aneertawrites

[aneertawrites]

Alien!Caleb x Fem!Reader

Orbiting You

a/n : this is literally just a porn chapter. enjoy alien fucking!

tags : vibrating dick, fingering, pathetic caleb, praise, mating, oral sex (reader receiving), raw sex, multiple rounds… caleb’s a freak (a specialised one)

Chapter 4

Moonrise found the house suspended between two kinds of quiet: the hush of ordinary night and the deeper, vibrating silence that seemed to form whenever you and Caleb hovered too close to truths neither of you dared name. You had spent the evening reading beside the hearth while he polished field knives that no longer needed polishing. Each time you turned a page his gaze flicked up; each time metal rasped beneath the cloth you felt it somewhere in your spine.

It was almost a relief when exhaustion pulled you toward the guest room. Caleb lingered in the corridor, awkward with unsaid wishes, fingers flexing at his sides as if they ached to reach for something forbidden. You offered a soft goodnight. He managed a nod that looked painful, then retreated toward his own door — though you heard him pause, heard his breath hitch, as if leaving you on the far side of a wall was suddenly monstrous.

You slept quickly. Or rather, fell — slipping without warning from waking worry into a landscape too vivid to be mere imagination.

Crystal arches rose around you, carved from living stone that pulsed with inner light. Vines of silver leaf climbed every pillar, and pale blossoms exhaled a perfume you recognised: Caleb’s scent, distilled into air. When you looked down you found bare feet sinking into warm moss that glowed with each step.

You turned — and there he stood.

Caleb’s eyes reflected the arches like twin, startled moons. He wore no tunic, only loose black trousers, and his mating marks — those impossible sigils you’d never seen — glimmered up his forearms, alive beneath the skin. The marks brightened when he inhaled, dimmed when he exhaled, as if synced to his pulse… or to you.

He tried to speak; no sound formed. Instead he reached out, stopped himself, swallowed. Yearning radiated off him like heat. You felt a tug deep inside —as though the garden itself insisted you close the space between you — but you stood your ground, waiting to see whether he would choose to bridge it.

He stepped forward. One pace. Another. Every movement seemed to cost him, breath shuddering through parted lips, shoulders trembling with restraint. When only a handspan separated you, his fingers hovered at your elbow. Almost touched. Didn’t.

And then the vines moved.

Tendrils of soft silver slipped down from the arch above, brushing your shoulders, curling around Caleb’s wrists like gentle shackles. He flinched, startled, but the vines did not bind; they merely guided, nudging his hands until his palms came to rest against the sides of your neck— light as candle‑smoke.

The instant his skin found yours, the air changed. Colours burned brighter. Distant bells you hadn’t noticed fell silent. The garden seemed to hold its breath.

Caleb’s did too.

His thumbs traced fragile circles just below your ears, reverent, terrified. He looked down at your mouth as if it were a prayer he was forbidden to utter, then lifted his gaze to meet yours — asking without sound.

You tipped forward, only a fraction, and felt his resolve break open like a dam. A gush of heat, a trembling exhale, eyes wet with relief. He bowed his forehead to yours. No kiss — just contact. The sigh that left him sounded like surrender.

You pressed closer.

He shuddered, marks flaring white‑gold. Somewhere in the arches a thousand blossoms opened at once, scent flooding the air so thick it almost tasted sweet. Caleb’s breath caught on a half‑sob. He curled his fingers into your hair, finally, forehead still pressed to yours, breathing you in with the desperation of a starving man handed first bread.

The garden blurred. Light roiled around the two of you, silver shifting to amber, vines tightening not to restrain but to shelter— forming a living alcove. And there, in that trembling pocket of fate, you felt the barrier between dream and waking thin to gauze.

Caleb’s lips brushed your temple, a question. You answered by sliding your hands up his bare back, feeling muscle jump beneath your palms. His whole body jerked —like your touch triggered a current— then went utterly still, save for the frantic cadence of his heart.

He murmured something against your skin, not words, more an ache shaped into sound. You felt it in your bones, an echo of your own need.

The alcove sealed. Light dimmed. Warmth rose.

Caleb’s mouth hovered over yours, and the waking world caught fire.

You jolted upright in bed, lungs dragging in night‑cool air. Moonlight striped the room. Beside you sheets were rumpled, empty. Yet your skin still hummed where dream‑Caleb had touched it.

A soft thud sounded beyond the half‑open door, followed by the quick hiss of breath you knew too well. Without thinking you slipped from bed, crossed the corridor.

Caleb stood in the washroom doorway, chest heaving, palms braced against the frame as though it were the only thing holding him upright. His tunic clung slick to sweat‑damp skin; his eyes were wide, black with helpless want. The wraps on his arms had loosened —marks beneath them pulsing with dimmed embers.

He saw you and went perfectly still, terror and longing crashing together on his face. “I… didn’t wish to wake you,” he managed, voice raw. “But… did you..?”

Something fragile inside you clicked into place. The dream had not been yours alone.

You stepped forward. He flinched back a half‑pace —pathetic in how badly he wanted to close it again—then failed to resist when you caught his forearm. Linen slid lower, exposing luminescent lines that throbbed against your thumb.

Caleb swallowed hard, lips trembling. “If you stay— I can’t…”

“I know,” you whispered.

You laid his marked palm flat over your racing heart. His knees almost buckled, and he let out a choked sob.

You pulled him close, wrapping your arms around his neck and crashing your lips to his — desperate, needy, and it was so obvious you had fallen into his orbit — allowing yourself to fall into the guest room, taking him with you through the door clumsily.

Caleb was over the moons, whining into your plump mouth as he clawed at your clothing — eagerly awaiting to see your, his mates, body.

“I’ll take such amazing care of you, Zavarka,” Caleb gritted out, jaw falling slack as he took in your pebbled nipples. “Oh, Goddess…”

“Zavarka?” You choked out, confused. “What’s that?”

He leaned down, licking a firm strip along the column of your throat, leaving your skin to tingle. “My other half, but…” he let out a small purring sound as his hands wandered over your back — before palming your ass and kneading. “So much more than that. My only one, in all the universes.”

Your heart stuttered, and Caleb smiled dreamily, gazing down at you with utter devotion. He seemed almost dazed.

He laid you down on the bed, letting out a content sigh as he crawled over you — his entire body vibrating.

Literally.

Caleb trailed his nose along your chest, groaning pathetically as the sweet scent of your arousal infiltrated his senses — pupils blown wide.

He tugged up the silky tunic that covered your sweetness, letting out a whimper as your smell hit him harder. “Can I—“

“Yes!” You choked out, not even letting him finish his sentence.

What? You were sexually deprived, having been abducted and all. And now a sexy alien is so desperate infront of you? You weren’t going to turn this down for shit.

Plus, his body vibrates…

You squealed as he latched his hot mouth onto you, a purr erupting deep from within his chest, sending vibrations of ecstasy to your clit. His eyes widened, poking a thumb at your bud. “What’s this?”

“Th-that’s my clit,” you managed to stammer out. “How don’t you know what that is?”

“I’ve… never seen this on one of our females. I think the anatomy is more different than I thought.” He mumbled awkwardly, poking and prodding at it curiously with lust-blown eyes. When your hips bucked, he paused — looking up at you with furrowed brows and widened eyes. “Does that hurt?”

“What? No. No, it feels good,” you stammered. “Really good.”

Caleb nodded, letting out a shaky breath, before delving in once more — this time focusing his tongue solely on your sensitive clit while his ring and middle finger found their way inside your gummy walls, fucking vibrating.

He curled them at the perfect angle, hitting your spot deliciously as he flattened his tongue that left tingling sensations along your cunt, holding eye contact with you hungrily.

Your back bowed off the bed, Caleb’s eyes rolling back into his head as he tasted your sweet elixir, letting out a long, drawn out hum. Taking out his fingers with a delicious shwap, he spread your legs wider and tongued your cunt devastatingly.

HIS TONGUE VIBRATES TOO?

“Give in to me, Zavarka.” He purred against your pussy, nipping at your lips teasingly before licking up a long, devastating line along your slit. “Come for me.”

You didn’t know what it was. Maybe it was the way he egged you on, the way his tongue fucked your cunt or the way he feasted on your body — but you shattered. You came with a loud, needy moan — and Caleb groaned in unison, finding pleasure in yours.

Sitting back on his haunches, he took out his cock with swiftness, one so large you were sure it wouldn’t fit. He made sure it did.

Entering you quickly, aided by your wetness and cum, he purred. His hands travelled all over your body, exploring each crevice lovingly as his eyes blackened. He pushed in further, if that was even possible, hitting that gummy spot in the very back of your cunt deliciously.

You lifted your legs to rest on his shoulders, and he hummed approvingly, before digging his fingers into your plump thighs and beginning to plough into you ruthlessly.

The lewd sounds of skin on skin, wetness on wetness and the smell of sex filled the air — only enhancing your lust further. He ground into you, purposefully teasing your clit with his pelvis as he grinned devilishly down at you. “Look at me, Zavarka. Look at me when I pleasure you.”

And you did, and you couldn’t look away. His gaze had ensnared you, forcing you to keep your eyes on his as he fucked you mercilessly.

You didn’t know what it was, but something overcame you. An overpowering, mind blowing sensation shooting through your veins, as if your entire body was on fire. Your skin burned in streaks deliciously, and when you wrapped your arms around his neck you noticed faint, almost glowing marks.

They wrapped around your arms, rooting from the very tips of your fingers and reached to the soles of your feet — you looked beautiful. That was the only way you could describe it. A feeling of elation overcame you, a lightness to your chest that wasn’t there before, and the recognition of a place you could call ‘home’.

Caleb paused momentarily, stunned as he looked down at you. You could feel his heartbeat beginning to pound from where your bodies connected, the beats growing faster and harder as he looked over your mating marks with wide, watery eyes.

“You…” he began, seemingly stunned as he picked up your hand and placed it on his chest. He let out a shuddering breath as his marks began to glow also. The skin where you touched him began to tingle, and you fought a smile, a smile similar to the one was currently wearing. “I knew I wasn’t crazy for calling you Zavarka. Look at you… so gorgeous.”

He craned his neck downward and nuzzled his face into your hair — sniffing and groaning. “You’re mine, and I am yours. I do not know how you Earthlings take these words, but they are not said lightly here.”

“I’m yours, Caleb.” You whispered, trailing your hands down his chest, admiring his body covered in marks that showed off the ownership you had over him.

Caleb sunk his teeth into your shoulder lightly, his body beginning to vibrate once more with the purrs coming deep from his chest as he began to move inside you again. You swore you could feel him in your fucking stomach, poking you and grinding inside of you and hitting those delicious spots that made you moan.

Reaching down, he thumbed your clit with torturous accuracy, circling slowly, teasingly.

“Kiss me,” you said, pulling his face to yours. There was no hesitancy, no doubt or any form of fear. Only desperation.

The kiss was a mash up of teeth, tongues, drool and groans, coming together with the both of you fucking to make the most lewd scene you’ve experienced. It was heavenly. His scent overtook your senses, and your eyes rolled into the back of your head as he pulsed inside you.

“Tell me to stop if you don’t want offspring yet,” he ground out, voice jagged like gravel into your ear. “Otherwise I’m pumping you full of my cum.”

His words made you moan, the sheer lewd-ness of it and the sensuality of his voice bringing you to new heights. You clenched your cunt around his hard cock, milking him drop for drop as his fingers dug into your skin, palming your ass and squeezing your nipples — touching you wherever he could grasp.

The warmth filled your pussy, dripping out of you and down to your ass as he pulled out. He tutted, shaking his head as he looked down at the scene with hooded eyes.

He was art. Looking at him now, seeing him with his heavy cock in his hand and the perfection that was his body, you were sure of that fact. He pushed inside you once more, slowly, gyrating his hips. “We can’t have that come out now, can we?”

He licked up the side of your face, slowly, leaving tingles in its wake. “Need to see you full, round, and carrying our child.”

You pulled back and stared at him with wide eyes. He just shrugged.

“What?”

“You’re already planning on getting me pregnant?”

“We’re mates,” he grinned wolfishly. “It’s what we do. Our offspring will be very healthy, indeed.”

“Caleb!”

But the sound of an alarm ringing, vibrating throughout the very base of the house, had Caleb on edge. He straightened up, and you noticed his ear twitching as he listened out for the cause.

“We have visitors.”

“Excuse me?”

masterlist

taglist:@etsuniiru @kyokoyya @i-messed-up-big-time @firefly1103 @gracekerzzz @mcdepressed290 @sylusgirlie7 @plzdonutpercieveme @m00nchildwrites @honeycrispangels @trishiepo0 @calebsbabyapple @inzayneforaj @wilddreamer98 @lostpsycho13 @james-carslut

[aneertawrites]

I’m too shy to ask but here goes nothing…. When will you post chapter four orbiting you ? I swear I kept refreshing my tumblr app 😭🔫🤣🙏

I truly am sooo so sorry😭 It’s taking a while because it’s smut, and when I write smut I don’t want to make it awkward or have limbs flying everywhere, and stuff like that!

I’m also really busy with my job, and also with the first draft of the novel I’m writing so those have ‘priority’, but pls know that I have you on my taglist so you don’t need to worry yourself with refreshing!

I’ll aim to get it out by the end of this week🫶🏻

[aneertawrites]

ppl have been asking me to post my fics on ao3…

do u guys want me to be another statistic?😭😭 im not about to risk my life, my families lives, or anything else for that matter

ao3 authors are curssseeedddd😭😭

[aneertawrites]

Once again, apologies for the next chapter taking so long to come out! It truly is in the works, but I’m prioritising writing the first draft of my novel right now since the next chapter is SOLELY smut and not plot!

I hope you guys understand 🫶🏻🫶🏻

[aneertawrites]

Alien!Caleb x Fem!Reader Orbiting You

Chapter 3

As soon as you were out of earshot, the door to the guest room hissing shut with a gentle hum, Caleb exhaled sharply and swatted at his mouth.

“Stupid—”

He cursed under his breath, tugging at his lower lip and pressing his tongue against the roof of his mouth, trying to dull the sharp tingling that had started mid-meal and refused to quit. It wasn’t the saproot. He’d eaten that herb since he was a child. It wasn’t even the spices or the heat of the dish.

It was you.

Again.

Your scent had lingered long after you’d sat down — tangled in the fibers of the tunic you wore, soaked into your damp skin after the bath. It was faint, barely-there by human standards, but to a Zyrepharian male with any level of attunement, it was overwhelming. Wild, new, and maddeningly compatible.

He leaned against the kitchen wall and let his head thud softly against the smooth panel.

“Focus,” he muttered, clawing for logic, for anything rational.

He hadn’t been this unmoored since his adolescent training cycle — when his biology was still rewiring itself, and every pheromone in a ten-meter radius could knock him off-balance. But this… this was worse. This was deeper.

Caleb’s hand pressed flat against his ribs, as though he could soothe the ache sitting behind his sternum — the dull, pulsing heaviness that had bloomed there the moment you’d said Is there a way back?

The idea of you leaving… returning to Earth…

It was absurd, of course. Logical. Expected. You’d been taken from your home, ripped from your people, shoved into a galaxy that had tried to cage and sell you like livestock. Of course you wanted to go back.

But logic didn’t quiet the strange pull low in his chest, the gravity that had been slowly — painfully — threading itself through his nerves since the moment he found you in the forest, half-starved and snarling, brandishing a jagged rock with the fury of someone who’d already been pushed too far.

Caleb turned toward the hearth again, busying his hands with clearing the dishes, moving through the motions just to keep himself from unraveling.

This isn’t a mating bond, he told himself. It’s just proximity. A rescue. Hormonal confusion.

Zyrepharian males hadn’t formed true mating bonds in nearly a generation. The biological markers were too fragile now, the pair-matching sequences damaged from years of degradation and desperation. Most of what the old texts described as “the calling” — the inner pull, the compulsion, the recognition — had faded into myth.

But your scent…

He inhaled slowly, chest tight. Even after the bath, even dressed in clean clothes, you still carried it — not floral or synthetic like the women of his world, but warm, raw, something like skin after sun and soil. And underneath it, a sharp, barely-there sweetness that hit him square in the gut.

He’d started sweating during dinner. And when you’d looked up at him — spoon paused mid-bite, brow furrowed — he’d almost dropped his own.

Worse than the scent was the sound of your voice. The way it wrapped around Zyrepharian syllables like they’d always belonged to you. The translator chip was only a tool, a filter. But your voice made everything sound gentler. More real.

He swallowed, jaw tight.

The ache in his ribs throbbed again.

Not pain. Not quite.

Something emptier than that. A shadow of loss before the thing was even gone.

He didn’t want to admit it. Not even to himself. But when you’d asked about returning to Earth — when your voice had gone quiet, your eyes turned toward the floor — something in him had clenched. Deep. Bone-deep.

He hadn’t realized how much he didn’t want you to leave until you said the words.

A low sound escaped his throat. Not a growl. Not a sigh.

A whimper.

He snapped his jaw shut immediately and straightened, disgusted with himself. He was a trained field agent, a survivalist, a handler, for stars’ sake.

Still…

He turned his head toward the hallway — toward the guest room door — and forced himself to look away again.

She doesn’t belong to you.

The thought rang loud and clear in his mind. A mantra. A reminder.

But it didn’t change the way his body leaned slightly in that direction. How he was suddenly hyperaware of your heartbeat, the soft shift of your breath on the other side of the wall.

He sat down heavily on the mat beside the fire, curling one knee up to his chest and staring into the flickering amber light.

This was dangerous.

You weren’t his. Not in law. Not in bond. Not in anything.

But the ache in his chest told a different story.

Hours passed in the same manner of overthinking, before he idea had come to him in a flash. Not a romantic one — stars, no — but a strategic, grounded, logical conclusion.

Marriage.

Not in the sentimental Earth sense, though he had studied Earth customs as part of his education. But in the modern Zyrepharian way — a system originally built to preserve the dwindling female population, and allow them full control over their pairings. The laws dictated that females could determine the length of the marriage — a week, a cycle, a year, or indefinitely. The male was to follow. Protect. Serve. Please.

Because the price for not bonding with a female — especially one not registered by the High Council — was exile. Not imprisonment. Not execution. But off-planet reassignment, under strict monitoring, possibly for life.

A silent punishment.

Thankfully, it would protect you — and him, given he wouldn’t turn down a marriage with you if it cost him his balls. Secure your identity. Shield you from the bureaucratic claws of any surviving factions tied to the ones who’d kidnapped you. And if — stars help him — if something ever happened to him, his bond to you would guarantee your claim to sanctuary.

Totally selfless.

Totally noble.

Totally not because he couldn’t stop thinking about the drawl of your voice, or the way you looked at his walls like they were made of starlight.

But just as the thought settled into something almost solid, a sharp sound ripped through the quiet of the house — high-pitched, raw, and all too familiar.

A scream.

Yours.

He was on his feet before his mind even registered it, heart slamming into his ribs as he flung himself down the hallway.

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

One moment, you were staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, trying not to think too hard about the way Caleb had looked at you across the dinner table — equal parts warrior and… something else.

The next, you were surrounded by shadows.

Earth.

You knew it instantly — the sky the wrong color, the air too thin, the feeling of gravity too sharp and real. You were running barefoot through city streets that blurred with rain and headlights, heart hammering, body aching. You knew who you were running from.

Him.

Your ex. Not a bad man. Not even a bad partner, if you were being honest. You’d left things on good terms. Clean. Polite. He was one of the last people left in your life who’d really known you.

And now, in this dream, he was chasing you. Not with malice — with desperation.

He kept shouting your name, again and again, his voice distorted, hollow, echoing through alleys that melted into each other.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he called. “Why didn’t you say goodbye?”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t explain that you hadn’t meant to disappear. That you hadn’t chosen any of this. That you were somewhere so far away no message could ever reach him.

And then he was gone.

And you were alone.

And your mother was there. Your mother, who’d died four years ago in a hospital bed with your hand in hers, mouthing your name one last time. She didn’t speak in the dream. Just stared at you like she didn’t recognize you.

You reached for her.

She vanished.

And you screamed.

You woke up in a gasp of sweat and tangled sheets, the sob clawing out of your throat before you could stop it.

The room swam, too dark and too quiet, and for a terrifying half-second you thought maybe you’d slipped realities again. That none of this was real — not the forest, not the house, not Caleb.

But then the door hissed open.

And there he was.

Caleb.

Solid. Real. Alive.

And moving fast.

He crossed the room in three long strides, arms out but not touching you, kneeling beside the bed like he’d practiced this a hundred times and still wasn’t sure how to do it right.

“What happened?” His voice was low, urgent. “What hurt you?”

You realized you were shaking, breath still hitching as you tried to pull the blankets up to your chest like they could protect you from phantoms.

“Nightmare,” you croaked.

He blinked. “A… dream?”

“Yeah.” You forced a laugh, but it came out broken. “Just a real crappy one.”

He sat back on his heels, clearly trying to give you space, but his eyes didn’t leave your face. Not once.

“I thought—” You stopped. “It felt like I was back. On Earth. But it was twisted. Wrong. Like everything was slipping away from me. People I loved—”

Your voice cracked.

He didn’t move, but something behind his expression shifted. Something subtle. Protective.

“I know it doesn’t make sense,” you whispered.

“It does,” he said. “It makes sense to me.”

You didn’t answer for a moment. Then, against all logic, you blurted, “Do you think I’m selfish?”

He looked taken aback. “What?”

“I keep thinking about home. About leaving. About people I don’t even talk to anymore. It’s not like anyone’s waiting for me. But it still feels like… guilt. I still feel it.”

He was quiet for a long time. Then, he smiled softly.

“Guilt doesn’t mean you’ve done something wrong. Sometimes it just means you remember what it’s like to love.”

Your throat tightened.

“I don’t have family anymore,” you murmured. “They’re all gone. I didn’t even get to bury them all properly. And now I’m—here. I don’t even know what ‘here’ is.”

Caleb leaned slightly closer.

“Then we’ll make here… yours. Until you’re ready for something else.”

You looked at him — really looked at him. The lines of his face in the dim light. The steadiness of him. The fact that he’d come running the moment he heard your scream.

“…Thank you,” you whispered.

“You don’t need to thank me.”

There was a strange expression blooming on his face then. A kind of quiet fire. Something aching but whole. You weren’t sure what to do with it.

You swallowed. “Will you… stay for a bit?”

His body stilled, like you’d said something dangerous.

But then he nodded.

And sat beside the bed — not on it, but close — cross-legged and silent.

You didn’t need him to talk. Just to stay.

And he did.

You hadn’t meant to stay up this late, not really. But sleep never came easily anymore — not since you’d landed on this alien planet, not since the facility. Not even now, in Caleb’s safe little home, wrapped in warmth and silence.

But you didn’t feel tired. Not in the restless way, at least. It was more like your body was winding down naturally, the tension in your shoulders finally starting to bleed out the longer you sat here beside him.

The room had gone quiet again, but it wasn’t an awkward quiet. It was soft, almost sacred. You could hear the crackle of the fire in the next room, the distant hum of night insects outside. Even Caleb’s breathing had become part of the background — steady, grounding. You sat beside him on the bed, curled beneath a blanket, your knees drawn to your chest and your cheek resting lightly against your folded arms.

Caleb didn’t say much — but his presence said plenty. He was close, not touching, but not far either. The distance was intentional, respectful. But somehow, it still felt like he was there with you in every way that mattered.

“You know,” you murmured eventually, your voice sleepy, “your world’s kind of beautiful. In a ‘maybe I’m hallucinating from sleep deprivation’ kind of way.”

He chuckled softly — a sound you were quickly growing fond of. “You’re not hallucinating.”

“You sure?” you teased, shifting to glance at him. “Because I’m pretty sure I saw a frog with wings yesterday.”

“That one’s real,” he said, completely deadpan.

You blinked. “Seriously?”

Caleb nodded, barely hiding his smile. “They sing during mating season. Loudly.”

You laughed, burying your face in your arms again. “God, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this place.”

“You don’t have to,” he said quietly. “Just… exist in it. One day at a time.”

You looked over at him again, the firelight catching in the lines of his face. There was something gentle in the way he said that — something understanding. And it made a soft ache bloom in your chest.

“What about you?” you asked after a pause. “Do you miss how things used to be?”

Caleb exhaled through his nose. “Sometimes. But there’s beauty in what’s left. And hope, still.”

You nodded slowly. “Earth… we didn’t really talk about hope that much. At least not in a way that felt real.”

He glanced at you, his expression unreadable. “You sound like you left a lot behind.”

Your lips curled into something small, bittersweet. “Nothing that would be there now, even if I went back.”

Another pause.

“Did you… have anyone? On Earth?” he asked gently, eyes never quite meeting yours.

You considered lying. It would’ve been easy — say no, keep things simple. But that wasn’t fair. Not to him, and not to yourself.

“I had a few boyfriends,” you admitted, eyes drifting to the soft flicker of shadow dancing across the floor. “Nothing serious. We broke up before I was taken. Some were good to me. Some weren’t.”

Caleb was quiet for a while.

You felt it when he processed the word boyfriend again. It was foreign to him. The way he shifted slightly, like trying to puzzle together a concept his culture didn’t quite mirror.

“That’s… different,” he said eventually. Not judgmental. Just thoughtful.

You nodded. “Yeah. We don’t really have ‘mates’ on Earth. Not in the same way. We just… try. Hope someone fits.”

He hummed, barely audible. “So many chances, just to lose them again.”

You shrugged. “That’s the risk. But sometimes, it’s worth it.”

Caleb didn’t respond. But you caught the way his jaw ticked — the subtle downward cast of his eyes. He wasn’t frowning, not exactly. But there was something unsettled behind the quiet. Something like… longing?

You didn’t press it. You didn’t need to.

Instead, you shifted slightly, scooting just a little closer. It was instinctive, not flirtatious. Just proximity. Warmth. Human need. You felt the bed dip under your movement, the blanket brushing your ankles as you let your legs stretch out beside his.

The moment settled again. Thick with something unspoken, but not uncomfortable.

“I think,” you whispered, half-lulled by the stillness, “this is the most calm I’ve felt in weeks.”

“I’m glad,” he said, voice low and steady.

Your head tilted, resting lightly on the pillow now. “You’re really good at this whole ‘supportive and calming’ thing.”

“I was trained for it,” he replied, deadpan.

You let out a soft laugh, your eyelids fluttering. “Figures.”

The silence stretched again — not lonely, not cold. Just safe. Caleb didn’t move, didn’t speak. But you could feel his presence like a balm. He was warm in ways that had nothing to do with temperature.

And as sleep began to gently pull you under, you felt it: the hum beneath your skin, the strange flutter in your chest. A stillness that wasn’t empty — but full. Comfort. Trust. Maybe even the early roots of something deeper.

You didn’t question it.

You just let yourself drift.

And somewhere, just before the dark took you, you heard him breathe your name — like a promise.

CALEB

The room was quiet.

Not empty. Not dead.

But alive in the kind of hush that only came when something sacred was breathing beneath it.

You were asleep, your cheek pressed into his chest, one leg tossed carelessly over his thigh, hand resting —j ust barely — over the racing beat of his heart. As if your body knew exactly where to settle. As if it had always known.

He hadn’t moved in over an hour.

He wouldn’t dare.

Your warmth had seeped into his skin, and it had become something holy. Something untouchable. If he could stay like this forever — if time would allow it — he would never get up again.

And yet, beneath all that stillness, his body was burning.

The feeling had started as a quiet pull in his chest when you shifted closer, a weightless ache. A subtle flutter, like wind brushing through an open wound. But then your breath hit the hollow of his throat, and the scent of you — stars, the scent of you — triggered something deep and old and wild inside him.

It was slow, like something waking after a thousand years.

A heat rose behind his ribcage, slow and bright, spreading down his arms like a sunbeam sinking beneath ice. His limbs trembled, and he clenched his jaw, trying to breathe through it. But it was no use.

The burn struck hard, surging into his forearms.

He didn’t scream. He couldn’t.

His body locked as if bracing for battle, but the pain wasn’t war — it was transformation.

Beneath his skin, glowing lines began to form. Like ink guided by divine hands, they spiraled and stretched, crawling up from his wrists to his elbows in elegant, curling patterns — marks no Zyrepharian could mistake.

Mating marks.

His breath caught, vision tunneling. He stared down at his arms with something between horror and wonder. The marks shimmered faintly in the dark, iridescent like spilled oil — beautiful in a way that made his chest ache.

They were real.

This was happening.

And the worst part?

The worst part was how much he wanted it.

How long he’d dreamed of it.

They never talked about that part in husbandry school.

Sure, they taught the techniques — how to be a good husband, how to support a female in all stages of emotional need, how to prepare meals rich in nutrients specific to different planetary species.

He had top scores in most of it. His fire-roasted kai root was still praised on the student boards. He could braid any hair texture with his eyes closed, and he’d been quietly top of the class in emotional attunement drills.

But none of them had taught him how to deal with the yearning.

Caleb had always been different from the other males. Not only had he never been picked by a female to wed due to his career, but where they laughed and groaned about the impossibility of bonding — how rare it was, how likely it would never happen — Caleb had held onto something more fragile. More foolish.

Hope.

He’d snuck old love stories out of the archive domes. Hidden them under his cot, where he’d read until the lights dimmed and the others slept. Stories of great pairings, of instinct and fate and soul-deep recognition.

He’d imagined what it would be like to smell someone and know. To brush fingers and feel the connection light up like electricity.

Of course, he never said it aloud.

Being a romantic on Zyrephar was like being broken. Soft. Unprepared.

And maybe he was all of those things.

But here, now, he didn’t care.

Because you were here, breathing steadily against him. And with every second that passed, the bond wove itself tighter around his ribs, curling like vines through his lungs, lacing around his thoughts.

He closed his eyes and tilted his head back against the wall, trying not to make a sound. He didn’t want to wake you. Not like this. Not with his scent beginning to shift in ways he couldn’t control. The marks thrummed with each beat of his heart, glowing faintly with each inhale you took.

He wanted to tell you.

He wanted to wake you up, cup your face and say, It’s you. You’re my bond. You’re the one I never stopped dreaming about.

But he didn’t.

Because you’d talked about Earth only hours ago. About your old life. Your friends. Your ex-boyfriend, whose name you hadn’t said but whose memory made something tighten in Caleb’s throat.

You were still healing.

And Caleb would never ask you to choose him before you were ready to choose yourself.

So instead, he lay there, still as stone, while your leg shifted again — curling more tightly around his.

You hummed something in your sleep, barely audible, a sound so small and trusting that it made his eyes sting.

Gently, he brushed a thumb over the edge of the blanket near your shoulder, careful not to touch you directly. He let the warmth of you soak into his skin like sunlight through soil.

Even if you left one day — even if Earth called you home — he would never forget this. The night when the ache in his chest finally had a name. When the bond he’d always prayed for began to carve itself into his flesh.

And if, by some miracle, you chose to stay…

Well.

He had a thousand recipes memorized. A thousand poems he’d never shown anyone. And a heart that had only ever waited for you.

Wait—

It hit him like a punch to the gut.

Your scent.

It changed.

One moment, Caleb was lying still as stone, arms aching with the heat of newly emerged mating marks, his chest barely rising as he tried not to disturb you.

The next — he caught it.

Just a hint.

Just a thread.

But it was enough to wreck him.

He sucked in a breath, fast and quiet, chest clenching as his pupils flared wide. The scent curled through his lungs like smoke, sweet and warm and wanting. Primal. Subtle. Unintentional.

You were still asleep.

Your face was soft, peaceful, lips parted slightly. But your breath had grown shallower, quicker. And then—

Then you made a sound.

A soft, whimpering moan. Barely audible. Breathless. Like a dream had caught you by the throat and refused to let go.

Caleb stopped breathing altogether.

He froze.

His body — already humming, already trembling from the intensity of the marks — reacted instantly. Heat bloomed in his belly, sharp and dizzying, and his claws instinctively flexed against the bedding. His scent spiked, thick with instinct, but he bit down hard, curling his spine slightly away from you in a desperate attempt to keep it contained.

It was too much.

It was all too much.

Your scent… it was the one thing they warned about in the books. The one thing his instructors had only theorized about because no one had felt it in generations. It was supposed to trigger full biological readiness. Full mating instinct.

And now it was wrapped around him like a blanket.

His throat went dry. He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached.

No.

No, no, no.

This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.

Not now.

Not while you were asleep. Unaware. Vulnerable. Dreaming.

Wait, who the hell were you dreaming about?

He couldn’t think straight. Every nerve in his body was alive and burning, screaming to respond, to touch, to move closer, to soothe you, to satisfy whatever dreams were making you whimper like that.

You let out another faint moan, shifting your hips slightly where your leg lay across his.

His vision blacked out for a second.

Goddess have mercy.

He barely stifled the strangled sound that tried to crawl up his throat.

It wasn’t desire. Not in the way he’d understood it before.

It was need. Biological. Brutal. Cosmic.

Like the universe was screaming Mine through every vein in his body.

And still—

He didn’t move.

He didn’t touch you.

He’d rather rip his own arms off than risk making you feel unsafe. You were already raw. Already torn from your home, your life. He wouldn’t take anything from you. Not now. Not ever without your consent.

Even if every cell in his body screamed otherwise.

He held himself still with sheer will alone, whispering prayers he hadn’t spoken since childhood, muttering them silently into the dark.

And then you rolled onto your back.

Softly. Unconsciously.

You turned over to the other side of the bed, facing away from him, leg slipping free of his thigh, your body no longer pressed against his.

The shift in heat should’ve calmed him.

It didn’t.

It gave him space to breathe.

And with it came shame.

Need. Overwhelming, spiraling desperation.

Caleb sat up so fast he nearly tripped over the blankets, his heart thundering as he bolted from the bed like it was on fire.

He didn’t even glance back at you.

Couldn’t.

He stumbled into the washroom and shut the door, pressing his back to it, hands in his hair, nails digging into his scalp as he let out a long, guttural sound into his palm.

Pathetic.

He felt pathetic.

A grown male — trained, honorable, strong — reduced to a trembling wreck because his mate moaned in her sleep and his body betrayed him.

He splashed water on his face. Again. Again.

But nothing helped.

Your scent was still on him.

Clinging to his chest. His throat. His hands.

He stared into the mirror, breathing hard, his mating marks pulsing dimly beneath the surface of his skin.

This wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

You weren’t supposed to be real.

He had imagined his mate for years — soft eyes, a sharp mind, someone who laughed with her whole soul and didn’t shrink from the weight of his emotions. But he never thought she’d be human. Never thought he’d find her broken and scared on the edge of the wilderness, dreaming of Earth.

Never thought the bond would come like a lightning strike, unwanted and undeniable.

And he never thought she’d moan in her sleep and leave him drowning in the echo of it.

Caleb braced his arms on the counter and bowed his head, trying to breathe through the wave of arousal and guilt and longing.

He didn’t touch himself.

Didn’t dare.

Even though his body was on fire, every nerve screaming for release — he refused.

Because it wasn’t just instinct anymore.

It was you.

And even though you didn’t know it yet — you were his.

But that didn’t give him the right to act like you were.

Not until you chose him.

Not until your eyes opened and you looked at him like he was home.

So he stayed there, trembling, muttering ancient calming mantras as he forced his body to cool down, to regulate, to remember who it was trained to be.

And when the worst of it had passed, when the tension had dulled into a throbbing ache in his bones, he returned to the bedroom.

You were still turned away.

Still sleeping soundly.

He slid beneath the covers again, this time with careful distance between your bodies. Just enough to make sure your sleep wasn’t disturbed.

He stared at the ceiling until dawn began to stretch its fingers over the horizon.

Morning edged in quietly, smudging the ceiling with a thin wash of lavender‑grey. You surfaced from sleep in ripples, heartbeat still lagging behind the heavy rhythm of the dream you were drowning in only moments ago.

Heat is the first thing you notice — a slow, liquid warmth pooled low in your belly, the ghost of slick thighs, a pulse you can still feel between them. Your face was hot against the pillow. You kept your eyes shut, even as your body reminded you of the images that slipped beneath your eyelids all night.

There had been hands. Large, careful, learning the map of you like it was a holy text. Someone’s lips had hovered an inch above your pulse, not touching, just letting breath drag over skin until you begged for contact you never voiced. A voice — low, rough velvet, whispering in a language you almost recognised. The forest around you had smelled of silver leaves and turned soil, but beneath it all was something deeper, musk and spice and safety, a scent that had made your knees tremble even in the dream.

You do not say his name, even inside your own skull, but the shape of him clings to you like after‑taste. Tall. Broad across the chest. Unguarded eyes that always look as if they’re bracing for your next question.

Caleb.

You swallowed hard and rolled onto your back, eyes still shut, forcing yourself to catalogue the neutral now: the soft mattress, the faint hum of the house’s energy conduits, the cool sheets where another body is conspicuously absent. A fresh draft tells you the door to the corridor is half open. He must have risen already.

Good.

You needed a second to remember how to breathe without thinking of the dream version of him— the way his mouth had fitted over yours, patient and reverent, his hands spanning your ribs as if checking they still existed.

It was just a dream.

You repeat it twice. It doesn’t help.

It also doesn’t help that your body is betraying its own need, thighs pressing together, nipples pulled tight against thin fabric of the clothes Caleb provided you. You exhale through your nose, shoving both palms over your face until the heat ebbs to something manageable.

Only then did you sit up, pushing loose hair back, listening.

Voices— just one, really— low murmurs from the kitchen, followed by the clink of ceramic. Caleb must be talking to himself again; you’ve noticed he does that when concentrating. The memory coaxes a reluctant smile.

You swung your legs over the side of the bed and stretch, wincing when your toes hit cool floorboards. The house smelled of something savoury and sharp: herbs seared in a pan, maybe that citrus‑pepper spice he likes. Your stomach growled on cue. A glance at the wall clock tells you you’ve slept far longer than planned.

No screaming nightmares, you realise with a start. Your sleep, despite the… intensity… was unbroken. The understanding leaves you oddly raw. You promised yourself you wouldn’t need him to feel safe and yet— apparently— your brain believes otherwise.

The corridor is hushed. You pad to the washroom, splash water over your face until your cheeks lose their flush, then venture toward the kitchen.

Caleb stands with his back to you, sleeves rolled to elbows, forearms flexing as he lifts a covered pot from the stove. The morning light through the skylight paints him in muted silver; little motes of steam spiral around his head like a crown. Something in your chest tightens.

“Morning,” you manage, voice throat‑rough.

He startles— but only slightly. When he turns, there is a fraction of hesitation in his eyes before the usual calm slides into place. “Good morning. I didn’t wake you?”

You shake your head, sliding onto the bench at the small table. “Slept like a rock.”

“Good.” He sets two bowls down, swift but deliberate, then retreats to the counter. You notice he’s keeping a careful distance, almost theatrical in his precision. No accidental brush of fingers, no lingering near your shoulder. Odd.

He returns with a pot of something thick and aromatic— grain porridge studded with violet fruit and shards of crisped root. He ladles it out silently.

You watch his hands. They’re steady, but he moves as if he’s rehearsing every gesture three steps ahead. You open your mouth to tease him about morning formality, then shut it again; his shoulders are tense beneath the fabric of his tunic, subtle but unmistakable.

You glance down at his forearms as he sets your bowl in front of you. They’re wrapped in new, dark linen bindings from wrist to elbow.

You raise a brow. “Did you hurt yourself?”

He freezes half a second too long. “Minor burns,” he says. “The hearth sparks.”

You accept it, though something prickles at your scalp. Caleb, careless around an open flame? Unlikely. Still, you don’t press. Instead you inhale the porridge’s steam. “Smells amazing.”

He inclines his head, then sits opposite, posture immaculate. For a minute you eat in a rare hush; the porridge is nutty and bright, sweet‑tart fruit bursting under your tongue. You halfway moan before you can stop yourself. Caleb’s spoon stutters on the rim of his bowl.

Heat licks up your neck. “Sorry. It’s… really good.”

“I— I’m glad.” He looks down quickly, ears tinged deep bronze.

The silence turns thick, charged. You focus on your food until the initial flush fades, then risk a glance. Caleb is watching you— not obviously, but from beneath lashes, gaze quick as lightning away when you meet it. His throat bobs.

Something is off.

“Did something happen last night?” you ask softly.

He blinks. “You… slept soundly.” A beat. “That is all.”

You nod, though it doesn’t feel like all. You could ask, but the dream still throbs at the edges of your nerves— images of his hands sliding up your spine, warm breath against your ear. The thought alone threatens fresh colour in your cheeks.

Instead you steer the talk to plans: the day’s agenda, routes to the council quarter, how to approach any officials about a potential path back to Earth. Caleb answers, but some easy fluidity is missing. His replies are clipped, careful, weighed. And every time your sleeve brushes the table close to his, he shifts almost imperceptibly away, as though contact would singe him.

Halfway through discussing city permits you reach for your cup and your fingers graze his knuckles. Caleb flinches— not violently, just a jolt so tiny you’d miss it if you weren’t looking. His cup nearly tips. He catches it and— for the span of a heartbeat— everything in him goes still. Eyes wide, lips parted, breath held.

You yank your hand back, heart kicking. “Sorry, I—”

“No fault,” he says too fast, voice tight. He stands abruptly, gathering empty bowls. “I should clean up.”

You watch him retreat to the sink, shoulders rigid, wrists held close to his torso as though shielding them. The linen wraps are darker near the seam, faintly damp where steam has condensed. Something uncomfortable twists low in your gut. You rise, stepping closer.

“Let me see,” you say, motioning to his arm.

“It is fine,” he replies without turning — gentle but absolute.

“Caleb.” You touch his unbandaged elbow. He inhales sharply, muscles locking. You’ve never felt him this tense. “I’m not going to break you.”

He stays facing the sink, water rushing over dishes. A long moment ticks past, only the patter echoing in the room. Then, quietly: “I would rather you didn’t.”

You ease your hand back, smarting at the distance in his tone. A chill slips under your ribs. “I’ll… be in the guest room.”

You retreat, mouth dry, and the moment you cross the threshold you feel his gaze flick to your back— hot, guilty, fierce — then vanish when you glance over. He bends lower, as if scouring a bowl demands absolute focus.

In the glass‑roofed room you sat on a cushioned bench, watching alien birds flit in the high branches outside. The dream’s afterglow has curdled into restlessness. You replayed every word, every micro‑expression. Caleb, usually so open in his quiet way, was shuttered. Wary. And those wraps— thick enough to hide more than a spark burn.

What was he hiding from you?

Behind you the dishes settled; footsteps approached, then stopped at the doorway. You sensed him standing there, unseen. A soft exhale. Then retreating footfalls— heavier than his usual silent tread. You glimpsed him vanishing down the hall toward his workroom.

Whatever answers lie beneath those bandages, Caleb is intent on burying them, at least for now. And while you stared at the birds, heart knocking in confused worry, you couldn’t shake the memory of hands in a dream forest, warm as dawn, guiding you through shadows that suddenly feel much nearer than sleep.

Taglist : @etsuniiru @kyokoyya @i-messed-up-big-time @firefly1103 @gracekerzzz @mcdepressed290 @sylusgirlie7 @plzdonutpercieveme @m00nchildwrites @honeycrispangels @trishiepo0 @calebsbabyapple @inzayneforaj @wilddreamer98 @lostpsycho13

[aneertawrites]

Hey 🥺 when is alien Caleb gonna get a next chapter? I am really fond of the story you have cooked so well 😭🤣🍎 ITS MY FAVOURITE ATM

Please continue… the anticipation is KILLIN me

next chapter will be up sometime today!!

[aneertawrites]

i’m truly so sorry that i am so inactive😭 i’m really busy with my job (im also writing a book…) so i barely have time to come on here!

[aneertawrites]

Alien!Caleb x Fem!Reader

Orbiting You

Chapter 2

a/n : LMFAOOO SORRY IM BACK IDK IF THATS GONNA BE FOR SURE THO PLS DONT HATE ME IM SO BUSY 🙏🏻

The figure jolted back, hands lifting immediately in the universal don’t-kill-me posture.

“Wait—It’s not—wait! Wait!”

“Oh my God,” you snapped, eyes wide, rock still aimed at his face. “Were you just smelling me?!”

There was a pause.

A guilty silence.

“…Okay, yes, technically—but not in a weird way!”

“Oh, really?” you hissed. “Because crouching over a sleeping person like a space cryptid and sniffing them is actually textbook weird where I’m from!”

“I was checking to see if you were alive!”

“By sniffing me?!”

“Well, it worked, didn’t it?!”

You blinked, then blinked again, trying to decide if this was real or just your brain short-circuiting from starvation. You hadn’t heard another voice — any voice — in six days, let alone one this close. And it spoke your language, too. Well… it spoke through the translator chip. But still. That counted.

The figure — male, by the sound of his voice, and clearly not human, though you refused to process the full details of his face yet — was still kneeling awkwardly, hands raised like you were holding a plasma rifle instead of a dirty rock.

“I thought you were dead,” he said, quieter now. “Your breathing was shallow. And you weren’t… moving.”

“Yeah, that’s called sleep, we tend to do that sometimes,” you said, finally lowering your makeshift weapon, though you didn’t drop it. “What do you want?”

He hesitated. “I’ve been… following you.”

“Oh, great. A stalker and a sniffer.”

“It’s not like that!” he said quickly, then stopped himself and visibly recalibrated his tone. “Look. I didn’t mean to startle you. I’ve just been… making sure you survived.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Why?”

Another pause.

He sighed, and for a moment he sounded just as tired as you felt. “Because you’re not supposed to be out here alone. You’ll die.”

“Not if I smell too bad, apparently,” you muttered.

A reluctant laugh escaped him — low and awkward, like he wasn’t used to people saying things that weren’t 100% serious.

You watched him carefully, pulse still racing, every muscle in your body ready to snap into action. But he didn’t move. Didn’t come closer. Just sat there like some awkward, overgrown wilderness guide who happened to catch you mid-breakdown.

“Do you know how long I’ve been out here?” you asked.

He nodded. “Six days.”

“…You were counting?”

“I was tracking.”

“Okay, that’s not less creepy.”

“I didn’t want to interfere unless you were dying.”

“And you thought smelling me was the line?”

“I panicked, alright?! You looked really… not-alive.”

Despite the adrenaline still coursing through you, your lip twitched.

You sat there in silence for a few heartbeats, the rock still in your hand, your body still strung tight as a bowstring — but your mind finally processing that, for the first time since you escaped, someone was talking to you instead of at you.

You sighed. “You can’t just sniff people.”

“I’ll make a note of that,” he said seriously, then added under his breath, “Earthling rules are weird.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you going to kill me?”

“No.”

“Take me back?”

“No.”

“Then what do you want?”

He shifted, lowering his hands and folding them in his lap. “To help.”

You stared at him. You didn’t trust him. You didn’t even know him. But after six days of isolation, of scraping by, of gnawing hunger and splintering exhaustion… something about the honesty in his voice hit different.

“You’re still on thin ice, Sniffer.”

“…Understood.”

You exhaled slowly, then dropped the rock to the ground between you with a quiet thud.

“Good. Because I’m not in the mood to die stupid.”

“Noted,” he said. “Neither am I.”

You sat there, still not moving closer, still not letting yourself relax — but just for a moment, the forest didn’t feel like it was closing in.

You shifted your weight just slightly, one hand still hovering near your pile of essentials — mostly rocks, torn cloth, and a scorched hunk of root you were calling “breakfast.” The alien hadn’t moved since his awkward confession, but your instincts still screamed that this was too weird, too sudden, too much.

You squinted at him. “Alright… if we’re doing this whole not murdering each other thing, then I need something to call you besides ‘Sniffer.’”

He tilted his head. “My name is—” He said something that sounded like someone knocking over a metal tray full of consonants.

You blinked.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “Did you just have a stroke?”

He blinked right back. “I said my name.”

“You did not. That was a sound effect.”

He repeated it, slower this time, enunciating. Except the “C” sound he started with had a sort of sharp-click-hiss thing happening in the back of his throat, followed by a tone your brain couldn’t even process as language. You were ninety percent sure the translator chip short-circuited trying to make sense of it.

You stared at him like he’d just offered you a handful of screws and called it trail mix.

“Okay, yeah, no. Not happening. I’m not about to bust a vocal cord every time I need to yell for help. You’re Caleb now.”

His brows furrowed — or what you assumed were his brows, given the faint movement on his face. “Caleb?”

“Yep. Classic Earth name. Easy. Gets the job done.”

“That is not even close to—”

“I don’t care,” you said, already waving a hand dismissively. “You show up in my shelter uninvited and sniff me like some space bloodhound? You lose name privileges.”

Caleb opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, then shut it. Thought about it. Nodded slowly.

“…Caleb,” he said, as if testing it. “Is this… an insult?”

“It can be,” you said with a shrug, “but only if you earn it.”

He looked skyward — or at least upward — and let out a long exhale. You weren’t sure if it was frustration or resignation. Maybe both.

“I will… accept this compromise,” he said eventually, in the overly formal tone of someone who wasn’t used to being told no.

“Damn right you will,” you muttered, grabbing your rock-knife and running a thumb along the edge. Still sharp enough to pretend you were dangerous.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, and it was the first time you fully allowed yourself to take his appearance in.

Shimmering skin, looking like a mix between pale and olive depending on how the light hit — and the most enchanting sunset-looking eyes you’d ever seen. It was then that you realised that his eyes were a little larger than normal human’s eyes would be.

So were his muscles. Fuck…

Hold on, you thought, I recognise that frame—

“So…” Caleb started, snapping you out of your thoughts, “what’s your name?”

You hesitated.

You hadn’t heard your own name in days. It felt foreign now — like something that belonged to another person, someone softer, someone who hadn’t run barefoot through a toxic forest, boiled alien water, or threatened a stranger with a rock.

But the question was fair.

You gave it to him — short and clipped, wary but not hostile.

Caleb nodded, repeating it back to you with surprisingly decent pronunciation. “Good. I’ll remember it.”

“You better,” you said. “I’m the one with the rock.”

There was a flicker of something on his face — amusement, maybe. You weren’t sure. It was subtle, but it made the air between you feel a little less like it might break under pressure.

You leaned back, letting the tension in your spine ease just enough to sit without pain. The forest was still humming. The glowing moss cast faint shadows along the ground. Somewhere in the distance, a tree let out a long, low creak that didn’t sound entirely natural.

“So what now?” you asked after a beat.

Caleb tilted his head again. “Now… I help you not die.”

You eyed him.

“…Not a great sales pitch.”

“I can work on it.”

You snorted — a small, tired, genuine thing. Then you wrapped your arms around your knees and leaned into the fire’s dying warmth.

CALEB

The fire popped quietly, a soft crackle breaking the silence as he shifted another dry stick into the embers. It was a careful motion — practiced. He made sure to keep the flames low, just enough to stave off the cold creeping through the undergrowth but not so much that they’d draw attention.

He didn’t like fire. It made him feel too visible.

But she needed it. And right now, that was what mattered.

She was curled a few feet away, wrapped in that ridiculous blanket she’d fashioned out of silver insulation and a layer of wide forest leaves. Her face was slack in sleep — a rarity, from what he’d seen. Most nights she twitched, gritted her teeth, whimpered low in her throat like her body was bracing for pain even in unconsciousness.

Not tonight.

Tonight, she was still.

Caleb sat back on his heels and watched her for a moment longer than he should have. Then even longer still.

The heat came first — deep in his chest, not from the fire, but from somewhere inside. Like a slow burn beneath his sternum. Not pain. Just… awareness. Pressure. A feeling like his body was tuning itself toward something it couldn’t name.

He exhaled through his nose and turned his gaze back to the fire.

It was the third night in a row it had happened.

Always when she was asleep. Always when the forest was quiet. Always when her scent got stronger in the air — earthy and strange, tinged with the wild things she’d passed through, but still hers.

His fingers twitched against his knee.

She smelled like heat. Like skin. Like something primal that pulled at him without his permission.

He’d never experienced anything like it.

Their species had been dying for generations. Reproduction had slowed. Bonds had become rarer, weaker, more scientific than sacred. The old stories of mates were regarded more as myth now — relics of a biology no one could replicate. The emotional tie, the instinctual call between two beings — it was considered extinct.

So whatever this was…

It couldn’t be that.

It wasn’t that.

He reached for another piece of wood, a little too quickly. It slipped through his fingers. He swore under his breath, caught it, then sat rigid for a second, watching her shift slightly at the noise.

But she didn’t wake.

Of course she didn’t. She was exhausted. Her body was eating itself just to keep moving. He could hear it in the shallowness of her breathing, the way her muscles twitched even in sleep. She was running on fumes. She should’ve collapsed two days ago, and yet she was still here — still fighting, still moving forward like she had no right to.

She was… resilient.

That was the word he kept coming back to.

Resilient, and stubborn, and clever in a way that didn’t always make sense to him — wrapping her feet in moss to cushion her torn shoes, tying her hair with vines, muttering curses under her breath like they were a shield.

And then there was her scent.

He dragged in another slow inhale before he could stop himself.

It filled his head like heat haze. Disoriented him. Centered him.

Goddess, he swore silently, squeezing his eyes shut for a second.

This wasn’t good. He needed to be focused. She was vulnerable — half-starved and surrounded by threats she couldn’t even see yet. His purpose was clear: protect, observe, report if necessary. Nothing more.

And yet…

She’d given him a name.

Caleb.

It wasn’t even close to his true name. His designation hadn’t had a proper vowel in it for nearly eighty years. But she’d assigned him something human, something short and sharp and hers. She said it with a roll of her eyes and a mouth stained orange from the bulbs she roasted too long. She wielded it like a joke, but something about the way it sounded when she said it…

It stuck.

And now, here he was, kneeling by a fire he didn’t want to make, watching over a human he wasn’t supposed to care about, feeling a burn in his chest that no one on Zyrephar had felt in over a century.

It’s just stress, he told himself.

Biological curiosity. You’ve never seen a human before. You’re projecting.

But still… he stayed.

Long after the fire faded to embers. Long after the night sounds of the forest rose and fell around them like a dark tide.

He stayed.

Watching her.

Listening to her breathe.

You woke up to the sound of your stomach growling so loudly you were sure the forest gods had finally given up and let something inside you die.

You sat up too fast and immediately regretted it — your vision swam, head throbbing with dehydration and hunger. Your limbs felt like wet cement, each joint protesting even the thought of motion. The fire had burned down to a dull heap of ash and ember, casting a faint orange glow on your makeshift shelter. It had gotten cold during the night — not freezing, but enough that the ache in your fingers had made its way deep into your bones.

Across from you, Caleb crouched low and still, tending to the dying fire. Of course he’d been up before you. You were starting to suspect he didn’t sleep.

You pressed a hand to your stomach as it gave another rumbling protest, louder this time — vulgar, almost comical if you didn’t feel so close to blacking out.

Caleb looked up immediately, eyes tracking the source of the noise like it was a predator.

“You require sustenance,” he said plainly.

You blinked at him. “Wow. Nothing gets past you.”

He stood with that eerie, fluid grace of his — like a deer in human shape — and offered a hand, which you ignored. He didn’t seem offended. Instead, he just gestured lazily toward the edge of the clearing.

“I can take you to my dwelling,” he said, like he was offering you a glass of water. “There is food. Clean water. Shelter.”

You stared at him.

“Come again?”

“I can take you to—”

“No, no, I heard you,” you interrupted, eyes widening. “Are you seriously telling me you’ve had a stocked pantry and a roof this entire time and didn’t think to bring it up?!”

Caleb frowned, confused by your tone. “You didn’t ask.”

You blinked. Slowly. Very slowly.

“Caleb.”

“Yes?”

“I have been boiling moss water and chewing on alien roots for six days.”

He tilted his head. “You seemed capable. And they’re not alien roots, they’re Tzyk—”

“Oh my God.”

You stumbled to your feet, rage and fatigue making your body wobble like a newborn foal. You pointed a shaky finger at him. “I’ve been out here fighting for my life, and you were just watching? Judging? Just waiting for me to… what? Die artistically?”

He furrowed his brow. “I didn’t want to intrude.”

You let out a noise — part laugh, part wheeze. “You sniffed me in my sleep.”

“That was… different.”

You threw your hands in the air. “I cannot deal with this logic right now. Lead the way. If I don’t eat something in the next fifteen minutes, I will eat you.”

He blinked once, a furious blush covering the expanse of his mid face, “I don’t believe that’s—”

“Move, Caleb.”

He moved.

The journey through the forest was slower this time, and quieter. You didn’t have the strength for sarcastic quips, and he didn’t seem inclined to fill the silence. You trudged behind him, arms wrapped around your midsection, trying not to cry at the thought of actual food.

About twenty minutes in, you finally opened your mouth, needing a distraction.

“So… what’s school like here?”

Caleb glanced back at you, visibly surprised by the question.

“Do you mean for males or females?”

You blinked. “You have separate systems?”

“Yes. Female education is focused on governance, diplomacy, law, and interstellar negotiation. Many are assigned leadership paths from a young age. Males… it depends.”

“Let me guess,” you muttered. “You all train to be warlords or engineers or something.”

“No,” he said simply. “I went to husbandry school.”

You stopped walking.

“You went to what?”

He paused, turned around, and repeated himself. “Husbandry.”

You stared at him, deadpan. “Like… farming?”

“No. Like… being a husband.”

You just gaped at him. “That’s an actual thing?”

“It’s the most prestigious male track.”

“I—what?!”

Caleb shifted uncomfortably, as if uncertain whether you were mocking him. “We are trained to be ideal partners. Emotionally balanced. Practical. Skilled. Our society has limited females, so the expectation is that males compete for bonding eligibility.”

You were blinking so hard your eyes were dry. “So wait. You… studied how to be a good boyfriend?”

Caleb narrowed his eyes, very obviously only familiar with the idea of marriage. “What’s a boyfriend?”

You waved a dismissive hand, to which he took as an opportunity to puff his chest out in pride like a peacock. “I graduated top of my class.”

You snorted.

He raised an eyebrow.

“Oh no, I’m not laughing at you,” you said quickly. “I just—this is a lot.”

“I was certified in twelve culinary disciplines,” he continued matter-of-factly. “I scored highest in domestic systems, child-rearing theory, and emotional de-escalation. I also completed advanced modules in sexual proficiency.”

You nearly tripped over your own feet. “Sorry, what now?”

He didn’t even flinch. “Physical intimacy is an important component of successful mating. Our instructors evaluate our performance during simulated encounters.”

Your mouth opened and closed like a dying fish. “You’re telling me you graded in sex class?”

“Yes.”

“With tests?”

“Simulations. Partners, if permitted.”

You stared at him.

He added, “I received perfect scores in oral technique.”

You walked directly into a low-hanging branch.

“Should I not have said that?” he asked genuinely.

“Oh, we are absolutely not discussing that right now,” you muttered, pushing past him. “I asked about school. I didn’t ask for your… space Tinder profile.”

“I don’t understand half those words,” he said, following calmly, “but you seem distressed.”

“I’m not distressed. I’m starving, Caleb. Keep walking.”

He nodded, brushing past you. “As you command,” he leaned down, his breath fanning teasingly against your ear. “I can smell you.”

You shrieked, mortified, pushing him away — ordering him to lead the way and be quiet.

You knew it before you saw it.

The subtle shift in the trees.

The unnatural evenness of the terrain.

The scent — soft and strange, something warm and metallic threaded with herbs.

Caleb paused just ahead, half-turned toward you, eyes flicking over your expression like he was already trying to read your reaction. You stepped out of the dense forest and—

Yeah, no. ‘Dwelling’ didn’t cover it.

You’d expected a hut, maybe. A moss-covered dome, or a cave, or some bachelor pad carved out of a tree stump.

What you got was something else entirely.

The structure before you was smooth and curved, almost organic in the way it rose from the ground. The exterior gleamed like polished bone, catching the faint golden glow of Zyrephar’s twin moons. Intricate patterns were carved into the outer walls — not symmetrical, but flowing, like wind etched into stone. The roof shimmered faintly with a coating of something you couldn’t place — not quite metal, not quite glass.

It was quiet. Peaceful. A little surreal.

And, to your absolute betrayal, gorgeous.

You stopped walking without realizing it.

Caleb didn’t say anything. But when you turned your head sharply to look at him, his face was neutral — too neutral. Except for his mouth, which twitched at the corners in a way he very much tried to suppress.

“You’re grinning,” you accused.

“I am not.”

“You are. You look like a smug little—”

“I’m pleased it meets your standards,” he said calmly, but his slightly pointed ears flushed.

“You live here?” you asked, as if the house might belong to some other alien named Caleb who had also gone to husband school.

“I built it.”

“Oh, of course you did.” You rubbed your temple. “Let me guess. You were top of your class in alien architecture, too?”

He shrugged modestly. “Second. My ceilings were considered emotionally over-stimulating.”

You turned back to the house, shook your head slowly, then whispered, “What the hell is this planet?”

He said nothing, just led you to the entrance, which opened without him touching it — just a soft whoosh like the walls had sighed in recognition.

The inside was even worse. Or… better. Whatever.

Everything was smooth and warm to the touch, all soft golden lights and low hums, like the house was alive and happy to see him. The floor felt strangely soft beneath your ruined shoes, and even the air smelled different in here — like heat, citrus, and something faintly floral.

The space wasn’t cluttered, but it wasn’t cold either. You spotted shelves stacked with strange instruments, woven blankets, a few framed etchings along the walls — one of which you realized, belatedly, was a Zyrepharian female, her face sharp and regal, locked mid-laugh.

It was the kind of space someone builds when they expect to share it.

“You’re staring again,” Caleb said behind you, voice low and amused.

You snapped your gaze away from the walls. “Sorry. I’ve just never seen anything like this before.”

He moved past you, headed toward the kitchen — or what you assumed was the kitchen, based on the counter and the array of gleaming tools that you were pretty sure could either cook food or perform surgery.

“I’ll prepare something now,” he said, already rolling up the sleeves of his thin tunic. “There is a bathing chamber down the hall — first door on the right. You should wash.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Your core temperature is low. You’re shaking. A bath will restore circulation, and cleanse potential pathogens from your—” He paused, looking you over in that way that made your skin crawl and blush all at once. “From your… everything.”

You narrowed your eyes. “So what, you’re telling me I stink?”

He didn’t flinch. “Yes.”

“Wow. Romantic.”

Caleb’s eyes widened a fraction, his shoulders tightening as he let out an awkward chuckle. “You’ll be more comfortable afterward. I’ll lay out clothing for you. Go.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but a sharp pain twisted in your back, and your shoulders felt like cracked stone. The smell of food — something spicy, sharp, and almost familiar — was already drifting through the space.

You were exhausted, starving, and the idea of hot water was suddenly the most erotic thing you’d thought of in days.

“Fine,” you muttered. “But if you lock the door while I’m in there, I swear to God—”

“I would never.”

You gave him one last squint, just in case, and turned toward the hallway.

Behind you, you heard something sizzle in a pan. Heard him hum — quietly, low in his throat — some melody that didn’t belong to Earth but still made your stomach twist.

And Caleb, still facing the stove, let his lips curl upward in a smile he didn’t let you see.

You didn’t speak for the first fifteen minutes of eating.

You couldn’t.

Your body had gone nearly limp from the shock of finally being warm, clean, and fed. The bath Caleb had insisted on had nearly made you weep — real, hot water that steamed up the walls and soaked the wild out of your skin. The clothes he’d left you were strange, loose in places and snug in others, made from a material that shimmered faintly and adjusted to your temperature the moment it touched your skin. But the food?

It was the final blow.

Your knees had almost buckled when the scent hit you. Savory and rich, spiced with something warm and unfamiliar, layered with roasted herbs and something slightly sweet that reminded you of cinnamon and smoke.

You were halfway through your second bowl now. Caleb sat across from you, chewing methodically. You hadn’t said a word since sitting down. Neither had he.

He was quiet like a man used to silence — or at least respectful of it. He didn’t look impatient or uncomfortable, didn’t ask if you were okay or try to break the quiet with small talk. Instead, he watched your bowl, making sure it never ran empty.

When he finally spoke, it was only after you slowed down, licking sauce off your spoon like an addict trying to savor their last hit.

“I used too much saproot,” he said, more to himself than to you. “It’s making your tongue tingle.”

You blinked. “…That’s not poison?”

“No.”

“Could’ve mentioned that earlier.”

“I wanted to see if you’d notice.”

You gave him a deadpan stare. “You’re unhinged.”

He tilted his head. “That word doesn’t translate precisely, but I will assume you meant it as an endearment.”

You choked on your stew.

He didn’t smile — not fully — but there was a hint of smugness at the corners of his mouth, that same subtle glimmer you’d seen when he caught you gawking at his home earlier.

You set your spoon down with a sigh, your belly full but your mind buzzing with unfinished questions. You stared at your empty bowl, watching the broth swirl at the bottom as you asked:

“How did you find me?”

He stopped eating, only for a moment, then set his utensils down with a soft clink.

“I tracked your group through the forest,” he said. “I was part of the operation to intercept the extraction before it reached the port cities.”

“Extraction,” you repeated flatly. “Like cargo.”

He didn’t deny it.

You felt your stomach twist again — and not from the saproot.

“I thought…” You frowned. “I thought those people were your government. The ones at the facility. They looked official. They had uniforms. Medical labs. Hell, they even had translator tech.”

Caleb’s face shifted slightly, just a tight pull at his jaw. “They were part of what used to be the central military, before the reforms. Before the purges.”

“Purges?”

He nodded. “When it was revealed what they were doing — the experiments, the abductions — the High Council severed all association. Many of them fled. Others… went underground. They became a cell. Hidden. Dangerous. Powerful still, but fractured. That’s who took you.”

Your lips parted slightly. “You mean to tell me I got kidnapped by some intergalactic fringe cult?”

“They weren’t always fringe,” he said, voice cold now. “They were once the leaders. The ones who were supposed to protect us. They used the extinction of our females as an excuse to violate everything.”

The words lingered in the room, heavy and brutal.

“And humans?” you asked. “We were just… what? A quick fix?”

“You were the closest compatible genetic match,” Caleb said, eyes darkening. “And females of your kind… you can carry.”

“Jesus.” You rubbed your face. “And all those girls… still out there?”

“Many were rescued. A few… not yet.”

Your heart sank, thinking of the girls who had cried beside you in the holding cells. The ones who had been too quiet. The ones who stopped screaming after the first day.

“So why you?” you asked, after a beat. “Why were you sent in to get us?”

“I wasn’t sent,” he said simply. “I volunteered.”

That stopped you.

You looked at him slowly, trying to read the shift in his face, but it was too guarded, too blank.

“Why?”

“I owed a debt,” he said after a pause. “To the females of our race. To the ones we failed.”

You didn’t say anything for a while. You just sat there, staring at the strange glow of the fire embedded in the corner of the kitchen wall, letting the truth of all of it simmer at the base of your brain.

The bath. The food. The translator chip in his neck. The ‘husbandry school.’

You hated how your body relaxed in this place. How your mind started to trick you into thinking it was safe.

After a long pause, you forced the question out.

“…Is there a way back?”

Caleb didn’t answer right away.

He exhaled slowly, like the question had hit somewhere deep in his ribs.

“There are portals. Or… there were.” He kept his voice even. “Most were destroyed after the first war. The others were sealed after the exposure of the trafficking operations. It will be… a long time. Before they open again. If they ever do.”

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

“So I’m stuck.”

He didn’t correct you.

The silence stretched again, but it was different now. Thicker. Like fog settling in, blurring the edges of everything that had felt clear just moments before.

You got up slowly, hands tightening on the edge of the table.

“I’m going to bed,” you murmured.

Caleb stood as well, like instinct. “The room on the left. The lights will dim when you enter.”

You nodded, already turning, but then paused halfway down the hall.

You didn’t look at him as you asked, softly:

“Would you have still come for me… if it wasn’t your job?”

He was quiet. Not cold — just searching for the words. Or maybe fighting them.

Finally, his voice came low and clear behind you.

“Yes.”

You swallowed hard.

“…Why?”

You heard him shift, but no steps followed. No movement closer.

“I don’t know yet,” he said. “But I will.”

masterlist

taglist : @etsuniiru @kyokoyya @i-messed-up-big-time @firefly1103 @gracekerzzz @mcdepressed290 @sylusgirlie7 @plzdonutpercieveme @m00nchildwrites

[aneertawrites]

Alien!Caleb x Fem!Reader

Orbiting You

inspired by the clecanian series ! i really recommend these books!! the mmc’s are to die for

i’d also like to add that i’m discontinuing my xavier ff for now :( sorry!!

Chapter 1

Bursting through the doors of the holding facility without so much as a look over your shoulder, leaving the disgustingly sterile smell that had caused — at the very least — ten headaches over the last few weeks, you scoped the eerily familiar yet feverish scenery.

A forest.

Wait… can it even be considered a forest?

You took in the purple hue of the leaves — the swirls of bright teal and pink on the yellow bark, and the neon mossy ground, which, back on Earth, would’ve been long grass.

You let out a growl of frustration, hearing the yells of the girls behind you — who also miraculously managed to escape with the help of some alien man — before you tore your hands through your hair, making a beeline straight for the forest.

“Wait!” the girls all screamed in unison, seemingly genuinely concerned for your safety.

Must’ve been the trauma bond, you thought to yourself.

You didn’t stop.

Your boots crunched against the squelchy moss, which released a faint bioluminescent mist with every step. It lit up in pulses, like it was breathing — alive in a way that made your skin crawl. You pushed past low-hanging branches that shimmered with a strange, wet light, each one releasing a faint chiming sound when disturbed. The whole forest felt like it was watching you, sizing you up.

Branches snapped behind you. The girls weren’t far.

“We don’t know what’s out here!” one of them shouted — Kael, maybe? Or Vree? Their voices had started to blur together in your mind, warped by captivity and adrenaline.

You didn’t slow down until a sharp clicking echoed through the trees ahead. You froze. It wasn’t natural — not like the rustling, humming background noise of the forest. This was rhythmic. Intentional.

Another click. Closer.

The hairs on the back of your neck stood up as the forest suddenly quieted, like it had agreed to hold its breath. Even the moss stopped pulsing. You turned slowly, eyes scanning the neon-drenched underbrush, but all you could see were jagged shadows cast by oversized plants and bark that shimmered like oil slicks.

Then — a flash of movement.

Low to the ground, fast, and not human.

You barely had time to react before something streaked toward you from the trees — a blur of glinting metal and sinew, four limbs and no eyes. You dove to the side, hitting the ground hard, the moss cushioning your fall but not your ribs. Pain bloomed across your chest.

The thing skidded to a stop, silent, and turned with that same alien grace, limbs twitching, head cocked.

Behind you, the girls screamed.

You scrambled backward just as a voice — low, guttural, and distinctly not human — rang out from the shadows behind the creature.

“In’zek lara. It is not ready for the hunt.”

The creature froze.

You turned, heart hammering, toward the source of the voice. Your eyes widened as you took in the shimmering white markings that traversed the alien’s skin — looking similar to a sort of tribal tattoo back on Earth.

You didn’t know. You weren’t exactly a tattoo connoisseur.

The girls screamed once more from behind you, fleeing. Before you even understood what was happening — another figure, this time taller, broader, pounced on the alien infront of you.

Animalistic grunting and shrieks surrounded you, and you took this as an opportunity to flee, cutting through the dense nature — ignoring the small nips and bites at your ankles, too scared to look down in case you’d see some sort of monster-ish creature at your feet.

Based on what little you recalled from high school exploration and survival classes, you clumsily covered your tracks — running to God knows where in the forest. You darted between trunks that twisted like coiled wire, brushed branches behind you to mask your path, and kicked up patches of glowing moss to distort your footprints. It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t even smart, necessarily. But panic made you resourceful, and desperation gave you speed.

You didn’t stop moving, even when the forest seemed to press in tighter around you. Leaves whispered in a language you couldn’t understand, the neon flora dimming and flaring as though reacting to your presence. Somewhere in the distance, something screamed — not human, but not entirely alien either. A sound that felt like it reached into your bones and told you run faster.

So you did.

Minutes bled together, until you were sure you had put miles between you and whatever had erupted back at the edge of the holding facility. Your lungs burned, your legs ached, and your throat was raw from the cold, chemically-scented air that passed for oxygen on this planet.

You slowed only when your body forced you to — stumbling into a low ridge of roots that formed a sort of natural alcove.

Collapsing to your knees, you pressed your back against the twisted bark, letting yourself finally breathe. For a moment, there was only the pounding of your heart and the strange, almost melodic hum that radiated from the trees. It sounded like the forest was singing to itself — a low, layered rhythm that pulsed through the ground and settled in your chest like a second heartbeat.

You risked a glance around.

No movement.

No sign of the girls. Or the creatures. Or the alien man with his glowing tattoos and cryptic words.

You were alone.

And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, that didn’t feel terrifying.

It felt like freedom.

You leaned your head back against the tree, closing your eyes. The surface was warm. Not bark, exactly — something softer, more like skin than wood. It pulsed gently, like the forest was alive in more ways than one. But you were too tired to care. Too tired to do anything but exist.

And as the adrenaline bled from your system, replaced with a creeping exhaustion, your thoughts finally slowed enough to catch up to themselves.

You’d escaped.

You weren’t safe, not by a long shot. But you were away from the sterile facility, from the screaming, from the collar they’d clamped around your neck like a leash.

And maybe… maybe that was enough for now.

You’d survive this.

You had to.

Curling deeper into the root-formed alcove, you pulled your jacket tighter around your body, feeling the hum of the planet settle into your bones. The forest kept singing its strange lullaby — low, eerie, and alive.

You let it.

You let the tears fall, desperately trying to understand why it had to be you that was abducted.

The question had haunted you since the night everything changed — lingering in the back of your mind like smoke, thick and bitter and impossible to clear. You hadn’t been anyone important. You weren’t rich. Weren’t powerful.

Just walking home late, earbuds in, jacket zipped up to your chin, keys between your fingers like they taught you in every self-defense thread on the internet.

You’d never even heard it coming.

One second you were passing that broken streetlight outside your apartment complex — the one that always buzzed — and the next, your body had gone weightless. Like gravity had snapped. The world tilted. The sky twisted in on itself, folding and unfolding in impossible angles. You’d tried to scream, but something had wrapped around your throat, soft like silk but heavy like steel. Everything went black.

You woke up days later — maybe weeks, maybe minutes, time had no meaning in the metallic white room they held you in — and were greeted by a voice that didn’t match the creature it came from.

“We apologize for the discomfort. The transition between atmospheres is often disorienting.”

The words echoed in perfect English, though you saw the thing’s mouth move in ways that made your stomach turn. Later, you learned it wasn’t really English at all — just your brain interpreting it, thanks to the translator chip they’d embedded in your skull. You didn’t remember them doing it. But the scar behind your left ear made it clear they had.

“You are on Zyrephar,” they had said. “You have been chosen.”

Chosen. As if that word meant anything besides stolen.

You and eleven other women, taken from Earth under the cover of darkness. Each of you from different cities, different lives, but all with the same biology. “Fertile,” they whispered. “Compatible.” Words that made your blood run cold every time they were spoken.

Their species had once thrived on balance — an equal split of male and female. But something had shifted in their genetic code generations ago, a slow extinction creeping in like a virus. Now, less than one percent of Zyrepharian births were female. Desperation had pushed them to Earth — to you.

They experimented in ways they told you were “non-invasive,” but you knew better. The headaches. The nosebleeds. The weird dreams. Some days you’d wake up with handprints that didn’t belong to anyone in your cell. The others stopped asking questions after the first girl disappeared.

They said you were hope.

You knew better. You were property.

A lab rat with a pulse.

And now you were out. Alone, yes — lost, terrified — but free.

The forest was still humming when you opened your eyes.

It wasn’t sunlight that woke you — Zyrephar didn’t seem to have anything like a sun, not one you could see anyway. The sky above the trees just… glowed. A faint lavender hue pulsed gently through the clouds, enough light to see by, but no real warmth to speak of. Your body was stiff, crumpled from the night spent curled awkwardly in the root-woven alcove. Your neck ached. Your back throbbed. Your stomach snarled.

Right. Hunger.

The last time you’d eaten was… what, two days ago? Maybe more. The facility had rations, if you could call them that — bland nutrient paste pressed into gray squares, barely edible but enough to keep you upright. You’d choked them down because you didn’t want to give your captors the satisfaction of seeing you weaken. Now, you’d have killed for one.

You sat up slowly, careful not to draw attention — though to what, you weren’t sure. You hadn’t heard anything all night, no pursuit, no voices. Just the gentle rustle of strange leaves and the occasional distant howl. Still, something about the forest made you feel like you were never truly alone.

You began walking, hoping movement might distract you from the gnawing pit in your gut. The forest floor was springy beneath your boots, a carpet of moss that pulsed softly underfoot. The more you moved, the more you noticed how alive everything felt. Plants leaned subtly in your direction, reacting to your heat. You passed flowers that blinked shut as you neared, vines that quivered away from your reach.

Eventually, you came across a small stream cutting through the terrain, its water glowing faintly blue — not neon, but soft and inviting. It was the first natural feature you’d seen that didn’t fill you with immediate unease.

You crouched beside it, checking for movement. Nothing strange. No fish, no obvious threats. You dipped your fingers in. The water was cool. Clean, maybe.

Still — your gut told you not to drink it yet.

You grabbed the emergency foil blanket from your facility-issued jacket and, with a bit of improvisation, shaped it into a crude bowl. After a few failed attempts using heated stones to boil the water, you remembered something from a survival video you watched back on Earth — hot rocks can purify water, but not if they’re fresh from the fire. Let them sit, then drop them in.

The second try worked better.

You boiled small batches at a time, watching the strange blue steam rise in spirals. You let the water cool before sipping, and while the taste was still alien — faintly metallic with an odd sweetness — you didn’t feel sick after drinking it. That was enough for now.

Next was food.

You combed the forest floor carefully, wary of touching anything too vibrant or unusual — which didn’t leave you much to work with. Eventually, you found a cluster of dull orange bulbs growing beneath the shade of a wide-leafed plant. They looked a little like Earth potatoes, but slick and sticky to the touch. You sliced one open with a jagged rock, inspecting the inside. Pale, fibrous. It didn’t smell like poison. But then again, you weren’t exactly a xenobotanist.

You roasted one over a makeshift fire — dry bark, torn threads from your jacket as tinder, a flint shard from the rocks near the stream. It took a while, and you wasted two of the bulbs trying to get the flames right, but eventually the fire caught. The bulb blackened on the outside. When you bit into it, the inside was mushy, bitter, but vaguely edible.

You ate slowly, waiting after each bite. No immediate nausea. Your head didn’t spin. Your vision didn’t blur.

It was a win.

Afterward, you leaned back against a fallen log, exhaustion settling in like a heavy cloak. You’d been on edge so long that the stillness now felt… wrong. Like you were forgetting to do something important. But your limbs were leaden. Your muscles trembled with every movement. The adrenaline had worn off hours ago, leaving only the bruises and the bone-deep weariness in its place.

You let your eyes drift closed for a moment.

Just a moment.

When you opened them again, the lavender sky had deepened to violet. The forest was shifting into its nighttime rhythm. The humming grew softer, the bioluminescence dimming in some places and flaring to life in others. Plants curled into themselves like sleeping animals. You felt the temperature dip — not cold enough to kill, but enough to bite through your jacket and stir a new shiver in your spine.

You moved quickly, stacking stones around the small fire to trap heat and building a crude shelter from broken branches and the wide waxy leaves you’d seen earlier. The structure wouldn’t withstand much, but it would at least give you something between you and the open sky.

Sitting by the fire, you let your mind wander.

You thought about Earth. Your apartment. The streetlight. The half-finished paper on your laptop. The dented kettle on your stove. Things that felt centuries away now. You wondered if anyone had noticed you were gone. If anyone had connected the dots between the missing girls. But deep down, you knew they hadn’t. You were just another lost face in a world too busy to care.

Here, on Zyrephar, you were something else entirely.

Not just lost.

Not just alone.

Taken.

By the sixth day in the forest, your body didn’t feel like your own anymore.

It had become a tool — aching, sore, dirty, stretched to its limits, and still somehow pushing forward because there was no other choice. You had no mirror, but you didn’t need one. You could feel how much weight you’d lost in less than a week. Your clothes hung differently, your cheeks felt hollow. Your limbs were thinner, leaner. Your stomach, despite the constant ache, had stopped growling. It had given up the protest somewhere around day four and now just curled inward with every step, like it was conserving what little energy you had left.

Your boots — if they could still be called that — were torn open at the seams. Moss had found its way in through the gaps, clinging to your socks and skin like a parasite. Every step rubbed the fabric raw against your heel. You stopped trying to clean the wounds days ago. All you could do now was wrap them in strips of cloth and pray infection didn’t set in.

Still, you walked.

Each morning, you forced yourself to get up before the sky could fully change color, before the twilight-pink glow of Zyrephar’s false sunrise painted the trees with their haunting hue. You moved camp every day — a habit born of paranoia, maybe, but you weren’t about to risk being tracked. Not after what you’d escaped.

The plants around you had become more familiar — not friendly, but known. You’d mapped them in your mind. The round blue stalks with the soft, almost rubbery heads were safe to touch. The thick, wide leaves with the fine yellow fuzz made good coverings, but gave you hives if they brushed your skin for too long. And the glowing red vines? You didn’t go near those anymore. You’d seen one snatch a lizard-like creature out of the air mid-leap. The thing hadn’t even made a sound — just vanished into a pulsing coil of death.

For food, you lived off the same orange bulbs you’d discovered your first day. They grew in clusters near water and left a metallic aftertaste, but they hadn’t made you sick. That counted for something. You’d tried to roast a few other foraged items once — some green pods that oozed when sliced — but the bitter stench and immediate stomach cramps cured you of that mistake fast.

Boiling water had become second nature. You rotated between two fire sites, never letting yourself fall into a rhythm. You didn’t know if your captors had the ability to track thermal signatures, but it felt safer to assume they did. You imagined them scanning the surface of Zyrephar, looking for a flicker of unnatural heat, a flash of movement. You imagined them circling.

And so you kept moving.

But the movement was slowing.

Your legs trembled beneath you even when you stood still. You leaned on trees without realizing it. Your breath came shallow more often than not. The forest had grown colder at night — the kind of cold that sunk into your joints and made everything hurt in the morning. You curled tighter into yourself each night, wrapped in your emergency blanket and leaves that stuck stubbornly to your sweat-damp skin.

You couldn’t remember the last time you slept without waking up gasping. Dreams plagued you — flashes of the holding cell, the sound of metal doors grinding open, the sting of needles beneath your skin. Sometimes you heard the girls screaming. Sometimes you woke up with your hands clenched so tight your nails left blood in your palms.

You were falling apart.

But you were still free.

And that had to be enough.

That evening, you made camp earlier than usual.

Your body wouldn’t carry you any further. You’d found a small hollow beneath a fallen tree, covered in a wide curtain of leafy vines that you carefully pulled across the opening. It wasn’t perfect. The space was cramped and damp, the ground uneven and riddled with roots. But it was something. Shelter.

You chewed on one of the roasted bulbs with numb determination, barely tasting it. You drank your now-routine two cups of boiled stream water, then set the stones aside, curling into your sleeping position. Your limbs ached in that deep, bone-level way that meant you needed more rest than your situation would allow. Your eyelids drooped, heavier than they’d ever felt, and even as you told yourself to stay alert — to keep watch — your body decided otherwise.

Sleep took you hard and fast.

You weren’t sure what woke you.

There was no sound. No movement. No shift in the humming rhythm of the forest.

Just a feeling.

Something off.

The air around you had changed — not colder, not warmer, just… closer. You could feel it on your skin, as if the atmosphere itself was pressing down with expectation. Your body tensed before your mind fully caught up, and you remained still, heart pounding in your ears, afraid to even breathe too deeply.

Your eyes opened a crack.

The fire had gone out. Only the soft afterglow of Zyrephar’s sky lit the interior of your little shelter — the dim violet hue barely filtering through the leafy veil you’d drawn closed.

And then you saw it.

A silhouette.

Kneeling beside you.

Close. Too close.

It didn’t move. Didn’t breathe, as far as you could tell. Just hovered over you, silent, its face inches from yours.

Smelling you.

Your heart flipped in your chest — your entire body jolting upright as a scream tore out of your throat, ragged and raw from days of silence. You scrambled back against the log, kicking over your makeshift bowl and scattering embers from the night’s dead fire. Your fingers closed instinctively around the jagged rock you’d been using as a knife — the closest thing you had to a weapon — and you raised it with trembling hands.

“Who the hell are you?!” you barked, voice hoarse, jagged like gravel. “What the hell were you doing?!”

masterlist

Taglist : @etsuniiru @kyokoyya @i-messed-up-big-time @firefly1103 @gracekerzzz @mcdepressed290 @sylusgirlie7 @plzdonutpercieveme @m00nchildwrites

[aneertawrites]

Shadows of Our Pride

Xavier x fem!Reader

!pride and prejudice remake

a/n : i’m so sorry that this chapter was so bad 🫶🏻 i’ve been feeling a little unmotivated but i can’t allow myself to not finish this fanfic for u guys!

Chapter 4

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | chapter 5

The rain had grown steadier as the morning wore on — soft and insistent against the drawing room windows, wrapping the house in a hush that was almost too delicate to disturb. Pale light filtered through sheer curtains, washing the room in a gentle grey, and the low crackle of the fireplace offered the only real warmth. Yet the room was far from quiet.

Your sisters were a flurry of energy — cheeks flushed with the afterglow of the ball, fingers twisting through ribbons and retelling each moment as if the night had been a fairytale written just for them. Lydia laughed loudest, naturally, though her words were more concerned with whether the punch had been spiked than any single gentleman. Kitty offered conflicting accounts of who had stepped on whose hem. And Jane — lovely, serene Jane — had barely spoken at all, but her eyes gave her away. She sat tucked into a corner of the settee, a faint smile playing on her lips, her hands still folded in her lap in a way that betrayed how tightly she was holding in the memory of Mr. Alexei’s hand on hers.

Your mother had joined the fray too, of course, reclining in her chair like a queen triumphant. She was in rare spirits, fanning herself as though the excitement of so many eligible gentlemen under one roof had yet to wear off. “I declare, never has there been such an assembly,” she sighed for the fifth time. “All of you girls will be married by Christmas.”

You were silent.

You sat a little apart from them all, teacup cradled in your hands, eyes trained on the window. The conversation washed over you like a wave you didn’t care to wade into. The warm scent of rosehip tea lingered in the air, but you hardly tasted it. You were elsewhere — caught in the memory of a dance, a touch, a gaze that had said far too much without speaking at all.

Mr. Xavier.

The name alone felt like a disruption. You recalled the firm line of his jaw, the slow calculation in his gaze, the way his voice never quite gave anything away — and yet somehow, it had said everything. That one dance should not have mattered. Not with a man so cold, so proud, so utterly insufferable in every earlier encounter.

And yet — his hand at your waist had felt too steady. His silence too loaded. And the way he had looked at you as the music swelled, like he was afraid of the very thing he was drawn toward… you had not been able to stop thinking about it since.

Which is why, when your mother said your name, you startled.

“Mr. Collins,” she beamed, gesturing toward the doorway, “has arrived, and asked most urgently to speak with you. Privately.”

You blinked. “Now?”

“He insists it’s of great importance,” your mother said, her smile stretching unnervingly. “I dare say we know what for. Do try not to appear too eager — it does not suit a modest young woman.”

You stood slowly, every inch of your spine stiffening with dread. As you left the room, your sisters’ giggles trailed behind you like ribbons. You half expected Jane to look up, to give some small sign of warning, but she was lost again in her own reverie — Mr. Alexei still dancing behind her eyes.

You found Mr. Collins standing in the smaller drawing room, near the fireplace, where he had likely been rehearsing this moment for hours. His posture was awkwardly stiff, hands clasped behind his back like a schoolboy reciting scripture.

“My dear cousin,” he began, eyes lighting up at the sight of you. “I cannot tell you how delighted I am to see you. What a… fine morning, is it not?”

“It is,” you said evenly, not bothering to sit. “You wished to speak with me?”

“Yes, yes!” He cleared his throat and stepped forward. “I shall be brief, as brevity is often a virtue praised by Lady Catherine de Bourgh, whom I serve with the deepest humility. But allow me first to preface — I am aware of my position, of my future inheritance, of the great fortune that will one day fall to me — and thus, to you.”

He paused, expectant. When you said nothing, he continued.

“I believe it only fitting that I, as your cousin and heir, should extend the offer of marriage to you. It is, after all, the natural course of things. A union both practical and advantageous for all parties — your family not least of all.”

The silence that followed was profound.

Your gaze remained fixed on him, but your mind had all but detached. You felt as though you were standing outside your own body, watching this scene unfold like a play — poorly cast and worse written.

“You are proposing to me,” you said at last, the words flat, almost amused. “After one week of acquaintance.”

“Indeed!” he said proudly. “It is the best time — before another claims you, and before your affections can lead you to less… sensible choices.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly.

“I see.”

He waited, hands outstretched like a man expecting applause.

And then — you laughed. Quietly. Not out of cruelty, but disbelief.

“Mr. Collins,” you said, “you mistake me entirely. I have no intention of marrying you.”

His smile twitched. “Ah — yes — you are merely following custom. A modest refusal, a show of reluctance. But I assure you, there is no need for such performance. I am prepared to accept you — even now — in all your charming pride.”

You blinked, your patience dissolving by the second.

“I am not performing,” you said sharply. “I am refusing. I do not wish to marry you. Not now. Not ever.”

He stared at you, the color draining from his face. “But-but surely you must see the practicality, the honour, in becoming my wife. Your situation,your lack of prospects, your age—”

“Say another word, Mr. Collins,” you said, voice cold, “and I swear I will embarrass you beyond recovery.”

His jaw clicked shut.

You folded your hands in front of you, breath steady, chin lifted. “You speak of practicality. I speak of choice. And I would rather remain unmarried for the rest of my life than endure a single day married to a man who sees me as a convenient obligation.”

There was no anger in your tone — only clarity. And in the wake of it, he stood silent. Swallowed.

“I see,” he said eventually, voice tight. “I misjudged you. Clearly.”

“Yes,” you said. “Clearly.”

With stiff shoulders and a wounded pride, Mr. Collins turned and left the room — the echo of his retreating steps more satisfying than you would have liked to admit.

When you reentered the drawing room, your mother’s expression turned thunderous. But before she could speak, you took your place again beside the window. You lifted your tea — now cold — and sipped it as though nothing had happened.

Your mother sat up so quickly she nearly spilled her tea, the feather on her cap trembling with indignation before she had even spoken a word. Jane looked up in gentle concern, while Lydia and Kitty leaned in eagerly, like hounds catching the scent of scandal. You closed the door behind you, slowly, deliberately, and took your seat by the window once more, hands folded neatly in your lap.

And then — as expected — the explosion came.

“You rejected him?!”

The silence shattered.

“I did,” you replied simply, still not meeting her gaze. “Quite clearly, I think.”

She gasped as though you had just told her the house was aflame. “Rejected?! Mr. Collins, our cousin, the heir to Longbourn, the only thing standing between your father’s death and all of us being cast into the street! Oh! I am ruined! We are all ruined!”

You blinked. “Mother, he proposed out of duty, not affection—”

“And what of it?” she cried, fanning herself furiously. “Do you think duty feeds a family less than affection does? Do you imagine a roof over our heads will grow from sentiment?”

Jane stood, her voice a calming balm in the storm. “Mama, perhaps we should—”

“Do not defend her!” your mother snapped, her face turning redder with each syllable. “She thinks herself above Mr. Collins — above the rest of us, I suppose! But what marriage do you expect to make, with that sharp tongue and that look of disdain you wear like a second bodice?”

You said nothing. Not because she was right — but because if you opened your mouth, something far more dangerous might slip out.

“It was a perfectly reasonable match!” she wailed, pacing the rug like a general robbed of victory. “Any other sensible girl would’ve leapt at the offer! But no, you had to be difficult — always so high-minded, always so… so proud!”

Lydia snorted, barely concealing her amusement, and Kitty elbowed her, giggling behind her hand. You glanced toward Jane, who only offered you a sad, knowing look — one that asked nothing and said everything.

Your mother continued on — half sobbing, half shouting — lamenting the future that had just slipped through her fingers. “Oh, how will I show my face at the Meryton Assembly now? What will Lady Lucas say when she hears of this? And she will hear of it! That man will go running to her the minute he leaves this house!”

“And I hope he does,” you said suddenly, voice cool and even, slicing through the theatrics like a blade through silk.

Your mother stopped. She blinked. “What did you say?”

You finally turned to look at her. “Let her have him.”

The room went utterly still.

“I beg your pardon?” your mother asked, though her voice had dropped dangerously low.

You straightened your spine. “If Lady Lucas’s Charlotte finds Mr. Collins acceptable, then I hope he proposes to her before he reaches the end of the lane. I hope she says yes. And I hope they live in… duty-bound harmony until the end of their days.”

Your mother gasped. Jane covered her mouth to keep from smiling.

“Unbelievable,” your mother whispered, clutching at the edge of the settee. “A disaster. I have five daughters to marry off, and this is the behavior I must endure from the second eldest unmarried? You’ll see — mark my words — one day, you’ll regret this. And when you do, don’t come crying to me!”

“I never do,” you said softly, almost too softly to be heard.

The moment stretched taut. No one moved. And then your mother, letting out an affronted squeak, stood and swept from the room with all the grandeur of a woman who believed herself sorely wronged by fate.

When the door slammed, it left behind silence — and your sisters in varying degrees of wide-eyed amusement or sympathy. Lydia snorted again. Kitty tried to hide a laugh. And Jane, ever graceful, touched your hand with the gentlest of pressure.

“You did the right thing,” she said quietly.

You looked back toward the window, the rain now a fine mist against the glass, your reflection faint in the dim light.

Perhaps you had. Perhaps you hadn’t.

The morning had been quiet — deceptively so. A pale winter sun filtered through the clouds, casting a frosted glow across the countryside and the front garden, where the hedges were still damp with last night’s rain. You sat curled in the drawing room window seat with a book open in your lap, though your eyes hadn’t moved past the same paragraph in nearly half an hour.

Your thoughts had wandered again.

Not to Mr. Collins, despite your mother’s continued dramatics and thinly veiled jabs over breakfast. No — your mind had gone in another direction entirely. One with quieter footsteps and sharper silences. You hated how frequently your thoughts betrayed you now, how often they conjured a certain look across a ballroom, a certain dance, a certain man whose every word — or lack thereof — now lingered like a phantom in your chest.

So when the knock came at the door and a familiar voice echoed in the foyer, you welcomed the distraction.

“Charlotte Lucas is here to see you,” the maid announced, a touch of surprise in her voice.

You stood at once, smoothing down your skirts. “Please, show her in.”

Charlotte entered with the briskness of someone who’d walked a fair way, her cheeks flushed with cold and eyes bright — though not in the usual, reserved sort of way you’d come to associate with her. There was something oddly… nervous about her smile. She took both of your hands in hers when you greeted her, and held on a moment too long.

You felt it before she said it.

“Shall we walk?” she asked. “The air is quite clear this morning, and I find it easier to speak when the walls aren’t listening.”

That was how she phrased it. When the walls aren’t listening.

You took your cloaks and stepped outside together, the gravel crunching beneath your boots as you made your way down the path and onto the frozen lane. For a time, you simply walked in silence — Charlotte breathing in the chill, as if gathering courage, and you watching the frost-glazed hedgerows pass by, waiting.

“I’ve come to tell you something,” she said finally, folding her hands in front of her. “And I would rather you hear it from me than from… anyone else.”

You nodded once. “Go on.”

She hesitated. Then, “Mr. Collins has proposed to me.”

Your breath caught, not sharply, not dramatically, but like a quiet door swinging open too quickly, letting in wind you hadn’t braced for.

“And?” you asked.

Her eyes didn’t meet yours. “I accepted.”

There it was.

You stopped walking. Slowly. As though the world itself had slowed down around you. Charlotte turned back to face you, her expression unreadable — not ashamed, not proud, just… resolved.

“Say something,” she murmured.

You studied her for a long moment. “He only left two days ago.”

“I know.”

“And you accepted him?”

“I did.”

You weren’t sure what you felt first. Shock? Disappointment that your friend wasn’t marrying for love? It was less a betrayal than it was a strange ache — the kind that came from seeing someone you loved make a choice you couldn’t understand, but had no right to stop.

“He proposed to me, Charlotte,” you said, not accusing, but still stunned. “I rejected him. And now…”

She nodded, once. “I know how it looks.”

“It’s not about appearances. It’s about… him. You don’t care for him.”

“No,” she said plainly. “But I don’t expect love. You know that. I never have.”

That silenced you.

She stepped closer, voice low. “I am twenty-seven. My prospects are limited. He has a stable position, a promise of inheritance, and… a desire for a wife who will not challenge him. I will not. It is a match of practicality.”

The wind picked up slightly, tugging at your cloak. You stared down the lane, blinking hard.

“You could do better,” you said quietly.

“I could also do worse,” she replied, not unkindly.

And that was the thing about Charlotte — she wasn’t deluded. She didn’t harbor fantasies of sweeping romance or soul-deep connection. She had always lived in the realm of reality, accepting what the world would offer her rather than dreaming of what it wouldn’t.

But still, something inside you buckled. Because you wanted more for her, even if she didn’t want it for herself. You wanted more than polite silence and awkward dinners with a husband who spoke only of Lady Catherine and failed metaphors.

“I hope you’ll be happy,” you said at last, though the words came out stiffer than you’d meant them to. Not because you were jealous, or bitter, goodness no. But because you were saddened. Saddened that women had to settle for security.

Charlotte’s lips curled, just barely. “Happiness is a luxury. I’ll have contentment. That will do.”

You nodded, heart heavy. “Will you be moving to Hunsford soon?”

“As soon as arrangements are made.”

Another silence passed.

“Will you visit?” she asked.

“I’ll visit as soon as I possibly can,” you said truthfully.

She reached for your hand again, squeezing it. “I wanted to tell you because I value you. I didn’t want this to stand between us.”

“Nothing as simple or silly as a man would stand between our friendship, Charlotte,” you said softly, squeezing her hand in return. “Believe me.”

The house was too quiet when you stepped back inside.

The wind had followed you in — a brief, biting gust that tousled the drapes and whispered along the floorboards before dying somewhere near the hearth. You shut the door gently behind you, your fingers numb around the latch. The air was warm compared to outside, but it did nothing for the weight you carried now — Charlotte’s words still echoing in your chest like a bell tolling far off in the fog.

You barely had time to remove your gloves before the stillness struck you as wrong. The house was never loud, exactly, but there was always movement. Lydia’s humming, Kitty’s stomping about upstairs, your mother fussing over nothing — even silence had a kind of rhythm to it here.

But this was different. This silence was… held.

You stepped through the corridor, the chill of the hallway giving way to the faint scent of firewood and rosewater. And then, just before the door to the drawing room came into view, you heard it — a soft, broken sound. Like someone trying not to cry, and failing.

You paused at the threshold.

Jane sat alone on the settee, her figure poised but trembling. A letter lay in her lap, its edges crumpled from where her fingers clutched too tightly. Her head was bowed slightly, a few golden curls slipping from her bun to frame her flushed cheeks. Her eyes were rimmed red.

“Jane?”

She startled — barely — and looked up with a smile that tried too hard. “Oh. You’re back.”

You crossed the room in a heartbeat and knelt before her, reaching for her hand. “What happened? What is it?”

She hesitated, and for a moment you thought she might deflect. Might brush it off with one of her usual gentlenesses, a soft-spoken excuse. But then her lips trembled again, and she held out the letter.

“Aurelia wrote,” she whispered.

You took it from her slowly. The seal had already been broken. You read it in silence, line by line, each sentence falling like a stone:

“Dearest Miss Jane,

It is with regret that I inform you my brother, Mr. Alexei, and I have departed Netherfield for London, along with Mr Xavier and Alora. There were sudden matters of business which required his attention, and we shall not be returning this season…”

You stopped reading.

Your eyes flicked back to Jane, who watched you like a child trying to be brave — and failing. Her composure, the one she always wore so well, had cracked just enough for the truth to bleed through.

“He didn’t say goodbye?” you asked, voice low.

She shook her head. “Not a word. Not even… a note. Nothing.”

You closed the letter with trembling hands.

You had seen them together. Had felt something growing between them — quiet, tentative, but genuine. That kind of spark didn’t lie. And yet… this.

“Perhaps…” you began, but trailed off.

Perhaps what?

Perhaps he was called away suddenly? Perhaps he would write in time? Perhaps he meant to return?

Every perhaps felt hollow. Every one an insult to her tears.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Jane said, wiping her eyes carefully with a handkerchief. “That I misread him. That I let myself believe something that wasn’t real.”

You opened your mouth to argue, that she was wrong, but she held up a hand.

“But I didn’t imagine it. He looked at me as though I mattered. He listened. And it was so rare, so… lovely. And now — now I don’t know if I was foolish to hope, or if something else has happened that I cannot see.”

You sat beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. She leaned into you, finally letting herself cry freely.

“I don’t understand it,” she whispered. “I truly believed he cared.”

You didn’t respond — not immediately. Because you didn’t know. Because it made no sense. Because Mr. Alexei had looked at Jane like she was sunlight incarnate — and men didn’t look at women like that if they meant to disappear.

And yet. He was gone.

“I’m so tired of pretending things don’t hurt,” Jane said quietly. “Of being the gentle one. The kind one. Today… I don’t want to be composed.”

You pulled her tighter, resting your chin lightly atop her hair.

“Then don’t be,” you murmured. “Not with me.”

Xavier

The carriage jolted as it passed over a patch of uneven ground, the rhythm of hooves against wet earth muffled by the thick velvet lining of the cabin. Still, the movement did little to settle the knot forming low in Xavier’s gut. He stared out the window, watching grey fields blur into one another beneath a pale sky, the countryside fading behind them like a closing door.

Across from him, Aurelia sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, her usual air of poise subdued. Beside her, Alora leaned against the window with her chin tucked into her scarf, silent for once. And next to Xavier, Alexei sat rigid and quiet, his elbows propped on his knees, gloved fingers laced tightly together like he needed the pressure just to keep still.

It had been Xavier’s suggestion to leave. And now he wasn’t sure he could swallow the taste of it.

“She didn’t even know,” Alexei said after a long stretch of silence, his voice rough from disuse. “Jane. We just left.”

Xavier didn’t answer.

“I could’ve… I should’ve written something,” Alexei muttered. “Said something.”

“You still can,” Xavier offered quietly, though it rang hollow even to his own ears.

Alexei laughed under his breath, a bitter little sound. “Oh yes. A lovely letter of cowardice. ‘Forgive me, I fled without a word because I lacked the spine to tell you I care.’ That’ll go over well.”

“There’s no need,” Aurelia supplied, looking all too smug. “I wrote. Jane knows.”

Xavier looked away, back to the misted glass. Trees blurred past — bare, brittle things, stripped down to the bone by winter. His own reflection stared back at him faintly, pale and still.

He felt it too — not just the echo of guilt, but the ache of it.

And that cut deeper.

“You pushed for this,” Alexei said quietly, without accusation — but the truth of it sat heavy between them.

“I know.”

“She would’ve waited,” Alexei murmured. “I know she would’ve.”

Xavier closed his eyes for a beat.

So would you.

You would’ve waited. And if he had asked — if he had said anything at all — you might have stayed a little closer instead of drifting so far away in his memory already.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d let himself hope until he killed it.

Now all he could hear was the silence after your dance, the absence of your voice as you stood apart from the others. How he’d glanced toward you more than once that night, like a man pacing the edge of a cliff but too afraid to fall.

He had proposed their departure for reason. Too many eyes. Too many questions. Too much… vulnerability. But beneath all that, if he was honest — he’d proposed it because he believed Jane to be… indifferent to his friend. He would never want to see his companion distraught and hurt. So… he did this for the best.

And now here he sat, with nothing to show for it but the quiet remorse blooming like frost across his ribs.

“She had the softest laugh,” Alexei said suddenly, more to himself than anyone. “Like the first note of a song you didn’t know you loved yet.”

Xavier didn’t look at him. He couldn’t. Because in his mind, you were standing beneath the candlelight in that drawing room — not laughing, not smiling, just watching. Always watching.

And damn him, he wished you hadn’t.

Because now he couldn’t stop seeing you.

masterlist

Taglist : @etsuniiru @kyokoyya @i-messed-up-big-time @firefly1103 @gracekerzzz @mcdepressed290 @sylusgirlie7 @plzdonutpercieveme @m00nchildwrites

[aneertawrites]

Hello, hello! Can I know how you do those anime dividers? They look so cool!

I look them up on pinterest!

[aneertawrites]

hey kat! I’m so sorry you had to go through that experience of being accused of using AI. That was genuinely so rude as I’m sure you worked really hard on your writing. I’ll continue to support you and I hope your flame to write never extinguishes 🫶🫶🫶

Thank you so much💗 I think that I just need to take a few days to myself to chill out, but I really appreciate your kind words so much🫶🏻

[aneertawrites]

Hi guys,

Please don’t come onto my account accusing me of using ai or not writing my own work. This has happened before on my tiktok headcanon page — and I am tired of it in all honesty.

And furthermore, don’t do that and then continue to not hear me out afterward. It’s tiring.

I read a lot in my spare time. I’m sorry that my punctuation, use of an em dash and metaphors intimidate you.

I know this seems very sudden, but it’s annoying being constantly accused of using the tool that steals your own work from you — I’m sure fellow writers will agree.

If this continues, I fear I may have to stop writing.

Thanks.

Taglist, simply to warn in case I do stop writing: @etsuniiru @kyokoyya @i-messed-up-big-time @firefly1103 @gracekerzzz @mcdepressed290 @sylusgirlie7 @plzdonutpercieveme @m00nchildwrites

This isn’t much proof, but here are the documents I was working on when I first started writing my book back in november. I blurred my name for privacy reasons :

[aneertawrites]

um um..may i request mayb alien/space themed dividrs :3?

- @sugar-star-dreams

hiii ~ yes you may sweetie pie!! here you are!

[aneertawrites]

jealous!Sylus x fem!Reader

a/n : saw this edit on tiktok and got the urge to write... ++ the green eyes are a metaphor for jealousy! sorry for the confusion <3

tags : light choking, thigh smacking, jealous sylus, porn w no plot, oral sex (reader receiving), raw sex, rough sex, yeah....

The room was stifling — not from heat, but from tension. Laughter rang out, glasses clinked, and a hundred dignitaries buzzed with small talk beneath golden chandeliers. You stood near the bar, dress hugging your frame just right, heels biting into the polished floor. You’d worn this to be taken seriously.

But the man beside you had other ideas.

A diplomat. Polished smile. Lazy eyes that kept dropping to your chest like it was a conversational cue. He was leaning closer now, voice a little lower, fingers brushing your arm as if it were casual.

It wasn’t.

You didn’t recoil. That would draw attention. Instead, you gave a tight smile and angled your body just enough to distance yourself — not enough to cause a scene, but enough that he would notice.

And he did.

Across the room, you could feel Sylus’s gaze like a hot wire threading through your spine.

He stood near the edge of the crowd, drink untouched in his hand, suit tailored so sharply it cut. His expression was unreadable — not angry, not even annoyed. Just… focused. Like a predator watching someone else circle his territory.

You turned back to the diplomat and forced a laugh at some forgettable joke. But your attention was split — half on this conversation, the other locked onto the man across the room whose patience was starting to burn.

When the diplomat finally excused himself, you exhaled. And then Sylus was there.

Not a second later. Not two.

“I thought you were working,” he murmured, voice low and calm, but loaded.

“I was.” You tilted your head, studying him. “Didn’t realize conversation counted as betrayal now.”

“He was flirting.”

“Barely.”

“He wanted to fuck you.”

Your breath hitched — not at the words, but at the cold certainty behind them. Sylus’s voice didn’t rise. He didn’t look flustered or possessive in the way other men might. No, he was composed. Still. Like someone who already knew he owned the battlefield.

And the way he was looking at you now?

Like he owned you, too.

“You’re imagining things,” you said — a challenge, not a denial.

His lips curled. Not a smile. A warning.

“Come with me.”

You didn’t ask where.

Didn’t need to.

He led you down one of the quieter halls — away from the glittering noise, past locked doors and diplomatic signage. The second he found a private room — lights low, a lounge clearly reserved for someone far above your paygrade — he keyed it open and pulled you inside.

The door hissed shut behind you.

Silence.

You turned to face him, but he was already on you.

One hand gripped your jaw, tilting your face up, and the other flattened over your lower back, pulling you flush against him.

“You want to let men like that flirt with you?” he murmured, voice quiet but sharp as broken glass. “Then look at me when they do it.”

You gasped as his mouth crashed into yours — hard, punishing, furious. The kiss tasted like jealousy and unspoken obsession. Like everything he’d been holding back since the moment the diplomat touched you.

His hand slid from your jaw to your throat — not choking, not quite — but firm enough to own. You whimpered into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound greedily.

“You think I’ll just stand there while someone else imagines how you sound when you come?” he rasped, voice like smoke. “Not a fucking chance.”

You didn’t get a chance to answer.

He spun you, pressing your back to the wall, grinding his hips into yours so you felt just how hard he was. Every line of his body screamed restraint — but it was unraveling fast.

“Sylus—”

“You’re mine,” he growled, mouth against your ear, one hand trailing down your side, over the swell of your ass. “Say it.”

You swallowed, breathing fast. “I’m yours.”

His teeth grazed your shoulder, not gently.

And then he was everywhere, hands pushing up your dress, lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck as he shoved your panties aside. His fingers brushed through your folds, and he hissed.

“Dripping for me,” he muttered, smirking against your throat. “You like it when I get like this.”

You gasped as he slid two fingers inside you — thick, deep, curling just right. You bucked into his hand, shameless already, grinding against him.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Be greedy for it. I want to feel how bad you need me.”

You moaned, breath stuttering as his thumb found your clit and started tight, perfect circles. The pressure built fast, too fast, your thighs shaking, your voice caught in your throat.

But then he stopped.

You whined, frustrated — hips jerking forward, chasing friction.

He chuckled darkly, lips brushing your ear. “Not yet. You don’t get to come until you mean it.”

“Mean what?” you panted, eyes wild.

“That you’re mine.” He reached around and unzipped his pants, dragging his cock against your slick heat teasingly. “All the way. Not just when it feels good.”

You looked back at him — flushed, half-dazed, aching. “I’m yours, Sylus.”

His eyes blazed.

And then he was inside you.

One hard thrust — deep, brutal — and your mouth fell open in a silent scream. He didn’t give you time to adjust. Just pulled out and slammed in again, setting a pace that was fast, relentless, perfect.

You braced against the wall, moaning, gasping, crying out his name as he pounded into you — thick and heavy and everywhere.

“That’s it,” he growled, voice low and vicious. “Let them hear you. Let them all fucking hear how good I fuck what’s mine.”

You shattered.

No warning, no buildup — just white heat and pleasure so sharp it tore a scream from your throat. You clenched around him, whole body convulsing, and Sylus groaned, slamming in harder, deeper, his rhythm breaking.

“Gonna fill you up,” he rasped. “Gonna mark you from the inside out.”

You moaned his name, and he followed — hips grinding deep as he came, hot and thick inside you, holding you so tight you thought he might bruise your hips.

You were still gasping when he pulled out of you, slow, deliberate — and the heat of him spilled down your thigh, warm and obscene.

You tried to catch your breath, head falling back against the wall, but Sylus didn’t move away. Didn’t even give you space to think.

He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours, breath ragged. His voice was quieter now, rough around the edges. “I should stop.”

You blinked, dazed. “Then why haven’t you?”

He smirked.

Because you both knew the answer.

He gripped your jaw, angling your face toward his. “You let him touch your arm,” he murmured, like he was still tasting that fact on his tongue. “Let him lean in. You smiled for him.”

Your chest rose and fell — fast, desperate. “It didn’t mean anything.”

“Then you won’t mind if I fuck you until it does.”

That growl in his voice made your pussy clench all over again.

Without warning, he dropped to his knees in front of you, hands dragging your thighs apart, fingers digging into your skin hard enough to leave marks. He looked up once, green eyes stormy with hunger.

Then he devoured you.

Not gentle. Not teasing. His mouth was wet heat and filthy precision, tongue flicking and circling your clit with sharp, relentless purpose. You cried out, hips jerking, trying to squirm away from the overstimulation, but his grip on your thighs tightened, holding you in place like a man possessed.

“You don’t get to run,” he muttered between licks, voice vibrating straight through your cunt. “Not from this. Not from me.”

You were already so raw, every nerve electric, and now he was dragging you back up the edge — fast, merciless. You were moaning like a damn prayer, head thrown back, hands in his hair, thighs shaking around his head.

He sucked your clit hard, once, twice — and you came again with a sob, pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain. Your knees nearly buckled, but he caught you, hands firm under your thighs as he kept eating you through it.

“Fuck—Sylus—sensitive, I can’t—”

“Yes,” he growled, standing again, towering over you now, voice harsh and hungry. “You can. You will.”

He shoved his pants lower again, cock already hard, again, and this time, he didn’t even bother positioning you.

He manhandled you onto the nearest velvet lounge, pulled your legs open wide, and slid back inside with one brutal thrust that made you scream.

No warm-up. No restraint.

Just raw, unforgiving heat.

He fucked you like he needed to ruin you, like nothing short of breaking you open would be enough to satisfy the jealousy still burning under his skin. His grip bruised your hips, his pace punishing, deep, his pelvis grinding against your overstimulated clit with every stroke.

“You’re mine,” he snarled, eyes locked on yours, sweat slick on his brow. “Say it again. Scream it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped, head falling back.

“Louder.”

You cried out, voice cracking. “I’m yours, Sylus—fuck, I’m yours!”

He slapped your thigh — not hard, just enough to make you jolt. “Don’t you forget it.”

You were close again, ridiculously fast — his cock hitting every perfect spot, his hand reaching down to rub your clit again despite the tears pricking at your eyes from the intensity.

“Come on my cock,” he demanded, voice a low snarl. “One more. I want to feel you break.”

You shattered.

Your whole body bowed off the lounge, legs locking around him as your orgasm slammed through you — harder than the last, deep and full and wrecking. Your vision blurred. You sobbed his name.

He groaned like a man unhinged and slammed into you once, twice, deep — then came with a guttural sound, hips grinding into you, his seed spilling inside you for the second time. Hot. Heavy. Claiming.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t pull out.

Just stayed inside you, panting hard against your neck, arms around you like he needed to anchor himself.

You were both trembling, breathless.

“I need you to know something,” he whispered against your skin, voice quieter now, but still sharp. “That I will not share. Not even your attention. Not your smile. Not a fucking glance.”

You turned your face toward his, blinking through the heat and fog. “Then keep reminding me like this.”

His lips brushed yours.

“I will.”

masterlist

taglist : @etsuniiru @kyokoyya @i-messed-up-big-time @firefly1103 @gracekerzzz @mcdepressed290 @sylusgirlie7 @plzdonutpercieveme @m00nchildwrites

[aneertawrites]

working on pt 4 🫶🏻 sorry for keeping yiu all waiting 😩

[aneertawrites]

Shadows of Our Pride

Xavier x fem!Reader

!pride and prejudice remake

Chapter 3

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 4 | chapter 5

a/n : thank goodness i had this in my drafts 😩 chapter 4 will take half a week IM SORRY

The street was lively with morning bustle — carts groaning over cobblestones, women calling to one another from open shopfronts, and the crisp, cool air tinged with the scent of bread baking somewhere further down the lane. Lydia and Kitty flitted ahead of you, already bickering over the difference between lilac and mauve ribbons, while Mary trailed behind, nose buried in a volume she had insisted on bringing despite your mother’s warning that it was “entirely unnecessary.”

You clutched your small reticule close, mind occupied not just with colours or hems or lace trims, but the upcoming ball — Jane’s health had returned in full, and with it, the house was now caught in a fever of preparations. Your mother could speak of nothing else, and even you had found yourself casting longer glances at your reflection in the mirror at night, wondering — despite yourself — if a certain blue-eyed gentleman might notice when the time came.

The sharp clang of a shop bell jerked you from your thoughts. A gust of wind pulled at the edge of your shawl, and as you adjusted it, you failed to notice the soft square of embroidered linen that slipped free from your bag.

It wasn’t until you heard a voice — low, unfamiliar, yet pleasantly warm — call out behind you, “Miss, I believe this is yours,” that you turned.

The man was young, no older than thirty, tall and striking in a uniform cut sharply to his frame. His hair, a light brown just kissed with gold, was tousled from the breeze. He held the handkerchief delicately between gloved fingers, and when you met his eyes, there was a glint of something there — amusement, perhaps, or ease.

“Thank you,” you said, accepting the handkerchief with a nod, uncertain whether to offer a smile or simply move on.

But he didn’t step away. “No thanks necessary,” he said, tilting his head. “It’s rare one is allowed the opportunity to be of service before an introduction is made. I hope I haven’t overstepped.”

You studied him more closely now, something in his manner so polished, so deliberately gracious, it was difficult not to respond in kind.

“I’m afraid you have the advantage of me, sir,” you said, your tone even.

“George Wickham,” he said easily, offering the smallest bow. “At your service.”

The name struck faintly in your memory — spoken once, maybe twice by Alexei in passing, though not with detail.

“I—“

“—Oh! Is that one of the new officers?” Lydia’s voice broke through before you could speak again. She had doubled back, Kitty in tow, both of them drawn to Wickham like moths to flame. “Are you staying long in Meryton?”

“I’ve only just arrived,” Wickham replied, his tone charming but not forward. “But I imagine I shall be here through the winter.”

“Then you must come to the ball!” Kitty exclaimed, bright with delight. “It’s to be held at Netherfield — next Friday. It will be the event of the season.”

You shot her a look, though Wickham seemed unfazed. He turned his attention back to you. “Netherfield? You are among the party there?”

“For the moment,” you said quietly.

“Then I must consider myself fortunate indeed, to be in such great company.”

Before you could answer, Lydia had already begun to ask about his regiment, peppering him with questions about the cut of his coat and the colour of the facings, entirely unbothered by decorum.

Wickham’s answers came smoothly, practised but never patronising. Still, as you observed him, a subtle discomfort stirred low in your stomach — not because of anything he said, but because he said everything so well. There was a gleam behind the easy words, a self-assurance that bordered on rehearsed. But again, wasn't society itself rehearsed? Wasn't every social cue, curtsy, bow, and invitation, rehearsed?

Still, when he turned back to you with a polite nod and said, “I hope to see you again before the ball, Miss,” you nodded.

"Are you not to come to the ball?" you asked casually, walking at a steady pace with the officer down the cobbles.

"Well, I would very much like to come," he began, an expression that toed the line between smile and grimace finely on his face, "Am I invited to this event?"

“Oh,” you said, slipping the handkerchief back into your bag. “I am not sure. I shall ask Mr Alexei the next I see him.”

He hummed, nodding slowly. "Alright then, I shall come, if the man allows it," and then, he grinned down at you teasingly. "But only if you promise me the first dance."

You laughed, nodding. "Oh, well, when you ask like that, I can hardly decline."

As the girls dragged him toward the milliner’s stall a few shops down, you stood still for a moment longer, feeling the weight of eyes that were no longer there.

"Oh, you must come with us on our walk back to our Estate! Your company is most riveting," Lydia, ever the reckless flirt, crooned.

Their conversation faded into background noise as you followed after the group, lagging behind a few feet. You had the oddest feeling you’d just met someone who knew exactly what to say — and exactly when to say it.

The winding path from town to Longbourn had grown golden with late sunlight, shadows drawing long across the road. You and your sisters walked at a languid pace, your parcel of ribbons tucked neatly beneath one arm. The earlier noise of town had dulled to a distant hum, replaced now by the chatter of your younger sisters and the crunch of boots against gravel.

Wickham strode at the center of it all — charming, poised, and infuriatingly at ease. Lydia and Kitty orbited him like twin moons, demanding tales of regiment gossip and swordplay, their laughter lilting too high. Mary trudged along a few steps behind, tuning in and out, arms crossed firmly over her book. You kept to the edge, observing rather than joining.

“Miss,” Wickham said with practiced softness as he stepped beside you again, “I hope I haven’t bored you entirely. I’m afraid the younger Misses have dominated the conversation.”

You glanced at him, your tone cool but not unfriendly. “It’s no great crime to let them speak, though one might call it an endurance.”

Wickham laughed — a warm, easy sound — and was just leaning in to respond when the rhythmic beat of approaching hooves silenced the group. Two riders crested the hill ahead.

Alexei was first to dismount, a familiar grin already forming as he took in your party. “Ladies,” he said with a slight bow, “what an unexpected pleasure. I see the town has been most productive?”

“Very!” Lydia answered brightly, holding up her small parcel of ribbons with unnecessary flourish. “We’ve been to the modiste, and met Mr Wickham! He’s promised the first dance to — well, someone — and he tells the most marvellous stories about camp life!”

Wickham inclined his head politely. “George Wickham, sir.”

“Alexei.” The corners of Alexei’s mouth tightened for the briefest moment, though his tone remained amiable. “You’re with the militia stationed in Meryton, I believe?”

“Yes, just arrived,” Wickham confirmed.

From above, Xavier still sat mounted, silent. His eyes were sharp, focused — on you, on Wickham, on the ease with which your sisters clung to the officer’s every word.

Then Lydia, undeterred as ever, clapped her hands together. “Oh! But wouldn’t it be the most wonderful thing if the whole regiment could come to the ball! They’d look so dashing in their red coats.”

Alexei blinked. “The entire regiment?”

“Why not?” Kitty added. “It would be the grandest ball Hertfordshire’s ever seen.”

There was a pause. Then, with a good-natured shrug, Alexei nodded. “Well, I suppose there’s no harm in it. You may extend the invitation to your officers, Mr Wickham.”

Wickham bowed slightly. “Thank you, Mr Alexei. I’m sure they’ll be most delighted.”

And still, Xavier had said nothing. He had dismounted by now, the reins loose in one hand, his figure composed — but his eyes remained locked on Wickham. A silence hung in the air, taut as a pulled thread.

You glanced toward him, uncertain, your brow pinching slightly at his quiet.

Wickham turned to him then, offering a civil, if measured, “Mr Xavier.”

Xavier’s response was a single nod. No words.

You then curtseyed, bowing your head slightly in greeting to him. “Miss,” he acknowledged, nodding his head and bowing in return.

And then a beat passed. A very awkward one.

Then, without warning, he turned, mounting again in one swift movement.

“Xavier—” Alexei started, but was cut off by the sudden crack of reins as Xavier wheeled his horse sharply and took off at a quick canter, heading away from the group, back toward Netherfield.

A strange hush followed in his wake.

You stood still, your hand tightening slightly on your ribbon parcel.

Wickham exhaled lightly beside you. “Well,” he said, tone still mild, though something flickered beneath it. “That was… abrupt.”

But you didn’t answer. Not yet. Not as your eyes followed the disappearing figure in the distance, wondering what exactly had passed in that brief moment—and why the air suddenly felt heavier in his absence.

Xavier

The wind cut sharper once he had cleared the hill, the thudding of the horse beneath him the only sound filling the space Xavier had deliberately carved between himself and the others.

He hadn’t meant to leave like that. Not so obviously, not with so much urgency biting at his heels. But standing there — surrounded by the shrill delight of the youngest sisters, by Wickham’s infuriatingly easy grin, and your soft laughter, more rare and far more potent — it had become unbearable.

Dastardly man.

Xavier’s jaw tightened.

He had not seen Wickham in over a year. And yet nothing had changed. That same effortless charm, the same polished lie of gentility, of warmth. It clung to him like a second skin. But worse than seeing Wickham was seeing you respond to him, Xavier knowing exactly what that bastard was. That flicker of amusement in your eyes. The way you listened to him spouting his false politeness and manners. How quickly he’d slipped into your orbit.

Xavier dug his heels gently into the horse’s sides, urging it faster across the fields. Not quite running — but not allowing himself to slow, either.

He didn’t want to care. You had every right to laugh with whom you pleased, to stroll the lane with officers and entertain harmless flirtations. He knew that. And yet.

He thought of the way you had looked at him just a few days before. Quietly. Curiously. The soft pause before you spoke, as though weighing your words. As though he was something worth weighing. That moment in the woods, where you had walked just ahead of him and he had wanted — without reason — to stay in that silence a little longer.

And now?

Now, Wickham had wormed his way into that space, careless and smooth as always. And Xavier had stood there, silent and still, listening to the man lie with a smile on his face and his past buried under that red coat.

Xavier let out a breath through his nose, sharp and slow. The worst part wasn’t Wickham’s presence.

The worst part was how it made him feel like a boy again. Foolish. Too kind for his own good. Stripped down to instinct and half-formed words that never reached his tongue.

He hated that. He hated that Wickham still had that power. And he hated even more that you — someone he had only just begun to understand — might fall for it too.

He didn’t stop riding until Netherfield’s outline rose in the distance, steady and grey against the sky. And even then, he did not dismount. Not yet.

“Xavier!” Alexei’s voice rang out, hooves hitting against grass as he approached close behind him.

Xavier glanced over at his companion, expression unreadable.

“I’m sorry for inviting the militia,” Alexei’s voice had a tone of breathlessness to it, as if having rushed to catch up to Xavier. He felt a pang of guilt. “I know how it is with you and Wickham, but I could hardly decline it when Jane was there.”

“Nonsense,” Xavier muttered, avoiding eye contact. “I shouldn’t have rushed off like that. It was rude of me.”

Alexei remained silent, taking off his hat and holding it to his stomach, brows pinching. “Let’s go,” he said after a few moments, followed by the hitting of hooves against ground.

You

“I must admit,” Mr Wickham said, glancing over at you with a grin that bordered on conspiratorial, “I didn’t expect to find such company in Meryton. Nor such beauty, if you’ll forgive the boldness.”

You gave a small, practiced smile — just enough to be polite. “We don’t often receive compliments from strangers, Mr Wickham. Not with such fluency, at any rate.”

He laughed, a low sound. “Then your neighbours must be either blind or cowards. I’ve never believed in holding back the truth.”

There was something in the way he said it — not flirtation exactly, but a performance of it. Measured. Intention behind every word.

A pause, the rhythm of footsteps and the rustle of wind, and then:

“Tell me — the tall gentleman from just then. The one who looked as if someone had insulted his tailor. You know him, I assume?”

You blinked. “Mr Xavier?”

Wickham’s mouth twisted in a half-smile. “Ah. Yes. Xavier.”

There was a beat too long before he added, “I had not realised he was… friendly with your family.”

“We’re hardly friendly,” you said, too quickly.

He glanced sideways, noting the speed of your reply — and smiled faintly, as if that had told him everything he needed.

“I see,” he said softly. “And here I’d thought he’d spent all his affection.”

You frowned. “You know him, then?”

“Oh, we are—” He paused, the smile deepening, turning darker at the edges. You didn’t catch on. “—acquainted. From childhood, in fact.”

The word acquainted hung in the air like smoke.

“You were close?”

He let out a soft breath through his nose. “Once. It’s difficult not to be, when raised side by side under the same roof. I was something of a charity case — his father’s kindness, not his, mind you — but I’m afraid Xavier was never quite able to forget the difference in our stations. Not really.” There it was. Not stated outright. Just… suggested. Softly. Almost apologetically.

“He has always had a particular talent for pride,” Wickham went on, eyes ahead. “You must have noticed it.”

You said nothing.

“I don’t fault him entirely. He was raised to it. Told he was better than everyone in every room, and so he’s spent years acting like it’s true.”

You turned your gaze to the path.

“I only mention it,” he said, voice lower now, “because I would hate for anyone to mistake his manner for honour. He is… careful with appearances.”

That struck a chord — one you hadn’t expected. Your fingers curled slightly inside your gloves.

Mr Wickham slowed his steps just slightly, enough to glance toward you again, eyes softer now. Regretful. The victim of something unnamed.

“He does not forgive easily,” he said. “Nor forget. Particularly when it’s someone who once stood beside him.”

His tone was light. But the wind had picked up, sharp and cold. You looked ahead, heart uneasy, your home just beginning to appear through the thinning trees.

“And yet,” you said after a long moment, “he still looks at you like a ghost.”

That prideful man. Conceited beast. What good is money and status and good looks, if your soul is not one to match? You should have known based on his first few words to you, that he’d be so… so insufferable. But to someone he had grown up with? Unbelievable.

Wickham’s expression shifted — just for a second. Something flickering behind his eyes. “Perhaps I am,” he said quietly. “But ghosts only linger where there are wounds.” He added lowly.

The dining room at Longbourn was unusually full that evening, chairs drawn out to accommodate the surprise arrival of Mr. Collins — your cousin and, as your mother so frequently reminded anyone within earshot, the future heir to your father’s estate.

He had arrived with the usual fanfare: a stiff bow, a declaration of “humble gratitude,” and a letter of introduction clutched dramatically in hand, though it was entirely unnecessary. You all knew who he was. You had simply hoped he would never find it necessary to actually appear.

Now, seated directly across from you, he chewed his boiled potatoes with an exaggerated care, making appreciative hums with every swallow. You subtly rolled your eyes. “I must say, my dear cousins,” he began, setting his fork down with affected delicacy, “I have always heard of Longbourn’s domestic elegance, but I confess, even my high expectations have been… thoroughly surpassed.”

Your mother beamed with pride at the head of the table, as though she had personally designed the wallpaper and grown the garden from seed.

“You are too kind, sir,” she replied, fluttering her hand. “We do our best to maintain… comfort.”

Mr. Collins nodded solemnly, dabbing at his lips. “Indeed, indeed. Lady Catherine herself would find little to fault here.”

You took a long sip of your wine, just to avoid rolling your eyes once more. He certainly seemed to speak very highly of that woman.

“Lady Catherine,” he said again, with reverence blooming in his chest, “has often remarked on the importance of propriety in a household. She would, no doubt, be pleased with your table settings, Miss.” He turned to you, eyes round and eager, “Is it you who arranges them?”

You smiled — tight, polite, yet utterly sarcastic. It was, of course, lost on him. “Only when I’m not too occupied with embroidery and contemplating the fragility of the female mind.”

He paused, fork halfway to his mouth, then laughed with a breathy wheeze. “Ah, very good. Very good indeed. A keen wit, Miss, though I must caution — Lady Catherine has always advised a woman should be measured in her intellect.”

“Of course. Heaven forbid a woman think too much,” you murmured.

He nodded as though you had agreed with him, rather than insulted the very premise. “Precisely. It disturbs the balance of the home.”

Across the table, Jane glanced at you with a faint smile that betrayed her amusement, and you returned it with a knowing glance. Lydia, meanwhile, had grown distracted by the passing dish of stewed pears and paid Mr. Collins no mind whatsoever, while Mary made a valiant effort to introduce a theological topic to the conversation and was quickly overridden.

“And I do hope,” Mr. Collins went on, “that while I am here, I might become better acquainted with the household — particularly with you young ladies. Lady Catherine believes strongly in familial unity, and I must say, it is my intention — my humble intention — to see that unity honoured.”

Your mother nearly dropped her spoon in excitement.

And you? You simply smiled again, folding your napkin a little too precisely in your lap.

“Indeed, Mr. Collins,” you said sweetly, “we are all of us quite curious what intentions you’ll reveal next.”

He flushed, mistaking it for encouragement. “Then I shall take that as permission to remain a while longer,” he said, puffing his chest, clearly imagining himself as some prized guest bestowing favour upon your modest home.

You sipped your wine again, already knowing this was to be a long visit and attempting to ease your mind.

Dinner wound on with the slow inevitability of a drawn-out sermon. Mr. Collins had by now turned his attention to Jane — deeming her “serene” and “angelically mild,” a compliment that seemed to both confuse and gently amuse her — though his eyes strayed back to you often, as though uncertain where to settle his affections.

“I find it quite admirable,” he said now, gesturing vaguely with his spoon, “that you ladies have remained so… accessible. In Kent, among Lady Catherine’s acquaintance, modesty is rather a rarity. You cannot imagine the pretensions of certain families.”

“I’m sure we could manage to try,” you said under your breath.

“What was that, my dear cousin?” he asked, blinking earnestly at you.

“I said we are most grateful to be so agreeable,” you replied with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Your father, who had been quiet throughout most of the meal, now looked up from his plate with a dry sort of curiosity. “And how fares Lady Catherine these days, Mr. Collins? Still instructing the world on how to be properly civilised?”

“Oh, magnificently so,” Collins beamed, missing the sarcasm entirely. “She has lately taken to inspecting the cottages on her land, ensuring that the tenants’ windows are washed and their hedges trimmed. She believes strongly in visual order, you see.”

“How… philanthropic of her,” your father said mildly.

“And may I say,” Collins continued, undeterred, “that I am most fortunate to be in her good graces. Indeed, she has advised me to find a suitable wife — one of modest taste, gentle manner, and familial obedience — before the year ends.”

Gag.

At this, your mother nearly knocked over the gravy boat in her eagerness. “Oh! Well, what a fine ambition, sir. I am certain we may help you find just such a girl here, within the comforts of your own future estate!”

You pressed your napkin to your lips quickly to hide the twitch of a smile.

“I… had hoped,” Mr. Collins said, glancing down at his half-eaten turnip, “that it might be possible to form a connection during my stay. But, of course, I shall speak with propriety and deference, and only after the necessary span of acquaintance.”

“How noble of you,” you murmured.

Jane, ever gentle, steered the conversation toward the ball. “You shall attend next week, of course, Mr. Collins?”

He brightened. “Most certainly! I shall make every effort to be sociable. I have taken instruction from Lady Catherine on the art of conversation — and while I am not a dancer by nature, I shall certainly participate, as it is my duty to do so.”

“I imagine your dancing must be quite the spectacle,” you said, taking a delicate sip of water.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Only that it must be memorable.”

“Ah!” He chuckled again, a sheepish sound. “Yes, I do tend to draw attention. A hazard of height, no doubt.”

By the time dessert was served, you felt your patience thinning like worn linen. Your mother’s eyes gleamed with a peculiar brightness that meant she was scheming, while Lydia whispered something absurd to Kitty that made both of them giggle into their napkins.

Mr. Collins cleared his throat once more. “Might I trouble one of you young ladies for a tour of the gardens tomorrow? I should like to see what improvements might be made once I inherit the property. Of course, I would seek your opinions most respectfully.”

“I’m certain we’ll draw straws,” you said sweetly, standing as the dishes were cleared. “It would only be fair.”

“Indeed, yes,” he said, rising quickly with a proud tilt to his shoulders. “A very wise method of decision. Lady Catherine always advocates for drawing of lots in minor domestic debates. It prevents discord.”

Your father gave you a long look as you passed behind him.

“Do try not to poison the man,” he said under his breath.

You smiled. “Would I ever be so obvious?”

Between juggling preparations for the ball and spending time with the dreaded Mr Collins, you couldn’t be more excited to wind down and dance.

The carriage slowed to a gentle halt before Netherfield’s wide front steps, its lanterns casting a soft, golden glow across the gravel. Evening had folded itself over the estate, sky the colour of indigo ink, stars caught faintly between drifting clouds. The air was sharp with the scent of polished wood and autumn leaves, but beneath it lingered something sweeter —candlewax, rose oil, and the faintest trace of lilac from the hedges flanking the estate.

You stepped down with care, your gloved hand brushing against the chilled brass of the carriage door. The night air pinched delicately at your cheeks and neck, the silk of your new gown whispering softly as you moved. Inside the house, light blazed in every window — music already drifting out, low and warm, the hum of strings rising over the muffled thump of conversation and laughter.

The grand hall opened before you like a theatre mid-performance. Everything gleamed. Chandeliers glittered overhead with crystal firelight, scattering brilliance across marble floors and golden mirrors. The scent inside was heady — beeswax, fresh pine garlands twisted around banisters, and something rich and citrus-laced, likely from the spiced punch being ladled out in the far corner.

A footman took your outer wrap, and as you stepped forward, your eyes were pulled upward toward the open gallery above, where Aurelia leaned over the balustrade in quiet conversation with a lady you did not recognize. Aurelia’s gown was severe, her hair dressed impeccably, but her eyes caught yours with a flicker of something unreadable before she turned back, the silk of her sleeves catching the light like a blade.

Below her, the drawing room doors stood open, spilling warmth and revelry into the main corridor. Alora stood near the threshold, her posture more relaxed than her sister’s, laughing as she greeted a pair of older gentlemen. She spotted you and gave a brief, cordial smile, but her attention moved quickly on to someone else.

Your family had already scattered across the space like spilled pearls — Lydia and Kitty disappearing with a rustle of skirts into the throng, your mother sailing past you with her chin high, eyes sharp and scanning. Jane, radiant despite her usual reserve, remained beside you a moment longer.

“I had nearly forgotten how bright Netherfield could be,” she murmured.

“It feels like it might lift from the ground,” you answered, voice low as your eyes swept the ballroom just beyond. Rows of guests moved in elegant clusters, gowns blooming like flowers, gentlemen clad in crisp black and white, the glint of buttons and brooches catching the flicker of the chandeliers.

The quartet in the corner struck up the opening bars of a cotillion. Glass clinked somewhere behind you. A peal of laughter rang too loud from the staircase. It was as if the house itself breathed — rising, expectant, alive.

And still, even amid the golden light and rising music, your eyes searched — quietly, and perhaps foolishly — for a familiar figure in the crowd.

You had not yet seen Mr Wickham.

A gentleman brushed past, murmuring a polite greeting, but your attention stayed fixed on the crowd, your spine held a fraction too straight. Still no sign of him.

Then Jane turned, radiant in pale blue, and before you could speak, Mr Alexei approached. His bow was swift, his smile earnest. “Miss Jane,” he said, his voice warm with familiarity. “Would you allow me the honour?”

Jane hesitated only a moment before placing her hand in his. Her expression softened — not quite a smile, but something close. She glanced back at you briefly before being swept into the current of the dance.

You were left alone at the edge of the ballroom, anchored and yet strangely adrift. The room pressed in around you — laughter, silk, firelight — but none of it quite reached your skin.

And then—

“Miss.”

Your name, spoken quietly. No fanfare. No warmth.

You turned, pulse already quickening.

Xavier stood only a few paces away. His coat was dark, severe against the golden glow of the ballroom. He looked impossibly composed, as if the noise and light slid right off him. His gaze was steady. Too steady.

“Mr Xavier,” you said, dipping into a curtsey just shallow enough to be polite.

He bowed. “You’re—” A pause. “Here.”

You raised a brow. “Astute as ever.”

A faint tightening at the corner of his mouth — not quite a smile, not quite irritation.

“I had wondered,” he said, after a beat.

“What, if I would dare show my face in respectable company?” You could barely conceal the newly-found disdain for his company from your tone.

His jaw moved, but he said nothing. The silence between you thickened. Around you, music swelled. Voices danced.

Still, he did not move.

“Would you care to dance?”

It wasn’t the polite, practiced offer you had expected. There was no smooth charm, no elegant flourish. The words fell from his lips like something more raw, more deliberate. It wasn’t an invitation, it was a challenge. He stood there, as poised as ever, but there was something in his posture — an intensity that you could feel, even from where you stood.

You studied him for a moment, noting the way his jaw tightened ever so slightly, his posture rigid, but there was an openness in his eyes — a flicker of something beneath the surface that you couldn’t quite place. It made you pause. Made you hesitate. The room around you seemed to shrink as your mind reeled. Damn it. You had sworn to never engage with him like this.

You fought the urge to turn him down, to retreat into the safety of distance. Instead, you held his gaze, long enough that he almost looked away. The silence stretched between you, heavy with expectation. Why did you care?

“I suppose,” you finally replied, the words leaving your lips as cool and composed as you could manage, “it would be the polite thing.”

It wasn’t a challenge. It wasn’t flirtation. It was a statement. But the very fact that you had uttered the words at all left you wondering if it had been the right choice.

He didn’t respond verbally. His hand, strong and warm, slipped into yours. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t even tender. It was just there, firm and unwavering, a direct connection that seemed to send a spark through your body — one that you could feel in every inch of your skin, even through the fabric of your gloves.

And then, just like that, you were moving toward the floor, stepping through the crowd of dancers, the space between you shrinking with every step. The quartet’s strings rose, and the lively notes of an English country dance filled the room. You stepped in sync, each move sharp and practiced. You had danced this countless times before, but this was different — this time, every step was infused with a weight you couldn’t explain.

Xavier’s hand at your waist was firm, commanding, but there was a precision to it — control, a deliberate restraint that you couldn’t ignore. He didn’t speak. Neither did you. Your breath quickened ever so slightly, but you kept your expression neutral, your gaze unwavering.

His fingers brushed against yours as your gloves met. Too warm. Too kind, you thought. It didn’t make sense. You had never wanted his touch, never sought his company. And yet, here you were, standing closer than you’d ever intended, moving together as though the space between you had always been there, meant to be filled.

The dance spun you both around, a turn that left you apart for a brief moment before you came together again. The world around you swirled in movement, but all you could feel, all you could focus on, was the way his presence anchored you. It was unnerving, how easy it was to fall into this rhythm, this unnatural familiarity.

“I imagine,” you said lightly, keeping your voice steady, “that you’re regretting this already.”

His eyes never left yours — unblinking, unwavering. There was no amusement in his gaze, only that quiet intensity that made your pulse quicken. “You imagine a great deal.”

You arched an eyebrow, heart hammering. “And you say very little.”

He paused. For the briefest of moments, you wondered if you’d said something too bold, something that had pushed him beyond the boundary of what was acceptable. But then his gaze flickered, just slightly, and he leaned in, close enough for your breath to mingle with his.

“Because saying anything would be…” He stopped mid-sentence, his words hanging in the air.

You leaned in, just enough that your bodies aligned. “Revealing?” you suggested, the tension between you building with every passing second.

His jaw clenched, and he didn’t answer immediately, as if weighing his response carefully. The quiet between you grew thicker, charged with something neither of you could name. And in that moment, everything around you — the music, the laughter, the hum of conversation — vanished. It was just the two of you in this bubble, moving together in perfect synchronization, yet remaining miles apart.

Your steps faltered, just slightly, caught off guard by the unexpected closeness, the tension crackling between you. But before you could stumble, Xavier’s hand tightened at your waist, guiding you back into the rhythm without a word.

The music swelled around you — faster, louder, as if reflecting the racing beat of your heart. You could feel the heat of his hand at your waist, the slight press of his palm against your back, urging you closer into the rhythm of the dance, but all you could focus on was the way his fingers brushed the small of your back, leaving a trail of warmth behind.

The world was spinning again, but not with the graceful flow of the dance — it was something darker, something more thrilling, like you were caught in the pull of an unspoken storm. His presence surrounded you, filled you, suffocated you in the most intoxicating way. It was all you could do to keep your breath steady, your movements in time with his.

The final notes of the dance began to fade, and the space between you and Xavier seemed to grow just as the tempo slowed. He stepped back from you, too quickly — leaving you cold in the wake of his touch.

“Thank you,” you said, the words coming out flat, measured — almost mechanical. You couldn’t bring yourself to add anything else, not when the weight of what had just passed between you felt so heavy in the air.

He bowed, his eyes never leaving yours, the same unreadable expression masking whatever thoughts were racing through his mind. “Of course.”

And then, just like that, he was gone — swallowed into the crowd, leaving you standing on the floor, your heart still racing, your body still thrumming with the echoes of his touch. The dance was over, but the aftermath lingered. The room around you blurred, the sounds fading into a dull hum as your pulse throbbed in your ears.

You stood there, frozen, trying to grasp the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside you. What had just happened? What had he just done to you?

Across the room, Aurelia watched you. She said something under her breath to Alora, both of them turning in near-perfect synchrony, their gazes sweeping over you with a precision that felt like a blade.

But you held your ground.

The chandeliers blazed overhead. The next dance began. And still, you didn’t move.

masterlist

Taglist : @etsuniiru @kyokoyya @i-messed-up-big-time @firefly1103 @gracekerzzz @mcdepressed290 @sylusgirlie7 @plzdonutpercieveme @m00nchildwrites