Maps can I wake up Caleb in the middle of the night to fuck
Yes you can, anon.
We like whimpering, slow-fuqin, begging, cum-drunk, biting, sloppy Caleb, don’t we? Urgh fuck he’s so hot like this. 18+ stuff aka p0rn (creampie incoming). Got carried away sorry. Fem!reader:
Waking up Caleb to fuq
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁
You wake up in the middle of the night—nothing but the weight of him next to you making your body ache. He’s dead asleep, chest rising slow, breath ghosting over your hair. The blanket hides half his face, but the second you poke his nose, one eye cracks open.
“Mmmh… what’re you playin at, pips?” he hums, voice thick with sleep, pulling you closer until his chest presses tight to your back.
His hand drifts lazy at first—stroking your hip, your stomach—like he’s still half-dreaming. But then he finds your cunt, already dripping for him, and the sleep burns right off. Thumb circling slow, his nose buries into your neck, breathing you in.
You sneak a hand back, over his abs, down into the sheets. He’s hard as stone. He groans low in your ear, nips your shoulder. “Y’know you don’t gotta wake me for this. Always ready for you…”
He grins against your skin, while your hand brushes his cock, and he groans—deep, low…. “Shhhhit… already hard for you. Didn’t even know I was dreamin’.”
His cock slides between your thighs, thick and heavy, pressing right against you. He doesn’t slam in—doesn’t rush. Just pushes slow, and his hand stays at your clit, teasing, while he mouths at your neck.
It’s lazy—him whimpering into your neck every time your walls clench around him. “Hhhhnn—f-fuck, pips—hah—don’t stop… could stay like this forever…”
Every thrust drags, deep and slow, sweat-slick and desperate, like he’d happily fuck you until morning without ever picking up the pace. Just soaking in the sound of your breath, your slick mixing, your little noises, his name gasped into the dark.
And when you finally start shaking apart, he’s right there with you—biting down on your shoulder, grinding in deep, whimpering into your skin.
He’s panting, drool slicking down your throat as he licks and smears it with his tongue. Caleb can’t get enough of you. Every thrust gets sloppier, hips grinding. Trying to fuse you together.
“Fffuck—hah—oh my god, pips—” he whimpers, sucking spit off your shoulder, biting when you clench. He drags his tongue up your jaw, then sloppily mouths at your lips, breath hot and broken.
When he finally spills inside you, it doesn’t end. He groans, grinding into you like he can push himself deeper, keep it from slipping out.
“D-don’t—ahh fuck—don’t let me go yet,” he begs, forehead pressed to your shoulder, voice cracking. “Please, pips—keep me in… just a little longer… feels so goood…ohhh, please…”
And he stays like that, cock softening inside you, hips still moving in slow, broken circles. Whining. Panting. Completely ruined. Breath hitching, body trembling.
“Fffuck—pips… ohhh god, oh my god—” he babbles, hips giving weak little ruts even though he’s spent. “P-please… j-just a little more—can’t—hahhh—can’t stop…”
His voice cracks, muffled into your hair. “Stay… please… don’t push me out… c-can’t breathe without you like this…”
You feel his lips drag along your jaw, sticky kisses smearing spit, his words tumbling over themselves:
“Sweetest little cunt—hah—you’re mine, mine, mine—so warm—shit—don’t ever leave me, pips—swear I’ll fuck you ‘til the sun comes up, swear I’ll never—fuck—never let go—”
He whimpers when you tighten around him again, clutching you tighter, eyes rolling back. “Ahhhnnnh—ohhh, you’re milking me, pips—f-fuck—lemme give you more, please—”
And then, a broken filthy little truth:
“…’m so drunk on you… can’t even think straight… pips—hah—you’re all I know now…”
Details: 200 words of pure Caleb fluff and pillow talk.
If you’ve gone to bed before Caleb, he always starts the same way. Quiet footsteps, the kind that barely disturb the air. He leans in, and without a word, presses his forehead to yours—just for a moment. Measuring your warmth. Checking if you’re running hot, or if maybe he just missed you that much.
Then his lips find your temple. A kiss like punctuation. Gentle. Necessary.
If you’re curled on your side, he doesn’t hesitate. He slides in behind you like he was always meant to be there. An arm over your waist, chest to your back. No space left between.
He kisses the nape of your neck, slow and careful at first. Then again. And again. Soft, scattered kisses, like he can’t help himself—like your skin is gravity and his mouth’s just answering the pull.
He tries not to wake you—he really does—but between those kisses, the words slip out anyway, broken up by breath and lips against your skin.
“You looked so peaceful…”
kiss
“…I almost stayed in the doorway.”
kiss
“You make this place…”
kiss
“…feel like home.”
kiss
“I don’t know what I did…”
kiss
“…to deserve you.”
kiss
“Even your breathing…”
kiss
“…sounds like a song.”
Each word barely more than a whisper. Each kiss a confession. And he’s still trying not to wake you—but gods, he needs you to know.
✧ Caleb doesn’t just “cuddle.” He engulfs. You’re under him, under his weight, pinned like a lil plushie. Your legs are toast.
✧ He runs hot. Like borderline furnace. You’re sweating, trying to wiggle free, and he’s just whining: “Nooo, stayyy pipsqueak… don’t be mean…”
✧ His favorite spot? Nose pressed against your neck, lips brushing every time he mumbles. He drools there.
✧ He’ll rock you. Not in a sexy way (who am I kidding everything he does is sexy)—more like a restless animal trying to self-soothe. You end up half-asleep on his chest 10/10 times.
✧ He often pretends he’s asleep just so he can feel you kiss his hair.
✧ Loves spooning… but he can’t keep still. Legs twitch. Hips grind. You’re like “Caleb. We are trying to SLEEP.” He groans.
✧ If you ever face him in bed, you’re done. He’ll just stare. Whisper random heartachingly sweet and teasing stuff. Then kiss your forehead like he’s solved life.
“Pips… did you know your lashes are seven millimeters long? …huh? No… don’t ask how I measured.”
“… you’re literally the whole reason I believe in statistics—cause the odds of finding you had to be zero.”
“If you keep looking at me like that, I’m never sleeping again...”
Aaaaa I had so much fun with this. Thank you anon 🥹🌸
Fluff, cooking and just pure comfort incoming, gn!reader
‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓐐𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅
Caleb cooking for you is kinda dangerous because it feels less like dinner and more like being loved within an inch of your life.
He starts—rolling up his sleeves, apron tied sloppy, wooden spoon in his hand. Hums while he chops, keeps glancing back at you on the counter like you have the recipe behind your irises.
Then it gets so soft. He pulls you in behind him while he’s chopping, your arms tucked around his middle, his back warm and solid against your chest. He makes you taste everything—dips the spoon, blows on it, and holds it out. “C’mon, pips. Aaaahn.”
Yes. He makes airplane noises. And yes, he asks for landing permission like the absolute menace he is: “Tower control, permission to land in hangar? Over.”
Every reaction you give him—eyes going wide, lips smacking, a surprised hum—he meeeelts. Watches your face like you’re the michelin inspector of his heart. If you smile, he grins. If you giggle, he laughs too, chest warm, eyes crinkled. If you close your eyes to savor it, he just… stares. Like he can’t believe you’re his.
He wipes a bit of sauce from your lip with his thumb, and instead of cleaning it on a towel—yup, he sucks it off his thumb, watching you the whole time.
By the time the food’s on the table? He’s way too invested in you eating. Chin propped in his hand, smile so soft it hurts. He’s not even touching his own plate. Just spoon-feeding you little bites like “for the pilot’s favorite passenger” kissing your temple in between.
And when you’ve finished—when you’re warm and full and glowing—he just gathers you up, pulls you into his lap on the couch, arms locked around you like a vice. His voice is low, sheepish but happy:
“Pipsqueak… Promise me you’ll let me feed you forever. Wedding day, sleepy mornings, nursing home naps—please … Even when we’re cranky and old and can’t remember our own names…. When we’re embarrassed and everyone thinks we’re weird—especially then.”
Ahoy! Hormonal ramble about how Caleb survives without the real deal and ends up fetishizing his own mecha arm. He’s pathetic. Think numb metal jerking + toy hoarding + “I thought I’d never get the real thing”. I trailed off here sorry lmao. 18+ mdni ples and thanku
・ෆ・ Does Caleb collect toys like he collected model planes?
One thing I keep circling back to is whether Caleb’s a full-on collector of toys or if he just… doesn’t bother. I think there’s no in between with this one…
Just… Think about it: all that time in the tunnel, cut off from reception, no contact. Weeks, months—maybe longer—away from you. It has to get lonely. Painful. Pitiful. And he’s done this for years—and still. He’s still all alone in his quarters… Now throw in the new body on top of that loneliness. Right arm rebuilt. Just metal and shitty neural pathways… okay fine, he survived…but he’s different now.
In comes the twist that won’t leave me alone: that new mecha arm? It’s numb... No real sensation, or at least not the same. No way he’s touching his dick with that thing. Not at first.
But… One night he’s staring at his reflection in the mirror, robo arm gleaming under the lights. Left hand stalled right over his throbbing cock. Blue-balled, slick with pre, mind fried on you for fucking days. Then it hits: what if he uses the right arm instead of his left? Uses the hand he hates. The one that’s not his own. What if he…
Caleb switches. Wraps cold, numb fingers around his cock. No warmth, no nerves, just grip.
…Hm. That’s… Interesting.
He spits down. Closes his eyes, pictures your fingers instead of his dull fingers…your sloppy tongue…your tight cunt. And fuck… it hits different. Feels like someone else’s hand on him. Almost like you’re there, doing the work, while he just takes it. Caleb cums harder than ever. Spills over unfeeling tech and now…
that hated arm’s his dirtiest secret.
What else can this arm do? How can he make his new body feel like a playground for all the ways he’d fantasize about you?
Cue the toys. Fleshlight sleeves he picks ‘cause he imagines your cunt would grip him just like that. Tenga eggs for textured bursts that make him hiss your name. Strokers with ribs and nubs, what he dreams your walls would feel like clenching around him. Cold mecha fingers wrapping the toy, holding it firm while he fucks into silicone that pretends, desperately pretends, to be you. All of it built on guesswork.
gonna—hah—ah—even if it’s all in my head… nnngh—tighten just like that… god… I’d kill to feel you clench for real… don’t make me beg harder—please—don’t—oh fuck I’m—fuckkkk—
He sobs as he cums inside a lubed up sleeve. He milks himself dry. His balls aching empty for days after, but he keeps going in because it’s the closest he gets to fucking you.
…pipsqueak…I’ve been a good boy… been such a good fucking boy waiting for you… I swear… gonna—ah—gonna make it right… promise…
And imagine the day you find out; one evening in Skyhaven where you swing open his closet. You were trying to find a hoodie and instead: toys. Rows of them. Fleshlight cases stacked neat, eggs in little compartments, strokers lined up by type. Curated. Labeled by texture, intensity, size. Sorted like specimens. And every single label… reviewed, ranked, obsessively organized by his own filthy fantasy of what you’d actually feel like.
He’s turned collecting into an art form again… The same way he used to obsess over his model planes.
“heh…What can I say… I’m just a guy, pipsqueak.”
“Just a guy? This is insane.”
“I know-I know, I’m pathetic … But… If it matters… research concluded nothing compares to the real deal. Well… maybe that one sleeve came close. I’ll bring it with me for my next mi—”
You lob a pillow at his face before he can smirk any harder.
“Hey—oww!! C’mon..!! I-I really thought I’d never get the real you, y’know. And even now… we go weeks without when I’m on a long mission…tsk, don’t wanna cum in my pants the second you hug me, pips.”
…Or maybe he doesn’t collect shit. Maybe he never touched a toy. Because no sleeve, no egg, no grip will ever be your warm cunt. So why bother? He just fists himself raw with his hand. Flesh or metal, left or right. Doesn’t matter. He’s just chasing a ghost of you that never quite lands anyway. So he keeps it simple, painful and real.
Details: 500 words of dom!bottom Caleb energy. Dirty talk, smut, 18+ stuff. He’s so hot fml.
Caleb lets you take the lead. Lies back like he’s offering himself up—but nothing about him is passive. One arm tucked behind his head, showing off the long stretch of his neck. The other hand resting on his own thigh, fingers drumming slowly against the muscle like he’s thinking about touching you, but doesn’t.
“Go slow. Let me feel it.”
Your body moving how you want—but his voice still calls the rhythm. Not loud. Not sharp. Just firm enough that you feel it settle in your spine like a pulse.
Caleb doesn’t touch. His hands stay where they are, flat against the sheets or hooked behind his head—but there’s tension in them. A kind of restraint. Like he’s holding himself back from flipping the dynamic on a dime.
“Don’t look away—I need to see you.”
The ache lives in the way he breathes your name when your hips roll just right. In the way his lips part, slightly open, waiting to be kissed but never asking. In the tilt of his hips that says, you’re the one moving—but I’m still guiding this.
“Go ahead, but know I’ll be thinking about this for days.”
And every time you go a little harder, a little sweeter, a little more daring—he flinches, just a fraction. A stuttered breath. A crack in the armor.
His hand shifts—slides up his stomach, knuckles brushing skin just beneath his ribs—before falling back again like he’s denying himself on purpose. He watches you. Watches everything. Eyes half-lidded, dark and full of heat, but focused. Always focused.
“You don’t even know what you do to me.”
The quiet gasp he chokes down, the way his thumb strokes a lazy, grounding line across your thigh. Every motion is deliberate. Every stillness louder than a moan.
And then his hand moves again. Up to your waist this time, not to guide, but to feel. To know exactly how you’re moving, and how deep he is inside that moment.
“I’ve been waiting for this. For you.”
“I’ll let you have me any way you want—
Just—Don’t. Stop.”
There’s no begging in it. Just power. Yielding as an act of will. The kind of control that doesn’t have to take—it draws.
But he’s falling apart slowly. For you. Only for you. And fuck, he needs you to see it.
That even his surrender is orchestrated.
That even beneath you, he’s still the one in charge.
Maps….pspspspsp…….can Caleb slap me around…..be a bit condescending…… 👉👈
Do you think he’d be into that
Anon… pspspspspsp indeed…
Gn!reader, ssschhhmutt, mean Caleb, dubcon, 18+ stuff incoming:
• • • • • •
“Mm. Red suits you. Bet you’ll beg for another one, won’t you?”
Caleb wouldn’t just slap you—he’d make sure you felt small about it in that twisted soft way of his.
Imagine his hand connecting, sharp but controlled, the sound snapping in the air… and then he’s immediately cooing, brushing your cheek with his thumb like you’re his favorite toy.
“Awwwhh… poor thing. Can’t even take a little slap without tearing up?”
He tilts his head, that smug smile all over his face, but his voice is sweet as sugar.
“C’mooon, pips… don’t pout. You know I’d never really hurt you. Just wanna see you squirm for me.”
Another slap, then a kiss to the sting. Another lil whisper:
“Mmhm, look at you. So needy you can’t decide if you want me to stop or do it harder. Which is it, hmm?”
The way he teases, it almost feels like comfort…except every word drips with mockery. And you know he’s loving how confused it leaves you.
