Bee-utiful! (Caine x Fem! Reader/OC)
The cage was… so high up. So high that below it was nothing but pure, black emptiness. It felt like the fog was curling around your feet, trying to pull you away, to suck you in and swallow you whole.
You can somehow still feel Caine’s giant hand gripping your body, holding you like a doll. He looked so, so angry. He threw a fit at the other humans. Not once was it directed at you, but that was before he tossed you into this cage and left.
You have no idea what he’s going to do when he gets back.
It was all your fault too. You failed. Like always. Like $&@?! ALWAYS. And now, your friends are being tortured somewhere in this digital realm, trapped in the body of an AI desperate to be loved.
You felt that hot buzz return. The tight, suffocating air that seemed to cling to your skin. You felt seen from every angle, inside and out.
And for the first time in months… you finally thought about the world you lived in before, wondering…
…would it have been better if you never left?
“Of course ma’am! If there’s anything else I can help with, let me know.” It’s now two hours after your designated clock-out, but you’ve decided to stay late to help out a very elderly coworker.
“Thank you, dear… it’s just so hard to read all this tiny text.” She gestures at the two-foot-tall pile of paper you had finally finished sorting through.
“No problem, Mary! Anything for a friend!”
She doesn’t respond, her goodbye being the sound of Candy Crush opening on her phone.
Well, that’s alright. She’s probably just as exhausted as you are. Honestly, she should be retired. She might be older than that broken fax machine you’re always fixing. They really should hire a handyman just for that piece of junk.
No matter. You’re about to leave this capitalist hell and escape into some other reality that doesn’t exist. It’s been a while since you’ve been able to do that. Maybe that one farming simulator you’re always hearing about online. Star something? Or maybe not. You’ve had enough screen time from working in an office all day. Maybe listen to some music while painting. There’s a canvas that’s been collecting dust, and it kills you every time you see it. What kind of artist can’t even finish painting a generic sunflower?
That’s it. You’re going to make absolutely sure you take advantage of this good mood and finish your projects.
You hear someone call your name and turn attentively. A tall, lanky man strides over, his combover being way too combover-y, but you’d never tell him that.
“There’s my favorite hard worker. Just getting confirmation you’ll be here tomorrow?” The nickname pathetically fills you with pride.
“Sure thing, boss. It seems like you need the help.” You nod, hands on your hips. He just fired three people last week for using the copy machine in a… not corporate manner.
“I think we would’ve been fine, but any extra hands are appreciated.” He gives a thumbs up with a smile and walks past you.
Another sigh. You knew it. There was no reason to agree to it, you weren’t nee—
That’s fine. I mean, what kind of lunatic expects anything more than that from their boss in cubicle purgatory? You probably just read the situation wrong again.
Wouldn’t be the first time.
The grey is getting too overwhelming. You need to get out of here and look at some color. You always stand out with your saturated clothes, even being reprimanded more than once for not looking professional enough. Professional pro-schmeshional. Sandy from HR liked the outfits, even asking to borrow your rose-patterned bandana.
Still haven’t gotten that back yet, but you’re too afraid to ask. You’re sure she just forgot.
You try to think about something else as you stare into the warped reflection of yourself in the elevator.
Finally, the doors open. A polite woman’s voice over the speakers plays, “Doors opening.”
“Doors opening,” you mumble to yourself, mimicking the British accent. Your hands dig through your bag for your earbuds, hoping you didn’t forget them for the hundredth time.
As you stride toward the exit, one final call stops you halfway out. Home is so close.
“Don’t forget your lunch box.” Jasmine pats your back, handing over the now-empty container. Oh yeah. That.
“Thanks for lending me the lunch. I’m still in shock over how disgusting my leftover chicken was. Hope I don’t get food poisoning.” She puts her hands in her pockets, grimacing. Her perfect ponytail swings as she tilts her head down.
“Yeah, of course!” You wave it off. “It looked… slimy. Probably for the best.” Your hand moves off the door, not wanting it to look like you’re desperate to leave.
You are desperate, but she’s so nice and friendly and pretty that there’s no way you’re going to be dismissive.
“I’ll pay you back somehow.” She winks and holds the door open.
It’s so cold, and you hate it. Ew. You remember your terrible teenage years where you pretended coats were for sissies and mentally slap your younger self. How was wearing shorts in freezing temperatures impressive to anyone?
Jasmine turns to wave, and as you go to return it…
…several people step out from behind you, the real friends she was waving at. They all laugh, talking about some asshole at work they can’t stand. Someone offers to buy drinks, and they all whoop in response.
They pile into one car, blasting music as they speed out of the parking lot.
You pull your too-thin coat tighter around you, the unsettling silence forcing you to face thoughts you haven’t been paying attention to.
This is how it’s always been.
During recess, kids played pirates and tried to leap off the swing set, while you hid under the playground, picking flowers to make a crown.
Your dad would take you to his office job, letting you wander around aimlessly. The halls were huge and empty. You’d be alone for hours before he checked on you.
At lunch, you ate your ham and cheese separately, preferring not to combine them. Your table was empty. No one wanted to sit with the kid who picked apart their sandwich.
And the weirdest part? You weren’t even bullied.
At most, you got a few odd looks. You’d show off your art, explaining the lore behind your royal cat character, and only get raised eyebrows in return.
Not even a generic insult. A part of you wished someone would call your art “stupid doo doo scribbles” just to get attention, but no. Not even the bullied kids sat with you during reading time. You just sat in your corner.
Silence almost as loud as the one you’re hearing now.
Other coworkers pass by. Only one waves goodnight.
It’s your fault, you know. It really is.
You’ve been invited to hang out after work, but you’re just so… busy. So tired. So… overwhelmed.
No family. No friends. No pets. Just plants. A woman in her twenties living with just plants.
You must be the most uninteresting person on the planet. Even the little things you do to feel better feel like a costume. Wearing stupid butterfly earrings like you’re something special. Everyone else wears normal ones, but you’re still a child pretending to be grown.
You hate crying. Especially when it’s cold. And quiet.
You don’t even remember walking to your car. God, you’re so stupid. You were fine until you saw a coworker happy with friends. How pathetic are you?
The lights blur as you drive. It isn’t raining or foggy. It’s just you. You even cry ugly; you can see it in the rearview mirror. Stupid.
It’s late by the time you get home, darker than you like. You hate getting home when it’s this dark. No motivation to do anything, just lie down and sleep.
You pass your stuffed mailbox, bills and useless coupons for stores you never visit. Probably a religious pamphlet in there somewhere, if that’s even legal. Maybe you’d take them up on it if they could pray your debt away. Doubt it.
Still sniffling as you reach the door, you nearly trip over a box on your porch.
Your dad used to work there. He recently passed away, and this was all that was left to you. One box.
You sigh, bending down and grunting at the unexpected weight. Dear LORD.
It’s warmer inside. The colors bloom around you, just how you like it. Flowers everywhere, carefully taken care of.
But it’s cluttered too. You’re sentimental, refusing to throw away anything tied to a memory. So even though you and your dad had a… complicated relationship, you aren’t going to toss this old tech.
There are other things in the box besides office supplies. A photo of you and your dad on a tire swing. An old bee plush you crocheted for him. And…
Memories flood back as you hold the headset.
It’s been ages since you thought about this. Your memory isn’t exactly a steel trap.
You remember… a program. Something your dad was working on. You were very young, but there was a moment you swear was real.
Must be nothing. You probably just messed around on his computer.
Walking toward your bedroom to plug it in, you pass your unfinished painting.
You can do it tomorrow. Before work. You know you won’t, but you lie to yourself anyway.
So you turn away from it. Future you problem.
You plop down in your chair next to the 2018 calendar you never even left a scribble in, and plug in the headset and computer. Your desk is empty after trashing your coffee-stained laptop, otherwise you’d put this off too.
It heats up instantly, the headset shaking slightly. There are sounds coming from it, like something is already playing. It’s on before you even fully power it.
You hesitate, making sure it won’t explode, then slowly put it on.
In an instant, like blinking, you’re on a stage surrounded by giant red curtains. A black-and-white floor stretches beneath you like a chessboard. Huge colorful blocks tower around you. It’s dark and empty, but feels… alive.
Wow. The graphics are insane. It feels so real. You look down at your hands, black cartoony fingers like plush paws. Black and yellow stripes cover your body, and as you tilt your head, you feel fuzz tickle your chin—
Okay, that’s too real. Time to take this thing off and—
“WOWEE! A new one! Right on the same day as the other human too? Talk about lucky!” A deep voice rings out behind you, making you spin so fast you nearly fall.
A pair of dentures with big cartoon eyes, dressed in a stylish red suit, floats above you, somehow looking delighted.
But for just a split second, the teeth falter. A flicker of curiosity passes through his eyes, like he’s noticed something unexpected about you.
You stare. You still feel the fuzz around your neck. You stare.
I haven’t written fan fiction in over 10 years. This is my first attempt at writing it, and I hope it’s good. My fellow Caine lovers deserve more content.
This is just the intro I typed out from around 2 AM to now 7, and I have class in about 2 hours, so I hope it’s worth it. This reader is going to be slightly OC, as I think Caine needs specific characters traits from a person for him to grow attached too, and I want to them to relate to each other. So I’m sorry. If you hate plants and flowers, I apologize.
Thanks for reading. I can’t figure out how to add pictures, it’s not working.
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