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The nightmares had been persistent since that day in Linkon. It loops in your mind in a variety of manifestations: from simple terrors like walls of fire that crash towards you, to deeply complex visions of having to defuse a bomb with your beloved foster brother on the line.
Even the nights you get reprieve from the memories, they're not much consolation when it's substituted with something you can only guess is a manipulated version of your guilt. Your brain twisting the now ever-present, unconscious emotion into a skin crawling nightmare that have you curled up in fetal position long into the mornings that wake in a sweat.
The dark swirling shadows of the man-like monster linger in your mind, unable to pluck him out despite his lack of clarity or form. Some nights he watches you, others he whispers incoherent things, an uncanny familiarity, and on the most advantageous of nights, he'll go so far as to rape you. The most sickening part of his visits are how comforting he feels before he does it, like a mother holding her child's hand as they put you down for surgery.
You often feel your hair being brushed from your face, coaxing the tears away from your cheeks and into his palm throughout the brutal intrusion. It's shameful, the nights you come. Slowly rousing with a shiver, your legs jittering as your walls clench and pulse around only the images of him. A part of you suspects maybe you're getting into a pattern of letting go, trying to make yourself come so he leaves. He usually leaves once you do — like he got his fill or prize. Unfortunately, enticing yourself into this rhythm may have accidentally Pavlov's Dogged you into enjoying it: all it takes is to see a shadow out the corner of your eye to feel the subtle ache of your cunt spreading itself, ready to take him.
Every single night, something has happened in your dreams, and the visitor has only frequented more as time goes on.
. . .
Hypnagogia: the state akin to sleep. A state often characterised by hallucinations or the beginning stages of lucid dreams. Just enough aware to remember where you are, but far enough away for your mind to drift into those sickly sweet nightmares.
But there's something off about tonight. There's no old house, or dingy basements, just your room, as if you were seeing through your eyelids. He crawls in through the window after tapping on the glass, a scratchy chuckle as his finger teases open the lock and lets a cool breeze whisk over you. The hair on your arms stand to attention, pussy wetting herself.
The visitor takes his time situating over you. How atypical of him, to wait and hold back: he'd ordinarily have your panties off and held to where his nose should have been, tongue exploring between your folds.
His head tilts as he stares down at your barely-sleeping, paralysed form.
"Waiting for someone?" The sick words come to your less like a sound and more like an instinct, a feeling, like when you could've sworn someone called your name so you stay silent for a moment to see if it happens again.
His fingers walk up your thigh, skipping over your intimate parts and opting for your hip in order to take them to your stomach. He slows before he reaches your sternum, gently flattening his dark hand and trailing it back where it came. He stops under your navel, palm pressing against your womb as he groans reverently. The visitor seems transfixed, focusing hard on where his hand is, like he's drawn to it, only here for what it serves.
He looks up. Not the feels-like-he's-looking type of look up, but he really does. His eyes take shape, sharp and purple. Familiar. You want to squint, to focus and hone in on what you're seeing. Purple, flecks of orangey-brown on the underside. The only vivid thing in this dream are his eyes. Then his face splits into a smile, a cruel, sick, and knowing smile.
"Recognise me yet?" The voice begins to take form, fractured pieces climbing their way back together as the realisation runs up your spine and splatters goosebumps all throughout your scalp.
Caleb.
"I was wondering how long it'd take for you to get familiar enough with my new form..." his fingers slowly slip down from your lower stomach onto the section of blanket that conceals your pussy. he hovers over it, not pressing or moving, just a reminder of his presence. "How strong I'd have to get before I could give you clear signs. Building up my energy," his thumb slips down to gently press into the fabric as he smiles through his words, "using this sweet little cunt as my personal buffet."
Your heart races, his words becoming crystal and distinct now, the presence too close and personal, like this isn't really a dream. A shared dream, experienced via an external host that isn't your own mind.
Caleb's the visitor. It's always been him.
Your eyes snap open and you hadn't realised you'd heen hyperventilating until you're bolt upright and tumbling off your bed, desperate to remove that thick blanket and just breathe. You're soothed quicker than you expected, the air cooler and crisper than your muggy room typically allows for. It's only when you've calmed down, had a glass of water, and tucked yourself back into bed that you realise the window is still open.
. . .
'What does it mean if a loved one comes back as a spirit?'
'Different types of paranormal spirits.'
'Spirits visiting my dreams.'
'Acting out my dreams in real life.'
The next day had been an amalgamation of tab switching, making up reports on the spot, and quickly going back to your personal research once Captain Jenna had lost sight of your screen.
Could this all be in my head?
There's no way, right? Well, it's not unheard of to have reoccurrent dreams, but surely this was ridiculous. Your therapist had been really helping you heal from the explosion, managing your grief and guilt simultaneously, yet your dreams were determined to push you back. They were meant to be gone by now. They should be gone. If you're healing, why can't your unconscious brain just get the memo and let you dream of happy days playing basketball or some random shit like a snowball fight with your 10th grade math teacher? It didn't make sense.
You were never a sleepwalker either, which is why the memory of last night is so jarring. It was like a mantra, spinning your head stupid with the amount of times you said 'I opened that window myself and it was all just a dream.'
Yet...
You'd dabbled in the thought of setting up a camera, then became self conscious (and more than just a little unsettled) at the idea of rewatching yourself wet dream at the immersion of being raped by your foster brother's spirit.
Speaking of:
'Spirits that rape you in your sleep.'
Your finger shook over the enter key, hovering there until your tremors got so intense they hit the key for you.
Succubi and incubbi (succubi; female, incubbi; male.) are demons from medieval folklore that appear in dreams to seduce, assault, terrorise, and drain their victims of-
No, yep, that was enough. It was safe to say it hit the nail on the head.
"Hey, MC!" a cheery voice came from behind you. Your laptop almost skitters to the ground with how hard you slam it shut, spinning on Tara with a face guiltier than the sin himself. "Um..." she trails away, evidently caught off guard by your catastrophic fuckup of a save. "I was just checking if your report was done so we can grab lunch, but I can always just ask..."
"No! I mean, yes, it's done! Let's get lunch!"
You wanted to hit yourself. When you got home, returning from the incessant sidelong glances and "Are you sure you're okay?"s from your favourite colleague, you were sure that you actually would.
. . .
He's back. Four nights in a row might be a new record. He's here frequently, but usually likes to split up the visits with a few flashbacks inbetween the new bouts of trauma. He always had been considerate.
A sick part of you was almost excited. No, that's not the word. Maybe it was just a deep seeded longing, clawing its way through your gut for any semblance of having your sweet boy back, willing to take just about anything to see him again. Your heart was racing before he even made his grand appearance, staring at the ceiling of your dream and trying to will him there yourself. But he comes on his own accord, arriving by his own will when he needs you.
He had climbed up from under your bed this time, hand splayed uncomfortably over your thigh as leverage you knew was just for the sake of it.
"Mm," he murmurs, "I missed you so much, pips." He gets on top of you, already wriggling back the blankets.
Stay in control. Calm down and stay inside the dream.
Your heart raced furiously, thoughts way too conscious and deliberate for the visit to remain stable. You knew you could do this, you had to do this to start communicating and really seeing him again. You needed your gege back, even this sick and corrupt and disgusting version of him.
Being in your dream, he must be able to read your mind. "Oh? You wanna talk? Hmm... seems like the cats got your tongue."
He pushes the covers all the way off, hands wrapping tightly around your waist and pressing you deeper into the mattress as his shadowy legs straddle your thighs.
"Tell you what," those unnaturally bright purple eyes look down lewdly at your breasts, smiling like he remembered something funny. "I guess," he says in a breathy and cruelly playful voice, "and you just... give me any suggestion that I might be right. Alright?
He pats your cheek firmly, muttering an "Atta girl," before pulling back to impatiently remove your pants.
"You're thinking," he trails off as he tosses the pants aside, leaning in close to you and breathing against your cheek as he puts on an overly exaggerated mocking tone, "'Where did my sweet old Caleb go?' 'Why did he turn into such a... monster?'" He purrs the last word, grabbing your face and forcing it into a nod. "Perfect," he confirms at your faux approval to his assumption.
"Well, pipsqueak, let me tell you," he practically dips into an excited snarl as his fingers
tear off your panties, balling them up and stuffing them in your mouth. He's acting erratic, speaking in a tone that's not dissimilar to someone fighting off cuteness aggression. "When someone dies, they get a choice," his finger slips inside at the same moment a tear tracks down your face, "We can either go be happy, frolicking in the fields of our greatest memories and dying out the rest of our existence in uninterrupted, unmarred," he punctuates the word with a thrust, "bliss. Or! We can come back, haunting whoever we like, roaming wherever we like, in the most fitting and truest form of our souls."
He leans forward towards your ear, burying his finger deep enough to hurt. "Guess which one I picked, pips."
You jerk awake, unable to take the overly-real terror anymore, heart feeling like it'll leap from your chest and die on your bedroom floor.
"Whaaat? Couldn't handle it?"
Your head whips to your left as a scream builds in your throat, staring at the darkened figure that sits perched on your desk. He throws the desk chair away, rushing towards you and slapping his hand to your mouth. "Thought I'd stay weak forever?" He asks in angry accusation, "Thought I'd be restricted to visiting your dreams til the day you join me?" He pushes you back down to lay on your bed, getting on top of you as you go. "Oh, no no no... ten months of intermittently taking what's mine, adjusting, building myself up... it wasn't all in vain, pipsqueak." He mimicks that movement from just before you thrashed awake, but now it's horrifyingly real, "I want you to experience this and know it's real. I did this for you; don't you want this? Your gege back? What's the point in crying if you don't want me to fix it like I always do?"
No longer facing the restrictions of utter paralysis, your crying racks your entire body in hefty shudders, tears coating his hand and whimpers disappearing into his palm. "Shh, shh, shhh," his voice gets soft, reminiscent of the living Caleb who cradled you to sleep during lightning storms and anxiety ridden days after school. "I'm back now, pips. You have nothing to be afraid of."
With that, you feel him pushing inside you, splitting you open in a way that's too intense and raw, unlike the dull imaginings of an ache that you conjured in your dreams. You hadn't been paying attention to how his manipulative and sly hands coaxed your pyjama shorts off, too busy hanging onto the sweet words he was offering you to compensate for all the ways he was about to hurt you.
He slips himself deep inside, tucking himself into the dimple behind your cervix, grinding roughly into that sweet spot of pleasure. His hand remains over your mouth as he pulls back, settling upright so his other hand can come down and tease your clit.
You hadn't payed too close attention to him before through the terror, but now you can see he's much more whole and distinct. His skin remains dark and shadowy, but no longer like he's made of them and moreso as if he were simply wearing them. His eyes are still piercingly bright, but now you can also make out the bridge of his nose and the cupids bow of his plush lips.
Your observations are momentarily cut off when you yelp, eyes slamming shut as he draws out and forces a little more of himself inside.
"Such a good girl," he tells you, an ill fitting genuineness to his tone. He's slow, strokes shallow but only for the sake of wanting to keep as much of himself inside at all times. Caleb builds a rhythm, less driven by his thrusting and more like he's fighting back against the resistance the walls of your cunt are giving him.
His thumb focuses sharply now, drawing circles around your clit inspite of your barely-open, rebellious legs.
"Eye for an eye, pipsqueak:" he huffs, "I take my hand off your mouth in exchange for getting to hold your legs open. Deal?"
He very carefully lessens the pressure on your face, allowing just enough space to actually move your jaw and answer.
You struggle, forgetting how to talk, what you wanted to say, and how to reply to that question in particular. All you manage is a weak, watery, "Fuck you."
"Yeah, that's what I'm doing, baby," be laughs heartily, taking his hand away and smacking it into your inner thigh. He groans deeply through a chuckle, rubbing your leg as he pulls it towards himself and pins the outside of your knee to his chest. Your foot drapes across to his opposing shoulder.
With the new angle, he manages to get a little deeper, "Bet you like this, huh? Can feel how slippery your cunt is and how it clenches around me every so often. Always did have a few screws loose, mm?"
The worst part about his cruel words is that he isn't even lying. All you can do is lay back and take it, crying through every thrust and blushing to the nines in embarrassment and humiliation. His thumb works you with precision, making your pussy twitch and clamp occasionally over the incessant pace.
Don't cum don't cum don't cumdon'tcumdon't
He pulls your leg closer, licking a stripe up your shin before getting to your knee and biting it. Not enough to bruise or draw blood, but enough to leave an impression for a few minutes.
You want to speak, to tell him this isn't what you want, that he didn't have to be like this, but you worry it's no use. You worry that if you do, maybe he really will go away. A world with Caleb raping you is a better world than one with no Caleb at all, you reason.
He grunts, fucking harder into you and eliciting cries now, full yelps and begging for him to stop, that it hurts, but he doesn't seem to care. You know he'll apologise later, that he'll gently cradle your head in his hands and tell you he never meant to go that rough, that he just needed it to feel better. But right now, he's his average incubus self, fucking you relentlessly until he's satisfied with what you've given him. Or, moreso, taken from you.
You can feel the heat flood into you in pulses, liquid spurting inside as Caleb almost whines at the pleasure. He curses, grabbing hard onto your leg to pull himself closer into you, giving a few quick novelty thrusts before pulling out and dropping himself to his stomach.
You can see a darkness pass over that cupids bow indent, a glisten making you realise he's licking his lips as he grabs hold of your ass and lifts you up to his eye level.
A mixture of blood and cum drip from you, your entire body shaking from sheer adrenaline. He wastes no time, putting one light nibble in your inner right thigh before diving in and feasting from you.
"I," he begins, muttering deeply from where he's burried, "am going," he laps up his own cum, "to drain you," a deep suck against your clit, "of everything," he inhales before pressing his tongue firmly inside you, "you have." he tilts his tongue up, that's now noticeably longer than it was when he was alive, prodding against your g-spot and stimulating you from the inside.
"I'll make you come so hard," he pulls his tongue out, staying a few inches away so he can spit directly onto your clit, "i'll have to nurse you back to health."
His lips lock around your clit, tongue swirling and flicking your clit left and right in rough and calculated motions. He's chasing it, pushing it around as far as it'll go to either side and continuing to readjust his suction when needs be. The incubus switches to flattened his tongue on top of it, letting the rough underside flick back and forth sporadically while your fingers run for purchase in your bedsheets.
"Caleb, I-"
"So she speaks!" He declares, cutting you off then drawing away with a slick pop and staring down at your messy pussy. "I was waiting for the day you willingly spoke to me again," his eyes come up to meet yours now, "how can I be of service ma'am?"
Again, words fail you. But only for a moment. "Slower..." Is all you manage. And if it doesn't get a reaction from Caleb. His lips twist into a shit-eating grin, knowing he has you right where he wants you; needs you. Not stop, or no, or get the fuck off of me you sick pervert, but a simple request to go slower. He takes it indirectly as a keep going.
He dutifully lowers his mouth back down, but his eyes remain on yours. That sick and uncomfortable feeling the visitor always brought you still lingers, part of his nature, you guess, but it's much more intimate and meaningful now. You're no longer just his fuck-of-choice, but someone he's putting in time and effort towards making come. His little sister, his one and only. The one his soul is bound to, whether he likes it or not. Good thing he likes it.
Painfully slow, his sharp tongue draws a tantalising circle around your cluster of nerves before sinking down and kissing it. He repeats it a few times, making out with your pussy in such a lewd way it makes you leak out onto the bed; your own lubricant joining the puddle of blood and incubus cum below you.
"I said slower, not slow. Fuck." You sound so needy, so desperate for him to just take you like he had been these past few months, to make you forget your name or where you were.
Funny, how we always want what you don't have.
He laughs against you, making you inhale through your teeth as the sound vibrates into you wickedly. "Ever so needy, aren't we." Caleb observes plainly, shaking his head before pulling back to give you a spank right to your clit. His hand stays there, soothing the ache before going back to peppering kisses all over your wet pussy lips, deliberately avoiding the little bundle at the top.
You want to kick him, to shove him off, to force him to sit back away from you so he can see you pleasure yourself and miss out on it. But, you suppose, it probably doesn't work like that with a honest-to-God damned fucking demon. Still, the thought remains.
A burst of excitement shoots into your stomach when he once more latches on, this time giving it to you the way you deserve it. The perfect pressure, the perfect timing, the perfect rhythm, all tied up with a pretty bow and delivered to you via Caleb's tongue.
He alternates between giving a light pressure when his tongue sweeps up underneath your clit, to sucking you in deeply when his tongue sits on top. Your moans fill the room, no longer caring for what your neighbours might have to say in the morning.
Who came over last night? Oh, no one, just the sexual demon reincarnation of my foster brother. You remember Caleb, right?
"Oh, gege," you whine, making him stumble for the first time. He quickly covers it with a groan. The pressure builds inside slowly, skittering back the moment he notices.
That urge to kick him returns.
"Shhh, don't get feisty. You know I need this too." He pushes his middle finger inside and returns his mouth, chuckling at you when you flop back onto the pillows in relief.
Relief.
You're instinctively disgusted with yourself, but a genuine and pleasant surprise captures you too. Maybe if you can learn to overcome your night terrors by enjoying them, then your healing will start to accelerate.
You push that thought aside as the beginning tingles of your orgasm start to make themselves comfortable deep in your pelvis, growing and growing until they grab onto your stomach and explode through you. You moan his name, or just a sound, you hardly know as the feeling that bursts through you is unlike any of the previous ones he's given you. They were all too abrupt, too rough, too powerful. But this?
Caleb moans into your clit, drinking you in and acquiring a soft glow about him as he kidnaps your orgasm for himself, turning it to energy and making his silhouette more whole and complete. The dregs of it remain as his finger keeps curling and thrusting into you, milking you for every last drop of pleasure you can muster.
He sighs deeply, reluctantly pulling away only when your whines of pleasure turn to whimpers of pain.
"You did so good for me, baby," the incubus removes his finger and mouth, a dreamy look about him that you can now truly pick apart on his face. The tip of his nose, the blush just under his eyes, the rounding of his chin all visible to your now. The swoop of his hair no longer just a glob of shadow as it tickles your forehead. Tears well in your eyes again, but no longer from what he subjected you to. But because it's him. Right in front of you. Not a picture, a video, or memory. He's here, and he's going to be ten times harder to get rid of than he ever was before.