These Two Pictures Have The Same Energy

[nsfw!] rafayel fucking you

literally ruined my pussy while making this

can you photoshop phil’s face onto colin’s in dans new ig

💕 pretty in pink 🌷

dan in this meet and greet outfit made me want to cry  Please don’t repost my art! Reblogs and likes are appreciated! More art!  |Instagram |  Redbubble  | Twitter  | Ko-fi @danielhowell

gurgle. spit. rinse. do not repeat. do not repeat.

18.3 k words [o mein gott!] / warnings - suicidal ideation/suicide, this bitch is mentally ill, unrequited love but it isn't but it is but it isn't, intentionally strange text formatting

summary - trapped on the tulpar. surrounded by your life's work, chemicals and blood stains. and then there's sweet daisuke, who wants you so, so bad.

[2 months after the crash]

ETHANOL POISONING RISK ⌧

IF YOU OR SOMEONE YOU ARE WITH SWALLOWS MORE THAN FOUR TEASPOONS OF ETHANOL CONTENT IT MAY LEAD TO:

ABDOMINAL PAIN CONFUSION, SLURRED SPEECH INTERNAL BLEEDING SLOW BREATHING DECREASED ALERTNESS VERTIGO VOMITING, NAUSEA DIARRHEA 

IF DIARRHEA OR VOMIT CONTAINS BLOOD, OR IF SYMPTOMS DO NOT NATURALLY DESCEND, SEEK MEDICAL ASSISTANCE SUCH AS 9-1-1 OR LOCAL POISON CONTROL. 800-222-1222.

BEFORE CALLING, HAVE THE FOLLOWING INFORMATION OF THE SWALLOWER ON HAND:

WEIGHT HEIGHT AGE TIME SWALLOWED AMOUNT SWALLOWED

IF NOT ALL OR NONE OF THE INFORMATION IS ON HAND, DO NOT DELAY CALLING. DO NOT WAIT. CALL HELP. CALL HELP.

CALL HELP.

“Got 14% ethanol,” Swansea croaks, rotating the opaque cyan bottle in one hand with raised brows. A piqued lip. Wrinkles stretching until the skin is smooth as he observes the sloshing liquid.

“Is that bad?” you wonder aloud, holding the bottle up over your face -closer toward the dusty orange overheads and swish the plastic until its contents cyclone, “That’s alcohol, right? Cleaning and shit?”

Anya grimaces, scanning the ingredients along the back of the bottle, “All the sugar in this eliminates the disinfecting properties.”

Daisuke sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, one hand covering the other around the bottle. Fingers tighten around the pearly cap, twisting it just enough not to break the plastic seal, “But then it doesn’t taste bad, right?”

“We can’t drink this,” Anya shakes her head, reaching out as if to snatch the mouthwash from the intern’s grasp. The same way one would rip chocolate out from a dog’s mouth.

“Why not?” Swansea’s tone is light enough to come as sincerity rather than derision. He flicks the cap open with all the ease of popping a button and roughly punches his bottle against the one in your hand, “Ten and a half years sober: down the drain!”

You were in a minor collision as a child. Your mother’s car rear-ended on the highway while you swung your feet from the backseat. The abrupt jerking flung you hard into the back of the driver’s seat before your seatbelt whipped you back. A rapid burning needled along your neck, leaving you a whiny blob while Mom grumbled out of the car and rounded toward her assailant. Through tinted windows and bleary lashes, you catch turned faces -even drivers slanting your way and back quicker than the crash even happened. Leering curiously, children pushing over each other to peek closer than their siblings and wives’ lips moving as fast as their brains can narrate the scene to husbands. 

Currently, you’re no better: head swinging toward Swansea’s tensed gulping like malleable rubber.

Wrinkles vining by his eyes and throat bobbing unevenly, Swansea pulls back with misty, saccharine drool pooling in the corners of his mouth, wiping it up with the back of his hand before loudly sucking wind between clenched teeth. Even louder, he smacks his lips, clicks his teeth, and stares at the floor. From above a low buzz blankets the soft humming of machinery below, lights clawing to be heard in the still survey of Swansea swallowing way more than four teaspoons of pure mouthwash.

Daisuke pops the seal on his bottle, and Anya blinks wildly as if upon the fifth hundredth one she’ll awake to normality, Jimmy cringes with the slowest headshake of disapproval. You shift closer, scooting your shoes sideways rather than taking independent steps, and place a cautious hand between Swansea’s shoulder blades,

“How was it…?”

Expecting the old man to spontaneously buckle forward with a geyser of crystal blue vomit streaked with innards, you slink back as his pruny mouth falls open. 

Broad shoulders straightening and eyes alight the closest thing you could call joy since the voyage began, Swansea tosses back another shot of Dragonbreath before looking at you, “Not fucking bad.”

*

[!] new message: kills 99.99999999999999999%

[sent by: CPT. curly, grant | subsection: the bathroom is moldy again]

*

[5 weeks before the crash]

Modus operandi declares you perform the most daunting and grotesque step first, then you can peel off the second skin you wrapped around yourself -- throw it into one of the yellow buckets meant to be incinerated -- and wash your hands thoroughly. After that due diligence, you earn the much less demoralizing honor of scrubbing the sinks.

Although. Ola kala dictates you’re being too harsh on the various thrones your crew occupies:

Pretending to find this deal disgusting after five years would be juvenile and beneath you, and nobody would care even if you did. If anything, they could get upset thinking you’d slack off and get the crew credits package reduced. Maybe Daisuke would be a little empathetic, at least. He’s new enough, face round enough, hands soft enough to still pity the janitor just doing their job. Maybe he’d offer to help (and then you could sigh and swoon gratitude before assuring that no, Daisuke, you’re not BBP trained). 

Streaks of greying brown crust around the curve of the metal bowl, plumped just beneath the seat. Scrubbing down by the siphon jet, your sponge meant to be steel wool barely grapples reddish muck from the drain -- you assume because anything with harsher ridges would scar the company’s precious shitbuckets. Boxed off with the same greenish, blueish turquoise color that makes up your coveralls. Thin plastic boxes for the sake of privacy. Technically everybody in the ship could pile into this bathroom at once -- three in the stalls and two at the urinals.

It reminds you of malls back on earth, or grocery stores, not an employment bathroom. 

Smaller gunk already stuck around the bowl’s interior needs to be scraped up beneath a solid silver putty knife. Each blackened chip cracks off easily enough that you can almost act like this isn’t the epitome of your job title.

At this point, you don’t bother wiping your eyes -- content to let them blur with tears until you’re finished. After all, it isn’t like trying to smear the waterworks away with your forearm will make stinging chemicals fumes drift anywhere else. It’d only make your skin damp.

Beneath the concoction of bleach and syrupy blue whiteners, is a new stale wafting.

Oddly: it’s almost sweet, the smell of the bathroom. Or maybe your brain tells you the stench is more pleasant than it really is because you’ve spent so long surrounded by it. Most of the perceived sweetness is from that earthy musk, the things Pony Express feeds you: Canned soups and processed meats and germinated water pouches, all chock full of corpo-grade nutrients and healthy minerals. Not just a couple of years ago, they even used to permit snack sacks like nuts and freeze-dried berries. You never knew why they stopped doing that. You suppose no answer is satisfying because it wouldn’t matter, the smell doesn’t change much, anyway.

After the feces settles up to your brain, and you’re certain the stink is caked into today’s uniform, you get the hint of piss. 

Depending on who most recently took a leak, the smell is different. Sometimes it’s almost sugary, but like if a melon had sat in the sun for two days. Sometimes it’s electric and burns second-hand, making your entire face wrinkle up at the shock. Sometimes it’s got the quietest hint of cat litter. You don’t care to know who’s who. You just acknowledge that they’re all different.

Human bodies are an absolute nightmare. Most times the actual people those bodies host are not much better. 

Years ago you learned that breathing through your mouth did not help at all, then you would just taste the mixture. And the idea of all those particles on your tongue was more than enough to make you hurl. Usually, the job isn’t all bad because at the very bottom when you scoop what should not be touched, you can catch the most relieving smell of cologne. With how many men occupy the ship, the least they could do is be some nasal comfort while you scrub their bowels.

Suds soak acorn-colored, slowly growing darker brown the longer they sit as you attempt to rid all evidence that anybody on this ship ever shit in their entire life.

Backing out from this stall to glance down the row, you see more blackish splotches painting beneath the seats. Staining where each toilet is bolted into the floor. Stubborn to be forgotten.

Yeah. You don’t think these things could’ve survived just one more day.

[1 month before the crash]

“Ain’t shit else to drink around here,” Swansea clacks his Pony Express mug -stained around the lip and Polle picture cracking from years of use- against your own empty cup, “Cheers, kid. Find something else.”

“You just admitted there’s nothing else!” you sigh, glaring after the man as he strides unsympathetically toward the door. 

In fair humor, Anya shakes her head, clicking her tongue, “How could you, Swansea?”

“Yeah,” Daisuke jeers after his mentor, “Boo, Swansea!”

“Boo!” you copy, deciding against a morning drink altogether. Replacing your cup haphazardly in a random cabinet.

“What’re we boozing?” a gravely Southern drawl bawls from the doors, Curly just barely scraping himself to the side as his mechanic slips out.

Swansea thumbs over his shoulder and grunts, “Your idiots don’t understand limited supply.”

“Ah,” Curly catches the wave of brown liquid in his mechanic’s mug, “Coffee’s a hot commodity, what can you do?”

“They can not lose their Goddamn heads,” the man gruffs into the steaming cup, sipping as he returns to work. 

Once the mechanic is out of earshot, Curly frowns your way and confesses, “I was hoping to get a last cup before the pot was dry.”

“Oh well,” Anya sing-songs, combing both hands through her messy shag, “At least we won’t have a fight over it anymore.”

Daisuke nods cheerfully, despite being alert and bright-eyed without any caffeine, you assume it comes with his youth (because the few-year difference between you two is soooooo massive), “Exactly!”

“We can just go back to cute family breakfasts,” you chide.

Curly snorts. Nodding shortly.

Then he mumbles, “Jim’ won’t be too happy about the coffee being gone.”

“Is he up yet?” before Anya’s question earns reply, she spins toward you, “I think I could use some help sorting meds.”

“Oh,” you shrug, “Sure.”

Daisuke perks up, looking rapidly from you to Anya and back to you, “Can I come?”

“Swansea won’t miss you?” you tease.

He pauses in earnest, though. Eyes sliding off toward the motion-activated Polle statue, a consistent ‘uhhhhhhhh’ slinking out from his throat before he shakes his head, “Nahh. I don’t think so.”

Curly’s head darts your collective way, tilting specifically at Daisuke, “You don’t?”

Daisuke does think so, but what’s got more importance to it: A workplace romp or some mechanic experience during his internship? Pretty obviously the answer is you.

“He’ll know where to find me,” Daisuke shrugs easily enough, sweat bulleting down his temple beneath Curly’s knowing gaze.

“If you say so…” the blonde grins.

[7 days before the crash]

Anya stopped you on your way out after mopping the floors. Given that Anya isn’t a pig and most on-ship accidents are related to Daisuke banging around in utility, you hardly ever go into her office without scheduling. But she’d pinged you specifically that the floors were a little more heather gray than eggshell white lately. By time you finished pushing watered-down bleach around the tiles, you realized the floor was always heather gray. This was a trap.

She’s shuffling papers, looking at you through thick, low-hanging lashes, and shrugging, “It’s that time again.”

“Boo.”

“Can’t boo your way out of it now,” she sits and gestures across the table, clearly a silver base painted over with sad beige. You follow with a rumbling groan and fold your arms.

“Okay, shoot,” you throw your head back over the edge of the chair, staring upside down at the digital cloudy sky hanging above the patient beds. You think it’d be a more serene touch if the clouds could stroll by, but Pony Express -regardless of how big the Tulpar is- apparently cannot comprehend such advancement and maintains their stance on stationary clouds.

“You’re not taking this seriously…” a treacherous accusation because,

“If I didn’t take this seriously, I’d tell you I wanna bang Polle.”

“How’d you know about that? These are confidential and- !”

“He brags about saying it, he thinks it’s hilarious.”

“Oh…”

“Anyway,” you check your wrist which does not have a watch on it, and say, “I gotta get to the kitchen in five, so? Can we get this rolling?”

“That was just rude,” she lays the papers in her hand flat and rests her head in her palm.

“Sorry…”

Anya gives no discernable reaction to your apology, pouty lips popping open blandly around a rehearsed questionnaire she can read with her eyes closed, “Have you been able to complete your mandated task as custodial engineer efficiently and to your fullest capacity?”

Perhaps feeling a little guilty about how you spoke earlier, you clear your throat and offer something just a tad meatier than your typical ‘yep’, “As well as the past five years I’ve been here. Maybe even better this time around.”

She’s unimpressed, “Are you capable of shifting multiple variables on a tight schedule?”

You recline, “Naturally.”

“Are you overwhelmed by sudden and unprompted changes in task when necessary?”

“Nope.”

“Have you experienced lapses in time or are conflicted by the day/night screening schedule?”

“Nah-uh.”

“Does prolonged silence and isolation upon the freighter concern you and/or inspire unpleasant thoughts?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you experiencing, whether of your volition or not, troubling thoughts of hurting yourself or others?”

“No.” you sweat. It’s a little hot in medical today, shouldn’t Swansea fix that?

“Hmmmmmm,” you already know the criticism about to fly from her at that testy hum, and those narrowed eyes -suspicion masked by playfulness, “You gave all the same answers…”

“Well, they’re the same because nothing about me changes!” she merely sighs in response, and you cut her next thought short, “Honestly, Anya, don’t worry about this all too much. Jimmy’s right, this job isn’t hard. Anybody could do it, and everywhere needs it.”

The only difficult part is finding a place to hire you.

[1.5 hours after the crash]

Sprays of blood are already browning onto the metal floor. Stretches of pure red skin smoking from between the floor grates, mushy fat parts caught in the lining. Gloved hands pull at the elastic tissue, gummy white slop plopping back onto the floor. Hurriedly, those gloved hands toss the skin into a round yellow waste bucket -the kind meant to be incinerated after one use- because you’re convinced that if you move fast enough you can pretend the hands aren’t yours. 

Instead, a disembodied entity is what plucks shredded chunks of the captain out of the floor, where they’re starting to dry between the lining. 

Smaller gunk already stuck to the ground needs to be scraped up beneath a latex-covered nail. They crack off easy enough, you can almost act like it never happened. Really, you could treasure the memory compared to what you know lies ahead.

Just inside the recoverable parts of the cockpit are the hands and feet Swansea axed off mere minutes ago.

If you stress your ears then beyond the shrieking from Captain Curly, you can hear Anya and Daisuke wailing also. Blubbering meaningless comforts Anya trips over herself to bandage him up. A cloth skin to replace what you’re stripping off the ship.

At this point, you don’t bother wiping your eyes -- content to let them blur with tears until you’re finished. After all, it isn’t like smearing the blood on your forearm will aid the situation, and it certainly won’t make the smell of burning flesh dissipate.

Not when the scent has successfully buried into the back of your nose, and is nailing toward your brain.

Sizzling fat and iron make for a nauseating sweetness, the faintest earthy musk just beneath. Then after the whiff settles, the most putrid sourness of exposed, warm meat chases. 

Breathing through your mouth helps none, then you just taste the mixture. Making your stomach lurch, bile rushing up before you swallow it down in rough chunks that drag down the canal of your throat.

At the very bottom, when you scoop what should not be touched, you can catch the most relieving smell of Curly’s cologne. 

Suds soak pink, slowly growing darker the longer they sit as you attempt to rid all evidence of how violently you each had to rip Curly out of the cockpit. He was unceremoniously dragged along the floor, and no amount of distance from here to the medbay would make the trail lighten. Meaning, as you work your way back, any more muscle stripped from the exposed grouts will be firmly stuck down onto the floor.

Looking down the hall, you see blood rusting on the floor. Lots of it. Stubborn to be forgotten.

You’ll be surprised if Curly makes it just one more day.

[!] new message [!]

Peace and quiet.

Static at either side, your hands have the politest little splay. Webbing tickles as wind whistles through and a moist tar nose pokes around, short auburn fur stabbing into your knuckles. Hot air fans your skin every offbeat. Yellow wings wink from below, dotting dew-slicked sage tendrils. Spiders wave from behind pale silky petals. 

You pray to avoid the temptation of casting eyes any nearer above ground. At least this way, staring out into the horizon -- trying to peek over downy hills. Humble curves curling beneath a seafoam green sky, just tinging azure in the corners of your eyes. You hear a breeze blowing through trees -not unlike the sucking of big teeth- but nowhere in sight do you find thick trunks or brushes. You see flapping wings swiftly gliding fatty birds until they sizzle deep into the sun’s scorching image, but you hear no caws. 

A mushy, sticky roundness skims your middle finger, making you flinch back wildly. Though you don’t dare drop your stare… it wouldn’t matter either way, you can see more than enough no matter how intensely you attempt to dodge it.

Thick gashes in a cluster-quad cover the top of the thin deer’s skull. Two beneath the eyes and along the snout with two more stretching across the top bend in bend, toward where antlers sprout. Each ragged sniff causes the pear shapes to suddenly inflate, folds stretching until you can make out the pinkish flesh beneath faint dark fur. You’d been desperate to avoid knicking the bulbs and discovering their feel, so to find that they felt like silly putty stretched around an elbow was plenty disturbing.

The most you’ll allow yourself to glimpse are those awful antlers. Frail and formed in straight zig-zags, sickly almost yellow. Despite splitting straight from the deer’s head, you can see where skin parts around the thin branches, looks… homemade. Like yanked chicken wire, or an unbound hanger. 

And the closer you look, the more patches you see in its pelt. Pinky lumps glaring into flighty eyes.

Swallowing hard, you just try to keep your gaze locked outward -- into the wide expanse beyond smooth rolling earth. No clouds. No sun. Just seafoam pale light.

Another deep inhale has a warm, soft, almost gelatin-like corm thing filling the gaps between your knuckles. You think the glands are whiter than they used to be, and you think they’re staring, but you can’t be sure; you’re intent on not looking.

You just wanted peace and quiet.

*

[!] new message: the 00.00000000000000001% remaining

[sent by: zare, jimmy | subsection: stop leaving your fucking buckets everywhere i just tripped]

*

[1 week before the crash]

Fish. Green scales and an open slash down the rotund little gut. Flopping into one, mushy pile. Content in nature, to be eaten is to complete their cycle. Bred to be consumed and caught between molars, molars belonging to men with poor dental hygiene. Men like Jimmy, who scream in faces no matter how obviously and tightly they wrinkle in disgust.

“It’s unbelievable how many times I’ve had to talk to you about leaving out buckets, this shit is impossible to avoid when you stand it in the middle of the fucking walkway!” he spits in your face, snarling, and without pause to let you explain yourself he ramps up again, “You don’t listen when I ask nicely, so now I have to start yelling. And another thing- !”

“Heyyyy,” Daisuke waltzes in, a dramatic bounce to each stomp and hair bouncing around his shoulders, “I had the soft sponge you were looking for! Stole it for some spilled tonic, sorry!”

He lets out a quiet ‘eughh’, halting full force just after the door to examine your predicament. Jimmy is practically bent over you, stabbing a finger in your face with his mouth split, throat swollen with venom glands. 

“What’s going on?” he drops the sponge-bound hand at his side and frowns at the co-pilot.

A violation, technically. Crewmates are not to berate one another on deck, but the reporting route is so demeaningly difficult that now you just let Jimmy go off. It’s easier that way.

“Sounds pretty brutal…”

Jimmy’s seething, fist clenching, and you dodge past him to slip the sponge from Daisuke, “Don’t worry about it,” you shoot a raised brow over your shoulder at the brunette, “We’re over it anyway?”

Your answer comes in a scoff and head shake -- resounding agreement. 

[0 days before the crash]

Slamming sideways into a bolted shelf forces a hard guffaw from your lungs. You hardly get time to cradle your bruised core or question what sent you flying when suddenly the trusty old Tulpar rattles violently. Tripping you over hard, solid ground, you barely manage to catch yourself on the rungs of one shelf before your nose cracks on the supply door.

“Hey!” you shriek, another rocky bump shaking you off the shelf and sliding your shoulder into the opposite wall, “Jimmy! Help!” 

Polle smiles at the yelp, calling an unhelpful, “Don’t drink undrinkables! If you or someone on ship does: call help at 800-222-1222!”

The doors part swiftly, clicking loudly as two hands force them aside faster. Hands that you’re sure are not Jimmy’s unless he spontaneously got more tan and started wearing thick silver rings. This is strange because you’re sure Jimmy was the one lingering outside the closet just seconds ago, sure maybe looking a bit spacey and distracted but not that spacey.

Your name isn’t called by Jimmy’s voice, either.

It’s Daisuke’s. 

Doors clash against his elbows, fervently trying to squash him but he puffs out wider, stuck into the clacking jaws like a louse and he reaches out to you with the most concerned folds in his face. He screams for you again, “Grab my hand!”

You do, nails biting his wrists with enough teeth to draw blood. He makes no complaints, adrenaline masking any possible sting as he hoists you out of the custodial office. The momentum slings you both straight onto the floor, heads knocking against each other. He rolls each arm tight around you while scooching toward one wall with the strength of his thighs.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” he pants, “Captain just ran by and said to get low!”

“Where’d Jimmy- ?!” 

You’re cut off by a blistering slam -- metal shredding against hard rock. Tulpar screams that way as she dies. Yet something screams louder: animalistic and ragged, pure terror dragging through the walls of the ship like barbed wire. Echoing in bubbles, filling each inch of the vessel until it’s overcome by the shirrrrrrrrrrrrr and whirl of thick, luscious emergency foam spewing out of Tulpar’s gaping wounds. Sparks spitting as fast as still-damp froth can put them out.

Fizzling out with surprising serenity. 

Overheads once blood red blink blinding white twice before cutting. Drenching you both in pitch black.

Daisuke squeezes your arm in one hand and palms the flat of your spine with another, wrenching increasing bundles of fabric into his hand. He gasps and trembles, closing your body off between his legs. When all you hear is his thundering breath, you ask, 

“Did we just crash?”

Silence consumes you. 

No humming gears or hissing pipes. Just your tempered exhales and Daisuke’s gasping. 

“I think so,” he sniffles, unwinding the arm wrapped around yours to scrub away the wetness dribbling down his face before it crusts. 

You lunge off each other, still clasping hands, breaths mingling between your buzzing faces. 

Lights flash hot white once. Then twice. Then red. Then they flicker back to normal.

“That must be the backup generator,” Daisuke assures before you have the chance. He nods unsteadily to himself, “Swansea must’ve flipped it…” he laughs tenderly and without humor, “He’s probably pissed. I totally ran out without saying anything.”

“Yeah…” your head is a little too thick with foam to realize the implications of what he said, “Probably.”

[9 hours before judgement]

teeny bopper thinking with his dick. some useless kid. a cute kissing buddy.

Daisuke can play lots of roles, just never the right one. 

“It’s time to be brave, Daisuke,” Jimmy asserts, searching for any weak points he can exploit, “You want to impress that mop-pusher of yours, right? And Swansea’ll be proud, too.”

Daisuke rallies himself, radically stiffening. Both terrified and electrified at the proposition, “You really think?”

And Jimmy’s stark certainty just emboldens him, “You’ll get a recommendation and a date. Everyone’s counting on you. Captain’s orders.”

Daisuke knows you’ve been on edge, maybe if he can rescue Anya you’ll realize he’s worth something more serious than late-night makeouts.

*

[!] new message: polle says: “call help!”

[sent by: musume, anya | subsection: evals are meant to be like a pop quiz i cant tell you when theyre coming up… even jimmy knows that…]

*

[5 months after the crash]

Most of Pony Express’ provisional chemicals are Grade A: Windex watered down with literal H2O -- a stock of bottles pumped into the bottom of the ship before taking off. Meaning the only genuine water not provided by Dragonbreath bubbles in plastic cylinders beneath your feet. You’ve assumed the water to be from a sink in some warehouse, compound that with the fact it’s mixed with a bleaching agent and it has to have less germs than the water packets provided onboard.

Reaching blindly into the shelf at eye level, you grasp the first bottle that fits into your palm. Pulling and turning it. Full. Blue. Not electric blue, though, more like cartoon water. Not too much more saturated than the Dragonbreath water packets.

Sandpaper tongue scraping the ridges of your mouth, you try your best to remember how refreshing water is. You don’t think you can.

The synthesizer has run dry. And the vendor is dead.

Your lips are chapped, skinning each other as you push them together.

Rolling the bottle from one hand to the other, you take care to monitor its weight. Heavy. How much liquid lulls around. Over half, you think you could handle over half.

You’ve had mouthwash already.

If your kidneys can survive that, they can take this, right?

It’s just more alcohol with water. You don’t even think it’s ethanol, which basically means it’s safer than mouthwash.

IF POSSIBLE: WAKE AND MOVE PERSONS TO A COMFORTABLE PLACE TO SLEEP OFF EFFECTS. MAKE SURE PERSON WILL NOT: FALL, CHOKE ON TONGUE OR VOMIT, OR OTHERWISE SUSTAIN INJURY.

TO ENSURE PERSON DOES NOT CHOKE ON VOMIT, TURN ONTO THEIR SIDE.

DO NOT MAKE PERSON THROW UP UNLESS TOLD TO DO SO BY A HEALTHCARE PROFESSIONAL OR POISON CONTROL.

CHECK PERSON FREQUENTLY TO MAKE SURE CONDITION DOES NOT WORSEN.

WHEN IN DOUBT CALL FOR HELP.

CALL FOR HELP.

CALL FOR HELP. 98.9% 91.1% 80.02221222% KILLS99.9%OFGERMS

[4.5 months after the crash]

“I dunno if I can ever have a mojito again…”

Anya is the only one to look up from her cards, pouty lips sinking further and brows bending. Swansea makes a disconcerted grunt from the base of his throat. Daisuke doesn’t move whatsoever, blinking sluggishly down at his dealt hand -- mouth open and eyes listless. He doesn’t seem particularly inspired by anything before him, and you doubt the raw alcohol coursing his veins is helping any.

Jimmy has locked himself in medical to feed what remains of Captain Curly his painkillers. He requires absolute solitude and recently, nobody wants to disturb Jimmy while he prowls the ship for another fruitless task.

Swallowing pooled spit from the bowl of his jaw, Daisuke’s gaze rolls around the table with all the grace of a loose marble before he flings a hand forward. Knocking his bottle of mouthwash onto the side, it gushes out rolling across the table and wetting the spare pile of cards before he gasps loudly and picks it up. He watches you stretch over the table to move the cards.

Swansea snaps, slurring some scathing statement Daisuke doesn’t hear over the sight of you. Shirt sliding up your waist, exposing skin he shamelessly ogles. 

Daisuke plays the hard rim of his uncapped bottle against his lip, tipping back until the hard minty taste is scarring down his tongue. With it comes the immediate urge to gag and spit, but he powers through like a man: the way Swansea says.

He has to close his eyes and dig all five nails into his palm just to get the stuff down. Maybe it’s because he’s not like you- he’s never had a mojito before.

“Are they bad?” he asks.

“Huh?” you copy, swiping damp cards against your coverall pant leg.

Anya quietly observes the interaction, laying her hand upright on the table for all to see. Though you and Daisuke are too preoccupied bumbling toward one another. And Swansea hasn’t been properly taking his turns since the second round.

“Mojitos.”

You don’t have the strength or mind to explain yourself so you just nod and keep rubbing the suit off onto your pants -moist red and black shreds sprinkled across your thigh, “Yeah. Like shit.”

[2 months after the crash]

A long time ago, back when you first joined the crew, there was a Polle poster advertising kitchen safety. They discontinued it a year later for ‘violent imagery’ and decided to loop kitchen safety beneath the Don’t be Daft issues. That poster was your favorite, though, and given the state of things you almost regret not stealing one before they vacated every copy from every freighter. It hadn’t been the cutest, but it was definitely eye-catching. Every time you passed, you couldn’t avoid paying attention.

A goldfish with delicate, silky fins swims toward the bottom of its slender tank. Full to the jet-black lid with water, tiny oxygen bubbles floating along the right-hand side, just near the handle. COOK WITH CARE! glubbed the fish SAFETY ISN’T TO SPARE!

An uncharacteristically careless Polle sipped coffee with a gloved hand while the other was hairs away from starting the blender. Silver blades jumping to dice a clueless friend as it inspected the glittery metal.

Don’t be Daft is much less effective, in your opinion. After all, the much less foreboding message has done nothing to prohibit you from giving into Swansea’s pressure. 

”Don’t you miss it?” he teased. For a man fresh out of sobriety, he sounded so devoted to everything he once battled. But you know what? 

He was right. You did miss it. At least the heavy-lidded, sleepy little high of it anyway. 

Absolutely not the taste.

Sour and bitter works best not consumed at all, but you especially think the manmade minty freshness makes everything worse. Enhances that burning taste until it scorches out your nose and works up the back of your eyes. Heating your face from the inside. 

Laying your cheek against the cold wood of your table, both arms coiled around your waist. Hoping any kind of familiar pressure will keep down what cannot be swallowed.

You think you only make it worse, like pushing on a tender bruise. 

Woozy eyes swing to the half-empty bottle of sugary alcohol. Just the thought of another swig has you stumbling onto both feet, ankles rolling aside until you’re crashing into the wall. Clawing toward the sink to plop your head in. Slobber veining toward the drain as you moan once.

Then twice.

Then red stains shoot into the sink. You don’t get to gasp before another shot comes back up, foul flurrying from your mouth. So hard your head feels ready to pop open.

Rust companies you. Knowing it's your own makes you shrink back. Concern immediate, then shriveling: if that’s blood, you should seek the nurse. You should cry out for Anya. 

Another acidic spout cuts through your stomach, up your throat, and takes out a tooth before clattering into the metal sink.

You watch it slide like thick slime into the drain. Pulling out the tooth and pocketing it for the trash. Rinsing blood from the rim with fresh mouthwash, then gargling and spitting the taste from your mouth. You nearly puke again just from the smell.

The gap in the back of your mouth shrieks out. You just push your lips together tighter, taking the bottle with you as you slink away from the scene and toward the custodial office. Conveniently and coincidentally across the ship from the medical room. 

[1 day after the crash]

“Have you been able to complete your mandated task as custodial engineer efficiently and to your fullest capacity?”

You inhale the clinically stale air of the medical room, imagining it could dig out the remaining chunks of rotted, cooking meat from your nasal cavity. No matter how roughly you beat your coveralls or snort the chemical fumes in your office, the stench of grilled fat and blood persists. Clawing one nail beneath the other, you wonder if suddenly popping keratin straight from the bed would make Anya forget this evaluation.

“Do you have to do this?”

Anya shoots you an unimpressed glare, “Have you been able to- !”

“Yes, I have.”

“Are you capable of shifting multiple variables on a tight schedule?”

Pressing up harder from beneath your thumbnail until it stings, you’re sure the time is coming: she’ll forget all about this and just bandage you up. Cooing dull reassurances rather than poking for the softest part of your belly to slice open. Guts don’t need to be shared, you don’t think, there’s nothing to talk about.

“I didn’t suddenly stop being capable, no.”

“Are you overwhelmed- !”

“Anya,” you sigh, giving up on the nail torture to massage tensing temples, “Nothing changed. I’m fine.”

She stares at you too hard. No amusement in her straight face before she confesses, “I don’t believe you.”

“What does it matter what you don’t believe?” you groan, slacking into the seat across from her.

A thin teal curtain is drawn around the edge of Captain Curly’s bed. Aside from the offbeat squelch of his throat opening for air, silence radiates from that side of the room while he lies practically comatose. Anya told you she assumed the instant his adrenaline wavered, he was out from the blood loss. And he’s been out since. 

“In the event of a work-related incident: are you fearful of continuing work with Pony Express?”

“None of us work for them after this,” you spit, if it wasn’t already faxed out then surely this crash would be enough to terminate your lot.

She repeats herself until you throw out a frustrated, “no! fucking- no!”

And she keeps flapping her lips, droning with procedure that’s on the bottom of your priority list, “Do you consider harming others when you otherwise would not have?”

“No, Anya! I’m fine!” i just smell a corpse in the back of my mind at all times. it won’t leave. i can’t get rid of it. i smell it now, and it reeks. it just makes me want to

“Have you considered harming yourself?” she trails off, blinking up at you. Papers flopped onto her desk, which was shuffled toward the right in the crash. Uprooted and askew.

Uprooted and askew, you slowly shake your head and answer, voice almost drowned out by the new sound of Curly breathing, “No.”

She muffles your name, bit-crushed beneath the captain’s impression. Strange how someone so big becomes something so small: you keck at the horrible passing thought. Curly the esteemed captain, a slab of cooked meat.

You salivate.

People salivate before vomiting, right?

You can say it’s that. You’re so sick you’ll vomit.

“I’m serious,” you think that’s what Anya says, “I know it seems pointless, but I need you to be open with me. This isn’t about Pony Express anymore. I’m just worried about you.”

You could tell her she should be, or you could spare her the piece of mind. Give her peace of mind.

“I’m fine, Anya,” you stand and grin, a firm perch of the lips, “Really.”

Anya rises before you have time to process the protesting screech from her chair, she darts around the edge of her shifted desk and latches onto you. Wrapping arms around your neck and squeezing air out, “Please… please...”

“You’re so thoughtful, Anya,” you return the embrace, shoulders drooping. Her nails scrape the nape of your neck. It’s bizarrely reassuring to have no choice in her arms, “You’re kind. I wish…” you sigh, barely clinging to the remnants of adulthood in you saying it’s too immature to bury your face into her jugular, “I wish my mom was more like you growing up.”

Anya’s claws sink into the top-notch of your spine, cutting sideways in harsh lines before she takes your shoulders in her hands. As if she really was your mother, as if you really did something wrong, as if you deserved all the ensuing agony: she shoves you back with a ghastly face. Onyx eyes swimming in a pearly sea, shock etched into her -down to her trembling hands. She jerks them into her sides to hide the shaking.

“Get out!”

“What?”

“Get out,” she steps back, “I’m not- I’m not your mother.”

“I- yeah, uhm… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… I’m not saying…”

“Get out.”

“Anya, I’m sorry!”

“Get!” she flings papers your way, they fly away in every direction except toward you. When they float and drift onto the floor by your feet, you see the evaluation questions. Pencil notes beneath each one, “Out! Get out!”

You’ve never seen her so desperately upset. Not even at the news of layoffs. Not after her several rejections to medical school.

“Anya?” what’s wrong?

She skirts behind the curtain surrounding Curly’s bed.

You don’t get to ask. You assume the evaluation has been concluded.

[3 weeks before the crash]

A curved spine and furrowed brows are often the sign of an artist in deep concentration. With the way his knuckles are whitening hard pressed against Anya’s metal desk, you don’t doubt Daisuke envisions himself as an artist either. His little tongue creeping out the side of his lips. Pen swipes scratching through the room.

Anya smiles down at the man, “I can’t file my reports when you steal all the pens, you know?”

Daisuke grunts in acknowledgment, mouth opening like he’s about to respond only to let out a resounding, utter silence. 

You laugh at the profound focus he exhibits, “I’ve never seen you so serious.”

“Hold on, hold on,” he’s muttering, then shooting up with the lemony post-it cupped to his chest, “Done!”

“Let’s see it,” Anya waves.

Daisuke flips the tiny square around to show off his work: a wide forehead parted by two obnoxious bug eyes and a thick nose. 

“Is that Jimmy?” you tilt your head, Anya’s neck limping in the opposite direction.

“Yimpyyyy!” Daisuke cheers, pointing at the name scrawled beneath, “Yimpy!”

“Yimpy?” you steer closer, just to stick the note against your finger and push it nearer to Anya’s face, “Yimpy!”

“Yimpy…” she nods slowly, then shrugs and slicks her finger against the rapidly aging adhesive stripe. Laying it flat against her corkboard to tack in place, stepping back proudly with a soft giggle, “Yimpy.”

Daisuke beams over making the sullen and serene Anya laugh. Turning to you for a private celebration, only to see you laughing as well. It feels even better that way.

*

[!] new message: signed legal agreement

[sent by: juarez, daisuke | subsection: huhhh you had to sign up for that????]

*

[first day of expedition]

“Everyone, meet Daisuke.”

“I’m Daisuke!”

“Hi, Daisuke!” the room drones, in a slow little tune reminiscent of an Alcoholics Anonymous chant.

“He’s an intern, so technically all of us can teach him something but I figure he’ll learn the most under Swansea,” Captain Curly nods toward the mechanic. Swansea swears between gritted teeth while you snicker.

“And what about the esteemed custodian, can’t the kids stick together?” he weasels, “Bad enough to get another baby on board.”

“Please,” Curly sighs, the hand he laid on Daisuke’s shoulder tightening just so before he drops it altogether. Clasping both fists in a plea, “I’ve been assured this is nothing that will sabotage the voyage. We should just brace for rationing a bit tighter with the last-minute addition.”

“Ain’t excited for more babysitting.”

You, very maturely, blow a raspberry at the older man, “Don’t break a hip bitching about it.”

Daisuke giggles at the retort, nearly earning his own beratement if not for Anya quickly cutting in:

“Go easy on them, it isn’t like that’s anybody’s dream job.”

“Besides,” Jimmy sneers, “they’re the most reliable part of the crew, we might catch a cold from the shitters if this one wasn’t there to clean ‘em.”

Curly bends to clap his co-pilot on the shoulder, perhaps a bit harder than he has to, and shines that million-dollar smile your way, “You’ve been my lucky charm on every voyage. Highest credit payout when the rest of the crew is living clean!”

You roll the praise off with ease, locking eyes with Daisuke, “Most of what I do is shovel the shit Jim’ spews. You’ll learn more with Swansea, for sure.”

Daisuke’s never met you before. He doesn’t know you at all. 

But he’s sure that the boiling coil in his stomach is disappointment when he’s hauled off toward the utility room with Swansea rather than wherever you’re going.

[1 month after the crash]

“I let you in there and you’ll tear the ship a new asshole,” Swansea swears, squinting over you as you lean against the opposite side of the door.

Daisuke looks your way as you shrug, “Alright, already, I don’t even care anymore. Not like fighting with you is worth it, stubborn geezer.”

Swansea scoffs, crossed arms tightening over his chest (Daisuke’s head flips back toward his mentor), “Yeah, right! I’m sure as soon as I walk away you’ll try ripping into that foam and get us all killed!”

“Why would I give a shit, Swansea?” Daisuke chuckles at your bite, bleached chestnut hair flapping around his shoulders.

“Because you’re young!” Swansea points right between your eyes, and Daisuke’s stare swings back around toward the older man, “You’ve got no ears,” you raise a brow at the accusation, “Everything I’m saying goes in one end and floats out the other, until you end up scraping the ship open and suddenly everything ole Swansea said makes sense!”

Daisuke’s head whirls back at you, chomping down a smile at whatever you’ll say next.

“What? You think I don’t listen?”

“I know you don’t.”

“Just ‘cuz I don’t have the patience to wait around until you’re ready for me to mop up utility…” you roll your eyes, “You know that rule is stupid.”

“I don’t know anything,” he mocks.

Daisuke’s neck will crick off how often he wrecks it back and forth, with all the thrill of a high-speed tennis match. 

“So, what’s the plan?” that question only earns you a wrinkled glare.

Swansea knows you know the plan. And he knows you’re only dragging this out for the knucklehead beside him’s entertainment. It’s far more irritating than anything else. 

Then, just to dig into his side, something somehow more irritating pounds closer and closer.

Jimmy appears over your shoulder -- Swansea makes a displeased grunt from the base of his throat, silently prodding the brunette for -what everyone’s sure is- his 500th rant of the day. Which is the worst, and funniest, thing about Jimmy, even if he’s entirely silent you can always read how pissed he is just by other people existing.

“Yeah, capitano?” Swansea scoffs when the man doesn’t just start prattling.

Daisuke straightens out, hands flaking at his sides. Brown eyes shooting to you, an almost comical bead of sweat dripping down his nose. You roll your eyes again and coo,

“Captain Jimmy, do you have orders for us?”

That, of course, is what sets him off.

Jimmy throws his hands in the air, aggravated, “I’ve been running around this ship, being helpful, while you three stand the fuck around?!” he jabs a shaking finger in your face, and you notice up close that it’s crooked after the first knuckle -like he broke it and never bothered having it set properly (something you wouldn’t put past him), “Go mop up Curly’s shit or something! This place is filthy, you’ve got things to be doing- I know it!”

“I already emptied his stupid bedpan and the catheter, whatever’s happened since is Anya’s business.”

Daisuke watches you with eyes positively sparkling as you sass a man on a higher wrung of the ladder without batting an eye. When Jimmy’s not looking, you catch him mouthing excitedly ‘you’re so cool’.

“Useless!” a hot glob of spit melts onto your cheek, he pays no heed to your grimace, “I pull my fuckin’ weight while you just stand here, a useless goddamn body!”

Yeah. Whatever.

You wait until Jimmy has stormed off again before playing off the infectious saliva stinging your face, smearing it off with the back of your hand, “Say it don’t spray it, dude.”

Daisuke snickers. That’s the best part of the interaction since your pseudo-captain forced his way through. Maybe since the crash, even. Not many things make your heart sputter or remember what it was like to beat, but for some reason Daisuke is different.

As for work... There isn't much to be done on anyone's part. Not yet at least. Daisuke can't do anything without Swansea's (extremely temperamental) supervision, and Swansea can't do anything until the foam is cleared, and you can't clear the foam until Swansea lets you, which so far he has been intensely clear about how little interest he has in that option. Three useless bodies. 

Make four out of the incapacitated Curly. Then five anytime Anya isn't actively supervising or aiding the captain. As for Jimmy.... you aren't exactly sure what it is Jimmy does to keep busy except for maybe crawling around the Tulpar to nitpick everyone else. He raves about the responsibility he takes, but as far as you’re concerned each of his assignments have been childishly basic. 

Perhaps his real work ethic translates into being as unapproachable as possible.

After talking to Jimmy, you always have the strongest urge to drink more. Swallow more. Bathe more. Purge the entire interaction from your system -kill 99.9% of him off until only the most vague and pleasant parts remain. The parts where he's fucking walking away and shutting up.

[4.1 months after the crash]

Aside from your hard steps down the rattling Tulpar, you can hear quiet lights droning: protesting their own existence. A blood orange hue staining the Polle Horse posters stuck down the walls, your skin glows too, but most of all: it turns the candy pink petals of a sweet hibiscus darker, kind of like a mildew eating out from the fabric’s folds. 

You gently prod the ribs hidden beneath that fabric with your shoe’s toe, “Daisuke? You awake?”

“Eughhhh,” he rolls onto his back unsteadily, arms wiggly and he completely falls onto one elbow in a way you’re sure wasn’t intentional. Those suspicions are confirmed when his entire round face yanks toward the center, a wimpy whine escaping his plump lips as he cups the elbow with his spare hand and massages the afflicted bone, “I don’t feel gooooood…”

“I can tell,” you squat down, hesitating only a moment before soothing your hand from his shoulder and toward the injured joint. His body seems to go lax beneath your warm touch, he smiles up at you,

“You’re so nice to me…”

“Uh, I guess? I never really thought of it like that.”

He tilts his head back against the floor, stray bubbles of foam soaking into his dyed strands, thin black brows furrowing, “Whaddya mean…?”

“I just. I dunno,” you guess it doesn’t matter how you phrase it, or what it even is that you phrase, Daisuke won’t remember come tomorrow, “I just talk to you how I think everybody should talk to you, you’re really someone that I like. As a person.”

“Really…?” his mouth splits in a wide smile, even rows of teeth glinting up at you. You take a weirder, closer glance and see that some teeth actually aren’t even, the bottom front pair grow over each other and one canine is a little far to the left. He giggles quietly, “I like you, too.”

“Thanks, Daisuke,” looking down each end of the rounding corridor, you slip onto your ass and sit with Daisuke curling around you. His knees come up until they’re brushing your knees and he tries nuzzling his face into your thigh, “You’re real touchy when you’re drunk, huh?”

“I’m not drunk!” he breaks down immediately after the charge, “I didn’t have that much!” his hand clanks around the floor until it scoops up a nearly empty bottle of mouthwash, he drops it before managing to properly show off what he’s drank, “Swansea had a ton more…”

“This shit’ll kill you, Daisuke.”

“You drink it…” he pouts, wrangling his hands into the back of your overalls and pulling as if trying to coax you to lie over his belly.

“In, like, shots. Quick swallows. Kids do it all the time.”

“That’s still drinking!”

“I’m not a good person, Daisuke,” you laugh it off, but it feels weird to say. You don’t think you meant it, but it felt. Solid. Coming out of your throat so concisely it still startles you how it sits in the open air, “I deserve to drink it.”

He blinks up at you lazily, lashes batting and you feel him yank your overalls tighter, “That’s not true!”

“I’m just someone that got stuck here years ago, you don’t know…” you shake your head, “I didn’t mean it.”

And saying that felt chunky, like upchucking cottage cheese and curdled milk. So sour you can feel it singe the back of your nose.

“Good because you’re my favorite,” he uses your pantlegs as leverage to crawl around and lay over your lap, turned onto his back. His hands settle over his chest, fingers busying themselves wringing his sweatbands around his wrist, “You’re funny and really pretty. And you’re nice to me.”

“You said that one already,” you pat his cheek when his eyes drift closed a little too long.

“It’s true…” he bemoans, reaching up to copy the gesture. Popping his lithe fingers once, then twice, against your cheek -not even hard enough to leave an imprint, “I like you a lot.”

“It might be time for bed, Daisuke…”

“My mom would like you,” tiny grunts escape as you prop him upon his feet, one of his arms thrown around your shoulder and he lends most of his weight to your side. Sloppy feet borderline hindering your joint trek back toward the common lounge.

“Would she? She wouldn’t disprove of my influence?”

“Nahhh, she’d love you,” his drunken grin falters just a moment as you lay him onto his mat, “She got me this internship, you know?”

“Did she?”

“Mhmmmm,” he snags you by the sleeve, urging you into his bed, “Said I was too aimless but I just don’t know what to do with myself,” he blinks up at you, “Never took to anything. Never wanted to try anything… just partied and drank. Now I’m drinking away this internship, and I might not ever get to thank her. Or show her that I learned anything.”

Just as you see water swelling along his lashes, you fall onto his mat, combing fingers through his hair. The bleaching has made it feel a little rubbery, it stretches a bit before untangling around your knuckles, you scratch over his scalp and pray it drains the tears before they fall.

“I’m sure you’ll find a chance, people like you always make it through.”

“Like me?”

“I mean. Pony Express has got to be tracking us somehow, right? They have to know we crashed…”

“Yeah,” he sighs, bloodshot eyes drifting over your features, “You’re so smart, too, my mom would be totally obsessed with you…” content to let yourself drift off in the coupling silence until Daisuke is audibly swallowing and murmuring again, “You know, when I need some dreaming material before bed… I like to imagine taking you on a nice beach date. Like. A real beach, not the sunset window screen. And we could have a lot of fun, I think. I like you.”

You nod slowly, scrunching his hair in your hand.

Even with your eyes closed, you know he’s turned to look at you -feeling his nose nudge across your cheek and his damp eyelashes scuttering along your temple, he says louder, “I really like you.”

“That could’ve been nice,” you admit.

“I’ll make it happen,” he promises, finally closing his own eyes, and committing to falling asleep together again.

Then his brain zaps again, apparently too fired with curiosity to realize he could just ask in the many coming days you’ll spend stranded on this big ass rock,

“How’d you end up here anyway?”

He yawns. Loudly.

You yawn back.

Not bothering to open your eyes before blandly spitting, “If I didn’t find some kind of purpose, I could’ve killed myself.”

Then nothing. Not shock or disappointment or even a feigned gasp. It’s almost… offending, humiliating even. You swing up violently, lips twitching to scream when you’re stunned still:

Daisuke’s wholly asleep. And now you can hear his soft snoring, quiet sighs escaping his -you bet pained and burning- throat.

[5 months after the crash]

“Pfft, I thought you said this would work!”

“I thought it would!” 

Daisuke giggles and lifts some of your dead ends, “You know I don’t think any amount of bleach could get these colored…” he’s mumbling, mindlessly, thinking nothing of it, “They’re so fried…”

Immediately your entire face twists unpleasantly, “Hey! Don’t say that…” you shove Daisuke’s hands away, clutching the dead ends by your neck, “Get scissors and just chop ‘em off, then…”

“Right now?” he tilts his head, blinking at you stupidly.

“Right now!” you shout, drunkenly.

Just as drunkenly, Daisuke stutters over while shaking his head, “No way! They’re just dead ends… I didn’t mean it mean,” then he’s tweaking his own bleached, frayed strands of hair between his fingers, “I got ‘em, too! Look!” 

Peeking through your disgusted scowl, you reach out and yank, “You do.”

Daisuke snickers in your face, nodding, “Exactly! Sorry I said it weird.”

You nod sluggishly and Daisuke simply lets you hold his hair. You judge the splitting hairs, you think it’s strangely pretty -- maybe just because it’s Daisuke.

“You’re lookin’ at me funny,” he mutters, looking from your eyes to your lips. You do the same, “You look at me like you wanna kiss me.”

You shrug. Coy. Pouty. Perhaps not acceptance, but most definitely not denial.

“Can I?” he wonders.

You lean in first. He tastes like mouthwash, and you keep kissing him anyway.

[4.2 months after the crash]

Page two, subsection General Safety, paragraph seven states that in the event of shattered glass. The custodial engineer is the sole person capable of collecting and disposing of loose shards. There are thick gloves in the office and a hazard bin for exactly this moment.

After Jimmy stormed off with the emergency axe, Swansea stumbled down the hall toward utility. Grumbling about the apparent nerve of your new captain after burying the blade into the window screen. Red bathes the foamed lounge. Daisuke sits criss-cross from you: both your faces turned up toward the cracked screen. Starry-eyed at the glitches like two toddlers sat in front of morning cartoons. 

Then a crimson glint catches from your peripherals.

You twirl in place, shuddering into the wall before drunkenly reaching out and grasping for glass. 

There’s no time for gloves or bins- not when glass is littered everywhere! This is too urgent.

Bare prints pricked long ways, you know you’re cut before the bleeding even starts. It never outright hurts when you cut yourself by accident, there’s that momentary shock like ice pressed right against your skin. Then you bleed out onto the floor, and then it stings. Skin peeling back exposing the tiniest bare fragments of yourself to open air. It fucking stings.

You whine and pull back and Daisuke hurries over. He hisses at the sight and plucks your hands away from the scene. Blood drips from your fingertips and over the carpet, no doubt to fester a new commune of mold. 

“Uh, shit,” he blinks himself as sober as possible, then has to close one eye just to see straight while clobbering for a bottle of the trusty stuff, “Disinfectant! Right? Gotta clean this…”

Daisuke holds your hand palm-up, clenching it like he believes what’s next will hurt at all. In his other hand is a backwash-frothy bottle of DragonbreathX mouthwash -- it tips hesitantly. Guzzling faded teal into the cup of your hand. You hold your breath, expecting that searing wave of alcohol draining a wound. Daisuke holds the bottle upright and stares through you.

It just feels like you have a slowly leaking handful of mouthwash. Sugar sticking around your cupped skin. 

“Should I get Anya?” he asks, watching your blood turn the liquid brown before tipping over the edge of your hand. Drooling from the cracks between your fingers.

“No,” no, no you don’t think she’d help at all. You shove your fist knuckle-down into your thigh and smile wryly at Daisuke, “I think the mouthwash will be fine… It’ll take care of everything.”

It’s just some glass, after all.

[!] new message [!]

When you try raising your head, it hurts. But not really. Just an incredibly dull vibration that you know is meant to be a painful deterrent, so you choose not to fight it. No matter how badly you know you should look up.

Mom sits on one end of the couch and Dad on the other. They lean into their respective arms and do not cross the middle of the couch, where you sit. Every few minutes a bell rings from inside the television, but other than that all it plays is monochrome snow. Randomized pixels all buzzing across the screen. A white glow emanates from the screen. It looks cold, you think if you pressed your palms flat against the glass a chill would race up your arms. 

Mom yawns, Dad shoots a brief slant her way before mumbling, “Tired?”

His thick voice and drawling tone mutilate the vowels, though, so all you can make out is a gentle, ”Terrred?”

Mom shrugs and speaks over your head without looking away from the television. Dad nods listlessly and they both rise and shuffle off down the hall, leaving you and TV buzzing. A bell rings. 

It tingles sweetly, all gentle songbird and high. Sort of like the bell at school warning you from being late to class, or permitting you to charge into the canteen for soggy pizza and frozen milk. 

When Dad comes back, he’s without Mom, and he’s got wavy blonde hair and a little scruff. And he doesn’t speak at all. His eyes are hidden beneath stray golden strands, but his lips are stretched pleasantly. Pressing the TV into pitch black before scooping you into two big arms, cradling your neck against his chest.

You hear his heartbeat; pulpy, it pounds in loud, viscous waves. As if it needs to prove that it's still alive. And the heat is overbearing, as though he’s melting from the inside out.

He lays you down and leaves. 

A bell rings.

*

[!] new message: i am my worst moment i am defined by my past and i am fucking awful

[sent by: sender outside of network. please contact captain if messages from unknown senders continue to route to this machine. do not respond. do not respond. do not respond.]

*

[6 hours until judgement]

Sixty excruciating minutes drag by before five fingers are snapping over the edge of the mattress. A distinctly metallic click follows. Hinges squeak apart, clacking against the frame of the bed with finality. A wobbly elbow pokes into sight before that clutching hand pushes up, dragging his whole body sideways as you yank the sheets with effort. Standing upon squiggling knees, downcast eyes linger beneath the bed -- he can’t see that far down. But he’s sure he already knows what you’re looking at.

Get it over with he wants to hiss Just shoot me. Don’t keep me in suspense.

Your forearm writhes with a ‘click’, eyes heavy with discoloration. Somewhere between sinking into your skull and popping out like a cyst -- they finally rise upon him.

Somewhere between upset and stoic, your face remains unchanged as you lay the hidden hand just by his bandaged arm. Silver glints angrily into his eyeball -- he’d flinch away if he could.

Just do it already he screams in his mind, but all that escapes are wheezy whistles Just fucking shoot me!

You already said you would, didn’t you?

It’d help everyone. Meat would make the crew happier than when they still had those canned soups. That’s what you said. So just get him over with.

[10 days after the crash]

He always said the past is something that defines who you are, but not something you need to be enslaved by. You can be a terrible person, and become something shinier. Less obscure or offensive to observe over time, you just need to put in the work. You wonder how long you can be disgusted by your thoughts before they’re no longer your own.

this doesnt even look like curly anymore

Instinctually, and despite not having verbalized it, you clasp a hand over your mouth at that.

You unwind the bent arm to wrap knuckles in warm bed sheets. And he watches you. You think he knows what you were seething. You’re sorry. You don’t say that. Rather, you ask,

“Do you sleep anymore, Captain?”

He ticks his head just slightly, just enough as he can manage before the muscles shred and burn. 

“I bet…” you murmur, uncapping the jade bottle of little white relievers, “it just hurts all the time now…”

He tips his head back, then shudders forward.

Shaking two capsules into hand, you look down at the panting crimson stain that is Captain Grant Curly and shake another two out. Then you tip six more out. Balling the pills in your hand. 

His pupils shake around your hand with the pills, dilated to hell -his entire eye nearing black.

You notice now that Curly has no eyelids. But the muscle still attached and bound around his socket puckers as if there’s anything there to move. It all pulses with the best intentions, just to accomplish nothing. Same for his nonexistent lips, singed off just to show off bare nerves beneath crisp gums and gapped teeth. Blood dried into the bones’ indents. His teeth chatter as he moans, as if to speak but there’s only a stubbed tongue back there. Nothing he can use to shape the words to beg for

“Should we just…” his gaze snaps up to your face then, teeth clicking against each other, “Uhm…” open red muscle flexes around his neck but before you can see which way he moves his head, you clench shut. 

can we kill you already?

Pure darkness swallowing your sight, you fiddle around the plastic green bottle and replace eight of the pills, “Here, Captain, open up.”

Barely peeking through your shrouded lashes, you slot the pills between gaping, warm gums where teeth should be. His tongue feels like fucking sandpaper, you cringe and clench your eyes harder.

“I’m sorry,” you shake your head, hand shaking at his jaw before soothing the caps down his gullet, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Logically, it makes so much sense: he’s in pain simply lying here -no skin, charred flesh, exposed nerves, chopped limbs- and you don’t imagine he will ever recover what he’s lost.

Emotionally, you clam up completely; rejecting the thoughts until you can claim they were never even yours.

You never got the question out, anyway. And you never saw his response.

So, practically, none of that happened. You just gave the captain his pills because you’re a good subordinate and a good crewmate, and more importantly a good friend.

Eyes still closed, you mutter, “Feel better soon, Captain…”

He moans in protest as you turn. Groaning louder when you call Anya back into the room, claiming to be finished.

“Thank you,” she sighs, stepping into her office with hands clasped over her heart. One soft palm laid over the other, “I’m sorry to put it on you like that, but I just…” she frowns, “The sound… I’m- well. I can’t- “

“Anya, it’s fine. I don’t mind,” you wave her concerns away, a thin, forced smile stretching over your face. And you pretend the huffing behind you is just the new sound of Curly breathing.

Escaping into the hall, you wait as long as it takes for the medical room to click shut behind you before darting for a waste bin. Clamping the sides between two shaking, clammy hands and heaving into it.

Your whole body jerks over the neon bucket. Something like a big ball races up your intestines and just beneath your uvula before falling back into the well of your stomach. Gagging again, you feel it just about to slip over your soaked tongue before: nothing. The thick coil shudders back down again with nothing in your stomach to offer up. Besides spit that burns on the way down.

Your stomach rumbles for something to puke up.

Begging for relief.

[13 hours before the crash]

“Woah.”

Gold tresses gleam beneath the digital moonlight, two pale faces shining your way. Deep lines cut beneath your captain’s eyes. 

“Didn’t expect to see you out here so late, Captain…”

He shrugs, throwing an arm over the back of the lounge couch to better watch you, “I’ve had to think over some things recently,” you’re about to prod and he must be able to sense it because then he asks, “What are you doing up?”

“I wanted a sweet tonic, honestly.”

He raises a thick brow at the response, you merely shrug and meander toward the kitchen. Not sparing the code booklet a glance before punching numbers into the synthesizer.

“I’m basically already fired anyway, right?” you rationalize, sensing his judgments from across the floor, “Plus, there’s supposed to be fewer germs in the sweetener anyway, so it’s healthier than a regular tonic.”

When he doesn’t miraculously approve that response and spin back around, you scoff, continuing the one-sided argument,

“What? Will me sneaking another sweetener pack get you in trouble with your old bosses?”

Curly sighs and slumps back into place, “No. I guess not……… Look. Kid. I didn’t know any more than you all do. I didn’t. I didn’t know.”

“It’s not really my business, Captain. You heard Jimmy, I’ll be off to another shithole soon enough.”

Nothing back, not even an admissible chuckle.

Sliding squishy, silicone packets on either side of the humming fabricator is a simple enough task that you can look away without screwing anything. So you watch Curly as he watches the window screen -- silent. Stiff. Unsure, you poke again, “What’re you looking at?”

“There’s a dead pixel in the screen,” he scans left to right as he says it though.

Two glasses in each hand, you sit beside Curly on the white pleather. It squeaks at the sudden weight when you throw yourself back, slipping one tonic toward Curly while curling the other into your chest. Nestling it comfortably in the middle with the straw right beneath your lips, “Where?”

He ignores the offered drink, “I’m still looking for it.”

“Huh… okay,” you squint up at the screen, sipping the sweet mixture.

That look is back in his eyes. That vacancy. Pulling in and nulling all the light above, something reminiscent of a black hole. He stares down at Jimmy that way a lot. 

“I just don’t see it, but I know it’s there,” he says: solemn, gloomy, “I know it’s up there.”

Curly has a wide face and wider shoulders. Blonde scruff has grown out around his jaw since his last shave on earth, and the hair on his head is almost waxy with how perfectly it falls and frames his head. Rosy cheeks, button nose. And those dull blue eyes. Captain Grant Curly, your beloved and trusted pilot.

“Uhm, you know, Captain…”

He blinks, eyes flicking your way before returning toward the screen.

“I’ve been thinking a lot more lately,” you sit up straighter, shoulders feeling lighter as you finally confess, “I usually do nothing but think, but now it’s stuff that’s actually… important. And it’s all terrible. After this crew disbands, I’ve got nothing and nobody to go back for. I’m not sure what else to strive for if I’m not being told what to do, I don’t know what else I should stay alive for. I feel like I’m watching someone else use my body to make all the worst decisions possible but I don’t know how to find the will to stop myself,” you feel nauseous in a good way, the way you feel when you lurch the last part of a hangover. Just before the stomach lining starts repairing itself. Getting everything you’ve let stain your back out into the open actually feels… 

“I’ve just been thinking that maybe Jimmy was probably right about me… about everything…”

Good.

But if it’s good, then why does Curly shoot off the couch like you lit fire at his feet, and why does he scream like you did too?

“Goddammit, kid!” he scoffs, raking untamed tresses, “I’m not the ship’s personal diary!” he heaves, eyes wide, “We’ve got psych evals for this shit!”

He looks down at you, you’re still on the couch and you’re completely still. Your mouth agape and hands folded nervously over your drink. He thinks he could hear a bit of Jimmy’s blunt gruff in the back of his mind: he sharply turns away and marches toward the doors.

You feel nauseous. In a terrible way. Like your dad just called from the hospital. Suddenly your nose feels fuller than it used to, and suddenly your eyes are fucking burning, and suddenly your arms shake so violently you need to put your drink on the table. Next to Curly’s untouched one. You hiccup, short of breath.

Thudding steps pause just after the hiss and release of the lounge doors parting, a man sighs, “Don’t spend all night out here, kid.”

You don’t hear that over the sound of your own breathing, heavy and wavering. Pretty pathetic.

Befitting to be hidden away scrubbing some abandoned shithole. Desperate enough to hire a goddamn mess.

Jimmy was probably right.

*

[!] new message: neighhhh^7

[sent by: hotard, swansea | subsection: last i’ll say this, i need to be there when you clean utility.]

*

[3 days after the crash]

You get it, really you do. After a crash, some gears are bound to not work the way they used to, that’s just common sense. In the same way Curly is forever changed, Tulpar too is marred by her collision. And the same way Jimmy has already taken the helm and is pushing for rationing and repairing, doors squeal in agony as they open. The offside closet attached to Utility did when it opened for you to enter, and you were already prepared for it to do the same as it opened for you to leave.

Except it didn’t.

“What the fuck…?” you groan.

Slapping both hands against the metal door, straining your arms to manually glide the steel apart. Huff and puff as you might, nothing would budge.

It reeks of stale emergency foam, leaking through the cracked walls. One stumble too far back and you may be torn apart by space. 

That could be preferable to starving alone in a closet, though.

You just wanted something to do. Something to get the smell of a breathing corpse out of your nose.

Banging into the door with both hands wide open, you scream hard for any pair of ears to hear. “Help! Help! Help!”s devolving into wordless, snotty trills and ceaseless violent slams on cold metal. Your voice echoes in the cramped space. Bouncing through one ear and out the other faster than wails leave your mouth. 

You slowly become less upset about being trapped and more upset that nobody’s found you yet. It didn’t feel real until the third time you screamed: Nobody’s looking. 

Dropping your arms, you just ball your pants into each fist and hang your head to whimper. Tears streaming down your face. Dripping onto the floor, rolling between grates. Hacking into the open air. Flem webbing down your chin.

It’s like being seven all over again. Strangers pushing rusty carts past you as you shiver in a tank top and jorts in the meat section. Shiny plastic swelled over beef and pale chicken watching high over your head. A big man with a round belly and a white plastic card clipped into his yellow shirt came upon you. He asked your name. He asked if you knew where you were.

“Do you know where you are, kid?”

“Did you get lost?”

“Hey, hey, hey.”

A big man with a round belly has no choice but to pop you in the cheek with the back of his hand. Immediately he apologizes.

“Sorry.”

Not a grimace crosses his features as he wipes a conglomerate of tears and snot and drool from your cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. His brows are creased so far down that they nearly hide his eyes. You reach up, snagging his wrists in your hands, burying a cough into your shoulder,

“The fuck happened in here?” he means it entirely, obviously expecting an answer as he jitters you by the neck, “You see 

Whatever else he’s saying sounds too complicated. Underwater. None of your business. It makes you feel little again: watching another man with a plastic card over his chest, and a tie latched around his neck have a stern conversation with your mother. Who looks like she couldn’t care less while he’s red in the face.

“Are you fucking listening to me?” he scathes, “Do you wanna die or something?”

[12 days after the crash]

“Huh?”

“Do you wanna die or something?” Swansea swerves the axe in front of your face. Ticking it like clockwork.

“I’m just trying to clean out the foam,” you cannot fight back the yawn as it drags out, protruding the middle of your sentence like a fat beetle.

He merely tightens his stance and glares at you. Axe now against his chest, hugged between both arms.

“I’m trained for this, I know what I’m doing,” for a man of his age he’s more determined than he knows what to do with. Both of you have been at this argument for at least a couple hours. Not long now before the nighttime window screen illuminates, “Besides, if we’re really stranded here then isn’t it better to just die now than wait for something worse off?”

Rather than answer with sincerity, Swansea sarcastically bites, “Is that your way of saying we’re all gonna kill ourselves?”

“Starving, Swansea. Starving.” 

Sighing, Swansea pulls a hand on the door and preemptively shushes you. Not that it stops you from nearly splitting ears as you cry “fucking dick!”

Clasping a hand over your mouth, Swansea swings you both into utility after a fleeting glance down the hall to ensure you were alone. Shutting the door so you’re locked into the vast floorspace of a fucking empty utility room. Foam clogs, maybe, a quarter of the room: stuck near the edge of the wall where most of the damage was concentrated.

Before you can bite his hand, or chew out more swears, he’s speaking again:

“I wasn’t lying, nothing in here works anymore,” he holds up a finger, letting it fall to the left, “Except that cryo pod. I’m hiding it from Jim’, I just know something about him ain’t right. I don’t want him or Curly to be the ones in it,” he must catch the confused twitch by your eye because he redirects his pointing toward the lounge where Jimmy and Anya and, most importantly, Daisuke are sleeping, “The thing might be big enough for you and Daisuke to jigsaw into place, and I’ll make sure it starts from the outside. Just gotta wait for Jimmy to stop fucking wandering,” then he sighs, mostly to himself but also for you.

He says, pretty evidently disappointed, 

“If there’s not enough room for both of you. I’ll be making sure the kid’s the one that gets in, you know?”

You think you do. You assume you do.

Something about a

[8 hours until judgement]

“Please, please, please please please,” you’re slurring all the consonants together, flurrying out each word as if they could save him, “Please! Please, Daisuke?!”

Daisuke responds the only way he can: writhing. 

His eyes are full circles of bloodshot white. Piercing through you ambivalently.

Malice and resentment, but also so so so much regret. Past all his grunting and squealing, no words have room to grow. Instead they stay buried with the rest of his feelings, deep in his chest right about where his lungs are filling with blood.

“Don’t leave me,” you gush, squeezing him on your lap. Devastated over a death you can physically feel coming. He’s getting so warm with all those weeping wounds, and he flexes with each passing breath -- every one taking more effort than the last, “Please, I need you. Daisuke…” 

He knew you were selfish. A little flighty, too. And as much as he wants to grant your pleas, this task is just a bit impossible.

You’re asking someone to live when there’s no remaining quality of life.

[1 month after the crash]

Page five, subsection Poison Control, paragraph one -Polle pledges that if any chemicals are out of stock without proper logging, personal credits will be docked from the crew pay package. To ensure something like that doesn’t happen, custodians are required to perform stock counts. Often. 

To distract yourself from the mounds of foam cobbling the Tulpar together, maintaining its air seal, you continue to perform this duty. Even if you’re sure it’s one of many less pressing matters.

“Ready and reporting for duty!” is what greets you. Daisuke pushing two fingers to his forehead with the other arm wound behind his back, a toothy smile parting his face, “Hi!”

“What’re you doing?” you skip past the intern, keying the walk-in open.

“Keep you company.”

“That’s against policy, you know? I’m supposed to be alone for this,” on the off chance he believes that you believe that, you force a tiny laugh out.

He takes the bait and shrugs, slotting against the gaping doorway. Picking and twisting his neon sweatbands absentmindedly. His eyes snaking after you, “Are you gonna snitch on me?”

Bending to lift a toppled bottle of blue, bubbly chemical -a motion you feel Daisuke thoroughly examine- you make a flippant hum, “I don’t see why I would.”

You spare all of two seconds trying to push the chemicals onto the top shelf -unsuccessfully- before your dear, sweet intern is charging into action. Bravely saddling up beside you and rolling up his sleeves somehow higher.

“Oh, you need help with that?” now Daisuke curls up behind you, already grasping the jug in your palms without any response.

Daisuke’s arms are not the biggest or broadest, but he’s certainly more capable than the aging Swansea or thin Anya. You’d just about rather die than approach Jimmy.

Besides, maybe the sight of his muscles flexing overhead is interesting. Bubblegum hibiscus flows around your waist and warmth flushes up your back. Hard chest rounding against your back, thick thighs nearly shuffling between yours.

Daisuke is breathing so heavily, but you don’t think it’s from any heavy lifting. Plump lips parted before he sucks his bottom lip between sharp teeth, eyes darting from your face -sickly in the pale freighter lights- to your own pulsing chest. Spindly fingers fumble out for your own, looping around the first two before he bravely snatches your entire hand. Scrubbing his thumb along your knuckle.

“Can we…” he has something in mind, and at the last minute you watch that pivot click behind his eyes, “Can we share a bed tonight?”

Smaller than the closet, you’re forced to slather Daisuke with your weight. Legs tangling and arm over his stomach. He’s got a hand up your shirt drawing shapes into your back; it’s about the calmest thing about him right now. Blunt nails crush the impression of lopsided, top-heavy hearts into your skin while his head is pin-straight forward. Gaze locked on the pumpkin-painted ceiling, the sunset projection across the room more interesting than saying anything he actually wants to.

“I feel like,” he has to close his eyes, visualizing himself on the edge of a cliff. Jumping off. If you don’t catch him, he’ll die anyway, “We do this a lot.”

“Cuddle?”

“Get close,” the pace of his breathing quickens, your head on his heart bobbing in rushed time, “And then we kinda pretend it didn’t happen.”

“Do we?”

“I think so,” he’s questioning himself even with a hand up the back of your shirt. Eyes squeezing harder until technicolor shapes are popping into little greyish stars, “I thought so, anyway…”

Mercifully, you lay a hand over his jaw, squishing round cheeks between thumb and forefinger. Scooching up on the lumpy medical mat to sweetly lay a kiss on his cheek. Instantly his face flares, the hand not shoved up your back latching onto your wrist -- squeezing but not prying, cooking your lips. The next moment his head falls and twists, lips puckered and sugary against yours. 

Hand slithering along your arm until he’s cupping your cheek, arm curling tighter around your waist. Nigh pulling you on top of him completely. Plying the fat of your thigh, working toward your ass with cute whines. Grinding tenting jeans into your leg with little distorted jumps.

You pull back, kiss his cheek, and murmur, “Goodnight, Daisuke…”

He sighs quietly but grins against your face and nods, “Goodnight…”

Hugging you tight, Daisuke rolls you two enough so he’s able to hang off you like a backpack with arms wound around your waist. Legs entwining with yours. He kisses along your shoulder before burying his face in your neck. You think something wet drips on your skin, but you don’t ask about it -- too scared of the response.

Daisuke is sweet and kind and you know he likes you. You like him too.

You squeeze the hand he has rested over your stomach.

You just don’t know how to like him without ruining everything you liked.

(at some point in the night, you’re woken by anya -- asking with just the tiniest bend in her lips- asking if you knew daisuke was in your bed. you would nod sleepily and she would wish you goodnight. daisuke, then, drowsily smiled and mumbled ‘what’s up anya??’. she ruffled his stiff, bleached hair and wished him goodnight too.)

*

[!] new message: stop fucking ignoring me and answer these

[sent by: sender outside    network. Please contactact captain if messages from unknown senders continue to route ot this machine do not espind. Do not respond. do not respond..]

*

[5 months after the crash]

The inside of Anya smells worse than the outside. 

A thought you never imagined you would actively have, but something that makes sense logistically. 

“Does logic help with team cohesiveness?” Polle asks over your shoulder.

In theory, it should.

“So how did your crew end up like this?” he sounds a little girlish, high-pitched and all. You think pointing that out could get you a visit to the HR office.

But also, the question is valid. How did you get back here, and at this point, is there a point to being back here? The rag is sopping wet and all the white threads have turned burgundy. Everything is so… ripe. Pungent. Pushing muck around the scratched tile. Everything not clinging to Anya seeks to stain you. 

Why are you here?

Polle answers: “Biohazards! You are the first line of defense between your crew and disease!”

A janitor is important, after all.

Nobody else wants to play in shit and blood and oil so it’s best they seal off the slimiest grub they can find to roll around in it. Who better than you? If you get sick it’s fine.

“That’s what you’re paid for!” Polle chirps. Giving a mock salute. Obnoxiously clicking his black hooves.

Which is why Anya appointed you the one to wipe the captain’s shit out of a bent bedpan. Which is why Anya gave you one last task: mop up the vomit she choked out. Whatever you can’t mop, everything on her clothes and skin and tangled into those petite little framing hairs, should be burned. For sanitation. 

“It’s about all you’re good for,” a deeper voice adds. Disgust grating each vowel.

Polle laughs behind the stiff veneer of his poster, nailed down years before you came here and no doubt hanging up long after you eventually croak. 

Looking up at the red man on the bed, you find him already staring down at you with that single bulging eye. The fucking nerve: leaving you all here, free to venture out. Free of your nastiest thoughts, free of the grotesque thanklessness of sucking puss out of an open wound. Free of the concern of where you’ll end up next.

Free to just die.

“What did you just say?” you snarl, an unfamiliar fire encouraging you onto your feet. On a bridge, staring into crystal waters at a fish floating belly-up.

All his crispy lungs can get out is a quiet moan. Pained at the center. Gooey in all the wrong ways.

“Why did you watch Anya die?” his gaze darts down to your hands, now balled in blistering fists, “Why were you the last one she talked to?” he refuses to look back into your face, “And why does Daisuke want your fucking approval so much? And why is Jimmy obsessed with keeping you alive?” unsteadily your volume has risen, yet startling even yourself when you’re shouting. The cockpit safety gun -that spontaneously disappeared not long before the crash, that you’re pretty sure you spotted just now beneath his bed- would be comfortable in your hand right about now, “Maybe our crew would’ve been better off if we just fucking ate you!”

Curly’s chest convulses wildly. Now he’s looking you in the face.

Polle says: “Play nice! *unrest amongst the crew requires befitting punishment from the Captain, and will dock personal credits from the crew pay package.”

He looks afraid. Squirming away from your cinched hands and huffing inconsistently. Like he’d cry if he could.

Sympathetically, you crumble to your knees, bent over his bed and hugging the sheets while dry-heaving self-loathing, “I’m sorry- I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it!” you hack, snot and salt mingling in the back of your throat, clogging it as you rush to spew, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry- I didn’t mean it, Captain, I didn’t - sorry! I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit’s one year older for you, Captain! [6 days before the crash]

How’s it feel?” you tilt your head, bumping both brows lightheartedly.

“Surprise!” Jimmy jeers from beside you, arms folded.

“Surprise!” Daisuke copies, “Look at your face!”

“Gotcha!” Anya giggles, dainty hand curling over her mouth.

“Cheers!” Swansea, despite his eagerness to appear unenthused, is the loudest after Daisuke.

“Uh. Wow,” Curly blinks, shaking his head. You hope just clearing the adrenaline from his system… you wouldn’t think this party could be that much of a startle.

Unless something else had completely overridden his mind, he should’ve known this was coming.

Swansea was last year, after all, and your crew always moves the parties in a routine circle.

“Last year must’ve been wild, huh?” Daisuke nudges you with an elbow.

“Huh?” you wonder if he could read minds. You beam the number four into his third eye, waiting to see if he’ll snag the bait.

He doesn’t, confirming two possibilities: he either does not read minds or is committed to keeping his powers a secret. In both scenarios, you have no choice but to move on, so you do.

“Last year, I can’t believe I missed it! You guys got Swansea,” he points across the room, some would call it rude but you think it’s just another harmless Daisuke-ism, “Wish I could’ve seen him get loose!”

The old mechanic grumbles a vague threat to keep you silent.

“It was fun, he ate three whole slices of the company cake and puked. Real party animal shit,” while Anya recounts how Swansea stumbled over himself as everyone screamed ‘surprise’, you whisper to Daisuke, “I actually made the cake last year. Captain was too busy filing reports from corporate.”

“No way!” he hisses back, “You know the sweetener code?”

“Uh-huh, take notes,” you mimic a notepad and pen in your hands, “2-3-4-1. It was the first thing I scammed my way into memorizing on this stupid ship,” perhaps a bit unwise you’re just telling some new intern this, but oh well, “Captain pretends he doesn’t know.”

An overly dramatic hum breaks out over your shoulder, making you jump in place as a deep voice quizzes, “What’s that?”

Recovery is simple enough, you just twine your hands bat your lashes, and beam, “Ohhhh, nothing, Captain!”

He seems a bit out of things as he laughs. That usual spark in his eyes long faded and lips not quite quirking the way they used to. Even just a single day ago, his face seemed brighter.

Even as he brings the cake to your crew, sat around the cheap table. Anya and Swansea are on one side, across from you and Daisuke. Jimmy at one head by Anya. And Curly at the other by you. 

“Speech! Speech! Speech!” Daisuke chants, encouraging you to join.

Swansea grins, lackluster and slight but full of mirth he would never show, leaning his chin against folded hands, “Yeah, captain.”

“Can’t be a party without a speech!” Anya giggles, head turned fully toward the blonde, “We won’t let you get out of it!”

Before Curly’s mouth opens, even a little, the man on the other side of the table prompts:

“What’s wrong?” Jimmy scours his friend with those wooden eyes.

Curly can’t maintain any mask in front of the slightest prodding, let alone from Jimmy. . . .

that’s all it said on the report from management we will receive the paycheck for this delivery I don’t know any more than that

Silence gnaws at the table before Swansea braves to break it: pony express finally kicking the bucket huh what a joke and we’re the punchline

You blink. The back of your neck is freezing cold. Your throat is too tight to swallow any saliva, so you let it all pool in your mouth.

i don’t have any savings they can’t just do this right

Anya’s voice wasn’t always so shrill, was it?

Are your ears melting off? They’re burning hot enough, you think. The temperature clash makes you push a shaking hand into your gut. Tissue bubbling beneath your palm.

A hand joins the one you aren’t pushing against your stomach, coaxing your nails out from puncturing your chair’s armrest. Daisuke squeezes your hand, turned away from Swansea in favor of studying your troubled face. Each minuscule slacken surveyed by him, he can pinpoint the exact moment your crewmates’ voices stop sounding like bland static impersonations and start sounding like themselves again.

Unfortunately, that exact moment is when Jimmy asks:

“When did they tell you?”

You actually look at Curly for his response, and Daisuke decides that maybe he should look over too. At least seem a little invested in anything that isn’t your obvious unrest.

“Earlier this week,” each body not belonging to Daisuke flinches at the brutal honesty, which he supposes is fair, “I was instructed to wait until we’re closer to the haul destination. But I can’t keep something like this from you all…”

“So, I guess you got what you wanted. Without the guilt.”

Not exactly the shot you assumed Jimmy would be taking, but you can’t say you disagree with it.

Captain Curly constantly had this greyed look in his eye. Watching a movie he could recite the ending to. Maybe even one he dreaded having to sit for again.

For a long time now, you’ve suspected he wanted to move on. Who better to confirm it than the longtime friend, co-pilot Jimmy?

“I can get back to my…” the brunette snorts inauthentically, “How’d you put it? ‘Struggle of a life’?” he swings a rabid arm across the table, “Anya never got into medical school because she’s, well, let’s be real. And how many employment years Swansea got left in him?” he sneers towards your more youthful half of the table, “Daisuke will be fine, mommy and daddy have him covered. So there’s that at least! And that one won’t be out of work for long, huh? Anybody could do that job, and everywhere needs it. Only worry there is finding the right dump desperate enough to hire a burnout!” Jimmy slumps back into his chair, leveling Curly with an almost painful glare, “But you. Headed for bigger and better, right?”

Curly clenches both fists, sighing through his nose and head shaking, “I’m just,” he blinks too hard, each drop visibly manual, “I’m just working on my life being a place I don’t have to fucking escape! That’s what I was trying to tell you: nothing more!”

Jimmy bangs a fist on the table before swiping it across to display you all, you and Anya recoil at the unexpected motion as he declares, “We’re the ones you’re trying to escape! Leave the dirt behind now that your boots are clean!”

“That’s not what I meant!” hearing Curly raise his voice is sickening. You turn your hand on the rest to now be the one squeezing Daisuke.

“That is what you meant,” Jimmy asserts, “You just couldn’t frame it to yourself in a way that kept you as the hero. Abandon the crew and make your escape.”

“What else could I do?!” seeing him so desperate, clawing for a way out of Jimmy’s needling like a declawed cat in plastic, has you doubling over yourself with a buzzing stomach.

Jimmy throws himself back into his chair at the head of the table, “Let’s have some fucking cake, hm? Props to the twilight crew of the Tulpar. Props to the captain and his new prospects.”

Even in a different light, you don’t know if you would’ve ever enjoyed here- hearing Captain Curly’s advancement from the Tulpar.

So when he looks to you for any cheap defense, you don’t find anything to say. You even congratulate yourself for not whimpering for him to talk the higher-ups out of this. 

Jimmy does not find your bravery as inspiring, and instead scoffs, “Even your codependent maid can’t talk you out of this.”

Ashamed, you sink into the seat. Only Daisuke’s grip keeps you from slithering onto the floor. Slimy and wet and pathetic. And whimpering for some kind of miracle that means this won’t really be the last time you work with your crew. You lay your hand in the hand Daisuke doesn’t pulse, his gaze solely on you: now hunting for the moment you pick yourself up. Or at least for an opening where he can manufacture it for you.

Curly’s knife clinks as he picks it up, sawing through plasticine sugar.

You don’t raise your head.

[8 hours until judgement]

“Please, please, please please please,” you’re slurring all the consonants together, flurrying out each word as if they could save him, “Please! Please, Daisuke?!”

Daisuke responds the only way he can: writhing. 

His eyes are full circles of bloodshot white. Piercing through you ambivalently.

Malice and resentment, but also so so so much regret. Past all his grunting and squealing, no words have room to grow. Instead they stay buried with the rest of his feelings, deep in his chest right about where his lungs are filling with blood.

“Don’t leave me,” you gush, squeezing him on your lap. Devastated over a death you can physically feel coming. He’s getting so warm with all those weeping wounds, and he flexes with each passing breath -- every one taking more effort than the last, “Please, I need you. Daisuke…” 

He knew you were selfish. A little flighty, too. And as much as he wants to grant your pleas, this task is just a bit impossible.

It’s bizarrely greedy for everything he could have to give, gobbling him down and demanding more. In a strange way he could only accept in death, he likes it. Wanting to reach up and fondle your cheek -- tackle some hair in his fist and yank you onto his level -- Daisuke flails his hand up with a whimper and gargle. Blood spitting onto your shirt.

Jimmy nearly trips over you with a full, unopened bottle of mouthwash in his hand. Cracking it open ferociously before dumping it over Daisuke’s gaping gashes, dowsing you in the process. Fresh mint horribly scars the inside of your nose.

Finally.

Captain Curly’s corpse stench is wiped straight out.

Relief.

Relief. He’ll live!

“You’ll be fine,” you weep, though, hard and ruinously, “You’ll be okay, Daisuke. It’ll fix everything,” but you can’t say what it is because you already know that if you do, you’ll be wrong, “It’ll fix everything!”

Mouthwash can’t fix this.

Your hand is still wrapped, bloody and sticky and aching, infected from sugar poured over deep glass cuts. Mouthwash can’t heal anything properly.

But you scream for it anyway, “Please don’t leave me, Daisuke…!”

Rattling footsteps shake you from behind, followed by a meaty hand on your shoulder, “Out of the way, kid, I’ll take care of him.”

“No!” you bawl, frantically clawing into Daisuke’s flowy pink shirt as he flounders on your lap, “Please, no, no nono!”

“Get to the pod,” he curses down at you. Lifting the axe despite how you and Jimmy scream at him to stop, stop just listen fucking listen stop it stop!

Daisuke’s body lurches against your thigh. Pelvis jumping once. Chest sputtering twice. All ten fingers twitching.

Followed by punctuating silence.

Jimmy yells, as Jimmy always does. You don’t catch any of it.

The sight of Daisuke’s body was too captivating. 

Swansea’s voice joins the mix, but he’s far away. Adults arguing overhead. Things you don’t care about nor do you want to hear. It takes you back to your childhood.

You wish you knew Daisuke back then, maybe you could’ve been sweeter with him.

And maybe someone better acquainted with the ship’s layout, like yourself, would’ve been a better choice for Jimmy. You’re not foolish enough for him to approach, but you almost pray you were. Younger and stupider.

Swansea said it himself. You have less quality of life. You’re the perfect candidate to die.

“Kid, I said get the fuck to the pod!”

Swansea butts you in the gut with the axe so hard you cough up stomach acid.

Rolling onto your back in agony before kneeling up, crawling out toward the hall as Swansea restrains Jimmy.

[7 hours until judgement]

The smell of death clings like a snarling dog to rope. Gnashing teeth growling around frayed, rotting strings. Blood and flesh slide off his bone as he lives. Painkillers could’ve dulled the sensation of twinging muscles but they don’t make him ignorant to the fact it's happening. Worse is the lingering stench of vomit. Which makes him feel worse than knowing he’s dying as he lives: Anya was his responsibility and now she’s had to take care of herself the only way she knew how. 

He can’t even be upset she took the rest of the capsules. She deserved them if it meant some peace.

Now he prays Daisuke is dead. For as short of a time as he spent with the boy, he knows him well enough to say he does not deserve suffering. And as Daisuke had to pull himself out of that collapsed vent, skin caught and shaved off by metal scraps, he was only suffering. 

He knows Jimmy very well.

He thought he did: but then, he should’ve expected this, right? If Jimmy was so capable of inflicting pain, then he should’ve seen those signs. He knew that Jimmy was unstable and mean-spirited and violent, but he never thought Jimmy could torture people.

Anya opened his eyes and he couldn’t. Function. 

With that knowledge came such overbearing responsibility that Curly froze completely.

And now, because of Jimmy, he has no choice except to remain frozen.

Even as you crumble into the room.

Even as Jimmy and Swansea’s voices slough down the halls, ringing through after you.

Curly wants to soothe your terrible hacking, wants to get you back home. You’re a misguided thing with some frustrating parents. You should get to find another gig.

So why are you going for the [PONY EXPRESS PERSONAL PROTECTION WEAPON] case?

[ISSUED TO CAPTAINS IN CASE OF UNREST AMONGST THE CREW]

He watches through one eye as you kneel by the bed. A glint of confusion passes over your face, and in the next instance is gone: your thumb scrolls over the clicking digits.

Every muscle in his neck convulses as he swallows. Slow and pained before it goes down.

The case does not open. He exhales.

You calmly seat yourself on the floor. Both hands grasp the metal box. Both thumbs meticulously click through each possible combination to open the lock. [6 hours until judgement]

Sixty excruciating minutes drag by before five fingers are snapping over the edge of the mattress. A distinctly metallic click follows. Hinges squeak apart, clacking against the frame of the bed with finality. A wobbly elbow pokes into sight before that clutching hand pushes up, dragging his whole body sideways as you yank the sheets with effort. Standing upon squiggling knees, downcast eyes linger beneath the bed -- he can’t see that far down. But he’s sure he already knows what you’re looking at.

Get it over with he wants to hiss Just shoot me. Don’t keep me in suspense.

Curly watches, heart thundering so hard into his ribs his entire chest shakes. Just shoot me already.

One pulsing eye, twitching muscle lining the organ. 

Your forearm writhes with a ‘click’, eyes heavy with discoloration. Somewhere between sinking into your skull and popping out like a cyst -- they finally rise upon him.

Somewhere between a pill-induced rest and knocking out beneath senseless, whole-body waves of pain. He prayed he’d just go cold after the third day, and now he’s not sure how long it’s been since Jimmy lashed out. 

Somewhere between upset and stoic, your face remains unchanged as you lay the hidden hand just by his bandaged arm. Silver glints angrily into his eyeball -- he’d flinch away if he could.

Just do it already he screams in his mind, but all that escapes are wheezy whistles Just fucking shoot me!

You already said you would, didn’t you?

It’d help everyone. Meat would make the crew happier than when they still had those canned soups. That’s what you said. So just get him over with.

Slowly, your lips part -- eyes on his, and you draw the gun from the bed, laying it flat in your palm before turning the barrel. Finger snug around the trigger, teasingly curling tighter until it jerks in your hand, bucking into the meat of your palm. 

You pull tighter, until the gun is firing. 

Jerking your hand back; he can see that silver catches silver and clatters to the ground, but he can’t hear it. Can’t hear much of anything following the gunshot crunching through the back of your skull.

Iron pervades the room as soon as your body hits the floor. Brain matter clumped around the sliding med door, peeling off slowly and squelching onto indifferent tile. Bone shards sparkle from the puddling floor. 

You cleaned that floor just today. 

Who’s going to clean you up?

He’s self-aware enough to know why his first thought is something so callous and mundane, but he isn’t present enough to realize that heavy breathing -like a sprinter fresh off some marathon- is his. It startles him. Eye darting around the room to find the wind-sucking culprit, that sick bastard stealing all the oxygen must be the one! The one who shot you- he needs to find them- someone else in the room- 

Someone else, surely?

Someone not previously seen on the ship, right?

Someone he’s never met before, you know?

Because he met you five years ago, and he’s seen you walk up and down the Tulpar corridors countless times since he’s known you, and you wouldn’t do this. You’d never shoot yourself, he knows that.

Just like how he knew Jimmy would never hurt anybody.

As if sensing those condemning thoughts, his dearest friend runs into the room just then. Wide-eyed and ripping the gun from your hand without a teary blink, screaming, 

“Swansea’s gonna fucking kill us!”

Curly can’t see straight -blurry green splotches zig-zag around medical. He must not be seeing straight; no way he could be because Jimmy would also never kick aside the corpse of some unfortunate kid. 

Swansea shouts the name of his co-captain.

Curly feels the laugh bubbling between his ribs before he even registers it's coming out. Raw throat croaking and exhales biting exposed nerves.

It’s just too funny- everything, really- it’s hilarious.

So funny he could just about throw himself into open space.

[!] new message [!]

Amber sands sink beneath your feet. And long ways above you, itching cloudless vermillion skies, are hot pink hibiscus flowers with gold stigma scraping even higher. Each flower casts wide shade from the sun -- it blares at you, dull vibrating from all directions that makes you so very deeply nauseous. It sounds distressed.

Dark ocean, frothy and black, still sparkles over the coast. White sprinkling far into the horizon. 

Shiny onyx beads pop out of the vibrant sands; scorpions driving in lines down toward the coast.

All you hear is the gentle crashing waves.

Then a wavering voice, no distinct syllables, just a nonsense song. You turn, and there’s a picnic basket on a pink gingham blanket. You know the voice comes from inside. No matter how roughly you shove your feet through the sand, you’re slowed to a near standstill. But the basket waits, assuredly so.

Flopping onto the soft cotton, your eyes flutter shut with hands folded over your stomach. Lullaby waves coo you to blissful rest, and the voice inside the basket praises your hard work.

This could’ve been nice.

Peace and quiet.

* *

[five years ago]

“And this is the internal system for messages,” his lips press a bit too firmly, that universal misalignment saying you’re not gonna like this, “I’ve only ever seen it used for custodians. Specific requests and all.”

“So, like, if somebody fucks the medbay but that’s not on my schedule, they just get to message me here? Like an email?”

Curly jumps at your swear before nodding slowly, “Uh, yeah… Something like that.”

“I thought going into space, we were beyond email…” you step deeper into the dark closet, rusty shelves lined to the gums with white bottles, labels bubbling from age. Reaching out to tweak the receiver’s edge, tracing a single finger around the tiny screen, you raise a condemning brow.

“Well, we’re still just people,” the blonde watches in real-time as your amazed smile flattens and those stars in your eyes fade over with rippling fluorescents, “Most advanced part of the Tulpar is the idea it exists,” he shrugs, “And maybe the fabricator.”

“Fabricator?” that makes you grin again, “No shit- we got a fabricator?”

Your language could use some work, but that wide fucking smile reminds Curly of when he was starting out -- sure, his uniform still had more specs back then, and sure he was in a much better position. But still, he was just a kid (only nine years older than you now but sure, a 27-year-old kid) impressed by the idea of floating through the stars without realizing it wouldn’t be too different from earth life. Besides the fabricator, at least.

“We do,” he confirms, stepping back from the 6x7 foot closet with ‘CUSTODIAL OFFICE’ printed across the front in chipping white paint, already pivoting down the hall suspecting you want to witness the machine posthaste, “You want to see it?”

“Yeah!” you cheer, slamming the door shut behind you before speeding toward the lounge, calling back, “It’s gotta be in the kitchen, right?!”

* *

[!] no new messages [!]

@toxycodone / @maniacpixiedreamboy + @penguite + @morbiddog + @whoresinatrenchcoat + @voidcat / @fortheharbingers

trying another horror fic a la bug sluts @ da clurb

↳ ❝ FAT ASS LIKE HERS NEEDS A REAL MAN TO FUCK IT. ❞

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ synopsis: in which, you get tangled up with your boyfriend's arrogant, infuriating, and devastatingly hot rival, katsuki bakugou and ended up fucking... one too many times.

starring: pro hero! katsuki bakugou x enemy's girlfriend! reader ⍣ ೋ

disclaimers!: cheating on yo shindo, cheating with katsuki bakugo, body worship, implied mentions of anal sex, oral sex (f! receiving, face riding), manhandling, penetrative / p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie

note: usage of "sweetheart", "pretty", "pretty girl", "sweets", fem reader, implied plus size! reader, mean! katsuki, katsuki calls reader fat but not really (specifically, reader's ass), (hopefully) promoting body positivity. really thought this song gave katsuki vibes and havent seen a fic based off of it yet. reminds me of that montoya guy watching his girl fuck someone on camera lmao😭. time to give back to my community, hope you guys enjoy💜

╰┈➤ [katsuki bakugo was an asshole.] everyone knew that. and when it came to shindo yo, he was even worse. the two had never gotten along—never would. 

which was exactly why, when katsuki walked into the bar and spotted you, nursing a drink, frustration etched across your face, he couldn’t help but smirk.

it didn’t take a genius to figure out why. probably your boyfriend getting a little too damn close to another "friend" again. just like always. this wasn’t the first time, and knowing him, it wouldn’t be the last.

this was the kind of moment he lived for, a rare opportunity to get under shindo’s skin. sure, maybe katsuki didn’t hate shindo that much, but you? you were a different story.

he sauntered over, leaning an arm against the counter, eyes never leaving you. "rough night?"

you glanced up, instantly recognizing the pro hero standing beside you. with a sigh, you swirled your drink in its glass. “you could say that.”

“lemme guess... your idiot boyfriend givin’ you trouble again?”

“…something like that.”

“don’t know why you put up with him, honestly," he chuckled, the sound low and knowing. he tipped his drink toward you, watching your reaction carefully. "you deserve better than some asshole who doesn’t know how to appreciate you.”

your lips quirked, a mix of amusement and exasperation. “and you think you can appreciate me?”

katsuki had no shame, never did. so he grinned, a flicker of something dangerous in his crimson gaze.

"want me to show you, sweetheart?"

one thing led to another and soon enough— you were in his bed, limbs tangled, gasping his name, making sure you see the stars in the sky as he fucked the frustration right out of you.

and after that night, fucking you became katsuki's favorite way to piss shindo off.

you weren’t stupid. you knew exactly what this was. but did you care? not one damn bit. he had you in his bed more than your shitty boyfriend ever did. and yeah, maybe it started as a way to get under shindo’s skin, but somewhere along the way, it became something neither of you wanted to stop.

because katsuki? he was fucking obsessed with you.  

some nights, he’d pull you into his lap, hands splayed over your hips as he buried his face in your neck, pressing lazy, open-mouthed kisses to your skin.

“fuck, i missed you,” he groaned, voice thick with something dangerously close to vulnerability. his grip tighten, fingers digging into the softness of your thighs. “shouldn’t let you leave my bed, y’know that?”

you chuckled, tilting your head back as his lips trailed lower. “you’re never satisfied, huh?”

“so what?” he nipped at your skin, making you squeak. “i like my woman soft. more of you for me to grab.”

and grab he did. he was clingy in the worst way—always needing to have a hand on you, whether it was squeezing your ass, gripping your waist, or just absentmindedly tracing patterns on your thigh while you laid in bed together.

katsuki just loved how you felt in his hands.

then there are the nights when he'd lie with his head on your lap, letting you comb your fingers through his hair, one arm thrown lazily over his chest.

his eyes were shut, his expression relaxed, but every so often, his brows furrowed as he grumbled about his day.

like now.

“dumbass intern nearly blew up my whole damn office,” he muttered, eyes closed. “and kirishima kept laughin’ like it was the funniest shit he’d ever seen.”

you hummed, dragging your nails lightly over his scalp. “i mean… you do blow things up all the time. bit hypocritical, don’t you think?”

his eyes cracked open, leveling you with a glare. “tch. ain’t funny.”

you bit back a smile. “a little funny.”

he exhaled sharply through his nose but didn’t argue. he never really did when you played with his hair. it was his weakness, and he hated that you knew it.

your fingers trailed down to his jaw, tracing the sharp edge. he leaned into your touch instinctively, like it was second nature. and maybe it was.

“you’re really pretty, you know that?” you murmured.

his eyes flickered open again, red irises locking onto yours. there was something unreadable in his gaze—something so raw and vulnerable.

“oi,” he muttered, shifting slightly, ears turning pink. “quit it.”

you grinned. “quit what?”

“saying dumb shit like that.”

“but it’s true.”

katsuki scowled, but the way he pressed his cheek into your palm gave him away. he huffed, eyes slipping shut again.

“…whatever.”

and he loved it. the times he's spent with you, whether he was fucking you or just talking about each other's day, he loved all of it. not just because it was a middle finger to shindo, but because katsuki got to have you all to himself. 

honestly? it stopped being about shindo a long time ago. but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t rub it in the bastard’s face.

"she was beggin’ me to keep goin’ last night," katsuki bragged, arm slung lazily around your waist, knowing full well that shindō was fuming. his hand drifted lower, fingers trailing over the curve of your ass. “bet you don’t even know how to handle all this ass, huh? shame. guess that’s why she keeps crawlin’ back to me.”

shindo clenched his jaw, knowing exactly what katsuki was implying. he knew. knew there was truth in katsuki’s words. knew that every time he and you argued, you’d disappear for a while, only to return looking a little too satisfied. "you really think you're some upgrade?"  

"she does. especially when she’s whining my name into the sheets.”  

"shut the fuck up, bakugo."  

katsuki barked a laugh, shameless and sharp. he was pissed, good. that was the reaction he wanted. but he wasn’t done yet.

“she’s a greedy lil’ thing, too. always wantin’ more," he grinned, eyes flicking over to him before locking back at yours. "but look at her. how could i say no? she looks so fuckin’ perfect under me."

your face burns, heat creeping up your neck before he scoffs and turns back to grilling your ex, like you weren’t just standing there, completely flustered.

"did she ever tell you how much she loves it when i grab these—" his fingers trailed down your side, giving a firm squeeze and earning a small yelp from you. "—and i slam my dick into her? fuck her real nice and deep? moans so pretty for me, too. you ever heard it?"

and if shindo so much as opened his mouth, katsuki would throw in another dig.

"nah. probably not. bet she asked you if it was in yet.”  

"well, she's all yours," shindo said, fists clenching, clearly seconds away from punching him. and katsuki lived for it.  

"yeah, figured you’d say that," katsuki taunted. "she’s been stress eatin’ too much to deal with a weak-ass like you."  

and then, just because he was an absolute bastard, he'd go in for the kill.

"fat ass like hers needs a real man to fuck it."  

shindo looked about ready to swing, but you pulled katsuki away before things got too messy.  you could still feel the heat of shindo’s rage burning through the air. it thrilled you more than it should have. 

but behind closed doors? the same man who ran his mouth would spend hours pressed against you, whispering things he’d never admit to anyone else.

"c’mere," katsuki grumbled, tugging you onto the bed after another long day of antagonizing your ex. his arms wrapped around your waist, face immediately pressing into your soft stomach.

he worshipped you—every inch, every soft curve, but nothing captivated him more than your stomach.

he was obsessed, utterly entranced. he’d bury his face against it, his hands kneaded your sides, gripping, squeezing—memorizing, pressing lazy kisses to every dip and curve. he held your body with a reverence that bordered on possessive, like he was terrified you’d slip away.

"fuck, baby," he groaned, nuzzling into you like he wanted to disappear into your skin. “love your body so goddamn much. s’perfect.”

you chuckled, threading your fingers through his hair. "thought you said i was stress-eating."  

"yeah, stress-eatin’ on my dick," he muttered, pressing kisses against your tummy. "he doesn’t deserve to see you like this. doesn’t even deserve to breathe the same air as you."

“then why do you still do it, hmm?”

he looked up at you, red eyes dark with something almost desperate as he presses hot, open-mouthed kisses along your stomach.

"tch, you know why i do that. pisses him off. makes him realize he ain't shit. ‘cause he ain't."  

you shivered at the heat of his lips against your skin, biting back a smile as you run your fingers through his hair. so that’s what this was about. "you sure you’re not just obsessed with him at this point?”

he scoffed against your stomach, his grip on your waist tightening. “the hell i am. only thing i’m obsessed with is you.”

it was the side of him no one else got to see— the way he nuzzled into you, the way he pressed his lips to your skin over and over, like he couldn’t get enough. he'd grumble if you tried to move, holding you tighter to keep you in bed, murmuring "stay here. wanna hold ya."  

he loved how soft you were, how warm—how no matter how much he grabbed, squeezed, or traced his fingers over you, it was never enough. he needed you. it was like he was drunk on the feel of you, the scent of you. and truthfully, he was.

"love this shit,” he admitted lowly, voice thick with something almost vulnerable. he nuzzled into your tummy again, letting out a deep, satisfied sigh. "could live here."

you raised a brow, fighting back a grin as you looked down at him. “oh? you wanna live on my stomach now?”

“yes, baby,” he muttered almost desperately, eyes half-lidded with satisfaction while pressing another lingering kiss to your skin. “soft. warm. smells like you.”

you laughed, dragging your fingers through his hair. “so what, you’re gonna quit being a hero and move in here?”

he let out a gruff chuckle, turning his head to rest his cheek against you. “tch. would if i could. wouldn’t need a bed, a couch, nothin’. just this perfect spot.”

“oh yeah?” you hummed, tilting your head. “should i start charging you rent?”

he huffed against your skin. “tch. smartass.”

you giggled, brushing a thumb over the shell of his ear. “i mean, if you’re gonna move in, might as well contribute. utilities, groceries… maybe even a tummy tax.”

his red eyes flicked up at you, narrowing. “the fuck is a tummy tax?”

you grinned. “unlimited kisses. daily.”

he snorts, pressing another slow, open-mouthed kiss to your skin. “already payin’ for that, pretty."

and you laughed, because for all his big talk, katsuki bakugo adored you. as long as he had you, nothing else mattered.

and despite the way he ran his mouth, he never let you feel insecure. if he ever caught you looking at yourself too long in the mirror, he’d grab you and pull you onto the bed, hovering over you with that intense, fiery gaze.  

"the fuck are you thinkin’ about?" he’d demand, hands gripping your thighs, squeezing, leaving marks. "you’re mine. this body? all mine. and i fuckin’ love every inch of you. don’t ever fuckin’ doubt how much i want you."

and god, did he prove it.

he didn't just tolerate your body—he adored it. and thats why you found yourself looking down at him lying comfortably on his back, eyes dark with anticipation. he was waiting—no, expecting—you to sit on his face.

you shake your head, heat creeping up your neck. "i can just lay down, 'suki..."

katsuki scoffs, sitting up slightly, his hands already reaching for your thighs, clearly impatient. "tch. and deny me a great view? cut the crap and get up here, sweets."

you shake your head again. "i just- what if i’m too heavy?"

he lets out a sharp, exasperated scoff. "for who? me? well that’s rude."

"it’s not..." you hesitate for half a second, but that’s all the time he gives you. 

he yanks you down onto his face with a low growl, his mouth immediately sealing over your cunt. "stop stallin’ and just give me what i want..."

you hesitate, subtly hovering just above him instead of lowering yourself onto his face, holding onto the headboard for support. his eyes flick up to yours, and the second he realizes what you're doing, his expression darkens.

"the fuck do you think you’re doin’?" his grip on your thighs tightens, his voice a low, dangerous growl. 

“i don’t want to crush you—”

“are you fuckin’ serious?” his voice drips with pure offense, like you just insulted his entire existence. "you really think i can't handle you? think you're doin’ me a favor by holdin’ back?"

you try to protest, but he’s already yanking you down on his face, forcing you to sit properly. his growl vibrates against you as he buries his face between your thighs. the way he looked up at you—pissed off and starving—sent a shiver down your spine.

your face burned, heart pounding in your chest. "i just— i don't wanna make you uncomfortable."

katsuki let out a sharp laugh, the sound vibrating against your folds, lifting you by your hips to give him room to speak from time to time. 

"uncomfortable? sweetheart, the only thing makin’ me uncomfortable right now is you not sittin’ on my goddamn face like i told you to."

your lips parted in protest, but a startled moan escapes you as his tongue flicks over your clit, sharp and demanding. his grip on your thighs is punishing, locking you in place as he devours you with obscene hunger.

"katsuki—" you try to lift yourself, but his hands hold you firm.

"nah. shut up," he murmurs burying his tongue between your thighs without warning. a moan escapes you as he groans against your heat, his fingers digging into your skin to hold you firmly in place. 

"fuckin’ ridiculous," he mutters between licks, voice muffled. "ain’t takin’ this disrespect. you ain't doin’ me no favors by holdin’ back. told ya before— i want you—every fuckin’ inch of you." 

your breath hitches, and katsuki smirks like he knows he’s got you. his crimson eyes flicked up at you, glinting with mischief as he devoured the fuck out of your pretty little cunt, tongue glazed with his spit and your slick. 

"so don't you ever pull that hoverin’ shit again,” he warns, his tongue licking a broad stripe through your folds "or i swear to god, i'll make you sit here all fuckin' night—"

his words were cut off by the way he devoured you, lips and tongue working so hungrily that your legs nearly gave out then and there. his crimson eyes burned into you, daring you to try that shit again.

you whimper, thighs trembling, and he doubles down, tongue curling inside you before dragging back up to your clit, sucking just to hear you whine.

"fuck, baby," he groans against you, his voice thick with need. "taste so fuckin’ good."

your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging on the soft strands, but it only spurs him on. his hands slide to your ass, forcing you to take everything he gave you. he’s lost in it, completely drowning in you, and he likes it. loves it. wants more. 

"you drive me fuckin’ insane," he murmured, sucking your clit into his mouth with a filthy slurp. "you’re too damn perfect, and it pisses me off."  

your fingers tightened around the headboard, thighs trembling around his head. “how is that my fault? you're the one who—"

katsuki let out a frustrated growl against your cunt, cutting you off before you could finish. without warning, he flattened his tongue and dragged a slow, deliberate lick through your folds, making you gasp.

"its your fucking fault," he went on like he couldn’t believe you had the audacity to act so damn innocent.

his lips brush against your pussy as your legs threatened to close around his head, but his grip was firm, keeping you spread open for him. "prancin’ around, bein’ so goddamn pretty. takin’ up space in my head. gettin’ under my fuckin' skin and you expect me to act normal?"

you tried to answer, but he didn’t give you the chance. a sharp suck on your clit had your head tipping back, a needy whine escaping before you could stop it. his tongue slid through your folds again, swirling around your clit, and the sudden sensation made you choke on your words.

"katsuki—"

"nah. told you to shut up." he cut you off, voice muffled against your dripping cunt. "if you're gonna talk, you can fuckin’ moan."

your noises only spurred him on. your fingers found their way into his hair, gripping tightly as pleasure pooled in your stomach. his tongue worked you over with precision, switching between sucking and licking until your hips were rolling into his face, chasing more. 

"that's it," he muttered, sucking your clit into his mouth again, hard, and the moan that tore from your throat was anything but coherent, fucking you with his tongue. "you wanna run your mouth? do it like this." 

you could barely form a response, your mind going blank as he sucked hard on your clit, his tongue relentless. the only thing that left your lips was a desperate, broken moan.

"fuckin' knew it," he groaned, his voice sending another wave of heat through your body. "knew you’d sound so fuckin' pretty when you just shut the fuck up while riding my face. could watch you like this all fuckin’ day."

you let out a shaky breath, barely able to focus as his tongue flicked over your clit again. katsuki pulled back just enough to suck in a breath, his lips slick and glistening with your arousal. his crimson eyes burned into you, half-lidded and desperate, but still sharp with command.

“fuck,” he groaned, voice thick with hunger. “touch yourself, pretty girl. play with those pretty tits for me.”

your breath caught in your throat, and you hesitated, already feeling overwhelmed by the way he was devouring you. but his grip tightened on your thighs, his fingers digging into your flesh in warning.

“c’mon, sweets,” he rasped, his tongue flicking out to tease your clit before pulling back again. his eyes dragged up your body, the heat in them making you dizzy. “be a good girl and gimme a show, yeah?"

with trembling hands, you reached up, cupping your tits, teasing your own nipples the way you knew he liked. you kneaded them softly at first, rolling your thumbs over your nipples, but the second you pinched them, katsuki groaned, his eyes locked onto you like you were the only thing in existence.

“fuck yeah,” he muttered, running his tongue through your folds before sucking your clit into his mouth again. “just like that, baby. play with those tits— keep puttin’ on a show for me while i eat this pretty little pussy.”

his tongue worked you over with hungry, unrelenting strokes, the obscene slurps and groans vibrating against you as he devoured you like a man starved.

you tugged at your nipples, your head falling back as pleasure rippled through you. your breath hitched, your fingers tightening around your nipples as the combination of your own hands on your body and his mouth wrecking you from below had your head spinning.

“katsuki—” you gasped, thighs trembling around his head. “i’m— i’m close.”

that was all it took. katsuki groaned deep in his throat, the sound vibrating against your cunt as his grip on your thighs tightened. his tongue worked even faster, flicking and circling your clit with devastating precision, like he needed you to fall apart for him or he'd die.

"yeah?" he rasped between licks, his voice thick and wrecked. "then fuckin’ give it to me, sweets. wanna feel you cum on my face."

he didn’t slow down, didn’t let up for even a second. his hands urged you down harder, forcing you to really sit on his face, and the pressure—his tongue, his mouth, the way he sucked on your clit—sent you careening straight into your orgasm.

your back arched, a broken moan spilling from your lips as pleasure crashed over you, white-hot and overwhelming. katsuki groaned against you like he felt it, like he was the one cumming, and he didn’t stop licking, didn’t stop devouring you, even as you trembled above him.

he finally pulled away, his lips and chin glistening with your slick as he sucked in a breath, eyes dark with hunger. he gave your thighs one last squeeze before gripping your waist.

“get up."

you blinked down at him, still trying to catch your breath. “what?”

“i said, get up,” he growled. "need to be inside you. now.”

you whined, shaking your head weakly. “katsuki, i just— i just came…”

“and?” he scoffed, sitting up slightly. “the fuck that got to do with me?”

before you could protest again, his strong arms moved, flipping you onto your back like you weighed nothing. a surprised yelp left your lips, but katsuki was already on top of you, pressing you into the mattress, his body burning hot against yours with his lips on yours.

"don't care if you just came," he muttered against your lips, biting down on your bottom one before sucking it into his mouth. "wanna feel you squeeze the cum outta me this time."

your head spun as he hovered over you, his weight pressing you down into the mattress. his hands were everywhere—gripping, kneading—like he couldn’t stand being apart from you for even a second.

"katsuki—"

"shut up," he growled, shoving your legs open with his knee. "you think i’m lettin’ you off that easy? nah. you got one, and now i’m gettin’ mine.”

you gasped as his hands grabbed your thighs, spreading them wider as he settled between them, his cock already hard and leaking against your folds. he positioned himself at your pussy, the tip of his cock pressing insistently against you.

"look at you," he murmured, rubbing his throbbing tip through your slick folds. "all fuckin’ messy for me already."

you gasped, legs twitching from overstimulation. “i— i need a second—”

“the fuck you do,” he muttered, lining himself up with your entrance. “you’re fuckin’ soaked. you’re fine.”

and before you could say another word, he thrusted into you, stretching you open in one slow, deep stroke.

"don't care what the fuck you say," he rasps. "bein’ so fuckin’ sweet, it makes me wanna ruin you."

your hands scrambled against his shoulders, nails digging in as you let out a choked sob, overwhelmed, tears pricking at your eyes as he kept moving, his cock dragging against your already-sensitive walls. “k-katsuki—'s too much—”

he didn't stop. didn't even hesitate. he knew better. knew you. if it was really too much, if you truly couldn’t take it, you would’ve said the safe word. and since you hadn’t? that meant you loved this—loved how he was using you, pushing you past your limits, making you take every inch of him.

“yeah? then why’s this pussy still fuckin’ suckin’ me in, huh?” he leaned down, his mouth brushing against your ear. “you know what to say if you really wanted me to stop, sweets.”

you whimpered, blinking up at him, your face hot and damp with tears. your breath hitched when he rolled his hips deeper, making your back arch off the bed.

“you like it, don’t you?” he murmured, dragging his lips along your cheek, tasting the tears running down your face. his hands pinned your wrists down beside your head, locking you in place beneath him. “fuckin’ cryin’ and takin’ my dick so good anyway. knew you’d let me use this sweet little pussy however the fuck i wanted.”

your body shook with every thrust, overstimulated and overwhelmed, but the pleasure was so sharp and dizzying, that all you could do was moan through the tears. you sobbed, back arching, hands clutching at the sheets. it was too much, but it felt too good. 

 his thumb swiped at your tear-streaked cheek, his other hand pressing down on your lower stomach, feeling the way he stretched you open. 

“c’mon, sweetheart,” he rasped, voice husky as he fucked into you harder, deeper, making sure you felt every inch. “be good for me. just take it. let me use you, yeah?”

you could barely think, barely breathe, and yet you nodded. and that was all he needed before his grip on your hips tightened, his cock stretching you wide, and he really started fucking you.

his hips snapped forward, burying himself deeper inside you, groaning as your walls clenched around him, still fluttering. his hand came up to grip your jaw, tilting your head to make you look at him.

“look at you,” he murmured, taking in the sight of you, tears spilling down your cheeks, the way your lips trembled. “so fuckin’ pretty like this. cryin’ for me. takin’ me like a good fuckin’ girl, squeezin’ me so tight, shit—”

your body trembled beneath him, your sobs mixing with broken moans as he fucked into you relentlessly. your arms struggled against his grip, desperate to reach for him, but he only pressed you deeper into the mattress, keeping you pinned.

“k-katsuki—” you gasped, tears slipping down your cheeks. “please—kiss me—”

he should’ve been satisfied with how wrecked you already were, with the way your body clenched around him so tight—but fuck, hearing you beg for his kisses?

that only made him worse.

“tch. still so fuckin’ needy, even when i’m ruining you.” 

his grip on your wrists loosens just enough for you to reach up. the second your hands touched him, you yanked him down, crashing your lips against his, desperate for the closeness, for the warmth of his mouth against yours.

katsuki groaned into the kiss, deep and hungry, swallowing your cries as he kissed you hard. his tongue pushes past your lips, claiming you just as much as his cock did. his thrusts didn’t slow, didn’t soften—if anything, he fucked you harder, like he wanted to ruin you completely.

“that what you needed, pretty girl?” he murmured against your lips, his breath heavy, your sobs melting into whimpers. “that why you’re cryin’? ‘cause you needed me to kiss you while i fuck you?”

you nodded frantically, another broken whimper slipping past your lips. “y-yeah—needed you—”

“yeah?” he smirked against your mouth, nipping at your bottom lip before kissing you again—sloppier, deeper, making sure you’d never forget exactly who you belonged to.

his rhythm starts to stutter, hips snapping into you harder, sloppier, and you felt the way his body tensed, the way his grip on your hips turned bruising. he forced another helpless cry from you, and he groaned against your lips, drinking in every sound.

"fuck—fuck," katsuki whined, voice raw and desperate as he buried himself deep inside you, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath hot and ragged, his lips brushing against your own as he lost himself in you. "you feel so goddamn good—s'fuckin’ tight, baby—"

you knew that tone—knew the way his voice cracked when he felt needy, when he was so fucking close to cumming. you loved when he got like this, when all his control slipped away and he was nothing but whiny, desperate need.

"katsuki—" you gasped, nails digging into his back, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper. "i'm—i'm close, i'm so close, wanna cum together—"

his grip tightened, a strangled groan ripping from his throat as he snapped his hips into you, his pace turning desperate chasing both of your highs. "fuck, yeah? c'mon, baby— wanna feel you cum, wanna fuckin' feel you all over my cock—"

his next thrust sent you over, body locking up as the heat coiled tight in your belly and snapped all at once. your moan shattered into a cry as your whole body trembled, clenching around him so hard its about to break him.

“oh, fuck—” katsuki choked, eyes rolling back as he lost it completely, slamming into you one last time before burying himself into your warm, wet pussy. his whole body shook, breath stuttering as he spilled inside you, groaning out your name like a prayer.

he kept thrusting—shallow, drawn-out rolls of his hips, like he never wanted to stop feeling you, even as he came down from his high. his forehead pressed against yours again, his breath heavy, his body spent.

for a moment, the only sounds in the room were your ragged breaths, your bodies still tangled, clinging to each other as you both came down from your highs. katsuki was still holding you, his grip tight but no longer desperate—just grounding. 

then, with a deep exhale, katsuki finally pulled out, rolling onto his side and gathering you against his chest. his arms wrapped around you securely, his large hand rubbing slow, lazy circles into your back. you felt his eyes scan over you with something softer than before—something almost tender.

“you alright, sweets?”

you nodded, still catching your breath, but the way your body trembled slightly didn’t escape him. he scoffs, sitting up just enough to lean over and press soft kisses to your damp forehead, then your cheek, then your lips.

“liar,” he muttered, but there was no bite to it. only warmth. “you cried, y’know.”

you let out a breathy laugh, snuggling closer. “you were relentless.”

he clicked his tongue, one of his hands finding the back of your head, his fingers slipping into your hair, the other resting on the small of your back, holding you close.

you melted into his chest, sighing against his skin. “you’re so warm…”

he smirked, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple. “duh. i’m literally made of explosions, dumbass.”

you lightly smacked his chest, making him chuckle. but his teasing quickly faded as he tilted your chin up, crimson eyes searching yours. his thumb brushed over your cheek, wiping away the last remnants of your overstimulated tears.

“seriously, though,” he murmured, quieter now. “you okay?”

your heart squeezed at how gentle he was being. how, despite how rough he could be, how demanding, he never once forgot to take care of you afterward. you leaned into his touch, nuzzling his palm.

“i’m perfect,” you smiled sleepily. “because of you.”

“tch. sappy little shit," katsuki exhaled sharply through his nose, looking away. his ears definitely got redder.  “you sure, though? i didn’t—y’know… go too hard?”

you hummed, tilting your head to press a lazy kiss to his jaw. “i'm fine, katsuki. i promise." 

he just huffed, shifting to grab a towel from the nightstand. “yeah, well, you better be. was holdin’ back just for you.”

you snorted. “that was you holding back?”

katsuki shot you a look but didn’t argue. instead, he started cleaning you up, his touch uncharacteristically gentle. he was quiet as he worked, his brows furrowed in concentration.

“…was it really okay?” his voice was quieter now, hesitant in a way he rarely was.

you cupped his cheek, running your thumb over the sharp line of his jaw. “yes. i’d tell you if it wasn’t, katsuki.”

his crimson eyes searched yours for a long moment before he finally exhaled, tension melting from his shoulders. “good.”

he kissed your forehead, then your nose, then finally your lips, lingering there as if he never wanted to pull away.

“cause next time, i’m makin’ you cry even harder.”

you groaned, shoving his face away as he laughed, the sound deep and full of warmth. 

katsuki didn’t say anything for a moment after—just stared at you, his expression completely unguarded. no sharp smirks, no cocky grins—just raw, unfiltered devotion.

he stared at you like you’d just hung the damn moon. like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.  

you reached up to brush a few stray strands of hair from his forehead, and he caught your wrist midair, holding it for just a second before bringing it to his lips. the kiss he pressed against your palm was barely there, but it sent warmth blooming in your chest.

“you’re lookin’ at me funny,” you murmured, voice drowsy.

katsuki huffed a quiet laugh, but he didn’t look away. “yeah?”

“yeah,” you smiled lazily back at him. “like i just saved a bunch of kids from a burning building or something."

his smirk was faint, more of a ghost of amusement than anything. he pressing lazy kisses along your wrist, trailing them down to the inside of your palm. “you didn’t save a bunch of kids. you’re just—you. and i dunno what the hell i’d do without that."

your chest ached at the raw honesty in his voice, but before you could say anything, katsuki pulled you in even closer, pressing his face against your shoulder, like he was trying to hide.

“go to sleep,” he grumbled, voice muffled against your skin. “say any dumb shit about it, and i’ll smother you.”

you couldn’t help but smile as you curled against him, feeling the way his arms locked around you just a little tighter. “mhm. goodnight, katsuki.”

and then you smiled—sleepy, content, completely at ease in his arms.

katsuki stiffened. just for a second. just enough for you to feel the way his breath hitched, the way his hold on you tightened like he was trying to keep himself together.

fuck.

that damn smile. that look on your face. like he was your whole world. like you trusted him. like you loved him.

he clenched his jaw, exhaling slowly through his nose, like that would do anything to calm the way his heart was fucking pounding.

"goodnight." 

he was fucked. absolutely, completely, and hopelessly fucked.

because thats when katsuki bakugo realized he was in love with you. and he couldn't do anything about it.

‎‧₊˚✧[ it's me, kia ! ]✧˚₊‧ ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ ‎‧₊˚✧[ more of katsuki ! ]✧˚₊‧

⋆˚࿔ tags: ˚⋆ @kalulakunundrum @ch3rryjampi3 @lotusstarr @aranikai @emmab3mma @yannvi @gabby-ha @twoplayergaymers @xanneeeyyyy @akiii143 @ceeriusly-dumb @beabamboo @butlereyepatchbunny @qyuin @ocharavitys @dragonscribble @jimabbenamara @g0dawnlita @sourgrapesthings @seraphiicallyy @aawwq @kaybug88

you and hamzah going round FOR round

NOTHING WITHOUT YOU. 🎀

includes: cute fluff at the start -> turns to v much rough sex. spanking, choking, slight degrading he gets a lil mean.. mentions of semi public sex

wc: 3.4k

back from vacation! hope u all enjoy 💖

there’s an overwhelming aura floating around the crowded house, and it’s draining the life out of you and your boyfriend.

neither of you are really the most social people in general, which is why it probably wasn’t the greatest idea to attend a family get-together with your side - the biggest yappers you know. you think you’re starting to see faces blur together as you continue to awkwardly smile, not paying attention to the conversation you’ve been dragged into.

you feel a wide hand slide just beneath your midriff, and you don’t need to look to know who it belongs too. you’ve already fixated enough on hamzah’s presence: the way he touches you, his smell, his breathing. his proximity makes you calm down a bit, exhaustion beginning to melt off your shoulders.

you shift your attention from the conversation back to your boyfriend, looking up at him from over your shoulder while his arms are wrapped around your waist. he gives you a look of reassurance, and you can tell already that he’s thinking the same thing you are.

“i think we might head out now.” he murmurs, voice soothing and soft. you smile up at him - a way to thank him for saving you from awkward social interactions - a much more genuine smile than the forced one you’ve had this whole time.

after saying your goodbyes, he walks you out with a protective arm around you. he stays like that until you two reach the car, and the subtle touch makes your heart jump to your throat.

he drives, hand softly pressed against your thigh, and you pull small talk out of him. you’ve found that throughout your whole relationship, that he just doesn’t happen to be a big talker. not that he doesn’t want to; he has things to say, he just doesn’t know how to unless you give him the opportunity. It’s the total opposite to how he is on camera, rambling and joking around with martin. he’s told you that he still gets nervous around you sometimes, even after months of dating, meeting your parents and literally moving in together - it’s endearing to you.

it’s a relatively far drive from where the two of you reside. not far enough that you’d ever have to spend the night away or anything, but far enough that you have to pee and he has to get gas. you’re running to the bathroom around the side of the building, and it really looks like you could get a disease or something back here, but your urge to piss is worse than whatever you could possibly be contracting.

you’re reminded how good he treats you when you find your way back to the car, only to see that hamzah’s grabbed you your favorite candy and a dr. pepper.

“thank you, baby.” you smile, genuinely greatful for the way he takes care of you. “so sweet to me.”

“only for you.” is all he replies back, voice deep and soft. you like moments like this, when you do things for each other without thinking. it lets you know he really cares.

his hand stays on your thigh for the entirety of the drive back. you’re arriving back at your place before you know it, fishing the house keys out of your pocket, freezing when you feel his hands run over your shoulder blades, traveling down to your waist. you’ve noticed how touchy he’s been with you all day. he’s been busy the past week, working on podcast stuff and getting the new studio situated - you guys haven’t had sex in almost two weeks. poor boy is probably pent up.

you’re wandering into your shared bed the moment the door is opened, falling into it face-first. hamzah follows you, snuggling in next to you. you feel his palm caress your back softly, feeling up your body.

“been missing you.” hamzah mutters. it’s enough to get you to lift your head off of the bed, unable to tell if he means it in an “i want to fuck you” way or an “i wanna cuddle and watch a movie with you” kind of way.

“hmm?” you say, tilting your head, shuffling to his side of the bed. hamzah eyes you up and down for a second, pursing his lips.

“c’mere.” he mumbles, patting his lap twice. you follow his commands, sitting between his thighs, hands balancing you out on his biceps. “atta girl.” he murmurs under his breath as his hands trace down your body, feeling up your ass specifically.

he’s kissing you before you know it, nothing slow and sweet like he normally is. it’s needy, desperate even, and it makes you feel weak. he’s pulling you as close as he can as your lips press up against each others, pinning you into place.

“missed you really fucking bad.” he says, same comment as last time, but more desperation in it. if it isn’t obvious already, you’ve come to the conclusion that he means it in an “i want to fuck you” way.

a hand creeps down under the softness of your hoodie (actually, his hoodie, which is one of many that you’ve stolen), pushing it up over your head and leaving you in just a lacy bra and nike pro shorts - the ones you know he likes because of the way it shows off your body.

he kisses you again, hard and deep, licking into your mouth like he’s never tasted anything better. he’s pulling away not soon after, one hand on your waist, the other trying to pull your bra off. he’s a little too far gone, struggling to yank it off as fast as he can, so you help him by unclipping it.

he stares as it comes off, groaning at the sight. he loves your tits, you’ve noticed, always taking time to play with them or suck on them like he’s a baby during foreplay. he’s already kneading a hand into one of them, sucking on the other hard enough to bruise. there’s teeth and tongue and it’s messy and wet - exactly how he likes it. you grind your hips against him a little, realizing how hard he’s gotten from just this, and giggle. it gives you an ego boost, how obsessed he is with your body.

“you don’t understand how bad- fuck.” he pauses when your hips meet his again. “how badly i wanted to fuck you.”

“yeah?” you smirk, voice smooth, yet still sounding almost as gone as he is.

“yeah.” he says, gripping onto your waist, slamming your clothed hips down onto his with a groan. “when i was looking at that studio with martin- he had to leave early, and i kept thinking about you.” he rambles, stuttering a bit as you grind into him. “fucking- got so hard- came all over my hand in the bathroom.” he groans. your eyes widen, blushing a little when what he just said hit you. he jerked off.. in public.. to you.

that’s.. really fucking hot.

you’re so turned on and it must show in your face, because hamzah is picking you up already. your instinct is to straddle him, wrapping your legs around him koala-style, but before you can move he throws you down onto the bed. big hands grip your thighs as he spreads your legs apart, pulling down your shorts and panties all in one swoop. he throws the shorts away, but keeps the panties. there’s a pause for a second, and you look up at him, confused.

“wanna make sure you stay quiet.” he mutters, breathy. he gets on top of you, arms pinning you down from each side, and then shoves your thong into your mouth.

fuck.

you can taste yourself on it, dripping with wetness from how badly you want him. he only smirks at you from above, then moves down, face to face with your pussy.

“stay quiet for me, okay?” is all he says before he’s diving in, mouth on your clit. you can’t help but moan at the sinful feeling through his makeshift gag. plus, you know that there might be a consequence to being noisy - which is exactly what you want right now.

his tongue is wide as he laps at your pussy, two fingers entering you before you know it. another loud moan gets him to stop for a second, biting down on your thigh. it’s like a warning, letting you know you’re on thin ice.

he wraps his strong arms around your thighs before he’s lapping up at you again, sucking at your clit while he curls his fingers up into you.

he slaps your thigh this time when you moan, and it only makes you louder - his last straw.

you whimper when he stops and stands up, watching as he pulls down his shorts and takes his cock out of his boxers. he positions his thighs so that they’re surrounding your shoulders, and he rips your panties out of your mouth. he strokes his cock with them for a second, speaking as he does it.

“if you don’t shut the fuck up-“ he pauses, groaning, “I’ll do it for you.”

your eyes widen. he’s getting mean, and you like it.

“mm?” is all you can say, pushing him to get meaner. he throws the panties to the side, then rubs his cock against your lips, now closed. his precum makes them glossy and shiny.

“so now you shut your mouth?” he says, cocky. it’s what he does next that really shocks you - a large hand comes down on your face, slapping you against the cheek.

“fucking open up.” is what he commands, and god you listen. his cock immediately goes all the way down your throat, a hand gripping at your hair.

“made me wait, so fuckin’ long- and this is how you treat me when i finally get to fuck you?” he growls, cock hitting the back of your throat again and again. you’re overwhelmed by the sensation of him using your mouth like it’s your pussy, barely giving you time to pull off and breathe, but god is it hot. his balls slap against your chin with each thrust, nose touching his thick pubic hair.

“fuckin’ choke on it- good girl.” he says, a finger playing with a loc of your hair. you love the way he praises you even when he’s being rough. at the end of the day, you’re still his princess.

his eyes flutter shut, hips stuttering and head rolling back when he cums, filling your mouth and making you choke. he pauses for a minute, cock sensitive, moaning at the feeling of you swallowing. there’s a long string of a spit and cum mixture that trails out of your mouth when he pulls out, coating your chin. he uses his dick to smear it around a little, making a mess. you smile, dizzy.

he stares at you in a haze, placing a soft kiss on your lips - he’s as sweet as he is rough.

“still wanna fuck you,” he whispers in your ear, voice deep and raspy. “until i’m fucking cumming dry.” god, the way he talks to you is so fucking hot.

he’s manhandling you again, flipping you over onto your stomach. you think he gets an ego boost from the way he can just grab you and throw you around. you’re not complaining either, to be fair; it’s hot.

you stick your ass up in the air, arching your back, knowing the sight is gonna turn him on. your thoughts are confirmed when you hear him groan, spreading the cheeks out to see your pretty pussy leak for him. he grabs his cock, sliding the tip against your folds, being careful not to slip in with how wet you are. you look back at him from behind, biting your lip and making eye contact.

“you look like a braindead fucking slut right now.” he says, out of nowhere. it’s dirty, a gross way to talk about you, but god does it make you wetter. he leans down, planting kisses on your neck, before wrapping his hands around your throat.

he’s sliding his cock in while he chokes you, and if your throat wasn’t already cooked from all the face-fucking earlier, it definitely is now. the stretch feels good for both of you; you know by the way he’s already setting a fast pace.

you can barely speak from the way he’s taking your breath away, from both the choking and the way he’s pounding into you, but you manage to choke out a strangled “hit me.”

you’re craving the roughness, and it makes him fucking feral. before you know it a hand is coming down on your ass, smacking you while his hips do the same. he continues until your ass is bright red, taking pride in the way he knows it’s gonna be bruised.

he moves his hand from your ass to your hair, gripping at the ends of it. your head is pulled back, accentuating the arch of your back, and it only makes his pace faster.

your hips are grinding against his, feeling your insides squeeze around him. your clit meets his hips each time he thrusts into you, and god, does it feel good. your vision spots as you feel your pussy flutter around him, and before you know it you’re cumming around his cock.

he pulls out moments after your orgasm, but you know he isn’t done with you yet. he flips you around and kisses you, picking you up by the ass and lifting you into his arms. your legs wrap around him instinctively, kissing him even deeper.

his hands move from your ass to the backs of your thighs, and you’re in awe of how he’s even capable of holding you up like this. you jolt as you feel him slam your back against the wall, and all of a sudden he’s holding you up against it with just a single hand. god, he’s so fucking strong.

he used the other hand to stroke himself (barely) before he pushes his cock back into you, both hands moving to your body. he thrusts into you, pinned up against his wall. his head nuzzles into the crook of your neck, adding more than a few hickies. he likes to claim you like that, show everybody that you’re his. as much as it is scandalous, he fucking loves it when you show up on the podcast or in a video with hickies; he wants everyone to know that you’re his baby.

“h-hamzah,” you whine, overstimulated by the way he fucks your sensitive pussy even after your orgasm.

“yeah baby?” he asks, voice breathy as he thrusts into you, keeping his rapid pace.

“want you to cum inside me- fuck- so ffucking bad. don’t care if you get me pregnant.” you cry out, feeling his dick twitch inside you at his words.

and fuck, that does something to hamzah’s brain. hypothetically, he knows that probably isn’t a good idea, but god does the thought of it make him feel fucking feral. he decides between it for a few seconds in his head, before going with the option of “fuck it, we can get plan b after.”

you feel the drags of his cock inside you slow down, the “plap” sound of his thrusts getting deeper and louder, and suddenly your insides are warm and wet, being filled up by hamzah’s hot cum.

he takes a second to breathe, hands shaking a bit, but doesn’t pull out. you wrap your hands around his neck, keeping yourself upright. he’s already moving, cock still inside you - you give him a confused look as he opens the door and brings you out to the kitchen.

he grabs onto your thighs, picking you up and pulling you off his cock. he sits you right down on the kitchen counter, and suddenly you know exactly what he’s trying to do.

he crouches down onto the floor, getting on his knees. he’s face-to-face with the counter now, and about to be face-to-face with your cunt as he grabs your hips and pulls them to his mouth.

you expect him to dive in again, tear you apart, but he takes a different route. he spreads your lips apart with his fingers, gently thumbing your clit. you watch him, staring at your pussy, still sort of confused, until his cum begins to drip out of you.

he latches on to your pussy, licking at every drop of cum leaking out of you. not only does it feel good, but they way he’s lapping at his cum mixed with your juices is really, really fucking hot. you reach a hand down to your own pussy, rubbing yourself while he eats you out.

he continues until he’s nearly licked you dry and you’ve both settled after the intensity of the last few rounds. he kisses you, softly. it’s different from the rough tone of before, more like a “thank you” kiss.

he rests his head on your shoulder, leaving soft kisses over the deep red hickies he had left before. a soft hand massages your back, and you hear him whisper.

“think you can do one more?”

a blush creeps onto your cheeks at the question. you’ve never gone this long before, but the idea of fucking while still extra sensitive from the overstimulation is a lot more tempting than it should be. you smirk, deciding that you’re up for it.

“as long as you cum inside again.” is all you have to say before he’s lifting you up again, throwing you down onto the couch. he crawls on top of you, placing calloused hands on your small hips.

“all I have to do is touch you, and you’re already sounding so fucking pretty for me.” he mumbles when he hears the soft noises that come out of your mouth. he latches onto your collarbone, leaving more marks before he shoves his face into your titties. he’s such a fucking fiend, it makes you giggle a little.

you buck your hips up, too horny to be embarrassed by the moan you let out from him simply sucking on your nipple. a hand suddenly comes down on your pelvis, hard. you try to roll your hips, but his strong grip keeps you in place.

“gonna fucking break you.” he says, and god you need him more now than you ever have before. you watch him grip his cock in his hand, hard as a rock. your hips roll up for him, and he can’t help but force his cock into you with one big, long thrust.

“fuck- hamzah-“ you say, blood rushing to your head. he’s kept his hand on your lower half this whole time, pushing low on the place where his cock bulges against skin in your stomach, and god he’s so fucking big and it’s so sexy.

he’s pounding into you, fat cock twitching inside you and you can’t help but already feel a burning heat in your stomach, clenching hard around him.

“hamzah!” you nearly scream, the coil snapping in your stomach. you feel yourself drench his dick in your juices, pulsing around him - like a chain reaction, it only makes him cum even harder inside you, spilling his seed into your insides.

he rides out his orgasm, collapsing next to you. heavy breathing, he brushes a hand through his messy curls. he does that thing where he nuzzles his head in your neck again, and you lean into the touch, playing with his hair. you kiss him on the forehead, trying to convey all the love you felt in that moment to him.

he looks up at you, soft. it’s almost submissive; you can see the love in his eyes.

“you okay?” you ask, making sure he’s not dissociating too badly.

he nods. “can I- can- can you kiss me?” he mumbles, causing you to melt a little bit at the softness. you pull him in for a soft kiss, moving slowly. you savor the taste of him in the moment, taking it all in.

“love you.” he mutters as he pulls away. “sorry if i was like- too rough. I don’t wanna actually hurt you, I just like, stop thinking when i get a certain amount of horny, it’s like-“

you cut off his rambling with a kiss, smiling against his lips.

“you’re fine.” you giggle. “it was hot anyways.”

💛☀️

so apparently i lost the never-having-existed ability to draw but here’s a crocket, yellow @danielhowell in some soft clothes for y’all

/

don’t repost, reblogs make me happy :) click for better quality

For What You Have Tamed

ao3/masterlist

Summary: In a better world, EVER doesn’t exist. You and Caleb lead relatively normal lives, all things considered. You visit him at his frat in Skyhaven, and you attend a party together. But the same feelings still linger between you, unresolved.

cw(18+): fem reader, reader is MC, Pseudocest, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Jealousy, Mutual Pining, Scent Kink, PNV Sex, Cunnilingus, Blow Jobs, Alcohol, Cigarettes, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Eating Disorders, frat boy!Caleb, Bathing/Washing, Vaginal Fingering, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Unsafe Sex, Pet Names, Not Beta Read, Exhibitionism, Public Sex, Spit Kink, Spit As Lube, No use of Y/N 22.9k

Your train to Skyhaven had arrived early. Or, more accurately, in your excitement to see Caleb, you had boarded an earlier train than you had initially agreed upon with him – and thus arrived in Skyhaven a solid thirty minutes ahead of schedule. Between your own studies and Caleb’s, you weren’t able to visit him at college as much as you would have liked – and certainly less than Caleb would have liked. Still, you made do with daily video calls, texts, and voice messages. You stepped out of the train with a vague sense of uncertainty lingering over you. With Caleb, it was always a toss up as to which role he wanted you to play, and with whom. Little sister? Girlfriend? So much time had passed that it was unclear if it was really a role at all. He used both epithets in tandem. Caleb didn’t see anyone else, and neither did you. You tried not to let these thoughts linger, and let them pass along with the coolness of the summer breeze that kissed your skin. It was almost too warm at the station, the kind of warmth that feels like it's living just under your skin, not quite able to get out. Pulsing dully with the excitement in your blood.

It was just some hours beyond dawn, when the sun had begun to hang itself in the sky, climbing to its apex with the hurriedness of an unbothered cat. The outdoor station was never crowded around this time, occupied by only a few other stragglers of the morning, dragging their feet to obligations unknown. Nothing dragged behind you, save for your suitcase, and the tote bag slung over your arm. The latter was ancient, with a silly smattering of rainbow paper airplanes on it. Caleb had given it to you ages ago, and you had never stopped using it. Your things swam loosely inside, free as birds. Since you were early, you opted to find a place to park yourself while you waited for Caleb. You checked your watch. It was the athletic kind, one with a tiny screen. Not quite the newest tech that the Hunters were using – you weren’t quite there yet. You didn’t have the heart to replace it with a new one, though. The watch confirmed what you already knew – you had thirty minutes before the impending arrival of Caleb. You looked up, intending to choose a direction, but there was, quite abruptly,  a big shadow blocking your view. A big shadow belonging to someone tall. Up your gaze went, over a pair of dark combat boots, cargoes, and a broad chest – wearing a cream colored cut-off t-shirt. Into a face filled with fondness, a pair of pretty purple eyes, ripe like the flesh of figs. Your brother’s full mouth was smiling at you. His dark hair was pinned down to his forehead with a baseball cap, which he wore backwards. His smile broadened as you looked, showing you his one crooked canine amongst otherwise straight teeth. 

“Since when are you an early bird, Pips,” Caleb cocked his head, hand on his hip.

“Is there a worm you’re trying to get?” 

He made a motion with his finger, like that of a worm inching along the ground. You couldn’t help the laugh that came out of you at his stupid joke. Caleb looked very pleased with his triumph. You moved closer to him, and poked a similar finger into his chest. The muscles of his pecs gave way under your touch, and you couldn’t help but spread your hand over them, instead. His necklace glistened with the newfound highness of the sun.

“Who’s the bird and who’s the worm here, huh?” You squeezed him again, unable to help yourself. Caleb hummed, clearly happy with your attentions. Without warning, you were crushed into an embrace, his strong arms wrapped around you like a big-brother vice. You were enveloped in the summer of his scent, the sweetness of fruits, the smell of wheatgrass, the cleanness of his sweat. His voice was close to your ear, tickling it. 

“Whether I’m the bird or the worm – doesn’t matter. I’m already yours.” 

Caleb’s familiar youthful cadence, which had never quite seemed to catch up to his body, sent a cascading line of electricity down your spine. His hands slid down your lower back, encompassing it, until they had landed neatly into your back pockets. 

“Caleb,” you groused,

“We’re in public.”

 It felt good, but you were still smack in the middle of a public train station, nevermind the daily uncertainties of your relationship. Caleb was still for a moment. He gave your ass the tiniest of squeezes before acquiescing, pulling back from you. He didn’t look guilty at all. Instead, he took your tote from your shoulder, slinging it over his own. Your suitcase came from around behind you, like an obedient, rectangular animal, with the help of Caleb’s evol. He grasped it in his hand. His face told you he almost, for just a moment, wanted to say something in opposition, but he relented instead, tone airy.

“Very true, Agent Pip. There’s not another soul alive who deserves to see my pretty girl like this. C’mon, let Caleb whisk you away from pryin’ eyes.”

His hand that wasn’t grasping the suitcase took yours, slotting your fingers together. His palm was so warm that it was nearly uncomfortable, but you had no desire to remove yourself from him. He urged you on with his touch, shortening his long strides so that you could follow him more easily. You squeezed his hand.

“It’s just like when we were kids. Except now you’re the one who wants to hold my hand, huh?”

Caleb’s eyes flicked to you, and then back ahead. The suitcase he was rolling behind him made a loud sound as it bumped over a rock on the sidewalk.

“It’s a little different now though, dontcha’ think?”

Caleb asked a question, but he sounded like he was making a statement, instead. He squeezed your hand, firm. An answer escaped you. You were unsure if he even wanted one. You were saved from having to ponder your response for much longer, though. Caleb had led you to his car, parked next to a meter that was filled up with a suspicious number of minutes. You eyed it, feeling certain he must have been sitting here for some time, in typical Caleb fashion – totally unable to relax, predicting every outcome. He always parked here when he came to get you, because the street was just adjacent to the station. You swept your eyes over his car, appreciating its familiarity. It was a beautiful ‘68 Ford Mustang – a Coupe, in a bright, apple red. Caleb had fixed it up into near perfection himself, tinkering with it in Gran’s garage before he left for college, face smeared with engine grease. By all accounts, it seemed as if he had just washed it, save for some leaves that had haphazardly fallen on the windshield, the gifts of nature from the nearby trees. Caleb busied himself with putting your things in the trunk. He could have easily used his evol – but instead he made a show of lifting your suitcase, muscles rippling under his skin. His skin was a healthy tan, aglow with the kiss of a new summer. It made the freckles of his face stand out. He was as handsome as ever. You wondered if he was still rejecting paramours left and right, despite your continued place as his ‘girlfriend.’ Surely he must be. Caleb shut the trunk, and adjusted the cap on his head. He came around to the passenger’s side door, and held it open for you expectantly. 

“Your trusty steed awaits.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help but smile. You came around the car, and slid inside through the open door. You nudged his arm with your elbow as you passed by.

“If this is my trusty steed, what does that make you?”

Caleb buckled you in, just like he always had when you were children. His hands adjusted your seatbelt over your chest, your hips. They lingered on your thighs, and then went downwards, to squeeze your kneecaps.

“That depends. Which Caleb do you want me to be today?”

He lingered in the open door, expectantly. His gaze on you was unwavering.

“The Caleb that you want to be. Not the Caleb you think I want you to be,”

You wrapped your hand around his thick forearm. Your fingers couldn’t touch on the other side.

“Dummy.”

Caleb seemed to think for a moment, his head tilted. Then, he shut you in without warning. Your knees had gone cold without the warmth of his hands. He reappeared on the driver’s side, and tossed his hat into the center console before getting in. 

“What I want is what you want, baby. Nothing else.”

The car came to life under his touch as he spoke. You watched his hand turn the key in the ignition. You reached to adjust the air conditioning, but Caleb’s hand knocked yours away, directing it at you so that you would get cool air. You wanted to smile, but you also didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Instead, you poked his bicep.

“Right now, you’re Stubborn Caleb.”

Caleb turned to you, and made a show of flexing the bicep your finger had come into contact with. It was as if he got bigger and stronger every time you saw him. You tried to force away thoughts about just where you’d like that bicep to be, and instead focused on him speaking. 

“And my lil’ green apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

He sounded like the statement pleased him. You watched him as he began to drive, pulling the car into the street. Its emptiness almost seemed odd contrasted with Skyhaven’s towering, black skyscrapers, passing you by like dark strangers. The red of the car reflected brightly in their glass, like a passing blood stain.  Caleb’s strong hands gripped the wheel, and you admired the span of his forearms, watching the muscles shift subtly under his skin as he drove. The alternating light of morning lit his features, but it was cut off in intervals by the passing of skyscrapers, so he was cast equally in just as much darkness.

“You’re starin.’ It’s just like when we were kids,” he echoed your earlier statement.

“It’s a little different now, don’t you think?” you said, echoing him back.

Caleb’s eyes flicked to you as he stopped at a red light. His hand found its way back to your thigh as he spoke.

“Yeah, pips. I do.”

He squeezed your thigh, as if affirming his words, though his voice, to your ears, betrayed a hint of uncertainty. The car pulled through as the light turned green again, and Caleb changed the direction of the conversation along with it, as if passing through a portal.

“So,” he rapped his fingers on the wheel,

“You hungry? You haven’t eaten yet, riiight? You got here so early, I bet you skipped it.”

You shuffled your feet on the floor of the car. The flexing of your thigh made Caleb’s hand move up and down, and his thumb drew idle circles on your skin through the fabric of your pants. You regretted wearing them now, because he wasn’t touching your skin directly. You nodded to answer his question, not wanting to confirm out loud that the reason you had skipped breakfast was to catch the earlier train to see him.

“I knew it,” he singsonged.

 “So, what should I feed you? Did you wanna pick something up, or should I whip somethin’ up back at the house?”

His hand was drifting up your thigh as he spoke, as if he wasn’t casually asking you about food. You tried to ignore the fingers that were creeping closer to where you wanted them.

“Oatmeal,” you blurted. Caleb looked surprised, his eyebrows raising a tick. His smile told you he was about to tease you for the simplicity of your choice, so you added an addendum.

“It’s just better when you make it.”

Caleb’s smile widened. He mussed his hair with his hand, driving with his knees for a moment, and it only made his cowlicks stand more on end. Even with hat hair, he was stupidly handsome. His hand went back on the wheel.

“Well, when you put it like that, how could your wish be anything but my command?”

In any other circumstance, staying in a frat house for any period of time would be an altogether horrifying prospect. Not so with Caleb, however. He was part of ΒΘΠ, a fellowship of brothers who all shared the goal of becoming pilots, on top of getting their current ambitious degrees. (Caleb, for that matter, was majoring in aerospace engineering.) Given the niche scope of interest, it was a small congregation. The rules for entry were strict, too. All the men involved were required to maintain a high GPA, positive social standing, attend charity events, and make all manner of community efforts. Caleb, who had rushed and nearly been immediately accepted when he entered college, now unofficially ran the place like it was the military. From what you had gathered from your semi-frequent visits, Caleb was popular and well-respected among the brothers – if not more than a little feared. His seniority in the frat had earned him his own room, finally having graduated from a double. You had some vague inkling that he conducted the rituals the frat was involved in, being as secretive as he was – though he pretended not to be. You tried not to pry, though you were certainly curious. Of course, Caleb took all of this in stride – finishing his education, becoming a pilot, hosting charity events and parties, working, sending you more money than you needed back home  – you had no idea where he found the time or energy for it all. When you had inquired after it, he had simply stated he could take one look into your face and find all the motivation he needed to pursue his goals. Looking into his handsome face was like injecting liquid sunshine laced with cyanide into your veins. You couldn’t imagine what he saw when he looked into yours. You had always been his little shadow, after all. Stepping into his light still burned.

The frat house was located not far from campus, nestled among rows of other similar houses with similar frats. It wasn’t exactly modest, but it wasn’t extravagant, either. Due to its highly competitive nature, it only boasted about ten rooms, even less of which were occupied by young men. You eyeballed it through the window as you approached, as Caleb pulled the car into the drive. It was a neutral sort of gray, with classic white pillars and window frames. Once, you had caught Caleb directing some of the newer brothers to power wash the exterior after a particularly nasty storm had left it dirtied. It was clearly well maintained, down to the clip of the yard. You could practically imagine Caleb on his hands and knees with the other brothers, working the dirt, bending the earth to his will. 

Said bender of wills took his hand from your thigh, which had stayed firmly in its place the entire car ride. He unbuckled himself, and then you, without a second thought. Habits of his that never quite seemed to die. Not that you wanted them to. As he reached over you, you could practically feel the heat that radiated from his skin, even without touching him. In the winter, he was like a space heater – and in the summer, he was something a little more sinister. 

“Stay,” he commanded.

“I’ll come ‘round.”

Caleb exited the vehicle, and came around to open the door for you. As you stepped out, he spoke, shutting the door behind you. 

“The boys know you’re comin,’ so they’ll be–”

“On their best behavior?” You finished for him. You had visited plenty, but Caleb was always quick to assure you that you had nothing to worry about. He smiled at your interruption, his eyes glittering.

“That’s right, baby. You don’t even need me to tell you, huh?”

He walked around to the back of the car, and you watched him as he went. His broad back, shoulders freckled from the sun. He walked like his dick was big, even from behind. Well, not like it was big. It was big. You screwed your face up at your own thoughts, shaking your head. Caleb freed your suitcase and tote from captivity in the back of the car, and shut the trunk. As you watched, it occurred to you that Caleb had left his hat on the console. You opened the door back up, and rescued it from its near-abandonment. Caleb reappeared before you, tote and suitcase in hand. He looked curiously at the cap in yours. You gestured for him to crouch, and he did so, offering you the crown of his head. You placed the cap back atop it, backwards, as it was before. Your fingers brushed against his ears. Caleb righted himself, looking much like the cat who got the cream, his mouth set into a small smile.

“Helpful girl.”

He gestured to the front door with a jerk of his head, and started towards it. 

“C’mon. Let’s put something in your stomach, yeah?”

Caleb’s word choice wasn’t lost on you, though you could never be quite sure if it was intentional or not, being Caleb. He was just like that. You followed after him to the doorway, and he produced the house keys from one of the many pockets of his cargoes. There was a little keychain he always kept on them – a gift from you – shaped like the radiant sun, cast in a yellow gold. Whenever you picked up his keys, it dug uncomfortably into your skin with its sharp points. It made a familiar clinking sound against the rest of the metal that made you feel like you were coming home, rather than visiting. Caleb pushed open the door, and led you inside. He parked your suitcase and tote in the entryway. You shut the door behind him, locking it. When you turned back around, Caleb was kneeling before you, his fingers going for the laces of your boots. 

“Caleb, you don’t have to–”

“I know, I know. You’re a big girl now, and you don’t need me anymore. Just indulge me, okay? It’s not that I have to. Maybe I miss doin’ stuff like this for you. When you were a kid, you’d purposely double knot your sneakers too tight so that I’d help you untie them. Just tying them for you wasn’t enough.” 

Caleb’s fingers worked open the double knot of your laces as he spoke. He tugged the boot from your right foot. The motion made you unsteady, and you instinctively reached out for his shoulders to steady yourself. They were sturdy under your touch. Your abdomen was square in Caleb’s face, and he leaned forward, pressing his face into your stomach. He inhaled loudly against your shirt. You swatted at his head halfheartedly, and your fingers dragged against the material of his cap.

“I’m all sweaty. I stink.”

Caleb shook his head against your stomach, burying his face there for a moment longer. His voice was muffled by your clothes.

“You smell good, pip. Your sweat, too.”

Your shoes were momentarily forgotten as his hands found a more suitable place cupping your ass, pressing you harder against your face. He moved his head down, down, until his mouth was just below your groin, nose pressing against your jeans. He looked up at you, inhaling against you with purpose. You didn’t want him to stop. You wanted him to unzip your jeans, and put his tongue inside of you. But you were more concerned with his future than your momentary pleasure.

“Caleb,” you hissed,

“What will the guys think if they see you with your little sister?”

Caleb pulled back, his hands dropping back to your laces. He made quick work of them, shucking your shoe off and setting it aside next to its partner. He looked back up at you as he started on his own boots, a little smile on his face. His eyes were like a dark purple flint, sharp and calculating. 

“They’ll think whatever I tell them to think. Besides,”  

His boots went next to yours, and they could have been twins were it not for the largeness of his own. He stood back to his full height, and took your suitcase and tote back in hand. 

“You’re not my little sister.”

The delicate venom in his words twisted the arousal in your stomach into a creature that could only crawl on its belly, down through your legs, and into the ground through your socked feet. This was Caleb, both sides of the coin. Introducing you as his sometimes girlfriend, sometimes sister. Whatever suited him, whatever he needed you to be. You wanted to clutch at both titles, and you hated it. He denied you both. You followed him into the kitchen. He deposited your things neatly beside the marble island. 

“We’ll bring your things up to my room after you eat. You suuure all you want is oats? I picked up all kinds of stuff that you like before you came,” he said, as if he hadn’t just denied all of your worldly connection to him. Your appetite, which was already small this early in the morning, flagged. He opened up the big, silver fridge. It was the kind that had a water dispenser on the left side of the door, with an ice maker inside. The kind that only wealthy people had in their houses. Or, so you had thought when you were kids. The refrigerator at your home in Linkon was small and white, humble. Much more empty, without Caleb to fill it. 

Before the house, at the orphanage, you couldn’t even remember a refrigerator. 

You looked at the contents inside. It was stuffed to the brim, bursting with vegetables, meats, sauces, and all kinds of prepped meals. You recognized the containers that Caleb used to prep his meals, now. He had started doing it in highschool. Chicken and rice, sometimes a green vegetable. Nothing like the flavorful, thoughtful meals he was feeding you and Gran. 

How else can I be your reliable pillar of strength?

You looked at him, and opted not to answer his question, instead offering him another one in return.

“What about you? Are you going to eat?”

Caleb turned back to you, shutting the refrigerator behind him. He shook his head, looking as relaxed as ever under your scrutiny. 

“I ate way early this morning. Doesn't do me any good to workout fasted, you know? So, oats? Not eggs, pancakes, bacon, waffles…”

You eyed him, weighing the truth of his statement. You would have preferred to eat with him, especially after not having seen him for nearly a month – but he seemed for all the world to be telling the truth. You relented, slotting yourself into one of the uncomfortable metal stools that sat on the side of the kitchen island. You didn’t like that island. The white granite seemed kind of sterile, cold.

“Just oats,” and thinking the better of it, you added,

“Please.”

This caused a raise of Caleb’s eyebrows. He whistled, high to low. He rummaged through the pantry as he spoke, producing a bag of oats. It was the expensive kind, you could tell. Not the kind in instant packets or the cardboard tube, but the nice one in a bag that rich hippies liked, with some smattering on the back about ‘ our story.’

“Did you just say ‘please?’ Was my pip abducted by aliens in the last thirty seconds? What happened to the little girl who wouldn’t even pour me a glass of water?”

You watched as Caleb’s hands measured out the perfect portion of oats into a cup, and then put them into a pan. They were vascular hands, warmed by the interior of the house. When he flexed them around the handle of the pan, they stretched and compressed, like the formations of new lakes. My pip, he said. You resisted the urge to tell him that the little girl he mentioned had died in that old house in Linkon, and her heart was buried under the floorboards. He’d hear it there, if he came back to visit more often. Maybe it would haunt him, your little heart. It sounded like him. Thump. Thump. Thump.  

Instead of telling him where your heart lived, you sang a rhyme at him, the kind he’d read you from little archaic picture books as a child.

“She went to market, to market, to buy a fat hog,”

Caleb measured water into the pot after the oats, and set the flame of the stove alight with a click-click-click . He turned back to you, a wooden spoon in hand.

“But then she came home again, home again, right? Jiggety-jog.”

Caleb connected the back of the spoon with his palm, and it made a satisfying smack that echoed in the kitchen, like it was accentuating the truth of his words. You watched as his fingers naturally curled around the utensil, into a resting position. He made the very normal sized cooking spoon look puny. The image of Caleb smacking you flashed through your mind. You had smacked him plenty as a child – but he had never once raised a hand to you. Not like that. You wanted it to be you in his palm, instead. You flattened your own palms against the cool marble of the island counter, hoping it would take some of their heat away. It was painfully cold, in a good way. You tilted your head at him. 

“And where should she go home to?”

Caleb fixed you with a firm look before speaking.

“The one I make for her, of course.”

He turned back to the oats, which seemed to be bubbling. He stirred them with the spoon, and adjusted the flame. You watched as the little blue fingers of it were made smaller under his touch, licking eagerly at the bottom of the pan.

“Just you wait, baby. I’ve got it all lined up so I can take care of you. You’ll never have to want for a thing. Least of all a home.”

Caleb sounded so sure that you almost wanted to believe him. He really did seem to have plans in place that you weren’t aware of. But you were in school, too. Soon, you’d take the Hunter Exam. It sounded like an attractive prospect. But you grounded yourself in reality, not fantasy.

“You make it sound like you’re going to marry me or something. Surely you have more attractive prospects than your…”

The words little sister nearly left your mouth, but you held your tongue. Caleb’s earlier words still blanched your skin like the water that boiled the oats he would feed to you. He fetched a bowl from the cabinet. You searched for better words, but found none. You were saved by the sudden entrance of someone into the kitchen, having come down from the stairs. You jerked your head up to look. It was one of the brothers who was closest to Caleb - Liam. He was a man of tall stature, though not quite as tall as Caleb. He had a dark face with eyes that seemed wet with perpetual worry. His hair was cropped short, buzzed at the sides. A presence that was quiet, unobtrusive. He met Caleb’s eyes before yours. They exchanged a look. Liam spoke first.

“Your sister’s a little early. Don’t worry, I’m almost done.” 

Caleb merely nodded at him. You saw a tightness in his face, in the set of his eyes. Liam turned to you, and nodded, offering no words. You nodded quietly in return. It was always like this, with him. You knew he meant no offense – it’s just how he was. Liam retrieved something from the refrigerator – a bottle of something – and disappeared from the kitchen without another word. You watched him go, enveloped as he was in his own unique quiet. Movement from Caleb made you turn your attention back to him. He busied himself with the coffee machine, as well as the electric kettle. The oats bubbled, as did the kettle and coffee machine. The world’s smallest symphony of consumption, courtesy of your big brother. He produced two mugs from an adjacent cabinet. You regarded them curiously. One, you recognized. It was a soft shade of ivory, and boasted a charming image of half of an apple on its side. The other, you didn’t recognize. It was orange, and had a picture of a snail scooting along, as if he had somewhere very important to be. You almost wanted to ask, but your lingering question hanging in the air stopped you from doing so. 

Caleb put a tea bag into the snail cup, followed by the hot water. The coffee went into the apple cup. Both were placed before you.

“Coffee: black. Tea: no milk.” 

He was using his comms voice, as if he was repeating back something air traffic control had said to him. You couldn’t help the snort that escaped you. Caleb grinned, and turned back to the oats, portioning them into the bowl with the help of the spoon.

Onto the island before you it went, and he stirred it with a new, silver spoon, one meant for eating off of. You peered over the rim. By the looks of it, he had added all kinds of extras. Milk, butter, salt, brown sugar, cinnamon, blueberries…and whatever else he did that made it taste so good.

Maybe it was just better because he had made it for you.

Caleb pushed the bowl toward you expectantly. It was a simple, white, ceramic. 

“Eat,” he encouraged. 

“Otherwise you might blow away. There’s supposed to be a storm tonight. Maybe even earlier.” 

As if you had planned to do literally anything else with the meal before you. When you were a kid, the storms would send you careening into the little coat closet, stuffing yourself up against the big coats and long forgotten mothballs. Rather than try to coax you out, Caleb would climb in after you, and curl his big body over yours. His legs caged your thighs, like bulwark against both yourself and the storm. He would talk endlessly, about anything, to distract you. When he ran out of things to say, he would make up stories – which he was terrible at. 

Once upon a time, there was a little princess, trapped deep in the dark, surrounded by moth-bunnies and big, big coats. But a great knight, who was very handsome and tall, came to rescue her from the dark. When she lifted his visor to see his face, it glowed radiant like the sun – and all the darkness was cast away, and she was no longer afraid.

When he ran out of those, he still had one thing to fall back on – the natural sounds of his body, which never failed to finally lull you into a state of calm.

Just listen to my heart instead, pipsqueak. I’m right here. I’ll always be by your side.

You spooned the oatmeal into your mouth. As expected, it was delicious. Your usual packet-milk combo just couldn’t compare. You swallowed, and pointed your spoon at Caleb.

“And you might blow away if you insist on subsisting on nothing but your prepped meals.”

You gestured to the fridge instead, where the perpetrators sat in their glass containers, silently awaiting their master to retrieve them for their dark purpose. 

“Mm..it would take a lot more than that to knock your Caleb down, I think.”

He hooked his thumbs into his belt loops, and his eyes followed the motion of your spoon moving from your bowl to your mouth. He didn’t wait for your retort before he spoke again.

“I’m going to bring your stuff up to my room while you finish up. No rush.” Caleb gripped your suitcase and tote, and headed towards the stairs. His room was on the top floor, with a balcony that could be used to survey lesser passers-by on the sidewalk, if one so chose. You hurriedly scraped at your oats, and sipped at the last dregs of your coffee and tea, instead of watching him go up the stairs like you wanted to. There was a series of thuds as you listened, coming from the direction of his room. As you scarfed at the last of your meal, Caleb reappeared from the stairwell, and swept the now empty bowl from your hands with his evol, floating it into the sink, along with the snail and apple mugs. They were like a strange parade of little soldiers, bobbing up and down, going into their metal trench. A watery doom. You reached for your bowl as it went instinctually, but let your hands fall. Caleb just laughed. Your body wasn’t far after this procession, and you were lifted into the air by the reflective blue fractals of Caleb’s evol, over the kitchen island, and into his waiting arms, like a princess. 

“Caleb!”

He nodded resolutely, heading for the stairs once again, clearly charmed with his cargo in tow. All of him enveloped you. 

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

He leaned closer as he went up the stairs. Your ear kept bouncing up near his lip with his movements, and he spoke softly into it. 

“Just kiddin.’ You can say it all you want. I like it when you call my name.”

You shuddered reflexively. 

Caleb brought you through the open door to his room, which proudly boasted his last name in big letters: XIA. 

His room was decently sized, though a simple affair. It had become clear to you that Caleb lived a more spartan lifestyle than you realized after you started visiting him at college. The room sported a desk, which contained some of his study materials, a chest of drawers, a bookshelf, and a queen sized bed. Nothing lined the walls. The only decoration it sported was a few model planes along the shelf, and a photo of the two of you on the nightstand. It was his favorite – the one where you were on his back, looking over at the camera. For a college student's room, it was fastidiously clean – nevermind a frat guy. You made a mental note to bring him something to liven it up, like a plant. Or something. Anything, really.

Caleb’s evol shut and locked the door behind you. Instead of setting you to your feet like you had expected, he set you delicately into his bed, on top of his plain white sheets. He crawled in after you, tossing his hat on the bedside table, and slotted himself behind you, a big breath leaving his body. You fit perfectly against the shape of him, like you were meant to be there. His big arm wrapped around your front, just below your breasts. It was still early, and there was a cascade of the sun’s rays coming in from the balcony windows, onto the place where your bodies met. It was hard to differentiate what was the warmth of Caleb’s body, and what was the warmth of the sun. You nudged him gently with your elbow.

“Are we going back to bed? This isn’t like you, mister up-and-at-em.” 

You found yourself whispering, as if there were some reason to whisper, now that you were in his room. Caleb huffed warm air against the back of your hair. He whispered, too.

“You’re right. But when you’re around, I can finally relax, pips. Makes me sleepy.” 

He curled himself tighter around you as he spoke, just like he used to, in the darkness of the little closet. You could feel his dick getting harder against your back. Neither of you mentioned it. You stayed like that for a time, and you felt Caleb’s breathing become more even. Your own eyes fluttered. You thought he must have fallen asleep, but he spoke groggily against your neck.

“Not sleepy?”

You shook your head against the pillow.

“Not not sleepy. Just not asleep yet.”

Caleb’s hand stroked up and down your upper arm soothingly. 

“Want me to sing you a lullaby?”

His voice sounded teasing, and you weren’t quite sure how serious he was being. You had always told him his voice sucked when you were younger. In reality, his singing voice soothed you more than anything else. He was a good musician, too. Even if his ukulele playing had annoyed you when you were kids.

“Yeah.”

Caleb was quiet behind you. You thought that he might not actually want to sing – but he started just as soon as you opened your mouth to make a joke. You listened quietly as his soft voice floated over the summer air in the room.

“Dites-moiPourquoiLa vie est belle?”

You recognized this. A little french lullaby from your childhood, one he would sing to you often. Especially when you couldn’t sleep, when the rain pelted the windows of that little house in Linkon, and the thunder shook its walls.

“Dites-moiPourquoiLa vie est gai?

Dites-moiPourquoi,Chère mad’moiselle,”

You let your eyes slip shut. Your body relaxed into Caleb’s, and he held you closer. The last of the song tickled the back of your neck with the vibrations of his voice. His fingers stroked down your forearm, gently petting you.

“Est-ce queParce queVous m’aimez?”

When you drifted, you fell into a dreamless sleep, lulled by the last of Caleb’s voice, and the warm grasp of his hold.

You woke to a harsh clap of thunder, your eyes forced open by the sound. You were momentarily disoriented. This was not your ceiling. Not your bed. Definitely not your room. You sat up, trying to get your bearings. Directly in your line of sight was the form of your brother, illuminated only by the orange light of his desk lamp. He was absorbed in something, his pen spinning over the knuckles of his right hand as he pondered. His left hand was over his mouth, rubbing at his jaw. Even from this distance, you could hear the soft sound of his skin scraping against the stubble there. The warmth from the light almost made his eyes swell with the pink that swam in the bottom of his irises, like the rising fresh of blood underneath thin skin. He turned towards you, and his eyebrows raised as he saw you sitting up, straight as a board. He crossed the room you in nearly an instant, pen dropped, and work quickly forgotten.

Your heart clattered against your ribs again at the sound of the thunder, and you gripped the sheets. It had been a long time since you were the little girl who crawled into the closet to hide. Caleb stood over you, looking extra tall from your low vantage point on his bed. You wanted to crawl inside of him, instead of the dark closet. Be surrounded by his warm insides, safe. Right next to the perpetual beat of his heart you’d curl, wrap your hands around its valves. Sink your teeth in.

“You alright, pips? Thunder still psychs you out, yeah? I’m here.” 

He sat on the edge of the bed, adjacent to you. The weight of his body caused your own to move just a bit closer to him. You frowned at him. Something wanted to change in you. You didn’t want to be the scared little girl in his eyes, anymore. You were an adult now, and so was he. Soon, you’d be on the field, taking out Wanderers and keeping the people of Linkon safe. You’d long been over your fear. You crawled around Caleb instead of answering his question, or going into his arms, like you so wanted to. You slipped from the bed, and went to the glass door of the balcony. 

Your hand slid the door open, feeling like it wasn’t quite a part of you as it did so. It was only raining lightly, but the clouds above were an angry swirl of blues and grays, threatening to turn torrential, like great ships tossed at sea. You saw lighting clash in the belly of them, and the sound made the hair on your arms stand on end. Still, you needed Caleb to see that you weren’t that little girl in the closet anymore. You had unstuck yourself from him, from the beat of his heart, from the stories of knights and princesses. You took a step out onto the concrete of the balcony. It was icily cold against your bare feet, and the smell of the rain whipped into your senses in full force. You had half expected Caleb to drag you back inside, but he didn’t – neither with his evol, nor his hands. Instead, he came out after you, a presence behind your back. He hadn’t touched you, but you felt the warmth of his body there. He was quiet.

No rain touched you. Not even a single drop. You checked your clothes, your exposed arms – nothing. Dryer than the day you were born. You cast your eyes above you, back to the sky. Suspended around you were the bodies of hundreds of little raindrops – unable to reach their destination on the earth. They domed around you, like a soft, watery cocoon. In them, you saw hundreds of tiny reflections of your own confused face. You turned around to Caleb, who looked down at you in turn. He didn’t even have a hand raised to keep the drops at bay. So precise was his control over his evol that he no longer even needed to gesture. As you watched, the droplets formed a little ring above his head. In a flash of lighting, they looked for a moment like a bright halo around him. Then, it was gone. Words came to your lips, and you let them fall. You didn’t hold them, like Caleb with the drops.

“You don’t need to protect me from raindrops.”

Caleb’s eyebrows raised. He sounded teasing.

“You tellin’ me what to do, now? This isn’t the way I’d like to see you get wet, princess.”

The feeling his words aroused in you only served to anger you more. It was what he was always doing – trying to redirect you, to get you to think about something else entirely, to let him keep control. 

“You can’t protect me forever, Caleb.”

You hated the way he could command the sky, the very air, all things. Making things fly, crushing them under the weight of his mind. To give you wings, or clip them. It was just as the way he treated you – like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to let you fledge, or keep you caged forever. Never quite choosing a real label for your relationship. Neither were real, fabricated upon nothing but your mutual rapport. There wasn’t even any true blood between you. So what was there, really? 

Still, when you looked up into the lilac of his eyes, his perfect nose, chapped lips – you still saw the face of your brother. The face of the man you wanted to love you as more than a sister. You wished desperately that Caleb would let the rain fall, let it wash these thoughts from you, baptize you in your own fears to chase away your desires.

But he didn’t. 

The raindrops orbited around you, like hanging toys on a mobile. Caleb blinked at you, like he didn’t understand your question.

“Why not?”

Caleb’s dog tags reflected the rising blackness of the storm, as you looked.

“Because I don’t need you–”

Caleb interrupted you. His eyes flashed with a streak of lightning. 

“You don’t need me? Is that what you think?”

All at once, the droplets began to fall around you again. You were instantly soaked. Your clothes and hair stuck to you, seeping the last of your body’s natural warmth from your skin into the air. In the time Caleb had been stopping the rain from hitting you, it had begun to come down even harder. The feeling of it all hitting you at once stung with the harsh whip of the water’s chill. Caleb stepped forward, until you were forced against the metal railing of the balcony. It dug painfully into your lower back. He pinned you there, with his body, hands on either side of you on the metal bar. Even with his clothes completely soaked through, his skin was impossibly warm. You could see the expanse of his skin underneath the wet material of his white shirt, the peaks and valleys of his muscles. Caleb’s voice began to sound frantic, higher pitched.

“Alright. What do you need? You can tell me. Do you want me to drop out of college, and move back home? I could get a job back in Linkon. Anything. We could have our own house, just you and me. I’ll build it for you. You can become a Hunter. Or, I can make you disappear. It’ll just be us, forever. You’ll never have to worry about a thing. I’ll take care of you.”

Caleb’s face was mere inches from yours. He smiled through his words, eyes turning up at the ends, as if what he was saying pleased him, excited him. But his pupils were tiny pricks, lost in the storm of his eyes. Your body began to shudder from the cold. His words had stopped making sense. This wasn’t the Caleb you knew.

“Caleb…”

All at once, he seemed to come back to himself. Whether it was your shivering or the call of his name, you couldn’t be sure. His pupils drank up more of his irises, and his voice returned back to its normal, boyish cadence. 

“Shit, baby, look at you. You’re soaked. Let’s get you inside.”

You didn’t have the energy to argue with him any longer, nor mention the sudden change in his demeanor. He didn’t even seem to care that he was also soaking wet. His skin had lost its usual flush, and was pallid instead. After seeing the look on his face, something like cold resignation settled into your stomach. He slid the balcony door open again, and his evol gently ushered you inside, a little push at your back. You took a few frozen steps, until you were dripping in the center of Caleb’s bedroom. Caleb rushed in after you, and hurried into his bathroom. He reappeared a moment later with a towel. He draped it around your head, and ruffled your hair. 

“Do you want to take a bath? I’ve got this big room now, so I have one. Or do you want me to blow dry your hair?”

You let stillness sit between the two of you for a moment before you answered. There was something you needed to know, first.

“You want to take care of me that badly?”

Caleb seemed to sense your resignation, and that the honesty of his answer mattered. He didn’t try to subvert, change directions, or control. You felt the sincerity in his response, the youthful insecurity in it.

“I don’t just want to take care of you. I want to be the only one who takes care of you. The only one you need.”

The towel dropped from you, onto the floor at his side. You had already made your decision.

“Then take off my clothes.”

Caleb looked into your face, for just a moment, as if looking for something there. Whatever it was, he seemed to find it. His expression turned into something unreadable. He gripped the hem of your shirt.

“Lift.”

You lifted your arms above your head. Caleb tugged your wet shirt away from your skin, and the cold kiss of the air hit your chest. He tossed the garment aside. He squatted, face level with the zipper of your jeans. His big hands unbuttoned the button, slid the zipper down. His touch was sure, unhurried. His evol lifted you just off the ground so that he could tug the jeans down your legs. It was no easy task, considering their dampness from the rain, but he managed it with some measure of grace. One leg, and then the other. Caleb had lifted you like this countless times before, but it struck you, as you were left in nothing but your bra and underwear, suspended a few inches in the air, Caleb crouched below you, just how powerful he really was. The man who had you suspended in the air with the sheer power of his mind was knelt before you, adhering to your whims. Stripping you at your behest. His clothes and hair were still dripping wet. His evol set you to your feet, and Caleb stood back up. You looked up at him, feeling more sure that he would go along with what you wanted, now. He always would.

“I want you to give me a bath.”

Caleb said nothing, at first. This was a face of his that you recognized. A sort of eerie stillness about him, a barely repressed anger – or maybe eagerness – burning him up, just under his skin. Like the water would evaporate off of him because of it. The room had become so dark for the storm that you could hardly tell the state of his eyes. In the low light, their usual purple almost looked black.

“Okay, baby.”

Caleb stood next to you, and his big hand came up to grip the back of your neck. Somehow, even with the state he was in, his skin was still warm. He applied a little pressure, guiding you forward towards the bathroom, wordlessly. You complied, the feeling of his casual dominance making wetness collect between your legs. Even when he was complying with what you wanted, he was still somehow in control. You went into the little bathroom, and he stepped in behind you, shutting the door. It was much similar to the bedroom – spartan, save for Caleb’s toiletries. The tiling on the wall was a pea-flower blue. It reflected distorted images of your own face back at you as you looked. Caleb gestured in front of you. You followed his finger with your eyes.

“Sit.”

You sat. The porcelain of the toilet was cold on your bare skin, but you didn’t complain. Caleb shed himself of his clothes under your gaze, leaving him only in his boxers and necklace. His muscular thighs flexed as he moved, imbued with the natural grace that only athletes could boast of. He knelt in front of the tub, right next to your knees, and turned the knob, running the water over his hand. When he deemed it acceptable, he plugged it up, and let it run. The sound of the running water echoed loudly in the small room. He turned towards you, still squatting. He lifted his hands towards your chest, and paused, as if seeking your permission. You put a foot on one of his big thighs. It was a stark contrast to the cold floor. 

“Are you going to give me a bath in my underwear?”

Caleb laughed softly, sounding in between exasperation and arousal. His hands resumed their mission, coming round your torso to unhook your bra. It took him a few tries, but it finally came free, and he slipped it from your arms, setting it aside. He shuffled backwards just slightly, taking your foot from off of his thigh with his hand. You knew him well enough, after all these years, to understand his intention. You stood, so he could access your underwear. For the third time that day, Caleb’s face was level with your groin. You looked down at him, and he up at you. He held your gaze as he hooked his fingers into your underwear, and pulled them from your hips, down your legs. You kicked them aside when they reached the floor. Still, Caleb didn’t look where he could have looked. Instead, he licked a flat stripe over your right hip bone, then your left. His tongue was warm, wet. He lapped at the place below your navel, at the junction where your hips met your legs. Further he went, slipping his tongue in between the natural fold of your thigh, not quite in between your legs, but enough that you could feel his breath hot against your sex. The places where his tongue left saliva behind on your skin felt cool against the air. You felt your abdomen clench, and your hand went for his soft hair. It was still soaked from the rain. You yanked at it, which earned you a little moan from your brother. You weren’t sure if you were directing him towards you, or away. He wasn’t giving you what you wanted – what you needed from him. He pressed his lips harder against your stomach, and then loudly blew a raspberry there. It tickled terribly, and you pushed back against his head in retaliation, trying to keep from laughing by pressing your lips together. He smiled up at you.

“I thought you wanted me to give you a bath?”

Caleb moved backwards from you as he spoke, and flicked a finger. You were in the air again, in the gentle net of his evol. It made a low hum every time it appeared, like a predator that was warning a lesser creature of its presence. He lifted you into the tub, into the warm water, and then shut off the faucet, his evol leaving little red flecks of its traces behind before disappearing entirely.  Your knees peeked just out of the water as you bent them up. It was blessedly warm, compared to the chill of the air from the rain. Your shivering finally began to subside as you sunk deeper into the water. You looked up at Caleb, who had taken up residence on the edge of the tub. He was reaching for a loofah that was hanging on the wall. It was a bright, pepto-bismol pink. You poked his thigh with an accusatory finger, remembering his licking.

“What are you, a dog?”

Caleb huffed out a laugh. He was squeezing a copious amount of his own soap onto the loofah. It was unscented – it just smelled clean. The same way Caleb always smelled. The idea that you were going to smell like him brought you a sick sense of satisfaction. Even under the water, you could still feel the places where his tongue had touched your skin. He began to scrub away at the sensation with the loofah, starting just below your neck. Suds pooled in the little wells of your collarbones. You resisted the natural urge to cover yourself with your hands. Caleb had certainly seen you naked many times before – and even now, you wanted him to see you naked. You wanted him to see you differently. You turned your body more in his direction, giving him easier access.

“Well, you’ve collared me, at least.”

Caleb spoke through an exhale of a breath, sounding strained. His necklace clinked as he moved to wash you, like it was proving his words. He lifted your arms, washed you underneath your armpits. You held them up for him. It tickled, just a little. When he let down your arms, you looked into his face.

“So you’ll never run away from me?”

Caleb titled his head, smiling. The downturn of his eyes seemed even softer in the yellow of the overhead light. The loofah went over your breasts, under them, between them. You wished he would wash you with his bare hands, instead of the soapy barrier. He moved down to your stomach. You watched the little trail of bubbles it left behind as he went.

“Even if your dog is bad sometimes, he’ll never leave you,” his hand drifted between your legs. He scrubbed. Up, down. Up, down. You wanted him to slip his fingers inside of you under the water.

 “Starve him, beat him within an inch of his life…nothing could take him from your side.”

Caleb started on your legs. He washed your thighs, and leaned down so that he could scrub behind your knees. He slipped his free hand behind there, after the loofah, thoughtfully. He looked at the suds on his hand. Then, he moved to your calves. You lifted your legs for him, to make it easier.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Caleb. You do enough of that to yourself, already.”

Caleb grasped your foot in one of his big hands. Rather than the loofah, he used the residual bubbles on his hand to scrub it, top to bottom. Your foot jerked reflexively, but he kept it still in his firm grip. He grinned at you as he went for your other foot, showing you his one crooked canine again. 

“Do you remember what Chaucer said about those with heads of glass?”

He repeated the motions on your other foot. You tried to recall what Chaucer said, what he wrote, instead of thinking of Caleb sinking his teeth into the meat of your calf. You pulled it from your dregs. The hot water was beginning to make your mind feel sluggish.

“What, do I need to be aware of ‘hostile stones that pass?’ Will it be you who throws them?”

Caleb shook his head.

“Of course not. It’s my job to keep you safe.”

His job. Of course. As your brother. The air left your lungs like wind from small sails. It was the same thing he had been saying since you were kids. Your memories of being adopted with Caleb seemed to be some of your first. Before that, it was a deep, black quagmire. Your eyes grazed the length of his right arm, the one he was using to wash you. There was a big, spidering scar at the base of his shoulder. The tendrils of it reached out against his skin, stopping at the base of his deltoid. You hated that scar. You were the reason for it. When you were teenagers, you had gotten into some kind of stupid argument with Caleb after school. It was something so meaningless that you couldn’t remember what it was about, anymore. You had stormed off, and in your irritation, walked right into a busy street. You hadn’t seen the light change. You didn’t even see the truck – but Caleb did. Back then, he had yet to achieve full control of his evol. He pushed you out of the way, and his body took the brunt of the force, the rest absorbed by his control on gravity. He was hospitalized for weeks, but had still remained sun-shinier than ever. You had escaped with only a few scrapes. He constantly had visitors – friends, admirers – even strangers seemed to flock to his natural glow. You heard the whispers. They couldn’t understand why he would jeopardize his flawless participation in sports, his future, his extracurriculars, all for his gloomy little sister. 

Well, you didn’t understand either. Caleb had recovered in record time, pushing himself to the limits in physical rehabilitation, sweat beaded on his brow, face unable to hide the exertion and pain. He never told you the extent of the injury. You had only heard the truth of it from Zayne, whose parents worked for the same hospital at the time. He was there frequently, and saw Caleb’s struggle. In reality, he had experienced major damage to the nerves in his arm – primarily the median nerve. While he had recovered the use of it entirely, the majority of his sensation in his right hand was forever lost to him. Caleb paused his scrubbing.

“It doesn’t hurt anymore, you know.”

You slid your wet hands up his arm, leaning up from where you were sitting in the bath, until you were caressing the thickest point of the scar on his shoulder. Caleb’s body tensed, then relaxed. His broad chest rose and fell evenly with his breaths. You pressed down on the scar. Caleb grunted, though his face betrayed nothing.

“Liar,” you whispered.

It should have been you.

Caleb only smiled, and picked up your hand from his scar by your wrist. He pressed a kiss to the inside of it, before returning it to you. Your skin prickled in the wake of his touch.

“Time to get out.” 

You eyed Caleb. His hair, which had been wet from the rain, was beginning to frizz up from the humidity of the bathroom. You held up your index finger, and let some water from it drip on to his knee. 

“What about you?”

Caleb blinked.

“I’ll shower after.”

Somehow, you felt that if you let this moment slip between you, it would be lost to you forever, like the water in your fingers. You reached for the plug, and uncorked it, letting the water begin to drain. You turned back to Caleb.

“Let’s shower together.”

Caleb’s eyes flickered with something imperceptible. He watched the water swirl down, down, down into the drain, revealing more of your wet body to the cool air. 

“If I say yes,”

His eyes returned to you, sitting in the now empty tub. They were harder than before, unreadable.

“Will you tell me I’m the only person you do this kind of thing with?” 

You stood from the now empty bath, and reached for the knobs.

“Do you think there are other men who I let give me baths?”

You had been with other men. Men who looked like Caleb, granted. They didn’t smell like him, or act like him. But when they were inside of you, you could imagine it was your Caleb, loving you the way you wanted him to. Sort of. 

Caleb’s evol beat you to the knobs, gently lifting you out of the way of the shower spray, so you were floating just above it. The air was warmer, higher up. He smiled up at you like you were a pretty bird, flying above him.

“I don’t want to think about you with other men. Ever.”

Caleb stood up from the side of the tub. You watched, suspended naked in the air, as he peeled his boxers from his body. Even while soft, he looked big. He had a nice dick. A really nice dick. You wanted to put it in your mouth. He stepped over the edge of the tub, and pulled the curtain shut behind him. Satisfied, he directed your body down into the shower spray in front of him, so it was hitting your back. He held the backs of your arms gently as you came down, ensuring you wouldn’t slip. The water hitting your back rewarmed you, and wet some of your hair. You were suddenly acutely aware that Caleb was close. Very close. In the small space of the shower, he seemed even bigger than ever. 

“When did you get so big?” you blurted, gripping at his biceps with both hands. Caleb merely laughed, and lifted his arms for you to have better access to grope him. Your hands slipped easily from his biceps to his triceps, tracing the visible outline with your fingers. He sounded amused by your question. Or was it wry? It was hard to tell with Caleb.

“Around highschool, which is about the same time you stopped hugging me as much, and crawlin’ into my bed at night to chase away your nightmares.”

Caleb caught your hands as they moved from his triceps to his chest, and put them down gently by your sides.

“If you keep feelin’ me up like that, I won’t be able to focus on washing you or me.” 

You could feel the heat from him as his cock hardened between you, against your stomach and lower abdomen. If you had taken a single step forward, it would have been pressed against you. It was impossible not to look. You looked down, admiring it, how far it reached up the span of your abdomen. The thick vein on the side. Caleb let you look.

He reached for the soap, but you took it from his hands. 

“Let me do it.”

You squeezed a generous amount of soap into your hands, rubbing them together. You could have used the clean wash cloth that was hanging there, clearly intended for Caleb – but you didn’t. You lathered it between your fingers, instead. You had expected him to deny you, but Caleb said nothing. He just looked at you with dark eyes, watching your hands and face. You started with his collarbones, as he had you. Tracing them, then the dip in his clavicle, pressing there with your fingertip. You were close enough that you could hear the breaths he took through his nose, even over the sound of the shower. You moved down to his pecs, massaging them experimentally. He made a sound that seemed, to your ears, like a release of tension. Then came the scar on his right arm. You massaged your fingers into it, along its spindles and spires, and Caleb’s breaths stuttered and caught, though he made no move to stop you. The scar was raised and sort of tough, like it had all kinds of angry knots lurking below the surface. There was a part of you that wanted him to hurt – that wanted to punish him for sacrificing himself for you. You punished yourself, by extension. He was your brother. As much yourself as you were. You looked into his lovely, purple eyes. They were blown wide with the breadth of his pupils. 

“Does it hurt?” 

You hardly heard your own voice over the sound of the water. 

“Yeah,” Caleb breathed.

“But it’s you. So it feels good, too.”

His voice was rough, the end of the statement sounding like an admission of guilt. You looked down. Caleb’s cock was twitching and flushed, a pretty red. You released your hold on his scar, and washed his abs, instead. Your hands rolled over them. His physique was ridiculous – and you knew all too well the limits he pushed himself to maintain it. Strength and beauty had a price, as was the way of all things. His skin twitched under your touch. Down you went, until your hands were flush with his v-line, just above his dick. You avoided it, and instead knelt before him, massaging the soap into one of his meaty thighs. You looked up.

Caleb was making that face again. That anger, eagerness. 

You could see the precum leaking from his cock, as it was flush with your face. Instead of putting your mouth around it like you wanted to, you washed his calf, and then the top of his foot. You repeated the same routine on the other side, but stayed kneeling. You peered up at him. The water pounded your back, and soaked your hair. It was falling as such that it kept plugging up your nostrils, making it hard to breathe. Nearly as soon as the thought had crossed your mind, Caleb was helping you to your feet by your forearms. Or rather, he picked you up by your forearms, and switched your positions, lifting you like you were a doll, so that he was standing with his back to the water, and you stood facing him. 

“If you stay down there, you’ll drown,” he said, hoarsely. 

You stared at him. You had practically been offering to suck him off then and there. He rinsed the soap from his body with military efficiency, like his dick wasn’t hanging heavily between his legs. 

“All finished?”

You nodded, dumbly. What else could you do? Even while the both of you were stark naked, it was just as it had always been. Caleb, hard around you, from touching you. Both of you ignoring it. Just two bodies. Not two feelings. Nothing more than a response to stimuli. Caleb shut off the shower, and the faucet pin echoed loudly in the now quiet room. He opened the curtain. You stepped out first, and Caleb was quick to follow. He handed you a towel from the rack, and then rubbed one on himself, his hair. You watched, enraptured, as he adjusted his dick so that he could wrap the towel around his waist. Seemingly satisfied, he looked up at you.

You dried yourself quickly, as if your staring was somehow the worst offense that had occurred between you. Your normal shower routine wasn’t exactly at the forefront of your mind. The heat began to feel too much. You quit the bathroom quickly, and were hit instantly by the comparatively cool air of Caleb’s room. You had spent a long while in the hot water, and your head pounded with the rapid change in temperature. Your feet felt unsteady, and you took an unsure step forward, which nearly sent you curling into yourself onto your knees for the headrush. But Caleb was behind you, anticipating your needs before you even knew them yourself, like always.

“Whoa there. Don’t go anywhere on me, now.”

You leaned back into his broad chest. He was still damp, solid and unwavering.

“Caleb,” you breathed. It was somehow helpful just to say his name. It cooled the heated air from your mouth.

“Yeah, baby. I’m here.”

The towel, no longer supported by your hand, dropped from your body. You felt Caleb begin to reach for it, but you turned around, and pressed yourself to him instead. His body was a stark contrast to the cool air of the room. He never stopped radiating an otherworldly heat, even when it was freezing outside. Your tits squished against his lower chest, your face turned to the side, near his heart. It pattered a rhythm, strong and quick. You wondered how big the heart of such a large man really was. You made a fist against the place where his heart lived. Surely, the size couldn’t compare. You were strangely jealous of the thing that pumped his life through him, all day, every day. You wanted to be just as close, all of the time. The necklace you had given him had to do it in your place. You were jealous of the piece of metal, too. Caleb’s hands hovered for a moment, as if unsure, and then rubbed up and down your bare back, the sound of skin against skin loud to your ears. 

“I can’t promise I’ll keep my cool when you’re like this, pips.”

Caleb’s voice sounded calculated, soft. Like there was more to what he was saying than just his words. He squeezed your hips, thumbs digging in. In the time you had been against him, you felt him harden underneath your stomach all over again through his towel. You wrapped your arms around him, and dragged your nails over the skin of his back, up and down. 

“What if I don’t want you to keep it? Maybe I want you to lose control.”

Caleb hissed through his teeth at the feeling of your nails on his back. His body pressed harder against yours, grinding his cock against the soft skin of your stomach through his towel. He leaned down, so that his lips were nearly against your ear. His teeth grazed your earlobe.

“Use your words, then. Say, ‘Caleb, I want you to lose control.’”

Gooseflesh erupted all over your body, under Caleb’s fingers. You licked your dry lips with your tongue, trying to find the saliva to wet your words. The truth came to you with some difficulty. 

“Caleb, I…want you to lose control.”

That was all it took. Caleb dropped the towel from his hips instantly, and he picked you up, gripping your ass. You instinctively wrapped your legs around his torso, and clung to him. You half expected him to take you to the bed – to literally anywhere else – but his fingers were grazing between your legs as you held on to him, your position leaving you just the right amount of open for him. 

“Better hold on tight,” he teased, though you knew there wasn’t a chance of him dropping you, between his strength and his evol. Just one finger teased your slit, then pressed you open, wasting no time in going knuckle deep inside of you. His finger was thick and long, and filled you up in a different kind of way than your own. Your body clenched around it of its own accord.

“Shi-iit, you’re so wet. Is this all cause of me?”

He didn’t seem to care whether or not you answered – maybe because he already knew the truth. Another finger joined the first not long after, and he made scissoring motions between moving them in and out, like he was trying to do extra work to stretch you open. Your thighs began to shudder with the effort of holding on to him. Caleb seemed to sense your distress, because he walked you effortlessly to his bed, and leaned down so that he could deposit you there on your back. He stood between your open legs at the edge of the bed.

It was the first time you had seen his face since you had put your body against his. He had the look of a man who was teetering on the edge, who had just gotten something he had been waiting for for a long, long time. His fingers were still inside of you, and he added a third, leaning down to spit in between your legs to make the glide easier. You put a hand over your mouth, suddenly alarmed by the situation. The other men in the house were definitely home, and these walls were definitely thin. Nevermind that they called you his little sister. Caleb pulled your hand away from your mouth by your wrist. His fingers inside of you didn’t relent.

“Nah, none of that. Be a good girl and let me hear you. Talk to me.”

He leaned over you, fingers still working you impossibly open. You pushed against his chest, which did absolutely nothing to dislodge him.

“Caleb,” you hissed, “the walls — what if someone hears–” 

“They’re insulated. No one will hear, princess.”

His fingers curled inside you. You dug your nails into his chest, and they grazed over the scar on his right arm. He flinched, almost imperceptibly. 

“Liar,” you breathed.

Caleb hummed, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

“You can call me whatever you want,” his free hand squeezed your tit roughly, rolling it between his palm. He pinched your nipple between two fingers, tugging on it. The other received the same not-so-delicate treatment. 

“Liar, Stubborn Caleb, Dummy Caleb,” his teeth sank into your neck, for just a moment. He licked at it, speaking against your skin, close to your ear.

“...big brother. It doesn’t matter. I’m the one who’s fucking you, no matter what you call me.”

You clenched around his fingers, and wished it was his cock. You felt him smile against your neck. He leaned up, and withdrew his fingers, slowly. You ached, suddenly empty of him. Above you, in between your open legs, he was the picture of masculinity. A sheen of sweat coated him, and his dark hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat. Between his legs, his cock hung hard and heavy. You sat up, feeling it was unfair that he was the only one who had touched you. You raked your fingers down his chest and abs, and wrapped both hands around his cock, smiling up at him. He bucked into your hands, a low whine coming from his throat. He threaded a hand through your hair, pulling on it, just enough to hurt.

“Fuck, your lil’ hands look so cute wrapped around my cock like that. I want to take a picture. Can I take a picture? Just for me, pips.” 

Had it been anyone else – anyone from your past – you would have instantly said no. But Caleb had never done anything to break your trust. He could be a liar, but not like this. His lilac eyes were big and honest, imploring. You nodded.

“Okay, Caleb. Just for you.” 

A bright smile erupted over his face, and his dick twitched in your hands. 

“Thank you, pretty girl. So good to me, huh?”

His evol brought his phone to his hands from the nightstand, and he made quick work of taking a photo, lining up his phone at the perfect angle to capture both of your hands wrapped around his leaking cock. He stared at it. 

“I’m gonna cum just from this,” he grumbled, and tossed his phone aside. You twisted your hands around him, and he pulled your hands away from his dick in response. He held you by your forearms, and pulled you close, leaning down so that he could speak into your face. 

“Don’t do that, baby. Be a good girl so Caleb can fuck you, yeah? Lay down. I want to see your pretty face while I’m inside of you.”

You complied, scooting backwards until you were lying back against one of Caleb’s pillows, fully on the bed now. You watched with interest as he opened the bedside table drawer and produced a bottle of lube. It was unopened, and he tore the plastic off of the top with his teeth. He spit the plastic out of his mouth onto the floor. You snickered, and he grinned at you. You pointed to the lube.

“Going through so much lube that you just bought a new bottle?” 

Caleb rolled his eyes at you, squeezing a small amount directly onto his cock. 

“No. I bought this for us. Just in case. No one else has ever touched me but you.”

He fisted his cock roughly in his hand, like he hadn’t just casually revealed that information to you. You gaped at him. Not only had he never been with anyone else, but he had purchased lube in preparation for the day you actually had sex. Your brother, who wasn’t your brother. He had been anticipating it – or at least been hopeful.

“No one else? Are you serious? But you have people practically hanging off of you constantly. I thought for sure…” 

Caleb shrugged, and crawled over you on the bed. It creaked under his weight as he nestled himself between your thighs, holding himself over your face. His necklace dangled between you.

“So? I don’t want anyone else wrapped around my cock but you. It makes me happy that you’re jealous, though.” 

He pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“I’m not jealous,” you lied. Of course, you both knew it was a lie. Caleb smiled a knowing smile. He pushed down on his cock with his index finger and thumb, and lined himself up against you. 

“Not jealous?” He sounded smug, in the way that only men with big dicks could. His cock rubbed against you, slipping wetly between your legs, not fucking you. The lube made the sounds even wetter, more lewd. 

“No – because you’re my b–” you stopped yourself. Something in between the words big brother and boyfriend was about to fall out of your mouth. Caleb pushed the head of his cock inside of you, and nothing else. You tried to lift your hips into him, but he wouldn’t let you.

“Your what? Your…b-b-boyfriend? Orrr…” Two of Caleb’s big fingers took the necklace that was hanging in your face and pushed it past your lips, into your mouth. He leaned down on his forearms, so that his whole body covered yours. His voice took on the same edge he used to tease you when you were kids.

“Your big brother? Is that what you were gonna say, baby?” 

As he spoke, he snapped his hips up inside of you, bottoming out. Between the feeling of him filling you up and his necklace in your mouth, it was impossible for you to answer. You could only breathe around the metal, trying to get used to the feeling of accommodating his size. He stroked your side with his hand, squeezing your tits, rolling over your ribcage. His cock twitched inside you, again and again and again. You whined. Caleb immediately began to move. 

It was like he couldn’t help but set a punishing pace, hips snapping into yours with loud smacks that could definitely be heard through the thin walls. Your body was moved up and down against the mattress with the force of it. He fucked you open, the pleasure arching out from between your thighs, all the way into the tops of your feet. Caleb growled a command into your ear.

“Open your mouth.” 

You did so, the dog tag still inside. He lifted his head, and made a motion with his jaw. He let spit drip into your mouth from his own, covering the necklace, wetting your insides with himself. You sucked on it.

“Good girl. You take everything I give you so well. Makes me wanna stuff up all of your holes. Fuck.”

Caleb pulled the necklace from your mouth, and tossed it behind his back. He replaced it with his mouth on yours, in something that was hardly a kiss and more like a close exchange of spit. He licked your tongue, pushing his against your own, sucked at your teeth. His cock hit you in a way that was just right, and his fingers moved in between your legs, encouraging you towards release with a focus on your pleasure. You moaned into his mouth, earlier worries about disturbing the other boys forgotten. He swallowed your sounds up with his mouth, encouraging you.

“I know baby, I know. C’mon, you can do – it.”

As his hand worked you, Caleb leaned up, pulling one of your feet towards him. He licked from the bottom of your sole to your toes, sucking them into his mouth. The sensation was overwhelming, filthy, and wet. You were so lost in him that the combination of his hands and mouth all over you crested you over the edge, and you were cumming around his cock. Your voice was calling his name, and Caleb rocked into you harder, holding your legs open below your knees to give him better access. His sweat dripped onto your chest.

“You want my cum? Ask me for it. Say ‘Pleeease.”

You hardly had words. Finding ‘please' seemed a herculean task.

“Please–”

Caleb paused his movements, stilling completely with just the tip inside of you. Tears welled in the corners of your eyes.

“Please, what?”  

He didn’t sound much more composed than you were. You gave it your last bit of energy.

“Please, Caleb!”

Caleb grunted, and slammed his hips back into yours, all the way inside of you again. The sound of you begging for him seemed to push him over the edge.

“There you go. Shit, take it–”

You felt him spill inside of you, and he clasped his strong arms around your body behind your back, putting his full weight on you as he came. He kissed your face sloppily, missing your lips. He licked at the tears in the corners of your eyes, and kissed you there, lips dragging across your face. You stayed there for a time, both blissfully catching the breath you had lost between you, enjoying the newfound closeness.

You laid your head on Caleb’s sweaty chest, listening to the slowing beat of his heart. The sound itself seemed devotional, under your ear. He pressed a kiss to the top of your scalp, and inhaled. You spread a hand over his taut abdomen, and it shuddered under your touch. He was tan from the summer, and had a cute tan line from his shorts. He must have started running shirtless when it got too hot. You petted the soft hair of his happy trail. It was the same dark color as his hair. You watched his cock. It was still hard, somehow, and twitched with interest under your attention. You poked it with an accusatory finger.

“I didn’t know you were into feet.”

Caleb laughed, a bright, happy sound that shook his chest, making your head move up and down with his movement.

“I’m not, really. I’m into you. I’d lick any part of you – the bottoms of your feet, your asshole, whatever.”

You paused your poking. The heat that had only just begun to die down from your skin rose back up, against your will. Did he hear himself?

“Caleb.”

He adjusted his legs, so one knee was bent up, comfortably. The room smelled like him, like sex with him. It put you deeply at ease. 

“What? I’m dead serious.”

He ruffled his hand through your hair, exposing your scalp to the cool air, lifting your hair so that some of the heat could release from it. You leaned into his gentle touch. His voice became softer, imploring.

“Do you wanna come to a party tonight, pips?”

You turned towards him, supporting yourself with a hand propped up on his chest. His handsome face was still flushed with exertion, lips extra pink. Adoration was unabashedly clear in his eyes. You cocked your head at him, wary. You didn’t mind a party, but a frat party was a whole other animal. 

“What kind of party?”

Caleb’s eyes flicked down to your lips, roving over your face. He pressed a kiss to your lips, licked them. Then the sides of your mouth, your temples. He pulled away to answer. His lips shone wetly.

“A toga party. I know it’s not usually your thing, buuut you might have fun with me, right? I’m not gonna drink, so you can get lit, and I’ll take care of you, yeah?” 

You stared at him. You just knew he was going to wear a sheet as a toga, and that his hat, which followed him everywhere, was going to accompany it. You put a hand over your mouth, trying to cover your smile at the image. Caleb grinned, too, like he knew exactly what you were thinking. 

“Can I take that cute smile as a yes?”

You sat up, feeling the dried sweat on your body. Caleb’s cum was still inside of you. You felt it leak onto the sheets as you sat up. You needed a shower, desperately. Caleb, clearly upset at the loss of contact, put his hand on your knee. You brushed your fingers over his knuckles.

“Fine. But we have to shower again. Separately.” 

Caleb nodded sagely, stroking an imaginary beard.

“Right, right. If we showered together again, I’d fuck you so good you wouldn’t even be able to walk to the car.”

You smacked his firm bicep, which only made him grin wider in response. 

“Feisty girl, aren’t you?”

Caleb let you shower first – alone, this time. Counting the one you had taken before getting on the train this morning, this was your third shower today. Maybe some kind of new record. Of course, there was the fact that you had sex with Caleb. You watched your reflection in the mirror as you dried your hair. You had sex with Caleb. Not only that, but he had only ever had sex with you. You had fully expected him to have experience with other people – he was wildly popular, after all. You wouldn’t have blamed him in the slightest. A weight was lifted, in a sense. But the same issue still nagged at you – even now, you didn’t know where you stood. Were you attending this party as his sister, or his girlfriend? He hadn’t mentioned it. You needed to know how to act, but couldn’t quite find the words with which to ask right after having him balls deep inside of you. You resisted the urge to bang your head against the mirror. Barely.

You fixed your face as you liked, with a little something extra for the party, and shoved your things back into your toiletry bag, which Caleb had diligently brought into the bathroom while you were showering, along with an extra toothbrush. Feeling significantly more re-energized with clean hair and a fresh face, you exited the bathroom with a new towel wrapped about your torso. Caleb was sitting on the edge of the bed, still completely naked, fiddling with something on his phone. He looked up as you came out, and smiled. 

“Pretty as a picture.”

You smiled back, making a dismissive gesture at him. You felt strangely shy now that you looked at him, knowing he had been inside of you. Caleb raised a brow at you, and stood, stalking towards you with purpose. He pulled the towel from your body, despite your attempt to yank it back. He pressed on your lower back and stomach, essentially folding you in half. You gripped the back of your thighs, deeply confused. Caleb knelt behind you, and pushed his face into your pussy, licking you deeply from behind. His tongue fucked into you without warning, and you yelped.

“Caleb–!”

But as soon as you spoke, he was standing again, and righted you into a standing position, too. He wrapped your towel back around you, like nothing had just happened.

You stared at him. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looking smug.

“Sorry. I just wanted a taste before we go.”

With that, he turned and disappeared into the restroom. You stared at the door long after he was gone, trying to get ahold of yourself. Instead of trying to dwell on the feeling of his tongue inside of you, or the fact that this was your reality now, you crossed the room to where Caleb had put your suitcase near his closet.

You rifled through what you had brought. First, a pair of underwear that your ass wouldn’t totally fall out of in your skirt. The skirt was shorter than usual, but Caleb had mentioned the party briefly in passing, so you had included it, just in case. A pair of thigh high socks. A little black and white corset top – comfortable, but cute, with long sleeves so you felt less exposed. No bra necessary. A bag you could strap across your back without having to worry about it. The last part was the hardest. A pair of knee high docs. They were cute, but ridiculously hard to get on and off. You spent some time unlacing them, then lacing them back onto your legs, while Caleb banged around in the shower. You wouldn’t normally wear shoes inside, but the carpet would survive, just this once. 

When you looked up from your shoes, something on Caleb’s desk caught your eye, illuminated by his little yellow lamp. It was an unassuming notebook. You stood, and made your way to the desk. It occurred to you that maybe you shouldn’t pry – but he had left it out, unlabeled. You opened it to a random page. It was a list in Caleb’s boyish scrawl. It was labeled simply: Wants. You read down the list. It was mostly mundane items, some of them crossed out. As it went on, a sense of understanding dawned on you. These were things you had mentioned to Caleb that you wanted or needed. Some he had already gifted to you, some he clearly planned to. The most recent was that expensive hair dryer you wanted – the one with the curling function. You had mentioned it to him in passing, not because you wanted him to buy it for you – you had just been talking. The thing was insanely expensive. He had gifted it to you last month, and you had brought it with you to visit this time. It was crossed out on the list. Your heart did a strange flip in your chest, like it was trying to go live where your stomach dwelled. 

You turned the page. There was this month’s calendar, with notes scrawled on each day. It was very clearly your schedule, though you couldn’t recall ever sharing it with Caleb in such detail. There were notes scribbled on nearly every day – things like ‘ tutors that red-head in French’ and ‘Civil Procedures lecture @10:30AM.’ 

You were open with Caleb, sure. But you definitely hadn’t told him all of this. You didn’t have long to ponder, though, because the sound of Caleb cutting off the hair dryer interrupted your thoughts. You flipped the notebook shut, and flung yourself back into a sitting position on Caleb’s bed, legs hanging off the side. Caleb came out, bringing a rush of warm, wet air with him. He peered at you curiously, still in nothing but a towel. You weren’t sure you had ever seen Caleb naked so much in your life as you had in the last twenty-four hours.

“Whatcha up to, pipsqueak?” 

You shook your head, kicking your boots back and forth.

“Nothing.”

Definitely not looking through the book he clearly used to keep tabs on your every move, just casually sitting atop his desk.

Nope.

Caleb gave you an incredulous look.

“Oookay.” 

Clearly, he didn’t believe you – but he didn’t pry, either. Caleb padded towards his chest of drawers, and dug around for boxers, socks, and shorts. You watched the muscles of his back slide under his skin as he did so, admiring how one muscle connected to another. He had great lats – like beautiful wings when he stretched his arms out. You wanted to bite him. Caleb was stepping into his clothes, not looking at you while he spoke.

“You look way too fucking hot. I’m not lookin’ at you before I get these on, because if I do, I’ll fuck you again. And I won’t want anyone else to see you like this, either. I mean, I still kind of don’t, but I also want everyone to know how hot my girl is.” 

Caleb’s clearly conflicted train of thought made a laugh bubble up from your chest. You tried to parse the latter half of his statement – his girl. Did that mean you were attending the party tonight in the role of his girlfriend? It almost sounded like it. You secretly hoped that was the case, as it usually was at social gatherings like this. It helped keep people off of him – sort of. 

He turned back to you, clearly half-hard in his shorts. He adjusted his dick while looking into your face. 

“Okay. Now that we’ve established that, want to help me with my toga?” 

You raised a brow at him.

“You actually have a toga?”

Caleb rummaged through his bottom drawer, and produced a white sheet, which he held up to you triumphantly, like he was presenting you with the ghost of a kill he had made for tonight’s dinner. 

“Totally.” 

Getting Caleb into the ‘toga’ was an ordeal in its own right. You ended up cinching it around the waist with one of his flight belts, and clasped it with one of your hair clips at the shoulder, to give it the toga look. The clip was a cute one, with little apples on it. Caleb sported this strange assortment of items proudly, crowned with his black ball cap, facing forward this time. On anyone else, it would have been purely goofy. But for Caleb, who had quite literally everything going for him, he only managed to look more charming and handsome. He could have worn a sack and still looked hot – and for all intents and purposes, he basically was. You finally made it back down the stairs with Caleb, who was busy looking through the fridge. 

“You should eat something before we go, since you’re going to drink. Want me to make you something?” 

Caleb shut the fridge, and motioned to the stove. The image of him cooking while in the makeshift toga drifted through your mind, and you had to control your face to keep from laughing. 

“That’s okay. Do you have a protein bar or something? I don’t want to feel all bloated before we go. What about you?”

Caleb nodded, and turned towards the pantry instead. There was a lot of rustling, but you couldn’t see what he was looking for because of how broad his back was. It covered the entirety of the damn pantry. He turned back to you, protein bar in hand. It was suspiciously cute and pink – definitely not the kind he usually ate. You had a sneaking suspicion it was something he had purchased for your benefit. 

“I ate while you were in the shower, earlier. Plus, I’m not the one who’ll be drinking.”

You took the bar from him, and tore it open. Some sort of inoffensive chocolate flavor, with sprinkles. Really not bad for a protein bar, all things considered. It would do for a pre-game snack. You made quick work of it under Caleb’s watchful eye, who seemingly had nothing better to do than watch you eat with an elbow propped up on the counter. He took the wrapper from you when you were done and trashed it. Satisfied that you had consumed something, Caleb turned towards the rest of the house, and took in a great inhale of air.

“GIDEON! LIAM! LET’S FUCKIN’ GOOO!”

His voice boomed through the building. You had almost never heard him project like that. It was kind of impressive – and kind of annoying, in the way only your big brother’s voice could be. You wondered where the hell he got the energy to be on ten all of the time. Two sets of heavy footsteps came tromping down the stairs, and Liam and Gideon appeared before Caleb, in equally ridiculous makeshift togas. They looked like the world’s silliest attendees to the Roman Forum, but in a sexy way.

The three men walked ahead of you into the entryway, and put on their shoes. Caleb was, of course, wearing his combat boots to complete the look. He patted the pockets of the shorts he was wearing underneath the sheet, feeling around to ensure he had his phone and keys. 

“Liam,” Caleb called,

“You drive.” 

Liam simply nodded, and he and Gideon elbowed each other to get out of the door first, bickering under their breaths. Caleb slipped his fingers through yours, and he led you from the door, shutting and locking it behind him.

Liam drove a Jeep, much like the one Caleb had left at home for you to drive. It was technically his car, but you loved it so much that he had given it to you to use while he was away at college. He had spent years tinkering with that thing – and he had taught you to drive in it too, ensuring you could drive a manual. Even with all the time he had been away, it still smelled like him. When you couldn’t sleep at night, Caleb would take you for long drives, until you no longer recognized the roads, and the movement of the car lulled you to sleep. You’d wake up back in your bed, knowing Caleb must have carried you there. 

Caleb opened the back door of the car for you, letting you get in first. He got in after you. It was almost funny to see such a big guy clamber into the little space. Liam sat in the driver’s seat, and Gideon had shotgun. He turned back to you, and waved his phone in your direction, which was plugged into the USB port. 

“Any requests for the DJ?”

You thought back to what you and Caleb had been listening to recently. He was big into Nine Inch Nails. So were you. When he was a teenager, you would sit in his lap and listen, one headphone in your ear, one in his, in his room. The lyrics made you feel like you were getting away with something you shouldn’t, Caleb’s head bobbing over your shoulder, bouncing you up and down on his lap with his knee, in time with the music.

“Can you put on ‘Discipline?’ It’s Nine Inch Nails.”

Gideon nodded his assent. He started the song up. Teenaged Caleb’s words echoed in your head. 

The main synth is made mostly from a Vostok semi-modular eurotrack synth setup...but basically, it’s just guitars and synths through effects.

Trent Reznor’s voice cut through the air like little blades, supported by the crunch of the bass.

Am I

Am I still tough enough?

Caleb nudged you with his shoulder, and leaned down to whisper into your ear.

“Hey. Sit in my lap instead.” 

You glanced at Gideon and Liam, who were talking over the music heatedly about something. You gestured to them with your body. It was dark in the car, but still.

Feels like I’m wearin’ down, down, down, down, down

“What about–”

Caleb shook his head, interrupting you.

“They don’t care. C’mon, pips. It’s a super short drive down this road. You used to love sittin’ in my lap when you were a kid.”

'They don’t care,’ sounded more like 'They already know what I’m up to.' You eyed Caleb warily for a moment. He gave you an innocent look, complete with puppy eyes. You unbuckled your seatbelt, and slid into his lap, learning against the warmth of his broad chest. The stupid sheet was kind of in the way. Caleb exhaled hotly against your ear, reclining to make it easier for you to sit on him.

Is my viciousness

Losing ground, ground, ground, ground, ground?

“Yeah, there you go, baby. Perfect.”

Caleb’s hands slipped up your thighs, rubbing up and down over your bare skin. Liam guided the car from the drive, and started down the road. The movement jostled you on top of Caleb, and he gripped at the flesh of your thighs, keeping you in place. You felt his dick twitch to life underneath you, through your underwear. One of his hands slipped further up your thigh, under your skirt. The other tugged your skirt down, so that his hand was hidden from view. Caleb’s hand touched you over your underwear, finger just gently gliding between your legs over the fabric, like an afterthought.

Am I taking too much?

“Gideon,” he called over your shoulder.

“Did you get the stuff for the drinks?”

Gideon tilted his head back to catch what Caleb was saying. You tensed up, but Caleb didn’t move his hand at all. Instead, his fingers pushed your panties to the side. He felt how wet you were, sliding between you.

Did I cross the line, line, line?

“Yeah, man. It’s in the back. Everything you asked for.” 

Caleb leaned further over your shoulder to speak.

“You’re the GOAT. Thanks.” 

Caleb’s middle finger slipped inside of you without a second thought. He moved it in and out, and the sound was loud, even with the music. You gripped at his wrist, but he didn’t stop. Gideon turned back around.

I need my role in this

Very clearly defined

“No problem. I got you.”

Caleb added another finger, and attached his lips to your neck, sucking. He was clearly intent on leaving a mark before you arrived at the party, and was succeeding. Any squirming you did was futile in his grip. He fingerfucked you harder. It was like he wanted to squeeze an orgasm out of you in the very short time you would be in the car. He just wanted to be inside of you, to touch you. Like he just couldn’t help himself. You had finally uncorked years of frustration, and he was taking it out on you in the best way possible.

I need your discipline

I need your help

You dug your hips back against his lap in retaliation, and Caleb grunted in response. You would have much preferred he just fuck you again, but there was no way it was going to happen in a car with two other people who you liked. Or even two people you didn’t like. Even if they didn’t care – or so Caleb said. He added the attention of his thumb along with his two fingers, and you gripped at his thigh, trying to keep your mouth shut.

I need your discipline

You know once I start

I cannot help myself

Caleb mouthed your ear, drowning out the sound of the conversation in the car with his soft voice.

“Think you can cum for me in my lap like this, princess? Gonna cum on Caleb’s fingers?”

And now it’s starting up

Feels like I’m losing touch

You shook your head. Not quite saying no – just overwhelmed with the situation. How were you supposed to finish when there were other people less than a foot away, having a full blown conversation? At least the music was blessedly loud, but Caleb gave you no reprieve from his thumb and the fingers inside of you. 

“I think you can. You can do it for me, right?”

Ooh, and nothing matters to me

Nothing matters this much

You nodded instead, because your orgasm was closing in on you, despite your trepidation. Your body – your mind had wanted Caleb for so long that it was so easy for him to coax one out of you, now. Caleb replaced the hand you had over your mouth with his own. It dominated the lower half of your face, covering your nose and mouth. Everything was Caleb.

I see you left a mark

Up and down my skin, skin, skin

You rocked your hips into Caleb’s fingers, and you felt him nod his encouragement against your neck.

“Mhm. Yeah. Just like that.”

 His big hand tightened around your face. Your breathing was loud through the small openings in his fingers, and you were near certain you had drooled on him. 

I don’t know where I end

And where you begin

Caleb’s teeth sank into your neck again, and your orgasm found you. You came on his fingers, and he worked you through it, still fingerfucking you. You had to forcibly push him off to get some reprieve, and his fingers came out of you with a wet schluck. He sucked them into his mouth, and you heard rather than saw the sounds of him licking them clean of you. His dick twitched under your ass as he licked them. You leaned back against his chest, trying to catch your breath. His free hand rubbed soothing circles on your stomach. The sound of Liam’s voice made you sit up straight, and pull down on your skirt.

“Yo, we’re here. Gonna get the stuff out of the back.”

He parked the jeep on the roadside as he spoke, and cut the engine. He and Gideon exited the car, and went around to open the back. The music came to an abrupt stop, and a different kind of music reached your ears. Even through the windows of the car, you could hear the bass of it pumping from inside of the house. You peered through the window. People milled about in the yard. The place was nearly identical to the one Caleb was residing in. He patted the side of your thigh.

“Up and at ‘em, pips. Gotta help these guys out.”

He spoke like he hadn’t just worked an orgasm out of you in under a minute. Caleb opened the door for you, and you slipped off of his lap onto the sidewalk. It took you a moment to find your footing, and you had to discreetly try to adjust your underwear back into place. They were now uncomfortably wet. You turned to glare at Caleb, who had already climbed out and shut the door behind you. He steadied you with hands around your waist, rubbing up and down your sides.

“You okay, princess? Was that too much?”

His tone was way too innocent for how he had been acting moments prior.

“I’m okay. You, however, are clinically insane.”

Caleb blew cool air on the back of your neck, lifting your hair out of the way.

“Well, yeah. I jerk off thinkin’ about you, like, three or four times a day. Now that I can finally have you, you drive me crazier than ever. Wait here for just a sec, okay?”

Caleb jogged to the back of the car, pockets jingling, like he hadn’t just admitted that to you.  There was a rustling, along with a murmur of agreement from the three men. You watched with big eyes as they all came back around with grocery bags full of god-knows-what in hand. Caleb transferred all of the bags he was holding to his left hand, and put his right around your waist. 

“Ready?” 

You didn’t quite feel ready, post orgasm. Maybe you should have taken a pregame shot before coming. You nodded yes, anyway. You knew you didn’t have anything to worry about with popular, sunshine Caleb around. Well, besides his popularity. Maybe you should be worried. He guided you into the house party, flanked by Gideon and Liam on either side, like some sort of toga-clad guard detail. There was a rousing whoop as your group entered, clearly from people who recognized your boys. The throng of people was already pressed close around you, and the party was only just beginning. Young men in makeshift togas dominated the space, their loud voices making it hard to hear anything else besides them and the music. The house was nearly identical to Caleb’s on the inside. You clung closer to him as you made your way to the kitchen. 

Caleb dropped the bags on the already full counter, next to a comically large stack of red solo cups. From it he produced vodka, peach Schnapps, everclear, Triple Sec, Sprite, pineapple juice, fruits…it just kept coming. You stared, watching in silent horror and awe. Liam and Gideon began opening the bottles, and pouring them diligently into a big, orange, spigoted dispenser, along with the cut fruit. Caleb frowned.

“We probably should have soaked the fruits beforehand. But who has time for that?”

You just looked at him. Liam was stirring the corrupted mixture with a big, metal ladle, like some kind of witch's brew. Caleb held a red solo cup under the spigot, and the liquid, which was now a radioactive sort of red, poured into it. He put it into your hands. You stared at it, and then at him. 

“What the hell is this, Caleb?”

Caleb cocked his head at you, and smiled. He tapped the side of your cup with his fingertip.

“Jungle juice, duh. Don’t worry, it won’t kill you. Promise I had these guys get only the best ingredients for my little girl.” 

People were milling around the kitchen now, helping themselves to the concoction. You were saved from being shoved around by Caleb pressing you against the kitchen counter with his body weight. His arms were on either side of you. Between his words and his proximity, you couldn’t keep the rise of heat from your face. Even after he had showered, you swore you could still smell the sex on him. You stared down into the cup instead of up at Caleb.

Well, you had probably had worse. No, definitely. 

Caleb leaned down closer to your ear, whispering so that only you could hear.

“You don’t have to drink, baby. No pressure. I can toss it if you want. No big deal.” 

You shook your head. Drinking wasn’t the issue here. You had never been drunk around Caleb before – and for good reason. You were worried you would try to feel him up, or worse, confess. Now, the former wasn’t so much of a problem. The latter – well, that was a problem for the you of the future. You looked back up into his eyes, and resolutely took a sip. Caleb’s eyes followed the movement of the liquid down your throat as you swallowed. The taste wasn’t nearly as bad as you thought. More like…exactly what you imagined. The burn of alcohol with a hint of fruit and soda, enough to knock most people flat on their asses after one or two cups. Caleb tilted up your chin with two fingers, and leaned in close. His tongue passed over his open lips, and he dragged it over yours, licking at your mouth. You waited for him to kiss you fully, but it never came. He smacked his lips, and made a face like he was pondering the taste, his eyes roving up and to the right.

“Ooh. That’s the good stuff. Don’t have too much, yeah?”

Before you could answer and tell him that you were a fully grown adult who could regulate your own alcohol consumption, thank you very much, there was a commotion, and a chorus of voices Called Caleb’s name. You saw irritation flash over his features for just the briefest moment. Anyone else probably would have missed it, but you had known Caleb for long enough to see it. 

“Will you be okay without me for a sec?”

You shoved his chest gently with the flat of your palms. 

“Go on. I’m not a little kid anymore. I’ll live.”

Caleb wavered for a moment, but then relaxed. 

“Okay. Keep your phone turned up. I shouldn’t be long.”

You dutifully took your phone from your bag, and turned up the ringer as Caleb disappeared into the crowd. You spent some time chatting idly with Liam and Gideon, who were good company, but they too were eventually commandeered by other men in togas, giving you apologetic looks as they left you behind. You ended up sort of pressed into the kitchen counter by a group of people you didn’t recognize, who were friendly, but sweaty. In that time, you had another cup or two in an attempt to keep up with the increasingly nonsensical conversation.

Feeling the need to escape the hot air that other people were breathing in your general direction, you spied a patio door, and pushed your way through the crowd, holding your cup above your head so it wouldn’t spill as you were pushed here and there. You slipped out of the crowd and out the door, which was already slightly ajar. The difference in air quality was significant, and you took a deep breath, finally not breathing in the exhale of other people. The crowd wasn’t nearly as dense out here. It opened into a decently sized, raised patio, with a backyard that was hugged on either side by towering oak trees, cut neatly across by a wooden fence.  Some couples sat in the grass, reclining, and a few people smoked. The ratio of red solo cups was significantly less dense, as well. You spied a place on the wooden patio that looked good to lean on while you soaked in the fresh air, and made for it, leaning your back against the wood, finally able to breathe.

The sky above you had gone completely dark. The rain had long since stopped, but the air was still slightly fresh with wetness, and the clean smell that came with it. Despite the light pollution, you could just make out the pulsing band of Orion’s belt above you. You watched the twinkling of its light, a long past image that was just now reaching your eyes. A low voice with a sweet timbre interrupted your viewing.

“Canst thou bind the sweet influences of Pleiades, Or loose the bands of Orion? Canst thou bring forth Mazzaroth in his season? Or canst thou guide Arcturus with his sons? Knowest thou the ordinances of heaven?”

You looked down from the sky, and towards the direction of the deep voice. Before you stood a man of stature that was almost identical to Caleb’s, though his looks were radically different. His face was striking, all sharp planes, with a regal, aquiline nose. A soft coif of hair that looked like it had been touched by the moonlight graced his head. But most startling of all were his eyes. They regarded you like the fresh well of blood from a razor’s cut, and they were the same color. You blinked at him, a little shocked by his appearance – and his lack of a toga. Instead, he wore an expensive looking silk black dress shirt and slacks, complete with a thick silver chain around his neck. 

“Mind if I smoke?”

You shook your head, admittedly a little struck by the stranger. Was he a student? He could almost pass for a professor, were it not for his presence at this party, and a certain playfulness about his eyes and mouth. You gestured to the railing next to you.

“Be my guest.”

He nodded, and pulled an expensive looking silver cigarette case from his pocket. It reflected the deep blue of the night sky like a mirror. The cigarettes inside were long and black, and he placed one between plush lips, lighting it with an engraved zippo. You squinted at the words. It read: 

‘WHEN I GO TO HELL

COME WITH ME.’

You watched with the unconcealed interest of someone who had been consuming alcohol, but he didn’t seem bothered in the least by your gaze. He glanced to you, and held the open case out to you. His long fingers dwarfed the metal box.

“Would you like one?”

You shook your head. You started to say No thanks, I quit, because you had. Your oral fixation needed working on still, though. Caleb had been supplying you dutifully with lollipops, gum, and toothpicks in lieu of cigarettes.  The alcohol, however,  had you feeling rather bold. It helped (or maybe it didn’t?) that he was smoking your brand. You plucked the lit cigarette from the man’s lips, and took a drag from it. The cloves were sweet on your tongue, and the nicotine rush hit you in a wave that was the perfect combination with your buzz. The man with the rubies for eyes regarded you curiously, his mouth turned up in a half smile. You handed the cigarette back to him, tilting your head. You found yourself smiling, finally able to relax.

“Thank youuu.” 

He put the cigarette back into his own mouth, and took a drag from it. He exhaled at the sky, in the direction of the stars, instead of offering any words in return. You eyeballed him. Something he had said when he made his strange, grand entrance tugged at your memory. Something from your comparative religion course, maybe? What was that?

“Were you quoting the Bible at me earlier?”

The man turned back towards you, the lit cigarette in between two of his fingers. The end of it glowed nearly the same color of his eyes. He flicked it, and nodded, once.

“Very astute, sweetie. It’s God mocking Job – or rather, man in general – for his ignorance and weakness. Can man ‘loose the pleiades?’ Change a wilting winter into a blossoming spring, with the sweet influences with beautiful rosettes? Can he break free from his chains of his own accord?” 

He sounded like something was funny, in a wistful, far away sort of way. You regarded the man levelly. From anyone else, you may have thought this sounded like a pretentious crock of pseudo-intellectual bullshit – but he seemed deeply genuine. Like there was something he wanted you to glean from this, to remember. It helped that he was devilishly handsome, too. Maybe it was the alcohol getting to you. But you couldn’t quite grasp it like you wanted to, so you just nodded. The man’s eyes drifted away from you, towards the direction you had come from.

“Speaking of chains,”

He pointed one slender finger towards the patio door. 

“You may want to rescue your brother from his. He seems to be having some trouble inside.”

A flurry of questions rose to your mind – how he knew your brother – or rather, Caleb, from where, and how, to name a few. But none of these seemed as pertinent as going to Caleb’s rescue. Whatever that meant. So you just picked the one burning at the forefront of your mind.

“You didn’t tell me your name.”

The man with the moon-touched hair crossed his legs, leaning back casually against the railing. He titled his head, offering you an otherworldly smile full of straight, white teeth.

“It’s Sylus. Sylus Qin.”

As you departed from your strange but handsome companion, you tossed back the last of your drink, and threw the empty cup into the nearby overflowing trash. You had a new mission: rescue Caleb from whatever sort of trouble he had gotten himself into. You were having a hard time imagining what that could possibly be, seeing as he was the sober one, and you were the mildly (or not so mildly) intoxicated one. Back inside, the party had grown from a too-tight gathering to a pulsating throng. You had to push and excuse-me-sorry your way through half naked people and men in togas, heading towards what you thought was the center of the commotion. You kept having to touch the bare skin of others as you moved, and you fought back the rising feeling of disgust, trying to focus on reaching Caleb. You would have crawled your way backwards through hell for him. This, surely, was nothing. Okay, maybe it was a little comparable.

It didn’t take you long to find him. He was centered in the living room of the party, surrounded on all sides by young men and women. You pushed through the circle, until you were just adjacent to him. One girl hung off of his arm – the arm that he had lost feeling in. The other was trying to push a drink in his hand. You felt yourself deflate at his expression. He was smiling from ear to ear, face flushed with exertion. He was politely rejecting the drink, saying something you couldn’t quite make out. The hand with the cup retracted, dejected. Your ears rang, watching the pretty hands of the girl curl around the scar on his right bicep. You stared, and stared. And stared.

“...squeak.”

“Pipsqueak!”

You snapped back into reality at the use of your nickname. Caleb was making the word with his mouth, gesturing for you to come closer. You approached him in a daze. The girl still clutched at his arm. She was pretty, with cascades of bright red knotless braids flowing down her back and shoulders, and big brown doe eyes. They looked good together. It occurred to you that the sex with Caleb could have meant nothing at all – and maybe that’s all he was interested in. It was possible to be interested in someone sexually and not romantically, after all. Maybe he had harbored one feeling, but not the other. Unlike you, who harbored both feelings for your brother. Truly fucked in the head, now on both levels. You offered the pretty girl a little smile, trying to school your face in a friendly expression. You weren’t that little girl who bit, screamed, and scratched Caleb anymore. You were an adult. An adult who could respect his choices.

The girl's voice reached you, directed at Caleb.

“Oh! Is this your little sister? She’s so cute!”

She sounded genuine, not disparaging at all. It made you feel even worse for wallowing in your jealousy. You looked at Caleb for direction. How should you answer? What role should you take tonight? Then, as you looked, watched the indecision on Caleb’s face, irritation replaced your jealousy. Why should you have to stand right where you want to be, and not have it? You shrugged.

“Dunno! His fingers were just inside me in the car. Who I am tonight, Caleb? Your girlfriend, or your little sister? Maybe both? Is that easier for you?”

Maybe you’d ruin his perfect reputation, right here, in front of everyone. Not many people seemed to hear you over the music and conversation, though.

The girl put a delicate hand over her mouth, and her eyebrows raised.

“Ooh,” she nudged Caleb. “What are you going to do?”

Caleb was scowling, now. That was better. His angry face was sexy. Maybe he’d finally ditch you – or take it out on you. Hopefully the latter. You felt like angry sex with Caleb would be really good. He leaned down and said something into the girl’s ear. She retracted her hand, nodding. She made a mock salute at Caleb, and winked at you. Seriously, what the fuck was their relationship?

“Good luck!”

Caleb started towards you, and in the middle of everyone, you were thrown unceremoniously over his shoulder, as if you were a sack of flour. He kept one hand on your ass, so that you wouldn’t expose yourself. You beat on his chest with your fists, and tried to protest – but his evol was holding your mouth shut. He ignored your physical protests, and people parted out of the way for him, looking down,  as he carried you up the stairs of the house. It seemed like everyone knew him – and by extension, you as well. Just another Tuesday – or whatever day it was. He turned abruptly into an unoccupied hallway, though people passed just beside it, and set you down to your feet on the carpet. His evol released your mouth.

“Caleb–!”

He put a finger to your lips, stopping you. He sniffed.

“Have you been smoking, pips?”

You crossed your arms over your chest. That was what he was worried about?

“Yeah. There was a hot guy outside who oh-so-kindly offered, while you were otherwise occupied.”

“A hot guy–?” Caleb stopped himself, and pinched the bridge of his nose. His eyes slid shut, and he took a deep breath, like he was trying to collect himself. 

Caleb grasped your wrist, and pulled open the nearest room, tugging you into it. You hated the idea of entering someone’s bedroom unannounced without their permission, but it seemed wholly unoccupied, thankfully. He tugged off the sheet that was acting as his toga, tossing his belt and your hair clip aside along with it. The cap went, too. It left him only in his cargo shorts and boots. He gripped the back of your hair, and pushed you into a mean kiss without further warning, taking the breath away from any further words you could say. He pulled away from you, panting. The anger was still there, hot in his eyes. He kissed the side of your mouth.

“That was my friend, by the way. She was trying to rescue me from getting drinks poured down my throat,” he rasped, clearly still upset.

Then, as if thinking it through, he added in a tone that was all too serious:

“She’s also gay.”

Your anger immediately disappeared, and turned into laughter. At yourself, at the situation. The fact that he was explaining himself to you. You felt guilty, and you felt giddy. You wanted him more than ever. You wanted something in your mouth. You took his hand into yours, and held it up. Caleb watched you, clearly still reeling from everything that had just happened – but he still let you. You put the fingers into your mouth, closing your lips around them. You sucked, letting them reach near the back of your throat. You thought you were going to gag, but the alcohol had you feeling so relaxed that you didn’t. You looked at Caleb as you sucked. You saw his nostrils flare, his eyes trained on the place where you had him in your mouth. He palmed himself through his pants. His voice sounded rough when he spoke.

“You need something in your mouth that bad? Fine.”

He pulled you back from his fingers by your hair, and you watched, enraptured, as his big hands, one still wet from your saliva, unzipped his shorts. He pulled down his boxers, and his dick sprung free from them, slapping up against his stomach. You wondered, a little gleefully, how many times you had gotten him hard that day. This was exactly what you needed. You sank to your knees eagerly before him, and his familiar scent washed over you. You pressed your cheek against his leaking cock. Caleb groaned, tossing his head back against the door.

“Don’t go to anyone else to fill your mouth. Only me. Understand?”

He slapped your cheek with his dick, and rubbed the head against your lips, wetting them with his precum. You nodded against it, lips slipping over it. 

Caleb tugged open your bottom lip with his thumb, and pressed his dick against your teeth.

“That’s my good girl. Now open up and suck me off.”

You opened your lips, and took him in your mouth. There was absolutely no way in hell you were fitting most of him inside, so you took what you couldn’t fit in your hand, and used your spit to jerk him while you worked him with your tongue. His hips stuttered into your mouth, like he was trying everything in his power not to fuck your throat. You pulled off for a moment, licking the head of him, tonguing his slit. You committed the bitter taste of him to memory.

He watched you intently, big hand fisted in your hair, guiding you up and down. He was loud, too, little whines and groans spilling from his lips. His sounds only spurred you on. You could tell he was close with the way he was twitching in your mouth, and the way he was pulling on your hair. You were certain he was going to cum down your throat, but he suddenly hoisted to your feet by your armpits, and lifted your skirt, pulling down your underwear, just enough so that he could slide his dick between your legs, right against your pussy.

“Caleb–?”

He gripped you by your hips, sliding you up and down the length of his cock like you were a toy. 

“Fuck – saying my name – gonna make me –”

Caleb’s hips stuttered as he spoke, and he held your panties open with a finger, his dick against them, and came in hot ropes in the seat of them. His abdomen heaved as he rode out his orgasm. He stilled for only a moment to catch his breath, and then pulled your underwear right back up, pushing his cum against your pussy between them. You stared into his face, dumbfounded. Turned on. 

Caleb cupped your face delicately in his hands. The contrast of the feeling of his cum between your legs and his soft touch made you laugh, and Caleb let a smile fall over his face too. You squeezed one of his cheeks, making it go even more red than it already was.

“Meanie.”

Caleb scrunched up his nose at your treatment. He stuck his tongue out to the side, and tried to touch it to your hand. You dropped it so he couldn’t reach you. He grinned.

“Yeah. I’m a bad guy, huh? I just wanna mess you up all the time. Especially after you told me another guy was puttin’ something in your mouth. Well, now my cock’s been in your mouth, and my cum’s in your–” 

You put a hand over his mouth, hearing footsteps approaching in the hallway. There was a knocking at the door. Caleb’s eyes went wide, and then focused on something behind you. He took your hand from his mouth, and there was a succession of events so sudden that you had a hard time processing what exactly was happening.

First, there was a woosh as the window of the room came open. You smelled the night air before you saw it. Then, Caleb gathered the toga bundle in his hand, and made for the window. You watched, unable to believe what you were seeing, as he leapt through the open window. The movement reminded you of pole jumpers, the way he bent his body expertly through the space. You worried for just a moment, because you were on the second floor – and then you recalled that your brother could control gravity with his mind. Right.

As that thought struck you, you too were in the air, though you couldn’t see Caleb. You were whisked from the room and out the window, which shut loudly behind you. You felt like you might fall, your hands windmilling,  but instead you drifted into Caleb’s outstretched arms. The little sheet floated behind him, curled around the other items diligently. The window had opened up to a side lot, away from prying eyes. You stared into Caleb’s face, and he stared into yours. Then, both of you erupted into peals of laughter. Caleb doubled over, pressing his forehead against yours. His chest shook with the force of it. When he pulled away, he nearly started laughing all over again, and you saw tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. You wiped at them with your thumbs. Caleb looked very smug.

“Agent pip and Captain Caleb making a daring escape after sharing a heated encounter in public,” he narrated, like an announcer, voice a half-whisper.

“What will their next escapade entail? Tune in for the next episode and find out!”

You snorted, unable to keep the sound from coming out of you. It took great effort not to start laughing for real all over again.

“I’d like the next episode to be a little less action packed, if possible,” you mused.

Caleb nodded, and began walking you down the drive, and down the sidewalk in the direction of his frat. The sheet followed behind. You wondered what Gideon and Liam would think of all of this. They’d probably just support Caleb, like always.

“Noted. Next time I’ll draft out somethin’ significantly more relaxed. Or maybe it will be like, an alternate universe. I’ll be your trusty knight in shining armor, and you’ll be my princess. Oh wait,” he paused, and leaned down, nuzzling his nose against yours.

“You already are my princess.”

You reached up, and cupped his jaw, feeling his stubble there. His skin was still a little sweaty. Your buzz was starting to make you enter that half-sleepy, half-giggly state. You smirked at him.

“You’re the best big brother in the world. You always take care of me, even if you get mad at me sometimes. And your dick feels really good inside me, too.”

Caleb laughed softly, and shook his head. His violet eyes regarded you warmly, like the caress of the night air around your skin.

“I’m glad your big brother’s dick makes you feel good, baby. Don’t let anyone else but me hear you say that, though.”

You frowned, and kicked your legs. They dangled over one of Caleb’s strong arms, the leather of your boots creaking. Your calves were starting to ache. You would have to take those stupid boots off when you got home. Actually, you would have Caleb take them off for you. And you wouldn’t even have to ask. You remembered his cum in your underwear, and frowned even deeper. 

“Why? Are you ashamed to be my brother?”

Caleb shook his head again. He looked ahead instead of at you as he walked. You stared at the necklace glistening against the bare skin of his chest, illuminated only by the passing streetlights. Moths fluttered around them overhead, drawn to their illuminated doom. Somewhere, a lonesome dog barked, trapped behind a fence in a yard.

“No. Not at all. I just…maybe I want to be that and more.”

His voice trailed off towards the end, like he was unsure of himself. His cheeks and ears were pink again. You tugged on his necklace, examining the little ruby in the heart of the silver apple. It was just like you – nestled right in the middle of him, always. Your heart increased its pace at his words. For the first time in a long time, you allowed yourself to feel hopeful. You ran your thumb over the small charm.

“More? You mean like, dating-more?”

Caleb exhaled through his nose, and then adjusted you in his arms, tossing you in the air a little, once, then twice. You knew he was playing with you. You gripped tighter around his neck, unable to keep from laughing. He laughed, too. The sounds of your combined happiness echoed off of the empty street and into the soft serenity of the night.

“This is a conversation for when you’re sober, pips. In the morning. Right now, all I want is to get you home and snuggled up in bed. Preferably next to me. So be a good girl and let me, yeah?”

You wanted to argue, but you knew he was right. He seemed more earnest than ever. You knew, instinctively, that he would be honest with you. You knew, because you knew him better than anyone else in the world. You were like that scar on his arm. He could never be rid of you, even if it still hurt sometimes. You’d let Caleb put you to bed. And in the morning, you’d wake up to a Caleb who told the whole truth, this time.

the spider’s sense! a spidercaleb series.

♥︎ spider-man!caleb 𝑥 fem!reader

synopsis. ┆ caleb’s life was perfect—until it wasn’t. a radioactive spider bite turned him into linkon’s friendly neighborhood spider-man, the daily bugle started hunting for the man behind the mask, and to top it all off, he was forced to partner up with you—his smart, competitive, and infuriatingly perfect classmate who threatened his spot as number one in the class rankings.

tags/warnings. ┆ college/modern au, academic rivals to lovers, fluff, angst, eventual smut, gran isn’t evil in this LOL, the canon event, college parties, alcohol consumption, cliches, depictions of serious crime, references to the spider-man comics and movies, mdni

a/n. ┆ fanart art is by 长白山小葱头 on weibo. this is my first series on this app to celebrate hitting 1K! if you want to join the taglist, comment on this post or send me an ask.

main masterlist. ┆ talk to me!

chapter one ── pest control.

caleb's worst fear comes true when the two of you are assigned as lab partners, especially after your first experiment together goes horribly wrong in more ways than one. (4.6k)