Frank Castle X Small-Chested Reader

✰ pretty boy satoru who is always hard and begging to be touched no matter the where he is because he’s a whoreee :(

“will you touch me, please?” he’d whine, those slutty hips bucking just once against the tangible air, uncomfortably readjusting himself. a thwarted groan leaves him as he continues to beg desperately. “baby, pleaseee it… it hurts. you can’t just leave me like this.”

satoru follows your descending gaze, the both of you peering down at his embarssing bulge at once. the thick cotton of his sweatpants strains against his hardened cock and truly, it looks like it hurts. desperately, he reaches for your hand, pulling it over his achy erection, yet you swat him away. a loud grumble of defeat drags from his dry throat.

dramatically, he crosses his long, narrow arms over his chest, shifting his body to peer out of the sleek window of the barren, swaying train. one of his gaunt knees bounce restlessly, the heel of his foot repeatedly rapping against the floor. he grumbles, “god, you’re so mean.”

“and you’re a whore. why are you hard?”

“becauseeeee!” he whimpers, ivory brows furrowing distraughtly. he throws his hands up in defeat. “i - i don’t know! i can’t help it, okay? i’m sorry.”

he watches as you roll your eyes and it makes his cock twitch. you could do anything to him, he’d let you. if you denied him forever, he’d beg forever and ever and ever. he’d fall to his knees right now if you asked. satoru doesn’t even mind when you call him a whore because he knows it, he may even prefer it.

god, it hasn’t even been one fucking hour since you’ve boarded the shinkansen to osaka and he’s restless. short, snowy wisps of hair fall before his eyes as his hips buck again, a small noise of discomfort belting from his mouth. he peers down into his lap then over at you, silently pleading with those big, begging eyes and your heart swells.

you suck your teeth, caving as an audible huff of air parts your lips. “jesus, come here.”

“god, yes.” he breathes almost too ecstatically, relief dripping from his tongue. “yes yes yes, fuck.”

hastily, he scoots closer, chest heaving in his ever growing arousal. expectantly, his gaze is flickering up, desperately catching your eyes. the prettiest look of longing is etched across his face, his eyes widening in eagerness. a shuddered whimper spills past his lips when you finally touch that poor, weeping cock and his hips stutter.

“f— fuuuck, thank youuu.” he gasps, deliriously lolling his head back to lay against his headrest, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “thankyouthankyouthankyou! oh my god, thank you baby.”

his legs fall open, trembling thighs sprawling obscenely wide like the utter slut that he is. satoru can hardly help the lewd jerk of his hips, mindlessly pushing his clothed cock against the warm palm of your hand, a desperate attempt at relieving the mind numbing ache. a throaty little groan tumbles from his gaped mouth when you begin to apply pressure, squeezing his cock just barely.

you trace around the shape of him, absentmindedly outlining the subtle curve of his twitching shaft. he throbs beneath your touch, that poor, leaking head drooling against the fabric of his briefs, ruining them. a darkened patch of precum soils his tightening sweats. the pads of your fingers creep along the dampened splotch of arousal and it only grows wetter and wetter.

“you’re such a mess,” you hum, a pretty little smile gracing your lips, “my messy boy, huh?”

he can only manage a dumb nod, peering down between his sprawled thighs to observe the way your fingers creep just a little lower, brushing against his heavy sack. his wet lips are parting stupidly, pale brows knitting as one. he really is a mess, thrusting his hips toward the palm of your hand like such a whore, stifled gasps and whimpers of your sweet name falling from his tongue.

“goddd, i’m yours! i’m your m— messy boy, all yours uh huuuhh.” he finally responds albeit woozily, slurring over his words like a drunk. his bottom lip falls between his teeth, saliva pooling against his tongue. “suuuch a fucking slut for you. only you can get me like t-this, i swear… god, i fucking swear.” he swallows thickly, voice quavering as a cry of desperation crackles in his throat.

satoru is adorable but god, is he loud. you’ve only been palming him through his sweats and he’s howling like a bitch in heat, far too overcome by his ineffable lust to even remember where he is in the first place. you shush him, clamping a hand over his mouth and he drunkenly drools against your warm palm.

he mumbles a muffled apology against your hand, promising to shut up, but it’s too late anyway because he’s accidentally cumming in his fucking sweatpants. with a long, stifled whimper, his hips stutter beneath your touch. erratic huffs of air jut from his flaring nostrils, fanning against your skin as you hold his mouth shut. satoru pants breathlessly, peering down at the obscene amount of cum that’s lewdly seeping through the fabric of his stained gray pants.

he gapes, looking up sheepishly. “i… i don’t have extra pants, baby.”

---

REVERENCE — gojo satoru

satoru can’t help but boast about himself — about how great he is. so, maybe it’s time you show him how much you agree with that sentiment. | 2.5k

MDNI, f!reader, established relationship (dating), slight religious themes, cock worship, praise kink, handjob (which he helps with) then blowjob, fic is lengthy like his cock bc i can talk about him all day, i feel like my smut always sucks but my baby boy deserves the world so i wrote it anyway : ( | dividers made by me

if there is one thing your boyfriend, satoru, is not— it would be humble.

when he hangs up on yaga a short while after his most recent mission, he tosses his phone onto the coffee table with a casual flick of his wrist like it offends him by daring to interrupt his greatness.

then, he immediately launches into one of his post-call victory speeches.

“he practically begged for my help, y’know?” satoru sighs like he can’t help it, rubbing his nape like it’s just another day of being himself.

he gestures dramatically, pacing in front of the couch like he’s on stage for you.

“ahh, what a pain. i mean, what else was i supposed to do? they needed me — like always.”

satoru folds his arms over his chest, pristine white lashes fluttering shut with a smug grin plastered on his face as he talks basically to himself. his head dips a bit, snowy bangs falling forward at the tilt.

“honestly, i should start charging just for existing in a room.” he jokes, as if he of all people required the extra cash.

“though, can you blame them for depending on me?”

“oh boy,” you mumble under your breath from behind the pages.

“and when i stepped in, yaga sounded so relieved. like, ‘oh thank god gojo’s here.’ as if there was ever a moment i wasn’t.” he smirks, clearly proud of himself.

you stifle a laugh, biting your lip.

usually, you’d let him bask in the glow of his own superiority, nodding along absentmindedly. but tonight? tonight you were feeling a little bold.

so instead, you softly hummed.

“i agree.”

as soon as the words leave your lips, satoru halts mid pose. then slowly, his head turns in your direction.

“eh?”

you smile innocently at his confusion, setting your book down in your lap, your attention now fully on him. “i said — i agree.”

his brows furrow, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing — slightly skeptical.

“you— you agree with me?”

“mhm!” you hum, stretching and arching your back just enough off your seat to get his eyes to flicker to your tits — like he isn’t always ogling them anyway.

“satoru, you’re right.”

his jaw drops a little.

what the hell is happening?

you never say stuff like that. normally, you just roll your eyes in that cute, indulgent way that says, “yeah, yeah, you’re the strongest — now shut up and pass me the remote.”

but this time?

this time you said it like you meant it. with that tone. that smile — the ones that make his knees feel weak, his cock throb, and his brain short circuit.

“wha—”

you get up slowly and saunter over to him, each step deliberate.

“you’re big and strong and powerful. kind of intimidating when you get serious.” you let your scorching gaze rake down his body. “i’d say i’m pretty lucky to be your girlfriend.”

there’s a pause. a beat of stunned silence.

then his mouth parts slightly, blinking rapidly.

“...for now?”, he questions with a tinge of hope.

“for now,” you reaffirm with a coy smirk. “if you keep talking about yourself like that, i might not be able to resist forever, ‘toru.”

and satoru, not a man easily flustered, turns three shades redder at your flirting.

“you— you’re— are you making fun of me..?”

you’re standing in front of him now, tracing your finger down the center of his chest slowly until he shivers, gasping softly at your nail hooking into the fabric of his shirt.

“no — i mean it.”

satoru doesn’t move. doesn’t even breathe. just stares at you with wide, blue eyes — the flesh of his cheeks contrasting it with a beautiful, blooming red.

you lean in, breath caressing the shell of his red-tipped ear, pecking it — a feathery brush, before pulling back slightly.

“and the way you fight?” you sigh dreamily like you’re swooning, fingers slipping to his nape, toying over his undercut. “you’re like a god.”

satoru’s hands hover awkwardly over your waist, as if unsure whether or not to grab you and check if he’s hallucinating.

“i— okay. this is— you can’t just—”

“but i can.” you interrupt, smiling up at him like you have all the time in the world. “no one ever gives you the worship you deserve, satoru. but me?” your voice drops low — seductive. “i’d kneel for you anytime.”

his whole body jolts, an involuntary reaction. and then his hands move before his brain instructs them to — holding onto your waist like it’s the only thing anchoring him to earth, pulling you in so close that your bodies are pressed together.

often, people tolerate satoru’s ego. they scoff or say he’s annoying. and they don’t look him dead in the eye and say ‘i’d kneel for you anytime’ either.

and now you’re touching his chest, looking up at him like he’s something worth worshipping. like he’s not just strong — but something more.

satoru wants to laugh — maybe even cry. maybe drop to the floor and beg you to say it all again but slower this time so it’s imprinted on his entire being.

if you keep talking like this, he’s going to lose. but be doesn’t exactly know what. satoru feels defenseless and vulnerable for the first time in his life — like he’s begging to be praised again.

he’s completely done for.

and he’s going to thank every god, every star, and every universe that you’re his.

for now, you said.

he’s about to make it forever.

“oh my god, you’re trying to kill me,” he mutters, breathless and panicked. “you— you’re being evil right now!”

you kiss his jaw lightly as he pouts. “no, baby. i’m just being honest.”

“okay,” he rasps, reaching behind him for the arm of the couch, his other hand dragging down his flustered face. “i-i need to sit down—”

you smile softly, eyes glimmering at the effect you have on him, guiding him so he doesn’t topple over. “of course, honey.”

he isn’t looking at you anymore — he can’t. his heart is pounding in his throat, and his cock is already twitching painfully in his pants that seemed so unbelievably tight now.

satoru isn’t used to this — not at all. he is the one who flirts — who teases. never the other way around.

but you? you’re giving it back tenfold.

no — you’re feeding his ego. fueling it. you sound like you are genuinely grateful the universe made a man like him and put him in front of you.

and it’s true. you have been thinking for a while that you don’t show or tell him much how you respect him. because to you, he’s not just a powerful sorcerer — he’s one of a kind.

there will never be another man like him. there will never be another satoru.

and there will never be someone like you in any world. to him, you’re the greatest thing that’s ever happened. maybe even proof that if there is a god, they love satoru enough to give you to him.

without a word, you drop to your knees right in front of him, as if you were getting ready to pray.

“wha— wait, babe— what are you—?”

your hands are already sliding up his thighs, slow and reverent.

his breath catches, sentence stuttering to a stop. those legs of his jolt slightly when your fingers graze the huge bulge inside his pants. your touch is delicate — gentle even. gentler than anyone has ever handled him before.

you look up at him with a sweet, caring smile.

“i told you i’d kneel for you,” you speak softly, fingers grazing his belt. “did you think i was joking?”

satoru’s hips are lifting, betraying him as you successfully undo his belt with practiced ease.

you aren’t in a rush. you reveal him like a work of art — like something you want to admire.

his mouth opens to reply after a moment, but then it shuts again. oddly enough, he has nothing to say. he is rendered speechless, but his heart is filled with warmth regardless of the lewdness of the situation.

he loves you. god, he loves you so much it terrifies him.

if he could, he’d shout it from the skyline. hell, he’d tell god himself. that gojo satoru — your satoru — loves you so much that it makes his chest ache. like his heart was only made simply to hold you and only ever you in it.

but no matter how loud he says it, no matter how many times — it’ll never be enough. there aren’t words big enough in any language in the world to express what it is exactly that he feels for you.

when his cock springs free, flushed and hard and begging for attention — you actually sigh at the glorious sight.

“god, you’re so pretty.”

satoru cheeks are on fire now. “w-what…?”

you smile cheekily, tilting your head, fingers wrapping around the base.

“you heard me. you’re perfect. big, thick, and so… sensitive.”

you start lazy, like you’ve got all the time in the world and nowhere else you’d rather be than with your hand wrapped around your boyfriend’s cock.

he’s already hot and stiff in your palm, back resting against the couch with his legs splayed open, hair a mess from running his hand through it multiple times.

satoru’s breath hitches when your thumb sweeps gently over the soggy tip.

you give him a little grin. “already?” you tease though it’s affectionate by your tone, hand a mess due to his copious pre.

the chuckle he gives you is short and tense.

“for you? always.”

with a quiet hum of acknowledgment, you begin to stroke him slowly. so slow it’s torturous. small fingers glide down, then back up at a maddening pace — slicked up from the pearly white dribbling at the sides.

satoru releases a guttural sound, head tipping back, but his eyes stay fluttered open, half lidded just enough to watch you.

“fuck,” he breathes. “you’re so good at that it’s unfair.”

you huff, “i’m barely doing anything.”

and maybe that’s what gets him — because a second later, he’s reaching down. his large hand wraps around yours, firm and warm, and suddenly he’s guiding the movements.

not fast. just more insistent. needy and greedy.

his hand works together over yours up and down his cock in a way that makes his eyes roll back in ecstasy.

“you’re—” he starts, then laughs breathlessly in a way that makes your heart stutter, his voice cracking. “you’re literally making me help jerk myself off right now.”

you murmur, watching his flushed, wrecked face. “you look so pretty like this...” it isn’t a response to what he said, simply a statement — a fact that you felt the need to say in the heat of the moment.

and the way your hand fits beneath his, nice and snug, makes it feel like something more than just sex. like something tender. something intimate and passionate.

then you squeeze just a little tighter, dragging a shudder out of him that makes you feel like the powerful one now.

“still feel like the strongest? because you are,” you whisper in reassurance. “look at this — so big, so perfect. you’re unreal, satoru.”

then, you kiss the leaking tip — and his thighs tense.

satoru makes a sound halfway between a choke and a prayer, watching you on your knees for him, mouthing at his cock like it’s something sacred.

your lips wrap around the head of his cock, slowly, and satoru’s hands fist the couch cushions like they are the only thing keeping him steady.

he lets out a wavering, “oh—”, voice cracking. you barely have him halfway in and already his chest is heaving, his blue eyes wide and glazed over.

you stare up at him as you slide lower, your lips wet and glistening, cheeks hollowing just a little. and that eye contact— fuck. it’s dangerous. you are dangerous. and yet, every warm inch of your mouth feels like heaven.

he exhales sharply.

“s-slow down,” he manages, a trembling hand brushing back your hair in an affectionate gesture just to see more of you. “i’m not gonna last if you keep—nghh—that thing you just— yeah, just like t-that!”

you lick a patient, wet stripe from the base to the head, keeping your eyes locked on his like you need him to see how much you adore this — adore him.

you aren’t bobbing or rushing — you were savoring.

you suckle gently on the angry red tip, tongue swirling in lazy circles while your hand worked his cock with precision — like you knew his body better than anyone, how to make him absolutely lose it. your other hand massaging his thigh, grounding him, as if to say ‘relax — i’ve got you.’

satoru’s breath comes in broken gasps, hips bucking into your mouth — but not too much as to hurt you.

“say you love me! pleasepleaseplea—!”

he needs to hear it, so you do.

a warbled ‘i love you’ around his cock is all it takes before satoru cums with a hoarse and desperate moan, pushing your head down all the way without a care, stroking your hair in apology as you choke around his girth along with the flow of his thick, heady semen — his mind too clouded by the pleasure as he fucks your face.

“oh my god, yes— yes—!”

you don’t stop, easing him through his orgasm as you swallow down his cum. you took it. every last drop. swallowed it all down like it was what you were born to do.

satoru continues to twitch inside your throat and against your tongue, fingers trembling where they are tangled in your hair, body shaking like you’ve just sucked the very soul out of him.

when you finally pull off with a pop, he’s absolutely boneless and weak — legs spread wide, chest heaving, flushed all over.

his shirt has ridden up, exposing a strip of stomach and his happy trail — his expression that of pure awe and satisfaction as he stares down at you with half lidded eyes and parted, pink lips.

you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, giving him a smug smile.

“still need to sit down?” you tease.

satoru blinks at you in surprise.

then, he exhales a sharp laugh, dragging you up off the floor and into his lap, still breathless and shaky — but kissing lovingly and gratefully along the soft skin of your neck.

“i’m gonna make you forget your own name,” he mutters against your skin. “just— give me, like, two minutes first.”

he truly is blessed.

---

TOOTH FAIRY jjk men

feat. gojo, geto, nanami, toji, sukuna, shiu, higuruma

summary. it’s just a one time thing. one bite. one bite. and now they refuse one thing that keeps you alive? and what is that? yeah, $uck them off! and what do you do? being unhinged and just throwing a goddamn tantrum. what can they do? ban you from $ex? yeah, as if!

warning. non-sorcerer jjk men, established relationship, 23 you & 31 them, tantrums, petname(2), dirtytalk(?), c$ck-drunk maybe?, name-calling(s), degrading just a bit, you are being a brat and insufferable, overstimulated, abuse mentioned,

since a lot of you amazing people send me the sweetest anon messages (which i appreciate so so much 🥹💕), i’d really love to know who’s behind them! if you’re comfortable, feel free to leave me a little signature — it can be anything! an emoji, your name, a nickname, literally whatever you like 💌✨ i’ll be adding them to my lil friends list like in this link, so i can keep track of all the lovely souls who’ve been showing me love 🫶💖 thank you for being here!!

GOJO SATORU

you’re on your knees. he’s on his back. and he’s not letting you suck him. again.

your palms are pressed to his lower belly, thighs tight around his legs, drooling over the absolute gift of a dick that’s twitching against his stomach—and yet, despite all the teasing, the eye contact, the hungry little whines spilling out of you like prayers, he just lays there. arms folded behind his head. like a fucking lounger chair with abs.

“satoru.”

“mm?”

“why aren’t you in my throat right now.”

he hums like you just asked about the weather. “hmm… probably ‘cause last time, someone went full piranha halfway through and tried to devour me.”

“i slipped!”

he laughs—loud, unapologetic, his stupid pretty smile on full display. “you clamped down, baby. i yanked you off, and you were still holding on like a gremlin. i thought i lost circulation.”

you glare down at him, completely naked, chest heaving, pussy soaked between your thighs and still grinding slightly on his leg like your body’s acting on survival instinct alone. “you know what? next time i’m just gonna choke on air, is that better?! just pretend-cock until i pass out?!”

he bites his lip to stop from laughing again.

you growl. “this is abuse. emotional. spiritual. oral neglect.”

“oral neglect?” he echoes, wiping fake tears. “my god.”

“YES. i haven’t sucked you off in days. DAYS, satoru! my lips are getting soft! my jaw forgot how to unhinge!”

“baby—”

you slam your fists on his thighs dramatically. “I’M WASTING AWAY. there are people in the world who would kill for this opportunity, and you’re out here being stingy!”

“you bit me.”

“WITH LOVE!”

he stretches, big and smug and insufferable. his cock twitches again, begging for your mouth like it misses you too. he knows. he’s evil. and you’re about to cry.

“i just wanna taste,” you mumble, lower lip trembling as you drag yourself up his body like a starving animal. “just a little lick. please. please satoru. i’ll be so good. i’ll moan and everything. i’ll gargle if you want me to.”

he blinks. “you’ll what?”

“satoru,” you say again, softer this time, almost too genuine for the chaos you were spewing just minutes ago. “i’ll be gentle. i’ll go slow, i promise.” your hands slide further up his thighs, and you bat your lashes at him with a look so sinful it could start a religion.

“you said that last time. and i nearly blacked out. i saw stars. you think that’s normal?”

“maybe i wanted to show you god. ever think of that?”

he snorts, gropping you by the boob with no warning. “you’re a freak. a dangerous, beautiful little freak.” his voice drops, eyes hooded now, and you can feel him twitch beneath you even as he tries to act tough.

“then let me be your little danger,” you purr, leaning forward to bite his earlobe just enough to make him shiver. “just one chance. i’ll be nice. i won’t leave a single tooth mark—unless you want me to.”

his head falls back with a low groan, hips jerking up slightly before he slaps a hand over his eyes like he’s shielding himself from the sun. “you’re lucky you’re cute. and hot. and you smell really good. ugh.”

you place both hands on his hips, face hovering dangerously close. “satoru. i’m gonna start crying.”

“don’t you dare—”

a sob bubbles in your throat. “i need it.”

he sighs like a man who’s lived through five wars and still got defeated by your tears. “you’re insane.”

“and your problem! now give me my fucking lollipop!”

you lurch forward—and he catches you by the forehead with one hand, holding you back like a villain holding off an overexcited puppy. you squeal. your hands are slapping at his thighs. your mouth is open. and he’s still denying you.

“okAY, OKAY,” he says, eyes wide, panicked laughter spilling out as you start going full feral. “baby—baby, fine, you get ONE chance. one! i swear if i feel even a hint of teeth—”

“you won’t even remember your name, satoru,” you growl, lowering like a woman possessed. “now shut up and let me ruin your fucking life.”

“you’re unbelievable,” he laughs, finally lifting his hips in surrender. “get over here and do your worst. or your best. god, i don’t even know anymore.”

GETO SUGURU

you’re already underneath him, thighs twitching, body bare and needy, his cock dragging along your slick folds just enough to make your brain fizz. his hair’s loose, dark and wild, face annoyingly calm while you’re fighting for your damn life beneath him.

“suguru,” you hiss, hips bucking. “let me suck your dick or i swear to god i’ll set the apartment on fire.”

he raises an eyebrow, unbothered, not moving an inch closer. “interesting escalation. is that before or after you bite me again?”

you whimper—genuinely whimper, back arching as you clutch his arms like a woman who’s just heard she’s been banished from salvation. “it wasn’t a bite, it was a nibble! a love nibble! a little hello from my molars!”

“you broke the skin.”

“i’m in mourning, suguru. don’t you see me?” your voice cracks as you throw your arm across your forehead like a shakespearean tragedy. “i haven’t had cock in my mouth in two days. two. i’m dehydrated. my jaw’s cramping from emptiness. i’m dying.”

he blinks slowly. “you ate an entire box of cookies this morning and called it your ‘oral coping mechanism.’”

“because you won’t feed me properly!”

his dick twitches against you and your eyes lock on it instantly, like a predator. you try to sit up, but he pushes you back down with a hand to your chest like you’re a possessed little brat on the verge of attacking.

“uh uh. no. last time you gave head, you went feral. it wasn’t a blowjob, it was an assassination attempt.”

“you liked it!” you screech, trying to bite his arm just to prove a point.

he yanks it back before your teeth land and gives you a look that’s 50% exasperated dad and 50% amused boyfriend who absolutely lives for your bullshit. “and you keep proving my point.”

you lean closer, brushing your nose against his jaw, your voice dropping to that sweet, sultry tone that makes him tense up every damn time. “suguru,” you whisper, grabbing his hips and dragging your nails into them like a demon, you murmur, pressing soft kisses under his ear, trailing them down to his neck, “if you don’t let me suck your dick right now, i will walk outside, climb on the kitchen counter, and yell to the neighbors that you don’t fuck me anymore.”

he sighs deeply. “you’re so dramatic.”

“i’m in pain!” you wail, rocking your hips against his just to make your point clearer. “your cock was in my mouth one minute, and the next you’re yanking me off like i’m some horny stray! i’m starving!”

he leans down, mouth brushing your ear, voice low and sinful. “you think starving is bad? keep whining. you’ll be begging for days.”

you make a noise—somewhere between a growl and a sob—and immediately start pounding your fists against his chest. “LET! ME! SUCK! YOUR! COCK!”

“no!” he says, wheezing from laughter as he holds your wrists. “not until you can promise to behave.”

“i won’t! i never will! i want to be ruined! i want to suck you until you’re twitching and sobbing and i black out like a fucking feral beast!”

he stares at you.

you pant.

he runs a hand over his face. “…jesus christ.”

you grab his cock.

he lets you.

“…fine,” he mutters. “but if you bite me again, i’m putting you in a muzzle.”

“deal,” you purr, already sliding down. “and maybe a leash next time too.”

NANAMI KENTO

“absolutely not.”

his tone is calm. firm. the kind of firm that makes people shut up and sit down. but not you. oh, never you. instead, you’re standing at the foot of the bed with both hands on your hips, hair wild, eyes blazing, looking like you’re about to go to war.

“you’re denying me?” you say, like he just said no to proposing. “me? your girlfriend? the woman who washes your shirts and steals your ties and lets you use her thighs as stress pillows?”

“you bit me,” he reminds you coolly, as if he hasn’t been shifting in his chair all day thinking about it. “very hard. and I’m not in the mood to gamble with my physical wellbeing tonight.”

“it was one time!” you cry, throwing yourself dramatically onto the mattress. “and you made that noise—you know, the one that sounds like you’re possessed by lust? it turned me on so bad i just lost control!”

“that noise,” he says dryly, “was the sound of pain.”

“okay, but, like... sexy pain!” you scoot closer, crawling toward him with the dedication of a woman on a mission. your hands are already creeping up his thighs as he sits there in his crisp button-down, sleeves rolled up, glasses low on his nose, looking like the hottest finance god who ever lived. “you looked so hot. so flustered. so... biteable.”

nanami exhales slowly through his nose, as if he’s meditating. you can see his restraint cracking—see the way his hand twitches like he’s fighting the urge to grab you and punish you in the most delicious way.

“i’m not some chew toy for you to get riled up and gnaw on when you’re horny,” he mutters, but his voice is already lower, rougher, his legs spreading just a little as your lips graze his thigh.

“nooo, you’re my perfect, hardworking, ridiculously handsome man with the most glorious dick i’ve ever seen,” you moan dramatically. “i miss him. he misses me. we had a thing, nanami. we had a connection.”

he actually groans under his breath, tossing his head back for a moment. “you’re insufferable.”

“you love it.” your mouth is already pressed against his clothed length, nuzzling through the fabric like it’s the only source of oxygen in the room. “you love it when i get like this. desperate. needy. dramatic. all for you.”

“you make it... extremely difficult to be the responsible one in this relationship,” he mutters, finally threading a hand through your hair and gripping it just a bit too tight. “i’m trying to have boundaries.”

“boundaries are for cowards,” you say, voice muffled by his zipper. “i’m not leaving until i’ve got your dick in my throat or you drag me away kicking and screaming.”

he glares down at you, jaw clenched, but his eyes are blown wide and his breath’s hitching like he’s already giving in. “and if you bite me again?”

you blink up at him innocently. “then you’ll have to teach me a lesson. daddy.”

his hand tightens in your hair so fast, you whimper. his face drops into something darker. flushed, heated, unchained.

“that’s it,” he says, voice a low growl now. “you get one chance. no teeth. and if you so much as grazed me—i swear to god, i’ll tie you to the bed and leave you there aching for hours.”

you shiver. “promise?”

he groans again—this time pained for a different reason—and unbuckles his belt with a look that spells doom and bliss in equal measure.

“you’re lucky i love you,” he mutters, pushing your hair out of your face like he’s about to watch art unfold.

“i know,” you grin, already lowering your head with stars in your eyes. “and your dick’s lucky too.”

TOJI FUSHIGURO

“look at you.”

his voice is low. almost a purr. one arm thrown over the back of the couch, the other resting on his thick thigh, fingers absently tapping like he’s got all the time in the world. and there you are—on the damn floor, crawling toward him with a sheet half-draped around your bare body, your knees hitting the carpet with each desperate shuffle.

“you’re so dramatic,” he chuckles, watching you like a predator, boxer briefs soaked through with a very obvious dark patch from just how much he’s leaking. you two had barely finished wrestling on the bed—bodies tangled, lips bitten, hands everywhere—before he escaped, telling you to cool off and earn it if you really wanted him.

and you did. god, you did.

“toji, please,” you whisper, clutching his thighs like they’re your lifeline, forehead pressed just above his knee. your lips are swollen, eyes glassy, your whole body buzzing from the leftover high of grinding against him. the sheet slides a little lower, barely covering anything at all. “i need it. need you. want your cock so bad it hurts—”

he snorts. “you didn’t seem to have any problem using your teeth last time, sweetheart.”

“that was reflex!” you cry, kissing the muscle of his thigh, voice shaking with humiliation and need. “you were flexing. i blacked out. i was in heat or something.”

“you damn near bit me,” he mutters, but he’s already spreading his legs wider, letting you slip in closer between them. “ain’t lettin’ you suck me off until you beg like you mean it.”

you look up at him, face hot, eyes wild. “toji, i am. look at me, i’m naked and on my knees—i’m practically weeping for it.” your fingers curl into his thighs, massaging slowly. “i love your cock. i miss it in my mouth. i wanna taste you so bad i’m shaking. please let me make it up to you, i’ll be good, i swear. no teeth, just tongue. soft, warm, wet, messy—however you want it, please.”

he groans under his breath, cock twitching under the wet fabric, already starting to swell again.

“fuck. you’re pathetic,” he says, but there’s affection in it. a twisted sort of pride. “my poor little slut crawling for dick. what’d i do to you, huh?”

“ruined me,” you whimper. “you broke me. there’s no coming back. i need you in my throat or i’m gonna lose my mind.”

his hand drops to your head, gripping your hair tight. “you’re sick.”

“you made me sick,” you whisper, nose brushing the base of his length. “and now you gotta take responsibility.”

toji laughs—deep, dark, filthy. “that so?” he lets you tug his boxers down just enough to free him, his cock soaked, heavy, dripping against your cheek. “you better treat him right this time. if i feel teeth, you’re not gettin’ shit for a week.”

you nod frantically, lips parting as you kiss the head, licking up his length like it’s the answer to every prayer you’ve ever said.

“good girl,” he mutters, voice all grit and gravel, hand tightening in your hair like he’s anchoring himself to reality. “make it nice. messy. and if you make me cum like that again, maybe i’ll let you ride me like the rabid little bitch you are.”

you moan in response, mouth full, eyes fluttering, sheet slipping off your back completely as you settle in between his thighs like it’s your altar.

and toji?

he just grins.

“atta girl. daddy’s real proud.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA

“are you insane?” sukuna growls, yanking you off his cock with a wet pop, thick fingers gripping your jaw as he glares down at you like you just committed a federal crime. “i told you no fuckin’ teeth, brat.”

you blink up at him, dazed, spit trailing down your chin, his taste still hot on your tongue—and then you gasp, like you’ve just been stabbed in the heart.

“it was an accident!” you shriek, dramatically flopping back onto the bed with a loud wail, dragging the back of your hand across your forehead like a Victorian widow. “i didn’t mean to! you’re so big it’s hard to breathe, sukuna!”

he groans and rolls his eyes, turning away, his cock still hard and glistening, twitching with every heartbeat. “and now you’re being fuckin’ dramatic.”

you let out a gasping, exaggerated sob. “because you RUINED me! you ripped your cock out like i was some uncivilized beast! i was worshipping you! that was the best head you’ve ever gotten and you know it!”

“you bit me!”

“NOT ON PURPOSE!” you're full-on yelling now, wrapping yourself in the sheets like you’re mourning the death of your dignity. “i was in the zone! it slipped! i’m sorry, your majesty, please just let me suck you again before i combust!”

he doesn’t say anything. just leans against the wall with his arms crossed, cock still leaking, veins bulging from how hard he is—and that only makes you worse.

you crawl to the edge of the bed and point at it like it’s a crime scene. “look at it! it’s crying, sukuna. your dick misses me. it’s not even mad! we made up already! we’ve been through so much together, and you’re going to let one little bite ruin everything?!”

he barks out a laugh—real and sharp and rough—and wipes a hand down his face. “you’re fucking unhinged.”

you whimper, lower lip wobbling as you shuffle back onto your knees, reaching for him with trembling hands like a woman starved. “i just want to make you feel good,” you whine, hands clutching his thighs dramatically once he is close. “please let me try again. i’ll be slow, i’ll go so soft, i’ll baby it. i’ll kiss it better, i swear.” you lean in and whisper like it’s sacred: “i’ll sing lullabies to it.”

he nearly chokes on his breath, head thrown back in a bark of laughter, but when he looks down again, his expression twists. your eyes are glassy, cheeks flushed, lips swollen and wet from earlier—and you’re trembling with need, thighs pressed together like you’ll die if he doesn’t let you back on his cock.

he watches you for a second. his cock twitches again. hard. twitchy.

“…fuck me,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “you’re so annoying it’s hot.”

you light up. “so does that mean—”

“no,” he growls, pushing you back onto the bed again before took another steps back. “you’re gonna lay there and think about what you did.”

you wail like a banshee. “I WAS THINKING ABOUT IT WHILE I WAS SUCKING YOU!”

“TOO BAD.”

you thrash under the sheets like you’re possessed, kicking the mattress, fists in your hair. “I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU SO MUCH! I’M GONNA DIE WITHOUT YOUR DICK IN MY MOUTH, IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT? TO KILL ME? MURDER BY DENIAL?!”

sukuna’s lips twitch.

“drama queen,” he mutters, but he’s already walking back toward the bed.

and you?

you’re waiting, pretty little pout on your lips, one eye peeking open, whispering:

“…does that mean i can suck it now?”

he sighs.

“if you fuckin’ bite me again, i’m tying you up and making you watch me jerk off.”

“…deal.” his cock , thick and soaked and pulsing against your cheek. “mmm,” you moan, nuzzling him like you’ve been starving for this. “hi, baby. missed me?”

“you talk to my dick more than you talk to me,” sukuna mutters, watching you with a half-crazed grin. “but keep going, let’s see if you can make me cum without getting punished.”

you wink up at him, tongue out, already devouring him.

and sukuna just growls, one hand in your hair, the other gripping the back of your head like he’s barely holding himself back.

“that’s it. make it messy, slut. show me how desperate you really are.”

SHIU KONG

“mmph—wait, ow—okay, nope, that’s it,” shiu grunts, suddenly yanking your head back by your hair. his cock slips free from your mouth, slick and flushed, and his eyes are sharp with irritation.

“you bit me again.”

you blink up at him, wide-eyed, lips shiny and red like sin, a little dazed. “...i didn’t mean to—”

“you bit my dick.”

“it was barely a nibble!”

one sharp, violent bite,” he snaps, brows raised, looking at you like you’re some wild animal that got inside his house. “you think that shit’s cute?”

you sit back on your heels, eyes wide, chest heaving like you've just survived a war. “it wasn’t on purpose!” you shout, voice cracking. “you grabbed my hair and moaned like a goddamn demon, i thought i was dying—it scared me! it was a survival response!”

shiu runs a hand over his face, cock still standing tall and twitchy like it doesn’t care what his brain is saying. “a survival response is ducking. not biting the head of my dick like it owes you money.”

you gasp again—deeply offended—before flopping backwards onto the bed with a loud, wounded groan, sheets tangling around your body like a collapsing ghost. “i can’t believe this,” you moan, hand over your chest. “i’m being punished. denied. forsaken.”

“good,” he mutters. “think about what you did.”

“i was! i was repenting! with my mouth!” you shriek, writhing on the bed now, like your soul is being pulled out of your body. “and you ripped your cock out like i was some kind of threat! do you hate me?!”

he stares at you like he’s mentally filing a restraining order.

and you? you crumble. dramatically. hands over your hair, you tangled into the sheets like you’ve been mortally wounded, the back of your hand flung across your forehead like you’re starring in a Shakespearean tragedy.

“oh my god,” you wail. “you’re rejecting me. again.”

“yes. because you keep fucking biting me.”

“i didn’t mean to! i got excited!” you sob. “i told you, you were moaning like, like... some low-budget porno villain and you were so deep, i couldn’t breathe, and then—then my brain shut down!”

shiu’s hand is on his hip now, head tilted, staring at you like you’re a broken vending machine that just ate his money.

“you are too unhinged to have a mouth license.”

you gasp, offended. “you’re gonna punish me for enthusiasm?! for dedication?! shiu, i was trying to impress you! i wanted to be your top-ranking throat champion!”

“you’re disqualified.”

you let out a long, theatrical wail, rolling yourself in the sheets like a demented spring roll, clutching a pillow to your chest.

“then what’s the point of living?!” you cry out. “what’s the point of being sexy if i can’t even use it?! i was born to suck your cock, and now it’s been taken from me. how cruel the world is.”

he groans, wiping his hand down his face. “you’re exhausting.”

“then let me drain you!” you sit up, eyes wild, hair a mess, sheets slipping off your shoulder. “you’re already hard again! your dick misses me! he’s not even mad! he’s asking for me—i can hear him whispering. he said, ‘where’s she goin’? bring her back.’”

he’s losing it now. jaw clenched. lips twitching like he’s trying not to laugh. “i should muzzle you and put you in a cage.”

you moan. actually moan. “yes, daddy, punish me for my crimes! let the punishment be your cock down my throat!”

shiu walks away like he’s going to go pray or find an exorcist.

you?

you follow him on your knees, dragging the sheet behind you like a bridal veil, whispering, “please… please, just let me make it right… let me apologize to him personally…”

he turns around slowly, staring down at you. his cock’s still hard. you both know it.

“you swear you won’t bite me again?”

you nod frantically. “i’ll treat him like a prince. a baby lamb. i’ll be a good girl, i swear.”

“…if i feel even one tooth, you’re getting a gag and i’m going to edge the fuck out of you all night.”

your eyes sparkle.

“you promise?”

HIGURUMA HIROMI

you’re under his desk, knees pressed into the carpet, palms spread against his thighs like you were summoned by divine command. his slacks are already unzipped—his shirt sleeves rolled, pen tucked behind his ear, glasses slipping down his nose. he looks like a goddamn courtroom fantasy.

you’re seconds away from having your dinner. the meal of kings. your mouth is practically watering, lips already parting as your fingers hook into his waistband.

but the second you tug his briefs down and get a glimpse of him, warm and heavy and waiting for worship—his hand snaps down.

he stops you. stops you.

your mouth hovers a breath away. “what the fuck?”

his eyes don’t even lift from the paper he’s reviewing. “no.”

you blink. “no??”

“you bit me two days ago.”

you sit back on your heels like you’ve been physically struck. like he just told you your favorite bakery burned down.

“that wasn’t on purpose!”

his brow twitches slightly, finally glancing down at you over the rim of his glasses. “you’ve said that three times now.”

“because it’s true!” you cry, grabbing his thighs dramatically. “it was enthusiastic teeth, not malicious teeth!”

he exhales slowly, setting his pen down like he’s preparing to deliver a verdict. “my cock disagrees.”

“he was moaning! he was into it!”

“he was in pain.”

you gasp, hands flying to your mouth. “you’re lying to turn him against me!”

“he has trust issues now.”

you lurch forward again, arms wrapping around his hips as you press your cheek to his thigh like a rejected lover begging for one last dance. “i’ll rebuild that trust. i’ll make amends. i’ll speak to him directly if i have to.”

“you’re not putting my cock through trauma bonding.”

you groan like you're dying, forehead thudding against his knee. “hiromi, please. this is cruel and unusual. i’m starving. you’re there, he’s there—everyone’s here! let me serve my country.”

he’s trying not to smile. you can tell. you see the slight twitch in his lip, the way his fingers tap against the desk like he’s counting to ten.

“you're unbelievable.”

“i’m committed.”

“you’re a menace.”

you pout up at him, eyes big, lower lip trembling. “i’ll be soft. so soft. i’ll hum him lullabies. i’ll put a little bow on him if that’s what he needs.”

he groans under his breath and leans back slightly in the chair. “if i let you, and i feel even one tooth…”

“then what?” you whisper, excited now, leaning in. “you gonna make me cry?”

he leans forward, resting one elbow on his knee, staring you down with that judge-like stare that makes you throb.

“i’ll finish on your tongue and tell you it’s your punishment.”

you grin like the fucking devil. “your honor, i accept the sentence.”

his fly is open.

you win.

for now.

---

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, pregnancy

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

He’s perfect. Nigh on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Identical.

(He’s Caleb.)

All the oxygen gusts out of you in a breeze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

✦

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Agonizing, really.

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

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

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

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

A button.

With mute horror, you watch his eyes light.

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

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

Familiar, painfully.

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

“Meimei?”

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

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

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

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

And the world around you staggers to a fall.

✦

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

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

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

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

But no. How could you do that? He-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(To be clear, something is.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh no, the food looks fine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not good for your heart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still…

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

You should limit interaction with not-Caleb.

You know this, and yet—

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

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

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

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

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

It was me who failed you.

✦

Not-Caleb looks like Caleb, yes.

He acts like him, too.

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

Not-Caleb remembers some better than you.

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

What’s Caleb’s favorite fruit?

I like apples, Pipsqueak.

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

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

Am I your real sister?

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

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

Far as they knew, you were family.

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

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

Caleb was never spoken for on that front.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re startled into silence.

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

“I- I didn’t say I was tired-“

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

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

Nonetheless.

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

You loop your slimmer ones around his neck.

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

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

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

Stay.

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

He opens his mouth.

Pauses, then closes it.

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

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

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

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

His voice shakes ever so slightly, “Okay.”

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

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

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

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

His interpretation? you realize in a shaking breath?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An inaccuracy.

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

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

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

It’s all that grounds you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A fluke. His hardware stalling.

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

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

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

Y-You know that, but…

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

-but this is all you have left of him.

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

“Are you capable of it?”

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

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

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

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

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

It’s all just a fluke.

✦

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

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

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

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

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

Very.

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

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

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

To say goodbye.

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

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

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

There’s a few different reasons.

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

The newest excuse for not is guilt.

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

But Gran doesn’t know.

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

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

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

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

And curse yourself for wanting your brother back, but—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sigh shakily and bite down on a cry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Caleb-“

You start, and his lips press to yours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“O-Okay,” you give.

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s like it shutters.

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

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

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

Maybe he would know how to fix it.

✦

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

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

Knowing nobody ever could.

✦

Gideon knocks, one afternoon.

You send him away. Or- Caleb does.

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

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

You stop going out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But this-

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

You don’t believe it for a second.

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

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

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

The climate has changed.

He- He’s changed.

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

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

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

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

Perhaps you’ve lost it.

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

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

What are you doing here?

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

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

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

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

And he was real.

Dammit, he was fucking real-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You flinch when he does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

As it stands, though, you’re just-

You were never ready.)

✦

Two pink lines.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ll-…

A breath. The fan whirs.

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

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

“Pipsqueak?” A hand on your shoulder.

Broad, big. A little weathered.

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

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

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

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

He coos immediately, enveloping you in his strong arms.

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

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

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

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

Unreal. Unreal. But then how-?

Perhaps you’ve lost it.

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

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

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

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

✦

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

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

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

You want to tell her.

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

You want to tell her. But-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something in you stills.

“Y/n- is he there with you?”

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

You hold it closer to your ear.

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

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

How?

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

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

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

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

“They found him. They found Caleb.”

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

Your eyes widen as you break the surface.

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

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

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

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

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

You’ll say goodbye if it kills you.

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

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

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

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

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

The phone drops to the floor.

And then that, too, gives way beneath you.

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

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

Not-Caleb noses against your nape and sighs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The real one was.

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, + 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 ♡

---

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ 3:34 AM : GOJO SATORU

the gentle shake does nothing to wake you up easily, making you flinch awake as your heart starts beating against your chest. you feel the ice-cold touch of slender, nimble fingers against your bare skin while the next one provides you warmth as it's wrapped around your waist, drawing you closer to him. you groan, still disoriented as you try to calm your racing heart.

"'toru," your voice raspy. "what do you want?"

"sorry," he says in a whisper. "just wanted to tell you that i love you."

you kiss your teeth. "seriously? that's what you woke me up for?"

you reach for the covers and hoist them higher over the both of you, shutting your eyes and shimmying yourself in a more comfortable position. gojo pouts, "at least say it back before you go back to sleep."

"mmm..." you grumble begrudingly. "i love you."

"say it like you mean it."

with an arm, you reach behind you to slap your husband. "satoru, i want to sleep!"

"me, too," he huffs. "but you have to say it like you mean it first."

"i did the first time."

"for someone who wants to go back to sleep, you're being very argumentative." you can hear the playfulness in his tone.

"i love you."

"no, try again."

"i love you."

"no, put some effort into it."

you're more awake now, sitting up in the bed and grabbing a pillow to slap him with it. 'i. love. you."

"without the violence," he giggles.

"gojo satoru," you've come to straddle his waist, hovering over him as you glare down at him in your flimsy nightwear. "i love you, okay? i love you so much."

you can see his eyes becoming teary as you've lowered yourself, your skin ghosting his. "that's all i needed to hear right now."

your heart melts, your body falling into his as he immediately catches you and pulls you closer. "oh, satoru..."

his tears seem to evaporate the moment you pull him for a kiss. "i love you so so much."

( subscriptions. ) @r0ckst4rjk @kasukuna @pixelcafe-network @satsattoru @blcknebula

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・❥ OVERSTIM WITH CALEB (PART 2) !!

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|• 0:10

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ rundown :: some scenarios in which caleb would react to being overstimulated !!

WARNINGS :: NSFW! 18+ , public sex , dry humping , overstimulation , porn with no plot , dom!reader , sub!caleb , use of y/n (once)

a/n :: heres part one ! this is most likely the last part , hope you enjoy :)

IN PUBLIC :: look , sometimes caleb cant help himself . all the time when he sees you to take you out on dates or just a casual hangout at a café , you look so unbelievably scrumptious he just has to have you right there ! he'd reach his hand over to place on your thigh , slowly sliding higher and higher until you notice . he doesn't stop though ... why would he ? in his depraved mind , he's gonna finger you senseless right then and there in front of all these people ... but little does he know he'll be the one going senseless . you'd slap away his hand and before he knows it you're unbuttoning his jeans on the down-low , looking around to see if anyones paying attention before slithering under the table . caleb is whispering to you and grasping at the sides of his seat , fighting actual demons trying to not make a sound as you slurp up his cock . he was doing pretty well at being quiet before his cum shot down your throat and you kept going . poor boy has slumped his head on the table , eyes squeezed tight , knuckles white from how hard he's gripping your hair , hips twitching without control . his attempts to be undercover are futile as he's so sensitive to your mouth ... the whole restaurant is giving him stares and whispers of concern :/.

DRY HUMPING :: now i didn't know it was even possible to become overstimulated by dry humping , but caleb proved me wrong . it doesnt matter if you guys are clothed or not , he can still feel and imagine your perfect cunt with precision; making it easier for him to fall over the edge in his pants . especially when he can feel your warmth through the fabric ?! best thing ever . that euphoria wouldnt last long before it was replaced with the familiar feeling of overwhelming pleasure ... too much pleasure . "w-wait pips- hah, fuck.. s'too much baby, stopstop.." he'd murmur , grabbing onto your hips as an anchor . although he already came , by the mere thought of how dirty your guys situation was , you didnt come along with him . you didnt necessarily mean to overstimulate him .. it's just a natural instinct to want to chase the high of an orgasm . underneath you , the dampness of his trousers was getting to your thighs and making it easier to slide across his lap . this would go on until you came for the first time and him for the second , thrashing underneath you .

BEING AWAY FOR TOO LONG :: would happen if he was away on a prolonged mission , he would get so needy and desperate for you that he physically couldn't stop . he'd cum multiple times and still have more to give , overstimulating the both of you . it'd get so bad to the point where he's sobbing big crocodile tears and begging himself to stop , drooling like a dog onto your chest , seeking the sweet embrace of your breasts . "i know pips .. i know , im s-sorry. it's too much for me, too . i just cant stop when ive been away from my perfect pussy for too long . " but you know his apologies arent for real . every thrust of his hips would send a jolt of white-hot adrenaline up his spine , not even pleasure anymore; forcing himself past the limit solely for the purpose of staying inside of you for longer . after he cums for what felt like the 1500 time , he'd lay atop of you , motionless . he's quite literally incapable of moving other than the aftershocks shaking him . the next day you both would woke up at 12pm and stayed in bed together the rest of the day , lacking the ability to walk right .

BEGGING :: obviously , caleb would beg for you almost every time you guys had sex; but there are some nights where he's particularly more vocal than usual . you've noticed that a way to get him like that is to have him on all fours , pleading for you to stop jerking him off . "please baby please .. im too sensitive, im a pathetic mess, im disgusting and filthy . im begging you, y/n, please. " while he spends lots of sweet time talking , it never works . it always ends the same , with your hand (or cunt) on his dick , making him squirm and moan for you for hours on end .

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ in conclusion :: overstimulating may just be this boy's favorite activity!

---

MDNI! Dark Themes. Dubcon/Yandere/Kidnapping/Drugging? (it catnip)

HybridKitty!Reader who was a stray but a happy stray roaming around the streets, catching fish from the river, and lazing around in the sun. But, suddenly, they get adopted (kidnap) by this strange man. He takes you in his house, forces a collar on you, telling you that it was much safer in his house than the outside world. You try to tell him that you been surviving just fine without him, that the outside was your home and you liked your freedom. He just coos at you and tries to ruffle your hair, treating you like a child.

You hiss and claw at his hand and while he winces back he doesn't hurt you back. Just looks at you sadly and tries again in a couple of hours. The days passes like this for a while, he leaves food outside of the small closet you took up space in. Feeling that it was safer in there, then the room and bed he made for you, you wouldn't eat it for a while at first. But the smell got too tantalizing, the stranger would handcook meals for you and they always smell so good.

Slowly but surely you were coming out of your skittish shell, hanging around the kitchen watching him cook once, but promptly leaving once he tried to pet you once again. However, after you finished your meal today, he asked you if you wanted dessert. This was the first time you heard this so you were curious enough to stay out of your hiding place to see what he had to offer.

He brings out a small bottle, sprinkling some leafy stuff on the palm of his hand and stretching it out to you. Telling you to take a sniff of it. The smell was nothing you ever smelt before, it was addicting to say the least. Even more once you actually got closer to his hand, though when your own hand stretch out to grab some of it, he pulled back, closing his palm into a fist and sealing away the treat.

Your ears flatten back on your head and a needy whine emerge from your throat, wondering why he would deny you the dessert if he was offering it in the first place. He waggles a finger at you, softly smiling, his eyes darken over just a bit. "If you want this treat, you gotta eat it from my hand, ok?" He reach out, palms open once more.

You shouldn't, you really shouldn't, all your heighten senses was telling you this was a bad idea but your sense of smell was overriding everything. The treat smelt too good to be left alone so you venture forward. Tentatively inching closer and closer, leaning your face down to take a good whiff of the treat and your mind was gone at that point.

Your rough textured tongue lap out at the treat, heavy purrs emits from your throat. As you kept on licking the treat out of the stranger's hand, not even noticing or caring that he was practically drooling at the sight, his thighs shaking a little, and his hand hovering over your head. Your small hands grabbed on to his wrist, pulling him closer as you try to get every single bit of the leafy treat, your tongue caressing the skin of this palm now.

He lets out a low moan at the feeling, putting his hand down on your head and finally touchy your cute fluffy ears, fingers rubbing the softness of it, making you purr out even more. You saw drunk people before back when you were a stray and you imagined this is what they must had felt like. On cloud nine and when the treat on his hand was emptied by your lips. The man stood up, hands traveling down your back and waist as he tells you that he'll give you more if you come sit on his lap and lick it off of him again.

How you could resist after just one taste? So, of course, you agreed, leaving behind the shelter of the closet and going into the bedroom. As the door clicks behind you, the last sense in your brain gave out a final warning to run. Too bad, because now the man was also addicted. Addicted to the feeling of your tongue on him and he wasn't about to let you go so easily.

After all, a good kitten gotta work for her treat~

---

caleb eating you out and he has the gall to give you this look:

---

cw: subbypervgojo , cunnilingus, dildos

the molded dildo fit to replicate every detail of satoru’s cock that he got you as a ‘ gag ‘ gift, is the exact one he’s sloppily riding on his knees infront of you. an idea that initially started off as a joke, potentially a hidden desire of his. pretty pink dusted tip weeping out pearly globs of precum, grinding shakily against your leg. whilst he grips at your thighs. brain all foggy n’ turnt to mush fucking himself on his own cock, without shame. 

between him fucking himself on his own length, and  you being the one to watch, he couldn’t tell which was making him harder.

god, if it wasent the best view you’ve ever seen, then you don’t know what else could compete. his overstimulated mewls drowned out by your cunt in his mouth. trying to taste all of you on his tongue, even if it meant suffocating. he’d love to go out with your pretty pussy on his face anyday. your hands roughly tugging at his hair, using him just how he liked. 

maybe you’d have to indulge in his silly little ideas more often.

masterlist

---

I don’t think Caleb realizes how loud he is in bed until you both decide to film the next time you guys have sex.

He felt embarrassed,

“I could barely hear you, why didn’t you tell me to shut up?”

“Why in the world would I do that?” You really didn’t understand his dilemma. Caleb’s moans and praises were exactly the cherry on top of everything else when he laid inside you under the tussled sheets.

“You could at least cover my mouth or…kiss me or..”

“I do kiss you, but I’m not telling you to shut up you sound amazing, Cay.”

His gaze on you felt heavy enough for you to turn from what you were fiddling with in the kitchen to hold his cheeks, like fire to ice he melted in your touch, “I love your noises because it lets me know I make you feel good almost enough as you make me feel good.”

Those puppy dog eyes of his made you almost whine out an “aww” and just baby him away from the world. It was ridiculous how easily he could wrap you around his finger and not even know it, “wanna know a secret?”

Reaching to his ear, his hands steadying your waist you whisper, “I once touched myself to thought about the way you cry out my name .”

You pat his now very warm cheek to casually continue making your coffee until he grabs your wrist. He wasn’t looking at you, but your could see him bite back a mischievous smile.

“So, you do like when I don’t hold back?”

“Duh. You sound prettier anyway.”

“Oh?” The gap between you both closed. Your body now pushed in between the cool steel of the fridge door and Caleb’s hot chest, “Then I guess I have to prove you wrong.”

Lifting your eyebrows you didn’t quite understand until he picked you up to place you on the kitchen counter, immediately sniffing your neck before lifting up his your shirt to squeeze your thighs, “May I?”

“Always.”

Eventually Caleb and yourself remade a new video, and this time he wasn’t the only loud one. And now he knows he can be as freely vocal as he can when he’s inside you.

---