❕cw: pseudo-incest, degradation, choking, improper use of condoms, cum eating, handjob, mentions of p in v sex
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⋆ 𑣿 ⠀𝒶 festering thought eats away at her heart, the feeling of forever being in the shadow of those broad shoulders.
he walks with ease, but to her, it was the same older-brother swagger he’d always carried with him. without noticing, her mouth forms a scowl, bottom lip jutting out into a sorry state. it’s noticeable enough that he turns around, boots scraping the ground in an abrupt stop. she almost slams into him, large eyes bulging from their sockets.
another degrading laugh rumbles from his chest, one that she almost mistakes for the thunder that claps from above. her hand flies out to grip onto the sleeve of his old pilot’s jacket.
“why do you look so unhappy?” he ignores the storm.
“who said that?”
“didn’t have to say it.”
she sighs, trying to push him underneath the convenience store's overhang. the pitter-patter of rain begins to lull her closer to safety, instinctively curling into his side. a warm, inviting brick wall. just the scent of him mixed with rain melting on hot pavement is enough to arouse her. the brief closing of her eyes tells him exactly what she's thinking, but he doesn't push it. not yet, at least.
“can we just get the stuff and go? i’d rather not be out in this weather.”
along with the heaps of snacks, he ends up buying tampons and condoms (which she side-eyes him for the entire ride to his skyhaven home). what she really doesn't anticipate is him pulling over on the side of an abandoned road. it's all gravel and wind against overgrown foliage during the storm that rages outside around them.
she watches him like a gazelle waiting to leap away from its attacker, licking her pursed lips as he shimmies frayed jeans down his waist. the radio hums softly in the background, sideways rain beating against the windows of his car.
"what are you doing." it's more of a statement than an inquiry, trying to keep playing at her earlier frustration with him.
he doesn't respond, just whips his half-hard cock out from his boxers, fisting it slowly. a small, barely audible moan slips from the crack of his lips, heavy brows pinning together in immediate relief. like he'd been waiting for this moment all day.
a glimmer of gold foil comes into view, tearing it open with his front teeth and unveiling it to roll it over his length. wondering how he's more skillful at putting one on than she expected (it's not as if they ever used them, save for a few instances), her pussy throbs without permission.
he's so large and thrilling to witness that it feels like a crime to do it for free. the haze of her confusion stops her from asking any more questions, just behaves as he preps himself for god knows what. there's a pull to begin taking off her own clothes— caleb's been known to randomly get in the mood without really explaining. just bends her over in the most odd places, reaches into the depths of her body, and retrieves orgasms like it's nothing.
"you're more than welcome to watch," he grunts between gritted teeth "but i was hopin' you'd gimme a hand."
body moving on it's own, her palm overrides his, second nature kicking in as her wrist flicks with practice to jerk him off. he's stiff as a rock now, hips rising off the seat beneath him to meet her strokes. the leather makes tired noises under his weight, a cocktail of growls and whimpers echoing in the confinement of the vehicle.
"why are you wearing a condom? do you plan on fucking me?" she finally asks, halfway crawling over the console.
she needs to inhale his sweat until all she can taste is him on her tongue. needs to remind herself that even when she's annoyed with him, she could shove him into her mouth all at once, like a child proving they can eat their vegetables. has to be able to bite the hand that feeds her.
it turns him on more than anything in this world— the give and take of enabling her, then backtracking to punish her. the whiplash of it all feels like physical touch to her, a gush of wetness blotting onto her undergarments.
god, when did she get on the console? why does it feel good on her knees, the squeeze of her thighs rubbing her pussy lips together so deliciously? there's too much happening all at once, overstimulation fogging her brain and the interior of the jeep as his cock twitches under her grasp.
"f-fuck, just like that, keep squeezing me. so good, jesus christ…"
"are you gonna screw me or not?" she chokes his shaft off momentarily, earning a hiss from him and a jolt of his waist. his balls turn a darker shade of red, her other hand fondling them teasingly.
"shut up." his tone is clipped and goes for her throat, death gripping her esophagus.
he can never just let her win.
“just… trust me.” if he intended his tone to come out sweet, then he did a shit job of it.
her hand stutters as it moves again, his mushroom tip beginning to leak out into the plastic that suffocates it. like clockwork, his body tightens up, gearing for climax as his breathing turns into hyperventilating. just before she moves to finish him off, he removes her hand, forcing her to watch as his cock strains mid-air with its release.
could he always do this, cum without her having to touch him to the very end? his desperation is beginning to show. deep inside she wants to take it as a victory, but even in moments like these he manages to make her feel smaller. like she was never really in charge.
“look at me.” she does, his hand moving from her neck to her chin to direct all of her attention to his face that contorts with bliss.
“caleb.” she whispers, leaning into press her forehead onto his, sweat gluing her there.
he’s moaning her name onto her lips, hot breaths mingling as condensation thickens the environment. the tip of his nose nuzzles against her own, as if to remind her that he loves her. before she can lean in to kiss him, he stills her.
“mm— take it off. the condom.” soft but enough firmness to be a command.
she wants to protest, to hop into his lap and just ride him until she dies. but his face is eerily serious, so she commits to the bit like always.
don’t roll your eyes. don’t do it.
she pinches the tip of the plastic, the cum inside hot and frothy from the erratic spasms of his cock. it slowly slides off of him, the veins under the silky skin pulsing and not letting his erection dwindle.
“why—“
“drink it.”
what.
“now.”
“dude, are you serious?”
“mhmm. been acting so needy all day. figured you could use some of my cum.”
shit. of course he knew.
why does he talk like this? why does it turn her body into molasses? it’s so evil of him to just toy around with her like this, knowing exactly how well she’ll play into his antics.
he sits back expectantly, smug and using his other hand to smack his cock onto his lower abdomen in an effort to keep it awake and ready. like he’s going to destroy her when everything’s said and done.
he will, she has no doubt in her mind.
“fine.”
thick semen travels down the used condom, but she’s tired of waiting for things, so she takes it into her mouth and pulls from the damn thing like it's a straw.
it’s bittersweet, but she’s always had an appetite for his cum, so she takes down as much as she can. it only makes her fiend for more, especially the way his warm hand slides down the back of her exposed thigh. the expanse of her calf. goosebumps betray her pride, rising with the trail he leaves behind.
his flavor is unforgiving and ruthless. when she swallows, it refuses to go down without a fight, thick globs sticking like a stubborn wad of gum. a part of her hopes it stays there forever.
realizing just how lost in the taste she is, she clears her throat as if it were just another task. a chore he’d push onto her. the blush on her face doesn’t help her case, and he does no favors by acting oblivious to it.
“impatient little thing.” he scolds, thumbing at the slit of his tip.
and as much as she hates to admit it, this is what she needed. the gelatinous slide of his cum down the back of her tongue feels like the closest thing to home. well, a second close if it weren’t for her brother being right there in front of her, brimming with all his desire for her.
“all of that and you’re not gonna tell me i’m a good girl?” waving the empty condom at him, he swats at her hand, leaving it to drop on the floor somewhere. forgotten and discarded. its purpose served. the box of condoms will collect dust in his glove box.
“i love it when you’re greedy. makes taking what i want from you waaay too easy.”
not even the lightning outside could outmatch the rage she feels coursing through her veins for this man. his love feels like a gag, one she would voluntarily choke on in any lifetime. over and over and over.
caleb just can’t seem to let you out of his sight on his birthday
"wouldn’t you like to know?" he hisses, kissing you all over your face, pounding into you so fast yet so passionately that you almost reached a state of utopia where you came alot of times.
"c-caleb i can’t take it anymore s-slow dow— aah-" yours moans were barely controllable due to him not being able to keep up with his own pace because dear oh dear he was determined to make you feel so good that when you do cum, your whole body shakes uncontrollably.
“that’s it, baby,” caleb growls against your ear, voice thick and wrecked, “let go for me again. wanna feel you squeezing my cock just like that- fuck, pipsqueak, we can get closer.”
his hips snap harder, making you shiver, cake and sweat make everything slippery and messy between you two, your breasts bouncing with the force of it as he drives into you. he latches onto one of your nipples in his mouth, sucking hard while his fingers dig into your thigh, spreading you wider for him.
you cum again with a broken cry, your slippery walls fluttering and clenching around his thick cock so intensely it almost pushes him out. but caleb doesn’t stop. he fucks you straight through it, groaning low and filthy as your orgasm milks him.
“good girl… my perfect little pipsqueak,” he praises between heavy breaths, kissing your tear streaked cheeks and swollen lips. “one more. give me one more, baby. i know you can.”
his pace turns punishing, cock dragging against that perfect spot inside you over and over. one of his hands slips between your bodies, thumb circling your sensitive clit in tight, messy strokes. the overstimulation has you sobbing his name.
only then does caleb let himself go. he buries his face in your neck, hips stuttering as he thrusts deep one final time and spills inside you with a guttural moan of your name, filling you up until you feel warm and full.
you both stay like that for a while, panting, bodies sticky with cake and cum and sweat. caleb finally lifts his head, eyes soft despite how wrecked he looks, and presses gentle kisses all over your face again.
"you okay, baby?" he whispers, voice hoarse but full of love. "this right here pips- has to be the best birthday gift ever… but i’ll run that bath now, yeah? then we can get all messy again after."
You little brother just doesn't know any better. Or does he?
cw: pseudo!incest but actually real bone i think now, didi caleb/jiejie mc, dub!con/non!con, jealous paranoid unhinged caleb, pussy inspection, just the tip, xav sort of appears again hence the previous, choking (not the sexy kind), emotional blackmail, soft launch of caleb's mommy complex/kink, mc should not have been the one raising caleb,
Caleb tries to calm you down in the days that follow. He keeps insisting that it isn’t a big deal, and that the girl hadn’t heard much. That she was just pissed off that she couldn’t get him off and he had to do it himself in her bathroom.
But you know better. You have seen the comments spreading across the DAA’s social media platforms like wildfire immediately after that night. The posts featuring Caleb in his flight gear looking like a movie star as he stands in front of his aircraft went from being flooded with smitten comments and endless praise for the handsome young pilot to questions and mocking remarks about his suspected incestous tendencies.
Is that the guy who gets off to his sister?
He’s so hot, but don’t bother. Total siscon.
Isn’t his sister older than him? Wonder what she did to him to make him turn out this way.
I’ve heard he jerks off to his sister. Is that true?
Why are all the hot ones such freaks?
So this is why he can’t stay with a girl for more than two dates. She gotta be related to him or his dick goes limp lmao
I’ve met his sister before. She basically plans his entire life for him. Poor guy.
Heard she literally called him in the middle of sex because she was jealous he was with someone else. What a psycho.
Damn, she must be insanely hot if he’s that obsessed. Anyone got a picture of her?
Though the comments only stay up for a few moments before they’re scrubbed clean, with the posters receiving warnings from the faculty about spreading harmful rumors, they still send you spiraling. Not just for Caleb who still doesn’t seem to understand the gravity of the situation despite this shitstorm, but for yourself too. People are asking questions about you, their curiosity to know more about this older sister that has fractured the image of the DAA golden boy is dangerous. If any of this leaks beyond the academy and reaches your coworkers at the Hunter’s Association, your job could be in jeopardy. The thought alone makes your blood run cold.
Caleb tries to tell you that none of it means anything and that it will all blow over soon. It fucking drives you up the wall. How can he still downplay the severity of the situation? People know now! Your lives could be ruined forever! What will it take for him to finally get it?
But to your shock and utter disbelief, he’s mostly right.
After the initial flood, the comments taper off. The deletions and warnings do their job. What remains are only occasional stray remarks here and there, quickly dealt with. Caleb has no shortage of admirers, and they quickly take over the narrative, painting him as the victim of haters who can’t compete with him, can’t have him, or are simply jealous of him.
Soon, the tide shifts back in his favor and his fans fawn over him even more for oh-so-bravely weathering this hate campaign.
Caleb relays all of it to you in the hopes of convincing you that it’s all over now, but you know better. You know these things never truly die. You know people are still talking about you, just amongst themselves and behind his back. But he doesn’t care. If anything it’s as if the idea of it spurs him on. He doesn’t shy away from mentioning you. He talks about you even more openly now, daring anyone to question him. Nobody does. And his college life carries on as usual.
But you can’t do the same.
Those comments were only a taste of what your life could become if your secret is found out. You would spend the rest of your days plagued by judgment and suspicion, even if no one ever learns the full truth—that seed of doubt is like a weed, once its roots have dug in, it’s impossible to get rid of.
If this ever breaches the confines of campus gossip and gets into the real world, would you be able to hold on to the few friends you've managed to make for the first time in your life? If Tara or Simone hear about this, what will they think of you? Will they understand why you’ve had to do it or will they absolve themselves of you? Will you be able to find a partner? How would anyone tolerate such rumors about their lover? Especially when all they need is to take one look at how Caleb behaves around you for all their suspicions to be confirmed?
Yet despite it all, you know you can’t solely blame Caleb for this. You know this mess is as much your fault as it is his. You should have told him no that night. You should have ended the call as soon as you realized where he was and what he was doing. But you were hurt, your pride was wounded, and some ugly, starved part of you had wanted to be wanted so badly, you were blinded by it.
But it’s not just that. You shouldn’t have started any of this in the first place. The problem is, you can’t even pinpoint when it truly began. Agreeing to jerk him off that first time had pushed the floodgates wide open, but the water had been rising long before then. He had told you as much. Had it started in your teenage years? In childhood? Had the current always been there inside him, waiting to sweep you under? Or had you been the one slowly feeding it, drop by drop, until it could no longer be contained?
Your thoughts rise and churn, turning more tumultuous by the day, and yet Caleb isn’t the slightest bit phased. Once the worst of the storm had passed and he was still standing tall, he stopped trying to calm you. His tone shifted from flippant reassurance to reckless excitement, maybe even triumph.
“See, jie?” He says happily, pulling you into his arms with a bright smile. “Even if they know about us, nothing bad will happen. We can be together. No one will stop us. I’ll make sure of it.”
Your stomach drops. Nothing bad will happen? Is being ostracised as incesteous freaks nothing bad? Is the chance of losing any existing or potential meaningful relationship outside of each other nothing bad? Is spending the rest of your life whispered about, judged, and isolated nothing bad?
“I don’t want that, Caleb.” You answer in frustration. This is not what he’s supposed to learn from this. He’s meant to realise how wrong this is and snap out of it, not grow bolder in his delusions. “I don’t want to live a taboo life. I don’t want people smiling to my face and cursing me behind my back.”
“So this is what it’s really about, huh?” His tone turns accusatory. “It’s not about me or what’s best for me. You’re just ashamed of what being with me will bring.”
And so what? Are you not allowed to not want to be a pariah? Is that such a terrible thing to him? Must you throw everyone and everything else away to make him happy? You would lay your life down for him in heartbeat, but to be forced to live in ridicule and isolation… that may be too much for you to bear, even for your precious didi.
“It’s about both of us.” You snap back defensively, “You’re fine with this now, smug even, but how long are you going to tolerate being ridiculed? Being abhorred? Having everyone look at you like you’re some disgusting freak?”
“Forever.” He says without hesitation, his gaze burning into yours. “As long as I get to have you.”
Guilt wells up in you at his simple answer. You hate yourself once for making your little brother this way, and twice for then not being strong enough, or selfless enough, to sacrifice everything for him the way he wishes you would.
But this is for him. He may think he wants this now, but years down the line he will come to resent you. He will see everything he’s lost—all the love, relationships, and community he could have had, and he will hate you for it. And then neither of you will have anyone else to turn to. Your anger and bitterness will build and build until you—
You rub your forehead, a pounding headache throbbing behind your eyes. “I don’t have time for this. I need to get ready for my work social.”
“Then let me come with you.” He springs up quickly.
“No.” You hiss at him with all the ferocity of a cornered kitten. “This is my work, Caleb. I can’t let you fuck it up.”
He regards you with offense, his jaw tightening. “You think I did it on purpose? I wouldn’t have even been there if you hadn’t forced me to do it under the threat of leaving me!”
“Oh, cry me a river, Caleb.” You retort, your frustration and guilt making you more unkind than you’d ever wish to be to your baby brother. “You could have controlled yourself until the next day. But that’s impossible for you, isn’t it? Golden boy Caleb can’t go a single day without getting off to his big sister.”
He barks out a bitter laugh. “I controlled myself my entire life living around you while you were flaunting your tits and ass in my face.”
You flush hot, the emotions burning through you so fierce they all meld together, kicking your instincts into overdrive. Here he goes giving voice to your worst fears again—It's all your fault. You did this. You've broken him and now you can't fix him. Dammit, why won't he let you fix him?
“Well, if you were fucking normal, you wouldn’t have been looking!” You lash out at him in your frenzy.
“Normal?” He breathes out with a strained smile. “What am I then, jiejie? A freak? A disgusting pervert? Is that how you see me?”
The fire in you wanes and almost gutters out. “No, baby, you know that’s not what I meant—”
“But the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, jie.”
You flinch back. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“If I’m a freak, what does that make you, jiejie?” His smile turns cruel.
“Don't.” You warn shakily. You can't handle this right now, but Caleb doesn’t stop pushing.
“You’re the one who raised me.” He says it like he’s delivering your sentence.
“Stop it, Caleb.” You bite out, voice rising with panic.
“What kind of sister lets her brother sneak into her bed at night?”
“You were having nightmares.” You justify yourself. What’s wrong with providing your baby brother comfort? Maybe it was more intimate than what most other siblings would have done but how could you have been expected to turn away his scared little face?
“What kind of sister helps her brother shower into his teens?” He counters, and your breath hitches. Your defense sounds more tenuous this time. “You refused to clean up after basketball unless I helped you!”
He cocks his head to the side, and his teeth glint like fangs within his gleeful smile. “What kind of sister lets her baby brother suck on her tits?”
You feel yourself choke. The memories come flooding back unbidden. You had almost forgotten all about that, blocked those memories out of your psyche for the sake of your sanity, and hoped the years had stolen his away too. But the world isn't so kind, and neither is Caleb.
You… you had both been so young. You weren’t sure what you were doing. You didn’t know the first thing about caring for yourself, let alone a baby brother. All you knew was that Caleb was prone to anxious fits. He would cry and cry sometimes over the littlest things. You knew from a young age that the only way to shut him up was to give him something to occupy his mouth. You’d witnessed it in the way he would suck at his own thumb, soothing himself despite your grandma's discouragement. He had been much too old for that even back then, but he never outgrew it, perhaps because as a baby he never got to experience the comforts that only a mother can provide, and he had to make do with what he's got—Josephine who was too old to give him what he needs and you who were too young to know what that was.
For a long while he had contended himself with his self-soothing, but as he grew older and his world filled up with more than just you and your grandma, there were more things to stress him out—fear of failing a class, or losing a game, or someone else stealing your attention from him…
And suddenly he didn’t know what to do with himself anymore. His thumb was a poor substitute for the nurture he needed. In his frustration, he started biting down on the digit, and pulling at his nail, trying in vain to calm himself down. When you had seen that first drop of blood, you’d panicked, replacing his finger with yours, and braced for the pain. But it never came. He didn’t bite you. Instead he sucked on your finger gently, and slowly settled down.
You should have stopped there but the way he had looked at you then, like you were the solace he had been seeking, had you doing it again and again. For a long time, it worked like a charm, though you had to do it behind your grandma’s back after she scolded you harshly the first and only time she caught you doing it.
Until you started middle school and had to leave him behind to go to a different school. He fell into one of his fits again, worse than any you’d ever seen, and neither your fingers, nor endless promises of walking him to school, picking him up, and spending every after-school hour and weekend with him could calm him down.
Caleb had cried so hard, his face had turned red and his tears had gone dry, yet he still wouldn’t stop. You held him in your arms and rocked him for what felt like hours with no relief. His tears and saliva had soaked completely through your shirt when his listless mouth found one of your nipples through the fabric and latched on. Suddenly, he had quieted down, distracted with his desperate, hungry suckling as if he’d be able to pull something out of you if he tried hard enough. You would have said something—you should have said something—but he had cried so much, he had worn both of you out and you were just happy that you’ve finally managed to make it better. So you just held him close, stroking his hair and whispering that everything would be okay until he finally went to sleep.
For some time after that, it became your well-kept secret, your last ditch solution to calm him down, the only thing that could soothe his anxious fits when all else failed—though he had tried many times to get under your shirt at the smallest inconvenience or upset.
Deep down, you always knew it was wrong. That's why you made sure your grandma never found out about it. The shame had burned hot in your chest even then. But it worked so well! He always became so calm, sweet, and obedient in your arms whenever you allowed it to him. He listened to you. He went to school. He did his homework. He attended his practice. It was like your secret weapon, and you used it more often than you’d like to admit.
You only stopped when one day he had sighed into your chest and said something unthinkable.
“You knew what you were doing.” Caleb scoffs, “You made me this way… mommy.”
Your hand flies up before your mind can catch up. Your palm meets his cheek with a loud smack, his head snapping to the side from the force. For half a second, he stands there frozen, head tilted to the side, a red mark blooming on his cheek. Then his head whips back around and he surges forward, kissing you hungrily, almost violently, as if he’s avenging himself.
You push at his chest, trying to shove him away, but he’s stronger than you and it takes everything in you to get him off. His knees hit the bed as you push him back, and he topples onto it. You try to step back, but before you can escape, his arms fly out and grab onto you, pulling you on top of him on the bed.
“I am exactly how you raised me, jiejie.” He tells you miserably, “Why are you running away from me?”
You slap a hand over his mouth to silence him, but he opens his mouth and kisses your palm filthily. “Stop it.” You demand, almost pleadingly, but he ignores you, grabbing your hips and pushing you down against his hard cock.
“This is what you’ve always done, Caleb.” You hiss down at him bitterly, “You never let me say no. You keep pushing and pushing until I give you what you want.”
He moans against your palm, as if proud of his doing, and his hips roll up again, rubbing his hard cock against you shamelessly.
“Are you listening to me?” You ask desperately, begging to be heard, but he just stares up at you with heavy, needy eyes—wanting, wanting so much from you, always wanting.
“Fucking listen to me!” You snap, anger and despair taking hold of you, awakening your darkest thoughts and giving them grotesque shape. They puppeteer your body, making you surge forward and wrap your hands around his throat.
For one terrible second you feel relief as he finally stops, his eyes flying wide open in shock. You’ve done it. He’s finally looking at you. He’s finally listening to you.
“Jiejie?” He chokes out, and the vibrations of his voice, of the air struggling to pass through his windpipe, shock some sense into you. You blink and the haze of fury melts away to reveal your baby brother’s face, and what you see there—shock, worry, confusion, fear—smothers every tendril of rage licking up your body, freeing you from its murderous blaze.
You fling yourself away from him and stumble to your feet with a horrified gasp, your hand burning where it had just gripped his neck.
“I need to go.” You wheeze, your entire body shaking. But Caleb stops you, his fingers locking around your wrist as he too rises, chasing after you like a moth to flame. “Take me with you.”
“I already told you no.” You tell him raggedly. Please, please, get away from me. Just this once.
“I won’t make a scene, I promise.” He begs pitifully, still seeking comfort in you despite the unforgivable pain you've inflicted. “Please… I can’t be alone right now. Not after this…” His hand drifts up to touch the sides of his neck where your fingers had been moments ago. “I’m scared, jie.”
You heave in a choked cry and reach out to cradle his face in your hands, your knees buckling when he flinches ever so slightly.
“I would never hurt you.” You vow, guilt strangling you the same way you'd strangled your baby brother. “You know that. You just… frustrate me so much.”
He shakes his head. “You want to kill me.”
“No!” The word bursts out of you in scream as if it could banish the troubling thoughts away. “No, never!”
“You keep pushing me away.” He insists, tears gathering in his eyes like storm clouds breaking the skyline. “That’s killing me.”
“Baby, stop it…” You plead, drowning under his tears.
“If you leave me, I’ll die.” He tells you, his voice surprisingly steady in its condemnation. “You know that, jie. You know I can’t live without you.”
“You’re being so unfair.” You lament. All you want is a good, well-adjusted, happy life for him—a normal life where he has a lover and a sister that aren't the same damned woman.
“I don’t care about fair. I only care about you.” He says as if you ever needed to hear that. You knew it all too well, that Caleb will continue to fight that perfect future you dream for him every step of the way.
_______________________
To your surprise, Caleb is on his best behaviour at the gathering. His tears have dried, leaving his pretty eyes shiny and full of stars, and his broken voice has taken on that boyish, inviting lilt that disarms everyone who meets him.
He’s dressed up in one of his nicer shirts and a pair of tailored dress pants. They’re nothing fancy but you’re not used to seeing him in something other than his sweats and tanks or cargo pants with a million pockets and three jackets on, and you don’t like the way this unfamiliar outfit shows off his physique. The shirt emphasizes his broad shoulders and muscled arms and the fitted pants draw attention to his thick thighs and round bottom. Even his hair is slicked back neatly, revealing his forehead and thick eyebrows, and you wonder what the purpose of the new look is.
To you, he still looks like your baby brother putting on a grownup’s skin, but to others he must look like an alluring young man they could sink their teeth into, because they gravitate towards him like flies. Most of them content themselves with stealing glances they think go unnoticed, however some braver ones—or perhaps more idiotic—gawk openly, while a brazen few come up to speak to him directly.
Your coworkers take to him faster than they ever did to you, and you swallow back the complicated emotions that bubble in you in response, and that you refuse to name.
For most of the night, he stays close by your side, chatting up your coworkers who come up under the pretense of wanting to talk to you, only to end up directing most of their attention toward him. And when they learn he’s your brother, they coo and fawn, praising you for raising such a charming, well-mannered young man.
Caleb keeps one arm wrapped securely around you the whole time, his smile growing wider with each compliment, and his chest puffed out as if he’d achieved some secret goal he’d set out to prove.
“I like playing brother and sister more than boyfriend and girlfriend. But I think I’d like it more if I could kiss you right now.” He whispers in your ear the moment the two of you are left alone. “They wouldn’t mind right? Your friends all love me.”
“That’s not funny, you little shit. You promised you’d behave.” You scowl at him. So that’s why he’s dressed like this and acting this way. He thinks your friends liking him as your brother will make them accept him any more as your lover. It’s almost endearing how delusional he can be sometimes, his way of thinking so child-like it makes you wish you could protect him from his own misguided beliefs.
“Besides,” You say with a sickening sense of deja-vu. ”They’re not my friends.”
“Really, what about Tara? I thought she was your best friend.” He pushes back, recalling all the times you’d told him about her. “She loves me too. You saw how she invited me to come along on the camping trip next month.”
“I’m going to text her tomorrow and tell her you can’t make it after all.” You glare at him. Really, what was he thinking accepting her invitation? That he’ll impress them all so much, they’d overlook the fact that he’s your brother? That he’d be so amazing, they’d congratulate you for being with him?
“But I want to come.” He whines.
“And I said no.”
“But jiejie—”
“I’m going to get a drink.” You snap at him, already turning away. He immediately starts to follow, but you put a hand out to stop him, pointing to the floor where he is standing. “Stay here.”
“Jie—” He pouts but you don’t wait to listen to his whining.
It’s probably not the smartest idea to leave him unsupervised and surrounded by a bunch of your coworkers, but you desperately need that drink if you’re going to survive the rest of the night and the whirlwind of emotions that bringing him into the your workplace have conjured up… and it’s not just because you’re afraid of what he might do and how he could cost you everything if he so wishes, but also because he’s once again invaded the one place that belonged only to you.
Your little brother has never really been good at letting you have anything that didn’t also involve him.
“So that’s your little brother, huh?” Simone’s voice makes you jump out of your skin as you’re pouring yourself a drink, and you almost drop the cup to the ground.
“Yeah.” You mutter, a little unfriendly, not really in the mood to discuss him when you’ve finally managed to get a couple of minutes away from him.
As if she can hear your thoughts, she laughs. “He’s… clingy, isn’t he?”
You snort in response. “What gave it away?”
“Well, for one, he’s currently staring at you like a dog waiting for its owner outside of a shop.”
You throw a glance back towards him, and his sad face perks up for a second as your eyes meet before you force yourself to look away.
“He seems like a good kid.” She continues, and you feel a pang of guilt in your chest as you almost contradict her. Instead, you force out a small smile. “Yeah… he is.”
“Is everything okay?” She frowns, finally noticing your gloomy mood, and you kick yourself internally for failing to control your emotions.
“Yeah. He’s just a bit of a handful.” You wave her concern away. What can you even tell her? That he was a good kid up until he started demanding you give your body to him? That you don’t know how to control him anymore? That… your own little brother scares you a little bit?
Instead, you plaster on a bright, fake smile. “But you’re not wrong. He’s like an overexcited puppy—very needy and high maintenance. He wouldn’t even let me come today if he didn’t tag along.” You spin it in a humorous way and she laughs again. “If he’s that needy, why don’t you get him a girlfriend so he’ll bother her instead?”
“Believe me, I’ve been trying.” You mutter, and pretend it’s the drink you’re sipping on that is the cause of your sour expression.
“Is he into jiejies?” Her question catches you off-guard, and you choke on your drink, the alcohol burning your nose as you cough. “What?”
“Does he like older women?” She repeats with a knowing smile that almost brings you to your knees. But then she continues, “Because if so, I think Christine is trying to gobble him up.”
You snap your head to where she is looking to see your brother cornered by Christine, one of the Captains at the association, her hand gripping his bicep and her tits practically shoved against his chest.
“Better go save him before the poor boy has a heart attack.”
You barely hear Simone’s amused voice over the ringing in your ear. You discard your glass, uncaring that it topples over and ruins the tablecloth, and march quickly towards them.
“Didi, there you are!” You exclaim, tiptoeing up on your already high-heeled feet to wrap an arm around his shoulders, pulling him down in an exaggerated sisterly manner. “What are you up to, you little rascal?”
“Jie…” He whines as you mess up his hair. “Stop.”
But he’s smiling down at you, happy to have your attention again. You stare up into his bright eyes, his height still taller than you even with the uncomfortable hunch you’ve forced him into, and suddenly you’re pushing his hair down, fixing it back into the boyish banged look he has always sported, your anxiety only settling when he’s all patched up and back to being your baby brother.
The sound of someone clearing their throat makes you jump, but Caleb’s own hands around your waist stop you from pulling away from him completely. That’s fine. You’ll let him have this for now. You have more important things to focus on, like pinning the older woman down with a fake smile.
“Oh, hey Christine. I see you’ve met my baby brother.” You tell her pointedly, hoping she'd get the hint to back off.
"Oh, he’s your brother? I didn’t know.” She lies horribly, and you fight to keep the ugly scowl off your face. Bullshit. Caleb has been proudly proclaiming to anyone and everyone who will hear him that he’s your little brother. No way she didn’t know.
“Gosh, you’re a pair of good looking siblings, aren’t you?" She chirps, and you don’t miss the annoyance in her eyes at you interrupting them, before her gaze flits back towards Caleb, sliding up and down your brother’s figure brazenly. And god how you wish you could throw your body over him to hide him away from her lecherous eyes. "Bet you're as popular with the ladies as she is with the guys."
You feel Caleb tense against you.
"Is that so?" He turns towards you, still smiling but you can see the start of a fire in his eyes. "Are men bothering you, jiejie?"
And suddenly you feel like you’re the one being warned.
"She's just flattering me." You wave your hand in the air, trying to dispel the tension you feel building up. But Caleb isn't satisfied with that answer, and Christine keeps running her mouth, "Nonsense. She's such a heartbreaker, your big sister. She’s got so many admirers but they’re all too scared to approach her because they know she’d coldly brush them off.”
What the hell is she talking about? Men don't approach you because you're not the type of girl they like. You’re not fun and bubbly like Tara, and you’re not cool and charismatic like Simone. You're not sweet or nurturing either—it’s hard to be when all your supply of those goes towards caring for your full grown brother. You just go to work and focus on your job and get on with your day. The only men who ever talk to you are Xavier and Nero, and that’s probably because they have to.
“Now I know why. She is just too busy spoiling her little brother.” The woman laughs obnoxiously, and you feel queasy by how close her little joke is to the truth. “Maybe I can keep her brother busy so she can finally have time to date."
"She's not interested." Caleb says curtly, no longer smiling. "She needs to focus on her work. And I also need to focus on my studies. I'm still in college, you know."
Despite her cluelessness, whether real or feigned, Christine gets a little thrown off by the sudden change in Caleb’s demeanor—sudden for her anyway. But it seems she doesn’t know when to quit.
"But you're an adult, right?" She asks shamelessly, "Besides, she already seems to have her eyes on someone."
"Who?" Caleb barks, all pretense gone now, and you feel a dragging sensation in the pit of your stomach that you know isn’t just your nerves.
Christine’s smile turns anxious, and you know she must feel it too. But she has no fucking survical instincts because she keeps going. "Xavier, her mission partner. They're always together, talking secretly about god knows what. The sparks are definitely flying."
"We're just discussing mission details. It’s classified intel." You interject, but the stupid woman rolls her eyes and winks at you. "Suuuure. Missions. Is that why you were grinding against him at the club the other day? Did his—ah!”
Her eyes widen as you feel the force of Caleb’s Evol crushing down on all of you.
“We have to go!” You squeak, grabbing his arm and frantically attempting to pull him away, every step heavy as if you’re wearing boots of lead. “Caleb, stop it!”
But he’s not looking at you. Instead, his eyes are darting all around, searching the crowd for a face he doesn’t know. “Which one is he?”
“Don’t.” You plead with him, gripping his arm tightly. “Caleb, this is my workplace. You’re making a scene.”
"Oh, I haven’t even started yet, jiejie." He spits out and finally looks at you, his gaze dark and spiteful. "You wanted me to date so you can be free to fuck him, huh?"
You gasp, panic flooding your veins as a few curious heads turn in your direction. You quickly press your palm to his chest, catching him off guard and forcing him to resonate with you, allowing you to finally move him. You yank him toward the nearest exit, muttering hasty excuses to your concerned friends about your brother not feeling well and you needing to take him home right away.
The second you’re out of the main hall and away from prying eyes, Caleb pushes you against the wall, his breathing comes out fast and heavy as his large frame cages you, like a rabid animal waiting to pounce.
“Did you fuck him?” He demands, the rage in his voice making you tremble, and you shake your head vehemently. “No.”
But your denial doesn’t calm him down.
“Let him eat your pussy?” He asks and you flush. “No!”
“Sucked his dick?”
“Caleb, no!” You whisper furiously, mortified at his wild imagination that is getting him all worked up. “I did none of that!”
“Just grinded against him in front of all your coworkers?” He spits out and you cower, suddenly not feeling so righteous anymore.
“We were just dancing.” You insist weakly, the fear of being caught by one of your coworkers with your little brother in this compromising position, and the mortification at having been caught by Caleb for your drunken fuckup twisting together so tightly around your throat until it’s hard to breathe. “She‘s exaggerating.”
“So you were dancing with him.” He latches onto the wrong part, his eyes narrowing down at you. “Why?”
“It was a work outing, just like this one. Everyone was dancing.” You try to justify yourself but Caleb will not let this grave sin against him slide. “You could have danced with Tara or Simone. Why did it have to be him?”
“I don’t know!” You lie, all the humiliation from that night flooding back in. “I was drunk, okay?”
“You were drunk?!” Caleb barks, incredulous. “You know how useless you get when you drink. Why the hell would you do that around strange men? What if you were so out of it, you didn’t even know what he was doing to you? What if he took you home and fucked you while you were passed out?”
“Is that why you used to try so hard to get me drunk?” You bristle, refusing to let Caleb chastise you. He has done so much worse than drink and rub against a coworker. He has forced you to defile him again and again, and now he’s mad at you for the one thing you shouldn’t feel guilty for.
“And what if I did?” He sneers, not even denying it.
You falter, shocked at how brazen he’s being. ”That’s disgusting, Caleb.”
“That’s what I am, isn’t it. Disgusting.” His lips curl around the words bitterly, “But this isn’t about me. This is about you getting wasted and rubbing your ass against some other man in front of everyone.”
“I told you I didn’t do that!” You lie through your teeth. This is about him. Everything in your life has always been about him, even your stupid decision to dance with Xavier.
A strange expression suddenly takes over your brother’s usually sunny face, and you have nowhere to run as he leans down, trapped as you are between him and the wall, unable to escape from the darkness in his eyes and the unsettling smile on his lips. “You think he’ll still want you if he finds out what you’ve been doing to me?”
You gape at him. What is he saying? Doing to him? Everything that has happened between you was to try to contain his desires. You didn’t want any of this. He made you. But who would people believe? The precious, little brother who loves and trusts his jiejie so much or the reclusive, unfriendly older sister who never had a man in her life and barely has any friends? You had to have been the one to latch onto him, to blind him so he can only see you, to sink your claws into his heart so it bleeds for you, to break his bones so he could only crawl into your arms.
“Are you threatening me, Caleb?” Your ask, your voice wavering. “How could you?”
“You’ve left me no other choice.” He says it like it hurts him more than it hurts you.
“You’re unbelievable.” You hiss at him, feeling your heart stutter at his betrayal, and you know it would rather stop all together than believe he’d ever do such a thing to you. “After everything I did for you. I let this go on for so long because I didn’t want to hurt you, and now you’re threatening me?”
“Liar.” He snarls, “You’re hurting me! You don’t give a shit about me!”
“What are you talking about? I do!” You whisper harshly, “I care about you so fucking much!”
“You left me!” He cries, “You abandoned me again and again, and every single time I was the one who had to run after you. I was the one who followed you to your college apartment, and I was the one who followed you here, even though it takes me hours to get to you and back, yet I still do it every single week just so I can see you!”
“I didn’t ask you to!”
“I know! Because you don’t care about me!” He says, eyes wild now as if he actually believes his own words. And you don’t know if you should be hurt for him because you’ve somehow made him doubt your love towards him or hurt for yourself because he refuses to see all the things you’ve done for him. “You never even tried to contact me after our fight. Would you have never talked to me again if I didn’t reach out first or if I refused to get into the DAA?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” You scoff, “You’re my brother.”
“And you sent me away!”
“So you could pursue your dream!”
“My dream means nothing without you.”
“Don’t say that.” You protest. It can’t all hinge on you and this forbidden love. There has to be hope still. You need to believe it, otherwise you don't know what you'd do with yourself… or him.
“Do you love me?” He asks and your reply is instantaneous. “Of course, I do.”
“Then how could you bear to force me to be with someone else?”
“Because ours is a different kind of love.”
“Then I don't want any other.” He says with conviction, “You can be everything for me. You are everything for me.”
You shake your head. “Caleb, please. I am your sister. I can only ever be your sister. You need to get that through your head.”
He scoffs and looks away for a moment, the pain clear on his face even with his head turned away.
“Baby—”
His eyes snap back to yours, and you take in a shuddering breath at the vulnerability you suddenly see in them. “Do you find him attractive?”
You hesitate for half a second too long. “I—”
His face twists in anger. “Did you let him touch you?”
“I told you, I didn’t.” You lie again.
“How can I trust that?”
“Caleb, me and Xavier aren’t even together.” You try to convince him but he snorts derisively.
“And we’re apparently not together but you’re letting me touch you.” He mocks, and as if to make his point, a hand comes up to palm your breast as he presses his body flush against yours. “If you’re letting your own brother touch you like this, why wouldn’t you let a man you find attractive do it too?”
“That’s low, Caleb.” You growl and try to push him away but he doesn’t budge. He’s using your over-indulgence of him against you, treating you as if you’re just giving it away to anyone, and not like it’s taken everything in you to give him what you thought he needed because you love him that much.
“Do you love him? Is that it? You found someone better and now you're throwing me away?” He interrogates you, and the fury and pain you see in his eyes almost pull you under. “What do you like about him? Is it the way he looks? The way he treats you? His voice? His profession? I can change. I can be anything you want me to be, jie.”
But you can never not be my brother.
“I don't love him.” You insist, pained at seeing the way your little brother is so willing to mangle himself in order to try to fit into a mould he thinks you might want. “We barely even talk, Caleb.”
“That’s not what that woman said.” He mutters accusingly and you frown. “It’s what I’m telling you.”
But like anything you’ve tried to tell him lately, it goes into one ear and out the other.
“I won’t let you make a fool out of me, jie.” He shakes his head, a mirthless smile twisting his lips. “I only hooked up with that woman because you forced me to. That doesn’t mean I’ll let you fuck around with other men.” He spits out, his gaze hardening. “If I find out you’ve been with him, I’ll—”
You feel it before he even finishes his sentence… the harsh, oppressive weight of his Evol pressing all around you, making your spine creak, your muscle ache, and the air in your lungs feel like water.
“I haven’t! I won't!” You proclaim frantically, not trying to defend your right to a hypothetical date you know would only end in disaster.
“Prove it.”
You look up at him helplessly, and croak out, “How?”
__________________________
“Caleb, please, I promise, nothing happened.” You plead, laid back on your bed with nothing but your underwear on. The same underwear he’s now tugging down your legs.
“I don't believe you.” He grunts, peeling them off completely. The moment they’re off, you instinctively press your legs together, a rush of embarrassment flooding through you. But Caleb’s hands grip onto your thighs and shove them apart. “Let me see, jie.”
You bite your lip and look away, squeezing your eyes shut as your heart hammers wildly in your chest. For a long moment, he’s completely silent. All you can hear is his heavy, uneven breathing as he stares down at your exposed pussy. You can feel tears stinging your eyes, moments away from flowing freely, exposing your shame to his greedy eyes as bare as he’s exposed your body.
He hates it. He doesn't like how you look. He’s disgusted by you.
But then his voice comes out soft and awed. “You're so pretty, jiejie. Better than I ever imagined.”
You gasp, daring to sneak a glance at him, fully expecting to see a mischievous smile on his face as he mocks you. But he’s not looking up at you at all. Instead, he’s staring down between your legs like a starving man.
“Look how wet you are.” He bends down, his warm breath ghosting over your sensitive skin, sending tingles racing up your spine. “Is that because of me? Or him?”
You bite down on your lip harder, and stay quiet.
“Tell me, jie. He demands, and you feel his fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs. “Or I’ll be really mad.”
You shiver, recalling his threat from earlier. Swallowing harshly, you taste your own blood, metallic and nauseating, just the same as your shame. “It's you, didi.”
A pleased sigh escapes him. “I knew it. I know you want me just as much as I want you.”
You feel yourself drowning in self-loathing as his fingers trace over your slick folds, unable to deny your unforgivable desire when the evidence of it is right at his fingertips that spread you open so he can commit every debauched inch of you to memory.
“So pretty for me, jie.”
“Just get to it.” You squirm, your cheeks burning with a flush that spreads down your neck and into your chest at how closely he’s staring at this very intimate part of you—a part of you that no one else has seen before, and yet once again you’d given it away to your little brother.
“So demanding.” He huffs as if you’re the one who wants it. But you don’t dare contradict him. You just lay there quietly and wait to be vindicated so you can finally put this behind you. You’ll never try anything with another man again, not until Caleb has moved on and whatever this is between you is dead and buried six feet under.
Caleb gathers your slick on his fingers, coating them generously before pushing one inside of you slowly, only managing to get to the first knuckle before it meets a tight resistance that makes him groan low in his throat.
“Fuck, you’re a virgin.” He breathes, and you can hear both the relief and arousal clearly in his voice.
“There you go. I'm untouched.” You mutter in resignation, feeling so mortified and helpless at having had to prove it in this humiliating way. But it's your fault really. You should have never danced with Xavier. And you should have raised your brother better.
“You should be touched. You’re perfect. Prettier than any pornstar. I knew you would be.” He sighs dreamily.
You open your mouth to scold him but you're cut off when he lowers his head between your thighs, his mouth descending on you eagerly, his lips enveloping your slick folds and his tongue dragging along the full length of your pussy.
You feel more than hear him groan in appreciation, his lips and tongue working to lap up every drop of your arousal as if just that could sustain him for the rest of his life.
“Caleb!” You squeak, flustered by the sight of your little brother between your legs, kissing your pussy the same way he kisses your lips.
He looks up at you, not shying away from staring you dead in the eyes as he pulls his face back every so slightly so you can see how his tongue sticks out to flick at your clit, the wet sounds of his saliva and your juices squelching in your ears.
“Baby, baby, wait—” You plead out, feeling yourself hurling towards a nauseating orgasm. You cannot handle the way he looks up at you, so blissful and hungry like he’s finally where he wants to be, and you fucking hate how sinfully arousing he looks doing it.
Will any man ever want you as much as he does? Did you do this to him because deep down you knew it would be the only way to get the love and attention you so desperately needed? Is this a trap of your own making?
“Didi, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” You cry out as you cum, soaking him in more of your sin. But Caleb is not interested in your pathetic pleas for forgiveness. He feeds on your guilt and arousal like a ravenous beast come to collect your soul.
And he keeps feasting even as your shameful cries of pleasure turn to sobs of pain. “Please, didi, stop, it hurts.”
It all hurts so much.
He finally pulls back with a whine, taking his mouth off your pussy so he can climb up to kiss your lips, feeding you your own sin, the taste of it sour and bitter on your tongue but Caleb moans around it as if it’s the sweetest nectar.
“Baby, it hurts.” You repeat, whimpering when you feel his finger continuing to prod at your hymen, pressing against it again and again as if to make sure it’s still there.
“Yeah? It’s because you’re so tight, jie.” He blames you once again. “So tight I don’t know how you’ll fit my cock.”
You squirm uneasily, trying to get away from his persistent finger. “Stop it, Caleb. I don’t like it when you talk like that.”
But he’s not listening. He pushes your hips down with his palm, keeping you still. “It’s okay. I’ll make it fit. I was made for you,”
And then he’s reaching for his pants, fumbling with the zipper in his haste as he stares hungrily at the spot where part of his finger disappears into your heat.
“Caleb, no!” You cry out in panic and try to snap your legs shut, but his Evol slams down on you, making you yelp in pain as your legs are suddenly forced back open, your thighs spread for his scrutiny and his cock that now rests against your pussy.
You’ve seen it many times before. It has always been impressive in length and girth, but seeing it resting on your pussy now, the length of it reaching all the way to your belly button makes you break out in a cold sweat.
“Baby, what are you doing? Please, don’t do this.” You tear up as he rubs his cock along your slick folds, coating himself in your wetness, preparing for something terrible.
“Caleb, stop it!” You yelp when he presses the large head right at your entrance, your pussy screaming in protest as he tries to force his way inside.
“Shh, it's okay, jiejie.” He leans forward to kiss away the tears that escape you. “Just the tip, okay? Even your little pussy can take that.”
You shake your head harshly. “Didi, please, don’t do this. This is wrong.” You try to reason with him but your words only bring back that anger that started it all. “What's wrong is you sending me away and pushing me onto other girls so you can whore around with him.”
“You—” You shout, but your words come out garbled as he shoves himself inside you, forcing your pussy to stretch around the flared head.
“Stop, stop!” You hit his chest repeatedly as he continues to push, bullying more of himself inside. You feel him reach your hymen and then press further, the pain of it making your head spin.
You stare up at your little brother, his angry face swimming in your vision, and you wonder if you’ve truly lost him.
But true to his words, he stops. “F-Fuck, jiiieee. You—ngh—feel so good.” He moans, his head falling down to the crook of your neck as he pauses to catch his breath, his entire body shaking.
“Why?” You croak out, the fire between your legs nothing compared to the ache in your heart.
“I can't let anyone else—hah—have you, jiejie.” He pants, covering your neck in wet kisses.
You shiver, and reach your arms out to wrap around him, seeking solace but knowing you can only hope to find it in the same boy, no… man, who hurt you. Your baby brother who used to cry if he even mistakenly upset you, has somehow turned into a man who takes what he wants regardless of how you feel. And he wants you intimately, profanely. “I told you I didn’t do anything with him. I proved it.”
“You only proved that he hasn’t had you yet.” He grunts, and pulls back to stare at your bodies where you're so precariously connected, his expression turning desperate as his eyes flick back to yours, and you feel queasy seeing the same look your little brother always gives you when he asks for something he knows he shouldn't, but also knows you wouldn’t deny him either. “Fuck, do I have to wait? I don’t want to wait. I want you so bad. What if I wait and you fuck him. I'd go crazy.”
As if he’s not already there.
“I won't, Caleb.” You promise with all the conviction in your rotten soul. You won’t. You won’t. You never want to see him like this ever again.
“I wish I could believe you.” He murmurs sadly, his gaze locked with yours as he pulls his hips back only to thrust forward again, the tip of his cock barely slipping out before he's burying it back inside you. You don’t hold back your whimper of pain from him, and he doesn’t hold back his vengeance from you. “Holy shit…That woman said you’re with him all the time, hiding away from others. She saw you rubbing against him in front of everyone, yet you won't even let me kiss you in public.”
“It’s not true, baby. She’s lying.” You deny, still hoping it would save you from an even worser fate.
“Why would she lie?”
“Why would I lie?” You implore the part of him that trusts and respects his jiejie, hoping it's still alive. But the smile he gives you is not that of your doting little brother. “Because you know I'll chop his hands off and feed him his own dick if he touched you.”
Bile rises in your throat. You can't tell if he really means it or if it's just the heat of the moment, and that fucking terrifies you. Would your brother really try to hurt Xavier if he finds out the truth? How far does his obsession really go? Is there any remaining hope at all?
“It didn't happen, okay?” You cower, unwilling to face the possibility of your precious baby brother doing something so violent, even as he unleashes some of that same violence upon you. “I promise, di.”
“I want to believe you, jie. I really do.” He sighs, his hand gripping your chin tightly as he stares deep into your eyes, trying to seek out the truth. “I will lose it if I find out you’re lying to me.”
You cradle his face in your hands and pull him down for a passionate kiss, coaxing him to soften for you. “I’m not, baby. I promise.”
Let me in. Don't do this. Please, come back to me.
And he does, his face crumbling into the needy look you're so familiar with, his eyes shining wet and pitiful with yearning. “I love you, jie.”
You sigh in relief. “I know, baby. I love you too.”
“You don’t. Not as much as I do. Or you wouldn’t keep saying no to me.” He whines, and sits back on his heels, his hands gripping your hips as he resumes his thrusts, watching the head of his cock disappear in and out of your hole again and again. “I want you s-so much, jie. I wanted you before I even—hah—knew what my cock was for.”
Because there is something seriously wrong with you, didi.
And there is something seriously wrong with me.
And I can’t tell which one of us had this sickness first.
But the disgust that his confession brings up in you does nothing to dampen the pleasure you feel as your pussy slowly starts getting used to the intrusion, moulding around his cock in order to accommodate him. Every part of you will always yield to your little brother, even this.
“You were made for me.” He moans and your pussy flutters around him in answer, producing more slick that makes the slide of his cock easier. It sucks him in hungrily, and suddenly you can feel just how empty you are inside.
Do it. He can fill up that hole inside you. He feels it too. Just give in. Take what you both need.
A voice calls out from deep within your mind, the sound distant and muffled as if buried under layers of rubble. Something in its enthralling tone seems so terrifyingly familiar to you, like a desire you'd long buried but has now returned from the dead to drag you to hell.
But you resist its call. It’s not your little brother’s duty to fix what you lack. If you have influenced him to think he needs to then you must correct him before you ruin him completely.
"Does it feel good for you too, jie? Tell me, please..." He whimpers, the anticipation and worry on his face almost have you spilling to reassure him. “It feels so good for me. This is where I belong. Fuck, do you feel it too, jie?”
His thumb brushes over your clit, the friction making your hips rock against his hand involuntarily, mindlessly chasing more of that pleasure.
“Please, say it, jie.”
You shake your head, trying to rebuke both your brother's delusional pleas to join him in his lunacy and the incriminating demands coming from your own mind.
This is not right. He should have never known what the inside of you felt like, let alone think he belonged there. It would have been less abominable for him to dig his hand into your chest and stifle the life out your heart that you'd already given to him so many years ago.
Caleb sees your denial for rejection. “If you can’t feel it then maybe I’m not deep enough.” He grunts, his thumb flicking over your clit more roughly now as he pushes his cock further inside you, the head of it painfully stretching your hymen. “I need to go all the way inside you. I need to feel your blood that runs through my veins dripping down on my cock.”
You don't know if it's fear or arousal you feel at the thought of the blood that you both share staining your little brother's cock after he takes you in a way no other man has, and no brother ever should… but whatever it is, it pushes you over the edge. Your back arches off the bed as you scream, an overwhelming pleasure ripping through your body.
“Fuck, jiejie—” He groans, his hips twitching as he tries to fuck your pussy, but it clamps down on him, mercifully preventing him from acting on his threats. “Shit—shit—you're milking my c-cock, jie. You're gonna make me cum… fuck, please, jie, please—I need—I’m cumming! I’m cumming!”
Amidst your violent orgasm and his frenzied reaction, a rational thought somehow makes it through the swill of shame and pleasure, and you yelp out. “Caleb, pull out. You need to pull out, baby. I'm not on birth control.”
You hear nothing in return but his delirious babbles of ‘I love you. I love you. Jiejie, I love you so much.’
“Caleb, did you hear me?” Your voice rises with panic, “Pull out!”
Though his eyes are locked on you, he doesn’t acknowledge your frantic pleas.
You feel his cock twitch.
Oh god.
Your little brother is going to cum inside you. You're going to get knocked up with your baby brother's child. Your lives will be ruined forever.
But at the last second, he pulls out, and you feel his hot cum land on your pussy, covering you in his seed that thankfully wasn’t given the chance to take.
“Fuck…” He groans, staring down at the mess he made of you as if mesmerized. “You… you bled a little.”
Your eyes snap down to see the ever so small streak of your blood marring his otherwise pearly white cum.
He must have slightly torn your hymen when he tried to go all the way. Shivering, you think of how close he got… and that emptiness inside you yawns wider.
“Shit, jie.” He sucks in a harsh breath, his fingers smearing his release over your swollen lips. “You came so hard on my cock. Did you like hearing what I want to do to you?”
"No, Caleb." You croak, voice strained as you shake your head weakly. “I didn't—I don't like it.”
“Liar.” He purrs, grabbing his still-hard cock and dragging the thick head along your soaked folds, coating himself in the mess of your blood and his cum. “I felt how tight you got around me when I said—”
“You were playing with my clit.” You snap quickly, “That’s why I came.”
Caleb shakes his head as he slides his cock lower and lines the blunt tip up with your entrance once more. “That’s not what happened. You want it, jie. You want your little brother’s cock—”
“Stop it, Caleb!” You push your legs shut and kick at his hips, trying to shove him back. “I don’t want to hear it. It’s fucking disgusting!”
He catches your legs easily, forcing them back down onto the mattress as he climbs over you again, caging you beneath his larger body.
“You can deny it all you want, jie, but I know the truth. I felt it.” He growls, and you cower into the sheets, but you have nowhere to run away from this frightful version of your little brother he blames you for.
“Caleb, you’re hurting me.” You tell him meekly, and worry if that even means anything to him anymore.
“What about me?” Caleb counters, pressing his hips forward so the thick head of his cock stretches your sore entrance again. The burning overstimulation makes you whimper, your abused pussy clenching involuntarily around him. “You hurt me every time you deny our love.”
“Caleb, please… don’t do this.” You plead, the jagged pieces of your broken heart cutting up your throat. “Not this way.”
He glares down at you, his entire body taut as his wants and desires battle with his need for your acceptance and approval.
“You don’t want your first time to be like this.” You press on, trying desperately to reason with him.
“Our first time.” He hisses, jaw clenching so hard you can see the muscle jump. But, finally, he pulls his cock out, making you both shudder, and you tell yourself it's from relief. “You’re mine, jie. You can’t run from it much longer. You’re my sister… my best friend… and my mother.”
You frown, opening your mouth to protest, but he pushes his thumb between your lips, pressing down on your tongue to silence you.
“And one day soon, I’m going to take your pussy and make you my woman too. Then you’ll be all mine and no one will ever take you away from me. Not even you, jie.”
A/N: didi is really starting to lose it now, however will mc control him now (she won't). i need to know what you think of the mommy aspect bec mc is in a way his mom. i won't go too heavily into it, it will still mostly be jiejie kink but during moments of extreme duress or when he's trying to get to her he'll use it. also next chapter is the dreaded other woman entrance that will really throw jiejie for a loop. how do you imagine another woman can fit in caleb's jiejie obsessed life? and will jiejie feels when another woman seems to finally challenge everything she's been telling himself and her?
oh btw there are only 2 (maybe 3) chapters left!
follow me on twitter @/Wildernessunto1!
taglist for all my caleb fics: @mcdepressed290, @monoidmango, @seraphineash, @lewdcifer778, @strayy-kidz, @virtualdonutcashdeputy, @airachniide, @deceptive-solitude, @mimiluvzu2, @smmnlz, @secretarykitten, @fukyachickennuggets-blog, @joannafaustus, @rose3heartzzz, @unadulteratedtranquility, @pixiu-palindrome, @iwillstealyouruwus, @lilkittenskiss, @remnantsofgildedcages, @cinnabean3, @pookiei-bookie, @cembreeee, @ariapok, @bypanana, @the-shape-of-water, @applecrow613, @heesitation, @calebsmyapple, @valiantchaosvalkyrie, @letharue, @salynaa, @bebiappl3, @muttwithnoname, @big-juicy-yap
! synopsis: in an interrogation, the colonel’s arrogance pissed you off more than anything else. to mock him at least, you decide to give his gun a blowjob...
! tags: nsfw, mdni, colonel!caleb, bratty!reader, powerplay, dubcon themes, dead dove themes, gunplay, use of a baton, oral (m!receiving), manhandling, creampie, swallowing, a closeted perv!caleb
! wc: 3.4k
you sat alone, wrists bound with sleek magnetic cuffs that glinted under the light of an unfamiliar chamber. your hair had fallen loose from the standard tie, clinging to your cheek. dust smeared along the sleeve of your clothes, a remnant of the chase that led you here.
then, the colonel entered.
tall, meticulous, draped in regulation black. silver insignias gleamed on his collarbone, catching the sterile light. he simply shuts the door behind him and leaned against it for a moment, watching you. “you're not listed in any fleet registry, so either someone went through a lot of trouble to scrub you clean—” he reached into the inner lining of his uniform and retrieved a slim baton. “or you were never meant to be here in the first place.”
your breath hitched, but your face didn’t change. he twirled the baton in his fingers - slowly, like a man spinning thought between his hands - before he drifted behind you. “your infiltration logs were brilliant, i’ll give you that,” you felt the baton before you saw it, its cool metal brushing lightly against the curve of your neck. it was just there, ghosting over your pulse.
“who are you?” his voice was close now, just right behind you, coaxing—as if he already knew, and was waiting for you to admit it.
you tilted your chin to say, “you first.”
he then gave a low hum, a smirk with an imperceptible huff. the baton dragged lightly down the side of your throat, trailing warmth in its absence.
“watch your mouth.”
arrogant bitch.
you cursed inside your head. the baton slid lower a breath along your collarbone, light enough to be mistaken for air. “you stole a signal that doesn’t exist on official channels,” he whispered, a lulling edge to the end. “you replied to something that no one should’ve been able to hear.”
the baton stilled, resting just at the base of your throat. you could feel its weight, you could feel his weight and the full press of his attention, sharp and absolute. then he leaned down that you could feel the surface of his lips ghostly brushing against below your ear. it made you want to shiver. “who sent you?”
you let the silence stretch, let it fester. his question lingered in the air between you, still clinging to the metal baton resting against your skin. then, you snickered. a sharp, cruel thing. like a blade dragged across velvet.
”you talk too much,” you turned your head as much as the restraints would let you, and your eyes met his over your shoulder, unapologetic “you wear all that black like it’s meant to scare me, but i’ve seen even more prettier things rot.”
you smiled faintly, before moving just a sudden shift, a sharp buck of your knees and a jerk of your shoulder - but enough to make the chair scrape against the floor, to make him step back out of instinct. you twisted hard, trying to unbalance yourself, maybe break the armrest, maybe dislodge something sharp.
but before you could even move again, his hand was on your shoulder. ”you're not being clever.” he leaned down. the baton tapped once, gently, against your temple. “you don't need to bury your fear under your sleeve, i've broken better masks than yours.”
and then, slowly, he stepped around you, back into view. and from his hip he drew the gun. polished, regulation-issue sidearm, matte black and loaded. he didn’t point it at you, nor did he try to threaten. he simply turned it over in his hands, admiring it and kneeling down, until you were face to face.
he lifted the gun, deliberately, and tilted the barrel so it rested beneath your chin. the touch was featherlight. “do you know what makes me dangerous? it’s not this.” then came a gentle tap against your jaw with the muzzle. “it’s that i never need to use it.” he tilted his head, eyes dragging across your face like he was dissecting it.
“because i know someone like you folds easily.”
there's a pause, long enough to stretch. long enough for you to feel the weight of it all, his breath, the barrel, the words that still clung to the air like smoke. but you refused to flinch. instead, with the slow calculated tension of someone who’s been waiting, you twist your wrists. the cuffs groan in response, before...
a snap!
metal splits with a screeching crack, and before the sound even finishes ringing out, you instantly moved. only your hands can though, as your ankles are also trapped. your fingers wrap around his wrist and wrench the gun from his hand, trained.
he lets you, strangely. he lets you drag the muzzle up, up, up - until it’s basically pressing into your own lips, eyes locked with his like a dare. “you could put this in and pull the trigger, but i still won't talk.”
colonel caleb smirks, standing up without breaking eye contact. after a slight pause, he twists your wrist in an abrupt flicker to take the gun back between his fingers, and then, “sure, i will.” he says, right before forcing the gun into your mouth.
this catches you off guard, making you squirm on your seat and grip on the armrests. you could feel how the barrel of his gun is pushing your mouth lpen just to adjust to its size. though it wasn’t fairly big, the absurdity of the gesture only seemed to humiliate you.
you watch him stare down at you. why wasn't he saying anything? you watch how his eyes were slowly turning lazy, a ghost of an uncharacteristic smirk forming between his lips.
the cold metal of the barrel stretched your lips wide, a blunt and intrusive presence that tasted of oil and gunpowder. you let out a muffled, indignant sound, your throat working as you tried to accommodate the intrusion. your hands gripped the armrests so hard your knuckles turned white, eyes wide and flashing with a mixture of shock and mounting fury. you expected the sting of a slap or the bite of a blade, but whatever this shit is far more humiliating.
is this typically how the colonel treats problems?
caleb didn’t pull back. he stayed close between your thighs, gaze heavy and unblinking as he watched you struggle. he looked less like an interrogator and more like a man watching a beautiful, trapped bird flutter its wings in vain. “what happened to all that fire?” he asked, “you were so ready to bite, weren’t you?”
he leaned forward, his weight shifting as he used his free hand to tilt your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes. with a slow movement, he pushed the muzzle deeper. it wasn’t a violent shove, but a commanding pressure that forced your jaw to unhinge just a fraction more. the metal slid past your teeth, only pressing against the sensitive flesh of your tongue.
“there she is,” he murmured, a ghost of a laugh catching in his throat as he saw the way your eyes narrowed into a fierce glare from beneath the heavy lid of your lashes. “the little rebel. you look so much more... compliant... when you can't find the words to insult me.”
you tried to snarl, to let out a defiant sound, but it only came out as a choked hum against the steel.
“hmmgh!” you glared at him from below, eyes burning with a silent promise of retribution, but the effect was lost on him. instead of intimidation, your fury seemed to feed his amusement. he watched the way your lips strained around the gun, the way your breath came in shallow, ragged puffs.
“don’t look at me like that,” caleb teased, the thumb of his free hand tracing the curve of your lower lip, just where the gun met your skin. “unless you want me to see just how much of this you can take before you start begging.” he gave the gun another slight, teasing nudge, testing the limits of your endurance. “yeah? you’d hate that, won’t you?”
absolutely.
you had reached your limit. the humiliation was a bitter taste, second only to the oil on the barrel, and your patience snapped like a frayed wire. in a sudden burst of movement, you lunged forward, hands flying up to grasp his wrist. you intended to shove him back, to reclaim the space he was so brazenly invading, but the colonel was obviously a man of iron and discipline. his grip on the sidearm only tightened, the metal clicking as his fingers braced against the frame. his brow furrowed, a stern frown settling over his handsome features.
”enough,” he warned, voice dropping into a low register that signaled the end of his patience. “stop this theater, or i’ll stop being gentle. don’t complain when i decide to pull the trigger right now."
the threat should have made you recoil. it should have sent a tremor of terror through your limbs. but as you stared up at him, the sharp edges of your glare began to melt. you didn’t see a killer; you saw a man. a man who was far too comfortable in his dominance, a man who relied on the fear of his shadow to keep people in line.
if he wants to play the colonel, then you might as well play the siren.
your hands, which had been trying to push him, suddenly softened, as your fingers curled around the solid shaft of the gun. you leaned into the metal, eyes losing fury and replacing it with a hooded liddedness. then, with a deliberate grace, you began to suck on the barrel.
you bobbed your head in a rhythmic, mesmerizing motion, lips sliding over the steel as you looked up at him through your lashes, your gaze a sultry challenge.
caleb, the man who had been so dominant, so utterly in control, froze. his eyes widened, the pupils dilating until the dark iris was nearly swallowed by black. his breath hitched, an audible intake of air that betrayed the sudden jolt to his system. he was speechless to say the least.
who’s in control now?
while you maintained the facade of the seductive captive, your mind was working a different kind of magic. beneath you, hidden by the shadows and the intensity of the moment, your ankles were in constant motion. you worked the metal of the locks, twisting your feet, feeling for the mechanism, trying to find the slight give in the heavy restraints.
and you kept the rhythm steady, your eyes never leaving his, watching the way his composure began to fray at the edges. caleb was fighting a losing battle; you could see the tension in his jaw, the way his throat worked as he swallowed hard, trying to suppress the pained expression that was threatening to break through his mask of authority. the stoic colonel was drowning in the image of your lips on his weapon, and the hunger in his eyes was no longer just about information.
but then...
“so...” he finally spoke, his voice a gravelly, strained shadow of its former self. “this is the real game you’re playing? you aren’t here for the signal... you’re here for this?” he challenged, his gaze burning into yours “are you so desperate for a taste of something real that you'd settle for my gun?”
abruptly, he pulled the gun free from your mouth. the sudden absence of the metal left your lips feeling cold and strangely empty. you watched, mesmerized, as a glistening thread of saliva stretched between your bottom lip and the muzzle, a silver line that shimmered in the dim light before finally snapping. he didn’t look at you as he set the sidearm aside on the table with a thud.
“if you are so eager to satisfy that hunger,” caleb murmured and reached for the waist of his trousers, “then use the real thing, hm?” his fingers caught the tab of his lower zipper, and the sharp zzzzzzt of the metal teeth parting sounded like, to you, a threat.
the sheer audacity of the gesture hit you like a physical blow. your composure, the carefully constructed mask of the seductive prisoner, shattered instantly. a soft, broken gasp escaped your lips, but no words followed.
what the hell? you had expected him to fall for it, but not like this.
you wanted to look away, to reclaim your dignity, but you were like a moth drawn to a terrifying flame.
caleb let his buttons part, and with a triumphant smirk, he revealed himself. your breath immediately hitched, caught in the back of your throat as you stared.
he was massive, an angry, twitching red, incredibly hard and straining with a life of its own, the veins standing out in sharp relief against his skin. there was already a bit of pre-cum leaking out the tip. says a lot about how long he’s been rock hard for you. the sight was overwhelming, making you feel small, vulnerable, and achingly aroused despite yourself.
“go on,” caleb commanded, “suck it. that's an order.”
you swallowed hard, the dryness in your throat making the movement feel clumsy. for a moment, the old defiance flared up again, a desperate attempt to reclaim the high ground. you tilted your head back, eyes narrowing into that sharp glare again as you looked up at him. “is this what a colonel does? is this how you conduct an interrogation?”
caleb takes a heavy step forward, closing the distance until he was looming over you. he reached down to catch your chin in a rough, uncompromising grip that forced your face upward.
“show some respect.”
“i’m not... i’m not going to suck that.” you tried to pull your chin away, to turn your face in a final act of rebellion, but he was too fast.
“that’s okay,” a slow smile spread across his lips as he swiftly pulled your jaw back to his gaze again. “because i’m going to make you.”
you opened your mouth to launch a scathing rebuttal, to tell him exactly where he could shove his arrogance, but the words never made it past your lips. because with a powerful lunge, caleb suddenly guided himself forward, sliding his thick, pulsing cock straight into your mouth! the sheer size of him was overwhelming, stretching your lips to their absolute limit and forcing your jaw to unhinge as he buried himself deep. “hmmph!” an involuntary moan escaped you, muffled by the heavy weight of him.
caleb let out a ragged sigh of relief, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief second as he savored the tight, wet heat of your mouth. he didn’t move to pull out; instead he stayed there, his free hand reaching out to give your cheek a playful caress. “be a good girl,” he whispered, eyes narrowing. “and take it well.”
and then, just like that, the colonel started to thrust, thrust, and thrust—his hips moving in a cadence that drove him deep into your throat! his other hand braced against the back of your chair, knuckles white as he tried to anchor himself, using the furniture to leverage the force of his movements. while you were forced to bob your head in time with him, eyes watering as you struggled to accommodate the relentless pounding of his manhood.
meanwhile, caleb was a moaning mess above you, his voice a breathless thing. “that’s it... j-just like that.” he grunted, words stumbling over one another as he forced you to keep up with his punishing pace. “suck it dry... don’t you dare stop...” he was trying to command you even now, but the cracks in his countenance were widening with every thrust.
so this is the great colonel. all that black leather and discipline, and all it takes is a little bit of heat to turn him into a mess. if he wanted to lose control, you were more than happy to facilitate it.
instead of just taking him, you decided to take him apart. you squeezed your lips tightly around the length and began to twirl your tongue around the rim in a slow, agonizingly deliberate circle. you immediately felt the way his entire body jolted at that.
“ngh...!” caleb let out a loud, guttural grunt, his hips slamming into your mouth now with a desperate, uncoordinated force. he leaned into you so heavily that you had to tilt your head back at a sharp angle just to keep from being crushed, your neck straining under the weight of his need.
he was so damn loud—the man who prided himself on silence and discipline was now making sounds that were almost animalistic.
“god... you’re such a... a good girl.” he gasped, the compliment sounding more like a plea than a praise. ”so good... keep doing that... please...”
his hand, which had been caressing your cheek, suddenly migrated upward to tangle his fingers deep into your hair. he formed a tight fist, his knuckles grazing your scalp as he anchored your head in place, forcing you to stay exactly where he wanted you. his eyes were squeezed shut so tightly that wrinkles formed at the corners.
he felt so good from your blowjob that he had to bite his lower lip hard, teeth sinking into the flesh while a series of rough groans tore from his throat.
seeing him so close to the edge, feeling the way his fingers trembled in your hair, you decided to drive the final nail into the coffin of his composure. as you continued to work your mouth over him, you reached up, hands sliding around the base of his thick shaft. you began to stroke him, palms slick with your own saliva.
and because of that, caleb fucking chokes on his own cries, loud enough to echo in the chamber. he was panting heavily now, chest heaving as he looked down at you with eyes that were glazed and unfocused. “you... you’re a little devil,” he trembled, leaning down further. “a natural... a goddamn natural at this...”
then, the dam finally broke.
with a shuddering jolt that racked his entire frame, caleb erupted.
he surged forward, his hips slamming against your face as he spilled himself into your mouth in thick, hot, unending bursts. the sheer volume of it caught you completely off guard! instinctively, your body recoiled, head jerking back to escape the overwhelming sensation, but he was still coming, still squirting and shooting toward you.
you felt the hot liquid splashing against your cheeks, coating your lips, and even spraying across your chest. there were too much!
caleb slumped forward, his hands slamming onto the back of your chair to steady himself. he was gasping for air, his head hanging low as he fought to reclaim his breath.
you slowly looked up at him, eyes wide and blinking through the stray droplets on your lashes. you didn’t want him to know that your mouth was full because of the heavy, salty taste of him coating your tongue. but you wanted to say something to mock him, to reclaim your victory—you couldn’t you were too busy trying to manage the sheer amount of him currently occupying your mouth, cheeks bulging slightly, hesitant to let it go.
you watch caleb finally lifting his head, clearing his eyes to regain even a sliver of balance as he stared at you.
“swallow it.”
instantly, you shook your head. you weren’t going to make it that easy for him, especially not after he’d just made such a spectacle of himself.
caleb’s eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint returning to his gaze. he leaned down, his presence once again overwhelming. “pick a struggle. either you swallow it right now, or i’m going to make you turn around.”
you didn’t have time to process the sheer audacity of his command before the instinct to obey or perhaps the instinct to avoid the even more humiliating alternative took over. you tilted your head back and swallowed, the thick, warm liquid sliding down your throat in one heavy gulp.
ugh.
you nearly coughed, eyes watering as you fought to keep the rest of him down.
“satisfied now?” you glared at him once more.
and the colonel could only give you a dog-like smile, zipping his pants back into place while he turned his broad back on you.
“more than satisfied.”
he retrieves the gun from where he’d place it down earlier, facing you again.
abstract: your boyfriend just does things that makes your heart flutter and your panties dampen <3
ft. rafayel, sylus, zayne, xavier, caleb
cw: insp by the tiktok trend ; fluff + smut; body worship, somno, riding, fingering | [implied short reader with caleb + chubby reader w/ rafayel; implied yandere! caleb] - unedited <3
⊹ ࣪ ˖ rafayel qi ; the way he’s so clingy
whenever rafayel manages to get some time with you, of course he's going to be clingy. his arms are going to be glued around your plush tummy for the whole time he's lounging around with you. his head resting on your shoulder while doing any task with you in front of him. even when he paints, he'd have you sitting between his legs or on his lap, one hand caressing and rubbing circles on your love handles or plush thighs, while the other focuses on the canvas in front of him.
but of course, his clinginess isn't only limited outside the bedroom. and that alone, gets you so turned on.
"shh, don't run away. stay w'me..." he'd whine, an arm wrapped around your tummy and only tightening the more you arched your back away from him. it was tortuous—absolutely insane. normally, he'd be sassy with it, still having a little bit of a joking tone, but when he's fucking you, holding your leg up while he bullies his cock inside you from the side, he turns so needy and clingy, and you fucking love it.
"so pretty... so gorgeous... c'mon, i like it when you're close to me..."
⊹ ࣪ ˖ sylus qin ; the way he moves you gently by your waist
even though you're at a stage in your relationship where you're comfortable with everything sylus does, you still find your heart beat faster every time sylus gently moves you by your waist to get you out of his way.
"move, sweetheart." he'd speak so smoothly while he just moves you so gently, so . of course you'd be acting all shy and flustered. but oh, even when you two have sex, his touches just hold so much weight.
he’d be sitting on one of his elaborate chairs, with you propped up on his lap grinding against his cock before he could ever be inside you. then, even when you try to sink down on him, sylus would have his hands on your hips, slowly pushing you down and helping while you cried out.
“don’t cry, pretty girl. shhh, don’t cry…” you’d be clinging onto him, arms wrapped around him while you could feel him fill you up—and not even being able to take all of him. you would be struggling, but of course, he’d help you. he'd angle his own hips, slightly slouch while keeping the hold on you firm while slowly slamming you onto him. and then when you choose to move your hips all sensually in figure-8s, his light touches would continue and he would rub circles on your skin—a contrast to how he'd move you.
"shit...yeah, sweetheart. keep moving those hips like that."
⊹ ࣪ ˖ zayne li ; the way he lifts his sleeves up + holds eye contact
you know that zayne gets busy as a doctor. but you can't help but just stare at he way he lifts his sleeves up whenever he has a demanding task. you really can't help but stare at the way his arms. the way that the veins on his forearms would be more evident every time he flexed without even knowing how that affected you.
"you know, some people try to be more subtle when they stare." he’d say something like that, because of course zayne pays attention to how you’d stare. he'd notice how you'd look away or how your expression would falter every time he held eye contact with you. you just got flustered over everything.
oh and it's especially even hotter when he enacts on his observations.
"so impatient for me, aren't you?"
he’d roll up his sleeves, crouching down while you’d sit on his desk, panties pulled down while he played with your pussy. he would be rubbing on your clit with one hand and thrusting his pretty fingers with the other; a slightly flustered expression would grace his face. but god, every time he did so, every time he would do that, he would look up at you and hold eye contact, wanting to see your cute little reactions as he ruined you on his desk.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ xavier shen ; the way his voice gets when he wakes up
there's something about the way that xavier's voice gets every time he wakes up beside you. maybe it's the way that it's much quieter and deeper than usual, or that hot vocal fry that adds onto his usually meek voice. he can get quite clingy, especially in the morning, but the way he says things when he barely wakes up—the way he speaks so gently, makes you so flustered.
"shh... just 3 more minutes. let me just hold you for a bit more." he'd snuggle up against you, muttering some weak pleas on how he doesn't want to get out of this position with you just yet. and same thing for morning sex…
“don’t wanna get out of this position…” he’d have you in pronebone, with his arms caging you and yours wrapped around his neck while he’d slowly fuck you, his body and weight pressed against you. the both of you would still be half asleep, clinging onto each other under the covers.
maybe if you were in a hurry, you’d yelp a little ‘we have to get up!’, but your pleas would fall upon deaf ears.
“mmm..not yet.”
⊹ ࣪ ˖ caleb xia ; the way he would condescendingly tease you
the nickname he's implaced upon you being 'pipsqueak' is teasing and condescending enough, but sometimes when he's feeling really sassy, caleb just keeps going with that. it's bad enough that he's taller than you, but he would just crouch down—a smile etched on his face and speak with a tone that was laced with playful malice.
"mhm? yeah? how nice." and of course, even with that dark tone and accompanying mocking smile, your heart just does a little leap in your chest; you can't help it, despite him doing so just to mess with you. something is too high up? he'd mess with you with a 'awh, can't reach up and get it?'
but when you have sex, that condescending tone gets worse; his teasing overall gets worse. "awh, pips. can't take it, huh? c'mon sweet girl... you can do it, can't you?"
even in the most basic position like missionary, it's hard to get away from whatever remarks he might make, but regardless, it was still hot. just the way he would slam into you, pressing your tummy bulge hard with his free hand while he held your hand with his other, tangling your fingers together.
oh god... he was mean. you would be crying and he’d have such a dark look on his face, relishing in the fact that he’s the only one to have you like this.
because he knows damn well you like that.
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a/n: first lads post ever... what do we think...? (i'm so fucking scared i'm a baby lads fan i'm not that seasoned yet...)
Summary: you decided that Caleb deserves an extra special gift on his birthday
Warnings: established relationship, no plot besides birthday, dom!caleb, kissing, oral (m!receiving & f!receiving), food sex, improper use of birthday cake and whipped cream, edible lingerie, p in v, unprotected sex, doggystyle, 69, creampies, overstimulation, spanking, biting, praise, pet names (pips, baby, sweetheart, princess), hes so downbad for her, i feel like im missing stuff idk its 3 am
Wc: ~3.4k
a/n: guys i saw his birthday card and something triggered in my brain and i knew what i had to do + I got his card in 30 pulls and I feel blessed
The front door creaked open slowly, Caleb balancing his luggages in one hand as the other fiddles with the keycard he just used to unlock the door. He steps inside the living room, the June air making the room warm as golden rays of the setting sun lit up the space.
“Pips?” He calls out to you, dropping his bags on the floor and shrugging his jacket off before hanging it on the coat rack.
“Stay there, im coming!” You yell back from the kitchen. He could hear the excitement in your voice and it makes him smile. He takes a step forwards, entering further into the living room. His side brushes the couch as he leans against the side of it, eyes locked on the doorway to the kitchen.
You emerge a moment later, smiling brightly as you approach him holding a cake decorated with his name on it and covered in whipped cream and a handful of different fruits. His eyes, however, quickly abandon the cake and rest on you. Hair done up, makeup glowy and perfect and a lingerie set in an orange colour that hugged your curves so perfectly he was already drooling.
“What ahh.. whats all this?” He asks, a small breathless chuckle leaving him, eyes trailing over how your breasts look in the lingerie before dropping down to trail over the curve of your hips.
“Its your birthday, silly!” You smile brighter, walking towards him with the cake outstretched. “Wanted to do something special for my Caleb”
His breath hitches at your words, eyes closing for a second to make sure this was all really happening before he reopened them. He nods slowly, peeling his eyes away from you to look at the cake.
“So now i can make any wish i want?”
“Yeah duhh, youve had birthdays before Caleb you should know how this works”
“Can i wish to take this off you?”
You pause at his words, eyes resting on his before a wide catish grin spreads across your face. You set the cake down on the side table before gesturing for him to come closer. You let out a small giggle as he immediately does and you point to the strap of the bra.
“Bite it. Part of your surprise”
One of his eyebrow raises in confusion at your words but he complies, wrapping his mouth around the strap and chewing on it. A sweet taste instantly spreads on his tongue, the fabric of the strap dissolving as he continues chewing on it. He groans against the “fabric”, eating it until the right side of your bra has no more strap to hold it up. It sags slightly along your skin, still hiding you breast from him.
His hands find your hips and rubs along the material of your edible panties. He moves to push you back against the couch but you stop him.
“My surprise involves making you feel good Caleb” you purr, pushing him backwards instead so he could sit on the couch. He shakes his head, hand reaching out to hold your jaw.
“Only feel good when im making you feel good, princess” you shudder at the words, heat curling through you as you stare back into his eyes. The intensity in them is destructive, a burning heat that threatens to set every one of your own nerves on fire with it. You let out a shaky breath, mind already muddled and fuzzy from the hunger in his eyes.
“Then… lets do it together” your hand slides along his chest, pushing him to lay down on the couch. He hesitates for a brief moment but complies, intrigued by what youre suggesting.
When he finally lays back on the couch; head propped slightly by a fuzzy pillow, you crawl onto his body in the opposite direction. Your hips hover above his face as you position yourself so your face hovers above his crotch, the bulge evident in his jeans. You steady yourself on one arm, the other tugging at the button of his jeans and tugging them down. His cock springs free from the fabric, slapping gently against his abs as you push the hem of his shirt up, revealing the toned skin underneath. You stare down at his length, hard, and big, and begging for your attention in a way that makes your face flush and your pussy clench. Beads of precum decorate the swollen red tip already, delicious thick veins trail along the side of it and youre barely thinking straight anymore when you lean down to lick a long stripe down the length of it.
On the other side Caleb is surprised he hasnt gone into full cardiac arrest yet. His heart is beating so fast he thinks itll pop from his chest at any moment. He reaches up, big hands grabbing at your hips to steady himself as he stares up at your pussy. The wet heat of you stains the fabric, dissolving a wet circle when your hole clenches and drools for him. He thinks hes going to die right there and then on the couch as he watches it clench around nothing.
You take him into your mouth and he groans, hips bucking as his head falls back on the pillow, making you gag. He decides in that moment that all he wants for his birthday is to eat you out so disgusting and messily, and the only noises you should be making are the loud moans and soft gasps that slip from your lips when he devours you.
And thats exactly what he does. He dives in instantly, tugging your hips down to sit flat on his face as he trails his tongue over your pussy, juices and the sweet candy taste of your panties dancing on his tongue and he moans out, hips bucking wildly into your mouth. His arms hook around your waist, locking you tighter against him as he glides his tongue over your clit and sucks on it before shoving it into your wet, needy hole.
You moan loudly above him, his cock pistoning in and out of your mouth as you move along with it, gagging as it fills your throat and pulls back out. Your fingers dig into his thighs, your own shaking despite being sat flush against him. Hes eating you so good, skin flushed and sticky as you feel the low burning tension growing in your tummy. Your whole body is hot, buzzing with a need that can only come from him. From the look in his eyes, or the desire for you that so easily rolls off him no matter the situation. A feeling that sears each one of your nerve endings until youre numb and needy and babbling nonsense, the only intelligible thing leaving your lips being his name.
He hums against you, pulling away from your dripping pussy and his arm snaking away and towards the side table, grabbing a scoop of cake before bringing it and slathering it all over your pussy. You gasp around him, pulling away to look back at him over your shoulder. Hes diving back in, sticky fingers massaging your thighs as he eats the cold cake off your clit, the sensation making your head fall to rest on his thigh. He spreads the cake around, shoving it into your pussy before sticking his tongue in after to scoop it out.
“C-caleb, hahh.. what are you doing?” He doesnt reply, just grabs another glob of the cake and smears it along your ass, using his mouth to lick and eat it. His long, thick fingers move to push inside of your pussy, the sticky cake still coating his skin as he curls them inside of you and fucks you with them.
You moan at the feeling, completely gone from the nasty mess between your thighs. Your juices gush around his fingers, coating them more thoroughly as it mixes with the cake. He bites into your ass cheek, kissing it as you let out a sharp yelp at the feeling. You try to go back to work, try to fit your mouth around his cock and make him feel good but youre too gone, moaning so loudly as his fingers twist and curl and plunge deeper inside you until theyre brushing past every part you, pressing into the sweet spot that has you seeing stars and yelling out his name.
The pleasure is blinding and you bite into his clothed thigh as you finally cum, the tension snapping hot and angry in your stomach as you cum on his fingers. You let out a loud yell, muffled by his thigh in your mouth, vision blurry as you press yourself harder down on his face.
Caleb doesnt let up, fingers pulling out of you to dive his tongue back in, licking every ounce of your juices away and into his greedy mouth, desperate to taste every part of you. Everything you had to give was his. Only his. Every soft sound and every flushed reaction, every drip of your juices and every breath that passed your pretty plush lips, he owned it just as much as you owned every part of his own being. Like you had since the first day you had met as kids.
You cried out, overstimulated as you tried to shuffle away from him. He lets out a low groan against your skin, eyes rolling back as he tastes you before finally pulling away and rolling you over.
You pant as you look up at him, his chin covered in slick and cake, fingers messy with so many different remnants you cant even tell whats what anymore. He licks his lips as he stares at you, the hunger so bright and evident in his eyes it makes you feel small. His pupils are blown out, purple eyes turning black. He leans forwards, pulling you into a heated kiss, mouths crashing together from his hunger. He kisses down your jaw and neck, biting gently at the skin before sucking it into his mouth.
“Youre still sweeter than the cake” he mumbles against your neck, licking a long stripe up from your collarbone. He lays you back along the couch, resting between your spread thighs and looking down at you.
Somehow your bra is still intact besides the small part he had chewed off in the beginning. He smiled at the look of it before his eyes trailed down to your messy thighs. Cake and slick coating along your skin, sticky and sweet and so delicious it made his mouth water and he wanted so badly to go down on you again. You snap him from his thoughts when you tug at his shirt, a small frown on your lips. He leans down and kisses you before leaning back and pulling the shirt off and tossing it onto the floor.
He hums as his eyes fall back to your thighs, his cock rubbing along the mess of cake and cum as he bites his lip. He shakes his head after a moment and reaches for the side table, grabbing the whipped cream and fruit off the cake to slather along your tits and stomach. You stare at his hand, watching as he makes sure to place the most over your covered nipples.
“Was this how you had planned for the surprise to turn out? He asks, rutting his dick along your creamy, cakey thigh.
You shook your head, “well… not entirely” you pouted and he grinned at the look of your plush bottom lip jutting out.
“Awww im sorry baby, didnt mean to ruin your plans” he teases, leaning forwards to kiss along your collarbones before moving further down to lick the whipped cream away, collecting it and fruit on his tongue before moving back up to your mouth to kiss you.
The sweet taste and chewed up fruit pass between the two of your mouths, eyes closing as you wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him deeper. Everything about him was intoxicating — his smell, the feeling of his soft hair, his slightly chapped lips against your glossy ones, and the feeling of his strong muscular body as it shifts above you.
He reluctantly pulls away, mouth moving to suck on your tits, the fabric of the bra disappearing against his tongue as he pulls your nipple into his mouth. He sucks on it greedily before moving to the other, moaning at the sweet tastes on his tongue.
He moves down, licking a long stripe of the creamy cake off your stomach before sucking and biting at your tits again.
“Caleb” you whined, tugging at strands of his hair. He nodded against your sticky skin, tapping your hip for you to roll over when he finally pulls away.
“I know baby, need you so bad” he moans into your shoulder and you roll onto all 4s under him. He moves back, positioning you to arch your back, your ass raised in the air and your face pressed down against a pillow. He reaches back for the cake, rubbing it along your ass cheeks and back down over your pussy, his cock rubbing along the creamy folds as the whipped cream and cold filling stick to your skin.
“Happy birthday to me” he grunts out as he sinks in fully in one push, hands squeezing at your ass as a moan slips past his lips. You in turn squeeze around him at the sudden intrusion, moaning and whining loudly as you bite into the pillow. He rocks his hips forwards, long thick cock jamming into your cervix as he shallowly fucks into you. Youre dripping around him and so creamy as the cake and whipped cream coat his cock, fucking it into you with delicious squelches that muddle his brain.
Your hips pushed back into his, fucking yourself back onto him as every thrust rubs your insides raw, long thick cock hitting your cervix and that sweet spot inside you. He was so big, it felt like he was mixing your guts up in the most delicious way possible and you whined and moaned for him.
His name left your lips repeatedly in soft babbles as he spread the cake around on your ass before giving it a harsh slap. A yelp left you at the feeling, bits of cake flying onto the floor and he pressed his thumb into your asshole. You moaned at the added feeling, mind so numb as you smiled, happy youre making your Caleb feel so good on his day.
“Fuck, you feel so good sweetheart. Best present ever” he moans out, hips slamming into yours as he fucks you at a brutal pace that leaves your brain numb. He reaches down, pushing the cake from your ass up your back so he could lick it and eat it off your skin. His hand returns to your ass, giving it a few more harsh slaps until the sticky skin turns red.
You moan loudly, sounds pornographic as you grip at the pillow. His thumb digs further into your asshole, the whipped cream allowing it to slip around more easily in it. He tugs a little at your ass, hips angling higher so he could watch the way you stretch around him, pussy creamy and sopping wet for him as everything mixes together.
“You take me so good” he praises, slapping your ass again. “Look so pretty with my cock in you” he groans out, your hips pushing back harder into his as a buzz lights under your skin, a familiar feeling spreading inside you.
“C-caleb, oh my god, feels so good” you moan breathlessly, face pressed into the pillow as your hand move to drag down the back of the couch, trying to find some form of support from how hard hes fucking you.
His hips slam harder at the praise, fuelling the deepest parts of his soul. Hes so happy, trying so hard not to cum from the knowledge that hes making you feel so good. If his brain wasnt so empty from the feeling of you clenching around him and trying to milk him dry he could tell you the exact number of times hes fucked you like this. The exact number of times he was blessed with the ability to make you so completely and totally his, every inch of you belonging to him when he has you spread wide open for him, taking him so well it made his heart almost burst through his chest. He was so far gone, so completely entranced with everything about you. He needed to go harder, deeper, needed to push himself inside you in a way that was so proper the two of you could never be split again, until you truly were as much of one as you claimed to be.
His hips stuttered as his thoughts raced, cock growing impossibly harder as he whined and moaned, falling forwards to rest his chest against your back, face pressed into the back of your head, inhaling your scent. He panicked slightly at the almost slip up, biting his lip hard to control himself as he reached down, fingers finding your clit and you moaned out louder.
You pressed down against the couch, every part of him touching every part of you. Hes rutted into you so hard and deeper you were seeing stars, each thrust sending electricity vibrating up your spine from where his cock slammed into your gummy walls. When his fingers circled your clit you felt it, the hot liquid of desire right under your skin, the molten lava blazing through you and pushing you right to the edge of your orgasm.
“‘M so close Caleb” you moaned out, knowing he would do anything to get you there. He littered your shoulder and back with bites and kisses, sucking dark marks into the skin as the heat grew deeper in your guts, threatening to spill over.
“I love you so much, fuck, could die right now and id be the h-happiest man ever” he moaned against your back, fingers squeezing into your hips and leaving bruises. He slammed into you hard as he pinched your clit and you broke, cumming on a high pitched shattered moan that would definitely get you a noise complaint the next morning.
White hot pleasure filled your veins, mind buzzing with nothingness as you felt like your skin was on fire. Pleasure swirled around in your system, a feeling so delicious and addictive you had half a mind to tell Caleb to just do it all over again. You couldnt move, couldnt speak besides the muffled babbles of his name and the bucking of your hips against his own.
He came inside you a second later, hips twitching and losing all rhythm as white hot sticky liquid filled your insides, his cock shoving it deeper inside you to mix with the remnants of cake and whipped cream already inside you. You collapsed against the couch, hips held up by hands as he continued to slowly rut into you, ridding out his orgasm before pulling out with a wet squelch.
He rolled you over, watching the warm cum ooze out of you and onto the couch. He smiles down at you, both of your chests heaving and trying to catch your breaths. You reach out for him but miss him as he dips back between your thighs, licking up the cake and wetness from your skin before gathering the leaking cum onto his tongue and fucking it back into you hole. You cry out at the feeling, overstimulated and already spent.
“T-too much Caleb” you whine out, hands finding his hair as his tongue drags lazily through your walls. He pulls back slightly to talk , reaching out to grab another scoop of cake with his sticky fingers.
“It’s my birthday, Pips. This is my gift” he grins and covers your core with another glob of cake. “Need you to cum four more times for the gift to be worth it” he bites your thigh hard before diving back in for round two of a very long and sleepless birthday night.
a/n: i never specified but i think ice cream cake would be elite for this
notes: these will be unedited mini, single paragraph drabbles that i need to get out before i lose motivation again LMAO.
[ minors don’t interact; by choosing to interact with this content, you have consented to viewing something n-fw despite the warnings. ]
sylus would give you a cocky smirk the moment you pushed him completely down on your shared bed. he would lay languidly above the pillows, garnet eyes sparkling with a challenge in his gaze. do your worst, is what he seems to tell you, yet still, you refuse to relent. choosing to play dirty with him (since he always played dirty with you) you lift up the soft fabric of his sweater, already descending your lips upon his perky nipples while giving them an audible suck. the onychinus leader’s response was immediate, gasping for air while your hips slowly undulated itself against the hard wall of his muscular abs. the subtle hitch in his breathing would alert you to his impending arousal as you worked on chasing your high- with your swollen clit catching on to the ridges of his abdomen through the ruined sheer material of your lace panties.
zayne is more purposeful when it comes to foreplay with you. your clothes would be tossed aside as he plays your body like an instrument. he draws out every moan and breathy sigh with calloused hands that map out your body (keeping the hidden knowledge of each curve and dip of your form like a sacred script.) as you lay naked and trembling above him, he would settle your aching sex over the fabric of his shirt, allowing the subtle movement of your hips to move up his shirt, revealing the wall of muscle settled beneath you along with a happy that shares the same hue as his slicked back strands of hair. zayne senses the hesitation in your demeanor while letting out a sigh, gripping your hips while sliding your cunt back and forth on his abs. encouraged by his movements, you slowly braced yourself on top of his chest before moving on your own, your gasps echoing throughout the room as you worked on chasing your high.
xavier is the one who is the most eager to watch you riding his abs with an almost reverent expression. his true blue eyes would drink in your every movement as he lays back in bed for you. the philos prince would swallow thickly seeing the way your bare body remained hidden beneath a gossamer nightgown as you slowly straddled his waist. he feels the way your thighs clash together before slowly moving upwards, allowing your nakedness to finally meet with his heated walls of muscles. he bites down on his bottom lips, watching you through half-lidded eyes as you bounced and slid your heat over his form. and as the heavy scent of your honeyed arousal began clinging to his naked skin- he couldn’t stop the almost feral thought of never wishing your scent to leave him.
rafayel would immediately seduce you into riding his abs if you ever got mad at him. he’d give you an almost playful smile while giving you a come hither expression, beckoning you closer to him. and when you would try to refuse and fight back against his seductive smiles- you knew it was useless when he brings you to him anyways. his hands would skillfully slide off your panties (slightly smirking at seeing how wet the fabric felt) before planting you directly over his abs. the sudden hedonistic sensation of your cunt meeting his lithe body causes your back to arch, already forgetting the reason why you were mad at him to begin with as your body instinctively moved above him. with the lemurian quickly regaining his confidence, he lays back in bed while enjoying the show of you using him for your own pleasure.
caleb could feel his cock straining against the front of his sweatpants the moment you straddle yourself over his toned abs. an almost innocuous smile would paint your lips as you steady yourself on top of his shoulder. your movements were shy at first, almost hesitant as you tried to find the perfect pace to help with chasing your high. too focused on your own movements, you failed to notice the way your colonel’s eyes seemed to darken considerably before planting his large hands on your waist. letting out a grunt of your name, he slides your naked cunt over his taut muscles at an almost rapid pace, making you cry out to him as you nearly fell over him. he was smirking now, his expression almost becoming devilish as he leans in to whisper in your ear, i’ll let you have your fun, but the moment you’re satisfied is when it’ll be your turn to satisfy me… by devouring my dick with this greedy pussy that’s staining at my skin.
end notes:
all stories are written by rei; please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works!!
trying because your caleb is a big guy. and that applies to all of him. he's tall and muscular, with broad shoulders and long limbs, his cock heavy to match. you've never been able to get more than a few inches into your mouth at a time.
he watches you on your knees between his legs, watches as your hand strokes up and down his length slowly. your eyes fixate on it, studying every inch. you're so careful when you try to take it into your mouth. you suckle in the first inch, gently laving your tongue at the ridge. he grunts quietly as you bob down about halfway.
it feels good, but he can see that look in your eye. the determination to do more.
"baby, you- you don't have to," he chokes out through a tight jaw.
you look up from under your lashes with your mouth still full of him, and he almost finishes right then. a deep groan flows from between his lips. he expects you to pull off, to give him your usual "but i want to."
but instead you just try harder. you slide yourself down further, take as much of him as you can all the way back into your throat. his fingers grip the edge of the couch hard and his eyes roll back.
you start to gag, and that only makes it harder for him to hold on. your muscles contract. some more saliva oozes from your mouth. he’s pretty sure you’d choke yourself on him if you could, and that makes him feel sick with pleasure. he doesn’t like seeing your eyes water like this or your firsts clench around your thumb. but when it’s for him… when it’s for proving your devotion to him… he can’t help indulging in it.
yet when you make another wet, gargly noise, his hands come to either side of your head with gentle strength and pull you off. you try to whine around an desperate inhale, and his dick twitches. your eyes are hazy, leaking tears and so watery. he wraps an arm around you and lifts you up into his lap.
“wait- almost had it,” you say as he sits you down straddling his lap.
he chuckles softly, rolling his hips up and silencing those protests with the friction of his wet cock against your panties.
“doesn’t matter. can’t have you passin’ out on me before we get to the best part, pipsqueak.”
9,661 words * ˛ ✦ ･ The doll lies there still, eyes open, her soft hair arranged across the surface. Caleb reaches for her. He lifts her with one hand, the other already working at the fastenings of his trousers, and he places the doll on the carpet before them, sitting in a way that faces them, her painted gaze fixed upon the scene with the unblinking, eternal patience of an audience. He positions her carefully, ensures her eyes align with the joining of their bodies. “There,” he says, and his voice is thick, distorted, the voice of something that has worn human speech for too long and is beginning to let the seams show. “Our newest daughter must watch. She must see how Papa loves her Mama. She must learn what wanting truly means.”
WARNINGS: third person pov (fem!reader), alternate universe – historical fantasy with some vague horror-like themes, significant age gap, size difference, heavy dubious consent, caleb is not human, dollmaker!caleb, duke's daughter!reader, non-consensual voyeurism (dolls as cameras or what passes for it in this setting), obsession, dolls as daughters to caleb and reader, praise, petnames, making out, stalking, cunnilingus, nipple play, overstimulation, creampie.
The afternoon light does not enter Caleb workshop so much as it is permitted to gaze inside. The skylight overhead, a rectangle of clouded glass set into the sloping roof, filters the sun into a thin, grey-gold glow that barely illuminates the wall. He does not necessarily require light to see; he requires it only to maintain the fiction that he operates within the same physical constraints as his patrons, his apprentices, and the men who watch him from the street below.
Well, there are two of them today.
One stands beside the bakery on the corner, holding a newspaper that he has not turned in almost an hour. The other is a woman, dressed as a nun, her bowl extended to passersby for alms but her eyes fixed on the upper window where his silhouette moves. He knows their schedules. He knows the exact moment the bakery’s clock chimes at half past two, when the false nun shifts her weight from her left foot to her right, signalling to an unseen third agent stationed in the tenement across the lane.
They believe themselves subtle. They believe the Dollmaker of Skyhaven is absorbed in his craft, too artistic to notice the mundanity of church surveillance.
Caleb dips his brush into a dish of turpentine and cleans the bristles with slow, circular strokes. He is not artistic, he is merely precise. He notes the nun’s presence not with alarm but with the same observation he applies to the humidity in his kiln, the viscosity of his glazes, the exact number of dust motes suspended in the light beam.
Three years ago, the Church sent a single inquisitor; and now they send teams, the escalation almost flatters him.
And then there is the matter of the Emperor.
The Emperor does not send street-level agents. The Emperor sends questions through intermediaries, veiled inquiries slipped into the ledgers of the Imperial Arts Council.
How many dolls does the Dollmaker produce annually? What becomes of the offcuts, the failed pieces? Does he keep apprentices? If so, how many? Has he fathered children? The questions arrive on heavy stationery, sealed in wax the colour of blood, and he answers them with the dishonesty of a man who knows his interrogator cannot afford the truth.
As much is necessary. Failures are discarded, broken to pieces and burned to ashes. No one has yet to be deemed worthy in the Dollmaker's eye. There are no children, not even one.
The Emperor knows, in the way that men who hold absolute power always know, that there is something in Skyhaven that does not kneel correctly.
But the Emperor also knows that Philos Empire is held together by threads finer than Caleb's brushes; the Northern provinces rattle their sabres, the Eastern colonies demand autonomy, and the treasury requires the soft power of culture to mask the hard poverty of its coffers.
Skyhaven is the heart of that soft power, and Caleb is the axis upon which the entire mechanism turns.
Remove him, question him openly, imprison him on charges of whatever theological deviation the Church invents next week, and the merchants cease their pilgrimages; the aristocratic patronage evaporates; the empire’s claim to cultural supremacy develops a crack that spreads, that widens, that swallows whole ministries.
So the Emperor watches, and doubts, and does nothing.
And the Church watches, and prays, and does nothing.
They are all, in their way, his dolls in the first place—incapable of doing anything without his explicit permission.
Caleb sets the brush aside and lifts the half-finished head from his workbench. It is for a patron from outside the capital—a mining magnate from the Southern provinces who made his fortune in salt and copper and now wishes to purchase refinement. The man arrived in Linkon six days ago, trailing entourage and desperation, begging for a doll to present to his new wife.
The commission bores him. The proportions are standard. The expression—demure, grateful, slightly downcast—requires no invention; it is the price he pays for his continued sovereignty.
He runs a thumb along the porcelain cheek. The surface is still warm from the kiln’s last firing, and under his touch it seems almost to yield, as though the material remembers being something else and wishes to return to it. He does not indulge such fancies. He sets the head in the rack beside three others and moves to the eastern window, the one that overlooks the lane.
The false nun has been joined by a child—a new element, a boy of perhaps eight years who sells matches no one buys. The Church has started using children now.
Caleb finds this interesting. He files the information in his mind and draws the curtain with a slow, deliberate movement that the agents will read as absentmindedness.
The clock on the mantelpiece—a piece he repaired himself, its face a miniature of his own—ticks toward three. He does not wait for the Southern magnate. He does not wait for the Arts Council inspector scheduled to visit. He waits for the only appointment that has ever mattered.
At seventeen minutes past three, the carriage arrives.
He hears the wheels before the horses, a particular quality of rubber and wood on cobblestone that distinguishes her vehicle from the hundred others that pass outside his door daily. The rhythm is lighter, faster, the gait of horses bred for pleasure rather than labour. He stands at his workbench, his hand suspended over a dish of powdered pigment, and counts the seconds until the carriage stops.
The door opens. He hears the step being lowered, the soft murmur of a coachman speaking words he does not need to hear. Then her voice, answering, too indistinct for the words to carry but unmistakable in its timbre.
Caleb removes his apron—a length of black linen that hangs from his neck to his knees—and folds it into thirds. He places it on the hook beside the kiln room door; then he adjusts his spectacles, smooths his cravat. By the time the three knocks sound against the shop door—one, two, three, the correct pattern established on her third visit—he is already moving through the front room with that soundless, gliding step that makes his heels seem decorative rather than functional.
He opens the door.
She stands on the threshold, smaller than the frame, smaller than the afternoon, smaller than he is by a margin that seems to him not a measurement of height but a statement of scale. She is beautiful. The word arrives in his consciousness as a fact rather than an observation, as inevitable as gravity. She carries a parasol, though the sky is the colour of old pewter and no sun threatens her skin. She wears gloves of white leather that she has yet to remove, and her eyes find his with the immediate, unguarded pleasure of someone who believes absolutely in the safety of the world she inhabits.
“Good afternoon,” she says. “I hope I’m not disturbing your work.”
Caleb tilts his head. The angle is precisely calculated, a gesture of welcome that resembles nothing so much as a key aligning with its lock. “My dear,” he says, and the words fill the doorway, occupying the space between them with a weight that seems to slow the air itself. “You could never disturb me. You are the reason the afternoon exists.”
She laughs and steps across the threshold without waiting for invitation, certain in his welcome of her.
The parasol closes with a snap that echoes in the room, and she stands there, beautiful and surrounded by the watching faces of dolls who have not yet been taught to see her, and she smiles.
“I’ve come for another,” she says. “I know it hasn’t been so very long since the last. But I’ve been thinking about her for months. I can’t seem to stop.”
He closes the door; the latch engages with a click that is a tad too loud with its echo. “Of course you have,” he says and moves past her, not touching—never touching without purpose, never brushing against her in the accidental way of ordinary men—and gestures toward the chair by the display case.
The chair with the velvet cushion the colour of dried roses, it faces the window so the light falls correctly across her face. “Sit, little one. Tell me what grows in your garden.”
She settles into the chair with the fluid, untrained grace of someone who has never been required to perform elegance. Her back does not touch the rest. Her feet, in their pale slippers, do not quite reach the floor. She places the parasol across her lap and folds her gloved hands over it, looking up at him with an expression that holds no calculation, no suspicion, no awareness of the fifteen pairs of eyes that have watched her, in her father’s mansion, through every hour of the day and night for three years.
“I want something of the sea,” she says. “Father says we may finally return to Lemuria by autumn. The physicians say the capital air doesn’t suit his constitution, though I’ve never noticed him ill.”
Caleb has already moved to the tea service. He pours into her cup and then into his own, which is black and featureless and heavy as stone. “Not like the others,” he repeats, carrying the cup to her. He extends it, and when she reaches to take it, her bare fingers brush his. The skin is warm from being contained in the leather. His own fingers are cool, as always, and he sees her register the temperature difference with a slight widening of her eyes that she does not comment upon. She never comments upon the things that should concern her.
“Tell me, sweetling, what fault do you find in your daughters?”
“Oh, no fault!” She cradles the cup in both hands, sipping without tasting, drinking because it is offered. “They are perfect. You made them perfect. But they are … city children. Palace children. They belong here in Linkon, with the dust and the stone. When I take them to Lemuria, they seem … out of place. Like flowers forced to bloom in the wrong season.”
He takes his own chair, the wrought-iron piece that creaks slightly under his weight. He sits with his spine aligned to its back, his coat settling around him like wings folding.
“You wish for a daughter of the tide,” he says. “A child of salt and foam.”
“Yes.” The word is breathed rather than spoken. “Exactly. I knew you would understand. No one else does. I tried to explain to Lady Simone at the Governor’s Ball, and she smiled as though I were speaking in tongues. She said, ‘A doll is a doll, My Lady. What difference is there whether it is made for the shore or the salon?’”
“She is a fool,” Caleb says, without heat. “And you, my treasure, are not. A doll made for the shore carries the shore in her bones. Her weight is different. Her breath,” he pauses, tilting his head again, “her breath would taste of salt.”
Her eyes stare at him over the rim of her cup. There is no fear in her gaze. There is only fascination, the gentle, voracious curiosity of someone who has never encountered a locked door and therefore does not recognize the shape of a key.
“Can you truly make such a thing?”
“I can make anything you require, my lovely girl.” he sets his cup aside, untasted. “For you, I would carve the moon from its socket and polish it to a finish you could wear at your throat. The sea is a simpler commission.”
She laughs again, that bell-like sound that seems to hang in the workshop air longer than its acoustics should permit. “You say the most extraordinary things. The gentlemen at court would be scandalized if they heard you speak of carving the moon.”
“The gentlemen at court,” he says, “are not in this room. And if they were, they would not be scandalized. They would be rendered irrelevant.”
Her cup is soon set aside—she has drunk half, always half, never finishing what is given to her, a habit Caleb has noted across sixteen visits—and rises from her chair. “Will you,” she pauses, her gloved hand suspended in the air between them. “Will you give her the same eyes as the others? The ones that seem to follow you?”
Caleb turns his head. The round spectacles catch the grey light from the window, momentarily eclipsing the violet of his own eyes. “Do my daughters follow you, little one?”
“Sometimes.” She drops her hand, returning it to herself. “When I wake in the night, I think I see them looking at me. But it must be the candlelight. Or my imagination. Lady Simone says I have too much imagination for my own good.”
“Lady Simone,” he says, “knows nothing of my craft. If my daughters look at you, it is because you are the only worthy sight. A doll without a witness is merely ware, you give them purpose.”
She accepts this with a small, pleased nod, as though he has confirmed a pleasant daydream rather than admitted to a truth that would unmake her understanding of her own household. “Then I shall place her facing the window,” she says. “In Lemuria. So she can see the sea.”
“Yes,” he agrees. He returns the face to the cabinet, locking the door with a click that seems to seal something more than glass. “Place her facing the window. She will want to see the tide return.”
“I knew you would understand.” She steps back, returning to her chair. “When might she be ready? I do not mean to rush you. I know your work cannot be hurried.”
Caleb calculates aloud, though he has already determined the answer. “The current commission—a provincial patron, a man of no consequence—requires completion first. My reputation rests on sequence. Two weeks for him. Then,” he pauses, letting the silence carry weight. “Then I shall begin on your daughter. Four weeks. Perhaps five. The sea requires layers, and salt requires patience.”
“I have patience,” she says.
“Do you, my sweetling?” He asks, and the question is so gently delivered, so devoid of edge, that she does not hear the irony.
She has never needed patience. She has him. She has fifteen watchers in her bedchamber. She has the absolute, unwavering attention of the most feared artisan in the Empire, though she believes she has merely purchased handsome toys.
“I shall wait,” she says. “I always wait well. Father's mansion is very comfortable, and I have my books, and my other daughters for company. Although,” she hesitates, a small crease appearing between her brows. “Lately, the one in the blue dress—the fourteenth—she seems different. Her face is the same, but sometimes I find her in places I don’t remember leaving her. By the writing desk, looking at my letters.”
Caleb’s expression does not change. His face is a mask of attentive concern, perfectly constructed. “Porcelain expands and contracts with the weather,” he says. “The capital’s air is treacherous. She may shift on her stand. It is not uncommon.”
“Of course.” The crease vanishes, smoothed away by his explanation. “That must be it. I worried I was being silly.”
“You are never silly, my darling. Your observations are valued, even when the explanation is mundane.” He moves to the door, not to open it yet, but to stand beside it, a sentinel in charcoal and black. “When she is ready, I shall send word. You need not come to me unless you wish to. I can deliver her myself.”
“Oh, would you?” She rises, collecting her gloves, her parasol. “I would like that. The servants are always so clumsy with packages. And I trust only you to handle her.”
“Only me,” he echoes. “That is the correct arrangement.”
She laughs, delighted, and extends her hand. He takes it—not to shake, but to hold, his cool fingers enveloping her warm ones for three seconds, four, five, long past the duration of social ritual. She does not withdraw. She waits, trusting, until he releases her with a slow, deliberate withdrawal that leaves her skin marked by nothing but the memory of pressure.
“Until next time,” she says.
“Until then,” Caleb agrees.
He opens the door. The afternoon has grown darker, the pewter sky pressing low over the lane. Her carriage waits, the horses stamping, the coachman staring resolutely forward. She steps out, opens her parasol although the first drops of rain have not yet fallen, and walks away without looking back.
Caleb watches her go. He watches through his own eyes, and through the eyes he has planted across the city. In the Duke’s mansion, on the third floor, in the chamber facing east, fifteen heads turn. Fifteen pairs of painted eyes focus on the door, waiting for it to open, waiting for her return. The fourteenth doll, the one in blue, has already shifted her position by three degrees, orienting herself toward the writing desk where the letters lie, where the secrets of the Duke’s correspondence wait to be read and transmitted and known.
The dolls do not watch their owners. Not usually. Not unless their maker requires it. And she—his pretty thing, his little one, his only worthy witness—is the only owner worth the watching.
The sixth week arrives, and Caleb does not travel to the Duke’s mansion in the carriage that waits at his door. He walks. He moves through Linkon City with the unhurried, gliding stride of a man who has never needed to rush because time has always arranged itself to accommodate him. The streets are wet from morning rain, and his boots strike the cobblestones without sound, each step placed with the exactitude of a needle penetrating cloth.
He carries the doll in a case of black lacquered wood, fitted with velvet the colour of dried blood. The case is heavy—not with the doll’s weight, which is negligible, but with the density of intention.
Six weeks. He promised five. He has taken six, and the extra week sits inside him like a swallowed key, turning, unlocking something that has been waiting since the moment she first stepped into his workshop.
Caleb sees the carriages before he sees the mansion. Three of them, lined along the carriage drive with their doors thrown open, their interiors already half-stacked with trunks and hatboxes and the innumerable possessions of a household preparing to return to its ancestral seat. Servants move between the house and the vehicles like ants dismantling a colony, their arms laden with folded linens, with leather-bound books, with the fragile, wrapped shapes of porcelain.
They are leaving. She is leaving. The knowledge enters his consciousness not as surprise but as confirmation of a variable he introduced himself.
He made the doll slowly and perfectly; but he made it late.
A footman approaches, hesitant, recognizing the black coat and the case and the spectacles that catch the light like something that has learned to mimic humanity too perfectly. “Mr. Xia,” the boy stammers. “The Duke is expecting you. This way, sir.”
Caleb inclines his head. “Of course.”
The mansion is vast, all ornate columns and gilded cornices and the aggressive, defensive luxury of provincial nobility trying to convince the city of its permanence in the capital. He moves through it without looking up. He has seen the ceilings before, through other eyes. He knows the pattern of the frescoes in the east wing corridor because the fourteenth doll, the one in blue, has stared at them nightly while she slept. He follows the footman with the docile, attentive posture of a craftsman humbled by aristocratic patronage, and inside the locked cabinet of his mind, he files every face they pass for future reference.
Her father, the Duke meets him in the library;he is thinner than his portraits suggest, his complexion is sallow, and his hand when extended to shake bearing the faint tremor of a constitution that the capital’s air has eroded.
“Mr. Xia,” the Duke says, and his voice carries the strained heartiness of a debtor greeting his creditor. “You’ve brought it? My daughter has spoken of nothing else. Six weeks she has waited, sir. Six weeks.”
“Six weeks,” he repeats, and the word hangs between them, perfectly neutral, perfectly weighted. “The work required it. I hope she finds the delay forgiven by the result.”
“I’m certain she shall.” The Duke releases his hand quickly, as though the temperature of his skin has transmitted something that cannot be named. “She’s in the receiving room. I’ll have you shown up. We depart tomorrow, you understand. The physicians insist. The sea air, the native soil. I’m sure you comprehend the urgency.”
“Entirely,” Caleb says. “Family must be preserved at all costs.”
The Duke smiles, uncertain, and gestures to another footman. Caleb is led up the grand staircase, past the landing where the fourteenth doll sits in its alcove, its painted eyes fixed on the corridor. As he passes, he does not look at it, he does not need to; not when he feels its attention like a thread pulled taut between them, of shared sight that vibrates with his pulse. The footman chatters nervously about the weather, about the journey, about the Duke’s gratitude.
He responds with appropriate sounds that are arranged to resemble conversation without speaking the words. His focus is ahead, behind the door at the corridor’s end, where the air already tastes different to him, where the scent of her has begun to seep through the wood.
The receiving room is blue.
She is there, standing by the window with her back to the door, her posture is straight and perfect. She turns when the footman announces him, and her face—beautiful, always beautiful, the template from which he has learned to sculpt perfection—opens into an expression of such unguarded delight that he feels something in his chest, something that is not a heart, constrict with the satisfaction of a predator scenting its prey.
“Oh,” she breathes. “You came.”
The footman withdraws, and the door closes. Caleb stands alone with her, and the case in his hands seems suddenly animate, hungry, a vessel containing not merely a doll but the six weeks of his delay, the accumulated weight of every night he spent perfecting her newest daughter. He sets the case upon the table by the door, and turns to her with a smile that he has constructed from the memory of human warmth, a curve of the mouth that does not reach the violet of his eyes.
“Did you doubt me, my sweetling?”
“Never.” She moves toward him, and her steps are quick, eager, the gait of someone who has never learned that desire should be concealed. “But I thought—Father said you might not finish in time. That we might have to send for her. I couldn’t bear the thought of her travelling alone.”
“She does not travel alone,” Caleb says. “She travels with me. And now, she travels to you to be with you.”
He reaches to open the case, and the doll lies within, nested in velvet, her eyes staring upward with the patient expression he sculpted for her; the hair is made of corn silk, falling around her porcelain shoulders in waves that seem to move even in stillness; she is dressed in a gown the colour of sea foam.
She gasps. The sound is small, delicate, a breakage of breath that he captures and files. She reaches into the case with both hands, lifting the doll with the reverent, instinctive gentleness of a mother retrieving a newborn, and cradles it against her chest. “She’s perfect,” she whispers. “Oh, she’s more than perfect. She’s waiting. Just as I asked. She’s waiting for the sea.”
“No, my sweet; she waits for you,” he corrects, his voice is lower now, the measured cadence beginning to shed its social rhythm, the pretence slowly falling away. “All my daughters wait for you. But this one,” he pauses, and steps closer; enough that the scent of her becomes dominant, that he can see the individual lashes framing her eyes, the faint, living pulse in the hollow of her throat. “This one is special. This one carries the sea in her bones. I made her for the shore. I made her for your bedchamber in Lemuria. I made her to watch the window with you.”
“Yes.” She looks up at him, the doll still clutched to her chest, her eyes wide and trusting and utterly blind to the shift in the room’s pressure. “I shall place her facing east. So she sees the sunrise over the water. So she waits with me always.”
Caleb’s hand rises. His fingers hover beside her cheek, close enough that the air between them seems to thin, to warm with the friction of proximity.
“You speak of waiting,” he murmurs. “You speak of patience. But I have waited, my dear. I have waited longer than six weeks. I have waited through sixteen dolls. Through sixteen visits.”
She blinks.
The doll’s porcelain head shifts slightly against her shoulder. “I … I don’t understand.”
“No,” he says, and the word is soft, almost tender. “You do not. And that is why you are precious. That is why you are mine.”
His hand moves. Not to her cheek—he resists, with a control that feels like the grinding of gears, the urge to mark her, to bruise her, to leave evidence on her flesh that would prompt questions from physicians and ladies-in-waiting and the Duke himself. Instead, his fingers close around the doll. He plucks it from her embrace with the smooth, unhurried motion of a man removing an obstacle from a path, and he turns to the side table—the one by the chaise, the one with the lamp that casts a circle of amber light onto the carpet—and he lays the doll upon it.
“Caleb?” Her voice has changed; not fear—she does not know fear, not in his presence, not yet—but confusion, a gentle bewilderment, the soft uncertainty of a child whose toy has been taken without explanation. “What are you—”
“Hush, little one.” He turns back to her. He is taller now, or the room has shrunk; he stands before her, and his hands rise to cup her face, his thumbs resting along her jawline, his fingers spreading behind her ears into the warmth of her hair. “You have had your doll. You have had your sixteen daughters. Now you shall have me.”
He kisses her.
Unexpected, overwhelming heat spreads. His lips are warm, almost feverish, a temperature that contradicts the coolness of his hands, his skin, his perpetual chill. He opens her mouth with a pressure that brooks no hesitation, his tongue sliding past her teeth to claim the sweetness within, and she tastes of everything he has imagined through sixteen sets of borrowed eyes: tea and honey and the faint, lingering sugar of the macaroons she favours, and beneath it, the essential, irreplaceable flavour of her life, her blood, her breath.
She makes a sound against his mouth—small, and surprised; but she is not resistant.
Her hands lift, fluttering, uncertain where to settle, and he guides them without breaking the kiss, pressing her palms flat against his chest, over the charcoal waistcoat, over the place where no heartbeat pounds but something else resides, something taut and wound and finally, finally releasing.
She clutches the fabric, and Caleb feasts.
He drinks from her mouth as though she contains the only moisture in a desert, his tongue stroking hers, mapping the interior of her lips, the edge of her teeth, the sensitive hollow beneath her tongue. He angles her head with the exact, jointed pressure of his thumbs, tilting her chin to deepen the access, and when she gasps into him—when her breath becomes his breath—he swallows the sound and demands more.
Six weeks. Sixteen dolls. Years of watching, waiting, collecting her moments through glass eyes, and now she is here, real, warm, yielding, and he is devouring the evidence of her existence one kiss at a time.
When he releases her mouth, they are both breathing differently. Her lips are swollen, glistening, parted around questions she does not know how to ask. His own mouth feels altered, sensitized, alive with the phantom of her taste. He looks down at her, at the beautiful creature who stands before him with her hands still grabbing a fistful of his coat, and he smiles with a warmth that is genuine because it is predatory.
“Sweet,” he says. “So sweet, my pretty girl. I knew you would be. I have imagined this taste through every doll I placed in your chamber. I have wondered if you would be honey or cream or something rarer. You are all three. You are everything.”
“I don’t—” she sways slightly; er eyes are unfocused, the pupils dilated, her. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”
“You are being loved by me,” Caleb tells her. “You need understand nothing else.”
His hands move from her face. They trace the column of her throat with featherlight touches that leave gooseflesh in their wake, and then they descend to the bodice of her dress. The fabric is fine, silk or something like it, the colour of ivory, and he finds the fastenings to let the buttons give way, and the hooks to loosen. Tender hands peel the dress from her shoulders with a deliberation that feels like unwrapping a gift he has already waited too long to open, and when the fabric pools at her waist, he reveals her breasts.
They are perfect.
Not the perfection of his dolls, which is symmetrical and cold. They are living perfection, soft and smooth and weighted with the gentle gravity of flesh, the nipples are a shade of rose that no pigment has ever accurately captured. He cups them in his hands and feels the warmth of her radiate into his palms like coals placed against ice.
She inhales sharply; her spine arches, pressing her more firmly into his grip, and he accepts the offering with a low sound that is not quite a groan, not quite a purr, but something that belongs to no human throat.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, and the word is reverent and possessive and absolute. “My lovely little girl. Look at you. Look what you’ve hidden beneath all that silk and propriety. Look what belongs to me.”
Caleb lowers his head.
His mouth closes around her left nipple, and the heat of him—impossible, overwhelming, the warmth of a kiln rather than a man—envelops her flesh. He sucks. Hard. The pressure is sudden, intense, drawing the sensitive peak deep into the wet cavern of his mouth, his tongue lashing against it with firm, insistent strokes.
She cries out, a high, broken sound that echoes in the room, her hands flying to his hair, her fingers tangling in the brown strands that never fall out of place. He does not release her. He suckles with the focused intensity of a parched man finding a puddle of water, and his pleasure is evident in the way his eyes half-close, the way his jaw works, the way his free hand rises to knead her other breast, rolling the neglected nipple between his thumb and forefinger until it stiffens to match its twin.
He moves from one breast to the other without pause, marking no territory because he claims all of it, every inch, every curve, every shuddering breath. He bites, gently, testing the resilience of her flesh, and when she moans—when her head falls back and her throat exposes itself to the lamplight—he growls against her skin and sucks harder, drawing the blood to the surface, resisting with a violence that trembles through his frame the urge to bruise, to purple, to leave the unmistakable imprint of his mouth where anyone might see. He pulls back only when both nipples glisten, swollen and darkened, throbbing with the heat of his attention, and even then he does not release her breasts entirely. He holds them, possessively, his thumbs strumming across the wet peaks, his eyes fixed on her face.
“Please,” she whispers. The word is directionless, a plea cast into waters she does not know the depth of. “Please, I-I—Caleb, I f-feel so…”
“I know what you feel, sweetling.” His voice is thick, the measured cadence fractured by something that reeks of hunger. “I know every sensation in your pretty body. I have studied you. I have memorized you. Now I am confirming my research.”
His hands slide from her breasts. They grip her waist, and he lowers himself to his knees before her. He looks up at her through his round spectacles, the violet eyes darkened to something near black, and his hands find the hem of her skirts. He pushes them upward, slowly, revealing layer after layer of petticoats, of stockings, of the delicate, ribboned underthings that separate her from the air. She stands frozen, beautiful and small and trembling, her hands hovering in the air as though she has forgotten their function.
“Mr. Xia,” she breathes, suddenly formal until she is not. “Caleb. What are y-you—you mustn’t…”
“I must,” he says simply. “I have lasted not doing this for years. Spread your legs, my dear. Be good for me.”
She obeys. The movement is hesitant, automatic, the compliance of someone who has never been taught to refuse the things asked of her by men she trusts. He guides her feet apart with gentle pressure, and then he is beneath her skirts, his head disappearing into the shadowed, fabric-draped space between her thighs, and his mouth finds her cunt.
She is pretty there, too.
The thought arrives as a fact, as inevitable as gravity; the skin is smooth and soft as the porcelain he shapes in his kiln, the folds delicate and flushed with arousal, glistening with the evidence of her response to his mouth at her breast. He inhales her scent—sweet, yes, but beneath it the darker, saltier perfume of a woman ready to be taken, the essential musk of her sex that no doll, no matter how perfect, can replicate.
Caleb groans, the sound vibrating against her most sensitive flesh, and then he feasts.
His tongue parts her. It strokes upward from her entrance to the hood of her clitoris with a slow, devastating thoroughness, lapping at her as though she were a delicacy to be savoured rather than consumed in one measly bite. She cries out, her hips bucking, her hands falling to his head, gripping his hair with a desperation that seems to surprise even her. He does not allow her movement. His hands clamp around her thighs, holding her spread and open and vulnerable to his mouth, and he delves deeper, pressing his tongue inside her, tasting the liquid heat of her core, before withdrawing to circle her clit with relentless, flickering pressure.
“Oh,” she gasps. “Oh, please, I can’t—it’s too much, aah! I-It’s—”
“It is exactly enough,” he murmurs against her, the words muffled by her flesh, the vibration of his voice adding another layer to the pressure. “You will take what I give you. You will take it, and you will thank me, and you will give me more.”
He slides one hand upward, beneath the bunched fabric of her skirts, and finds her entrance with his fingers. Two of them, long and cool, are pressing into her tightness with a steady, unyielding pressure. She is wet, so wet, slick and scorching around his digits, and the sensation of her inner walls clutching at him—living, responsive, desperate—draws another groan from his chest. He pumps his fingers in rhythm with his tongue, curling them upward to stroke the spot inside her that makes her knees buckle, that makes her cry out with a sharp, animal sound that has no place in the receiving room of a noble house.
Caleb makes her cum with his mouth.
The orgasm rolls through her like a tide, slow and inexorable, building from the pressure of his tongue and the stroke of his fingers until she is shaking, sobbing, her thighs trembling around his head, her hands pulling his hair with a force that would dislodge a lesser man’s composure. He is no lesser, much less, is he a man. He does not stop. He rides her through it, gentling his tongue but maintaining the suction around her clit, milking her with his fingers, drawing out every spasm, every clutch, every drop of pleasure until she is limp, gasping, her head lolling in every which way from surrender.
But he is not finished.
Before she can recover, before her breathing can steady, he renews his assault. His fingers move faster, deeper, curling against her inner walls, and his mouth descends again to her clit, sucking with renewed, almost punishing intensity.
A wail rips through her, and she tries to close her legs, to escape the deluge, but his grip is iron, his will absolute. “No,” he commands against her, the word a hot breath against her oversensitive flesh. “You do not retreat from me. You do not deny me. Give me another, little one. Give me what I am owed.”
She cums again, but this time, much harder. The second orgasm crashes into the first without boundary, a continuous wave of pleasure that seems to break something loose in her, some final tether to propriety or consciousness. She sobs his name, “Caleb,” and her body convulses around his fingers, her juices flooding his hand, his chin, the fabric of her ruined underthings.
When he withdraws, she is barely standing.
He emerges from beneath her skirts with his chin wet, his spectacles slightly askew and splattered with slick, his eyes are completely black and blazing with a violet light that seems to generate its own heat.
Caleb rises to his feet, his movements fluid and jointed, and he catches her as she sways, lifting her into his arms with an ease that belies the density of his own frame. “Good girl,” he whispers against her temple. He carries her—not to the chaise—but to the carpet in the centre of the room. The rug is thick and designed with an intricate pattern of blues and golds that will cushion her and hide what spills. He lays her upon it with a gentleness that contradicts the violence of his intention, arranging her limbs with the same care he applies to his dolls, spreading her legs, lifting her hips, positioning her so the lamplight falls across her flushed, naked skin in the exact manner he requires.
And then he turns to the side table.
The doll lies there still, eyes open, her soft hair arranged across the surface. Caleb reaches for her. He lifts her with one hand, the other already working at the fastenings of his trousers, and he places the doll on the carpet before them, sitting in a way that faces them, her painted gaze fixed upon the scene with the unblinking, eternal patience of an audience.
He positions her carefully, ensures her eyes align with the joining of their bodies.
“There,” he says, and his voice is thick, distorted, the voice of something that has worn human speech for too long and is beginning to let the seams show. “Our newest daughter must watch. She must see how Papa loves her Mama. She must learn what wanting truly means.”
Caleb frees himself. His cock is heavy, flushed dark with blood, the skin stretched tight and glistening at the tip with the evidence of his own arousal. He is large—he knows this, has always known it—and he grips himself at the base, guiding himself to her entrance, pressing the broad, weeping head against her slick, fluttering folds.
She looks up at him from the carpet, her eyes glazed, her hair dishevelled, her dress bunched around her waist like shed skin. She is small beneath him, fragile, a living doll arranged for his pleasure, and the sight of her—open, waiting, his—drives a shudder through his spine that he does not suppress.
“Look at me,” he commands. “Not the doll. Not the room. Me. Know who takes you.”
“Caleb,” she breathes. “I-I’ve never—no one has e-ever—”
“I know.” The words are a purr. “And no one ever will. You are mine, my sweetling. I will be your first and your only one forever.”
He pushes inside her.
The tightness is exquisite. It is purity, it is possession, it is the absolute, irrefutable claim of a man who has waited beyond the patience of mortals and now takes what time has owed him. She is wet, prepared by his mouth and his fingers, but she is small, and he is thick, and the stretch of her virgin flesh around his intrusion draws a cry from her throat that is part pain, part wonder, part something deeper that neither of them has language for. He sinks in slowly, inch by inch, his jaw locked, his eyes fixed on her face, watching every flicker of sensation cross her features, cataloguing her responses with the obsessive attention he brings to his glazing.
Caleb bottoms out. The head of his cock presses against her cervix, nudging the gate of her womb with a steady, battering pressure that makes her gasp, her hands flying to his shoulders, her nails digging into the wool of his coat.
He is seated to the root inside her, surrounded by her heat, her tightness, the rhythmic, involuntary flutter of her muscles trying to accommodate his girth, and he holds there, letting her feel the full extent of his possession, letting her understand the depth of her impalement. “Feel me,” he murmurs, and his hips begin to move slowly. Each withdrawal is a torture of friction, and each thrust is a deliberate, grinding return that drives him against her cervix with unrelenting force. “Feel where I am. This is where I belong, my dear; buried inside your pretty cunt, so deep that you cannot tell where you end and I begin.”
“Please,” she sobs, her legs wrapping around his waist, her heels digging into the small of his back. “Please, Caleb, I—it’s too much, y-you’re so—”
“I am exactly enough,” he growls, and his pace intensifies—not faster, but harder, each thrust landing with a heavy, wet slap of flesh against flesh, the sound obscene and perfect in the quiet room. “And you will take all of me. You will open for me. You will mold yourself around my shape until you cannot breathe without me.”
He fucks her with the intensity of a man performing a sacred rite, his hips rolling and snapping with a precision that seems to target the exact depth, the exact angle, the exact pressure required to shatter her. He watches her, the thin rim of violet in his gaze boring into her face as his cock batters her cervix, as her breasts bounce with the force of his thrusts, as her mouth falls open around sounds that are no longer words but pure, unfiltered expressions of being taken.
“You are going to Lemuria,” he gasps, and the words are punctuated by the heavy, rhythmic impact of his body into hers. “You are going to the sea. To the sun. To your father’s estate. But I will be with you. Do you understand? I will be so deep inside you that it is like I am with you always. Every step you take on that shore, you will feel me. Every wave that breaks, you will remember this. You will carry me in your womb, my seed, my weight, my presence. You will never be free of me, my lovely girl. You will never want to be.”
“Yes,” she cries, tears streaming from the corners of her eyes, her face flushed and desperate and beautiful. “Yes, please, I want—I want you with me, I want—”
“You have me.” He leans down, his weight pressing her into the carpet, his mouth capturing hers in a kiss. “All of me. Now give me your pleasure again. Give it to me while I take you. Give it to me because I demand it.”
She cums around his cock.
The orgasm is different from the ones he gave her with his mouth—deeper, more violent, a convulsion of her inner walls that grips him like a fist, milking him, demanding his own release. She screams into his mouth, or perhaps he swallows the sound; her body arches off the carpet, her spine bowing, her nails scoring his shoulders through the fabric of his coat. The sensation of her climaxing on him, the rhythmic, desperate clenching of her virgin cunt around his invading flesh, tears a groan from his chest that seems to originate from somewhere beneath his ribs, somewhere that has never before been permitted to make noise.
But he does not stop.
Caleb breaks the kiss and stares down at her, his spectacles are askew, and his eyes are burning with a black-violet light. “Again,” he commands. “One more. The last one, sweetling. Promise me; promise me you will give me one more, and I will fill you. I will mark you from the inside where no one can see, where only you will know, where you will carry my claim across the sea and through every day of your life.”
“I promise,” she sobs, delirious, overwhelmed, her body still twitching from the aftershocks. “I promise, I promise, please—”
“Together,” he murmurs, and the word is binding like a vow. “Promise, sweetling. Promise. Together now. Good girl.”
He increases his pace. The rhythm that was slow and intense becomes something else—faster, harder, a pounding, battering assault that shakes her body against the carpet, that drives the breath from her lungs, that makes her breasts bounce and her thighs tremble and her head fall back in absolute, surrendered abandon.
“Caleb,” she screams. “Caleb, I can’t, I’m going to—I’m—”
“Now,” he snarls. “With me. Give it to me now.”
She shatters.
The final orgasm crashes through her with the force of a wave breaking against stone, a continuous, rolling convulsion that seems to originate from her core and radiate outward until every limb, every muscle, every nerve is singing with the violence of her release. And as she cums— as her cunt grips him like it can't bear to let go—he finally allows himself to follow.
He buries himself to the hilt inside her, pressing so hard against her cervix that she can feel the pulse of his release like a heartbeat in her deepest place, and he spills into her with a heat that seems to scald, a volume that seems impossible, flooding her womb, her channel, marking her with the irrevocable evidence of his possession. He groans, a sound like stone grinding against stone, like the kiln’s deepest fire finding voice, and he pumps into her with short, jerking thrusts, ensuring every drop is deposited, ensuring nothing is wasted, ensuring she will leave this room carrying him inside her in a way that no sea, no distance, no time can dissolve.
They collapse together, and he does not withdraw; he stays inside her, softening but still present, still claiming, and he gathers her against his chest with hands that tremble only slightly. She is limp, gasping, her face pressed against his collar, her tears wetting his cravat.
The doll watches from the carpet, patient and eternal.
Just like himself.
“Good girl,” Caleb whispers into her hair, his voice returned to its low, melodic register, though it is thickened, satiated, almost sleepy in its satisfaction. “My perfect, sweet girl. You did so well for me. You took everything. You gave everything.”
“Caleb,” she mumbles, half-conscious, her body still twitching with aftershocks around his spent length. “I feel you. I can still feel you. It’s like—it’s like you’re still—”
“I am,” he says. “I will be. Even in Lemuria. Even when you stand on the shore and watch the tide. You will feel me inside you, warm and heavy and real. You will touch yourself in the dark and find me there. You will never be alone, my dear. You have never been alone. I have been inside you since the first doll.”
He adjusts her in his arms, withdrawing finally with a wet, obscene sound that makes her whimper at the loss, and he arranges her dress with gentleness, covering her breasts, smoothing her skirts, restoring the fiction of her propriety even as his seed slides down her skin, even as the mark of him pulses in her bruised, swollen core. He lifts the doll from the carpet—his hands are steady now, perfectly steady—and he places it into her limp, unresisting arms. “Hold her,” he instructs. “Take her to Lemuria; let her watch the window, let her wait with you. And when you look at her, when you see her eyes in the dark, remember that she sees you too, that I see you too.”
She clutches the doll. Her fingers are weak, trembling, but they close around the porcelain body with such tenderness that it makes him smile. “I will,” she whispers. “I promise.”
Caleb stands. He adjusts his clothing—trousers fastened, coat smoothed, spectacles straightened, cravat adjusted to hide the absence of any heartbeat in his throat. He looks down at her, at the beautiful creature lying spent and claimed on the Duke’s carpet, cradling his doll, leaking his seed, marked by him in ways invisible and indelible.
“Tomorrow,” he says. “Your father departs tomorrow. I will not see you again before you go. But I am with you. I am always with you.”
He steps into the hallway, closes the door with a click that seals the afternoon into memory, and descends the grand staircase with the posture of an artisan who has merely delivered a commission and received the payment in full.
Dearest Readers,
It is with a trembling hand and a fluttering heart that your humble observer dips her quill into the inkwell this morning, for the sheets that have arrived upon my desk contain intelligence so staggering, so deliciously unprecedented, that one scarcely knows whether to clutch one’s pearls or order a fresh gown for the inevitable celebrations.
Gather round, for the fog of rumour has at last parted.
The Duke of Lemuria—yes, that Duke, the very same whose holdings kiss the salt and spray of the shores, whose treasury is said to be buoyed by tides of pearl and amber—has issued a formal announcement that has set every drawing room, every guildhall, every cloistered corridor of the Citadel, and every shadowed nook of Skyhaven ablaze with whispered conjecture. His Grace declares, in language so carefully wrought it might have been carved from ivory itself, that his only daughter, that radiant creature whom society has long delighted to call the Darling of the Sun and the Sea, is to be united in matrimony to none other than Mister Caleb Xia of Linkon City.
Allow that name to settle upon your palate, dear reader.
Mister Caleb Xia.
The Dollmaker of Skyhaven.
To the uninitiated, one might assume this to be some quaint romantic fancy—a noble daughter smitten with a handsome craftsman, a minor scandal of the heart to be hushed with a modest settlement and a swift removal to the country. But we, who have watched the currents of power eddy and swirl through the capital these many years, know that nothing concerning Mister Xia is ever merely quaint.
Nothing concerning Mister Xia is ever merely anything.
He has never, in all his years of public prominence, demonstrated the slightest interest in the marriage mart. No seasonal balls have found him in attendance. No matchmaking mama has succeeded in cornering him beside the punch bowl. He has moved through our society like a figure in a dream, present and yet untouchable, visible and yet unmistakeably distant. And now, suddenly, shockingly, he is to be a husband. Not merely a husband at that, but a duke.
For here is the particular inclusion of this announcement that has set the Empire trembling upon its axis: upon the solemnization of this union, Mister Caleb Xia shall cease to be Mister Xia in any meaningful social sense. He shall be addressed, henceforth and in perpetuity, as the Duke of Lemuria. He shall assume the full mantle of ducal authority, the administrative sovereignty over those sun-drenched coastal estates, the parliamentary voice in the Imperial Diet, the hereditary privileges and crushing responsibilities that have, for centuries, descended through the bloodline of his bride’s noble house. The Duke of Lemuria—her father, the present incumbent—has effectively declared that his title, his legacy, and his territories are to be entrusted to a man whose primary credential is an unparalleled ability to sculpt a human face from fired clay.
One can almost hear the collective gasp of the aristocracy echoing across the cobblestones.
But wait, dear reader, for the plot thickens into a consistency one might almost spread upon toast. His Imperial Majesty, the Emperor himself—he who sits upon the Obsidian Throne and commands armies that make the earth tremble—has granted his personal approval to the match. This is no mere formality. The Emperor’s endorsement transforms what might otherwise be dismissed as a provincial peculiarity into an affair of state. He is to be family. Imperial family, by extension. The Emperor has, in effect, placed his own shadow between the Dollmaker and those who would seek to question him.
But what of the bride, you ask? What of the creature who has, by this announcement, become the most envied and, one suspects, the most scrutinized young woman in the Empire?
We have long known her as the Darling of the Sun and the Sea, the only daughter of the Duke, a vision of beauty have launched a thousand sonnets and twice as many sighs from the lips of disappointed suitors.
She has resided these past seasons in her father’s capital mansion, a soft presence in a hard city that one might mistake her for a living doll herself—though, of course, no doll, however masterfully wrought, could replicate the particular luminosity of a soul that has never learned to suspect its own reflection.
It is said—whispered, rather, by those who have attended her intimate receptions—that she possesses a collection of dolls so extensive it requires its own chamber in the Lemurian mansion. One wonders, with a delicious shiver of speculation, whether this matrimony represents the culmination of a courtship conducted entirely through the medium of bisque and velvet, a romance whispered across sixteen painted faces, a seduction enacted in the language of craftsmanship.
What other suitor could possibly compete with a man who has, quite literally, populated her private world with his creations?
The matchmaking mamas of Philos are, by report, in various states of collapse. Those who had earmarked the Duke’s daughter for their own sons must now recalibrate their dynastic ambitions. Those who had harboured private hopes of attracting the Dollmaker’s eye—yes, there were such women, bold creatures who fancied themselves capable of thawing that legendary chill—have retreated to their boudoirs to shred handkerchiefs and curse the fates. The Artisans’ Guild of Skyhaven, meanwhile, has entered a state of collective apoplexy, torn between pride at their member’s elevation and terror at the vacuum his exclusivity shall leave in their ranks.
Who shall now serve as the Empire’s premier dollmaker? Who shall fill the atelier that once accepted the most discerning commissions? The answer, one suspects, is no one. The art shall become, under his continued but distant patronage, a relic of the old order.
But let us not, in our fascination with politics and power, neglect the human heart—if indeed human hearts are what beat in the breasts of these two curious figures. For beneath the scaffolding of titles and approvals and strategic calculations, there lies the simple, scandalous, utterly captivating fact of a marriage. A man and a woman. A bedchamber. A life to be shared across the miles that separate Linkon City from the Lemurian shore. She who is soft, and small, and beautiful beyond the capacity of his pigments to capture. He who is cool, and precise, and possessed of a gaze that suggests he has already mapped every day of their future together.
Will he adore her?
The announcement promises he shall. It speaks of a beautiful wife to be adored, of a duchy to be managed with the same devotion he brings to his craft. And one believes it—strange as it may seem, this one believes it absolutely. Not because the language is convincing, but because it is unnecessary. Any man who has spent years fashioning sixteen perfect masterpieces for a woman’s private chamber has already demonstrated an adoration that transcends the conventional vocabulary of courtship.
He has adored her in porcelain. He has adored her in glass. He has adored her through eyes that do not close, through limbs that do not tire, through a vigilance that has never slept. Now he shall adore her in flesh, in title, in the full, unshielded light of ducal privilege.
One can only wonder what children might issue from such a union. But that, I suspect, is intelligence for another season, another sheet, another whispered dispatch from your devoted observer.
Until then, raise your glasses to the happy couple. The tide, it seems, has turned in their favor. And the tide, as every citizen knows, does not turn back.
SAINT'S NOTES ! posting from my back-up because the reach in my main has been so fucked because of that evil fucking tag; nonetheless, have fun with the dollmaker, because i'm back to be evil and start mass-posting again after disappearing for a while. this blog is only a back-up, all interactions and masterlists can be found in here.
caleb being obsessed with how her pussy stretches over the thick, relentless shape of his cock.
he pushes it in midway, only to pull it out again to feel that tight ring pop around his fat tip. it makes his balls tighten and his shaft pump with blood, soft groans croaking from him each time he feels her swallow him in. he’s terribly fond of seeing her legs spread impossibly wide for him, calves folded onto the back of her thighs. he’ll smirk, muttering “you’d stay like this forever for me, wouldn’t you? just a pretty little hole for your brother to stick his dick into whenever he needs to get off…” and she’s just sobbing as he begins to pound into her ruthlessly, ashamed but still screaming out his name, chanting for him to keep going, ‘please don’t stop!’ and trust, he won’t. he doesn’t have to say it. she’s always been his to take, to consume. he’ll make sure of it, dumping his fat load over and over inside of her until he no longer can.
bonus: each time he creampies her, he pulls out to hear that pretty pussy release his cock, inspecting his work and demanding her to push so he can watch it dribble out. he’ll give it a sloppy kiss so he can taste himself, then smack her on the ass before shoving himself back in without warning and continuing his slaughter…
6. Forehead kisses with Caleb while he pumps you full of his cum.
Check out the rest of my Horny thoughts list here.
Everything about this restaurant gleamed under soft golden lights, from the polished silverware to the spotless wine glasses on the table. The portions were small enough that Caleb spent most of dinner complaining about them.
"I'm serious," he said, eyeing the plate in front of him. "This can't be the entire meal. I've seen larger appetizers at gas stations."
"Baby, you already finished the bread basket."
Caleb shot you an offended look before cutting into his steak again. He'd finally stopped grumbling about the menu and settled into actually eating, looking far more relaxed than he had when you'd first arrived. His tie was loosened slightly, his sleeves rolled up just enough to expose his forearms, and for the first time all evening he seemed content to sit back and enjoy himself.
Which, in hindsight, was probably why your timing was so terrible.
You watched him take another bite before the thought that had been circling your head for weeks slipped out before you could overthink it.
"I want to stop using condoms."
His reaction was immediate.
The fork slipped from his hand and struck the edge of his plate with a loud metallic clang. A streak of dark sauce splattered across the front of his shirt as he coughed violently.
A waiter froze halfway across the room.
An elderly woman nearby nearly choked on her wine.
For a few horrible seconds, the only sound in the restaurant was Caleb trying not to die.
You covered your face. "Oh my God."
"Would you like to repeat that?"
"Maybe after you recover."
Caleb looked down at the stain spreading across his expensive shirt and then back at you, disbelief written all over his face.
"Do you know how many opportunities you had to bring this up today?"
"No?"
"There was breakfast," he continued. "There was lunch. There was the drive here. There was the entire first half of dinner, and you waited until I had my mouth full of food?."
"I didn't plan it."
"You looked across this table, saw me actively chewing, and thought, yes, this seems like the ideal moment for a life changing conversation."
The more serious he tried to sound, the harder it became not to laugh. His composure wasn't holding up much better, a faint flush had climbed all the way to the tips of his ears, and every time he glanced at you it got worse.
"You're serious." It wasn't a question.
You nodded.
"You've thought about it."
"A lot."
His shoulders eased and something in his expression softened so completely it made your chest ache.
"This is embarrassing to admit now, but I actually had a whole conversation planned for this."
Your eyes widened. "A conversation?"
"A very good one. It had structure..."
"Oh no."
"It had bullet points."
You burst out laughing while he groaned and dropped his head into one hand. "Don't laugh."
"You made bullet points?"
His smile finally broke through and the sight of it made your laughter fade into something gentler.
"You're telling me you see a future with me and that's more than enough for me right now"
Silence stretched comfortably between you until a waiter appeared beside the table carrying a clean napkin.
The man glanced at Caleb's stained shirt, then at the two of you holding hands, clearly unsure of what he'd interrupted.
"Sir," he said cautiously, "would you like some assistance with the stain?"
Caleb looked down at the mess on his shirt again, looked back at you, and let out a long sigh.
"Do you have anything for emotional shock?"
🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞
Caleb was the kind of man who brought home the exact chocolates you liked from the store near the station, who tucked your stray hairs behind your ear with a thumb so gentle it felt like an apology. He loved you with the cleanest, lightest parts of his soul.
But that Caleb stayed outside when your front door thudded shut behind you.
The man who moved you against the wall was heavier. Darker. His hands locked onto your hips with bruising leverage that shoved your lower back flush against the plaster. His breathing was uneven, smelling of the dry red wine he’d barely touched before you threw that sentence across the restaurant table.
"You don't get to say things like that out there" your knees shook, the silk of your dress bunching up around your thighs as his fingers tore at the fabric "You don't get to put those images in my head while I'm trapped in a room full of strangers and then expect me to hold back." you were trembling, and he looked down at the tremor in your thighs with cold satisfaction. A quieter shadow had taken him over—the part of him that didn't know how to possess you without wanting to ruin you. He’d been holding that part back for years, keeping it chained behind soft words and careful boundaries.
Now, the chain was gone.
He dropped his trousers, hooked his forearm under your left knee, hoisting your leg high over his hip, and drove himself inside you.
The entry was dry enough to sting, a stretching heat that caught the breath in your throat. You let out a small, fractured sound, your fingers clawing at the rough wool of his jacket, looking for the Caleb who always asked if you were okay.
This version didn't ask. He gripped the back of your skull, his fingers tangling in your hair to hold your head still, and buried his mouth over yours to catch the noises you were making. He tasted like wine and years of starvation.
His hips slammed forward in a brutal rhythm that used the wall behind you as support. Every time he went deep, the heel of his palm pressed harder into your hip bone, keeping you pinned, making sure you took the full length of his cock.
"Look at you," he rasped against your lips, his teeth grazing the tip of your tongue before he pulled back just far enough to look into your eyes. "Taking my cock so well"
He lifted your other leg until you were entirely dependent on his strength to stay off the floor. The tip of his dick, in one unyielding thrust that went past the usual limits, pushed hard against your cervix.
"Caleb—wait," you cried out, your fingers tearing two buttons from his shirt as your head banged lightly against the plaster. " 'S too deep, baby. Ah, god..."
"How do you expect me to breed this tight little pussy, uh?" he leaned his full weight into you, pinning you immovably against the wall as his breath came hot against your ear. "I need to reach that spot so it takes."
To prove his point, he withdrew slowly, leaving you empty before bottoming out inside you again, harder this time. "Take it," he whispered, burying his face into the crook of your neck where he bit the soft skin over your collarbone. "Stay right here and take it."
He was turning your thighs into a collection of dark, finger shaped bruises as his control fractured under the tight clenches of your body.
The weight of his body, combined with the deep thrusts of his cock against your womb, broke something open inside you. Your walls spasmed, clamping down on him with an involuntary tightness.
That tight clench broke him. He let out a ragged groan, thrusting into you so hard the frame of the hallway mirror rattled. His whole body going rigid as he started to come.
But while his lower body held you trapped his hands softened. His fingers moved to cradle your face and he pressed his lips to your forehead.
The kiss was remarkably soft, tender and lingering— just the way he kissed you when you wake up on Sunday mornings. Below your waist, he was ruining you, his cock twitching and pumping you full of his cum. Against your skin, his lips were gentle, brushing over your damp hairline while he whispered "You're going to hold every single drop of me inside you tonight..."
He pressed another soft kiss between your eyebrows, his chest heaving as the final pulses shuddered through him "Think I can get you pregnant by morning?"
The taste of Caleb becomes an addiction faster than you care to admit.
It’s been days since he fucked you in the kitchen, and you’ve been a fucking fiend about it ever since.
You corner him in hallways, climb onto his lap during movies, press your ass against his crotch while he’s doing dishes just to hear him hiss.
You’ve memorized every sound he makes, every twitch, every time his breath catches and his cock gets so hard you can feel it through his jeans.
And he indulges you. God, does he indulge you.
His fingers work you open until you’re begging, his tongue drags along your slit until your thighs shake. He fucks your ass with that perfect cock of his while his fingers pump in and out of your cunt, curling just right to make you scream. He lets you ride his face until you’re drooling on yourself, lets you suck him off until your jaw aches.
But he will not fuck your pussy.
“You’re not ready,” he says, voice strained, sweat beading on his forehead as he holds himself back.
“You’re full of shit,” you tell him, grinding your slick cunt against his cock, the head of him nestled perfectly against your entrance but never pushing in. “I’m so wet it’s dripping down my thighs. How much more ready do I need to be?”
“It’s your first time,” he insists, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks. “I’m not taking that from you on a kitchen counter after you’ve had two orgasms.”
“So what, then? When?”
“Patience, Pips.”
You fucking hate that word.
Patience.
Like you’re a child. Like the way you rock your hips against his isn’t driving him as insane as it’s driving you.
It becomes a game. A stupid, infuriating game where you try everything and he gives you everything except the one thing you actually want.
You wake him up with your mouth around his cock. You bend over the coffee table with your ass in the air and your cunt dripping. You suck his fingers clean after he’s had them buried inside you and look him dead in the eye while you do it.
And Caleb, the fucking bastard, just smiles. That smug, condescending smile that says he knows exactly what you’re doing and he’s not falling for it.
“I can see your pussy, you know,” he says one night, his voice low as you ride his thigh, your panties shoved to the side. “All slick and pink and desperate.” His thumb circles your clit, and you whimper, your hips stuttering. “You want my cock that badly?”
“Please,” you gasp, because dignity is a luxury you can’t afford right now. “Please, Caleb, I need it.”
“Mm.” His thumb presses harder, and your vision blurs. “I think you need to come first. Look at you, you’re fucking trembling.”
You hate that he’s right. You hate that he can make you cum with one finger, one word, one look, and still leave you wanting more. He watches you fall apart on his thigh, his hand between your legs, and then pulls you into his lap and kisses you like you haven’t just been begging him to ruin you.
“You’re a tease,” you accuse, your voice raw.
“I’m keeping you from doing something you’ll regret,” he says, and there’s something in his eyes, something serious under all that smugness that makes your chest ache.
“But I won’t regret it. I want you.”
“I know.” He brushes your hair back, tucks it behind your ear. “But there’s a difference between wanting something and being ready for it.”
You call bullshit. You call it a lot, actually, usually while you’re rubbing your cunt against his cock through his boxers and he’s groaning into your neck like he’s the one being tortured.
Just yesterday, you thought you had him.
You’d gotten him worked up enough that his control was fraying, his kisses turning desperate, his hands rough as they dragged your panties down. He had you bent over the arm of the couch, his cock nudging against your ass, and you reached back and grabbed his cock and dragged it down, down, until the head was pressing against your pussy instead.
He froze. You felt him twitch against your entrance, hot and hard and so fucking close.
“Pips,” he warned, his voice breaking.
“Please,” you whispered, and you meant it. You meant it with every cell in your body. “I want you. I want all of you.”
For one beautiful, terrible second, you thought he’d give in. His hips shifted forward, just a fraction, and you felt the blunt pressure of him starting to push in—
And then he pulled away. Pulled his cock out of your hand, flipped you over, and fucked your ass so hard you couldn’t think straight, his fingers working your clit until you came so violently you saw stars.
Afterward, you lay boneless on the couch, his cum leaking out of your ass, and you wanted to cry. Not because it wasn’t good. It was, it’s always good with Caleb, but because it wasn’t enough. Not anymore.
“I hate you,” you mumbled into the cushion.
He laughed, low and warm, and pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “No, you don’t.”
You don’t. That’s the problem.
It’s two in the morning, and you’re lying in bed with your hand between your legs, thinking about his cock and how badly you want it inside you.
Not in your mouth, not in your ass. In your pussy, where you were built to take him. You’re so wet your fingers slide easily, and you fuck yourself thinking about him, about how it would feel to have him filling you completely, stretching you open, making you his in every possible way.
You cum with his name on your lips, and it’s not enough. It’s never enough.
That’s when the idea hits you. It’s stupid and petty and exactly the kind of thing that would make Caleb’s eye twitch, which is how you know it’s perfect.
Tomorrow, you’re going grocery shopping with him. And you’re going to buy every single condom in the store.
Grocery shopping with Caleb is usually boring as shit.
He has a list. He follows the list. He compares unit prices. You trail behind him rolling your eyes and sneaking candy bars into the cart when he’s not looking.
Today is different. Today, you have a mission.
“Can you grab the eggs?” Caleb asks, already halfway down the dairy aisle, not bothering to look back because he knows you’re following him. He always knows.
“On it,” you chirp, and wait exactly three seconds after he turns the corner before beelining for the family planning section.
The condom display is glorious. Row after row of colorful boxes, each one promising something new and exciting.
Extra thin. Ribbed for her pleasure. Studded. Glow-in-the-dark, which is objectively hilarious.
You grab one of each. Then you grab two of some, because why the fuck not. Your arms are full of condoms, and you’re grinning like a maniac.
Back to the cart. Caleb is still in dairy, probably agonizing over the difference between 2% and whole milk. You dump the condoms into the cart, burying them under a bag of apples and the box of cereal he always buys. Perfect.
You meet him at the end of the aisle, all innocence. “Got the eggs,” you say, holding up the carton.
“Thanks.” He doesn’t even glance at the cart. You could have put a live chicken in there and he wouldn’t notice.
Three more aisles. Three more chances to add to your collection.
Flavored condoms. Magnum XL, which makes you snort because Caleb is big but he’s not that big. (Maybe if he was a wolf, then maybe…) Ultra-sensitive. The dotted ones that make you bite your lip just thinking about them.
It’s not until you’re in the frozen food section that Caleb finally looks down.
“What the fuck,” he says, very quietly.
You follow his gaze. The condoms are no longer hidden. They’ve shifted, risen to the surface like the world’s most embarrassing iceberg. A rainbow of prophylactics, at least fifteen different varieties, sitting proudly among the broccoli and bread.
“Oops,” you say, not sorry at all.
Caleb’s face does something complicated. His eyebrows try to climb off his forehead. His mouth opens, closes, opens again. “Pips,” he manages. “What the actual fuck.”
“I’m being proactive,” you inform him. “Birth control is important, Caleb. Gran would be proud of my responsible choices.”
“Gran would have a stroke.”
“Then it’s good she’s not here.” You pat his arm. “Don’t worry, I got the glow-in-the-dark ones. For special occasions.”
He looks like he wants to strangle you. Also like he wants to laugh, which is worse, because if he laughs you’ve won and he knows it. So he doesn’t laugh. He just reaches into the cart and starts grabbing condom boxes, presumably to put them back.
You grab his wrist. “Nope.”
“Pips—“
“Nope.” You hold his gaze, your fingers tight around his wrist. “I want them. We’re buying them.”
“We don’t need fifteen different kinds of—“
“We might.” You lean closer. “I want to try them all. On you. With you. In me.” Your voice drops. “I want to know what every single one of these feels like when you’re fucking me, Caleb. So we’re buying them.”
His breath catches. You see it. The flash in his eyes, the way his jaw tightens.
He wants it too.
He wants it so badly it’s eating him alive, and the fact that he won’t give in just makes you want to break him more.
“Fine,” he says through gritted teeth. “Fine. But you’re carrying the bag.”
You beam. “Deal.”
The checkout line is where things get truly beautiful. The cashier is a college-aged kid with a nose ring and the tired expression of someone who’s rung up too many awkward purchases today. Caleb stands behind you, radiating discomfort, while you unload the cart.
First the normal stuff. Eggs, milk, cereal. The cashier scans them mechanically.
Then the condoms start.
The first box gets a raised eyebrow. The second gets a flick of the eyes toward Caleb, then back to you. By the fifth box, the cashier’s face has settled into a mask of professional neutrality that doesn’t quite hide the fact that they are absolutely judging you.
Caleb has gone very still behind you. You can feel the heat of his embarrassment like a physical thing.
“Having a party?” the cashier asks, their voice carefully neutral.
“Something like that,” you reply cheerfully.
The glow-in-the-dark condoms are what break them. The cashier holds the box for a beat too long, their mouth twitching.
“That’ll be one-forty-two,” they say finally, and you hand over Caleb’s card because of course you brought his wallet.
While the cashier is bagging, you turn to Caleb. His face is a masterpiece of controlled humiliation, his ears bright red, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere above your head.
You can’t resist. You really, really can’t.
You grab his face with both hands, pull him down, and kiss him square on the mouth. It’s not a chaste kiss. It’s wet and open and you make sure the cashier gets a full view of your tongue. Then you pull back, beaming, and announce loud enough for the elderly couple in the next lane to hear.
“You’re the best big brother ever!”
The cashier drops your receipt.
Caleb makes a sound like a wounded animal. His hand finds your waist, fingers digging in hard enough that you’ll have bruises tomorrow, and he steers you toward the exit without another word.
The walk to the car is conducted in a silence so thick you could swim in it. Caleb loads the groceries, each bag placed in the trunk with deliberate care. You bounce on your toes beside the passenger door, buzzing with the high of successful chaos.
He doesn’t look at you. Not once.
The drive home is eleven minutes of pure, exquisite tension. Caleb’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel. His jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping. The radio is off. The windows are up. The only sound is the hum of the engine and your own heartbeat, loud in your ears.
You drum your fingers on your thigh and wait.
He pulls into the driveway, cuts the engine, and sits there for a long moment. You can practically see the thoughts moving behind his eyes, calculations and restraint and something darker, something that makes your stomach flip.
“Get inside,” he says finally, his voice quiet. “Now.”
You get inside. You’re already running.
The plastic bags hit the kitchen floor with a wet thud. Eggs, probably. You hope they’re eggs. You hope they’re all eggs, and the milk, and everything fragile, because the sound of Caleb’s rage manifesting as grocery destruction is the most beautiful thing you’ve heard all day.
You’re already in your room, door half-closed, heart hammering with the specific thrill of knowing you’re about to get exactly what you want and it’s going to hurt.
He finds you in three strides. The door swings open and Caleb fills the frame, his chest heaving, his eyes that specific shade of dark purple that means you’ve pushed him past the point of pretending.
The plastic bag dangles from his fist. The condom bag, because of course he separated them.
“Having fun?” he asks. His voice is dangerously soft.
You’re sitting cross-legged on your bed, trying and failing to look innocent. “Immensely.”
He upends the bag over your head.
Condoms rain down on you. Boxes and foil packets, a colorful avalanche of protection that bounce off your shoulders and scatter across your comforter. You throw your head back and laugh, loud and genuine, because it’s hilarious and you’re high on the power of having finally, finally cracked him.
Caleb is notlaughing.
He stands at the foot of your bed, arms crossed, watching you with an expression that should scare you but just makes your cunt clench.
His jaw is set. His eyes are narrowed. He looks like he wants to devour you, and the thought makes your mouth go dry.
“You humiliated me,” he says.
“Yep.” You pop the ‘p,’ grinning.
“In public.”
“Very public. There were witnesses.”
“You called me your brother while you fucking tongue-kissed me in front of a cashier.”
“I did.” You pick up a box of ribbed condoms, turning it over in your hands. “And you know what? I’d do it again. I’ll do it tomorrow. I’ll do it every day until you stop being a coward and fuck me like you mean it.”
Something shifts in his face. His expression doesn’t change, not exactly, but the air between you gets thicker.
“You think this is funny,” he says. Not a question.
“I think you’re funny.” You toss the condom box at him. It bounces off his chest. “All that big talk about keeping me safe, and you’re scared of a little pussy.”
That does it. That’s the line.
Caleb moves so fast you don’t have time to react. One second he’s at the foot of the bed, the next his hands are on your waistband, yanking your pants down your legs with a single brutal pull. Your underwear goes with them, caught in the fabric, leaving you bare from the waist down. Cool air hits your cunt and your nipples harden instantly.
“Caleb—“
“Shut up.” His voice is clipped. “You don’t get to talk right now.”
He grabs your ankles. Not gently. His fingers dig into the soft skin above your Achilles tendon as he pushes your legs up, back, until your knees are by your ears and your pussy is on obscene display.
You’re already wet because of course you are. You’ve been wet since the grocery store, and the position stretches you open, your inner lips parting to reveal the slick pink inside.
You try to lower your legs. You really do. You strain against his grip, because that’s what you do, you push and you test and you see how far you can go.
Caleb’s eyes flash. “I told you to stay.”
The gravity in the room shifts. Your legs feel suddenly, impossibly heavy, locked in place by an invisible force that you can’t fight. His evol.
“Fuck you,” you gasp, because you have to say something, and those are the only words your brain can produce when your cunt is exposed and Caleb is looking at you like he’s deciding how to break you.
“Maybe later.” His hand comes down on your inner thigh and a sharp, stinging slap makes you yelp. Then another, on the other thigh, his palm connecting with a crack that echoes in your bedroom.
He works methodically, alternating sides, each slap landing a little higher until his hand is cupping your pussy and the next slap lands directly on your clit.
You scream. The pain is bright and immediate, a white-hot flash that melts instantly into a throbbing heat that radiates through your entire pelvis.
He does it again, and again, his hand coming down on your exposed cunt until you’re writhing against the gravity hold, your thighs flushed red, your pussy swollen and sensitive and so fucking wet it’s dripping down to your ass.
“Still think this is funny?” Caleb asks. His voice is calm now. Controlled. The anger has burned down to something hotter and more focused. This must be what Colonel Caleb’s men experience everyday on the fleet.
You shake your head, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Your pussy throbs with each heartbeat, the sting of his palm lingering on your oversensitized flesh.
“Good.” He reaches for one of the condom boxes on the bed, the normal ones, the plain blue package. He tears it open with his teeth, the foil ripping, and pulls out a single condom. The latex is pale and almost translucent in the dim light of your bedroom.
“Open your mouth.”
You do. Your lips part, and Caleb places the condom on your tongue. It tastes like nothing, a faint rubbery bitterness, and you keep your mouth open as he works his cock free from his jeans.
He’s hard. Fully, achingly hard, his cock jutting up from a thatch of dark hair, the head flushed and leaking.
He strokes himself once, twice, his eyes never leaving yours, and then he’s pushing forward, the tip of his cock pressing against the condom on your lips.
“Keep it there,” he instructs, and then he’s pushing into your mouth, the latex sheathing his cock as he feeds himself between your lips.
The condom tastes strange, slick with the lubricant, and you suck instinctively, your tongue working along the underside as he pushes deeper.
He bottoms out, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat, and you gag slightly. Caleb holds there, his hand fisted in your hair, and you can feel every vein, every ridge of him through the thin latex. He pulls back slowly, the condom catching on your lower lip, and then pushes in again, establishing a rhythm that has your jaw aching and your pussy clenching around nothing.
“Such a good mouth,” he murmurs, and the condescension in his voice pissing you off but it makes you wetter, too. “You take it so well. Always so eager.”
He pulls out completely, the condom glistening with your saliva, and then he’s moving down. His cock, still sheathed, drags along your inner thigh, leaving a wet trail, and then the head of him is pressing against your pussy.
You whimper. The latex is cool against your overheated flesh, the contrast making you shiver. Caleb rubs the tip of his condom-covered cock along your slit, gathering your wetness, teasing your entrance without pushing in.
“Look at you,” he says, his voice low and rough. “So fucking desperate. This what you wanted? All those condoms? This what you had in mind when you made that cashier want to die?”
You nod frantically, beyond words, your hips trying to chase his cock. The gravity hold keeps your legs pinned, but your lower body can still move, and you rock against him, seeking friction, seeking more.
Caleb smiles. It’s not a nice smile. It’s the Colonel’s smile.
“Beg,” he says.
“Please,” you gasp, the word tearing out of you without thought or dignity. “Please, Caleb, please fuck me, I need it, I’ve needed it for so long, please—“
He shoves his cock into your cunt without warning.
The stretch is immediate and blinding. Your body, which has been begging for this for weeks, still isn’t prepared for the reality of him. The thick, insistent pressure of Caleb’s cock pushing into you, stretching you open in a way that’s nothing like his fingers, nothing like anything you’ve felt before. The condom is there, a thin barrier that somehow makes everything more intense, the latex catching on your inner walls as he pushes deeper.
“Fuck,” Caleb groans, his head dropping forward. His hands are shaking where they grip your thighs. “Fuck, Pips, you’re so tight—“
You can’t speak. Your mouth is open but no sound comes out, just a ragged breath that might be a sob or might be the most intense pleasure of your life.
He’s so big, so fucking big, and your cunt is clenching around him in pulses, your body trying to adjust to the invasion. You regret even thinking he wouldn’t fit the XL Magnums.
“Breathe,” Caleb says, his voice strained. “Breathe through it. You’re doing so well.”
You breathe. You focus on the sensation of him inside you, the fullness, the stretch, the way your body is slowly, reluctantly accepting him. He rocks his hips, pushing another inch deeper, and you whimper.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and the praise goes straight to your clit. “That’s it. Take it.”
His hand slides up your stomach, pressing flat against your lower abdomen. The pressure is firm and deliberate, and when he pushes down you feel his cock shift inside you, the head rubbing against a spot that makes your vision go white.
“There,” he says, watching your face. “Right there. You feel that?”
You nod frantically, beyond words.
He keeps his hand there, pressing down, and starts to move. Short, careful strokes at first, just enough to make you gasp, and then deeper, each thrust pushing his cock against that spot from the inside while his hand presses from the outside. Your orgasm builds faster than you thought possible, a tight coil of pleasure winding from your cunt up through your belly.
“Caleb,” you gasp. “I’m going to—“
“Cum,” he says, and it’s not a suggestion.
Your orgasm hits like a freight train. Your cunt clenches around his cock in rhythmic pulses, each one squeezing him tighter, and you’re crying out, your back arching off the bed as pleasure tears through you. The gravity hold on your legs falters for a second. Caleb’s control is slipping and your thighs drop toward his shoulders, changing the angle so his cock drives even deeper.
That’s all it takes for him. You feel him stiffen, his hips jerking forward as he buries himself to the hilt, and then he’s cumming, his release pulsing into the condom deep inside you. You can’t feel the wet heat of it since the latex contains everything. But you can feel the throb of his cock, each pulse matched by the clench of your own orgasm, and it’s enough to drag a second climax from you, smaller but no less intense.
For a long moment, neither of you move. Your legs are trembling. Your cunt is throbbing around his still-hard cock. Caleb’s forehead is pressed to yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps that warm your skin.
Then he pulls out carefully, and the emptiness is immediate and aching. The condom is bulging with his cum, and you watch, fascinated, as he ties it off.
“Open,” he says, holding the tied condom in front of your mouth.
You open. He places it on your tongue, warm, heavy, the latex slick with his release. And your mouth fills with the bitter-rubber taste. “Hold it,” he instructs. “Don’t swallow. Don’t spit it out.”
You nod, the condom a strange, weighted presence in your mouth.
Caleb reaches for another box.
The ribbed ones. He tears it open with his teeth again, his eyes never leaving yours as he rolls the new condom down his cock. The ribs are visible through the latex, raised ridges that circle the shaft, and your cunt clenches at the sight.
“Turn over,” he says. “On your hands and knees.”
You scramble to comply, the condom still in your mouth, your body humming with aftershocks. The mattress dips as Caleb kneels behind you, his hands on your hips, and then you feel it again. The weightlessness as your arms are suddenly impossibly heavy. The gravity evol again, locking your hands behind your back, forcing your chest down toward the mattress.
“Arch your back,” Caleb says, and his hand slides down your spine, pressing between your shoulder blades until your ass is up and your face is nearly in the pillow. “Better.”
The head of his cock presses against your entrance, still slick from your first round, and then he’s pushing in.
The ribbed condom changes everything. Each ridge catches on your inner walls, dragging against your g-spot with every thrust, creating a sensation that’s so intense it borders on painful. You moan around the condom in your mouth, the sound muffled and desperate.
“Fuck,” Caleb hisses, his grip on your hips tightening. “Your pussy was made for this. Made for my cock.”
He pulls out almost completely, then slams back in, the ribs creating a friction that makes you see stars. “Look at you. Taking it like you were born for it. Should have fucked you sooner—would have saved us both a lot of trouble.”
His hand finds your hair, yanking your head back. “Spit it out.”
You let the condom fall from your mouth onto the bed, a wet, pathetic little packet, and Caleb shoves two fingers between your lips.
“Suck,” he orders, and you do, your tongue working between his digits, coating them with saliva. He pulls them out dripping, and you watch, dazed, as he brings them to your clit.
The wet fingers circle your oversensitized bud, and you jerk, a broken sound tearing from your throat.
“Messy girl,” Caleb murmurs, and the condescension is thick in his voice. “Drooling all over yourself. Can’t even keep your mouth closed.”
He fucks you harder, each thrust driving the ribbed condom against your g-spot, his fingers working your clit in tight circles. Your arms are still locked behind you by his gravity, your body completely at his mercy, and the helplessness of it pushes you toward another peak.
“Caleb,” you gasp. “I’m close, I’m so close—“
“Then cum,” he says, and his voice has that edge, that possessiveness that turns your brain to static. “Cum on my cock. Show me what this pretty pussy can do.”
He reaches deeper than before, deeper than should be possible, and the head of his cock rams against your cervix. Your body seizes, your cunt clamping down hard, and then you’re cumming harder than before. Your inner walls are spasming around his cock as something hot and uncontrollable gushes from you.
You’re squirting.
Actually fucking squirting again, the fluid soaking the sheets beneath you, your thighs, Caleb’s hand where it’s pressed against your clit. Your face pressed into the pillow as your body empties itself around Caleb’s pounding cock.
He groans above you, his rhythm faltering as your cunt milks him through his second orgasm. You can feel the pulse of him through the condom, the ribs catching on your sensitive walls with each throb, and it drags another smaller climax from you, your body trembling with the effort.
“Fuck,” Caleb breathes, his hips still working gently against your ass. “Look what you did. Soaked the fucking bed.”
You can’t respond. You can’t do anything except lie there, wrecked, as your heartbeat slowly returns to something resembling normal.
Caleb pulls out, and the emptiness is even more acute this time. You hear the soft snap of the condom being removed, tied, discarded. Then his hand is on your hip, turning you.
“On your side,” he says. “Catch your breath.”
You roll onto your side, your legs shaking, your cunt throbbing, and watch as Caleb goes back to the pile of condoms.
He’s not done. Not even close.
Your lungs feel like they’ve been through a war. Each breath comes ragged and shallow, your chest rising and falling against the rumpled sheets. Your cunt is so sensitive that the air against it feels like a touch, and you’re aware, distantly, of the wet spot beneath you.
Caleb stands at the foot of the bed, naked and magnificent, surveying the remaining condoms. His cock is still hard. The bastard could probably go all night. But there’s a thin sheen of sweat on his chest that catches the low light from your bedroom lamp.
He picks up the ultra-thin box. The packaging is sleek, black, promising sensation so close to skin you won’t know the difference.
“We’ll see about that,” Caleb murmurs, and you’re not sure if he’s talking to you or to the condom.
He tears it open, rolls it down his length with one smooth motion, and then he’s on the bed beside you. His hand finds your hip, turning you fully onto your side, and then he’s lifting your top leg, draping it over his shoulder with a gentleness that feels obscene after the way he just fucked you.
His hand grips your thigh, fingers splaying across the sensitive inner skin, and he leans forward. The head of his cock presses against your entrance. Slick, swollen, still dripping from your previous rounds.
And he pushes in. Slowly. So fucking slowly you want to scream.
The ultra-thin condom lives up to its name. You can feel everything. Every ridge, every vein, the subtle flare of his cockhead as it parts your folds.
Your inner walls grip him like they’re trying to memorize the shape of him, and Caleb watches your face with dark, hungry eyes as he works himself deeper.
“Feel that?” he asks, his voice rough. “Every vein? Every fucking pulse?”
You nod, unable to speak, because he’s right. You can feel his heartbeat through the condom, the steady throb of his cock inside you transmitting sensation so vividly it might as well be skin on skin.
He’s three-quarters of the way in when he pauses. His hand reaches for your face, fingers brushing your lips. “The condom,” he says. “From earlier. Where is it?”
You glance down. The tied condom from your first round is lying on the bed beside your head, a sad, deflated thing. Caleb picks it up, holding it in front of your mouth.
“Open.”
You open. He rips the condom on your tongue, pouring the cum onto your tongue. It’s cold now, and your stomach turns. Before you can react, Caleb spits. Directly into your mouth, a warm glob of saliva landing on the cum and your tongue.
“Swallow it,” he says.
You gag. You try. Your throat works convulsively, and the coagulated cum goes down. Not easily, not gracefully, but it goes, dragging a trail of bitterness down your esophagus. You cough, eyes watering, and Caleb watches with that same infuriating smile.
“Good girl.”
Then he pulls out. Completely.
His cock slides free of your cunt with a wet sound that makes you whine, high and desperate, because the emptiness is unbearable. Your body clenches around nothing, your cunt pulsing with the loss of him.
“No,” you gasp. “Caleb, please—“
“Count,” he interrupts. His voice leaves no room for argument. “Each inch. Starting from one.”
The head of his cock presses against your entrance again. You feel it breach you, that first glorious stretch, and your voice comes out shaky. “One.”
He pushes deeper. Another inch, the condom catching on your inner walls. “Two.”
Your breath hitches. Your cunt is so sensitive that each new inch sends sparks racing up your spine. “Three.”
Caleb’s hand tightens on your thigh. His other hand braces against the headboard, giving him leverage as he works himself deeper. “Four.”
You’re whimpering now, your leg trembling where it’s hooked over his shoulder. The position opens you up completely, and you can feel every millimeter of his cock as it fills you. “Five.”
He’s more than halfway now, the thickest part of him stretching you in a way that borders on too much. Your inner walls flutter around him, trying to accommodate his size. “Six.”
Your voice breaks on “seven,” because that’s when the head of his cock hits your cervix, the pressure so intense your vision blurs.
Caleb holds there, his hips flush against your ass, and you can feel all of him, eight thick inches buried inside you, the condom stretched tight over his cock.
“Eight,” you whisper, and it comes out as a sob.
He rocks forward, just a fraction. The ultra-thin condom creates an illusion. It feels like he’s breaching you, like he’s pushing past your cervix into somewhere deeper. Your body responds as if it’s real, your cunt clenching in rhythmic pulses, your inner walls grasping at his cock like they’re trying to pull him deeper still.
“Fuck,” Caleb groans, his control clearly fraying. “You feel that? Feel how deep I am?”
You nod frantically, beyond words, your hips rolling against his in tiny, desperate movements. It’s the way he’s in you. Like he’s shoving past where he’s even supposed to fit, like that condom’s nothing but a fucking joke.
Your body doesn’t give a shit about rules. It only knows how full you are, how he’s splitting you open, how your cunt’s gripping him like it’s never letting go. The pleasure twists tight in your gut.
Caleb feels it. He always feels it. His hand slides down to your clit, circling once, twice, and that’s all it takes. You cum with a broken cry, your cunt clamping down hard around his cock, and the pulsing of your orgasm drags his release from him.
You can almost feel him cum. The ultra-thin condom transmits the throb of his cock, the way it swells and pulses as he empties himself, but there’s no warmth, no wet flood. Just his orgasm contained behind a barrier that’s thinner than a hair but might as well be a wall.
It’s maddening. It’s perfect.
You’re both panting, sweat-slick and trembling, and Caleb’s forehead drops to rest against your calf where it’s draped over his shoulder.
The only sound is your shared breathing, gradually slowing, and the soft rustle of the condom as Caleb carefully pulls out.
Your cunt feels used, stretched, wonderfully sore, and when you clench experimentally you can feel the residual ache of taking all eight inches of him.
You hope there’s a bruise. You hope you feel this tomorrow.
Caleb discards the condom somewhere off the side of the bed and collapses beside you, his arm thrown across your waist. His skin is hot against yours, his breath warming the back of your neck.
“That’s three,” he murmurs.
You turn your head to look at him. “Three what?”
“Three condoms.” His smile is lazy, satisfied, the anger from earlier completely burned away. “We’ve got what, a dozen left? Plus the glow-in-the-dark.”
He reaches over, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Think you can handle it?”
A/N: There is slight tension and fruitiness between Caleb and Sylus in honor of Pride Month, so if you aren't comfy with that, its totally okay, but this work isn't for you! 𐙚
Caleb and Sylus both agreed on one thing, they had spoiled you rotten.
You knew exactly how to get your way with a stomp of your foot and a bit of incessant whining. They both had a massive soft spot for you, and you absolutely abused it. On the rare occasion that one of them actually stood his ground and denied you something, you simply went running to the other. Without fail, you always ended up getting what you wanted.
So there you were, flopped unceremoniously across Sylus’s bed, dramatically huffing and taking your frustrations out on his pillows. You made sure your tantrum was obvious to the white-haired man sitting at his desk, casually flipping through documents. He looked up at your theatrics, a hint of amusement playing on his face.
Seeing that your efforts were going to waste, you decided to kick it up a notch. You paused all your dramatic thrashing and sat up on the bed, going dead silent. The sudden lack of noise instantly caught Sylus’s attention. That's when you brought out the big guns. With a perfectly timed sniffle, crocodile tears began streaming down your cheeks. Sylus, defeated by your dirty tactics, tossed his documents onto the desk. He sighed, making his way over to the bed before pulling your body against his chest, enveloping you in a warm hug.
"Alright, alright," he murmured, his deep voice vibrating against your ear as he stroked your hair. "We’ll get you your pet wolf. Don't cry now, kitten."
The next of your schemes involved sneaking to the kitchen at 3 am in the morning, staying as quiet as possible as you tiptoed across the cold floors. You opened the fridge and retrieved the goods, and right as you thought you had gotten away with it, you heard someone behind you. Goddammit.
You turned around guiltily to find Caleb standing there, leaning against the wall, shirtless and looking like he had just woken up. Ice cream in hand, you flashed him a nervous smile. "Pips, you know you can't have that so late at night," he scolded gently. Your instincts kicked in immediately. You pouted, hugging the tub close to your chest as you gave him your signature puppy eyes. "But Caleb, pleaseee... I've been craving it." Giving in, Caleb walked over and ruffled your hair with a sigh. "Fine, but not too much, okay?"
And just like that, victory was yours. Half the time, you made ridiculous requests just to test their limits, to see exactly how far they would bend to keep you happy. they were well aware of this fact too. But unbeknownst to you, Caleb and Sylus had recently made a plan. Deciding they officially had enough of your shit with the way your asks became more absurd by the day, they knew they needed to teach their bratty little girl a lesson.
It was a day like any other, you woke up with a slow, heavy stretch, yawning your way out of bed and heading downstairs. In the kitchen, your two boyfriends were already occupying their usual spots. Caleb was making breakfast, while Sylus leaned against the counter, mindlessly popping cherries into his mouth and scrolling through his phone. Scurrying over to Caleb, you leaned over his shoulder, trying to peer into the pan. "I'm almost done, pips. Go sit down," he murmured, not looking up. You blinked down at the eggs sizzling in the pan, and like second nature, felt defiance bubbling up. You looked up at him with a sparkle in your eyes. "But Caleb, I'm craving pancakes today." Right as you expected to watch him immediately pivot to indulge your craving, he did the exact opposite. Caleb glanced down at you, held your gaze for a flat second, and deadpanned, "Nope."
That caught you completely off guard. "Wha-?" It wasn't the kind of "no" that felt negotiable. It wasn't a "maybe" with extra steps. This "no" felt definitive. As you stood there, jaw slightly slack and confused, Caleb simply reached out, picked you up by the waist like a doll, and set you down next to the kitchen island. "Sit down," he ordered softly.
For once, you actually obeyed, slipping into the seat next to Sylus as if in a trance. Caleb caught your expression and let out a smug smirk.
A few moments later, Caleb began setting the plates down on the island. Still reeling from the pancake rejection, your eyes drifted over to the bowl of juicy cherries Sylus was snacking on.
"Can I have som-"
"No."
Before the sentence could even clear your throat, Sylus cut you off. He didn't even look your way as he answered, instead, he popped another cherry between his lips, holding it between his teeth as he leaned back, his gaze locking directly onto Caleb.
Wordlessly, Caleb moved across the space, leaning over the counter to meet him. He closed the distance and took the cherry right from Sylus's mouth, their teeth clashing in a quiet click. They both tried not to laugh at the sight of you looking like a kicked puppy.
The rest of the day went on just like that, a rebellion was what it was. By evening, you were left thoroughly frustrated by the mountain of rejections that had accumulated all day. You could tell something was up, but you knew they couldn't keep this up forever. So, you decided to stage your own overthrow.
When nighttime finally arrived, you got into bed a little earlier than usual. You could hear the steady rush of water from the shower Caleb was running in the bathroom, while Sylus was finishing up some work in his office. Smirking to yourself, you slowly stripped down to just your underwear, a lacy pair you knew that they were weak for. Settling back against the pillows, you slowly spread your thighs and gave a few exploratory flicks to your clit. Mmm. As you started to play with yourself, your fingers spread your folds, rubbing gently before plunging two fingers shallowly inside.
Despite always catering to your every wish and whim, Sylus and Caleb had one strict rule for you, hands off yourself. You knew not to cross this– you never had a reason to anyway, not with two utterly devoted men ready to give you more pleasure than you could ever give yourself. But after a day of them teasing and denying you, you didn't see why you couldn't play their game as well.
Soft moans spilled from your lips, juices leaking through as you could feel yourself getting hotter. Right then, you heard heavy footsteps moving through the hallway outside. Grinning, you worked yourself even harder now. Sylus, on the other hand, reached the outside of the room and knew immediately something was up; he felt your sweet scent filling the air, your faint gasps barely heard. Seems kitten is playing dirty.
Walking inside, he locked eyes with you, only for you to scrunch your eyebrows and put on even more of a show, cunt in full display. And right on cue, Caleb walked out of the bathroom, skin glistening and a towel hanging off his waist. The moment he caught on to the events occurring in the room, he flashed Sylus an unhinged smile.
Your mind had dissolved into absolute mush. Overstimulated as you were kept on your hands and knees, your back arched deeply as Sylus relentlessly drove into you from behind.
You had lost track of how many times you'd finished already, yet there were no signs of stopping. Caleb, meanwhile, was in front of you, admiring the glisten on your face and lips from the previous load he shot up that he was still recovering from, panting with his abs clenching.
You felt another intense orgasm coursing through you, cum and juice spilling out further as your pussy spasmed around Sylus, but this only prompted him to go faster. Tears streaming uncontrollably now, your knuckles turned white with how hard you were gripping the sheets, and you looked up at Caleb, almost pleading with him to reason with Sylus. Almost like Sylus figured out your ploy, he snapped your hips back against him harshly. “Oh no no no, he’s not gonna help you, sweetheart.” Caleb could only grin, giving you a mock pity look. “Aw, is pips tired? Should’ve thought of that before you decided to break the rules, no?” He looked over to Sylus. “Sy, my turn now.” Panting, Sylus plunged balls deep all the way into your cervix one last time before he pulled out completely, manhandling you to switch positions.
Now you were sitting upright, your back leaning against Sylus with your legs being held up and apart by his veiny arms. Caleb took his position immediately, feeding you his cock from the front, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, a tad overstimulated from his earlier release. Sylus, looking at the vulnerable puppy boy, couldn't help but reach out and caress the side of his face, his fingers running through his slightly damp hair. Caleb only subconsciously leaned into his touch all the while plunging completely inside of you, moving in shallow, ragged thrusts.
Then Sylus had an idea. Nipping at your shoulder, his fingers still tangled in Caleb's hair, he gripped a bit tighter, grabbing his attention. “You think she's ready for it?”
“Huh? fuck– yeahyeaheyeah,” Caleb mumbled incoherently, looking absolutely pussydrunk by the way you clenched around him. You were confused. “Sy? Wha- what do you mean ready? Ready for what?” you panted, and right then, you felt something poke at your virgin back entrance. Fuck me, you thought.
Gathering all the slick from your combined releases and giving you a spit of his own, Sylus made sure you were well-lubricated before he attempted the intrusion. It felt weird in the start– an unfamiliar feeling– but you knew better than to oppose it. You were completely at their mercy.
Soon enough, Caleb and Sylus found a shared rhythm, breaching your holes at the same time and building up an insane amount of pressure, slick sounds and moans filling the room. Even Sylus, who wasn't normally vocal in bed, was groaning and whimpering, and in no time, another orgasm ripped through you. “Fuck— yes baby, give it all to me. Come on, I know you can give me more,” you weren't even sure who was talking to you at that point.
Hours dissolved into an exhaustive blur as positions were shifted and forced upon you. You were floating in and out of consciousness. You all looked like a litter of bunnies going at it for so long. You were tired, and just let them move you around for their own pleasure; their combined stamina was ungodly. You could feel your womb bulging with all the semen pumped into you, and finally, with bruising thrusts, they came at the same time, collapsing back against the bed.
God, Smiling in your fucked out state, all you could think was, you still got what you wanted.
♡ Bunny's Note: I'm a tad bit late with this one, thank you for being patient with me! I had to get out of my comfort zone for this one because I explored tropes and dynamics I wouldn't normally, but I hope you enjoyed this! Any suggestions are always appreciated! ₍ ᐢ.ˬ.ᐢ₎
It has been 2 days since you and Caleb consented to indulge in each other’s bodies while asleep. Lying beside you now, he realizes he could no longer contain the restless hunger building inside him – tonight, he would give in.
You slept as peacefully as ever, dressed in a silk nightgown that barely brushed your thighs. The sight alone makes his breath hitch. His hand moves anticipatory over his hardened length, a quiet groan caught in his throat at the thought of what he was about to do.
Caleb didn’t realize how quickly his restraint unravelled. Soft, heated sounds slipping past his lips as he carefully pulls the blanket away from your body.
“You’re such a good girl… sleeping so deeply,” he whispers, lowering himself between your thighs.
He presses soft kisses against your skin, before gently easing your legs apart, careful not to wake you. His breath warms your inner thighs as he lingers there, savouring the moment.
“Oh…? How are you this wet while you’re asleep? Are you dreaming of something naughty…?” He lets his tongue glide between your folds, just enough to taste. A muffled moan escapes him.
“Mmh… how do you always…taste so good…?”
His words dissolve into quiet sounds against you, his breathing growing heavy and unsteady. “Let’s see if you can take one finger…” he murmurs, easing it inside you. A soft exhale follows, “I see…not enough for you, huh?”
He added another. Caleb leans over you, his fingers still moving inside you in an unhurried rhythm. He’s brushes stray strands of hair from your face as he watches you, almost studies your every feature.
Eventually, he withdraws his finger, bringing them to his lips and licking them clean with a quiet, satisfied hum, before letting his hand drift slowly to cup your breasts.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he whispers against your ear.
“How many nights I’ve had to take care of myself while you slept next door or even here, right next to me…,” a soft, breathless laugh follows, but clearly filled with guilt.
“Although I might’ve stolen a taste once or twice before when you were sleeping… but you forgive me, don’t you?” he confesses.
Deep down, he longed for you to catch every confession, but yet was relieved you’re fast asleep.
“Now… juuust the tip,” he says.
“You can handle that. I won’t wake you up.” He positions himself, guiding the head of his leaking cock slowly against you before pressing in just slightly. A sharp, shaky breath left him the moment he felt you.
His control slipps completely then, his movements growing steadier, deeper, his breathing rougher with every thrust. “I’m sorry– “ he gasps, his voice strains.
“It’s… not just the tip. I know…”
He suddenly freezes mid-motion, feeling you shift slightly under the covers as your breathing intensifies.
“Ssh… hey, sshh!! I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says quickly and panicked.
He basically has your permission, but why did he still feel so guilty? Yet he didn’t stop.
He leans down, capturing your lips in a rushed, but deep and sloppy kiss, his hand coming up to block your eyes with his palm, just in case.
“Be a good baby sister… go back to sleep, yeah?” he whispers, yet his movements only grow more forceful.
“I’m almost done… just listen to me,” he says as he hurries to finish.
Your eyes twitches open for a second, a tiny smirk teasing the corner of your mouth, but you stay perfectly still, pretending to be asleep.
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