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luffsdolly · 1 month ago

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big girls don’t cry

𓍯𓂃 self aware robot! caleb x female reader

(wc: 9.5k) ✦ summary: after your brother passes, consumed by grief, you take to the internet to order a synthetic version of him. afterward, it’s impossible to throw him out. (or: alternatively titled the trojan horse)

✦ content robot! caleb, past engineer! caleb, au where EVER deals in robotics, non-evol au, 18+ nsfw/smut, mildly dubious consent, angst, grief, mental instability, bad coping mechanisms, robot pseudocest?? robot sex, mind games, moral grayness all around, dark/yandere undertones; this fic can have multiple interpretations

✦ sidenote have yall ever seen that episode of black mirror? ‘be right back’? basically this: the girl’s boyfriend dies so she orders an incredibly realistic, intelligent robot to replace him. they’re identical in personality and appearance, and yet… 👀 ANYWAYS ( ⸍ɞ̴̶̷ ·̫ ɞ̴̶̷⸌ ) i have a set plot for this in my head, but i left it a lil vague so ur allowed to think of it in ur own way 🤎 if u wanna know the ‘canon’ tho.. u can absolutely ask me. the lore is so deep its traumatizing :,) anyways hope u enjoy <3 ty for 1k btw!! take this as a lil celebration treat 🥳 it took so much out of me but i think i really vibe with it heheh

He’s perfect. Nigh on.

For the first few days since his arrival, since hauling him off the foot of your porch and into your living room to unpack him- heart tickering in your chest all the while, trepidatious- you’ve just stared. Reached out your hands to hover, ghosting over the broad blade of his shoulder, his chapped lips, the slight jut of his cheekbone.

His hands, as big and weathered as you remember them (but gentle, always gentle), hang limply by his sides.

You don’t dare slip your smaller ones in them.

All of the theatrics, yet you don’t press his- its- button, either.

No, you don’t even touch it after the initial unpacking, wrenching your fingers away as soon as they get too close. As soon as they get too tempted by hope and the wish that this hunk of metal was more than just a replica of your late brother. Half of you thinks it might burn if you get too comfortable; and you won’t get comfortable— underneath the solidified layers of grief and- you have trouble saying it aloud, but bitterness- there’s still just enough common sense to keep you from taking the leap. The leap from mourning to insanity.

It’s hollow. You know that much. A nothingness enwrapped in a steely chassis full of wiring and code too technological for you to understand, all covered by a synthetic skin suit as the pretty bow on top.

And you know- what with your emotional state- that if you could peer inside, strip it down to the framework and just… take a moment to look, that you’d vomit. It’d be too much to bear, being forced to reconcile with the fact that he really is gone— and in response to it all, you’ve blown your savings on an eerily-realistic, glorified doll of him with wires for veins.

You’re trembling when you stiffly prop him against the far wall, limiting contact as much as possible, and step away, keeping your eyes on him all the while. It. Not him. Not Caleb- that’s not your fucking brother, just a disgusting, soulless fascimile of him—

But as you stand back on your feet (with the coffee table in between, just in case) to get a good look at him, like a real, proper look, your breath is taken.

The thing: He’s not just a passable carbon copy, you realize. Admittedly, he’s…

Identical.

(He’s Caleb.)

All the oxygen gusts out of you in a breeze.

You lift a shaking hand over your open mouth and choke as silent tears spill from your lashline, blurring your eyes on the way down. Wetting your knuckles as they shake wildly.

You’re crying. Of course you’re crying. This is- you can’t do this. You just can’t.

Racing upstairs, retreating to your bedroom to slam the door as if the devil himself was on your tail, only then do you drop your hand and fully sob.

It’s pitiful, really. Wretched noises that resonate from deep in your throat, your spirit wrecked as you curl up on the floor and make yourself into a ball.

Darkness comes outside, the space around you muting itself in grey colors. The puddle beneath your cheek is moonlit. You sniffle and relocate, but you don’t even bother to tuck the not-Caleb robot in its special container, no- you just settle beneath your blankets and pray it’s all a bad dream you’ll awake from come tomorrow.

Tomorrow: you’ll send him off. Return him.

You don’t care how much money it costs- for all you care, it’s paltry, it’s replaceable. And it is replaceable, that’s the bleak truth: that android stood motionless by your couch, despite having a face so familiar it’s painful, has no emotional value whatsoever. There’s no depth to it. No substance.

A skeleton built by rods. Artificial flesh modeled around thin, colorful cables and circuit boards.

I mean- he’s no better than the stapler on your desk, or the toaster on your kitchen counter. Better yet, a crumb on the floor.

A nothingness, you think again. Prettily encased in smooth, sun-speckled skin and that cottony loungewear (that still retains his smell) you could hardly part with when the online form requested his attire.

He’s perfect, nigh on, you’ll give the company who forged him that much credit, because they sure followed his pictures to a T. It looks just like him; so much so you couldn’t even bear to look at him for more than ten minutes before bolting, the emotional response so violent.

But the problem is that he’s not real. He’s not your Caleb.

✦

It’s hard to throw him away when he looks like that. When he bears the likeness of your late, beloved older brother.

Yes, you want to stuff him back in his box and return to sender, but when it comes to courage, you lack the backbone necessary to carry out your decisions.

You tiptoe down the stairs to see him again and sputter.

He’s too real, you decide in a heartbeat. Too real.

Shutting your eyes as tears begin to pour anew, lunging forward with blind intent to cache him away in the elaborate box he came in, you get to work. And you get to work quickly. You can only bear to look at it- that heartless caricature of your gege- for so long until you feel something in you, your last fragile piece, begin to fracture.

After the explosion, all you had left of him were the memories. Not an explanation, not a goodbye, not even a body. What remained of the boy you were fostered with was ash and a puerile, yet no less beloved locket with its edges burnt copper.

Now, you have something exponentially more physical and intact, unsullied by the reality of what was.

So for a moment, yes- sue you and your heart for hesitating- but it’s a hard task to seal him away.

Agonizing, really.

His arms are stiff by his sides but you feel the skin; the lump of muscle in his forearm, the bump of his elbow. The only thing that keeps you from giving into the puffed-up illusion of his being real and alive is the coolness beneath your fingertips. The unnatural, icy feel to his otherwise mortal skin that reminds in a voice, condescending like all things out of reach, see? that’s not Caleb. And you’re insulting him by thinking that it could be.

You’re halfway done nudging him towards the box (careful, despite your frenzied, fluttering heart; afraid to damage his likeness) when you trip over your own feet navigating the narrow space between your table and the couch.

It’s unthinking, the way you grab him- arms flying out to steady yourself with his broad shoulders.

In all your scrambling- something clicks. Gives under your fingerpad.

A button.

With mute horror, you watch his eyes light.

…And you can see it too, you know, registering in his gaze as it settles over you and takes you in— a blip of mirth that quickly warps into worry at the look you give him. You must appear no different than a deer in headlights.

For several seconds, you simply stand there, your palms clamming up where they dig into his shoulders, and gawk as Caleb— not-Caleb’s— expression turns to one ready to comfort.

Familiar, painfully.

The stiff hands at his side are spurred into motion, lifting to cradle your cheek while the other helps ground you by the small of your back.

“Meimei?”

No, no- don’t say that, don’t say that, internally, you have to shoehorn down all your grief as it bubbles up, and harden your face to keep from crying all over again.

…Although it’s more or less obvious you had been. The puffy eyes rimmed in red, the certain wisp of defeat to your brow and the exhaustion written all over you is clear as day. It leaves nothing to ponder.

He sounds disturbed by it all, the sadness about you that lies thick as a coating of paint. Commiserative to a fault. Lassoing you to his firm chest as he burrows your head below the dip of his chin.

He goes, “What’s wrong?” Then, “It’s okay, I’m here. I got you. Just let it all out.”

And the world around you staggers to a fall.

✦

It was very difficult to get rid of him as he stood still; when you could convince yourself he was just a startlingly realistic statue.

It’s all but impossible when he begins to move, and speak, and smile at you.

You don’t get close enough to press his button. You’re not quite strong enough to apply the distance you probably should, though, so when he takes a step forward, you take one back- but you never run.

It’s a weird limbo you’re caught in. Do you leap into his arms? Do you… Do you toss him out the door, after all? Leave him to the elements to chip away at his body; the rain to erode his fleshy outer shell?

But no. How could you do that? He-

He fucking looks like Caleb. It feels more sinful to rid yourself of him, now that he’s… on, than to indulge a little bit in the idea that he’s still alive and breathing.

If Caleb was still alive, you wonder silently one morning with no small amount of hurt, would he hate you? For whatever the hell it is you’re doing now?

You can’t even blame Gideon, not really. Without his persistent messages, and all the links he sent you of articles revolving androids and how they can help the user cope with grief, you’d have been none the wiser to the concept, sure- but at the end of the day, you made the choice to get one.

A chunk of your savings and an unprompted, fat check from Caleb’s best buddy— you decided to throw that at some futuristic company (well, not ‘some’: both men worked there- albeit they always kept their work very hush (you did catch whispers of a promotion, though, before the accident)) and one of the many services they provide.

Gideon, over the course of some months, was all but pointing you at their website, promising it would help. He’d be there to clear any confusion, in any case; hey, how neat did a walkthrough of the site from a bonafide EVER engineer sound?: Just one of his probes.

It was only two weeks back, however, when he paid an unsolicited house call, wordlessly wrapping you into his broad chest, that you caved to them.

You think about the scene while you sit at the counter and sip from your mug.

Your home smells richly of coffee, just brewed, and bacon as it sizzles. Eyeing not-Caleb with a pang of unease— not fully able to snuff out that feeling of uncanniness even as some days pass peacefully— you offer a small smile when he glances up at you.

Beaming just as he was the day before. Beaming like nothing is terribly wrong.

(To be clear, something is.)

You… can’t help but feel like you’re being monitored when he stares.

Yes, it’s a silly fear, you know that. The company your late brother worked for wasn’t exactly open with all the scientific grounds they made breakthroughs on, but he always promised that their means were lawful. Caleb wasn’t one for lies- so your doubts were soothed. So as hush-hush as EVER is sometimes, you’re fairly confident they wouldn’t ship out mass batches of faulty or otherwise rigged products.

Anyway- you suppose the weird intensity in its eyes isn’t all that off-putting when you take into account the very real personality it was formulated from.

When the pancakes (your favorite: banana chocolate chip; information he apparently already knew) turn an appetizing shade of gold, he shimmies them off the pan with a spatula and onto a plate.

That plate- loaded tastefully with bacon, a scoop of rice, and eggs with a ketchup smile painted over its face- slides before you. But though your belly growls, you don’t eat. Not right away. Wherever the culinary arts are concerned, your older brother has always excelled. Growing up, maybe you even exploited him a little for it- but he never did anything he didn’t want to; sometimes it even seemed like Caleb enjoyed sticking his neck out for you.

He pats his hands over his too-small apron (not that he minds it), frowning.

“What’s wrong, Pipsqueak? Does… Does the food look alright? I haven’t made somethin’ for you in a while, huh…?”

Oh no, the food looks fine.

It’s just that you’re the only one eating it.

And maybe it’d be better to keep that thought to yourself: part of you is just over the moon to have him standing in your kitchen with you after months apart— but it doesn’t matter that you keep your mouth shut, because Caleb reads your mind anyway.

He’s at your side in a blink, hushing away the tears that bead at your eyes out of nowhere.

“Hey, hey… No cryin’, okay? I’m just not hungry this morning, Meimei- but that doesn’t mean I won’t sit with you and talk while you eat. C’mon,” he squeezes your hand where it lies on the counter, smiling lightly.

It takes everything in you not to flinch away from the touch.

“Wouldn’t want your breakfast goin’ cold now, would we?” Pulling out the barstool beside you, he sits.

You don’t ask him to, but Caleb picks up your fork and embodies one of the several memories you have of him spoonfeeding you as a child.

“I can feed you. Just like the good ol’ times. Here, you gotta open your mouth first,” His smile strengthens when your lips, as if by habit, part. Your lashes flutter shut when that first bite touches your tongue- syrupy hotcakes and fluffy scrambled eggs- and for that you’re glad because you don’t have to see the way he marvels at you as you eat.

It’s not good for your heart.

“So? What does Pipsqueak the number one food critic have to say about my dish?” He shines, “Does it taste as good as it looks?” You can’t help the breathless laugh that escapes- the scene too nostalgic to simply idle away with indifference. You wear all your emotions on your face, anyway; you’re not fooling anybody, least of all Caleb.

“Even better,” you murmur with the barest of smiles. He presses another spoonful to your lips and you giggle.

Violet hues glitter with delight. You’ve said practically nothing to him this whole time, and he’s been patient- weirdly patient, almost- but the joy in his gaze is palpable now.

Sometimes, though, you can almost swear you see something in his gaze shift. Tuning itself like a lens. He blinks and it disappears.

“…But I will say your presentation could use some work. It’s a 7 out of 10.”

Caleb, still holding the utensil out, uses his other hand to prop his chin up. He smiles fondly as he regards you. As you’ve gotten older, it’s like every time you see the brunet, he looks at you like he’s taking you in for the first time all over again.

“Yeah?” He encourages. “Enlighten me, oh Pipsqueak- what must I do to earn those three extra points?”

“The ketchup smiley face was all lopsided,” you explain in a quiet voice, having a hard time fully immersing in this lie unraveling before you; beautiful as it is. As much as you might ache to.

This isn’t a good idea. You know that.

Still…

Maybe… maybe just a couple of conversations with him can’t be too bad, right? I mean, it’s only a fraction of what Gideon was expecting of you (lounging around together to chat, game nights, and even public outings), but to him, it’d be a start. For you, though, it’s a stretch. An exception.

You should limit interaction with not-Caleb.

You know this, and yet—

Glancing back to him, you try and fail to hide a coy smile with a napkin. “Next time, keep a steady hand, and you’ll be a perfect chef in no time. Maybe not as good as me, but, y’know…”

He chuckles, brows lifting. “Oh yeah? Then expect surgical precision from me tomorrow morning. Chef Caleb won’t let you down again!”

An intense sadness slips through the momentary happiness you were allowed. It nags at your chest.

You blink rapidly, giving a feeble, light sound before looking away.

You’ve never let me down, Gege, you don’t say, taking your fork from the clasp of his big hand (much to his dismay) to prod at your plate.

It was me who failed you.

✦

Not-Caleb looks like Caleb, yes.

He acts like him, too.

You spend the span of the next few weeks trying to scrutinize him; hours spent on the couch, his hand in yours while you grill him. You treat him like a bug under a microscope. Prodding for answers to questions you’re sure his programming must miss- interrogations built on memories so old they’re near ancient. Just blurry wisps in your mind.

Not-Caleb remembers some better than you.

Puts you to shame with his mechanical replies detailing scenarios you’re missing fragments of.

What’s Caleb’s favorite fruit?

I like apples, Pipsqueak.

And what’s my favorite food he’d make for me?

Easy-peasy. You still love those boneless chicken wings, don’t you? Although, that braised pork I make for you comes as a close second, doesn’t it?

Am I your real sister?

And you’d never ask the real Caleb such a thing. You’re only doing it now because it’s one of the most personal things you could possibly make a query of. His response would be very telling.

Life before you met him all those years ago is no more than a fuzzy glimpse, and you never minded all that much: so long as you had Caleb, nothing else, nothing before, mattered. All throughout your childhood, people didn’t know the difference anyway.

Far as they knew, you were family.

Which… isn’t wrong, per se— but it’s not biological. ‘Real.’

You, Caleb, and Gran were obviously aware of that. To you it was always a beautiful thing: a tale of rebirth, in a way, or a second chance, as a young girl found a new place to call home with a warm guardian and a brotherly figure. They’d stabilize her and bring warmth to an otherwise cold beginning.

Caleb was never spoken for on that front.

You… didn’t see eye to eye on all things. Oh, that much is true.

Sometimes you were convinced that he wanted nothing to do with the assumption that you were his little sister (albeit, you were never sure why). At others, it was like he was furious you were only bound to him in name and not blood. He saw it as an attack on your close bond.

…But Not-Caleb surely doesn’t know all his nuances. Not like you came to.

So you’re expecting a pause. A minor glitch or even a malfunction as the robot scours his database.

Got him, you almost think to yourself— then swiftly take it back.

The face of the android sat at your side falls, much to your surprise, into a small frown.

And the truth must be coded deep in the bulwarks of not-Caleb’s artificial brain: your and Caleb’s respective origins. The answer is no. No, you’re not his real sister.

…But your real Gege would lie and say yes, absolutely you are—

“‘Course you are,” Not-Caleb goes. And he does it with as much passion behind it as you’d expect.

You’re startled into silence.

He scoots impossibly closer and loops an arm over your shoulder, tucking your head to his jaw. Seamlessly, he pecks your hairline, saying, “You’re my sweet little Meimei. You’re priceless to me. Now no more pickin’ at me, okay?” He suggests in a light tone, rubbing your shoulder. “You’ve been questioning me all evening- look, it even got dark out. Let’s get you to bed-“

“I- I didn’t say I was tired-“

“You didn’t have to. I could tell you were startin’ to get sleepy, Pipsqueak,” he looks down at you and smiles- a reassuring, yet no less playful smile- and for one moment you cant breathe because fuck it’s him. It’s really, really him. “Your drooping eyes were a dead giveaway. Hm... I guess that big dinner we had put you in a food coma, huh?” He chuckles.

We. Funny, that. You recall the feast being one-sided.

Nonetheless.

Without prompting, he sweeps you off the couch and walks you up the wooden stairway. The old steps creak underfoot. He does it all effortlessly, though, arms as strong and capable as you remember.

You loop your slimmer ones around his neck.

With great hesitance, you lend a part of yourself to this illusion.

This beautiful, near unbelievable, oh-so fragile illusion that Caleb is not dead.

When you reach your bedroom, you don’t send him off to the guest room like all the nights before. No, when he carefully sets you down, you watch him, motionlessly, as he tucks you in and plants a chaste kiss to your forehead. When he turns to go- “don’t let the bed bugs bite”- you snatch his hand, half terrified you’ll blink and he’ll be gone, and flash him a look that silently pleads.

Stay.

The brunet’s lashes flutter, brushing over his cheekbones where the lamplight makes them shine.

He opens his mouth.

Pauses, then closes it.

“Stay. Please, Gege,” you breathe, on the cusp of shattering all over again. It’s become more manageable over recent days, this unresolved cluster of emotion inside you, but it’s times like these that make you feel blindsided by it.

You innocently add, “Like when we were kids.”

Oh, you’d go back to then if you could.

His long fingers, loose in your hold, flip to swallow up your hand. He stoops over to turn off the light.

His voice shakes ever so slightly, “Okay.”

Then, he clambers into bed with you and reminds you of just how small it is, how much he does not belong, but you’ve never felt more at home when he pulls you to his chest and- dutifully ignoring the quiet beneath your ear, the absence of a pulse- you cling to him.

Maybe it’d be a little weird, the proximity, what with your grown age and the fact that you were no longer children cuddling during thunderstorms…

It’s not like you’re hanging off him like he’s your lifeline for any nefarious reason, though- and it’s not like he can hold any judgment anyway. He’s… He’s not really Caleb. He’s not even a person. Just a sentient robot that resembles him to a shocking degree and soothes that ache in your chest- just by a smidge.

…And yet when he looks at you, suddenly, tilting your jaw up so he can admire what he sees in the darkness- your stunned expression lit faintly by the moon- it’s like he’s reading this in his own way.

His interpretation? you realize in a shaking breath?

He’s no longer holding his little sister, but a woman.

It’s in his eyes, rippling as he exhales deeply (all artificial, albeit you don’t dwell on that for long) and thumbs over your lip.

A boyish kind of wonder lifts his brow as he stares, cheeks slightly flushed.

Your heart bangs in your chest. Like gunshots punctuating the silence. It grows to be unbearable. This is weird, and wrong- the way he’s looking at you. But you quickly chalk it up to a malfunction.

It’s all a fluke, technology fucking up in a way that reminds you of humanity’s shortcomings and how far they can only go.

Finally, you’ve found the fault in its design. The place where Caleb and not-Caleb differ.

You know your beloved older brother like the back of your own hand, so when his eyes flutter (flash, almost) and he lurches forward to clumsily press his lips to yours— you label the action for what it really is.

An inaccuracy.

Perhaps, you think as you close your bleared eyes and let him, the only. Because the rest of his program is perfect. Infallible.

The scene unfurling is foreign- his big hands cupping your cheeks as he kisses you like his life depends on it- but as he shifts you beneath him and hovers atop, that signature softness remains. Really, as his fingertips reach for your shorts—

(A blip of something mechanical in its fiery gaze, almost as if it’s trying to rectify itself; the shortest of pauses—)

It’s all that grounds you.

“Caleb,” you moan, or cry. You don’t know. Just that when he helps you out of your panties to go down on you, digits delving inside your tight hole after he wets it with his tongue, your heart sings for him.

You don’t push him away. No, even as the humanoid sullies your late brother’s image with all his sinful hungering, you can’t break yourself free. Never find it in you to.

Because it doesn’t matter what he treats you as. You realize belatedly, with no small amount of horror, that you don’t even care how many flaws Not-Caleb has. He could have a million for all you care, you’re already too far gone- writhing underneath him as he holds your legs open and feasts- to pretend you have any right to feel offended.

And if the real Caleb was here, he’d hate you: an echo in your skull, sneering. He should, but-

“There, Meimei, ngh…” a hot tongue (no longer as cold as he was in stasis) laves along your folds. Mauve eyes look up to you with reverence, glittering in the dark.

“Just like that. Moan, say my name- I’ve been waiting for this for so long…”

You wear ignorance like a blindfold. Shutting your eyes and ears.

A fluke. His hardware stalling.

His hair woven in your fingers feels like velvet. Soft, silky; hanging over his brow as he eats you out- skillfully, might you add. Albeit his passion wins out by just a touch against his expertise, clumsily plunging his two middle fingers into your pussy.

“You taste so good, so sweet- mmph- I’ll take care of you, okay?” He mumbles in between lewd squelches.

In both physical and moral terms, there is not one thing about this that isn’t filthy.

Y-You know that, but…

“Don’t worry. I’ll- ah- I’ll make sure you feel real nice. I’ll make you come as many times as you want. I’ve been… dreamin’ of this for years now… I won’t mess this up, okay? I’ll do whatever it takes until you’re shaking.”

-but this is all you have left of him.

Hazily, you glance down to him, cheeks aflame, and barely succeed in asking, “C-Caleb- h-how are you even gonna-? You-“ you choke on the words you need to say. With a mite of dry humor, you think right then that you’re short-circuiting just as bad as him (because he is).

“Are you capable of it?”

Of fucking you? Of pinning you down and throwing your ankles over his shoulders to better plow you into your creaking, old mattress?

His brow twitches slightly. Voice ragged, he makes an agreeable sound, pressing a kiss to your clit so adoring it’s almost funny when his finger bends sensually inside you. “Are you doubting my abilities, Meimei? I’ll have you know I’ve been practicing this moment in my head for—“

No. You slam your eyes shut and drown it all out.

His words become a white noise. No different than the steady whir of the air conditioning as a cool breeze gusts beneath your door, cooling your forehead where it beads with sweat.

A- A glitch, you quietly decide. Even long after he’s made you cum thrice (twice on his fingers and tongue, once on his thick, flushed cock), you hold staunch to that.

It’s all just a fluke.

✦

When the sun rises, you wake with a start to a phone ringing- yours- and swallow a lump of unease at the figure lying beside you (your Gege, a voice in your head reminds: you silence it).

Prying off the solid arm around your waist to gingerly exit the room- still half-naked- you piously ignore the cum caked to the inside of your thighs. Yours, it must be. You don’t focus on the confusion, either, the ask of just how the hell last night was possible and why you let your emotions get ahold of you.

(Because you love him. And maybe, just maybe- in your own weird, admittedly morally-grey way- you can cobble together a sense of normalcy with him. At least just for a little bit...)

As you head to the living room downstairs, you tap your phone and lift it to your ear.

“G-Gran,” you say as greeting, smoothing your hair back, still quite ruffled over… recent events. Ruffled and ashamed.

Very.

But- while he looks like Caleb, he’s not in reality. That… malfunction last night is a blatant proof of that. You only got on your back and let him have his way with you because you’ve missed his touch so much that you’d quite literally accept it in any form.

If sex or his lips battling against yours- his whispered vows, as seemingly heartfelt as they were errant to Caleb’s true character- is all you’ll get of him, then so be it.

In your own way, messed up as it is, it’s almost like with his android, you get a chance to reconcile with the loss.

To say goodbye.

Because before that package arrived at your doorstep, you didn’t have the luxury of one.

A familiar, aged voice sounds over the line. “Hey, dearie, oh- I didn’t wake you, did I? You sound tired.” She’s one to talk, you think to yourself- but not with malice. Truth be told you’ve worried for her as of late.

It’s been lonely for you both, you’re sure, but even though she only lives on the other end of Linkon, you have trouble making the drive. You haven’t dropped by in a couple weeks.

There’s a few different reasons.

It’s hard to pretend you’re fine when you’re not, for one, that what happened with Caleb- the abruptness and lack of conclusion, the confusing aftermath of it all- never did. You try your best to plaster on a smile and be strong in your grandmother’s presence, but that’s easier said than done. Especially when that old house of hers is jam-packed with photos and tokens of your past with him— painful reminders whenever you do visit.

The newest excuse for not is guilt.

Frankly, Gideon is the only one who knows what’s going on. Hah- no surprise, being he was the main reason for your even ordering not-Caleb.

But Gran doesn’t know.

You haven’t told her about him. And after last night, what with your own release still dried to your legs (which wobble slightly; he was every bit passionate and then some), you don’t think you ever will.

She might actually slap you across the face, taking your willingness to believe in such a lie as an offense against her grandson’s vibrant character.

…If she found out what happened- that you opened your legs for him and moaned- she might go into cardiac arrest.

You didn’t… want that to happen, definitely not- I mean, you didn’t even have the time to prepare. But yes, you did let it.

And curse yourself for wanting your brother back, but—

“No, it’s fine, Gran,” you glance over your shoulder to the staircase. Finding it empty, you let out a breath. “Is something wrong? It’s… It’s early.”

—you’d be lying if you said it didn’t feel a little fucking blissful to wake up to his face again, just like back when you were inseparable kids.

She sighs on the other end, “no, no,” she starts. You think you hear a TV in the background; something to fill the silence you leave her to sit in. “Nothing’s wrong, my dear. I just… I haven’t seen you in a bit. I miss your face, Y/n. How are you doing?”

Like a dart to a board, guilt lands its mark.

You shouldn’t fluster at such a simple question, but you do. Not just because it’s so direct and genuine, but because a big hand rests over your shoulder and suddenly Caleb is there, standing behind you.

You straighten up from where you’re propped against the wall and quickly lift a hand to silence any words he may speak.

“I-I’m well, Gran. Sorry, just- I’ll visit soon, I promise.”

“I’d like that,” she murmurs. You’re aware of how much she means it and close your eyes with a wince. A broad palm, as if sensing your inner turmoil, rubs your shoulder soothingly.

You rub the bridge of your nose and don’t look.

“What’s… What’s been keeping you?” She broaches after a beat. Laughter from the television fades in and out over the speaker.

For a second, you freeze. You freeze because you fear she might know.

All for naught: “You’re getting enough sleep, right? I don’t want you overworking yourself. I know you’ve had a lot on your mind, sweetie- oh, God knows we’ve both suffered all these months without Caleb, but that’s no reason for us to fall apart either-”

You sigh shakily and bite down on a cry.

“Yeah, I know. But I’ve been better, Gran, okay? I…” Shiftily, you wet your bottom lip and give a half truth- as if that can relieve you of this weight. “I was talking with Gideon a little; he’s…. he helped me.”

She sounds pleasantly surprised. “Oh? Good, good. What about?”

Nosy as ever. Not that you’re complaining. It’s good to know someone cares- someone… real.

You swallow your unease. “He was just talking to me about his job and stuff. EVER... He told me he was finally getting that raise or whatever, so he’s doing well... I- I was prying per usual,” you joke to lighten the mood, “He, uh… he tells me more than Caleb ever did, so…” (And when his name started to feel like a sin to say, you don’t know.) “So, you know. I was just curious. He was checking in on me, too…”

Warm breath fans at your ear, fingers closing around your shoulder as he peppers kisses at your neck insistently- and you shudder. Clasping the phone tighter (because it suddenly feels unstable in your hands), you shrug off (not)Caleb for just long enough to say,

“Gran- I- I gotta go. Uh- someone else is calling me,” and to preclude any probing on her end- or extra guilt on yours- you add, “I’ll visit tomorrow, okay? I promise. I’ll- I’ll be there. I love you.”

A voice timidly mirrors it back, and then a big set of hands is taking the phone from you and ending the call.

You turn to him with a notch in your brow as he pockets it in the sweats he must’ve hastily thrown on after finding the bed empty.

“Caleb-“

You start, and his lips press to yours.

With some encouragement- hushing you between kisses, knuckling down your cheek affectionately- he shepherds you back upstairs, to your room.

“Nuh-uh, just let me take care of you, pretty girl, ‘kay?” He murmurs, smiling. You could die in peace to it, you think hazily as he lies you down— because the last mental screenshot you took of him before the accident was his handsome face crestfallen after you’d said something scathing.

To your defense, at the time, you thought he’d deserved it. Maybe he did. It’s hard to remember, but whatever the argument was about, it must’ve been stupid. Not worth it.

And… he’s not Caleb, he’s not, you know that, but…

“Lie back. It’s… It’s just you and me here. I want you to know that. And everyone else-“

(Gran, you realize he must mean; Gideon and all the other familiar and unfamiliar faces both at EVER.)

“None of it matters now. Just focus on me. On Caleb.”

(And how eerie is that? You muse with a whit of your rationale. The rest, as it withers, perhaps only does so for the sake of your own sanity.)

The whole world as it stands: nudged away to oblivion at his behest.

“O-Okay,” you give.

He’s not Caleb. But if this is your best- only- shot at reconciliation, then you’ll take him with arms open.

…

When he’s done priming you, he clambers on top and you experience a repeat of last night.

Deja vu, as fresh as a wound reopened, makes your mind lag a few increments behind reality. But when he starts to slow down, thrusts growing sloppy- it feels oddly real, and, head a bit clearer than last night, you register that.

…But it’s your release that stains the sheets. Steadily trickling from your hole, slicking his hips. It only makes sense that way; he might fuck like a human, but that’s all inherent to his program, you’re sure, built to please- and ultimately, he’s made of metal. Rods. You think you can feel them when you grab too tight, that hardness.

He leads you to the proverbial end of the cliff, and you survey the bottom one last time before- geronimo- you make that final leap.

When not-Caleb comes, he shudders in your arms.

Yet you swear… You swear something inside him, behind his lidded eyes, deeper in-

It’s like it shutters.

A flash. Brief and jarring, for a moment so bright it’s like your eyes have been virginal to light all along.

Just a malfunction, you decide with a spent sigh, sweaty in his solid arms as they make a cage around you, eager to sleep until noon.

Maybe you’ll mention it to Gideon next time he drops by.

Maybe he would know how to fix it.

✦

The days that follow after are foggy and empty. Like a moratorium of everything that once breathed in your life.

You wreathe not-Caleb’s neck with that beloved apple-shaped locket like he’s earned it.

Knowing nobody ever could.

✦

Gideon knocks, one afternoon.

You send him away. Or- Caleb does.

At that, you feel the need to remind him of who he is: the people he cares for, his career path, how he operated as a person before the incident in his suite in Skyhaven.

Caleb stops you short, a palm dwarfing the back of your own, and says I know. I just don’t want my buddy interrupting our time together, Pipsqueak. Can you blame me for wantin’ it to be just you and me?

You stop going out.

He doesn’t let you- not really. I mean, he doesn’t explicitly declare these rules over you, but it’s in the strange glint in his eye- the one that makes you shut your mouth and purse your lips- when he stops you at the door and suggests you stay.

Says it’s better that way. Says he worries whenever you go. Says to take him with you instead if you really must.

Progressively, you’re drifting farther and farther out from shore. Mentally-speaking, you’re going off the deep end. But exiting your house hand-in-hand with your brother- the man the town declared dead in an email you couldn’t bear to finish reading- as he stares at you like a lover, is, no matter the ache, something you can’t quite bring yourself to do.

It’d make this illusion just a smidgen realer. You’d never wake from this dream if other people saw it- saw him- and therefore made his presence more solid in your mind. (Not to mention the disgusting assumptions they’d make- none exactly wrong.)

You’ve been so consumed by grief lately, though, that the knowing of your imminent breakdown can’t stop you from making other bad choices.

So when the brunet altogether bars you from going out in public for the fear that something bad will happen to you (nonsensical; not that he sees the flaws in his arguments), insisting that groceries can be bought online, Gran can be checked up on over the phone, etcetera—

Yeah, you bend to it, alright? Sue you. Of course you bend. It’s all you know what to do anymore.

Gradually, though, the unexpected charm of not-Caleb begins to fade, and you’re left with a possessive form of the brother you once knew. A man desperately clawing at straws, hellbent to keep you at his side, clingy and insecure and, frankly, sometimes scary.

As the inaccuracies build, you’re not sure for how much longer you can overlook them.

The only reason you even tolerated him originally was because he was passable. More than that, even- he was perfect. A dead-ringer for Caleb in both appearance and personality.

But this-

This isn’t Caleb. No longer. It never was.

You don’t believe it for a second.

You heave a soft sigh. Anything louder than a breath brings the chance that he’ll overhear from where he stands in the kitchen and come zipping over, no doubt ready to fret and question you. If you value your time alone- rare as it is these days- then you’ll stay silent.

It’s a near impossible task to separate yourself from him. It was a small miracle in itself that you managed to break away for half an hour or so- but even that was begat by a lie. It seems the only real way to rid yourself of the overly doting, obsessive older brother (even if just for a few minutes) is to give him another demand. This time, it was an ‘I’m hungry’ that finally earned you some peace and quiet.

It’s a little sad, but lately you treat him more or less like a jacket after entering a warm home: you’re eager to shrug him off because the climate has changed.

The climate has changed.

He- He’s changed.

He’s growingly insane and yes, while the irony of that observation isn’t lost on you (considering you’re the mad woman who bought a human-like robot as a replacement in the first place), you still can’t help but feel alarmed as the signs of wrongness don’t cease but worsen.

You think about pressing the button. Turning him off, sending him away.

Hell, maybe you’d just dump him in the communal trash receptacles out back. Leave him there in a human-shaped bag for the garbage men to come and squint at before hauling away like junk.

…Because he is junk, right? No different than a crumb on the floor, you’d once said.

Perhaps you’ve lost it.

The section of your brain responsible for caring must’ve shut off, though, because it’s currently hard to feel much of anything.

…But there, like a soft stirring (or the voice of God as it whispered to Elijah)- you can sense it. That feeling is reminiscent of a survival instinct, or a watered-down version of it to tired nerves, breathing down the back of your neck where hackles rise—

What are you doing here?

The dream begins to fissure in real-time when Caleb (not-Caleb, you harshly remind yourself) cheerfully patters into the living room where you sit, helpful as ever, and his eye flashes as it settles on you. No different than a camera would.

The food looks delicious, per usual- you’d expect nothing less of your brother or even the robotic copy of him- but as nausea churns in your belly and you jolt upright, slapping a hand over your mouth as you run to the bathroom, nothing can save your appetite.

You shakily lock the door- but he’s knocking in an instant, worried.

You always did melt at his bleeding heart. Too often, men, especially the bigger of them, fell under the persuasion of apathy. Yet your gege was always different, always sweet, always gentle and patient and- yeah, okay, sometimes he was a touch mean, teasing to a fault- sometimes to the point of tears on your end as he quickly tried to right his wrongs- but he was preciously yours.

And he was real.

Dammit, he was fucking real-

He was alive and emotionally tangible in a way that this awful fucking hunk of metal is not and never will be—

“Pipsqueak-? Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Let me in. A-Are you not feeling well?” His words crack when you say nothing, dutifully ignoring him.

“Y/n… Let me in. Please-! don’t leave me alone, don’t go.” His voice becomes ragged, raw, the longer you don’t answer. Boyish in its vulnerability. “Stay- Stay here with me.”

By God your soul splinters down the middle. But you don’t answer. You- You can’t.

You throw your lunch up in the toilet and then your back against the wall, sliding down it with your hands over your ears like a child.

You don’t care, if he’s shouting and beating at the door, on the brink of hysteria like you’ve heard only once or twice when he was a boy too soft for his own good- you don’t care- you don’t care—

You sit there until he short-circuits out and thuds to the floor.

You flinch when he does.

Only then, however, do you tiptoe out- careful lest you trigger some internal response from him- to quickly pull on a hoodie and put your hair up, locking the front door behind you.

You don’t know for how long he’ll be conked out, but if luck is on your side, it’ll be for long enough to run to the local corner store and buy a pregnancy test.

You know you’re losing it, the little sanity you had left after your brother passed— misreading a common cold for a veritable child swelling in your womb.

It’s laughable: using your sleeve (another old piece of his clothing you ‘borrowed’, never to be returned) to dot away the tears at your lashline, you do laugh on the short trek to the convenience store.

But if not a reminder that you really are going crazy, losing control, then at least it’s just an opportunity to get some fresh air for a bit, right?

(…You also know that the first step to regaining back said control is to say goodbye to not-Caleb.

As it stands, though, you’re just-

You were never ready.)

✦

Two pink lines.

The thing clatters to the bathroom floor, and you along with it.

You sink to your knees and the white walls surrounding you feel more like an asylum than a space in your own house- because yes, you must be delusional. This is the final nail in the coffin.

But this- this can’t be right. It’s impossible. In the strictest sense of the word it’s impossible!

Heavy feet traipse in the kitchen; the livingroom; the hall, searching for you with faint, candied beckons of your name.

You rub your face as if to feel the color as it seeps from your complexion, and tell yourself that you’ve positively lost it as you thoughtlessly choose one of the corners to slump into, hyperventilating.

You’ll- you’ll send it back to EVER... You’ll send it back and forget and move on. You’ll move on. You’ll stop grieving, you’ll squirrel away your fraying, final memories of Caleb like you did all those precious photos in that old shoebox in your closet.

You’ll-…

A breath. The fan whirs.

The faucet, going full-blast, sputters, effectively drowning out the sounds you make as air becomes a tricky thing to intake; thick enough to choke on.

You’ll throw yourself into the fifth stage of grief then crawl out the other side of it if that’s what it takes to undo this fucking reality you’re lost in-

“Pipsqueak?” A hand on your shoulder.

Broad, big. A little weathered.

But gentle always. Gentle always. Just like you remember. Just like when Caleb meant Caleb; not the big glorified toy that walks and acts like him as an admittedly convincing, yet ultimately faux locum.

Your heart stills, hanging pendant in your chest. You swing from that uncertainty. By God you’d beat that handsome face in- oh, but by God would you kiss it, too.

The door sways on its hinge by splintered fragments, creaking behind the brunet.

Timidly, you lift your head over your shoulder to meet his eye where he towers behind you, violet hues softening with concern. They drift lower, honing in on the little item by your knee, wayward.

He coos immediately, enveloping you in his strong arms.

The feeling- it’s not exactly like that of the one you’d get while swimming in a hot tub, engulfed in its steaming waters, but it’s not too far off either. You let him hold you, unseeing as he all but sings in your ear, and restore the warmth to your bones.

Like a dead thing, or prey, you hang limp in his firm grasp. Terribly uncertain.

“Shh…” he croons, and you only realize a belated moment later that you’re crying. Hard and ugly.

He pets down your hair, ever the comforter, and as you press your head against his barrel chest it’s almost like you can hear a faint whirring in lieu of a heartbeat- speedy but low.

Unreal. Unreal. But then how-?

Perhaps you’ve lost it.

“We’ll figure it out together, honey,” you think it’s a barely concealed smile you register at the crown of your head, pasting down a kiss. “But no more cryin’, okay? I can’t stand to see you like this… Let me draw you a bath, hm? I’ll light some candles and we can talk about it. But don’t be scared. This is… such good news,” and then he laughs- a boyish, marveling little laugh that digs deep into your heart and twists.

The button, between his breastbone, just out of reach, glows faintly through his shirt.

For a moment you’re ready to press it like a player would on a game show— with urgency— but you blink and see those two pink lines searing themselves into your conscience.

Defeatedly, you shut your eyes. But you don’t shut him off.

✦

With Caleb preparing dinner, you’re able to slip away one evening for long enough to call Gran.

For worried friends and relatives, your voicemail box is becoming quite the hotbed- but among them, your grandmother is the priority.

Propping yourself by the sliding glass door, you brush back the curtain and look out to the small, cookie-cutter yard as you accept the call. Not without a shaky breath to prepare you, though; it’s been over a month since your last visit, and while your calls haven’t been quite as behind, you still wince a bit every time her contact pops up.

You want to tell her.

If not about Caleb, then at least the small bump forming beneath your oversized lounge shirt. There’s excuses for it- ones to be frowned upon, yes, but they’d be believable nonetheless. Obviously, a pregnancy is not something as simple to hide as a robot you can turn on and off and, if needed, stuff in the coat closet until the coast is clear.

You want to tell her. But-

You purse your lips, answering, “Hey Gran.”

The tone of her voice, frazzled and barely holding together, sends a chill down your spine.

“Y/n- where have you been? Is everything okay? I’ve been- I’ve been calling all afternoon.”

You digest that information with a quirk of your brow, scanning across the lawn outside, and a thick swallow.

There’s the voicemails, sure; it was only two nights ago you were poring over them all and holding back tears of guilt. But this afternoon? It was quiet- almost blissfully so, spent curled up to Caleb’s chest on the sofa as you watched an old favorite movie and he happily fed you fruit-flavored candies from his hand every so often.

Nobody called, let alone multiple times. You’re sure of it.

“Gran- what? No, I’m fine. What’s wrong?” You start, tossing a nervous glance behind you, internally grateful that Caleb’s absent humming while he chopped veggies was too distant for the phone to pick up.

She blusters out, apropos of nothing, “Is he there with you?”

Something in you stills.

“Y/n- is he there with you?”

An abnormal rush of blood to your ears and a murmur of your heart as you stand confused. The fingers curled around your phone case jitter.

You hold it closer to your ear.

“What? What are you talking about? I-Is who here with me?”

Does she- There’s no fucking chance- does she know?

How?

Chest thumping, your pulse fluttering in the column of your throat as it bobs uncertainly, you begin to wonder to yourself if this is the time you come clean, lay all your sins out like cards on a table. Make the confession.

Push has come to shove, you think. And fuck if you know where all this is coming from on her end, if Gideon told her or she just miraculously put two and two together or-

An exhale on her end, shaking on its way out.

“Were you not told? Dear-“ she broaches, louder, more firm— and this is just milliseconds before the world as you know it- the one you freed of your hands and let reshape itself around a delicate delusion- buckles at the knees. It’s right before you do, too.

“They found him. They found Caleb.”

That breath, right afterward of her telling you, is like the first one after drowning.

Your eyes widen as you break the surface.

His- His body. The tinny footage they dredged up from the area showed he entered his home, but after the explosion, there was no sign of him, no ash no corpse no nothing— So you don’t know how the hell they managed to recover his pieces, let alone after they already ran clean-up crews through the charred infrastructure and hosed it down- but you’re hysterical at the news.

You were cruelly forced, all along, to just assume he’d been burned to nothingness.

So you don’t even care about the how. How it’s possible or how this is happening after several months of white noise and hurting on your end— you don’t care.

You were made to come to terms with his death, and you did, at most, acknowledge it- but evidently, you could never quite accept it.

…If this is your final chance to say goodbye- even if it just means peering over a metal table in the morgue as he lies disheveled, hardly recognizable under a sheet- so fucking be it.

You’ll say goodbye if it kills you.

“What-? Where- where?” Your tone reflects as much, urgent as you stagger over to the sofa, nearly tripping as you reach for the jacket slung over the arm.

“I-Im coming,” you croak out, words failing you as the velvety carpet feels like mud beneath your bare feet- hard to walk across, every step making you feel like a baby taking its first ones.

One second you’re navigating a truth so unbelievable it’s near violent as it barrels into you; in the next, you’re collapsing under the weight of it, too caught up in your own scrambling for your keys and the door to even think of not-Caleb.

Gran goes to timidly say something, but your ears are shot and you quickly interject, “Let me get dressed- I-I’ll be there! Is he at the morgue?”

“Oh, no, honey,” she quavers out, “He’s alive. The town just messaged me; they made a mistake with his death certificate- they’re revoking it as we speak. He’s in Skyhaven.”

The phone drops to the floor.

And then that, too, gives way beneath you.

…It’s good a helping hand is there for you, then. Shouldering your weight without prompting- fretful as he confiscates the device, no different than a teacher with an unruly student, swiftly disconnecting the call.

It tuts in your ear, but- more sober than you’ve ever been- you can only note the sympathy practically dripping from its tone for what it really is: the upshot of its near immaculate programming as it mimics your considerate gege to a T.

Not-Caleb noses against your nape and sighs.

Mutely, you wind a hand, tottering, uncoordinated fingers and all, behind your back to grope along his chest—

He easily gathers both your wrists in his palm, “hey now,” turning you around. He lifts your knuckles up for a chaste kiss, watching you intently all the while.

A cold weight settles over you, soaking you through like meat left overnight to marinate. From the kitchen, stirfry sizzles in the pan. A few moments more of it and the smoke detectors will fire off.

…He just leans in to peck your forehead though, deaf to the sirens you hear wailing in your head, having mastered the art of playing dumb long ago.

He murmurs, as cloying as cake frosting, “C’mon, Pipsqueak, let’s go eat. Dinner’ll be done in just a sec. I made one of your favorites. After that, we can sit around the couch and brainstorm some more names for the baby- what d’you think?”

Flukes, malfunctions, glitches— no; Not-Caleb, you realize right then, ceasing to blink as you stare at its prototype through the shifting lens head-on, was never flawed.

“…But you’re not leavin’, not to him.”

The real one was.

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, + 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 ♡

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luffsdolly · 2 months ago

Text

holy shit this is actually so fucking good (i’m sorry i have no covab but it’s so good im resorting to swearing)

LADS: Sent them LEWDS in public

Summary: The LADS have left you feeling neglected, so you decide to teach them a lesson. What happens when you send them lewds while they're in public? MDNI! (Suggestive, not explicit.) This was a silly piece, and my first "all LADs" fic!

It had been three entire days since your usually-charming upstairs neighbor decided to treat you like you’d committed some unforgivable crime.

And for what?

A tiny, perfectly reasonable suggestion.

All you’d done was gently imply—alright, maybe not that gently—that it might be insanely hot if Xavier wore the Lumierre mask while you did things to him that were definitely, unequivocally illegal in at least six countries.

Instead of pouncing on you right then and there, like a sane person, he'd looked at you with such profound horror you'd genuinely thought for a moment you’d accidentally confessed to murder. Without saying a word, he’d turned on his heel, and left. He actually just left you standing there, mouth open, dignity bruised, libido unsatisfied.

And now it had been three full days of absolute silence.

Three days of radio static—no texts, no teasing smiles across patrol, nothing. He'd even swapped shifts just to dodge seeing you, the dramatic bastard. Last night, you'd even tried peace offerings in the form of his favorite takeout, and he’d ignored that too!

Enough was enough.

Jealous of his own alter ego? That was the most ridiculous thing you'd ever heard. But fine. If Xavier wanted to act like a sulky teenager, you'd make sure to treat him like one.

War was officially declared.

You found him at headquarters, slumped in a chair after your patrol with Tara, looking every bit as miserable as he deserved to be. He was nibbling half-heartedly on a powdered-sugar donut, his posture screaming “pathetic” in a way that almost made you soften—almost.

His eyes flicked upward, briefly met yours, and then darted away guiltily, the tips of his ears turning pink beneath his silver hair. Oh, he was absolutely not ready for the diabolical storm about to descend upon him.

"Hey there, stranger," you purred sweetly, flashing him your most innocent smile. "Thinking hot pot tonight? You in?"

Xavier stared at you like you’d grown a second head, his eyes wide and dark as he slowly drew the powdered sugar-coated tip of his thumb into his mouth, sucking it clean. For one charged, heart-stopping second, you thought he might break—then he yanked his gaze away, finger removed from his lips.

“There’s a... briefing,” he mumbled lamely, shuffling awkwardly toward the conference room door.

Your stomach dropped. Oh, he was really doubling down, wasn’t he?

Fine. If that’s how he wanted to play it, you’d come prepared. You had nuclear-level ammo today, and Xavier didn’t stand a chance.

Game on, Bunny Boy.

You followed him into the conference room, watching with disbelief as he strategically wedged himself between two occupied seats. Seriously?

With a dramatic sigh, you slid into the empty chair directly opposite him. If he thought refusing to look at you would save him, he was tragically mistaken.

The other hunters filed in, and Jenna began her usual monotone spiel about mission updates and statistics. You tuned her out instantly, your entire focus zeroed in on Xavier, whose azure eyes remained stubbornly glued to Jenna, as though looking anywhere else—especially at you—would ignite him on literal fire.

You knew him far too well for that. You knew exactly how difficult it was for him not to glance your way; you could practically feel him sweating from across the room.

Still, not even a single glance?

Well, he’d asked for it.

Carefully lowering your phone beneath the table, shielding the screen from wandering eyes, you scrolled through your collection of explicit selfies from last night. You’d planned these as playful rewards for when he finally apologized, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

And oh, the pièce de résistance.

There you were, wearing Lumiere's iconic costume, the shirt wide open to expose your bare breasts, nipples stiff and tempting. Your hand disappeared suggestively down the pants, fingertips teasingly hidden but clearly busy, eyes glassy with desire, lips parted as if mid-moan. It was raw. It was filthy. It was fucking perfect.

Smirking, you quickly typed your killing blow:

You: If you won’t be Lumiere, then I guess I’ll have to be.

Send.

Exactly five seconds passed between the delivery of your message and the moment Xavier's soul visibly departed from his body.

Across the conference room, Xavier shifted casually in his chair, pulled out his phone like it was nothing—and froze.

For a full second, you swore he stopped breathing altogether.

Then, as though hit by a delayed gunshot, he jolted violently enough that his knee smacked hard against the underside of the conference table.

THUD.

Coffee cups rattled dangerously. A rookie hunter squeaked embarrassingly. Jenna stopped mid-sentence, arching an eyebrow, thoroughly unimpressed.

“Xavier? Everything alright?”

Xavier opened his mouth, managed no sound, then tried again. “Fine,” he croaked weakly, voice cracking like he was thirteen again. “Just—leg cramp. Muscle...spasm. Sudden. Carry on.”

Jenna stared at him, the kind of look that clearly said she wasn't paid enough for whatever this was, before continuing her report without further comment.

But Xavier was fucked, and he knew it. Under the table, his hand fumbled desperately—obviously attempting, and spectacularly failing, to discreetly adjust his hardening cock. His breathing turned shallow, ragged, as though he’d just sliced through a thousand wanderers.

For several minutes you almost broke skin from biting your knuckle so hard, trying not to laugh. You expected to get some sort of reaction, but when it came to Xavier--you didn't expect THAT.

At last, he risked a glance in your direction.

The look he shot you was homicidal—wild, desperate, furious lust etched into every tense line of his body.

You offered him your most innocent smile.

Slowly, deliberately, you tilted your head just slightly.

Bit your lower lip.

Then, clearly and slowly enough for him to read your lips across the room, you mouthed:

“Call me Lumiere.”

Xavier’s palm slammed down on the table with a loud crack, making the rookie beside him choke on her coffee and Jenna stop mid-sentence again.

He stood abruptly—violently—his chair sliding backwards and hitting the wall behind him. “I—uh—emergency!” he stammered, voice strained with panic. “Personal emergency!”

Without another word, he practically sprinted out of the conference room, leaving confused whispers in his wake.

Seconds later, your phone buzzed violently in your hand.

Xavier: Elevator. Now. If you can still walk when I’m done with you, consider it a miracle.

A wicked grin slowly spread across your lips.

He was going to lose his mind when you showed up in the elevator already wearing his mask.

And you absolutely couldn’t wait.

You: Hey handsome. Come home and ruin my life a little? ❤️ Zayne: Saving actual lives, sweetheart. You’ll survive. Probably. You: Survival’s not guaranteed if you keep ignoring me. 😔 Zayne: Drink water. Do stretches. Think loving thoughts. You: My “loving thoughts” involve you naked and tied to a chair, FYI. Zayne: Medical emergency. Gotta go. Stop being trouble. You: No. 😇

You glared at your phone, dramatically collapsing face-first onto the couch with a frustrated groan. The cushions absorbed your grumbled curses, muffling your irritation. How many more nights had to be like this?

Fine. If Doctor Li was determined to pretend you didn't exist, you'd simply make yourself impossible to ignore.

You'd show him exactly what happened when he neglected his duties.

With determination and a mischievous gleam in your eye, you slipped into Akso Hospital, wearing your most convincing “definitely not about to do something reckless” expression. A few polite smiles later, you found yourself safely behind the door of Zayne’s private office.

Perfect.

The white coat hung invitingly from the hook on the wall, proudly embroidered with his name. With a small, affectionate smile, you ran your fingertips lovingly over the stitching. He’d earned every letter there—but he was going to have to earn you now.

You slipped out of your clothes, discarding them neatly on a nearby chair, and draped yourself in the crisp, cool white fabric. Buttoning exactly one button beneath your bust to tease rather than conceal, you placed his stethoscope around your neck, letting the cold metal rest suggestively between your bare breasts.

Then, perched casually against his desk, you carefully spread your thighs—just indecent enough—and snapped a photo.

You: I need a consultation, Doctor. I’m experiencing severe symptoms of neglect. 🖤

Send.

Meanwhile, Upstairs in the Boardroom

Zayne was enduring yet another agonizingly dull briefing on surgical budgeting, politely nodding at appropriate intervals and maintaining just enough eye contact to appear interested.

His phone buzzed softly. A quick glance to silence it, and—

He froze.

The image filled his screen with obscene clarity: You, half-naked beneath his white coat, lounging seductively on his desk. His heartbeat surged violently, blood roaring in his ears.

"—increase the budget allocation for anesthesiology—"

Zayne heard nothing.

His mind was busy unraveling.

"Dr. Li?" the hospital director asked, peering at him over her glasses. "You seem… distracted."

He stood abruptly, chair wobbling dangerously behind him. "Emergency page," he announced, voice crisp and convincing.

He didn’t even bother looking at his pager.

Without another word, he strode out, urgency radiating from him as he practically sprinted toward his office.

He burst through the door—and stopped short.

There you were, a living fantasy: draped across his workspace like an erotic muse, fingers leisurely twirling his stethoscope. You looked outrageously smug and impossibly beautiful.

"Doctor," you purred sweetly, batting your lashes with a smirk, "I've been incredibly patient, but I'm afraid my condition is deteriorating."

Zayne exhaled heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose in mock-suffering. "You," he murmured with exaggerated weariness, eyes shining with reluctant amusement, "are an absolute nightmare."

He crossed the room in three confident strides, trapping you firmly between his arms as he braced himself on either side of your hips. The warmth of his body pressed intimately close, sending sparks rippling across your skin.

"But," he continued softly, voice dipping lower, "you're my nightmare."

Your grin widened, eyes sparkling triumphantly.

He brushed his nose gently against yours, mouth hovering dangerously close. "Now," he breathed, warm and teasing against your lips, "are you ready for a proper examination?"

His hands slid up your shoulders, skillful fingers hooking into the edges of the white coat. With a single swift movement, he stripped it from you, letting it pool loosely at your elbows. You gasped softly at the sudden exposure, your bare skin instantly heated under his heavy, possessive gaze.

He tugged the stethoscope gently but firmly, tightening it just enough to elicit another soft gasp from you. His lips curled wickedly.

"Because, sweetheart," he whispered hungrily, "I’m afraid I’ll need to be… extremely thorough."

Just as his mouth brushed against yours, the door swung open sharply.

"Dr. Li, I just wanted to—"

Yvonne froze mid-step. Her eyes widened comically, mouth falling open in pure shock.

You froze.

Zayne froze.

The three of you stood locked in a perfect tableau: you, nearly naked on his desk; Zayne gripping the stethoscope like a leash; and poor Yvonne wishing desperately she could melt into the carpet.

The awkward silence stretched unbearably—until you broke it with a cheerful, mortifyingly casual, "Hey, Yvonne."

Yvonne sputtered, her cheeks blazing scarlet. "I—uh—meeting—I’ll—clear your schedule, Doctor Li—sorry—!" She whirled around and fled, the door slamming so hard a framed diploma nearly toppled off the wall.

Quiet filled the room once more.

Slowly, you turned your gaze back to Zayne, prepared for irritation or embarrassment in his expression. Instead, what you saw in his eyes made your stomach clench and your knees weaken.

He looked feral.

His eyes were dark with barely controlled hunger, the curve of his mouth twisted into a dangerous smirk. A low, rich chuckle escaped him—broken and beautiful—and then he captured your lips in a fierce kiss that left you absolutely breathless.

When he pulled away, his breath was ragged.

"You," he rasped, voice low and trembling with the effort of restraint, "have absolutely no idea what you just unleashed."

His fingers tangled into your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your face upward, exposing your throat. A startled, eager whimper escaped you as he guided you firmly down onto your knees, the cool metal of the stethoscope tightening once more around your neck, holding you in place, keeping you under his control.

"Now," Zayne murmured roughly, gently tracing your jawline with his thumb, eyes blazing with a promise that sent liquid heat pooling between your thighs, "about your consultation…"

He stroked your lower lip with the pad of his thumb, his eyes heavy and intensely focused on your form beneath him.

"Open wide, sweetheart," he whispered darkly. "Doctor’s orders."

He hadn't even noticed you were there.

Or if he had, he certainly wasn't showing it.

Rafayel moved through the exhibit like a reluctant storm—sharp smiles that didn't quite reach his eyes, quick jokes tossed over his shoulder, and half-hearted acknowledgments to anyone who cornered him. He was the living embodiment of forced politeness, an artist enduring the social equivalent of nails scraping down a chalkboard.

And god, he hated every second of it.

You knew it just by watching him: the tight set of his jaw, the slight twitch at the corner of his eye every time some fawning critic called him "brilliant" or "a visionary." The fake laughter he forced out sounded so pained that you cringed inwardly each time you heard it.

He wasn't here by choice. He was here because Thomas begged him to be. Sweet, desperate Thomas—his manager, friend, and occasional babysitter—had guilted him into playing nice. Apparently, being cursed with raw talent also came with mandatory public suffering.

But still, you had shown up tonight for him.

You'd dressed up, hopeful and ready to support him, a little nervous, and just a touch eager to catch his attention. He'd been busy with this exhibit for weeks, leaving you missing him terribly. A few texts back and forth proved he'd been working himself thin, so your attendance hopefully meant a lot to him. You imagined his face lighting up, maybe an overly dramatic embrace to embarrass you in public, something to make this exhausting night worth it.

But nothing like that happened.

Instead, you lingered awkwardly at the edges, becoming increasingly invisible with each passing minute. Every time you tried to approach him, some insufferable curator or overly-enthusiastic fan intercepted. A handshake here, a selfie there, a monologue about color theory that visibly drained Rafayel’s soul just listening to it.

Your heart sank lower with every failed attempt to reach him.

It felt ridiculous—standing alone, unnoticed, in a crowd full of people fawning over him. The ache settled deep in your chest, frustration twisting alongside a quiet, embarrassed loneliness. You knew he adored you in his own chaotic way, but in this moment, you felt utterly forgotten.

Before your pride could stop you, your hand slipped into your clutch, pulling out your phone. Your thumb hesitated, hovering over the screen.

You'd taken the photo a few days earlier. You’d laughed nervously, painting your body with cheap market paints, giggling as vibrant colors ran together, messy but charming in their chaos. Beautiful hues smeared across your naked skin. A self portrait with loving marks made only for him. You'd planned it as a playful reward for him, a private gift to congratulate him on surviving this night. Something so vulnerable and silly, you just knew he'd affectionately tease you about it...

But right now, it felt more like an act of desperation—maybe even your last chance to salvage your hurt feelings.

You attached the picture, pausing only a second to consider your message before typing something hopeful and just slightly teasing:

You: If only I’d had an artist’s touch when I made this… 🎨

Send.

There. It was done. Now, you could let him have his night. Your stomach twisted anxiously as you turned toward the exit. You wouldn't wait around feeling sorry for yourself any longer. And you absolutely were not going to cry.

Definitely not.

You were halfway to the door when you heard the distinct sound of glass shattering against marble flooring.

You whipped around just in time to see Rafayel frozen stiffly, staring down at his fallen champagne flute, the shattered glass glittering beneath his shoes like fragments of a broken sculpture. His phone still glowed in his hand, the faint light of your photo illuminating his wide-eyed, stunned expression.

For a moment, the gallery seemed suspended in time. Even Thomas stopped mid-sentence, mouth half-open, staring at Rafayel with alarm.

Then Rafayel slowly lifted his gaze, eyes dark with delicious chaotic delight.

He clapped his hands sharply, making several attendees jump. "Alright, show's over, everyone!" he declared with startling cheerfulness.

Music screeched to a stop. Confused murmurs rippled through the crowd. Thomas sputtered helplessly, pushing forward in a panic. "Raf, what are you doing? Are you out of your—?"

"Emergency inspiration, Thomas," Rafayel interrupted smoothly, flashing a grin that promised chaos. "Artist emergency. Clear out these art vultures before I start tossing them myself."

He began herding the stunned crowd toward the doors like an overly enthusiastic sheep dog, casually waving away protests, ignoring horrified gasps, and outright laughing at anyone who demanded explanations.

In a matter of minutes, the gallery emptied completely, leaving you alone and slightly bewildered in the silent aftermath.

Before you could fully process what had just happened, Rafayel stormed across the gallery--intense eyes locked on yours, grabbing your wrist with gentle but firm insistence and pulling you toward one of the large, blank canvases still hanging on the far wall.

"Raf—" you began, but he pressed you lightly against the canvas, caging you in with his body. His breath was ragged, eyes intense and impossibly full as they traced your features with more affection than he'd ever shown you before.

"You," he whispered fiercely, voice low and roughened with barely contained emotion, "are the only masterpiece I've ever given a damn about."

His fingers toyed with the hem of your dress, teasingly lifting the fabric inch by torturous inch. "And clearly," he continued, mouth twitching with a teasing laugh, "you're in desperate need of a professional’s touch.”

It had been a week.

Seven miserable days of cryptic texts, all maddeningly brief and patronizing:

Sylus: Stay in tonight. Sylus: Miss you, kitten. Sylus: Be good.

No calls. No visits. Not even one infuriatingly charming late-night voicemail. Instead, your only visitor was Mephisto—the world’s most judgmental mechanical crow—who showed up at ungodly hours, tapping insistently at your window like he had something important to say but was choosing not to out of spite.

You hated this.

You missed Sylus with an intensity that bordered on psychosis. You simultaneously wanted to punch him in the mouth for ignoring your messages and pull him close and kiss him senseless for texting back. He was stubborn, distant, and maddeningly secretive—qualities that normally drew you to him, but right now were driving you toward sweet, reckless revenge.

When Mephisto landed again, this time eyeing you from the balcony railing like a gothic hall monitor, you decided enough was enough.

Sylus had left you unsupervised for far too long—and it was time he faced the delicious consequences.

You picked up the sleek black helmet he’d given you weeks ago. Custom-designed, glossy, stylish, perfectly fitted—an extravagant gift he'd tried (and failed) to dismiss as "just something practical." You’d teased him mercilessly about it, delighting in how he blushed faintly at your enthusiastic reaction.

Tonight, the helmet would serve another purpose entirely.

Pulling it on, you stripped off everything else, relishing the cool air and the way goosebumps prickled your bare skin. You sprawled across the bed, posed shamelessly, legs parted just enough to tease, fingers strategically hiding the most explicit details—but only just. The helmet gleamed wickedly, a striking contrast to your exposed body.

You snapped the photo.

With a satisfied smirk, you sent it off to Sylus, accompanied by the provocative caption:

You: Your kitten needs to play. 🐾

Send.

Deep within the heart of N109’s black market, Sylus stood at the head of a long metal table, staring coolly down a collection of men who looked like they'd stepped straight out of a wanted poster. Between them sat a precarious amount of glowing modified Protocores and weaponry—dangerous, volatile, and profoundly expensive.

Negotiations were quiet. Civilized, even, in that uniquely criminal way where civility masked a very real promise of bloodshed.

Sylus’s phone buzzed softly against the metal table. He ignored it, expression unreadable, shoulders loose, hands relaxed as though he had all the time in the world.

It buzzed again. Insistent. Demanding attention.

With a subtle sigh, he flicked open the screen, casually glancing down to silence whoever dared interrupt—

And his world halted.

Your photo filled the display, bold and stunning enough to seize every thought in his head. You sprawled like an absolute vision, sleek helmet shining, bare skin lush and inviting, fingers barely covering the part of you he now desperately wished they weren’t hiding. His breath stopped in his chest as he licked his lips.

The room felt suddenly suffocating.

His energy surged, raw and unchecked, in a way it hadn't in years—and certainly never over something as trivial as a photograph.

The modified protocores, hyper-sensitive to his Evol fluctuations, immediately picked up on the spike.

Then—

BOOM.

An entire weapons crate erupted, shards of protocores and sparks exploding outward in a brilliant shower of chaos. The table overturned. Gangsters screamed and dove for cover. The lights flickered violently, plunging the room into smoke-filled confusion. Someone yelled about assassins, another fired a panicked shot into the ceiling, and Luke and Kieran hit the floor with twin yelps.

"Holy shit, did boss do that on purpose?!" Luke shrieked from behind a smoldering crate.

Kieran coughed and laughed simultaneously, cackling, "Nah, you didn't see that look? He only looks like that when she's involved!"

Amid the destruction, Sylus stood unmoving, ruby eyes still transfixed on the intimate image before him. Smoke curled gently from the scorched edge of his coat, a faint dusting of ash settling into his white hair. His expression remained as calm and impenetrable as a marble statue.

One gangster staggered up to him, pale and trembling, clutching a bloody hand. "What the fuck was that, Sylus? Are you double-crossing us? Was this a hit—?"

Sylus didn't bother replying. He simply tucked the phone smoothly into his pocket, brushed off his sleeve, and fixed the shaking man with a flat stare.

"Emergency recall," he said calmly.

While alarms screamed and half the warehouse burned around him, Sylus turned to Luke and Kieran and said:

"Handle it."

Without looking back at the smoking ruins behind him, Sylus walked away, leaving a roomful of criminals sputtering in disbelief.

At home, you’d fallen asleep waiting for a reply, curled up and still helmet-clad, when the apartment door slammed open so violently you bolted upright, startled and blinking.

Sylus stood in the doorway, looking like he’d just survived an apocalypse—jacket scorched, boots dusty, eyes blazing and utterly unhinged. He kicked the door shut without a backward glance, filling the room with his overpowering presence.

"You probably got someone killed tonight, Kitten," he drawled, voice deceptively mild.

You snorted softly, waving him off with a playful roll of your eyes. "Oh, sure. I'm deadly, alright."

His expression didn't change, though his eyes darkened with intensity that sent a sudden thrill down your spine. He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, a predator approaching prey that hadn't yet realized it was caught.

"I’m serious," he said softly, voice low and edged with dangerous amusement. "Two crates of weapons and Protocores exploded, half the black market nearly burned down, and I'm fairly certain at least one idiot accidentally shot himself in the foot."

You blinked, momentarily uncertain—then burst into bright laughter, your amusement echoing brightly through the darkness of the room. "Oh please," you said, still giggling. "Sylus, that's ridiculous."

He didn’t laugh. Instead, he reached for your helmet, carefully slipping it off and tossing it aside like an unnecessary barrier between you. His hands braced firmly on either side of you, trapping you effortlessly beneath him.

His Evol energy crackled lightly against your skin, prickling warmth everywhere he hovered close, setting your nerves alight.

"You have absolutely no idea," Sylus murmured, nuzzling softly against your temple, his voice dark and gentle as velvet against your ear, "the sheer havoc you wreak inside me."

Your breath hitched, laughter melting into something softer, warmer, undeniably affectionate.

"You came," you finally whisper into his ear. "You could have just texted me back," you teased gently, eyes dancing in the low light.

Sylus’s mouth curved into a faint, devastating smile, his gaze full of quiet adoration—and a promise of retribution. "And miss the chance to watch you try and kill me in real-time? Never."

His lips brushed yours, soft at first, then hungry—like he'd waited years instead of days. He kissed you slowly, deeply, utterly reverent, as though he’d willingly burn the entire world down just to ensure nothing stood between him and you again.

Caleb Xia was known across the fleet as a legendary figure of unbreakable discipline. Colonel Xia could hold his composure through anything—through battles, interrogations, and even prolonged stints in the punishing DeepSpace Tunnel. But tonight, back from yet another exhausting mission and desperate to dismiss his troops and finally collapse in private, Caleb was learning a painful truth:

He had absolutely zero defense against you.

It began innocently enough. Caleb stood stiffly at the fleet’s bustling command center, issuing routine post-mission orders. Soldiers marched up to him in a seemingly endless procession, saluting crisply as they reported their debriefing details. Caleb dutifully nodded, signed off on various datapads, and maintained perfect, ironclad control.

And then his phone buzzed softly in his pocket.

He slipped it out discreetly, expecting another boring update—only to find your name illuminated brightly, demanding his attention.

You: Calebbbbb. Answer meeeee. 🥺

Caleb's lip twitched. He could imagine your tipsy, adorable whine through the text. But professionalism required restraint, so he quickly typed a brisk reply:

Caleb: Working, Pip. Almost done.

But you clearly weren't feeling patient tonight.

Another buzz. Caleb checked his screen discreetly, eyes narrowing as his breath hitched involuntarily at your messages:

You: Working means ignoring me? Rude. I thought you missed me. 😭 You: You're mean, Caleb You: Ever since you joined your big bad secret club, you're no fun. 😔🍷

Caleb pinched the bridge of his nose, half-smiling despite himself. He could practically picture you sprawled on the couch, wine glass dangerously close to tipping onto the floor, cheeks flushed, lips pouting.

God, he missed you.

His jaw tightened slightly, heart thudding a little harder than it should. Caleb opened his mouth to bark a quick dismissal to the approaching officer—but he had no time. The soldier saluted sharply and began a lengthy status report, forcing Caleb to slide his phone back into his pocket with a silent curse.

The buzzing persisted—insistently, cruelly—in his pocket.

Finally, mercifully, he dismissed the soldier, and checked his phone again.

You'd sent a picture.

He quirked a brow and glanced around carefully, subtly angling the screen away from view as he opened the attachment. He regretted it immediately, a strangled noise nearly escaping his throat.

There you were, sprawled out lazily on your bed, cheeks flushed from alcohol and mischief. Wearing that damned red sports bra and matching boyshorts he’d glimpsed on you just once before a few weeks ago, entirely by accident—an image that had haunted his nights since. He'd felt guilty for seeing you in such a vulnerable state, even if it was an accident.

But this? You'd posed deliberately, your bare thighs slightly parted, your body arched invitingly on soft sheets.

He swallowed hard, blinking rapidly as heat surged in his veins. This was not happening. Not now, not here—when he had a dozen soldiers still waiting for dismissal orders.

Another officer marched toward him, interrupting Caleb’s internal panic. Caleb forced his expression into its usual neutral mask, hoping his flushed neck and pounding pulse weren't too obvious. The officer saluted, rattling off data—Caleb heard nothing, his mind racing, pulse hammering between his ears.

He nodded robotically, scribbled a barely legible signature on the datapad, and sent the soldier away with more force than necessary.

His phone vibrated again. A new text.

You: You’re ignoring me again. Baaad colonel. Do I need to try harder?

His heart skipped a dangerous beat, fingers shaking slightly as he tapped back urgently:

Caleb: Pipsqueak. You shouldn't have shown me that--you've been drinking. Caleb: I'm almost done here. Just...Not. Now.

Your reply was immediate:

You: Oopsies. Already took the pic. Too late. 💋

Caleb’s stomach flipped violently. Another soldier approached, and Caleb cleared his throat sharply, bracing himself against the inevitable.

“Colonel Xia, the mission logs—”

“Yes. Fine. Proceed,” Caleb managed, hoping he sounded commanding rather than breathless.

While the soldier droned on, Caleb made the catastrophic decision to open your new photo.

Fuuuuuck. It was…far worse. You’d removed the sportswear entirely, leaving nothing but smooth, bare skin in its place. You lay on your side, a soft, fluffy blanket strategically draped over your hips, teasing him with the faintest promise of what was hidden beneath. The graceful curve of your breasts was perfectly visible, your skin illuminated by warm, inviting lamplight. Your eyes were playful, your lips curved in an achingly inviting smile, as though daring him to come home immediately and do something about it.

Caleb's brain short-circuited entirely.

For several frantic heartbeats, he forgot how breathing worked.

You couldn't possibly have—

He closed his eyes, trying to regain some semblance of composure, but the image was already seared into his memory. Caleb felt utterly gutted—by longing, by frustration, by the fierce and consuming need he’d kept buried for far too long.

Caleb’s mind went completely blank. Every muscle in his body tensed, blood rushing downward at a dizzying speed. He realized, too late, that his breath had hitched audibly.

“Sir?” The soldier was staring at him, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Caleb coughed roughly into his fist, fighting desperately to regain control.

“Sorry—repeat your last point,” he growled hoarsely, blinking hard. The soldier cautiously continued, clearly worried about Caleb’s strange, flushed appearance.

Caleb’s phone buzzed yet again, ruthlessly relentless:

You: Bet you wish you were home now, huh, Caleb. 😘

The soldier finally departed, giving him one last curious glance. Caleb quickly turned away, leaning over a console to hide his increasingly obvious predicament. If he didn't have his long officer's coat, he'd be laughing stock of the fleet.

He texted frantically:

Caleb: Careful, Pip. When I get home you're going to pay for that.

But your reply destroyed any last shred of his composure:

You: Promise? You: Btw... My glass of wine wore off a while ago. 🙃

Caleb closed his eyes, gripping the console so tightly his knuckles whitened. His uniform felt unbearably tight, his breathing shallow and uneven. But it wasn't just the sheer boldness or sensuality of your pictures that had wrecked him—it was the raw vulnerability behind your playful bravado.

You'd actually meant it.

After all this time, after carefully dancing around each other, you'd finally risked everything and showed him exactly how much you wanted him. No more teasing. No more pretending. Just your honest, unguarded desire laid bare—beautifully, heart-stoppingly bare—and he couldn't stand another moment being apart from you.

Not now.

“Lieutenant,” Caleb suddenly barked, addressing a startled officer nearby. “Dismiss the remaining personnel immediately. I'll review their reports tomorrow.”

“Y-yes, sir!”

Ignoring the curious, whispered speculations behind him, Caleb strode swiftly toward the exit, doing his best not to stumble in his frantic rush. His heart battered wildly against his ribs, pulse thundering as he vividly imagined exactly how he'd greet you once he finally got you in his arms.

You'd completely unraveled him—and there was nowhere else he'd rather be.

Author's Note:

This was definitely a challenge—but such a fun one! I'm genuinely impressed by all the talented writers who effortlessly create amazing LAD stories. If you enjoyed these little scenarios, please let me know—I’d love to write more! Also, if you have any specific requests or prompts, feel free to drop them in the comments below. Thanks for reading!

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