For My Caleb ⋆⭒˚｡⋆✈
Welcum home gege!
Caleb is coming home today.
After months of only hearing his voice through crackling phone calls and seeing his face in pixelated video chats, your ge ge is finally returning to the apartment you share.
The apartment smells of ginger and garlic, steam rising from pots on the stove where you’re preparing his favorite dishes.
You’ve spent all morning cleaning, arranging, making everything perfect for his arrival. The cushions on the couch sit at precise angles. Fresh flowers—asiatic apple flowers, his favorite—brighten the coffee table. Everything must be perfect for Caleb’s return.
The sound of keys jingling outside the door makes your heart leap into your throat. You freeze, wooden spoon suspended over the bubbling pot, and then there’s the click of the lock turning. The door swings open.
Caleb stands in the doorway, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, his colonel’s uniform crisp despite the obvious fatigue weighing down his broad shoulders.
His dark hair is disheveled, as if he’s been running his fingers through it nervously during the journey home. Purple eyes—those unusual, striking eyes that always seem to see right through you—are rimmed with shadows that speak of too many sleepless nights. His jawline is darkened with stubble, giving him a rugged appearance that’s so different from his usually meticulous grooming.
“Ge ge!” The wooden spoon clatters against the countertop as you rush toward him, arms outstretched.
His duffel bag drops to the floor with a heavy thud. A tired smile cracks through the exhaustion on his face as he opens his arms to receive you. “Hey, Pips.”
You crash into him, burying your face against the stiff fabric of his uniform. He smells like airplane and coffee and apples. His arms wrap around you, strong and secure, lifting you slightly off the ground in a tight embrace.
“You’re finally home,” you mumble against his chest, then pull back to examine his face. Your fingers reach up to touch the dark shadows under his eyes, the rough stubble on his cheeks. “You look terrible.”
Caleb’s laugh rumbles through his chest. “Missed you too, brat.”
You press a kiss to his scratchy cheek, not caring about the roughness. “I’ve been cooking all day. All your favorites.”
“I can tell.” His gaze softens as he looks around the apartment, taking in all your preparations. “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”
“Of course I did.” You tug at his uniform jacket. “You worked overtime and through holidays just to take this whole month off. The least I can do is make sure you’re well-fed.”
He follows you into the apartment, his movements slower than usual, weighed down by fatigue. You can see the responsibility of command in the stiffness of his posture, the way his eyes automatically scan the room for threats even though he’s home now.
“It’s going to be amazing having you home until your birthday,” you say, returning to the stove to stir the simmering dishes. “A whole month of ge ge all to myself.”
“That was the deal, wasn’t it?” Caleb’s voice carries a hint of amusement as he loosens his tie. “You were very specific in your demands. ‘Don’t just come home for your birthday, stay the whole month or don’t come at all.’”
You turn to stick your tongue out at him. “I wasn’t that dramatic.”
“You absolutely were.” The corner of his mouth quirks up in that half-smile that always makes your stomach flip. “But I don’t mind. It gave me something to look forward to during all those extra shifts.”
A pang of guilt hits you. “Was it awful? The overtime?”
Caleb shrugs, rolling his shoulders as if trying to dislodge the weight that’s settled there. “Worth it to be home now.”
His eyes scan your face, something hungry in his gaze that makes your cheeks warm. “You look good, Pips. Missed seeing that face.”
You busy yourself with the food to hide the blush creeping up your neck. “Go shower, ge ge. You smell like recycled air and airplane food. Dinner will be ready when you’re done.”
“Are you saying I stink?” He feigns offense, but you can see the exhaustion starting to claim him, his eyelids growing heavy.
You gently push him toward the hallway. “I’m saying you’ll feel better after a hot shower and some real food. Go. I’ve got everything under control here.”
Caleb hesitates, and for a moment it seems like he might argue, but then he nods. “Fine, fine. But only because you asked so nicely.” He reaches out to ruffle your hair, his touch lingering just a second longer than necessary. “It’s good to be home, Y/N. Really good.”
As he disappears down the hallway, you return to your cooking, a warmth spreading through your chest that has nothing to do with the steam from the stove. You’ve been planning this month down to the last detail—how you’ll spoil him, care for him, make him forget the stress of his command. And his birthday... you have something special planned for that. Something that will show him exactly how much he means to you.
The sound of the shower starting up drifts from the bathroom, and you smile to yourself, humming as you add the finishing touches to dinner. It feels right having him back home, filling the empty spaces that seemed so much larger in his absence.
You can’t help but wonder if he feels it too—this pull between you that’s grown stronger with every passing year.
You shake the thought away, focusing on arranging his plate just so. Tonight is just about welcoming him home.
There will be time for everything else in the days to come.
A whole month of Caleb, all to yourself.
The anticipation of it buzzes beneath your skin like electricity, and you find yourself counting down the minutes until he returns from his shower, clean and warm and completely yours again.
“Caleb? Food’s ready!” Your voice bounces off the kitchen walls, met only with silence. You wait a moment, listening for the creak of his bedroom door, the heavy footfall of his steps in the hallway.
Nothing.
Turning down the heat on the stove, you press your lips together, considering. He must have fallen asleep after his shower—not surprising given the exhaustion etched into his face when he arrived. The thought of Caleb, finally home and vulnerable in sleep, stirs something protective in your chest.
You select his favorite serving dishes—the blue ceramic ones with white trim that Gran gave you both last Christmas—and arrange the food carefully.
Steam rises from the ginger chicken, the fragrance mingling with the garlic green beans and jasmine rice. A small dish of sliced mangoes adds a bright spot of color. Balancing the tray between both hands, you navigate through the apartment toward his bedroom.
The door is slightly ajar, a sliver of lamplight spilling into the hallway. You nudge it open with your hip, careful not to disturb the carefully arranged meal. “Ge ge? I brought you dinner since you didn’t—“
The words die in your throat. Caleb is sprawled across his bed, one arm flung overhead, the other resting across his stomach. He’s wearing only gray sweatpants and a white tank top that clings to the contours of his chest, still slightly damp from the shower.
His hair is tousled, darker than usual with lingering moisture. But it’s his face that catches and holds your attention—even in sleep, his brow is furrowed, lips pressed into a tight line as if he’s issuing commands in his dreams.
You set the tray down on his bedside table as quietly as possible, wincing when the silverware clinks softly against ceramic. Caleb doesn’t stir.
Up close, the shadows under his eyes seem even more pronounced, bruise-like crescents that speak of nights spent poring over mission briefings instead of sleeping.
A memory surfaces—you at twelve, jolting awake from a nightmare, tears streaming down your face. Caleb, fifteen and already so steady, sitting on the edge of your bed, his fingers combing through your hair as he whispered that everything would be okay, that he’d never let anything hurt you.
How many nights had he soothed you back to sleep over the years? And now, seeing him caught in whatever stress haunts his dreams, you want nothing more than to return that comfort.
Hesitantly, you lower yourself onto the edge of his mattress. The bed dips slightly under your weight, but Caleb remains lost in his troubled sleep.
You reach out, fingers hovering over his forehead before gently brushing against the furrow between his brows, trying to smooth away the tension there.
“Shh,” you whisper, though he hasn’t made a sound. “It’s okay, ge ge. You’re home now.”
Your fingers drift into his hair, still damp from the shower. It’s softer than it looks, thick strands sliding between your fingers as you trace slow, gentle patterns across his scalp. This close, you can smell his shampoo—sandalwood and something citrusy—mingling with the clean scent of his skin.
Caleb’s breathing changes almost imperceptibly, becoming deeper, more even. The tight line of his mouth softens, though the crease between his brows remains.
Without thinking, you lean down, pressing your lips to that worried line, a feather-light kiss meant to erase the tension there.
When he doesn’t wake, you grow bolder. Your lips brush his forehead, the arch of one eyebrow, then the other. Each touch is reverent, a silent thank you for everything he’s done for you, everything he is to you. You kiss his temple, the high curve of his cheekbone, the soft skin at the corner of his eye.
There’s something sacred in this moment—this quiet room, the soft lamplight, Caleb’s steady breathing beneath your ministrations.
You’ve never been this close to him while he’s sleeping, never studied the sweep of his eyelashes against his cheeks or noticed the tiny scar at his hairline. He looks younger like this, the weight of command temporarily lifted from his shoulders.
You press a kiss to the tip of his nose, smiling to yourself at how he would probably roll his eyes if he were awake. But he’s not awake, and there’s a freedom in that—the freedom to show him the tenderness that usually emerges in smaller ways. A cup of coffee placed at his elbow, his favorite meal prepared after a long day, a reassuring text when you know he’s stuck in meetings.
Just as your lips brush against the corner of his mouth, you feel movement. Caleb’s breathing changes, quickens. His eyelashes flutter against his cheeks.
Before you can pull away, his hand rises, fingers curling around the nape of your neck, then sliding up to cup your cheek.
Purple eyes, still hazy with sleep, blink open to meet yours. For a moment, confusion clouds his gaze, then recognition dawns.
“Y/N?” His voice is rough with sleep, deeper than usual. His thumb traces the curve of your cheekbone, touch so gentle it makes your heart squeeze.
“I—I brought you dinner,” you stammer, suddenly aware of how close you are, how intimate the position. Your face hovers inches above his, your hair creating a curtain around both your faces. “You fell asleep.”
Caleb doesn’t look at the food. His eyes remain fixed on your face, searching, his palm warm against your cheek. “You were kissing me.” It’s not a question.
Heat floods your face. “You looked like you were having a bad dream. I was just... I wanted to help. Like you always do for me.”
His expression softens, something tender and fierce flickering in his eyes. “My sweet Pips,” he murmurs, the pad of his thumb brushing across your lower lip in a touch so light you might have imagined it. “Always taking care of me.”
The air between you feels charged, electric. You should move away, put some distance between you, but you’re trapped by his gaze, by the warmth of his hand against your skin.
Time stretches, elastic and heavy with possibility. Caleb’s eyes drop to your mouth, and you forget how to breathe.
Caleb’s grip on your cheek tightens ever so slightly, his eyes suddenly wild with an emotion you can’t quite place. “Don’t go,” he whispers, voice cracking. “Please don’t leave me.”
His words carry the raw edge of fear, making your heart clench. This isn’t the confident, composed Caleb who left for the fleet months ago. This is a man haunted by something that followed him home.
“I’m not going anywhere, ge ge,” you assure him, covering his hand with yours. His skin is warm beneath your touch, knuckles rigid with tension. “I’m right here.”
He blinks rapidly, as if trying to clear away the remnants of his nightmare. “You were gone,” he murmurs, words slurring slightly. “I couldn’t find you. I looked everywhere, but you were just... gone.”
“It was just a bad dream.” You smooth back his damp hair, fingertips tracing his hairline. “See? I’m right here. Solid. Real.” You squeeze his hand for emphasis.
Caleb’s breathing steadies, but his eyes remain locked on your face with an intensity that makes your skin tingle. His thumb traces the curve of your lower lip, feather-light.
“Y/N,” he says, your name like a prayer on his tongue. Something shifts in the air between you, heavy with unspoken words.
Then he swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Kiss me.” The request comes out rough, almost desperate.
Your breath catches. It’s not an unusual request—you’ve pressed kisses to his cheek, his forehead, a thousand times before.
But something about the way he’s looking at you now makes it feel different. More significant. Still, you want to comfort him, to chase away whatever demons haunted his sleep.
Leaning forward, you press your lips gently to his cheek, feeling the slight scratch of stubble against your sensitive skin. His clean scent envelops you, familiar and comforting.
A soft whine escapes his throat, surprising you. Caleb doesn’t whine. He’s always in control, always composed. But now he sounds almost... needy.
“Not there, Pips...” His voice is strained, lower than you’ve ever heard it. His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. “Here.”
Before you can process what’s happening, he guides your face downward, tilting his chin up until your lips hover directly over his. Your eyes widen, meeting his—dark purple, almost black with some emotion you can’t name.
“Ge ge?” Your voice comes out small, uncertain.
“Please,” he whispers against your mouth, his breath warm and sweet. “I need this.”
And then his lips are pressed against yours, soft and insistent. A shock runs through you, electric and unfamiliar.
This is nothing like the chaste kisses you’ve exchanged before. This is something new, something that makes your heart stutter in your chest.
For a moment, you freeze, unsure what to do. You’ve never kissed anyone like this before—never had a reason to.
Caleb seems to sense your hesitation. His hand cradles the back of your head, thumb stroking soothing circles against your nape as his lips move gently against yours, teaching without words.
Tentatively, you begin to respond, mirroring the movement of his mouth. A sound of approval rumbles deep in his chest, encouraging you. His other hand comes up to frame your face, holding you in place as the kiss deepens.
When his tongue traces the seam of your lips, you gasp in surprise. Caleb takes advantage of your parted lips, his tongue dipping into your mouth to slide against yours. The sensation is foreign but not unpleasant—warm and wet and strangely intimate.
Your inexperience shows in the clumsy way your teeth occasionally click against his, in the excess of saliva that makes the kiss messier than you suspect it should be. But Caleb doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, your awkwardness appears to spur him on. His tongue tangles with yours, coaxing you into a rhythm that grows more heated by the second.
Your hands, uncertain where to rest, finally settle on his chest. Beneath your palms, you feel the solid wall of muscle, the rapid thud of his heart. The thin fabric of his tank top does little to mask the heat of his skin. Your fingers curl instinctively, gripping the material as the kiss becomes more demanding.
The sensation is overwhelming—Caleb’s taste, his scent surrounding you, the feel of his hands cradling your face as if you’re something precious.
Your lungs begin to burn, reminding you that you’ve forgotten to breathe. With a gasp, you pull back, breaking the kiss.
“I—I need air,” you pant, chest heaving. Your lips feel swollen, sensitive, and a strange warmth pools low in your belly.
Caleb’s eyes are half-lidded, his breathing just as ragged as yours. His gaze drops to your mouth, tracking the movement as you unconsciously lick your lips, tasting him there.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, though he doesn’t look sorry at all. “Got carried away.”
Before you can respond, he’s nudging you forward again, his hand firm on the back of your neck. “Just a little more,” he pleads, voice rough with need. “Please, Pips. I’ve missed you so much.”
Something in his tone makes it impossible to refuse. You lean in again, and this time when your lips meet his, you’re marginally more prepared.
The kiss is still sloppy, still inexperienced, but there’s an eagerness to it now—a curiosity about this new territory you’re exploring together.
Caleb groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating between you. His hand slides from your face to your shoulder, then down to your waist, gripping you firmly. Each point of contact burns through your clothing, leaving your skin hypersensitive.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against your lips between kisses. “Such a good girl for me.”
The praise sends an unexpected thrill through you. You’ve always sought his approval, basked in his compliments, but this feels different—heavier. You press closer, wanting to please him, to be whatever he needs.
The kiss grows more frantic, your tongues battling for dominance in a war you’re destined to lose.
Caleb’s experience is evident in the confident way he controls the pace, alternating between deep, probing kisses that make your toes curl and gentler nibbles at your lower lip that draw unexpected sounds from your throat.
When you pull away again, desperate for oxygen, a thin strand of saliva connects your lips before breaking.
In any other circumstance, you might be embarrassed by the messiness of it all, but the dazed, hungry look in Caleb’s eyes makes such concerns seem trivial.
“Ge ge,” you whisper, voice shaky. Your hands are still fisted in his tank top, knuckles white with tension. The fabric has stretched under your grip, revealing more of his collarbone, the defined muscles of his chest. “I don’t—I’ve never—“
“I know,” he cuts you off, pressing his forehead against yours. His breath fans across your face, coming in quick, uneven bursts. “Your first. I’m your first.” There’s something possessive in his tone, almost triumphant.
His thumb brushes your bottom lip, now tender from his kisses. “There’s more I want to show you, Pips,” he says softly, eyes never leaving yours. “Will you let me?”
“More?” The word feels weighty on your tongue, full of possibilities you don’t fully understand.
Something has shifted between you and Caleb—a line crossed that you didn’t even know existed until now.
But the vulnerability in his eyes, the lingering fear from his nightmare, makes you want to give him whatever he needs. “What do you want me to do?”
Caleb’s hands slide to your waist, his grip firm but gentle. “Come here,” he murmurs, guiding you with a subtle pressure. “Sit on my lap.”
You blink, unsure. “Like when I was little?”
A shadow of something crosses his face—not quite a smile, not quite a grimace. “Not exactly like that, no.”
He tugs you forward, positioning you so that you’re hovering above him. “I want you to straddle me, Pips.”
Heat flushes your cheeks at the unfamiliar instruction, but you comply, allowing him to arrange your legs on either side of his hips. The position feels strangely intimate, your knees pressed against the mattress, your weight settling over his middle.
“Like this?” you ask, suddenly self-conscious about your body in a way you’ve never been around Caleb before.
“Perfect,” he breathes, his hands settling on your thighs, fingers splayed wide. The heat of his palms seeps through the thin fabric of your pajama shorts. “You’re always so good for me.”
The praise warms you from within, chasing away some of your uncertainty. This is Caleb—your ge ge, your protector, the one constant in your life.
If this is what he needs, you want to give it to him.
His expression grows serious, a furrow forming between his brows. “That nightmare... it wasn’t the first.” His voice drops lower, almost as if he’s speaking to himself.
“They started after the Taurus mission. We lost two planes. Good pilots, both of them.” His hands tighten on your thighs, not painfully, but enough to communicate his distress. “But the worst ones are always about you.”
You place your hands on his shoulders, wanting to comfort him. “What happens? In the nightmares about me?”
Caleb’s eyes darken. “You disappear. Sometimes you’re taken, sometimes you just... fade away while I’m reaching for you.” His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard.
“I can’t protect you. I can’t find you. I call and call but you never answer.”
“Oh, ge ge.” Your heart aches for him. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
His hands slide up to your hips, thumbs tracing small circles that make your skin tingle even through your clothes.
“You want to help gege feel better, right?” His voice has taken on a honeyed quality, smooth and persuasive.
“Of course I do.” The answer comes instantly, without thought. You’ve always wanted to make Caleb happy, to repay him for all the ways he’s cared for you.
“Such a sweet girl,” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. There’s something else there—something hungry.
“Do you trust me, Y/N?”
You nod without hesitation. “Always.”
His hands tighten on your hips. “Then let me show you how to make us both feel good.”
Before you can ask what he means, Caleb shifts beneath you, lifting his hips slightly. Then, with gentle but firm pressure, he guides your hips forward, creating a slow, rocking motion.
The first slide of your body against his sends a jolt of something electric up your spine. You gasp, startled by the unexpected sensation.
Through the thin fabric of your pajama shorts and the soft cotton of his sweatpants, you can feel him—hard and hot against the most intimate part of you.
“Caleb?” Your voice comes out higher than intended, questioning.
“Shh, it’s okay.” His eyes are half-lidded, focused on your face with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken. “Just keep moving like this.”
He demonstrates again, guiding your hips in a slow, rhythmic motion that creates a delicious friction between your bodies.
Heat blooms between your legs, a strange, pulsing sensation unlike anything you’ve felt before. Each roll of your hips sends another wave of it washing through you, making your breath catch.
You can feel yourself growing damp, a slick warmth that’s embarrassing.
“That’s it,” Caleb encourages, his own breathing growing uneven. “God, you feel so good, Pips.”
The praise spurs you on. Your hands find purchase on his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart beneath your palm.
The thin white fabric of his tank top has ridden up slightly, exposing a strip of taut abdomen. Your fingers unconsciously curl into the material, seeking stability as the sensations intensify.
“Ge ge,” you breathe, uncertain how to articulate what you’re feeling. “This is... I feel strange.”
Caleb’s eyes darken, pupils dilating until only a thin ring of purple remains. “Strange how?” His voice has dropped an octave, gravelly and thick.
“I don’t know. Hot. And there’s this... pressure.” Your hips continue their motion, guided by his hands but moving more of their own accord now. “Here.”
Without thinking, you grab his wrist and move his hand between your legs, pressing his palm against the source of the aching sensation.
A sound escapes him—half groan, half growl—and his fingers flex against you, applying a pressure that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. “Fuck, Y/N.” The curse falls from his lips like a prayer.
The unfamiliar hardness pressing against you shifts, growing more prominent. Through the layers of clothing, you can feel the outline of him—thick and long, nestled against your inner thigh.
Each rock of your hips slides your slick, throbbing center along his rigid shaft, creating a delicious friction that builds the molten tension coiling deep in your core.
“Is this—am I doing it right?” you ask, suddenly uncertain. You’ve never done anything like this before, never felt these sensations.
Caleb’s face is flushed, his breathing labored. “You’re doing perfectly,” he assures you, voice strained. His hands return to your hips, pressing you down more firmly against him as he rolls up to meet you. “So perfect for me.”
The increase in pressure makes you whimper, the sound surprising even yourself. “Caleb, I—I don’t know what’s happening to me.”
His expression softens, though the hunger in his eyes remains. “It’s supposed to feel good, Pips. Do you want to stop?”
The thought of stopping now, of losing this new, building sensation, is almost painful. And the look on Caleb’s face—flushed and desperate and needing—makes the decision easy.
“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “No, I want to make you feel good.”
Relief washes over his features, followed by something darker, more possessive. “My sweet, innocent girl,” he murmurs, one hand sliding up to cup your cheek. “Always so eager to please me.”
His thumb traces your lower lip, still sensitive from his earlier kisses. “Keep moving, then,” he instructs, guiding your hips once more into that slow, sensual rhythm. “Let ge ge show you how good we can make each other feel.”
The heat between your legs intensifies with each roll of your hips, a slick wetness building that makes the friction both easier and somehow more overwhelming.
Your pajama shorts cling to you now, dampening with each movement. Mortification washes over you as you realize what’s happening to your body—this unfamiliar response that you can’t control.
Heat crawls up your neck, flooding your cheeks as embarrassment mingles with the strange pleasure building inside you.
“What’s wrong?” Caleb murmurs, noticing the change in your expression. His hands never stop guiding your hips, maintaining that hypnotic rhythm that’s turning your insides to liquid heat.
“I—I don’t—“ You can’t find the words to express your embarrassment, to tell him that something is happening to your body that you don’t understand.
Instead, you duck your head, burying your face in the crook of his neck. The clean scent of his skin envelops you, familiar and comforting despite the unfamiliar situation.
Against his neck, you continue the motion he taught you, your hips moving in slow circles that press your core against his hardness.
The position hides your burning face but brings your bodies even closer together. You can feel the thundering of his pulse against your lips, taste the salt of his skin.
Caleb’s arms wrap around you, strong and secure. One large hand splays across your lower back, keeping you pressed against him, while the other slides up to cradle the back of your head. His fingers thread through your hair, gentle at first, then tightening just enough to send a shiver down your spine.
“You’re hiding from me now?” His voice carries a hint of amusement, but underneath it is something darker, hungrier. His chest vibrates against yours as he speaks, the sensation oddly intimate.
“Feeling shy, Pips?”
You whine softly against his skin, the sound muffled. The hand in your hair tugs lightly, forcing you to lift your head and meet his gaze.
His eyes are dark with desire, pupils blown wide, but there’s tenderness there too—the familiar protective look that has always made you feel safe.
“Tell me what you’re feeling,” he coaxes, his thumb brushing along your jawline. “No secrets between us, remember? That’s always been our rule.”
The gentle reminder of your long-standing pact makes your resistance crumble. Still, the words come out in an embarrassed whisper.
“I think I—I peed a little.”
For a moment, Caleb looks confused. Then understanding dawns in his eyes, followed by a flash of something that looks almost like hunger.
His gaze drops to where your bodies meet, taking in the darkened fabric of your shorts, the evidence of your arousal clearly visible.
A slow smirk curves his lips, transforming his face into something almost predatory. “Oh, sweetheart,” he says, voice dropping to a register that makes your stomach flip. “That’s not pee.”
Before you can ask what he means, his hands are on your hips again, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he pulls you down harder against him. The increased pressure draws a gasp from your lips, the sensation almost too intense.
“You’re wet for me,” he continues, rolling his hips up to meet yours with newfound urgency. “Your body is getting ready for me. It’s natural. It happens when you’re excited... when you’re happy to make gege feel good.”
His words make little sense to you, but the pressure inside you builds with each thrust, making coherent thought increasingly difficult.
Caleb’s hand slides from your hair to your neck, tilting your head to expose the sensitive skin there. His lips find your pulse point, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss that makes you shudder.
“Caleb—“ His name falls from your lips like a question, but you’re not sure what you’re asking for.
He responds by nipping at your skin, then soothing the sting with his tongue. The sensation sends a jolt straight to your core, making you press down harder against him instinctively.
His mouth works its way up your neck, leaving a trail of what will surely be visible marks—a claim written on your skin.
“So innocent,” he murmurs against your throat, his breath hot. “So perfect.” His teeth graze your earlobe, drawing another whimper from you. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to see you like this.”
The hand on your lower back slides under the hem of your shirt, his palm hot against your bare skin. His touch traces the bumps of your spine, mapping territory he’s never explored before. Each new point of contact sets your nerves alight, adding to the mounting tension building between your legs.
“You feel it, don’t you?” he asks, his voice rough with need. “That wetness, that heat—it’s your body telling you that this feels good. That this is right.”
You nod helplessly, unable to deny the pleasure coursing through you, however confusing it might be.
“Good girl,” he praises, the words sending a fresh wave of heat through you. “It happens to me too, you know.”
He guides one of your hands between your bodies, pressing your palm against the hard length straining against his sweatpants. “Feel that? I get hard for you. Wet in my own way.”
The unfamiliar hardness beneath your palm throbs, and Caleb groans, the sound primal and deeply masculine.
A rush of pride flows through you at the realization that you’re causing this reaction in him—that you have this power.
“This is normal,” he continues, his educational tone at odds with the desperate way his hips press up into your touch. “When two people care about each other, their bodies respond like this. It’s how we show each other how much we want to be close.”
The explanation, however simplified, soothes some of your embarrassment. If Caleb says it’s normal, then it must be.
He’s always taken care of you, always taught you what you needed to know. This is just another lesson—a new way of being close to him.
“So I’m not... broken?” you ask hesitantly, still rolling your hips against his in that delicious rhythm he taught you.
Caleb’s laugh is soft, almost reverent. “No, baby. You’re perfect.” His thumb brushes across your cheek, wiping away a tear you didn’t realize had fallen. “Your body is just waking up, learning what feels good.”
His other hand tightens on your hip, guiding you into a slightly different angle that makes you gasp as a new point of pressure hits exactly where you need it.
“And I’m going to teach you everything,” he promises, voice dropping to a whisper. “Every single way to feel good. Would you like that?”
The intensity in his eyes should frighten you, but instead, it makes the coil of heat in your belly wind tighter. You nod, unable to look away from his hungry gaze.
“Use your words, Pips,” he urges, his hips stilling beneath you, denying you the friction you’ve come to crave. “Tell me you want me to teach you.”
“Yes,” you whisper, then louder when his hand tightens in warning. “Yes, I want you to teach me, ge ge. Please.”
His smile is triumphant, almost feral. “Such a good, obedient girl for me.” His hips resume their motion, harder now, more insistent. “Now show me how well you’ve learned your first lesson. Show me how those pretty hips can move.”
Something inside you is building—a tight, coiling tension that grows more urgent with each roll of your hips against Caleb’s hardness.
Your movements become less controlled, more instinctive, your body chasing a feeling you don’t fully understand. Beneath you, Caleb watches with hooded eyes, his hands guiding your rhythm but allowing you to set the pace.
You’re learning your own power now, discovering how to move to maximize the delicious friction where your bodies meet.
“That’s it,” he encourages as you increase the tempo, grinding down harder against him. The damp fabric between you creates a slick, obscene sound with each movement. “You’re doing so well, Pips.”
The praise sends another surge of heat through you. Your fingers dig into his shoulders for leverage as you rock faster, more desperately.
The sensation between your legs has intensified to an almost unbearable degree—pleasure bordering on something else, something overwhelming.
“Ge ge,” you gasp, voice high and breathy. “I feel good but... funny. Something’s happening.”
Caleb’s eyes darken further, his grip on your hips tightening enough to leave marks. “Keep going,” he urges, his own voice strained. “Don’t stop. Let it happen.”
You obey, unable to do anything else as your body drives you forward, seeking something just beyond your understanding.
The coil inside you winds tighter, tighter, making your thighs tremble with the effort of maintaining your rhythm.
Caleb’s control begins to slip. His hips buck up to meet yours with increasing force, the gentle guidance from before replaced by something more primal. A grunt escapes him, deep and masculine, as he presses you down harder against his length.
“You’re close,” he says, the words coming through gritted teeth. “I can feel it. You’re going to cum for me, aren’t you?”
You don’t understand the term, but you nod anyway, desperate for whatever release he’s promising.
“Please,” you whimper, though you’re not sure what you’re begging for.
One of Caleb’s hands slides from your hip to the small of your back, pressing you forward so that your upper bodies are flush against each other.
The new angle changes everything—suddenly the friction is directly against that sensitive bundle of nerves you didn’t even know existed until tonight. A strangled cry escapes you at the intensity.
“That’s it,” Caleb growls, his mouth finding the junction of your neck and shoulder. “Right there.”
His teeth graze your skin, then bite down—not hard enough to break skin, but with enough pressure to send a shock of sensation straight to your core.
The slight pain mingles with pleasure in a way that makes your head spin. Your movements grow erratic, desperate, as the tension builds to an almost unbearable level.
Something is happening to you—something monumental and frightening and wonderful all at once.
“Caleb,” you gasp, panic edging into your voice. “Something’s happening—I can’t—“
“Let go,” he commands, his voice rough with his own need. “Cum for me, Y/N. Now.”
“Caleb!” you cry out, your back arching as the tension finally snaps.
Waves of pleasure crash through your body, radiating from your core outward to the tips of your fingers and toes.
Your hips jerk involuntarily, grinding erratically against Caleb as pulses of intense sensation rock through you. It‘s overwhelming, almost frightening in its intensity, yet so exquisite you never want it to end.
Your entire body shudders, muscles contracting and releasing in a rhythm beyond your control.
Through the haze of your pleasure, you hear Caleb’s voice, low and urgent, “That‘s it, that’s it. Let go for ge ge. Show me how good it feels.”
His hands grip your hips again, guiding your movements through the waves of your release, prolonging the sensations until they border on too much.
You’re dimly aware that you’re making sounds—little whimpers and moans that would mortify you if you had any capacity for embarrassment right now.
But all that exists is the pleasure and Caleb—Caleb’s hands on your body, Caleb’s voice in your ear, Caleb’s hardness beneath you.
As the most intense sensations begin to ebb, you collapse against his chest, your forehead resting on his shoulder as you gasp for breath. Your body continues to twitch with aftershocks, little pulses of pleasure that make you shiver in his arms.
Beneath you, Caleb is tense, his muscles rigid as stone. His breathing is harsh against your ear, and when he speaks, his voice has a strained quality you’ve never heard before.
“Such a good girl,” he praises, one hand stroking up and down your spine in long, soothing motions. “So perfect for me.”
The praise makes you glow despite your exhaustion. You nuzzle closer into his neck, inhaling his scent, which now mingles with something musky and new.
His hips shift restlessly, and you realize he’s still hard—harder than before, if that’s possible. Acting on instinct, you begin to move again, slower now but with purpose.
“Want to make you feel good too,” you murmur against his skin.
His response is a groan that seems torn from somewhere deep inside him. His hands return to your hips, guiding you in a rhythm that’s more deliberate than before.
The fabric between you is thoroughly soaked now, creating a slick, almost frictionless glide that still somehow generates waves of renewed pleasure.
You’re oversensitive after your release, each movement sending shockwaves through your already trembling body, but you don’t stop. You want—need—to give Caleb the same pleasure he’s given you.
“Fuck,” he hisses, the curse sounding foreign on his usually controlled tongue. “Pips, you’re going to—I can’t—“
His words dissolve into a groan as his body goes rigid beneath you. His fingers dig almost painfully into your hips as he grinds up against you one final time, holding you firmly against him as he shudders.
You feel a new warmth spreading between you, different from your own wetness, and Caleb’s face contorts in what almost looks like pain but you somehow know is pleasure.
For several long moments, neither of you move. The only sound in the room is your mingled breathing, gradually slowing as you both come down from your respective highs.
Caleb’s hands eventually loosen their grip on your hips, one sliding up to stroke your hair with surprising tenderness.
“Come here,” he murmurs, gently lifting you off his lap and laying you beside him on the bed.
The movement separates your bodies, and for the first time, you see the evidence of what just happened—a large dark spot on the front of his sweatpants, matching the dampness on your shorts.
Heat floods your cheeks as embarrassment crashes over you. “I—I’m so sorry,” you stammer, mortified. “I think I peed on you or something. I didn’t mean to—“
“Shh,” Caleb soothes, pressing a finger to your lips. There’s amusement in his eyes, but it’s warm, not mocking. “You didn’t pee on me, Pips. That wetness was your body’s way of showing how good you felt. And this—“ he gestures to the dark spot on his own pants, “—this is my fault. The inside of my pants are wet too.”
“They are?” you ask, confusion mingling with curiosity.
“Mmhmm,” he confirms, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. “It happens when the stress and nightmares leave my body. When I feel really, really good. You helped me release all that tension.”
Your embarrassment fades, replaced by a strange pride. You made Caleb feel better. You chased away his nightmares. “So... we both got wet?”
His smile widens. “Something like that. Wait here.”
Caleb rises from the bed, moving with a slight stiffness to the adjoining bathroom. You hear water running, and he returns moments later with a warm, damp washcloth.
With unexpected tenderness, he sits beside you on the bed and gently cleans your thighs, his touch careful and reverent.
“Lift up,” he instructs softly, and when you raise your hips, he tugs your damp shorts down just enough to wipe away the stickiness between your legs.
The cloth is warm against your sensitive skin, and his touch is so gentle it brings tears to your eyes, though you couldn’t explain why.
When he’s finished with you, he quickly cleans himself, then tosses the cloth toward the bathroom door.
He settles back beside you on the bed, pulling you into his arms so your head rests on his chest. His heartbeat is strong and steady beneath your ear, a comforting rhythm that makes your eyelids grow heavy.
“Did I make you feel better?” you ask, your voice small in the quiet room.
Caleb’s arms tighten around you, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head. “Better than I‘ve felt in a very, very long time,” he assures you, his voice warm with affection.
A smile curves your lips as satisfaction settles in your bones.
You made your gege feel better. You chased away his nightmares. And in doing so, you discovered something new and wonderful that you already know you’ll want to experience again.
Comment to join the taglist!
@littlewhitefairy7777 @celaenaglynn @mothmans-left-nipple @lotusapple-xia @gflscer @swiggitty-swoogity @aoomiines @puchu-puchuu @fulldoves @goobermi6 @typicalme23 @teira-osairis @vy-olet @calebsbabyapple @xyzyogurt @earthtohoney @skyekudasai @kalydos @navvzy @tempeststhings @young-adult-summer @remnantsofgildedcages @applebite01 @vatarvaliantchaosvalkyrie @applarchve @hangingwiththestars @thisaintviolet69 @asilaydead @snowapples-stuff @calebsmeimeii @cherrysherryblossom @mindelicious1 @nansfyy @ccoeurhee @tomriddleslovergirl @beelpita
