part 1 | part 2 (but can be read as a stand alone)
he wasn’t supposed to find it.
one bored scroll through your phone and suddenly geto was staring at your endless stack of bookmarked twitter porn—eyes wide, heat creeping up his neck.
when he asks to recreate it outright?
you nearly explode.
geto pulls you in so fast you forget you didn’t mark the page of the book in front of you, his lips already on yours. he’s so smooth with it—one hand gripping your waist, the other gently setting the novel on the nightstand without breaking the kiss.
your head spins so fast you almost miss the way his hands settle on your waist, warm and steady. his mouth moves against yours with a quiet kind of urgency, like he’s been waiting for you to crack open just like this.
you clutch at his shirt, trying to pull back even as your body leans into him. the heat in your face is unbearable and you’re pretty sure you’re actually shaking.
he feels it. of course he does. and he only holds you tighter.
geto knows your body language too well. you want something as much as him yet you’re too shy to ask.
the thought goes straight to his stomach.
you break the kiss with a tiny, broken sound you didn’t mean to make. it slips out before you can stop it, and you freeze immediately.
his lips brush your cheek as he breathes out a laugh—a rare one that sounds…fond.
“so cute.”
the words make you want to bury yourself under your blankets.
“d–don’t…”
he kisses the corner of your mouth once, slow, like he’s trying to coax the rest of your sentence out. “don’t what?”
“…say it like that,” you whine softly. “it’s embarrassing.”
his nose nudges yours, breath warm and steady while yours is uneven and shaky. “you’re the one whose secretly a freak,” he grins, “not me.”
mortification drowns you.
your phone is still playing porn in the background, muffled but unmistakable. the sound hits you too late—another layer of humiliation stacking on your chest until you can barely breathe.
you squeeze your eyes shut. “suguru—please— you- it’s too—”
“too what?”
he’s not even pretending he doesn’t know what you mean. his voice is steady, smooth, like he’s discussing something casual and not the absolute meltdown happening in your chest.
you shake your head, face burning. “this is so embarrassing—”
his thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, slow and deliberate. “mm. you keep saying that.” his tone is maddeningly gentle and that calm, low warmth that makes everything worse.
you flinch when his lips skim your jaw again, barely a brush—like he’s testing how sensitive you are. how easy you unravel.
then, in that soft voice that makes your stomach flip,
“...so that’s what you like, huh?”
he says it like he’s asking about a movie.
your face burns. “i—i don’t— it’s just— sometimes—”
his hand slides up your waist, fingers squeezing just a little, like he can’t help himself. like your embarrassment is doing something to him he’s trying very, very hard not to show.
“sometimes what?” his lips ghost your ear. “sometimes you get worked up? you touch yourself watching porn?”
a tiny humiliating sound slips out.
his breath stutters. almost nothing. but you’re close enough to feel it. now you know he’s trying to stay calm and only pretending he’s unaffected.
your phone keeps playing—soft moans—only making everything hotter and more unbearable.
his voice drops, rough at the edges.
“did you think about me when you watched it?”
your whole body seizes. “s-suguru—!”
“tell me.”
when you hesitate, he cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek like he’s soothing you through your own embarrassment.
“did you?” he asks again. quieter. needier.
a beat passes before the answer falls from your lips. “i- i mean…yeah…”
the second it leaves your mouth, you wish you could shove it back in. hide. melt. die.
but suguru goes still.
then he exhales—shaky. no call left.
“good.”
before you can react, your back hits the pillows. he follows, caging you in. his hair falls around your face, his breath trembling against your cheek.
“god—” he mutters, like he didn’t mean for it to slip out.
your eyes go wide. “suguru?”
he doesn’t answer.
he just looks at you—really looks—like he’s trying to make sense of the fact that you’re here beneath him, realizing you just admitted thinking about him while touching yourself.
his exhale is low, a shaky sound that lands straight in your stomach.
“you said it,” he murmurs. “you actually said it.”
his hand drags up your thigh, slow and deliberate. you try to hide your face, but he catches your wrists, pinning them gently beside your head.
“no hiding,” he breathes. “not after that.”
his mouth drags along your jaw, slow, almost tender. it’s so at odds with the way his breathing is rough against your skin. his hands slip from your wrists, but only so they can trail down, gliding over your sides, your waist, then lower…
his fingers hook into the hem of your pants.
“don’t look away while i take these off.”
“w–wait—”
“no.” calm voice, frayed edges. “you’ve been hiding from me. hiding how bad you get. hiding what you watch.”
he tugs—not rough, not yet, just impatient.
“you don’t get to hide now.”
your thighs clamp together on instinct, and his eyes drop immediately, darkening.
“be a good girl and let me see,” he murmurs.
when you shake your head embarrassed, he adds urgently, “let me see you. please.”
your thighs part—barely. but it’s enough.
his breath stutters, forehead dipping to yours. “good girl…” it breaks in his throat. “now lift your hips.”
your body reacts before your mind does. that’s all he needs.
he pulls your bottoms down in one smooth, desperate motion.
“fuck—” the word rips out of him.
you scramble to tug your shirt lower, to cover yourself, but he catches your wrist mid movement, grip tight enough that you feel the tremble in his fingers.
“i told you not to hide,” he mutters.
the urgency in his voice hits straight through you—hot and dizzying.
your thighs snap together again, but his warm hands slip between them, pressing the inside of your knees until they fall open.
and then he sees.
your cotton panties, clinging and nearly translucent with how wet you are, the damp patch spread wide, and the outline of everything beneath it.
suguru goes perfectly still. wrecked if he wasn’t already.
“oh…” he breathes, voice dropping, thinning, like the sight knocks the air out of him.
you try to snap your legs shut again, panic spiking, but he catches your thighs—fingers digging in just enough to stop you—and he shakes his head once, slow, almost disbelieving.
“no,” he whispers, eyes locked on the soaked fabric like he can’t look anywhere else.
your face burns and you whine. “suguru stop staring—”
he exhales sharply, the sound strained, like he’s fighting the urge to just tear the last layer off.
“sweetheart…” his voice cracks on the endearment. “you’re soaked.”
your hips jolt at the word, and he notices instantly. his breath stutters, eyes darkening further.
“is this from just kissing?”
his fingers trace the edge of the wet patch, not touching where you’re desperate, but close—so close it feels cruel.
“or from me finding your porn?”
“sh-shut up…” you answer uselessly.
“no,” he murmurs, leaning in closer, the heat of him covering you. “i’m asking.”
his thumb presses against the soaked cotton—barely any pressure, but enough to make your back arch off the bed.
your breath leaves you in a broken gasp, spine arching before you can stop it, the tiny press of his thumb sending a shock all the way through your stomach.
he feels it.
god, he feels it—your whole body jolting under him—and something raw flickers across his face.
“you’re really this sensitive, hm?”
you squeeze your eyes shut, humiliated, overwhelmed. “s-stop—don’t talk like—”
he presses again. right where your clit is. it’s enough to make your breath catch on a sob.
“like what?” he asks quietly, but it’s not calm anymore. it’s tight. desperate. “like i’m realizing how bad you want this?”
“suguru—”
“like i know you didn’t get this wet just from kissing?”
your hips—traitorous things—jerk, under his palm.
you want to deny it. you really do. but your body isn’t cooperating. at all. his eyes flick down, zeroing in on the soaked cotton stretched over your cunt.
“yeah,” he breathes, shaky, “that’s what i thought.”
then he sits back on his heels a little, enough to look at all of you properly.
“that video…” he starts, and his voice cracks on the edge, barely audible over the porn still playing. “tell me what you liked so much about it.”
“w-what?! no—”
“you can,” he insists, leaning in until your noses almost touch. “because i’m going to do it. all of it. but before i do i wanna know which part got you like this.”
his thumb presses into your clit and you gasp so hard he shuts his eyes and huffs for a second, like the sound punched him in the gut.
“fuck— was it when he…” his eyes drop again, breath hitching, “…grinded over her cute lil panties?”
you flinch visibly.
he swallows.
“hmm…” his other hand slides under your knee, pushing it out slightly, opening you more. “or was it when he kept teasing her until she was begging?”
your entire face lights on fire. “suguru—”
he grins slowly. “huh. i guess both.”
one hand goes to your hip. the other to your thigh. and then he slots his body between your legs, hot and heavy, lowering himself until the thick, rigid outline in his sweats presses against your soaked panties.
you choke out a sound you’ve never made before.
his jaw clenches.
suddenly, he pushes himself off you and onto the floor, standing only long enough to shove both his sweats and briefs down in one rough motion—impatient, too wound up to pretend not to be.
he’s painfully hard.
the sight of his flush cock finally freed makes your stomach twist, heat rushing between your legs so fast it’s embarrassing. you’ll never get used to how pretty he is.
you barely have time to gasp before his warm hands are on you—one at your waist, one under your knee—dragging you down the mattress until your hips meet the edge of the bed.
exactly like in the video.
“suguru—” you let out helplessly, legs falling open.
that’s when the porn still playing behind you lets out a sharp, slick sound.
his jaw tics again.
he reaches back, grabs your phone without looking, and shuts it off with a single click.
the silence that follows is too loud.
he throws your phone somewhere behind you on the bed and settles between your thighs, wrapping your legs around his waist, the heat of him crowding into your space—until his cock brushes your soaked panties.
“only wanna hear you.”
you whimper.
he drags his tip along your mound—slow, thick pressure.
the head of him drags over your clit through the drenched cotton, and it’s exactly like the video…only worse. because this is him, this is real.
your panties are so drenched the fabric gives under the pressure, molding to his shape. every ridge, every vein, every careful shift of his hips is there—unmistakable even through the cotton.
your fingers clutch at his shoulders, knuckles white.
he feels that.
he likes that you can’t even pretend to stay composed.
his breath stirs over your cheek as he drags himself down the length of your cunt again—a long, deliberate stroke that pushes wet heat up the center of your panties, leaving a thin string of slick stretching when he rocks back.
you choke on a whimper.
he rolls his hips forward again, a little harder this time—enough that the fat tip of him, leaking with precum, nudges the exact spot that had the girl in the video shaking.
your back arches so sharply the pillows rustle behind you.
“mmh…there you go. lemme hear you.”
suguru pulls back only a few centimeters and drags forward again, a slow, grinding pressure right over your swollen clit, the soaked cotton squishing faintly between you.
your thighs quiver around his hips.
the worst part? he keeps the rhythm maddeningly even, like he’s timing each stroke to unravel you.
your panties cling to you, twisted crooked from how soaked they are. each grind pushes the fabric tighter between your folds, forcing slick to spill out around the edges and onto wheres he’s gripping your thighs open.
when the thick head of his cock catches on your entrance through the cotton, you make a strangled, broken sound.
you feel the drag, the pressure—how close he could be to slipping inside if it weren’t for the fabric in between.
he hears it.
he feels your legs jolt.
“look at you, baby…” he coos, “didn’t even need to use lube to get you this wet, huh? like in the video?”
that breaks you.
your mouth falls open in a moan you can’t manage to hold back.
“fuck— su-suguru!”
he grinds again, slower this time—circling his hips just enough to rub the heavy underside of his cock right over your clit again through the ruined fabric.
your whole body jolts.
then suguru’s stretching the fabric of your panties for a second before snapping them wetly against your cunt. he lowers more of his weight, breath unsteady against your mouth.
his hips roll again, a little sharper and a little less patient.
the head of him drags right over your entrance through the cotton, the pressure obscene, intimate, impossible to bear.
you suck in a breath, trembling violently, nails digging into his back.
he swallows hard and you watch the movement in his throat.
“mmh. yes. that’s it,” he murmurs, voice dropping, breath warm against your lips. “show me how bad you need it.”
he pulls back just enough for you to feel the loss…
then pushes forward again with a slow, grinding thrust, using his thumb on his cock to press himself against you so deeply that it drags the drenched cotton higher between your folds, baring more and more of you to him.
your panties barely cover anything now.
you’re practically riding the head of his cock through a soaked, twisted string of fabric without realizing it, completely gone.
and he knows it.
he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.
his hips start moving faster—controlled, deliberate—but you feel the strain in the way his forehead drops to yours, his breath shaking across your lips. he wanted to stay composed. he wanted to tease you.
but now look at him.
“sweetheart…” his voice cracks, low and ragged. “you’re— fuck— soaking me through. i bet i could just fuck you now, huh? slip inside easy? you’re so damn wet.”
you whimper, barely managing, coherent thought gone replaced with him him him.
“please—”
the sound hits him so hard he goes still for a second, jaw flexing like he has to restrain himself.
“oh? you’re begging?”
before you can answer, he pulls your panties aside—finally slipping under them—his cockhead nudging directly against your bare, swollen entrance.
your breath stutters violently.
“oh— oh my god—”
his smirk is slow, hungry, unbearably confident. “i’m flattered, baby.”
your head falls back, face hot, “sh-shut up—!”
he drags forward again, the bare heat of him sliding right against you now under your panties—no barrier—just the thick, smooth pressure of him gliding along your cunt, parting you without even entering, smearing your folds with his precum.
you choke on a moan.
he closes his hand around your thigh, pulling you wider, guiding you exactly where he wants you.
“keep making those noises for me,” he whispers, lips brushing your cheek. “go on, sweetheart. let me hear you.”
the thin cotton of your panties stretches over the both of you, pulled tight and messy, clinging over his cock as he grinds under them with steady precision—it’s exactly like the porn video you know by heart.
and god.
it’s so much hotter than you imagined.
“shit…” he breathes, barely audible, his composure folding at the edges. “you’re dripping for me.”
your nails claw at his shoulders. “suguru— i c-can’t—”
“yeah, you can.”
his hand slides under your knee, lifting your leg higher so he can grind deeper, slower—letting the thick underside of his cock drag along your clit, then down, then up again in a sickeningly perfect stroke that has your stomach dropping.
your moan stutters out of you, high and unrestrained.
he exhales sharply—almost a curse, almost a groan—before catching your jaw gently, forcing your eyes to his.
“look at me,” he murmurs, teasingly soft. “don’t get shy now.”
you try. you fail. your eyelids flutter shut when his tip slips just a little too low, nudging your entrance again, catching…
he catches your chin.
“c’mon. eyes on me, sweetheart.”
you wrench them open.
the second you do, he rewards you with a slow, devastating roll of his hips that drags the head of him through your slick again.
he drags himself up through your slick again—slow enough to burn—pulling your panties with him so the soaked cotton presses tight around the thick base of his cock under the fabric.
the pressure, the heat, the bare glide of him under that flimsy, twisted strip of cotton? it makes you tremble everywhere.
“s-suguru— please—”
his jaw flexes again, breath shivering out like he’s barely holding back.
his cock drags up, catching your clit perfectly.
then suddenly he’s gone, pulling back from beneath your panties, the loss so abrupt it punches a whine out of you.
your hips lift helplessly, searching for him.
he catches them easily with both hands.
“easy,” he murmurs, voice rough with restraint. “i’m not going anywhere.”
you’re still trying to chase the friction when his fingers hook into your soaked panties. not pulling them off. just pulling the drenched cotton aside with a finger.
your breath stops.
the cool air hits your swollen folds for just a second before the bare heat of him is there, sliding in, his cockhead nudging through the new opening he’s made.
your voice cracks instantly.
“o-oh— god—”
he exhales through his nose, sharp and uneven, watching himself settle right against your dripping entrance.
“mm,” he hums, almost a groan. “there you are.”
he drags up once, slow, the glide so slick and obscene it leaves you trembling.
but he doesn’t push in.
he doesn’t even try.
he just grinds barely—the thick head of him catching on your entrance, circling it, nudging, teasing, retreating—repeating the exact unbearable rhythm you watched in that video.
your back arches, thighs shaking.
“ugh— please—i’m—”
“i know,” he cuts in, gentle yet cruel.
his thumb presses to the inside of your thigh, keeping you open, steadying you while he drags himself down again, slow enough that your slick clings in a thin, shining thread.
it snaps when he pulls back.
you whimper.
he inhales sharply—like the sound hits him too hard—before leaning over you, lips brushing your cheek as he whispers, “this is how they did it, right?”
another slow grind up, bare heat tracing your clit, slipping lower.
“just like this?”
he stops at your entrance, pressing there…but not entering.
just enough pressure to make you think he will.
you writhe.
a soft chuckle ghosts your ear.
“mm. that’s exactly why i’m not fucking you yet.”
your fingers clutch his shoulders, desperate. he draws the head of his cock back an inch then pushes forward again, directly against your dripping entrance, sliding over it, circling the tiniest bit, letting the blunt head tease the spot that had the girl in the video sighing.
you choke on a moan so high it embarrasses you.
his voice drops to a whisper so low it almost shakes.
“keep begging.”
another slow drag.
another near slip.
another denial.
“i’m gonna tease you worse than he teased her.”
“no!” you whine, so raw and genuine that he grins.
his cockhead circles your entrance again—slow, deliberate—the same exact pattern the man in the video used. your breath stutters, hips jerking up helplessly, and he catches it.
of course he does.
he lets out a low, breathless laugh against your cheek.
“yeah…that’s it.”
another lazy grind, catching your clit perfectly before dragging down over your entrance again.
“that’s why you saved that video, huh?”
you tense, fingers gripping his shoulders, “sugu—”
he shushes you softly, teasingly, nose brushing your temple.
“you like being teased,” he murmurs, voice dipping warm and deep. “you like being made to wait.”
your whole body goes hot.
“n-no! th-that’s not—!” your words come out embarrassingly high pitched and you shut your self up. or maybe he does it for you as his cock nudges your entrance again.
so close yet so far, making you clench around nothing.
he hums mockingly, “you bookmarked seven minutes of a girl getting edged through her panties. and that was your favorite. the only video you liked. don’t tell me it was an accident.”
you whine, the sound high and desperate.
he smiles—slow, hungry, knowing.
“you wanted me to find it,” he adds, breath fanning your lips.“you wanted me to tease you just like this.”
another grind, deeper this time—your entrance opening around the pressure.
“you love it.”
the admission falls from your mouth before you can stop it.
“fuck— y-yes—”
your thighs clamp around him automatically.
his smile sharpens the second your thighs clamp around him, like he’s been waiting for that exact reaction.
“yeah,” he breathes, voice dipping low, pleased. “i know.”
he grins.
his cock nudges you again, slow and intentional, the fat head sliding just barely between your folds—close enough to feel him, not close enough to satisfy, the way he knows drives you insane.
you jerk, hips trying to chase it, but he holds you down with a palm splayed over your stomach.
“easy,” he murmurs, tone dipping into something darker. “look at you. trying to ride it already.”
your mouth falls open at his words, heat pooling deeper in your core, another gush of arousal escaping you.
he pries your legs open again, not giving you any room to hide.
the way he pulls your panties to the side bares the swollen, slick edges of your entrance while he traps his cockhead right against you.
he looks down for one second and curses under his breath.
“…fuck.”
it’s almost silent, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.
then he’s grinding again, slow, dragging pressure that pushes right over your clit before sliding down and catching your entrance again, your slick coating the underside of him in sticky, shining strings.
“you want it slow,” he whispers, sounding almost wrecked.
“you want it drawn out—”
his cock catches on your entrance again, not pushing in, just stroking over it…
“right here—”
another drag.
“over and over—”
your nails dig into his back, helpless. back arching,
toes curling, all you can do is beg. “p-please— suguru—“
he laughs softly. but it’s strained, shaky, like teasing you is unraveling him too.
“there it is,” he whispers. “but maybe i can’t do that.”
his cock twitches—an involuntary, hungry pulse—and your whole body jumps.
that finally breaks him.
his hips roll forward, slow but deliberate, and your entrance parts around him, the thick head pushing in just a breath—just enough to stretch you, just enough to make your vision blur.
your mouth falls open in a soundless cry.
his breath hits your neck, hot and uneven. “there you go… letting me in…”
another push—not deep, not even fully breaching you, just easing in and out of the tight, slick ring of your entrance, pushing a little farther each time, coating himself in more of your wetness.
“shit,” he groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “you’re… ugh—clenching so hard.”
your hands slide to his shoulders, shaking. “fuck!”
he lifts his head just enough to look at you, eyes dark, blown wide, the kind of desperate composure that’s somehow worse than raw need.
“you want more?” he breathes.
his cock rocks forward, sinking another inch into you—slow, stretching, obscene.
you choke out a moan, legs tightening around his waist.
he smiles, small and sharp and absolutely undone.
“open up for me,” he murmurs, voice low, deep, wrecked as he pushes in another inch, “take it.”
he pushes in slow further, unhurried, no stopping. only his thick cock spreading you open inch by inch while your breath stutters helplessly against his mouth.
your nails claw at his shoulders, not to push him away—just because your body can’t handle the feeling without holding onto something.
“oh—oh my god—” the words fall out before you can think, your voice shaking.
he groans at the sound—quiet, strained, almost like you’re knocking the air out of him.
“yeah…that’s it, baby.” he murmurs, eyes fixed on where your bodies meet. “take it. just take it.”
you’re already trembling, your walls fluttering around him, squeezing, trying to adjust but failing because he keeps pressing deeper.
your mind blanks in flashes—each one hitting harder as he sinks another inch inside you.
your legs twitch around his hips, thighs trembling uncontrollably.
“tight—” he bites off a curse, jaw clenched. “you’re so fucking tight around me.”
another push.
your back arches off the bed—sharp, instinctive—your mouth falling open in a sound that doesn’t even resemble a word.
he braces one hand under your thigh, pushing your knee higher, opening you more, letting himself slide in deeper still.
you feel every ridge, every vein, every impossible inch.
your thoughts scatter—thin, useless things that melt away the moment the next wave of pressure hits.
“suguru—” it comes out broken, breathless, like the syllables barely hold together.
he leans in, lips at your cheek, breathing ragged.
“going dumb already?” he whispers, voice low and full of heat. “and i’m not even all the way in.”
you shiver hard, walls clenching around him so tightly he groans into your skin.
and he keeps going.
inch by inch.
relentless.
your head falls back into the pillows, eyes unfocused, lips parted around soft, helpless gasps. you feel too full, stretched to the point of delirium, pleasure burning through your nerves until thought itself slips away.
he watches you lose yourself on him, pupils blown wide, mouth slightly curved.
“mm… there she is…” he whispers, voice deep and satisfied. “my pretty girl—can’t even think straight, can you?”
your only answer is another shaking moan as he finally sinks the last inch inside you, filling you completely.
your mind goes white.
the moment he bottoms out, your whole body seizes around him—tight, fluttering, overwhelmed.
his breath punches out of him in a low, broken growl against your neck.
“fuck—”
he wasn’t ready for how hard you’d clamp down.
you weren’t ready for how full you’d feel.
your legs twitch around his hips, trembling, flexing without control. he feels every little squeeze.
and god—he reacts.
his hand slides up your thigh, slow, firmer than before, thumb brushing the edge of where you’re stretched around him. he doesn’t move his hips yet—just stays buried inside you, letting the intensity burn both of you alive.
“you feel that?” he whispers against your jaw, voice rougher now—wrecked and trying so hard to hide it. his hands slide up to your tummy where it bulges. “feel how deep i am?”
you can barely breathe, let alone answer. all that comes out is a soft, broken “mmh—”
his lips curve into a slow, heated smile against your cheek.
“look at you. can’t even talk.”
your walls flutter hard at that, squeezing him again. his breath stutters—really stutters—and his hips twitch, the smallest involuntary jerk deep inside you.
it makes you gasp, loud and high.
“shit—” he mutters, grip tightening on your thigh. “you drive me insane.”
your eyes flutter, unfocused, lashes wet with how overwhelmed you are. he watches every tiny reaction—drinks it in like he’s starving.
then he pulls back.
not all the way—just a few inches.
just enough for you to feel the stretch shift, for the thickness of him to slide drag against your walls, and your mouth falls open in a sound that’s half whine, half moan.
his jaw clenches hard.
“yeah… i want that,” he breathes. “give me more of those sounds.”
he pushes forward again, slow and heavy, and your back arches without you telling it to—your body meeting him like you’re begging even if your voice can’t form the words.
he sets a rhythm—not fast, not rough.
deep.
deliberate.
each slow thrust makes your breath snag, makes your thighs shake around him, makes your fingers dig into his back like you’re trying not to fall apart.
you can’t think.
you can’t speak.
you can’t do anything except take it.
“that’s it…” he murmurs, forehead pressing to yours, breath warm and shaky. “go dumb for me.”
your lips tremble around another moan.
he moves again—another slow, dragging thrust that makes your vision blur.
“mmh—s-sugu—” you manage, barely.
he laughs softly, breathless, kissing the corner of your open mouth.
“yeah, sweetheart,” he whispers against your lips, voice low and ruined. “let me fuck the thoughts right out of my smart girl.”
“y-you’re—” your voice breaks as he thrusts in again, slow enough to make you feel every inch, “you’re s-saying— ngh—”
you can’t even finish the sentence.
he smiles against your cheek—a slow, wicked thing—but his breath is unsteady, warm, desperate.
“what?” he teases, rolling his hips deeper, forcing another shaky gasp out of you. “too much for that pretty brain? where did she go?”
you shake your head, but it’s useless—you’re trembling, panting, already melting around him.
he kisses the corner of your open mouth again, lips lingering as he thrusts—slow and deep—building pressure that coils tight and unbearable low in your belly.
“don’t hide,” he whispers. “don’t even think.”
another thrust, perfectly angled, rubbing every sensitive spot inside you as your breath catches.
“just feel me,” he murmurs, voice cracking with restraint. “feel how good you’re taking me—” your back arches helplessly.
your moan is so high, so helpless, so wrecked you slap a hand over your mouth.
he immediately takes it away—fingers curling around your wrist, pinning your hand above your head on the pillow.
“no,” he breathes, eyes dark, pupils blown. “don’t you dare hide those sounds from me.”
he pulls back just enough to thrust harder, faster, hips rolling with a deliberate, punishing rhythm.
your walls clamp and release around him, slick coating him more and more with every stroke.
“fuck—” he groans, voice low and rough, nipping at your jaw. “she’s so fucking wet for me.”
his hand drifts lower, thumb brushing over your clit in lazy, deliberate circles while he drives into you, the sensation making your breath hitch violently.
your hips lift on instinct, desperate, trying to chase both sensations at once, and he matches every movement, teasing, grinding, driving you higher and higher.
“pretty girl. ugh— shit.”
you clench around him and his thrusts become sharper. you choke out a sound, lost in the heat and pressure, body quivering, mind completely dumb.
“ahh—fuck! oh god—” your voice shatters into helpless gasps.
he groans against your skin, losing a little of that composed edge, utterly wrecked by how perfectly you’re taking him.
“that’s it…” he whispers, voice low, desperate, teasing, “let go for me, baby. let me ruin you.”
he hitches one hand to your hip, the other still pressing over your clit, rolling his thumb in tight, maddening circles while his hips slam into you, hard and relentless.
your body jolts with every thrust, walls clamping around him, pulling him deeper, lost in heat and friction.
“ah—!” your voice shatters, high and desperate, drowning in the haze of pleasure.
he groans, forehead pressed to yours, lips brushing your temple. “so wet… so perfect…”
he drives into you faster, hips snapping, thumb pressing harder against your clit.
“mmgh—oh fuck—i’m close!” you gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders, trying to hold yourself together.
he buries himself deeper, following the rhythm of your body, letting every shudder, every gasp guide him.
“let go,” he murmurs, teeth grazing your shoulder, voice low and strained.
your walls clamp around him, slick coating him, heat consuming you, and your cry tears out before you can stop it.
his hips stutter, jaw flexing, breathing ragged, as he rides you through your climax, feeling every tight, trembling motion.
you shiver violently, legs quaking, mind going completely blank.
he presses a final deep thrust, letting you ride it out, hands holding you steady as the last waves of pleasure wash through you.
after a moment, your bodies collapse together, slick and trembling, foreheads pressed, breaths mingling, utterly spent.
and then a smile against your throat.
“mm…sorry sweetheart, i think i went a little off script. shall we try again?”
series masterlist | taglist open
if you didn’t read pt 1, this is based on this twitter porn link! (heh don’t open in public…)
those who asked to be tagged and those who commented for part 2! @m1kah4h @chellerambles @outlirs @katsukiskavpav
₊˚ ✧ ⊱⋆ cover me. ───── caleb x afab!reader. 5.3k words, hurt-comfort, smut. this fic is part of the youtiful series.
tags: porn with plot, porn with feelings, established relationship, strong portrayals of codependency (reader is very reliant on caleb), emotionally vulnerable reader (going through a rough patch), caleb in kinda a caregiver-reminiscent role, cuddles, kisses, praise and reassurance, fingering, cuddle sex, use of pet names "pips" "pip-squeak" "baby". lmk if i missed any tags!
premise: 4 times caleb takes care of you, +1 time he does a little extra. or—everything feels a little more difficult to you on your off days, but luckily, caleb is around to help you through them.
note: its been kinda terrible for me lately and when it gets like this i *am* the kind of person who says fuck being strong and independent i need to be placed in a 'please care gently' box and doted on 😭🤲 in lieu with how acts of service coded caleb is, i was also thinking that i'm def not the only one out there who finds comfort in him the same way... so this fic is for me, but also for those of you who might identify a lil with it, too <33
You had learned, over the years, that very little escaped his attention—
Especially when it came to you.
This meant that if he walked into your room at this very moment, he would likely notice three things immediately.
First, the mug sitting at your desk. Full, barely touched. You'd gotten yourself coffee earlier; it had long since gone cold.
Second, the pile of clothes by the bed. Work clothes—kicked haphazardly to the side, careless, and messy, and treated simply like an afterthought.
You had better things to do.
Better places to be.
For he would notice—third—
You.
Bundled up in your blanket, messy hair, rumpled pajamas... You were sitting up, sure… but slouched. Staring blankly at the wall in front of you. At the desk, scattered with papers; at the mug, that stared back, almost as if mocking the very fact that you'd barely had anything since you got home at all.
You had learned, over the years, that very little escaped his attention… especially when it came to you.
So you weren't surprised anymore when he'd knocked gently on the door, quietly slipping in holding a plate of your favorite braised chicken wings.
Caleb's specialty.
"Pips, weren't you gonna come out for dinner?"
If the smell hadn't been enough to lift your head, his voice was.
Slowly you raised to meet his eyes, and watched—blankly, almost—as he walked over and sat beside you.
"Not hungry…" you murmured.
You could barely hear yourself. You wondered if he'd heard you at all.
"I know, baby. But you gotta eat somethin' tonight… And didn't you always like when I made these? C'mon."
He nudged you with his shoulder, and the blanket slipped—just a little bit. In that very moment you recalled the fact that he'd be spending the week with you in Linkon, and your throat closed up. Your eyes drew slowly to the plate he was holding.
Caleb rarely got so many days off just to spend time with you. And yet, you…
How had you come home to him and barely said a word…?
You recalled the way you'd trudged in with heavy footsteps, and a heavy heart. Greetings? Barely. Surprise? Barely. You'd gone straight to your room like the world outside had suffocated you, and you'd barely looked in the direction of the one person that you… loved with everything you had.
Loved, but didn't quite show it.
Perhaps in this moment, you weren't even sure if you had the ability to love at all.
And yet, Caleb wasn't questioning you.
He only had a pointed look, eyebrows raised, waiting—hoping—that you'd take him up on his offer.
The food.
You were already being such a terrible girlfriend. And yet, he was so… patient.
So slowly, carefully, you shed the blanket to rest at your waist, reached out for the food and utensils, and slowly took a bite.
Sweet. Rich in flavor.
Caleb always had a way of cooking that made your heart all warm and fuzzy, and now, even like this, even when you could barely be… it still felt the same.
Tears welled up in your eyes a little.
You sniffled, mid-chew, and leaned against him.
"Thanks…" you whispered.
It was all you could say, even if you wished you could say so much more. Thank you. I'm sorry. I love you.
He chuckled, anyway.
"Yeah? You like it? S'good, then. Gotta make sure my girl doesn't skip her meals."
His arm wrapped around you, and he leaned in to place a kiss on your cheek.
"I'll stay and wait. You mind the company?"
"No…"
I like that you'd stay.
And that was one way, that Caleb liked caring for you.
The shower should have helped, because it usually did.
Yet you'd gone in with slow, monotone steps, and came out the very same way.
It dragged—water on your hair, your skin, the sound of the shower running over tiled flooring.
It dragged—the towel thrown carelessly on your body, hair tossed behind your shoulder.
It dragged—
Your feet.
Heavy, gradual steps… A little trail of water…
You'd barely dried yourself off before you shuffled out into the room, and your gaze stayed low. Head bowed. Your eyes could have been fixed somewhere near your feet, but you didn't quite process the carpeted floor, didn't quite process how cold the air was on your skin after your shower.
Static noise.
Your footsteps stopped as you reached the foot of your bed.
And Caleb—he'd been right where you left him, sitting by the bed, concernedly waiting to see if you needed any help…
Caleb had seen you naked several times by now, but this time was different. Even as he stood to pull your towel off, even as he gently turned you to face away from him, even as he held it out and carefully gathered your hair between the cloth and treated your hair with care even you had rarely ever shown it… it was gentle. So loving.
You felt yourself lean back. He was warm, and calm, and safe—and Caleb—
Your eyes closed, despite yourself. The heat radiating off of his body seemed to seep into your own, and it felt nice.
It felt nice.
He hadn't said anything. Didn't chastise you for being helpless, didn't scold you for getting the carpet wet. Caleb wasn't like that.
Instead, he hummed. A soft melody, almost instantly calming the loud thoughts in your head. He rubbed the towel carefully over your hair, up to your scalp, in slow, soothing circles. Treated it as if it were any other day, found joy in the very fact that he got to do this for you in the first place.
Such a simple thing such as drying your hair.
"I like the shampoo you used," he said lightly. He paused, lifted a lock of your hair to his face. "Is it new? Your hair hasn't smelled like this before."
"Oh… a friend recommended it to me…"
"It suits you."
A trace of a smile formed on your face.
"Really…?"
"Mhm. Might be my new favorite."
He'd fixed the towel for you after, picked out clothes for you that he knew you'd find comfortable. You would wait patiently by the bed—pliant, still, and comforted—and let him dress you.
Because that was another way, that Caleb liked caring for you.
Whenever evenings came, the room always stayed quiet. It had been, daily. You preferred it like this, liked sitting in the comfort of the gentle silence of it, much much more than the noise. For in it, you could hear the faint ticking of the clock on the wall, and the quiet breaths beside you…
They were the only sounds. Soft, and steady, and soothing, and grounding.
And Caleb had fallen asleep before you.
He had his arm around your waist. You were pulled against his chest in a warm cocoon of an embrace, and you knew that Caleb had a way of holding you that felt like safety—much like this. Often when he held you like this, he could make you forget everything else that existed in the world… Because he was the only one that mattered, and to you, that was safe.
And so you really could have slept.
Your eyes were already heavy. Your limbs were really drained. You were tired. As much as you had been this week, and as you had been all throughout the day.
And, yet, every time you closed your eyes… the quiet of your bedroom faded only to the noises in your head.
They were louder than the sounds outside.
Louder than honking cars, than chattering crowds… Louder, much louder, than the heartbeat that meant so much to you, no matter how hard you tried to listen for it.
Closing your eyes was dangerous. You could drown.
So your eyes stayed open.
The room was dark except for the faint glow of your nightlight. On the wall, the hands continued to move, and you’d watched seconds—minutes—pass more and more times than you cared to keep track of, because what else could you do? Trying too much made your throat close. Thinking too much made your heart heavy. Even now, with your eyes wide open, you could see in your mind's eye every little mistake you'd made today.
Today—and yesterday—and the day before—and the day before that—
The truth was that you could barely keep anything together.
Already there were voices laughing in your head; calling you dumb, and pathetic, and useless.
How did you get to where you were? Did you even do any of it yourself? Were you even worth anything on your own?
All you do is rely on him. You've been babied all your life, and now you can't do a single thing by yourself.
Not even eat.
Not even dress.
Not even sleep.
You grit your teeth, and your hand curled into the blanket.
These were the thoughts that would hiss at you when you closed your eyes. Louder, much louder, than you could hear them even now.
But you had to sleep. You needed to be up in the morning, needed the energy to begin again—
Caleb shifted slightly.
"Pip-squeak…? Why’re you still up?"
His voice was rough with sleep, barely louder than a whisper, but it worked.
It worked, and you went still.
Caught.
And then his chin brushed faintly against the top of your head, almost in a motion so immediately understanding of the situation that you drew in a breath—he knew you so well.
"Nightmare?" he murmured.
"Mhm…"
A quiet hum into your hair, followed by a little kiss. "C'mere, baby."
Slowly he turned you to him, and face to face like this, you swallowed. His eyes met yours. All purples, and oranges, and the deepest, most beautiful sunset you've ever seen. And you could drown in it. Drown in him.
It would have been better than drowning in the thoughts in your head.
Caleb smiled, a little quirk of his lips before he leaned down to kiss the tip of your nose.
"S'it okay if I kiss you?"
His hand reached up to cup your cheek, weighted, yet grounding, his thumb rubbing in little passes over your skin.
You nodded.
You'd never say no to that.
And like always, Caleb had a way of holding you that felt like safety.
He leaned down, and kissed you— once— twice— just little, light kisses, presses of his lips against yours that felt like love.
"Just close your eyes," he whispered. "M'gonna be right here, pips."
And he would kiss you to sleep.
That, was another way that Caleb liked taking care of you.
But it was stupid that it wasn't enough.
It was enough—
But it wasn't enough.
Caleb had already been spending the entire week taking care of you.
Making sure you ate, making sure you slept well… He did so much, as much as he could. And every day he made coming back home more bearable for you than it would have been, what with every effort he would make just to ensure you felt something.
And you did feel something.
Love, in some sense.
Seen.
Because he never complained when he did these things, never once made you feel like a burden. Instead, he was gentle about it. Patient.
And you wanted it to be enough.
God, you wanted it to be enough.
You wanted to wake up one morning, wanted to feel normal again. You wanted to smile at him, and mean it in your heart—You wanted to be with him, in a way that was whole, and true, and entirely absent of the heaviness that had settled so insistently there in your chest.
Yet, you still just needed so much of him.
So much.
Too much.
You held the broken pieces of the plate in your hands, and your lips trembled—because you were pathetic. All of this, and you couldn't get a single thing right. You would even break a plate.
And you knelt on the floor, let out a choked sob. Nevermind the traces of ceramic left on the floor, nevermind the scrapes you could have on your knees. Tears blurred your eyes as you clutched the broken plate against your chest, almost as if you'd broken something precious.
It became louder, then.
You felt the twist in your chest, your heart splitting open out before you as the sob turned loud in anguish.
Pathetic.
Pathetic.
Pathetic.
Pathetic.
"I-I can't… I can't do it…! I can't…!"
You didn't hear the door open.
Didn't hear the footsteps.
Barely reacted to the arms that wrapped around you, the arms that lifted you up in such a familiar way, and then held you against his chest—
You wouldn't stop shaking. Though you buried your head into your chest, your fist moved to punch, weakly, and tearful sobs broke through even the muffle of how tight his embrace was.
I can't.
I can't.
I can't.
I can't do anything.
And he kissed you on the crown of your head.
He cradled you in your arms.
He held you, rocked you back and forth, gave you all the warmth he could muster… And all that noise in your head—and in your heart, and in your soul—settled slowly to a calm.
Sobs died down into whimpers. Then sniffles. Your hands fisted into the cloth of his shirt, not daring to loosen, not daring to let go, but… you could smell him. That cologne, apples, and wood, and everything you've always loved so dearly. And when you opened your eyes next, and saw him so close to you, your lips wobbled—
Relieved.
Even now, he was still here.
Even now , he would still hold you.
"It's okay, pips," he whispered, "it's okay. I've got you."
You heard his voice clearer this time. No longer the beating of your heart echoing in your ears, no longer the screams of voices yelling at you in your head to be worth something.
Caleb had always been enough—and though more, and more, and more you would want from him, he would give more, and more, and more, and more.
It was enough.
Perhaps the first time that week, you truly, genuinely felt that it was enough.
He was enough.
Caleb’s hand was still moving slowly through your hair, even a moment later. You hadn’t realized how long you’d been sitting there on the counter until the apartment had gone completely quiet again—your breathing had calmed, and you'd stopped sniffling.
But your fingers were still curled into the front of his shirt, not quite ready to be parted.
"Stay…"
You whispered without thinking, as if expecting that he could leave any moment.
As if expecting that you weren't worth staying for.
"M'not goin' anywhere, baby, I promise."
"No, but… but stay… Stay with me…"
You clenched your fist tighter. And in response, Caleb chuckled softly, let his hand slide from your hair down to the back of your neck, steady and warm.
"I am," he said softly.
His thumb brushed your cheek, tilted you up to look at him.
Again. He leaned in to brush his lips into your ear.
"D'you want me closer than this?"
You bit your lip.
Closer?
Something in you stirred—like recognition of the tone he used, no matter the sweet, kind way he'd spoken; like recognition of his hand, sliding down to your waist, squeezing gently.
He was teasing, but there was a little more to it.
Your heart bloomed.
Yes.
You wanted to say it—
Yes, please… Take care of me again.
Closer.
Just like…
You looked at him, big, pleading eyes.
"Could you?" you whispered.
And his hand tightened slightly at your waist.
"…Yeah," he murmured, "yeah. I can."
The mattress dipped softly beneath you as Caleb set you down, but he didn't move away immediately. He kept one hand rested at your waist, the other moving over to swipe your tears away.
"My pretty baby," he cooed.
And your hands didn’t loosen from his shirt. The fabric stayed bunched in your hands, still desperate, still pleading.
"Caleb…"
A quiet, fond huff of breath left him. "You gonna let go, or…?"
"N-no, don't leave! I-I still—"
"Shhhhh."
"I just put you down," he nudged your nose gently with his. "I’m not goin’ anywhere, okay?"
But just as you'd asked, he didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned closer. One hand came up again, brushing lightly along your cheek, tucking a damp strand of hair back where it had stuck to your skin. You felt yourself lean into it, eyes fluttering closed.
He made you feel needed.
It was something you'd been craving—something you couldn't find yourself believing, and yet he'd been so patient, this whole time. It was he who was needed—he who you needed—yet he'd turned around and gave that feeling to you.
He needed you. He loved you.
You felt it. You really did. After all these days, and it had settled into your heart, and he had been patiently waiting for it to do just that.
And when you opened your eyes again, he was still right there. Closer than before. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath, slow and even now, brushing faintly against your skin.
"You’re… really good to me," you said quietly. The words came out before you could overthink them.
"Hm? You think?"
You nodded again, a little more certain—"I don’t know what I’d do without you."
Caleb chuckled.
"Good thing you don’t have to find that out then, huh?"
And then he kissed you.
Soft, and light—almost like testing, almost like making sure you wanted this, just as much as he did… Well, just as much as he wanted you.
Your chest filled with warmth.
When he pulled back, your hands shifted their hold up to his shoulders, and tugged him back down.
No…
Please. More.
You didn't have to say it.
He smiled, eyes softening with relief, and when his lips met yours, he moved with love—and care—and so much, of everything, all that he'd been holding back. So much of it that you'd been needing.
His other arm slipped around you as your lips parted, and he pulled you in closer, guiding you more fully against him.
I love you…
You would say it through the kiss; he would say it back to you. And every slide of his tongue against yours felt like a promise he was renewing, right there against your mouth, and you made a small, broken sound into him.
One hand slid higher. He rest on the nape of your neck. The other stayed low, dipping beneath your shirt, palm flat—almost possessive—against your spine.
He was anchoring you.
Grounding you.
When you pulled apart this time, the kiss broke with a soft, wet sound that made your stomach flip.
And suddenly the air between you felt thick.
Syrupy, hazy—you couldn’t quite catch your breath, not when everything felt liquid, and warm, and unsteady, and the heat of it made your head spin. Your eyes were half-lidded. Your arms were locked tight around his neck. Your thighs had shifted around his hips without you even realizing, and you felt so needy, your cheeks burned.
You couldn't help the way you chased after his lips, hips moving against him in a quick, subtle grind.
He chuckled. "Hey, easy, easy… I know you're feelin' needy, baby, but relax. I got you."
You buried your face against the side of his throat, embarrassed heat flooding your skin. "I just! I don’t want you to stop…"
"Yeah? I won't stop, then, buuut… if you wanna be a little more specific with what you want from me…" He huffed another gentle laugh against your hair, then tilted his head to brush his lips along your temple. "You know I'm all yours, pip-squeak. Soo, wanna… say it f'me?"
Your cheeks flushed darker at that. Your heart stuttered. You turned your face into his neck again, hiding, but you couldn’t stop a quick little jerk of a nod—
I… want…
"Touch me," you whispered. "D-down… down there…"
Your words came out small and pouty, lips trembling as you said them. You could feel how wet you were already. The mere thought of it made you squeeze your eyes shut tighter.
"Hm? S'that all?"
He leaned in, kissed the corner of your lips.
One.
And then another.
Soft kisses, peppered all over your face, and you could feel the little smile he had as he waited.
And waited.
Caleb was so patient.
You whimpered beneath him, and how could you love him any more than you already did?
"Wanna feel you…"
The words stuck for a second. You had to force them out, voice cracking with embarrassment.
"…Inside."
Caleb hummed.
His hand slid lower, palm flattening possessively over the curve of your ass—
You felt it.
He held you flush against him, the bulge in his pants a loud, and sure testament, of how much his desires seemed to match your own.
"Feel that?" he chuckled. "You and I were never out of sync, pips."
You whined softly, hips rocking once against him before you could stop yourself, and the friction made you gasp.
"A-ah… Caleb, I— I-I want your…"
"Yeah? Go on, baby."
You couldn’t look at him.
You pressed your forehead hard to his collarbone, voice muffled and shaking.
"—Your cock," you whispered.
Please… Inside…
Then he let out another fond chuckle, and placed a kiss into your hair.
"Attagirl," he murmured. "That’s my good girl. I'll give you everything you want. Okay, pips?"
He was true to his word.
His hand drifted lower, past your navel, over the soft mound of your pussy, until his fingers finally settled between your legs. The heel of his palm cupped you gently. He let you feel the warmth, let you settle in the safety of his touch.
You whimpered at the contact.
"Ah, Caleb, p-pleas—"
"Shhh. We'll go slow, baby, 'kay?"
"But…!"
"Do you trust me?"
You drew in a breath, and your lips turned down to a pout.
"…Yes…"
"Then let me make you feel good, yeah?"
You couldn't do anything but nod. Couldn't do anything but moan, as he complied to your plea anyway, and he deftly pushed your panties down your thighs.
Your legs spread immediately.
Two fingers parted your outer lips in such a slow, tender motion—you tried your hardest to behave, to stay still, to let him play with you at the pace he knew you liked best, anyway.
But you were struggling.
Caleb pressed kisses into your hair, parted you wider with his fingers, exposing you to his eyes in the lewdest, naughtiest way, and he grinned.
"Mm… So, so wet f'me."
You could barely take it.
His middle finger slid languidly through your slickness, coating himself in you, letting you feel just how easily you opened for him. Then he'd pause—circle them slowly over your entrance, feel the way your thighs trembled with anticipation.
The wet sounds of it all were embarrassingly loud in the quiet of your room.
And then he finally—finally—slipped inside.
You keened at the sensation, clenching immediately at the feel of his fingers snug in your pussy.
He groaned low in his chest.
"Fuck, baby, listen to her…"
He curled those two fingers the tiniest bit, stroking along your walls in slow, patient come-hither motions. "Clenchin' so sweet already and I’ve barely started…"
"Nnh— i-it's because you, ah…!"
Fingers brushed against that little spot inside you, and you choked on your words.
"Mm, there it is. Nothin' bad about it, pips, y'know? Just let me take care of you. You don't have to worry about a single thing."
And in response, your hips rocked into him before you could stop them. This time—he let you.
You couldn’t run from the sensation even if you wanted to.
Breathing ragged, he pumped his fingers, in and out, following the movement of your hips. Little broken whimpers started slipping out with every exhale. Caleb smiled at it—so fond, so proud, you no longer knew what to do with yourself at the way that he looked at you.
"God, baby, I love you so damn much…"
He kissed the shell of your ear with a groan.
"You gotta believe me when I say everythin' I do for you's worth all the trouble in the world… I mean, fuck, look at you…"
Tears welled in your eyes.
"R… r-really?" you whispered.
"Really really, pip-squeak."
"But I take—mh, fuck—I-I take so much from you, and I… ah, Caleb, I…"
"Yeah? Well I love that you do."
Another deep thrust of his fingers then, and your whole body arched like a bowstring.
"C-Caleb—!"
It was a rush of pleasure. Your nails dug into his shoulders. He sighed against your skin, and though you vision had blurred through your tears, you could feel him smile.
"Yeah… there she is. There's my girl… easy now, baby."
He slid down your body, kissing your jaw—your neck—your collarbone—
Your shirt had ridden up to expose your stomach, and still his lips pressed into your skin, even as his fingers worked meticulously to ride out your orgasm.
Your eyes were bleary.
Your chest rose and fell as you pulsed around him, and though his fingers stilled, you keened at the feeling of still being so… full.
"You still okay, pips?"
Caleb hummed as he moved you over, and settled snug behind you. His face nuzzled into your neck. Arms wrapped around you so tightly, so comfortingly—you let out a slow exhale, and settled back against him.
"Mhm."
"I really love you, y'know."
"Mhm…"
"And I know you've been feelin' bad lately. Just want you to know that it's okay. I won't leave 'til you feel better."
"…Will you always take care of me, Caleb?"
"'Course! I promise. You know I don't break my promises."
You let out a soft whimper then, feeling once more the hard press of his length up against your ass.
"Caleb…"
"M'not done takin' care of you yet… Can I put it in, baby? You asked for my cock earlier…"
He rutted forward, a little jolt of his hips that made you gasp.
"Please, baby…"
And how could you refuse?
You were wet, and swollen—even just the shape of him up against you made you shiver, and frantic hands reached back to tug on his sweats as your head turned to plead back at him with your eyes.
I want it, too.
"It hurts, too…" you pouted, eyes still glassy from the pleasure he'd already given you. "I-I want more… Please take care of me again…"
He shuddered against you.
In the next moment he'd curled protectively around your figure and nudged the top of your thigh forward, and you felt it.
Blunt, and hot, and wet—The tip of his cock settled neatly against your slit, rubbing slightly, smearing itself in the mess of your arousal.
Schlck. Schlck.
"Mnn… C-Caleb…!"
"Yeah… Jus' lemme…"
He didn’t push in right away. He rocked forward in the tiniest motion, letting just the tip slip inside—barely an inch—then pulled back out again.
Slow.
Real slow.
He groaned low when your walls hugged the head of him, all warm and slick and greedy, fluttering around him with a sense of impatience that caught in your voice when you spoke.
"Caleb, please—stop teasing me! I… I want— ah!"
He chuckled—then moaned.
Slowly the fullness of him slid in with a loud, lewd noise, and you gasped, reached out to grasp at the sheets.
His hold on you tightened.
Ragged breaths over your nape.
His hand splayed wide over your lower belly, pressing so you could feel him, so deep, so full.
"Fuck… you always feel like home, baby."
And he felt like yours.
Again the tears seemed to start.
The feeling of it—being so close to him, being one with him… It felt as if every ounce of his love for you—more, and more, and more than he'd already shown—poured into you in waves.
You choked back a sob.
Immediately you covered your face with your hands, and—
There was no holding it back anymore.
You cried.
Helpless, senseless babbles into the palms of your hands before they were pried away, replaced by the soft, soothing kisses he would place all over the side of your face.
"Caleb…!" You sobbed, lips trembling. "Caleb, I… I'm sorry… I'm sorry, I couldn't say it, I love you, I…!"
And still he stayed patient.
Slow rubs on your arm, nuzzles into your hair.
"Nothin' to say sorry for, pip-squeak," he soothed. "I'm right here, and I always will be. N' I love you so, so damn much."
I love you.
I love you, I love you—
I love you.
Thank you.
Sobs of all of that—love, and relief, and everything combined…
Soon they'd turned into sobs pleasure, as slow, steady rocks began to stir the shape of him inside of you. Little rolls of his hips, barely pulling out before sliding back in again... Each one nudged that spot inside you that still felt swollen and sensitive from his fingers, and you keened.
"Nngh… Ah… s-so good, Caleb— so— hnn—!"
Your sobs and cries mixed in with hushed little whispers against your skin.
Good girl.
So good and pretty f'me.
Let it out, baby…
There's my girl I love so much…
He was so sweet to you. So filthy, with the way his hips would rut into yours with a muted slap.
One of his hands found yours where it clutched the sheets; he laced your fingers together, brought your joined hands up to rest against your chest so he could hold you even closer.
You were trembling. Every tiny movement dragged pleasure through you like silk, so slow, so syrupy.
"Mm, love feelin' the way you clench 'round me… Are you close, pip-squeak?" he murmured against your ear. "Gonna cum f'me, pretty girl?"
He kissed the back of your neck. Your shoulder. Your jaw.
"Yes… Y-yes, yes, I wanna cum, ple— mnh, please, Caleb—!"
"Go ahead then, baby. Cum for me."
He would coo into your ear as your pleasure broke. Held you tight, even as you trembled, even as his own hips stuttered at the feel of your orgasm, and his breath hitched against your skin.
That's it, there we go.
There's my good girl.
I love you.
You choked over a sharp intake of breath.
I love you.
And he would repeat it.
I love you.
i love you.
I love you.
You felt the moment he pulsed inside of you, spilling in thick ropes of a warmth that made you melt.
And then he stayed buried. Didn’t move to pull out. For long minutes there was only the sound of your shared breathing, slowing together, your sniffles calming down as the tension eased from your body.
"Caleb…" you whispered, voice hoarse.
"Mh?"
"Thank you for taking care of me…"
He smiled, then, at that. Shifted just enough so that his hand could reach upwards, and then brushed a few damp strands of hair away from your face.
"I like it when you rely on me," he admitted. "So even if I have to do it a million more times… there's no problem at all. I'm always, gonna take care of you, pip-squeak."
He cupped your cheek for a moment, thumb wiping away the drying tracks of tears with the gentlest pressure. It was almost as if he could tell you could cry from his words alone—and he let out a soft, fond little laugh.
"S'cute when you're all needy. C'mon, get some sleep. I'll clean us up in a little while."
That… was another way, that Caleb liked taking care of you.
And you wouldn't have changed it for the world.
fic taglist: @fleur-de-leap @ourlittleuluru @unluckywisher @mochibunnies3 @mephisto-reporting @kingraspberry12-blog @starmocha @unknown-ends
+ honorary tag @farspacedreamer bc i know you like the youtiful series a lot WKJFHKJD HOPE U DONT MIND THE TAG THIS ONE TIME
a/n: i know everyone knows that caleb is frequently surrounded by discourse akfhsjf, but i've also found that because of all the ongoing discourse combined, a lot of people like me who actually find comfort in the somewhat caregiver-ish nature of caleb, tend to be thrown under the bus. which. you know. it's kinda not very fun. 😭 the truth is that in a lot of spaces, wanting a lot of- help, love attention, care... can be viewed as really negatively, often to the point where asking for it and wanting to rest and be less 'independent' for once, makes you perceived as less of a person. and some people want to be spoiled, and some people find comfort in getting that kind of attention, and some people also find it hard to ask for. and ofc other people don't identify with that, and they may prefer and enjoy and can easily put on a stronger, more independent front, and that's okay too! but that isn't me, so i've always found a lot of comfort in the way that caleb always loves caring for mc in the way that he does. so on the off chance that i'm not alone in that, i just wanted to take the chance to write something that maybe,,,,, other people like me could identify with, and hopefully find comfort in, in the process 🤲 if this fic brought you comfort then it means i was successful in that, so for the you who did feel comforted by this fic,, know that i'm holding your hand very gently akfhajd 🥹🤲
Please fic writers, I know your aesthetic is important to you. But when you use the smaller text (subscript), it is NOT able to be scaled up by accessibility options on iPhones.
Try it now. You can go into your device settings, make your text size bigger, but this will still be the same size.
This makes it extremely hard as someone who is visually impaired to read your beautiful stories because the text is simply too small. Please consider making the body of your work the regular size, I beg you.
⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅. mornings w caleb always end up in you gasping for breath as he salivates bw your thighs ♡
〷〨 cw. oral(f receiving), morning smex, caleb in love ARGHHHH, caleb is a certified pussy-muncher, long ass eating out post SORRI, that wolf cut and those mullet kinda did sum to me so him in a lil ponytail yummm
you awaken slowly, pulled from your slumber by a force that you have no name for, your back arching off the mattress and your legs quivering with pleasure. your lips part in a silent groan as you reach down, eyes fluttering as you grasp blindly at the dark head of hair working determinedly between your spread thighs.
“cal-caleb?” the syllables escape you in scarcely more than a whimper. your fingers find purchase around the soft little ponytail that sits messily atop his head, tangling in the silky strands. “caleb-nnngh.”
your tormentor pulls away for the briefest of seconds, and you keen at the momentary loss of his wet mouth. “shh,” he breathes, chuckling lowly when you jolt. “It’ll feel really good soon.”
warm hands smooth up your thighs, sending shivers up your spine as his arms wind around you in an ironclad embrace. you’re rendered immobile, helpless in his grasp, and your mouth falls open when he envelops your clit between his lips and gives it a harsh suck. your hips buck at the burst of pleasure, but he’s quick to splay his hands against your stomach and pin you back down against the rumpled sheets. almost apologetically, he licks a stripe up the length of your clenching pussy, dipping inside for a split second before the wet, hot suction of his mouth returns to your clit in full force. a sharp moan tears from your throat, escaping into the open air of your bedroom.
blinking blearily against the sunlight flooding through the gap in the curtains, you finally take in your gege’s prone figure, his head and bare shoulders illuminated in hazy gold. his hair is gathered up at his crown, a few stray tendrils escaping from the elastic and standing at odd angles, and affection blooms in your heart at the sight. your fingers trail gently through his ponytail, and though you can’t see his face, you can feel the way his lips curl into a smile against the soft skin of your inner thigh.
“pretty girl,” he coos fondly. “wanna make you feel good. Wanna make you cum.”
you arch breathlessly when he punctuates his sentiment by slipping two fingers inside your pussy with no warning at all. his mouth wraps around your clit again, his tongue flicking against the sensitive bud in time with the steady cadence of his fingers, and you shudder deliriously when he easily finds the spot that has you seeing stars.
your grasp on his hair tightens, further mussing the soft strands, but he doesn’t even seem to notice as he digs a little deeper, releasing your clit to groan in approval. deliberately, he replaces his mouth with the heel of his palm, grinding insistently against the nub until your hips are spasming in his grip.
“caleb-” you gasp. “oh, god-”
“tell me, pips,” he rasps. the hand that’s still wound around your legs releases its steely grip, coming up to close over your fingers on his head. slowly, he encourages you to grasp his ponytail more tightly, a low groan escaping him when your nails scrape against his scalp. “show me where you want me.”
you’re wide awake now. exhaling shakily, you spread your legs a little wider, guiding his face back between your thighs until his nose is brushing against your clit. he retracts his fingers from where they’re sheathed inside your core, and you’re about to reprimand him when he seemingly reads your mind and licks a long, slow stripe up the length of your entrance. your eyes flutter shut at the warm wetness of his tongue, your lips parting in a moan, and when he dips inside you gasp his name.
your gege is no longer teasing. he eats you out now with an enthusiasm that puts all his previous efforts to shame, alternating between long licks and soft sucks on your clit. pleasure coils in the pit of your belly, tightening with each swipe of his tongue. you’re teetering at the edge, dangerously close to the brink, and caleb seems to sense it because he doubly renews his efforts. two fingers slip inside you, curling up just so to reach that soft spot, and the resulting wave of pleasure nearly has your vision going white. your hips spasm as you ride out your orgasm, your walls clenching wildly around his fingers, and he chuckles as his thumb pets you in slow, sure circles.
“that’s my girl,” he murmurs. still feeling rather boneless, you glance down to see him smiling happily at you, the ponytail atop his head askew and his chin slick with your juices. giggling, you smooth a hand over his messy hair, tugging gently at the loose strands near his nape until he takes the hint and crawls up your body to give you a kiss.
“i like your hair,” you tell him once he’s pulled back for air. “thought you should know.”
he grins, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. “and I like you. thought I should show you.”
credits to me. feel free to use and save. of course credit would be appreciated but it is not required. I’m just making these for fun <3 dividers I’ve made to fics and things that are sitting in my drafts and decided to share.
credits to me. feel free to use and save. of course credit would be appreciated but it is not required. I’m just making these for fun <3 @bunnysp1ce @kalkachis
puppy play but theres fireworks going off and i'm trembling under a pile of blankets under a desk and you need to feed me little pieces of cheese to calm me down but i'm so scared i might throw up the cheese
synopsis: Colonel Caleb Xia is a man who defines power and exudes control, wrapped in thick layers of stoic discipline and a veil of frigid mysteriousness; he is an enigma to most, a monster to some, and a patient to you. As his assigned doctor, you make sure to take extra good care of him when he needs it.
pairing: Colonel! Caleb x Non Mc! Reader
Content. mdni afab + f! reader, reader is a doctor who works under EVER, caleb gets hurt in a scene/injuries are described but it’s brief, hate sex, he puts you in a headlock so choking, prone bone, fingering (f! receiving) degradation, mutual masturbation, reader is his doctor but they fuck so… medical malpractice, unprotected penetration + caleb finishes inside, mc is sort of mentioned + caleb thinks abt her in some scenes, lucius and carter mentioned. idk you might wanna know some caleb lore before reading so a little bit of spoiler’s for caleb lore. but there are also lore inaccuracies bc well creative liberties.
a/n: this fic has been in writing for such a long time bc i had the idea when caleb first came out but i didn’t know how to write it and it felt out of my skill level (ngl still does) but i finally have it done yay! around the anniversary of his release too so let’s call this his celebration!
Name: Caleb Xia
Subject: X-02
Birthday: June 13
Height: 6’2
Evol: Gravity
Additional information: Former test subject 002, former DAA fighter pilot, recipient of special excellence in heavy space cruiser certification, three-time winner of comprehensive aerial tactics competition. Exhibits advanced control of evol, high body compatibility rates, extremely high psychological resilience, and mental defenses. Attained after the Bloomshore District explosion, the right arm has been modified, a toring chip has been implanted, alongside failure to analyze the entirety of consciousness.
— — —
When you were first handed the man’s file, filled with the information had on him, your first impression of the EVER’s newest (older) subject and the Farspace Fleet’s newest colonel was impressive and tall.
Standing at 6’2 with mahogany strands that fell over striking lavender eyes, faint hues of molten gold embedded within like gravitating galaxies, drawing people in, yet piercing and cold. Even through a profile with minimal information, there was no doubt in your mind that he was a worthy subject for EVER’s experiments.
Not the perfect specimen, but a fine one, at least.
You could see why the professor went through the difficulty of obtaining him from rubble and fire, drawing him back from the talons of death.
"429 experiments to read his consciousness, resulting in failure? Interesting." You mumble, flipping through the file. The old professor beside you is less impressed, rather disgruntled.
“You’ll be assigned to him.” Lucius’s gaze turns from you to the man in the zero gravity chamber, currently undergoing the 23rd neural control experiment. A simple glass pane separates you from your newest patient. “It’s planned that he’ll be in the Farspace Fleet, assigned as the newest colonel, and he’ll take over the Tuum fleet in a few months. It’s time we move forward with our plans.”
His words tug a frown at your lips, a certain displeasure washing through you. As one of EVER’s doctors, it’s normal that you get assigned to different subjects, treating and diagnosing them after their experiments and trials with the researchers, but since Caleb will become the Farspace Fleet’s colonel, you assume that you’ll have to join the Fleet alongside him. And, well, joining the Fleet isn’t something you particularly wish to do.
“Isn’t it better to send someone else?” You nudge, gauging the finality of Lucius’s decision. “Carter informed us that he just made a breakthrough at Xander Sciences, we’ll be working on the next steps for that soon with the patients.”
Lucius only stares at you in response, and it’s enough for you to understand that he won’t back down. “You’ll be one of the Fleet’s doctors, tend to him as needed. Keep a close eye on Caleb and the other soldiers implanted with toring chips, it’s important to our goal. Once we have control of the Farspace Fleet, it’ll make things easier to move around.”
Of course, with the Fleet’s status and dealings, ruling even above the World Evol Government, it would be incredibly beneficial to have a pawn in high standing.
It’s clear that his choice is final, sending a heated glare your way at your disgruntled noises. Even in your position, as a doctor and not a researcher or subject, you can’t do much to deny. Control, you’ve come to learn, is something that EVER seeks insatiably, even that which they hold over you as well.
In the beginning, when you were recruited by Lucius, he didn’t say that you would be doing all… this. Going against every ethicality and violating practically every medical law you spent sleepless nights ramming into your brain. ‘Paving a pursuit for future generations, a worthy goal for valuable research as your own.’ He said back then. And before you even knew it, you were too entangled in EVER’s web to try and claw out. Within those few months, they held control over your life’s work and progression. What more can you do but follow?
“He has potential. But will he be a good fit as a colonel? It’ll be more than just inheriting the title, I’m sure the Fleet has their own politics to navigate, won’t that get in the way?” You question with a tilt of your head, turning your gaze towards the chamber that houses the man you speak of.
Even from behind the safety of your spectating glass, you witness the sharp, vivid crackles of electricity rippling through the air, dancing wildly around the shirtless form of Caleb as he groans, breathing heavily while neurons connect and fray, reattaching painfully within the modifications of his metallic arm. The mechanical crinkling of his hands clenching into fists mingles with the wounded noises that he attempts to bury, gritting out through a tensed and strained body. Beads of sweat roll down the muscular crevices of his spine, chest heaving as the lights thud on, illuminating the path in the chamber, and giving you a full view of your new patient.
Not only impressive and tall, but also handsome.
Beside you, Lucius shakes his head, turning towards the door.
“We went through a great deal to obtain him; this is just one of the tests he’ll deal with. If he’s useful, then he’s useful; if he isn’t, then he isn’t. There’s no need to be worried or attached when we can find replacements. He’ll have his uses as a weapon until he doesn’t. The Fountain of Atei is going well, so make sure you keep him in good shape.”
Professional words, as always. You don’t know why you expect anything else.
And as your newest patient is led out of the zero-gravity chamber, huffing and panting, you wonder if you can accomplish turning a blind eye to attachment—or intrigue.
— — —
Weeks after you initially see him, your perception of Caleb changes slightly when you actually meet.
Your meeting with him is alongside Lucius in the machine-like world that hovers over Linkon, in his new Fleet office. The first thing you notice when you arrive on-site is the frigid air, wrapping around you in an icy layer of second skin, thinly veiled with the mechanical whirring of the ships and the hum of energy that shudders brittlely in your bones.
The second thing you notice is that Caleb is dressed this time.
His modified arm is concealed in the synthetic wrap of skin that leaves a soul none the wiser of his implantation, covered with thick leather gloves. He’s robed in a dark military uniform that lines the scalpel-edges of his body, gold aiguillette suspended from his shoulder to sternum, the Fleet's insignia embroidered valiantly on his combination cap and chest, with an armband to emphasize his new status. Not earned, but given after an extensive recommendation and persuasion by Professor Lucius. Rather than the pain you saw him in weeks ago, he’s taken on a new role of discipline and precision; you no longer have any doubt that he’s fit for the role he’s been pawned into.
But even so, he’s still handsome and tall—even taller and even handsomer up close—but also cold and powerful and unyielding. Immediately, you sense that he's different from the other subjects who seem spun into Lucius's false fantasy of a family. Compared to the others, Caleb is… different.
You make a mental note of that for yourself, tucking it away in the corners of your mind.
The professor is the one to initiate your meeting, introducing you as one of EVER's best doctors, assigned to monitor Caleb's well-being and health while he integrates the Fleet.
Translated as: Don't fuck anything up, we have eyes on you.
You're sure Caleb gets the message as he nods stiffly, barely acknowledging your presence while he watches Lucius leave the room after explaining your purpose and his expectations. The simple speech makes the moment all the more heavy, the rigid air becoming headier as the professor leaves.
The door shuts behind Lucius with a soft ‘click,’ the single, soft sound reverberating through his office like a verdict—a blade that falls upon the moment, and it leaves only Caleb in the room with you.
Then his gaze meets yours from beneath the black peaked cap, casting a dark shadow across his face. Time stills. A myriad of tense emotions course through your rigid body, and it feels like he’s locked you in place, freezing the oxygen around you. You lose your stuttering breath, clutching the clipboard just a little tighter, feeling minuscule under the weight of his leer.
Slowly, his gloved fingers rap against his desk, cheek propped on his other hand as he assesses you, observing and analytical, letting not a single emotion slip into his steady features. Like he's the doctor examining a patient, and not the other way around.
Through the lump building in your throat, your voice cuts through the stillness in the atmosphere.
"The professor's already given me access to information on the Fleet's personnel, yours included. Your last examination was a few weeks ago during your neural control experiment; you won't be due for a while—I'll focus on monitoring the other soldiers for now."
You don't miss the sudden setting of his sharp jaw, the small pursing of his lips, the brief flickering of emotion in his eyes, blitzing through and then gone, you would’ve missed it if you had blinked. But it makes the lingering tension thicker in your throat.
Trials are a sore spot. Noted. The information is filed in your mind, just for future reference.
And if your words bothered Caleb, he doesn't voice it. You start to get the sense that he doesn't voice anything, really. His words are efficient and rough as he answers. "I'll tell Liam if I ever need you. In the meantime, notify him if you need anything."
While Caleb doesn't say it, he doesn't need to, but the implication cuts through the air: Don't bother me.
“Alright, but you and I will still need regular evaluations that don’t regard the Fleet.” Evaluations that regard EVER, you leave unsaid. You’re sure he understands.
With a silence resolute in its standing, you meet his gaze and ensure his nod before leaving, shoulders squared and tenser than when you were coming in.
Yeah, he definitely hates me. Just another thing for you to remember and work on. It’s difficult working with someone who seems to despise your entire existence at your first meeting. With the goal of trying to get to know Caleb just a little more, you leave his office.
It seems that it’ll be a long ride while you’re in the Farspace Fleet, stuck in what appears to be a rock and a hard place.
— — —
In the coming months, through little glimpses and minor actions, you learn that Caleb is a rather devoted man. To what or for what exactly, you do not know.
He is devoted to playing pawn in EVER’s scheme, though he knows his role is a simple cog in a masterpiece of strategy and ambition. Despite that, Caleb plays into the game like he is the timekeeper rather than a small mechanism. He faces it like a man torn between duty and faith—steadfast, carefully. Perhaps he knows that he is prized differently from Viper or any other subjects. Or perhaps it is his boldness and fervor that keeps a blaze lit within this game, a pawn who knows its worth.
You come to admire that about him.
Along with admiration, you also learn things about Caleb that he doesn’t show you. Though he holds steady on remaining an unread book, you begin to learn that Caleb throws his life around methodically, teasing death’s sovereignty with the tenderness of a man who has everything to lose, yet nothing at all.
You even discover little things about him, too. Like how he prefers sour over sweet, and that apples are his favorite fruit, and he barely goes home. You learn that Caleb is fond of the color orange and that he likes to downplay his injuries whenever he sees you. With that information, you chalk up the conclusion that Caleb endeavors to be seen as powerful and strong, both of which you believe he is. And you know enough to gather that Caleb hates feeling weak, which he is not.
You also learn that Caleb has no place in the world either. At least, he is not where he wants to be. That much, you are sure of.
Some nights, you catch him wandering the vast halls of the Farspace Fleet, dragging a gloved hand along the oppressive walls with that same contemplative expression on his features that you’ve come to know and recognize. And on some twilit nights, where he figures only the moon’s bright, white eye peers at him unblinkingly, you’re aware that he walks across the concrete fields where all the jets and spacecraft’s whirring hums are pressed silent and positioned, and he stares back at the pallid iris. Its silvery glow embedded within the bounds of amethyst hues.
Those nights, you think Caleb is like the moon. So distant and untouchable, the same side and mask are shown to the world. Always orbiting. And orbiting. And orbiting. And orbiting. Reflecting light back with undeniable control over gravitational force and the unrelenting frost that never seems to thaw, seemingly forgetting pieces of itself.
Caleb is much like the moon in all its glory of hollow light and haunting beauty.
In Skyhaven, so close to the cosmos that stretch thin and opaque stars bleeding pearly light through the infinite void, you imagine that Caleb makes a wish. What he wishes for, if he wishes at all, you do not know. You’re sure that you will never have the right to find out. But you like to think he utters his prayers to the great black hole that bites a wound in the web of endless space. You think that, maybe, he, like the other soldiers, is more human than not.
Maybe that’s why you bite your tongue and tell the professor half-truths when he inquires about Caleb’s progress.
On the great land that thrums with power and machinery and the promise of advancements, you figure Caleb out shard by shard, as best as you can.
But it halts there. Though you’ve spent months tending to him now, he doesn’t seem keen on opening up, and you can’t particularly blame him.
Despite working for EVER, you do admit their processes and experiments are unusual, yielding more failures than not in their journey of immortality. But such is the nature of medical and scientific pursuits; failures are fertilizer for progress. Ethically wrong, but with the promise of something far greater that rises dauntingly closer with every success like Caleb. In the end, even you can only bend to their whims, and that includes treating Caleb to the best of your ability and hoping that he sees it one day.
Unfortunately, that day does not seem to surface on the foreseeable horizon.
Because you’re quite confident the colonel hates you down to the very atoms of oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, and nitrogen that make up your body. That much is clear even if he has ever told you outright. His jaw tightens when you are near, muscles tensing under your steady hands, and the vast galaxies of his eyes strip you down to your barest form like a cell under a microscope. You would know, you’ve spent years studying them. To Caleb, you are EVER. A soul no purer than his.
Caleb doesn’t seem to like you, but like the tide to the moon, you’re drawn to him, too.
— — —
The first time Caleb caught a glimpse of you, he entertained the thought of you being different. You stood with the other doctors and researchers, each donning identical white coats and mirroring blue scrubs. You looked like them, but carried yourself with a grace that unsettled something deep within his chest.
Unlike the researchers he’s met with probing tools, gleeful eyes, and wicked smiles, who are proud to stand at the forefront of their “cutting edge” research, he always noticed that you stood quietly in the background. Safe behind a glass screen—untouched, pure—as if the sin of your work didn’t sink deep into your bones. Never filled with the distorted pride the researchers held or the awe of science that raptured them. Maybe it’s because you weren’t a researcher or a scientist who ran countless trials, but it didn’t explain the reason why you plagued his thoughts.
That was the first time you caught his attention.
The second time was when Viper spoke about you.
Normally, Caleb avoids coming into any sort of interaction with the serpentine idiot. He prefers their exchanges to be quick and efficient; anything that Viper spits out is a waste of time, and to Caleb, time has always slipped by too fast to be wasted on someone like Viper.
But that particular day, Viper spoke about you—the “pretty doctor with a nice voice”—and Caleb found himself listening absentmindedly, agreeing too. Along with your name, he learns a bit about you. You’re a doctor who graduated top of your class and got picked up by Professor Lucius for your research and advancements in neurological pathways, their connections to protocore energy fluctuations, and their influence on evols. In return for your contribution to EVER, you would be secured a job, education debts being paid in full, and the opportunity to continue your life’s research—the same research that helped develop the toring chip. A secure life is what you traded for this work.
With his mild curiosity sated, Caleb decided quickly that he did not particularly like you. After all, you worked under EVER, the very organization that took people to research on—him, included—implanted a chip into their bodies to regulate their emotions and boost physical capabilities far beyond what a human should be able to do, turning them into crystalline wanderers if the experiments did not work. And for the ones that did succeed, they could not even be called humans any longer.
He, who could not be called human, no longer. The emptiness in his heart feels cavernous, the void of his mangled soul full of fiendish filth.
But most of all, EVER, you, were after the dearest person in his heart—his sun, his summer.
Aiming to capture and ruin the gentle smile that constantly haunts the wisps of his hardy soul, a ghost of the past and angel of the future. Bright and beautiful eyes that peered into his, the woman who had made his heart keen with aching love and devotion since he was a child. The person behind every prayer he whispers to fate’s ear. Because of EVER’s arduous visions, he’s witnessed her death more times than anyone should, held her small hands in his when she resuscitated over and over, forgetting him time and time again. Because of EVER, he’s morphed into something unrecognizable.
He’s supposed to be Caleb—always by her side.
Instead, he’s rooted in Skyhaven, playing puppet to protect her from the claws of greed and power. A concaved husk of the human he used to be, hollow to touch, with a badge that weighs heavily on his heart and metal working through his body. Often, he wonders, if fate weaves their strings together, just once more, and they are to meet again, would she still recognize him? Could he hold her hand, curl his cold, unfeeling fingers around hers as he did in the beginning, and tell her, “I’m Caleb, I’ll always be by your side.” Would gravity allow him to find his way back home to her side?
And even if her answer was no, to reject his touch that can no longer feel her dear warmth, he would linger in her casted shadows—devoted, willing. If it meant she’d be safe, he would readily prime himself into EVER’s perfect weapon. No matter the technology that worms in his mind or the mechanical vacancy that invades his body.
Therefore, he would even cooperate with you.
It’s just unfortunate that he dislikes you. While he knows this all isn’t exactly your fault, it is a job you took on, and though you aren’t the worst person he’s ever dealt with, you just… irritate him.
But he sees you everywhere, sees you in everything. The sight of your sickening white, iron-pressed doctor’s coat, the Fleet’s insignia embroidered on the silky, folded lapel, has become a vision more familiar than his own house in Skyhaven. He catches the swirling loops and tight lines of handwriting, signing off on every single medical report that comes his way, and doesn’t have to look twice to know it was created by your hand. The fragments of you are littered through his troops, filling the space meant for another.
And it definitely does not help that your name is all he’s been hearing for the past few months that you’ve been on his Fleet now.
He hears about you when Liam informs him of daily schedule changes, meetings, and weekly recalibrations for his arm. He hears about you from his soldiers, the loud, the quiet, and even the ones who dare not speak in his presence. He hears the soldiers want to go to the infirmary to see only you. Your name falls from the lips of soulless pawns who are like him—implanted with the toring chip, stripped of emotions and individuality, and yet, they speak reverently of you.
They say you whisper words with compassion, that you’re completely different from the other doctors and nurses. You ask about their day and how they feel, what hurts, and what doesn’t. Your words and soothing syllables make them feel less soldier and more human. Less enigmatic monster than not. In the Farspace Fleet, where there are only soldiers and officers—you bring soul in the constant hive of monotonous continuity.
Kind, compassionate, empathetic or not, it does not change the influence of your operation. The sentiments you express do not purify you.
Yet, somehow, your presence has become gossamer-threaded into the inner workings of his mechanically efficient Fleet, thriving even under the oppressing gravity of his routine.
And perhaps that is partly because he knows the words are true.
From the treatments after dangerous missions, arm modifications, and regulated cybezin dosages he’s had with you, he will admit that you do seem in touch with your patients. Most of the Fleet doctors don’t care enough for the other soldiers; many are too intimidated to even look him in the eye, but you are no Fleet doctor, you are something far worse. And you are also far more gentle than any trial he’s had with scientists or researchers.
Your hands are calculated, touches practiced, your gaze burns. You hold yourself highly, chin unbowed but soft in ways that matter. You linger everywhere, on his ship and in his mind.
And Caleb hates that he notices. So he pushes the blame onto the only person he can—you, who invades his thoughts in the worst ways.
— — —
It’s almost a full year before Caleb contacts you first after a mission that went down horribly.
At the time, you were away, fulfilling another request by Professor Lucius regarding a patient at a hospital. Of course, whoever planned this against Caleb took your absence as an opportunity to strike at him. Imagine your surprise when you receive word that your most valuable patient had been hurt.
When you return, you hear from Liam that the mission didn’t go according to the expected plan. It was supposed to be a simple retrieval of an unmanned patrol craft that suspiciously broke down in the Deepspace Tunnel’s restricted zone, and Caleb was to recover it in the midst of increasing energy fluctuations that resulted in his own ship’s engine giving out. In the end, Caleb made it out by controlling the patrolcraft with his evol until reinforcements arrived, but he also sustained injuries to his right arm as well as lacerations on his torso. Liam also informs you that this serves as a blatant declaration against Caleb. And, in turn, EVER.
He’s in his private medical room when you rush to him, a place you have become familiarly acquainted with in the months you have lived on the Fleet. The monotonous beeping and rhythmic trilling of the machines fill your senses, and you find him on the dark bed. His sculpted back greets you under the dim lights of screens. Violet and vermillion hues paint across muscles rippling with every heavy heave of his lungs, expending under the gauze that hugs taut around his left shoulder, holding it in place against his collarbone.
Wires suspend from his mechanical limb, crimson and azure webs flow throughout the arm as it's being slowly repaired. Metal chips piece back into a whole like a puzzle, neurons seaming together in interconnected filaments of nervous tissue. The sensation sends sharp pain coursing into his body, racking him with sharp, spasming aches.
In the midst of groans, you announce your presence with a rap of your knuckles on the door, earning his cool distaste that comes with a hard glance.
“You’re late.” Injured, but he still has energy to talk back; it seems it’s not as threatening as you thought it’d be.
“How bad is it?” The question falls from your lips, simple but soft as you walk to his side to assess the full extent of his injuries.
The stitching underneath the swathe is neatly done by another doctor—thin and evenly woven into his flesh—folding the gashed meat back together, leaving only little beads of blood dribbling out that you wipe away. Scars, old and new, litter down his body, from mild scratches to the deeper lesions like his newly acquired one. Not too excessive, but it’ll certainly take some time to completely heal with regular changes of gauze and cleaning of his stitches along his clavicle.
It alleviates you with a relieved sigh.
“Luckily, your laceration isn’t fatally deep, but it’s along your collarbone, so try to avoid straining it too much. Most of the injuries you sustained will bruise, but they’ll heal with treatment.” Latex digits trace the area, pressing down lightly, probing around for soreness. “Tell me if it hurts.”
“Doesn’t hurt,” He grunts, tearing his eyes from you to the screen beside him that shows the material of his arm—metal and bone reflecting. As the final pieces merge, neurons meld together in a synthetic mimicry of latticework. He flexes his hand as a test, a low grunt erupting from the baser cavern of his chest. “This is all a move from the old guard anyway, no patrolcraft goes down like that so conveniently when you’re away. It’s best if you don’t get involved.”
And against his own indifference, despite the snap in his voice, amidst the proximity and your fingers dimpling his flesh, he notices the softness in your eyes that he hates. The tenderness that you absolutely don’t reserve the right to give to him is there—he feels it—and it feels wrong. The sensation of you on him burns, your warmth bleeds through the nylon barrier. It isn’t something he should pay attention to, that he even wants to pay attention to, but he does. He curses it.
You sigh at his words, giving a soft shake of your head as you wrap new gauze around the stitching. “It doesn’t matter what’s best or not; I’m already involved, whether we like it or not. If this person chose the moment when I was away from HQ to target you, then I’m clearly factored into their plans.”
“What do you think you can do?” He narrows his eyes at you, words hissed and sharp. “You can’t do anything, so just let me deal with this.”
“I also can’t be expected to stay away when this involves you. If you get hurt then—”
“Then you fix me.” He cuts. “That’s your job, isn’t it? You fix the weapon when it gets chipped, and when it breaks, you report back to the professor to get a new one.”
His words strike you. Quip and short but no less strong. Silence lingers between the thickening tension, and for a few seconds that feel like an eternity, you and Caleb share an intense look, one that speaks volumes in stillness. His challenging look provokes your response.
“I don’t… I don’t see you as a weapon. I don’t think you’re a weapon that can easily be replaced.” You state, shoulders squared as you look down at his sitting form. “You’re still human, you can still feel.”
It’s hypocritical, you know. You’re saying that he’s still human despite all the modifications, despite the chip that distorts his very emotions and mind, despite the fact that he’s been changed so deeply—you still think he’s human. It’s unfair what EVER does to them, and it’s not efficient, but it isn’t like you have much of a choice either. In the end, does it even make you better?
But it makes him scoff, turning his bitter gaze to his right arm. His fingers curl into a fist, and if he tried hard enough, dug his fingers into the metal palm, he could almost hurt himself. He can almost feel the ghost of warmth. Human, what a joke.
“You’re telling me that? Don’t make me laugh.” Caleb raises the bionic arm, watching how the lights flicker and shine off the metal like a foul taunt. “You say that, but you still work under EVER. It doesn’t make you any better than them, so don’t give me shit like that.”
“That’s not—” You try to defend yourself, but the syllables calcify in your throat. Instead, you find yourself looking down, shame creeping up your neck. You let the silence become a curtain to hide behind. It’s a new look that Caleb hasn’t seen on you. “I know it’s hypocritical, but I don’t have much of a choice in this either. I’m not a scientist or someone who experiments, and I know that doesn’t mean that I’m a good person, but I do want to help you. I’m still a doctor.
Caleb doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even react. He simply lets you pour your heart out, emotions unraveling onto him. Even if he understands, it doesn’t make the bitterness in his heart disappear right away. It doesn’t change the fact that you work under Lucius, who’s after the object of his devotion. It doesn’t change the fact that you irritate him with your kind words, pretty face, and sweet voice. It won’t change the one he yearns for.
Just thinking about her makes his head hurt, it makes his heart burn, and he vaguely registers the cadence of the heart monitor beeping faster in response. Again, like the many things that involve you, he blames this on your words. He internally damns you for stirring up cherished memories. He wants to recede into the little encrypted paradise in his mind, but your voice drowns it out, an anchor that both irritates and grounds him—a hazardous light through the cacophony of turbulent emotions pooling like a typhoon.
Caleb feels his body grow feverish at an alarming rate, vermillion blooming on his cheeks and crawling down his neck, eyes fluttering shut as if he can will away the buzzing of the chip, fighting back a reset that laps at his brain. Biology against technology. His willpower and emotions over the influence of EVER inside his own body.
The sudden surge in the heart monitor’s rhythm catches your attention, and your words trail off when the realization of Caleb’s situation dawns upon you. Increased heart rate and spiking temperatures—all telltale symptoms of the toring chip’s suppression. Immediately, you whirl towards him, ensuring the stability of his vitals before turning on your heels to the rack of medicine.
“I’ll administer a dose of cybezin—”
You’re barely two steps away from the bed before you feel cold wrap around your wrist, pulling you back.
“No.” Caleb rasps out, his iron grip tightening dangerously. “I’m not in the mood for side effects. You really think cybezin will be better for me right now?”
You look back at him, incredulous. “It doesn’t matter what you’re in the mood for. Do you see yourself right now? The toring chip will reset you if you don’t get control of yourself.”
“Damn it.” His jaw clicks, pursing his lips. For a few seconds, an ocean of quiet thickens with his contemplative expression before he suddenly yanks you closer until your faces are just a few breaths apart. Amethyst irises scour your surprised features, taking in the quiver of your lashes and trembling breath, flitting to your lips for a beat too long and back up. He can smell your scent; the deep, intoxicating fragrance that’s so distinctly you. It makes the heat in his stomach go hot, something he blames on the fragment of metal in his mind. But it helps divert his thoughts, enough to briefly forget the chip and push away its programming. “Distract me then. You’re my doctor, aren’t you? You said I’m human, so help me.”
“What?” You recoil slightly, voice wavering with shock. The insinuation isn’t lost on you, but it’s so ridiculous that you can’t wrap your mind around it. You, who Caleb so clearly despises, are being told to help him in a way that you definitely shouldn’t.
Caleb scoffs, a flickering of his eyes up and down your form. “You heard me. No cybezin, I already took a recent dose. You’re my doctor, so help me with this and finish what you triggered.”
A million thoughts sprint through your mind; this is wrong, it’s absurd, he’s not in his right mind, and you should not, in any way, shape, or form, be actually considering it. The weight of every sworn vow thunders in your brain. You may work under EVER, the organization that’s violated almost every ethical law in medicine, but sleeping with your patient?
It’s because of the chip, you rationalize. He’s being affected, and it’s your duty as his doctor to make him feel better. You know how the chip works. You know that it twirls into the neurons of his body, invading the limbic system, and intrudes to distort his amygdala without mercy. You know that it changes him. You call him human, but the chip makes him not. What kind of doctor would you be if you didn’t help?
It’s just helping him, you tell yourself.
His grip loosens ever so slightly, just enough for you to pull back if you wish. Quick enough for you to consider turning tail, running, and pretending this never happened.
“Nobody can ever know.”
Your words are enough incentive for Caleb to tug you closer.
In a swift pull, you suck in a breath as he brings you closer, pulling you onto the muscles of his thighs. One arm is smooth and cool as it slides up your sleeve, slow and taunting like Caleb is testing his own resolve, toeing the lines you two have just crossed. But the other is hot, warm against your skin when it pushes your white coat down, the other side following suit until it flutters to the floor, and leaves you in your button-up. The moment makes you dizzy, breathless.
He takes the sight of you, flushed and trembling, a far-fetched vision from your usual composed manner. Heat buzzes in his mind, maybe from the chip, maybe from arousal. As much as he doesn’t like you, you’re conventionally attractive and here, a distraction from what his brain fights against. Your body slots nicely against him, legs splayed around his hips, and his hands find the edge of your shirt—but he also thinks about her.
Her nice smile. Her nice voice. Her nice eyes. The way she used to hold his hand in hers and the soft syllables of his name on her tongue. He wants it to be her who sits pretty in his lap; instead, he has you.
“Fucking hell.” He caves.
With a low gnarl that simmers deep in his chest, he pushes forward to take your lips against his. His tongue pries open your lips, swallowing your gasp into his mouth. Strong arms slide around your torso, pulling you flush against his body. Beggars can’t be choosers in his conditions; there’s nothing he isn’t willing to do, so he swallows your sounds like a starved man with nothing to lose. What left does he hold but anger and hate? What does he have but his devotion that streams through his veins?
His tongue is warm, slimy in your mouth. It curves over the divots of your molars, drooling into the warmth of your gums. Briefly, you wonder if the chip has any effect on his bodily reactions, not on how his mind operates under its stressors, but if it increases touch, sensitivity, or dulls them all. Is he in there somewhere? Is this even working? Or will you keep crossing a line that can’t be redrawn, stepping into the area between right and wrong? Is there anything left keeping you from this with all you’ve already done to him?
But Caleb doesn’t let you dwell on it for long as his hands fidget with the buttons on your blouse, deftly undoing the flimsy fabric, trailing fingers down. Every button that comes undone seems to loosen a strand of your resolve, and against better judgment, you let yourself stumble into the abyss of his heat.
His body runs like a furnace, burning against yours. Hot breaths are panted against your mouth, escaping in short gasps of air. You can feel his arousal nudge insistently against the inside of your thigh, and the thick fabrics do nothing to hide the sheer warmth of it, bleeding fire through his pants and past your skirt. You swear you feel it twitch through all the layers—wanting, ready, aching—the only proof of his biology at war with the chip.
“Aren’t you supposed to be helping me?” He grumbles against your sweat-slicked skin, suckling deep red blotches into the flesh of your neck, grazing ivory canines over your furious pulse. The passing thought to sink his teeth into your jugular blinks through his mind. The cadence of your life in his mouth, throbbing over his tongue. Fingers dimple your torso, traveling down south until cold digits press against the molten heat between your thighs, a motion that has you gasping out his name in that broken, little voice he’s quickly coming acquainted with. The noise makes his cock stir in betrayal. “Why am I doin’ all the work, doctor?”
You stutter in response, blood rushing hot and embarrassed at his words. You’re supposed to be the doctor here, making him feel better, so why is it hard to even speak? Your words cement in your throat, rasped out in a voice unrecognizable to even yourself. “Wh-what do you want me to do?” You keen at the cold touch, hips shuddering when his thumb finds your clit over your soiled panties.
“What do I want you to do?” His voice is a low tremor, said in the same tone you always hear him address his soldiers in. Cold and unyielding. You don’t need to look at his face to see the sneer on his kiss-bitten lips. “You caused this, so just let me use you until this damn chip is out of my head.”
Before you can answer, your world tilts rapidly, and your back falls to meet the medical bed’s mattress, its metal creaking under your combined weights when he comes to hover over you. His scarred torso remains upright with the assistance of his left arm, the other gliding down to unzip your skirt, flinging it aside so swiftly that you barely register that you’re spread open in your undergarments. The half-lidded purple of his eyes sinks into your skin, trained on the slick pooling in your panties, and he smolders with more emotion in this single instance than you’ve seen in all the months you’ve known him.
In the time you’ve been acquainted with him, you never would have even conceived the idea that you’d be in bed with the very patient who has shown nothing but disdain and indifference to you. Then again, you never thought you would be soaking through your panties just by kissing said patient. Your patient, who is currently shirtless, sweaty, switched-up, and tugging his pants just enough so that his cock meets the humid air.
Like the rest of his body, Caleb’s cock is… well-built. Well above average, too. Throbbing veins run along the underside. A dusky pink and aching with translucent beads of pre that drip tantalizingly down the heavy girth. Thick and intimidating as the tip seeps clear beads of pre over your stomach. It catches you off guard, snatching the air from your lungs the longer you look at it.
“Done staring?” It’s Caleb’s voice that snaps you out of your entranced state, nebulae eyes glaring down at you. You meet his scorching irises, nodding with a small mumble of agreement.
“Hurry up then,” he takes your hand and guides it towards his swollen length. It’s hot. Heavy in your hand, precum sticking to your palm as he guides your hand up and down. The veins hammer along your fingers, matching his heady breaths of arousal. It does nothing to soothe your own ache.
He groans, a sound that rumbles deep from his chest when his grinds into your hands. “Unless you plan on taking this entire thing, I suggest prepping yourself. I don’t plan on doing it for you.”
Through the haze in your mind, his words click, eyes falling to the thick girth pistoning through your palm. You can barely get your hands around the entire girth, and definitely not into you without any preparation. Cursing yourself in your mind, you realize that you cannot, in fact, take him in like this. So with your other hand, you slip your fingers between your thighs, feeling the traitorous slick of lust smother your digits like a symbol of surrender.
"Hm," he coos, a lick of embarrassment shooting through you at the infinite condescension. "Already wet? Not very professional, looks like you’re not as pure as you seem, doc.” He relishes the way you squirm beneath him, eyes caught on the way your fingers gleam with the wetness of your cunt, stripped down to your barest form. It makes him forget the chip in his mind, his conscience a fort of security.
“It’s not…” You try to speak over the filth of sounds. His cock leaks in your hand, sliding into and out of your fist with ease, and your smaller fingers plunge into your pussy. “I never said I was, ngh, pure. This is just—fuck, biology, bodily reactions. This is just to help you.” Biology that sinks you in humiliation under his intensity.
“Doesn’t change the fact that you’re wet. Filthy.” He spits. Your walls flutter tighter at his crude words. Intently, he observes how your fingers roll over your clit, fucking into your hole with the kind of desperation that can’t be called clinical anymore, and the noises you let loose lance straight to his cock, impossibly harder in your hand as he bucks up, matching the erratic beat every time your fingers sink into that sloppy pussy.
Heat flies through your bones with every mean word he spews. It’s almost humiliating, feeling your velvety walls clench tight around your own fingers with every syllable spoken in condescension. You shouldn’t feel this way, shouldn’t be getting so lost in flames of euphoria. But the air is animalistic, instinct-fueled, the kind that resonates only from sweaty bodies and erases everything but vulgar desire from your mind. Still wrong, still overstepping. But so good. So, so achingly good.
The way he drenches your palm feels good. The way you fuck yourself with your fingers feels good. The atmosphere is delirious, crackling with the iniquity that slithers dangerously into the pit of your gut and leaves you wanting more.
It feels even better when his metal finger circles your clit, thumbing the swollen pearl of nerves, controlling your body with the same talent you’ve seen in his evol. You arch into his touch, a whine of his name slipping free. Caleb’s never seen you like this, never even played with the thought of seeing you sweaty, finger-fucked, slutty.
He doesn’t let himself breathe. Too focused on mirroring the strokes every time your fingers descend into yourself, biting back the coil in his gut, the heat in his spine, and the rabbiting of his mind like it’ll help him not shoot his load all over your hand that pumps him sloppy, irregular now. His eyes rake over you, swallowing a rough groan as he watches your fingers get swallowed greedily by such a wanton cunt where everything is wet and squelching. Your fingers are small, he notes through a hazed mind, barely enough to mimic the stretch of his cock when he inevitably sinks into you.
He’s not sure what fuels him to do it—maybe the chip, maybe the heat, maybe the pitched whine of his name off your lips. But he pushes your hand away, huffing—almost amused, almost irritated—at the oozing string of slick connecting your drenched fingers to your pussy, before replacing it with his right hand. You feel the metal pad of his thumb swirl harder against your clit, its contrast of human warmth shocking you into further pleasure, and two of his fingers glide into your sopping channel before you can process it.
His fingers are long, thicker than yours, stretching you further as he sinks his longest digits knuckle deep, fingertips curling so effortlessly against the spongy spot that makes you keen with a shuddery sob. Despite the scorching heat in the room, his fingers are brisk, metallic, and it only makes everything more sensitive as he fucks you open, scissoring and flicking your clit in a punishing pace—impatient, cruel, mean.
“Can’t even fuck yourself right. How do you expect to take me if you’re fingering yourself so pathetically? So much for helping me.” He mutters, voice laced with annoyance, like he’s forced to take care of you. Keen on making you feel small, insignificant, like another soldier in his fleet. “You really have to make me do everything for you, huh? Can’t even jerk me off right either.”
“Colonel—” The title falls seamlessly, mewled under his touch. But it makes him tense more. Just the three syllables remind him where he is, who he’s with. In an instant, rage simmers in his veins again. He doesn’t bother to control it.
“Quiet.” He snaps, unrelenting in where his fingers prod. “Just… let me fucking use you.”
This is okay, he tells himself; he can’t feel you like this. Metal in warmth that bleeds into synthetic neurons, because he doesn’t want to feel you. Not when you started this. Not when you continue it. There’s no need to feel, just touch. It’s enough to just hear your cunt cry for him, sucking his fingers in deep with a filthy squelch of need. It’s enough to use you and suture any lingering feelings away. It’s enough because he still hates you, still wishes you were someone else.
“You’re so wet,” he groans, flicking your other hand away from his pulsing cock, stroking himself now, “Do all of EVER’s doctors get this wet for their patients or are you just a slut, hm?”
You have no response. Such crude words spill so easily from his lips, serving nothing but pushing you further to the edge. Your hips buck up into his hand, your own kneading and pinching your tits as you writhe. “M’close… d-don’t stop.” You plead.
“Gonna come? You’re really gonna come on your patient’s fingers? On something inhuman? You’re dirtier than I thought.” He muses, curling his torso above yours and meeting your helpless gaze. You feel the warm ribbons of pre-cum drip onto your stomach, adding to the pool of sweat and musk. “Go on then, come on my fingers and then I’ll fuck this slutty cunt, too.”
“Sl-slow down—fuck!” A sob tumbles from your lips, breath stuttering as pleasure shoots through your body uncontrollably. Trembling thighs clench shut around his wrist, knees wobbling and clasping together as the intense euphoria fizzles into your emptied mind. Your body throbs immediately, pushing at his abdomen as you pant out, “Fuck—shit, wait… ‘s too much…”
You hear a smile in his words when he responds, “Don’t tell me how to use you when you just came all over my hand like a whore.” Before you can come to, large hands are flipping you over onto your stomach, and you’re suddenly pinned under his heavy weight. Chest against back, arms caging you in by your head. And then you feel him. “I already told you I was gonna fill this messy hole. Unlike you, I keep true to my word.”
The leaky, blunt head of his cock nudges and kisses at your sore clit like a looming threat, and instinct calls for you to writhe away. An action he doesn’t let you do, pulling you back by your hips, gliding the thick length along your wetness, coating him completely. You feel it twitch against you like it feeds off your reactions. “You said you were going to help,” he leans over your prone form, breath hot against your ear, “I was even so nice to prep you myself, so stay still and take it.”
Pinning you down with an iron grip, you feel the crown of his dick split you open first. Your cunt spreads wide beyond anything you’ve ever dared to put in, fluttering as it accommodates his intrusion, drooling around his cock as he sinks the first few inches in, taking your breath along with it. You feel… full, stuffed with just the tip. A few more inches brimming into you tears a synchronized moan from your lips, heated puffs of his breath beating against your nape as he jerks his hips forward, somehow shoving more until you feel his hips snug against your ass, buried fully in your warmth.
“So big…” you breath, trying to adjust to the sheer size of him in and on top of you. Your bodies are both feverish, slicked with sweat that makes it all easier for him to slide against your body, fucking you into the mattress like an animal in rut. “Can’t,” you gasp out, burying your face into the sheets. “S too much…”
His weight falls fully on your back now, strong arms wrapping around your waist as he responds with a brutal snap into you. He pounds into you, rough, cruel. Driven by desire and instinct, pure biology that overrides any remaining logic. The way your gummy walls pulse around his cock, milking his length, has him grunting, voice drawling with need, “You’ll take it, this is all you’re good for, really.”
At his degrading words, your pussy flutters traitorously in delight. And he laughs, not a light laugh of humor or good fun, but in a dark octave that rumbles deep in his chest, and you feel the vibrations through your back, billows of embarrassment flooding through you.
“God, you’re such a whore.” He rasps, hips smacking against your ass in loud, shameless slaps, “Dirty fuckin’ slut, aren’t you? Would you get this wet for any patient? You like being a filthy doctor who gets fucked like this?”
Humiliation seeps into you, shooting straight to your pussy that works harder to milk his cock, proving his words to be true. You feel small, a doll under him, whining into the pillow as Caleb draws back slowly—tip sheathed, just enough for the cold air to rush, kissing the slicked skin of his dick before ploughing back in with a hiss.
The impact as he thrust back in cracks loudly through the room. An obscene, sloppy smack that jolts your entire body, echoing with your moans into the sheets, and causes the mattress and you to cry as you fuck your hips feverishly into him.
“F-fuck, your h-hips,” He croaks, pressing a hand into the space between your shoulder blades, “God, you feel so fucking good, I hate it. I hate you. Sh-shit, ha, fuck.”
Brutal thrusts are drilled straight into your g-spot, his heavy body mounting you like a rabid beast. Caleb fucks you carnally, heavy balls slapping against your clit and skin sticking lewdly against your ass with every messy smack of flesh on flesh. It’s impatient, nasty, and mean. Everything that Caleb has ever shown you fitting into your sopping pussy. There’s a filthy squelch that mixes between your bodies—a wet, obscene one that burns you inside.
Your cunt winds everything out of him, and the familiar coil in his stomach rushes up again, movements stuttering, balls tightening with the need to cum. He almost hates it; the way you pulse and flutter around him. The fact that it’s you wrapped warm and milking him so fucking perfectly. It’s all the more he needs to come, pressing his lips hot against your ear with a ragged groan.
“What if,” he pants over the lewd symphony, “I come inside this dirty cunt, huh? Fill my doctor up with hot cum and let all the soldiers see you like this. Let everyone see their precious doctor fucked out, dripping, and begging. Maybe we’ll even send some pictures to EVER, think you’ll still be the professor’s favorite then, hm?”
Your pussy answers where your mouth only forms his name in broken syllables, gooey walls tightening in prospects of being painted white with his seed. A betrayal of body, too susceptible to pleasure coursing through you.
“This pussy’s tellin’ me yes.” His voice, a condescending croon, pressed hot to your neck. “Let me hear from this dirty mouth, though. Come on, you want your patient to cum into your messy cunt? You like gettin’ dicked down?”
As if to punctuate his words, his right arm slithers between your clit and the mattress, rolling tight circles into the bundles of nerves like it’ll wrench answers out from swollen lips. The only thing it does is hurl you towards the precipice of looming euphoria, rattling in your bones, and melting your brain. You couldn’t give answers even if you tried. Your tongue feels heavy, mouth shaped into an ‘o’ every time he bottoms out, hips to ass as your stomach furls over itself in pleasure.
“Answer me.” He growls, rubbing you harder. His other hand snakes around to your neck, pulling your face from the sheets into the open air so your moans flow freely, the column of your throat hooking into the crook of his arm with the lightest squeeze of his broad bicep. Your pulse beats furiously under thick muscle, rabbiting under the pit of his elbow with your pitchy breaths. “Be a good slut and answer me. You want me to flood this pussy, huh? Wanna leak with my seed?”
“Y-yes!” You whine out, though his question doesn’t even register in your mind, too busy grinding out on his palm and drooling over the cage of his arm. “Fuck–fuck, ‘m close, ‘m gonna cum!”
“Yeah? Sh-shit, I really will come in you. A slut like you, getting tighter around my cock when I choke you like this.” Warm breath and tongue lap over your neck. Hips falter, pulling you closer, arm tightening around your neck, locking you in as he rolls heavy thrusts and bullies his tip right into that sweet spot with a stammering groan. Caleb feels it immediately—a white-hot shock, nerve detonating after nerve, chaos fleshing throughout his body. “Fuck—damn it, feels so good—god, I hate you—”
He hates you. Hates you. Hates you. Hates you so much that he’s cumming in you.
It’s suddenly too much.
His words, his cock, his biting touch. All of it adds to the spool of heat boiling in your guts, winding tight and ready to erupt. But it’s him spilling thick, hot torrents into your spasming walls that unravels you completely. Your world stumbles to a halt, breath catching in your throat, lips falling open in a silent scream as you tremble and shake beneath him. It feels like a calamity of ecstasy, slamming full force into your body that surrenders futilely beneath its gravity.
“Ca-Caleb!” You gasp, chanting his name, unable to form anything else but the rush of climax. “Oh,” you breathe out, “fuck.”
“H-ha, creamin’ all over me…” His chest rumbles with a groan, pushing his body into you and fucking his load deeper. His cum floods out from where you’re connected, overflowing from your stuffed cunt with filthy squelches, reluctant to let him go. “Shit, look at that…”
His weight is lifted over you as he rides out the high of pleasure, catching his breath against the slope of your shoulder. And for long seconds, the silence is filled with heavy gulps of oxygen like a quiet agreement to let the stillness linger. That is, until you break it.
“How… do you feel now?” Even to you, your breath sounds staggered and voice hoarse, almost foreign. Your eyes turn over your shoulder, scanning his appearance. Sweat paints his skin, illuminating him in the soft hue of blue light that refracts off right metallic and mahogany strands of hair that stick to his temple. Other than that, he seems… stable, mentally and physically. Vitals are good, save for erratic heart rate and heavy breathing, but you fare no better in that regard.
“M fine.” He mumbles, swaying back to watch his cock slip from your spent pussy with a quiet ‘pop,’ cum spewing from swollen folds, making you squirm in slight discomfort.
It feels like too much to think right now. There’s an ache that settles in your bones, and though his weight no longer presses you down, you feel the ghost of his warmth kissing your back like a phantom of pleasure. So you don’t say anything else, there is nothing else to say.
Again, a quiet—almost awkward—lingers in the air. The kind that’s gutted open to flood like a hollow abyss, and it’s enough to tell you that he isn’t open to discussion about what just happened. Even after your coital session, he’s closed up once more, recessing away like nothing’s happened.
The bed creaks as he moves, picking up the discarded clothes, slipping his back on; it feels like a mask falls over his face with every article of clothing that covers him. Black leather against moonlight and the Fleet’s insignia like a mocking sneer. Once again, he’s transformed into the cold colonel you’ve come to know.
“It goes without saying that no one needs to know about this.” The cap casts a shadow over his galactic irises, eyes falling to your form. His voice is stripped of the heat from moments ago, replaced by stoic octaves of practicality and efficiency. “I’ll deal with the perpetrator behind the crash in the Deepspace Tunnel, just stay out of my way for now. If I need you again, maybe then… we’ll see where that leads us.”
Eyes trained on the ceiling, in a body that feels like a stranger to yourself now, you take note of the implication. The door shuts. His steady gait echoes down the hallway.
And you are left alone—watched by the moonlight, and the company of energy thrumming in bated air.
— — —
Months later, you would come to know what it is that Caleb is devoted to.
It is not an idea nor a goal, but rather, you think it is a woman.
(You think and do not know because Caleb is a puzzle that you will never fully understand, with what information he withholds from you. And that is the conclusion you have no choice but to accept.)
The Caleb you know—or think you know—is not protective.
He is cold and calculating. He knows when to cut his losses and weaves through the world like it is a game of strategy. He is as frigid as the temperatures in the Deepspace Tunnels, as quick as a bullet, with a tongue as quip as the sharpest blade—these you know, because you have been on the receiving end more than once. You’ve never seen him hold a hand out to anyone or give a second glance to anything that holds him back.
But this Caleb—the side he shows to this new Fleet officer, turned trusted adjutant—is different. He treats her differently than he does Liam and you. No matter how he tries to hide it, you catch the tenderness in his gaze when it falls onto her and the darkness that clouds his eyes when someone speaks to her with a tone too sharp for his liking. To him, she is not just a soldier in the Fleet.
You know that Caleb likes her. Why or how, you don’t know—you’re positive that you will never know. It is a sliver of the moon that is untouchable to you.
But in your own mind, it’s just proof that you are right. Even Caleb Xia, Colonel of the Farspace Fleet, is more human than weapon.
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