God, I love him.
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MC is trippin. I would’ve moved in with this guy and quit my job a long time ago if I were her.
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Caleb frisking MC the same way he frisk-checks his aircraft (ending finger-gun and all)
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ᯓ★ First time posting on tumblr…kinda nervous…
ˋ°•*⁀➷ neighbour!caleb x reader
content. 18+ MDNI, fem!reader, smut, fluff, slight angst, somnophilia, dacryphilia, dubious consent, penetration (p in v), use of ‘pips,’ 'pipsqueak,’ & 'baby’, groping, cunnilingus, theres probably more tags i’ve missed so be warned!! Not proof read.
word count. 16.3k
synopsis. You moved across the world for a fresh start—new country, new university, new life. You didn’t want it, but it was for the best. Then, one reckless night out changes everything. You lose your apartment key and end up stranded in a outside with no way inside. Enter Caleb—the calm, unfairly charming stranger who appears at exactly the right moment and just so happens to live next door. What starts as a one-time rescue turns into late-night conversations through thin apartment walls. Shared meals when you can’t cook. Movie nights that stretch a little too long. Inside jokes. Familiar routines. The kind of friendship that feels effortless. Dangerously effortless. Because somewhere between easy banter and lingering glances, you realize you don’t just like Caleb. You want him. And that terrifies you. You’re convinced it’s one-sided. He’s too kind, too steady, too good to risk with messy feelings. So you bury it. You smile. You pretend. You tell yourself it’s better this way. But what if he’s been pretending too?
[[MORE]]You hated the mere thought of moving.
Not the adventure people romanticized. Not the glossy brochures with their smiling students and sunlit campuses. You hated the leaving.
The hollow ache of saying goodbye to family and friends. The way your entire eighteen years of existence could be reduced to a single suitcase and a carry-on. The idea of landing somewhere foreign and realizing you didn’t know the first thing about surviving there—where to study when the dorms got too loud, which grocery store wouldn’t bleed your wallet dry, which cafés served comfort in a cup and which served regret. You wouldn’t know the shortcuts, the safe streets, the inside jokes.
You wouldn’t know anyone.
You wouldn’t know anything.
It was your worst nightmare—losing the map of a life you had memorized by heart.
And yet, as fate would have it, after high school you were awarded a full-ride scholarship to one of the most prestigious universities in Linkon. Tuition, housing, meal plans, textbooks—every expense covered. Everything you could possibly need.
The only catch? A six-hour plane ride to an entirely different country.
You told your parents no.
You hadn’t even wanted to apply there. Every other school on your list was close to home, safely within driving distance. But your parents—so certain their “genius daughter” would get in—had insisted. You had applied just to prove a point.
You hadn’t expected to succeed.
“Do you know how many students struggle after moving abroad?” you argued. “Do you know what that does to people?”
The unspoken words you really meant though; Do you know what that would do to me?
You wouldn’t have the money to fly home every holiday. You wouldn’t be there for birthdays, for quiet Sunday dinners, for the small ordinary moments that stitched your family together. You couldn’t just rip out roots that had grown for eighteen years and expect them to thrive in foreign soil.
Your mind was made up.
Until it wasn’t…
It didn’t take long to see the other side of the equation. Staying meant partial scholarships. It meant loans. It meant years of debt waiting patiently for you at graduation. Your parents would help, of course—they always would—but that was the problem.
They always would.
You began to notice the way your mother folded receipts twice before tucking them into her wallet. The way your father lingered over bills at the kitchen table a little longer than he used to. Staying close suddenly didn’t feel noble.
It felt selfish.
Going to Linkon meant opportunity—research facilities at the forefront of scientific advancement, professors whose names appeared in journals you’d only skimmed online, internships that could build a future instead of delay it. Staying meant comfort.
Leaving meant possibility.
So one evening, like a miracle you weren’t sure you believed in, you told them you’d go. They didn’t believe you at first of course. They searched your face for cracks in your resolve. But eventually, hope won out over suspicion.
And now you were here.
Standing in the city of Linkon—all glass towers and rushing crowds, a place famous for its breakthroughs in science and innovation—trying to quiet the tremor in your chest and hoping this wasn’t the worst decision you’ve ever made.
‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍎 ⋅ ˚✮
Settling in was the part no one warned you about.
The first two months were a blur of errands and exhaustion. You needed furniture—something other than bare walls and an air mattress to make the apartment feel less temporary. You spent weekends assembling flat-pack shelves with trembling hands, waiting weeks for boxes your parents mailed from home: sweaters that still smelled faintly like your childhood bedroom, dog-eared books, a chipped mug you refused to leave behind.
You learned which grocery store was cheapest, which bus line ran closest to campus, which streets felt safe after dark. You picked up your class schedule, memorized building names, traced routes on your phone until you no longer needed directions.
It was all so much work.
Most days you slept through the sunlight, your body stubbornly clinging to a time zone six hours behind. Nights were reserved for glowing screens and familiar voices—texting, calling, pretending the distance wasn’t as wide as it felt. They kept telling you this was good for you. A fresh start. A new chapter. New friends, new opportunities, a new version of yourself.
Their words sounded beautiful.
They just didn’t feel real.
Classes began. Your sleep schedule stabilized. You filled your calendar with lectures and lab times and study hours. On paper, you were adjusting.
But loneliness is stubborn.
You did make friends—technically. There were the lecture acquaintances: the ones who borrowed pens, shared notes, and gave you a polite wave in the hallway as if you were colleagues rather than classmates. Then there were the social ones—the loud, easy-smiling students who thrived in crowds. They invited you to fraternity parties pulsing with music and colored lights, pressed plastic cups into your hands, laughed when you hesitated.
“Live a little,” they said.
You weren’t interested in alcohol or blunts or cigarettes. Not really. But what was the harm in a few harmless parties? In pretending you belonged somewhere, even temporarily?
That single thought—harmless—was what led to the worst first impression you could have possibly made on him.
After what you were almost certain had been a fruit punch—but now strongly suspected was a personal betrayal in the colour of pink lemonade—you caught a cab home. The city lights smeared into neon ribbons outside the window while you giggled at absolutely nothing, forehead pressed to the glass like it held the secrets of the universe.
By the time the cab dropped you off, your head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton and shaken. You fumbled with your bag at the security gate, keys which didn’t have a keychain clinking far too loudly in the quiet lobby. The gate had that dramatic, slow-swinging metal door with bars just wide enough to mock you.
“Okay,” you muttered. “We can do this. We are adults.”
You were not, in fact, doing this.
The singular gate key slipped from your fingers, hit the concrete with a traitorous clink, and slid—slowly, beautifully—under the gate to the other side.
You stared at it.
It stared back.
“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Someone would come by. Obviously. This was a populated building. You’d explain, they’d laugh kindly, open the gate, you’d go upstairs, hydrate, rethink every life decision that led to fluorescent fruit punch.
Thirty minutes passed.
The digital clock above the inner glass doors glowed 1:21 AM in unforgiving red numbers. The lights were too bright. Your sweater was too scratchy. The air was too loud. Your brain decided this was the perfect time to replay every wrong thing going on in your life.
And because that wasn’t enough, tears welled up.
You slid down the wall until you were sitting on the cold floor, knees pulled in, sniffling dramatically. “I hate everything,” you whispered to no one.
The gate creaked.
A shadow fell over you.
“Uh—hey… you okay there?”
You squinted up through blurry, tear-filled vision. The figure was tall. Very tall. Broad shoulders. Brown hair falling slightly over his forehead. But you couldn’t seem to make out more than that. His voice was deep but softened by something almost boyish, like he found this whole scene mildly amusing.
You sniffled. “I dropped my key under the door.”
A pause.
Then a low chuckle—warm, smooth, annoyingly pleasant.
“You’re cryin’ over that?” he asked, leaning slightly to peer at the key on the other side.
“I didn’t mean to cry,” you defended weakly.
He shook his head with a small smile and pulled out his own key. The gate unlocked with a simple click that felt personal. He pushed it open with his foot, bent down easily, and picked up your runaway key.
He held it out but didn’t let go right away. “This the criminal?”
You nodded solemnly.
“Dangerous. Tried to escape the scene.”
You huffed a watery laugh. “It betrayed me.”
“Unforgivable.”
He finally placed it in your palm. “C’mon then. You’re not planning on camping out here, are you?”
You shook your head and used the wall to pull yourself up. The floor shifted like it had opinions. You took careful, slow steps inside, gripping your bag like it was a flotation device.
He could’ve walked ahead. He didn’t.
Instead, he matched your pace, hands in his pockets. Every few seconds you caught him glancing at you, probably making sure you didn’t tip over like a poorly balanced lamp.
You squinted at him. Brown hair. Black long-sleeve shirt that clung unfairly well to his shoulders. Grey sweats. The fluorescent lights were not subtle about the whole “built” situation.
You hiccupped.
Once.
Twice.
On the third, he let out a quiet laugh just as you reached the elevator.
“You good there?”
“Mmhm,” you lied.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a water bottle, holding it toward you. “Want some water?”
You blinked at it suspiciously, “I was told not to take drinks from strangers.”
His mouth curved into a grin. “Smart girl. But if I were a serial killer, I feel like I’d have a cooler pitch than ‘here’s some water.’”
The elevator doors slid open with a metallic sigh. He held one side and gestured for you to step in first. “Anyway,” he continued as he stepped in after you, “what floor, pipsqueak?”
You frowned at him immediately. “Pipsqueak?”
He looked down at you pointedly. “You’re, what, five-two?”
“Five-four,” you snapped, swaying slightly. “And telling you my floor is also a bad idea.”
He leaned back against the wall, arms folding across his chest. “So no water, no floor number. Tough crowd.”
“You could be lying.”
“About living here?”
“About not being a serial killer.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You think serial killers hang around at 1:30 AM rescuing drunk girls from their own keys?”
“Maybe it’s part of the strategy.”
He let out a laugh—full this time. “Alright. Fair. So what’s the plan, then? We ride this elevator indefinitely?”
You stared at the button panel like it personally offended you. “…You could press all of them,” you mumbled.
“Ah, chaos. I like it.”
He reached forward dramatically, then paused. “Or—you could just press yours, and I promise not to memorize it for evil purposes.”
You hesitated. The elevator hummed around you, fluorescent lights buzzing like they were personally invested in your paranoia.
He noticed. His teasing expression faded into something more grounded. “Look, I live on the fourth floor—402. If you feel threatened at all, call the cops. My name is Caleb Xia. It can’t get any easier than that to find me.”
402.
Your brain, already unreliable, attempted basic math.
Yours was 401.
You stared at him.
402? Yours was 401. That meant—
Was he stalking you? Had he seen you before? Was this some elaborate long game? He gave you his name way too easily. But that could be fake. People lie. Criminals lie. Attractive criminals probably lie very well—
“I’m not lying to you about anything, scouts honor,” he said, cutting clean through your spiral. “I just want to make sure this wobbly girl ends up safe in her own apartment.”
Your mouth dropped open.
“HOLY—” You blinked at him. “Did you just read my mind?”
He stared at you flatly. “Yes. That’s exactly it. I broke into your thoughts and all I found was a conspiracy documentary.”
Your eyes widened further.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, Pips. Your face is just extremely expressive.”
“Oh.”
A beat.
“…Rude.”
The elevator dinged but didn’t open yet—someone upstairs had pressed it too. You swayed slightly, gripping the railing.
He shifted subtly closer, not touching you, just… ready.
“Come on,” he said gently. “We’re probably holding up the elevator. Just give me the floor, yeah? I’ll walk six feet away from you until you get inside and then go my own way.”
You stared at the glowing “4” button.
“No need…” you muttered finally, surrendering. “I live on the fourth too. I’m 401.”
He blinked.
“Really?”
“Yes. Really.”
A slow grin spread across his face. “You’re kidding.”
“Why would I lie about that?”
“Because,” he gestured loosely between the two of you, the motion lazy and amused, “you just spent five minutes deciding whether I was a serial killer and now we’re neighbors.”
The elevator dinged.
The doors slid open to the fourth floor with a soft metallic sigh.
The hallway outside was dimmer than the lobby—warm yellow wall sconces casting soft pools of light along beige walls. The carpet was that standard apartment gray with faint geometric patterns meant to hide stains. It smelled faintly of cleaning solution and someone’s late-night cooking—garlic, maybe.
Your stomach dropped in an entirely new way as you stepped out.
“…You’re not actually stalking me, right?” you asked, turning to him suspiciously.
He stepped out after you, letting the elevator doors close behind him. The hallway suddenly felt quieter. Closer.
He looked almost offended. “You were the one crying in front of my building.”
“It’s my building too!”
Caleb scoffed, adjusting the sleeves of his black shirt as he walked a few paces behind you. “Yeah, but your excuse could’ve been a way to lure me into your trap.”
You stopped mid-step and slowly turned.
He continued, completely serious. “Matter of fact, I should be wondering whether you’re a killer or not. What a crazy coincidence it is that we’re neighbours. You could be lying, waiting for me to open my door before killing me.”
You blinked at him.
Once.
Twice.
Then you pointed at him dramatically—except your depth perception betrayed you and your finger hovered somewhere near his shoulder.
“I am not a serial killer and—” hiccup “—if I was, I definitely wouldn’t kill someone drunk.”
He stared at you for half a second before gently grabbing your wrist and shifting your finger a few inches to the right.
“My face is here,” he informed you, fighting a grin.
You squinted up at him. “I knew that.”
“Sure you did.”
He released your hand, but his fingers lingered for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary—just enough to steady you when you swayed again.
The hallway felt quieter than it had a moment ago. A door down the corridor clicked shut. Somewhere, pipes hummed faintly in the walls.
You resumed walking, this time more carefully, counting the doors as you went.
405… 404…
Your brain lagged.
“Wait.”
“You okay?” he asked.
“I can count,” you insisted.
“I believe you.”
“Don’t sound like that.”
You walked past Caleb’s apartment and reached 401 and stopped dramatically in front of it like you’d just completed an obstacle course. The brass numbers were slightly crooked, the welcome mat beneath reading Welcome in faded script.
Caleb stopped a respectful distance away, near 402—your door and his separated by barely a few feet of wall and carpet.
He glanced at your door.
Then at his.
Then back at you.
The hallway felt smaller now somehow—quiet, wrapped in that late-night stillness where every sound seemed sharper. The hum of the building’s ventilation system buzzed faintly overhead, and somewhere down the corridor a TV murmured behind a closed door.
Caleb leaned one shoulder against the wall between 401 and 402, arms crossed loosely over his chest.
“Well,” he said slowly, glancing between your door and his, “this is either the beginning of a nice, wholesome neighborly friendship… or the start of a documentary.”
You let out a breathy scoff. “You are so dramatic.”
“Says the girl who held a full interrogation in the elevator.”
“Due diligence,” you corrected, lifting your chin.
He pushed off the wall at the same time you turned toward your door. For a brief second, you both just stood there—mirrored—pulling out your keys like you were about to duel.
Metal scraped softly against metal.
Click.
Click.
The sound echoed in the quiet hallway.
You both paused. He tested his handle first. It opened easily. He looked over at you as you did the same. Your door swung inward without resistance.
A slow, amused hum left him. “Looks like you weren’t lying.”
“Guess you weren’t either,” you replied, trying very hard not to sound relieved.
He angled his body toward you, one hand still resting on his doorframe. Up close, without the harsh elevator lighting, he looked softer somehow. Less teasing, more real. “I never got a name, neighbour,” he said. “Or should I keep calling you Pipsqueak?”
You rolled your eyes automatically—but the smile broke through anyway. “Y/N,” you said, leaning lightly against your own doorframe to steady yourself.
He repeated it once, testing it. “Y/N.” The way he said it—casual, but deliberate—made your stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with fruit punch.
“Well, Y/N,” he continued, that crooked grin settling back into place, “good night. And hopefully the next time we run into each other there are no mean keys on the loose, yeah?”
You huffed a quiet laugh. “They’re menaces. Completely untrustworthy.”
“I’ll alert building management.”
There was a brief pause—one of those moments where neither of you seemed in a rush to disappear behind your respective doors. Then he nodded once, softer now. “Get some water,” he added. “And maybe a headache plan.”
You groaned at how the potential hangover could be before waving. “Good night, Caleb.”
“Good night, Y/N.”
‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍎 ⋅ ˚✮
There’s that saying—once you start noticing someone, you see them everywhere. It turns out it’s not a saying. It’s a threat.
Ever since that humiliating first night in the hallway, Caleb had apparently unlocked some kind of omnipresence perk.
Grocery store? You’d be debating between two brands of pasta when a familiar voice drifted over your shoulder.
“Careful. That one overcooks.”
You’d turn—and there he was, standing in the egg aisle like he’d been summoned by your internal monologue.
“Are you following me?” you’d demand.
He’d glance down at the carton in his hands. “If I was, I’d pick something cooler than eggs.”
Mailroom? You’d step in at 6:13 p.m. sharp—because that was a safe, random time—and he’d be there already, leaning against the wall with a stack of envelopes.
“Wow,” he’d say casually. “You live here too?”
Taking the bus to university? That one felt particularly targeted.
You had just settled into a window seat, headphones on, mentally preparing for your morning lecture when someone slid into the seat beside you.
“Morning, Pipsqueak.”
You nearly jumped out of your skin.
“Do you appear out of thin air?” you accused.
“Relax. This is the 8:10 route.”
“And?”
“And it goes to Linkon University.”
You blinked. “You go to Linkon?”
He grinned. “Aerodynamics. Third year.”
Of course he did. Of course he studied something that sounded impressive and intimidating and unfairly attractive.
“Let me guess,” you muttered. “You’re secretly building a jet in your bedroom.”
He leaned back in his seat. “I mean, not secretly.”
And as if the universe hadn’t done enough already—
Balcony. You’d step outside for air, leaning over the railing, and down on the sidewalk he’d be running past in athletic shorts and a sleeveless shirt like some kind of fitness ad.
You retreat immediately.
It didn’t matter where you were. If Caleb saw you, that devastatingly charming smile would appear like clockwork—easy, warm, unfair. The kind that made it impossible to stay annoyed.
And now that you were sober most of the time, you had the unfortunate clarity to properly process his face.
Which was a mistake. Because if you had registered those sharp cheekbones and that stupidly sculpted jaw the first night, you were fairly certain you would’ve said something irreversible. Something embarrassing. Something that would haunt you for years.
It really wasn’t shocking that you became friends. You were close in age—him twenty-one, you nineteen. Same university. Same building. Same bus route. Same late-night study habits.
He had been right. That night had absolutely been the start of something. Unfortunately, your heart didn’t get the memo that it was only supposed to be a friendship.
It started doing this annoying thing—beating a little faster when he stood too close. You’d catch yourself scanning crowded hallways on campus just in case he was nearby. You’d change outfits three times before class because what if you ran into him? You’d rehearse conversations in your head like you were preparing for a presentation.
Maybe he was right.
Maybe you were the one with the super evil plan, because from the outside it definitely looked like low-level stalking.
The problem?
You weren’t the only one noticing him.
Caleb Xia, as you very quickly learned, was not just “guy next door.”
He was captain of the university basketball team. Popular without trying. The kind of person professors liked and classmates gravitated toward. His grades were annoyingly high. His name got tossed around in conversations like it meant something.
And people—girls and guys—absolutely fawned over him.
You’d see it in the hallways. In the student center. On the bus. Someone always laughing a little too hard at something he said.
It was almost infuriating how… perfect he seemed. Which made it worse that he was genuinely kind.
He’d wave you over when he was with friends. “This is my neighbor, Y/N. The one with the criminal key.”
You’d groan, but they’d laugh, and somehow he’d make it easy. He’d bridge conversations so you didn’t feel awkward. Ask questions that pulled you in instead of leaving you hovering on the edges.
On days you looked half-dead before morning lectures, he’d appear with a coffee already in hand.
“You look like you fought your pillow and lost,” he’d say, offering it to you.
On days your shoulders were tight and your replies short, he’d hand you tea instead.
“You’re stress-radiating. This is preventative.”
You told him—multiple times—that he didn’t need to spend money on you. And as always he always brushed it off. “How is it unnecessary?” he’d say. “Trust me, I’m doing myself a favor.”
You’d narrow your eyes. “Explain.”
He’d lean in slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “Who knows what happens one day when you decide you’re done with people and target your nice little neighbor next door?”
“You’re so morbid,” you’d mutter, trying to ignore the way your stomach flipped.
He’d just grin. “I’m cautious.”
You’d roll your eyes every time.
But the truth you hide—or well act like you believe in—is that hiis stupid jokes affected you more than you ever let on.
‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍎 ⋅ ˚✮
It was a random Saturday evening when he knocked on your door.
You weren’t expecting anyone. You were in your living room, highlighter in hand, half-focused on your notes and half-focused on the fact that your brain refused to absorb anything past page three.
Knock. Knock.
You padded to the door in your shorts and the oversized polo you’d stolen from your dad before moving out—soft from years of wear, sleeves swallowing your hands if you let them. It smelled faintly like home and laundry detergent.
You opened the door.
And blinked.
Caleb stood there looking… damp.
Not cute-damp. Not aesthetic rain-scene damp.
Mid-shower damp.
His hair was wet and pushed back messily, little patches of foam still clinging near his temple and behind one ear. Water dripped from the ends onto his shoulders. His black t-shirt was soaked through in uneven patches, clinging to his chest and stomach in a way that felt unnecessarily distracting. His grey sweats were wrinkled like they’d been crumpled on the floor and pulled back on in a hurry.
For a second, he just stared at you.
There was something unreadable in his eyes—sharp, almost intense—before it smoothed away so quickly you wondered if you imagined it.
Your ears warmed instantly. Thank God your hair was down.
Caleb cleared his throat.
“Hey, Pipsqueak.”
You narrowed your eyes slightly. “Caleb… Can I help you?”
He scratched the back of his neck, and you swore you could hear faint bubbles popping in his hair.
“So, uh,” he began, shifting his weight. “My water stopped working. I think the plumbing’s acting weird and I was kinda—”
“Mid-shower?” you finished, already pressing your hand to your mouth to suppress a laugh.
He closed his eyes briefly and nodded. “Tragically.”
You took him in again—soap, soaked shirt, mild dignity crisis—and crossed your arms, trying to look more composed than you felt.
“Well,” you said, stepping aside, “Caleb, feel free to use my shower if you need it.”
The relief on his face was immediate and genuine. “Thank you.”
He stepped inside without hesitation, heading straight toward the bathroom like muscle memory was guiding him. It wasn’t the first time he’d been over. Weekends had become your unspoken routine—sometimes card games at yours (you blamed your friend group back home for your board game addiction), sometimes movies or experimental cooking sessions at his.
The first time he’d opened your fridge and seen nothing but frozen meals, he’d looked personally offended.
“You live like this?” he had asked.
“It’s efficient.”
“It’s criminal.”
Since then, he’d taken it upon himself to “fix” you by teaching you how to cook.
You returned to your dining table, trying very hard to focus on your notes while the shower turned on in the background. The pipes groaned softly, then steadied.
A minute later his voice carried through the bathroom door.
“Pips.”
You didn’t look up. “Yeah?”
“Would your boyfriend be upset I’m showering at your place?”
You nearly choked on the water you’d just sipped. “What?”
“Your boyfriend,” he repeated, louder over the running water. “Wouldn’t he be upset?”
You stared at the wall.
“…Why,” you asked slowly, “do you think I have a boyfriend, Leb?”
“Your shirt,” he called back. “It’s way too big for you. And I’ve never seen you wear something like that.”
You glanced down at the faded polo.
The polo.
You had to physically stop yourself from smiling at the tiny, delusional part of your brain that whispered he sounded jealous.
“It’s my dad’s,” you said evenly.
Silence.
Complete, immediate silence.
The water kept running.
You waited.
Nothing.
Ten minutes later, the bathroom door opened and your soul briefly left your body.
Caleb stepped out with nothing but a towel wrapped low around his waist. You knew he was built. You’d seen him in sleeveless shirts, on the basketball court, running past your balcony.
But this? This was different.
Water still trailed down his shoulders and chest. His abs were unfairly defined. His collarbones sharp. Your tiny fucking towel barely held on from the sheer amount of muscle he had in his thighs His skin still slightly flushed from the heat of the shower.
He froze too.
“Oh—fuck. Y/N, I’m so sorry!” he blurted, eyes widening as realization hit. “I—my shirt’s soaked. I was gonna grab another one and I just—this isn’t my apartment.”
You couldn’t breathe.
He backed up toward the bathroom. “Can you just—maybe—grab something from mine? I’ll—yeah.”
“Yep!” you said far too quickly. “No worries.”
You were already moving. You grabbed his spare key from the hook by your door—thank God you’d kept it from the last time you watered his plants—and all but fled into the hallway.
Holy. Fuck.
Your hands shook slightly as you unlocked 402 and stepped into his apartment. It smelled faintly like his body wash and laundry detergent. You beelined for his bedroom, grabbing the first clean shirt and sweats you saw, not letting yourself think about the fact that you were in his room.
You hurried back and knocked lightly before pushing your door open just enough to hold the clothes out.
“I’m not looking,” you announced.
A quiet, sheepish laugh came from inside. “You’re dramatic.”
The bathroom door clicked shut again and you began to hear fabric rustling. A minute later, he emerged fully dressed this time—hair still wet but soap-free, clean shirt clinging properly instead of tragically, sweats sitting low on his hips.
He looked… embarrassed.
Which was new.
“Sorry,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck again. “I got sidetracked. I didn’t mean to, uh…”
“I know,” you cut in quickly, forcing your voice to stay steady. Casual. Normal. Completely unaffected by the last five minutes. “It’s all good.”
In reality your heart was on the path to a heart attack from how fast it was beating.
‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍎 ⋅ ˚✮
You didn’t sleep—couldn’t.
You lay there with the lights off, staring at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the building and the occasional car passing outside, every sense tuned too sharply to rest. Every time you closed your eyes, it was there again—him, damp and flushed and solid in your living room, a towel slung too low on his hips, water tracing paths down skin you absolutely should not have memorized in such detail.
And yet you had.
You swallowed and rolled onto your side, pressing your face into the pillow like that might smother the thoughts. It didn’t help. If anything, it made it worse.
Because his apartment mirrored yours. Which meant his bedroom was only a wall away. Only drywall, insulation, and the very thin pretense of normalcy separating you from him.
The knowledge settled heavy in your chest, a low, persistent ache. You wondered if he was awake too. If he was lying on his back, staring at the same blank ceiling, replaying the same moment from a different angle. The thought sent an unwelcome—but not entirely unpleasant—thrill through you.
You tried everything. White noise murmured uselessly from your phone. You pulled on a sleep mask, kicked it off again. You brewed tea that promised calm and delivered nothing. You focused on your breathing, counted backwards, tried to meditate.
Nothing worked.
Your body felt restless, keyed up, like it was waiting for something it wasn’t getting.
Eventually, you sighed and threw the blankets aside.
Barefoot, you crossed your room and opened your closet, crouching to reach the small box tucked into the corner. The vibrator inside was still unopened, pristine in its packaging—an impulse buy you hadn’t entirely thought through. You’d never really needed help before. Your hands had always been enough.
Tonight felt… different.
You unboxed it slowly, fingers brushing over smooth silicone, your curiosity warring with a strange, unexpected self-consciousness. Sixty dollars. You huffed quietly, shaking your head. When you opened the battery compartment and realized you didn’t have what it needed, you nearly laughed out loud.
Of course.
You padded into the living room, heart thudding a little harder than necessary, and popped open the TV remote. Same batteries. Lucky. You hurried back, replaced them, and set the remote carefully back where it belonged, like it might tattle on you otherwise.
Standing there in the dim light of your bedroom, the toy warm in your hand, you felt oddly shy. Which was ridiculous. You weren’t inexperienced. You’d had relationships, flings, moments that were fine if unremarkable.
So why did this feel different?
You checked the time: 12:50 a.m.
Caleb usually went on his late runs around now. Probably still out. Which meant even if by chance you slipped up and made some noise he wouldn’t hear.
You took a slow breath and climbed back onto your bed, settling into the sheets. The mattress dipped beneath you, familiar and grounding. You shimmied off the shorts you wore leaving only the baby pink cotton panties around your pelvic area. You closed your eyes.
And there he was again. Amethyst eyes. Brown hair. Cocky smile.
He was close this time. Too close. A threat of guilt weaved its way into your brain, but you were too filled with the haze of lust to pay more than three seconds to it. After all this was really his fault. How could he forget he was in your apartment?
In an instant, his presence filled the space in your mind effortlessly—broad shoulders, solid weight, the quiet confidence he carried without trying. You imagined him looming over you, one arm braced beside your head, the muscles prominent and veins running up from his hands to dip beneath his shirt. The other hand would slide under your knee and he’d lift your leg over his shoulder like it belonged there. He’d look at you with hooded eyes, restraint threatening to break.
Your breath hitched cautiously as you slowly brought the head of the silicone to the underside of your panties, not turning it on yet…just placing it against your clit. Your fingers twitch against the buttons wanting to just turn it on and get it over with. You told yourself not to go too far. Just the feeling. Just the idea. You tried to keep it simple, to avoid imagining his mouth, his hands, the way his voice might drop when he spoke.
You wondered how he’d talk to you if the space between you finally disappeared. Whether he’d tease you, voice low and infuriatingly calm. Whether he’d be gentle or relentless. Whether he’d look at you like he already knew exactly how undone you were.
“You’re so pretty pips—aaah…wanted to do this for so long you'know?”
Your hips bucked up and down grinding slowly on the toy. God this was pathetic. The ache deepened, spreading warm and insistent, and you clenched your jaw, torn between want and restraint. Before you could overthink you clicked the stupid button and a rhythmic buzz filled the room.
In an instant your eyes shot open and an unexpected gasp left your throat. The sensations caught you off guard and you stared in surprise at how fucking strong that was. You gave yourself a moment to adjust to the speed before letting yourself feel the enjoyable vibrations that the toy spread through you.
“Leb—C-Caleb…” A whine leaves your throat as you plant your feet flat against the mattress of your bed and you begin to use momentum to grind the vibrator better. Your teeth clenched molars grinding against one another.
“Yeah, baby? Tell me what you need, hmm? I’ll give it all to you…”His head would dip into the space between your plush thighs, sucking hard on the skin—reddish love marks appearing—only to soothe the area afterward with his tongue and peppering soft kisses. His nose would nuzzle against your panties and he’d grin when you let out a small twitch like he wasn’t doing this on purpose. Caleb’s head would tilt slightly like he was curious what other reactions he could get out of you.
Pink flushed your cheeks and your bud swelled in anticipation against the constant buzz. “Fuck…I can’t sleep, Leb please—just wanna cum…I need to sleep—haah…!”
“No one’s stopping you Pips, come on pretty girl, cum on my face yeah? Lemme taste you…”A ragged gasp left your throat, would Caleb talk this filthy? Would he even ever look at you again if he knew the kind of thing you thought—
“You’re thinkin’ too much baby…” He’d coo just as his tongue would dip against the sweet spot of your folds, once just to get a good lick. It would only take less than a second before a whimper leaves his mouth and like he was overrun with feverish temptation he’d lap over your puffy pussy again and again like a mutt in heat.
Click.The buzz hums faster and you nearly cry from the build up of ecstasy threatening to split. “Oh my godd—fuuck!”
Your orgasm spills over like a sudden snap, the spasm of your cunt against the still buzzing toy makes your eyes go hazy and you have to loll your head to the side to suppress the lewd moans leaving your voice-box. The sensations lasted much longer than any previous orgasm you’ve had and you had to take a second to catch your breath.
“Shit…” You croak out running your free hand through your hair while the other brings the toy up close for inspection. White-ish clear residue remains on the head of the silicone and you groan having to get up to clean it.
Your thoughts begin to spiral as you washed up.
Caleb wasn’t just a fantasy. He was a real person. He was your neighbour. Your friend. The man who cooked you real meals and did things out of the goodness of his heart. Disgusting guilt felt like it was crawling up your throat. Oh god how were you ever meant to look him in the eyes again?
‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍎 ⋅ ˚✮
Three weeks.
Three whole weeks since you’d had a real conversation with Caleb—one that lasted longer than three minutes and didn’t feel like you were sprinting away from something you didn’t want to name.
Now it was all reduced to quick nods in the hallway.
“Morning.”
“Hey.”
“You good?”
“Yeah.”
Lies. All of it.
You knew you were being unfair. He hadn’t done anything wrong. If anything, that was the problem. Caleb was infuriatingly steady. Patient. Kind without making a show of it. The type of person who held doors open and remembered how you took your coffee and tea and didn’t make you feel small for forgetting things.
Too perfect.
It made you itch.
You’d caught yourself once thinking that if he would just mess up—snap, do something mean, say something selfish—it would be easier. Easier to dislike him. Easier to walk away from whatever this was turning into.
Instead, he’d given you space. Three whole weeks of it.
And like an addict, every night you fed the withdrawal by replaying him in your head. The way he’d leaned against your kitchen counter teaching you how to sauté garlic without burning it. The way he’d laughed when you’d accidentally dumped salt instead of sugar into the sauce. The way his eyes had gone sharp that night in the doorway when he thought you had a boyfriend.
You used those platonic thoughts and turned it into something that was anything but, it was the only thing that helped you sleep.
Outside, the storm raged like it had a personal vendetta against the building. Rain battered the sliding glass door to your balcony in relentless sheets. The sky was a dull, metallic gray, and the power had gone out hours ago, leaving your apartment lit only by the dim wash of stormlight.
Your plants were clustered awkwardly near the couch, dragged in from the balcony to save them from being obliterated. The room smelled faintly of wet soil and the lavender candle you’d burned earlier.
Wednesday.
Classes cancelled.
No electricity.
You’d already re-read two chapters of a book you could practically recite by heart.
You tossed it aside and stood, restless energy buzzing under your skin and made your way over to the kitchen.
You opened cabinets without hope, just to feel like you were doing something. Ramen packs. A half-empty bag of rice. Spices you’d bought under Caleb’s supervision. You could almost hear him in your head—
“Seasoning is not optional, Pips.”
Your jaw tightened.
You reached up toward the highest shelf—the one you rarely bothered with—and your fingers brushed cool glass.
Vodka.
The bottle was about three-quarters full.
You paused, staring at it. You’d bought it months ago after Caleb showed you how to make vodka sauce, you hadn’t used it for anything else considering you didn’t really drink anyway. The last time being the night you met him.
Seven months ago.
You remembered it with humiliating clarity. How could you not? It was the night that changed everything for you. You scoffed at yourself and dragged a chair from the dining table, climbing up to grab the bottle. “What harm,” you muttered, twisting the cap loose, “could a few shots in my own apartment really do?”
The answer, as it turned out, was: questionable harm. You didn’t bother with a proper glass. You grabbed a mug.
Real classy.
The first shot—which was really like two and a half shots—burned all the way down, settling warm in your stomach and burning in a way that made you want to gag. The second went down easier. By the third, the storm didn’t sound so violent anymore—it sounded dramatic. Cinematic. Like background noise in a coming-of-age film where the protagonist makes a terrible decision.
You set the bottle down on the coffee table a little harder than intended and stumble toward the couch, collapsing onto it with a graceless thud. The ceiling above you wavers slightly, as if the whole apartment has decided to breathe with you.
You stare at it.
It sways.
Or maybe you do.
A giggle bubbles up from your chest—thin and strange. You press the back of your hand to your mouth, but it doesn’t stop. The room feels too big. Too quiet except for the rain hammering against the glass door.
You close your eyes.
For a second, everything is dark and mercifully still.
‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍎 ⋅ ˚✮
When you open them again, something is different.
There’s movement. A shift in the air. The faint sound of fabric brushing fabric. You squint.
Caleb is crouched in front of the couch.
You blink slowly. He’s wearing a black hoodie and matching sweats, rain-darkened at the cuffs. His glasses sit low on his nose, slightly fogged from the humidity. His hair is damp, curling faintly at the ends. He looks softer like this. Maybe a little younger.
He tilts his head.
“Were you sleeping?” he asks quietly.
Your brain lags behind the question. Why is he here? “Caleb?” you mumble with a tongue heavy.
“Hm?” His voice is careful, eyes tracking the movements of your head tilting it side to side.
You squint harder, studying his face like he might dissolve if you don’t focus hard enough. “How are you here…?”
Calebs brows knit together like the answer is obvious. Like you’re the strange one. He studies your face carefully—eyes, cheeks, mouth—like he’s checking for something.
Then his gaze drifts to the coffee table and locks with the bottle which was now half empty. His eyes come back to you, slower this time. “Pipsqueak…” he says slowly, leaning closer. Close enough that you can see each separate lash. Maybe if you leaned in a little closer you could feel the warmth of his breath. “Are you drunk?”
Offended by the accusation you let out a scoff, “No. I just had a few shots. I’m probably just… tipsy.”
He doesn’t buy it. It’s written all over his face. The frown. That soft crease between his brows. It feels like an accusation. Disappointment. Like you’ve failed some test you weren’t aware of.
You frown back. “Don’t do that,” you huff.
“Do what?”
“That.” Your hand lifts to poke the corner of his mouth. “You’re mad at me.”
His reaction is immediate. “What—no? I’m not mad.” He exhales, shaking his head, his eyes daring around the room nervously before he carefully mumbled, “I’m just worried about you.”
The word lands heavier than it should. Worried.
“You’ve been avoiding me for weeks,” he continues, quieter now. “I don’t like it. I hate not talking to you. It’s weird, and I don’t know what I did, but I figured if you needed space then I’d give it to you.”
The rain fills the silence between you. Something inside you snaps loose.
You start giggling. It’s abrupt. Sharp. You roll onto your side, pressing your face into the couch cushion as the laughter spills out of you uncontrollably.
He stares at you, confused. “Okay…” he says carefully.
You keep laughing. And laughing. Until the sound twists in your throat.
Until it cracks.
Until it turns into something broken.
The laughter dissolves into quiet sobs so suddenly it makes him flinch. “Hey—hey,” he says quickly, moving closer. His hands grip your shoulders gently, guiding you upright. “What’s wrong?”
Your shoulders shake. The alcohol makes everything louder—every shameful thought amplified.
“You,” you choke out. “That’s the thing. You never did anything.”
He stills.
“You and your stupid perfect mouth,” you slur, tears spilling down your cheeks. “And your perfect eyes and your perfect everything. How could you ever be the one in the wrong?”
He blinks at you like you’ve switched languages.
Lifting a careful hand, Caleb brushed his thumb gently under your eye to catch the tears sliding down. His touch is tender. Familiar. It makes you feel worse—so much worse.
“I can’t, Caleb,” you whisper. “I’m so sorry. I can’t.”
“Can’t what?” His voice is steady, but there’s something strained underneath. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”
“I can’t be friends with you.”
The words hang between you like something poisonous and it lands. You see it in his face; the slight clench in his jaw, the way a flash of hurt paints his eyes. Caleb doesn’t pull away though, just takes a second before speaking. “Why?” he asks, softly. No anger or defensiveness, just… bracing.
Your eyelids snap shut and the words come out like something was stuck in your throat, “It’s not you…there’s nothing wrong with you. That’s the problem. It’s me!” Your stomach churns. You feel sick with it. “Because I think disgusting things about you.” The words taste acidic. Silence floods the room.
His hands loosen slightly on your shoulders, not letting go—just adjusting, like he’s recalibrating. “Disgusting?” He repeats very carefully.
“Yes.” You scrub at your face. “All the time. It’s gross. I’ll be sitting there and you’ll just be talking and I’ll be thinking about—” You choke on it. “About your hands. Or your mouth. Or what it would be like if you—”
You cut yourself off violently, shaking your head.
“It’s wrong, I know it’s wrong” you say, voice cracking. “You’re my friend. You’re so good to me. And I’m sitting there ruining it in my head. I feel like a fucking creep Leb.”
Caleb stares at you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle that shouldn’t exist.
“Y/N,” he says slowly, “that’s not—”
The words just kept spilling, “And I’ve been stuck ever since. I wait for you. I think about you when I’m alone. I can’t sleep unless I replay conversations. Do you know how embarrassing that is? I feel obsessed. I feel—” your voice drops to a whisper, “pathetic.”
His jaw tightens—not in anger at you, but at the way you’re talking about yourself.
“You think wanting someone is disgusting?” he asks quietly.
“It is when it’s one-sided,” you snap, tears spilling over again. “It is when you’re pretending to be normal and casual and friendly and inside you’re—” You gesture helplessly at your chest. “Like this.”
He’s very still now. Very, very still. He inhales. You see it—the shift in his throat, the way his lips part like he’s about to say something. Panic slices through you in an instant. “Caleb, I’m so sorry… please just go home,” you rush out, words tripping over each other. “I don’t know what else I’ll say and I’m so disgusting with all that I’ve already—”
You didn’t get to finish.
It was abrupt.
His body moves before you can process it—one hand sliding into your hair, the other bracing against the couch as he leans in. There’s devastation written all over his face, like you’ve just insulted something hallowed.
Then your back hits the cushions and his mouth crashes into yours.There was nothing gentle or careful about it, it was hot white desperation. His lips are warm and firm and trembling just slightly, like he’s been holding this in for too long and it’s finally broken loose. The kiss is messy, uncoordinated at first—teeth knocking faintly, breath uneven—but then it deepens. His hand tightens at the back of your head like an anchor.
You freeze. Your brain goes blank. Because this—this—is the thing you’ve replayed in your head at two in the morning. The thing you’ve felt guilty about imagining. The exact pressure of his mouth, the way his body feels close enough to erase the air between you.
It’s real.
His other hand slides to your waist, gripping like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. You make a small sound—half sob, half something else—and his kiss softens instantly, like he’s afraid he’s hurt you. He slows, lips brushing yours now instead of devouring them. You feel him exhale against you.
And then—
Your stomach lurches violently.
The vodka, the crying, the adrenaline and stress—it all surges upward at once. Your hand flies to your mouth. He pulls back immediately, eyes snapping sharp. “Oh—”
You barely get out, “Bathroom—” before he’s hauling you up.
He moves fast. One arm around your waist, the other steadying your head as he half-carries, half-drags you down the hallway. He pushes the bathroom door open with his shoulder, kneels you in front of the toilet, lifts the lid just in time.
Caleb was efficient, in an instant he gathers your hair into one hand and uses the other to rub slow circles into your back. His palms feel warm even through the cotton on your shirt, you could feel the slight tremble in his fingertips, the same kind you had after doing something that probably just changed your entire world.
You gag.
It’s ugly.
It’s loud and humiliating. Tears stream down your face, mixing with everything else. Your chest heaves painfully. Your throat burns. The smell is god awful, yet knowing he was there was grounding in some way.
Caleb doesn’t flinch. “Okay, okay,” he murmurs softly. “I’ve got you. Breathe.”
You cling weakly to the edge of the toilet, the room tilting violently. Black spots prick the corners of your vision. You try to apologize, but really it only comes out as another gag and a choked sob.
He presses his palm between your shoulder blades, steady and grounding. “Easy,” he says gently. “You know that’s probably the worst reaction a girl has had to me kissing them Pips, was I that bad?”
You almost manage to stifle out a laugh, but your entire body feels like it has no more energy left. When it’s finally over, you’re shaking. Your breathing is shallow, the ringing in your ears that had begun a few seconds ago grew louder than the sound of his voice and the sound of your own thoughts.
You blinked trying to fight it, your body though, ultimately swayed and all went dark.
‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍎 ⋅ ˚✮Part 1
Part 2
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12 yr old caleb is the type of guy to research everything about periods and buy pads pre-emptively so when MCs period starts he has some on him
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Apple Pie
Zayne attempts to destroy Caleb’s relationship with his beloved little sister…he’ll regret that soon enough.
tw: dead dove: do not eat. third person pov. fem! mc (she/her). cannibalism/forced cannibalism. torture. depictions of graphic violence. major character death (Zayne). brutal murder. mouth stitches. vivisection. organ harvesting. kidnapping. choking. mental instability. sibling incest. age regression. possessiveness. obsession.
a/n: PLEASE READ THE TAGS! I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR ANY TRIGGERS THIS MAY CAUSE YOU!
I wanna get this out of the way: Just because I chose Zayne as the victim doesn’t mean I’m a Zayne anti or that this fanfic was written to hate on Zayne. Zayne was just the easiest character to go with since he’s the only one that knows both the MC and Caleb, and Caleb knows him. Art is subjective and I can’t dictate how someone interprets my work, but just know that the author (me) does not support the harassment towards any LI and it is not my fault if this gets used in any malicious ways as I cannot control the internet, nor will I hinder expressing myself artistically just because a few people on the internet do not know how to behave themselves.
Also, this is inspired by the MLP fanfic ‘Cupcakes’. I am sure some of you have at least seen the animation on YouTube at one point
Word Count: 1.5k+
[[MORE]]Caleb hums to himself, sweat glistening down his neck as he saws his blade into a beautiful, thick piece of steak. He looks over to see his darling pipsqueak sauntering over to him with that cute skip-and-hop she always does. She peers over at the cutting board, staring at the piece of meat with hunger in her doe eyes.
“Caleb?” She drags out, nuzzling her cheek against his bare shoulder. Her finger absent-mindedly finds the strings of his apron, twirling it around with her small index finger. “What are you cooking?”
Caleb smiles down at her. He bites back the urge to stroke her hair with his hand still dirtied with blood and fat. So irresistible is his sister’s skin, her hair, everything about her—it’s hard to hold himself back from indulging in every sinful desire.
“Meat pie.” Caleb’s grip on the knife tightens, the corners of his lips twitching. “Your brother’s very special secret recipe.”
—
Zayne’s eyes slowly open. He first notices the bright light staring down at him. It blurs his vision even more and doesn’t help his pounding headache either. Then he attempts to take in the rest of his surroundings, noticing the steel walls, the tile floor, and the concerning lack of windows. He’s—almost painfully—strapped to a medical bed. No matter how much he pulls and tugs to escape, it’s no use.
The sudden sound of heavy footsteps rings in Zayne’s ears. His breathing grows heavier as those footsteps approach his door, then a pause follows soon after. The sound of the door handle being turned before the creak of the door as it opens causes Zayne to panic even more. His heart is thumping against his chest as sweat drips down his forehead to the sheets below him. His eyes widen when he sees a familiar man enter the room, the black turtleneck on his captor threatening to choke him if it was a size smaller.
“It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?” The man mutters, beady cosmic eyes narrowing at Zayne as he approaches. “How’ve you been?”
Zayne isn’t amused by Caleb’s obvious attempt at toying with him.
“Why the hell am I here?” Zayne growls, meeting Caleb’s vicious gaze with his own. Caleb barely chuckles as he leans down, taking Zayne’s chin and yanking his victim’s face to look directly at his.
“Why? I’m sure you know why, Zayne.” Caleb’s gloved hand moves to Zayne’s stomach before slowly gliding up to his chest. Zayne shivers at the realization that he’s been naked this whole time as he feels the latex tickle his skin. “You’ve had…a few interesting things to say to my sweet little pipsqueak. Tryin’ to get her to hate me.” His hand makes its way over to Zayne’s throat before pausing. “Sayin’ that I was too ‘unstable’. Tellin’ her that she should abandon me…”
Caleb’s hand suddenly tightens around Zayne’s throat.
“You dont have the fucking right to dictate our relationship.”
Zayne squirms on the hospital bed, desperately fighting for his life. He produces a whistling sound as Caleb’s grip on his throat tightens even more, a minute away from taking his life. Caleb’s voice is muffled by the sound of a loud ringing noise coming from Zayne’s ears.
“I should’ve ‘gotten help’, right? I should listen to a therapist tell me how I should deal with the trauma I went through while numbing me down with drugs, right, Dr. Zayne?”
Zayne’s eyes threaten to roll to the back of his skull from the lack of oxygen. His squirming stops as he stiffens, losing his will to live as he realizes that his end is soon approaching him.
“Let me tell ya’, Zayne. Some people can’t be ‘fixed’. Does that make people like me unworthy of love?”
Caleb finally lets go of Zayne’s neck at the last second.
Zayne wheezes, inhaling in air before hacking excessively. His neck is throbbing. It’s hard to breathe, to swallow, to do anything. It hurts—everything hurts.
But, unfortunately for Zayne, this isn’t the end of Caleb’s torture. Far from it.
“I’ll show ya’ the consequence of runnin’ that mouth of yours, doc.” Caleb walks over to the tray beside where he stands. Zayne can barely make out the medical tools in front of Caleb: needle driver, toothed forceps, nylon suture, and a curved cutting needle. Zayne is filled with dread as quickly realizes what Caleb is planning to do to him. He subconsciously turns his head away as Caleb prepares the cutting needle using the needle driver, making no effort to hide his intentions from the man below him.
“No runnin’, Zayne.”
Caleb uses his evol to prevent Zayne from turning away from him. The forceps lift the edge of Zayne’s upper lip before the needle forcefully pierces through soon after. Zayne groans loudly, but is unable to move due to Caleb’s evol suspending him. The needle exits out of his upper lip and goes down to the lower lip next. Caleb listens to Zayne’s whimpers and groans with a delightful grin on his face as he ties the knot before repeating the same steps until Zayne’s lips are completely sealed. The sealed lips are dripping with blood and ruined by bruising and swelling. Caleb takes pleasure in the sight, seeing Zayne’s attractive image destroyed by his doing before unsuspending him.
“I bet she’d run if she saw ya’ now.” Caleb snickers, placing his equipment back onto the tray beside him before picking up a scalpel. “Don’t worry. She won’t ever get to see ya’ again anyway.”
Caleb grazes the end of the scalpel against Zayne’s throat. He chuckles when he hears the man’s breath hitch in response. “Don’t worry. I ain’t cuttin’ you here.” Caleb glides the blade down till he gets to the bottom of Zayne’s breastbone. “It’s here where I’ll start.”
Zayne tries his hardest to protest, to beg for forgiveness, but his lips are sealed shut, so all he can do is let out a sad muffled sound.
“Shh. It’ll all be over soon.” Caleb begins to pierce the scalpel into his skin. Zayne whimpers loudly as he tries his hardest to lean into the mattress of the medical bed and away from the tip of the scalpel. But there’s no escaping his fate.
Caleb punctures through the layers of tough skin before vertically cutting all the way down to the center of the belly. He whistles, enjoying the pain he is inflicting on his worst rival. A rival he no longer will have to worry about in a few minutes—or maybe even less than that.
Caleb licks his chapped lips at the wet creak sound of Zayne’s stomach being forced open by Caleb’s gloved hands. Zayne’s intestines let out a low rumble as they shift. Caleb looks down with twisted fascination sparkling in his gaze, reaching out to poke at it. He doesn’t notice that Zayne’s stopped breathing awhile ago due to the amount of trauma his body couldn’t take anymore, nor does Caleb really care.
“Sellin’ these organs would be a waste.” Caleb murmurs with breathless excitement. He moves his gaze over to Zayne’s liver, hearing the wet squelch as his gloved hands toy with it. “Hm. I think dinner will be covered for the next week or so now. Maybe I’ll even add a dash of your blood in the desserts.”
Caleb nonchalantly stretches before grabbing the cleaver and resting the edge of the blade to the center of Zayne’s neck.
”This won’t be easy.”
—
Caleb’s sweet little angel sits at the edge of her chair, legs kicking in the air as she patiently waits for her food like a good girl. Caleb carries her plate and his in both of his palms. He first sets her plate down in front of her before setting his down in front of the seat across.
“Eat up baby. Caleb’s worked really hard on this meal.”
She nods, digging into the meat pie with no hesitation. He watches as her eyes wander, judging his culinary skills.
“Beef and…pork?” She swallows the food down before puffing her cheeks at her brother. “Yknow, you’ve been putting pork in everything now. Aren’t you as tired of it as I am?”
Caleb laughs, adoring her pouting and bickering. He takes a bite of the pie in front of him, a twisted feeling of satisfaction settling in his stomach.
“Yeah Yeah, I know. Now stop complainin’ and eat your food.”
He watches as she sighs, slumping in her chair before picking at her food with her fork. Caleb scoffs, shaking his head at how bratty his little sister still is despite her age.
“If you eat it, I’ll make apple pie for dessert later?”
Her ears perk up at the promise for dessert. She suddenly straightens up in her seat and happily eats her meal. But then she pauses, faint melancholy in her expression.
“Hmm. I wonder when ZayZay will come back from his vacation. I’d love to share that pie with him…”
Caleb lets out a quiet “shh” , waiting for his sister to meet his gaze before continuing. “Let Zayne enjoy himself. It isn’t easy cuttin’ someone open—especially every day.”
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DADLEB
added both with and without stubble versions. i just think he’d be such a doting dad!! 🥹💖💖
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Caleb x M!MC WIP
No idea if I’m finishing this or jumping to another idea, but proof I’m brainstorming. Other LIs are also on the brain
Imagine instead that Caleb, rather than a little sister, had a little brother. The same trauma, the same history. A little boy with a strong will and a stronger sense of justice, but with nary a muscle to back it up. Caleb dragging him from scraps with the other neighborhood kids, scolding him before running into the fray himself. Josephine trying her best, but at her age, one young boy was more than enough.
Imagine the boys became teenagers, young men with personalities and attitudes to match. That their friends started dating girls, ones with pretty hair and sweet perfume. Little brother shrinking from every probing question about a borrowed pen or heart-shaped note in his locker. Caleb bombarded by lovesick confessions, discarding them moments later. Their stolen glances at home. Roughhousing that ends breathless and intense, gazes locked on each other before scrambling away.
Tagging @calebified by request!
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i started watching friendly rivalry bc wlw. and all i have to say is:
i need calebmc friendly rivalry pls. give me fem!caleb now!! give me basically obsessive calebmc but fem now!!!!
