"Okay.” He bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, trying to focus on the pain instead of the overwhelming desire coursing through him. “Whatever you want. Anything you want.”
You surge up, capturing his mouth in a kiss that steals the rest of his words, his breath, his thoughts. He lets out a startled sound that quickly turns into something deeper and desperate, as if this is all he’s ever needed. And so you press, pushing against him to roll him onto his back, and he goes willingly, his spine hitting the couch with a breathless grunt.
Your lips are on his neck now, sucking, tasting, branding. You feel the vibrations of his groan from the other side and you vaguely wonder how far he will let you go, if you can tear him apart and devour him piece by piece until there’s nothing left for the Fleet to call back to duty. Beneath you, he is choking back gasps, the ridges of his hips pressing into your thighs. His hands reach out in an attempt to still your own.
You bite down on the tender connection of where his neck meets his shoulders, just enough to make his words dissolve into a hiss. You soothe the sting with your tongue, lips trailing lower as your hands slip beneath his shirt, palms seeking the heat of his bare skin. One hand slides over his chest, fingers splayed across his hammering heart.
“Pip, I—haaah—I really wasn’t kidding. If you don’t stop now, I—”
You lift up from his neck, palms braced against his chest, and the shift in weight sends a sharp, involuntary gasp from his lips. Beneath you, Caleb’s eyes flutter open, awestruck. His blown-wide pupils meet your own. Color rests high on his cheeks and his lips are swollen, the faintest dots of capillary-red breaking across them where he must have bitten down too hard, holding himself back.
“Trying to negotiate”, you whisper, “isn’t letting me do what I want.”

“Ugh, Sorry - I just, please let me do something before I -”His breath comes in ragged gasps, and you can hear the raw restraint in his voice to keep himself from falling too hard, too fast. But you don’t want him to hold back. You want him ruined. “I need this to be good for you. Please, let me make it good for you.”

His words unravel the need deep inside you, untangling knots you hadn’t realized were there. Like tugging at a loose thread, and suddenly the whole thing begins to unspool. The anticipation coils low in your belly, winding tight, a pressure that only he can unmake.
Caleb reaches for your hand, bringing it to his mouth to press each of your knuckles with reverence that makes your jaw clench. His lips are soft yet insistent, unspoken hymns that hum through each press of them against your fingertips, your palm, the pulse point of your wrist.  Each kiss, each gentle scrape of his teeth, feels like a whispered confession—I've wanted this, wanted you, for so long. Please let me take care of you.
You exhale sharply, tilting your head. "Do you always have to be so bossy?"

You push your bottom lip out, feigning a pout, and his breathy laugh is reward enough.
“Wait, wait-” He raises a brow, tilting his chin in mock challenge.”You think I’m the one in charge here?”
Eyes on you, he shifts, and maneuvers his legs from between yours. You open your mouth to retort, but the quiet thump of his knees on the ground dissolves your train of thought. The sight of him there, kneeling before you - You’ve played this game countless times before. The knight swearing fealty to his queen. The gunslinger, hat over his chest, vowing to protect you.
But there’s something different now. His eyes drink you in, starting from the floor, as if the full sight of you might be too much at once. His fingers tighten subtly against your thighs.
He meets your gaze then, tilting his head forward. “If you do think that,” he murmurs, “then it seems I have been severely lacking in my duties.” His tone is playful, but underneath lives a wounded sort of indignance, a willingness to set the record straight.
His dedication to the bit is unfairly charming - his voice drops, conspiratorial. "Now, will you please allow me to demonstrate my... attention to detail? My ability to follow orders?” A familiar cheeky smirk wrests its way onto his lips, and the teasing thread underlying his offer makes you want to shiver.
You school your face into a pout, even as your fingers tighten in the pressed fabric of his shirt, a rueful acceptance. He’s won this round.
“Fine.”
His eagerness is infectious, all big grins and playful hands as he skirts them down your sides, leaning in. He wraps his arms around you, and then lifts, guiding your fall back down onto the couch with his evol.
The air leaves your lungs at soft kisses that follow, a giddy delirium overtaking you both. You wear matching grins, smiles that finally become breathless sighs as his lips trail lower.
He descends, breath shuddering in time with your own. With aching slowness, he presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. A mark. A claim. A plea.

His hands shake as they skim the band of your underwear, and the groan that follows from him is almost mournful, a man at the edge of divine bliss. You grasp onto the fabric of the couch for balance as he nudges your legs further apart, settling himself between them like he was meant to be there, like he has always belonged there.

 A strangled sound escapes you, and he answers with hungry, needy gasps. Your feet find purchase against his shoulders, your thighs trembling as he hooks his arms beneath them and pulls you closer, anchoring you to his mouth.

The first stroke of his tongue is devastating.


A sharp gasp rips through you, your body arching involuntarily. Heat pools in your core, and the black shape of desire ignites, molten and restless, spreading outward in waves. The sensation is too much and not enough, the wet press of his mouth against you making your breath stutter.


His groan vibrates against your most sensitive nerves, a deep, guttural sound that sinks straight into your bones. His grip tightens on your thighs, thumbs pressing gentle circles into your skin as he devours you, slow and thorough, as if he’s making up for all the time lost.

Your thoughts fray at the edges, narrowing down to this, to him, to the slick heat of his tongue tracing patterns into your flesh. You wonder, fleetingly, how he feels down there at the altar of your body—like a sinner in the throes of repentance, offering himself up in devotion, desperate for absolution.

His fingers dig into your thighs as he spreads you wider, opening you to him completely. The hunger in him is palpable, a living, breathing thing, and the realization sends a fresh wave of arousal surging through you.

His face is slick with your arousal, his mouth working against you with unrelenting precision, his dark lashes fluttering as he loses himself in the act of worshiping you. And he's hard—achingly so, his erection straining against the white fabric against his pants, untouched and neglected, as if nothing else in the world matters but this. But you.

A low, broken moan tumbles from your lips, your hands flying to his hair, tangling in the soft strands. You tug lightly, and he groans in response, the sound sending delicious vibrations coursing through you.

Your hips jerk instinctively, a desperate little whimper escaping you. You can feel the pleasure mounting, cresting, tightening like a bowstring about to snap.

"Caleb, Please." you gasp, voice reedy and thin, a warning wrapped in desperation.

And Caleb is nothing if not obedient, his grip on you tightening as he groans and swirls his tongue. He wants this—wants to feel you shatter against him, to consume you whole, to drown in the evidence of your pleasure.

Two fingers slip inside you in a single, fluid motion, curling against that devastating spot that makes your vision go white.

And then—

You break.

Your climax rips through you with stunning force, pleasure seizing your muscles in a near-violent quake. A sob catches in your throat as you arch, your thighs trembling around his head, your hands fisting into the couch as you cry out his name.

He doesn't stop.

He. doesn’t. stop.


He keeps licking, keeps drinking you down, prolonging your pleasure until you’re writhing beneath him, until the overstimulation becomes too much and you beg him, voice barely coherent.

Only then does he relent, slowing his movements, pressing one last reverent kiss against your swollen  center before finally pulling away.

He moves up your body like he’s returning home, trailing kisses along your stomach, between your breasts, up the column of your throat. By the time he reaches your lips, you’re still trembling, still shuddering through the aftershocks.

He captures your mouth in a kiss so deep it steals the breath from your lungs, his tongue tracing the shape of you, letting you taste yourself on his lips.

"So…did I do alright?" he wipes the back of his hand across his flushed face, his violet eyes molten with affection and desire. “Gold star?”


"Shut up," You giggle, shifting forward to collide your lips together, less a kiss and more a joining of mouths.

Now, your fingers splay and dance across his chest, unbuttoning the crisp dress shirt. Your thumbs trace down the planes of this abdomen. You think of his evol, of how forces only exist in tandem: cause and effect. Your hands reach his belt, and he keens, his breath shambling out of his lungs as he scrambles for purchase against the couch. He presses against the contact, and you hear him curse, his unbridled want has effervescence bubbling through your limbs. His hips give the smallest, involuntary thrust before he forces himself still. An equal and opposite reaction.

You look away, certain your fondness for the man is written all over your face. Your eyes are once again on the picture of the two of you, unbridled innocence and linked pinkies.

“Do you remember when we would play hide and seek, and I would always win?”

Caleb gives you a look, head foggy as he tries to focus through the haze you’ve wrapped him in. His voice, when he finally speaks, is rough - scraped raw from restraint. "That's… the treehouse was supposed to be off-limits."

Your fingers play at the hem of his waistband, smile ticking upward at the words ‘off-limits’. “Well,” you look up at him through your lashes, drawing out the word. "It’s not my fault you always played by my rules.”

 His breath hitches, and you see it—that flicker of what you suspect is dark and slithering just below the surface. Something that’s been waiting for years to slip free, to break out and free its mate, living within you.
“Of course I did, pipsqueak. Do you want to know why?”

Your fingertips ghost along the fabric of his underwear, just enough pressure to make his entire body tense. His eyes flicker shut, and when they open again, they're darker, pupils swallowing up the violet-pink of his irises.

He exhales sharply, voice strained. "....W-who do you think used to sneak into your room to peek through your stuff while you were hiding in the treehouse, hmm?"

His hips shift toward your touch, entirely instinctual, and you can’t help the way your lips part slightly at the sight of him like this—his control unraveling in real-time, piece by piece.

"Calebbbb," You try for indignation, or even petulance, but it comes out softer, more breathless. "That’s not fair. That was an invasion of my privacy!"

His face is flushed now, lips parted, head tipping back slightly as you continue your slow, torturous exploration. Each shallow breath shudders through him, rattling loose the last fragments of composure.

"Ahh, so when I did it, it was an invasion of your privacy…" he groans, barely able to string the sentence together as your touch skims higher, "but when you did it, it was okay?"

You smile, the apples of your cheeks creasing against your lower lash line.

"I wanted to know everything about my Caleb," you confess, but your voice lacks penitence. Your fingers trail with the words, tracing along his skin with the weight of their truth. "Especially if he tried to hide it from me.”

 His breath stutters, cool air meeting burning skin as his length springs free —every inch of newly exposed flesh painting him in a deeper shade of ruin.

You drink him in, eyes tracing over every twitch, every flex of muscle as he fists the couch cushions beside him. He’s trying—trying so hard—to keep himself together. Graced with divine ecstasy.

A groan tears from his throat as your hand wraps around him, the weight of him hot and thick in your palm. The sound he makes is ruinous, cracking at the edges, pulled from somewhere deep inside him.

You hum, slow and thoughtful, tilting your head as you squeeze just a little tighter. “Things he tried to hide,” your voice is spun sugar - the kind he would buy for you at summer carnivals.

“Like the noises he’d make when he thought I was asleep in my room.”

His head snaps forward, eyes dark and wild, searching yours like he’s trying to find his footing in the tidal wave you’ve thrown him into.

“I’d press my ear to the wall to listen.”

His entire body jerks. His spine locks tight, shoulders rolling forward like you’ve physically struck him. “Oh, fffff—nope. Nope. I am not finding this out while your hand is on my—”

You stroke him once. Slow. Deliberate. More out of inexperience than anything, but if causes His words to cut off on a strangled moan, head tipping back, throat bared, breath ragged. His hips twitch, involuntary, a betrayal of his need. His fingers flex like he wants to grab hold of you, ground himself, but he’s caught between restraint and surrender.


“You don't want me to keep talking about that?” You ask, as if you are idly talking about the weather. Like you’re not slowly and deliberately wrecking him as you move your wrist, discovering each new sound he can make.

His eyes clench shut, bracing against the sheer intensity of the moment. You see the struggle written across his face—the way his brows knit together, the tension in his jaw. He forces his eyes back open, surrendering. His gaze locks onto yours, glassy and unguarded, uncharacteristically void of comebacks.  He has no retort, no clever remark—just the raw, breathless way he looks at you, hopelessly smitten. He swallows hard, lips parting just enough to let out a whine.

You hum, the sound light and teasing as you press soft, fleeting kisses along his cheekbones, his forehead, the bridge of his nose. “Let me tell you about my day instead.” You murmur between kisses, as if this moment were ordinary, as if he weren’t coming apart in your hands. “Well, this morning I got on the train—”

A sharp, choked laugh breaks from his throat, dissolving into something closer to a whimper as he lets out a creative string of expletives. The heat of him seeps into your skin, damp with sweat that glistens under the cool hues of the evening—pale blue and muted violet, the dying light painting him in soft, feverish color. His breath stutters as he lifts a shaking hand, fingers twitching before pressing clumsily against your lips, a desperate attempt to silence you.

You turn your head, nuzzling into his palm, letting him feel the shape of your smile against his skin. Your voice is warm, laced with quiet mischief. “Don’t you want to hear about your sister’s day?”

His body bows beneath you, muscles trembling as he gives a broken, helpless thrust into your hand. His breath catches—breaks—and then he shatters completely.

He comes back in fragments from his free-fall, the aftershocks leaving him weightless, unmoored if not for the way you crawl and shuffle into his arms. Slowly, lazily, you shift, crawling up beside him with the languid ease of a cat stretching in a sunbeam. He's never felt anything like it before, the pleasure so intense it blurred the line into something nearly unbearable.

You plant a lingering kiss against his lips, warm and unhurried. You hum, contented as you nuzzle closer, tracing the heat still lingering on his brow.  His grip on you loosens his body slowly surrendering to the unraveling .The tension that once held his features taut now melting into something undone.

You watch him through heavy-lidded eyes, satisfaction curling in the depths of your chest. Propping your chin against his shoulder, you drink him in—the unfocused haze in his eyes, the way his pupils are still blown wide, his breath still coming in shallow, uneven gasps.

His head lolls toward you, his gaze finding yours, and for a moment, he just stares—dazed, tethered to the feeling of you, lost somewhere between the remnants of sensation and the slow return to reality. A long, disbelieving exhale parts his lips before a hoarse, breathless chuckle rumbles from his chest. He’s still chasing his breath, still floating in the aftermath, and when he finally moves, it’s sluggish, instinctual—his body seeking yours even now.

You wrap your arms around him, cradling the weight of his head against you, fingers threading through sweat-damp strands of hair as you wait for the rise and fall of his chest to steady.

“Holy shit,” he rasps, his voice rough, scraped raw.

A grin tugs at your lips, slow and knowing. “Yeah?” The word is drawn out, playful, teasing.

He groans, tipping his head back against the cushions, his eyes fluttering shut as another breathy laugh escapes him. “Yeah,” he exhales, shaking his head like he still can’t quite believe it.
Faster than you expect, he shifts, rolling onto his side, gathering you into his arms. You let out a startled breath as he presses you flush against his chest, his nose nudging into your hair, his hands sliding over your bare skin, mapping the shape of you as if memorizing every curve, every dip, every breath.
Your arms find their way around his shoulders, fingers curling against the nape of his neck. You don’t know who sighs first -you’re sinking into him, molding against his warmth like you belong there.
Like you’ve always belonged there.
He leans into you, a quiet desperation in the way he seeks more—more contact, more warmth, more of you. His hands slide to the small of your back, fingers pressing into the curve there as he pulls you flush against him. His muffled words vibrate against your chest. "Don't go.”
You push yourself up on your hands, bracing against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath your palms. His heartbeat, a quiet drum against your touch. For a moment, you just look at him, taking in the way he stares up at you—disarmed, open in a way that makes something deep inside you ache.
It softens into something warm, something that makes your throat tighten with quiet longing. You reach for his left hand, lifting it between you. His fingers are warm, his palm calloused, familiar. You press a kiss to each of his knuckles, slow and reverent, a match to his prelude, sealing something unspoken into his skin.
He watches you—vulnerable, eyes glassy.
His thumb brushes over your cheekbone, featherlight. A touch so tender it sends a shiver down your spine. His expression flickers, unreadable, but then you lift his hand to your lips again, and his breath hitches. You respond.
“I won't. We go together.”
You swing your legs off of him, but your gaze never leaves his. You continue pressing soft, fleeting kisses to his hand, trailing them across his knuckles, his palm, teasing your teeth over his skin. With each kiss, you tug him up, pulling him into the moment, into the gravity of you.
Your head turns to look towards where your bed is made, tucked away in the alcove of your studio apartment, and turns back to him, a question.
He exhales, question barely above a whisper. “Are you sure?”
You grin as you interlace your fingers with his, tugging him along with the same effortless certainty from childhood, when you would drag him from room to room, dictating their games with the absolute authority of a little sister.
You remember the way you used to shove him from your room, arms crossed, huffing in annoyance - a miniature reinforcer of the rule scrawled in uneven marker across a sheet of pink construction paper: NO BOYS ALLOWED!!
You slamming the door, and relishing in your solitude, a boundary you refused to let him cross.
How utterly ridiculous, when there is nothing you want more now than to pull him inside, to close the door behind you and keep him here forever.
 You ache for your bed to smell like him, for him to claim a side as his, for his shirts to hang beside yours in the closet, for his toothbrush to sit alongside yours by the sink. You want to fall asleep with his body curled around you and wake up to the soft, steady rhythm of his breath.
He follows—slowly, deliberately. His eyes never leave yours as he sits up, his breath still uneven, still catching up to the way you unravel him so effortlessly. When he stands, it’s smooth, practiced, but you can feel the way his chest rises too quickly, the way his hands tighten just slightly at your waist.
He’s well aware of how you’re treating him—carefully, deliberately, lovingly.
“Your room,” Its much of a question as it is a statement,  and his hand slides to your waist, guiding you forward, leading you. something settles in your chest. It feels like the universe shifting back into place, like this is how things were always meant to be. He’s finally home.
You walk him backward, slow and deliberate, guiding him toward the bed that has only ever been yours. Until now. He follows easily, sinking down onto the mattress without protest, his breath uneven, his hands gripping his knees like he’s bracing himself for the inevitability of you.
His gaze is dark, hungry—trailing over you, drinking you in, lingering on the contrast between his size and yours. His fingers flex against the sheets, his breath hitching, and you see the moment realization strikes him. He’s never had to be this careful before, already afraid of crumbling the tentative thing of what you both had wanted. Now, his hesitation blooms like something fragile, something vulnerable, and he freezes.
You don’t let him.
You straddle his thighs, settling against him, your warmth seeping through every barrier he tries to hold onto. His hands snap to your hips—not pulling, not demanding—holding. Protective, grounding.
“Pip?” His voice is barely above a whisper, soft and uncertain.
You hush him before he can speak another word, your lips ghosting over his ear. “Shhh,” you murmur, your tone coaxing, reassuring. One hand slides to the back of his neck, fingers threading through his damp hairline there, anchoring him against you. You press him close, letting him feel it—the way your heart pounds for him. You know he feels it. How could he not?