Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The stars never felt farther away than when he was near. 

You’ve known him for years now—through turbulence and silence, distance and closeness. Caleb, with his unwavering sense of duty, with that sharp gaze that sees through everything except your heart. A colonel in the Space Fleet, a man responsible for keeping the galaxy stitched together— and yet , it’s the quiet moments between missions that unravel you.

You weren’t supposed to fall for him. Not like this. Not while standing at his side as a technician, tucked into the same command deck where he commands the stars with a single gesture. Not while sharing routine maintenance reports, debriefing sessions, and the occasional cup of coffee in the silence of the observation deck. 

You were supposed to admire him. Respect him. Follow orders.  But then he started looking at you like that. Or maybe he always did, and you were just too afraid to believe it.

His Evol never quite stayed confined to his command. It lingered. Pulled. Tangled itself into the fabric of every moment you shared. It wasn’t the kind of pull you could measure in units or explain with science. It was slower, softer, the kind of pull that didn’t slam you into orbit—but whispered, stay . And so you did. Through every mission, every battle, every long night where he returned bruised and exhausted, and still managed to smirk at you like you were the first calm thing he'd seen in weeks.

But lately, it’s become unbearable. Because no matter how long you stand by his side, you’re always a half-step away. Close enough to feel the warmth of his presence—never close enough to fall into it.

So you do something reckless. Not battlefield reckless. Not strategy-breaking reckless. Something softer. Petty. Aching.

You steal one of his shirts. Not because you expect him not to notice. Not because you think it will change anything. But because you’re tired of pretending you don’t want more. And it’s the only way you know how to say I miss you , without breaking apart completely. 

His place is quiet—sterile, in the way all military housing is—but he’s lived in this one long enough for traces of him to linger. The coffee mug he always forgets to rinse. The flight jacket half-slouched over the back of his chair. His scent, clinging stubbornly to the air. Warm. Subtle. Like cedarwood and ozone. 

You’ve stayed here before—dozens of times, even. Sometimes after late-night shifts. Sometimes after a mission when neither of you had the energy to be alone. And sometimes just because it was easier to fall asleep on his couch with the hum of the city cars in the background than face the silence of your own quarters.

You were just friends , after all. Friends who trusted each other more than anyone else. Friends who had learned the hard way that war doesn’t leave much room for hearts to speak freely.

But today is your day off. And he’s not here. He left in a rush that morning—called back to command before he even finished his coffee. A small part of you had hoped he’d stay. A bigger part was grateful he didn’t. Because it’s only in his absence that you allow yourself to feel the weight of what you’ve been burying. The ache. The exhaustion. The constant pretending.

You drift toward his room like you’ve done a hundred times before, intending only to grab your datapad, maybe take a nap in the bed he always insists you use when he’s gone. But your fingers pause on the edge of the closet. Hesitate. Then move with a kind of guilty hunger.

You find it folded neatly on the second shelf. A dark, well-worn shirt with his name tag still faintly stitched at the collar. The one he always wears after missions, sleeves rolled up, collar loose. You swear it holds more of him than anything else in this entire apartment.

You press it to your face, and that’s when everything unravels.  His scent is still there—faint but potent, like static in the air before a storm. It slides down your spine like a whisper. Not just the memory of him, but the ache of being near him and never touching. Of hearing your name in his voice but never on his lips the way you want it.

Your body reacts before your mind can stop it. And you let it .  Because you’re tired. Because you’ve spent too many nights curled on this bed pretending you don’t dream of what it would feel like if he touched you the way you crave. Because you’ve stayed silent while watching him flirt with danger, disappear into missions, return with bruises and blood and never once say I missed you too —but look at you like he did.

So you pull the shirt over your head, drowning in it. It smells like him. Feels like him. The fabric slips past your skin like a memory you’re not supposed to hold onto.

You lie down on his bed, the sheets still creased from where he slept. Your hands start to move. And this time, you don’t stop them. You imagine him. Not like he is at work—stoic, powerful, untouchable. But how he is when the world softens. When he forgets to wear the weight of his rank. When he smirks at you across the kitchen counter, teasing you for stealing the last pastry. When his voice drops in the quiet, calling your name like it means something more.

Your fingers tremble. Not from lust, from longing. This isn’t about pleasure. It’s about the ache. The impossible closeness. The need to feel his warmth when you know you’ll never have it for real. 

His shirt swallows you whole. Soft, worn cotton clings loosely to your frame, the scent of him draped over you like heat— masculine, magnetic, undeniably Caleb . It’s too big, the hem brushing your thighs, the sleeves falling over your hands. But it makes you feel closer to him. Almost like he’s here.

You settle back against his sheets, your knees curling slightly as you sink into the place he’s slept in so many times—where you’ve laid before, pretending you weren’t listening for his heartbeat in the quiet.

But today, there’s no pretending. Your hand slips between your legs, tentative at first. Not from shame—but from how raw the ache is. It’s been building for months. Years , if you’re being honest. And it’s not just about wanting him—it’s the way he makes you want. The way he looks at you with that unreadable expression, all heat and gravity and something else that never quite reaches his lips.

You close your eyes and let yourself feel. You imagine him like you’ve never allowed yourself to before. His voice in your ear, low and rough, calling you a good girl in that quiet drawl he uses when the world slows down. The weight of his body pressing you down into the mattress, his fingers trailing up your thighs, firm and warm and sure . 

Your breath hitches. Your touch grows bolder. You imagine his mouth. The way he’d kiss you—slow and possessive, like he’s waited just as long. His teeth grazing your bottom lip, his hand wrapped around your wrist, pinning you down as he whispers, Is this what you wanted, baby? Wearing my shirt like that? Touching yourself in my bed?

You gasp, the heat building fast and dangerous, everything tightening under your skin. You can’t stop the soft moan that escapes your lips—his name, broken and breathless. And you don’t know that he hears it. 

Because a few levels below, the man himself has just returned from command. Still in uniform, boots heavy against the steel floors, he exhales as the apartment door hisses open. He wasn’t expecting to be home this early—but the comms were quiet, and for once, there were no emergencies.

He reaches for the wrist panel by the entrance—his home security linked to the system, just in case something went wrong when he’s off-planet. He doesn’t expect to see you. On his bed. In his shirt. Hand between your thighs. Eyes closed. Lips parted. Whispering his name .

Everything stops. For a moment, he forgets to breathe. The screen blinks quietly, casting a pale glow against his expression. Blank. Tense. A beat of silence. Then another. He turns off the feed. And he walks. Slowly. Quietly. Up the stairs toward the woman in his bed.

You don’t hear the door slide open. Don’t hear the soft press of boots against polished flooring. Don’t feel the shift in the air when he steps inside.

You’re too far gone. Fingers buried between your thighs, breath catching on every gasp, every slow, deliberate drag that makes your muscles tighten and your stomach flutter. The shirt you’re wearing— his shirt—is hitched up around your hips, the fabric clinging to your skin with heat. It smells like him. Still warm with traces of cedar, ozone, and something darker. Something intoxicating .

Your other hand fists the sheets beneath you— his sheets—already damp with sweat and shame and longing. You don’t even try to stop the sound that leaves your mouth. His name, breathless and wrecked. A whimper. A plea. You don’t know which.

You imagine him here. Not as the Colonel the world salutes, but the man who stands too close when he talks to you, who looks at you like he’s memorizing your every breath. The man who touches your lower back when you’re both pretending it means nothing. The man who haunts you.

You picture his hands instead of your own—larger, calloused, precise. You’ve seen what those hands can do to a battlefield. You wonder what they’d do to you , if he let go of all that control.

“Is this what you do when I’m not home?” The voice hits you like a thunderclap. Deep. Low. Unmistakable. 

You freeze. Your heart stutters violently, blood roaring in your ears.  He’s standing there, just inside the bedroom, half-shadowed by the low lights. Still in uniform, the dark jacket unbuttoned just enough to show the black undershirt clinging to his chest. His eyes—stormy, narrowed, dark —lock onto you like he’s seeing everything. And he is.

You’re sprawled on his bed, legs parted, breathing hard. Wearing nothing but his shirt and your guilt. Caught in the middle of a fantasy you didn’t know was real.

You try to speak. To explain. To move . But you can’t. Not with the way he’s looking at you. Like he’s starving. Like you’re the sin he’s been trying not to commit for years.

His jaw flexes. His fists are clenched at his sides. And still, he doesn’t move. “I’ve imagined you like this,” he says, voice rough with restraint. “On my bed. In my shirt. Moaning my name.”

Your breath catches. Your thighs clench.

“I’ve stopped myself,” he continues, stepping forward once—slow, measured, dangerous . “Every day. Every night. From touching you. From ruining you the way I’ve craved.”

Another step.

“But you come into my home,” he murmurs, voice dropping lower, darker, “put yourself in my clothes, on my bed, and touch yourself like you belong to me.” 

You swallow hard. You’re trembling now, heart hammering in your chest. Not from fear. From something far, far worse.

“You don’t know what you’ve done,” he says. 

His voice isn’t angry. It’s reverent. Like you’ve become something holy in his eyes—something he’s worshipped from a distance too long. And now he’s done watching from afar.

“I—” you choke on the word, scrambling for air, for thoughts, for something to say that doesn’t sound like begging. “Caleb, I didn’t mean— I wasn’t trying to—”

You sit up fast, heart in your throat, his shirt falling lower on your thighs like it’s trying to hide you. Your hand trembles as you press it to your chest, like maybe you can force your heartbeat to slow, like maybe this moment will shatter if you just say the right thing.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, still breathless, cheeks blazing hot. “I didn’t mean for you to see. I thought you were still at work, I just— I don’t know what came over me, I’m sorry—” 

Your voice falters, unraveling with every shaky breath. You can’t meet his eyes. Not when your skin is still flushed, your thighs still slick, your body still thrumming with the desperate need that had built and built—only to snap to attention the second he spoke. 

And god, you’re still wet . Still aching. Still ruined with the taste of him on your tongue, even if you’ve never really had him. But the silence that follows your apology? That’s what truly wrecks you. Because Caleb doesn’t speak, not right away. He just stares. Head tilted slightly, breathing slow, but his jaw clenched like he’s at war with himself.

And then he laughs. A low, humorless sound that slides down your spine like ice.

“You’re sorry,” he repeats, as if the words are foreign. Bitter. “You think this is something you need to apologize for?”

Your gaze snaps up. His eyes are darker now. Not with anger—but possession. Obsession . That hunger he always buried beneath rank and reason has cracked wide open, no longer hidden behind a smirk or a casual joke.

“You don’t understand, do you?” he says, voice low, gravelled. “You think I haven’t thought about this? Dreamed about it? You think I haven’t watched you sleep in that bed and imagined pulling that pretty little body apart with my hands?” 

Your breath hitches—sharp and sharp again . 

“You think I haven’t fought every fucking instinct in me to keep my hands to myself when you look at me like that? When you say my name in that soft little voice like you don’t know what it does to me?”

Your knees press together, a soft gasp caught in your throat.

“I’ve kept this part of me from you,” he says, stepping closer, one slow step after another. “The part that wants to keep you in my bed. In my clothes. Under my command .”

Your thighs tremble. Your fingers tighten in the sheets. You're still wet, still burning, and his words only make it worse.

“I’m not a good man, princess,” he breathes. “But I’ve tried to be. For you. I’ve tried to give you space. Time. Patience.” 

His gaze drops to your bare thighs, the curve of them just beneath the hem of his shirt. You see his jaw clench again—so hard it looks like it hurts.

“And now you apologize to me,” he growls, a hand running through his hair, like he’s barely holding himself back . “While sitting on my bed , in my shirt , with that sweet pussy still dripping from your own fingers like you were made for me—” 

“Caleb,” you breathe—half protest, half plea, cutting him off. 

But it’s already too late. His control is crumbling . And all you’ve done is invite the part of him he’s kept buried for too long to the surface.

His eyes drag over you slowly—ruthlessly—like he’s committing every inch of you to memory. His uniform fits him like a second skin, dark and crisp and spotless except for the slight looseness at the collar where he always tugs it when he’s tired. The high-ranking insignia gleams on his shoulder, a cold contrast to the heat in his eyes.

You’ve never wanted to be touched so badly in your life. But he doesn’t move. Not yet. He just watches. Listens to every shaky breath you take, to the soft rustle of sheets as you shift, thighs pressing together in a hopeless attempt to ease the throb between your legs. The ache that he caused. That only he can fix now.

“You’re quiet all of a sudden,” he says, voice like gravel and thunder. “Not so loud without my name on your lips now, are you?” 

You flinch. Not from fear but from the way his words twist inside you. He knows. God, he knows everything now.

“You wanted this,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Don’t lie. You thought about me. You were thinking about me inside you while wearing my shirt, weren’t you?” 

You try to look away. 

“Eyes on me,” he commands softly. “Or are you too ashamed to admit the truth?”

Your breath catches. Your heart is going too fast , the room spinning in the haze of your own arousal. Your panties are soaked, clinging to you, and he hasn’t even touched you yet.

“You were fucking yourself in my bed,” he continues, inching closer, voice low and deliberate. “Wearing my clothes. Saying my name. I want to hear you say it, princess.”

You shake your head, unable to breathe through the thick heat suffocating your chest. He leans in just a little— just enough . “Say it,” he breathes, tone tightening like a vice. “Say you wanted me.”

Your fingers twist in the sheets, your thighs shaking from the pressure, from the denial. Every nerve in your body screams for him. For contact. For relief. But you know he won’t give it—not until you admit it. Not until you surrender.

“Caleb…” you whisper, voice trembling, “please…”

“That’s not what I asked.” His eyes are sharp. Unforgiving. Hungry . 

“You’re going to look me in the eye,” he says, slowly unfastening the top button of his uniform jacket, the movement agonizingly controlled. “And you’re going to tell me that you wanted me. That you came into my bed, in my fucking shirt, because you were too wet and desperate to keep pretending you didn’t think about me when you touched yourself.” 

You’re panting now, knees drawn up, body flushed and aching.  And he knows . He can see how wrecked you already are. How you’re squirming, clenching around nothing, leaking through your underwear just from the sound of his voice. From the image of him, powerful and poised, standing over you like you belong to him.

You can’t take it anymore. “I wanted you,” you gasp, the words ripped from you like confession. “I wanted you, Caleb—I couldn’t stop thinking about you—I always think about you—”

He exhales through his nose, jaw tight, like he’s been waiting an eternity to hear that. “I need you,” you whisper, broken now. “Please.”

And finally— finally —his restraint snaps.  Your confession hangs in the air like a live wire—raw, exposed, and trembling.  It’s the truth. And now that you’ve said it, you can’t take it back. But Caleb… he’s far from satisfied.

The shift is subtle at first—a quiet hum beneath your skin, like pressure in the air right before a storm breaks. You don’t notice it immediately, not until your body sinks ever so slightly into the mattress. Like the bed has grown heavier. Denser. Like something is pulling you down .  Your breath stutters.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, tone low and lethal as he drags his jacket off slowly, revealing the sleek black shirt beneath. “But not good enough.”

You stare at him, heart slamming against your ribs, limbs heavy and hot with tension. “Caleb…” you whisper.

He lifts one hand, fingers loose, and you feel it —a subtle flex of pressure in the air around you. Your wrists press gently into the sheets without being held. Your back arches slightly without your control. It’s not overwhelming, not enough to scare you. But it’s enough to make you feel it. Him.

“You think you get to say it once and have me come running?” he asks, circling the edge of the bed like a predator . “After all this time, after all the nights you’ve laid here and pretended you didn’t want me?”

The gravity pulses again—soft, deliberate, like an invisible hand stroking over your body. Your thighs twitch. Your breath shudders. “I want to hear you beg,” he says. 

You’re already half-gone—mind fogged with heat, hips subtly rolling as you try to relieve the aching throb between your legs. The pressure of his Evol presses down again, just enough to keep you still. Just enough to make you feel helpless.

“Say it again,” he commands, his voice now just inches from your ear, low and dark. “And mean it this time.”

You bite your lip, breath catching. “Please, Caleb—”

“ No. ” The word cracks like a whip. “Not like that. You want me? You tell me exactly what you want. Use that pretty mouth. Or you’ll stay like this— needy and untouched. ”

His words punch through you, hot and sharp. You writhe beneath the weight of him—not his hands, not his body… but his power . The controlled pressure of his Evol makes your body tremble with frustration. You can’t move the way you want to. You can’t even touch yourself now.

“I want—” you gasp, voice thin and desperate. “I want your hands on me— I want you to touch me— please , I can’t— I need you— Caleb, please, I need you so bad it hurts—”

He lets out a breath—low and hungry—and suddenly the pressure vanishes . Like a switch flipped. And you gasp, your body free again, breath flooding your lungs.

“You should’ve said that sooner,” he growls, already crawling over the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. “Now lie back, princess.”

His hands finally land on you—hot, real , and no longer restrained. One hand grips your thigh, spreading you open, while the other pulls the shirt higher up your body.

“You wanted this?” he murmurs against your neck, mouth trailing fire over your skin. “You’re going to take it now.” 

And this time you will . His hands are on you— finally on you—and everything else disappears.

He spreads you open like he owns you, like he’s done it a thousand times in his mind, each movement exact, hungry, controlled. The heat of his palms burns against your thighs as he kneels between them, dragging the fabric of his shirt higher, higher—until it’s bunched at your waist and your soaked panties are the only thing between you and his mouth. 

And god, the look on his face—like he could devour you whole. 

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice molten as his fingers trace the wet outline of your underwear. “So damn wet. Is this all for me, princess?”

You whimper, nodding helplessly, your body twitching beneath the ghost of his touch. He exhales sharply through his nose, jaw tight, like he’s the one about to lose control.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” he growls, pulling the fabric aside to reveal the slick mess underneath. “I’ve thought about your pussy wrapped around my fingers more times than I can count—and now you’re laid out for me, dripping, desperate…”

He sinks two fingers into you with a sudden, slick thrust. You cry out, back arching, stars bursting behind your eyelids. The stretch, the pressure— him —it’s too much and not enough at once. He groans softly under his breath, eyes fixed on where he’s inside you. “Fuck, you feel even better than I imagined.”

And still, he doesn’t speed up. He moves slowly, deliberately, fucking you open with long, measured strokes. Watching your every reaction. Your every gasp. His Evol hums in the air again—subtle but present—pulling your hips closer, making it impossible to escape the rhythm of his hand.

“You wanted to be ruined, didn’t you?” he murmurs. “Wanted to come in here, put on my shirt, and make yourself fall apart thinking about my cock.”

Your moan is all the answer he needs. He curls his fingers inside you, finding that spot that makes your legs shake, and presses hard .

You shatter. Your voice breaks around his name, your body convulsing under his touch as your climax rips through you like lightning—violent, needy, raw. And still, he doesn’t stop. His fingers keep moving, coaxing every last tremble from your body, watching you fall apart like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“God, look at you,” he mutters, leaning over you now, his chest brushing your thighs, his breath hot against your neck. “You’re perfect. Mine. ”

You grab for him, desperate for something to anchor you, but he catches your wrists and pins them above your head— not with force , but with gravity. You gasp, trembling under the weight of his Evol. Your body is still twitching, hypersensitive and spent—and yet, you’ve never felt more alive .

He leans in, his forehead brushing yours, and for a moment you see it—the crack in his armor. The soft part of him that’s completely ruined by you.

“I tried to be good,” he breathes, voice rough now, thick with emotion. “I tried to keep my hands off you. Tried to pretend I didn’t want to bury myself inside you every time you smiled at me.”

You blink up at him, dazed and dizzy and so, so full of him. “But I’m not pretending anymore.”

He lets go of your wrists, grabs your thighs and pushes them open wider.  “You’re mine now,” he says. “And I’m not letting you go.” 

Your chest is still heaving when he moves back over you, his body heavy with restrained power, his gaze locked on yours with a feral kind of focus. His fingers are slick with you, his touch still lingering between your legs like a ghost—hot, consuming, impossible to forget.

You can’t stop trembling. And then you whisper, voice raw and wrecked. “Don’t stop.”

Caleb stills, just for a breath. And then he smiles . Not soft. Not sweet. Dark.

His fingers trail along your inner thigh again, lazy now, like he’s memorizing the shape of your need. “Oh, princess…” his voice drops into a low rasp, dragging through you like velvet. “You’re not done. Not even close.”

He kisses the inside of your knee, then higher, and higher—until you’re squirming again, body hypersensitive but already greedy for more. You reach for him, still shaking. “I want you. Please, Caleb…”

His hands grip your hips hard, pinning you back into the mattress. 

“You want me?” he murmurs, leaning in close, breath hot against your ear. “You want me like this? When I’m in control ? When I’m fucking obsessed with the way you fall apart for me?”

You gasp. You shouldn’t love how it sounds—but god, you do. You nod, voice barely a whisper. “Yes… I want all of you.”

His hand slides slowly back down between your legs, two fingers teasing your folds again, gentle but commanding . “I bet you thought about it,” he growls, mouth at your jaw now, nipping at your skin. “Didn’t you?”

You blink up at him, dazed. “What…?”

“Me.” his other hand grabs your chin and turns your face to his. His gaze is molten . “At work. In my uniform. All cold and composed and untouchable while you sat there pretending you weren’t soaking wet under your station console.”

You let out a soft, broken whimper.

“You did think about it,” he says, satisfaction curling in his voice like smoke. “You thought about my hands on you while I barked orders. Thought about crawling under my desk, didn’t you? Obeying every word I said like a good little soldier.” 

Your breath stutters, your hips lifting into his hand again. His fingers slide against your entrance, teasing— never giving . You’re already soaking again, so needy you could cry.

“Say it,” he whispers against your throat. “Tell me what you thought about.” 

“I—” you swallow, body twitching under the weight of his words, of the ghost of his Evol still lingering around your limbs. “I watched you and I… I imagined you taking me in your office. Still in uniform. Rough. Like you couldn’t wait.”

He groans, low , like it’s been ripped from his chest.

“You like me rough, baby?” he breathes, voice no longer in control. “You like me when I’m like this ?” 

You nod, desperate. “Yes— yes , Caleb—please—”

That’s all it takes. He grabs your thighs, pulls you down the bed in one swift motion. His mouth crashes into yours— hungry , claiming, filthy—devouring every sound you make. He presses the head of his cock to your entrance, thick and hot and bare, dragging it slowly through your slick folds.

And then he pauses. “You want this?” he asks, voice hoarse. “You want me to ruin you for anyone else?”

You’re breathless. Frantic. “Yes. Caleb, please— fuck me —”

He pushes in. One slow, devastating inch at a time, watching your face the entire time as your lips fall open, your back arches, and you shatter again without even meaning to.

He sinks into you slowly— so slowly it feels like your body might split apart just from the stretch. From the size of him, the weight of him, from the unbearable pleasure of finally, finally being filled by the man you’ve wanted for so long.

Your lips fall open in a silent gasp, your head pressing back into the pillow as your back arches off the bed.

“Fuuuck,” he groans, low and wrecked, forehead pressed to yours as he bottoms out. “You feel… god, you feel like heaven.” 

He doesn’t move at first. Just stays there, buried inside you to the hilt, holding himself still like he's barely hanging on. And you realize—he’s shaking. Not from effort. From restraint.

You feel it in the way his fingers grip your hips just a little too tight. The way his jaw flexes. The way he moans —low and broken—when your walls clench around him, already begging for more.

“I’ve wanted this,” he whispers against your lips, voice rough and shaking. “So fucking long… Thought about it every night, thought about you on your knees , on my desk, under me in this bed—” 

He starts to move.  Slow, deep thrusts that make your breath catch, that force little gasps from your mouth with each one. The sound of your bodies, of wet, slick need meeting brutal control, fills the room with something filthy and reverent all at once.

You cry out, nails clawing at his shoulders, but he doesn’t stop— won’t stop—just keeps driving into you with long, consuming strokes that reach the deepest parts of you. That stretch you in ways you’ve only ever dreamed about.

“You’re mine,” he growls, biting down on your shoulder hard enough to leave a mark. “Mine. Say it.”

“I’m—fuck—yours, Caleb, I’m yours, please —”

He grunts, snapping his hips harder, faster now, burying his face in your neck like he needs to breathe you in to survive.

“You gonna come for me, baby?” he whispers, voice almost gentle now, contrasting the way he’s pounding into you. “So fucking tight—so goddamn perfect—come on, give it to me.”

His hand slides down between you, fingers finding your clit with the same precision he uses on the battlefield. And it’s too much —the stretch, the pressure, the way he’s whispering your name like a prayer torn from his chest.

You come undone. Your body clamps around him, shaking, spasming, screaming his name as the orgasm rips through you like a flood. You see stars—real ones, behind your eyes—white-hot and endless, your entire world collapsing inward.

He follows with a guttural groan, hips jerking erratically as he thrusts deep, grinding into you, spilling himself inside with a rough curse and your name broken on his lips.  He collapses onto you, his weight grounding you, both of you drenched in sweat, breath ragged and uneven. His hand finds yours, fingers twining together like it’s the only way he can anchor himself. 

He doesn’t speak right away. He just holds you. Inside you. Around you. Against you. “I’m never letting you go,” he says softly, fiercely, his lips against your cheek. “You’re mine now. In every way that matters.” 

And you believe him. Because even in the silence that follows, you can still feel his gravity pulling you in.

Your body’s still trembling beneath him, boneless and soaked in sweat, skin flushed and glowing with the aftershock of your climax. Caleb’s still inside you, softening slowly, his weight pressing you into the mattress like an anchor—his breath ragged, his hand stroking lazily up and down your thigh like he can’t believe you’re real.

He lifts his head slightly, his lips brushing your temple. “You okay?” he murmurs, voice gravelled and wrecked. “Didn’t hurt you?”

You nod, dazed, still high on the intensity of it all. “No. I’m okay.”

He smiles, just barely. A small, almost reverent thing. He leans down to kiss your shoulder, slow and lingering. And for a moment, you can feel it—the part of him that loves you in silence. That worships you even when he won’t say it out loud.

But then you shift beneath him. You roll onto your stomach. Slowly. Deliberately. And you look back at him over your shoulder, your eyes half-lidded, voice soft but sharp.

“I’m not done.” Caleb stills. His hand on your thigh freezes. You reach back, tug his wrist just enough to make your point. “I don’t want soft.”

His breath catches. You arch your hips slightly, offering him the view—the slick, swollen heat of you still pulsing with need. His shirt is still bunched at your waist. Your skin’s glowing. Your mouth is parted. And you’re inviting him .

“Be rougher,” you whisper. “Please.”

His pupils blow wide.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he growls, kneeling behind you now, his cock already twitching back to life as he takes you in from behind. “You think I haven’t imagined this? You think I didn’t dream about what I’d do to you if I ever let myself go?”

You glance over your shoulder again, smirking. “Then show me.”

That’s all it takes. In a blink, his hands are back on you—gripping, claiming. He spreads your thighs roughly, one hand pressing into the small of your back to arch you deeper while the other wraps tight around the base of your neck.

“Mine,” he growls.

And he pushes in again. Hard. You gasp—loud and helpless—as he fills you again in one sharp, punishing thrust. The stretch, the angle, the force—everything is overwhelming. Perfect. You cry out into the sheets, fingers clawing at the mattress as he starts to fuck you in earnest.

No gentleness. No hesitation. Just skin against skin. His hips slamming into yours. His hand wrapped tight around your neck—not choking, just holding. Dominating. Keeping you right where he wants you.

“You wanted this?” he pants behind you, every word punched between thrusts. “This is what you think about? Me taking you like this— owning you ?”

“Yes—fuck, yes—Caleb—”

Your voice cuts off into a cry as his grip tightens slightly on your throat, just enough to make your vision blur, to make your body burn brighter with pleasure.

“Say it again,” he demands, his other hand sliding up your spine, holding you in place. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you sob, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes from how good it feels. “I’m yours, I’m yours, please —”

His thrusts get faster, harder, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing through the room, mingling with your cries and his groans and the slick, desperate rhythm of your bodies colliding. You’re so close again. So unbelievably close.

“Come for me again,” he growls, voice wrecked, as he pounds into you from behind. “Let me feel you—fucking take it , baby—”

And you do. You break apart under him again, harder this time—louder. A scream torn from your throat as your orgasm crashes through you like a supernova. Your body convulses, squeezes him so tight that he curses and thrusts once, twice more before spilling into you with a roar, his hips slamming against your ass as he empties himself inside you.

He collapses over your back, chest heaving, arms shaking, holding himself up just enough not to crush you.

He doesn’t speak for a long time, just breathes against your skin. “I think I’ve completely lost my mind over you,” he mutters.

And the way he says it—quiet, hoarse, honest —undoes you more than anything else.

Chapter Text

Skyhaven Command—Two weeks later

You weren’t trying to make him jealous. Not really. But the new lieutenant? Young. Friendly. Too friendly. A little too casual when he asked if you were free after the mission debrief.

You laughed politely. Declined, of course. But that didn’t matter. Because Caleb was watching. You could feel it—his gaze like a storm cloud gathering behind your spine. He didn’t say a word during the meeting. Didn’t even look at you directly. But the second it was over? He spoke one word. “ Office. ”

His voice didn’t leave room for argument. No one questioned it when you followed.

Now you’re standing in front of his desk, still in uniform, arms crossed, trying to keep your breath even while the door hisses shut behind you.

He doesn’t speak.  He circles behind you—slow, calculated steps echoing off the metal floor. You hear the soft click of the lock. The low hum of the privacy field activating.

“ You think I didn’t see him?” Caleb asks, his voice low, controlled. Too controlled. “The way he looked at you?”

Your pulse jumps. “I said no,” you murmur, turning slightly toward him. “He just—”

“I don’t give a damn what he said.” his hand is on your waist in an instant, spinning you around, pressing you back against the edge of his desk. He crowds into your space, and you feel it —the shift. That magnetic pull. His Evol, subtle but present, curling into the room like gravity around a collapsing star.

“You shouldn’t have smiled at him,” he murmurs, eyes dark. “Not like that.”

“I wasn’t—Caleb—”

“You think I don’t know that smile?” His hand comes up to your chin, tilting it until you have no choice but to meet his gaze. “You give it to me when you’re about to come.”

Your breath catches hard.

“And he thought it meant something else.” he leans in, mouth brushing your ear. “That makes me want to remind you exactly who you belong to.”

Your knees go weak. You can feel the hard edge of his desk behind you. Feel the heat of him in front of you. And suddenly, you’re the one forgetting how to breathe.

“You wore this uniform to work,” he says, hands drifting lower, tugging at your belt. “Thinking I’d be able to behave. Thinking I’d play nice.”

Your hands find the edge of the desk behind you, gripping hard.

“Caleb,” you whisper, flushed, voice trembling, “someone could hear—”

His mouth crashes against yours. It’s not sweet. It’s not soft. It’s claiming . Teeth, tongue, breath stolen between clenched jaws and bitten lips. And when he pulls back, you’re gasping—ruined—and his eyes are still burning.

“No one’s hearing anything,” he growls. “Not unless I want them to.”

He pushes you back onto the desk with a thud, hand already sliding between your legs, your uniform halfway undone in seconds.

“You’re going to take everything I give you,” he whispers, dragging your hips to the edge, “and then you’re going to walk out of this room with my marks on your skin.”

The edge of the desk digs into your lower back as he yanks your hips forward, pulling you flush against him. His grip is punishing—not hurting, but firm. Unrelenting. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go for even a second.

“Do you have any idea,” he hisses, “what you do to me?”

Your breath stutters as his hands slide beneath your uniform, pushing fabric aside like it offends him.

“I spent that entire meeting thinking about this pussy,” he growls, fingers dragging through your panties, already soaked. “Wondering if you were wet under that perfect uniform. If you were dripping just from being near me.”

You whimper, eyes fluttering shut.

“Don’t look away,” he snaps, his hand tightening suddenly at your throat. Not choking— claiming . His thumb presses against your pulse. “You’re going to watch me while I wreck you.”

He tears your underwear down with one swift motion—doesn’t even look at them, just tosses them somewhere across the room like they’re unimportant. Because they are. Only you matter now.

“You like it when I talk like this, don’t you?” he murmurs, stroking your folds with two fingers, slow and cruel. “You want me unhinged. Want me to lose control. Want to be fucked by the man who commands an entire fleet—because you know I’d burn every star in the sky if it meant keeping you mine.”

You gasp—legs trembling, body arching into him without thinking. He pulls his belt free with one sharp tug—the clink of metal loud in the otherwise quiet office—and unzips just enough to free his cock, hard and flushed and angry with need.

“You’re going to take it all,” he says. “Every inch. And you’re not going to be quiet about it, either.”

You open your mouth to beg, but he’s already pushing inside. One brutal thrust—deep, claiming, perfect —and your head snaps back, a sound between a cry and a moan tearing from your throat. His hand is back at your neck, holding—not squeezing, not choking—just owning. His other hand grips your thigh, forcing your legs wide open as he begins to move. Not slow. Not gentle. Possessive. Hard, dragging thrusts that fill you to the hilt and pull back just enough to make you feel every inch as he slams in again.

“You hear that? ” he growls, voice ragged. “That’s what your pussy sounds like when it’s taking its owner .”

Your fingers claw at the desk, desperate for something to ground you. He leans in, mouth at your ear.

“I want you to think about this,” he pants, thrusting harder now. “Next time someone looks at you. I want you to remember how you feel right now. Split open on my cock. Owned. Marked. ”

Your eyes roll back as he fucks you deeper—harder—his desk shaking beneath you, the sound of skin on skin echoing off metal and glass.

You can’t hold on. You’re close— so close —but he doesn’t let up. His hand dips between you, fingers rubbing your clit in tight, brutal circles, timed perfectly with every thrust. “You’re mine,” he growls, voice breaking. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you sob, body convulsing. “Fuck, Caleb—I’m yours, only yours —”

You come hard, body tightening around him like a vice, legs shaking violently as the orgasm slams through you like a wave.

He follows with a loud groan, burying himself deep, his cock twitching as he spills inside you, hips jerking with every pulse. His hand stays at your throat, the other holding your hip in a bruising grip—claiming you from the inside out.

Silence follows. Just your ragged breathing. The sound of your heart pounding. The weight of everything he finally let loose. Then—softer. Rough, but honest. “If anyone else looks at you like that again…” he leans in and kisses your jaw, whispering it against your skin. “I’ll break their fucking neck.”

You're still breathless, trembling against his desk, thighs sticky and shaking from the intensity of it all. His cum drips between your legs, and his hand hasn't left your body—not for a second. He keeps it there, palm warm against your stomach, like he's grounding himself with your presence.

But his breath hasn't slowed. His body hasn't relaxed. And when he speaks again—his voice is low. Dangerous. Hungry.

“That still wasn’t enough,” he mutters.

You glance up, eyes wide, voice hoarse. “Caleb—”

His hand grips your jaw, thumb sliding across your bottom lip.

“You think I can just let it go?” he breathes, dark eyes glittering. “After the way he looked at you? After the way you smiled and didn’t even realize how fucking perfect you are?”

You blink up at him, flushed and ruined, barely able to hold yourself upright—and still, your body pulses at his words.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says, slowly circling around to stand in front of you. “But I’m going to punish you anyway.”

You suck in a sharp breath.

“Get on your knees.” the command slices through the air like a blade. You don’t even hesitate.

You slide off the desk, your legs still wobbly, and lower yourself to the floor in front of him. His uniform hangs open now, belt undone, pants low on his hips. He looks down at you like you’re the center of his whole goddamn universe.

His hand slips into your hair. “That’s it,” he murmurs, wrapping the strands around his fingers. “You look so fucking pretty like this. My perfect little thing.”

You flush, thighs clenching instinctively. He strokes himself slowly, lazily, the head of his cock already hard again. Still wet from being inside you. Still twitching with the need to claim your mouth the same way he just claimed your body.

“You’re going to open that pretty mouth,” he says, tone soft but merciless , “and take everything I give you. No whining. No flinching.”

“Yes, sir,” you whisper, eyes wide.

He pauses. Then groans— wrecked . “Fuck,” he hisses. “Say that again.”

You lean forward, mouth open, eyes locked on his. “Yes, sir.”

His cock jerks in his hand. “I should keep you like this,” he mutters, guiding himself to your lips. “On your knees in my office. Mouth full of me, so no one else even thinks about speaking to you.”

You moan softly as he pushes the tip past your lips, your tongue swirling instinctively, tasting him, taking him deeper. His hand tightens in your hair, guiding your pace—but never rough. Just firm . Just enough to say, I’m in control now.

“That’s it, baby. Just like that,” he breathes, voice cracking. “You take me so well. So fucking obedient for me.”

You gag slightly when he hits the back of your throat, but he pulls back immediately, fingers brushing your cheek.

“Breathe,” he murmurs, thumb caressing your jaw. “Good girl. There you go.”

Then deeper again. Slower. Controlling every inch. He starts to thrust gently, his hips rolling forward with perfect rhythm, watching you through hooded eyes like he’s hypnotized. Like he can’t look away.

“You like this, don’t you?” he pants. “Letting me use your mouth. Letting me fuck it like it’s mine.”

You hum around him, eyes fluttering, and the vibration makes him growl.

“God, you’re going to be the fucking death of me,” he mutters, hips stuttering. “Look at you… so good for me. So mine.”

You’re drooling. Moaning. Eyes glazed and cheeks flushed—and still, you don’t stop. You want this. Want to please him. To give him everything he asks for. And when he finally comes, it’s with a long, guttural groan—his hand tight in your hair, his body shaking, his release spilling down your throat as he murmurs, “Swallow, baby. Just like that.”

You do. You swallow everything, never breaking eye contact. When it’s over, he drops to his knees in front of you, hands cupping your face, lips brushing yours softly—almost reverently.

“You’re mine,” he whispers again, more to himself than to you. Then, softer. “I don’t care if it makes me crazy. I’m not letting you go.”