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mapsthewanderer · 3 days ago

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You suuuuure you can break the colonel? Huhuhu

(thank you so much for the kind words tho 🫶🏻)

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☘︎ CALEB’S GIRL TOY ch. 2

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If you’re new here: check the earlier chapters. I promise it started softer. Sort of.

Details: 5200ish words of unraveling. You bring the dessert. C takes you out in public just to remind you who owns you… in private… in public… doesn’t matter. Fingertips disappear under linen. You smile through dinner. He says “forty minutes.” He means “forever.” This fic explores domination through a man unraveling in slow motion. If control play, emotional manipulation, and intensity kink aren’t your thing—no hard feelings. Turn back now. There’s nothing for you here.

Featuring: 18+ mdni. Sub!fem reader x dom!Caleb (possessive, dangerous, broken, cute(:). Yearning but make it broken. Freak table manners. Choking. Emotional manipulation. Fingering. Control framed as care. Dubcon? At least consent-blurring dynamics. Voyeurism. Psychological domination. Power exchange disguised as dessert. Safeword usage. Violence (not the MC). Non-verbal control. Trauma-coded sweetness. Glass breaks. The spell doesn’t. 60% filthy, 30% filthy angst, 10% romantic comedy of horrors. 100% angst. You know the drill. You’re the treat…? He’s definitely the problem(:

Chapters: Pilot Chapter 1

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Alexandrite | ch. 2

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You thought he was joking when he said it would be public. That he’d take you somewhere that wasn’t shadowed or locked or behind one-way glass. And yet—

Here you are. Walking toward a restaurant. An actual restaurant.

He’d texted earlier in the afternoon. A dress code, he claimed, with the audacity of another kissing emoji.

C: Something black, maybe? Not too tight. Hair up if you want, but I’d like it down…I can always fix that. Silver earrings=non-negotiable :*

It read like flirtation. It was flirtation. But also a command. You’d obeyed. Of course you had. And when he picked you up—he didn’t honk. He didn’t send a text. No. He stood waiting outside his car. A lambo. Slate-black. Gleaming under the streetlight. And him? In a suit that looked like it still had the tag on. Crisp. Charcoal. Slight sheen. He looked—

… Well.

Like a boy pretending to be a man. Or a man who’d once been a boy who tried so hard to dress right for the first real date of his life…. Or maybe: A man still hoping that if he dressed up right, no one would see the blood on his hands.

He kissed your hand before you could open your mouth. “Evening, ma’am,” he said, with a grin that made your stomach flutter. “Heard you might’ve baked for me.” He tapped the box you held in one hand, eyes gleaming. “Offerings? For your favorite sinner? Ooor do I have to earn them?”

You flushed. He didn’t stop smiling the whole drive. He drove slowly. Calmly. Let you pick the music. Tossed soft little jabs, complimented your perfume before the first red light. The windows were down. The city lights made halos out of his hair.

And when you arrived, he got your door, took your hand, and whispered, “Don’t look so scared. It’s not a trap.”

——————————————————————————

The restaurant is one of the most exclusive in the city. Intimate. Quiet. Your heels sound soft against the hardwood floor—tap… tap—like your presence is being announced whether you want it or not. C’s arm is linked through yours.

It’s dim, but not too dark. Candles flicker low on tables. There’s laughter somewhere in the back, but muffled—like every table is its own little world. You pass couples mid-conversation. One touches another’s hand across the table. A man pours his date another glass of wine. All of them are dressed beautifully. Normal. Effortlessly casual.

And you—

You look just like one of them.

C pulls your chair out for you, flicks the napkin into your lap, fills your water glass before the waiter can even approach.

“That’ll cost you,” he tells the waiter lightly, flashing him a little smile. “Gotta earn that tip back.”

The waiter chuckles. “Duly noted, sir.”

To him, C is polite. Charming, even. But when the waiter turns his back, C leans over the table. “Relaaax,” he murmurs. “You’re the only one getting extra tonight.” He winks. You kick him gently under the table.

And there—between the white porcelain plates and the flicker of a candle—rests the little box. The mini pavlova. Still in its packaging. Still waiting to be unwrapped. He nods at the box, eyes flicking to yours. “Can I open it?”

You nod hesitantly. Cause it should be embarrassing. Probably is.

But when C sees it, his whole face lights up. No attempt to mask it. That real, warm-bellied smile. The kind that wrinkles the edges of his eyes and softens the whole world with it.

“You actually made it?” he says, like it’s a gift of 24karat gold. His voice drops, almost shy.

“Shit, that’s adorable.”

And now it sits on the edge of the table like a silent totem. A reminder of your obedience.

——————————————————————————

Dinner passes like a dream.He orders for both of you—asks for your preferences, of course, but doesn’t wait for you to answer before deciding. You eat slowly. He picks at his food. Makes you laugh. Let him foot-flirt you into giggles. Complains about a business call. Jokes about becoming a full-time critic so he can take you out more often and write scathing reviews.

And then, after a sip of water, he nods toward the pavlova. “You really brought me dessert,” he says, smiling. “Like I wasn’t clear enough about you being dessert.”

You roll your eyes, reaching for your glass. “I couldn’t risk it,” you murmur. “You’ve been a little… unclear, lately.”

He chuckles low in his throat, leans back in his chair like he’s about to say something devastating—

But then he rises.

Slow. Casual.

Still smiling.

He smooths a hand down the front of his shirt, straightens his cuffs, and looks down at you like he’s remembering something important.

“You’re allowed to keep looking at me like that,” he teases. “But don’t go falling in love at the dinner table.”

And just like that, the air shifts as he leaves.

Not heavy.

Not dangerous.

Just… waiting while your pulse skips like a coin across still water. He comes back and presents you with a box.

Small. Velvet. Pale grey, like storm clouds pressed into something expensive. C lifts an eyebrow, grinning. “Well,” he murmurs, fingers brushing the edge of the box, “since we’re doing offerings now…”

He leans closer, voice low and dangerous, eyes flicking to your lips. “I might not have meringue—but I am bringing something stiff to the table.”

A beat.

Then that smile—shit-eating and smug, all teeth. “Want to unwrap mine too?”

But before you can respond, he moves. Smooth. Pulls his chair around with all the confidence of a man who already owns the night. He slides in beside you. Close. Casual. Legs spread, one thigh pressed against yours. One hand resting on the table. His voice softens. Just a little. “Open it,” he says, nodding toward the box. “Go on. I wanna see your face.”

You do.

“… D—Do you like it?” he asks, watching as you opening the lid.

It’s… beautiful. A choker. Silver, delicate. Laced with blush-pink crystals. The centerpiece shifts when you move it—violet, soft green, blue like ocean water pulled into dusk. And when the light hits just right—it flashes red—like the soft part of the lip just before it bleeds… Like an apple left too long in the sun. And it matches your earrings exactly. The silver ones he asked for. The ones you picked with trembling fingers.

“Alexandrite,” he says casually, as if it isn’t the rarest stone you’ve ever seen in your life. “Aaand white gold.”

You hesitate, breath caught. Your fingers hover.

“You’re allowed to touch it,” C says, and his smile is gentle. Teasing.

So you do. The chain is cool against your skin, impossibly smooth. It feels too pretty to belong to you.

“May I?” he asks, lifting the choker delicately between his fingers.

You nod. And he leans over you—romantic, entirely presentable to anyone looking in from another table—and fastens it around your neck.

It clicks.

Not a delicate clasp. A click.

The sound of something locking.

He kisses your neck as if it’s nothing, boyfriend playing prince in candlelight. And then, from the other side of your ear, he lifts a key. Small. Silver. Barely larger than a charm, barely there at all. But he lets you see it. Dangling between two fingers—a secret only you get to know.

“A collar,” he whispers. “Just… prettier.”

Then, without a word, he tucks the key back into his innner pocket. He leans in again, fingers brushing the newly clasped collar at your throat. His voice drops—so soft it barely reaches past your skin.

“Are you starting to realize what it feels like to be owned?”

You nod—just once. Small. Controlled.

Violet eyes darken, but the smile doesn’t fade.

“Good toy,” he says softly. His hand moves—slow, intentional. One hands slides beneath the fall of your hair, brushing along the back of your neck, then curls under the collar. The other hand moves up, and his index taps the stone.

The metal is cool against your pulse.

“Now. Be a good girl and smile for them,” he whispers. “But remember who you kneel for.”

No one around you notices a thing. To them, it’s just a gift. A romantic gesture. To you, it’s materialized ownership.

The hand that once tapped the stone disappears. Fingers brush under the edge of the tablecloth, slow and aimless like he’s simply adjusting something.

But you know better. You try to focus. You keep your posture. Chin up. Shoulders back.

His fingers find your thigh. Slips up your dress. Then gently tugs your underwear.

“… Can’t believe you thought I wouldn’t notice how wet you are,” he murmurs, lips grazing your ear.

You gasp. Your legs shift. He sighs, low and fond as he plays with the edges of your painfully soaked panties.

“Hmm…? Flooding the chair already? We’re gonna have to work on your table manners.”

The waiter returns.

“Still deciding on dessert?” he asks politely.

C beams at him. “We’ll actually have the dessert she brought,” he says, voice smooth. “Would you mind bringing two forks? And—…extra napkins, if it’s no trouble.”

The waiter nods, pen poised. “Anything for the lady?”

C’s eyes never leave yours. And beneath the table—he slides a finger in. Deep.

You stiffen, breath caught, barely holding the moan inside. “N—no thank you,” you whisper. A gasp cuts through the words. “I’m—fine.”

The waiter bows slightly. “Very good.”

He turns.

The moment his back is fully to you, C sinks a second finger in beside the first. Presses deep. You fold forward, breath catching in your throat, shoulders curling as you struggle to keep the moan from tearing out of your chest.

“Posture,” he murmurs. His voice is low. Even. Chiding. His other hand hooks beneath the collar behind your hair. “You’re wearing me now. Try to act like it.”

The fingers inside you hold still.

“Say thank you,” he says, “when the waiter refills your water.”

You nod, barely able to think.

“And please when you want to come.”

You could scream.

“And… Say nothing,” he adds, “about the mess you’re making on this chair.”

The moment the waiter returns, C’s hand slides further. The two fingers curl inside. You whimper, teeth clenched behind your smile.

“Thank you,” you manage to say, breath barely even.

The waiter smiles and nods as he refills the water.

“Actually,” C adds brightly, without even a twitch in his expression, “we’d prefer not to be disturbed again. Not for… let’s say, at least forty minutes?” He glances toward you, still smiling. His fingers move—just slightly—and you nearly choke on air.

“Wouldn’t you agree, dear?”

You nod, lips parted and he kisses your temple sweetly—the kind of thing any man does at the end of a meal with the woman he adores. As the waiter walks away, one arm drapes around your shoulder. The other stays exactly where it is—buried between your thighs, fingers curling slow.

Your voice cracks. “Please?”

“Hah— No.”

He doesn’t even look at you when he says it. His fingers don’t stop moving—just enough to make your legs tremble beneath the table.

“Cut it,” he murmurs again. “Neatly. Then share.”

You try. God, you try. Hand trembling slightly, you slice the pavlova in two. The meringue gives under the pressure of your fork, cream oozing over the edge. C watches every motion with quiet amusement.

Then you lift the first piece to his lips. Just as his fingers curl, thick and wet inside you, making something slosh between your thighs.

You bite the inside of your cheek—barely suppressing a gasp. And he?

He just smiles. Parts his lips and takes the bite, slow—violet eyes locked on yours the whole time. He licks the fork clean. His eyes say what his mouth doesn’t.

“Mmm,” he hums, lips curving. “Lemon zest. Just a touch. And…” He tilts his head, mock-serious. “Vanilla bean?”

You blink.

He grins—proud of himself. “Knew it. You’re great at desserts, dear.”

His tongue darts out to chase a bit of cream from the corner of his mouth—so casual it almost disarms you. Then he nods toward the fork.

“Weell? Don’t be shy.” A slow smile. “Help yourself. I’m a little… occupied right now.”

You barely register your own hand lifting. Pavlova melts on your tongue but you can’t taste a thing—too focused on the heat building below, on the smug glint in his eye, on how utterly helpless you are to the rhythm he sets.

When a dot of cream stains the corner of your mouth, he brushes it away with his free hand. He presses a kiss just above your lip, soft as breath.

You try not to cry.

“P—please,” you whisper, voice barely there.

He smiles.

Shakes his head.

Not cruel.

Not kind.

Just sure.

C shifts in his seat—still the picture of calm, still smiling for the room—and presses a his thumb against your clit.

It flicks and pushes. Just right. Just exactly where you needed it. And exactly where you couldn’t take it. Your whole body tightens, heat coiling low and fast. Your breath catches behind your teeth, your smile locked in place. The napkin you’ve been white-knuckling slips from your lap. flutters to the floor—soft, weightless. You barely register the man at the next table leaning to retrieve it.

Until you do.

You look down.

Eyes meet. Just a glance. A stranger trying to be helpful. But his gaze flicks over your face like he’s seen something he shouldn’t—without even knowing it. And that’s when it hits you.

Your orgasm crashes down in complete silence. Violent. Shattering. A flood that robs you of breath, of thought—

C freezes. His fingers drenched, held perfectly in place. Your eyes flick to C, then down again—just in time to meet the gaze of the man now holding your napkin.

He smiles politely. Starts to walk toward you.

And C moves. With his free hand, he grabs the tall water glass—still full—and dumps it.

Right into your lap. It splashes across your thighs, his own, the floor. A convincing accident. Nearby tables gasp. “Oh fuck—” C mutters, leaping to his feet. “Shit, baby, I’m so sorry—waiter?”

The man beside you approches, napkin still in hand. “H—Hey, do you need—”

C’s there before the man can take another step. He plants himself between you like a wall. A long second passes. C stares him down—cold, expressionless, lethal.

“I got it,” he says—flat, dark, final. “Sit. The fuck. Down.”

Everything stills. The man hesitates. Then—backs off. No argument. No eye contact. Just retreat.

C doesn’t look at you. He throws a wad of cash on the table, grabs your wrist with that still-damp hand—and drags you out into the night.

——————————————————————————

In the car, he doesn’t speak.

Just slams the seat back. Yanks you onto his lap. Water-slicked thighs straddling him, dress twisted up, skin sticking to leather. His hands on your hips, gripping—desperately trying to reclaim you.

“Do it again,” he growls, breath hot against your jaw. “Now. On me. For me.”

But before you can move—before his fingers even dip under your soaked underwear—he stops. His whole body tenses beneath you like a wire ready to snap.

Then—

“Why,” he spits, “the fuck did you do that?”His voice is low, cracked, shaking with the weight of everything he’s trying not to feel.

“You didn’t listen.” A snarl. “You weren’t obedient. You didn’t take my orders. You looked at him. You gave him what’s mine.”

You try to speak—but his next words cut through the air: “Second lesson,” he snarls, “you don’t fucking cum for anyone else as long as you’re wearing that collar.” His grip tightens. On your waist. Your collar. His eyes are wild, glassy, fury biting at the edges of something deeper—hurt. Fear. Ruin.

“I told you to wait,” he growls, “and you cum for him? I swear, if he’d touched you—if he’d even fucking breathed too close—”

He cuts off. Jaw clenched. Like he doesn’t trust what might come out next. Then, quieter—broken: “That… That ruined everything.”

His hands fall away. He blinks once. Breathes deep.

“No—that’s.” The words tumble out of you, raw, too fast. “It wasn’t him. The tension—you—you built it up so much I just—” You trail off, breath catching, shame pooling low.

“You—” His voice falters. Shakes his head once, scolding himself more than you. “I—I know. You didn’t mean to. But you still did.”

His jaw flexes.

“…Shit,” he mutters. “Forgot the pavlova.” He shoves you into the passenger seat—just firm enough to leave your heart racing. Then pauses. Door half-open. Looks down at you.

Violet eyes still burning. But his voice? Deceptively soft. “I don’t need to tell you not to go anywhere, do I?”

Click. Lock. Smile. He waves. Walks inside. Casual. Calm. Rolls up his sleeves like nothing happened. Like you’re not sitting there dripping with want and shame and his scent all over you.

And then—he’s back. Pavlova in one hand. The guy from the other table at his side, stops to casually chat. Laughs at something he says. You watch the smile fall off C’s face in real time.

With zero warning, C grabs him by the collar with one hand. Then—bam. He slams the guy down onto the hood of the car.

“Enjoyed looking at her?” he snarls. “Then fuckin’ look.”

The man chokes out a sound. C’s eyes ignite. “You see this?” he hisses. “You see what you ruined? You think I won’t end you right here, right now?”

You see the guy try to look away—C grabs his jaw. “No. You watch. You’re lucky I didn’t gouge your e—eyes out. Pop ‘em. Like grapes.”

His voice cracks on eyes. Just barely. Like something caught in his throat mid-threat. Then, voice low and lethal: “Now go back inside. And wish you were never born with eyes and a dick.”

He watches the guy stumble back inside—muttering apologies, half-sobbing, ruined.

The door shuts behind him. Somewhere in the restaurant, a glass breaks. The crack carries farther than it should—sharp, clean. C doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even breathe.

Outside, the streetlamp turns the pavement red. You can’t tell if it’s rain from earlier or something else. But it looks like blood.

And C doesn’t move. Just stands there. Chest rising and falling like he’s run a marathon. Fingers clenched tight around the stupid pavlova box as if it’s the only thing holding him to this planet. Then—slowly—he turns to you.

Walks back.

Opens the car door.

His pupils are blown. His tie’s loose. His hands tremble, still mid-adrenaline crash. He sets the pavlova in the backseat. Doesn’t speak.

Then his eyes snap to yours.

He looks at you like he doesn’t recognize you. Or maybe like he sees you too clearly—and somehow that’s worse. His jaw works, like he wants to speak. But no words come out. Just a low sound. Something between a breath and a beg.

And then you see it.

That storm in him. Wild. Unfathomable. Still flickering with rage, but so tangled up in guilt and desperation that it hits like a tsunami. He exhales. Shaky. Like he might laugh. Or cry. Or both.

“I—I don’t know,” he says hoarsely, “if I should beg for your forgiveness… or bend you over the hood and make you forget this evening ever happened.”

A pause. His hand twitches at his thigh like it wants to reach for you but doesn’t trust itself.

“You broke me in there,” he says, quieter now. “You really did. I thought I was gonna burn the whole fucking place down.”

He rubs a hand over his mouth, fingers trembling, like if he doesn’t hold his own face together, it’ll shatter. His hands slide over the steering wheel, slow and tight, knuckles whitening. He exhales. “I—I didn’t mean to scare you. I—I’d never hurt you… y’know that.”

You shake your head fast. “I wasn’t scared for me,” you murmur. “I was scared for you. For what you might do... I—if it… got worse.”

He glances at you—sharp, startled—then huffs a small breath, almost a laugh. It’s tired. A little wrecked. “That’s cute,” he mutters, shaking his head. “You’re worried about me after you just saw that?”

You nod. “Yes.”

And he looks at you for a long second—like you’ve undone him all over again. He swallows. Laughs—bitter and breathless—and looks you dead in the eye.

You open your mouth. Try to explain, but the words stutter, catch in your throat.

“It wasn’t…” you start, voice shaking. “It wasn’t him. It was you. You—… the tension.”

His expression flickers. But he says nothing.

“I didn’t mean to—” Your breath hitches. “I didn’t mean to disobey. I just… I got caught in it. I swear I’ll never do it again. I’ll be good. I promise. Please don’t…”

He exhales, long and slow. Like the confession costs him something. Like this—the not touching you—is the real punishment. Then, quieter: “I don’t even wanna fuck,” he mutters. “Not right now.”

You nod quickly, swallowing the sting behind your eyes. “Okay. I’ll be quiet.”

He doesn’t respond. Just starts the car. The engine hums low, his hand steady on the wheel… barely. No music. No words. Only silence and your heartbeat kicking loud in your chest.

“… I—I just wanna sleep,” he says at last. “Just… lay down and forget tonight ever happened.”

He doesn’t even look at you when you pull into the hotel parking lot. Just sits there, engine ticking, eyes fixed on nothing. Then, softly—as if it hurts to say:

“Let’s just go to bed.”

——————————————————————————

He doesn’t speak as he carries you up to the suite—just holds you close, arms steady, like his body knows what to do even if his mind’s still too fried to process anything. He undresses you carefully. Not a strip. Not a tease. Just… gentle. Peeling you out of damp clothes. As if you’ll bruise if he moves too fast.

The shower’s quiet. No steam-slick kisses. No gasps. Just the water rinsing everything away. His fingers run shampoo through your hair; your hands drag slow lines down his back. But there’s something still tight in his shoulders—some knot that hasn’t loosened.

Afterward, when you’ve both dried off—towels wrapped, skin still warm—he reaches for something on the counter. A chain. The key. He fastens the clasp at the back, and lets it fall against his chest.

C lowers you onto the bed. Kisses you from your feet upward—one at a time. Ankles. Calves. The soft skin inside your thighs. Then a long, slow lick over your birthmark. He pauses there, mouth warm, and sucks it gently. By the time he’s face to face with you, there’s heat everywhere—his breath, his chest, the heaviness of him surrounding you.

He props himself up on his forearms, body bracketing yours, and one thigh slides between your legs—settling against your cunt.

But he’s not taking. His fingers ghost up your chest. Find your choker. Tap it once. “This means I own you, right?” he murmurs. “Means youre mine. Anytime I want, I could wrap my hand around your throat and feel that metal press into my palm.”

You nod, breath shallow.

“… But right now,” he says, voice low, “I need something else.” He lifts your hand. Kisses the inside of your wrist. Then traces it, until your palm is against his throat.

You tense. “C—”

“I want to sleep,” he says quietly. “That’s all. I just… I can’t unless I feel something. Unless it’s… you.”

You hesitate. He leans in, forehead brushing yours.

“Do you trust me?”

Your mouth opens. “Of course I do.”

“Then let me trust you back.”

He shifts beneath you. Not sudden. Not sharp. Just a quiet turn—like the gravity between you tilts—and then you’re straddling him. Skin to skin. But there’s no fire this time. No hunger.

Just need. Something older. Something aching and heavy and nameless. His hands settle on your hips first. Then drift. Guiding. Slow. He draws your hands up, fingers sliding over the shape of him—ribs first, where you can feel how tightly he holds himself together. Then higher, over his chest, where his heartbeat kicks. Higher still. Until he brings your palms to rest against his throat. There. His pulse. Steady. Vulnerable.

“Don’t take them away.”

You struggle. “What if I hurt you?”

He breathes deep. Eyes flutter as he shakes his head. “You won’t.” And then, barely above a whisper—

“Just let me go. Help me let myself go. Let me fall. Just for a little while… Please.”

His hands find yours again—guiding, not forcing. Positioning them just so over his throat like you’re the weight he’s been craving all this time. His voice softens to smoke.

“If you asked me to stop breathing, I think I would.” A breath. Barely a pause. “Just to hear you say when.”

You don’t answer. And that—that is the cruelest thing you do to him all night. You press your hands down. Not hard. Just enough for him to sigh. His muscles go soft beneath you, body melting into the sheets. You can feel the thrum of his pulse against your palm.

And for the first time ever… he looks like he might actually rest. His breath hitches beneath your hands.

“Yeah…” he breathes, eyes slipping shut. “Like that. Good girl.”

He exhales slow—it costs him something, and still… He gives it. His lashes flutter. His chest rises and falls beneath you, steady but shallow, finally relaxing after holding himself too tight.

“Just a bit… longer,” he murmurs. “Let me fall… apart.”

You don’t say anything. You just stay. Let your thumbs brush his jaw. Let your palms cradle the sharp cut of his throat. And when he slides his hands over yours again, curling them tighter—just a little—you let him guide the pace.

“You’re not… hurting me,” he whispers, sensing your hesitation. “You’re… helping.”

Time slows. You feel him give in. Body slack under your thighs, his hips shifting like he wants to grind but doesn’t dare. His neck presses into your hands, quiet moans leaving his lips like he’s half-dreaming.

You lean in. “I’m here.”

Trembling hands find your ribs. He holds you there—bracing for impact, or maybe just trying to memorize the shape of you above him. Thumbs brush slow over skin, then still—right over your birthmark. He lingers. Traces it once, gentle.

“You know what… I hate about it?” he murmurs, still tracing the birthmark with one finger. “It’s real. No matter how hard I try to forget… or pretend…. it’s still you.” He doesn’t sound cruel. He sounds wrecked. Like something in him hates how much he loves it. Like this mark, this proof of your body’s imperfection, unmakes everything perfect he tries to build around it.

“But I think…” he breathes, “maybe I need that. Something true. Something that doesn’t break when I touch it.”

His hand shakes slightly as he cups your ribs—holding the mark. Then, softer still, almost like he’s afraid to ask: “Say my name.”

You swallow. Try. “I don’t…”

His fingers press, just a little firmer. Still soft..

“Caleb,” he says for you. Voice low. Certain. A vow and a plea at once. Then again—fingers right against your skin, fingers brushing your birthmark.

“It’s Caleb,” he breathes.

Your grip tightens just slightly. Your pulse matches his. Your voice barely makes it out, broken but sure:

“Caleb.”

And then—

His breath stutters. A choked sound. The kind that usually means he’s about to let go. But he’s not chasing that. He just lets go. Of tension. Of shame. Of the noise in his head. Of whatever’s been clawing at him from behind his eyes.

And then, barely audible: “Apple.”

Your grip loosens instantly. He blinks up at you, dazed. Boneless. Every last shard of tension drained from his body like blood from a wound.

“…thank you,” he whispers. Not teasing. Not smug. Just raw and quiet and honest.

Cupping his cheek you offer him a faint smile.

“Still want to sleep?”

He nods, eyes fluttering shut again. But not before he pulls you down to him—limbs wrapping around your back, legs tangled with yours, his head tucked into your throat like a man clinging to a life raft.

“Just stay,” he mutters. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He hums. Barely conscious now. His fingers drift to your choker—as if remembering it was ever meant to restrain. Then, with his lips pressed to your collarbone: “I wish I could stay here forever,” he whispers. “I’d build a whole life right here. Between your hands. Like you were made to hold me.”

The key rests between you now—cool metal pressed to the hollow of his chest. Even now, with his breath evening out and your hands still trembling slightly from holding him, it stays there. Silent. Weighty. And yet… he’s the one carrying the lock now.

A beat. His breath catches. And then, softer:

“Flawed. Still—… warm. Still strong… strong enough to scrape me open. Bleed on.”

Your breath hitches as you watch the way he softens. The way his mouth parts. The way his whole body lets go. The room is silent. The night presses in around you. Like it knows thst this won’t last. But right now? In this hush, where his pulse slows, where sleep drapes over him—

In this space your silence was made for the space between his heartbeats.

“… Don’t fall in love with me,” he murmurs against your hair.

You laugh. But he doesn’t. He just kisses the your necklace.

Then he turns away.

You stay like that.

Listening.

To the quiet.

To his quiet.

To the way he sleeps like this. As if, for one night, you’re gravity itself.

And maybe you are. Just for now.

Just for the night.

——————————————————————————

The night comes down like heaven

…

The whites of your eyes

Turns black in the low light

In turning divine

We tangle endlessly

Like lovers entwined

I know for the last time

You will not be mine

So give me the night

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: Since chapter one was a draft that I just had to flesh out (after more CGT was so kindly asked for) I just followed the dom/sub spirits and the bones of something I’d been chewing on… But for this chapter? Yea. I had to start summoning the angst gods (aka sleep token). I named it Alexandrite. You see why, right? I can’t believe I’m this deep in writing angst again. I really, really hope it lands. It’s still not full porn. It never was supposed to be. It’s more about what happens around the sex. Inside it. Beneath it. The power, the ache, the silence. I just hope someone’s enjoying this, because… I really like tuning into this register of mine. It feels like home (Caleb pun not intended but also intended). Anyway. I just wanted to say thank you for all the love on ch one. It honestly meant so much. Your comments and support gave me the final little push to lock myself indoors and write this… it had already been living in my head, but your kindness helped me let it out in a way that felt unrushed and natural. I always get a little nervous writing angst. It asks something more personal from me—pulls from real feelings, old echoes, that kind of thing. So when it’s met with warmth… it means more than I can say. Thanks for reading. Truly 🫶🏻

#love and deepspace #you x caleb #lnds caleb #lads caleb #non mc x caleb

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mapsthewanderer · 3 days ago

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Maps I saw that you uploaded chapter 2 of CGT and I screamed.

Good toy,” he says softly. His hand moves—slow, intentional. One hands slides beneath the fall of your hair, brushing along the back of your neck, then curls under the collar.

I read that in his voice and combusted. And oh god the dynamic?? The dialogue???? Bless your brain maps. I’m eating good. I’m snarling feral hissing.

Gosh it’s so good so delicious thank you thank you.

BRUH you are way too kind *sobs*. That scene?? That whole setting??? Brrrrrr I was in full slut-mode writing it lololol I’m so glad it landed!! But the next chapter? Oh lordilord it’s cooking. My brain is sizzling. I fear for myself. Honestly my goal at this point is to write so unhinged that people just gently close the tab and walk away like nope hahahaha (jk… maybe not… we’ll see hehehe)

#maps blushes #maps answers

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mapsthewanderer · 4 days ago

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I am about to emotionally combust.

Caleb is gonna be a firebirb and I’ll die on this hill.

Ok I’m done

#maps rambles #caleb love and deepspace #lnds caleb #lads caleb #caleb’s myth

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