summary: not for the first time, caleb is letting mc use him to satisfy her more carnal desires, but tonight she’s greedy for more (and he’s helpless to deny her)
pairing: caleb x mc
rating: explicit 🔞 (mdni)
word count: 920
tags: caleb POV, fem!mc, old days calebmc (mc is in university), forbidden relationship (gege trope; blend of CN dynamic and EN speech patterns, so can technically be read through either lens, but this leans more toward a pseudocest interpretation), dry humping, cursing, use of pet names (pip-squeak, princess), fade to black
note: also available in my love & drabble-space collection on ao3
He’s been here before, with her rocking against his thigh, the sweet heat of her cunt seeping through his trousers and the collar of his shirt pinched between her teeth. And every time, he thinks how easy it would be to take it further, to flip her over and slide her panties aside and sink his fingers into her. She’d probably let him— would probably even welcome the advance with how pleasure-drunk she gets during these illicit little trysts. Always whimpering for more. Always testing his resolve.
But he can’t— they can’t.
Even this is a step too far, but better she use him than some puerile, undeserving, manipulative weasel just trying to get his dick wet.
“Nngh, Caleb—”
“Shh, I know.” Caleb grabs the duvet to keep from grabbing her. They’re in her dorm, a chair wedged beneath the handle of the door in case her roommate comes back, but she assured him that was unlikely. Here’s hoping she was right. “Take what you need.”
She huffs and shifts her weight— swings a leg over his waist so that she’s straddling him properly, and oh shit, oh shit—
Caleb grunts in surprise. “What are you—”
“Taking what I need,” she says, and the next roll of her hips nearly makes him blackout with how exquisitely she drags herself along his length.
A garbled sound sticks in Caleb’s throat as he fights for a breath, for the willpower to lift her off of him and put an end to tonight’s affair. But when his hands grasp her waist, he ends up helping her deepen the motion, and she rewards him with a moan that goes straight to his cock. “Shit, pip—”
She presses a finger to his lips and, without breaking her rhythm, says, “Don’t you dare call me that right now.”
Caleb screws his eyes shut and tries to concentrate on anything except the way she’s grinding against him. Basketball. Laundry. The practical exam he’s supposed to take next week.
Fuck, she’s so warm.
“Caleb, look at me.”
He chokes on a whine and shakes his head. The only way he’s surviving this is if he gets control of himself right now, and he definitely can’t do that if he’s watching her expression twist in pleasure as she rides him.
“Look at me,” she says again, softer. “Don’t you want to see how good you make me feel?”
She’s going to be the death of him.
“C’mon, gege.” God forgive him, but the way that name spills across her lips—sultry when it should be chaste—pulls a groan from his chest. “It’s just us,” she finishes.
And that’s the entire problem, isn’t it? It’s just the two of them, alone, in a darkened room, pressed against each other in a way that mimics nearly all of his fantasies— the scenarios he only lets himself indulge in beneath a stream of hot water when his eyes are closed and his fist is wrapped around his cock.
No, the only way this arrangement works is if it’s about her and her alone. If he can delude himself into believing he’s just doing her a favor, or serving as an alternative to the lowdown skirt-chasers that infest this campus, or whatever other excuse he conjures whenever she gets that look in her eyes and crawls toward him and begs him to help her release some tension.
The illusion is already brittle. Him getting off would shatter it entirely.
“W-Wait—” He pins her against him with his Evol because he can’t think when she’s canting her hips like that.
The reprieve is short-lived, though, because she combs her fingers through his hair and leans close enough to whisper, “Let me take care of you.”
Caleb blinks. Stares at her in perfect silence as his house of cards comes crashing down around him. “You don’t—” His throat is unbearably dry from how hard he’s panting, and the words snag on the way out. He swallows. “You don’t need to do that.”
She runs her thumb over his lower lip, her eyes tracking the movement as she says, “Mmm, but I want to.”
With a sigh, he drops his head against her shoulder and takes a deep breath— which is a mistake. She smells divine. “You don’t mean that,” he mutters. She can’t mean that. Because if she does… if she does…
She settles her hands on either side of his jaw and picks his head up. Makes him look at her. “I’ve never meant anything more.”
He’s spent nearly half his life denying his instincts when it comes to her, and here she is, telling him there’s no need. It’s like dropping a fresh cut of meat in front of a kibble-fed dog.
“Please?” she says, her brows pulling together. “Just this once?”
He almost barks a laugh at the absurdity of that thought— of doing this exactly one time and then never again. He’d implode. “I don’t think I could handle this being a one-time thing,” he says haltingly, hoping it’s enough to knock some sense into her.
But she just smirks. “You promise?”
God, he wants to kiss her—wants to taste her as she whimpers his name—but he’s far enough in the hole as it is. “You’re sure?” he asks, and she nods, clear-eyed despite everything. If he were a better man, he’d refuse her. He’d walk out right now and put half a city between them. Instead, Caleb releases his Evol and says, “Your move, princess.”
Synopsis: In a future where war and technology have blurred the line between man and machine, Caleb was resurrected—not as who he was, but as who he was programmed to be. With only 3% of his original self left intact, the latest reboot of his chip has reshaped his logic, his purpose, and his understanding of his emotions towards you.
Bound by his own design, he has built you the Maze—a flawless, shifting sanctuary meant to protect the one person he refuses to lose. But protection and captivity are two sides of the same coin, and inside the Maze, freedom is just another unsolvable puzzle.
Will you escape, or will Stockholm Syndrome take hold before that day?
Details: 2600ish words. Some kind of spin off AU, but corresponds with in-game canons. Obsessive Caleb. Yandere Caleb. Controlling Caleb. Colonel Caleb. Crazy hot Caleb. 18+ due to psychological thriller/drama/angst galore (and a prelude for p0rn with plot, I’m just calling it now tbh lol). You are warned.
The sheets beneath your fingertips are soft, smooth against your skin—yet the coolness of the night still lingers, a stark contrast to the heat of your own body.
For a moment, you just lie there, still. Listening.
The room hums with a faint, steady silence—too perfect, too controlled. There’s no creak of floorboards, no shifting of walls, only the barely-there whisper of circulated air filtering through vents.
A breath. A heartbeat.
Then—
“Morning, sunshine.”
The sound curls through the space, warm, teasing, familiar.
You don’t flinch.
Your hands, hidden beneath your pillow, run over the rough scratches in the headboard.
Ten days.
Ten days in Caleb’s Maze.
Ten days of carefully mapping the shifting corridors, learning the rhythm of the walls.
Ten days of waiting for a single mistake.
You let your thumb press against the newest line, the wood rough beneath your nail. The only thing here that feels imperfect.
Ten lines. Today makes ten.
Your fingers move carefully, hidden beneath your pillow, tracing over the rough scratches in the headboard. The grooves are uneven, worn from repetition.
A habit now. A ritual.
Another inhale. Another second where you are just waking up.
Then, deliberately slow, you stretch—arms reaching high, toes curling, your spine arching briefly before you relax again, exhaling softly. You force yourself to move naturally. To pretend.
“Did you sleep well, Pips?”
His voice is smooth, effortless, the same playful lilt it’s always had. The intercom crackles faintly at the edges, a reminder that he isn’t here.
You push the sheets off, swallowing down the tightness in your throat.
“I’ve had worse,” you murmur.
A low chuckle hums through the room. Soft, unbothered.
“That’s not an answer.”
You don’t give him one.
Instead, you slide out of bed, bare feet meeting cool marble flooring, and head toward the kitchen. It’s pristine, the kind of luxury that feels staged, artificial. Polished marble, deep walnut cabinets, light spilling through windows that show a perfect sky that isn’t real.
You reach for a glass from the overhead rack—thin, cool, smooth against your fingers—before pouring yourself orange juice.
It’s cold when you drink, tangy with just the right bite of citrus.
“The apple juice is fresher.”
You pause mid-drink.
His voice is still warm, too conversational for someone keeping you captive.
“But,” Caleb adds smoothly, “you’re free to choose whatever you please.”
Your jaw tightens. You set the glass down too hard.
“Oh, how generous.”
Silence stretches for a moment, and you swear you hear the faintest flicker of static in the speakers. Like he was about to say something else.
Then—nothing.
You don’t wait for him to continue.
You turn on your heel, leaving the kitchen, heading toward the bathroom.
——————————————————————————
The mirror doesn’t lie.
You brush your teeth, staring at your reflection. Messy hair, sharper eyes. With a slow inhale, you smooth down the wrinkled fabric of your pajamas, then splash cool water onto your face, letting the droplets slide down your jaw. You straighten, gripping the sink for a moment before exhaling.
You look fine. Healthy.
And yet, something invisible coils inside you as you step out of the bathroom. The plush carpet yields softly beneath your bare feet, a stark contrast to the cold, sterile reality of the Maze beyond this space.
The walk-in wardrobe is spacious, curated to perfection, a collection of clothes you never asked for but were chosen with meticulous care. Your fingers trail along the fabrics, skimming over silken dresses, impossibly soft loungewear, intricate embroidery.
Not clothes meant for movement.
Not clothes meant for running.
But today, you dress for yourself.
Your hands move with quiet certainty. A fitted, dark long-sleeve shirt, breathable and weightless against your skin. Black cargo pants with deep pockets, light enough for speed, flexible enough to run.
You don’t rush as you pull the shirt over your head, as you fasten the buttons on your pants.
You don’t care if he’s watching.
Let him.
You glance at your wrist, at the smooth, metallic weight of the watch he gave you—shaped like an apple, polished to perfection. A taunt. A joke only he found amusing. You’d scoffed when he fastened it around your wrist on the first day, smirking like he was doing you a favor. As if time mattered in a place like this. As if knowing the hour would change the fact that every second still belonged to him.
And yet, it had given you something.
You’d started noticing the patterns. The way his voice filtered through the speakers more often at certain times, his presence reduced to an unseen observer rather than the man himself. A shift in routine, a window of opportunity. If he wasn’t here in person, then maybe—just maybe—it was the best time to run.
Your best chance.
You step into the halls.
——————————————————————————
The Fleet, Administrative wing, Caleb
The Maze breathes.
Not in the way a person does—not with lungs or with a heartbeat—but with the constant, seamless shifts of its corridors, the silent recalibration of its pathways, the ever-adapting nature of its design.
It moves because it is meant to.
Because he made it so.
His design.
From his office aboard The Fleet headquarters, Caleb watches.
Multiple screens flicker in front of him, displaying live feeds from the Maze’s surveillance systems. Some show stark, metallic corridors bathed in cold fluorescent light, their silence almost oppressive. Others reveal lush, curated spaces—gardens where bioluminescent flowers bloom in a soft, otherworldly glow, their petals unfurling like whispers against the artificial breeze.
Waterfalls cascade down smooth stone walls, their shimmering descent captured in crisp, high-definition clarity. Libraries sleek and modern, with floor-to-ceiling glass, dark wood shelves lined with both rare books and glowing data slates, and plush leather seating bathed in soft, golden light—a seamless blend of luxury and knowledge.
Yet, despite the breathtaking variety before him, his attention is drawn to one screen in particular. Something about it—perhaps the flicker of movement, the subtle shift in shadow—demands his focus.
You.
You stand before the open wardrobe, fingers skimming over the array of fabrics, hesitating.
Something twists in his chest.
It happens fast, instinctive—like a flicker of old wiring trying to reroute itself. Something he shouldn’t feel.
But he does.
His violet eyes trace every detail as you shift through the clothing options. There’s an abundance of choices—elegant silks, soft cottons, layers meant for comfort rather than necessity.
And yet, when your fingers pause, it’s on something practical.
Dark, fitted. Movable.
A slow, amused sound escapes him—“tsk, tsk, tsk.”
He already knows.
Even before you strip off your nightwear and begin sliding into a long-sleeve shirt, breathable and light, he knows.
You’re planning to run.
Again.
His gaze lingers for a second too long as you fasten the buttons on your cargo pants, checking their fit, testing their flexibility. It’s almost methodical, the way you move—not just dressing, but preparing. A muscle feathers in his cheek, and without thinking, his teeth catch his lower lip, a small, unconscious bite—barely there, barely a reaction, but enough. A fleeting lapse in control before he smooths it away, blinking once, recalibrating.
Caleb exhales through his nose, fingers loosely tapping against the polished surface of his desk. The gesture is unconscious, almost idle, but there’s an undercurrent of something he can’t quite name.
Not frustration. Not even disappointment.
Something closer to sadness.
For a moment—just a moment—he allows himself the thought:
You don’t trust him.
Even after ten days in the Maze, after the security, the warmth, the meals he ensures are exactly as you like them—you still choose to run.
That small, dying fraction of himself—the part that still feels, still remembers, still wants—aches.
Then, just as quickly, he shuts it down.
His violet gaze hardens, refocusing his thoughts, and with a measured glance toward the digital clock in the corner of his screen, he makes a decision.
“Early lunch then.” The words are low, absentminded, spoken only to himself.
He stands, rolling his sleeves down, adjusting the crisp lines of his uniform. His movements are fluid, practiced—not rushed, not tense.
This isn’t unexpected.
You always were predictable in your defiance. And while he should be sitting through another briefing on Fleet logistics, securing operations for Skyhaven’s next expansion project, this takes priority.
You take priority.
Without another glance at the monitors, Caleb steps away from his desk, his boots echoing lightly against the pristine floors of his office.
His command to The Fleet’s automated systems is brief, quiet, and final.
“Cancel my schedule for the next hour.”
——————————————————————————
The Maze, you
The air is fresh, sterile. The Maze is designed to feel real, but it isn’t.
Some corridors have grass growing in patches, soft beneath your steps. Others are lined with polished stone, textured enough to feel almost natural. Somewhere, hidden beyond the walls, you hear the soft, rhythmic hum of unseen machines. The constant, inaudible shifts of the Maze adjusting itself.
Every sound. Every change.
Caleb built this place beautifully.
But a golden cage is still a cage.
You let your fingers graze the walls, memorizing the faintest seams. The air is still, too quiet. You keep walking, turning a corner—
Then—
A door stays open a second too long.
Your breath catches.
You move. Fast, silent, sharp.
Each step is calculated, your feet landing light against the ground as you slip through the threshold before it can close.
The first hallway is clear.
Your pulse spikes, adrenaline flooding your veins.
A second hallway—open.
You keep going.
Your heart pounds.
A third hallway. Open. Your pulse spikes, adrenaline burning hot in your veins.
You don’t stop. You don’t think. You move.
And then—
A shadow. A shift in the air.
Arms wrap around your waist.
A solid, crushing force, an unyielding grip stronger than your own body. Your breath leaves you in a sharp exhale, and you thrash immediately. Fingers claw at his forearm, at the muscle in his wrist, nails digging into flesh—but he doesn’t even flinch.
“You know better than this, Pips.” Caleb’s voice is too steady. Too calm.
The fight in you explodes.
You shove back, twisting, slamming your elbow into his ribs. It’s a clean hit, right where you aimed—
And he doesn’t even move.
“Really?” Caleb exhales, the sound a mix of amusement and something dangerously close to indulgence.
You fight. He doesn’t flinch.
In a single motion, he lifts you. Effortless. Controlled. Like this was always how it would end.
Your breath stutters as the world tilts.
His hold is secure, strong, completely unshaken. His body is warm against your back, his presence a wall you can’t break through.
“I’m disappointed,” Caleb murmurs. “I thought we were past this phase.”
You twist again, wild, desperate—he tightens his hold.
It isn’t painful. It’s just inescapable.
“Still fighting me, huh?” A sigh, low, almost indulgent.
Then—he turns.
And carries you back. Deeper into the maze.
——————————————————————————
The door hisses shut behind you, locking with an unmistakable click.
The room is warm. Comfortable. Familiar. Which only makes you hate it more. Everything here is chosen for you. The plush seating, the softest blankets, the bookshelves filled with titles you’ve mentioned in passing. There’s even a record player in the corner, already humming out a low, nostalgic tune.
Caleb has built you a paradise.
And then he’s tied you to the chair.
The contrast is almost comical.
A high-backed, cushioned armchair, angled just slightly toward the crackling fireplace. The restraints—thin, smooth straps, nothing rough or cruel—keep your wrists and ankles in place.
And once again it’s not painful. Just inescapable…
“You know,” Caleb says conversationally, adjusting the straps like he’s tucking you in for the night, “this wouldn’t be necessary if you behaved.”
You don’t answer.
Instead, you glare at the bookshelf across from you, focusing on the hardcover spines of your favorite novels rather than the man currently fastening you into your luxury prison.
“Pips, don’t be like that.”
The nickname makes you grit your teeth.
Caleb straightens, stepping back, hands loosely resting on his hips as he surveys his work. His violet eyes flick over the restraints, your tensed arms, your jaw clenched in irritation.
Then—a smirk.
“Comfy?”
Your glare could burn through steel.
“Oh, come on,” he sighs, gesturing vaguely around the room. “I could’ve put you somewhere far less accommodating.”
Your eyes flicker around the room, unwillingly cataloging every sickeningly perfect detail.
The softest blankets in the universe draped over the nearby couch. A table of fresh fruit, chocolates, and a steaming cup of tea—your favorite blend. A window overlooking a perfect sunset, artificial but beautiful.
And worst of all—the armchair you’re currently restrained to? It reclines.
Your fingers twitch.
“See?” Caleb tilts his head, reading your expression effortlessly. “I’m not unreasonable.”
You huff through your nose, looking away.
Caleb leans down, hands bracing the armrests, his breath a whisper of warmth against your skin. Violet eyes—too sharp, too knowing—trace your features, his stare slow, deliberate, as if committing every defiant line to memory.
“I don’t like doing this to you, Pip-squeak.” His voice is softer now. Too close. Too careful.
His gloved fingers glide over your cheek, a slow, feather-light drag of cool leather against your too-warm skin. It shouldn’t leave an impression, but it does—a whisper of control, deliberate, inescapable.
Then, he moves—not back, but forward.
He leans in, slow, deliberate, until his breath ghosts against your lips, warm and steady, the space between you shrinking into nothing.
And then, just there, against your mouth—
“But you have to stop trying to leave me.”
The words are soft, almost gentle—but there’s nothing soft about the way they settle into your bones. A command, a fact, absolute.
He’s already gone.
Straightened. Moved away, as if he hadn’t just stolen the air from your lungs, as if he hadn’t just set your pulse stumbling. Like he’s in control.
Because, of course—he is.
Caleb he tilts his head slightly, gaze flickering down as he taps a single finger against the watch on your wrist—light, teasing, as if this is just another game.
“Should we say two hours of relaxation?” His voice is smooth, almost coy. Then, with a smirk, he leans in just slightly, like he’s sharing some playful little secret. “Then we can go play basketball later.”
And just like that, he turns on his heel, stepping away, unbothered, already moving on—as if he hadn’t just tied you down, as if he hadn’t just reminded you exactly where you belong.
——————————————————————————
The Maze, Caleb
Caleb stands just outside the room, his back to the door, his gloved fingers twitching at his sides. His breath escapes too sharp, too uneven, something off-rhythm about it.
He should be proud. He handled the situation with perfect efficiency.
You fought. He won.
And yet—his pulse is off. The air in the corridor feels heavier than it should.
He presses his fingers to his temple. Once. Twice.
Like he’s trying to force something back into place.
Steps sharp, too controlled.
He moves down the corridor, into the main halls of the Maze, the exit looming ahead.
Then, as if remembering something only he can hear, Caleb pulls a small device from his belt—sleek, no larger than his palm, its surface smooth and seamless.
His grip tightens around it.
It’s unnecessary.
You’ve made your choices. He’s made his.
And yet—his thumb presses down.
A soft, nearly imperceptible beep registers in his earpiece. Inside the locked room, the restraints will loosen. You won’t be free to leave. But you’ll be free to move.
His shoulders drop by a fraction of an inch, just enough that someone trained in reading body language might notice.
But no one is watching.
Caleb’s fingers press down on a door panel.
The door unlocks.
And Caleb steps through.
Behind him, the Maze remains unchanged, unmoving, silent. But no matter how far he walks, no matter how many doors close between you—
He will return to you.
He always does.
Because you are still inside.
And Caleb has never been able to stay away from you for long.
Not before.
Not now.
Not ever.
——————————————————————————
Chapter two
——————————————————————————
Writer’s note: So I had this idea and I love crazy delulu Caleb. I kinda like it? It’s something? It has potential, I think? I’m playing around with writing styles and this is the product. I feel like anything could happen in this maze lol. Okey then, thank you for reading 🫶🏻
summary: caleb takes care of his didi post-top surgery
pairing: caleb x mc
rating: teen+
word count: 790
tags: caleb POV, transmasc!mc (he/him, referred to as 'pips'), mentions of top surgery and post-surgery pain, explicit use of medication, gege trope without overt romantic themes (based on CN dynamic; use of 'ge' to refer to caleb and 'didi' to refer to mc)
note: also available in my love & drabble-space collection on ao3
Caleb’s watch vibrates in three short bursts, and he silences it with a quick tap to the screen. He doesn’t need to look at the reminder to know what it says: MEDS 💊.
It’s been two weeks since his didi went under the knife, and recovery is slow going, but the cost seems to be worth it because Caleb has never seen Pips this happy— this at peace existing in his own skin. A year ago, when Pips had first mentioned that he wanted top surgery, Caleb hadn’t been surprised, but he had been nervous. Surgery wasn’t a small thing, and even though the risks were minimal, the thought of something going wrong had nearly given Caleb an ulcer.
What if Pips reacted badly to the anesthesia? What if he suffered nerve damage? What if the incisions didn’t heal properly and led to chronic pain? What if, what if, what if…
But the procedure had gone smoothly, and, after several days of swollen, aching hell, Pips was mostly back to his normal self, albeit a bit more tired than usual.
And although circumstances aren’t ideal, Caleb can’t deny that part of him relishes in the knowledge that Pips is depending on him— for nourishment, for companionship, for care. Of course he hates that Pips is in pain, but he wants his didi to need him.
Yes, it’s a selfish thought.
Yes, he should probably feel guilty about it.
But right now he has a job to do.
Without delay, Caleb sets his book aside and makes his way to the kitchen to reheat some of the soup he made yesterday. It’s nothing fancy—just chicken, rice, and a pathetic amount of spices in a thin broth—but it’s easy on the stomach, and that’s what’s most important. Next month, Caleb is planning to take Pips out to their favorite restaurant in Skyhaven and order one of everything on the menu. After this ordeal, they both deserve to indulge a bit.
As the soup comes up to temperature on the stovetop, Caleb portions out the necessary pills, unwraps a new anti-nausea patch, and fetches a glass of water. Once everything is ready, he transfers it all to a tray and, for peace of mind, glances at the med schedule pinned to the fridge. This routine has all but become second-nature to him, but it never hurts to double-check.
Satisfied with his work, Caleb picks up the tray, heads down the hallway, and quietly shoulders open the door to the bedroom. Despite the hour, Pips is still napping soundly— which is good. The doctor had said rest would be essential during these first few weeks.
Carefully, Caleb sets the tray on the nightstand and perches himself on the edge of the mattress, then he lightly rubs his didi’s thigh to wake him. “Hey there, sleepyhead.”
Pips groans.
“I know, but it’s time for some meds.”
Pips cracks an eye open, glares at Caleb, and then finally lets out a defeated sigh.
Caleb takes that as permission to help Pips into a seated position, and even though Caleb is careful, Pips still hisses in a pained breath. Wincing, Caleb murmurs an apologetic Sorry for what feels like the umpteenth time this month. Ugh, the sooner these stitches come out, the better.
Well, no point in dawdling. Scopolamine first.
Before Caleb can even ask, Pips turns his head to the side, revealing the tiny patch adhered beneath his ear, and Caleb rewards him with a chaste peck to the cheek. “Is someone feeling cooperative today?” he teases as he swaps out the old anti-nausea patch for a new one.
His didi’s response is a grumbled, “Someone’s feeling hungry and doesn’t want to throw up.”
Fair enough. Caleb hears the request loud and clear and retrieves the bowl of soup. Then, after lightly blowing on a spoonful of steaming broth, he offers it to Pips.
Sheepishly, Pips says, “I can feed myself, you know.”
Caleb smiles, that familiar sense of fulfillment swelling in his chest. “I know. But I like taking care of you.”
Pips blinks rapidly and looks away, but he eats the rest of his meal without protest after that and then dutifully takes the half-dozen pills he’s due for.
“Thank you,” Pips finally says, still sitting upright and resting comfortably against the headboard.
“Oh, don’t thank me yet,” Caleb warns. “I’m afraid we’re not done.”
Instantly, his didi’s expression falls. “Ge… please no.”
Caleb stands, reaches for Pips, and waits. “C’mon,” he encourages. “Up you get. Doctor’s orders.”
Pips lets out a miserable whine but allows Caleb to help him to his feet. “I hate you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Caleb says. “Now be a good boy and let me take you for a walk.”
