GREAT AROUSALS (THARNTYPE ONE-SHOTS 18+)

Yours, Always- III

Five Years Later

Type went out in the late afternoon, the sky turning a soft amber above the trees. He kissed Tharn on the mouth — long, slow, like always — then smiled over his shoulder with a lazy "be back soon."

Tharn watched him walk away with a warmth that had never faded, not once in

five years.

Type didn't come back.

At first, Tharn assumed he got distracted — Type could spend hours in antique stores, grocery aisles, or chatting up strangers who looked like they needed a friend.

But when night fell, and Type's phone rang unanswered, something in Tharn's chest locked up.

He tried to stay calm.

Until the text came.

Still mine. This time, I won't let him leave.

No signature. No number. But he didn't need one.

The ghost from five years ago had found them.

And he had taken Type.

Tharn moved quickly.

He didn't call the police — because he didn't need to. This wasn't panic. This was

execution.

He walked to the spare room. Opened the reinforced locker behind the bookshelf.

Inside: matte-black armor panels. Tactical gear. A secure satellite uplink, and a locked biometric case.

Five years ago, Tharn had made a choice. Loving Type meant never leaving him unprotected. So he had changed careers.

Officially, he was a counter-threat operations lead — a former private military contractor now working in elite executive recovery. He was hired by people too rich or too important to call the cops. People who needed quiet, and solutions.

Unofficially?

He was the man you sent when someone needed to disappear — fast and forever.

Tharn pulled on his gear. Checked his sidearm. Inserted an encrypted tracker chip into his portable comms.

He accessed Type's last location through a biometric chain they'd agreed on years ago — a pendant Type never took off, one that pinged only to Tharn's frequency.

The signal was moving.

Then it stopped.

A location blinked on-screen: an abandoned industrial site, three hours out. Remote. Dead zone. No cameras. No rescue.

But Tharn was already gone.

The drive was silent, fast, cold.

By the time he reached the warehouse, it was past midnight. A storm rolled in low and heavy, thunder whispering at the edges of the world.

He parked in shadow. Surveyed the perimeter.

Infrared confirmed two heat signatures. One stationary.

One pacing.

Type.

And him.

The fucking bastard.

Type's wrists were raw from the zip-tie bindings, his shirt torn open, bare legs trembling on the freezing metal table. The man paced in front of him like a beast circling its prey, belt now completely unbuckled, cock hard and sickly proud in the dim light.