks burn with want. The vibrations that roll off his tongue and straight into you send you reeling.

“C-Caleb, it feels–I-I can’t..take much more,” you squeal, feeling like your abdomen is going to burst. You almost want to shove him off, overwhelmed by your impending orgasm. Yet you can’t get enough of his hand, his mouth, on you.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against you, fingers still inside you, “Cum for me, Y/N.”

Your breathing grows erratic, reduced to nothing but cries and moans, as he quickens his pace, curling his fingers to a hypersensitive part inside you. Your eyes go wide as the tension in your belly combusts, pleasure searing through your entire body like a wildfire.

Your fingers dig into the comforter, your back arching off the mattress. Caleb groans as he listens to your unabashed cries, his name on your tongue like a prayer. 

“Angh–Caleb! Oh God,” you whimper as he continues to devour you, even when you’re gushing. If it didn’t feel so mind blowing you’d be embarrassed that you were dripping quite literally on his face. 

“Fuck–dreamt of how you’d fall apart for me, just like this. But you’re…so much fucking better than my silly little fantasies.”

His fingers start to slow as your body trembles with overstimulation. You watch as he withdraws them, entranced by how they glisten and drip with you. With how exquisite you taste, intensified by just how many times he’d fantasized about this very scenario, he can’t help but lick his fingers absolutely clean. 

You shakily sit up on your elbows, a mix of mortified and turned on watching him drunk off your slick. Your chest and gut both flutter, your teeth clamping down on your lip.

You wanted to taste him too. 

Standing on your knees with him, you wrap your arms around his neck, taking him by surprise as you press your lips to his. His grunt is swallowed by your eager tongue, the taste of yourself confusingly arousing as you kiss him fervently. 

His hands hold your waist tight against him as he kisses you passionately, reverently. You can feel his massive erection against your stomach, his skin soft and burning against yours. It leaks profusely, smearing against your naval. 

Eagerly, breaking away for only seconds, you lift Caleb’s shirt up, scrambling to get it off of him, wanting him to be as exposed as you. 

While you have him off guard, you weave one of your hands with his, clasping your palms together. Resonance always came effortlessly to Caleb and you–as natural as breathing. Using your Evol, you manipulate Caleb’s gravity Evol, flipping him beneath you and onto the bed. Your tongue is still tangled with his as you lay atop him, swallowing his chuckles. Your cheeks warm as you try and summon your most alluring self, pressing soft and heated kissing down his jaw, into his thrumming pulse, his thick shoulders.

“You’re so damn cheeky,” he groans, voice gravelly with pent up need, inexplicably turned on by the way you can control his Evol like second nature. His cock twitches as your lips make their way down his body, needing to be buried inside you more than ever. 

As you descend further, lips at his abdomen, your intent becomes clear to Caleb. And while the thought of your lips around his dick makes him twitch like a virgin, which he unabashedly was, his impatience to be inside you grows to a painful peak.

He sits up, his hands finding your chin and tilting you to look at him. His voice is ragged, barely holding back the animalistic desire he feels for you. 

“Hey, no. You don’t have to. Let me worship you today.”

He doesn’t mention that the feeling of your lips on his burning skin, nearing his painfully hard erection has him just about ready to come undone. Untouched.

You roll your eyes, shoving him back down. You don’t push very hard but he lets himself fall back, weak to your every want and whim. 

“Haven’t you always wanted this, gege?” you grin teasingly, unsure where your confidence comes from. Your lips brush against the veins on his pelvis that lead to his very excited member. He jerks involuntarily, cursing under his breath–the familiar pet name now carrying an entirely new meaning.

“Sweethe–fuck,” Caleb chokes as your lips find their way around his thick leaking tip, deliberating shutting him up. 

You do your best to pull your teeth back, not having much experience doing this, especially not with one so…big. 

But big was an understatement. Caleb was…massive. He had girth as well as length, two prominent veins painted across the pink skin, standing incredibly tall against his abdomen. 

Maybe you should be scared–terrified, of how that would fit inside you later. But it only makes you want to please him more.   

Caleb’s fingers unconsciously find their way into your hair, tugging ever so gently. He does his best to stop himself from thrusting up into your impossibly tight throat.

“Hah–s’fucking…” he groans, voice haggard and forced as if he can’t breathe, “God, always knew that pretty little mouth would be perfect.”

His words encourage you to dare further, your tongue flicking against his leaking head, lapping up the leaking beads of his arousal. It’s surprisingly sweet, tinged with saltiness, no doubt from his addiction to apples, which makes it easier for you to take him deeper.

Caleb’s hips thrust up gently, his inexperienced excitement nearly controlling him completely. You relish in the way he almost uses your throat for his pleasure, slightly ashamed to think about how many times you’d imagined Caleb using you roughly.

Your thighs clench at the thought, a throaty moan escaping. Caleb’s hips stutter as the deep vibrations of your cry push him closer to painting your mouth milky white.

His voice comes out hoarse, almost harsh, “That’s enough, sweetheart. Come here.” He gently lifts your chin, his impossibly thick cock still buried down your tight throat. 

You whine, not stopping, wanting him to come as undone as he had rendered you. Your whine only sends Caleb closer to the edge with a strangled hiss.

You feel the familiar feeling of his Evol wrapping around you, lifting you off, and throwing you under him. You roll your eyes as he hovers above you, his eyes level with yours. 

“Always throwing me around with your Evol,” you grumble as if you hadn’t done the same thing moments ago. 

Caleb grins, the entire room nearly lighting up with his handsome smile. His fingers trace down your lip to your throat, his hand wrapping around it gently. 

“Would you rather I throw you around myself? That can be arranged.”

Your breath hitches as he pulls his pants the rest of the way down, giving you a brief reprieve to really admire his naked body. Caleb had always been well built, even in high school. But now, as he hovered above you, you were painfully reminded of just how much Caleb had grown up.

There was a reason Caleb attracted women left and right all throughout your lives. It literally got so excessive to the point he’d ask you to show up to campus and pretend to be his girlfriend to stop the countless advances. But now, after the explosion, after assuming the position of Colonel of the Farspace Fleet…

He was unreal.

Caleb chuckles, a teasing glint in his violet eyes as he grazes his thumb against the corner of your mouth, “Careful pip-squeak, any longer and you might start drooling.”

When you only respond with a silent glare and a gentle punch to his chest, his very muscled chest, Caleb grins and presses a tender kiss to your pouting lips.

“Later, we will discuss why you’re so good at that. For now…” he trails off hoarsely, entirely serious, despite his teasing tone. 

“For now let me show you what you’ve done to me, hm? How utterly you have destroyed me for anyone else.”

Your heart flutters at his words, throat prickly with emotions. Was it really possible that the two of you had felt the same way about each other for nearly your entire lives, both unwilling to speak up?

“How many times I told myself I was crazy, that I was just supposed to be your gege.”

He takes the base of his thick erection into his hand.

“How I had to physically remove myself from the house when you’d wear those god-forsaken shorts.”

He drags himself up and down your leaking core, gathering up your arousal and lathering it against his burning cock. God you were so unbearably wet he had to fight from diving back face first in between your legs.

“How painfully I’d ache when you curled up next to me, claiming to be scared of the thunder.”

He intentionally presses his tip harshly into your clit, making your eyes roll and your hips buck, a strangled moan of his name escaping your lips.

His voice grows strained as he lines himself up with your entrance. While you were anxious of what you knew was coming, your body craves him like no other, your hips instinctively grinding, as if to impale yourself on him. 

“How completely you own my heart.”

Caleb captures your lips in a searing kiss, eagerly consuming your cries of satisfaction as he gently rubs his engorged head against your unbearably tight heat. The anticipation eats at you, but you find yourself pulling your lips away. 

“I-I’ve never…” you murmur shyly, trailing off, hoping he gets the message without needing you to spell it out. You grip the sheets nervously, your knuckles white.

Caleb’s eyes snap to yours, so quickly his neck nearly cricks. There’s an unprecedented swirling fire in his irises. He hisses, a string of curses that you can’t quite make out, the hand holding the base of his cock shaking.

“You can’t just…You’re trying to kill me aren’t you, pip-squeak?” he growls, restraint hanging on by the thinnest of threads. He buries his face into your neck, taking deep breaths of your intoxicating scent.

“Is that bad?”

He lifts his head from your shoulder, holding your face in his hands, letting his erection rub freely against your slicked pussy.

“No. No. But you’re making it impossible not to…” he groans, slamming his palm down onto the bed.

He sits up, taking your jaw into his hands, cupping your face with all the adoration in this world and the next. 

“I haven't either. I’ve only ever wanted you. In high school, at the Academy…In this life, and every life after.”

“Ever since you held my hand for the first time, I’ve been yours.”

His words are so utterly devastating–sincere and painfully raw. It makes your chest constrict, your breath choked off. You find yourself rendered speechless again, despite how many confessions of your own were swirling in your mind, threatening to burst. 

Instead, you pull him towards your lips, only able to convey the depth of your own devotion with your actions. Caleb grunts into you, relenting as you demand entrance to his mouth. You lose yourself in him, guiding him to reposition himself at your entrance. 

Caleb nips at your bottom lip, his painfully hard dick in his hands once more, pressing gently into you.

You rip your mouth away in a pained squeal as he enters you, stretching you in ways you’d never fathomed. You’re so lost in the sting you don’t even notice the way Caleb’s knees buckle, his palm shooting out to catch himself before he falls on top of you, a string of hoarse expletives escapes him.

Caleb’s fingers gently brush away the hair that's fallen onto your face, the graze of his soft skin momentarily distracting you from the burning ache. His touch is so unbearably tender, it completely masks the way he’s falling apart at the seams, fighting his body’s instinct to explode white and hot inside of you.

“I’ve got you, princess,” he murmurs, his lips ghosting from your jaw into your neck, “You’re so perfect for me. Can you take a little bit more?”

The muscles of your thighs quiver violently at the strain of your body trying to accommodate his stupidly large dick. And while it burns like nothing you’ve ever felt before, you can’t bring yourself to tell him to stop. 

In the mush that he’s rendered your brain, you can vaguely hear yourself babbling, “C-Caleb–nngh–I-I can take more. Always wanted you–ngah–s’bad.”

Caleb’s amethyst eyes blacken, his jaw tightening sharply. 

“Y/N…you can’t just say things like that–say my name like that and expect me to–hah–keep it together,” he rasps, the thin thread of restraint, on the verge of snapping.

Your eyes squeeze shut, the tears spilling from the corner of your eyes. Your fingernails dig into the thick ropes of muscles in his shoulders, pulling him closer. The sting makes his teeth clench, inadvertently sinking another inch into you. 

“Mnngh–need you Caleb, I’ve always n-needed you,” you whimper, lips against his ear. Caleb stiffens.

“Fuck–okay baby. I’ll give it to you. I’ll give you everything.”

You look down as he sinks yet another inch into you, his vein throbbing as it tries to nestle into you. Even through the searing stretch, you’re mesmerized by just how big he is, and how he’s fitting himself so perfectly inside you. The muscles of Caleb’s abdomen tremble with restraint, doing his best to keep from pounding into you.

Caleb kisses your cheek, softly licking up your stray tears.

“G-God the real thing is so much better than anything I could’ve ever dreamt up,” he grunts, squeezing your hips tenderly as he tries to bottom out, “Wanted this–wanted you for so damn long.”

The initial pain had ebbed into a dull ache that was quickly bleeding into the same ecstasy he’d just given you with his tongue. 

“Ngah–wanted you since I can remember Caleb,” you confess brokenly, thick with the release of imprisoned emotions. You do your best to reach your shaky hand up to his perfect face, moving his sweat-dampened hair out of his eyes. He leans into your touch on instinct, that boyish charm returning to his face as his eyes shut in pure adoration.

“A-always…hah–have. So badly.”

Caleb groans at the genuinity in your confession, his normally purple eyes blackened almost entirely.

“So–nngh–you feel so incredible. I shouldn’t have wasted so much fucking time,” he groans, thrusting the rest of the way, bottoming out in your perfect little cunt.

Your cries are half way between a squeal and a moan as you feel him hit your cervix, pain blending overwhelmingly with the vast sea of pleasure.

“Caleb, s’too big–it’s too much,” you wail, feeling nearly split in half as his cock throbs inside of you, pulsing with the primal need to mark you. You look down and nearly yelp when you see his massive erection buried between your thighs–it was far too massive.

“You can, baby. You can take it,” he groans, bucking his hips ever so slightly, desperate for the feeling of your heavenly walls wringing him.

“Be a good girl, yeah? For me?” Caleb murmurs, his teeth nipping at your pulse, which earns him a beautiful moan from you. Your stomach flutters at his deceptively innocent pleas, your deep-rooted desire to please him, your perfect gege, taking over. 

Your eyelids feel unbearably heavy as you stare into his heated irises, nodding eagerly.

Caleb exhales a shaky breath, bending down to press a burning kiss to your lips. You return it with equal fervor, whining when he pulls away, too quick for your liking.

He chuckles breathlessly, wiping the drool from your lip tenderly, “Say it, sweetheart. Need to hear you say it.” He punctuates his demand with the slightest shift of his hips, causing the thick head of his cock to brush against a particularly sensitive spot in you. 

“Oh god Caleb–! I can take it, I can take it, please!”

Caleb hisses as his hips start to move. He hikes your thigh up, and you instinctively wrap your legs around him, caging him against you. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your rear, holding you impossibly closer to him as his pelvis snaps into your skin. The sound of wet skin colliding against each other rings loudly in your ear, lewd and filthy. 

His thrusts are erratic, trying to find a suitable rhythm without losing his mind and taking you like a rabid beast. His other hand kneads at your breast, fingers toying with your perfectly pebbled nipples. 

“Hah–taking me so well, always–nngh–knew you’d be absolutely perfect wrapped around me. Thought about it so many damn times.”

You bite your lip so hard you think you might draw blood, squeezing your eyes shut as his movements quickly blur the line between pleasure and pain. Your eyes flutter open when you feel Caleb’s thumb against your lip, prying your teeth away.

“Look at me Y/N. Let me see those beautiful eyes.”

Despite his rough movements, his eyes are jarringly tender, looking at you so adoringly–as if he wasn’t rutting into you like a madman.

You force your eyes open, blinking rapidly with the weight of the ecstasy raining down on your body. You briefly look down at where he’s connected to you, too fucked out to even notice the reddish-pink sheen coating Caleb’s member.

When your eyes flutter shut again, Caleb tsks, pressing his palm against the hypnotizing bulge against your stomach. Physically being able to see where he was buried so perfectly inside you drove him just to the edge of cumming, unable to stop himself from touching it. 

Your eyes widen, squealing as you feel your walls harshly clamping down on his cock, nestled right at your g-spot. Caleb himself falters at the sensation, growling as he twitches uncontrollably inside you. 

That was a mistake. You were already impossibly tight as it was, making you bare down on him only served to push him headfirst into the climax he’d been staving off.

“Baby,” he pants raggedly, “Nngh–shit–!” His hips stutter, knees buckling, burying himself into the curve of your neck. He bites down on your pulsing skin, forcing himself to pull out of your warm embrace, as he releases seemingly endless ropes of thick milky cum onto your beautiful stomach. 

You whine at the loss of him buried inside of you, your core fluttering around nothing. You prop your chin up, getting lost in the way he paints your stomach, fisting himself furiously through his climax. 

“Can’t control myself around you,” he grits through his orgasm, jaw slacking, “Not anymore.” Every defined muscle of his toned body quivers with the power of his orgasm.

Shivering at the sensation of his burning release splattering on your abdomen, you reach up to cup his face as he cums. Of course, he leans into your touch on instinct, the onslaught of emotions intensifying his climax.

Your body aches at the hollowness, but it quickly dissipates as you watch Caleb’s face, beads of sweat pebbling his skin, contorted in a pleasure so intense, a pleasure you’d given him. Squirming at the sight of him, still spurting cum, your fingers find your clit desperately.

Your eyes squeeze shut as you touch yourself to the image of him writhing above you. Not even a split second later, you feel the pull of gravity, your wrist being yanked away and pinned above your head. 

“What do you think you’re doing?”

You whine as Caleb presses back against you, his cock replacing where your fingers had just been, “Y-You already–You don’t have to force yourself Caleb. I can–”

Your words are caught in your throat when Caleb lines himself back up with you, smearing the combined arousal messily around, teasing you relentlessly. 

“You’re crazy if you think I’m done with you,” he grins widely, using his clean hand to realign himself. You glance down and realize Caleb is still unbearably hard, even after the absurd amount he’d painted your stomach with.

He slips back into you, your eyes rolling back at the familiar stretch. Except it’s so much more intense this time, your body knowing just what Caleb could do to you, and craving it like nothing else. 

“Oh God just like that, Caleb–please!” you cry, pride gone with the wind, as he starts an earth-shattering rhythm, hips rolling into you with precision and purpose. 

Caleb curses, the oversensitivity heightening every sensation, every desperate thrust into your perfect angel cunt, “Tell me, princess. How do I make you feel?”

You try to force your mind to cooperate and find the words that you want to say, “Feels…feels so–mnngh–Caleb!”

You can vaguely hear him laughing warmly as your mind goes blank, the thick head of his leaking cock pounding into you ruthlessly. He’d practically mapped out every sensitive nook of your pussy and he fully intended on taking advantage.

He gently grabs your throat with his free hand, applying pressure with only his fingertips and not his palm. 

“Hm? Feels like what, sweetheart?” His thrusts slow to a tortuous pace, enough to have you squirming for more but not enough to push you over the edge of release. And he knows it.

“Caleb, don’t fucking tease me,” you whine breathlessly, “Hah–Pleease.” Your hips move against his pelvis, trying to chase the pleasure yourself. 

“Needy little brat,” he murmurs affectionately, “You know I can’t say no to you.”

With those words Caleb starts pounding into you with renewed vigor, hell-bent on making you cum just as hard as he just did. His fingers wedge between your joined bodies, easily finding your clit and rubbing just how he knows you like. The familiar tension in your gut builds at an alarming speed, your body desperate to release after being even slightly edged.

“In return, you can show me how much you’ve wanted this, hm?”

His knowing words, the underlying authority in them, make you whimper with a mix of arousal and embarrassment. The combination of his relentless touch, his filthy whisperings, 

Fuck, the Colonel of the Farspace Feet was your absolute undoing. 

Caleb’s own muscles tense as his sensitive cock, hardened beyond belief again, starts to twitch inside you once more. You’d literally just milked him dry and he still couldn’t get enough. He probably never would.

“Oh god, so c-close Caleb!”

“Yeah? Show me how much you’ve wanted me to fuck you senseless, baby.”

He punctuates his demand with a twitch of his fingers against your clit,  driving so deeply into you that you nearly choke. Your back arches so deeply it hurts, the cold feeling of his cum still painted across your stomach, a long forgotten sensation in the back of your mind. 

“How much you want to cum on your gege’s cock.”

Your body shudders as you come undone explosively against his violent thrusts. Your fingers dig into his biceps, making Caleb hiss with satisfaction, his eyes unable to tear away from your gorgeous face as you cum on him. 

“Oh god–please! Mnngh Caleb, c-cumming. Wan’ to cum for you s’bad! Don’t stop–please!” 

Caleb groans at your filthy words, his own hips stuttering as he fucks you through the endless waves of pleasure, feeling every contraction of your perfect little cunt. 

“Juuust like that, give it to me sweetheart.”

Your thighs tremble violently as he rocks you through the unprecedented pleasure. With your eyes rolled back, your tongue slightly lolled out, crying out for him repeatedly. Caleb can’t stop himself.

In your fucked out state, you can vaguely feel the caress of his gravity Evol, his hands still busy working at your clit and your breasts. It maneuvers your thighs so that they’re pressed firmly into your chest, nearly folding you in half. He uses his Evol to grab a pillow, throwing it under your lower back, completely changing the angle at which he ruts into you.

“C-Caleb–” you gasp, eyes wide as the pleasure turns sharp, “S’too much. Feels…”

Despite feeling unbearably sensitive, your eyes still flutter in bliss. You want to tell him to stop, but your body physically refuses, still curling up to meet his thrusts. At this new angle, your knees nearly on either side of your head, his cock practically buries itself into your throat. 

“I’m sorry,” he rambles, “I’m sorry.” But he doesn’t stop. “A little more, yeah? You can take a little bit more for me, right baby?” Just by his voice alone, you can tell he’s on the verge of another powerful orgasm. 

Something about the way his violet eyes bleed with desperation, with devotion. Your body finds its way inexplicably bending to his every will, readying itself to take more of him. Even through the sting of overstimulation, even through the ache of how deeply he has your body folded into a mating press.

Ignoring the uncomfortable feeling of his cum smearing messily across your stomach, you sit up to press your forehead against his, your hips screaming in protest as your body is bent even further. 

“Cum–mnngh–Cum inside me Caleb, want to feel you. Need you s’bad.”

Caleb’s eyes widen, his rough movements nearly stuttering to a complete stop.

“What? Don’t play with me right now, Y/N,” he seethes through grit teeth, willing his hips to stay still, “You can’t just–hah fuck–say that.”

Your eyes roll at Caleb’s slow and controlled thrusts, each one deeper and more punctuated than the last. You force your mind to cooperate, fingers weaving into his hair, “M’serious. Please Caleb, for me?”

Caleb swears, picking up his pace again, each thrust deliberately bruising past your g-spot, stretching you to your breaking point. 

“God, you know I can’t say no to you,” he growls, “You know how many times I’ve thought about filling you up?”

“You can say—nngh—no, you just don’t want to,” you playfully quip through your tear-blurred vision. Caleb’s jaw ticks at your blatant teasing. 

“The mouth on you…” he nearly murmurs, voice gruff and controlled, “Let’s give that filthy little tongue something else to do.” 

You let out a high pitched whine when Caleb thrusts harder. You feel him trail two fingers along your stomach, the moist sensation of him catching some of his cum making you convulse as you near another orgasm. 

When Caleb brings his right hand up to you, slick fingers brushing against your lips, you can’t even protest. Because you want it. But he absolutely did not need to know that. 

“Open,” he murmurs, clean thumb stroking your chin, two dripping fingers so close they almost graze your lips.

You want to curse your traitorously submissive body because your mouth parts on instinct, allowing Caleb to put two fingers into your mouth, pressing gently onto your tongue. 

The taste of his salty-sweet pearly essence renders you a submissive desperate mess, your hands coming to grasp his forearm as you clean his digits, peering at him through your eyelashes. 

He groans, a strangled curse on the tip of his tongue, as he watches you suck on his fingers. His pupils are blown, drinking in the sight of you, hips faltering, overwhelmed by how fucking beautifully you fall apart for him. How effortlessly you unravel him.

“Just like that, princess,” he coos, “God, it’s like you were–hah–created in a lab to drive me insane.”

You whine against his fingers, feeling an orgasm more violent than a hurricane brewing in your core. Your pelvis aches with the weight at which he fucks you into the mattress but all you can feel is him. And the otherworldly sensations he rains down upon you, your body’s pleasure already second nature to him. 

“Now be a good girl and cum again.” 

His skilled thrusts, his animalistic demand, his smoldering purple eyes that watch you with a terrifying blend of obsession and devotion–it’s all enough to send you plummeting towards your third climax of the night. 

In your nearly blacked out state, you don’t even remember that Caleb’s fingers are still toying with your tongue when you bite down to stay conscious amidst your explosive finish. He chokes, knees buckling, but doesn’t flinch–nor does he withdraw his hand. In fact, he only seems to fall deeper into the abyss that is you.

“Shit–shit, Y/N!” Caleb’s moans wash across your lips, his damp forehead against yours, letting you bite down on the fingers of his right hand. Reveling in the sensation of your teeth digging into his digits, your perfect gummy walls fluttering around him.

“Gonna fill you up,” he rasps, the pain pushing him over the edge, “Take it all for me, yeah? You can do that for me right, baby?”

His words make your entire body tighten up even further, biting harder, squeezing tighter. The wet sounds of your arousal against his pelvis, pounding into your thighs, mixed with your screams of his name have him all but combusting, exploding white, hot, and plenty inside of you. 

“I can–I can!” you practically beg, drunk off the feeling of him exploding inside you, “W-Want it–want more.” His fingers fall from your lips as you speak–much to his dismay.

Caleb groans, unable to stop rutting inside of you at your heated pleas, using the frictionless thrusts to push his cum as deeply inside of you as he can. 

“There’s my perfect girl–nngh–take it all. Look at you, taking every last drop for me.”

Your hips ache in protest, but in your fucked out bliss you can’t find yourself saying anything but his name, repeatedly, tenderly, reverently. The feeling of him inside of you, the bulge of his cock visible on your naval, the warmth of his cum almost ebbing to even your fingers, his unbearably sweet and filthy words.

“Caa–leb,” you moan brokenly, the intense overstimulation clearing your hazy mind.

Caleb presses his lips to yours, still gently thrusting into you. You whine into his mouth as he pushes your thighs deeper into your chest.  

He kisses you absolutely breathless, a line of spit trailing from your lips to his as he pulls away.

“Yeah, princess?”

You desperately tap his broad chest, “Heaavy.”

Caleb chuckles, shifting his weight off of you, leaving his dick inside you still. You moan when you can finally put your legs down, every muscle in your body aching and trembling.

“Sorry pip-squeak, got carried away,” he murmurs tenderly, shifting all his weight onto his elbows, still hovering above you, cock still nestled inside you. 

You squeak when he twitches inside you, feeling incredibly sore.

“Caleb, if you don’t pull out of me right now…” you grumble with a playful glare, “Say goodbye to your penis.”

Caleb chuckles, forcing himself to pull out of you despite how his body aches to stay inside you. He groans as he slips out, a moan of your own escaping as you flutter emptily. 

“Always resorting to violence.”

You briefly peek at him, still kneeling between your legs. He’s still hard, faint streaks of pink mixed with both your essences. With his Evol, he catches a box of tissues in his hand, tenderly cleaning the mess between your legs, and then himself. You wince at the sight of blood on the tissues and look away.

You shut your eyes, enjoying the afterglow of each other’s last night together. You don’t see when Caleb grabs your used panties, wet with your arousal and his saliva, stuffing them into the side of the mattress. To retrieve later. 

Caleb flops down beside you. You’re about to lay your head on his chest when you feel him lifting you, with his arms this time and not his Evol.

“Hey!” you yelp, but he only gently places you on top of him, pressing your cheek into his chest, right where his heart thrums. Your previous resistance dissipates, as you hum happily, nuzzling into his embrace.

He laughs breathlessly, running his fingers through your hair gently.

“You’re like the stray cat that would show up at our door every morning. Hissing and swatting when we tried to pet her, purring and mewling when we gave her our breakfast scraps.”

You smack his chest lightly.

“Ow,” he chuckles lightheartedly, “Nevermind, at least that cat was nice sometimes.”

The silence washes over the pair of you. It’s comfortable and warm, but a heavy tension hangs in the air, both of you knowing the bubble will pop once the unspoken words are uttered.

“Caleb…” you start gently, but he squeezes you tighter against him.

“Don’t,” he says firmly, almost a plea, “Just…don’t say it. Not yet.”

Your heart clenches at his vulnerability, not knowing how to console him. You both know what’s coming. 

Pressing a tender kiss into his chest, you prop yourself up to look at him, his amethyst eyes bright under the soft ambient lighting. 

“I can’t stay in Skyhaven.”

You choose your words carefully, but Caleb and you both know what you’ve left unsaid. 

I can’t stay with you.

Caleb is silent, though his grip on you tightens imperceptibly, his heartbeat quickening alarmingly. 

“I know.”

His voice is small, arms holding you tighter. As if you might disappear right then and there. To him, you might as well be. 

“I know I can’t keep you here, even if it’s for your safety. No matter…how much I want to.” 

He strokes your naked back, trying to commit every ridge, every goosebump to memory, “I…I don’t know how to take care of you anymore.”

Your chest throbs inexplicably at his words. That’s what you’d wanted him to see all this time, isn’t it? That he’d stuffed you into a cage, plucking your feathers until you could no longer fly. 

“You could come back with me,” you say, “Linkon is your home too.” You're only half serious; you knew he couldn’t just leave the Fleet. 

Caleb smiles up at you, but it’s a haunted, bittersweet smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. In fact, his eyes are as hollow as you’ve ever seen them, almost staring right past you, into a blackhole behind you. 

“I can’t leave.” 

Those three simple words, raw and unfiltered–his soft and broken face, remind you of the Caleb you thought you had lost. The Caleb you were so desperately trying to get back. 

He really was right in front of you.

Like the sun finally coming out after a day of rain, it dawns on you that maybe Caleb had never been your captor–the one who locked you in a gilded prison and watched from outside as your wings fluttered into the golden bars. 

You realize that Caleb was a captive bird in that same cage, preening your ruffled, fraying feathers as you struggled, bound by the same fate that chained you.

Except Caleb’s wings were also clipped by the weight of your expectations, imprisoned by the image of him that you’d so desperately clung to. That you forced on him–punishing him when he didn’t fit the mold.

And while you were being set free, he’d stay locked inside that glass cage, watching you fly through the clouds.   

Watching the thunderstorm outside, you reminisce, “Do you remember that nest of baby birds in the big tree in front of the house?” 

Caleb is taken aback, but he nods, laughing softly, “Yeah. I remember we’d always worry when it rained if the fledglings would be okay.”

The rain patters against the massive windows, just like the days after the birds had hatched. 

“You’d always wonder…if the baby birds would fly off once the rainy season ended–going their separate ways. It always made you so sad.”

Caleb stops breathing for a second, unsure why you remember those musings from your childhood. He’d intended them to be inconsequential; he’d never expected you to hold onto them. He keeps his eyes on the unending crystal raindrops streaming down the windows. 

“Yeah. I’d always wonder if the birds would come back–after leaving the nest.” 

He briefly ponders if you were awake those nights–when he was awakened by nightmares and the only way he could breathe again was to sit by your head as you slept, weaving his fingers with yours. Watching those same baby birds from your window.

You look at him, your chin propped on his chest, leaning into his palm when it comes up to tuck your hair behind your ear. Your voice is tender and melancholic when you finally find the words, pressing a soft kiss to where his heart beats under yours. 

“Sometimes, they come back.”

© aeyumicore 2025.

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND AO3. i am not @/aeyumicores or @/aeyumiicore or any variations of my blog name.

✧.˖ i do not permit translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or others. please do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own.

[youkoden]

“Good idea to draw this outfit” I say as I sketch…

[youkoden]

Imagine Konig and Ghost having sex with you, Konig is nervous and Ghost is barking instructions.

NSFW USE HEADPHONES

Full Audio

Credit:Badjhur

[youkoden]

Part two of Simon Riley with a user who kidnaps herself. CW: Cunnilingus, Somnophilia, PiV, they're both a bit crazy, brief mention of blood (in a ring) part one here if you missed it!

Simon was currently stood over his bed. Staring at you. Under his covers.

You smelled so good too. Simon didn't want to get in bed and disrupt the scent of you with his own. He'd never forgive himself.

It was strange. Simon thought that if you found out he was stalking you, you would scream, call the cops, anything but this.

Maybe you were as crazy as he was. A thought that both terrified and excited Simon. Although the excitement definitely weighed out.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Simon merely watched you as days went by. He watched you eat, watch tv, sleep, bathe. And it didn't creep you out in the slightest.

You knew there was always an adjustment period when two people moved in together. So you let him watch you. He was like a wary cat. It was rather cute.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

"You can get in bed, you know" you hum tiredly one night. Opening your eyes and looking up at the behemoth of a man that would have terrified anyone else if they saw him watching them sleep.

"Don't want to make the bed smell like me when it smells like you"

"If you cuddle me you'd be close enough to smell me really good"

Simon stared. Brows furrowing in thought. Before he gives in.

Simon awkwardly slid into the bed next to you, tensing slightly when you grabbed his arms and wrapped them around your waist.

But as soon as Simon seemed to understand that he was touching you and you wanted him to keep touching you, he grabbed the backs of your thighs, pulling you flush against him with your legs around his thick waist so he could bury his face into your chest.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

After that, Simon could barely keep his hands off you. As soon he got home from base, he would find you somewhere in his home and wrap his arms around you. Refusing to let go for at least ten minutes.

He also gave you the best head you'd ever received. Definitely a bonus.

Every guy you'd been with before Simon, treated the act like a chore. Lazily licking you until raising their head and asking if you'd finished yet.

Simon though? He does it for his own pleasure.

Simon will find you wherever you're lazing about the house. Drop to his knees. And go to town.

Sucking on your clit until your legs shook, moving his head down to lick the wet slick coming from your hole. The first time he shoved his tongue in your hole to taste more of you? You nearly screamed as you came unexpectedly.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

And the way Simon fucks? You could barely think a coherent thought afterwards.

Sure, the first time you two fucked Simon came almost as soon as he thrust into you. But you couldn't blame him. He was fucking the woman he'd been stalking for over a year. He was bound to get overwhelmed.

Now though, Simon could fuck you for multiple rounds. There'd been times you had to call out of work because you either couldn't walk, or your body was so exhausted afterwards.

And after telling Simon it was okay to fuck you while you were asleep? He was even worse. The amount of times you woke up to Simon fucking into you while cuddling you and drooling into your shoulder was immense. But you loved it.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Simon's favourite part of you being his sweet little stalker, was that sometimes he would tell you he's going out. And then he would see you in the corner of his eye.

But Simon's favouritest part of his favourite part, was when he would go out with his team, and they'd point it out. Unfortunately it only happened a few times. The team getting used to seeing you watching Simon from afar. But whenever Simon noticed you, he got the stupidest smile on his face. Knowing he was definitely going to marry you. Propose to you with a ring where the gemstone was made of his own blood.

"tha' lass been followin' us bar tae bar all nigh'" Soap muttered. The rest of the team being concerned.

"Yeah" Simon grinned dumbly "she's the best ain't she?"

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Simon was just over the moon that you were just as obsessed with him as he was with you. And you moving into his home unannounced had to be the most romantic thing Simon had ever experienced in his life. You were perfect for him.

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧

Tag list ~ @thefutureastronaut @illyanam1011 @likewhyareyousoobsessedwith-blog @hbaasaad @idknowwhattdowhitmylife @maybe-a-bi-witch @thatpersonnamedrook @miss-chanandler-bong @nicki-lovesolderfictionalmen @baduzzxy @skeletonsucker @drewsuncrustables @milanriol @aceywaycy @jooba @morallygrayboys @logansblackgf @dreamland08 @nicolebarnes @spacecola7 @teapartydreams @callsignao3 @garejuremuzum @laduenadelswing @xxkay15xx @simonsslut @princessbitchybucket @unclearblur @emily-roberts @nightreverie @huehuehuehuehehe @stayblinkarmyatinymoafearnot @wandabillywrites @mcira @klttn @ditzydoefx @vmaxis @keldeleine @persephone-kore-law @adrislibrary @arcvenes @thicksexxualtension @ltrileys @tbhiddlestan83 @lia-36 @happyficlibrary @eatingtheworldsoffanfiction @hellshire-harlot @saturnspector @foo1ishs3renity @fishsinsareacknowledged @werebear-roams @cutedumbbunny @masterclassofescapism @lovelylocs @lady-of-death @fwoarmachine

guys I was even super nice and tagged a few reblogs that seemed super into this + made me giggle when reading. So so sorry if some of the tags didn't work/if I forgot someone. Feel free to scream at me in the comments if I did <3

just wanted to credit @feline-flame-fatale for the second last paragraph of this. Their comment was honestly perfect for this. Thank them in the comments RIGHT NOW.

[youkoden]

i can't finish a drawing to save my life

this was supposed to be just a coloring practice, but after two years i still can't finish it lol im too lazy

[youkoden]

Some Leon transparents I edited for my phone ♡

[youkoden]

Taboo II Relief .𖥔 ݁ ˖

john marston x reader

◃◃ [chapters] ▹▹

rating: explicit (18+)

You've become acquainted with every member of the Van Der Linde gang, especially Dutch Van Der Linde...

But there is one member of the gang you're not aware of. A handsome, yet scarred man who catches your attention very quickly.

content warning: f reader, smut MDNI, strangers to lovers, self esteem issues, slightly unwanted advances at one point, drunkenness, mention of scars, piv smut, oral m receiving, john marston needy n whiny agenda ;)

word count: 6.8k

It’s a peaceful day at Clemons Point.

You’re sitting on the grass, sharpening your knife while you enjoy the morning sun, the voices of the Van Der Linde gang members humming around you.

It's been five days since the events at the O'driscoll camp, since you were shot trying to help complete strangers. Four days of being integrated into the Van Der Linde gang.

Three of getting to know Dutch Van Der Linde, himself.

He’s been surprisingly kind to you, and increasingly affectionate the longer the two of you spend wrapped up together. Your nights in his bed have been nothing short of euphoric, your mornings waking up in his arms are intoxicating.

While you knew you should find the whole situation odd, you greatly enjoy being cared for by another person. And with his affections towards you, the rest of the gang seems happy to keep you around.

You never thought you would find friends out here, especially not amongst a gang of outlaws. But you’re not complaining. It’s nice to feel like you belong somewhere, for once.

A warm hand touches your shoulder, startling you from your thoughts.

Dutch smiles down at you, the crows feet around his eyes creasing handsomely, “Good morning, sweet girl.”

You smile up at him, taking Dutch’s extended hand and letting him pull you up. He links your arm with his, leading you through the tents in a gentlemanly manner.

One thing you had discovered about Dutch Van Der Linde is that he is proud. He saw himself as the king of his own little kingdom, head held high as he walked through the camp full of outlaws he leads.

He is a peacock, with his styled hair and luxurious clothes, oozing confidence and superiority.

You know that he is showing you off now, the wild girl he saved and tamed.

And you know that, from the vicious words snarled by Micah Bell, you’re probably just Dutch’s new obsession. His new, pretty little thing to make him feel good about himself. “He’ll tire of you, eventually”, Bell had said. But you don't mind. Once Dutch tires of you, you'll disappear into the woods again.

Nothing is holding you to this place.

Though, you are finding yourself growing attached to the people here.

Other members of camp greet you both as you walk, most of which you knew the names of, and some of which had even begun to consider friends. Mary-Beth waves at you from across camp, Lenny greets you warmly, Javier offers you a courteous smile.

Oh, to have people seem happy to see you.

Dutch leads you to sit at a table with Hosea and Arthur. They are sat in companionable silence, with Hosea reading a newspaper and Arthur cleaning his gun.

“Good morning, my dear.” Hosea greets, looking over at you from behind his paper.

“Ma’am.” Arthur nods, sliding over a tin of coffee in your direction.

“Morning.” You smile, accepting the steaming cup. You sip at your coffee, feeling Dutch run his hand over your shoulder as he speaks quietly to his closest friends.

The topic of their conversation flies over your head, something about a train they plan on robbing. You enjoy the feeling of Dutch rubbing the nape of your neck with his thumb.

It’s nice to feel wanted, just as you are.

Heads turn as a horse gallops into camp, and the cheerful atmosphere changes when people notice the rider. You take no notice until Arthur's eyes narrow, a stormy expression crossing over his face.

“Ah, hell.” He mumbles, rising and storming towards the hitching posts.

You turn to look at the rider. He’s a disheveled man, clothes dirty and crumpled, his hat over his face. He sways on top of his horse, grumbling to himself as his foot gets tangled in the stirrups and he slides sideways.

Arthur is there to catch the man as he falls. The man grips onto him and gives him a dazed smile, which Arthur does not return.

“He’s back.” Hosea muses, and Dutch hums with a frown, “And he’s drunk.”

“It’s been a week.” Dutch sighs, fingers tensing on your shoulders as he stares at the man, deep in thought, “Thought that maybe he wouldn't come back, this time.”

You stay quiet as you look between them, taking notice of their expressions.

Dutch’s face remains pensive, but there's a calculating anger that simmers in his eyes. Hosea looks sorrowful and worried, his eyes soft as he regards the man, as he is pulled away from his horse and into camp.

Whoever the man is, he’s cared for by these men. You wonder who he is as his staggering figure disappears amongst the tents.

Something tells you there is more to him than just a drunken member of the gang.

Afternoon breaks, and the new man has been deposited against a tree, his head hanging as he weaves in and out of consciousness.

You watch as Arthur berates him, his voice echoing around camp as he tries to argue some sense into his friend, if that’s what they are. You cannot tell, not from afar.

Standing at Pearson’s wagon, you help him skin some rabbits Charles had brought in that morning. But your gaze wavers as you watch Arthur storm off, cursing the drunken man out underneath his breath.

Said man laughs, a deep sound that shakes his whole body, and he pulls out a flask. Hosea stands a few feet away from him, his hands on hips hips, looking all the disappointed father figure he was in that moment.

“Goddammit. John, Get a grip of yourself.” The older man signs, shaking his head at the pitiful sight.

The man in question waved his hand dismissively, slumping further against the tree.

With a huff, Hosea leaves as well, sitting at a nearby table and pointedly ignoring the other man.

John, as you have learned, sits alone, head bobbing slightly, his hand shaking as he takes a swig from his flask.

You give Pearson your skinned rabbit with a smile, before wiping your hands as you approach Mr Marston, as you had heard Miss Grimshaw refer to him earlier.

He’s a tall, slender man, his long legs stretched out in a heap below him. Even through being covered in dirt and drunken sweat, he has a handsome face hidden below his greasy hair.

You wonder how good looking he would be if he bathed, and wasn't stinking drunk.

He looks up as you approach, squinting slightly to figure out who you are. He’s got dark eyes, ones which you’re sure are beautiful when they are not glazed over in an alcohol induced haze.

“Are you okay?” You ask him, tilting your head to the side.

John stares at you, blinking in confusion. The two of you have yet to be introduced, with him being too drunk to hold a conversation and the others in camp creating excuses to keep you away from him. But he smiles up at you, all the same.

“I’m always okay, darlin’” John slurs, waving his flask about in a casual manner that causes whiskey to spill out of it. The amber liquid stains his shirt, but he pays no mind to it.

“You’re drunk.” You say softly.

“Nothing gets past you.” He chuckles, patting the ground beside him, “Come, sit with me.”

You hesitate, wondering if that would be a good decision.

You’ve met plenty of drunk men before, even out in the uncivilised world men will still find a way to get drunk and be a nuisance. This John fella is cute, but the last thing you need right now is to eget grope and be forced to knock some sense into him.

Though, from the way everyone acts around him, you think that you would be thanked for doing so.

Looking around, you spot Bill and Javier sitting by the campfire a few feet away. Hosea sits at a table close by, and Lenny and Sean are laughing together on the outskirts of camp.

Surely, with all these men around, you’ll be fine. And so will John.

Crossing your legs underneath you, you sit down beside him. Not close enough to touch him, but reasonably nearby for him to talk to you.

“I ain’t met you before.” He muses, looking you over, shifting to get an inch closer to you, “And I think I would remember such a pretty face.”

“Hands where I can see them, Marston.” Hosea warns from his table nearby, not even bothering to look up from his book.

“I’m just making an observation, old man. What’s wrong with admiring the view?” John asks with a half-smile, looking you over.

His eyes wander over you, paying attention to the skin exposed by your shorter sleeves. He looks down at your chest, and you cross your arms over you to discourage him.

John blinks and has the decency to look slightly ashamed, looking away and clearing his throat. He lifts his flask to take another drink.

“I think you’ve had enough.” You advise, keeping your voice light as to not overstep, but you worry as he misses his mouth and spills liquor down his chin.

“Aw, you worried about me, darlin’?”

“I’m worried about poor Tilly and Mary-Beth, dark rum like that will be a bastard to get out your white shirt.”

John chuckles, dropping his head back against the tree. He rolls his head to the side, giving you an appraising look.

“Pretty and funny. Ooh, where’d they find you?”

You smile at the compliment, your eyebrows raising as John lifts his other hand to tuck a strand of hair away from your face.

You can see Hosea look up out of the corner of his eye, his mouth opening to admonish John before someone else beats him to the punch.

“John I swear I’m gonna throw you in the nearest river if you don’t get a grip.” Arthur grumbles coming to a stop beside the two of you, “Leave her alone, you fool.”

“It’s okay, Arthur. He doesn't mean me no harm.” You smile, trying to reassure the camp's enforcer.

He looks about ready to grab John by the scruff of his neck like a misbehaving kitten, but sighs and gives you a look.

You nod, understanding he wants you to come with him so he doesn’t have to drag John away from you.

You hope it won’t come to that.

“You never introduced yourself, sweet thing.” John murmurs, catching your attention. His face is close enough for you to feel his warm breath against your cheek, and Arthur takes a step forward.

“Ain't got one. Call me what you want.” You say in an equally soft voice, flashing him a quick smile before you stand, putting space between the both of you.

Arthur whisks you away, sending a warning glare to John as the both of you pass him. He whispers at you to keep your distance from John when he’s like this, but you wave him off.

But John pays no mind to Arthur, his eyes trained on your retreating figure, a dopey smile on his lips.

Hours have passed since your first introduction to John Marston, and the man has escaped the camp and your attention for a while.

As the sun disappears below the horizon, you find yourself sitting at a table with Hosea and Herr Strauss, the two men being grand company at present as they were both comfortable with silence, their noses buried in worn pages.

You sit knee to knee with Hosea, winding rope around your hand. You aimed to fix your makeshift reins for Bo, but Dutch was keen on getting you proper riding gear. So you’re left with a foot of old, useless twine, twisting it and pulling into a braid. There would be some use for it, perhaps for hunting.

It's nice to just wind your fingers around the damaged rope. Hosea would occasionally offer helpful comments or a humourful comment, but apart from that, you are left to your wandering mind.

You definitely weren’t thinking about Dutch Van Der Linde.

And you most assuredly weren't thinking about John Marston.

You were definitely only having very pure thoughts.

Definitely.

Movement causes your eyes to refocus, twisting your head to make out a shape coming out from the treeline.

Your brows furrow as you spot John stumbling back into camp, approaching through the trees like the undead. You watch him as he struggles to walk across camp without losing his footing, his face flushed and eyes half closed in a drunken haze.

Beside you, Hosea sighs as he sees him too, closing his book with a haggard expression, “That boy…”

“What's wrong with him?�� You ask, hoping to learn more about the poor sod.

“He’s had a rough time of it lately.” Hosea explains, keeping his voice quiet, “He fell for a woman who lived in our camp, but she left when she had the chance at a better life. She's got a family now, a nice ranch and a husband, and a little one on the way.”

“Sounds nice.” Smiling gently, you notice the fondness in Hosea’s eyes when he thinks about the departed woman thriving.

“It is. It's what Abigail deserves.” Hosea muses, somberly, “But John’s hurt. He cared for her, and she chose a life without him in it. To top it off, he’s gotten some really bad scars recently, as you probably noticed. He went to see Abigail to get her back and found her happier than ever, poor fool.”

“He’s not coping well with that, I imagine.”

“No.” Hosea sighs, “No he’s not.”

John stumbles past Dutch's tent, and the man in question tries to talk to him, only to be ignored.

With a sigh of your own, you rise from your seat, rope abandoned. You go to Dutch's side, the both of you watching John as he trips over a log and tries to regain his footing.

People frown at the sight of him, either with sympathy or poorly concealed annoyance.

Even Reverend Swanson watches him with pity. Which, coming from an alcoholic, disgraced man of the cloth, shows just how bad John has gotten.

Dutch absentmindedly runs a hand over your hair, calculating eyes moving to your face as he offers you a smile, “Will you do me a favour, angel?”

“Of course.” You find yourself saying.

“Can you get John to his tent and get him to try to rest?"

“Me? Why me?”

“You’re one tough girl, he won't get past you. Not with your skills.” Dutch smiles, but it falters, “And he's been this way for so long everyone else has lost faith in him turning his life around. There's only so much people can do to help someone who doesn't want it.”

You turn your eyes back to John, who leers at Karen and Tilly when they try to stop him from falling over. Miss Grimshaw yells at him, but he waves her off dismissively.

All three women look down cast as he wanders off, aimlessly. Like an untethered boat in a storm.

“I've seen you with the worst of us, you’re decent to everyone without judgement.” Dutch continues, “Bill, Swanson. Hell, you’re kind to Kieran and he’s an O’driscoll.”

“He’s not an O'driscoll.”

“You’re right, you’re right.” Dutch chuckles, twirling a strand of your hair around his finger, “John needs someone to set him right. You’re new and that might be what he needs.”

You nod, and Dutch brings you close to press a kiss to your temple, “Thank you, sweetheart.”

He nudges you forward, and you head in the drunk man's direction with a shrug. You can try, at least.

“Put a boulder on his chest if you have to!” Hosea calls out.

John is searching Pearson’s wagon when you come to his side.

His fingers are less than nimble as they search through empty bottles, clearly looking for another drink. You roll your eyes, placing your hands on your hips.

“I think you’ve had enough, Mr Marston.”

“Pfft, how would you know?” John rasps, not sparing you a glance, “And what's with this Mr Marston crap? Call me John, for the love of god, before I start feeling old.”

“Aright, John.” You sigh, taking his shaking hands in yours to pull him from the wagon, “You need to sleep it off, can you come with me?"

“Where we goin’?” He slurs, blinking down at you.

“Your tent, you need to sleep.”

“You’re taking me to my tent?” John smirks, looking you up and down, “Well, ain't that a nice proposition?”

“I ain't propositioning ya.” You roll your eyes, keeping his hands in yours as you pull him along to the tents. It’s dark, and John manages to trip on every rock and twig in his way, making the journey to his sleeping quarters thrice as hard as it usually would be.

By the time the both of you reach the tent, John has his arm wrapped around your shoulders, using you as a crutch. For a guy with a slender build, and a waist you’re envious of, he’s not light.

You huff and puff as you push him past the threshold of his meager little home, depositing him onto his bedroll like a sack of potatoes.

Nodding to yourself, you turn to leave, when you feel a hand grasp onto your wrist. John smiles wolfishly up at you, biting his lip as he looks over your body.

“It’s real lonely in here, why don’t you stay a while?” He rasps, hand trailing up your arm.

“A kind offer, but I must refuse.” You roll your eyes slightly, but John just chuckles.

“Come on, pretty girl. Show a sad fella some compassion, ‘been a while since I had a beautiful woman payin’ me so much attention.”

You shake your head, pursing your lips as his hands wander and try to grab your hips. It’s a shame he’s drunk and ridiculously emotionally unavailable. If he were sober you wouldn't be so against spending time alone with him.

But you’re reminded of his inebriation as he tries to lift up your skirt, his eyes glassy and cheeks flushed.

“Enough, John.” You warn.

“Please, baby…” He murmurs, unrelenting, hands grabbing. His puppy dog eyes are worryingly convincing, but you have to put an end to this.

A log lies at your feet, and you inwardly sigh, knowing what you have to do. Picking the hefty piece of wood up, you pat John’s head with your other hand.

“I’ll apologise for this in the morning.” You say softly.

“Wha-”

You smack the log on the side of his head, hitting him right in the temple. He slumps down, knocked cold. With him limp, you manoeuvre I'm into a more comfortable position on his bedroll, covering him with a blanket so he’s not cold.

Tossing the log back out the tent, you frown back down at the unconscious man. A less than ideal way of getting him down, but clearly nothing else was gonna work. Especially with how eager he was to get you into bed with him.

With another sigh, you lean forward and kiss his temple, right over where the log had smacked him, “G’night, Mr Marston.”

The next morning, you hope John will forgive you, as you wake up to the sound of birds.

It’s early, you gather by the lack of sound surrounding you, but the sun has begun to rise.

In all your years living out in the wilderness, you learnt to wake up with the day. If a bear hadn't made a meal of your guts in your sleep, then whatever higher power gave you another day to live. No time to waste, not when you’re desperate.

Though, you're not really desperate now, are you?

Dutch snores beside you, his arm wrapped around your waist from where your back is pressed to his side. Even in his sleep, he likes to keep you close to him.

His own wild thing.

You extract yourself gently, stretching your arms above you to wake your joints.

A groan from outside Dutch’s tent catches your attention, and you rise out of the cot silently so as to not wake up the fearless leader.

Peeking out through the canvas walls, you spot John sitting on a chair beside the unlit campfire, his hands in his head.

He’s worse for wear, that’s for sure, but he seems to not be drunk anymore. The sleep did him some good, but you want to apologise to him before he goes around telling everyone about how you had to get him to rest.

You may be a wild woman but you’re not needlessly violent… most of the time.

John looks up as you approach, his eyelids low as the morning sun burns his reddened eyes. Upon recognising your face, he huffs, glaring.

“You hit me.” He rasps, sulking like a child.

“I did.” You smile, shrugging, “Told you I’d apologise for it in the morning. So, I'm sorry.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” John sighs, rubbing the slight bump on his temple, “Was quite a swing. But, I guess I deserved it.”

“I don't know about all that.” You laugh, walking past him to Pearson's tent to start the coffee, “You just weren't going to sleep. Had to think outside the box, you know?”

“You certainly did that.” He laughs, standing to stumble over to the pile of firewood, setting the campfire alight as you bring over the pot to boil.

John sits back down, and you sit beside him on the log. The two of you sit in silence as you wait for the coffee to finish boiling, and John begins fidgeting.

“Look, I’d… I’d like to apologise for how I acted last night.” He mumbles sheepishly.

“You remember?”

“Kind of.” John sighs, scratching his stubbled cheek, “I remember you helping me back to my tent. And… Well, I guess I was trying to get you to stay with me. I reckon I was being quite adamant, which was wrong of me.”

“Mhm.” You agree, shrugging, “You were very drunk. It wasn’t okay, the way you acted, but I handled you.”

“You sure did.” John says, looking over at you with a small smile, “You’re a real tough one. Where’d you come from again?”

“Out there.” You nod to the trees at the edge of camp, “I lived in the woods.”

“Alone?”

“Yeah. Just me and my horse.”

“That’s a real lonely way o’ living” John states.

“Didn't have much of a choice. Lost my mama, and the O’driscolls took my home. I’ve just been… surviving ever since.”

“And the gang found you?”

“I found y’all.” Chuckling, you recount the story of saving Arthur and the others from the O’driscoll boys, and how you got shot in Arthur’s place. You tell John about how Dutch found you, and the gang put you back together.

You leave out the details of what convinced you to stay a little longer. John certainly didn't need to hear all about Dutch Van Der Linde’s convincing skills in the bedroom.

Once you’re finished with your story, John watches you for a moment. You ignore his pensive look and continue making coffee, handing John a cup before you sit back down with your own.

“You… you gonna stay here long?” John asks, looking down at his drink.

Thinking, you gnaw on your lip, “I don’t know. I like it here. But we’re all still strangers. Strangers go their own way, at the end of the day.”

“I suppose.”

With that, the two of you go back to drinking your coffee.

John disappears when everyone starts waking up.

You try to not think about him, talking with the others and getting on with chores. But after a few hours, you begin to worry when you don’t see him lurking about.

Other members of the gang mention they’ve seen him when you ask, which makes you worried that John is simply avoiding you.

There’s only so much washing and chopping vegetables you can do before you decide to go looking for him. His tent is silent when you approach, but the canvas door is closed.

“John?” You call outside, not wanting to interrupt his peace but worried if he’s disappeared again.

Apparently he does it a lot, according to Dutch and Hosea, and you worry that he won’t be here if you decide to leave anytime soon. You’d like to at least say goodbye if you plan on leaving.

You wonder why you’re so attached to him so quickly…

“I’m here.” John answers, making you sigh in relief.

“Can I come in?”

“...Sure.”

You enter, finding John sat on a crate. He looks sad, looking down at his hands. A crate next to him is covered in shaving supplies, though they look unused.

He avoids your eyes as you enter, staring down at his fingernails.

“Hey, darlin’.” He greets, quietly.

“Hey.” You reply, taking a seat next to him, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Just thinkin.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He remains quiet for a beat, eyebrows furrowed like he is weighing out his options. With a sigh, he looks up at you

“I wanted to shave.” John says, his voice unusually quiet, “I… I haven't looked in the mirror much since…”

A sorrowed, frustrated expression takes over his face, his eyes going downcast once again.

You know he’s talking about his scars.

Hosea told you he had gained them recently enough. They look new, still pink around the edges, not yet fully scarred flesh.

They’re jagged and deep, two on one cheek, a third on the other side. The skin on his nose has also been disrupted, a continuation of a deep line across his face.

You wonder what happened. You wonder a lot of things about the man sat in front of you. You wonder if it’s your place to ask.

Biting the bullet, you go for it, “What happened?”

John goes stiff, eyes dropping from your face down to the grass underfoot.

For a second, you worry you overstepped, as John sits silently. His face is somber, eyes distant as he remembers what happened to him. You open your mouth to apologise, before he murmurs out, “Wolves.”

“Wolves?” You ask, your face scrunching in concern.

You sit beside him on the crate, wanting to talk more personal than just hovering at the threshold.

“Got me real bad, back when we were travelling to Colter, after Blackwater. Just one bad thing after the other.” He huffs out a bitter laugh, “I wasn’t the prettiest princess before it happened, but I’m one ugly bastard now.”

It surprises you to hear him say that. How could he not know how handsome he is? With his soulful eyes and strong jaw, he looks like the ideal man.

Even with his disheveled, rugged clothes and his scars, he looks like a fantasy come to life.

“How can you think that?” You ask, voice soft and unbelieving, not accusing or demeaning.

“Well…” John shrugs, avoiding your intense gaze, “What do you mean? Look at me.”

“I am.”

“And you don’t see anything wrong?” He laughs, though it’s hollow, “I’m surprised you can shoot anything with that poor eyesight, you strange girl.”

You huff out a breath, looking away in thought. How a man as handsome as he can be so oblivious to his looks is beyond you. You want him to understand how others see him.

A thought occurs to you, and with a sigh, you push back the hair covering your ear.

John’s eyes widened slightly as he sees a long scar stretch from your upper cheekbone across your ear, contorting the cartridge into a warped shape. The scar disappears into your hair, with a noticeable parting of the strands showing the tail end of the scar.

“Got this from a mountain lion who didn’t appreciate me wandering into its territory.” She keeps her hair behind her ear, proudly showing her scar, “Felt like my head was on fire. But it was the best possible outcome. It could have taken my head clean off.”

John looks at the scar, his hand rising as if he was going to touch it, before he remembers himself and his hand drops back into his lap.

“I have this scar, and it’s not going anywhere.” You shrug, tucking your hair so the scar stays visible, “I got it because I survived. You got yours because you survived. That’s plenty impressive, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know…” John mumbles.

“Do you think it makes me an ugly bastard?”

John laughs, shaking his head as he looks at you, his eyes soft.

“With all due respect, darlin’, it would take one hell of a scar to make you any less than gorgeous.”

“I think it would take a lot to ruin your face, Mr Marston.” You murmur, “You’re handsome. The wolves couldn't take that from you.”

John stares at you, searching your eyes for deception, or jest. You stare right back, hoping that your face displayed how earnest you are.

He seems to grow shy, looking away from you as his face flushes slightly.

Slowly, hesitantly, you lift a hand up. John goes stock still, eyes widening though he does not look at you. With all the gentleness you can muster, you place your hand on his cheek.

His face is warm to the touch, his stubble stretchy where it covered coarse skin. You drag your thumb over the scar running along his cheekbone, the flesh of it surprisingly soft.

John stares into your eyes, his face removed of it’s usual scowl and grumpiness, a look of vulnerability replacing it.

“Handsome.” You whisper.

John takes a shaky breath, nudging your palm with his nose as he stares into your eyes.

And then it all happened suddenly, like lightning striking the ground in front of you.

John’s arms were wrapped around your waist, pulling you close to his body; as his lips press feverishly to yours.

A surprised sound, before you welcome his warmth, wrapping your own arms around his neck, fingers carding through his scruffy hair.

John groans, tightening his grip around your waist as he slides his lips over yours, diving his tongue into your mouth to taste you.

It's passionate, and messy, and you enjoy every second of it.

Your hands card through his hair, tangled and greasy but you revel in the feeling. He’s wild and unkempt, unlike Dutch, more like you.

Your fingers run down his scalp to scratch along his neck, nails running over the skin around his collar.

“Fuck, darlin’ girl…” John mumbles against your lips.

You hum appreciatively, trailing kisses along his face, paying special attention to the harsh lines he despises.

He stiffens for a moment, before leaning into her affections, letting out soft hums and grunts like a purring cat accepting affection.

John’s hands resume their exploration of your body, slender fingers kneading and tugging at your flesh to press you as close as possible, trying to mold your body to his.

Gently, he moves you around, holding onto you as he slides off the crate and onto the ground. He settles you against his bedroll, covering your body with his. His weight is comforting, settling over you like a warm wave as you lie against a sand covered embankment.

His kiss resumes in all its previous ferocity, ravaging your mouth before his lips move down to your jaw.

You moan as he moves his attention to your neck, sucking marks that you’ll definitely need to cover up tomorrow.

John hesitates for a second, lifting his head up to look at you. You cup his cheek, smiling affectionately and he returns it, kissing your finger tips.

“Need ya.” He murmurs.

You smile, “Have me, then.”

Dangerous words to say to a man so desperate.

John sits back on his heels to hastily unbutton his shirt. You follow suit, grabbing the hem of your oversized blouse and pulling it over your head.

Once the fabric is removed, John is on you again, pushing you back with the force of his lips on yours. He swallows your moans, his teeth clashing against yours as he presses you down into his bedroll.

You feel his fingers roam over your exposed chest, cupping your breasts and groping at your stomach.

The both of you are panting into each others mouths as he grips the waist of your skirt, pulling it down your legs along with your underthings.

John looks down at your bare body, lips caught between his teeth as he regards you with pure lust.You shiver at the look in his eyes, spreading your legs to show him just how much you need him.

“Prettiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen…” He mutters.

Wasting no time, John rises again to unbuckle his belt, tearing open his trousers with the force of a man insane with desire.

His hands push his jeans down far enough to pull out his cock, spitting into his palm to run his hand over his throbbing length.

You lick your lips at the sight of his member. Hard and blushing red, leaking pearly drops at the top. It curves slightly upwards, like it's trying to show off.

You look up at him, biting your lip, “Can I…?”

“What, darlin’?”

“I want to put you in my mouth.” You state, leaving shame at the door.

You’d done this once before with Dutch, and seeing how a man can unravel when you suck them off has you gnawing at the bit to do it again.

John pauses for a second, his cock twitching at the words you said.

“Oh, fuck yes.” He exhales, crawling forwards until he's straddling your chest.

He pants as he looks down at you, chest heaving while he brings a hand up to cup your cheek reverently.

You drag your hands up his sturdy thighs, before wrapping a fist around his base and leaning forward to kiss his leaking tip.

John gasps and his eyelids flutter, shuddering as you take him into your mouth,”Tha-that’s it, babydoll. That’s it…”

You push your head forward to take more of him in, hollowing your cheeks out to provide the suction Dutch taught you. The rewarding moan John makes your cunt clench, he sounds like pure sin above you.

He grows desperate, gently pressing on your lips to remove himself before he hastily shuffles back, kicking off his trousers and settling between your thighs.

“Gotta fuck you now, gotta feel you around me.” He rambles, his voice coming out as panting breaths.

John holds the back of your knees apart, looking down as he lines with your entrance. You watch his face, enamoured with the debased look of him.

Covered in sweat and cheeks ruddy, hair in his face and eyes shining with lust. You don't care what he looks like clean, he’s definitely more handsome when he’s messy. He could never bathe again and you’d be content.

You gasp as he pushes the first inch in, finding no resistance and sliding home. Every inch makes you sigh happily until his hips are pressed against yours, his member twitching inside you.

It’s enough to make him lose it.

He begins fucking you in ernest, quick thrusts sending you sliding up and down the bedroll like a doll. You hold onto him for dear life, fingers digging into his shoulders as your eyes roll back.

The curve of him has ever thrust of John’s cock hits that perfect spot inside you. You wonder how anything in the world could feel this good.

It's a feeling you could become addicted to.

John seems just as enraptured, choked groans and gasps escape his parted lips as he watches your face, your bouncing chest, your cunt swallowing him up.

“God, you feel so- fucking- good, darlin’.” John grunts, making sure to thrust hard with every word said. It makes you curse out, bringing your hand down to bite on your knuckles to prevent a scream from escaping you.

He's like a man possessed, his hands moving from your hips to your waist, to your breast to your neck, over and over again like he's obsessed with the feeling of your skin.

He presses his forehead to yours, kissing you feverishly as his hips piston back and forth, smacking against your thighs quickly and loudly.

Suddenly, John stops as he grabs the back of your knees, pushing them up to your chest to adjust the angle.

You keen as he resumes his quick, shallow thrusts, fucking into you fast and hard. His pelvis brushes your clit with every entrance, sending you hurtling towards an orgasm.

John’s own groans and grunts turn into whines and curses as you tighten around him, his head hanging as his eyes screw up in pleasure.

“Fu-uck, that’s it, just like that. God, darlin’, you’re so tight-” John moans out, cutting himself off with a whine as he gets closer.

“John!” You cry out, gripping onto the sheet below you as stares appear behind your eyes, “I’m gonna-”

It’s the only warning you can offer him before you’re falling over the edge, body contorting as you cum around him.

Your hand reaches up to cup his cheek, bringing his head down so you can bite down on his shoulder, muffling your cry of ecstasy.

The feeling of your cunt tightening and gushing around him, along with your teeth burying into his shoulder has John letting out a choked gasp, hastily pulling out of you to push his cock against the skin in the crux of your thigh and hip.

“God, oh fuck-” He cums with a whine, his spend is warm against your sweaty skin, and he collapses against you with a shiver.

Lying there, naked and spent, the two of you try to catch your breath, grasping onto one another in the afterglow.

“Are you okay?” You murmur, carding your fingers through his hair.

You get no response, feeling John’s breath come out in even pants against your exposed shoulder. He’s fallen asleep.

Laughing softly, you gently move him onto his side. He goes without resistance, and you reach over to grab his blanket to cover both of you up.

Pressing close to him, he wraps an arm around your waist, tugging you close until you’re nose to nose. You watch his face, noting the absence of his furrowed brows and scowl. He looked peaceful, for the first time since you met him.

You remain awake as the night grows darker, wrapped up in John’s embrace, listening to his steady heartbeat.

You start leaving an hour later, throwing on your clothes hastily, making sure to press a kiss to his cheek before you go.

Johns hand seeks you out again, blindly trying to pull you back, but you slip away before he can.

You need to get back to Dutch before he wonders where you’ve gone. Or worse, if he goes looking for you.

When you arrive at Dutch’s tent, finding him awake and reading a battered book. He raises an eyebrow at your appearance, a smile on his face.

“And where, might I ask, have you been?”

You bite your lip, shrugging. Worry courses through you. Will Dutch be mad? Will he be jealous and angry at John? Will he call you a whore, and send you away from camp?

You don't know if you want to leave anymore…

“With John?” Dutch asks, answering for you, and you balk realising he already knew.

“Yeah…” You mumble, hanging your head, “I’m so sorry, it all happened so fast-”

“What are you apologising for, angel?” Dutch asks, extending his hand. You take it, and he rubs his thumb over your knuckles, “I told you to look after him. Whatever we have is all fun, and I’d like it to continue. But it would be selfish of me to keep you all to myself.”

You’re shocked, but relieved. You feel yourself relax, intertwining Dutch’s fingers with your own.

“I’d like us to… keep doing what we’re doing.” You say quietly, “And I’d like to keep seeing John, too.”

“That’s a wonderful plan.” Dutch grins, pulling you down to kiss you before playfully pushing you away, “Now go on, back to John you go. I want to be able to stretch out on my bed again.”

You exit with his laugh following you, practically skipping back to John’s tent. You can't fight the smile on your face.

John is sat up when you return, looking pensive and like an abandoned dog. He startles when you appear at the entryway of his tent, surprised to see you back.

But he covers it up with a nonchalant look.

“You staying?” John asks, like he couldn't care less.

“If you'll let me.”

He slumps with relief, “Oh thank god, get back here.”

You giggle as you slide in the cot, feeling John pull you close until he is half on top of you, pressing his face into your neck. You wrap your arms around him, keeping the two of you pressed snugly together. Just like he likes.

Now you have two reasons to stick around…

AN / so so sorry it took so long to update! i found out last week that i won't have a job by the end of the month, call me miss made redundant 🤭 but hey, more free time to write fan fiction about cowboys xoxo

i've got a few one shots i'll be making as per requests, then i'll continue posting for this!

thank you everyone for all your lovely support <3

fic taglist: @warmsideofthepillow03 @sammymcsamerson @m1stea @iamaunknownsecret @love-you-louise @vanpan8 @6esi @idcmannn @pumpkin-toffee @littlebirdgot

[youkoden]

RE Protags as Flowers .ᐟ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

๋࣭ ⭑⚝ a/n: the quality of all these images got totally butchered when i saved them to my laptop </3

LEON KENNEDYᵎᵎ

──★ CENTAUREA CYANUS. This flower is native to Europe and can be found in Italy in nature. It represents serenity, hope, young love, purity, and innocence. However, it is also used as a symbol for longing or unrequited love. This flower is also used to commemorate deaths of military soldiers. It was also used as a herbal medicine in the past, believed to be able to heal all wounds, and today is still used as it has anti-inflammatory/antioxidant properties.

CHRIS REDFIELDᵎᵎ

──★ WHITE GLADIOLUS. Also known as the sword lily, this flower comes in many colors, but the white gladiolus is most intertwined with change, often seen at weddings or funerals. The sword shape of the flower is often used to represent integrity and strong moral values. The white gladiolus specifically represents purity and innocence. It was also used to try and heal injuries as the flower is a symbol of strength. These flowers grow in South and East Africa.

JILL VALENTINEᵎᵎ

──★ BLUEBELL. This flower is often associated with the goddess Hecate, the guardian of the dead. In folklore, this flower is able to ward away evil. In different cultures, this flower represents putting others before you. This is also why the flower is seen as being able to keep away evil in folklore, it’s seen as a guardian flower that serves to protect others. This flower grows in Europe, including in France.

REBECCA CHAMBERSᵎᵎ

──★ ORNITHOGALUM. This flower grows in places in both Asia and Europe, and is often referred to as ‘star of bethlehem’ due to its star-like shape. It represents purity, innocence and rebirth. In certain cultures, this flower is believed to have medicinal qualities and can be healing if consumed. It is also connected to the plant Venus, which represents femininity and beauty.

CLAIRE REDFIELDᵎᵎ

──★ HIBISCUS. This flower has many different meanings in many different cultures, and the color of the hibiscus changes the meaning as well. Pink hibiscuses represent friendship and familial love. These flowers are connected with various different goddesses in different cultures, and often represent femininity, sensitivity, and being caring/nurturing. Some cultures believe that hibiscus flowers can help people come to terms with a tragic past and move forward to create a better future.

ADA WONGᵎᵎ

──★ CAMELLIA. This flower is especially adored in many Asian countries, including China. Parts of the flower are inseparable, which is why this flower represents long lasting devotion or being inseparable from another person. However, these flowers can also represent longing or unrequited love. These flowers are also used in perfumes due to their scent.

ETHAN WINTERSᵎᵎ 

──★ CARNATION. This flower’s name is from the word “carno”, meaning flesh, due to its fleshy color. This flower represents deep and never ending love. This flower was used mostly to honor mothers, but in the 20th century it became associated with father’s too. It represents the strength, wisdom and resilience of fathers all depending on the flower color that is picked. These flowers are commonly gifted to fathers on father’s day.

[youkoden]

Hilda by Duane Bryers

[youkoden]

ᯓ★ PRETTY LADY

⌗ a shitty friday night date, cold weather, and a late night bus ride back home. just when you think you’ve fucked up the start to your weekend, a real good-looking lady comes sitting next to you. but one problem, how the actual fuck are you getting her attention??

Di!Jill Valentine x fem!reader

꩜ .ᐟ cw :: implied age gap, smoking, awkward reader (this is basically a self-insert), a lot of internal dialogue (this is this is basically a self-insert), reader doesn't actually know who tf Jill is until the end help, rabbit wand mentioned (๑°o°๑)

꩜ .ᐟ notes :: I actually have no idea where this idea spawned from. probably from a dream or some embarrassing experience I had back in high school (⁠╥⁠﹏⁠╥⁠)

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 wc :: 1.5k

You don’t hate the entire world. Just half of it. The male half. 

Nothing like another shitty date to ruin your Friday night. The fact you spent a whole hour listening to a frat guy talk about his shitty “achievements” was painfully depressing. Honestly, why do you even try? It’s already hard living in an area where girls don’t seem to be kissing other girls. But now every guy you think is semi-decent turns out to be a total dickwad. 

Is this a sign from above to stay single? Because it’s not funny. 

You trudged out of the dinner, miserable and with twenty dollars less in your pocket. Stupid bastard couldn’t even pay for your meal and looked at you like you were crazy when you tried to order a burger at a fucking diner. Well, he could suck your dick because it’s not your fault he was probably too broke to get anything more than potato wedges.  

The winter air nipped at your skin as you pulled your coat more tightly over your body, making your way to the nearest bus stop and plopping yourself on a bench. Hopefully, it wasn’t too late to catch a ride home. You just wanted to crawl into bed and never have to think about this night again. Or even better, crawl into bed and finally have a partner to cuddle with. 

Time passed by and you blanked out for a moment, staring at your Mary Janes and softly humming to yourself. It’s not until you hear another person come up and sit next to you do you finally tear your eyes away from the ground. And you do what literally anyone else would do, take a look at who was sitting next to you. 

Holy shit.

Now, you’ve seen beautiful women all your life. To you, every girl out there was beautiful. But damn, in the most respectful way possible, that was one pretty lady. You didn’t really know what to think at the moment. Couldn’t exactly pinpoint what was so attractive about her. Everything seemed to be the appropriate answer. From the grey streaks in her hair to her brown bomber jacket fitted snuggly over her body. But something about the way she held an unlit cigarette between her lips made you feel especially warm from under the collar of your shirt. 

It was like she walked out of one of those badass fighting games where men hate her and women love her. Or even better: where men hate her and women want to kiss you. You’d like to kiss her. Wrinkles and grey hairs and all. If she’s not graying then she’s not staying you’d often joke. But this you might actually be deadass.

“Uhm, Miss?” What the hell am I doing?

The woman’s eyes snapped towards you and you could practically do a back flip into traffic. Whether out of embarrassment or excitement, you didn’t know. She’s got real pretty eyes, pale blue eyes, and not the usual scary soul-piercing blue eyes. 

You gingerly pointed to the cigarette between her lips and before you could think about the fact you’re probably about to embarrass yourself, you asked your next question. 

“Can I have one?” 

What the actual fuck am I doing, I’ve never smoked a day in my life.

And clearly, the lady thought so too, cocking an eyebrow at your nervous face. Silence. Awkward silence. And then she scoffed, digging her hand into her coat pocket. “You sure you want one, baby?” 

Okay, that has to be a murder attempt.

The heat on your face was unbearable as you nod like a puppy, feeling so stupid and embarrassed and turned on all at the same time. Thank god for the darkness of the night, your faces poorly illuminated by flickering street lamps.

A pack of Marlboros and a violet lighter are in her hand, those pretty and slender hands that any girl would fawn over. She flicked the pack open and pulled a cigarette out for you, holding it up to your lips. 

Wait a minute…am I being flirted with?

You’ve never been the sharpest tool in the shed. Most of the time when it came to other people, it was like your light bulb was on but no one was home. So you took the cigarette between your teeth, awkwardly staring at her so she’d get the idea to light it for you. Because, duh, you don’t have a lighter. 

Fake smoker. And for what? Five seconds of getting to make eye contact with a milf? Embarassing. 

The woman lit her own cigarette and raised it to her lips, taking a long drag as the end began to glow. You heard as she breathed in deeply and later saw as she exhaled smoke into the air. And then she tucked her lighter and Marlboros back in her pocket, leaving you like an idiot just sitting there as you stared at her.

Okay, great, let’s just ignore me now and while you’re at it why don’t you curb-stomp me? Does God just not want me to get laid or something because what is-

“Hold still, pretty girl.”

“Huh?”

Another chuckle from the lady is all you heard before she reached out to grab your chin. Her fingers so gently cradled your jaw, holding you in place as she leaned in close. *Oh my god.* All she does is stare at you for a moment and you drink in the way her lips quirked into a little smirk and how that playful glint in her eyes seemed to shine.

Holy shit, I am being flirted with.

With a gentle touch, the woman brought the lit end of her cigarette to yours, the ends kissing as your cigarette sparked to life. Your eyes locked onto hers, faces inches apart as you shared a moment of surprising intimacy. You could smell fresh laundry on her and even hints of cedar wood, easily becoming one of the sexiest scents in the world. 

And once there’s a steady glow from your cigarette she pulled away and you had to consciously stop yourself from following her. It’s been maybe about thirty seconds but you already missed her scent and closeness. 

Oh my god, get off the ground!

Enough about your pathetic self. You had a bigger problem now. Smoking. You couldn’t just have this burning thing between your lips. Not when Pretty Woman was still looking at you. So you did the only thing that makes sense at the moment; take a drag. 

So…you were right. As you took a deep breath in, you didn’t look all cool or suave or whatever. No. Of course not! You started coughing uncontrollably, eyes watering from the harsh smoke as you let out a wheeze. I need to kill myself now. Like right now.

But maybe some divine intervention took place in the next few moments. Maybe your guardian angel looked at you and thought wow, this girl can’t be bitchless forever and took pity on you. Once more you felt a calloused yet tender hand cup your face, the woman’s other hand pulling the cigarette out of your mouth. “You’re funny,” she mused, letting the stick drop to the floor and snuffing it out from under her boot. “Do you always risk your lungs for women your mom’s age?”

Okay, damn, no need to come for my throat like that. “No, not really. But usually, I’m doing something embarrassing anyways so this doesn’t really matter.” Wow, way to sound like a fucking loser.

And she laughed. Her nose scrunched up as she chuckled and you didn’t care if she was making fun of you or thought you were a grade-A freak, you don’t think you’ve ever been so wet before. It’s so dumb because you don’t even know her name and she’s literally just a lady but she’s so much more than that because she looked so…hot.

“You just get cuter and cuter. Hold up.” You watched dumbly as she pulled her hand away, fishing out the Marlboros pack and a pen. Of course, she has a pen, she might as well pull out a rabbit wand next. Something gets scribbled on the front and she tossed it to you, nearly dropping it on the floor as you fumbled to grab it. 

She laughed again, almost akin to a giggle. She stood up, patted you on the head, and walked off like at the end of an epic action film while dramatic 80s music plays in the background.

What the fuck just happened?

To think this all happened because of a date. You finally took a look at the cigarette pack in your hand and, no fucking way, you nearly started jumping for joy. 

There were three things written on the pack. A name, a number, and a little message. Jill Valentine. You finally had a name for your Pretty Lady. At the very bottom, it read, “Glad I spotted you before I walked into that diner. Same time, same place next Friday? :)”