which one of the LIs do you think like breast milk?
(Beside the fact they are good for bodybuilding)
༘⋆ ⋮ CW: lactation kink
No. 1 is honestly tied between caleb and xavier lmao. Im biased towards caleb cause that man is obsessed with you he’d consume literally anything (cum, piss, spit, etc.) from you without hesitation. Xavier is freak king so ofc he’s there. Zayne would still somehow turn it into a science thing while using your tits as stress balls instead imo
He’s still clinging to you when he pulls away, lips glossy and swollen, milk coating his tongue. His eyes are glassy and unfocused—completely gone on it. A shaky sigh leaves him as another drop slips down his chin.
You brush it away with your thumb, “you okay there?”
He barely nods, forehead falling against your tits again like he’s too heavy to hold himself up. Super milk-drunk. Still mouthing lazily at your skin, chasing the taste even after he’s full.
hey, just wanted to drop by and say i’m so incredibly glad you didn’t quit. honestly, i’ve been feeling a lot like you have lately too, but i'm really glad you’re still here. 💛
to celebrate you staying, here is a picture of my foster dog! hopefully this little burst of cheerfulness infects you too. sending you lots of love.
AERIN THATS THE CUTEST DOGGIE EVER!! What a little sweetheart and thank you angel im also glad you’re still here with me. Here’s to better days for both of us 🤍
hello! I just wanted to come on here and tell you how absolutely life changing finding your blog was to me😭 when i read a hunger named you for the first time it was like genuinely a brand new experience. I’ve always been a Caleb main but i think reading your story like solidified it lmao so I just wanted to thank u for making such a masterpiece🥹
Anon you dont understand that this ask literally saved this blog. I was THIS close to deactivating and disappearing forever but reading this genuinely brought me back. It still makes me giddy that ppl still like ahny. Thank you so much for reading and taking the time to send this sweetheart because of you i think i’ll stay a little longer ♡
CW: 18+ (MDNI) oral, fingering, come spitting, voyeurism, overusage of pips/honey, Caleb larping as an omegaverse expert (he has no clue what he's talking about), Caleb/Zayne (snowapple), kind of ooc for Caleb & Zayne || Words: 3.3k || Summary: Caleb snoops through his gf's belongings and stumbles upon her BL fics.
A/N: Late bday gift for @losermuse!! I'm sorry that this took so long my brain went on strike </3 Love you lots musey muse!! <3333 Manifesting good grades and rest for you mwah 💙
also zayne has a dick piercing as requested by @harlotistic >:3
Anxiety settles between his ribs, trying to gnaw its way out. His throat going dry—it was just a kiss. A kiss with another man. Not just another man, but Caleb. The look on his mother’s face, perplexed with a hint of revulsion. Mrs. Li is going to tell dad. Dad’s going to—
How melodramatic this is, Caleb thinks. You’re spending time writing this? Caleb lets out a snort in disbelief. Well, it’s better than Pips getting in trouble and Caleb having to bail them out.
Any other person would be creeped out by their girlfriend writing stories about them and a close friend. Not Caleb. Pipsqueak is thinking about him. You see appeal in putting Caleb in fictional scenarios for your pleasure. Gosh, you probably rub your pussy to the thought of him and Zayne fucking.
A thought that goes straight to Caleb’s dick and thus Caleb’s grand plan was forming in his brain. Caleb flips a few pages ahead, curious to see how this story ends. An action that ends up being worthwhile.
Caleb’s fingers dig into Zayne’s hip, the bed creaking underneath the rough and quick snaps of his hips. Caleb’s free hand is wrapped around Zayne’s dick, feeling him throb in his hand.
Caleb’s eyes widen as he reads the explicit words before a slow exhale leaves him. He knew you were a freak. An apple that fell far from the tree but still inherited Caleb’s freakiness—you wouldn’t be his baby sister if you were normal.
—
“I’m not the one who said you were a bottom, it’s what her story implies,” Caleb says, trying to resist the urge to roll his eyes. He leans back on the couch, stretching out his long legs, arms tucked behind his head. “It’s not my fault I’m an alpha, Zayne. I’m born this way.”
Zayne’s right brow quirks up, nimble fingers coming up to loosen the knot of his tie. “I’m not sure I’ve come to the same conclusion. Just because that Zayne was on the bottom once doesn’t make him a bottom.”
Your mouth parts then closes, what does one even say in this situation? Caleb and Zayne were never supposed to know about your little stories. When had an ad gone out for personal beta readers? You’re sat on the couch between Caleb and Zayne. They’ve been discussing your writing for the past fifteen minutes.
Caleb shrugs, “yeah but you have nice birthing hips.”
“I have what?”
“Nice birthing hips. So, you’d be the omega.” Caleb clarifies, leaning closer to you. Violet eyes meeting yours, “did I use the right term, honey?” Caleb’s looking at you like a dog waiting for praise but all you can do is gawk at him. This is not a conversation you could have predicted. Ever.
“I don’t have birthing hips! My hips are perfectly proportionate to my body. You have bigger tits than I do, Caleb.”
“And a bigger dick. That’s why I was designated the alpha.”
This argument is so ridiculous but it does earn a laugh from you. “Dick size doesn’t designate you as the alpha,” you finally speak up, the initial embarrassment has faded. Still, this isn’t an ideal situation. You’d rather Zayne and Caleb remain blissfully unaware about that slow burn fanfiction that ended with Zayne’s face being forced into the pillow as Caleb took him from behind.
“Yeah, Caleb.” Zayne agrees, his leg crosses over the other leg. “Besides, my dick is bigger. We measured it before, remember?” An amused hum leaves him, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose before he pushes it back up.
“That was like years ago. You hit puberty before I did!” Caleb retorts.
Wait what? Caleb and Zayne measured their dicks before? Teenage boys are so strange… Then again, measuring themselves is the most normal thing they could’ve done.
“There couldn’t possibly be a drastic difference from then to now.”
“Wanna bet? Let’s measure our dicks now. Pips, go get the measuring tape.”
Should’ve seen this coming from miles away—Caleb and Zayne have always been competitive. Rising from the comfortable couch, your arms raised above your head to get the most needed stretch. You head to the bedroom, straight to Caleb’s desk.
Organized. You didn’t even have to search, it was right there, waiting for this important moment. This was the night that the measuring tape settled a debate: who has a bigger dick?
From the bedroom, you can hear Caleb shout Zayne’s name in awe. What’s going on now, you wonder as you make your way back to the living room. Both men have stripped. Their clothes neatly folded and placed on the couch.
Caleb’s on his knees, his attention all on Zayne until he hears your footsteps behind him. He turns his head, “look at what Zayne has,” surprise coloring his tone. “Zayne, dude, show her.”
Zayne’s clears his throat, his ears glowing as bright as Rudolph’s nose. “I don’t know why he’s making such a big deal of it.”
One would assume that Caleb’s teasing Zayne about his size, oh no. Although, first glance at Zayne’s dick—impressive for being flaccid. However, it’s the shiny metal pierced into his skin that has all of the attention.
“A Prince Albert piercing!?”
Your eyes are wide, without much though you tug the ring, checking for authenticity. Dr. Li has a fucking dick piercing!
Zayne lets out a quick exhale through his nose at the gentle touch—sensitive one, isn’t he? “Is it that surprising?” he questions. “Everyone gets piercings.”
“But not everyone gets a genital piercing.” Caleb points out, his eyes drifting over to you. “Who knew Dr. Li could be so… hardcore, huh?”
A dick piercing isn’t that strange when it comes to Zayne. Zayne, who used to wear his fringe over his left eye (attempted to, his glasses would get in the way), and wore black eyeliner (that he stole from mama), and the skinniest jeans imaginable—he would definitely get a dick piercing.
Dr. Li who lectures you on eating healthier and going to bed at a decent hour, not so much.
“It’s so cool, Zayne! Maybe I should get a clit piercing…” Just an off-handed comment, is it something you would follow through on? Probably not. Your suggestion makes Zayne’s dick twitch in interest.
Movement that catches Caleb’s attention and his amusement. “Don’t those piercings heighten sensitivity? You’re already so sensitive, it’ll probably take a few rubs and you’ll finish before we even start.”
You roll your eyes at Caleb’s comment, “says the one who finished in his jeans just because my ass brushed against his crotch.”
Caleb sputters and then looks at Zayne, "that has never happened. She’s lying. A true alpha doesn’t finish before his girl.”
“Baby, you’re the omega in our relationship. You even said if we were seahorses, you’d gladly carry our babies and—“ Caleb’s hand covers your mouth. Caleb’s cheeks grow rosy; your boyfriend is not an easy guy to fluster. Usually he’s the one trying to embarrass you.
“Anyway! As the alpha, I say we should measure our dicks now before Pips tries to ruin my credibility.”
Clearing his throat, unsure hazel eyes dart from you to Caleb. “I suppose… if this is to be fair, we’d both need to be aroused.”
Caleb nods in agreement, “right, because some people are growers, not show-ers.”
Caleb’s hand caresses the back of your head, “honey, since you like Zayne’s piercing so much, why don’t you help him out?”
What? You were only going to be the unbiased dick measurer. Now, Caleb’s telling you to help another man get hard?
“Pfft, Zayne doesn’t need help. He can just think of someone hot or something.”
“He could,” Caleb agrees. “But I think you’d love the opportunity to play with his piercing.” Caleb has a point. He always has a point.
When your weary gaze catches Caleb’s, he only gives you a self-assured nod. Well, if your boyfriend wants you to help out a friend, how could you turn down the suggestion?
“You don’t mind, do you, Zayne?”
“Of course not.”
And what started out as Caleb and Zayne critiquing your writing has ended up with your tongue teasing Zayne’s tip. Warm metal slides over your tongue; kitten licks over his sensitive head that causes Zayne to grow embarrassingly fast, much like Caleb.
What an ego-boosting reaction.
Now that the surprise of Zayne’s piercing has waned, you’ve noticed how neatly groomed he is. Pubes trimmed down, the clean scent that clings to his skin, mixed with a hint of musk.
Caleb spits in the palm of his hand, “that’s right, Pips. Get him nice and hard. He’ll need all those inches to beat me.” He taunts. Caleb strokes himself lazily, his attention captured by his girlfriend sucking his friend off; arousal outweighs any potential jealousy.
Your lips stretch over Zayne’s girth, the additional weight of his piercing is an odd sensation. The metal clinks against your bottom teeth a few times as you bob your head up and down; sending a shiver down your spine.
Zayne lets out a heavy exhale through his nostrils, muscles tense from your oral ministration. His hand rests on the crown of your head, hips bucking forward to drive more of himself down your throat. You gag as his tip bumps the back of your throat.
“C’mon Pips, you’ve taken a bigger dick than his and you’re still gagging?” Caleb scoffs, giving himself a rough tug. “Is this just to boost Zayne’s confidence?”
You pull off Zayne’s dick, saliva strings from your mouth and his flared head. Zayne’s dick pulsates with need, slick with the mixture of saliva and precum. Instead of responding to Caleb’s tease, you grab the measuring tape.
The measuring tape stretches from Zayne’s tip to the base. “Seven and a half. Impressive, Dr. Li.”
Albeit a dull compliment, Zayne’s chest still inflates from praise.
“Seven and a half! I’m sure if you had a partner, they’d be thoroughly satisfied, dude.” Caleb says, clapping Zayne on the back.
“Regardless of size, I’m still very proficient with my hands.”
Caleb chuckles, “now that, I can’t refute.”
Caleb pushes forward, standing right in front of you. “Pips, I’m ready for my measurements to be taken.”
You repeat the measuring process with Caleb, tip to base, although it’s harder to accurately measure since Caleb’s dick curves upward. “Mm, it looks like eight and three-fourths.”
Caleb’s dick is bigger. The tape measurer does not lie. Even when they stand side by side, the size difference is obvious.
“See Zayne, it just makes sense for me to be the alpha in our relationship. You know bottoms have the smaller dick,” Caleb explains, smugness oozing from his words.
When did Caleb did a Ph.D in Omegaverse? He read the Omegaverse wiki and called it a day, apparently. “Caleb, dick size doesn’t determine status,” you remind him. Caleb only shrugs your reminder off. “Still, he has birthing hips. He’s submissive. And you wrote him as the bottom in your little fic,” Caleb points out with a hint of a smile on his lips.
After a moment, you rise from the floor. “Well,” you begin, your arms wrap around Caleb’s midsection, fingers trailing over the ridges of his spine. “This is reality.” Nails graze his skin, causing goosebumps to flourish on his skin. “And you’ve been acting more like a brat than anything else.”
“C’mon,” Caleb protests, dipping his head so that he could nuzzle into your neck. Uh oh! Caleb has equipped the puppy tactics, must stay strong. “I was teasing Zayne. You know, I have no clue about the alpha and omega stuff.”
“I know.”
Running your fingers through his dark brown hair, lips pressed against his ear before you speak, the warmth of your breath causes Caleb to shudder slightly. “That doesn’t free you from the consequences though, honey…” Honey, so patronizingly cooed in his ear.
“Down on your knees.”
Up and down goes Caleb’s Adam’s apple, skin prickling with the sudden desire to obey. Lovesickness is incurable—Caleb would never want to be cured anyway.
Your boyfriend sinks to his knees.
“Since Zayne doesn’t get laid often, why don’t you help our gege out?”
Zayne sputters, his hands going through the motions to tug at a tie that’s no longer around his neck. Laughter bubbles up from your chest at his reaction—it’s rare to see Zayne so flustered.
“Did I say something wrong?” You question with your head tilted, feigning innocence.
“N-no, it’s just…” Zayne stammers, pushing his glasses up. His words die off as Caleb’s tongue darts out to lick at Zayne’s tip—already mourning the loss of your saliva, all he can taste is the bitterness of Zayne’s precum. “You’re lucky she’s in charge, Zayne. You know the roles should be reversed,” Caleb huffs, his cheeks puffed out as if he was wronged.
Zayne lets out a breathy laugh. “Then you should’ve kept your mouth shut.”
Caleb’s eyes narrow, he doesn’t respond verbally. Instead Caleb’s cheeks hollow as he bobs his head back and forth. His hand stroking what he can’t fit into his mouth. He attempts to swallow Zayne down to the hilt, only to let out a wet and muffled gag once Zayne’s tip hit the back of his throat.
“You can do better than that, Caleb.”
Already, your body is sprawled out along the length of the couch. Your bottoms and panties discarded on the floor. “Honey, didn’t you train me to take your dick without gagging? Why don’t you use those skills on Zayne?” Your taunt makes Caleb’s dick throb and arousal spurt from his slit.
Your legs part, your hand finding their way between your thighs. Collecting your arousal on your middle finger, you spread it around your swollen clit. The sigh that escapes your lips is of pure relief.
Caleb’s tongue plays with Zayne’s piercing, causing Zayne’s hips to flex. Violet eyes meeting hazel ones; competitive but both share a common goal, and that’s making sure that you enjoy the show.
Zayne’s fingers thread in Caleb’s short strands, guiding Caleb’s movements. Caleb relaxes his jaw, his tongue swirling against the sensitive underside of Zayne’s length. Zayne’s head is thrown back; heavy pants and moans that can’t be contained, not with the way Caleb is working his cock.
Best seat in the house. Watching your boyfriend suck off his friend—the best gift ever. Even if it came at the cost of your mortification of Caleb and Zayne reading those stupid fics you wrote about them.
“Good boy,” you praise, shooting an encouraging smile in their direction.
“Zayne, make sure you encourage him too. He is the one servicing you.”
For a moment, Zayne looks dumbfounded.
Strong angular brows pull together in thought before he speaks up, “an alpha that’s good at sucking omega dick, how rare…” His ears and cheeks are crimson—the only time you’ve seen Zayne this red is after being out in the snow for hours.
You bite your lower lip to stifle the laugh but it comes out anyway. “Zayne, you can just encourage him like normal.”
Zayne clears his throat and nods. “Your mouth is immensely pleasurable.”
That does sound more like Zayne. You’ll help him work on his dirty talking later. Your finger prods at your entrance, slowly stretching out the muscle. Your finger pumps in and out, slick coating your skin.
Caleb pulls back, needing to fill his lungs with more oxygen. “Zayne, what the hell was that?” He questions, his free hand kneads Zayne’s balls. “Good looks, occupation, and dick size carried you through your first time, huh?”
Just as you’re about to open your mouth to reprimand Caleb, Zayne’s pushing back into his mouth. Caleb’s nose presses against Zayne’s pelvis, causing Caleb to choke from the girth forced down his throat again, eyes welling up with tears.
Zayne’s dirty talking may need work but not his taming skills.
“He’s so mouthy sometimes.” More than mouthy. What shuts Caleb up? You sitting on his face. Caleb look gorgeous when he’s on his knees. Long lashes with tears clinging to them, his lips slightly swollen and covered in a his saliva. Zayne’s not making it easy for him, fingers curled in Caleb’s hair, his hips pumping forward, and forcing Caleb to take every inch.
This is so much hotter than anything you could’ve written about.
Warmth begins to build in your lower tummy. Every deep thrust of your fingers pushing you closer and closer to the edge. Caleb’s dick is drooling, throbbing from neglect. He’s cute this way. It’s the best payback for snooping and that ego of his. “Nn, fuck. Caleb’s learning fast, isn’t he?”
Zayne doesn’t answer. All of his attention is on Caleb.
You can see the moment Caleb’s jaw goes slack and he allows Zayne to drive into his throat. Rough pumps of Zayne’s hips that draw out strangled gasps, balls slapping against Caleb’s chin.
Flushed skin that sheens with sweat, fringes that are glued to their forehead, and spit bubbling from the corners of Caleb’s mouth—an ethereal scene that would be studied in art history 101 if Michelangelo had painted it.
Zayne’s glasses hang low on his nose, his pants heavy. Caleb’s looking up at Zayne through dark damp lashes; with his free hand, Zayne caresses Caleb’s cheek, thumb rubbing over his soft skin. “You’re going to be a good boy and swallow, right?” Zayne asks, voice strained before fading into breathlessness. His balls draw up towards his body, muscles tensing.
Caleb nods.
Zayne’s lips lift upward in a small smile, “that’s right. Good boy.” All it takes is a few more shallow thrusts into Caleb’s fluttering throat.
Knowing that Zayne is close makes your fingers speed up their pumps. Just have to time it right and you can come with Zayne. You have to remind yourself to keep your head up and eyes open, even with your orgasm creeping up your spine.
Missing the moment when Zayne spills in Caleb’s mouth would be devastating.
Zayne buries himself one last time in Caleb’s throat, his body momentarily stiff. Zayne’s release comes out in heavy spurts, filling Caleb’s mouth. “Fuh-fuck,” Zayne groans. Caleb gags, his eyes closing as Zayne’s creamy load coats his tongue. Just one taste and Caleb knows he still prefers your come on his tongue.
“Go ahead and swallow it, honey.” You encourage Caleb but he only pulls away from Zayne. His cheeks slightly puffed out, some spillage dripping down his chin. Caleb crawls towards your resting body on the couch.
“Open,” Caleb demands, angling his mouth to avoid spilling Zayne’s come.
Your brows shoot up at the request and you pause. Then your mouth opens. Caleb spits Zayne’s load into your mouth and you swallow. Just a slight tang—Dr. Li has a decent diet. Desperate lips connect with yours, his fingers immediately replacing yours, he collects your arousal on his index and middle finger.
Caleb has to touch you. Needs to touch you. Repent for being a terrible alpha—whatever that means. Caleb’s fingers press forward, velvety walls tense at the sudden intrusion. Caleb’s fingers are longer than yours, stretching you out. “Did I do a good job?” He asks in between kisses.
“Of course,” your back arches as Caleb hits a sensitive spot. “I could tell Zayne loved it. His ass clenches a certain way—“
“I’m sorry?” Zayne interrupts. He’s sitting in the armchair, catching his breath.
A soft laugh leaves you. “Don’t worry about it, nobody will notice unless they’re looking at your ass.”
Caleb’s thumb circles around your swollen nub. His tongue delves into your mouth, tangling with yours, trying to savor the combination of saliva and Zayne’s come that lingers behind.
Caleb moans into the kiss, fingers curling upward, rubbing that magic spot that always has you seeing stars. He breaks the kiss just to hear you cry out in ecstasy, body trembling in as your orgasm washes over you, gushing all over his fingers like you were made to do.
“Cute,” Caleb mumbles against your jawline, pressing open-mouthed kisses on heated skin. His fingers stop moving, allowing you to compose yourself.
BL, SNOWAPPLE, OMEGAVERSE, CUM SPITTING, CUCK MC! Miss kory!!! You captured the things i like so well <3333 genuinely the best and funniest fic i have ever read. I LOVE YOU SO MUCH! AND THANK YOU @harlotistic FOR SUGGESTING THE DICK PIERCING ON ZAYNE I LOVE ITTTT. Im gonna eat both yall out. Dont lock the doors—papa is coming.
I cant even describe how much reading this gave me serotonin. I was basically full on giggling the whole time. I would 100% read this again if im feeling down
I realllyyyy adore your unhinged writing kory. I didnt realise how much i missed readinf it. Your pacing and dialogue are so good and everything flows naturally
I love how cocky and annoying you made caleb here like that’s my ideal boyfriend/gege. The part of him larping on omegaverse (we say thank you wiki for helping his dumbass) had me losing it!!! He’s so insufferable ughhhh (yes caleb you’re so annoying but fuck me please)
And the snowapple dynamic feels natural. Their chemistry is insane like I DO WANNA SEE MY BFS FUCK!!!!
Lines i adore:
An apple that fell far from the tree but still inherited Caleb’s freakiness—you wouldn’t be his baby sister if you were normal.
Basically the definition of user losermuse
Lovesickness is incurable—Caleb would never want to be cured anyway.
I like my men like that
Flushed skin that sheens with sweat, fringes that are glued to their forehead, and spit bubbling from the corners of Caleb’s mouth—an ethereal scene that would be studied in art history 101 if Michelangelo had painted it.
Iconic! Im drawing this image in my mind
Caleb shrugs, “yeah but you have nice birthing hips.”
“did I use the right term, honey?” Caleb’s looking at you like a dog waiting for praise but all you can do is gawk at him.
A true alpha doesn’t finish before his girl.
Repent for being a terrible alpha—whatever that means.
zombie!au, в которой калеб оказывается заражен.
ты видишь, как голод пронизывает калеба до костей, гниль разъедает вены, а инстинкты обостряются, пока он превращается в нечто дикое, неправильное. вирус забирает не его тело, а его самообладание.
и калеб чувствует, что ты — самое близко находящееся к нему живое существо. твой пульс и тёплая шея манят его. невыносимое желание впиться зубами в единственного человека, которого он любит, раздирает его изнутри, но калеб борется.
он тратит свою энергию, чтобы оставаться в сознании. вены под вспотевшей от лихорадки кожей будто пылают, он сжимает челюсть так сильно, что тебе кажется, она вот-вот раскрошится. каждая секунда как война. он превращается в то, с чем боролся. и он всё ещё отказывается кусать тебя. он не позволит инфекции поглотить тебя.
ты сковываешь его цепями, надеваешь на запястья металлические наручники. не потому что боишься его, но потому что тебе страшно за него. ошейник тяжело впивается в кожу на его — уже не человеческой — шее. для любого другого человека калеб будет выглядеть как монстр, которого ты приручила. выжившие держатся от тебя на расстоянии, другие заражённые сомневаются, чувствуя его присутствие.
он рычит на них. отпугивает. прямо как сторожевой пес. он — твоё оружие. твой почти-парень, который прижимается к тебе в те редкие ночи, когда на тебя нападает осознание своей вины.
в ясные ночи, когда мир вокруг затихает, а натяжение цепей между вами ослабевает, он смотрит на тебя так, словно жаждет чего-то. и это что-то — не твоя кровь.
цепи гремят, когда калеб погружается в твоё тело. его запястья, скованные за спиной, выворачиваются, а ошейник в твоей руке натягивается на его шее сильнее. этим вечером ты надела на него намордник — грубый, кожаный ремешок, найденный в старом снаряжении, он туго застёгнут на его челюсти, чтобы удерживать эти острые зубы.
это не притупляет голод в его глазах, едва мерцающих в тусклом освещении, но удерживает рот на расстоянии от твоей кожи. так что калебу приходится лишь тереться лицом, обнюхивая, а не кусая. его горячий нос прижимается к твоей ключице, он дышит прерывисто, шумно, толкаясь в тебя глубже, растягивая широко с каждым резким движением бёдер.
ты лежишь на спине в гнёздышке из одеял, обхватив калеба ногами за талию, поводок дважды обёрнут вокруг твоей руки — контролирующе. калеб рычит тихо, звук, приглушённый намордником, вибрацией исходит из его груди, передаваясь тебе. его тело пылает, точно в лихорадке, вены пульсируют под влажной от пота кожей, инфекция подстёгивает двигаться сильнее, быстрее, глубже. ты дёргаешь за поводок, вынуждая калеба запрокинуть голову ровно настолько, чтобы увидеть, как бьётся пульс на его горле.
— медленнее, — выдыхаешь ты, сжимаясь вокруг него, заставляя подчиниться. но калеб продолжает двигаться, вонзаясь до упора, шлёпаясь о твою задницу, расплёскивая предсеменную жидкость повсюду. ремешок впивается в его щеки, но калеб отчаянно тычется носом в твою шею, нежно касается губами разделяющего вас барьера, вдыхает запах твоей кожи, как будто это единственное, что заземляет его, помогает держаться в своём сознании.
он не может укусить тебя, поэтому остаётся лишь влажный жар его дыхания и настойчивое трение морды о твою распалённую кожу. ты слегка ослабляешь поводок в руке, позволяя калебу опустить голову к твоей груди. игнорируя намордник, он впивается губами в твой сосок, надавливает языком и стонет разочарованно, когда не может коснуться напрямую, толчки его при этом становятся беспорядочнее. пальцами свободной руки ты зарываешься в его волосы, направляя, а бёдрами приподнимаешься навстречу, сжимая его член так крепко, словно тиски.
калеб вбивается в тебя так, словно присваивает и метит, его бёдра вжимаются в тебя всё глубже, цепи звенят при каждом движении. инфекция лишает его ощущения усталости, делает ещё более неутомимым, возбуждённым до предела. его естество пульсирует, вены вздуваются, соприкасаясь с твоими мягкими стенками. ты натягиваешь поводок снова — резко — приближая его лицо в наморднике к своему.
— мой, — шепчешь ты. — никто не отнимает тебя у меня.
калеб кивает яростно, тычется носом в твой подбородок. вы оба уже на грани — твоя спина выгибается, ты впиваешься ногтями ему в спину, а он вздрагивает всем телом. толкается в последний раз, прежде чем излиться горячей спермой в твоё жаркое лоно.
ты кончаешь вслед за ним, стенки пульсируют вокруг его плоти, выжимая каждую каплю, пока хватка твоей ладони на поводке ослабевает. калеб жмётся к тебе ближе, переносит почти половину веса, утыкается носом в плечо. его влажное, горячее дыхание касается твоей кожи.
— хороший мальчик, — шепчешь ты, одергивая его за ошейник ровно настолько, чтобы почувствовать его реакцию. мир может видеть в калебе монстра, но ты видишь того, кто раз за разом всё равно выбирает тебя.
You see it happen in real time—the hunger settling into his bones, the rot threading through his veins, instinct sharpening into something feral and wrong. The virus doesn't take his body first. It takes his restraint.
And the closest living thing to him is you. He feels it. The pull toward your pulse. The warmth of your throat. The unbearable urge to sink his teeth into the only thing he's ever loved.
But he fights it. He burns through his evol just to hold himself together, veins glowing under fevered skin, jaw clenched so hard you're scared it'll shatter. Every second is war. What he was clawing against is what he's becoming. He refuses to bite you. Refuses to let the infection have that.
So you chain him. Not because you're afraid of him but because you're afraid for him. Metal cuffs around his wrists. A collar against his throat. The weight of it digs into skin that's no longer fully human. To outsiders, he looks like a monster you've somehow domesticated. Survivors keep their distance. Other infected hesitate when they sense him.
He growls at them. Scares them off. Your guard dog. Your weapon. Your almost-boyfriend who still leans into your touch on the rare lucid nights.
And on those lucid nights, when the world is quiet and the chains lie slack between you, he looks at you like he's starving for something that isn't blood.
The chains rattle as Caleb thrusts into you, his cuffed wrists straining behind his back, the collar around his neck pulling taut in your fist. You’ve fitted him with the muzzle tonight—a crude leather strap scavenged from old gear, buckled tight over his jaw to cage those sharpening teeth.
It doesn’t dull the hunger in his eyes, glowing faintly in the dim light, but it keeps his mouth from your skin, forcing him to nuzzle instead of bite. His nose presses hot against your collarbone, breath ragged through the gaps, as his cock slams deep into your pussy, stretching you wide with every feral snap of his hips.
You’re on your back in the nest of blankets, legs wrapped around his waist, the leash wrapped twice around your hand for control. He growls low, the sound muffled by the muzzle, vibrations rumbling through his chest into yours. His body is fever-hot, veins pulsing under sweat-damp skin, the infection urging him harder and faster. You yank the chain, arching his neck back just enough to expose the thrumming pulse at his throat.
“Slower,” you gasp, clenching around his thick length to make him obey. He bucks anyway, burying himself to the hilt, balls slapping against your ass as pre-cum slicks the way. The muzzle’s straps dig into his cheeks, but he nuzzles desperately at your neck, lips brushing softly through the barrier, inhaling your scent like it’s the only thing anchoring him.
No teeth can graze you now, just the wet heat of his exhales and the insistent rub of his face against your skin. You release the leash a fraction, letting him drop his head to your tits. He mouths at your nipple through the leather, tongue pressing futilely, a frustrated whine escaping as his thrusts grow erratic. Your free hand digs into his hair, guiding him, while your hips rise to meet him, pussy gripping his cock like a vice.
He fucks you like he’s claiming territory, hips grinding deep, the chains clinking with every movement. The infection makes him relentless and extra horny, cock throbbing inside you, veins ridged against your walls. You pull the leash sharply, forcing his muzzled face up to yours.
“Mine,” you whisper. “No one is taking you from me.” He nods as best as he can, nuzzling your jawline with muffled urgency. The tension coils tight; you arch up, nails raking his back, and he shudders, slamming one last time before spilling hot cum into you.
You come with him, walls pulsing around his shaft, milking every drop as the chains go slack in your grip. He collapses half on you, nuzzling into your shoulder, the muzzle warm against your skin.
“Good boy," you murmur, tugging the collar just enough to feel him respond. The world may see a monster, but you see someone who still chooses you.
You see it happen in real time—the hunger settling into his bones, the rot threading through his veins, instinct sharpening into something feral and wrong. The virus doesn't take his body first. It takes his restraint.
And the closest living thing to him is you. He feels it. The pull toward your pulse. The warmth of your throat. The unbearable urge to sink his teeth into the only thing he's ever loved.
But he fights it. He burns through his evol just to hold himself together, veins glowing under fevered skin, jaw clenched so hard you're scared it'll shatter. Every second is war. What he was clawing against is what he's becoming. He refuses to bite you. Refuses to let the infection have that.
So you chain him. Not because you're afraid of him but because you're afraid for him. Metal cuffs around his wrists. A collar against his throat. The weight of it digs into skin that's no longer fully human. To outsiders, he looks like a monster you've somehow domesticated. Survivors keep their distance. Other infected hesitate when they sense him.
He growls at them. Scares them off. Your guard dog. Your weapon. Your almost-boyfriend who still leans into your touch on the rare lucid nights.
And on those lucid nights, when the world is quiet and the chains lie slack between you, he looks at you like he's starving for something that isn't blood.
The chains rattle as Caleb thrusts into you, his cuffed wrists straining behind his back, the collar around his neck pulling taut in your fist. You’ve fitted him with the muzzle tonight—a crude leather strap scavenged from old gear, buckled tight over his jaw to cage those sharpening teeth.
It doesn’t dull the hunger in his eyes, glowing faintly in the dim light, but it keeps his mouth from your skin, forcing him to nuzzle instead of bite. His nose presses hot against your collarbone, breath ragged through the gaps, as his cock slams deep into your pussy, stretching you wide with every feral snap of his hips.
You’re on your back in the nest of blankets, legs wrapped around his waist, the leash wrapped twice around your hand for control. He growls low, the sound muffled by the muzzle, vibrations rumbling through his chest into yours. His body is fever-hot, veins pulsing under sweat-damp skin, the infection urging him harder and faster. You yank the chain, arching his neck back just enough to expose the thrumming pulse at his throat.
“Slower,” you gasp, clenching around his thick length to make him obey. He bucks anyway, burying himself to the hilt, balls slapping against your ass as pre-cum slicks the way. The muzzle’s straps dig into his cheeks, but he nuzzles desperately at your neck, lips brushing softly through the barrier, inhaling your scent like it’s the only thing anchoring him.
No teeth can graze you now, just the wet heat of his exhales and the insistent rub of his face against your skin. You release the leash a fraction, letting him drop his head to your tits. He mouths at your nipple through the leather, tongue pressing futilely, a frustrated whine escaping as his thrusts grow erratic. Your free hand digs into his hair, guiding him, while your hips rise to meet him, pussy gripping his cock like a vice.
He fucks you like he’s claiming territory, hips grinding deep, the chains clinking with every movement. The infection makes him relentless and extra horny, cock throbbing inside you, veins ridged against your walls. You pull the leash sharply, forcing his muzzled face up to yours.
“Mine,” you whisper. “No one is taking you from me.” He nods as best as he can, nuzzling your jawline with muffled urgency. The tension coils tight; you arch up, nails raking his back, and he shudders, slamming one last time before spilling hot cum into you.
You come with him, walls pulsing around his shaft, milking every drop as the chains go slack in your grip. He collapses half on you, nuzzling into your shoulder, the muzzle warm against your skin.
“Good boy," you murmur, tugging the collar just enough to feel him respond. The world may see a monster, but you see someone who still chooses you.
CW: DEAD DOVE: DNE (18+ mdni), yandere!caleb, non-con/rape, psuedocest, drugging, somnophillia, p in v, breeding kink, degradation, aftercare.
The bed was your sanctuary. Caleb knew this. From his post in the hallway, the crack in the door framed you like a portrait: propped against the headboard, knees drawn to your chest, seeking a warmth the world could no longer provide.
The steam from the chamomile mug curled in the low light. His recipe. The one he’d perfected for you when you were children, when you were just a scared girl who needed her big brother. Now, it serves a higher purpose.
He watched as you raised the mug. Your first sip was a small, grateful sigh. A ghost of the old comfort. The second sip was his victory.
Two.
The word clicked in his mind, precise and proud. That was all it took this time.
Last night: four swallows. The night before: a full half-cup. But he had adjusted the concentration, accounting for your heightened stress and your depleted system. His calculations were flawless. He saw the exact moment his work manifested—the slight flutter of your eyelids, the delayed recognition of the syrupy aftertaste he’d engineered.
Then came the beautiful, inevitable surrender. Your body went soft, your consciousness extinguished like a snuffed candle. The mug rolled from your slack grip, leaving a dark streak across the duvet before it thudded softly on the rug.
He waited and let the silence solidify.
Only then did he act. The door opened without a whisper under his touch. His first move was to pick up the mug, then his gaze fell upon you, where you lay in a perfect, defenceless stillness. His fingers traced your jaw, tilting your head to admire the pliant parting of your lips.
“Time for your nightly exercise, angel. You’ll fit perfectly in no time.”
His hands roamed greedily, yanking up your tank top to bare those perky tits. The cool air hit your skin, and your nipples tightened as if they sensed what was coming. He bent to them, rough and unrestrained, pinching until the ache bloomed beneath his touch. In the same impatient motion, he dragged your shorts and panties down your legs. The fabric tore slightly in his haste. Your pussy parted slightly for him, the soft lips already damp with unconscious arousal.
Caleb stripped fast, his thick cock slapping free, heavy and with veins bulging like ropes, and the fat head oozing pre-cum in sticky strings. He was hung like a goddamn horse, the kind of brutal size that’d split a virgin in half. But these nightly raids were his way of breaking you in, forcing your tight cunt to stretch and memorise his shape.
“So pretty,” he growled low, kneeling between your thighs and slapping his cock against your folds, smearing your juices along his shaft. The wet smacks filled the room, and your pussy twitched like it craved the abuse.
He gripped your hips, nails digging in, and rammed the tip past your entrance with a grunt. “Fuucckk, you’re still so goddamn tight.”
Inch by agonising inch, he forced his way deeper. Your walls resisting the invasion, stretching obscenely around his girth until your lips were puffed from the strain. He could see the bulge in your belly where his cockhead prodded, reshaping your guts for future poundings.
“That’s my girl. Taking gege’s fat cock like a champ.”
Half-buried, he hiked your legs over his shoulders, folding you like a pretzel to drill deeper. With a hard thrust, he bottomed out, balls slapping your ass as your cervix kissed his tip. Your cunt spasmed wildly around him, and juices were squirting out in messy sprouts that soaked his sack.
“Shit, you feel that? Your hole’s learning to hug me tight, pips—gonna be perfect when I breed you properly.” He pulled back slowly, your pussy dragging along every ridge, then slammed home.
Caleb didn't stop there, shoving his thumb into your drooling mouth and hooking it against your cheek to pry your jaw wide.
“Suck it, pips—do a little practice for when you choke my dick.”
Your tongue lolled warm and wet around the digit. Saliva pooling and dribbling down your chin as he face-fucked your mouth to sync with the pumps.
The sight of his thumb gagging you while his cock ravaged you below had him leaking more inside you. He pinched your clit hard, twisting it to make your walls flutter even harder. Your body betraying you with gushes of arousal that lubed his pounding.
He rutted like an animal, sweat falling in warm drops as his hands roamed greedily on your tits. “Gonna flood this cunt. Make it leak my jizz all night, so you wake up feeling like a used slut.”
Your pussy was a ruined mess now, stretched to its limit, inner muscles rippling in futile protest, but fitting him like a custom fleshlight after all his ‘training’. The bed creaked under the assault. His balls tightening as he hammered your g-spot, forcing your limp body to jolt with each brutal plunge.
“Fuck yes!” he snarled, burying deep and erupting. His cock pulsing as thick ropes of cum filled your womb, overflowing and bubbling out around his base in creamy froth.
“Take it all, baby. You’re mine.”
Easing out with a wet pop, he watched his cum ooze from your wrecked hole. Satisfaction twisted his grin; you were moulding to him and ready.
He snatched a rag from your laundry basket, moving with a measured patience that made the abuse of moments ago feel distant, almost unreal. His hands traced your thighs as he wiped, lingering just a second too long, and for a heartbeat, he scooped out globs of his seeds from your sloppy folds, sucking them clean himself with a moan. Then he dressed you in a fresh nightie and tucked the covers around you.
༘⋆ ⋮ A story about two people who grew up so close they never learnt how to exist separately.
CW: DEAD DOVE: DNE (18+ mdni), pseudocest, angst, hurt/comfort, religious themes, codependent relationship, porn with plot, handjob, blowjob, period sex, p in v, choking, spanking, breeding kink, blood kink, dub-con? (reader’s consent is from trauma and desperation rather than a clear mindset).
WC: 5.5k
AN: a heavily self-indulgent fic. Wrote this when i was at my lowest so enjoy ♡ (and ignore any mistakes)
Before there were rules, there was a mistake.
Not a sin, no; sins required witnesses, names, and intention. This was quieter than that—a flaw in the telling. A breath divided when it should have remained whole.
Something was made and then split, not cleanly, not kindly. Two vessels from the same source. Two bodies taught to walk separately while carrying the same hunger beneath the skin.
They were not meant to find each other again. Or perhaps they were, but only after suffering enough to believe they didn’t deserve it.
What was certain was this: nothing else in the world would ever fit either of them the way they fit each other. Not family. Not shelter. Not silence. Not pain. When one of them bled, the other felt steadied. When one of them strayed, the other tightened, as if pulled by a thread that could not be cut without tearing flesh.
They were not born together. They were born for each other. And because of that, they were taught very early that love—real love—was something to be survived, not indulged. Caleb discovered early that wanting was dangerous.
Gran taught them that. Not with warnings or lectures, but with aftermath. Wanting led to disappointment. Wanting led to punishment. Wanting meant you hadn’t prayed hard enough or been grateful enough.
So he learnt to restrain it. To fold it small. To keep it quiet. To hold it the way you held your breath underwater—counting the seconds, waiting for permission to surface. Except what he felt for you didn’t stay contained. It didn’t dissolve when ignored. It didn’t weaken with discipline. It simply settled in, patient and unmoving, like something that had always been there and was only now being acknowledged.
It sat in him like a seed buried too deep to dig out, drinking whatever it could find—routine, proximity, silence. The sound of your breathing through the thin wall at night. The way you always stood a little too close, like you were cold even in summer. The way your name fit perfectly in his mouth, even when he refused to say it aloud.
He told himself it was protection. That was easier to live with.
Gran liked protection. Protection sounded righteous. Protection sounded like something a good boy would do. A boy who watched the stove when she stepped out. A boy who walked you home. A boy who made sure the doors were locked and the windows latched, and the world stayed where it belonged—outside.
But protection has a way of souring when it goes unchecked.
At first, it looked like vigilance.
He stood closer in crowds. Shifted so his body blocked sightlines without appearing deliberate. He mastered the geography of public spaces instinctively—where eyes lingered, where hands might stray, and where people felt entitled to look too long at something soft and unguarded.
Once, on a train, a man tried to angle his phone beneath your skirt. The motion barely registered to you—just a flicker at the edge of your awareness—but Caleb felt it like a struck nerve. He didn’t raise his voice or touch the man. He only lifted his hand, expression blank, and the phone flew from its owner’s grip, shattering against the far wall as if repelled by the air itself. The man scrambled off at the next stop, pale and shaking, convinced he’d imagined the whole thing.
Caleb didn’t ask if you were okay. He already knew. He adjusted your bag on your lap, settled his shoulder closer to yours, and stared straight ahead until the train reached your stop.
At school, boys your age picked up quickly what not to do.
The teasing that masqueraded as affection—the tugging at your hair, the cruel jokes dressed up as flirting—stopped after the first warning. Caleb didn’t shout. He didn’t threaten outright. He simply stepped between you and them, eyes flat, voice low enough that only they could hear.
“She doesn’t like you,” he’d say. Or: “Try that again.”
That was usually enough.
After all, one look from your big brother had a way of rewriting courage. They laughed it off, backed away, and found other targets. Teachers called it maturity. Neighbours called it responsibility. Gran called it good sense. And Caleb told himself the same. But somewhere along the way, the vigilance sharpened.
He began to notice things he shouldn’t have noticed. The way your moods shifted with the moon. The way your skin bruised easily, like it remembered pressure long after it was gone. The way pain didn’t frighten you so much as steady you, like it made the world sharper, easier to hold.
When you hurt yourself—small things, accidental things—Caleb felt it everywhere. Not sympathy. Not fear but ownership.
The first time he named it, it made him sick. He locked himself in the bathroom and stared at his reflection until his eyes burnt. Pressed his hands flat to the sink, knuckles white, whispering no like it might exorcise the thought. As if denial could still make him good.
But the thought didn’t leave. It multiplied.
He started keeping track of you without meaning to. What you ate. How long you sleep. When you laughed. When you went quiet. He could tell how your day had gone just by the way you closed doors—soft, careful, or sharp enough to rattle the frames.
If something upset you, his chest filled with heat so sudden it scared him. Not anger at you. Never at you. At the world. At anything that dared to touch what he had already decided, somewhere deep and unspoken, he committed himself to keep safe.
You belong with him. Not to him.
He clung to that distinction like a prayer. But even prayers can be rehearsed into lies. At night, when the house settled, and the orchard breathed, Caleb stopped praying to God altogether. Not because he didn’t believe, but because he didn’t trust Him.
God took things. God tests people. God asked for sacrifices.
And Caleb already knew what he would give if asked. That was when he understood what gran had really been trying to make. Not obedient children. Devoted ones. The kind who didn’t need rules anymore. The kind who would walk into fire without being pushed. The kind who mistook destruction for transcendence because it felt like relief.
The realisation hollowed him out. And still, when you looked at him, searching, trusting, something warm and unbearable bloomed behind his ribs. Something that whispered I will keep you even as it sharpened its teeth.
By then, it was too late to imagine a version of himself that didn’t feel this way. By then, loving you wasn’t a choice. It was a condition.
By eighteen, the condition had figured out how to disguise itself.
To everyone else, it passed as familiarity. As a habit. The easy closeness of two people who had grown up sharing hallways, meals, and long stretches of silence. No one questioned it, not even gran, who trusted routine more than she trusted affection.
Except his friends.
They noticed the way his attention never really left you. The way he tracked your movements without looking. The way his patience thinned the moment someone else stepped too close. They joked about it—called him overprotective, teased him for being a siscon—but there was an edge to it, something that made the laughter taper off instead of landing.
They stopped pushing.
Caleb heard the jokes and let them stand. It was easier that way. A word you could laugh off sounded safer than a truth you had to examine. And he trusted the disguise, too, or told himself he did because nothing about it felt forced.
He knew how your breathing settled when you were calm. Knew the small catch that came when you were thinking too hard. Knew the way your brow drew tight when a sentence troubled you, the way you picked at your lips without noticing, worrying them raw until he took your hand and made you stop.
These were not things he watched for. They were simply there, the way gravity was there.
You sat beside him under the old tree behind the house, knees nearly touching, a book open in your hands. The afternoon was quiet in the way it always was when gran napped—the house holding itself still, the orchard breathing slowly and patiently around you.
You shifted, tugging your sleeve down, and the movement registered in his chest like a mirrored response, as though something inside him had adjusted too. “You’re staring,” you said, without looking up.
He blinked. “I wasn’t.”
You smiled faintly. “You always say that.”
He swallowed, then nodded toward the book. “You haven’t turned the page.”
You glanced down, surprised. “Oh.” A pause. “I guess I keep rereading it.”
“What’s it about?” he asked.
You hesitated, thumb resting between the pages. “Connection,” you said finally. “The kind you don’t choose.”
He frowned slightly. “Like family?”
“Like origin,” you corrected. “The author thinks some people come from the same starting point. That even when they’re separated, they still…recognise each other.”
He felt something tighten behind his ribs.
“That sounds made up,” he said, too quickly.
You hummed. “Most things that scare people do.”
You leaned back against the trunk, eyes closing, sunlight breaking across your face in thin bands. Caleb watched the rise and fall of your chest, the pulse at your throat. He told himself—like he always did—that this was vigilance. That noticing was a form of care.
“Do you think it’s true?” you asked. “That some bonds exist before people understand them?”
He should have laughed it off. Should have shrugged.
“I think people notice patterns and call them fate,” he said instead.
You turned your head toward him. “And you?”
He met your eyes. Held them for too long. “I think some things don’t go away just because you don’t name them.”
Your expression softened, something fragile passing through it before you could hide it. “I’m glad you think that.”
The admission landed heavier than it should have.
Without quite deciding to, he reached out and brushed a leaf from your hair. His fingers lingered at your temple, barely touching. You leaned into the contact automatically, trusting him with the weight of your head.
That trust made his stomach twist.
He pulled his hand back slowly. “You shouldn’t take books like that too seriously.”
You smiled. “You’re worried I’ll believe them.”
“I’m worried they’ll give you ideas.”
“About what?”
He didn’t answer.
The quiet stretched. Your knee brushed his, an accident, surely, but his body went rigid all the same. He could smell you now: soap, warm skin, and the faint sweetness of apple bruising in the grass.
You looked at him then, searching like you always did.
“Caleb,” you said.
Something in him answered before he could stop it. He lifted his hand again, slower this time, giving you time to pull away. To remind him of sense, of rules, of the shape things were meant to have.
You didn’t.
His thumb touched your cheek tentatively. Your skin was warm beneath it, softer than he expected, and something inside him gave way with a quiet, irrevocable click. You leaned into his hand like it belonged there. Like it always had.
“We shouldn’t,” he said, even as his breath hitched.
“I know,” you whispered.
Your foreheads touched—barely. A shared breath. A pause that felt older than either of you. He could feel your pulse beneath his fingers, quick and unsteady, answering his own. When he kissed you, it was careful. Not hungry. Not reckless. But reverent.
A brief, soft press of lips, as though he were acknowledging something rather than claiming it. When he pulled back, your breath caught—not quite a protest, not quite a surprise.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, voice rough.
You rested your forehead against his. “You never have.”
That was the lie. Or maybe the truth simply hadn’t caught up yet. He kissed you again—deeper this time, still restrained but honest. His hand found your waist, firm and grounding, as if anchoring you to him might keep the world from shifting.
For a moment, everything aligned. Then the leaves stirred overhead, and reality crept back in. Caleb pulled away slowly, chest tight and eyes dark. “This stays here,” he said. “Just us. Just now.”
You nodded, though your fingers lingered at his sleeve like they didn’t want to let go.
“Okay, gege.”
Loving Caleb was not an act of devotion. It was an ecology.
You didn’t love him; you inhabited the world his presence created—a climate shaped by his attention, an atmosphere held in place by his gravity. You woke and slept to the rhythm of his quiet accounting. You moved through your days with the deep, cellular assurance that you were being held in someone’s consciousness. Always.
With him, you were not braver. You were not stronger. You were simply, irrevocably real. Your voice landed. Your body belonged. Wanting felt like breathing, not sin. He was the mirror that showed you a whole person, and you believed it.
That was before.
Before your own name began to sound like a theory, not a fact. Before your confidence left you—not with a slam, but with a sigh. Slipping out in the long, hollow silence after they told you he was gone. After that, you became small on purpose. Polite. Manageable. You folded your sharp parts inward so the world wouldn’t cut itself on what remained of you.
You called it survival, but survival, without him, felt like an administrative error, like continuing life after the reason for it had been revoked. So you learnt to replace presence with impact.
You volunteered for missions no one else wanted. You ran toward heat, shrapnel, collapsing structures and any situation that demanded your full nervous system or nothing at all. Adrenaline became your substitute bloodstream. Violence became a language your body still understood. If your heart was going to beat, you wanted it pounding hard enough to drown out the silence he left behind.
Because when you were afraid, you were still somebody.
You hated this about yourself—the way your will to live had rewired itself around him like a parasitic vine. The way your identity no longer existed as a standalone thing, but only in relation to his absence. You weren’t a person enduring loss; you were loss pretending to be a person. Every breath felt borrowed. Every choice felt like an imitation of someone who used to exist when he was there to see you.
And that hatred metastasised.
It curdled into something ugly and reckless: the belief that if you could hurt enough, bleed enough, risk enough, you might recreate the gravity he once gave you. That pain could stand in for love. That being damaged might be easier than being undefined.
You didn’t want to die. You just wanted the quiet to stop.
Now, years later, you were lying in his bed, in his too-clean, too-controlled apartment, bleeding through your shorts. The sheets do not hold you. They were neutral. They belong to the man he became—Colonel Xia—who earned this sterile peace with blood and bone and a cybernatic arm that hummed where flesh had been.
Your body ached with a dull, familiar shame—the shame of needing him so desperately it felt less like love and more like a fundamental failure of spirit. This devotion does not elevate you; it strips you bare until you cannot tell where longing ends and self-erasure begins.
Then the front door opened.
Your breath hitched, and your spine tightened, a pure conditioned reflex. Your body has memorised the imprint of his presence, the specific disturbance he made in the world, and reacted a full, vulnerable second ahead of your will.
He stood in the doorway, a silhouette of controlled power and terrible loss. The uniform hid everything it was designed to—clean lines, pressed fabric, a gloved hand held still at his side. Nothing out of place. Nothing exposed.
This was not the boy who kissed you under the apple tree. This was a monument to endurance, reassembled by people who valued usefulness over mercy, even when the damage no longer showed.
“You didn’t eat.”
You couldn’t look at him. “I didn’t feel I’d earned it.”
The mattress dipped as he sat on the edge. The room bent toward him. “You think I came back whole?” he asked, the question soft and lethal.
You finally turn your head. You saw it all—the scars mapped over old ones, the exhaustion masking as discipline, the eyes that have seen too much to ever be gentle again.
“They didn’t salvage a man,” he said, answering your silence. “They assembled a weapon from the parts. They overwrote my instincts. My tolerances. My pain.” He leaned in, the space between you charged and aching. “You weren’t the only one taken apart.”
A sob cracked in your chest. “Then why do I feel like the only one who broke wrong?”
He slipped the glove from his hand before touching you. Skin met skin—warm, familiar, profoundly alive—as his palm cupped your cheek. His thumb brushed away a tear you hadn’t permitted.
“You saw me blow up,” he said, his voice low and gravelly with the memory. “That…that fucked you up. I know it did. That’s a trauma that doesn’t just go away.”
“....I hate that I only feel real when you’re here.”
“And I,” he countered, his voice dropping to a raw whisper, “only became a person again when I found out that your eyes were still in the world to look back.”
The air left your lungs. The last of your resistance crumbles, not with a fight, but with a shuddering exhale.
“Don’t make me exist without you again, gege.”
The words were a child’s plea, scraped from the deepest, most shattered part of you. “I can’t… I can’t do that silence again. I tried to live in it. I tried to be normal. But when you were gone, I lost the part of me that knows how to be. Please.”
Caleb went utterly still. For a terrifying second, he was a statue—a commander assessing a catastrophic breach. Then, something in his face fractured, and you saw the boy from the orchard staring out, desperate and determined.
He moved, not with haste, but with absolute finality.
“I never left you,” he said, and the words were an oath, forged in fire and sealed in steel. “I was taken. And every second of every day, they had me; I carried you. Not as a memory but as a compass point.”
His forehead touched yours. His breath mingled with your tears. “They took my arm. They took my years. They took my peace. But they could not take the direction of my soul. It always points here.”
You were trembling, clinging to the fabric of his shirt as if it alone could keep you from falling apart.
“You can’t promise you won’t be taken again,” you whispered.
“No,” he agreed, his hand firm at the nape of your neck. “I can’t. But I can promise this: if the world comes for me again, it will have to take you, too. Because I do not exist in a future where you are left behind in the silence. I am not built for that version of reality.”
The declaration was terrifying. It was possessive, maybe pathological. It was also the only truth either of you has left.
“I need you, gege.”
He didn’t hesitate to kiss you, and it was not gentle. It was a brutal collision, his lips smashing against yours with the raw fury of all stolen years, his tongue forcing its way in to plunder your mouth like he was starving for every forgotten breath.
You tasted the salt of your tears mixing with the sharp, desperate edge of his hunger, your fingers twisting into his shirt as you yank him impossibly closer, bodies grinding in a frantic bid to erase the void that almost broke you both.
But beneath the fire of the kiss, a twisted need uncoils in your gut—a filthy urge carved from the violence that has been your only constant, the brutal rhythm you’ve sought to crave as proof of being alive. You wrenched your mouth from his just enough to rasp against his swollen lips, voice cracking with raw desperation. “Choke me. Harder. And don’t you dare fucking hold back.”
He goes rigid, eyes flaring wide in the dim light, a storm of shock and revulsion churning in their depths. His hands froze at your hips, fingers digging in just shy of bruising.
“The fuck?” he growled low, pulling back an inch, his breath hot and ragged. “No. I’m not…I won’t mark you like that. You’re not some kind of broken toy for me to wreck, pips.”
“Please,” you choked out, your hips moving against him of their own frantic will, hormones slamming through you like a wrecking ball—your period raging, cramps twisting your insides into knots, amplifying every ache into something insatiable.
“You don’t understand—it’s how it works for me. Pain…force…it’s the only thing that makes sense. It’s how I know I’m claimed. So please.”
His face twisted, jaw grinding as he searched your eyes, horror warring with the dark pull of your plea. “I’d rather die than hurt you like that,” he muttered, voice thick with anguish, his hand rising to cradle your jaw instead, thumb wiping at the tears streaking your cheeks. “Angel, you’re mine to protect, not to bruise. Not after everything.”
But you won’t let it go, snatching his wrist and slamming his palm against your throat, your pulse drumming under the heat of his skin. “It’s not hurt—it’s us. I need you to squeeze until I see stars, make me gasp for you,” you rasped, eyes locked on his.
You pressed closer, voice dropping to a needy whisper. “Slap me hard across the face. The ass. Whatever it takes. These fucking hormones have me dripping and desperate, gege.”
“Pipsqueak—” he murmured, pressing his palm lightly to your jaw, making you tilt your head, his eyes dark and fixed on yours.
“Cramps are ripping me apart, Caleb, but I want your cock more. Just fucking give it to me.” Your free hand slid down to palm his hardening bulge through his pants—he was rock hard from your vulnerability, urging him to break.
He fought it; God, he tried, muscles corded tight, a low groan tearing from his throat as he stared at you—seeing the fractures in your soul mirroring his own. The boy from the orchard flickered in his gaze, that desperate determination cracking his resolve.
“Damn it,” he yielded, his fingers—warm, living flesh and not cold alloy—curling around your neck in a vice grip, thumb pressing into the hollow of your throat just enough to make your breath stutter and your vision spot with delicious black edges. The pressure sent a bolt of electric surrender straight to your core, pussy flooding with fresh slick mixed with blood.
Then his mouth crashed back onto yours, devouring you whole, tongue fucking into your mouth in time with the tightening of his hold. You whimpered into the kiss, the sound choked off. Your body bowing toward him as the blend of fear and filthy want sets your nerves ablaze.
His grip on your throat loosened just enough for you to draw in a ragged breath, the air tasting like salvation and sin intertwined. Caleb’s eyes bore into yours, holding the weight of unspoken vows forged in the shadows of your shared past. With a reverence that borders on worship, he released your neck, his fingers trailing down your collarbone like a priest anointing the sacred.
“You’re everything to me, and if this is something you want. I’ll give it to you.”
His hands moved to the hem of your shirt, lifting it slowly as if unveiling a relic long buried. The fabric whispered against your skin, peeling away to expose the soft curve of your breasts, nipples hardening in the cool air, taut peaks begging for his touch.
You lifted your arms, letting him strip you bare, vulnerability blooming like a bruise you wear with pride. He paused, gaze tracing the lines of your body—the faint stretch of scars from old battles, the subtle sheen of blood trickling from your core, marking your thighs in crimson trails.
“Fucking beautiful,” he breathed, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your shorts next. He tugged them down your hips slowly, the material dragging over your skin until it pooled at your ankles. You kicked them off you, fully exposed now—pussy lips swollen and slick with arousal mixed with fresh blood. The scent of iron and desire hanging heavy in the air.
He shrugged off his uniform shirt and tossed it to the side to reveal his chest, a map of lean muscle etched with the faint scars of survival, rising and falling with the rhythm of a staring storm. You reached for his belt, fingers trembling as you unbuckled it, the metal clinking like a chain breaking. His pants slid down his thighs, revealing the thick cock springing free. Already straining upward, veins pulsing with need. It stood proudly, tip glistening with pre-cum and ready to claim you.
Your fingers encircled his shaft, gripping the velvety heat as you stroked upward, thumb swiping over the slit to collect the salty pre-cum and smear it down the length. You worked him with slow pumps, twisting your wrist at the tip, feeling the rigid flesh swell in your palm.
Your other hand dipped lower, cradling his heavy balls, massaging them with gentle squeezes that made him hiss through clenched teeth. Leaning in, you flicked your tongue over the tip, tasting the musky bead before sucking lightly. Your lips stretched around the head as you bobbed once, twice, drawing out a guttural curse from deep in his chest. The power of having him like this—vulnerable, throbbing under your control—sent a fresh wave of arousal crashing through you, your bloody pussy clenching emptily.
Caleb’s restraint shattered. With a feral snarl, he yanked you up and onto his lap, your knees straddling his thighs, your slick folds brushing the underside of his cock. The contact made you both shudder, blood smearing along his length like war paint. His hand reared back and cracked across your ass, the sharp sting exploding across your skin, forcing a yelp from your lips as your body jerked forward.
“You wanted this, right? So take it like a good girl,” he growled, his palm landing again with a meaty smack that stung your cheek. His cock jerked violently beneath you, growing even harder at the sight of your flinch—your eyes squeezing shut, mouth falling open in a silent cry, and ass quivering from the impact.
“God, you flinch so pretty for me,” he rasped, spanking harder, the force rippling through your flesh and straight to your swollen clit. Each strike made his cock throb insistently, veins standing out as his pre welled up, mixing with your blood to create a slippery mess between your bodies.
“Bleeding and begging, huh? This ass is mine to bruise, pips—every mark screams how bad you crave my cock ruining you.” Another slap echoed, your hips bucking involuntarily, grinding your soaked pussy along his length. He delivered a series of quick, stinging blows, alternating cheeks, watching intently as welts bloomed and your body trembled. His dick twitched with every gasp and twitch you made.
The spanking left you panting, ass throbbing in rhythm with your cramps, but the pain only intensified the ache in your core. Caleb gripped your hips, flipping you roughly onto your stomach, the mattress dipping under your weight.
You arched your back, presenting yourself as he knelt behind, his hands spreading your cheeks to expose your dripping, bloodied pussy. He rubbed the head of his cock through your folds, gathering the warm fluid, before notching at your entrance and thrusting in with one savage plunge. The stretch burnt deliciously, your walls fluttering around his girth as blood eased the way, coating his dick in glossy red.
“Gonna fuck those cramps right out of you, pips,” he grunted. He withdrew slowly to let you feel every inch dragging against your sensitive insides. Then slammed back in, balls slapping wetly against your clit. The impact jarred a moan from you, his cock emerging streaked with blood, shiny and obscene, before he buried it deeper again, grinding against your cervix.
“Think back to those nights in our old house—how I’d knead your shoulders after a long day, fingers digging into your skin until you melted? Same hands on your hips now, pulling you onto gege’s dick like you were made for it.”
“Ye–yeah, you always spoil me,” you moaned, arching your back to meet his thrusts.
“Damn right I do,” he growled, gripping your hips tighter. “Spoiled mei mei, begging for my cock even when you’re bleeding. You love it when I take control, don’t you?”
“Yes—god, yes, gege,” you gasped, your walls clenching around him as pleasure spiked through the ache.
His pace built relentlessly, hips pistoning as he fucked you from behind. One hand—the cool, articulated fingers of his cybernatic arm spread across your lower belly, metal and polymer warm from your skin as he pressed you down to feel his own cock bulging inside you. The pressure deepend with every thrust, the synthetic thumb finding your clit and circling it firmly, rubbing through the bloody slick to send sparks racing down your spine.
“Feel that? I’m owning this womb, filling it up—marking you inside out,” he panted, voice laced with possession. His free hand wrapping around your throat from behind, guiding you up. The pressure pressed your chest and neck, your vision narrowing, the coil in your gut tightening as every nerve hummed with awareness.
You pushed back against him, meeting each brutal snap of his hips. The wet sounds of blood-lubed fucking fill the room alongside your choked whimpers and his ragged grunts. His fingers were digging in your neck, thumb and fingers digging in as he railed you harder.
“You’re so tight, sucking me in like you never want me to leave—fuck, pips, I’m gonna flood this bloody pussy, breed you deep,” he snarled, the words vibrating through his chest pressed to your back. Sweat dripped from his brow onto your skin, mingling with the crimson trails down your thighs. His balls tightened as he rubbed your clit faster, pinching the nub to make you cry out.
The orgasm crashed over you first, a white-hot wave that seized your muscles, pussy spasming wildly around his plunging cock, milking him as blood and cream gushed out. Caleb’s hand clamped harder on your throat, cutting off your scream into a strangled gasp, stars bursting behind your eyelids as he chased his release.
“Fucking hell—squeeze that cum for me,” he demanded, thrusting erratically now, slamming deep one last time as his cock swelled and erupted. He held the choke through his climax, His body shuddering against yours, until the last pulse faded, and only then did he release your neck. Both of you collapsing in a heap of sweat-soaked limbs and shared breaths.
His weight settled over you gently now, his chest heaving against your back as he eased out with a soft, wet slide. The mix of blood, cum, and slick trickling down your thighs in warm rivulets. He drew you against him out of habit, one arm curved around your waist, his thumb tracing absent circles over your hip like he was trying to reassure himself you were still there.
“You okay, angel?” he asked, his voice clicking into a different register, soft as a flipped switch. His lips brushed your shoulder, hesitant, almost guilty. “Was I too hard on you? Too rough with the choking, the slaps…I lost myself in it.”
You turned just enough to look at him. Everything in you ached—not only your body, but something deeper, older. Still, you managed a small, fragile smile.
“I’m okay,” you murmured, reaching back to thread your fingers through his damp hair. “It was perfect. Just what I needed—made me feel alive.”
Relief loosened his expression. He pressed his forehead briefly to the back of your neck, exhaling like he’d been holding his breath for hours. His hold on you tightened, protective and a little afraid.
For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful so much as delicate, as if one wrong word might shatter it. His heartbeat drummed steadily against your spine, grounding you, reminding you that you were here, in this moment, not drifting somewhere far away.
After a while, he shifted, glancing at the crimson-streaked sheets. “Want me to run a bath? Help you clean up?”
You shook your head and moved closer, tucking yourself into him as if you could disappear there. “Not yet,” you whispered. “Just…stay like this a little longer. I want to feel you a little more.”
Caleb swallowed, then nodded, pulling the blanket over both of you with careful hands. “Alright,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere. Gege’s got you.”
His voice was gentle, but it carried weight, the kind that settled into your bones and made you afraid to move in case it disappeared. A vow disguised as comfort. A promise you were too tired to question. And in his arms, messy and small and quietly shaking, you let yourself believe it the way a child believes in safety.
genuinely i am always in awe at the way you make these themes so beautifully depicted that i literally forget that i'm reading smut on tumblr dot com. oh your writing is so so dear to me, dinda. i hope that writing this helped you vent out your feelings during your low moments ♡ love you, muse!
(spoilers below)
A sob cracked in your chest. “Then why do I feel like the only one who broke wrong?” — made me tear the fuck up because wow. this is such a good way of depicting how trauma just affects people differently and they cope differently
“Cramps are ripping me apart, Caleb, but I want your cock more. Just fucking give it to me.” Your free hand slid down to palm his hardening bulge through his pants—he was rock hard from your vulnerability, urging him to break. — made me giggle abit because her priorities are too real but wow this was such a viscerally written scene. like reader wants Caleb to hurt her so she'll feel real and in a way strengthen their connection that was fracturing from everything.
i love love the allegories of siblings you've used throughout the story. the way he deflects thungs is so in character. the way reader trusts him implicitly under that apple tree. aughhhhhhh i love them so bad my traumatised babies. i genuinely could go on and on about how beautiful this is. i'm hc-ing this as the hunger named you reader and caleb, reincarnated into the modern day. adds extra tragedy because even in this lifetime their soultie and love is taboo.
amazing amazing work muse!! will uhm flay a slice of my brain to print this on and then sew it back up so there's a physical manifestation of this story in ny head.
It did helped me vent it out 🙂↕️ honestly i felt better putting it out there into words instead of crashing out and cutting my hair oops. AND THANK YOU MY HEART MY SOUL MY BINTANG FAWKKKK this was literally ahny in a diff timeline. Theyre doomed siblings/lovers/whatever it is
cw: a/b/o verse, incest, dub-con, f!dom x m!sub dynamics, asphyxiation, lots of spit, spanking, kicking, body-worship, past scarring, mother!reader x son!caleb, implied past domestic violence, corruption, cunnilingus, mild blood play, creampie, marking, psychological abuse-ish, manipulation, mild-switch dynamics, not proof read, dead dove, tba
a/n: happy birthday my beloved @losermuse!! since the first part of this series was dedicated to you, it's only logical for me to gift this to you as a birthday gift fic since it's the second installment ;) hope you like how freaked out this is!!
>> meet the Xias (1) - papa knows best
Caleb's hatred for himself ran deep. deep in a way that made him avoid mirrors and flinch at the sound of his own name. he was a monster. it was in his blood, name, and eyes. but what he hated most was that lingering hurt and fear each time you looked at him. like he would do what that bastard did to you all those years ago.
"junior, honey...what are you thinking about, hm?"
you asked softly, stroking his hair. he knew you hated seeing him with that crease between his brows. said it'd make him look old, and that nobody would want an old grumpy man. but he knew better of course. the more lines and wrinkles he got, the more he'd start to look like him. but your hands were warm and soft against his scalp. it made all his worries melt away into a warm comforting puddle in the bottom of his stomach. as if he was still being breastfed honeyed warm milk straight from your chest.
"nothin' much. just work stuff. don't worry about it, ma."
he says, clenching his palm tighter around the metal around his neck. a dog tag with the word 'junior' on it accompanied by a small metallic apple. you told him it was because he was the apple of your eye. your sweet darling son who could do no wrong. but you both knew it was a way for your heart to stop sinking when the light hits his face in a way that made the past come hurtling back at full force.
you tutted softly, cupping his face. the warm smooth pad of your thumb gently rubbing the faint white line on his face. the one that was small, blending into his skin most days until he returns home from long missions with a tan.
"what work stuff? you know you can tell your ma anything."
you coaxed, letting your hands fall to take his weathered work roughened hands in yours. he gave it a squeeze.
"i know, ma...it's just been a long week and i've missed you."
he admitted, moving closer to you before enveloping you in an embrace. his arms snared around your waist and his chin rested atop your head. you could feel the soft lift of him inhaling your shampoo before he pressed his lips to your gray peppered scalp. you gently stroked up and down his muscled back before settling your fingers on the hairs of his nape.
"hon, did you grow taller?"
you teased, earning a weak chuckle from him.
"very funny, ma. it hasn't been that long...has it?"
he asked, pulling away slightly with eyes all wide and sad like a kicked dog. he was easy to poke and prod. always taking whatever you gave.
"no, junior. i was just joking. no need to be all sad now."
his response to that was to pull you close again, but this time he laid his head in the dip of your shoulder. breathing in as much of you as he could. your soft pheromones. a mix of warm apple pie and the lingering ghosts of his claim. Caleb's mouth watered at the thought of sinking his teeth into your skin so you'd smell more like him instead.
"okay sweetheart, you should freshen up and rest-"
you trailed off as you felt his fingers trace your neck. pad of his index dragging over the claim mark that had faded over many years. you resisted the urge to flinch and tug his hand away. you hated that thing. and then you felt it, the blunt press of his teeth against the mark.
"junior...honey...what are you doing?"
your voice was strained and your body stiffened. he didn't seem to mind, tongue tracing the mark as he inhaled and swallowed deep scents of you. you were so so addictive. you smelled like home and the only place he'll ever belong. he was frankenstein and you were his creator, the only one who'd ever behold him with love in their eyes.
"ma...i love you."
it came out as a sinful blasphemous groan as he lapped at your neck like a dog slobbering over a treat that it's being held back from. a type of love declaration no son should ever subject to their mothers. revulsion clouded your vision and you felt bile rise to your throat. this was disgusting and wrong and so unlike him.
you would know because you were the one who started it all.
—
it was his 21st birthday and he had taken a day off from his apprenticeship to come home and celebrate with you. the taste of apple cider sweet and stinging on your tongue in celebration of his coming of age for a drink. apple cider because you didn't want him to get heartburn or pass out on you so soon. but one drink lead to another and you found yourself leaning on his shoulder, cheek squished against the rounded bone. you didn't miss the way he stiffened before softening, turning to glance at you. the moonlight was soft from the windows, outlining his silhouette with a soft silver and making that scar just a tad more prominent than it usually was. his body was warm and flush and so...reliable. your sweet junior was all grown now. a man. who's absolutely nothing like that rotten piec of shit scum-
"ma? are you alright?"
his voice was soft, a little hoarse from the liquor that burned down his throat. his eyes were soft and disarmed as he looked down at your face. studying every crease, every line, and the signs of aging. his fingers reached up unsteadily to brush a greying hair out of your face, fingers ghosting over your jaw for a bit.
"you're still the most beautiful ever, ma."
and in that moment, it dawned on you. deeper this time. the way his face warmed, the way his hair fell in his distracted eyes, and the way his adam's apple bobbed sharply as he swallowed when his gaze flicked to the gap between your collar and your skin from the way you leaned on him. dilating pupils tracing the line of your bra strap.
he's a man and you're a woman.
so you did what men and women did in these situations. you looped a finger around his apple chain necklace, curling it around the metal before tugging him to you. your eyes traced his dilated gaze to his soft bite scarred lips. the telltale signs of a life lived with constant anxiety and fear for making you uncomfortable all for bearing the face of a monster. something he never chose. he was perfect. your perfect creation.
"oh junior...won't you give your ma a birthday kiss?"
your warm breath whispered against his lips. the way you looked right now, bathed in moonlight and shadows. a scene of temptation in that deviously thin sleep wear that highlighted the smooth pads and straps of your plain bra. one that he can envision you opting for to fit the role of maturity you had reached with age. the sliver of cleavage and your warm smell. a unique tantalising scent of liquor, apples, and home.
he leaned lower, a little shyly at first as he pecked a tentative kiss on your lips. it was sweet and almost innocent. too much so that you felt...annoyed. you held him in place by twisting his chain once more around your finger so he couldn't pull away before kissing him like a woman starved. your lips pressed against his, parting to slip your tongue against his. he froze, stunned that this was actually happening but his mental processing duration was the furthest thing from your mind. so much so that you reached up to squish his jaw open with your fingers to suck on his tongue.
and he just took it. like the good boy you've always known him to be. nothing like that monster. he was so perfect, whimpering and moaning softly as he kissed you back with an endearing amateurish clumsiness that made your heart swell. he was oh so dependent and needy. he wanted you. needed you. and so you found yourself kissing him deeper, even as your lungs burned and he panted and began to drool all messy against your lips. a point blank sign of his need to breathe yet restraint from seeming as if he was holding you back. when you finally pulled away, a long sticky string of saliva shone in the moonlight and his jaw was slick with spit.
he was a sight to behold. all panting and gasping with flushed skin and bangs sticking to his forehead from the intense humidity of the kiss you just shared.
and then you had taken his place on the couch and he had his face nuzzled against your thigh like a pathetic needy dog, whining and whimpering as your nails scratched in his scalp when you pushed his face back.
"what do good boys do when they want something, junior? use your words."
Caleb whined, needing to feel the soft silk of your skin against his face, to smell the sweet tangy musk from between the juncture of your thighs. his fingers clenched against the floor and he panted. fucking panted as he looked at you with teary eyes. from the angle of you pulling his hair to hold his face up, you could see his t-shirt clinging to his abs from the sweat, the way his hips trembled from how painfully hard he was against the shorts he always wore when he was home. you were pretty sure the tip was peeking through the waistband from how the stains on the hem of his shirt spread similarly to how precum would (you'd know from washing the occasional crusty sock beneath his bed).
"please ma. please let me unwrap my birthday sweets to eat. i promise i'll behave...just please ma..."
he looked like he was about to break out into an actual sob. so much so that you could almost imagine puppy ears appearing from beneath his soft dark hair. you spread your legs and slipped your panties to the side, baring your slicked cunt to his gaze. he swore he nearly came at the sight. you pushed his face to it.
"be a dear and eat your birthday sweets, junior."
you sighed breathily, settling lower as you let him feast on your long neglected cunt. he wasn't half bad. making up for his lack of experience with an eagerness that bordered on mania. he was licking your folds, tip of his tongue flicking against your clit as he nodded his head. he suckled on every drop, making lewd sounds as he buried his face deeper. it was so adorable. you moaned to encourage him, pushing his face deeper as if to drown him. you grinded your clit against his nose.
"ma...slow...down...hah- mff-"
you ignored his words as you continued to grind against his face.
"shh you said you'd be good, junior. stick out your tongue. all the way until your jaw feels tight."
despite his panting, he did as you asked. you smiled, stretching over to giv him a kiss on his scalp before wrapping your hands around his head. you started using his tongue like a toy. fucking your pussy on it and moaning louder. he had such a long tongue. definitely longer than his stupid dad's.
"ah junior...you're being such a good boy for ma, hm? hah-...you look so cute with just your eyes peekin at me."
you laughed breathlessly, before holding his face down as you came all over it. he blinked with effort as he tried to guzzle down every drop of his beloved mother's cum. you panted and let him pull back, watching as he panted and wiped his face with the back of his hand. his hair stuck out at odd ends where you had gripped his head and the front of his shirt and his shorts waistband dripped splurts of white from having cum from just being made to eat you out. it reminded you of how his father used to cum on your back or anywhere else when he didn't feel like 'making kids' even as you had begged him to love you entirely. how he had made you feel like nothing more than a baby making machine that he fucked on the side. god the mere thought of it made you seethe. what a waste of perfectly good and high quality alpha seed. your face twitched but quickly softened when you saw your poor baby looking at you with confused eyes that looked almost hurt from how you were giving a seemingly disappointed look.
"ma...did i do good? i'm...i'm sorry ma i'll do better- i-"
you shook your head and cupped his cum covered face before placing a soft peck on his lips, sticking your tongue out to lick off your own essence that had mingled with his spit.
"hush junior...you did so good my beautiful boy."
you tell him, stroking his wet bangs out of his face and rubbing his cheeks with your thumb.
"happy 21st, junior. you'll always be ma's best boy, won't you?"
—
now he was 24, lapping at your neck like some untrained fool. as if he was the one in charge just because he was taller, stronger, and a male alpha. absolutely disgusting. you felt rage coil in your chest as you yanked his hair back. he let out a stunned yelp, eyes immediately filling with confusion, hurt, and fear. he had went and gotten you pissed off. you hated impatience and dominance. he knew this so who the fuck did your stupid boy think he was?
"love? is this how you act when you love someone, Caleb?!"
he froze at the sound of his name spilling from your lips, a soft choked sound leaving his throat. you knew how much he hated that name and worst of all when it came from you. his sweet beloved angel of a mother who could do no wrong. his heart seized in his chest, guilt and sadness filling him with a weight that made his breath catch. oh god. no. no no no. how could he have made you so mad? he knew better than this. knew how to behave like a good boy. knew he was a good boy. he had discomforted and upset you. he was acting like that bastard who had failed you.
"ma i'm sorry!! please i'm so sorry!!"
he sobbed out, falling to his knees and hugging your leg. his tears soaked through your clothes as he whimpered like a kicked dog. a sorry wasn't enough for him to remember his place. no, you had to make sure. make sure that he will never, ever, again, remind you of what it felt like to be lesser.
you yanked him by the back of his head once more and ripped him off your leg, holding his face up and facing his glassy red eyes and flushed skin with your own scorn.
"stick out your tongue, young man."
he did so without a single millisecond of hesitation. pink tongue parting his lips as he sat there like a dog begging for a treat. the gall he had to look so hopeful. you gathered the spit in your mouth and spat it on his tongue. you watched him flinch as it hit the surface, forcing his tingue to cup it until your next command.
"swallow."
you say sternly, face only softening once his adam's apple returned in place.
"you know what comes next, right?"
"yes, ma. please hit me. i've been really bad."
he was crying again and it took all your willpower to not just slap him across the face for speaking unasked and trying to garner your pity and love after his disgusting show of disobedience.
you waited for him to lay his big bulky body across your lap. the metal of his dogtag clinking as it swung from his neck. naturally one would expect his full weight to be overwhelming and numbing if he stayed laid over your thighs for too long. but junior was ma's best boy. he'd always lay on it just right, shaking as he held himself up so that he wouldn't even crush you if he collapsed. you slowly looped your fingers into the back of his pants and tugged it down, exposing his cotton briefs.
"what do you do each time i correct you?"
you ask, tracing the swell of his ass with your fingernails, relishing in the way his shivering grew and his teeth tugged at his plush lips.
"count and thank you for- agh- e-each one ma."
his hoarse voice stuttered out as you gave his ass a firm squeeze mid sentence.
"smart boy, junior."
you found your heart softening as he shook and sweated in your lap. he really was a good boy after all. you tugged his boxers down and caressed his scarred ass from the last time he had pissed you off. the lines had whitened beautifully.
smack
"o-one! thank you, ma!"
he gritted out, body shaking. the sweat dripping down his body was soaking the front of his shirt that was pressed to your bare thighs.
smack
"two! t-thank you, ma!"
smack
"five! t-thank you, ma!"
"agh- f-fifteen! t-thank you- hrk."
when your fingers tugged on his dog tag, the vast contrast between the way you held it on his 21st birthday and tonight was not lost on him. especially when his voice choked as you twisted the metal chain around your fingers. he gasped, face turning even redder and eyes rolling behind a little. you watch his ass tense. the taut firm skinflexing the red handprints that had begun to darken on it, mirroring the stjngjng mumbness of your palm. you let go after a bit and he crashed to the ground on your feet, gasping. the bead like chain of his dog tag left a red line around his neck.
"t-thank y-you, ma..."
he whimpered, curling up on his side as soon as his burning ass touched the floor. you smiled at the sight, pushing him to roll over on his back with your toes.
"did you learn your lesson?"
his head hung when he got up, sweat dripping onto the floor as he panted. he nodded.
"use your words, junior. did you or did you not learn your lesson?"
he looked up with those large purple watery eyes of his, face curled into his small subconscious pout as he sniffled. his hands sought yours, kissing and licking your numbed palms like a dog licking a wound. discipline always hurt you more than it hurt him.
"yes ma. i'll never do it again. never let you hurt your hands because of me."
you smiled and all the remaining pain and cruelty you had showered on him vanished instantly if it hadn't already. you were his ma. his sweet, beautiful, loving, ma. the only one who would want and care for such a filthy disgusting monster like him. a rabid mutt with no control over himself when it came to treating her like the higher being that she was in his miserable life.
he loves you. god, he really does. and nothing could change that.
not even when you made him sit his sore beaten ass on the couch, naked. not even when you straddled him between the very legs that pushed him to life and looked at him with hungry eyes unbecoming of a mother. not even when you rucked your clothes over your body and bared the soft breasts that had fed him as a child and pushed his face to nestle between them. and definitely not when your fingers, cold and rough, gripped his cock to push against the very place he came from while your finger slipped the dampened cotton barrier aside.
you caressed his face gently, hearing him whimper as your weeping cunt ghosted over his straining swollen tip. the mix of his pre and your juices stringing like a sticky web of sin. you kissed his forehead softly, wiping his tears away so gently with the same hands that had left him scarred and hurting. you parted his lips and stuffed your fingers in his mouth, inhaling sharply as he sucked on it. wanting to swallow every bit of you in worship.
"you want this so badly don't you, junior? hm? you want to fuck your own ma so badly?"
he let out a soft moan as you curled your fingers in his throat, eyes tearing up again. he nodded eagerly. the image of unadulterated need for you as he swirled his tongue and moved to take more of your fingers down his throat.
"mmf ma...want'chu hmf sho bwad pweashe"
you smiled, stroking back his dark sweat slicked strands.
"oh baby, you're my favourite. always have been."
you cooed against his ear before nipping the lobe, relishing in the strained noises he makes from the effort he's putting into being a patient obedient son. Caleb felt his whole body short circuit into a blank and he bit back a loud groan when you finally sank your hips down on him. the ache in your bones was the last thing on your mind as his fat throbbing cock stretched you out. that vein beneath his shaft rubbing against the spongy spot within you that has you hissing. he was the embodiment of fillial piety in every way the phrase could mean. he was a pious son and he filled you up piously too.
"baby you make me feel so young- ngh- with how- hah- big you are...your old ma feels out of practice..."
you laugh breathlessly, a moan leaving your lips as he instinctively bucked into you. his fingers clenched into the couch fabric, knuckles whitened in a plea for you to allow him to touch you. you guided his hands to your ass as you began your torturously slow rhythm of bouncing on his dick once the stretch wasn't burning as much. in that moment, something in him snapped. consequences be damned, he needed to worship you until the both of you turned into a stain on that very couch. he began lifting you with ease and dropping you onto his cock over and over again, relishing in the way the sounds grew sloppier and your moans grew louder.
"ma you sound like a...mmf- like a slut- hah- when i make you feel good."
he grunted, fucking into you faster. your nails raked down his back as he closed his teeth around one of your pert nipples, sucking on it like he was feeding.
"l-language, junior!"
you scolded him shakily, head falling back as he continued to suck on your tits while pounding up into your old cunt. and then he pulled away from your tits and kissed you, teeth clashing against yours as he swallowed down each moan and cuss you slipped out. you were seeing stars as his tip bumped against your cervix, symbolic in a way a son would always find his way home. and then you felt it, his lingering around that faded mark from that person.
even after so much correction he was still that man's son after all. but how could you be mad when he was fucking his sweet old ma like his life depended on it? baring all the scars and marks you left on him like some sort of battle hardened soldier. your fingers squeezing around his pecs made him let out a grunt against your neck as he continued to tongue the ridges of your old mark.
"ma...s'not fair that you- hah- mark me all the time- leave your sweet smell all- ngh- over me...but i c-can't- fuuuckk."
there he goes again, swearing like an untaught young thing. you grasped onto his dog tag and twisted it again, satisfied as you hear his breath twitch.
"what do you say when you really want something, junior? what did ma teach you?"
you panted, pressing your foreheads together as you took the chance to start taking the lead again since he so eagerly forgot his place as soon as you let go of his leash a little.
"please let me mark you, ma...let everyone know you're not his anymore. can i please- hngh- mark you- hah-"
he grunted a hand reaching to tug at the tightening chain around his neck. one that the both of you knew you were looking forward to trace the purple of the next day. god he was so spoilt. he knew you loved him. more than you should, really. or maybe it was just his luck that you were currently cock drunk on the very dick you made as it bumped thay spongy spot deep inside you over and over again.
"y-yes! god you feel so good inside me, baby- haah-"
teeth sunk into the healed ridges, tearing through skin as he bit down hard. you felt your vision blur as he seemed to go even faster. the mix of stinging pain and numbing pleasure melting your mind into a slurry. you kissed your blood off his lip, biting down on his lower lip hard enough so that your blood would mix there too. now your blood was the same in every way it could be, blurring the line of man and woman and mother and son into one whole being of its own.
permissions didn't matter now. not when his hot cum shot in thick spurts, his tip curved perfectly against your cervix and feeding your womb, as he panted and whimpered in pain. filling the emptiness he left long ago with everything that you could take of him.
damp heaving pecs cushioned your head and clung to your hair as he caught his breath. work worn hands, warm and tender, caressed your back as he kissed your scalp.
"you wear my mark so pretty, ma. now it's just us. forever."
your lips tugged as you looked up at him, your sweet beautiful son. he flashed you a teethy grin, the very same one he did when he had lesser teeth. except now, your heart raced instead of warmed. he was the apple of your eye, still is, and nothing in the world could change that. nothing could taint the bond you shared, the love between mother and son.
A fucking gem. Genuinely the best bday present ever ♡ i love your writing so much, my bintang! I wish more people could see how special it is and you deserve a bazillion notes like seriously. The way you write (as always) never feels random or just for the sake of it ifyk what i mean. Everything is intentional, has weight in it and you can feel the reason behind every scene.
And what i love most is that this fic and the series in general isnt just dead dove for shock value. Its so much deeper than that. You explore the taboo stuff so beautifully and execute them perfectly.
Its so sad how reader is trapped in something ugly and suffocating and the only place she can still breathe is with her son cause hes the only thing that feels pure and safe, untouched by papaleb’s ‘darkness’ (beat that ho)
Again, you wrote this beautifully and hauntingly. Im obsessed. Pls never stop writing
Fave lines:
it came out as a sinful blasphemous groan as he lapped at your neck like a dog slobbering over a treat that it's being held back from. a type of love declaration no son should ever subject to their mothers. revulsion clouded your vision and you felt bile rise to your throat. this was disgusting and wrong and so unlike him.
the telltale signs of a life lived with constant anxiety and fear for making you uncomfortable all for bearing the face of a monster.
he had such a long tongue. definitely longer than his stupid dad's.
Get wrecked brah
it reminded you of how his father used to cum on your back or anywhere else when he didn't feel like 'making kids' even as you had begged him to love you entirely.
I cried here, she just wants to be loved </3
no, you had to make sure. make sure that he will never, ever, again, remind you of what it felt like to be lesser.
This made me sick to my stomach (in a good way!)
his hands sought yours, kissing and licking your numbed palms like a dog licking a wound. discipline always hurt you more than it hurt him.
Puppyleb :3
you were seeing stars as his tip bumped against your cervix, symbolic in a way a son would always find his way home.
I FUCKING SCREAMED! THIS LINE ITSELF PUT SHAKESPEARE IN SHAME! YOURE SO GENIUS
Also love that you made him 24 yrs old, just like my age heh 😼
THE BIRTHDAY QUEEN HERSELF HIIII DINDA im so so glad you loved it and the fact that you caught the age part 😼 i specially handpicked it with you in mind!!
and wth this was supposed to be your gift so why am i the one giggling and feeling gifted by this amazing rb?? thank you so much!!
the vision i had for this was like a complete flip around situation and to explore the consquences of part 1. trauma is a very interesting subject to write about for me because it impacts and shows in everyone differently. i'm glad it came through and a very HAPPY POST BIRTHDAY TO YOU SAYANG ♡♡♡
༘⋆ ⋮ A story about two people who grew up so close they never learnt how to exist separately.
CW: DEAD DOVE: DNE (18+ mdni), pseudocest, angst, hurt/comfort, religious themes, codependent relationship, porn with plot, handjob, blowjob, period sex, p in v, choking, spanking, breeding kink, blood kink, dub-con? (reader’s consent is from trauma and desperation rather than a clear mindset).
WC: 5.5k
AN: a heavily self-indulgent fic. Wrote this when i was at my lowest so enjoy ♡ (and ignore any mistakes)
Before there were rules, there was a mistake.
Not a sin, no; sins required witnesses, names, and intention. This was quieter than that—a flaw in the telling. A breath divided when it should have remained whole.
Something was made and then split, not cleanly, not kindly. Two vessels from the same source. Two bodies taught to walk separately while carrying the same hunger beneath the skin.
They were not meant to find each other again. Or perhaps they were, but only after suffering enough to believe they didn’t deserve it.
What was certain was this: nothing else in the world would ever fit either of them the way they fit each other. Not family. Not shelter. Not silence. Not pain. When one of them bled, the other felt steadied. When one of them strayed, the other tightened, as if pulled by a thread that could not be cut without tearing flesh.
They were not born together. They were born for each other. And because of that, they were taught very early that love—real love—was something to be survived, not indulged. Caleb discovered early that wanting was dangerous.
Gran taught them that. Not with warnings or lectures, but with aftermath. Wanting led to disappointment. Wanting led to punishment. Wanting meant you hadn’t prayed hard enough or been grateful enough.
So he learnt to restrain it. To fold it small. To keep it quiet. To hold it the way you held your breath underwater—counting the seconds, waiting for permission to surface. Except what he felt for you didn’t stay contained. It didn’t dissolve when ignored. It didn’t weaken with discipline. It simply settled in, patient and unmoving, like something that had always been there and was only now being acknowledged.
It sat in him like a seed buried too deep to dig out, drinking whatever it could find—routine, proximity, silence. The sound of your breathing through the thin wall at night. The way you always stood a little too close, like you were cold even in summer. The way your name fit perfectly in his mouth, even when he refused to say it aloud.
He told himself it was protection. That was easier to live with.
Gran liked protection. Protection sounded righteous. Protection sounded like something a good boy would do. A boy who watched the stove when she stepped out. A boy who walked you home. A boy who made sure the doors were locked and the windows latched, and the world stayed where it belonged—outside.
But protection has a way of souring when it goes unchecked.
At first, it looked like vigilance.
He stood closer in crowds. Shifted so his body blocked sightlines without appearing deliberate. He mastered the geography of public spaces instinctively—where eyes lingered, where hands might stray, and where people felt entitled to look too long at something soft and unguarded.
Once, on a train, a man tried to angle his phone beneath your skirt. The motion barely registered to you—just a flicker at the edge of your awareness—but Caleb felt it like a struck nerve. He didn’t raise his voice or touch the man. He only lifted his hand, expression blank, and the phone flew from its owner’s grip, shattering against the far wall as if repelled by the air itself. The man scrambled off at the next stop, pale and shaking, convinced he’d imagined the whole thing.
Caleb didn’t ask if you were okay. He already knew. He adjusted your bag on your lap, settled his shoulder closer to yours, and stared straight ahead until the train reached your stop.
At school, boys your age picked up quickly what not to do.
The teasing that masqueraded as affection—the tugging at your hair, the cruel jokes dressed up as flirting—stopped after the first warning. Caleb didn’t shout. He didn’t threaten outright. He simply stepped between you and them, eyes flat, voice low enough that only they could hear.
“She doesn’t like you,” he’d say. Or: “Try that again.”
That was usually enough.
After all, one look from your big brother had a way of rewriting courage. They laughed it off, backed away, and found other targets. Teachers called it maturity. Neighbours called it responsibility. Gran called it good sense. And Caleb told himself the same. But somewhere along the way, the vigilance sharpened.
He began to notice things he shouldn’t have noticed. The way your moods shifted with the moon. The way your skin bruised easily, like it remembered pressure long after it was gone. The way pain didn’t frighten you so much as steady you, like it made the world sharper, easier to hold.
When you hurt yourself—small things, accidental things—Caleb felt it everywhere. Not sympathy. Not fear but ownership.
The first time he named it, it made him sick. He locked himself in the bathroom and stared at his reflection until his eyes burnt. Pressed his hands flat to the sink, knuckles white, whispering no like it might exorcise the thought. As if denial could still make him good.
But the thought didn’t leave. It multiplied.
He started keeping track of you without meaning to. What you ate. How long you sleep. When you laughed. When you went quiet. He could tell how your day had gone just by the way you closed doors—soft, careful, or sharp enough to rattle the frames.
If something upset you, his chest filled with heat so sudden it scared him. Not anger at you. Never at you. At the world. At anything that dared to touch what he had already decided, somewhere deep and unspoken, he committed himself to keep safe.
You belong with him. Not to him.
He clung to that distinction like a prayer. But even prayers can be rehearsed into lies. At night, when the house settled, and the orchard breathed, Caleb stopped praying to God altogether. Not because he didn’t believe, but because he didn’t trust Him.
God took things. God tests people. God asked for sacrifices.
And Caleb already knew what he would give if asked. That was when he understood what gran had really been trying to make. Not obedient children. Devoted ones. The kind who didn’t need rules anymore. The kind who would walk into fire without being pushed. The kind who mistook destruction for transcendence because it felt like relief.
The realisation hollowed him out. And still, when you looked at him, searching, trusting, something warm and unbearable bloomed behind his ribs. Something that whispered I will keep you even as it sharpened its teeth.
By then, it was too late to imagine a version of himself that didn’t feel this way. By then, loving you wasn’t a choice. It was a condition.
By eighteen, the condition had figured out how to disguise itself.
To everyone else, it passed as familiarity. As a habit. The easy closeness of two people who had grown up sharing hallways, meals, and long stretches of silence. No one questioned it, not even gran, who trusted routine more than she trusted affection.
Except his friends.
They noticed the way his attention never really left you. The way he tracked your movements without looking. The way his patience thinned the moment someone else stepped too close. They joked about it—called him overprotective, teased him for being a siscon—but there was an edge to it, something that made the laughter taper off instead of landing.
They stopped pushing.
Caleb heard the jokes and let them stand. It was easier that way. A word you could laugh off sounded safer than a truth you had to examine. And he trusted the disguise, too, or told himself he did because nothing about it felt forced.
He knew how your breathing settled when you were calm. Knew the small catch that came when you were thinking too hard. Knew the way your brow drew tight when a sentence troubled you, the way you picked at your lips without noticing, worrying them raw until he took your hand and made you stop.
These were not things he watched for. They were simply there, the way gravity was there.
You sat beside him under the old tree behind the house, knees nearly touching, a book open in your hands. The afternoon was quiet in the way it always was when gran napped—the house holding itself still, the orchard breathing slowly and patiently around you.
You shifted, tugging your sleeve down, and the movement registered in his chest like a mirrored response, as though something inside him had adjusted too. “You’re staring,” you said, without looking up.
He blinked. “I wasn’t.”
You smiled faintly. “You always say that.”
He swallowed, then nodded toward the book. “You haven’t turned the page.”
You glanced down, surprised. “Oh.” A pause. “I guess I keep rereading it.”
“What’s it about?” he asked.
You hesitated, thumb resting between the pages. “Connection,” you said finally. “The kind you don’t choose.”
He frowned slightly. “Like family?”
“Like origin,” you corrected. “The author thinks some people come from the same starting point. That even when they’re separated, they still…recognise each other.”
He felt something tighten behind his ribs.
“That sounds made up,” he said, too quickly.
You hummed. “Most things that scare people do.”
You leaned back against the trunk, eyes closing, sunlight breaking across your face in thin bands. Caleb watched the rise and fall of your chest, the pulse at your throat. He told himself—like he always did—that this was vigilance. That noticing was a form of care.
“Do you think it’s true?” you asked. “That some bonds exist before people understand them?”
He should have laughed it off. Should have shrugged.
“I think people notice patterns and call them fate,” he said instead.
You turned your head toward him. “And you?”
He met your eyes. Held them for too long. “I think some things don’t go away just because you don’t name them.”
Your expression softened, something fragile passing through it before you could hide it. “I’m glad you think that.”
The admission landed heavier than it should have.
Without quite deciding to, he reached out and brushed a leaf from your hair. His fingers lingered at your temple, barely touching. You leaned into the contact automatically, trusting him with the weight of your head.
That trust made his stomach twist.
He pulled his hand back slowly. “You shouldn’t take books like that too seriously.”
You smiled. “You’re worried I’ll believe them.”
“I’m worried they’ll give you ideas.”
“About what?”
He didn’t answer.
The quiet stretched. Your knee brushed his, an accident, surely, but his body went rigid all the same. He could smell you now: soap, warm skin, and the faint sweetness of apple bruising in the grass.
You looked at him then, searching like you always did.
“Caleb,” you said.
Something in him answered before he could stop it. He lifted his hand again, slower this time, giving you time to pull away. To remind him of sense, of rules, of the shape things were meant to have.
You didn’t.
His thumb touched your cheek tentatively. Your skin was warm beneath it, softer than he expected, and something inside him gave way with a quiet, irrevocable click. You leaned into his hand like it belonged there. Like it always had.
“We shouldn’t,” he said, even as his breath hitched.
“I know,” you whispered.
Your foreheads touched—barely. A shared breath. A pause that felt older than either of you. He could feel your pulse beneath his fingers, quick and unsteady, answering his own. When he kissed you, it was careful. Not hungry. Not reckless. But reverent.
A brief, soft press of lips, as though he were acknowledging something rather than claiming it. When he pulled back, your breath caught—not quite a protest, not quite a surprise.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, voice rough.
You rested your forehead against his. “You never have.”
That was the lie. Or maybe the truth simply hadn’t caught up yet. He kissed you again—deeper this time, still restrained but honest. His hand found your waist, firm and grounding, as if anchoring you to him might keep the world from shifting.
For a moment, everything aligned. Then the leaves stirred overhead, and reality crept back in. Caleb pulled away slowly, chest tight and eyes dark. “This stays here,” he said. “Just us. Just now.”
You nodded, though your fingers lingered at his sleeve like they didn’t want to let go.
“Okay, gege.”
Loving Caleb was not an act of devotion. It was an ecology.
You didn’t love him; you inhabited the world his presence created—a climate shaped by his attention, an atmosphere held in place by his gravity. You woke and slept to the rhythm of his quiet accounting. You moved through your days with the deep, cellular assurance that you were being held in someone’s consciousness. Always.
With him, you were not braver. You were not stronger. You were simply, irrevocably real. Your voice landed. Your body belonged. Wanting felt like breathing, not sin. He was the mirror that showed you a whole person, and you believed it.
That was before.
Before your own name began to sound like a theory, not a fact. Before your confidence left you—not with a slam, but with a sigh. Slipping out in the long, hollow silence after they told you he was gone. After that, you became small on purpose. Polite. Manageable. You folded your sharp parts inward so the world wouldn’t cut itself on what remained of you.
You called it survival, but survival, without him, felt like an administrative error, like continuing life after the reason for it had been revoked. So you learnt to replace presence with impact.
You volunteered for missions no one else wanted. You ran toward heat, shrapnel, collapsing structures and any situation that demanded your full nervous system or nothing at all. Adrenaline became your substitute bloodstream. Violence became a language your body still understood. If your heart was going to beat, you wanted it pounding hard enough to drown out the silence he left behind.
Because when you were afraid, you were still somebody.
You hated this about yourself—the way your will to live had rewired itself around him like a parasitic vine. The way your identity no longer existed as a standalone thing, but only in relation to his absence. You weren’t a person enduring loss; you were loss pretending to be a person. Every breath felt borrowed. Every choice felt like an imitation of someone who used to exist when he was there to see you.
And that hatred metastasised.
It curdled into something ugly and reckless: the belief that if you could hurt enough, bleed enough, risk enough, you might recreate the gravity he once gave you. That pain could stand in for love. That being damaged might be easier than being undefined.
You didn’t want to die. You just wanted the quiet to stop.
Now, years later, you were lying in his bed, in his too-clean, too-controlled apartment, bleeding through your shorts. The sheets do not hold you. They were neutral. They belong to the man he became—Colonel Xia—who earned this sterile peace with blood and bone and a cybernatic arm that hummed where flesh had been.
Your body ached with a dull, familiar shame—the shame of needing him so desperately it felt less like love and more like a fundamental failure of spirit. This devotion does not elevate you; it strips you bare until you cannot tell where longing ends and self-erasure begins.
Then the front door opened.
Your breath hitched, and your spine tightened, a pure conditioned reflex. Your body has memorised the imprint of his presence, the specific disturbance he made in the world, and reacted a full, vulnerable second ahead of your will.
He stood in the doorway, a silhouette of controlled power and terrible loss. The uniform hid everything it was designed to—clean lines, pressed fabric, a gloved hand held still at his side. Nothing out of place. Nothing exposed.
This was not the boy who kissed you under the apple tree. This was a monument to endurance, reassembled by people who valued usefulness over mercy, even when the damage no longer showed.
“You didn’t eat.”
You couldn’t look at him. “I didn’t feel I’d earned it.”
The mattress dipped as he sat on the edge. The room bent toward him. “You think I came back whole?” he asked, the question soft and lethal.
You finally turn your head. You saw it all—the scars mapped over old ones, the exhaustion masking as discipline, the eyes that have seen too much to ever be gentle again.
“They didn’t salvage a man,” he said, answering your silence. “They assembled a weapon from the parts. They overwrote my instincts. My tolerances. My pain.” He leaned in, the space between you charged and aching. “You weren’t the only one taken apart.”
A sob cracked in your chest. “Then why do I feel like the only one who broke wrong?”
He slipped the glove from his hand before touching you. Skin met skin—warm, familiar, profoundly alive—as his palm cupped your cheek. His thumb brushed away a tear you hadn’t permitted.
“You saw me blow up,” he said, his voice low and gravelly with the memory. “That…that fucked you up. I know it did. That’s a trauma that doesn’t just go away.”
“....I hate that I only feel real when you’re here.”
“And I,” he countered, his voice dropping to a raw whisper, “only became a person again when I found out that your eyes were still in the world to look back.”
The air left your lungs. The last of your resistance crumbles, not with a fight, but with a shuddering exhale.
“Don’t make me exist without you again, gege.”
The words were a child’s plea, scraped from the deepest, most shattered part of you. “I can’t… I can’t do that silence again. I tried to live in it. I tried to be normal. But when you were gone, I lost the part of me that knows how to be. Please.”
Caleb went utterly still. For a terrifying second, he was a statue—a commander assessing a catastrophic breach. Then, something in his face fractured, and you saw the boy from the orchard staring out, desperate and determined.
He moved, not with haste, but with absolute finality.
“I never left you,” he said, and the words were an oath, forged in fire and sealed in steel. “I was taken. And every second of every day, they had me; I carried you. Not as a memory but as a compass point.”
His forehead touched yours. His breath mingled with your tears. “They took my arm. They took my years. They took my peace. But they could not take the direction of my soul. It always points here.”
You were trembling, clinging to the fabric of his shirt as if it alone could keep you from falling apart.
“You can’t promise you won’t be taken again,” you whispered.
“No,” he agreed, his hand firm at the nape of your neck. “I can’t. But I can promise this: if the world comes for me again, it will have to take you, too. Because I do not exist in a future where you are left behind in the silence. I am not built for that version of reality.”
The declaration was terrifying. It was possessive, maybe pathological. It was also the only truth either of you has left.
“I need you, gege.”
He didn’t hesitate to kiss you, and it was not gentle. It was a brutal collision, his lips smashing against yours with the raw fury of all stolen years, his tongue forcing its way in to plunder your mouth like he was starving for every forgotten breath.
You tasted the salt of your tears mixing with the sharp, desperate edge of his hunger, your fingers twisting into his shirt as you yank him impossibly closer, bodies grinding in a frantic bid to erase the void that almost broke you both.
But beneath the fire of the kiss, a twisted need uncoils in your gut—a filthy urge carved from the violence that has been your only constant, the brutal rhythm you’ve sought to crave as proof of being alive. You wrenched your mouth from his just enough to rasp against his swollen lips, voice cracking with raw desperation. “Choke me. Harder. And don’t you dare fucking hold back.”
He goes rigid, eyes flaring wide in the dim light, a storm of shock and revulsion churning in their depths. His hands froze at your hips, fingers digging in just shy of bruising.
“The fuck?” he growled low, pulling back an inch, his breath hot and ragged. “No. I’m not…I won’t mark you like that. You’re not some kind of broken toy for me to wreck, pips.”
“Please,” you choked out, your hips moving against him of their own frantic will, hormones slamming through you like a wrecking ball—your period raging, cramps twisting your insides into knots, amplifying every ache into something insatiable.
“You don’t understand—it’s how it works for me. Pain…force…it’s the only thing that makes sense. It’s how I know I’m claimed. So please.”
His face twisted, jaw grinding as he searched your eyes, horror warring with the dark pull of your plea. “I’d rather die than hurt you like that,” he muttered, voice thick with anguish, his hand rising to cradle your jaw instead, thumb wiping at the tears streaking your cheeks. “Angel, you’re mine to protect, not to bruise. Not after everything.”
But you won’t let it go, snatching his wrist and slamming his palm against your throat, your pulse drumming under the heat of his skin. “It’s not hurt—it’s us. I need you to squeeze until I see stars, make me gasp for you,” you rasped, eyes locked on his.
You pressed closer, voice dropping to a needy whisper. “Slap me hard across the face. The ass. Whatever it takes. These fucking hormones have me dripping and desperate, gege.”
“Pipsqueak—” he murmured, pressing his palm lightly to your jaw, making you tilt your head, his eyes dark and fixed on yours.
“Cramps are ripping me apart, Caleb, but I want your cock more. Just fucking give it to me.” Your free hand slid down to palm his hardening bulge through his pants—he was rock hard from your vulnerability, urging him to break.
He fought it; God, he tried, muscles corded tight, a low groan tearing from his throat as he stared at you—seeing the fractures in your soul mirroring his own. The boy from the orchard flickered in his gaze, that desperate determination cracking his resolve.
“Damn it,” he yielded, his fingers—warm, living flesh and not cold alloy—curling around your neck in a vice grip, thumb pressing into the hollow of your throat just enough to make your breath stutter and your vision spot with delicious black edges. The pressure sent a bolt of electric surrender straight to your core, pussy flooding with fresh slick mixed with blood.
Then his mouth crashed back onto yours, devouring you whole, tongue fucking into your mouth in time with the tightening of his hold. You whimpered into the kiss, the sound choked off. Your body bowing toward him as the blend of fear and filthy want sets your nerves ablaze.
His grip on your throat loosened just enough for you to draw in a ragged breath, the air tasting like salvation and sin intertwined. Caleb’s eyes bore into yours, holding the weight of unspoken vows forged in the shadows of your shared past. With a reverence that borders on worship, he released your neck, his fingers trailing down your collarbone like a priest anointing the sacred.
“You’re everything to me, and if this is something you want. I’ll give it to you.”
His hands moved to the hem of your shirt, lifting it slowly as if unveiling a relic long buried. The fabric whispered against your skin, peeling away to expose the soft curve of your breasts, nipples hardening in the cool air, taut peaks begging for his touch.
You lifted your arms, letting him strip you bare, vulnerability blooming like a bruise you wear with pride. He paused, gaze tracing the lines of your body—the faint stretch of scars from old battles, the subtle sheen of blood trickling from your core, marking your thighs in crimson trails.
“Fucking beautiful,” he breathed, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your shorts next. He tugged them down your hips slowly, the material dragging over your skin until it pooled at your ankles. You kicked them off you, fully exposed now—pussy lips swollen and slick with arousal mixed with fresh blood. The scent of iron and desire hanging heavy in the air.
He shrugged off his uniform shirt and tossed it to the side to reveal his chest, a map of lean muscle etched with the faint scars of survival, rising and falling with the rhythm of a staring storm. You reached for his belt, fingers trembling as you unbuckled it, the metal clinking like a chain breaking. His pants slid down his thighs, revealing the thick cock springing free. Already straining upward, veins pulsing with need. It stood proudly, tip glistening with pre-cum and ready to claim you.
Your fingers encircled his shaft, gripping the velvety heat as you stroked upward, thumb swiping over the slit to collect the salty pre-cum and smear it down the length. You worked him with slow pumps, twisting your wrist at the tip, feeling the rigid flesh swell in your palm.
Your other hand dipped lower, cradling his heavy balls, massaging them with gentle squeezes that made him hiss through clenched teeth. Leaning in, you flicked your tongue over the tip, tasting the musky bead before sucking lightly. Your lips stretched around the head as you bobbed once, twice, drawing out a guttural curse from deep in his chest. The power of having him like this—vulnerable, throbbing under your control—sent a fresh wave of arousal crashing through you, your bloody pussy clenching emptily.
Caleb’s restraint shattered. With a feral snarl, he yanked you up and onto his lap, your knees straddling his thighs, your slick folds brushing the underside of his cock. The contact made you both shudder, blood smearing along his length like war paint. His hand reared back and cracked across your ass, the sharp sting exploding across your skin, forcing a yelp from your lips as your body jerked forward.
“You wanted this, right? So take it like a good girl,” he growled, his palm landing again with a meaty smack that stung your cheek. His cock jerked violently beneath you, growing even harder at the sight of your flinch—your eyes squeezing shut, mouth falling open in a silent cry, and ass quivering from the impact.
“God, you flinch so pretty for me,” he rasped, spanking harder, the force rippling through your flesh and straight to your swollen clit. Each strike made his cock throb insistently, veins standing out as his pre welled up, mixing with your blood to create a slippery mess between your bodies.
“Bleeding and begging, huh? This ass is mine to bruise, pips—every mark screams how bad you crave my cock ruining you.” Another slap echoed, your hips bucking involuntarily, grinding your soaked pussy along his length. He delivered a series of quick, stinging blows, alternating cheeks, watching intently as welts bloomed and your body trembled. His dick twitched with every gasp and twitch you made.
The spanking left you panting, ass throbbing in rhythm with your cramps, but the pain only intensified the ache in your core. Caleb gripped your hips, flipping you roughly onto your stomach, the mattress dipping under your weight.
You arched your back, presenting yourself as he knelt behind, his hands spreading your cheeks to expose your dripping, bloodied pussy. He rubbed the head of his cock through your folds, gathering the warm fluid, before notching at your entrance and thrusting in with one savage plunge. The stretch burnt deliciously, your walls fluttering around his girth as blood eased the way, coating his dick in glossy red.
“Gonna fuck those cramps right out of you, pips,” he grunted. He withdrew slowly to let you feel every inch dragging against your sensitive insides. Then slammed back in, balls slapping wetly against your clit. The impact jarred a moan from you, his cock emerging streaked with blood, shiny and obscene, before he buried it deeper again, grinding against your cervix.
“Think back to those nights in our old house—how I’d knead your shoulders after a long day, fingers digging into your skin until you melted? Same hands on your hips now, pulling you onto gege’s dick like you were made for it.”
“Ye–yeah, you always spoil me,” you moaned, arching your back to meet his thrusts.
“Damn right I do,” he growled, gripping your hips tighter. “Spoiled mei mei, begging for my cock even when you’re bleeding. You love it when I take control, don’t you?”
“Yes—god, yes, gege,” you gasped, your walls clenching around him as pleasure spiked through the ache.
His pace built relentlessly, hips pistoning as he fucked you from behind. One hand—the cool, articulated fingers of his cybernatic arm spread across your lower belly, metal and polymer warm from your skin as he pressed you down to feel his own cock bulging inside you. The pressure deepend with every thrust, the synthetic thumb finding your clit and circling it firmly, rubbing through the bloody slick to send sparks racing down your spine.
“Feel that? I’m owning this womb, filling it up—marking you inside out,” he panted, voice laced with possession. His free hand wrapping around your throat from behind, guiding you up. The pressure pressed your chest and neck, your vision narrowing, the coil in your gut tightening as every nerve hummed with awareness.
You pushed back against him, meeting each brutal snap of his hips. The wet sounds of blood-lubed fucking fill the room alongside your choked whimpers and his ragged grunts. His fingers were digging in your neck, thumb and fingers digging in as he railed you harder.
“You’re so tight, sucking me in like you never want me to leave—fuck, pips, I’m gonna flood this bloody pussy, breed you deep,” he snarled, the words vibrating through his chest pressed to your back. Sweat dripped from his brow onto your skin, mingling with the crimson trails down your thighs. His balls tightened as he rubbed your clit faster, pinching the nub to make you cry out.
The orgasm crashed over you first, a white-hot wave that seized your muscles, pussy spasming wildly around his plunging cock, milking him as blood and cream gushed out. Caleb’s hand clamped harder on your throat, cutting off your scream into a strangled gasp, stars bursting behind your eyelids as he chased his release.
“Fucking hell—squeeze that cum for me,” he demanded, thrusting erratically now, slamming deep one last time as his cock swelled and erupted. He held the choke through his climax, His body shuddering against yours, until the last pulse faded, and only then did he release your neck. Both of you collapsing in a heap of sweat-soaked limbs and shared breaths.
His weight settled over you gently now, his chest heaving against your back as he eased out with a soft, wet slide. The mix of blood, cum, and slick trickling down your thighs in warm rivulets. He drew you against him out of habit, one arm curved around your waist, his thumb tracing absent circles over your hip like he was trying to reassure himself you were still there.
“You okay, angel?” he asked, his voice clicking into a different register, soft as a flipped switch. His lips brushed your shoulder, hesitant, almost guilty. “Was I too hard on you? Too rough with the choking, the slaps…I lost myself in it.”
You turned just enough to look at him. Everything in you ached—not only your body, but something deeper, older. Still, you managed a small, fragile smile.
“I’m okay,” you murmured, reaching back to thread your fingers through his damp hair. “It was perfect. Just what I needed—made me feel alive.”
Relief loosened his expression. He pressed his forehead briefly to the back of your neck, exhaling like he’d been holding his breath for hours. His hold on you tightened, protective and a little afraid.
For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful so much as delicate, as if one wrong word might shatter it. His heartbeat drummed steadily against your spine, grounding you, reminding you that you were here, in this moment, not drifting somewhere far away.
After a while, he shifted, glancing at the crimson-streaked sheets. “Want me to run a bath? Help you clean up?”
You shook your head and moved closer, tucking yourself into him as if you could disappear there. “Not yet,” you whispered. “Just…stay like this a little longer. I want to feel you a little more.”
Caleb swallowed, then nodded, pulling the blanket over both of you with careful hands. “Alright,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere. Gege’s got you.”
His voice was gentle, but it carried weight, the kind that settled into your bones and made you afraid to move in case it disappeared. A vow disguised as comfort. A promise you were too tired to question. And in his arms, messy and small and quietly shaking, you let yourself believe it the way a child believes in safety.
From your recent writing here is my personal opinion (Don't take it to seriously)
You are excellent at giving characters a physical presence. When you write about Caleb’s "broad shoulders" vs. the "perky dog ears," or his "stubble grazing your chin," I can feel the weight and texture of the scene.
Sometimes, sentences can get a bit weighed down by "and" or "while." This can make the action feel like a checklist of movements rather than a natural flow.
The Fix: Vary your sentence lengths to control the reader's heart rate.
Example: Instead of "You wrap your hand around his length and pumping firmly," (Grammar note: should be "pump"), try breaking it up: "Your hand closes around him. You pump firmly, feeling his pulse against your palm."
Using onomatopoeia like Squelch or Ah— can be effective for a "comic book" or "manga" feel, but overusing them can break the immersion.
Since you are already so good at texture, use that to describe the sound instead. Instead of writing the sound effect, describe the "heavy, wet friction" or the "slick rhythm."
The Comma Splices
You often use commas to join two full thoughts.
Example: "You blinked up at him, still half-asleep, fingers lifting instinctively..."
(You blinked up at him. Still half-asleep, your fingers lifted instinctively...) Breaking these up helps the reader
AERIN THANK YOU!!! I really appreciate this 😭 im jotting this down in my notes as we speak. I feel like my writing hasnt been as good as before cause ive been overthinking it a lot so i end up kinda half-assing it. Also tumblr didnt let you finish the last sentence smh they really want me to flop </3
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