#shortform

he def is! one of my fav dynamics is a bratty spoiled princess type mc and a loyal servant / eager guard dog caleb, like an mc who has never had to lift a finger bcus caleb has always been there to do everything. [this fic does this dynamic rly well!]

⠀⎯⎯⠀⠀caleb/mc!reader, drabble, incest, dubcon, free use(ish), possessive

he would do anything for you, and if you were ever met with hesitation or resistance (rarely) all you'd have to do is pout and bat your lashes at him and he'd melt. he told you he wanted you to come to him first for everything and he means everything.

chores you didn't want to do, clothes you wanted to buy, food you wanted to eat. he'd do it all. how can he ever say no to his sweet little sister?

and if you cramp your hand or get too lazy when touching yourself, you can call him into your room, no matter how late at night, to finish you off. he'd finger you so nicely, or offer his thigh for you to rub on, all while telling you how happy he is, that you let him do this for you.

so when you ask zayne for help with some homework and caleb finds out, he loses it. hasn't he always given you whatever you wanted? it's a simple request really, him, ask him first.

the next time he's helping you get off, he's waits til your blissed out and can barely speak before leaning in real close and asking you why you needed zayne's help when you have him. you barely have time to register his question, let alone pout and apologize before he replaces his fingers with his cock, pushing into you in one harsh snap of his hips. he doesn't give you any time to adjust, settling into a brutal rhythm that knocks the air out of your lungs.

he keeps going for hours, round after round. you lose count of how many times he forced you to milk his cock, filling you to the brim. how many times you say you get it, he made his point, only for him to reply that he doesn't believe it yet, and fuck his frothy come back into you. he wants to drill it into your pretty head.

Focused on the Haestom/Dholen situation specifically, because we never really got any more information on where the writers wanted to take this plotline. You'll have to forgive the simple bluntness, as these are supposed to be short and my original version... wasn't.

Field Report: Haestrom, Dholen System, Far Rim – September 17th, 2185

[insert body here]

Not exactly encouraging progress, Shepard mused. Still, she’d been distracted since her return from the centuries-old quarian research base. She had no reason to believe Tali had lied to her about why she’d been leading a team there, but some things still felt… off.

“EDI, how old is Haestrom’s star?” Shepard said, turning her head towards the holographic display in the corner of her quarters. EDI’s display lit immediately, and the projected light cast a faint blue glow off the reflective walls surrounding the cabin foyer. “Unknown. Standard main-sequence and branch statistics indicate the system’s age is approximately eight and a half billion years old. However, records retrieved by the quarian research team show uranium isotopes in far greater abundance than expected for that age,” EDI replied after a moment. The records were understandably scarce, and it was likely she was pulling from only one or two extranet sources for answers. The warm monotone of EDI’s voice betrayed nothing, but Shepard could almost feel a frustration coming from the AI. “Tali said the quarians suspect the star is prematurely aging due to dark energy interactions. Is that possible? Is it something we need to concern ourselves with?” EDI flickered. “There is as yet insufficient data for a meaningful answer.” Shepard sighed, then leaned back in her chair. As Tali had said, the quarian specialists had suspicions dark energy may be at play, but suspicions were a far cry from evidence. That was why they’d built that massive complex in the first pla- She shifted forward, her brow creasing as a decade-old lesson on star systems and planets worked its way to the front of her brain. She brought up her omni-tool terminal with a brief flick of her wrist and began tapping out the half-remembered equations she’d learned to earn her degree for an officer’s position. “Never thought I’d actually use any of this,” Shepard said, pulling up references to skim through as gaps in her knowledge came up. Once she’d finished, she stared at the holographic model of the Dholen system on her omni-tool, and felt an even deeper sense of unease. One solar mass.

3300 K. A blackbody spectrum peaking around 811 nm.

M-class. Back when this was a quarian colony, it was a normal star.

If these calculations were correct, Dholen wasn’t becoming a giant star; it was a giant star. And if this activity is only recent… “EDI, what’s the distance from Haestrom to Dholen?” Shepard asked. That should be simple enough that the ship’s standard astrometrics would have picked it up. “Haestrom orbits its host star at approximately 6.3 astronomical units, or 150 million kilometers.”

“Maybe I’m calculating this wrong, but if that’s the case… Haestrom hasn’t been habitable for most of the system’s development. Can you double-check these numbers?” Shepard said, then flicked the data to the ship’s network before waiting for EDI’s reply. The math wasn’t complicated, and EDI checked Shepard’s numbers within seconds of Shepard sending them off. “Ignoring a few mild significant digit errors,” EDI began, her hollow voice only making the patronizing tone feel worse. “These numbers do seem correct. Haestrom remains within the star’s habitable zone for ten to twenty million years before the star becomes too luminous for life to thrive.” “And the planet was abandoned just two centuries ago. Practically yesterday when it comes to deep time.” “Correct, Commander.” Shepard leaned back in her chair again and began gently tapping her foot against the base of her desk. Had the Admiralty Board lied to Tali? Were they just mistaken on the colonization dates? Why would they want to colonize a nearly uninhabitable planet in the first place?

“And why would the Admiralty Board care about it now?” She only realized she’d spoken that last thought aloud when EDI provided an answer. “The Migrant Fleet is composed of tens of thousands of ships. It is possible the Admiralty Board is concerned that their very presence in a system may destabilize its star.” Shepard closed her eyes. She imagined a fleet of ships whose very presence disturbed one of the few things everyone in the galaxy saw as immutable. She saw the public worry about the safety of ships entering and leaving their home systems. She saw the Migrant Fleet pushed out of the few friendly stations they had left – first diplomatically, then militarily. “EDI, take the Dholen/Haestrom data and calculations, then send it to Alliance Command and the Admiralty Board. Remove any notes about potential dangers of large fleets moving through systems.” “Yes, Commander. Will that be all?” “No. Delete this conversation from any Cerberus recordkeeping systems onboard.” Shepard could see Cerberus finding some way to use this information to stew anti-alien sentiments. Best to cut it off before it could even begin. EDI took a moment, likely checking whether her newfound freedom following the Collector attack allowed her to alter ship records. “Done, Commander,” she said, and disappeared from the holographic projection system. Right. Back to being the Commander. Shepard returned her attention to her private terminal, the display having long since dimmed during the break in activity. Best to keep it simple. Cerberus knew how little she cared for both them and writing reports altogether, so a short report wouldn’t be too far out of her norm.

Field Report: Haestrom, Dholen System, Far Rim – September 17th, 2185

Rescued Tali’Zorah vas Neema and Kal’Reegar vas Lomas from Geth attack on Haestrom. Remainder of quarian research and escort team killed in action by Geth. Tali’Zorah has joined the Normandy crew, while Kal’Reegar returned to the Migrant Fleet. Note: Jacob Taylor showed mild antagonism towards Tali’Zorah vas Neema during debrief. Preparing plans to keep the two separated in order to avoid crew conflict.

Two of the tines are broken, and my hair is too shaggy for a claw.

What I want is left behind where those broken tines are. I want it back on his porch, on his bed—on the backseat of my car.

From the plastic digging into my hand, feeling the concrete besides the dusty bike bake into my flip-flops, I want the past.

I want an I miss you. I want an I’m sorry.

I want back the “you taste good.” I want it back like the tree yearns for the fruit. The same way branches feel lighter without the fruits of their labor dangling above the ground.

Behind the feeling of “you’re beautiful,” I cannot taste tonight’s breakfast. It clings like smoke on the backs of my teeth, floating around like the ghost the body has turned into. Heavy, and sticky, I want it like the syrup smell in the morning. Attached to his memory, sure, but attached to me even stronger.

These all come with that small, shitty piece of plastic. And I have them in the other things—the lipgloss on my desk, once caught in his teeth, the containers on my desk, once smeared on his fingers. They all remain in my possession, easily passed back to my memory.

This claw clip does not hold anything deeper. Darker. But it is my final hold on the best-worst time of my life. While the clip resides on his shelf, where I have left it to rot besides the things he cannot throw out but cannot look at either, I could be allowed back in. Reclaim the time spent as good things earned.

I take the clip back: it’s over. Harder than the closed door of his truck the last afternoon I kissed him. We become nothing—lovers to dust and friends to dirt. Lipgloss becomes lipgloss and Ikea joins the pool of bad things under your tongue.

It’s too much to stay, but far too little to go. I stare at this clip through walls, through time and space and weekends and I’m sorries. Hoping for what? An open door, a hand on my shoulder, his mouth on mine?

Or am I hoping for thrown cups, hard words and glossy eyes? What am I looking for that will make me happy enough to split free from this?

But I am no more than me. I am looking for what will set me right, what can prop up the pieces I am tying together? A what, or who, or how?

You said kissing me was a study in scarlet.  

Flushed cheeks and cherry red lips.  

Do all little fires burn as bright as this?  

Ever since I was young, I feel like it's been watching me. Hanging over me.

The day Father's prophecy was made public, I was told to climb the tower and face the gods. The whole world seemed to be holding its breath, watching and waiting.

Nothing happened.

I faced the gods and they were silent. I was still being watched all the way down.