Caleb's drunken confessions
Summary: Caleb can't hold his liquor, or his feelings for you. HEAVILY (!) INSPIRED BY THIS POST BY @heartyluv <3 Contains: Pre-relationship, smut, teeny bit of fluff, unprotected PIV sex, cunnilingus, Caleb is whiny and desperate, MALE WHIMPERS MY BELOVED, confessions and longing and pining and yearning aaaaaaa (also this is my first time writing something this long for caleb so lmk what you think of the characterization!) w/c: 2.3k
READ ON AO3
Your phone buzzes at 1:47 a.m. The name on the screen makes your stomach flip before you even read the message.
Gideon: [Hey. He's hammered and says he won't leave with anyone but you. Can you come get him? He's... not cooperating.]
You’re already grabbing your keys.
The bar is a dim hole-in-the-wall, and when you push through the door, the humid air hits you first, then the low thump of bass, then the sight of him.
Caleb is slumped over a high-top table in the corner, broad shoulders hunched, dark hair falling into his eyes. His jacket is half-off one arm like he tried to shrug it away and gave up. Gideon stands beside him, looking equal parts relieved and exhausted.
“He’s been asking for you since the third shot,” Gideon says, voice low. “After the sixth, he wouldn’t let anyone else near him. Yelled at some girl for talking to him, and me for trying to drag his ass out of here. Said something about ‘only pips gets to take me home.’”
"Thanks, Gideon," you say. "I've got him from here."
Caleb's head turns and his face lights up at the sound of your voice, glassy eyes locking onto yours immediately.
"Pips?" he asks, his voice cracking ever so slightly as he stumbles out of his chair, toward you. "You came…"
"Of course I did," you say. "Now c'mon, big guy, let's get out of here."
"You tryin'a take me home, pips?" Caleb slurs, whispering against your ear as you loop his arm over your shoulder. You just roll your eyes and start half-dragging him to the car.
"You look so pretty, holdin' onto me, pips," he says, now way too loud.
"Did you have a good time, I take it?"
"Was okay, but I missed you," he slurs, stumbling over his own feet. "I had this drink, pips, you'd love it, you gotta try it, do you wanna go get one? I'll get you any drink you want, anything you want."
"I think we ought to get you home."
While you drive him home, his hand finds your thigh and he starts muttering apologies - sorry for being a mess, sorry for making you come all this way, sorry he isn't being "big strong Caleb" for you, and sorry he keeps touching you - but… he certainly doesn't stop touching. His grip on your thigh near your knee seems to be barely controlled, his fingers digging into your flesh just shy of hurting.
When you get home and drag him inside, he stumbles over the threshold, grabbing onto your waist to steady himself. His feet seem to trip him up, and he wobbles where he stands, as if dizzy, but his hands on you are warm and steady. He grips you, pulling you in closer, pressing his forehead against yours.
"So pretty…" he murmurs, mouth but an inch from yours.
"Caleb…" you start, trying to pull away, but his grip on you tightens.
"I know," he slurs. "'M sorry, pips, I can't help it, jus' wanted to hold you like this for so long… just let me, 'kay? Just for a minute…"
"This is just the booze talking," you say, unsure if you're trying to convince him or yourself. Your heart hammers in your chest, and you should push him away, you should get him to lay down, get him water and aspirin and time to sober up and you should be hoping to forget about all this by morning, but…
"Tell me to stop, and I'll stop, pips," he whispers against your neck, his hot breath ghosting along your skin.
And you don't. You can't.
He stands more upright for a moment, those violet eyes searching yours for rejection, for any sign that you want this any less than he does. And when he doesn't find that, his lips find yours.
And it's hungry, it's immediately breathless and sloppy and desperate, and sounds pour from him like he's close to crying or cumming in his pants, or both, and he pulls you tight against him like he's scared you're going to float away.
“'M sorry, pips,” he mumbles against your lips, even as he walks you backward toward your bedroom. “'M so fucking sorry. Shouldn’t touch you like this. Shouldn’t want—” Another kiss, deeper, teeth grazing your bottom lip. “—but I do. Every day. Every day, for as long as I can—" and suddenly you're kissing him back, and he's whimpering against your lips, before he carefully pushes you back onto the bed, his body following you closely down.
He's so gentle, holding you close, his body surrounding yours but not caging, his weight against you is heavy but not suffocating. Even in his drunkenness, he is gentle and careful with you, like you're the most delicate, precious thing he's ever been allowed to touch.
His hands roam, and his touch is reverent, adoring. Under your shirt, calloused palms skating over skin, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. He shudders when you arch into the touch.
“Tell me you want this,” he pleads against your throat. Open-mouthed kisses trail fire down your neck. “Tell me or I stop, I swear.”
“I want it,” you gasp. “I want you.”
That breaks him.
He strips you with trembling reverence — shirt, bra, jeans — whispering apologies the whole time. Sorry for looking. Sorry for wanting. Sorry I waited so long. Sorry for—
"Caleb, you're not making much sense," you laugh.
"I know," he whines, trailing kisses down your stomach. "'m sorry, and I should be more sorry, but I don' care right now because you're here, and you're so warm and so pretty, and I just wanna…" his kisses trail down further, and suddenly you don't care about him making sense anymore, either.
His first kiss against your clit is nothing short of worshipful. His chest is heaving, his hot breath against your skin lights up every nerve ending in you, and when your hips shift ever so slightly into his touch, a choked moan rips from his chest.
"Last chance to stop me, pips," he barely chokes out, gazing up at you with blown pupils and mouth open.
You grab him by the hair and pull him in closer, and his eyes roll up into his head.
"Fuck, pips," he murmurs against your skin as his kisses turn to licking like his life depends on it, his tongue wide like he needed to taste as much of you at once as he could. "Tastes like heaven," he murmurs. "Shouldn't taste so good, shouldn't want his," he keeps muttering, so you grip his hair and pull him in closer, and he gets the hint.
His mind is singularly targeted, now, tongue stroking through slick heat, circling your clit with the focus of a man who’s adored you in secret for most of his life. He watches your face the whole time, cataloging every hitch of breath, every flutter of lashes. His hands grip your hips, strong arms wrapped under your thighs, his face following every squirming movement of yours, like he's locked in orbit with you.
"Gonna make you feel so good," he's whispering between your thighs. "You’re so wet, pipsqueak. God, I hope I remember this tomorrow,”
You thread your fingers through his hair and tug, hard. “Caleb, shut up. Don’t stop.”
He moans into you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine. He eats you out like it’s penance and worship at the same time —sloppy, fervent, every drag of his tongue laced with moans and whimpers that send you right to the edge.
When you cum, it’s sudden and shattering, thighs clamping around his head as you arch off the bed with his name on your lips. He works you through it, licking slower, softer, until you’re trembling and oversensitive.
He finally pulls back, face shiny and wet, eyes glassy and wild. “I’m sorry,” he whispers again, like he can’t help it. “Shouldn’t have—”
You sit up, grab the front of his shirt, and kiss him hard. You can taste yourself on his tongue, along with a lot of booze, and he makes a helpless noise into your mouth.
“Your turn,” you murmur against his lips.
His eyes widen. “What?”
“You keep saying you've been wanting this for so long...” You palm him through his jeans and he bucks into your hand with a choked sound. “Let me give you what you want.”
He makes a strangled noise that might be your name. He's nodding furiously, and his hands fly to his belt, fumbling so badly he curses under his breath. The button of his jeans pops open, and he's leaning so quickly to kiss you again that his teeth knock against yours, and you let out a breath of a laugh.
“Shit—sorry, I’m—fuck—”
"Caleb," you say, hand on his chest.
"Oh, god, pips, I shouldn't be doin' this, shouldn't—" his hands both grasp yours, holding it against his hammering heart.
"Caleb," you insist.
"Y-yeah?" he asks, eyes wide, lip pouting, looking like a puppy caught sneaking food but still asking for another treat.
"Lay down, baby," you whisper, kissing his cheek, and he complies immediately.
You help him shove his jeans and boxers down just enough. He’s thick and leaking, flushed dark at the tip. The sight of him makes your mouth water.
He’s still apologizing as you wrap your hand around him.
“Sorry, pips—shouldn’t ask you to—fuck—” His hips jerk when you stroke him once, slow. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” You lean in and kiss the tip of his weeping cock. “I want you.”
That breaks the last remnant of control in him. His eyes roll back in his head, his back arches into your touch, and a sob rips through him.
You straddle him, and his hands lock onto your hips, gripping tight enough to leave marks, and he's staring up at you wide eyed, pupils blown.
"Oh, pips," he pleads. "Please, pips, let me feel you, just once, please pips, please, please—"
You sink down onto him, slowly, and he gasps your name, looking up at you with those wrecked violet eyes, absolutely shaking, still pleading desperately for you.
You start to move upward, slowly, and his head falls back against the bed, mouth open in a silent gasp. Then you slide back down on him, and he starts babbling.
It's mostly uninterpretable, gasps and moans and slurred cries of "oh pips," but then:
“I love you,” he blurts. “Loved you since — fuck — since we were young. Shouldn’t say it like this, drunk and pathetic, but I can’t — can’t keep it in anymore. 'm sorry. ’m so fucking sorry, pips.”
You start moving quicker, rolling your hips against his in an attempt to shut him up, but he keeps on babbling.
"…So pretty like this, even better than I imagined, better than I — oh fuck, pips, I love you —shouldn’t be inside you like this — should’ve told you sober — shoulda been better, for you —fuck, you feel so good — shouldn't waited so long to tell you — shouldn't have just been stealing your panties for a taste of what I couldn't have — sorry I’m such a mess—”
"Okay, we're definitely gonna have to have a talk about that in the morning," you say with a chuckle as you grind harder on him.
"I know, fuck, 'm sorry pips, shoulda told you, I love you, pips, I love you…"
You kiss him quiet, rolling your hips in slow circles. “I love you too, idiot.”
He makes a broken, grateful sob, and starts thrusting up to meet you—clumsy at first, then harder, deeper, hands gripping your hips for leverage.
“Gonna—shit—gonna come too fast—'m sorry—”
“Don’t be sorry,” you whisper, nails digging into his shoulders. “Cum for me, Caleb.”
He buries his face in your neck, hips hammering at first, then stuttering, and he cums with a long, shuddering groan—your name, apologies, I love yous all tangled together. You feel him pulse inside you, hot and endless, until he’s trembling beneath you.
"Please," he rasps, hands moving, gripping your hips, along your waist, your thighs, as if even now he can't get enough of you. "Please keep goin', pips, use me, wanna see you cum on my cock…"
And who are you to deny him when he asks so nicely?
So you keep moving, and he tries desperately to thrust with you, his hips stuttering with no rhythm. The mixture of his cum and yours is soaking onto his hips and lower stomach, and his eyes roll back, face grimacing with overstimulation. But still, he whimpers, "please, pips, use me, cum on my cock, please," without end.
You grab his hand and move it to your clit, and his eyes shoot open, watching your every move, soaking in the look on your face and the moans falling from your lips as he furiously circles your clit.
"Please please please," he sobs, and the look on his face sends you crashing over the edge, whole body locking up. He picks up the slack when you struggle to move, and he works you through it slowly, murmuring sweet nothings and thank yous and I love yous against your hair when you collapse against him.
For a long minute you just hold each other, breathing hard.
Then he whispers in a small voice:
“…'m still sorry.”
You laugh softly, sitting up to kiss his temple. “I know. We’ll talk about it when you’re sober.”
He nods, already half-asleep, arms wrapped around you like he never wants to let go.
“Promise you won’t hate me tomorrow?” he mumbles.
“I could never hate you,” you whisper.
He sighs, long and content, and finally goes limp beneath you—still inside you, still murmuring softly even as he drifts off.
You stay there, stroking his hair, smiling against his chest.
Tomorrow he’ll wake up mortified.
And you’ll kiss him all over again.