Archive of Our Own

Caleb has a tendency to treat his body like a garbage can. You spent all of high school pressuring him to ditch the three-in-one shampoo/conditioner/body wash. You’ve had to tackle him just to smear a thumb’s-worth of moisturizer on his cheek. During his first semester at the Academy, you sent him a bottle of generic drugstore face wash as a joke, but not really. You found it in his shower caddy during a later visit, still full (but to his credit, opened) and spent a good half-hour bickering about how a nightly splash of water doesn’t count as a skincare routine. He ended that conversation by gesturing at his face which was, in fact, infuriatingly clear.

All this doesn’t even account for the culinary experiments he conducts when he isn’t cooking for you. You once caught him taking shots of an odd concoction of applesauce, lemon juice, and coffee while he was studying for his exams. You know, like a freak.

Thankfully, he’s become more amenable to your suggestions corrections now that he’s older. It probably helps that you’re sleeping together now. You’ll take the win however you can get it, as long as it gets him to smack on some lip balm every so often. But with him spending most of his time in Skyhaven, there are limits to your supervision. He usually insists on being the one to shuttle back and forth between there and Linkon for your convenience, but after he appears in your doorway with a swath of fine red bumps across his jaw, you figure it’s your turn to make the trip.

Caleb, as always, is happy to have you. His door swings open before you’ve even knocked. He draws you to him without a word and it feels like you’ve made your way home again, the world righted.

Your reunion goes like this: he draws you into his apartment, nudging your bag aside, and before he can start pecking at you like an old mother hen (“Are you hungry? Room’s ready for you if you want to take a nap before dinner. How was the trip?”) you press your lips to the crook of his neck, his shoulder, wherever you can reach. You’ve learned that sometimes he forgets you’re lovers now, falling back into old brotherly habits. The best way to remind him is pepper him with kiss after kiss.

As you reach up to cup his cheek, he winces. “Careful there, Pipsqueak,” he says lightly. “I just shaved.”

It prompts you to take a closer look. The skin beneath your fingers is clearly irritated, sensitive to the touch. “What, with a chisel?”

“With a razor, smartass. And yes, I used shaving cream, before you ask.” Caleb pokes at your forehead in an old bratty habit of his before following it with a newer one, planting a kiss where his finger marked. “Can we talk about this later? I kind of liked where this was going.”

So did you. And it’s not like his grooming habits were a life-or-death situation. So if you spend the next hour or so riding him on the living room couch, what’s the harm?

You manage to disentangle yourselves before dark, somehow. Caleb’s promised to make you one of your favorite dishes for dinner, giving you free rein over the rest of the apartment in the meanwhile. You take your bag to his room to get settled in.

As you take your toiletries to the bathroom, you remember your ulterior motives for the visit. Taking a cursory peek through the medicine cabinet, it doesn’t take you long to find what you’re looking for. Moments later, you’re standing in the kitchen with a rusty two-dollar razor in hand, giving Caleb the most exasperated look you can muster.

“Caleb. Are you for real?”

He glances at you from above the cutting board. Annoyance flickers across his expression, but not a lick of surprise. “Going through my things again, huh?”

“When did you even buy this? Why? These are the kind of razors you buy when you’re desperate. Like when you’re stuck out in the desert somewhere and have no other options left.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. My electric one broke so I’m using this for now, okay? It does the job.”

“Okay, sure, let’s say that. But when did you last replace it?”

“Come on, Pipsqueak,” he says, his own exasperation now mirroring yours. “Are you seriously mad at me right now?”

“I’m not mad,” you say, because you’re not. You glance between Caleb and the rusty blades. After a beat, your own annoyance dissolves with a laugh. He visibly relaxes at the sound. “I guess some things never change.”

You toss the razor in the trash with flourish. Before he can voice a complaint, you slink your way over to him and embrace him from behind. Your hands ghost over his hips before linking over his lower stomach. Judging by how his grip around the knife loosens, the suggestion of it is crystal clear.

“Replace it,” you purr.

Caleb snorts. He’s clearly trying for sarcasm, but his reply is a bit weak around the edges. “Yes, officer.”

You respond with a pleased hum. His breath catches as your hands migrate lower ever so slightly. “Don’t shave for a bit. Before your next visit, I mean.”

He pauses. “What?”

“You trust me, don’t you?” You release him, tugging gently at the bottom of his shirt. “Just do it, all right? Now. I’m going to go shower, and you’re going to check on whatever’s in that pot. Smells like it’s about to burn.”

When he next visits Linkon, Caleb appears with a week’s worth of stubble. Facial hair’s never really suited him. In high school, his always grew in patchy and disheveled, and you get some sick pleasure knowing it’s only improved marginally with age.

He gives you a bitter look as he steps into your apartment. “Ha ha,” he drones. “Go ahead, laugh it up.”

You grin. “I think it’s cute. You’d fit right in at an Internet cafe. Or a middle school!”

He glares at you, rubbing absentmindedly at his scruff. With a glance down your body, he mutters, “I can think of a place where you’d like it just fine.”

Your temperature spikes just a little, but you’re not sure if you can take him seriously like this. Thankfully, you and Caleb have always been likeminded spirits. With an imploring look, he asks, “Can we skip to the part where I get to shave this off?”

You’ve managed a strange set-up in your dining area—a wooden box sits on the table alongside a large bowl, a couple towels and the makeup mirror from your vanity. Caleb raises a brow at the sight of it. “What’s all this?”

You direct his attentions to the box, prompting him to open it. When he does, he reveals a shaving kit replete with brush, shaving cream, aftershave, and a smaller silver bowl to pour the products into. And, of course, a straight razor, its enameled handle glinting in the foam lining the top lid.

“Surprise,” you chirp.

You wait patiently for praise and gratitude, but Caleb continues examining the kit with nervous curiosity. “I mean it looks great, but I… I don’t know how to use this.”

But you expected that. “I know you don’t. But I do.”

Caleb turns his puzzled stare onto you. You ignore it, nudging him into the seat. He allows himself to be guided and watches you skip over into the kitchen to get your kettle, its spout already steaming. “You do? How?”

You dated a guy in college and he was the polar opposite of Caleb in terms of his meticulous grooming. You were curious about his fancy shaving kit at the time—probably to bring the information back home to Caleb eventually—and he was eager to teach. But you’ve never told Caleb about that relationship, or any of your relationships for that matter, and you’re not particularly interested in starting now.

You give him a pointed look. “Do you really want to know?”

His eyes flare for a moment before cooling, the message received. He avoids looking at you as you return to the table and carefully pour hot water into the larger of the bowls. When you hand him a towel, he sighs. He knows the drill. You’ve made him do this before.

“How long this time?”

“Let’s say five minutes.”

He nods before casting the towel over his head and relents.

While he’s steaming his face, you start creating a lather with the materials in the kit. The cream smells of pine. Windblown, somehow. You smile at the thought of it married with the natural scent of Caleb’s skin.

Caleb resurfaces as soon as the timer goes off, his face gone pink and dewy in the heat. Drawing in a deep breath, he looks at you then the bowl in your hands. With a vaguely amused grunt, he says, “I think I can guess what happens next.”

You reorganize the table, setting the bowl aside and bringing the mirror to the forefront. “Pay attention. I’ll talk you through it, okay?”

You explain how you went about creating the lather and how to care for the badger-hair brush as you dance around him, gently painting shaving cream onto his face. A stubborn wrinkle appears between Caleb’s brows. “I gotta be honest here, Pipsqueak. This sounds like a lot of work for a quick shave.”

You roll your eyes as you brush small circles along his jawline. “It’s supposed to be relaxing. Besides, taking twenty minutes out of the day to take care of yourself isn’t much in the grand scheme of things.”

“It does smell nice,” he concedes in a mumble.

“It does,” you agree. “Now let me do your neck.”

The thing about dating Caleb is that sometimes, you forget your own strength. Or more precisely, you forget he’s no longer the boy you roughhouse with after school. Later, you’ll think it was a slip in memory that compelled you to grip his head and pull it back the way you do.

You use more force than you intended. It's certainly not gentle. But before you can blurt out an apology, Caleb’s expression shifts. His lips part with a gasp. His pupils snap wide. The wrinkle between his brows blinks away and returns even deeper.

Interesting, you think.

“Sorry,” you say, gently patting over his tender scalp in apology. “I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s fine,” he replies. “But try not to make any mistakes while you’re holding that knife. Please?”

“It’s a razor,” you say sourly, running the brush up his throat. “Either way, I know how to handle a blade.”

His Adam’s apple bobs beneath a coat of white. “I know you do.”

You gently tip his head back upright after setting the bowl of shaving cream aside. Drifting to stand behind Caleb’s chair, you take a moment to admire your work in the mirror. You place your hands on Caleb’s shoulders and lean down towards his ear. “Ready?”

And he shivers. Actually shivers. So imperceptibly that you might not have noticed it without touch.

But his expression stays even. With an indulgent shake of the head, he smiles at your reflections. “Yup. I’m all yours.”

The razor splits open silently, the prettiest metal you ever did see. As you handle it, Caleb watches your fingers through the mirror, his gaze clouding as you explain how to grip the blade. By the time the silver is hovering over his skin he seems downright entranced. You would be more frustrated with him if you didn’t have a sneaking suspicion as to why.

Testing your hypothesis, you lower the pitch of your voice, speaking softly over him. “You have to hold the skin taut. Can you do that for me?”

The volume of Caleb’s voice suddenly matches yours, sounding as if he’s speaking in a daze. “Do what for you?”

“Take your fingers and put them here,” you say, your own fingers glancing across the soft peaks of shaving cream blanketing his jaw. “Exactly. Right there. Now, pull.”

Without hesitation, he obeys. He takes a slow breath when you place the blade on his cheek, angling his face just so. Out of curiosity more than anything, you meet his gaze in the mirror. His eyes are storming despite how still he sits. Anyone else might have thought he was nervous.

You know him better than that.

“You want to hold the blade at a thirty-degree angle and shave with the grain.” You demonstrate, the metal passing across his skin and taking his stubble along with it. “Just like that. Short, quick strokes.”

His fingers twitch. You flinch back a moment too late. Caleb hisses as red blooms and blurs with the lather.

“Shit." You disappear briefly to get paper towels from the kitchen and hand it to him upon returning, guiltily watching as he presses it to the fresh cut.

“It’s fine,” he assures you. “That was my fault.”

Shifting uneasily on your feet, you meekly ask, “Should we stop?”

There’s a brief pause as he examines his cut in the mirror. He puts gentle pressure on it with a finger. Once, twice. Then, very lightly, he says, “Why would we? It’s not like I’m any stranger to cuts like this. You saw what I was working with before.”

Caleb looks up at you. Instead of trepidation, there seems to be a kind of excitement lurking beneath his expression, though you’re sure he thinks he’s doing a good job of hiding it. “We should finish what we started, don’t you think?”

You play your own part, giving him a hesitant nod. You guide him back into his previous position, working a bit more tenderly this time. He quickly relaxes under your touch.

You gently run a thumb across his cheek when the lather’s cleared. It’s supple, baby smooth. Then with a tap to his chin, you murmur, “Head back.”

Again, Caleb swallows. You don’t miss the way he subtly lifts his hips, adjusting himself in his seat. Or the way his hands quietly fold themselves in his lap. Any lingering doubts you had about what was going through his mind vanish. You carefully work the razor across his throat, your mind whirring.

You’d bought him the kit out of an effort to get him to care for himself for once. You didn’t expect it to be this fun.

Caleb wipes the last remaining slivers of shaving cream away when it’s all over. Somehow you’ve managed to get through the rest of the process without another cut. He leans forward to study his reflection. When his silence stretches on, you scoff.

“Just admit that you like it.”

He flashes a smile of surrender. “Okay, okay. It does look pretty good. I still don’t know if I have the confidence to replicate it, though.”

You slip your arms over his shoulders, leaning into him. “I could always give you another demonstration. At least until you get the hang of it.”

His expression is careful—so, so careful—as he says, “That’d be nice. Seeing as you’re the expert.”

You press your lips to his temple, hiding your smirk. “Next time I come to Skyhaven, maybe? Just say the word.”

Next time, you shoo Caleb off to shower before the shave. It’s been weeks since you gave him the kit and after one particularly disastrous attempt to use it on his own, he apparently hasn’t touched it since. It’s on the bathroom counter when you arrive and Caleb is a bit confused when you say you’ll have to move your station elsewhere. You chalk it up to the mirror being too high for him to watch you work while seated—which, to be fair, is true.

While he’s off washing himself, you set up shop in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom. When the rush of the shower goes quiet, you fiddle with the razor in anticipation. You’ve been thinking about it ever since you bought it for him. Used it on him. In the nights before your trip, you laid in bed turning the memory and its potential over and over in your hands.

Caleb steps into the room in a pair of sweatpants and the chain you gave him. Even his awful stubble can’t distract you from just how good he looks. He smiles wanly at the chair. “Right to it, huh?” He sits without complaint and you lean into him from the back. He’s slightly damp and solid against you, still radiating with the shower’s heat.

You take a moment to admire your reflections. It’s no wonder that no one ever questioned you were dating back when Caleb used you to ward off his admirers. The two of you look like a unit, uncompromising and indivisible. Even if you stepped out of the mirror’s frame, you feel as if your absence would linger behind.

“It helps to do this while your pores are still open,” you say, tapping a finger against his cheek.

“All right then.” His eyes are a hair too bright, betraying how eager he is despite how calm he sounds. “Go ahead.”

You brush the shaving cream on leisurely, testing him on the process as you go (“Do you soak the brush beforehand? How do you brush it on?”). Though he’s a bit tentative about it, he gives you all the correct answers (“Yes, always, in warm water. In small circles, to lift the hairs.”), to your surprise. Seeing as he has the basics down, you’re able to lather him up quicker than last time. It isn’t long before you’re standing over him, delicately holding the blade.

You act as if you haven’t noticed Caleb’s hand already drifting self-consciously towards his lap, or the way he’s fidgeting. You’ve gotten compliments on your poker face before, probably because you learned it from him. Still, you can’t resist poking a bit of fun.

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll cut you again?”

He chuckles. “So what if you do? I survived.”

Softly, you say, “You’ve put a lot of misplaced trust in me.”

“It’s not misplaced.”

Without warning, you sharply tap the blunt edge of the razor against the side of his neck.

Caleb flinches before he registers what just happened. As he stares at you wide-eyed you can see his mind working to make sense of the carefully composed look on your face. Not wanting to give him the opportunity, you let it break around a cheeky smile. “I guess we’ll find out.”

You move closer, returning to your study of your reflections. His lashes flutter as you run your fingers through his hair while in thought, your long nails scratching lightly at his scalp. “Just sit back and let me handle you this time. There’ll always be more time to teach you. I feel like taking care of you tonight.”

He studies you back. He should be suspicious, certainly after you rapped the razor against him like a toy. But whether by your hand in his hair or his unerring faith in you, he’s inclined to let it go.

“You’re going to spoil me rotten, Pipsqueak.”

You smirk, laying the razor to his cheek to begin. “You spoiled me first.”

The room goes quiet as you work. Now that he’s not obligated to learn from you, Caleb seems more than happy to melt under your touch. His eyes drift closed as you angle him as necessary, opening to slivers every once in a while to bask in your attention.

It’s when you move on to his jawline that his breathing changes. It’s subtle, but unmistakeable. As he lets his head fall back to expose his neck, you note the slow rise and fall of his chest. His hand is firmly and strategically placed over his groin now, enough to hide his excitement from the mirror. But you know what you’re looking for, can see the fit of his pants changing ever so slightly as you work the razor down his throat.

And while you initially wanted to do this for Caleb’s pleasure, you feel your own heat stirring in the pit of your stomach. His whole life in your hands, and he’s submitted to you without a second thought. You could start a war between the Hunter’s Association and the Farspace Fleet in seconds, if you were so inclined.

When you’re done, you reach for the towels at your station. You wet one with a bit of rubbing alcohol before you started, and you discreetly swipe it across the blade. The other you use to clean the remaining bits of lather from Caleb’s neck and face.

Caleb nuzzles into the movement, the sound he makes just short of a kitten’s purr. He blinks his eyes open and he looks so very grateful to you, so soft, that there is a flicker of hesitation in the recesses of your mind. But you’ve gone through all this trouble. It would be such a waste to shuck all your plans away.

You set the towel aside, moving to stand in front of him. You trace a finger along the smooth line of his jaw. Your heart begins to race as you teeter on the precipice. “You look so pretty like this,” you murmur lovingly.

Caleb peers up at you with an open, fond smile. “What?” He chuckles. “Clean shaven?”

You shake your head. Then, stepping primly past the point of no return, you answer, “With a blade at your throat.”

There’s a ripple across his brow. Before he can react, you rest a hand on the arm of the chair, caging him, and lift the razor until it sits at an angle beneath his chin. At his sharp intake of breath, you flick your eyes down towards his lap. “Take it out.”

He stammers, “What?”

“I know your cock, Caleb. I know it’s been twitching in those sweatpants since you sat in this chair. So you’re going to reach in and show me just how much you’ve been enjoying yourself. Do I make myself clear?”

You almost wish you had a camera to capture it—the utterly kaleidoscopic array of emotions that flit across his face. Confusion, shock, delight. But then it clarifies to something sharper and unexpected. When he speaks, the voice is tight with anger, though not quite directed at you.

“Who taught you how to talk like that?”

It’s impressive that even with a razor at his jugular, he’s still able to intimidate you.

But you are, in fact, holding a razor to his jugular, so you bounce back.

You press the edge against his skin—enough for him to feel it, not enough to cut. “That’s the least of your concerns right now, don’t you think?”

Judging by his glare, he doesn’t agree.

Sucking at your teeth, you adjust the razor until the tip is set beneath his chin. You lift it with a bit of force. It’s a twisted echo of your reunion, back when he interrogated you on behalf of the Fleet. He takes a deep breath through his nose, clearly recognizing the similarity.

Nearly cooing at him, you say, “Has the Colonel forgotten how to follow orders?”

His glare cools as he stares up at you, his mouth a hard line. It’s an expression you’ve rarely seen him wear out of uniform. While you once railed against “the Colonel” for taking your Caleb away, you’re a bit ashamed to find you don’t mind seeing him now.

You raise your brow, taunting him. Then, Caleb does the hottest, most terrifying thing he could possibly do in his predicament: he smiles.

His hands move languidly between you. He pulls his waistband down and frees himself. The head of his cock is a flushed, stark pink within the circle of his fingers and you wonder just how long he’s been more than half-hard.

By reflex, he gives himself a lazy stroke. You push his chin up a bit higher. “I didn’t say you could move.”

His hand stills. His eyes are so dark now, just a thin thread of purple at the edges. Quietly, he muses, “So that’s how it’s going to be.”

You shoot him the same cheeky smile you gave him earlier. He doesn’t seem quite so placated this time. Keeping the razor beneath his chin, you walk until you’ve returned to the back of his chair. You angle the blunt edge against his jawline, hovering above the skin beneath. Your other hand comes up to plant itself in his hair.

And Caleb really is pretty like this. At least from this vantage point you can see it in the mirror: his expression still stony despite being at your mercy, his cock already growing stiffer at the sight of his indecent display.

“You know how I play with it, don’t you? I want you to do that for me,” you say, idly stroking his hair. When he doesn’t respond, you clarify, “Use your thumb.”

There’s a long beat as he assesses you—maybe still wondering where you learned all this, or considering whether to refuse. But then, you see his thumb skirting at the ridge of his head, moving up occasionally to trace at his slit. “Good,” you say, smiling at the little exhale he gives in reply.

While he teases himself, you play with the razor, using the blunt edge to skate down his throat and admiring how it flashes in the light. Caleb watches along with you, his stare becoming less focused by the second. You patiently listen to the fluctuations of his breath. The soft, strained noises he begins to make at the back of his throat. Soon, there’s a bead of white crowning his cock, pearling before it’s spread under his circling thumb.

When he starts to squirm, you let yourself fall forward until your mouth is at his ear. The hand that was caught in his hair migrates to hang lazily over his opposite shoulder. You scrape the blunt edge of the razor along the crook of his neck until it sits right beside it, letting him feel the threat of metal glancing across his skin.

You nip sharply at his earlobe, and he grunts in surprise. “I think,” you say, “I want you to start stroking yourself now.”

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and you can practically hear him thinking. Meeting your gaze in the mirror, he grudgingly asks, “How?”

You grin. “Such a fast learner.” You turn the razor until the flat of the blade rests against his skin. “Follow my lead.”

You lift the blade ever so slightly, waiting for his hand to rise with it. You hold it, letting it hover before slapping it down again. Caleb mirrors the motions, seemingly relieved. But then you do it again, and again, the pauses between taps seconds too long. His face falls as he realizes you’ve set his strokes to a glacial beat.

He says your name, and you’re not sure whether it’s a plea or a warning.

You turn the razor ever so slightly on the downstroke in reply.

Caleb sucks in a breath through his teeth as it cuts into him—not particularly deep, but enough to sting. His eyes lock onto the thin line of red appearing at the juncture between his neck and shoulder. With a cruel smile, you say, “Oops.”

His hand stutters, but doesn’t stop.

You observe him for a bit, making sure he keeps pace. When he continues on as instructed, you raise your free hand back to his hair, petting him. “You’re being so good for me,” you praise. He groans.

You drag the blunt tip of the razor across his chest, pressing hard enough that pink welts rise in its wake. Caleb makes a sound—a blissful sigh you've only ever heard when he's buried in you—as you brand him. His eyes roll back before briefly fluttering shut.

“You meant it, then?” You say, your teeth grazing at the shell of his ear.

“Meant what?” He manages to reply. He tracks the silver in the reflection, his gaze fogging as it comes to a rest above his right pec.

“That you want to be in pain? As long as it’s from me?”

“Yes,” he breathes easily, watching you lazily cut into him, searching for the invisible seam between metal and flesh. There’s a flicker of sorrow between you, some unspoken grief, when it doesn’t even provoke a twitch of muscle. No blood comes.

“Want to do it for you,” you murmur, letting the razor drift further towards his center. Your free hand moves with it, winding around him until he's loosely secured in the crook of your arm. “Can I do that for you now?” He nods so eagerly you have to grip him tighter. You study him in the mirror, your eyes mapping the contours of his chest and the blade trailing along after them.

You nibble at him and whisper, “Tell me when it hurts.”

You break skin, and Caleb shouts.

You hold him fast against the back of the chair as he jerks against the sharp edge. His hand stills, his fingers forming a tight circle at the base of his cock. You watch in fascination as the head swells, looking almost painful, as he catches his breath.

You frown, punishing him by digging the blade deeper. Caleb shudders, clenching his teeth around a growl. Blood beads beneath the silver, dark as red wine. The two of you watch as it spreads, slowly trailing lower.

Glancing pointedly at his hand, you say, “I didn’t tell you to stop.”

Caleb pinches his eyes shut, but begins again. With your free hand, you tap your fingers lightly against his shoulder, guiding him back to his prior tempo. He whimpers when he realizes what you’re doing, even shakes his head a little. “Faster,” he gasps out. Then, as an afterthought, “Please.”

You tsk at him, nuzzling at his smooth, shaven jawline. “What’s the rush?”

To your surprise, Caleb barks out a shaky little laugh. He looks at you through your reflection, half-delirious but intent. Finally, he grits out, “Gonna fuck you so hard after this you won’t be able to walk.”

Your mouth waters at the promise. “Is that the reward you want for being so good for me? My pussy milking that pretty cock of yours?” He shivers as you daintily drag the razor in an arc across his chest, letting it cut. “Is that what you used fantasize about, all those nights touching yourself when I was sleeping right down the hall?”

He moans so loud then, his hand picking up speed of its own accord, and you don’t really care anymore whether he’s following the beat or not.

You right yourself and raise the blade back to his throat for the sight more than anything. And it is a sight—Caleb fisting his cock, face dumb with pleasure, thin lines of blood and welts crossing his chest. At this point, you're pretty sure you could slit Caleb’s throat and in his last gurgling breath he would thank you. The very thought of it makes your cunt throb.

“How do you want me, Caleb? On you? Under you?”

“Under,” he replies instantly. Growls, “Want you on your knees. Want to hear nothing but screams coming out of that dirty fucking mouth.”

And you very much want that, you’re desperate for that, so you ask, “Do you want to cum?”

He moves to nod but you stop him, roughly yanking his head back by the hair. You press the blade against his exposed throat, reminding him of the danger, before snapping, “Then cum.”

The room is filled the sound of Caleb’s hard breaths and the slap of skin, his hand moving at a rapid pace. You memorize each second of it—the moment his lips part with a silent cry, the tremor in his legs. He cums with thighs quaking, streaks of white falling across his torso in spurts.

You tighten your grip on his hair and say, “You don’t stop until I let you.”

For all his talk leading up to it, he actually whines.

But he listens, if shakily. Hisses under the imperfect rhythm of his hand. You tease him for a couple more minutes, pressing the edge of the razor against him as you demand harder, faster, until he’s all but begging you to stop.

When his cock finally softens, you let the razor fall. Setting it aside, you wrap your arms around his shoulders and press praises to his temple, his cheeks, breathing “You were so good for me, so good,” into the scent of pine. Caleb leans into you, dazedly watching you caress him through the mirror as he catches his breath.

“I think,” he rasps eventually, “I was promised a reward.”

A bit of heat surges through you. “You were. But first.” You reach for a towel, throwing it into his lap a bit roughly. He jumps at the contact. “Clean yourself up.”

You catch his glare only briefly before you turn away from him, hiding a triumphant smile. There’s the soft rustle of cloth against skin as he begins to wipe himself off. You strip in the meanwhile, shimmying out of your jeans. Now that you’ve made it through the whole ordeal, you’re unsurprised to find that your panties are drenched.

Your shirt’s half-off when Caleb asks, “So was it the poet or the math major?”

You freeze, your arms still caught in your sleeves. “What?”

You turn to face him. He’s stalking towards you, completely bare now. His sweatpants are on the ground, discarded. His expression is that of the Colonel’s again, or maybe just Caleb, or some secret third thing. You decide it doesn’t really matter as long as it finds its way between your thighs.

He pinches the fabric of your shirt and drags it the remaining distance over your arms before tossing it aside. “Who taught you,” he says slowly, as if you’re stupid, “how to act like that?”

And yes, you knew Caleb's always kept a close eye on you. And yes, you knew now that he was capable of things that would appall you and more. But you thought that you were allowed some secrets. Horny as you are, Caleb revealing otherwise pisses you off.

If he’s seen how your eyes flare at him, he isn’t deterred. He presses closer to you, cornering you until you feel the edge of the mattress ghosting at the back of your knees.

“Answer me.”

Funny thing, though: it seems there are limits to even Caleb’s supervision. With a flush of pleasure, you remember that the poet and the math major were one and the same.

You smirk up at him. In a stroke of genius, and with a haughty little lift of your chin, you reply, “Neither.”

Caleb glares down at you, silently fuming. With some excitement, you realize it’s been a while since you’ve seen him this mad. A muscle in his jaw twitches. Between you, so does his cock. But then, without warning, it all melts into a smirk that sets your alarm bells ringing.

“Liar,” he says.

And your back hits the bed.