regularly 18+. so no minors. ☆ blue (n.): a lost soul. 26 yrs. a broken temple of desperate words. [ see also: bunnie ] ▪︎ yuri enthusiast, lads player, n caleb lover • in my fanfic era ▪︎ @bluest-bee usually
listen to me. this is my final message to you. when you are at your lowest a fictional guy will come to you and when that happens you must start putting them in situations. this is the meaning of life.
♡ ≈6.6k words ♡ daa!caleb x reader ♡ 18+ mdni ♡ banner art ♡ divider ♡ pt 1 of this story is here
Things slowly escalate, and you can't help but ask caleb if he remembers something from when you both were younger. One thing leads to another until you both are lost in "practice".
author's note: haha u thought I'd stop at fluff didn't you
The first part is not necessary but it's a cute lead up! I'm not the biggest fan of this, but if I changed it anymore I'd go insane. Proofread but not well, so there may be typos. Enjoy!
As you and Caleb laid together, his eyes had drifted closed, his cheek pressed against the top of your head, your weight a comfort against his chest. He was halfway to sleep too, dreaming of nothing but the smell of your apple shampoo and the way your fingers had curled into his shirt.
"Do you remember when you taught me how to kiss?"
His eyes opened.
Your voice was muffled against his neck, mentioning a memory he'd never once mentioned and never once forgotten.
Caleb's heart stumbled. He remembered, obviously.
You were fifteen. He was seventeen, home for some holiday break—he couldn't even remember which one anymore. You'd come into his room late, crawling onto his bed with the sleepily determined expression you got when you wanted something and didn't want to ask for it directly. You'd sat cross-legged on his blankets and announced, very seriously, that you didn't want to be bad at it when the time came. That you trusted him. That he could just... show you. So you'd know.
And he'd tried so hard to be good.
He'd kept it gentle and brief. It was nothing press of lips, a patient explanation about tilt and breath and slower, pipsqueak, don't rush. He'd told himself it was friendly and educational. His heart slamming against his ribs, he convinced himself was just surprise, just concern, just—
He'd taught you again the next time he came home. And the next. It was always short and innocent on the surface. You never discussed it after.
But even still, he'd never once stopped thinking about it.
"That was years ago," he said now, voice carefully even. "Why're you asking about that?"
You were quiet for a minute, but your hand, still fisted in his shirt, relaxed slightly. He thought maybe you'd actually fallen asleep this time, and that the question had been some half-conscious mumble you wouldn't even remember.
Then you shifted a little, and your lips brushed the skin of his neck as you spoke, like petals in the wind.
"Just wondering if you remembered."
He swallowed hard.
"I remember."
He could feel your smile against his throat, small and satisfied, and his chest tightened painfully.
Careful, he told himself. Careful.
But his hand, the one splayed across your back, had started to move in slow, absent circles. He couldn't seem to stop it.
You hummed softly, content. "Good."
Neither of you spoke for a minute. The afternoon light had shifted, growing warmer, and more golden as it slanted through the curtains. Somewhere outside, a bird called, and the house remained quiet.
Caleb's thoughts were not quiet, but they never were around you. He ended up clumsily filling the space with words he didn't even think over.
"There's a lot of girls at the academy," he heard himself say.
The words were out before he could stop them, tumbling into the space between you like stones into still water. He felt you tense slightly.
"Yeah?" Your voice was strategically flat.
"Yeah." He stared at the ceiling, his jaw tight. "They try to... distract me. All the time." He forced a humorless nervous laugh. "You'd think being in zero-g and tunnel sims would be complicated enough without girls making you lunches you have to give back."
Once again, you were quiet for a moment. Then you chose your words carefully. "Do you... want... to be distracted?"
He looked down at you so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.
You were watching him now, your eyes open and dark and utterly unreadable. Your face was still soft with sleep, your lips slightly parted, and you looked so innocent lying there in his shirt, asking him questions that made his blood run hot.
"No," he said roughly. "I don't."
Something flickered in your expression, he couldn't read of it was curiosity or relief. You'd always been harder to read than you realized, or maybe you'd just always been better at hiding from him than he wanted to admit.
"It would be easier, you know," he continued, the words coming faster now, "if you pretended to be my girlfriend."
Your eyes widened.
"They'd leave me alone then." He was rambling, he knew he was rambling, but he couldn't stop. "You could visit. Make it real for me. Just—just pretend. So they'd back off."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Caleb's heart pounded so hard he was certain you could feel it against your cheek. He'd crossed a line. He'd said too much. You were going to pull away, laugh at him, tell him he was being ridiculous—
"And what do I get?"
He blinked. "What?"
You tilted your head, still pressed against his chest, still watching him with those darkened, unreadable eyes. "If I pretend to be your girlfriend. What do I get out of it?"
Caleb stared at you.
Then, slowly, something dangerous flickered inside of him. Hope and desire blended when he'd been burying for years, surfacing despite every effort to keep them down.
"Whatever you want," he said.
The words came out rougher and lower than he'd intended. He watched your pupils dilate slightly, watched the way your breath caught, and felt the power of it sing through his veins.
Whatever you want.
You could ask for anything. Money. Favors. Him on his knees. And he'd give it. He'd give you everything, always, forever, if you'd just—
"Okay."
Caleb's mouth went dry. "Okay?"
"Okay, I'll do it." A small smile curved your lips. "Your fake girlfriend."
He almost felt relieved. He'd gotten what he wanted—a reason to have you close, a cover story for the way he looked at you, touched you, needed you. Instead, he felt like he'd just stepped off a cliff and was still waiting to hit the ground.
Because now he had you. Now he could have you, at least in name.
And he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to let go.
Your hand moved.
It was small, subtle—just your fingers shifting against his stomach, tracing the line of his shirt where it had pulled taut across his chest. But it sent electricity racing up his spine.
"This is what fake girlfriends do, right?" you murmured, innocent-as-can-be. "They get to touch you."
What do you mean by that?
"You can touch me," he said, face burning red as he glanced away. "Whenever you want."
Your hand was sliding higher now, slipping beneath the hem of his shirt to find skin, and he couldn't find the words to stop you. Your palm pressed flat against his stomach, warm and soft, and he realized with a start that he was shaking.
"You've gotten fitter," you said quietly.
It was such an absurd thing to say, stated like a simple observation, while your hand was under his shirt and he was trying very hard to remember how to breathe. He laughed.
"Been... training," he managed.
"Mmm." Your fingers traced the lines of his abdomen, light and curious. "I noticed."
His hand, the one that had been rubbing slow circles on your back, had gone still and frozen. Because if he moved it, if he let himself touch you the way he wanted to, he wasn't sure he'd be able to control it.
"Did any of those girls," you asked, your voice still soft, still casual, "touch you like this?"
Caleb's brain short-circuited.
"What?"
Your fingers continued their lazy exploration, tracing the dip between his abdominal muscles, the rigde of his hip bone. "At the academy. The ones who try to distract you. Did any of them..." You shrugged slightly, the movement pressing you closer against him. "Touch you?"
His hand moved, then.
It slid from your back to your hip, fingers curling around the curve of it, thumb pressing into the soft flesh just above the waistband of those pretty pink panties he'd noticed the moment he walked in. He felt you shiver against him, felt your breath hitch, and he was strangely pleased by the effect he had on you then.
"No," he said, and his voice was lower now, rougher. "They didn't."
Your fingers had stilled on his stomach. He could feel your heartbeat now, rapid against his side.
"Good," you whispered. The way you said it, possessive and satisfied, made his breath catch.
His thumb moved, just slightly, tracing the edge of your underwear where it met your skin. You gasped softly.
"You're jealous," he murmured.
"No."
The denial came too fast and too sharp. Caleb's lips curved into a slow smile.
"Hmm." He echoed your earlier sound, but there was nothing casual about it now. "Well, no. They didn't. No one gets to have me like you."
The words hung in the air between you, a confession under pretense.
Your hand was shaking against his stomach. He could feel it, the nerves running through your fingers, and it made something fierce and protective rise in his chest. You were nervous. Good. So was he. At least you were in it together.
"Fake boyfriend," you said suddenly, your voice slightly breathless. "I'm your fake girlfriend. That means..."
"That means what?"
When your eyes met his they were lit with determination.
"That means we should probably practice."
Caleb's heart stopped.
"Practice what?"
But he knew. The words were just a formality, a last attempt at deniability before everything changed.
In a small unconscious gesture that he followed with his eyes, you wet your lips. "How people who... who are dating... kiss."
Dating. You'd almost said something else. He'd heard it in the paused stumble. He didn't point it out, because he was too afraid of what might happen if he did.
"Practice," he repeated, and the word came out low.
You nodded, the same expression on your face that you'd worn at fifteen, crawling into his bed and asking him to teach you something you should have learned from someone else. Someone safe. Someone who wasn't him.
"Just so it looks real," you added. "When I visit. So they believe it."
"Right." His hand was still on your hip, his thumb still tracing that maddening line against your skin. "So it looks real."
He waited. He wanted to see what you'd do, how far you'd go. He wanted to see you take what it was that you really wanted, underneath all those careful words and casual touches.
Your hand slid higher on his stomach, fingers splaying across his chest. He felt his heart pounding against your palm like a trapped moth.
"Your heart's racing," you observed.
"Yours too."
A small smile curved your lips. "So we're even."
"Are we?"
The question hung between you.
Are we even? Have you wanted this as long as I have? Have you laid awake at night thinking about me, about this, about all the ways we could ruin everything we've built?
You pushed yourself up, just enough to bring your face level with his.
"Kiss me," you whispered. "So I know how it feels. To be kissed by you for real."
Caleb looked at you for a long moment. At your flushed cheeks and your dilated pupils and your slightly parted lips. At the way his shirt had slipped further down your shoulder, baring more skin. At the trust and the desire in your expression, all the things you were trying so hard to hide.
He'd spent years hiding too, and he felt maybe it was time to stop, even if just for now.
His hand left your hip, sliding up your side, pushing the fabric of his shirt on you higher as he went. Your breath caught as his palm pressed against your bare back, warm and rough and finally touching you the way he'd dreamed of for years.
"Caleb—"
"Shh."
He pulled you closer, rolled you slightly, until you were half-sprawled across his chest and he could look up at you from inches away. Your eyes were wide, your lips soft and curious.
"Tell me to stop," he said quietly, "and I will. Tell me this is too much, and that you don't want this—really don't want it—and I'll never mention it again."
Your hand found his face, cupping his jaw, thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone. So gentle. So tender. It made his chest tight.
"I don't want you to stop," you said.
And then you kissed him.
It was nothing like those quick, careful lessons from years ago, the chaste presses of lips he'd told himself were enough. Your mouth moved against his with a certainty that stole his breath, a hunger that matched his own, and he made a sound—low and desperate—against your lips.
His hands found you everywhere. Your back, your hips, the bare skin of your thighs where his shirt had ridden up. He couldn't stop touching you, couldn't get enough, couldn't believe he'd waited this long when you tasted like home and everything he'd never let himself have.
You pulled back just enough to breathe, your forehead pressed to his, your breath coming in soft, ragged gasps.
"More practice," you whispered.
He laughed, breathless and disbelieving. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." Your lips found his jaw, his neck, the spot below his ear that made him shudder. "Lots of practice. We have to be convincing."
His hands tightened on your hips, fingers pressing into the soft flesh there, and he felt the sharp intake of your breath against his skin.
"We should be very thorough," he agreed, his voice rough.
Your laugh was bright and breathless and it made him want to keep you here forever, in this bed, in this moment, where nothing existed but you and him and the space where you finally fit together.
Your small hand found its way under his shirt again, but this time it didn't stop at his stomach. It slid higher, fingers tracing the lines of his chest, the rapid beat of his heart, the tremor that ran through him at your touch.
"You're shaking," you murmured against his neck.
"So are you."
"Mm." A pause. Then, quieter, "I like it. That I can do that to you."
Caleb's eyes closed. His hands tightened on your hips, fingers pressing into the soft flesh there, and he felt the sharp intake of your breath against his skin.
"You can do a lot of things to me," he admitted from somewhere deep and terrifyingly honest. "You always could."
You lifted your head, meeting his eyes. Something shifted in your expression—that hidden thing surfacing, just for a moment. Something dark and possessive and hungry that made his pulse stutter.
"Good," you said softly.
And then you kissed him again, slower this time, deeper. Your tongue traced his lower lip, asking without words, and he let you in because he'd never been able to deny you anything.
Your weight pressed against him, warm and soft and his in a way he'd never dared to imagine. His hands roamed your body like he was reading it with his palms and fingertips—the curve of your waist, the flare of your hips, the way you arched into him when his fingers found skin.
His hand drifted lower, following the line of your spine, past the hem of his shirt, until his palm rested against the curve of your ass. The thin fabric of your underwear was barely a barrier, and he felt you tense against him, felt your breath catch in your throat.
He should stop. Should ask. Should—
"These panties are pretty," he said softly.
Your laugh was soft and breathless against his mouth. "You noticed."
"I notice everything about you." The admission came too easily, too honestly, but he couldn't bring himself to care. "When I came in. Saw you wearing my shirt. Saw the lace." His fingers traced the edge of them, watching your face, cataloguing every micro-expression. "Thought about taking them."
Your eyes widened. "Caleb—"
"Thought about taking them and keeping them." His voice was low, rough, honest in a way he'd never allowed himself to be. "So I'd have something of you with me. At the academy. When I can't sleep."
You stared at him, lips parted, cheeks flushed.
"You can," you whispered.
His hand stilled. "What?"
"Take them." Your voice was steady, but he could feel your heart pounding against his chest. "When you do my laundry. Like you used to."
For a moment, he just stared at you.
Then he laughed—a choked, disbelieving sound that turned into something almost like a groan. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin.
"Fuck you," he gasped, still laughing.
He pulled you closer, rolled you both until you were sprawled on top of him, your legs tangled with his, your face buried in his neck. His arms wrapped around you like he was afraid you'd disappear, holding you tight against his chest.
"I never did that," he lied.
The words were muffled against your hair, but he felt your smile against his skin.
"You're a terrible liar, Cay."
He huffed a laugh. "Am not."
"Are too." Your fingers traced lazy patterns on his chest, over his heart. "You always were. Even when we were kids. Your ears turn red."
He groaned. "They do not."
"Do too. They're red now."
Caleb closed his eyes, a helpless smile tugging at his lips. He couldn't win with you. He'd never been able to win with you. You saw through every defense, every careful mask, straight to the heart of him, and you stayed anyway.
"Okay," he admitted quietly. "Maybe once or twice."
Your laugh was soft and warm against his skin. "Thought so."
He held you tighter, pressed a kiss to the top of your head.
"Hey," you murmured after a long moment. "Caleb?"
"Mm?"
Your fingers stilled on his chest. Your voice, when you spoke, was quieter. Almost shy.
"Did you really mean it? That no one gets to have you like me?"
His eyes opened. He looked down at you, at the way you were hiding your face against his chest, at the vulnerability in the set of your shoulders.
Carefully, gently, he tilted your chin up until you met his eyes.
"No one," he said, "has ever had me. Not really. Not the way I let you have me. Not even close."
Your eyes glistened, just slightly. Your smile was small and soft.
"Good," you whispered. "Because no one gets to have me either. Except you."
The words hit square in the chest—stole his breath, stopped his heart, rewired something inside of him.
"Say that again," he asked, his voice.
You just smiled, that secret, knowing, teasing smile, and pressed your lips to his throat.
"I'm your fake girlfriend," you murmured against his skin. "Remember? We're just practicing."
His laugh was breathless and disbelieving.
Was she always such a tease?
"Right. Practicing."
Your hand slid lower on his chest, tracing the lines of his stomach, and he shivered.
"We should practice a lot," you cooed. "To be convincing," you repeated.
Caleb's eyes closed. His arms tightened around you, pulling you impossibly closer, fitting you against him like you'd been made to be held by him.
"We've got time," he murmured. "Josephine won't be back for a while. Even after that, we can stay quiet. And she can barely get up the stairs anyway."
"A while," you repeated, and there was hunger and darkness that almost matched his. "Good."
Outside, the afternoon light continued its slow shift toward evening. The house remained yours and quiet.
No one gets to have me except you.
He'd make sure of it.
Forever, if you'd let me.
The kissing continued, then changed after a while.
It started slow, lazy—the kind of kissing that existed just for the feeling, for the warmth of it, the closeness. Your mouth moved against his like you had all the time in the world, and Caleb let himself sink into it, let himself forget about Skyhaven and training and the seventy-two hours that were already slipping away.
But then your hand slid into his hair, fingers curling tight, and you pulled just enough to tilt his head, to change the angle, to make him groan against your lips.
His hands, which had been resting innocently on your waist, grew tight. His fingers pressed into the soft flesh there, and he felt more than he heard the small sound you made in response. His thumbs traced circles against your hip bones, pushing beneath the hem of his shirt—your shirt now, he supposed—to find bare skin.
You were so small beneath him.
He'd always known it, objectively. You'd been the tiny girl who followed him around, the one he could pick up and carry when you got tired, the one who fit perfectly against his side when you watched movies on the couch. But he'd never felt it like this. Never had you spread beneath him, your body soft and pliant and utterly trusting, while he loomed over you, like something that would devour you.
He pulled back just enough to look at you.
Your hair was spread across his pillow, your lips were swollen, pink, slightly parted. Your eyes were fixed on his face, watching him watch you. And his shirt, his black DAA shirt with the insignia over the heart, had ridden up around your hips, baring the pale skin of your stomach, the curve of your waist, and those pink lace panties he couldn't stop thinking about.
I could break you.
The thought came so suddenly, sharp and clear. He could wrap his hands around your waist and squeeze. He could press his weight into you until you couldn't breathe. He could take and take and take until there was nothing left, and you'd let him, because you trusted him, because you'd always trusted him, because you didn't understand what that trust did to him.
His jaw tightened.
"You're staring," you whispered.
"Mmhm." He couldn't look away. "You're beautiful."
A flush crept across your cheeks, visible even in the dimming light. But you didn't look away either. Your hand, still tangled in his hair, tugged him gently back down.
"Come here."
He went. He always went, when you asked.
This time, when he lowered himself, he didn't stop at your lips. He let his weight settle against you, let you feel the full breadth of his chest pressing you into the mattress, let you understand exactly how much bigger he was than you. His forearms bracketed your head, taking some of the pressure, but not all of it. He wanted you to feel him. Wanted you to know.
Your breath left you in a soft oof, and then your arms came up around his neck, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.
Trust, he thought dizzily. You trust me.
Your legs moved beneath him, parting slightly to make room for his hips, and he felt the heat of you through the thin fabric of your underwear, through his sweatpants, through everything. His whole body went rigid.
"Caleb?" Your voice was soft, questioning.
He buried his face in your neck and breathed.
"You're so small," he muttered against your skin. "How are you so small?"
Your laugh was soft and surprised. "I'm not that small. You're just—" you paused, and he felt your hands slide down his back, tracing the muscles there, feeling the breadth of his shoulders. "You're huge, Caleb."
When he laughed at that, it came out rough. "Thanks. Very kind of you to notice."
"I always notice." Your voice was quieter now, more honest. "When you come home. How much bigger you are than when you left. How much..." your fingers traced his spine, counting each ridge. "How much you've changed."
He lifted his head, met your eyes. His bangs brushed across his brow, eyes puppylike, somewhat pleading.
"Does it bother you?"
The question was naked in a way he hadn't intended. He couldn't take it back, or hide behind jokes or teasing, so he just waited for your answer with his heart pounding.
Your hand came up to cup his face. Your thumb traced his cheekbone, the line of his jaw, the corner of his mouth.
"No," you said softly. "It makes me feel safe."
Safe?
"You shouldn't," he whispered. "Feel safe. I'm—" He stopped, swallowed, tried again. "You don't know what I think about. When I'm gone. What I want."
Your eyes didn't waver. "Tell me."
He shook his head, a small, helpless motion. "I can't."
"Can't? Or won't?"
"Both." His forehead dropped to yours, eyes closing. "Both. Because if I tell you, I can't take it back. And if you run—" His voice broke, just slightly. "If you run, I don't know what I'd do."
The silence stretched between you, heavy with everything.
You took your legs and wrapped them around his hips, pulling him into you. Your body opened like a safe.
"I'm not running," you whispered.
His hips rolled against you without his permission—just a twitch, a reflex, but you both felt it. Your breath caught, a tiny whimper slipping out of you. His did too.
"Sorry," he gasped. "I didn't mean—"
"Don't be sorry." Your voice was almost steady, but he could feel your heart pounding wildly against his chest. "I'm not."
He looked at the flush spreading down your neck, disappearing beneath his shirt, the small smile was playing at the corners of your lips. You knew exactly what you were doing, exactly what effect you had on him.
You're so dangerous, he thought. You're the most dangerous thing in my life, and I can't stay away from you.
"I could—" He stopped, swallowed, tried again. "Pips... You... you could do whatever you wanted to me."
The words came out raw. He watched your expression change, watched that dark thing you tried so hard to hide flicker through it.
"Whatever I wanted?" you repeated.
"Anything." His voice was rough. "Everything. You ask, and it's yours. You know that."
Your hands were touching him again, some of everywhere.
"Anything," you murmured, almost to yourself.
Your hands explored him until your fingers found the waistband of his sweatpants, traced the edge of it, dipped just slightly beneath.
He stopped breathing.
"You could have me. Right now. If you wanted," he said.
Your eyes met his. Dark. Hungry. His.
"I know."
Fuck.
He kissed you again, and it wasn't gentle this time. It was desperate, and hungry in a way he'd never let himself be. His tongue swept into your mouth and you welcomed him, pulled him deeper, made a small sound that went straight to his head like alcohol.
His hands found your hips, your thighs, the impossibly soft skin where your legs met the rest of your body. He touched you like he was starving, like you were the only thing that could save him, and you let him. You let him do everything, touch everywhere, and when his fingers found the edge of your underwear again, you just spread your legs wider and looked at him with those dark, knowing eyes.
"You're nervous," you observed.
"Why wouldn't I be? Arent you?"
It was true. Your hands trembled against his skin. His whole body twitched slightly, held in check by a thread so thin he could feel it fraying.
"You trust me?" The question was desperate.
You smiled, trying to hide any and all nerves. "With everything."
Don't, he thought. Don't trust me that much. Don't give me that power.
But you already had. Really, you had done it years ago. And he'd been holding it carefully ever since, terrified of dropping it, terrified of using it, terrified of everything it made him want.
You trusted him.
The words echoed in his head, bounced around his skull, made him dizzy with want and terror and something that felt almost like worship. You trusted him. You were here, in his bed, wearing his clothes, looking at him like he was everything you wanted, the moon in the sky.
He didn't deserve it, but he'd take it anyway. He'd take anything you gave him and beg for more.
"Show me," you whispered against his lips. "Show me what you want."
And something in him finally cracked.
He moved without thinking—rolled onto his back, taking you with him, until you were sprawled across his chest and he was looking up at you with an expression he couldn't hide even if he'd wanted to. Your eyes went wide, surprised by the sudden shift, your hands braced against his shoulders.
"What—"
"I'll show you," he began, his voice rough. "Like this."
His hands found your hips, settling there gently, guiding them. He looked up at you, at the way your hair fell around you both, at the flush on your cheeks, at the slight part of your lip, and felt his heart pound so hard he was sure you could feel it.
"You want to touch me?" His thumbs traced circles against your hip bones. "Touch me. You want to move? Move. You want to—" He swallowed. "You want to use me? Use me."
For a long moment, you just stared at him. At Caleb—your Caleb, the one who'd always been in charge, always been the protector, always been the one looking out for you—lying beneath you, looking up at you like you were a wonder of the universe, like he'd let you do anything.
"Caleb..." His name was soft on your lips.
"Tell me what you want." His voice was barely a whisper. "And it's yours."
Your hands slid from his shoulders to his chest, fingers tracing the lines of muscle there, nails scraping lightly through the hair. He shivered beneath you, unable to hide it.
"You like this," you said quietly, the realization fueling you.
He couldn't lie to you. Not about this. "Yes."
Your lips curved up slowly.
Your hips shifted against him enough to make pressure where there hadn't been pressure before. His breath left him in a rush, his hands tightening on your hips.
"Like that?" you asked innocently. Too innocently. Your eyes gave you away.
"Pipsqueak—"
"Shh." You pressed a finger to his lips, and he went silent immediately, his eyes darkening. "I'm the one in charge now, remember?"
The way you were looking at him—like he was yours, like you knew it, like you'd always known it—made him incapable of anything but obedience.
He nodded against your finger.
Your smile widened even more... and then you moved.
It was slow at first—just an experimental and testing roll of your hip. The friction, even through layers of clothing, even through his sweatpants and your underwear, made stars burst behind his eyes. His hands tightened on your hips just to feel you.
"You're so responsive," you murmured, almost to yourself. "I like it."
He couldn't speak, could barely breathe. Every nerve in his body was focused on the place where your bodies met, on the heat of you, on the way you moved like you had all the time in the world to explore him.
Your hands roamed his chest while your hips moved. You traced the lines of his shoulders, the curve of his biceps, the ridges of his stomach. You found sensitive places he hadn't known he had—the dip below his ribs, the inside of his wrist, a spot behind his ear that made him gasp.
"Here?" you asked, pressing that spot with your lips.
"Yes—fuck—yes—"
Your laugh was soft and warm against his skin. "Good to know."
He was drowning. Drowning in you, in your touch, in the way you were learning his body like you planned to keep it. His hands stayed on your hips, holding you, but letting you set the pace, letting you take what you wanted.
And you took.
You took his gasps and his shivers and the way his head fell back against the pillow when you found a rhythm that made his vision blur. You took the small sounds he couldn't hold back, the ones that escaped despite every effort to stay quiet. You took the way his hips started moving with yours, helpless, desperate, chasing something he couldn't name.
"You're doing so well," you whispered against his throat, and he moaned at the praise.
Your rhythm faltered when you felt what it did to him.
He felt it immediately—the slight hesitation, the way your hips stuttered against his. He opened his eyes, looked up at you, and saw it: the flush on your cheeks had deepened. Your eyes had gone wide, uncertain. Your lip was caught between your teeth.
And he realized what you had begun to—you could feel all of him. Through the thin fabric, through every layer, there was no hiding what you did to him, and what you were still doing to him. And it was doing something to you too.
You'd stopped moving.
"I—" You swallowed, looked away. "You feel..."
Something in that moment when saw your uncertainty made him want to wrap around it, protect it, own it.
His hands, still on your hips, gripped you closer again.
"I feel like what?"
Your eyes met his, startled by the change in his voice. It was lower now. Rougher.
"I just—" You bit your lip again, and he watched the movement with heavy-lidded eyes. "I'm getting carried so away... and you're a lot."
"Am I?"
He moved before you could answer—sat up in one smooth motion, keeping you in his lap, reversing the power dynamic without ever letting go of you. Now you were face to face, chest to chest, and his hands had moved from your hips to your back, pressing you against him.
"Caleb—"
"You started this." His voice was quiet. Calm. Terrifying. "You wanted to be in charge. You wanted to touch me, use me, take what you wanted." His lips found your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. "And now you're getting shy?"
"I'm not—I'm not shy, I just—"
"Just what?"
His hips rolled up against you—just once, just enough to remind you of what you'd been doing, what you'd both been feeling. Your whole body jerked in his arms, a small sound escaping your lips before you could stop it.
"That," he murmured. "That's what you were doing to me. For the last—" he glanced at the clock, then back at you with a dark smile—"twenty minutes. While I lay there and let you. While I loved every second of it."
Your face was on fire. He could feel the heat of it against his skin.
"But now you're the one feeling it, and you want to stop?"
"I didn't say I wanted to stop."
The words came out defensive, quick, and he felt his smile widen.
"Good." His hands slid lower, settling on your hips again, but this time there was nothing submissive about his grip. "Because I'm not done with you."
He kissed you—harder than before, more demanding, taking instead of asking. Your hands fisted in his hair, pulled him closer, and he groaned into your mouth at the now-familiar sting.
"That's it," he breathed against your lips. "That's my girl."
My girl. The words slipped out before he could stop them, and you pulled him closer, your hips moving against his with renewed purpose.
But he controlled the rhythm now.
His hands guided you, set the pace, showed you exactly how he wanted it. Slow at first—deep rolls that made you both gasp—then faster, harder, until the bed creaked beneath you and you had to press your face into his neck to muffle the sounds you were making.
"Quiet," he whispered, though his own voice was wrecked. "Gran could—"
"I know—I'm trying—"
He felt your teeth against his shoulder, biting down to stifle a moan, and the sensation sent lightning down his spine. His hips stuttered, lost the rhythm for a moment, and you took advantage—pushed him back against the pillows, took control again, just for a moment.
He let you because he'd always let you.
But when your movements became erratic, when your breath came in short gasps against his throat, when your fingers dug into his shoulders like you were holding on for dear life—he rolled you both again, pressing you into the mattress, settling between your thighs like he belonged there.
"Like this," he said, and his voice was so rough barely human. "Let me—like this—"
You nodded frantically, legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him closer. And then you were both moving together, desperate and quiet and aching with it, every point of contact electric through the thin fabric separating you.
His forehead pressed to yours. Your breath mingled. Your eyes stayed locked on each other, watching every flicker of pleasure, every moment of loss of control.
"Caleb—" Your voice broke on his name.
"I know." His voice was wrecked. "I know, I'm—fuck—you feel—"
His hips rolled against you in a rhythm that felt instinctive, like something coded into his bones, chasing what felt good between you both. Your legs tightened around him, pulling him deeper into the cradle of your body, and he felt the pressure building, building, building—
Your hips moved together desperately and quiet, the rhythm frantic. His hand found yours, fingers lacing together, pressing into the mattress beside your head. Your other hand fisted in his hair, holding him close, keeping him there.
And when the tension finally crested—when you both went rigid against each other, gasping each other's names into each other's mouths—it felt like something fundamental had been altered. You'd crossed a line you couldn't uncross, even with all your clothes still on.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. Your underwear was wet and sticky, your bodies were slick with sweat.
Then Caleb collapsed against you, his face buried in your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. His weight pressed you into the mattress, heavy and warm and perfect, and you wrapped your arms around him and held on.
"We didn't—" he started, voice muffled.
"I know."
"We're still..."
"I know."
"Just practice." The words were quiet and questioning.
You smiled against his hair. "Just practice."
He lifted his head, and met your eyes. His violet gaze was dark and soft, and full of things he wasn't saying, questions he couldn't ask.
Your hand came up to cup his face, thumb tracing his cheekbone. He leaned into the touch like a cat seeking warmth, and your heart clenched.
"We should probably..." You trailed off, not wanting to finish.
"Yeah." But he didn't move. He kept looking at you, kept touching you, kept breathing you in. "Probably."
Neither of you moved for a long time.
The afternoon light had moved again, growing longer, more golden. The house remained quiet. Somewhere, distantly, a car passed on the street. Life continued outside this room, yet here, in his bed, in his arms—time seemed to have stopped.
Finally, after several moments, Caleb moved to roll onto his side, taking you with him, keeping you tucked against his chest. His arm wrapped around your waist, possessive even in sleepiness. His lips found your forehead, lingering there.
"Stay," he murmured against your skin. "Just... stay for a while."
You nodded, your cheek rubbing against his chest.
"I'm not going anywhere I'm your—."
"You don't have to say it again, I know what we are."
It was true. The double entendre wasn't lost on you.
His arms tightened around you, your eyes shut, and you felt him press another kiss to the top of your head.
"We'll practice until we can't tell the difference."
i love you shy reader-inserts i love you naive reader-inserts i love you soft-spoken reader-inserts i love any and all reader-inserts and you should not complain about them in the x reader tag. by doing so you are putting down someone's creative work and efforts when you could have simply moved on, or even better, written your own story
♡ ≈6.6k words ♡ daa!caleb x reader ♡ 18+ mdni ♡ banner art ♡ divider ♡ pt 1 of this story is here
Things slowly escalate, and you can't help but ask caleb if he remembers something from when you both were younger. One thing leads to another until you both are lost in "practice".
author's note: haha u thought I'd stop at fluff didn't you
The first part is not necessary but it's a cute lead up! I'm not the biggest fan of this, but if I changed it anymore I'd go insane. Proofread but not well, so there may be typos. Enjoy!
As you and Caleb laid together, his eyes had drifted closed, his cheek pressed against the top of your head, your weight a comfort against his chest. He was halfway to sleep too, dreaming of nothing but the smell of your apple shampoo and the way your fingers had curled into his shirt.
"Do you remember when you taught me how to kiss?"
His eyes opened.
Your voice was muffled against his neck, mentioning a memory he'd never once mentioned and never once forgotten.
Caleb's heart stumbled. He remembered, obviously.
You were fifteen. He was seventeen, home for some holiday break—he couldn't even remember which one anymore. You'd come into his room late, crawling onto his bed with the sleepily determined expression you got when you wanted something and didn't want to ask for it directly. You'd sat cross-legged on his blankets and announced, very seriously, that you didn't want to be bad at it when the time came. That you trusted him. That he could just... show you. So you'd know.
And he'd tried so hard to be good.
He'd kept it gentle and brief. It was nothing press of lips, a patient explanation about tilt and breath and slower, pipsqueak, don't rush. He'd told himself it was friendly and educational. His heart slamming against his ribs, he convinced himself was just surprise, just concern, just—
He'd taught you again the next time he came home. And the next. It was always short and innocent on the surface. You never discussed it after.
But even still, he'd never once stopped thinking about it.
"That was years ago," he said now, voice carefully even. "Why're you asking about that?"
You were quiet for a minute, but your hand, still fisted in his shirt, relaxed slightly. He thought maybe you'd actually fallen asleep this time, and that the question had been some half-conscious mumble you wouldn't even remember.
Then you shifted a little, and your lips brushed the skin of his neck as you spoke, like petals in the wind.
"Just wondering if you remembered."
He swallowed hard.
"I remember."
He could feel your smile against his throat, small and satisfied, and his chest tightened painfully.
Careful, he told himself. Careful.
But his hand, the one splayed across your back, had started to move in slow, absent circles. He couldn't seem to stop it.
You hummed softly, content. "Good."
Neither of you spoke for a minute. The afternoon light had shifted, growing warmer, and more golden as it slanted through the curtains. Somewhere outside, a bird called, and the house remained quiet.
Caleb's thoughts were not quiet, but they never were around you. He ended up clumsily filling the space with words he didn't even think over.
"There's a lot of girls at the academy," he heard himself say.
The words were out before he could stop them, tumbling into the space between you like stones into still water. He felt you tense slightly.
"Yeah?" Your voice was strategically flat.
"Yeah." He stared at the ceiling, his jaw tight. "They try to... distract me. All the time." He forced a humorless nervous laugh. "You'd think being in zero-g and tunnel sims would be complicated enough without girls making you lunches you have to give back."
Once again, you were quiet for a moment. Then you chose your words carefully. "Do you... want... to be distracted?"
He looked down at you so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.
You were watching him now, your eyes open and dark and utterly unreadable. Your face was still soft with sleep, your lips slightly parted, and you looked so innocent lying there in his shirt, asking him questions that made his blood run hot.
"No," he said roughly. "I don't."
Something flickered in your expression, he couldn't read of it was curiosity or relief. You'd always been harder to read than you realized, or maybe you'd just always been better at hiding from him than he wanted to admit.
"It would be easier, you know," he continued, the words coming faster now, "if you pretended to be my girlfriend."
Your eyes widened.
"They'd leave me alone then." He was rambling, he knew he was rambling, but he couldn't stop. "You could visit. Make it real for me. Just—just pretend. So they'd back off."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Caleb's heart pounded so hard he was certain you could feel it against your cheek. He'd crossed a line. He'd said too much. You were going to pull away, laugh at him, tell him he was being ridiculous—
"And what do I get?"
He blinked. "What?"
You tilted your head, still pressed against his chest, still watching him with those darkened, unreadable eyes. "If I pretend to be your girlfriend. What do I get out of it?"
Caleb stared at you.
Then, slowly, something dangerous flickered inside of him. Hope and desire blended when he'd been burying for years, surfacing despite every effort to keep them down.
"Whatever you want," he said.
The words came out rougher and lower than he'd intended. He watched your pupils dilate slightly, watched the way your breath caught, and felt the power of it sing through his veins.
Whatever you want.
You could ask for anything. Money. Favors. Him on his knees. And he'd give it. He'd give you everything, always, forever, if you'd just—
"Okay."
Caleb's mouth went dry. "Okay?"
"Okay, I'll do it." A small smile curved your lips. "Your fake girlfriend."
He almost felt relieved. He'd gotten what he wanted—a reason to have you close, a cover story for the way he looked at you, touched you, needed you. Instead, he felt like he'd just stepped off a cliff and was still waiting to hit the ground.
Because now he had you. Now he could have you, at least in name.
And he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to let go.
Your hand moved.
It was small, subtle—just your fingers shifting against his stomach, tracing the line of his shirt where it had pulled taut across his chest. But it sent electricity racing up his spine.
"This is what fake girlfriends do, right?" you murmured, innocent-as-can-be. "They get to touch you."
What do you mean by that?
"You can touch me," he said, face burning red as he glanced away. "Whenever you want."
Your hand was sliding higher now, slipping beneath the hem of his shirt to find skin, and he couldn't find the words to stop you. Your palm pressed flat against his stomach, warm and soft, and he realized with a start that he was shaking.
"You've gotten fitter," you said quietly.
It was such an absurd thing to say, stated like a simple observation, while your hand was under his shirt and he was trying very hard to remember how to breathe. He laughed.
"Been... training," he managed.
"Mmm." Your fingers traced the lines of his abdomen, light and curious. "I noticed."
His hand, the one that had been rubbing slow circles on your back, had gone still and frozen. Because if he moved it, if he let himself touch you the way he wanted to, he wasn't sure he'd be able to control it.
"Did any of those girls," you asked, your voice still soft, still casual, "touch you like this?"
Caleb's brain short-circuited.
"What?"
Your fingers continued their lazy exploration, tracing the dip between his abdominal muscles, the rigde of his hip bone. "At the academy. The ones who try to distract you. Did any of them..." You shrugged slightly, the movement pressing you closer against him. "Touch you?"
His hand moved, then.
It slid from your back to your hip, fingers curling around the curve of it, thumb pressing into the soft flesh just above the waistband of those pretty pink panties he'd noticed the moment he walked in. He felt you shiver against him, felt your breath hitch, and he was strangely pleased by the effect he had on you then.
"No," he said, and his voice was lower now, rougher. "They didn't."
Your fingers had stilled on his stomach. He could feel your heartbeat now, rapid against his side.
"Good," you whispered. The way you said it, possessive and satisfied, made his breath catch.
His thumb moved, just slightly, tracing the edge of your underwear where it met your skin. You gasped softly.
"You're jealous," he murmured.
"No."
The denial came too fast and too sharp. Caleb's lips curved into a slow smile.
"Hmm." He echoed your earlier sound, but there was nothing casual about it now. "Well, no. They didn't. No one gets to have me like you."
The words hung in the air between you, a confession under pretense.
Your hand was shaking against his stomach. He could feel it, the nerves running through your fingers, and it made something fierce and protective rise in his chest. You were nervous. Good. So was he. At least you were in it together.
"Fake boyfriend," you said suddenly, your voice slightly breathless. "I'm your fake girlfriend. That means..."
"That means what?"
When your eyes met his they were lit with determination.
"That means we should probably practice."
Caleb's heart stopped.
"Practice what?"
But he knew. The words were just a formality, a last attempt at deniability before everything changed.
In a small unconscious gesture that he followed with his eyes, you wet your lips. "How people who... who are dating... kiss."
Dating. You'd almost said something else. He'd heard it in the paused stumble. He didn't point it out, because he was too afraid of what might happen if he did.
"Practice," he repeated, and the word came out low.
You nodded, the same expression on your face that you'd worn at fifteen, crawling into his bed and asking him to teach you something you should have learned from someone else. Someone safe. Someone who wasn't him.
"Just so it looks real," you added. "When I visit. So they believe it."
"Right." His hand was still on your hip, his thumb still tracing that maddening line against your skin. "So it looks real."
He waited. He wanted to see what you'd do, how far you'd go. He wanted to see you take what it was that you really wanted, underneath all those careful words and casual touches.
Your hand slid higher on his stomach, fingers splaying across his chest. He felt his heart pounding against your palm like a trapped moth.
"Your heart's racing," you observed.
"Yours too."
A small smile curved your lips. "So we're even."
"Are we?"
The question hung between you.
Are we even? Have you wanted this as long as I have? Have you laid awake at night thinking about me, about this, about all the ways we could ruin everything we've built?
You pushed yourself up, just enough to bring your face level with his.
"Kiss me," you whispered. "So I know how it feels. To be kissed by you for real."
Caleb looked at you for a long moment. At your flushed cheeks and your dilated pupils and your slightly parted lips. At the way his shirt had slipped further down your shoulder, baring more skin. At the trust and the desire in your expression, all the things you were trying so hard to hide.
He'd spent years hiding too, and he felt maybe it was time to stop, even if just for now.
His hand left your hip, sliding up your side, pushing the fabric of his shirt on you higher as he went. Your breath caught as his palm pressed against your bare back, warm and rough and finally touching you the way he'd dreamed of for years.
"Caleb—"
"Shh."
He pulled you closer, rolled you slightly, until you were half-sprawled across his chest and he could look up at you from inches away. Your eyes were wide, your lips soft and curious.
"Tell me to stop," he said quietly, "and I will. Tell me this is too much, and that you don't want this—really don't want it—and I'll never mention it again."
Your hand found his face, cupping his jaw, thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone. So gentle. So tender. It made his chest tight.
"I don't want you to stop," you said.
And then you kissed him.
It was nothing like those quick, careful lessons from years ago, the chaste presses of lips he'd told himself were enough. Your mouth moved against his with a certainty that stole his breath, a hunger that matched his own, and he made a sound—low and desperate—against your lips.
His hands found you everywhere. Your back, your hips, the bare skin of your thighs where his shirt had ridden up. He couldn't stop touching you, couldn't get enough, couldn't believe he'd waited this long when you tasted like home and everything he'd never let himself have.
You pulled back just enough to breathe, your forehead pressed to his, your breath coming in soft, ragged gasps.
"More practice," you whispered.
He laughed, breathless and disbelieving. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." Your lips found his jaw, his neck, the spot below his ear that made him shudder. "Lots of practice. We have to be convincing."
His hands tightened on your hips, fingers pressing into the soft flesh there, and he felt the sharp intake of your breath against his skin.
"We should be very thorough," he agreed, his voice rough.
Your laugh was bright and breathless and it made him want to keep you here forever, in this bed, in this moment, where nothing existed but you and him and the space where you finally fit together.
Your small hand found its way under his shirt again, but this time it didn't stop at his stomach. It slid higher, fingers tracing the lines of his chest, the rapid beat of his heart, the tremor that ran through him at your touch.
"You're shaking," you murmured against his neck.
"So are you."
"Mm." A pause. Then, quieter, "I like it. That I can do that to you."
Caleb's eyes closed. His hands tightened on your hips, fingers pressing into the soft flesh there, and he felt the sharp intake of your breath against his skin.
"You can do a lot of things to me," he admitted from somewhere deep and terrifyingly honest. "You always could."
You lifted your head, meeting his eyes. Something shifted in your expression—that hidden thing surfacing, just for a moment. Something dark and possessive and hungry that made his pulse stutter.
"Good," you said softly.
And then you kissed him again, slower this time, deeper. Your tongue traced his lower lip, asking without words, and he let you in because he'd never been able to deny you anything.
Your weight pressed against him, warm and soft and his in a way he'd never dared to imagine. His hands roamed your body like he was reading it with his palms and fingertips—the curve of your waist, the flare of your hips, the way you arched into him when his fingers found skin.
His hand drifted lower, following the line of your spine, past the hem of his shirt, until his palm rested against the curve of your ass. The thin fabric of your underwear was barely a barrier, and he felt you tense against him, felt your breath catch in your throat.
He should stop. Should ask. Should—
"These panties are pretty," he said softly.
Your laugh was soft and breathless against his mouth. "You noticed."
"I notice everything about you." The admission came too easily, too honestly, but he couldn't bring himself to care. "When I came in. Saw you wearing my shirt. Saw the lace." His fingers traced the edge of them, watching your face, cataloguing every micro-expression. "Thought about taking them."
Your eyes widened. "Caleb—"
"Thought about taking them and keeping them." His voice was low, rough, honest in a way he'd never allowed himself to be. "So I'd have something of you with me. At the academy. When I can't sleep."
You stared at him, lips parted, cheeks flushed.
"You can," you whispered.
His hand stilled. "What?"
"Take them." Your voice was steady, but he could feel your heart pounding against his chest. "When you do my laundry. Like you used to."
For a moment, he just stared at you.
Then he laughed—a choked, disbelieving sound that turned into something almost like a groan. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin.
"Fuck you," he gasped, still laughing.
He pulled you closer, rolled you both until you were sprawled on top of him, your legs tangled with his, your face buried in his neck. His arms wrapped around you like he was afraid you'd disappear, holding you tight against his chest.
"I never did that," he lied.
The words were muffled against your hair, but he felt your smile against his skin.
"You're a terrible liar, Cay."
He huffed a laugh. "Am not."
"Are too." Your fingers traced lazy patterns on his chest, over his heart. "You always were. Even when we were kids. Your ears turn red."
He groaned. "They do not."
"Do too. They're red now."
Caleb closed his eyes, a helpless smile tugging at his lips. He couldn't win with you. He'd never been able to win with you. You saw through every defense, every careful mask, straight to the heart of him, and you stayed anyway.
"Okay," he admitted quietly. "Maybe once or twice."
Your laugh was soft and warm against his skin. "Thought so."
He held you tighter, pressed a kiss to the top of your head.
"Hey," you murmured after a long moment. "Caleb?"
"Mm?"
Your fingers stilled on his chest. Your voice, when you spoke, was quieter. Almost shy.
"Did you really mean it? That no one gets to have you like me?"
His eyes opened. He looked down at you, at the way you were hiding your face against his chest, at the vulnerability in the set of your shoulders.
Carefully, gently, he tilted your chin up until you met his eyes.
"No one," he said, "has ever had me. Not really. Not the way I let you have me. Not even close."
Your eyes glistened, just slightly. Your smile was small and soft.
"Good," you whispered. "Because no one gets to have me either. Except you."
The words hit square in the chest—stole his breath, stopped his heart, rewired something inside of him.
"Say that again," he asked, his voice.
You just smiled, that secret, knowing, teasing smile, and pressed your lips to his throat.
"I'm your fake girlfriend," you murmured against his skin. "Remember? We're just practicing."
His laugh was breathless and disbelieving.
Was she always such a tease?
"Right. Practicing."
Your hand slid lower on his chest, tracing the lines of his stomach, and he shivered.
"We should practice a lot," you cooed. "To be convincing," you repeated.
Caleb's eyes closed. His arms tightened around you, pulling you impossibly closer, fitting you against him like you'd been made to be held by him.
"We've got time," he murmured. "Josephine won't be back for a while. Even after that, we can stay quiet. And she can barely get up the stairs anyway."
"A while," you repeated, and there was hunger and darkness that almost matched his. "Good."
Outside, the afternoon light continued its slow shift toward evening. The house remained yours and quiet.
No one gets to have me except you.
He'd make sure of it.
Forever, if you'd let me.
The kissing continued, then changed after a while.
It started slow, lazy—the kind of kissing that existed just for the feeling, for the warmth of it, the closeness. Your mouth moved against his like you had all the time in the world, and Caleb let himself sink into it, let himself forget about Skyhaven and training and the seventy-two hours that were already slipping away.
But then your hand slid into his hair, fingers curling tight, and you pulled just enough to tilt his head, to change the angle, to make him groan against your lips.
His hands, which had been resting innocently on your waist, grew tight. His fingers pressed into the soft flesh there, and he felt more than he heard the small sound you made in response. His thumbs traced circles against your hip bones, pushing beneath the hem of his shirt—your shirt now, he supposed—to find bare skin.
You were so small beneath him.
He'd always known it, objectively. You'd been the tiny girl who followed him around, the one he could pick up and carry when you got tired, the one who fit perfectly against his side when you watched movies on the couch. But he'd never felt it like this. Never had you spread beneath him, your body soft and pliant and utterly trusting, while he loomed over you, like something that would devour you.
He pulled back just enough to look at you.
Your hair was spread across his pillow, your lips were swollen, pink, slightly parted. Your eyes were fixed on his face, watching him watch you. And his shirt, his black DAA shirt with the insignia over the heart, had ridden up around your hips, baring the pale skin of your stomach, the curve of your waist, and those pink lace panties he couldn't stop thinking about.
I could break you.
The thought came so suddenly, sharp and clear. He could wrap his hands around your waist and squeeze. He could press his weight into you until you couldn't breathe. He could take and take and take until there was nothing left, and you'd let him, because you trusted him, because you'd always trusted him, because you didn't understand what that trust did to him.
His jaw tightened.
"You're staring," you whispered.
"Mmhm." He couldn't look away. "You're beautiful."
A flush crept across your cheeks, visible even in the dimming light. But you didn't look away either. Your hand, still tangled in his hair, tugged him gently back down.
"Come here."
He went. He always went, when you asked.
This time, when he lowered himself, he didn't stop at your lips. He let his weight settle against you, let you feel the full breadth of his chest pressing you into the mattress, let you understand exactly how much bigger he was than you. His forearms bracketed your head, taking some of the pressure, but not all of it. He wanted you to feel him. Wanted you to know.
Your breath left you in a soft oof, and then your arms came up around his neck, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.
Trust, he thought dizzily. You trust me.
Your legs moved beneath him, parting slightly to make room for his hips, and he felt the heat of you through the thin fabric of your underwear, through his sweatpants, through everything. His whole body went rigid.
"Caleb?" Your voice was soft, questioning.
He buried his face in your neck and breathed.
"You're so small," he muttered against your skin. "How are you so small?"
Your laugh was soft and surprised. "I'm not that small. You're just—" you paused, and he felt your hands slide down his back, tracing the muscles there, feeling the breadth of his shoulders. "You're huge, Caleb."
When he laughed at that, it came out rough. "Thanks. Very kind of you to notice."
"I always notice." Your voice was quieter now, more honest. "When you come home. How much bigger you are than when you left. How much..." your fingers traced his spine, counting each ridge. "How much you've changed."
He lifted his head, met your eyes. His bangs brushed across his brow, eyes puppylike, somewhat pleading.
"Does it bother you?"
The question was naked in a way he hadn't intended. He couldn't take it back, or hide behind jokes or teasing, so he just waited for your answer with his heart pounding.
Your hand came up to cup his face. Your thumb traced his cheekbone, the line of his jaw, the corner of his mouth.
"No," you said softly. "It makes me feel safe."
Safe?
"You shouldn't," he whispered. "Feel safe. I'm—" He stopped, swallowed, tried again. "You don't know what I think about. When I'm gone. What I want."
Your eyes didn't waver. "Tell me."
He shook his head, a small, helpless motion. "I can't."
"Can't? Or won't?"
"Both." His forehead dropped to yours, eyes closing. "Both. Because if I tell you, I can't take it back. And if you run—" His voice broke, just slightly. "If you run, I don't know what I'd do."
The silence stretched between you, heavy with everything.
You took your legs and wrapped them around his hips, pulling him into you. Your body opened like a safe.
"I'm not running," you whispered.
His hips rolled against you without his permission—just a twitch, a reflex, but you both felt it. Your breath caught, a tiny whimper slipping out of you. His did too.
"Sorry," he gasped. "I didn't mean—"
"Don't be sorry." Your voice was almost steady, but he could feel your heart pounding wildly against his chest. "I'm not."
He looked at the flush spreading down your neck, disappearing beneath his shirt, the small smile was playing at the corners of your lips. You knew exactly what you were doing, exactly what effect you had on him.
You're so dangerous, he thought. You're the most dangerous thing in my life, and I can't stay away from you.
"I could—" He stopped, swallowed, tried again. "Pips... You... you could do whatever you wanted to me."
The words came out raw. He watched your expression change, watched that dark thing you tried so hard to hide flicker through it.
"Whatever I wanted?" you repeated.
"Anything." His voice was rough. "Everything. You ask, and it's yours. You know that."
Your hands were touching him again, some of everywhere.
"Anything," you murmured, almost to yourself.
Your hands explored him until your fingers found the waistband of his sweatpants, traced the edge of it, dipped just slightly beneath.
He stopped breathing.
"You could have me. Right now. If you wanted," he said.
Your eyes met his. Dark. Hungry. His.
"I know."
Fuck.
He kissed you again, and it wasn't gentle this time. It was desperate, and hungry in a way he'd never let himself be. His tongue swept into your mouth and you welcomed him, pulled him deeper, made a small sound that went straight to his head like alcohol.
His hands found your hips, your thighs, the impossibly soft skin where your legs met the rest of your body. He touched you like he was starving, like you were the only thing that could save him, and you let him. You let him do everything, touch everywhere, and when his fingers found the edge of your underwear again, you just spread your legs wider and looked at him with those dark, knowing eyes.
"You're nervous," you observed.
"Why wouldn't I be? Arent you?"
It was true. Your hands trembled against his skin. His whole body twitched slightly, held in check by a thread so thin he could feel it fraying.
"You trust me?" The question was desperate.
You smiled, trying to hide any and all nerves. "With everything."
Don't, he thought. Don't trust me that much. Don't give me that power.
But you already had. Really, you had done it years ago. And he'd been holding it carefully ever since, terrified of dropping it, terrified of using it, terrified of everything it made him want.
You trusted him.
The words echoed in his head, bounced around his skull, made him dizzy with want and terror and something that felt almost like worship. You trusted him. You were here, in his bed, wearing his clothes, looking at him like he was everything you wanted, the moon in the sky.
He didn't deserve it, but he'd take it anyway. He'd take anything you gave him and beg for more.
"Show me," you whispered against his lips. "Show me what you want."
And something in him finally cracked.
He moved without thinking—rolled onto his back, taking you with him, until you were sprawled across his chest and he was looking up at you with an expression he couldn't hide even if he'd wanted to. Your eyes went wide, surprised by the sudden shift, your hands braced against his shoulders.
"What—"
"I'll show you," he began, his voice rough. "Like this."
His hands found your hips, settling there gently, guiding them. He looked up at you, at the way your hair fell around you both, at the flush on your cheeks, at the slight part of your lip, and felt his heart pound so hard he was sure you could feel it.
"You want to touch me?" His thumbs traced circles against your hip bones. "Touch me. You want to move? Move. You want to—" He swallowed. "You want to use me? Use me."
For a long moment, you just stared at him. At Caleb—your Caleb, the one who'd always been in charge, always been the protector, always been the one looking out for you—lying beneath you, looking up at you like you were a wonder of the universe, like he'd let you do anything.
"Caleb..." His name was soft on your lips.
"Tell me what you want." His voice was barely a whisper. "And it's yours."
Your hands slid from his shoulders to his chest, fingers tracing the lines of muscle there, nails scraping lightly through the hair. He shivered beneath you, unable to hide it.
"You like this," you said quietly, the realization fueling you.
He couldn't lie to you. Not about this. "Yes."
Your lips curved up slowly.
Your hips shifted against him enough to make pressure where there hadn't been pressure before. His breath left him in a rush, his hands tightening on your hips.
"Like that?" you asked innocently. Too innocently. Your eyes gave you away.
"Pipsqueak—"
"Shh." You pressed a finger to his lips, and he went silent immediately, his eyes darkening. "I'm the one in charge now, remember?"
The way you were looking at him—like he was yours, like you knew it, like you'd always known it—made him incapable of anything but obedience.
He nodded against your finger.
Your smile widened even more... and then you moved.
It was slow at first—just an experimental and testing roll of your hip. The friction, even through layers of clothing, even through his sweatpants and your underwear, made stars burst behind his eyes. His hands tightened on your hips just to feel you.
"You're so responsive," you murmured, almost to yourself. "I like it."
He couldn't speak, could barely breathe. Every nerve in his body was focused on the place where your bodies met, on the heat of you, on the way you moved like you had all the time in the world to explore him.
Your hands roamed his chest while your hips moved. You traced the lines of his shoulders, the curve of his biceps, the ridges of his stomach. You found sensitive places he hadn't known he had—the dip below his ribs, the inside of his wrist, a spot behind his ear that made him gasp.
"Here?" you asked, pressing that spot with your lips.
"Yes—fuck—yes—"
Your laugh was soft and warm against his skin. "Good to know."
He was drowning. Drowning in you, in your touch, in the way you were learning his body like you planned to keep it. His hands stayed on your hips, holding you, but letting you set the pace, letting you take what you wanted.
And you took.
You took his gasps and his shivers and the way his head fell back against the pillow when you found a rhythm that made his vision blur. You took the small sounds he couldn't hold back, the ones that escaped despite every effort to stay quiet. You took the way his hips started moving with yours, helpless, desperate, chasing something he couldn't name.
"You're doing so well," you whispered against his throat, and he moaned at the praise.
Your rhythm faltered when you felt what it did to him.
He felt it immediately—the slight hesitation, the way your hips stuttered against his. He opened his eyes, looked up at you, and saw it: the flush on your cheeks had deepened. Your eyes had gone wide, uncertain. Your lip was caught between your teeth.
And he realized what you had begun to—you could feel all of him. Through the thin fabric, through every layer, there was no hiding what you did to him, and what you were still doing to him. And it was doing something to you too.
You'd stopped moving.
"I—" You swallowed, looked away. "You feel..."
Something in that moment when saw your uncertainty made him want to wrap around it, protect it, own it.
His hands, still on your hips, gripped you closer again.
"I feel like what?"
Your eyes met his, startled by the change in his voice. It was lower now. Rougher.
"I just—" You bit your lip again, and he watched the movement with heavy-lidded eyes. "I'm getting carried so away... and you're a lot."
"Am I?"
He moved before you could answer—sat up in one smooth motion, keeping you in his lap, reversing the power dynamic without ever letting go of you. Now you were face to face, chest to chest, and his hands had moved from your hips to your back, pressing you against him.
"Caleb—"
"You started this." His voice was quiet. Calm. Terrifying. "You wanted to be in charge. You wanted to touch me, use me, take what you wanted." His lips found your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. "And now you're getting shy?"
"I'm not—I'm not shy, I just—"
"Just what?"
His hips rolled up against you—just once, just enough to remind you of what you'd been doing, what you'd both been feeling. Your whole body jerked in his arms, a small sound escaping your lips before you could stop it.
"That," he murmured. "That's what you were doing to me. For the last—" he glanced at the clock, then back at you with a dark smile—"twenty minutes. While I lay there and let you. While I loved every second of it."
Your face was on fire. He could feel the heat of it against his skin.
"But now you're the one feeling it, and you want to stop?"
"I didn't say I wanted to stop."
The words came out defensive, quick, and he felt his smile widen.
"Good." His hands slid lower, settling on your hips again, but this time there was nothing submissive about his grip. "Because I'm not done with you."
He kissed you—harder than before, more demanding, taking instead of asking. Your hands fisted in his hair, pulled him closer, and he groaned into your mouth at the now-familiar sting.
"That's it," he breathed against your lips. "That's my girl."
My girl. The words slipped out before he could stop them, and you pulled him closer, your hips moving against his with renewed purpose.
But he controlled the rhythm now.
His hands guided you, set the pace, showed you exactly how he wanted it. Slow at first—deep rolls that made you both gasp—then faster, harder, until the bed creaked beneath you and you had to press your face into his neck to muffle the sounds you were making.
"Quiet," he whispered, though his own voice was wrecked. "Gran could—"
"I know—I'm trying—"
He felt your teeth against his shoulder, biting down to stifle a moan, and the sensation sent lightning down his spine. His hips stuttered, lost the rhythm for a moment, and you took advantage—pushed him back against the pillows, took control again, just for a moment.
He let you because he'd always let you.
But when your movements became erratic, when your breath came in short gasps against his throat, when your fingers dug into his shoulders like you were holding on for dear life—he rolled you both again, pressing you into the mattress, settling between your thighs like he belonged there.
"Like this," he said, and his voice was so rough barely human. "Let me—like this—"
You nodded frantically, legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him closer. And then you were both moving together, desperate and quiet and aching with it, every point of contact electric through the thin fabric separating you.
His forehead pressed to yours. Your breath mingled. Your eyes stayed locked on each other, watching every flicker of pleasure, every moment of loss of control.
"Caleb—" Your voice broke on his name.
"I know." His voice was wrecked. "I know, I'm—fuck—you feel—"
His hips rolled against you in a rhythm that felt instinctive, like something coded into his bones, chasing what felt good between you both. Your legs tightened around him, pulling him deeper into the cradle of your body, and he felt the pressure building, building, building—
Your hips moved together desperately and quiet, the rhythm frantic. His hand found yours, fingers lacing together, pressing into the mattress beside your head. Your other hand fisted in his hair, holding him close, keeping him there.
And when the tension finally crested—when you both went rigid against each other, gasping each other's names into each other's mouths—it felt like something fundamental had been altered. You'd crossed a line you couldn't uncross, even with all your clothes still on.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. Your underwear was wet and sticky, your bodies were slick with sweat.
Then Caleb collapsed against you, his face buried in your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. His weight pressed you into the mattress, heavy and warm and perfect, and you wrapped your arms around him and held on.
"We didn't—" he started, voice muffled.
"I know."
"We're still..."
"I know."
"Just practice." The words were quiet and questioning.
You smiled against his hair. "Just practice."
He lifted his head, and met your eyes. His violet gaze was dark and soft, and full of things he wasn't saying, questions he couldn't ask.
Your hand came up to cup his face, thumb tracing his cheekbone. He leaned into the touch like a cat seeking warmth, and your heart clenched.
"We should probably..." You trailed off, not wanting to finish.
"Yeah." But he didn't move. He kept looking at you, kept touching you, kept breathing you in. "Probably."
Neither of you moved for a long time.
The afternoon light had moved again, growing longer, more golden. The house remained quiet. Somewhere, distantly, a car passed on the street. Life continued outside this room, yet here, in his bed, in his arms—time seemed to have stopped.
Finally, after several moments, Caleb moved to roll onto his side, taking you with him, keeping you tucked against his chest. His arm wrapped around your waist, possessive even in sleepiness. His lips found your forehead, lingering there.
"Stay," he murmured against your skin. "Just... stay for a while."
You nodded, your cheek rubbing against his chest.
"I'm not going anywhere I'm your—."
"You don't have to say it again, I know what we are."
It was true. The double entendre wasn't lost on you.
His arms tightened around you, your eyes shut, and you felt him press another kiss to the top of your head.
"We'll practice until we can't tell the difference."
My friends and I attempted to calculate the lis birth charts, I would like to, with a focus on caleb, show and explain how we did it! Would anyone be interested in that?
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