pipszhou - Tumblr blog

pipszhou · 17 days ago

Text

where gravity made you stay

synopsis: It begins with a cake, a candle, and a question:

“But it’s your birthday, Gege,” you whisper, voice tight with longing. “And your homecoming…” He only shakes his head, gaze falling into yours like a vow. “No,” he says, quiet but certain. “It’s ours, Meimei.”

After months apart, you both return, changed, haunted, raw around the edges. But gravity pulls you back together. What starts with laughter and flickering light spirals into something deeper, a night of worship and ache. Bodies relearn each other. Hunger turns feral. Promises are carved in moans, in bruises, in skin.

This is love—unspoken and ruinous. It tastes like frosting and salt. It ends in a whisper, a vow, and the weight of him inside you.

wc: ~31.7k

tags: angst, fluff and smut, emotional sex, penis in vagina sex, possessive behavior, possessive sex, body worship, jealousy, marking, mirror sex, unsafe sex, oral sex, cunnilingus, nipple play, nipple licking, spanking, multiple orgasms, sexual overstimulation, degradation, power imbalance, dom/sub, pseudo-incest, pseudo orthopedics (cn trope), love confessions, emotional hurt/comfort, healing sex, reunion sex, slow burn, aftercare, inappropriate use of evol (love and deepspace), birthday sex, hair-pulling, haircuts, neck kissing, kissing, suicidal thoughts, heavy angst, domestic fluff, homecoming

notes: Hi! Thank you so much for clicking and reading this large fic. It’s currently June 30th, the final day of Juneleb/XiayiJune, and though I’m very, very late, I’m also incredibly self-indulgent with this piece. Here it is, a big and filthy slowburn. I hope you'll enjoy it!

“Thank you for visiting! Hope you enjoy the birthday cake. Send my wishes to the lad for me!”

The bell above the store chimed softly as the door closed behind you, a muted thud sealing away the warm glow inside. The soles of your shoes landed on uneven stone, the rocky pavement beneath you slightly damp from earlier rain. Around you, the world moved on without pause, children laughing near the park swings, couples tangled in each other’s arms beneath lamp posts that flickered like stars on earth. The scent of roasted peanuts from a street cart lingered in the air, mingling with something sweet, maybe caramel, maybe memory.

You didn’t move. Your foot hovered mid-step, caught in a moment of uncertainty as your gaze snagged on the radiant glow of streetlights and the silhouettes of unburdened happiness dancing in the distance. Their laughter echoed like a distant melody, muffled and far away, as if you were submerged beneath the surface of a tranquil sea. The world was a postcard, beautiful, distant, unreal. And you stood at the edge of it, unable to touch any of it.

“Hey.”

A hand pressed gently against your shoulder, pulling you back into your body.

“Oh, come on, girl. What’s with the face? Don’t tell me you hate the cake!”

Tara’s voice rang with practiced cheer, her smile all sunlight and effort. She still wore her full hunter’s uniform, the straps across her chest slightly loosened now that the mission, or the shift, was done. Sometimes, you thought she looked like someone out of a dream. Not because she was ethereal, but because your brain kept slipping between what was real and what used to be.

You blinked at her. Then to the side, where Simone stood, ever the quiet observer, her fingers tugging at Tara’s arm to ease her grip off your shoulder.

“Let her be, Tara,” Simone murmured, her voice low, almost fond. The warmth that had touched you disappeared like vapor, like breath on glass.

You pressed a hand to your forehead. A headache, maybe. Or something deeper, a sense of disconnection that gnawed at you.

Where were you again? What time was it? Why did everything feel like you were waking up halfway through a memory?

You looked down, your fingers tightening around the handles of the paper bag in your grip. It was a luxurious thing, stiff, glossy, heavier than it looked. Orange ribbons curled neatly around the handles, tied like something celebratory. Inside, cushioned carefully, sat a baby blue cake box. The corners of it were pressed in just slightly from how hard you’d been holding it. And on top of the box lay a cream-colored envelope with your handwriting on it, the ink just barely smudged from your thumb. Happy Birthday, it said, written in your slanted cursive like you were still pretending he’d be there to read it.

Ah.

It was his birthday.

Your older brother’s birthday.

Or—no. Not anymore. “Used to be,” your mind corrected bitterly, like a voice that didn’t belong to you. The thought pierced something soft in your chest, something that hadn’t fully healed. You couldn’t even remember letting go of the bag, but the moment your brain caught up, it was already too late. Your fingers had loosened, and the whole thing slipped from your grasp, dropping with a sickening thud onto the rocky pavement. The cake hit the ground hard, the impact tilting the box, crushing one of the sides. The sound broke through the street noise sharply, enough to jolt Simone into pausing mid-sentence, Tara spinning on her heel to look at you with wide eyes.

But you didn’t meet them. Couldn’t. Everything around you blurred, a ringing in your ears muffling even their worried voices. You were too busy spinning, spiraling—Caleb, Caleb, Caleb. The name echoed inside your skull like a storm siren, so loud it made you dizzy. Your heart twisted violently, your breath stuttered. You missed him. You missed him in a way that hurt your bones. You missed him in the way your body remembered grief even when your mind was trying to forget. These past few months hadn’t just been lonely, they had been hollowing. Quiet, subtle, like being bled dry by something invisible. You hadn’t even realized how much of yourself had been carved away until now, standing in the middle of the street, staring at a crushed birthday cake on the ground, and realizing all of this was still for him.

If someone had ever asked you what Caleb meant to you—what he was to you—you wouldn’t have had an answer. Not a real one. The words stayed lodged in your throat like thorns, sharp and threatening, ready to tear your insides if you tried to say them out loud. Some things weren’t meant to be spoken. Some things were too sacred, too complex to be pressed into the shape of a sentence. Because Caleb wasn’t just your step-brother. He was never just one thing. He was your sun, bright and blinding, the center of everything. His love had always been loud, full-bodied, dazzling in its warmth. But he was your moon, too. Gentle. Watching. Always there, even when he wasn’t in sight. You didn’t have to look to know he was around. You just felt him. Quietly orbiting, pulling you back when you drifted too far.

When your grandmother passed and the house went quiet, when you lost the last of what held your childhood together, it was Caleb who picked up the pieces. He was barely more than a boy, still soft around the face, but he stepped into the storm like he was born for it. He worked job after job, long hours that stole the light from his eyes, but he still came home to cook for you. Still called you his girl. Still kissed the top of your head before bed, even when he was too tired to eat. He never complained. Not once. He carried the weight of your grief on his back, made it look effortless, like lifting you was something he was proud to do. He gave everything, until there was nothing left to give. And he smiled anyway. Because that was who he was.

And still, even that didn’t explain it all. Because he was more than your brother, more than your guardian. He was your first ache. The first person who ever made your stomach twist with something too big to name. You tried to bury it, of course. You told yourself it was affection, just too much of it. That the closeness was natural. That the way your eyes followed him didn’t mean anything. But it never left. The feeling stayed. It grew with you, threaded itself into your skin like something inevitable. You learned to smile around it. Learned to watch him love other women and keep your mouth shut. But every person you touched after him was just another way to pretend you didn’t still belong to him. They were distractions, every single one. And none of them came close.

You remembered the way he’d tease you, voice bright with mischief, hand warm around yours as he pulled you through fields of sunflowers taller than your heads.

"Meimei! It’s almost my birthday. I wonder what my cute little sister has planned for me?"

His grin was so wide it could eclipse the sun. He always said your name like it was the first word he ever learned, and the last one he ever wanted to say. And you’d snap back at him with a playful sneer, threatening him with the one food he hated most. "Lamian with cilantro?" And he’d groan, scandalized, giving you a dramatic swat on the back while you burst into laughter. That memory felt untouchable now. Golden. Preserved in light.

But what came after was softer. Quieter. He didn’t ask at that time. He just told you. You still remembered the look in his eyes when he confessed, eyes darker than dusk, full of something you’d spent your whole life trying not to drown in.

"I love you," he had said. Just like that. Like it was nothing. Like it was the most natural truth in the world. Not a single stutter. Not a flinch. And he hadn’t meant it the way a brother says it. He had meant it in the way that made you feel like the earth had gone still beneath your feet. Like every terrible, impossible thing inside you had just been named.

And you didn’t even say anything back. Not in words. You just stepped into his arms and pressed your face to his chest. You held him, felt the shape of the man he’d become, the muscle beneath his shirt, the warmth of him, the strength. You cried. Not out of shame. Not out of confusion. But because, for the first time in your life, love had made sense.

But now? What were you supposed to do with all of that? Where did that kind of love go, when the body it belonged to had been reduced to ash? How were you supposed to keep living with something so large inside you, when there was nowhere left to put it? He was gone. Cold. Buried. Scattered in a place you had never dared to visit. Not because you didn’t want to, but because you weren’t sure you’d survive it. Because some part of you still believed he might come back. That the door would open. That his voice would call your name from down the hall. That he’d find you again like he always had.

But he hadn’t. He didn’t, he wouldn’t.

And still, even now, even like this, you loved him. With every broken, ruined part of yourself. You still did.

“Shit—” Simone’s voice cracked sharply, and you barely caught the flash of Tara’s wide eyes as she turned mid-sentence, alarm replacing her teasing in an instant.

But it was too late. Your body wasn’t yours anymore.

Something inside you had snapped, quietly, soundlessly, like a silk thread pulled until it broke. You couldn’t feel the cold. Or the warmth. Not really. You were aware of arms wrapping around you, Simone from the front, Tara slipping in behind you, their hands rubbing your back in slow, tender motions. But it was all muted, like someone had wrapped your body in glass. Their voices were soft, desperate, calling your name, whispering comforts you couldn’t quite understand. You knew they were trying. You knew they meant it. But the warmth didn’t reach you.

Because he was gone.

Because no amount of hands on your skin could replace the one you’d truly been reaching for. No voice could unburn the image of the explosion. The sirens. The smoke. The way your heart had stopped not from fear—but from knowing. From feeling it, deep and guttural, that Caleb would not be coming back.

“Babe, please breathe... we’re here, it’s okay, I’m so sorry—” Simone’s whisper ghosted against your ear, light and kind, and it broke something else. Because she sounded so much like him. That same gentle cadence, that way of soothing you with her tone more than her words. And if he were alive, if he had stayed, you wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t be falling apart in the middle of the street like this. You wouldn’t be piecing yourself back together every morning, only to crumble the moment you remembered he was no longer real.

You lowered yourself down slowly, knees trembling, and reached for the paper bag. The ribbons were loose, the box dented at the corner, but maybe, just maybe , the cake inside had survived. You swallowed hard, straightened your spine, and stood again, trying to hold your breath steady.

It’ll be fine.

That was the lie you clung to. That had to be enough.

“Don’t worry. I’m alright.” The words came out hoarse, thin, held together by sheer will. You didn’t look them in the eye when you said it. You couldn’t. Not when you were this close to unraveling again. Your friends had been everything to you these past months. Simone’s late-night check-ins, Tara’s chaotic jokes, the way they’d dragged you out of bed and taken you to cafés you used to visit with him, hoping to overwrite the memories.

They tried. God, they tried so hard.

And you loved them for it. You really did.

But even their light wasn’t enough. Not when the person who made you feel alive was buried six feet under and dust in your lungs.

“Are you sure?” Tara’s voice was small now. Wobbly. You turned your head just enough to see the tears welling up in her eyes, that look of fear, not for herself, but for you. “You’re not... going to leave us again, right?”

Her voice broke at the end, and suddenly, both her hands were on yours. Simone joined, gripping your fingers with a kind of desperate love that made your chest tighten. You looked down, at their hands wrapped around yours like chains made of warmth.

And the worst part? You didn’t have an answer.

“I’ll be fine. I won’t do anything rash, I promise.”

The words left your mouth like they cost you something. You squeezed their hands tight, tighter than you meant to, like you were trying to stop yourself from falling apart through sheer grip strength alone. You added a smile, a tiny one, barely there, just a soft pull at the corner of your lips. It didn’t reach your eyes. But maybe it would be enough.

It wasn’t.

They didn’t buy it. Not this time.

The last time they did, they almost lost you to the sea.

You could feel it in their exhale, in the way Tara’s shoulders dropped and Simone’s gaze flicked away like she couldn’t bear to look at you too long. You let out a weak chuckle, something pitiful and dry, like dust caught in your throat. It didn’t matter. You didn’t blame them. You wouldn’t believe you either. Not when you kept doing this, sinking, lying, resurfacing just enough to pretend you were breathing.

You didn’t deserve them. You never had. They were too good, too gentle, too human. You didn’t deserve this kind of warmth, this kind of love. Not when all you did was push it away. Not when every time someone reached for you, all you could do was sink deeper into the dark. His love. Their love. All of it, it wasn’t made for you. It couldn’t be. Because if it was, he wouldn’t have left. He wouldn’t have died. And you wouldn’t be here, standing in the middle of a street with a ruined cake and a heart too full of rot.

You were meant for whatever the world’s ugliest things had planned for you. You were born to drown.

“Babe,” Simone said sharply. “Stop this.”

Her hand came up to your shoulder, steadying, grounding. The pressure of it sent heat through your spine, and only then did you realize your chest was rising too fast. You were breathing erratically, your heart pounding like a fist against your ribs, like it wanted out. You blinked hard, eyes stinging, your gaze darting anywhere but at them, anywhere that didn’t look like pity.

You hated this. You hated needing.

But then Tara slipped her hand into yours, fingers lacing with yours with that same ease she always had. She didn’t say much. She didn’t need to. Her grip was enough.

“Let’s go home, alright?” she said quietly, the calm in her voice like a lifeline. “You’re spiraling. It’s not good to stay out here like this.” They both held onto you then. Not pulling, not dragging, just with you . One on each side, guiding you forward. Their hands didn’t let go. They didn’t leave.

Not like he did.

And yet, at this exact hour, on this same street, you could still hear him. That voice that lived in your marrow.

“Let’s go home, Meimei.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The walk home felt excruciatingly slow, like time had folded in on itself. Their steps fell beside yours, voices carrying stories that should’ve made you laugh. Tara rambled about the chaos at the hunter association, how she’d spilled coffee on the smug bartender they always saw, how Simone accidentally set off the training alert sirens while trying to prank Captain Jenna. It was stupid. It was funny. It was normal. And they told it all like the world hadn’t ended.

You listened in silence. Cradled between them, their arms looped with yours, their laughter brushing the edge of your awareness. They were holding you like you meant something. Like you were still real. But inside your chest, it felt like something was unraveling, slowly, softly. Your mind had split into two. One half walking alongside them under the flickering city lights, the other still standing at the edge of that charred wreckage. Still hearing the alarms. Still watching his body fall into nothing.

And when you finally reached your apartment building, they wouldn’t let go. Tara clung a little tighter. Simone’s grip lingered. There was worry in both of their faces—worry they didn’t know how to mask, no matter how light their words were. Tara tried anyway.

“Go celebrate your gege’s birthday, alright?” she chirped, her tone too chipper, her eyes too wet.

“I will.”

Your voice was quiet, heavy. You slipped your hands from theirs with a reluctant tug, your fingers trailing from their warmth like it hurt to leave. “I promise I’ll call you tomorrow.” You hesitated. Then added, “Thank you. For everything. I wouldn’t have made it here without you. The food. The decorations. The cake. I know it’s too much.”

They smiled. But not their usual kind. Their lips curved, but their eyes didn’t follow. It was the kind of smile you wear when you’re trying not to cry. And you hated that you made them wear it. You watched them walk away, their silhouettes swallowed by the night. The sky was still open, the stars watching, but the silence felt louder once their laughter disappeared.

The door clicked shut behind you and warmth flooded the space.

Your apartment glowed. The soft orange of the balloons bobbed gently near the ceiling, the blue streamers curled around the curtain rods, brushing the window light. A banner stretched across the far wall, your brother’s name painted in big bold letters. Little cutouts of his first ship, the FY-26, were strung together above the shelves. Plush apples, the ones he always bought for you, lined the couch. It smelled like cinnamon and roasted soy, all his favorite dishes laid out on the table you used to share.

They had done so much. For him. For you.

But something felt off.

It was too warm. Too inviting. Too alive. The kind of homecoming you prepare for someone who will walk through the door with that crooked smile, arms out, voice full of teasing affection.

But he wasn’t coming home.

You drifted into the kitchen and sank into the chair. It wasn’t a collapse. It was gravity giving up on you. You tilted your head upward. The chandelier he’d installed still shone above you, crooked in one corner, but bright. Always bright. Just like he was. Just like he used to be.

But no. You couldn’t fall into it again. Not tonight. Not after everything.

You pushed yourself to your feet, breath shaky but determined. You reached for the paper bag, pulled out the cake box with both hands. It was still wrapped in orange ribbons, the knot a little looser now. You checked the edges. No visible dents. A quiet sigh escaped your lips, half relief, half exhaustion.

Carefully, layer by layer, you peeled the box open.

And there it was.

A beautiful cake, pristine. The frosting a soft orange, clouds of pale pink swirled across the surface. Nestled in the center was a tiny plane made of sugar, shaped just like the one he used to sketch in his notebooks. It looked like a dream he never got to finish.

The tears slipped before you could stop them.

One after another. Hot. Silent.

You wiped them with the back of your hand, quick, desperate, scared they might ruin the cake. You didn’t want to make it sour. Not something this sacred. You sat again, carefully placing the cake in the center of the table, surrounded by all his favorite food. The spread looked like a memory laid out for worship. But it wasn’t a celebration. It was an offering.

And the ghost you loved still hadn’t come to eat.

Sensing the grief choking out the air, you straightened your back and tried to compose yourself. You didn’t want the mood to rot further. Caleb wouldn’t have wanted his birthday to be like this. He wouldn’t have wanted the room to feel like a graveyard. He would’ve wanted joy. Laughter. Maybe music playing softly in the background. He would’ve wanted you smiling, even if your eyes were wet. Maybe he was up there right now, you told yourself, flying near the moons, his wings open like an angel’s, trailing stardust and peace, brushing against people’s wishes and leaving warmth behind.

You let out a long breath and stretched your fingers toward the small striped candle beside the cake. The wax felt cool. Solid. Real. You looked at it for a long moment, hoping, praying, it would be enough to appease whatever was left of him in this room. You pressed it into the center of the cake, watched the frosting squish gently around it. Then, with a flick of the lighter, flame bloomed.

There it was. All of it. His favorite foods. His dream-shaped cake. And you. The only one left beside it all.

You parted your lips, tried to speak, to say something, anything, that could give meaning to this hollow place inside you. But nothing came. Just a soft, broken sigh—the kind that didn’t carry sound, only surrender. The kind that left your mouth like a breath given up. Your throat clenched. Your brow furrowed. You couldn’t even remember how to make your voice work. Your fingers curled into your thighs, nails biting through fabric into skin, and still it wasn’t enough to ground you. You inhaled, long and shaking, chest rising with effort. Once. Then again. You had to be steady. You had to hold still for this.

Then, softly, like something sacred, you began to sing.

“Happy birthday, Caleb...”

The first line cracked at the edges, your voice raw and trembling. The song sat strangely in your mouth, too familiar and too foreign all at once. You remembered all the times you’d sung it before, with laughter in your throat and frosting on your fingers, with his stupid grin teasing you across the table, always waiting for the wrong note so he could interrupt you with a cheer or a kiss to your forehead. You remembered his eyes, bright and expectant. You remembered his laugh. You remembered everything.

“Happy birthday, Caleb...”

The second line was quieter, thinner, like the room was swallowing your voice before it could echo. Your fingers loosened from your thighs and fell limply at your sides. The candle flickered in the center of the table, flame bending gently as if listening. The food sat untouched. The cake glowed with its single stripe of light. You were alone. And the words felt heavier than any grief you had ever spoken.

“Happy birthday, dear Caleb...”

You stopped. The last line refused to come out. Your lips trembled with it, but your lungs wouldn’t push. You could barely breathe. The tears gathered fast, burning at your waterline. You blinked once. Then twice. Then you opened your mouth, and forced the rest of the song out in a whisper.

“Happy birthday... Caleb.”

The syllables were so soft they almost didn’t exist. They were carried off by the gentle hum of the refrigerator. Swallowed by the flickering candlelight. Absorbed into the air like smoke. Your voice cracked on the final note, breaking in half mid-word. And then the tears came, violent and uninvited.

They spilled from you like something rotten bursting open. They were sudden, sharp sobs ripping through your chest. You didn’t try to stop them. You didn’t wipe your face. You didn’t move.

Then, all at once, you did. You turned. You stood. And you ran.

Your feet carried you to the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind you. The echo of it sounded too loud. Too final.

“Get your shit together—please,” you whispered, banging your head softly against the door. You couldn’t even feel the pain. It barely stung. It was nothing compared to the weight of losing him. Compared to the ache in your bones that wouldn’t leave.

You turned slowly and looked into the mirror.

And there she was. The reflection you didn’t recognize.

You widened your eyes, horrified. How had you become this? You weren’t the woman he had loved. Not anymore.

Your makeup had bled with your tears, streaks of black eyeliner dragging down your cheeks like you’d been crying ink. Your skin, once sun-kissed, glowing, now looked dull, sallow, lifeless. Pale in a way that made you look like something unfinished. Your lips were cracked, bitten raw. You could taste the blood if you licked them. You could feel how often you’d peeled them open just to feel something.

But the worst part, the part that broke you, was your hair.

Your hand reached for it, slow and unsure. You gathered chunks of it, fingers trembling as you tried to smooth it down, stroke it the way he used to. But no matter how much you patted or pulled, it stayed dull. Frizzy. Dead. It didn’t shine like it used to. It didn’t feel like yours. It felt like something borrowed, ruined, and left behind.

It had been your crown. Yours and his.

And now?

Now it was just a clunky mess. Your hair, once your pride, once his favorite thing to touch—had become something else entirely. It no longer shimmered or curled the way it used to beneath his fingers. It hung heavy and uneven, frizzy and limp despite the wash. And worse than its shape was the way it felt. Not to the touch, but deep in your chest. Because it had been touched. Touched by hands you couldn’t name, pulled by strangers in moments you barely remembered, your head pushed back or down, the strands tangled in fists that didn’t know you, didn’t care to. All you could feel now was the filth of it, clinging to your scalp like rot. The memories of their mouths, their weight, the way they handled you, not as someone to be loved, but something to be used. Something to be consumed. You told yourself it was an escape, a way to chase the heat of Caleb’s hands, the memory of his soft tug when he’d braid your hair before school. But it never worked. No one was him. No one ever came close. Each encounter left you colder. Each touch another wound layered on top of the first one that never healed. The bruises may have faded, but the shame stayed. Sharp. Bright. Bleeding beneath the surface.

You yanked your hair hard at the roots, your breath hitching. You felt so—so very tired of yourself. Not just the body, but the memory of it. Sometimes you wished your hair would just vanish, fall off in clumps, disappear like he had. You wanted to shave it all away. It was heavy. Like a weight dragging behind you, reminding you of everything you couldn’t undo. But then you remembered. You remembered how he used to sit behind you on the couch, gently combing his fingers through your strands while you read aloud to him. How he’d hum when he was proud of his braiding, like you were some art he had crafted. Each morning he made it different. A fishtail. A waterfall. A messy bun with blue pins. And every time, without fail, you’d turn to him and ask, “Gege, do I really look pretty like this?” and he’d look at you like you hung the stars. His smile was never teasing. Never false. It was the kind that soaked straight through your bones, warm and unwavering. It made you believe it.

But he wasn’t here anymore.

Your hand trembled as you touched your hair again. You tried to feel the pain. To own it. To rip it away like shedding skin. You grabbed a handful, curled your fingers into the strands, pulled. Nothing. No release. No satisfying snap of loss. Just a dull tug and a burning behind your eyes. You weren’t strong enough to do it. Not physically, not emotionally, especially when the memory of his hands still clung to every strand.

Then, your eyes dropped to your collarbone. And that’s when you saw them, faint, fading, but still there. Marks, red and uneven, scattered like broken thoughts across your skin. Some small, barely visible unless you tilted your neck just right. Others darker, like fingerprints pressed too hard. Like someone had tried to claim you, brand you with their presence, but not in the way he ever had. Not in the way that felt like belonging. No.

These marks felt like theft. Like evidence. Of what they did, of what you let them do.

You stepped closer to the mirror, breath catching. One hand rose instinctively, hovering above your chest, fingers trembling just above the bruises as if touching them would make them permanent. Would make them real. Your lips parted. No sound came out.

They weren’t beautiful. They weren’t symbols of passion, or desire, or even warmth. They were the remnants of cold encounters. The kind that left you hollow. The kind you walked away from and immediately wished you hadn’t survived. You didn’t remember their names. You didn’t want to. What haunted you was that you let them. You invited it. You asked for it. Just to feel something. To erase him. To punish yourself for surviving.

What would Caleb say, seeing you like this?

And in that mirror, in that awful, sterile light, the only word that echoed in your skull, over and over, was…

“Disgusting”

You whispered it to yourself without even meaning to. Like it had been waiting behind your tongue all night.

Disgusting.

Your throat tightened. Your jaw locked. You turned your face away from the glass, biting your cheek so hard you tasted blood. The tears came back, but slower this time. Not crashing. Not loud. Just leaking, just quiet. Continuous, like something inside had broken open and didn’t know how to stop bleeding. You couldn’t look anymore. Not at your skin, not at the face you didn’t recognize, not at the body that didn’t feel like yours.

You dropped to the ground, knees hitting the cold, hard tile with a crack that echoed too loud in the silence. The shock of it barely touched you. You stayed there, still, your body folded over itself like a wilted flower, arms limp, head hanging low. You didn’t cry this time. You just stayed, like the grief had carved you hollow and poured in something heavier than pain, something colder. You were no longer yourself, not really. Not the woman he loved. Not even the sister you once were. Just the after-image. Just the echo. Maybe you had died alongside him, just not all at once. Maybe your soul had been leaking out slowly ever since. And maybe, it was time to leave, too. Maybe that was the kindest thing left to do.

And then—a sound. Barely anything more than a creak, a whisper. The kind of sound that could’ve come from the walls settling, or the night exhaling. But this one felt wrong. It didn’t belong to this space, this stillness. It was too soft, too intimate to exist in a world this cruel.

Your breath caught instantly, sharp and tight in your chest. Like your lungs had heard it before your brain did. Like some part of you recognized it.

You snapped back into your body. The grief-haze cleared in a sudden rush, everything sharper, meaner. Your head whipped toward the hallway, senses screaming. Someone was inside. Someone had entered. Your pulse thundered like footsteps on glass, too loud to be real. Panic spread through your body like fire licking at your edges.

You moved. Somehow. Your limbs trembled, half-broken from hours of collapse, but your body still knew how to protect itself. You staggered toward the kitchen counter, fingers scrabbling for the edge, your knees weak and untrustworthy. The world tilted. The shadows bent. Your vision danced in dizzy pulses. But your hand found what it needed, cold metal, hidden beneath the cabinet lip. Your gun. Small, emergency-grade, familiar. You wrapped your fingers around it like it was the last solid thing left. You lifted it. You pointed it toward the living room.

Every step forward felt like walking into the jaws of something you couldn’t name. The shadows were long here, cast gold and amber by the low lights, stretching across the floor like fingers. Everything in the room felt tense, watching, holding its breath with you. And then, there, at the edge of the hallway, standing just beyond the reach of light, a silhouette.

You froze. Your hand jerked, the barrel of the gun dipping a little from the weight of your disbelief. Because it was… tall. Familiar. A shape you had memorized in every lifetime. The shape that haunted your dreams and your prayers and your screams into the pillow.

It couldn’t be. It could not be.

Your whole body started to shake.

“…Meimei?”

The voice. His voice.

So quiet. So full of breath, like he didn’t dare speak louder. Like if he said it too clearly, he might vanish again. You hadn’t heard that voice in months. And still it unspooled something deep inside you, some inner coil you’d held too tightly for too long. It was the voice you thought you’d made up sometimes, just to survive. The voice you swore you’d forgotten the tone of. And yet here it was. Soft. Familiar. Real.

You stumbled back a step, barely breathing, your gun trembling in your grip. This wasn’t possible. This had to be a trick. A hallucination. Your knees buckled, but you stayed standing by sheer will alone. You looked him dead-on, or tried to, but the shadows made him blur—made it easier to believe he was just another ghost.

You hit yourself. Literally. Fists pounding against your skull like pain could force the world to make sense. Like you could knock yourself back into reality, or knock the hallucination out of your sight. “No, no, no… this isn’t real,” you choked, each word trembling at the edge of hysteria. “I saw you die. I watched it happen.” Your voice cracked as the images flooded back—fire licking up steel, smoke swallowing sky, a figure swallowed whole. “You’re dead. You’re dead, you’re dead, I saw the flames, I saw them bury you, I saw—”

The panic rose fast, too fast to hold down. Your hands were slick against the gun, trembling so hard you couldn’t even feel your fingers anymore. You pointed it anyway, blind and desperate, your breath ragged. “Don’t come closer!” you screamed, the command splitting your voice wide open. “I swear I’m armed. I’ll shoot. Don’t—don’t come closer, please, I can’t…” Your words shattered, every syllable raw, like your body was trying to hold back the flood with nothing but broken bones.

But he stepped forward.

Slowly. Cautiously. Like he knew the air might shatter if he moved too fast. And as he came into the light, inch by inch, the shadows gave him back to you. First a glint of his eye. Then the slope of his shoulder. Then the fullness of his face, the exact curve of his jaw, the way his body always filled a room just by being in it. The air shifted around him, stilled, softened, like it knew something miraculous was taking place.

And then there he was.

Caleb.

Not a ghost. Not a dream stitched together by your broken heart. Not a whisper from the dead or a trick your grief had conjured. No, this was blood. This was bone. This was him. The man you had buried in your memory. The man whose voice you had mourned like a language lost to time. And now he stood in front of you, his breath visible, his chest rising, his eyes wide and filled with you.

Your gun slipped from your fingers. It clattered to the floor, forgotten.

Your knees buckled, gave way like the last tether inside you had finally snapped. You crumpled. No grace, no control. Just complete collapse. The floor met you hard, but you barely felt it. Your body folded into itself, your hands falling limp in your lap. Your lungs refused to expand, like the moment itself was too big to breathe inside. Your heart thrashed in your chest, a frantic, helpless rhythm that hurt more than it healed.

You looked up at him. Your vision swam. Your lips parted, soundless, then barely—just barely—you managed to speak.

“No,” you whispered, your voice so thin it almost didn’t exist. “No, this can’t be. You’re not—you can’t…”

And then he said it.

“Meimei,” he breathed.

Your name, like a prayer. Like an apology. Like a man falling to his knees without moving. It cracked you open like nothing else ever could.

“Please.”

You saw him fall to his knees. Like gravity had found him too. Like the weight of seeing you again had snapped something in his chest. His hand trembled, reaching, shaking, wanting so badly to hold you the way he always had, to gather you close like he used to when the world was too loud, too much. But when his palms touched your shoulders, tentative and warm, you flinched. Just enough to feel it. Just enough to make him hesitate. You shifted back a little, not out of hate, but something worse—shame. You couldn’t meet his eyes. Couldn’t let him see what you had become, what you had done with yourself in his absence. But his warmth was there. His scent. His presence. It wrapped around you like memory, and everything inside you cracked open like lightning through ice.

Where had he been? Was this a trick? Was this really Caleb?

“...Gege?” The name scraped out of your throat in a whisper so fragile it barely existed. Your voice, thin and breaking, dissolved into the still air. Your gaze finally rose to his, and it felt like a thousand emotions collided at once. Fear. Rage. Longing. Isolation. Hope. All of them lived in your eyes, and in his. His dark violet gaze, once so bright, now dimmed with exhaustion, streaked with pain. He looked wrecked. Haunted. Like he had clawed his way through death itself just to get here. And maybe he had.

“Yes, baby,” he said, voice almost trembling. “I’m here. I’m so sorry... but I’m here. I’m your Caleb.”

Then he pulled you in.

Gentle and deliberate, like you were made of glass and heartbreak. His arms wrapped around you with the care of someone who still couldn’t believe you were real. You inhaled sharply and there it was. His scent. Not just the soap or the fabric or the heat. It was him. That strange, perfect mix of warmth and skin and starlight that no one else in the universe could ever replicate. It hit you like a wave, drowning you in memories. The way he used to hold you after a nightmare. The way he brushed his nose against your temple when you cried. The way he always stayed.

But your mind wouldn’t stop spinning. You couldn’t believe this. You refused to. It was too much. You shoved him away, your chest heaving with frantic breath, every inhale like splinters dragging through your lungs. Thunder cracked in the distance. Your voice was barely above a whisper when you spoke, but it trembled with fury and disbelief.

“Don’t... lie to me. Please.”

You struck him with your palm, weak, helpless, a flicker of rage amidst the storm of fear. “Don’t do this to me,” you whispered. “Don’t be someone else. What if you’re not even him? What if you’re a decoy, a dupe, a trick? What if they built you from ash and memory just to break me again?” Your words poured out like poison you’d been swallowing for months, maybe years. “What if you’re just a body with his face?”

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t protest. He just took your hands gently in his, cupping them like something sacred. His fingers moved with a precision you remembered down to the marrow. Steady, warm, and so sure. He was not forceful, nor demanding. Just there, reassuring and real. He held you like he was putting you back together.

“It’s me, pip-squeak,” he said, voice heavy, cracking with the ache he hadn’t let show until now. “It’s really me. I’m sorry it took so long... but I’m back.” And then he did something only your Caleb ever did, he lifted one of your hands to his cheek, guiding it gently, reverently, like it belonged there. Your fingers trembled against his skin, his warmth grounding you like gravity. Then he brought them to his lips, brushing a soft, trembling kiss against your knuckle. Like a vow. Like a resurrection.

That was the moment you shattered.

Your hand flew up and struck his chest, not out of strength, but because something inside you couldn’t hold still anymore. The blow was weak, clumsy, more grief than force. “Fuck you,” you breathed, like the words had been caged behind your ribs for too long. You hit him again, your knuckles barely making contact with muscle. “Stupid gege…” Another sob slipped out. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t clean. It was broken and wet and full of fury you didn’t know how to carry anymore. “How dare you come back after all this time? After I broke, after I burned, after I—” You couldn’t even finish. The words curled inside you like smoke.

Your fists struck again and again, powerless against his chest, as if the pain might leak out through your skin if you just kept moving. “You asshole. You bastard. You—” A sharp inhale. “You left me. You left me alone in that fucking world without you.”

And he didn’t flinch. Not once. He stood and took it. Your grief. Your anger. Your devastation. Every ugly, raw piece of it. He held you like you were sacred even while you struck him like a curse. His arms opened for you, and then folded in, pulling you close, burying you in the scent and warmth and solidity you thought you’d lost forever. His chest against your cheek. His hand on the back of your head. His breath shaking like yours.

He didn’t say you were being unfair. He didn’t ask you to stop. He just held you like he knew exactly how much you'd needed this. How long you’d been carrying the unbearable weight of his absence. How deep your love ran if it could still bleed like this.

His voice dropped, quiet and rough with guilt. “There’s no apology that could ever make this right,” he murmured, lips pressing into the crown of your head. The kind of kiss that said I missed you. I’m sorry. I never stopped loving you. ��But I’m here now. I’m here, meimei. And I swear to you. I will never leave again.”

And that was it. That was the final thread snapping.

Your body collapsed into his like it remembered this. Like it had been holding you upright against your will for too long. Your knees folded, your spine caved, your arms dropped uselessly at your sides. The last of your resistance drained out of you in silence. You sank into him completely, your forehead pressed against the worn fabric of his shirt. You could feel the beat of his heart beneath it, steady and real and infuriatingly alive.

And like he always did, like he always would, Caleb caught you. His arms cinched around you with that same unshakable surety he used to carry in his every step. As if you weighed nothing. As if carrying you had never been a burden, not even once.

And for the first time since the fire, since the casket, since the silence—you weren’t alone anymore.

Your hand moved before your mind did. Trembling, hesitant, like it wasn’t yours. You reached for him slowly, painfully slowly, as if you thought he’d vanish the moment your skin touched his. But he didn’t. He stayed. Still as breath, eyes locked on you, like he knew exactly what this moment meant. Your fingertips brushed his cheek. It was warm, solid, and real. And you broke into another soft cry, a gasp that caught in your throat as you cradled his face with both hands. Your thumb dragged over the curve of his jaw like it was holy. It was only then, as you truly looked at him, that you noticed what he was wearing. His uniform. The dark, heavy, and unmistakable collar of a Farspace Fleet colonel. The silver pins, dulled with time and soot. It hung on him like armor, like he had never taken it off, like he had marched through hell still clutching his command. Still trying to come home to you.

But he was real. Alive. Breathing. And somehow still him.

The sharp lines of his face were older now, harsher maybe. His features carved by time and something much crueler than war. But under all of it, he was still your Caleb. You could see it in the slope of his brow, the tension in his mouth, the way his shoulders dipped slightly like he always had space saved for you there. The only difference now was the light in his eyes, dulled, dimmed, mirroring your own. Like he’d been grieving right alongside you, even from wherever he’d disappeared to.

Your breath hitched. “Gege,” you whispered, your voice fraying at the edges, barely stitched together. You leaned closer, desperate to tether yourself to him, to make sense of his existence here. “Where were you?” Your forehead touched his, your tears dripping onto his skin. “Why did you leave me? Why didn’t you say something—anything—just so I knew you were still alive? I would’ve waited. I was waiting, but, why? please…”

Your words collapsed on themselves, strangled in your throat, too raw to survive.

He silenced you gently. Just a finger, soft and trembling, pressing to your lips. And then he leaned in. Pressed a kiss to the tip of your nose, slow and reverent. The kind of kiss you’d dreamed about in the lonely hours. His lips were chapped, dry from whatever nightmare he'd clawed his way out of, but they still brought warmth to your frozen skin. Like his love had never faded. Like no time had passed at all.

He held you tighter, his arms winding around you like he meant to hide you from the world. Like if he just held on long enough, the years apart would fall away and leave you two whole again.

“It’s a long story,” he murmured, voice thick, barely steady. “Maybe… not tonight. Please, Meimei. Just let me hold you like this. Let me be your shelter again. Let me take care of you, like I used to.”

You winced. It wasn’t the answer you wanted. It wasn’t enough, not after all the nights you begged the silence for a sign, any sign that he was still out there. But when you opened your mouth to protest, nothing came out. Only another breath. A soft surrender.

Because he was here. And for now, maybe that was all that mattered. Maybe the ache could wait. Maybe you didn’t need all the answers, not yet. Not if it meant staying right here, in the arms of the man who once lit your world like a sun.

You exhaled against his chest, broken and small, the sound barely a whisper between the space of your ribs. Your fingers curled tighter into the fabric of his uniform like a child clinging to a safety net. You didn’t want to let go—no, you couldn’t. Not when you’d waited months, buried prayers under your pillow like coins, begged every star, cried until your lungs were empty. Not when you had already grieved him a hundred different ways. And now here he was, warm and real and holding you like nothing had changed. But everything had.

Still, he stayed. Not just stayed, he held you, fiercely, lovingly, with a kind of reverence that belonged to sacred things. And for a moment, in his arms, you almost forgot the parts of you that had rotted. The parts that had broken. The parts you’d tried to bury beneath strangers and silence.

“Meimei...” he whispered, voice raw as the callouses on his fingers, both hands rising to cradle your face like you were something delicate and divine. His thumbs swept gently beneath your eyes, as if he could erase the damage. “You are as beautiful as the day I lost you.”

His words struck softly at first. A warmth. A tenderness. The kind that made old wounds throb in ways they shouldn’t. You looked up at him, caught in the sincerity blooming behind his eyes. There was a shimmer there, faint, but real, like starlight catching on deep water. The way he used to look at you. Like you were his gravity. Like you made staying in this world bearable.

But something in you recoiled.

Beautiful? Your lips parted, but no sound came. The ache welled up too quickly. Your gaze dropped, shoulders stiffening beneath his hands. Suddenly, his embrace felt too kind, too generous, too undeserved. Because how could he say that? After everything? After what you’d let yourself become?

Your hands drifted off his chest, as if even touching him now felt wrong. As if your fingertips didn’t deserve the warmth of his body. Shame rushed through you in a cold wave, pooling in your chest, turning your breath shallow. You pulled away from him without thinking, slow at first, then faster, until your body slumped back against the floor, palms pressing down hard to steady your spiraling.

He blinked. “Meimei...?” His voice cracked with concern, already moving toward you again.

You flinched.

It wasn’t violent. It wasn’t loud. Just a subtle, instinctive twitch. A recoil, like something inside your skin had remembered pain before your mind could stop it. The moment his hand reached for your hair, something in your chest twisted and shut. You pulled back without even meaning to, and he froze in place. You watched it flicker in his expression, confusion, heartbreak, a silent question dancing behind his wide eyes.

That same hand. That same hand that once braided stars into your hair. That used to twist tiny ribbons into your locks before school, soft and patient, whispering sweet praises just to see you giggle. The hand that would stroke your head when you had a fever, or twirl your strands between his fingers when you were curled up beside him, reading on lazy afternoons. Now it hovered. Uncertain. Shaking slightly in the dim light. Like it didn’t know if it still had permission.

And how could it?

How could you explain the weight crawling beneath your scalp? The way your hair, your crown, your pride, your softest part, had turned foreign to you. You used to care for it. You used to wear it like armor. Now it was dull and dry, no matter how much conditioner you scrubbed through it this morning. No shine. No softness. Frayed ends, brittle strands. You had stopped brushing it some days. You had stopped looking at it in the mirror.

Because it wasn’t just hair anymore. It was memory. And worse—it was evidence.

Of the hands that had grabbed it. Pulled it. Twisted it in moments you didn’t even fully remember. Of the nights you spent letting strangers touch you just so you didn’t have to think, just so you could pretend for one second that it was him. The way their breath had burned your neck, their mouths had bruised your skin and none of them had loved you. Not one. They just wanted your body. Just wanted your hair in their grip.

And now he was here. He was here. And the shame roared so loudly inside you that your ears rang. You clenched your fingers into the floor beneath you, hard, hard enough to feel something. Your throat closed tight. The tears came, silent and hot, slipping past your lashes and trailing down your face like they were trying to escape too.

“I—” you started, but your voice betrayed you. It cracked, broke, vanished.

You didn’t need to say anything. Not really. Because it was all over your face, your body, your breath. It seeped out of your pores like blood from a wound too deep to stitch.

Disgust.

Disgust for what you’d become. For what you’d let happen. For the pieces of you that still reeked of loneliness, of survival, of guilt.

And most of all, disgust for daring to sit in front of him like this, to let him look at you with love, when you were nothing but a ruin of the girl he remembered.

You couldn’t meet his eyes. Because you weren’t her anymore. Not the girl he loved. Not the girl he held like a prayer in his hands. You were just the shell that stayed behind.

A ghost wearing her skin.

“I’m not who I used to be, gege.” The words slipped out as quiet as a dying star. You were barely aware they’d left your lips until the echo of them settled between you. Your hands moved without permission, clenching your chest, digging hard into the bones under your skin, trying to grasp something real, something alive inside you. You hit yourself there, once, twice. Not to hurt. Just to prove you still could.

But he didn’t flinch. He just stood there, absorbing you, with a softness that was worse than any violence. He looked at you like he felt everything you couldn’t say. And that made it worse. That made it unbearable. You twisted your face away like it would protect you, like shielding yourself from his gaze would keep the truth from leaking out.

“I don’t deserve you,” you rasped, voice gravel. “Not anymore. Not after what I did to myself… to what we had. To you.”

He stepped forward, the floor creaking beneath his boots. You felt your heart thud hard once, then twice, warning you. You moved backward, legs nearly buckling, knees knocking together. You stumbled until the wall met your spine, unrelenting, and you stopped there, spine bowed like a punished thing. You wanted to disappear.

His scent hit you first—calm, familiar, the same mixture of leather, dust, and cold metal that used to make you feel safe. But now it made you want to scream. It cut through the warm aroma of food still lingering in the air, overpowered every other sensation in your body.

And then came his hands. Strong, sure, and reaching.

“Baby,” he said, and the word cracked something open in you like a blade drawn slow. “I don’t care what you did to yourself. I don’t care if you lost yourself when I was gone.”

You watched his face twist around the word gone, like saying it made him bleed.

“All I care about is that you’re here. That you’re still breathing. That I get to hold you.”

He reached again, and this time his hand found yours, enclosing it in his warmth. His thumb swept across your knuckles with such gentle purpose that your breath caught. His other hand rose, the back of it brushing your cheek with something too soft to handle. You couldn’t bear it. You didn’t want it. You wanted to earn that touch again, but you didn’t know how.

“Don’t do that,” you whispered. “Don’t touch me like that.”

“Why?” His voice broke. “Why not?”

“Because it hurts.”

You yanked your hand free, and he let it go, but only barely. He watched you like you were shattering, and he had no clue where to hold you that wouldn’t break you further.

“Why, Caleb?” You were shaking now, like every word drained your blood.

Your hands pressed to his chest, palms flat, and you pushed, not enough to move him, but enough to show him how close you were to breaking. You wanted him to feel it. To feel the betrayal wrapped in every heartbeat.

“Why did you leave me?” you asked, and the words were no longer just words, they were a wound torn open, trembling on your lips, spilling with the ache of months you couldn’t count anymore. Your voice frayed at the edges, thin and wild, like the thread of a kite lost to the wind. “Why would you let me rot? Why would you let me wither like that, thinking you were dead, thinking I’d lost you forever when I needed you the most?”

You shoved at him again, fists curled, knuckles catching against the firm lines of his chest. But the force was gone now, lost somewhere between the breaking point of your body and the collapse of your will. Your arms folded into themselves, your fingers curling tight around the brass buttons of his uniform like they were the only things keeping you from falling apart completely. They were warm from his body. Real. But even that didn’t help. You couldn’t hold yourself upright anymore, not under the weight of everything you’d carried.

Your knees trembled. Your shoulders caved in.

Your chin dropped as tears pulled down your cheeks—hot, full-bodied things that you didn’t even try to hide. Your lips parted to breathe, but no air came. Your chest was too full of grief to let anything else in.

“Where were you,” you whispered, and your face crumpled like paper. “When I begged for you? When I screamed your name until my throat bled?”

Your eyes squeezed shut, brows drawing together so hard it hurt. Your hands came to your own arms, clutching them like you were trying to keep your insides from spilling out.

“When I clawed at my own skin just to feel something, anything?”

Your voice cracked, high and sharp. It sounded like it came from a girl you no longer recognized, a version of yourself that had been drowning for months. The sound echoed in the space between you, bounced off the walls like it didn’t know where else to go.

You leaned forward, your forehead pressing into his chest for just a second. One trembling second. You wanted to disappear there, hide your face in the fabric that still smelled like him, still held the memory of his strength. But the shame was louder. So you pulled away again, breath stuttering, hands flying to cover your face like you could erase it, undo it, un-say it.

“Where were you…�� your voice collapsed in on itself, but you kept speaking anyway, voice shaking apart syllable by syllable. “When I let men I don’t even remember touch me… just to pretend I was still alive?”

Your hands dropped. You looked at him. No shields. No filters. Just raw, ruined honesty.

“When I tried to chase the ghost of your hands, your voice, your warmth? When I let myself break,” your voice cracked again, “because living without you made no sense?”

Your cheeks were wet. Your lips trembling. The expression on your face was devastation itself, eyes wide and glassy, lips parted like they were mid-prayer, jaw clenched against the shuddering ache that rippled through you in waves.

You stared at him. Broken open. Like a body that had been trying to hold itself together for far too long.

And he just looked back at you, like you were still the girl he remembered. Like you were still worth falling on his knees for. Still his.

“Why now?” you breathed, voice so small, it nearly disappeared between you. “Why come back now, when I’m already ruined?”

Your voice didn’t echo this time.

It just sank. Like the truth always does.

The silence stretched like centuries. It bent the air between you, pressing down on your lungs until breathing felt like an indulgence. Neither of you spoke. Not yet. Because there were no words sharp enough to cut through what had been done. Only the crushing weight of what still lingered.

He held you tighter, arms wound around you like iron vines, like he was trying to mold your broken body into his chest—like he could undo the time lost just by clutching you close. His eyes were hollow. Distant. Still beautiful, still his, but dulled now, as if time had carved something out of him too. And despite it all, despite every part of your mind screaming otherwise, your body folded into him like it was natural. Like it was instinct. Like your grief-shaped silhouette had been carved to fit him all along.

But it hurt. God, it hurt.

The pain was not just the memory of losing him, it was this. The pain of reuniting. Of finding him here, warm and whole and holding you like he hadn’t shattered your life. Like he hadn’t disappeared and let you rot in the silence of his absence. You would rather be stabbed a thousand times, again and again, than feel this exact ache. Because you couldn’t name it. It wasn’t just sorrow. Or relief. Or fury. It was all of it. It was betrayal wrapped in love, longing tangled in rage.

Was it cruelty? That he let you believe he was gone, when he wasn’t?

Was it selfishness? That he came back now, without warning, slotting himself back into your story like the missing page of a book already burned?

Your body trembled in his hold, but you didn’t pull away. Not yet. His warmth was a weapon and a comfort, and you were too tired to tell the difference.

“Meimei…” he whispered, voice like smoke curling through the wreckage. He leaned in, pressing his lips against your temple. The intimacy of it cracked something deep in your chest. You didn’t flinch, not this time. You just sat there, still and shaking, inside the cocoon of his arms.

His breath was ragged when he finally spoke.

“Nothing,” he said, voice hoarse, like it hurt to even speak. “No excuse I could ever give will make it right. I lied to you. I let you mourn me. I let you rot with grief, while I breathed somewhere else. While I lived.”

Each word dropped like a stone in your gut, splashing against the hollow spaces inside you. You could feel the dam breaking behind his voice, his composure trembling, splintering under the weight of it. Still, his arms wound tighter around you, desperate, almost bruising now, as though he could will the damage undone if only he held you close enough.

You choked on the scent of him. Leather. Salt. A little ozone, like the storm had followed him inside. You could barely breathe, your nose stuffed from crying, your lungs clawing at the air, but his grip kept you tethered. Grounded. Real. Cruel, but real. Like an old wound pressed just to make sure the feeling hadn’t gone numb.

He exhaled, slow. Broken. “And I have my reasons…”

The words slithered through the cracks in your chest. And that was it.

That was it.

Rage ignited beneath your ribs. A white-hot tremor that raced up your spine and shook loose everything you’d buried. You pushed against him, fingers digging into the collar of his coat, pulling, clawing, anything to peel him off of you, to make space to breathe again. But he didn’t let go. He didn’t even flinch. And the worst part, the part that made you want to scream, was that somewhere, deep down, you didn’t want him to let go.

“I know you can’t accept it,” he murmured, a quiet thing, resigned. “But please… know this.” He reached for your face again, and your whole body went still. His gloved hand tilted your chin up with unbearable gentleness, like he was touching something sacred. Your gaze collided with his.

And you were undone.

His eyes were oceans. Bruised with sorrow, rimmed with guilt, glowing with the unmistakable gleam of you. He looked at you like you were still his. Like even now, even wrecked and ruined and far from the girl he remembered, you were still worth crossing the universe for.

“I did it for you,” he said, softer than a breath. “For your safety. The moment they took control of me… I was no longer a free man. I was theirs.”

You blinked. And the tears came again, uninvited. Your mouth opened, but there were no words to carry the pain. Only silence. Only disbelief. You were shaking again, from exhaustion, from the storm inside you, from him.

“But I swore…” he continued, his voice nearly splitting at the seams. “The moment I could escape, truly escape, I would find you again. I would come back and make it right. I promised myself that.”

His forehead met yours, the weight of him leaning into you like a prayer returned.

“I promise you, now. Meimei. Please…”

You could feel his breath ghosting across your lips. His gloves cupped your cheeks again, brushing at the endless tears, trying to soothe wounds he couldn’t see. And you hated it. Hated how good it felt. Hated how easily your body melted against his hands, how your skin remembered him even when your mind begged it to forget. You didn’t know what you were anymore. But you knew this, even your ghost ached for him.

Your trembling fingers rose, clutching at his hands like lifelines. You stared at him through the blur of tears and quiet devastation.

“Gloves,” you whispered, the word barely there. “Gege… gloves off. Please. Let me feel you.”

Your voice cracked, thinned by desperation, by need. Because you needed to know. With your own hands, your own skin. That he was here. Not just a memory, not just a dream. Not the ghost you chased through strangers’ arms and empty nights. But skin, blood, bone, and truly Caleb.

He froze, stilled like your words had struck something raw inside him. Then, with a slow nod, he reached for his gloves. The movement was soft, as if even undressing in front of you now carried the weight of ceremony. He peeled the leather back finger by finger, slow drags across his skin. The sound was quiet, the kind that almost didn’t exist, but you heard it. You felt it. The slide of grief. The echo of absence. And then he offered them to you, his bare hands, palms up, trembling just enough to betray the ache behind his eyes.

You reached without thinking. Then stopped. Just a breath away. Your fingers trembled in the space between. Hovering. Wanting. But unable to land. And then retreat. Your hand curled back to your chest like you’d touched fire.

You shook your head, violently. Tears welling fast again, heavier now, heavier than your body could carry. Your spine curled forward. “No,” you whispered, as if saying it might undo everything. “No, no—I can’t. I thought I wanted. I did, but…”

Your voice cracked apart. Your knees buckled beneath you, and you folded, sinking back against the floor, your shoulder blades pressed to the cold wall like it could anchor you in place. “If I touch you, I’ll believe it’s real. I’ll believe you’re here. And I don’t think I can survive that.”

Your hands pressed against your mouth, trying to dam the sobs. But they came anyway. Ragged. Involuntary. Your whole body began to shake. “I’m not ready,” you croaked. “I’m not who I was, gege. I’m not the girl you loved. I don’t even know what’s left of her. I’m just…”

You didn’t finish. You couldn’t.

And he didn’t speak, not at first. Just stayed where he was. His hands, still bare, still outstretched, waiting.

But something in his shoulders broke then. You saw it. A slump, like he was caving in on himself. And his mouth parted like he might say something, but the words drowned before they could surface. Instead, his thumb twitched, like it wanted to reach for you. Like his body ached to close the distance, but didn’t dare.

The silence between you throbbed. So full of love. So full of ruin.

“You don’t have to be ‘her,’ Meimei,” he said at last.

His voice was barely above a whisper, but it settled into you like gravity, pulling everything in. There was no demand in it, no edge. Just a soft declaration, spoken with the kind of steadiness that only comes from a love long-lived and long-lost. His arms folded around you again, not like a claim, but a promise. Not a grasp, but a homecoming.

He held you like he’d memorized the exact shape of you. Like he was afraid to press too hard and shatter whatever pieces remained. His warmth bled through the layers of your clothes, his heartbeat thudding slow and real against your ribs, steadying your breath even as yours stuttered and caught.

“I love you,” he said, slower this time, as if he was laying each word carefully between your ribs. “Whatever you’ve become, whatever you've been through… I will love you through all of it. You don’t need to earn it. You don’t need to go back to anything.”

He pulled back only enough to look at you, and the expression on his face, gods , the softness of it nearly undid you. There was no pity there. No judgment. Just longing, quiet and endless, the kind that hummed behind his eyes and lived in the lines of his face. He studied you like someone rediscovering their favorite book, weathered, worn, but still cherished beyond words. His fingertips, bare and shaking, brushed the curve of your cheek with unbearable gentleness, a hesitant reverence, like he was learning the new contours of your grief-lined face and loving it anyway.

“If you can’t see yourself,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “then let me. Let me see for you. Let me hold the parts of you that feel too sharp to touch. Let me take the pain you can’t carry anymore.”

His hands cupped your jaw, the weight of them grounding, holy. His thumb traced the hollow beneath your eye, smudging a tear with such care it hurt. And still— still —he looked at you like you were something beloved, like he never stopped praying to the shape of your name.

“I want to be the one who stays,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I want to be the place you rest when the world is too loud. Let me carry you when you forget how to stand. Let me earn you again, if I have to. Let me love you again, the way you deserve to be loved.”

And then he simply stayed there, holding you in that silence. Not rushing. Not coaxing. Just breathing. Just waiting for you to believe it.

Your breath slowed, just barely. The fight drained from your muscles in waves, little tremors easing out, like tension remembered and released. You were still curled in on yourself, still coiled like something waiting to snap. But his voice didn’t demand anything of you. It didn’t push. It didn’t prod. It only offered. Again and again. A quiet, steady presence in a world that had taken everything from you.

You didn’t answer him right away. You couldn’t . But your fingers relaxed their grip on your thighs. Your shoulders stopped shaking. You leaned into the space between you like a tired wave lapping the shore, testing if the sand would still hold.

He didn’t move. He waited.

And maybe that was what softened you. Not words. Not warmth. But patience. The kind you thought no one had left for you. The kind Caleb had always given when you broke before.

You lifted your eyes, just enough to see him sitting there, knees nearly brushing yours, hands open in his lap, palms up like he was offering a prayer. Like he wasn’t asking you to fix anything. Just to stay. Your lip trembled. You hated how easy it was to let your weight tip forward, to let your forehead fall against his shoulder. But you did it anyway. Slowly. Shamefully. Like a sinner crawling back to the altar.

“I’m tired, gege,” you whispered.

And it was the truth. More honest than anything you’d said in months.

“I’m tired of waiting for you, gege. Please,” your voice cracked, fragile, soft as a breath drawn through glass, “will you hold me again? Not the me before. The broken me now?”

And there it was, your collapse, spoken and real. The naked truth trembling out of your throat like it cost you something sacred. You tore yourself apart on the altar of that confession, reaching for him like he was both your penance and your salvation. You crawled into his arms not gracefully, but with the desperation of a soul unraveling.

And Caleb— Caleb folded around you like he’d been waiting his whole life to do so.

His arms looped tight, a gentle force, anchoring you. His cheek pressed against the top of your head, and he breathed you in, like you were the only air left in the galaxy. He didn’t speak at first. He just held you. Like he’d finally been given permission to touch something he thought he’d lost forever.

“Please rewrite me, gege,” you whispered into his chest, your fingers fisting the front of his uniform like it would dissolve if you let go. “Please fill me with so much love I get sick of you. Please trap me in it. Jail me in it. You know what’s best for me. And I trust you with my whole life.”

The silence that followed was devastating. He pulled back just enough to look at you, both hands rising to frame your face with reverence, like you were some ancient, delicate text he’d forgotten how to read. His thumbs brushed your cheeks, not to wipe away the tears, just to feel them. Just to witness them.

His eyes widened, then softened. And his voice, when it came, was thick with the same ache that had broken you moments ago.

“Yes, my love. I will.” He kissed your forehead. “Thank you…” Another kiss, this time to your temple. “…for trusting me.”

A kiss just below your eye.

“And for having me back.”

Then he just held you again. Tighter this time. Not like something fragile.

Like something his .

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The room quieted around you, as if the whole world had taken one long breath and decided not to let it go. No ticking clocks. No wind brushing past windows. Just the soft hum of the lights above, and the inhale and exhale of two hearts trying to remember how to beat in tandem again. There were no words. Just the quiet aftermath of love surviving a war it barely won. Love warming the edges of your wounds, after tearing through you like a thousand knives.

You stayed pressed to him, chest to chest, your cheek resting against the tender hollow where his shoulder met his collarbone. You could hear everything, his breathing, slow and deep, and his heartbeat, strong beneath his skin. Real. Grounding. His hand moved along your back in slow, gentle motions—not to push, not to soothe, just to remind you, I’m here. It was a rhythm, a soft tempo, like something your body had long forgotten but recognized instantly. Like home.

You didn’t know how long you stayed there, wrapped in each other like that. Time wasn’t something you could count anymore, not when he was touching you like this. His fingers threaded through the ends of your hair, soft, steady, and familiar. Like he was memorizing you again. Like he was anchoring himself back into the body of the girl he once loved.

Eventually, he shifted. Just slightly. Just enough to glance down at you, and in that single motion, your heart leapt. You instinctively pulled him closer, arms tightening like your soul didn’t trust this peace to last.

“Nooooo, don’t let go, gege” you whispered against his chest, your voice barely more than a breath, thinned with sleepiness and a desperate kind of need.

Then, he laughed. Softly. Low. It rumbled in his chest beneath your ear, and you felt it before you even heard it. That sound. That sound. It bloomed through your ribs like sunlight cracking through storm clouds. You hadn’t heard that laugh in so long it felt like a myth. Like something your heart made up just to survive.

And oh, how much you missed it.

That laugh—gentle, unpolished, sometimes breathy, sometimes full-bodied. The one that used to echo down the hallway when you told him dumb jokes just to hear it. The one that softened your worst days, that used to fill the small spaces between you two when words ran dry. It wasn’t just sound. It was safety. It was warmth. It was him. It used to make you feel like the world couldn’t be all bad if someone like Caleb still laughed like that. Like love itself had a voice, and it came from his throat.

And now, hearing it again?

You bit down a sob, the ache almost too much. Because it reminded you of everything, of the time he spun you in the kitchen while dinner burned, of the way he pressed kisses to your forehead while laughing at your sleepy pouts, of how he’d fall onto the couch beside you and just laugh and laugh until you couldn’t help but join in.

It brought everything back.

And it undid you, softly.

His laughter faded, not into silence, but into something softer, something glowing at the edges. It left the air warmer than before. And when it did, you felt the world still again. Your breath slowed, tangled in his. The weight in your chest didn’t vanish, but it settled, less like a wound, more like a scar being kissed. Then, after a long, quiet moment, he murmured into your hair, voice as gentle as the hum of a lullaby.

“Can I show you something?”

Your breath hitched at the change in tone. There was a quiet excitement tucked beneath the warmth, like he’d been waiting for the right moment to ask. Not pushing. Not demanding. Just offering. You leaned back slightly, reluctantly, your arms still curled around his ribs like you weren’t quite ready to let go. He smiled, just a little, his hand brushing a few strands of your hair behind your ear, fingers lingering longer than necessary.

“It’s nothing big,” he added, soft and unsure. “Just something I kept with me. For you.”

Your brows knit in the slightest, and you nodded, lips parting to speak but no words forming. Instead, you watched as he reached behind the couch, pulling forward a weather-worn bag you hadn’t even noticed before. It looked traveled, scuffed and old, but carefully kept. He unzipped it with quiet hands.

Your arms dropped to your lap, watching with the kind of stillness that came with holding your breath. He pulled out a bundle. Neatly folded. Wrapped in soft tissue. He cradled it like it meant something, like it had weight. He turned to face you fully, offering it with both hands.

“I had this made. Thought of you the whole time.” His gaze flicked between you and the bundle. “Helped design it, chose everything for you. I… I wanted to give it to you sooner. But—”

He didn’t finish that thought. He didn’t need to. You reached out, fingers trembling slightly, and took the package from him. The fabric was light. Silky under your palms. Familiar in a way that made your stomach twist. You peeled the tissue back slowly.

And there it was.

A dress. Baby blue. Delicate sparkles caught in the light like stars suspended in frozen water. The satin ribbons at the shoulders were black, gentle contrast, elegant. The bodice shimmered faintly with soft embroidery, stitched with care, soft silver threads tracing subtle patterns you couldn’t name. It was the kind of dress you used to love. The kind he always said made you look like a storybook dream. Innocent, ethereal. Like something worth holding.

Your lips parted. You couldn’t breathe for a second.

“It’s…” you began, but no word followed.

Caleb smiled again, smaller this time. “There’s more.”

He reached back into the bag and pulled out another bundle, this one larger. He unwrapped it quickly and held it up for you to see.

A matching jacket. His . Sleek, storm-blue silk, star pins on the lapel, light silver embroidery around the cuffs. A softened version of his colonel uniform, fitted and tailored. The stars shimmered, the faintest threads of the same baby blue sewn into the lining.

Your eyes widened.

“I wanted us to match,” he said quietly. “Like we used to.”

He didn’t say it like a joke. He said it like a promise. Something in your chest collapsed, slow and aching. You pressed the dress to your chest like it was fragile, like holding it too tightly would break it. Would break you. You looked up at him with trembling lips, unshed tears catching in your lashes. And he was already watching you, eyes gentle and shining. Like this mattered more to him than anything else in the universe.

“Gege… it’s so beautiful. I have no words, I—” Your voice faltered, cracking somewhere between your ribs and throat. The rest of the sentence withered before it even left your mouth. You clutched the fabric tighter to your chest, fingertips pressing into the delicate weave of baby blue as your breath trembled, shaky and uneven. Your lashes fluttered, wet. It wasn’t the first time he’d gifted you something like this. No, he’d always had a way of making you feel seen. Special. Cherished. But this was different. This was after death. After the end. After grief had mangled the part of your heart that once believed he’d ever come back. And now, standing here, holding a piece of him in your arms again, it shattered you all over.

“Shh, meimei,” he cooed, voice low, warm like honey melting against winter skin. “My cute, lovely little sister.” His knees bent in front of you, his towering frame lowering just to meet your gaze. He always did that, always came to your level when your heart hid in the dark. His hands, large and steady, reached up to your cheeks, brushing away the tears that had fallen anew. His thumbs smoothed beneath your eyes, not with urgency, but reverence. “It’s all for you,” he murmured. “If you like it… would you do me a little favor? Try it on for me. Let me see you in it. Just once. Give me a twirl later, yeah?”

You couldn’t speak. Your throat closed around the gratitude, the ache. You wanted to tell him a thousand things, how much this meant, how undeserving you felt, how broken you still were, but the words refused to form. Instead, your body moved before your voice could. You set the dress aside with care, like it was made of starlight, and reached for him. Your arms wrapped around his neck, clinging, small and tender, your weight pressing forward as you rose to your toes. It was a silent ask. A gesture you’d done a hundred times when words felt too big: lift me.

He chuckled, his chest vibrating softly under your cheek, and the sound rippled through you like rain on drought-starved soil. You felt the strength of his arms move, one wrapping behind your back, the other dipping low to support your thighs. And then, with that easy, familiar strength, he lifted you into the air like you were weightless.

“A-ah,” you gasped softly, startled by the sudden motion. He grinned against your hair, his voice dipping low and teasing, yet wrapped in unshakable devotion. “You did so many things without me, meimei,” he whispered, holding you close, “but from now on… rely on your big brother again, alright? I won’t ever— ever —leave you behind again.”

And for the first time in months, maybe years, you believed him.

Your arms wrapped tighter around his neck. Your fingers curled against the fabric of his jacket. For a fleeting, golden second, you let yourself dream. Maybe it could be like before. Maybe tomorrow, you would wake up tangled in his warmth again, sunlight spilling onto his cheekbones, your palm resting against the steady rise of his chest. Maybe he would hold you to his body in the morning and brush lazy kisses across your knuckles before cooking your favorite meal. Maybe you could want to live again.

He laughed, that same laugh you’d missed like oxygen, and it brought you back to the moment. He reached for the dress you had set down with care, cradling it in one arm as he carried you across the room. The fabric fluttered between his fingers like it belonged to some sacred ritual.

“Dress prettily for me, my love,” he said as he lowered you in front of the bathroom door, his voice sweet and playful. “And maybe , if you behave, I’ll do your hair too. Just like before.”

He bent forward to kiss your temple, lips soft and unhurried, like pressing that kiss into you was his way of sealing you back into the world. You closed your eyes. The warmth lingered longer than it should have.

“I’ll be outside,” he added, stepping away slowly. “Call me if you need anything.”

But just as he turned to leave, you reached out, your fingers instinctively curling around the hem of his sleeve. The tug was small. Barely a whisper of movement. But he felt it instantly. He turned, eyes widening in gentle surprise.

“Oh?” he said, a smirk dancing at the corners of his lips. “So you do want me to help dress you. Want me to baby you again, hmm?”

God, he was insufferable.

You glared weakly, your hand falling away with exaggerated flair. But instead of scolding him, instead of launching into some halfhearted insult, all you could do was smile. The kind of smile that trembled at the edges. The kind that only came when you were so full of emotion it leaked out the corners of your mouth. A soft flush bloomed over your cheeks, pink rising beneath your skin like dawn. You looked away, voice low, clumsy with affection and embarrassment.

“Fuck you, ge.”

He laughed again, short and warm and full of mischief. “Suit yourself, my love.”

And then he left, the door shutting quietly behind him.

Leaving you with the dress. And the mirror. And the fragile beginnings of hope.

You looked at yourself in the mirror again, and then at the dress you held like a secret. There was something holy about it, too gentle, too pure, too delicately made for the kind of girl you were now. The fabric shimmered faintly in the warm bathroom light, kissed with a soft iridescence that caught on every thread. Tiny crystals embroidered at the waist caught the glow like stars. The hem danced with gossamer layers, weightless and pristine. You touched it hesitantly, fingers brushing along the bodice like it might bruise under your skin. It was beautiful. Unapologetically so.

Too beautiful for you.

A lump rose in your throat as the thought settled like dust on your shoulders. You weren’t worthy of it. Not anymore. Not after everything. The way you’d let yourself fall apart. The way you hadn’t cared for your body, your hair, your heart. This dress was made with gentleness, with intention, it had been chosen by him. Sewn with care, touched by dreams. And here you were, ruined. Disheveled. A ghost of the girl who used to wear light like second skin. You had no right to something so soft.

But still… he gave it to you.

Not just gave. Worshipped. His voice still echoed in your chest, his praise, his devotion. The way he looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, not despite your pain, but because of it. Like you were something to be cherished, not pitied. Loved, still. You held the dress close to your chest and exhaled slowly, clutching the fabric like it might ground you. You didn’t want to wrinkle it. Didn’t want to taint it. For him. For the way his eyes had softened when he asked you to wear it. You didn’t want to let him down.

You turned to the mirror again and began to undress. One piece at a time, your clothes slipped from your shoulders, pooling around your ankles with barely a sound. You tried not to look at the mirror. You knew what was there. The marks, faint but lingering, mapped along your skin like old bruises on a porcelain doll. Memories of hands that weren’t his. Scars of nights you wished you could erase. You squeezed your eyes shut, breath catching in your throat, and stepped into the dress.

The fabric whispered against your skin as you lifted it, pulled it over your hips, adjusted the bodice. You reached back, fingers fumbling to zip it closed, the pull tight across your ribs, like the dress was learning how to fit someone so changed. You paused once it was fastened, hands resting against the sink. Your lashes fluttered open, heavy with reluctance.

And you saw it.

The contrast was stark. The glittering dress wrapped you in light, but your skin was still marked, red, tender, bruised in places memory hadn’t let go of. The neckline dipped low enough to show the places you wanted hidden. Your shoulders, your collarbones. It all looked too wrong. The dress was lovely. Ethereal. And you… were not.

You dropped your gaze, hands gripping the edge of the counter until your knuckles blanched. You weren’t supposed to cry again. Not now. You had to calm yourself down. You had to be strong for him. He’d given you this gift. He wanted you to feel beautiful. Wanted you to be his again, even like this. And it was his birthday. You could at least do this for him. Smile. Try.

Then came the knock.

“Baby?” Caleb’s voice, low and tinged with worry, filtered through the door. “You okay over there?”

You startled, head snapping toward the sound. Your heart jumped painfully in your chest. Shit, had you been too long? Had he thought something happened? You scrambled for composure, for breath, but before you could answer, the door creaked open just slightly. A sliver of warm light flooded in from the living room. His silhouette filled the doorway. And then his eyes found yours.

Time froze.

His breath hitched. You watched it leave him, slow and silent, as his gaze swept over you like it was the first time he’d ever seen you. The air between you tightened, thick with unspoken things. His eyes darkened, not with anger, but with something deeper. Something raw. His hands came forward, hesitant at first, then bolder. He stepped close, one arm slipping around your shoulders, and the other lifted to cradle the nape of your neck.

And then, slowly, he pressed his forehead to the curve of your shoulder. His breath fanned against your skin.

“You look…” he whispered, as if afraid to break the moment, “amazing, meimei.”

You shivered in his hold, trembling like a candle caught in its own warmth. His words weren’t spoken with hunger, or even desire. They were spoken with awe. With heartbreak. Like he couldn’t believe you were still here. Like seeing you, dressed in something he’d chosen for you, still willing to wear softness, was too much.

He didn’t move for a long time.

And neither did you.

Because in that quiet, trembling space between your bodies, there was something sacred being stitched back together.

“No, I don’t, gege. Stop lying.”

The words came out low and tight between your teeth, like they’d been festering for days, months, years. Your hands curled into fists at your sides, trembling not with fury, but with something far more fragile. Shame. You couldn’t bear to look at him again, not after spitting out what you knew was your truth. But before you could turn your head away fully, his hand was already there, gentle but firm, his fingers curling beneath your jaw, tilting your face back toward him like he couldn’t allow even this small act of retreat.

His eyes locked onto yours, dark and storming, his brows drawn together with something bordering on fury. But it wasn’t you he was angry at. It never was.

“Whoever said you were ugly,” he said, his voice cold as metal, “I’ll kill him for you, meimei.”

The threat wasn’t just a threat. It was a promise. Spoken not with dramatics, but with absolute certainty. His tone sent a shiver rushing down your spine, not from fear, but from the ache of being defended so fiercely, so completely, by the man who had once held your heart like a fragile bird. Your gaze dropped again, unable to withstand the sincerity that poured off of him in waves. Why does he love you? You had asked yourself this every night. You weren’t the kind of girl who belonged to someone like him. You weren’t soft or brilliant or elegant. You were just this . The leftover mess of someone who once knew joy.

But he wouldn’t let you slip into that thought.

“You always look beautiful to me, meimei,” he whispered, and this time, his voice was velvet. “No matter what you look like. Even now, in this moment, you look like something ethereal, like you fell from a dream I haven’t woken up from yet.”

He leaned in then, slow and sure, until his lips hovered just above the curve of your ear. His breath fanned across your skin and sent goosebumps down the length of your arms.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been holding myself back,” he murmured, low and teasing and utterly sincere. “How many nights I imagined this moment, imagined you like this. I want to ravish you right here, right now, but I won’t. Not until you want it too.”

Your breath hitched. The heat bloomed in your chest, down to your thighs, curling low in your belly like something dangerous and tender all at once. His voice always had that effect on you, when he meant it. When he really, truly meant it. And he did. You could feel it in the weight of his words, in the reverence in his tone. There was no mockery here. No manipulation. Only love, aching and endless.

And then his arms opened again, and you fell into them like you were made to. He stroked your hair with aching patience, running his fingers slowly through the tangle of neglected strands. The gesture was so instinctual, so familiar, it almost hurt more than it soothed. You remembered this. His hands in your hair. The way he used to hum tunelessly while braiding it in the mornings. The way he used to call it his favorite part of you, his crown jewel. But now, his fingers snagged on knots, tiny, silent catches that stung more than they should have.

You winced.

He paused. “Your ends,” he said softly, voice folding in on itself like paper, “they’re so dry. Haven’t you been taking care of them, meimei?” He didn’t sound judgmental, just sad. Like he was asking not about your hair, but your heart.

You tried to respond, but no words came. Only silence. Only shame.

“Have you run out of the products I gave you?” he continued, his fingers still threading with delicate insistence. “I thought I stocked you at least a few bottles…”

The question broke you in a small, quiet way. Because the truth was worse than that. You hadn’t run out. You had simply stopped. Stopped caring. Stopped believing you deserved the care.

“I…” you started, voice cracking at the edge.

But then a different idea came to you. A new beginning, perhaps.

“Gege,” you whispered. It was so soft, nearly swallowed by the hum of the bathroom light. But he heard you. He always did. His head tilted, his brow lifting gently as he waited for you to go on.

“Would you…” you swallowed. “Would you cut it shorter for me?”

The silence that followed was deafening. His body stilled. You could feel the way his breath stopped for a moment, how his hands instinctively tightened just a little on yours. His fingers slowly curled around yours, his hands enveloping yours in a quiet, prayerful clasp. He bowed his head, as if cradling the gravity of what you just asked.

“Why, meimei?” he asked, voice hushed, delicate. “Why now? You used to treasure your hair so much. Is it because it’s too much to take care of on your own? Because I can help, I will help—”

“No, gege.” You cut him off gently, but firmly. Your hand lifted to grasp a lock of your hair, holding it between your fingers. “I want to start again. I want to cut away the parts of me that don’t belong anymore. These strands… they’ve been in the hands of men who didn’t deserve them. Not the way you did.”

You looked up at him, voice trembling with shame and truth.

“I want you to be the one to rewrite me. I want you to touch only the new parts. I want to give you what’s clean. What’s mine again. I want to make new memories with you. From scratch. Please, gege…”

He didn’t answer right away.

He only looked at you, eyes wide and quietly breaking, like something precious in him had cracked open at the seams. The silence stretched between you, thick with emotion too dense to name. You could feel the shift in him, the way his shoulders sank like the weight of your words finally hit. Not like a strike, but like something slow, sinking into his bones, into the space where he’d been holding all that guilt. His lips parted. A breath slipped out. But no sound followed. Just silence, filled with everything he didn’t know how to say.

When he moved, it was careful. Like you might vanish. Like if he touched you wrong, the moment would collapse. His hands rose slowly, and then they were on your cheeks, cradling your face with such gentleness it made your throat close. His palms were warm and grounding. His thumbs brushed along your cheekbones, the edge of your mouth, trembling just slightly with how much he was holding in. Then he leaned forward, forehead pressing to yours, the closeness too much and not enough all at once. You could feel the heat of his skin, the slight tremble in his breath. You could smell the faint trace of his cologne and the sterile bite of space metal from his uniform, but underneath it all, it was still him. Still Caleb.

“You don’t have to do this for me,” he murmured, voice low, the sound of it curling around your ribs. “Not to prove anything. Not to undo what happened. You’re already enough.”

His fingers tightened ever so slightly, grounding you to this reality, to the truth of his touch. “But if this is what you want,” he continued, the words thickening in his throat, “if you want me to help you begin again… then I will treat it like it matters more than anything. Because it does. Because you do.”

Then, he kissed your forehead, slow, full of care. His lips lingered against your skin like a vow he couldn’t quite say aloud. It was tender, aching, an apology pressed into your bones. Your eyes fluttered closed just from the weight of it, how easily he disarmed you with that one small thing.

When he pulled away, he stayed close. His eyes searched yours, like he was memorizing you all over again, like he was asking if this was still okay. And when you gave the smallest nod, the answer caught in your breath, he shifted.

His hand reached for the drawer beneath the bathroom sink. The one he had used years ago, when he still brushed and trimmed your hair with methodical precision, humming while he worked. He found the scissors without looking. As if they’d been waiting. As if this moment had been waiting.

But still, he didn’t move toward you until you nodded again.

He would never take that choice from you. Never again.

You looked down.

Your fingers trembled where they gripped the edge of the counter, white-knuckled and tight, as though your body was begging you to hold onto anything. The air had gone quiet again. But not empty. It was thick, heavy, not like a silence of absence, but one of reverence. Like the space itself was holding its breath. Watching.

This wasn’t just a haircut.

It was a burial. A beginning.

You were afraid. Terrified, really. Your hair had always been more than just strands, it was memory. The last remnants of a girl who believed she could still be soft, before grief hardened her into someone else. Before his death carved something hollow in you. You clung to the counter like it could stop the flood that threatened to rise from your chest. Your legs stiffened. Your heartbeat was too loud. Your vision swam.

And then, a slow, warm finger lifted your chin, urging your face to rise from its shame. You met his eyes, reluctantly, and he was already looking. Not just at you. Into you. His expression was steady, a still lake of concern. His brows pinched slightly, not with judgment, but worry. A softness wrapped tight with restraint. As if he knew how much this would cost you.

You didn’t speak, but you gave the smallest nod, your throat closing around it. And that was all he needed.

You turned away, exposing your back to him, the vulnerability of it making your skin feel cold. The weight of your hair settled over your shoulders like a shroud. It was long, uneven in places, heavy with neglect. And still, it had been yours. It had been his, once, too. His to brush, to braid, to stroke when you fell asleep on his lap. You used to lean into that care. And now you would let him hold it again—one last time, before letting it go.

He exhaled behind you. The sound ghosted across the back of your neck. Then you felt him move.

His fingers, first, slipped through the strands to untangle them gently. Not once did he tug or pull. He worked patiently, smoothing it out with a brush he must’ve dug out of storage. You felt the pass of it down your back, again and again, until your muscles began to unwind, your grip on the counter softening. He hummed softly, absentmindedly, some old tune he used to hum while doing your hair before school. And for a second, it was like the years in between had never happened.

Then you heard the soft snip.

The first cut.

Your shoulders flinched, but you didn’t stop him. Your breath caught, a shallow inhale stuck in your throat as strands drifted down like feathers and scattered across the tiled floor. You watched them fall from the corner of your eye, shimmering ends that once touched your waist, now severed, freed. There was no turning back. And still, you didn’t want to.

The sound continued, rhythmic and soft. Scissors gliding through hair, Caleb’s fingers tilting your head this way and that with quiet precision. He moved like he was sculpting something, not trimming it. Like each cut was deliberate, intimate. His hand steadied your jaw, his other guiding the scissors through your hair as he moved around you slowly. A dance, a ritual. You didn’t speak. Neither did he. But every motion told a story.

You closed your eyes and let the sound fill you, the gentle snipping, his careful breath, the brush of his knuckles against your neck. He cut around the nape slowly, shaping you piece by piece, until the heaviness slipped away. You felt weight lift, literally and otherwise.

When he was done, his hands slowed. You could feel him hesitate, then one more soft stroke down your back with his fingers, tracing the final line of your new cut. The length brushed just above your shoulders, clean and light, with longer ends framing your face. A bob, but not cold. It was feminine, purposeful, and more alive than anything you felt these past few months.

You opened your eyes, staring at your reflection, at this girl who looked like you, but not quite. She was a little older. A little emptier, but maybe also a little freer.

“Gege…” you whispered, breath breaking.

He stepped behind you again, meeting your gaze in the mirror. One hand gently rested on your shoulder, the other trailing lightly through the fresh ends of your hair, like he was sealing the ritual.

"You look like the sunrise, baby," he murmured. “New. Soft. Brighter than you think.”

You turned around slowly, careful like the moment might slip through your fingers if you moved too fast. Your hands hovered at your sides for a second, uncertain, then rose to brush against the ends of your hair. The sensation felt foreign. Lighter. It no longer dragged down your shoulders like a weight you couldn’t name. The strands were soft now, trimmed clean, almost unfamiliar, but there was something gentle in that unfamiliarity. Something full of possibility.

Your gaze found his, searching. It wasn’t doubt that stirred in you, not really. You knew Caleb would love you through anything. He always had. But still, you needed to hear it. Needed the assurance that this transformation had not made you unrecognizable to him. Your voice came quiet, small, as your fingers curled around the ends of your hair again, your other arm tucking behind your back like it might hide your nervousness.

“Do you like it, gege?”

He didn’t answer at first, not because he didn’t know, but because he was looking at you like you were light made flesh. Like you were the only thing in the room he could see. His eyes softened. Not with pity. Never pity. But with something whole and aching, like his heart had recognized you before his lips could form the words.

He stepped forward, closing the space between you with steady calm. One hand lifted to your face, brushing through your hair, smoothing a lock behind your ear. He leaned in, not rushing, not claiming, just nearing the space where your breath mixed with his. Your lashes fluttered shut, anticipating the warmth of his mouth on yours. But instead, he tilted forward and pressed the lightest kiss to the tip of your nose, affectionate, simple, but still enough to wreck something deep in you.

“Of course I do,” he said, voice warm, low, and certain. “Would that even be a question?”

He pulled you to him then, his arms wrapping around you with no hesitation. One hand cradled the back of your head, fingers curling into the trimmed edges like he was memorizing the new shape of you, the new beginning you’d offered him. “You look beautiful, meimei. You always do.”

Your body responded before your mind did, arms slipping around his middle, cheek pressed against his chest. The moment his warmth settled over you, the tears returned, quiet this time, but endless. You didn’t resist. Not this time. Not when everything in his touch told you that it was safe to fall.

His embrace didn’t just hold you. It anchored you, kept you still when the storm inside threatened to rise again. The steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear felt like a melody you’d forgotten, one you’d always known how to return to. And just for now, it was enough.

For the first time in what felt like eternity, something inside you whispered:

You’re home.

He was here. Real, and loving you back with the kind of quiet permanence that promised: no more leaving. No more pretending. No more pieces lost in the dark. He would stay. And he would write over every broken memory with hands that only ever knew how to care for you.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

What came after that felt like something more vivid than your wildest lucid dreams, those aching, hyperreal visions you used to chase in sleep, where his arms were still around you and your world hadn't fallen apart. This was clearer, deeper. More than your late-night prayers. More than the soft, unspoken wishes you tucked beneath your pillow during the months he was gone. The glimmer of your baby blue dress caught the light with every step, twinkling like stardust each time it brushed against your thighs. And beside you—he matched. His shirt, tailored and sharp, held that same soft hue. A pair made whole again.

He carried you, hand in hand, your fingers interlaced like no time had passed, toward the dining table, where warmth radiated in more ways than one. Laughter lingered in the air, leftover from stories exchanged between spoonfuls. You barely touched your utensils. You didn’t have to. Caleb was already there, scooping the food with one hand and gently offering it to you with the other, like feeding you was an old rhythm he never forgot.

“I’ll be full and content if I spoon-feed you myself, meimei,” he murmured, teasing but tender. “It’s been a while since I’ve done that as your older brother, after all.”

And it was true. He insisted. That same stubborn, protective warmth hadn’t dulled a bit. You caved to it instantly, your legs drawing in beneath your chair, your arms shyly pressing into your lap. For the first time in a long time, you felt like someone small. Like someone cared enough to keep you safe.

You didn’t even know if the food tasted good. You’d made it for him, yes, but your tongue barely registered the flavor. All you saw was his face, smiling like you hadn’t lost each other at all. There was a change in him, though something you couldn’t name. His cheerfulness was quieter now, tempered by experience, by loss. But he still looked at you like you were the world he wanted to return to.

Stories were passed between bites, laughter carried over the table like warm wind. And when the plates were scraped clean, your stomach filled not with food, but with something richer, something golden, almost holy.

Then came the cake.

Soft candlelight cast long, gentle shadows over the frosting, and for a moment, the world paused again. Afraid the silence would stretch too long and eat you whole, you shifted your weight and softly cut through it.

“Would you mind blowing the candles for me, gege?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, muffled against the sleeve where your arms curled around his. You didn’t want to let go. Not of his warmth. Not of this moment. As if loosening your grip would wake you up from the dream. Your hands squeezed tighter, childish, maybe, but he didn’t laugh. He only smiled. That smile. So full of something you didn’t know if you deserved yet, but were slowly, giddily beginning to believe.

But then he leaned closer, just a bit. Enough to make your breath still and your heart pound somewhere near your throat.

“Well,” he said, voice low with something fond, something old, “I was thinking of something else, meimei.”

He dipped lower to your face, his back bending at an angle so familiar it startled you. Like how he used to lean over the stove to kiss your forehead while you stirred soup. Like how he stooped down to look into your eyes when he brought you coffee in the early mornings of Skyhaven, teasing you about how you were short because you skipped milk.

“This birthday wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for you,” he murmured, eyes glinting with a warmth that flickered like the candlelight between you. “You orchestrated everything. The cake. The food. The little decorations on the table. You.”

You were about to protest, but he touched your cheek before you could say anything. His palm was warm, fingertips brushing so gently it almost undid you. He held your face like it was something precious again, like the same soft thing he had cleansed and cradled just hours ago. His thumb moved slowly across your skin, and you could feel your blush rise to meet him.

“But it’s your birthday, gege,” you whispered, the corners of your lips tugging down as the ache bubbled quietly in your throat. “And your homecoming…”

His expression shifted. Softer, more solemn. His gaze fell into yours like a stone into a still lake, deep, unwavering, something ancient behind it.

“No,” he murmured. “It’s ours, meimei.”

The words landed like a benediction.

You blinked up at him, breath faltering as your heartbeat stumbled. Your chest rose with shallow effort, your fingers still clinging to his sleeve. But the moment swallowed you whole. His voice, his warmth, the scent of him in the air, it all wrapped around you like prayer.

“You came back too,” he said, voice breaking on the edges. “From a place I couldn’t reach. From that hollow place I left you in. I know… I know what it did to you. I see it in your eyes, in the way you hold yourself. I let you disappear. And you still clawed your way back to me.”

His hand never left your cheek. It steadied you. Grounded you. The pad of his thumb brushed slowly beneath your eye, catching a tear you didn’t know had spilled. Then his forehead lowered to yours, resting there with care, the way he always did when you needed to be quieted. When words weren’t enough.

“So let’s do it together,” he whispered.

And you nodded, small, fragile, but sincere.

He reached forward with you, both your hands steadying the cake between you. The flames of the candles danced, casting gold across his skin. You looked at him, not just at his face, but into him, and saw the man you had mourned, the boy you once adored, and the home you thought was lost forever. You closed your eyes. Breathed in the shared air between you. Thought of your wish, not for peace, not for forgiveness, but for time. For more of this. For this to never leave you again.

Together, in one breath, you blew.

The flames vanished, smoke curling like silk into the still air. The silence after was so full, it hurt. The soft glow from the lights flickered in your tears. Caleb didn’t speak. He only turned to look at you, and smiled with that unbearable tenderness, like seeing you like this was the only thing that ever mattered. And just like that, a small, wavering, but real smile blossomed. He reached for your hand again, and threaded your fingers between his. A perfect fit, like no time had passed at all.

You lifted the fork carefully, scooping a bit of the soft cake onto the silver prongs. Your hands still trembled faintly, the aftermath of everything clinging to your skin like residue. But you steadied them anyway, just enough to guide the bite to his lips. Caleb leaned in with the quiet grace of someone worshipping, his mouth parting just slightly. You fed him like he was something delicate, like the bite itself was an offering in a temple of two.

He chewed slowly, his eyes never leaving yours, as if the taste meant nothing compared to the way you looked at him now. There was a stillness in his gaze, not heavy, but full. Full of something soft and content, something old and familiar made new again. The flicker of candlelight played across the gold in his irises, and for a moment, he looked like a man not just in love, but at peace. Peaceful in a world that had nearly taken that from him.

You leaned back just slightly, heart aching and full, and tried to catch your breath. You hadn’t realized how much you missed this, the simple intimacy of sharing food, the way the space between you both filled with something tender and slow. You had forgotten how it felt to be seen like this, to be fed without question, to be known without having to explain.

"You still make the best cake," he murmured once he swallowed, voice syrup-thick and humming with fondness. “You always overmix the batter just a little… but that’s what makes it yours. That’s what makes it perfect.”

You wrinkled your nose, blushing and ready to swat at him with a protest. “Stop teasing me, gege, I didn’t—”

But before the words could fully form, his finger dipped into the thick curl of frosting left on the plate and, without hesitation, smeared it across the bridge of your nose.

Your breath caught in your throat.

The touch was cool and unexpected, the soft sweetness clinging to your skin. You blinked, stunned. Wide-eyed. Silenced by frosting.

Caleb’s expression bloomed into something brighter than candlelight. He grinned, the real kind, wide and unchecked, the corners of his mouth curling up with joy he couldn’t hide even if he wanted to. His laugh followed, deep and golden, the kind that rumbled in his chest before spilling into the space between you. It was the sound you remembered from your best memories. The one that used to echo down corridors and across shared bedsheets and through sleepy mornings. The one that said everything would be okay.

He looked at you like you were the most precious thing he had ever touched. Like your startled, frosted face was a masterpiece.

“You were getting too serious,” he said through a chuckle, reaching up with his thumb to gently swipe away a bit of the frosting, “so I had to fix it.”

You gaped at him. Open-mouthed, offended, and betrayed in the gentlest way possible.

“Oh? You think you can get away with that?” Your voice trembled at the edges, not from pain this time, but from barely-contained laughter.

You struck back, quick and decisive, dipping your own finger into the icing and dabbing it right onto his cheekbone. The white stood out against his skin like a mark of war. The look on his face was priceless, gasping, a little wide-eyed, followed by that lopsided, boyish smile that you used to kiss without thinking.

“There,” you said softly, mischief warming your voice. “Now we match.”

He laughed again, softer this time, curling around the sound like it was yours to keep. His forehead tipped forward until it brushed yours, the two of you frosting-marked and glowing in the amber light. His hand found your thigh under the table again, warm and grounding, while your hand rested gently on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of a heart that still beat only for you.

And in that moment, as the laughter faded into a quiet hum between you both, you let yourself believe it.

This was healing.

This was home.

His thumb brushed the frosting from your lip, but lingered there, slow and thoughtful. His eyes searched yours, not asking, not demanding. Just… seeing. Seeing you. And you let yourself be seen.

The space between you wasn’t big. It never had been. Not really. It only took one breath, one shared inhale, for your bodies to begin leaning in again. The kind of gravity that didn’t pull, but welcomed.

He spoke, low and close.

“Can I kiss you, meimei?”

You fluttered your eyelashes open, pulling back just enough to see him clearly, your breath still catching at the edges. The heat of his body still lingered on your skin, clinging like silk. You blinked up at him, the glow of the warm lights softening the sharp lines of his jaw, casting a delicate shadow over the fire in his gaze. It wasn’t playful. It wasn’t teasing. It was hunger and something deeper.

Your brows lifted faintly, lips parting with uncertainty as you searched him. “Aren’t we moving a little too fast, gege?” you asked, your voice quiet, vulnerable in the low-lit hush between you. And yet, even as you said it, your palms slid along the swell of his arms, fingertips tracing the shape of his biceps. There was no pressure behind it, only something trembling and curious, something that wanted to stay close.

He didn’t speak right away. He only caught your hands with his own, gently caging them against his chest, where you could feel his heartbeat, steady, strong, impossibly grounding. His eyes locked with yours, and in them was a gravity you couldn’t turn from.

“I’ve starved long enough,” he said, his voice dipping, low and sure. “Starved of your scent, your warmth, your skin against mine. I’m a man returned from the dead, meimei, and all I want—” he leaned in, tucking a stray strand of your hair behind your ear, fingers brushing the shell of it with maddening care, “—is you.”

You turned your head, face warming, a pink flush blooming across your cheeks. The intimacy of his gaze was too much, like he could see beneath your skin, into the places you thought were ruined beyond repair. But he reached anyway. He always reached.

Then, without warning, he tugged you in by the waist. The sudden closeness stole your breath, your palms pressed flat against his chest, and one of his hands found your jaw, tilting your face upward, guiding you without force, only precision. You could feel his thumb grazing the edge of your cheek, the touch tender but anchoring.

“If you don’t want this,” he murmured, mouth hovering just above yours, “push me away.”

The silence between you thickened. His fingers slowly threaded through your hair, letting the strands curl between them, dragging his touch along your scalp like he was drawing out your breath. “But if you don’t,” he whispered, lips so close they brushed your words away, “I’m going to kiss you. And I’ll worship every part of you until you forget anything ever hurt.”

You didn’t move.

Because staying with him felt like breathing, like you were alive again. And you wanted it deep within your soul.

Your heartbeat pounded like a drum against his chest, the air between you turning warm, electric, and heady. You met his gaze one last time, drowning in the gravity of it, then tilted your chin up and kissed him. His mouth met yours with a need that was quiet but deep, like he'd been waiting lifetimes for that single moment of permission. Like you were the first sip of water after years lost in the desert.

The moment your lips touched, you remembered everything, how natural it was for your bodies to speak this language, how easy it was to fall back into this rhythm, where love bloomed in sweat and skin. You leaned closer, your chest pressed against his, arms winding around his neck before your hands cupped his cheeks, deepening the kiss with all the silent hunger you had buried inside you.

There was no more hesitation. Not in your movements, not in the way your mouth opened against his. Your tongues clashed, tasted, took. And Caleb, your Caleb, kissed you back like a man who had returned from war and found his peace again. His hands mapped your spine, trailing with care and need, fingers pressing, learning, relearning you.

The passion built like a fire stoked in silence for too long. He kissed you over and over, with reverence and heat. Sometimes he pulled back to bite at your lip, gentle at first, then with just enough pressure to make your thighs tremble. And when your breath hitched, he chuckled low, breath fanning your flushed cheeks.

Right after the clock ticked louder into the room, you broke away to breathe, panting, your forehead resting against the crook of his neck. Your voice came out in a whisper. “Gege, I—”

“Sofa,” he said, cutting in gently. Not a command. A plea, laced with need.

He took your hand and kissed your knuckles, slow and tender, his eyes never leaving yours. You could feel the question in his touch, the longing and the restraint. And maybe he saw the flicker of fear still rooted in your chest, because his expression softened immediately. He rose to his full height, towering over you, hands landing gently on your shoulders to steady you.

“Meimei, listen to me.”

His voice anchored you. Each word carved into you like a vow.

“Let me be the one to worship you again. Let me fill the cracks left behind. Let me make you whole, not with promises, but with the way I touch you, the way I love you. Let me rewrite every memory that ever made you feel ruined."

He kissed your forehead, soft, deliberate, and it steadied you. “Let me remark your skin, in tenderness. Let me reclaim every inch of you, not out of possession, but devotion. Let me love you until there’s nothing left but light.”

You blinked up at him, the weight of your insecurities still clinging to your chest like fog. But the way he looked at you—the way his voice shook when he asked to make you whole—broke something open inside. You were scared. Still unsure if you deserved this much love. But maybe, just maybe, you could be a little greedy.

“Please, ge,” you whispered. The words barely left your throat, but they were enough.

He stilled. His eyes turned darker, pupils wide and gleaming like a tide pulling you in. The smile that curled at the edge of his lips was both soft and dangerous. Without another word, he swept you into his arms, holding you like something sacred, something rediscovered. He carried you to the sofa with the same grace he used to hold your trembling heart.

He laid you down like a prayer.

Then leaned over you, one palm at your waist, the other smoothing your hair gently behind your ear. His gaze searched yours, not for permission, but to make sure you were still there with him, body and soul.

“May I do the service of undressing you, meimei?” he asked, his voice like velvet and fire.

His voice carried with it the weight of a thousand aching nights, every syllable carved from longing and devotion. You couldn’t answer with words. You simply nodded, slowly, your breath caught somewhere between fear and desire, trust and anticipation. Your body trembled beneath his gaze, your chest rising and falling in time with the beat of your name in his mouth.

He bent over you, his movements unhurried, his hands warm and sure as they reached for the hem of your dress. Fingers brushed over your thighs, sliding up with reverence as he gathered the fabric slowly, inch by inch, like he was unwrapping something precious, not to ravish but to honor. His lips never left your skin for long. He kissed the exposed parts of your body as the dress peeled away—your knees, your hip bones, the soft curve beneath your ribs—his mouth writing silent poetry over places that had only known cold for too long.

The dress slipped past your shoulders, caught briefly at your arms before he slid it off completely, folding it gently, placing it aside like it mattered, because you mattered.

When you were bare beneath him, his eyes didn’t devour you, they worshipped. He took his time just looking, tracing the curve of your collarbone with his fingertips, then down the slope of your waist, memorizing you all over again. Not with greed. Not with lust alone. But with love that broke you open in the best way.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmured, like it hurt to say. “Do you know that? No matter what you believe, you are.”

He bent down, kissed the place above your heart. Then lower, over the center of your ribs. Each kiss was soft. Purposeful. It felt like he was breathing life into your body again, piece by shattered piece.

Your hands trembled as they reached for him, slipping beneath his shirt. You pushed the fabric up with slow, shaky fingers, wanting to see him too. To feel him again. He let you undress him, every movement laced with patience, his skin hot beneath your palms. When his chest was finally exposed, you pressed your face into it, lips brushing over the familiar warmth, the solidness of him.

“I missed this,” you whispered, and he hummed against your crown.

“I missed you.”

And then he lowered himself over you, not to dominate, but to align. To connect. The weight of his body on yours was grounding, safe, an answer to every prayer you whispered in your loneliest nights. He kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, his hand threading through your hair, the other cradling your hip.

It was no longer just about the act. It was something deeper, an unmaking, a rejoining, a sacred surrender of everything broken between you. His touch redrew you. His mouth reclaimed the pieces of you you thought were lost forever.

And beneath him, you let yourself be rebuilt.

He undid the buttons of his shirt one by one, fingers unhurried, until the fabric slid from his shoulders and fell to the floor with a whisper. There was no care in the way he discarded it, so unlike the tenderness he showed your clothes just minutes earlier, folding each piece like it meant the world to him. You couldn’t help but let out a quiet laugh, your lips curling into something fragile, something full of love. He tilted his head at you, gaze sliding down your body, studying the bloom of amusement in your eyes.

“What’s funny, meimei?” he asked, lowering himself until his mouth was close enough to taste your breath. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

His voice was warm honey, thick with affection and something darker. He nosed along the curve of your throat, breathing in the scent of your skin like it grounded him. Like it tethered him back to life.

You laughed again, softer this time. Your arms wrapped around his neck, fingers brushing the nape of his hair as you kissed him, just a brush of lips. A promise. A thank you. He leaned into it, cradling your body in his arms like something sacred, before he pulled away and studied you again.

“You really are divine,” he whispered, and then his gaze traveled downward. His hands parted your thighs slowly, reverent in their purpose. The space between you bloomed open like a ritual offering, and he knelt before you, a priest at the altar of your body.

He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh. Then another. And another. His lips lingered each time, the warmth of his breath soaking into your skin like spring rain. You trembled beneath his mouth, overwhelmed not by what he was doing, but by how it made you feel, loved, cherished, known.

You turned your face to the side, one hand covering your lips to quiet the moan threatening to spill out. But he saw it. Of course he did.

“Don’t hide from me, meimei,” he said, so tender it ached. He took your hand gently, pulled it away from your mouth, and interlaced your fingers with his. “I want to hear everything. Every sound. Every moan. Every whisper of my name. Give it to me.”

His voice was a kiss of its own.

And then he began.

He gazed at your folds like they were the most delicate flower he’d ever seen. His breath ghosted over your skin, hot and trembling, and for a long, suspended second, he didn’t move, just looked, just breathed. As if he were memorizing you. As if he needed this image to carry with him for the rest of his life. Then he spoke again, barely audible over the pounding of your heart.

“Even now, after all this time… you’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

His thumb circled your clit, slow and aching. You arched against him, gasping, fingers gripping his hand like it was the only thing keeping you afloat.

“So pink,” he murmured, reverent and low. “So flushed. So perfect. You’re everything I love, meimei. Everything.”

Your hips trembled, your thighs quivered beneath his hold, and he hadn’t even tasted you yet.

Until he did.

His tongue swept a long, deliberate stripe from your entrance to your clit. You choked on a moan, your back lifting from the sofa in an uncontrolled arch. He moaned with you, like your pleasure fueled his own. He kissed you there, over and over, slow and deep. Then faster. Tongue flicking, lips sucking, worship in every movement.

“Tell me to stop if it’s too much,” he murmured between strokes, voice rough, ruined, as if the taste of you was already unraveling him. “No promises I’ll listen though. You taste too good, meimei.”

His lips curled against your skin in a smile you couldn’t see, but felt. And then he dragged his tongue up the length of your folds again, slow, languid, with an longing pressure that made your toes curl. He wasn’t in a rush. He was savoring you. Tasting you like he was trying to memorize every inch of you, every flavor, every quiver.

You cried out, breath hitching, your hands twisting into his hair with helpless urgency. You couldn’t help it. The sensation was too much, too precise. His tongue flicked softly at your clit, then pressed flat against it, circling slowly, then faster, then slow again, driving you to madness with each change in rhythm. He moved with such intention, every lap of his tongue a declaration of love, of hunger, of absolute possession.

He buried his face deeper, groaning lowly against you when your thighs tried to close around his head. His broad and warm hands slid beneath your knees, pushing them wider, locking you open for him.

“Don’t run from me,” he breathed against your slick heat. “Not when you taste this fucking good.”

And then he dove in.

His tongue dipped into your entrance, shallow and teasing at first, then deeper, licking into you like he was coaxing your soul from your body. You sobbed, back arching violently as his mouth worked you open, slowly, deliberately, pushing you toward the edge with every precise swirl. He licked in patterns, tracing shapes against your most sensitive nerves. Slow circles. Long strokes. Sudden flicks. Sometimes he’d suckle your clit until you couldn’t breathe, then retreat to kiss the inside of your thigh, only to return and do it all over again.

You moaned his name. Over and over. Broken. Breathless. Needy.

Your body was melting beneath him. Shaking. Your stomach clenched with every roll of his tongue, every press of his mouth. He could feel you nearing the edge. The way your thighs trembled. The way your hands tugged harder at his hair. The way you gasped when he sucked at the swollen bundle of nerves again, harder now, greedier, his tongue now fast and messy and maddening.

And still, he didn’t stop.

When he felt you teetering on that precipice, he gripped your thighs hard, holding them apart, grounding you. His voice was ragged when he spoke again.

“Give it to me,” he whispered, lips brushing your clit. “Let go for me. Let your gege have your love.”

That was all it took.

You shattered completely, wholly. Your legs kicked, your hips bucked, your moans spilled out of you in a tidal wave. He didn’t let go, didn’t pull back. He stayed right there, holding you through it, his tongue still gently working you through the tremors. Every drop of you, every sound, every shiver, he took it all in like it was sacred. And when the climax tore through you, so fierce it made your eyes roll back, he moaned too. Like your pleasure was his own undoing. And all you could do was cry out for him, his name, his title, your gege, over and over, the sound raw and reverent in your throat.

Your chest heaved as the last tremor passed through you, soft and violent all at once, leaving you weightless and aching. Your head lolled back, limbs loose, skin fevered. You weren’t even sure what time meant anymore. You were still suspended in the afterglow, lulled into a dreamlike stillness, when you felt the faintest brush of his mouth against your thigh again. He was licking you clean, gentle and methodical, tongue tracing the curves he had just wrecked with worship. The adoration of it made you shudder. He treated you like something sacred. Like something only he was allowed to touch, to taste, to unravel.

You didn’t realize you had tears in your eyes until he kissed the inside of your knee and murmured, “Shh, just sit tight, baby.”

You blinked slowly, your hand twitching with the urge to reach for him again, to keep him close where you could feel his breath on your skin. But he was already pushing up, easing himself back from between your thighs with one last lingering kiss against the softness of your inner thigh. You could still feel his mouth there, like a brand. Still warm, still wet.

“I’ll make you feel good,” he said quietly, like a promise he had already started to fulfill. “All you have to do is give in to me.”

He stood then, briefly leaving your sight, but not your senses. You watched him move, the way his back stretched when he reached down for his bag, the smooth, fluid confidence in his body. He returned with several thin red packets in hand, the glossy wrappers catching the light, bright apple red.

Your brows lifted, mouth parting with a small, silent gasp. His smile was slow, knowing, dark at the edges but full of affection. “You didn’t really think one would be enough tonight, did you?”

Your eyes dropped to his hands, to the tilt of his hips, the faint strain where his waistband hugged the shape of his arousal. Your mouth went dry at the sight of it. The heat already building again between your thighs pulsed stronger. You wanted to look away, but couldn’t.

Then, with the kind of care that turned your breath shallow, he undid the button of his pants. Not hurried, not coy, just deliberate, confident in a way that made the entire world pause to watch. The zipper slid down. He stepped out of them, slow and smooth, revealing the soft muscle along his abdomen, the faint trail that disappeared into the waistband of his boxers. Your eyes caught on the wet spot clinging there. And your heart skipped.

He didn’t rush.

He hooked his thumbs into the hem and pushed the fabric down. And when his cock sprang free, hard and flushed and aching for you, your breath left you entirely. It was beautiful. All of him was. Your gaze flickered up, and you caught him watching you, eyes heavy, mouth parted. He looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered. Like he was already inside you.

Still, he took his time.

He tore open the packet with his teeth, rolled the condom on with practiced ease. The sight of it made your thighs clench, made you remember how full he used to make you feel, how he stretched you open like no one else. It made you crave. Not just the act, but him. Caleb. Your older brother. Your lover.

He moved closer again, the distance between you shrinking with every step, until his knees brushed the edge of the sofa. You tilted your head up to meet his gaze, eyes wide, body still trembling with leftover bliss.

And he didn’t speak right away.

He just looked at you. Took you in. The soft way your chest rose and fell. The curve of your thighs still parted slightly. The blush that hadn’t left your cheeks since the first kiss. His palm cupped your cheek, thumb brushing against your flushed skin like he was rediscovering something precious.

“Lie back,” he said at last, voice low and velvet-rich, "let me in, meimei."

He didn’t mean just physically. You could feel it in the way he looked at you. He meant everything.

Let me back into your heart. Let me take care of what I broke. Let me love you again, properly, wholly, completely. And without a word, you did.

You let yourself fall back. You let your body open to him. You let him in.

He gripped your knees, easing you open with the kind of slow patience that made every second feel heavier, hotter. His thumbs grazed your thighs as though they were parchment he needed to read, understand, remember. He wanted all of you, wanted you pliant and trembling beneath him, just like this. His body moved forward with care, with weight. And then he pushed inside.

Inch by inch, he filled you, and each stretch sent little tremors lacing up your spine. You gasped. Your breath caught in your throat. The sensation wasn’t just physical, it was everywhere, in your chest, your hands, your trembling legs. Every nerve in your body felt like it was waking up, one by one, to him. You could feel his shape, his warmth, his veins—pulsing and thick and demanding space where there hadn’t been any in so long.

Your fingers clutched at the cushions, nails biting into the fabric. It felt too much, too big, too intense, but he didn’t rush. His hips moved just a little, just enough to ease you into the rhythm of him. You blinked up at him, vision hazy with the prickle of tears, not from pain, but the sheer enormity of being held like this again. Of being filled with something more than just flesh. With him.

He leaned forward, brushing your cheek with his thumb as if he could erase everything that ever made you hesitate. His lips touched yours, soft and searching, until the kiss deepened into something more molten, something that curled in your gut and made you moan softly into his mouth. And when he finally pulled away, it was only to trail lower, pressing his lips to your throat, your collarbone, your chest, everywhere you’d once been touched by others. He kissed the marks that hadn’t quite faded. Not to pretend they weren’t there, but to rewrite them in his own language. With teeth and lips and quiet devotion.

His lips found the tip of your nipple and he lingered, sucking it until you gasped again. Then he bit down, not hard, nor cruel, but enough to brand you with something new, something wholly his. Your back arched, your body reacting before your mind could catch up. The place he claimed stung just slightly, but the sting made it real. It made you his.

“You whimpered, arching under him, breath catching. ‘Gege… it’s so big,’ you whispered, your voice threadbare and shy. Your nails curled into his back, half in protest, half in need. ‘Did you… grow while you were gone?’”

He chuckled, the sound low and amused, his chest rumbling against yours. “Maybe I did,” he teased, brushing his fingers through your hair like you were his favorite thing in the world. “Maybe I missed you so much, I grew just to hold more of you.”

You pouted, squeezing his arms, your body trembling under the pressure. “You didn’t warn me…”

“I told you to relax, didn’t I?” he said, kissing the corner of your lips. “Just a little more, Meimei. Almost there.”

You writhed a little more, overwhelmed by the stretch of him, your body adjusting slowly. Even with your slick coating him, you still felt so stretched, so dilated, like your insides were being rewritten by every inch he gave you. And when he stopped, when he was fully seated within you, he looked down and stroked your hair with that same quiet adoration that had always undone you.

He drew his hips back slowly, and with a quiet inhale, he pushed in. A single, deep push, burying himself all the way inside you in one slow stroke. Your mouth opened in a soundless cry, your spine arching. You felt impossibly full, like you couldn’t hold him and yourself at the same time. Every edge of you stretched to accommodate him, until the lines between pain and pleasure blurred into something entirely new.

He groaned, low and sharp, the sound dragging from his throat like he’d waited years for this moment. “Oops… I miiight have lied a bit. Pardon your gege.” he exhaled, kissing your temple as he laughed. “All in, Meimei. Now you’re mine.”

You whimpered beneath him, heart racing, hands slipping from his back to claw at his arms instead. His scent wrapped around you, clean soap and something darker, something aching. You could barely breathe, barely think. But his touch never wavered. One hand stroked your hair while the other gripped your thigh, steadying you, keeping you open for every shiver of movement.

And then, he stilled. Buried deep, not yet moving, just feeling. His forehead pressed to yours, your breaths mixing, your limbs tangled.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice ragged. “You’re perfect like this. Filled with me. Like you were always meant to be.”

Then, he moved.

Slowly at first, measured, intentional. Each thrust was careful, letting your body adjust to the motion, to the feel of being filled again, of being claimed again, by someone as thick and deep as him. He never let you drift away from him. One arm wrapped firm around your waist, caging you close, like your body was the only sanctuary he knew. The other cradled your face with unbearable tenderness, thumb brushing your cheek, guiding you into a kiss that melted your thoughts. His lips were warm, slightly trembling from restraint, as if he were trying to hold back the part of him that ached to devour you whole.

Your moans spilled out between those kisses, soft and high and desperate. The sound of skin slapping skin echoed between the walls, lewd and wet and intimate. Your back arched with every deeper push, your thighs parting wider, your body betraying just how much it needed this. Needed him. You could feel the heat pooling, slick building where your bodies joined, his thrusts beginning to fall into a rhythm that bordered on worship.

“Oh, you feel so good, baby,” he groaned against your ear, the vibration of his voice sending shivers down your spine. “I missed you so much.” His teeth grazed your earlobe, giving it a gentle bite, like he was tasting the part of you that still remembered how he loved.

And then he trailed lower.

His hand moved from your cheek to your chest, fingers cupping one breast, his palm spreading warmth over your skin. He rolled your nipple between his fingers, coaxing another gasp from you, then bent his head low to press a kiss to the soft swell. You trembled beneath him, overwhelmed by the combination of his thrusts and his mouth, your body pulled taut on the edge of something bright.

“You’re so, so beautiful, my love,” he murmured, lips moving down your sternum between phrases. “From your hair, to your neck, to your chest… and your cunt. Every inch of you. And I’m so glad it’s mine again.”

His mouth found your nipple and he took it between his lips, suckling gently at first, then deeper, wetter. His tongue flicked over the sensitive tip in time with his hips, and the mix of sensations made you cry out, clutching at his back, your legs wrapping tighter around him as you bucked up into his rhythm. You couldn’t hold back anymore. He wasn’t just making love to your body, he was touching the ache buried deep inside your chest, the part that had waited so long to be held like this again.

You were close.

And so was he.

Your body trembled beneath his, hips stuttering with every thrust that brought you closer to the edge. His rhythm was steady but growing deeper, more insistent, his need sharpening just beneath the tenderness. The way he moved inside you felt like he was trying to memorize every part of your walls, like he never wanted to forget what you felt like again.

Your breath hitched, a tremor traveling up your spine. You buried your face against his neck, lips brushing his pulse, your moans becoming more breathless, more broken.

“Gege,” you whimpered, voice shaking. “I… I’m close…”

He slowed his thrusts, just enough to look at you, to make sure you meant it. You nodded, eyes heavy, mouth parted, fingers curling at the back of his neck. And when he saw the truth in your face, how close you were to falling apart, he kissed you. It was not rushed, not messy.

It was like surrender. A kiss like devotion.

Your lips pressed together, deep and warm, his tongue finding yours in time with the roll of his hips. And that was what did it, his kiss and his body and the words he whispered right against your mouth.

“Come with me, meimei. Don’t hold back. Let go with me.”

Your whole body tensed as pleasure washed over you, hot and overwhelming. You clenched around him, gasping into his mouth as you shattered, every nerve lighting up with sensation. And the moment your walls fluttered around him, he broke too. His hips jerked, breath catching, and he moaned low against your lips, as if even his release was meant to be shared.

He remained buried inside as he kissed you through it, holding you steady while your bodies trembled with the aftermath. The kind of climax that left your mind white and your limbs trembling, your names tangled together in gasps and sighs. And when it was done, when the shaking slowed and your heartbeats calmed just slightly, he pulled away just far enough to look at you. His thumb brushed your lower lip, still swollen from the kiss.

You were still trembling in his arms, both of you breathing in the same rhythm, your skin warm and sticky where it met his. He didn’t move a muscle, keeping you in his embrace. Buried inside you, wrapped around you like a blanket you never wanted to peel off. He kissed your temple again, and again, like he was trying to lull you to sleep, but his body told a different story.

You felt it. The way he was still hard, twitching inside you. The way his breath hitched just a little whenever you shifted. And when you nuzzled into his neck, pressing lazy, grateful kisses there, you felt him groan, quietly, like he didn’t want to scare you.

But your hips rolled without thinking. Testing. Inviting.

“Gege,” you whispered, lips brushing against the shell of his ear. “You didn’t finish, did you?”

He laughed, but there was no humor in it. Just want. Just restraint, worn too thin.

“I did,” he murmured, dragging his fingers down your spine. “But then you made that sound. That soft little whimper. And now I’m starving again.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Instead, you reached up and cupped his jaw, tugging his mouth down to yours. And while the kiss started slow, sweet, it didn’t stay that way.

It deepened, hungrier this time.

And before you could blink, he had lifted you into his lap. Still seated, still buried inside. He held you there like it was where you belonged.

“Stay still,” he growled into your neck. “Let me… let me mark you again. Every place they ever touched, every inch they ever claimed—I’ll make it mine.”

Then he bit you. Not cruelly, not carelessly, but with the precise hunger of someone who had dreamed of this for too long. Right at the edge of your shoulder, his mouth closed over a place where another man once dared to mark you, and his teeth sank down with gentle vengeance. He didn’t stop. He kissed the sting away, then traveled lower, letting his lips and tongue soothe before he bit again, lower, slower, dragging the pain into pleasure until it dissolved into a noise escaping your throat.

You moaned, your back arching instinctively, body rising to meet every possessive press of his mouth. You clung to him, your fingers slipping through the sweat-damp strands of his hair, anchoring him closer and closer until there was nothing between you but breath and heat.

And still… a part of you couldn’t believe this was real.

From his impossible return to the quiet, joyful dinner, the warmth of his laughter beside yours, the tenderness of blowing out candles together, and now this, the sacred silence of your bodies pressed as one, it all felt too complete. Too gentle. Like you were trespassing in a dream you had stitched together in your loneliest nights, and the thread would break any moment, waking you to cold sheets and hollow air.

You searched his face, needing something to tether you, and found it not in a word, but in his eyes. He was looking at you. Truly looking, after devouring your skin like a man starved, with such unwavering earnestness that it struck you breathless.

“Are you okay? Was I too rough?” His voice cracked as he asked, his hand already reaching up to your face in apology, in fear, in love.

You shook your head, and tears slid quietly down your cheeks. Not from pain. Not from fear. But from the ache of being held again. From believing, for just long enough, that you could stay like this.

“I’m more than okay,” you whispered, catching his hand and curling it against your cheek. You nuzzled into his palm, seeking its warmth, grounding yourself in a gesture you’d done a thousand times before, when comforting him, when begging him to stay, when waking him from fevered dreams. It felt like breathing. “It just feels… strange. Like if I blink, you’ll be gone. Like none of this is real.”

His expression shifted at your confession. Anguish flickered through him first, then guilt, then something deeper. Resolve. He wrapped his arms around you, gathering you flush to his chest, locking his embrace at your waist like he was holding the world together.

He rested his head on your shoulder, letting the words fall from his lips not like promises, but oaths. “I can’t undo the past,” he murmured, his breath brushing the slope of your collarbone, “but I will spend every moment I have making it up to you. I won’t leave again, meimei. Not now. Not ever. Gravity itself has pulled me back to you. And I won’t fight it.”

Then he kissed the nape of your neck. A soft vow sealed with lips and breath. Followed by another bite, stronger this time. Possessive. Fresh marks etched over old ones. Yours, claimed again, not as a memory, but as a rebirth. And just like that, you let go. Melted into him. Let your body sink into his like it belonged nowhere else. Like your soul remembered this alignment better than your mind ever could.

No, he couldn’t erase everything. Neither could you. But in this moment, tangled together, skin branded with shared want, you didn’t need perfect. Just him.

“I believe you,” you whispered at last, voice muffled in his shoulder. “But if you ever try to leave again, I’ll find you. I’ll lock you in the attic like you did to me in Gran’s house.”

That earned a chuckle from him, low and warm, against your throat. “Be my guest. I’d welcome it. I’d happily rot in your attic, if it means staying close to you.”

Then, with a shift of his weight, he tilted your jaw upward and sank into your neck once more. He kissed your pulse, then bit gently beside it, trailing his lips lower as if tracing a map only he could read.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, almost reverently, his mouth hovering against the base of your throat. “So of course, since my sweet meimei misbehaved, I’ll have to punish you.”

A pause.

“But only gently.”

Warmth slowly bloomed across your cheeks, spreading like the afterglow of a soft fire, while something deeper stirred low in your belly, something sweet, aching, sharp in its clarity. You’d just come twice, trembling from the fullness of his tongue, then again from the way his body filled yours completely. You could still feel him inside you, the ghost of that stretch, the memory of his mouth, every nerve ending lit and frayed. It was overwhelming, familiar and utterly new. A need you had thought buried returning in full force, alive and insatiable.

But you knew him. You knew him too well.

Your gege was gentle, yes. But buried beneath the softness, there lived something darker. Something possessive. And it was stirring now, no longer content to sleep. His gaze on you had shifted, no longer tender alone, but fierce. And the truth whispered itself across your skin like a secret:

You wanted more. So much more.

He didn’t even raise his voice when he said it.

“Sit on my lap.”

A command. Low and smooth like a polished blade, honed from years of discipline and weight. And still it cut right through you. A chill rushed down your spine, leaving a quiver in its wake. You knew that voice. Knew what it meant. It reminded you of those old days, the younger Caleb, already resolute and golden, but this version? He was something more. A colonel now. Sharpened by distance, carved by grief, returned to you with a darker edge. He was ruthless, breathless, and most importantly, yours.

And yet, even then, he paused.

His hand grazed your knee, tracing a light path over your skin. His touch steadied, reverent in a new way.

“Is that alright?” he asked, voice low, sincere. “Can I have you again, like this? Let me lead you, baby. But only if you want it.”

That thread of concern wrapped around your heart, tied you back to the boy you loved before the war took parts of him. You looked into his eyes, that gleam of heat and ache, the fire barely held back by restraint.

And you nodded. You whispered, “Yes, gege,” barely a breath, but full of longing.

He didn’t hesitate after that. You scrambled up on your knees, your limbs weak from pleasure, trembling slightly as you obeyed. His hands reached for you at once, steady and guiding. He didn’t rush, he positioned you just right, lifting your hips with care, helping you straddle him with the kind of patience that made your chest ache. Your hands found his shoulders instinctively, fingers digging into his warm skin, trying to anchor yourself to the sensation of him again.

You moved to sink down onto him.

But then—

“Nuh uh,” he murmured against your skin, the words low and dangerous, laced with amusement.

And before you could even process the words, the sharp crack of his palm landed across your ass, heat blossoming instantly under the strike.

You gasped, head falling forward against his shoulder, every muscle jolting. Your thighs quivered where they touched his hips. A shudder passed through your whole body, not from pain, but from the electric pleasure laced in it. It had been so long since you felt this, the quick sting of his discipline, the way it melted instantly into care. You had forgotten how much you loved this. And now, it was back. He was back.

He cupped you afterward, soothing the sting, his fingers tender even in their possession. His other hand kept you steady, splayed across your back, like he was holding the storm in place.

“Bad meimei,” he whispered again, slower this time, lips brushing against your ear. “You don’t get to choose, not without your gege’s permission.”

Your eyes fluttered closed. Your body trembled again.

You nearly came right there just from that. The words, the smack, the weight of being seen and held and owned. But you held it back, barely. Shame mixed with heat, need with surrender, and you collapsed forward, resting against his chest like it was your only sanctuary. He stroked down your spine, slow and rhythmic, grounding you like he always had.

And in that moment, it wasn’t just about arousal anymore. It was safety. Protection. It was the quiet knowledge that here, in his lap, in his arms, you were cradled by something greater than touch.

“Slowly, my love. Sink down slowly… unless,” his voice curled around you like smoke, “you’d rather be a needy little slut and take it all in one go. Hm? What do you want, meimei?”

He gave you two paths, both cruel in their own way, both thrilling. But somehow, you found yourself leaning toward the one that made your chest thrum and your core pulse. There was something broken and tender inside you that twisted at the idea of being spoken to like that. Not because it degraded you. But because he was the one saying it. Because his voice wrapped every sting in silk, every dark whisper in devotion. Because even the bruising became something sacred in his hands.

You nodded, breath catching, eyes lifting to meet his. The darkness in his gaze burned through you, hot, unflinching, maddeningly clear. And you moved. Sank down in one breathless motion, taking him to the hilt. The stretch split your breath in half. A ragged gasp tore from your mouth. You felt impossibly small, not just in size, but in presence, your thoughts hollowed out by sensation. He filled you as if his body had carved out a space that no one else could occupy, like your shape had been molded for him alone, always waiting for this reunion.

He groaned, the sound low and sharp with hunger, hands firm on your hips, grounding you as your body trembled.

“What a sight,” he murmured, eyes narrowing with that growing fire. “Did you want to rile me up? You did, didn’t you, meimei?”

Before you could answer, he lifted you with startling ease. Your breath hitched, thighs spasming from the ache, from the emptiness that lasted only a second before he thrust up into you again, deep and relentless. His rhythm was punishing and reverent all at once, hips snapping upward as you struggled to keep your balance against his shoulders. Each time he pulled you back down, your walls fluttered in response, desperate to keep him inside, to never let him go again.

You cried out, legs barely able to hold your weight. He hit every place that made you lose control, that left you begging. You clung to him, arms wrapped around his neck, fingers clawing down his back with no shame, no filter. You sobbed out his name again and again like a prayer ripped from your throat.

“Gege—too big, I can’t—!”

But he just laughed, soft and unhurried, like he was watching a favorite scene play out exactly as he’d imagined. You were his. His to hold, to love, to break apart and stitch back together with care. And he had no intention of letting up.

“Silly girl,” he whispered, nosing into your neck, voice laced with heat. “This is only the beginning. You’re mine again, meimei. Mine to touch, mine to love, mine to take.”

One hand reached up, fingers tangling in your hair before he gave it a firm tug, pulling your head back and exposing your throat. You gasped, lips parted in a soft whimper, and he wasted no time. His mouth found the places where others had once left their marks, where pain and shame still lingered. He kissed over them, then bit deep, over and over, drawing new marks, his marks, until they bloomed red and purple on your skin, a field of him, a field of home.

You clung tighter, legs shaking, body wrung out and overstimulated, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. He was merciless now. Thrust after thrust, each one rougher than the last, his breath ragged against your shoulder, your hips slapping down into his with wet, obscene sounds.

“I’m close—gege, please let me—” you cried, the desperation raw.

But his hand landed hard against your ass again, a sharp reminder.

“No,” he growled, slowing his pace to a crawl. “Not yet. Not until I say so.”

Your mouth dropped open in a soundless plea. The sudden lack of motion, the torturous drag of him half-inside, had you sobbing into his skin. He was no longer moving with rhythm, only with purpose, grinding, circling, building a new kind of tension.

But you could feel it in him too. There was something simmering under the surface, not just lust. Something unsettled. His expression had shifted. There was a flash of uncertainty there. Not in you, but in himself.

Your heart twisted. Was he doubting this? Doubting you? You opened your mouth to ask, but then he beat you to it.

“Meimei.”

Your name in that voice, firm, full of command and care, pulled you back to the present.

“It’s not you,” he said softly. “Don’t worry, my love.”

He stroked your hair, twirling a lock around his fingers like he used to when you were both younger. But this time, there was no smile behind the gesture. Only distance. A quiet searching. His fingers trembled ever so slightly.

And then, without warning, he slipped out of you. You gasped, startled. His strong arms caught you before you could fall, cradling you like something precious. He lifted you gently, set you down beside him on the sofa, his movements careful, too careful. And the air turned colder somehow.

You blinked up at him, confusion tightening in your chest. Why? Why did he stop, just when everything felt so… right?

He didn’t say a word. But he didn’t have to. It was as if he’d heard the question bloom silently in your chest, like your thoughts had echoed against the shape of his bones. His gaze found yours, earnest, unreadable, a flame flickering behind his eyes that felt too sacred to name.

His hand drifted downward, slow and unfurling, until it found the base of his own shaft. He slid the condom off with fingers that trembled slightly, not from hesitation, but from the need that had been sharpened to a blade. The motion was clumsy in its urgency, quiet in its reverence, as though the act itself bore weight. You watched him, caught in that still moment, your eyes tracing the length of him, the sculpt of his hips, the curve of his torso that now gleamed with sweat. The heat between your thighs had begun to pool, slick and heady, a mixture of what he'd given you and what you craved. But it was the confusion in your chest, the uncertainty mixing with need, that made you hold your breath.

Then his eyes lifted. And you saw it, that quiet storm behind his gaze. Steadfast and clear.

“I just want to feel you,” he whispered, voice low and raw as he leaned in. “Warm, bare, nothing between us. Your skin to mine… just this once. It’s not too much to ask, is it?”

He kissed your neck then, lips brushing your pulse like he was drinking from something sacred. The way he aligned himself again with your entrance, slowly and deliberately, made your thighs tighten around him in reflex. You should’ve pulled away. You should’ve spoken the doubts. But the way he held you, the way his voice didn’t tremble, it melted through your reservations like candle wax, burning them down to the wick.

“Gege… is it really okay?” Your voice came out soft, shy, almost apologetic, your index finger tracing slow circles on his back like a ritual for comfort. Like a question you couldn’t speak out loud. His breath hummed against your shoulder in response, not words but something deeper. A promise.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured, voice settling in your bones like dusk. “If anything happens… I’ll take responsibility. I want to.”

He reached for your hand, calloused fingers brushing against your ring finger, curling around it with a care that stunned you. And then he brought it to his lips, eyes never leaving yours, and kissed the skin there. Not with fire, but with something softer. Like a vow, like a ceremony. You felt it, the press of his lips against that place where a band should sit. You understood what he meant. Without words, he was asking you to marry him in body. In soul. At this moment, now.

Your eyes filled. Your heart opened.

“Okay, gege… I trust you. I’ll serve you. Just like always. Take me, however you want me.”

That was all it took.

Whatever restraint he’d been clinging to unraveled with that sentence. The beast, the hunger, the darkness threaded through his desire, he let it out. Not to hurt you, but to claim you. To show you in flesh what his words couldn’t always say. In the next breath, your body moved, without your own will. Gravity shifted around you, not with violence, but with precision. With care. His evol. You were pulled downward, slowly, inexorably, until your hips met his in full. Flesh to flesh.

No more barriers. No more space between.

The sensation tore a sound from your lips, a moan laced with disbelief. The absence of protection made everything unbearable, real. You could feel every ridge of him, the pulse in his length, the fever in his skin. He was inside you, raw and warm and impossibly deep. It was like being rethreaded from the inside out, like your body was remembering something it had once forgotten.

You arched back, head falling toward the stars, lips parted, spine taut as he began to thrust. Gravity didn’t stop, he kept control, his power moving you with perfect rhythm, your own muscles no longer needing to do the work. Your arms scrambled to find purchase on the bed, fingers curling in the sheets, as your body rocked in time with his.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against your ear, voice thick and fraying at the edges. “Please bear with me, meimei. I need this. I need you.”

One arm wrapped tight around your waist, holding you still while the other explored you with worshipful intent. His hand slid up to your chest, fingers curling, playing, tugging. Every brush of his palm sent sparks through your nerves, layered over the thrusts that had already begun to undo you.

You gasped his name again, eyes glassy, body trembling like a harp string pulled too tight.

This time, you didn’t care if it was too much. You wanted it. You wanted him. All of him.

He rocked into you with a rhythm only he knew, something carved not just from muscle and memory, but from longing, from the ache of too many nights spent without your warmth beneath him. With every thrust, you felt it, not just the stretch, not just the fullness, but the devotion, the intent behind it. Like he was relearning you from the inside out, committing the shape of your body to memory, rewriting every scar and ghost with the language of his hips.

And oh, how your body responded, how it remembered. Your walls clenched around him like a vice, like you didn’t want to let him go. Like you wanted to pull him even deeper, to fuse into him completely. You could feel every vein, every twitch of his cock as he drove into you, the wet, obscene sounds of your joining echoing off the walls like praise. Your hands fumbled to hold him, his back, his shoulders, his hair, anything to anchor you as the pleasure built, slow and heavy like a storm ready to break.

He looked down at you, lips parted, hair falling into his eyes, damp with sweat. “You feel so good,” he breathed, his voice wrecked with awe. “So fucking good, baby. I could lose myself in you."

You whimpered his name, the only word that still made sense. Gege. Your voice was wrecked, trembling, already falling apart.

He leaned in and kissed you then, not rushed, not bruising, but deep and consuming. His tongue brushed yours in slow circles, as if tasting the sound of his name on your lips. And through the kiss, through the heat, you whispered:

“Gege… I’m close again.”

The moment the words left you, something shifted in him. His thrusts grew rougher, more erratic. One arm locked tighter around your waist while the other slipped between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit and circling it with perfect pressure, like he knew your body better than you did. You jolted, crying out, your thighs trembling around his hips.

He swallowed your moans in another kiss, holding you close as if you were breaking, as if this moment was too fragile to let go of.

And then, he came undone. With a choked gasp against your lips, his cock pulsed deep inside you, and you felt the heat of him spill, raw and overwhelming. The force of it tipped you over the edge with him, your release crashing through your body like waves, your muscles spasming, your voice lost to everything but his name.

You clung to him, sobbing into his shoulder, body shuddering with aftershocks. And he held you through it tight and steady, murmuring your name like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth. The two of you stayed like that. Joined, breathless, bodies tangled, and hearts laid bare.

But he wasn’t done. Not even close.

Even as your body trembled against him, slick and limp, breath barely holding together like gossamer thread, he shifted. The smallest movement had you gasping, the overstimulation striking like lightning against nerves already stripped raw. This had to be your third time, maybe fourth, you couldn’t even count anymore. And yet the way his hands roamed your waist, how his mouth brushed your shoulder, told you plainly: he was still hungry.

When he pulled out, a rush of cool air kissed your inner thighs, the loss of him making you whimper. But before you could even register the emptiness, your body lifted. Not by his hands, but by something stronger. His evol. You floated, suspended by his will alone, your back against his chest as he carried you forward, deeper into the apartment, until the light above changed.

The soft glow of the bathroom bloomed to life around you.

“Gege, what are you—?”

He shushed you with nothing but a finger, the pad of it pressing to your lips. But even then, you couldn’t help yourself, your tongue darted out to taste him, to quiet your fear with the only thing that soothed it. His fingers. His scent. Him.

“You said I could do anything,” he said softly, voice low and calm, tinged with dark affection, “so I will. Just one more, meimei. Just one more for me.”

He turned you gently in the air, gravity bending to his desire. You hovered, bare and ruined, before the mirror, your body a canvas of flushed skin, swollen lips, smeared tears, and bruises blooming like flowers where his mouth had lingered. Your chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, and down your thighs, his pleasure still leaked from earlier, shining under the light. Your nipples were taut, skin glowing, sensitive from his earlier worship.

And still he looked at you like you were something holy.

“Let me have you again. Let me take you apart one last time tonight,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Let me show you what it means to belong to someone.”

You couldn’t answer. Not in words. But your eyes found him in the mirror, dark and wild and gleaming with love, and it was enough.

He used his evol again.

There was no need for hands now. You felt your hips being pulled, gravity anchoring you where he needed you to be, right against him. The head of his cock lined up with your entrance once more, and without warning, he pushed you down onto him.

The sensation was raw. Burning. You choked on the sound that tried to escape you. Every inch of him carved through your sore, fluttering walls, no barrier left, nothing between you this time. Flesh to flesh. It felt like you were being melted and reforged in his arms.

He hissed as he bottomed out, his hands now touching everywhere all at once. One gripped your waist, grounding you as he pressed his other palm against your lower belly, right over where his cock filled you, feeling the stretch from the outside. You whimpered at the pressure. You could feel him everywhere. And he wasn’t still. He moved. Slowly at first, but then with purpose, drawing whines and broken sounds from your throat as his other hand came up to cradle your throat, his thumb gently stroking under your jaw.

His rhythm grew deeper, more urgent, but never losing control.

He tugged your chin, kissed you fiercely, his tongue tasting the salt on your lips. Between thrusts, he whispered against your skin.

“Look. Look at yourself.”

You tried. Your eyes were heavy, barely staying open. But he tilted your face forward again, forcing your gaze into the mirror’s reflection. And there she was. A girl unmade by love. Her lips parted, her skin painted with need, her body held up only by the man behind her. His arms around you like chains. His hips claiming you like you were the only altar he prayed to.

“Open your eyes, meimei,” he breathed. “I want you to see what you look like when you’re mine.”

And so you did.

You opened your eyes. Saw it. Saw everything. Yourself—stretched around him, dripping from him, face streaked with tears and kisses, and his name written in every inch of your expression. You looked like a girl completely undone.

But so loved, so wanted, so deeply his.

He kept you there, suspended in his hold, your knees barely brushing the cold marble as gravity shaped your movements to his will. The rhythm built slowly, grinding into you with delicious weight, each thrust pressing deeper than the last, stealing what was left of your voice and your thoughts. His grip on your waist was firm, pulling you back just enough to meet the precise drag of his hips, while his hand at your neck slid upward again, gently stroking your jaw as if to soothe what his body did not. Your head lolled back onto his shoulder, breath stuttering, lips parted in desperate, wordless pleasure.

“You feel that?” he rasped into your ear, voice cracking with restraint. “You feel how soaked you are for me? How tight you get when I talk to you like this?” He licked the shell of your ear, teeth grazing soft skin before he bit, not harsh, but firm enough to leave his shape there, just another place to call you his. “My sweet little thing. You act so innocent, but you’re always dripping for me, aren’t you?”

You sobbed out something unintelligible, body trembling as his cock thrust deeper, the stretch somehow sharper without the barrier between you. Skin to skin, slick to heat. Every drag of him inside you felt unbearably raw, as if you were being unstitched from the inside out and sewn back together under his name.

“Don’t lie to me,” he growled, one palm sliding from your belly to your chest, cupping a breast, thumb brushing your swollen nipple with agonizing tenderness. “You love it. You love it when I use you like this. When I make you mine over and over again.”

His words tangled with your moans, filling the room like incense. And he didn’t stop. His movements became sharper, hips snapping up into you with practiced cruelty. You couldn’t even brace yourself anymore, he held all of you. Every movement, every tremble, was his to control.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this. Look at you,” he whispered, pressing your body closer to the mirror. “Look how you take me. Look how perfect you are when you're stuffed full of your gege’s cock.”

Your nails scrambled for purchase against the edge of the vanity, but he caught your wrists, pinning them against the glass, your reflection shuddering in time with each thrust. The sounds between your bodies grew louder—wet, obscene, broken only by the soft keening whimpers escaping your lips.

“You’re perfect, you know that?” he said, kissing the nape of your neck with reverence now, his tone softer. “You’re my treasure. My favorite girl. My only one.” His pace didn’t slow, if anything, he angled deeper, chasing the spot that made your legs seize with each thrust. “I’ll never let anyone else have you again. No one else gets to fuck you like this. No one else gets to love you like this.”

The duality of him, his tenderness tangled with cruelty, his praise laced with claim, wrapped around you like a second skin.

And then came the unraveling.

Your voice cracked open, your thighs trembling against his hips, your eyes fluttering shut even as he growled for you to keep them open. You couldn't hold it anymore. Your orgasm built and built, pressure swelling to something unbearable, and when he curved his hips just right, grinding into you with brutal precision, you shattered.

“Gege, I'm—please. I'm coming—!”

“Let go. Come on me. Let your gege feel it,” he groaned, and as your body spasmed around him, he drove into you with one last thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

He came with a cry, his hands tightening on your hips, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades. Hot and raw, he spilled inside you, his breath hitching with every twitch of his cock. Your name, your title, meimei, fell from his lips like a vow, as if pouring his soul into your body wasn’t enough.

And you, trembling and breathless, cried for him again. Not just from the pleasure. But from the fullness. From the knowing. Because in this moment, you weren’t just his lover.

You were his prayer.

And you were not stopping until he was satisfied. Until every drop of his desire carved itself into your skin. Until his name was the only sound left on your tongue. Until he’d wrung you dry and made you bloom again in the shape of his love.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The moment you slipped back into the waking world, it was gentle. There was no sharp edge, no ache beyond the soft hum in your bones. The sun had spilled through the windowpane like a blessing, golden and quiet, dust motes suspended in its light as if time had slowed just for you. And within that hush, there was a warmth wrapped around your body, tight but never too much. It smelled of heat, faint sweat, and something distinctly him. Caleb.

You blinked, eyelashes fluttering against the pillow, only to be met with his gaze. He was already awake, observing you sleep with that familiar quiet fondness in his eyes, the kind that made your chest swell too full, too fast. Like a held breath before the cry.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he murmured, voice low, a little rough from sleep but still velvet-soft. “How was your sleep?” One hand reached up to ruffle your hair, fingers threading through with that same affection he always used to show you, back when you were still little, when his hand covered your whole head, when he’d pat you after a nightmare and tell you everything was okay.

“You slept pretty soundly,” he added, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I already cleaned you up, so don’t worry about a thing.”

You didn’t answer right away. Your throat was tight, filled with something wordless. Tears clung to your lashes, not of sadness, but disbelief. Out of gratitude that he was still here. Not a dream, not a mirage of longing stitched from your own desperation. But real. His skin, his breath, his voice. Caleb.

“Gege,” you breathed, voice breaking a little, “hold me tighter, please. Don’t let go.”

And he did. His arms wrapped around you, pressing you flush to his chest. You clung to him like the last thread in the world, your legs curling in despite the soreness that sang through your muscles. But your feet, they wouldn’t move. Not just sore, they were numb. You shifted, trying again, only to stumble in place. Your body gave a tiny jolt, and before you could panic, you heard it. His laughter.

“Ah, let your gege help you here, meimei,” he chuckled, voice bright, full of the warmth you hadn’t heard in so long. Not since those years when everything was simpler. “Up you go.”

He scooped you up without hesitation, your body sliding effortlessly into his arms like you were meant to be carried. He didn’t even blink at your weight. Just held you like you were something precious that belonged nowhere else. As he laid you back down gently, he spoke again, fingers tracing idle patterns through your hair.

“How did you like yesterday, meimei?” There was a soft tilt in his voice, teasing but full of care. “I think your hair’s very pretty. I like this style.”

A blush crept over your cheeks, warm and shy, so you buried your face in his chest. You nuzzled against him, hiding your fluster there, breathing in the familiar scent of his skin. His hand kept stroking you, slowly, as if he were still grounding you with every sweep.

You stayed there for a while, tangled up in his warmth, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart echo beneath your ear. Neither of you moved. Not really. Just the soft rise and fall of your bodies breathing together, his palm rubbing slow circles on your spine like a lullaby you never outgrew.

“…do you regret it?” you asked after a moment, your voice barely louder than the rustling sheets. You didn’t dare look up. You couldn’t. The question lingered like a crack in porcelain.

“Meimei,” he sighed, brushing your hair behind your ear, “you could never ask me something I’d regret less.”

You exhaled shakily, your fingers clenching into the blanket. But he didn’t let you retreat. He tilted your chin gently, guiding your gaze up until your eyes met his.

“I don’t regret you. I never did. I regret time. I regret hurting you. But you?” He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours, lips brushing your nose. “You’re my favorite thing in the world. Still are.”

The words made your throat tighten. You bit your lip, blinking fast. “You’re so good to me, gege… even when I was broken.”

He smiled, nose nudging yours again. “You weren’t broken. You were hurt. And I wasn’t there to keep you safe. But I’m here now. I’m not going anywhere.”

You swallowed down a sob, one hand lifting to cradle his jaw, thumb brushing the stubble there. “Promise?”

He kissed the center of your palm, then the back of it, his fingers slotting perfectly between yours. “With every breath I’ve got left.”

You didn’t say anything more after that. Just curled closer, resting there in the morning hush, letting the weight of the night settle in your bones. The ache in your thighs, the love painted across your skin, the soft warmth between your legs, proof that everything had changed, and yet somehow, everything had returned to where it belonged. Eventually, he shifted, pressing one last kiss to your temple.

“Alright, sleepyhead,” he murmured, slipping out from beneath the covers with a groan, stretching his long limbs. “Let’s get you something warm to eat. You burned through enough calories last night to feed a small starship.”

You giggled, cheeks blooming pink as you turned over to watch him reach for his pants, tugging them on lazily. “You’re such a dork, gege.”

“And proud of it,” he winked, tossing you one of his oversized shirts. “Here. Wear this. You look better in my clothes anyway.”

You wriggled into it with a quiet laugh, the hem falling almost to your knees. It smelled like him. Of course it did. Warm, musky, a little like cinnamon and ozone, whatever gravity left behind when it kissed the skin of someone you loved.

He made his way out to the kitchen, whistling softly, humming one of those tunes he used to sing under his breath while cooking in the academy dorms. You followed behind, wobbly-legged but determined—until, halfway down the hall, your knees buckled slightly and you tripped into the wall.

“Oof—”

You caught yourself with a tiny yelp. He turned instantly, brows lifting, eyes wide.

“Meimei—”

You looked up, mortified for half a second, until he burst into laughter. Loud and bright and real.

“You alright?” he chuckled, walking back to scoop you into his arms like it was second nature. “Guess I really did break you a little, huh?”

You pouted, smacking his arm lightly. “Don’t tease me!”

He was already carrying you bridal style into the kitchen, grinning from ear to ear. “I’ll make you breakfast as an apology. With extra fruit.”

And just like that, the world felt whole again. Like the stars had realigned. Like home wasn’t a place or a planet, but a heartbeat beside yours, a laugh in the morning, the smell of pancakes and old memories mixing in the air.

Everything was back in place.

You were finally home.

#caleb #love and deepspace #caleb smut #caleb x mc #love and deepspace caleb #caleb x reader #lads #lads smut #homecoming #angst with a happy ending

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pipszhou · 2 months ago

Text

gege's test drive and front seat dinner

synopsis: Caleb just got his license. You just got in his car. Neither of you are getting home anytime soon.

You laughed, a little breathless. “What, you wanna fog up the windows?” His response was to recline his seat back, the soft click echoing in the hush. He didn’t smile. He didn’t tease. He just opened his arms. “Sit on my face, pip-squeak.”

pairing: caleb x mc

wc: ~3k

tags: car sex, face-fucking, oral sex, oral fixation, stripping, vaginal sex, semi-public sex, smut, pseudo-incest, plot what plot/porn without plot, possessive behavior, established relationship, dirty talk, teasing, power play, use of gege/meimei, found family, multiple orgasms

A secluded place. That was all they ever needed.

They had never been blessed with time, just university breaks and a handful of free days that always ran out too fast. Long distance carved itself into their lives like a dull ache, Skyhaven and Linkon stretched far between their bodies, and though their voices reached each other, their touch never could.

They were both physical people. Both the kind to speak through skin and heartbeat, through kisses that held everything words couldn't carry. Their longing built slowly, steadily, like water behind a dam. All it needed was a crack.

And that crack came in the form of a black car and Caleb's newly earned license.

He picked you up that night, your suitcase tossed in the trunk like an afterthought, your body pressed into the passenger seat like a dream he hadn't let himself believe until now. The city lights blurred past you both as he drove, hand sometimes resting on your thigh, his thumb tracing lazy circles like he didn't even realize he was touching you.

He didn't tell you where you were going, only that he wanted to show you the moon.

So he drove, out of the city, past the buzz and noise, into a quiet pocket of nowhere. Trees lined the road like shadows, and when he finally pulled over, you could hear nothing but your own breath and the soft creak of the car cooling in the night air.

He didn't look at you right away. Just leaned back in his seat, eyes on the sky, chest rising slow and deep like he was trying to calm something inside him.

Then he turned.

His voice low. "Come here."

You blinked. "What?"

His gaze dropped to your lap, then dragged its way back up your body. "I want you. Here. Now."

There was no one around. Just the moonlight, and Caleb, him who had been patient for far too long, Caleb whose hands gripped the leather seat now like he was barely keeping himself still.

You laughed, a little breathless. "What, you wanna fog up the windows?"

His response was to recline his seat back, the soft click echoing in the hush.

He didn't smile. He didn't tease.

He just opened his arms.

“Sit on my face, pip-squeak.”

You widened your eyes, lashes fluttering as the night wind rushed in through the open window, lifting the hair at your nape. To Caleb, you looked ethereal, like the sky had lowered its moon just for him to see. All soft glow and anticipation. But you were somewhere far inside your own mind, tangled in the nerves and longing you'd carried for years.

He broke the silence with a lazy command, voice like velvet and gravel. “Strip first, Meimei,” he murmured, reclining further back with his arms folded beneath his head. “Wanna see you under the stars. Mind fulfilling your Gege’s wish?”

His smirk was slow and teasing, but you saw it, the hunger in his eyes, the ache that never quite made it to his smile. It made your cheeks burn.

You rolled your eyes, pretending not to be as flustered as you felt, your fingers reaching for the hem of your white t-shirt. The fabric peeled away from your skin, rising inch by inch until it slipped over your head. The lace of your bra followed, unhooked with trembling fingers behind your back.

You heard it then. A sharp inhale from the seat beneath you.

His smirk faltered. His lips parted slightly.

"You've been hiding that all these years, hm?" he said hoarsely, pushing himself into a half-sitting position like his body refused to miss a second of this. "Should’ve known. Fuck, I should’ve known you were this... devastating."

His hands moved without thinking, gripping your waist with a sudden need, fingers spreading possessively across your hips. He helped slide the bra the rest of the way off, though the gesture felt clumsy, reverent, like he was handling something sacred.

You clutched the lace against your chest at first, unsure. It wasn’t the nudity. It was the vulnerability, the intensity in his gaze. You tore it away anyway.

And he stopped.

Caleb froze like he’d forgotten how to breathe. As if every second you sat there, exposed under the stars, was too much and not enough all at once.

“Caleb… Gege, what are you—”

His voice dropped to something ragged, trembling with awe. “You look… gorgeous, Pips.”

The nickname sounded worshipful, like a prayer breathed into the night.

“Fuck,” he exhaled, the heat rising to his cheeks, his throat, his ears. “You’re unreal. You're not even from this world.”

Your breath caught. You smiled shyly as your fingers traced a line down his chest. Slow, featherlight. From the hollow between his collarbones to the ridges of his abs, your index finger followed the contours like a prayer, like you’d imagined this too many times not to know them by heart.

“Gege too,” you whispered, voice trembling with want. “Can I see you?”

You kept your gaze locked on his, fingers reaching the waistband of your skirt. And with one slow movement, you slid it down your thighs, revealing bare skin, soft, flushed, and glistening.

He stilled.

For a moment, he didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Something in his expression cracked open, amusement and hunger, reverence and something darker all tangled in his eyes.

“Fuck,” he said, the word barely audible. “You’re one dangerous little thing.”

His hand came up to cup your jaw, cold fingers brushing your heated skin. He tilted your chin up, making you look into his eyes. “Tempting me like that, huh?”

His voice was lower now, darker.

“And no panties?” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head slowly like he was disappointed, but you saw the tremble in his jaw. “You came out here knowing exactly what would happen. You knew I’d pull over, find somewhere quiet, somewhere dark. You knew I’d want you.”

You whimpered, unable to hide it. Your body reacted before your mind could catch up, heat pulsing at your core, your thighs pressing together.

“Look at this,” he murmured.

His fingers slid between your thighs with ease, finding the slick that pooled there. He dragged two fingers through your folds, slow and deliberate, until they were coated.

“So wet already,” he said, lips parting. “You prepared yourself for me, didn’t you? You’ve been thinking about this all day.”

You nodded breathlessly, but it wasn’t enough. Your legs shook as you leaned forward into him, your body giving out from the weight of the moment. He caught you with one arm around your waist, pulling you into him like you belonged there.

“Gege,” you moaned, “please…”

He smiled, leaning back into the reclined seat like a man basking in moonlight and sin, shirt unbuttoned, revealing the tight curves of his chest rising with anticipation. His gaze locked with yours. Dark, steady, sure.

“What are you waiting for?” His voice was low, teasing, “Sit on my face, Meimei.”

You did without hesitation, without shame, your knees pressing into the leather seat as you straddled his chest, then slowly slid up, hovering just above his lips. He exhaled, breath hot against your folds.

And then he saw you, truly saw you.

His eyes dilated, pupils blown wide with desire as he took in your glistening cunt so close, trembling, waiting for him. He looked reverent, like a man about to taste a forbidden offering.

His hands gripped your waist, hard enough to bruise.

Then he pulled you down.

His tongue ran a long, deliberate stripe from your dripping hole to your aching clit. Your thighs quivered as your breath hitched, a whimper falling from your lips. Your head fell back, hands gripping the seat behind you for balance. But you couldn’t stay quiet.

You tried—God, you tried—but he flicked his tongue over your clit again, harder this time, sucking on it just enough to make your hips stutter forward.

“Shh, baby,” he murmured against your cunt, voice vibrating into you. “Why are you hiding those pretty sounds?”

He looked up at you from beneath his lashes, lips slick with your arousal.

“I wanna hear you,” he whispered, tongue teasing your folds again. “Moan for me. Moan my name, Pips."

You bit your lip, trying to stay composed, but his hands kept guiding your hips, grinding you slowly down onto his mouth. Every flick of his tongue, every breath he took, lit a fire in your gut that only he could extinguish.

“Say it,” he growled, eyes hungry. “Say it, baby. Tell me who’s making you fall apart.”

You whimpered, hips bucking, searching for relief as his tongue flicked against your clit with maddening precision. Each movement was slow and deliberate. He was savoring you, cherishing every shudder, every helpless moan.

"Gege…" you gasped, your voice high and breathless.

“There she is,” he purred. “My good girl.”

His tongue flattened and dragged slowly through your soaked folds, parting you open as one of his hands pressed into the small of your back, guiding you to grind harder against his mouth. His other hand spread you wide, thumb and index pulling you open, making you feel exposed, vulnerable, cherished all at once.

“So pretty,” he murmured into you, voice vibrating against your slick, sensitive skin. “So pink and swollen for me. God, I could live between these thighs.”

You were trembling, muscles locking up from the pressure building at your core. He could feel you close, your thighs twitching, your pussy pulsing, your cries getting louder.

Then he moaned into you, low and possessive, sending heat jolting up your spine.

“Cum for me, baby,” he groaned. “Make a mess on my face. I want to taste everything.”

And you did. You shattered, completely undone by the relentless rhythm of his tongue. This was your very first orgasm from him, your very first fall, headfirst into pleasure so sharp and sweet, it rewrote your understanding of touch. Of love. Of him.

Your hands scrambled for something to hold, and you found his shoulder. You dug your nails into the muscle there, riding out wave after wave of pleasure. Your moan rang loud in the tight space of the car, a sound full of surrender, of raw, unfiltered need. You cried his name and he devoured it like a prayer.

He didn’t stop. Not until he tasted every drop of you. His mouth stayed on you, licking you clean, drinking you down like he was starving. And all the while, he watched your eyes glazed, how your chest heaved, how you trembled.

When he finally pulled back, his lips glistened. His eyes looked drunk on you.

“Meimei…” he exhaled, voice husky, reverent. “You taste like heaven. That was better than any dream I’ve ever had.”

He guided you off his face gently, lowering you down, but not to rest, to him.

He reclined the seat forward again, and as you settled onto his lap, you felt it. Hard.

His cock strained desperately beneath his pants, thick and heavy against your slick folds. The fabric did little to hide it. It throbbed against you, hot and begging, a silent plea.

"But now," he murmured, voice curling low into your ear, “you’ve got something to take care of, don’t you?”

His hands gripped your hips again, grinding you ever so slightly against him.

“Won’t you help your Gege out?” He smiled, crooked and dark, a glint of teasing heat in his eyes. “You made such a mess on my tongue. Isn’t it only fair I get to make one inside you next?”

Your breath caught in your throat. He was burning beneath you, the heat of him seeping through the fabric and pressing flush against your bare folds, slick, swollen, and still twitching from your orgasm. You shifted instinctively, and the friction made you gasp. His cock twitched again in response, eager, aching. He chuckled, low and dangerous.

“Look at you,” he whispered, guiding your hand to his zipper, “already dripping for me again. One taste wasn’t enough, was it, baby?”

You could barely speak. Your fingers trembled as you tugged his pants down, and there it was, hard, flushed, thick. The way he filled his palm, the way it pulsed in the open air, made your thighs clench again with anticipation.

He grunted softly as your fingertips ghosted along his shaft. “Don’t tease,” he warned, though there was a tremble in his voice. “Get on it, baby. Show Gege how much you missed him.”

You hovered, your folds parting around the tip, already slick enough to swallow him whole. He gripped your hips, holding you steady. His eyes locked onto yours, commanding, reverent.

“Now.”

And you sank down.

Inch by inch, he stretched you open, filled you slowly, completely. The pressure, the stretch, the heat, it was unbearable and perfect all at once. Your breath hitched, eyes rolling back as your walls clenched around him.

He let out a groan, his head falling back against the seat. “Fuck, Pips…”

His hands trembled against your waist, thumbs digging into your skin. “So tight. So warm. You feel like you were made for me.”

You whimpered, your hands bracing against his chest, feeling the muscle flex under your palms. He was huge, filling every corner of you, pressing into places that made your vision go white.

He started moving you, grinding your hips in slow, delicious circles. “Take it,” he growled, voice thick with lust. “Ride it slow first, baby. Let Gege feel all of you.”

Your moans returned, softer now, whimpery, breathless. The way he pulsed inside you with every movement, how every tiny grind sparked a shock of pleasure. It made your toes curl.

“That’s it,” he whispered, reaching up to cup your breast, thumb flicking your nipple. “My sweet girl. Ride me like it’s the last night we’ll ever have.”

You rocked your hips gently at first, breath catching with every inch that dragged against your walls. He was impossibly deep, the curve of his cock pressing perfectly into the spot that made your body jolt and tremble. Your thighs quivered from the effort, from the overstimulation, but you wanted more.

You needed more.

His hands steadied you, one gripping your hip, the other moving up your back, his thumb tracing the curve of your spine. “You’re doing so well,” he murmured, voice low and hoarse. “Look at how you’re swallowing me. Fuck… that’s it, pipsqueak.”

You whined as your rhythm picked up. The slick sounds of your bodies meeting echoed softly through the car’s dark interior, almost drowned by your ragged breaths and his soft grunts. His thighs flexed beneath you, hard and warm. You could feel every twitch of his body, every restrained thrust as he let you take the lead.

But it didn’t last long.

“Too slow,” he growled suddenly, sitting up. His arms wrapped around you tight, and in one swift motion, he flipped you both, laying you down against the seat, your legs spread open, your back against the cool leather.

“Gege’ll take care of you properly now.”

You gasped, barely registering the shift before he slammed back into you. Your legs flew up around his waist, and he grabbed them, lifting them over his shoulders. The new angle had you seeing stars.

Your cries filled the air. His name, again and again, like a chant between sobs and moans. He was relentless now. His hips snapping forward, each thrust slamming into your sweet spot with merciless precision.

“This what you wanted?” he rasped into your ear, sweat dripping down his temple, mingling with yours. “To get fucked dumb in my car? To be my good little Meimei and take everything I give you?”

Your mouth fell open, and your back arched off the seat. You couldn’t even answer, not with how he kept driving into you like he needed it to live, like you were his oxygen.

“Gonna come again, baby?” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours, breath ragged. “Go ahead. Come on my cock. Let me feel you fall apart again.”

He gritted his teeth, hips stuttering beneath you as your walls fluttered tight again, squeezing him like you never wanted to let him go. Your body clung to him like a second skin, grinding down with reckless abandon, chasing that final high.

“Fuck… Meimei,” his voice cracked, eyes wide and unfocused as he looked up at you, lost in the way your body pulled him deeper. “You’re gonna make me…”

“Caleb—” your voice broke, lips parted, head thrown back as the orgasm ripped through you. Your body trembled, hips jerking, toes curling, vision blurring with light. You collapsed forward, forehead resting against his, arms wrapping around his shoulders in pure instinct, like he was the only anchor you had.

And he shattered.

His rhythm broke. With a strained cry, he bucked up once, twice more, then stilled, buried inside you, twitching, filling you with heat. The sound that left him was raw, near-devotional, your name tumbling from his lips like a plea.

You both stilled. Breathless. Burning.

Your skin stuck together from sweat, the windows fogged up in the secluded car. You felt his arms wrap tight around your back, holding you like a man who had finally found home. Your chests rose and fell in sync, heartbeats thudding, breath mingling as you hovered over him, legs still trembling on either side of his hips.

You cupped his cheek gently, brushing away the damp strands of hair clinging to his temple. His eyes fluttered shut at your touch, like he was savoring it. Grounding himself with you.

"You okay, Gege?" you whispered, thumb trailing the flushed curve of his cheekbone.

He nodded, eyes soft, lips curling into a lopsided smile as he gazed at you. “I’m more than okay. You’re… everything.”

And you kissed him. Slowly, deeply. Tongues brushing, lips parting like they were meant to find each other again and again. The kind of kiss that spoke of more than lust, of years of longing, of unspoken promises finally kept.

His hands found your waist, caressing up and down your spine, grounding you, praising you. “You took me so well, baby. So perfect... my perfect pip-squeak.”

You giggled softly against his lips, the sound breathy and light. “I think I might need… a little bit more.”

He looked at you like you had just undone him all over again. And he grinned, boyish and wild, eyes darkening again with hunger.

“Say no less, baby.”

#caleb #love and deepspace #caleb smut #caleb x mc #love and deepspace caleb #caleb x reader #lads #lads smut #car sex #face fucking

88 notes · View notes

pipszhou · 2 months ago

Text

lights. camera. caleb

synopsis: Modeling isn’t supposed to end in mirror sex. But then again, Caleb was never just your coworker. Not when his hands linger too long on set. Not when his smile means trouble. Not when his voice turns soft and dangerous and says, “Strip for me, baby.” He says it’s just a quickie. But he always lies.

pairing: caleb x mc

wc: ~4.9k

tags: mirror sex, bratting, brat taming, inappropriate use of evol, dom/sub, dominant caleb, creampie, sexual overstimulation, possessive behavior, jealousy, dirty talk, teasing, model, oral fixation, sex in dressing room, quickies, quickies but they are not quickies, caleb's a big meanie, established relationship, porn with feelings, plot what plot/porn without plot, stripping

notes: i am horny again so hii! this is supposed to be a 1k drabble that turned out to be a 4.8k fanfic. so here ya go! i hope u enjoy that <3 lmk your thoughts if you want. every liked/reblogs and comments mean a lot to me.

Lights. Camera. Action.

That’s your rhythm. Your world. Your name on the cover and your body under the lens.

You’ve done shoots before, but never with him beside you, Caleb, your lover, your partner in crime, the man who made desire feel like breathing. His presence is magnetic. Heat rolling off his body like a second spotlight, lips parted just enough to tempt, jaw tilted just enough to command.

Your hands rest on your waist. Chin up. Chest out. The Calvin Klein tank hugs your curves like it was made for your skin alone. Beside you, he mirrors your stance, tank clinging to those sculpted pecs, baggy ripped jeans hanging low. Too low.

His boxers peek out just enough to be obscene. Just enough to remind the world who they’re looking at.

And God, the camera devours it.

The flash fades. The shoot ends. Voices melt into background static.

You turn first, chin high, heels clicking with practiced rhythm as his gaze scorches your back. Bratty and mean is your go-to today, and after the way he smiled at that photographer? After the little touches between him and your editor?

Yeah. There’s no way you’re letting him get away with that.

You throw open the dressing room door with a sharp swing, ignoring the stares from crew and staff alike. It closes behind you with a snap. But it doesn’t stay closed for long.

A soft click.

He enters like a storm sealed in designer cologne, quiet, devastating, radiating that dangerous stillness he wears too well. Before you can breathe, he’s on you, pinning your back to the door with one hand cradling your jaw, forcing your gaze to meet his.

“You didn’t even look at me, Pips,” he murmurs, voice smooth as velvet and twice as dangerous. “What’s up with you today?”

As if he’s innocent. As if he doesn’t know. As if he didn’t smile like that to everyone but you. He’s an angel, but the kind that fell just for you. And today, he’s been acting like heaven’s for everyone.

You scoff, turning your head aside, refusing to answer. But his body follows. His thigh presses between yours, knee slotting firm under your heat, the grain of his jeans grazing too close. His forearm braces beside your face, caging you in with zero intention of letting you out.

“Nothing, Gege. Find out yourself.”

You push him aside, but he lets you slip away too easily. You make it to the mirror, hands trembling just enough to betray you. When you reach for your brush, his hand slides over yours, slow, possessive.

He leans in behind you, eyes locked on your reflection.

“You’re jealous,” he says, almost in awe. “Aren’t you, baby?”

Gods. Of course you are.

You roll your eyes, trying to shake him, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, his fingers return to your jaw, guiding your face back to his, unrelenting, steady.

His lips trail from the inside of your wrist, up the soft underside of your arm, worshipful and maddening. Each kiss burns hotter than the last. And he never breaks eye contact in the mirror.

Fuck. You’re supposed to be angry. Not melting. Not moaning.

But then—

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, all mock repentance, his mouth curved into a smug little smile. “What did I do wrong today, honey?”

Oh, he looks so pathetic. This is fun. Way too fun. Definitely worth sacrificing your lunch break for.

“You think you’re so sly, huh?” you purr, turning to face him fully. Your fingers slide to his waist, grazing the edge of his jeans—loose, low, and criminally tempting. “I saw the way you glanced at them, Caleb. Don’t you have the faintest idea how obsessed they are with you?”

You lift your index finger beneath his jaw, tilting it upwards until his lashes flutter. The stubble beneath your fingertip is rough. His skin is warm—no, hot—like he’s burning under your touch, like he’s holding back something feral.

But then, he strikes.

His arms coil around your body and yank you in, your chest colliding with his in one fluid motion. The thud of your heartbeat echoes in your ears as your breath stutters, stolen right from your lungs. His tank top is thin, worn soft with wear, and through it you can feel everything. The press of his pecs. The heat of his skin. The teasing roll of his abs as he exhales against your cheek.

“So,” he murmurs, lips barely brushing your temple, “you are jealous of them.”

He catches your hand, cradles it like it’s breakable. And then, kisses. From the base of your knuckles, trailing up, one by one, lips warm and maddeningly slow.

“But why, my love?” he breathes. “Haven’t I already let you have all of me?”

His mouth curls into a smirk against your skin.

And God. You hate how it makes you melt.

You turn your head, trying to fight back the warmth creeping up your cheeks. Your pulse thrums beneath your skin, humming in your ears like static.

“Hmph.” You cross your arms, chin high. “You know they stock your new magazines at home? Hoarding them like they’re... limited edition.” You pause. Swallow. Your throat suddenly dry. “Well. They are limited edition. But one is enough, don’t you think?”

He stills behind you.

Then, he laughs, rich, boyish, infuriating.

His hand clamps on his stomach as he doubles over, the other bracing on your shoulder for balance. His laughter shakes through your spine, vibrating against your back where his chest clings to you.

“Caleb!” you snap, cheeks burning. “Stop laughing! I’m serious!”

“Oh, are you?” he gasps, catching his breath.

He grabs your wrist, turns you back toward the mirror, this time with no hesitation. Your breath catches. He cages you from behind, arms around your waist, hips flush to yours.

His hands trace over your body, palms wide and claiming. One finger slips beneath the strap of your bra and drags it down, slow, deliberate, exposing the elegant slope of your shoulder and the vulnerable curve of your collarbone.

He leans in, his voice a whisper dripped in heat.

“You hoarded my very first tabloid, remember?” His lips ghost over your skin. “Hundreds of copies. Under your bed. I counted, Pipsqueak.”

His gaze catches yours in the mirror, sharp. Gleaming.

His hands don't stop roaming. They map out your waist, your ribs, your hips, like he’s learning the story of your body all over again.

“So tell me, baby,” he murmurs, words dragging warm across your neck. “Are you really mad about them, or are you just pissed someone else is playing your game?”

“Caleb!” you shout, voice pitching higher than you meant, full of shock and outrage and something far more dangerous curling beneath your skin. The audacity of him. You want to slap that smug grin off his face, maybe ride him until it fades, but you’re already trapped. Your body betrays you, melting right into his grip like wax against flame.

“Why don’t I show you,” he drawls, “just how much I own you? Just like how much you own me, Pipsqueak?”

Oh, you like that. Your stomach flips, your thighs tense, your pussy clenches around nothing at the possessiveness in his tone.

But no. No. You’ve been a brat all morning. You’ve got a reputation to protect, a crown to keep on. You still have dignity, goddammit, not that he’s ever respected it.

“Gege, we’re in the middle of a shoot—” you try, weakly.

He brushes the excuse off with a kiss to your cheek, featherlight. Dangerous.

“Just a quickie,” he hums. “Been a long time since I fucked you right here.”

And then, God help you, he lowers his jeans, rough and fast, revealing the soft white boxers you’ve been fantasizing about since the campaign started. They cling to his hips like a sin wrapped in cotton. The bulge pressing against the fabric is barely contained. Your breath catches. Your mouth goes dry.

He knows you’re staring.

“Let Gege do all the work,” he purrs. “Just strip for me, love?”

His voice dips lower. Dangerously close to your ear. His breath fans against your neck, and your knees nearly buckle. “Let me show you how much love I hold for you,” he whispers, words molten and cruel. “And just you. Deal?”

Gods. Your panties are damp. Your thighs pressed too tight. Your chest rising too fast. And he hasn’t even touched you yet.

You want to play it cool. Want to say no. Want to call him annoying. But your fingers are twitching at the hem of your shirt. Your eyes won’t leave his boxers. Your mouth is watering.

You’re so fucked.

Caught between shame and need, your eyes lock onto his through the mirror as he watches you unravel. Caleb’s gaze is deep velvet, glowing with something dangerous, like moonlight wrapped in flame. The studio lights glare overhead, sterile and bright, but they don’t matter. Not when he looks at you like that. Not when his stare is enough to peel your skin open and set your nerves alight.

You try to move. Try to anchor your gaze to something else. Anything else. A hanger. A chair. The ceiling tiles above. Trying to gaslight yourself into thinking there’s a choice. That this isn’t happening. That you don’t want it with every fiber of your body.

But he’s already there, on you like gravity.

“Hey,” he says softly, catching your wrist with the ease of someone who knows your movements by heart. “Look at me.”

You do. Slowly. Stupidly. Your eyes find his again in the mirror. His stare is molten, drinking you in. He hasn’t even touched your bare skin yet, not really, but he looks at you like he already owns it. And somehow, you know he will. His eyes darken when they meet yours, glowing with the kind of hunger that never fully goes away. His fingers tremble, not from hesitation but from want, from the thrill of undressing you like it’s sacred again. Like he’s about to worship your body the way he did the first time, and the second, and the hundredth. Always like it’s new. Always like it’s everything.

His fingers trace yours, slow and coaxing, pulling your hand toward the hem of your tank.

“Here,” he murmurs, voice low and sinful. “Start with this.”

Your breath catches. Your body stills. You’re not sure if you’re ready, but he’s already guiding, lifting.

Your hands move, hesitantly at first, curling under the hem. The fabric brushes your skin as it rides up, soft and worn. Your stomach is the first to show, then the line of your ribs, and finally the edge of your bra, showing the swell of your breasts. The air in the room bites at your skin, cool and sterile, your nipples hardening through the lace. Your breathing grows uneven.

Behind you, Caleb hums. A sound so low it vibrates through your spine. He helps you lift the shirt all the way off, pulling it past your arms and letting it fall to the floor like it doesn’t matter.

“Good girl,” he whispers, lips ghosting against your shoulder. “So obedient for someone who was shouting my name five minutes ago.”

Your cheeks burn. Your thighs press together instinctively, fighting the slick that’s seeping between them. Heat licks up your stomach. Your whole body pulses with it. How did you get here again? Where did all your bratty bravado go?

You hate how easily he breaks you down.

But he knows. Of course he knows. He always does.

His fingers drag lower, slow and deliberate. They brush your waistband, teasing, tracing the sensitive skin just above your hips. His other hand lifts your chin again, guiding your gaze back to the mirror.

“Need help with this part too?” he asks, and you swear he’s smirking without even moving his mouth.

You nod before you can stop yourself. Your breath stutters. Your brain empties.

His laugh is quiet, amused.

“Use your words, baby,” he murmurs, voice firm, grounding. “Gege’s asking you a question.”

You hesitate for half a second. Then your voice spills out, raw and small.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Help me, Gege.”

His smile deepens, pleased and possessive.

“That’s better.”

His hands move to your hips again, thumbs slipping under the waistband of your jeans. He drags them down slowly, kissing your skin with every inch revealed. The denim catches slightly on your thighs before falling, leaving you exposed in nothing but your panties. Soft. Damp. Stained. And he sees it.

His breath hitches.

He leans in just a little, eyes locked to the mirror, his voice barely above a groan.

“Oh, Gods, Pipsqueak.”

He’s not even touching you there yet, and you’re already throbbing. His moan hits your ears like lightning, sending a full-body shiver through you. You lean back into him, desperate, pliant. And then you feel it, hot and heavy, pressed against the curve of your lower back.

His cock, thick and aching, freed from his jeans.

He doesn’t give you time to process it. His hands grip your waist, rough and possessive, and then he lifts you easily, his body slotting behind you, pressing your stomach gently against the mirror. Your breath fogs the glass. Your heart is thudding too loud.

You can’t think. Can’t breathe.

You’re too far gone.

“Caleb,” you gasp, voice cracking, “please–”

He kisses your neck, then speaks, lips brushing skin.

“Just a quickie, baby. I promise you.”

Then he thrusts in. Deep. All the way. Perfectly, with no resistance, like your body was made to take him. And maybe it was. You cry out, barely catching the sound in your throat as your head falls back against his shoulder, your body shaking.

Your mouth falls open. Your legs tremble.

He groans, rough and wrecked against your ear.

“So tight, baby… fuck.”

And then he starts to move.

You feel it—God, you feel it—how his cock fills you just right, stroking deep, dragging against every sensitive part of you with ruthless precision. Every thrust hits with purpose, your slick sounds echoing softly in the cramped room. The stretch is perfect, the friction overwhelming. And yet, his hands stay firm on your thighs, fingers digging in just enough to bruise, not enough to hurt.

He holds you like something sacred, something wild. He won’t let you fall. He’d never let you break without him catching you.

“Ah, Gege, too fast, please—” you gasp, breath hitching, trying to scramble for something solid, anything to ground yourself. Your palms press against the mirror, desperate and messy, smearing fog and sweat across the glass. It’s cool under your fingertips, but your body is nothing but fire. You spread your fingers wider, grip the edges of the vanity just below, your arms trembling with every hard push of his hips.

Behind you, Caleb grits his teeth.

Then he breaks.

He bites.

His mouth crashes onto your neck with unrestrained hunger, teeth grazing your skin before he sinks them in with a growl. It’s not gentle. Not this time. It’s feverish, raw, like he’s starving. Like you’re his prey, and he’s marking you as his kill.

Purple blooms under your skin, a constellation of hickeys along your throat. Your lips part in a silent gasp, moaning without care. Your cunt clenches around him harder. It’s too much, not enough. He’s wrecking you and you’re helping him do it.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, voice dark against your ear. “You like that? Showing up to the next shoot dripping with my marks?”

You whimper, pressing your body harder against him, back arching instinctively.

You are his. Forever his. Fuck the shoot. Let the stylist deal with the hickeys. You’d rather have every photo drenched in proof that you belong to him.

The thought lights you up.

Your legs tighten around his hips, trying to move with him, to grind up and down on his cock in search of more, faster, harder. Your slick coats him with every bounce, every squelch of wetness between your thighs loud and obscene in the quiet room.

Then, suddenly, his grip shifts.

You feel it first in the drop of your stomach. The lack of pressure on your feet. The way your weight changes.

“Caleb—what are you—”

You’re cut off by the way your body lifts.

Your back leaves the mirror. Your hands flail for a second before one of his arms wraps around your waist, the other under your thighs, steady. Anchoring. The air shifts around you, faintly vibrating. Your hair floats weightless. Your breath catches.

He’s using it. Gravity. He’s using his Evol against you.

You’re fucking hovering in the middle of the room, dripping and stuffed full of him, his cock buried inside you like a weapon forged for your ruin. His body moves fluid, effortless, like he was built to take you apart midair.

He growls into your shoulder, deep and low, holding you up like you weigh nothing.

“Told you, baby,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and reverent all at once. “Let Gege do all the work.”

Your legs dangle uselessly, trembling with every sharp thrust. Your body no longer moves on its own—you cling to him for dear life, gasping his name into his collarbone, your nails carving desperate little arcs into the cotton stretched over his chest. One hand clutches his shirt, fingers twisted tight. The other claws at his shoulder, your grip slipping every time his cock punches deep into you.

Nothing feels real. Not the air. Not the floating weightlessness. Not even your own voice, ruined and breathless.

Just Caleb.

Just the way he fucks you like he’s molding you around him, like your body is something he’s building with each slow, ruthless thrust.

His hands roam like he’s mapping out new territory, revisiting every dip and curve as if he’s rediscovering you all over again. His palm cradles your neck, a light tug tilting your head back for him. His other hand trails down to your belly, pressing firmly over the outline of his cock, watching as it disappears into your soaked folds. The pressure makes your breath hitch. You can feel him from the outside. Thick. Throbbing. So deep.

His other hand slides higher, groping your breasts, pinching your nipples between rough fingertips. The sharp sting only drives you higher.

“Aww, look at you, baby,” he coos, fingers guiding your jaw to face the mirror again. His mouth hovers by your ear, breath hot, voice low and lethal. “What a sight. Your folds sucking me in like you’re starving. Slick dripping onto the vanity. Do you see that, baby?”

You glance down, dizzy, wrecked. Your own arousal stains the edge of the vanity in a glistening puddle.

Your cheeks flush with shame and heat. You want to slap the smugness off his face, but you know if you even try, he’ll turn that bratty little challenge into another round.

“Look at your nipples. So hard. So sensitive. And that pretty little pussy, flushed pink and drooling. You’re Gege’s, aren’t you?”

You can’t speak. Can’t think. Every word is stripped from you, scattered like petals at your feet. All you can do is moan, eyes fluttering half-closed, mouth open and helpless.

Your orgasm is so close it’s humiliating. You haven’t even touched your clit. It’s just his cock. The brutal, perfect drag of him inside you, every angle angled like a blade, cutting away your control.

And then—he does touch you.

His fingers trail down, find your clit, and begin to rub. Messy, deliberate, fast. Every motion is filthy and uncoordinated and perfect, switching between teasing circles and quick, cruel little pinches. Your hips buck in the air, but you can’t move far—his Evol holds you suspended, at his mercy.

You sob. You scream his name. Your thighs clamp around his waist, but it’s no use.

“Pipsqueak,” he breathes, dragging his lips along your jaw, voice rough and tender all at once. “Look at you. Trembling for me. Dripping all over me. So fucking tight. I can feel you breaking.”

You whimper into his neck. Your cunt clenches around him so hard it aches.

But he stops. Just for a moment. He slows the thrusts. Keeps his cock buried to the hilt. And when you whine—gutted and needy—he tightens his grip on your hips and presses your chest against his again, holding you so close you can barely move.

“Say it,” he murmurs.

Your eyes flutter, lashes wet with sweat and tears. You blink up at him, dazed.

“What—?”

His voice sharpens.

“Say you’re mine.”

Your whole body shivers. Your thighs twitch. Your breath catches and sticks in your throat. Still, you hesitate. You can’t find your voice.

He spanks your ass, sharp and hot.

“Say it, baby. Or you don’t get to come.”

“I… I’m yours, Gege,” you whisper, so soft it could shatter.

He stills. His cock throbs inside you. Your pulse pounds between your legs.

“Say it like you mean it.”

You sob, broken and wet and so close you feel like you’ll explode just from saying it again.

“I’m yours,” you cry. “I’m yours, I’m yours—I’ve always been yours—”

He kisses you hard, biting, possessive. Your teeth clash. Your lungs burn. He growls into your mouth and fucks you harder now, his pace brutal and merciful. Your moans turn into sobs, every sound cracked open with pleasure.

“That’s right,” he grits out. “Mine to fuck. Mine to ruin. Mine to fill.”

You scream his name. Your body locks. The orgasm builds so violently it splits you in half.

“Then come for me,” he whispers. “Now. Soak me, baby.”

And you do.

Your release hits like lightning, raw and brutal and bright. Your body seizes in his arms, spine arching, head thrown back with a strangled cry. Your walls clench hard around him, pulsing in desperate waves, slick gushing from your cunt in warm, wet ribbons. You feel it drip down your thighs, hot and messy. Feel the tension in your limbs snap one by one as pleasure wracks through you like a storm that will not pass.

Your voice breaks. Your breath breaks. And through it all, Caleb holds you like something precious.

You are coming apart in his arms, but you are not falling.

He groans, low and wrecked against your throat, hips snapping forward one last time. He presses in deep, cock throbbing thick inside your fluttering heat. His breath stutters against your skin, a shiver chasing through his frame, and then you feel it.

His cum floods into you in hot, pulsing spurts. Thick. Warm. Unrelenting.

His arms tighten around your waist as he spills inside, as if trying to lock the feeling in, as if you might forget how it feels to be filled by him. Your bodies tremble together, muscles twitching, lungs heaving in tandem. The air between you is slick with sweat and the scent of sex, sharp and warm and unmistakably yours.

His forehead presses to your shoulder. His mouth finds your collarbone, soft and reverent now. He does not move, not yet. He stays buried deep, still throbbing, hard. Like his body refuses to stop touching yours, even after release.

Your limbs feel boneless. Your thoughts scatter. All you know is heat and breath and him. The sting of his grip on your thighs, the press of his lips against your skin, the soothing warmth of his cum leaking slowly out of you.

You are filled. You are claimed.

But more than that, you are held.

Your chest is rising and falling fast. You can feel his heart pounding against yours, erratic and wild. One of his hands gently moves up to cup the back of your head, cradling you close, grounding you. His touch is gentler now, thumb brushing slow circles on your lower back.

His voice is hoarse when he finally speaks, barely above a whisper.

“You did so well for me.”

You blink, lashes damp, forehead resting against his. Your body aches. Your throat is raw. But deep in your chest, there is only one feeling left.

Safety.

This is what it feels like to be ruined by someone who loves you. To be undone completely and be pieced back together in the same breath. To be used, worshipped, filled, and treasured all at once.

Your fingers curl weakly into his shirt. You don’t say anything yet. You don’t have to.

He kisses your temple, soft and slow. He’s holding you like you’re fragile, even after all that. Maybe especially after.

And neither of you are ready to let go.

“Ah, Pips. You made a mess.”

You immediately shoot daggers at him from your very fucked-out, freshly-floated state. Your hair is a tangled halo of sweat and sex, your shirt somewhere on the floor, and your thighs dripping down to your knees. And this man dares to tease.

“Put me the fuck down, Gege. You are the one who made the mess, alright?” you snap, glaring at him like a furious mouse still trembling in the jaws of a very smug, very satisfied leopard.

He laughs. Not a snicker, not a huff, but a full-bodied, shoulder-shaking, sinful Caleb laugh that echoes through the dressing room like a celebration. You hate that it makes your chest flutter.

“Alright, alright, Pip-squeak. I didn’t mean to,” he says, tone syrupy with mischief. His voice should be illegal. God, it should be bottled and weaponized.

He finally lowers you, and the moment your toes touch the ground, your knees buckle beneath you like the world is too much. Your legs are jelly, your muscles wrung out and shaky. He catches you instantly, arms looping tight around your waist as you fall right back into his chest. Your back slots against his front like two puzzle pieces that forgot they were once one.

“Don’t play the innocent,” you grumble, catching yourself against the edge of the vanity with trembling fingers. “You definitely meant for this to happen, Caleb.”

You’re panting and leaking. The wood beneath your hands is sticky with your own slick and sweat. The smell of sex lingers heavy in the air, like a perfume only the two of you would wear.

“Well,” he drawls, shameless as ever, “who could resist your temptation, baby? You in that tank top? If it hadn’t been a shoot, I would’ve taken you right then and there—”

“Mmfh—shut it, Gege,” you growl, grabbing his stupid handsome face and kissing him to shut him up. Not out of love. Out of emergency. Any more of that sentence and you might combust. Or punch him. Maybe both.

He hums against your lips, clearly enjoying every second.

“But seriously,” he murmurs, brushing sweaty strands of hair from your forehead, “you looked so breathtaking. Like a goddess today. Calvin Klein is your brand, Pip-squeak. I’m just here as set dressing.”

You roll your eyes so hard you see stars.

You stagger toward your shirt, slipping it on with fumbling fingers, wincing at the soft fabric against your overly sensitive skin. You glance up at the dressing room clock.

You go still.

“…Fuck.”

Caleb blinks. “What–”

You whirl around, tank top halfway on, hair a mess, and slam your palm against his chest.

“Caleb. We are fifteen minutes late to the next shoot.”

“Babe–”

“I swear to God,” you hiss, eyes blazing, “I will chase you across planets. I will drag you by the waistband of your stupid boxers into your grave.”

The panic between you barely has time to settle before—

Knock. Knock.

A chill runs through you both.

Tara’s voice comes through the door. Clear. Cool. Exhausted beyond belief.

“Get dressed. Wash up. I don’t care what just happened in there,” she says, tone flat as a blade. “But next time, keep it in your pants, Caleb. And you, my love, do not taunt him again. You know he’s like a horny golden retriever with a modeling contract.”

Your soul leaves your body.

“You have fifteen minutes to get decent. And if you don’t show up, I will personally hand your clothes to the lighting crew.”

You hear the sound of her heels clicking away. The silence that follows is deafening.

Caleb blinks slowly. “…Did she just call me a dog?”

You wheeze, shoulders trembling, wiping at the mirror like it’ll erase your sins. A puddle of your own orgasm glistens on the table. You try not to look at it.

“You are a dog.”

“But like, a sexy one, right?”

“Caleb.”

“A dangerous wolf in heat—”

“Caleb, I will bite you.”

He grins, smug as hell, tugging his jeans up with zero shame.

“Well then,” he says, licking his lips and tossing you a clean towel, “maybe next shoot, we start with the quickie. Save everyone some time.”

You throw the towel at his face.

He catches it with one hand, cocky and unbothered.

You hate him. You love him. You’re already dreading what Tara will say to you after this.

But right now, all you can do is laugh. A real one, from the belly. The kind that makes you light-headed.

Caleb smiles at the sound.

“Fifteen minutes, baby,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around your waist again, kissing your temple. “Plenty of time to kiss it better.”

#caleb #love and deepspace #caleb smut #caleb x mc #love and deepspace caleb #caleb x reader #lads #lads smut #model caleb #mirror sex #jealo #jealousy

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pipszhou · 2 months ago

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✧ — synopsis: you knew flirting with the client would get under his skin. but you didn’t expect caleb to drag you into his office, press record, and make you say who you belong to—with the camera still rolling. jealousy is cruel. so is proof.

✧ — pairing: caleb x mc

✧ — wc: ~1.4k

✧ — tags: jealousy, recording kink, rough sex, sexual overstimulation, possessive behavior, power dynamics, power imbalance, reader-insert, colonel caleb, office sex, degradation, plot what plot/porn without plot, pet names, they are both freaks i swear

✧ — notes: i am back with another horny fic. i have nothing to say other that i have sinned yet again in the face of the Lord. this one is also not beta read by anyone, only edited by yours truly so read with caution.

“caleb—what are you doing?”

you barely had time to catch your breath as he yanked your wrist, his steps swift, jaw clenched. fleet officers stepped aside. some stared. some whispered. no one dared move. he said nothing. his silence louder than fury.

your heels clicked against the floor as he led you toward his office. your heart pounded.

you hadn’t expected him to find out. you’d leaned close to that diplomat on purpose. finger tracing the rim of his glass. laughed at his jokes. let him look down your uniform. the deal needed to go through. and you needed caleb to remember how it felt to be provoked.

the door hissed shut behind you.

then you were slammed back against his desk, the impact making papers explode into the air like a startled flock. you gasped—but didn’t struggle.

his colonel cap hit the table. his jacket peeled off his shoulders. you didn’t dare speak again until you saw the fire in his eyes. you’d lit it. now you had to take the heat.

“you think i didn’t see that?” he growled, pinning your hips to the wood with his own. “batting your lashes. touching his wrist. whispering in his ear.”

you inhaled sharply, your pulse thudding against your throat.

“it was work,” you muttered, but it was weak. you’d known what you were doing. you wanted this.

he grabbed your chin and forced you to look at him. “you know exactly what you were doing.” his mouth ghosted your ear. “you wanted to make me jealous.”

a breath. a brush of his lips against your jaw. “wanted me like this, didn’t you? wanted me angry enough to ruin you.”

you swallowed, eyes fluttering shut. “no.”

he smiled against your skin, cruel and knowing. “liar.”

his fingers tugged open the buttons of your uniform, one by one, until it slipped past your shoulders. you gasped at the cold air, and the heat of his gaze devouring every inch of you.

“don’t you dare look away,” he hissed, and for a moment you forgot how to breathe. he reached into his drawer. pulled something out. something small.

a sleek, black recorder.

he clicked it on.

beep.

“say it,” he said softly, voice venomous sweet. “say who you belong to.”

“caleb…”

your voice trembled like the flicker of a candle, eyes fixed on the camera in his hand. you tried to plead, play innocent, lashes fluttering like wings. but he saw through you. he always did.

“come on, pips,” he crooned, voice all smoke and steel. “tell them who owns you.” that devilish smirk curved his lips, the one that promised ruin and knew you’d beg for more.

he was in on it. the whole thing. the flirting, the baiting, the need clawing at your throat.

you’d stoked his jealousy on purpose—just to be devoured.

“you… you own me, caleb,” you finally whispered, voice breaking into breathless heat.

“fuck—yeah you’re mine.”

in one swift motion, he freed himself, the thick length of his cock glistening in the office light.

he didn’t give you a second to prepare. just pressed the blunt head against your dripping entrance, letting the tension stretch between your bodies like wire.

his hand found your chest—pushing you down to the desk, pinning you in place like a fragile document.

“so don’t dare protest when i do this.”

and then—he pushed in.

deep. thick. unrelenting.

you gasped—no, cried—his name, your voice echoing against the cold metal walls.

the sound would carry. maybe people outside could hear. maybe they were listening.

you didn’t care. your body bloomed open for him, soaked and wanting.

“fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, lowering his face to your ear, “you like this, don’t you? making me watch you flirt just so you could end up here—bent over my desk, stuffed full of cock.”

the camera whirred in his hand, capturing every lewd slap of skin, every moan, every breathy chant of caleb caleb caleb—proof of your surrender.

his free hand slid under your skirt, thumb circling your clit as he pounded into you. “look at the camera, pipsqueak,” he hissed. “show them how good i fuck you.”

he suddenly reached forward and groped your breasts—rough, possessive, fingers curling into the tender flesh through your half-undone uniform.

you gasped, head rolling back, the edge of his desk biting into your spine. your hips moved on their own, rocking back onto him, greedy for every inch.

“caleb—fuck. so good, i can’t—”

your voice broke into a high, wanton moan as he slammed deeper.

his fingers tightened around your waist, nails digging into the softness of your skin hard enough to leave marks, markings of who you belonged to. his hips snapped forward again, again, again, like punishment.

you tried to reach for him—fingers fumbling backward, seeking the warmth of his back, desperate for anything to ground you—

but he slapped your hand away, sharp and stinging.

“no.”

his voice was guttural. absolute. “you don’t get to hold me. not today. today, you’re a toy. you wanted me angry? here’s what you earned.”

you whimpered, thighs trembling, your walls fluttering around him uncontrollably. the friction. the angle. the brutal pace—you were unraveling, nerves screaming, body barely holding together.

“you can’t do that anymore, pipsqueak.” he leaned in, biting down lightly on your shoulder. “no more flirting. no more fluttering those pretty lashes at anyone but me.”

you nodded helplessly, tears dotting the corners of your lashes. “yes, yes, caleb—only you—”

his thumb pressed hard against your clit, circling too fast, too firm. your legs kicked from the overstimulation, your voice breaking into a sharp sob.

“caleb—wait, i’m gonna—”

“don’t wait. i want you ruined.”

his voice was thick, rough, heavy with hunger. “i want you drooling, crying, too full of me to even walk.”

he kept going, thrusting deep, relentless, your pleasure turning sharp, electric, too much…

but you couldn’t stop.

your body was betraying you, clutching him tighter, choking on moans, your soaked folds dripping mess onto the desk beneath you.

“look at the camera,” he growled, still filming. “let them see what happens when my baby tries to act like she’s not mine.”

your body tensed under him, mouth falling open in a silent cry. his thumb kept rubbing merciless circles into your clit, even as your walls clamped around him tight, too tight—milking his cock like your body never wanted to let go.

“caleb—i’m close!”

and you did.

your whole body seized. your back arched off the desk. a moan ripped from your throat, loud, obscene, echoing in his sealed room like a siren.

you came hard, soaking him, your thighs trembling, eyes rolling back. the waves of pleasure hit you like a crash of heat and static—blinding, blissful, brutal.

but caleb didn’t stop.

“good girl,” he growled, breath hot against your neck, “but i’m not done.”

he didn’t slow down—just kept pounding into you, letting you ride out your orgasm while forcing your body into another. every thrust knocked the breath from your lungs. your legs twitched. your clit was raw, screaming for mercy.

he held your hips in place like you were nothing but a doll. “you’re gonna come again. you’re going to cry and shake and let me use this tight cunt until i say we’re done.”

you sobbed—somewhere between pain and pleasure, your body going limp beneath him, oversensitive, helpless. you were gushing again, slick dripping down your thighs, your mouth slack and begging.

he finally slammed deep and stilled, buried to the hilt, panting hard.

you thought it was over.

your mind drifted, dizzy and fucked-out.

then you felt his hand move—lifting the camera slowly, angling it to catch the mess between your thighs, your flushed, tear-stained face, the way you twitched when he moved just slightly inside you.

his voice came low, gravelled, thick with satisfaction.

“only i can see you like this.”

his thumb brushed your cheek.

“no one else. ever. and i’m keeping this recording…” he leaned down, lips ghosting over your ear, “as a reminder.”

you gasped, your body jolting weakly beneath him.

then, he drew back just an inch. let your oversensitive walls feel the stretch again. “round two?”

the camera clicked.

still recording.

cut to black.

#caleb #love and deepspace #caleb smut #caleb x mc #love and deepspace caleb #caleb x reader #lads #lads smut #colonel caleb #jealousy #overstimulated #recording kink

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pipszhou · 2 months ago

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Caleb Headcannons

Gentleman in the Streets, Animal in the Sheets

Caleb’s usual calm masks a darker, more primal side in bed. He’s gentle at first, but once you give him the green light? He devours you. Slow, intense, and passionate—he makes you feel like the center of his universe, because you are.

Lingerie Obsessed

He adores dressing you up—especially in lace, silk, or anything sheer. He’ll slowly slide his fingers under the fabric, murmuring praise with a low voice:

“You wore this for me? You know I won’t be able to hold back…”

Voice Kink

Caleb’s voice is dangerous—smooth, low, and deliberate. He loves talking you through every sensation, praising you while he ruins you. Every word drips with worship. If you whimper his name? He’ll smile and murmur it back like a promise.

Eye Contact = Mandatory

He wants to see every flicker of pleasure in your eyes. Caleb lives for that intimate connection—he’ll tilt your chin, keep your gaze locked with his as he slowly sinks inside you. “Look at me, honey. Let me see how good I make you feel.”

Sensual but Possessive

He doesn't act jealous. He simply reminds you you’re his—with kisses so deep they leave you breathless, hands gripping your hips tightly, marks on your neck that peek out just enough. Elegant obsession is his language of love.

Oral Fixation

He loves going down on you. He treats it like a sacred act, eyes closed as he loses himself in it. You’ll be shaking by the time he’s done, and he won’t stop until you’re completely unraveled.

Deep & Slow First, Rough Later

Caleb starts slow, savoring every movement. But if you beg or cling to him? That restraint shatters. He’ll pin your wrists gently above your head and thrust deep, hard, and possessively until you can barely speak his name.

Aftercare is Everything

He’s doting—wipes you down with warm cloths, kisses your forehead, wraps you in his shirt. He won’t let you lift a finger. If you fell apart in his arms, he’ll hold you close, whispering how perfect and loved you are.

2K notes · View notes

pipszhou · 3 months ago

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𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐲

✧ — synopsis: He’s always been your sweet, loyal pup—but tonight? Drunk, desperate, and aching for you, he bites back. From teasing sips to feverish kisses, the line between dominance and tenderness blurs as you both fall deeper into each other—body, soul, and everything messy in between. A story about love, trust, indulgence, and the kind of intimacy that blooms in wine-stained sheets and whispered promises.

✧ — rating: explicit 🔞

✧ — pairing: caleb x mc

✧ — wc: ~7k

✧ — warnings: drunk puppy caleb, sub caleb, caleb switching to dom pent up puppy mode, drunk sex, cunnilingus, lace panties, oral sex, cock warming, praise kink, breeding, teasing, discipline, multiple orgasms, orgasm denial, pet names, aftercare, sexual tension, wine, possessive sex, exhibitionism, body worship, biting, kissing, power dynamics, begging, intoxication, plot what plot/porn without plot, love confessions, dirty talk

✧ — notes: this was inspired by this tweet right here! mind u i wrote this fully in bed when i was very horny so be prepared and buckle up for the horny ride. i also posted it weeks ago on X but just posted it now on tumblr. basically just... drunk puppy caleb in love with mc.

"Pips..."

A muffled voice calls out your name.

You’re lounging on the sofa, wearing a snug white tank top and red lace panties that leave little to the imagination. At the sound, you tilt your head—just in time to see your boyfriend slumped in the doorway, head bowed, hand bracing against the frame like he might fall.

You’re on your feet in an instant.

“Caleb, what happened?” you ask, hands finding his shoulders, steadying him. He’s still in his graduation outfit, but his tie is loose, and his hair’s a disheveled mess.

“Baby… I missed you.” His voice is soft, slurred, and dripping with need.

He catches your hand and brings it to his lips. His eyes meet yours—glassy, dazed, filled with stars. Like he’s been stargazing all night, but you’re the only one in his sky. He kisses your palm, slow and sweet, like it means everything.

“Awww, did you have fun with your friends, darling?” you coo, lips curling into a warm smile. “You must’ve had a lot to drink, huh?” you tease, rising onto your tiptoes to press a playful kiss to the tip of his nose.

He flushes instantly, ears turning a soft, helpless pink.

“Mhm… I drank a little,” he slurs, almost whining. It’s ridiculous—your 188 cm man, blushing like a boy, kissing your palms like they’re sacred.

You giggle, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “Come inside, Caleb. You’re drunk. I’ll get you some water.”

You gently pull your hand from his and lead him to the kitchen. He doesn’t let go. Follows close, hand in hand, like a lost child too afraid to be left behind.

You open the cabinet, grab a glass, fill it with water, and turn to face him.

“Here. Drink this,” you say, holding the glass out to him.

But Caleb only tilts his head, giving a tiny shake—his answer is no.

You raise an eyebrow, amused. Aww, your cute little bratty puppy. The thought makes your heart squeeze.

“Do you want me to help you drink it?” you murmur, fluttering your lashes as you lean in closer.

His eyes flicker to your lips, then back to yours, glistening with heat. This time, there’s no mistaking his answer.

You chuckle softly, letting your fingers trace the line of his jaw. Your touch is light, teasing, guiding. You tip his chin up, angling his face toward the glass.

“Open your mouth, baby.”

He obeys—lips parting, eyes half-lidded.

You tilt the glass slowly, letting the water touch his tongue. He tries to drink, but a few drops spill, sliding down his chin and dripping onto his already-creased shirt. His breath hitches, caught somewhere between a shiver and a sigh.

He looks like a mess.

Your mess.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

His gaze never leaves you—still dazed, still hungry. There’s a silent plea in his eyes, a need that echoes your own. Your heart stumbles in your chest, thudding so loud you swear he can hear it.

You set the glass down carefully, never once breaking eye contact. His cheek nestles into your palm, warm and familiar, while his hands rise to cradle yours with a gentleness that makes your breath hitch.

“Baby…” your voice is barely a whisper, soft and aching, asking without words if this is what he really wants.

His grip tightens.

You giggle, heart melting at the way he clings to you like you’re everything.

“Alright then, baby,” you murmur, mischief curling in your tone. “Why don’t we move this to the sofa? Carry me?”

Your brows lift, a playful challenge.

And Caleb—always eager to please—answers without hesitation. He sweeps you into his arms with a strength that never fails to make you swoon. Like you weigh nothing. Like you belong there. Your arms wrap tight around his neck, your cheek resting against the soft rise and fall of his chest.

He walks you back to the sofa with such care, like he’s afraid to drop something precious. But just as he’s about to sit beside you—

“Oh—wait, baby.”

He freezes at your voice, obedient even in his daze.

“Don’t sit yet.”

He stays standing, right in front of you. You’re seated on the sofa, your face barely level with his chest. The size difference is almost laughable—he towers over you, but tonight, you’re the one leading. You’re the one giving.

Your finger traces a slow, teasing line down the center of his chest, between his pecs, past his sternum, down to his navel. You feel him tremble beneath your touch.

“Would you mind undressing for me, baby?” you purr. “Just the top. Leave the pants on.”

He glances away shyly, cheeks pink, but his hands move without pause. “Yes, baby,” he answers, voice breathy.

His fingers make quick work of the buttons, undoing his formal shirt from his DAA graduation—the day you kissed him in front of the whole crowd and finally became his girlfriend. Each piece of fabric slips off his body like an offering, falling to the floor with soft, defeated sighs.

And what’s revealed leaves you speechless.

His body is a masterpiece. Smooth, firm, sculpted like some divine artist carved him out of reverence and sin. His pecs are perfect—broad and plump, practically begging to be kissed, bitten, worshipped. His shoulders? God. Wide, steady, made to be held onto when the world gets too much.

Your eyes drink him in. You’re helpless against the hunger curling in your gut.

Oh god. I want to devour him. The thought rushes through you, hot and breathless.

And tonight, maybe you will.

“Unzip your pants, baby,” you murmur, voice low and thick with hunger. Your eyes gleam, locked on him like he’s prey and you’ve been starving.

Caleb hesitates only for a second—cheeks flushed, lashes fluttering—then his trembling hands move to obey. The sound of the zipper echoes in the quiet room, and he lowers the fabric just enough to reveal himself, already hard, leaking, throbbing for you.

Oh, what a beautiful, aching sight.

Thick. Flushed. Slick with need. Veined like a work of art and so heavy it rests against the curve of his abdomen. Perfect. Everything about him screams yours.

You hum softly, pleased. Your hand trails up his thigh, slow and deliberate, fingertips brushing heat into his skin as you look up at him with mock sweetness. “A certain someone here is craving for my touch, isn’t he?”

You ask, but you both know the answer is already written all over his face.

He opens his mouth—probably to whisper something like “please”—but you silence him with a slow, teasing lick across the tip. He shudders, the moan stuck behind tight lips, brows drawn together like he’s trying so hard not to fall apart.

But you’re not going to let him hold back.

“Bad pup,” you whisper, your voice curling into a command. “Moan for me.”

Your tongue circles the sensitive ridge, just beneath the crown, right over that spot that always makes him twitch. And he does—he groans, low and breathy, fingers gripping your shoulders like he’s trying to stay grounded, nails pressing crescent moons into your skin.

You stroke him with your hand, slow at first, your palm gliding over him with gentle pressure. You watch the way he reacts—how his hips twitch, how his legs tense, how his breath staggers.

Inch by inch, you take him deeper into your mouth, your other hand working in rhythm—stroking, twisting, spreading slick across every inch of him. The taste of him, warm and salty, fills your senses. It’s intoxicating.

His head tilts back, exposing the sharp line of his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows another moan. He’s beautiful like this. Messy. Needy. Yours.

You lap at him like it’s the last thing you’ll ever taste, lips and hands working in perfect sync. The room is filled with the wet sound of your mouth, the low whines escaping him, the soft panting of a man about to lose himself.

His voice breaks around your name—like a prayer, like a plea. He’s so close, so close, and you know it.

His hands slide to the back of your head, fingers curling into your hair with a silent beg—just a little more, please, let me fall—

And then you stop.

Your hands fall away. Your mouth pulls back. You lick your lips, slow and cruel, as you look up at him with that knowing smile.

No, you think. I’m the one in control. Not him.

He groans, frustrated and aching, his arousal throbbing and dripping, left untouched. Undone. His whole body trembles with need.

“Oh, you thought you could cheat your way out of an orgasm without my permission, hm?” Your tone is saccharine-sweet, but laced with command. You rise to your feet slowly, brushing your fingers over his cheek like you’re comforting a scolded child.

“I never said you could come, sweetheart,” you purr. “Especially not before me.”

He looks down, ashamed and desperate, his body begging for relief—but this is his lesson to learn. Good pups follow orders.

Your fingers trail down to the dog tag necklace resting on his chest—the one you gave him before he left for Skyhaven. You tug on it lightly.

“Give me this,” you say, voice velvet.

His lips part in protest, but he doesn’t argue. He unclasps the chain and hands it to you, like an offering.

You lower yourself again, looping the necklace around the base of his cock with precise care. It fits snugly, just tight enough to remind him who he belongs to. When you click it closed, he gasps—a sharp, shocked sound.

“Now,” you murmur, letting your hand graze his shaft once more, “you don’t get to come until I say so. Understood?”

He nods, dazed, breathless. His body is shaking from restraint, from need, from you.

And you haven’t even started yet.

“Tie, please.”

Your voice cuts through the haze, cool and commanding, as you cross one leg over the other. Caleb blinks, visibly confused—his flushed face searching yours for meaning.

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Take your tie, pup,” you say again, firmer this time, your tone sharp enough to make him jump.

He scrambles to grab it—wrinkled and discarded on the floor like the rest of his dignity tonight—and offers it to you with both hands, fingers trembling. There’s something achingly sweet about the way he looks at you, like he’s handing over something sacred.

When he wore it earlier, it was a symbol of pride—of his graduation, of being a top DAA cadet, admired and celebrated. Now, in your hands, it’s something else entirely.

A leash. A claim. A pretty little ribbon to keep your puppy in check.

“Hands behind your back, Caleb,” you murmur, your voice low and laced with heat. “Put them together for me, alright?”

He nods, lips parted, and does as he’s told—kneeling, wrists folded obediently behind him.

You move in close, letting your fingers trail over his skin as you wrap the tie around his wrists, slow and deliberate. Once. Twice. Three times—pulling it snug, watching the fabric stretch over his veins, tightening your control with each loop. And then, with a devilish grin, you knot the ends into a neat, delicate bow.

“There we go,” you whisper, brushing your fingers over the finished knot. “A gift just for me.”

He’s flushed to the tips of his ears, panting quietly, muscles tense beneath your touch. Helpless. Restrained. So damn beautiful.

A perfect present—wrapped and ready.

Eagerly, you lean against the sofa, elbows perched atop the headrest. The pose is casual, but your gaze is anything but—it’s commanding. A silent reminder of who’s in control tonight.

“Kneel, Caleb,” you murmur, voice velvet-soft but firm.

He sinks to his knees in front of you, eyes traveling up from your feet to meet yours. There’s hunger in his gaze—barely restrained, but waiting. Always waiting for your permission.

You like that. The anticipation. The obedience. The way his body reacts before you even touch him.

His head rests against your knee, nuzzling as if seeking comfort—or approval. And you feel it. The heat between your thighs, slick already trailing down, soaking through the thin lace of your favorite red panties. You know he sees it. You want him to.

“Aww… what is it, puppy?” you coo, tone dripping with teasing warmth.

His hips shift subtly, grinding between his thighs, cock twitching from the tension. The desperation is adorable—your poor pup, so well-trained, so eager for a reward.

“Pips,” he breathes, “please… can I?”

You hum, tilting your head with a small smile. “Words, baby. Use your mouth.”

Your fingers reach for his jaw, guiding him upward. You slip your thumb into his parted lips, pressing down on his tongue. He sucks instinctively, eyes fluttering as he drools around your finger.

“I want…” his voice is thick, muffled around you. “I want to taste you. Please, let me.”

Your lips curve.

“Good boy.”

You part your legs slowly, the red lace stretched taut over your soaked center. His eyes darken, fixated. The stain in the fabric makes him twitch again, and you laugh softly, basking in his helpless devotion.

But instead of diving in, he hesitates—just for a breath—and leans forward.

His nose brushes the center of your panties, and then, slowly, his tongue presses against the soaked patch. He licks.

Long and deliberate, right over where your arousal has stained the lace black.

A soft groan vibrates in his throat. His tongue presses again, firmer this time, savoring the taste of you through the fabric like it’s the only thing he’s ever craved. His hands stay behind him, bound and obedient, but his mouth? Greedy.

He laps at the wet lace, worshipping it, his lips pressing kisses over the soaked spot, breathing you in like you’re the only thing keeping him alive.

You feel your breath catch—just a little. The sight of him, knees planted, tongue devoted to nothing but the mess you made—it makes your whole body thrum with power.

“Easy,” you murmur. “Let me take these off first.”

He pulls back slightly—just enough space for you to slide your soaked panties down your thighs, slow and deliberate, like a private unveiling meant only for him. His breath hitches audibly at the sight: your folds glistening with arousal, soft and flushed, your slick trailing in thin, sticky rivulets along your inner thighs, catching the dim light like liquid gold.

His eyes widen. There’s awe there. Wonder. Like he’s just been handed the stars—and told to worship.

“Well?” you say, brushing your fingers through his hair, curling slightly behind his ear. Your voice comes out breathy, warm, commanding. “Go on, baby. Have your treat.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

He leans in, reverent, desperate—his lips parting against your folds like he’s greeting something sacred. And to him, you are.

His tongue glides out, flat and slow, savoring the first taste of you. He hums, voice low and wrecked, and the vibration shoots straight up your spine. Your fingers tangle deeper into his hair, holding him there, grounding yourself as your hips twitch forward instinctively.

Then he starts working—circling your clit with an almost frustrating tenderness, licking in precise little patterns that make your breath stutter in your throat.

You toss your head back, moaning softly, your name turning into breathless fragments of sound. Caleb’s movements are deliberate, calculated—just like a DAA pilot’s maneuvers. How fucked up is it that he licks you like he’s charting star routes, redrawing the constellations of your folds with clinical, obsessive precision? Every stroke of his tongue is a flight path, a mission objective. Your pleasure is his target.

And right now, he’s hitting dead center.

Your thighs tremble. Your fingers tighten in his hair. His name spills from your lips in waves—Caleb, Caleb, Caleb—each moan louder than the last, each breathless cry echoing off the walls.

His tongue dips down, lower, slower. He laps at your entrance, teasing the rim before pushing in—not too far at first, just enough to make you squirm. Then he fucks you with his tongue, deeper, firmer, lapping at the slick pooling inside you like a man starved.

He devours you like you’re his last meal. Like you’re too good to be true.

He moans again, the sound vibrating directly into your core, and you can feel him tasting everything, savoring the tang of your arousal as his tongue drags up and down your walls.

You cry out—sharp and aching—tugging him closer. Your thighs clamp around his head, grinding your cunt into his mouth as the heat in your belly coils tighter and tighter. You can barely breathe. He’s overwhelming you, consuming you.

And yet—he’s the one unraveling.

You notice it.

His hips jerk against the air. His bound hands tremble behind his back. He’s rutting his cock against nothing—desperate, leaking, completely gone for you. The sight sends another wave of wet heat pulsing through you.

Ah. Your poor baby. So pent up, so needy.

You shift slightly, raising your leg—then press the arch of your foot against the thick base of his cock.

He jolts.

You smirk, rolling your foot up the underside of his shaft. Your toes glide over the thick veins, slick with pre-cum. He groans into your folds, tongue faltering for a second before diving back in with renewed intensity, his need swelling in the sounds he makes, moans buried into your cunt.

With both feet now, you tease him mercilessly—stroking him slow and firm. Your arches press along his length, your toes playing at the sensitive tip, spreading his leaking mess across his skin.

“Fuck, Caleb,” you gasp, voice breathy as you buck against his face. “Look at you. So needy you’re grinding against my feet like a desperate mutt.”

He whimpers into you—yes, whimpers—mouth still moving, tongue working, trying to please you even as he shakes from the pleasure coursing through him.

You smirk, tilting his face slightly as your heel presses under his balls, massaging him gently while your other foot glides along his shaft. The control sends a thrill up your spine.

“That’s it, good boy,” you purr. “Cum when I tell you. Not a second before.”

His moan is feral. Your cunt clenches. Your orgasm teeters just on the edge.

His mouth keeps working, relentless, worshipful—tongue gliding, lips sealing, nose buried against your folds as he inhales your scent like it’s air he needs to breathe. He’s soaked in you, drenched in your slick and his own hunger. But you feel the release creeping in, too soon, too fast.

You grit your teeth. You won’t let it end like this. Not yet.

“Ah—Caleb,” you gasp, voice tight with restraint. “Stop now.”

You push his head back gently, and he obeys, reluctantly pulling away with a slick trail of saliva and arousal still connecting his lips to your cunt. Your feet slide from his cock to rest on his thighs, the muscles twitching beneath you. His face is flushed, mouth red and glistening, eyes glazed like he’s drunk on you.

“Get up,” you order, breath still trembling from the edge you just denied. “Sit on the sofa and face me. Now.”

He stumbles up, eager, sitting at the edge of the sofa with his head tilted back against the cushion. His chest rises and falls with heavy breaths, the tip of his cock leaking, red and twitching, the tight clasped necklace around the base keeping him from spilling. He spreads his legs without you needing to repeat it.

You climb over him, knees planted on the cushion, now straddling him fully. You hover just above his aching cock, your folds wet and ready, teasing the tip up and down along your entrance. His hips buck weakly beneath you, trying not to disobey, but you feel it—how badly he wants to be inside you.

You smirk. Your hands grip his shoulders as you drag your slick folds over his head again and again, letting him feel it. All of you.

“Like what you see, baby?” you whisper, leaning closer, your voice a soft taunt against his lips.

“Pips, please…” he whines, eyes fluttering, already overstimulated from earlier. His chest arches when you press his tip against your clit, dragging it down slowly to your entrance again. “Please, fuck me…”

And there it is.

You reach between you, steadying him with one hand on his thigh, the other guiding him in. You press down slowly, excruciatingly so, sinking onto his cock an inch at a time. He stretches you open, wider than anything you’ve taken before, and you gasp—no, you cry out—as your body clenches around the thick intrusion.

He’s splitting you. Burning you open. And it’s perfect.

“Shit,” you whisper, nails digging into his shoulders. “Fuck… Caleb…”

He looks up at you, concern flickering in his dazed eyes. “Babe, wait—are you okay? Let me—let me help—”

He tries to move, to free his restrained hands and take control, to ease the pressure and take care of you like he always does.

But you shut him down with a firm press of your fingers to his lips, silencing the worry.

“No, babe,” you pant, tears prickling in your eyes from the stretch. “Fuck—lemme do it. Let me take you. Let me sink down on this cock until I see the fucking stars and you can’t convince me otherwise.”

He moans into your fingers, eyes blown wide, breath hot against your skin.

You brace yourself—and take more of him. Inch by inch, the pain dulls into something sweeter, hotter, deeper. Your walls flutter around him, and your hips finally meet his, fully seated, completely filled.

You both gasp at the same time.

He’s trembling. You’re shaking. And the world feels like it’s narrowed down to this one overwhelming moment—his cock buried in your virgin cunt, your pulse thundering in your ears, your arousal dripping down to his balls.

You rock your hips once—slow, testing—and he jerks, hips trying to chase your movement.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he whispers. “You feel… you feel unreal, Pips.”

You smile through the haze. “Good. I want you to lose your mind.”

You begin to move, grinding down in long, shallow strokes, letting his cock press every sensitive nerve inside you. His moans grow louder, needier, like the restraint around his cock is a curse and a blessing all at once.

And god, you love this.

You love having him like this—wrecked and panting, his wrists still restrained, thighs trembling beneath yours. Desperate, needy, caged by his own devotion. All for you.

“Tell me who owns you,” you whisper, grinding in slow, deliberate rolls, your slick spreading messily between you.

“You,” he breathes, eyes rolling back, hips twitching beneath your hold. “You, Pips—fuck—I’m yours.”

“That’s right,” you purr, lips brushing his as you ride him deeper, watching every expression twist across his pretty, pathetic face. “My good boy.”

You begin to bounce—just enough to make him squirm—his cock dragging along your walls, brushing places no one else has ever touched. The shape of him carves into you, and each bounce sends his breath shuddering. He starts muffling his moans, biting down, head hanging low between his shoulders like a shamed pup.

No. That won’t do.

You grip his jaw, forcing him to look up. His cheeks are pink, his lashes damp. He’s crying for you—and you drink it in like wine.

“Look at me,” you command, tone laced with soft venom. “Why are you hiding those sounds I love?”

He shudders as you drag your thumb along his lip, then press it in. He moans, obediently wrapping his mouth around your finger, suckling with slow, sloppy licks like he needs the taste of you to survive.

“Talk, Caleb,” you whisper, thumb still inside, pressing on his tongue. His breath hitches, hips jerking up into you.

“I… I’m holding back, Pip-squeak,” he whines, muffled and breathy, every syllable dripping with want. “I wanna come inside you so bad. Can I, baby? Please?” He licks your thumb feverishly now, like a pup begging for a treat, his lips wet and shining.

You can feel it—his cock twitching, precum slicking your insides as you sink down, milking every bit of him. You swear you feel his warmth already spilling. And the thought of it—his cum filling your womb, knotting you up with his pups—

Little pups?

You nearly laugh at yourself, breathless, drunk on the way he worships you.

“Fine,” you sigh, tightening around him cruelly. “But Caleb—have you really been a good boy for me?”

“Yes—yes,” he pants, eyes wild. “Please, I’ve been so good. I’ll serve you, love you, beg for you—anything, just let me—fuck—”

You push him back into the sofa, straddling him fully, and ride him like he’s your throne. Your knees ache, but it doesn’t matter—because his cock is pressing so deep, hitting your cervix with every thrust, and his puppy eyes are rolling back, tongue slipping past his lips like he’s gone feral.

“Good boy,” you murmur, voice breaking with your own rising climax.

And just when his begging turns to incoherent sounds, you reach down and yank the necklace free from the base of his cock.

The second the tightness releases, his body convulses.

He lets out a guttural, broken moan—a raw, feral sound like a puppy finally allowed to rut. His cock pulses deep inside you, spilling hot and thick as he clutches your hips like he’s drowning.

“Pips—fuck—fuck—” he babbles, unable to stop himself. His tongue hangs loose, drooling against your chest, his moans muffled by the way he latches onto your skin like a nursing pup, breath hot and sticky.

You feel it too—his cum flooding your womb, the fullness unbearable, so deep it aches. Your body tightens, clenches, and then—

You fall with him.

Your orgasm rips through you like lightning. You cry out his name, back arching, as your slick gushes over his thighs, mixing with his seed, soaking both of you and the sofa in your shared heat. It’s messy. Primal. Fucking perfect.

His arms tremble as he slumps forward, face buried in your chest, still whining softly as his cock twitches inside you.

He’s still hard. Still needy.

Your puppy hasn’t had enough.

“Caleb, you were so good,” you pant, breath ghosting over his soft, sweat-damp hair. Your fingers curl protectively around the back of his head, cradling him close as you press kiss after kiss into his scalp—slow, reverent, like he’s something holy. Your good boy. Your precious pup.

He nuzzles into your shoulder, whimpering faintly, and when he finally lifts his head to look at you—it nearly breaks you.

“Baby…” his voice is soft, cracked, still wrecked from everything. But his eyes—his eyes shine with raw hunger. Tear-slicked, wide, and burning with need so deep it borders on obsession.

He wants more.

He needs more.

You laugh breathlessly, your heart aching with love and lust all at once. “Now, now, Caleb…” you coo, brushing a knuckle down his flushed cheek. “Why don’t we have a drink first?”

You slip from his lap, and he immediately whines—pathetically, adorably—reaching for you like a puppy being left behind. “Nooo… Pips,” he mumbles, lip trembling like he might actually cry again.

“Shh, baby,” you soothe, grabbing the bottle you’d hidden nearby. Your most prized vintage. Something sparkling and red, rich as blood and meant only for him.

You pop the cork and return to the couch, lounging back with a sultry smile, knees parted just slightly. Your body glistens with sweat and remnants of his devotion. He watches, transfixed, like a starved thing.

“To commemorate your graduation,” you begin, voice silk-wrapped in wicked, “and for being the best little puppy I’ve ever had…” you tilt the bottle, slowly, sensually, letting the crimson pour.

The first splash hits your collarbone, cold against your flushed skin. Then it trickles lower—down your sternum, between your breasts, over the soft curve of your stomach, and lower still—mixing with your slick just above your folds.

His jaw drops.

His eyes widen.

And fuck, he’s drooling.

He stares like he’s seconds away from losing every last shred of composure, tongue peeking out to wet his lips, pupils blown wide with desire.

You stretch out like a feast, the wine dripping from your chest and thighs, and smile lazily at him. “Well? What are you waiting for, baby? This is your treat. Do whatever you want with me.”

He moves.

Slowly, deliberately, like a predator stalking prey—but he’s trembling. You feel his breath ghost over your neck, and it sends a shiver down your spine. He’s toying with you now. Teasing. Trying to flip the game.

“Are you sure about this, babe?” he murmurs, voice low, dangerous, delicious.

Your breath catches—your body already arching toward him. And that whimper that slips from your lips? It’s filthy. Desperate. Needy.

He chuckles darkly.

And then, that warning—growled right against your skin.

“I’m not going to let go of you. I’m not going to be gentle. I’m this close to losing every bit of control I have. Are you ready for that, Pip-squeak?”

The way he says it—like a promise and a threat—has heat coiling low in your belly.

You grab a fistful of his hair, yanking his head up until you’re eye to eye, mouth to mouth, breath to breath.

“I’d like to see you try, Caleb.”

Then you crash into him, devouring his mouth in a kiss so fevered it nearly burns. Your hands cup his flushed face, then roam—down his neck, over his chest, tangling in his hair again. His hands grip your waist like he wants to claim you, brand you, never let go.

And oh gods, your waist fits perfectly in his grip. Like it was made for him. Like you were crafted by the universe to be taken by this one boy, this one beast of a boy, over and over again.

He pulls back just enough to pant against your lips. “Don’t go back on your words now,” he growls, eyes wild. Then he pushes you flat against the sofa, looming over you, body trembling with anticipation. “Because I’m going to ruin you.”

He dips down, takes a lock of your hair, and kisses it with reverence.

“I’m going to make sure you remember—exactly who you belong to.”

And gods help you—

You can’t wait to be devoured.

You look at him— drink him in. His whole body gleams under the low light, a living sculpture of lust. The necklace you gave him dangles right at the base of his cock, swaying with each twitch, catching the light with every pulse of arousal. It's obscene. It's perfect.

He looms over you, one hand braced against the back of the sofa, caging you in like prey. The other steals the wine bottle from your hand. Before you can even stop him—

He tilts his head back and drinks.

“Caleb—” you gasp, but your voice dies in your throat.

A stream of wine spills past the corner of his lips, trailing down his throat, over his flushed chest, winding between the dips of his pecs like a blessing from some hedonistic god. His adam’s apple bobs with every swallow, and he moans softly, low and guttural.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes lidded and dangerous—and you swear you see something unhinge in him.

“Caleb,” you whisper, your thighs clenching. “You’re so—”

“Hot?” he finishes with a crooked grin, flushed and breathless. “You made me this way, Pip-squeak.”

He sets the bottle aside with a soft clink and descends like a storm. His tongue lands first—dragging over your collarbone, licking every drop of wine that’s still painting your skin.

"Since you gave this to me as a gift," he murmurs, voice dark and thick with hunger, "I'm not letting a single drop go to waste."

His eyes—those violet flames—are locked onto yours, but they’re darker now. Wilder. Dangerous in a way that makes your breath hitch and your hips roll instinctively against the air.

He’s not human anymore.

He’s yours.

Then—oh fuck—you feel him press forward, the head of his cock nudging your folds, teasing the mess of your mixed slick. The sound is obscene—a wet, squelching squish as your body tries to suck him in again, desperate for more.

He groans at the contact, a primal sound that rumbles in his chest, and dips his head again. His tongue swirls around your nipple, suckling just enough to make you cry out, then switching to the other with maddening precision.

“Look at you…” he pants against your skin, voice dripping with worship and lust. “So perfect. So fucking responsive. Your body’s begging me. Screaming my name even when your mouth can’t form it.”

His cock slides lower, catching at your entrance, and he grinds, just a little, just enough to make your eyes roll back.

“Caleb, please—”

But your voice dissolves into moans, incoherent and trembling. You say his name again and again like a prayer, cursing him between gasps as he teases, licks, praises, and ruins you all over again.

He kisses down your ribs, biting gently, then licking over the mark. “I’ll make you mine, inside and out. I’ll fill you so deep you’ll taste me on your tongue.”

And the way he thrusts in after that—

Slow, brutal, claiming—

You don’t even try to hold back your scream.

He thrusts into you like you’re his lifeline—like if he stops, he'll vanish into dust. Every stroke feels deeper than the last, reaching places inside your womb you never even knew could ache for someone.

"Ah—baby, you're taking me so well," he pants, breath stuttering as he watches your body mold around him, greedily sucking him in. "Look at that. So fucking perfect."

His lips graze your neck, planting soft, reverent kisses there, like he’s tasting a sacrament. The wine's all gone now, licked clean from your body—every last drop savored on his tongue. Except for what pooled between your thighs, and he’s answering that with every relentless thrust.

Those soft kisses turn to small bites—wet, possessive nibbles that leave your skin tingling in their wake. He sucks the spot just beneath your ear until a bruise blossoms, pulling back with a filthy little plop like he’s savoring your reactions more than the act itself.

"Babe…" you whimper, voice hoarse, ruined. Your folds feel raw, your cervix wrecked in the shape of him. Every slam of his hips is a brand, carving his name into your body.

"You’re mine now, Pips," he murmurs against your jaw, voice low, reverent. "I’m making you mine in every way that counts. No one else gets this. Not your body, not your heart, not your soul."

You can’t help the broken moan that leaves your throat. It tears through you, desperate, needy. You cling to him tighter, arms curling around his neck, legs wrapping around his waist, trying to pull him deeper—wanting to feel his entire weight press into you until you’re nothing but a part of him.

His lips crash into yours—wild, needy, all teeth and tongue—as he sinks in even deeper. Then suddenly, he pulls back. And you feel it: the absence, the cold, the way your body clenches around nothing. A sharp ache shoots through you.

Your eyes flutter open, barely able to focus from the blur of tears and overstimulation. And then—

You feel it.

A slick shift inside you, cool metal sliding past your folds, slipping right into your heat. Your breath catches, body jolting as your cunt spasms around it instinctively.

You look down, dazed—and see it: the chain, the tag, glinting faintly in the low light.

Your gift.

His necklace.

Inside you.

You choke on a gasp, hips twitching as your walls flutter around both the metal and the heat of his cock as he slides back in—slow, deliberate, brutal.

“Caleb—” your voice breaks as another moan tears free.

He doesn’t answer with words. He answers with his body.

His thrusts pick up again—rougher, messier, full of frantic urgency. The metal inside you makes every movement feel sharper, like lightning flickering in your gut. Your juices mix with the coolness, making everything slippery and obscene.

You scream his name as he grabs your thigh, lifts your leg up to his shoulder, folding you nearly in half.

And then—you feel everything.

His cock driving impossibly deep, his balls slapping against your entrance, the chain inside of you clinking with every brutal thrust. Your body bows, your hands clawing at his back, his hair, anything to anchor yourself.

He groans, voice cracking, “Fuck—this. This is what heaven must feel like.”

Your hips lift on instinct, grinding back, meeting his pace, desperate for friction. For release. For him. Your cries grow louder, incoherent, helpless.

And still, he keeps going.

His thumb finds your entrance, sliding just the edge of it in beside his cock, stretching you open even more. It hurts. Gods, it hurts so fucking good. Your head lolls back, mouth falling open, and you sob his name.

You don’t care if you break. You want to. If it’s by his hands, his cock, his name in your mouth—you’d let him destroy you a hundred times over.

“Caleb… please,” you whisper, barely able to speak, “can I—can I cum now?”

His thrusts falter for half a second. Then he groans—raw, unfiltered. “Baby. Yes. Cum for me. I want to feel you break around me.”

He grabs your hand, presses it to his cheek, kissing your palm as he fucks you harder, faster. His hips are erratic now, desperate.

“I want to fill you up,” he chokes out. “Make you mine from the inside out. I’ll give you my pups. All of them. Let’s start our family right here. Just you and me. Let me make you full with us.”

And you fall.

Your body locks up, muscles tightening as the orgasm crashes over you in a wave so hard, so total it knocks the breath from your lungs. You scream—his name, curses, pure sound.

He follows a heartbeat later, slamming into you one last time, moaning your name like a vow. His cock twitches, spurting deep, and you feel the warmth flood you, seeping around the chain still tucked inside.

You can’t stop shaking.

Neither can he.

You stay like that, breathless and trembling, your bodies locked together. His forehead against yours. His chest heaving. His arms wrapped tight around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

Like he just found his home inside you.

He hasn't slipped out of you yet. You can still feel the aftershocks—his cock pulsing gently, locked in place, warmth still seeping from him in slow waves. Every tiny twitch inside you is answered by your own trembling walls, like your bodies are still talking even after the words are gone.

He rests his head on your shoulder, breathing deep, the tip of his nose buried in the crook of your neck.

Then, slowly, he lifts his head.

His hand comes up, fingers threading through your damp hair, brushing it back so he can see your face. His eyes—glistening, a little glazed—search yours like he's trying to read every unspoken thought. And just like that, the wildness from earlier is gone. He’s not a beast anymore. He’s your boy again. Your soft, attention-starved, deeply in-love boy.

You meet his gaze, lips curling into a lazy smile, and say through shallow breaths, “Caleb… that was the best thing I’ve ever experienced in my entire life and you can’t prove me otherwise.”

His brows twitch upward, a laugh caught somewhere in his throat. But what comes out instead is a whisper: “Pips… thank you. Seriously. Are you really okay? Did I go too far? I didn’t mean to—”

“Shh,” you cut him off gently, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “No apologizing. You did so well, baby. So, so well.”

He melts into your touch, leaning into the palm that cradles the back of his head. Like he’s drawing strength from your affection. Like your praise is more intimate than anything that came before it.

"You also did, Pips," he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “I can’t believe you prepared all this for me… the wine, your warmth, your whole self. Body and soul.”

His finger drifts down your throat, feather-light, tracing the line of your neck with reverence before returning to your face. His expression is soft, open, in awe.

“I love you, Pip-squeak,” he says, like it’s the most sacred truth in the universe. “And don’t worry about the mess, alright? Let me take care of it. I’ll clean us up, and then I’ll tuck you in—just like always. Leave everything to me.”

He kisses the tip of your nose, then your cheek, then your lips—slowly, gently, like he’s sealing a promise into your skin.

And in that moment, nothing else matters. Not the ache, not the mess, not the world outside your shared warmth.

Only him.

Only you.

Only the softness that follows love when it’s poured out completely.

He wraps you tighter in his arms, nuzzling into your shoulder like he’s finally home. And just before your breathing slows into sleep, you hear him whisper against your skin, soft and sure.

“Good night, Pip-squeak… sleep well. I’ve got you.”

#caleb #love and deepspace #caleb smut #caleb x mc #love and deepspace caleb #caleb x reader #lads #lads smut #puppy caleb #cunnilingus #drunk caleb #sub caleb

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pipszhou · 3 months ago

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let me put it in. i'm begging you...

🔞 this pearl boy excerpt this but calebmc...

imagine caleb pinning her wrists above her head. his breath fanned over her ear, hot and trembling with restraint, as two of his fingers pressed deep inside her, slow and insistent, scissoring her open, leaving her whimpering beneath him.

"you're so tight," he murmured, voice thick, almost desperate against her skin. his hips rolled forward, the hard line of him grinding against her soaked core. "god, you feel like heaven, sweetheart... let me in. please, let me put it in—" he begged, voice cracking just slightly, like he was losing the last threads of his control.

another thrust of his fingers had her arching, her thighs trembling around his hips. caleb nipped at her earlobe, groaning low as he felt her walls flutter around him. "i need you," he whispered, each word dripping into her like molten fire. "i'll be so gentle... i'll make it feel so good, i swear, just let me inside. i'm begging you, baby."

and the way he said it, like she was his entire salvation, like he would die if she denied him, made her body surrender before her mind could catch up, a breathless, shattered "yes" slipping from her lips.

okay i just need a begging puppy dom service caleb right now and i'm horny

#caleb #love and deepspace #caleb smut #caleb x mc #love and deepspace caleb #caleb x reader #lads #lads smut

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pipszhou · 3 months ago

Text

LETTERS UNSENT

SUMMARY: You have shared too much with Caleb— your childhood in middle school, your restless teenage years in high school, and the sleepless nights that came with training at the DAA. Through every phase of your life, you’ve loved him. Quietly. Desperately. While he loved someone else.

So you learned to endure it.

You swallowed your feelings and tucked them away in secret letters never meant to be read—letters inked with heartbreak, feverish longing, and fantasies too raw to speak aloud. From crooked handwriting to elegant script, each page was a confession of the love you hated to carry, the ache you never outgrew. And when Caleb vanished from your life after graduation without a word, you buried those letters in a box, and the box deep within yourself.

Years later, fate intervenes.

Caleb returns—broader, bolder, devastatingly handsome. And strangely focused on you. His touches linger too long, his eyes see too much, and his smile says he knows exactly what you’ve been hiding. He looks at you like you’re the one he’s been waiting for—and you can’t tell if it terrifies you or tempts you more.

You try to pull away. You’ve spent too many years surviving without him to fall now.

But Caleb doesn’t let go.

Because now that he’s seen the truth—every broken sentence, every filthy fantasy, every whispered ‘I love you’ you never dared say out loud—he’s not just here to catch up.

He’s here to chase you down.

And he won’t stop until you’re his.

WORD COUNT: 9.1k

NOTES: Takes place after the Main story supposedly ends. This happens far in the future. Caleb is older here, 28–29 maybe. Reader is NOT mc, keep that in mind. In this scenario mc is with another LI.

You used to love love.

Not just the idea of it—but the ache of it. The promise of it. The giddy, schoolgirl butterflies and the midnight hopes whispered into your pillow. Love was the secret language of your world, threaded through songs you hummed under your breath, the romance novels dog-eared to your favorite passages, the ink-stained pages of letters never sent.

You believed in love the way children believe in magic.

But you grew up.

And love? It grew fangs.

Now, you love to hate it.

You hate how it made a fool of you. How it made you wait and yearn and burn in silence, hoping he’d look your way and see you. Not as a friend, not as a childhood companion, but as someone worth reaching for. Worth choosing. But he didn’t. He never did. Caleb’s heart was always spoken for.

So you buried your own.

You’ve become good at pretending. You laugh at romance now, scoff at declarations, dismiss affection with a curl of your lip and a joke that lands just bitter enough to be believable. You’re not heartless—you’re just tired. Of hoping. Of hurting. Of wanting things that were never yours to begin with.

You fill your time with things that don’t require soft emotions. You keep your hands busy and your mind busier. You hum lullabies to yourself when the silence grows too sharp. You sleep with the light on sometimes—not out of fear, but because the darkness reminds you too much of waiting for someone who never came back.

And still…

Despite it all…

Sometimes, on quiet nights when your guard slips, you wonder what it would be like to be loved out loud.

To be wanted so much it’s terrifying. To be chosen first.

You don’t dare admit it aloud. You barely let yourself think it.

Because if love ever finds you again…

You’re not sure if you’ll run away from it—

Or straight into its arms.

You hear his voice before you see him.

Low. Smooth. A little deeper than you remember. It cuts through the background noise like gravity pulling everything toward it—pulling you toward it. You freeze mid-step, your spine going taut like a wire drawn too tight. You know that voice. You’ve heard it in dreams. In memories. In the echo of unsent letters you’ll never admit you still read.

You turn slowly.

And there he is.

Caleb.

Older. Sharper. Beautiful in a way that feels almost unfair. His body is broader now, sculpted with strength and silent discipline. His jaw is dusted with scruff. His posture, relaxed but alert. And those eyes—still storm-silver and searing, but steadier somehow. Knowing.

He sees you.

Really sees you.

And for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you standing there like a collision waiting to happen.

A beat passes.

“...It’s been a while,” he says, and God—he smiles.

That same crooked, devastating smile that used to undo you in a single heartbeat. But there’s something different now. Less boyish charm, more… reverence. Like he’s looking at a relic he thought lost forever and can’t quite believe is real.

You swallow, throat tight. “Yeah. A while.”

There’s so much you could say. So much you want to say. About the years. The distance. The versions of yourself that broke and rebuilt in his absence. But your mouth is dry and your thoughts scatter like startled birds.

Caleb steps forward—close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, smell the faint scent of metal and pine and something unmistakably him.

He looks you up and down slowly, like he’s taking inventory of everything time tried to steal.

“You look…” His gaze softens. “You look like trouble.”

You scoff—too sharp, too fast, your defense mechanisms kicking in like old habits. “And you still talk like you’re trying to land a date in a bar.”

His grin flashes wider. “Would it work if I was?”

God, he’s flirting.

Like you weren’t just background noise to him once. Like you didn’t spend years trying to scrape his ghost off your ribs.

You narrow your eyes. “Why are you here, Caleb?”

He leans in, the air between you charged, crackling. His voice drops—lower, rougher.

“Because I missed you.”

You blink. That wasn’t the answer you expected. Not from him. Not with that look in his eyes—part hungry, part haunted, all real.

And just like that, the careful walls you’ve built start to shake.

You hear the door creak open behind you before the sound of his footsteps catches up.

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Caleb says, his voice deeper, richer than you remember. “You look... different.”

You don’t turn around immediately. The skyline looks safer than his face.

“Yeah, well. Years pass. People change.”

“Some people stay exactly the same,” he murmurs. “You still lean to the left when you’re uncomfortable.”

You whip around, heart doing a traitorous little jump when your gaze lands on him.

God. He’s unfair. Broader shoulders, sharper jaw, that golden tan that makes his white shirt look criminally good on him. His smile has mellowed into something more potent—less boyish charm, more devastating man.

You cross your arms. “You’re observant now. That’s new.”

He chuckles. “I’ve always been observant. You were just too busy avoiding my eyes to notice.”

Touché.

He walks closer—too close—and you catch a whiff of his cologne, spicy and dark, like danger disguised as comfort. His gaze drops to your lips for half a second too long before returning to your eyes with a glint that spells trouble.

“How long has it been?” he asks softly.

“Since you ditched our entire friend group without a word? Or since I gave up hoping for a message you never sent?”

His jaw tenses. “I deserved that.”

“You did.”

There’s a beat of silence between you, thick with all the things you’re too proud to say and all the things he suddenly looks desperate to.

You retreat into the safety of the couch, motioning for him to sit across—but no, of course not. Caleb drops beside you, hip pressed against yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“What about Emcee?” you ask, biting the inside of your cheek. “You two live happily ever after or what?”

His brow furrows. “Emcee? God, no. That was over before it ever started.”

Your heart skips. “Oh.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I’m not.” Lie. “Just surprised.”

“Good,” he says, leaning in, his voice a husky whisper. “Because I didn’t come here to talk about her. I came here for you.”

Your breath catches. You laugh, shaky and forced. “Wow, Caleb. You’ve upgraded your flirting. What happened to your legendary cheesy pickup lines?”

He grins. “I could still use one, if you’re nostalgic. But I figured you’ve grown out of tolerating my bullshit.”

“Smart of you.”

And yet, the way his knee brushes yours every few seconds isn’t helping. Neither is the way his hand hovers just a little too close to your thigh when he reaches for his coffee.

You’re not sure what’s worse—that he’s this charming now, or that it’s working.

Later that night, after he leaves with a promise to “see you soon” and a gaze that lingers like heat, you retreat into your sanctuary.

Your room. Your old dresser. The box tucked under the drawer like a dirty little secret.

The letters.

Every one of them stained with years of aching want and unspeakable need. A catalogue of your descent into hopeless longing, from childish hope to fevered fantasy. The kind of thing no one should ever read.

Especially not Caleb.

But fate, of course, doesn’t care what you want.

The first time he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, it's under the guise of helping you with groceries.

“I’m perfectly capable,” you snap, snatching the bag from his hands.

Caleb just laughs, leaning in. “I know. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to help.”

His knuckles graze yours. You pretend not to notice. He pretends not to notice you pretending. Bastard.

—

The second time, you’re at your favorite café, the one with the uneven chairs and the cinnamon drinks he used to gag over. You’d brought him there as a joke, once. Now he takes you there seriously.

He’s seated too close, his thigh pressed against yours like a quiet claim.

“So,” he says, turning his head toward you. “No boyfriend? Fiancé? Star-crossed lover waiting in the wings?”

“None of your business.”

“That’s a no, then,” he says smugly, sipping his drink.

You glance at him, narrowing your eyes. “Why are you asking?”

“Just making sure I’m not stepping on any toes,” he murmurs, then adds, “when I kiss you.”

Your heart slams into your ribs. You scoff, rolling your eyes so hard they might get stuck. “You’re not kissing me.”

“Not today, maybe,” he says easily. “But eventually.”

You hate how warm your cheeks get. You hate him a little more for noticing.

—

The third time is worse.

You’ve both had a bit too much wine. Not drunk, but soft around the edges. He’s on your couch, lounging like he belongs there, like the time between now and then never happened.

He watches you over the rim of his glass. “Why do you keep flinching when I touch you?”

“I don’t flinch.”

“You do. Like you’re scared I’m not real.”

You take a sip of your wine and stare straight ahead. “I’m just trying to figure out what you want.”

His voice goes quiet. “You.”

The word hits you like a punch.

“You wanted Emcee for years.”

“I was stupid for years.”

You meet his eyes. They’re clearer than they’ve ever been—focused, almost painfully sincere.

“That’s convenient,” you say coldly.

He sets his glass down, leans in. “No. It’s fate finally letting me try again.”

His hand reaches up, brushes your cheek with maddening tenderness. He’s so close you can feel the heat of his breath.

You freeze. The ache in your chest roars to life again. This is everything you ever wanted—but you don’t trust it. Not yet.

You turn your head. Just barely.

Caleb’s jaw clenches, his hand falling away.

He sits back without a word.

—

The fourth time, it’s raining.

He brings you a coffee, his hair damp, his hoodie soaked at the shoulders.

“You didn’t have to walk in this weather,” you mutter, taking the drink anyway.

“I wanted to.” His smile is lazy, but his eyes are sharp. “You’re still not letting me in.”

“Would you trust someone who vanished for years without a word?”

His smile falters. Then, to your surprise, he nods. “I wouldn’t. But I’d want them to fight for the chance to be trusted again.”

He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a familiar-looking charm—a bent paper star you made him in high school.

“I didn’t forget you,” he says, voice low. “I tried to.”

That might be the worst thing he’s ever said. Because it means he felt something. Because it means you weren’t the only one suffering in silence.

Because it means he’s telling the truth.

You excuse yourself before your throat gives way to the sobs you refuse to let him see.

He doesn’t follow.

But he waits.

He always waits now.

And that’s more dangerous than any of his old pickup lines.

You agree to go with him to the observatory.

Big mistake.

It’s late, the sky smeared with stars and promises, the air just crisp enough that Caleb offers you his jacket before you can even pretend to be cold.

You don’t take it.

So, naturally, he just drapes it over your shoulders anyway, like you’re his.

“It looks better on you,” he says, voice quiet as your fingers clutch at the sleeves that still smell like him.

“Don’t start,” you murmur, but there’s no real bite to it.

“Start what?” His smirk is all mischief. “Being nice? Can’t help it. You bring it out of me.”

You roll your eyes and turn your gaze to the sky, but he keeps watching you like you’re the constellation he’s been chasing all his life.

“I used to come here when I missed you,” you admit without thinking, and immediately wish you hadn’t.

The silence that follows is so sharp it could cut glass.

“When you missed me?” His voice is different now—serious. Dangerous. “How often did that happen?”

You laugh, tight and brittle. “Only every time I breathed.”

His head tilts slightly, like he’s not sure he heard you right.

Then: “Say that again.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll use it against me.”

He steps closer, slow and purposeful, until your back meets the cold railing. His hands cage you in, one on either side of your body, his expression unreadable but intense.

“Do you really think I’d take something that precious and weaponize it?”

“I don’t know what you’d do anymore.”

“Then let me show you,” he says, and for a terrifying second, you think he’s going to kiss you.

But he doesn’t.

His lips hover just beside your ear, the warmth of his breath teasing your neck.

“I dreamt of you too, you know. Every damn night.”

Your knees nearly buckle, but pride is a stronger drug than longing.

“Then why didn’t you do anything?” you whisper.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes burning. “Because I was stupid. And I thought you didn’t feel the same.”

You snort. “Well. You were wrong.”

“I know,” he growls. “I know that now. And you’re still keeping me at arm’s length.”

“Damn right I am.”

His smile is tight, hungry. “Fine. You want to make me work for it? I’ll work.”

“I want to be chased, Caleb. Not collected.”

He steps back, hands raised in mock surrender, but his grin is pure trouble.

“Then run, sweetheart. I’ll catch up.”

You hate him for knowing exactly how to undo you.

And maybe you hate yourself more for wanting to be caught.

It’s late. The kind of late where even the shadows seem to sleep.

The old piano room is still your secret solace—dusty, dim, filled with forgotten echoes and dreams you never dared to say out loud. The acoustics are perfect. No one ever comes in here anymore.

Except for one person.

You don't hear him at first. You’re too wrapped up in the song, the way your voice trembles on the high notes, the keys trembling beneath your fingertips. It’s the kind of melody you never intended anyone to hear. Especially not him.

I didn't opt in to be your odd man out

I founded the club she's heard great things about

I left all I knew, you left me at the house by the Heath

Your voice breaks. You close your eyes, breathe, keep going anyway.

I stopped CPR, after all it's no use

The spirit was gone, we would never come to

And I'm pissed off you let me give you all that youth for free

Silence. One, two, three beats of it. Then—

“You always did sound beautiful when you were sad.”

You jump.

Caleb leans against the doorway like he owns the place. Like he owns the air in your lungs. Like he owns you.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he adds, smile lazy, eyes sharp. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”

You blink. “You heard that?”

“I always do.”

Of course he did.

You feel your cheeks burn as he strolls in, gaze never leaving yours. “That song… it’s new?”

You clear your throat, try for nonchalance. “Just something I was playing around with.”

He hums. “Right. Totally not about anyone in particular.”

You bristle. “Did I say that?”

“Nope. But you don’t have to. You forget—I know your voice. I know when it’s for fun. And when it’s ripping you open.”

You glance away, fingers tapping nervously on the ivory keys. “You're being dramatic.”

He kneels beside the bench. Just like that, he’s too close again. Always too close.

“You used to do this all the time,” he murmurs. “Sneak away to sing where no one could find you. You didn’t know I followed.”

Your heart stutters. “You never said anything.”

“Why would I ruin it?” His gaze darkens. “Hearing you like that—it was the only time I ever got to feel like you needed something.”

“I didn’t sing those songs for you,” you lie.

Caleb tilts his head, eyes locked on yours. “Then why are your cheeks red?”

You shove away from the piano, muttering, “You're insufferable.”

He follows, not missing a beat. “You’re blushing, songbird.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

You stop. He almost slams into you.

You glare up at him. “You think you’re so clever.”

He leans in, smirking. “No. I think I’ve waited too long to be this close to you, and now that I’m here, I’m not backing off.”

The worst part? Your hands are trembling. Your knees are weak. And still, somehow, you want more.

But pride wraps around your tongue like a noose.

“You heard the song,” you say, voice low. “That’s enough.”

His eyes flick down to your lips. Then back up. He’s not smiling anymore.

“No,” Caleb whispers. “It’s not.”

You should have locked the damn drawer.

You don’t even know what made you check—but something prickled at the back of your neck the moment you stepped into your apartment. Like something sacred had been disturbed. And when you see the box in Caleb’s hands, your heart stops cold.

No. No.

His head lifts as the door shuts behind you.

And your world implodes.

He’s seated on your couch like he’s carved from stone, the soft golden lamp beside him casting long shadows across the muscles in his jaw and the heartbreak in his eyes.

He’s holding your soul in his hands.

The letters—dozens of them, hundreds, years of ink and agony and lust and grief—you recognize the crooked childhood handwriting, the shaky, angry teenage confessions, the flowing script of your adult longing. Pages of you. Laid bare.

Your breath catches. Your throat closes.

“I—That’s not—You weren’t supposed to—” Your voice cracks. Your knees are trembling.

Caleb stands, the box still in his grip. He looks wrecked.

“I read every single one,” he says softly.

“Put them away,” you whisper, voice hollow. “Please, just… put them away.”

“I can’t.”

You turn to bolt, pure instinct.

And that’s when gravity betrays you.

A weight presses against your body—not crushing, but firm, immovable, inescapable. His Evol.

Your hands fly to the walls, to the floor, anywhere to push back, but you’re floating. Held in place. Suspended in the moment you never wanted him to witness.

“Caleb—!”

“I need you to hear me,” he says, moving closer. Slowly. Carefully. Like approaching a wounded animal.

Your back hits the wall.

He stops just inches from you, eyes devouring every inch of your face. His expression is ravenous, pained, like he’s starving and terrified that the meal in front of him will vanish if he breathes too hard.

“I didn’t know,” he says, his voice ragged. “I never knew.”

You shake your head. “You weren’t supposed to.”

His hand lifts. Hovers near your cheek. “I’ve been walking around blind, thinking I lost you back then. But you never stopped… You loved me. You loved me so much it hurt.”

Tears gather hot and fast in your eyes. “Caleb—don’t—”

“And I was in love with you,” he breathes. “All this time I thought I was chasing someone else, but it was you. It was always you.”

You look away. “You didn’t want me. You wanted her. You chose her.”

“I didn’t choose anyone,” he growls. “I was a coward. I ran. I shut you out and let you carry all that alone. I thought I was protecting you.”

“You weren’t,” you whisper. “You were destroying me.”

The look in his eyes breaks something in you.

“I memorized your words,” he says quietly, his forehead leaning gently against yours. “Every line. Every wish. Every desperate, filthy, aching thing you wanted to say. I felt all of it. Like I was there with you, through every goddamn year I missed.”

You tremble, caught in his pull, aching with the need to believe—but terrified to let yourself fall.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” you whisper.

“I’m not asking you to,” he murmurs. “Not yet.”

His fingers trail lightly over your waist, your hip, anchoring you. The Gravity around you loosens just enough for your feet to touch the floor again, but you don’t move.

His mouth brushes against your temple.

“I just want to earn you. All of you. Like I should’ve from the start.”

You don’t kiss him.

But you don’t pull away either.

You can’t.

Because suddenly, you're not cold anymore.

You’re burning.

He stays.

Even when you tell him to leave—quietly, then louder, then with trembling fingers pressed to his chest like a warning—Caleb stays.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper, not meeting his eyes.

“I should’ve been here years ago,” he murmurs. “Don’t you get it? I’m not leaving again.”

You shove him.

He barely budges.

You shove him again.

This time, his hands catch your wrists mid-motion, fast, firm—calm.

You freeze. His skin is warm against yours, calloused where it should be gentle, familiar where it should feel foreign. Your pulse spikes in your throat.

“Let me go,” you say, breathless.

“No.”

Your breath hitches.

“No?” you echo.

His voice drops. “Not until you stop pretending you don’t want me to stay.”

You glare up at him, furious. “You think a few words and a couple of pretty promises erase everything?”

“No,” he says again. “But I’ll keep proving myself until they do.”

You twist out of his grip—nearly—before he suddenly pulls you in.

And for one terrible, brilliant second, your bodies align like they’ve been waiting for this moment your whole lives.

His eyes search yours.

And then, Caleb whispers, “Tell me to stop.”

You open your mouth.

But nothing comes out.

So he kisses you.

Not a soft, hesitant brush of lips.

It’s a claiming.

It’s all the years you spent alone, writing down your agony like confessions to a God who never answered. It’s every fantasy you denied yourself, every moment you watched him look at someone else and wished it were you. It's him—finally, truly, desperately—here.

Your fingers fist in his shirt like you’re angry, like you’re clinging to something you swore you’d never need again.

And when you break apart, gasping, forehead pressed to his, you say—

“I hate you.”

He smiles, soft and ruined. “I know.”

“I hate how much I wanted that.”

“I hope you did.”

“I’m still not making this easy.”

Caleb’s lips trail down your jaw, his voice a low rasp. “You’ve never made anything easy, sweetheart. That’s why you’re worth everything.”

And still—

Still, your heart trembles with the weight of old wounds, and you pull back just enough to see the truth in his eyes.

“You’ll have to fight for this,” you warn him.

His hand finds the back of your neck, possessive and reverent. “Then prepare to be relentlessly pursued.”

You never agreed to date him.

But apparently, Caleb’s taking “relentless pursuit” as a blood oath.

He shows up at your place the next morning with coffee—your actual order, down to the way you like the foam. He doesn’t say how he remembers. You don’t ask.

That night, he texts you at 2am.

Bastard: Thinking about that song you sang. Thinking about your lips too, but that’s not important (it is).

You throw your phone across the bed.

The next day, he’s waiting outside your building. Leaning against his hoverbike, all long legs and low-lidded eyes and that grin. You think he’s here for some kind of mission.

Nope.

Just here to take you to lunch.

“Don’t say this is a date,” you grumble.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, offering his hand. “But hold on tight anyway.”

You hate how your fingers slide into his like they belong there.

—

Caleb doesn’t just flirt. He weaponizes charm like he trained for it.

He gives you compliments with the kind of intensity that makes it hard to breathe.

“I love your voice. Especially when you don’t realize you’re humming.”

“You roll your eyes the same way you used to when I beat you in training. It’s kind of adorable.”

“You don’t have to pretend around me. I know what you sound like when you're honest. I miss that sound.”

He touches you too often. Hand brushing your lower back when he walks past. Fingers grazing yours when he hands you something. Sitting just a little too close on your couch, his thigh pressed against yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You hold strong—for a while.

Until he stays over one night, after watching some late-night sci-fi re-run and falling asleep on your couch like a smug golden retriever with abs.

You try to nudge him awake.

You fail.

Hard.

He catches your wrist in his sleep, pulls you down half-on top of him, murmurs your name like it’s a secret prayer, and buries his face in your neck.

You don’t sleep.

Your body is screaming.

But your heart?

It’s terrified.

—

When morning comes, you wake to him cooking in your kitchen like he belongs there, shirt half-unbuttoned, hair a mess, singing your song under his breath.

You freeze in the doorway.

He sees you.

And smiles.

Like you’re not the one who spent ten years hiding a love that almost broke you. Like he’s not here to crack it wide open.

“Morning, sweetheart,” Caleb says softly. “Stay.”

You almost do.

But you don’t.

Not yet.

You think you're doing a good job keeping him at bay.

You’re not.

Because Caleb is everywhere now.

He’s in your kitchen again, humming off-key as he steals bites from your cooking. He’s draped across your couch like it’s his favorite place in the world. He’s in the way he looks at you like you invented gravity, like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

You keep your walls up.

But he keeps coming.

Like he knows you’re lying every time you act unaffected.

—

One night, after a long mission and even longer silence, he shows up unannounced. Eyes shadowed. Mouth grim. Shoulders tense with something unspoken.

You open the door.

He doesn’t say a word—just walks past you, breath ragged.

You follow him into your living room. “Caleb?”

“I thought I lost you again,” he says, voice low.

Your stomach drops. “What?”

He turns to face you, and it’s like the air shifts. Thickens.

“I heard your name over the comms. Brief moment of static. No confirmation you made it out. Just radio silence.”

You cross your arms. “I made it out fine.”

“I didn’t know that,” he snaps. “And for a second, I thought—” He cuts himself off, jaw tight.

You exhale. “I’m used to people not checking in.”

“I’m not people.”

He stalks closer.

You step back.

He follows.

“I don’t care how many times you push me away. You don’t get to disappear on me.”

“And what am I supposed to do?” you throw back. “Pretend like none of this hurts? Like I didn’t bleed for you in silence for years while you played hero somewhere else?”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Your voice cracks. “Because I can’t let myself fall again, Caleb. Not if you're just gonna walk away when it gets hard.”

He grabs your wrist.

Not rough. Just certain.

“Look at me.”

You don’t.

So he tips your chin up with two fingers.

His eyes are burning.

“I am not going anywhere. I don't care how long it takes. You can scream, you can run, you can tell me you hate me. I’ll still be right here.”

“Why?” you whisper, eyes glossy. “Why now?”

“Because I’ve loved you longer than I even understood what that meant,” he breathes. “And I’m done pretending I don’t want every single part of you.”

His other hand slides to your waist, slow and reverent.

Your breath hitches.

You can feel his heartbeat through your palm. Fast. Desperate.

The heat between you is unbearable.

One tilt of your head and you’d be kissing him again.

You want to.

God, you ache to.

But instead, you whisper, “This changes nothing.”

He leans in, nose brushing yours.

“Wrong,” Caleb whispers, his voice rough with restraint. “It changes everything.”

But he doesn’t kiss you.

Not this time.

He lets you go.

And it’s infuriating—because now you want him even more.

The first thing you notice is the light—soft gold spilling through your curtains, catching on floating dust motes, warming the edges of the sheets tangled around your legs.

The second thing you notice is the heat.

Not the weather. Not the blanket.

Him.

Your breath stills.

Because Caleb’s wrapped around you like he owns you.

Which—he doesn’t.

He shouldn’t.

And yet here you are, cocooned in his arms, his entire body molded to yours like you were sculpted to fit him. Your head is pillowed on his chest, right over the steady, heavy thump of his heart. One of his hands is buried in your hair, fingers gently tangled, the other gripping your waist in a possessive clutch that hasn’t loosened even in sleep.

You remember falling asleep with your back to him.

You do not remember signing up for this full-body cuddle trap.

Then there's his thigh—wedged between your legs like it lives there.

Your cheeks burn.

“Okay,” you whisper to yourself. “Time to get out before you completely lose your mind.”

You try to slip away quietly.

You wiggle.

No movement.

You nudge his hand.

His grip tightens.

You try prying his fingers from your waist. It’s like wrestling a bear. A warm, unfairly smug bear.

You let out a frustrated sigh and attempt to roll away—but the second you shift, Caleb lets out a low, sleepy groan. His body shifts with yours, tightening the hold, his thigh sliding higher. His lips brush your neck, parting slightly—

And then he nibbles.

You whimper.

It betrays you instantly.

That quiet little sound. The one that escapes before you can swallow it.

Caleb hums. The vibrations rumble through his chest, into your cheek.

And then—

“Mm... morning,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and delicious.

You go still.

“Caleb,” you say, your voice a warning.

His lips find your pulse point. “You smell good,” he slurs, still half-asleep, tone thick with something dangerous.

His thigh rocks just slightly forward. Pressure, heat.

You squeak.

His arms tighten like steel bands.

He’s caging you in.

“C-Caleb, get off—this is—this is not appropriate!”

Another sleepy groan. His lips ghost along your jaw. “You’re so warm.”

Your brain short-circuits.

“You’re dreaming,” you say, trying desperately to breathe like a normal person. “This is a dream. You’re dreaming. Let me go.”

He chuckles—chuckles. A deep, lazy sound against your neck. “If I’m dreaming, I’m never waking up.”

Then his hips shift. Just barely.

But enough.

“Caleb!”

His eyes snap open.

You expect guilt.

What you get is heat.

Raw, focused, and dangerous.

He blinks once. Then twice. Then—

His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back. His nose brushes yours.

“I was trying to be good,” Caleb murmurs. “You have no idea how hard it’s been.”

You do, actually.

Because it’s been hell for you, too.

You’re seconds from giving in—completely, helplessly—when you shove at his chest with both hands and scramble out from beneath him.

You’re standing, heart racing, cheeks flushed, breathless.

Caleb just smirks from the bed, messy-haired and golden in the morning light. “What? You gonna pretend you didn’t enjoy that?”

You throw a pillow at his face.

“Out,” you snap.

He catches it effortlessly. “No breakfast first?”

You march to the door.

“Fine, fine. But next time?” He swings his legs over the edge and stands, gaze searing into yours. “You’ll beg me to stay.”

You slam the door in his face.

It doesn’t stop your knees from buckling.

It happens fast.

Too fast for logic. Too fast for the walls you’ve spent years constructing around your traitorous heart.

One moment you’re arguing—again. Another stupid quip from him, another reckless flirtation that turns your blood to fire. You’re trying to hold on to the last shred of distance between you, snapping something half-hearted and defensive—

And then Caleb moves.

He grabs your wrists, spinning you with dizzying ease, and slams them gently but firmly against the wall. Your back hits the cold surface. His body follows.

You gasp.

His eyes meet yours.

They are ravenous.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Caleb says, voice low, feral, shaking with restraint. “I can’t keep pretending I don’t want to devour you.”

Your breath catches.

And then he kisses you.

Hard.

Not sweet. Not tentative.

Possessive.

Like he’s claiming what was always his.

Your body jerks with the force of it, your wrists still caged in his hands above your head. You try to twist free—not to escape, but because it’s too much, all-consuming, desperate.

He doesn’t let you go.

He presses closer instead, chasing your mouth with his own, drinking in every gasp, every shuddering moan you try to swallow.

You break away for air—just for a second—and he follows, mouth trailing your jaw, nipping your throat, sucking a mark into the skin just below your ear.

“Caleb—” you manage, but it comes out a whimper.

His pelvis grinds into yours, deliberate and aching. The friction draws a strangled sound from your throat.

“Oh god—”

“That’s it,” he groans against your skin. “That sound. I’ve imagined it every night. Every. Damn. Night.”

His hands leave your wrists—only to slide down your arms, your sides, until they’re clutching your hips like he might fall apart if he lets go. He lifts you onto the wall, thigh pressing between your legs, grinding again.

Your fingers tangle in his shirt, yanking him closer even as your brain screams to stop this.

But your body?

Your body is already his.

“Tell me to stop,” Caleb breathes, forehead pressed to yours, chest heaving.

You don’t.

You can’t.

There’s no pretending anymore. No wall to hide behind.

Because the truth is—he touches you like a man starved, but worships you like you're divine.

His lips return to yours, slower this time but no less intense, and it feels like every missed moment, every unsent letter, every buried ache is burning through the kiss.

His self-control shatters.

And you let it.

Because there’s no going back now.

There’s a moment—barely a breath—after that kiss.

His forehead rests against yours, both of you panting like you’ve just clawed your way back from the edge of something too big to name.

Then he says your name.

Low.

Like a promise.

And then he moves.

Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, anchoring yourself to the only solid thing in the room—him. He lifts you with maddening ease, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other gripping your thigh so tight it borders on bruising. The kiss doesn't break—it deepens. Tongue sliding past your lips, breath and need mixing with no hesitation. He’s not asking anymore. He’s taking.

And you're letting him.

Because you’re tired of pretending you don’t want to be devoured.

He carries you, mouth never leaving yours, and slams the bedroom door shut with his foot. When your back hits the mattress, his body follows—pressing, claiming. His weight is heaven and fire, the grind of his hips against your core already making you tremble.

“You still gonna pretend you don’t want this?” he rasps, voice rough as gravel, dragging his nose along the curve of your throat.

Your only answer is a moan as you arch into him.

His hand slips beneath your shirt. Fingers splayed wide, reverent—like he needs to memorize the shape of you. He palms your breast through your bra, thumb flicking over the peak until you shudder. His mouth finds the skin just above your heart.

“Mine,” he growls, more to himself than you. “Always have been.”

He strips you slowly, deliberately—like he’s savoring every inch of newly exposed skin. His hands roam. His mouth follows. Down your neck, between your breasts, over your stomach, every inch worshipped like he’s repenting for all the years he stayed away.

When his fingers finally slip beneath your waistband, you gasp—your hips jerking up into his touch. He groans.

“So wet,” he mutters. “God, baby... how long have you needed this?”

You can’t speak.

Don’t even try.

Because his fingers know exactly where to press, where to circle, how to push you to the edge with maddening precision. It’s not just hunger—it’s intimacy, like he’s reading the language your body never learned to say out loud.

And when he finally takes you—when his body surges forward and fills you completely—it’s not just a snap of tension.

It’s a detonation.

You cry out, legs wrapped tight around his waist as he drives into you with smooth, powerful thrusts. His pace is brutal in the best way—controlled only by the desperation in his eyes and the grip of your nails digging into his back.

He kisses you through it.

Keeps whispering your name like a prayer he’s never going to stop saying.

And when you break—shattering beneath him, around him—he follows instantly. With a groan that sounds like surrender. Like salvation.

He collapses against you, breathless.

Sweat-slick and trembling.

But he doesn’t move.

Just holds you.

His arms like iron bands.

His face buried in your neck.

“This isn’t over,” he whispers against your skin. “I’m not letting you go now. Not ever.”

And you believe him.

For the first time, you really believe him.

You lost track of how long ago the sun set.

The air is heavy with heat and sweat, your skin slick against the sheets. You’re boneless, trembling, lips swollen from kisses too deep, too desperate. Every nerve is raw. Every breath you take shudders.

And Caleb?

Caleb is still going.

You're on your hands and knees now, your face buried in the pillows, eyes squeezed shut as he thrusts into you from behind—relentless, deep, so deep it feels like he’s touching places inside you no one ever dared.

Your moans have long since turned into wrecked sobs of pleasure, and yet—he doesn’t slow.

He only grips your hips harder, angling you just right, dragging a scream from your throat as he hits that perfect, devastating spot again and again.

“I can’t—Caleb, I can’t—” you cry out, arms shaking, your body trying to collapse beneath the weight of all the overstimulation.

But he’s not hearing you.

Or rather—he hears you, and it only spurs him on.

Your body starts to slip forward across the mattress, desperate to escape the flood of sensation. You try to crawl away on trembling limbs, instincts screaming for reprieve—

And then his hand shoots out, grabs your hips, and yanks you back flush against him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” His voice is dark silk, wrapped around steel. Each word punctuated by a thrust that makes your toes curl.

“I asked you a question, sweetheart.”

You sob into the sheets, too far gone for words.

He leans forward, chest pressed to your back, breath hot against your ear. “You’re not going anywhere.”

His hand slips beneath you, down between your legs, fingers finding your clit with merciless precision.

“Not when you’re this wet. This messy. This mine.”

You scream.

The orgasm crashes through you without warning—your entire body seizing, writhing in his hold as the pleasure tears through you like a storm. You think that has to be the end, that your body can’t possibly handle any more.

But Caleb’s not done.

Not even close.

He stays deep inside, rolling his hips slowly, dragging out every aftershock until you're sobbing from the sensitivity. Your arms give out. You collapse onto your stomach, body limp, broken open from the inside.

And he follows—grinding into you again, pressing deep and staying there, his weight pinning you down, his mouth against your neck.

“I’ve waited too long for this,” he murmurs, voice raw with emotion. “Years. Dreams. Fantasies. You don’t get to run now.”

Your heart stutters.

You’re overwhelmed.

You’re aching.

You’ve never felt more wanted.

And still—his hips move again.

You whimper. “Caleb—please—”

He kisses your shoulder. “One more, baby. Just one more.”

You know he’s lying.

And you let him.

Because the truth is—you’ve always wanted this, too.

Even if it leaves you utterly, completely undone.

You're floating.

Barely conscious, held together by the fragile thread of Caleb’s body wrapped around yours, his breath a soft rhythm against your neck.

Your limbs are jelly. Your thighs ache. Your lips are kiss-bitten and bruised, and your core is so sensitive that every inch of you shivers when he so much as adjusts beside you.

And yet—even now, even after hours—he won’t stop touching.

Not in the same feral, frantic way as before. No. Now it’s worship.

He kisses the curve of your shoulder, the back of your neck, your spine. His fingertips trace lazy, possessive patterns into your hips. He murmurs things—some unintelligible, some far too intimate.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers against your skin.

“I missed you.”

“I’ll never let you go again.”

You’re too tired to reply. Your voice is hoarse from screaming, from moaning his name over and over, but your heart responds like a bell rung too hard. It throbs.

Eventually, he gets up—only to return with a warm towel, water, a fresh shirt. He tends to you with gentle hands, murmuring apologies each time you flinch from how sensitive you are, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your temple, your knuckles.

When he finally slides into the shower with you, your body instinctively leans into his. The water is hot, soothing, washing away the sweat, the stickiness, the evidence of your complete and total unraveling.

But not the ache. Not the possessiveness.

He sits on the tiled bench and pulls you into his lap, your legs straddling him, head tucked under his chin. You’re exhausted, wrecked—and he’s still hard beneath you.

You give him a look that’s half horror, half disbelief.

He smirks, eyes dark and gleaming. “I told you, I’m not finished.”

“Caleb—”

“I owe you,” he says, voice dipping low. “For every year I didn’t touch you. For every time you cried over me in silence. For every word in those letters I should’ve read sooner.”

Your breath hitches.

And then his lips descend again—slow, tender, reverent. As if he’s trying to memorize this version of you, water-slicked and trembling in his arms, yours at last.

Back in bed, you collapse into his chest, body boneless, heart hammering.

And just when you think he’s finally done—

He shifts again.

Rolls you beneath him.

“You’re not going to let me sleep?” you rasp.

His fingers trail down your body, between your thighs, making you jolt.

“No,” he breathes against your ear. “You’re not sleeping until I’ve claimed every inch of you. Until you can’t think of anything but me.”

You should tell him to stop.

You don’t.

Because the truth is: every part of you belongs to him already.

And now?

He’s going to make sure you never forget it.

The morning after feels… dangerous.

Not because you’re in any real peril—but because it’s blissfully quiet, and the man who wrecked you within an inch of your life is humming softly in your kitchen, shirtless, wearing nothing but sweatpants slung far too low on his hips, looking like the devil himself in domestic drag.

You barely make it through the doorway, each step a careful negotiation with gravity and sore muscles. Your thighs ache. Your back aches. Everything aches. But the moment Caleb glances over his shoulder and smirks at your limp?

Oh, you want to punch him.

Or kiss him.

Or both.

“You’re up,” he says, voice as smug as the day is long.

“I tried to stay asleep,” you deadpan. “But someone kept me up all night.”

He chuckles—low and wicked—and sets a mug of coffee on the counter for you.

“Consider it payback.”

You squint at him. “For what?”

His eyes drop to your hips, the curve of your throat, the faint marks blooming on your skin like war medals.

“For every letter you wrote and never gave me.”

Your stomach drops.

The mug clatters slightly when you set it down too fast.

You’d almost forgotten. Almost managed to push aside the mortifying knowledge that he read everything.

And yet, here he is—utterly unbothered, possibly turned on, casually flipping pancakes like he didn’t spend the night wrecking you with the very fantasies you'd penned in lonely bedrooms and late-night heartbreak.

“You read them all,” you say, not quite a question.

He looks at you over his shoulder. “Memorized. Studied. Jer—”

“Do not finish that sentence, Caleb.”

He only grins wider.

You try to be casual, sip your coffee, lean against the wall like you’re not reliving every desperate, depraved word he’s now got locked and loaded in that beautiful head of his. But he’s already watching you too closely. Reading you like one of those letters.

“There's one you missed,” you murmur before you can stop yourself.

He freezes.

Slowly, slowly, he turns. “Where?”

You bite your lip.

“The drawer by my bed. Bottom one.”

He’s gone before you even blink.

The pancakes are burning.

And your heart is pounding.

By the time you stumble after him, he’s already sitting on the bed, letter in hand. It’s the last one. The one you wrote when you thought you’d never see him again. It was raw, feral— filled with longing so thick it could drown you.

He reads it silently. His jaw tightens. His Adam’s apple bobs hard.

When he finishes, he just looks at you.

You’re not sure what you expect.

But you do not expect him to throw the letter down and stand up like that.

“I’m going to ruin you again,” he says, voice low. “And this time, it won’t stop until you beg me to believe you’re mine.”

Your knees buckle.

But he’s already crossing the room.

“Run,” he commands, voice low, raw, as his fingers trace the curve of your jaw. “Run from me.”

You blink, confused for a moment, but then the hunger in his gaze makes your heart stutter. He’s not asking. He’s daring you.

And you’re the last person who can resist a challenge.

So you do.

You turn, heart pounding in your chest, and sprint out of the room, the sound of his footsteps following close behind you like a predator in pursuit.

You think you have a head start, but no. You’ve never seen Caleb move like this. He’s on you in seconds, and just when you think you can escape into the hallway, he catches your wrist, yanking you back, pulling you into his chest with a growl.

“You thought you could outrun me?” he snarls against your ear, his breath hot, his body pressed up against yours like a solid wall.

“Caleb—” you manage to gasp out, but before you can even finish the word, he’s lifting you effortlessly, throwing you onto the nearest surface—the kitchen counter.

You barely have time to brace yourself as he dives in. His hands are everywhere—on your hips, your waist, your thighs, your breasts—and all of it is a blur of sensation that leaves you breathless, exposed, desperate.

He thrusts hard, deep, as if trying to bury himself in you—like he’s trying to carve a piece of himself into your soul.

“No more running,” he growls. “You’re mine now. Forever mine.”

You cry out, body rocking forward with every savage thrust. His grip on you doesn’t falter. His hips slam into you with a force that makes your breath catch in your throat. There’s no gentleness now. No tenderness. Just pure, unrelenting desire.

“Tell me you want me, baby. Tell me you want it as much as I do.”

You can’t form words. You’re too lost, too gone, caught between the pleasure and the pain of it all. But your body tells him everything he needs to know.

His hands slide down to your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh, pulling you back to meet him with each thrust.

“Good girl,” he growls, voice thick with satisfaction. “So fucking good for me.”

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. He’s relentless. He’s savage. He’s ruining you in the best way possible.

And you don’t even want him to stop.

But then, like a switch flipping in his mind, he pulls away—just enough to let you breathe, to let you feel the cool air between you.

You take a shaky breath, your body screaming for release. And then he looks at you, eyes dark, glinting with something feral, something possessive.

“I should have known,” he mutters, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, “you liked being chased.”

His hands slide down, gripping your thighs, pushing you back against the counter until you’re arching helplessly into him, your legs spread wide.

“You always did,” he adds, voice dripping with satisfaction, “even as a kid. Remember all those games of tag?”

You remember.

And you remember how he’d always let you win—just enough—before pulling you back into his arms with that sly smile of his, the one that made your heart race and your stomach flip.

But now?

Now there’s no escape.

Now, his hands are all over you, claiming you again and again. You scream in pleasure, your body trembling under the weight of it all. His thrusts are punishing, but you can’t find it in yourself to care.

“You think I’m done with you?” Caleb mutters, bending over you, his lips brushing your ear as he thrusts deeper, harder. “You’re wrong.”

You can barely comprehend what he’s saying, too caught up in the endless spiral of pleasure and pain, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t need you to understand.

He’s not finished with you. Not by a long shot.

You try to push him away, but he’s too strong, too determined, too hungry. The game has shifted. Now it’s a battle of wills, and you’re not sure you want to win.

With a primal groan, he pulls you back against him, his hands digging into your waist, his mouth trailing hot kisses down your neck as he takes you again—slamming into you with an unholy force that leaves you gasping for air.

You don’t stand a chance.

You think you can catch your breath. You think you can stop. But Caleb’s dark eyes—burning, unwavering—look down at you, and you know, with every fiber of your being, that there’s no going back. Not now. Not ever.

You try to squirm, to move away, but every time you think you can escape, his hands are there—pinning you down, forcing you to stay, to take him, to let him claim you in ways no one else can. The harder you struggle, the more determined he becomes.

“You’re not getting away from me,” he growls in your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “I’m going to break you down until all you know is me. Until your body belongs to me. Forever.”

You can’t think. You can’t breathe. All you can feel is him—every inch of him buried inside you, his hips driving into you with an unforgiving rhythm. Your legs tremble, your breath coming in ragged gasps, your body completely surrendered to him.

He’s relentless. He moves faster, harder, deeper, and you can’t do anything but cling to him, feel the electricity of every touch, every kiss, every mark he leaves on you. The room is filled with the sound of skin on skin, the sharp inhale of breath, the frantic rush of your heart.

And through it all, Caleb’s eyes never leave you. He watches you as though you’re the only thing that matters—his gaze filled with something fierce, something possessive, something dangerous.

He groans, his voice low and hoarse. “I’ve wanted you like this for so long. All this time, I knew what I was missing. I knew you were mine.”

Your heart skips a beat, the rawness in his voice making your chest tighten. His hands move down to your hips, pulling you against him, forcing you to take him even deeper. You can’t escape, can’t move away from him, no matter how much you want to. The pressure inside you builds—relentless, unbearable.

“Say it,” he demands, his voice like a growl. “Tell me you’re mine.”

You open your mouth, but no words come out. Instead, you let your body speak for you—clinging to him, arching into him, begging for more in every breath you take.

His grip tightens around you. He shifts, changing the angle, and a fresh wave of pleasure crashes over you. You gasp, unable to stop yourself from crying out in ecstasy.

“You can’t hide from me anymore,” he growls. “You’re mine. And I’ll make sure you know it every time.”

And then—just when you think you can’t take anymore—Caleb pulls you into him, his lips capturing yours in a kiss so deep, so desperate, that you can’t help but melt into it. His tongue invades your mouth, and you meet him with equal fervor, your hands grasping at his shoulders, your body pressed tightly against his.

“Tell me you need me,” he murmurs between kisses, his voice low, demanding, and so fucking sexy. “Tell me you want me. That you’re mine.”

You do.

You say it, breathlessly, barely able to hold on.

“Yes, Caleb,” you whisper. “I’m yours.”

His eyes darken even further, a vicious smile curling on his lips. And then, with one final, savage thrust, he brings you to the edge of oblivion—breaking you completely.

You scream his name as the world shatters around you, your body wracked with pleasure, your mind consumed by the sensation of him inside you.

But Caleb isn’t finished. Not yet.

He pulls out, watches you with a wicked grin, and without a second’s hesitation, flips you over, his grip tight on your waist as he positions you again—harder this time, faster, deeper.

“You’ll never escape me,” he murmurs against your neck as he takes you again, the primal, savage rhythm pushing you to the brink.

And the only thing you can do is let go.

Let him consume you. Let him claim you. Let him ruin you completely.

6K notes · View notes

pipszhou · 3 months ago

Text

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛'𝐬 𝐩𝐞𝐭

✧ — synopsis: Top of the class? Not for long. All it took was one lecture, one remote-controlled vibrator, and Professor Caleb’s merciless control to turn you into a shaking, dripping mess. And when he calls you up to the chalkboard, you learn the real curriculum: obedience, humiliation, and being bred full by your favorite professor.

✧ — pairing: caleb x mc

✧ — wc: ~2.5k

✧ — tags: professor caleb, semi-public sex, vibrators, humiliation, degradation, subspace, sexual overstimulation, creampie, breeding, power imbalance, dom/sub, rough sex, size kink, dirty talk, cock warming, spanking, hair-pulling, biting, marking, possessive behavior, multiple orgasms, orgasm control, begging, soft aftercare, classroom sex, pet names

✧ — notes: hello hello again i'm really horny so i wrote this within a day. not beta read, i hope you enjoy my horny endeavors! i just need more power imbalance lmao

You’re in a predicament.

The top student of the entire university—the pride of the campus—yet here you are, sitting at the back of the lecture hall with your thighs pressed tightly together, your nails digging into the edges of your seat. Your brows furrow, delicate lines forming between your temples as you bite down hard on your bottom lip, desperately trying to smother the whimpers threatening to spill out.

Because nestled deep inside you, hidden from the world, is a merciless vibrator—thick, hot, and unforgiving—pounding into your dripping cunt with devastating precision. Each thrust stretches you open wide, the fat head grinding against every desperate, soaked spot inside you. The toy doesn't just vibrate; it fucks into you, grinding in deep, twisting and pulsing like a real cock seeking to wreck you completely. Your walls flutter helplessly around it, clenching and spasming in pathetic pleasure.

As if that wasn’t enough, a suction toy clamps tightly onto your swollen clit, tugging and slurping with obscene, wet noises, like it's trying to suck your soul straight out through your trembling folds. Every pull sends white-hot sparks through your body, every pulse making you jolt and tremble.

All because of him.

Professor Caleb. Your childhood friend. Your Gege. Now the most sought-after artificial intelligence lecturer on campus—the heartthrob every girl wanted. And the man who had no mercy for you.

This was his game. His twisted, cruel judgment: could you endure, maintain your perfect, untouchable image... while the toy he prepared tore you apart from the inside out?

Or would you crack, humiliate yourself by running to the bathroom to finger yourself raw like a desperate little thing?

You refused to lose.

Your pride was too fierce.

Your stubbornness, too stupid.

So you stayed in your seat, trembling, thighs sticky and slick, grinding ever so slightly against the chair in a desperate bid for relief. Hands clamped over your mouth, you prayed no one would hear the faint, wicked buzzing between your legs. You clenched, you gasped, you endured.

Until the voice you dreaded most called out, slicing through your fragile composure like a blade.

"Class number 13," Caleb said smoothly, his voice sending shivers down your spine. "Please come up and solve the problem. What is the predicted value output of this activation layer in the full network?"

Oh gods.

Oh fuck.

Your heart plummeted. Your body spasmed around the merciless toy, gushing helplessly. Your mind—blank, so utterly blank, filled only with the overwhelming feeling of being stuffed full and sucked dry.

You hadn’t heard a single word of the lecture.

But you had a reputation to keep. The golden girl. The untouchable ace.

You forced yourself to rise, your nails digging into the table so hard they threatened to break. You took slow, shaky breaths, fighting to control the feverish pulse hammering through you. Your legs trembled as you stepped out into the aisle, every eye in the room burning into your skin, every step feeling like a mile-long walk of shame.

You reached the front—and there he was. Professor Caleb. Eyes dark with amusement. Smirk hidden behind the respectable façade.

He handed you the chalk. His fingers brushed yours—and in that exact moment, you caught it: the glint of the remote tucked in his palm.

A flick of his thumb.

The vibrator inside you roared to life, surging to its highest setting, brutal and relentless. It slammed into you, the fat shaft pistoning deep, hammering your g-spot, dragging moans up your throat you barely swallowed down. The toy twisted with each brutal thrust, the head grinding against your sweetest spots, almost lovingly cruel in how it refused to let you breathe.

The suction on your clit tightened too, a filthy, slurping rhythm pulling at you in time with each thrust inside—as if the toy was fucking and drinking you at once, milking you dry.

Your knees buckled slightly. You caught yourself against the chalkboard.

You could feel it.

The thick, pulsing length of the toy stuffing you full, stretching your cunt to its limits, buzzing violently against your spasming walls. Your panties were drenched, your thighs glistening. Your dignity, seconds away from shattering.

And yet you had to solve the equation.

In front of the entire class.

Under his watchful, merciless gaze.

The chalk trembled in your hand. He leaned in close, voice a low purr only you could hear. "Go on, top student," Caleb murmured, dark and wicked against your ear.

"Show me how well you can think… while getting fucked dumb.”

Fuck—a moan slipped past your lips before you could catch it. You wanted to curse the existence out of him. You wanted to tear him apart with words, call him the cruelest bastard alive. But all you could do was look at him—eyes burning with dark, venomous vengeance, even as your body betrayed you with heavy, panting breaths and soft, pathetic whimpers.

You tried—you really fucking tried—to walk your mind through every algorithm, every neural network formula you’d memorized so well. You tried to scribble something on the chalkboard, your hand trembling. But it was useless. Your writing was a mess of illegible lines, nonsense formulas no one could make sense of, the chalk crumbling and snapping in your tight, desperate grip.

Then you heard it— the low, rich sound of his chuckle. Amused. Entertained. Savoring your unraveling.

With a lazy flick of his thumb against the remote, he cranked the suction to maximum.

The effect was immediate. Your entire body convulsed, a helpless jolt of pleasure rippling up your spine. The suction on your clit was savage, unrelenting—greedy little pulls that sent wave after wave crashing through your gut, making your vision blur with stars.

Fuck, you were so close. So fucking close.

You slapped a trembling palm against the chalkboard to steady yourself. The chalk clattered to the floor with a hollow thud as your fingers lost their grip. Your knees buckled, barely holding you up as your hips gave a desperate, involuntary twitch.

Inside you, the thick vibrator kept thrusting deep—the textured veins along its shaft dragging against your slick walls with every ruthless stroke, the fat, rounded head grinding mercilessly against your sensitive cervix. It was maddening—perfect—too good. Every thrust knocked the air from your lungs, every pulse made your cunt flutter helplessly, greedy for more.

The suction was obscene, slurping at your clit so loudly you were sure someone, anyone, could hear. Humiliation and raw, brain-melting pleasure tangled inside you, choking you.

Then—his hand.

You felt it. Large, warm, strong fingers gripping your shoulder tightly.

You barely registered him leaning down, his breath hot against the shell of your ear, his voice a low, sinful growl meant for you alone.

"Fuck, baby," Caleb rasped, the words sending a violent shudder through your entire body.

"Why don't you just give up—let go—and I'll fill you up with my babies later, hm? Breed you nice and full right here…"

That was it.

The last straw.

You came—hard. Your body seized violently, every muscle locking tight as the orgasm tore through you, raw and merciless. Slick gushed down your thighs, soaking through your panties, dripping onto the floor. You bit down on your own hand to muffle the loud, broken moan that ripped free from your throat.

You shattered under him, completely undone, just as he wanted.

You heard it—the low, scandalous murmurs rippling across the room. The students whispering, stealing glances at the obscene sight before them. You, gasping for air, your knees buckling under you, while Professor Caleb—the campus heartthrob—stood so close you could taste his cologne, feel the heat of him against your trembling skin.

Then he stood upright, rolling his shoulders lazily like nothing was wrong. Like you weren’t falling apart on the floor.

"Alright, folks. Class dismissed," he said, mock sympathy dripping from his voice. "I'll take care of our top student here. She must be feeling a little... overwhelmed."

He winked—a cruel, knowing thing that made your blood boil.

"Come back next week with the answers to the problem on the board."

Students scurried out, throwing lingering stares your way, none brave enough to question him.

None knowing just how soaked you were—how the vibrator still pounded inside you, thrusting, suctioning, working your overstimulated folds mercilessly. The cum from earlier leaking out, wetting your thighs shamefully.

Once the last student left, Caleb locked the door with a click. He turned, his steps slow and deliberate as he stalked toward you. He grabbed your arm and pulled you up, no patience left in him.

"Stand up, Pip-squeak," he said, his professor mask fully dropped, replaced by something darker, filthier. "I’ll make it fast for you."

You nodded, helpless. Your legs felt like jelly, your cunt still clenching pathetically around the toy buried deep inside. With his steadying hand, you stumbled upright.

He guided you to his seat—the throne at the front of the room—and sat back lazily, spreading his legs in a welcoming posture.

"Strip, baby," he ordered, voice thick with lust. "I wanna see every curve hiding under that tight little shirt and short skirt you wore, thinking you could tease me."

You glared at him, breathing heavy. God, you hated him. You hated how hot he made you. How wet you got just from the sound of his voice.

"Chop chop," he said, tapping his jaw with his fingers smugly. "Or do you want me to rip it off you instead? I won't be gentle, Pips."

You cursed under your breath but obeyed—gripping the hem of your tank top, peeling it over your head slowly, exposing trembling skin. Your skirt pooled down your legs with a soft whisper, leaving you utterly bare, nothing left to hide.

"What now, Caleb?" you asked, your voice small, shivering slightly.

"Good girl," he murmured, unzipping his fancy linen pants with one smooth motion. His thick, heavy cock sprung free—long, veined, angry red at the tip, leaking pre-cum like he couldn't wait to ruin you again.

The same cock that had broken you a hundred times before.

The same cock you dreamed about, drooled over, worshiped like it was your personal god.

"Sit on me," he said. "You know the drill."

You let out a shaky breath, heart pounding in your ears. No matter how much you wanted to slap him for being an asshole—you wanted him more.

You were his cocksleeve, after all. His needy little thing.

You climbed onto his lap, one trembling hand gripping his collarbone for balance. The other reached down between your legs, pulling the soaked, buzzing vibrator out of your stretched hole and tossing it somewhere carelessly.

Lining him up, you sank down. It was like the first time all over again.

His cock was thicker than anything, harder, hotter—stretching your walls until they clamped around him desperately. Every vein of him dragged along your sensitive insides perfectly, the fat head of his cock pushing into your cervix with sinful precision. He filled you up like he was made for you—like he owned every inch of your tight, ruined cunt.

He was your naughty professor.

Your filthy god.

Your damnation and your salvation wrapped in one devastating man.

You started moving—bouncing weakly, trying to ride him the way he liked, but your legs were too shaky, too spent from the relentless overstimulation. You whimpered, grinding pathetically against him, barely able to lift yourself.

"Oh, baby," he cooed mockingly, hands resting heavy on your ass. "Is that all you got? After coming so pretty in front of the whole class?"

He slapped your ass hard enough to make you squeal, then soothed it with a rough grope, making you rock harder against him.

You tried to look away, humiliated, but his dark gaze pinned you in place—all-consuming. Inescapable.

"Shut up, Caleb," you snarled weakly. "Shut the fuck up—I—"

He gripped your hair tight, yanking your head back roughly. A broken cry escaped you, your back arching, pressing your tits flush against his chest.

"You don't get to order me around, baby," he growled, voice pure sin against your ear. He bit down on your neck, hard enough to bruise, suckling dark purple marks into your skin like a man possessed.

"You're mine, Pip-squeak. My perfect little whore."

Your mind spun. Your body shook. You fell deeper into subspace—weightless, aching, desperate for him. He toyed with you, slapping your ass, groping your tits, biting your throat, until you were a trembling mess in his lap.

"Need help, my lovely top student?" he whispered against your ear, voice thick with cruel affection. You nodded frantically, tears clinging to your lashes, your body begging.

He chuckled low and deep—"could’ve said so sooner, Pips."

Then he took control. His hands grabbed your waist, slamming you down onto his cock with brutal, merciless thrusts. Each movement drove him impossibly deep, splitting you open, pounding against your g-spot so viciously that your cries turned into strangled, high-pitched sobs.

You dug your nails into his back, leaving angry red trails down his spine. You wanted to brand him. You wanted him to remember how you fell apart on his cock.

The lecture hall echoed with the wet, filthy slap of skin on skin—your cries, his low groans, the obscene, squelching sound of your cunt sucking him in greedily. "Keep it down, baby," he mocked, voice a rumble in your chest. "Others might hear you begging to be bred."

Fuck him.

Fuck him so much.

But you were too far gone. Your second orgasm built fast, violent, white-hot, ripping through you with every devastating thrust. You couldn’t hold back—your body convulsed, your cunt squeezing him desperately, trying to milk every drop from him.

And he was close too. You could hear it in his ragged breaths, feel it in the way his thrusts became rougher, erratic.

"Baby," he moaned brokenly, forehead pressed against yours, "I’m gonna come—open up, please—"

You did—your walls clamping down, your legs shaking, your mind blank as you came undone together. He spilled inside you with a low, desperate groan—thick, endless spurts of cum flooding your sore, twitching cunt. You could feel every hot, filthy drop filling you, leaking out, dripping down your thighs in thick, sticky trails.

You collapsed against him, shaking, gasping, his cock still buried deep inside your pulsing heat. His arms wrapped around you tight, possessive, like he was afraid you might slip away.

"Mine," he murmured against your hair, voice rough and spent. "Always mine, Pip-squeak."

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

You stayed there—your body convulsing in little aftershocks, your pussy throbbing around him like it was the end of the world. He held you close, a suffocating, trembling embrace, like he needed to feel you breathing against him just to stay sane.

Even after the humiliation he put you through—after the teasing, the breaking, the claiming—you still loved him just the same. Your Gege. Your professor. Your ruin. Your home.

"Meet me after your classes end," he rasped, his temple resting against your bare shoulder, his cock still buried deep inside you. "Five p.m. sharp. As usual."

You nodded weakly, knowing full well—

You weren’t going to make it home in one piece.

#caleb #love and deepspace #lads smut #caleb x reader #lads #caleb smut #caleb x mc #love and deepspace caleb #professor caleb #power imbalance

2K notes · View notes

pipszhou · 3 months ago

Text

𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

✧ — synopsis: She came to the confessional to cleanse her soul—confessing every filthy thought she’s ever had about the priest she was never supposed to love.

But Reverend Caleb doesn't forgive. He claims. “Don’t you see?” he said, voice now just above a whisper. “Your sin… was never in thinking of me.” His next words were slower, darker, rich with promise.

“Your sin was in not letting me have you.”

✧ — pairing: caleb x mc

✧ — wc: ~11k

✧ — warnings: religious imagery and symbolism, cunnilingus, semi-public sex, confessional, choking, loss of virginity, virginity, first time, biting, licking, altar sex, breeding, power imbalance, submission, dom/sub, spanking, degradation, pet names, worship, praise kink, sexual overstimulation, multiple orgasms, marking, improper use of a rosary, forbidden love, possessive behavior, dubious morality, obsession, jealousy, slow burn, blasphemy, plot what plot/porn without plot, marriage, begging, caleb fulfilling his prophecy to marry mc

✧ — notes: just priest!caleb fucking and breeding mc on the altar after she confessed her sins—wanting her soul cleansed by him. a thought i had days before easter that made me write this gigantic nasty porn without plot oneshot. i hope u enjoyed the wild sinful ride with me <3

The confessional. It is tonight.

The rain taps gently against the cathedral roof—soft, persistent, like fingertips brushing glass. You step through the heavy doors, and the world behind you vanishes into silence.

Inside, the air is cold, tinged with centuries. It smells of beeswax and incense, like time sealed in amber. Faint smoke still lingers in the rafters, curling toward the arched ceiling like the breath of ghosts.

The hush is deep. Not empty, but full—of prayers, of echoes, of things unsaid. Each of your steps sinks into the silence like a secret. The floor, made of cool, polished stone, reflects the colored light that streams in through the stained glass.

Crimson, cobalt, and gold spill across the nave, painting your skin in fragments of saints and sacrifice. The windows tower above, depicting stories of martyrdom and mercy, their faces staring down with solemn, eternal knowing. You’ve known these windows your whole life. And yet now they seem to burn with judgment.

The pews stretch in rows to either side of you, carved from pale oak and worn soft by devotion. Between them rest narrow stands—each one holding hymnals and Bibles with curled edges, opened and closed by countless trembling hands. A rosary is draped over one, forgotten or perhaps left as penance.

Your dress brushes against your legs as you walk, each step careful, deliberate. The candlelight flickers in alcoves along the walls, casting long shadows that sway and watch. They seem to move with you. Or maybe ahead of you.

You walk past the baptismal font where you were once cradled in holy water. Past the wooden doors of the confessional, their slatted windows dark and closed like eyes half-lidded in sleep. You avoid looking at them. You’re not ready for that part yet.

Your breath trembles as you near the altar.

He is already there.

A figure cloaked in black, bowed in prayer, unmoving. The flickering light outlines his silhouette in gold. The dark fabric clings to his shoulders, heavy with devotion and restraint. His hands are clasped. His lips move, just barely. You cannot hear the words—but you feel them, somehow.

You hesitate. Then step forward.

Your shoes make the faintest creak against the steps, swallowed quickly by the vaulted stillness. Each movement feels too loud. Too alive.

You lower yourself into a bow before the great wooden cross, your gaze falling on the carved figure of Christ. The crown of thorns. The ribs etched in wood. The face turned slightly, as though even He cannot look at you.

You climb the short steps, one at a time. Then kneel on the stair just beneath him—close, but not enough to touch. Not yet.

Your hands rise into a prayer clasp. You bow your head.

But your thoughts are not clean.

Your lashes lower, and all you can feel is the warmth of his presence just above you. The gravity of him. The silence between you vibrating like a held breath.

You are here to confess.

But something in you already knows:

You will not leave absolved.

“Your Reverence,” your voice broke through the silence like a crack in stained glass.

Instantly, it felt as though the very walls had turned against you—thorns blooming from the stone, pricking your skin for daring to disturb his prayer. The altar seemed to hum with disapproval.

He didn’t answer. Not at first.

But then—he breathed in sharply, like he’d been struck. And from his lips came a soft, warning hush, as if silencing you was the only way to silence himself. It was soft, but it sank into your skin like warm wine.

It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t kind. It echoed like a warning, but it settled deep in your chest, stirring a part of you that had been asleep for too long. It had been years since you last saw him. And even now, kneeling behind him, you recognized him instantly.

He hadn’t changed, not really. Not where it mattered.

Still in prayer, his posture remained perfect—back straight, hands folded, head slightly bowed. His hair was a shade darker now, but it gleamed under the moonlight pouring through the stained glass above. Silky. Soft. Untouched. His side profile had sharpened with age—more defined, more elegant—but it was still the face you once memorized during slow, stolen moments in the university library.

He was still everything you ever wanted.

And yet, now he was untouchable. A man of God. A priest.

“Forgive me, Father,” you murmured, your voice softer now, almost lost in the candlelight. “I didn't mean to interrupt your prayers… it’s my time for confession.”

For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t move.

But then—he rose.

Slow, steady, deliberate. The robes fell from his frame like shadows peeling off stone. His back now fully faced you, cloaking your vision in silhouette. Then, he turned slightly, just enough for his voice to reach you.

“Pips,” he said.

The nickname curled from his lips like a benediction. His mouth tilted into a smile.

That smile.

The one that once warmed a life too cold to bear. The one that made children feel safe, and girls fall in love, and you believe in things again. It hadn’t changed. It was still soft, still unbearably kind, still threaded with a mischief only you ever saw. It was the smile that belonged to the boy who carried your books and dried your tears. The boy who once told you heaven must’ve dropped you off early.

It was a smile that made you want to fall to your knees—not to pray, but to beg for things no prayer could grant.

You shouldn’t feel this. Romancing a priest is pure sin.

…Or is it?

“Come with me,” he said.

His hand reached out—hesitant, trembling slightly at the fingertips—but before your skin could meet, he pulled it back. The air between you folded with tension.

He wasn’t yours anymore.

Once, he was your childhood friend. Once, he was the boy you loved in secret.

Now, he was the Father of a church beloved by all. A holy man. A savior to many.

And yet still—still—the one who saved you first.

You rose slowly, your hands brushing against the fabric of your dress as you stood. Then, without a word, you descended the altar steps, footsteps hushed and reverent as you followed him toward the confessional.

He led you down the side aisle, the folds of his black cassock brushing softly with each step, echoing beside your own. The flickering candlelight followed in your wake, illuminating the worn stone and the stillness that draped the pews like sleep.

Neither of you spoke.

You passed by statues of saints, their faces carved in stone serenity, gazes heavy with judgment—or perhaps sorrow. The rain outside still murmured, its rhythm softer now, like a hymn sung just for the two of you.

Then, he stopped.

The confessional stood at the edge of the transept, tucked between columns like a secret waiting to be told. Its doors were carved from dark wood, heavy and timeworn, the surface etched with crosses faded by decades of penance.

He gestured toward the booth.

You entered one side in silence. The door creaked open, then shut with a soft click, sealing you in. The space was small, cloaked in shadows. The only light came through the ornate lattice screen before you—thin and golden, like threads of heaven stitched between you and him.

You knelt.

The bench beneath you groaned faintly as you settled, hands trembling in your lap. You could hear the rustle of his robes on the other side. He hadn’t spoken yet, but his presence filled the air between the walls. You could almost feel his breath through the wood.

The screen kept you from seeing him fully—only the faint outline of his silhouette, only the curve of his mouth if he leaned close enough.

A moment passed.

Then, finally—

“Speak, my child,” he said, the low timbre of his voice threading through the wooden screen and settling deep in your chest. It vibrated somewhere beneath your ribs, making your heart thump faster than you wished it would.

You tried to gather your thoughts, but they scattered like fragile petals underfoot. The silence in the confessional felt dense, heavy, sacred. His breath—steady and measured—was too loud in this small space, brushing the air between you like a secret. You clutched your hands together, but the prayer clasp trembled and fell apart. The cold inside the booth made your skin feel sensitive, hypersensitive—each breath prickled your arms, each moment stretched like a string pulled too tight.

“Forgive me, Reverend,” you whispered, your voice barely holding. “I’ve been having thoughts.” You faltered, swallowing the guilt rising in your throat. “I’ve tried to cast them out. I swear I have, but…” Your words drifted, as though even saying them was dangerous. Shame coiled around your spine, pressing down.

The silence stretched too long. Just when you thought he might break it, you saw the shape of his mouth shift behind the lattice—slightly open, as if to speak, then hesitating.

“Who is this man,” he asked gently, “if I may ask?”

His voice was soft, but it cut through you like confession itself. You flinched, not from the sound but from what it demanded. You weren’t sure if it was his question or the holiness of the place that made your heart ache more. You felt like the walls could hear you, like the carved saints above the booth leaned in to listen.

You hesitated. A war raged in your chest—between what you should say and what you couldn’t keep hidden any longer. You hadn’t even spoken the truth aloud before. It had always been a private torment. A quiet ache that you carried like a cross. But now, with him just on the other side, with the sacred wood between you, the lie refused to hold.

“They’ve always been about you.”

And with that, it was done. The sin you had carried silently, the one you buried beneath forced smiles and half-sincere prayers, spilled from your lips like a cracked dam. It hung in the air between you, heavy and irreversible. You waited for condemnation. For silence. For shame. But he said nothing. Not at first.

His lips shifted—parting, then pressing together again. His expression, though mostly obscured by the lattice, flickered. You knew that face too well. You watched him carefully, searching for rejection, for disdain. Instead, he gave you that smile. Gentle, practiced, familiar. The same smile you had seen a hundred times on Sundays, when he blessed children and comforted widows. It had always made you feel safe.

But now it hurt. Because now, it meant distance.

“So… you’ve been having sinful thoughts. About me?” he asked, not with judgment, but with something else—something softer. His voice was laced with concern, with warmth, with something dangerously close to longing.

“Yes, Reverend. And I know I can’t. I shouldn’t.” You shook your head slowly, your words beginning to tremble. Tears threatened to rise, and it felt as though the air around you was pressing in too tightly. You wanted to reach through the screen, to press your hand to his, to feel something real between you. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

“I… I’m to be married,” you confessed. The words felt like stones being laid down in front of you, one after another, building a path you never wanted to walk. Your tears slipped quietly down your cheeks. You didn’t bother to wipe them. Your palms were dug into your thighs, fingers curled in tight. You felt your voice break in half as you added, “I never wanted this.”

You hadn’t wanted love to become something conditional. Something lost to tradition and duty. But it had been decided. You were a woman raised in the faith, under your grandmother’s roof, under her rules. A Catholic woman must either marry or become a bride of God. You had no voice in the matter—only obedience.

“I don’t even know the man they’ve chosen for me, Caleb.”

You froze the second his name left your mouth. Too raw. Too familiar. Too forbidden.

“I—I meant Reverend. I’m sorry.” You wiped your cheeks quickly, trying to restore some formality to your voice, but it was too late. The intimacy had cracked open between you, and no title could fix it.

This was supposed to be a confession. It wasn’t meant to become therapy, or longing, or a desperate attempt to bury love beneath ritual. And yet here you were, unraveling before the very man you were trying to forget.

You heard his breath again. It was different now—no longer calm. There was a subtle shift, the sound no longer steady but erratic, staggered. He was still breathing through his nose, trying to stay composed, but it was clear. Something inside him had changed.

“I came here to confess,” you said, almost defensively now, trying to hold onto something that had already crumbled. “To let go. To cast this away before the wedding. I needed to be clean. I needed to kill the demon that made me think this way—especially about someone like you. A man who’s respected. Loved. Sacred.”

You trailed off. Your hands were trembling again. There was no more strength to pretend. Not in front of him.

But on the other side of the lattice, he was silent still. Breathing. Just breathing.

And somehow, that was worse than anything he could have said.

Because in that silence, you heard the one thing that terrified you most.

He felt it too.

“You have always been faithful,” he broke the silence, and the sound of his voice—low, deliberate—sent shivers down your spine. There was something in his tone. Not gentle. Not warm. Cold, like marble. Unforgiving.

You looked up toward the lattice, unable to see much beyond the shadow of his form. But you wished—desperately—that the wall between you would break. That something divine might shatter it, or that he might reach through and pull you from this torment. But nothing moved.

“Always obedient,” he continued, voice smooth as silk laced with steel. “Always pure. Always a good girl.”

The words lodged in your throat like thorns. That praise—God, that praise—it wasn’t meant to come from him. Not here. Not in this sacred, confining space. You weren’t a good girl. Not now. Not when your thighs had tensed at the sound of his voice. Not when you had touched yourself the night before while imagining those lips murmuring holy things against your skin.

You wanted to scream, to deny it. You wanted to confess the truth of who you were beneath the purity he believed in—or pretended to. But the words wouldn’t come.

You heard him shift. A soft rustle of fabric, a faint movement—closer now. The sound echoed in the tiny space between you. He wasn’t touching the lattice. But he was near enough for you to feel it. The warmth. The gravity of him.

“Some love,” he said slowly, “is born only to be tested.” A pause. Then a breath, heavy, reverent. “And some prayers,” he exhaled, “should never be answered.”

His voice trailed off like incense smoke curling toward the ceiling. Then—nothing. Silence again, deep and terrible. It swallowed everything.

You could hear your own heartbeat, wild in your ears. Your breathing—too fast, too shallow. You shouldn’t be feeling this. Not in the confessional. Not with him.

You opened your mouth, but no sound came. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

And he just waited.

The stillness between you stretched, pulling taut like a string threatening to snap.

You didn’t know—couldn’t know—that he had planned for this. That he had seen your name on the list. That he had made certain he would be in this booth today, waiting for you. Listening to you. Testing you.

Tempting you.

The silence pressed in around you, thick as velvet. It wrapped around your skin, sank into your lungs. The kind of silence that made you forget where you were—only that you were being watched. Not just by him, but by something older, higher, crueler. Every flickering candle, every carved saint, every fragment of stained glass bearing witness to your descent.

And still, he said nothing.

But he didn’t have to.

The air had already shifted. You could feel it—an unspoken weight settling over both of you, thick as oil and far too warm. He was waiting. Not as a priest. Not as a guide. But as something far more dangerous. A man cloaked in holy black, coaxing you with the patience of a saint and the hunger of a sinner. He was waiting for you to surrender.

Your fingers tightened where they rested in your lap, nails grazing skin, your palms damp with heat. You didn’t know how to begin. Didn’t know how to speak the words that had once only belonged in dreams—secret and desperate things meant to die in the dark. But they were rising now, unbidden, unholy, and you didn’t want to stop them.

“Tell me,” he said at last, his voice no longer the cool blade it had been, but something warm now, deeper, smooth like dark wine poured into a golden chalice. “Tell me what these thoughts looked like.”

You inhaled, shaky and thin, your eyes darting toward the lattice. His shadow was still there—still silent and unreadable—but his presence had changed. There was tension in it now. Heat. Anticipation.

“I…” Your voice faltered. Your cheeks were already burning. “I can’t. Reverend, I can’t say it. Thoughts like these… they don’t belong here. Not in this room. Not in this church.”

You looked down, ashamed of your own boldness. This was sacred space. And you were turning it into something impure.

You had come here with the weight of years pressed on your chest—years of silence, of longing, of loneliness. You had come here, not just for absolution, but with a prayer even you couldn’t name. A hope that maybe, just maybe, he’d look at you the way he used to, back when you were young and foolish and still believed in things like fated love.

But he was a priest now. A man revered. A man entrusted with salvation.

And you… you were just a sinner with trembling hands and a body that ached for things no sermon could erase.

“I need to know,” he said, a smile blooming in his voice—low, rich, and far too knowing. “How can I help you cleanse yourself, Pip-Squeak, if I don’t even know where the stain lies?”

He chuckled then, the sound soft but intimate, curling around your ears like smoke. It struck something deep inside you, something hungry, something ancient. You felt the way your legs pressed tighter together, the way your breath hitched just at the sound of it.

You should have stopped. You should have fled.

But this might be the last time you ever see him.

“I…” Your throat tightened around the words. “I thought of your hands.”

Even saying that made your pulse race.

“On me,” you whispered, barely able to breathe. “Not to comfort. Not to bless. Just… on my skin. Exploring. Possessing.”

The moment the words left your lips, you felt something unravel inside you. Like a string that had been pulled too tight for too long had finally snapped. And you couldn’t stop now.

You couldn’t see his face, but you heard the breath he let out—low, heavy, almost shaky. It wasn’t disapproval. It wasn’t shock.

It was something much closer to relief.

“And how,” he asked slowly, “did you want me to touch you?”

His voice was calm. Pastoral. The kind of tone meant to soothe. But it felt like a test, like he was feeding fire to see how brightly you would burn. You felt it in the way your skin tingled, in the way your breath quickened. He was still playing the reverend, but every word was a step closer to the edge.

“Reverend, I—”

“Caleb.”

His name cut through the air like thunder.

Your whole body jolted.

That was not the voice of a priest. That was not holy. That was him—the real him, the one buried beneath the collar and robes and years of distance. Sharp. Commanding. Possessive.

“Call me Caleb,” he said again, lower this time, almost tender.

You swallowed the heat rising in your throat, your voice shaking as you gave in.

“Caleb,” you whispered, the syllable cracking open something deep inside you. “I always imagine your hands... slowly running up my thighs, over my hips, up to my ribs.” You exhaled, shaky. “I imagine you pausing there—just long enough to hear me beg—and then moving higher. I want your hands on my breasts. I want your fingers teasing the tips of my nipples until I’m shaking, gasping, whispering your name like a broken prayer.”

You heard him move on the other side of the lattice. Not much. Just a shift. But enough to know he was listening. Hanging on every word.

“I want to be laid bare in front of you,” you continued, eyes closed now, shame and need swirling in equal measure. “I want to be underneath you, completely exposed, while you look at me like I’m nothing but temptation itself. I want you to command me. To order me. Like I’m the devil’s own creature, sent to test your will.”

You could barely breathe.

Your thighs clenched. Your hands trembled. You didn’t know whose breath was louder now—yours or his.

“I want to be ruined,” you whispered, “by the man I was told to worship from a distance. I want to be claimed. Marked. Made yours.”

And then, softer. Quieter.

“I want you to breed me, Caleb. I want you to fill me again and again until there’s no part of me that doesn’t belong to you. I want to carry your child—not in shame, but in devotion. As atonement. As worship.”

The confessional pulsed with silence.

But nothing about it felt holy anymore.

Behind the lattice, you caught the faintest curve of his lips—a smile. Soft, serene. Almost saintly.

It unsettled you.

How could he smile like that—so calm, so composed—when your body was trembling, your thoughts stained with everything sacred and forbidden? How could he look at you with such quiet kindness after the filth you’d just confessed?

But then, he spoke.

And his words didn’t match the expression at all.

“My sweet girl,” he said softly, voice like velvet against your ears, “you’ve carried this sin for so long… and yet, you still look to me for forgiveness.”

You stilled, the breath catching in your throat. There was no judgment in his voice. No disappointment. Only something deeper. Richer. A kind of hunger masked as care.

He continued, slow and measured, like every word was chosen for its weight.

“You’ve spent your nights dreaming of my hands, my mouth, my body. You’ve imagined how it would feel to be beneath me, filled, ruined—claimed.” His voice dipped lower. “And still, you come here, to this church, thinking you’ll find absolution. Thinking you’ll be cleansed.”

You could feel the heat curling inside you again—stronger now. Almost unbearable.

“But you’ve misunderstood,” he murmured. “This place is not where you’re purified, Pip-Squeak. It’s where you surrender.”

Your eyes widened, heart pounding. The air in the confessional was too thick now, too close. You couldn’t breathe without inhaling him—his words, his scent, the soft, sacred ache of his voice.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me,” he whispered, still smiling behind the screen. “Even when you try to look away. I’ve seen the tremble in your hands when we share communion. The way your lips part when I speak.”

You could barely hold yourself upright. Shame and want coiled together like thorns under your skin.

“I arranged this moment for you,” he confessed. “I made sure it was me sitting behind this screen. I wanted to hear it. I needed to know just how deeply I’ve carved myself into you.”

You gasped quietly, a soft whimper caught between horror and desire.

“I’ve known for a long time,” he said gently, “that you’d never be able to forget me. Not truly. Not with the way you whisper my name when you think no one hears. Not with the way you ache when I touch your hand during blessing.”

He paused. Let it hang. Let it simmer.

“Don’t you see?” he said, voice now just above a whisper. “Your sin… was never in thinking of me.”

His next words were slower, darker, rich with promise.

“Your sin was in not letting me have you.”

The silence stretched like a lifetime unraveling—deep, suffocating, as though the very air between you had thickened. You inhaled shakily, your chest rising with disbelief. His words echoed in your ears, over and over, like a psalm twisted into something forbidden. He wanted you. He desired you. All that piety, all those prayers—his devotion had not been for God. It had been for you.

“Caleb, I—” you whispered, your voice trembling as you reached through the carved gap in the lattice, fingertips trembling with hope, aching to touch him. To feel even the brush of his hand. But the moment your fingers brushed the open air, he recoiled. His hand withdrew like you were fire—like he had been burned.

As if he hadn’t just shattered your soul with the truth.

As if none of it had been real.

“I’m sorry, Pip-squeak,” he murmured, and the softness in his voice made it worse. Too gentle. Too cruel. It held no resolve, no certainty—only guilt, polished and sharp. Your stomach twisted. No. No, this couldn’t be backpedaling. Not now. Not after everything.

“I should have contained myself,” he continued, and his words broke you. “I made an oath. I’m not just the boy you knew anymore. I’m a priest. I have no right to lust after anyone—especially not you.”

And with that, all the air was stolen from your lungs. The flicker of hope that had dared to rise in your chest—gone. He turned away, slowly, and from the gap between you, something small and delicate dropped into your hand.

A rosary.

Elegant, dark red beads shimmered against your skin—cool, smooth, lovingly chosen. A beautiful offering. A quiet rejection.

“Take this. Use it when you pray. I’ll arrange another meeting with a different reverend—someone more… disciplined,” he said, standing now, his voice tightening as he stepped back. “I’m not fit to hear your confessions anymore. I can’t help you. I’ve already failed you.”

He turned, reaching for the confessional door. His robes whispered against the wood, the sound like parting wings. But just before he stepped out, he paused—his profile half-lit by the flickering candlelight.

And he smiled.

Not a warm smile. Not cruel either. Just… unreadable. Quietly ironic. It was a paradox, that expression—so soft, so subtle, and yet it didn’t match the penitent words that had come before it. You couldn’t tell what he wanted. Couldn’t tell if he was leaving you behind… or waiting for you to chase him.

He stepped into the aisle, disappearing into the dark sanctuary beyond.

But you didn’t move.

You remained kneeling for a moment longer, your knees numb, your breath shallow, your hands clenched tightly around the rosary that felt like a curse. And then something inside you snapped—loud and sharp and undeniable.

No.

No, you couldn’t let this slip through your fingers. You couldn’t walk away and accept a life bound to a stranger, to a marriage you didn’t want. You had tasted the edge of something sacred and feral, and you would not let it go.

You surged to your feet, robes swishing around your ankles as you ran through the cathedral. The air burned in your lungs. Candlelight streaked past you, warping the saints and angels into ghosts as you chased his shadow up the stairs. You called his name—broken, pleading, not in prayer but in desperation.

And then—you reached him.

He had stopped before the altar, his back to you, shoulders bowed as if ready to fall into prayer again. But you grabbed him—your hands clutching his arm, your touch shaking with fury and want.

“Caleb,” you gasped, your voice cracking, “please. One chance. Just one. Allow me to commit this sin and carry the guilt—before I’m shackled into something I never asked for.”

He didn’t speak.

So you pressed on, breathless and trembling.

“I don’t care if I’m to be married. I don’t want him. I never did. Please… just this once—taint me. Make me yours so I can’t belong to anyone else.”

That was the breaking point.

You saw it in the way his shoulders tensed, in the way his hands slowly curled into fists. And then—without a word—he turned.

His hand seized your waist, firm and unyielding, and he pulled you flush against him. The sudden closeness knocked the breath from your chest. You could feel everything—his breath against your cheek, the thunder of his heartbeat against yours, the heat between your bodies that had always been there, waiting to be claimed.

His other hand rose, slow and deliberate, and pressed two fingers beneath your chin, tilting your face up. Then, those same fingers slid down, wrapping around your throat. Not to harm, but to hold. Possession, pure and holy.

“You have no idea what you’re asking,” he whispered, his breath brushing your lips, his eyes locked on yours with something darker than longing. “Be careful, Pip-squeak. Because if I say yes—if I give you what you’re begging for…”

He leaned closer, his lips grazing the corner of your mouth, his voice no longer gentle, but a vow.

“I won’t stop. There will be no betrothed. No more prayers to cleanse you.”

He licked the edge of your ears, slow and deliberate, and your whole body arched into him with a soft, desperate moan you couldn’t contain.

“I will ruin you. I’ll make you mine in every way the church says I shouldn’t. I’ll bury myself inside you until your body remembers nothing but me.”

His grip tightened at your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.

“I won’t let you go,” he growled, “not again.”

His irises darkened, deepening into a shade like violet blood—rich, ancient, and hungry. The passion in his gaze no longer shimmered beneath the surface, no longer cloaked in guilt. It bloomed now, wild and uncontrollable, like a flower that had finally burst through the soil after years of suppression. No burden. No veil. Only want.

And you saw it. You felt it—in the way his fingers clenched tighter around your waist, as though he feared you might vanish. As though he had already lost you once and refused to risk it again. His grip was no longer gentle. It was possession.

How could you—merely a sinful, trembling creature before the divine—deny the priest who had already been yours in secret?

“Then don’t, Caleb,” you whispered, your voice soft, reverent, almost worshipful. Your hands rose to cradle his face, thumbs stroking along the edge of his jaw with aching tenderness. His skin was warm beneath your touch, alive with the kind of heat that could melt sanctity itself.

“Don’t ever let me go,” you breathed, your words barely more than air, “ruin me… consume me, like I am the communion and the wine. Take me as if I were the apple, bitten and bold—tempted by Eve, offered to Adam, as the serpent laughs and God turns away.”

Your eyes met his—wide, wet, unwavering. His breathing was uneven now, ragged, thick with restraint unraveled. His pupils blown wide, devouring you like scripture rewritten in flesh.

“Take me, Caleb,” you said, voice no longer pleading, but resolute. A sacred declaration. A promise. This was your moment. Your fall. Your offering. You had waited long enough to become the Eve of your own story—to tempt the man who was once salvation, now sin. To drag him from the heavens and pull him into you.

He stared at you for one long, breathless second.

And then—he smiled.

Not holy. Not kind.

But hungry.

“With pleasure, Pips,” he murmured, voice deep with something primal, something unholy, and beautiful in its blasphemy.

Before you could react, he spun you by the waist, his grip firm and unrelenting, and pushed you forward—your body guided not roughly, but with the precision of a man who had imagined this a thousand times. You stumbled slightly, catching yourself against the edge of the altar, your hands splayed on the white linen cloth that once held chalices and scripture.

Now, it would hold you.

You looked back at him over your shoulder, your breath shallow, your heart pounding like a liturgical drum. He stood behind you, towering, silent, reverent—his gaze devouring every inch of you like he was memorizing a psalm written on skin.

This was not the priest.

This was the man beneath the collar.

And you were no longer the sinner.

You were the sacrament.

“On the altar, honey,” he murmured, his voice dipped in something sweet and dangerous—menacingly saccharine, like poisoned honey. His hands guided you back, gently but firmly, until your spine met the cool linen-draped table. His touch lingered like reverence, like a prayer not yet spoken.

To him, you must’ve looked like temptation incarnate—your flushed skin glowing in the golden candlelight, long hair fanned out over sacred cloth, chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm. A vision of sin made flesh, sprawled out where offerings to God were meant to be placed. But tonight, you were the offering.

He traced the shape of your body with a single finger, slow and deliberate, dragging it over the tight curve of your red dress—the one you chose just for this night, just for him. Each pass of his touch sent a thrill crawling across your skin, your thighs tensing with every inch he explored.

“This was intentional, wasn’t it?” he whispered, lips brushing just above your navel as he pressed a kiss there—soft, delicate, intoxicating. You felt butterflies erupt beneath your skin, fluttering desperately under his breath. “You came here wearing this dress that no good Catholic girl would ever wear. You chose my hour in the confessional. Scheduled yourself with me.”

You couldn’t speak. Your head was light, your limbs loose and tingling from the weight of his words and the unbearable heat of his touch. The anticipation dripped from you like holy oil.

He smirked. And then his hands moved lower, gripping your waist hard, like he was claiming you piece by piece.

You gasped, body jolting at the force of it.

“Answer me,” he commanded, the sweetness gone, replaced by steel. His brow furrowed in mock disappointment, his voice like thunder behind stained glass. You nodded weakly, unable to count how many times you’d already said yes to him—in your mind, in your dreams, in the silent ache between your thighs.

“Good,” he purred. “I love it when you give yourself over to me. When your mind shuts down and your body remembers who you belong to.”

His hands slid down, finding the buttons of your dress. He gripped the fabric with both hands and yanked—ripping it apart with one swift, sinful motion. The sound echoed like a heresy in the sacred space. You gasped, heart racing, body bare beneath him.

From above, you saw his expression shift. His mouth fell open slightly. His pupils darkened further, almost black. His face—usually unreadable—now twisted with hunger. He looked at you as if you were the first woman he’d ever seen. As if you were not just desired… but worshipped.

“You look so divine, Pip-squeak,” he growled, voice low and trembling. His hands came up to your chest, cupping your breasts with greedy reverence, his thumbs flicking across your nipples—once, then again, harder, rougher, until your body arched into him. The pleasure bloomed sharp and sudden, your breath catching in a gasp.

“Caleb, I—”

He shushed you immediately, placing two fingers over your lips as his eyes gleamed.

“No words now. Only your sounds. Only your body,” he whispered. “Let me learn it like the Bible.”

And then he did. He moved over you like a man discovering lost relics—hands sliding across your stomach, down your thighs, along your ribs, over your curves. Every part of you was touched like it was rare, precious. As if every inch of skin was sacred parchment he intended to study and memorize.

But when his eyes lowered between your legs, his expression changed again—this time to something quieter. Something awed.

You scrambled to close your thighs, the instinctual shame creeping up your spine. But his hands were faster—firm at your knees, pushing them apart with command.

“Don’t hide from me,” he said. “I never told you to close your legs.”

And then he saw you.

His gaze locked between your thighs, reverent and consuming. You turned your face away, too overwhelmed to meet his stare, too undone to endure the worship in his expression.

“You’re untouched,” he murmured. His thumb grazed your folds—slow, featherlight, unbearably gentle. “So pink. So soft. Your little petals hiding everything sacred inside.”

You whimpered, unable to speak, trembling under the heat of his voice and the slow, circling motion of his thumb. You could hear it now—the wet sound of your arousal, soft and obscene in the quiet church. It should’ve filled you with shame.

But all you felt was need.

“You’re so wet for me,” he whispered, pressing just slightly deeper, letting his thumb slide through your slick folds as if he were parting holy pages. “This is all for me, isn’t it?”

You nodded. He smiled.

“Then let me worship you.”

And then—he lowered himself.

His lips brushed your inner thigh, trailing upward, each kiss placed like benediction. His hands held your thighs wide open as he reached your center, breath warm against your slick entrance. And then his mouth found you—devoured you.

His tongue lapped at your clit slowly, then faster, lips closing around you as if drawing out sin itself. You cried out, moaning his name like a prayer, like it was the only one you remembered. His fingers gripped your thighs harder, anchoring you in place, as his mouth wrote psalms into your body—his tongue spelling out lust and salvation in every circle, every flick, every sinful kiss.

You arched. You gasped. You sobbed his name.

And still—he kept going.

“Gods, you taste like devotion,” he groaned against your folds. “Like you were made just for this.”

And in that moment, as your body trembled on the altar, thighs parted for a man who wore a collar he never truly obeyed—

You believed him.

His fingers trailed downward, slow and exploratory, until they found the slick heat of your folds. He teased the entrance just below where his tongue had ravaged your clit, circling the soft, wet opening with the gentleness of someone handling something precious—something never touched before. Your body arched sharply, your back curving off the altar in a broken cry. It was too much—too much pressure, too much pleasure, too much him.

Your gasped whispers of “Caleb” unraveled into helpless moans as his finger gently breached you, the motion deliberate and careful, but impossibly overwhelming. Your body clamped down around him, wet and trembling, your inner walls drawing him in like they had been waiting for him all your life.

“Let me open you up, alright, baby?” he whispered against your skin, his voice dripping with affection. “I don’t want to hurt you. I want to make it perfect for you.” His tone was velvet, contrasting the way his tongue resumed its relentless worship of your clit—wet, fast, devout, like he was trying to write a hymn with his mouth.

His finger moved deeper, slowly curling to explore you from the inside—his touch searching, learning, memorizing the feel of your tight, trembling heat. He found rhythm, divine and sinful, his tongue lapping furiously at your swollen bud while his finger pressed deeper, coaxing moans from your lips like a choir from a cathedral dome.

But then, pain.

It was sharp, unfamiliar, a sting beneath the waves of pleasure.

“Caleb… it hurts…” you murmured, your voice broken and soft. This was your first time—your body had never been opened by another’s touch. You tried to hold back the sobs, your forearm covering your eyes to hide the tears you couldn’t stop. Hiccups escaped you, trembling from your chest, fragile as confession.

And he stopped.

“Aw, Pip-squeak…” he cooed gently, his voice laced with guilt and warmth as he moved up to you. “Was that too much?”

He pushed your hand away from your face, just enough to see the mess of tears on your cheeks, the swollen red of your eyes, the vulnerability etched across every inch of you. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your eyelids—soft, reverent, like you were a butterfly he feared would break in his hands. A breath of love after a storm of lust.

“No, Caleb… it’s all just new,” you whispered through your hiccups, the words slurring as you clung to the edges of control. “I’m not used to it. That’s all.”

He looked at you like you were the most fragile and sacred thing he’d ever touched. As if you weren’t a girl laid bare on an altar, but a miracle. His hand found yours, guiding your palm to his cheek, pressing your fingers into the heat of his skin.

“I know,” he said, voice low and warm. “I know, honey. Let me take care of you.” He nuzzled into your touch like it was the only truth he needed. “You’re going to have a beautiful first night. With me. Just relax. I’ll do everything. All you need to do is feel.”

And before you could answer, his mouth claimed yours.

The kiss was not gentle. It was fierce, hungry, consuming. Your lips moved in a tangled, heated rhythm, tongues sliding and curling, mouths parting only to let out breathless moans. You could feel his teeth grazing your lip, then biting—a sting sharp enough to make your knees buckle. He drew blood, and then licked it away, eyes dark with pride at the mark he left.

Then—his hand was back between your legs.

He slid the same finger inside you again, slow but insistent, and you gasped into his mouth. Your lips were still locked with his, the kiss muffling your cries, your body arching beneath him. He didn’t stop. His hand was working you open again, pushing and curling with more purpose now—loving you, preparing you, ruining you.

And then—another finger joined.

You cried out against his lips, breath stolen, chest heaving. His fingers scissored you open, stretching you with maddening care, moving in and out with slick, obscene sounds that echoed through the sacred chamber. Every motion felt like a new world cracking open inside you—every nerve alight, every breath sharp.

“Fuck—Pip-squeak,” he groaned, watching your face twist in pleasure. “You really are my testament, aren’t you?”

He pumped his fingers deeper, faster, pressing into that sacred spot inside you that made you sob. Your whole body buckled, trembling under the rhythm of his fingers.

“Crying for me… moaning like that…” He kissed your jaw, your throat, your shoulder. “You said you’d walk through hell with me, didn’t you?”

Your breath came in stutters, your body grinding down into his hand, chasing the pleasure like a lifeline. You couldn’t speak. You could only feel.

And then—he stopped.

You whined—needy, devastated.

He pulled his fingers from your soaked heat, the emptiness making your body clench on instinct, your folds slick and pulsing.

“Caleb, what—”

“I can’t wait anymore,” he said, his voice hoarse, desperate. “I think you’re ready. And I need to be inside you, now.”

You watched, spellbound, as he stood upright and reached for the belt around his waist. One by one, his fingers undid the layers of his robe, revealing him beneath—the slow unveiling of a god, not a man. He peeled back the fabric as if shedding holiness itself, as if casting off the weight of every prayer he’d ever made. And what remained beneath…

Was divine.

He was sculpted like marble. Veins coiled along thick forearms, chest broad and heaving, every line of his body drawn with aching precision. It was like something ancient. Like Zeus had carved him from his own likeness, then cast him into a collar to suffer the burden of flesh.

And now, here he stood. Unburdened. Unholy. Yours.

All words fled your mouth. All thoughts vanished. You were no longer a girl with a name, or a sinner with shame.

You were his.

At his mercy. At his altar.

And Caleb—your priest, your first love, your god-made-flesh—was about to make you his church.

When he pulled down the final barrier between you—his undergarments falling to the floor with a soft, weighted thud—it echoed like a vow unspoken. The air shifted, heavy and thick with want. And what you saw made your breath catch in your throat.

He was hard. Gloriously hard.

Thick, veined, and flushed with heat, his cock stood proudly between his thighs—an offering, a punishment, a blessing all at once. You had never seen anything like it, not even in those nights alone with your phone dimmed low and your heart racing in guilt. This… this was real. It was beautiful in a way that made your body ache—his shaft a soft, dusky pink with golden undertones, the crown swollen and weeping beads of precum that glistened like sacred oil under the candlelight. It pulsed with restrained desire, the veins beneath his skin standing rigid with anticipation, as if every part of him had been waiting to be released inside you.

He watched your reaction closely, and you realized—he wanted you to look. He wanted you to witness him like this. Bared. Ready. Sacred.

“It’s…” you whispered, breathless, lips trembling as you tried not to stare, “it’s so big, Caleb. I—” your voice cracked slightly, “I don’t think it’ll fit.”

He stepped closer, the heat of his body brushing against your thighs as he leaned down, his hand curling around your cheek.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, lips grazing your jawline, “it will. And if it doesn’t…” he kissed the corner of your mouth, slowly, deliberately, “I’ll make it fit.”

You shivered beneath him, but his next kiss melted your resistance. It was softer this time—reassuring, protective. His lips moved against yours with a slowness that made you ache, a tenderness that threatened to undo you entirely. He kissed you like he’d never get to again. Like this was both prayer and farewell.

And then—you felt it.

The thick, flushed tip nudged against your folds, slick with both your arousal and his need. Your body jolted at the contact, instinctively trying to pull back, but he held you steady. His hand moved from your cheek to your jaw, cradling you gently but firmly, his thumb stroking the curve of your chin.

“Shh,” he whispered against your lips, “don’t run. Just feel me. Let me love you through it.”

Then—he pushed in.

The stretch was impossible. Raw. Blinding. Your inner walls strained to accommodate him, the head of his cock parting you in a slow, aching invasion that made every nerve in your body seize and tremble. He was too big—too thick, too much—and you cried out, your breath hitching in your throat.

“C-Caleb, it won’t fit,” you gasped, tears pricking your lashes. “It’s too much, I—I can’t—”

But he didn’t let go. He pressed a soft kiss to your nose, eyes full of reverence.

“Trust me,” he said gently. “You can. You’re doing so well. Just relax. Don’t tense up. Let your body take me.”

He kissed your temple, then your jaw, and then your lips again—his mouth never leaving yours as he pushed in deeper, inch by inch, each movement slow and reverent. You could feel every ridge, every vein, as he slid deeper into your warmth. The pressure was maddening, the stretch a sweet agony. He was molding you to him—reshaping you around his cock like you were meant for it.

Your moans were breathless, broken, rising in pitch with every inch he claimed. You felt your pulse in your throat, your fingertips, your womb.

And then—he paused.

He looked down at where you were joined, your slick folds stretched wide around him, your body trembling, your breath hitching with each twitch of his hips. His lips curled into a smile, soft and ruined.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You’re taking me so well, baby. And this…” he rocked his hips slightly, making you whimper, “this is only halfway.”

Your eyes flew open.

Halfway?

He met your gaze, eyes dark with devotion and desire.

“We’ll take it slow,” he whispered. “I’ll teach your body how to love me. How to worship me.”

And then—he began to thrust.

Slow, deep, rolling movements that dragged his cock against every untouched nerve inside you. Each push was gentle, yet commanding. Every retreat was followed by a deeper plunge, opening you wider, stretching you further, claiming you with each pass.

You sobbed beneath him—not from pain, not anymore—but from the sheer overwhelming pleasure. He filled you so completely, so intimately, that you didn’t know where your body ended and his began.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice breaking, “you’re perfect—tight, warm, mine. You were made to take me, Pip-squeak. This—” he grunted as he thrust deeper, “this is where you belong.”

Your nails raked down his back, clinging to him, needing something to anchor you as the altar shook beneath your bodies. His forehead pressed against yours. His lips hovered above your mouth, panting into you like he was drowning.

“I’m going to ruin you for anyone else,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’m going to fill you so full of me, you’ll feel me for days.”

And you believed him.

Because this wasn’t just sex.

This was worship. This was prophecy.

And he was your god now.

And this god—this man who had once belonged to the altar—was now the one thrusting into you, deeper and deeper, with a rhythm so consuming it blurred the edge of pain and bliss. With each slow push, he reached into places no one ever had—into your body, into your soul. As if this was your final absolution. As if this… was your cleansing of sin.

“Let me feel you deeper, alright?” he murmured, his voice low and full of heat, brushing your ear like a sacrament. “It might sting a bit, but stay with me, my love.” He kissed you again—tender, warm, anchoring—his lips moving over yours in a slow, open rhythm that steadied your breath as much as it stole it.

Your nails found his back again, digging in harder this time, leaving half-moon imprints across the muscles of his shoulders. He welcomed it—grunted into your mouth—and thrust deeper. The stretch was too much, too perfect, and yet you clung to it, welcoming the ache like revelation.

His lips traveled to your throat, then down the delicate slope of your neck. And when his pace quickened, his hips rolling deeper into yours, the sound of slick skin and desperate breathing filled the chapel air. The sensation was overwhelming—every sense dissolved into him. Your vision blurred, your ears rang with the sound of your own heartbeat, and the warmth of his body became the only truth you knew.

He found your collarbone with his mouth, kissing it reverently before biting down—not gently. The bite was harsh, branding. A mark meant to last. You gasped and arched into him, tears spilling down your cheeks—not from pain, but from something greater. You were overwhelmed, undone, and entirely his.

“Caleb…” you whimpered, voice caught in a moan. “It’s… starting to feel so good…”

He chuckled, low and rough, the sound vibrating against your skin. “Knew it, baby,” he murmured between kisses. “Knew you’d take me like this. Like your body belongs to me.”

His rhythm was no longer careful—it was erratic now, frantic, unrelenting. The god inside him had broken free. There was no restraint left, only desire carved deep by years of silence and prayer. You felt the pressure building again, something enormous and electric gathering in your belly, and you didn’t understand it—but you craved it.

“Caleb, please—please—it feels… so strange,” you sobbed into his shoulder, your voice high and trembling.

He slowed just for a second, lips brushing your temple, smiling like he’d known this moment would come. “You want to come, baby?” he asked softly, lovingly. “Then come for me. You have my permission.”

And then—release.

The world shattered in white.

Your first orgasm rippled through you like holy fire, curling your toes, arching your spine, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your body clenched around him, your cries echoing through the cathedral like sacred hymns, and all you could feel was him—Caleb, Caleb, Caleb—claiming every part of you as if he’d waited lifetimes for this moment.

When your body finally slumped against his, spent and trembling, he gathered you in his arms like something sacred. His hand found the back of your neck, fingers brushing your hair, the other wrapped around your back, lifting you into his lap like a prize, a promise.

“Like it, baby?” he whispered, kissing your forehead, your cheek, your nose. You nodded wordlessly, still floating somewhere between earth and heaven, still pulsing from the aftershocks. “Yeah,” he smiled, his voice soft with wonder, “I can tell.”

Then—he reached for something.

The rosary.

Your rosary.

Dark red beads caught the moonlight streaming through the stained glass, the glow painting your skin in sacred crimson. He unclasped it gently, looped it around your throat, and fastened it like a necklace of devotion. It was weightless and warm, like it had always belonged there.

“You look divine in red,” he whispered, tucking your hair behind your ear. “The hickeys. The tears. The rosary on your throat.” His thumb caressed your cheek as he studied you—eyes soft and worshipful. “You are… heavenly. I’m so fucking glad you chose me.”

You were dazed. Drenched in love. You looked up at him, and for the first time, truly saw him.

The boy you had known was long gone.

What sat before you was a man—a god, a beast, a lover—shaped by prayer, by pain, by desire.

His violet-hued eyes bore into you. His jaw sharp. His lips chapped from too many kisses. His body sculpted like myth, veined and divine, as though made by the same hands that shaped the stars.

And then—he leaned in, voice low and trembling.

“I’m not done with you yet, Pip-squeak.”

Your eyes widened.

“W-what?”

He kissed your mouth—slow and deep.

“On your back, love,” he murmured. “I haven’t had my share. And I intend to fulfill my prophecy—as your future husband.”

Your breath caught as he slowly withdrew from your body, leaving you achingly empty. He helped you to stand, your legs barely steady beneath you. His hands stayed on your waist, guiding you like a lamb, reverent and possessive.

“Hands on the altar,” he said gently, pushing you forward. “Arch your back for me, sweetheart.”

You obeyed.

He leaned down, whispering into your ear, his palm stroking the curve of your spine. “Perfect. Look at you. My obedient little wife.”

Your heart stuttered.

“Caleb…” you gasped. “You’re a priest. You… you can’t marry me. I’m a sinner—”

He stilled behind you.

And then—a quiet laugh. Dark. Dangerous.

His hand gripped your hip, pulling you back against him. The tip of his cock nudged your entrance once more, the heat of him radiating through your trembling thighs.

“I’ll make arrangements,” he said simply. “The moment I breed you… the moment I seal this bond… you’re mine. And no one—no one—will take you away from me.”

He turned your face just enough to kiss you again—deep, claiming, final.

And then, he entered you once more, slowly, fully, with a groan of pure relief.

This time, Caleb wasn’t letting you off easy.

There was no gentleness left in him—only hunger, only need. He drove into you with a rhythm that felt like judgment day: relentless, punishing, divine. His thrusts were thunderous, dragging cries and whimpers from your throat that echoed through the hollow sanctuary like ruined hymns. Each motion forced a sob of pleasure from your lips, your body trembling with every drag of him, every delicious, overwhelming stretch.

“Too deep, Caleb… please—” you moaned, the words barely intelligible between broken breaths.

Your legs had long since given up. Your thighs quivered with exhaustion, and your knees threatened to buckle with every thrust. But before you could collapse, his hand gripped your cheeks—strong, unyielding—guiding you right back into the position he wanted.

“Keep your posture, Pip-squeak,” he growled, his voice rough, breath hot at your ear, and you obeyed like the good little subject he’d made of you.

You let your forehead rest against the altar, body limp under his force, your senses shredded from the high of your first orgasm. But he wasn’t finished with you. He hadn’t even begun to show you what it meant to be his.

Because you wanted it.

You wanted to be ruined again. Used, over and over. You wanted to be his sanctuary and his sacrilege—his only cocksleeve, his blasphemy made flesh.

You pushed your hips back, seeking friction, desperate for the sound—the slick, vulgar squelch that made your thighs shake and his groan rattle through your spine.

“Fuck,” he laughed, dark and delighted. “Look at you. My little whore can’t even wait for my rhythm—now you’re fucking yourself on my cock like a common slut.”

His hand groped your ass, fingers digging into the soft curve before delivering a sharp smack that made your whole body jolt. Your mouth dropped open in a silent cry, eyes fluttering as the sting bloomed across your skin.

“You really are the devil,” he muttered, his voice nearly reverent. “You came here to torment me. To make a man of God fall to his knees for you. And now look at you.”

He reached for the back of your neck where the rosary lay tangled, tugging gently until the red beads tightened around your throat, grazing over the bruises and bite marks he’d left before.

“Imagine me breeding you on the altar,” he whispered, thrusting deeper until you gasped. “Filling you up like a sacrifice. Just you, me, and God watching.”

Then he pulled.

The beads clinked and tightened, the tension making you jolt, your moans gasping and ragged as the cross at the center pressed into your throat. You were sure it would leave a mark—like a collar. Like proof.

“You’d look perfect,” he said, voice low and shaking with lust. “With this mark. Everyone would know who you belong to.”

He loosened it, just long enough for you to breathe, only to tighten it again—controlling the rhythm like a prayer. Your eyes rolled back, tears streaming freely, your body twitching from the overstimulation.

“Caleb…” you sobbed, voice hoarse, lost. “I-I’m close again…”

“I know you are,” he murmured, lips brushing your spine, his teeth catching on your shoulder. “You were made for this. For me.”

His thrusts deepened, the rhythm brutal and beautiful all at once. Your walls clenched hard around him, your body desperate to drag him further inside, to pull him into your core and never let go.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, Pips,” he groaned. “But I’ll die with a smile if it means I get to leave it all inside you.”

And then you broke.

Again.

This time harder. This time deeper. Your orgasm crashed through you like a holy reckoning, violent and luminous, a star exploding behind your eyes. Your body seized and shivered uncontrollably, walls fluttering around him as your vision went white. You screamed his name like it was torn from your soul, your throat raw from the effort, from praising him.

It was all too much—the relentless thrusts, the rosary tight against your throat, the weight of him pounding into your most sacred places. The hot stretch of his cock as it hit that tender, deepest spot. The scent of sweat and salt and sex thick in the air. The wet sounds of your bodies clashing, your skin slick against the altar.

You were sobbing now, lips parted, gasping for air between high-pitched moans and fevered, half-sobbed whispers.

“Thank you,” you cried, “thank you, Caleb… thank you for using me… for making me yours… thank you for claiming me—”

He growled—actually growled—his breath hot at your ear, hips stuttering against you as his grip on your hips tightened.

“I’m gonna fill you now, baby,” he moaned, the words shaky and broken with need. “Say it again.”

“Thank you,” you begged. “Thank you for choosing me—thank you for breaking me—thank you for taking me like this.”

Your hands clutched the altar cloth, nails tearing into the fabric, body writhing against his. “Thank you for fucking me, for ruining me… for cleansing me. Thank you for not holding back. Thank you for loving me like this.”

“Gods” he gasped, shuddering behind you. “Fuck—”

And that was all he needed.

With one final, forceful thrust, he sank himself so deep inside you it felt like your bodies had fused. You felt the tremble in his thighs, the groan that tore from his chest, the way his hips twitched as he came undone within you.

You could feel it.

The heat.

The fullness.

His release poured into you, and with it, something even heavier: a bond. His sin, his promise, his final vow.

He collapsed over your back, chest heaving, breath ragged and uneven. His arms wrapped around you like you were holy. Like you were salvation.

And inside you… he left everything.

His vow. His love. His sin.

His seed.

The altar had seen many unions—but none like this.

You both remained there, bodies tangled and trembling, time suspended in the thick, honeyed silence that followed. Minutes passed like lifetimes—slow and sacred—as if every breath you took together rewrote the shape of the world.

His body draped over yours, flushed and heaving, the weight of him pressing against your spine like a divine burden. You could feel his chest rising and falling, his heartbeat still rapid, still syncing with yours, like your souls were too entangled to separate now. His warmth cloaked you, his skin slick and fevered against your back, and it was all you could do to keep breathing.

His name had become your prayer.

His love, your religion.

His presence, your sanctuary.

“Pip-squeak,” he whispered, voice hoarse and soft, barely formed through the haze of what you’d just done. The nickname sounded different now—deeper, claimed, sacred. But you couldn’t answer. There were no words left inside you. Just breath after breath, whispering through your lips like wind through cathedral glass.

Then he said it.

“I love you.”

The words drifted through the air and wrapped around you like a blanket. Your eyes fluttered open, lashes damp, vision hazy. You wanted to turn to him, to see his face in the aftermath of what had just been sealed between you, but your body felt too wrecked, too stretched, still parted by the weight of his shaft still inside you—keeping you open, keeping his warmth in, like he didn’t want a single drop of himself to leave you.

“I…” your voice broke, soft and trembling, “I love you too, Caleb. I have since we were kids.”

You gathered every last shred of strength in your arms, tilting your head back just enough to cup his jaw, your fingers brushing his skin with reverence. You pulled him closer until his forehead rested against yours, the scent of incense, sweat, and sanctified sin thick in the air between you.

“I’m glad I came to you,” you whispered. “I’ll leave everything in your care… then?”

His gaze softened.

And then—he smiled.

That familiar, golden smile from long ago, reshaped by the weight of years and the burden of forbidden love.

“Yes, honey,” he murmured, voice like a lullaby. “I’ll take care of everything. No one will touch you. We’ll leave this place unscathed… and walk the path God truly chose for us.”

He lifted your hand, the same hand that had touched him, clung to him, loved him—and pressed a kiss to your fingers. It was gentle. Tender. Final.

“I love you,” he whispered again, like a promise sealed in your skin. “Now sleep, my love.”

And you did.

You closed your eyes beneath him, your body still held open by his, still trembling with the ghost of every thrust, every vow. And as the darkness settled, soft and warm, you felt his arms wrap around you tighter—like he’d never let you go.

He was the last thing you saw that night.

And you knew, with a quiet certainty blooming in your chest, that he would be the last thing you saw each night for the rest of your life.

Until death… if it dared to separate you apart.

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