caleb x f!reader — 18+, watersports, fingering

“you know you never have to be embarrassed about anything with me.”

caleb’s voice is soft and soothing, a reassuring caress against the shell of your ear as he cups you through your damp cotton panties.

you shiver at the sincerity of it, because you know he means it.

he’s always meant it with you.

he gently rubs the swollen button of your clit and kisses your temple, and your let your eyes flutter shut when the familiar scent of his body wash and cologne floods your senses as he holds you close.

(it makes your mouth water, leaves your tongue heavy between your cheeks.)

“it’s okay if you like this,” he murmurs when you tighten the grip of your fingers on his sweatshirt as a wet dribble escapes you, soaking right into the spot where he’s diligently massaging your folds through the fabric.

he holds himself in no higher regard than the wise-eyed crow that watches him kneel in the garden before sunrise, or the spider that’s found a home in the corner of the window above the kitchen sink. he’s but one of the many blades of grass in the lush fields out back, a single raindrop amongst the downpour that slides from the eavestroughs when the clouds grow heavy with moisture. 

he’s spent a life wanting for nothing not because he has everything, but rather because he’s never quite concerned himself with how full the glass is—he’s just thankful to have water at all. 

but as he gazes down at you now on the ground beneath him, at the streaks of dirt on your blue dress and the wildflower petals stuck haphazardly in your hair, eyes bright and smile wide and the echo of your laughter ringing in his ears—

as he leans in to kiss you and feels the knocking of your heart against his ribcage, as the promise of thunder rumbles in the distance—

as you card your fingers through his hair and wrap your legs around his waist on this warm summer afternoon—

as you gasp his name like a prayer—

it begins to rain.

your husband offers you a small, curious smile as you quietly eye him over the rim of your mug from where you’re perched on the sofa.

kita shinsuke’s volleyball days are long over, the slide of sneakers across hardwood floors under fluorescent lights a distant memory now when his fingers sink into the cool earth at sunrise to the tune of frog calls and birdsong.

and yet you still find him here each morning on routine in the middle of the living room floor—black briefs straining against his thick, muscled thighs as he stretches. his hair’s always still a little mussed from bed. and more often than not, you’re usually afforded a peak at a taut, tanned sliver of skin from his chest or back when his white t-shirt rides up as he bends and moves.

steam from your tea coils lazily in the air between your watchful eyes and his amused gaze.