Caleb was the perfect boyfriend. The kind of man anyone would dream of bringing home to meet the parents.
Your parents believed Caleb was a saint. He was polite, respectful, and always prepared gifts for them when visiting. He listened when your father talked about work, his eyes sharp with understanding as they exchanged business opinions while sipping a cup of coffee. Your mother adored him just as much; they'd spend hours in the kitchen together, with Caleb insisting on helping prep meals and later rolling up his sleeves to do the dishes without being asked.
But saints didn’t press you up against your childhood bedroom wall while your parents were downstairs. Saints didn’t mutter filthy things into your ear as they sank their cock deep inside you, breath hot against your neck, body wound tight with restraint.
Caleb was no saint.
Not when he had his palm pressed over your mouth to muffle the little gasps he knew would escape from your mouth at each thrust he did. Not when he rutted his aching cock into you like he didn’t care that your parents were only one floor below.
“Shh, baby. They'll hear...” he murmured, voice strained but still soft, almost teasing.
Your breath hitched behind his hand as your body trembled, your nails digging into the firm muscles of his back. He was careful—he had to be. He wasn't going to risk destroying the perfect image he built for himself with your parents.
"I know, I know," he whispered against your ear, lips brushing your skin.
"It’s so good, Mhm... But I need you to be quiet. We can’t be too loud, hmm?”
You nodded, squeezing down on him at the thought, and he nearly lost his composure.
“Shit,” he groaned quietly, “you just squeezed me so tight. You like the thought of that, hm? Getting caught by your parents?”
You let out a muffled whimper, and he grinned.
"Fuck–yeah, just like that. You take me so well, always so good for me," he groaned, his pace picking up, hips snapping forward. His other hand snaked between your thighs, fingers circling mercilessly on your sensitive clit until your muffled cries grew higher.
"That's it, baby. Come for me, be quiet, just like I taught you."
And you did, biting down on his palm as your body tightened around him, your release dragging him right along with you, spilling himself deep as he hissed curses into your skin.
It was maddening, how easily he flipped the switch from the absolute gentleman your parents adored, to the man who always gave you the most intense orgasms of all time.
Because when you both joined your parents again downstairs, he smiled like nothing had happened. He poured your dad some coffee and complimented your mom’s pie, throwing you the faintest smirk when no one was watching. All while your legs were still trembling under the table.
Your parents had no idea how well Caleb was really taking care of their precious daughter.
And he planned to keep it that way.
Premise: Based on this post by PomeRinn aka @waterrinmelonn In this AU, all the boys are modern rich international kids going to a prestigious university. They’re attending Yale, an Ivy League University in the American Northeast. They're all the same age. There’s one FMC, she will end up with only one of them in the end.
Content Warnings: Mildly Suggestive & Explicit Language. Some fluff. Some angst. Slow burn in its purest form. Depression, self-loathing, mental health, please be aware of your own triggers while reading. Mentions of the boys dating someone other than the FMC, this is an AU not a divergence from the game - there is no "MC" basically. 18+ MDNI
Word Count: 7.5k
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
“Pips? Are you there?”
Since getting home for the holiday break, Caleb’s visited everyday. While you’ve felt guilty making him sit in the hallway outside your bedroom, you couldn’t handle visitors. From dawn until dusk you would sit in your chair by the window and watch the day go by. Snow would fall, the kids across the street would have a snowball fight, Caleb would deliver his moms famous gingerbread cookies, nothing could get you out of your room.
Your parents didn’t force you to go to any family gatherings or holiday parties. They cautiously asked if you would come out for Christmas dinner, but didn’t expect anything. Your brothers, however, didn’t treat you like broken glass. They barged into your room to bring you an actual meal. They didn’t badger you with questions, but they did each give you a hug. Acts of affection were rare when it came to your brothers, so as soon as they left you were sobbing.
Tara stayed in touch, checking on you everyday. She facetimed and took you on a mini tour of Seattle, where she spent the holidays with her dad and sister. The boys kept in contact as well. Rafayel sent copious amounts of memes, Xavier shared his adventures (or rather misadventures) in baking with his aunt, Zayne sent a new picture of Galen nearly everyday with updates on his interests. Galen apparently has started climbing the curtains. Caleb would text off and on, preferring to come in person and sit outside your door in case you wanted company. But the one person you were most anxious to hear from was silent.
After Halloween, everything went up in flames. Or at least it felt like it did. Sylus got out on bail, his arresting officers told him they wanted to drop the charges but the DA was insistent on cracking down on fraternities and their partying. At least Yale was willing to work with him once Zayne and Tara shared the full story with Student Affairs. Sigma Chi didn’t even need to vote on letting Sylus become a member.
“Anyone who defends their friends from a shithead like that is the kind of man we want.” Caleb quoted Finley. “Also, no, Chad is not a member of Sigma Chi. Never was. But he and Dylan are facing expulsion on top of their charges. You won’t have to worry about seeing him ever again.”
Somehow you held it together through finals. Your parents paid for you and Caleb to fly home rather than drive. As soon as you walked through the door to your family home, it was like the weight of everything that had happened finally hit you. You cried for the first time since the party. Everything that happened had been terrifying, but your friends had protected you. It wasn’t fear that crippled you, guilt had wormed its way into your head. Twisting facts and sending you into a spiral of depression.
The day before you were set to return to Yale, you forced yourself to pack. Quietly trudging through the house to do load after load of laundry, cleaning your room, showering and shaving so you’d feel like a human again. When you opened your suitcase you realized you hadn’t even taken your makeup bag out. This might be the longest period of time you’ve gone without wearing a spec of makeup. You curled up on your bathroom counter and washed your makeup brushes. Might as well start fresh, right?
With your bathroom door left open, you could hear the knock on your bedroom door. It was probably Caleb making sure you were actually going back to campus tomorrow. You walked over and stood in front of your door, staring at the handle.
“I’m packing Caleb.” Your voice was raspy, probably from lack of use. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
There’s silence on the other side. You waited for another moment to hear his footsteps retreat.
“Kitten?” A familiar voice seeps through the door.
You grasp the handle and yank the door open without hesitation. Sylus stands there, hands in his pockets, his hair damp from the falling snow. You feel it, tears forming fast, but you hold your breath to keep them at bay. You back up, creating a gap for Sylus to pass through. He slides past you into your room and you close the door. If your parents are nearby you’re sure they’re arguing over whether they should open it. Their “no boys allowed” rule for your room applied in high school, but now, well… the door is still closed.
Sylus sits in your chair by the window so you sit on the end of your bed to face him. It’s silent for a while, just the sound of the fireplace crackling and distant holiday music playing. Probably your mom in the kitchen, there’s a guest so she’s most likely cooking something. You stare at your hands, examining your cuticles. You’re glad you changed out of your stained sweatpants and high school hoodie.
“Caleb called.” Sylus says quietly.
“I figured.” You respond.
“He said you haven’t left your room.” He takes a moment to look around. “I was going to lecture you, but it’s pretty nice in here.”
You blush, crossing your arms so you stop picking at your overgrown cuticles.
“Why are you here?” It came out harsher than you intended, but you were too anxious to regulate your tone at this point.
“Because I was worried about you.”
“You could have called. Or texted.”
“My father took my phone as soon as I got off the plane.”
You grimace, remembering how ridiculous his father is.
“The only reason Caleb got through is because his mom works for the airline that my mom flies with. I think his mom even flew her jet once. I know, small world. He apparently broke several laws to get her phone number.”
“Great, so Caleb almost got arrested because of me too.” You blurt out.
“Stop.”
You bristle, his tone was rough, but his expression weary. Your face feels hot, your throat closing up. Tears threaten to fall and you don’t have the strength to stop them. Sylus moves to sit next to you on your bed.
“I didn’t get arrested because of you. I got arrested because I broke that prick’s jaw. And I would do it again in a heartbeat.”
Looking over, you see a scar across his knuckles. He had to get stitches, thankfully the doctor was careful. It could have been an ugly reminder, but it suits him in a strange sort of way.
“I don’t blame you, so stop blaming yourself.”
“You had to go home because of everything that happened. You had to see your dad and you have court and…”
“And I’ll deal with it. I told you once that you can’t fix everything. This is one of those things. It’s okay.”
“No it’s not!” You sob, giving up your attempt at keeping it together. “I should have –”
Sylus grabs your shoulders and turns you to face him.
“Don’t you dare. Don’t play that game. There’s no should-haves or would-haves with this. You did nothing wrong and it’s not your fault for the shit I’m in.”
He lifts his hand to wipe away a tear with his thumb, letting his hand linger to trace your jaw.
“Just be here with me. That’s all I need.”
Sniffling, you offer a small smile.
“There she is.”
You chuckle and push his shoulder lightly. He lets you go and leans back, propping himself up with his hands behind him on your bed.
“I didn’t think your dad would let you come back. How’d you convince him?”
“I threatened to sell all my shit, go off the grid and he’d never find me again.” Your mouth falls open. “He knows I could do it too, so he gave in. Told me if I get into any more trouble he’ll take the risk.”
“So if you stay out of trouble, you can finish at Yale?” He nods. “And you aren’t facing any penalties for what happened? With the school at least?”
“They’re not exactly happy, but they’re letting me off with a warning. The courts however…”
“Do you have to actually go to court?”
“I have a lawyer who’s trying to keep that from happening. He said it’s likely I’ll get a deal and just plead out.”
“Wait, you’d take a deal? But Ch- ahh… That dick is the one who is at fault!”
“I still assaulted him. I still have to deal with the consequences of that.”
“But…”
“Hey, it’ll be fine, okay? I’ll hear from my lawyer in a few weeks. Now, let’s focus on you.” He stands. “Come on. Get some shoes.”
“What? Where are we going?”
“We’re going on a walk. Caleb said you’ve barely left the house, so we are getting you some fresh air while the sun is still up.”
The walk is slow, frigid, but refreshing. Snow crunching under your boots, Sylus commenting on your neighborhood's poor taste in holiday decorations, the sky turns orange and red as the sun sets, the clouds rippling like fiery waves. By the time you make it back to your house, Caleb has arrived. He instantly hugs you and thanks Sylus profusely for coming. Caleb stays for dinner, which, sure enough, your mother went all out for. It’s like the moment Sylus arrived, she went into turbo mode and made a second holiday feast just for him. You’d told your parents about what Sylus did, so that’s probably exactly what she did.
Eating dinner at the dining room table was odd after eating so many meals in your room. But you could tell your parents were relieved you were finally coming out of your shell. Caleb checked Sylus’s flight for the next day, confirming his mother pulled some strings to get him on the same flight as you both. Your mother made up the guest room for Sylus. She just shook her head when he claimed to have a room at a hotel.
“No, you stay with us. Please, it’s the least we can do.”
Your mother can be very convincing when she wants to. Sylus conceded and settled in for the night, checking in on you once more before getting some sleep. His hug lasted a little longer this time, his face tucked into the crook of your neck. When his lips brushed your cheek you gasped, making him smile while his ears turned red. He wished you sweet dreams before strolling to the guest room. You leaned against your bedroom door, giggling like a smitten school girl.
🌸🌷☔️📚
As soon as you got back to campus you went to the Registrar's Office to officially declare your major. Are you sure this is what you want? Will you end up going back to college in 20 years? Maybe. But for nearly a year, you’ve been thinking about only one major. You declare yourself an English major and grab a course outline so you can plan your final two years. When you tell the guys, Rafayel is thrilled he’s not the only Bachelor of Arts student in the group anymore.
Sylus and Rafayel move into the Sigma Chi house as soon as they get back to campus. They rally the gang to help them move in and you immediately get a glimpse at what life will be like for them as roommates. As soon as they finish arguing about who gets a desk in front of the window, they are arguing over how messy the other is.
“You’ve been in the room for less than 30 minutes and there’s already paint on the fucking floor!”
“At least I’m not dropping nuts and bolts with every step I take! Where are they even coming from?! No no no! Do not put that monstrosity right in front of my closet!”
Poor Mephisto. Sylus had just about finished him over the break, finally naming him as well. Seems he avoided his father by locking himself in his room to finish ironing out the CAWing issue. He was sitting like a real bird on a bird stand that served as a charger. He blinks at Rafayel. If you didn’t know better you’d think he was judging him. Hell, maybe he is.
“Do not call him a monstrosity! And this is not your closet, that is your closet.”
“That closet is too small. I need that one.”
“Well tough shit.”
“Why are you such an asshole? Zayne, how did you survive living with this?”
Zayne taps Mephisto’s head, almost petting him. He looks over his shoulder at Rafayel.
“He has his moments.”
Rafayel huffs and storms out of the room to grab another box from Caleb’s car. Sylus turns to Xavier, who is almost asleep on Rafayel’s bed.
“Xavier? Same question.”
Xavier opens one eye to look at him.
“Stock his minifridge with the honey-dew yogurt smoothies from the dining hall and he’ll stay out of your hair. And if he’s really mad, compliment his art. Calms him down pretty quickly.”
Sylus looks around the room at the various canvases leaning against the wall. Rafayel is talented, there’s no doubt about it. They may not be Sylus’s cup of tea, but they are incredible nonetheless. When Rafayel returns, Sylus tries it out and is pleasantly surprised with the results. They come to an agreement to share the window space and Sylus lets Rafayel have his closet as long as Mephisto’s bird stand is left untouched in the corner.
Look at your boys compromising, they grow up so fast.
After the boys move in, the whole gang assembles for dinner in the Commons. Gideon has officially joined since he doesn’t seem to want to be apart from Tara for even a second. She’s eating it up, the flirting and giggles making you a little jealous and curious about where you stand with Sylus. Neither of you have denied flirting with each other, but there’s nothing official and you’re too shy to ask.
“Wait, does anyone else have English Literature with Professor Morris?” Xavier asks.
You check your phone, recognizing the name.
“Yep, I do. Tuesdays and Thursdays at 10am.”
“Same.” Sylus adds as he turns to you, stealing a dumpling off your plate. “And since you’re an English major, you can tutor us for a change.”
“Not crazy about literature, are we?” You tease.
“I built a robotic bird who can fly for over 1000 hours on a single charge and record upwards of 72 hours of footage at the highest quality. But if you ask me why Shakespeare wrote Hamlet, I’ll be as useless as that carrot on Zayne’s plate.”
You give Zayne a critical look.
“Aren’t you supposed to be encouraging us to eat our vegetables, Doctor?”
“You’re one to talk.” He points to your neglected broccoli florets.
“Who puts broccoli in stir fry?”
Caleb, Xavier and Rafayel discover they all have Art History together. Now Rafayel is in a similar position to you, thrust into a tutoring role he didn’t ask for. Of course Caleb would leave his humanities class for the last semester before his courses turned grueling. He’s a glutton for punishment it seems.
🌸🌷☔️📚
As the weather warms, the walks to your classes become more enjoyable. The sun peeking over the treetops as you climb the hill to the Linsly-Chittenden Hall. You looked forward to your literature class, not just because you got to sit sandwiched between Xavier and Sylus, but because room 102 is simply stunning. Stained glass windows, worn wooden floors and the acoustics were tasty. It felt fitting to study “Beowulf” in a vintage building like this.
While you simply enjoyed listening to Professor Morris’s lectures and doing your best to understand some of the old English, Sylus was completely lost. Not only did he give up reading the original text to look up simplified translations online, he also was the first to start a debate about its content. Eventually, you stopped trying to shush him and let him run wild.
“Okay, so this guy kills this quote unquote ‘monster’ and then, surprise! Its mom shows up to seek revenge - which seems like a perfectly rational thing a mother would do. So he just decides to kill her. It sounds like he just killed two members of an endangered species and got rewarded for it.”
“Sylus…” Professor Morris grips her podium.
“And then some fuckhead stole from a dragon. What did he think was going to happen?!”
The class laughs at his enthusiasm, but he doesn’t stop his tirade.
“And instead of finding the fuckhead and returning what he STOLE, he decides to go kill the dragon? When he’s an old man? Who has probably been sitting on his ass on that throne he earned through MURDER for a couple decades? I don’t know Morris.”
“Professor Morris!” You poke his arm, urging him to be respectful.
“You’re saying Beowulf’s character is supposed to represent Heroism and the good in Good vs Evil, but he just sounds like a dick.”
“Alright! I will see you all on Thursday for your exam covering ‘Beowulf’! Have a lovely afternoon everyone.”
Professor Morris swiftly ends class and climbs down from her podium. Xavier leans forward to look at Sylus.
“I think you broke her.”
You break down laughing and pretty soon Xavier and Sylus are joining you. Sylus seemed to enjoy poking holes in any story covered in class. He just about lost his mind when he finished “The Scarlet Letter.” When he spoke up about sexism and religious hypocrisy you applauded his critiques. There were more females sitting around Sylus after that lecture. Not that he noticed.
🌸🌷☔️📚
“You’re on your way to your study group, right?”
Pausing, you take a moment to smell the flowers budding in the garden outside the library while you finish your call with Caleb. The tulips are growing taller by the day.
“I am, why?”
“My schedule is so hectic I haven’t been able to grab Sylus for a talk. He still hasn’t told me his pick for a community activity. It’s due by Friday, can you please tell him to text me his choice?”
“Community activity?”
“Everyone in Sigma Chi has to be involved in a community activity. Volunteering, tutoring, doesn’t matter. I gave him a list of options a few weeks ago.”
“I’ll remind him, but if he doesn’t text it’s not my fault!”
“Thanks Pips, I owe you. You’re still coming to my basketball game tomorrow, yea?”
“Xavier and I will come right after practice. You’ll be at our tournament Saturday, right?”
He hesitates.
“Xia Yizhou.”
“Oh god… Not my legal name, Pips please…”
“Then say you’ll be there!” You try not to sound like you’re begging, but you’re definitely begging. “It’s the semi-finals and I actually have a shot this year.”
“Okay okay, yes, I will be there. I might be a little late.” You groan. “I have to take Arya to the airport, she’s going home for her aunt’s funeral.”
Well now you feel like an asshole. Caleb is taking his “not girlfriend” to the airport because she has a funeral to attend and you’re complaining.
“Oh, sorry. How’s she doing?”
“She didn’t know her that well, but her mom is taking it pretty hard. She says hi by the way.”
“Oh you’re with her?” You can feel the awkward tension rising.
“Yep, just finished dinner. She’s dropping me back at the house for practice.”
“Ahh, right. Well, tell your girlfriend I said hello. I’ll text you later.”
“Pips…”
You can tell he wants to say something, but he can’t outright deny their relationship right in front of her. They might not be official, but that would certainly ruin the potential. You give a rushed goodbye and hang up. You’re happy for him, truly. Arya is so fucking nice and crazy about him. But with them and Gideon and Tara, you’re starting to feel just a tad bit lonely.
The library is warm, the smell of books that almost never get checked out is oddly comforting. You can’t believe it took you so long to realize you’re meant to be an English major. You literally find the smell of books comforting and prefer libraries to parties. You’re a nerd and proud. When you spot Xavier and Sylus, you rush over and grab the final coffee cup in the carrier at the center of the table.
“Thank god, I’m freezing.” Holding the coffee for a full minute before taking a sip, you slowly thaw from your walk. “Have you guys started on the flashcards?”
“I was about to.” Xavier looks up from his laptop to pick up the brightly colored flashcards.
“Oh, Sylus, Caleb wanted me to remind you about the community activity thing. You need to text him your choice before Friday.”
“Fuck...” He taps his pen on the table. “I was actually… hmm…”
Glancing up from your notebook, you catch him looking away. You lean forward on the table, resting your chin on your palm.
“You what?” You’ve fallen into his trap.
“I was going to work on improving urban meadows. Plant more flowers, fix up the benches, build some bird feeders. I know you haven’t had much time outside of classes and practice, but if you wanted to join me, I could use an assistant?”
There’s not a thought in your pretty little head at this very moment. Not one. You can’t really visualize planting flowers with Sylus, but the idea is certainly captivating. Xavier pokes you.
“You’ve been staring for like 2 minutes.”
You love Xavier, but sometimes his laidback attitude borders on aloof. If you hadn’t caught the mirth in his eyes, you would have thought his comment was just an observation. Damn, does everyone in your friend group know you can’t talk to Sylus without short circuiting?
“Sure. I’ll help. When were you going to start?”
“How about Sunday? I know you have a tournament on Saturday.” You raise a brow, surprised he knew. “It’s a big one for you, right?” You nod. “Then I’ll have to make a sign.”
You don’t absorb a single literary fact that night.
🌸🌷☔️📚
The day of the basketball game a snowstorm blew in and classes were cancelled. To pass the time before fencing practice you decided to visit the boys at the Sigma Chi house. Visiting during the day has helped reduce your anxiety over what happened at the party, so you were making an effort to come around more often.
When you arrived you were greeted by Finley, who was trying to find a location for the basketball game since the outdoor court was covered in snow and ice. You knew the mats for the fencing match were being set up tomorrow, so the student rec gym should be empty. He gave you the biggest hug and sprinted out of the house.
As you passed the stairs leading to the workshop, Luke and Kieran emerged. They immediately called out for you to wait. You were surprised they remembered you.
“What do you mean? Sylus talks about you all the time?” Kieran hits his brother over the back of the head. “Ow! What?”
“He said not to mention that…” Kieran whispers out of the corner of his mouth, still loud enough for you to hear given your close proximity.
“Oh! Right. Nevermind, he never talks about you. Hates you even.” Again, Kieran slaps his brother. “Dude!”
“Sorry about him, he’s been breathing in fumes. In the workshop. Fumes in the workshop.” Kieran stutters and smiles weakly.
“Ahh. Gotcha. Have you guys seen him today?” Trying to hide your amusement was proving to be very difficult with these two.
“He left a little while ago, I think to get more parts for Mephisto.” Luke offers.
You thank them and continue up the stairs, listening to them bicker as you walk away. The door to Rafayel and Sylus’s room is open, so you walk right in. It’s not as messy as you expected. Rather clean given the sheer amount of canvases, paint bottles, coffee tins of mechanical bits and various tool sets. You’re about to call out, but hear something clatter to the floor in the bathroom. You knock on the door lightly.
“Rafayel, you in there?”
He opens the door and you slap a hand over your mouth. His hair is sticking straight up, some parts clipped back, others falling down in slimy strands. His neck is a bright shade of purple and you can’t help but stare. He smiles and points a gloved hand at you.
“You are the first person to ever catch me doing this.”
He lets the door drift open as he turns back to cleaning a purple splotch on the tile floor. You tip toe past him and look at the variety of products on the counter.
“You’re dying your hair?”
“Yup! It’s been fading like crazy. This house has a sauna, so I’ve been leaking purple for days.”
You couldn’t really tell, but you nod in agreement to appease him. He turns back to the mirror to dip his fingers in a bowl of dark violet mush, spreading it over his hair until every strand is saturated. You put down the toilet seat and step up to sit on the tank, feet on the lid. Avoiding the open cap, you pick up the bottle and examine it.
“Mauve Smoke? That’s a pretty good description.” He chuckles. “Have you dyed your hair any other colors before?”
“I’ve always stuck with cool tones, I don’t know if red or orange would suit me.”
Any color would suit him and he knows it.
“I had navy hair for a while, but it was too dark. Lightened it to a cobalt blue. Then I wanted to add teal to the ends, but it came out green. I finally leveled it out to a mint, but I hated it. So, using color theory, I cancelled out the green with a reddish purple. I’ve been purple ever since.”
On the counter, there’s a bottle of bright pink dye. You point it out.
“So why do you have pink?”
“I was going to try something new, add some pink to the ends, but I don’t think it would really show up the way I want it to. And I am not bleaching my ends, they’ll melt off.”
You chuckle at the thought of Rafayel having to cut his luscious locks like one of those bleaching fail videos. The longer you stare at the bottle the more concrete your little idea becomes.
“What if… you use it on me?” Rafayel nearly drops a glob on the counter. “I’ve never had colored hair before. Just highlights. Maybe…”
“Maybe it would be fun to live a little?” You nod. “Hmm… you have a lot of hair and I only have one bottle. We could do some strands of pink? You’d see it better when you curl it or wear it up.”
“Yes! Yes. Would you…?”
He gives you a devious smile.
“I’m so happy I’ve corrupted you. Yes, I’ll help you. Let me get this shit on my hair first ”
You chat with him while he finishes applying the dye then he disappears into his room, when he returns he tosses you a t-shirt telling you to change to avoid ruining your sweater. Once you’ve changed, he cleans off the counter and you sit mere inches from the mirror. He sections your hair and mixes the dye in a clean plastic bowl.
“It actually smells like bubblegum!”
“It’s a vegan formula that’s semi-permanent so it doesn’t have as many chemicals. That also means it won’t last as long. It’ll fade after a few washes. If you want it completely removed we can do a bleach wash in a few weeks.”
You give him a terrified look in the mirror.
“That just means I’ll dilute the bleach and apply it with your hair wet. No reason to damage your hair to hell and back just to get a little pink out.”
The process is relaxing, Rafayel works quickly and efficiently. After a little while, the door to the bedroom closes and Rafayel kicks the bathroom door open with his foot.
“Sylus! We have a guest, don’t get naked!” He leans forward. “Unless you want him to be?”
You thrust your elbow back into his stomach and he groans. Sylus pokes his head into the bathroom and you watch his eyes widen.
“Oh, you’re… is that my shirt?” Your smile falls, glancing down at the pink stains.
“Rafayel! I thought this was yours!” Rafayel wheezes, dropping a strand of your hair to back away from an approaching Sylus. “Oh my god, I’m sorry Sy!”
“Yeah Sy! She’s sorry!” Rafayel teases.
You keep forgetting you’re the only one who calls him Sy. Your cheeks turn a bright pink, almost matching the dye in your hair. Sylus just glares at Rafayel, but he retreats, leaning against the doorframe to examine you.
“It’s a good look for you kitten.” You lock eyes with him in the mirror. “The hair too.”
He strolls out of the bathroom, leaving you stunned and speechless. Rafayel pokes your forehead so you’ll face forward. He lets you sit in silence, reveling in your embarrassment.
“You guys are so cute. It’s disgusting.”
He finishes your hair an hour before practice starts, even drying and curling it so you can properly see how the pink weaves throughout. Xavier is rendered speechless. He still makes you pull it back so you won’t get distracted, but that just makes it worse and now he’s distracted. You win every bout tonight.
The basketball game is chaotic. Sigma Chi’s sister sorority are cheerleaders, you spot Arya among them and wave. She’s cute, petite, olive skin with big brown eyes, her wild curls framing her angelic face. You watch her hug Caleb after he scores another point. You expected to feel a twinge of jealousy or even sadness, but you feel… okay. Maybe this is acceptance?
Sylus nudges you, offering some of his nachos. You happily take one before you start to overthink again.
“Zayne’s at the shelter tonight, right?” Sylus asks and you nod. He leans closer to whisper in your ear. “He hasn’t brought home any more strays, has he?”
“No, but he could probably get away with it. Since he doesn’t have a roommate this semester.”
“I’m sure he’s looking forward to break, Galen misses him.”
“And you know this, how?” He stretches and drapes his arm over the back of your seat.
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m pretty good with kittens.”
His smirk is so cocky. How does he keep getting away with this?
You don’t stay for the after-party, you’re still not ready for that. Tara told you she plans to stay the night with Gideon and Xavier left the game early. You should really talk to him about taking more iron or vitamin D with how tired he’s been lately. So Sylus offers to walk you back. He drops you off at your dorm and this time, when he kisses your cheek, you don’t make a sound.
🌸🌷☔️📚
Xavier picks you up early for the tournament on Saturday morning. Even with the sabre bouts scheduled towards the end to keep the crowd, you wanted to be there for your team. You try your best to remain calm, stretching often to keep your limbs from tensing. But by mid-afternoon you can’t stop fidgeting.
Your team is doing well, even for a club sport Yale fencing is known for being ruthless. The captain makes his rounds every five minutes to provide moral support. Xavier won almost every match by a landslide, only his final bout proved to be a challenge. His competitor was taller, longer arms and, just like Xavier, professionally trained before ever attending university.
Watching Xavier leap and parry for so long fried your nerves. You weren’t even nervous for your bouts anymore. Audiences were usually not too rowdy at fencing matches, but as soon as Xavier started to tire you heard a familiar voice cheering him on.
“XAVIER IF YOU DON’T WOOP HIS ASS I SWEAR TO GOD!” Rafayel has never been so passionate about sports in his entire life.
If you could see Xavier’s face behind his mask, you’re sure he’d be red as a beet. But Rafayel’s cheer, or rather his threat, worked. The judges had to deliberate if his move would count as cheating, but they were so impressed they allowed it, securing Xavier’s title as champion for the Épée rounds. Now it was your turn.
“Sabre competitors, 5 minutes!” The announcer called out.
Xavier sank into the chair next to you, yanking off his helmet and grabbing his water bottle.
“I see you finally took my advice.” You giggle.
Xavier squints, but quickly lifts his hand to his head. You grab his arm.
“No! Leave it! They’re cute!”
He glares at you, but stops struggling for the moment, leaving the bejeweled star clips holding his hair back alone. You’d gifted them to him for the holidays claiming they’d be his lucky charm. But mostly because he kept complaining about his hair falling over his eyes making bouts more frustrating. He refused to get a haircut and you were ready to scream at him the next time he took off his helmet and flicked his bangs, sending sweat droplets into your face.
“You ready?” He reached down and grabbed your sabre for you.
“I’m nervous.” You fumble with the straps of your gloves and he stops you, taking your hands in his to fix them himself. “Thanks…”
“I know you want to win. I want you to win. But more than that, I want you to have fun.”
“But if I don’t win I’ll be a miserable bitch to everyone I know.”
“Then get up there and kick ass.” He hands you your helmet and you stand, marching towards the mat with determination.
You flew through the first few rounds, gaining more confidence as you’re declared the victor. Some of your opponents are definitely more skilled, leaner, faster, but thanks to Xavier’s patient training you remain undefeated. You make it to the finals, your opponent just so happens to be the captain of the team from Harvard. Of course, a good ole fashion Yale vs Harvard match, bring it on.
Names are read out, lights narrow and the referee nods to each of you. With your mask lowered, you close your eyes to get into the zone, imagining you’re just at practice on the lawn outside Lawrance Hall. Breathing deeply, you open your eyes. The referee stands back.
“En garde!”
You each take your positions.
"Pret? Allez!"
Your opponent lunges forward, instantly catching the edge of your blade as you parry. Leaping high, you feel her blade tap your leg and you grin, your jump height has become so much better. Repositioning, you take initiative, striking with ease and pushing her back. She recovers quickly, but your feint succeeds in throwing her off. Your sabre strikes true, poking her abdomen.
“Point! Yale.”
The dance continues. She remains on offense for a considerable amount of time before you finally parry, taking the right of way to make your attack. Your breathing turns shallow as your chest tightens, each match having taken its toll. Flunge! Your favorite term still makes you giggle as you hear it in Xavier’s voice every time. For a brief moment, you wonder if he’d be disappointed if you lost. After all the effort he put in to train with you. Would he be angry? He wouldn’t stop training with you, would he?
“Point! Harvard.”
You hadn’t even felt the hit. Looking down you see the tip of her blade pressed against your chest. Dead center. Fuck. You take a quick glance at Xavier, he just nods, his face neutral.
Positions, allez. Another missed opportunity to engage first. She’s too fast. She swings low, forcing you to jump. You bring your blade down, anticipating a strike, but it never comes. Instead, she leaps herself, soaring into the air, ready to roll on impact. You move to take a step, but don’t know which way she’ll go. Before you get a chance to decide, she strikes.
“Point! Harvard.”
You swear under your breath. You’re tired, bruised, it’s been a long day and you’ve been training harder than ever to prepare. All your friends are here to support you, Caleb arrived earlier than expected, Tara and Gideon brought you lunch even though you were too nervous to eat it, Rafayel drew you accepting a trophy weeks ago, and Sylus wasn’t lying when he said he’d make a sign. Even Zayne showed up and he hates sporting events.
Attempting to bottle your nerves, you grit your teeth and roll your shoulders. Get one more point, even it out, accuracy over speed. Your logical brain repeats these facts over and over, but that little voice that you’ve spent over a decade trying to ignore keeps butting in. Unknowingly, you’ve been feeding that voice, helping it get stronger as the years pass. You never realized how damaging your self-deprecation has been to your psyche. It was just sarcasm, but your developing brain hadn’t processed it as such.
If you choke for even a second, you’ll let everyone down.
You’re about to fail, like always.
Where will you hide when you inevitably lose this bout?
As you shake your head to clear your mind you hear the referee shout.
“Allez!"
If someone was timing the match, they could reach out to the world record book - get your picture for ‘the shortest fencing bout in history.’
“Final point! Harvard takes the win.”
Goosebumps rise along your arms and your throat begins to close making it hard to swallow. You politely shake your opponents hand, thankful fencing requires a helmet and you can hide the way you’re falling apart. The Harvard girl removes hers, her face marked by tears of joy. She’d worked just as hard to get here. Turning, you hop down from the mat and walk straight to the locker room. Xavier calls after you, but you break into a sprint, reaching your destination before he can catch up.
🌸🌷☔️📚
You’re not sure how long you sit in the shower stall. Maybe an hour. Maybe two. Your teammates came to find you, but quickly realized it’s probably best to let you cool off. The tournament was held at Yale, so it’s not like you’re missing a bus. When the locker room is completely silent, you emerge from your hiding spot to change.
After peeling off your uniform and storing it in your duffel bag, you stand, half naked, holding the clothes you brought for after the meet. They were meant for a celebration. Your favorite pink corduroy skirt, a fitted white turtleneck, lace tights and matching white heeled boots. The gang was going to go to Modern Apizza with the rest of the fencing team. You’d already planned what to order. The Bruschetta first and then the Margarita pizza to share with Tara. You’d been so confident you didn’t bring your usual extra set of clothes.
Pulling on your skirt, you forgo the sweater and just zip up your coat. You just need to get back to your dorm, so you put your court shoes back on. The sweat in your hair has dried, leaving your hair sticking to your face, a few pink stains on your neck from where the dye bled out. You don’t bother to retie your ponytail, just let it be, you’ll shower soon.
Opening the door to the locker room as slowly as possible, you look back and forth. You wouldn’t be surprised if your friends had waited for you. Before fully stepping outside, you dig your phone out of your duffel and scroll through the messages.
Tara🐝
Babe, where are you?
Xav⭐
You did well, the final bout is always the hardest
I’m worried about you
Pls call me
Falafel🎨
i know ur upset & everything…
but ur high jumps were really fucking impressive…
Dr. Z🩺
(meme of two kittens hugging)
Caleb✈️
Where are you hiding?
Come on, talk to me.
Pips…
Sy🐦⬛
You fought well, kitten.
Don’t beat yourself up.
Keeping your head down, you go out the side entrance and slowly make your way back to your dorm. When you get there, you brace yourself, Tara might be back by now. The lock clicks and you open the door carefully. All the lights are off, only your salt lamp glows faintly in the corner next to your bed. You’d been hoping the whole walk back that no one would be here. But now… A fresh stream of tears spill over and trickle down your cheeks while you gather your shower caddy and a towel.
You take your time, have a good cry, exfoliate. Curling up in bed to sleep away the frustration sounded like the best idea. Wrapping the towel around yourself, you stare in the mirror for a moment. You’d trained for this, been so ready and you barely understand what happened. Squeezing the excess water from your hair, you clip it back and grab your shower caddy. You stare down at your feet as you open the bathroom door and enter your room, trying to massage a sore spot on your shoulder.
“Oh shit…”
Your eyes snap up and lock with Sylus’s, who is sitting on your bed with a pizza box beside him. You freeze momentarily, half convinced this is not real life. When you realize it is very much real, you drop your caddy and wrap your arms around yourself. He lowers his gaze.
“Sorry, kitten, I didn’t–”
“Why are you here?! How did you get in here?! Oh my god, I’m naked…”
You race to your dresser to get underwear and use your closet doors to hide as you dress.
“Tara gave me her key. And I’m here because even though you’re upset you still need to eat.”
Pulling on sleep shorts and a tank top, you close the closet doors and cross your arms as you approach him. He cautiously looks up and points to the pizza box.
“Half a Margarita pizza. And I stole a few pieces of Bruschetta from Rafayel.”
Every fiber of your being is telling you to kick him out. He’s not invited to your pity party. But the way he’s looking at you, his brows drawn together, lips pressed in a thin line. He’s worried.
“Thanks.” You mutter under your breath.
He opens the box and you nearly start salivating the moment you smell the sweet tomato and garlic cheesy goodness. He kicks off his boots and starts to get comfortable on your bed, even grabbing your starfish plushie to hold in his lap.
“You don’t have to stay. I’m fine.”
“So we’re lying to each other now?” He squints, head cocked. “Sit, eat. I’m not going anywhere.”
Again, you’re torn between telling him to leave or replacing that plushie with yourself. Instead, you grab a slice and unceremoniously stuff half of it in your mouth. As soon as you swallow the first bite, your snarky attitude fades to a simmer. You sit and avoid his gaze as you continue eating. He leans back, watching you.
“What were you thinking about?”
“When?” You say with your mouth half full.
“During the match.” You shake your head like you don’t know what he’s talking about. “Kitten.”
“I doubted myself for one second and it bit me in the ass.”
“It was more than that.”
“Okay, how did you come to that conclusion?” Your glare could freeze hell over. “I had a mask on, you were up in the stands, so please, enlighten me.”
“You tremble when angry. When you’re frustrated. And when you’re sad. Even when you’re tired, you don’t let it affect you like your emotions do. So, what were you thinking about?”
You might struggle to read him, but he has no trouble reading you. Drawing your legs close to your chest, you close your eyes to ward off the tears. You’ve cried so much lately.
“I’m really mean to myself, you know? Without really trying. I just… I’m really mean.”
You don’t have it in you to elaborate and he doesn’t ask you to. He closes the pizza box and scootches over to sit next to you. You feel his arm wrap around your shoulders and without thinking, you lean into his warmth.
“If someone was saying those things to Tara, the things you tell yourself, what would you do?”
Probably end up in jail.
“I get your point.” He rests his chin on your head.
“We’ll work on it together.”
He doesn’t share a plan or why he wants to help you, he just stays by your side. You don’t talk about it anymore that night. When you’re full, he tucks you in and watches silly videos with you until you fall asleep. The next morning when you wake up curled up beside him, your cheek on his chest, you feel more at peace than ever.
🌸🌷☔️📚
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AN: I know, I know. Rafayel dyes his hair?? This is a real life AU so natural purple hair can't really be a thing. Plus it's a nice addition for FMC to give it a try. Also, I know the idea of Caleb dating might not be something everyone likes, but like I said, FMC will end up with only one of them. And I want all the guys to be happy. Summer special up next, cuteness overload incoming.
Imagine finally getting a night alone with Caleb after what feels like months of pent-up sexual frustration and desperate touches that always ended in baby cries, 'mama I pee-peed!' and empty 'I'll touch you later' promises. You two were in a constant cycle of getting blue balled by your daughter.
But tonight was different.
Caleb was kissing down your neck with the kind of focused attention that meant he couldn't wait for any longer. His hands were under your shirt, already unclasping your bra with expert ease, your fingers tangled in his hair, and the look in his eyes screamed need. desire.
“She’s asleep, right?” he murmured against your neck.
“Out cold.”
“Perfect,” he grinned, lips moving lower. “Because I need to be inside you. Now."
Clothes are messily strewn on the bedroom floor, bodies bare. Desperate kisses exchanged and hands feeling each other up. His left hand's squeezing your breasts, his thumb gently tweaking your nipple as he greedily makes out with you. His right hand hooking right under one of your thighs, lifting your leg so he could gain better access.
"Fuck, I missed you.." he gasps out after pulling away from the kiss. He positions himself right to your entrance, teasing the tip around your slit. But just when he's about to slip himself in...
knock knock knock.
You both freeze.
“Mommy?” You knew that voice. The tiny gremlin tone of a three-year-old who was definitely not asleep.
You both turn toward the bedroom door like it just declared war.
“No,” Caleb breathes, forehead dropping to your shoulder in pure devastation. “I'm going to lose my fucking mind.”
Knock knock. Again.
“Mommy? Daddy? I had a dream that Uncle Gideon turned into a waffle. Can I sleep in your bed?”
He dramatically rolls off of you, muttering to himself, “I didn’t even get to put it in.”
You chuckle as he stares at the ceiling. Looking lifeless. Emotionally dead.
Then, a whisper. “A waffle.” Followed by a choked, near-broken laugh. “He got turned into a waffle, and now I have blue balls.”
You're trying not to laugh. You really are. But your daughter knocks again, and you're both yanked from lustful heaven back into parent mode.
"Remind me to tell Gideon I hate him."
Seems like it was another typical night, after all.
‘Schlick, Schlick, Hooray!’ : LADS Omegaverse, Heat Version
Synopsis: The ‘Heat’ version of ‘Into the Slick of It’! Your Heat has begun and without the help of Suppressants, only your Alpha can soothe this fire.
Warnings: Omegaverse, Knotting, Oral (m&f), Talks of Pups/Eggs, use of ‘Gege’, Caleb likes seeing you cry, Scenting, Marking, it’s another dirty one.
⋆˚🐾˖° Xavier
Xavier tried his best to keep you at an arms length as he tried to nurse you through your Heat. He had came knocking the moment the alarm on his phone went off, signaling your impending Heat.
The Hunters Association had cut back on Suppressants for Omegas, something for ‘budget cuts’.
The state he found you in could only be described as a fucking wreck. The sweat had already kicked in. You were wearing one of his t-shirts with nothing underneath.
When you opened the door, his eyes immediately went to the slick staining your inner thighs.
“Shit-“
“Help me.” Your whimper broke him. Forgotten, was the fruit basket in his hands. He backed you into your own apartment.
Your hands were immediately trying to tear at his sweatshirt. The feeling of his abs under your fingertips made you want to be under the flesh in more ways than one.
Clothing was torn left and right. The race to the bedroom was filled with you clinging to Xavier, one of his hands cupping your ass to lift you up. Your legs immediately wrapped around his waist.
“Xavier, need you inside. Need you filling me up. My Prince-My Love-“ You dry humped against the tent in his pants. His normally stoic facade cracked at the seams.
Your back hits the comforter and you can’t get your hands on him fast enough. His fingers thread to your hair.
“Starshine, you don’t need to-“
“Shut up.” It was the only thing you say before you pulls down his pants and underwear, stuffing the head of his cock snugly in your mouth. You ignore the burn in your throat as you take him inch by inch.
“S-Shit-“ he stumbled over his words. You look up at him through damp lashes when your lips finally meet the base. Your drooling, moaning around his delicious length like it was the last thing you’d ever taste. Your wandering hands cant sit still for long. “Dirty girl, are you touching yourself?”
Xavier knew the answer. Even before the scent of your arousal hit his nose, or the sound of your fingers sliding through your slick folds reached his ears. His hips snap in a rolling motion, cooing down at you as you make a mess of yourself.
“Such a filthy Omega. What would you do without me, hm? Waste that perfectly good slick on your own fingers?” His voice was always so sweet. But when those filthy words fell from his mouth, you can only moan around his length.
His pretty cockhead bullied the back of your throat over and over again. Your tongue flattened to the underside, a mixture of gags and wet noises filling the bedroom. Xavier used your hair as leverage as he chased his own release.
“Yeah? Yeah, my Pretty Girl. Gonna choke on my cum, hm?” His own sense were overwhelmed by your pheromones. His Alpha instincts screamed at him to take you, to dominate you, to make you his all over again.
He barely pulled his throbbing length out just in time for his thick, hot ropes of seed to coat your face. “Aht! Mouth open-that’s it. Good Girl.”
The final few strings coated your eager tongue. His long fingers pressed on your tongue to smear his cum around your tastebuds.
“We’re not done yet. Ass up.”
⋆˚🐾˖° Rafayel
You didn’t mean to walk so far in the midst of your Heat. It had hit you right after your final mission against a tough Wanderer. You thought you could make it to Rafayel’s before it sat in fully.
But when you showed up to his Studio, reeking of your Heat, he was already waiting with the door wide open. He met you at the doorway and pulled you in before you could even explain yourself.
Without a second thought, Rafayel moves swiftly across the studio, his long legs eating up the distance between you. He wraps his strong arms around your waist and lifts you up, carrying you to the makeshift nest he’s created for you without breaking eye contact. His hands tremble with need as he begins to undress you.
His heart aches at the sight of you, so deep in Heat that you're already apologizing. He gently lays you down on the bed, his hands caressing your face tenderly. “Shh, it's not your fault, my love. You didn't do anything wrong."
Rafayel quickly removes his own clothes, his eyes never leaving yours. He can smell your need, thick and heavy in the air. He climbs onto the bed, settling between your legs. His hands roam over your body, soothing and comforting as he tries to calm your racing heart.
You are rubbing your face in the crook of his neck, marking him with your own scent. “Missed you. Need you so much.”
His breath catches at your words, one hand tangling in your hair while the other trails down your side. "Missed you more than anything, Cutie. Gods, that scent..." He nuzzles against your neck, marking you back with his own smell. “How long has this been building?"
Before you can even answer him, his nimble fingers push between your legs to feel just how soaked in Slick you are. That cocky smile of his returns
He chuckles softly, pressing a kiss to your lips before trailing down your neck. “Looks like someone's been a very good girl, all hot and bothered for her Alpha." His fingers circle your entrance, teasing you with gentle pressure. “Soaked and ready, just for me."
"Your poor little body, aching like this..." He adds another finger, starting a slow rhythm as he speaks. “Did you try to take care of yourself before coming here?" He already knows the answer - the raw need in your scent tells him everything. “You didn't, did you?"
“Came straight from work. I-I couldn’t. You know I can’t do it myself.” Your nails dig into his shoulders, a needy whine tearing from your throat.
His eyes flash with primal desire at your words and the way you cling to him. “That's my girl..." He removes his fingers, replacing them with the tip of his cock. He teases your entrance slowly, letting you feel every inch. "Only I can give you what you need."
"Please..." You beg, your hips bucking up to try and force him inside. Your face is flushed, hair a mess from your frantic markings. “Need you inside me, need your knot!“ You sob the last part, the desperation clear in your voice.
Rafayel chuckles at your need. He reaches over to the bedside table where a messy paint pallet rests. He grabs the clean paintbrush right as he starts to fill you with his cock. “You stretch so beautifully around me.”
He praises. He lowers the paintbrush to tease around your nipples, watching them pebble under his administration. You cry out and try to jerk away your chest but he silenced you with a punishing thrust. “Ohhh, easy Cutie. Feels so nice when you gush around me like this.”
You nearly lost your fucking mind when the bristles touched your clit.
⋆˚🐾˖° Zayne
Zayne had thrown out your Suppressants. He’d personal ensure the physician who prescribed them to you at such a young age would never practice in medicine again.
You had stumbled into his office. He wasn’t even sure how you had made it here in one piece by the way you smelled alone. You barely had both feet in the door before he rushed to lock the door to his office.
His fingers were peeling open your eye, shining the pen-light into your pupil. You were pleading as he examined your Heat-stricken symptoms. “Z-Zayne I need them. Just one. Please!” Your pleads fall on deaf ears.
“Absolutely not. Those placebos only mask the issues, they do not solve it.” Zayne removes his glasses just as you launch yourself at the Doctor.
“Need your cock, Dr Zayne. No, need your knot.” You plead on a broken whimper. Zayne tries to just talk to you as a physician, and not an Alpha. But how could he ignore those pretty pleas. You were practically humping his dress pants, clinging to his lab coat.
“This is what you needed right?” His voice is almost mocking when he has you laid out on the examination table, knuckles deep in your squelching cunt. The latex from his gloves are too slick, not enough pressure. You try to squirm under his touch, you need more.
“No Darling,” he pins you down with a strong hand on your stomach, pinning you back. “Preparation is key. I’d like to avoid tearing you.” His fingers move faster, clipping that spot inside that makes those white stars flash behind your eyelids.
“Or maybe-“ he purrs, rubbing your stomach as though he’s petting an affectionate cat. “Being torn apart is what you need.”
Those words have you spasming under his touch, soaking the thin paper sheet on the examination bed. You Heat is blossoming in your belly and as soon as one orgasm leaves you, you crave to be filled yet again. You grasp at the edge of his lab coat sleeve which is now wearing evidence of your Slick.
“Inside-oh Please!”
“Patience.” His fingers quickly pull his throbbing length from it confines, pants barely shimmied down his hips. His cock is furious, the tip nearly purple with need, leaking already. It’s teasing your dripping folds and you gasp, afraid you might come undone right then and there.
When the bulbous head presses forward you tear at the thin bed cover, back arching. Zayne hushes your cries, hand over your mouth. His knee lifts to the edge of the bed for the right angle and-
You cry out loud behind his hand as he enters you in a single thrust. The burn is so delicious, so welcome, but your breath leaves your lungs at the pure size of him. “Shh, shhh…just take it. I took all that time stretching you. Open up for me. Good girl.”
The rickety bed is on its last legs as Zayne is letting you anywhere but go. His glasses have slipped down his nose while he growls and slobbers against your scent gland.
“You are making a mess all over my office.” His chuckle is nearly a put when he pulls your hair away from the crook of your neck. “If I ever catch you taking those suppressants again, I’ll keep you locked away and force you to ride out your Heat on your own. Understand?”
Oh you understood alright.
Understood enough to cream on his cock again.
⋆˚🐾˖° Caleb
If you thought Caleb was going to leave you alone through your Heat, you were sorely mistaken.
He made a makeshift nest for you right in his apartment. He even took a few days off work to ensure his Pretty Omega was taken care of.
He dropped off everything you needed at the door.
The first two days were fine, besides the sweet smell of your pheromones leaking through the door. But on the third day, it was like fighting off a caged tiger.
“No Pipsqueak, c’mon let’s get you back in bed.” He had tried to pry you off of him. You promised him you only need to come out to use the bathroom.
But here you were stripped down to nothing, arms wrapped around him while your Slick coated the living room carpet.
“If you make me go back in there I’ll die.” You sobbed out, big crocodile tears spilling over your flushed cheeks. “You can take care of me like you used to when we lived at Gran’s. I’ll even be quiet like I used to be. Won’t make a noise when I take your-“
“Enough.” That voice was something he used for his soldiers, not his darling Pips. So when he snapped and those tears started to spill faster, his strength dissolved. “Hey no, none of that.”
He hated seeing you cry.
Well.
Except in this current moment.
Your knees were pressed to your chest, it had been so long since he’d been inside of you. Each time felt like you were back in your Senior year of high school when he took your virginity.
You were crying.
You weren’t sure if they were tears of pain from the stretch, or from finally getting a knot to stuff your hole.
“I’ll be good, so good! Feel so good inside! F-Fuck Caleb-“
“Pretty Omega’s don’t cuss at their Alpha’s Pipsqueak.” His dog tags bump your chin as he begins stuffing you full of his cock.
He leans down and laps at your tears, letting the salty taste linger for a moment.
His strong hands push the back of your legs up until you are nearly bent in half. He watches his cock slide in and out of your sopping hole like it has him mesmerized.
“You wanted to cry so bad Pips. Cry for Gege, cry for your Alpha.”
His thrust is so punishing it feels like he may be a ‘Gege’ shaped hole in your guts by the time he’s done. But it’s exactly what you need. You need him to drill every thought out of your pretty head.
“That’s right Princess, oh I know, I’m so mean,” he fakes a pout as another one of his thrust send you spiraling “Tell me how mean Gege is.”
⋆˚🐾˖° Sylus
Contrary to belief, Sylus is far from a forgetful Alpha. He has the days of your Heat marked down on every calendar available. He has you in the best nest money could buy. No price is too high for his little Omega.
He’s sprawled out in his desk chair as he types away at his laptop. He can smell you before he sees you. You are clutching one of his shirts to your chest so tightly it might mold with your skin.
“Kitten, you should be in bed.”
“It started.”
“I know, Sweetie.” He pushes his chair back from the desk and opens his arms. He knew your Heat can be a frightful experience. Especially after taking Suppressants for so long. But he’d convinced you to stop taking them, that they were damaging to your body.
You crawl into his lap and he purrs, his own scent calming you just a little. “Where does it hurt Sweetie?”
He knows exactly where it aches. But he wants your permission of course. You grab his hand, guiding it down the expanse of your stomach and into the soaked panties you were wearing. “H-here.”
“Oh Kitten,” his finger squelch through your Slick and you squeak and cling to his arm. “Shh, it’s alright. Your Alpha will take care of you. Just relax.”
The nest he had spent so much time maintaining was in disarray. His tongue and fingers draw out a third orgasm and you feel like you might explode. “S-Sy! No more, no more, I need your knot!”
Sylus pulls his lips from your throbbing clit as he licks his lips. Your juices coat everywhere from his nose to his lips. He chuckles as he withdraws his fingers and slick gushes onto the sheets. “Do you know what you’re asking for?”
You let out a whine that says ‘if you don’t fuck me, I’ll lose my mind’
The first thrust is the hardest. His cock almost bends as he tries to fit it inside of your sopping hole. “Relax Kitten.”
“I-I can’t!”
“You can, yes you can. Oh, there we go. Good girl, I’m inside. Can you feel it?”
Oh God you can feel it.
You can feel how he’s taking up every piece of your guts, belly, fuck it’s almost like you can feel it in your chest.
“Oh, easy now Sweetie. You don’t want to inflate my ego. My Knot is doing enough inflating for the both of us.”
Sylus lathers your face and throat with his tongue and fangs. He wants to be like this forever, he never wants to let you go again. Your souls and bodies are intertwined in a dance that is millions of years old.
“I’m never letting you go again. So take this fuckin’ Knot and be mine again.”
author’s note: 🗒️ oh i’ve had so much fun writing this. <3 talk to me about the lads men 😫💞
-> xavier *ੈ✩‧₊˚ legs up in a V
xavier loves control. loves precision. he loves to humble you at times when he switches from the cutest, most adorable little snuggly bear to the hardest dom you’ve ever seen. the eyes switch, the demeanor switches, and you love it.
he has your legs pushed up in a trembling v, hands wrapped around your thighs like restraints, your cunt exposed and twitching, so sore and swollen it’s almost pulsing. he loves the way his cock digs into your velvety walls, slippery sounds of him pumping you full echoing through his apartment.
his voice is calm, low, calculated.
“don’t move, princess. i want to see everything. i want to see your face when you cum, when it’s xavier making you cum — and not lumiere.”
he’s slow with it—methodical, hitting that perfect spot every single time while he watches your body tremble beneath him like an experiment unraveling. your hands claw at the sheets, lips parted in ruined moans, and he just smirks. jealousy dripping, conceited and oh- so so horny.
“mm. there. that reaction. that’s the one i wanted.”
-> zayne *ੈ✩‧₊˚ cowgirl
zayne wants you on top. not always, but on the occasions when he wants to see you struggling to fit his thick, fat cock inside you. when he wants to reduce you from a big, baddie hunter, to his subby little angel who’s sobbing because her pussy feels too full.
he lays back with that lazy, cocky smile, hands behind his head, muscles golden and taut like he’s built to be ridden. head leaned against the headboard.
“go on, little one. show me what that pretty body’s made for.”
he watches every bounce. every grind. his hands slide up your waist, your thighs, gripping your ass as you lose rhythm and start crying from how deep he hits. he would wipe your tears tenderly, peppering sweet kisses — “look at you, so little and so cute for me like this. sometimes i wonder if this is what you’re made for.”
“hmm, already falling apart? and here i thought you were gonna ride me like a good girl.”
he pulls you down, sucks a bruise into your neck, and mutters against your ear
“don’t stop now. i’m not done watching you yet.”
-> sylus *ੈ✩‧₊˚ doggy-style
sylus doesn’t just fuck you. he hunts you from behind. it’s like your predator chasing you. his thick, girthy & veinny cock loves when your pussy tries to run away from it. swollen & desperate, how your body lurches forward when he pumps you full. his heavy balls slapping against your clit.
has you on all fours, back arched, cunt dripping, and one hand pressing your spine down harder every time you try to lift your head. sometimes he would hold your shoulder, muttering softly, “ah ah ah— don’t run away now, sweetie.” voice laced with that soft mockery that you love oh so much.
“no, stay like that. let me see everything.”
his pace is brutal. steady. punishing. he watches your ass ripple, your thighs shake, your mouth gape into the mattress like you’re trying to scream but forgot how.
“look at that. twitching already? good. you’ll remember this one.”
and when you whimper out “sy—sylus—please—”
“mm-mm, sure kitten. you want to be bred by me just say so…” and you do, so badly.
-> caleb *ੈ✩‧₊˚ prone-bone
caleb’s all about ownership. he wants you to know he owns you, he wants everyone to know he owns you, he wants your body, your soul, everything related to you to know & remember — you’re his.
he lays you flat on your stomach, legs spread just enough, hips tilted up & a pillow underneath as he sinks in deep, pinning you under his body like you’re his. and you’re meant to be pliant & take it.
“don’t move, baby. i got you.”
his arms are tight around your waist, face pressed to the back of your neck, lips brushing your ear as he fucks you in slow, aching rolls that make your clit throb against the sheets.
“feel that? how deep i am? how i’m not letting you go?”
he grinds deeper, and you sob, trembling from how much you’re taking. caleb’s not small, and both of you know that. the way your pesky cervix stops him from forcing more of him deeper, harder..
“you don’t have to do a thing, angel. just lie there and come on my cock.” and you don’t. you just lay there and watch him, feel him make you see stars.
-> rafayel *ੈ✩‧₊˚ mating press
rafayel wants to own your soul. he’s waited for you so long & his stupid lemurian instincts want you to so many times to feel satiated…
he folds you in half, presses your knees to your chest, and thrusts so deep it feels like he’s kissing your womb with every stroke. he really is, and in the back of his head if the position is called — a mating press. then he should be able to make you pregnant.
“you’re mine, cutie. say it.”
his hand is on your throat, his other pressed to your belly where he can feel himself inside you. you’re gasping, leaking, absolutely gone. “say you’re mine~” he almost sing songs, the way your pupils have dilated from the sheer pleasure in your nerves only makes him chuckle a little. oh he’s gone so far deep.
“look at how your body opens for me. like it knows who it belongs to.”
and when you start shaking—so overstimmed you’re crying? oh how can his cock not erupt and fill you up? over & over & over?
a/n: here’s some raya lore — i’m a cardiac nurse irl and work with cardiothoracic surgeons all the time, so zayne’s story makes me giggle thinking about my surgeons doing this
ZAYNE
You regain consciousness slowly, with the vague sense that something humiliating has occurred. The hospital lights are too bright, the bed is too firm, and the IV in your arm is just... rude, honestly.
"You're awake," comes a voice — cool, low, and very familiar.
Oh no.
Oh no.
You turn your head and find Zayne, still in scrubs, standing at the foot of the bed with his arms crossed and that trademark look of stoic disappointment on his face. You’re not sure if he's judging your vital signs or your life choices.
“I told you not to skip lunch,” he says.
“Did you get called down here?” you ask, voice hoarse.
He lifts an eyebrow. “No. I was already here. In surgery. Where I was paged — in the middle of a triple bypass — because my emergency contact had decided to dramatically pass out in the hospital lobby like a Victorian novel protagonist.”
“Wow. Sounds like they need better lobby snacks.”
He doesn't laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitches slightly — the Zayne equivalent of a full belly laugh.
You shift in bed, suddenly aware of how gross you must look. “Sooo… just to confirm, my very intimidating, brilliant surgeon-boyfriend got pulled out of heart surgery because I skipped breakfast and had a blood sugar tantrum?”
“Yes.” He picks up your chart like it personally insulted him. “And I had to hand my patient off to Dr. Greyson, who, by the way, is now convinced you're either dying or incredibly high-maintenance.”
“Well, I am dating a man who yells at EKG machines.”
“I don’t yell at them,” he says, deadpan. “I encourage them sternly.”
You’re about to tease him again when he steps closer and rests two fingers against your wrist, checking your pulse manually. You both know it’s unnecessary — your vitals are already beeping steadily on the monitor—but he does it anyway, like he needs to feel it for himself.
His eyes soften for a second — just a flicker —then the mask returns.
“I’m fine,” you say gently. “I swear.”
He doesn’t reply. He just exhales through his nose like you’ve personally ruined his whole month and reaches into the pocket of his white coat.
“I brought you juice,” he says flatly, pulling out a little box of apple juice like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
You stare. “Wait. You detoured to pediatrics for juice?”
“I’m a surgeon, not a monster.”
You take the juice. He even gives you a bendy straw.
“I love you,” you say, smirking.
“You’re hypoglycemic. Your judgment is impaired.”
You reach for his hand anyway, and he lets you have it, warm and steady and a little calloused from years of holding hearts in his hands.
“You’re lucky I’m not dramatic,” you murmur.
He doesn't blink. “You fainted in the middle of a hospital hallway like an Oscar nominee.”
“Told you. Lobby snacks.”
Zayne exhales, shakes his head once, then gently brushes your hair away from your forehead with the kind of tenderness that could undo an entire cardiac ward.
“Next time,” he murmurs, “eat something. Or I’m putting you on a monitored meal plan.”
“You’re hot when you’re bossy.”
“I’m always bossy.”
“True. Still hot, though.”
Zayne doesn’t smile. But he does sit in the chair next to your bed and take out his tablet, one hand still loosely holding yours.
He doesn’t have to say anything. This is Zayne-speak for I'm not leaving.
And honestly? You’re kind of okay with fainting in public if it gets you this much juice and love from the hospital’s most terrifyingly devoted cardiothoracic surgeon.
XAVIER
You’re lying on the hospital bed, blinking up at the sterile white ceiling, wondering how you managed to turn skipping lunch into a full-on hospital visit. The door opens, and in walks Xavier — your boyfriend and your emergency contact — looking like he just sprinted through a hurricane, but somehow still perfectly put-together.
He spots you immediately, his calm, composed mask cracking just a little. “There you are,” he says, voice steady but with an unmistakable undertone of relief.
You try to sit up, but your head spins a little. “I’m fine. Sort of.”
He crosses the room in two strides, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed, his hand reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His touch is gentle, careful, like he’s afraid if he’s too rough you might actually break.
“I got the call while I was in a meeting,” he says quietly, “and I left everything. I didn’t even finish my coffee.”
You smile, appreciating the little sacrifices he makes without complaint.
“You’re my emergency contact,” you remind him playfully. “Kind of your job to freak out a little.”
He lets out a short, almost embarrassed laugh. “I panicked. A bit. But I stayed composed.”
You reach for his hand, squeezing it. “You’re doing great.”
His eyes soften, and for a moment the world outside this hospital room disappears. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
You lean your head against his shoulder, and he wraps an arm around you, holding you close but steady.
“Promise me you’ll eat something next time,” he says quietly, his breath warm against your temple.
“I promise,” you murmur.
“And no more fainting in public. I don’t want to have to race down hospital hallways to find you again.”
You laugh softly. “Noted. I’ll try to keep you from breaking a sweat.”
His smile is almost shy now, but the way he tightens his hold on your hand says it all.
“You’re my emergency,” he whispers.
You snort. “Let’s not keep it that way.”
You stay like that for a while, just holding onto each other—two perfectly imperfect people, tethered together by something stronger than any emergency call.
RAFAYEL
Your ankle propped is propped up on a pillow, wrapped in bandages, and your pride slightly more bruised than your actual injury. The nurse said it’s just a mild sprain and you’ll live—but not before she tried very hard not to laugh when you explained how it happened.
The door bursts open like a dramatic plot twist.
“Where is she?!” comes the unmistakable voice of Rafayel.
You barely get out a “Hey—” before he’s at your bedside, eyes wild and hair slightly windblown like he’s just escaped a wind tunnel. Which, honestly, might not be far from the truth.
“I got the call and thought, ‘Oh, maybe she’s dehydrated, or tired, or mildly inconvenienced,’” he says, flinging his jacket on the nearest chair like he’s auditioning for a hospital drama. “But no. You injured yourself chasing your lunch?!”
“It was a really good sandwich,” you mutter defensively.
“A sandwich?” he repeats, clutching his heart like you’ve personally wounded him. “You rolled your ankle because a gust of wind stole your sandwich?”
You glare at him. “I was hungry, okay? It was toasted. And warm. It smelled amazing. I panicked.”
He takes a long, theatrical breath like he’s trying to absorb the full weight of your questionable life choices.
“I left in the middle of an event meeting ,” he says, dramatically pulling a chair up to your bedside. “I might have knocked over a cup of coffee on the way out. I think Thomas yelled for me. I don't remember. My soul left my body the moment they said your name.”
Despite his flair for the dramatic, his hand finds yours — gently, carefully, like he’s trying to check for injuries you haven’t mentioned.
You squeeze his hand. “I’m fine. Just a little bruised. Physically and emotionally.”
He exhales, visibly relaxing even though he’s trying to pretend like he was never worried in the first place. “Good. Because I wasn’t emotionally prepared to lose you to an airborne panini.”
You burst out laughing. “Technically, it was a ciabatta.”
“Oh, excuse me,” he says with mock offense, but you catch the tiny tremble of relief in his smile.
He straightens up with a newfound sense of duty. “Right. From now on, I am personally supervising all your lunches. If it has lettuce, it’s getting double security.”
You grin. “Are you volunteering to be my food bodyguard?”
“Silly girl— I’m your boyfriend and your emergency contact. Food security is just a natural extension of my role.”
And with that, he dramatically unwraps a protein bar from his bag, holds it out to you like a solemn offering, and adds, “Now eat this. And next time, let the sandwich go.”
You take the bar, still giggling. “You’re ridiculous.”
He leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “And yet, somehow, I’m still the most responsible person in this relationship.”
You nudge him playfully with your elbow. “You ran into a hospital yelling.”
“I entered with urgency. There’s a difference.”
Despite everything, you’re smiling. Because if you’re going to end up in a hospital with a sprained ankle and a lost sandwich, there’s no one else you’d rather have panicking beautifully at your side than Rafayel.
SYLUS
You’re lying in a hospital bed, leg elevated, toe wrapped in what must be 400 layers of gauze for a very minor fracture. Your phone’s dead. You’re mildly embarrassed. And the nurse informed you that your emergency contact has been called.
Great.
Not five minutes later, the door opens with an entirely reasonable amount of urgency, and in walks Sylus. He looks calm, of course. Immaculately put-together. The kind of composed that makes everyone else feel like maybe things aren’t on fire.
“Hey,” you say sheepishly. “Before you ask, I’m not dying.”
He walks straight to your bedside, his steps efficient, quiet. His eyes scan you from head to toe like he’s assessing battlefield injuries, even though the only casualty is your dignity and maybe a toe bone.
“Mm,” he hums, setting down a small bag —because of course he brought things. “The nurse said you broke your toe.”
“Just a tiny fracture. More like a dramatic crack. I stubbed it on the coffee table.”
Sylus sits in the chair beside your bed and raises an eyebrow. “With enough force to require X-rays and emergency contact notification?”
“I was chasing a bug.”
He blinks. “You injured yourself in active combat with a housefly.”
“It was huge.”
He nods slowly, lips twitching, almost smiling. “Understandable.”
You watch him as he leans back slightly in the chair, arms crossed, but his eyes don’t leave you. He’s trying to appear relaxed, but you know him. The slight crease between his brows? The way his leg is bouncing, just a little? That’s Sylus-level distress.
“You okay?” you ask softly.
“I’m fine,” he replies smoothly. “You’re the one who got into a full-contact brawl with furniture.”
You grin. “You worried?”
His expression doesn’t change. “Of course.”
“You’re hiding it well.”
“I’m excellent at containment,” he replies, but then — he gently takes your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles with an absent, comforting rhythm.
The silence stretches out, warm and familiar. Finally, you speak.
“You didn’t have to rush over, y’know.”
“I didn’t rush,” he says.
“You’re out of breath.”
“I took the stairs.”
You laugh, and that finally gets him to crack a full smile. He leans forward and presses a kiss to your temple, brief and grounding.
“Next time,” he says, still soft, “let the bug win.”
“Are you saying that because of my toe, or because you’re secretly pro-bug?”
“I’m saying that because you are not replaceable, and coffee tables are surprisingly effective weapons.”
You squeeze his hand. “You’re my favorite emergency contact.”
“I better be.” He raises your hand to his lips. “I have a designated bag for this exact situation.”
You blink. “Wait — what’s in the bag?”
He opens it casually: snacks, a charger, a small first aid kit, and — of course — a mini bottle of lotion “in case hospital soap dries out your hands.”
“You’re terrifyingly prepared,” you murmur.
Sylus smiles calmly, brushing hair from your forehead. “And you are accident-prone. It’s a beautiful match.”
And just like that, everything feels a little less embarrassing, a little less dramatic. Because Sylus is here — collected, calm, worried down to his bones, and still managing to make you feel like the most secure clumsy person in the world.
CALEB
You’re sitting on a gurney with an ice pack strapped to your wrist and a very strong desire to sink into the floor and disappear. It’s a mild sprain. Barely a sprain, really. But policy’s policy, and your emergency contact has been notified.
That would be Caleb.
You don't even get a chance to text him before the door bursts open.
There he is — Caleb in full protective, puffed-up mode — hair messy like he sprinted here without stopping to breathe, hoodie half-zipped, eyes scanning the room like he’s ready to file a lawsuit or carry you out in his arms. Possibly both.
“Oh my god,” he breathes, rushing over. “Are you okay? What happened? Why didn’t you call me? Did someone push you?”
You raise an eyebrow. “It was a slippery hallway.”
Caleb squints. “Slippery like… sabotage? Who waxes a hallway that much?”
“It’s a hospital, babe.”
“Still suspicious.”
He pulls a chair up to the bed with unnecessary force, plops down beside you, and carefully examines your wrist like he’s about to perform surgery himself.
“They gave you an X-ray, right? And ice? Did they check for nerve damage? Do I need to talk to someone?”
You sigh, smiling. “Yes, yes, no, and absolutely not. It’s a minor sprain.”
“Minor?” he repeats like you just called a plane crash a “minor inconvenience.”
You lean back and watch as he starts rifling through the little hospital drawer for reasons unknown. Possibly looking for answers. Possibly snacks.
“Caleb.”
“Hm?”
“You can breathe. I’m okay.”
He finally pauses, sitting back in his chair. “I know you’re okay. I just need to see you being okay for, like, the next three hours before I stop internally screaming.”
You reach over and lace your fingers with his with your uninjured hand.
“I appreciate your overreaction.”
He huffs dramatically. “This isn’t an overreaction. This is called deep, passionate concern.”
“You accused a hallway of foul play.”
“And I stand by that.”
You chuckle, gently tugging his hand. “You’re cute when you’re worried.”
“I’m always worried. You’re a walking hazard zone.”
You smirk. “Yet you keep dating me.”
“I like living dangerously,” he says, leaning over to press a kiss to your forehead. “But next time? Text me. I want to hear about your wrist injury from you, not a very bored nurse who said, and I quote, ‘Your partner’s fine. Bit dramatic, though.’”
“Wow. She really captured your energy.”
He narrows his eyes. “Okay. I’m limiting your sarcasm until your wrist heals.”
You laugh, resting your head on his shoulder. “Good luck with that.”
(wc: 9.5k) ✦ summary: after your brother passes, consumed by grief, you take to the internet to order a synthetic version of him. afterward, it’s impossible to throw him out. (or: alternatively titled the trojan horse)
✦ content robot! caleb, past engineer! caleb, au where EVER deals in robotics, non-evol au, 18+ nsfw/smut, mildly dubious consent, angst, grief, mental instability, bad coping mechanisms, robot pseudocest?? robot sex, mind games, moral grayness all around, dark/yandere undertones; this fic can have multiple interpretations, pregnancy
✦ sidenote have yall ever seen that episode of black mirror? ‘be right back’? basically this: the girl’s boyfriend dies so she orders an incredibly realistic, intelligent robot to replace him. they’re identical in personality and appearance, and yet… 👀 ANYWAYS ( ⸍ɞ̴̶̷ ·̫ ɞ̴̶̷⸌ ) i have a set plot for this in my head, but i left it a lil vague so ur allowed to think of it in ur own way 🤎 if u wanna know the ‘canon’ tho.. u can absolutely ask me. the lore is so deep its traumatizing :,) anyways hope u enjoy <3 ty for 1k btw!! take this as a lil celebration treat 🥳 it took so much out of me but i think i really vibe with it heheh
He’s perfect. Nigh on.
For the first few days since his arrival, since hauling him off the foot of your porch and into your living room to unpack him- heart tickering in your chest all the while, trepidatious- you’ve just stared. Reached out your hands to hover, ghosting over the broad blade of his shoulder, his chapped lips, the slight jut of his cheekbone.
His hands, as big and weathered as you remember them (but gentle, always gentle), hang limply by his sides.
You don’t dare slip your smaller ones in them.
All of the theatrics, yet you don’t press his- its- button, either.
No, you don’t even touch it after the initial unpacking, wrenching your fingers away as soon as they get too close. As soon as they get too tempted by hope and the wish that this hunk of metal was more than just a replica of your late brother. Half of you thinks it might burn if you get too comfortable; and you won’t get comfortable— underneath the solidified layers of grief and- you have trouble saying it aloud, but bitterness- there’s still just enough common sense to keep you from taking the leap. The leap from mourning to insanity.
It’s hollow. You know that much. A nothingness enwrapped in a steely chassis full of wiring and code too technological for you to understand, all covered by a synthetic skin suit as the pretty bow on top.
And you know- what with your emotional state- that if you could peer inside, strip it down to the framework and just… take a moment to look, that you’d vomit. It’d be too much to bear, being forced to reconcile with the fact that he really is gone— and in response to it all, you’ve blown your savings on an eerily-realistic, glorified doll of him with wires for veins.
You’re trembling when you stiffly prop him against the far wall, limiting contact as much as possible, and step away, keeping your eyes on him all the while. It. Not him. Not Caleb- that’s not your fucking brother, just a disgusting, soulless fascimile of him—
But as you stand back on your feet (with the coffee table in between, just in case) to get a good look at him, like a real, proper look, your breath is taken.
The thing: He’s not just a passable carbon copy, you realize. Admittedly, he’s…
Identical.
(He’s Caleb.)
All the oxygen gusts out of you in a breeze.
You lift a shaking hand over your open mouth and choke as silent tears spill from your lashline, blurring your eyes on the way down. Wetting your knuckles as they shake wildly.
You’re crying. Of course you’re crying. This is- you can’t do this. You just can’t.
Racing upstairs, retreating to your bedroom to slam the door as if the devil himself was on your tail, only then do you drop your hand and fully sob.
It’s pitiful, really. Wretched noises that resonate from deep in your throat, your spirit wrecked as you curl up on the floor and make yourself into a ball.
Darkness comes outside, the space around you muting itself in grey colors. The puddle beneath your cheek is moonlit. You sniffle and relocate, but you don’t even bother to tuck the not-Caleb robot in its special container, no- you just settle beneath your blankets and pray it’s all a bad dream you’ll awake from come tomorrow.
Tomorrow: you’ll send him off. Return him.
You don’t care how much money it costs- for all you care, it’s paltry, it’s replaceable. And it is replaceable, that’s the bleak truth: that android stood motionless by your couch, despite having a face so familiar it’s painful, has no emotional value whatsoever. There’s no depth to it. No substance.
A skeleton built by rods. Artificial flesh modeled around thin, colorful cables and circuit boards.
I mean- he’s no better than the stapler on your desk, or the toaster on your kitchen counter. Better yet, a crumb on the floor.
A nothingness, you think again. Prettily encased in smooth, sun-speckled skin and that cottony loungewear (that still retains his smell) you could hardly part with when the online form requested his attire.
He’s perfect, nigh on, you’ll give the company who forged him that much credit, because they sure followed his pictures to a T. It looks just like him; so much so you couldn’t even bear to look at him for more than ten minutes before bolting, the emotional response so violent.
But the problem is that he’s not real. He’s not your Caleb.
✦
It’s hard to throw him away when he looks like that. When he bears the likeness of your late, beloved older brother.
Yes, you want to stuff him back in his box and return to sender, but when it comes to courage, you lack the backbone necessary to carry out your decisions.
You tiptoe down the stairs to see him again and sputter.
He’s too real, you decide in a heartbeat. Too real.
Shutting your eyes as tears begin to pour anew, lunging forward with blind intent to cache him away in the elaborate box he came in, you get to work. And you get to work quickly. You can only bear to look at it- that heartless caricature of your gege- for so long until you feel something in you, your last fragile piece, begin to fracture.
After the explosion, all you had left of him were the memories. Not an explanation, not a goodbye, not even a body. What remained of the boy you were fostered with was ash and a puerile, yet no less beloved locket with its edges burnt copper.
Now, you have something exponentially more physical and intact, unsullied by the reality of what was.
So for a moment, yes- sue you and your heart for hesitating- but it’s a hard task to seal him away.
Agonizing, really.
His arms are stiff by his sides but you feel the skin; the lump of muscle in his forearm, the bump of his elbow. The only thing that keeps you from giving into the puffed-up illusion of his being real and alive is the coolness beneath your fingertips. The unnatural, icy feel to his otherwise mortal skin that reminds in a voice, condescending like all things out of reach, see? that’s not Caleb. And you’re insulting him by thinking that it could be.
You’re halfway done nudging him towards the box (careful, despite your frenzied, fluttering heart; afraid to damage his likeness) when you trip over your own feet navigating the narrow space between your table and the couch.
It’s unthinking, the way you grab him- arms flying out to steady yourself with his broad shoulders.
In all your scrambling- something clicks. Gives under your fingerpad.
A button.
With mute horror, you watch his eyes light.
…And you can see it too, you know, registering in his gaze as it settles over you and takes you in— a blip of mirth that quickly warps into worry at the look you give him. You must appear no different than a deer in headlights.
For several seconds, you simply stand there, your palms clamming up where they dig into his shoulders, and gawk as Caleb— not-Caleb’s— expression turns to one ready to comfort.
Familiar, painfully.
The stiff hands at his side are spurred into motion, lifting to cradle your cheek while the other helps ground you by the small of your back.
“Meimei?”
No, no- don’t say that, don’t say that, internally, you have to shoehorn down all your grief as it bubbles up, and harden your face to keep from crying all over again.
…Although it’s more or less obvious you had been. The puffy eyes rimmed in red, the certain wisp of defeat to your brow and the exhaustion written all over you is clear as day. It leaves nothing to ponder.
He sounds disturbed by it all, the sadness about you that lies thick as a coating of paint. Commiserative to a fault. Lassoing you to his firm chest as he burrows your head below the dip of his chin.
He goes, “What’s wrong?” Then, “It’s okay, I’m here. I got you. Just let it all out.”
And the world around you staggers to a fall.
✦
It was very difficult to get rid of him as he stood still; when you could convince yourself he was just a startlingly realistic statue.
It’s all but impossible when he begins to move, and speak, and smile at you.
You don’t get close enough to press his button. You’re not quite strong enough to apply the distance you probably should, though, so when he takes a step forward, you take one back- but you never run.
It’s a weird limbo you’re caught in. Do you leap into his arms? Do you… Do you toss him out the door, after all? Leave him to the elements to chip away at his body; the rain to erode his fleshy outer shell?
But no. How could you do that? He-
He fucking looks like Caleb. It feels more sinful to rid yourself of him, now that he’s… on, than to indulge a little bit in the idea that he’s still alive and breathing.
If Caleb was still alive, you wonder silently one morning with no small amount of hurt, would he hate you? For whatever the hell it is you’re doing now?
You can’t even blame Gideon, not really. Without his persistent messages, and all the links he sent you of articles revolving androids and how they can help the user cope with grief, you’d have been none the wiser to the concept, sure- but at the end of the day, you made the choice to get one.
A chunk of your savings and an unprompted, fat check from Caleb’s best buddy— you decided to throw that at some futuristic company (well, not ‘some’: both men worked there- albeit they always kept their work very hush (you did catch whispers of a promotion, though, before the accident)) and one of the many services they provide.
Gideon, over the course of some months, was all but pointing you at their website, promising it would help. He’d be there to clear any confusion, in any case; hey, how neat did a walkthrough of the site from a bonafide EVER engineer sound?: Just one of his probes.
It was only two weeks back, however, when he paid an unsolicited house call, wordlessly wrapping you into his broad chest, that you caved to them.
You think about the scene while you sit at the counter and sip from your mug.
Your home smells richly of coffee, just brewed, and bacon as it sizzles. Eyeing not-Caleb with a pang of unease— not fully able to snuff out that feeling of uncanniness even as some days pass peacefully— you offer a small smile when he glances up at you.
Beaming just as he was the day before. Beaming like nothing is terribly wrong.
(To be clear, something is.)
You… can’t help but feel like you’re being monitored when he stares.
Yes, it’s a silly fear, you know that. The company your late brother worked for wasn’t exactly open with all the scientific grounds they made breakthroughs on, but he always promised that their means were lawful. Caleb wasn’t one for lies- so your doubts were soothed. So as hush-hush as EVER is sometimes, you’re fairly confident they wouldn’t ship out mass batches of faulty or otherwise rigged products.
Anyway- you suppose the weird intensity in its eyes isn’t all that off-putting when you take into account the very real personality it was formulated from.
When the pancakes (your favorite: banana chocolate chip; information he apparently already knew) turn an appetizing shade of gold, he shimmies them off the pan with a spatula and onto a plate.
That plate- loaded tastefully with bacon, a scoop of rice, and eggs with a ketchup smile painted over its face- slides before you. But though your belly growls, you don’t eat. Not right away. Wherever the culinary arts are concerned, your older brother has always excelled. Growing up, maybe you even exploited him a little for it- but he never did anything he didn’t want to; sometimes it even seemed like Caleb enjoyed sticking his neck out for you.
He pats his hands over his too-small apron (not that he minds it), frowning.
“What’s wrong, Pipsqueak? Does… Does the food look alright? I haven’t made somethin’ for you in a while, huh…?”
Oh no, the food looks fine.
It’s just that you’re the only one eating it.
And maybe it’d be better to keep that thought to yourself: part of you is just over the moon to have him standing in your kitchen with you after months apart— but it doesn’t matter that you keep your mouth shut, because Caleb reads your mind anyway.
He’s at your side in a blink, hushing away the tears that bead at your eyes out of nowhere.
“Hey, hey… No cryin’, okay? I’m just not hungry this morning, Meimei- but that doesn’t mean I won’t sit with you and talk while you eat. C’mon,” he squeezes your hand where it lies on the counter, smiling lightly.
It takes everything in you not to flinch away from the touch.
“Wouldn’t want your breakfast goin’ cold now, would we?” Pulling out the barstool beside you, he sits.
You don’t ask him to, but Caleb picks up your fork and embodies one of the several memories you have of him spoonfeeding you as a child.
“I can feed you. Just like the good ol’ times. Here, you gotta open your mouth first,” His smile strengthens when your lips, as if by habit, part. Your lashes flutter shut when that first bite touches your tongue- syrupy hotcakes and fluffy scrambled eggs- and for that you’re glad because you don’t have to see the way he marvels at you as you eat.
It’s not good for your heart.
“So? What does Pipsqueak the number one food critic have to say about my dish?” He shines, “Does it taste as good as it looks?” You can’t help the breathless laugh that escapes- the scene too nostalgic to simply idle away with indifference. You wear all your emotions on your face, anyway; you’re not fooling anybody, least of all Caleb.
“Even better,” you murmur with the barest of smiles. He presses another spoonful to your lips and you giggle.
Violet hues glitter with delight. You’ve said practically nothing to him this whole time, and he’s been patient- weirdly patient, almost- but the joy in his gaze is palpable now.
Sometimes, though, you can almost swear you see something in his gaze shift. Tuning itself like a lens. He blinks and it disappears.
“…But I will say your presentation could use some work. It’s a 7 out of 10.”
Caleb, still holding the utensil out, uses his other hand to prop his chin up. He smiles fondly as he regards you. As you’ve gotten older, it’s like every time you see the brunet, he looks at you like he’s taking you in for the first time all over again.
“Yeah?” He encourages. “Enlighten me, oh Pipsqueak- what must I do to earn those three extra points?”
“The ketchup smiley face was all lopsided,” you explain in a quiet voice, having a hard time fully immersing in this lie unraveling before you; beautiful as it is. As much as you might ache to.
This isn’t a good idea. You know that.
Still…
Maybe… maybe just a couple of conversations with him can’t be too bad, right? I mean, it’s only a fraction of what Gideon was expecting of you (lounging around together to chat, game nights, and even public outings), but to him, it’d be a start. For you, though, it’s a stretch. An exception.
You should limit interaction with not-Caleb.
You know this, and yet—
Glancing back to him, you try and fail to hide a coy smile with a napkin. “Next time, keep a steady hand, and you’ll be a perfect chef in no time. Maybe not as good as me, but, y’know…”
He chuckles, brows lifting. “Oh yeah? Then expect surgical precision from me tomorrow morning. Chef Caleb won’t let you down again!”
An intense sadness slips through the momentary happiness you were allowed. It nags at your chest.
You blink rapidly, giving a feeble, light sound before looking away.
You’ve never let me down, Gege, you don’t say, taking your fork from the clasp of his big hand (much to his dismay) to prod at your plate.
It was me who failed you.
✦
Not-Caleb looks like Caleb, yes.
He acts like him, too.
You spend the span of the next few weeks trying to scrutinize him; hours spent on the couch, his hand in yours while you grill him. You treat him like a bug under a microscope. Prodding for answers to questions you’re sure his programming must miss- interrogations built on memories so old they’re near ancient. Just blurry wisps in your mind.
Not-Caleb remembers some better than you.
Puts you to shame with his mechanical replies detailing scenarios you’re missing fragments of.
What’s Caleb’s favorite fruit?
I like apples, Pipsqueak.
And what’s my favorite food he’d make for me?
Easy-peasy. You still love those boneless chicken wings, don’t you? Although, that braised pork I make for you comes as a close second, doesn’t it?
Am I your real sister?
And you’d never ask the real Caleb such a thing. You’re only doing it now because it’s one of the most personal things you could possibly make a query of. His response would be very telling.
Life before you met him all those years ago is no more than a fuzzy glimpse, and you never minded all that much: so long as you had Caleb, nothing else, nothing before, mattered. All throughout your childhood, people didn’t know the difference anyway.
Far as they knew, you were family.
Which… isn’t wrong, per se— but it’s not biological. ‘Real.’
You, Caleb, and Gran were obviously aware of that. To you it was always a beautiful thing: a tale of rebirth, in a way, or a second chance, as a young girl found a new place to call home with a warm guardian and a brotherly figure. They’d stabilize her and bring warmth to an otherwise cold beginning.
Caleb was never spoken for on that front.
You… didn’t see eye to eye on all things. Oh, that much is true.
Sometimes you were convinced that he wanted nothing to do with the assumption that you were his little sister (albeit, you were never sure why). At others, it was like he was furious you were only bound to him in name and not blood. He saw it as an attack on your close bond.
…But Not-Caleb surely doesn’t know all his nuances. Not like you came to.
So you’re expecting a pause. A minor glitch or even a malfunction as the robot scours his database.
Got him, you almost think to yourself— then swiftly take it back.
The face of the android sat at your side falls, much to your surprise, into a small frown.
And the truth must be coded deep in the bulwarks of not-Caleb’s artificial brain: your and Caleb’s respective origins. The answer is no. No, you’re not his real sister.
…But your real Gege would lie and say yes, absolutely you are—
“‘Course you are,” Not-Caleb goes. And he does it with as much passion behind it as you’d expect.
You’re startled into silence.
He scoots impossibly closer and loops an arm over your shoulder, tucking your head to his jaw. Seamlessly, he pecks your hairline, saying, “You’re my sweet little Meimei. You’re priceless to me. Now no more pickin’ at me, okay?” He suggests in a light tone, rubbing your shoulder. “You’ve been questioning me all evening- look, it even got dark out. Let’s get you to bed-“
“I- I didn’t say I was tired-“
“You didn’t have to. I could tell you were startin’ to get sleepy, Pipsqueak,” he looks down at you and smiles- a reassuring, yet no less playful smile- and for one moment you cant breathe because fuck it’s him. It’s really, really him. “Your drooping eyes were a dead giveaway. Hm... I guess that big dinner we had put you in a food coma, huh?” He chuckles.
We. Funny, that. You recall the feast being one-sided.
Nonetheless.
Without prompting, he sweeps you off the couch and walks you up the wooden stairway. The old steps creak underfoot. He does it all effortlessly, though, arms as strong and capable as you remember.
You loop your slimmer ones around his neck.
With great hesitance, you lend a part of yourself to this illusion.
This beautiful, near unbelievable, oh-so fragile illusion that Caleb is not dead.
When you reach your bedroom, you don’t send him off to the guest room like all the nights before. No, when he carefully sets you down, you watch him, motionlessly, as he tucks you in and plants a chaste kiss to your forehead. When he turns to go- “don’t let the bed bugs bite”- you snatch his hand, half terrified you’ll blink and he’ll be gone, and flash him a look that silently pleads.
Stay.
The brunet’s lashes flutter, brushing over his cheekbones where the lamplight makes them shine.
He opens his mouth.
Pauses, then closes it.
“Stay. Please, Gege,” you breathe, on the cusp of shattering all over again. It’s become more manageable over recent days, this unresolved cluster of emotion inside you, but it’s times like these that make you feel blindsided by it.
You innocently add, “Like when we were kids.”
Oh, you’d go back to then if you could.
His long fingers, loose in your hold, flip to swallow up your hand. He stoops over to turn off the light.
His voice shakes ever so slightly, “Okay.”
Then, he clambers into bed with you and reminds you of just how small it is, how much he does not belong, but you’ve never felt more at home when he pulls you to his chest and- dutifully ignoring the quiet beneath your ear, the absence of a pulse- you cling to him.
Maybe it’d be a little weird, the proximity, what with your grown age and the fact that you were no longer children cuddling during thunderstorms…
It’s not like you’re hanging off him like he’s your lifeline for any nefarious reason, though- and it’s not like he can hold any judgment anyway. He’s… He’s not really Caleb. He’s not even a person. Just a sentient robot that resembles him to a shocking degree and soothes that ache in your chest- just by a smidge.
…And yet when he looks at you, suddenly, tilting your jaw up so he can admire what he sees in the darkness- your stunned expression lit faintly by the moon- it’s like he’s reading this in his own way.
His interpretation? you realize in a shaking breath?
He’s no longer holding his little sister, but a woman.
It’s in his eyes, rippling as he exhales deeply (all artificial, albeit you don’t dwell on that for long) and thumbs over your lip.
A boyish kind of wonder lifts his brow as he stares, cheeks slightly flushed.
Your heart bangs in your chest. Like gunshots punctuating the silence. It grows to be unbearable. This is weird, and wrong- the way he’s looking at you. But you quickly chalk it up to a malfunction.
It’s all a fluke, technology fucking up in a way that reminds you of humanity’s shortcomings and how far they can only go.
Finally, you’ve found the fault in its design. The place where Caleb and not-Caleb differ.
You know your beloved older brother like the back of your own hand, so when his eyes flutter (flash, almost) and he lurches forward to clumsily press his lips to yours— you label the action for what it really is.
An inaccuracy.
Perhaps, you think as you close your bleared eyes and let him, the only. Because the rest of his program is perfect. Infallible.
The scene unfurling is foreign- his big hands cupping your cheeks as he kisses you like his life depends on it- but as he shifts you beneath him and hovers atop, that signature softness remains. Really, as his fingertips reach for your shorts—
(A blip of something mechanical in its fiery gaze, almost as if it’s trying to rectify itself; the shortest of pauses—)
It’s all that grounds you.
“Caleb,” you moan, or cry. You don’t know. Just that when he helps you out of your panties to go down on you, digits delving inside your tight hole after he wets it with his tongue, your heart sings for him.
You don’t push him away. No, even as the humanoid sullies your late brother’s image with all his sinful hungering, you can’t break yourself free. Never find it in you to.
Because it doesn’t matter what he treats you as. You realize belatedly, with no small amount of horror, that you don’t even care how many flaws Not-Caleb has. He could have a million for all you care, you’re already too far gone- writhing underneath him as he holds your legs open and feasts- to pretend you have any right to feel offended.
And if the real Caleb was here, he’d hate you: an echo in your skull, sneering. He should, but-
“There, Meimei, ngh…” a hot tongue (no longer as cold as he was in stasis) laves along your folds. Mauve eyes look up to you with reverence, glittering in the dark.
“Just like that. Moan, say my name- I’ve been waiting for this for so long…”
You wear ignorance like a blindfold. Shutting your eyes and ears.
A fluke. His hardware stalling.
His hair woven in your fingers feels like velvet. Soft, silky; hanging over his brow as he eats you out- skillfully, might you add. Albeit his passion wins out by just a touch against his expertise, clumsily plunging his two middle fingers into your pussy.
“You taste so good, so sweet- mmph- I’ll take care of you, okay?” He mumbles in between lewd squelches.
In both physical and moral terms, there is not one thing about this that isn’t filthy.
Y-You know that, but…
“Don’t worry. I’ll- ah- I’ll make sure you feel real nice. I’ll make you come as many times as you want. I’ve been… dreamin’ of this for years now… I won’t mess this up, okay? I’ll do whatever it takes until you’re shaking.”
-but this is all you have left of him.
Hazily, you glance down to him, cheeks aflame, and barely succeed in asking, “C-Caleb- h-how are you even gonna-? You-“ you choke on the words you need to say. With a mite of dry humor, you think right then that you’re short-circuiting just as bad as him (because he is).
“Are you capable of it?”
Of fucking you? Of pinning you down and throwing your ankles over his shoulders to better plow you into your creaking, old mattress?
His brow twitches slightly. Voice ragged, he makes an agreeable sound, pressing a kiss to your clit so adoring it’s almost funny when his finger bends sensually inside you. “Are you doubting my abilities, Meimei? I’ll have you know I’ve been practicing this moment in my head for—“
No. You slam your eyes shut and drown it all out.
His words become a white noise. No different than the steady whir of the air conditioning as a cool breeze gusts beneath your door, cooling your forehead where it beads with sweat.
A- A glitch, you quietly decide. Even long after he’s made you cum thrice (twice on his fingers and tongue, once on his thick, flushed cock), you hold staunch to that.
It’s all just a fluke.
✦
When the sun rises, you wake with a start to a phone ringing- yours- and swallow a lump of unease at the figure lying beside you (your Gege, a voice in your head reminds: you silence it).
Prying off the solid arm around your waist to gingerly exit the room- still half-naked- you piously ignore the cum caked to the inside of your thighs. Yours, it must be. You don’t focus on the confusion, either, the ask of just how the hell last night was possible and why you let your emotions get ahold of you.
(Because you love him. And maybe, just maybe- in your own weird, admittedly morally-grey way- you can cobble together a sense of normalcy with him. At least just for a little bit...)
As you head to the living room downstairs, you tap your phone and lift it to your ear.
“G-Gran,” you say as greeting, smoothing your hair back, still quite ruffled over… recent events. Ruffled and ashamed.
Very.
But- while he looks like Caleb, he’s not in reality. That… malfunction last night is a blatant proof of that. You only got on your back and let him have his way with you because you’ve missed his touch so much that you’d quite literally accept it in any form.
If sex or his lips battling against yours- his whispered vows, as seemingly heartfelt as they were errant to Caleb’s true character- is all you’ll get of him, then so be it.
In your own way, messed up as it is, it’s almost like with his android, you get a chance to reconcile with the loss.
To say goodbye.
Because before that package arrived at your doorstep, you didn’t have the luxury of one.
A familiar, aged voice sounds over the line. “Hey, dearie, oh- I didn’t wake you, did I? You sound tired.” She’s one to talk, you think to yourself- but not with malice. Truth be told you’ve worried for her as of late.
It’s been lonely for you both, you’re sure, but even though she only lives on the other end of Linkon, you have trouble making the drive. You haven’t dropped by in a couple weeks.
There’s a few different reasons.
It’s hard to pretend you’re fine when you’re not, for one, that what happened with Caleb- the abruptness and lack of conclusion, the confusing aftermath of it all- never did. You try your best to plaster on a smile and be strong in your grandmother’s presence, but that’s easier said than done. Especially when that old house of hers is jam-packed with photos and tokens of your past with him— painful reminders whenever you do visit.
The newest excuse for not is guilt.
Frankly, Gideon is the only one who knows what’s going on. Hah- no surprise, being he was the main reason for your even ordering not-Caleb.
But Gran doesn’t know.
You haven’t told her about him. And after last night, what with your own release still dried to your legs (which wobble slightly; he was every bit passionate and then some), you don’t think you ever will.
She might actually slap you across the face, taking your willingness to believe in such a lie as an offense against her grandson’s vibrant character.
…If she found out what happened- that you opened your legs for him and moaned- she might go into cardiac arrest.
You didn’t… want that to happen, definitely not- I mean, you didn’t even have the time to prepare. But yes, you did let it.
And curse yourself for wanting your brother back, but—
“No, it’s fine, Gran,” you glance over your shoulder to the staircase. Finding it empty, you let out a breath. “Is something wrong? It’s… It’s early.”
—you’d be lying if you said it didn’t feel a little fucking blissful to wake up to his face again, just like back when you were inseparable kids.
She sighs on the other end, “no, no,” she starts. You think you hear a TV in the background; something to fill the silence you leave her to sit in. “Nothing’s wrong, my dear. I just… I haven’t seen you in a bit. I miss your face, Y/n. How are you doing?”
Like a dart to a board, guilt lands its mark.
You shouldn’t fluster at such a simple question, but you do. Not just because it’s so direct and genuine, but because a big hand rests over your shoulder and suddenly Caleb is there, standing behind you.
You straighten up from where you’re propped against the wall and quickly lift a hand to silence any words he may speak.
“I-I’m well, Gran. Sorry, just- I’ll visit soon, I promise.”
“I’d like that,” she murmurs. You’re aware of how much she means it and close your eyes with a wince. A broad palm, as if sensing your inner turmoil, rubs your shoulder soothingly.
You rub the bridge of your nose and don’t look.
“What’s… What’s been keeping you?” She broaches after a beat. Laughter from the television fades in and out over the speaker.
For a second, you freeze. You freeze because you fear she might know.
All for naught: “You’re getting enough sleep, right? I don’t want you overworking yourself. I know you’ve had a lot on your mind, sweetie- oh, God knows we’ve both suffered all these months without Caleb, but that’s no reason for us to fall apart either-”
You sigh shakily and bite down on a cry.
“Yeah, I know. But I’ve been better, Gran, okay? I…” Shiftily, you wet your bottom lip and give a half truth- as if that can relieve you of this weight. “I was talking with Gideon a little; he’s…. he helped me.”
She sounds pleasantly surprised. “Oh? Good, good. What about?”
Nosy as ever. Not that you’re complaining. It’s good to know someone cares- someone… real.
You swallow your unease. “He was just talking to me about his job and stuff. EVER... He told me he was finally getting that raise or whatever, so he’s doing well... I- I was prying per usual,” you joke to lighten the mood, “He, uh… he tells me more than Caleb ever did, so…” (And when his name started to feel like a sin to say, you don’t know.) “So, you know. I was just curious. He was checking in on me, too…”
Warm breath fans at your ear, fingers closing around your shoulder as he peppers kisses at your neck insistently- and you shudder. Clasping the phone tighter (because it suddenly feels unstable in your hands), you shrug off (not)Caleb for just long enough to say,
“Gran- I- I gotta go. Uh- someone else is calling me,” and to preclude any probing on her end- or extra guilt on yours- you add, “I’ll visit tomorrow, okay? I promise. I’ll- I’ll be there. I love you.”
A voice timidly mirrors it back, and then a big set of hands is taking the phone from you and ending the call.
You turn to him with a notch in your brow as he pockets it in the sweats he must’ve hastily thrown on after finding the bed empty.
“Caleb-“
You start, and his lips press to yours.
With some encouragement- hushing you between kisses, knuckling down your cheek affectionately- he shepherds you back upstairs, to your room.
“Nuh-uh, just let me take care of you, pretty girl, ‘kay?” He murmurs, smiling. You could die in peace to it, you think hazily as he lies you down— because the last mental screenshot you took of him before the accident was his handsome face crestfallen after you’d said something scathing.
To your defense, at the time, you thought he’d deserved it. Maybe he did. It’s hard to remember, but whatever the argument was about, it must’ve been stupid. Not worth it.
And… he’s not Caleb, he’s not, you know that, but…
“Lie back. It’s… It’s just you and me here. I want you to know that. And everyone else-“
(Gran, you realize he must mean; Gideon and all the other familiar and unfamiliar faces both at EVER.)
“None of it matters now. Just focus on me. On Caleb.”
(And how eerie is that? You muse with a whit of your rationale. The rest, as it withers, perhaps only does so for the sake of your own sanity.)
The whole world as it stands: nudged away to oblivion at his behest.
“O-Okay,” you give.
He’s not Caleb. But if this is your best- only- shot at reconciliation, then you’ll take him with arms open.
…
When he’s done priming you, he clambers on top and you experience a repeat of last night.
Deja vu, as fresh as a wound reopened, makes your mind lag a few increments behind reality. But when he starts to slow down, thrusts growing sloppy- it feels oddly real, and, head a bit clearer than last night, you register that.
…But it’s your release that stains the sheets. Steadily trickling from your hole, slicking his hips. It only makes sense that way; he might fuck like a human, but that’s all inherent to his program, you’re sure, built to please- and ultimately, he’s made of metal. Rods. You think you can feel them when you grab too tight, that hardness.
He leads you to the proverbial end of the cliff, and you survey the bottom one last time before- geronimo- you make that final leap.
When not-Caleb comes, he shudders in your arms.
Yet you swear… You swear something inside him, behind his lidded eyes, deeper in-
It’s like it shutters.
A flash. Brief and jarring, for a moment so bright it’s like your eyes have been virginal to light all along.
Just a malfunction, you decide with a spent sigh, sweaty in his solid arms as they make a cage around you, eager to sleep until noon.
Maybe you’ll mention it to Gideon next time he drops by.
Maybe he would know how to fix it.
✦
The days that follow after are foggy and empty. Like a moratorium of everything that once breathed in your life.
You wreathe not-Caleb’s neck with that beloved apple-shaped locket like he’s earned it.
Knowing nobody ever could.
✦
Gideon knocks, one afternoon.
You send him away. Or- Caleb does.
At that, you feel the need to remind him of who he is: the people he cares for, his career path, how he operated as a person before the incident in his suite in Skyhaven.
Caleb stops you short, a palm dwarfing the back of your own, and says I know. I just don’t want my buddy interrupting our time together, Pipsqueak. Can you blame me for wantin’ it to be just you and me?
You stop going out.
He doesn’t let you- not really. I mean, he doesn’t explicitly declare these rules over you, but it’s in the strange glint in his eye- the one that makes you shut your mouth and purse your lips- when he stops you at the door and suggests you stay.
Says it’s better that way. Says he worries whenever you go. Says to take him with you instead if you really must.
Progressively, you’re drifting farther and farther out from shore. Mentally-speaking, you’re going off the deep end. But exiting your house hand-in-hand with your brother- the man the town declared dead in an email you couldn’t bear to finish reading- as he stares at you like a lover, is, no matter the ache, something you can’t quite bring yourself to do.
It’d make this illusion just a smidgen realer. You’d never wake from this dream if other people saw it- saw him- and therefore made his presence more solid in your mind. (Not to mention the disgusting assumptions they’d make- none exactly wrong.)
You’ve been so consumed by grief lately, though, that the knowing of your imminent breakdown can’t stop you from making other bad choices.
So when the brunet altogether bars you from going out in public for the fear that something bad will happen to you (nonsensical; not that he sees the flaws in his arguments), insisting that groceries can be bought online, Gran can be checked up on over the phone, etcetera—
Yeah, you bend to it, alright? Sue you. Of course you bend. It’s all you know what to do anymore.
Gradually, though, the unexpected charm of not-Caleb begins to fade, and you’re left with a possessive form of the brother you once knew. A man desperately clawing at straws, hellbent to keep you at his side, clingy and insecure and, frankly, sometimes scary.
As the inaccuracies build, you’re not sure for how much longer you can overlook them.
The only reason you even tolerated him originally was because he was passable. More than that, even- he was perfect. A dead-ringer for Caleb in both appearance and personality.
But this-
This isn’t Caleb. No longer. It never was.
You don’t believe it for a second.
You heave a soft sigh. Anything louder than a breath brings the chance that he’ll overhear from where he stands in the kitchen and come zipping over, no doubt ready to fret and question you. If you value your time alone- rare as it is these days- then you’ll stay silent.
It’s a near impossible task to separate yourself from him. It was a small miracle in itself that you managed to break away for half an hour or so- but even that was begat by a lie. It seems the only real way to rid yourself of the overly doting, obsessive older brother (even if just for a few minutes) is to give him another demand. This time, it was an ‘I’m hungry’ that finally earned you some peace and quiet.
It’s a little sad, but lately you treat him more or less like a jacket after entering a warm home: you’re eager to shrug him off because the climate has changed.
The climate has changed.
He- He’s changed.
He’s growingly insane and yes, while the irony of that observation isn’t lost on you (considering you’re the mad woman who bought a human-like robot as a replacement in the first place), you still can’t help but feel alarmed as the signs of wrongness don’t cease but worsen.
You think about pressing the button. Turning him off, sending him away.
Hell, maybe you’d just dump him in the communal trash receptacles out back. Leave him there in a human-shaped bag for the garbage men to come and squint at before hauling away like junk.
…Because he is junk, right? No different than a crumb on the floor, you’d once said.
Perhaps you’ve lost it.
The section of your brain responsible for caring must’ve shut off, though, because it’s currently hard to feel much of anything.
…But there, like a soft stirring (or the voice of God as it whispered to Elijah)- you can sense it. That feeling is reminiscent of a survival instinct, or a watered-down version of it to tired nerves, breathing down the back of your neck where hackles rise—
What are you doing here?
The dream begins to fissure in real-time when Caleb (not-Caleb, you harshly remind yourself) cheerfully patters into the living room where you sit, helpful as ever, and his eye flashes as it settles on you. No different than a camera would.
The food looks delicious, per usual- you’d expect nothing less of your brother or even the robotic copy of him- but as nausea churns in your belly and you jolt upright, slapping a hand over your mouth as you run to the bathroom, nothing can save your appetite.
You shakily lock the door- but he’s knocking in an instant, worried.
You always did melt at his bleeding heart. Too often, men, especially the bigger of them, fell under the persuasion of apathy. Yet your gege was always different, always sweet, always gentle and patient and- yeah, okay, sometimes he was a touch mean, teasing to a fault- sometimes to the point of tears on your end as he quickly tried to right his wrongs- but he was preciously yours.
And he was real.
Dammit, he was fucking real-
He was alive and emotionally tangible in a way that this awful fucking hunk of metal is not and never will be—
“Pipsqueak-? Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Let me in. A-Are you not feeling well?” His words crack when you say nothing, dutifully ignoring him.
“Y/n… Let me in. Please-! don’t leave me alone, don’t go.” His voice becomes ragged, raw, the longer you don’t answer. Boyish in its vulnerability. “Stay- Stay here with me.”
By God your soul splinters down the middle. But you don’t answer. You- You can’t.
You throw your lunch up in the toilet and then your back against the wall, sliding down it with your hands over your ears like a child.
You don’t care, if he’s shouting and beating at the door, on the brink of hysteria like you’ve heard only once or twice when he was a boy too soft for his own good- you don’t care- you don’t care—
You sit there until he short-circuits out and thuds to the floor.
You flinch when he does.
Only then, however, do you tiptoe out- careful lest you trigger some internal response from him- to quickly pull on a hoodie and put your hair up, locking the front door behind you.
You don’t know for how long he’ll be conked out, but if luck is on your side, it’ll be for long enough to run to the local corner store and buy a pregnancy test.
You know you’re losing it, the little sanity you had left after your brother passed— misreading a common cold for a veritable child swelling in your womb.
It’s laughable: using your sleeve (another old piece of his clothing you ‘borrowed’, never to be returned) to dot away the tears at your lashline, you do laugh on the short trek to the convenience store.
But if not a reminder that you really are going crazy, losing control, then at least it’s just an opportunity to get some fresh air for a bit, right?
(…You also know that the first step to regaining back said control is to say goodbye to not-Caleb.
As it stands, though, you’re just-
You were never ready.)
✦
Two pink lines.
The thing clatters to the bathroom floor, and you along with it.
You sink to your knees and the white walls surrounding you feel more like an asylum than a space in your own house- because yes, you must be delusional. This is the final nail in the coffin.
But this- this can’t be right. It’s impossible. In the strictest sense of the word it’s impossible!
Heavy feet traipse in the kitchen; the livingroom; the hall, searching for you with faint, candied beckons of your name.
You rub your face as if to feel the color as it seeps from your complexion, and tell yourself that you’ve positively lost it as you thoughtlessly choose one of the corners to slump into, hyperventilating.
You’ll- you’ll send it back to EVER... You’ll send it back and forget and move on. You’ll move on. You’ll stop grieving, you’ll squirrel away your fraying, final memories of Caleb like you did all those precious photos in that old shoebox in your closet.
You’ll-…
A breath. The fan whirs.
The faucet, going full-blast, sputters, effectively drowning out the sounds you make as air becomes a tricky thing to intake; thick enough to choke on.
You’ll throw yourself into the fifth stage of grief then crawl out the other side of it if that’s what it takes to undo this fucking reality you’re lost in-
“Pipsqueak?” A hand on your shoulder.
Broad, big. A little weathered.
But gentle always. Gentle always. Just like you remember. Just like when Caleb meant Caleb; not the big glorified toy that walks and acts like him as an admittedly convincing, yet ultimately faux locum.
Your heart stills, hanging pendant in your chest. You swing from that uncertainty. By God you’d beat that handsome face in- oh, but by God would you kiss it, too.
The door sways on its hinge by splintered fragments, creaking behind the brunet.
Timidly, you lift your head over your shoulder to meet his eye where he towers behind you, violet hues softening with concern. They drift lower, honing in on the little item by your knee, wayward.
He coos immediately, enveloping you in his strong arms.
The feeling- it’s not exactly like that of the one you’d get while swimming in a hot tub, engulfed in its steaming waters, but it’s not too far off either. You let him hold you, unseeing as he all but sings in your ear, and restore the warmth to your bones.
Like a dead thing, or prey, you hang limp in his firm grasp. Terribly uncertain.
“Shh…” he croons, and you only realize a belated moment later that you’re crying. Hard and ugly.
He pets down your hair, ever the comforter, and as you press your head against his barrel chest it’s almost like you can hear a faint whirring in lieu of a heartbeat- speedy but low.
Unreal. Unreal. But then how-?
Perhaps you’ve lost it.
“We’ll figure it out together, honey,” you think it’s a barely concealed smile you register at the crown of your head, pasting down a kiss. “But no more cryin’, okay? I can’t stand to see you like this… Let me draw you a bath, hm? I’ll light some candles and we can talk about it. But don’t be scared. This is… such good news,” and then he laughs- a boyish, marveling little laugh that digs deep into your heart and twists.
The button, between his breastbone, just out of reach, glows faintly through his shirt.
For a moment you’re ready to press it like a player would on a game show— with urgency— but you blink and see those two pink lines searing themselves into your conscience.
Defeatedly, you shut your eyes. But you don’t shut him off.
✦
With Caleb preparing dinner, you’re able to slip away one evening for long enough to call Gran.
For worried friends and relatives, your voicemail box is becoming quite the hotbed- but among them, your grandmother is the priority.
Propping yourself by the sliding glass door, you brush back the curtain and look out to the small, cookie-cutter yard as you accept the call. Not without a shaky breath to prepare you, though; it’s been over a month since your last visit, and while your calls haven’t been quite as behind, you still wince a bit every time her contact pops up.
You want to tell her.
If not about Caleb, then at least the small bump forming beneath your oversized lounge shirt. There’s excuses for it- ones to be frowned upon, yes, but they’d be believable nonetheless. Obviously, a pregnancy is not something as simple to hide as a robot you can turn on and off and, if needed, stuff in the coat closet until the coast is clear.
You want to tell her. But-
You purse your lips, answering, “Hey Gran.”
The tone of her voice, frazzled and barely holding together, sends a chill down your spine.
“Y/n- where have you been? Is everything okay? I’ve been- I’ve been calling all afternoon.”
You digest that information with a quirk of your brow, scanning across the lawn outside, and a thick swallow.
There’s the voicemails, sure; it was only two nights ago you were poring over them all and holding back tears of guilt. But this afternoon? It was quiet- almost blissfully so, spent curled up to Caleb’s chest on the sofa as you watched an old favorite movie and he happily fed you fruit-flavored candies from his hand every so often.
Nobody called, let alone multiple times. You’re sure of it.
“Gran- what? No, I’m fine. What’s wrong?” You start, tossing a nervous glance behind you, internally grateful that Caleb’s absent humming while he chopped veggies was too distant for the phone to pick up.
She blusters out, apropos of nothing, “Is he there with you?”
Something in you stills.
“Y/n- is he there with you?”
An abnormal rush of blood to your ears and a murmur of your heart as you stand confused. The fingers curled around your phone case jitter.
You hold it closer to your ear.
“What? What are you talking about? I-Is who here with me?”
Does she- There’s no fucking chance- does she know?
How?
Chest thumping, your pulse fluttering in the column of your throat as it bobs uncertainly, you begin to wonder to yourself if this is the time you come clean, lay all your sins out like cards on a table. Make the confession.
Push has come to shove, you think. And fuck if you know where all this is coming from on her end, if Gideon told her or she just miraculously put two and two together or-
An exhale on her end, shaking on its way out.
“Were you not told? Dear-“ she broaches, louder, more firm— and this is just milliseconds before the world as you know it- the one you freed of your hands and let reshape itself around a delicate delusion- buckles at the knees. It’s right before you do, too.
“They found him. They found Caleb.”
That breath, right afterward of her telling you, is like the first one after drowning.
Your eyes widen as you break the surface.
His- His body. The tinny footage they dredged up from the area showed he entered his home, but after the explosion, there was no sign of him, no ash no corpse no nothing— So you don’t know how the hell they managed to recover his pieces, let alone after they already ran clean-up crews through the charred infrastructure and hosed it down- but you’re hysterical at the news.
You were cruelly forced, all along, to just assume he’d been burned to nothingness.
So you don’t even care about the how. How it’s possible or how this is happening after several months of white noise and hurting on your end— you don’t care.
You were made to come to terms with his death, and you did, at most, acknowledge it- but evidently, you could never quite accept it.
…If this is your final chance to say goodbye- even if it just means peering over a metal table in the morgue as he lies disheveled, hardly recognizable under a sheet- so fucking be it.
You’ll say goodbye if it kills you.
“What-? Where- where?” Your tone reflects as much, urgent as you stagger over to the sofa, nearly tripping as you reach for the jacket slung over the arm.
“I-Im coming,” you croak out, words failing you as the velvety carpet feels like mud beneath your bare feet- hard to walk across, every step making you feel like a baby taking its first ones.
One second you’re navigating a truth so unbelievable it’s near violent as it barrels into you; in the next, you’re collapsing under the weight of it, too caught up in your own scrambling for your keys and the door to even think of not-Caleb.
Gran goes to timidly say something, but your ears are shot and you quickly interject, “Let me get dressed- I-I’ll be there! Is he at the morgue?”
“Oh, no, honey,” she quavers out, “He’s alive. The town just messaged me; they made a mistake with his death certificate- they’re revoking it as we speak. He’s in Skyhaven.”
The phone drops to the floor.
And then that, too, gives way beneath you.
…It’s good a helping hand is there for you, then. Shouldering your weight without prompting- fretful as he confiscates the device, no different than a teacher with an unruly student, swiftly disconnecting the call.
It tuts in your ear, but- more sober than you’ve ever been- you can only note the sympathy practically dripping from its tone for what it really is: the upshot of its near immaculate programming as it mimics your considerate gege to a T.
Not-Caleb noses against your nape and sighs.
Mutely, you wind a hand, tottering, uncoordinated fingers and all, behind your back to grope along his chest—
He easily gathers both your wrists in his palm, “hey now,” turning you around. He lifts your knuckles up for a chaste kiss, watching you intently all the while.
A cold weight settles over you, soaking you through like meat left overnight to marinate. From the kitchen, stirfry sizzles in the pan. A few moments more of it and the smoke detectors will fire off.
…He just leans in to peck your forehead though, deaf to the sirens you hear wailing in your head, having mastered the art of playing dumb long ago.
He murmurs, as cloying as cake frosting, “C’mon, Pipsqueak, let’s go eat. Dinner’ll be done in just a sec. I made one of your favorites. After that, we can sit around the couch and brainstorm some more names for the baby- what d’you think?”
Flukes, malfunctions, glitches— no; Not-Caleb, you realize right then, ceasing to blink as you stare at its prototype through the shifting lens head-on, was never flawed.
summary: the mission's over, he's safe. but something in caleb still burns, and you're the only way he knows how to cool it down.
tags: NSFW, established relationship, rough sex, dry humping, unprotected sex, slight dom!caleb
Caleb is the type to fuck you right when he gets home from a long mission.
The door hardly shuts by the time he gets his hands on you. No “hi” before you're crushed into him, one arm tight around your waist, the other fisting into your shirt, kissing you like he's dying for it. He's hard in seconds, grinding his dick against your hip like it hurts.
“Missed you,” he mutters, dragging his mouth down your neck.
“Missed this.”
And fuck, how he loves it when you pull him closer by that damn dog tag.
He groans—low, guttural—and pants against your skin like a man undone. “Thought about you every night,” he growls, a hand slipping under your waistband, fingers greedy. “In bed, in the shower—couldn’t even hear your name without getting hard. Couldn’t think straight.”
His fingers find you soaked, his touch practiced but shaking with restraint. When he hits your clit—pressing, circling, teasing—you cry out, hips stuttering against him.
“You should’ve heard me,” he rasps, teeth grazing your ear. “Trying to jerk off quietly. Thinking about you bent over for me, moaning my name, dripping for it.”
You can barely breathe, barely stand, your legs threatening to give out beneath the force of his hand and the heat blooming low in your belly.
He catches you like always: one hand steady at your back, the other working tighter circles against your swollen bud until you’re whining into his shoulder, hips chasing his palm like you’ve got no shame.
“Just like that,” he pants. “Fuck—that's my girl. That’s what I missed. The way you melt for me. The way you need it.”
He drags his jacket off in one fluid movement, the heavy fabric falling to the floor without a second thought. His hands are on your thighs next—lifting, wrapping your legs around his waist like it’s nothing. Your back slams into the wall, and he grinds into you again, dick thick and pulsing through his pants.
“I’m not waiting,” he snarls, fumbling your pants down with one hand, the other still bracing you like it’s effortless. “Don’t need the bed. Don’t need to be gentle. I need you now.”
You manage to nod, and that’s all he needs.
He frees himself in seconds, belt already undone, zipper halfway down. His cock is flushed, hard, twitching in his hand as he strokes himself once, twice, just to hold off the edge.
“Gonna fuck you full,” he says, voice low and wrecked. “Not pulling out. Not after the week I’ve had.”
He presses the tip against your entrance, dragging it through your slick folds with a shaky groan. He doesn’t push in yet, just nudges, teases, until your thighs are trembling around his waist, breath catching with every pulse.
“So wet,” he grits. “You missed me too, huh? Say it.”
“I missed you,” you gasp, nails clawing at his back.
He smiles, breath ghosting your cheek. “That’s more like it.”
And then—he thrusts in.
One slow, brutal push that stretches you open, drags the air from your lungs, and knocks all thoughts clean out of your head.
“Fuck,” he groans, forehead pressed to yours, hands flush against your ass. “There you are. So fucking tight. Made for me. “
He doesn’t move right away. He just holds you there: impaled, stuffed full, belly bulging with the imprint of his cock.
Your walls flutter helplessly around him, and Caleb’s grin turns feral.
“I could stay like this,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your jaw. “Right here. Balls deep. Never leaving again.”
But he does move.
He pulls out slowly, leaving you empty for just a heartbeat, then slams back in with a harsh grunt.
The rhythm builds fast—brutal, hungry, like he’s cramming every day apart into the space between thrusts. Each pump hits your cervix, dragging cries from your throat, his name tangled in each and every one.
You’re close already. It’s building fast—too fast. How fucking much did you miss him for you to want to cum this quick?
“Feeling close, sweetheart?” he pants, voice rough. “Come on. Want to feel you fall apart.”
You arch your back, hands trembling.
“Fuck—there it is,” he growls, slamming into you again.
You break.
The orgasm rips through you hard—legs shaking, nails digging into his shoulders, walls fluttering around him. You sob his name as you cum, clenching so tight around his cock it drags a noise from his chest that sounds like he’s choking on it.
“Fuck, Caleb!”
You can feel him unravelling, too.
His hips jerk, pace faltering, grip bruising and tight on your hips like he’s trying to hold the whole world together with just your body.
“Shit—fuck—you feel too good,” he gasps, burying his face in your neck. “I’m not gonna last either, pips.”
You can barely answer, your knees wobbling, core aching, and his dick dragging so deep you swear he’s reaching your soul. Your grip tightens around his shoulders, grounding yourself in the one thing that feels real—him.
“Fuck—fuck—take it,” he growls.
He slams into you one last time, staying there, buried completely to the hilt. And then it hits—a twitch, a shiver down his spine, his cock pulsing as he cums with a whine ripped straight from his chest.
He holds you through it, thrusts slow and heavy, dragging every last spurt as he fills you. You feel it leak around where you both are connected, dripping down your thighs, soaking both of you.
And still, he doesn’t pull out.
He stays there, arms wrapped around you like you’re the only thing anchoring him.
“I fucking hate leaving you,” he murmurs, finally, forehead resting against yours. He looks completely spent.
You lean into him.
Then, quieter, more certain, more him—
“Next time I come home?”
He kisses your neck. “I’m fucking you before the door even closes.”
warnings. fem! reader, taking your v-card, reader is a virgin, dirty talk
⋆. 𐙚 ̊ zayne
zayne was anxious, very much so, trembling with his excitement as his forehead presses to your throat, his breath shaky with how hard he's trying to hold himself together, "are you sure?" he whispers at first, even though his hands were already gripping against your hips, like your yes would be the only thing that ever mattered.
and when you gave it to him, a silken sweet, real, response, he exhales like he's on the brink of dying, like you're honestly saving him with your answer.
"you don't get to take this back," he utters within a hoarse tone, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear ever so softly, "you give it to me, you chose me."
he says it like it's something sacred, like he's owed the softness between your legs, the stutter of your breath, the shiver of your thighs clamped around his hips, all in all with his hands slowly spreading you open, bare and exposed beneath him, untouched, and the glimmer in his eyes was honestly luscious, like zayne wanted to burn this moment into you until it scarred.
and then, well, he pushes in as your back arches immediately, the stretch resembling fire— like your body was folding in on itself trying to take him fully.
you cry out without meaning to, your voice cracking, the pain sharp and intimate and new, fuck, you've never felt anything like it. something so thick and overwhelming was repeatedly pushing through you, the friction of him splitting you open— muscle dragging against muscle, tight and wet and far too much.
"fuck, listen to that," he snarls against you with gritted teeth as his hips inch forward again, the sound of him sinking into you beginning to be loud and soaked, not to mention raw as your pussy clenches hard and somewhat instinctive.
zayne groans the moment he feels your body accepting him— he was, in fact, utterly gone by this point, finding himself in heaven in the way you whined for him.
your pussy clung to his length as his hand clumsily fumbles at your hip, trying to slow himself down, trying not to break you, fuck, but his rhythm falters and his mouth finds your throat instead— hot and open kisses battering all over your flesh with teeth scraping just to feel you twitch again.
your legs were out of control, thighs shaking around his waist as you didn't know it would feel like this— like you're being hollowed out from the inside, like there's no room and no air, nothing, no way to separate the ache from the pleasure that's already bleeding in at the edges.
you can feel him for real this time— hot and thick and twitching inside you, truly, feel every vein, every slow drag of his cock pressing against that too sensitive place that made your toes curl, such place you didn't know existed in the first place.
after a while, you adjust a little and get used to the new feeling as he's trying to go deeper, over calculating on how much your virgin cunt could take as you suck in a ragged breath and sob out something broken yet sweet, your fingernails digging into his back and still, zayne never stops memorizing your reactions.
his pelvis presses flush to yours as you cry out again, your stomach tight with unbearable pressure as a dull pulse starts to throb low and hard into your tightness with your nerves fried and limbs shaking.
the pain and heat on your split cunt blurs at the edges and gradually develops into pleasure, everything reduced to the feeling of being full and completely owned as you find solace in the new sensation making you addicted to his touch.
"i told you," he breathes out, his voice tight like he's holding his heart in his teeth, "this isn't just sweet, yeah? it's not just soft, this is real, love, this is you giving yourself to me, and sweetheart, i'm not letting go."
ever so, zayne was careful even now, even with how fast he was going, how ruined you felt around him because, well, he's a doctor, wasn't he? he's spent his whole life learning how to fix what's broken, yet with you, all he wanted to do was feel you, let the control slip just for once, let this moment etch itself into your bones.
⋆. 𐙚 ̊ xavier
xavier watches you fall apart like he's taking notes— yet he wasn't frantic, he was patient and methodical, a hunter who's already mapped your collapse long before the first touch as with each squeeze and kiss, he shows you that it wasn't curiosity calling him— it's certainty that he wanted this to be with you. forever.
he's towering over you, his breath caught somewhere between awe and hunger, "you're really giving this to me?" he whispers, almost in disbelief, drowning in the moment with his speech being the only thing keeping him afloat, "i'm so lucky,"
his fingers flex tight against the inside of your thighs with his nails biting in, holding you open like a wound as the warmth of his palms burn through your skin.
you feel him there, right here yeah? feel it everywhere.
his cock splits you slow and brutally, the stretch pulling a sob from your chest as your lungs felt too small to bear it and your ribcage too tight to hold it down, your whole body resisting and yearning in the same breath. although he moves deeper, dragging thick through you and you swear you could feel the shape of him break you, feeling it in every vein and every twitch moving forward, every grind of bone and flesh into your virgin cunt being taken so well.
"see?" xavier breathes, frayed with hunger, "you're taking me, even when you said you couldn't."
but it aches— fuck, it aches, you cannot stop moaning, every press of him grinding up against something electric inside of your cunt making your back arch, your fingers clawing at the sheets.
it's slick too, soaking wet and overwhelming— your thighs all sticky with slick and arousal as his hips slam wet and fast into yours with a rhythm that felt like pain turned to pleasure.
your nerves were on fire and everything from the inside out of your body pulses with your belly drawn taut, consistingly multiplying in pressure as his cock fucks into you drastically, your head empty except for the maddening throbs his erection put inside you. at this point, your voice had become a mess of moans and pleas as all you could hear were grunts and hisses intertwining with your very own noises.
xavier felt just so good— he's out of this world and treating you so well, reaching places you never thought were able to be reached in the first place as he grew quite confident in his movements.
whenever he brushed his cock against your walls, you could feel your high approaching with every new snap of his hips, the position he had you in allowing the tip of his cock to reach deep enough for you to properly get used to it.
sweat clings between your bodies and turns you into one, your skin burning and flushed as the air was thick with pheromones and whines and the soft, saccharine coated sounds of him driving into you over and over and over again.
⋆. 𐙚 ̊ rafayel
you cannot speak and it's futile to even try.
instead, your lips were parted, with breath stuck somewhere between a gasp and a sob as your chest rose with shallow, shuddering motion when rafayel slides his cock inside for the very first time— slow, of course, with his mouth at your ear, "relax," he whispers as his tip bumps upwards, sloppily thrusting into your folds, "you gotta let me in."
your muscles resist although at last, they seize around the stretch with the burn being intoxicating. you're a little anxious about it and he notices by how hard your nails clawed at his biceps— stabilizing yourself to anything while he adjusted himself, inch by inch making you take more of his cock into the small, untouched part of you.
such place no one else has ever felt, and fuck, rafayel's mouth waters at the thought, and well— he admires you, drinks in your struggles to take him as his breath comes sharp through his nose, although his hands remained steady.
one wraps around the base of your spine, the other cradles your jaw as he keeps your head turned just enough for him to study every flicker of pain that crosses your face, "you feel that?" he asks, voice a little raspy, "that's the shape of me, don't resist it,"
you whimper, your thighs slick with sweat and the mess of him spreading slow inside you and ugh, the pain, without rafayel being so considerate and talking you through the entire process, you wouldn't be able to handle it— it's so sharp and gnawing and too much, it brings you to tears, the unrelenting force of him coiling somewhere deep inside your gut, becoming unbearable.
how flustered you have gotten considering he wasn't even all the way in yet, yet you already felt like you're being broken in half.
with that, rafayel laughs when your hips involuntarily twitch, stroking your cheek with the back of his hand and murmuring so softly it vibrates through you, "you're doing so well for me, sweetheart, so brave, letting me be your first."
his lips trail down your throat as he groans when you shiver around him, every inch dragging liquid fire through the both of you, "you feel that? how warm you are? how soft you are around me? like you were made for this— for me."
your shy gaze averts from his heavy one as he found it so unbelievably cute and amusing that you still managed to feel embarrassed even after taking his cock so perfectly with your cunt by now.
rafayel pauses his hips for a bit, his forehead sensually pressed to yours, "you're not hurting, are you? I can stop— i'd rather die than hurt you," if only he knew you thought if only he could go faster now.
fuck, your head falls back when you urge him to continue moving, his hand dancing over your stomach as he abruptly presses down— always gently, just enough for you to feel him moving deeper inside within an invading force.
"you like that? you want me to do it again?" he smirks, "you're so tight, don't even know how to take it myself, but fuck, i'll teach you, i'll teach you until your body only knows me."
⋆. 𐙚 ̊ sylus
you taste like need when sylus kissed you with your lips swollen, breath catching and the edge of panic sweetened on your tongue as his fingers trail down teasingly, forever feather light when your entire body tenses under the rub of skin on skin.
he treasures the lust in your limbs and the sheen of tears catching light in your lashes as his hands remain careful, but not hesitant, no, sylus was never hesitant.
he's memorizing every inch of you with that predator's patience— every hitch in your breath, every place that made your spine arch and your thighs twitch and now he's touching you like he's memorized the blueprints of your body.
sylus grinds into you with utter patience as he pushes through your sensitive hole, inserting just the head of course, just enough to make you feel the impossible stretch of him as your body betrays you.
a sound escapes and scratches your throat, truly, it was unrecognizable when you moaned his name for the first time, as if your soul had tried to flee through you and kiss his lips.
"you're shaking," his voice was velvet, stretched thin and vibrating desperately, surely about to snap, "do you want me to stop?" a pause lingers between your lips as his hand finds yours, "tell me, and I will, but if you want this, if you want me, i'll be so gentle with you."
sylus cannot take his eyes of you, he's breathless, as if that noise were a sacred thing, a proof of something irreversible— that your body was already surrendering before you'd fully let him in. the man believed you're out of this world, wanting you to feel everything— the swollen stretch of his length, the heat his body permeated, the hefty pressure of being entered this way, inch by inch around something so intimate.
"shh, i know," each of his words dragging deeper as his eyes lock on your face like it's a mirror to his own hunger, "you feel like silk, you feel like you're fighting it."
you are, yes, you're drowning in it.
his cock sinks deeper and the burn starts to slowly blur away, sensation blooming in sickening waves, pain and pleasure curling tight in your belly until you didn't know where one ends and the other begins. the sound of your body taking him was ringing through you and when his hips finally meet yours, you felt split, your thighs immediately jerking up, your stomach knotting as you make another desperate noise, both moaning into the kiss, exchanging your breaths as the feeling of him stretching you was to die for.
sylus doesn't move a lot in the beginning, just a few pumps ever so often to find out what you liked, although staying buried to the hilt, watching the flicker of your lashes and the way your mouth trembles open like you want to say something but cannot remember how to speak.
his pace was slow but steady, every grind of his hips forcing a soft, wet sound from between your legs as his hair brushes your cheek within each thrust, his warm breath prancing over your neck— yet when you finally start to unravel, when the pressure cracks you open and your breath breaks in a thousand shards, sylus seeks for your lips as you moan into them, a sound of you falling apart being the only thing holding him together.
⋆. 𐙚 ̊ caleb
you're underneath caleb, your heart pounding with a noise that didn't belong to your body, although not from fear, not entirely, it's due to him, yes— his darling face and angelic voice, murmuring your name like he's never supposed to say anything else.
caleb cups your jaw as his thumb sweeps over your cheek lovingly, your skin already burning from the softness of his hands as your thighs were slightly twinging from the way they've stayed open, aching in the weight of him.
"you're sure, really?" he asks again like he doesn't believe it.
but you nod at him and it kills him, choking up on the storm of sensation as the man moves closer when you take in his scent, the air permeating of pine and sweat and warmth, the dampness of your skin pressed against each other as the weight of his cock repeatedly nudging against your entrance was something fated, something unstoppable.
he kisses you deeply, tongue slow and ravishing your lips, like he's trying to memorize the inside of your mouth before he captures you further, your body flinches when he takes you at last, choking on the sheer breadth of it.
the stretch was cutting, your body clamping down on instinct and body saving energy due to turning overwhelmed and confused.
yes, it was painful, you cannot lie to yourself, and slightly dizzying too, like something too large being forced into a space that's never known intrusion.
caleb's hands were everywhere, one holding your thighs wide open, the other gripping your hand tightly and grounding you as he presses his forehead to yours, his breath stuttering against your lips, "breathe," he whispers, voice slightly cracking when you tense down on his length, "breathe for me, i've got you."
he's barely halfway in, and you can already feel it— stretching deep, dragging against your nerves that have never been touched before, quite literally stealing the air from your lungs.
not to mention that he was big, well, you could've guessed that yet despite that, your body kept pulling him in instinctively, not wanting him to leave anymore.
caleb gasps, "you're so tight, fuck, i can feel you shaking," you were, in fact, your whole body was shaking, belly fluttering with pressure and pain and something else— something lusting and awfully blooming low inside your belly, tight and insistent as he shifts his hips forward, just a little more, and it feels like you're being split.
his cock continues to move, dragging every wet inch against your walls as your muscles squeeze him, your eyes glimmering from how good you were being fucked as you instantly open more for him, trying to accommodate him as good as possible.
"you're doing so good," he breathes, "so perfect, you don't know what you're doing to me," as tears prick your eyes when he kisses them ever so gently, even as he keeps sinking in he whispers your name again, like he's swearing an oath.
truly, he's everywhere, moaning shamelessly like your body was the only thing that's ever mattered to him, inhaling your maddening scent sharply as he kept rutting inside of you.
"i can't believe this is real," he cries out with his mouth against your temple and his hips rocking in and out, the friction too much as you're still too sensitive when dig your nails into his back to sob into his neck.
you're crying, you don't even know why, maybe it's the pain, maybe the stretch, maybe the way he kept whispering your name like it's the only thing he's ever wanted to say. with that, you clutch to him tighter, needing him closer, needing him deeper, and caleb gave it to you instantly, everything you desired— every inch, every rock of hips, every broken word of promises.
"you'll never need anyone else," he speaks as if the air itself was fragile, every word cutting deeper as he places a couple kisses on your cheek before smiling into the skin, "i'm going to keep you like this forever."
he comes home at almost three in the morning, making sure he’s silent because he knows you’re sleeping. he hasn’t seen you in days after needing to be away to handle some business. so after his shower, with a semi hard cock, his head tilts just slightly as he watches your sleeping form. after he’s done admiring you, he’s climbing in the large comfortable bed, jerking himself off quietly—just to get his dick a little wet with precum. he’ll gently lift your leg, tug your panties to the side, and presses a gentle kiss to your neck as he slips inside of you.
and it’s sylus.
and you knew it was him. you heard him the moment he opened the bedroom door, smelled him as soon as his large and strong body was behind you. but he shushes you back to sleep when you began to really stir awake, whimpering as his thickness fills you. he whispers in your ear, “it’s me, kitten. just needed to feel you. go back to sleep.”
you wanted to pounce on him, but you were truthfully just too tired. so you gladly warmed his cock all night. but when the morning came?
you gently rocked your hips and he’d wake up with a breathy chuckle at your naughtiness. his hand would slide down your leg, lifting it just like he did last night and starts giving you lazy strokes. you feel every delicious inch as you helplessly squeeze around him.
and your sweet man couldn’t think of a better way to be welcomed home.
