Don't Go Nanamin Don't Go

"Una aventura es más divertida Si huele a peligro…"

"Si te parece prudente Esta propuesta indecente…"🔥👑

✎ …  jeno and jungwoo layout  ♡ ˎˊ˗  

ᵈᵒ ⁿᵒᵗ ʳᵉᵖᵒˢᵗ

☞ … 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨 𝘪𝘧 𝘶 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘵

𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗 ♡ᵎ

dr stone / perseus luck casino

Word Count: 13,138 Content Warnings: A/B/O Dynamics, M/M sex, M/F/M sex, knotting, rough sex, copious amounts of body fluids, primal behavior, oral ( m & f receiving ), sex with strangers, no protection, breeding, creampie(s), A/N: I worked on this like non-stop for two days, probably should have slept more but I wanted to finish this so bad before I have to go back to work tomorrow. I don't really have time to write during work days, so I hope this sates everyone who reads it :3 Also thank you to @hyyih for being my beta and correcting my atrocious grammar. ao3 link

Beneath the sleek exterior of the website, Heat Haven was not a Dating Site. It was a lifeline for Omegas in desperate need, with suppressants hard to get due to political upheaval (they wanted more omegas to breed since the population of Alphas was dwindling). The platform bills itself as a "discreet, sophisticated service for Omega-Alphas seeking biological compatibility," but everyone knew what it was: the most reliable way to find someone to fuck an omega through one of the most delirious moments of her life— her heat.

No coy euphemisms. No prose or fake wining and dining or promises of long walks in the park ruminating about shared dreams of the future. Heat Haven catered to primality. It was about survival, desire and need.

The homepage was clean soft gradients of blue and light Grey giving it a calming effect to soothe an omega's frazzled nerves. "find relief, find safety, find who you need." — floated over the serene image of an omega half curled into a bed with her nest surrounding her.

Once logged in, the interface told a different story. This wasn't a place for purity; it was raw, brutal and a little thrilling in its honesty. The Users profiles featured key details like "Rut Status", "Knot Size Preference" and a graphic "Pheromone Match Rating" system that calculated compatibility based on submitted scent samples. Uploading your heat cycle schedule was an optional feature, but highly recommended especially for those Omegas who preferred to line up potential partners before their bodies turned them into a mess of slick and reduced them to a needy fevered haze.

And the reviews? Oh, the reviews. Each Alpha profile came loaded with ratings and detailed feedback from past hookups.

"Knotted me so hard I couldn't walk for two days, 10/10." "Not rough enough, felt like he wasn't committed; Beta? 3/10" But the Omegas left reviews too, their profiles a haunting combination of raw vulnerability and primal sexuality. Alphas could make their own requests, "Experienced Omegas only, no first-timers." whereas Omegas could also leave demands. "Breed me, knot me, leave - no games."

It wasn’t uncommon for pictures of their time to be uploaded; explicit heat photos, glossy-eyes and cock drunk expressions on their faces, a blatant challenge for Alphas who scroll the site hunting for that exact kind of submission.

She was desperate. Her heat was closing in fast just a couple of days now and the clinic had run out of suppressants. Fifteen fucking days until the end of the month, and they couldn’t keep stock? It was her first heat in eight long months, and the thought of facing it unprepared made her stomach twist. If she thought she could tough it out alone, maybe she’d lock herself in a padded room and try to sweat it out. But she wasn’t naive. She knew what would happen if she tried. Going her whole heat without even one knot wasn’t just miserable—it was dangerous.

The slick was the issue.

Without it, an Alpha could spiral. Too many ruts without an Omega’s slick, and they risked going feral—a state that was as ugly as it sounded. And Omegas? They weren’t any better off. Her body wouldn’t just let her skip a heat out of convenience. No, her heat would stretch on, lasting days longer than usual, until her body got what it was biologically screaming for.

An Alpha’s scent.

An Alpha’s knot.

She shuddered at the thought, scrolling over her Heat Haven profile as she fought off memories of the last time. It hadn’t been great. The Alpha had been too rough, angry even, and she left the encounter sore in ways that weren’t satisfying or cathartic. It was enough to make her hesitant now, her finger hovering over the keyboard as she considered her options. Sure, she could try to find someone outside the site, but the odds of getting a decent Alpha without going through Heat Haven’s vetting process?

Not worth the gamble.

She sighed, resigned, and got to work tweaking her profile.

First, she added a few selfies. Nothing too risqué, but enough to grab attention. Heat Haven had a brutal marketplace vibe, and standing out was half the battle. If she didn’t look good, she wouldn’t get offers worth accepting.

Next, she updated her heat schedule to reflect the urgency. Imminent. That single word was often enough to draw in Alphas who got off on that raw, fevered desperation. And fine, maybe she was desperate, but that didn’t mean she was throwing away all her standards. She added a note: Willing to host. That was non-negotiable. She didn’t trust some Alpha to throw together a decent nest for her. It would be her nest, with her blankets, her scent, her comforts. At least then she wouldn’t be starving on some bachelor’s floor because the idiot forgot to stock more than protein bars.

Lastly, she hesitated over the relationship status filter. Did it matter? Did she care if the Alpha was single, mated, or just some guy looking to scratch an itch? No. She deleted the filter entirely. If an Alpha could do his job—get her through her heat safely and satisfyingly, she didn’t give a shit if he had a partner at home or not.

She leaned back in her chair, staring at the profile for a long minute. It was all there. The pictures, the urgency, the note about her nest. It wasn’t flashy, but it was honest. And with her heat bearing down on her, she didn’t have time to overthink it. Her body was already starting to turn against her, the low, dull ache in her core an unwelcome reminder of what was coming.

Now, all she had to do was wait.

Unsurprisingly, it didn’t take long for her profile to start attracting attention. It never did. She was careful to present herself well—clear, direct, and unashamed of what she needed. But as the site gained traction in recent years, it had drawn in more users, including some real risks. A lot of Omegas still hesitated to trust it, worried about whether it could really protect them from predators or clueless Alphas with no sense of boundaries.

What those idiots failed to understand, though, was just how dangerous a scorned Omega could be. Ever heard the saying, "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?" Well, multiply that by a thousand, throw in heat pheromones, and give her the instincts of a pissed-off wolf. There were Alphas who’d learned that lesson the hard way—leaving her nest unsatisfied, trying to push boundaries, or outright being reckless. She wasn’t the type to let herself get walked all over. Not ever again.

Her inbox lit up with notifications, the scent-matching algorithm already doing its work. Most of the messages were what she expected: blunt, one-line propositions from desperate Alphas or sleazy attempts at charm. But one message stood out.

A pair.

[AbyssalFlame Messaged You]

It wasn’t uncommon for Alpha-Beta pairs to search for an Omega together. In fact, it had its appeal. A Beta could temper an Alpha’s rougher edges, bringing a kind of balance that made the entire experience smoother for everyone involved. They weren’t just caretakers, though many played that role instinctively. Betas had their own unique place in the throes of biologically driven passion—they weren’t immune to the pheromonal intensity that heat and rut created, and sometimes, they heightened it.

Her eyes flicked to the profile. The Alpha was named Sylus and his presence practically leapt off the screen even through a few lines of text. His profile picture was classic Alpha energy—broad shoulders, a sharp jawline, and a smirk that teetered somewhere between cocky and inviting. His description was just as straightforward: Alpha, mid-rut control certified. Looking for an Omega who values stamina and strength. Knot-friendly, non-aggressive but firm when needed. Paired with a Beta to ensure complete heat care.

Then there was Rafayel, the Beta, who looked like he’d walked out of a painting. His features were softer, more refined, and he had a kind of calm confidence that balanced out Sylus’s intensity. His profile hinted at a creative streak—he was an artist, apparently, with an obsession for oceanic landscapes. He’d added a personal note to the profile: Betas don’t just pour water on the fire; sometimes we fan it. I’ll make sure your nest stays in one piece and you’re never left wanting.

She felt a flicker of intrigue, despite herself. An Alpha-Beta pair wasn’t something she usually considered, but Sylus and Rafayel didn’t come across as your average duo. They’d clearly put effort into their profile, making it known they’d respect her boundaries but wouldn’t shy away from giving her what she needed. And right now? That was sounding more appealing than sifting through a pile of overeager Alphas who barely understood how to handle a heat.

Her thumb hovered over the reply button, her thoughts racing as she reread the message. It wasn’t particularly long or flowery, but it was direct and straight to the point. Sylus had written it, though it was signed with both their names. That little detail made her pause. Most Alpha-Beta pairs that messaged her on Heat Haven usually didn’t bother with that level of coordination—it was always one taking the lead and the other fading into the background. But here, Sylus and Rafayel were clearly presenting themselves as a unit. That alone gave them an edge over the sea of poorly thought-out messages clogging her inbox.

The message read:

"Saw your profile—noticed you’re looking to host and have your nest set up. That’s a good call. I’m Sylus, and this is Rafayel, my Beta. We’ve got experience with Omega care, and we make a good team for heats. You’ll get my focus, strength, and stamina, and Rafayel’s here to keep things balanced and make sure everything stays smooth. If you want to talk specifics or see our heat-session reviews, we can share them. Your profile caught our eye, and we’d like to help. Heat’s a hard thing to face alone. Let us know."

It wasn’t pushy. There were no assumptions, no condescending overconfidence. They didn’t jump right into over-the-top promises of how great Sylus’s knot would feel or how Rafayel could pamper her in the aftermath. Just a straightforward offer, clear boundaries, and a hint of experience without coming off cocky.

She leaned back in her chair, staring at their profile pictures again. Sylus’s eyes practically burned through the screen, that quiet Alpha intensity impossible to miss. Meanwhile, Rafayel’s smile was disarmingly calm, his body language radiating an effortless kind of reassurance. They balanced each other out in ways that felt… solid. Reliable. Like they actually knew what they were doing and wouldn’t treat her heat like some glorified hookup.

Still, she hesitated.

Her last experience had left her wary—an overly aggressive Alpha with a nasty temper and no self-control, who’d turned her carefully constructed nest into a disaster zone. She had promised herself after that she wouldn’t rush into another arrangement, no matter how desperate her heat made her. And it was coming—oh, it was coming. Her body was already betraying her, the dull ache in her core growing worse with every hour. The pre-heat signs were undeniable: the way her skin prickled, the way her scent was shifting, growing sweeter and thicker in anticipation. She had maybe two days, tops, before she’d be too far gone to make rational decisions.

Sylus and Rafayel’s offer felt safe, or as safe as anything could feel in a situation like this. They weren’t asking her to give up control, and they seemed to respect her autonomy. That mattered. She wasn’t about to let some Alpha waltz in and try to dominate her on his terms. This is my heat, she thought, her lips pressing into a firm line. I decide how it goes.

But there was a nagging curiosity in the back of her mind, too. What would it actually feel like to have both an Alpha and a Beta tending to her? Most Omegas swore by it, claiming the dual dynamic was unmatched for heat care. The Alpha for the primal need—his knot, his pheromones, the raw power she’d crave when the heat really hit. And the Beta for emotional steadiness, the touch that wasn’t purely driven by instinct but by deliberate, soothing care. It wasn’t just about survival—it was about satisfaction. Fulfillment.

She inhaled sharply, the ache in her belly flaring at the thought. Fine. She wasn’t going to overthink this anymore. Heat wasn’t the time for overanalyzing.

Her fingers moved quickly over the keyboard.

"Thanks for the message. I appreciate how straightforward you both are. Hosting’s a non-negotiable for me—I need my nest and my space. If that works for you, I’m open to discussing specifics. I’ll need to see both of your certifications and heat-session reviews before we finalize anything. My heat’s imminent, so we’ll need to arrange this quickly. Let me know if you’re still interested."

She hit send before she could second-guess herself. The knot of tension in her chest eased slightly, though the low hum of anticipation in her body only seemed to grow stronger.

It didn’t take long for them to reply. The little notification popped up less than ten minutes later.

[AbyssalFlame]: "Absolutely still interested. Hosting’s not an issue. I’ll send our documents and reviews now—you’ll see everything’s in order. Let us know what else you need. Timing-wise, we’re flexible. Rafayel’s great at helping prep nests if you want assistance before things kick in."

She clicked on the attachment they sent. Their certifications checked out: Sylus was mid-rut control certified, exactly as his profile said, and Rafayel had completed Omega care training. Their reviews? Impressive.

"Sylus is all raw strength, but never loses control. Knotted me exactly how I needed and left me feeling satisfied in ways I can’t even describe. Rafayel was a dream—he kept me hydrated, helped me recover between sessions, and his scent was so grounding."

The perfect balance of Alpha and Beta energy. I was nervous about trying a pair for my heat, but they exceeded my expectations completely. I didn’t even think about the time passing—I just felt cared for the entire time."

"Knots for days. Rafayel’s hands are magic. Enough said."

She found herself smiling faintly, despite the heat rising in her cheeks. Maybe...just maybe this wasn’t a bad idea after all.

She sat back, chewing her lip as she scrolled through their reviews again, feeling her body responding against her will. The detailed accounts stirred something deep in her gut, fanning that slow-growing burn of her pre-heat. Her scent thickened in the room, sweet and heady, and she cursed under her breath. Get it together, she thought, shaking her head like she could somehow shake the heat away with it. But it wasn’t going anywhere. It was crawling up her spine, tugging at her insides, leaving her restless and far too aware of her body’s needs.

Sylus and Rafayel had their shit together, though. That much was obvious. The certifications, the reviews, the way they handled her concerns without a single ounce of pushback—it was all enough to calm her nerves, even if her instincts were screaming at her to move faster. The truth was, she didn’t have time to be overly picky. Her heat wasn’t going to wait for her to deliberate like this. And from the way her core throbbed every time her thoughts wandered to their message, her body had already made its decision.

Before she could overthink it, she fired off another reply.

"Everything looks good on your end. Let’s lock this in. My heat’s going to hit in about 48 hours, so I’ll need you both here tomorrow evening to prepare. Bring anything you might need—supplies, clothes, whatever—but understand this: my nest is sacred. Don’t mess with it. You can add to it, but nothing gets taken out or moved. If that’s clear, then we’re good to go."

She stared at the message for a moment, her thumb hovering over the send button. It wasn’t exactly warm, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t here to make friends. This was about getting through her heat without losing her mind or her dignity.

She hit send.

The response came almost immediately.

[AbyssalFlame]: Understood. We’ll respect your space. We’ll bring supplies and anything else you might need. See you tomorrow evening—looking forward to meeting you."

Her stomach twisted, a mix of nerves and anticipation settling there as she set her phone down. It was done. She had a plan, and if everything went smoothly, this would be just what she needed to survive the week. Still, the idea of having two strangers in her space, her nest of all places, made her uneasy. An Alpha and a Beta. Sylus, with his smoldering, intense energy, and Rafayel, with his disarmingly calm demeanor.

She wasn’t sure which one unnerved her more.

The next evening came faster than she expected. She spent most of the day distracted, her body increasingly betraying her as the hours ticked by. The ache low in her belly was no longer subtle, and her slick had started to come in spurts, her underwear damp enough to force her into constant wardrobe changes. She was grumpy and restless, her nerves shot, as she fussed over her nest for the hundredth time, rearranging blankets and pillows that didn’t even need rearranging.

When the knock finally came, her heart jumped into her throat. She froze, her hands gripping a blanket as her instincts flared. Her scent spiked, sweet and thick and impossible to ignore. She hated how obvious it was—how they’d smell her the moment the door opened and knew she was close to breaking.

She forced herself to move, smoothing her shirt as she made her way to the door. Taking a deep breath, she opened it.

Sylus stood in front, and she immediately understood why so many of his reviews had described him as "intense." He was tall, a lot taller than she expected – and broad, his presence radiating that distinct Alpha energy that practically demanded attention. His hair was white—she’d seen it in the pictures but she supposed it still shocked her , like he’d run a hand through it on the way over, and his sharp jawline made her swallow hard. His crimson eyes locked onto her instantly, and the way his nostrils flared as he took in her scent sent a shiver straight through her.

Behind him, Rafayel was the perfect counterbalance. Softer, leaner, but no less confident. His ocean-blue eyes with a shimmer of red or purple hues held hers for just a second before flicking to Sylus, as if silently checking in with him. His calm smile, paired with his easy stance, was disarming in a way that made her chest tighten. He carried a bag slung over one shoulder, and she caught a glimpse of supplies—water bottles, snacks, extra blankets.

He’d come prepared.

“Hi,” Sylus said, his voice low and steady, though she didn’t miss the slight rasp to it. His rut wasn’t far off, she realized, it seemed they were on the same page on that front. Not bad enough to lose control, but close enough that the edge was there.

She could practically feel it.

“Hi,” she said back, stepping aside to let them in.

Rafayel was the first to move, giving her a small nod as he walked past. “Nice setup,” he said, glancing around her apartment before setting the bag down near the edge of her nest. “We’ll stick to this area unless you tell us otherwise.”

Sylus followed him inside, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer before he turned to scan the room. “Your scent is already thick,” he murmured, his voice low enough that it was almost a growl. “You’re close.”

She crossed her arms, both annoyed and embarrassed by how easily he could read her.

“I know,” she snapped, before softening just slightly. “That’s why you’re here.”

Sylus’s lips twitched into the faintest smirk, and for a split second, she thought he might say something cocky. But Rafayel cut in before he could.

“Let’s get things set up,” Rafayel said smoothly, his tone so calm it was almost soothing. He crouched near her nest, carefully setting out a few items from the bag—water, nutrient bars, extra towels. He didn’t touch anything in her nest itself, just added to the edges, respecting her space exactly like she’d demanded.

Sylus, meanwhile, stood back, watching her with that same sharp focus. “We’ll take care of you,” he said simply, his voice soft but firm.

The words sent a shiver through her, and she hated how much she wanted to believe him. But as the first real wave of her heat hit, her knees threatening to buckle, she realized she didn’t have much of a choice.

Her legs felt weak as the first wave of her heat slammed into her, like an invisible hand gripping her from the inside, twisting low in her belly until her breath came in sharp, shallow pulls. The flames that licked under her skin caused a groan to escape her, she tightened her grip on the edge of the doorframe, cursing under her breath as her body betrayed her in front of them. The two men froze immediately, their gazes snapping to her as her scent spiked and pheromones flooded the hair like a heavy mist, heavy and cloying like sweet, overripe fruit. It was suffocating, but it was all she could do to stay upright.

Sylus was the first to react, his crimson eyes darkened as he took a single step forward, his entire posture shifting in that uniquely Alpha way, predatory, protective, and all instinct ready to act. He wasn’t out of control, on the contrary his movements were entirely deliberate. When he reached out a hand toward her, he stopped short, waiting for her permission.

“You’re already peaking,” he spoke, his voice rougher than before. The gravel in his tone sent a shiver down her spine, her body hyper aware of the Alpha before her.

“I’m fine,” she whispered, though her voice sounded anything but.

“You’re not,” Rafayel said gently, his tone as smooth as silk. He stepped forward as well, his hands slightly raised like he was approaching a skittish animal. His eyes glistened in the light of her room, the ocean blue pierced through her with startling clarity. She noticed the faint stain of red in them now, just enough to give them an otherworldly depth, like a sunset bleeding into the horizon.

She hated how safe he looked, how disarming and steady he felt just standing there, it made her feel exposed.

“I just need to sit down,” she replied, forcing herself to take a step back towards the living room.

Rafayel followed her immediately, his movements fluid and careful as he kept his distance. “Let me help you,” he offered, his voice softer now. “We won’t touch your nest until you say so, but if you fall, I am catching you.”

She hesitated, her pride bristling at the idea of needing help, but another sharp pull deep inside her left her gasping and his arms came around her keeping her from hitting the floor.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered softly, moving her to sit in her nest, his hands on her waist guiding her as her legs were weak, his touch feather light like he was being careful not to set her off. Once she was nestled into the pile of blankets and pillows she’d spent the entire day obsessing over, her body sagged into the softness and for a moment she just breathed.

Sylus stayed near the door, his crimson eyes locked on her as he adjusted his stance. His presence was electric, his scent – like hers, was filling up the room like a heavy blanket, but he didn’t move closer. The amount of control this required should have impressed her but she simply had other concerns to deal with. His gaze flicked to Rafayel, there was a silent communication between them-one that she didn’t miss.

“Let me know what you need me to do,” Sylus said, his voice low and steady. There was a tightness in his tone, and she knew his rut was coming on just as fast as her heat – neither of them quite knew why. His nostrils flared, her scent was pouring off her now, wrapping around him, tugging at every Alpha urge in his body.

“She’s already close,” Rafayel murmured, crouching beside her nest but keeping enough distance to respect her space. His eyes softened as they landed on her, “You’ve been holding back haven’t you?”

Her eyes downcast, then nodded her head a little. The small croon that escaped him prickled her skin with a chill, a smirk curving his lips.

“Don’t worry, Cutie...we’re going to take real good care of you.”

Her body responded all too kindly and she felt her cheeks heat when she felt slick drip onto her underwear. If she were being honest, this was likely her least favorite part – the amount of lubrication her body made was obscene. She knew it was to help them adjust to the Alpha’s incredible size but it didn’t make it any better. It was messy and sticky, like silicone lube that could actually be washed away.

Her body tensed as another wave hit, stronger this time. A broken whimper escaped her throat before she could stop it, burying her face in her hands as heat flushed through her skin. Their gazes too added to the flames that licked at her veins, that centered inside her with undeniable want for pleasure.

“Let me come closer,” Sylus spoke, his voice strained. He wasn’t asking because he wanted to. He was asking because she needed him to and they all knew it. “I won’t touch your nest, and I won’t do anything until you say so but you need me near you.”

She raised her head from her hands, panting softly as her scent spiked again, flooding the room with the unmistakable sweetness that could only be from an Omega. Sylus’s crimson eyes flashed, her defenses faltering  as she took in the sight of him standing there, chest rising and falling steadily, muscles taught with careful restraint. She realized then, as much as she loathed to admit it- she did need him. The heat clawing through her body wasn’t going to ease on its own, and his presence, powerful and ground, was exactly what her body was screaming for.

“Come closer.” Her voice was soft and laced with desperation, her cheeks burned, the vulnerability of the moment hitting her. The walls she had carefully built to keep herself safe from overbearing alphas were slowly crumbling due to the very patient men before her.

“I—I need you here.” she motioned to the edge of her nest.

Sylus doesn’t hesitate even a second, the words left her lips and he was already moving across the room in smooth strides. He knelt at the edge of her nest, his size and presence seemed to fill the space instantly. Crimson eyes locked on hers, but he didn’t crowd her. He remained just where she’d told him to, waiting to be invited in further.

“Better?” he whispered, his voice low and even, unintimidating – just what she needed. The unmistakable rasp of arousal was tinging his tone now, His instincts were clearly pulling at him, but he had unadulterated control of himself, a feat not many Alphas could claim to.

“Better,” she admitted, the tension in her chest slowly ebbing away slightly just from having him closer. Her body still ached, her heat pushing at her limits of sanity, but the sigh of him; his broad shoulders, his sharp jawline and messy hair—was strangely calming.

Behind him, Rafayel shifted into view, his eyes flicking between the two of them with quiet understanding. He crouched beside Sylus and stroked his neck gently with soft contemplation, a delicate smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he felt Sylus leaning into his touch ever so slightly igniting a rumble in his chest..

“Do you need anything else before things get worse?” Rafayel asked, his eyes turning to her. “Water, food...anything you didn’t think to grab earlier?”

“I stocked everything earlier, I just.. I need you both to stay close.” She whispered hating how needy her voice sounded but by the look on her Alpha’s Sylus’s face he didn’t seem to mind it one bit.

“We’re not going anywhere,” Rafayel reassured her, a faint smile pulling at the corner of his lips – a tinge of pink flaming across his cheeks. Her scent was strong, unwavering and, normally, Betas weren’t supposed to feel this affected, However, there was something different here that none of them could place. “This is what we’re here for.”

Sylus leaned in slightly, his crimson eyes glowing faintly as his Alpha instincts flared. The scent of her heat was overpowering this close, and she saw the way his jaw tightened as he fought to keep himself steady. “Do you want me to touch you?” he asked, his voice quieter now, but no less intense.

Her breath hitched, her body reacting immediately to the prospect. Every part of her was screaming yes, yet the words stuck in her throat, she hesitated, her fingers curling into the soft fleece blanket beneath her. She was on the edge of losing herself to this heat that was curling around her and dragging her into primal insanity – the pull of her instincts too strong to ignore any longer.

“Yes,” she finally breathed, her voice trembling. “Please.” a beg.

Sylus’s tension eased slightly, his eyes softening as he reached out and curling his hand against her jaw, his touch firm but careful. The moment his skin met hers, it was like a jolt of electricity shot through her, the tension in her body breaking as a small, involuntary whimper escaped her lips.

“You’re okay.” His voice deep and soothing, a rumble sounding  through his chest–a purr.

Rafayel shifted closer as well, his presence a calming contrast to Sylus’s intensity. “You’re in good hands,” he said softly, his gaze settling on hers. “Just focus on what you need, and we’ll take care of the rest.”

Her body relaxed slightly under their careful attention, the weight of the heat pressing down on her feeling a little more bearable now that they were here. Sylus’s hand moved slowly brushing her jaw and neck gently, his thumb stroking her cheek softly. “Don’t fight it, kitten,” he whispered a small smile curving his lips, “I’ve got you.”

He was right, and she knew it. There was no point in holding back now—not when her heat was already dragging her under and not when this capable pair was oh so willing to do whatever she needed.

“I trust you,” she whispered, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

Sylus’s eyes closed and he took a calming breath, “Good,” he said, voice low and steady.

“Then let's begin.”

With that, he leaned in, edging into her nest waiting for her to protest but she didn’t. Her hand moved and pressed to his chest as he was closer to her, his shoes were long gone and he could feel Rafayel behind him rubbing his back in gentle circles. He felt his Beta’s mouth on his neck and he lifted her jaw, “I’m going to kiss you,” he murmured before claiming her mouth with his own.

The moment Sylus’s lips met hers, her mind went blissfully blank. His kiss was firm yet, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to savor her. His lips moved against hers with an intoxicating mix of control and heat, and when his tongue brushed against her bottom lip she eagerly opened for him. A soft, helpless moan escaped her, muffled against his mouth, and she felt the rumble of his purr vibrate through his chest against her palm.

Her hand curled tighter into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, and Sylus didn’t resist. His presence, overwhelming and grounding all at once, was exactly what her body craved. The raw pull of her heat sharpened, her instincts screaming louder now that he was finally giving her what she needed. She could feel the controlled strength in the way he cupped her jaw, his thumb brushing the edge of her cheek as if reminding her she wasn’t alone.

Behind him, Rafayel’s touches were steady and reassuring, the Beta’s fingers tracing slow soothing patterns along his back. The contrast between them was startling, but not unwelcome. Where Sylus was fire—intense and consuming—Rafayel was water, calming the burn and easing her into the storm.

“That’s it,” Rafayel breathed, leaning forward as his breath brushed against Sylus’s ear, “take care of our Omega,” he murmured before gently kissing his jaw, his eyes peering eagerly at where their mouths connected in a heated display.

The sound of his voice sent another shiver through her, and she turned her head just enough to meet his gaze. Her lips parted from Sylus's, who was heavy lidded with desire and thinly veiled control, feeling his pants tighten considerably as his rut edged closer the longer her scent was the oxygen he breathed.

“I can’t---I can’t think,” she admitted softly, her voice trembling as her heat clawed at her insides, leaving her slick dripping down her thighs.

“You don’t need to think,” Rafayel whispered, his tone firm yet reassuring. He reached out, brushing his fingers against her temple before tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “That's why we’re here—we’re going to take such good care of you, cutie.”

Rafayel stroked her cheek moving closer to her, her eyes fluttering close at his touch, the tenderness in his movements almost startling.

“You’re doing good, kitten,” he murmured against her skin, his mouth pressing to her neck as he gripped her waist and pulled her body flush against his own. “Let it happen, we’ll catch you.”

The knot of tension in her chest loosened at his words, and she exhaled shakily, her body instinctively leaning into him. Her heat was pulling her under, dragging her deeper with every second, but with Sylus’s strength and Rafayel’s calm presence surrounding her, she didn’t feel like she was drowning anymore.

Sylus shifted, edging further into her nest as she leaned back into the blankets, his hands moved carefully, one resting on her hip while the other continued to cup her jaw, keeping her grounded as his eyes searched hers. “Do you want me to keep going?”

“Yes,” she breathed, the word slipping out without hesitation. Her fingers curled into his shirt again, pulling him closer as her heat roared through her, leaving no room for pride or second guessing. “Please.”

Sylus’s eyes darkened and he nodded once before lowering his head to kiss her again, this time less restrained and more heated. She melted into the blankets of her nest. Her body arching into his hand that tightened on her hip, his purr deepened, vibrating through her as he kissed her like he just couldn’t get enough.

Rafayel helped him take his shirt off, exposed the muscular expanse of his chest, he could tell his Alpha was warm and the last thing they needed was for him to overheat. Watching him with her had his own pants tightening and he tried to ignore it but the intensity was unlike anything he’d ever felt before. Never had he ever felt this way when they were with other Omegas.

Rafayel tilted her mouth from Sylus’s and claimed her lips with his own, his kiss was so different from Sylus’s—softer, more deliberate, like he was savoring every second. His hand cupped the side of her face and, his tongue meeting hers as she gasped against his mouth while Sylus pressed wet kisses to her neck, leaving small marks against her skin.

Her heart raced, her body trembling as her instincts took over completely. “That's it, kitten,” Sylus whispered against her skin as he removed the button up shirt exposing her to their gaze. He groaned and moved his lips down her chest rutting against her hip.

Sylus’s growl was deep and guttural as his eyes raked over her now exposed skin, drinking her in like a predator who had finally cornered his prey. His hands slid over her waist and up her ribs, his touch firm yet reverent as he explored every inch of her bare skin. She shivered under him, the mix of his overwhelming presence and Rafayel’s more measured touch creating a whirlwind of sensation that left her gasping.

“Look at you,” Sylus murmured, his voice thick with arousal as his lips brushed over the swell of her breast. He licked a slow teasing stripe over her skin, making her arch into him with a soft needy cry. His mouth trailed lower, his breath hot against her nipple before his tongue darted out to swirl around it. He groaned as she reacted, her fingers threading through his messy hair tugging gently.

“Beautiful,” Rafayel murmured, his voice soft but laced with hunger. He leaned over, his hair falling into  his face as he pressed a kiss to her jaw, then down the line of her throat. His hands moved with delicate precision, sliding over her thighs and spreading them to give her relief from the heat pooling between them. “You’re incredible, cutie. And you smell so good.”

Her body trembled as Rafayel’s fingers found the slick dripping down her inner thighs, his touch so gentle it almost felt teasing. Her scent spiked, and Sylus groaned into her skin, the sound vibrating against her chest. His hips rutted instinctively against her leg, the hard bulge in his pants pressing against her as he tried to hold himself back.

The sounds of Rafayel’s fingers in her soaked heat caused him to groan, “Raf, don’t tease her…” his crimson gaze meeting his Beta’s oceanic one, darkened now with his own desire.

Rafayel smirked slightly, his fingers brushing higher, just barely skimming where she needed him most. “I’m not teasing,” he said, his tone playful, “I’m just making sure she’s ready.”

“I’m ready,” she moaned when she shifted her hips towards his hand and his fingers slipped past her soaked folds.

“You’re so ready,” he murmured his voice in awe of just how slick she was. He pressed a kiss down her chest nipping at her breast, tongue teasing her nipple and sucking it gently, grunting softly. He licked her skin down to her stomach and groaned as he rubbed against the scent gland on her hip before kissing her thighs. Her head fell back into the nest of blankets as the sensations began to overwhelm her, Sylus’s hot mouth on her lips and chest, Rafayel’s skilled fingers working into her heat with precision that had her hips bucking against his hand. The combination of their touches was too much and not enough all at once, driving her higher and higher as her heat burned hotter.

Sylus growled as his rut clawed at him as he watched her come undone around Rafayel’s fingers. He couldn’t hold back any longer, his thick fingers replacing his in her liquid heat and groaning. “Fuck,” hissed, “so fucking perfect.”

Rafayel leaned up, capturing her lips in another searing kiss as his hand stroked along Sylus’s arm, grounding his Alpha even as he added to the intensity. Their movements were perfectly coordinated, their touches seamless as they pushed her close and closer to another edge.

“You’re doing so good, cutie..” Rafayel whispered against her skin, “let go for us.”

Sylus’s pace quickened, his fingers thrusting into her as the other hand gripped her hip, steadying her. He groaned as her walls clenched around him, his control slipping further with every sound she made.

“Cum for me, Kitten,” Sylus growled, his voice rough and commanding as his fingers curled into her and his thumb stroking the bud at the top of her sex.

Her body tightened like a rubber band and snapped a strangled cry escaped, and Rafayel soothed her with praise as she spiraled. Her body trembled and twitched as he thrust his fingers through her release, lips claiming hers, swallowing her moans greedily. Sylus pulled his fingers from her heat and brought them to his mouth, his eyes blown wide with lust.

“Ready?” Rafayel asked him.

“I’ve been ready,” he murmured as he leaned down to kiss her after quickly discarding his clothes, wanting nothing more than to be bare against her soft skin.

His skin was feverishly hot against hers as he pressed her back into the blankets, his now bare skin flush with hers. His muscles were taught beneath her fingers, every inch of him humming with primal need. Her hands slid up his chest, nails dragging lightly over the hard planes of muscle, and Sylus shuddered at the touch. His breath was uneven as he buried his face in the crook over her neck, his lips pressing to her scent gland. “Fuck, Kitten…” he groaned, inhaling deeply, his tongue darting out to taste her scent directly from the source.

“You won’t break her, Sylus,” Rafayel soothed him, kissing along his spine, his fingers kneading the muscles there, “Breed her,” he whispered, “can’t you see how bad she wants it.”

The encouragement wasn’t needed but Sylus let out a rough exhale, his hands gripping her thighs spreading them further apart. He could feel the heat radiating from her slick drenched core. He felt as if he’d lost his mind; perhaps he had.

“Kitten.” He rasped, "I need to—”

“Yes,” she interrupted, her fingers tangling into his hand pulling him to her. “Sylus, please...Alpha…” she breathed.

That was all it took for his rut to truly snap into place. Sylus shifted, lining himself up, his thick cock pressing against her dripping heat. He hesitated for a second, feeling just how wet she was then pushed in slowly. She felt the burn as he stretched her in the most delicious way while the omega purred for the first time that night.

“Fuck..” he snarled, his fingers bruising against her hips as he forced himself to go slow, to savor that feel of her wrapped around him. “So fucking tight…”

Rafayel watched with heavy lidded desire, his lips parted as his hands slid over his back, “There you go, my love,” he whispered against his shoulder as Sylus bottomed out inside her his entire cock sheathed. “She can take you.” it was almost a sentence of awe, how no other Omega had ever been able to take him fully seated without some maneuvering.

She whimpered beneath him, her back arching as the thick length filled her to the brim, their combined fluids seeping out of her aching heat. The fullness inside her sent a shock wave through her already overheated body. Her nails bit into his shoulders and he groaned at the sensation.

“More,” she begged, her voice broken.

Sylus didn’t need to be told twice.

He pulled out halfway before snapping his hips forward again, a filthy, wet sound filling the air as he buried himself to the hilt. She cried out, her hands clawing at him but he didn’t let up—his thrusts quickly building into a steady, punishing rhythm that had her gasping with every roll of his hips.

Rafayel’s fingers slid between them, too eager to include himself in the fun. He found her swollen clit, circling with expert precision. “That's it, cutie,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her open mouth as she panted, “You’re taking him so well, such a good omega,” he whispered into her mouth, swallowing her moans. They were his for the taking and he was ravenous.

Sylus growled against her throat, his teeth scraping against her scent gland. Marking in Alpha and Omega relationships was common, however, marking a scent gland was only done in very specific situations as it tied the alphas scent to the omegas. Bonding them. The fact that he was tempted at all was all too telling; they were a pheromone match and it had made them both delirious. Rafayel’s presence kept him grounded, kept him from completely losing himself in the mindless haze of his rut.

Rafayel chuckled, feeling the way Sylus was fighting himself, “You wanna bite her so bad…” he teased then nipped his ear lobe, kissed his shoulder and nipped it gently.

“Go ahead, she smells like she wants you to.”

Sylus groaned, his hips stuttering for a moment before he did bite—not hard enough to claim but enough to leave a deep possessive mark against her skin. She screamed as her entire body locked up as pleasure tore through her, her orgasm hitting like a freight train. Sylus cursed, feeling her tighten around him– he nearly lost it right then and there.

He slammed into her rough now, chasing his own release as her cries filled the room.

Rafayel kissed her through it, his fingers working her clit mercilessly, drawing out every last wave of pleasure until she was shuddering beneath them, boneless and wrecked.

Sylus’s growl deepened, his thrusts turning frantic as his knot started to swell,  attempting to lock him inside her, his body desperate to fill her completely. “Fuck, kitten, I—”

“Do it,” she gasped, wrapping her legs tighter around him, her eyes wild and glazed with heat. “Knot me.”

That was all he needed.

With a final, devastating thrust, Sylus buried himself as deep as he could go, his knot catching and locking them together as he came with a broken snarl, his entire body shaking as he emptied himself inside her.

Rafayel groaned at the sight, pressing kisses down Sylus’s back as he rode out his release, his Beta’s hands stroking over his skin soothingly.

“That’s it,” Rafayel murmured, kissing the back of Sylus’s neck before leaning down to kiss her lips softly. “You’re perfect, both of you.”

She moaned weakly into his kiss, her body still trembling, completely overwhelmed by the intensity of everything. Sylus panted against her neck, his grip on her thighs loosening as he started to come down, his mind hazy but content.

“Fuck,” Sylus finally breathed, his voice hoarse. “You’re incredible, kitten.”

Rafayel chuckled, pressing a final kiss to Sylus’s shoulder before reaching for the water bottle nearby. “She is,” he agreed, bringing the bottle to her lips, helping her drink. “But don’t think we’re done just yet.”

Her eyes fluttered open, her breath still shaky as she swallowed the water Rafayel offered her.

Sylus smirked, tilting her chin up with his fingers, his crimson eyes still dark with hunger.

“We’re just getting started.”

Rafayel smirked as he set the water bottle aside, his eyes flicking between them. Sylus was still pressed close to her, his knot keeping them locked together as he pulsed cum straight into her. He craved that feeling. He’d taken Sylus’s knot more than a few times and while his physiology wasn’t necessarily made for it; it felt good. He leaned over her and kissed her softly, “You’re so soft,” he whispered, leaving a path of warmth in the wake over his hands that stroked her skin.

“I can’t believe how good you smell,” he murmured.

She whined softly as Sylus shifted slightly, his breath warm against her throat as he let out a deep, contented growl. He was still stuck inside her, his knot keeping them connected as his cock pulsed inside her pushing more and more cum into her. Rafayel could tell by the way Sylus’s fingers twitched next to her hips that he was watching, waiting, hungry to see what would happen next.

Her expression was dazed, her lips still swollen from the desperate kisses between gasps and moans. He brushed his fingers along her jaw, tilting her face up before kissing her again, this time more slowly, more indulgently.

Unlike Sylus, Rafayel wasn’t in rut; biologically he couldn’t ever be. But something was still pulling him in, something deeper. He had never felt this way before, never had an Omega’s scent affect him quite like this. She was burrowing under his skin, her heat more intoxicating than anything he’d ever encountered.

It wasn’t just biological—it was profound.

And it was making her feel it too.

She moaned into his mouth, her body arching toward him instinctively. Sylus groaned at the movement, but he didn’t complain. If anything, he seemed amused. “You’re already reaching for him, kitten?” he murmured, pressing lazy kisses along her shoulder, still dazed from his ongoing climax. “That desperate already?”

“Yes,” she gasped into Rafayel’s mouth where his tongue met hers in a frenzied but passionate kiss. Her fingers curling into his hair tugging him close.

Rafayel chuckled against her lips, but the sound was strained, his own control fraying. He wasn’t usually the type to rush things—Sylus was the one driven by instinct, by sheer force—but right now, he wanted her just as badly. He cupped her cheek and moaned into her mouth guiding her hand gently to the band of his sweats, she didn’t need to be told twice. Her hand moved down his abdomen and into his pants, finally finding what she was looking for, her hand wrapping around a hot and thick cock that was sticky in her palm. She stroked him slowly and he groaned into her mouth, his hips rutting up into her hand.

They stayed like this for sometime, waiting for the swell of their Alpha’s knot to go down.

Sylus’s purring rumbled through her as he lazily nuzzled into the crook of her neck, his nose brushing that scent gland that he desperately wanted to mark. His satisfaction radiated from every breathy exhale, the slow aftershocks of his climax still making him twitch inside her. Yet, even through the lingering haze of his rut, he was watching—his crimson gaze flicking between her and Rafayel with curiosity and hunger.

Rafayel groaned into her mouth, his hips jerking slightly into her hand as she stroked him, her fingers slick with his arousal. His body was burning for her, craving the warmth and wetness he could feel against his fingertips as they trailed over her stomach.

“You’re trouble, cutie,” he murmured against her lips, his voice thick with amusement and lust. “Can’t even wait for your Alpha’s knot to go down before you start making a mess of me too.”

She whimpered softly, giving him another slow, teasing stroke. “Don’t act like you don’t want it,” she whispered, licking into his mouth, her heat still burning hot inside her, still pushing her toward more, more, more.

Sylus chuckled against her throat, his fingers tracing lazy circles over her thigh. “Raf’s the patient one, Kitten,” he mused, his voice a slow, sultry drawl. “But you keep touching him like that? He’s going to lose all that careful control.”

And he was losing it. Rafayel’s breath hitched as she twisted her wrist just right, making his cock jerk in her palm. His eyes darkened, his usual playful, easy going demeanor starting to unravel. It was then that she felt the knot slowly shrink and Sylus popped free from her a mess of slick and cum dripping out of her making her whimper.

“Turn over,” Rafayel murmured, voice husky as he pulled back slightly, watching her reaction.

She shivered at the command and whined at the loss of Sylus inside her, the underlying authority in his tone sending a jolt of arousal straight through her. The moment she could bring herself to, she did as Rafayel asked, rolling onto her stomach—her cheek pressed into the blankets of her nest.

“Good girl,” Rafayel praised, his large hands sliding down her back, his fingers kneading into the muscles there. He took his time, trailing his lips along her shoulder blades, soothing her with soft kisses, gentle licks.

Sylus shifted beside them, propping himself up to watch his eyes still hazed over for the time being—they all knew it wouldn’t last. “You going to give her what she wants, baby?” he asked him, his voice dripping with lazy satisfaction but his eyes burned with interest.

Rafayel smirked as he kissed down her spine, stopping at the curve of her ass. His fingers spread her open slightly, his breath hot against her dripping cunt. “She smells like you,” he whispered, voice full of reverence. “Still so needy.”

She gasped as he licked a slow, broad stripe over her slick folds, his tongue teasing her clit before delving deeper.

“Oh fuck,” she whimpered, her body trembling as his tongue worked her open, lapping at the mixture of her and Sylus like he was starving for it.

Sylus groaned, gripping her hair and turning her head just enough to kiss her. It was deep and filthy, his tongue dominating her mouth as Rafayel devoured her from behind.

“Look at you,” he murmured between kisses, his fingers lightly tugging at her scalp. “So perfect like this—taking everything we give you.”

Rafayel hummed against her core, the vibrations sending shocks of pleasure through her limbs. His hands kneaded at her thighs, holding her open for him as he worked her with practiced precision.

“Raf...please,” she begged, her body tensing as the pleasure built higher and higher, “I need—”

Placing one last lick on her clit before pulling back, “I know what you need, cutie,” his voice was raspy and low. He pulled his sweats off and kicked them away as he positioned himself behind her, his cock pressing against her entrance.

Sylus grabbed her chin, making her look at him. “You ready for him, kitten?” he asked as his eyes searched hers.

“Yes,” she moaned, pushing her hips back, desperate for more.

He groaned as he pushed inside, his breath hitching at the tight, slight heat that immediately wrapped around him. “Oh fuck,” he growled, his hands gripping her hips tightly as he buried himself to the hilt.

She cried out at the stretch, the fullness, her body overwhelmed but craving every second of it.

“That’s it,” Rafayel groaned, pulling out just enough before slamming back in, his rhythm immediately rougher than before, fueled by need. “You feel..so fucking good.”

Sylus smirked, kissing her deeply, his fingers playing with her nipples as he watched Rafayel claim her—he admired the look of desperation on the man's face, his eyes trailing down the expanse of his chest. He felt his own cock twitching but he had more self control than that. At least for now.

Rafayel’s pace was fast, his body moving like he was made for this—like he was made for her. Every thrust sent shock waves through her already overstimulated body, and she could feel her release creeping closer, creeping up her spine.

“Close…” she gasped, gripping the blankets in her fists as her pleasure overwhelmed her senses.

“Cum for me, cutie,” Rafayel growled, one hand slipping beneath her to rub tight, teasing circles over her clit. “Wanna feel you come all over my cock.”

Unlike anything she ever experienced before, her body obeyed instantly. Pleasure crashing over her like a tidal wave, her vision going white as she sobbed through her release. Rafayel groaned as she clenched around him, his pace stuttering as he chased his own climax. “Fuck...fuck—”

He thrust deep one final time before spilling inside her, his body trembling as he came with a low, shuddering groan. His hands held her tightly, his lips pressing kisses onto her shoulder, his body still moving in slow, lazy rolls, riding out every last wave of pleasure.

Sylus hummed in approval, stroking her hair as he kissed her temple. “Told you, kitten,” he murmured softly and lifted a bottle of water to her mouth.

“Drink,” it wasn’t him asking, it was a command. For several minutes he made her drink a little water every time she let out a small sigh, she was contented but he could tell she was falling into a slumber she likely wouldn’t wake from till morning.

He sighed as her breathing evened out, her body finally surrendering to the exhaustion of her heat and the sheer intensity of what they had done to her. He brushed his fingers gently over her damp hair, his touch softer now, reverent. She was still working, slick between her thighs but her body was too spent to ask for more—for now.

“She’s out,” Rafayel murmured softly, his voice quiet in the dim light of the room. His hands stroked down her back absentmindedly, his fingers pressing slow, grounding circles into her skin. “She fought it, but I knew she wouldn’t last much longer.”

Sylus hummed in agreement, he studied her peaceful expression, the way her body remained pliant between them, trusting. He had never felt this settled before. His rut was satisfied for now—but his instincts weren’t screaming at him to get up, to pace, to search another fight or fuck. His Omega was here, their Omega, and something about that made his entire body relax in a way he hadn’t realized he needed.

“She’s not just some random match,” Sylus muttered, almost to himself. His fingers trailed over the possessive marks he’d left along her throat, and shoulders, lingering at the deep imprint of his teeth he had left over her scent gland. Not enough to bond her, but...fuck, he had wanted to.

Rafayel watched him carefully, his eyes dark with thought. “No,” he agreed after a long moment, pressing a kiss to her temple. “She’s not.”

Sylus let out a slow breath. “This heat felt different.”

Shifting closer, his bare chest pressing against Sylus’s side, his lips trailed over his shoulder in lazy, absent minded kisses. “Yeah… It’s her, she’s different. It’s not just the heat making us feel this way.”

Turning his head Sylus catches Rafayel’s mouth in a kiss, slow and unhurried. It was messy, deep, their tongues sliding together as Sylus tangled his fingers in the soft waves of Rafayel’s plum hair. The beta groaned softly, pressing closer, letting Sylus pull him deeper into the warmth of the nest.

A soft chuckle escaped the Beta, “You’re still wired.”

Chuckling, Sylus shifting slightly, his cock already half hard again, pressing against Rafayel’s thigh. “Can you blame me?”

Rafayel rolled his eyes fondly, sliding a hand down his chest, over the taught muscles of his stomach, before gripping him loosely, stroking him just enough to make his breath hitch. “Poor alpha,” he teased, “Still needy, even after all that.”

Sylus growled, his patience snapping as he rolled Rafayel onto his back, pinning to the nest beneath him. His eyes gleamed as he pressed his weight against him, grinding against his stomach, their cocks flush.

“You knew what you were doing, teasing me like that,” Sylus muttered, dragging his teeth over Rafayel’s jaw before kissing him hard. “You love getting me worked up.”

Rafayel moaned, arching into him, his own cock twitching. “Maybe,”

Grabbing his wrists, Sylus pinned them above his head as he used the slick coming off his own cock to prepare him as he lined himself up. His breath ragged—he didn’t waste time—he couldn’t. Rafayel’s teasing, his scent, her scent, the way his lips were already swollen from their earlier kisses. It was too much.

He pushed inside slowly with a deep shuddering groan, feeling Rafayel stretch around him

Gasping, Rafayel’s eyes rolled back slightly. “F-fuck—”

Sylus didn’t start slow. He didn’t want to be slow. His body was still humming with need to take, to own and Rafayel knew that—wanted that. Sylus fucked into him with sloppy, desperate thrusts, his grip bruising on his hips as he chased the heat pooling in his gut.

Rafayel loved this, loved the way Sylus lost himself in him, fucked him like he was the only thing keeping him from going feral. His moans were breathy, punched out of him with every snap of his lover's hips, his body pliant, open.

Sylus growled against his throat, licking over his scent gland, tasting the sweat and heat on his skin. He wasn’t an Omega, but Sylus still wanted to mark him, to claim him in a way words couldn’t define. His rut was far from over, tamed for now by her slickness, but his instincts still roared for this, for them, for her sleeping beside them.

“Say you’re mine,” Sylus snarled against his jaw, his thrusts becoming erratic, rougher, sloppier.

He moaned, wrapping his legs around Sylus’s waist, his fingers digging into his back. “I’m yours,” he gasped, his nails scraping down his spine. “Yours, Sylus.”

A strangled groan escaped Sylus, his teeth clamping down onto Rafayel’s shoulder, enough to claim. Rafayel cried out, his entire body tensing, his cock jerking between them as he came, his release smearing between their stomachs.

Sylus wasn’t far behind. With a final, broken growl, he slammed deep into Rafayel one last time, burying himself to the hilt as his knot swelled, locking him inside. His body shook with the force of it, his cum spilling deep inside his Beta as he collapsed over him, panting against his throat, laving at the bite mark he’d placed there.

They stayed like that for a long moment, their bodies tangled, sweat cooling on their skin.

Then, Sylus shifted, his knot popping from Rafayel’s tender hole, grimacing softly. He rolled onto his side and pulled him against him, kissing him softly. “You okay?”

Rafayel chuckled breathlessly, “I think you broke me.”

Sylus snorted fondly, nuzzling into his hair, pressing a lazy kiss against his forehead. “You love it.”

“Yeah,” Rafayel admitted, sighing contentedly as he melted into Sylus’s warmth. “I do.”

They both turned their heads toward the Omega sleeping soundly beside them.

“She’s out,” Sylus murmured, his voice quieter now, more certain.

He nodded, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Yeah,” he whispered, “she is.”

And this time, there was no doubt.

The next time she stirred, it was to the feeling of gentle fingers running through her hair and the distant sound of running water. The room was still warm, the heavy scent of heat and sex lingering in the air, but the haze in her mind had softened, the worst of her exhausting ebbing away.

“You awake, cutie?” Rafayel’s voice was soft, soothing, his fingers still stroking over her scalp. She let out a soft hum in response, nuzzling into the blankets, her body sore but pleasantly so.

Rafayel chuckled, shifting closer to press a kiss to her temple. “Come on,” he murmured, his voice dipped in fond amusement. “Let's get you cleaned up before you pass out again.”

She made a noise of protest, but before she could burrow deeper into the nest that smelt of them, strong arms slipped under her, lifting her with ease.

“You’re so dramatic,” she mumbled against his chest, too tired to put any real bite behind it.

“I know,” he replied with a grin, carrying her toward the bathroom, his ocean eyes gleaming happily. “But you love it.”

She would have rolled her eyes if she wasn’t so damn tired. Instead, she let herself relax into his warmth, her limbs heavy and pliant as he brought her into the steamy bathroom. The shower was already running, warm mist curling around them, filling the air with the scent of clean soap. Rafayel eased her down carefully, helping her step under the spray, his hands never leaving her skin.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice softer now, more serious.

She nodded, blinking up at him. “Yeah,” she murmured, feeling the water wash over her, easing away the sweat and stickiness of the night before. “Just….tired.”

“Figured,” he smirked, stepping into the shower behind her, running his hands over her shoulders, working the tension from her muscles. “You were a little busy, after all.”

Heat flooded her cheeks, but before she could retort, Rafayel’s fingers worked over her scalp lathering in the shampoo with slow careful strokes. The sensation sent a shiver of pleasure down her spine, and she let out an involuntary sigh, her body sinking further into him.

He chuckled, “that good?”

She hummed in response, tilting her head into his touch, the intimacy of it making her chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with her heat. Rafayel had been so careful with her, so steady. His hands worked over her like she was something precious, something to be careful of.

She wasn’t used to that.

“Let me take care of you, cutie, “he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Just relax.”

So she did.

By the time they emerged from the shower, she felt lighter, more grounded, the sharpest edge of her heat dulled—at least for now. The scent of food hit her first, something warm and savory drifting through the apartment.

“You cooked?” she asked, her voice still a little rough from sleep as she leaned against the doorway.

Sylus, who was standing by the stove, shot her a smirk over his shoulder. He was wearing nothing but a pair of loose sweats, his messy white hair still damp from a shower of his own. “Raf cooked, “he corrected, “I just taste tested.”

She snorted, moving to sit at the counter, her body still feeling a little too loose and content to argue. Rafayel slid a plate in front of her—an omelet with onions, peppers, salmon and cheese. On the side, he had cut up some fruit and put it in a bowl with some granola. Simple, but it made her stomach growl on sight.

“Eat,” Rafayel said, nudging a fork toward her. “You need it.”

She obeyed, shoving a bite into her mouth. It was good—perfectly seasoned and warm, filling.

Sylus leaned against the counter, arms crossed as he watched her eat with an amused expression. “Guess she was hungry,” he mused.

“Told you,” the other replied.

Despite the teasing, something warm settled in her chest as she ate. This—whatever this was—felt natural. Comfortable.

And the way they were both looking at her, it made her heat start to rise all over again.

She didn’t mean to end up on her knees in her nest, but somehow, it’s exactly where she was. Rafayel was beside her, his eyes gleaming with playful competition as they both pressed closer to Sylus, who was now leaning back against the blankets, half-hard already from the way she and Rafayel had been teasing him.

“Think we can make him lose that famous control of his?” Rafayel mused, his lips brushing against her ear as his fingers traced over her thigh.

She smirked, eyes locked on Sylus’s already darkening gaze. “I think we can.”

Sylus scoffed, but there was a tightness to his jaw, his hands clenching at his sides like he was waiting for them to move. “You two are ridiculous.”

Rafayel grinned, reaching to wrap his hand around his cock, stroking him slowly, teasingly. “You love it.”

Sylus growled lowly, his hips jerking slightly into his hand, his eyes narrowing. “Shut up and use that pretty mouth of yours.”

Rafayel laughed, but he obeyed, leaning down to press a slow, wet kiss to the top of Sylus’s cock before licking a long and teasing stripe up the length of him.

She followed his lead, mirroring his movements on the other side, their tongues brushing against each other as they worked Sylus in tandem. The groan that tore from his throat was filthy, his head tilting back against the blankets, his muscles tensing beneath them.

“Fuck,” Sylus hissed, his fingers threading into Rafayel’s hair, then into hers, tugging just enough to make her whimper.

Rafayel shot her a smirk. “Watch closely, cutie,” he murmured before taking Sylus into his mouth, his lips stretching around his length, his throat relaxing effortlessly. She swallowed, heat pooling low in her stomach at the sight.

“Use your tongue,” he instructed, pulling back slightly, his hand still stroking the base of Sylus’s cock. "Like this.”

She followed his lead, dragging her tongue slowly around the tip, teasing just like Rafayel had. Sylus groaned, his grip on her hair tightening.

“Good girl,” Rafayel praised, shooting her a wicked grin before going down again, his mouth hollowing around Sylus as he sucked.

She followed, their movements synchronized, teasing, drawing ragged curses and groans from Sylus as his restraint started to crack. Their mouths and tongues each covering one side of his cock up and down his length soft whimpers from them both at his heady scent as their tongues touched in a partial kiss around his cock.

When he finally broke, he grabbed their heads and fucked up between their mouths with a desperate growl.

Sylus snapped. His grip in their hair was firm, controlling, as he fucked up between their mouths his cock slick with their spit, their tongues working together to drive him over the edge. His growls filled the air, ragged and demanding. His control shattered completely as his thick length twitched.

“Fucking—fuck,” Sylus panted, his head tilting back against the pillows, his muscles tensing as he used them, barely able to decide which one he wanted more.

She moaned as she felt Rafayel’s tongue meet hers as they lapped at his cock eagerly. Rafayel let out a breathy chuckle around his cock. It was filthy, and hot as they shared the taste of him.

Sylus’s breath hitched, his grip tightening and then with a sharp groan he came his cock twitching as ropes of thick cum landed on their mouths and face. They worked together to swallow down what he gave them, licking at him, cleaning him up with soft, slow drags of their tongues until his body sagged into the nest.

He looked wrecked.

But not done.

His crimson eyes flickered open, hazy, dark with the need still lingering in his gut. His rut was still there, but her heat-- the scent of it, the feel of it clinging in the air, still rising—was pulling him back under.

His growl was low, warning, as he grabbed her wrist, tugging her up onto his lap. His lips crashed against hers. His tongue sweeping into her mouth, tasting himself on her, his hands slid over her skin, nails biting into her hips.

“You want me again, kitten?” he murmured against her lips, his voice teasing, “can smell it on your-fuck-your heats kicking back up isn’t it?”

She whimpered, nodding, rocking her hips against him, already desperate for him again. Rafayel hummed, licking his lips as he sat back on his heels, watching. “Guess she can’t help it,” he mused, fingers trailing over her spine. “She’s an Omega. She needs you, Sylus.”

A groan pulled from him, his cock already hardening under her, “Fuck, you’re right.”

And then he was flipping her, pressing her down onto the nest, his body covering hers, his hands gripping her thighs as he spread her open beneath him. She gasped, her body arching, and then he was inside her, hot and deep, stretching her all over again.

He didn’t start slow this time. He couldn’t.

Sylus slammed into her, his growl vibrating against her throat as he fucked her rough and deep, chasing the heat, the primal, instinctive need to fill her, to breed her.

“Fuck, kitten,” he panted, his hands gripped her waist, holding her still as he ruined her. “Feel so fucking good—can’t get enough of you—”

She sobbed his name, her body burning, her nerves on fire, her slick dripping onto the blankets. She could feel her orgasm creeping closer, every hard thrust pushing her further into it, making her whimper, making her beg. Sylus groaned, his pace stuttering as his knot began to swell again, one thrust, two thrusts, three and he groaned as it caught the fourth time.

“I got you, kitten,” he growled, “gonna fill you.”

“Yes,” she sobbed, her nails dragging down his back, “Please, Sylus—“

His cock stayed in her, stuck as he filled her with rope after rope of cum. Grinding deep as he spilled, her body opening up for him. She came with a broken cry, her walls clenching down and milking him, making him snarl into her throat. Tempted once again to mark her and make her officially theirs.

For a long moment, they just breathed, tangled in each other, the aftermath still humming in the air. When he slipped from her the sound of his cock slipping out of her soaked pussy made him groan.

Then, Sylus turned his head, eyes landing on Rafayel, his rut in full force now.

A slow, knowing smirk curved his lips.

“You look like you’re waiting for something,” Sylus drawled, his voice rough but teasing.

Rafayel huffed out a laugh, stretching out beside them, his own cock hard and aching between his legs. “You are good at reading me.”

Sylus grinned, “get between her legs.”

Rafayel’s breath hitched, his eyes darkening, but he obeyed. “Fuck, she’s soaked,” he whispered, his tongue darting out to taste her, his voice reverent.

Sylus chuckled as he moved behind Rafayel and lifted his hips up so he was on his knees, bent over with his mouth on her cunt. “Lick her clean,” Sylus commanded, his voice edged with something dark and possessive.

Rafayel didn’t hesitate.

His mouth latched on to her, licking deep, drinking from her, his tongue slipping inside, tasting both her slick and Sylus’s cum as he moaned against her.

The action had him feeling drunk, surrounded by their scent, his own cock twitching in anticipation. She cried out, her entire body shaking, the over stimulation nearly too much.

And then, Sylus was behind him. Strong hands gripping his hips, dragging him back. Rafayel groaned, his tongue still buried in her as Sylus used his cum soaked fingers to ready him for his cock. One finger, then two, then he pressed the head of his length to the opening before pushing inside in a single thrust.

“Fuck,” Rafayel sobbed against her, his whole body shuddering.

Sylus growled, his grip bruising as he fucked into him, his pace immediately unforgiving. Her moans, their moans all echoing off the walls of her room. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him tighter against her.

“Good boy,” Sylus purred, his breath hot against his spine as he fucked into him with deep short thrusts. “Just like that,” he whispered, and they all came together.

It was too much. It was perfect.

And none of them wanted it to stop.

The aftermath was a slow, breathless tangle of limbs, bodies collapsing into the nest, still warm and slick with sweat and release. Their bodies were exhausted but sated—for now. The room was thick with the scent of sex… of them. A scent that had become something familiar, something that felt like home.

Rafayel was the first to move, rolling onto his back, his chest still rising and falling in uneven breaths. A lazy, satisfied smile tugged at his lips as he turned to look at them.

“Well,” he murmured, his voice rough, “that was...something.”

She huffed out a breathless laugh, curling instinctively into Sylus’s side, pressing her face against his chest. “That's one way to put it.”

Sylus chuckled, his arm tightening around her, pulling Rafayel closer with the other, sandwiching them between his warmth. His fingers idly stroked over her back, then up into Rafayel’s damp, tangled hair, smoothing it out as he kissed his temple.

“Don’t think you’re getting rid of me now,” Sylus murmured, his tone teasing but laced with something deeper, something real.

Rafayel sighed contentedly, nuzzling into his Alpha’s touch. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She swallowed, tilting her head up to look at them both. There was an understanding between them, something unsaid but deeply felt.

This wasn’t just a heat arrangement.

This wasn’t just Sylus scratching the itch of his rut.

This was more.

And it terrified her—but it also settled something deep inside her, something she hadn’t even realized had been so restless before.

The desire for a family.

Sylus must have sensed the hesitation in her, because he cupped her cheek, tilting her face toward him, focused. “Kitten,” he murmured, his thumb stroking her skin. “Tell me what's going on in that pretty head of yours.”

She hesitated, then let out a small, shaky laugh. “I guess, I just...didn’t expect this.”

Rafayel shifted, propping himself up on one elbow, watching her closely. “Expected what?”

“This,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper, “to want this, to want you, both of you.”

Sylus’s grip tightened slightly, like he was afraid she might slip away. “You do want this,” he said, and it wasn’t a question. It was a statement.

She exhaled slowly, her body still aching, still sensitive—but there was no denying the truth of it. She nodded. “Yeah, I do.”

His entire body relaxed as he pulled her in again, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead. “Good.” he murmured against her skin. “Because I’m not fucking letting you go.”

Rafayel chuckled, rolling onto his stomach so he could drape himself over both of them. “Possessive.” he teased, “typical alpha behavior.”

Sylus shot him a flat look. “Shut up, you love it.”

Rafayel smirked, but there was nothing but fondness in his gaze. “I do.”

She felt warmth spreading through her chest as she relaxed into them, letting their scents surround her, wrap around her like something safe.

“We don’t have to define anything right now,” Rafayel murmured after a moment, his fingers tracing slow, lazy circles over her hip. “We don’t have to rush it, but we do have to acknowledge it.”

Sylus made a small disgruntled noise. “I already know what I want.” His voice was firm, unwavering. “I want you, both of you. And I will make you mine.”

There was no room for argument in his tone.

And neither of them wanted to argue anyway.

Rafayel smirked, leaning in to kiss him softly, “Yeah?” he murmured against his lips. “That's a promise, Alpha?”

Sylus growled, nipping at his bottom lip before kissing him again, slow and deep. “Damn right it is.”

She watched them, her heart swelling in her chest. This felt right. It felt good. It felt real.

For the first time in a long time she wasn’t afraid of it. She smiled, pressing a kiss to Sylus’s shoulder then to Rafayel’s cheek before settling between them. Their warmth cocooned her completely. “We’ll figure It out,” she murmured.

Sylus grunted, already half-asleep, his grip on them protective. “Damn right, we will.”

And as they drifted off, tangled in each other there were no doubts in any of their minds.

This was theirs.

And none of them were letting go.

I giggled doing this hehe

RETURN TO SENDER | simon riley

It was a joke. A letter to a criminal—UK's most wanted. You told him he was hot. Told him you were a virgin. Left your address, because it’s not like he’d ever get out, right?

✉ 2K FOLLOWER SPECIAL .ᐟ | [ AO3 ]

18+ AU, DUBCON, fem!reader, takes place in the UK, porn with plot, pathetic!reader, harddom!simon, asshole!simon, implied stalking, (morally irredeemable) pining, oral (f receiving), shit-ton of degradation, praise if you use a magnifying glass, virginity kink, pussy pronouns, pussy & face slapping, dacryphilia, unprotected sex [ 10.2k words ]

Who knew working at Tesco would be such a fucking nightmare?

 It’s almost absurd how people can forget how to use their brains the second they step through the automatic doors. It’s a massive store, but you’ve come to believe that its sheer scale only amplifies some customers’ overwhelming stupidity. 

You find yourself watching, day in and day out, as people stumble over the easiest parts of shopping, like scanning a barcode or finding the right aisle despite the sign above their heads. It’d be laughable if it wasn’t so damn frustrating. You can’t even afford the luxury of venting because you're stuck behind the register, forced to plaster on a fake smile, nodding while they hold up the line, your eye twitching as you answer the same question for the umpteenth time in 30 minutes.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of gritted teeth and hollow patience, your shift comes to an end. The relief is brief, but it’s there, at least. You drag yourself out of the store, shoulders slumped under the weight of the day. The commute home isn’t any prettier, but it’s a kind of mindless ritual that’s grown familiar over time—20 minutes on the train, crammed between strangers who are just as exhausted, just as done with the grind. The train lurches and hums beneath you, a rhythmic noise that almost lets you forget the stress. But you’re too far gone for that kind of escape, your mind still whirling with all the things you’ve had to swallow throughout the day.

The train empties as the sun sinks below the horizon, each stop peeling away another layer of the late afternoon crowd. You finally step off the train at the final stop, the air crisper than when you left for work nearly 11 hours ago. The walk home is short, but it’s long enough for your legs to remind you that you’ve been standing for hours. Ten long minutes to your flat, a familiar route that feels both comforting and suffocating in its monotony. 

After walking down some quiet streets, past some sketchy alleyways, you finally reach your tiny one-bedroom flat. It’s tucked just outside Bromley, and it’s small, not much at all, but it’s enough. It’s the kind of space that suffocates you some days and feels like a sanctuary on others. You push your key into the lock and push the door open. You kick your shoes off and they thud as they hit the floor, echoing through your small flat. You hang your keys on the singular hook you stuck on the wall, barely noticing the clink of them settling into place. 

This is what most days look like for you: wake up, subject yourself to a long, draining shift, then return home to an empty flat and an even emptier fridge. It's a routine that feels as hollow as the flat itself. The days fly by in a boring cycle of work, silence, and the echo of things you thought you’d left behind when you took the leap and moved out.

After college, you made it a point to leave your parents’ house. You couldn’t stay in the nest anymore, not when you so strongly believed there was something better waiting out there. You had to prove you could stand on your own, that you didn’t need the constant supervision or the suffocating presence of a family that just didn’t get it. 

Honestly, who could? Who could stay locked in a house that felt less like a home and more like a cage? College had been the escape you’d craved, the independence you had  always wanted. You dove in headfirst, joining club after club, meeting all kinds of people, each one with their own story, a sort of authenticity that people in high school never had.

In college, one of the many things you got involved in was Vets Club, which wrote letters to veterans, thanking them for their service. It was a simple thing, but there was something about it that felt right. You’d write a few lines of gratitude, nothing big, just a small act of kindness. And sometimes, you’d get a letter back. The responses were always the same—surprised and grateful that someone even bothered to take the time. It never felt like much, but it always made you feel good, knowing you could brighten someone's day just by saying thank you.

But now, when you’re standing in your tiny flat, staring at a barren fridge that only houses a bottle of wine and some leftover takeaway containers, you wonder if wasting your time on asinine things like that were worth it. 

You’re having a… Well, a hard time, to put it kindly. The kind of time where nothing seems to go your way, and you can't quite shake the feeling that maybe you made some wrong choices. All of your college friends? They're out there, living it up, traveling the world, landing glamorous careers, posting photos of sunsets in Bali and dinners at places with names you can’t pronounce. They’re thriving, but you’re stuck here, watching their highlight reels on social media while your own life feels like it’s paused on a loop of dead-end shifts and lonely nights.

You had big dreams once. You convinced yourself that an art history degree was going to be the key to something meaningful, something that would set you apart. Now, though? Now, you can barely find work, and the opportunities that do pop up feel like they’re beyond you in all shapes and forms.

Rent and bills are manageable, but manageable doesn’t mean easy. To you, it means scraping by, choosing between a decent meal or keeping the lights on for another month.

Your parents help sometimes, covering the electricity bill here and there, but you’d rather die than let them know how bad it really is. You don’t need their pity, their unsolicited advice, or the smug ‘I told you so’ about picking a more practical degree. No matter how deep you’re sinking, you’ll claw your way up alone. It’s not pride, it’s survival. You’ve always done it yourself, it’s just easier that way. 

And the real kicker? The cherry on top of this already pathetic sundae? You’re a fucking virgin. No one to warm your bed, keep you company. Mid-twenties and untouched, while your friends from high school are already posting pictures of shiny rings and baby-bumps. Like struggling to stay afloat wasn’t humiliating enough, you’re also trailing behind in the one thing that’s supposed to have happened already.

You’ve had chances—plenty of chances—but every time, you freeze. The pressure, the vulnerability, and the fear of not measuring up always make you bail.

Not that you’re a prude. You’ve done everything but. Had shitty oral a few times, given it even more. And if the guy’s screaming was anything to go by, you were either naturally good at it or he was just being dramatic. Either way, it was a fleeting moment of triumph in an otherwise awkward, unremarkable sex life, not quite the high point you’d imagined, but in your world of half-hearted hookups and ‘almosts,’ it was something. Proof you weren’t completely out of your depth.

Not that it really mattered.

You shut the fridge and turn to open the cabinet with the same lack of enthusiasm that’s come to define your evenings alone. Peanut butter and jelly, quick, mindless, barely even a choice. You spread the peanut butter, then the jelly, the motion mechanical, just something to fill the silence. The takeout leftovers can last till tomorrow.

You pad over to and collapse on your second-hand couch, the cushions sighing under your weight, and pull your legs beneath you. You grab your phone out of your pocket, thumb idly swiping up to unlock it. The screen lights up, and for a moment, you just stare at it. An infant-sized handful of notifications blink back at you—an automated bill reminder, a news alert you’ll ignore, a lone text from your mom checking in. That’s it. No stream of messages, no flood of tagged posts or party invites. Just a near-empty notification bar, silent in its own damning way.

With a sigh, you lock your phone and toss it aside, letting it land somewhere on the cushion beside you. No one’s waiting for you to reply anyway.  Instead, you grab the remote and flick on the TV. The screen blinks to life and you skim through a few channels, the lowest-tier cable offering not much more than black-and-white novellas and the news. You settle for the latter, knowing it won’t add much to your day, but it’ll at least fill the space with noise.

The pretty woman on the screen drones on about politics and stocks, things you don’t have the capacity to care for. You nibble at your sandwich, half-listening as the segment shifts. The soft murmur of the newscaster is background noise until something catches your ear, an undercurrent of excitement creeping into her voice as she announces a breaking story. Your attention sharpens as she mentions a supposed notorious figure, someone whose name apparently carries weight in the world of crime.

A man known only as Ghost. No full name, no history, just a shadow stitched together by word of mouth and grainy security footage. The anchor’s voice is steady as she rattles off his crimes. High-profile armed robberies that bled banks dry, embezzlement schemes that unraveled entire corporations, and a trail of bodies left in the wake of meticulously executed mob hits.

It’s the kind of name you’d expect to hear on the news, or in the underbelly of the city where crime festers unchecked. A name spoken with a mix of fear and reverence, as if he was more myth than man.

And yet, despite knowing nothing about him beyond what you've learned in the last 5 minutes of the broadcast, the sight of him on your TV—towering, masked,—hits you in a way you hadn’t anticipated. Intrigue coils in your stomach, but you can’t fight the way he unsettles you.

He’s been arrested. The news anchor’s voice carries the weight of the revelation, the story intensifying with every word. After years on the run, the law has finally caught up with him. Ghost—a ghost no longer—is now locked away in the High-Security Unit of Belmarsh, one of southeast London’s most formidable prisons, home to terrorists, murderers, and just the worst of the worst.

You stare at the screen, the words sinking in as you take another slow bite of your PB&J. There’s a strange sort of chill that runs through you, not from familiarity but from the sheer presence of the large man on the screen, as if he’s in the very room you’re sitting in. The news anchor’s voice drones on, but you’re already lost in thought.

You think back to Vets Club, remembering how the club would sometimes send letters to other people—petty criminals who were locked up for minor counts of drug possession, vandalism, or shoplifting. Stupid shit. At first, it seemed odd, but the more you thought about it, the more it made sense. Why not offer a little kindness to anyone that needs a pick-me-up? They didn’t have to be war heroes. 

As long as they didn’t kill anyone—or anything. 

So just like the veterans, you guys would send letters. And just like the veterans, you'd sometimes get a reply, a genuine thank you, as if the fact that someone cared enough to reach out made a difference. It was just about being human, about showing some kindness when so much of the world felt cold.

You never wrote to someone like Ghost before. Not someone so... bad. Not someone whose reputation is so undeniably, explicitly rotten. Someone who, many would argue, is explicitly undeserving of such kindness. 

You snap back to reality, and his figure dominates the screen—broad shoulders, large muscles even under the clothing, the kind of man who demands attention.  The CCTV footage is grainy, a mere screen capture from a longer video plastered on the TV for your viewing pleasure

His face is masked with a skull-patterned balaclava, the fabric stretched taut over his facial features, distorting the skeletal design just enough to make it seem like the grinning visage is shifting with every movement, angular lines that give him an almost inhuman quality—like a wraith lurking in the dark. 

He’s swathed in black from head to toe, the fabric of his dark jacket and and even darker pants absorbing the dim light, making him one with the shadows that cling to every surface around him. Each step is silent, calculated, his presence more of a feeling than a sight—an omen in the periphery, waiting.

It’s strangely captivating, the way he looms, the way the static buzz of the television makes it feel like he could crawl through the screen at any second, like that stupid Ring movie. You sort of wish he would. 

His image lingers, burned into the LEDs of your TV, burned into your mind. You’re not sure why it catches you the way it does, but you can’t look away. Something about him—his sheer presence, even through a screen—snags at your curiosity like a loose thread begging to be pulled, a sweater unfurled into a heap of yarn. God you’re so lonely.

Your mind drifts as your fingers move almost instinctively. A few quick Google searches lead you down a steep rabbit hole, a litany of news reports covering crimes that stretch back years. No one has seemed to figure out his real name, no verifiable background. Alleged military ties, some say, possibly ex-special forces. Others insist he was born into the criminal underworld, raised by it, shaped by it, an enforcer forged in violence.

Though nothing could be determined for sure, most of the reports agree on one thing for certain: he was methodical, precise, and had an undeniable dedication and passion for his craft. You presumed that’s what made him a terrorist-level threat.

Then you stumble upon another fact—and you pause. Belmarsh Prison, his current home, isn’t even that far. Just a thirty-minute drive from your flat.

That should be alarming, but the thought sinks in your mind like a stone dropped into a well. For a second, the dull, predictable rhythm of your life feels disrupted—a ripple in reality, as if you've slipped into some parallel version of your life, one that isn’t just last night’s leftovers and tomorrow's 10-hour shift.

For the first time in a long while, you feel a flicker of excitement. It makes your life feel a little less dull, like something unexpected, something outside the ordinary routine, has just entered your world. Maybe you could write him a letter—

—No. What the fuck? That’s insane. He’s killed people, and you want to send him a letter? 

…

You decide to send him a letter. 

It’s not like you’re his number one fan—or a fan at all, for that matter. Plus, the chances of him even reading it are slim to none, he’s probably buried under piles of letters that sound just like the ones you used to write, if not worse.

It’s just a letter. You’re not looking for anything in return. You’ll write to him, then move on, because why not? It’s not about trying to change him or sympathizing with him, it’s just... kindness. 

Your half-eaten sandwich is abandoned on the coffee table, forgotten the moment the thought takes root. You push yourself up from the couch. The floor is cold beneath your feet as you move down the narrow hall and toward your bedroom, each step fueled by something you don’t care to name—excitement, recklessness, boredom, maybe all three twisted together.

Your bedroom is dim and poorly lit by your bedside lamp. The air feels alive, the window cracked open, allowing the evening breeze to slip through and blow through the room. The curtains sway with it, shifting shadows across the walls, fleeting and fluid, much like the thoughts in mind.

You reach for an old journal tucked away in your bedside table, its spine softened by years of thumbing through its pages. The cover, once smooth, is now rough with wear, smudged with time and old ink stains. As you flip through, the pages crackle—thin, fragile things filled with half-formed ideas and late-night ramblings from high school.

You find a blank page and grab a pen from the bedside table, its weight familiar, and grounding, and shift into a cross-legged seat on your bed. The mattress dips beneath you, the duvet stretching with the movement. 

For a moment, you hesitate. What do you even say to someone like him? 

You reason with yourself that if he’s unlikely to even read the letter, then it doesn’t matter. You don’t expect anything to come of it, but the thought of sending a message feels like the most fun you’ve had in years.

You press the pen to the paper. 

‘Dear Big Bad Ghost,’ 

A quiet giggle escapes you at that, the kind that bubbles up when you know you’re doing something absolutely stupid. But really, what’s the harm? You have nothing to lose, no reputation at stake, and no consequences beyond a letter that will likely end up thrown in a trashcan. You might as well have some fun with it. A little tongue-in-cheek humor never hurt anyone.

Your pen glides across the paper, words spilling faster than you can second-guess them. You tell him how you found out about him, how you saw his face flash across your TV screen, how his name is spoken like an urban legend on the news channels. And—because there’s no point in pretending otherwise—you admit the truth outright: you thought he was hot, because—let’s be honest—you wouldn’t be doing something this rash if he wasn’t (you make sure to write that, too).

You just keep going. You tell him you’re 24, impossibly lonely and still a virgin, stuck working at Tesco with the worst coworkers possible, with little excitement in your life. You’re sure you’ve painted yourself as painfully average, definitely the most boring woman on the planet, though you wonder if that in itself might intrigue him. Or maybe he won’t care at all. Either way, the words are already there, ink drying on the page.

You tell him that if this were happening back in the States, they’d have slapped him with a RICO charge so fast he’d get whiplash—but lucky for him, he’s dealing with the UK’s legal system instead. A small mercy, though not much of one.

Your pen barely lifts from the paper as you continue. If he ever gets out, you tell him, your door is open for a ‘good time’. You underline it for emphasis, like a wink through the page, though you’re quick to add that, realistically, you’re sure he’ll be locked up for life.

Still, you suppose, even the worst criminals must get bored. Maybe he’ll want a pen pal to entertain him for the rest of his days.

You sit back, tapping the pen against your chin as you reread the letter. It’s ridiculous, a tad insane, but the thrill of it makes your stomach buzz. Some prison guard will probably skim it, roll their eyes, and toss it straight into the bin.

But still…

 You scrawl your name at the bottom and the moment the ink dries, you tear the page from your journal, fold it neatly, and slide it into an envelope. You write your address in the return section. Just in case. Your fingers hesitate at the edge, but before second thoughts can creep in, you lick the edges, the bitter taste making you wince and seal it shut.

Next thing you know, you’re sliding on some slippers, unlocking the front door, and stepping into the cool night air. The mailbox is just a few paces from your front door. The world has gone to sleep for tonight.

You reach the rusted blue box, heart hammering as you pull open the slot. The envelope feels heavier now like it carries more weight than it should. You hover there for a second longer than necessary, gripping the paper between your fingers.

And then you let it go. It’s chilling how easy it is. 

The past two weeks have passed in a blur of work, exhaustion, and the crushing weight of an uninspired routine. You’ve long since moved on from the letter. You’ve nearly forgotten about it entirely. Life doesn’t give you much room to dwell on dumb things like that—not when you spend your days dodging entitled customers and biting back the urge to commit minor acts of violence in the break room.

Today was particularly brutal. Some guy spent ten minutes arguing with you over a 5 quid price difference like it was a matter of life and death. A toddler managed to knock over an entire display of crisps while her mom scrolled through Instagram, blissfully unaware. By the time your shift ended, you felt like you’d been put through a meat grinder and then asked to clock out with a smile.

Rush hour on the train only adds insult to injury. Someone sneezes directly onto the back of your neck. Another person else eats an offensively pungent egg sandwich within arm’s reach. You spend the entire ride back gripping the overhead rail and wondering why you ever thought adulthood would be anything more than a slow, soul-draining trudge toward the grave.

By the time you finally get home, your body aches with exhaustion that seeps into your bones. You kick off your shoes, chuck your bag onto the floor, and drag yourself toward the kitchen. There’s no energy left in you for cooking, so you grab some leftover takeout from the fridge and toss it into the microwave, staring blankly at the rotating container as it whirs to life. No, it’s not the same takeout from two weeks ago. 

You settle onto the couch with your dinner, flicking through the limited selection of channels. With an eye roll, you settle on the news once more, just as a reporter’s voice cuts in, crisp and professional.

At first, you’re barely paying attention, too focused on shoveling lukewarm noodles into your mouth. But then—

BREAKING NEWS: MASS PRISON RIOT ENSUES AT BELMARSH – GHOST AT LARGE

The bold red banner streaks across the screen, sharp and urgent. Your fork stalls midway to your mouth, noodles slipping off the prongs and back into the container as your brain struggles to catch up.

The news anchor doesn’t miss a beat, her voice steady, polished, and edged with just the right amount of alarm:

“Authorities have confirmed a large-scale riot at Belmarsh Prison earlier this evening, resulting in multiple casualties and the escape of several high-profile inmates—including ‘Ghost’, who was awaiting trial for dozens of indictable offenses.”

Your stomach tightens.

Ghost might be on your doorstep and London might look like Gotham, all before dawn even breaks tomorrow.

For a moment, you simply sit there, absorbing the weight of it. You should probably be more concerned. Probably get up, lock the doors, check your windows, and maybe even send a half-hearted text to your parents that, no, you haven’t been stabbed or kidnapped yet. 

After a few more seconds you wisen up, mentally slapping yourself. Super-Mega-Criminal-Ghost has bigger problems than tracking down a random girl who sent him one dumb letter out of the hundreds you’re sure he’s gotten. You’re not special. You’re not even remotely relevant in this situation.

Your eyes lock onto the screen as aerial footage of Belmarsh fills the frame. The prison looks like something out of a videogame—thick plumes of smoke curling into the night sky, roaring flames illuminating figures in riot gear as they swarm the perimeter, floodlights sweeping across the wreckage of what was, until hours ago, one of the most secure facilities in the country. Sirens wail in the background.

Somewhere in that chaos, a man you sent a letter to—that more closely resembled a dating profile— has vanished into thin air.

You exhale, exhausted and too tired to brood on it further. Even if he did show up and break down your door, you’re sure your life couldn’t get worse, so you decide to ignore the news and reach for the remote. With a press of a button, the world of reports and fear-mongering headlines is cut off and replaced by the manufactured warmth of a sitcom.

The studio audience laughs on cue.

You force yourself to eat, to go through the motions. Take small, measured bites, as if chewing will somehow settle the restless feeling creeping up your spine. 

It doesn’t. 

When you finish the sad lump of noodles, you head to the kitchen. Dishes clink as you rinse them, your mind half-present as your body moves on autopilot. 

By the time you’ve cleaned up, the tension in your body has quieted. You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re fine. It’s just another night with one more thing to add to the ever-growing list of reasons why this city is exhausting.

You make your way to the bathroom with a sigh, shutting the door behind you. The day clings to your skin, heavy and lingering, but the promise of hot water is enough to shake off the worst of it.

You twist the shower knob. Pipes groan, then sputter, before a steady stream rushes out. You strip down, kicking your dirty clothes into the corner as steam billows, curling against the mirror until your reflection blurs.

After testing the water with your hand, you step in, a sharp inhale slipping past your lips as the warmth crashes over you. It seeps into your muscles, loosening tension you hadn’t even realized you were still holding. You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut as you let it pour over you.

Your body moves through the motions on autopilot. Shampoo, scrubbed into your scalp. Conditioner, combed through the ends with your fingers. The buy-one-get-one soap glides over your skin, the scent of cheap vanilla and pomegranate thick in the humid air, mingling with the steam that cocoons you. You carefully shave where necessary before the water washes everything away.

You finish your shower, stepping out into the warm fog of steam clinging to the bathroom walls. You take your towel off the hook and drag it over your skin, patting your hair just enough to keep it from dripping but not enough to fully dry it. 

Right now, all you want is to crawl into bed and pretend this night is just like any other, despite the very real fact that the London Bridge might actually go down overnight.

You don’t bother wrapping the towel around yourself. There’s no point. It’s just you here—always, unfortunately, just you. As much as you wish that wasn’t the case, there’s no reason to pretend otherwise.

Pushing open the bathroom door, steam rushes past you, rolling into the hallway like a ghost of its own. The air is cooler than usual, biting at your damp skin. A shiver rolls through you, goosebumps prickling to life as you clutch the towel tighter around yourself.

You move quickly, bare feet padding against the floor, the cool air chasing you down the hall. You shake it off, the shower was especially hot today, after all. 

Once inside your bedroom, you flick on the small lamp on your bedside table. The weak glow struggles against the shadows, barely illuminating the room beyond a soft, feeble pool of light. You sigh, staring at it for a moment. You really should invest in another one, something stronger, something that does its job—but the thought of subjecting yourself to the blinding glare of overhead lighting is unbearable.

The usual cool breeze from the window rolls in and whisks against your skin as you stand in front of the large mirror sitting atop your dresser, as naked as the day you were born. You absentmindedly rub lotion onto your arms and legs, the smooth cream sinking into your skin with satisfying ease, a small act of self-care amidst the shit-show of your life. You swipe on some deodorant, a miscellaneous powdery scent briefly masking the other smells that linger in your room.

You pull open the top drawer, fingers brushing past folded fabric until you find a pair of plain black no-show panties. The material is soft between your fingertips.

You hook your thumbs into the waistband, bending slightly as you slide the fabric up your legs, smooth against your skin. It settles high on your hips, snug and familiar.

But as you straighten,  the air feels different.

Your breath stalls, a tight, involuntary hitch in your throat. A prickle skates down your spine, the hairs on the back of your neck rising, your body sensing the shift before your mind can grasp it. Then comes the scent. Subtle quickly shifts to suffocating. 

Ash, woody and bitter like a lonely bonfire.

Gunpowder, metallic and pungent like a shrill war cry.

And beneath it all, something brutally masculine. Utterly tart, like blood welling on your tongue, bitter, metallic, yet impossible to spit out so you’re forced to swallow.

You’re still facing the mirror, bare skin gleaming under the dim light, damp where the shower’s heat still lingers. Your reflection is all soft curves and slow, steady breaths, the delicate contrast of black fabric against your skin.

But you’re not looking at yourself anymore.

Your eyes are locked onto something else. Someone else.

Over your right shoulder, a hulking figure sits backward in your desk chair, big, long legs spread on either side, the heavy, shadowy outline of him filling the space behind you. His presence is so sudden, so jarring, that it takes you a moment to even process it. From what you can make out, he is facing you,  arms crossed over the backrest like he owns the room.

You’re frozen, trapped in your own body, your mind a tangled mess of confusion and fear. You scramble to process how this could even be happening. Your eyes dart to the window over your left shoulder in the reflection, the wind howling on cue as if to mock you. 

Your window is violently wrenched ajar, and suddenly, the drop in temperature makes sense. That’s what you felt earlier—the sudden chill that wrapped around you the second you stepped out of the bathroom. How you didn’t feel it moments ago is beyond you.

Your heart pounds in your ears, a brutal thundering that mutes the voice in your head telling you to run, single-handedly hijacking every morsel of reason you possess. Each beat is so violent, that you think you can feel your ribs splintering, cracking to make room.

You can’t help but stare at yourself, standing there, exposed and utterly vulnerable, tits perked and on display like it’s time for Sunday dinner. But it’s impossible to make yourself move. Your feet feel like cinder blocks.

Your eyes flick back to him.

He hasn’t moved. Not an inch. A statue of flesh and shadow, his towering frame swallowing the space behind you. Your breath stutters as your gaze collides with his—an accident, a mistake. Dark eyes, barely visible, catch the light as he leans in, closer, closer still.

You regret it instantly. Your stomach flips, twisting in on itself as something molten ignites deep inside you. Butterflies—you’re sure—but they feel wrong, tainted, clawing their way up your throat, wings drenched in bile, desperate to break free.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even breathe.

Just silen—

“Shouldn’t’ve given a dog a bone, Girl.”

Oh.

Oh.

Shit.

You swallow, the motion sharp and dry, as your eyes fixate on the sliver of him that the mirror allows you to see. Your tongue feels like it’s too big for your mouth, thick and clumsy, but it's not just that—it’s as though it’s been wrung dry like you’ve forgotten how to speak, how to make any sound at all.

Could be fight, could be flight—or could be sheer, reckless stupidity. Superficial courage floods your veins, burning hot and impulsive. You don’t know where it comes from, only that it’s there, forcing you to turn, to face him, not through the mirror’s reflection but for real, head-on. Your body obeys even as your mind screams to stop, to run, to do anything but face the giant sitting in the chair behind you. It must be adrenaline. 

You pivot, and the room changes. It warps.

He fills the room—dominates it—far more than four walls should ever allow, and far more than your traitorous mirror portrayed. His frame is more ape than human, more God than man, every inch of him radiating undomesticated power that seems to bend the very air around him like a mirage.

He’s dressed in grey, prison-issued sweatpants, the soft fabric taut over his thick, spread thighs. A matching grey sweatshirt is tied around his waist, a small, white wife-beater stretched across his chest. The fabric strains against the thickness of his body, pecs beneath like boulders, barely contained by the threadbare material. The shirt looks as though it might snap under the sheer pressure of him.

It almost seems pointless for him to wear it.

A sick part of you wishes he didn’t.

Around his neck, a set of dog tags dangles, the metal catching the light as it sways in rhythm with his slow, steady breaths. His arms are a canvas of dark ink—twisting amalgamations of war and death, flames and ruin etched into his skin. The same balaclava you’ve seen on your screen stretches over his face, but it feels even more menacing now.

His eyes—dark brown, nearly black—burn as they lock onto you. There’s an eerie glow to them, a depth that makes your stomach twist. You can barely make out their full shape, but you feel the weight of his gaze, the way it maps your body with an intensity that singes. He’s memorizing you, branding you into his mind, scorching every visible inch of your skin just by looking.

Which, right now, is essentially all of it.

It’s suffocating, and overwhelming. The space around you seems to shrink, the walls pressing inward, forcing you to feel the heft of his presence. Your bubble, your safe little world, vanishes, replaced by the oppressive weight of him, his sheer size and power making the room feel like a part of a dollhouse, too small to contain him. Every breath feels harder to take like you’re drowning, and he’s the rip current that dragged you out from shore and pushed you under.

And then, as if sensing your every thought, as if aware of your discomfort and your disbelief, he shifts. Just a subtle movement at first. But a shift is all it takes before he’s not sitting anymore.

Your breath catches in your throat, as he slowly rises from the chair, taking up even more of the room, shadow growing longer in his wake, his muscles rippling in the lamplight. He doesn’t rush. No, there’s no need. He moves, each large step bringing him closer to you.

All that ‘courage’ drained. You never thought you’d be the frozen-in-fear type, but here you are, your body stiff and uncooperative as you look up at him. Your neck cranes back further and further, unwillingly following as he stalks toward you, each step near imperceptible to the ear. At least you know why you didn’t hear him come in.

You’re backed flush against your dresser, your breath coming in shallow gasps, your chest tight with panic, but you can’t look away. You don’t even know if you want to. There’s a strange magnetism to him, something almost predatory in the way he moves, so controlled, so sure. 

It’s addicting.

Your thighs clench together at the internal acceptance, a small attempt at some kind of control over the sick part of your brain that’s turned on by this.

“Quiet little thing.” His voice is low, gravelly like it’s been rubbed raw, but there’s a hint of amusement in it, a wicked edge that makes your skin prickle and your cunt gush. He takes another step closer, a mere foot away, the distance between you is agonizing. “Glad you’re not a screamer.”

He pauses just in front of you, towering over you. The weight of his gaze chokes you like a noose. He doesn’t miss when your thighs clench. You could have sworn you saw the flicker of a smile beneath the balaclava, though it’s hard to tell.

“I’m not gonna bite, Girl,” he tuts, “unless y’want me to.”

The way he says it—so carnivorously—sends a jolt of electricity down your spine, a hot flush of pure shame of pooling low in your stomach. You're still frozen, unsure whether you should respond, run, or drop to your knees. 

“Y’sent me a letter,” he continues, his voice softening just slightly as his eyes flick to your tits like he’s checking out a new appliance.

 “Tellin’ me all about your boring little life,” He steps even closer, “And that sweet little cunt, untouched like you want me t’make it mine.”

You try to speak, but only your mouth moves, your vocal cords too dry, too hoarse, and your throat constricted. He notices. The slight twitch of his lips like he’s enjoying how utterly speechless you are, how dumb you look.

“Y’want me t’make it mine? Hmm? That why you gave a ‘Big Bad’ man your address?”

You swallow in an attempt to lubricate your throat, but it’s futile. Is this what you were subconsciously hoping for when you wrote down which street you lived on and your apartment number? Did you want this? Were you that lonely—that desperate?

“Can y’imagine how hard I came,” he leans over you, his breath hot against your ear, you feel it through the mask, “How I rubbed my cock raw to the thought of some dumb virgin with the audacity of a dozen slags?”

Yeah. You were that desperate. 

You nearly whimper at the way he talks to you. You finally manage to take a breath, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I— I didn’t think you’d—”

He cocks his head slightly as if considering your words “What? Didn’t think I’d show?” he repeats, dragging the words out slowly, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips as if he’s savoring the mockery in them. “You invited me here. It’d be rude to reject such a generous offer.”

You bite back a scoff. As if he’s so gracious, breaking into your house and cornering you while you’re naked. Talk about audacity.

“Go fuck yourself.” 

“I have,” he shoots back, shrugging almost imperceptibly as his hands find your hips, tracing the fabric of your panties, eyes darkening at the way your mons dimples beneath his thumbs. “Won’t be as good as her.”

Your pulse spikes, a mix of anger and something darker curling in your chest. You should shove him away, scream at him to get out, but his hands are so warm when they hold you. The proximity of his body has you paralyzed, his hands still firm on your hips, as if to remind you that he can have his way with you at a moment’s notice.

You open your mouth to speak, but his hand moves higher, wrapping around your waist, while the other slides down to grip your ass, pulling you against him with a force that leaves no space between your bodies. The words die in your throat as your tits collide with his stomach and your cheek presses into his chest, the hard beat of his heart thudding beneath your ear, as he holds you there, pinning you in some weird, bone-crushing hug. 

He smells like soap and something musky and everything you’d expect a fugitive to smell like, like cigarette ash and a smidge of gunpowder. It makes your pulse stutter, like a drug you didn’t know you were addicted to. You can’t help but melt into his strong frame despite your brain screaming at you to push him away.

“Y’feel that, sweetheart?” he hums, his hand kneading the fat of your ass, pressing his bulge against your pelvis through his sweatpants.  “Ever felt a cock that big before?”

“Please,” you whisper, the plea a stark contrast to the defiance you try to muster. Your body trembles, a mix of fear and blistering heat. “Just... don't.”

He chuckles, a low, mocking sound. “Don't what, sweetheart?” he murmurs, his fingers rising from your ass to trace the delicate line of your throat. “Don't touch you? Don't remind you of what y’are?”

He tips your head up to his as you flinch at his words, the truth of them cutting deeper than any physical blow. “I…” you stammer, faltering as you meet his dark hazel eyes. 

“Virgin,” he deadpans as he grips your chin between his digits, “Y’terrified. It's written all over your face, baby” He coos condescendingly, eyes scanning your body, lingering on the cute flush in your cheeks, “Curious, too, aren't you? Wondering what it would be like.”

You swallow hard, eyes flicking away from his. “No,” you lie, the denial weak and utterly unconvincing.

He lets out a low, exasperated grunt, like you’re testing his patience, like this is tedious for him. And then, without warning, his hands clamp around your thighs, lifting you effortlessly before settling you atop the dresser. His grip is firm as he pushes your legs apart, spreading them as far as they’ll go to make room for himself. The wood is cold against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from him, from the rough drag of his palms as they find purchase on the soft flesh of your thighs, from where he dips his head to your throat. 

“Don’t fuckin’ lie to me, sweetheart,” You don’t know when he pulled his mask up, but you can feel his canines graze against your jugular, making you wince. He crowds your space, forcing you to tilt back until you’re leaning against the mirror, until there’s nowhere to go. You can feel his lips twitch against the skin of your neck, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“I can smell your cunt.” He licks a fat, hot stripe from your collarbone, past your jaw, and to your cheek, all before growling in your ear, “She’s droolin’ f’me, ain’t she? Gonna give me a taste o' her?”

Your eyebrows knit at the feel of his tongue slobbering all over you. Your breath hitches, and you can’t help but tremble. You can feel your panties sticking to your folds, but you’ve never been this wet before.  “I... I don't know,” you whimpered, overwhelmed by everything he was making you feel.

“Don't know? Please,” he scoffs, his voice thick with disdain. Without any hesitation, both of his hands find the gusset of your panties, balling them before ripping them in half. You yelp as they fall and settle against the dresser top. “Awh. Look at that,” he gets to his knees, thumbs spreading your glistening folds. “She's leakin’ onto my hand." He chuckles as he stares at the dampness between your legs. 

He lunges forward, his mouth latching to your pussy like it promised him a million dollars. A strangled moan rips through you as his tongue swirls and plunges into your weeping hole, mimicking the thrusts he intends to deliver later. He laps and nips, teeth gently but fervently grazing your clit, sending shivers of both pleasure and terror through your body.

Your head jerks back, waves of pleasure that have you gasping for air. His tongue works you in ways that should be illegal. You cling to the edge of the dresser, your knuckles turning white as he buries his face in you. You peer down at him as he eats you, his mask pulled over his nose.

“Whinin’ already?” he growls, his voice muffled against your cunt. He sucks harder, reveling in the way you arch your back and press your hips into his face. “Like a bitch in heat.” Your hands find his head and he suckles at your clit harder, eliciting a string of please, please, please’s from you. 

“Beg for it,” he commands, “Beg to come on m’tongue, baby.” 

“Yes,” you choked out in a gasp, the word a desperate plea lost in a wave of overwhelming sensation. Your body thrums with frantic energy, every nerve ending firing in a symphony as you desperately claw at his balaclava, nearly smothering him. “Please,” you beg, your voice thick with need. “Please, I— ‘m—”

He pulls away from you, gasping for air. His eyes find yours and he lands a firm slap to your cunt, making you jolt. “Tell me,” he hisses. “Tell me y’want to come for me.”

“I... I want to,” you gasped, your body trembling on the verge of collapse. “I wanna come for you, Ghost— Please—.”

“Good fuckin’ whore,” he slaps your cunt again, before diving back in, his hot tongue carding through your folds. He slips his ring and middle finger into your hole and you wail as he massages your g-spot. He slobbers on your clit, wet squelches echoing through the room as you feel the coil tightening in your belly. “Come, let me taste this slutty fuckin’ pussy.”

A strangled cry rips through you as the pleasure reaches its peak, a blinding wave of sensation that absolutely shatters your control. You convulse around him and he has to hold you still, pinning your hips down as your muscles clench and release in a series of involuntary spasms that make up the best orgasm of your life. Hot, thick spurts of cum flood his mouth as you croak out a broken string of curses and moans.  

He laps at you unhurriedly, savoring the taste, the feel of your release coating his tongue. “Fuck,” he moans, his voice rough with satisfaction. He pulls back, lips and chin glistening, and looks up at you with a smirk. “Love you virgins. Come so easily.”

Heat surges up your neck, pooling in your cheeks—a traitorous flush of shame that only worsens when you try to press your legs together. You didn’t think it would affect you like this, didn’t think you’d feel a spark of something twisted at being called the most horrific of names.

Your gaze darts away from his, unable to withstand the weight of it. Your hands move on instinct, a feeble attempt to shield yourself, to reclaim some sense of control. “Stop staring,” you whisper, not used to having eyes on you. But even to your own ears, it sounds weak—like a plea rather than a command.

He chuckles, a low, mocking sound as he rises to his feet, pressing his massive bulge against your bare cunt. “Stop what? Admiring my handiwork?” He reaches out, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheek before harshly squishing them between his index and thumb, your lips puckering.  “Don't be shy, sweetheart. You should feel lucky. Could’ve ruined this pretty fuckin’ mouth instead.”

You bite your lip at the thought of taking him in your mouth, stretching your throat and making you gag. He was so big, would stretch your pussy so good and you know it. He could give you what you’ve been wanting, what you’ve been needing. Tears prickle your eyes as you recover from your orgasm. “Just... fuck me, Please…?” you hum, unsure..

He grins, briefly flashing his teeth in the dim light. “Eager, are we?” He straightens, pulling you by your knees to stand on your feet. “Don't worry. Got more in store for you.”

He hauls you off of your dresser and toward your bed without much effort. Your legs feel like jelly and you trip over yourself, falling back onto the mattress, your body bouncing with the impact. He chuckles as he moves toward you, looming over you, his eyes burning with lust at the sight of you all spread out beneath him.

He reaches for the hem of his wife beater and pulls it over his head, tossing it aside without care, not bothering to take off his balaclava. You drag your gaze over his broad torso, taking in every inch as he stands before you. His muscles shift beneath scarred skin, every ridge and plane carved by years of violence you can’t even begin to imagine. Scars that have scars, bright pink wounds closed over. His dog tags rest between his pecs, gleaming dully against the heat of him. 

Your eyes trail lower, catching on the unmistakable wet patch darkening his sweatpants, a frighteningly long outline of his hard cock to accompany it. He watches you closely as your gaze traces the contours of his body, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. 

"Like what you see, Girl?" His voice is low, thick with a dark amusement. It’s rhetorical, he knows you do. Without breaking eye contact, he slides his fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and pulls them down, revealing his length with a singular motion.

No underwear. A Right dog, he is. 

Your breath hitches, a gasp trapped in your throat as you take in the full view. His cock is thick and heavy. A brutal, veined length that periodically twitches every time his gaze drops to your sodden cunt. A thatch of dark, dirty blonde hair frames its base, leading up to his navel. The uncircumcised head glistens in the lamplight, a single drop of pre drooling from his tip. You wish you could flick your tongue against it, gulping down every ounce of his slick he’d be willing to let you swallow.

“What’d y’want?”

You can't form the words, your mind blank, throat tight with a mix of fear and anticipation, the air heavy with implicit tension and the scent of sex.

How could he even fit inside of you?

You just dumbly nod in response to whatever he said. Meek, almost imperceptible.

He tuts, “Noddin’ ain’t enough, sweets,” he growled. “You’re a big girl, ain’t you?

“I…” you stammer, your cheeks burning with shame at saying something so lewd out loud. “I want…”

“Say it,” he taunts as he takes his cock in his hands, pumping slowly. His voice is like thunder, a low, dangerous rumble. “Say y’want this cock.”

“I... I want your cock,” you whisper, the words barely audible. You’re too focused on the way his pre drips onto your spread pussy.

“Louder,” he demands, landing a firm slap against your clit. “Can't hear you.”

“I want your cock,” you enunciated, your voice a little stronger this time.

“Louder, y’fuckin’ slag—”

“I want your fucking cock!” you shout, the words echoing through the room.

He shrugs and a satisfied smirk spreads across his face. “Geez, all y’had to do was ask.” 

You could slap him. 

He positions himself between your legs, the bed dipping as he crawls closer to you. He takes your thighs in his hands, pressing them up to your chest. His knees dimple the duvet on either side of your hips, the ruddy head of his cock tracing the puffy folds of your entrance. Each time his tip grazes your clit, a tremor runs through your body.

“So fuckin’ sensitive,” he groans, “So wet f’me, too, Christ.”

He presses forward, your pussy stretching taut over his mushroomed tip. You wince, your eyebrows knitting in pain. He was huge, impossibly thick, and the feeling of him pushing against your sensitive flesh was both terrifying and exhilarating.

“Gonna split this cunny in half, girl,” he winces as you pulse around him. He draws tight circles on your clit and you’re reeling, choking on your own gasps, “gonna feel me in y’fuckin’ throat.”

He pushes himself deeper, inch by agonizing inch until he sheaths himself inside of you completely. Tears stream down your face, a mixture of pain and pleasure overwhelming you. You cry out at the stretch, your body arching into his as your hands search for anything to steady yourself, settling on the hard plains of his back.

“Jesus baby, so tight,” he grunts, stalled inside of you as he tries not to blow his load. “So fucking tight.”

You slowly loosen around him as you adapt to his size, but the burn still has you lightheaded. You've never been so full in your life. Your nails claw into his back, leaving raw streaks and crescent-shaped marks on his scarred skin. “Fuck me,” you rasp, “Please, Ghost, fuck me.” Your hips buck involuntarily as you babble, desperate for more of him. 

He chuckles a low, guttural sound that you swear you can feel vibrating through your body. “Cock-drunk already, are we?” he taunts,  “Fuckin’ whore,” He pulls back slightly before plunging forward with renewed force, cramming his cock against your cervix, hitting places you couldn’t even reach with your own fingers.

He was right. You could feel him everywhere, stretching you, filling you, owning you, utterly consuming you. Every thrust punched the air out of you, the rhythmic plap, plap, plap of his thighs meeting yours reverberating through the room as he fucked you.

“Fuck me harder, I need you— please—” You were so close already, worked up from your last orgasm and already teetering on the edge of another, the pleasure building each time the head of his cock strokes your g-spot. He picks up the pace with a groan and hammers into you, unable to breathe as his cock stretches you to your limits.

 “Ghost,” you sob, fat tears falling from your eyes, wetting your cheeks before you can stop them. His name escapes your lips through hiccups, unable to think of anything except how full you feel, how you could’ve possibly missed out on this for so long. 

He slaps your cheek, the sting is a sudden shock that jolts you back to the present. “Stop fuckin’ callin’ me that,” he snarls, his voice thick with pure sex and an edge of possessiveness, just lurking beneath his words. He leans directly over you, your legs pinned between his torso and yours. He groans before  shrugging up his balaclava and licking your stray tears. You’re too deep in it to fully process, too consumed by the heat of the moment to care.

“Call me Simon when I fuck you,” he rasps against your lips,

“Say it.”

“S—Sim—on,” you mewl, your voice punctuated by each of his thrusts. “S—simon, p—ple—ase…”

“Please what?” he snarls, the head of his cock devastatingly rubbing your g-spot with each thrust, “Please fuck you harder? Please make you cream all over this cock?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you wail, your body writhing beneath him. “Please, Simon— Fuck!”

“Atta fuckin’ girl,” he praises through gritted teeth, and with renewed vigor, he fucks you harder,  caging you in as he fucks you into the mattress, each stroke shoving you farther up the bed.

“Squeezin’ me so tight,” he rasps, “So fucking tight.” he gripped your thighs harder, the fat dimpling beneath his fingers, surely to bruise in the morning. He presses you further, painfully folded in half. “Feel me? Feel how deep I am inside o’ you?”

You gasp, your body trembling, heat pooling low in your belly, sparks shooting up your spine, “Yes,” you breathed, your voice a strained whisper. “Too much... it's so much, Si—”

You’re on the edge, pressure just building and tightening as your walls pulse around him, ready to milk him for all he’s worth. His hips stutter and he knows he’s done for. “Fuck, let go, Let it happen, pet,”

At his command, a raw, guttural cry tears from your throat, and a shattered echo of his name launches into the humid air. It isn’t much of a word, not really, but a primal sound, a desperate, broken exclamation born from the white-hot core of your pleasure. 

Your back arches, lifting you off the bed, your spine a rigid curve against his. Your hips buck wildly against his, grinding and shuddering. The hot, slick rush of your release coats his cock. It spreads across his abdomen and your thighs as well, a glistening sheen in the dim light. Your breath hitches and ragged gasps escape your lips as the waves of pleasure wash over you. 

The world narrows, focusing solely on the feel of his skin on your own as he still thrusts into you, telling you to  “Cream this fuckin’ cock,” as he groans, just as lost in the pleasure as you. The aftershocks of your orgasm reverberate through you, leaving you trembling and weak as he fucks you through it to reach his own. 

A series of breathy moans escape his lips in tandem with yours, each one a ragged exhale as his hips begin to twitch, thrusts growing sloppy as you pulse around him, energy rippling through his muscles as his own orgasm approaches.

 “Oh-,” he breathes, his voice a low, jagged rasp, a guttural urging. “Fuck! Fuck— Shit, just like that, girl.” His hips slam against yours, a final, desperate thrust that presses him flush against your cunt. He spills inside you, a hot, thick tide of his cum flooding your cunt. Ropes of his seed paint your inner walls, as far as he can reach, marking you as his. A wave of heat pulses through you, the feeling of him filling you completely, claiming you from the inside out.

Eventually, the tremors die down, and he rolls off you, the sudden absence of his weight pinning you down leaving you feeling strangely hollow. Your thighs fall limply as he lets go of them, a strange ache that almost bothers you.

A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, a sound of contentment. 

“Broken little bird aren’t you?” he drawls.. 

You lift your head to see him eye-level with your pussy, watching as his cum leaks out of you. You lay still, your body aching, your mind spinning. You want to protest, to deny his words and shut your legs, but you don’t think you could form a genuine sentence if you tried. 

Not only did you (finally) lose your virginity, but you lost it to a criminal. That broke into your house. 

He moves to sit next to your laid figure and reaches out, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of your jaw, his touch surprisingly gentle. “Don't look so glum, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice softening slightly. “You did well,”

“for a first-timer.”

A blush creeps up your neck, and you instinctively turn your face away, curling into yourself. “Shut up,” you mutter, your voice hoarse.

He lets out a low, husky chuckle. “Oh, usin’ fightin’ words now, are we?” His fingers find a stray strand of your hair, twisting it lazily between calloused fingertips. “Funny, didn’t see you puttin’ up much of a fight five minutes ag—”

You don’t let him finish. Grabbing a tousled pillow, you launch it at his face. It bounces off his head with a pathetic little thump. He snorts, catching it mid-air, the plush looking comically small in his massive hands.

“Oh, we’re throwin’ shit now?” He smirks, squeezing the poor thing for emphasis. “Little minx—”

The sudden blare of the doorbell slices through the moment. You both freeze.

His eyes flick toward the door, sharp and assessing, mood immediately changing. “You expectin’ anyone?”

You shake your head. “No.”

His jaw tightens. The weight of reality comes crashing back. He’s a fugitive, and did, in fact, break into your house.

“I’ll get it,” you hum, already moving.

He gives a slow nod, hungrily watching as you rummage through your dresser for something decent. You yank an oversized T-shirt over your head and grab the first pair of pants you can find, his sweats. They nearly slide right off your hips, the waistband hanging dangerously loose, but there’s no time to fix it.

You leave the bedroom, your pulse drumming in your ears as you make your way to the front door. The second you pull it open, your stomach drops.

Two cops.

Their faces are unreadable, their eyes scanning you, the dim space behind you, everything. “Evening, miss. Sorry to bother you, but we’re making the rounds,” one of them says, flashing a tight-lipped smile. “You seen anything suspicious? Anything out of the ordinary?”

Your fingers tighten around the doorframe. You think of Simon. His hands on your waist, the weight of him between your legs, the low rasp of his voice still ringing in your ears. But you swallow hard and shake your head.

“No, nothing,” you say, keeping your voice light, casual. “Why?”

The other officer exhales sharply, shifting his weight. “ Highly dangerous man on the loose. Escaped with the rest of those arseholes from Belmarsh. Last spotted in this area.” His gaze flicks past you again, scanning the dreary interior of your flat. “Figured we’d check in, see if anyone’s seen him.”

You school your face into something neutral, shaking your head again. “Haven’t seen anything lately, sorry to disappoint.”

They watch you for a second too long. You wonder if they can hear your heartbeat slamming against your ribs. But finally, they nod.

“All right. Just be careful, ma’am. Lock your doors.”

“Will do,” you say, forcing a tight-lipped smile of your own.

You shut the door.

Your heart is pounding. You press your back against the timber, exhaling sharply before pushing off and heading back to the bedroom.

“Simon—” you call, nudging the door open.

The bed is empty, sheets tangled, the ghost of his warmth already fading. The curtains billow, the night air slithering in, laced with the scent of him—sex, sweat, something else that’s so distinctly him.

He’s gone.

But ghosts always return to their haunt.

nanami is a disciplined man, a creature of habit. he wakes up early, gets ready for work with precision, and leaves the house on time. but there is one part of his routine that he refuses to rush—those ten precious minutes before he has to leave, where he gets to hold you, kiss you, and remind you just how much he loves you.

this morning is no different. the alarm has gone off, but instead of getting up immediately, nanami rolls over, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. you’re still half-asleep, curled up under the blankets, but you hum softly when his lips brush over your shoulder.

“i need to get up,” he murmurs, though he makes no effort to move away. his hand slides over your waist, warm and steady, pulling you closer.

“no,” you mumble, voice thick with sleep as you nuzzle against his chest. “stay.”

nanami exhales a quiet laugh, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “you know i can’t,” he says, though he sounds just as reluctant as you feel.

“you can,” you argue, tilting your head up so he has no choice but to kiss your lips next. he does, soft and lingering, as if you’ve got him under a spell. maybe you do. maybe you always have.

“ten minutes,” he whispers against your lips, a reminder for himself more than for you.

those ten minutes belong to you. they always do.

his hands wander, tracing over your back, memorizing the warmth of your skin. his lips press over your face—your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, before returning to your lips like he’s drawn to them. he whispers between kisses, voice low and reverent.

“i love you.”

kiss.

“i love you so much.”

kiss.

“you make it impossible to leave.”

another kiss, deeper this time, until he hears you sigh against him, fingers curling into his shirt like you’ll never let go.

“so don’t,” you plead, and nanami’s resolve wavers. it always does when it comes to you.

“you’ll be the death of me,” he groans, burying his face in your neck again. “if i call in, it’s your fault.”

“i’ll take full responsibility,” you promise, and he knows you’re smiling even with your eyes still closed.

he exhales, pressing one last, lingering kiss to your lips before finally—reluctantly—pulling away. “i’ll come home early,” he assures you, smoothing your hair. “and then i’ll make it up to you.”

“you’d better.” you mumble, already drifting back to sleep as he tucks you under the blankets.

nanami lingers at the door for a moment, watching you, memorizing you, before finally stepping out.

but even as he leaves, his heart stays with you.

SNAP AND BREAK

SYNOPSIS you piss caleb off by going on a risky mission so he makes you pay. dearly.

WARNINGS caleb x fem!reader, fights, arguments, tension, misunderstandings, secret relationship, pseudo-cest, punishment, unprotected sex, improper use of evol, gagging, cockwarming, restraints, bondage, bdsm scene, size difference, verbal humiliation, pussy job, dirty talk, multiple positions, orgasm edging, orgasm control, orgasm denial, nipple play, marking, biting, forgiveness, aftercare

DAWN SAYS another one for the cfgc <3 caleb punish me challenge mode: extremely hard. also, big thanks to bb vienna for tossing back some ideas and helping me shape up this bad boy ❤️

x / a03

It’s not often Caleb comes home for the holidays, and when he does, you want to make sure everything’s perfect for him. 

Sweat dots your brow, dripping down your neck as you spring around the house like a frantic OTTO-PHO, cleaning every inch of your old home and picking up after any mess left behind. With Gran in elderly care and your childhood friend stuck in Skyhaven, the onus is on you to keep the space spick-and-span—a duty you sorely neglected due to your erratic mission schedule. 

Damn it, you scowl, glancing at the clock. It’s already 9PM… Caleb could be home anytime soon…

Huffing, you bring out a box of Christmas lights, completely entangled together in a wiry mess, and you groan at the thought of spending hours trying to get one end loose from the other. Sure, Christmas Eve is a time for families to gather together and enjoy the festivities with merriment, food and one too many glasses of bourbon, but as much as you would love to spend time with Caleb on his rare days back in Linkon, there’s a lingering thought in the back of your mind, connected right to the Hunter’s watch on your wrist.

As you check through the notifs, you miss the front door clicking open, the soft scuffle of boots on the wooden floor only reaching your distracted ears when the person was a few feet from you. Despite your wicked fast reflexes, Caleb is quicker, caging you in his arms, pulling you tightly to his chest as his boyish laughter grazes your ears. 

“Really, pipsqueak? Being distracted could cost you some Hunter brownie points.”

“Caleb!” you squeal, whirling around and smacking his chest, your eyes sparkling at the sight of him. “When did you get here?! I didn’t even hear your bike.”

He releases his grip on your waist, spinning you to face him, taking you in with his warm gaze. You didn’t miss the dark circles under his eyes, stress-induced from nights in a world so far above the ground, with secrets you sense he could never tell you. 

“Guess someone was more distracted than I gave her credit for,” he teases, ignoring your probing gaze.

You tighten your grip on his arm, and pull him closer, scrutinizing him from head to toe. “And you look like you haven’t slept in days.” 

“Jeez,” he worms out of your grasp, though his cheery disposition remains unflappable. “Are you trying to steal my thunder? I’m the one that’s supposed to be the nagger, not the other way around. And you look like you’re short of a few days of sleep, too, Pips.” 

It never surprises you how at ease he makes you feel. Banter and laughter flow freely between Caleb and you, and where words fall short, the silence remains warm and companionable. The scent of food is in the air, and you take a moment to inhale the fragrance of warm bread leaving the pan greedily. Caleb makes your favorite baozi, the sweet dough mingling with the succulent fattiness of the pork belly sandwiched between the two buns melting on your tongue, sending sparks of serotonin straight to the pleasure center of your brain. 

He watches you eat with a twinkle in his eye. “Good?” 

"Heavenly,” you practically moan, and take another bite. You miss his eyes darkening, the quick aversion of his gaze from your blissed-out face.

“Mhm. Glad you love it,” he raps the table with his knuckles and stands, focused on the tasks ahead. “We’ll pick up Gran from the care center tomorrow and return home. Can I trust you with the turkey, Pips?” 

You nod, dusting your fingers free from crumbs and standing, too. “Got it. Turkey. What about the cupcakes?” 

“Oh, I can get them delivered. Don’t worry,” he reassures with a grin. “Wouldn’t want Gran to worry about us stuck in Christmas traffic.” 

He’s got a point. When Christmas Eve arrives, the streets of Linkon bustle with throngs of bodies hurrying down the sidewalks, a sense of urgency and excitement in the air. You’re carrying the turkey back to your bike when a familiar vibration on your wrist pulls your attention from strapping the bird tightly into your rear basket, and your heart falls when you see the fluctuation pattern. 

Wanderers. 

Your mind rushes with the implications of what comes next, and in your ear, the ever-present comm beeps, Nero’s voice on the other end briefing Team Alpha. 

“... interrupt Christmas break… urgent deployment to Chansia City—team of explorers—Caves—” 

It comes in bits and pieces. You’re struggling to listen while kicking your bike into gear, revving back home to pack for the overnight mission. 

“Nero, slow down—which part is overrun?” Jenna demands, her voice crisp from the other end of the line. 

“—Chapel Bay. We need reinforcements—”

Kicking up dirt in your wake, you zip back home, arriving in time for Caleb to poke his head past the door, his greeting dying on his lips when he sees the tension radiating off you in waves.

“Pipsqueak, what’s wrong—?”

There’s no time to consider softening the blow when an entire neighborhood is at risk of being wiped out by Wanderers.

“I just got a call to go to Chansia. There’s been a huge Wanderer attack.” You pry the turkey from your bike’s rear basket and hand it to him, sprinting back into the house to pack when a tight grip on your wrist stops you.

“Slow down, Pipsqueak,” Caleb urges, his eyes wide with trepidation. “Did you just say Chansia?” 

You nod, and something in his expression darkens.

“You can’t go.” 

“Wh—?” 

Before you can protest, Caleb slams the front door closed, barricading it with his broader build. “Pips, that area is certified Wanderer territory after the Profield Fall six months ago. Going there would be signing your death sentence .” 

His words ring in your mind, leaving behind a tremor of fear. But, your stubbornness and need to help takes precedence over whatever hesitation you might feel, and you shake your head.

“Caleb, it’s my job—”

“ Y/N, please.” 

No Pipsqueak, Pips, or short stack …

Your eyes widen as the realization hits you square in the chest. Caleb is completely serious about this. You take a step back when he corners you against the wall, those amethyst eyes shining with a desperate plea for you to listen to him—just this once.

“Trust me when I say this—the DAA knows what’s going on there and we’ve escalated it to Zone Three status. You could die there, Y/N—”

“Caleb, I can’t just leave my team behind!” 

He swallows hard, crossing his arms and in a tone brokering no argument, he utters: “Give me Captain Jenna’s number right now.” 

You gape at him, wondering if he’s lost his mind. “ Are you trying to get me fired? ” 

“Family code for the Hunter’s Association means family members can refuse to allow a Hunter to serve—”

“Now you’re just making things up!” 

Your cheeks burn hotly with indignation, eyes narrowing at the sight of his wilful glare. Deep down, Caleb is just worried for you, his overprotective big brother tendencies leaving him resolutely firm on not allowing you to go. But, you’re not a kid anymore, and this is the duty you swore to uphold. Family or not, Caleb has no right to stop you from leaving.

“No,” you reiterate, standing your ground. “Caleb, this is unacceptable. You can’t just dictate when I can do my job just like that!” 

“Oh, I can and I will.” 

You feel a firm tug around your waist, and to your horror, his Evol snatches your phone from deep inside your pants pocket. “Hey—!”

He holds it above your head, no longer goofing around like he usually does when he teases you like this; expression serious and unyielding. “Tell me your phone password now.” 

You seethe, wondering if he’s lost his mind. “Absolutely not!” Palm to his chest, he grunts, feeling the first stirrings of your Resonance piercing through the atoms binding his telekinesis together, goading him to explode. He grabs your wrist with the other hand, a mutinous and unfamiliar glare twisting his mouth into a sneer.

“Oh, don’t even think about using your Evol on me, little missy.” With a staggering strength you thought he would never use on you, Caleb drags you closer, pressing your thumb on the phone’s biometric sensor. It lights up and your phone unlocks, leaving him privy to your contacts.

In one swift motion, you kick him right in the bend of his knee, knocking him off balance. Caleb yelps and the turkey you so carefully transported back home goes crashing to the ground along with his knees hitting the carpet. Moving fluidly, you grab his shoulder, restraining his arm behind his back, forcing him to relinquish his grip on your phone where it clatters onto the floor. 

“Pips—”

You push your knee right in between his shoulder blades, forcing him to the ground. 

Caleb grunts in pain, but you’re too angry to even care about his discomfort.

“How dare you come in the way of my job?” You spit out, increasing the force of your knee into his back. “You have no right, Caleb. None.” 

“I was just—”

“What’s going on?!” 

You both glance up to find Gran staring at you in horror, frozen in her wheelchair. It’s been years since she saw a fight this bad between you and Caleb—the last one being when you two were angsty teenagers. At the look of dismay on her face, you hesitate and ease up, letting him go. Caleb rises with a derisive scoff, and without a second glance, tosses your phone back to you, remaining indifferent when you fumble to catch it. 

“Fine. But, don’t say I didn’t warn you. If you’re going through with this, then I have nothing else to say to you.”

He walks away, his head bent, broad shoulders tense with frustration. You watch him disappear back into the kitchen and glance down at the mess of the turkey scattered on the floor—reminding you of the chaos you’ve brought to what was supposed to be a day of family and celebration. How you single-handedly ruined Christmas Eve. 

“Gran, I’m—”

She raises a hand to stop your string of excuses and apologies. “Whatever you need to do, go and do it. Just come back in one piece, dear.” 

You glance at the deep set lines of her face, the kindness in her eyes you didn’t deserve. “Could you tell him…?” You trail off, and flicker your gaze to the kitchen. Gran nods, imperceptibly understanding your request. 

“I’ll speak to him, don’t you worry.” 

Taking one last look at her, you nod and hitch the strap of your purse higher, thoughts already racing on the logistics of returning to the Association base and retrieving your hunting gear. As you straddle your bike, you steal a final glance at the kitchen window, wondering if he could see you pulling away. But, the curtains are drawn, and the lights dim.

Feeling the melancholy of separating on such awful terms with him, you kick up the bike stand and zip down the highway to your unknown fate, ready to fight Wanderers despite how much every fiber in your body was screaming at you to turn around and make things right with Caleb. 

Caleb stares at the phone in his hand. It’s been three days since he last heard from you; since he last saw you. 

He’s gone through the entire cycle of grief the whole time you’ve been missing from his side: denial that you had the nerve to hurt him after all he’s done for you, anger at the way you dismissed his concerns and complaints about him mother henning you when all he wants is to ensure your safety; bargaining with the voices in his mind to forgive and forget; a crippling depression at the lack of consideration you had for him by not even bothering to reach out and finally acceptance that come what may, you had to return home.

He wouldn’t rest till he sees you again—till he makes sure you’re safe and whole.

But, when the fourth day trickles by with still no sign or contact from you, anxiety gnaws him right to the bone and he can’t focus on anything else but the chirp of his phone, heart pounding wildly and breath hitching as he picks it up, hoping to see the golden notification which will indicate you’re still alive. 

He’s disappointed time and time again. 

Yet, he doesn’t switch off his phone or mute it. Caleb reasons if you ever did call him, he would always be on standby to berate you. 

(And ask you when you’ll be coming home again so he can prepare to see you). 

His heart echoes a dull thud that grows murkier and darker with each growing day of your absence. Till he can’t take it anymore and punches in the emergency number you left on the fridge, hearing the dial tone that echoes forlornly in the background of this empty kitchen soaking in the last rays of sunset.

The call doesn’t go through, and he tries the other number you left for him. 

“Hello?” 

Mercifully, a woman answers and his white-knuckled grip on the phone tightens. 

“Hi,” he stutters and feels like a fool. “My name is Caleb. I’m… Y/N’s friend,” clearing his throat, he presses on. “I haven’t heard from her in days and I’m starting to, uh, get worried. Is she—?”

He barely gets the question out when the woman interrupts him, not unkindly. 

“Caleb, isn’t it? You’re her adopted brother. My name is Jenna and I’m the captain of Team Alpha. Unfortunately, I cannot disclose any further information about our Deepspace Hunters except that they are currently on a very important mission.”

Jenna’s tone is steepled in regret, and Caleb pinches the bridge of his nose. “I know. I know, damn it.” If she finds his cursing crass, she doesn’t comment on it. “But, it’s been four days already. I just need to know—”

“Mr. Caleb, we understand your frustration, but please, do let us handle the mission on our end, and if there are any updates—”

“You’d only tell me if she returns in a body bag.” 

The transparency of his resigned statement floats uneasily like a greasy film over a thick coating of lies he’s very well accustomed to in the military and law enforcement world. The reality is this: he would never know if you were alive until you came back home.

Caleb thumps his forehead against the frosty kitchen glass, watching the white snowflakes dance in front of him with listless, pained violet eyes. The necklace you gifted him hangs from his neck like a noose, threatening to choke the last of his composure. He struggles to hold onto his temper, as he swallows and nods.

“Alright. Roger that. Thank you, Captain.” 

He doesn’t give Jenna a chance to reply, ending the call and, in a fit of rage, slams his phone onto the table. His sudden fit of anger doesn't go unobserved, Gran’s weary eyes watching him pace restlessly through the kitchen, not noticing her sitting in the dark corner. She wants to comfort him but doesn’t know how. After all, it was you who usually took the mantle of calming down this unnerving, determined young man during his rare, but terrifying bouts of rage. 

Gran sighs quietly and stares up at the ceiling as if she could see past the layers of plaster and unease and into the graying, snowy sky.

Caleb slams the front door on his way out to god knows where. Like always, she remains reticent and disengaged, sitting in the furthest corner where his disconcerting emotions could never reach her. 

You weren’t expecting anyone to wait for you back in your apartment when you finally returned home. 

Light snow coats the front of your lobby stairs, and the second he sees you, the doorman waves to catch your attention. 

“Oh, Miss Hunter! You have a care package waiting for you in the mail room.” 

Curious and weary from your arduous mission, you trudge to the mailroom to retrieve the package under your name. Clasping it in one arm, you drag your tired and bruised body straight to your apartment and push open the door, switching on the lights and air conditioning. The space smells of stale air and an underlying current of tension, greeting you with a lingering melancholy you couldn’t quite shake off. 

You carefully close the door behind you and set the package on your dining table. Glancing out at the twinkling lights of the street below, the feeling of missing out on an important holiday creeps back in, and you fight back the urge to sob.

Now’s not the time…your inner voice chimes. You need to eat something… shower and rest. Wiping your damp eyes, you take a deep breath. The time to break down and mourn over your guilt can come later. 

Tearing the package open, your heart skips a beat when you see a bento box filled with dehydrated vegetables, powdered cranberry sauce, dried turkey, and a side of instant mac ‘n’ cheese. A note, written in a blocky scrawl you recognize as Caleb’s, makes the lump of guilt in your throat thicken even more. 

Merry Christmas, Pipsqueak. We missed you. — C

You boil some water, microwave the food, and rehydrate the greens again, taking your sad pre-packed Christmas meal on the balcony. The food is good, and you have an inkling of Caleb freeze-drying it for you—begrudgingly making sure you could still enjoy your holiday even after the catastrophic fight you both had. 

As you chew listlessly on a slice of turkey, you glance up at the sky where you imagine the outline of Skyhaven to be, snowflakes clinging onto the ends of your lashes, falling like powdered sugar onto your bare hands. 

Caleb… your mind echoes forlornly. Did he return to the base? Is he still here in Linkon? 

One quick look at your Moments feed, and you see he’s still here, catching up with old classmates and grinning brightly in his photos like the two of you hadn’t been at each other’s throats just a few days ago.

The temptation to call him up is at odds with your bruised ego from the smothering behavior he exhibited days earlier. A part of you wants an excuse to see him again despite the growing distance since the argument—to thank him for the meal he prepared for you. 

Snowflakes melt in your hair, an unceasing chill creeping up on you. Despite the unusual distance creeping insidiously into your relationship, the chill, the reproachful silence—the meal he sent you was more than a peace offering. It was his version of an apology. 

Your mind floats a million miles away, thinking about Caleb, wondering if he is still mad at you. You heave a sigh. As much as you dread it, there’s only one way to find out. 

Pulling out your phone, you click on his number. The dial tone drones on and on, plucking on your nerves, and you reflexively nibble on your nails, waiting for him to pick up.

“Hello! ” You expel a rushed breath, an apology on the tip of your tongue when you’re hit with the realization that you’ve reached his voicemail box instead. “—probably busy. Please leave a message after the beep—”

Silence. You catch a staggering breath. “Caleb? It’s me. If you get this, let’s meet up, ‘kay? Talk to you soon.” 

There’s a hum in the night air, a tension drawing lines around your taut figure. You wait and wait for his return call, glancing at your phone every minute, checking on your messages in case he left one when your back was turned. The warm shower you took could barely flush out the thought of Caleb, your anxiety peaking when you decide to check on Moments, seeing him post a picture of his dinner with his friends, but leaving your message on read.

Crap. You’re in deep trouble now. Sighing, you run your fingers through your hair, rubbing your face.

There isn’t a hint of doubt that he’s punishing you now with the silent treatment. Caleb is never the type to avoid confrontations—he thrives on them. He loves arguing, challenging your worldview, and trying to prove his point, just to rub it in your face that he will always be right. 

The indifference is odd; this distance is not like him.

Before you can stop yourself from calling him again, you slip on your coat, tug on your scarf, and rush to your bike. 

I’m going to make him talk to me if it’s the last thing I do, you think viciously, revving up the bike aggressively—kicking up snow and dirt in your wake to break this frostiness between you two.  

In fifteen minutes, you find yourself in front of your childhood home, the kitchen lights glowing warmly. Gran is probably already back at the elderly care center, and since Caleb is still treating you as public enemy #1, he’s staying here to keep his distance from you. You kill the engine and march straight up to the door, unlocking it with your spare key.

Inside the house is warm and toasty, the faint smell of food drifting from the kitchen. You freeze when the sound of heavy footsteps reaches your ears, looking straight into his wide, amethyst eyes.

Caleb exhales a sharp breath, his mouth dropping open slightly. “Pipsqueak…” 

You remain nailed to the spot, wondering if he would kick you out—ask you to leave for daring to show your face here again. But, he does no such thing, beckoning you to close the door and come in. Though he doesn’t outright reject you, he doesn’t welcome you with open arms, either, the usual exuberance and grins he reserves for you nowhere to be found on his unsettlingly serious expression. 

Caleb goes back into the kitchen, picking up a towel to wipe down his hands. The paper plane bracelet you got for him years ago peeks past the sleeve of his gray hoodie, a reminder of happier times between you two. 

You hesitate for a single second by the doorway, wondering when the thought of home left you this cold and disorientated. 

Like a lost puppy, you trail after him, removing your jacket and setting it on the back of a dining chair.

“Thank you… for the meal,” your hoarse voice breaks the icy silence. 

Caleb glances at you from behind the kitchen island and nods. “You’re welcome.” 

He doesn’t say anything else, and the easy familiarity from years of knowing each other fades into a glacial stillness. You hear your breath leaving your lips, and sense the way he’s avoiding your eyes.

“Caleb—”

He scoffs at the sound of his name leaving your lips, and turns around, putting all his focus on the bread he’s baking. You know him well enough to understand he only bakes when he’s completely stressed out over something.

Without thinking, you touch his wrist, not anticipating the sharp way he draws his hand back from you.

“Caleb…” 

He doesn’t glance at you—barely gives your pain a second glance. “What’re you doing here, Pipsqueak?” He murmurs gruffly. “Aren’t you supposed to be writing a debrief report right now?” 

As much as his distance stings, his dismissal hurts even worse, feeling like a knife carving through your chest. 

“It’s Christmas season,” you whisper. “The offices are closed—”

“And yet, risky missions still prevail, huh?” 

His words bite straight to your core, and you wince. “Caleb, it’s not—”

“Save it,” your childhood friend cuts you off, jerking his chin towards the dining table. “Sit down there and don’t disturb me. I’m making sourdough focaccia and if something goes wrong, I will 100% blame you.”

Despite the warning in his tone, you can’t help but smile faintly.

“Okay…”

Taking a seat at the table, you watch him work. The sleeves of his hoodie stretch tautly over his bulging biceps, rolling up to expose his forearms as he works the dough into a malleable ball. The silence is something new, a phenomenon born from the supernova of your hasty mistakes, leaving gaping black holes of awkwardness surrounding the two of you. Any light coming through from your attempts to make conversation is shut down with a dismissive hum or grunt from Caleb. 

You can tell he’s avoiding any attempts to talk, focusing on making the bread and ignoring your presence in the corner of his eye. The childish part of you that grew up with his undivided attention screams, tearing and twisting in your chest, needing to reclaim his interest and care again. You pout, sulk, and heave numerous heavy sighs. But, he doesn’t turn to look at you, much too busy focusing on brushing basil oil onto the bubbling surface of the dough. 

So, you amp up the distractions. You circle closer and closer to him, pressing your face near his shoulder to watch him decorate the dough with slivers of cherry tomatoes. You linger when he turns to grab the container of sea salt flakes, playfully sticking your finger into the concoction to pop a bubble forming.

“Okay, that’s it—” 

He grabs your wrist and tugs you back into the living room, making you sit on the couch with a scowl on his face. The look of pure wrath in his expression startles you, and you barely have time to murmur an apology when he shakes his head, glare intensifying. 

“Stay out of my hair, Pipsqueak. I mean it. ” 

“But—”

He whirls around, silencing you with a deep and unmistakable glint of rage in his usually gentle purple eyes. You fall into a stuttering disquiet, unable to stop the hurt from flashing across your face.

“Caleb—”

“Don’t give me that look. And stay away from the kitchen.” Stay away from me. He doesn’t say it, but the warning is implicit. 

You’ve never seen him this enraged before. Your breath falls out in a huff, and you give him an incredulous look. Caleb turns around, completely ignoring you, and returns to his focaccia. A voice in your head chimes in, telling you to just own up to your mistakes and apologize to him. But, the stubborn part of your consciousness, the one who insists she’s right despite how poorly she had treated one of her oldest childhood friends, remains stubbornly set on not breaking the ice first.

Easier said than done. 

It’s hard. 

It’s hard for you to sit on the couch, quiet and seething when Caleb is just a few feet away. It’s absolute torture to not be in there with him, yapping off his ear with updates to your mission, or trying to sneak eat a few cherry tomatoes when his back is turned. You miss him, and you miss his shitty jokes and dopey smile. You miss him. 

You find yourself sneaking glances at him, wondering if he’s making an extra batch for you—hoping he isn’t too mad to deny you from having a focaccia slice. You know you’re being selfish and immature again, thinking he will be okay with you after the stunt you pulled on him when the reality of his dejection runs deeper.

Shamelessly, you stand and venture back into the kitchen, unlike a stray kitten who could never take a hint. You stand by his side, hovering around until he pays you a morsel of attention—gifting you back his sunny smiles and easygoing laughter.

But, Caleb remains steadfast in his efforts to ignore you, and you decide it’s time to bring out the big guns. Pressing closer to him, you lean your head against his shoulder, nuzzling your cheek into the soft material of his hoodie.

“Gege… don’t be mad at me…”  

He stiffens, and yet, you persist with your efforts. Playfully nipping the back of his ear, you find his weakness in an instant, hearing his breath catch in the back of his throat.

Caleb pretends you don’t exist, letting you fight for his attention, but you can tell his resolve is crumbling. You hear the hitch in his quiet groan when you lick the sensitive shell of his ear, the heat of your body seeping past the thick fabric of his hoodie.

Gran isn’t here, and you don’t have to hide your desires from her, free to mess around with Caleb as much as you can. 

You stand on your tiptoes, tracing the tip of your tongue down the curve of his neck, scraping your teeth against his sensitive skin.

Caleb hisses, and you fight back the urge to grin in triumph. His hands grip the marble island’s edge with a white-knuckle hold. You feel his resolution to ignore you falling apart, piece by piece, simmering in the knowledge of you offering yourself to him as a way of apologizing for the things you said—how you hurt him both physically and emotionally before your mission. 

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry, gege,” you murmur against the salt of his skin, feeling his body heat under your touch. “Can you ever forgive me? Can you ever forgive your mei mei? ”

He bites back a groan, narrowing his eyes. 

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Pipsqueak…” he hisses under his breath. 

The way he says it, full of anger and warning, sends a sick, dark thrill up your spine. You resist the urge to lay off him, needing him to fully crack and give in to your whims like he always does—like he always will when it comes to you because you’re nothing if not Caleb’s spoiled rotten mei mei who always gets what she wants.

“Pipsqueak—” his words cut off into a low growl when he feels your arms belting around his waist, your hands sliding further down… fingertips teasingly brushing the bulge tenting under his pants. “Watch it.”

But, his warning lacks bite, and you gnaw on your lower lip, feeling his patience slowly dissipating. Caleb is once again putty in your hands, easy to mold to your desires. You grin against his back, feeling the same revulsive knot twisting in your stomach, the stench of the impending perverseness making your nostrils flare. 

“ Gege… ” you whisper again. 

It’s the final nail to the coffin of his attempts to resist you. Except when he snaps, he does it in a way you never expect. 

Caleb grabs your hand and spins you around, pinning you right to the counter edge. Without a second’s hesitation, he drags your pants down, baring your vulnerable backside. The stinging pain of his hit on your left cheek draws you up short, and you cry out, cursing profusely. 

“My, my,” you can hear the grin in his dark tone. “Such a mouth you have on yourself, mei mei … you need to be reprimanded.” 

Another sharp spank lands on your right cheek this time, and your head jerks up, a yelp slipping past your clenched teeth.

“C-Caleb—”

“Don’t you dare Caleb me,” he sneers and drags you like you’re a ragdoll to the bedroom—his bedroom. Inside, you’re faced with gege’s full wrath, as he stands before you, tall and imposing, those amethyst eyes barely wavering when he takes in your warm cheeks and the glimmer of pain simmering in your gaze.

“Strip,” Caleb commands, lifting a dark brow. “ Now .” 

You want to argue, to tell him to ease up, but the look on his face remains flinty and firm. 

Swallowing your trepidation, you start by pulling your shirt over your head, letting it fall to the floor. Caleb’s expression doesn’t shift, not even when his eyes rake over the lace bra you’re wearing. His jaw tightens, and he gestures at your pants, silently telling you to go all in if you want to earn his forgiveness back. 

You reluctantly tuck your thumbs into the waistband of your pants and drag them down, leaving you shivering in your matching lacy panties.

He scoffs, running his eyes up and down your scantily-clad form. “You sure you weren’t thinking indecent thoughts, you shameless minx? Good girls don’t try to seduce their older brothers by looking like this.”

You flush warmly at his degrading words, feeling your bravado slipping. “I-I wasn’t—”

Your words die in the back of your throat when you feel the restrictive force of his Evol grasping your wrists, drawing them above your head. Caleb’s expression and outstretched hand don't falter, and he takes another step closer, bearing down on your helplessness.

“Be quiet,” he snaps. Flicking his fingers, he pushes you against the wall, hearing the gust of breath rushing out your lungs when your back hits the hard plaster. You grunt in surprise, struggling and failing to fight your way out of the bonds he has your wrists in. 

“Scared?” He goads, approaching you, taking your chin, and tilting your face up. The look in his eyes is borderline terrifying—you’ve never seen Caleb ( your sweet, lovely, kind, and sunny Caleb )—look this angry in your life. “This is what you wanted, right?” Grabbing your wrists in one large palm, he tightens his grip on you. “Teasing me… hurting me… you have a knack for breaking your gege’s heart, huh, Pipsqueak?” 

You shake your head, wanting to protest when he silences you with a punishing kiss. Caleb bites down on your lower lip, your words and coherence lost in the slurry mess of his tongue fighting yours, tasting the warmth and wetness of your mouth. 

“Mhm,” you moan into the kiss, tilting your head to the side to get more—taste more of him. He runs the tip of his tongue over the hard ridges of your teeth, squeezing your cheeks in a possessive hold, forcing your mouth to remain open and giving as he continues to take what he wants without a care for your pathetic whines.

“Don’t think I’ll go nice on you, Y/N,” he warns, tipping your head back, his lips brushing the sensitive shell of your ear. “You treated me like dirt before you left. You hurt my feelings—” He growls, biting down hard on your earlobe. “You selfish, bratty little Pipsqueak… I won’t go easy on you, do you hear me? Nod if you understand.”

You can’t do anything but nod, helpless in the face of his anger. The corners of his mouth twitch at the sight of your submission, the dark monster within he tries hard to suppress rearing its jealous head, beckoning him to devour you. With a surprising show of dominance, he tangles his fingers in your hair, yanking your head back with a grunt, exposing more of your throat to his wandering lips.

He licks, nips, and sucks his marks onto the pristine column of your throat, needing to see his marks bloom on your skin. Caleb is relentless in his attempts to remind you who you belong to.

The force of his touch sends sparks of thrill up your spine, and you gasp with every hot press of his open-mouth kisses to your vulnerable jaw and neck.

Caleb’s teeth scrapes your sensitive skin, drawing guttural gasps from your kiss-swollen lips.

“Ca-leb—” you break off into a hiss when his Evol rearranges your limbs, spreading your thighs wider; your arms restrained above your head. The last time he had you in this position was a summer ago before he left for a mission to Vagrant Land. You swore after that night when he was done with you, that you had to double your Plan B dosage less your body betrayed you and you conceived his baby. 

“Please—” 

He doesn’t hear your begging, taking a step closer, his bigger build pressing harder into your body. 

“I said: Shut. Up. ”

In one swift motion, his telekinesis holds your lips shut, your struggles and indignant squeals barely triggering a reaction from him. The look on his face sparks both terror and desire, your body responding to his unexpected dominance; proof of your arousal shining from between your thighs.

“Already wet? How pathetic…” 

He smirks, coating his fingers with the proof of your desire pooling right between your folds. 

“Mhmph—Cwaleb—” your desperate squeak shoots his ego straight up to the moon, and Caleb is on cloud nine. 

Such a desperate, little Pipsqueak. You want this so badly, huh? Mhm hmm. That’s right. That’s fucking right. You like my fingers in you? Good girl. Such a good, little Pipsqueak. You’re doing so well—fuck.

His anger aside, Caleb can’t help but praise you. It’s his default; his DNA. You drive him insane and he wants to punish you for getting under his skin—where you’ll always belong, not if he can help it.

“Something you wanna say, Pips?” he sneers, pumping two long, lithe, and callused fingers inside of you, catching on a spot that makes your toes curl. 

“S-swo…sworry,” you manage to spit past the pressure clamping your mouth shut, tears swimming in your eyes, “Cwaleb… mhm .”

He can’t say he doesn’t enjoy your struggle. The flush on your cheeks, the wetness glimmering on your lips. Caleb wants to see you completely and utterly ruined for him. 

“Beg,” he commands, slipping into his Captain persona with ease. In his eyes, you were nothing but an unruly cadet in need of a stern fixing. “Beg me and I might give you what you want.”

Thumb on your clit, he’s driving you delirious with feathery, teasing circles. Your eyes roll back into your head. 

Cwaleb, you groan against his Evol. Pwease—mhmph!

The pressure of his fingers gets meaner, the look in his violet eyes muffling the last of your protests. Giving up on trying to get him to relent, you submit with feeble sighs, letting him take full control. Caleb grins, feeling you succumbing to his ministrations, your squeaks and sighs growing louder and more distraught. 

He loves having you like this—on the edge, overstimulated, and completely relying on him.

Years of knowing your body and what makes you tick is enough for him to push your buttons—taking your limits past the breaking point.

He’s meticulous and sure with his punishment, doing whatever it takes to hammer in the anger and shame he wants you to feel—the lesson he’s trying to impart to your desperate body and distraught mind.

As he releases the pressure on your mouth so you can moan and gasp freely, Caleb’s quick with a foot of rope, using it to bind your hands in your front, allowing you just enough give to grip a pen in your shaky hand as he makes you sit on his cock and write ‘I will always obey my gege’ over and over again until your eyes swim, and your cunt is pulsing from every slight movement. 

He teases you with shallow thrusts, lips in the crook of your neck, and warm, large palms covering your heaving breasts; playing with your distended nipples till they blossom into a pretty blush shade. 

Driving you further into a pleasure-filled delirium, he rubs your clit with teasing circles, smacking your thighs when they start to snap close.

“I said—keep 'em’ open unless you know what’s good for ya, princess,” he sneers, leaving another stinging mark blooming on the plush flesh. 

“Please…” The plea drops from your swollen lips and he chuckles. 

“Struggling already?” 

Caleb peers over your shoulder at your almost illegible writing and shakes his head. “I thought you were better than this—didn’t you once win the best handwriting award in high school? Tch.” 

To your mortification and horror, he picks up the sheet of paper and tears it in half, ruining your hour-long effort of completing a hundred lines.

“Again,” he orders, and grabs a blank sheet, placing it in front of you. “And make sure your writing is pretty Pipsqueak. I wanna frame this.”

A strangled whimper tumbles from your mouth, and behind you, Caleb smirks at the sheer frustration at the sound.

Good.

Now, you would understand a sliver of the anguish he felt when you went missing for days. Now, you would feel the exasperation and outrage he did—and god, does it feelgood to watch you come undone for him. 

You pick up the pen, and with a teary, little huff, start to write again. He hooks his chin over your shoulder, breath warm and distracting against your neck. 

“Atta girl,” he murmurs, chest rumbling with deep satisfaction. “Look at’cha. Doing so well… I oughta reward you after this, hmm?” 

He teasingly trails his palm up your thigh, squeezing your flesh—enjoying how your pretty, tight pussy squeezes down on him with every rasp of his palm on your skin. The sight between your thighs is lewd, a creamy mess coating the base of his cock, dribbles of arousal gathering at the lips of your entrance which ripples around his thick girth. Caleb is equal parts mesmerized and thrilled by the sight, watching how your little clit shivers when he teases her with the rough pad of his index finger; how your body shudders, and the pen in your hand shakes.

“Much better,” he compliments your penmanship, giving your clit and nipple a squeeze. 

“Ah— mhm! ” You choke through your tears. This minute reaction costs you a firm smack on your thigh, his fingernails digging into the singing flesh. 

“Did I say you could take your eyes off the paper?” Caleb demands, and in a low tone, barks out, “ Write .”

Tears mist your vision, your hips twitching and muscles tightening around the fleshy intrusion lodged deeply in your tender pussy. Caleb wraps his hands around your waist and gingerly lifts you up and down, fucking you on his cock as the words on the paper get blurrer and blurrer.

I will always obey gege.

I will always obey gege. 

I will always—

The words get subconsciously stuck in your head, your lips shaping and breathing them out in shaky puffs. Black strokes of your obedience begin to fill up half of the page, and soon the whole sheet is covered with the affirmation. Caleb presses his lips to your jaw, giving you a much softer kiss, catching you off guard with his gentleness.

“There you go… lookin’ good, darlin’.” 

He takes the paper from you and scrutinizes each word, well aware of your body trembling; your sweet, tight cunt squeezing pitifully around his cock. You’ve made such a mess on his lap, Caleb is surprised how the powerful orgasm you’ve been holding back for the past two hours hasn’t taken you under yet. It seems like one single touch and you might blow.

He chuckles, chest vibrating against your back, and sets your work down, gripping your hip tighter.

“Good girl,” he croons in your ear. Those maliciously thick and long fingers slide up the length of your thigh, reaching to wrap around your neck.

“I did what you asked,” you pant, squeezing your eyes shut and moaning at the sensation of his lips kissing down your throat. “A-am I forgiven yet?” 

Hmm, Caleb hums, his smirking mouth pressing on your pulse point. He loves how despite your lofty title as Linkon’s shining Hunter, you’re still so much smaller than him; your entire body dwarfed between his bigger build and the hard edge of the table. “... suppose I could show you some mercy.” 

He traces random patterns on your thigh and a sliver of hope takes root in your heart. Maybe you’ve done enough to fully earn his trust and love back. Maybe he might be merciful and kiss you—

As if you weighed next to nothing, Caleb’s strong arms carry you back to bed, setting you down on his lap again. He buries his nose in your hair and inhales like a starved man tasting honey for the first time, his tongue darting out to trace the jut of your jaw, trailing down your throat.

“You’re so sweet… so sinful…”

His grave murmurs send sparks of desire straight to your core, and you clench your thighs, whimpering.

“Caleb…” 

Your whisper is a fleeting plea of desire that disappears under his smothering kiss. Caleb devours your mouth, swirling his tongue with yours, his fingers holding your chin in place. Hungry, open-mouth kisses smear down your neck, right to your collarbone, where the ghost of his breath on your perky nipples makes you shudder.

He takes his time, playing with you while you’re all tied up and helpless. Caleb grins against your sternum, hearing your breath hitch when he parts your thighs and sinks a finger inside you with barely any prep. Your body takes him without resistance, and he nuzzles your bare breasts, relishing how soft your skin is against his cheek.

“You’re so eager… so ready for me…”

His dick throbs, but he pays it no mind, completely zeroing in on your pleasure. Caleb’s entire focus is on you—your whimpers, your sighs, how your poor, puffy pussy clenches down so nicely on his thick fingers.

You’re just ready to burst, darlin’ ... he murmurs huskily into your ear. Must be frustrating, hmm? Not being given the chance to come… I’m sure you’re aching…

His thumb circles on your greasy, little nub, hearing your soft moans and sighs in his hair. Caleb guides you to the bed, your bound body falling in a heap under him. He positions himself over you, forearms on either side of your head as he goes back to licking and sucking at your neck. 

The sting of his teeth leaving another bite leaves you light-headed with lust, your body throbbing for the slightest bit of relief.

Please… you whimper again, trying your luck. Caleb… I need you…

Yeah? He murmurs huskily. Where’dya need me, princess? 

You squirm, moving your hips and he feels you writhing underneath him. “Inside. All the way.”

His breathing hitches, blood growing hotter at the desperation and need in your tone. 

“All the way? You know what to say to get a man going, sweetness.”

“I— ohhh .”

Your words die in the back of your throat at what he does next. 

Caleb grins as he pushes your thighs apart, settling in between them. He carelessly tugs his pants down, ripping off his clothes to toss them to the floor, gifting you inches and inches of bare, tanned skin and defined muscles to gawk at. Ready, baby? Giving his cock a few good pumps, he lines the tip to your entrance, catching it on the rim of your pussy. 

Teasingly, he works the flush, sticky head up and down your weeping clit, circling your opening, pushing it in past the tight ring of muscle with taunting ‘pops’. Your gasps reach his ears, and he grins, enjoying drawing out your pleasure far too much.

Like that? He licks his lips, eyes half-hooded and heated. It’s all going in you, baby… just… at my… pace.

He punctuates each languid word with a few more inches sinking inside of you, coaxing more sweet sounds from your slack jaw.

Oh, yes… yes… fuck me, Caleb. Fuck—oooh.  

Your drawn-out hiss springs a wicked smile to his face. The way your eyes roll back; how your hips twitch. 

Spasming wildly, your sweet pussy draws him in, and Caleb can’t get enough of you. It’s excruciating how much he’s edging himself as much as he’s torturing you. But, the moment he bottoms out inside of you, all the tension condenses right to the point where you’re connected to him. 

Caleb sets a rhythm that leaves you gasping, legs wrapping instinctively around his fitted waist. His biceps and abs ripple with every thrust, those pesky lips you love too much finding the hollow of your throat, leaving behind his claim on your delicate skin for the world to see. His mouth presses to yours in a heated display of ownership, tongue delving past your lips to dominate yours. 

His taste—musk, salt, man—coats your tastebuds, and you’re swimming in his heat and scent. 

Caleb is everywhere and anywhere over you, all at once. 

His bigger build completely dwarfs you on the bed, expert hands pushing your thighs apart and pressing your knees to your chest, leaving you flushed and completely vulnerable to him.

He laughs when your clit trembles under his scrutiny, the little bud exposed with nowhere to hide. 

Zeroing in on your tender bundle of nerves, he presses his thumb to it, feeling the greasy little button twitch under his fingertip. 

You look so pretty like this… all tied up and vulnerable… just for me. 

“Caleb…” your moans begin to stutter, your hips beginning to spasm. You’re so close, all it takes is one misstep on his end to lead you down the biggest orgasm of your life.

Hours of teasing and drawing out your pleasure renders you an incoherent, babbling mess. 

Faster, faster… oh god, please. Yesyesyes. Caleb—Caleb… 

Anyone passing by the room could tell you were barely holding on by a thread. You look so beautiful under him like this: hair fanning across his pillows, cheeks warm and lips flushed. The glassy look in your eyes.

God, he’s so in love with you. 

Having you here, under him where you belong, heals the fissured part inside of him that still aches from your cruel dismissal of his concerns.

His thrusts grow more punishing, the tip of his long, girthy cock hitting your cervix. Caleb tilts your pelvis, making you take him deeper.

There ya go, sweet thing, he coaxes. Can you feel me here—? He touches your womb. Feel me where ya need me. Oh, darlin’... I’m gonna make sure you feel me for days.

Picking up his pace, the bed creaks and rocks under you. Caleb makes sure to tease your clit as well with every punishing thrust, feeling your thighs tremble around his shoulders. 

He’s so deep, so flushed against your body, he thinks you could suck him up and take him in your body forever.

Caleb is hard-pressed to admit he doesn’t want that—there is nothing in the world he desires more than to be one with your bones and breath. His movements get erratic, needing to bring you to the edge and back.

He can tell you’re close. 

The look on your face, the warmth in your cheeks. You’re holding back and he couldn’t be any more prouder.

“What do you want, princess?” He asks, eyes soft with affection.

You struggle to put your desires into words, completely wrecked at the end of his cock. 

“I… mhm— close… ”

He feels your muscles squeezing down on him, and chuckles breathlessly.

“Yeah? I can tell, princess. You want to cum—you need to cum, huh?” 

You give a teary, little nod that tugs on his heartstrings. But, Caleb isn’t done with you—not by a long shot.

He grins and without warning, switches the position, putting you on top of him. When you falter and almost fall face-first into his chest, the familiar stirrings of energy hold you upright, his Evol keeping you centered and balanced on his cock.

“Ride me,” he whispers huskily. “Show me how much you want this—prove to me how badly you want to cum.” 

The challenge in his tone drives you dizzy with lust. Licking your lips, you murmur a whimper which makes his grin stretch wider, and shift your hips, testing the give of his Evol.

Sturdy and sure, his grip on you doesn’t falter, and you quickly find a rhythm that makes his eyelids flutter shut. A groan slips from Caleb’s lips, his pretty purple eyes prying open to drink at the sight of you riding him feverishly.

Arduous and urgent, you move your hips like a pro. Caleb’s sure he’s never seen you this determined—the look in your eyes searing through him.

The sight of his dog tag and the apple charm you gave him years ago shining silver from his neck catches your eye, a stark contrast to his tanned and flushed skin. 

God… you’re killing me…

Caleb smirks at your breathless words. I do? Glad to know, princess…

His large palm collides against your plush ass, watching the flesh jiggle with each precise spank. Your sharp inhales and whines spur him on as he takes his frustrations out on your pert ass, venting the fear and anger he felt when you left him behind for that torturous week onto your willing body. 

Try to leave me again. His nostrils flare, eyes dark with promise. And I’ll make sure you’ll never have any use for your legs, you hear me, Pips

Possessive and passionate, he tangles his fingers in your hair, tugging your head back to expose the vulnerable skin of your neck. His Evol loosens its grip, and you go falling into his arms, his lips practically devouring your neck with heated kisses and nips.

You gasp when he works in another mark over one he just made a few minutes ago, the stinging bite of pain enough to get you fluttering all over his cock. 

“ Mhm… ” you groan. You’re lost to the sensations, drunk off the high he’s giving you.

Caleb is no better. He’s almost cross-eyed from the pleasure, drunkenly leaving marks on your jaw and collarbone. 

Sloppy. Languid. Caleb fucks you like he’s got all the time in the world.

He runs his hands down your back, over your sides, fondling your sore and stinging ass. Moving underneath you like a strong wave, he slowly rolls his hips up against you, pulling you closer onto his lap. 

“You’re so good… taking everything so well… my perfect pipsqueak…”

Caleb’s moans and praises get lost in the crook of your neck. He uses his free hand to grip and squeeze your breast, drawing your turgid nipples into his mouth one by one; his other hand continues to spank and grope your ass.

It’s too much—all too soon.

You’re on the edge and he still hasn’t permitted you to come. The need to be good is at war with your primal instincts to give in to the pleasure, your gasps and moans are a desperate symphony to his heated ears.

His thrusts get more erratic, the wet sounds of your bodies joining together bouncing off the walls. The windows of his bedroom start to fog up, the bed creaking maddeningly with every thrust.

“Caleb,” you gasp, feeling the familiar tension coiling in your lower belly. “Oh… oh… ”

He hears the note of panic in your tone and chuckles gravelly. Dark hair in a disarray, amethyst eyes shining with mischief. Caleb is the picture of ravaged underneath you, and there’s little doubt you’re in a much worse state above him. 

Licking his puffy lips, Caleb shakes his head, abs undulating from the release he’s also trying to hold back. 

“Uh-uh-uh, princess,” he taunts, voice dropping an octave lower. “Not yet…”

You clench your jaw and squeeze your eyes shut in despair. He grins, lips moving back to your neck, murmuring against the salt of your skin.

“I love seeing you like this… hearing you gasp and whimper… feeling you writhe so desperately above me…”

Caleb… you whisper his name like a prayer, one you hope he grants.

“Yeah, princess? Say my name… I love it when you say my name.”

“Caleb… oh… Caleb… ”

He nuzzles your neck in an unexpected gesture of adoration, feeling how tense your body is. 

“You’re so close, hmm?” He murmurs, unlike how a pet owner tries to soothe a fretting kitten. “I know you are, Pips. I can feel ya. So close… oh… and yet so… far .” 

At the last second, before you succumb to your pleasure, Caleb’s Evol lifts you off his cock, the sudden, gaping loss ripping the earth-shattering orgasm right from under your trembling body. 

No! You cry out in a thick voice, and you swear real tears spring in your eyes. No… no… please…!

Begging him shamelessly. That’s what you were reduced to. 

Caleb chuckles, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. He loosens his grip on you and guides you back onto his cock. You hiss from the intrusion, eyes rolling back in your head. Nothing but a puppet to her Master’s strings; Caleb is firmly in control.

He manipulates your body to his own pace, using his Evol to fuck you on top of his cock like you’re a lifeless doll, made only for his pleasure.

“Oh… oh… y-you ass—”

Caleb laughs, cutting off your tirade by gripping your hips tighter. 

“Don’tcha love it, princess? Don’t lie to me—you adore it when I tease ya. Make you work for my lovin’,” he mutters hotly into your neck. “You can deny it all ya one, Pips, but I know what you want… I know what you want deep, deep down…”

As he drawls out ‘deep’, his Evol loosens, making you slide down his cock until you bottom out. 

“ Ngh! ” You cry out, the tears in your eyes dripping down your cheeks. Caleb clicks his tongue and wipes the proof of your frustration away with his calloused thumb. 

“No need to cry, Pips. I gotcha. Gege’s got ya, don’t he?” 

You struggle to reply, the last of your coherent thoughts scrambled by his cock working you back to the edge again. 

Caleb… Caleb… you cry out, his name a mantra, a chant that grounds you as his cock continues to fuck you up. 

It seems like forever passes by when he brings you to the edge, abandons all motion, and does it again until you’re practically sobbing from the overstimulation. Caleb is a mastermind of your own body—he knows just how to get you trembling from the onslaught of pleasure without ever letting you fall over.

The torturous cycle starts and ends the same: with your begging and whining doing nothing to move him.

“Please…” you finally gasp, hanging your head, strands of your hair tickling his chin. “I’m sorry, Caleb. I’m so sorry…” Fighting back the lump in your throat, your shiny eyes beg him to show you some mercy. “I’m sorry I hurt you… s-sorry I— ah… mhmmm… treated you like shit… I’m so sorry—”

Caleb sweeps you into his arms, his Evol completely releasing its grip on you. “That’s all I wanted to hear… all I needed…”

He registers how you’re choking up and rubs gentle circles on your back. “Hey—ssh. Ssh. Apology accepted, Pipsqueak. Don’t cry, okay… come here…” Gripping your chin and tilting your face up to meet his, he gives you a soft smile. “You did so well… I’m so proud of you, hey? You wanna come, sweetness?” 

Without a shred of stubbornness left, you eagerly nod. He chuckles, and positions you back on his cock, purple eyes glistening with the pure adoration he has for you. 

“Alright—come on, baby… ride me good this time, okay? And don’t hold back—you deserve this… deserve all this for being such a good, little girl—”

It doesn't take long for you to get to the edge, hours of suppressing your release make you needy and very sensitive.

Come… come for me… he encourages you, rubbing your clit, pinching your nipples—doing everything in his power to get you to lose control.

The tension in your belly snowballs to something beyond your control, and you tilt your head back, expelling a long, drawn-out moan. 

In the ropes and under his cruel yet tender ministrations, you find the courage to fall apart—his name rebounding across the room like a screamed cry of relief. Caleb feels you shuddering all around him and gives in to his baser need to fill you up, grunting low and deep into the crook of your neck as ribbons of warmth coat your walls.

Drops of white dribble to stain your inner thighs and his lap, but neither of you cares.

Undoing the rope and relinquishing his Evol’s hold on you, Caleb catches you in his arms, burying his nose into your hair, soothed by your delicate scent.

The afterglow settles like a haze, enveloping your body like a warm, fluffy blanket.

Caleb traces patterns on your bare back, pressing soft kisses to your temple and cheek. He breathes in your light scent, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck.

“You alive, Pips?” 

Nodding, your eyes flutter close, the comfort found in the crook of his body intoxicatingly cozy. Your heartbeat starts to slow, lulled by the gentleness of his breathing. His pulse steadies under your cheek, his arms tightening around you, pressing you closer to his chest.

“You did so good, princess…” he murmurs, stroking your head. “So proud of you—I’m so proud of my little Pipsqueak…”

His praise hits your system like a shot of red wine, warming you up from the inside out. Flushed from his gentle words, you eagerly rub your face against his throat, his boyish chuckles easing the guilt still swimming in your soul. 

“Caleb?” He looks down at you, taken by your small voice.

“Yes, Pips?” 

“Am I… forgiven?” 

He nods without a beat of hesitation. “You sure are. There’s nothing for you to be sorry about anymore, okay? Let’s put this behind us and start fresh, princess. How’s that sound?” 

Relieved, you nod, and the love you feel for him intensifies, radiating brightly from deep within. 

One thing you’ve learned about wounded hearts is this: with Caleb’s smile, everything can be healed.

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I love the coward trio